— “What is that supposed to be?” Valera pushed his dinner plate away, grimacing as though he’d found something inedible rather than stew.
— “Stew,” Kseniya looked up from her own serving, surprised. “The same one I’ve made dozens of times before. Is something wrong?”
— “The meat’s tough,” Valera shook his head. “And there aren’t enough spices. When Mom makes it, the meat melts in your mouth—and the aroma hits you as soon as you open the door.”
Kseniya froze, fork in hand. In three years of dating and a year of living together before the wedding, Valera had never once criticized her cooking. On the contrary, he always praised it, asked for seconds, and rejoiced when she made his favorite dishes. Yet now, barely two months into marriage, he’d suddenly grown picky.
— “You used to like my stew,” she reminded him, trying to stay calm.
— “I had nothing to compare it with back then,” Valera shrugged. “Mom cooked it again recently, and I tasted the difference.”
Kseniya set her fork down. Over the past few weeks this was the fifth or sixth dish Valera had compared to his mother’s—always to Kseniya’s disadvantage.
— “Funny you noticed only now,” she said without reproach. “We’ve been together four years. Were you suffering in silence all that time?”
Valera faltered, then recovered quickly:
— “Marriage changes how you see things. Now you’re my wife, not just a girlfriend—you should live up to that.”
— “Live up to what?” Kseniya frowned. “Or to whom?”
— “Well… to a certain standard,” he answered vaguely. “You’re the lady of the house now.”
She recalled how, just a week earlier, Valera had scolded her cleaning, and before that the wallpaper she’d chosen for the hallway—always citing his mother as the model.
— “You want me to be like Zinaida Mikhailovna?” she asked outright.
— “What’s wrong with that?” Valera seemed genuinely surprised. “Mom’s the perfect woman—she can do everything, looks after everyone, creates coziness. You could learn a lot from her.”
Kseniya silently cleared the table. A year ago Valera had admired her independence and modern outlook, saying he was tired of girls who only knew how to cook borscht and mop floors, calling Kseniya “a breath of fresh air.” Where had that gone?
— “Mom’s coming over this Sunday,” Valera mentioned off-handedly, eyes on his phone. “She offered to show you the right way to cook.”
— “Really?” Kseniya paused with a stack of plates. “When did you two arrange that?”
— “We talked this afternoon,” he said without looking up. “She’s worried I’m not eating well.”
— “Because I cook badly,” Kseniya finished for him.
— “I didn’t say that.”
— “But you thought it,” she clattered the dishes into the sink so loudly Valera flinched. “And you told your mom, since she’s coming to teach me.”
— “Come on, Ksyusha,” he finally lifted his eyes. “Mom just wants to help.”
Zinaida Mikhailovna arrived on Sunday at noon sharp, lugging bags of groceries—an insult in itself, as though their fridge were empty.
— “Valera looks gaunt,” she declared, hugging her son. “You’re under-fed, my poor boy.”
Kseniya clenched her teeth but kept quiet.
— “Ksyusha, dear, I brought real beef from a trusted farmer,” her mother-in-law pulled out an impressive cut. “You have to tenderize it properly; then it’ll be soft. Watch and learn.”
The next two hours were torture. Zinaida commanded the kitchen like a general, criticized Kseniya’s every move, and lectured endlessly on how essential it was for a woman to please her husband at the table.
— “Valera likes more paprika in his stew,” she instructed. “And always add rosemary.”
— “Funny,” Kseniya couldn’t resist. “For four years Valera ate my stew without rosemary and never asked for paprika.”
— “He just didn’t want to hurt your feelings,” Zinaida smiled sweetly. “Men are so delicate about a loved one’s feelings.”
Valera, lounging in the next room by the TV, offered no comment. That evening, after his mother left an immaculate kitchen and three containers of food behind, Kseniya felt utterly drained.
— “Your mom thinks I’m useless,” she told Valera.
— “She just wants you to meet our standards, help you out,” he waved it off. “By the way, the stew came out amazing. That’s what experience means!”
Kseniya said nothing. One thought spun in her mind: What’s happening to my husband?
Zinaida’s visits became a weekly ritual. Every Sunday she arrived with new groceries, recipes, and unsolicited advice. Soon the sphere of her influence spread from the kitchen to Kseniya’s wardrobe.
— “This sweater does nothing for your figure, dear,” she remarked one visit. “When I was your age I wore fitted dresses. Men like their wives feminine.”
— “I’m comfortable in a sweater,” Kseniya answered coolly, chopping vegetables.
— “Comfort and beauty are different,” Zinaida produced a bundle from her bag. “I brought you a dress. Valera will love it.”
The dress was an exact copy of one Zinaida wore in photos twenty years ago—beige, with a stand-up collar and three-quarter sleeves.
— “Very… conservative,” Kseniya laid it on a chair. “But it’s not my style.”
— “And what is your style? Jeans and baggy sweaters?” Zinaida pursed her lips. “Valera was raised differently. He expects elegance.”
— “He liked how I dressed before the wedding,” Kseniya objected.
— “Men tolerate a lot before the wedding,” the older woman retorted.
That night, after Zinaida left, Valera eyed his wife:
— “Why didn’t you try on the dress? Mom’s upset.”
— “I’m not a doll to be dressed up,” Kseniya crossed her arms.
— “Mom was being nice. She looked stunning at your age—I have pictures.”
— “And you want me to be a replica of her?” Irritation rose inside Kseniya.
— “I want you to listen to an experienced woman’s advice,” Valera raised his voice. “Mom built a perfect family, raised me, always supported Dad. And you keep resisting!”
— “Because I’m me!” Kseniya cried. “Not your mother, not anyone else’s copy! If you needed a housewife in a beige dress, why marry me?”
Valera left the room, slamming the door. That night they slept on opposite edges of the bed, not touching.
The next week passed in tense silence. Kseniya noticed Valera stayed late at work more often, calling his mother first thing on getting home. One day she came back early and found Valera and Zinaida rearranging their living room.
— “What’s going on?” she asked, staring at the new layout.
— “Mom helped me redecorate,” Valera said. “It’s cozier, isn’t it?”
The room Kseniya had arranged with love now mirrored Zinaida’s living room—same curtains, same furniture placement, even identical cushions.
— “You didn’t even ask me,” Kseniya felt a lump in her throat.
— “I wanted to surprise you,” he seemed bewildered by her reaction. “Mom says this harmonizes the space.”
— “And my opinion doesn’t matter? This is my home too!”
— “Of course, dear,” Zinaida inserted smoothly. “That’s why I’m helping. A woman should create comfort, and you—”
— “And I what?” Kseniya turned to her. “What’s wrong with how I set up our home?”
— “Nothing, just a bit… youthful,” Zinaida smiled condescendingly. “Experience will teach you that a home reflects the woman who keeps it.”
— “Or the man who owns it,” Kseniya shot back. “Or his mother who orders everyone around.”
— “Ksyusha!” Valera stepped forward. “Apologize this instant!”
— “For not wanting to become your mother’s clone?” Kseniya’s voice rose. “Every day you demand I cook like her, dress like her, furnish like her! What’s next—talk like her, style my hair like hers?”
— “Don’t exaggerate!” Valera clenched his fists. “Mom’s just showing how a proper wife behaves!”
— “So I’m not a proper wife?” Kseniya grabbed her bag. “Fine. I need air. Keep turning our apartment into a museum of your childhood.”
She left them standing in the living room.
Kseniya returned after midnight. The apartment was silent—Zinaida gone, Valera apparently asleep. In the bathroom she washed her face, staring at the stranger in the mirror: lost, cornered. When had she allowed herself to become this way?
— “Where were you?” Valera’s voice made her jump.
He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, face stone-hard in the half-light.
— “Walking. I needed to clear my head.”
— “Until one a.m.? Do you realize how that looks? Mom was upset—she meant well, and you just walked out.”
— “Meant well for whom? For you? For her? Certainly not for me.”
— “You’ve become so selfish,” he shook his head. “You used to be different.”
— “No, Valera,” she passed him into the bedroom. “I’ve always been like this—you used to accept it. Even liked it. Now you want a silent doll—a replica of your mother.”
He followed her:
— “Mom just wants to teach you to be a good wife.”
— “And who decides what makes a good wife? Your mother? Maybe I have a say?”
— “You twist everything,” he raised his voice. “Mom has huge experience—thirty happy years of marriage!”
— “Wonderful for her,” Kseniya buttoned her pajamas. “But I’m not your mother. I have my own ideas about family.”
— “Apparently those ideas don’t include respecting your husband and his parents,” he sneered.
— “And yours don’t include respecting your wife and her individuality,” she shot back. “Remember? You loved my independence before. Now you’re forcing me into the very mold you once despised.”
Valera clenched his teeth:
— “After marriage things change—you need responsibility, maturity.”
— “Maturity, yes. Losing myself, no,” she sat on the bed. “Tell me honestly—was it your mother who pushed you to ‘re-educate’ me? Or did you decide I’m not good enough?”
He looked away—answer enough.
— “Thought so,” she said softly. “By the way, your mother called me today—wanted to talk ‘woman to woman.’ Did she mention that?”
Valera frowned:
— “No. What did she say?”
— “That I’m unworthy of you—too modern, too independent, not ‘right.’ She said I’d never make you happy unless I copy her.”
— “Mom would never—”
— “Oh, she would,” Kseniya stepped closer. “The worst part isn’t that she thinks so—it’s that you agree. You married me, then tried to remake me into your mother.”
— “Don’t be ridiculous!”
— “It’s the truth. And it became clear when she left town for two weeks and you started nitpicking three times harder—to prove you were following her orders.”
Anger distorted Valera’s face:
— “You’re just jealous of my relationship with Mom!”
— “No. I see I’m becoming a third wheel in my own marriage—after you and your mother.”
— “Stop insulting her!” he balled his fists.
— “I’m stating facts. You both decided what your wife should be and cram me into that mold. If I don’t fit—I’m the villain.”
— “You refuse to be a real wife!”
— “And you refuse to be a real husband!” Kseniya shouted. “A real man doesn’t let his mother interfere in his marriage! Doesn’t turn his wife into Mommy’s clone!”
Valera flushed deep red:
— “Shut up!”
— “No, I won’t! Want me to turn into Mommy? You’ll fail! Go hide under her skirt!”
His hand flew up but stopped a centimeter from her face. They froze, realizing how close they’d come to the edge.
— “You…” Valera lowered his hand, voice trembling. “You’ll regret those words.”
— “No,” Kseniya stepped back. “You’ll regret not accepting me as I am—letting your mother wreck our marriage.”
Valera left the room in silence. She heard him in the hallway, the rustle of clothes, a suitcase zipper. When she emerged, he stood at the door with a bag.
— “I’m filing for divorce,” he said coldly. “You’re right—we shouldn’t go on.”
— “Agreed,” Kseniya replied, surprised by her own calm. “It’s best for both of us.”
Six months flew by. The divorce was swift—he didn’t claim her apartment; she left his car. Zinaida tried to interfere—calls, angry texts, even showing up at the door—but Kseniya stood firm. No one would dictate her life anymore.
Spring brought warmth and new prospects. Kseniya was promoted, enrolled in photography courses—her long-time hobby Valera had called a waste—and completely redecorated the apartment: no beige curtains or tacky figurines, just bright colors, minimalism, comfort.
One sunny day she returned from a photo walk in the park, camera full of blooming trees. For the first time in ages, she felt genuinely happy.
— “Ksyusha?”
She turned to see Valera outside a café, a grocery bag in hand. He looked gaunt, drained—far from the confident man she’d known.
— “Hi,” she stopped, unsure how to react.
— “You… you look great,” he said in wonder. “You’re glowing.”
— “Thanks. How are you?”
— “Okay,” he shrugged. “Living with Mom until I move to a new place. Work’s steady.”
An awkward pause. He seemed restless, eyes darting.
— “Coffee?” he blurted out. “Just to talk. Like old friends.”
Kseniya hesitated. Six months ago she’d have refused, but now she felt strong enough to face the past.
— “Why not,” she agreed.
Inside they sat by the window with coffee. He clearly had something to say but struggled to start.
— “I’ve seen your photos online,” he began. “They’re beautiful. You’ve always had a good eye.”
— “Now I have time for what I love,” she stirred her drink.
— “Ksyusha, I…” he faltered. “I want to apologize. I behaved like an idiot.”
She met his gaze:
— “What changed?”
— “I did,” he said quietly. “I started therapy. Turns out I have a serious issue with boundaries—dependency on Mom’s approval.”
— “How did Zinaida Mikhailovna take that?” Kseniya asked.
— “Badly,” he chuckled sadly. “She says therapy’s nonsense. We argue a lot. I’m renting a place across town to see her less.”
She raised an eyebrow:
— “So you finally stood up to her?”
— “Not right away,” he admitted. “I kept blaming you, thought you ruined our marriage with stubbornness. Dated a couple of girls—same story: Mom interfered, I compared, demanded… they left. Just like you.”
He sipped his coffee, then:
— “Then I met Anya, a psychologist. First we talked, then she became my therapist. She helped me see the unhealthy bond with Mom—and how I destroyed our marriage.”
— “I’m glad you realized that,” she said sincerely.
— “Ksyusha,” he looked into her eyes, “I know I’m asking the impossible, but… could we try again? I’m different now. I won’t try to change anyone.”
Kseniya studied him. She saw genuine remorse. He had changed—but so had she.
— “Valera, I appreciate your honesty,” she said gently. “And your growth. But our paths diverged. I’ve found myself—learned to live how I want, without meeting others’ expectations. I don’t want to go back, even if it might be different.”
He dropped his gaze:
— “I figured. But I had to ask.”
— “You know,” she smiled slightly, “you gave me an odd gift. If you hadn’t tried to mold me into your mom, I might never have learned to stand up for myself. So… thank you.”
— “Glad someone benefited,” he smiled wryly.
They finished their coffee, chatting about mutual friends. At the door he asked:
— “Are you happy, Ksyusha?”
She thought a moment, then nodded:
— “Yes. For the first time in a long while, truly happy. And you?”
— “I’m learning to be,” he replied. “Learning to be myself, not an extension of Mom’s ambitions. It’s hard—but worth it.”
They went their separate ways. Walking home, Kseniya reflected on how strangely life works: sometimes you must lose something to find yourself; the most painful lessons often prove the most valuable.
Next day Valera messaged: “Thanks for meeting. I’m glad you’re happy. You deserve it.”
Kseniya smiled and replied simply: “You too.”