When Will This End?» I shouted, and saw Sergey let out a theatrical sigh and stare at the floor again.
“Tanya, why are you yelling?” he mumbled, avoiding my gaze. “Mom’s not asking for that much.”
“Not that much? You really think another transfer for Vera Petrovna isn’t much? We’ve been barely scraping by for three months!”
“She’s in a tough spot,” Sergey tried to justify, but I cut him off sharply.
“She’s always in a tough spot. And we’re not?”
We stood facing each other in the narrow hallway of our apartment. The neighbors probably heard every word—these walls let everything through. I didn’t care. I was boiling with a sense of injustice and exhaustion that had built up over years.
“You’re being selfish again,” Sergey snapped. “She’s my mother—can’t you understand? She called and said she can’t pay her utility bills…”
“And how is she supposed to pay them when she doesn’t work at all? Didn’t someone offer her a job at the library? They did. And she turned it down! She sits at home all day and then calls you: ‘Seryozha, help!’ You send her money, and we end up counting every penny!”
My anger overwhelmed me. I realized I couldn’t hold back anymore—I’d played the part of the kind, understanding daughter-in-law for too long, and now I saw no light at the end of this tunnel.
“Fine,” he suddenly said, glaring at me from under his brows. “If you refuse to support my mother, maybe we need to think about our future separately. Otherwise, what’s the point?”
“You’re threatening me with divorce?” I shot back, sarcasm lacing my voice. “Go ahead. Try it.”
He reached for his jacket, hesitated—probably expecting me to stop him. I didn’t. I stood there with my hands on my hips, breathing heavily. It felt like this scene had played out before, but this time his voice carried real resolve.
“Alright,” Sergey muttered, pulling on his sleeves sluggishly. “I’ll go to my friends, cool off there. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Don’t bother coming back,” I replied, watching him go.
He turned like he wanted to say something, but then slammed the door shut. And there I stood alone—angry, hurt, and yet, oddly relieved.
It didn’t start yesterday. Or a week ago. Or even a month ago.
I met Sergey at a local city fair where we volunteered together at a charity event. He seemed kind, attentive—helping teens collect recyclables, joking around, sharing future plans. Turned out we were from the same neighborhood and went to nearby schools. I took that as a sign and agreed to a walk along the riverfront.
On our first date, he spoke of his parents as polar opposites: his father lived abroad with another family, and his mother, Vera Petrovna, barely worked due to health reasons. He painted himself as independent, said he worked in tourism and had big plans.
Half a year in, once we were serious, I started noticing odd things. He would suddenly rush out from a romantic dinner to withdraw cash and hand it over to his mom, returning flustered and stressed. One day I asked:
“Sergey, is everything okay with your mom?”
“Yeah… I mean, yeah… just a few issues, she can’t get her benefits sorted,” he said vaguely.
“Maybe she should look for a job?”
“Her health’s not great,” he waved it off.
I didn’t push. Maybe she really was unwell. But soon, the money transfers grew. So did the excuses: “She can’t afford groceries,” “It’s her friend’s birthday,” “The cat needs a vet.” Always a new reason.
We got married a year after we met. Sergey had started working as a manager at a small firm—not great pay, but steady. I was a government lawyer. We rented a two-bedroom apartment near my work. Everything seemed fine.
But the savings we had set aside for renovations began disappearing. I found out Sergey had secretly been transferring them to his mother. His excuse? She needed help. I tried to understand. I even suggested she come stay with us so I could see for myself.
“Okay,” he agreed, “but just so you know—my mom’s a handful.”
“Whose mom isn’t?” I joked. I wasn’t worried.
Vera Petrovna arrived, and I felt her disapproval immediately. She inspected our home like an auditor—checking shelves, flipping through books, commenting on our clothes. She asked questions like, “Why do you need such a big TV? It uses a lot of electricity.”
I smiled, offered dinner. She wrinkled her nose. Clearly, I hadn’t met her culinary standards. But I tried.
I didn’t yet realize I was on the road to carrying nearly all the family’s financial burden. Sergey started siding with her more and more. She spent two weeks with us, constantly lamenting her “lack of money” while living quite comfortably and taking home a suitcase full of things bought with our savings.
Over the last year, things spiraled. She needed money constantly—for whims, not essentials. She had no serious diagnosis and refused to look for a job. Every time I gently suggested something, she looked at me like I’d insulted her heritage.
Sergey backed her, always with the same line: her back hurt, her blood pressure was off. But she never saw a doctor.
I endured. For a year and a half. We even moved to a cheaper apartment. But her demands didn’t shrink. Every payday, Sergey would send her money first. I had to figure out how we’d survive.
“Tanya, you know it’s hard for her,” he’d say, eyes down.
“Sergey, I know. But my boss says layoffs are possible. I might lose my job. Then what?”
“I’ll get a side job,” he’d mumble—never doing anything.
Each month, I felt less like a wife, more like an ATM. Sergey loved me, I knew, but he was terrified of upsetting his mother. I once asked Vera Petrovna, kindly:
“Maybe you could look into discounts or support programs? Social services help seniors sometimes…”
“I don’t need charity,” she snapped. “I counted on you. On my son’s family.”
She once went on a vacation, posted seaside photos online. We, meanwhile, counted coins to get through the month. That’s when I started losing it. The fights became regular.
Standing in that now-empty hallway, I remembered all the big and small sacrifices I made for Sergey’s peace of mind. And I realized—I was done. Maybe divorce was best. He would never stand up to his mother. And I was tired of funding her life.
The next day, Sergey came back looking wrecked. Red eyes, distant look. No determination in his voice.
“Tanya… what did you decide?”
“I’ve decided I won’t support Vera Petrovna anymore,” I said firmly. “This is the final straw. I’m done catering to her whims.”
“That won’t work for me,” he replied darkly. “I won’t abandon my mother. That means one thing—divorce.”
“No problem,” I smirked, and for the first time, I saw uncertainty in his eyes. “I’m a lawyer—I know where to sign.”
“Fine,” he muttered, and started packing.
I watched in silence. I didn’t cry, didn’t beg. I just stood there. I felt bitterness, yes—but also freedom. No more endless demands.
“Tanya…” he turned to me. “Maybe you’ll think about it?”
“I already have. I loved you. Maybe I still do. But I can’t live like this. No savings. No future. Just money transfers for your mom.”
“So calm about it…” he whispered, sweating.
“Calm? You think I’m made of stone?”
He said nothing. Just zipped his suitcase and walked out.
“I’m leaving,” he said at the door.
“Great,” I replied. “Tell Vera Petrovna I said hi.”
I won’t bore you with divorce details. As a lawyer, I filed everything myself. Sergey didn’t resist—we had little to divide. He moved into a small apartment.
Vera Petrovna called once.
“Tanya, this is your fault! I have no support now. How will I live?”
“You should’ve thought about that earlier. You’re an adult. You could’ve gotten a job.”
“May you—”
“Goodbye,” I interrupted, and hung up politely.
A few months later, I moved to a new apartment nearby. Life was peaceful. I even bought myself a small car—something I’d long dreamed of but could never afford because of her.
I still worked as a lawyer, but something had shifted. I wasn’t staying late in fear. I went to the movies. To concerts. I wondered why I hadn’t done this sooner.
A year passed. One weekend, I was strolling through a supermarket when I spotted a familiar figure near the registers. I turned to walk the other way—but he saw me.
“Tanya, hey!” Sergey called out.
“Hi,” I replied coldly.
He looked rough. Overgrown hair. Dark circles. He shuffled over, eyes avoiding mine.
“How are you?” he asked like we were old friends.
“I’m fine,” I said, a knot of memories twisting in my gut.
“Things are a mess,” he began. “Mom’s threatening to move in with me. Says the neighbors are noisy, there’s a debt on the apartment—”
“Stop,” I cut him off. “Sergey, I don’t want to hear this. That’s not my family anymore. Not my problem.”
“But you…”
“No.” I shook my head. “Why are you telling me this? You made your choice. Now live with it.”
He frowned, gathered himself, then muttered a curse and walked off.
“I’m glad I divorced you!” he called over his shoulder.
I watched him leave. Felt nothing. No regret. No guilt.
Back at my new apartment, I unpacked my groceries, feeling like it was even cozier than before. Because now, this space was fully mine. No compromises. No hidden transfers. No tension from someone else’s demands.
Yes, a shadow of the past lingered. But I knew I’d done the right thing. Sometimes people think you’re cold or cruel—but in truth, you’re just tired of living by someone else’s rules. And as I looked at my life from the outside, I understood: I had nothing to be ashamed of.
As for Sergey… He chose to remain under his mother’s thumb. Maybe one day he’ll grow up. Learn to take responsibility. But that’s no longer my concern.
