— Yesterday I saw it myself: your “poor” mom was striding cheerfully down the alley with her friend, laughing her head off. And today—on my birthday—she’s suddenly at death’s door? How convenient!
Larisa was a Scorpio. Not just by horoscope, but by her very nature—prickly, closed-off, unable to tolerate hypocrisy and lies. She was already tired of how people, the moment they learned her birthday, would roll their eyes and say:
“Oh, a Scorpio. Well, that explains everything.”
They slapped labels on her: jealous, spiteful, dangerous. Maybe that was why she liked to celebrate her birthday—which fell on a gloomy November day—in a strictly family setting. Or rather, in the company of one single person: her husband, Nikita.
She had been married for three years. She loved Nikita with that loyal, steadfast kind of love. He was her quiet harbor—the man who could see a vulnerable soul behind all the spikes and wasn’t afraid of it.
But his mother, Olga Vladimirovna, had never been thrilled about their union from the very beginning. Larisa could clearly feel her cool, appraising attitude, but she couldn’t—and didn’t want to—do anything about it. She had her own full life: an interesting job at a design studio, a passion for embroidery and sports, and loyal, time-tested friends. She wasn’t going to prove anything to anyone.
After two years of marriage, she and Nikita finally scraped together enough for a down payment and bought an apartment. Small, but cozy—a one-bedroom right in the city center, in an old but solid building with high ceilings. Larisa was over the moon.
The moment Olga Vladimirovna heard the news from her son, she frowned at once.
“A one-bedroom?” she said with such contempt, as if they’d purchased a shed. “I told you, you should’ve gotten a two-bedroom—or even a three-bedroom—in a new district. The air is better there, and there’s space for children.”
“Mom, we like it here,” Nikita replied gently. “And it’s a five-minute walk to Larisa’s work.”
“To work!” his mother snorted. “She won’t be commuting for long. You should be thinking about children. In that place you probably won’t even have anywhere to park a stroller.”
Larisa, standing by her new fireplace (decorative, technically), felt that familiar shiver of irritation run down her back as she listened to her husband’s retelling. She took a deep breath.
“We agreed—no kids until we’re thirty. First we get on our feet and build a financial safety cushion.”
“I get it,” Nikita said with a sigh. “But Mom… she keeps pushing her way. What, are you trying to make us fight or something? I don’t get it…”
Larisa pressed her lips together stubbornly. She didn’t start a scandal. She simply held her ground—and thankfully Nikita was on her side. She looked around their small, bright apartment and then at her husband, who was smiling and holding her hand.
Olga Vladimirovna wouldn’t let up. Like a true strategist, she tested her son’s defenses again and again—calling to complain about loneliness, criticizing Larisa’s interior choices, hinting that “normal women” her age were already pushing strollers. But to her great disappointment, Nikita didn’t fall for the provocations. His love for his wife and their shared plans turned out to be stronger than his mother’s manipulation.
So the woman decided to strike at the most vulnerable spot: ruin her daughter-in-law’s birthday—that hated holiday they celebrated without her.
Two weeks before Larisa’s birthday, Olga Vladimirovna called her son with tragic sighs.
“Sonny, disaster! The fridge has completely broken down! The repairman looked and said it’s pointless to fix. And how am I supposed to live without a fridge? All the food will spoil! And your father’s salary has been delayed too, would you believe it.”
After complaining about her bad luck and hinting at being broke, she wrangled a new, fairly expensive refrigerator out of Nikita. The cost hit Larisa and Nikita’s budget hard, and the gift Nikita had planned for his wife—an elegant gold pendant—had to be forgotten.
Then Larisa’s birthday finally arrived. That morning, there was another call from his mother. Olga Vladimirovna’s voice sounded weak and sickly.
“Nikitushka, I feel so bad… My heart is stabbing, my head is spinning. Could you come? I’m scared to be alone. Your father will be late today. He doesn’t think about me at all…”
Of course the son rushed over almost immediately. He asked to leave work, ruining all plans, and sat by his mother’s bed until evening—bringing her water, checking her blood pressure, listening to her quiet moans and complaints. Every time he got ready to leave, Olga Vladimirovna suddenly got worse: clutching her chest, complaining of weakness, begging her son not to abandon her.
Nikita was visibly anxious. He kept looking at the clock, his throat tight with worry. Larisa was waiting at home. They were supposed to have a romantic candlelit dinner—and he still hadn’t bought flowers. In his pocket he had only a pathetic substitute for a gift: a cosmetics store gift certificate purchased in a rush at the nearest mall.
“Mom, I really need to go home…” he tried to protest, but the sight of her pale, suffering face always made him fall silent.
Finally, unable to take it, he stepped into the kitchen and quietly called his wife.
“Larisa, I’m sorry… Mom feels bad, I can’t leave her,” he began, guilt heavy in his voice.
At first there was silence on the line. Then Larisa, barely restraining her fury, hissed:
“Yesterday I saw it myself: your ‘poor’ mom was striding cheerfully down the alley with her friend, laughing her head off. And today—on my birthday—she’s suddenly at death’s door? How convenient!”
Without listening further, Larisa slammed the call shut.
Nikita stood in the middle of his parents’ kitchen, torn between duty to his mother and the woman he loved. He felt trapped. Desperate, he called his father, Pavel Petrovich.
“Dad, could you leave work a bit early today? Mom’s not well, and I really have to get home… It’s Larisa’s birthday.”
His father gave a surprised snort.
“What’s she sick with? This morning she was perfectly healthy—stuffed her face with pancakes…”
But Nikita wasn’t listening anymore. The moment Pavel Petrovich crossed the apartment threshold, Nikita tossed a quick “Thanks!” over his shoulder, practically flew out the door, and raced down the stairs, clutching that cursed certificate in his pocket. He knew he was late. He knew the trust his wife had so carefully given him had cracked. And the reason wasn’t illness, but his mother’s well-planned performance.
“So why did you come crawling in?” Olga Vladimirovna asked her husband bluntly when he appeared in the bedroom doorway.
“Olya, what’s with the theatrics? The boy’s happy with Larisa—so let him be. Why are you tormenting him? You’re not hurting Larisa—you’re hurting your own son.”
Nikita opened the apartment door. The entryway was dark, but warm light spilled from the kitchen. He froze on the threshold, holding his breath. Larisa was sitting at the table set for one. Two candles burned in front of her, a single wineglass stood nearby, and with calm appetite she was eating rolls and sushi—what they must have planned to eat together.
“Larisa…” he started softly, stepping closer.
She didn’t look up, continuing her meal. The air in the kitchen felt thick and icy despite the candle flames.
“Forgive me, I…” Nikita tried again, but the words stuck in his throat. He placed a luxurious bouquet of scarlet roses on the edge of the table, bought from a nearby flower shop. Larisa didn’t even glance at them. Then he pulled the gift certificate from his pocket and set it beside her plate.
Only then did Larisa slowly raise her eyes. There was no anger in them—only deep exhaustion and disappointment.
“You understand it’s not about the gifts,” she said quietly and evenly, without a single note of reproach—and that somehow hurt even more. “It’s about how you treat me. I wanted to spend this day with just you. And you chose to spend it with your mother, who was simply pretending to be sick.”
“I couldn’t just abandon her!” Nikita burst out, swept up by guilt and self-justification. “I wasn’t sure it was an act! What if she really was ill? I’d never forgive myself!”
Larisa sipped her wine and set the glass down with a soft tap.
“Want to call your father right now?” she suggested. “Ask what your gravely ill wife is doing at this very moment?”
Nikita stubbornly shook his head. He understood exactly where that conversation would lead—and he was afraid to hear the answer. Without another word, Larisa pushed her chair back, stood up, and left for the bedroom, closing the door behind her. She didn’t even put the roses in a vase. They stayed on the table like a silent accusation, slowly wilting.
For the next few days, an icy silence ruled the apartment. Larisa barely spoke to Nikita, answering in one-word replies, acting as if he didn’t exist. He felt like a ghost in his own home.
And the very next day, Olga Vladimirovna—glowing and pleased with herself—called her son.
“Sonny, thank you for not abandoning your old mother yesterday,” she purred. “All alone, sick… You’re my only support.”
Nikita listened in silence, staring out at the gray November sky.
“By the way,” his mother continued casually, with a faintly mocking tone, “how did Larisa’s birthday go yesterday? Did you celebrate well?”
And in that moment, everything finally clicked into one bleak picture inside Nikita’s head. It wasn’t the occasion itself that mattered to her—it was whether she had managed to ruin it.
“We celebrated well,” Nikita said very clearly—and hung up.
He stood in the middle of the living room, staring at the locked bedroom door. At last he understood. Understood that his mother had been waging war against his wife. And in that war she was ready to destroy everything in her path—including his own happiness. And he, with his blind obedience, had been helping her do it.
For several days Nikita tried to make up for it. He made breakfast, cleaned the apartment, attempted timid conversations, but Larisa remained cold and distant. Her silence drove him nearly mad.
So Nikita took a desperate step. One evening he drove to her office and waited right by the exit. When Larisa saw him, she tried to turn away, but he gently took her hand.
“Let’s just have dinner. No excuses—just dinner. Please.”
She agreed without a word. They went to a rooftop restaurant in a skyscraper, with a panoramic view of the city at night. The lights of the metropolis glittered below like scattered gemstones. At a table by the window, Nikita finally said what had been piling up in his soul.
“Forgive me,” he said, looking straight into her eyes. “I was blind and stupid. I let my mother manipulate me and I hurt you on the most important day. But I understand now, and I want to fix it.”
He paused and smiled.
“Let’s celebrate your birthday now. Right here. Again—properly.”
Larisa looked at him, and for the first time in days something warm flickered in her eyes. The corners of her lips twitched into a faint smile.
“Okay,” she agreed.
They ordered dinner—the most exquisite dishes on the menu. They talked about work, about plans, about everything except his mother. The tension slowly melted.
Then the waiter brought dessert—an elegant tiramisu with a single candle. Suddenly several staff gathered around their table and sang “Happy Birthday.” Larisa blushed, shyly lowering her eyes as warmth spread across her cheeks. It was the most spontaneous, unexpected—and in its own way, beautiful—birthday she had ever had.
That evening she truly forgave her husband. On the way home Nikita bought her a huge bouquet of white roses, and she climbed the steps to their apartment holding it to her chest, happy and at peace.
And at home one more surprise awaited her. On the doorstep sat a tiny fluffy bundle—a gray kitten with enormous green eyes. It looked at Larisa timidly and mewed plaintively. She had dreamed of a pet like that for a long time, but never dared to get one, afraid of responsibility.
“This is… your main gift,” Nikita smiled. “You’ve said so often you want a kitty.”
Larisa dropped to her knees, and the kitten immediately climbed into her arms and began to purr, settling comfortably on her lap. Not a drop of resentment toward her husband remained in her heart.
When Olga Vladimirovna heard about her son’s new “recklessness,” she instantly responded with a fresh serving of criticism.
“A kitten? In such a small apartment? Have you lost your mind? That’s dirt, fur everywhere! Throw it out in the street before you get attached! You need a child, not a kitten!”
But Nikita, for the first time in his life, answered calmly and firmly:
“Mom, this is Larisa’s and my home, and these are our decisions. We like our kitten. And yes—I’m not going to discuss our personal life with you anymore. Because I don’t want to lose my family.”
He hung up without listening to her outraged objections. For the first time he felt not like a boy being controlled, but like a man building his own happiness. And in the living room, Larisa laughed and played with their new family member. Her happy laughter was the best reward he could have.
