— Yegor, don’t forget, it’s my mom’s birthday tomorrow.
He waved her off without taking his eyes off the laptop screen, where some graphs and tables were flashing by. The gesture wasn’t so much rude as automatic—like a man shooing away an annoying fly.
— Nastya, I remember everything, don’t start. I said I remember.
She kept quiet, pretending to straighten the plant on the windowsill. But inside, something tightened into a familiar, hard knot. “Don’t start.” That phrase meant that any further conversation on the subject would be taken as nagging—as an encroachment on his peace and on his memory which, in his own opinion, was impeccable. Especially when it came to the things he himself considered unimportant.
Just three weeks ago, everything was different. His mother Anna Borisovna’s birthday had been an event of nearly national significance. A month in advance, Yegor began reminding her: “We need to think of a good present for Mom.” In his coordinates, a “good present” meant “an expensive present.” Nastya spent two weeks after work running around shopping centers. She searched for that particular silk scarf—not just any scarf, but one from a specific Italian brand, a specific shade that, in Yegor’s view, would emphasize his mother’s status.
She could still remember standing in the pricey boutique, holding that piece of heavy, iridescent silk. Its price was nearly half her own monthly salary. She sent Yegor a photo. He called back a minute later.
— Well, looks okay. It doesn’t look cheap, does it?
— Yegor, it costs an arm and a leg.
— All the better. My mother isn’t someone you can give junk to. Get it. I’ll transfer you the money tonight.
And she bought it. Then she spent half the evening packing it into the branded box, tying the ribbon, writing the card in a flowing hand because Yegor thought she did it “more heartfully.” He stood over her, supervising the process like a foreman on a construction site. He took responsibility for the form, and she—for the content and execution. And when they presented the gift, Anna Borisovna kissed her son on both cheeks, marveling at his taste and generosity. She merely patted Nastya on the shoulder, tossing off, “Thank you, dear,” as an afterthought.
And now, three weeks later, the situation was a mirror image. Her own mother, living a thousand kilometers away, hadn’t asked for silk scarves or expensive perfume. She was just waiting for a phone call. A single call from her son-in-law to show that he considered her part of his family. Two years in a row, Yegor had “remembered.” Remembered so well that Nastya then had to lie to her mother that 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, a kind soul, pretended to believe it and said, “Of course, Nastenka, I understand, he works so much.”
He shut the laptop with a loud snap, stretched, and headed to the kitchen to make tea.
— Want some? — he shouted from the kitchen.
— No, thanks, — she answered softly into the empty room.
She didn’t want tea or conversation. She wanted to go up to him and ask why his status-conscious mother deserved expensive gifts and hourly attention, while her simple mother didn’t even deserve a two-minute call. But she kept silent. She gave him one more chance. The last one.
Morning greeted them with bright sun. The birthday had arrived. Yegor was getting ready for work in an excellent mood, whistling some tune. He drank his coffee, ate the sandwich she’d made him. He kissed her on the cheek at the door.
— I’m off. I won’t be late tonight.
She heard the door close behind him. She stood up, went to the window, and watched him from above as he walked to the car. He hadn’t said a word about her mother. He just left. And at that moment something heavy and cold settled to the very bottom inside her. It was no longer disappointment. It was a statement of fact. The third time in a row.
The next morning was deceptively quiet. Sun rays pierced the glass, drawing warm squares on the floor. Yesterday’s tension seemed to have dissolved in the night, but that was only an illusion. Nastya woke with a heavy, stone-like feeling in her chest. She waited until Yegor went into the shower and quickly dialed the number. The conversation was short. She didn’t ask direct questions, but her mother’s answers—deliberately cheerful, filled with talk about neighbors and the weather—were more eloquent than any admission. Not a single word about congratulations from her son-in-law.
When Yegor came out of the bathroom, wreathed in steam, he was in an excellent mood. Cheerful, fresh, he started whistling again while choosing a shirt from the closet. He was completely immersed in his comfortable world where he was the center of the universe, and that center was perfectly in order.
Nastya sat on the edge of the bed, staring at one spot. She waited until he fastened the cuff buttons.
— Did you congratulate my mother yesterday?
The question was asked in a flat, almost lifeless voice, which made it crack like a whip in the silence. Yegor froze. Brief confusion flickered across his face, quickly replaced by irritation.
— Damn. Look, I got swamped yesterday; it completely slipped my mind. I’ll text her today, no big deal.
He said it so casually, as if it were about forgetting to buy bread. As if her mother—her feelings, her expectations—were some minor household task that could be put off till later. And that indifferent tone was the spark that lit the fuse. Everything Nastya had held back so long and so patiently exploded inside her.
— Today? Are you serious?
— Imagine that!
— So I have to congratulate your mother on every holiday and buy her expensive presents, while you can’t even send a message to my mother? Is that it?
She jumped up. Her voice was no longer quiet. It rang with fury, filling the whole room. Yegor stepped back; his face instantly turned hard and spiteful. The mask of good-naturedness fell off.
— Why are you starting in on me first thing in the morning? I told you, I forgot! It happens to everyone! I’ve got work, projects—my head is full of other things, not keeping track of every birthday!
— Other things? — her voice climbed another half-tone. — When your mother needed that insanely expensive scarf, your head was full of exactly that! I spent two weeks running around stores like a bloodhound while you called to instruct me whether it looked expensive enough! I packed it, I wrote the card, and you stood over me supervising! Those are “important matters,” right? But writing two words—“Happy birthday, mother-in-law”—that’s already too heavy a lift for your overworked brain?
— Cut the fishwife chatter! — he barked. — Don’t compare them! My mother is my mother; she lives here! And yours… I’ve seen her twice in my life! Why are you making a tragedy out of this?
— Oh, I see! So your mother is family, and mine is just an add-on? A stranger you don’t even need to text? But it didn’t bother you that she was a “stranger” when she gave us this apartment for our wedding!
His face twisted. It was a low blow, and he knew it. His tactic of excuses had failed, so he switched to counterattack, wielding his main weapon—accusation.
— Looks like you’re just looking for any excuse to chew my ear off! I’m busting my back so you can live in this apartment and buy those scarves, and you nag me over some message! You just don’t appreciate anything!
He grabbed his jeans off the chair and started yanking them on in a hurry. He couldn’t win this argument because he was in the wrong, and that enraged him. The only way out was to run, casting himself as the victim.
— That’s it, I’ve had enough of this nonsense. I’m going to my mother’s, to at least breathe some normal air, not your eternal complaints.
He didn’t wait for an answer. Snatching the car keys and his phone from the nightstand, he strode out of the room and then out of the apartment. The front door shut with a dry click. Nastya remained standing 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 motionless, like before a storm. The morning quarrel didn’t leave a ringing emptiness behind; it left a dense, unpleasant sediment, like the dregs at the bottom of a coffee cup. Nastya didn’t pace the rooms, didn’t wring her hands. She simply sat down in the armchair in the living room and went still. Her gaze was fixed on their wedding photo on the wall—large, in a light frame. Two smiling figures, two happy faces that now seemed like masks worn by utterly foreign people.
She didn’t feel hurt in the usual, tearful sense. Inside, it was cold and quiet. All the emotions boiling in her half an hour earlier had burned out completely, leaving only scorched earth and an absolute, frightening clarity. She replayed in her mind not only the morning conversation but hundreds of others just like it. His condescending “don’t start,” his irritation at any request she made, his unshakable certainty that his world—his work, his mother—mattered, while her world was mere background, scenery for his life.
In that cold silence, the phone call sounded especially harsh and unpleasant, like metal scraping on 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 on its own. For a moment she looked at the glowing name “Anna Borisovna,” then accepted the call, not bringing the handset to her ear but switching it to speaker and placing it on the side table.
— Nastya, I don’t understand what’s going on over there? Yegor just burst in to me, he’s all on edge, white as a sheet! Did you give him one of your scenes again?
Her mother-in-law’s voice wasn’t loud so much as sharp and steely; there wasn’t a trace of greeting or a wish to understand. It was the voice of a prosecutor who had already delivered a guilty verdict. Nastya stayed silent, still looking at the photo.
— I don’t hear an answer! — snapped Anna Borisovna, unable to bear the pause. — What could you have done to make a person bolt from his own home first thing in the morning? He told me about your little scene. Over some phone call! Do you even realize how much he has on his plate, what responsibility he carries? His head is filled with numbers and contracts, and you’re pestering him with silly nonsense!
Nastya tilted her head slightly, as if listening for something new in this long-familiar stream of words. Nonsense. Her mother—her birthday—were nonsense.
— He works, he provides for the family, he gives you a certain standard of living! — the voice from the phone went on. — And instead of creating peace and comfort at home so he can rest, you keep demanding things! Not enough attention? Not enough money? What more do you need? For him to drop everything and sit there calling all your relatives to the seventh generation?
Nastya slowly shifted her gaze from the photo to the phone. The small speaker’s voice was becoming more toxic and self-assured. Clearly, Anna Borisovna was savoring her righteousness and the chance to put her daughter-in-law in her place.
— You have to understand, he has his own family. I am his mother. You are his wife. That’s our circle. Everything else is secondary. He is not obliged to waste his nerves remembering when some, essentially, outside women have their birthdays. They have no direct relation to our family. He does enough for you; your job is to appreciate it, not wear him down with trifles.
“Outside women.” The phrase didn’t strike or sting. It settled into Nastya’s mind evenly and smoothly, like the last puzzle piece that had been missing for so long. Everything slid into place. It wasn’t a slip of the tongue or 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 own family remained outside it. She was an outsider.
Not hearing any reply, Anna Borisovna delivered a few more admonitions and finally ended her monologue with a threat: “Think about your behavior if your family is dear to you.”
Nastya waited for the busy tone. Then she reached out and calmly, without a single extra movement, ended the call. She no longer looked at the wedding photo. She looked through it. The cold emptiness inside her began to transform. It took on form, 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 over the city unnoticed. Yegor returned after dark. He entered the apartment with the air of a man coming back to his territory after a battle won. A condescending, slightly weary smile of a victor played on his lips. His mother hadn’t just supported him—she had armed him with impenetrable righteousness. Now he was ready to magnanimously listen to Nastya, accept her apology, and perhaps even “forgive” her, teaching her a good lesson for the future. He tossed his keys on the hall table and walked into the living room, already rehearsing the first line of his conciliatory speech.
But the scene he found didn’t fit his script at all. Nastya wasn’t sitting in a corner wiping away tears. She wasn’t rushing about 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, and her gaze was directed at the dark window that reflected the room. She was so motionless 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.
— Well, cooled off? — he began in the patronizing tone he’d prepared. — Ready to talk like adults, without yelling?
He took a step toward her, about to launch into his monologue about how important it was to value family and the man who provided for it. But she cut him off. Her voice was as even and calm as her gaze.
— I talked. With your mother.
Yegor smirked smugly. The plan had worked perfectly. His mother had carried out “clarifying work.”
— Good girl, then. 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 her compliance. — She explained everything to me very clearly. Explained that her son shouldn’t be distracted by nonsense and congratulate some outside women who don’t belong to your family. That you have your circle: she and I. And that my job is to create peace for you, not nag you over trifles.
He nodded, pleased with the exact retelling.
— There, you see! You finally understand. I’m glad we—
— And you know, Yegor, I’ve been thinking, — she interrupted again, still calmly, without a hint of hostility. — I completely agree with her. She’s absolutely right.
He froze, thrown off balance. He had expected resistance, an argument—but not such cold, total acceptance.
— What?.. Well… yes. She’s right.
— She’s right, — Nastya repeated, slowly rising from the armchair. She stood facing him, looking straight into his eyes. Now there was something new in her gaze: a cold, detached assessment, like a doctor studying a hopeless case. — My mother is an outsider to you. And this apartment, — she made a barely noticeable motion with her hand, indicating the room, — was bought and given to me for our wedding by exactly that outsider. And it’s in my name.
The meaning of her words began to dawn on Yegor. His condescending smile slid off his face, giving way to puzzlement and then to alarm.
— What are you getting at?
— I’m getting at the fact that your mother gave me excellent advice. You need to clearly separate family from outsiders. And since I’m now living by your rules, I see no reason why someone who no longer belongs to my family should live in an apartment that belongs to me and was gifted by a person you consider “outside.” You, too, no longer belong to my family. You’re an outside man.
The air in the room turned icy. Yegor stared at her, not believing his ears. His face flushed dark red.
— What are you talking about? Have you lost your mind? This is our home!
— No, Yegor. 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 stating an inevitable fact. All his showy confidence, all his righteous anger stoked by his mother, shattered against her icy calm. He opened his mouth to roar, to unleash his fury on her, but the words stuck in his throat. He looked at her and, for the first time in their three years of marriage, he didn’t see his wife—soft, compliant, someone he could bend and force to apologize. He saw an absolutely foreign, unfamiliar person standing before him. And this person had just coldly and methodically shown him the door out of his own life, using the logic of his own mother to do it. In that moment he understood he had lost. Completely and irrevocably.
