Spring burst into Vika’s life as noisily and swiftly as her little miracle. The delivery room was bathed in sunlight that filtered through the semi-transparent blinds, and the smell of antiseptic blended with the aroma of the first bouquets that the elated fathers brought to their wives. Misha, dressed in a blue hospital gown, held Vika’s hand and wouldn’t let go throughout the ten hours of labor and strain. Now he sat beside the crib, gazing in awe at the baby who slept soundly, occasionally wrinkling his tiny nose.
“You are amazing,” Misha whispered as he leaned toward his wife and kissed her forehead. “You have given me the most precious thing a person could have.”
Vika smiled, catching his look. In three years of marriage she had learned to recognize every nuance of her husband’s emotions, but today she saw something entirely new—tender affection mixed with pride and a reverential fear.
The first weeks at home passed in a daze. The new parents were establishing a routine and learning to understand the tiny human who was just beginning to discover the world. Misha had taken time off work to help his wife with the baby. In the evenings, they bathed their son together, and afterward, they sipped tea in the kitchen, speaking softly while the child slept.
“I never thought one could love someone so deeply,” Misha once admitted as he looked at the sleeping baby in his crib.
Vika only nodded. For her, this feeling was also new—overwhelming, stronger than anything she had ever experienced before.
Their idyll lasted right until the early morning of the third week, when Misha’s phone rang at half-past five. Vika had just managed to feed the baby and put him to sleep, planning to get at least an hour of rest before the next feeding.
“It’s mom,” Misha said apologetically, glancing at his wife while holding the phone to his ear. “Yes, ma— Yes, everything’s fine… Of course, we’re happy…”
From the tone of his last sentence, Vika suddenly realized that the conversation was not about what worried him personally but what concerned his mother.
“Zhanna Bronislavovna is coming,” Misha announced after hanging up the phone. “This Saturday.”
“Coming?” Vika tried to hide her surprise. “She asked if it was convenient for us?”
Misha hesitated, fidgeting with his phone.
“Well, she just said she was coming. Why ask? She’s my mother, isn’t she? Does she need permission to see her grandson?”
Vika fell silent. Over the years with Misha, his mother had always treated her coolly. She wasn’t openly rude, but she never showed warmth either. In every conversation and in every situation, Zhanna Bronislavovna made it clear that Vika was only a temporary element in her son’s life—something insignificant compared to blood kinship.
“We’ll see how it goes,” Vika simply said, heading for the shower while the baby slept.
Zhanna Bronislavovna arrived on Saturday just as promised. Without a preliminary call, she simply rang the doorbell when the clock struck noon.
“Finally, I see my grandson!” she declared loudly as she entered the apartment without taking off her coat. “Where is he? Let me have a look at him!”
Vika had just managed to put the baby to sleep after his morning feeding and was hoping he might sleep for at least an hour. The loud voice of her mother-in-law startled the child awake.
“Hello, Zhanna Bronislavovna,” Vika said softly. “Maximka just fell asleep; maybe we should let him sleep?”
Her mother-in-law looked at her as if Vika had suggested something absurd.
“Sleep? He has his whole life ahead of him to sleep! I took four hours by bus just to see my grandson, and you’re asking me to wait?”
Misha stood by, clearly undecided about intervening. Vika already knew that look on him—the one he gave when he wanted to avoid conflict and hoped everything would “just work itself out.”
“Maybe some tea first?” Misha tried to interject. “You’ve come a long way—rest a bit.”
“I don’t need tea,” Zhanna Bronislavovna snapped, heading straight to the baby’s crib. “There he is, my sweet! Already so much like his grandfather, clearly!”
The baby woke up at the sound of his grandmother’s voice and began to whimper. Vika moved to pick him up, but Zhanna Bronislavovna beat her to it.
“I’ll take him, I will!” she practically snatched the child from the crib, ignoring the fact that he began crying even louder. “Why are you shouting? Don’t you recognize your grandmother? Come on, come on!”
Vika tensed, watching as her mother-in-law shook the baby, attempting to soothe him.
“Please, give him back to me,” Vika pleaded, reaching out her hands. “He’s so young—he needs a routine.”
“A routine?” the old lady snorted. “I raised three children without any routines! Look at Mikhail—he grew up to be a healthy man! And now what is it—everything by the clock and according to some manual?”
“The pediatrician recommends keeping a routine,” Vika tried to explain calmly, though inside she was boiling. “It’s important for his development and health.”
“Oh, don’t make me laugh with these doctors!” Zhanna Bronislavovna rolled her eyes. “In my day, we had real doctors—not these people who do nothing but advertise diapers. By the way, why do you even buy diapers? I just fold a bandage, and that’s it! It’s cheaper and better!”
Misha stood aside, clearly unwilling to intervene. Vika recognized that look immediately—the one he gave when he wanted to avoid conflict and preferred that everything “just sort itself out.”
“We choose what we deem best for our son,” Vika said firmly, finally taking the crying child from her mother-in-law. “Excuse me, he needs feeding and a change.”
“What’s there to change?” Zhanna Bronislavovna wouldn’t relent. “It looks like you dress him up like a doll. In my day, one simple romper was enough!”
Silently, Vika retreated with the baby to the bedroom, closing the door behind her. She could hear Misha trying to persuade his mother over in the kitchen, and Zhanna Bronislavovna continuing her tirade against “modern methods of child-rearing.”
For three days it felt like hell. Zhanna Bronislavovna managed to interfere in everything—from how the baby was swaddled to the temperature of the bathwater. Every time Vika did something her own way, her mother-in-law would sigh meaningfully and say to Misha:
“Look, son, she just doesn’t want to listen to her elders. And remember, I got all of you on your feet, not by chance!”
Misha fidgeted, nodded, and steered the conversation toward another subject, yet he never sided with his wife. This silent betrayal hurt Vika more than anything.
On the third evening, after putting the baby to sleep, her mother-in-law came into the room with a photo album.
“Look, Mikhail, at how you were at his age!” she began loudly, ignoring that the child had just fallen asleep. “And here are your first steps! And here…”
The baby woke up and began to cry. Exhausted from sleepless nights and constant criticisms, Vika moved to the crib.
“Please, be quiet,” she pleaded. “Maxim just fell asleep.”
“Quiet? Always ‘quiet’ and ‘quiet’!” Zhanna Bronislavovna fumed. “Let him get used to the noise, or he’ll turn out soft! Let me take him—I’ll calm him down quickly!”
Her mother-in-law strode toward the crib. Vika, already holding the son close, said firmly:
“No, thank you, I can do this myself.”
Zhanna Bronislavovna did not stop. Coming closer, she reached out to take the child.
“You’re holding him wrong! Give him here; I’ll show you how it’s done!”
“I’m holding him the way the doctor advised,” Vika retorted, taking a step back.
“What, you’re keeping him too close? You’re spoiling him!” Zhanna Bronislavovna again tried to snatch the baby. “Let go—I’ll show you how!”
Vika felt something like fury building within her. She had endured, kept silent, and conceded for three days. But now, when it came to her child’s safety, she could no longer remain silent.
“No,” she said firmly, looking her mother-in-law straight in the eye.
“What do you mean ‘no’?” Zhanna Bronislavovna turned to her son. “Mikhail, do you hear what your wife is doing?”
Misha stood in the doorway, his eyes shifting from his mother to his wife in confusion.
“Vika, maybe you should just let mom…” he began hesitantly.
“No,” Vika repeated. “I am his mother, and I know what’s best for him.”
Zhanna Bronislavovna’s face twisted with anger.
“Who do you think you are? Do you think that once you’ve given birth you know everything?” she snapped at her son. “Watch out—I’m going to straighten her out right now!”
Vika felt every muscle in her tense up. Slowly, she laid the baby back into the crib, ensuring his safety, and then turned to her mother-in-law. Her voice was quiet but resolute:
“In this family, I am the mother. Not a guest who gives orders.”
Misha stood frozen in the doorway, his eyes wide in surprise. It was clear he had not expected such opposition from the usually quiet and yielding Vika.
Zhanna Bronislavovna opened her mouth, but no words came out. Then her face flushed red, she abruptly turned and left the room.
“I knew it!” came her voice from the corridor. “I was just waiting for her true colors to show!”
It was possible to hear the sound of her rummaging through a closet, gathering her belongings, and throwing them noisily into a bag.
Misha rushed after his mother:
“Mom, where are you going? It’s late—stay until morning!”
“Not a minute more in this house!” Zhanna Bronislavovna declared loudly. “I can’t stand watching this… this woman boss around my son!”
Vika, ensuring once again that the baby had fallen asleep, left the bedroom. In the kitchen, she could hear Misha trying to persuade his mother to have some tea while Zhanna Bronislavovna continued to rail about “modern methods of upbringing.”
That evening, as Vika tucked Maximka in and told him a quiet bedtime story, Misha stood in the doorway leaning against the frame, watching his wife and son tenderly.
“You know,” Misha said when the baby finally slept, “I’m proud of you. You stood up for our boundaries without tearing the family apart.”
“Brains aren’t fixed with yelling, but by example,” Vika replied with a smile. “Your mom finally understood. I hope she stays that way.”
No one could predict the future. Perhaps Zhanna Bronislavovna would try to take charge again; perhaps old habits would resurface. But Vika now knew that she could protect her family without breaking it apart.
After all, a family is not a battlefield. There are no true winners in these wars—only those who find the strength to pause and learn to listen to one another.
A month later, when Maximka had learned to hold his head up and smile, Misha’s phone rang again. Vika immediately recognized who was calling from the look on his face.
“Mom wants to come for the weekend,” Misha said, covering the microphone with his hand. “She says she wants to help with the baby.”
Vika shook her head.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea. It hasn’t been long enough.”
Misha nodded and brought the phone back to his ear.
“Mom, sorry, but now is not the best time for a visit… Yes, we’re managing… No, Vika isn’t forbidding anything; we just decided on our own…”
Zhanna Bronislavovna’s voice grew so loud that Vika could hear it even from afar.
“So you’ve cut me out of your life!” the old woman fumed. “I mean nothing to you! After so many years of raising you, now I can’t even see my grandson!”
Misha held the phone at arm’s length, his face expressing fatigue and disappointment. When the conversation finally ended, Misha looked utterly drained.
“You know, I never noticed how much Mom was controlling before,” Misha admitted as he sat next to Vika. “And now I see it. It’s a strange feeling—as if you’re looking at something familiar from the other side.”
Vika smiled, trying to hide her relief.
“I’m glad you understand.”
“I realized something else,” Misha continued, taking her hand. “My mom is trying to rule instead of helping. I don’t want our family to crumble because of someone’s ambitions—even if those ambitions are my mom’s.”
In the following weeks, Misha began to support Vika much more actively. Previously, she’d noticed that her husband sometimes hid behind a newspaper or his phone when she needed help with the baby. Now, Misha offered to hold Maximka himself while Vika took a shower or simply sipped her tea. He listened more attentively, dismissing her concerns and requests less often.
“One day,” Misha began while they were having dinner, “maybe we should suggest a video call for Mom? So at least she can see Maximka. After all, he is her grandson.”
Vika thought it over. The conflict with her mother-in-law had brought her no joy, but she wasn’t willing to revert to the old ways.
“All right,” Vika agreed. “A video call is a good idea. Let her see her grandson—but only from a distance.”
The first video call was tense. Zhanna Bronislavovna spoke tersely, mostly addressing her son as if Vika were not even there. However, by the second call the atmosphere began to change. The old woman visibly softened and ceased her commanding tone.
“What does the doctor say about his weight?” Zhanna Bronislavovna asked as she examined her grandson through the screen. “Is he gaining well?”
“The doctor says that everything is fine,” Vika replied. “We’re using formula, and he’s eating well.”
“In my day, we didn’t have such mixtures,” Zhanna Bronislavovna remarked, albeit without the usual reproach. “Probably they’re better now.”
This was a small victory—Zhanna Bronislavovna, for the first time, did not insist that “everything was better in her day.”
Gradually, the video calls became a weekly routine. Sometimes her mother-in-law even asked Vika’s opinion on household matters. Although the conversations were brief, they more and more often ended peacefully, without hidden reproaches or complaints.
One such evening, after yet another call, Vika admitted to herself that reconciliation was possible—but only with mutual respect. She was willing to accept help, but she wasn’t going to break her life apart to conform to someone else’s expectations. Her home—her rules. And that was non-negotiable.
When Maximka turned three months old, Zhanna Bronislavovna called with a new proposal:
“I would like to come for my grandson’s birthday,” she said carefully, almost fearing rejection. “If you don’t mind, of course.”
Vika exchanged a glance with Misha. Something in the old woman’s tone had changed—no longer demanding, but rather pleading.
“We don’t mind,” Vika replied after a pause. “But we have conditions. No criticism, no taking matters into your own hands. If something isn’t right, you can always go back home.”
“I understand completely,” Zhanna Bronislavovna answered quietly. “I will behave.”
When the mother-in-law arrived, Vika braced herself for the worst. But Zhanna Bronislavovna seemed like a different person. She hadn’t brought along a mountain of unnecessary things, nor had she started barking orders at the door. Instead, she greeted quietly, accepted a cup of tea, and waited patiently for Vika to offer her the baby.
“He’s grown so much,” Zhanna Bronislavovna remarked with genuine delight. “And he’s already smiling!”
“Yes, he’s very smiley,” Vika confirmed. “Especially in the mornings.”
“Misha was the same,” Zhanna Bronislavovna recalled. “He would wake up smiling as if the sun had risen.”
They spent the evening talking—not about giving orders or how things were “in the old days,” but about baby Misha, his first words, and his first steps. For the first time, Vika saw in her mother-in-law not an adversary but simply an older woman who loved her son and wanted to be part of his life.
The next day, Zhanna Bronislavovna left on her own, without waiting for any hints. Before leaving, she hugged Vika—awkwardly, yet sincerely.
“Thank you for letting me see my grandson,” the old woman said. “I… I realize now that I was wrong.”
Vika nodded, accepting the clumsy apology.
“My home’s doors are always open to you,” Vika replied. “But remember the boundaries.”
Zhanna Bronislavovna smiled:
“I promise.”
When her mother-in-law departed, Vika felt a strange sense of relief. It wasn’t that all the problems had been solved, but there was movement in the right direction. The family remained a family—only now with more respect and less authoritarian behavior.
That evening, as Vika tucked Maximka in and told him a quiet bedtime story, Misha stood in the doorway and watched his wife and son with tenderness.
“You know,” Misha said when the baby finally slept, “I’m proud of you. You managed to defend our boundaries without destroying the family.”
“Brains aren’t corrected by yelling—they’re shaped by example,” Vika smiled. “Your mom understood that. I hope, firmly.”
No one could predict what the future would hold. Perhaps Zhanna Bronislavovna would try to take charge again, or old habits might resurface. But Vika now knew she could protect her family without tearing it apart.
After all, a family is not a battlefield. In these conflicts, there are no winners—only those who find the strength to stop and learn to listen to one another.
