Go to hell!” Oksana barked, flinging her purse onto the shoe rack in the entryway. The keys clattered as they flew to the floor.
Artyom peeked out of the living room, where he’d been watching football. One look at his wife’s face told him—another run-in with his mother hadn’t gone well.
“What is it this time?” he asked wearily, muting the TV.
“What, what!” Oksana yanked off her boots so fiercely she nearly fell. “Your precious mommy decided to ‘teach me a lesson’ again! In the middle of the store! In front of everyone!”
She straightened up; her face burned with anger and humiliation.
“Can you imagine? She walks up to me in the checkout line and goes, ‘Oksanochka, what kind of dress is that? It’s too short, not appropriate for your age!’” Oksana mimicked her mother-in-law, exaggerating her intonation. “And then she even told the cashier that I’m her daughter-in-law, and that young people these days have completely lost all decency!”
Artyom inwardly cringed. His mother really did love to make comments at the worst possible moment.
“And I’m not going to obey your mother—she’s a stranger to me!” Oksana went on, getting more and more worked up. “She has a husband and a son—let her boss them around!”
Artyom let out a heavy sigh. This conversation happened every week, like a scratched record. His mother truly loved giving advice—especially to Oksana. And his wife, proud and independent by nature, blew up every time.
“Oksan, she doesn’t mean any harm…”
“Doesn’t mean any harm?!” Oksana swung around to face him fully, hands on her hips. “She flat-out told me I cook soup wrong, that I clean the apartment like I don’t care, and yesterday she even hinted it’s time I ‘give you grandchildren’!”
Footsteps sounded in the hallway—heavy, steady. Artyom recognized his father’s gait.
“Tyoma, you home?” came Ivan Viktorovich’s familiar voice.
Oksana went pale. Her father-in-law hadn’t come alone—behind him loomed the imposing figure of Liliya Vasilyevna in her constant dark navy suit. A woman born to command. She’d worked as a school vice principal for thirty years, and the habit of managing people had seeped into her bones for good.
“Hello,” Oksana said dryly, not moving.
“Oksanochka,” Liliya Vasilyevna walked into the kitchen, looking around with a critical eye. “I brought you a pilaf recipe. Remember you said you can’t get it right? Well, the secret is that—”
“Liliya Vasilyevna,” Oksana cut her off, and her voice carried a note of cold steel. “My pilaf is excellent. Artyom loves it. Right, honey?”
Artyom felt the ground slipping out from under him. The war between the two most important women in his life was flaring up again. And he, as always, stood right in the middle.
Liliya Vasilyevna raised an eyebrow—the exact gesture that once made careless students tremble.
“Of course, Oksanochka. I just wanted to share my experience. I’ve been cooking for forty years, and you…” she paused meaningfully, “…are still learning.”
Oksana clenched her fists. As a child she’d been the youngest in the family, and everyone had constantly lectured her. Now, at thirty-two, she had no intention of tolerating that from an outsider—even if that outsider was her husband’s mother.
“Learning?” she repeated in a dangerously quiet voice. “Or maybe you should learn to accept the fact that your son has grown up and started his own family?”
Ivan Viktorovich shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. He knew his wife—Liliya never backed down first. And he’d come to know Oksana over three years, too. The girl reminded him of a younger version of his own wife—just as principled and unbreakable.
“Girls, maybe we shouldn’t—” he began.
“What ‘girls,’ Ivan Viktorovich,” Oksana snapped. “I’m a married woman. And in my own home I have the right to cook the way I see fit.”
Artyom watched his mother tense up. Her lips pressed into a thin line—a sure sign a storm was coming.
“In your own home…” Liliya Vasilyevna repeated slowly. “Interesting. And who bought this apartment? Who put down the down payment?”
The hit landed dead center. Oksana flared like a match.
“So now we’re bringing up money too!” She turned to Artyom. “See? See her true face? Help—with strings attached!”
“No one is bringing anything up,” her mother-in-law objected. “I simply think gratitude—”
“Gratitude?” Oksana laughed, but it came out bitter. “For what? For interfering in our lives? For calling every day and criticizing?”
At that moment the front door slammed. A familiar voice rang out:
“Hey, family! I came to visit!”
Ilya. The younger son, Liliya Vasilyevna’s favorite. The one she was always holding up as an example to his older brother.
Oksana groaned inwardly. Another witness to the family scandal. Ilya appeared in the kitchen doorway—tall, smiling, holding a bouquet of flowers.
“Oh, Mom’s already here!” he said happily. “Perfect—I actually wanted to talk…” He trailed off, sensing the tension. “Did something happen?”
“Nothing special,” Liliya Vasilyevna said with a stretched smile. “We were just discussing household management.”
“Discussing,” Oksana echoed. “That’s what we’re calling it.”
Ilya looked questioningly at his brother. Artyom only spread his hands helplessly.
“Mom, remember you promised to teach me your signature Olivier salad?” Ilya tried to change the subject. “I want to impress everyone for New Year’s—”
“Of course, my sunshine!” Liliya Vasilyevna brightened instantly. “Write it down. The key is homemade mayo, not store-bought…”
Oksana watched and felt everything inside begin to boil. There it was—the demonstrative difference. With the younger son: “my sunshine,” eager to share recipes. With the daughter-in-law: criticism and lectures.
“How sweet,” she couldn’t stop herself. “So you force advice on me, but happily tell Ilya everything.”
Liliya Vasilyevna turned to her.
“Ilya is my son. He asks for help—he doesn’t snap at every word.”
“Mom,” Artyom warned.
But it was too late. Oksana grabbed the car keys from the table.
“That’s it. I’m leaving. You can deal with your mommy yourselves.”
“Oksan, wait…”
But she was already rushing to the door. It slammed, and heavy silence filled the kitchen.
Ivan Viktorovich broke it first:
“Lilya, maybe you really shouldn’t—”
“Shouldn’t what?” his wife snapped. “Care about my son? Worry that he married a hysteric?”
“She’s not a hysteric, Mom,” Artyom said quietly. “She’s just… proud.”
“Proud,” Liliya Vasilyevna snorted. “And I’m not proud, am I? I lived with your father for forty years, raised two children, and never said a word against anyone!”
“Mom, you know what you’re like,” Ilya put in, trying to defuse things. “You’re a general in a skirt. And Oksana isn’t exactly a gift either—her personality is like—”
“Like whose?” Artyom asked sharply.
“Come on, bro, don’t get mad. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that she and Mom are two of a kind. Both natural commanders.”
Liliya Vasilyevna pursed her lips. There was truth in her younger son’s words, but she had no intention of admitting it.
“I don’t command anyone. I just want my son to be happy.”
“And he is happy,” Artyom argued. “Until you start—”
He didn’t finish, but everyone understood.
Outside, an engine started—Oksana was driving away. Artyom dashed to the window, but it was too late. The red Mazda was already turning the corner.
Where would she go? To her friend Marina? To her parents? Artyom’s thoughts scrambled. She’d fought with Marina a month ago over some nonsense. Her parents lived in another city…
The phone rang. Artyom snatched it up.
“Oksan?”
“Not Oksan,” an unfamiliar male voice said. “This is the auto service. Your wife got into a minor accident…”
The world tilted. Artyom grabbed the wall.
“What… how… is she alive?”
“She’s alive, don’t worry. Just light bruises. But the car is damaged. Please come to this address…”
Artyom wrote it down with shaking hands. Liliya Vasilyevna went pale.
“What happened?”
“An accident. I’m going.” He grabbed his jacket.
“We’re coming with you,” his father said.
“And me,” Ilya added.
Only Liliya Vasilyevna remained standing in the middle of the kitchen, gripping her pilaf recipe.
Oksana sat on a chair in the service reception area, pressing an ice pack to her bruised shoulder. Her face was pale, her gaze empty.
When Artyom appeared in the doorway, she looked up. In her eyes he read not only pain from the bruises, but something else too—resolve.
“How are you?” he rushed to her.
“Alive.” Her voice was level, emotionless.
“What happened?”
“I was driving, crying. Didn’t notice the red…” She shrugged and immediately winced from the pain.
Artyom hugged her carefully, trying not to hurt her.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry—sorry about me, sorry about Mom…”
“Artyom,” she pulled back and looked him in the eyes. “I need to tell you something.”
“Of course. Tell me.”
“Not here. At home. When we’re alone.”
He nodded, not understanding what was behind her calm tone. But something told him—today would change their life forever.
An hour later they were still sorting out the paperwork at the service. Oksana stayed quiet, answering the mechanic in short phrases. Artyom filled out forms, stealing glances at his wife.
“Let’s go home,” he said when the formalities were done. “You need rest.”
They drove in silence. Oksana stared out the window; Artyom nervously drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. The words she wanted to say hung between them like an invisible wall.
At home, a surprise awaited them. A suitcase and a travel bag stood by the door.
“What’s this?” Artyom asked.
“My things,” Oksana replied calmly, walking past him into the living room.
“How—your things?”
She sank into an armchair, wincing at her shoulder, and looked at him steadily.
“Artyom, I’m leaving.”
The words hung in the air like thunder on a clear day. Artyom dropped onto the couch opposite her.
“Because of today’s fight? Oksan, that’s ridiculous…”
“Not because of today. Because of three years of daily humiliation.” Her voice stayed even, without hysteria. “Because every time you choose her instead of me.”
“I don’t choose anyone! I’m just trying to keep peace in the family!”
“Peace?” She gave a bitter smile. “Artyom, what peace? Your mother thinks I’m not good enough for her son. She says it at every meeting—just in different words.”
“She’ll get used to you…”
“In three years she didn’t. And she won’t.” Oksana stood and went to the window. “And you know what hurts most? That you understand her. You think it too—that I don’t measure up to your standards.”
“That’s not true!”
“It is, Artyom. When she criticizes my cooking, you stay silent. When she comments on my appearance, you make excuses. When she hints about children, you nod.”
Artyom stared at his wife, lost. Had he really been like that? Had he not noticed how much it hurt her all these years?
“I thought you’d find common ground eventually…”
“We’re too different. And most importantly—she doesn’t want to accept me as I am. And you aren’t willing to stand up for me.”
At that moment the phone rang. On the screen: “Mom.”
Oksana looked at her husband.
“Answer it. She’s probably worried about her precious little boy.”
Artyom hesitated. Then he rejected the call.
“Oksan, let’s talk calmly. What exactly happened in the store today?”
She returned to the armchair, leaned back tiredly.
“I was buying groceries. I ran into your mother by accident. She immediately started looking me up and down. Then she said my dress was too bright for a married woman. That I should dress more modestly, more respectably.”
“And what did you say?”
“What could I say? That I’m thirty-two, not fifty? That I have a right to wear what I like?” Her voice trembled. “She looked at me like… like I was something indecent.”
Artyom closed his eyes. His mother could be harsh, especially when it came to “proper behavior” and “rules.”
“And then she told the cashier too: ‘This is my daughter-in-law. Young people today have no idea what’s decent to wear in public.’” Oksana clenched her fists. “Can you imagine how ashamed I was?”
The phone rang again. Mom again.
“Pick up,” Oksana said softly. “Tell her about the crash. Let her know what she caused.”
Artyom rejected it again.
“No. First you and I figure this out.”
“Figure this out?” anger crept back into her voice. “What is there to figure out, Artyom? I’ve been tolerating her rudeness for three years, and you pretend nothing is happening!”
“I don’t pretend—”
“You do! Every time she humiliates me, you explain it away: ‘She worries,’ ‘She means well,’ ‘She’s used to being in charge.’ But you never think about the fact that it hurts me!”
Oksana stood and began pacing the room, her movements sharp and nervous.
“And today in the car, when I was crying and didn’t see the red light… do you know what I was thinking about?”
Artyom shook his head.
“That it would be better to crash than to feel like an extra in my own family every single day.”
“Oksan…” He jumped up, reached for her.
“Don’t.” She pulled away. “I’ve already decided. I’m going to my sister in Moscow. For a while. We need a break.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know. Maybe a month. Maybe forever.”
The word “forever” hit Artyom like a slap.
“Oksan, but we love each other…”
“We do. But it’s not enough.” She looked at him with eyes full of tears. “Love isn’t enough when one person has to sacrifice their dignity just to keep ‘peace’ in the family.”
The phone rang a third time. This time Artyom answered.
“Mom, not now—”
“Sweetheart, what’s going on? You sound so strange! And why didn’t you answer earlier?”
“We have problems. Serious ones.”
“What problems? Is something wrong with Oksana?”
Artyom glanced at his wife. She stood by the window, arms wrapped around herself.
“Yes, Mom. With Oksana. And with me. And with all of us.”
“I don’t understand…”
“Oksana wants to leave. Because of what you did in the store today.”
Silence. Then:
“What did I do? I didn’t do anything! I just made a remark—”
“Mom, you humiliated her in front of strangers.”
“Artyom, I’m your mother! I have the right—”
“No!” For the first time in three years, he raised his voice at his mother. “You don’t have the right to humiliate my wife!”
Oksana turned, staring at him in surprise.
“How dare you talk to me like that!” Liliya Vasilyevna snapped.
“The same way you talk to my wife.” Artyom felt something inside him flip over. “Mom, Oksana packed a suitcase. Do you understand? She’s leaving me.”
“Good! Then she doesn’t really love you, if because of such nonsense—”
“It’s not nonsense!” Artyom shouted. “It’s three years of constant humiliation! Three years of me staying silent and letting you trample the person I love!”
Oksana stared at him wide-eyed. She’d never known this Artyom.
“Artyom, what’s gotten into you?” his mother asked, confused.
“Me? Nothing. I just finally understood—I choose my wife. Not my mom.”
“How can you—”
“Easily. Mom, I love you. But if you don’t learn to respect Oksana, you won’t see me—or the grandchildren you keep demanding.”
“Artyom!” Liliya Vasilyevna gasped.
“That’s it, Mom. We’ll talk when you cool down.”
He hung up and turned to his wife.
“Oksan…”
She was crying. But not from grief—from relief.
“Did you really choose me?” she whispered.
He hugged her, pressed her to him.
“I’m sorry it took me so long to get it. Sorry I let her—”
“Hush,” she breathed. “The important thing is—you finally understood.”
“So… can we unpack the suitcase?”
Oksana pulled back and looked him in the eyes.
“And you’re really ready to fight with your mother because of me?”
“Not because of you. For us. For our marriage.”
She nodded.
“Then yes. We can unpack.”
But there were many trials ahead. Liliya Vasilyevna wasn’t going to surrender without a fight. And in family wars, as everyone knows, there are no winners—only survivors.
The next morning Artyom woke to the sound of keys in the lock. Oksana was still asleep, her back nestled against him. Yesterday’s phone conversation with his mother still throbbed in his temples.
“Tyoma!” came a loud whisper from the entryway. “You home?”
Ilya. Artyom carefully slipped out from under the blanket, threw on a robe, and went to his brother.
“Why are you here so early?”
“Mom didn’t sleep all night,” Ilya looked anxious. “She cried. Says you disowned her. Says you chose a strange woman over your own mother.”
Artyom rubbed his forehead. Here we go.
“She’s not a stranger. She’s my wife.”
“Tyom, what are you doing?” Ilya walked into the kitchen and turned on the kettle. “Mom’s old already. Her heart’s bad. And you upset her like this…”
“And who upset Oksana for three years straight?”
“That’s different! Oksana’s young, healthy—she can handle it. But Mom—”
“Ilya,” Artyom sat down at the table and looked at his brother wearily. “Mom isn’t a fragile crystal vase. She’s a grown woman who can be held responsible for her words.”
“But she doesn’t mean any harm! She’s just worried about you!”
“Worry doesn’t give you the right to humiliate people.”
Ilya made tea and put two mugs on the table.
“Listen, maybe you talk to Oksana? Let her apologize to Mom…”
“For what?” Artyom nearly choked on his tea.
“Well… for being rude. For snapping…”
“Ilya, were you in that store yesterday? Did you hear what happened?”
“No, but Mom told me…”
“Mom told you her version. I believe my wife.”
Ilya shook his head.
“Tyoma, you’re destroying the family over women’s whims.”
“I’m saving the family. And the only ‘whims’ here belong to one person.”
Oksana appeared in the doorway in a house robe, hair tousled, eyes sleepy.
“Good morning,” she said quietly to Ilya.
“Morning,” he replied curtly.
Oksana poured herself water and stood by the window. The silence became uncomfortable.
“Oksan,” Ilya finally spoke. “Maybe you should talk to Mom? She’s very upset…”
“And I’m not upset?” Oksana turned around. “I’ve been upset for three years.”
“Well, you’re both adult women! Can’t you just come to an agreement?”
“An agreement?” Oksana gave a bitter little laugh. “About what, Ilya? About me having to tolerate rudeness? About me being thirty-two and required to report to my mother-in-law for every thing I buy?”
“Mom just wants you to be a worthy wife—”
“Worthy?” Oksana’s voice dropped into danger. “And who decides if I’m worthy or not? Your mother?”
Artyom stood up and went to his wife.
“Ilya, enough. Don’t stick your nose into this.”
“How is it not my business? I can see the family falling apart!”
“The family was falling apart for three years. Nobody wanted to notice.”
“Tyom, are you really ready to fall out with your parents because of her?”
“Because of her?” Artyom flared. “Ilya, she’s my wife! The woman I plan to live with for the rest of my life! And all of you treat her like a temporary inconvenience!”
“Don’t shout!”
“I will shout! I’m sick of it!” Artyom felt a wave of fury rising inside him. “I’m sick of hearing about Mom-the-old-lady! Mom isn’t an old lady, Ilya! She’s fifty-four, healthy, active, and used to ordering everyone around!”
“Tyoma!”
“And if she won’t learn to respect my family, she can live alone with her principles!”
Ilya set his mug down and stood.
“Fine. I see it’s useless talking to you. Your wife has brainwashed you.”
“Ilya,” Artyom warned.
“What, Ilya? I’m telling the truth! For three years you were a normal person, and now you bark at your own mother!”
“Out!” Artyom roared, pointing to the door.
Ilya snorted.
“And you’re kicking me out too. Fine, I’m going. But know this—Mom’s bedridden now. Her blood pressure shot up. Dad called a doctor.”
He left, slamming the door. Oksana came up to her husband and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.
“Don’t blame yourself,” she said quietly. “That’s emotional blackmail.”
“But what if she really is sick?”
“Artyom, look at me.” Oksana cupped his face in her hands. “If we give in to that kind of manipulation every time, we’ll never live our own life.”
The phone rang. Dad.
“Artyom,” Ivan Viktorovich’s voice sounded tired. “Come. Mom’s in the hospital.”
Artyom’s heart lurched.
“What happened?”
“Hypertensive crisis. Nearly two hundred. Doctors say it’s stress.”
Artyom closed his eyes. Oksana squeezed his hand.
“We’ll be right there,” he said.
“Better you come alone,” his father replied quietly. “She… she doesn’t want to see Oksana.”
“Then none of us are coming.”
“Son…”
“Dad—either we come together, or no one comes. Oksana is my wife. And if Mom can’t accept that, she can be treated alone.”
A long pause followed.
“All right,” Ivan Viktorovich finally said. “Come together.”
The hospital corridor smelled of bleach and medicine. Liliya Vasilyevna lay in intensive care, pale, a drip in her arm. Seeing her daughter-in-law, she turned to the wall.
“Mom, how are you?” Artyom stepped to the bed.
“Wonderful,” she replied dryly without turning. “My son chose his wife over his mother—health is excellent.”
“Liliya Vasilyevna,” Oksana stepped forward. “I’m very sorry it turned out like this.”
“Don’t,” her mother-in-law cut her off. “Don’t pretend.”
“I’m not pretending. I really am sorry.”
Liliya Vasilyevna finally turned her head and looked at her.
“Sorry? Were you sorry yesterday when you called me a stranger?”
“Yesterday I was hurt. And I said what I thought.”
“Oh—what you thought!” Liliya Vasilyevna tried to rise. “And what you thought was that some old fool is ruining your happiness!”
“Mom, lie down,” Artyom gently pressed her shoulder.
“Don’t call me Mom! You already made your choice!”
“Liliya Vasilyevna,” Oksana spoke again. “May I say a few words?”
Her mother-in-law gave a contemptuous snort but stayed silent.
“I don’t think you’re an old fool. And I don’t want to take your son away from you. It’s just…” Oksana searched for the right words. “It’s hard to constantly feel like I’m wrong. Like I don’t belong.”
“And who said you do belong?”
“Artyom did. He chose me. Not you, not me—him.”
Liliya Vasilyevna fell silent, processing what she’d heard.
“And if you want your son to be happy,” Oksana continued, “then accept his choice. You don’t have to love me. But at least you can tolerate me.”
“Tolerate…” her mother-in-law repeated slowly.
“Yes. For Artyom. For the family.”
Liliya Vasilyevna closed her eyes. Silence fell in the room, broken only by the beeping of medical equipment.
“All right,” she finally said. “We’ll try. But on one condition.”
“What condition?”
“You’ll tolerate too. My remarks, my advice. You won’t snap like yesterday.”
Oksana looked at her husband. Artyom gave a barely perceptible nod.
“Agreed,” she said. “But you also try… to be quieter. I’m not your student and not your daughter. I’m an adult woman.”
“We’ll see,” Liliya Vasilyevna muttered.
It wasn’t reconciliation. It was a truce. But for a start, that was enough.
When they left the hospital, Artyom took his wife’s hand.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For agreeing to try.”
“And did I have a choice?” she smiled. “She’s your mother. And if we’re going to be together, we have to learn to live with her.”
“And if it doesn’t work?”
Oksana stopped and looked him in the eyes.
“It will. It has to. Because now I know—you’re on my side.”
And that was already a lot.
But the truce lasted exactly two weeks.
It began with a phone call at seven in the morning on a Saturday.
“Artyom, come over immediately!” Liliya Vasilyevna’s voice sounded commanding, like in her best vice-principal days. “I bought you gifts—you need to pick them up!”
“Mom, it’s Saturday, we’re still sleeping…”
“And I’ve been up for two hours! I was at the store early, trying for you!”
Oksana opened one eye, checked the time, and groaned into her pillow. Artyom stroked her back.
“Mom, we’ll come after lunch, okay?”
“After lunch I have things to do! Come now, while I’m free!”
“But we agreed—”
“We agreed I’d be quieter, not that I’d ask permission from that… from Oksana to see my own son!”
Artyom sat up in bed. Oksana sat up too, having recognized the familiar tone.
“Mom, we agreed on respect. In both directions.”
“She doesn’t respect me! Yesterday I ran into her at the pharmacy—she barely said hello! Just nodded and walked past!”
“Mom, I was on a business trip. I don’t know what happened—”
“But I do!” the voice grew more shrill. “She thinks she can ignore me now! That because you supported her, she can get arrogant!”
Oksana rolled her eyes and went to the bathroom. Artyom heard the shower turn on—loudly, demonstratively.
“Mom, maybe we talk tonight? Calmly—”
“Tonight will be too late! I demand you come right now! And your wife will apologize for her behavior yesterday!”
“For what behavior?”
“For walking past me like I was a lamp post! For not even asking how I am after the hospital!”
Artyom rubbed his temples. The headache was growing.
“Mom, I’m not going to demand my wife apologize because she didn’t throw you a happy reunion scene in a pharmacy.”
“So you’re not coming?”
“I’m coming. But not now. And no apologies.”
“Then don’t come at all!” Liliya Vasilyevna slammed the phone down.
Oksana came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel.
“Again?”
“Again. Now apparently you greeted her wrong at the pharmacy.”
“Artyom, I didn’t even see her at the pharmacy. I was there the day before yesterday buying vitamins. If she was there, I didn’t notice.”
“And she thinks you ignored her.”
Oksana sat on the bed and sighed tiredly.
“Do you understand what’s happening? She’s looking for reasons. On purpose.”
“Why?”
“To prove I’m bad—ungrateful, disrespectful. So you’ll ‘realize your mistake’ and choose her.”
Artyom stayed quiet. Deep down, he knew she was right.
“So what do we do?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t know.”
The phone rang again. This time it was Ilya.
“Tyoma, what have you done? Mom is sobbing—she says you’ve abandoned her for good!”
“Ilya, Mom demanded we come to her at seven in the morning on a Saturday…”
“So what? You couldn’t come?”
“We could. But not on demand. And not so my wife can apologize for imaginary offenses.”
“What offenses?”
Ask Mom. She’ll tell you.”
“Tyoma, you do understand this is heading toward a rift? Mom says she won’t call again. That if you chose some stranger woman—”
“Stop!” Artyom barked. “If you call my wife a stranger woman one more time, you’ll get punched—brother or not!”
“What is wrong with all of you?” Ilya asked, stunned.
“There’s nothing wrong with us. We just want to live in peace. And we’re not allowed.”
“But it’s family!”
“Yes—family. My family is me and Oksana. Everything else is relatives. And if relatives interfere with the family, you have to choose.”
Artyom hung up and looked at his wife.
“Oksan, I’ve made a decision.”
“What decision?”
“We’re moving. To another city.”
She stared at him, surprised.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. I’ve got a job offer in Saint Petersburg. A good one. I didn’t consider it before because I didn’t want to leave Mom. But now…”
“And what about your parents? Your brother?”
“Oksan, I spent thirty-five years trying to be a good son. Now I just want to be a happy husband.”
She hugged him.
“Are you sure? You won’t regret it later?”
“I won’t. You know why? Because Mom made her choice herself. I offered peace—she preferred war. I tried to find a compromise—she demanded surrender.”
“And what will we tell everyone?”
“The truth. That we’re moving because we want to start a new life. Without daily scandals and reproaches.”
A month later they were packing the last boxes. Liliya Vasilyevna still hadn’t called—apparently she was waiting for her son to come begging forgiveness first. Ilya dropped by a couple of times, trying to persuade them to stay, but without success.
Ivan Viktorovich came to see them off on the last day.
“I’m sorry it turned out this way,” he said, hugging his son.
“Dad, try talking to her. Explain that a mother’s love isn’t control. And it isn’t ownership.”
“I’ll try. But you know her character…”
“I do. That’s why I’m leaving.”
Oksana turned to her father-in-law.
“Ivan Viktorovich, I’m sorry it ended up like this.”
“Don’t apologize, girl. Lilya’s at fault herself. It’s just… she’s afraid of being left unwanted. She commanded people her whole life—first students, then the kids. Now the kids have grown up and she doesn’t know who she’s supposed to be.”
“Maybe a grandmother?” Oksana asked softly. “A kind, loving grandmother?”
“Maybe. When the grandkids appear—maybe she’ll get it.”
“They’ll appear,” Oksana smiled. “They definitely will.”
Saint Petersburg greeted them with rain and a gray sky, but their mood was bright. A small apartment in the center, work they liked, and most importantly—quiet. No one called from morning till night, no one gave advice, no one criticized.
Six months later Oksana told her husband she was pregnant.
“Now we definitely have to make peace with your parents,” she said. “A child needs grandparents.”
“Needs them,” Artyom agreed. “But not at any price.”
“What if you call and tell them the news?”
Artyom thought for a moment. Then he took out his phone and dialed.
“Mom? It’s Artyom. Yes, from Petersburg. We have news… You’re going to be a grandmother.”
Silence. Then:
“When?”
“In four months.”
“And what do you want from me?”
“Nothing, Mom. Just letting you know.”
Another pause.
“Can I… can I come and see my grandchild?”
“You can. If you behave properly.”
“I will. I promise.”
“Then come. We’ll be glad to have you.”
When he ended the call, Oksana asked:
“Do you believe she’ll change?”
“I want to. A maternal instinct is a powerful thing. Maybe for her grandchild she’ll learn to be simply a grandmother, not a commander.”
“And if not?”
“Then we’ll raise our child without a toxic grandma. Not the worst option.”
Oksana nodded. They sat on the couch; she rested her head on his shoulder and he stroked her belly, still barely noticeable.
“You know what matters most?” she said.
“What?”
“That you chose me. Really chose me. And now I know—whatever happens, we’ll handle it. Together.”
“Together,” Artyom agreed.
Rain fell outside, but their little apartment was warm and cozy. They were starting a new life—their own, without other people’s rules and orders. And it was beautiful.
Liliya Vasilyevna did come when her grandson was born. She kept herself in check, barely criticized, even helped with the baby. But a week later she couldn’t resist and started giving advice—how to feed him, how to swaddle him, how to raise him.
“Mom,” Artyom said then. “You have a choice. Either you’re just a loving grandmother who comes to visit. Or you don’t come at all.”
She chose the first. Not immediately, not without a struggle—but she chose. And that was already a victory.
You don’t choose your family. But you do choose how you deal with them. And Artyom, at last, learned to make the right choice