— Oksana! What do you think you’re doing?!
Viktor didn’t enter the apartment—he flew into it, as if some malicious force had hurled him inside. The metal keys he threw onto the hall stand clanged with spite, shattering the evening quiet. His boots left dirty, melting tracks on the clean floor—disgusting blotches of city slush. He stormed into the kitchen, his face twisted into a mask of righteous fury—the very one he always put on when he broadcast his mother’s grievances.
— You threw my mother out of the house! She called me in tears! You yelled at her, you drove an elderly woman to that! Do you even have a conscience?!
Oksana didn’t flinch. She stood with her back to him at the cutting board, and her hand with the knife kept moving with the same measured, mechanical rhythm. The knife came down with a dull, even thud, slicing perfectly even, translucent rounds from a cucumber. One thud. A second. A third. The air smelled of freshness and dill. She let him spill his first wave of rage, let him feel like the accuser, the one in control. Only when his breath grew ragged from shouting did she slowly, with pointed neatness, set the knife down beside the board. The blade glinted dully in the kitchen light.
She turned. Not sharply, but smoothly, with her whole body, as if there were an invisible axis around which this little kitchen world revolved. Her face was calm, almost indifferent. No trace of guilt, fear, or the urge to justify herself. That infuriated him even more. He’d expected counter-shouts, tears, anything but that cold, appraising look that seemed to dissect him, separating his own thoughts from the ones his mother had planted in his head.
— Vitya, your mother came here to demand my payroll card, — she said. Her voice was even and emotionless, as if she were reading a weather report. — She said a young wife shouldn’t have her own money. And that from now on, as the elder and more “wise” woman, she would run our household budget. She’d be taking my card. For control.
For a moment Viktor faltered. That point hadn’t been in the script his mother had laid out over the phone. Yelena Petrovna, sobbing into the receiver, had spoken of rudeness, disrespect, and “for no reason at all.” But he quickly recovered; a brain trained over years instantly threw up a defensive wall around maternal authority.
— So what? — he blurted. — What’s so terrible about that?! She’s older, she’s more experienced! She’s lived a life—you haven’t! She wants what’s best for you, you fool! So you won’t blow money on nonsense!
And in that moment something changed. The calm on Oksana’s face didn’t vanish; it simply transformed—from passive into active, predatory. Her eyes, which had seemed detached before, focused on him, and something appeared in their depths that made him involuntarily take a half step back. It wasn’t anger, but something colder and sharper, like a shard of ice.
— If your mommy so much as hints again that I should hand over my salary to her, then she can start bringing me her pension in her teeth!
The line wasn’t loud, but it hit the ears like a gunshot in a closed room. Viktor gaped, his mouth falling open. He hadn’t expected such a direct, crude attack. And she, not giving him time to recover, took a step toward him, closing the distance. Her house slippers slid soundlessly over the linoleum.
— Now remember this, — she went on, enunciating each word, hammering them into his head like nails. — Her foot will never cross this threshold again. Ever. And if you think she’s right—that your mother should control my money… — she paused, her gaze sliding toward the entryway. — The door’s there. Go to Mommy. Try living on her pension.
The ultimatum hung in the kitchen air, dense and heavy as the smell of scorch. Viktor stared at his wife as if seeing her for the first time. Not the Oksana who laughed at his jokes and made his favorite lasagna, but a stranger—dangerous, with eyes as cold as steel. His initial fury, fueled by his mother’s complaints, ebbed away, leaving a sticky, bewildered confusion. He had expected anything—tears, excuses, a matching hysterics—but not this calm, measured verdict.
Realizing that his frontal-assault tactic had failed with a deafening crack, he did what his mother had taught him since childhood: he changed masks. The rage on his face gave way to an injured, suffering expression. He even slouched a little, trying to look smaller, more vulnerable.
— Oksana, do you… do you hear yourself? — his voice dropped a tone, taking on wheedling, persuasive notes. — Go to my mom? You’re throwing me out of our home over a simple misunderstanding? My mother… she didn’t mean any harm. She’s just old-school. For her, a family is a common pot. She wanted to help, to teach, to advise.
He took a cautious step toward her, hands held out as if to soothe a wild animal. But Oksana didn’t move. She watched this metamorphosis without the slightest surprise, like a long-familiar, thoroughly tiresome performance.
— Vitya, let’s call things by their names, — her voice stayed just as even, lifeless. — Your mother didn’t want to “help.” She came to take what I earned. Not to teach, but to control. That isn’t “old school,” it’s plain greed and a lust for power. She wants to decide what I can spend my own money on and what I can’t.
— What do you mean your money?! It’s ours! We’re a family! — he exploded, realizing the manipulation hadn’t worked. — She raised me alone, worked three jobs! She knows the value of every kopeck—unlike you! You think only about your dresses and lipsticks! She thinks about the future, about a safety cushion for us! She meant well!
Oksana slowly shook her head, and a shadow of a smile touched her lips—bitter, angry.
— No, Vitya. She wasn’t thinking about our future. She was thinking about her present. About how to keep her little boy at her side, under her full control. And to do that, she needs to control his wallet. And his wife’s wallet. Your mother didn’t teach you to live—she taught you to stay with her. She didn’t raise a man; she raised a convenient function, an extension of herself.
Every word was a precise, calibrated blow aimed not at his anger but at that shaky construction he mistook for his masculine “self.” He felt the ground slipping from under him. All his arguments, which had seemed so weighty, crumbled to dust under her cold analysis.
— You… you’re just selfish, — he rasped, clinging to the last accusation he had left. — You don’t care about family, about tradition, about respect for your elders! All you care about is your money!
— Yes, — she answered simply, and that simplicity disarmed. — My money matters to me. Because it isn’t just money. It’s my independence. It’s my time, my effort, my qualifications. It’s what lets me stand here now and speak to you as an equal, instead of fawning over your mother hoping she’ll spare me a thousand for new tights. And you know what’s funniest? She didn’t go after you. She went after me. Because she instinctively senses who the real adult is in this apartment. And you… you never realized you didn’t bring a wife home. You brought in a new, more productive resource meant to provide your comfort and her peace of mind. But the resource turned out to have a will of its own.
She turned and walked into the room, leaving him alone in the middle of the kitchen. He stood between the table with the half-made salad and the refrigerator, stunned, shattered, and for the first time in his life acutely aware that he had no arguments left in this battle. That he couldn’t win it on his own. He jerked his phone out of his pocket. He needed help. He needed his mother.
No more than an hour passed. Oksana didn’t sit in tense expectation, didn’t watch the window. She finished the salad, put it in the fridge, washed her hands, and went to the room. She sat in an armchair with the book she’d started last week. Pages rustled in the quiet. She knew this was just the lull. Viktor wasn’t capable of a self-standing decision, of a final period. He was a conduit, a relay. And now he’d gone to plug himself into the main power source—his mother.
The doorbell was exactly what she’d expected: impatient, three short, angry trills. That’s how a person rings not as a guest but as an inspector come to restore order. Oksana calmly set her book aside, carefully marking the page, and went to open the door. She didn’t look through the peephole. She knew who it was.
They stood on the threshold together. Viktor, a step behind, with the face of a hurt child seeking protection. And in front, like an armored train—Yelena Petrovna. She wore her best “battle” coat of a severe cut, her face fixed in a mask of righteous anger and maternal grief. She didn’t say hello. She simply stepped inside, over the threshold, uninvited, as if entering her own storeroom. Her gaze prowled the entryway, quick and predatory, as if hunting for dust in the corners or any other pretext for reproach.
Oksana closed the door behind them without a word, cutting off retreat. The click of the lock sounded like a starter pistol.
— So that’s how you are, is it? — Yelena Petrovna launched right in, her voice ringing with barely restrained fury. She pulled off her gloves, tugging them from her fingers with sharp, nervous motions. — Decided you’re the mistress here? That you can drive an elderly woman out of the house? I laid my life down for this boy, and you, little hussy, waltz in to everything ready-made and think you can lay down your own rules?!
From behind his mother, Viktor chimed in, timid and unsure, like a prompter feeding a forgotten line.
— Oksana, why are you like this? Mom’s right. Just apologize and everything will be fine. We’re a family.
Oksana ignored him. Her gaze was fixed on her mother-in-law.
— Yelena Petrovna, I didn’t drive you out. I asked you to leave after you tried to take my payroll card. Let’s be precise with our wording.
That precision infuriated the mother-in-law even more. She’d expected tears, excuses, shouting—any emotional reaction she could smother with her authority. But cold logic knocked the ground out from under her.
— The card! — she shrieked, throwing up her hands theatrically. — Why are you clinging to that piece of plastic?! I’m thinking about the family, about your future! So you don’t end up bare-bottomed because of your squandering! In normal families, the younger listen to the elders because elders have experience! And you? Who are you to teach me about life?!
— I’m not teaching you about life. I’m simply not allowing you to run mine, — Oksana answered calmly. — You call a “normal family” the kind where one person hands over the fruits of their labor to another free of charge merely on the basis of age? That isn’t family, Yelena Petrovna. That’s financial slavery.
The word “slavery” stung the ears. Viktor flinched. Yelena Petrovna flushed a dark red.
— How dare you! — she hissed, taking another step forward, invading Oksana’s personal space. — I want what’s good for my son! And you’re turning him against me, you selfish thing! You’ll ruin him!
And then Oksana did what they didn’t expect. She shifted her gaze from the mother to the son. She looked at him for a long moment, attentively, as if weighing him on invisible scales. Viktor shrank under that look.
— Vitya, — she addressed him, and her voice, cold and detached until now, took on notes of tired bitterness. — Your mother thinks I’ll ruin you if I don’t give her my money. She thinks you’re incapable of building a family, making decisions, and taking responsibility for them. She sees you not as a man but as a legally incompetent child who needs a financial guardian. Do you agree with her?
It was a brilliant move. She drew Viktor out from behind his mother’s back and put him under the spotlight. The question was directed at him. The choice was his.
— I… well… Mom just wants what’s best… — he mumbled, looking helplessly from one woman to the other. He was caught between hammer and anvil, and the choice was unbearable.
— Enough! — barked Yelena Petrovna, realizing she was losing control of the situation—and of her son. — Don’t you dare work on him! He’s my son, and I will always know what’s best for him! You’re an outsider, a hanger-on! If something doesn’t suit you in our family—there’s the door!
She jabbed a finger toward the exit. But Oksana didn’t even turn her head.
— You’re mistaken. This is not your family. This is my family. And this is my home. And I am the only one who can show the door to guests who behave inappropriately. And you, Yelena Petrovna, are doing exactly that. You aren’t building a family. You’re building yourself a comfortable old age at my expense.
The air in the hallway turned dense as cotton. Oksana’s words, spoken without shouting or strain, settled on Yelena Petrovna’s shoulders like an invisible weight. Her face, previously crimson with righteous rage, slowly blotched and then took on a sallow, unhealthy hue. She looked at her daughter-in-law and there was no longer any condescending certainty in her eyes—only raw, animal hatred. The mask of the wise mentor had been torn off, and beneath it was an ugly face contorted by fear and greed.
— You… — she hissed, and there was more poison in that hiss than in words. — Mercenary trash! You planned it all! You wormed your way into the family, bewitched my boy, and now you want to tear him from his mother to grab everything for yourself! You think I don’t see what you are? You only want our apartment and our money!
Viktor, standing behind his mother, jerked as if to say something, then froze with his mouth half-open. He looked from his mother to his wife, panic sloshing in his eyes. He had brought in heavy artillery, expecting it to annihilate Oksana’s defenses, and instead it had blown up on the minefield it had laid itself.
Oksana didn’t dignify the insult with an answer. She looked past her mother-in-law, straight at her husband. That calm, studying gaze was more frightening than any tirade.
— No, Yelena Petrovna. I don’t want your apartment, — she said in the same icy tone. — And I don’t need Viktor’s money either. I wanted only one thing—that you not meddle in my life or my wallet. But that’s not why you came, is it? Not for “order,” not for “traditions.”
She paused, letting the words soak into the quiet. Yelena Petrovna tensed, instinctively sensing danger.
— Let’s talk about the dacha, — Oksana suggested matter-of-factly.
It was like a punch to the gut. Yelena Petrovna jolted as if shocked. Viktor blanched and hunched his shoulders.
— What does the dacha have to do with this? — the mother-in-law forced out, but her voice betrayed her with a tremor.
— It has to do with the fact that you haven’t paid the land tax for two years, — Oksana continued, her voice cutting like a scalpel. — And you’ve received a final notice. A couple more months and the plot goes under the hammer for debt. That’s why you started scrambling, isn’t it? You didn’t just need my money; you needed my entire salary, urgently, to plug your hole. The hole your “wisdom” and “experience” made. Viktor told me everything. On one of those rare nights when he was my husband and not your son.
It was the final, devastating blow. Not loud, not scandalous—quiet and precise, like a poisoned prick. The whole construction collapsed. The role of devoted mother, supposedly fighting for her son’s well-being, turned out to be a cheap set piece hiding a banal financial pit and a panic-stricken fear. She’d wanted to save her property at her daughter-in-law’s expense, dressing it up as concern for the “family budget.”
Yelena Petrovna turned to her son. The mix of rage and contempt in her look made Viktor recoil. She stared at him like a traitor, an imbecile who had leaked the main military secret. He had been her weapon, her battering ram, and he’d turned out to be the weak link, a hole in the defenses.
— Ma… I… — he stammered, but his mother cut him off with a short, vicious gesture.
She turned on her heel without a word. All her feigned dignity, all her showy pride vanished. She hunched, shrank, became just an ordinary, spiteful, defeated old woman. Without another word, she stepped out the door.
Viktor remained alone in the hallway, facing his wife. He looked at her in despair, waiting for the sentence. But Oksana no longer looked at him. It was as if she’d erased him from her field of vision. Silently, with the same calm, detached air with which she’d been slicing the salad, she went to the closet, opened it, took his jacket from the hanger and his work bag. She didn’t throw them, didn’t fling them. She came over and carefully draped the jacket over his arm and set the bag at his feet.
Actions speak louder than words. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a statement of fact. He lifted his eyes to her, a last, pitiful plea in them. But her face was impenetrable.
— Go, Vitya, — she said quietly, almost indifferently. — Your mother needs your help right now.
He stood there a few more seconds, crushed and undone. Then slowly, as if in a dream, he turned and walked out, leaving the door open behind him. Oksana came over and, without looking at the landing where the two people once closest to her stood, simply closed the door. The soft click of the lock sounded deafeningly loud in the empty apartment. She went back to the room, sat in the armchair, and picked up her book from the floor. Turned the page. The war was over…