God, please let everything go well,” Anzhela thought for the hundredth time, smoothing the creases in her new dress. The pale‑blue silk shimmered in the light of the setting sun.
In a small box on the dressing table lay a brooch—the very one her mother‑in‑law had been harping on about for the past six months.
“Tamara Petrovna’s daughter‑in‑law gave her one exactly like this. And what about mine? She hasn’t even guessed!”
Anzhela smiled at the memory of those hints. Well, tonight was the anniversary; maybe this gift would melt the icy heart of Lidiya Ivanovna.
“Anzhel, are you coming?” Oleg poked his head into the bedroom, dressed in his best suit. “We’ll be late!”
Three years of marriage hadn’t helped her understand why her husband pretended not to notice the cold war between her and his mother. He seemed loving, caring—until his mother started her usual sniping, and then he simply vanished behind excuses:
“Oh, come on, she’s just worried,” “You’re imagining things, she’s joking.”
“I’m coming,” Anzhela said after one last glance in the mirror. “Oleg, you remember the gift, right?”
“Of course,” he answered, but not very confidently.
The restaurant greeted them with a hum of voices. Lidiya Ivanovna sat at the head of the table like a queen on her throne, accepting congratulations from the guests.
Seeing her son, she broke into a radiant smile.
“Olezhek! At last! I’ve been waiting for you!”
Anzhela felt as if someone had cut her out of the frame—again, as always.
The first hour passed quietly enough: toasts, congratulations, clinking glasses. The daughter‑in‑law even began to hope that everything would be fine.
She was wrong.
“Lidiya Ivanovna,” Anzhela approached with the gift, “congratulations!”
“And what are you doing at my anniversary?” the mother‑in‑law sneered. “I invited only my son. I don’t recall inviting his wife. Get out!”
Silence fell, then someone snickered; others joined in, and soon half the guests were openly laughing at her.
“Mum, what are you doing?” Oleg began, but stopped under his mother’s heavy gaze.
“Ah, I must have mixed things up,” he mumbled, looking away. “It happens…”
His wife turned and looked at him closely.
What a coward! It was the last straw.
A lump rose in Anzhela’s throat, her eyes stinging. Without thinking, she spun around and fled toward the exit.
Behind her Oleg called out, but she no longer listened.
Anzhela burst from the restaurant, swallowing tears. The guests’ mocking laughter still rang in her ears. How could she have been so stupid? She’d hoped this damned anniversary would change something—that the gift would thaw her mother‑in‑law’s icy heart.
“Taxi, taxi…” She searched frantically, feeling the curious stares of passers‑by. At last a yellow cab pulled up.
“Severnaya Street, twenty‑three,” she managed, collapsing onto the back seat.
The driver nodded sympathetically and started the meter; he’d probably seen plenty of tear‑streaked, overdressed women in a hurry.
“Enough!” pounded in her temples. “I won’t allow this anymore!” For three years she’d bent over backward for that woman, endured barbs about being “the wrong match for her darling boy,” heard how “a real wife should…” And Oleg? He just waved it off: “Mom is Mom—you can’t change her.”
Anzhela clenched her fists until they hurt. Either her husband would finally put his wife above his mother’s whims or… he could go back to Mommy. She wasn’t going to be the family punching bag any longer.
That’s it. Period. Enough.
She stormed into the apartment and flung her purse into a corner. Tears still streamed down her cheeks, but now they were tears of rage—at her mother‑in‑law, at her husband, at herself for enduring it so long.
The doorbell made her jump.
“Anzhel, open up! I forgot my keys!” Oleg’s anxious voice sounded.
Of course—here he was to apologize. She could leave him out there, but she knew he wouldn’t go away.
The lock clicked. Anzhela stepped aside without looking at him. Oleg froze on the threshold at the sight of her tear‑stained face.
“What’s wrong?” He reached for her hand. “Why are you crying?”
“Why?” She recoiled as if struck. “I can’t take it anymore! Your mother, her jabs, her…”
She broke off, lunged at the closet and yanked the doors open. Clothes flew onto the bed.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Oleg stammered.
“What does it look like?” She dragged a suitcase from under the bed. “I’m leaving! I’ve had enough!”
“Wait, let’s talk—”
“Talk?” She spun on him. “Three years, Oleg! Three damned years I’ve endured her humiliations! And you? Did you ever—just once—stand up for me? No! You acted as if nothing was wrong!”
“I didn’t realize you took it so hard,” he muttered. “I thought you understood—that’s just Mom’s way. Her humor is… special…”
“Humor?” She laughed bitterly. “That’s not humor, it’s hatred! From the first day I crossed your threshold! And you know what’s worst? I don’t know who I hate more—her for doing it, or you for letting her!”
Clothes kept flying into the suitcase, and tears rolled again.
“Go,” she said quietly.
“What?”
“Get out!” she screamed. “Go to your mommy—she’s more important than anyone!”
“Stop.” He stepped closer, trying to hug her. “We can fix this. Please—”
“Can’t I?” She shoved him away. “She can do anything, but I can’t? Just leave, Oleg. It’s over.”
He stood in the doorway, hardly recognizing the furious woman who had once been his gentle, calm wife.
“Please,” she said more softly. “I need to be alone.”
When the door shut, Anzhela slid down the wall. Sob after sob shook her, but she knew there was no going back. No more silent victim. No more forgiveness for everything.
Oleg burst into the restaurant like a hurricane. His temples throbbed, his hands trembled. He had never felt such fury toward his own mother.
Anzhela’s tear‑streaked face flashed before him, her trembling lips as she threw him out.
“Go to your mother—she’s the most important person in your life!”
The words hit him like slaps. She was right. He’d buried his head in the sand while his mother systematically destroyed his marriage.
The hall was still buzzing. Guests whispered eagerly, casting glances at Lidiya Ivanovna, who sat unbothered, chatting with a friend.
“Mum!” His voice cut through the room; silence fell. “We need to talk.”
She frowned. “Olezhek, not now. It’s my anniversary, remember?”
“No—now!” He shoved a chair aside. “Stop pretending nothing happened!”
“What did happen?” She spread her hands theatrically. “Your wife threw a fit. I have every right to invite whomever I want. I didn’t want to see her. So what?”
Someone giggled. Oleg felt his blood boil.
“Your right?” He laughed—a humorless sound. “Enough games! You humiliated her on purpose! How could you? She’s my wife!”
“Exactly,” Lidiya tightened her lips. “Your wife. And I’m your mother. And I see she’s not right for you.”
“You—” he choked. “You just can’t accept that I love her! Three years, Mum! Three years of your torment, and I, like a coward, kept silent. Never again!”
Guests began edging away; some fiddled with phones, pretending not to hear.
“How dare you!” she cried, jumping up. “I devoted my whole life to you! And she—”
“She loves me! And listen: if you don’t apologize to my wife right now and stop your antics, I’ll erase you from my life.”
“What?” She turned pale. “You wouldn’t dare!”
“I would,” he said softly, coldly. “Choose, Mum. Either you accept Anzhela and treat her with respect, or you lose your son. Decide.”
Lidiya sank onto her chair. Never had she seen her boy like this—hard, determined, a stranger.
“The party’s over!” Oleg announced to the room. “Please, everyone, leave.”
No one argued. Five minutes later the hall was empty.
“Let’s go,” he took his mother’s arm. “We’re going to see Anzhela. You’ll apologize. Now.”
“But—”
“No buts,” he cut her off. “I won’t let you destroy my family or humiliate my wife any longer. Your anniversary is the perfect starting point for this.”
They headed outside.
Lidiya climbed into the car, unable to believe her scheme had collapsed. She’d planned to humiliate her daughter‑in‑law publicly and be rid of her once and for all—and instead…
She would have to yield, or lose her son. That she could not allow.
Anzhela sat on the bed, arms around her knees. Clothes lay strewn about—she hadn’t the strength to finish packing. Images from the evening kept whirling: her mother‑in‑law’s mocking stare, the guests’ laughter, Oleg’s bewildered face.
The doorbell rang.
On the threshold stood her husband; behind him, Lidiya Ivanovna. Anzhela’s stomach knotted.
“Why did you bring her? I told you—”
“Wait,” Oleg squeezed her hand. “Mum has something to say.”
The older woman shifted from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable. Gone was the haughty matron who’d mocked her before the guests.
“I…” she began, but Anzhela cut her off:
“No, hold on. You really think you can just come here, apologize, and everything will be fine?”
“Anzhela—” Oleg tried.
“No, let me finish!” she raised her voice. “For three years I endured your barbs, your contempt. I cooked your favorite dishes, bought presents, swallowed your remarks. And you—tonight you staged a show to humiliate me, didn’t you? To prove I’m ‘nothing’!”
Lidiya Ivanovna turned pale.
“I didn’t think—”
“You thought it through perfectly!” Tears sparkled in Anzhela’s eyes. “The funniest part? I truly hoped tonight would change things. I bought you that damned brooch you kept hinting at!”
She pulled the little box from her purse and flung it onto the coffee table.
“Anzhela, I was wrong. Oleg… made me realize I could lose my son. I don’t want that.”
“Oh, so that’s it! You’re apologizing not because you see your fault, but because you’re afraid of losing him?”
“Yes,” the mother‑in‑law admitted unexpectedly. “I won’t love you. But I’ll try to accept you. For Oleg’s sake.”
Anzhela looked at her husband. His fists were clenched; she saw how anxious he was. In that moment she understood that he truly loved her: for the first time in three years he had taken her side and stood up to his mother.
“You know what?” she inhaled deeply. “I’ll stay. Not for you”—she glanced at her mother‑in‑law—“but for my husband. Because tonight he finally showed I matter more than anyone. Even you.”
Lidiya Ivanovna exhaled in relief, but Anzhela wasn’t finished:
“But you will never cross this threshold again. Your apology saved your son’s marriage, not our relationship. Leave.”
“What? But—” She looked to Oleg.
He nodded silently. “Mum, you’d better go. It’s the right thing.”
Lidiya did not protest. Head held high, she left the apartment.
When the door closed behind his mother, Anzhela felt the tension of the past hours drain away.
How ironic: her mother‑in‑law had wanted to humiliate her at the anniversary, yet ended up humiliated herself—first by her son in front of the guests, and now by her daughter‑in‑law.
“I’m sorry,” Oleg whispered, hugging her. “I should have done this long ago.”
Anzhela smiled, resting her head on his shoulder.
“What matters is that you did it now. We’ll get through the rest—together.