No, not that!” Margarita Petrovna exclaimed irritably, throwing her fork down beside the half-eaten lasagna. “Kira, apparently you need to be taught everything from scratch. This isn’t food, it’s a nightmare. Sorry, but Vlad would be better off marrying a woman who knows how to cook and run a household. And you… between you and me, you won’t even stay full.”
Her face, gaunt and tense as after a hard day in the fields, twisted with vexation. Kira watched as her mother-in-law decisively headed to the trash can, grieving more over her lasagna than the situation unfolding. Along with the peelings and wrappers went Kira’s attempt to please.
“That’s how you greet guests. You come to your son’s place — and here they’re nearly starving you,” Margarita Petrovna sighed theatrically.
Kira dropped her shoulders and slowly exhaled. Outside the window, cold autumn rain lashed down, the trees beyond the glass blurred into gray smudges — the weather seemed to mirror her inner fatigue.
“But you just ate a whole bowl of soup,” she quietly reminded her.
“I barely finished it. This should only be served in a barn. To a normal person — no,” the mother-in-law snapped sharply, throwing the plate into the sink. As always, without bothering to turn on the water — as if the dishes should clean themselves.
“Redo all this,” she threw over her shoulder. “I’m not feeding my Anton this!” And, jingling her bracelets, she left.
Kira stood holding onto the edge of the table. Everything she did — cooking, cleaning, trying her best — turned to dust under Margarita Petrovna’s gaze. Every gesture drew a fresh wave of reproach — groundless and painful.
That morning had started almost the same way.
“You didn’t wash the dishes! I bought that set, and you treat it like a child with toys. Ungrateful!”
Her mother-in-law kept on while Kira, exhausted after a sleepless night, feverishly got ready for work.
“That was Anton who left it, not me,” she finally snapped. “And by the way, that set was a wedding gift. Yours and your grandchildren’s, whom you dragged right to the altar, nearly spoiling our celebration.”
Margarita Petrovna was about to throw a tantrum, but Kira slipped out the door without listening further. She survived the day fueled by coffee and irritation.
In the evening, bent over the sink, Kira washed the dishes. Outside, the wind shook the branches, and street lamps flickered distantly through the fog. Her mother-in-law’s words floated repeatedly in her mind, like splinters.
When she entered the bedroom, Anton was already lying under the blanket.
“We need to talk,” she began.
He lazily turned over.
“Again?”
“Your mother is driving me crazy. I can’t take it anymore. I’m tired.”
“Don’t exaggerate. That’s just her nature. And honestly, in some ways, she’s right. If you listen, it’ll be easier for everyone.”
Kira froze.
“For you — easier. For me — no.”
“Don’t take it to heart. Let’s sleep,” he turned to the wall.
She sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, listening to her thoughts: why will he never take her side? Why can’t he see how hard she tries, how lonely she feels on this “battlefield”?
Morning came with silence and a gray sky. Overcast, foggy. But it was a sharp phone ring — not the alarm clock — that pulled Kira out of sleep.
“Kira?” The voice on the phone trembled.
“Lena? What’s happened?”
“He kicked me out. Just threw me out…”
Kira jumped up.
“Wait, I’m coming.”
Anton didn’t object when she hurriedly got ready. He understood. He even told her to tell her sister, “good luck to her.”
The cold wind hit her cheeks as she left the house. Leaves swirled in the air like her thoughts.
At home, Anton sat alone drinking tea. The kitchen smelled of bread and bitter herbal brew. His mother woke shortly after him.
“Where’s Kira?” Margarita Petrovna asked, entering and adjusting her shawl — the house was chilly despite the May sun breaking through thick clouds.
“At my sister’s. Lena’s having problems, she went to help,” Anton replied without taking his eyes off the stove where eggs sizzled. “Good morning, mom.”
Margarita Petrovna raised an eyebrow.
“Problems? What urgent things make a mother-in-law’s requests suddenly lose meaning?”
“What do you mean?” he turned around, surprised.
“Last night I asked her to make my bed. But she, of all things, decided she had more important matters. By the way, it’s the daughter-in-law’s duty — to clean up every day and make my bed.”
She sat at the table folding her hands. The scent of fried butter mixed with fresh mint — Kira was drying herbs on the windowsill.
“Mom, she really has something more important. If you want, I can make the bed myself. No tragedy.”
“‘Really more important,’” she mocked, looking him in the eye. “My requests must be the priority! She is obligated to care for me.”
“Mom, Lena has a serious situation. Kira couldn’t stay just to make the bed. She went to help.”
Anton spoke calmly but felt the tension growing inside. He didn’t want Kira to return to a house full of dissatisfaction and accusations.
Margarita Petrovna threw up her hands.
“She’s constantly ignoring me! As if I don’t deserve attention in my old age!”
Anton shook his head.
“You know she never refuses without reason. She just has a lot to do. And, sorry, sometimes something comes up that can’t be postponed.”
Suddenly, the mother-in-law changed her tone.
“Now you trust her more than your own mother?”
He sighed deeply, feeling tiredness in his chest. The decision came easily.
“Pack your things, please. You’ll make the morning train.”
“What?!” she stood up sharply, her eyes darting to the window where the wind was tearing the last flowers from the bird cherry tree. “You’re kicking me out because of some woman?”
“Kira is my wife. We live together. This is our home. And we are family here.”
“Your wife must clean my room every day!” Margarita Petrovna did not give up.
Anton lowered his hands.
“This is our home. We decide who owes what. Sorry, mom, but if you feel like this — don’t come anymore.”
The guest room door slammed. Then the front door. Not a word, no goodbye.
Anton remained in the kitchen, standing in silence. A draft stirred the curtain. He was bitter — not for himself, but for his mother. He hoped until the last moment she would accept his choice. But it turned out differently.
Late in the evening, when the sky turned pink with sunset, Kira returned. She was tired — red eyes, marks from a mask on her face.
“Where’s Margarita Petrovna?” she asked quietly, taking off her jacket.
Anton came over, hugged her, inhaled the familiar scent of her hair.
“Sorry. I didn’t realize how hard it was for you at first. I asked mom to leave. Hope you don’t mind?”
Kira smiled, feeling relief.
“No, I’m grateful. And what smells so good?”
He nodded to the oven.
“Roasted chicken with rosemary. He grumbled for a long time but got inspired.”
“Inspired?” she laughed. “More like old age: creaking like my grandpa.”
“Then get ready to put up with two old folks — I’m not going anywhere.”
They laughed together. Outside, evening fell softly, the sky darkened, but the house grew brighter. Because peace had returned.
Outside the wind tore the last leaves from the trees. Autumn — as strict and unyielding as Margarita Petrovna. But Kira believed: someday spring would come. In the house. In the heart. In their family.
