Lena was standing at the stove, stirring the soup on autopilot, when the doorbell rang. Way too early for Andrey. Which meant it was her again.
“Lenochka, I’m just popping in for a minute!” her mother-in-law called cheerfully from the entryway.
A minute usually translated to three hours. Minimum.
Lena swallowed, turned off the burner, and wiped her hands on a towel. Galina Petrovna was already in the kitchen doorway—neat, composed, hair perfectly set, with a look Lena had learned to read like a headline. Today it promised a “helpful little talk.”
“Hello, Galina Petrovna.”
“Oh, always ‘Galina Petrovna,’” the older woman sighed as she walked in and inspected the room like a quality-control manager. “Am I your mother or what?”
Lena didn’t answer. They’d done this loop more than once. The word Mom got stuck in her throat every time she tried to force it out—like her body rejected it on principle.
“Making soup?” Galina Petrovna leaned over the pot. “It looks a bit cloudy. Did you strain the broth?”
“Not yet.”
“You have to do it immediately, Lenochka. Otherwise it’s too late and the taste won’t be right.” She sat down, crossing her legs. “When Andryusha was little, I always strained it through cheesecloth. He only ate clear soup.”
Lena opened the fridge and pretended to search for something important. In reality, she just needed a few seconds not to snap. She counted to five. Then closed it.
“Galina Petrovna, you said you were here for just a minute.”
“Well, yes—I’m not staying long! I was nearby, that’s all. I had an appointment with an orthopedist over at Chistye Prudy, and that’s practically next door to you. I thought, why not stop in and see my grandson. Where’s Lyovushka?”
“He’s asleep.”
“At this time?” Galina Petrovna’s eyebrows shot up. “Lena, you can’t do that! He won’t sleep tonight. You can’t ruin his routine—I’ve told you that.”
The familiar irritation rose in Lena’s chest. This was always the script: Galina Petrovna started with a doctor and within three lines she was already correcting Lena’s parenting.
“He woke up early today and got tired. So he fell asleep earlier.”
“Well, I trained Andryusha on a strict schedule,” Galina Petrovna said proudly. “Up at seven, breakfast at eight, nap from two to three exactly. And look—he grew into a healthy boy.”
That “boy” was thirty-four and still couldn’t tell his mother no whenever she criticized their home.
“Would you like some tea?” Lena offered, tired to the bone.
“I’d love some! But green tea, if you have it. Your black tea is so strong I’m up all night.” Galina Petrovna scanned the kitchen again. “And you should change the curtains. They’ve faded. I saw such cute floral ones at Auchan. I can pick them out for you, if you want.”
Lena silently put the kettle on. She’d spent six months choosing those curtains—drove to a dozen stores to find exactly what she liked: simple gray-and-white, no flowers, no frills.
“I’ll think about it, thank you.”
“And it’s chilly in here. Is Andryusha saving on heating?” her mother-in-law continued. “Lena, I understand times are hard, but you can’t save money on health—especially with a little child at home.”
“It’s normal. Twenty-two degrees.”
“For me it’s cool,” Galina Petrovna shivered. “I’d turn it up. But that’s for you to decide, of course.”
The kettle whistled. Lena poured tea, set cups on the table, and sat across from her mother-in-law, wrapping both hands around her mug as if it were a lifeline.
“Galina Petrovna… you came by car, right?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Shouldn’t you be heading to your appointment?”
Galina Petrovna checked her watch and pursed her lips.
“It’s at four. I still have forty minutes. Plenty of time.” She sipped her tea. “By the way—speaking of doctors. Lena, I wanted to talk to you. I read an article about daycares. Horrible things! Infections, negligence… You’re not planning to send Lyovushka to daycare, are you?”
Lena set her cup down. There it was—the real target.
“I am. Starting in September.”
“But he’ll only be two and a half!” Galina Petrovna gasped. “That’s too early, Lenochka. His immune system isn’t ready. He’ll be sick constantly!”
“I need to go back to work.”
“Why?” her mother-in-law asked, genuinely baffled. “Andryusha earns well. I always said a mother should stay with her child at least until three. Ideally until school. I stayed with Andryusha until he started school.”
Lena felt her patience stretch to its limit.
“Galina Petrovna, I love my job. And I need to keep my qualifications.”
“Qualifications…” Galina Petrovna waved a dismissive hand. “What’s more important: your career or your own child? I sacrificed my career for my son, and I never regretted it.”
Lena was silent. She’d heard that song a hundred times: the university she quit when Andrey was born, the life she devoted to family, the hero story—always the same chorus.
“I don’t want to sacrifice my career,” Lena said quietly. “I want both.”
“Oh, we’ll see,” her mother-in-law said skeptically. “Just don’t come crying later that I didn’t warn you.”
At that moment the front door opened and Andrey walked in. He read the room instantly: his wife with a stone face, his mother wearing the “wronged” expression, heavy silence in the kitchen like damp fog.
“Hi,” he said carefully. “Mom—are you here?”
“Andryushenka!” Galina Petrovna sprang up and hugged him. “I just popped in for a minute. How are you?”
“Fine.” Andrey glanced at Lena. She turned toward the window.
“Well, I should go,” Galina Petrovna hurried. “I can’t be late. Lenochka, don’t forget to strain your soup. And think about daycare. Andryush, kisses. Kiss Lyovushka from Grandma.”
When the door closed behind her, Andrey walked over and put his arms around Lena’s shoulders.
“What happened this time?”
“Everything,” Lena sighed. “The soup is cloudy, the curtains are ugly, the apartment is cold, I put the baby down wrong, daycare is forbidden, I shouldn’t work. The standard set.”
“Len…”
“No, Andrey. I can’t do this anymore.” She turned, and he saw tears on her face. “I’m exhausted. She shows up whenever she wants, stays as long as she wants, and criticizes constantly. Everything I do is wrong. I’m a bad wife, a bad mother, a bad homemaker. And you’re always on her side!”
“I’m not on her side,” Andrey said, thrown off. “It’s just… she’s my mom.”
“And this is my life! My home! My child!” Lena wiped at her cheeks. “That’s it. I don’t want to see her anymore. Let her stop coming here.”
“Len, come on… That’s extreme. She’s just worried.”
“She’s interfering. There’s a difference.”
Andrey sat down and rubbed his face with his hands.
“So what are you suggesting? I tell my mother she’s forbidden to come to our home? To see her grandson?”
“Yes.”
“Lena, that’s cruel.”
“Cruel is spending two and a half years swallowing constant criticism,” Lena said, her voice shaking. “I’m tired of defending my decisions. Tired of proving I’m a normal mother. Tired of feeling uncomfortable in my own home.”
They fell quiet. Lyova stirred in his crib, and Lena automatically got up to check on him. Andrey stayed at the kitchen table, staring at the surface.
Half an hour later she returned with the sleepy child in her arms. Andrey was still sitting there.
“I’m not going to forbid my mother from seeing her grandson,” he said quietly. “But I’ll talk to her. I’ll ask her to be gentler.”
“You’ve asked. Many times. It doesn’t work.”
“Then what?” he asked, looking at her. “Just stop talking to her completely?”
Lena sat in the armchair, rocking Lyova. She thought for a long time while Andrey waited.
“Alright,” she finally said. “Your mom can come over. But I have just two simple conditions.”
Andrey tensed.
“What are they?”
“First: only by prior arrangement. Not ‘I was nearby so I dropped in,’ but a call ahead, a time we both agree on. Second: no more than two hours a week.”
“Two hours a week?” Andrey looked stunned. “Len, that’s—”
“That’s the maximum I can handle,” Lena cut him off. “Two hours a week of criticism, advice, and remarks. More than that and I’ll break. So it’s either this or nothing.”
“But why… maybe we should still try—”
“No.” Lena shook her head. “I’ve thought about it for a long time. Your mother isn’t going to change. She’s sixty-three. Her beliefs about life, parenting, family—those are set. She truly thinks she’s right. And I can’t remake her. The only thing I can control is how much time we spend together—so I have room to recover between visits.”
Andrey stayed silent, digesting it.
“She won’t like that,” he finally said.
“I know.”
“She’ll be shocked.”
“Probably.”
“And I’m supposed to tell her?”
Lena rocked Lyova, who was softly snuffling against her shoulder.
“We can tell her together,” she said. “But those are my conditions, Andrey. I’m not backing down.”
Galina Petrovna came over on Saturday—by agreement. Andrey had called her on Wednesday to explain, and Lena had heard his voice from the living room: confused at first, then conciliatory, then almost pleading. The call had lasted more than an hour.
“She agreed to come and talk,” he’d said afterward. “But she’s really hurt.”
Now his mother sat on their living-room sofa, very straight-backed, lips pressed tight. Lena sat in an armchair opposite. Andrey stood between them, like a referee in a boxing ring.
“Galina Petrovna,” Lena began. Her voice sounded steadier than she expected. “I want you to understand: this isn’t me trying to push you away from your grandson or from Andrey. It’s me trying to protect our relationship.”
“What relationship?” Galina Petrovna asked coldly. “If you’re limiting me to two hours a week?”
“Two hours is what I can do—honestly, without hurting myself,” Lena said, interlacing her fingers. “Every visit is stressful for me because I already know what’s coming: criticism. Of my cooking, my housework, my parenting. And I understand you believe you mean well—”
“Of course I mean well!” Galina Petrovna flared. “I’m trying to help!”
“But it doesn’t help me,” Lena replied. “It hurts me.” She looked her straight in the eye. “I’m not asking you to change who you are. I’m not asking you to pretend. I’m asking for a time limit so I can recover between visits.”
Galina Petrovna fell silent, her face unreadable.
“Andryusha,” she turned to her son. “Did you hear that? She says I hurt her!”
“Mom, try to hear her—” Andrey started.
“I hear perfectly!” his mother snapped, standing up. “I’m not wanted in this house. I’m considered a burden. After everything I’ve done for you!”
“Galina Petrovna, please sit down,” Lena said firmly. “We’re not finished.”
Something in her tone stopped the older woman. Slowly, she sat again.
“I’m not saying you’re a burden,” Lena continued. “I’m saying our communication is built the wrong way. You come when you want. Stay as long as you want. Say whatever you want. And I’m expected to absorb it because you’re Lyova’s grandmother. But I’m a person too. And I have boundaries.”
“Boundaries,” Galina Petrovna repeated. “From your own family.”
“Yes. Exactly.” Lena didn’t look away. “Two hours a week. By agreement. That’s my condition. If it doesn’t work for you, we can discuss alternatives. For example, you can spend time with Lyova and Andrey somewhere else—neutral territory. But I won’t be part of those meetings.”
Galina Petrovna went pale.
“You want to separate me from my son?”
“No,” Lena said evenly. “I want to stop feeling like a stranger in my own home.”
Silence stretched. Andrey shifted from foot to foot. Lena waited.
“Two hours,” Galina Petrovna said at last. “That’s nothing. I won’t even have time to—”
“To do what?” Lena asked gently. “Spend time with your grandson? Play with him? You will. But you won’t have time to list every complaint about my home and how I run it—and yes, that’s the point. It’s better that way.”
Her mother-in-law’s lips tightened into a thin line. Lena could see her fighting with herself.
“And if…” Galina Petrovna began, then hesitated. “If I try… not to criticize? If I just come and spend time with my grandson. No remarks. Then can it be more than two hours?”
Lena didn’t expect that. She glanced at Andrey—he looked both shocked and hopeful.
“Do you really think you can?” Lena asked carefully.
“I’ll try,” Galina Petrovna said, unusually quiet. “I… I don’t want to lose contact with the family. With Lyovushka. If that’s the only way…”
She looked at Lena—and for the first time since they’d met, there was no superiority in her eyes. Only fear. Fear of losing what actually mattered.
“Alright,” Lena said after a pause. “Let’s try. But honestly. No ‘accidental’ comments that ‘just slipped out.’ No ‘if I were you.’ No comparisons to how you raised Andrey. Just time together. Just grandma and grandson.”
“And if I fail?” Galina Petrovna held Lena’s gaze. “If I slip?”
“Then we go back to two hours,” Lena replied calmly. “It won’t be punishment, Galina Petrovna. It will be protection for my mental health.”
Her mother-in-law nodded. Slowly—but she nodded.
“I’ll try,” she repeated. “I promise.”
Their first visit under the new rules happened a week later. Galina Petrovna arrived on Sunday at two, after calling ahead. Lena opened the door with her heart thudding.
“Hello, Galina Petrovna.”
“Hello, Lenochka.” Galina Petrovna stood there with a bag of children’s toys and an uncertain smile. “I… may I come in?”
“Of course.”
They went into the living room where Lyova was building a tower out of blocks. The moment he saw his grandmother, he squealed happily and reached for her. Galina Petrovna lowered herself onto the rug, and the two of them disappeared into play.
Lena cooked lunch in the kitchen, listening to the sounds drifting in: Lyova’s laughter, her mother-in-law’s gentle voice, the tinkling music of a toy piano. Not a single remark. Not one “I would’ve…”
When Galina Petrovna was getting ready to leave three hours later, she stepped into the kitchen.
“Lenochka… I—thank you,” she said. “For the chance.”
Lena wiped her hands and walked closer.
“And thank you,” she answered. “For trying.”
They stood facing each other—two women who loved the same man in different ways. And for the first time, there wasn’t a wall between them.
“The pie is good,” Galina Petrovna added softly, nodding at the cooling pastry. “Cinnamon, yes? I can smell it.”
Lena tensed, expecting the “but…” to follow. But her mother-in-law only smiled, put on her coat, and went out into the hallway.
“Next Sunday?” she asked at the door.
“Next Sunday,” Lena nodded.
When the door closed, Andrey came out of the room where he’d been putting Lyova down for a nap.
“Well?” he asked.
Lena hugged him, pressing her face into his shoulder.
“I think it worked,” she whispered. “I think we found a way.”
“You did great,” Andrey murmured back. “So brave. I couldn’t have done it.”
“You could,” Lena replied. “You just didn’t have to. You had me.”
They stood holding each other while the cinnamon pie cooled in the kitchen, and Lyova slept softly in the nursery. Somewhere across the city Galina Petrovna drove home, hands tight on the steering wheel, absorbing a new reality—one where love for her grandson had proved stronger than the habit of controlling everything.
It wasn’t a fairy-tale ending. It was a beginning—difficult, but honest. A path where boundaries don’t divide people; they protect them. Where respect matters more than closeness. Where two hours of real warmth is worth more than ten hours of tense silence.
Lena smiled at the window. Snow fell in soft flakes, turning the city into a watercolor painting. And for the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel exhausted—she felt hopeful.
Hopeful that family isn’t a given. It’s work—daily, complicated, but possible work on yourself. And sometimes, to grow closer, you first have to take one step back.
And set two simple conditions.
