Jangling keys in the lock, Margarita opened the apartment door. Voices came from the kitchen, and the now-familiar smell of borscht filled the hallway. Her heart beat faster, and her teeth involuntarily clenched. Again. Viktoria Pavlovna had shown up at her home without warning.
“Olezhenka, what kind of pilaf is she cooking for you? That’s not food, it’s a mockery!” came the sharp voice of the mother-in-law from the kitchen. “I brought a homemade chicken. From Aunt Zina at the dacha, not that store-bought chemical stuff.”
Margarita slowly took off her coat and carefully hung it on a hook. Trying not to creak the floorboards, she sneaked to the kitchen doorway. Oleg was sitting at the table with a look of pure bliss on his face while Viktoria Pavlovna busied herself by the stove as if she were at her own home.
“Mom, why do you do this? Rita said she’d make dinner,” Oleg said, mouth full, putting another spoonful of soup in his mouth.
“What can she cook?” Viktoria Pavlovna snorted, continuing to chop vegetables. “I saw how she makes cutlets. Are those cutlets? They look like some kind of meatballs!”
Margarita clenched her fists so tightly her nails dug into her palms. Unable to hold back any longer, she entered the kitchen.
Trying to sound neutral, Margarita said:
“Good evening. I didn’t know we had guests.”
Viktoria Pavlovna flinched and turned around. Displeasure flickered across her face, quickly replaced by a fake smile.
“Rita, dear! I decided to feed you proper food. Olezhenka comes home hungry from work, and you don’t have time,” the mother-in-law’s voice dripped with sweet poison.
Oleg got up from the table, kissed his wife on the cheek, and, rubbing his belly with satisfaction, said:
“Mom made borscht. Want some?”
“Thanks, I’m not hungry,” Margarita stepped away from her husband. “We agreed that I’d cook dinner today.”
“Well, mom already made everything,” Oleg shrugged. “Why bother now?”
Viktoria Pavlovna smiled triumphantly and turned back to the stove.
“Oleg, can I have a minute?” Margarita nodded toward the living room.
In the living room, Margarita closed the door firmly and turned sharply to her husband.
“How long is this going to continue?” she asked, crossing her arms. “Your mother comes uninvited, runs my kitchen, and I’m tired of it!”
“What’s so terrible about it?” Oleg spread his hands in confusion. “Mom is taking care of us. She brought groceries, cooked dinner. Others would be glad!”
“It humiliates me,” Margarita pressed her fingers to her temples. “She acts like I can’t do anything. She constantly criticizes. You don’t even notice!”
“You’re exaggerating,” Oleg waved his hand. “Mom is just used to taking care of us. She means well.”
“And who am I in this apartment?” Margarita’s voice trembled. “Remember, this is my grandmother’s apartment! And your mother acts like she owns it!”
“Don’t start,” Oleg rolled his eyes. “I’m tired from work, I want to eat in peace. Can’t you just be happy someone cares about us?”
At that moment, the door opened without knocking, and Viktoria Pavlovna appeared in the doorway holding a towel.
“Kids, what are you whispering about?” Her tone was overly cheerful. “Rita, don’t just stand there, come eat. Olezhenka, I made you compote, your favorite one.”
Oleg beamed and, throwing a warning glance at his wife, headed back to the kitchen.
“Thanks, mom, you’re the best!”
Margarita stood alone, watching her husband and his mother walk away. Sunday lunches, washed shirts, new clothes — all just the visible layer of their strange relationship. Beneath it lay Oleg’s complete dependence on his mother’s care.
“Rita!” came the mother-in-law’s voice. “I noticed you’re out of salt! I’ll bring more tomorrow, and sunflower oil. You buy that stuff — it’s all chemicals!”
Margarita gritted her teeth. At thirty-five, her husband was still a mama’s boy, and she, without realizing it, found herself in a strange triangle where she clearly didn’t belong.
A week later, Margarita slowly returned home. It had been a tough day at work. She just wanted to relax and not think about anything.
Approaching her building, Margarita noticed a brand-new black BMW proudly gleaming in the sun in the middle of the yard. Oleg stood by the car, childishly excited, waving his hands as if explaining something to an invisible listener. Viktoria Pavlovna circled her son like a hen around her most precious chick. Margarita paused for a moment, watching the scene from a distance.
“Rita!” Oleg ran toward his wife as soon as he saw her. “Look what mom gave me! Can you imagine?!”
Viktoria Pavlovna beamed, smiling broadly, and even from afar it was clear she was triumphant.
“Gave it?” Margarita looked between her husband and mother-in-law, confused. “Where did your mom get money for such a car?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Oleg waved off, impatiently tugging at Margarita’s sleeve. “Come on, I’ll show you everything. Leather interior, navigation, climate control…”
Viktoria Pavlovna approached, staring unblinkingly into her daughter-in-law’s eyes.
“For a son’s happiness, nothing is too much,” the mother-in-law said, emphasizing each word. “That’s what true love means.”
Margarita narrowed her eyes.
“You’re retired,” she said quietly. “Where did you get millions for a car?”
“That’s my business,” Viktoria Pavlovna snapped. “The main thing is my boy is happy. Unlike you — always pinching pennies.”
Oleg, absorbed in exploring his new toy, didn’t hear the conversation. He was tuning the radio while trying to figure out the touchscreen panel.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Margarita pressed.
“Don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong,” Viktoria Pavlovna sharply replied, but noticing her son had turned, softened her tone immediately:
“Olezhenka, are you happy? I’m so glad to see your happy smile!”
At home, Margarita decided to clarify the situation.
“Oleg, we need to talk,” she said when her husband, finally satisfied with the new car, returned to the apartment. “Where did your mom get such money?”
“I don’t know,” Oleg shrugged, opening the fridge. “Maybe she saved up. What difference does it make?”
“A big one,” Margarita stood in front of her husband, crossing her arms. “Your mother was a librarian. She has a modest pension. Such a car costs a fortune.”
“Rita, you always find a reason to be upset!” Oleg slammed the fridge door. “Mom gave a gift. Just be happy for me!”
“I’m worried,” Margarita lowered her voice. “What if she sold her apartment?”
“Nonsense,” Oleg waved her off. “Mom would have told us.”
“But…”
“Enough,” Oleg raised his hand, stopping his wife. “I’m going for a drive. I want to get used to the new car.”
He grabbed the keys and left, leaving Margarita alone with her thoughts.
A month later, when the excitement over the new car had died down, Margarita came home earlier than usual. It had been a hard day — two classes of tests and a parent meeting. She dreamed of a hot bath and silence. Opening the door, Margarita froze.
Three huge suitcases stood in the hallway. Viktoria Pavlovna sat on one of them, flipping through a glossy magazine.
“What’s going on?” Margarita exhaled, unable to believe her eyes.
“Oh, there you are! I waited,” Viktoria Pavlovna put down the magazine.
Sweat broke out on Margarita’s forehead.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I sold the apartment,” Viktoria Pavlovna announced proudly. “Had to buy Oleg a car somehow.”
Margarita leaned against the wall to keep from falling. Her worst nightmare was becoming reality.
“You sold the apartment for the car?” Margarita struggled to speak. “And didn’t even discuss it with your son?”
“Why discuss it?” Viktoria Pavlovna got up, brushing off her skirt. “I’m an adult; I decide for myself. Oleg always dreamed of this car. You’d never have bought it for him.”
“And where do you plan to live?” Margarita already knew the answer but asked anyway.
“Here, of course,” Viktoria Pavlovna pointed at the suitcases. “Oleg and I already talked it through. He said there’s enough room for all of us.”
Rage welled up inside Margarita, blinding all other feelings.
“You spent all the money on your son and now want to live in my apartment?” Margarita’s voice was unexpectedly firm.
“Oh, don’t start,” Viktoria Pavlovna grimaced. “I’m Oleg’s mother, and I have the right to live with my son.”
“But this is my apartment,” Margarita straightened up. “My grandmother’s. Not yours or Oleg’s.”
“We’re family! Where my son is, I have the right to be,” Viktoria Pavlovna declared confidently.
At that moment, the front door opened. Oleg came in, whistling a cheerful tune.
“Mom already told you?”
Margarita cut in:
“Yes. And we need to talk. Right now.”
In the bedroom, Margarita closed the door, then turned to her husband.
“Did you invite your mother to live with us without discussing it with me?”
Every word was hard for her to say.
Oleg was genuinely surprised.
“What’s there to discuss? Mom sold her apartment; she has nowhere to go.”
Margarita said through clenched teeth:
“She sold her apartment to buy you a car we can’t afford. And you think that’s okay?”
Oleg stubbornly replied:
“That’s her decision. And why do you always treat my mother this way?”
Margarita exclaimed:
“Oleg, your mother controls every aspect of your life! She decides what you wear, what you eat, and now she wants to take over our home!”
Oleg blushed.
“Don’t say that! I know you never liked her. But mom did for me what you couldn’t. She cares about me!”
“And who am I? A neighbor?” Margarita’s eyes flashed. “I’m your wife, not a competitor for your mother. But you don’t seem to understand that!”
The bedroom door flew open, and Viktoria Pavlovna appeared, her face twisted with anger.
“I heard everything!” she shouted. “You’re turning your son against his own mother! Ungrateful!”
“Mom, calm down,” Oleg tried to intervene.
“No, son,” Viktoria Pavlovna theatrically pressed her hand to her chest. “I gave everything for your happiness. And she… She wants to destroy our family!”
“Margarita, apologize to mom,” Oleg demanded, hugging his mother’s shoulders.
“Apologize?” Margarita couldn’t believe her ears. “For what? For not wanting your mother to live in my apartment? For thinking it’s abnormal for a thirty-five-year-old to be a mama’s boy?”
“That’s enough,” Oleg clenched his fists. “Either you accept my mother, or…”
“Or what?” Margarita crossed her arms.
“Or we’re done,” Oleg finished.
Margarita sneered unpleasantly.
“How nice that you said it! Get out of my apartment!”
A week later, Margarita filed for divorce.
Six months later, sitting in her renovated apartment, Margarita watched the setting sun. She had rearranged the furniture, changed the curtains, and finally hung the paintings that Oleg called “girly decorations.” Now it was completely her home — bright, cozy, filled only with things and people she had chosen.
The phone rang, making Margarita jump.
“Hi,” her friend’s voice sounded cheerful. “How are you? Not missing anything?”
“No,” Margarita smiled, looking at her favorite books neatly arranged on the shelves. “I’m finally breathing freely.”
