My life split into two unequal parts: before the two lines on the test and after. That second part turned out to be much harder than I could have imagined. Every morning began with long minutes on the cold bathroom tiles, and the day turned into an endless struggle with my own body. The swelling that made my legs feel foreign and heavy, the blood pressure spikes that sent the world drifting into fog and then snapping back with a sharp, painful clarity. Mark, my husband, tried to be my support, but he was consumed by work—new projects, responsibilities that had doubled on his shoulders. And I was left alone in the silence of our still-unfamiliar Moscow apartment, alone with my fears and doubts.
And there were plenty of doubts. I often thought about how drastically my life had changed. Warm Yaroslavl, smelling of pies and apples, had been left far behind. And here, in the capital, everything was different: fast, noisy, alien. We lived in Mark’s apartment, which meant it was also his mother’s—Viktoria Dmitrievna’s. From the very beginning, she made it clear I was not the woman she’d imagined for her only son. In her universe, the ideal daughter-in-law should float rather than stand firmly on the ground, should dazzle rather than smile modestly from the corner.
“Markusha, I always hoped you’d pay attention to Katya, the daughter of my old friend,” she would say in front of me, as if I were a transparent, invisible wall between her and her son. “A girl with standing, with a brilliant education, with a future.”
I forced myself to keep quiet, clenching my teeth until it hurt. I believed that my love with Mark was the main shield that would protect us from any storm. I was so naïve, so sure of the strength of that feeling.
Everything changed when I learned I was carrying our child. From that very day, Viktoria Dmitrievna seemed to forget about the concept of personal boundaries. She became a shadow that watched my every movement, my every breath.
“Sofia, are you eating that cream again? The baby will have terrible diathesis! Do you want the child to suffer all his life?”
“Sofia, why are you lying there with a book? You need to walk, breathe fresh air! The baby needs oxygen to develop, not your silly novels!”
“Sofia, that tea is pure poison! I brought you mine, from healing herbs gathered at the dacha. Drink it, strengthen your health.”
Our happiness was that a few months later Mark found us a separate place. A small apartment, but our own, became our little salvation, an island in the raging ocean of my mother-in-law’s guardianship. We were happy, we could breathe freely, and it seemed the hardest part was behind us.
But the joy was short-lived. Viktoria Dmitrievna started showing up at the door every day—no call, no warning. She brought bags of groceries, rearranged the furniture according to feng shui that she basically invented herself, straightened the curtains, grumbling that they didn’t hang the way they ought to.
“Mom,” Mark said one day, mustering his courage, “we really appreciate your help, but please give us a little space. We want to feel like we’re masters of our own home.”
“What would you know?” she snapped, not even looking at her son. “A first child isn’t a toy. It’s a huge responsibility. Without my guidance you’ll make irreparable mistakes.”
“We’ll learn from our own experience,” I put in quietly but firmly.
“Experience that could cost my grandson his health?” her voice turned icy. “No thank you. Fine—if you don’t want to listen to reason, have it your way. But don’t come to me with complaints later.”
She left, slamming the door for effect. For three days there was blessed silence. We savored every moment, every second spent in our seclusion. But on the fourth day the doorbell announced her return. She stood on the threshold with a huge pot sending up fragrant steam from a rich soup.
“A growing body needs strength,” she declared, stepping over the threshold without invitation.
And everything spun back into the same old exhausting rut.
The eighth month came. One evening the world swam before my eyes and the ground dropped out from under my feet. The hospital, IV drips, white coats and stern faces. A threat. The most terrifying word for any expectant mother. The doctor, a young woman with tired but kind eyes, said stress might be the cause and prescribed complete rest—only rest and nothing else.
“What stress?” Viktoria Dmitrievna protested in the corridor outside my room. “I created greenhouse conditions for her! No cares, no chores! She’s just too delicate, not ready for the hardships of motherhood.”
Mark, who rushed over at the first call, answered his mother with uncharacteristic sharpness: “Mom, stop. Your ‘care’ is breaking her. If you don’t change your behavior, we’ll have to see each other less.”
I didn’t see her face at that moment, but the sepulchral silence behind the door said it all. After that scene she did calm down. She brought fruit, fresh magazines to my room, even tried to crack jokes, though they came out clumsy and forced. I wanted to believe something had shifted, that the ice was moving.
But fate loves to test our strength.
It happened two weeks early. The contractions twisted me in the middle of the night—sudden and merciless. Mark was in Saint Petersburg at an important meeting. In a panic I dialed my mother-in-law’s number. She arrived faster than the ambulance—composed, cold as a rock.
“All right, no need to panic,” her voice sounded like a command to attack. “Get ready. I’ve already called a car. I called Mark—he’s on his way, but it’s far.”
In the car, the pain grew stronger, more unbearable. I couldn’t hold back my moans. Viktoria Dmitrievna sat beside me, staring out the window at the flashing lights.
“Viktoria Dmitrievna, I’m so scared,” I whispered, searching in her for at least a drop of support.
“Nonsense,” came the dry, snapping reply. “Millions of women have gone through this. Nature’s thought of everything.”
Chaos reigned in the admitting area. Papers, questions, bright lights. They registered me quickly and wheeled me into the labor room. The pain became all-consuming; waves crashed over me, washing away reason and leaving only animal terror. I screamed.
“Quiet!” my mother-in-law hissed sharply, bending over me. “What will people think of us? Behave with dignity. I gave birth to Mark without making a sound.”
I bit my lip, trying to muffle one pain with another. The nurse inserting the IV gave me a sympathetic look.
“The doctor will be here soon. Hold on, mama.”
“And pain relief?” I gasped as a new spasm gripped my whole body.
“We’ll see how it goes,” she answered evasively and slipped out the door.
Viktoria Dmitrievna looked at me with undisguised disapproval. “In my day there was no such thing as anesthesia. And we managed just fine. This generation is so pampered, so weak.”
I could no longer answer; all my strength was going to simply breathing. When the doctor came in—a man of about forty with a calm, intelligent face—I felt a faint flicker of hope.
“Sofia, let’s see how we’re progressing,” he said, beginning the exam, and I couldn’t hold back a loud, almost animal cry.
“Bear with it, just a little longer.”
“Doctor, I can’t… it hurts so much…” It wasn’t even a voice, but a moan torn from the very depths.
And at that moment, Viktoria Dmitrievna, standing at the head of the bed, leaned down sharply and hissed right in my ear so the doctor wouldn’t hear: “Shut your mouth and give birth quietly! Don’t disgrace our family name! What will the doctor think of you?”
The air froze. The doctor slowly straightened, his gaze turning hard and cold. He looked straight at my mother-in-law.
“Ma’am, if you’re unable to offer the laboring woman moral support, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
“I’m here by right of kinship!” she flared, straightening her back. “And I will be present at my grandson’s birth.”
“And I am here by right of being the doctor,” his voice was quiet but steely. “And I’m responsible for my patient’s condition. Anyone who interferes with the birthing process will be removed. A woman has every right to cry out, to weep, to express her pain. It’s natural. Now please step outside.”
“In our day…” she began, but the doctor cut her off sharply.
“In your day many women and children died in agony that we can now prevent. Let’s not go back to the past. Leave. Now.”
“I’m not going anywhere!” Her fingers dug into the metal bedrail.
Sighing, the doctor pressed the call button. Two orderlies entered.
“Escort this woman to the waiting area,” he instructed. “And call the anesthesiologist for an epidural.”
Viktoria Dmitrievna tried to resist, but they firmly and decisively led her out. When the door closed, I felt an incredible, all-encompassing relief. The air became breathable again.
“Thank you,” I whispered, tears of gratitude springing to my eyes.
“It’s my job,” he smiled gently. “Unfortunately, it happens. The older generation often projects its pain, its traumatizing experience onto young mothers. But your task is to deliver a healthy baby. And we’ll help you do that.”
After the injection, the pain receded, turning into a distant, muted hum. I could focus, breathe, help my baby come into the world. A few hours later he was born—a sturdy, rosy boy whose first cry was the most beautiful sound of my life.
In the postpartum room Mark was waiting for me. He stood by the window holding an enormous, unbelievable bouquet of spring tulips and snowdrops.
“I’m sorry I didn’t make it in time, love,” he pressed his cheek to mine; his lips were warm and soft. “The flight was delayed. How are you? How’s your heart?”
“Now it’s full,” I smiled, feeling fatigue and happiness blend into one. “Where’s your mother?”
Mark’s face darkened. “In the corridor. The nurse told me everything. We had a very serious talk.”
“And what did she say?”
“She’s offended, of course. Says she only wished us well, that this is how it’s always been in our family. I told her times change, and we’ll raise our son our way—in love and respect.”
I squeezed his hand, feeling gratitude overflow in me. “Thank you for being you.”
“I’m always with you,” he said simply.
There was a knock at the door. A nurse came in. “Sofia, you have a visitor. Your mother-in-law. May she come in?”
Mark and I exchanged glances. I took a deep breath. “Yes, let her in.”
Viktoria Dmitrievna entered hesitantly, almost on tiptoe. Her face, always so composed and stern, looked bewildered; her eyes were red and puffy. In her hands was a small, neatly wrapped bundle.
“Sofia… dear…” her voice trembled. “I… I don’t know what to say. I’m so ashamed. My behavior was unworthy.”
I kept silent, giving her a chance to gather herself.
“Mark told me everything,” she went on, looking off to the side. “And he was absolutely right. I pressured you, interfered, criticized every little thing. It’s just…” She paused, searching for words. “It’s just that when I was giving birth to Mark, my mother-in-law stood over my bed and said the exact same words. And her mother-in-law did the same before her. It was some horrible relay—this tradition of enduring and keeping silent, of not showing pain.”
She carefully sat on the edge of the bed and timidly reached out, touching my blanket. “But when I saw you there, so young, so frightened, I suddenly saw myself many years ago. And instead of being a support, I turned into the same monster who tormented me. I was on autopilot, you understand? Acting out an old, terrible habit.”
I nodded, feeling the stone of resentment that had lain on my heart all these months begin to crumble. “I understand, Viktoria Dmitrievna.”
“No, not fully,” she shook her head. “And thank God. You don’t need to understand it. I want this chain—this tradition of hurting those who come after—to end with me. With us.”
She unwrapped the bundle. Inside was a small velvet jewelry box. “This is for you. My brooch. My mother gave it to me when I got married. I want you to have it now.”
I took the box. Inside lay an elegant vintage brooch in the shape of two intertwined branches with tiny pearl buds.
“Thank you,” I said, and I meant it. “It’s very beautiful and… precious.”
“And where is my grandson?” my mother-in-law asked, and in her voice I heard the familiar notes again, but now there was no command in them—only warm, eager curiosity. “When will they bring him?”
“Very soon,” Mark reassured her. “The pediatrician is examining him now.”
“And what did you name our boy?” Her gaze flitted from me to Mark and back again.
Mark and I exchanged a long, happy look. We had chosen this name long ago; for us it was a symbol of hope and light.
“Yegor,” Mark answered. “After my grandfather on my father’s side.”
I braced for objections—for reproaches that the name was plain or ill-sounding. But Viktoria Dmitrievna only smiled. Hesitantly at first, then wider and wider.
“Yegor… Yegorushka…” she tried the name. “Yes, it’s a strong, good name. It suits my grandson.”
When they brought the baby in, her face transformed. Her stern features softened, and such delight, such tenderness lit her eyes that my heart clenched with emotion. She held out a finger, and Yegor’s tiny hand immediately wrapped around it.
“Look at that grip,” she whispered in awe. “A real bogatyr. He’ll be an athlete.”
“Mom, he’s only a few hours old,” Mark laughed. “Maybe he’ll be an artist.”
“I said—an athlete,” she repeated, but now without the old categorical tone, rather with a light, almost childlike certainty. “I have a nose for these things.”
Suddenly she caught herself and looked at me. “My goodness, I’m chattering away and you need rest. Sofia, you sleep, gather your strength. Tomorrow I’ll come with chicken broth and a casserole. And don’t argue with me!” She raised her index finger, but now the gesture looked caring. “Mama needs strength to take care of such a treasure.”
When the door closed behind her, Mark and I exchanged a glance and burst out laughing.
“Seems some things never change,” I noted.
“The main thing is that the main things do change,” my husband said wisely. “Now she sees you not as a problem, but as a daughter. Believe me—that’s a completely different level of relationship.”
He was absolutely right. The weeks and months that followed proved it. Viktoria Dmitrievna became our most reliable ally. She would come over, cook, clean, take the stroller out for walks, giving me a chance to sleep an extra hour. Yes, the advice didn’t disappear, but now it sounded different: “And why did you decide to do it this way? I’m just curious—I want to understand your logic.” Of course, sometimes she slipped. Old habits die hard. But those slips grew rarer and shorter, and her attempts to apologize grew ever more sincere.
When Yegor turned one, we held a big family celebration. Among the guests was my mother, who had come from Yaroslavl. In the middle of the festivities I noticed Viktoria Dmitrievna and my mom talking animatedly in a corner, gesturing and laughing.
“What are they on about?” Mark wondered, coming up to me with a piece of cake.
“I don’t know,” I shrugged. “But it looks like they’ve found a common language.”
As it turned out later, Viktoria Dmitrievna had suggested that my mother move to Moscow to be closer to her grandson. “Why should Yegor know only one grandmother?” she said. “Let him grow up surrounded by double the love. I’ll help find a place—I have contacts.”
My mother didn’t think long. A few months later she moved into a cozy studio not far from us. And my son had two grandmothers who, despite their differences in character and upbringing, found a surprising harmony in their shared love for him.
One evening I was alone with Viktoria Dmitrievna. Mark had gone with my mother to choose new furniture, and Yegor was sleeping soundly in his crib. We were drinking tea in the kitchen when she suddenly said, watching the tea leaves swirl in her cup:
“You know, Sofia, I often think about the role you’ve played in our family. You brought something new, something bright with you.”
“Me?” I was surprised. “But you’re the one who changed.”
“Precisely because of you,” she looked straight at me; her gaze was clear and steady. “You didn’t break. You didn’t choose to endure and keep silent, as we all did. You showed me that strength isn’t about suppressing, it’s about supporting. That you can be strong without being cruel.”
She paused, then added more softly, almost in a whisper: “And you know, I made myself a promise. When our Yegorushka grows up and brings his chosen one into our home, I will never—do you hear me?—never be to her what I was to you at first. I promise you that. And myself.”
I stood, walked around the table, and hugged her. I felt her shoulders trembling, and I knew my eyes were wet too.
“Thank you, Mom,” I said—and the word came on its own, easy and natural as breathing.
She hugged me back, tightly, as if afraid to let go. And that evening, in the hush of the drowsy kitchen, under the soft snuffling of our son, something steely and cold in our family finally melted, giving way to something fragile, warm, and incredibly strong. We sat like that for a long time—two women who had finally found a common language not in rules and reproaches, but in a quiet understanding that love is the only tradition worth passing from generation to generation. And outside, in the darkness, the Moscow spring was blooming—promising a new beginning, a new life full of hope and quiet, gentle happiness
