“Oh, I’m really not feeling well today… and the apartment is all dusty again, it’s awful. You’re not busy tomorrow, are you? You’ll come and help me tidy up a bit, right?”
“Sorry, but tomorrow is my birthday…”
“But you’re free in the morning! Come to me around seven, you’ll be done by eleven at the latest, and then you can go about your business.”
Dasha sank down on the sofa and exhaled in relief. Finally, Friday. She could take off her heels, stretch out on the soft cushions and, for at least an hour, just not think about anything. The week had been hectic—reports, clients, meetings. Her head was buzzing, her eyes were tired, and in the fridge a well-deserved glass of white wine was waiting, and for dinner—her favorite pasta.
But as soon as she picked up her phone to mute the notifications in her work chats, it rang. Dasha sighed when she saw the number. It was her mother-in-law, Yekaterina Ivanovna.
“Dashenka, hello, dear!” came the cheerful but slightly whining voice. “How are you? They must have worn you out at work, haven’t they? Oh, my blood pressure’s jumped again… all because of the weather, all because of it…”
Dasha automatically murmured in agreement, looking out the window at the yellow leaves falling.
“Yeah, the weather… It’s getting colder.”
“That’s right, that’s right!” her mother-in-law picked up. “And you’re off tomorrow, aren’t you? You know, I decided to do a big cleaning. Wipe the shelves, beat the rugs, wash the curtains—my hands aren’t what they used to be, I can’t manage on my own. You’re not busy, are you? You could come over and help me, maybe?”
Dasha closed her eyes for a second. Her weekend plans flashed through her mind—to sleep in, go to the movies with her husband, finally take care of herself. But in six months of marriage she had already realized: it was better not to argue with her mother-in-law.
“Of course, Yekaterina Ivanovna,” she said as cheerfully as she could. “I’ll come and help.”
“Thank you!” her mother-in-law beamed. “I’ll be waiting for you tomorrow morning.”
After the call, Dasha looked at the screen and groaned silently. “Morning,” in Yekaterina Ivanovna’s understanding, meant around nine o’clock, no later.
The next morning, as soon as she opened her eyes, Dasha was horrified to see that it was ten o’clock. She jumped up, quickly washed, pulled on jeans and a sweater, and forty minutes later was already standing at her mother-in-law’s door. The door flew open instantly, as if Yekaterina Ivanovna had been standing guard.
“I was starting to think you’d changed your mind,” she said, squinting. “It’s eleven already, by the way.”
“Sorry, I… overslept a little,” Dasha smiled awkwardly. “But I’m here now and ready to help.”
“Well, of course, young people get up late nowadays,” her mother-in-law sighed. “In our day the whole house was up on their feet by six in the morning!”
Dasha smiled and walked inside. In the kitchen, rags were laid out neatly, a bucket of water stood ready, and there was a whole army of cleaning products.
“We’ll start with the kitchen,” Yekaterina Ivanovna said firmly. “We need to clean the oven—it hasn’t been touched since spring.”
“Uh-huh… ours could do with a wash too,” flashed through Dasha’s mind.
The next three hours passed in a silent cleaning marathon. Yekaterina Ivanovna hovered over her, commenting on her every move:
“Dashenka, you’re leaving streaks. Wring the rag out harder.”
“Gloves? What gloves? We’re not in a lab!”
“Wait, let me show you how it’s done!”
By noon, Dasha felt wrung out like a lemon.
“Maybe I’ll vacuum and go?” she ventured timidly.
“Of course, dear!” her mother-in-law smiled. “But we’ll have lunch first—I’ve made soup. And then you’ll wipe the floor under the sofa—the vacuum cleaner doesn’t reach there.”
Dasha sat down at the table, watching Yekaterina Ivanovna ladle out borscht.
“It smells delicious,” she said sincerely.
“Of course it’s delicious!” the older woman answered proudly. “And what do you feed Vanya with, by the way? All your salads and sandwiches, I suppose? A man needs a hearty soup!”
Dasha sighed. This topic came up every single time. And every time she smiled and nodded.
“Yeah… We eat all sorts of things. Whatever I have time to cook.”
By evening, everything was finally washed, beaten out, and scrubbed. Yekaterina Ivanovna surveyed the apartment with a satisfied look.
“Now it’s clean. Lovely!” she summed up. “Thank you, Dashenka. It eases my conscience a little, knowing my son picked himself a good wife.”
Dasha smiled as she pulled on her jacket.
“Always happy to help, Yekaterina Ivanovna.”
When the door closed behind her, she took a deep breath and leaned her forehead against the stairwell wall for a moment.
Igor was waiting for Dasha impatiently. He had already paced the entire kitchen, opened the fridge ten times, checked the stove, then opened the fridge again—as if something edible might have magically appeared. But inside, just like two hours ago, there was only a jar of olives, a dried-out piece of cheese, and half a lemon.
He looked at the clock. Half past seven.
“Where is she?” he muttered, dialing his wife’s number.
The phone rang for a long time, but Dasha didn’t answer. When the key finally turned in the lock, Igor was already standing at the door, slightly irritated and very hungry.
“At last!” he exhaled. “I thought you’d decided to spend the night over there!”
Dasha barely crossed the threshold and silently took off her shoes. Her shoulders were slumped, her face tired, and her hair disheveled.
“Hi,” she said wearily and walked past her husband into the room.
Igor was about to say something, but suddenly noticed: there wasn’t a trace of guilt in her eyes. He followed her—and only then noticed their own apartment.
There was a mountain of dishes in the sink, clothes strewn over the sofa, and crumbs from yesterday’s pizza all over the floor. Dasha looked at all of it and sighed to herself: “No… today I definitely can’t handle this.”
She sank down on the bed without undressing and buried her face in the pillow.
“Hey,” Igor called uncertainly, “what’s wrong? I thought we’d have dinner, maybe watch a movie…”
She didn’t answer, only her quiet breathing could be heard.
“Well, maybe at least you’ll fry some eggs?” he tried cautiously.
“Igor,” Dasha said quietly, without lifting her head, “if you don’t stop talking right now, I’ll go spend the night at my mom’s.”
He was taken aback.
“What happened?”
Then Dasha sat up sharply, looked at her husband and said:
“What happened? I’ve been at your mother’s since morning. Cleaning her apartment. Washing floors, scrubbing the oven, washing her curtains and listening to how ‘in our time women weren’t so lazy.’ Everything hurts. And you… are sitting here waiting for me to cook dinner. Maybe next time you go to her place yourself, and I’ll deal with my own apartment?”
Igor opened his mouth but said nothing. His face just stretched out.
“I… I didn’t know you were that tired,” he mumbled quietly.
“Well, now you know,” Dasha replied, lying back down on the pillow. “So be a dear—make dinner yourself. And you can load the laundry into the washing machine yourself too.”
She closed her eyes. For the first time that day she felt a sense of relief—as if she had taken off an invisible burden of obligations. Twenty minutes later, she heard the quiet sizzle of oil in the kitchen. Then the smell of fried eggs.
“Dasha,” Igor called uncertainly. “Come eat. I made eggs… with sausage. The way you like. And I went to the store, bought your favorite yogurt.”
Dasha opened her eyes slightly and smiled faintly.
“Thank you,” she said, sitting up. “See? You’re actually very capable.”
Igor smiled sheepishly.
Two weeks later, everything repeated itself. On Friday evening, when Dasha had just finished cooking dinner and was dreaming of a bubble bath, the phone rang. On the screen appeared the familiar name: Yekaterina Ivanovna.
“Dashenka, hello,” came the same lively-whining voice. “Oh, I’m feeling really bad today. My blood pressure, my joints… and dust everywhere… I’m practically suffocating. Could you drop by tomorrow, help me clean up just a little? I don’t think I can manage on my own…”
Dasha closed her eyes and slowly counted to five. But she couldn’t bring herself to refuse—her inner voice immediately started reminding her that her mother-in-law was an older woman, that things were hard for her, that she was Igor’s mother, and that it was easier to give in than to listen to reproaches later.
“All right, Yekaterina Ivanovna,” she said quietly. “I’ll come.”
The next morning Dasha was once again standing at her mother-in-law’s door. The door opened at once, as if she had been waiting right behind it.
“Oh, Dashenka, I thought you weren’t coming! Come in, come in,” Yekaterina Ivanovna exclaimed, leading her into the room.
But as soon as Dasha crossed the threshold, she froze. The floor was covered in dust and crumbs, the sink overflowing with dishes, and in the kitchen there was a mountain of dirty pots. There were stains on the table, dead flies on the windowsill, and the air smelled sour.
“How is this even possible?!” Dasha gasped inwardly. “How could everything be brought to this state in just two weeks?”
“Well, you see,” her mother-in-law spread her hands in regret, “no one but you will help. I kept waiting for my son to come, but he has work, things to do…”
Dasha just nodded, silently took out her gloves and got started. By lunchtime she was already washing the hallway floor, feeling the ache in her back. From time to time, Yekaterina Ivanovna came to check and shook her head:
“Look, you missed a spot under the radiator…”
Dasha just kept working in silence—she had no strength left for conversation. By evening, the apartment was sparkling again.
“Now it’s nice and clean,” her mother-in-law said with satisfaction. “Thank you, Dashenka, you’re our treasure. If it weren’t for you, I’d drown in filth…”
Dasha gave her a polite smile and said goodbye. Stepping outside, she breathed in the cool, damp air and thought, “I can’t do this anymore. Let Igor go to his mother and clean up himself.”
When she opened the door to her own apartment, she stopped on the threshold.
Everything was… clean.
The floor was shining, the washed laundry hung neatly on the drying rack, and the air smelled of fresh detergent and something tasty. Igor peeked out of the kitchen—wearing an apron and holding a ladle.
“I decided not to wait for you,” he said. “I vacuumed, did the laundry, put some soup on. Dinner will be ready soon.”
For a moment Dasha couldn’t believe her eyes.
“Really? You did all this yourself?” was all she could manage.
“Uh-huh,” Igor nodded. “Since you’re always at my mom’s, at least at home things should be easy for you.”
Dasha walked up to him, hugged him and pressed her forehead to his chest.
“Thank you…” she whispered. “Now I really feel like I have a home.”
Dasha’s birthday was approaching.
She had planned everything in advance—from the menu to the table setting. She wanted her first birthday as a wife to be warm and cozy, a real family occasion. She and Igor decided to invite both sets of parents—no extra fuss, just a simple dinner at home with the closest people.
Dasha wrote out a shopping list and scheduled when she would cook what and when she’d clean. Everything had to be perfect.
“This time everything’s under control,” she thought with a smile, opening her notebook.
But of course, the phone rang again. On the screen—the familiar name: Yekaterina Ivanovna.
“Hello, Yekaterina Ivanovna,” Dasha tried to sound cheerful, but her heart gave a little jump.
“Dashenka, dear, hello,” her mother-in-law drawled in her usual plaintive tone. “Oh, I’m really not feeling well today… and the apartment is all dusty again, it’s awful. You’re not busy tomorrow, are you? You’ll come and help me tidy up a bit, right?”
Dasha froze.
“I’m sorry, but tomorrow is my birthday,” she replied carefully. “We’re actually expecting you in the evening. We wanted to have a family dinner.”
“But you’re free in the morning!” Yekaterina Ivanovna instantly perked up. “Come to me around seven, you’ll be done by eleven at the latest, and then you can go about your business. I’m not asking you to spend the whole day.”
“Yekaterina Ivanovna, but I also need to get ready—clean up here, cook, set the table,” Dasha said, holding herself in check. “And I’d like to get some sleep on my birthday too…”
There was a short pause on the line. Then a cold, offended voice:
“I see… So cleaning for your elders is not a priority for you. Young people are all like that now. In our day daughters-in-law respected their mothers-in-law, but now…”
“Yekaterina Ivanovna, I understand you, but tell me honestly—were you looking for a daughter-in-law or a housekeeper?”
After that, dead silence fell—and then it began.
“Oh, that’s how it is!” the older woman flared up. “You… ungrateful girl! I treat you like my own daughter, and this is what you say to me in return! If it weren’t for me, you and my son wouldn’t even have had a proper wedding! No respect at all!”
Dasha tried to get a word in, but Yekaterina Ivanovna was on a roll:
“All you young ones ever think about is rest and yourselves! As if it’s such hard work to wash a few dishes! When I was your age, I worked, kept the house, raised children! And I never complained!”
“Yekaterina Ivanovna, I just wanted…”
“Be quiet!” she cut her off. “I don’t want to hear anything. Until you apologize, don’t bother calling. And don’t expect us at your little celebration either. Your father-in-law and I won’t be coming.”
A short beep sounded in the receiver. Dasha slowly put the phone down on the table. Her fingers were trembling, and a wave of hurt and confusion rose in her chest.
When Igor came home that evening, Dasha was sitting in the kitchen, her dinner untouched.
“What happened?” he asked immediately, alarmed.
She raised her eyes to him and said quietly:
“Your mother called. And I think she’s decided I’m a terrible daughter-in-law…”
With a heavy sigh, she told him everything—from the first words to the last.
Igor was silent for a long time, then said:
“Don’t worry. If my mom chose to take offense, that’s her decision. We’ll celebrate anyway. And we’ll make this day one you’ll remember, because you deserve a real holiday.”
The next morning, when Dasha woke up, she first of all looked at Igor. He was already awake and smiling.
“Good morning, birthday girl,” he said, handing her a cup of coffee. “No cleaning, no cooking, no unpleasant phone calls. Today it’s just you and me.”
Dasha smiled.
“Just you and me—that sounds perfect.”
They canceled all the guests and decided to spend her birthday together. No running around shops, no fuss, no forced smiles.
First they went to a cozy café with big windows and the smell of fresh pastries. Outside, the first snow was lazily swirling down, and on the table in front of them were two cappuccinos and a slice of cheesecake with a candle.
“To you,” Igor said, clinking his cup against hers. “Just… be happy.”
Then came the cinema, a walk along the embankment, laughter, a light wind and the feeling that the whole day was woven from calm and happiness. When they were passing a jewelry store, Igor suddenly stopped.
“Shall we go in for a minute?” he asked casually.
“Why?” Dasha was surprised. “We’re just out for a walk.”
“Just to look,” he said and gently tugged her by the hand.
Ten minutes later, Dasha was standing at the display, eyes wide, as the saleswoman slipped a delicate gold ring with a tiny diamond onto her finger.
“Igor…” she whispered, smiling in confusion. “Are you serious?”
“Of course. Your birthday only comes once a year,” he said simply. “And the tiredness and hurt can stay in the past.”
She couldn’t hold back her tears of happiness. They walked out into the street hand in hand. And everything felt so right—the chilly air, the evening, the people around them, even the snow under their feet.
Only one moment clouded the day. When they were sitting in the café, with the smell of coffee and music in the background, Igor’s phone rang. It was his mother. He got up and went outside so Dasha wouldn’t hear anything.
“Mom, did something happen?” he asked calmly.
“Igoryok, what, your little party didn’t work out?” Yekaterina Ivanovna said with a nasty sweetness. “I told you, nothing good comes from disrespecting your elders!”
Igor was silent. Music and laughter floated out from the café.
“Is that music? You’re not at home?” she suddenly pricked up. “So you’re celebrating after all?! Having fun, are you? While I’m here sick, with high blood pressure, my heart… I feel awful, Igor!”
He sighed heavily.
“Mom, stop this performance,” he said evenly. “We’re just spending the day together. And you don’t need to spoil our holiday.”
“Igor! How can you…”
“That’s enough. Bye,” he cut her off and hung up.
When he came back into the café, he saw Dasha gazing thoughtfully out the window; then she turned and smiled at him.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
“Yes,” Igor said, sitting down opposite her. “Absolutely.”
And it really was okay. They ate treats, joked, walked until evening, took photos and went home through the soft snowfall, as if all the bad stuff had been left behind.
That day became the best one Dasha had had in a long time. Not because of the ring or the movie, but because beside her was a man who was ready to do anything for her.
A year passed. Yekaterina Ivanovna was still waiting for the day her daughter-in-law would come and apologize. But that never happened—because Dasha didn’t consider herself guilty.
And in time, her mother-in-law had to remember what it was like to clean her own apartment.
And Dasha and Igor still sometimes walked past that same jewelry store. Every time, Igor would take her hand, and she would smile, looking at the ring glittering in the sun—a reminder of how important it is to say “enough” to humiliation at the right moment.
