“Did you buy those pasta again for a hundred and twenty?” The voice from behind the door sounded as if Yulia had messed something up somewhere. “I told you—in ‘Pokupochka’ they’re eighty-five!”
Yulia froze in the kitchen with the grocery bags—she had only just set them on the table. Her hands were trembling with fatigue, her fingers aching. The workday had wrung her dry, then another hour and a half in a cramped minibus, then stores—and now this.
“Mom, why did you come without calling?” she said flatly, looking at her mother-in-law, who had already settled by the window as if she lived here. “I just got in. I’ve got no strength left.”
“Well, I thought I’d stop by—check how you two are doing.” Her mother-in-law put her bag on the floor and slid on her glasses. “Show me the receipt.”
Yulia bit her lip, but still pulled out the long white strip and placed it in front of her. The older woman drew it closer, squinting, running a finger down the lines.
“So. Milk—one-oh-five. And over at Severny it’s ninety-two! Honestly, Yul, you’re such a spender!” She shook her head like a teacher marking a failing grade. “You clearly don’t understand how to count money.”
Yulia folded her arms, exhausted.
“I don’t have time to run all over the city. I bought it where it was on my way.”
“And that’s why you’re always in a constant scramble!” her mother-in-law lifted her head. “My Volodya works from morning till night, and you… you’re buying yogurts for a hundred and thirty! No need to spoil yourself!”
“I like them,” Yulia answered quietly, trying not to snap.
“Like them, don’t like them…” the woman waved it off. “You shouldn’t be thinking about what you like—you should be thinking about saving every penny. Back in our day…”
“Yes, I know all about your ‘back in our day,’” Yulia blurted out. “Soup for three days, stale bread soaked in water. It’s different times now, Mom.”
“Times may be different, but your common sense should be the same!” her mother-in-law snapped.
Yulia shut the refrigerator a little harder than she needed to. The jars in the door rattled.
A heavy silence hung between them; only the clock ticked.
Her mother-in-law sighed, stood up, and tossed a scarf over her shoulders.
“Fine. Live how you want. Just don’t complain later that you have no money.”
The door slammed. Yulia sank onto a stool. A lump rose in her chest—hurt, irritation, helplessness. She just wanted silence, at least five minutes. But even at home there was neither peace nor warmth.
A month later, in mid-November, there was noise and the smell of frying in her mother-in-law’s kitchen. The whole family had gathered—celebrating her birthday. Yulia came early and helped chop salads while the hostess bustled between the stove and the living room.
“Yulechka, chop the onion finer,” the woman threw over her shoulder. “Men don’t like big pieces of onion.”
Yulia clenched her teeth.
“As you say.”
Her heart felt heavy. She wanted to leave. But she couldn’t—it was a birthday. Besides, her gift was in her bag: a velvet box with gold earrings. She’d saved for six months, setting aside a little at a time—she’d even stopped buying coffee at work.
When everyone had gathered, Yulia stepped up and held out the present.
“Happy birthday, Mom. This is for you.”
Her mother-in-law opened it, glanced briefly, and closed the box.
“Thanks, of course.” And she set it aside as if it were an unnecessary trinket.
At that moment the doorbell rang, and Sveta—her husband’s sister—burst in with her husband and a small bunch of chrysanthemums.
“Mommy! Happy birthday!” she shouted, kissing her mother on both cheeks.
Her mother-in-law beamed like a lightbulb.
“Oh, what wonderful flowers! You always know exactly what I like! Yulenka, put them in water—carefully!”
Yulia took the three pathetic chrysanthemums. Something stabbed in her chest. The earrings cost three times more than all the food on the table, but all the compliments went to Sveta.
At dinner her mother-in-law wouldn’t stop.
“And Sveta and Andrey are such good kids—always attentive, unlike some people…”
Yulia stayed silent. Saying anything would be pointless—just adding fuel to the fire.
“Yul, go to the kitchen and check if the duck’s burning,” her mother-in-law suddenly tossed out.
Even though Sveta was the one sitting closest to the kitchen.
Yulia got up without a word. Behind her came laughter, clinking glasses, chatter. She stood by the stove, staring out the window—snow was pouring down outside. She wanted to run out into the cold, just to breathe in frosty air, anything not to hear that noise.
A couple of weeks later, Aunt Marina—her grandmother’s cousin—called. Her voice trembled, tangled.
“Yulechka… your Grandma Nina… she’s gone,” she said shortly.
Yulia sat for a long time on a chair, staring at one point. Her grandmother had been the only one who always defended her, who always said, “Don’t listen, Yul—live the way it’s comfortable for you.”
That evening she told her husband:
“I need to go.”
“Of course,” Vladimir hugged her. “I’ll go with you. I’ll take a day off.”
But he hadn’t even finished when the phone rang. Mom.
“Volodya,” his mother’s voice in the receiver was commanding, displeased, “where do you think you’re going? You’ve got nothing to do there. That’s not your family. Let Yulia go by herself.”
“Mom, how is it ‘not my family’? It’s my wife’s grandmother,” he answered irritably.
“So what?” she cut him off. “You need to be at work, not driving around strangers’ villages.”
Yulia listened from the other room, and everything inside her tightened. She knew how it would go. His mother would win again.
The next morning, as Yulia was about to leave, the phone rang. Her mother-in-law’s name flashed on the screen.
“Volodyen’ka,” the voice was weak and dragging, “I feel bad… my heart’s stabbing… come, darling, I’m scared…”
He darted around the apartment, grabbing his jacket.
“Yul, I’ll be quick. I just need to see what’s wrong with her.”
Yulia nodded silently. It was clear. She wasn’t sick—she just didn’t want him to go. She’d played that card hundreds of times.
The farewell was quiet, without pomp. Frost bit at her cheeks; people spoke in whispers. Yulia stood by the fresh mound of earth, and her mind was empty. She couldn’t even cry.
She didn’t want to go home. It felt like, in his mother’s apartment, the air turned thick—as if someone invisible stood there, watching, breathing down your neck.
A few days later Vladimir said his mother was offended—that Yulia “didn’t behave the right way.” And now she didn’t want to see them. Yulia only shrugged. Not seeing or hearing her—thank God.
Two weeks after that, Yulia got a call from a notary’s office.
“You need to come in,” a voice said. “Inheritance case for your grandmother.”
When Yulia saw the paperwork, her breath caught. A three-room apartment in the city center. Her grandmother had left it to her.
She stood in the middle of the empty living room: high ceilings, big windows, light. Freedom—real freedom.
“Well then, Grandma…” she whispered. “Now I’m on my own.”
The renovation began almost immediately. Yulia walked through building-supply markets, choosing wallpaper, curtain fabric, a rug—everything carefully, by mood. She wanted a home that reflected her: no control, no чужой голос (someone else’s voice) behind her shoulder.
Vladimir helped reluctantly.
“How much more can you spend?” he grumbled. “We’re already at zero.”
“That’s not ‘we,’” Yulia answered calmly. “That’s my money and my apartment.”
He grimaced, but said nothing.
Three months flew by like a single day. When Yulia finally hung the last curtains—blue, airy, like morning fog—she felt truly calm for the first time in a long while.
But not for long.
The doorbell rang one evening, when the sun was already leaning toward sunset. There she was—her mother-in-law.
“So? You gonna show me your new possessions?” she stepped in without being invited, looking around.
She walked through the rooms, touched the walls, opened cabinets.
“Uh-huh… the curtains are the wrong color. They should be beige—neutral. And the sofa shouldn’t be here; it should be by the window. That’s cozier.”
Yulia stood there with her hands clenched, feeling a wave rise inside—dull, warm, heavy.
“In my apartment, I’ll decide where things go,” she said evenly.
Her mother-in-law turned, eyes narrowing.
“What, you’ve decided to be rude? I only want what’s best for you!”
“Thanks, but no. I’ve had my fill of your ‘best,’” Yulia’s voice trembled, but she didn’t back down.
“How dare you!” her mother-in-law flared. “I treat you like a daughter…”
“Don’t. I had my own grandmother, and I know what a truly close person looks like.”
Silence. Only the clock ticking.
“Leave,” Yulia said softly. “And don’t come without calling.”
Her mother-in-law turned crimson, grabbed her bag, and slammed the door.
After that evening, the silence in the apartment was so thick that even the clock seemed to tick louder than usual. Yulia thought, maybe she could finally breathe for a couple of weeks. But the peace turned out to be short—like a December day.
From then on Vladimir walked around gloomy and quiet. At dinner he poked at his pasta with a fork, not lifting his eyes.
“So—Mom called again?” Yulia asked, even though she already knew.
He didn’t answer right away.
“She’s worried. Says you were rude to her.”
Yulia pushed her plate away.
“And how did you want me to act? Smile and listen while she tells me where to hang my curtains?”
“She didn’t mean it badly…” he dragged out, avoiding her gaze.
“Of course she didn’t,” Yulia gave a short laugh. “She just needs everyone to live ‘the right way.’ And ‘the right way’ is only her way.”
He sighed, rubbed his forehead.
“Yul, she’s my mother. It’s hard for her, she’s getting older…”
“It’s not hard for her, Volodya. It’s hard for her when nobody obeys.”
He fell silent. Then he said quietly:
“She still wants to come over.”
Yulia turned her back to him, clearing the table.
“Let her come. Only without lectures.”
A week later her mother-in-law showed up. As if nothing had happened—carrying a bag of mandarins.
“Hello,” she said, coming in like the owner. “Well, here I am—peacefully.”
Yulia forced a smile.
“Come in.”
For the first half hour everything was calm. Tea, small talk about the weather, sugar prices, TV. It was almost… normal. Yulia even started to relax. But, as usual, it didn’t last.
“Yulia,” her mother-in-law suddenly said, looking around the kitchen, “why do you have the salt shaker on the table? It should be in the cupboard. It’s more proper that way.”
Yulia froze with her cup in her hand.
“It’s convenient for me when it’s within reach.”
“It’s not convenient!” the woman snorted. “With normal people everything is neat—nothing unnecessary left out in plain sight.”
“‘Normal people’—who exactly?” Yulia asked calmly.
“All normal people,” her mother-in-law emphasized.
Yulia set the cup down on the saucer.
“Mom, in my home I decide what’s convenient.”
“Oh, is that so?” her mother-in-law’s eyes flashed. “So now you’re the mistress? You got yourself a little apartment and put on a crown?”
“Not a ‘little apartment’—an apartment. And yes—the mistress.”
“You’re selfish!” she exploded. “I came with kindness, and you…”
Yulia stood up and walked to the door.
“Mom, thank you for coming. But I think it’s time.”
“What?” her mother-in-law even looked confused. “You’re throwing me out?”
“Yes,” Yulia said evenly. “You don’t know how to be a guest.”
The woman jumped up, grabbed her bag, mandarins clattering.
“Just you wait!” she screamed. “I’ll tell my son everything!”
“Give him my regards,” Yulia replied, closing the door.
Vladimir came home late, furious, his face twisted.
“What have you done?” he yelled from the doorway. “Mom’s in tears!”
Yulia was sitting on the couch with a book.
“I didn’t hurt her. I just asked her to leave when the reproaches started.”
“She’s my mother!” there was anger and resentment in his voice. “You had no right!”
“And she did? To tell me I’m doing everything wrong?”
“You have to apologize!” he shouted. “And put her name on a share of the apartment!”
Yulia slowly closed the book.
“What?”
“You heard me. She’ll feel calmer if she knows this is her home too.”
“Vladimir,” Yulia stood and stepped closer, “do you even understand what you’re saying? This is my grandmother’s apartment.”
“And I understand you took away my mother’s peace!” he said, fists clenched. “She cries every day—thinks you hate her!”
“Or maybe it’s time your mother stopped deciding who hates whom?”
“Yulia,” he grabbed her shoulders, squeezing, staring her down, “you’ll sign the papers.”
“I won’t.”
“You will—if you care about family!”
Yulia pressed her lips together.
“If ‘family’ means obeying your mother, then I don’t need that kind of family.”
He froze.
“Don’t say that.”
“Let go,” she said quietly. “And get out.”
He stared at her.
“What?”
“Pack your things and leave.”
“Yul, don’t joke.”
“I’m not joking. If you want to live under your mother’s wing—live there. Just not here.”
She opened the door.
He stood for a second, then, without looking at her, walked out.
The door shut.
Yulia sank straight onto the floor in the entryway. Tears ran down her face, but somewhere beneath the pain, under her breastbone, there was a feeling of lightness. At last—silence.
In the morning the phone rang. Her mother-in-law’s name on the screen.
Yulia stared for a couple of seconds, then picked up.
“Have you completely lost your conscience?!” her mother-in-law’s voice rang like a pulled wire. “You kicked your husband out!”
Yulia yawned and sat up in bed.
“Mom, enough. You did this yourself. You destroyed our marriage.”
“I was taking care of you!” her mother-in-law screamed.
“No. You were controlling us. Now control yourself.”
“You’ll regret this, Yulka!”
“I’ll regret it if I ever let you command me again,” Yulia said softly—and hung up.
The divorce went through quickly. Vladimir came to the notary, signed in silence. His eyes looked tired, burned out. No rage, no pleas—just emptiness.
After court, Yulia walked down the street and suddenly realized she felt light. The sky overhead was gray, cold—but somehow wide-open.
Half a year passed.
The kitchen smelled of apples and cinnamon. In the oven her favorite dish was baking. An old song played on the radio, and Yulia hummed along under her breath, turning between the stove and the window.
A voucher for a seaside trip lay on the table—a gift to herself, just because. “For surviving.”
She looked around. Her apartment—bright, cozy, every little thing her choice. Nobody nitpicking, nobody asking why yogurt costs one twenty and why the salt shaker is on the table.
Her phone vibrated—a message from Sveta:
“Yul, Mom’s been thinking about you a lot lately. Says maybe she went too far. Vladimir’s living with her. How are you—are you still mad?”
Yulia looked at the screen for a long time, then typed back:
“No. I just don’t want to live someone else’s life anymore.”
She sent it.
She walked to the window. Outside, the March snow was melting, water dripped and rang, sunlight hit the glass.
Yulia stood there smiling. Ahead was a new life—simple, hers. Without anyone else’s orders, without the fake “that’s how it should be.”
Just life.