— Kostya said you’re planning to fly somewhere? And what about the dacha? I was counting on you to help me pick strawberries!
— I understand your expectations, but this year you’ll have to do it yourself or ask Sasha’s daughter for help.
— Sasha can’t. She’s a makeup artist. Can you imagine what her nails will look like after picking berries?
Yulia loved her husband Kostya very much, and Kostya’s mother loved him very much too—so much that she considered it her right to be involved in absolutely every change in her son’s life. She never took her daughter-in-law’s opinion seriously: whatever Yulia said turned into a joke or was met with snide remarks.
Before meeting Yulia, Kostya didn’t know anything about “cultural leisure”—theater, movies, opera, or concerts. All of that was foreign to him and to his parents. A drowsy atmosphere always reigned in his in-laws’ apartment: they lived on the third floor in a low spot, the windows were sealed shut behind heavy curtains, and the entire interior was predominantly in dark tones. The moment you stepped inside, you immediately wanted to sleep.
Yulia, on the contrary, loved lots of light and space. So when, after the wedding, the question of choosing an apartment came up, Anna Grigoryevna naturally tried to meddle with her own opinion. To her, the ideal option was the second floor, windows facing north, and thick curtains so the sun wouldn’t beat in.
But Yulia immediately explained to her mother-in-law that she and Kostya were both putting in money, and they had no intention of accommodating someone else’s taste in this matter. In the end they chose a spacious, sunny apartment with a large, roomy balcony—just as Yulia had dreamed. Needless to say, her mother-in-law was unhappy about this decision.
And now, two years later, she and Kostya had the chance to go on vacation. Yulia picked a warm coastline, a cozy hotel by the sea, and had already started choosing summer outfits when, over dinner, Kostya suddenly said:
— We should tell Mom.
— Tell—or ask? — Yulia clarified, setting down her fork.
Kostya hesitated.
— Well… ask, I guess.
Yulia slowly raised her eyes to him.
— Do you really think I have to ask your mother’s permission to go on vacation?
Kostya scratched the back of his head, clearly not expecting that reaction.
— It’s just… she’ll be offended if we don’t tell her ahead of time.
— Kostya, we’re adults. We earn our own money. This is our vacation, our money, and our decision. I don’t mind telling her, but I’m definitely not going to beg for anyone’s approval like a schoolgirl with her homeroom teacher.
He snorted but kept quiet. And that evening, a call came from Anna Grigoryevna:
— Kostya said you’re planning to fly somewhere? And what about the dacha? I was counting on you to help me pick strawberries!
Yulia took a deep breath, picked up the phone, and calmly answered:
— I understand your expectations, but this year you’ll have to do it yourself or ask Sasha’s daughter for help.
— Sasha can’t. She’s a makeup artist. Can you imagine what her nails will look like after picking berries?
Yulia smirked.
— And I’m supposed to type up documents with hands like that just fine, is that it?
— Who even sees your hands in accounting? People remember you twice a month—on payday and for the advance. Don’t make yourself out to be so important.
— Then you shouldn’t make yourself out to be so important either. We’ll go on vacation when we planned. And deal with your strawberries yourself if you don’t know how to talk to people.
Yulia hung up, and Kostya shot his wife a sidelong glance. He was clearly unhappy with her tone, but he didn’t say anything. He knew his mother’s character perfectly well.
Of course, his mother-in-law didn’t leave it at that. The very next day she got all the details out of her son: where they were flying, for how many days, which hotel they’d be staying in, even the flight time.
And so, when Yulia and Kostya were already sitting at the airport waiting to board, the phone rang. Anna Grigoryevna’s name popped up on the screen. Kostya sighed and answered.
— Kostyenchik… — his mother’s voice was plaintive and even a little shaky. — I’m not feeling well… My heart is stabbing… my legs are weak… my head is spinning… — she paused, clearly inventing new symptoms on the fly. — Maybe I’m having a stroke? Or a heart attack?..
With every word, Kostya grew paler. Yulia noticed his expression, came over, and listened in. What she heard sounded like a dramatic reading.
— Give me that, — without warning, Yulia took the phone from her husband. — Anna Grigoryevna, we’re at the airport, and we’re not canceling the trip.
— Well, well, you fly wherever you want — her tone changed instantly. — But my son isn’t flying anywhere. It’s dangerous. Kostik will stay with me.
Kostya blinked, as if only just realizing what was being demanded of him. Yulia, meanwhile, had already hung up and turned to her husband:
— Well? Are you flying, or are you packing your things right now and going to your manipulative mommy?
He pressed his lips together, looked away, then answered a second later:
— I’m flying… I’m flying! You think I’m not sick of it?
— I think you are. But you could at least answer your mother once in a while so she doesn’t get bolder and bolder.
— Watch your language, — Kostya corrected her.
— Okay. And your mother should watch hers. We’ve only been married two years, and I’ve heard plenty about myself already.
All the way to boarding, Kostya looked like a man being led to an exam unprepared. Already on the plane, fastening his seat belt, he said:
— Still, I’m a terrible son.
— You’re a normal son, — Yulia shook her head. — Anna Grigoryevna has a husband and a daughter. She’s not alone. And believe me, if something were truly serious, we would have heard from an ambulance, not from her theatrical productions.
Upon arrival, the moment the luggage hit the carousel, Kostya called his mother. In a languid voice, she reported:
— Well… I’m still alive, but barely… Thank you for at least remembering your mother.
Yulia rolled her eyes and gestured to her husband: “Let’s call an ambulance, have them come and give her a shot.”
Kostya relayed the suggestion. On the other end of the line came an instant, energetic:
— Oh, no, no, I already feel much better. Must have been the weather. No need to call anyone.
Yulia merely smirked: the performance was over, curtain down, the audience dispersing. From day one she had decided: no needless fuss, no racing around on excursions, none of the obligatory “must-dos.”
Her plan was simple and perfect—a full-on lazy vacation. Lie on a sun lounger, breathe the salty sea air, bask in the sun, soak up the warmth to her bones, and now and then lazily swim to the buoys and back. Wash down the bliss with brightly colored cocktails and devour tropical fruit in unlimited quantities. Mango, passion fruit, papaya—everything that cost an arm and a leg back home was abundant here and so delicious you’d lick your fingers.
Kostya loved fruit too, but just as with the vacation itself, he was embarrassed to admit how much it delighted him. Especially to his mother. He even told Yulia, flustered, that if Mom suddenly asked what they’d seen and they said “nothing, we just ate and slept…”
— That’s exactly what we’ll say! — Yulia snorted. — And what’s wrong with that? Stop tormenting yourself with guilt. You earned this vacation and you can spend it however you like.
Even so, Kostya managed to keep his phone close by, even on the beach. Every notification made him flinch, as if his mother might show up any second for an inspection.
In the end, Yulia couldn’t take it:
— Here’s the deal. You put your phone away in the room right now and only take it out in the evening. Okay? Otherwise, this isn’t a vacation.
— What if Mom calls? — he asked like a schoolboy deprived of his game console.
— Mom can wait. She knows perfectly well you’re on vacation. She has a husband, a daughter, and a TV, for that matter. She’ll find something to do.
Yulia truly enjoyed her rest. She photographed sunsets, bright cocktails, the hotel’s perfect fruit displays, and colorful umbrellas on the beach. She didn’t post swimsuit selfies, even though her figure allowed it—she preferred the sea, the sun, and natural beauty in the frame.
And although Anna Grigoryevna wasn’t subscribed to her daughter-in-law’s page, she avidly looked at Yulia’s photos anyway. She even had a special fake account that everyone had long since guessed about. And every time she saw another plate of mango or a photo from a sun lounger, she called her son and fumed:
— Look how that… shameless woman is squandering your money! You work while she drinks cocktails! At home she pretended to be an innocent lamb.
Kostya hemmed and hawed into the phone and glanced furtively at his wife, while she just smiled and poured herself another glass of pineapple juice.
When Yulia and Kostya returned home, Kostya stepped over the threshold nervously, as if expecting his mother to jump out from around the corner with reproaches. The phone he finally took from his bag was silent—apparently, Anna Grigoryevna had decided to give her son time to “recognize his guilt.”
Watching her husband uncertainly scroll through notifications, Yulia couldn’t hold back:
— Here’s the deal. Either we live like adults, or we get divorced and you go on living with Mommy. I can’t take watching this anymore. She’s trained you like her lapdog. You’re a man in your prime. And what are you doing?
Kostya froze. He gripped the phone tighter and lifted his eyes to his wife—there was a mix of emotions in them: hurt, anger, confusion, but above all, understanding.
Slowly, as if removing shackles, he set the phone on the nightstand.
— All right.
One short answer—then he turned and headed to the bathroom. The door closed; a second later, water roared.
Yulia remained standing in the middle of the room, not knowing what to think. She had braced herself for a fight, for excuses, for the usual “you don’t understand, it’s my mom.” But Kostya’s silence was very unusual under the circumstances.
When he came out of the shower, Yulia nearly gasped. Only a towel around his hips, drops of water on his chest, and a confident look.
— Wow, — Yulia whispered, raising an eyebrow. — What about your beloved “mom shorts”? You never walk around the house without them.
Kostya smirked.
— I threw them out.
He stepped forward. Yulia almost applauded from shock—Kostya suddenly scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the bedroom.
— Kostya?!
— Hush.
The door slammed.
And on the nightstand, forgotten, the phone vibrated. Anna Grigoryevna knew the arrival time. More than an hour had passed, and her son still hadn’t called. She dialed and dialed, not letting up. But the young couple were far too busy to answer.
Yulia was stunned by the abrupt change in her husband. Not only did he not call his mother, he didn’t even look at the dozen missed calls—he simply set the phone aside and went to the store. While she unpacked, put some things in the wash, showered, and got herself together, Kostya bought a bottle of good wine and ordered dinner for delivery.
When they finally sat down at the table, Yulia still couldn’t believe this new version of Kostya—calm, confident, with no trace of the usual anxiety in his eyes. She was just about to raise her glass to their “new life” when the doorbell rang.
— Are you expecting someone? — Yulia muttered, but Kostya was already getting up.
He opened the door—and on the threshold, out of breath and with blazing eyes, stood Anna Grigoryevna.
— Kostyenchik! — she immediately grabbed his face, feverishly feeling his cheeks and forehead as if checking whether he was intact. — You didn’t even think to call?! I’m losing my mind!
Kostya gently moved her hands away.
— Mom, are you all right?
— Me?! — she peered past him and saw Yulia in a light silk robe, which Yulia hastily cinched tighter so as not to shock her mother-in-law even more. Anna Grigoryevna’s face twisted. — So that’s it. You’re here engaged in indecency, and you can’t even call your mother?!
— Mom, — Kostya took a step forward, blocking her way into the apartment. — We’re adults. We don’t need to report every step we take.
— Adults?! — she snorted. — Is that what she taught you?
Yulia stayed silent. What amazed her wasn’t so much her mother-in-law’s behavior—that was predictable—but how Kostya held himself. Before, he would already have started making excuses.
— Mom, — his voice was firm but not angry. — I love you. But if you came here to make a scene, you’d better call a taxi and go home.
Anna Grigoryevna gasped as if she’d been struck.
— Is that so?! Now you’re throwing your own mother out?! — her voice trembled. — It’s all her! She ruined you! But you’ll get what’s coming to you, Yulia, you’ll see!
Kostya sighed.
— Should I call you a taxi?
— I don’t need anything from you! — she spun around and, without saying goodbye, strode toward the elevator.
The door closed. Kostya stood there for another minute, then slowly returned to the table. His face looked tired.
— I think I did the right thing, — he said quietly. — But I still feel lousy inside.
Yulia handed him a glass.
— Let’s drink.
They clinked glasses. The wine was tart, slightly bitter—like the moment itself. But for the first time in a long while Yulia felt that something had changed. And she was pleased that Kostya had decided to change for the better.
Soon, Anna Grigoryevna rolled out her “heavy artillery”—she told all the relatives, neighbors, and even casual acquaintances what a terrible daughter-in-law she had and how the woman had separated her son from his mother. And unfortunately, it worked: Kostya’s relatives stopped talking to them one by one. Aunts, uncles, cousins—everyone suddenly began avoiding the young family, as if Yulia really were a villain who had ruined the perfect boy.
But life went on.
One morning Yulia stood in front of the bathroom mirror, holding in her hand a test with two lines. She hadn’t planned on getting pregnant so soon, but fate had other ideas.
— Kostya… — she gently laid a hand on her husband’s shoulder as he was finishing his coffee. — I think I’m pregnant.
He looked up at her—and there wasn’t a trace of doubt in his eyes. Only joy.
— That’s wonderful, — he embraced his wife.
Anna Grigoryevna didn’t learn about the pregnancy from her son but from a friend who had accidentally run into Yulia at the women’s clinic.
— Have you completely lost your mind?! — her voice shook with rage over the phone. — It’s her trick! She wants to trap you with a baby!
— Mom, — Kostya spoke calmly. — I love Yulia. And I want this child. We planned to have children.
— You… you… — Anna Grigoryevna was choking with anger. — You’re no longer my son!
But the biggest shock was yet to come.
A week later, Kostya said that he and Yulia would have to move: he’d been offered a promotion at a company branch—in another city.
— I think you’ve finally gone crazy, — for the first time in a long while, Anna Grigoryevna rushed over without calling first. — Did she talk you into this?!
— No, Mom. It’s my decision.
— You’re abandoning me for her?!
— I’m not abandoning you. It’s work. They’re offering good terms, and I decided to accept. Besides, Yulia will soon go on maternity leave and I’ll be supporting the whole family.
Anna Grigoryevna wept, screamed, even collapsed onto the floor in hysterics—but Kostya didn’t give in. He simply waited in silence for his mother to calm down, then called her a taxi.
On the day they left, she declared a boycott.
— No one in the family will speak to you anymore! — she announced, forbidding even her husband and Sasha to call Kostya.
But the ban didn’t last long.
Sasha came to visit her brother in secret, and when Yulia gave birth to a son, she dropped everything at work and rushed to the hospital discharge.
— Mom thinks I’m at a bachelorette party, — she whispered to Kostya, handing over a huge bouquet.
Anna Grigoryevna never saw her grandson.
She sat in her dark apartment, called her “loyal” relatives, and complained about how ungrateful Kostya was. Meanwhile, Kostya, Yulia, and their baby lived in a new city, where no one knew “what a terrible daughter-in-law Yulia was.”
Where Kostya could finally breathe freely.
And as for Anna Grigoryevna… she never realized she’d only taught herself a lesson.