— Oh, it’s so nice here! So spacious! — Tamara Pavlovna’s voice rolled through the hallway like thunder out of a clear sky. — Not like my little den.
Lord, her again. Marina froze with a rag in her hand. The kitchen cabinet already shone, but she kept scrubbing—maybe if she didn’t react, her mother-in-law would leave? Yeah, right.
Tamara Pavlovna came in without knocking, without ringing, without warning. She simply opened the door with a key—the very key Igor had given her “just in case.” And “cases” now happened every other day. If not more often.
— Shall I pour you some tea? — Marina asked mechanically, without turning around.
Why am I even asking? She’ll refuse anyway. That’s the ritual: I offer, she refuses, then spends an hour moaning about her life.
— Oh, forget tea, Marinotchka! — the mother-in-law squeezed into the kitchen, trailing a wake of smells: wet street, cheap perfume, and something medicinal. — My blood pressure keeps spiking! Must be the weather… And I’ve no time to sit around sipping tea.
Of course she has no time. She has to inspect everything, assess it, pass judgment.
Marina finally turned. She leaned against the counter, arms crossed. Go on then, start your performance.
And Tamara Pavlovna had already begun. She waddled around the kitchen—swaggering, duck-like. Ran a finger across the new fridge (looking for dust?), peered out the window, felt the curtain. Her little eyes darted everywhere—evaluating, estimating how much everything cost.
— Have you seen the prices these days! — she began from afar. — You walk into a pharmacy and you could just cry. Pills for blood pressure—a thousand rubles! For the heart—fifteen hundred! On one pension… — a heavy sigh, a pause. — Bread and water, that’s my whole diet.
— Yeah, everything’s expensive, — Marina muttered.
And what next? Now we’ll get to the son-as-breadwinner who’s forgotten his mother.
Tamara Pavlovna realized the approach hadn’t worked. Fine, let’s go straight at it.
— How’s little Igor? — she stopped opposite Marina, boring into her with her eyes. — Tired, I bet? His job is hard… Doesn’t visit his mother at all. He used to drop by at least once a week, and now…
— He works. He’s tired, yes.
What did you expect? For him to run to you every day? After you milked him all his life?
She slammed her bag onto the table. The dishes clinked. That was the end of the prelude.
— Enough with the coyness, Marina! — the mask fell, revealing an angry, twisted face. — Let’s be honest! What did you do to my son? Bewitched him? Put a spell on him? He used to hand me every last kopeck! Every single ruble! And now? He’s saving for a car! A car, can you imagine! While his mother’s boots are a horror to look at! The soles are falling off!
Sure, falling off. I’ve seen those boots—Italian leather. Just not new. And the money, I bet, is for something else.
— Tamara Pavlovna, — Marina tried to keep her voice calm, though she was already boiling inside, — that’s Igor’s decision. We’re a family. We share a budget and plans. A car isn’t a luxury; it’s a necessity. For commuting, hauling groceries…
— Family! — the mother-in-law squealed. — What kind of family are you to him? You’ve been married barely a year! I’m his mother! I carried him, fed him, raised him! I lost sleep over him! And you just waltzed into everything ready-made!
She swept her arm around the kitchen—the new cabinets, the fridge, the microwave.
— All of this! All of it! Bought with my money! With the money my son should have been giving me! You robbed him! You stole from him!
Your money? Seriously? Igor works two jobs, I do translations at night. And all you know how to do is beg.
Marina gave a crooked smile. She couldn’t help it.
— You know what surprises me? You’re not worried that Igor is working himself to the bone. You’re not worried his back hurts, that he swallows handfuls of pills. You only care about money. About how much will trickle down to you.
Tamara Pavlovna’s face turned crimson. Her eyes bulged; her mouth fell open.
— How dare you… How dare you?! Bitch! I gave him my whole life! My whole life! And you… you…
Words ran out. She was choking on rage, on hurt, on hatred for this young upstart who had dared… dared to talk back!
— Give me money! — she blurted suddenly. — Give me money. Now!
That was no hint, no request—it was an order. An ultimatum.
— On what grounds? — Marina straightened. — Why should I give you money? You have a son. Go to him. I don’t get in the middle of your relationship.
— You little piece of trash! — Tamara Pavlovna screamed. — So it’s true! You turned him against me! You! Gutter bitch! Decided to latch onto my son? Grab yourself a new apartment? Not gonna happen! Not gonna happen, you hear?!
Latched on? Me? I earn more than he does! I paid the down payment on this apartment!
But Marina stayed silent. What was there to say? Any word would be oil on the fire. She just stood there and looked at this woman, mad with malice. Looked and thought: how did Igor stand this for so many years? How didn’t he lose his mind?
— Cat got your tongue? — Tamara Pavlovna trembled. — Nothing to say? The truth hurts, doesn’t it?
She caught her breath. Then her gaze fell on the bag. Big, heavy, stuffed with all sorts of junk. Something clicked in her fury-clouded mind.
If words won’t get through…
She grabbed the bag. Her fingers whitened from the strain. Marina saw the movement, saw the crazed gleam in her mother-in-law’s eyes.
Would she really swing? Would it really come to that?
The mother-in-law had come for money with a key to our apartment, but she hadn’t expected to run into my husband.
It dawned on her.
Tamara Pavlovna swung. Clumsily, but with such rage that the air whistled. The bag flew straight at her daughter-in-law’s face.
And at that moment the lock clicked.
— Damn, forgot my phone… — Igor walked in and froze on the threshold.
Time stopped. He saw everything: his mother with the bag raised to strike, his wife pressed to the wall, their faces twisted with hatred. His brain processed the picture in a split second.
He didn’t shout. Didn’t gasp. He simply stepped forward and caught his mother’s arm. With an iron grip. The bag thudded to the floor.
Silence. Deafening, ringing silence.
Tamara Pavlovna slowly turned her head. She looked at her son. Fear flickered in her eyes—only to be replaced at once by slyness. She would still try to wriggle out of this.
— Igoryok… darling boy… — she bleated. — You’ve got it all wrong! She drove me to it! She just stood there smirking! I’m telling her about my ailments and she laughs!
Igor looked at his mother. Long, intently, wearily. There was no anger or hurt in his gaze. Only fatigue. Endless, mortal fatigue.
How many years have I put up with this? How many years did I believe she’d change? That she’d understand? Fool. Old fool.
He unclenched his fingers. Tamara Pavlovna jerked her hand back, rubbing her wrist.
— Igoryok, come on now… I didn’t mean… She’s the one who…
He wasn’t listening. He bent down, picked up the bag, put it into her hands. Then took her by the elbow. Gently, but firmly.
— Let’s go, Mom.
— Where? Igor, what are you doing? — she tried to dig her heels in, but he was already leading her to the door. — Igor! Son! Talk to me!
Marina stayed in the kitchen. She didn’t follow them.
This is his fight. His decision. I have nothing to do with it.
On the landing, Tamara Pavlovna made one last attempt.
— Son… Igoryosha… Forgive a foolish old woman… I won’t do it again… I swear…
He looked at her. One long look. It held everything: the love that once was, the pain of betrayal, and a final, irrevocable decision.
— The keys, Mom.
— What? — she didn’t understand. Or pretended not to.
— The keys to the apartment. Hand them over.
— Igor… you can’t be serious… I’m your mother!
— The keys.
She stared at him, still hoping it was a joke. That he’d smile and say, “All right, Mom, forget it.” But he didn’t smile.
With trembling hands she fished in her bag. Fumbled for a long time, stalling. At last she pulled out the ring, unclipped the key, and held it out.
He took the key and slipped it into his pocket. Then stepped back into the apartment.
— Igor!
He stopped on the threshold.
— What are you doing… your own mother… She’s bewitched you! Drugged you! Son!
He slowly, very slowly, closed the door. The soft click of the lock sounded like thunder.
And then it started. Bangs, screams, curses. Tamara Pavlovna pounded on the door with her fists, her feet—anything she could.
— Open up! Open this instant! I’ll show you! I’ll go to the police! Ungrateful wretch! Bastard! I brought you into this world! I fed you! And you! Because of that whore! Open up, you swine!
Igor stood in the entryway, leaning against the wall. Eyes closed. His face—a mask of pain.
Marina came over and stood beside him. Took his hand. He squeezed her fingers—hard, to the point of pain.
— I’m sorry, — he whispered. — I’m sorry it turned out like this.
— What’s there to forgive? You did what you had to do. Long overdue.
— She’s still my mother…
— A mother isn’t the one who gave birth. A mother is the one who loves. And she… she used you. She used you your whole life.
The banging on the door grew quieter. The shouts came less often. Then there were receding footsteps. She left.
They stood there a while longer, holding hands. Then Igor exhaled and straightened his shoulders.
— Tea?
— Let’s. And let’s open the window. We should air the place out.
They went to the kitchen. Igor put the kettle on; Marina flung the window open. Fresh air rushed into the apartment, chasing out the stale smell of the past.
— You know, — Igor said, taking down cups, — I thought it would hurt more. But it’s… like lancing a boil. It hurts, but you feel relief right away.
— She’ll be back. More than once.
— Let her. I won’t open the door. And she won’t get the key. Enough. She’s bled me dry all my life, and I put up with it. I thought—she’s my mother. You can’t hurt your mom. And she… — he paused. — When I saw her raise her hand at you… I understood. That’s it. The end. I can’t anymore. I won’t.
The kettle whistled. Igor poured the boiling water into the cups and dropped in tea bags.
— Maybe I’m a bad son, — he said, sitting at the table. — But I can’t be a good son to a bad mother anymore.
Marina sat down opposite and took his hand.
— You’re not a bad son. You just stopped being a victim. And that’s right.
They drank tea in silence. Outside, the city hummed, living its own life. And for them, a new life had begun. No toxic relatives, no eternal reproaches, no fear of the next visit.
— We’ll change the lock tomorrow, — Igor said. — Just in case. Who knows, maybe she made a copy.
— Long overdue.
— A lot of things were long overdue. But better late than never.
He was quiet for a moment, then added:
— You know, I was going to buy her a car. Really. I thought—I’ll buy one for myself and give her the old one. So it would be easier for her to get to the doctor’s, to shop… Stupid, right?
— Not stupid. Kind. But kindness needs a backbone. Otherwise they’ll eat you alive.
— I’ll learn. I’ll learn with you.
Outside, rain began. Heavy drops beat against the glass, washing away dust and grime. As if nature itself had decided to help them start with a clean slate.
— And we’ll buy the car anyway, — Marina said. — We really do need it. For the dacha, for vacations…
— Vacations… — Igor smiled. For the first time that evening. — We haven’t been in ages. I gave all the money to her. For medicine. Which, by the way, she didn’t buy. I checked. She’d get the prescriptions, but she wouldn’t go to the pharmacy. She was saving, I guess. For a rainy day.
— Forget it. That’s past.
— Yes. The past.
They finished their tea. Igor stood, went to the window, and stared out at the rain for a while.
— Thank you, — he said without turning. — For being here. For putting up with her. For not leaving.
— Where would I go? I love you, silly.
He turned around. His eyes were wet. Marina came over and hugged him.
— It’s going to be okay. You’ll see. We’ll manage. The two of us will manage.
— The two of us, — he repeated. — Good words. The right ones.
The rain intensified. Somewhere out there, under the rain, Tamara Pavlovna trudged home. Angry, hurt, abandoned. But that was no longer their story. No longer their pain.
Their story was only just beginning.
