ou wouldn’t throw your husband’s own mother out, would you?” The mother‑in‑law narrowed her eyes and cocked her head, as if scrutinizing Vera.
Her voice was gentle—almost tender—but it made Vera uneasy. She was standing in the middle of the kitchen, the smell of dinner still hanging in the air. The mother‑in‑law had just finished a cutlet, dabbed her lips with a napkin, and was now letting her gaze drift lazily over Vera’s face, waiting for an answer.
Vera braced her palms against the countertop, feeling its smooth surface, still a little damp from being wiped. The window was open; night air stirred the curtain. She didn’t know what to say. Or rather, she did know, but her tongue refused to say it aloud.
“Of course not, Nina Semyonovna,” she answered, forcing a smile.
And so they lived.
Vera still tried to believe things would get better. In the evenings the three of them dined together—Pavel talked about his day, Nina Semyonovna nodded along, Vera washed the dishes and listened. The mother‑in‑law made little comments, as if offhand. “Fish should be fried over high heat; yours turns out boiled,” she’d say, not looking up from her plate. “You’ve oversalted it again,” she’d grimace like a child given something inedible. Vera tried not to react.
She thought it was her home, yet the space seemed to shrink, making room for someone else. In the bedroom she found unfamiliar towels; in the bathroom, creams and shampoos smelling sharply of lilac; in the living room, a stack of magazines with dog‑eared pages. The mother‑in‑law took over gently but inexorably, like water finding cracks even in a strong dam.
When Vera left work, she no longer hurried home. She’d detour into the supermarket, wander the aisles, lingering at the dairy case, debating which yogurt to buy—though she knew none at all, because her mother‑in‑law called yogurt “chemicals.” She’d return to the entrance, turn back, and walk into the store again.
At home she’d find Nina Semyonovna in the armchair watching the news, the room smelling of something fried—meaning dinner was already cooked. Pavel looked worn‑out, tie off, drinking water straight from the tap.
“You’re late,” he’d say simply, without reproach, but Vera knew he’d noticed.
She’d go to the bedroom to change. The wardrobe felt alien—her clothes no longer smelled only of her perfume but of something else, faint yet irritating. When she came back out, her mother‑in‑law was already seated at the table.
“Next time warn us you’ll be late. We waited like fools,” she scolded, pushing away a plate of potatoes.
“I just popped into the store,” Vera replied.
“Hopefully you didn’t buy more useless junk?” Nina Semyonovna smiled, but her eyes were cold.
Sometimes Vera escaped to the balcony, resting her elbows on the railing and looking down. In the courtyard someone pushed a pram, teenagers argued loudly by the entrance, a cat perched on the hood of an old car. She caught herself thinking she no longer wanted to step back inside the apartment.
But she did.
One day she came home earlier than usual, turned the key, and heard voices.
“You could’ve married Yulia—she wouldn’t torture you like this,” said Nina Semyonovna.
Vera froze in the hallway.
“Mom, don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything. I just don’t understand why you put up with it. Tell me, Pavlik, does she even think about you?”
Heat flooded Vera’s cheeks. She stepped into the living room.
“Who are you talking about?” she asked, her own voice sounding strange to her.
Her mother‑in‑law flinched but quickly composed herself.
“About you, Vera,” she said calmly. “Since you heard us, no need to hide. Pavel and I are discussing his life, and frankly, I don’t like what it’s become.”
Vera said nothing. She simply walked to the bedroom and shut the door, yet even through the wall she heard her mother‑in‑law whispering to Pavel. He didn’t object—easier that way.
The next morning she woke to furniture scraping. Someone was pushing a heavy chest in the living room. Vera threw on a robe and stepped out. Nina Semyonovna was already rearranging: the coffee table had vanished, replaced by an old cabinet with ornate doors in the middle of the room.
“What’s going on?” Vera kept her voice even, though irritation swelled inside.
“Pavel and I decided it’s more convenient this way,” the mother‑in‑law replied without turning.
Pavel stood nearby, fumbling with the TV remote.
“Mom, maybe we should discuss it first?” he offered timidly, but it was clear the furniture would stay put.
Vera spun around and went to the bathroom—where another surprise awaited: on the shelf, instead of her cosmetics, lay jars labeled “Tired‑Leg Cream” and “Beeswax Balm.” Her things were gone.
“Mom said yours were expired,” Pavel muttered, peeking in.
“Did you check?”
He said nothing.
Vera opened the cupboard, found her toothbrush on the bottom shelf behind the soap dish. Heat rose in her chest; she slammed the toothbrush against the sink. The handle cracked.
“Perfect,” she whispered.
Her mother‑in‑law appeared in the doorway.
“Oh, Vera, be careful.”
Her tone was calm, even caring, but Vera saw the satisfaction in her eyes.
The day passed in a fog. At work colleagues discussed weekend plans; laughter echoed in the corridor; someone argued at the soda machine. Vera sat in front of her screen, barely seeing the text she was supposed to proofread.
That evening she entered the apartment to the smell of borscht. The mother‑in‑law was setting the table.
“Sit down,” she smiled.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Why do you sulk all the time?” Nina Semyonovna shook her head as though scolding a spoiled child.
“I just need some space,” Vera walked to the bedroom, shrugged off her coat, and heard a loud sigh behind her.
During dinner she remained silent. Pavel wasn’t eager to talk either. Only the mother‑in‑law kept the conversation going, recounting how she’d met an acquaintance in the store who complained about her own daughter‑in‑law.
“She never cares for her husband,” she sighed. “Cooks every now and then, house a mess. And the guy’s so nice.”
Vera looked at her, knowing exactly who that story was meant for.
When Nina Semyonovna went to bed, Vera stepped onto the balcony again. An autumn wind tugged at her hair; below, someone wrestled with a car lock. She stayed until her hands were numb.
That night she didn’t fight, didn’t argue, didn’t try to explain. For the first time a new thought came to her: what if she simply stopped struggling?
But then she noticed her favorite vase in the living room—moved onto the windowsill.
The next morning she made no breakfast. Usually she rose first, fried eggs, sliced bread, set out Pavel’s cup by the coffeemaker. Today she locked herself in the bathroom and didn’t come out until she heard her mother‑in‑law’s irritated voice.
“Pasha, you’ll be late!”
“I can’t find my shirt!”
“Where could it be?” The mother’s tone dripped exaggerated sympathy.
Vera stepped into the hall. Pavel rummaged through hangers; his shirts sat in the laundry basket.
“You didn’t wash them?” he turned to his wife, surprised.
“You’ve got hands,” she walked past calmly, picked up her bag, and left for work.
At the office she felt light for the first time in ages. The day flew by. A colleague invited her to lunch and she agreed. They sat by a café window, chatted about travel, work, other people’s intrigues, and not once in that hour did Vera think about her mother‑in‑law.
But reality returned the moment she got home.
Nina Semyonovna was waiting in the living room.
“Where did you disappear to?” Her voice was gentle, yet Vera saw the narrowed eyes.
“Had lunch with coworkers.”
“You might have warned me—I made dinner.”
“I had no time.”
“Pasha had no time either! Poor boy sat here hungry!”
Vera walked to the bedroom without answering. She heard low voices outside, Pavel sighing, mumbling something. She no longer cared what.
The next day she didn’t take her mother‑in‑law’s clothes off the drying rack, didn’t ask what to cook for dinner. On Saturday, when Nina Semyonovna rose early to mop the floors, Vera refused to feel guilty and didn’t offer help. She simply put on headphones, turned on music, and went to the kitchen to make herself breakfast.
“Could you at least ask what I’d like for once?” the mother‑in‑law complained.
“I think I’ve always asked,” Vera calmly flipped a pancake.
She didn’t know this was the last straw.
That night, as she and Pavel lay in bed, he suddenly spoke.
“Vera, why are you acting like this?”
“Like what?”
“Well…” He hesitated. “Mom says you’ve become rude.”
Vera snorted without turning over.
“So when I washed, cooked, and bent over backward, I was good? And now that I stopped, I’m rude?”
Pavel was silent for a long time.
“I just feel like you don’t love me anymore,” he said at last.
Vera didn’t reply. She didn’t know what to say. Yet in that moment she realized, terrifyingly clearly: what if he was right?
She packed in one night, moving quickly, almost mechanically, as if slowing down would make her change her mind. The suitcase filled with her life—her favorite wool cardigan, an old but comfy robe, jewelry that had sat in its box for years because her mother‑in‑law deemed it “too gaudy.”
Pavel sat on the edge of the bed, silent.
“Maybe don’t rush?” he said at last.
She looked at him.
“I’ve been not rushing for too long.”
He fell silent again. No excuses, no pleas to stay. He just watched as she gathered the pieces of her life.
In the hallway her mother‑in‑law was waiting.
“And where are you off to?” Her voice sounded almost cheerful.
“I’m leaving.”
“For long?”
“Forever.”
The mother‑in‑law squinted as if weighing the situation.
“You won’t manage on your own,” she finally said.
“We’ll see.”
Vera walked out and didn’t look back.
The apartment she rented was small but cozy. Her belongings fit into one wardrobe; the pots into a single drawer. She rejoiced in that—nothing extra.
For the first week she simply savored the silence. No cupboard doors slammed, no loud sighs behind her back, no one straightened cushions in the living room.
She began going to work easily, not lingering in the store debating what others might like.
Pavel didn’t call. Neither did she.
But three months later he showed up—sort of.
Late evening: Vera was about to go to bed when the doorbell rang. She wasn’t expecting anyone.
Nina Semyonovna stood on the threshold.
It took Vera a moment to believe it was really her. The usual confidence was gone, the domineering look replaced by uncertainty. She wore a warm sweater slipping off one shoulder and had a suitcase at her feet.
“Pavel threw me out,” she said.
Vera said nothing.
“I can’t stay with my friend; she has kids. I’ve nowhere to go.” Her voice trembled, but her eyes were the same—cold, assessing.
Vera looked at her for a long time.
Then she slowly reached for the door.
“Find Yulia,” she said calmly.
And closed it in her mother‑in‑law’s face.