Marina spooned out portions of chopped Olivier salad onto the plates, trying to make them all look the same. Her hands trembled slightly—not from exhaustion, though she’d been in the kitchen all day, but from an uneasy feeling in her gut.
It was her father-in-law’s fifty-fifth birthday, and the whole clan had crammed into their three-bedroom apartment. Which meant only one thing: another round of theater.
“Marinka, did you make the salad yourself, or did Dima help?” Lyudmila Petrovna’s voice carried from the living room. Her mother-in-law had already begun.
“Me,” Marina answered as she came out with the tray. “Dima only peeled the potatoes.”
“Ahh,” her mother-in-law drew out, sweeping her eyes over the plates. “I see. The peas are kind of small, though. I usually buy bigger ones—more juicy.”
The guests—her father-in-law’s sister and her husband, two neighbors, and an old family friend—sat at the table and pretended they hadn’t heard a thing. Marina knew the truth: they heard everything. They just acted like they didn’t.
“Lyudmila Petrovna, it’s the same peas you always buy,” Marina said quietly. “I took them from your pantry.”
Her mother-in-law pursed her lips and switched subjects.
“That dress is… roomy. Did you put on weight? Or is it just shapeless?”
Under the table Marina clenched her fists. The dress was new, dark blue, and she’d spent two weeks choosing it so she’d look respectable at a family gathering.
“I think it’s fine,” Dima—her husband—cut in. “Marina looks great.”
“Oh, I’m not saying she looks bad,” Lyudmila Petrovna flicked her hand. “It’s just that my Svetka—your sister—always looks so elegant. Young people nowadays dress so strangely you can’t tell if they’re going to the grocery store or to see a doctor.”
Viktor Semyonovich, Marina’s father-in-law, sat at the head of the table scrolling on his phone, paying no attention to what was happening. His mind was on expanding his auto shop, on a new contract with spare-parts suppliers. Family sparring didn’t interest him.
Dinner continued. Marina kept bringing dishes and swallowing critique after critique: the meat was a bit dry (“Should’ve kept it wrapped in foil longer”), the side dish was too plain (“Could’ve come up with something more interesting than just rice”), the napkins were wrong (“I told you to buy cloth ones, not paper—this is a jubilee”).
After every remark, Marina escaped to the kitchen, took a deep breath, and came back with the next course.
It had been like this for three years—ever since she and Dima got married. At first she’d tried to explain herself, to justify, to smooth everything over. That only added fuel to the fire. Then she started staying silent. That didn’t help either.
Once, about six months earlier, she’d finally snapped and complained to her husband.
“Dim, your mom criticizes me nonstop. In front of guests, in front of relatives. Like I can’t do anything right.”
At the time, Dima had been lying on the couch watching soccer.
“That’s just how my mom is. Get used to it. She nitpicks everyone, not just you.”
“But it’s humiliating! I try, I cook, I clean—and she still finds something to attack.”
“Marin, don’t take it to heart. She doesn’t mean it. That’s just her personality.”
“Dima, it’s hard.”
“And it’s hard for me to listen to you complain,” he’d said without taking his eyes off the screen. “Figure it out yourself somehow. I bust my back all day at work—when I’m home I want to relax.”
That night Marina went into the bathroom and cried quietly so he wouldn’t hear.
Now, at the birthday table, she did what she always did: stayed quiet, smiled when she had to. The guests talked about politics, gas prices, a new mall on the edge of town. Lyudmila Petrovna chimed in now and then, addressing her husband or the guests, but her eyes kept returning to Marina.
“Vitya, pour me some more vodka,” she asked her husband. “We’ve got a reason to celebrate—your jubilee.”
Viktor Semyonovich poured it obediently. His cheeks were pink, his mood clearly lifting. He raised his shot glass.
“To family! To everything being good for us—and to grandchildren showing up soon!”
Marina tensed instinctively. The topic of children hurt. She and Dima had been trying for a year, but nothing had happened. The doctors told them: give it time, don’t worry, it will happen.
Lyudmila Petrovna took a sip and suddenly turned to Marina.
“Isn’t that right, Marinochka? When are you going to make us grandparents? You’ve been married three years.”
Marina stayed silent. Dima coughed awkwardly.
“Mom, we already talked about this. Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” her mother-in-law put on a look of innocence. “I’m just asking. Maybe it’s her,” she nodded at Marina. “Maybe she should see doctors. Get checked.”
“Lyudmila Petrovna, we did,” Marina said softly. “Everything is fine. For both of us.”
“Then what’s the problem?” her mother-in-law raised her voice. “Or are you building a career? At your age I’d already had Dima and was raising Svetka. And you’re still sitting at your job. What do they even pay you—pennies?”
The guests lowered their eyes to their plates. Viktor’s sister coughed and started talking about the weather, but Lyudmila Petrovna wouldn’t stop.
“And I’ve noticed you and Dima are hardly ever together. He’s at work, you’re at work. When exactly are you planning to make a baby? Maybe you don’t suit him as a wife.”
A heavy silence fell over the table.
Marina looked at her mother-in-law and felt something hot and uncontrollable building inside her. Three years. Three years of enduring it. Three years of hearing she was incompetent, that her dress was “wrong,” that her borscht wasn’t tasty enough, that the bedroom curtains she’d chosen were “hideous.”
And then she remembered what she’d seen two months earlier.
It was a Saturday. She’d been driving downtown to buy a present for a friend. At a traffic light she turned her head by chance—and saw Lyudmila Petrovna walking along the sidewalk arm-in-arm with a young man.
He couldn’t have been older than thirty—athletic, in jeans and a leather jacket. They were laughing as they walked into an expensive store with flashy windows. Marina had been stunned, but she told herself she must be mistaken—maybe it was someone who just looked like her.
A week later she saw them again, this time leaving a restaurant in the city center. The same young man, the same mother-in-law—only now Lyudmila Petrovna was wearing a brand-new expensive coat. They got into a taxi and drove away.
Marina hadn’t told Dima. It didn’t feel like her business. But now, as Lyudmila Petrovna humiliated her yet again, hinting that Marina was a bad wife and the reason there were no children…
“Lyudmila Petrovna,” Marina’s voice came out quiet but firm. “You know, I’ve wanted to say something for a long time.”
Her mother-in-law lifted an eyebrow.
“What now?”
“You want to drag me through the mud in front of everyone?” Marina said, the words spilling out before she could stop them. “Then I won’t stay quiet either.”
The guests froze. Dima stared at his wife, mouth slightly open.
Marina kept going, unstoppable now.
“For three years you’ve criticized everything about me—my cooking, my clothes, my cleaning. You say I’m a terrible homemaker, that I have no taste, that I’m not good enough for your son. And now you’re blaming me because we don’t have children.” Her eyes didn’t waver. “But maybe we should talk about what I saw.”
“What did you see?” Lyudmila Petrovna’s voice turned cold.
“I saw you downtown two months ago—with a man young enough to be your son. You were shopping and laughing. And then I saw you at a restaurant on Leninsky Prospekt—same man. You were wearing an expensive new coat.” Marina paused. “So whose money are you spending while you enjoy yourself? Viktor Semyonovich’s—the money he earns at his auto shop while you’re out entertaining yourself?”
Her mother-in-law’s face went white, then flushed red. Viktor Semyonovich slowly turned toward his wife. The guests sat like statues.
“Marina, what nonsense are you talking?!” Lyudmila Petrovna shrieked. “Are you stalking me?!”
“No. I saw you by accident. Twice. And I kept quiet because I thought it wasn’t my place. But when you accuse me in front of everyone of being the reason Dima and I don’t have children—when you say I’m a bad wife—I can’t stay silent anymore. Maybe you should think about what kind of wife you are, Lyudmila Petrovna.”
“Lyuda,” Viktor Semyonovich’s voice was dull and heavy. “Is it true?”
Lyudmila Petrovna opened and closed her mouth like a fish thrown onto shore.
“Vitya, I… it’s a misunderstanding. He’s my friend’s nephew. I was helping him pick out a gift…”
“Twice?” Viktor Semyonovich stood up. “In different places? And the restaurant too?” His chair scraped the floor. “Get your things. We’re going home. Now.”
“Vitya, the guests…”
“To hell with the guests!” he raised his voice for the first time all evening. “I said we’re leaving!”
Lyudmila Petrovna jumped up, grabbed her purse. Her face was twisted—shame, anger, fear. She shot Marina a look full of hatred, but didn’t say a word.
“All the best,” Viktor Semyonovich said curtly to the guests and walked out. His wife hurried after him.
The door slammed. Silence hung in the apartment.
Viktor’s sister was the first to recover.
“Well… wow. I think I’ll go too. Thank you for dinner, Marina.”
The others fussed, thanked them, put on coats, and left. Ten minutes later, Marina and Dima were alone.
He stared at her for a long time without speaking.
“Why did you do that?” he finally asked.
“Because I couldn’t take it anymore.”
“You destroyed the family.”
“Me?” Marina gave a bitter little laugh. “Dima, I’ve spent three years being humiliated by your mother. Three years you brushed me off when I begged you to step in. And now I destroyed the family?”
“Maybe she was telling the truth about the friend’s nephew.”
“Dima… seriously? Twice? At a restaurant?”
He didn’t answer. He stood up and went into the bedroom. Marina stayed in the kitchen alone, surrounded by dirty plates and half-eaten food.
That night Lyudmila Petrovna couldn’t sleep. Viktor Semyonovich slept in another room—for the first time in twenty-seven years of marriage. Their conversation had been short and brutal.
“I knew you had someone,” he told her when they got home. “I’ve known for a long time. I thought it would pass. But I didn’t think you’d sink so low you’d parade him through stores and restaurants on my money—while lecturing other people on how to live.”
“Vitya, I’m sorry, I…”
“Tomorrow morning I’m going to a lawyer. We’ll see what he says about dividing property. And now I’ve got witnesses to your affair. Thanks to our daughter-in-law.”
“Vitya, please, don’t. I won’t do it again.”
“I’ll think about it. Maybe. But you have a week to decide what matters more to you—your family or that boyfriend of yours.”
He went into his study and locked the door.
Lyudmila Petrovna lay in the dark, replaying the evening in her head. How could she have embarrassed herself so badly? How did she not realize Marina had seen her? And most of all—how had she pushed things so far that her daughter-in-law finally dared to do that?
She remembered all the times she’d picked at the young woman. At first it was almost reflex—an urge to prove that she, Lyudmila Petrovna, was more experienced, smarter, the one who knew “the right way.” Then it became habit. She liked the feeling of power when Marina silently endured every jab. Maybe it filled the emptiness she’d been carrying in her marriage for years.
Viktor Semyonovich was always at work. Their conversations were reduced to bills, renovations, groceries. No romance, no attention. She felt like a boring housewife next to a successful husband.
And then Andrey appeared—by accident. A trainer at the gym she’d joined after reading an article about healthy living. He listened, he complimented her, he asked her opinion. With him she felt wanted, young. They started meeting—first for coffee, then lunches, then dinners. She spent her husband’s money without thinking. She told herself she’d earned a little luxury, a little attention.
But now, with everything exposed—with Viktor talking about divorce, with the guests witnessing her humiliation—she suddenly understood what she was losing: her home, her stability, her family’s respect. And for what? A fake youth with a man who, most likely, was simply using her money.
The next morning Lyudmila Petrovna called Marina. She listened to the ringing for a long time.
“Hello,” her daughter-in-law answered coldly.
“Marina, it’s me. Lyudmila Petrovna.”
Silence.
“I… I wanted to talk. Can I come over?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Please. I need to say something.”
A pause—then:
“Fine. Come after lunch. Dima will be at work.”
They met in the same apartment where the scandal had erupted the night before. Lyudmila Petrovna stepped inside uncertainly and looked around. Marina brewed tea and set two cups on the table.
“Go on,” Marina said.
Her mother-in-law stayed quiet for a long time, turning a teaspoon in her fingers.
“I want to apologize. For everything. For how I behaved these three years. For last night. For… all of it.”
Marina looked at her in silence.
“I didn’t understand what I was doing. Or—I did, but I didn’t treat it as important. I thought it was normal to ‘teach’ you, to criticize you. That I was older, more experienced, and that gave me the right. But really… I was just unhappy. In my marriage. In my life. And I took it out on you.”
“Lyudmila Petrovna,” Marina exhaled. “I’m not your psychologist. I can’t solve your problems.”
“I know. I just want you to know: I was wrong. You’re a good girl. A good homemaker. A good wife for Dima. And I was a terrible mother-in-law. And a terrible wife.” She swallowed. “Can you promise me you’ll never tell anyone you saw me with another man? No one. Ever?”
“Did you make up with Viktor Semyonovich?” Marina asked.
Lyudmila Petrovna shook her head.
“Not yet. He’s giving me a week to prove I can change. I already texted Andrey that we’re done. Deleted his number. I want to try to fix things with Vitya—if he’ll still give me a chance.”
“I hope it works out,” Marina said.
“And Marina… I truly regret what I said about children. That was cruel. And unfair. I know you and Dima are trying. And I believe it will happen.”
Marina nodded. She didn’t feel anger anymore—only fatigue.
“I don’t want to ruin relationships in the family,” she said. “But I won’t tolerate humiliation anymore. If you go back to how you were before—I’ll simply stop communicating with you.”
“I understand,” Lyudmila Petrovna whispered. “And I promise I’ll be different. Last night… it opened my eyes.” Then, softer: “Just don’t tell anyone.”
They finished their tea in silence. Then Lyudmila Petrovna stood, thanked her for the conversation, and left.
Six months passed.
Lyudmila Petrovna and Viktor Semyonovich stayed together. There was no divorce—he decided to give her another chance, on the condition that they see a family therapist. They went every week, talked through what had piled up over the years, learned how to hear each other.
Viktor Semyonovich started coming home earlier. Lyudmila Petrovna signed up for a floristry course—an old dream she’d never had time or courage to pursue. She became calmer, more confident.
With Marina, the relationship was reserved but no longer tense. Lyudmila Petrovna stopped making cutting remarks, stopped criticizing. Sometimes she even asked for advice—what book to read, what film to watch. Marina answered, surprised by the change.
For a long time Dima couldn’t forgive his wife for the scandal. They argued more than once; he accused her of being cruel. But little by little, seeing how his mother was changing and how his parents’ relationship was healing, he began to understand that Marina had been right.
One evening he said, “I’m sorry. I should’ve protected you sooner. Not brushed you off—stepped in. You were alone against everyone, and I didn’t help.”
Marina hugged him.
“It’s behind us. The important thing is that now we’re together.”
And a month later she found out she was pregnant. She and Dima stared at the test in silence for a long moment—then they burst out laughing and clung to each other.
When they shared the news with the parents, Lyudmila Petrovna cried—partly from joy, and partly from shame. She walked up to Marina and hugged her.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “For stopping me back then, six months ago. You saved our family. All of us.”
Marina smiled. She didn’t hold a grudge anymore. So much lay ahead—a baby, new worries, new difficulties. But now she knew they’d manage.
Because they’d learned to tell the truth.
And they weren’t afraid of it anymore.
