“I saw your ‘poor’ mother myself yesterday—walking briskly down the alley with her friend, laughing at the top of her lungs. And today, on my birthday, she’s suddenly at death’s door? How convenient!”
Larisa was a Scorpio. Not just by horoscope, but in her very nature—prickly, closed off, intolerant of hypocrisy and falseness. She was already tired of how people, the moment they learned her birthday, would roll their eyes:
“Ah, a Scorpio. Well, that explains everything.”
They slapped labels on her: jealous, vindictive, dangerous. Maybe that was why she liked to celebrate her birthday—which fell on a gloomy November day—in a strictly family setting. More precisely, in the company of one single person: her husband, Nikita.
She had been married for three years. She loved Nikita with that loyal, devoted kind of love. He was her quiet harbor, the man who could see a vulnerable soul behind all the thorns and wasn’t afraid of it.
But from the very beginning, her mother-in-law, Olga Vladimirovna, had not been thrilled about their marriage. Larisa could clearly feel the cool, appraising attitude—but she couldn’t do anything about it, and didn’t want to. She had her own full life: an interesting job at a design studio, hobbies like 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. A small but cozy one-bedroom right in the city center, in an old but solid building with high ceilings. Larisa was over the moon.
As soon as Olga Vladimirovna heard the news from her son, she frowned:
“A one-bedroom apartment?” she said with such contempt, as if they’d bought a shed. “I told you—you should have gotten a two-bedroom, or even a three-bedroom in a new district. The air is better there, and there’s room 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 to work for long. You need to think about children. In that place you probably won’t even have anywhere to park a stroller.”
Standing by her new fireplace (decorative, though it was), Larisa felt the familiar goosebumps of irritation crawl up her back as she listened to her husband retell the conversation. She took a deep breath.
“We agreed—no kids until we’re thirty. We need to get on our feet first and build a financial safety cushion.”
“I understand,” Nikita said. “But Mom… she keeps insisting. Are you trying to make us fight or what? I don’t get it…”
Larisa stubbornly pressed her lips together. 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 still 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 had long since been pushing strollers. But to her great disappointment, Nikita didn’t fall for the provocations. His love for his wife, and their shared plans, proved stronger than his mother’s manipulations.
And then Olga Vladimirovna decided to strike at the most vulnerable spot—to 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 refrigerator has completely broken down! The repairman looked at it and said there’s no point fixing it. How can I live without a fridge? All the food will spoil! And your father’s salary is delayed too, just our luck.”
After lamenting her fate and hinting at being broke, she coaxed Nikita into buying her a new, fairly expensive refrigerator. The amount hit his and Larisa’s budget hard, and the gift Nikita had been planning for his wife—an elegant gold pendant—had to be forgotten.
Then Larisa’s birthday arrived. In the morning, there was another call from his mother. Olga Vladimirovna’s voice sounded weak and sickly.
“Nikitushka, I feel so awful… My heart is stabbing, my head is spinning. Could you come over? I’m scared to be alone. Your father will be late tonight. He doesn’t think about me at all…”
Of course, her son rushed over almost immediately. He asked off work, throwing all the plans into chaos, and sat by his mother’s bed until evening—bringing her water, checking her blood pressure, listening to quiet moans and complaints. Whenever he tried to leave, Olga Vladimirovna would suddenly get worse. She’d clutch her chest, complain of weakness, and beg him 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 had planned a romantic candlelit dinner, and he hadn’t even bought flowers yet. In his pocket was only a pathetic substitute for a present: a cosmetics store gift certificate, bought in a rush at the nearest mall.
“Mom, I really have to go home…” he tried to protest, but the sight of her pale, suffering face made him fall silent.
Finally, unable to take it, he stepped carefully into the kitchen and quietly called his wife.
“Larisa, I’m sorry—Mom’s not well, I can’t leave her,” he began guiltily.
At first there was silence on the line. Then Larisa, barely containing her fury, hissed:
“I saw your ‘poor’ mother myself yesterday—walking briskly down the alley with her friend, laughing at the top of her lungs. And today, on my birthday, she’s suddenly at death’s door? How convenient!”
Without listening to another word, Larisa sharply hung up.
Nikita stood in his parents’ kitchen, torn between duty to his mother and the woman he loved. He felt trapped. In desperation, he called his father, Pavel Petrovich.
“Dad, can you come home from work a bit earlier today? Mom’s not well, and I urgently need to get home… It’s Larisa’s birthday.”
His father snorted in surprise.
“What’s she sick with? She was absolutely fine this morning—eating pancakes with both cheeks…”
But Nikita wasn’t listening anymore. The moment Pavel Petrovich stepped over the threshold, Nikita tossed “Thanks” over his shoulder and practically flew out the door, racing down the stairs with the cursed gift certificate clenched in his pocket. He knew he was late. He knew the trust his wife had given him so carefully had cracked. And the reason wasn’t illness, but his mother’s well-planned performance.
“So what did you come here for?” Olga Vladimirovna asked her husband bluntly when he appeared in the bedroom doorway.
“Olya, why all this drama? The boy is happy with that 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 hallway was dark, but warm light spilled from the kitchen. He froze on the threshold, holding his breath. Larisa was sitting at a table set for one. Two candles burned in front of her, a lone wine glass stood there, and she was calmly eating sushi and rolls—food they must have planned to eat together.
“Larisa…” he began 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 set a luxurious bouquet of red roses on the edge of the table—bought at the nearest florist. Larisa didn’t even glance at them. Then he pulled the gift certificate from his pocket and placed it next to her plate.
Only then did Larisa slowly lift her eyes to him. There was no anger in them—only deep fatigue and disappointment.
“You understand it’s not about the gifts,” she said quietly and evenly, without a single note of reproach—and that made it hurt even more. “It’s about your attitude toward me. I wanted to spend this day with you. And you chose to spend it with your mother, who was simply pretending to be sick.”
“I couldn’t just abandon her!” Nikita exploded, a wave of guilt and excuses washing over him. “I wasn’t sure it was a game! What if she really was unwell? I’d never have forgiven myself!”
Larisa took a sip of wine and set the glass down with a soft clink.
“Want to call your father right now?” she offered. “Ask what your seriously ill wife is doing this moment?”
Nikita stubbornly shook his head. He knew exactly where this was going, and he was afraid to hear the answer. Without another word, Larisa pushed back her chair, stood up, and—without looking at the flowers or the certificate—went into 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 reproach, slowly wilting.
For several more days, an icy silence filled the apartment. Larisa barely spoke to Nikita, answering in short phrases and acting as if he didn’t exist. He felt like a ghost in his own home.
And the next day Olga Vladimirovna—glowing and pleased—called her son herself.
“Sonny, thank you for not abandoning your old mother yesterday,” she purred sweetly. “So lonely and sick… You’re my only support.”
Nikita listened in silence, staring out at the gray November sky.
“Oh, by the way,” his mother continued casually, with a faint mockery in her voice, “how did Larisa’s birthday go yesterday? Did you celebrate nicely?”
And in that moment, everything in Nikita’s head finally clicked into one bleak picture. It wasn’t the event itself that mattered to her—it was whether she had managed to ruin it.
“We celebrated nicely,” 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. He understood his mother had been waging a war against his wife. And in that war she was ready to destroy everything in her path, including his own happiness. And with his blind obedience, he had been helping her.
For several days Nikita tried to make up for it. He cooked breakfasts, cleaned the apartment, tried to start timid conversations—but Larisa stayed cold and distant. Her silence drove him crazy.
So Nikita took a desperate step. One evening he drove to pick his wife up right outside her office. Seeing him, Larisa started 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 atop a skyscraper with a panoramic view of the night city. The lights of the metropolis shimmered below like scattered gemstones. At a table by the window, Nikita finally said everything that had been building inside him.
“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. All over again.”
Larisa looked at him, and for the first time in days something warm flickered in her eyes. The corners of her lips trembled into a faint smile.
“Alright,” she agreed.
They ordered dinner—the most exquisite dishes on the menu. They talked about work, about plans, about everything under the sun except his mother. The tension gradually melted away.
Then the waiter brought dessert—an elegant tiramisu with a single candle. And suddenly a few waiters gathered around their table and sang “Happy Birthday.” Larisa blushed, shyly lowering her eyes, feeling 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 forgave her husband—for real. On the way home, Nikita bought her a huge bouquet of white roses, and she climbed the stairs to their apartment holding it to her chest, happy and peaceful.
And at home another surprise waited. On the doorstep sat a tiny fluffy bundle—a gray kitten with enormous green eyes. It looked up at Larisa timidly and let out a plaintive meow. She had dreamed of a pet like that for a long time, but never dared, afraid of responsibility.
“This is… your main gift,” Nikita smiled. “You often said you wanted a kitty.”
Larisa sank to her knees, and the kitten immediately climbed into her arms and began to purr, settling comfortably in her lap. Not a drop of resentment toward her husband remained in her heart.
When Olga Vladimirovna found out about her son’s new “recklessness,” she responded with another dose of criticism.
“A kitten? In such a tiny apartment? Have you lost your mind? That’s dirt—fur everywhere! Throw it out on the street before you get attached! You need a baby, not a kitten!”
But Nikita, for the first time in his life, answered calmly and firmly:
“Mom, this is our home, and 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 indignant objections. For the first time, he didn’t feel like a boy being controlled—he felt like a man building his own happiness. And in the living room Larisa was laughing and playing with their newest family member. His wife’s happy laughter was the best reward he could have asked for
