Olesya handed over the keys without asking a single question. She simply placed the keyring into Dasha’s palm, closed Dasha’s fingers around it, and said, “Stay as long as you need.”
That happened one week after the wedding.
The apartment was small, but warm. Two windows faced the courtyard. The old parquet floor creaked in only one place — right by the entrance. Dasha hung new curtains, and Igor carried boxes in from the car.
“Are you sure Olesya doesn’t mind?” Igor asked while arranging books on the shelf.
“She offered it herself. She lives with Kostya now, so it’s more convenient for her. She said we could use the place until we get on our feet.”
“Your sister is a golden person.”
“I know,” Dasha smiled. “That’s why we’ll take care of every corner.”
The first month was easy. They went to sleep late, lingered over breakfast, and learned how to live as two people under one roof. Igor sometimes forgot to turn off the hallway light. Dasha left wet towels hanging over the backs of chairs. Little things — the threads from which everyday life is sewn together.
Nina Sergeyevna called during the third week. Her voice was soft and enveloping, the way it always became when she wanted something.
“Igorek, you two should come by on Saturday. We’ll have tea and talk. I hardly see you anymore.”
“All right, Mom, we’ll come,” he answered without thinking.
Dasha didn’t object. Back then, she tried not to object at all. She wanted to be liked. She wanted everything to be smooth. She believed that if she was open and kind, she would be accepted.
The first visit went peacefully. Her mother-in-law set the table, arranged the cups, and sliced lemon into thin circles. They talked about the weather, renovations, and neighbors. Dasha listened, nodded, and added polite comments here and there.
“What a lovely daughter-in-law I have,” Nina Sergeyevna said as she saw them off in the hallway. “Come again.”
Dasha smiled at her sincerely.
By the fourth visit, the tone began to change. At first, almost imperceptibly — like a crack in the wall that you only notice once it has grown long.
“Dashenka, you probably don’t know this, but Igor is used to having his shirts ironed starting from the left sleeve. I always did it that way.”
“All right, I’ll keep that in mind,” Dasha replied.
On the fifth visit, her mother-in-law greeted them with a notebook. She wrote something down while they talked, then closed it and put it away in a desk drawer. Dasha noticed, but said nothing.
“Do you make soup for him?” Nina Sergeyevna asked, pouring more tea.
“I do. And not only soup.”
“There should be soup every day. A man without a hot meal isn’t a man, he’s a misunderstanding.”
“We’re doing perfectly fine with food, Nina Sergeyevna.”
“I don’t doubt it,” she smiled. “I’m just giving advice.”
Igor stayed silent during those moments. Not because he agreed — he simply didn’t hear the hidden meaning. To him, these were ordinary conversations at the table. Dasha didn’t explain. Not yet.
On the sixth visit, Nina Sergeyevna invited her sister. Tamara Sergeyevna arrived from a neighboring district, sat in the armchair by the window, and looked at Dasha the way people look at an item on a shop counter — measuring its value.
“So this is that Dasha?” she asked, without addressing Dasha herself.
“That’s her,” Nina Sergeyevna replied.
“She’s thin. Is she managing?”
“So far, she is. So far.”
Dasha sat with her back straight and looked at both women. Something inside her had already begun to harden, but she promised herself one more chance. Just one.
“Nina Sergeyevna,” Dasha said evenly, “if you have questions for me, you may ask me directly. I’m sitting right here.”
“Oh my, how sensitive we are,” Tamara raised her eyebrows. “Ninka, this one has a character.”
“We’ll deal with that,” Nina Sergeyevna replied, smiling that same smile again.
In the car, Dasha remained silent all the way home. Igor glanced at her three times, but didn’t ask anything. He knew that when Dasha was silent like that, something was working inside her. Serious work.
“Did you notice how she talked about me in the third person?” Dasha finally asked when they entered the apartment.
“Who? Aunt Tamara? She’s always like that. Don’t take it to heart.”
“Igor, she discussed me as if I were a piece of furniture. And your mother played along.”
“Dash, they’re from an older generation. They’re used to speaking that way.”
“Habit is not an excuse,” Dasha said, taking off her coat and hanging it on the hook. “But I’ll wait. Maybe I really did misread it.”
She waited another two weeks.
The seventh visit became the last one.
Nina Sergeyevna welcomed them dressed up. There wasn’t just tea on the table — there were pastries, sliced meats, napkins in rings. Tamara Sergeyevna was already sitting in her usual place by the window. And next to her sat Marina, Nina Sergeyevna’s younger daughter, Igor’s sister.
Marina nodded to Dasha the way one nods to a casual acquaintance in an elevator. No warmth. No interest.
“It’s good that you came,” Nina Sergeyevna said. “Sit down. We need to have a serious conversation.”
Igor sat down and took a cup. Dasha sat beside him, but didn’t touch the food. She had already seen it — at the edge of the table, under a napkin, lay a sheet of paper folded into four. White, neat, with even lines.
“Dashenka,” Nina Sergeyevna said, picking up the sheet and unfolding it, “Tamara and I have been thinking. You’re young, and you don’t really understand family matters yet. So I decided to help you.”
“Help,” Dasha repeated. Not as a question.
“Yes. Here is a list of what you must do in my home when you visit. And in general, how you should behave in my son’s family.”
She handed her the paper. Dasha took it with two fingers and unfolded it.
The list was printed. Twelve points, carefully numbered. The font was small but readable. Dasha read in silence, and with each line, her face became calmer. Not softer — calmer. Like water just before it freezes.
Point one: during every visit, clean the mother-in-law’s apartment — kitchen, bathroom, hallway. Point two: prepare meals for three days in advance, using groceries bought at her own expense. Point three: wash and iron the bed linen. Point four: do not argue with elders. Point five: do not discuss family matters with anyone, including her own sister.
Then came rules about how Dasha was supposed to speak to Nina Sergeyevna on the phone — no less than three times a week, with a detailed report about household duties. The final point read: “A daughter-in-law is obligated to respect the order established by the older generation.”
Tamara looked at Dasha with a victorious expression. Marina was turning her phone in her hands, but she too kept glancing up, waiting for a reaction. Nina Sergeyevna folded her hands on the table and straightened her back.
“Well?” she asked. “What do you say?”
Dasha finished reading. She looked up. And then she laughed.
Not nervously, not hysterically — lightly and openly, as if someone had told her a genuinely funny joke.
“Give me a minute,” Dasha said.
She took a notebook and pen from her bag. Tamara exchanged a look with Nina Sergeyevna. Marina stopped turning her phone.
Dasha wrote quickly and confidently, without lifting her head. Three minutes later, she tore out the page, placed it beside her mother-in-law’s list, and slid it toward the center of the table.
“Here is my list, Nina Sergeyevna. Just for you.”
Nina Sergeyevna picked up the sheet. She began to read. With every line, her face changed.
Point one: during every visit to our home, clean our apartment — kitchen, bathroom, hallway. Point two: bring groceries for three days at your own expense. Point three: wash our bed linen. Point four: do not argue with your daughter-in-law. Point five: do not discuss our family with anyone, including your sister.
And the final point: “A mother-in-law is obligated to respect the order established by the young family.”
“What is this?” her mother-in-law breathed out.
“This is your list,” Dasha answered calmly. “Turned around. If you think it is normal to demand this from me, then you should be ready to do the same. Or do you believe rules only work in one direction?”
“You’ve lost your mind,” Tamara hissed. “Who speaks to elders like that?”
“Being older does not give anyone the right to humiliate others,” Dasha said without raising her voice. “I can respect a person for their actions. Not for their age. Age is biology, not an achievement.”
Marina jumped up.
“Do you even understand who you’re talking to? This is our mother!”
“I understand perfectly,” Dasha looked at her. “But do you understand that this list is not about care? It’s about power. It’s about forcing me to serve a grown, healthy woman simply because she decided I should.”
“That’s how it has always been in our family!” Marina turned to her brother. “Igor, say something!”
Igor was silent. He took both lists and placed them side by side. He read one. Then the other. Then he looked at his mother.
“Are you serious?” he asked.
“Serious about what?” Nina Sergeyevna lifted her chin. “I wrote reasonable rules. That’s how it was in our family. Your grandmother demanded the same from me. And nothing happened — I survived.”
“Survived,” Igor repeated. “Is that what you call normal family life? Survival?”
“Don’t twist my words.”
“I’m not twisting anything. I read twelve points. There isn’t a single ‘please’ here. Not one ‘if it’s convenient for you.’ This isn’t a request. It’s an order. You wrote an order for my wife.”
Tamara slapped her palm on the table.
“Boy, how dare you? Your mother raised you, fed you, stayed awake nights because of you!”
“Aunt Tamara,” Igor turned to her, “with respect, this is not your conversation. This is between me, my wife, and my mother. You are a guest. Please be quiet.”
Tamara opened her mouth, but found no answer. Her eyes darted between Nina Sergeyevna and Marina. There was no support — Nina Sergeyevna herself was confused.
“Igor,” his mother lowered her voice, “are you choosing sides? Seriously?”
“I’m not choosing sides. I’m choosing fairness. Dasha is my person. She has done nothing to offend you. We came every Saturday. We brought fruit, medicine, fixed your faucet last month. And in return, you give her a list of duties? Like she’s hired help?”
“It’s tradition!” Nina Sergeyevna raised her voice. “My husband’s mother spoke to me the same way, and I obeyed! And nothing happened, the family held together!”
“What did it hold together on?” Dasha asked quietly. “Fear? Obedience? The fact that the daughter-in-law was afraid to open her mouth? That isn’t a family. That’s a barracks.”
“How dare you!”
“I’m not daring. I’m telling the truth,” Dasha took her bag. “Nina Sergeyevna, I treated you with warmth. I wanted to become close to you. I cooked for you when you were sick. I chose gifts for every holiday — not formal ones, but real ones. Did you notice any of that?”
Her mother-in-law said nothing.
“No. You only noticed that I wasn’t obedient enough. Not quiet enough. Not yours enough.”
“Dasha, enough,” Marina stepped forward. “You entered our family, so you’re the one who should adjust.”
“Marina,” Igor stood up, “one more word in that tone and we’re leaving. And I don’t know when we’ll come back.”
“Are you threatening me?” Nina Sergeyevna looked at her son from under her brows.
“No. I’m warning you. The difference lies in respect for the person you’re speaking to.”
Dasha fastened her bag and stood up.
“We’re leaving. When you’re ready to talk without lists and without a tribunal of relatives, call us. You know my number. I haven’t blocked it yet. Yet.”
They left. The door closed quietly. No slam. No loud sound.
Inside Nina Sergeyevna’s apartment, the silence became heavy.
“Well, what was that?” Tamara asked at last, finding her voice again.
“That was a disgrace,” Nina Sergeyevna said.
“Exactly,” Tamara nodded. “Your son chose that girl. This is the end.”
Marina said nothing. She stood by the table and looked at the two sheets of paper lying side by side. Two lists. The same in essence, different only in direction. And somewhere deep down, at the very bottom of her heart, she felt uneasy. But she pushed that feeling away.
Three weeks later, Marina called Igor. Her voice was different — not sharp, not confident. Thin.
“Can I come over?”
“Come,” Igor said.
She arrived with red eyes and a wrinkled scarf. She sat in the kitchen, wrapped both hands around a cup, and stayed silent for a long time. Dasha placed a plate of cookies in front of her and sat opposite her.
“Tell us,” Dasha said.
“Artyom proposed,” Marina began. “A month ago. I said yes.”
“Congratulations,” Igor said. “But you don’t look like someone celebrating.”
“His mother… His mother made me a list.”
Dasha did not move. Igor slowly set down his cup.
“What kind of list?” he asked, though he already understood.
“A list of duties. What I must do in her house. How I should greet my husband. What I should cook. How I should speak in front of guests. Fourteen points,” Marina lifted her eyes. “She said that’s how things are done in their family. That her grandmother did it, and her mother did it, and now she does it.”
“And what did you say to her?”
“Nothing. I froze. Artyom was silent. He stood beside me and said nothing, as if it were normal. As if I was simply supposed to take it and submit.”
Dasha looked at Marina. Without gloating. Without triumph. She simply looked at her.
“Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?” Dasha said quietly.
Marina swallowed.
“Yes.”
“And what did you feel when she handed you that paper?”
“I felt…” Marina paused. “I felt like they didn’t see me as a person. Like I was a function. A set of duties. Like my wishes, my character, my self didn’t matter. The only important thing was that I fit their format.”
“Exactly,” Dasha said. “That is exactly how I felt three weeks ago at your mother’s table. When you stood there and told me to adjust.”
Marina lowered her head.
“I know. I remember every word.”
“I’m not gloating, Marina. I don’t need your pain. But tell me honestly — would you have followed that list?”
“No.”
“Then why did you expect it from me?”
Marina was silent for a full minute. Then she raised her head.
“Because that’s what Mother said. And I believed her. I thought she knew what was right. I thought that if she went through it and survived, then others should too. I didn’t think about the fact that ‘survived’ is not the same as ‘lived.’”
Igor pulled a chair closer and sat beside his sister.
“So what now?”
“Artyom said his mother was right. That I had to accept the rules. I said no. He said that in that case, there would be no wedding.”
“And?”
“And there won’t be one,” Marina straightened her back. “I took off the ring yesterday. Because if he cannot stand beside me against injustice, then he isn’t beside me. He is opposite me.”
Dasha reached across the table. Marina looked at her hand for a second, then took it.
“Will you call your mother?” Dasha asked.
“I already did. I told her everything. Do you know what she said?”
“What?”
“She said, ‘Well, what did you expect? That’s how the world works. Endure it.’ I asked her, ‘The way you endured it?’ And she answered, ‘I didn’t endure it. I commanded. Because I grew into that right.’ And that was when I understood one thing.”
“What?”
“She didn’t want me to be happy. She wanted the chain not to break. She wanted someone to endure again, and then pass it on. Like an inheritance nobody asked for.”
Igor stood up and dialed a number. His mother answered on the third ring.
“I’m listening.”
“Marina is with us. She told us about Artyom. And about your conversation.”
“And?”
“And you have lost your daughter the same way you almost lost your son. Do you understand that?”
“I haven’t lost anyone. You are the ones leaving.”
“No,” Igor said. “We’re not leaving. We are simply no longer coming to a place where we are not respected. Those are different things.”
He ended the call.
A week later, Tamara called. Not Nina Sergeyevna — Dasha. Her voice was quiet, unusually soft.
“Dashenka, this is Tamara Sergeyevna. Please don’t hang up.”
“I’m listening.”
“I was wrong. Back then, at the table. I sat there thinking that was how things were supposed to be, because my grandfather’s grandmother treated my mother the same way. And I treated my own daughter-in-law the same way. Then Kristina — my son’s wife — stopped visiting me. Completely. I haven’t seen my granddaughter in three years. And only now, after all of this, I understood: Kristina wasn’t the guilty one. I was.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Dasha asked.
“Because you were the only one who wasn’t afraid to say out loud what everyone else was thinking. And your husband wasn’t afraid either. Nina won’t change — I know my sister. But I want you to know that I am no longer on her side.”
Dasha thanked her and hung up.
And one month later, Nina Sergeyevna discovered that her phone had gone silent.
Marina didn’t call — she was renting a room on the other side of the city and rebuilding her life from the beginning. Igor didn’t call — he was waiting. Tamara didn’t call — she was ashamed of all the years she had stayed silent.
Nina Sergeyevna took that same list out of the desk drawer. Twelve points. Neat font. Beside it lay the page torn from Dasha’s notebook, covered in her handwriting. She reread both. Slowly.
For the first time, she truly saw them side by side. And then she understood what had been obvious to everyone except her: they were two identical texts, with only the recipient changed. And the one she had written was just as ugly as the one Dasha had written back.
No normal person would want to obey either of them.
She sat at the empty table, in the empty apartment, with two useless lists in front of her.
And the silence was so deep that even the clock on the wall seemed too loud.