Do you think I’m blind?» Galina Vasilievna fixed me with an icy stare. «Your contempt shows in your every gesture.»
My first meeting with my mother-in-law was a prologue to war. Alexey brought me to their apartment, where the air was filled with the aroma of vanilla buns. The smiles vanished as soon as she learned about my calling.
«A writer?» Her voice twisted, as if I’d said something obscene. «And how do you pay for your bread? With scribbles in a notebook?»
Alexey squeezed my hand under the tablecloth. «Mama, Anna is an editor at Sovremennik magazine.»
«A hobby,» Galina Vasilievna cut him short, pushing her plate away. «A proper woman should sew, cook, bear children. Not daydream.»
Six months later, I still remembered that day in detail: a bookstore, a shelf of new releases, his hand reaching for the last copy of Shadows of the Past. Our fingers bumped on the glossy cover.
«War?» He smiled, offering me the book. «I surrender. But only if you agree to have tea with me.»
We started meeting in a tiny café called “Chez Margo.” He would come after work in a suit with cufflinks, smelling of woody cologne. I read him excerpts from my stories, he laughed at the dialogue and corrected the plot logic. In the evenings, we strolled along the embankment, and the stars seemed to align into lines of our own novel.
His proposal caught me in the pouring rain. Alexey was on one knee in a puddle, holding a ring in trembling fingers. «I’m soaked to the bone, but I won’t get up until I hear ‘yes’!»
We laughed until a wet spaniel barked in solidarity. Back then, I believed our love was armor against any blow. Even against her.
How wrong I was.
«Those ripped jeans again?» Galina Vasilievna inspected me like a piece of defective fabric. «My daughter-in-law dresses like a stray cat.»
I stayed silent, biting my lip until it hurt, while at night Alexey stroked my hair: «She’s from another generation. Give her time.»
But time only sharpened her words.
«Another rejection?» Her lips quivered in a semblance of a smile when I opened the envelope. «Maybe you should take up something useful instead? Sewing, for example.»
The letter trembled in my hands: “…does not fit the publisher’s current strategy…”
«I won’t give up,» I whispered into the void.
«Successful women aren’t stubborn,» she snapped the scissors, trimming the thread on a client’s dress. «They take action.»
Her atelier, “Style,” occupied a cramped basement with cracked windows. Its customers—ladies over sixty who wanted to look like they used to “in the old days.” But for Galina Vasilievna, it was her throne, from which she passed judgment.
That day began with the clatter of the mailbox. I cut open the envelope bearing the embossed “Golden Pen” logo with trembling hands.
“…we are ready to offer a three-book contract… advance of 1,500,000 rubles…”
The figures danced before my eyes—an amount twice the annual income of her atelier.
Alexey found me on the kitchen floor, clutching the sheet of paper to my chest. “You…” He skimmed through the lines, and his face lit up. “I knew it!”
He lifted me in his arms. We spun among the pots and pans, laughing through our tears.
During a dinner to celebrate her birthday, Galina Vasilievna tapped her fork on her plate: “That new workshop sews from rags! Yet fools are willing to pay for the so-called ‘eco’ label!”
Vladimir Petrovich signaled me with his eyebrows. My husband had told him about the contract over a game of chess.
“Well, how about your little stories?” She cast me a venomous glance. “Have you become the new Tolstoy yet?”
“Everything’s wonderful,” I brushed a crumb off the tablecloth. “Thank you for asking.”
The book was released on Alexey’s birthday. Through the Fog—a story about a girl who finds her voice in a world determined to make her stay silent.
At the presentation, I spotted her in the crowd. Galina Vasilievna stood by the shelves, flipping through the pages with a grimace, as if tasting a lemon. Then she abruptly closed the book and left, slamming the door loudly.
Alexey put an arm around my shoulders. “She bought ten copies. Yesterday. Anonymously.”
We laughed. In her pride, there was always a fear that someone else’s success would outshine her own.
Now I wrote during the day. Next to my laptop lay the draft of a new chapter and a card from the publisher: “Looking forward to more. You are a gem.”
Galina Vasilievna no longer commented on my jeans.
“You didn’t bring anything to congratulate my son?” Galina Vasilievna gave me a contemptuous look when the whole family gathered at the festive table.
Alexey smiled and pulled out my gift from under the table—an advance copy of my just-published book, signed personally for him. “Mom, this is the most valuable gift in my life,” he said sincerely.
She took the book, quickly leafed through a few pages, clearly skeptical of the content. “Your story got published? So that’s how it is…” She turned the book around, noticed my photo on the cover. “You could have at least tidied yourself up for the photo shoot. Your appearance is…” She trailed off, catching the dangerous flash in her son’s eyes. “Mama, enough,” Alexey said calmly but firmly.
It was the first time he had ever openly contradicted her.
Within a month, the book sold an unbelievable number of copies. Soon after came a call from my literary agent—three different countries wanted to buy the translation rights. I worked day and night on the sequel.
Meanwhile, Galina Vasilievna’s atelier was slowly going under. One by one, the seamstresses left her, and clients chose more modern services. “Twenty years! Twenty years I built this business!” she shouted when Alexey and I came after her phone call. “Now everything’s falling apart! I need money, Alyosha. Need to pay the rent…”
Alexey was silent. Then he answered quietly: “Mama, I do help you, you know that, but I personally don’t have that kind of money…” “Of course,” Galina Vasilievna interrupted. “Now this… your wife is more important than your own mother!” “Anya has her own finances,” Alexey said, visibly angry for the first time in my memory. “And she isn’t obligated to—” “I’ve always believed she married you for the money!” Unable to bear it any longer, I cut in: “Galina Vasilievna, you know perfectly well that when we met, Alexey had nothing at all.” “How dare you…” “Stop,” Alexey stood up. “We’re leaving. And yes, Mama. Maybe it’s time to accept that the world has changed. And you haven’t.”
A week later, Vladimir Petrovich called us. Galina Vasilievna had decided to sell the atelier. She was desperate—there were no buyers, and her debts were piling up.
I pondered for a long time, holding the phone in my hands after that conversation. Then I dialed my literary agent’s number. “Marina, remember you said the advance for the international rights would come in soon? How much can I count on?” The figure she named made me inhale deeply. It was more than enough.
I found the realtor’s contact who was handling the sale of the atelier. “Hello, I’m interested in the property on Leninsky Prospekt…” The deal went through quickly and discreetly. I insisted on keeping the buyer’s identity confidential—I wanted to see the look on Galina Vasilievna’s face when she learned who had become the new owner of her beloved atelier. Vladimir Petrovich called early in the morning: “Anna, she’s received the money. She’s coming tomorrow to collect her things. At ten o’clock.”
Alexey watched me anxiously: “Are you sure you want to handle this yourself? Maybe we can just send a manager?” “No,” I shook my head. “I need to do this.”
I arrived at the atelier earlier than the set time. Above the entrance still hung the sign “Galina’s”—it would soon be taken down. The key turned easily in the lock.
Inside, there was still the smell of fabric and of Galina Vasilievna’s perfume—heavy, overly sweet. I walked around the place: mannequins, sewing machines, shelves with materials. Here, she had been the queen. Here, she had humiliated her employees, greeted her clients with the arrogance she believed was a mark of professionalism.
Right at ten, the door opened. Galina Vasilievna froze on the threshold when she saw me. “You? What are you doing here?” She looked older. Exhausted. Yet her eyes still held their old spark. “I’m here because this is now my property,” I answered calmly. “What?” “I bought it, Galina Vasilievna. Yesterday, you received the funds from me.” She paled, grasping the counter for support. “That’s impossible…” “Quite possible. My books are popular.”
She looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. “Why? Why do you need my atelier? You know nothing about sewing!” I stepped forward. “And you know nothing about people, Galina Vasilievna. All these years, you looked down on me. You saw me as a failure. You said I didn’t deserve your son.” “So, you’ve come to humiliate me? To take revenge?” I shook my head. “No. I came to tell you that you no longer work here.” Her face contorted. “You have no right! This is my work! My life!” “No, Galina Vasilievna. Now it’s mine. And it’s time for you to leave.”
She left the atelier hunched over, carrying a box of personal belongings. At the door, she came face to face with Alexey. He’d arrived to support me.
“Alyosha,” her voice quivered, “will you really let her treat your mother like this?”
Alexey regarded her without emotion: “And you let yourself insult my wife for years. Where was I all that time?”
She recoiled, as though struck.
“I am your mother!”
“Yes, and I will always be your son. But you will never again control my life. Or Anna’s.”
She turned abruptly, and our eyes met. In those typically cold, superior eyes, something new appeared. It was fear—pure, primal, undisguised fear. The fear of a person who suddenly realizes they’ve lost everything. Her pupils widened, her lips quivered, and the wrinkles around her eyes grew deeper. The unyielding Galina Vasilievna, queen of her tiny realm, was looking up at me for the first time. In that moment, she seemed small and fragile—a woman whose armor had finally cracked, revealing a vulnerable heart. I almost physically felt the power shift to me. Years of humiliation, ridicule, and contempt converged in that gaze, transforming into a silent admission of defeat.
“What are your plans for the atelier?”
“I’m turning it into a literary space,” I replied. “A place where people can immerse themselves in books and connect with authors. A place where art will be valued.”
She nodded, as if my words were the final blow.
“Was that your goal all along? To destroy me?”
“No, Galina Vasilievna. I only wanted to be happy. With your son. But you were always in the way.”
She left without another word.
A month later, Vladimir Petrovich moved in with us. We bought a country house—spacious enough for everyone. He spent a lot of time in the garden.
“You know,” he said one day as we were having tea on the terrace, “she used to be different. Before our wedding. Before Alexey was born.”
“What happened?”
“Fear,” he shrugged. “Fear of losing control. Fear of being no one. She grew up in poverty and swore she’d never…” he sighed. “I’m not trying to justify what she did. I’m just explaining.”
Alexey stepped out onto the terrace with a newspaper. “Your third book is on the bestseller list. Again.”
I smiled. At that moment, Vladimir Petrovich’s phone rang. His expression darkened when he saw the caller ID.
“It’s her,” he said, standing up. “First time in three months.”
He went inside to take the call. When he returned, his face was somber.
“Galina is asking for forgiveness,” he said quietly. “She’s in the hospital. Heart attack.”
Alexey and I exchanged glances.
“What do you want to do?” I asked him.
He took my hand. “I’ll go to her. If you don’t mind.”
“I’ll go with you,” I replied.
In the hospital ward, Galina Vasilievna looked almost childlike among the white sheets.
When the door squeaked, she flinched. She clearly hadn’t expected both of us—her eyes widened, and her hand instinctively reached up to fix her disheveled gray hair. Silence hung in the air, broken only by the steady beep of the heart monitor. Alexey squeezed my hand, and we approached the bed.
“Why are you here?” Her voice was barely audible, strained.
“Because you are my mother,” Alexey answered simply.
She studied me for a long time. Something cracked in her gaze, like a dam that had long held back her true feelings.
“You know, Anya,” she said, calling me by name without mockery for the first time, “when I saw your book… your name on the cover…” She swallowed. “That night, I cried. In the bathroom, so no one would hear.”
Her fingers nervously fidgeted with the edge of the hospital blanket.
“I used to write once, too. Filled entire notebooks with stories. I dreamed…” She let out a bitter laugh. “Now it’s ridiculous to talk about my dreams. Life has passed me by.”
“Why did you stop?” I asked gently.
“I didn’t stop,” she shook her head. “I gave up. By my own choice. Because it was the right thing to do, what was expected. I had to feed the family, to survive.” She suddenly looked into my eyes. “It wasn’t you I hated, Anya. I hated my own unrealized past. Every time I saw how hard you worked, how much you believed in your dream… it was like a knife to my heart. At night, I’d secretly read your books and saw my own lost hopes in them. In my youth, I wrote, too, but my father burned my manuscripts, calling them a waste of time.”
Her recovery was lengthy, not just for her heart. We began a genuine conversation—the first in all these years. Alexey spent hours seated between us, watching as the two most important women in his life rediscovered each other. I gave Galina Vasilievna a notebook. “Start again,” I suggested. “Just for yourself.” She hesitated, but that very night, I noticed her hand gliding swiftly over the pages for the first time in decades, freeing the words she’d kept locked away.
In spring, the literary space opened in the renovated premises of the old atelier. Unexpectedly, it was Galina Vasilievna who proposed holding a sewing workshop there—“for those who want to sew for enjoyment.” On the opening day, her voice trembling, she read aloud her first short story—about a woman who lost herself and found it again through forgiveness. When the applause died down, we stood there, arms around each other: me, Alexey, and his parents. Four people who had finally learned to see in one another not adversaries, but reflections of their own hopes, fears, and missed opportunities.
