Mom, these trousers are just gorgeous, but… they’re several times more expensive than the ones we saw at the last display!” exclaimed Yevgeny, glancing at the stylish fine-wool trousers that Liliya Dmitrievna was handing him with an elegant smile. “It’s not like I’m going to walk around with the price tag on my back anyway, so why overpay like that?”
“That is exactly why we’ll buy them, son,” she replied in a subtle but firm tone, as if she were pronouncing not just words, but a law not open to discussion. “When you wear things of a certain quality, it’s not just clothing. It’s a language. The language of your position, your taste, your status. People don’t look at the price tag, they look at how the thing speaks for you.”
Yevgeny sighed, feeling that familiar numbness wash over him. He knew—arguing was pointless. His mother always got her way. Like a fairy godmother from a story, only not the kind one, more a strict guardian of the family image. He silently took the trousers, as if he were accepting not just a piece of clothing, but the symbol of yet another step into a world where everything is measured by level, status, and outward shine.
Their family really did live in a special world—a world of success, luxury, constant upward movement. The business founded by his father Vadim back in the early 2000s had turned into a powerful corporation, bringing in a stable and at times dizzying income. A house in an elite district, prestigious cars, private trips abroad—all of this had become the norm. But with each year, with every new million, Liliya Dmitrievna herself became ever more… particular. Her view of people was as if through a magnifying glass: some she studied with interest, others—with cold disdain, and a third group she simply ignored, as if they were nothing more than background scenery in her magnificent life.
Yevgeny, on the other hand, grew up to be a person with a different heart. He didn’t see price tags on people. What mattered more to him was the light in their eyes, the sincerity in their words, laughter that wasn’t for show. He befriended those who inspired his trust, who knew how to listen, who were not afraid to be themselves. And that irritated his mother like nothing else.
“Zhenya,” she would say time and again, setting aside her wine glass and turning to him with an expression of almost pedagogical regret, “we must surround ourselves only with equals. Not those who are ‘nice,’ but those who truly stand on the same level as us. Do you understand what social environment means? It’s not just words. It’s the future. It’s connections, opportunities, respect.”
“Mom, I think friendship is not an investment,” he would reply, looking her straight in the eye. “I don’t choose friends based on my father’s job title or what car he drives. I choose them by how they talk to me, how they support me, how they laugh. Take my friend Vasya, for example—he works at a factory, his father is a driver. But he’s honest, kind, knows how to listen. He’s my kind of person.”
“What naïveté!” Liliya Dmitrievna would snort. “And Kostik? His father is a well-known oligarch, he has connections, a business, influence! He could open doors for you that you can’t even imagine!”
“And Kostik himself is a closed door,” Yevgeny smirked. “He’s empty. All he talks about is money, fashion, cars. He doesn’t know what real emotional connection is. He behaves like some spoiled society lady from a gossip column, only without the brains. I don’t want to be friends with him, Mom. I want to be with people who make me better, not those who just show off how well they’re dressed.”
The conversations always ended the same way—with silence. Liliya Dmitrievna would press her lips together, Vadim would sigh quietly, and Yevgeny would rush outside, as if the air beyond the walls of the house could give him back his freedom of thought.
And on that day, running out of the store with a shopping bag in his hand, he didn’t notice how he bumped into a girl standing at the entrance. She dropped her bag and staggered, almost falling.
“Do you even watch where you’re charging around?!” she snapped, straightening her glasses and picking up her bag. “This is the city center, not your personal racetrack!”
“Sorry,” Yevgeny mumbled, embarrassed. “I didn’t see you… But honestly, you were standing there like you were in the center of the universe.”
“Oh, so it’s my fault now?” she chuckled, but a spark of amusement had already flashed in her eyes. “Well then, since you’re so confident, maybe you could at least walk me to the bus stop? To make up for it?”
“If you insist,” he replied, smiling for the first time that day. “Although, if you ask me, you seem to handle yourself perfectly well.”
They walked side by side, and the conversation started on its own. Her name was Olesya. She was studying medicine and dreamed of becoming a surgeon. She spoke passionately, with fire, without fake modesty, but also without forced importance. She told him about patients, about her doubts, about her dreams—and Yevgeny listened as if, for the first time in his life, he was hearing something truly real.
He bought her an ice cream—simple, in a cone, with chocolate chips. They laughed, argued, strolled along the street, oblivious to time. And when she said she had to go home, he felt something click inside. As if his whole world, previously painted in shades of duty and expectation, had suddenly filled with color.
He came home not just happy—he was literally glowing. There was fire in his eyes, lightness in his step, music in his voice.
“Zhenya, what’s with you, did you fall in love or something?” asked Liliya Dmitrievna, raising an eyebrow when he burst into the living room.
“Mom, I met her!” he exclaimed. “The one! The only one!”
“Well, well, ‘the only one,’” she drawled with a sarcastic smile. “And who is this wonder-girl? Family? Education? Social level?”
“Her name is Olesya. She’s smart, kind, strong. She’s studying to be a doctor. As for who her parents are—I don’t know. And I don’t care.”
“Oh, you don’t care,” Liliya snorted. “Of course, when a person has no taste, it’s all the same to him who he associates with.”
“Mom, if you start about status again, I’m leaving. I’ll find an apartment and live on my own. I don’t want to build my life according to your templates.”
He walked out, slamming the door. Vadim looked at his wife in silence.
“Well?” he asked. “Looks like our boy has grown up. And it seems he no longer intends to live by our rules.”
“Fine,” hissed Liliya, tightening her grip on her glass. “Then we’ll show this Olesya where she belongs. We won’t let some provincial girl wedge her way into our family.”
“Don’t rush,” said Vadim, putting an arm around her. “We have to act subtly. Cleverly. Don’t push your son away. Maybe it’s just a passing infatuation. Maybe he won’t marry her at all.”
But fate decided otherwise.
Three weeks later, Liliya Dmitrievna needed a nurse—to put her on an IV after a bout of stress. And when the doorbell rang and a girl in simple but neat clothes, with a bag in her hand and a calm smile on her face appeared, the mother recognized her immediately.
“Olesya?” she breathed.
“Yes, that’s me. Are you Liliya Dmitrievna?” Olesya asked, smiling calmly.
The mother’s world shook. This was her? The one? The girl who had captured her son’s heart? She tried to keep a straight face, but inside, dozens of plans were spinning: how to drive her away, how to put her in her place, how to show that she was not on their level.
But a week later Yevgeny announced:
“Mom, Dad, Olesya and I have filed an application at the registry office.”
Liliya almost fainted. Vadim started coughing. And Olesya now appeared in their house almost every day—calm, intelligent, polite, but with an inner strength that couldn’t be broken.
Then Liliya came up with a brilliant plan:
“We’ll invite her parents. To an expensive restaurant. Let them feel awkward. Let them get lost among all the forks, knives, and rules of etiquette. Olesya will be ashamed of them—and back down.”
“Brilliant,” Vadim nodded. “Country bumpkins in a luxury restaurant—that’s a sight worthy of an art film.”
And so the evening came. They stood at the entrance of a chic restaurant, looking around in search of an old car that, in their minds, was supposed to bring these “simple people.”
But instead, a new, gleaming Mercedes G-Class glided smoothly up to the entrance—the very car Vadim had been dreaming about for years. A man in a perfect suit, with kind eyes and a warm smile, leaned out of the window.
“Hi, princess!” he said to Olesya, kissing her on the cheek.
Liliya froze. Her mouth slowly fell open. And when Olesya’s mother appeared—wearing a fur coat from a famous brand, with an expensive watch and a confident stride—the whole theory Liliya had built collapsed like a house of cards.
At the table, Olesya’s parents behaved with such natural grace that Liliya herself felt like the provincial one. They knew how to hold their fork, when to drink wine, how to conduct polite small talk. And when Olesya’s father pulled out brochures with options for wedding venues—luxury hotels and premium resorts—he said:
“Pick whichever you like. We trust your taste. Call us when you decide.”
Liliya flushed to the roots of her hair. She understood: this was not just a family. This was a level. A status. This was—above them.
When the guests left, she turned to Vadim:
“Did you see that? They weren’t country bumpkins. They were people with real standing!”
“And you thought we were the only ones with money?” Yevgeny asked, appearing in the hallway. “Olesya works because her parents are teaching her to be independent. They’re not just rich, they’re successful. And smart. And you… you just don’t see beyond your own noses.”
He looked at them with sadness and firmness:
“Keep practicing. Otherwise at the wedding you’ll mix up your fork and your spoon. And yes—you will be there. Because this is my family. And my love. And you are just guests