Alena stood in front of the mirror in the hotel room, adjusting the folds of her wedding dress, feeling the familiar anxiety tightening her throat. The dress was truly beautiful — made of silk, with delicate lace inserts and light ruffles on the skirt. It had cost her and Sasha quite a bit, but Alena was confident in her choice. That was, until she heard her future mother-in-law’s opinion.
“Vulgar,” sharply said Valentina Grigorievna a week ago when they came to show her the dress. She looked the bride up and down as if evaluating goods at a market. “And tasteless. What can you expect — a provincial girl…”
Alena felt her face flush with shame and anger.
“What exactly don’t you like?” she tried to argue.
“Everything, dear!” the woman waved her ring-adorned hand irritably. “These frills of yours… In my day, brides chose something more refined. And you have some kind of gypsy outfit here.”
Sasha sat on the couch, buried in his phone, pretending not to hear.
“Sash, do you like my dress?” Alena asked directly.
He raised his eyes, glanced briefly at his mother, then at her.
“Yeah, it’s okay…” he muttered. “The main thing is that you feel comfortable.”
“Alexander,” his mother said sternly, “you can’t indulge every whim. A girl needs to be taught where the line is. A wedding is a serious matter, not some kind of disco.”
“Mom, come on already,” Sasha mumbled but showed no determination.
“Maybe, Valentina Grigorievna, have you ever thought that people might have different tastes?” Alena asked quietly.
Her mother-in-law pierced her with a cold look.
“Taste is formed by upbringing, dear. And upbringing… well, you understand. Where would a girl from the provinces get it, the one who just yesterday was picking potatoes?”
That was the last straw. Alena stood up.
“I’m going.”
“Len, wait,” Sasha finally reacted. “Mom, why are you like this?”
“What did I say?” Valentina Grigorievna shrugged. “Just telling the truth. Better she understands now than be ashamed later.”
Alena said nothing and left. What could she say? That she had studied for four years at a Moscow university? That she worked at a large advertising agency? That her parents gave her a good upbringing? It would all sound like excuses. And she wasn’t going to apologize to this woman.
That evening Sasha came with flowers.
“Forgive her,” he said, kissing Alena’s forehead. “She’s just worried. You know — I’m her only son.”
“And does my dignity mean anything to you? Or are your mother’s whims more important?”
“Len, don’t dramatize. The wedding is in a week, it’ll settle down. She’ll get used to you.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
Sasha hugged her tighter.
“She will. She has no choice. You’re such a good person.”
But by then Alena already understood: in the conflict between mother and wife, Sasha would always choose neutrality. Smile, change the subject, hope it all blows over on its own.
And now she stood before the mirror on her wedding day, looking at her reflection and thinking, “Maybe there really is something wrong with the dress?” But no — it fit her figure perfectly, neither vulgar nor provocative. The makeup was restrained, the hairstyle elegant. No “gypsy stuff.”
“Lenka, are you ready?” Sasha’s voice called from behind the door.
“Yes, coming!”
The ceremony at the registry office went quickly. Valentina Grigorievna sat in the front row in a dark blue Italian suit that probably cost more than half of Alena’s salary, watching the proceedings with the expression of someone to whom all this was deeply alien. When the newlyweds were asked to kiss, she demonstratively began to inspect her nails.
“Mom, you’re like a little kid,” Sasha whispered to her after the ceremony.
“I don’t understand what you saw in her,” the woman whispered back. “So plain. He could have married Liza Soboleva. Her father is a general, educated in London…”
“Mom, I love Alena.”
“Love will pass,” Valentina Grigorievna cut off dryly. “But the children will remain. What kind of upbringing will they get from this provincial girl?”
Alena stood nearby and heard everything. She had long learned to pretend not to hear.
The restaurant greeted them with music and flowers. The table was lavishly set — Valentina Grigorievna insisted on the most expensive menu, hinting that “the family should look respectable.” Alena knew her parents and Sasha’s savings were paying for it but remained silent.
“Beautiful restaurant,” Alena’s mother said, looking around the hall.
“Nothing special,” the mother-in-law shrugged. “I was here recently at Marina Petrovna’s wedding. Her son married a real lady from a good family. Now that was grand! And the bride — so well-mannered, elegant…”
“Our Alenočka is also very well-mannered,” her mother forced a smile.
“Of course, of course,” Valentina Grigorievna nodded, but her tone clearly said: “How would you know what real upbringing is.”
The first toasts were traditional. Alena’s father wished the young couple happiness, Sasha’s uncle — a long life. Alena began to relax a little, even smiling when her school friend Katya told a funny story from their youth.
“Remember, Len, how you and Dimka stayed up all night preparing for the literature exam and then slept through it?” Katya laughed.
“I remember,” Alena smiled. “He didn’t talk to me for two weeks after that.”
“Where is he now?” asked one of the guests.
“PhD, works in St. Petersburg,” Katya answered.
“Interesting, interesting,” drawled Valentina Grigorievna, and Alena knew it was starting. “What was his specialty?”
“Philology. University lecturer.”
“Ah, philology!” the mother-in-law rolled her eyes. “And an advertiser? That’s just a pastime.”
“Valentina Grigorievna,” Alena’s father interrupted, “our daughter is an art director at a large agency.”
“Art director!” she exclaimed theatrically. “Like Vera Mikhailovna’s granddaughter. She calls herself that too. But she lives in a studio and earns peanuts. But it sounds nice — art director!”
The guests exchanged glances. Tension filled the air.
Then Valentina Grigorievna took the microphone.
“Dear guests!” she began with a satisfied smile. “I want to say a few words about our bride.”
Alena felt everything freeze inside. Sasha sat nearby, smiling tensely but not planning to intervene.
“Of course, she’s young and still has much to learn,” the woman continued. “Modern girls somehow think that career is the most important thing. But a woman should know how to create comfort at home, cook, entertain guests…”
Pause. The room fell silent.
“I hope my son will be patient. It’s hard to retrain an adult. Especially if the initial upbringing… how to put it gently… leaves much to be desired.”
Alena’s mother went pale. Her father clenched his fists.
“But we will try,” Valentina Grigorievna continued with a honeyed voice. “As a mother-in-law, I will help Alena master all the female wisdom: how to cook properly, how to entertain guests, how to dress tastefully…”
The guests shifted uneasily. Someone looked away embarrassed.
“And here’s the dress,” her voice became especially sweet. “Look at it! Ruffles, frills… This is not a wedding dress, it’s a carnival costume!”
Silence. Everyone understood something was wrong, but no one knew how to react.
“What can you expect from her — a girl from the provinces,” the mother-in-law added, shaking her head. “There it’s probably considered the height of fashion.”
And she stepped forward — toward Alena.
“See, dear guests?” Valentina Grigorievna’s voice sounded confident, and she held the microphone as if on television. “Look at these ruffles!”
Her fingers, sticky from snacks, began feeling the fabric of the dress.
“Clumsy, inappropriate! What kind of style is this? For a wedding! This is not a celebration, but some kind of carnival! And this neckline — what was my son thinking?”
Alena sat frozen, feeling hundreds of eyes fixed on her. The mother-in-law stood nearby, continuing to crush the skirt, leaving greasy stains on the white silk.
“And the fabric!” her voice became sharper. “Cheap synthetic! I wouldn’t have even thought of going out like that!”
Something inside Alena suddenly snapped.
She stood up sharply, grabbed her mother-in-law by the shoulders — she didn’t even realize what was happening — and with one movement pressed her face right into the center of the three-tiered wedding cake.
The hall froze. Valentina Grigorievna slowly raised her head, cream, berry syrup, and broken chocolate decorations flowing down her face. The microphone thudded to the floor.
“I’m tired of your moralizing,” Alena said calmly but firmly. “And tired of staying silent.”
She picked up the microphone, shook off the crumbs, and turned it back on:
“Dear guests! This is our day, and we will have fun! Musicians — play!”
And she went to dance. Simply turned and headed to the center of the hall, moving to the rhythm of the live music. Her dress — the very one with the “vulgar” ruffles — fluttered around her, and there was something bold, free, and beautiful about it.
“Lenka, well done!” Katya was the first to shout, rushing to her friend.
“About time!” added Alena’s brother.
Gradually others joined them. First the youth, then the parents, then everyone without exception. Within minutes the whole hall was dancing, and Alena stood in the center, laughing and calling out:
“Now a contest! Who can dance the best lezginka?”
“I will!” called Artem, Sasha’s friend.
“And who will sing a love song?”
“We will!” her girlfriends shouted joyfully.
The awkwardness of the previous scene dissipated. The guests realized the boring show was over and the real celebration was just beginning. New toasts sounded — lively, warm, sincere.
“To the bride!” shouted from different corners.
“To courage!”
“To the woman who knows how to speak her mind!”
People ate, drank, laughed, and took part in contests. Someone told jokes, someone sang, someone just hugged.
“Len, let’s play ‘Guess the Melody’!” Aunt Zina suggested.
“Of course! But first, let everyone try to come up with their best toast!”
Sasha approached his wife when she caught her breath after dancing.
“Len…” he began uncertainly.
“What?” she looked at him defiantly, expecting another reproach.
“Nothing,” he smiled. “I just love you. And… sorry I didn’t stop my mom earlier.”
“It’s okay,” Alena took his hand. “Now she knows who she’s dealing with.”
“And if she stops talking to us completely?”
“She will talk. But differently.”
Valentina Grigorievna left the restaurant before the main course. Alena noticed almost by accident — she was too busy receiving congratulations and organizing the next contest.
“Where’s your mother?” one guest asked, looking around.
“She went home,” Sasha answered shortly.
“Pity,” the woman shook her head. “She’ll miss the best part.”
By the end of the evening, when one guest, a slightly drunk Uncle Vova, tried to say that “today’s youth is too wild,” he was quickly silenced.
“Uncle Vova, what are you saying!” Alena’s cousin protested. “She did the right thing!”
“And the dress is beautiful,” added a neighbor. “Elegant. And ruffles are in fashion now.”
“Doesn’t matter if it’s in fashion or not,” Alena’s father said. “No one has the right to humiliate others.”
“Exactly!” supported Sasha’s uncle. “Mother-in-laws were different before too, but no one publicly insulted anyone like this.”
They returned home at dawn — happy, tired, filled with impressions.
“It was a good wedding,” Sasha said, loosening his tie.
“Yes,” Alena agreed, carefully taking off the dress. “Especially the ending.”
A month after the wedding, while Alena was cleaning the house, the phone unexpectedly rang.
“Hello?”
“This is Valentina Grigorievna. Is Sasha home?”
Her voice was different — less confident, more reserved-neutral.
“No, he’s still at work.”
“Got it. Tell him I called.”
“Okay.”
Usually the conversation would have ended there. But the mother-in-law unexpectedly added:
“And also… tell him I won’t come on Saturday. I have things to do.”
Alena realized — this was the first time Valentina Grigorievna hadn’t made a remark, given advice, or hinted at flaws. For the first time, she spoke like an equal.
“Okay, I’ll tell him.”
“Thank you,” the woman said unexpectedly softly and hung up.
In the evening Sasha came home, and Alena told him about his mother’s call.
“Sounds like she’s upset.”
“No. She’s just thinking.”
“About what?”
“That the world has changed. And daughters-in-law are different now.”
Valentina Grigorievna really stopped coming. She called once a week, talked to her son for ten minutes, and that was the extent of their communication.
“How are you?” she asked.
“Fine. And you?”
“Same here. Alive and well.”
“Alena sends her regards.”
“Tell her I say hi too.”
Short, restrained conversations. No complaints, no lectures, no interference.
Sasha tried to restore relations:
“Maybe we should visit her? Or invite her?”
But Alena stopped him:
“No need. Let it be this way. Your mother and I understood each other.”
“Understood what?”
“She realized I won’t tolerate humiliation for the sake of family peace. And I realized sometimes you need to take a decisive step to show who’s who.”
Sometimes Alena remembered that day. How long she kept silent, how she bottled up pain and anger. How scary it was to stand up and do what she did. And how easy it became afterwards.
Their marriage turned out strong. Perhaps because from the start Alena showed she wasn’t going to be a weak wife ready to bend to everyone. She fought for herself, for her dignity, for her happiness.
“You know,” she told Sasha on their first anniversary, “I’m grateful to your mother.”
“For what?”
“For teaching me not to be silent. Not all lessons are pleasant, but all are important.”
And Alena kept the wedding dress. Sometimes she took it out of the closet, looked at the little stains from the cake on the hem, and smiled. Those were marks of her first victory. And no one dared call the ruffles “vulgar” anymore.