— If your wife doesn’t learn to talk to me properly, I’ll pull all her hair out, son!
The voice on the phone rang with barely concealed anger — so sharp and fierce that it even drowned out the monotonous background noise of the office. Maxim instinctively pressed the phone to his ear and turned away from his colleague, who had cast an interested glance at him. On the monitor screen, the annual report froze — tables and charts that now looked like just a bunch of meaningless lines and numbers. The whole reality was in his hands — hot, dense, full of aggression.
— Mom, what happened? — he asked tiredly and quietly.
— Friends came over! Lydia Markovna, Verochka! Respectable women, not just anyone! I’m setting the table, cutting salads, the main dish is in the oven. I called Yulia, politely asked her: “Come for half an hour, help me, I can’t manage alone.” And she?!
Tamara Pavlovna paused — theatrically, full of drama. Maxim mentally pictured her in the kitchen wearing her favorite formal apron, with the phone in one hand and a carving knife in the other. In the living room, like spectators, sat her longtime friends — witnesses and judges of this family drama.
— She said she was busy! — his mother blurted out. — Said I could’ve warned her in advance! Is that even normal? What kind of tone is that? Can you imagine? She judges me, your mother, like a child, right in front of my guests! They’re gawking there, and she’s lecturing me about planning!
Maxim rubbed the bridge of his nose. He already knew this story by heart. For his mother, any deviation from the plan was a catastrophe, and someone else was always to blame. He was sure Yulia really was busy. Her work from home often demanded more effort than his office routine. But for his mother, there was only one schedule — her own.
— Mom, tell me everything in order. What exactly did she say?
— In order? — metallic notes of resentment sounded in his mother’s voice. — She said: “Tamara Pavlovna, I can’t right now, I have an online conference. When I finish, in about three hours, I’ll come immediately.” That’s it! She puts her work above my request! I’m here bustling around, and she’s sitting at the computer! You must bring her to me immediately. Let her apologize. In front of everyone.
It sounded like a sentence. Not a request, but a demand. Maxim pictured himself dropping work, rushing home, picking up his wife, and bringing her to his mother, where she would have to publicly repent before Verochka and Lydia Markovna. The thought was so absurd that he nearly laughed.
— I’m at work, Mom. I can’t go anywhere. We’ll talk in the evening.
— In the evening?! You don’t understand! The humiliation happened just now! They’re discussing right now what kind of daughter-in-law you got yourself — rude and disrespectful to her mother-in-law! Solve this immediately! Call her! Make her come! Are you a husband or not?
He felt himself trapped again in his mother’s games. She didn’t want a solution. She wanted a show of power — for her son to obey the order and for his wife to acknowledge her supremacy.
— I’ll deal with it tonight, — he repeated firmly, ending the call. — I have to work.
He placed the phone face down. His colleague pretended not to hear, but Maxim felt his attention — as intrusive as the feeling of humiliation left by the call. The numbers on the screen blurred before his eyes. The evening promised to be long.
At home, he was greeted by the smell of coffee and fresh air. Not a trace of meat odor or steam over pots — it was different here. Clean, strict, organized. Yulia sat at the work desk in the living room, fully focused on the screen. Only after a few seconds did she notice him.
Maxim went to the kitchen, poured some water, and drank it in one gulp. The cold inside slightly cooled the internal fire. Finally, Yulia took off her headphones and turned to him. There was no hint of guilt on her face. Only tiredness and calm.
— Hi. How was your day?
— Mom called.
— I guessed. She hung up when I said I was busy.
— She wants you to apologize. In front of her friends.
Yulia carefully closed the laptop. She spoke measuredly, without emotion:
— I had a conference with clients from Germany. We were negotiating the final details of a project I’ve been managing for three months. I told Tamara Pavlovna: “I’m in an important meeting now. As soon as I’m free, in about three hours, I’ll come and help.” After that, she hung up. That’s all.
Her words were precise, like facts in a report. And in this calm was an iron truth. Maxim suddenly saw two pictures: one — his mother’s hysteria over a few salads, the other — Yulia’s professionalism, on which their common future depended. And the choice that had been forced on him all his life suddenly seemed ridiculous.
— Got it, — he said briefly. Went to the phone, dialed a number. — Come here.
Yulia came over. He turned on speakerphone, and almost immediately his mother’s tense voice sounded on the line:
— Well?! Will you come?
— Mom, I figured it out, — Maxim answered coldly. — Yulia was working. She couldn’t just drop everything because you decided to invite guests. She’s not a servant. She’s my wife.
There was silence on the other end, then an outraged intake of breath.
— How dare you…
— I’m not finished. You no longer have the right to talk to her that way. And especially to threaten her. If I hear it again — we will never see each other again. At all. Understand?
The silence on the line grew dense, frightening. As if the ground had been pulled out from under her feet. Maxim hung up first. Looked at Yulia. There was no triumph in her eyes. There was understanding. That this was only the beginning. The first victory in a war the mother had already started.
Two weeks passed. Two weeks of oppressive silence. The mother did not call. Such calm was more frightening than shouting. Maxim knew: she was not giving up. She was just preparing a new attack.
And it came.
The phone woke him on Saturday morning. His mother’s voice sounded strange — too soft, too sweet:
— Son, hello. I thought… my birthday is coming soon. Not a big one, but I still want to gather close ones. Sisters, nieces. Will you and Yulia come? It’s very important to me…
Maxim looked out the window at the monotonous gray cityscape. Every word of his mother sounded like a step on a ladder leading straight into a trap. “Closest ones.” “Very important.” It wasn’t an invitation to meet — it was a formal declaration of war, where she had already placed all the pieces and written the rules.
— We’ll come, — he said into the phone, knowing that a refusal would be her victory, which she would present to the family as proof of her righteousness.
On his mother’s birthday, they entered her apartment. The air was thick with the aroma of perfume, greasy meat, and old polished parquet. The living room was already full: Tamara Pavlovna’s sisters — Zoya and Nina, two women almost identical, like faded copies of each other; their daughters, Lydia Markovna — the main keeper of family secrets — and several other faces from the past, gathered here like actors in a play by a single director. They all turned to the newcomers, smiling with the same artificial friendliness. Yulia entered confidently, holding her back straight. Her face was calm, without a hint of anxiety. She knew: this would be a test. And she was ready to pass it.
The evening began with conversations thick as molasses. Aunt Zoya, placing meat on Yulia’s plate, sighed:
— Eat, Yulechka, eat. You need strength. Modern women are all about work… but the main thing is family, home. And Maksimka was always with his mother.
— That’s right, — added Nina, meaningfully exchanging glances with Tamara Pavlovna. — He knew his place from childhood — next to his mother. Nowadays youth are different. They have their own ideas, their own “I.”
Yulia politely smiled and carefully cut a small piece from the roll.
— Times change, Nina Petrovna. Today many can combine work and family.
Her calm remark hung in the air. They expected embarrassment or excuses, but received only imperturbable confidence. For a moment, it unsettled them, but soon they began pressing again — now from another side.
Tamara Pavlovna told stories. Stories about how she raised her son alone, how she sacrificed herself for the family, how she always kept the house open for guests. Each story was meticulously crafted and ended with an invisible but clear reproach directed at Yulia.
— …and then I realized, — she finished another tale, — that the foundation of the family is respect. Respect for elders, for their experience, for their words. Without it, the house collapses like a house of cards.
The guests nodded, casting looks at Yulia full of hidden condemnation. She was a stranger in this world, built on traditions and mutual protection. Maxim tried to ease the atmosphere, but his voice was lost in the general chorus. Here he was neither son nor nephew — he was simply the husband of a woman who did not fit their ideas.
The climax came when Tamara Pavlovna raised her glass.
— I want to drink to the family, — she began, looking around with triumphant sparkle in her eyes. — So that the young listen to the elders, do not put their own affairs above the important. I wish my son wisdom, and his wife… — she paused — to learn this wisdom. To understand that family is not a job that can be postponed.
It was a verdict. Announced publicly and without the right to appeal.
Maxim waited for the toast to end. Did not argue. Just stood up, put a napkin on the table.
— Thanks for the evening. We have to go.
He took Yulia by the hand, and they left under the stunned looks of the relatives. They expected hysteria, confrontation, tears. But Maxim’s cold calm was a blow to them. He wasn’t playing their game. He simply left, leaving them with an empty victory and a bitter aftertaste of defeat.
On the way home, they were silent. In the car, Maxim did not start the engine immediately. Yulia sat next to him, looking out the window into the darkness. She did not ask questions, did not seek words of comfort. Her presence itself was the most reliable support. She trusted him. Trusted completely.
— I have to go back, — he said into the silence.
— Alone?
— Yes. It needs to be finished once and for all.
He did not explain. She understood everything anyway. He turned the car around and parked near the same building. Did not ask her to wait. Just got out, feeling how everything inside him tightened into a dense, cold core. Emotions were left behind. Now there were only actions.
He called. Aunt Zoya answered; her satisfied smile faded at the sight of Maxim. He walked past without a word and entered the living room. The feast continued at the table, although the mood had slightly faded. His mother, the center of the composition, was receiving another compliment from Lydia Markovna.
— …you’ve always been a smart woman, Tomochka. You know where to find the root of evil.
Seeing her son, she fell silent. Surprise mixed with anticipation flashed across her face. She decided: he came to ask for forgiveness.
— Changed your mind? Decided to congratulate your mother properly?
Maxim stopped in the middle of the room. Did not approach the table. Only looked around at all present — his mother, aunts, her friends. A whole court had passed judgment.
— I came back to clarify something, — his voice was even and clear. — You spent the whole evening pretending that I had to choose between you and my wife. You staged this show so I would confirm your choice.
He looked straight at his mother. Her smile slowly faded.
— You chose today. In front of everyone. Now it’s my turn.
Pause. Everyone froze.
— This apartment we got from Dad. My half is all that ties me to this house. Tomorrow I’m putting it up for sale.
The room was frozen. The sound of the refrigerator now seemed deafening. Nina opened her mouth but couldn’t say anything. The mother’s face turned into a mask.
— What? — she whispered. Not a question, but a breath.
— Because of the layout, most likely we will have to sell the whole apartment. You’ll get your share. Enough for a one-room apartment somewhere outside the city. And Yulia and I will buy a house. In another city.
He spoke calmly, without anger. It was not a threat. It was a consequence. Cold, logical, inevitable. He looked at her one last time — at the woman who tried to control him through guilt, scandals, and pressure. Now she sat among her allies, but was completely alone. Her power had collapsed. And she had handed him the tool to destroy it.
— That’s all, Mom. I choose my family.
He turned and left. No one stopped him. No one shouted. Only the click of the door behind him. This time — forever.
