I used to think that such things only happened in TV shows: when the heroine is helplessly watching her territory being brazenly taken over by her mother-in-law, not knowing how to behave, what to say, or how to react. But here I am—standing and watching as my mother-in-law shamelessly settles into the tiny nest my husband and I share. And her subsequent words left me in a stupor—so much so that it felt as if all my words had flown out of my head.
Dima and I got married not too long ago—less than a year. We studied at the same university, albeit in different faculties, and met in the cafeteria. He was from another city, so he lived in a dorm, while I rented a small one-room apartment near the university so I wouldn’t have to commute from another district. My parents paid for the rent, and I bought everything else—food, clothing, the little things needed for my studies—with money from part-time jobs or my scholarship.
My home was always clean, and the refrigerator was never empty: I even managed to whip up something delicious from simple ingredients. Dima liked me right away, and I didn’t object—after all, I had fallen in love and wanted to please him by taking care of him. We quickly moved in together and got married just as quickly, and before long, our studies were over. I found a job not far from the university, so we decided not to move and to stay in our little apartment. Moreover, the landlady had already grown accustomed to me and was always accommodating if I ever couldn’t pay the rent on the exact day. I appreciated that very much, since after graduation my parents stopped paying for the apartment.
“You’re already working,” my father told me, “and you’re married. It’s about time you started standing on your own two feet.”
And we were, together with Dima. He was also working, and for a while I was content and even proud, because we were a young, hardworking, independent family. But quite soon, my enthusiasm began to fade.
In my love and excitement, I didn’t notice that all the housework was falling entirely on me. Dima and I worked roughly the same number of hours, yet I was the one cooking, mopping the floors, doing the laundry, ironing, shopping for groceries, and overseeing everything else. Dima, on the other hand, did absolutely nothing.
“Very tasty, Nastya, thank you,” he would say while having dinner after work.
Then he would collapse into sleep, and I—buoyed by his gratitude—would continue with the housework late into the night. I also tried not to make too much noise, so as not to, God forbid, wake him up. He was tired and deserved his rest.
Perhaps I might have continued to ignore it for a while if it weren’t for Dima’s mother—Angelina Petrovna. She started coming over to visit us, even though no one had invited her. I have nothing against guests, but not this often. My parents came to visit us about once every couple of months for lunch, and they always gave notice beforehand, but Angelina Petrovna simply presented us with an ultimatum.
“I’m just here for a day,” she would say.
And you just can’t turn her away—she’s my husband’s mother, after all. I didn’t want to cause a scandal over a single day, fearing I’d seem petty. The person from another city had taken a three-hour bus ride and was tired from the journey. Only, on days like that, the household work increased. Someone had to feed Angelina Petrovna, and afterwards, I had to clean up after her. She carried herself like a lady.
Of course, I didn’t expect her to start sweeping the entire apartment— that would have bothered me too—but at least she could wash her own cup. That’s when I began to notice that Dima wasn’t helping me at all, and that his after-work activities amounted to nothing but idleness. I, too, would love to lie in bed and watch a TV show or sleep, but the laundry wouldn’t hang itself after washing, the dust wouldn’t wipe itself, and the borscht wouldn’t cook itself.
Maybe I could have come to terms with all this. It’s assumed that housekeeping is a woman’s job. Since others managed, surely I could manage. But the problem was that Angelina Petrovna was never satisfied with anything. Either I ironed the creases in Dima’s trousers incorrectly, or I washed the dishes poorly, or I wrung the cloth the wrong way. Angelina Petrovna also loved to be capricious about food: she wouldn’t eat this, her son didn’t like that (even though she devoured it), it needed to be cooked differently, it needed to be cut another way, I over-salted it, and then under-salted something else.
“Learn how it should be done,” she would preach, admonishing me time and again.
At the same time, as part of the family, it seemed that Angelina Petrovna didn’t really consider me.
“Clean up,” I would hear her say. “Dima and I are off to the store.”
It was always “Dima and I,” while I remained on the sidelines. A free housekeeper who could be bossed around and whose wishes didn’t really matter. One day, I joked that serfdom had been abolished, but Angelina Petrovna didn’t appreciate my humor and complained to Dima—claiming that I was being rude to her.
It was hard enough to fit three people into a one-room apartment. I craved personal space. Even the monthly visits were too frequent, because on weekends—when Angelina Petrovna usually arrived—I wanted to spend time with Dima or by myself: to relax, go out, or at least attend to my affairs in a calm environment. But as if that wasn’t enough, the visits from Angelina Petrovna started happening more and more often.
Soon, she was coming every two weeks. I found what seemed like the perfect solution at the time—I began scheduling meetings with friends or my parents. Since Dima rested on weekends, I could too. Since he wasn’t giving me time, I decided I would take time for myself. And if Angelina Petrovna wanted to have lunch, she was more than welcome to use my pots and pans and cook whatever her heart desired.
For some reason, Angelina Petrovna did not like this new arrangement. She initially took my first departure in stride—only making a couple of cutting remarks about how I hadn’t cleaned the floor well enough:
“Well, you probably don’t have time to keep things spotless,” she said, “busy as you are, with your girlfriends waiting. And look at me—all my socks are already in the dirt.”
But my second departure really got to her. I was sitting in the kitchen, dressed in a beautiful new dress and putting on my makeup before a walk with my friends, when Angelina Petrovna came in, deciding to pour herself some tea. Casting a scrutinizing, assessing glance at me, she casually remarked:
“Well, you sure have a battle-ready look, Nastya. Are you by any chance heading to the bathhouse?”
At first, I didn’t understand. In our time, people don’t talk about the bathhouse like that anymore; our slang is different. Angelina Petrovna calmly poured her tea, placed some cookies on a saucer, and went off to another room, while I remained in the kitchen finishing my makeup. And then it hit me like a lightning bolt—I froze, clutching the mascara I had been using to curl my lashes. For a moment, I even doubted myself and my appearance—so much had this woman gotten under my skin. I scrutinized my reflection in the mirror for any sign of this “battle-ready look” but saw only a neat, fashionable makeup. And my dress was festive, summery, and stylish.
Shaking my head, I got up from the table, went into our only room, and asked directly:
“Angelina Petrovna, did you insult me on purpose? And rather rudely at that.”
Dima was lying on the unfolded sofa watching his TV show, while Angelina Petrovna sat on the edge of the sofa drinking her tea. She glanced at me askance, then turned away—as if I were invisible.
“Am I talking to myself?”
That was when I lost it. The argument turned ugly, filled with hurtful words, but I was happy to finally speak my mind. Besides, I was sure that Dima would take my side—what man wouldn’t like it when his wife was insulted? But he did not take my side. With a surprised expression on his face, he watched us—two women yelling at each other—and was too afraid even to say a word.
“Say something already!” I snapped. “Your mother is trampling all over me, and you don’t care? You just lie here blinking your eyes!”
“Don’t you dare speak to my son like that!” Angelina Petrovna retorted sharply. “Who do you think you are to behave this way?”
“Your son’s wife!” I shot back and left the room, slamming the door behind me.
Of course, I shouldn’t have done that—the door was innocent. But I had no other outlet for my anger.
I returned to the kitchen to clean up the scattered makeup. Shortly after, Angelina Petrovna stormed out of the room and dramatically announced:
“Well done. You got what you wanted. I’m leaving.”
Then it was her turn to slam the door on her way out—so hard that even the glass in the kitchen chimed. That day, I didn’t go out with my friends—I just couldn’t calm down. I didn’t want to ruin their mood with my agitated state.
Dima didn’t even try to comfort me. When I entered the room to put away my makeup bag in the closet, I saw him sound asleep, peacefully. After that incident, I didn’t speak with Dima for several days. I couldn’t understand how one could lie on a sofa calmly while one’s wife was being insulted—and not by anyone but your own mother. By the third day, I grew tired of the icy silence and decided to talk to Dima. I never quite understood if he truly listened or just nodded for show, but I consoled myself with the fact that at least I had tried to explain my point of view.
And then he started washing his own dishes, which I took as a sign he was ready for change.
I’m not one to hold grudges, so my resentment toward Angelina Petrovna quickly dissolved amid everyday concerns. After all, she was an adult woman. Perhaps she had drawn some conclusions from our argument. I firmly decided that even if I wasn’t angry anymore, I wasn’t going to continue catering to her. I have no trouble taking care of someone who treats me well, but not for someone who literally considers me their servant.
In one respect, I turned out to be right: Angelina Petrovna did indeed come to her senses. One day I came home from work and found her on our doorstep. It was Monday—the start of the workweek—and I had no desire for guests, especially unannounced ones. Previously, Angelina Petrovna had never visited on such inconvenient days—only on weekends. As I took off my shoes, I noticed some bags by the door that Angelina Petrovna hadn’t used before.
“I’m staying with you for a week,” she declared when I inquired about the bags in the hall. “They’re for my things.”
“Absolutely not,” I replied. “No one informed me of your visit.”
“And I’m not obliged to inform anyone,” Angelina Petrovna retorted. “This is where my son lives, not some stranger’s place.”
I folded my arms and glared gloomily at Angelina Petrovna, who busied herself in the kitchen. Of course, she did it just to spite me—in retaliation for our earlier fight. “Does she really think I’ll just give in and let her stay with us for a whole week? — I thought. — Isn’t it too much trouble to haul all those bags back?”
“We won’t have enough room for three,” I said, “so you’re not staying. Dima, would you kindly explain this to your mother?”
At that moment, Dima was fidgeting behind me, clearly not knowing where to go—like a calf left untethered and clueless about which way to turn. Hearing my words, he opened his mouth as if to speak, but then quickly shut it and lowered his eyes.
“Yes, son, your apartment is really small; we’re always cramped here,” Angelina Petrovna said sweetly, casting a glance in Dima’s direction.
“Yeah, sure,” Dima mumbled in response.
“Your wife should move in with her mother, and you can come over to our place just to cook and clean,” declared my mother-in-law.
That was when I was utterly speechless at such audacity. I watched as Angelina Petrovna rummaged through a drawer, shifting forks and spoons around, and I felt like a fish flung onto the shore. The apartment wasn’t mine, of course, but the rental agreement was in my name, and I had lived there for many years. And now they were trying to kick me out of my own home. On top of that, they expected me to spend time commuting just to serve them.
“You’ve lost your crown, Your Majesty,” I finally retorted. “Cook for yourselves and clean up after yourselves. I’m not your housekeeper.”
“Do you always speak to guests like that, or is it just with me?” Angelina Petrovna snapped. “Uncultured! Guests are supposed to relax, isn’t that what your parents taught you?”
That was the last straw. I could tolerate insults directed at me, more or less, but mentioning my parents was unforgivable. I ordered her out, and then, for the first time, Dima finally spoke up—but not in my defense, rather in defense of his mother.
“Watch your language,” he demanded. “She’s your mother.”
For the first time in my life, I was delighted that my husband was such a weakling as I pushed him out of the apartment and into the hallway. He resisted feebly. Meanwhile, as I dragged Angelina Petrovna’s belongings out to the stairwell under her own shouts (to the delight of the neighbors), he just stood there watching.
“For what?” he asked, hurt.
“Ask your mother,” I replied and slammed the door in front of him.
That same evening, I called my parents and told them everything. I wasn’t expecting support or anything in particular—I just needed to vent, to hear them say, “You’re an adult, decide what’s best for you.” And they did, which finally convinced me that life would be better without a good-for-nothing man in the house. At that point, you could say our marriage was a failure. And if I ever felt like cleaning up after people who weren’t my own, I’d change my line of work, go into cleaning, and get paid for it.
