— Son, throw her out of the apartment before it’s too late. She’s ruining your life!
Marina froze behind the door. Her mother-in-law’s voice carried clearly from the bedroom—Andrei had put the call on speaker. Marina pressed her back to the hallway wall, afraid to so much as breathe.
— Mom… — Andrei answered wearily. The bed creaked—he was turning onto his other side.
— What “Mom”?! Look at what you’ve become. Where are your ambitions? Your career?
Marina’s heart thudded so loudly she was sure her husband could hear it. Outside, the night sea roared; wind tugged at the curtains through the half-open window. In her hands she was holding a tray with tea and cookies, which she’d meant to bring to Andrei.
“Ruining? Me? After everything I’ve done for him?” The thought burned.
Silently, she set the tray down on the dresser and listened. Andrei replied in a low voice, but she couldn’t make out the words. Marina stepped back, careful not to make the floorboard creak, and went to the kitchen.
Five years earlier they’d met at a charity concert in an old community hall. Marina was photographing the performances for the local newspaper—unpaid, purely out of love for it. Andrei was setting up the sound system, muttering under his breath at the ancient equipment. When the microphone shrieked for the third time, she couldn’t help laughing. He turned around—rumpled, in a wrinkled T-shirt with a radio station logo.
— Funny?
— Sorry. It’s just… you’re talking to it so sincerely, like it’s alive.
By the end of the night they were drinking coffee from plastic cups on the steps outside.
A year later they married and moved into Andrei’s seaside apartment—three rooms, high ceilings, big windows. Marina transformed the place: hung light linen curtains, set her photos in driftwood frames, filled glass jars with shells and pebbles. The apartment came alive, breathing sea and sun.
— Who called? — Marina asked when Andrei came out of the bedroom.
— Mom.
— And what were you talking about? About how I’m no good? — The words burst out before she could stop them.
Andrei rubbed the bridge of his nose—a gesture that meant he was tired and didn’t want a fight.
— Marin, don’t start. Mom’s just… old-school.
“Old-school”—that’s how he always excused Zinaida Sergeyevna. A former math teacher, she never missed a chance to hint that her son could’ve found a better wife. More educated. Better off. Without those “artistic quirks.”
Marina worked from home. She turned one of the rooms into a studio, making pictures out of sea stones she collected on morning walks along the shore. Her work sold well online, especially in summer when tourists were hunting for unique souvenirs.
Andrei worked as a sound engineer at a local radio station. The job drained him—live broadcasts, editing, endless revisions. He often came home exhausted, but Marina met him with dinner and warm hugs.
Zinaida Sergeyevna lived in the next district, twenty minutes away. She came every weekend “to check on her son.” Each visit became an ordeal for Marina. The mother-in-law never criticized her directly, but her remarks were like thin needles:
— Interesting soup, Marinochka. I usually use less salt, but of course it’s a matter of taste.
— Oh, these little stones of yours are everywhere! Andryusha must be tripping over them by now.
— It’s good you have a hobby. It’s just a shame Andryusha has to carry the family all by himself.
That last one hurt most. Marina earned good money from her art—sometimes, in season, even more than Andrei. But to Zinaida Sergeyevna it wasn’t “real work.”
Andrei tried to smooth things over, but he never openly defended his wife. “Mom doesn’t mean harm—she’s just used to controlling everything,” he would say. Marina nodded and smiled, but resentment piled up inside.
After that night when Marina overheard the phone call, her world tilted. She didn’t know what Andrei had answered his mother, but his silence felt like betrayal. Why hadn’t he pushed back right away? Why hadn’t he protected her?
In the morning Andrei acted as usual—kissed her cheek, poured coffee, asked about her plans for the day. Marina replied in short phrases, avoiding his eyes. A cold wariness moved into her, like sea fog seeping into every crack.
She stopped telling him about new orders. She didn’t show him sketches. She didn’t share the joy of finding the perfect stone on the beach, the color of a sunset sky. In the evenings, when Andrei reached for her in bed, she turned away and blamed exhaustion.
— Are you okay? — he asked, genuine concern in his voice.
— I’m fine, — she said, pulling the blanket up to her chin.
But nothing was fine. Now she weighed every word he said, hunting for hidden meaning. When he praised her dinner, she thought he was pitying her. When he offered to help with her pictures, she heard it as a hint she couldn’t manage on her own.
“If he’s really on my side, I’ll see it,” Marina decided.
She watched him more closely. How did he answer his mother’s calls? What did they talk about? Did he mention Marina?
Andrei felt the change. His wife—usually warm and open like the summer sea—had become cold and distant. He tried to understand what had happened, replaying the last few days in his mind, but couldn’t find an answer.
A week passed. The atmosphere at home grew heavier by the day. Marina moved through chores and orders on autopilot, but the joy of creating was gone. In her hands stones no longer became birds and flowers—only cold patterns.
On Thursday evening, Andrei finally snapped. He found her in the studio, sitting over an unfinished piece.
— Marina, what’s going on? — his voice trembled. — You’re not with me. It’s like you went somewhere far away and I can’t reach you.
She looked up, and the pain in her eyes made his chest tighten.
— Everything’s fine, — she repeated, like a memorized line.
— No, it’s not! — Andrei crouched beside her. — Please, tell me what I did wrong. How do I fix it?
Marina opened her mouth to answer, but at that moment the doorbell rang.
Zinaida Sergeyevna stood on the threshold with a bag of groceries.
— I decided to stop by. Brought you some proper homemade cutlets, — she announced, walking in without being invited. — Well, did you at least clean up today?
Marina turned around in silence and went to the bedroom. She heard Andrei trying to explain something, heard his mother’s indignant voice about her daughter-in-law’s “strange behavior,” but the words blurred into a dull hum.
She sat on the bed and clutched her head in her hands. The tears she’d been holding back all week spilled out in a rush—quiet, bitter, full of disappointment and exhaustion.
Half an hour later the bedroom door cracked open. Andrei peeked in and saw his wife—still in the same pose, only the tears had dried, leaving tracks on her cheeks.
— Mom left, — he said softly. — Marina, please… talk to me.
Andrei sat beside her on the bed. For a while they were silent. Outside, the sea murmured—an eternal, soothing sound.
— I know you heard that conversation, — he finally said. — Last Thursday, when Mom called.
Marina flinched and looked at him with wide eyes.
— But you don’t know what I answered, — Andrei continued, meeting her gaze. — And it’s my fault I didn’t tell you right away.
— I thought you agreed with her, — Marina’s voice shook. — I thought you also believed I’m ruining your life.
Andrei shook his head and took her hands in his.
— I told Mom that if she ever says something like that again, I’ll limit contact with her. I told her you’re the best thing that ever happened to me. That your stone pictures are real art, not a “hobby.” That you make beauty out of things other people don’t even notice.
Marina stared at him, not trusting her ears.
— I’m tired of her humiliating you, — Andrei went on. — Tired of making excuses for the fact that we’re happy. You’re my family, Marina. My real family. And I should’ve protected you a long time ago.
Tears rolled down Marina’s cheeks again, but now they were tears of relief.
— I should’ve told you immediately, — Andrei said, picking at the edge of the blanket. — The moment I hung up.
— And I shouldn’t have let distrust… — Marina shook her head. — I spent three days winding myself up. Imagining you and her discussing everything that’s wrong with me.
Marina wrapped her arms around her husband and buried her face in his shoulder. He smelled of sea salt and coffee—familiar, home.
— Forgive me, — she whispered. — I should’ve asked instead of imagining the worst.
— And you forgive me, too. For not being honest enough.
They talked until dawn—about fears and doubts, about piled-up hurts and unsaid feelings. They agreed not to hide their emotions anymore. If something wounds you—say it right away. If you need support—ask for it. Andrei admitted he’d always admired his wife’s strength, how she never answered his mother’s barbs, keeping her dignity.
— I thought you didn’t care, — he said. — I thought you were above it.
— It hurt, — Marina answered. — Every single time. But I didn’t want to put you in an awkward position.
— Never. Hear me? Never again.
She squeezed his hand.
— We need clear boundaries with your mom. We’ll set them together.
— Agreed. No more surprise visits. And no comments about our life.
The next morning, for the first time in a week, Marina woke with a light heart. In the kitchen Andrei was frying eggs, whistling an old rock tune.
— I’ve got an idea, — he said, setting breakfast on their plates. — Let’s organize a proper exhibition for you. At the gallery on the promenade. I’ll arrange it through the guys at the station.
Marina set her fork down.
— Seriously?
— Absolutely. We’ll show everyone—Mom included—that your “little stones” are art.
Two weeks later, numbered pieces stood ready in the studio. Andrei helped wrap the pictures in bubble wrap, signed labels. They worked shoulder to shoulder, tossing jokes back and forth.
— You know what? — Marina turned to her husband. — We’ll get through anything.
— I know, — he kissed the top of her head. — Now I know.
March was warm. Marina adjusted the “Open” sign on the glass door of the gallery—a small white-walled space two blocks from the promenade. Her works hung on the walls: sea stones forming lighthouses, ships, gulls above waves.
— Champagne’s here! — Andrei carried in a box of glasses, his radio colleagues following after him.
By seven the gallery was full. Marina explained her technique, showed how she matched stones by shade. Andrei stood by the wall, unable to take his eyes off his wife.
At around eight the door opened. Zinaida Sergeyevna entered hesitantly, looking around. In her hands was a small bouquet of white chrysanthemums.
Marina noticed her and nodded. She didn’t come over right away—she finished speaking with a buyer first.
— Hello, Zinaida Sergeyevna.
— Hello, — her mother-in-law handed her the flowers, then hesitated. — It’s beautiful here… I didn’t think stones could… this one with the lighthouse especially.
There was no familiar nastiness in her voice. Just an older woman trying to find the right words.
— Thank you, — Marina took the bouquet. — Would you like a tour?
Later, when the guests had left, she and Andrei cleared away empty glasses. Marina smiled tiredly.
— I sold three pictures. And your mom came.
— You did great, talking to her.
Marina hugged her husband, resting her cheek against his shoulder. Through the gallery window the sea was visible—calm, dotted with a few lights from fishing boats.
— You know what I was thinking? Love isn’t when everything is smooth. It’s when you go through the hard parts together.
— Wise, — Andrei kissed her temple. — Shall we go home?