On the kitchen table lay the wedding invitations—impeccable, polished down to the tiniest detail, as though this weren’t a simple wedding for Olya and Maksim but a royal affair. Olga counted them yet again, as if the disappearance of even one could cancel the celebration and send every guest rushing to return their tickets.
“Twenty‑eight… twenty‑nine… Blast, what if Pasha really drags along that Yulia of his with her silicone ‘assets’?” she thought, staring at the stack as though it might answer.
Maksim sat at his laptop pretending to work, but in truth he was wrestling with some baffling bug in the code and dreaming of vanishing far from all this wedding chaos. To Tyumen, for example. To his friends. Anywhere no one would demand he choose napkin shades right this minute.
“Maksim, don’t you think the place cards would look better in gold? They’d match the floral arrangements,” Olga mused, running a finger over the paper sample as if waiting for it to whisper, “Pick me—I’m perfect!”
Maksim tore his eyes from the screen, giving her the look of someone about to be shot for treason, and said,
“Darling, honestly, I don’t even know what floral arrangements are. I trust you completely.” He buried himself back in the screen, praying to be left alone.
Olga sighed. On the one hand, it was nice he trusted her; on the other, it irked her—as if he were merely part of the décor. In three years together Maksim had always been agreeable to anything the woman said. Their wedding was meant to be the logical finale of an office romance that began with, “You spilled your coffee.”
“By the way, Mom called,” Maksim said off‑handedly while reaching for his coffee cup—though he was really dropping an information bomb.
Olga froze, invitation in hand, a nervous tremor in her eyes.
“But we ordered the cake two weeks ago. Three tiers. Raspberry. You posted the photo in the group yourself,” she said in the tone of a surgeon discovering a forgotten clamp inside a patient.
“I know, I know,” Maksim lifted his hands as if under audit. “She just wants to stay informed. She knows a baker—did Aunt Klava’s big birthday cake.”
Olga narrowed her eyes.
“And Aunt Klava is now… a dessert expert?”
“That’s exactly what I told her,” he muttered, hiding behind the laptop like a mouse in its hole.
Olga slumped onto a stool and rubbed her temples. Svetlana Petrovna. Of course. That woman was like Wi‑Fi: everywhere, hearing everything, poking into every affair. The restaurant wasn’t right because her friend didn’t own it. The bouquet was “too plain.” Then appeared some colleague’s third cousin who, it turned out, was a photographer—with a diploma.
A knock at the door sounded like a gunshot. And there she was—Svetlana Petrovna in person, striding in like a commanding general on inspection. She entered as though expecting everyone to rise and sing the anthem.
“Hello, my dears!” she declared brightly, poised to seize control of the wedding. “I decided to drop by! Wanted to see how you’re managing!”
“Mom, a little warning would’ve been nice…” Maksim mumbled, standing like a dog on a leash to kiss her cheek.
“Surprises are good for the heart!” She waved a hand and headed straight for the kitchen. “And what’s this? The final invitations? Mmm… the font is modern, but somehow… soulless.”
Olga clenched her teeth: inhale, exhale, inhale… stop at five. Classic.
“Good afternoon, Svetlana Petrovna. Yes, final versions—already at the printer.”
“Pity, pity…” She feigned disappointment while her eyes gleamed with anticipation. “Because I happen to have something…”
A massive folder landed on the table as though it contained invasion plans, not ideas.
And off she went: waving printouts, clippings, charts, even an evening schedule. “Doves—during the vows!” “The toastmaster—tried and true! Worked for the deputy minister’s daughter!” “Videographer with drones!” Ideas poured like from a cornucopia.
Olga endured. But eventually—she snapped.
“Svetlana Petrovna, you don’t understand…” Her voice shook not with tears but with rage. “Everything’s already ordered. Paid. Signed. All that’s left is for us not to lose our minds these next two weeks.”
“Money?” A dismissive wave. “I’m ready to invest. For my son. When else will I see him in a tux?”
Maksim shifted from foot to foot as if he desperately needed the restroom but was afraid to ask where it was.
“We have everything planned. Down to the last detail,” Olga cut in. “Including the first dance we’ve rehearsed for three months. It’s a paso doble.”
“Maksimushka, you dance?” Mother’s eyes widened. “You? You nearly killed the PE teacher at prom with your waltz!”
“We’ve had lessons,” Olga interjected before Maksim could open his mouth. “With a professional. He moves great—if no one distracts him with advice.”
The air grew so thick you could spread it on bread.
Svetlana Petrovna arched an eyebrow as though asked to forfeit her pension.
“Well then… we’ll see how that turns out,” she said with the chilly politeness of a surgeon pre‑op.
Olga nodded. Maksim kept pretending to code. (The laptop had been off for ages.)
On the table lay those same invitations—innocent sheets unaware of the nerves and therapy they’d cost.
Mother‑in‑law eyed Olga as though she were applying for minister, not picking first‑dance music.
“I’m sure the steps are simple,” Svetlana said with a sour smile. “I, incidentally, did ballroom professionally in my youth—even earned a diploma in Poland.”
Olga nearly choked on air. There it was.
“Mama,” Maksim tried to keep a smile, feeling the domestic drama closing in. “We’ll dance with you too. But the first dance—well, you know, tradition says it’s for the newlyweds.”
“Of course, of course,” she nodded with sugary courtesy, snapping the folder shut as though to pinch someone’s fingers. “I won’t interfere. By the way, Olga, have you chosen your dress?”
“Yes,” Olga answered curtly, mentally begging the universe: “Please don’t suggest a fitting. I can’t survive another ‘fashion court’.”
“And which dress? Full skirt? Or that modern tight fish‑style?”
Olga drew breath to answer politely yet with sarcasm, but Maksim cut in:
“It’ll be a surprise.” He deftly whisked the idea folder from his mother. “Mom, thanks for the suggestions, really, but we’ve still loads to discuss. Time’s short.”
When the door finally closed behind her, Olga collapsed onto a chair as if she’d unloaded a truck—without using her hands.
“Maksim, do you even realize she’ll never let us go? Not today, not tomorrow, not after the wedding—never! She’s got a series in her head titled ‘Mother and Property.’”
“She just wants to help,” Maksim shrugged, as though it weren’t a problem. “She’s bored. Retirement, house, cat, crosswords—she invents roles for herself.”
“It’s not boredom, Maksim!” Olga stood at the window, staring out as though she expected to see a truck labeled “Freedom.” “She wants control—over everything. I dread what’ll happen when kids enter the picture. She’ll move in and start scheduling feedings.”
“Come on.” He hugged her from behind, chin on her shoulder. “We’re together; that’s what matters. The rest we’ll manage. Worst case, we move to Tver.”
The Wedding Day
The day dawned lovely—sun through lace curtains, birds singing, phone buzzing like it might take flight. Olga woke early. Makeup artist and hairdresser were due in an hour, but anxiety was already gnawing her liver. The phone flashed messages from friends, the coordinator, some aunt in Tambov, and, of course, from her.
Svetlana Petrovna:
“Darling, don’t worry. Everything will be wonderful—especially the ceremony. I have a couple ideas for the emcee; I’ll call him this morning.”
Olga glared at the screen. “Ideas? We finalized everything a week ago!” She rang Maksim—no answer: probably with friends, trying to make his tie behave.
The ceremony went almost flawlessly: cream gown, radiant bride, groom glowing like fairy lights. Even Svetlana refrained from scenes—though her outfit… Any whiter and she’d be mistaken for the star of the night. Subtle, tasteful passive aggression.
At the restaurant: canapés, champagne, upbeat host. Olga exhaled—maybe she’d worried for nothing. Maybe Mother‑in‑law had truly accepted her place.
Yeah, right.
When the emcee announced the first dance, the hall sprang to life. Guests stepped aside, clapped. Maksim offered his hand; music began—the song they’d met to. Olga breathed, closed her eyes—magic. Perfect steps, like in a film. Laughing guests, camera flashes, champagne on lips, and him—her person, leading her through the dance.
Then—tap. A sharp hand on the shoulder; the scene snapped.
Olga turned. Her. Draped in lace, predatory eyes gleaming.
“Step aside, I’m going to dance with my son!” Svetlana declared, reaching for Maksim as though he’d chirp “Mommy!” and dash over.
The hall froze. Even the music seemed to hush. Someone snickered, but most stared at floors or ceilings.
“Mama, what are you doing?” Maksim kept hold of Olga’s hand yet looked crucified between two women.
“Maksimushka, come now… We must dance! You’re my only son! I raised you alone! One dance isn’t a crime!”
Olga felt herself boil. This wasn’t just a dance—it was a power play.
“Maksim,” she said quietly but clearly enough for all, “did you choose me, or are you still Mommy’s little boy?”
Bam. Silence—save the music, now stripped of romance. Maksim’s eyes darted. War on his face, likely in his head too.
“Mama…” He gently freed his hand from her vise. “…You will dance today. But right now—this is our moment. Please respect that.”
Mother, demoted to supporting actress, twisted her face and hissed:
“So this is how you talk to me now? Because of her?! I gave you my life, and you—”
Olga nearly quipped “Thank you as well,” but saved it. The music cut abruptly; the hall plunged into a vacuum: no chair creak, no sigh, just whispers like before Act Three. People avoided eye contact, fiddled with forks, discussed champagne temperature.
Olga exhaled—not a theatrical gasp but the breath of someone whose mortar just detonated underfoot. Releasing Maksim’s hand, she walked to the exit—calm, steady, head high. If she didn’t leave now, she’d shatter.
Friends exchanged looks. Anna bolted after her, heels clacking so hard an attendant flinched.
Maksim stood alone on the dance floor, a mannequin in a shop window—neither here nor there. Eyes on his wife’s retreat, then on his mother, who beamed like small‑town glamour.
“Well, now we can dance,” Svetlana said sweetly, looping her arm through his as if nothing happened. “I haven’t ruined anything.”
“Mama, do you realize what you’ve just done?” Maksim freed his arm—not harshly, but finally.
“I simply wanted to be part of the celebration,” she answered, wounded, as though denied free coffee. “I’m not a stranger—I’m your mother!”
A guest muttered, “Does this actually happen?” Another: “Guess the cake’s for Mom too?” Laughter stifled behind napkins; eyes averted.
Svetlana flushed blotchy red.
“How dare—! I just wanted joy! It’s my son’s day!”
Shame trickled down Maksim’s back like cold sweat. Not anger—understanding, for the first time: she never saw the line. And he’d always let her cross it.
“I’m going to find Olga,” he said flatly and left.
The emcee, sensing invisible shrapnel, scrambled to resuscitate the mood—jokes, music, anything. People danced, smiled—through gritted teeth. Everyone knew something serious had happened, each thinking: “What if I get a mother‑in‑law like that? Worse—what if I am one?”
Maksim found Olga in a quiet lounge scented with lavender and something expensive. She sat on a sofa, back still straight. Anna whispered comfort, words lost in the hush.
Seeing Maksim, Anna nodded and slipped out.
“Olya, I—” he began. She raised a hand.
“Not now, Max.” She didn’t look at him; her voice was ice sliding over glass. “If you don’t end this right now, I will. I refuse to start our life as the punchline of a mother‑in‑law joke.”
Maksim was silent. She was right. Easier to yield, shrug, pretend nothing was wrong—always had been.
“I’ll fix it,” he vowed. “I promise.”
The evening limped on: eating, drinking, dancing, photos for social media. Olga maintained dignity, a faint smile, as if nothing had happened—though inside was likely an inferno. Svetlana sat like a retired general: wine glass, face saying “not my fault,” shooting heavy glances at the couple.
Later, when most guests had gone, she approached her son, who was stacking gifts, reading cards, smiling crookedly.
“Maksimushka… don’t be mad,” she cooed—the tone used to coax a cat from a cupboard. “I meant well. It’s an important day.”
He straightened. Met her eyes—no anger, just an adult to an adult.
“You ruined it, Mom. And not for the first time. But today—too much.”
“What are you saying?” she gasped. “I devoted my life to you! Everything for you!”
“Which is why you should have respected my choice—this day, this woman beside me. What you did isn’t love. It’s control. I don’t need that anymore.”
She froze—morally, if not physically—as though struck by something soft yet crushing.
“She’s turned you against me…” she whispered.
“No, Mom. You did this yourself. You forced me to choose. I chose.”
Aftermath
Next morning they left—one week by the sea: sun, cocktails, soul detox. Olga stopped checking her phone. Maksim listened to voicemails: his mother oscillating between “forgive me” and “you betrayed me,” sometimes in the same message.
Two days after they returned, she called. Olga answered, unblinking.
“Svetlana Petrovna, we need to talk,” began the mother‑in‑law—no greetings. “You’re very touchy. Families must forgive.”
“I’m not offended,” Olga replied calmly. “I understand perfectly. And I won’t let you interfere again.”
“What do you mean, ‘won’t let’? I’m Maksim’s mother! I have rights—”
“To love your son, yes. To destroy our marriage, no.” Clear, firm. “If you can’t accept that, we’ll reduce contact.”
Maksim took the phone. The conversation was long—not a fight, a grown‑up talk.
Months passed. Svetlana didn’t call. Dry replies to texts, no dinners, nursing her grievance.
Then, on their first anniversary, she showed up—with flowers, a bottle of wine, and—miraculously—no complaints.
“I’m probably not the easiest mother…” she said quietly over dinner. “Letting an only son go is hard.”
Olga held her gaze.
“But I’m trying,” Svetlana added. “And I’ll keep trying.”
No applause, no teary hugs—but it was a step. A step toward something workable, if no one buckled.
Later, in bed, Olga turned to Maksim.
“You know, it could’ve been worse. She might’ve shoved my face into the cake.”
Maksim laughed and pulled her close.
“Thank you for not giving up—and for making me finally grow up.”
As for that awkward first dance? It wasn’t a disaster after all—it was the starting line. Not the flawless wedding, but the choice born on that dance floor—that’s where their real family began.