Open up, I brought soup!” The loud voice behind the door made Alina start, splashing coffee onto her new pajamas.
It was Saturday morning, half past seven. Alina had just managed to savor the first sip of the aromatic drink and gaze dreamily out the window at the waking city. A day off. The long-awaited calm after a hectic workweek. And then—a knock at the door.
With a heavy sigh she padded barefoot across the parquet. On the threshold, just as she’d expected, stood Margarita Pavlovna—her mother-in-law in all her glory: a bright scarf, a huge bag, and a look that brooked no objections.
“Good morning, Margarita Pavlovna,” Alina tried to smile. “You didn’t let us know…”
“What is there to let you know?” The mother-in-law was already squeezing into the hallway. “I’m his mother, not a stranger. Is Pasha home? I made borscht, the real kind, not like those smoothies-shmoozies of yours.”
Reluctantly, Alina took the heavy bag and felt a wave of irritation rising inside. Saturday. Seven-thirty in the morning. Borscht—really?
She and Pavel had met three years ago at a photography course. She’d come to improve her skills for traveling; he—because he had always dreamed of being a photographer, but at his mother’s insistence had studied economics. That evening he forgot his tripod; she lent him hers. A month later, they couldn’t imagine life without each other.
Pavel was gentle, attentive, with a sincere smile and the ability to listen for hours. Infatuation swept them away, and six months later they were married.
By then, Alina already owned her own place in the center—a small but cozy one-room apartment with high ceilings and old plaster moldings. She’d bought it before meeting Pavel, working as a programmer at a large company and taking out a mortgage. When they decided to live together, the question of “where” didn’t even arise—Pavel was renting a room, so moving in with Alina was the logical choice.
For the first few months after the wedding, Margarita Pavlovna behaved impeccably. She called before visiting, brought homemade pies, and never stayed longer than two hours. She seemed genuinely happy for her son, told the neighbors about his smart, beautiful wife, and even gave them a set of silver spoons—a family heirloom—for their housewarming.
Everything changed about a year later. The visits became more frequent; the warnings turned into a mere formality: “I’ll be there in an hour, put the kettle on.” Then came unannounced drop-ins: “I was passing by and thought I’d pop in.” And with them—criticism: the kitchen wasn’t washed properly, the pillows weren’t fluffed, the soup was too salty.
And a month ago, the hints began. At first cautious: “Sveta Nikolaevna has her own keys to her son’s apartment—so convenient.” Then more insistent: “What if something happens? How will I get in?” And finally, outright: “Pasha, it’s disrespectful to make your mother wait at the door.”
“Pasha’s still asleep,” Alina set the bag on the kitchen table. “Could you please call next time before you come?”
Margarita Pavlovna snorted, pulling a pot out of the bag.
“So a mother has to call and ask permission? Ridiculous! Vera from the third entrance has her own keys to her daughter’s place. She can drop by, tidy up, leave lunch.”
“But we’re not asking you to tidy up,” Alina said carefully.
“Maybe you should!” The mother-in-law examined the windowsill critically. “Ever tried dusting?”
A sleepy Pavel appeared in the kitchen doorway.
“Mom? Why so early?”
“Finally!” Margarita Pavlovna beamed. “I brought borscht—the real kind, just how you like it.”
Pavel hugged his mother, casting an apologetic look at his wife.
“Thanks, but you could have called…”
“And you too?” Margarita Pavlovna was offended. “Is it really so hard to make a key for your mother? I don’t come every day. Sometimes I’d just sit for a bit while you’re out, water the plants.”
Alina felt something click inside. The boundary she’d long tried to set had once again been blurred. Pavel was wavering, unable to put a stop to it. “Mom, come on,” “Let’s talk about it later,” “Don’t start first thing in the morning.” Neither “no” nor “yes”—just avoiding a decision.
In that moment, Alina realized that either she would put an end to this, or the endless intrusions into their life would continue.
A week later they arranged a family dinner. Alina made her mother-in-law’s favorite salad and an apple pie. The conversation flowed easily until Margarita Pavlovna touched the sore spot.
“I wanted to tell you,” she dabbed her lips with a napkin, “I have a doctor’s appointment next week, so I won’t be able to drop by on Wednesday as usual.”
“That’s fine, Mom,” Pavel replied.
“If only I had a key, I could just leave some pastries on the kitchen table before my appointment.”
Silence fell. Pavel stared into his plate, expecting his wife to change the subject as usual. But not this time.
“Margarita Pavlovna,” Alina began calmly, “we’ve discussed this more than once. We’re not planning to give keys to our apartment to anyone. This is our personal space.”
“To anyone!” the mother-in-law threw up her hands. “So I’m ‘no one’ to you? I’m your husband’s mother!”
“You’re not ‘no one’; you’re Pasha’s mom, and we’re always happy to see you. But by prior arrangement.”
“How hurtful,” Margarita Pavlovna’s voice trembled. “All mothers have keys to their children’s apartments. Svetlana Mikhailovna does, Tamara Nikolaevna…”
“This apartment is my property,” Alina said firmly. “I bought it before the marriage, I’m paying the mortgage, and I have the right to decide who gets a key.”
Her mother-in-law flushed crimson.
“So that’s how it is! You mean my son is just a guest in your home? Is that your hint?”
“Mom, stop,” Pavel finally spoke. “You’ve misunderstood.”
“No, I understand perfectly!” Margarita Pavlovna rose from the table. “I’m not respected here—I’m treated like a stranger!”
“Then let your son buy a place of his own,” Alina couldn’t help herself, “and he can decide who comes in without calling first.”
The words hung in the air like a heavy cloud. The mother-in-law froze, then grabbed her bag and hurled back as she headed for the door:
“So that’s it! You’re driving my son out of his family! My boy, who carried you in his arms!”
The door slammed with a deafening crash.
They sat in silence for a while longer. Then Pavel cleared the table, and Alina did the dishes. A ringing quiet filled the apartment.
Only at night, lying in bed, did they finally speak.
“I’m sorry about today,” Pavel said softly. “I know I should have stepped in earlier.”
“Why don’t you?” Alina asked, staring at the ceiling. “Why won’t you tell her we need our own space?”
Pavel was silent for a long time, then said:
“Mom raised me alone. Dad left when I was five. She worked two jobs, denied herself everything so I could attend a good school, go to activities…” His voice shook. “I’ve always felt I owed her. That I had to meet her expectations, be the perfect son.”
“That doesn’t mean you should let her control your adult life,” Alina said gently, turning toward her husband.
“I’m afraid of hurting her. Afraid she’ll feel unnecessary, alone.”
“Pasha, you’re a husband now. You have your own family. Your main responsibility is to protect our space and our happiness. That doesn’t mean abandoning your mom. It’s just… there are boundaries.”
Pavel looked at her for a long moment and, for the first time, said firmly:
“You’re right. I’ll talk to her. I’ll say everything as it is.”
A week later they went to see Margarita Pavlovna. She opened the door as if she’d been expecting them, but held herself warily.
“Come in,” she said, and, avoiding eye contact, went to the kitchen. “I baked a pie… apple.”
They sat at the table. For a couple of minutes they talked about the weather, about how early the cold had come that year. Tension hung in the air. At last, Pavel worked up the courage.
“Mom… I need to talk to you.”
Margarita Pavlovna stiffened, casting a quick glance at Alina, then back at her son.
“Well?”
“We’re not going to give you a key to the apartment,” he said plainly, looking his mother in the eye. “And it’s not about Alina. It’s my decision.”
“But why?” Her lips trembled. “I’m your mother.”
“Exactly. I love you very much and I respect you,” Pavel held her gaze. “Alina and I have our own family, our own rules. It’s important for us to have our own space. When you come without calling… it’s hard.”
“So I’m in your way?” Her lips quivered; her voice grew quieter.
“Mom…” Pavel covered her hand with his. “You’re not in the way if you respect our rules. Call ahead, agree on a time—and we’ll always be glad to see you.”
Margarita Pavlovna looked away, prodding a piece of pie with her fork.
“And if something happens to me? Who will help me?”
“I will,” he answered firmly. “Day or night—call me and I’ll come. But keys have nothing to do with that.”
A pause settled over the kitchen. Alina could see how hard it was for Pavel to say this, and for his mother to hear it. But she understood: without this conversation, nothing would have changed.
Three months passed. Outside, the autumn wind chased rustling leaves across the courtyard, and in Alina and Pavel’s kitchen the air smelled of freshly baked apple pie.
Margarita Pavlovna sat at the table, unhurriedly pouring tea into mugs. She was silent for a few seconds, then, as if mustering her courage, said:
“Do you remember… how I pestered you about the keys back then?” She lowered her eyes. “Now I think—what a stubborn old thing I was. I just got scared… that you’d drift away.”
Pavel smiled and gently squeezed her hand.
“Mom, we’re not going anywhere. We just have our own rules now.”
“I know,” she nodded. “And now I always call before I come. And honestly… it’s nice when you two visit me on the weekends.”
“And it’s nice for me that you don’t take offense if we’re busy,” Pavel added quietly.
As Alina cut the pie and set it on plates, she listened and caught herself thinking: they had defended their boundaries, and the family was better for it. Sometimes you have to weather a storm so that later you can sit together over warm tea and know—here it is: true quiet and peace.