— I spent three days cleaning like a cursed woman! — Maria Olegovna spoke indignantly, not hiding her resentment. — Three sleepless nights, but I did everything: scrubbed the floors, dusted, washed all the dishes. And them… they trashed the apartment in an hour! How can you ruin a brand-new home like that? You weren’t like this before!
She turned sharply to her son, practically hissing with anger.
— It’s because of her, isn’t it?
Maria Olegovna set the rag on the edge of the sink and sank heavily onto the stool. Just a couple of hours earlier, she had finished cleaning the kitchen — forty minutes just on the stove — and now she was barely holding back tears of helpless rage.
Why was she the one always cleaning and fixing everything? Wasn’t the daughter-in-law the mistress of the house? But that one hadn’t even bothered to wipe the burners after cooking — the pots were unwashed, the floor marked up, and the fridge looked like a museum of ancient containers.
— I said it from the start — I was against this marriage for a reason, — she muttered, dumping the dirty water into the toilet. — What kind of person did he marry? Living like in a pigsty and won’t even help me clean. “I’ll manage on my own,” she says. I’d like to see you try…
She looked around the kitchen. Not a single clean pot. The burners were covered in grime.
— Something needs to change. I can’t let my Seryozhenka live in this dump. He’ll come home from work, and the whole mess will start again. And all my efforts — down the drain.
Since childhood, Maria Olegovna had known one thing: order is the foundation of life. In their large family, every child had responsibilities. No one was allowed to leave things lying around or dishes unwashed. Every week there was a family cleaning day — everyone pitched in: windows were washed, shelves wiped, rugs beaten. That’s how it was in the village — the home had to be clean, because cleanliness meant comfort, health, and self-respect.
— Remember this, daughter, her mother often said, a woman begins with order. If the house is a mess, the mind is too. A good hostess always finds time to tidy up.
And Maria carried that lesson through life.
She married a tidy man — Viktor. He never needed reminders to fold a shirt or take out the trash. He just did it. Their home always sparkled. Guests admired it, her friends envied her.
— Masha, how do you manage everything? — they would ask. — You’ve got a job, a son, a husband — and our place is a disaster by Friday.
— No secret, — Maria Olegovna laughed. — Vitya and I clean up right away. Change clothes — hang them up. Two minutes, and no morning chaos. We cook together, take turns with the trash. We do everything as a team. It’s not just me — he loves order too.
Her friends sighed. Some had husbands glued to the couch all day, others had kids wrecking the house. But Maria had the perfect family. Or so it seemed.
When Seryozha was born, she became even more strict. Viktor quietly did the mopping — for the baby’s health. The boy was taught from an early age: bed made, toys put away, shoes in the box. His school notebooks were pristine; his teacher even told colleagues: “I have a model student.”
— Everything like normal people, — Maria Olegovna would say when asked for advice. — We just teach respect for your space from the start.
When her son went to university, she proudly told everyone how easily he adapted. She visited the dorm — his room was spotless. The dorm manager even showed it off to other students: “This is how you live!”
— He did it all himself. No help, — she said proudly. — My Seryozhenka will never disrespect cleanliness. He knows its value.
But now, looking at the kitchen she was scrubbing for the third time because of her daughter-in-law, Maria Olegovna felt irritation rising. Her son was a grown man — she’d believed that. But now she realized: he hadn’t taught his wife anything. Maybe he himself had forgotten what he’d been taught.
When Seryozha called to say he was getting married, she hadn’t expected it. Of course, he wouldn’t pick some messy girl, would he? But now Maria Olegovna wondered: who was this Olya really?
— Oh God… — Maria Olegovna pressed a hand to her chest, as if her heart had stopped. — Marry? Seryozha, what are you talking about?! You haven’t even finished school! Two years till your diploma, and you’re already planning a wedding?
She glanced at her husband:
— When he’s got a degree, sure. We’re not against it, right, Vitia?
Viktor Nikolaevich gave a short nod without lifting his eyes. He was long used to the fact that in their family, his wife made the decisions. And he had long made peace with it.
Seryozha listened to his mother carefully. Didn’t argue. He went back to Olya and put the wedding on hold. For now.
But Maria Olegovna insisted on meeting the girl. She wanted to “feel her out,” understand who she was. Sergey agreed, and they arranged a visit. During the next holiday, he came home with Olya.
And it immediately went wrong.
The girl showed up at the door in a plain denim sundress, no makeup, hair a mess. Maria Olegovna tensed internally but didn’t show it. She seated them, set the table, brewed tea. And then began the interrogation — polite, gentle, but pressing, like a military draft board.
— Olya, tell me, what are your plans after university? — she asked while pouring the tea.
— I’d like to work as an illustrator, — she replied, slightly shy. — I love book projects. It’s my passion.
Maria Olegovna gave a barely noticeable nod: — A noble pursuit. Do you draw yourself? Portraits, still lifes, for instance?
— No, — Olya smiled, — I’m not an artist. My parents are, both of them. I’m more of a graphic designer. I do love creativity, but I don’t have the patience to sit at an easel for hours. My dad says a real artist feels every color. I can’t do that.
— I see, — Maria Olegovna said slowly. — So you’re not an artist. But you still want to be an illustrator?
— I try. It really interests me.
I see,” the woman said calmly, setting her cup down. “But you know, these days, paintings don’t sell for years. What matters is that the family is provided for—not just dreams.”
Sergey felt awkward. For his mother. For the situation. He hadn’t expected her to start subtly, yet clearly with insinuations. After two days of living together, he couldn’t take it anymore and announced:
“We’re leaving, Mom. I’m sorry. But Olya is uncomfortable here.”
Maria Olegovna tried to object, but he added:
“I was hoping you’d accept her. But you kept making comments—about her clothes, her behavior, the way she eats. Why are you trying to humiliate her?”
“And why doesn’t she make an effort?” Maria Olegovna flared up. “She came to visit her fiancé’s parents, not move into a dorm. Not a single tidy outfit, not a shred of care about impressions. Shorts, baggy t-shirts, hair tied up like she’s headed to a construction site. And she hasn’t once offered to help—didn’t clean up after herself, didn’t wash a single dish.”
“She’s just different,” Sergey sighed. “She doesn’t feel the need to prove herself through housework. She lives differently. She feels free.”
“And I don’t feel free when the house is a mess,” his mother replied dryly. “I looked into your room. Clothes everywhere, dirty socks sticking out of the bag. Is that normal to you?”
“So what?” Sergey frowned slightly. “She’ll clean up later.”
“And what if she doesn’t?” Maria’s voice sharpened. “What if it’s always like that? Then what?”
Time passed. Sergey graduated, kept working, and developed his own business. He and Olya lived together, and eventually, Maria Olegovna began to notice: her son really was happy. He smiled more often, talked about the future easily, without hesitation. As if he’d found his anchor.
So she decided—let it be their way. But when Sergey told her they’d filed for a marriage license, she couldn’t hold back again.
“What’s the rush?” she yelled into the phone the moment she heard the news. “In a month? Are you serious? What good can come of that?”
“Mom,” her son replied, “we’ve been together for two years. She’s right for me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” he said firmly. “That’s why I’m marrying her.”
Maria was silent. Inside, everything rebelled. Her perfect family, her proper son, her ideals about life—all now collided with reality. With a woman who didn’t wear heels, didn’t scrub floors daily, and didn’t hide her clutter.
“You know I want you to be happy,” she finally said. “I’m just afraid you’re making a mistake.”
“I’m not afraid,” Sergey replied. “Because I’ve already chosen happiness. And I’m living with it.”
“That’s not true!” Maria burst out. “You’re not just messy—you’re living in chaos! I kept quiet not to ruin your mood, but now I’ll say it outright: the kitchen looks like it’s been bombed. Towels everywhere, dishcloth in the sink—breeding ground for infections! The dishes sit for days. Sergey, this isn’t normal!”
“Mom, I’m not a child anymore,” Sergey replied calmly but firmly. “I decide what’s normal for me. Please don’t ruin our relationship. We love each other. I’ve submitted the application and I’m not canceling it.”
For two weeks, Maria tried to change her son’s mind. She called almost daily, begged him to at least wait, to think things over. But Sergey stood his ground. Then she changed tactics—decided to meet Olya’s parents.
“Sergey, I must meet them!” she demanded. “The wedding’s in two weeks, and I don’t even know who they are!”
“You’ll meet them at the wedding,” he brushed her off. “No one bothers with this stuff anymore. No matchmaking, no formalities.”
“Don’t be silly,” she insisted. “Everything must be done properly. Your father and I will fly in next week. Everything should be ready down to the last detail.”
Olya’s parents were more relaxed about it. They were happy for their daughter, promised support, but weren’t big on traditions. Meeting the groom’s parents didn’t stress them out—they trusted Olya’s choice.
When the meeting finally happened, Olya’s mom, Arina Leonidovna, didn’t go out of her way. She ordered food from a restaurant, served it in the living room, and closed the other rooms to avoid exposing clutter. Of course, Maria couldn’t resist the opportunity. While everyone chatted, she managed to inspect the house. Closely. In detail.
Later, alone with her son, she started:
“Sergey, have you seen where your Olya lives? That’s not an apartment—it’s a mad artist’s studio! Pants hanging on an easel, dirty sock next to the paint, mugs by the bed clearly unwashed for a week. And the wardrobe… it’s terrifying. Underwear mixed with dresses, wrinkled, crumpled.”
Sergey looked up in surprise. “You looked in someone else’s wardrobe?”
“I needed to understand the environment your bride comes from,” Maria said with dignity. “How will she manage a household if her childhood home is so careless? This isn’t just mess, Sergey. It’s a lifestyle. And you’re stepping into it.”
“She’s creative,” he tried to argue. “Creative people live differently. Their mess is normal. You’ve heard: ‘Genius thrives in chaos.’”
“Genius maybe,” she interrupted, “but a healthy person doesn’t. That’s not a lifestyle, that’s disrespect. If her mother couldn’t tidy up even for guests, what does that say about her? And what does that mean for your home?”
Sergey sighed. He’d long realized that his mother’s arguments weren’t logical—they were emotional. About her idea of the family she built.
He tried to soften things: “Mom, Olya is kind, open, generous. She’s truly good. Just different.”
“Kindness is lovely,” she said coldly, “but not enough. One must know how to care—for the home, the husband, the children. She has none of that. Are you sure you want a wife like her?”
He didn’t answer. Just said, “I choose my own life. And my wife too.”
Maria didn’t argue. She just said shortly, “You’ll regret it.”
The wedding happened. Maria tried to appear polite, but every gesture, every word, revealed her dissatisfaction. She disliked the bride’s dress—too simple. Her son’s suit—too casual. The restaurant—too flashy. Decorations, music, even the napkin colors irritated her.
“Why did you allow this?” she later asked Sergey. “You could’ve picked something more respectable. It was your day!”
“It was her day too,” he said gently. “I wanted her to feel comfortable. To feel happy.”
“What about me?” she asked. “I’m your mother. I deserved to enjoy it too.”
The next day, she called all mutual acquaintances, friends, and distant relatives, sharing her “impressions.” Most just listened, knowing her nature. A few dared say the couple had the right to make their own choices. She huffed:
“I only wanted the best. For my child.”
Sergey found out later. And was upset. He’d hoped the wedding would bring everyone together. Instead, a wall silently rose between his mother and his wife.
Two years after the wedding, Olya’s parents helped the couple get an apartment—a two-bedroom in the city center. Arina offered to help furnish it, but Maria declined.
“We’ve done all we could,” she told her son. “He chose this life. Let him live it.”
She attended the housewarming, as expected. Inspected everything, made her conclusions, adjusted a vase, and muttered about how “this generation is slipping.” Before leaving, she took a spare key.
“In case I want to visit and you’re not home,” she explained. “I can’t wait on a bench. Parents should always have access.”
Sergey didn’t argue. He just gave her the key. But inside, he knew—it wasn’t over. It was the beginning of a new war—between two women, between two worldviews.
Olya didn’t mind giving her the key—her mom had one too. She even joked: “It’s like having double support.”
But Maria had her own plans.
She came when Sergey and Olya were away on vacation. She knew in advance. Chose the timing deliberately. Not to visit—but to “restore order” in the apartment she was sure had descended into chaos.
“I’ll wipe everything, clean, reorganize. When they come back, they’ll see how to live properly,” she thought as she unpacked her suitcase.
The home greeted them with several tied-up trash bags. Olya peeked in—and turned pale.
“Serёzha… this is my stuff,” she whispered. “Linen from my mom, towels we bought together… the dishes… She threw them out! Do you see this?”
Sergey froze. Rage in his eyes. He didn’t fully understand yet, but the place no longer felt like home—it had been violated.
“We need to talk,” he said through clenched teeth. “This is too much.”
Maria met them proudly. Hair disheveled, gloves on, sweat on her face.
“I brought you back to a clean home,” she said. “Now you can thank me.”
“Thank you? For what?” Sergey’s voice trembled with anger. “For throwing everything out? For breaking into our home and taking over?”
“I didn’t throw it out—I sorted it,” she said, hurt. “Those pots were a disaster, none matched. The dishes were stained. Your clothes—embarrassing! I got rid of what was ruining your lives. I did it for your good!”
“Who asked you?!” Sergey nearly shouted. “Who gave you the right to touch our things? Everything was fine! We decide what we wear, use, and keep!”
“I only wanted to help,” Maria said with wounded pride. “I wanted you to return to a normal home. For your wife to see how people should live.”
“This is not your home,” Sergey said, looking her in the eyes. “It’s ours. And you have no right to change anything in it without our consent.”
Olya stood silently in the hallway. She didn’t interfere. Just clenched her fists. She understood: this wasn’t the first conflict. And it wouldn’t be the last.
Maria packed her things quickly. Said nothing more. On the way out, she left the keys on the console.
“Do as you like,” she said. “I won’t teach you anymore.”
And left. No hugs. No tears. No goodbye.
Since then, her son hasn’t called. And she hasn’t rushed to, either.