“A little,” in Svetlana Petrovna’s vocabulary, always meant an amount that would’ve covered Yana and Ruslan’s mortgage down payment. Sergey, of course, was the golden child: a successful lawyer, a gorgeous wife, two straight-A kids.
A perfect picture.
And Ruslan? Just an ordinary history teacher. In the eyes of his “successful” parents, that profession didn’t qualify as respectable. The pay was pennies! And Yana didn’t make much either at her small salon. They were constantly budgeting. They never waited around for help—everything was always on their own backs.
For Sergey’s wedding, his parents gave him a car.
And for Yana and Ruslan?
A toaster.
“Alright, let’s go,” Yana said, stepping into the entryway. “Kostya, give Mommy your hand.”
In the car, the usual argument started—about the route. Ruslan insisted on taking the bypass road. Yana was sure driving through the center would be faster, even with traffic.
“I’m telling you, it’s always gridlocked there!” Yana protested. “We’re going to be late again!”
“Oh, come on—it’s Sunday,” Ruslan waved her off. “Stop worrying so much.”
Kostik started whining. Yana pulled his favorite toy out of her bag and handed it to him.
“Here, Kostyenka—play with this,” she said gently.
They made it there, barely. Nina Pavlovna greeted them at the door with a tight, forced smile.
“Well, hello,” she said, flicking a quick glance at the clock.
“Hi, Mom,” Ruslan said, kissing her cheek. “Sorry we’re late. Traffic…”
“Yes, yes—traffic,” Nina Pavlovna drawled with meaning. “On a Sunday…”
Yana kept quiet, knowing anything she said would be taken as a provocation. She helped Kostik out of his jacket and went into the living room.
“Hello,” Yana said softly.
Viktor Semyonovich nodded without looking away from the screen.
An uncomfortable silence settled in the room. Yana felt like she didn’t belong at this so-called family gathering.
Lunch began, and throughout it, her mother-in-law never missed a chance to make a sharp remark—about Yana’s mothering, about how she dressed Kostik. Yana forced herself not to snap back, for her husband and son. All she could think about was the moment they’d finally get to leave.
Someone started a sluggish conversation about politics. Yana listened with half an ear while keeping an eye on Kostik, who was already messing around with his fork.
“Kostya, don’t do that,” Yana said, taking it from him.
“Oh, let the child play,” Nina Pavlovna cut in. “Why are you nagging him?”
“He could poke his eye out!” Yana blurted, finally losing patience.
“So what? He’s got two,” Nina Pavlovna replied coldly.
Ruslan quickly switched the topic to their summer cottage.
Viktor Semyonovich finally looked up from his plate.
“The cucumbers turned out great this year. Sergey and Lena came last week—canned so many jars! Lena’s a real homemaker, of course.”
Yana took a slow breath. Here we go again. Sergey. Lena. As if there weren’t any other topics in the world.
After lunch, Viktor Semyonovich went for a nap, and Nina Pavlovna started showing vacation photos—Sergey’s family in the Maldives. Yana stared at the turquoise water and perfect white sand and thought about how she and Ruslan could afford only a trip to her parents’ dacha. And even that usually turned into a full-blown stress test.
“Beautiful,” Yana said, forcing some emotion into her voice.
“Yes, Sergey doesn’t spare money for his family,” Nina Pavlovna said proudly. “Good for him!”
Yana nodded. Ruslan didn’t spare money for his family either—he just didn’t have the same opportunities. And a little support from his parents would’ve made all the difference. But that kind of help was something they could only fantasize about.
In the corner of the living room, Kostik started fussing. He tried to yank a wheel off his toy car, couldn’t, and threw it onto the floor.
“Kostik, what are you doing?” Yana sighed, standing up. She picked up the toy and handed it back. He turned away, puffed out his cheeks, and sat dramatically on the rug.
“Kids his age should already know how to play quietly,” Nina Pavlovna commented. “Sergey’s children never make scenes.”
Of course not. Sergey’s family was perfect.
“Yanochka, you should learn from Lena,” Nina Pavlovna went on. “She makes these chicken rolls—so lovely. I asked her for the recipe recently, but I’m afraid you won’t have time for things like that. And how’s work, by the way? Still just a hairdresser? Lena has her own business.”
Yana felt her jaw tighten. Business, sure. When you have money to invest, it’s easy. And what were Yana and Ruslan supposed to do—take on more loans? They were already drowning. Yana’s parents helped when they could, but from Ruslan’s parents they’d never seen anything but criticism.
The evening dragged on forever. Eventually it was bedtime. Yana would’ve preferred to leave, but the tradition was to stay the night.
That night, she woke up unexpectedly. The room felt stuffy, and her throat was dry. Quietly, she slipped into the hallway, went to the kitchen, and poured herself some water.
And as she passed her in-laws’ bedroom, she heard them talking.
“Well, what else can we do? We already discussed it,” her mother-in-law said. “Sergey has a family, a serious job. He’s put far more effort and money into the house. And Ruslan? What is he, really? What use is he?”
“Exactly,” Viktor Semyonovich agreed. “Ruslan can’t manage property anyway. What’s the point of leaving him anything?”
“Right! Let them live the way they always have. He didn’t marry for nothing…” Nina Pavlovna’s voice dripped with contempt on the last words.
Yana went cold inside.
They were already deciding the inheritance—and they planned to leave her husband with nothing.
The next morning at breakfast, Yana barely spoke. She mechanically plated syrniki for Kostik, listening as Nina Pavlovna once again drifted into her favorite subject: Sergey’s life, Sergey’s achievements, Sergey’s grand plans.
“Thanks for breakfast,” Yana said when they finished. “We’re leaving.”
“Already?” Nina Pavlovna asked, putting on a show of mild disappointment. “Well, as you wish.”
“Yes. Already,” Yana replied sharply, not looking at her. She started gathering Kostik’s things. Ruslan looked surprised, but didn’t argue.
Back home, Yana told Ruslan what she’d heard during the night.
“That can’t be true…”
“You think I’m lying?”
“Yana… they’re my parents. What am I supposed to do?”
“And you’re going to tolerate this forever? They humiliate us. You, me, our child. They don’t even love their grandson the way they love Sergey’s kids!”
Ruslan didn’t know what to say.
“Fine,” he said after a long pause. “If you don’t want to go there, then don’t. But I have to…”
“No, you don’t,” Yana cut him off. “You’re just used to being their second choice. And apparently you’re okay with that.”
Ruslan wanted to argue, but something in her words hit too close to home—because he knew she was right.
Yana never went back to Nina Pavlovna and Viktor Semyonovich’s house. She no longer had to tense up before every visit. Ruslan tried to keep some connection, but little by little he drifted away too. It wasn’t a decision he made in one moment—he simply started noticing, for the first time, how cold they’d been to him his entire life.
And slowly, he stopped calling.
You can’t force someone to care.
