— Very bright, beautiful, I’d say rather unusual, — Vadim said thoughtfully, carefully examining his wife’s drawings.
— Do you like them? — Natasha asked with a smile as she sat down next to him on the sofa.
— Unusual, — the man admitted, rifling through the sheets of illustrations.
— Children love everything bright; later, an adult prefers something grey, inconspicuous.
— Well, probably, — Vadim mumbled, setting the drawings on the coffee table.
— And look, at the playground all the children are colorful. But in the store, where the adults are, everything is grey, black, green, and very rarely white.
— But that’s practical, — he immediately replied.
— No, it’s not about practicality—it’s about character. Children are bright; everything is curious and interesting to them, while adults aren’t, so they become inconspicuous, they blend in, that is, they camouflage themselves so as not to be scolded or noticed.
— Maybe you’re right, — Vadim agreed. — So why do you paint only children’s pictures?
— I don’t know, I like them. I’ve loved looking at books since I was a child, you see? — she said, gesturing toward the two large shelves filled with old children’s books. — I’ve read them maybe ten times, or perhaps even hundreds of times—it’s a whole world; through pictures, children come to know it.
— And you help them? — Vadim said, embracing his wife, either asking or affirming.
— I help them see a new world.
— Good job, — he said, kissing his wife.
Outside the window, the spring wind swayed the branches of a blossoming apple tree, and the sun’s rays, filtering through the sheer curtains, created whimsical patterns on the walls of the room—as if complementing Natasha’s vivid illustrations with their own special light.
The next day, Vadim went to his mother’s house. Though she was already retired, she still worked at least half a day.
— So, how’s your “pigalitsa”? — that’s what his mother always called Natasha.
— She’s painting, — Vadim answered with a smile.
— She’s sketching, — Love Stepanovna declared.
She knew very well that Natasha was an artist—and perhaps even a good one—but instead of painting portraits, the kind that are in demand and fetch good money, she painted; she painted bunnies, rabbits, hedgehogs, dragons.
— She ought to grow up, — the woman said, shaking her head.
— She likes it, — her son replied.
— “Likes it” won’t put food on the table. You need to earn money, and she’s been sitting for a year now.
— Well, — Vadim hesitated, not knowing what to say.
They had married a year ago, and Natasha had immediately said she would devote herself to her art. Vadim didn’t object, but like his mother, he thought that an artist’s work should be about painting portraits or landscapes—something that actually brings in money. What Natasha was doing seemed to be just for show.
— Alright, I understand—you can’t handle your girl on your own.
— Mom, — Vadim looked at her disapprovingly.
— I’ll have to help, — she said in a businesslike tone, tapping her fingers on the table.
In the evening, after a hearty dinner prepared by Natasha, Vadim sat down beside her and, stroking her hand, said:
— My mother is coming to us for a week.
— Why? — his wife immediately asked.
Natasha loved her home; she had wallpapered it herself, even painted the ceiling—it wasn’t white anymore but looked like a sky with clouds. Her house had her favorite flowers, her grandmother’s rug, an armchair, and a dresser that probably belonged to her great-grandmother. She had stripped it herself, stained it, and then varnished it. She loved guests but didn’t like it when someone stayed overnight—especially Love Stepanovna, with whom she’d clashed from the start.
— You see, — Vadim began, — Aunt Sveta has a problem with her husband. You remember her, don’t you?
— Of course I remember, — Natasha replied. — She was at our wedding. And what happened?
— Well, I don’t know, maybe they quarreled, and now Aunt Sveta, along with her daughter Yana, has come to my mother’s.
— Wha—? — the girl stammered.
— Therefore, mom will move in with us for a week.
Natasha didn’t like the idea. But on the other hand, Love Stepanovna was her husband’s mother, so maybe a compromise could be found regarding how to run the house.
— Alright, — Natasha said reluctantly. — Just for a week, right?
— Only for a week. And then I think Aunt Sveta will resolve her family issues, — Vadim said.
— Alright, — she nodded.
While Natasha was washing the dishes, Vadim began moving her belongings from the studio—the room where she painted—into the bedroom.
— And where will I paint? — she asked, upset.
— Well, mom won’t sleep in the hall; that’s improper.
— Yes, — Natasha agreed, and, entering the studio, began gathering her paints.
If the apartment was a universe, then the studio was its own world. There, she had pasted children’s wallpaper adorned with giraffes, tigers, and monkeys climbing on vines. And there were many flowers, too.
— They need to be put away, — Vadim said as he entered the room, picking up a pot and carrying it to the hall. Natasha sighed deeply and also took a pot, carrying it to the bedroom.
The next day, closer to evening, Love Stepanovna arrived with two large trunks of belongings.
— Oh! — Natasha exclaimed in surprise upon seeing them.
Vadim greeted his mother, took one trunk, and carried it into the room.
The mother-in-law greeted her daughter-in-law coldly, then followed her son into the room where she was to live.
— Oh my goodness! — she exclaimed, looking at the wallpaper. — How awful!
— Don’t you like it? — Natasha entered the room.
— What a lack of taste, — the woman said, scrutinizing the children’s wallpaper. — Remove the flowers, — she ordered her son, — I’m allergic to them.
Natasha shrugged and, instead of her husband, began removing the remaining flowers.
— And the curtains! Oh my goodness! — the mother-in-law ranted for about fifteen more minutes, after which she closed the door behind her and probably began unpacking her things.
By the next day at lunchtime, Love Stepanovna had returned from work. She had changed into a house robe, went out, and without asking Natasha’s permission, opened the door to her room.
— So, what are you doing? — the woman asked coldly.
— I’m painting, — Natasha replied as calmly as possible.
— You’re an artist; you should be painting.
— And I am painting, — Natasha dipped her brush in water.
— Are those paintings? Just a hobby, a dalliance. Look at those art galleries where paintings sell for outrageous sums.
— To each their own, — Natasha replied without engaging in an argument.
— This doesn’t bring in money; you need to find a proper job. You’re a wife—soon you’ll have children, and the house must be maintained.
— For that, there’s a husband, — she replied calmly.
— You have a job, — her mother-in-law insisted, defending her son,
— because it brings in money!
— I also earn money, — Natasha added.
— Pennies, — her mother-in-law said disdainfully.
The girl stood up, hurt, and looked at her husband before leaving the kitchen.
In the evenings, Natasha liked to read, but now she didn’t feel like it, so she took up her easel again, attached a new sheet of paper, poured herself a fresh glass of water, and sat down to paint.
— I want to sleep, — Vadim mumbled as he got undressed and approached the bed. — Turn off the light.
— Okay, — she said, setting her brushes aside and turning off the light. A minute later, she undressed and lay down beside her husband.
The next day, closer to noon, Leonid came to visit Natasha—she had once met him at an exhibition. He, too, was fond of watercolor and loved drawing children’s pictures, but he wasn’t very good at it, so he took lessons from Natasha.
As usual, closer to two o’clock, Love Stepanovna returned from work. Seeing a stranger in the house, she immediately asked:
— And what is he doing here?
— Love Stepanovna, — Natasha approached her and said, — he’s my guest, and I ask you not to insult me or my friends.
In response, the woman snorted:
— Husband at work, and you’re running around with men!
Leonid felt uncomfortable and apologized to Natasha, quickly got dressed, and left.
As soon as the doors closed, Natasha turned sharply toward her mother-in-law and loudly declared:
— Do not dare insult my friends again! Your stupid suspicions will lead to nothing good!
— And you dare scold me here! — the mother-in-law retorted indignantly. — You’d better get to work instead of leeching off my son!
— I work! — Natasha replied, almost in tears.
— That’s not work! You’re talentless and hide behind it! — the woman snapped, pointing to an unfinished sketch that Natasha had left.
— My drawings are needed by publishers, and right now I’m working on an order!
In response, the mother-in-law laughed:
— Trifling junk! — she said with contempt.
That evening, when Vadim arrived, the mother-in-law announced:
— I quit my job to help you at home, — meaning Vadim.
— And what is there to help with? — Natasha asked upon hearing this shocking news.
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— To maintain order, — the woman declared.
— Order? — Natasha asked, looking around. — Is our place dirty? What order?
— Fine, — Vadim came over, — don’t get worked up; mom wants things to be better.
— What order? — Natasha asked again. — I vacuum every week, mop the floors, dust, water the flowers! What order?! — she said, her tone rising.
— Calm down, mom wants things to be better; let her help.
Natasha became angry; she abruptly turned and left her room.
That morning, as soon as Vadim left for work, Love Stepanovna turned on the TV and sat down.
— Please, make it quieter, — Natasha pleaded.
The mother-in-law did turn it down, but it didn’t help. The girl was distracted by the voices coming from the screen—comments about who slept with whom, who bombed whom, who deceived whom, and so on.
— I beg you, turn it off! — Natasha went into the hall, grabbed the remote, and demonstratively pressed the button until the screen went dark.
— What are you doing? — Love Stepanovna objected.
— I can’t work with that on, — Natasha said, gesturing toward the dark screen.
— I can’t sit at home in silence!
— Get a job, — she said quietly. — Or better yet, go for a walk.
— That’s what you should do—sitting around all day!
Natasha ignored her mother-in-law. It was clear Love Stepanovna was in a foul mood and would likely grumble for at least half an hour. She went to her room and closed the door, yet even there, the grumbling could be heard.
Natasha picked up her brush, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t seem to draw anything.
That evening, after dinner, Vadim declared he wanted to sleep. Natasha gathered her art supplies, moved them to the kitchen, and turned off the light in the bedroom.
Maybe her mother-in-law did it on purpose, or perhaps she suffered from insomnia—Love Stepanovna kept going into the kitchen, filling a glass with water, then leaving.
Natasha worked almost all night. She loved the quiet and calm; during those hours her thoughts began to flow and her hand, as if guided by someone, started to paint. By morning, she had finished two drawings. Pleased with her work, she placed them on a cupboard and, once her husband left for work, collapsed into sleep.
That evening, as usual, Love Stepanovna began complaining to her son:
— She slept all day, — the woman meant her daughter-in-law.
— She slept because I can’t work during the day. You watch TV all day while I paint at night, — Natasha replied calmly.
— Oh, see, she paints! — Love Stepanovna objected.
— Natasha, mom wants things to be better…
— What do you mean, “better”? — Natasha raised her voice. — What do you mean, “better”? The house is in order! I clean everything, and on top of that I cook! What do you mean, “better”? — she demanded of her husband again.
— You need to get a proper job.
— I work! — Natasha almost screamed.
— I demand that you get a job next week! — Vadim said harshly and very loudly.
The girl looked at her husband and then at the smug look on her mother-in-law’s face. Proving her point was useless. She got up from the table and, without another word, left her room.
The next day, Natasha decided to visit Aunt Sveta. She remembered her from the wedding—a kind, good woman. So, picking up her phone, she called:
— Aunt Sveta, may I come visit you today?
— Of course, — the woman replied, surprised by the invitation. — But I’m in the countryside.
— In the countryside? — Natasha was surprised. — And Yana?
— And she’s with me; she goes to school.
Natasha began asking questions and learned that Aunt Sveta had not quarreled with her husband at all; as she lived, so she still lives in the countryside. This meant that Love Stepanovna and Vadim had lied.
The girl grew angry. She didn’t press her mother-in-law about her sister during the day; only when Vadim returned did she ask:
— And how is Aunt Sveta? Has she reconciled with her husband?
— Not yet, — Love Stepanovna replied.
— You’re all lying! — Natasha declared, looking directly into her mother-in-law’s eyes, whose face flushed with anger. — Aunt Sveta lives in the countryside, as does her daughter, and they haven’t quarreled!
— Mom wants things to be better, — Vadim interjected.
— Yeah, “better!” — Natasha retorted. — All I hear is that I’m a bad wife, a poor housekeeper, a lazy worker—a bad woman! I’m always the bad one!
— You’re talentless, — Love Stepanovna murmured.
— And do you know anything about painting? — Natasha inquired.
— You bring men into the house while your husband is away!
Vadim abruptly turned his head and looked at his wife.
— They’re my friends, — she said calmly. — And stop looking at me as if they were lovers. They’re my friends—what’s wrong with that?
— So they come over when I’m not here? — Vadim began to get angry.
Natasha realized one thing: Love Stepanovna had come to their home on purpose—either to make her quarrel with her husband or to force her to get a job.
— What I paint shouldn’t concern you, — she said to her mother-in-law.
— It’s all just scribbles! — Love Stepanovna immediately declared.
The woman got up, looked at her daughter-in-law with disdain, patted her son on the shoulder as if sympathizing with him for having such a wife, and headed to her room.
When the kitchen fell quiet, Natasha turned to her husband:
— I ask you to talk to your mother and have her move out, otherwise we’ll surely fight.
— She’s not going anywhere, — Vadim said sternly. — And you need to think about getting a job.
A couple of hours later, Natasha sat in the kitchen with her easel. It was hard to paint—tears streamed down her cheeks and dripped onto the paper.
Sensing this, her mother-in-law entered the kitchen and declared:
— Stop your whining!
— Get out, — Natasha said quietly.
— What did you say?
— I said: get out! — Natasha shouted so loudly that her ears rang.
Within seconds, Vadim burst into the kitchen.
— Apologize to my mother! — he demanded of his wife.
— You’re such a mama’s boy, — Natasha snapped. — Just because you now work in a factory doesn’t mean everyone should work in one!
Her mother-in-law turned and slowly walked back to her room.
— Tomorrow, you’re going to get a job! — Vadim demanded.
— And you used to like how I painted.
— I thought it was a temporary hobby, not that you’d spend years stuck in your childhood.
— This isn’t childhood—it’s work!
— I’m tired of shouldering this household; you will get a job tomorrow!
— You’re tired of shouldering the household? — Natasha asked. — You must have forgotten—this is my apartment; we don’t pay rent. And that makes a big difference! I pay for the utilities and buy all the groceries, while you only pay the apartment fee. Who really carries the household?
For perhaps the first time, Vadim paused, mumbled, his face flushing red, and, realizing he had nothing more to say, left the kitchen—only to announce in the living room:
— You need to get a proper job, or I can’t live with you.
Natasha sat in the kitchen for over an hour—she couldn’t paint, nor sleep. The next day, she left to stay with friends, unwilling to remain in a house with her mother-in-law.
However, when she returned home, she discovered that her brushes and paints were missing.
— Where? — Natasha burst out of the bedroom and ran to Love Stepanovna. — Where are my paints?
The woman smirked:
— In the trash.
Without another word, Natasha quickly dressed and ran downstairs. Rushing to a trash can, she began rummaging; then she moved to another, sifting through bags of garbage. A woman approached and asked what she had lost. Natasha explained that her mother-in-law had thrown out her paints. The woman then helped her search through another can.
— Here, perhaps, — the woman said, showing her a bundle from which jars of paint began to spill.
— Thank you! — Natasha quickly gathered her brushes and paints. — Thank you again, — she said, and went home.
Once home, Natasha, without a word, went to the kitchen, laid out the jars on the table, and began wiping each one.
— You liar, — Natasha said coldly to her mother-in-law. — You are a liar, an evil and envious woman.
She didn’t hear when her husband entered the house.
— Apologize! — he demanded from her.
— Let your mother leave! — Natasha demanded, staring at the woman in the doorway.
— My mother isn’t going anywhere! — Vadim declared.
— It seems you’ve forgotten—this is my apartment. I am the mistress here, and I won’t have you dictating your rules!
— Oh, how you talk! — Love Stepanovna exclaimed.
Natasha opened a cupboard, grabbed some garbage bags, and headed to the bedroom.
— Your wife is completely out of control, — Love Stepanovna muttered.
They sat in the kitchen for about five minutes, talking. Finally, Natasha appeared in the living room, dragging a large bundle of things. Placing it in the corridor, she returned to the bedroom and dragged another bundle.
— What is that? — Vadim asked.
— Your things, — Natasha replied shortly. — You’re moving in with your mother.
In response, Vadim laughed.
— This is my apartment, not yours! You are nothing here, zero on a stick! If you don’t leave with your mother, I’ll call the police!
Hearing this, Love Stepanovna fussed, cursing her daughter-in-law. Natasha went into a room and within a minute returned with her bundle of belongings.
— She’s incorrigible, — Love Stepanovna muttered to her son.
Realizing his support was evaporating, Vadim decided to spend the night at his mother’s. He stepped out into the yard and was just beginning to descend when a bundle of things flew in his direction, then a second and a third.
— Don’t be hysterical! — Vadim shouted.
— Get out! I don’t want to see you! — Natasha declared loudly and slammed the door behind him.
A deep melancholy settled in her soul. In the spacious living room of the three-room apartment, furnished with old but sturdy furniture, she whimpered like a little girl, then wailed like a rural old woman. She went into the hall, where heavy velvet curtains let in the dim light of the evening, and, sinking into a worn armchair, she began to cry.
But she didn’t cry for long. Determined, she wiped her tears, grabbed a familiar cloth, and began wiping down the massive oak table. Within minutes she got carried away with housework, started cleaning; and within an hour, the house was immaculate—windows shined, furniture polished, carpets vacuumed.
Natasha then took out her beloved easel, one that had witnessed many memories yet held countless creative recollections, placed it in the middle of the hall, turned on a bright desk lamp, and sat before it. A dreamy smile spread across her face. She dipped her brush in water, then ran it over dry paint. Pausing for a moment as she regarded the clean canvas, she began to paint.
And a month later, Natasha published her first book featuring her illustrations—a colorful collection of children’s fairy tales in hardback. The book took an honorable place on the shelf in her office, set up in a small room. Now, not only was her beloved easel there, but also a comfortable work desk with a computer, and the walls were adorned with sketches of future works.
Orders began coming in regularly from publishers. Every day, envelopes with business proposals appeared in her mailbox; her phone rang non-stop from editors. Everyone wanted to illustrate fairy tales with her vivid, unusual drawings—where reality and fantasy intertwined in a fanciful way, and each character seemed to come alive on the pages.
Gradually, her apartment transformed into a genuine creative studio, with fresh watercolors drying on the window sills and piles of books and sketch albums in one corner. Even the old cat, which Natasha had rescued from the street and which dozed on the sofa, seemed to be part of this cozy artistic chaos.