“I’m the one who buys the groceries, and this house is mine—so pack up and get out.” I cut my mother-in-law’s little performance short.
Darya lived in a house she owned on the edge of the village—neat yard, a cozy heated porch, everything registered in her name long before she ever married.
The house stood at the very end of the settlement of Green Bor, about twenty kilometers from the city. It wasn’t big, but it was sturdy. Wooden, with a new roof. Two windows facing the street, a porch on the sunny southern side, and a small vegetable garden behind the house.
Darya had bought it five years earlier. At the time, she was working as a nurse in the city clinic and putting money aside every month. The seller was an elderly woman who was moving to another region to live with her daughter.
“A good house,” the old woman said, showing her the rooms. “Warm. The stove’s excellent, and the windows were replaced three years ago.”
“I’ll take it,” Darya said after the viewing.
They signed the purchase contract, and Darya became the legal owner. The documents were in her name, the certificate of ownership in her hands.
She renovated it herself—painted the walls, put up new wallpaper in the bedroom. She bought the furniture too: a sofa, a table, a bed. Everything with her own hands, with her own money.
She fixed up the yard the same way. Put up a new fence, planted apple trees, and made a small flowerbed by the porch.
It was her house. Her fortress.
Her husband Sergey moved in after the wedding—at first grateful and quiet, but over time he started listening to his mother more and more.
They’d met in the city. Sergey drove a route minibus, and Darya often rode his line home from work.
One day near the end of his shift they started talking. Sergey turned out to be an easy, pleasant man—cheerful and simple.
“You live out in the village?” he asked.
“Yes, in Green Bor. My own house.”
“Lucky you. I rent a flat,” he sighed. “I pay the landlady ten thousand a month and for what?”
They began dating. A year later they got married, and Sergey moved into Darya’s house.
“Thank you for taking me in,” he said at first. “I’ll try to be a good husband. I’ll help around the house, in the yard, with the garden.”
And he did help—fixed the fence, dug beds, chopped wood.
But after half a year something started to shift.
Sergey began calling his mother more often—Valentina Petrovna. Their conversations lasted an hour at a time.
“Mom says the porch is cold—we should insulate it,” he’d announce after one of those calls.
“The porch is fine,” Darya would answer.
“Well, Mom thinks otherwise.”
“Your mom doesn’t live here.”
Sergey would get offended and go silent. But a week later he’d start again:
“Mom says you shouldn’t plant cucumbers here—plant them over there.”
“Sergey, I’ll decide for myself where to plant.”
He’d nod, but his eyes would show irritation.
Soon Valentina Petrovna started coming over “for a couple of days,” and those days quietly turned into weeks.
The first time she came was one month after the wedding.
“Mom, come visit us on Saturday,” Sergey invited her over the phone. “I’ll show you the house, you can really get to know Dasha.”
“Alright, son. I’ll stop by for a little while.”
She arrived Saturday morning—with two bags.
“Hello, Valentina Petrovna,” Darya greeted her. “Come in, tea is ready.”
“Hello,” the mother-in-law replied dryly, scanning the house with a measuring look.
The promised “couple of hours” turned into two days. Valentina Petrovna stayed overnight, then announced she’d remain one more day.
“Mom, maybe stay a little longer?” Sergey offered.
“Well, if you don’t mind,” she said.
Darya said nothing, though irritation was already building.
Two months later Valentina Petrovna came again—this time she stayed a week.
“I need to see a doctor nearby,” she explained. “It’s easier to stay with you than commute from the city every day.”
After the third visit, “a couple of days” became ten days. Then two full weeks.
Darya kept quiet, but the tension grew.
Valentina Petrovna would dramatically inspect cabinets, lift pot lids, and sigh as if she were enduring something heroic.
She acted like the homeowner.
She would wake up first, march into the kitchen, and open every cabinet as if she were taking inventory.
“Oh wow, so many empty jars,” she would sigh loudly. “You really should sort this out.”
Darya would hear it from the bedroom and clench her fists.
Then the refrigerator.
“What’s this? This salad has been sitting for three days… It must be spoiled.”
“It’s not spoiled,” Darya would reply evenly. “I checked yesterday.”
“Oh, sure,” her mother-in-law would say with a skeptical shake of her head.
She would lift the lids off pots on the stove.
“What are you making? Soup? It’s so watery… You need to make it thicker.”
“I like it this way.”
“But Seryozhenka likes it thick. I always made his soup rich and hearty.”
Darya would turn away so she wouldn’t say something she’d regret.
In the evenings Valentina Petrovna would sit on the couch and sigh theatrically.
“Oh, I’m so tired today… I did a bit of cleaning, put the yard in order…”
“I didn’t ask you to clean,” Darya would point out.
“Well, how can you not, when you see something needs doing?” the mother-in-law would answer, offended.
Before yet another weekend, Valentina Petrovna arrived with bags again and announced she’d be staying “until you two sort out your family issues.”
It happened on a Friday evening.
Darya came home from work around six. She opened the gate and walked into the yard—and froze.
Three large bags sat on the porch: a duffel bag, a rolling suitcase, and a grocery bag.
Darya stepped inside. Valentina Petrovna was sitting in the kitchen drinking tea. Sergey hovered nearby, warming something on the stove.
“Hello,” Darya said cautiously.
“Hi, Dash,” Sergey turned. “Mom decided to come for the weekend.”
“For the weekend?” Darya glanced at the luggage. “That’s all for two days?”
Valentina Petrovna set her cup down.
“Actually, I’m planning to stay longer. Until you and my Seryozhenka work out your ‘family problems.’”
“What family problems?” Darya frowned.
“Oh, come on,” her mother-in-law sighed. “He complains to me that you’re strict with him, that you won’t let him say a word. So I decided to come and help you fix your relationship.”
Darya turned slowly toward her husband.
“Sergey… you complained about me to your mother?”
He dropped his eyes.
“Well… I just… talked.”
“Got it.”
That evening Valentina Petrovna staged a full performance—health complaints, stories about ungrateful people, and heavy hints that she should be supported here.
At dinner she started her show.
The three of them sat at the table. Darya put out plates of potatoes and cutlets and poured tea.
Her mother-in-law picked up her fork, pulled the plate closer, stared at the food, and let out a heavy sigh.
“Oh, I don’t even know if I can eat this… My stomach has been awful lately. My gastritis flared up. The doctor says I need a strict diet.”
“Then don’t eat,” Darya said calmly.
“And how am I supposed not to eat when there’s no other food?” Valentina Petrovna complained, wounded. “I’ll have to suffer through it.”
She took a bite of potato, chewed slowly, and grimaced.
“And my teeth hurt too. I should see a dentist, but I don’t have money. My pension is tiny, it all goes to medicine.”
Sergey nodded guiltily.
“Mom, we’ll help you with your teeth.”
“No, no, son,” Valentina Petrovna waved him off. “You’re not rich either. How could you support me? Though… in normal families, children take care of their parents. But these days everyone’s become ungrateful. You raise them, you put them on their feet—and then they act like you don’t exist.”
Darya set her fork down and looked at her carefully.
Valentina Petrovna kept going.
“My friend Nina’s daughter sends her money every month. Invites her over all the time. And me? I live alone, no one needs me. Thank God Seryozhenka is kind and didn’t abandon me completely.”
Sergey stared into his plate.
He sat there, nodding like an audience member in the front row.
“Right, Seryozh?” Valentina Petrovna would turn to him.
“Yes, Mom,” he answered obediently.
“You understand how hard it is for me alone?”
“I do, Mom.”
“And you won’t leave me, will you?”
“I won’t, Mom.”
Darya watched the scene and felt something squeeze tight inside her. Sergey didn’t even try to challenge his mother. Didn’t even try to protect his wife.
He just kept nodding—like a little boy.
“What if I just move in with you for good?” Valentina Petrovna suddenly suggested. “The house is big enough. Plenty of room. I’d help you around the house. It would be easier for you, and I wouldn’t be lonely.”
Darya stood abruptly, clearing the table.
“No,” she said shortly.
At first she listened with her arms crossed. Then she slowly straightened up, as if she’d reached a final decision.
She stood at the sink, washing dishes, while Valentina Petrovna continued her monologue.
Her hands moved automatically—plate, cup, spoon.
But inside her head, thoughts lined up—sharp and clear.
Enough.
No more.
This is my home.
My money.
My life.
Darya turned off the faucet, dried her hands, and slowly faced the table.
Valentina Petrovna was still talking:
“…and in normal families, elders are respected…”
Darya’s shoulders squared. Her back went straight.
She walked to the table without a word.
She looked around—at the table, the fridge, the shelves—everything she had paid for.
The plates she bought last year. The bread she brought home from work yesterday. The butter, cheese, sausage—paid with her money.
The fridge—full of food she bought.
The shelves, the cookware, the mugs—hers.
The house itself—every board, every window, every nail—hers.
And then she looked at Valentina Petrovna, still sitting at her table, eating her food, in her home.
And something inside Darya clicked.
She didn’t shout, but every word sliced through the silence like a blade.
“Valentina Petrovna, pack your things.”
Her mother-in-law lifted her head from the plate.
“What?”
“I said—pack your things.”
“And why would I?”
Darya didn’t raise her voice. She spoke just as evenly as before, but each word sounded like a verdict.
“I buy the groceries. This house is mine too. So gather your bags and get out,” she said, cutting off the performance.
Slowly, deliberately, she spelled it out:
“Everything you see here is mine. The food you’re eating—I paid for it with my money. The dishes you’re eating from—mine. This table—mine. This house—mine. It’s registered in my name. I bought it before the wedding. I live here. And you are a guest—an uninvited guest who has been abusing my hospitality for a long time. So pick up your bags and leave. Right now.”
Her voice was steady. Firm. Final.
Valentina Petrovna stopped mid-sentence as if she’d forgotten her next line. She sat with her mouth open, the fork hanging in the air.
One second. Two. Three.
Then she lowered the fork slowly onto the plate.
“You… what do you think you’re doing?” she finally forced out.
“I’m protecting my home,” Darya replied. “Pack up.”
“Seryozha!” Valentina Petrovna shrieked. “Did you hear how she’s talking to me?! Your wife is throwing your mother out!”
Sergey sat pale.
He tried to speak, but the moment he saw Darya’s expression, he stopped. He opened his mouth—
“Dash, well, maybe—”
Darya turned to him and looked at him. Silent.
The look in her eyes made his words die in his throat.
“Seryozhenka!” his mother wailed. “Defend me! She’s humiliating me!”
“Mom, wait…” Sergey mumbled.
“Wait for what?! You’re going to let this woman throw your own mother out?!”
Sergey looked at his wife. Then at his mother. Then back at his wife.
And couldn’t find a single word.
Darya walked to the front door and flung it open wide.
Cold evening air rushed into the house.
She stood beside the doorway, arms crossed, silent—unmoving, unyielding.
Valentina Petrovna was still sitting at the table.
“I’m not leaving!” she declared. “This is my son’s house!”
“This is my house,” Darya corrected calmly. “And your son is here only because I let him be. I didn’t invite you. You pushed your way in. And now you’re leaving. The door is open.”
Her mother-in-law grabbed her bags noisily, muttering about ungratefulness and “wrong kinds of women.”
Finally she stood up, her face red with fury.
“Fine! I understand everything now!” she shouted, yanking at the suitcase. “Modern women—heartless! Selfish! No respect for elders!”
She dragged the rolling suitcase from the porch into the hallway.
“I did everything for my Seryozhenka! I raised him alone! And he brought a woman like this into the house—”
“Valentina Petrovna, please hurry,” Darya cut in. “It’s cold.”
“Don’t worry, I’m leaving your precious house!” the mother-in-law snapped. “Sergey—help me at least!”
Sergey silently lifted one of the bags.
He followed his mother out without looking back, as if he still hoped he could reverse everything.
Valentina Petrovna walked into the yard. Sergey went after her.
Darya stood on the threshold.
At the gate Sergey helped his mother with the bags. Then he stopped and turned around, looking at the house, at his wife standing in the doorway.
“Dash…” he began.
“Go, Sergey,” Darya said. “While I still don’t change my mind.”
“But—”
“Go. If you’re choosing your mother, then choose her fully. Live with her. Just not here.”
Sergey stood there one more minute, then turned and walked through the gate.
He didn’t look back again.
The house filled with an unfamiliar quiet—and Darya felt something close to relief.
She closed the door and leaned her back against it.
Silence.
No voices. No sighs. No complaining.
Just silence.
Darya went into the kitchen, cleared the remaining dishes, washed them, wiped the table.
Then she sat down and looked around.
Her home. Her kitchen. Her peace.
A strange feeling—lightness, like she’d finally dropped a heavy weight.
That evening, for the first time in a long while, she sat at her own table without feeling like someone else was playing “the boss” in her house.
She made herself tea, took out some cookies, and sat down.
Alone. For the first time in months.
No one sighed beside her. No one commented on what she ate. No one handed out unsolicited advice.
She drank her tea slowly, watching the yard darken beyond the window.
Her yard. Her window. Her tea. Her home.
No one would play “owner” here anymore—except her.
She finished her tea, washed the cup, and went to the bedroom.
She lay down in her own bed, in her own house, and for the first time in a long time, she fell asleep peacefully—
without the dread that in the morning someone would open her cabinets again and tell her how to live.
Free.