It all started with little things. But really, is it ever any different? Big problems grow out of small pinpricks that at first seem insignificant.
The first time Lidiya Petrovna came to see us was a month after the wedding. I was happy—at last I’d get to know my mother-in-law better! Before that, we’d only seen each other at the wedding, where she was pointedly polite but somehow distant.
“Anya, dear,” she said as soon as she crossed the threshold, “why is your entryway such a mess? The coats are hanging all higgledy-piggledy. My Seryozha has always liked everything in perfect order.”
I looked at the hall. Two coats on the rack and a pair of sneakers by the wall—where was the mess? But I kept quiet, deciding she was just nervous about a new environment.
“And what is that smell in the kitchen?” she went on, sniffing. “Are you cooking meat? Seryozha doesn’t like fried meat, he has a sensitive stomach. I always steamed things for him.”
“Mom, I eat fried meat just fine,” Seryozha stepped in, slipping an arm around my shoulders.
“You’re just used to it, son. But it’s bad for your stomach. Anya, you do care about your husband’s health, don’t you?”
That time I held my tongue. I redid the meat and steamed it. I set the table, got out the best china, and bought the cake that, as Seryozha had mentioned, his mother liked.
But even there, Lidiya Petrovna found something to fault.
“You should have used cloth napkins, not paper ones. And this cake is too sweet, I can’t have it. Our family has a high risk of diabetes. Didn’t Seryozha tell you?”
Seryozha gave an embarrassed shrug. No, he hadn’t.
Over lunch, my mother-in-law launched into lectures on how to make soup properly (“not like you do, Anya—first you sauté the carrots separately”), how to iron shirts (“those creases show you don’t know how”), and how to run a household in general (“in my day, women learned all this from childhood”).
Seryozha stayed quiet, occasionally echoing his mother. I smiled and thought: sure, she just wants to help, to share her experience. That’s normal.
Lidiya Petrovna started coming every two weeks. Then every week. Each time she found something new to criticize. The flowers in the vase were in the wrong place, the books on the shelf were arranged incorrectly, I was using the wrong dish soap.
“Anya, why do you have these kinds of towels in the bathroom? Seryozha is used to soft terry ones. And he needs a different toothpaste—he has sensitive teeth.”
“Anya, why are you buying this bread? Since childhood Seryozha has eaten only Darnitsky rye. And the milk should be a different fat content.”
“Anya, these curtains don’t go with the wallpaper at all. I know someone who can help you choose something decent.”
I endured it. I redid things. I bought new towels, different toothpaste, the “right” bread. I changed the curtains. But still, Lidiya Petrovna kept finding new reasons to be displeased.
What was worst was that she talked about me in the third person, as if I weren’t in the room.
“Seryozha, tell your wife she needs to wash the dishes with hotter water. Otherwise the germs will stay.”
“Seryozha, your wife needs to learn to make a proper soup. This one is too watery.”
“Seryozha, explain to her that guests should be greeted in a clean robe, not in house clothes.”
And Seryozha would nod and then, in the evening, gently pass along his mother’s “advice”: “Anya, maybe you really should wash the dishes a bit hotter? Mom says…”
Gradually I realized: every visit from my mother-in-law was turning into an exam I was doomed to fail. Whatever I did, however hard I tried—everything was wrong, not the way it should be.
“Lidiya Petrovna, maybe you shouldn’t come so often?” I dared to ask once. “We’ve only just gotten married, we’d like a little time to ourselves…”
“I have every right to visit my son whenever I see fit,” she snapped. “Seryozha is my only child, and I will not allow anyone to limit our communication.”
Seryozha kept silent. As always.
And a week later, she came again. And again, she started teaching me how to live: how to brew tea, how to fold laundry, how to talk to the neighbors.
“In my day, daughters-in-law respected their mothers-in-law,” she would sigh. “But now these young girls think everyone owes them something. Seryozha, you need to train your wife.”
That’s when I understood: it wasn’t about my mistakes or incompetence. It was that Lidiya Petrovna simply couldn’t let go of her son. She wanted to keep controlling his life, and I was an obstacle on that path.
The next time Seryozha told me his mother was coming, I said:
“Wonderful. I’ll go see a friend.”
“What do you mean?” He didn’t get it. “Mom’s coming!”
“So what? Let her come. You two will have a lovely time together.”
“But who’s going to cook? Set the table?”
“What, have you forgotten how? Or your mother?”
Seryozha was taken aback and kept quiet. I packed a bag and left.
I came back late that evening. He met me with a displeased face.
“Mom was very upset. She came especially to see us, and you weren’t here.”
“She came to see you, not me,” I replied. “I hope you had a nice time.”
“Anya, you don’t understand. Mom is trying for our sake, she wants to help…”
“Help? In six months your mother hasn’t said a single kind word to me. Everything I do is wrong. Everything I buy is the wrong thing. Everything I cook is tasteless. Yet she demands that I welcome her like an honored guest, set a lavish table, entertain her. Is that help?”
“Well… maybe she just wants everything to be nice…”
“Seryozha, have you ever once told her that I’m a good wife? That you’re happy with how I cook, how I clean, how I take care of you?”
He fell silent. And I knew the answer.
The next time, the story repeated itself.
“Where are you going again? Mom’s supposed to come!” Seryozha protested as he watched me getting dressed.
“To Natasha’s. We’ll sit and chat.”
“What about dinner? Mom will be hungry!”
“You’re thirty years old. You’re a grown man. Can’t you feed your own mother?”
“But that’s… that’s women’s work!”
I stopped and looked at him. Had I really lived two years with this man and failed to see who he truly was?
“What ‘women’s work’ are you talking about—cooking for your mother, who can’t stand me?”
“She doesn’t… it’s just her personality. She nitpicks everyone.”
“No, Seryozha, she nitpicks only me. And you know it perfectly well.”
He flushed red, but kept insisting:
“You’re my wife! Mom has the right to expect your respect!”
“And I have the right to expect protection from my husband! But I can’t remember you ever once standing up for me.”
And I left.
This war went on for a month. Every time a visit from Lidiya Petrovna was announced, I disappeared from the house. And Seryozha grew increasingly angry.
“Anya, this can’t go on!” he declared after yet another visit. “Mom left in tears! She says you hate her!”
“She’s not wrong.”
“How can you say that?!”
“Very easily. In two years of our marriage your mother has not once called me by name. To her I’m ‘your wife,’ ‘that girl,’ or just ‘she.’ She criticizes my every move, every decision. She demands I remake the whole apartment to her taste. And she behaves as if I were the help, there to wait on her. And you back her up.”
“I’m not taking anyone’s side! It’s just that Mom…”
“Mom, Mom, Mom!” I exploded. “Seryozha, she’s sixty-two! She’s a grown woman who can perfectly well take care of herself! But she prefers to play the capricious princess, and you indulge her!”
“She’s my mother!”
“And I’m your wife! Or was…”
We fought harder than ever before. Seryozha went to a friend’s, and I sat down and thought seriously about our marriage.
What did we have left in common? He always took his mother’s side. In any argument, in any situation. My feelings, my opinion didn’t matter to him. He didn’t see me as a partner, but as service staff.
And I had spent two years trying to be the perfect wife for the perfect son of the perfect mother.
When he returned, I said:
“We need to have a serious talk.”
“If you’re going to complain about Mom again…”
“No. I want to talk about us. Seryozha, be honest: do you love me?”
“Of course! What a strange question!”
“Then why do you never protect me from your mother?”
“Anya, come on… she isn’t attacking you. She’s just… giving advice.”
“She says I cook badly, clean badly, dress badly, behave badly. At the same time she demands that I entertain her and wait on her. And you call that advice?”
“Maybe you’re just overreacting…”
And then I understood for good: he would never change. For him, his mother would always be right, and I would be the hysteric who “overreacts.”
“Seryozha,” I said calmly, “your mother is coming again tomorrow, right?”
“Yes. And I’m asking you, please…”
“Fine. I’ll be at home.”
He was surprised, but pleased.
“Really? Anya, thank you! I knew you’d understand!”
Then I said:
“Seryozha, pack your things.”
“What?”
“Tomorrow your mother will arrive, and you won’t be here. Because this is my apartment, and I don’t want to see either you or her in it anymore.”
“Anya, what are you saying?!”
“What I’ve been thinking for six months. You’re a wonderful son to your mother. But a worthless husband to me. Pack your things.”
He tried to argue, to plead, to threaten. But I was adamant. By morning he had packed his suitcase and left.
At two in the afternoon the doorbell rang.
Lidiya Petrovna stood on the threshold with a huge bag and a displeased face.
“Where is Seryozha?” she asked without so much as a greeting.
“I don’t know. We got divorced. He moved out yesterday.”
“What do you mean, divorced?!” my mother-in-law gasped.
“Just that. Come in, Lidiya Petrovna. I have something to say to you.”
She walked into the room, looking around suspiciously.
“Sit down,” I offered. “Would you like some tea?”
“What is this performance? Where is my son?”
“Your son packed his things and left. Most likely to a friend’s, and then he’ll go back to you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about how, Lidiya Petrovna, you didn’t raise a man, but a mama’s boy. At thirty he can’t make a single independent decision.”
She flushed.
“How dare you!”
“Very simply. This is my apartment, and here I say what I think. For two years you turned my life into hell. You nitpicked every little thing, criticized my every step. And at the same time you demanded that I receive you like a queen.”
“I wanted to help! To teach you!”
“You wanted to show who’s boss in this house. You couldn’t accept that your son got married. So you decided to turn me into a maid who would wait on both you and him.”
“That’s not true!”
“It is true, Lidiya Petrovna. Not once in two years did you thank me for dinner. Not once did you praise me. Not once did you call me by name. To you I was ‘that girl’ or ‘your wife.’ And your son went along with it.”
She was silent, but her eyes burned with anger.
“And now,” I went on, “your precious darling boy is free. You can go back to steaming his food, ironing his shirts, and deciding which curtains he should hang. Exactly what you dreamed of.”
“You… you’ve ruined his life!”
“No, Lidiya Petrovna. I’ve freed him from an unsuitable wife. And freed myself from an unsuitable husband. Everyone’s happy.”
She sprang up from the couch.
“He’ll come back to you! You’ll be the one crying!”
“If he does, I’ll send him right back. I need a husband, not a child I have to raise.”
She grabbed her bag and headed for the door.
“And remember,” I called after her, “don’t come here again. Next time I simply won’t open the door.”
The door slammed. I sat down on the couch and… laughed. For the first time in two years I felt free.
Seryozha called for a week. He tried to persuade me to “talk it over.” But there was nothing to discuss. I filed for divorce.
A month later I ran into a mutual acquaintance at the store.
“Anya!” she said, delighted. “I heard you and Seryozha divorced? Is he living with his mother now?”
“Yes,” I smiled. “They’ve finally found their happiness.”
“And you don’t regret it?”
I thought about it. Did I regret those two years? That I’d endured for so long? That I hadn’t realized sooner you can’t build a family with someone who doesn’t see you as a person?
“No,” I said. “I don’t. It was an important lesson.”
Now I know: respect in a family isn’t a luxury, it’s a necessity. And if a man can’t protect his wife from his own mother, then he isn’t ready to be a husband.
And as for Lidiya Petrovna—she got what she wanted: undivided power over her son. Let her enjoy it.