“Anechka. Why are you still in your pajamas? You should always look neat and elegant for your husband. Go wash up, and Vitya and I need to discuss something.”
“Oh really! Stop telling me how to live—better hand over the keys to my apartment,” the daughter-in-law said, holding out her hand.
Anya had never dreamed of a lavish wedding, a long veil, or shouts of “Gorko!” She was thirty when Viktor proposed—nothing flashy, no rings in a champagne flute, just quiet words over dinner in a restaurant. She agreed without hesitation. They had been dating for a year and a half, lived on opposite sides of the city, and every evening ended the same way: they reluctantly let each other go home.
The wedding was small, just for their own people. After the celebration, Viktor moved in with Anya—she had a three-room apartment of her own, inherited from her grandmother. The building wasn’t new, but it was spacious.
At first, everything was good. They enjoyed living together, discussed which furniture to replace, which series to watch in the evening. Anya worked as an editor at a publishing house, Viktor as a logistics engineer. They lived like everyone else: nothing special. Weekdays they worked, weekends they spent together.
But just a couple of months after the wedding, Viktor began bringing up the topic of children. Gently at first, then more and more often. Anya wasn’t in a hurry to become a mother. She wanted some time simply to be a wife, to settle into the new role—to have a “shakedown” period. She wasn’t against having children—just not yet. First, she needed to get used to the everyday family routine.
“Vitya, seriously. We’ve only been married four months. Let’s at least live quietly for a year,” Anya said softly.
“Why wait?” he was surprised. “We’re not teenagers. There’s age to think about. You said yourself you want to have a baby before thirty-five.”
“Yes, I did. But as you can see, there’s still time,” she winked at her husband.
Anya stood her ground. She didn’t believe in the phrase “you have to give birth, the clock is ticking.” She believed in mindfulness, freedom of choice, and responsibility for one’s actions. And a child isn’t a toy you have on a whim and drop when you feel like it.
And then, as if on cue, Viktor’s mother, Viktoria Vladimirovna, entered their life. At first it seemed harmless: she came to visit, brought homemade pies and crepes with various fillings that little Vitenka loved.
But soon she became a regular weekend visitor, and Anya started to tire of it. Viktoria Vladimirovna began checking shelves for dust, patrolling the apartment, and pointing out what needed to be redone and how.
One day she showed up with an announcement:
“Vitya and I decided you could use a new dresser in the bedroom,” she declared.
“What do you mean, decided?” Anya was taken aback. “Did anyone discuss that with me?”
“That’s how it worked out. Vitya’s paying for this dresser anyway, so your opinion doesn’t matter.”
“I see…” Anya drawled.
When the workers delivered the dresser that evening, Anya was shocked. Staring at the changing table mounted on top, she looked at her husband in disbelief.
“What did you expect? The kids will be coming soon. We’ll definitely need a dresser like this.”
“So this is your way of speeding up the arrival of children? No, dear, that’s not how this works,” his wife laughed. “You’re only making it worse with this behavior.”
“Oh, stop it. Why are you so worked up?” Viktor replied good-naturedly, not seeing a problem.
“Of course it’s easy for you to say ‘have a baby.’ First I’ll spend nine months pregnant, no longer as active. Then three years isolated from the world and dependent on my husband. Are you ready to support the family on your own?”
“There will be benefits. Won’t there?”
“There will, sure. But I don’t think you should count on them. So, my dear husband, we will discuss this together—not you and your mother. Agreed?”
Viktor sighed, dissatisfied.
“Good. And the dresser… Well, let it stay since you ordered it.”
With that, Anya got ready and left to meet her friend Larisa, who, incidentally, had just had a baby.
“Hi, my dear! It’s been so long,” her friend rushed to hug her. “How long has it been since we last met? Three months?”
“Half a year,” Anna concluded, a shadow of bitterness passing over her face.
“Yeah… time flies with a baby. So, tell me, how’s married life? All good?”
“Overall, yes. Except for one thing. Viktor keeps talking about kids. I wasn’t against it, just a little later. But I feel my opinion changing under his constant pressure—and not for the better. And my mother-in-law is pouring fuel on the fire…” Anya admitted.
“That’s predictable. Mothers-in-law live to protect their precious sons. Some do it delicately, others bulldoze their way through.”
“‘Bulldoze’ is the right word.”
“Lyoshik and I lived together for three years before I found out I was pregnant. Best decision ever. Fights and quarrels were behind us. It was easier to agree because the household was already running smoothly. You’re doing everything right.”
After the conversation, Anya felt much lighter. That evening, returning home, she leaned wearily against the front door. The air was close, smelling of beer and onion chips—Viktor was in the kitchen in front of the TV. Anya glanced at the scene and decided not to go in.
She paused in the hallway for a moment, sighed quietly, and, without lingering, walked past the kitchen without a word. She went to the bathroom, turned on the light, and splashed cool water on her face. She needed to think.
Anya studied her reflection for a long time. Water ran down her cheeks, and everything at once spun in her head: Larisa’s words, the smell of beer in the kitchen, the dresser with the changing table, Viktoria Vladimirovna’s voice blending into an irritating hum.
Viktor didn’t see any problem. He sincerely believed it was “about time,” that children were a necessary stage—not about “I want” or “I don’t want.” He didn’t hear Anya, didn’t see her doubts, didn’t take her feelings seriously. And with each passing week, it grew harder for Anya to resist. She began to doubt herself: maybe it really was about age? Maybe this was her last chance?
Then came one of those evenings when everything becomes crystal clear.
Anya came home from work exhausted. She took off her shoes, hung up her coat, and was about to head to the bedroom when she stopped. She heard Viktor’s voice from the kitchen. He was talking very emotionally on the phone.
“I tried, Mom, I tried! But she keeps resisting… Yeah, I told her it’s time, that age matters. And she’s all ‘not the time,’ ‘not now’… So what if we’ve only been married half a year?! We’re in our thirties! I want a child, not to wait until she’s done playing at being a free woman!”
Anya froze. It was his mother again. It was as if they’d run out of topics—only children and cleaning remained. She simply turned around and silently went to the bathroom. She sat on the edge of the tub, hugging herself. And then she made a decision, because she realized there was no point in fighting this.
A week later, at dinner, Anya said:
“I agree.”
“Agree to what?” Viktor was surprised.
“To a baby. I’m ready.”
Viktor spread into a satisfied grin, as if he had been waiting for nothing else. Anya didn’t smile. She looked at her husband steadily, without emotion. She wanted to believe everything would be fine, that they would manage.
But deep down she already knew: a concession made under pressure rarely leads to happiness. And if she had to go down this path, it would be on her terms—and certainly not to satisfy someone else’s ambitions. From that day, Anya began setting aside a little from every paycheck into her mother’s account, after arranging it with her in advance.
Anya waited for news with special trepidation, and three months later the test suddenly showed a faint line. It was the long-awaited sign—they really were expecting a baby.
She decided to tell her husband right away. There was no ultrasound confirmation yet, but Anya wanted very much to share. She walked into the bedroom where Viktor was sitting with his laptop and quietly said:
“Vitya… It looks like we’re expecting a baby.”
He looked up from the screen, glanced at her, and instead of a smile said:
“Well, good job! We’ve been waiting long enough.”
“We’ve been waiting?” his wife frowned, but Vitya was no longer listening—he was dialing his mother.
So his first thought was to call his mother, not to hug Anya, kiss her, and celebrate this important moment together.
Despair washed over Anya: she had been waiting for a kiss, a gentle touch, an embrace… But she stood alone in the empty bedroom, watching Viktor disappear through the kitchen door.
Her world slowed for a second, as if doors had slammed shut in front of her—and beyond them there was only the echo of disappointment. Not a drop of warmth or joy. It turned out his mother mattered more than his wife.
That evening, Viktoria Vladimirovna appeared at the door. She entered without hiding her good mood:
“Well, daughter-in-law, congratulations… But keep in mind you won’t be living off my son. So curb your appetites for shopping and fancy food.”
“I…” Anya began, but the words wouldn’t come.
“And another thing,” the mother-in-law went on, “You’ll be staying home soon, so the housework had better be perfect. I’ll be checking on you every day.”
The brazen remarks hit Anya like cold rain. She stood motionless, feeling the fragile shards of happiness she had so carefully talked herself into shatter.
“Thank you for your concern, Viktoria Vladimirovna. It seems you’ve said everything you planned. I’m glad you’ve found a reason to think about our budget, but this is our life and our child. And I ask you, please, to spare me your advice in the future.”
With that, she left the room, leaving her mother-in-law stunned. Viktoria Vladimirovna began shouting and fuming, and Viktor tried to calm her down. His argument was:
“Mom, don’t listen to her. It’s hormones, you know.”
“She barely got pregnant and already started laying down the law!” hissed the mother-in-law.
Anya heard their voices but didn’t get out of bed. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling as if an answer might appear there to the question of when she took the wrong turn. In her chest it felt like she’d been cheated, like at a sale: a pretty façade hiding rotten goods.
Later, when the kitchen noise died down and Viktoria Vladimirovna left, her husband finally came to the bedroom. Cheerful and self-satisfied, he lay down beside her and fell asleep almost instantly. Anya didn’t even turn toward him.
Early the next morning, as the sun had barely lit the walls, Anya went to the bathroom. There she realized her cycle had returned, and the test had deceived her. Apparently it had just been a mistake—a hormonal glitch, nothing more.
She sat on the edge of the tub, feeling a bitter mix of relief and annoyance churn inside her. On the one hand, she had already fused with the feeling that she would soon become a mother; on the other, her husband’s and his mother’s reactions frightened and irritated her.
When she came into the kitchen, Viktor was already pouring himself water and stretching lazily.
“Mom’s coming over,” he informed her, as if announcing the weather.
It was ten in the morning.
Anya looked at him as if he were a stranger. He didn’t seem to notice anything was wrong. He didn’t care about her feelings—he wanted checkmarks on a list: “Wife. Apartment. Child. Mother happy.”
Anya went to the fridge, took out a bottle of water, took a sip, and said evenly:
“Can you tell her not to come?”
“Why?” he was surprised.
“Because I’m not pregnant, Vitya. Some kind of glitch… probably.”
He froze, then snapped irritably:
“What kind of circus did you put on? Mom was already happy for me!”
“I don’t know how you’ll break the news without disappointing Mommy,” Anya said with a touch of sarcasm. “But you know, with every day I’m more and more certain of something.”
“And what’s that?” he frowned.
“That we’re too different. And what happened yesterday put a big, fat period at the end of our relationship!” his wife continued, more sure of herself.
“Anya, wait, don’t be rash…” he began.
“I’m not being rash, Vitya. I’m just tired. I don’t need a husband whose first impulse is to call his mother and consult her. You’re a man, not a little boy!”
“Watch your tone,” Vitya hissed.
“And another thing. Tell your mother I have neither the desire nor the intention to listen to her instructions…”
Anya hadn’t finished when the door opened and Viktoria Vladimirovna appeared on the threshold again.
“Oh! So your mother even has keys to my apartment now?” Anya was truly angry.
She strode quickly into the hallway, where her mother-in-law was taking off her shoes.
“Anechka. Why are you still in your pajamas? You should always look neat and elegant for your husband. Go wash up, and Vitya and I need to discuss something.”
“Oh really! Stop telling me how to live—better give me back the keys to my apartment,” the daughter-in-law said, holding out her hand.
“Anya! What’s with you? We’re relatives, family after all.”
“We’re not family at all. Hand over the keys!” Anya exclaimed.
“Think of the child! Is that how you speak to his grandmother?”
“There is no child.”
“What do you mean, no?” Viktoria Vladimirovna’s voice turned dangerous.
“Yeah, Mom, she tricked us,” Viktor said from behind Anya’s back.
“There you are,” his wife smirked. “Now take each other by the hand and get out of my apartment!”
Viktor and his mother froze. Viktoria Vladimirovna didn’t even realize at first that the daughter-in-law was serious. She snorted, rolled her eyes, and tried to push past Anya, but Anya didn’t move and didn’t let her into the apartment.
“Leave. Now. And leave the keys,” Anya repeated calmly but firmly.
“Your behavior is beyond the pale!” cried Viktoria Vladimirovna. “Are you crazy? We’re family! We’re your people!”
“Family?” Anya gave a short laugh. “You’ve both made it clear that control and pressure matter more to you than love and respect. So no, we are not a family.”
“You’re overdoing it,” Viktor muttered, adjusting his T-shirt.
“And you, Vitya, didn’t overdo it when your first move was to call your mother instead of saying ‘I love you’? Take your mother—and both of you leave.”
“And if we don’t?” shouted Viktoria Vladimirovna, flushing with anger.
“Then I’ll call the police,” Anya said, looking straight into her mother-in-law’s eyes. “And tomorrow I’m filing for divorce.”
Silence.
Only then did Viktor, sniffing in annoyance, curse and head to the bedroom to supposedly pack. But he didn’t take anything; he just darted around the room.
“I’ll be back. You’ll change your mind and beg me to forgive you,” he tossed over his shoulder at the door.
“I’ll put everything out by the trash if you don’t collect it within three days,” Anya replied calmly and slammed the door in their faces.
And that’s how it went. Three days later, Viktor’s things were in bags by the dumpster. Anya changed the locks—after all, she had no idea how many duplicate keys Viktor and his mother had made. A month later, the divorce was official. Anya squared her shoulders.
Two years passed.
In that time, Anya changed jobs, renovated the apartment, and met someone with whom she didn’t have to explain why “it’s not time yet.” And one perfectly ordinary evening she realized she was ready to be a mother.
When her son was born—tiny, but so dear—Anya looked at him and felt grateful for the life lesson she’d been given by Vitya and his mother.
