Oksana looked up from her laptop and froze. In the kitchen doorway stood Tamara Ivanovna with a huge suitcase and a triumphant smile.
“Oxanochka, hello, dear! Here I am—I’ve arrived!” her mother-in-law stepped into the apartment without waiting to be invited and started shrugging off her coat. “My Egorushka asked his mom to come help you. He says you’ve gotten completely swamped, no time to get the house in order. So I thought—why should I sit in my own apartment when the children need me?”
Oksana slowly closed her laptop. Under the table, her fingers curled into fists. She had been working from home for three years, and their small two-bedroom had been arranged to suit her. A work corner in the kitchen, quiet, order, her own rhythm of life. And no—absolutely no—need for any “help.”
“Tamara Ivanovna,” she said evenly, struggling to hold back the irritation rising in her chest, “did Egor really invite you?”
Her mother-in-law had already swept into the room, loudly commenting on every step.
“Of course! We talked yesterday. He said, ‘Mom, come over, stay with us.’ And what—I’m supposed to refuse my own son? I wanted to come next week, but I decided—no, I’ll come today. I’ll surprise you!”
The surprise worked. Oksana felt something hot and dangerous boiling up inside her. Egor. Her beloved, irresponsible, conflict-avoiding Egor had done it again—promised his mother something without consulting his wife. Because “it’s awkward to say no,” because “Mom will be offended,” because it’s easier to agree and hope Oksana will somehow deal with it.
Tamara Ivanovna came back into the kitchen, looked Oksana up and down critically, and clicked her tongue.
“Oh, Oxanochka, what a mess you’ve got here!” She ran a finger along the edge of the windowsill and held up invisible dust. “But it’s fine—we’ll make it beautiful now! Where do you keep your rags? And actually, let’s start by rearranging the furniture. This table is clearly in the wrong place.”
“This table is here because it’s convenient for me to work,” Oksana said firmly.
“Work?” her mother-in-law’s eyes widened. “But you sit at home! What work? Back in my day I worked two jobs, and the house was still spotless!”
Oksana took a deep breath. Arguing was pointless. Tamara Ivanovna came from the generation that didn’t consider remote work real work. If you’re home, you’re free. That means you should cook borscht, scrub floors, and happily entertain guests.
“I have a deadline in two days,” she said flatly. “I need quiet and concentration.”
“Oh, I’ll be quiet!” her mother-in-law chirped. “You won’t even notice me!” She was already opening cupboards, pulling out pots, sniffing at their contents. “So, what’s for dinner? Nothing! I’ll run to the store, buy proper groceries, and cook real food!”
“Real food,” in Tamara Ivanovna’s understanding, meant greasy pilaf, fried potatoes with meat, sweet pies, and an obligatory three-hour vigil by the stove. Oksana and Egor ate simpler: salads, baked fish—quick, healthy dishes. But try explaining that to a mother-in-law.
That evening Egor came home from work. Oksana met him in the hallway with her arms crossed. Her face was stone.
“Your mom is here,” she said without preamble.
Egor froze mid–shoe removal. A whole range of emotions flashed across his face—from surprise to guilty confusion.
“Oh…” he drew it out. “I thought she was coming next week.”
“You thought?” Oksana leaned in and hissed so her mother-in-law wouldn’t hear. “Were you even going to tell me you invited her to live with us?”
“I didn’t invite her! She said she’d come help, and I… agreed,” he babbled. “Sveta, I couldn’t say no! She would’ve been offended!”
“And it was okay not to ask me?” Oksana’s words turned icy. “I work from home, Egor. I need quiet. Not a mother-in-law who’ll rearrange furniture from morning to night and lecture me on how to live!”
“It won’t be long! A week, two at most!” He took her hands, trying to soften it. “Please, just endure it. I’ll help, I promise!”
From the kitchen came Tamara Ivanovna’s voice:
“Egorushka, my son! Come quick—I made your favorite!”
Oksana pulled her hands free and stepped back.
“Fine,” she said so calmly that Egor tensed up. “Since your mom is here to help, let her help. And I won’t get in your way.”
She turned and went into the bedroom, locking the door behind her.
The next morning it began. Tamara Ivanovna got up at six and launched into cleaning—banging buckets, vacuuming, dragging furniture. Oksana, who normally started work at eight, woke to the racket and realized concentration was out of the question. She went to the kitchen in headphones, poured herself coffee, and returned to the bedroom without saying a word to her mother-in-law.
“Oksana!” Tamara Ivanovna knocked. “Come out, I made breakfast! You need to eat properly!”
“Thanks, I’m not hungry,” Oksana answered coldly through the door.
She worked in the bedroom, sitting on the bed with her laptop on her knees. It was uncomfortable—her back ached—but she wasn’t going out to her mother-in-law. At lunchtime Tamara Ivanovna knocked again, more insistently.
“Oxanochka, why are you locked in there? Come out, I made soup! Fresh, with meat!”
Oksana opened the door. Headphones on, water bottle in hand.
“I’m working. I need quiet,” she said. “Please don’t distract me.”
“What kind of work is that!” her mother-in-law flared up. “Sitting in a room all day! You need to move, breathe воздух, not waste away within four walls!”
Oksana shut the door without a word. Inside, everything boiled. Her mother-in-law didn’t understand—or didn’t want to understand—that remote work is real work. That she had deadlines, clients waiting, that she earned a living on that laptop.
By evening, when Egor came home, the air in the apartment felt oppressive. Tamara Ivanovna bustled around the kitchen setting the table. Oksana stayed in the bedroom, not coming out. Egor knocked, came in, and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Come on… what’s wrong?” he tried to hug her, but she leaned away. “Mom is trying—cooking, cleaning. At least have dinner with us.”
“Your mother is preventing me from working,” Oksana said. “I can’t focus. She bangs around in the morning, barges in at lunch, and in the evening demands I sit at the table and listen to her lectures.”
“Just endure it,” Egor begged. “She means well!”
“Good intentions don’t pay my rent,” Oksana snapped. “I missed an important meeting today because of her noise. I work, Egor. Do you understand that word? Work. At home. And I need conditions for it, not a circus morning to night!”
“Then tell her!” Egor spread his hands helplessly.
“I did. She doesn’t listen. Because to her I’m just the daughter-in-law who ‘sits at home’ and should be grateful for ‘help.’” Oksana stood and grabbed her bag. “I’m leaving. I’ll work at a co-working space. Make yourselves comfortable.”
She left the apartment, leaving Egor standing there bewildered. Tamara Ivanovna met him in the kitchen, looking worried.
“Egorushka, what’s wrong with Oksana? She’s behaving oddly. Locked in the room all day, won’t talk to me. Maybe she’s sick?”
“No, Mom, she’s working,” Egor said wearily.
“Working!” his mother snorted. “Sitting at a computer isn’t work! When I was your age…”
Egor stopped listening. He understood he’d walked into a trap. On one side—his mother, sincerely convinced she was helping. On the other—his wife, with every right to be angry. And he, as always, unable to choose a side because he was afraid of offending either of them.
The next three days felt like a cold war. Oksana left early for the co-working space and returned late, after her mother-in-law had gone to sleep. She greeted Tamara Ivanovna politely but coldly, didn’t engage, and never sat at the shared table. Her mother-in-law sniffed in offense, complained to Egor that his wife didn’t respect her, that “in our time people didn’t behave like that.” Egor ran between them, trying to calm everyone down—only irritating both.
On Saturday, the explosion happened. Oksana returned from the co-working space and discovered her work table in the kitchen was gone. In its place stood an old sideboard Tamara Ivanovna had dragged out of storage. Her laptop, documents—everything had been neatly packed into a box and shoved under the bed.
“Where is my table?” Oksana asked in an icy tone, walking into the living room where Egor watched TV and his mother knitted.
“I removed it!” Tamara Ivanovna replied cheerfully. “It ruined the whole look! The sideboard is so much nicer! And I put your little computer under the bed so it wouldn’t be in the way.”
Oksana closed her eyes. She counted to ten. Then to twenty. It didn’t help. Something inside her snapped.
“You,” she said slowly, “rearranged my furniture. You removed my workspace. Without asking. In my apartment.”
“Well it’s not only your apartment!” her mother-in-law snapped. “My son lives here! And I’m his mother! I’m helping you, putting things in order, and you—”
“You are not helping,” Oksana cut her off. Her voice was quiet but edged with steel. “You’re taking over. You came into someone else’s space and started remaking it to suit you. You didn’t ask whether we needed your help. You just decided you had the right. Because you’re the mother-in-law. Because you ‘know better.’”
Tamara Ivanovna flushed crimson.
“How dare you talk to me like that! I’m older than you! I—”
“Egor,” Oksana turned to her husband, who had shrunk into the couch. “You have two options. Either your mother leaves tomorrow morning. Or I do. You agreed to her coming without my consent. Now choose.”
Egor opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. His eyes darted between his wife and his mother. His face had gone pale.
“Sveta, but that’s my mom… can’t you just endure it—”
“No,” Oksana said sharply. “I can’t. I’ve been living in a co-working space for a week because I can’t work in my own home. She rearranged my furniture. She criticizes my every move. She doesn’t treat me like a person. And you…” her voice trembled, “you didn’t defend me. Not once.”
Tamara Ivanovna jumped up.
“Egorushka, do you hear how she talks to me? I’m trying for you! Cooking, cleaning! And she spits in my face!”
Oksana laughed—a short, bitter laugh.
“You cook what we don’t eat. You clean what doesn’t need cleaning. You rearrange what doesn’t need rearranging. You’re not trying for us. You’re trying for yourself—so you can feel needed, important, in charge. And my husband,” she looked at Egor with such pain in her eyes he winced, “is too cowardly to tell you that.”
She went into the bedroom, pulled a bag from the closet, and started packing. Egor rushed after her.
“What are you doing? Where are you going?”
“To a friend’s,” she said curtly. “I’ll put the furniture back when your mother leaves. If she leaves.”
“Sveta, wait! Let’s talk!”
“There’s nothing to talk about, Egor. You made your choice a week ago when you agreed without my consent. You made it again today when you didn’t stand up for me. I’m tired of being the one who always yields, endures, and adapts. Live with Mom. Enjoy her borscht and her ‘proper’ furniture arrangement.”
She walked out without looking back. The door slammed with a final sound, as if an entire chapter of their life had snapped shut. Egor stood in the hallway, lost and hollow.
Tamara Ivanovna came out of the living room, still indignant.
“You see what kind of wife you have? She’s throwing her own mother out of the house!”
“Mom,” Egor said quietly, staring at the closed door. “Oksana is right. You shouldn’t have come without warning. And I shouldn’t have agreed without asking her. We both crossed boundaries. And now… I don’t know if she’ll come back.”
For the first time all week, his voice held not self-pity but realization—cold, unpleasant, but necessary. He had chickened out. He had betrayed his wife trying to please his mother. His fear of conflict had led to the worst conflict of all—the destruction of his marriage.
For three days Oksana didn’t answer his calls. Egor didn’t sleep, tormented himself, imagined the worst. Tamara Ivanovna left the next day, offended and unable to understand what she’d done wrong. And Egor sat in the empty apartment, with furniture in the wrong places, thinking about what mattered more to him: his mother’s approval or happiness with his wife.
On Sunday evening the doorbell rang. Egor yanked the door open—Oksana stood on the threshold. Tired, pale, but with a firm gaze.
“Can I come in?”
“Of course,” he breathed.
She walked in and looked around the living room. The sideboard still stood in the kitchen.
“Did your mother leave?”
“Yes. The same day you left.”
Oksana nodded, then looked at him.
“Egor, I’m not back because I’ve forgiven you. I’m back because I want to try again. But there are conditions. You never—do you hear me, never—invite anyone to live with us without my consent. Not your mother, not your brother, not your second cousin. We make those decisions together. Or not at all.”
“Agreed,” he said quickly.
“Second. You learn to say ‘no’ to your mother. Not always, not about everything. But when it concerns our family and our boundaries—you’re on my side. Always. Even if it’s uncomfortable. Even if she gets offended.”
Egor swallowed. That would be harder—but he nodded.
“Agreed.”
“And third,” Oksana stepped closer, “you stop being a boy who’s afraid of upsetting Mom. You’re a grown man. You have a wife. It’s time to choose who you live with.”
He hugged her—tight, desperate.
“With you. I choose you. Forgive me.”
They stood like that for a long time, in the apartment’s silence. Then Oksana pulled back, looked toward the kitchen, and sighed.
“All right. Let’s put my table back. And, Egor? Call your mother. Explain calmly why this happened. Don’t accuse—just explain. She needs to understand we have our own rules.”
He nodded. For the first time in years he didn’t feel like a confused child caught between two women, but like a man who’d made a decision—difficult, but the only right one. His family was here, with Oksana. And he had to protect it.
Together they moved the furniture, putting everything back in its place. And when the work table was back by the window, Oksana smiled for the first time in a week. Their home was a home again—not a battlefield