— So, how do you like the vacation, dear? Just don’t faint from happiness!” Antonina Petrovna theatrically took off her glasses, folded her arms across her chest, and made a “million-dollar face.”
“This isn’t Anapa for eight hundred rubles, it’s Sochi! Practically Europe!” she added breathily, glancing at Lena’s sandals as if they were soggy market slippers.
And it all began…
…with the fact that once again I didn’t insist on my own way.
“Artyom, let them go by themselves! You and I saved up for a year, we dreamed about this, we planned it,” I whispered that night, when the tickets were still on hold and I still had the strength to argue.
He only sighed:
“Mom, you know Dad’s worked his whole life… Maybe they really should come with us. It’s not like it happens every year…”
That was the moment I should have said “NO.” Loudly. With a period. With my fist on the pillow. But I smiled and nodded. Like an idiot.
So here we are. Sochi. Heat, the sea, and… a mother-in-law who even came to the beach wearing pearls. You know, to “accidentally” show everyone she’s not just any woman—she’s an elegant old-school lady, a victim of the younger generation’s foolishness.
“Well then, family!” Viktor Semyonovich chirped, hauling behind him a massive rolling suitcase that clearly contained either a balalaika or his entire life. “Time to check in!”
Right there in the hotel lobby, under marble columns and the smell of air-conditioned luxury, came the “cherry on top.”
“So, here’s the passport, here’s the reservation… And… oh!” Antonina Petrovna clutched at her purse dramatically. “My wallet… Oh, Lena! Where’s my wallet?!”
“Your purse is in your hands, Tonya…” snorted Viktor Semyonovich. “Don’t make a scene.”
“And inside… nothing! I left it in the room—well, at home! In the dresser! How could I… That’s it, retirement, old age, memory loss… I’m the disgrace of the family!”
She pressed her palm to her forehead so convincingly the front-desk clerk almost called an ambulance.
I stood beside Artyom and felt the last of my patience draining out of me. It was seeping straight through my heels, dripping onto the marble, leaving a trail of flaming nerves behind me.
“Alright…” Artyom reached for his wallet. “We’ll sort it out later.”
And that “later” was always the trick. “Later” was when we got home and they either “didn’t have enough,” or “put it into the dacha,” or “well, you’re family.” And around we went again.
I kept quiet. For now.
The rooms, of course, had a sea view. Meaning the parking lot—but if you stood on tiptoe and hung off the balcony, you could see the sea.
“Just like the Maldives,” I said to Artyom with a smirk.
He gave a tired smile.
“Well, at least we’re together. My parents are happy, we’ll relax, you love the sea…”
What I wanted to say was:
“I loved Artyom. Until he became a ‘mama’s boy on all-inclusive.’”
But I just turned away.
On the third day of vacation, when my mother-in-law was openly ordering three-thousand-ruble wines at the restaurant on our tab (“well, you’re not going to drink that… what was it, Sauvignon? Not at all the same thing”), I realized I was boiling over. And not from the sun.
And then, during an evening stroll along the promenade, a miracle happened. Not the unicorns-and-rainbows kind. No. A miracle in the form of a woman in a white linen sundress, with a silver strand in her hair and posture so regal that even Antonina Petrovna’s back straightened on instinct.
“Lena? Lena Bessonova? My goodness! I used to teach you personality psychology! Marina Aleksandrovna. Remember?”
I blinked like an owl in a lamp.
“Marina Aleksandrovna… You haven’t changed!”
“And you have. You’ve grown up a lot. Pity your look isn’t what it used to be—there was a spark in it, ambition… Where are they?”
Artyom came up behind me with two coffees.
“And this?” Marina nodded toward my husband.
“This is my husband. And our… fellow travelers.”
Marina looked Artyom up and down, then glanced toward the figure of Antonina Petrovna hovering there with a “freebie” glass in her hand.
“Want me to tell you about co-dependence? And then about personal boundaries? Or have you already figured it all out?”
I snorted.
“I’ve figured out a lot. I just don’t yet know how to escape.”
“It’s simple. I have a villa nearby. Come tomorrow. We’ll practice the skill of saying ‘no.’ Very useful at our age.”
“Where exactly are you going?” my mother-in-law demanded that evening, noticing me packing a backpack.
“To a friend’s,” I answered calmly.
“And what about our family vacation? We’re all together!”
“Tonya, don’t start,” muttered Viktor Semyonovich, biting a shrimp with a cracker.
“What do you mean, don’t start? We’re here on her neck, and she’s off to girlfriends? Where’s the respect for elders?”
“Exactly,” I said, zipping my bag. “Where is it?”
The next day Artyom and I stood at the gates of a white villa that smelled of jasmine, freedom, and, for the first time in ages, of myself.
“I’m sorry I dragged you into this,” he said quietly.
“The important thing is that you understand. And don’t drag me in again.”
He nodded.
And for the first time, I saw in his eyes not the shadow of his mother’s opinion, but something of his own.
“Explain to me, Lena, what was that just now?” Artyom stood on the terrace of the villa overlooking the sea, squinting in the sun and scratching the back of his head as if trying to comb shame out of it.
“It’s called ‘I’m done being an ATM with a zipped mouth,’” I said evenly, sipping my coffee from a lounge chair under a huge white hat that Marina Aleksandrovna had given me.
“You do realize how it looks… Mom and Dad are alone at the hotel. No money. No plan.”
“Artyom,” I looked at him the way you look at an eighth-grader with a bold red F in his gradebook who sincerely can’t grasp why. “They’re not children. They’re grown, healthy adults. This isn’t ‘abandoned parents.’ This is ‘skilled pension-age manipulators.’”
He fell silent. Sat down next to me.
“You think they do it on purpose?”
“I think your mother’s ‘memory loss’ starts exactly when she’s near a cash register. Especially if it’s expensive and pretty.”
Marina Aleksandrovna brought fruit and wine to the table. She had the look of someone who meditates in the morning, writes smart books in the afternoon, and in the evening… puts entire families in their place.
“Well then, dears, how about a psychological aperitif?” she said cheerfully, taking a seat.
“Just without your… complicated words. Keep it simple.” Artyom rubbed his neck and gave a sheepish smile.
“Alright,” she nodded. “Simple words it is. You two are a couple. But there’s a third person in your couple. Sometimes a fourth. Five of them have already moved into your heads, and one has taken up residence in your wallet.”
“You mean my parents?” Artyom tensed.
“I’m talking about boundaries, Artyom. Look. Say you two went to the sea together. Warm water, waves, sun. Lovely. Then your parents wade in. They start splashing, bringing up the mortgage, telling you how in ’83 they almost bought a Zhiguli through connections.”
“Sounds familiar…” I muttered.
“And what do you do then? You stand between them and Lena so no one drowns. But at the same time… nobody swims. Because all of you are stuck with you in the middle.”
“Well, what am I supposed to do? They’re my parents,” Artyom said, softer now.
“And Lena is who?”
He dropped his eyes.
Toward evening, close to sunset, the doorbell rang at the villa. An aggrieved voice floated onto the veranda.
“Lena! Artyom! It’s indecent to just run off like that! We’re one family!”
Antonina Petrovna stood at the gate like Joan of Arc herself—only without a sword, with a damp handkerchief and lips pursed into a paper-thin strip.
“Mama…” Artyom began, but I put a hand on his shoulder.
“Let me.”
I went out to the gate.
“Tonya, we didn’t run away. We left. Consciously. Those are different things.”
“Well, it’s just mean. I’d never do that to your mother!”
“I don’t doubt it. Because my mother is not a sponsor of tourism.”
“And what about Artyom? And what about Viktor Semyonovich? He nearly cried this morning!”
“Did he now? Because for the first time in twenty years he didn’t have access to someone else’s card?”
Antonina Petrovna actually flushed.
“You ungrateful little thing! We raised you, helped you! And you repay us with a knife in the back!”
And then I heard Artyom step forward and say quietly but distinctly:
“Mom. Enough. You’ve gone too far. This is our vacation. Our money. And our decisions. You can stay at the hotel or go home. We won’t be deciding for you anymore.”
“Artyomka… have you lost your mind? I’m your mother!”
“You’re an adult. And, as you like to say, ‘a woman doesn’t get old, she gains experience.’ So use it. There are plenty more trips ahead. On your dime.”
For a second, it was as if Antonina Petrovna shrank. Lost four inches. Then she drew her lips into a thin line like a Soviet schoolteacher, turned on her heel, and marched off.
“I can’t believe you said that,” I looked at Artyom like he was an action-movie hero.
He shrugged.
“I’m just tired. And, you know, when Marina Aleksandrovna said, ‘your wife isn’t a season pass for patience,’ it finally clicked.”
“And before that, what did you think I was?”
“A woman who… would endure anything.”
“You were wrong,” I smirked.
Marina, watching the scene with a glass of wine, only nodded:
“Well then, your vacation has begun. For the first time in how many years—just for you two.”
In the morning a message came from Viktor Semyonovich:
“Tonya bought tickets home. I’ll stay two days, if that’s okay. I want to hike the cliffs. Thank you, Lenochka. I haven’t seen her be quiet for two hours straight in a long time. Almost therapy.”
I burst out laughing.
Artyom stood by the window, pouring coffee. And for the first time in all this time—he looked like a grown-up. Not hunted. Not accountable.
Just a grown man.
“Len, could you forgive me… well, all this?”
“Depends. Is ‘all this’ going to happen again?”
“It won’t.”
I shrugged.
“Then there’s nothing to forgive. It’s enough that you understood.”
And you know…
Sometimes, to change everything, all it takes is one night at a villa and a woman who says:
“You don’t have enemies. You just have boundaries you’re afraid to draw.”
“I’ll tell you man to man,” said Viktor Semyonovich, settling into a lounge chair, stretching out his legs, and pouring himself brandy like he hadn’t come to visit but returned to a fortress he’d won back by law. “When a broad starts calling the shots, the family falls apart.”
I stood in the kitchen doorway and kept quiet. Artyom looked at his father as if for the first time noticing the over-plucked eyebrows and fingers stuffed with rings.
“Dad, are you headed to a therapist or a fortune-teller?” Artyom sighed. “Why did you come at all?”
“What do you mean, why?” Viktor scratched his belly through his shirt. “To put some sense into my son. You’re totally under her heel here, I see. That Marina of yours, that psychologess, taught Lenka—‘boundaries, money, freedom’… Now you want freedom. Family is patience, son. A woman’s like a brick: if she’s pressing down, it means she’s holding things together.”
“And if she’s choking you?”
“Then construction’s underway!”
I couldn’t hold back.
“Viktor Semyonovich, let’s agree on this right away. You can sleep here, drink wine, and even deliver lectures on ‘Soviet family psychology.’ But only if Artyom asks you to.”
“And you’re against it?”
“I’m not your bank, not your nurse, and not a free tourist base. So—by request only.”
He paused. Then snorted.
“Well, you’re a witch, all right… That Marina trained you. Artyom, do you even like living like this?”
Artyom stood up. And that’s when I got goosebumps. Because he was looking at his father differently. Not scared, not from below, but straight on. Calm. Hard.
“Dad, do you like living at others’ expense, telling everyone how to do things, and putting on a hurt face when you’re refused?”
“I did everything for you! For the family!”
“You hit Mom. You quit at thirty-five because ‘it’s not man’s work to deal with idiots.’ You sat at home while Mom supported us. And then you left—for the neighbor—because at her place it was ‘quieter and the cutlets were softer.’”
“Artyom, what nonsense are you spouting?” Viktor flared. “I raised you!”
“You taught me to endure. To keep quiet. Not to make waves. And now you want me to do it again. But no, Dad. You’re the past. We’re the future.”
“Just wait till you raise a son—then you’ll understand!”
“I already understand. And my son will know that respect isn’t keeping silent in the face of rudeness, it’s knowing how to say ‘enough.’”
Later, when Viktor Semyonovich left for the station (calling his own taxi—miracle!), Artyom sat in silence. For a long time. I brought him tea.
“You know, Lena, for twenty years I thought my father was a hero. Then—that he was just a complicated person. And now I see: he’s laziness made flesh. Shouting, reproach, grandstanding… anything to avoid growing up.”
“It happens. To a lot of people. But you’re not him.”
“I was afraid you’d leave. That you were tired. That you didn’t want to be with me anymore.”
“I am tired. But leave? No. I just wanted you to understand who we are. You and I. We’re not an ATM for your parents. We’re not props in a family production. We’re people. We have the right to decide how to live. And with whom.”
He hugged me. Was quiet for a long time. Then said:
“Len, were we ever happy?”
“We can be. Now that we have boundaries. Freedom. And brandy without lectures from Soviet homebuilding.”
We laughed.
And that’s when I realized for the first time in a long time—we survived. We pulled our family out from under the parental rubble. No scandal, but with honesty. No screaming, but with boundaries. With love, but not blind.
The next morning Artyom texted his mother:
“Mom, we’ll be home in a week. No guests. No talk about money. We are simply a family. Everything else is not up for discussion.”
There was no reply. But sometimes silence is an answer already.