— Egor, don’t forget—my mom’s birthday is tomorrow.
He waved her off without taking his eyes from the laptop screen, where graphs and tables flickered. The gesture wasn’t so much rude as automatic, like someone swatting away a pesky fly.
— Nastya, I remember everything. Don’t start. I told you—I remember.
She kept quiet, pretending to straighten a plant on the windowsill. But something inside her tightened into a hard, all-too-familiar knot. “Don’t start.” That phrase meant any further talk on the subject would be taken as nagging, an encroachment on his peace and on his memory—which, in his own estimation, was flawless. Especially when it came to things he himself considered unimportant.
Just three weeks ago, everything had been different. His mother Anna Borisovna’s birthday was an event of almost national importance. A month in advance, Egor had begun reminding her: “We need to think of a good present for Mom.” In his coordinates, a “good present” meant an expensive one. Nastya spent two weeks, after work, scouring shopping centers. She was looking for that very silk scarf—not just any scarf, but a certain Italian brand, a specific shade that, in Egor’s opinion, would underline his mother’s status.
She still remembered how she stood in the boutique, holding that heavy, shimmering piece of silk. Its price was nearly half her own monthly salary. She sent Egor a photo. He called back a minute later.
— Well, looks okay. It doesn’t look cheap, does it?
— Egor, this costs an arm and a leg.
— Perfect. My mother is not someone you give junk to. Buy it. I’ll transfer the money tonight.
And she bought it. Then she spent half the evening packing it in the brand box, tying the ribbon, writing the card in her most ornate hand, because Egor thought she did it “more heartfelt.” He stood over her, supervising the process like a foreman at a construction site. He took responsibility for form; she, for content and execution. And when they presented the gift, Anna Borisovna kissed her son on both cheeks, marveling at his taste and generosity. Nastya she merely patted on the shoulder with an offhand, “Thank you, dear.”
And now, three weeks later, the situation was mirrored. Her mother, who lived a thousand kilometers away, hadn’t asked for silk scarves or expensive perfume. She was just waiting for a call. One call from her son-in-law to confirm he considered her part of his family. Two years in a row Egor had “remembered.” Remembered so well that Nastya had had to lie afterward, saying he’d been at an important meeting, that his phone had died, that he would definitely call tomorrow. And he didn’t. And her mother, kind soul, pretended to believe it and said, “Of course, Nastenka, I understand, he works so much.”
He snapped the laptop shut, stretched, and headed to the kitchen to make tea.
— Want some? — he called from the kitchen.
— No, thanks, — she answered softly into the empty room.
She didn’t want tea or conversation. She wanted to walk up to him and ask why his status-conscious mother deserved expensive gifts and hourly attention while her simple mother didn’t deserve even a two-minute call. But she kept quiet. She gave him one more chance. The last one.
Morning greeted them with bright sun. The birthday had arrived. Egor was getting ready for work in an excellent mood, whistling some tune. He drank the coffee, ate the sandwich she’d made. He kissed her on the cheek at the door.
— I’m off. I won’t be late tonight.
She heard him close the door. She stood, went to the window, and looked down at his figure moving toward the car. He hadn’t said a word about her mother. He just left. And in that moment something heavy and cold dropped to the bottom inside her. It wasn’t disappointment anymore. It was a statement of fact. Third time in a row.
The next morning was deceptively quiet. Sunbeams broke through the glass, painting warm squares on the floor. Yesterday’s tension seemed to have dissolved in the night, but it was only an illusion. Nastya woke with a heavy, stony feeling in her chest. She waited until Egor stepped into the shower and, taking her phone, quickly dialed. The conversation was short. She didn’t ask direct questions, but her mother’s answers—full of forced cheer and talk about the neighbors and the weather—said more than any confession. Not a word about congratulations from her son-in-law.
When Egor came out of the bathroom wrapped in steam, he was in excellent spirits. Brisk, fresh, he started whistling again as he picked out a shirt from the closet. He was fully immersed in his comfortable world, where he was the center of the universe, and that center was doing just fine.
Nastya sat on the edge of the bed, staring at a single point. She waited until he buttoned his cuffs.
— Did you congratulate my mother yesterday?
The question was asked evenly, almost lifelessly, and for that very reason it cracked through the silence like a whip. Egor froze. A flicker of confusion crossed his face, quickly replaced by irritation.
— Damn. Listen, yesterday was crazy, it totally slipped my mind. I’ll text her today, no big deal.
He said it so casually, as if he’d forgotten to buy bread. As if her mother, her feelings, her expectations were some petty household chore that could be put off. And that indifferent tone was the spark that lit the fuse. Everything Nastya had long and patiently held back exploded inside her.
— Today? Seriously?
— Imagine that!
— So I’m supposed to congratulate your mother on every holiday and buy her expensive presents, and you can’t even send my mother a message? Is that it?
She sprang to her feet. Her voice was no longer quiet. It rang with fury, filling the room. Egor stepped back; his face grew hard and angry at once. The mask of good humor fell away.
— Why are you starting in on me first thing in the morning? I said I forgot! It happens! I’ve got work, projects—my head’s full of real things, not tracking everyone’s birthdays!
— Real things? — her voice climbed another half-tone. — When your mother needed that insanely priced scarf, your head was full of exactly that! I spent two weeks running around like a bloodhound, and you were on the phone telling me whether it looked expensive enough! I packed it, I wrote the card, while you hovered and controlled every move! Those are “real things,” right? But typing two words—“Happy birthday, mother-in-law”—is already an unbearable task for your work-stuffed brain?
— Cut it out with this bickering! — he barked. — Don’t compare! My mother is my mother—she lives here! And yours… I’ve seen her twice in my life! Why make a tragedy out of this?
— Oh, so that’s how it is! Your mother is family, and mine is just an add-on? A random woman you don’t even need to text? But taking gifts from her when she gave us this apartment for the wedding didn’t bother you—how “random” she was!
His face twisted. That was a low blow, and he knew it. His tactic of excuses had failed, and he moved to counterattack with his main weapon—accusation.
— I see, you’re just looking for any reason to fry my brain! I bust my back so you can live in this apartment and buy those scarves, and you come at me over some message! You don’t appreciate anything!
He snatched his jeans off the chair and yanked them on in a rush. He couldn’t win this fight because he was in the wrong, and that enraged him. The only way out was to bolt and present himself as the victim.
— That’s it, I’ve had enough of this nonsense. I’m going to my mother’s, get some real air instead of your constant griping.
He didn’t wait for a reply. Grabbing his car keys and phone from the nightstand, he strode out of the room and then out of the apartment. The front door closed with a dry click. Nastya stood in the middle of the bedroom. His words still hung in the air. “I’m going to my mother’s.” He was going to complain. And she knew this wasn’t the end. It was only the beginning.
Nastya was alone. The air in the apartment seemed to thicken, heavy and still, like before a storm. The morning quarrel hadn’t left a ringing emptiness; it left a dense, unpleasant residue, like the dregs at the bottom of a drained cup of coffee. Nastya didn’t pace the rooms or wring her hands. She simply sat in the armchair in the living room and went still. Her gaze rested on their wedding photograph on the wall—large, in a light frame. Two smiling figures, two happy faces that now seemed like masks worn by complete strangers.
She didn’t feel hurt in the usual, tearful sense. Inside, it was cold and quiet. All the emotions that had boiled in her half an hour earlier had burned out completely, leaving only scorched earth and an absolute, frightening clarity. She was replaying not just the morning exchange but hundreds of others just like it. His condescending “don’t start,” his irritation at any request, his unshakable certainty that his world, his work, his mother—these were what mattered, while her world was just a backdrop, props for his life.
In that cold silence, the phone rang especially harshly and unpleasantly, like metal scraping glass. She didn’t look at the screen. She already knew who it was. The certainty was almost physical. Her hand reached for the phone by itself. For a moment she looked at the glowing name “Anna Borisovna,” then answered on speaker and set it on the table.
— Nastya, what on earth is going on over there? Egor just rushed in to see me—he’s all worked up, white as a sheet! Did you start something again?
Her mother-in-law’s voice wasn’t so much loud as sharp and steely; there wasn’t a trace of greeting or willingness to understand. It was the voice of a prosecutor who had already delivered the guilty verdict. Nastya kept silent, still looking at the photo.
— I don’t hear an answer! — Anna Borisovna clipped out, unable to bear the pause. — What could you possibly have done to make him bolt from his own home first thing in the morning? He told me about your scene. Over some phone call! Do you even realize how much he has on his plate, what kind of responsibility he carries? His head is crammed with numbers, contracts, and you pester him with some nonsense!
Nastya tilted her head slightly, as if listening for something new in this long-familiar stream of words. Nonsense. Her mother, her birthday—these were nonsense.
— He works, he provides for the family, he gives you a standard of living! — the voice droned on. — And instead of creating peace and comfort at home so he can rest, you’re constantly demanding something! Not enough attention? Not enough money? What else do you want? For him to drop everything and sit there calling your entire family tree down to the seventh generation?
Nastya slowly shifted her gaze from the photograph to the phone. The voice from the little speaker was growing ever more venomous and self-assured. Anna Borisovna clearly reveled in her rectitude and in the chance to put her daughter-in-law in her place.
— You have to understand, he has his own family. I’m his mother. You’re his wife. That’s our circle. Everything else is secondary. He is not obliged to strain his nerves remembering when some, essentially, outsider women have their birthdays. They have no direct relation to our family. He does enough for you, and your job is to appreciate it, not drive him mad over trifles.
“Outsider women.” The phrase didn’t stab or sting. It settled into Nastya’s mind evenly and smoothly, like the last puzzle piece that had been missing for so long. Everything fell into place. This wasn’t a slip, not words spoken in the heat of anger. It was their family philosophy. Clear, simple, and ugly. She, Nastya, had been admitted into their “circle.” Her family was left outside it. She was an outsider.
When no answer came, Anna Borisovna delivered a few more admonitions and finished with a threat: “Think about your behavior if your family is dear to you.”
Nastya waited for the line to go to beeps. Then she reached out and calmly, without any extra motion, ended the call. She no longer looked at the wedding photo. She looked through it. The cold emptiness inside her began to transform. It was taking on shape, density, and weight. It was no longer emptiness but a steel rod of absolute, icy resolve. She knew exactly what would happen next.
Evening fell on the city unnoticed. Egor returned after dark. He entered the apartment like a man coming back to his own territory after winning a battle. The condescending, slightly weary smile of a victor played on his face. His mother hadn’t just supported him—she had armed him with unassailable rightness. Now he was ready to generously hear Nastya out, accept her apology, and perhaps even “forgive” her, teaching her a good lesson for the future. He tossed his keys on the entryway table and walked into the living room, already rehearsing the opening line of the reconciliatory talk.
But the scene he found didn’t fit his script at all. Nastya wasn’t sitting in a corner wiping tears. She wasn’t rushing around the apartment in nervous agitation. She sat in the same armchair as in the morning, in the same pose. Her hands lay calmly on the armrests, her gaze fixed on the dark window reflecting the room. She was so still that for a moment he thought he was looking at a wax figure. When he came in, she slowly turned her head and looked at him. There was no anger, no hurt, no pleading in her eyes. There was nothing.
— So, cooled off? — he began in that very condescending tone he’d prepared. — Ready to talk normally, without shouting?
He stepped toward her, about to launch into his monologue about appreciating family and the man who provides for it. But she cut him off. Her voice was as even and calm as her gaze.
— I talked. With your mother.
Egor smirked smugly. The plan had worked perfectly. His mother had “set her straight.”
— Good girl. I hope she knocked some sense into you. It’s useful to listen to your elders sometimes.
— Yes, very useful, — Nastya agreed, and there was something unnatural in that compliance. — She explained everything very clearly. She explained that her son shouldn’t be distracted by nonsense and congratulating some outsider women who don’t belong to your family. That you have your own circle: her and me. And my job is to create peace for you instead of nagging over trifles.
He nodded, pleased with the precise retelling.
— You see? At last you understand. I’m glad that we—
— And you know, Egor, I thought about it, — she interrupted again, just as calmly, without a hint of hostility. — I completely agree with her. She’s absolutely right.
He froze, thrown off balance. He expected resistance, an argument, but not such cold, complete acceptance.
— What?.. Well… yes. She’s right.
— She’s right, — Nastya repeated, slowly rising from the armchair. She stood in front of him, looking straight into his eyes. Now there was something new in her gaze—a cold, detached assessment, like a doctor examining a hopeless case. — My mother is an outsider to you. And this apartment, — she made the slightest gesture, encompassing the room, — was bought and given to me for our wedding by that very “outsider.” And it’s in my name.
The meaning of her words began to dawn on him. The condescending smile slid off his face, replaced by bewilderment, then alarm.
— What are you getting at?
— I’m getting at the fact that your mother gave me excellent advice. You have to clearly separate family from outsiders. And since I’m now living by your rules, I don’t see why, in an apartment that belongs to me and was gifted by a person who is an “outsider” to you, you should live here. You no longer belong to my family either. You are an outsider man.
The air in the room turned icy. Egor stared at her, unable to believe his ears. His face reddened.
— What are you talking about? Are you out of your mind? This is our home!
— No, Egor. This is my home. And I no longer want to see outsiders in it. Pack your things. I’m giving you two hours.
It was said without shouting, without threat, like a statement of inevitable fact. All his fake confidence, all his righteous anger—stoked by his mother—shattered against her icy calm. He opened his mouth to roar, to unleash all his fury, but the words stuck in his throat. He looked at her and, for the first time in their three years of marriage, saw not his wife—soft, accommodating, someone to bend and make apologize. He saw an absolutely foreign, unfamiliar person. And that person had just coldly and methodically shown him the door to his own life, using the logic of his own mother to do it. In that moment he realized he had lost. Completely and irreversibly.
