— You need to take better care of your nervous system, Katya. All women’s health problems come from stress, — Zinaida Petrovna said in a caring voice as she pushed a steaming cup toward me.
I was standing by the stove with a wooden spatula in my hand, watching her practiced movements from the corner of my eye. Just a second earlier, she had skillfully hidden a small glass bottle filled with cloudy liquid behind the round ceramic sugar bowl. I had clearly seen my mother-in-law adding sleeping drops to my tea, so during lunch I decided to secretly switch our cups and see what happened.
At last, the mystery of my sudden evening exhaustion had been solved. For the past three days, I had come home from work, obediently drunk the herbal tea she prepared for me, and then practically fallen into a deep, unnatural sleep.
Yesterday I had even passed out right in front of my laptop during an important work video call, my forehead landing on the keyboard. At the time, my mother-in-law had shaken her head sadly, patted my shoulder with her rough hand, and spent a long time lecturing my husband about how dangerous career obsession was for a woman’s health.
 
She had been staying with us for almost two weeks, and our once cozy apartment was rapidly turning into some kind of strict health retreat.
My favorite linen tablecloths had been mercilessly banished to the deepest drawer of the dresser because, according to her, they were “impractical.” In their place appeared a slippery, unpleasant, bright green plastic table cover.
It constantly stuck to my hands and smelled sharply of rubber, but in my mother-in-law’s opinion, it had one great advantage: crumbs could easily be wiped off it.
My expensive moisturizing cream had also mysteriously ended up in the trash, replaced by a suspicious cucumber lotion from the nearest supermarket. Every attempt I made to defend my personal boundaries crashed against the same unshakable argument: she had more life experience and was only trying to take care of us.
— Sit down quickly. The steamed cutlets are getting cold, — my mother-in-law sang out as she efficiently placed dull gray pieces of meat onto our plates. — I added some cabbage. It’s good for digestion.
Nikita was absorbed in scrolling through the news on his phone, mechanically chewing the bland diet food.
He seemed completely comfortable in this artificial world of total maternal care, where his mother even decided how large his portion should be.
I slowly walked toward the table, feeling irritation boiling inside me at the hypocrisy of the whole performance.
— Nikita, sweetheart, could you bring the paper napkins from the living room? — I asked, pulling out the heavy wooden chair.
My husband obediently stood up, shuffled down the laminate floor in his slippers, and disappeared into the dark hallway.
At exactly that moment, Zinaida Petrovna turned toward the window to complain indignantly about the way a neighbor had parked his SUV.
That was my only chance.
 
I moved with the confidence of a street magician. I carefully picked up my cup—the one containing her secret ingredient—and placed it directly in front of my mother-in-law. Then I smoothly slid her untouched cup over to my side of the table.
The heavy porcelain glided silently across the awful green plastic tablecloth.
Operation “Return the Care” had gone perfectly.
My mother-in-law turned back around with an expression of complete satisfaction. She clearly believed her brilliant plan to rescue her irresponsible daughter-in-law was working flawlessly.
Nikita returned with the napkins, dropped the package on the edge of the table, and immediately buried himself in his phone again.
Zinaida Petrovna took a large, eager sip from her cup and closed her eyes with pleasure.
I drank my untouched tea, enjoying the pleasant bitterness of the clean brew and quietly waiting for the conclusion of this ridiculous performance.
— Katya, you’re slouching again. You’re sitting there all curled up, — my mother-in-law remarked sternly, dabbing her lips with a paper napkin. — A woman needs to stay relaxed. Otherwise, masculine energy becomes stagnant in the home and starts causing problems.
 
— You’re absolutely right. Proper rest is essential for emotional balance, — I agreed readily, keeping my eyes fixed on her face.
She speared a piece of cabbage cutlet with her fork and was apparently preparing to continue her lecture on the benefits of proper breathing while cleaning the apartment.
But about ten minutes later, something began to change.
Zinaida Petrovna’s usually rosy face slowly lost its liveliness.
Her normally rigid back began to bend, destroying her trademark military posture. She blinked rapidly, struggling to focus her increasingly unfocused eyes on the metal salt shaker.
— There’s something wrong with the air in here… not enough oxygen, — she muttered, slowly lowering her fork back onto her half-empty plate. — The air feels… unusually thick.
 
— Should I open a window? — I asked sympathetically, carefully hiding my satisfied smile. — Or maybe the atmospheric pressure is acting up again?
— Pressure… yes, that must be it, — she mumbled.
Her tongue was already beginning to betray her, making her sound as though she had just swallowed a glass of strong liquor.
— I’ll just… close my eyes for a second. Just one tiny minute.
She gently lowered her head onto her folded arms right in the middle of the lunch table and immediately began snoring loudly.
Nikita finally looked up from his phone and stared at his mother in complete disbelief.
Never in his life had he seen his energetic, commanding mother collapse like that in the middle of the day.
— Mom? Are you okay? — he asked anxiously, gently shaking her shoulder.
The only response was a faint smacking sound from her lips.
I calmly stood up, walked over to the ceramic sugar bowl, and pulled out the hidden glass bottle.
The white label carried a very clear inscription:
“Sleep Herb. Powerful Concentrated Drops.”
 
— Don’t worry. Your mother simply decided to demonstrate personally how important deep relaxation really is, — I said.
Then I placed the bottle openly in front of my confused husband.
Nikita looked from the label to his sleeping mother. His eyebrows slowly rose as his expression changed from alarm to complete bewilderment.
— What the hell is she doing with this stuff? — he finally asked hoarsely, picking up the bottle with two fingers.
— She was so determined to cure me of working too hard that today she accidentally drank a double dose of her own medicine, — I replied in an even, icy voice.
The pieces were beginning to fall into place in Nikita’s head. My strange three-day pattern of falling unconscious in the evenings suddenly made perfect sense when combined with his mother’s current condition.
At that moment, a small spiral notebook slipped from the pocket of Zinaida Petrovna’s house cardigan and landed on the floor.
I picked it up.
The notebook had fallen open to a page covered in neat red handwriting, and I couldn’t resist reading it.
 
Across the top, in large proud letters, she had written:
“Plan for Correcting Katerina. Week Two.”
— You should see this. It’s extremely educational, — I said with a bitter laugh, handing the notebook to Nikita.
— Item one: throw away daughter-in-law’s red underwear because it’s vulgar. Item two: continue adding drops until Friday so I can check her work files on the computer. Item three: convince Nikita to transfer ownership of the country house to nephew Alyosha.
My husband silently read the neat lines written in his mother’s handwriting.
His face gradually turned red with a mixture of shame and anger.
Judging by his expression, the final item involving his property had wounded his pride even more deeply than the discovery that his mother had been secretly drugging his wife.
— Pack her things, — Nikita said shortly, snapping the incriminating notebook shut.
 
We didn’t bother trying to wake our experimental patient. Considering the amount of sleeping drops she had swallowed, it would have been pointless.
Instead, we quickly gathered all of her belongings scattered around the apartment and methodically stuffed them into her large suitcase.
With enormous satisfaction, I placed the ugly green plastic tablecloth at the very bottom, along with the container holding the leftover steamed cutlets.
Nikita personally zipped the suitcase closed with unusual, almost aggressive enthusiasm.
Then we carefully helped his deeply sleeping mother into her roomy outdoor coat.
My husband ordered the most comfortable premium taxi available and specifically requested assistance from the driver.
Under the driver’s extremely puzzled stare, the two of us guided the peacefully snoring Zinaida Petrovna into the back seat of the car.
— Take her to this address. Her apartment keys are in the bag on her right, — Nikita instructed dryly, handing the driver a generous banknote. — And take the turns carefully. The passenger has exhausted herself from caring too much about other people.
 
When the taxi disappeared, we returned to the empty apartment.
For the first time in two weeks, the rooms seemed spacious again, and it finally felt possible to breathe freely.
I opened the dresser, took out my thick linen tablecloth, and carefully spread it across the oak dining table, smoothing out every stubborn fold.
Sometimes the most effective way to defend your personal boundaries is to let a manipulator swallow their own bait.
Nikita and I exchanged a knowing look.
Then we pulled our hidden coffee pot out of the cupboard and made ourselves two cups of strong, genuine black coffee.
