It started with little things. So quietly, so “family-like” that you barely noticed it.
“Lena, sunshine, could you help me out?” Galina Petrovna always called at the worst possible time, as if she could sense the exact moment I’d just sat down after work. “My utility bill came in, and my pension won’t stretch to the end of the month. You know how expensive everything is now…”
I sent her three thousand. Then another five—for medicine. Then ten—because her refrigerator broke. Andrey, my husband, just shrugged.
“Mom asked. Just help her. She lives alone.”
Alone. That was the magic word Galina Petrovna waved around like a pardon. A lonely pensioner, a widow, the mother of an only son. How do you refuse someone like that?
And I didn’t refuse. I was a senior financial analyst at a large company—good salary, steady bonuses. Andrey and I lived comfortably: a three-bedroom apartment in a new building, two cars, vacations abroad. Helping my mother-in-law didn’t feel like a problem. At first.
But little things pile up the way snow does before an avalanche.
Six months in, Galina Petrovna was calling twice a week. One time she needed shoes—“I’m walking around like a beggar, Lenochka, it’s embarrassing in front of the neighbors.” Another time she wanted the theater—“I’ve been a cultured person my whole life, I can’t just let myself go.” Then she needed to buy a present for a friend’s birthday—“What, am I supposed to show up empty-handed? You understand…”
I understood. I always understood. And I transferred money.
By the end of the first year, Galina Petrovna was practically living on my allowance. Her pension, as I found out by accident, was decent—about what an average cashier earns. But she spent all of it on random indulgences, while I covered her everyday life. Utilities, groceries, clothes, medications, taxis, beauty salons—the list grew like a snowball.
“Maybe we should stop?” I tried to talk to Andrey one evening. “Your mom gets more than many people who work full-time. Why are we supporting her?”
Andrey looked at me like I’d suggested dumping his mother in a garbage bin.
“Lena, that’s my mom. The only one I’ve got. Are you really going to be stingy?”
“It’s not about that. It’s the principle. She’s using us.”
“Using us?” his voice rose. “She raised me alone after my father died! Worked two jobs! And now that I can finally help her, you…”
I didn’t finish. It was the same dead end as always whenever the topic was Galina Petrovna.
Meanwhile, I started noticing other things—details that seemed small at first.
We’d come by for tea, and when she walked us out, she’d tell a neighbor on the stairwell:
“Yes, Andryusha is a good boy—he helps his mother. A real son, not like some…”
Not a word about me. As if the money appeared by immaculate conception.
Or one day I overheard her on the phone with a friend:
“She’s no homemaker, Val. Always buying ready-made food, their apartment’s a mess. Whatever you say, Andryusha married badly. I would’ve picked him someone else—prettier, and with golden hands… Oh well. What grew is what grew.”
I was standing in the hallway with bags of groceries—I’d stopped by after work specifically to bring her things. In my hands, the cottage cheese from the farm shop she loved felt cold as ice. Twelve hundred a kilo.
“Grandma, Mom is pretty!” That was our eight-year-old Masha, who’d heard the conversation too.
“Hush, dear, adults are talking,” Galina Petrovna waved her off.
I turned around and left. I set the bags down on the hallway table and didn’t say a word.
That evening Andrey got a message from his mother: “Thanks for the groceries. Tell Lena the cottage cheese is excellent.” Tell Lena. As if I were a courier, not a person who paid for those groceries.
I stayed quiet. Again.
But something inside me started shifting. I began paying attention—really paying attention. How Galina Petrovna would tell relatives what a caring son Andrey was, what gifts he bought her, how he helped—again, not a single mention of me. How she complained to her friends that her daughter-in-law was always at work, never home, had “let the grandkids go.” How she’d sigh over family photos: “Eh, Andryusha could’ve chosen a prettier wife…”
And I kept transferring money. Thirty thousand a month. Forty. Fifty. Sometimes more.
Then, in early September, Galina Petrovna announced:
“In November I’m turning sixty. A round number, a serious date. I want to celebrate properly.”
We were sitting in her kitchen—me, Andrey, and the kids. Galina Petrovna poured tea into cups, and her voice had the unshakable confidence of someone who was used to getting her way.
“I want a restaurant. About thirty people. I want everything to look beautiful—the table, the music, a photographer. I want people to remember it. You’ll help, right?”
Andrey nodded immediately.
“Of course, Mom. Absolutely.”
I finished my tea without a word. Something inside me went cold.
“Look for a good restaurant, Lena,” Andrey asked on the way home. “You’re better at that.”
“Thirty people in a decent place is around three hundred thousand,” I said. “Once you add drinks, music, decor.”
“So what? We’ve got savings.”
“Our savings,” I corrected.
“Lena, it’s my mother’s birthday. She’s turning sixty. It matters.”
I looked at him—at this man I’d lived with for ten years, had two children with, built a home and a career beside. And suddenly I realized he simply didn’t see it. He didn’t see how his mother used us. He didn’t see my feelings. He didn’t see the basic unfairness.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll handle it.”
I found the restaurant. Reserved the best banquet hall. Approved the menu—based on Galina Petrovna’s wishes, after she sent me a list of thirty items. Ordered floral arrangements, hired a host and musicians, arranged a photographer.
Every evening Galina Petrovna called with new demands.
“Lenochka, can the cake be three tiers? And get better champagne—people will be picky. Will the waiters wear bow ties? And can we order fireworks?”
I agreed to everything. The bill grew like yeast dough.
“Maybe we should keep it simpler?” Andrey suggested timidly when I showed him the final estimate.
“It’s too late,” I said. “Everything’s paid for, contracts are signed.”
He sighed and stopped arguing.
The birthday finally came. For November it was warm—around five above zero, no snow. I wore a modest black dress; I didn’t want to outshine the guest of honor. Galina Petrovna met us at the restaurant fully done up: a burgundy dress, fresh blowout, manicure, makeup. She looked genuinely festive—and very pleased with herself.
“Oh, how beautiful!” she beamed, taking in the room. “Andryusha, you’re a good boy, son!”
I stood beside them. Like I didn’t exist.
Guests started arriving—relatives, neighbors, Galina Petrovna’s friends, former colleagues. About thirty-five people came, even more than planned. The hall filled with voices, laughter, congratulations.
Galina Petrovna accepted gifts like a queen—graciously, with a faint air of superiority. When it was our turn, Andrey handed her an envelope.
“Happy birthday, Mom.”
There was a hundred thousand inside. My hundred thousand—out of my bonus.
“Thank you, my son,” she kissed Andrey. She didn’t even look at me.
The evening rolled on: toasts, songs, dancing. With each glass, Galina Petrovna bloomed—louder, merrier, more confident. She danced, laughed, soaked up compliments.
And I sat at the table and counted. Steaks at two thousand. Oysters at eight hundred each. Sparkling crémant—six thousand a bottle. Florist—twenty-seven thousand. Musicians—fifty thousand. Photographer—thirty…
Closer to ten, Galina Petrovna asked for the microphone. The host handed it over politely, and she, swaying slightly—champagne was clearly working—stood in the center of the room.
“My dear ones!” she swept her gaze over the guests. “I want to make a toast. To the most important person in my life. To my son, Andrey!”
Andrey smiled, embarrassed. The guests smiled too.
“I raised him alone,” Galina Petrovna continued, and her voice trembled with practiced sentiment. “Alone! After my husband died. And he grew into a real man—caring, kind, generous. Thank you, my son, for everything!”
She lifted her glass. People applauded.
“Though,” she giggled, “I did want a daughter-in-law who was prettier and more domestic. But oh well…”
She flicked her hand as if shooing a fly.
“The one he has will do.”
The room froze. Someone laughed awkwardly. Someone stared down at their plate. Andrey went pale.
And I felt something inside me snap—quietly, almost noiselessly. Like an overstretched string finally breaking.
I stood up slowly. Every pair of eyes turned toward me.
“May I make a toast too?” My voice sounded surprisingly calm.
Galina Petrovna blinked, clearly not expecting it. She handed me the microphone—hesitant, wary.
I took it and faced the guests.
“I’d like to raise my glass as well. To our dear birthday woman, Galina Petrovna.”
Her smile spread.
“Who, unfortunately, doesn’t suit me either,” I continued. “Not at all. As a mother-in-law. As a person. And so…”
I paused, looking straight into her eyes.
“So I will no longer pay her bills. Any of them. Not utilities. Not groceries. Not clothes, medications, taxis, beauty salons—none of it. And this evening, by the way, I will not be paying for either.”
The silence was so thick you could hear the air conditioner dripping in the corner.
“Lena, what are you—” Andrey started, but I lifted my hand.
“I’m not finished. The bill for tonight, as I expected, is around three hundred thousand. I paid the reservation and half the cost. Let that be my gift to you. The rest—pay it yourselves. Or ask the guests to chip in.”
I set the microphone on the table, grabbed my purse, and walked toward the exit.
“Lena! Stop!” Andrey jumped up, but I didn’t turn around.
Behind me, the room erupted—shocked, angry, confused voices. Someone cursed. Someone laughed nervously. Galina Petrovna yelled something about ingratitude and rudeness.
I stepped outside. Breathing felt easier.
My phone started exploding with calls five minutes later. Andrey. My mother-in-law. Andrey again. Some Aunt Lyusya—my mother-in-law’s sister. I muted the phone and ordered a taxi.
At home it was quiet—we’d left the kids with my mother. I took off my dress, washed my face, brewed chamomile tea. I sat by the window and watched the night city.
Andrey came home around midnight. He entered quietly, as if afraid of waking someone. He went to the kitchen where I was still sitting with cold tea.
“Are you out of your mind?” His voice shook. “Do you understand what you did?”
“Perfectly,” I said.
“My mother is hysterical! The guests were in shock! She had to ask people to chip in to pay the bill! Do you realize how ashamed she was?”
“I do,” I looked at him. “And do you realize how ashamed I’ve been all these years? When I supported your mother and she told everyone what a caring son you were? When I transferred money and she said behind my back that you married badly?”
“She didn’t—”
“She did. I heard it. More than once. And you knew. You just found it convenient not to notice.”
Andrey sank into a chair.
“Lena… she’s old. She has her quirks.”
“Old, and very comfortable living on my neck?” I said. “She dresses on my money, eats on my money, entertains herself on my money—and still thinks I’m not good enough for her son?”
“Well, she didn’t mean it…”
“Whether she meant it or not is irrelevant. I’m not an ATM anymore.”
He stared at the floor in silence.
“Do you realize she hates us now?” he finally said.
“Maybe,” I answered. “But that’s her problem, not mine.”
“She’s my mother!”
“And I’m your wife!” My voice rose for the first time that night. “Your wife for ten years. The mother of your children. I work just as hard as you do, I earn good money, and I have the right to decide what happens to it. I’m not obligated to support a grown, healthy woman who despises me!”
He flinched at my tone.
“She doesn’t despise—”
“‘Prettier and more domestic.’ You heard it, didn’t you? In front of thirty people. At a birthday party I organized and paid for.”
Andrey covered his face with his hands.
“God… what a nightmare…”
We sat in silence for several minutes. Then he got up and went to the bedroom. I stayed in the kitchen.
In the morning he left for work without a word. In the evening he returned the same way. We moved through the apartment like strangers, avoiding conversation.
Galina Petrovna called every day. I didn’t answer. Andrey spoke to her behind a closed door—long, tense conversations. I didn’t listen. I didn’t ask.
A week later he said:
“Mom wants to apologize.”
“No,” I said.
“Lena, please. She understands she was wrong.”
“Andrey,” I looked at him tiredly, “your mother doesn’t understand she was wrong. She understands the money is over. Those are different things.”
“You’re being unfair.”
“Maybe. But I’m done playing this game.”
He didn’t push.
A month passed. Galina Petrovna stopped calling to ask for money. Instead she called Andrey to complain about life, her health, her loneliness. He would grow gloomy after every conversation, but he started helping her from his own salary. I didn’t object—his money, his mother, his choice.
I only saw her at family gatherings. She was pointedly polite—cold, distant. I returned the same. Andrey bounced between us, trying to smooth things over, but it didn’t work.
“Maybe it’s time to make peace?” he asked one evening. “The kids are asking why Grandma looks sad.”
“I didn’t start a fight,” I said. “I simply stopped sponsoring her. If your mother wants to treat that as a lifelong grievance, that’s her right.”
“Lena, how long is this going to—”
“Andrey,” I cut him off, “I love you. I do. But I won’t let anyone—even your mother—treat me like a second-class person. If she wants a relationship, she can learn respect. If not, she can live however she wants. On her pension.”
He didn’t bring it up again.
And I learned to live without guilt. Without the urge to justify myself. I learned a simple truth: you can’t buy respect. Not with any amount of money. And closeness built on money isn’t closeness at all.
Sometimes I remember that night at the restaurant. The silence after my words. Galina Petrovna’s face—confused, hollow, suddenly older. And I don’t feel ashamed. Not at all.
Because she humiliated me in front of the guests, and I cut off her allowance in front of everyone—and it was the most honest thing I could have done. For myself. For my dignity. For my children, who deserve to see a mother who can stand up for herself.
Everything else can stay on the conscience of those who believe the world owes them something.