“Let’s still go with the bright hall, the one with the big windows,” Marina said, enthusiastically scrolling through photos on the tablet, her finger sliding over the glossy screen as she zoomed in on details of the décor. “Look how full of light it is! And it’s perfect for an off-site ceremony. We won’t have to haul the guests all over the city after the registry office.”
They were sitting in a cozy corner of a city café, walled off from the rest of the world by the soft glow of a designer lamp. On the table between them stood almost untouched cups of cooling lattes and a plate with a cheesecake they had both forgotten about, completely absorbed by the pleasant bustle of wedding plans. Nikolai smiled, looking less at the photos than at his fiancée’s animated face. He loved this side of her—her fizzing energy, her ability to throw herself into planning and turn any task into an engaging project.
He gently covered her hand with his, making her look up from the tablet. The movement was tender but firm. His face suddenly took on a serious, almost ceremonial expression—one Marina didn’t see often. Usually he looked like that when he talked about an important work contract or a crucial football match.
“Marish, hold on a second. We need to discuss something. It’s important. I have to tell you about our family rules. So there aren’t any surprises or misunderstandings later.”
Marina raised an eyebrow in surprise but set the tablet aside obediently. The very word “rules” sounded alien—almost menacing—amid the carefree atmosphere.
“Rules? Intriguing. You never mentioned those before. What, you’ve got some secret code of conduct?”
Nikolai missed the irony in her voice. He squeezed her palm a little tighter, as if to give his words extra, nonverbal weight. He looked her straight in the eyes, unwaveringly convinced of the importance of what he was about to say.
“It’s not a code. It’s a tradition. Very old and very important. In our family it’s customary for everyone to gather at Mom’s every Sunday. Me, my brothers, their wives, the kids. And the wives, Sveta and Olya, they always come earlier and help Mom around the house. They cook a big lunch for our whole crowd, do the cleaning, and just chat, you know, woman to woman. She’ll be expecting you, too, after the wedding. It’s a very important ritual. It really binds the family together.”
He said the last sentence with such sincere pride, as if he were inducting her into some great secret of his clan, conferring priceless knowledge. He looked at her expectantly, with a warm smile, clearly assuming she would light up at the honor being bestowed and thank him for the trust.
Marina was silent for several long seconds, processing what she’d heard. Her brain refused to take it seriously. At first she thought it had to be some clumsy, utterly stupid joke. But Nikolai’s face was completely serious. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, she slipped her hand out of his. The smile washed off her face like a watercolor under rain, leaving behind a mask of cold, intent bewilderment.
“Let me clarify, so I understand you correctly,” she said, her voice lower and firmer now, edged with metal. “You mean that I—a person with my own job, my own plans, my own life—am supposed to spend every Sunday, my day off, voluntarily going to your mother’s to be her maid?”
Nikolai flinched at her wording. He faltered, not understanding where such aggression had come from.
“Why ‘maid’ right away? A helper,” he corrected gently, still not feeling the ground slipping from under him. “You’ll be part of our family. It’s normal to help your elders. Mom’s not young anymore—it’s hard for her to handle everything alone.”
Marina leaned back in her chair and laughed. Loudly, joylessly—so much so that the couple at the next table jumped and turned around. Her laugh sounded like brakes grinding.
“Hold on, Kolya! You want me, after the wedding, to serve your mother the way your brothers’ wives do? Are you out of your mind?!”
“Well… yes! What’s—”
“That’s not help, Kolya. That’s a weekly, legalized servitude you all politely call a ‘family tradition.’”
Without waiting for his stunned reply, she slid the engagement ring—small but elegant, with a diamond—from her finger. The movement was unhurried, precise, almost ritual. Nikolai watched her fingers as if spellbound, his face stretching with the slow, horrifying realization of what was happening. She set the ring on the white tablecloth next to his cup. It glinted dully in the lamp’s soft light, like a small, cold tear.
“Find yourself another fool,” she said clearly and coolly, looking him straight in the eye. “There won’t be a wedding.”
“Where are you going?! Marina, wait!”
Snapping out of his stupor, Nikolai tossed a few bills on the table without even checking the check, grabbed his jacket, and rushed after her. He caught up to her at the door, when the cold October wind hit their faces. He grabbed her by the elbow, but she yanked her arm back so sharply it was as if he’d burned her.
“Don’t touch me.”
“What’s wrong with you? Are you crazy? Causing a scene over some nonsense!” He didn’t understand. Not at all. In his world, where everything was logical and governed by rules, her reaction was a system error. “It’s just helping my mom! Once a week! Everybody does it!”
They walked down the busy evening street, noticing neither the passersby nor the shop windows. Around them formed an invisible cocoon of anger and incomprehension.
“Exactly, Kolya! Everybody. Sveta does it, Olya does it. I’ve seen them after your Sunday ‘gatherings.’ Their faces are gray, and there’s a kind of sorrow in their eyes that makes you want to howl. They smile because they have to. Because their husbands—your brothers—explained it’s ‘tradition’ and ‘respect.’ But in reality it’s just a way to show who’s master of the house and who’s the unpaid labor.”
“You’re exaggerating! They’re happy! They have strong families!” he protested, raising his voice. He thought if he said it loudly enough, it would become true.
“Strong?” Marina scoffed. “You call a family ‘strong’ when a woman has no right to her own day off? When her time and energy automatically belong to her mother-in-law? No, thanks. I’m not going to sit in that kind of ‘fortress.’ I want a husband, not an overseer who will deliver me for corvée to his mother.”
They reached her building. She quickly punched in the door code, intending to escape upstairs, but he slipped in behind her. In the cramped space by the elevator, the tension became almost tangible.
“Marish, let’s talk calmly,” he began in a conciliatory tone, deciding to change tactics. “You’re just tired, wound up. If you don’t want to clean—don’t. You can just cook—you love cooking. Mom will teach you a couple of her signature recipes.”
At that moment his pocket vibrated. Nikolai pulled out his phone. “Mom” flashed on the screen. He cast a hunted glance at Marina and answered, turning away.
“Hi, Mom. No, everything’s fine… Yes, I’m with Marina. No, we’re not fighting, we’re just… discussing something… About the Sunday family gatherings… But she doesn’t understand how important it is!”
He mumbled something unintelligible into the phone, trying to soothe both his mother and his fiancée at once. Marina stood with her arms crossed and watched him with icy contempt. He looked so pathetic—this big, strong man babbling excuses to his mommy.
“What? Right now? Mom, maybe we shouldn’t…” His voice turned pleading. He turned to Marina. “Mom wants to talk to you.”
“Go ahead,” she said curtly.
Plainly not expecting her to agree so readily, he handed her the phone. Marina put it to her ear and listened in silence. On the other end came a commanding, metallic voice—one used to demanding, not asking.
“…my dear girl, Kolya tells me you’ve had a slight misunderstanding. I want to explain to you, as an older and more experienced woman. Family is a lot of work. Smart women understand that. In our home there is an order that’s been followed for generations. And if you want to be part of our family, part of Kolya’s life, you’ll have to accept that order. It’s not up for discussion. It’s the key to happiness and respect in the home. Do you understand me?”
Marina listened to the entire monologue without interrupting. Her face remained utterly impassive. When the mother-in-law paused, apparently awaiting a submissive “Yes, Lyudmila Petrovna,” Marina spoke into the receiver, calm and very clear:
“Lyudmila Petrovna, I understand you perfectly. You’re looking for your son not a wife but a third housemaid for your club of compliant wives. So then— with all due respect to your traditions—find another slave for Kolya. That vacancy is now open.”
She hung up and handed the phone back to a stunned Nikolai, who had only heard her side of the conversation. He stared at her wide-eyed, horror mingling with a warped sort of admiration for her audacity. She had just declared war on his mother. And, judging by the steel in her gaze, she had no intention of losing it.
The next day the silence brought no relief. It was heavy and viscous, like the air before a storm. Marina moved around her apartment, trying to do ordinary things—sort the mail, water the ficus—but every action felt pointless. She replayed the previous day’s conversations over and over, and with each replay her decision only hardened, setting like granite.
In the evening, after she’d changed into home clothes and was about to heat up dinner, the doorbell rang. Insistently: two short trills. She wasn’t expecting anyone. Looking through the peephole, she froze. Heavy artillery had arrived in full force: Nikolai with a grim, detached face; his mother, Lyudmila Petrovna, straight as a steel rod; and flanking her like ladies-in-waiting, his brothers’ wives—blonde Sveta and dark-haired Olya.
Marina closed her eyes for a second. She’d known this visit was inevitable. It wasn’t a gesture of reconciliation. It was a declaration of war on her turf. She took a deep breath and opened the door.
“Good evening,” she said, her tone even and cold.
Without waiting for an invitation, Lyudmila Petrovna stepped over the threshold. Her gaze slid over the hallway, lingered on a modern painting on the wall, and came to rest on Marina. There was a condescending appraisal in her eyes, as if she had come to inspect a not entirely satisfactory establishment. Behind her, like shadows, filed in Sveta and Olya. Nikolai entered last and quietly closed the door. The click of the lock sounded final and irrevocable.
“Come into the living room,” Marina nodded toward the sitting room, knowing it was pointless to resist the incursion.
Without hesitation, Lyudmila Petrovna took the central armchair—the seat of power. Sveta and Olya perched on the very edge of the sofa, their perfectly manicured hands folded in their laps. They were impeccably dressed and groomed, but the same trained submissiveness was frozen in their eyes. Nikolai remained standing by the wall, arms crossed, adopting the pose of a disappointed judge who had already delivered his verdict.
“We’ve come to talk, Marina,” Lyudmila Petrovna began. Her voice was calm, stripped of yesterday’s metallic notes. Now it was soft and didactic—which was much worse. “I see you’re a smart, modern girl. But some things don’t change. Family is paramount. And in a strong family everyone has their duties. Kolya proposed to you—he wants to bring you into our home. And you, instead of gratitude, are putting on a show.”
“I’m not putting on a show. I’m refusing the role I’m being offered,” Marina replied crisply, remaining on her feet. She had no intention of sitting, of making herself equal with them. She was the mistress here.
“Role?” Lyudmila Petrovna lifted an eyebrow slightly. “Being a wife and a homemaker isn’t a role—it’s a calling. Look at the girls.” She made a regal gesture toward her daughters-in-law. “Sveta, Olya, tell Marina—is it hard for you to help me on Sundays? Isn’t it a joy to gather all together, to cook a nice lunch for your men?”
Startled by the direct address, Sveta lifted her eyes. Her smile was stretched taut as a string.
“No, not at all, Lyudmila Petrovna. We’re always happy to. It’s for the family. The men love your cooking, and we help…”
“We’re one big team,” Olya echoed dutifully, staring at a point beyond Marina’s shoulder. “When everyone’s together, any work is a joy.”
Marina looked at them—at their set phrases, their dimmed eyes, the way Sveta surreptitiously massaged her stiff neck. And something in her broke loose—not into shouting, but into an icy, devastating calm.
“Tell me, Sveta—when was the last time you spent a Sunday at the theater? Or just lay in the bath with a book, with nowhere to rush? And you, Olya? When was the last time you and your husband went out of town just the two of you, without the obligatory visit to your mother-in-law’s for lunch, after which you have to wash a mountain of dishes?”
The women exchanged a confused glance. That question wasn’t in the script. It was too personal, too precise.
“What does that have to do with anything?” Lyudmila Petrovna cut in, sensing her army was faltering. “Family is more important than entertainment!”
“That’s not entertainment. That’s life,” Marina shot back, shifting her gaze to Nikolai. “Your daughters-in-law are living examples of what you want to turn me into. Beautiful, well-kept robots who’ve forgotten how to want anything for themselves. They say the right words, but they’re unhappy. And the worst part is you all pretend not to notice. Because it suits you.”
“Enough!” Nikolai spoke up for the first time. “You’re insulting my family! They came here to help you come to your senses, and you… You’re just a selfish woman who doesn’t value anything!”
“I value myself, Kolya. My time, my desires, my right to rest. The things you’ve taken from them”—she nodded at the women frozen on the couch—“and want to take from me. So listen carefully, all of you. Your ‘family team’ can keep playing its games. But without me. I won’t participate. Not on Sundays, not on any other day.”
After the delegation’s visit came a two-day lull. Thick and tense, like the air in a sealed room. Nikolai neither called nor wrote, and Marina almost allowed herself to believe he’d understood and backed off. But on the third evening, when cold city dusk had already settled outside the window, he appeared at her door again. This time alone. He looked tired, exhausted; the righteous anger was gone from his eyes—only a desperate, clinging hope remained.
She let him in. Not out of pity, but out of the need to put a period. Not an ellipsis, not a comma—a big, final period. He walked silently into the living room and sat on the couch—the very spot where his submissive sisters-in-law had sat.
“Marish, I’ve thought it over,” he began quietly, staring at his hands. “I love you. And I don’t want to lose you over this… misunderstanding. You were right; I probably presented it too harshly. Let’s find a compromise.”
Marina stayed leaning against the doorframe. She looked at him without hostility, more with the curiosity of an entomologist studying a rare insect.
“What kind of compromise can you offer, Kolya?”
He perked up, seeing a glimmer of a chance in her question.
“Look. I talked to Mom. It wasn’t easy, believe me. But I explained that you’re modern, you have a job, your own interests. So, we decided… you don’t have to come right at the start. Not at ten—say, at noon. You’ll help set the table, sit with everyone. And Mom releases you from the cleaning. Completely. That’s a big concession on her part, Marish. She’s doing it for me. For us.”
He looked at her proudly, as if he’d just moved a mountain. He genuinely believed he’d brought her a gift—freedom from mopping floors. He still hadn’t understood that it wasn’t about mopping floors, or cooking, or arrival times.
“You still don’t get it,” she said evenly, almost without emotion. “Not at all.”
His face twisted with hurt and confusion.
“What else is wrong?! I found a solution! I negotiated! What more do you want?!”
“I want you to understand that this isn’t about the schedule of slave labor. It’s about its very existence,” her voice hardened, steel ringing through it. “It’s not about what time I show up. It’s about the fact that I’m supposed to do it at all. That I’m supposed to report in, ask permission, accept your ‘concessions’ as some great favor.”
“But she’s my mother!” he cried in despair, jumping to his feet. “She’s lived a long life; she knows better how things should be! She just wants everything to be right! Why can’t you understand that?!”
That was the phrase. The key one. The one that put everything in its place. Marina walked to the dresser, took out the small velvet box with the ring, and approached him.
“Now I understand. Completely,” she said, looking him directly in the eyes. Her gaze was cold and clear as a winter sky. “You will never be my husband, Kolya. You will always remain your mother’s son. Not a man who builds his own family, but a boy who lives by her rules and looks for a woman willing to live by them too.”
She placed the cold box in his palm.
“This isn’t a tradition, like you said. It’s a pathology. Your mother doesn’t bind the family together. She collects broken women to feel powerful beside them. She’s broken your brothers’ wives, turning them into silent shadows, and she wanted to break me. And you—you’re her faithful assistant. You’re not looking for a wife, Kolya. You’re looking for a stand-in for yourself in serving your mother, so you can say with a clear conscience, ‘I’ve taken care of her.’”
He stood there as if struck by lightning, staring at her and then at the box in his hand. Her words weren’t just cruel—they were precise, like a scalpel lancing an old abscess.
“And do you know what’s most pathetic?” she went on mercilessly. “You’ll find one. You’ll find some quiet, modest girl who will look at you with adoring eyes and agree to everything. And you’ll bring her into your home. And you’ll watch as your mother slowly, Sunday after Sunday, sucks the life, joy, and selfhood out of her. You’ll watch her eyes go dim, the lines of weariness etch into her face. And you’ll keep convincing yourself—and her—that this is true family happiness.”
She fell silent and stepped back toward the door.
“Now go. And take this with you. Give it to the next candidate. Maybe that slave brand will suit her better.”
He remained standing in the middle of her living room, the ring in his hand, crushed not by yelling or scandal but by a cold, lethal truth there was no hiding from. Marina quietly opened the front door and motioned toward the exit. She didn’t watch him leave. She simply closed the door behind him. Softly. Finally.