Olga was standing by the window with a cup of tea that had already gone cold, studying the May sky, when the front door swung open. She frowned—ten o’clock on a Saturday, and they weren’t expecting anyone. In the entryway she spotted a familiar silhouette in a beige trench coat.
“Good morning, Olenka!” Alla Viktorovna burst into the apartment with the kind of energy that always made Olga tense on instinct. “I was passing by and thought I’d drop in.”
Passing by—from the other end of the city, Olga thought, but aloud she only said, “Hello. Come in—I was just having tea.”
Her mother-in-law had gotten a set of keys to their place the first time Olga and her husband went away together. Just in case, she’d said back then.
Alla Viktorovna walked straight into the kitchen, gave the towels hanging on the drying rack a critical once-over, ran a finger along the windowsill, and finally sat down.
“Is Igor working again this Saturday?”
“They’re in crunch mode—deadline for a project.”
“With you two it’s always a crunch.” Alla Viktorovna sighed as if she personally carried the weight of her son’s badly managed life. “A man should be home on weekends, with his family. Now Igor’s father never—”
Olga let the familiar speech drift past while she poured tea into cups. Five years of marriage had taught her not to engage—arguing with her mother-in-law felt like trying to empty the ocean with a spoon.
“Anyway, Olenka, I came with something important.” Alla Viktorovna took a sip and placed her hands on the table—a gesture that usually meant something unpleasant was coming. “I know your birthday is the day after tomorrow.”
“Yes, I’ll be thirty,” Olga felt a flicker of unease. “Igor and I planned—”
“Exactly!” her mother-in-law cut her off, triumph ringing in her voice. “A milestone! Thirty! That has to be celebrated properly—with flair. Not in some restaurant for two, like you were thinking.”
Olga set her cup down.
“Alla Viktorovna, Igor and I already agreed. I don’t want—”
“Cook dinner for twenty-five people—I invited all the relatives for your birthday,” Alla Viktorovna announced brightly, ignoring her objections. “Can you imagine? The whole big family together! Aunt Zina is coming from Podolsk, Igor’s cousin with his whole bunch, and my institute girlfriends—they’ve wanted to get to know you better for ages. I called everyone yesterday. Everyone confirmed!”
Olga’s breath caught.
“What do you mean you called everyone? Alla Viktorovna, it’s my birthday…”
“Exactly—yours!” Her mother-in-law bloomed into a smile. “That’s why I want to make you happy. You know how I love throwing parties. Remember Igor’s father’s fiftieth? People still talk about it!”
Olga remembered it perfectly: three days of cleaning after, a ruined tablecloth, neighbors banging on the wall at two in the morning—and Alla Viktorovna telling everyone what a brilliant hostess she was while Olga stood in the kitchen scrubbing an endless parade of plates.
“But I don’t want that kind of party,” Olga tried again, keeping her voice steady. “I’m turning thirty. I want something quiet, just with Igor. We already booked a table at Bellissimo. I bought a new dress…”
Alla Viktorovna flicked her hand as if swatting a fly.
“A restaurant! What kind of celebration is sitting at strangers’ tables eating reheated food? At home it’s all real, familiar. You’ll make your signature salads, roast some meat—you do it so well. I even made a list of what you need to buy.” She reached into her purse and produced a sheet covered in writing. “Here, look. Five kilos of pork, about eight hundred grams of cheese, and grab three liters of mayonnaise right away…”
“Alla Viktorovna, stop,” Olga felt everything inside tighten into a hard knot. “You can’t just schedule a party in my home without asking me!”
Her mother-in-law raised her eyebrows in genuine surprise.
“Olenka, what are you talking about? I’m doing it for you. I thought you’d be thrilled. Young people are so strange—no appreciation for family, always running to restaurants. And when else will the relatives all gather? Aunt Zina even took time off work. And Marina—my friend—promised to bake the cake. She has golden hands.”
“But it’s my birthday,” Olga repeated, stunned by the absurdity. “Mine.”
“Yes, yours—so I organized everything.” Alla Viktorovna stood and smoothed her coat. “So get ready. On Monday around six, people will start arriving. I’ll come earlier and help you set the tables. Want to borrow my tablecloth? Yours is a bit… plain. Alright, I have to run—still need to pick up a few things for the celebration. Bye, sweetheart!”
The door closed behind her, leaving a trail of Chanel perfume and the unmistakable feeling of catastrophe. Olga stood in the hallway staring at the shopping list left on the console by the mirror.
Five kilos of pork. Six cans of pineapple. A kilo of shrimp.
Slowly she went back to the kitchen, sat down, and buried her face in her hands. Five years. Five years of trying to build boundaries, to explain that she and Igor were their own family—with their own rules and traditions. And every time Alla Viktorovna rolled through those boundaries like a tank through cardboard.
Igor came home around three—rumpled, exhausted, but pleased.
“Finished! Finally.” He hugged Olga from behind, burying his nose in her hair. “That’s it, I’m all yours now. Tomorrow we rest all day, and the day after—your birthday. Oh, and I picked up your present from the workshop. I hid it at Dima’s office so you wouldn’t stumble across it.”
“Igor… your mom came by.”
He froze.
“What did she want?”
Olga turned to face him.
“She invited twenty-five people to my birthday. Here. And I’m supposed to cook for everyone.”
Igor went pale.
“What? Wait—twenty-five people?”
“All your relatives. And her friends. She already called everyone and invited them for Monday at six.”
“But we have the restaurant! We booked it three weeks ago!” He dragged a hand down his face. “God, it’s the classic move. I’m calling her right now.”
“No,” Olga stopped him. “Don’t call.”
“What do you mean don’t call? This is insane! She can’t just—”
“She can. She does. And she always will if we don’t stop it.” Olga looked straight at him. “Igor, how many times have we been through this in five years? She shows up without warning, sticks her nose into our life, decides things for us. You call her, you fight, she cries, you feel guilty—and in the end it’s still done her way.”
“But this time it’s—”
“Igor, I’m not arguing with your mom anymore. I’m tired.” Olga felt a lump rise in her throat. “I’m tired of proving I’m allowed to have my own life. That my birthday is actually mine.”
He hugged her tighter.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry she’s like this. I’ll talk to her—we’ll cancel everything. Seriously, I—”
“No need.” Suddenly a cool resolve settled inside Olga. “Let it be exactly the way she planned.”
Igor stared at her, confused.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning—let all twenty-five people come. Monday at six.”
“Olga, are you serious? You just said—”
“I’m serious.” She slipped out of his arms and smiled—for the first time that morning. “Just trust me, okay? And on Monday, make sure you’re home by five.”
Sunday and Monday Olga moved through the house with a strange, almost serene calm. She didn’t answer any of Alla Viktorovna’s three calls—probably checking whether everything was bought and the meat was ready. Igor paced the apartment, asking again and again what she was planning, but Olga only gave him a mysterious smile.
On Monday morning she called Bellissimo and confirmed their reservation. Then she pulled her new dress from the closet—emerald green, fitted, the one she’d chosen three weeks earlier. She did her nails, styled her hair. Igor watched with growing disbelief.
“Olga… are you going to explain?”
“You’ll see.”
At four o’clock she took out the groceries—the exact items she’d dutifully bought from Alla Viktorovna’s list—and arranged them neatly in the fridge. Pork, cheese, mayonnaise, shrimp, pineapple—all in their places. Then she grabbed a sheet of paper and wrote in large letters:
“Dear guests! Thank you for coming to celebrate my birthday. Unfortunately, I won’t be here—I’m out celebrating my thirtieth the way I planned. All the groceries are in the fridge and the dishes are in the cupboards. Cook whatever you like. Have a lovely evening!”
She stuck the note to the fridge with a magnet, then turned to her stunned husband.
“Shall we go?”
“You’re serious?” Igor looked at her with equal parts admiration and terror.
“Completely. I wasted too much time on explanations no one listened to. Maybe actions speak louder than words.”
“But my mom… she’ll kill me. Us.”
“Your mom is an adult,” Olga said gently. “And everyone she invited is an adult too. They’ll manage just fine without us—especially with that much food.”
Igor was quiet for a few seconds, then a slow smile spread across his face.
“You know what? You’re right. Damn it—you’re absolutely right. Let’s go celebrate your birthday.”
They left at five thirty, when the evening sun painted the city in rose-gold. At Bellissimo they were welcomed like honored guests and shown to a window table. Igor ordered champagne. Olga chose the arugula-and-pear salad she’d read about in reviews.
The first call came at 6:20.
“Igor!” Alla Viktorovna’s voice shook with outrage. “Where are you?! Guests are already arriving and you’re not here! And what is that note on the fridge?!”
“Mum, we’re at a restaurant,” Igor replied evenly, covering Olga’s hand with his. “We’re celebrating Olya’s birthday. The way she wanted.”
“The way she wanted?! And the guests? And Aunt Zina, who came all the way from Podolsk?!”
“Mum, everything you need is in the fridge. You know perfectly well how to cook. Entertain the guests you invited.”
“But… this is humiliating! Olya was supposed to—”
“Olya doesn’t owe anyone anything,” Igor’s voice hardened. “It’s her birthday. She has the right to celebrate it the way she chooses. You didn’t ask her or me before you arranged all this. So now you handle it yourself.”
“Igor… how can you?” Alla Viktorovna gasped. “I did it for you! I only wanted what was best!”
“If you truly wanted what was best,” Igor said calmly, “you would’ve asked what Olya wanted—on her own birthday. Have a nice evening.”
He ended the call and looked at his wife. Olga saw pride in his eyes—alongside a flicker of panic.
“Well, that’s it,” he muttered. “Tomorrow she’ll bury me.”
“She won’t,” Olga smiled. “You just did what you should’ve done five years ago. You protected your family.”
For the next twenty minutes the phone kept buzzing—Alla Viktorovna, then unfamiliar numbers (probably relatives), then Alla Viktorovna again. Igor watched the screen with growing resolve and didn’t answer.
“You know,” he said when the waiter brought the main course, “I feel awful and amazing at the same time. Awful because she’s my mother and I feel sorry for her. Amazing because for the first time in years I feel free. And I finally understand what you’ve been trying to tell me.”
“I don’t want you to feel awful,” Olga said softly. “In my own way, I even care about your mom. But I can’t keep living as if my opinion—my wishes—don’t matter. Like I’m just an attachment to your family instead of a person with needs.”
“I get it.” Igor lifted his glass. “To you. To my incredible, brave wife. Happy birthday, Olya—your real birthday.”
They clinked glasses, and Olga felt a weight slide off her shoulders—one she’d carried so long she’d stopped noticing how heavy it was.
Dinner was wonderful. They talked about everything—work, summer plans, whether they should finally get a cat. They laughed at the waiter’s jokes, tasted each other’s dishes, ordered dessert even though they were already full. It was exactly the evening Olga had dreamed of: quiet, intimate, just the two of them.
They got home around eleven. The apartment was suspiciously quiet—and clean. Apparently, the guests had managed after all. On the kitchen table lay a note in a different handwriting:
“Igor, come by tomorrow. I need to talk to you. Mom.”
“Are you going?” Olga asked.
“I am,” Igor nodded. “But this time the conversation will be different.”
The next day Igor returned after dark. Olga sat on the couch with a book, but she wasn’t really reading—she was listening to the silence and marveling at how light she felt after yesterday.
“So?” she asked when he went to the kitchen and poured himself water.
“First there was a massive scandal,” Igor said with a tired smile. “Mum accused you of every sin under the sun. Said you’d ruined me, that I didn’t respect my parents anymore, that the family was falling apart.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said the family is very much intact.” Igor sat beside Olga. “My family is you. And if she wants to be part of it, she has to respect our boundaries, our decisions, our life.” He took Olga’s hand. “I told her I love her, but I won’t let her behave as if our life belongs to her.”
“How did she take it?”
“At first she cried. Then she got angry. And then… I think she started to understand.” Igor rubbed the bridge of his nose. “In the end she even admitted she was scared yesterday—when we weren’t there and she had to explain everything to the guests. Aunt Zina, by the way, told her she only had herself to blame—and said we did the right thing standing up for our life.”
“Aunt Zina from Podolsk?”
“That one.” Igor finally laughed. “Mum was in shock. Turns out not everyone was on her side.”
“And now?”
“Now we set rules.” Igor squeezed Olga’s hand. “No surprise parties. No decisions made for us. If she wants to come over, she calls first. If she wants to organize something, she asks first.” He smiled. “I wrote it all down and we both signed it—like a contract. And I asked for the keys back. At least until our next vacation.”
Olga burst out laughing.
“You’re serious?”
“Completely.” Igor grinned. “With Mum, you can’t be vague. She needs clarity and structure. Otherwise she genuinely doesn’t understand where the line is.”
“And do you think it’ll work?”
“I don’t know,” Igor admitted honestly. “But now I’ll insist—because yesterday I saw you truly happy for the first time in a long time. And I realized what we’ve both been missing.”
Olga leaned into him, feeling something inside finally unclench.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “For backing me.”
“No—thank you,” he answered. “For teaching me how to say ‘no.’”
They sat in the quiet of their evening apartment—exactly the way they wanted it. No uninvited guests, no чужие планы mapped onto their lives. Just the freedom to be themselves.
Olga’s phone chimed—one new message from Alla Viktorovna:
“Igor, tell Olya: I was wrong. I’m sorry. Next time I’ll ask first. And happy birthday to her. Let her come by—I saved some cake.”
Olga read it and smiled.
“Progress?”
“Looks like it,” Igor said. “Small, but real.”
And that was the beginning. Not perfect, not easy—but a beginning of what they’d been missing all these years: mutual respect, and the simple truth that everyone has the right to their own life. Even if you’re someone’s daughter-in-law. Even if you’re thirty. Even if your mother-in-law is used to deciding everything herself.
And the emerald dress? Olga started calling it her lucky one—the dress she wore the night she didn’t just celebrate a birthday, but claimed a small victory: the right to be herself.
