“Earrings!” her mother-in-law snapped. “The ones I gave you for the wedding. Take them off right now.”
“Lyudmila Borisovna, I… I don’t understand,” Kristina began. “Why are you—”
“Just take them off,” the woman cut her short. “They’re my earrings. I changed my mind about giving them to you. And I want them back.”
Kristina stood in the middle of the shop holding two dresses—one understated, cream-colored; the other emerald green, off-the-shoulder, with a thin belt. The mirrors on either side reflected her confusion without mercy: her tired eyes, her tense face, and the faint shadow of irritation tucked into the corners of her mouth.
Her mother-in-law’s jubilee was coming up—an exact fifty years. Lyudmila Borisovna planned to celebrate on a grand scale: a restaurant downtown, live music, a photographer, a host—everything an influential woman was “supposed” to have.
A school vice principal, the wife of a respected man, the mother of a promising son. And, of course, a mother-in-law who knew how to make even an innocent “How are you, Kristina?” sound like an interrogation.
Kristina had long since learned to read her: the tone, the look, the judgment. Especially the judgment. Clothes, manners, hairstyle—even what you chose to eat at a festive table—everything lived under Lyudmila Borisovna’s watchful control.
And even if her husband, Stas, never said outright, “You must look perfect,” his silence in his mother’s presence—when she tossed out her barbed remarks—said plenty on its own.
“Can I help you choose?” a salesgirl’s gentle voice pulled Kristina out of her thoughts.
“Thank you, I’m just looking for now,” Kristina replied, and turned back to the dresses.
The emerald one looked luxurious. In it, she’d feel like a queen—but it cost nearly half her paycheck. The cream dress was more modest, and far cheaper. If she wore cream, Lyudmila Borisovna would say her daughter-in-law was disgracing her; if she wore emerald, she’d say Kristina was trying to stand out.
She remembered the last family holiday—New Year’s. Back then she’d dared to come to her in-laws’ house in a fitted scarlet dress. Not revealing, not provocative—just bright, attention-grabbing. Lyudmila Borisovna had looked her up and down and made a couple of pointed jokes:
“Kristina, you do understand that red isn’t for everyone. And the figure has to be perfect, too.”
That night Kristina had felt as if she were sitting under a spotlight, every gesture rated on a ten-point scale. She was even embarrassed to eat.
Kristina took a deep breath and looked at herself in the mirror again. For once, she wanted not to adjust. Not to think about what her mother-in-law would say. Not to fear someone else’s opinion. Just to choose what she liked.
“I’ll take this one,” she said unexpectedly, handing the emerald dress to the salesgirl.
The day of the celebration was loud and bright. The restaurant glittered with lights, waiters drifted by with trays, guests laughed and congratulated the birthday woman. Lyudmila Borisovna, in a gown covered in gold sequins, accepted gifts and compliments like an actress on stage.
When Kristina walked in, the conversations at nearby tables faltered for a second. She was wearing that very dress—simple in cut, but elegant, bringing out the color of her eyes and her sun-kissed skin. She smiled, even though something inside her tightened with nerves.
“Kristina, dear!” her mother-in-law turned, scanning her from head to toe. “Well, would you look at that… dressed up, aren’t you. Decided to outshine me?” There was a light mockery in her voice that others took for a joke.
Kristina smiled.
“Not at all, Lyudmila Borisovna. I just wanted to make you happy. It’s a special day.”
Her mother-in-law narrowed her eyes, not expecting that confidence. Stas, standing beside his mother, nodded.
“It suits you. Very beautiful.”
That “very beautiful” felt like a small victory to Kristina. All evening she carried herself with dignity. She danced, smiled, talked with the guests—and tried to push away the thought that she had to please everyone, including her mother-in-law. She was simply herself.
Everything went surprisingly calmly. Almost too calmly. Kristina was starting to believe the evening would pass without the nasty surprises Lyudmila Borisovna loved to toss in. She accepted congratulations, laughed, threw out her barbs—sharp, but seemingly not malicious. Guests ate and danced; waiters wove between tables.
Kristina was sitting next to Stas, chatting quietly with his cousin Anya, when her mother-in-law approached. Lyudmila Borisovna wore a stretched smile, but something ominous flashed in her eyes.
“Kristina,” she said softly—but loud enough that people nearby turned their heads. “Take off your earrings.”
Kristina blinked, thinking she’d misheard.
“I’m sorry… what?”
“Earrings,” her mother-in-law enunciated, a little louder. “The ones I gave you for the wedding. Take them off right now.”
A few people at the table froze. Someone even snickered, thinking it was a joke. But Lyudmila Borisovna wasn’t joking. Her lips were pressed tight, and her chin trembled with strain.
“Lyudmila Borisovna, I… I don’t understand,” Kristina began, feeling a cold wave rise in her chest. “Why are you—”
“Just take them off,” the woman interrupted. “They’re my earrings. I changed my mind about giving them to you. And I want them back.”
Stas, who had been silently sipping wine, set his glass down hard on the table.
“Mom, what are you doing?” Irritation broke through in his voice. “This is too much.”
“Too much is when your daughter-in-law shows up to her mother-in-law’s jubilee in an expensive off-the-shoulder dress and draws attention like it’s her celebration!” Lyudmila Borisovna flared. “I look at you and it feels like you’re deliberately trying to outshine me. You little wretch!”
Silence fell. Somewhere in the distance, the music kept playing, but at their table the air grew thick and sticky. Kristina went pale. She didn’t know what to say—the words lodged in her throat.
“Mom, stop,” Stas said, standing up. He leaned toward his wife and said quietly, “Let me do it.”
Carefully, he removed the gold earrings from Kristina’s ears and placed them in his mother’s hand.
“Are you happy now?” he asked.
Lyudmila Borisovna, as if she hadn’t noticed the shocked guests, straightened her shoulders—and suddenly smiled.
“Happy,” she said coldly. “That’s what you deserve, Kristina. Let there be a little less joy in your eyes.”
Kristina felt everything inside her go hollow. She wanted to disappear—out of this restaurant, out of this family, out of this absurd scene.
Stas remained standing, watching his mother with a look of disbelief.
“We’re leaving,” he said quietly.
They were already heading toward the exit when the emcee chirped into the microphone:
“And now—the most touching moment of the evening! The mother-and-son dance!”
Guests applauded. Lyudmila Borisovna, as if she’d forgotten what had just happened, came alive at once. She grabbed her son by the hand.
“Stasik, come on. Don’t you dare embarrass me in front of people.”
He was about to reply, but her grip was iron. Lyudmila Borisovna practically dragged him into the center of the hall to the music. Kristina stayed by the exit, feeling dozens of eyes on her. Calmly, she turned and walked out.
The air outside was cold and sobering. Even her warm coat couldn’t heat her through. She decided not to wait for her husband and called a taxi to get home.
The taxi rolled smoothly through the evening city. Outside the window, storefront lights, rare pedestrians, traffic signals—everything blended into one long bright streak. Kristina stared through the glass without blinking. It felt as if she wasn’t even breathing.
She couldn’t believe an adult, respected person could do that. Make her remove her earrings—in front of everyone, at her own jubilee. Her phone vibrated in her bag. It was her husband.
Kristina looked at the screen but didn’t answer. Then it rang again. And again. She hit “decline,” pulled her bag closer, and whispered:
“Just give me a little time to come to my senses…”
Meanwhile, Stas stood outside the restaurant and watched the receding taillights, furious with himself. He knew he’d missed the moment. He should have left with his wife instead of dancing to his mother’s tune—literally and figuratively. But he froze. He couldn’t break out of his mother’s grip, out of that look that, like when he was a child, forced him to do what was “best for everyone.”
“Idiot,” he muttered, opening the taxi app.
While the car was on its way, he called Kristina several more times.
“Kris, please… pick up…”
When she finally answered, her voice was quiet and even.
“I’m home. Don’t worry, everything’s fine. I just want to be alone.”
“No,” Stas said firmly. “I’m coming. And please don’t lock the door from the inside.”
On the way he stopped at a 24-hour flower shop. The clerk took one look at his rumpled state and didn’t even ask what he wanted—she simply handed him a lush bouquet of red roses.
“Looks like someone really messed up,” she smiled.
Stas nodded.
“Very much so.”
When he entered the apartment, the hallway was silent. A soft lamp glow came from the living room. Kristina sat on the couch in a terry robe, phone in her hands.
When she saw her husband, she lifted her eyes—calm, a little sad.
“I didn’t want to outshine anyone,” she said before he could speak. “I just wanted to look beautiful. It’s a celebration. And I’m young—I’m only twenty-six. Is that really so bad?”
Stas handed her the bouquet and sat down beside her.
“Of course not. You looked amazing. Mom… she just went too far. I’m still in shock about what happened. Usually she controls herself in public. But I guess today she got worked up.”
He spoke gently, trying not to rush, afraid he’d lose control.
“I’m so ashamed of her, Kris. Truly. I don’t know what came over her.”
Kristina nodded.
“I don’t know either,” she said quietly. “But I think I finally understand why she doesn’t like me. Just because I’m young and pretty.”
Stas exhaled and carefully took her hand.
“Listen… I’ll fix it. I promise. That won’t happen again.”
“God, I hope so,” Kristina said. “Because today I felt like an extra at someone else’s celebration.”
He lowered his eyes, unable to find the right words. Then he noticed—small gold earrings with little stones glittered in his wife’s ears. The ones he’d given her for her last birthday.
“You put those on?” he asked, surprised, smiling.
Kristina touched her earlobe.
“Yes. I shouldn’t have swapped them for the ones your mother gave me. Then maybe none of this would have happened. But I thought she’d like it if I wore her earrings. And it turned out…”
Stas wrapped his arms around his wife and whispered:
“You’re the best gift I’ve ever gotten.”
Back at home after the jubilee, Lyudmila Borisovna couldn’t calm down.
She took off her evening dress, carefully hung it on a hanger, and—without fully changing—walked into the bedroom. On the dresser lay the very earrings—small but expensive, with diamonds and a shine that irritated her now more than ever.
“Honestly,” she muttered, picking them up between two fingers as if they were something unpleasant. “She put them on and sparkled like an actress—right at my jubilee. The nerve!”
With that she opened the wardrobe, reached for the top shelf, and tossed the earrings somewhere behind a stack of old boxes.
“That’s where they belong.”
Her husband, Stepan Leonidovich, came out of the bathroom in a house robe and glasses, his face tired.
“Lyuda, are you still not over it? It’s already night. The party’s done. Everyone left happy—except you.”
She spun around sharply.
“And you didn’t see what your daughter-in-law wore? A dress like a magazine cover! Curls, makeup—everything! On purpose. I saw how the men looked at her. Even my colleagues! And I’m standing next to her like… like background scenery!”
Stepan sighed.
“So what? They’re young. You’re still the most beautiful to me. But honestly, Kristina didn’t do anything wrong. She simply wore a dress—it was a celebration.”
“She simply wore a dress?” Lyudmila Borisovna snorted. “She planned it all in advance! Those earrings, that smile, those eyes… She knew she’d look better than me!”
“Lyuda,” her husband said sternly, “stop looking for enemies where there are none. She’s a good girl, kind. And she loves our son. Have you seen the way he looks at her?”
“She loves him!” she mocked. “We’ll see how much she loves him. She’s just waiting for a chance to take all his money. I’m his mother, and I want one thing—so my son doesn’t get ruined by a—”
“By what kind of woman, Lyuda?” Stepan lifted his eyes at her over his glasses. “A beautiful, independent woman? Maybe you’re simply jealous.”
Lyudmila Borisovna froze and pressed her lips together.
“What nonsense,” she said coldly, turning away. “I just don’t want to see her anymore. Not on holidays, not at our table. Never again. I won’t invite her.”
A few weeks passed.
Winter settled firmly in—the city wrapped itself in snow, shop windows began to glow with garlands. New Year was coming, and in Lyudmila Borisovna’s house, preparations for the traditional family dinner began. She liked doing everything in advance, so at the start of December she called everyone and invited them over.
“Sonny,” she began cheerfully, “so, what about New Year? Like always—at our place. I’ve planned everything: duck with apples, salads, champagne.”
“Great, Mom. Kristina and I will be happy to come.”
“Stasik,” her voice dropped, quieter but firmer, “I’m only expecting you. Without her. No need to spoil everyone’s mood.”
He went silent for a second, not believing what he’d heard.
“Mom… are you serious right now?”
“Absolutely. I want to meet the New Year only with the people closest to me.”
“Mom, you can’t do that. Kristina is my wife…”
“Enough, Stas!” Lyudmila Borisovna snapped. “If you want to come—come. But alone.”
He hung up and sat for a long time, gripping his phone. Kristina, seeing his tense face, asked:
“Did something happen?”
Stas exhaled.
“Mom invited me for New Year… only me. Without you.”
Kristina gave a bitter little smile.
“Well, that was to be expected. To be honest, I wasn’t going anywhere anyway.”
He looked at her closely.
“It still hurts.”
“Yes,” she said, “but maybe it’s for the best. Let New Year be without the show. Just the two of us.”
Two more weeks passed. In early December, Kristina took a test and saw two lines. She stared at them for a long time, then sat on the edge of the bed and cried—out of happiness, fear, and surprise.
That evening when she told Stas, he hugged her and said:
“Kris… this is the best thing that could have happened to us.”
A couple of days later his mother called again.
“So, sonny, have you decided about New Year?”
“I have,” he answered firmly. “We’re staying home. Kristina is pregnant—she needs rest.”
Silence hung on the other end. Then Lyudmila Borisovna suddenly said with a strange relief:
“Pregnant, you say? Well, wonderful. Let her stay home—she can’t be stressed.”
And after a pause, she added with a clear smirk:
“Soon the poor thing will spread out like a barrel. Then we’ll see…”
She hung up with a satisfied smile and went to the kitchen to make coffee, in high spirits. And Stas was left bewildered. He couldn’t understand what was happening with his mother, or where so much hatred had come from.
But to Lyudmila Borisovna it felt like life had finally returned to its proper order.
Nine months passed. Kristina gave birth to a boy—strong, rosy-cheeked, with soft wheat-colored hair.
On discharge day everyone gathered outside the maternity hospital—Stas, her mother Anna Viktorovna, her friend Lena with a bouquet of white roses… and even Stas’s parents. Lyudmila Borisovna, of course, couldn’t miss such an event in her son’s life.
Kristina spotted her from the window. Her mother-in-law stood a little apart in a strict suit, holding a bouquet of roses, staring at the hospital doors with an expression that mixed curiosity with dislike.
When Kristina came out—radiant, the baby in her arms—everyone gasped. She looked like she was glowing. The blush in her cheeks, the soft waves of her hair, the eyes full of love. Even the doctors escorting her smiled.
Stas carefully took the baby, kissed his wife’s cheek, and whispered:
“You’re a miracle.”
At that moment Lyudmila Borisovna approached them. Her smile was stretched tight, but her eyes… her eyes said everything.
“Congratulations,” she said dryly. “A boy—that’s good.”
Then, as if recalling something, she added:
“I hope now you’ll have less time to dress up.”
No one reacted. Everyone was looking at the baby. Only Stepan Leonidovich shook his head and led his wife aside, trying to smooth things over.
And Kristina stood there holding her son and suddenly felt a strange calm. She no longer wanted to justify herself, to try to please anyone, to prove anything.
She looked at Lyudmila Borisovna and—for the first time in her life—felt no resentment, no fear, no pain. Only pity.
“Lyudmila Borisovna,” she said quietly, “all I want is for our son to grow up loved. You can be part of that love… or you can stay on the sidelines. It’s your choice.”
Her mother-in-law flinched as if slapped, but said nothing. She simply turned away.
A week later Kristina sat by the window at home, rocking the cradle. Rain шумed outside, reminding her that summer was ending. Stas came up behind her, hugged her, and kissed her temple.
“Thank you for getting through all of this,” he whispered.
Kristina smiled.
“And I just understood that you don’t need to fight for the love of people who don’t deserve it. It’s better to put your strength where there’s warmth in return.”
She looked at her sleeping son and felt real happiness.
Lyudmila Borisovna, of course, never called. And Kristina didn’t need her to. Anna Viktorovna, Stas, and little Petenka were always there.
