— “So listen to me carefully,” Polina Markovna’s voice sounded as if she were issuing orders at a military parade. “On December 30th you will be at my place by 6 p.m. We need to set the table—lots of guests are coming. My entire ladies’ club will be there, ten people, maybe twelve. You’ll chop the salads, cook the main dishes. And you must make aspic, too—Tamara Yegorovna adores it.”
Alena leaned her back against the wall in the entryway. Her coat was still on her shoulders, her bag dragged her arm down. Her head throbbed after the workday. She tried to get a word in, but her mother-in-law didn’t give her a chance.
“Polina Markovna, but I can’t—”
“What do you mean, you can’t?” The voice on the other end turned hard as steel. “What is there to discuss? My husband gave you to my son, I helped you buy your apartment when you took out the loan. And now you can’t even help? Yura, by the way, has already agreed. He understands you have to respect your mother.”
Alena slowly slid down the wall and sat right on the floor. She still had her boots on, the phone blared in her hand, and in her head one thought pounded: Yura agreed?
“Yura knows about this?” she asked quietly.
“Of course he knows! I called him yesterday—he immediately said, ‘Sure, Mom, whatever you say.’ And that’s what you should say, too. Anyway, I’ll be waiting for you on the 30th at six. I’ll send the grocery list tomorrow morning. That’s it, I don’t have time—I need to call my friends.”
The line went dead.
Alena sat on the floor in the entryway, staring at a single point on the opposite wall. Outside, it had gotten dark. December 23rd. A week until New Year’s. And she had just received an order to spend the pre-holiday evening in her mother-in-law’s kitchen, serving her guests.
The front door slammed—Yura was back. He paused in the doorway when he saw his wife on the floor.
“Why are you sitting here? Did you fall or something?”
“Your mother called,” Alena answered without lifting her head.
Yura pulled off his jacket, slowly hung it on the hook. His movements were oddly uncertain, as if he were bracing for a fight but didn’t know how to throw the first punch.
“Well, she called. So?”
“She said that on the 30th I’m supposed to cook at her place for her friends. And that you already agreed to it. Is that true?”
Yura walked past her into the kitchen. Opened the fridge, took out a bottle of water. Poured it into a glass and drank it in one gulp. Alena got up from the floor and followed him.
“Yura, I’m talking to you. Is it true?”
“Len, come on, it’s just one time,” he said, setting the glass in the sink without turning to her. “Mom doesn’t ask for things often. She’s got an important get-together planned, she wants to impress everyone. Tamara Yegorovna will be there—her husband used to be a big shot at the factory. Mom has wanted to—”
“We were planning to go to my parents’ on the 30th!” Alena’s voice broke. “I promised my mom! They already bought all the groceries, they’ve got the tree ready!”
“Then we’ll move it to the next day.”
“On the 31st my uncle is coming from Tula with his family! They won’t have time for us at all!” Alena clenched her fists. “Why didn’t you talk to me first? You just agreed for me?”
Yura whipped around. His face flushed.
“Because I knew you’d refuse! That’s exactly why! My mother always gets less than your parents—always! We run to your parents every weekend, and we go see mine once a month, and even then it’s like pulling teeth!”
“Because your mother finds a reason to criticize me every single time!” Alena blurted, and everything she’d been holding inside burst out. “Last time she spent two whole hours explaining how to cook meat properly! Two hours, Yura! She said I feed you wrong, that you walk around all skinny!”
“She just wanted to teach you—”
“Teach me? She was humiliating me! And you sat there in silence and didn’t say a single word in my defense!”
Silence fell—heavy, crushing. Yura turned to the window, and Alena saw his shoulders tense.
“I’m tired. The site was a mess today… I don’t want to talk about this right now.”
He left the kitchen. Alena stayed there alone, staring at his empty glass in the sink. Her hands were shaking. She turned on the tap and held her palms under cold water. Breathed deeply, counted to ten, trying to calm down.
Her phone buzzed on the table. A message from her mom: “Alenushka, you’re definitely coming on the 30th, right? Dad is already clearing the balcony for the tree like you asked.”
Alena picked up the phone with trembling fingers. She typed: “Mom, I’m not sure yet. There are problems. I’ll call tomorrow.”
The reply came immediately: “Did something happen?”
“I’ll tell you later. Kisses.”
She turned off the screen and placed the phone face down on the table. She didn’t want to talk to anyone. She just wanted to sit in silence and think about nothing. But her thoughts wouldn’t stop—spinning like a hamster wheel.
“My husband gave you to my son.” Polina Markovna’s favorite phrase. As if Alena were some object passed from hand to hand, and now she was supposed to be grateful for the rest of her life. Bowing low at every opportunity.
Alena lowered her head into her hands. A long evening lay ahead, and tomorrow—another day. And somewhere there, in her phone, a message from her mother-in-law with a list of everything Alena was expected to cook was waiting.
In the morning Alena woke to the bang of the front door. Yura had left early, without breakfast. She sat up in bed and reached for the phone on the nightstand. Half past seven. And Polina Markovna had already sent a message. A long one. Very long.
Alena opened it and began to read. With every line her eyes widened more and more.
“List of products you need to buy and prepare: chicken and beef aspic—two big pots so there’s definitely enough for everyone. Olivier salad—a five-liter bucket, no less. Herring under a fur coat—a large baking tray; Tamara Yegorovna usually eats two portions. Vinaigrette. Sliced sausage and cheese—arrange nicely with greens, like in a restaurant. Tartlets with red caviar—at least fifty. Stuffed eggs—around thirty. Meat French-style—two trays. Baked potatoes with mushrooms—porcini, not your champignons. Napoleon cake—I remember you can make it, Yura praised it once. Cabbage pies—about forty, better more. You’ll buy the groceries yourself, show me all the receipts, I’ll reimburse you later. Come by noon on Sunday so you can get everything done by six. Guests will arrive at six sharp, so no being late.”
Alena reread the list. Then again. And again. She opened the calculator on her phone and started adding up the time.
Aspic—at least four hours of simmering. Olivier—an hour and a half to boil vegetables and chop everything. Herring under a fur coat—an hour to assemble. Vinaigrette—another hour. Slicing, tartlets, eggs—two hours minimum. Meat French-style—an hour to prep, an hour in the oven. Potatoes—an hour and a half. Napoleon cake—three hours, because the layers have to be baked one by one and cooled. Pies—two hours for dough, an hour for filling, an hour to bake.
Eighteen hours. Eighteen hours of work. And her mother-in-law wanted it all done from noon to six. In six hours.
Alena opened the chat with her friend Vera. Her fingers trembled as she typed: “Ver, can you meet for lunch today? I need to talk urgently.”
Fifteen minutes later the reply came: “I can. One o’clock by Teremok?”
“I’ll be there.”
Vera was already sitting by the window when Alena walked into the café. She saw her friend and immediately frowned.
“God, look at you. You didn’t sleep all night?”
“Almost not at all,” Alena said, shrugging off her jacket, hanging it on the chair, and sitting down across from her. “I couldn’t fall asleep. I kept thinking.”
“About what?”
Alena pulled out her phone, found the message from her mother-in-law, and slid it across the table. Vera took it and began to read. Her eyes widened, her eyebrows climbed higher and higher.
“Is this… for real?”
“It’s real.”
“Does she actually think you can do all this in six hours? Just the pies alone take half a day!”
“She doesn’t think,” Alena leaned back in her chair. “She’s sure. And yesterday Yura said I could take a day off work and come earlier.”
Vera put the phone down and looked at her carefully.
“Wait. Let’s go in order. She wants you to cook all this for her friends?”
“She doesn’t want. She demands. Orders.”
“And you were going to your parents’ on the 30th?”
“Yes. Mom already organized everything, Dad bought the groceries. But Yura agreed with his mother without me. He said my family gets too much attention as it is.”
Vera sat in silence, staring out at the falling snow.
“So what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” Alena rubbed her face with both hands. “Honestly, I don’t know. Yura thinks I have to. That it’s my duty. And I feel like if I agree, it will never end.”
“Does she do this often?”
Alena paused, and memories flooded her all at once.
“All the time. Last year, remember? Polina Markovna went on a business trip for a week. She asked me to come every day to feed her cat. I rode across town after work—an hour there, an hour back. Every evening. And then it turned out the neighbor could have fed the cat—my mother-in-law just decided it would be ‘useful’ for me. For discipline, she said.”
“Seriously?”
“Absolutely. And there was the storage closet, too. She called Saturday morning and said, ‘Come over, we need to sort things out.’ I came—there were fifty boxes stuffed with junk. I spent all day there sorting, washing shelves. And she sat in the kitchen with her friends the whole time, drinking tea and chatting.”
Vera shook her head.
“Lena, that’s straight-up exploitation. She’s using you.”
“Yura says I have to respect my elders.”
“Respect—yes. Be a free maid—no,” Vera leaned closer. “Listen to me. I’ve known you for five years. You’re always afraid of upsetting someone. You try to please everyone. But there has to be a limit. Tell her no. Simply and clearly.”
“Easy for you to say…”
“I get that it’s not easy. But if you agree now, she’ll realize she can demand absolutely anything—and you’ll do it. Always. For the rest of your life.”
Alena stared out the window. People hurried along the street on their errands. The pre-New Year rush had swallowed everyone—garlands in shop windows, sparkling displays. Everyone preparing, celebrating. And she was sitting in a café thinking about how to refuse her mother-in-law without destroying her marriage.
“I’ll try to talk to her,” Alena said quietly. “Explain calmly. Maybe she’ll understand.”
Vera looked at her with obvious doubt, but said nothing.
That evening, once it got dark, Alena dialed Polina Markovna. She sat with the phone in her hands for a long time, gathering courage. The call was answered on the third ring.
“Yes, I’m listening.”
“Polina Markovna, it’s Alena. I need to talk to you about the 30th.”
“What is there to talk about?” the voice turned wary at once.
“You see, I feel terrible letting you down, but I won’t be able to come. I promised my parents long ago I’d help them prepare for the holiday. Maybe you could move the gathering to another day? Then I’d gladly—”
“To another day?!” her mother-in-law exploded. “I’ve already invited everyone! All my friends know, they’ve made plans! What am I supposed to tell them now—that my daughter-in-law refused me? Do you want to shame me?!”
“No, of course not, but—”
“No ‘buts’! Your parents see you every week! You go there every weekend! And I see my son properly once a month! That’s selfish, Alena. Pure selfishness!”
“I’m not selfish, I just wanted to explain—”
“I don’t need your explanations! I’m waiting for you on the 30th at six p.m. With the groceries. Do you understand me?”
“Polina Markovna, I can’t—”
“Do you understand, I’m asking?!”
Alena gripped the phone. Something inside her boiled over.
“No. I don’t understand. Because I’m not coming.”
Silence. Long, heavy. Then a short, vicious chuckle.
“Fine. Great. Then deal with Yura yourself. You explain to him why you’re humiliating his mother. We’ll see what he says to you.”
The line went dead.
Alena lowered the phone onto her knees. Her hands shook. A lump rose in her throat. She stood up and paced from the window to the door and back. The city below glittered with lights; New Year garlands hung on balconies; multicolored bulbs blinked in windows. The holiday was approaching, and inside her it felt cold and empty.
Twenty minutes later Yura called. Seeing his name on the screen, Alena wanted—just for a moment—to reject the call. But she answered.
“Yes?”
“What the hell are you doing?!” he screamed immediately, without preamble. “Mom just called me in tears! In tears, do you understand?! She says you were rude, you humiliated her! How could you do that?!”
“Yura, I wasn’t rude. I just told the truth—that I can’t come on the 30th.”
“Can’t, can’t! Did you think about Mom? She tried so hard, she invited all her friends, she wanted everything to be nice! And you refused like you don’t owe her anything!”
“I don’t owe her anything!” Alena snapped. “Did you see that list? Do you have any idea how long all that takes? Eighteen hours of work! How am I supposed to do it in six?!”
“Take a day off, come earlier!”
“We’re swamped at work before the holidays! We’re closing contracts, submitting reports! They won’t let me take off the day before New Year’s!”
“Then work at night! Start the evening of the 29th—stand in the kitchen all night, finish in the morning!”
Alena went numb at his words.
“Are you serious right now?”
“Completely serious! Other women handle work and family duties! You only think about yourself!”
“Myself?!” Alena felt something inside her crack. “Yura, for the past two years I’ve done nothing but run whenever your mother whistles! Feed her cat, sort her closets, wash dishes after her guests! When does it end?!”
“When you learn to respect your elders!”
“I do respect her! But I’m not obligated to sacrifice my life!”
“It’s not a sacrifice, it’s family duty!”
“No, Yura. It’s manipulation. Pure manipulation. And you know it.”
He breathed heavily into the phone. Then he said quietly, with a threat underneath:
“Fine. I’ll be home soon. We’ll talk seriously. Face to face.”
He hung up.
Alena sank onto the couch, put the phone beside her, stared at the ceiling and thought: How did it come to this? When did I become convenient? Why did I stay silent for so long?
December 28th. Yura came home late, dark as a storm cloud. He tossed his jacket onto the rack so hard it almost fell. Walked into the bedroom and slammed the door. Alena sat in the kitchen with her laptop, trying to finish work reports, but the letters blurred in front of her eyes.
She closed the laptop and went to him. Stopped in the doorway. Yura sat on the bed, staring at the floor.
“We need to talk,” Alena said.
“Not now,” he threw back without looking up.
“And when is ‘now’? We haven’t talked properly for two days.”
“And whose fault is that?” He raised his head and stared at her with angry eyes. “You refused my mother. Now she barely speaks to me. She calls only to yell. Asks why I can’t control my own wife.”
“Can you?” Alena asked softly. “Control me?”
“I want you to behave normally! The way it’s supposed to be! Help when you’re asked!”
“Yura, your mother doesn’t ask. She demands. Always demands. And I’m tired.”
He lowered his head again.
“You don’t understand anything. Mom did a lot for me.”
“I understand. But that doesn’t mean I have to give her all of myself until there’s nothing left.”
Yura’s phone rang. “Mom” on the screen. He answered.
“Yes, Mom.”
Alena only heard his side, but it was enough.
“No, Mom, we haven’t decided yet… I don’t know… I’m trying to explain but she won’t listen… Mom, please don’t worry… Okay… okay, I got it… I’ll call you back later.”
He put the phone on the nightstand and looked at Alena.
“Mom said that if you don’t come, she’ll move it to our place. Here. She’ll bring all her friends to our apartment.”
Alena felt the blood drain from her face.
“She can’t do that.”
“She can. And she will. You know her. She already called everyone and said the gathering will be here. Told them there are problems with heating at her place.”
“But that’s a lie!”
“So what?!” Yura jumped up. “She already told everyone! What do you expect me to do now?”
Alena stood there, absorbing it. Her mother-in-law was moving her get-together into their home. Without asking. Without permission. Just announcing it.
“Yura,” she said slowly, clearly, “if your mother comes here with those plans, I won’t let her in. Do you understand? I won’t.”
“Are you out of your mind? That’s my mother!”
“This is our apartment. And I have the right to decide who comes in.”
They stared at each other. The air was so tense you could cut it with a knife.
“I can’t believe you’re saying this,” Yura said quietly.
“And I can’t believe you allow your mother to behave like this.”
He turned toward the window. Alena left the bedroom. Her hands trembled, her heart pounded. She went to the kitchen, turned on the tap, held her palms under cold water, breathing deeply and counting her breaths.
Her phone buzzed on the table. A message from an unknown number.
“Alena, this is Viktor, Yura’s brother. I got your number from Yur’ka—hope you don’t mind. Can we talk?”
She typed: “Yes, of course.”
He called a minute later.
“Hi. Listen, I know the whole situation. Mom called me too, complained about you. I just want to tell you one thing: you’re right. Completely right.”
Alena froze.
“Really?”
“Absolutely. My Svetlana went through the same thing. About three years ago. Mom had her 60th birthday, and Sveta spent two months preparing the banquet. Organized everything herself—menu, venue, decorations. Spent a ton of our money. And then Mom called her for two more weeks telling her what was wrong—salad too salty, music too loud, not enough guests, even though she herself didn’t invite half the people.”
“And what did you do?”
“Sveta said: that’s it, enough. Not one more event like that. Mom sulked, of course. For about three months she didn’t call or visit at all. Then she gradually cooled down. Realized there was no point pressuring. Now we get along fine, but Sveta doesn’t let anyone boss her around anymore.”
“And Yura didn’t resent her for it?”
Viktor chuckled.
“Yura’s a mama’s boy. Always has been. I’m telling you as his brother. It’s easier for him to agree with Mom than to argue. Always. But that’s his problem, not yours. You don’t have to sacrifice yourself for his comfort.”
“Thank you,” Alena exhaled. “Thank you for calling.”
“Stand your ground. Mom’s a strong woman, but she’s not stupid. If she sees pressure doesn’t work, she’ll back off. The main thing is—don’t give in.”
He hung up.
Alena sat there holding her phone, and for the first time she felt an inner support appear. Someone understood her. Someone said she was right. She wasn’t alone.
December 29th. The workday dragged unbearably. Alena sat at her computer looking at reports but didn’t see the numbers. Her head held only one thing: tomorrow was the 30th. Tomorrow everything would be decided.
At four p.m. her mom called.
“Alenushka, remind me—you’re coming tomorrow? Dad has already started simmering aspic, he says it’ll be ready by evening.”
Alena closed her eyes. Her heart tightened.
“Mom, I’ll try.”
“You’ll try?” Her mother’s voice turned anxious. “Sweetheart, did something happen?”
“Nothing major. Just… some problems.”
“With Polina Markovna?”
Mom always sensed things. Always.
“Yes.”
“If you want, come tonight. We’ll talk calmly.”
“I can’t, Mom. I need to sort this out myself.”
“Okay. But remember: whatever happens, we’re always with you. Do you understand? Always.”
Those words warmed her. Gave her strength.
That evening Yura came home even gloomier than the day before. He didn’t even say hello. Went to the kitchen and poured himself water.
“Mom called,” he said, staring into the glass. “She said she’s waiting for you tomorrow by noon. If you don’t come, she’ll come herself. With all the groceries.”
“I won’t let her in,” Alena answered calmly.
“Lena, enough already!” Yura slammed the glass down so hard water splashed. “No more stupid games! Go to her, help with something. At least cook something. Show you’re not against it.”
“Yura, I’m not against helping. I’m against being used as free labor.”
“No one is using you! It’s helping family!”
“No. It’s exploitation. And you know it. You just pretend everything’s fine because it’s convenient.”
He turned to the window. His shoulders sagged, head bowed.
“You’re choosing a fight with my mother. You understand that?”
“No,” Alena stepped closer. “I’m choosing respect for myself. If your mother can’t accept that I have the right to say no, that’s her problem. Not mine.”
Yura was silent. Then he asked quietly:
“And if we fight over this? For good?”
Alena looked him in the eyes.
“Yura, if our relationship depends on me pleasing your mother, then it ended a long time ago. We just haven’t admitted it yet.”
He left the kitchen. Alena stayed alone, took out her phone, and texted her mom: “We’ll come tomorrow for sure. We’ll be there by three.”
The reply came immediately: “Okay, sunshine. We’ll be waiting.”
Alena exhaled. The decision was made. Tomorrow would be war. But she was ready.
December 30th. Alena woke early, though her alarm was set for eight. At 6:30 she was already lying there with eyes open, staring at the ceiling. Yura slept beside her, turned toward the wall.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. Polina Markovna. Calling.
Alena answered, went into the kitchen, and closed the door.
“I’m listening.”
“So, have you come to your senses?” her mother-in-law’s voice was icy.
“No, Polina Markovna.”
“So you really want a fight? You want to destroy the relationship between me and my son?”
“I don’t want to make anyone fight. I just can’t and won’t do what you’re demanding.”
“Can’t, or won’t?” her mother-in-law repeated with a mocking edge.
“Both. I have my own life, my own plans. I’m not obligated to cancel everything for your gathering.”
“Your own life!” Polina Markovna laughed harshly. “Have you forgotten who provided you that life? Who helped with the apartment? Who gave you a son—”
“No one gave me anything,” Alena felt heat surge inside. “Yura and I bought the apartment with a loan we’re paying ourselves. And your ‘help’ was one down payment—something you’ve been reminding me of for three years!”
“How dare you! How dare you speak to me like that?!”
“I’m telling the truth. The truth you don’t want to hear.”
Polina Markovna choked with outrage.
“Fine! Wonderful! Then wait for me! I’m coming to your place now! With all the groceries! And I’ll bring the guests too! We’ll see how you don’t let me in!”
“Try it,” Alena said calmly. “Just know this: I won’t open the door.”
“That’s my son’s apartment!”
“It’s our apartment. And I’m the mistress here.”
Her mother-in-law slammed the phone down.
Alena stood in the kitchen, gripping her phone. Her hands didn’t shake. Inside, she was calm. For the first time in a long time—truly calm.
Yura came out of the bedroom, sleepy but alarmed.
“Did she call?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“She said she’s coming here.”
Yura rubbed his face.
“Lena, don’t do this. Maybe we should let her in? Let her cook at least something?”
“No, Yura. If I back down now, it will never end. Your mother has to understand she can’t command me.”
He sat at the table and dropped his head into his hands.
“This will end badly.”
“It was already bad. It was bad for three long years. Now it’s going to be honest.”
At noon the doorbell rang—long, insistent. Alena went to the door and looked through the peephole. Polina Markovna stood on the landing with a huge bag. Two boxes of groceries sat beside her.
Alena didn’t open. She just stood there and watched.
“Open up!” her mother-in-law screamed. “I know you’re in there! Open this door right now!”
Silence.
“Yura! Yura, come out! Tell that—tell your wife to open the door!”
Yura came out of the bedroom, walked up to Alena, and looked through the peephole. His mother was red-faced, disheveled.
“Len, maybe open it? At least talk normally?”
“No. If I open the door, she’ll come in. And I don’t want her to.”
Yura hesitated. Then he shouted through the door:
“Mom, wait! I’m coming out!”
He put on his jacket and opened the door. Alena stayed in the hallway, listening to the voices outside.
“What is going on?!” Polina Markovna’s voice rang with outrage. “Why isn’t she letting me in?!”
“Mom, calm down. Let’s talk.”
“What is there to talk about?! She’s humiliating me—your wife! Humiliating your mother!”
“Mom, no one is humiliating you—”
“Not humiliating me?! I came with groceries, I want to make a holiday table, and she won’t let me in! How is that not humiliation?!”
Alena heard Yura sigh heavily.
“Mom, you decided, without asking, that the gathering would be at our place. We’re not ready for guests.”
“Not ready! Your apartment is practically empty! What is there to get ready?!”
Yura fell silent for a moment.
“Mom, maybe we really should move it to another day? Or do it at your place, just later?”
“No! I already told everyone! Tamara Yegorovna is already getting ready to come here! What am I supposed to tell her now?!”
“Tell the truth. That plans changed.”
Polina Markovna went quiet. Then she said softly, but with iron:
“So you’re choosing her. Yes? You’re choosing that—your little bride over your own mother.”
“Mom, I’m not choosing anyone. I’m just—”
“You are choosing!” she shrieked. “Betraying your mother for some girl! After everything I’ve done for you!”
“Mom, don’t—”
Polina Markovna grabbed the bag of groceries and hurled it to the floor. Tomatoes rolled across the landing, eggs smashed against the wall.
“Take your groceries! Take it all! Don’t come to me again! Don’t call! I have no son! You hear me?! No son!”
She spun around and ran down the stairs. Yura rushed after her.
“Mom, wait! Mom!”
But she was already pounding down, not looking back. Footsteps echoed, then the slam of the building’s front door.
Alena stood behind the door and listened to the silence.
Yura came back up. Walked into the apartment. His face was gray as ash.
“She didn’t stop.”
“I heard.”
They stood in the entryway without looking at each other.
“Lena, she won’t forgive this. Never.”
“I know.”
“And you don’t regret it?”
Alena turned to him.
“No. The only thing I regret is that I put up with it for so long. That I stayed silent. That I allowed her to treat me like that.”
Yura went to the kitchen and poured water. Drank it in one gulp. Set the glass down and leaned on the windowsill.
“Viktor called me the day before yesterday. Told me about Svetlana. I didn’t know Mom treated her the same way.”
“Your mother is used to everyone doing what she wants. But I’m not going to anymore.”
“And if we get divorced because of this?”
Alena stepped closer.
“Yura, if our marriage stands only because I cater to your mother, then we haven’t been husband and wife for a long time. We just live under the same roof.”
He turned to her.
“I don’t want a divorce.”
“Neither do I. But I want to be respected. I want my opinion to matter.”
Yura nodded. He hugged her—uncertainly, carefully.
“I’m sorry I didn’t understand sooner.”
“The important thing is that you understand now.”
They stood in the kitchen holding each other. Snow fell outside. The city was getting ready for the holiday.
“Shall we go to your parents’?” Yura asked.
“Yes. Let’s go.”
December 31st. Her parents’ home greeted them with the scent of pine, tangerines, and homemade food. Tatyana Vasilyevna opened the door and immediately hugged her daughter tightly, for a long time.
“I’m so happy you came!”
Alena pressed into her mother and felt something inside her loosen. All the tension of the past days, the fear, the doubt—everything eased back.
Mikhail Petrovich came out of the kitchen in a cozy sweater, smiling.
“Well, there’s the young folks! Yura, come in, take off your jacket. I’ll put the kettle on.”
Yura took off his jacket and hung it up. Alena could see how tense he was, how tight his shoulders were. This was a trial for him too.
Tatyana Vasilyevna led her daughter into her old room.
“Tell me. What happened?”
Alena told her everything—from the first call to the scene on the stairwell the day before. Her mother listened in silence, sometimes shaking her head, sometimes pressing her lips together.
“And how are you now?” she asked when Alena finished.
“Tired. But calm.”
“You did the right thing, sweetheart,” Tatyana Vasilyevna took her daughter’s hands in hers. “You know, I always saw how Polina Markovna used you. But I stayed quiet. I thought you two would work it out yourselves. But I’m glad you finally said ‘no.’”
“Yura and his mother are fighting now.”
“Yura is a grown man. It’s time he learned to protect his wife.”
By evening Uncle Sasha arrived with his family from Tula. The noisy nephews—Misha and Katya—immediately started racing around the apartment, examining the ornaments on the tree. Uncle Sasha’s wife, Aunt Lida, went to help in the kitchen.
They set a big table that filled the dining room. They lit candles, soft music played. Mikhail Petrovich poured champagne into glasses.
“To a good year for everyone,” he said, lifting his glass. “To taking care of each other. That’s the most important thing in life—to protect those you love.”
Alena looked at Yura. He squeezed her hand under the table.
When everyone went to the kitchen for seconds, they were left alone on the balcony. The city glittered with lights; the first impatient fireworks burst in the sky.
“Mom wrote Viktor,” Yura said, looking out over the city. “Said I’m a traitor. A bad son.”
“And what did Viktor answer?”
“He said I finally became a real man. Someone who protects his wife. And that he’s proud of me.”
Alena smiled.
“Viktor is a smart man.”
“Lena, I don’t know if I’ll ever make peace with Mom. Maybe she’ll never forgive me. But I understood one thing: you were right. Right from the start. I’m sorry I didn’t see it right away.”
“Yura, I don’t want you fighting with your mother because of me. I just wanted the right to say no. I wanted to be heard.”
“I hear you. And Mom will have to learn to hear you too.”
They stood on the balcony, watching the lights. Inside the apartment there was laughter, music, voices. Warm, cozy, family-like.
“Come on, the chimes are soon,” Yura said.
They went back inside. Everyone gathered by the TV. The countdown began.
Ten… nine… eight…
Alena watched the screen and thought about what the outgoing year had taught her—the most important thing: to respect herself. Not to be afraid to say “no.” Not to bend under someone else’s demands, even when those demands came from a mother-in-law.
Three… two… one…
The New Year began with fireworks outside the window, joyful shouts, hugs. Yura held Alena and whispered:
“Happy New Year. Thank you for not giving in.”
She pressed against him.
“Thank you for finally taking my side.”
Ahead there was a lot of unknown. Maybe Polina Markovna’s long silence. Maybe hard conversations and attempts to rebuild the relationship—but on new terms, with respect. Maybe her mother-in-law would never forgive.
But right now, in this moment, Alena felt free. She had stood up for herself. Protected her right to be heard. And that mattered more than any showy peace, any fake smiles at family holidays.
She had learned to say “no.” And that was the greatest gift she gave herself in the outgoing year