Seven in the morning.
The phone buzzed on the kitchen table. Alyona had not even managed to drink her coffee yet, and Valentina Yegorovna was already calling her son for her usual morning inspection. Ivan sat down at the table and put the call on speaker, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Good morning, Vanechka! What did Alyona cook for dinner yesterday?”
“Spaghetti with chicken, Mom.”
“Pasta again? And where were the vegetables? You are a working man. You need proper food, not student meals.”
Alyona gripped her mug tighter. It was the same thing every morning. Her mother-in-law lived in her own apartment on the other side of the city, yet behaved as if she were in the next room, watching their every move.
“Mom, Alyona works late. She gets tired…”
“And who doesn’t get tired? At her age, I was raising three children and cooking hot soup for my husband every day. Why are you the one taking out the trash? That’s a woman’s job. And I bet your laundry isn’t done on schedule either.”
Alyona stood up and went into the bathroom just so she would not have to hear the rest. But her mother-in-law’s voice was so loud that it came through even the closed door.
Alyona worked as a nail technician in a beauty salon in the city center. Her shifts lasted eight to ten hours, often without days off, with clients coming one after another. By evening, her eyes watered from the lamps, her hands ached from repetitive movements, and her back throbbed from sitting in the same position for hours. When she came home, she dreamed only of silence and peace.
But there was no peace.
Instead, there were daily calls from Valentina Yegorovna, full of inspections and lectures. And there was her husband, who for some reason always put those conversations on speaker.
“Why do you switch to speaker every time?” Alyona asked him one evening.
“What’s wrong with that? Mom asks how things are, and I answer. You don’t mind, do you?”
“I do mind. Every day she discusses how I cook, clean, and do laundry. As if I’m a maid who isn’t doing her job properly.”
“Mom is just worried that we’re doing well. She’s used to keeping everything under control.”
“And you’re used to agreeing with her.”
Ivan shrugged and turned on the television. The conversation was over.
At first, Alyona tried not to pay attention to the daily phone calls. She told herself that Valentina Yegorovna was an older woman who had devoted her entire life to raising her son and simply could not let him go into adulthood so easily. She was used to controlling, interfering, and giving advice. It was normal for a mother who was afraid of losing her influence.
But when the comments and remarks began to sound like verdicts, Alyona’s patience started running out.
“You’re not some great specialist that dinner has to be delayed because of you,” Valentina Yegorovna said during another call. “You work, yes, but there’s no comfort in the house. Your husband is left without care, with nothing proper around him.”
Ivan listened to these speeches, nodded, and always replied the same way.
“Well, Mom, she gets tired at work… All right, I’ll tell her.”
He never defended his wife. He never stopped his mother. He never said that Alyona was doing perfectly well with the household. He simply agreed with every word and promised to pass it on.
“You can see it’s hard for Mom,” Ivan explained whenever Alyona tried to talk to him about it. “People become sharper with age. You need to understand.”
“And what about me? Isn’t it hard for me? I work ten hours every day, and then I have to listen to how terrible I am as a housewife.”
“Don’t take it so personally. She’s just worried.”
But it was not just worry.
Valentina Yegorovna came over without warning, walked straight into the kitchen, and began her inspection. She opened the fridge, shook her head at the sight of ready-made food, and pointed at crumbs on the table.
“There’s dust here,” she would say, running her hand along the windowsill. “And water stains here. And why are there so many dirty clothes in the laundry basket? Laundry should be done on time, not when there’s nothing left to wear.”
Alyona stayed silent, clenching her teeth. And Ivan stood nearby with an apologetic smile, as if apologizing to his mother for his wife.
“Mom, Alyona worked until nine last night…”
“Work is work, but the house must be in order. A wife is supposed to create comfort, not invent excuses.”
Little by little, Alyona began to understand that there were two people playing against her. Her husband, who always found a reason not to interfere, and her mother-in-law, who invented new complaints every time. Valentina Yegorovna behaved in their home not like a guest, but like the owner. And Ivan allowed it.
“Why don’t you stop her?” Alyona asked him one day after a particularly exhausting visit from his mother.
“She’s an old woman. She’s used to giving orders. Just be patient a little longer.”
“How long am I supposed to be patient? Until retirement? Until death?”
“Don’t talk like that. She’s my mother.”
“And who am I? Some random tenant?”
Ivan did not answer. He went into the room and turned on the computer.
The breaking point came in the middle of summer. Valentina Yegorovna invited the young couple to her home for a family dinner. Alyona arrived straight after work, tired and hungry, carrying a box of éclairs from a pastry shop.
“At least you brought something sweet,” her mother-in-law muttered, taking the box. “Otherwise you always expect everything ready-made.”
Alyona went into the kitchen and sat down at the table. Meat goulash was simmering on the stove, and the room smelled of dill and fried onions. Valentina Yegorovna filled the plates without stopping her commentary.
“I look at young wives these days — all they care about is nails and their faces. But cooking for their husbands, arranging the home — they’ve completely forgotten about that.”
“Mom, let’s just have dinner,” Ivan asked.
“Be quiet, son. I have something to say to your wife.”
Valentina Yegorovna placed a plate of goulash in front of Alyona and straightened up.
“Freeloader,” she said loudly and clearly. “You eat everything from my table and show no gratitude. Women like you only have nails on their mind.”
Alyona froze with the spoon in her hand. Blood rushed to her temples, and her heart beat so hard it felt as if it might burst from her chest. Ivan sat across from her, staring into his plate as if he had heard nothing.
Alyona slowly placed the spoon on the table. The kitchen fell so silent that the ticking of the wall clock became audible. Valentina Yegorovna stood over the table with a satisfied look, as though she had said something especially wise. Ivan remained frozen, eyes fixed on his plate, pretending to be completely absorbed in his food.
Alyona rose from her chair. Her movements were calm and measured, but something dangerous hung in the air. Even her mother-in-law stopped smiling.
“Shut your mother’s mouth, not mine,” Alyona said quietly, but so clearly that every word reached everyone in the room. “And if you can’t do that, pack your things and crawl back under her skirt.”
Valentina Yegorovna turned red, as if boiling water had been poured over her. Her eyes widened, her mouth opened, but no sound came out. For three seconds, the woman simply stood there, trying to process what she had heard.
“How dare you?!” Valentina Yegorovna exploded. “I am older than you! I am a mother! I am not your equal! How dare you speak to me like that?”
“You are not a mother. You are a prison guard,” Alyona interrupted without raising her voice. “And old age does not excuse rudeness. And you,” she turned to her husband, who was still sitting with his face lowered toward his plate, “if you stay silent again, you can leave with her. The two of you seem perfectly suited to living together.”
Ivan finally lifted his head. His face looked lost. His lips moved, but he struggled to find words.
“Alyon, let’s talk about this at home… Why are you being so harsh? This isn’t the time…”
“We are going to discuss only one thing,” his wife cut him off. “You are either with me or with her. Just don’t even think about coming back afterward.”
Alyona turned and walked into the hallway. She pulled on her light jacket and picked up her purse. Behind her, she could hear Valentina Yegorovna’s outraged shouting and Ivan’s weak attempts to explain something. But Alyona was no longer listening. She slammed the door and stepped out onto the landing.
Outside, the air was heavy and hot, smelling of heated asphalt and blooming linden trees. Alyona got on a minibus and went home, looking out the window at the courtyards passing by. Inside, she felt surprisingly calm. No regret. No doubt. Only relief that she had finally said what she had been thinking for months.
At home, Alyona took a shower, made herself tea, and sat on the sofa with a book. Her phone was silent. Ivan did not call or send a message. Apparently, he had stayed with his mother to deal with what had happened.
Her husband returned late that evening. He entered the apartment quietly, cautiously. Alyona was sitting in the kitchen, drinking tea and flipping through a magazine.
“Well?” she asked without looking up from the page. “Did you discuss it?”
“Alyon, why did you say that? Mom is crying. She says she has never seen such disrespect.”
“And I have never seen such rudeness. Or a husband who allows his wife to be insulted.”
“But she’s an elderly woman…”
“You have until tonight to decide,” Alyona interrupted, closing the magazine. “Are you a husband or a mama’s boy? I am not going to live with two grown women disguised as one man.”
Ivan sat down across from her and rubbed his face with his hands.
“You understand how hard this is. Mom is alone. She’s used to being in charge. I can’t just reject her.”
“Yes, you can. And you should. She is not a commander, and I am not a soldier in her army.”
“But…”
“No buts. I am not your nanny, and I am not a shield between you and your mother. If you want to be only a son, then be one. But not in this apartment.”
Ivan opened his mouth, wanting to object, but Alyona stood up and went into the bedroom. The conversation was over.
The next twenty-four hours passed in tense silence. Ivan walked around the apartment gloomy and muttering to himself. Several times he started dialing a number, but never actually called. Alyona went about her own business — doing laundry, cleaning, and cooking only for herself.
That evening, her husband packed his things into a large sports bag. Silently, he folded shirts, socks, and jeans. Alyona watched him from the doorway.
“I’m going to Mom’s,” Ivan said without looking up. “For a few days. We’ll think about what happens next.”
“Think,” Alyona agreed. “Just leave the keys.”
Ivan placed the keys on the dresser, picked up his bag, and left the apartment. Alyona walked him to the door, but she did not look out the window to watch him get into the car.
The first week without Ivan felt unusual.
Quiet.
No morning calls from Valentina Yegorovna. No evening reports about what had been cooked for dinner or whether the laundry had been done. Alyona walked around the apartment and realized, with surprise, that it was possible to live without giving a daily account of her every action.
Two weeks later, Ivan sent her a message.
“Can we meet? Talk?”
Alyona replied briefly.
“Why?”
“I want to come back. I’ve thought everything over.”
“And what does your mother say?”
There was a long pause. Then came his answer.
“Mom has nothing to do with this. This is our relationship.”
“Mom has everything to do with this. Until you understand that, there’s nothing to talk about.”
There were no more messages.
Alyona returned to her usual rhythm of life. Work, home, meetings with friends. She cooked whatever she wanted, watched films she actually liked, went to bed when she felt like it, and woke up on weekends without an alarm clock.
After a month, acquaintances began asking where Ivan was. Alyona answered simply, “He lives with his mother.” She gave no further explanations.
“Are you going to divorce?” asked Aunt Zina, the neighbor.
“We’ll see,” Alyona replied. “Time will tell.”
But deep down, she already knew the answer.
A man who cannot protect his wife from his own mother cannot truly be a husband. And a woman who has spent three years enduring daily humiliation will not endure it anymore.
Valentina Yegorovna no longer called, no longer came over, no longer checked the refrigerator or the laundry basket. Alyona lived alone in her apartment, calmly and peacefully. And for the first time in a long while, she felt at home.
In her own home.
Because a normal woman is not obliged to tolerate someone else’s mother instead of having a husband. And she certainly does not have to apologize for defending her dignity.
