— Tamara Petrovna? And you… didn’t call.
Alina said it as she stepped back into the hallway—and immediately scolded herself for it. It hadn’t sounded welcoming, almost like a reproach. But the exhaustion—sticky, heavy—built up over a day spent bouncing between laundry, cooking, and scrubbing floors, made her reaction slow and honest. Her mother-in-law showing up now, in this brief pocket of quiet—while the kids were still at school and her husband at work—felt like an unexpected storm warning.
— What, do I need an appointment to come to my own son’s home? Tamara Petrovna’s voice was even, almost gentle, but it carried those familiar notes of wounded virtue Alina had learned to recognize instantly.
Her mother-in-law was already walking into the apartment, slipping off her light coat as she went and assessing everything around her with a sharp, proprietorial gaze. That gaze skimmed over a slightly scuffed doorframe, lingered on the stack of children’s drawings on the dresser, and stopped on Alina herself—wearing a plain house T-shirt and old jeans.
— Look at you, Alinochka. Worn out. Is it really possible not to take better care of yourself?
She went into the kitchen as if it were her own, sat down at the table, and set her worn leather bag beside her. Alina trailed after her, turning on the kettle and feeling not like the hostess, but like a servant caught idling. The kitchen air still held the smells of bleach and simmering soup—the smells of her day’s labor, which seemed to matter to no one but her.
— Oh, just the usual, — Alina answered vaguely as she took out cups. She chose a simpler pair, not the good set she kept for rare guests. This visit didn’t feel like a guest visit. It felt like an inspection.
— The usual… — Tamara Petrovna sighed, running a finger along the tabletop and inspecting it with disdain, though the table had been scrubbed to a shine. — You know, at your age I was juggling two jobs, raising Kirill, and I still managed everything. And now what? My health isn’t the same anymore. Have you seen the prices in the store? I stopped by the market today and my heart practically seized. They’re selling cucumbers like they were grown on Mars and flown here first class.
Alina silently set a cup of tea in front of her and placed the sugar bowl beside it. She knew this overture. Now would come the long story about how hard it is to live alone, how everything is expensive, how her joints ache when the weather changes, and how the neighbor on the third floor bought herself a new fur coat even though her kids are obvious layabouts. It was a ritual—artillery fire before the real purpose of the visit. Alina turned into pure listening: nodding in the right places and thinking only one thing—how to make it end faster. Her thoughts tangled, jumping to the grocery list for the evening, and to the fact that what was left of Kirill’s salary might not last until payday—especially if they still had to pay for the younger one’s art class.
Tamara Petrovna took a big sip and set the cup down. The porcelain clicked against the saucer—sharp and final, as if it cut off all the previous chatter. She looked Alina straight in the eye. Her gaze turned hard, businesslike.
— Anyway, Alina, I came about something. I have a serious talk. About a son’s duty.
Alina froze with a teaspoon in her hand. The word duty landed in the kitchen silence like a hammer blow against glass—heavy, official, and promising nothing good. Slowly she set the spoon down on the saucer, trying not to let her hand shake.
— What duty, Tamara Petrovna? Kirill always helps you when you ask. For medicine, for the dacha—
— Helps? — her mother-in-law smirked, but her eyes stayed cold. — Sweetheart, what he does is handouts. He tosses you a thousand or two once a month like a beggar outside a church. I’m not talking about help. I’m talking about support. Full support.
She paused, savoring the effect. Alina stayed silent, not understanding where this was going. Tamara Petrovna leaned forward, elbows on the table, and her voice took on the hardness of metal.
— I sat down and did the math. Utilities. Proper food—not just buckwheat, but meat, fish. Medicine. Clothes, so I’m not walking around in rags. If I’m going to live and not just survive, I need fifty thousand a month. And you will give it to me. Starting this month.
The air in the kitchen turned thick, sticky. For a few seconds Alina simply stared at her, trying to process what she’d heard. The idea that this could be real felt absurd—wild. She let out a nervous laugh, dry and short.
— Fifty thousand? Tamara Petrovna, that has to be some kind of joke. We don’t always see that much ourselves.
— I’m not joking, — her mother-in-law cut her off. — I’ve done my time. I raised my son, got him on his feet. Now it’s his turn to take care of me. That’s the law of life.
Alina drew a deep breath, gathering her thoughts. Shouting and exploding would be pointless—she knew that. She decided to appeal to logic, to common sense.
— Listen, let’s talk calmly. I’ll just explain. We have a mortgage. It eats almost half of Kirill’s salary. We’ve got two more loans—one for the car, without it he can’t even get to work, and another for the renovation we never finished. Plus two kids—you know: clubs, clothes, food. Every month we’re balancing, counting every kopek until payday. We physically don’t have that kind of money. We don’t even have an extra ten thousand, let alone fifty.
She spoke steadily, laying out their bleak family budget like cards on the table. She hoped for understanding—for the person in front of her to be an adult with a working brain. But Tamara Petrovna looked at her as if Alina were describing the problems of complete strangers—people she found utterly uninteresting.
— That’s your problem, — she snorted. — You shouldn’t have taken out so many loans. You should’ve lived within your means. But no—had to buy an apartment, had to have a car. I gave him my best years. And now what, I’m supposed to die in poverty while you two live it up?
The phrase live it up sliced painfully. Alina glanced around her modest kitchen with its old cabinets and cheap wallpaper. Living it up. Right.
— It’s you whispering in his ear, I can see it, — her mother-in-law went on, her voice gaining force. — He wasn’t like this with me. He always found money for his mother. But once he got married, everything goes to the house, everything to you. You twist him around however you want. And he’s forgotten his own mother.
Her words sank into Alina’s mind like a heavy, poisonous sediment. “Whispering,” “twisting him.” This was no longer about money. This was about her—her life, her family, her right to be a wife and mother in her own home. Blood thundered in her ears, drowning out the ticking wall clock. A cold, clear fury pushed out the fatigue, and for the first time in the entire conversation Alina looked at Tamara Petrovna not as her husband’s mother, but as an enemy.
— Don’t you dare talk like that, — she said quietly, steel creeping into her voice. — You don’t know anything about our life. You show up once a month, drink tea, and pass judgment. You only see what you want to see.
— And what am I supposed to see? — Tamara Petrovna snapped, sensing resistance and instantly going on the offensive. — I see my son working like a slave to pay for this mortgage kennel, and his wife can’t even create a normal home for him! Look what you’ve turned my boy into! Pale, skinny, worn to the bone, paying for your whims. And there’s nothing left but pennies for his own mother!
The accusations rained down one after another, each one hitting the rawest spot. Alina stood up from the table. She couldn’t sit anymore; it felt like the chair under her had turned red-hot. She clasped her hands behind her back so her mother-in-law wouldn’t see her fingers trembling.
— My whims? — she repeated, her voice ringing with restrained rage. — My “whims” are winter boots for the kids that aren’t last year’s. “Whims” are having something on the table besides soup made with water. “Whims” are paying this damn mortgage so we don’t get thrown out onto the street from this “kennel”! That’s what you call whims?
— Stop this performance! — Tamara Petrovna barked, getting up too. They stood on opposite sides of the kitchen table like two fighters in a ring. — I can see where the money goes! On your useless rags, on those stupid clubs for the kids! You should learn to save! I didn’t raise Kirill so he’d break his back for some strange woman and her litter while his mother begs by dumpsters!
The word litter detonated in Alina’s head in a blinding flash of pain and hatred. That was it. The line had been crossed. The thin film of civility she’d been struggling to keep intact tore with a deafening snap. She stopped choosing words, stopped thinking about consequences, stopped trying to be a polite daughter-in-law. She poured out everything that had been building not only for the past hour, but for years of forced “family.”
— What money? Are you insane? Your son and I have kids, a mortgage, and two loans—and you’re telling us we should also give you fifty thousand a month? Don’t you think your face might crack?!
She was almost shouting, packing into that sentence all her bitterness, all her hurt, all her anger. Her voice broke, but she didn’t care. She watched her mother-in-law’s face distort, her jaw drop, her eyes flare with pure, unclouded outrage at such “insolence.” Tamara Petrovna opened her mouth to answer, to destroy her, to grind her into dust…
And at that exact moment, the key turned in the front door lock—distinctly, with a metallic click.
The sound was deafening in the electrified kitchen silence. Both women froze like statues, still staring at each other with hatred. Kirill appeared in the doorway. He looked tired, as always after work. He tossed his keys onto the small table, took off his jacket, and only then lifted his eyes. The air in the apartment was so dense it felt like it could be cut with a knife. He saw his wife—face red and twisted with anger, breathing hard—and his mother—scarlet blotches on her cheeks, lips warped with fury. He didn’t ask anything. He just looked at them, and in his gaze there was no surprise, no sympathy. Only an icy, heavy exhaustion.
Kirill didn’t move. He simply stood in the doorway, and his silence was louder than any shouting. His eyes slid from one distorted face to the other, impassive—like a surgeon assessing the extent of damage. His movements were slow, almost ritualistic. He put his bag on the floor, carefully hung up his jacket on the hook, as if performing familiar actions in a completely foreign, unfamiliar place. That methodical calm was more frightening than any outburst.
The silence was broken by Tamara Petrovna. She recovered first, and as if on command rushed to her son, grabbing his sleeve. Her face instantly switched from rage to the mask of a suffering victim.
— Kirill, sweetheart, did you hear that? Did you hear how she talks to me? I came here with my heart, and she—she called me names! At my age! For what? For giving birth to you? Raising you? That— that rude woman dared to say that to me! You have to put her in her place! Are you the man of this house or not?!
The words poured out in a frantic, venomous rush. She clung to his arm, trying to turn him toward her, to force him to look into her eyes full of righteous indignation. Alina remained by the table. She said nothing. All her arguments had been spoken. She just looked at her husband, and there was no begging in her eyes—only challenge and bone-deep exhaustion. She had put everything on the line, and now she waited to see which side he would choose.
Kirill gently but firmly freed his arm from his mother’s grip. He didn’t look at Alina. His gaze stayed fixed on Tamara Petrovna’s face. He listened without interrupting until the very end, until her tirade sputtered out into heavy, ragged breathing. When she fell silent—expecting his reaction, his support, a verdict for his wife—he took a step forward.
He came right up to his mother. But he didn’t hug her. He didn’t soothe her. Calmly, without the slightest hint of emotion, he took her by the elbow. His grip wasn’t rough, but it was iron—leaving no chance to resist.
— Mom, — his voice was low, flat, and that made it even more chilling. — Go home.
Tamara Petrovna stared, stunned. She jerked, trying to pull free, but his fingers held tight.
— What? Kirill, didn’t you understand? She insulted me! You have to—
— I understood everything, — he cut her off in the same dead tone. He began to guide her out of the kitchen toward the door, slowly. Her feet tangled; she tried to dig in her heels, but he led her forward relentlessly. — I understood that you came into my home to humiliate my wife. I understood that you think you can demand what we can’t give, and insult my family when you’re refused.
They were already in the entryway. He still didn’t release her elbow. Alina stayed in the kitchen; she didn’t move, as if turned to stone.
— Mom, look at me, — he stopped at the door and made her lift her eyes to his. — This is my home. Alina is my wife. The kids are my kids. This is my family. And I won’t let it be destroyed. By anyone. Not even you.
He opened the front door. Cold stairwell air rushed into the apartment.
— And don’t come back, — he said each word clearly, like a judge reading a sentence. — Don’t call. Don’t show up. Not until you find the strength to apologize. Not to me. To her.
He gave her a slight push over the threshold and, without waiting for an answer, without looking at the shock and hatred twisting her face, he closed the door. He turned the key in the lock. Once. Twice. The clicks rang through the apartment like gunshots. Then he rested his forehead against the cold wood, eyes closed.
It was over…
