— Ol, I was just talking to my mom… She’s coming next week, on Thursday. For a couple of days, — Igor said with studied nonchalance, stirring the long-cold tea in his cup. He didn’t look at his wife; his gaze was fixed on the little whirlpool the spoon made in the amber liquid. He waited, and that waiting tightened into a cold knot somewhere under his ribs. The kitchen silence—filled only by the steady hum of the fridge and the soft clicking of laptop keys—suddenly grew dense, almost tangible.
Olga pulled her eyes from the screen, and the bluish light briefly left a ghostly mask of fatigue on her face. She took off her glasses, rubbed the bridge of her nose, and looked at her husband. There was no surprise or joy in her gaze—only the calm, familiar foreboding. She knew this tone of his too well: a prelude to some inconvenient request, wrapped in the packaging of triviality, like a bitter pill hidden in a sugar cube.
— All right. I’ll make up the couch in the living room for her, — she answered evenly, reaching for her glasses to return to the spreadsheets that needed her attention. The matter seemed settled. Standard procedure, practiced for years.
— That’s what I wanted to talk about, — Igor finally lifted his eyes to her. In them sloshed a poorly concealed plea mixed with the stubbornness he mistook for strength of character. — You see, she’s not young anymore… Her back, her joints. That couch… it’s hard, uncomfortable. She can’t straighten up for a week after. Maybe we… uh… get Masha’s room ready for her?
He rattled off the last sentence quickly, as if afraid the words would stick in his throat. For a few seconds the kitchen went completely silent. Even the refrigerator seemed to hold its breath. Olga slowly set her glasses on the table. She looked at her husband, and her face—moments ago merely tired—began to turn into a cold, impenetrable mask. She didn’t raise her voice; she didn’t frown. She simply looked. And in that look Igor saw what he feared most: a total, absolute lack of understanding.
— Get Masha’s room ready? — she repeated so quietly it was as if she were clarifying a technical term. — And what exactly do you mean by “get it ready,” Igor?
He felt as if he’d been caught in a petty, shameful lie. He wanted her to start yelling right away. Yelling you could endure; you could answer it. But this icy, measured interrogation knocked the ground from under his feet.
— Well… — he faltered, choosing his words. — I promised her. I said she’d have her own room. That we’d arrange everything so she’d be comfortable. She was so happy…
— I asked what “get it ready” means, — Olga repeated, her tone unchanged. Her fingers tapped slowly on the laptop lid. One. Two. Three.
— Well, we’ll move Masha to the living room for a bit, onto that same couch. We’ll take her bed apart and move it into the hallway. The toy cabinet… well, we’ll push it up against the wall. The desk, too. We’ll free up space, bring in a chair for Mom, a floor lamp. Make it cozy. It’s only for two, maybe three days.
As he spoke, with every word the plan that had sounded so logical and caring on the phone with his mother turned, before his eyes, into a clumsy, absurd contraption. He heard it himself. “We’ll take the bed apart,” “we’ll move it into the hallway”… It sounded like instructions for a pogrom.
Olga listened without interrupting. When he finished, she stared for a few seconds at a point somewhere over his shoulder, as if picturing the scene: a dismantled child’s bed clogging an already narrow hallway; a five-year-old sleeping on the couch in the middle of the living room; and Anna Petrovna enthroned in the room where only yesterday it smelled of childhood, pencil shavings, and bedtime stories.
— Oh no, my dear! I am not turning our daughter’s room into a bedroom for your mother! If she wants to visit us, she’ll sleep on the living-room couch; nothing terrible will happen to her!
Igor had been braced for anything—reproaches, a scene, accusations. But this calm, impenetrable wall disarmed him.
— Olya, you don’t understand! I already promised! How am I going to look in her eyes now? I’m her son! I have to take care of her!
— Taking care doesn’t mean indulging her every whim at our child’s expense, — Olga cut in. She finally put on her glasses and turned the laptop back toward herself, making it clear the conversation was over. — Masha’s room is her world. Her fortress. That’s where her toys are, her little bed where she falls asleep every night, her drawings on the walls. And I’m not going to turn her world into a hotel room for your mother just because you didn’t have the backbone to say “no.”
— What’s backbone got to do with it?! It’s about respect! — he almost pleaded. — It’s only for a couple of days! Masha won’t even notice!
Olga gave a bitter, humorless smile without taking her eyes off the screen.
— She won’t notice her bed being taken apart and shoved into the hallway? That she’s been evicted from her own room? Igor, do you hear yourself at all? You’re proposing to sow chaos and upheaval in our child’s life so your mother can be comfortable. That’s not care. That’s a betrayal of your daughter. My answer is no. Topic closed. Explain it to your mother yourself. You made the promise—so you can deal with it.
The next few days turned into a quiet, exhausting war. The conversation in the kitchen hadn’t ended; it had merely dissolved into the air, leaving a poisonous sediment behind. They didn’t return to the subject directly, but its presence was felt in everything: in the way Igor set his mug down too loudly, in the way Olga answered his questions in monosyllables without looking up, in the way they both avoided meeting eyes over Masha’s head, who—like all children—unerringly sensed the tension looming in the air.
Igor launched a few more forays. He didn’t give up; he merely changed tactics. One evening, when Olga was putting their daughter to bed, he came into the nursery and, sitting on the edge of the bed, began in a quiet, insinuating voice:
— Remember last year when Masha was really sick and you had to submit that project? Mom rushed over from the other side of town and stayed with her three days straight so you could work in peace.
Olga, adjusting the blanket over the sleeping child, didn’t even turn toward him.
— I remember. And I’m grateful to her for that. I expressed that gratitude with an expensive birthday gift. It has nothing to do with evicting her granddaughter from her own room.
His attempt to appeal to her sense of duty crashed against her calm logic. He left the room feeling even more helpless.
Two days later he tried another angle. At dinner, as they ate in their now-habitual silence, he sighed heavily and said in a tragic tone:
— I called Mom today. She sounded so tired. Complained about her back—says the weather’s changing and she can’t straighten up at all. She’s looking forward to coming here, wants to rest, spend time with her granddaughter… in comfort.
He stressed the last word, watching his wife from the corner of his eye. Olga chewed slowly, set down her fork, and looked him straight in the eye. There was neither sympathy nor anger in her gaze. Only cold, impartial curiosity.
— If you’re that worried about her back and comfort, why didn’t you just book her a room at a nice hotel nearby? That would be far more effective care than dismantling a child’s furniture.
Igor deflated like a punctured balloon. Whatever argument he made, she turned it back on him, exposing his true motive—not concern for his mother, but a panicked fear of her displeasure. He fell silent, pushing food around his plate for the rest of the meal and feeling like a complete fool.
Time passed, and the day of Anna Petrovna’s arrival drew closer with the inevitability of a train. Igor’s desperation grew. He began moving around the apartment like a martyr, sighing and wincing as if in invisible pain. He hoped this wordless suffering would finally melt the ice in Olga’s heart. But she seemed not to notice him at all. She lived her usual life: worked, played with Masha, cooked dinner; her face remained calm and unreadable.
Two days before zero hour, when Igor was ready to raise the white flag and call his mother with a shamefaced confession, the unthinkable happened. In the evening he sat on the living-room couch, staring blankly at the dark TV screen. Olga came in, watched his drooping figure for a moment, then said quietly:
— All right. You win.
Igor started and looked up at her, not trusting his ears.
— What?
— I said you’re right, — she repeated in a flat, emotionless voice. She walked to the window and stood with her back to him. — It’s silly to quarrel over such nonsense. Your mother is elderly. She’ll be more comfortable in a separate room. I’ll get everything ready for her arrival. So that nobody is offended.
A wave of relief crashed over Igor so huge it took his breath away for a moment. He jumped up, went to her, wanted to hug her, but something in the tension of her straight back stopped him. Her calm was unnatural, ominous. But he was too dazzled by victory to read the signs.
— Olya! Thank you! Thank you, darling! I knew you’d understand! — he babbled, feeling a ton-weight slide off his shoulders. — I’ll help, of course! Just tell me what to do!
— Nothing, — she turned. There was no smile on her face, not a trace of satisfaction. Her eyes were cold and distant. — I’ll do it myself. You don’t have to worry. The main thing is that your mother is pleased.
The next day a strange, businesslike quiet settled over the apartment. In the morning, while Igor was in the shower, Olga had already brought out the stepladder and some boxes. He came out, smelling of shaving gel and confusion, and saw his wife methodically taking seasonal items down from the top shelves, packing them tighter to free up space. She moved without fuss, with the honed, slightly frightening efficiency of a surgeon or a sapper. There was not a gram of anger or resentment in her movements. There was only function.
— Let me help, — he offered, feeling awkward, almost guilty. — Those boxes are heavy.
— No need. I’ll do it myself, — she replied without looking at him. She didn’t say “I’ll manage”; she said “I’ll do it myself.” And in that short phrase yawned a chasm separating him from her, from their shared home, from the process he himself had set in motion.
All day she was doing something. Washing, rearranging, wiping dust in the farthest corners. The apartment, already well-kept, began to look like a sterile hotel room. Several times Igor tried to wedge himself into the activity, offering help, but each time he ran into a polite, unbreakable refusal. He felt superfluous, a guest in his own home. He even peeked into Masha’s room. Everything was in its place. The pink night-light on the table, the plush bunny drooping its ears on the pillow, the drawings pinned to the corkboard. Nothing hinted at a move. Igor exhaled with relief. Maybe Olya had found a compromise. Perhaps she’d bought a thick mattress topper for the couch? Or decided to squeeze the toys a bit but leave the bed? His victory tasted even sweeter—he’d pleased his mother and hadn’t overly angered his wife.
On Thursday afternoon the intercom buzzed. Igor’s heart gave its familiar lurch. He opened the door. On the threshold stood Anna Petrovna—a small, wiry woman with sharp, all-noticing eyes and a preemptively offended expression she wore like a medal for a long and difficult life.
— Hello, son! — she trilled, hugging him and casting a critical glance around the entryway. — Is Olenka home? Where’s Mashenka? I’m exhausted from the trip, terrible.
— Hello, Mom. Come in, of course, — Igor muttered, taking her bag.
Olga came out of the kitchen. On her face was the perfect, polite smile of a flight attendant. Not a shadow of the chill that had reigned between them in recent days.
— Hello, Anna Petrovna. We’re glad to see you. How was the trip? Come in, I’ll pour you some tea. And let’s take your things straight to your room so you can rest.
Igor tensed. To which room? He expected they would go to the living room, where an neatly made couch would be waiting and, perhaps, a couple of reproachful looks. But Olga confidently led her mother-in-law down the hall, past the nursery, straight to the door of their bedroom. Igor froze, not understanding.
— Olenka, really, I could have stayed in the lounge… — Anna Petrovna began, but Olga had already opened the door.
The bedroom was impeccably tidy. On their double bed, on the side where Igor usually slept, lay a new set of linens. On the nightstand sat a glass of water and her reading glasses in a case. On the armchair by the window hung her favorite woolen shawl, the one she always brought along. Their dresser had been cleared of photos, Olga’s perfume, and other personal trifles. In their place stood a small vase of fresh flowers. The room was ready. Perfectly. For a guest.
— Oh, my dears, you shouldn’t have! It’s so awkward… — Anna Petrovna flapped her hands, but her eyes already shone with satisfaction. She’d gotten more than she asked for. Not just a room, but the best room in the house. Her son’s and daughter-in-law’s room. A sign of the highest respect.
Igor watched it all with growing horror. He shifted his gaze to Olga. She stood in the doorway, calm and unruffled, and in her eyes he read the answer to all his unasked questions.
— Make yourself at home, Anna Petrovna, — she said to her mother-in-law with that same flawless smile. — Feel free to settle in.
When the older woman closed the door to change, Igor grabbed Olga by the hand and pulled her into the kitchen.
— What is this supposed to mean? — he hissed. — What does all this mean, Olya?
She calmly freed her hand and looked at him as if he were a slow child unable to grasp the obvious.
— You asked me to prepare a comfortable room with a good bed for your mother so her back wouldn’t hurt. I prepared it.
— But that’s our bedroom! Our bed! Where am I supposed to sleep?!
Olga closed her eyes for a moment, as if gathering strength for the final, decisive blow. Then she looked straight into his soul.
— You wanted to show respect and care for your mother at our daughter’s expense. I corrected your mistake. I showed respect and care for your mother at your expense. I didn’t touch Masha’s world, just as I promised. And the living-room couch, as you recall, is free. It’s hard and uncomfortable, but it’s only for a couple of days. You’ll put up with it for your mother’s sake, won’t you?
The kitchen filled with a ringing silence. Olga’s words weren’t a shout or a reproach; they were a cold, meticulously calibrated surgeon’s scalpel that laid his self-deception open, exposing the ugly truth. He looked at her—at her calm, almost detached face—and for the first time in many years truly saw her. He saw not just a wife to be bargained with or pressured, but an entirely unfamiliar, strong person whose logic could not be broken because it was a mirror image of his own.
— You… you can’t do this, — he finally managed, but his voice sounded pitiful and unconvincing even to himself. He had run out of arguments. Only emotions remained—hurt, humiliation, and impotent anger at himself.
— Why not? — Olga tilted her head slightly, studying his face with genuine, almost scientific interest. — I acted within the framework of the paradigm you proposed. You set the rules of this game, Igor. “It’s only for a couple of days.” “We must show respect to our elders.” “Put up with it for Mom.” Or do those rules apply only to your wife and five-year-old daughter, but not to you?
He opened his mouth to object, to say something about being a man, the master of the house, that it was their shared bedroom… But he fell silent. He realized that any word would sound like the babble of a spoiled child. He had driven himself into this corner, and now Olga had simply locked the door behind him with the key he himself had placed in her hand.
At that moment Anna Petrovna emerged from the bedroom beaming. She had changed into her housecoat, and her face—worn from the trip only minutes before—now shone with smug contentment. Igor froze like an actor who’s forgotten his line. The mask of the dutiful son slipped onto his face of its own accord, hiding the storm boiling inside.
— Oh, how nice it smells in here! Olenka, you’re such a homemaker! — the mother cooed, noticing nothing of the tension thick as jelly between the spouses. — I’m settled so cozily; the bed is so soft, delightful! Thank you, son, for taking care of your old mother.
Igor forced something like a smile. Dinner passed in a fog. Anna Petrovna chattered nonstop about her neighbors, market prices, and a new TV series. Olga kept up the conversation with impeccable politeness, adding salad to her plate, refilling her tea. She was the perfect daughter-in-law. And Igor was silent. He chewed mechanically, feeling the food turn to cardboard in his mouth. Every approving glance from his mother felt like a slap. He had “taken care.” He was a “good son.” The price of that care lay in the living room in the form of a folded stack of bedding that Olga had prepared in advance.
In the evening, when Anna Petrovna, wishing them good night, retired to “her” room, Olga walked into the living room without a word. She didn’t slam the cabinet doors in a showy display. She simply took out a sheet, a pillow, and a throw. Not the down duvet he slept under, but a thin guest throw. The pillow was a spare one too—flat and stiff. She made up the couch in silence. Each of her movements was precise and emotionless. She wasn’t taking revenge, no. She was merely carrying out the sentence he had pronounced on himself.
— I’m going to put Masha to bed, — she said quietly from the doorway. — Want the light off?
— Leave it, — he answered dully.
The first night on the couch was pure torture for Igor. It wasn’t just the hard surface and the spring digging into his side. It was the searing humiliation. He lay in the dark listening to the sounds of his apartment. The nursery door creaked softly—Olga had gone to check on Masha. Water ran in the bathroom. He heard his wife’s quiet steps in the hallway, the steps of a mistress of the house moving across her own territory. And he, like a punished teenager, had been banished from the center of their shared world—the bedroom. His thoughts circled around one refrain: “How could she?” But another, more terrible thought followed inevitably: “And how could I?” For the first time he pictured not an abstract “discomfort” for his daughter, but a vivid image: Masha, his little girl, sleeping here, on this very couch, flinching at every sound, while in her cozy room, in her little bed that smelled of milk and fairy tales, a stranger—family, yes, but still—slept. He had wanted his daughter to feel that—exile from her own space. For what? To look good in his mother’s eyes. And in that moment, in the cold silence of the living room, he realized with blistering clarity that Olga hadn’t just defended a room. She had defended their child’s dignity. And, by extension, his own dignity as a father, which he had been ready to trade away so easily.
The next two days he walked around as if water-logged. He answered his mother’s questions, tried to smile, but felt like an impostor in his own home. Olga, meanwhile, was the picture of composure. Not once did she reproach him with a word or a look. Her detached correctness cut deeper than any quarrel.
On Saturday, Anna Petrovna was leaving. Packing her bag, she never stopped thanking her son.
— I relaxed body and soul at your place! You’re such a caring boy, unlike some… Olya is lucky to have you! — she said at parting, casting her daughter-in-law a meaningful look.
Igor drove his mother to the station in silence. When he returned, the apartment was quiet. Olga was stripping the bed in their bedroom, changing the linens for fresh ones. He stood in the doorway, watching her familiar, fluid movements. She didn’t turn around. He walked silently to Masha’s room. His daughter sat on the floor building a tower of blocks. She looked up at him with shining eyes, her world untouched by the storms that had raged in the adult one. Her fortress stood unharmed.
He went back to the bedroom. Olga had just finished making the bed. The air between them was still charged. Igor stepped close to her, stopping right beside her. He wanted to say so much, but all the words felt false and unnecessary. He simply took her hand. She didn’t pull away, but she didn’t squeeze back either.
— You were right, — he said quietly.
It wasn’t an apology. It was an acknowledgment—of her strength, her wisdom, and her rightness. Olga slowly raised her eyes to him, and for the first time that week the ice in them melted. She didn’t smile, but her gaze grew warmer. In that moment they both understood that their family had passed a harsh test after which it would never be the same. It would become different—more honest and, perhaps, much stronger.