The phone burst into a ringtone at five in the morning. Ira jerked awake, nearly falling off the bed, and automatically reached for the bedside table. Through the pre-dawn haze in her head, one thought broke through: “Don’t wake Misha.” Her husband was asleep, turned toward the wall, his steady breathing undisturbed—neither war nor flood could break his solid sleep.
“Hello,” Ira whispered, slipping into the hallway and closing the bedroom door behind her.
“Irochka, daughter, are you still asleep?” came a cheerful voice—Ludmila Petrovna’s voice, sharp as the clang of a pot.
Sleep completely fled, replaced by the familiar anxiety that always arose when talking to her mother-in-law. Five o’clock on a Sunday morning. Ludmila Petrovna never called just to chat.
“Yes, Ludmila Petrovna, I was sleeping. Did something happen?”
“Oh, why does it have to be something right away? I’m just calling to say I’m on the train! Coming to see you, my darlings. I thought, why call ahead and bother you unnecessarily? You’re probably busy with your own affairs. So I decided—I’ll surprise you, I’ll come for a week. I’ll be in Moscow around twelve o’clock.”
Something inside her chest snapped. Ira pressed her back against the cold hallway wall and slid down to squat.
“Ludmila Petrovna, but we’re not ready to have you…”
“Oh, what’s there to prepare! I’m not fussy. Wherever you sleep, that’s where I’ll settle. You just make sure to meet me at the station. And have some borscht cooking, something hot after the trip.”
Ira closed her eyes, trying to quell the wave of irritation. Again this—arrivals without warning, orders about what to cook, how to clean, how to live.
“I’m working today, Ludmila Petrovna.” This was only partly true. Sometimes Ira did take extra hours on Sundays at the architecture bureau, but today was supposed to be her day off.
“On Sunday? Well, Misha is home, he can meet you. I’ll call him later when he wakes up.”
Ira sighed. The words stuck in her throat, as always in conversations with her mother-in-law. Ten years of marriage, ten years trying to build a normal relationship with her husband’s mother. To no avail. Ludmila Petrovna did not recognize boundaries, did not listen to requests, bulldozed through any barriers Ira tried to set.
“Ludmila Petrovna, we are leaving today.” Ira did not expect herself to say it. But the words slipped out—desperate, almost angry.
“Leaving? Where all of a sudden?”
“To my parents’ country house. My mother is unwell, needs help with the garden.”
The lie sounded clumsy, but Ira could not stop.
“Then postpone your trip! What’s the big deal about a garden? My arthritis flared up, I can barely walk myself.”
“No, we can’t postpone.” Ira clenched the phone so hard her knuckles turned white. “We promised long ago.”
“Irochka, you’re hiding something.” Her mother-in-law’s voice hardened steel. “Give me Misha.”
“He’s asleep. I won’t wake him.”
“What do you mean you won’t? I’m his mother, I need to talk to my son!”
“Ludmila Petrovna,” Ira took a deep breath, “please don’t come now. Let’s arrange for a time that works for everyone.”
A second of silence, then the mother-in-law laughed—not happily, but with that special tone Ira knew well—condescending, laced with venom.
“Who do you think you are to tell me what to do? I’m coming to see my son, not you. And I don’t give a damn about your arrangements.”
Something inside Ira broke at that moment. Ten years of accumulated grievances, nights spent crying after another “visit,” humiliations in front of friends when the mother-in-law rudely interrupted their gatherings with comments about the “incompetent housewife,” the constant “you’re too skinny, the boy needs a healthy wife,” “in my house they never cooked like this,” “Misha liked it differently as a child”—all of it hit like a tidal wave.
“You know what, Ludmila Petrovna?” Ira’s voice was unexpectedly firm. “I don’t care that you’re already on the train. Turn around and go home. I won’t let you in.”
The silence on the line was deafening. It seemed even the sound of the train wheels from the speaker quieted.
“What do you think you’re doing?” the mother-in-law finally hissed.
“What I should have done a long time ago. This is our home, mine and Misha’s territory. And you will no longer come uninvited and dictate how we live. If you want to see your son—fine, but only by prior agreement.”
“How dare you!?” Ludmila Petrovna’s voice broke into a shriek. “I’m his mother! Who do you think you are to keep me out? You’ve ruined my son’s life for ten years, and now you’re even taking his mother away?”
Ira felt her hands trembling, but there was nowhere to retreat.
“I’m his wife. And yes, I won’t let you in if you come. You’ll be standing on the stairs.”
Noise came from the bedroom—Misha had woken up after all. Ira glanced toward the half-open door.
“Give me the phone! Immediately!” demanded Ludmila Petrovna.
Her husband appeared in the doorway, tousled, pillow imprint on his cheek. He looked questioningly at his wife.
“Mom,” Ira said silently, handing him the phone.
Misha’s eyes instantly went dim. He took the phone mechanically to his ear but did not speak right away, as if gathering strength.
“Hi, Mom.”
Ludmila Petrovna spoke quickly and heatedly, her voice over the speaker sounding like the angry buzz of a wasp. Misha listened, nodded, rubbed his forehead, avoiding looking at Ira.
“Mom, mom, listen…” he finally interjected. “No, really, now’s not a good time… Yes, we’re going to my mother-in-law’s… No, we can’t cancel… Of course, I want to see you too, but…”
Ira watched her husband, habitually slumping under his mother’s voice. Always like this—strong and decisive at work, with colleagues, even with her parents, but around his mother, he turned into an indecisive boy. As if some ancient mechanism pushed him back into childhood.
“All right, Mom, let’s do this…” Misha faltered, looked at Ira. “No, really can’t do it now. Let’s talk in a week or two after we come back… I’ll call you, and we’ll sort everything out.”
The mother-in-law said something indignantly in reply. Ira saw the bulging veins on her husband’s temples.
“Mom, I said everything. We can’t have you now. I’ll call you later.”
Misha hung up and looked wearily at his wife.
“Did you tell her we’re going to your parents’?”
“Yes.” Ira didn’t look away. “Sorry for lying on your behalf.”
Misha shook his head and went back to the bedroom, quietly closing the door behind him. Ira stood in the hallway, not knowing what to think or feel. Fear, anger, relief, and shame mixed into a lump stuck somewhere between her throat and heart.
For three days, Misha barely spoke to her. He left for work earlier and returned later. On the rare occasions they were home together, he answered monosyllabically and refused dinner, citing lack of appetite. Ludmila Petrovna called him every day, and Misha took the phone out onto the balcony, shutting the door tightly behind him.
On the fourth day, Ira couldn’t take it anymore. When her husband came home and habitually headed to the bathroom, she blocked his way.
“We need to talk.”
Misha looked somewhere past her head.
“Now’s not a good time.”
“There won’t be another.” Ira crossed her arms. “Either we talk, or I pack my things and go to my parents. Really go, not like last time.”
Something in her voice finally made Misha meet her gaze. He silently went to the kitchen and heavily sat down in a chair.
“Talk.”
Ira sat opposite him, gathering her thoughts. Ten years of unspoken words crowded her throat, pushing each other out.
“I can’t live like this anymore, Mish. Your mother doesn’t respect me, our space, or our time. She doesn’t ask if she can come; she just shows up. She doesn’t care if it’s convenient; she demands we adjust. And I… I’m tired.” Ira took a breath. “I know she’s your mother and you love her. I’m not asking you to choose between us. I only ask for respect for our family—yours and mine.”
Misha was silent for a long time, tapping his fingers on the table.
“You don’t understand,” he finally said. “She’s lonely. After Dad died, I’m all she has left.”
“I understand, Mish. Really. But that doesn’t mean she can control our life.” Ira leaned forward. “I’m not against her visits. I’m against how they happen. Without warning, without agreement, without basic respect.”
“She’s old-fashioned. It’s hard for her to understand modern… boundaries, as you call them.”
“‘You’ meaning who?” Ira asked quietly.
Misha grimaced:
“Well, you, your friends, your generation…”
“Mish, I’m thirty-two. You’re thirty-five. We’re the same generation. It’s not about age. My mother is old-fashioned too, but she never comes without calling and never dictates how we live.”
“You just have a different mother!” Misha snapped. “Mine has always been… active. She’s used to caring, solving problems, taking responsibility. For her, that’s love.”
“Not love, control,” Ira shook her head. “And you know it. Remember how she threw a fit when we decided to go to Greece instead of Anapa. How she came unannounced when my parents visited and demonstratively washed dishes, saying our place was dirty. How she…”
“Enough!” Misha slammed his palm on the table. “She’s an older woman with her own views on life. I can’t demand she change.”
“Can’t or won’t?” Ira asked quietly.
Misha looked away.
“It’s complicated.”
“No, Mish, it’s simple. You just say: ‘Mom, Ira and I will be happy to see you, but please call first and ask if it’s convenient. And respect our decisions.’ That’s all.”
“She’ll be offended.”
“So what?” Ira shrugged. “Adults have the right to be offended. Then they get over it and move on. Or don’t— their choice. But I can’t live constantly afraid of hurting your mother’s feelings. It’s exhausting, Mish. I don’t want to be an enemy, but I won’t be a doormat anymore.”
Silence hung in the kitchen. The evening city hummed outside; somewhere far away, an alarm blared. Ira looked at her husband, trying to read the answer to the unasked question: what now?
“She called every day,” Misha finally said, looking at the table. “She cried. Said you hate her, that you’re trying to turn us against each other.”
“Do you believe that?”
Misha looked up:
“No. But I don’t know what to do about it.”
The conversation ended with nothing. Misha went to the bedroom, and Ira stayed in the kitchen, staring into the dark window. It seemed she truly realized for the first time how deep the problem’s roots were. Her husband was torn between his mother and his wife, unable to choose. Which meant the choice would fall to her.
Three months passed. Life fell into a familiar routine. Ludmila Petrovna no longer called their home, only Misha’s mobile, and apparently not often. Misha never spoke about his mother, and Ira never asked. The fragile peace between them seemed too precious to risk.
But one evening Ira’s phone rang as she returned from work. An unfamiliar number.
“Hello?”
“Irochka, it’s Ludmila Petrovna.” The mother-in-law’s voice sounded unusually humble. “Please don’t hang up.”
Ira stopped in the middle of the street, clutching the phone until her fingers ached.
“I’m listening.”
“I need to come to Moscow. For tests.” Ludmila Petrovna spoke in short gasps, as if each word cost her. “The doctor ordered it. Something with my heart… It doesn’t matter. I wanted to ask… can I stay with you? Just for three days.”
Ira closed her eyes. This was the test she had subconsciously expected and feared all these months.
“Ludmila Petrovna, I…”
“I understand, after that conversation…” the mother-in-law interrupted her. “But this is important. I wouldn’t ask if I had another way. Hotels are expensive, and the hospital is near your home.”
There was such unhidden hope in her voice that for a moment Ira almost gave in. But then she remembered everything: the nighttime tantrums, endless nitpicking, manipulations, sleepless nights, tears, fights with Misha.
“I’m sorry, Ludmila Petrovna, but no.” Ira was surprised at the firmness in her voice. “It’s impossible.”
“But Irochka, it’s not without reason! I have medical indications, I need to…”
“I said no.” Ira gritted her teeth. “If you want, I can book you a hostel near the hospital. It’s cheap there.”
“A hostel?” The mother-in-law’s voice showed indignation. “You’re suggesting an older woman with a sick heart live in a hostel with strangers?”
“Yes. Or find another option.” Ira felt the familiar exhaustion from the conversation washing over her. “Ludmila Petrovna, I’m already on the train. I’ll be in Moscow in six hours.”
Ira couldn’t believe her ears.
“On the train? You… you did it again? Took the train without asking if you could come?”
“I told you—it’s urgent! I have a referral for tomorrow!”
The sound of wheels echoed in the line. Exactly the same as in that memorable conversation three months ago. Nothing had changed. Just a new lever of pressure—illness.
“I don’t care that you’re already on the train.” Ira pronounced every word clearly, as if hammering nails. “Turn around and go home. I won’t let you in.”
“What?!” Ludmila Petrovna gasped indignantly. “You… you have no right!”
“I do. This is my home. And I decide who enters and who doesn’t.”
“And Misha? What will Misha say? He’s my son; he won’t allow it…”
“Misha’s out of town.” That was true. Her husband had gone on a business trip for a week. “So it’s up to me.”
Ludmila Petrovna made a strange sound—not quite a sob, not quite a moan.
“You’re cruel, heartless… How could Misha choose someone like you…”
“Nevertheless, he did.” Ira was surprised at her own calmness. “Ludmila Petrovna, I won’t continue this conversation. Decide for yourself: hostel or go home and postpone the tests.”
“You… how dare you…”
“Goodbye, Ludmila Petrovna.”
Ira hung up and stood motionless for several minutes, staring at the dark phone screen. Her mother-in-law would surely call back. Or call Misha. Or come and stand at the door until a neighbor called the police.
But the phone stayed silent. Not after five minutes, not after an hour, not in the evening when Ira was already home. No calls on the home or mobile phone. Silence.
Ira thought she would feel guilty, but instead felt a strange relief. As if she had dropped a heavy backpack she’d been carrying for ten years. She had finally done what she should have long ago—protected her boundaries, her home, her dignity.
Of course, this was not the end of the story. There would still be tears, accusations, attempts at manipulation. There would be a difficult conversation with Misha, who would surely learn everything from his mother in the worst possible way for Ira. There would be the need to defend her right to respect again and again.
But now, at this moment, looking out the window at the evening city, Ira felt only calm and certainty.
“I did what I had to,” she thought, pouring herself a glass of wine and settling on the couch with a book. “And this is just the beginning.”
Misha returned five days later. He entered the apartment with a heavy suitcase and an even heavier look.
“Mom called,” he said instead of greeting her.
Ira nodded, continuing to chop vegetables for a salad.
“I know.”
“She said you refused to take her in. That she has heart problems, and you threw her out.”
“I didn’t throw her out.” Ira put down the knife and turned to her husband. “She called me from the train, already in Moscow, without even asking if she could stay with us. I offered to book her a hostel.”
Misha rubbed his face wearily.
“Ira, she has a sick heart…”
“She always has something wrong when she needs to get her way.” Ira crossed her arms. “Three months ago it was arthritis, now the heart. What will it be next? Cancer? Stroke?”
“You can’t say things like that,” Misha muttered.
“Why not? Because she’s your mother? Yes, she’s your mother. But she no longer has the right to dictate how we live. And if you can’t understand that, then…”
“Then what?” Misha looked up, and Ira saw the cold resolve she feared.
“Then we need to seriously think about our future.” She couldn’t believe she was saying this. “I can’t anymore, Mish. I can’t live with someone who can’t protect our family from manipulation.”
They looked at each other across the kitchen, and Ira suddenly understood—this was the moment of truth. Now everything would be decided: whether their marriage could survive this crisis or collapse under the weight of unspoken claims and unresolved contradictions.
Misha heavily sat down.
“I don’t know what to do,” he finally said. “I really don’t know.”
Ira said nothing. She finished chopping the salad, put the plate in front of her husband, and left the kitchen. The answer was clear. And now she had to make the hardest choice of her life.
“Ten years,” she thought, staring into the dark bedroom window. “Ten years I tried to become part of this family. To be a good wife, a good daughter-in-law. And now I have to choose—either me or his mother. And I know what his choice will be.”
But at least she did what she had to. She finally said “no.” And that could not be undone.
That evening she packed a small bag with essentials and called her parents.
“Mom, can I stay with you for a few days? I need to think.”
And when Misha asked where she was going, Ira just shrugged:
“You said you don’t know what to do. So think about it. Meanwhile, I’ll stay with my parents.”
And for the first time in ten years, she closed the door without looking back. Come what may.
