Valentina Nikolaevna held the doorbell down for a long, stubborn moment. Olga opened up, wiping her wet hands on a towel. Her mother-in-law stood on the doorstep with shopping bags and a big, beaming smile.
“Olechka, hello! I came to deliver the invitation in person. I’m hosting something on Saturday—Aunt Zina’s birthday. Remember I told you about her? The one who lived in Germany for twenty years. She’s coming all this way just for it, so we have to give her a proper welcome!”
Olga nodded. Of course she remembered. Valentina Nikolaevna adored celebrations. She threw banquets for any reason at all—someone’s birthday, a distant relative’s anniversary, an old friend visiting from another city—anything could become an excuse to gather a crowd.
“You and Alyosha will come, yes?” her mother-in-law asked as she stepped right into the apartment and set the bags down.
“Of course, Valentina Nikolaevna.”
“Wonderful! I ordered a cake—six tiers. Aunt Zina loves big, fluffy cakes. And I’ll buy flowers and decorate the whole house. It’ll be stunning!”
She spoke quickly, waving her hands in excitement. Olga listened while imagining her Saturday disappearing again—spent at her mother-in-law’s place, at a long table overloaded with food, surrounded by loud guests she barely even knew.
That’s how their entire first year of marriage had gone. Every month there was another party at Valentina Nikolaevna’s—sometimes more than one. Alexey always said his mother simply loved people. Loved fun. Olga went along with it. What choice did she have? A family tradition is a family tradition, right?
On Saturday, Olga and Alexey arrived at Valentina Nikolaevna’s around six in the evening. The house was already buzzing with voices. Guests took their seats around a table covered with a pristine white tablecloth. Aunt Zina sat at the head like a queen, accepting congratulations.
“Oh, how beautiful!” the elderly woman exclaimed, admiring the bouquets. “Valyusha, you’ve outdone yourself again!”
Olga sat down beside Alexey. Her husband immediately began piling salads onto his plate, pouring wine, chatting with the neighbors at the table, laughing. He was having a great time. He showed up, sat down, ate—simple.
Valentina Nikolaevna, meanwhile, darted back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room, carrying dishes, topping up glasses. She didn’t even have a moment to sit.
After midnight, the guests started leaving. Aunt Zina was one of the first—she was tired from traveling. The rest followed. Valentina Nikolaevna walked every guest to the door and thanked them warmly for coming.
“Well, that was a lovely evening,” she said as she returned to the dining room. Her eyes landed on the mountain of dirty plates, the scraps left on the table. “Olechka, sweetheart, help me tidy up, will you? Alyosha, you go rest—your job wears you out enough as it is.”
Olga looked at her husband in disbelief. Alexey actually stood up and walked into the other room as if this was perfectly normal. He turned on the TV, sat down, and started watching soccer. Olga was left alone with Valentina Nikolaevna—and a sink full of chaos.
“Start by collecting the plates,” her mother-in-law instructed. “I’ll change clothes and come back. And don’t forget the bottles—some are still under the table.”
Olga gathered dishes in silence. Stacked them into the sink. Washed. Dried. Valentina Nikolaevna vacuumed and wiped down surfaces. They worked until two in the morning. When they finally finished, Olga could barely stand.
“Thank you, Olechka,” her mother-in-law said, giving her shoulder a pat. “You’re a good girl. A real helper.”
They drove home without speaking. Alexey dozed in the passenger seat. Olga drove, staring at the road, thinking. A helper. So that was her role now.
The next celebration came three weeks later—Valentina Nikolaevna’s neighbor’s birthday. The call came a week in advance.
“Olechka, come earlier on Saturday, all right? Around ten. Help me with the salads. I’ll have so many guests—I can’t manage on my own.”
Olga wanted to refuse. She opened her mouth to say she had plans. But Valentina Nikolaevna kept talking over her.
“I made a list—Olivier, Mimosa… You can cook, can’t you? Alyosha said your salads are great.”
“I can, but—”
“Perfect! Ten o’clock, then. Don’t be late, sweetheart.”
And she hung up.
Olga stood there with her phone still in her hand. She hadn’t even had a chance to say no.
On Saturday morning she arrived at exactly ten. Her mother-in-law met her wearing an apron.
“There you are! To the kitchen. Potatoes are boiled, eggs too. Start chopping. I’ll cut up the chicken.”
The kitchen table was crowded with pots, bowls, bags of groceries. Valentina Nikolaevna had clearly been cooking since dawn. Olga tied on an apron, grabbed a knife, and began cutting potatoes for the Olivier salad.
“Smaller,” her mother-in-law said, peering over her shoulder. “Tiny cubes. Otherwise it won’t look nice.”
Olga cut smaller. A minute later Valentina Nikolaevna returned and shook her head again.
“Fine—this will do. But make the pickles neat. And the onion too.”
They worked until lunchtime. Then into the afternoon. Then right up to evening. Olga chopped, mixed, decorated. Valentina Nikolaevna commanded, inspected, re-did things her way. By six o’clock there were twelve salads lined up on the table, hot dishes waiting in the oven, appetizers arranged on platters.
“Now we can greet the guests,” her mother-in-law said, taking off her apron. “Go wash up, Olechka. I’ll put the flowers into vases.”
Guests started arriving at seven. Alexey showed up at half past seven, sat down at the table, and started eating. He praised the salads. Valentina Nikolaevna smiled and accepted the compliments like they were meant for her alone. Olga sat quietly. She barely ate. She didn’t feel like it.
After midnight came the cleaning—again. Olga and Valentina Nikolaevna. Alexey, as usual, went to watch TV.
And that became the routine for months. Every holiday looked the same: Valentina Nikolaevna called and summoned her “help.” Olga came. Cooked, cleaned, washed dishes. Her mother-in-law ordered her around, criticized, and collected everyone’s gratitude as if she’d done it all herself.
Olga endured it. She kept telling herself it was family. That she had to help. That Valentina Nikolaevna was older, and it must be hard for her alone. But each time it became harder to swallow.
The breaking point came at the end of November—a jubilee for some distant relative. The call arrived a week beforehand, like clockwork.
“Olechka, come Sunday at nine in the morning. Early, I know, but there will be lots of guests. We have to get everything done. I made a list. We need to bake a cake too. You can do that, can’t you?”
“I can, but Valentina Nikolaevna—”
“Excellent! Then the cake is on you. I’ll send a recipe. You’ll buy the ingredients yourself, yes? I don’t have time to run to stores.”
“But—”
“All right, it’s settled. Nine o’clock. And please don’t be late.”
Olga ended the call and looked at Alexey. He was on the couch flipping through a magazine.
“Lyosha, your mom again—”
“What about Mom?” he didn’t even look up.
“She wants me there at nine to cook. And now she expects me to buy the groceries too.”
“So help,” he shrugged. “Mom’s alone. It’s hard for her.”
“And is it easy for me?” Olga felt heat rise in her chest. “I work too. I have my own life.”
“Olya, don’t exaggerate. Helping once a month isn’t some tragedy.”
“It’s the third time this month!”
“So what?” Alexey finally looked at her. “Mom loves parties. What’s wrong with that?”
“What’s wrong is that I’ve become free labor!”
“You’re being dramatic,” he said, returning to the magazine. “You’re helping the family. That’s normal.”
Olga fell silent. The conversation was pointless. Alexey didn’t see the problem. For him it was perfectly fine: Mom throws parties, wife works for them. Everyone “wins.”
On Sunday Olga arrived at nine with bags of cake ingredients. Her mother-in-law greeted her cheerfully.
“There you are! Hurry in. Start the cake right away—the layers take time. We won’t make it by evening. I’ll do the salads.”
Olga baked the layers, whipped the frosting, assembled the cake. Valentina Nikolaevna hovered nearby, commenting constantly.
“Your cream is too runny—add butter.”
“The layers are uneven. Next time roll them better.”
“The decorations are too simple. You could’ve tried harder.”
Olga clenched her jaw. She said nothing. She did what she was told.
By lunchtime they’d finished the main dishes. Valentina Nikolaevna set the table, arranged the cutlery. Olga washed dishes, wiped counters, moved nonstop.
“Olechka, the floor too,” her mother-in-law said, handing her a mop. “There are footprints.”
Olga mopped. Then wiped mirrors. Then arranged napkins. Valentina Nikolaevna kept finding new tasks—as if on purpose.
Guests arrived at seven. Alexey came with them and immediately sat down at the table, laughing with relatives. Olga watched from the kitchen. He was relaxed, happy—enjoying his evening. And she had been working all day like a draft animal.
The celebration ended after midnight. The last guests left around one. Valentina Nikolaevna closed the door, turned to Olga.
“All right, Olechka, let’s clean up. I don’t want to wake up tomorrow and see a disaster.”
Olga stared at the mountain of dirty dishes, the food scraps, the wine spilled on the tablecloth. She was exhausted—dead exhausted. She wanted to sit down and cry.
“Dishes first, then floors,” her mother-in-law ordered. “I’ll take the trash out.”
Olga began gathering plates automatically, like a robot. Stack, wash, dry. Her mother-in-law returned and started vacuuming.
“Oh, by the way, Olechka,” Valentina Nikolaevna said, turning off the vacuum. “In two weeks my friend Tamara has a birthday. I promised to help organize it. You’ll help, won’t you? You’ll do the desserts?”
Olga froze. A plate slipped from her hands and clattered into the sink.
“What?” she asked softly.
“The desserts,” her mother-in-law repeated, calm as ever. “Cake, pastries. You know how. Today’s cake turned out great—everyone said so. The decorations could’ve been nicer, but overall not bad.”
Olga slowly dried her hands and turned to face her. She looked Valentina Nikolaevna straight in the eyes.
“I’m your daughter-in-law—not your maid!” the words burst out of her, loud and sharp. “I’m not obligated to clean up after your guests!”
Valentina Nikolaevna went still. Her mouth opened in shock. The vacuum slipped from her hands and hit the floor.
“What… what did you say?” she whispered, turning pale.
“I said I’m not here to work for you!” Olga stepped closer. “I’m not a servant. Not a housekeeper. I’m your daughter-in-law!”
“How dare you speak to me like that?!” Valentina Nikolaevna snapped back, cheeks flushing. “I brought you into the family! I treated you like my own!”
“Like your own?” Olga let out a bitter laugh. “You treat me like unpaid labor. Every celebration I cook, clean, wash dishes—and you just give orders and criticize!”
“You ungrateful girl!” her mother-in-law shouted. “I’m teaching you how to run a household! How to cook! How to host! And you—”
“I never asked you to teach me!” Olga cut in. “I know how to cook and clean—in my own home, for my own family. But I’m not doing it for your endless parties anymore!”
“A young wife is supposed to help her husband’s family!” Valentina Nikolaevna slammed her fist on the table. “That’s tradition!”
“A tradition of exploiting the daughter-in-law?” Olga folded her arms. “What a wonderful tradition.”
“You must respect your elders!” the older woman marched closer. “I’m older. I’m your husband’s mother. You’re obligated to do what I say!”
“No,” Olga shook her head. “I’m not obligated. I’m not your property. Not your slave. I’m a person.”
“So you’re refusing to help the family?” Valentina Nikolaevna narrowed her eyes.
“I’m refusing to be your servant,” Olga said evenly. “If you want me at your gatherings as a guest—fine. I’ll come, sit at the table, eat, talk—like everyone else. But I’m not cooking and cleaning anymore.”
“You… you’re insolent!” her mother-in-law gasped. “A shameless girl! I’ve done so much for you!”
“What exactly have you done for me?” Olga stepped forward. “Worked me in your kitchen? Forced me to serve for free? Criticized everything I do?”
“I accepted you into the family!” Valentina Nikolaevna jabbed a finger at her. “I allowed my son to marry you! We could’ve found him someone better!”
“Better?” Olga felt her hands trembling. “You mean quieter? More obedient? Someone who would smile and work and never speak?”
“Someone who respects her elders!” her mother-in-law screamed. “Not like you! You used to be normal—now you’ve rebelled!”
“At first I didn’t understand what was happening,” Olga said, her voice lower but firmer. “I thought it was temporary. I thought you truly needed help. And then I realized—you’re just using me. Like an object.”
“Apologize!” Valentina Nikolaevna commanded. “Right now. Apologize for what you said!”
“No,” Olga replied. “I won’t. Because it’s the truth.”
At that moment Alexey appeared in the doorway. He stared at his mother and his wife.
“What is going on here?” he asked.
“Your wife is insulting me!” Valentina Nikolaevna whirled toward him. “She’s calling me an exploiter! She’s refusing to help the family!”
“Olya, what happened?” Alexey stepped closer.
“What happened is I can’t do it anymore,” Olga said, meeting his eyes. “Every celebration I work myself to the bone—not only for your relatives, but for neighbors, friends, strangers. And it never ends. I cook, clean, wash dishes, while your mother orders me around and criticizes everything. I’m tired, Alexey. I don’t want to be a maid.”
“Mama, is that true?” he asked, turning to Valentina Nikolaevna.
“What is ‘true’?” she stiffened. “I ask my daughter-in-law to help. That’s normal. A young wife helps her husband’s family.”
“Helping is one thing,” Alexey frowned. “Working from morning until night is another.”
“Whose side are you on?” his mother asked, wounded.
“On the side of what’s fair,” he said, taking Olga’s hand. “Mom, you’re wrong. Olya doesn’t owe you her labor for every party and every guest you invite.”
“Alyosha!” Valentina Nikolaevna cried. “I’m your mother!”
“And Olya is my wife,” he said, squeezing her hand. “I’m not letting anyone treat her like a servant. Not even you.”
“So you’re both against me?” Valentina Nikolaevna stepped back. “Against your own mother?”
“We’re not against you,” Alexey said. “We’re against how you treat Olya. If this doesn’t stop, we won’t come to your parties anymore. At all.”
“Are you threatening me?” she whispered, face drained.
“I’m warning you,” he said firmly. “Olya is my wife. And I’ll protect her—from anyone. Even my own mother.”
Valentina Nikolaevna stood there in silence, staring at her son with wide eyes. Then she slowly turned away and walked to the window, her back to them.
“Leave,” she said quietly. “If that’s how you feel about me—leave my house.”
Alexey took Olga by the hand and led her out. Olga glanced back. Valentina Nikolaevna stood at the window, motionless, her shoulders trembling.
They drove home in silence. Alexey focused on the road. Olga stared out the window, feeling relief—and fear at the same time. Relief because she’d finally said it. Fear because she didn’t know what would come next.
“Thank you,” Olga said softly.
“For what?” Alexey didn’t look away from the road.
“For supporting me.”
“You’re my wife,” he said, turning his head for a brief smile. “I’m always on your side. I’m sorry I didn’t see it sooner. I didn’t understand how hard it was for you.”
“And now you do?”
“Yes. And it won’t happen again.”
For two months Valentina Nikolaevna didn’t call. No invitations. Alexey tried contacting her a few times; she answered briefly, coldly, claimed she was busy, said she had guests—but she didn’t invite them.
Then, in January, she called herself.
“Alyosha, it’s my birthday on Saturday. Come. Both of you.”
“We will, Mom.”
On Saturday Olga and Alexey arrived at six. The table was already set. Guests were already there. Valentina Nikolaevna greeted them at the door, nodded without warmth, and pointed to empty seats.
Olga sat down and looked around. Everything was prepared—salads, hot dishes, appetizers. Valentina Nikolaevna had done it herself, or hired someone. But she hadn’t called Olga to help.
The evening passed calmly. Olga ate, chatted with the people nearby. Her mother-in-law talked to guests as well. She addressed Olga rarely—but without rudeness. Simply restrained.
After midnight, guests began to leave. Olga stood and reached for plates out of habit. Valentina Nikolaevna stopped her.
“Leave it. I’ll clean tomorrow.”
“But—”
“I said leave it,” she repeated more firmly. “Go home. It’s late.”
Olga glanced at Alexey. He nodded. They dressed, said goodbye. Valentina Nikolaevna walked them to the door. She hugged her son. She gave Olga a small nod.
In the car Olga was quiet, thinking. Valentina Nikolaevna hadn’t apologized. She hadn’t said anything outright. But she had shown it—shown she understood. Shown she wouldn’t demand the impossible anymore.
“Do you think things will get better?” Olga asked.
“I hope so,” Alexey shrugged. “Mom is stubborn. But she’s not stupid. She’ll understand eventually.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
“Then we’ll celebrate without her,” he said with a smile. “We have our own family. Our own rules.”
Olga nodded. Yes. Their own family. Their own rules. And no one gets to turn her into hired help—no matter who they are.
The boundaries had been set. Clear and firm. Now all that remained was to keep them.
