— Andryusha, sweetheart, could you buy me some pomegranate juice?” Lyudmila Sergeyevna’s voice dripped with a sugary, suffering sweetness. “The doctor said it’s very good for hemoglobin. But not the boxed kind—those are full of chemicals. Fresh-squeezed. They say they make a good one in that shop three blocks away.”
Olga, standing at the stove and stirring the soup in the pot—soup her mother-in-law would call “watery stuff” anyway—ground her teeth silently. A week had passed since the credit and tenants scandal had come to light, and that week had turned into hell. Lyudmila Sergeyevna, having received her son’s full forgiveness and a blank check to keep living with them, had doubled down. Now she wasn’t just a guest—she was a “poor, sick mother forced to squeeze in with her children because of terrible debts.” And that status granted her special privileges.
Groceries were now bought strictly according to her instructions. Not just cottage cheese, but fat-free, farmer’s. Not just chicken, but breast from a young bird. Not just bread, but yeast-free, wholegrain. All of it, of course, purchased with Andrey’s money. Olga tried to object that their budget wasn’t bottomless, but she ran into a wall of icy contempt.
“Saving money on a mother’s health is the lowest thing,” Lyudmila Sergeyevna would say, pursing her lips. “I don’t understand you, Olya. Your husband works himself to the bone so you can live like decent people, and you can’t even buy him a proper piece of meat.”
Laundry became its own ritual. Her things—a blouse, a nightgown, a couple of sets of underwear—her mother-in-law demanded be washed separately from their “work clothes.”
“I don’t want my delicate fabrics touching your jeans,” she would declare with a disgusted grimace. “And you need a special detergent—for silk.”
She brazenly took food straight from the pots, not even waiting for Olga to set the table. She could fish every piece of meat out of the soup, leaving the others with empty broth, and eat them standing by the stove with: “Oh, my appetite suddenly kicked in—let me have a little snack.”
More details
Games for the whole family
The hallway and bathroom lights now stayed on constantly, because Lyudmila Sergeyevna said it was “dark and scary to walk through these catacombs.” When Olga timidly mentioned the electricity bill, she answered with her iron argument: “We’re all family here—why count it?”
But the peak of her desires was Turkey. One evening she was watching a travel show on TV: turquoise sea, all-inclusive hotels, happy sunburnt retirees.
“See!” she jabbed a finger at the screen. “That’s living! отдых like civilized people! And what do I see? This shabby kitchen and a filthy yard. Andryusha,” she turned to her son with a martyr’s face, “I gave my whole life to you, worked three jobs so you’d have everything. I never asked for anything for myself. And now I look at that and think—don’t I deserve, just once in my old age, to have a proper rest like a human being? Buy me a package tour to Turkey, sweetheart. I want to live like people, not sit here sniffing your communal stench!”
Olga, sitting nearby with her sewing, pricked her finger with the needle in shock. This was beyond all boundaries.
More details
Games for the whole family
“Lyudmila Sergeyevna, what Turkey? We’re barely making ends meet! We still have two more years to pay for this room!”
“I’m not asking you—I’m asking my son!” her mother-in-law snapped. “He’s a man, he should know how to earn. And your job, woman, is to keep quiet and support your husband, not nag him over every penny. Sweetheart, what is it to you? You’ll take out a loan. One more, one less—what difference does it make? But you’ll make your mother happy.”
Andrey sat there red as a boiled lobster, darting his eyes between his mother and his wife.
“Mom, well… that… that’s really expensive,” he mumbled.
“Nothing should ever be too expensive for your mother!” Lyudmila Sergeyevna enunciated, and, theatrically offended, turned back to the TV.
Olga understood this was only the beginning. Now they would have to hear about Turkey every day. She looked at her husband and saw him suffering—torn between filial duty and common sense. And the worst part: she started noticing that money from their shared budget really was vanishing. Andrey began hiding his spending; when she asked about his salary he answered evasively. And food from the fridge—even accounting for her mother-in-law’s appetite—was disappearing at a catastrophic speed. A pack of butter bought yesterday was half gone today. The sugar she’d bought in a one-kilo bag three days earlier was nearly finished.
The answer came unexpectedly—and again, thanks to Valentina Ivanovna. Olga ran into her in the kitchen. The neighbor looked worried.
“Olenka, I need to talk to you,” she began in a low voice, making sure they were alone. “Just please don’t be offended. It’s… delicate.”
“What happened, Valentina Ivanovna?” Olga tensed.
“Well, your mother-in-law, Lyudmila Sergeyevna… she came to me yesterday. Asked to borrow some salt. So I gave it to her—everyday stuff. But today she came again. Asked for potatoes and onions. She says you and Andrey don’t give her any money at all—poor thing, she’s starving.”
Olga’s vision darkened. Starving? With her farmer’s cottage cheese and fresh-squeezed juice?
“And then I got talking with Katya, the student,” Valentina Ivanovna continued, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Turns out she’s been ‘hitting them up’ for a week already—asking for butter, then sugar, then buckwheat. Always promising, ‘Andryusha will get his paycheck and pay you back.’ Katya and Misha aren’t rich kids—they live on their scholarship. It’s awkward for them to refuse an elderly person. So they give.”
The picture snapped into place. This unbelievable woman wasn’t just eating her fill at Olga and Andrey’s expense—she’d organized a food requisition across the whole communal apartment! She was crafting herself an image of a victim, complaining to the neighbors about “a stingy daughter-in-law and an ungrateful son,” to win sympathy and get free food. And the “saved” money Andrey gave her—she must have been putting it aside. For Turkey?
Something boiled up inside Olga. This wasn’t mere nerve anymore. This was vile. Humiliating Olga in front of her husband was one thing. But making both of them look like monsters in front of the neighbors—deceiving kind, helpful people—was beyond the pale. Her patience overflowed.
“Thank you for telling me, Valentina Ivanovna,” she said firmly. “I’ll deal with this.”
That evening, when the entire communal crew had gathered in the kitchen, Olga decided to act. Lyudmila Sergeyevna was sitting at the table, drinking tea with sugar—which Olga now understood had been stolen from the students. Andrey came back from work, tired and gloomy.
Olga stepped into the middle of the kitchen and said loudly, so everyone could hear:
“Lyudmila Sergeyevna, I’d like to ask you something. Where did the pack of butter go—the one I bought yesterday?”
Her mother-in-law choked on her tea.
“What pack? No idea. Maybe you ate it yourself and forgot.”
“No, I didn’t forget,” Olga replied calmly. “Just like I didn’t forget that three days ago I bought a full bag of sugar. And now it’s almost empty. Do you have any idea where it could have gone?”
At that moment Katya timidly peeked into the kitchen.
“Lyudmila Sergeyevna,” she said quietly, “you promised you’d return the sugar today. We don’t have any left for porridge…”
Her mother-in-law’s face turned purple.
“What?!” she shrieked. “What are you saying, you girl?! I didn’t take anything from you! Beggar! You’re slandering an honest person!”
That was when Valentina Ivanovna finally snapped.
“Lyudmila, stop shouting,” she said sternly. “You took half a kilo of potatoes from me yesterday. Will you say that never happened too? You said your son and daughter-in-law were starving you.”
The scandal flared like a forest fire. Voices thundered so hard it felt like the old apartment walls were shaking. Even the perpetually glowering neighbor from the room across the hall came out, drawn by the noise.
“What kind of circus is this?” he boomed.
“Well,” Katya said venomously, emboldened by the general support, “looks like we’ve got a washed-up theater actress here! She takes a little from everyone and plays the victim!”
Andrey stood in the middle of the kitchen, pale as a sheet. He looked from his mother to the neighbors to his wife, and it seemed the full horror of the situation was finally reaching him.
“Mom… is it true?” he asked quietly.
And then Lyudmila Sergeyevna burst. She hurled all her rage, all her shame, at Olga.
“It’s all her!” she screamed, stabbing a finger at her daughter-in-law. “She turned you all against me! Witch! Country bumpkin! Came to the city, roped my son in, and now she’s driving his own mother out of the house! So she can get the apartment for herself!”
“What apartment?” Olga blurted, stunned. “It’s a room! And it’s ours! We’re paying for it!”
“Yours?!” her mother-in-law laughed. “My son is paying! And you’re nobody here! A freeloader!”
That was the last straw.
“I won’t let you talk to me like that!” Olga’s voice rang with fury. “You came into our home, you eat our bread, you deceive our neighbors—and now you insult me too? Enough!”
“Oh, enough?!” Lyudmila Sergeyevna shrieked. “You—telling me, a mother, ‘enough’? I—”
She didn’t finish. Andrey stepped forward and stood between her and Olga.
“Enough, Mom,” he said. Quietly—but in a way that made everyone fall silent. There was steel in his voice Olga had never heard before. “That’s it. Pack your things.”
Lyudmila Sergeyevna froze, not believing her ears.
“What? What did you say, sweetheart?”
“I said pack your things. Tomorrow morning I’ll buy you a ticket and you’ll go home. To your house. To your tenants.”
“How can you?!” she wailed, immediately switching on her old, proven mechanism. “Your own mother… out on the street… in winter?!”
“It’s September, Mom. And not onto the street—home,” Andrey cut her off. “I understand everything now. Forgive me, Olya. Forgive me, neighbors. I was blind.”
He took Olga by the hand and led her back to their room, leaving his stunned mother behind in the kitchen—and the neighbors gone quiet.
Lyudmila Sergeyevna left the next morning. She didn’t say a word—only shot Olga scorching looks. When the front door slammed behind her, such silence settled in the long communal corridor that you could hear water dripping from the kitchen tap.
That evening Valentina Ivanovna brought them a plate of hot, steaming dumplings—those very ones made from choux pastry.
“Well then,” she said with a smile, “looks like peace has been restored.”
Olga and Andrey sat at their table, in their room. For the first time in a long while, it was just the two of them there. The air mattress had been deflated and put away in the closet. They ate dumplings in silence. No words were needed. They both understood they’d been through a serious ordeal—one that could have destroyed their family. But they had held on. Andrey took Olga’s hand.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I’ll never let her come between us again.”
Olga squeezed his palm in response. She knew there would be many more difficulties ahead—calls, reproaches, new attempts at manipulation. But now she wasn’t alone. She had a husband who had finally made his choice. And neighbors who, in a hard moment, turned out to be not just strangers—but real allies.
She looked out the window. In the courtyard well, lights were coming on. And it seemed to her they weren’t just lights in other people’s windows, but little beacons, promising that everything would be fine. Their new, real city life was only beginning.
Six months passed. The communal apartment was peaceful and calm. The students, Katya and Misha, passed their exams successfully and, in celebration, baked the whole apartment a huge cabbage pie. Valentina Ivanovna taught Olga how to salt cucumbers so they stayed crisp until spring, and shared seedlings of a rare tomato variety for their future balcony. Andrey got a promotion at work, and they began slowly setting money aside for a mortgage down payment, dreaming of their own separate apartment.
Lyudmila Sergeyevna called rarely. At first she tried to press on pity and guilt, but Andrey was unyielding. Calmly and firmly he said that he loved her and would always help with money if it was truly needed—but they would live separately. In time, the calls grew shorter and drier. She talked about the weather, the harvest, how the tenants had moved out and she’d found new ones, better ones. She didn’t mention Turkey anymore. It seemed she had accepted it.
Olga was happy. She found a job in a small flower shop not far from home, and now she was surrounded by the scents of roses and chrysanthemums. She came to love the old building—its echoing corridors, creaking floors, even the shared kitchen, which had become a place not for quarrels, but for evening tea and exchanging news. She understood that home isn’t always four walls. Sometimes home is the people around you.