— Here. Mom wants this one.
Andrey’s voice—lazy and self-satisfied—burst into the cozy quiet of the evening, ripping it apart like a blunt needle piercing thin fabric. Yulia slowly lifted her eyes from the book. He was looming over her chair, thrusting his phone at her, the screen glowing with a cold, deathly light. She squinted to focus. On the display, some kind of kitchen monster gleamed with chrome flanks—shiny, multifunctional, like a spaceship control panel. A planetary mixer, meat grinder, blender, juicer—everything in one futuristic body. Beneath the photo, a price in bold digits made her catch her breath for a moment.
Yulia silently shifted her gaze from the phone to her husband. He was waiting—not for a question, not for a discussion. He was waiting for confirmation, a nod, immediate consent. In his stance, in the careless way he held the expensive gadget, there was an unshakable certainty that the matter had already been decided.
— Mm-hm, I see. And?
He snorted, as if she’d asked the stupidest question in the world.
— What do you mean, “and”? We’ll give it to her. Her anniversary’s coming up—sixty. Perfect occasion. Mom said we should give her this kitchen machine. One big, respectable gift from the family, and no need to rack our brains with little knickknacks.
“Mom said we should give it.” The phrase, delivered as something self-evident, snagged in Yulia’s mind like a barbed hook. Not “let’s give it,” not “what do you think?,” but an order handed down from above and relayed by her husband. She slowly set the book on the side table. The evening stopped being languid. That faint, barely perceptible tension that always precedes a storm settled in the air.
Her memory obligingly tossed up a picture from a month ago. Same kind of evening. Only then, it had been her mother’s birthday. Yulia bustled around the apartment, choosing between a cashmere shawl and the expensive French perfume her mother had long wanted. She asked Andrey if he’d chip in. Without taking his eyes off a tank battle on his monitor, he muttered something about unexpected car expenses. She didn’t insist. She bought the perfume herself. And that evening, when she was dialing her mother to congratulate her, she handed him the phone. “Say a few words to Mom; it’ll make her happy.” Andrey waved her off. “Later, okay? I’m busy, can’t you see?” He never called. Not that night, not the next day. He simply forgot. Or—worse—simply didn’t think it necessary.
Yulia looked up at her husband again. He was still standing there with the phone, a flicker of irritation already crossing his face at her silence.
— Andrey, do you remember when my mother’s birthday was? — she asked quietly.
He frowned; his brain was clearly trying to process this unexpected and, from his point of view, completely irrelevant question. He strained his memory; a complex cognitive process played across his face.
— Well… it was recently, I think. So what? What’s that got to do with anything?
And at that moment something clicked inside Yulia—cold and final, like the bolt of a rifle.
— Because, — she said, each word precise, and there was a new, metallic firmness in her voice, — respect, my dear, has to be mutual. It’s a two-way street, not your personal autobahn.
He stared at her blankly; the first crack appeared in his confidence.
— What are you even talking about?
— I’m talking about the fact that your mother, Tamara Pavlovna, will get from me on her anniversary exactly what my mother got from you on her birthday. — Yulia paused—short, ringing—and looked him straight in the eye. — No-thing. If you want to give your mom an expensive gift, lovely idea. Buy it. With your own money. And please stop dragging me and my money into your family wish list. The shop is closed.
She calmly picked up her book, opened it to where she’d left off, and demonstratively immersed herself in reading, making it clear the conversation was over for her. But she knew for Andrey it was only just beginning.
The silence that followed was dense and heavy, like wet cloth. Andrey didn’t find an answer right away. He merely stared at his wife, at this ludicrously demonstrative pose—back straight, chin slightly raised, eyes fixed on pages she clearly wasn’t reading. His mind, accustomed to a simple and comprehensible order in which his desires were law, refused to accept a new reality. He blinked several times, as if trying to brush away an hallucination.
The air around him seemed to thicken, grow heavier. He didn’t yell. He started talking lower, pressing, in that tone used to pacify unreasonable children or fussy subordinates.
— Are you serious right now? You decided to play the offended princess over some nonsense? This is my mother. It’s her anniversary. Not just a birthday—an important date!
Yulia, with deliberate care, closed the book, keeping a finger on the line where she’d stopped. She didn’t clap it shut or toss it on the table. That measured, calm gesture was scarier than any shout. She wasn’t flustered. She was preparing for battle.
— Nonsense? — she repeated, her calm as deceptive as the smooth surface of a deep pool. — Calling my mother’s birthday “nonsense” is a new level, Andrey. Congratulations. You’ve just made another breakthrough in our relationship.
He took a step toward her, looming even more over the chair.
— Don’t twist everything! And don’t confuse God’s gift with scrambled eggs! My mother is my mother. She raised us, she…
— She raised you, — Yulia corrected gently but firmly. — My mother raised me. And you, Mr. Keen Sense of Filial Duty, didn’t even think it necessary to dial her number and say three words. “Congratulations, best wishes.” That would have taken you exactly fifteen seconds.
His face began to turn crimson. Yulia’s arguments were simple and lethal, and that infuriated him. He was used to his logic being the only correct one.
— I was busy! I had things to do, I got tied up, I forgot! It happens! And for that you’re going to humiliate my mother now? Refuse to give her a present? That’s petty, Yulia! Petty and beneath you!
— Busy? — she smirked, but there was no trace of amusement in her eyes. — Let me guess. You were saving the world from an alien invasion? Conducting a high-stakes financial operation on which the fate of the world depended? Or were you just beating another level in your idiotic shooter? Which of these was the urgent matter that kept you from showing basic human respect to my mother?
He recoiled as if she’d hit him. She’d struck home, and he knew it. She saw right through him—his laziness, his egoism, his infantile conviction that the whole world revolved around him and his “wants.” He began to choke with indignation; words stuck in his throat.
— That… that is none of your business what I was doing! You’re my wife! And you must respect my family! That’s foundational!
Yulia rose slowly from the chair. Now they were face to face. She was shorter, but there was such cold fury in her eyes that he involuntarily stepped back half a pace.
— I don’t owe you anything, Andrey. Marriage is a partnership. And partnership presumes reciprocity. You’ve shown what your respect for my family is worth. Zero. A blank. You set that exchange rate yourself. So don’t be surprised that I intend to stick to it. The value of your contribution to my family equals the value of mine to yours. That’s fair. And if that seems petty to you, just look in the mirror. You’ll see the author of that pettiness.
He withdrew. He didn’t slam the door, didn’t shout a parting shot. He simply turned and left the living room, shoulders slumped like a beaten dog. Yulia heard his footsteps down the hall, then the soft click of the balcony door. He retreated to his territory—the narrow, glassed-in space cluttered with toolboxes and old magazines. His fortress, his smoking area, his communications hub. She had no doubt what he was doing. He wasn’t thinking over her words or analyzing the situation. He was complaining. Pulling up the number on speed dial labeled “Mom,” pouring into the receiver his version of events—trimmed, distorted, casting him as the victim and her as an ungrateful, petty egotist.
Yulia didn’t follow. She didn’t eavesdrop. There was no need. She knew the script of that conversation by heart: the intonations with which Andrey would describe her “stunt,” and the syrupy, sympathetic sighs with which Tamara Pavlovna would respond. She simply sat in the chair and waited. The feeling was strange—like being in the eye of a hurricane, where a deathly, unnatural stillness reigns, but on the edges the wind already howls and trees crack. She stood and went to the kitchen. Mechanically she filled the kettle, set it on the stove. Her movements were automatic, detached. She watched the blue tongues of flame lick the bottom of the kettle and thought about how quickly and easily things that had seemed solid collapse.
When her phone rang, she didn’t even flinch. The piercing, nagging trill was as expected as thunder after a flash of lightning. She looked at the screen. “Tamara Pavlovna.” The heavy artillery had entered the battle. Yulia let it ring a couple more times, took a deep breath, exhaled, and swiped to answer.
— Hello, — she said calmly.
— Yulechka? Sweetheart, hello, — her mother-in-law’s voice oozed honey. It had been trained for years for conversations like this—coaxing, enveloping, full of fake concern. — Am I not interrupting? Are you busy?
— Hello, Tamara Pavlovna. No, I’m not busy.
— Oh, good. It’s just that Andryusha called—he sounded so upset, I’ve been beside myself. Is everything all right with you two? Nothing happened?
Yulia smiled inwardly. What a hackneyed, clumsy technique. Start from afar, pretend to be a peacemaker who’s simply “worried” about her kids.
— We have a disagreement about the gift for your anniversary, — she answered directly, without circumlocutions, knocking down the flimsy construction of feigned ignorance.
A brief pause hung on the other end. Clearly, such straightforwardness wasn’t what Tamara Pavlovna expected. But she was a seasoned fighter and regrouped quickly.
— Ah, so that’s it… A gift… Yulechka, why quarrel over such trifles. I don’t need anything except your attention. It’s just that Andryusha knows how long I’ve dreamed of that machine. My back hurts, my hands aren’t what they used to be, kneading dough is hard… It would make my life so much easier. And I don’t do it for myself—I bake pies for you when you come to visit…
It was a gut punch, calculated to provoke guilt: the image of an old, ailing mother who, with her last ounce of strength, cares for ungrateful children. But it didn’t work on Yulia. She knew too well that her mother-in-law’s back only hurt when they needed help; there was always ample strength for trips to the dacha with her friends.
— Tamara Pavlovna, that machine is very expensive. I don’t think it’s right to spend our joint budget on it.
The honey in her voice began to set, turning into sticky caramel.
— But, Yulechka, we’re one family. How can you be counting like that—your money, his money? Andryusha is my only son, I always gave him the very best. And I thought his wife… that you… would treat me like your own mother too.
There it was. The trump card: “own mother.”
— My own mother had her birthday a month ago, — Yulia said in an even, cold tone. — Not only did Andrey not contribute to a gift, he didn’t even congratulate her. So, I’m sorry. There will be no gift from me personally. I cannot treat you better than your son treats my mother. The rules in a family must be the same for everyone.
This time the silence was long. Yulia could hear only her mother-in-law’s uneven breathing. The sweetness, the syrup—gone without a trace. When Tamara Pavlovna spoke again, her voice sounded like metal scraping glass.
— I understand you, Yulia. Very well.
Short beeps. The call was over. Yulia set the phone on the table. The kettle screamed on the stove, blasting steam. She turned off the gas. The phone battle was won. But she knew perfectly well it wasn’t the end. It was only a declaration of war. And now they would come. Together.
No more than an hour passed. Yulia had just enough time to drink her now-cold tea and wash the cup. She didn’t pace or sit on pins and needles. She’d found a strange, cold calm, as if watching from the outside a poorly written play with a predictable, inevitable finale. So when the doorbell sounded—not sharp, but insistent, two short, businesslike presses—she was ready.
She opened the door. There they were. The two of them. Andrey stood slightly behind, peering from under his brows with the air of offended virtue. And in front, like an icebreaker ramming a path through the floes, stood Tamara Pavlovna. The mask of the kindly, world-weary woman had been dropped. Before her stood the hard, domineering mistress of her clan, and her face—lips pressed tight, eyes as impenetrable as granite—boded nothing good.
They walked into the apartment without an invitation, as if into their own home. They went to the living room, and Yulia silently followed. They didn’t sit. They stood in the middle of the room, forming an invisible tribunal. Andrey by his mother’s side, the loyal adjutant next to his general.
Tamara Pavlovna spoke first. Her voice, stripped of the phone honey, was dry and creaky, like an ungreased cart.
— I came to look you in the eyes, Yulia. I wanted to understand why you hate our family so much. Why you have so little respect for your husband’s mother.
It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation.
— I’ve never said I hate you, — Yulia replied calmly, staying by the doorway. She had no intention of stepping into their circle.
— Never said it? — a metallic note cut into her mother-in-law’s voice. — And your actions? You humiliate my son, you refuse to take part in family life, you put your petty resentments above sacred things! From the very beginning you tried to turn him against me! You think I don’t see it? All your “we’ll do it ourselves,” “we’ll decide the two of us”… You’ve always wanted to cut him off from his roots!
Andrey chimed in at once; his voice gained force from his mother’s presence.
— Mom’s right! You’ve never liked her! You always sit there with that face when we go to visit! Like you’re doing her a favor! Nothing’s ever good enough for you, nothing’s your way! Mom does everything for us, and you just turn up your nose!
They spoke in unison, reinforcing each other, weaving their accusations into a single, suffocating cocoon. It was a well-rehearsed duet, each part learned by heart. They accused her of egoism, callousness, of being unable to be a real wife who should dissolve into her husband’s family, accept his rules, his mother, his values.
Yulia didn’t defend herself. She listened. And with every word, with every accusation, she felt something inside her harden, turning into a heavy, cold monolith. Her entire life with this man—all the compromises, all the concessions, all the times she kept silent so as “not to make a scene”—rose before her in their true light: a chain of humiliations she had put on herself.
When they paused for a breath, Tamara Pavlovna made her final, decisive move. She raked Yulia with a contemptuous glance from head to toe.
— That’s enough, my dear. Either you apologize to me and my son right now, and then, like a normal family, we all go buy this gift together. Or I don’t know why my son lives with a woman like you at all.
Andrey nodded—firm, resolute. He awaited her capitulation. Yulia slowly raised her head. She looked past Andrey, straight into her mother-in-law’s cold, prickly eyes. Then she shifted her gaze to her husband. A faint, bitter smile touched her lips. She took a step forward, out of the doorway’s shadow into the light.
— You’ve never given my mother so much as a single flower, and now you’re telling me to buy your mother a food processor? Isn’t that a bit rich?
The phrase—quiet but crystal-clear—fell into the center of the room like a grenade. It was rough, street-level, devoid of polish or refinement. And that was exactly why it was devastating. In an instant, it blew away their puffed-up construction of “family values” and “filial duty,” leaving only the bare, unlovely truth—greed and selfishness.
Tamara Pavlovna froze. Her face twisted. Andrey opened his mouth but didn’t make a sound. They stared at Yulia as if she’d suddenly started speaking some barbarian tongue. But they understood everything. Every word. In the emptiness that followed, there was no room for argument. Everything had been said.
Without another word, Tamara Pavlovna spun on her heel and headed for the door. Andrey, after one last bewildered, hate-filled look at Yulia, slouched after her. The door closed behind them with a soft, indifferent click of the mechanism.
Yulia was left standing alone in the middle of the living room. The apartment felt empty—not quiet, empty. The air that had been crackling with tension a minute earlier cleared, turning cold and transparent. And in that clarity she saw plainly that the family had just ended. Finally and irreversibly.
