Are you serious right now, Dashenka?” Galina Petrovna’s voice crackled through the line as if she wasn’t holding a phone, but a microphone at a podium.
Dasha pinned her cell phone to her ear with her shoulder and kept drying a plate—so she wouldn’t splash her anger all over the kitchen.
“And what’s not serious about it, Galina Petrovna?” she asked evenly. “Our apartment is small. Egor needs to sleep—you know that.”
“Egor…” her mother-in-law mimicked. “Back in my day, three kids slept on one couch in one room and nobody died. I turn sixty once in my life, not every week.”
Dasha stopped and looked at her reflection in the dark window. From the room came the muffled sound of a cartoon—her son was playing with toy cars, narrating aloud.
“I’m not against your юбилей,” she said, trying to keep her breathing steady. “I’m against us having stools jammed in wall-to-wall again, and guests smoking in the stairwell and yelling under our door until two in the morning.”
“Oh, here we go,” Galina Petrovna sighed so martyr-like, as if she’d been asked not to move a party, but to live her entire life over again. “Women used to manage somehow. Now it’s all ‘I’m tired, I can’t, I’m scared for the child.’”
“Because the child doesn’t like it when Uncle Lyosha sings in his ear after his third shot,” Dasha couldn’t hold back. “And neither do I.”
There was a pause on the other end. Then her mother-in-law lowered her voice, made it sticky-sweet.
“Dash, let’s do it this way. Don’t work yourself up. Talk it over with Antoshka. It’s his decision where his mother will celebrate her birthday.”
Dasha pressed her lips together.
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll talk to him.”
“That’s my good girl. I already called him—he said he’d talk to you. You’re a reasonable girl, you’ll understand.”
A brisk “kisses” sounded—and then the dial tone.
Dasha set her phone on the table and just stood there for a while, bracing both hands on the countertop. The water in the sink cooled, the foam settled, and cloudy streaks appeared on the plates.
Egor peeked out from the room—thin, shaggy-haired, in a stretched-out T-shirt with a dinosaur on it.
“Mom, when is Dad coming?”
“Soon, bunny,” she answered automatically. “He’ll park his car in the garage and come in.”
Egor nodded and disappeared again, and in Dasha’s head a different conversation was already playing—one with Anton, whom she hadn’t even seen yet.
Anton came home at nine, like always—slightly rumpled after his shift, smelling of other people’s cars and cheap air fresheners. He set a bag with bread and milk on the table, sniffled, and kicked off his sneakers.
“What’s with you?” he asked, peering into the kitchen. “You look like the neighbor cranked up the music again.”
“You can shut the door on a neighbor,” Dasha replied without turning around. “You can’t shut the door on your mother.”
He scratched the back of his head, went to wash his hands.
“She already called? Fast,” he muttered, sitting down. “Alright. Let’s hear it.”
“Let’s,” Dasha nodded, sitting across from him. “She wants to celebrate here.”
“It’s roomier here,” Anton said at once, pulling a loaf out of the bag. “At her place it’s nothing but narrow passages, not an apartment.”
“Anton, we’ve got a two-room place—forty-four square meters. You know that,” Dasha reminded him tiredly. “And ‘roomier’ is only true on paper. If we sit your relatives in here, Egor will be sleeping out in the hallway on the doormat.”
“Oh, stop exaggerating,” he waved her off. “One evening, Dasha. Seriously.”
That “one evening” Dasha had been hearing for years. One evening—when they celebrated New Year’s with his family and Aunt Nina dropped a salad right onto their brand-new couch. One evening—when his cousin had a birthday and half the guests decided they could wander freely around their home wearing the owners’ slippers, including into the child’s room.
One evening—after which Dasha spent half the next day scrubbing the kitchen and washing the tablecloth, while Galina Petrovna said condescendingly, “Oh come on, young thing—do you call that work?”
“Listen,” Dasha raised her eyes to her husband. “Let’s agree on this right now.”
He bit into the bread and nodded carelessly.
“Your mother can celebrate her birthday at her own place. I’m not letting a crowd of your relatives get hauled into my home,” Dasha said clearly, almost syllable by syllable. “Not this time. Not next time either.”
Anton froze mid-chew.
“What did you say?” he asked slowly.
“What you heard,” she replied, holding his gaze. “I’m not a hotel. I’m not a banquet hall.”
He set the bread down and wiped his fingers on a napkin.
“Tell your mom that,” he said dully. “That she should celebrate at home and not drag people here.”
“My mother doesn’t drag anyone here,” Dasha reminded him calmly. “She comes once every two months, and even that on weekends—when you’re on shift.”
“So my mom doesn’t have the right to see her son?” Anton raised his voice. “She’s sixty. It’s her celebration. But here, apparently, the child will go to bed an hour later and the world will end.”
“It’s not about the child,” Dasha cut him off. “It’s about me not wanting to serve twenty people at once. I work all week too—just like you. On weekends I want to rest, not run around with dishes and clean up after grown adults who put their glasses wherever and talk like they’ve got a microphone stuck in their throats.”
Anton thumped his fist on the table—not hard, but enough for a plate to clink.
“No one’s forcing you to ‘serve,’” he mocked her word. “We can order food, set it out, and that’s it.”
“And then spend two days washing the floors,” Dasha raised an eyebrow. “And listen to your mom tell me I served it wrong, invited the wrong people, and didn’t smile enough.”
He leaned back in his chair.
“So it’s not about the apartment,” he said slowly. “It’s about Mom.”
Dasha fell silent. Inside her, something old and long-cracked seemed to creak again.
“It’s about the fact,” she said quietly, “that your mother thinks: if a son has a wife, then the wife is obligated. Always. In everything. And I’m not obligated to anyone—except my child.”
Anton snorted.
“Who put those words in your head, huh? Your friend Lenka?”
“Lena,” Dasha corrected automatically. “And no. I figured it out myself. My brain works fine, imagine that.”
Silence hung between them. The old refrigerator hummed; in the room, Egor kept commenting on the cartoon.
“Fine,” Anton finally said, staring at the table. “I already promised her.”
“Promised who?” Dasha understood immediately, but still asked.
“Mom.” He shrugged, not even trying to look guilty. “I told her we’d do it here.”
Something cold rose inside Dasha from her stomach to her throat.
“When did you manage that?”
“Yesterday. She asked how we were, I said: fine, there’s space, we’ll make it work. And today she called and said you’re against it. I told her—you’re not against it, you just got worked up, but I’ll handle it.”
“So you already decided everything,” Dasha said, feeling the solid floor slip out from under her. “And with me you just decided to present it as a done deal.”
“What kind of words are you picking, huh?” Anton flared up. “A ‘done deal’… what is this, court? This is family, Dasha. You don’t sign papers here—you make concessions.”
“I’ve been making concessions for five years,” Dasha said, surprised at how even her voice sounded. “And year after year I hear that I do everything wrong.”
“Here we go again…”
“Have you ever heard me call your mother and tell her how to live?” Dasha pushed on. “What to wear, what to put on her table, what music to play?”
Anton said nothing.
“Right. Neither have I,” Dasha continued. “But she tells me constantly. How to dress my son, how to shop, how much I should weigh.”
“She’s just worried!” Anton snapped. “That’s just how she talks. It’s not out of malice.”
Dasha let out a short, joyless laugh.
“You know what’s most convenient about ‘that’s just how she talks’?” she asked. “You can say nasty things to people your whole life, and then wave it off: ‘I didn’t mean anything by it.’”
Anton stood up sharply.
“That’s it, enough,” he threw out. “She’s tired… the only one tired here is me. I’ll talk to Mom again tomorrow.”
“Tell her the truth,” Dasha said quietly. “That I’m against it. And that there won’t be a celebration at our place.”
He looked at her as if seeing her for the first time.
“That’s not you talking,” he said slowly. “That’s… I don’t even know who.”
“It’s me, Anton,” Dasha said wearily. “The one who cooked for your relatives six times and kept quiet. Look—turns out I can talk.”
He went into the room to their son, leaving behind the smell of the street and damp clothes.
That night Dasha couldn’t fall asleep for a long time. First she listened to Egor’s soft breathing, then to Anton’s occasional snore—he did lie down beside her, but turned toward the wall. Dogs barked somewhere in the neighborhood; from outside came the elevator’s dull clatter.
She remembered her first visit to Galina Petrovna five years earlier.
Back then everything seemed simple. Dasha—twenty-three, in a modest dress, hair in a ponytail, twisting a bouquet in nervous hands. Anton—confident, fit—whispering at the entrance: “Don’t worry. Mom will like you.”
Galina Petrovna had greeted her without enthusiasm but without cold hostility. She scanned Dasha’s boots, coat, hair. Said, “Come in—don’t take your shoes off, my floors are clean.”
Then there was the long table in the living room, the cabinet of glasses, the toasts. Even then something pricked at Dasha—“My Antoshka has always been such a smart one, achieved everything on his own,” said in a way that made it sound like Anton had birthed and raised himself and everyone else was just set dressing.
But Dasha didn’t pay attention. She was dizzy with love, and “Mom is a bit sharp” seemed like a minor detail.
Details piled up.
When Dasha got pregnant and felt sick from the smell of frying, Galina Petrovna said over the phone, “Don’t make things up. In my day we worked in the garden and didn’t even know what morning sickness was.”
When Egor was born and cried in the evenings, her mother-in-law sent a long message explaining that “if you spoil him, that’s why he screams.”
When Dasha got a job at a pharmacy and came home wiped out, Galina Petrovna remarked at a meeting, “Don’t get lazy—feed your man, or he’ll eat elsewhere.”
Dasha swallowed it every time because Anton said, “You know what she’s like. But she loves Egor.”
She understood. But inside a stubborn feeling grew that her own life was spreading across other people’s plates like a salad somebody didn’t salt properly.
In the morning Anton left earlier than usual. No kiss, no joke—just a quiet click of the door.
Dasha walked Egor to kindergarten, stopped at the store for milk and bread, and caught herself repeating the same phrase in her head: I’m not obligated.
At work—behind the pharmacy counter, among receipts and modest conversations about blood pressure and discounted prescriptions—that phrase retreated. People came in for pills, asked about ointments; some complained about grandkids, some bragged they’d quit smoking.
“It’s always calm here,” a regular customer once told Dasha, an elderly woman with neatly trimmed gray hair. “In a lot of pharmacies it’s like a marketplace, but here… it’s like a rest room.”
Dasha had smiled and thanked her. Now she remembered those words as proof: she could be gentle. It’s just that sometimes gentleness runs out.
Closer to lunch her phone buzzed in the pocket of her smock. She pulled it out, saw “Galina Petrovna,” and put it away. The phone fell silent obediently, but two minutes later it rang again.
She rejected the third call, and during her break opened the voice messages.
The first:
“Dash, why aren’t you picking up? I want to talk nicely. Don’t pretend you’re scared of me—I’m not a stranger.”
The second, with a metallic note of irritation:
“So here’s how it is. I don’t understand what’s going on with you two, but questioning where I, the mother, celebrate my birthday—that’s too much. I treated you like a daughter, by the way.”
The third, very short:
“Call while I’m still talking calmly.”
Dasha listened, exhaled, and locked the screen.
Her coworker Katya leaned over her shoulder.
“Family?”
“Family,” Dasha said with a bitter half-smile.
“Judging by your face—very close family,” Katya shook her head. “My mother-in-law was like that. Until my husband put her in her place, I nearly lost my mind.”
“You got lucky,” Dasha shrugged.
Katya said nothing. Everyone has their own kitchen, and not every mess can be washed away—even with two people.
That evening the doorbell rang with such confidence it felt like there wasn’t a person outside, but a utilities inspection committee.
Dasha opened the door—and honestly, she wasn’t surprised.
On the threshold, in a dark coat, holding her hat in her hands, stood Galina Petrovna. Her face was collected, lips pressed tight, eyes prickly.
“Come in,” Dasha said automatically, stepping aside.
“Thank you for allowing it,” her mother-in-law replied dryly and walked in.
Egor ran out from the room.
“Grandma!”
“Hello, sunshine,” Galina Petrovna softened at once, bending down. “Look how big you’ve gotten.”
She lingered on his cheek a little longer than necessary, as if reminding Dasha: this is my fortress.
“Where’s Antokha?” she turned.
“At work,” Dasha answered. “Shift. You know.”
“I know,” Galina Petrovna cut in. “Then we’ll talk without him. Even better.”
They went to the kitchen. Dasha put on the kettle and took out mugs.
“No need,” her mother-in-law raised a hand. “I’m not staying long.”
She sat at the table and placed a leather handbag in front of her like a shield.
“Here’s what I want to understand,” she began without warming up. “Where do you plan to put my relatives? Throw them out into the street?”
“I’m not throwing anyone anywhere,” Dasha said calmly. “I simply said we won’t celebrate at our place. You can gather at yours, like you planned at first.”
“At mine,” Galina Petrovna snorted. “What, do I have a three-story house? I’ve got a Khrushchyovka—tiny rooms, a corner of a kitchen. Where am I supposed to put people? Sit them on the wardrobe?”
“You could rent a room at a café,” Dasha suggested. “It’d be comfortable for everyone, and no one would have to wash dishes afterward.”
“And who’s going to pay?” her mother-in-law narrowed her eyes. “You? I know your income perfectly well.”
“I’m not suggesting you pay for everything,” Dasha said. “People can chip in.”
“So now you’re also deciding who chips in how much,” Galina Petrovna smiled coldly. “Nice life Anton has: his wife orders him around where his mother celebrates, and then counts other people’s money.”
“I’m only in charge of my apartment,” Dasha said tiredly. “And my time.”
“And is it nothing that he lives in this apartment too?” Galina Petrovna leaned forward. “And that he’s my son? When you married him, did you know he had a mother?”
“I did,” Dasha nodded. “That’s exactly why I don’t meddle in your home. I’ve never told you how to rearrange your furniture or whom to invite.”
“I didn’t raise you to argue with me,” Galina Petrovna blurted.
Dasha lifted her eyes.
“You didn’t raise me at all,” she reminded her quietly. “I have my own mother.”
They looked at each other for a long time. In that moment Dasha finally admitted to herself that she didn’t love this person. Not hate—no. Hate is hot. This was cold, like icy water slipping down your back.
“Fine,” Galina Petrovna leaned back. “Then say it straight. You don’t want my relatives here. Why? Are you ashamed of us?”
“I don’t want twenty people in our apartment,” Dasha repeated. “It’s too much for me.”
“It’s hard for women their whole lives,” Galina Petrovna waved a hand. “I had your Anton—three days later I was back at work. No one asked if it was hard. And you’re here acting like…”
“That was your life,” Dasha interrupted, surprised at her own calm. “This is mine. I’m not obligated to repeat your script.”
Her mother-in-law squinted even more.
“Someone put you up to this,” she said confidently. “I know you. You’re not stupid, but you’re soft. And this—this is like you’re talking in a movie.”
“No one put me up to anything,” Dasha answered. “I just ran out of patience.”
“What patience?”
“Patience,” Dasha said simply.
Galina Petrovna rose slowly.
“Alright, Dasha. Since you’re talking about limits—keep in mind: everyone has their own. I have mine too.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean what I mean,” her mother-in-law said, adjusting her coat collar. “I’m not going to humiliate myself and explain to relatives that my daughter-in-law is ‘tired.’ I’ll say it honestly, the way it is.”
“And the way it is?” Dasha asked.
“That you’re driving me out of my son’s home.”
Dasha let out a short, nervous laugh.
“I didn’t move you in so I could drive you out,” she said. “You didn’t ask for keys to our place.”
“Watch your words,” Galina Petrovna hissed. “Maybe I don’t live with you, but you know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“I do,” Dasha nodded. “You’ll say I don’t respect you.”
“That’s a fact,” Galina Petrovna lifted her chin proudly. “That’s what’s fashionable now—boundaries, freedom, ‘I don’t owe anyone anything.’ You’ll live a bit longer—you’ll understand.”
“Maybe,” Dasha said. “But you’ll still be celebrating at your place.”
Her mother-in-law looked at her one last time—heavy, long.
“We’ll see,” she threw out, and left the kitchen.
A minute later the front door slammed.
Egor peeked out.
“Mom, did Grandma leave?”
“She did,” Dasha exhaled. “She went home.”
“Are we going to her birthday?”
That question hurt more than anything Galina Petrovna had said.
“I don’t know yet, Egor,” Dasha answered honestly. “We’ll see.”
That evening Anton called without waiting for the end of his shift.
“Why did you talk to her like that?” he snapped—no hello, no how are you.
“Like what?” Dasha asked, setting her tea mug down.
“She came home in tears,” Anton’s voice was angry and exhausted. “She says you kicked her out and told her she’s nobody in this house.”
“I didn’t say that,” Dasha replied tiredly. “I said that in this house, you and I make decisions.”
“So you’re putting yourself on the same line as me, and Mom off to the side, yeah?”
“And should it be different?” Dasha sounded genuinely surprised. “You and I are a family. A separate one.”
He fell silent.
“You know what she said?” he asked finally. “That if I let you ‘tear the family apart,’ I’ll regret it later.”
“And what does she call ‘family’?” Dasha asked. “A relatives’ meeting in one apartment?”
“She said that if you’re not ready to put up with it for her celebration, then…” he faltered.
“Then I don’t love you,” Dasha finished for him. “I already figured.”
Anton exhaled loudly.
“You twist everything.”
“I’m just calling things by their names,” Dasha said. “Love isn’t when one person constantly yields and the other doesn’t even notice.”
“So you won’t give in? Not even a little?” he asked, and for a moment something weary—almost pleading—flashed in his voice.
Dasha went quiet, listening to herself. Before, she might have given up. Said, “Fine, just this once.” But inside her everything felt like a burned field after an old fire—nothing new would grow there anymore.
“No,” she said slowly. “I won’t.”
A pause hung on the line.
“Then I don’t know what happens next,” Anton said dully.
“I don’t either,” Dasha replied honestly. “But this—I know for sure.”
The days before the birthday dragged on thick and heavy. Anton started coming home later, lingering “on errands.” At the kitchen table he ate silently, barely looking up. He played with Egor out of inertia.
One evening Dasha heard their son ask:
“Dad, are you fighting with Grandma?”
“Which Grandma?” Anton didn’t understand.
“That one,” Egor pointed importantly at the ceiling, where an old lady lived upstairs and yelled loudly at her cat. “You shout like that sometimes too.”
Anton looked embarrassed, glanced at his wife—but Dasha had already walked into the kitchen.
The day before the birthday he packed a bag with a shirt and trousers and, for some reason, took his old razor from the bathroom.
“I’m sleeping at Mom’s tonight,” he said after dinner without meeting Dasha’s eyes. “In the morning I’ll help her set the table.”
“Got it,” Dasha nodded. “Is Egor coming with us?”
“Mom wanted you to come too,” Anton said, finally looking up. “But she said if you come alone and in a bad mood, it’s better not to come.”
“And did anyone ask about my mood?” Dasha gave a bitter little smile.
“There you go again,” Anton winced. “Everything revolves around your mood.”
“Around my work,” Dasha corrected. “I don’t want to work off other people’s holidays.”
He sighed and picked up the bag.
“Fine,” he threw over his shoulder at the door. “Decide for yourself.”
Dasha stood in the hallway, leaning against the wall, listening to the door slam and his footsteps fade.
Egor peeked out.
“Did Dad leave?”
“He went to Grandma’s,” Dasha nodded. “To help.”
“Are we going too?”
She looked at her son and suddenly realized she’d been arguing all this time not only with Anton and his mother. She’d been arguing with herself—with the former Dasha who could endure forever, just to avoid upsetting anyone.
“We’ll go to Grandma later,” she said. “We’ll congratulate her and give her a gift. But we’re not going to the big gathering.”
“Why?” Egor asked seriously.
Dasha crouched down beside him.
“Because our family has rules too,” she said. “And we decide what works for us.”
Egor thought for a moment and seemed satisfied.
“Then I’ll draw her a card,” he declared importantly.
“Great idea,” Dasha smiled.
On the birthday morning, everything began strangely calmly. No calls, no banging on the door, no demands for explanations. Dasha and Egor ate breakfast slowly, he sat down to draw, and she went to the store for a small cake and flowers.
By the entrance she ran into Aunt Nina—Anton’s cousin. Unlike Galina Petrovna, Nina was simpler.
“Oh, Dashka, hi,” she waved a bag. “Going to your mother-in-law’s or what?”
“We’ll drop by around lunchtime,” Dasha answered vaguely. “And you?”
“We’ve been there since seven,” Nina snorted. “She had everyone up at dawn. Where’s yours?”
“At his mother’s, helping,” Dasha said dryly.
Nina looked at her more closely.
“Listen,” she lowered her voice. “Galia’s been running around, muttering: ‘the daughter-in-law’s against it, the daughter-in-law’s tired.’ How are you, really?”
“I’m fine,” Dasha shrugged. “I just decided I’m not hosting mass celebrations in my place anymore.”
Nina hummed.
“Honestly, I get it,” she said. “Remember how last year after Seryozhka’s birthday your dishes lasted until Wednesday?”
“I remember,” Dasha couldn’t help smiling.
“And I remember,” Nina sighed. “Don’t worry. Whoever wants to understand will. Whoever doesn’t—there’s no explaining to them.”
Those words helped more than any excuses.
At home Dasha helped Egor sign the card in crooked letters: “Happy Birthday, Grandma.”
“We’ll go without the guests—just us,” Dasha said, tying a ribbon around the cake box. “We’ll sit a bit and come back.”
“Will Aunt Nina be there?” Egor asked.
“She will,” Dasha nodded. “And a lot of other people.”
Egor thought, then said decisively:
“Then I won’t sit long. I don’t like it when there’s lots of shouting.”
“Me neither,” Dasha agreed quietly.
Galina Petrovna’s apartment really was packed. Even on the stair landing Dasha heard loud laughter, glasses clinking, shouted voices.
The door swung open before they even rang—someone was going out to smoke.
“Oh, Dasha, come in!” Anton’s cousin shouted happily—the same one who loved singing into people’s ears. “And who’s this tough guy? Egor!”
Egor immediately squeezed Dasha’s hand.
Inside it was stuffy. On the table: salads, herring, sausages, sandwiches. Around it: relatives in various degrees of sobriety. Music played in the corner.
Galina Petrovna sat at the head of the table in a light blouse and skirt, hair done, makeup neat. When she saw Dasha and Egor, she tensed slightly—then quickly put on a smile.
“Oh, there they are,” she said loudly. “So you did decide to drop by.”
Anton stood by the window with a plate. He glanced at them quickly, almost furtively, and looked away again.
“Happy birthday,” Dasha said calmly, handing over the cake and flowers.
“Thank you,” Galina Petrovna replied in an official tone. “Come in, sit.”
They found a corner on stools by the wall. Egor sat down, hugging his card.
“Grandma, this is for you,” he said, handing it over. “I drew it myself.”
Galina Petrovna took the sheet and looked. It showed her—high shoulders, a big smile.
“Oh, what a good boy,” she softened. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
For ten minutes they sat quietly, listening to toasts. Relatives stood one by one and said the usual words about “health, happiness.”
At one point Aunt Nina jumped up:
“Let’s drink to the fact that at least someone in this family has the strength to say ‘no’ when they’ve been pushed past their limit!”
People laughed—some didn’t understand, some understood too well.
Galina Petrovna shot Nina an annoyed look.
“That’s about me,” Dasha murmured to Egor, leaning down.
“About you?” he was surprised.
“About the fact that I can say no,” Dasha corrected.
Egor nodded, as if filing it away like a new word.
After half an hour Dasha felt the air grow thick, heavy. Laughter, loud voices, clinking—it all pressed in.
“Egor and I are going,” she said, standing up.
“Already?” Galina Petrovna reacted immediately. “The celebration’s just started.”
“Egor’s tired,” Dasha explained briefly. “And I have work early tomorrow.”
“Of course,” her mother-in-law drawled. “Your work is sacred.”
Nina winked at Dasha on the sly. Someone tried to stop them—“Sit a little longer”—but Dasha, polite and without extra explanations, headed for the door.
Anton caught up with her in the hallway.
“Are you serious?” he whispered. “You just got here and you’re already leaving?”
“I promised I’d come congratulate her,” Dasha answered calmly. “I came.”
“This is some kind of mockery,” he hissed. “Everyone can see you leaving on purpose.”
“I’m not obligated to sit here until night,” she repeated. “You’ll manage without me just fine.”
He stared at her as if she’d struck one of his relatives.
“Fine,” he said at last. “Do what you want.”
“That’s what I’m doing,” Dasha nodded.
She dressed Egor and they stepped into the cool stairwell. Behind them the noise continued for a long time—toasts, music, voices.
Outside it was surprisingly quiet.
They walked home on foot, though they could have taken the bus. Dasha wanted fresh air—for her lungs and her head. Egor walked beside her, stepping onto every snowdrift he could, even though the snow was already dirty and heavy.
“Mom,” he said suddenly. “Are you mean?”
“Right now?” Dasha asked. “No. Just a little tired.”
“But Grandma said you’re mean,” Egor reported very calmly. “When she thought I was watching cartoons.”
Dasha tightened her grip on her bag strap.
“Grandma can be wrong,” she said gently. “Sometimes people say that when they’re angry.”
“Are you angry at her?”
Dasha stopped and crouched to be at his level.
“I’m not angry at her,” she said, choosing her words. “I just don’t want to live in a way that’s only convenient for her. Do you understand?”
Egor thought a little.
“Like you always have to play someone else’s game?” he asked.
Dasha smiled in surprise.
“Yes,” she nodded. “Something like that.”
“Then I don’t want to either,” he said seriously. “I want to play ours.”
Dasha hugged him, pulling him close. In her chest there was a strange feeling—not lightness, but not the old heaviness either. Something like silence after a long, loud noise.
Anton came home late, when Egor was already asleep. He was still in his festive shirt, unbuttoned at the collar. He smelled of alcohol and salads.
Dasha was sitting in the kitchen, drinking tea.
“Well?” he leaned on the doorframe. “Satisfied?”
“With what?” she asked calmly.
“With everyone now thinking you’re…” he hesitated, searching for a word—one of the words that was on the tip of his tongue, but he didn’t allow himself to say out loud. “…the one who ruined the celebration.”
“I didn’t ruin anything,” Dasha said. “I just didn’t let the celebration happen in my home.”
He gave a short laugh.
“Mom almost had a stroke today.”
“I’m sorry,” Dasha answered quietly. “But her health isn’t my responsibility.”
“Right,” Anton snapped. “Nothing is your responsibility at all—except your ‘boundaries.’”
“My responsibility is our son,” Dasha reminded him. “And the conditions we live in.”
“And me?” Anton raised an eyebrow.
“You’re an adult,” Dasha said. “You’re responsible for yourself.”
He came closer and sat across from her, eyes fixed on her face.
“Do you know what Mom said?” he asked slowly. “That if a wife doesn’t respect his mother, you don’t stay married to that kind of wife for long.”
“I didn’t ask her for advice on how long we should stay married,” Dasha shot back.
“But I did,” he admitted quietly. “I have the right to ask for advice too.”
Dasha looked at him closely.
“So what did you decide?”
He looked away and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“I’m tired, Dasha,” he said. “Constantly maneuvering between you two.”
“I’m not pulling you anywhere,” Dasha reminded him. “That’s your choice.”
“Exactly,” Anton nodded shortly. “My choice.”
A heavy pause followed.
“I…” he hesitated. “I think I’ll live at Mom’s for now.”
The words landed on the table between them like coins—payment for an over-priced meal.
“I see,” Dasha said.
She expected something inside her to snap. To scream, cry, beg. Instead she felt a strange relief—like taking off shoes that had been pinching for too long.
“You’re not going to say anything?” Anton asked, surprised.
“What do you need to hear?” Dasha asked.
He fell silent, probably waiting for a scene—shouting, “How can you, we have a child.”
“I’ll say one thing,” Dasha continued. “Egor will live with me. In this apartment. That’s not up for discussion.”
“I wasn’t going to take him,” Anton snorted, though something wounded flickered in his voice.
“You can come see him whenever you want,” Dasha added. “Like a decent person. Without scenes.”
“So you won’t even try…” Anton waved a hand. “Fine. I get it.”
He stood up, pulled a travel bag from the closet, and began packing in silence. Shirts, a couple pairs of jeans, his phone charger. The razor was already at his mother’s.
Dasha didn’t interfere. She sat on the stool and listened to closet doors opening and closing, fabric rustling.
When he reached the door and put his shoes on, Dasha suddenly said:
“Anton.”
“What?”
“If all of this were because of me, you’d probably still be able to talk to me,” she said. “But the real issue is—you were never on my side.”
Anton winced.
“That’s how you decided to see it.”
“That’s how I felt it,” Dasha corrected. “And feelings aren’t up for debate—remember how you used to say that?”
Anton didn’t answer.
“Fine,” he threw out. “See you.”
The door closed quietly.
Dasha stayed in the kitchen alone.
In the morning she woke up to Egor crawling under her blanket.
“Mom, where’s Dad?” he asked sleepily.
“Dad is living at Grandma’s for now,” Dasha said calmly. “But he’ll come visit you.”
“Is it because of the celebration?” Egor asked right away.
Dasha squeezed her eyes shut for a second.
“Not only,” she said. “It’s because Dad and I understand family differently.”
“And how do we understand it?” Egor asked.
Dasha smiled.
“That in a family everyone respects each other,” she said. “And no one forces someone to do what hurts them.”
Egor thought, then nodded importantly.
“Then we understand it the right way,” he concluded.
Dasha kissed the top of his head.
The day spun into normal bustle—kindergarten, work, dinner. In the evening Anton texted briefly: “How are you?” and she replied just as briefly: “We’re fine.”
Galina Petrovna didn’t call.
A couple of days later Dasha’s mother called.
“So what’s going on over there?” she asked—unused to long talks about feelings, but sensing something had happened.
Dasha sat in the kitchen, looking at the familiar walls, the old chairs, the simple curtain they’d once bought on sale.
“Mom,” Dasha said. “I think Anton and I are splitting up.”
There was silence on the other end.
“Because of your mother-in-law?” her mother asked cautiously.
“Not only,” Dasha answered. “Because he always chose not me.”
“Oh, honey…” her mother sighed. “It’s hard.”
“But it’s honest,” Dasha said. “I can’t live so that everyone’s comfortable except me.”
Her mother was quiet, then said unexpectedly firmly:
“I’m with you. Not because he’s bad. But because you’re my only one.”
Those simple words made Dasha’s eyes sting. She quickly wiped her tears with the back of her hand.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Hold on,” her mother continued. “I’ll come this weekend, sit with Egor. You’ll rest at least a little.”
“Come,” Dasha nodded, though her mother couldn’t see it.
That night, when the building went quiet, Dasha went to the kitchen, poured herself tea, and stared at the empty chair across from her for a long time.
That chair had seen a lot. Anton—before he was her husband—coming the first time with flowers. Their arguments over which stroller to buy. Counting their last money until payday. The silence after their first serious fights.
Now it was just a chair. Nobody’s.
Dasha realized she wasn’t afraid. She’d been afraid before—when she endured and stayed quiet, when it seemed that if she said “no,” the world would collapse.
The world didn’t collapse. It just changed a little.
Her phone lit up with a message from Anton: “How’s Egor?”
She replied: “Sleeping. Everything’s fine.”
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She could have added, “And you?” “When will you come?” But she put the phone down.
The holidays were over. Life went on.
Ahead were weekdays, kindergarten, work, the occasional evening when she could go to bed early. There would be more conversations—maybe with lawyers, maybe with the kindergarten teacher, with relatives who would ask, “So what happened?”
Dasha didn’t know how she would answer them all. But she knew one thing for sure: next time someone tried to set the chairs in her life without asking, she would say her firm, calm “no” again.
Not loudly. Not with shouting.
But in a way that would be heard.
And let everyone celebrate their birthdays at home.
Not in someone else’s life