It all started with little things. So quietly you barely noticed—almost “family-like.”
“Lena, sunshine, could you help me?” Galina Petrovna always called at the worst possible moment, as if she could sense when I’d just sat down after work. “The utility bill came in, and my pension won’t stretch to the end of the month. You know how expensive everything is now…”
I transferred three thousand. Then another five—for medicine. Then ten—her refrigerator broke. Andrei, my husband, just shrugged.
“Well, Mom asked. Help her out. She lives alone.”
Alone. That was the key word Galina Petrovna waved around like a pardon. A lonely pensioner, a widow, the mother of an only son. How could you refuse?
And I didn’t. I worked as a senior financial analyst at a large company—good salary, regular bonuses. Andrei and I lived comfortably: a three-bedroom apartment in a new building, two cars, vacations abroad. Helping my mother-in-law didn’t feel like a burden. At first.
But small things have a way of piling up—like snow before an avalanche.
Six months later Galina Petrovna was calling twice a week. She needed shoes—“I’m walking around like a beggar, Lenochka, it’s embarrassing in front of the neighbors.” She wanted to go to the theater—“I’ve been a cultured person my whole life, I can’t just sink completely.” She needed a gift for a friend’s birthday—“What am I, supposed to show up empty-handed? You understand…”
I understood. I always understood. And I sent the money.
By the end of the first year of our “help,” Galina Petrovna was basically living at my expense. Her pension, as I happened to learn by accident, was actually quite decent—about what an average cashier makes. But she spent it all on random whims, while I covered the ordinary expenses. Utilities, groceries, clothes, medicine, taxis, beauty salons—the list grew like a snowball.
“Maybe that’s enough already?” I tried to talk to Andrei one evening. “Your mom gets a pension bigger than a lot of working people. Why are we supporting her?”
Andrei looked at me as if I’d suggested throwing his mother into a dumpster.
“Len, that’s my mom. The only one I’ve got. Do you really mind?”
“It’s not about that. It’s the principle. She’s using us.”
“Using us?” he raised his voice. “She raised me alone after my dad died! Worked two jobs! And now that I can finally help her, you…”
I didn’t continue. The conversation hit a dead end—as always whenever it was about Galina Petrovna.
And meanwhile, I started noticing other things. Details that at first seemed insignificant.
We’d come over for tea, and as she saw us out, she would tell a neighbor in the stairwell:
“Yes, Andryusha is a good boy—he helps his mother. That’s a real son, unlike some…”
Not a word about me. As if those transfers had come from immaculate conception.
Or one day I overheard her phone call with a friend:
“She’s no homemaker, Val. Always buying ready-made food, their apartment is a mess. Andryusha, whatever you say, married badly. I’d have found him someone else—prettier, and with golden hands… Oh well. What’s grown is grown.”
I stood in the hallway with bags of groceries—I’d swung by after work specifically to bring them to her. In my hands, the farmer’s cottage cheese she loved was turning cold. Twelve hundred a kilo.
“Grandma, Mom is pretty!” That was the voice of our eight-year-old Masha—she’d heard it too.
“Hush, sweetheart, adults are talking,” Galina Petrovna brushed her off.
I turned around and left. I set the groceries on the entryway cabinet and didn’t say a word.
That evening Andrei got a text from his mother: “Thanks for the groceries. Tell Lena the cottage cheese is excellent.” Tell Lena—as if I were a courier and not the person who paid for it.
I said nothing. Again.
But something inside me began to shift. I started paying attention. How Galina Petrovna, among relatives, would go on about what a caring son Andrei was, what gifts he gave, how he helped—again, not a word about me. How she complained to her friends that her daughter-in-law was always at work, never home, had “let the grandkids go.” How she sighed at family photos: “Oh, Andryusha, you could’ve chosen a prettier wife…”
And I kept sending money. Thirty thousand a month. Forty. Fifty. Sometimes more.
And then one day, in early September, Galina Petrovna announced:
“In November I turn sixty. A big date. Serious. I want to celebrate properly.”
We were sitting in her kitchen—me, Andrei, and the kids. Galina Petrovna poured tea, and her voice carried the unshakable confidence of someone used to getting what she wanted.
“I want a restaurant. About thirty people. Everything nice—table, music, photographer. Something people will remember. You’ll help, right?”
Andrei nodded immediately.
“Of course, Mom. Absolutely.”
I drank my tea in silence. Inside, everything went cold.
“Look for a good restaurant, Len,” Andrei asked on the way home. “You’re better at that.”
“Thirty people at a decent restaurant is about three hundred thousand,” I said. “With drinks, music, decorations.”
“So what? We have savings.”
“Our savings,” I corrected.
“Lena, it’s my mother’s birthday. She’s turning sixty. It matters.”
I looked at him—this man I’d lived with for ten years, had two children with, built a home and a career with—and suddenly realized he just didn’t see it. Not at all. He didn’t see how his mother used us. He didn’t see my feelings. He didn’t see basic unfairness.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll handle it.”
I found a restaurant. Booked the best banquet hall. Approved the menu—Galina Petrovna sent a list of thirty items. Ordered floral arrangements, hired a host and musicians, made a deal with a photographer.
Every evening Galina Petrovna called with new demands:
“Lenochka, can we do a three-tier cake? And pick pricier champagne—people will be picky. Will the waiters wear bow ties? And can we order fireworks?”
I agreed to everything. The bill rose like dough.
“Maybe we should keep it simpler?” Andrei suggested timidly when I showed him the final estimate.
“Too late now,” I said. “Everything’s paid for, contracts signed.”
He sighed and didn’t argue again.
The anniversary day was unusually warm for November—around plus five, no snow. I wore a simple black dress—nothing flashy. I didn’t want to outshine the star of the evening. Galina Petrovna greeted us at the restaurant fully done up: a burgundy dress, fresh hair, manicure, makeup. She really did look festive and pleased.
“Oh, how beautiful!” she beamed, taking in the hall. “Andryusha, you’re wonderful, son!”
I stood right beside him. Like I didn’t exist.
Guests began arriving—relatives, neighbors, her friends, former coworkers. About thirty-five people showed up, even more than we planned. The hall filled with voices, laughter, congratulations.
Galina Petrovna accepted gifts like a queen—graciously, with a faint touch of condescension. When it was our turn, Andrei handed her an envelope.
“Happy birthday, Mom.”
There was a hundred thousand inside. My hundred thousand—from my bonus.
“Thank you, my son,” she kissed Andrei. She didn’t even glance at me.
The evening rolled along: toasts, songs, dancing. With each glass, Galina Petrovna seemed to bloom—louder, merrier, more confident. She danced, laughed, collected compliments.
And I sat there and did the math. Steaks—two thousand each. Oysters—eight hundred. Sparkling crémant—six thousand a bottle. Florist—twenty-seven thousand. Musicians—fifty thousand. Photographer—thirty…
Closer to ten, Galina Petrovna asked for the microphone. The host handed it to her, and she—swaying slightly, champagne doing its job—stood in the center of the hall.
“My dear ones!” she looked around at the guests. “I want to make a toast. To the most important person in my life. To my son, Andrei!”
Andrei smiled awkwardly. People smiled back.
“I raised him alone,” Galina Petrovna continued, her voice turning sentimental and shaky. “Alone! After my husband died. And he grew up to be a real man. Caring, kind, generous. Thank you, son, for everything!”
She raised her glass. Applause.
“Though,” Galina Petrovna giggled, “of course I wanted a daughter-in-law for you who was prettier and more domestic. Oh well…”
She waved her hand as if shooing a fly away.
“The one you’ve got will do too!”
The room froze. Someone laughed nervously. Someone stared into their plate. Andrei went pale.
And I felt something inside me tear. Quietly, almost without sound. Like an overtightened string snapping.
I stood up. Slowly. Every eye turned to me.
“May I say a toast too?” My voice sounded surprisingly calm.
Galina Petrovna blinked—clearly not expecting it. She passed me the microphone, uncertain, wary.
I took it and turned to the guests.
“I also want to raise a glass. To our dear celebrant, Galina Petrovna.”
She spread into a smile.
“Who, unfortunately, doesn’t suit me either,” I went on. “Not at all. As a mother-in-law. As a person. And so…”
I paused, looking her straight in the eyes.
“So I will no longer pay her bills. Any of them. Utilities—no. Groceries—no. Clothes, medicine, taxis, beauty salons—no. And this evening, by the way, I won’t be paying for either.”
The silence was so thick you could hear water dripping from the air conditioner in the corner.
“Lena, what are you—” Andrei started, but I raised my hand.
“I’m finished. The bill for tonight, as I expected, is around three hundred thousand. I paid the booking and half the cost. Let that be my gift to you. The rest—pay it yourselves. Or ask the guests to chip in.”
I set the microphone on the table, took my purse, and walked toward the exit.
“Lena! Wait!” Andrei jumped up, but I didn’t turn around.
Behind me the room erupted—angry, shocked, confused voices. Someone cursed. Someone laughed nervously. Galina Petrovna was shouting something about ingratitude and rudeness.
I stepped outside. Breathing became easier.
My phone started exploding with calls five minutes later. Andrei. My mother-in-law. Andrei again. Some Aunt Lyusya—Galina Petrovna’s sister. I muted it all and called a taxi.
At home it was quiet—we’d left the kids with my mother. I took off my dress, washed off my makeup, brewed chamomile tea. Sat by the window, looking out at the night city.
Andrei came back around midnight. He entered quietly, as if afraid to wake someone. He went to the kitchen, where I was still sitting with my cold tea.
“Are you out of your mind?” His voice trembled. “Do you understand what you did?”
“Completely,” I said.
“My mother is hysterical! The guests were shocked! She had to ask people to chip in to pay the bill! Do you realize how ashamed she was?”
“I do,” I looked at him. “And do you realize how ashamed I was all these years? When I supported your mother and she told everyone what a caring son you were? When I sent her money and she told people behind my back that you married badly?”
“She didn’t—”
“She did. I heard it. More than once. And you knew. You just found it convenient not to notice.”
Andrei sank onto a chair.
“Len… she’s an old woman. She has her quirks.”
“An old woman who got comfortable sitting on my neck? Dressing, eating, entertaining herself on my money—and still thinking I’m unworthy of her son?”
“She didn’t mean it…”
“Whether she meant it or not, I don’t care. I’m not an ATM anymore.”
He was silent, staring at the floor.
“Do you understand she hates us now?” he finally said.
“Maybe. That’s her problem, not mine.”
“She’s my mother!”
“And I’m your wife!” I raised my voice for the first time that night. “Ten years your wife. The mother of your children! I work just as hard as you do, I earn good money, and I have the right to decide what I spend it on! I’m not obligated to support a healthy adult woman who despises me!”
He flinched at my tone.
“She doesn’t despise—”
“‘Prettier and more domestic.’ Did you hear that? In front of thirty people. At the birthday dinner I organized and paid for.”
Andrei covered his face with his hands.
“My God. What a nightmare…”
We sat in silence for five minutes. Then he got up and went to the bedroom. I stayed in the kitchen.
In the morning he left for work without a word. In the evening he returned without a word. We moved around the apartment like strangers, avoiding conversation.
Galina Petrovna called every day. I didn’t answer. Andrei talked to her behind a closed door—long, tense conversations. I didn’t listen and didn’t ask.
A week later he said:
“Mom wants to apologize.”
“Don’t.”
“Len, please. She understands she was wrong.”
“Andrei,” I looked at him tiredly, “your mother doesn’t understand she was wrong. She understands the money is gone. Those are different things.”
“You’re being unfair.”
“Maybe. But I don’t want to play this game anymore.”
He didn’t push.
A month passed. Galina Petrovna stopped calling with money requests. Instead she started calling Andrei—complaining about life, her health, loneliness. He would grow gloomy after every call, but he started helping her financially out of his own salary. I didn’t object—his money, his mother, his choice.
We only saw her on family holidays. She was pointedly polite—cold and distant. I responded the same way. Andrei bounced between us trying to smooth things over, but it didn’t go well.
“Maybe it’s time to make peace?” he asked one evening. “The kids keep asking why Grandma is sad.”
“I didn’t fight,” I said. “I just stopped being the sponsor. If your mother thinks that’s grounds for a lifelong grudge—that’s her right.”
“Len, how long is this going to—”
“Andrei,” I cut him off, “I love you. A lot. But I won’t let anyone—even your mother—treat me like a second-class person. If she wants a relationship, she can learn respect. If not, she can live however she wants. On her pension.”
He never brought it up again.
And I learned to live without guilt. Without trying to justify myself. I understood something simple: you can’t buy respect. Not for any amount of money. And closeness built on money isn’t closeness at all.
Sometimes I remember that evening in the restaurant. The silence after my words. Galina Petrovna’s face—confused, emptied, suddenly older. And I don’t feel ashamed. Not at all.
Because my mother-in-law humiliated me in front of the guests, and in front of everyone I cut off her allowance—and it was the most honest thing I could have done. For myself. For my dignity. For my children, who should see a mother who knows how to stand up for herself.
And everything else—let it stay on the conscience of those who think everyone owes them
