Svetlana stood in front of the mirror, trying on her third dress in a row. The blue one seemed too bright, the black one too strict. She stopped on a beige dress with a neat little collar. Tonight her fiancé was taking her to meet his parents, and the girl was as nervous as if she were about to take an exam.
The one-room apartment where Svetlana and Ilya had been living for the past six months was small but cozy. She had furnished it herself—every little detail chosen with love. A beige sofa by the window, bookshelves along the wall, fresh flowers on the windowsill. Sveta worked as an interior designer, and the apartment was her calling card.
“Ready?” Ilya came out of the bathroom, buttoning his shirt. “We’re already running late.”
“Almost,” the bride-to-be grabbed her purse and checked her makeup one last time. “Ilyush… your parents—are they strict?”
“They’re fine,” the groom shrugged. “Just ordinary people. Mom cooks amazingly, Dad likes to talk. Don’t worry—everything will be okay.”
Svetlana nodded, but the anxiety didn’t go away. It mattered to her that her future in-laws accepted her. Family meant a lot. She wanted the relationship to be warm and friendly.
Recently Svetlana had been promoted—she was no longer just a designer’s assistant but a full-fledged specialist at the studio. Her first serious project, her own clients, responsibility. Every day she tried to prove she deserved the position. Ilya supported her with words, said he was proud—though sometimes he joked that she shouldn’t bury herself in work, that family was more important.
Ilya’s parents lived outside the city. A large two-story house with a well-kept yard. When the car pulled up to the gate, Svetlana exhaled, smoothing her dress.
“You look great,” Ilya smiled, squeezing her hand. “Relax.”
The door was opened by Lyudmila Viktorovna—a tall woman with carefully styled hair and a stern gaze. Her smile was polite, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
“Ilyusha!” his mother hugged her son, then turned her eyes to Svetlana. “So this is your fiancée?”
“Hello, Lyudmila Viktorovna,” Sveta held out her hand. “It’s very nice to meet you.”
“Come in, come in,” the future mother-in-law let them into the house. “Viktor Sergeyevich is already waiting.”
Inside, everything breathed wealth. Expensive furniture, heavy curtains, parquet beneath their feet. The table in the living room was set—salads, hot dishes, pastries. Lyudmila Viktorovna had clearly prepared thoroughly.
Viktor Sergeyevich stood up to greet them when Svetlana and Ilya walked in. He was a big man with graying hair and a heavy, appraising look—as if the girl had come for a job interview.
“Hello,” the bride-to-be said, offering her hand.
“Hello,” Viktor Sergeyevich shook her hand briefly and dryly. “Sit down.”
Dinner began with ordinary topics: the weather, the drive, Ilya’s job. Lyudmila Viktorovna asked about her son’s health, his diet, everyday life—almost as if Svetlana couldn’t handle taking care of her fiancé.
“Ilyusha, you’ve lost weight,” his mother looked at him reproachfully. “I hope your fiancée feeds you properly?”
“Mom, everything’s fine,” Ilya waved it off. “Sveta cooks well.”
“Well—how?” Lyudmila Viktorovna turned to Svetlana. “What do you usually cook?”
“Um… different things,” the girl got flustered by the sudden question. “Soups, main dishes. I try to make it tasty and healthy.”
“Healthy,” the future mother-in-law smirked. “A man needs something filling, not healthy. Borscht, cutlets, pies—that’s food.”
Svetlana nodded, feeling her cheeks burn. Ilya ate in silence and didn’t intervene. Viktor Sergeyevich watched without saying a word.
“And where do you work?” the groom’s father finally spoke.
“Yes, at a design studio,” Svetlana brightened, grateful for the change of topic. “I do interiors. I was promoted recently, and now I run my own projects.”
“Projects,” Viktor Sergeyevich took a sip of wine. “And do they pay a lot?”
“Decently,” the bride-to-be smiled. “I’m satisfied. The work is interesting, creative. Right now I’m preparing for a big commission—an apartment downtown, serious clients. If it goes well, it’ll open up new opportunities.”
Lyudmila Viktorovna exchanged a look with her husband. Something flashed in her eyes—disapproval? Contempt? Svetlana couldn’t tell, but she felt the atmosphere at the table shift.
“So you’re planning to keep working?” the future mother-in-law asked with a slight smile that made Svetlana uneasy.
“Of course,” Svetlana didn’t see any trap. “I love my job. I want to grow, develop professionally.”
Silence—so complete she could hear the clock ticking on the wall. Ilya lowered his eyes to his plate. Viktor Sergeyevich set down his fork and wiped his mouth with a napkin.
“In our family,” the groom’s father began slowly and heavily, “women have never worked.”
Svetlana froze, not understanding whether he was joking.
“What do you mean?” she gave a nervous laugh, trying to ease the tension.
“Exactly what I said,” Viktor Sergeyevich looked at her with that heavy stare. “My mother didn’t work. Lyudmila didn’t work. And Ilya’s wife won’t work either.”
Svetlana looked at her fiancé, searching for support. But Ilya stayed silent, staring off to the side. Lyudmila Viktorovna sat with a stone face, as if they were discussing the weather, not the bride’s life.
“But… I don’t understand,” Svetlana felt her hands begin to tremble. “Is this some kind of family tradition?”
“You could call it that,” Viktor Sergeyevich leaned back in his chair. “A woman should run the home. A man provides, a woman creates comfort. It’s always been that way.”
“Viktor Sergeyevich, but it’s the twenty-first century,” the bride tried to smile. “Women work, build careers…”
“Not in our family,” the groom’s father cut her off. “This topic is closed.”
The conversation shifted abruptly. Lyudmila Viktorovna began talking about the wedding, the dress, the reception—as if nothing had happened. Svetlana sat there, trying to process what she’d heard. Could they really be serious? Could anyone live like that in the twenty-first century?
Dinner ended tensely. Ilya thanked his parents and promised to visit again soon. Svetlana forced a smile, said goodbye, got into the car. The whole drive back to the city she stayed quiet, staring out the window.
At home, she couldn’t hold it in anymore. As soon as the door closed, she turned to her fiancé.
“Ilya, what was that?”
“What are you talking about?” he took off his jacket and hung it on the rack.
“About work!” Svetlana stepped toward him. “Your father said I won’t work after the wedding. Is that true?”
Ilya sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“Sveta, Mom and Dad told the truth. That’s how it’s done in our family.”
“Done?” she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Ilya, are you serious?”
“Completely,” he turned to her. His voice was calm, firm. “After the wedding you’ll quit your job. You’ll focus on the home, the kids, the family.”
Svetlana stepped back as if she’d been slapped.
“Ilya, I can’t quit. This is my career. I’ve worked for this for years.”
“So what?” he shrugged. “A woman should be at home—cooking, cleaning, raising children. Not wasting time on some projects.”
“Some projects?” she felt something boil inside her. “This is my profession! I’m a designer, Ilya. I love what I do!”
“Love for work passes,” he sat on the sofa and turned on the TV. “When the kids are born, you’ll understand that family matters more.”
“Ilya, in two months I’m starting a major commission,” Svetlana moved closer and sat on the edge of the sofa. “This could be a turning point in my career. I can’t just throw everything away.”
“You can,” he didn’t take his eyes off the screen. “And you will. Either family or work.”
“Why do I have to choose?” her voice trembled. “Men combine career and family. Why can’t women?”
“Because that’s what’s right,” Ilya finally looked at her. His eyes held a cold certainty. “A woman with her own income gets arrogant, independent. Starts demanding rights. I don’t need a wife like that.”
Svetlana went still. The man sitting in front of her was a stranger. The person she’d spent a year with had suddenly turned into someone чужой—someone frightening.
“Want your commission?” Ilya sneered. “Then forget about me!”
The words hung in the air: an ultimatum—cold, harsh, with no room for discussion. Svetlana stared at him and didn’t recognize him. Where was the tenderness? Where was the support?
“Ilya, work for me isn’t just money,” she spoke more quietly, trying to reach him. “It’s where I found myself. It gives me meaning, confidence.”
“Family should give meaning,” he waved her off. “And confidence—your husband. Why does a woman need her own money? I’ll provide. You’ll be home, everything will be fine.”
“You don’t understand,” Svetlana stood up. “I want to be independent. Have my own income. Not depend on anyone.”
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” Ilya stood up too. “Women with money become independent. Stop obeying their husbands. Start thinking they’re equal.”
“We are equal,” she stepped toward him. “Ilya, this is like the last century. A wife should obey?”
“She should,” he said firmly. “A man is the head of the family. A woman is his support. You’ll be home, you’ll listen, you’ll take care of the children. Period.”
With every word, Svetlana felt revulsion growing inside—not anger, not hurt—revulsion. In front of her wasn’t a loving man but a tyrant. Someone who wanted to break her to fit his rules.
“You knew this from the beginning?” she asked quietly.
“Of course,” he shrugged. “I thought it went without saying. You’re a smart girl—you should’ve understood.”
“Understood what?” her hands clenched into fists. “That you want to lock me at home? Turn me into a housemaid?”
“Not a housemaid—a wife,” he corrected. “A normal wife, like my mother. Lyudmila Viktorovna has run the home her whole life, and nothing. She’s happy.”
“Happy?” Svetlana laughed bitterly. “Ilya, your mother is an unhappy woman. She’s full of fear, dependent on her husband. She doesn’t even have her own money!”
“But she has a husband who provides everything,” he crossed his arms. “Sveta, I’m saying this for the last time. Either you give up your job, or there won’t be a wedding.”
Svetlana looked at Ilya for a long time. She saw the cold certainty in his eyes. She saw he wasn’t joking—he was truly ready to end everything if she didn’t submit.
Fear tightened her throat. Not fear of losing him—fear of understanding that she had almost tied her life to a tyrant. Almost handed herself over to someone who saw her not as a partner, but as a servant.
Slowly, she slid the ring off her finger. Walked to the table. Dropped it onto the countertop. The sound was dull—final.
“There won’t be a wedding,” Svetlana said firmly. “Pack your things. This is my apartment.”
Ilya froze, not expecting that.
“Are you serious?” he stepped toward her. “Sveta, you’ll regret it. You’re throwing away your chance at a normal life.”
“Normal?” she smirked. “Life in a cage, without work, without money, completely dependent on a husband? That’s your normal. Not mine.”
“You’re making a mistake,” Ilya tried to take her hands, but Svetlana pulled away.
“The mistake would’ve been marrying you,” she walked to the closet and pulled out his suitcase. “Pack. Now.”
“Sveta, you love me,” his voice softened, almost pleading. “We can talk this through…”
“There’s nothing to talk through,” she set the suitcase at his feet. “You gave me an ultimatum. I made my choice. Leave.”
Ilya stood staring at her. Then his face twisted, his voice turned vicious.
“You’ll regret it. You’ll end up alone. Who will want you—a dried-up old maid with a job?”
“Me,” she said coldly. “I’m the one who needs me. You don’t.”
He spun around and went into the bedroom. Svetlana heard closet doors banging, clothes flying into the suitcase. Ten minutes later Ilya came out, dragging his bag behind him.
“You’ll regret it,” he repeated, stopping by the door.
“No,” Svetlana opened the door. “I won’t. Get out already.”
Ilya left, throwing her one last angry look. The door slammed. The apartment went quiet—so quiet she could hear her own breathing.
Svetlana stood leaning against the door. Her hands shook. Her heart pounded. But inside there was a strange lightness, as if she’d dropped a heavy load she’d been carrying without noticing.
She walked into the room and sank onto the sofa. Hugged her knees, pressed her face into them. She wanted to cry, but there were no tears—only exhaustion and relief.
That evening she sat in front of the TV with ice cream. The phone was silent. Ilya didn’t call, didn’t text—as if their year together had evaporated in a second.
The next day she went to work. Colleagues noticed the missing ring but didn’t ask. Svetlana threw herself into the project—the big commission she’d told Ilya about. A downtown apartment, demanding clients.
Work pulled her in: sketches, measurements, layouts. She forgot about time, about food, about everything. Just her and the work she loved. A week later the project started taking shape. The clients were pleased. Management praised her effort.
A month passed. Svetlana got used to living alone. She even liked it—she could do whatever she wanted, and no one dictated rules. The apartment became truly her territory again.
One evening a friend called and asked how she was, whether she missed her ex.
“No,” Svetlana answered honestly. “Not at all.”
“No regrets about breaking it off?”
“Not a bit,” she smiled. “You know, I almost made the biggest mistake of my life. It’s good I understood in time.”
Her friend fell silent.
“You’ve changed. You’ve gotten stronger.”
“Maybe,” Svetlana looked out the window. “I just realized I’m not ready to sacrifice myself—for anyone.”
Two months later the project was completed. The clients were thrilled. The apartment turned out stylish, modern, functional. Photos went into the studio’s portfolio. Svetlana was offered two more major commissions.
Her career took off. Her salary grew. She gained regular clients. Management started talking about another promotion. She worked a lot—but with pleasure. She felt herself moving forward.
Sometimes she remembered that evening: Ilya’s ultimatum, the ring on the table, the cold in his eyes. And every time she understood she’d made the right choice.
One day she ran into Lyudmila Viktorovna by chance in a shopping mall. The former almost-mother-in-law saw Svetlana, frowned, and walked past without greeting. Svetlana smiled. She wasn’t offended—she simply thought to herself how good it was she hadn’t become part of that family.
A year passed. Svetlana opened her own small studio. Two employees, a steady flow of clients, stable income. She sold her apartment and bought a two-room place in a good neighborhood—more space, more light.
Her personal life improved too. She met a man who supported her work, was proud of her success, and didn’t demand she choose between career and relationships. He was simply there.
One evening, sitting at the kitchen table in her new home, Svetlana thought about that night a year earlier—about Ilya’s words, the ultimatum—and smiled.
It was good she hadn’t been afraid. Good she chose herself. Because a life without self-respect isn’t life. And the freedom to be yourself is worth more than any ring
