To hell with her!” Oksana barked, flinging her handbag onto the shoe shelf in the hallway. Her keys flew to the floor with a metallic jingle.
Artyom poked his head out of the living room, where he’d been watching football. One look at his wife’s face, and he understood at once: yet another meeting with his mother had not gone well.
“What is it this time?” he asked tiredly, turning off the TV.
“What, what!” Oksana angrily yanked off her boots, almost losing her balance. “Your precious mommy has been ‘educating’ me again! In the middle of the store! In front of everyone!”
She straightened up, her face burning with rage and humiliation.
“Can you imagine, she comes up to me in the line and starts: ‘Oksanochka, what kind of dress is that? Too short, not for your age!’” Oksana mimicked her mother-in-law, exaggerating her intonations. “And then she tells the cashier I’m her daughter-in-law and says young people these days have completely lost all sense of decency!”
Artyom cringed inside. His mother really did love making remarks at the worst possible moment.
“And I am not going to obey your mother, she’s a stranger to me!” Oksana went on, getting more and more worked up. “She’s got a husband and a son, let her boss them around!”
Artyom sighed heavily. This conversation repeated itself every week like a broken record. His mother really did love giving advice, especially to Oksana. And his wife, proud and independent by nature, exploded every time.
“Oksan, she doesn’t mean any harm…”
“Doesn’t mean any harm?!” Oksana spun her whole body toward him, hands planted on her hips. “She told me outright I cook soup wrong, that I clean the apartment slapdash, and yesterday she even hinted it’s about time I gave her some grandchildren!”
Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Heavy, even ones. Artyom recognized his father’s gait.
“Tema, you home?” came the familiar voice of Ivan Viktorovich.
Oksana went pale. Her father-in-law hadn’t come alone—behind him loomed the imposing figure of Liliya Vasilyevna in her usual dark blue suit. A woman accustomed to being in charge. She had worked as a school deputy head for thirty years, and the habit of managing people had soaked into her to the bone.
“Hello,” Oksana said dryly, not moving from where she stood.
“Oksanochka,” Liliya Vasilyevna walked into the kitchen, running an appraising eye over everything. “I brought you a pilaf recipe. Remember you said it never turns out right for you? Well, the secret is that…”
“Liliya Vasilyevna,” Oksana interrupted her, her voice edged with cold steel. “My pilaf is wonderful. Artyom loves it. Don’t you, dear?”
Artyom felt the ground slipping from under his feet. A war was flaring up again between the two most important women in his life. And as always, he was stuck in the middle.
Liliya Vasilyevna raised an eyebrow—the same gesture that used to make lazy students tremble.
“Of course, Oksanochka. I just wanted to share my experience. I’ve been cooking for forty years, and you…” She paused meaningfully. “…are still learning.”
Oksana clenched her fists. As a child she’d been the youngest in the family, and everyone was always lecturing her. Now, at thirty-two, she had no intention of putting up with that from a stranger, even if that stranger was her husband’s mother.
“Learning?” she repeated in a dangerously quiet voice. “Maybe it’s you who needs to learn to accept that your son has grown up and started his own family.”
Ivan Viktorovich shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. He knew his wife’s character very well—Liliya never backed down first. And he’d also had time to get to know Oksana in three years. The girl reminded him of a young version of his own wife—just as principled and unbending.
“Girls, maybe let’s not…” he began.
“What ‘girls’, Ivan Viktorovich,” Oksana cut him off. “I’m a married woman. And in my own home I have the right to cook the way I see fit.”
Artyom saw his mother tense. Her lips pressed into a thin line—a sure sign that a storm was coming.
“In your own home…” Liliya Vasilyevna slowly repeated. “Interesting. And who bought this apartment? Who paid the down payment?”
The blow landed right on target. Oksana flared up like a match.
“Oh, so now we’re bringing up money!” She turned to Artyom. “See? That’s her real face! ‘Help with your living conditions!’”
“No one’s throwing anything in your face,” his mother-in-law objected. “I just think that gratitude…”
“Gratitude?” Oksana laughed, but the laugh came out bitter. “For what? For meddling in our life? For calling every day and criticizing us?”
At that moment the front door slammed in the apartment. A familiar voice rang out:
“Hey, family! I’ve come to visit!”
Ilya. The younger son, his mother’s favorite. The one she always compared to his older brother.
Oksana groaned inwardly. One more witness to the family drama. Ilya appeared in the kitchen doorway—tall, smiling, a bouquet of flowers in his hands.
“Oh, Mom’s already here!” he said cheerfully. “I was just going to talk to you…” Ilya fell silent, sensing the tension in the air. “Did something happen?”
“Nothing special,” Liliya Vasilyevna replied with a tight smile. “We were just discussing housekeeping.”
“Discussing,” Oksana echoed. “That’s what you call it—discussing.”
Ilya looked questioningly at his brother. Artyom only spread his hands helplessly.
“Mom, remember you promised to teach me how to make your signature Olivier salad?” Ilya tried to change the subject. “I want to impress everyone for New Year’s…”
“Of course, sweetheart!” Liliya brightened immediately. “Write down the recipe. The main thing is homemade mayonnaise, not store-bought…”
Oksana watched this scene and felt herself boiling inside. There it was—the obvious difference in attitude. With the younger son it was “sweetheart,” a willingness to share recipes. With the daughter-in-law—criticism and lectures.
“How sweet,” she couldn’t help saying. “With me you shove your advice down my throat, and with Ilya you happily share them.”
Liliya turned to her.
“Ilya is my son. He asks for help instead of snapping at every word.”
“Mom!” Artyom said warningly.
But it was too late. Oksana snatched the car keys from the table.
“That’s it. I’m leaving. You sort things out with your mommy yourselves.”
“Oksan, wait…”
But she was already racing to the door. It slammed shut behind her, and a heavy silence settled over the kitchen.
Ivan Viktorovich was the first to break it.
“Lilya, maybe you really shouldn’t…”
“Shouldn’t what?” his wife flared up. “Worry about my son? Worry that he married a hysteric?”
“She’s not hysterical, Mom,” Artyom said quietly. “She’s just… proud.”
“Proud,” Liliya snorted. “And I suppose I’m not proud? I’ve lived with your father for forty years, raised two children, and never said a word out of turn to anyone!”
“Mom, you know perfectly well what you’re like,” Ilya cut in, trying to defuse the situation. “You’re our general in a skirt. And Oksana isn’t exactly a piece of cake either—her temper is like…”
“Like who’s?” Artyom asked menacingly.
“Come on, bro, don’t get mad. I didn’t mean anything. It’s just that she and Mom are two of a kind. Both born commanders.”
Liliya pursed her lips. There was some truth in her younger son’s words, but she had no intention of admitting it.
“I’m not commanding anyone. I just want my son to be happy.”
“And he is happy,” Artyom objected. “Until you start…”
He didn’t finish, but everyone understood.
Outside, an engine started—Oksana was driving away. Artyom rushed to the window, but it was too late. The red Mazda was already turning the corner.
Where would she go? To her friend Marina? To her parents? Artyom frantically tried to think. She’d had a falling-out with Marina a month ago over some nonsense. Her parents lived in another city…
The phone rang. Artyom grabbed it.
“Oksan?”
“Not Oksan,” an unfamiliar male voice said. “This is from the auto repair shop. Your wife’s been in a minor accident…”
The world tilted. Artyom grabbed the wall for support.
“What… how… is she alive?”
“She is, don’t worry. Just some light bruises. But the car’s taken a hit. Please come to this address…”
Artyom wrote down the address with a trembling hand. Liliya went pale.
“What happened?”
“An accident. I’m going.” He grabbed his jacket.
“We’re coming with you,” said his father.
“And I am too,” Ilya added.
Only Liliya remained standing in the middle of the kitchen, clutching the pilaf recipe in her hands.
Oksana sat on a chair in the reception area of the repair shop, pressing an ice pack to her bruised shoulder. Her face was pale, her gaze distant.
When Artyom appeared in the doorway, she lifted her eyes. And in them he saw not only the pain from the bruises, but something else. Resolve.
“How are you?” he rushed to her.
“Alive.” Her voice was flat, emotionless.
“What happened?”
“I was driving, crying. Didn’t notice I was running a red light…” She shrugged and winced at the pain.
Artyom carefully pulled her into a hug, trying not to hurt her.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for me, for Mom…”
“Artyom,” she stepped away and looked him straight in the eyes. “I need to tell you something.”
“Of course. Go ahead.”
“But not here. At home. When we’re alone.”
He nodded, not understanding what lay behind her calm tone. But something inside told him: this day would change their life forever.
An hour later they were still dealing with paperwork at the shop. Oksana stayed silent, giving brief answers to the mechanic’s questions. Artyom filled out forms, stealing glances at his wife.
“Let’s go home,” he said when all the formalities were done. “You need to rest.”
They drove in silence. Oksana stared out the window; Artyom drummed nervously on the steering wheel. The words she wanted to say were hanging between them like an invisible wall.
At home they found a surprise. A suitcase and a travel bag were standing in the hallway.
“What’s this?” Artyom asked.
“My things,” Oksana answered calmly, walking past him into the living room.
“What do you mean, your things?”
She sat down in an armchair, wincing from the pain in her shoulder, and looked at him intently.
“Artyom, I’m leaving.”
The words hung in the air like a bolt from the blue. Artyom dropped onto the couch opposite.
“Because of today’s fight? Oksan, that’s ridiculous…”
“Not because of today. Because of three years of daily humiliation.” Her voice was steady, without hysteria. “Because every time, you choose her, not me.”
“I don’t choose anyone! I’m just trying to keep the peace in the family!”
“Peace?” She gave a bitter smile. “What peace, Artyom? Your mother thinks I’m not a suitable match for her son. She repeats it every time we meet, just in different words.”
“She’ll get used to you…”
“She hasn’t in three years. And she never will.” Oksana stood up and went to the window. “And you know what hurts most? That you understand her. You also think I don’t measure up to your standards.”
“That’s not true!”
“It is, Artyom. When she criticizes my cooking—you stay silent. When she comments on how I look—you make excuses for her. When she hints about kids—you nod along.”
Artyom stared at his wife, bewildered. Had he really been like that? Had he really failed to see how much it hurt her all those years?
“I thought you’d eventually find common ground…”
“We’re too different. And most importantly—she doesn’t want to accept me as I am. And you aren’t ready to stand up for me.”
Just then the phone rang. “Mom” flashed on the screen.
Oksana looked at her husband.
“Answer it. She’s probably worried about her precious son.”
Artyom hesitated, then rejected the call.
“Oksan, let’s talk calmly. What exactly happened in the store today?”
She went back to the armchair and leaned tiredly against the back.
“I was buying groceries. Ran into your mother by chance. She immediately gave me the once-over from head to toe. Then she said my dress was too bright for a married woman. That I should dress more modestly, more respectably.”
“And what did you say?”
“What could I say? That I’m thirty-two, not fifty? That I have the right to wear what I like?” Her voice trembled. “She looked at me like… like something indecent.”
Artyom closed his eyes. His mother really could be very blunt in her judgments. Especially when it came to “decency” and “proper behavior.”
“And then she told the cashier: ‘This is my daughter-in-law. Young people nowadays have no idea what’s appropriate to wear in public.’” Oksana clenched her fists. “Can you imagine how ashamed I felt?”
The phone rang again. His mother, once more.
“Pick up,” Oksana said quietly. “Tell her about the accident. Let her know what she’s driven me to.”
Artyom hit “decline” again.
“No. First you and I need to sort things out.”
“Sort things out?” Anger crept back into her voice. “What is there to sort out, Artyom? For three years I’ve put up with her rudeness, and you pretend nothing is happening!”
“I don’t pretend…”
“You do! Every time she humiliates me, you find some excuse for her. ‘She’s worried,’ ‘she means well,’ ‘she’s used to being in charge.’ But you don’t think about how much it hurts me!”
Oksana got up and paced the room, her movements sharp and agitated.
“And today, in the car, when I was crying and didn’t notice the red light… you know what I was thinking?”
Artyom shook his head.
“That it’d be better to crash than to keep feeling like an outsider in my own family every day.”
“Oksan!..” He jumped up and tried to hug her.
“Don’t.” She pulled away. “I’ve already decided. I’m going to my sister’s in Moscow. For a while. We need a break.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know. Maybe a month. Maybe forever.”
The word “forever” hit Artyom like a slap.
“Oksan, but we love each other…”
“We do. But that’s not enough.” She lifted tear-filled eyes to his. “Love isn’t enough when one person constantly has to sacrifice their dignity for the sake of ‘peace in the family.’”
The phone rang a third time. This time Artyom answered.
“Mom, not now…”
“Sonny, what’s wrong? You sound strange! Why didn’t you answer before?”
“We’ve got problems. Serious ones.”
“What problems? Something with Oksana?”
Artyom looked at his wife. She stood by the window, arms wrapped around herself.
“Yes, Mom. With Oksana. And with me. And with all of us.”
“I don’t understand…”
“Oksana wants to leave me. Because of what you did today in the store.”
Silence. Then:
“What did I do? I didn’t do anything! I just made a remark…”
“Mom, you humiliated her in front of strangers.”
“Artyom, I’m your mother! I have the right…”
“No!” For the first time in three years, he raised his voice at his mother. “You do not have the right to humiliate my wife!”
Oksana turned around, staring at him in surprise.
“How can you talk to me like that?” Liliya exclaimed.
“The same way you talk to my wife.” Artyom felt something flip inside him. “Mom, Oksana is packing her suitcase. Do you understand? She’s leaving me.”
“And she’s right to! If she really loved you, she wouldn’t leave over such nonsense…”
“This isn’t nonsense!” Artyom shouted. “It’s three years of constant humiliation! Three years of me staying silent and letting you trample the person I love!”
Oksana looked at him wide-eyed. She’d never seen this Artyom before.
“Artyom, what’s gotten into you?” his mother asked, bewildered.
“Into me? Nothing. I’ve just finally realized I’m choosing my wife. Not my mother.”
“How can you…”
“Easily. Mom, I love you. But if you don’t learn to respect Oksana, you won’t see me or the grandchildren you’re so eagerly waiting for.”
“Artyom!” Liliya gasped.
“That’s it, Mom. We’ll talk when you’ve calmed down.”
He hung up and turned to his wife.
“Oksan…”
She was crying—not from grief, but from relief.
“Did you really choose me?”
He hugged her, pulling her close.
“Forgive me for taking so long to figure it out. Forgive me for letting her…”
“Shh,” she whispered. “What matters is that you’ve understood now.”
“Can we unpack the suitcase?”
Oksana pulled back and looked into his eyes.
“And are you really ready to fall out with your mother because of me?”
“Not because of you. For us. For our marriage.”
She nodded.
“Then yes. We can unpack.”
But there were still many trials ahead of them. Liliya had no intention of surrendering without a fight. And in family wars, as you know, there are no winners—only survivors.
The next morning, Artyom woke to the sound of a key turning in the lock. Oksana was still asleep, her back pressed against him. Yesterday’s phone call with his mother still throbbed dully in his temples.
“Tema!” came a loud whisper from the hallway. “You home?”
Ilya.
Artyom carefully slid out from under the blanket, threw on his robe, and went out to his brother.
“What are you doing here so early?”
“Mom didn’t sleep all night,” Ilya looked worried. “She was crying. Says you’ve disowned her. That you chose a stranger over your own mother.”
Artyom rubbed his forehead. It had begun.
“She’s not a stranger. She’s my wife.”
“Tem, what are you doing? Mom’s old already. She’s got a bad heart. And you upset her like that…”
“And who’s been upsetting Oksana for three years straight?”
“That’s different! Oksana’s young, healthy, she’ll cope. But Mom…”
“Ilya,” Artyom sat at the table and looked at his brother wearily. “Mom is not a fragile vase. She’s a grown woman who knows how to answer for her words.”
“But she doesn’t mean anything bad! She just worries about you!”
“Worry doesn’t give you the right to insult people.”
Ilya made tea and set two mugs on the table.
“Listen, maybe you should talk to Oksana? Ask her to apologize to Mom…”
“For what?” Artyom nearly choked on his tea.
“Well, for being rude… for snapping at her…”
“Ilya, were you in the store yesterday? Did you hear what happened?”
“No, but Mom told me…”
“Mom told you her version. I’m going to believe my wife.”
His brother shook his head.
“Tema, you’re destroying the family over women’s whims.”
“I’m preserving my family. And there’s only one person here throwing tantrums.”
Oksana appeared in the doorway, in her robe, hair tousled, eyes still sleepy.
“Good morning,” she said softly to Ilya.
“Morning,” he replied curtly.
Oksana poured herself some water and stood by the window. The silence grew awkward.
“Oksan,” Ilya finally spoke. “Maybe you should talk to Mom? She’s really upset…”
“And I’m not upset?” she turned around. “I’ve been upset for three years.”
“Well, you’re both grown women! Can’t you sort it out somehow?”
“Sort it out?” Oksana gave a bitter smile. “And how exactly are we supposed to ‘sort it out’, Ilya? By agreeing that I should tolerate being treated like dirt? That at thirty-two I must report to my mother-in-law about every purchase?”
“Mom just wants you to be a worthy wife…”
“Worthy?” Oksana’s voice went dangerously quiet. “And who decides if I’m worthy or not? Your mom?”
Artyom got up and walked over to his wife.
“Ilya, that’s enough. Stay out of this.”
“How can I stay out? I see the family falling apart!”
“The family has been falling apart for three years. No one wanted to notice.”
“Tem, are you really ready to fall out with your parents because of her?”
“Because of her?” Artyom flared up. “Ilya, she’s my wife! The woman I plan to spend my entire life with! And you all treat her like a temporary inconvenience!”
“Don’t shout!”
“I will shout! I’m tired of this!” Artyom felt a wave of anger rising. “I’m sick of hearing about ‘poor old Mom’! Mom’s not old, Ilya! She’s fifty-four, a healthy, active woman who’s just used to bossing everyone around!”
“Tee-ma!”
“And if she doesn’t learn to respect my family, then she can live alone with her principles!”
Ilya set his mug down and stood up.
“Fine. I see there’s no talking sense into you. Your wife’s brainwashed you.”
“Ilya,” Artyom said warningly.
“What? I’m just telling the truth! For three years you were a normal man, and now you’re snapping at your own mother!”
“Get out!” Artyom roared, pointing at the door.
Ilya snorted.
“Kicking me out too. Fine, I’m going. But just so you know—Mom’s in bed now. Her blood pressure’s through the roof. Dad called a doctor.”
He left, slamming the door. Oksana walked over and put her arms around her husband’s shoulders.
“Don’t blame yourself,” she said quietly. “This is emotional blackmail.”
“What if she really is unwell?”
“Artyom, look at me.” She cupped his face in her hands. “If we give in to this kind of manipulation every time, we’ll never have a life of our own.”
The phone rang. Dad.
“Artyom,” Ivan’s voice sounded tired. “Come over. Mom’s in the hospital.”
His heart skipped a beat.
“What happened?”
“Hypertensive crisis. Blood pressure almost two hundred. The doctors say it’s stress.”
Artyom closed his eyes. Oksana squeezed his hand.
“We’ll be there,” he said.
“Better if you come alone,” his father said quietly. “She… she doesn’t want to see Oksana.”
“Then none of us will come.”
“Son…”
“Dad, either we come together, or no one comes. Oksana is my wife. And if Mom won’t accept that, she can be treated on her own.”
There was a long pause.
“All right,” Ivan said at last. “Come.”
The hospital corridor smelled of disinfectant and medicine. Liliya lay in the intensive care ward, pale, an IV in her arm. When she saw her daughter-in-law, she turned her face to the wall.
“Mom, how are you?” Artyom walked up to the bed.
“Wonderful,” she answered dryly without turning her head. “My son chose his wife over his mother, my health is excellent.”
“Liliya Vasilyevna,” Oksana stepped forward. “I’m very sorry it turned out like this.”
“Don’t,” the older woman cut her off. “Don’t pretend.”
“I’m not pretending. I really am sorry.”
Liliya finally turned her head and looked at her daughter-in-law.
“Sorry? Were you sorry yesterday when you called me a stranger?”
“Yesterday I was in pain. And I said what I really felt.”
“Oh, what you really felt!” Liliya tried to sit up. “And what you felt was that an old fool is getting in the way of your happiness!”
“Mom, lie down,” Artyom gently pushed her back to the pillow.
“Don’t ‘Mom’ me! You’ve made your choice!”
“Liliya Vasilyevna,” Oksana spoke again. “May I say a few words?”
Her mother-in-law snorted contemptuously but stayed silent.
“I don’t think you’re an old fool. And I don’t want to take your son away from you. It’s just…” Oksana searched for the right words. “It’s hard to constantly feel like I’m wrong. Like I don’t fit.”
“And who said you do fit?”
“Artyom did. He chose me. Not you, not me—he did.”
Liliya was silent, digesting what she’d heard.
“And if you want to see your son happy,” Oksana continued, “then accept his choice. You don’t have to love me. But could you at least tolerate me?”
“Tolerate…” her mother-in-law repeated slowly.
“Yes. For Artyom’s sake. For the family.”
Liliya closed her eyes. The ward was quiet except for the beeping of the monitors.
“All right,” she said at last. “We’ll try. But on one condition.”
“What condition?”
“You’ll tolerate me too. My remarks, my advice. You won’t snap back like you did yesterday.”
Oksana glanced at her husband. Artyom gave a barely noticeable nod.
“Deal,” she said. “But please try to… tone it down a bit. I’m not your student and not your daughter. I’m a grown woman.”
“We’ll see,” Liliya muttered.
It wasn’t reconciliation. It was a truce. But for a start, it was enough.
As they left the hospital, Artyom took his wife’s hand.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For agreeing to try.”
“Did I have a choice?” She smiled faintly. “She’s your mom. And if we’re going to be together, we have to learn how to live with her.”
“And if we can’t?”
Oksana stopped and looked him in the eyes.
“We will. We have to. Because now I know—you’re on my side.”
And that was already a lot.
But the truce lasted exactly two weeks.
It all began with a phone call at seven on a Saturday morning.
“Artyom, you come here immediately!” Liliya’s voice was as imperious as in her best vice-principal days. “I bought you some presents, you need to come pick them up!”
“Mom, it’s Saturday, we’re still asleep…”
“And I’ve been up for two hours already! I was at the store first thing in the morning, doing something for you!”
Oksana opened one eye, looked at the clock, and groaned into her pillow. Artyom stroked her back.
“Mom, we’ll come after lunch, okay?”
“I’ve got things to do after lunch! Come now, while I’m free!”
“But we agreed…”
“We agreed I’d be quieter, not that I’d have to ask that… that Oksana’s permission to see my own son!”
Artyom sat up in bed. Oksana did the same when she heard the familiar tone.
“Mom, we agreed on mutual respect. Both ways.”
“She’s the one who doesn’t respect me! I ran into her at the pharmacy yesterday, and she didn’t even greet me properly! Just nodded and walked past!”
“Mom, I was on a business trip, I don’t know what happened…”
“Well, I do!” Her voice grew shriller. “She thinks that now you’ve taken her side, she can ignore me! That she can walk around with her nose in the air!”
Oksana rolled her eyes and went to the bathroom. Artyom heard the shower turn on—loudly, demonstratively.
“Mom, can we talk this evening? Calmly…”
“It’ll be too late in the evening! I demand that you come right now! And that your wife apologizes for her behavior yesterday!”
“What behavior?”
“For walking past me like I was a lamppost! For not even asking how I felt after the hospital!”
Artyom rubbed his temples. The headache was getting worse.
“Mom, I’m not going to demand that my wife apologize because she didn’t put on a performance of joyful reunion in the pharmacy.”
“So you’re not coming?”
“I’ll come. But not now. And not for any apologies.”
“Then don’t come at all!” Liliya slammed the phone down.
Oksana came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel.
“Again?”
“Again. Now you greeted her ‘wrong’ at the pharmacy.”
“Artyom, I didn’t see her at the pharmacy at all. I was there the day before yesterday, buying vitamins. If she was there, I didn’t notice.”
“And she thinks you ignored her.”
Oksana sat down on the bed and sighed.
“Do you understand what’s happening? She’s looking for excuses. On purpose.”
“Why?”
“To prove that I’m bad, ungrateful, disrespectful. To make you realize your ‘mistake’ and choose her.”
Artyom stayed silent. Deep down, he knew his wife was right.
“What are we going to do?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t.”
The phone rang again. This time it was Ilya.
“Tema, what have you done? Mom’s sobbing, says you’ve finally abandoned her! That you chose some stranger over your own mother!”
“Ilya, Mom demanded we come over at seven in the morning on a Saturday…”
“So what? You couldn’t go?”
“We could. But not under orders. And not so my wife could apologize for imaginary offenses.”
“What offenses?”
“Ask Mom. She’ll tell it better.”
“Tem, you realize this is heading for a complete break? Mom says she won’t call you anymore. That if you chose some strange woman…”
“Stop!” Artyom snapped. “Call my wife a ‘strange woman’ one more time and I’ll punch you, brother or not.”
“What’s wrong with you all?” Ilya asked, genuinely confused.
“There’s nothing wrong with us. We just want a normal life. And they won’t let us.”
“But we’re family!”
“Yeah, family. My family is me and Oksana. Everyone else is relatives. And if relatives are destroying the family, you have to choose.”
Artyom hung up and looked at his wife.
“Oksan, I’ve made a decision.”
“What decision?”
“We’re moving. To another city.”
She stared at him in surprise.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. I have a job offer in St. Petersburg. A good one. I never considered it because I didn’t want to leave Mom. But now…”
“What about your parents? Your brother?”
“Oksan, I’ve spent thirty-five years trying to be a good son. Now I want to be a happy husband.”
She hugged him.
“Are you sure? You won’t regret it later?”
“I won’t. You know why? Because Mom made her own choice. I offered her peace—she chose war. I tried to compromise—she demanded my surrender.”
“And what will we tell everyone?”
“The truth. That we’re moving because we want a fresh start. Without daily fights and reproaches.”
A month later they were packing the last boxes. Liliya never called—not once. Apparently she was waiting for her son to come crawling back. Ilya came by a couple of times, trying to talk them into staying, but it was no use.
Ivan came to see them off on the last day.
“I’m sorry it turned out this way,” he said, hugging his son.
“Dad, try talking to her. Explain that a mother’s love isn’t control. And not possession.”
“I’ll try. But you know what she’s like…”
“I do. That’s why I’m leaving.”
Oksana came up to her father-in-law.
“Ivan Viktorovich, I’m sorry it’s come to this.”
“Don’t apologize, girl. Lilka brought this on herself. She just… she’s afraid of being no longer needed. Her whole life she’s been in charge of someone—students first, then her kids. And now the kids are grown, and she doesn’t know who to be.”
“Maybe just a grandma?” Oksana said quietly. “A kind, loving grandma?”
“Maybe. When the grandchildren come—maybe she’ll understand.”
“They will,” Oksana smiled. “They definitely will.”
St. Petersburg greeted them with rain and a gray sky, but their mood was sunny. A small apartment in the center, work they liked, and most importantly—peace and quiet. No one called day and night, no one lectured, no one criticized.
Six months later, Oksana told her husband she was pregnant.
“Now we really do need to make peace with your parents,” she said. “A child needs grandparents.”
“He does. But not at any cost.”
“What if we call them? Tell them the news?”
Artyom thought for a moment, then took out his phone and dialed.
“Mom? It’s Artyom. Yes, from Petersburg. We have news… you’re going to be a grandmother.”
Silence. Then:
“When?”
“In four months.”
“And what do you want from me?”
“Nothing, Mom. Just letting you know.”
Another pause.
“Can I… can I come see my grandchild?”
“You can. If you behave yourself.”
“I will. I promise.”
“Then come. We’ll be glad to see you.”
When he hung up, Oksana asked:
“Do you believe she’ll change?”
“I want to believe it. The grandmother instinct is strong. Maybe for the baby’s sake she’ll learn to be just a grandma, not a commander.”
“And if not?”
“Then we’ll raise our child without a toxic grandmother. Not the worst option.”
Oksana nodded. They sat on the couch, her head on his shoulder, his hand stroking her barely noticeable bump.
“You know what matters most?” she said.
“What?”
“That you chose me. Really chose me. And now I know—whatever happens, we’ll handle it. Together.”
“Together,” Artyom agreed.
It was raining outside, but their little apartment was warm and cozy. They were starting a new life—their own, without other people’s rules and orders. And it felt wonderful.
Liliya did come when her grandson was born. She behaved herself, hardly criticized at all, even helped with the baby. But after a week she couldn’t hold back and started giving advice—how to feed him, how to swaddle him, how to raise him.
“Mom,” Artyom said then, “you have a choice. Either you’re just a loving grandma who comes to visit. Or you don’t come at all.”
She chose the first option. Not right away, not without a struggle—but she chose it. And that was already a victory.
You don’t get to choose your family. But you do get to choose how you deal with them. And Artyom had finally learned how to make the right choice