Natalya was standing at the stove, stirring the soup, when she heard a familiar little cough behind her. Valentina Yegorovna walked into the kitchen with her particular gait—slow and stately, like a general inspecting his domain.
“You’ve overcooked the potatoes again,” the mother-in-law peered into the pot over her daughter-in-law’s shoulder. “Is that how you cook? My Antosha likes his potatoes whole, not falling apart.”
Natalya kept silently stirring the soup. In a year of living under the same roof she had learned not to react to comments like that. Or rather, she tried to learn.
“The soup’s turning out great,” Anton came into the kitchen and pecked his wife on the cheek. “Smells delicious.”
“That’s only because you’re hungry,” said Valentina Yegorovna, sitting down at the table. “Anyway, you should have seared the meat first and then put it in the soup. It tastes better.”
Anton shrugged and left the kitchen. Natalya turned off the stove and began setting the table. From the next room came the voice of eight-year-old Dima:
“Mom, can I go to Seryozha’s after lunch? He’s got a new building set!”
“We’ll see—do your homework first,” Natalya called back.
“Homework in the summer?” Valentina Yegorovna threw up her hands. “A child needs to rest! You’re wearing the boy out with your lessons. In our day kids ran outside all summer, and look—we turned out just fine.”
Dima appeared in the kitchen doorway, listening to the adults.
“Dimochka, come here,” his grandmother beckoned. “Grandma will give you a candy. Don’t listen to your mom—there’s no need to do homework in the summer.”
“Valentina Yegorovna, Dima and I agreed—one hour a day he reads and does exercises so he doesn’t lose his skills before school,” Natalya explained calmly.
“Exactly, you two agreed! And who asked me? Do I live in this house or what?”
Natalya bit her tongue. Her mother-in-law had been using that argument constantly since moving in a year ago. Before that, for two whole years after the wedding, they’d lived peacefully—Valentina Yegorovna would come from the neighboring settlement once a week, sometimes less. Then came what Anton called a “logical decision”—his mother sold her house and moved in with them for good.
“Why should I sit alone in a big house?” Valentina Yegorovna explained at the time. “Here the grandson is nearby, and I can help you. I’m not a stranger.”
Anton agreed right away. He didn’t even consult his wife—just presented it as a fait accompli: his mother was moving in; they needed to clear out the back room. Natalya kept quiet then. The house was spacious; there was room for everyone. And she hoped her mother-in-law really would help—watch Dima, pitch in around the house.
Reality proved different. Valentina Yegorovna wasn’t in a hurry to help, but she considered it her duty to comment on every step the daughter-in-law took. The way Natalya cooked—wrong. The way she cleaned—not clean enough. The way she raised her son—too strict.
“Anton, tell your wife not to starve the child!” Valentina Yegorovna shouted toward the living room. “First lunch, then all those lessons!”
“Mom, please don’t interfere,” came Anton’s weary voice. “Natasha can handle it.”
His mother snorted and ostentatiously set a whole handful of caramels in front of Dima.
“Eat, my boy. Grandma will take care of you, since your mother is busy with her nonsense.”
Natalya set the plates down hard enough to make them clink. Dima looked at his mother in fright, then at his grandmother.
“I’ll eat the candy later—after lunch,” the boy said quietly.
“That’s right, sunshine,” Natalya stroked his head. “Go wash your hands.”
When Dima left, Valentina Yegorovna pursed her lips.
“You’re turning the child against me?”
“I’m not turning anyone against anyone. There are rules that Anton and I set.”
“Anton?” the mother-in-law laughed. “My son didn’t set any rules. That’s all your invention. I know the type—you’ll turn the child into a neurotic with your rules.”
Natalya took a deep breath. Arguing was useless. In a year she’d learned that. Any attempt to stand her ground ended with Valentina Yegorovna reminding her the house was in her name.
The story with the house was a separate pain. When Natalya moved in with Anton after the wedding, she hadn’t paid much attention when he said the house was registered to his mother.
“It’s safer,” Anton explained then. “You never know—no one can take anything from Mom. It’s just a formality; I built the house, it’s my money in it.”
Natalya believed him. She had nothing of her own—after her first divorce she’d left the one-room apartment to her ex just to get the whole process over with. She and Dima rented a place until she met Anton.
The first two years felt like a fairy tale. Anton treated Dima well, and the boy warmed to his stepfather. The house was cozy, with a big yard. Natalya planted a vegetable garden and flowers. It felt like life had finally fallen into place.
And then Valentina Yegorovna arrived with her suitcases.
“I have a right to live in my own house!” she announced when she saw her daughter-in-law’s dismayed face. “Or are you against a man’s own mother living with her son?”
Anton hugged Natalya then and whispered, “Just bear with it a bit—she’ll settle in and calm down.”
But she didn’t. On the contrary, each month she behaved more and more like the mistress. She rearranged the living room furniture to her taste. She threw out the curtains Natalya had chosen and hung her own—huge roses. She claimed the best armchair by the TV and spent hours watching soap operas at full volume.
“Anton, maybe talk to your mother?” Natalya asked one evening. “She keeps the TV on all day—Dima can’t do his homework.”
“Oh, let her watch. What else does she have to do?” her husband waved her off. “And don’t dramatize. Mom behaves fine—you’re just too sensitive.”
Natalya said nothing. What was there to say? Anton adored his mother and automatically took her side in any conflict. Even when Valentina Yegorovna clearly went too far.
Like last month, when she made a scene because Natalya bought Dima new sneakers.
“Spendthrift!” she screamed through the house. “Throwing money to the wind! My Antosha wore one pair of shoes for three years and nothing happened!”
“It’s my money. I earned it,” Natalya tried to explain.
“Your money? In my house there’s no ‘yours’ and ‘mine’—everything’s shared! And don’t you go setting your own rules here!”
Anton just went out to the garage then. He came back two hours later, pretending nothing had happened.
Over lunch, Valentina Yegorovna kept lamenting:
“In our day women respected their husbands. And now? They think they know everything; they listen to no one.”
“Mom, enough,” Anton muttered without raising his eyes from his plate.
“Enough what? I’m telling the truth! Your wife doesn’t treat me like a human being. She cooks any old thing, torments the child with lessons, and spends money God knows on what.”
“Valentina Yegorovna, I work as a nurse on double shifts, I support my child myself, and I do everything at home as well. What exactly do you not like?” Natalya couldn’t hold back.
Her mother-in-law slowly set down her spoon and gave her a heavy look.
“What I don’t like is that you’ve forgotten whose house you live in. If I want, I’ll throw you out of here along with your runt. This is my house—my son gave it to me!”
“Mom!” Anton finally raised his voice. “What are you saying?”
“What? The truth! The house is in my name; I’m the mistress here. And she should know her place.”
Dima stared fearfully first at his mother, then at his grandmother. His lower lip began to tremble.
“Dimochka, go to your room and do a few problems,” Natalya said softly.
When her son left, she pushed back from the table.
“You know what, Valentina Yegorovna? I’m not going to put up with this anymore.”
“Then get out!” the mother-in-law screeched. “Take your little runt and get out! My son gave me this house!”
Natalya rose slowly from the table. Something clenched in her chest, but she straightened and looked her mother-in-law in the eye. She wouldn’t give this woman the pleasure of seeing her weakness.
“All right, Valentina Yegorovna. We’ll leave.”
“That’s right!” her mother-in-law crowed triumphantly. “No freeloaders here! Go find another fool who’ll put up with your snot-nose!”
“Mom, stop it!” Anton tried to intervene, but his mother only wound herself up further.
“Be quiet! Are you blind? Can’t you see how she’s wrapping you around her finger? She latched onto you with her brat, occupied my house!”
“I’m not a brat!” came a thin voice from the hallway.
They all turned. Dima stood in the doorway, fists clenched. His face was flushed, his eyes shining with tears.
“You’re mean! A mean grandma! I hate you!”
Valentina Yegorovna practically choked with indignation.
“What?! How dare you, you little pup! In my house! Why, I’ll—”
She moved toward the boy, but Natalya stepped in front of her.
“Don’t you dare touch my son.”
“Your son? And who are you, anyway? Nobody! A stray! You drifted from one rented hole to another with your bastard until my idiot son picked you up!”
Anton sat at the table, staring into his plate. Natalya looked at her husband, hoping for at least a word in her defense. But Anton kept silent.
“Dimochka, go to your room. Pack your favorite toys in your backpack,” Natalya said evenly.
“Mom, are we leaving?” the boy sobbed.
“Yes, honey. We’re going to Grandma Galya and Grandpa Kolya.”
Dima nodded and ran to his room. Valentina Yegorovna snorted with satisfaction.
“Off you go then! Just don’t touch my things! Everything in this house is mine!”
Natalya walked past her into the bedroom without a word. She took two suitcases down from the top shelf—hers and the child’s—and methodically began to pack clothes. First her own, then Dima’s. Valentina Yegorovna stood in the doorway watching like a hawk.
“That dress was bought here! Leave it!”
“I brought this dress with me three years ago,” Natalya replied calmly, continuing to pack.
“You’re lying! Anton, tell her!”
But Anton didn’t appear. Natalya took documents—hers and her son’s—out of the nightstand, her savings book, and a small jewelry box with pieces that had belonged to her mother. She placed everything carefully in a separate bag.
“What’s that? Show me!” Valentina Yegorovna tried to snatch the bag.
“These are my documents and my son’s documents. Don’t touch them.”
Natalya went to the child’s room. Dima sat on the bed hugging his favorite teddy bear.
“Mommy, are we never coming back here?”
“I don’t know, sweetheart. We’ll see.”
She quickly gathered his clothes, textbooks, and notebooks. She took the sketchbooks her son loved. Her mother-in-law followed, muttering:
“Just try to take anything of mine! I’ll call the police! Thief!”
Natalya stopped and turned to her.
“You know what? I’m going to the neighbors. Let Nina Vasilievna and Pyotr Ivanovich witness what I’m taking. So later there’ll be no talk that I stole something.”
“Go ahead! Gather the whole village for all I care!”
Natalya went out into the yard. Next door, Nina Vasilievna was watering the beds.
“Nina Vasilievna, could you spare a minute?”
The neighbor came to the fence. The women were on good terms and often chatted.
“What’s happened, Natasha? You’re pale.”
“Dima and I are leaving. For good. Could you and Pyotr Ivanovich come over and see what I’m taking? So that later Valentina Yegorovna doesn’t accuse me of stealing.”
“Heavens, what has it come to! Of course—let me call my husband.”
Five minutes later the neighbors were in the entryway. Valentina Yegorovna had puffed up like a turkey.
“What did you come for? To put on a show?”
“We’ve come as witnesses,” said Pyotr Ivanovich firmly. “To confirm that Natalya Sergeyevna is taking only personal belongings.”
With the neighbors present, Natalya walked through the house again, showing what she was taking: two suitcases of clothes, a bag with documents, a backpack with the child’s toys, a few books.
“That’s all. I’m not taking anything else. All the furniture, dishes, and appliances stay.”
“Good! Don’t haul off my things!” the mother-in-law shouted.
Nina Vasilievna shook her head.
“Shame on you, Valentina Yegorovna! Natasha kept this house going for years—the garden, the flowers…”
“None of your business! Don’t bring your rules into someone else’s home!”
Natalya carried the things out into the yard. She ordered a taxi through the app. While they waited, Dima pressed against his mother, avoiding his grandmother’s gaze.
“Mom, is Uncle Anton coming with us?”
“No, honey.”
Anton finally appeared in the doorway, looking bewildered.
“Natash, are you serious? Where are you going?”
“To my parents’.”
“But… why? We can talk, work this out…”
“Work out what, Anton? Your mother is throwing me and my child out of the house. You’re silent. What is there to discuss?”
“She just lost her temper. She didn’t mean it—she just has a temper.”
Natalya looked at her husband. They’d lived together for three years, and now a stranger seemed to be standing there.
“Anton, your mother called my son a freak and a bastard. In front of you. And you said nothing.”
“Well what was I supposed to say? She’s my mother!”
“And what are we to you? Random people?”
The taxi pulled up. The driver helped load the luggage into the trunk. Dima climbed into the back seat. Natalya turned to Anton.
“I’m filing for divorce.”
“Nata—wait! Don’t do this! Let’s talk!”
But Natalya was already in the car. As the taxi pulled away, Dima turned to look out the rear window. Anton stood in the middle of the yard, and beside him Valentina Yegorovna was shouting and waving her arms.
“Mom, are you crying?”
Natalya wiped her eyes.
“No, sweetheart. Just tired.”
The trip to her parents’ took two hours. They lived in the regional center, in a three-room apartment. Galina Andreyevna opened the door and understood everything at once from her daughter’s face.
“Come in, my dears. Dima, Grandpa’s in his room—go to him. He bought you a new book.”
The boy ran to his grandfather, and Natalya fell into her mother’s arms and finally let herself cry.
“All right, honey, all right. Cry. You can tell us later.”
That evening, after Dima fell asleep, Natalya told her parents everything. Nikolai Stepanovich listened in silence, his fists clenched.
“You did the right thing leaving,” her father said. “There was nothing to endure there. A pity you didn’t tell us sooner.”
“I thought I could handle it. I thought Anton would come to his senses and talk to his mother.”
“Your Anton is a mama’s boy,” sighed Galina Andreyevna. “Men like that would sooner find a new wife than argue with their mothers.”
Natalya’s phone rang off the hook. Anton called every hour. She didn’t answer. At last she wrote a message: “Don’t call. We’ll communicate through lawyers.”
The next day, Natalya went to a lawyer. The divorce turned out to be simple—there was no joint property, the house was in her mother-in-law’s name, and they had no children together.
“You’ll be divorced in a month if your husband doesn’t object,” the lawyer said.
Anton came three days later. Nikolai Stepanovich didn’t let him past the threshold.
“Natalya doesn’t want to see you. And don’t traumatize the boy.”
“But I have to explain! I’ll take my mother to live with me—we’ll live alone, just me and Natasha!”
“Too late, Anton. You should have thought of that earlier.”
A month passed. The divorce went through without a hitch. Anton signed all the papers without even trying to contest anything. Natalya got a job at the local hospital. Dima started at a new school. He was sad at first, but quickly made friends.
One evening, Galina Andreyevna said to her daughter:
“You know, it’s good it turned out this way. Imagine if you’d lived there another ten years. What would have become of you? And of Dima?”
Natalya nodded. Her mother was right. Better to leave in time than endure humiliation for a lifetime. She had a job, a son, and her parents. That was what mattered.
Six months later, Nina Vasilievna called with the latest news. Anton was still living with his mother. Now Valentina Yegorovna ordered her son around as she pleased—made him do all the housework, cook, clean. Anton had lost weight and looked worn out. Problems started at work—he was constantly late because his mother demanded he make breakfast first and wash the dishes afterward.
“She tells everyone now how ungrateful you were. Only no one believes her. Everyone saw how you kept that house going.”
Natalya listened and shrugged. Let her say what she liked. The main thing was that she and Dima now lived in peace, without shouting and insults. And that was worth a great deal.