Natalya was slicing potatoes into thin rounds, darting a glance at the clock. Half past six—Sergey would be home from work soon. Meat and vegetables were stewing on the stove, sending a mouthwatering smell through the kitchen. Outside, October twilight was already sinking in, and the lamp filled the room with a soft, cozy warmth.
“Mom, can I go to Kira’s?” eight-year-old Liza asked, peeking into the kitchen with a backpack full of textbooks in her hands.
“Not yet, sunshine. Homework first. We’ll see after dinner,” Natalya replied, transferring the finished meat onto a serving dish.
The front door banged—Sergey was back. Right behind him came Valentina Ivanovna, Natalya’s mother-in-law. She lived on her own, but for the last two weeks she’d been showing up almost every day, always under some new pretext.
“Good evening,” Natalya said, arranging plates on the table.
Valentina Ivanovna nodded and surveyed the set table with a practiced, critical eye.
“Seryozha, my dear, how was work?” she asked her son as she sat down. “You must be utterly worn out.”
Sergey hung his jacket in the hallway and walked into the kitchen, where Natalya was already dishing out dinner.
“Everything’s fine. We handed in the project on time. Management’s pleased,” he answered, taking his seat.
Valentina Ivanovna tasted the meat and grimaced.
“Too much salt, Natasha. Sergey’s hypertensive, after all—his doctor told him to limit salt,” she remarked, pushing her plate away.
Natalya pressed her lips together. Sergey had no hypertension—Valentina Ivanovna was simply hunting for another reason to criticize.
“It’s fine for me,” Sergey muttered without lifting his eyes from his plate.
“You’re just used to over-salted food,” Valentina Ivanovna insisted. “But you only get one health. And besides, little Liza is growing—this kind of diet is harmful for a child.”
Liza sat silently, shifting vegetables around her plate. She could clearly sense the tension between the adults.
“I’m not going to ruin an already over-salted dish,” Valentina Ivanovna continued. “Better tell me why Liza still hasn’t done her homework. It’s almost seven o’clock, and the child is sitting around doing nothing.”
“Liza does her homework after dinner—that’s how we do it,” Natalya replied calmly.
“That’s a bad habit,” Valentina Ivanovna shook her head. “A child should finish studying first, and only then rest. How else will she keep her grades up? I always made my Sergey do his homework first.”
Sergey kept eating in silence, as if he couldn’t hear his mother and wife talking.
“Liza gets A’s in every subject,” Natalya pointed out, pouring her daughter some compote.
“For now she does. But if you mess up her routine, you’ll start seeing B’s—then C’s won’t be far behind,” Valentina Ivanovna said in a lecturing tone.
Natalya felt the muscles in her neck tightening as she held back irritation. Every one of her mother-in-law’s visits turned into an exam—anything she did became grounds for judgment.
“Grandma, maybe we could make some tea?” Liza tried to change the subject.
“Of course, darling,” Natalya smiled, rising from the table.
“And I bet the tea will be strong,” Valentina Ivanovna added at once. “Strong tea is bad for children. Caffeine affects the nervous system.”
Natalya stopped by the stove, her hands clenched. Her patience was almost gone.
“Valentina Ivanovna,” she said without turning around, “if something is always wrong, you’re welcome to cook it yourself.”
Her words were tired, not aggressive—but Sergey took them as a personal insult. His face instantly turned red.
“What do you think you’re doing?!” Sergey shoved his chair back and jumped to his feet.
“Seryozha, calm down,” Valentina Ivanovna tried to intervene, but her son was no longer listening.
“You’re nobody in this house!” he shouted, swinging his arm toward his wife. “Don’t you dare say a word against my mother!”
The sudden movement nearly tipped over Liza’s compote spoon, splashing a few drops across the table. Liza flinched, pressing herself against the back of her chair.
Natalya froze by the stove, staring at her husband with wide eyes. In a single rush, memories of seven years of marriage flashed through her mind—years in which her mother-in-law’s opinion had slowly begun to matter more than the feelings of the wife beside him.
Instead of yelling or defending herself, Natalya silently turned off the burner under the kettle. Her movements were slow, almost detached, as if none of it had anything to do with her. She untied her apron, carefully hung it on its hook, and walked out of the kitchen.
“Mom, where are you going?” Liza called softly.
“I’ll be right back, sunshine,” Natalya answered without looking over her shoulder.
She went into the children’s room and sat on the edge of Liza’s bed. A plush teddy bear—Liza’s birthday gift—lay on the pillow. Natalya picked it up, feeling the softness of the fur under her fingers.
A few minutes later, Liza peeked into the room.
“Mom… are you crying?” the girl asked cautiously.
“No, sweetheart. I’m just a little tired,” Natalya said, wrapping her arms around her daughter and pulling her close. “How was school today? Tell me about your day.”
Liza snuggled beside her, leaning into her mother’s warmth.
“What happened in the kitchen? Dad was shouting,” she whispered.
“Adults argue sometimes. It’ll pass,” Natalya lied, stroking her daughter’s hair.
Meanwhile, an awkward silence settled over the kitchen. Sergey sat back down, avoiding his mother’s eyes. Valentina Ivanovna sipped her compote, glancing toward the door through which her daughter-in-law had left.
“Seryozha, you reacted too sharply,” the mother-in-law said at last.
“Mom, don’t interfere. Natalya needs to respect her elders,” Sergey grumbled, poking at the cooling meat with his fork.
“But still… you shouldn’t have shouted in front of the child.”
Sergey lifted his head and looked at his mother. His eyes showed irritation—Valentina Ivanovna hadn’t fully taken his side.
“So now I’m the one at fault?” he frowned.
“I’m not saying you’re at fault. I’m just saying you should’ve explained more calmly that she can’t speak like that.”
Sergey pushed his plate away and rubbed his face with both hands. Work had been exhausting, and instead of rest at home, he’d walked into a scandal.
In the children’s room, Natalya was telling Liza a fairy tale about an enchanted forest where all the animals lived in peace. Liza gradually calmed down, the ugly dinner scene fading from her mind.
“Mom, are we going to the park tomorrow?” Liza asked sleepily.
“Of course—if the weather is nice,” Natalya promised, tucking her daughter under the blanket.
When Liza fell asleep, Natalya returned to the kitchen. Sergey was sitting alone—Valentina Ivanovna had already left. Dirty dishes still stood where they’d been; no one had bothered to clear the table.
“I’m sorry. I overreacted,” Sergey said without looking up.
Natalya began collecting plates in silence. Her hands trembled slightly, but her voice stayed even.
“Sergey, we need to talk.”
“About what?” he asked warily.
“About what’s been happening in our family these last few months.”
Sergey leaned back and folded his arms across his chest.
“Nothing special is happening. Mom just comes over more. She’s lonely.”
“Your mother criticizes everything I do. My cooking, how I raise Liza, the cleaning, the groceries. Nothing is right, everything is wrong.”
“She’s just worried about us. She’s giving advice.”
Natalya set the dishes in the sink and turned toward her husband.
“And what do you think? Do you really believe I cook badly and raise our daughter badly?”
Sergey hesitated. On the one hand, his wife managed the home perfectly well. On the other, his mother—so he’d been taught—never criticized without reason.
“That’s not the point. The point is you were rude to an older person,” he dodged the question.
“I said if she’s unhappy, she can cook herself. That’s rudeness?”
“With the tone you used—yes.”
Natalya turned on the hot water and started washing plates. Steam rose, fogging the lenses of her glasses.
“So I’m supposed to silently endure any remark?”
“You’re supposed to respect my mother.”
“And your mother is supposed to respect me.”
Sergey got up and went to the window. Outside, a fine drizzle was falling, and streetlights shimmered in puddles.
“Mom’s lived a long life. She has experience. If she comments, there must be a reason.”
Natalya shut off the water and faced him.
“Fine. Let’s run an experiment. Tomorrow Valentina Ivanovna cooks dinner, and I’ll comment on every dish. We’ll see how she likes it.”
“Are you mocking me?”
“No. I’m testing whether your logic works both ways.”
Sergey turned from the window and looked at his wife. Confusion flickered in his eyes.
“Natalya, don’t make this complicated. Just be more polite to my mother, and there won’t be problems.”
“And what if the problem is that your mother doesn’t accept me as the woman of this house?”
“Nonsense. She accepts you fine.”
Natalya dried her hands and sat down across from him.
“Sergey, answer honestly: when was the last time you stood up for me in an argument with Valentina Ivanovna?”
He searched his memory.
“I don’t remember any serious arguments.”
“What about today—when she went on about the salt?”
“That wasn’t an argument. Just a normal discussion.”
“Okay. What about when your mother said I wash your shirts wrong?”
“Mom knows laundry. Her shirts were always perfect.”
“And when she said I’m spoiling Liza by buying too many toys?”
“She has a point. Kids should value gifts.”
Natalya looked at him for a long moment. Something settled in her eyes—the quiet understanding that this conversation was pointless.
“I see,” she said softly.
“What do you mean, you see?”
“I mean my opinion doesn’t matter in this house.”
Sergey reached for her hand, but Natalya pulled away.
“Don’t be dramatic. We just need compromises.”
“A compromise means both sides are considered. Here, only your mother’s position counts.”
Sergey rubbed the back of his head and sighed.
“Fine. I’ll talk to Mom. I’ll ask her to be gentler with her remarks.”
“No,” Natalya answered calmly, rising from the table. “Don’t. I’ll solve this problem myself.”
“How?”
“You’ll see.”
She went to the bedroom, leaving Sergey alone with his unpleasant thoughts. He sat in the kitchen for a long time, turning their conversation over and over in his head.
After dinner, an unfamiliar silence filled the apartment. Usually, at this hour, Natalya would be bustling around—washing dishes, laying out clothes for the next day, helping Liza with homework. Now she didn’t come out of the bedroom at all, and the dirty plates on the table felt like evidence of what had happened.
Sergey turned on the television, but the news didn’t register. His mind kept drifting back to his wife’s face when he’d swung his arm and shouted. In her eyes there hadn’t been hurt—there was something far worse: disappointment.
Around nine-thirty, Sergey got up from the couch and went to the bedroom. He knocked softly and called her name.
“Natalya, can I come in?”
No answer. From behind the door came the faint sound of pages turning—she was reading.
“Natalya, I need to change,” he tried again.
Silence. Sergey turned the handle, but the door was locked. In seven years of marriage, that had never happened once.
“I get it—I went too far. Let’s talk,” he said, resting his forehead against the door.
The rustle of pages stopped, but his wife still didn’t speak.
Sergey went back to the living room, unfolded the sofa, and pulled bedding from the closet. For the first time in their life together, he would be sleeping on the couch.
The next morning Valentina Ivanovna called her son before breakfast.
“Seryozha, how are things? Is Natasha still upset?” she asked.
“I don’t know, Mom. We haven’t talked.”
“Maybe you were too harsh yesterday. Women need to be kept in line, of course—but not to extremes,” Valentina Ivanovna said, still feeling awkward after the scene.
“Mom, don’t teach me how to live. I’ll handle my own family.”
“Alright, alright. But think about it—if your wife pouts, who’s going to cook? Clean? Watch Liza?”
Sergey hung up, realizing his mother had a point. The familiar comfort of his home rested on Natalya, and now that comfort was in danger.
At seven a.m. he heard sounds from the kitchen. He hurried in and found Natalya making breakfast. On the table were two bowls of porridge and two glasses of juice.
“What about me?” Sergey asked, surprised.
“There’s cottage cheese, yogurt, and eggs in the fridge. Pick something,” Natalya replied evenly, not looking at him.
“Natalya, what is this—kindergarten?”
“It’s not childish at all,” she said calmly. “I’m simply cooking now only for the people who respect me.”
Liza walked into the kitchen in her school uniform, backpack on her shoulders.
“Good morning, Mommy. Good morning, Dad,” she said.
“Good morning, sunshine. Sit and eat,” Natalya smiled at her.
Sergey stood by the refrigerator, unsure how to respond. His wife’s tone was calm, even friendly—yet only toward their child.
“Liza, after school we’ll go to the bookstore. We’ll buy you a new encyclopedia,” Natalya announced.
“Really? About animals?” Liza lit up.
“Yes—about animals.”
Sergey took out a yogurt and sat down. The atmosphere was strange: on the surface everything looked normal, but an invisible wall had risen between them.
“Natalya… can we talk tonight?” Sergey tried.
“Talk about what?” she shrugged. “You made everything clear yesterday. I’m nobody in this house.”
“But I apologized.”
“Did you?” Natalya raised her brows. “When?”
Sergey paused. He realized the words “I’m sorry” had never actually left his mouth.
“Well… I said I overreacted.”
“That’s not an apology. It’s just stating a fact.”
Liza finished her juice and stood up.
“Mom, can I tell Kira about the encyclopedia?”
“Of course, sweetie. Go to school—and we’ll talk this evening.”
After their daughter left, silence returned. Sergey ate his yogurt, glancing at his wife. Natalya cleared the table as if he weren’t there.
“So that’s it? You’re going to ignore me?” he finally snapped.
“I’m not ignoring you. I answer questions. I speak when necessary. I’m simply not going to take care of people who treat me like I’m nothing.”
“Natalya, you can’t take everything so literally.”
“How else should I take it—symbolically?”
She turned toward him, and Sergey saw a cold determination in her eyes.
“Listen carefully. Yesterday you showed me what you really think of me. Not in a moment of anger—genuinely. Your mother’s opinion matters to you more than your wife’s feelings. Fine. Live with that.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“Then answer this: if tomorrow Valentina Ivanovna says I’m raising Liza poorly, will you stand up for me?”
Sergey wavered. His mother often sounded convincing. And yet Natalya was a good mother.
“Depends what she says,” he answered evasively.
“Right,” Natalya said quietly. “That’s all I needed to hear.”
She washed her hands and headed toward the hallway.
“Where are you going?”
“To work. Unlike some people, I have responsibilities—and I do them properly.”
Sergey stayed in the apartment alone, feeling his familiar world cracking. Before, his wife would see him off, kiss him goodbye, ask about his day. Now she left without even saying goodbye.
That evening Sergey came home hoping she’d cooled down and might be ready to reconcile. Instead, a note lay on the table: “Liza has eaten. Your food is in the fridge.”
He reheated the leftovers and ate alone. Natalya was in the children’s room with their daughter; their voices drifted out as they talked about school.
That went on for a week. Natalya cooked breakfast and dinner only for Liza. She spoke to her husband only when necessary. She did the housework selectively—washing only her clothes and the child’s, cleaning only Liza’s room and her side of the bedroom.
Sergey began to understand just how much his wife had carried. Cooking for himself after work, searching for clean shirts, buying groceries—everything took time and energy.
Valentina Ivanovna kept coming, but the atmosphere in the home changed completely. Natalya greeted her politely and immediately went into another room. No more debates about food or parenting—nothing at all.
“Seryozha, what’s wrong with Natasha?” Valentina Ivanovna asked after yet another visit. “She’s acting strange.”
“She’s offended at us,” Sergey muttered.
“How long is she going to sulk?”
“I don’t know, Mom. I already apologized. I just don’t know what else to do.”
“Try giving her a present. Flowers, jewelry. Women like gestures like that.”
Sergey took the advice. He bought roses and expensive earrings. Natalya thanked him for the flowers without warmth, and didn’t even try on the earrings.
“I don’t need anything,” she said. “Except respect. And you can’t buy that.”
Meanwhile, Natalya threw herself into her daughter’s life. She enrolled Liza in art classes, started taking her to the pool, and read books with her every evening. All her free time went into her child.
“Mom, why does Dad eat dinner alone now?” Liza asked one evening.
“Dad has his own eating routine, and we have ours,” Natalya explained.
“And why doesn’t Grandma Valya have dinner with us anymore?”
“Grandma Valya eats at home. It’s easier for everyone that way.”
Liza nodded, accepting her mother’s explanation. Children adjust quickly—and soon she grew used to the new order, spending even more one-on-one time with Natalya.
A month later Sergey finally understood that he hadn’t just lost comfort—he’d lost a partner. Natalya lived beside him, but as if in a parallel world where only mother and daughter existed.
“Natalya, this can’t go on,” he tried again.
“Why not? I’m fine,” she replied calmly.
“I’m not.”
“Then change something.”
“What exactly?”
“Figure it out. You’re a smart man.”
Natalya took Liza by the hand, and they went for a walk. Sergey stayed behind, trying to think of how to fix what he’d broken.
Two more weeks passed. Valentina Ivanovna came less often, feeling the chill from her daughter-in-law. Sergey kept trying to rebuild the relationship, but every attempt shattered against Natalya’s steady indifference.
One evening, while Liza was doing homework and Natalya was reading in an armchair, Sergey approached her.
“I understand now,” he said quietly. “You were right. I chose my mother instead of you.”
Natalya lifted her eyes from the book.
“And what are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t know. Tell me.”
“Natalya, I’m not going to raise you,” she answered evenly. “You’re an adult. If you want to live with your mother—do it. If you want to live with me—draw conclusions.”
“What if I ask Mom to come less often?”
“It’s not about how often she comes. It’s about the fact that you never protect me.”
“Fine. Next time I will.”
Natalya closed her book and looked at him carefully.
“Do you know what’s saddest? That evening was a revelation. I finally understood what I mean in this family. I finally understood my place.”
“Where is it?”
“Next to my daughter. Everything else is secondary.”
She got up and went into the children’s room, helped Liza finish her homework, then they bathed, read a bedtime story, and went to sleep.
Sergey sat in the living room, realizing his wife wasn’t fighting for their marriage anymore. She had simply removed him from her life, leaving only what mattered most—motherhood.
The next day Valentina Ivanovna called.
“Seryozha, I won’t be coming to have dinner at your place anymore,” she said.
“Why?”
“I feel like I’m in the way. Natasha is polite, but cold. And you’ve become so gloomy.”
“Mom… did you ever think you might be to blame for our problems?”
Valentina Ivanovna was silent for a moment.
“Maybe I did. But it’s too late to change anything now.”
“Why is it too late?”
“Because Natasha has already decided. And women, you know… rarely reverse a decision once it’s made.”
Sergey understood she was right. His wife had made her final choice and was living by new rules.
Evenings in the apartment took on a strange new atmosphere. Natalya and Liza ate dinner together, chatting about school and making plans for the weekend. Sergey sat at the same table, yet felt as if he existed in a different dimension.
Natalya no longer asked about his day, no longer cared about his plans, no longer shared her thoughts. For her, that October evening was a line in the sand—after it, a new life began: the life of a single mother who, on paper, was still married.
Sergey often replayed the moment he’d raised his hand and shouted. Back then it had felt justified—defending his mother from “disrespect.” Now he understood he’d lost far more than he’d gained. Their home had become a place where everyone lived by separate rules, and the family warmth was gone.