—I refuse to buy groceries while food keeps mysteriously disappearing from our fridge and then turning up in your mother’s bag! Oleg, tell her straight: either she comes over like a normal guest, or she doesn’t come at all!” Lera’s voice—usually calm and even—rang now with pent-up irritation so sharp it made you want to squeeze your eyes shut, like from a light that’s too bright. She stood in the middle of the kitchen, arms crossed, staring at Oleg, who, like a schoolboy caught off guard, hunched over and chewed the leftovers from yesterday’s dinner.
Oleg set his fork down on the plate. The clink of metal against ceramic echoed through the tiny kitchen—somehow louder than usual. He looked up at Lera with guilty eyes. There was fatigue in them, and that familiar reluctance to step into conflict.
“Ler, why are you starting again? Mom came to visit, she ate… and maybe took a little. What’s the big deal? Do you really mind? She’s not doing it for no reason.”
“Not for no reason?!” Lera stepped closer, steel now threading her tone. “And what gives her the right to take anything at all?! Is she starving? Does she not have money for food? She comes to our place to visit, Oleg. To visit. Not to a cafeteria, and not to a humanitarian aid distribution point!”
Her outrage was more than justified. For the last few weeks, Lera had been noticing something strange. Like always, she did a big weekly shop, stuffing the fridge to the brim: fresh meat, cheeses, deli meats, vegetables, fruit, yogurts—everything for a full, varied life. But by the next day—or sometimes by evening—there was barely anything left. A pack of cheese opened that morning would vanish without a trace. Half a loaf of sausage she’d saved for sandwiches would evaporate. And the expensive cut of tenderloin she planned to roast on the weekend? Not even worth mentioning. It simply dissolved into nothing.
At first, Lera blamed her own forgetfulness—or thought maybe Oleg had started eating more. But Oleg insisted he ate as usual, sometimes even less, blaming work stress. His body didn’t suggest binge-eating either: he was thin, even a little stooped. Lera worried about his diet—but not enough to believe in miraculous disappearing groceries.
The answer came in a mundane, prosaic way, as it often does. That day, Lera left work early to make it to the clinic. She came home unusually early—around three p.m. The apartment was so quiet at first it felt deafening. Then soft rustling drifted from the kitchen. Lera froze and quietly stepped up to the doorway.
There, by the open refrigerator, stood Valentina Yegorovna—her mother-in-law. Her face was focused, almost predatory. In one hand she held a large plastic bag that was clearly not empty; in the other, a package of sausage she was hurriedly trying to stuff into her purse. On the table nearby lay several more items: a piece of cheese, a few apples—and, horror of horrors, a cut of pork tenderloin meant for Sunday lunch.
When Valentina Yegorovna noticed Lera, she flinched and dropped the sausage. Her face flashed through every shade of embarrassment and awkwardness.
“Oh, Lerочка! You’re already home? I didn’t expect you!” Her voice sounded fake-cheerful, almost hysterical. “It’s just… I decided to pack some treats for Olezha. He doesn’t finish his meals at all with you, he’s so skinny! So I thought I’d give him a little… to take with him. So he won’t starve.”
Lera stared at her as a wave of burning indignation rose in her chest. The words stuck in her throat. She just stood there watching her mother-in-law, smiling awkwardly, trying to gather up the scattered “treats.”
“I can see you’re losing weight too, Lerочка,” Valentina Yegorovna continued, desperate to fill the silence. “You’re feeding my Olezha badly. So I thought… maybe he’ll need it at work.”
At last, Lera found the strength to speak.
“Valentina Yegorovna, are you telling me Oleg… that Oleg is starving? In my apartment?”
Her mother-in-law didn’t seem to notice the icy tone.
“Well, not exactly starving… But I can tell he’s weaker. He needs strength, Lerочка. And you—well—you probably spend everything on yourself.”
That phrase was the final straw. Lera felt a hurricane rise inside her. She turned and walked out of the kitchen in silence, leaving Valentina Yegorovna alone with her purse and her “treats.” Half an hour later, her mother-in-law left—behind her, gaping emptiness in the fridge and, inside Lera, a searing desire to act.
And now, that evening, after Lera told Oleg everything, she waited for his reaction.
“Ler, come on!” Oleg got up from the table and moved toward her, trying to hug her. “She didn’t do it out of spite! It’s her mentality—she’s used to how people used to help each other. Trading food.”
“Trading?!” Lera shoved him away. “And what is she trading with us, Oleg? Empty promises? Or her snide comments about my cooking? I’m not going to work to supply her with groceries! I’m not buying food so she can haul it back to her place!”
“Ler, do you really begrudge her?” Oleg tried to appeal to her conscience. “She’s my mother. She always cared about us.”
“I don’t begrudge her. I’m disgusted.” Lera clipped each word, stamping it like a verdict. “I’m disgusted that my mother-in-law—a grown woman—steals food from our fridge. I’m disgusted that you cover for her. And I’m disgusted that you’re trying to convince me this is normal!”
Oleg went pale. He knew that when Lera spoke in that tone, she’d already decided—and there was no changing her mind.
“So what do you suggest?” he asked quietly, realizing his life was about to change.
“Here’s what.” Lera took a deep breath, trying to steady herself, but her voice still trembled with restrained tension. “Starting tomorrow, I buy food only for myself. For me and maybe for you—only what I decide is necessary. If you want to eat—go to the store. Go yourself and buy what you want. And tell your mother that next time I’ll check her bag at the door. And I’ll deduct the cost of what she steals from your paycheck.”
Oleg stared at her like she was insane.
“Ler, are you serious? Checking my mom’s bag? Deducting it from my salary?”
“Dead serious.” Cold fire burned in Lera’s eyes. “I’m not letting anyone rob me anymore. This is our food, Oleg. My food. I buy it with my money. If she needs it, she can ask. Or she can buy it herself. Or you can buy it for her. But not out of our fridge!”
Oleg fell silent. He felt cornered. On one side—his wife, decisive and unshakable. On the other—his mother, who had always been an unquestioned authority to him.
“And how do you imagine that?” he finally managed. “Mom comes over, and I say: ‘Mom, don’t eat, it’s not yours’?”
“No, Oleg.” Lera stepped close, her gaze hard as steel. “You’ll say: ‘Mom, Lera only buys groceries for herself. If you want to eat, say so. Or bring something with you.’ And most importantly: ‘Mom, don’t take anything without asking.’ That’s called respect, Oleg. Which, apparently, she doesn’t show us.”
Oleg felt the air thicken with tension. He understood now it wasn’t just a conversation about food. It was a conversation about power—about who made the decisions in their family. And Oleg stood between two fires, and it seemed he had no choice.
The next day began with a strange silence. As promised, Lera bought herself a small container of ready-made food for lunch and placed it on a separate shelf in the fridge, sticking a note on it: “MINE.” Oleg, for the first time in ages, went to the store himself and bought a modest set of groceries. A strange order now ruled the fridge: two “territories” separated by an invisible but very real border.
Valentina Yegorovna—apparently—had received a “warning” from her son. When she came over the next day, she was unusually proper. She drank tea, refused the sandwiches (“Oh, Lerочка, I already had lunch!”), and didn’t go anywhere near the fridge. Lera watched with mild satisfaction, but she also sensed it was only a temporary truce. The war over the refrigerator—over power, over respect—was only beginning.
At lunch, Lera took out her container, ate her salad, and put it back. Oleg took out his separately bought sausages, cooked them, and ate. Valentina Yegorovna sat opposite, demonstratively sipping tea. In her eyes Lera caught something like resentment mixed with defiance—something that said: “We’ll see who wins.”
When Valentina Yegorovna left, Lera went to the fridge. All her food was still there. All of Oleg’s too. But Lera felt the calm was deceptive. She knew her mother-in-law wouldn’t accept defeat so easily—and that the next battle would be harsher.
She turned to Oleg, who sat at the table staring at his phone.
“Oleg, did you talk to her? About coming as a guest, not looting our fridge?”
Oleg looked up, tiredness in his eyes.
“Yes. I did. She’s… not happy. She said you offended her. Said she always did everything for us.”
Lera gave a short, bitter laugh.
I offended her? Oleg, she carried products out of our home—food I bought with my own money! What do you call that? Gratitude? Care? No, Oleg. That’s called theft. And I’m not going to tolerate it. I’ll say it again: either she comes here as a guest—or she doesn’t come at all. And you choose whose side you’re on in this story.”
Oleg turned away without answering. Lera understood: in that moment, she had made the choice for him. And that choice wasn’t in his mother’s favor. But how loyal he would stay to it—only time would tell. For now, she knew there would be more “food audits” ahead—and even hotter arguments.
After Lera’s ultimatum and her “fridge inspections,” a shaky truce settled over the kitchen—more like a lull before a storm. Valentina Yegorovna stopped showing up as often, and when she did, her visits were performance-perfect. She sat in an armchair, demonstratively sipped tea without sugar, refused any treat Lera offered out of habit, and never once tried to approach the fridge. Her gaze, however, slid around the kitchen, pausing on every object, every corner, as if searching for proof of her silent accusations.
Meanwhile, Lera stuck to her strategy. She bought groceries and marked them with bright stickers reading “MINE. DO NOT TOUCH.” She gave Oleg a separate shelf for his personal food, which he now refilled himself. The fridge—which used to be shared—had become a strictly regulated territory. Lera even installed a small webcam on the door, disguised as a souvenir magnet, to record anyone who opened it. It wasn’t just precaution—it was her claim to control, her tiny outpost in this kitchen war.
Oleg, caught between two fires, grew more and more nervous. He tried to smooth things over, asked Lera to “be gentler” with his mother, blaming her “old-fashioned ways” and “sincere intentions.”
“Ler, she just wants attention,” he said when they were alone. “You know she’s always been like that—caring. She just doesn’t understand what changed.”
“She understands perfectly, Oleg,” Lera replied without looking up from cooking, her voice even, emotionless. “She understands that I’m the one in charge here now. And she understands that I don’t need her ‘care.’ Especially not like this.”
When Valentina Yegorovna saw that direct raids on the refrigerator were being blocked, she didn’t intend to surrender. She was experienced and not used to losing. Her tactics changed—more subtle, more sophisticated. She started playing her game.
First she began calling Oleg several times a day, complaining about her health, loneliness, how “no one comes by anymore.”
“Olezha, son,” her voice would whine through the speakerphone (Lera sitting right there, hearing everything). “My blood pressure keeps jumping. My head is spinning. And I’m all alone. There’s no one to cook for. If only you would stop by, bring me something… What do you eat at home?”
Oleg would cast Lera a guilty look. Lera kept peeling vegetables as if she hadn’t heard.
“Mom, I can’t right now,” he’d answer, clearly uncomfortable. “Lera cooked dinner, we’re about to eat.”
“And am I a stranger to you?” Valentina Yegorovna’s voice would instantly fill with hurt. “So you eat at Lera’s, and your mother sits hungry? Fine then. You don’t need me.”
After those calls Oleg would walk around gloomy, throwing reproachful looks at Lera. He knew he had to do something—he just didn’t know what.
Lera, keeping outward calm, tightened inside under the pressure. She watched her mother-in-law manipulate her son, stirring guilt in him. But she had no intention of backing down.
One day Lera came home and found her favorite yogurt—saved for breakfast—gone. Next to the spot where it had stood was a note in Valentina Yegorovna’s handwriting:
“Lerочка, my stomach cramped up. I thought yogurt would help. Sorry I took it without asking. Valentina Yegorovna.”
Lera read it and crushed the paper in her fist. The hidden camera on the fridge door couldn’t catch this “theft”—it was built for more obvious moves.
That evening, when Oleg came home, Lera showed him the note.
“Did you see this, Oleg? Your mother is already ‘treating herself’ with our food. Her stomach cramped, and the poor thing can’t even buy yogurt.”
Oleg sighed.
“Ler, come on! She wrote her stomach hurt. It was an emergency.”
“An emergency?” Lera scoffed. “Then why didn’t she call an ambulance? Or call you? Or call me? She just took my yogurt! And what if I’m sick with the flu and she eats after me, then says I infected her? Or what if she decides to push some home remedy on me later?”
That argument made Oleg pause. He understood his mother had crossed a line.
“Fine, Lera. I’ll talk to her again.”
“You already talked, Oleg,” Lera said, cold and precise. “Now it’s time for action.”
Without telling Oleg, Lera ordered a small safe online. When it arrived, she bolted it deep inside a kitchen cabinet behind a decorative panel, out of sight. The most expensive things—rare cheeses, costly deli meats, seafood delicacies—went into the safe. For everything else she didn’t want to hide, she bought special containers with individual locks.
When Valentina Yegorovna came next time, she noticed immediately. The fridge was still divided, but now some items sat in clear containers closed with tiny combination locks.
“Oh, Lerочка, what kind of fancy new thing is this?” she pointed. “So now you hide food from each other?”
“No, Valentina Yegorovna,” Lera answered calmly. “It’s called ‘food storage.’ So that nobody takes anything by accident. Or throws it out.”
Her mother-in-law snorted but said nothing. Lera saw her gaze stop on one container holding slices of expensive salami. The tension in the air was almost tangible.
A few days later Lera found one of her locked containers open. The salami was gone. The lock wasn’t broken—meaning someone had either guessed the code, or more likely, found a key. Lera kept those keys in one of the kitchen drawers, buried among spices.
She opened the drawer. The key was missing. She looked at Oleg in the living room watching TV.
“Oleg, did you take the key for my containers?”
Oleg flinched.
“The key? No. Why would I?”
“The salami is gone.”
Oleg went pale.
“Mom…”
“Yes, Oleg. Mom,” Lera said evenly, without emotion. “She’s not only stealing—she’s breaking into locks. Do you understand what that means?”
Oleg stood up.
“I’ll call her right now! I’ll find out what’s going on!”
“No, Oleg.” Lera stopped him. “You won’t find out anything. She’ll deny it anyway. And I… I’ll do it differently.”
The next day, when Valentina Yegorovna came over, Lera made lunch. The table held simple but fragrant dishes—potatoes with chicken, a fresh vegetable salad.
“Oh, Lerочка, you’re such a good girl!” the mother-in-law exclaimed, sitting down. “Just like in a restaurant!”
“Yes, Valentina Yegorovna,” Lera replied calmly, ladling soup into bowls. “Today we’ll have a special lunch.”
During the meal, Lera was unusually kind. She even offered seconds. Oleg, seeing it, relaxed. It seemed like the conflict was finally settled.
But when lunch ended and Valentina Yegorovna got ready to leave, Lera stood.
“Valentina Yegorovna, wait a moment.”
Her mother-in-law turned.
“What is it, Lerочка?”
“I wanted to give you something.” Lera pulled a small but fairly bulky box from the cabinet. “This is for you.”
Valentina Yegorovna eyed it suspiciously.
“What is it?”
“It’s all the products you love taking from us,” Lera said, her voice cold and firm. “There’s salami, and cheese, and yogurt. Even a bit of meat—the kind you like. I figured if you need it so badly, there’s no point hiding it.”
Valentina Yegorovna’s face blotched red. Oleg, in the living room, sprang up.
“Lera, what are you doing?!”
“I’m doing what I should’ve done a long time ago, Oleg,” Lera replied, never taking her eyes off her mother-in-law. “I’m giving Valentina Yegorovna back what she’s been so methodically ‘borrowing.’”
Valentina Yegorovna pressed her lips into a thin line. Rage burned in her eyes.
“You… you’re shaming me! In front of my son!”
“I’m not shaming you,” Lera answered calmly. “You shame yourself—with your behavior. With your habit of taking what isn’t yours.”
She held out the box.
“Take it. Your ‘food ration.’ And I hope it’s the last one.”
Valentina Yegorovna snatched the box from Lera’s hands without a word. She looked at her son, who stood pale, unsure what to say or do.
“Well then, Oleg,” her voice was icy with wounded pride, “this is how your wife treats my care. This is how she thanks me.”
She turned and left without saying goodbye, slamming the door so hard the glass rattled.
Silence hung in the apartment. Oleg stared at Lera, his eyes filled with confusion—almost fear.
“Lera, what have you done?! You humiliated her!”
“Humiliated her?” Lera gave a short laugh. “Oleg, I put her in her place. I showed her I won’t let her manipulate me, and I won’t let her rob us. She chose this.”
She turned and walked into the bedroom. Oleg stayed standing in the middle of the living room, surrounded by чужие, empty walls—foreign, empty walls. He understood that what Lera did wasn’t just another stage of their “kitchen war.” It was a declaration of open, ruthless confrontation. And he—Oleg—was at its very center, caught between two fires that burned brighter and brighter.
Valentina Yegorovna leaving with the “food ration” box didn’t end the conflict—it only pushed it into a new, sharper phase. The apartment silence afterward wasn’t peace; it was a tense calm before the storm. Oleg seemed completely lost now. His usual tactic—avoiding conflict—no longer worked.
“You don’t understand, Lera,” he began when she returned from the bedroom, his voice dull. “Mom… she’s actually sick. It’s hard for her alone.”
Lera didn’t even turn around. She cleared the dishes from the table, her movements precise and controlled.
“Sick?” she asked quietly, without raising her voice. “And how is her sickness connected to emptying our fridge? Or to what you call ‘humiliation’—taking someone else’s food? If your mother is truly sick, she needs medical help, not my groceries. And certainly not theft.”
Oleg sighed heavily. He knew Lera was right, but saying it out loud felt like betraying his mother. And he couldn’t. Or wouldn’t.
The next day Lera’s phone was silent. No calls from her mother-in-law, no messages. Oleg was silent too, lost in his thoughts. Lera felt that this silence wasn’t retreat—it was hidden resentment about to break loose.
And she wasn’t wrong. That evening, when Lera got home from work, a “surprise” awaited her at the door. A small but very sturdy net made from thick fishing line was stretched between the doorframe and the doorknob. Hanging in it like trophies were a few packs of convenience food, a pack of sausages, and a bottle of kefir. Pinned to the net was a note in the familiar clumsy handwriting:
“This is yours. Take it. I don’t need anyone else’s.”
Lera stared at this strange “gift” and exhaled slowly. Valentina Yegorovna hadn’t simply returned the “stolen” goods—she’d done it in a way meant to humiliate Lera, to paint her as petty and suspicious. It was a demonstration.
When Oleg came home and saw the setup, he froze.
“What… what is this?” he muttered.
“This, Oleg,” Lera pointed at the net, “is your mother’s answer. She decided I’m petty and vindictive—and she decided to show me she can play too.”
Oleg carefully took the net down, his hands trembling slightly. He felt ashamed of his mother but couldn’t put it into words.
“So what now?” he asked.
“Now, Oleg,” Lera opened the door and nudged the box of “returned” food aside with her foot, “we show her that every game has rules—and her rules don’t apply in our home.”
For several days, a suspicious quiet hung over the apartment. Valentina Yegorovna didn’t call, didn’t come. Oleg walked around grim, avoiding Lera’s eyes. Lera, meanwhile, carefully planned her next move. She felt this conflict had to be settled once and for all.
The next Friday, when Lera came home from work, she discovered that all the products Oleg had bought and kept on “his territory” in the fridge were gone. Even his favorite yogurt. The refrigerator was completely empty—except for Lera’s marked, locked containers.
On the kitchen table lay another note from Valentina Yegorovna. This time it was written on a glossy floral letterhead. The handwriting was no longer clumsy, but confident.
“Dear my children! I, your mother, Valentina Yegorovna, am forced to state that an atmosphere of distrust and pettiness reigns in your home. My son Oleg, you do not deserve such a fate, when your wife counts every piece of bread. As a loving mother, I cannot allow this. Therefore, I took all the products that were bought by you, so that you will not starve. From now on, you will eat at my place. I will feed you. It’s so hard for you there. And you, Lerочка, enjoy your empty fridge and your lockable containers. Just remember that the miser pays twice—and the vindictive pays three times. With love and care, your mother, Valentina Yegorovna.”
Lera read the note once. Then again. Her lips stretched into a thin, almost invisible smile. It was an open challenge—and Lera was ready to accept it.
When Oleg came home, his eyes went from the empty fridge to the note on the table. He picked it up slowly.
“Mom…” he whispered. “She took all my food.”
“Yes, Oleg,” Lera replied calmly. “She decided to take you under her wing—and prove who’s in charge.”
“But… I don’t want to go to her place to eat!” Oleg looked at Lera, shaken. “I want to eat at home! With my wife!”
“Then eat, Oleg.” Lera walked to the fridge, opened one of her containers, took out a piece of roasted chicken, and put it on a plate. “This is my food. I bought it with my money. You can eat it—but only if you ask. And only if I decide it’s possible.”
Oleg stared at the plate, then at Lera. He hadn’t expected this.
“Are you punishing me?” he asked.
“No. I’m setting rules.” Lera looked at him. “This is our home. And there are rules here. If your mother decided she can run things here, she was wrong. I’m the one in charge. And I set the rules.”
Oleg felt trapped. He wanted to be loyal to his wife, but he was terrified of hurting his mother. And now he was forced to choose.
“What should I do, Lera?” he asked helplessly.
“You?” Lera gave a small, sharp laugh. “You’ll go to your mother and explain that you’re an adult. You have your own family. And you have your own refrigerator—which, by the way, is now empty. And you decide where and what you eat. And if she wants to be part of your life, she must respect our home and our rules.”
Oleg swallowed. He understood this would be the hardest talk of his life.
The next day Oleg went to his mother’s. Lera waited. She didn’t call, didn’t text. She knew he needed time—to make a decision, and to deliver it to Valentina Yegorovna.
He came back late in the evening, pale and worn. He went straight to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and looked at Lera.
“She… she didn’t understand,” his voice trembled. “She said I’m an ungrateful son. That I’m leaving her alone. That you turned me against her.”
Lera stayed quiet, watching, letting him speak.
“She didn’t even give me back the groceries she took. She said they’re her property now. And that she’ll feed me.”
“And what did you tell her?” Lera asked.
Oleg sank onto a chair.
“I… I said if she doesn’t give them back, I won’t come to her anymore.”
Lera lifted an eyebrow.
“And she?”
“She said that’s my choice… and that I’ll regret it.”
Lera stepped closer and rested a hand on his shoulder.
“That’s our choice, Oleg. Ours. And we won’t regret it.”
Oleg’s shelf stayed empty for a while. Valentina Yegorovna kept calling, manipulating, begging him to come for “lunch.” But Oleg—gritting his teeth—refused. He started buying his own food again, keeping it in his now-not-empty containers.
And one day, when Valentina Yegorovna came over, she headed toward the fridge out of habit. Opened it, saw the divided shelves, the containers, the way Lera and Oleg ate their separate portions without offering her any. In her eyes flashed a sadness mixed with fury.
“Well then,” she said to Oleg, but looked at Lera. “I see how you live. By your rules. Like cats and dogs.”
“We live by our rules, Valentina Yegorovna,” Lera answered calmly, meeting her gaze. “They’re our rules. If you don’t like them, you’re free to leave.”
Valentina Yegorovna stood up, her face twisted.
“I will leave. And you won’t see me here again until… until you, Lera, realize you’ve made a mistake.”
She turned for the door. Oleg tried to stop her.
“Mom, where are you going?”
“Home,” she waved him off. “To a place where, at least, no one humiliates me.”
The door closed behind her—this time without a slam. Quietly, but convincingly. The apartment fell silent. Lera looked at Oleg. Pain showed in his eyes. But Lera knew this step was necessary. The conflict had hit its peak. Now it would have to resolve—or break for good.
The silence after Valentina Yegorovna left wasn’t just the absence of sound. It was thick, tangible—soaked with tension and everything left unsaid. Oleg stood in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the closed door as if expecting it to burst open and his mother to come back to continue the endless battle. But the door stayed still.
Lera watched him. In his eyes was a mix of relief and deep, lingering grief. One part of him was glad the pressure, the manipulation, the guilt had stopped. Another part felt the invisible but strong thread binding him to his mother had snapped—and it hurt.
“Oleg,” Lera came closer; her voice was soft but firm. “You made the right choice.”
He only nodded, not lifting his head. He felt empty, as if all his strength had been drained out. He’d always tried to be a good son, a good husband—the kind of person who doesn’t offend anyone. And now, in his mind, he’d become a bad son.
Days passed slowly. Oleg’s phone stayed silent. Valentina Yegorovna didn’t call or write. She was holding her pause, hoping her son would come back and beg forgiveness. Lera understood perfectly—and she had no intention of giving her that opening.
One evening, Oleg, more pensive than ever these past days, came to Lera.
“Lera,” he began, his voice dull. “I… I can’t do this.”
Lera’s heart tightened. She’d been expecting this.
“What can’t you do, Oleg?” she asked.
“I can’t live without Mom.” He looked up, pain in his eyes. “She’s my mother. She’s alone. It’s hard for her.”
Lera didn’t react—just watched him closely, letting him talk.
“I know she was wrong,” he continued. “But she didn’t mean harm. She just… loves me so much.”
“Loves you?” Lera’s voice turned icy. “Oleg, love isn’t possession. Love is respect. And trust. Something your mother doesn’t have for us.”
“But I can’t just abandon her!” His voice rose, hysteria edging in. “She gave me life!”
“And now what, Oleg?” Lera stepped closer. “Are you ready to sacrifice this life to her manipulation? Ready to tolerate her theft? Ready for her to destroy our marriage, our trust? Because that’s exactly what she was doing.”
Oleg fell silent, head bowed like a student being scolded.
“I… I don’t know what to do, Lera.”
“I do.” Lera’s voice was steel. “You’ll go to your mother and tell her you’re a grown man. You have your own family. And if she wants to be part of it, she accepts this family’s rules—or she isn’t part of it.”
“That’s… that’s cruel!” Oleg looked at her, eyes shining with tears. “She… she won’t survive it.”
“She will, Oleg,” Lera said flatly. “People survive worse. And remember when we first got married and she tried to tell you what to wear, what to eat, when to sleep? Remember how she tried to split us up, constantly saying I wasn’t good enough for you? She’s always been doing this. And you always stayed silent. And now it’s brought us to the point where she steals our food.”
Oleg lowered his head. He remembered.
“What should I say?” he whispered.
“You’ll tell her you won’t come to her home anymore if she can’t respect us,” Lera pressed on. “You’ll tell her you love her, but you won’t let her destroy our family. If she wants to see us, she comes here—as a guest—and follows our rules. And if she takes anything without asking again, that will be her last visit.”
Oleg swallowed. Harsh—but Lera didn’t budge.
“And if she refuses?” he asked.
“Then, Oleg,” Lera met his eyes, cold and rational. “Then you’ll have a choice. Either her—or me.”
Oleg left. Lera waited. She didn’t know how long it would take. But she knew there was no going back.
He returned three days later, exhausted—red eyes, gaunt face. He went straight to the kitchen, opened the fridge, then looked at Lera.
“She… she won’t agree, Lera,” he said emptily. “She said you’ve bewitched me. That I’ve become a stranger. That she won’t tolerate your rudeness.”
Lera nodded. She’d expected it.
“And now what, Oleg?” she asked.
He dropped into a chair, covering his face with his hands.
“She said I have to choose. Either I’m with her or I’m with you. And if I choose you, she’ll disown me.”
A heavy silence filled the room. Only now did Oleg truly grasp the scale of what had happened.
“And what did you choose, Oleg?” Lera’s voice held no emotion.
Oleg lifted his head. No tears, no regret—just fatigue.
“I… I told her I’m staying with you, Lera.”
Lera’s heart trembled. It was a victory—over manipulation, over pressure, over toxic control. But at what cost?
“And how did she react?” Lera asked.
“She… stood up. Looked at me like I’d died. And said she doesn’t have a son anymore. That I can forget her. That she never wants to see me again.”
Lera stepped closer and sat beside him.
“Oleg, that’s her choice,” she said, hand on his shoulder. “Her decision. Not yours.”
He stayed silent. He needed time—time to accept this new reality. A reality where he no longer had a mother in his life. But he still had Lera.
From that day, Valentina Yegorovna disappeared from their lives. She didn’t call, didn’t show up. Oleg—painfully—accepted it. He stopped asking about her, stopped bringing her up. Between him and Lera settled a strange, cold balance. They kept living in the same home, sleeping in the same bed, eating at the same table. But something had changed. Something had broken beyond repair.
Oleg became harder, quieter, spending more time alone. And Lera—even though she’d gotten what she wanted—felt only emptiness. Their marriage survived, cleansed of the mother-in-law’s interference, but somehow stripped of the warmth it had once had.
Oleg came into the kitchen. Opened the fridge. Took out his food container. Set it on the table. Lera turned.
“Did something happen?” she asked.
“No.” Oleg looked at her. “I just… I’m hungry.”
There was no reproach in his voice. No regret. No love. Just a statement of fact.
Lera nodded. She understood. The “kitchen war” was over. And there were no winners—only survivors. And now they had to learn how to live on. In the cold. And in the emptiness.