When Marina stepped into the director’s office, her heart was hammering as if she were taking her very first exam again. But she wasn’t scared—she was buzzing with anticipation. She knew they hadn’t summoned her for no reason. For the last six months she’d been running on fumes: two major projects delivered ahead of schedule, delighted clients, and her department up thirty percent.
“Marina Sergeyevna, have a seat,” Igor Petrovich said with a smile, sliding a folder across the desk. “Congratulations. Starting March 1st, you’re the Head of the Development Department. Your salary increases by fifty percent, plus a bonus component.”
She read the official order and couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Thirty-three years old—and this was it: real recognition. Not just a promotion, but the role she’d been chasing for five years.
Marina practically flew home. On the way she picked up a good bottle of wine and a cake—this deserved celebrating. Dmitry, her husband, would be thrilled. They’d talked about this possibility so many times, made plans: how they’d finally move out from his mother’s place, rent their own apartment, maybe even start saving for one of their own.
“Dim!” she burst into the apartment, glowing. “You won’t believe it!”
Dmitry came out of the room, drying his hands on a towel. He was tall, slightly hunched, with the permanently tired eyes of a programmer who lived in front of a screen.
“What happened?”
“I got promoted! Department head! Dim, do you realize what that means?”
He smiled carefully—as he always did—like he was afraid to react too loudly to anything in this house.
“Marinka, that’s wonderful. I knew you’d pull it off.”
They hugged, and at that moment Valentina Mikhailovna—Marina’s mother-in-law—stepped out of her room. She was sixty, with a perfect blowout and that constant expression of someone who is absolutely sure she knows the right way to live.
“What’s all this noise?” she scanned Marina with a judging look. “Marina, your shoes are in the hallway again. Why are you always so careless?”
“Mom,” Dmitry cut in, catching her eye. “Marina got promoted. A big promotion.”
Valentina Mikhailovna raised an eyebrow.
“Did she now? Well, good for you. That means they appreciate you,” she said, pausing. Then she added, “Just don’t get arrogant, Marina. A career is fine, but you can’t forget about family.”
Marina clenched her jaw. It was always the same—any success of hers came with a sting or a lecture. But today she refused to let her mood be ruined.
“I understand, Valentina Mikhailovna.”
“And since it’s such a big occasion,” her mother-in-law continued, “maybe you’ll finally start helping more around the house? Because I’m the one cooking and cleaning, and I’m not getting any younger.”
Dmitry winced but said nothing. Marina let out a slow breath.
“Mom, we agreed: everyone cleans up after themselves, and we cook in turns.”
“In turns,” Valentina Mikhailovna echoed with a mocking tone. “Your ‘turn’ comes once a week—if it comes at all.”
Marina opened her mouth to protest, but Dmitry lightly touched her hand.
“Mom, please. Can we just be happy today?”
Valentina Mikhailovna snorted and disappeared back into her room.
That evening, when the two of them were alone in the kitchen, Dmitry poured wine and raised his glass.
“To you. To my clever girl.”
“To us,” Marina corrected gently. “Dim, now we can actually move out. I did the math—on my new salary we can easily afford a two-bedroom in a decent area. Not luxury, but ours.”
He nodded, but the same tired caution flickered in his eyes.
“We’ll talk about it. We will.”
“Talk about what?” Marina felt irritation rise in her throat. “We’re thirty-three, Dim. We’ve lived with your mother for five years. Five years. I can’t do this anymore. Every day it’s comments, accusations, supervision. I come home from work and I feel like I’m not coming home—I’m walking into an interrogation.”
“I know,” he said quietly. “It’s just… Mom isn’t young anymore. It’ll be hard for her alone.”
“Dim, she has a job, she has friends, she’s healthy and active. She’s sixty, not seventy-five. And we’re not moving to the end of the world.”
He fell silent, turning his glass slowly in his hands.
“Let’s wait until summer, okay? I’ll talk to her.”
Marina knew what “I’ll talk to her” meant. It meant nothing would change.
The next two weeks were unsettling. Valentina Mikhailovna seemed like a different person. She smiled at Marina, asked about her job, didn’t criticize scattered things or a sink that wasn’t sparkling clean. She even cooked dinner one Friday—though it had been Marina’s turn.
“You must be exhausted in your new position,” she said, setting a plate of roast in front of her. “Rest. I’ll handle it.”
Marina glanced at Dmitry. He shrugged, clearly surprised too.
“Thank you,” Marina said cautiously.
“Oh, it’s nothing. We’re family, after all.”
It was so unlike her that Marina became suspicious. But then she thought: maybe Dmitry really had talked to her. Or maybe Valentina Mikhailovna realized she’d been pushing too hard.
Either way, breathing at home suddenly felt easier.
And then, over breakfast on Saturday, Valentina Mikhailovna announced:
“Kids, you remember my birthday is coming up, don’t you? My milestone. On the twenty-third.”
“Of course, Mom,” Dmitry nodded. “Sixty. That’s a big date.”
“Exactly. And I want to celebrate properly. Beautifully,” she said, letting the pause hang. “I booked a hall at ‘Usadba.’ You know that restaurant by the embankment—wonderful place. I made a guest list, about thirty-five people. Relatives, friends, a few colleagues. Special menu, music. I want everything to be first-class.”
Marina nearly choked on her coffee.
“Thirty-five people? At Usadba?”
“And why not?” Valentina Mikhailovna looked at her with mild defiance. “I’m turning sixty. That’s serious. I want to mark it in a way that’s worthy.”
“Mom, that’s really expensive,” Dmitry began carefully. “Usadba is… not cheap.”
“So what?” his mother straightened. “I worked my whole life. I have every right to give myself a proper celebration. Or do you think I don’t deserve it?”
“That’s not what I meant…”
“Then what’s the issue? I organized everything. All you have to do is show up. Invite a couple of your friends too, if you like.”
Marina stayed silent. Something about this felt wrong, but she couldn’t yet name it.
“Of course, Mom,” Dmitry agreed. “We’ll be there. We’ll celebrate you the way you deserve.”
Valentina Mikhailovna lit up.
“Then it’s settled. I’m so happy! It’ll be an unforgettable evening.”
The party really was lavish. Usadba lived up to its reputation: high ceilings, crystal chandeliers, impeccable service. Guests arrived dressed up and cheerful, congratulating Valentina Mikhailovna, bringing flowers and gifts. The table was overflowing: appetizers, steaks, elaborate salads, desserts.
Marina wore her best dress—a deep navy one she saved for special occasions—and spent the whole night trying to be pleasant. She chatted with Dmitry’s relatives she barely knew, listened to endless stories about her mother-in-law from her friends, smiled for group photos.
By ten o’clock, she was dead tired. Her feet throbbed in heels, and the noise and music made her head ache. Guests began to drift away—some had already left, others lingered over coffee.
Marina was standing by the window, looking at the dark river, when Valentina Mikhailovna walked up to her. Her face held a strange expression—part satisfaction, part tense resolve.
“Marina, dear, can I speak to you for a moment?”
“Of course.”
Valentina Mikhailovna glanced around, then pulled an envelope from her purse.
“Here are the bills for my milestone birthday,” she said, handing Marina a stack of receipts as if she were presenting something valuable.
Marina took the envelope automatically, not understanding what was happening.
“This is… what?”
“The invoices, dear. For the restaurant, the menu, the service,” Valentina Mikhailovna said calmly, almost sweetly. “And a few more receipts—my dress, the taxis, the floral arrangements for the tables. I kept everything neatly together.”
Marina opened the envelope. Receipts. So many. On top sat the restaurant invoice. The total made her stomach drop.
“Valentina Mikhailovna, I… I don’t understand. Why are you giving this to me?”
Her mother-in-law smiled—broad, almost maternal.
“Well, why else, Marina? You’re going to pay it, of course. I’m sure you can afford a gift like that for my milestone. You have such a good position now, such a salary! And besides—we did talk about it.”
“What?!” A cold shiver ran down Marina’s spine. “Talk about it? I never agreed to this—”
“You never agreed?” Valentina Mikhailovna frowned. “Marina, you remember I told you about my birthday. You and Dima listened. I explained everything in detail—where, how many guests, what menu. You didn’t object.”
“We listened to you talk about your celebration, but nobody said we’d be paying for it!” Marina’s voice rose, and a few guests still nearby turned around.
Dmitry hurried over.
“What’s going on?”
“Your mother…” Marina shoved the stack of receipts at him. “She expects me to pay for the entire banquet!”
Dmitry scanned the papers and went pale.
“Mom… this is almost three hundred thousand rubles.”
“So what?” Valentina Mikhailovna lifted her chin. “Marina makes very good money now. She can afford to give me that kind of gift. I spent my whole life taking care of Dima—raised him alone, gave him everything. Don’t I deserve a proper sixtieth birthday?”
“You do,” Marina said firmly. “But I’m not obligated to pay for it. You organized this without my consent—without asking, without discussing it. You’re just dumping it on me.”
“I thought it went without saying!” her mother-in-law snapped, her voice sharp now. “You’re the daughter-in-law! You live in my apartment, you use everything! I thought at least for my milestone you’d show some gratitude!”
“Mom, please,” Dmitry tried to position himself between them. “Let’s stay calm. I’ll pay. I’ll transfer the money tomorrow…”
“No,” Marina cut him off. “Dim, don’t you dare. Don’t.”
He looked at her, confused.
“Marinka, but… the party already happened. People ate, drank…”
“Exactly!” Marina swung back to Valentina Mikhailovna. “And nobody asked my opinion! Were you ‘nice’ to me these last two weeks on purpose? Did you pretend to be kind so I’d relax—and then you’d pull this?”
Valentina Mikhailovna pressed her lips together.
“I wasn’t pretending,” she said tightly. “I wanted you to understand I appreciate your success. And I thought you’d appreciate the chance to do something pleasant for me.”
“Something pleasant—for three hundred thousand rubles?” Marina’s voice broke into a shout, and now everyone still in the room was openly staring. “That’s not a gift—that’s blackmail! You knew I’d say no, so you kept quiet ahead of time. You decided to use me!”
“Use you?” Valentina Mikhailovna’s face twisted. “How dare you! I’m your husband’s mother! I gave you a roof over your head!”
“A roof we pay for with utilities and groceries!” Marina fired back. “That’s not charity!”
Dmitry grabbed Marina’s hand.
“Marinka, please. Stop. People are watching.”
“Let them watch!” She yanked her hand away. “I’m done staying silent! I’m done tolerating this! Five years in this house, and I don’t feel like a wife—I feel like hired help. Constant criticism, constant control, constant dissatisfaction—and now this!”
One of Valentina Mikhailovna’s friends—an older woman in a burgundy dress—murmured:
“Valya, maybe you shouldn’t… this is awkward.”
“Awkward?” Marina laughed, but it came out thin and brittle. “You know what’s awkward? Being set up by your own family.”
Valentina Mikhailovna went pale, then flushed.
“You… you’re cold and greedy!” she blurted. “I’m ashamed my son married a woman like you! You can’t even give your mother-in-law a decent gift for her milestone! Everyone else brought presents and spent money, and you—you…”
“I never agreed to pay for your party!” Marina felt like she might explode. “If you wanted an expensive celebration, you should have paid for it yourself. Or asked your son. But you don’t get to shove the bills at me in secret and hope I’ll be too shocked to refuse!”
The guests started exchanging looks and awkwardly collecting their things. The festive mood evaporated completely.
Valentina Mikhailovna stood there breathing hard, then abruptly turned to the counter where the waitstaff stood.
“Young man!” her voice trembled. “Here’s my card. Run the bill.”
She yanked out a credit card and slapped it onto the counter. The waiter, clearly eager to end the spectacle, processed the payment quickly.
Valentina Mikhailovna snatched the card back, turned, and looked at Marina with such hatred that Marina instinctively stepped back.
“I don’t want to see you anymore. Do you hear me? I want nothing to do with you. You’re a stranger in my home.”
“Mom!” Dmitry tried to stop her, but she waved him off.
“And you too, Dima—since you let your wife speak to me like that. Since you didn’t defend your mother.”
She grabbed her purse and marched out of the restaurant with her chin high. The last guests trailed after her, mumbling embarrassed goodbyes.
Marina and Dmitry were left standing in the middle of the emptying hall while the waiters silently began clearing tables.
“Marinka,” he started softly. “Why did you—”
“Don’t,” she lifted a hand. “Don’t tell me I’m wrong. I’m exhausted. Let’s go.”
“Go where?” he gave a bitter half-smile. “Back to my mother’s?”
“Let’s go,” Marina said. “And tomorrow we’ll decide what happens next.”
The next morning Marina woke early despite a sleepless night. Dmitry shifted beside her, but he hadn’t slept either.
“Dim,” she said, staring at the ceiling. “We’re moving out.”
“Marinka…”
“No. No ‘Marinka.’ I can’t live there anymore. We’ll find a rental. Today. We start looking.”
He was quiet for a long time, then finally exhaled.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yes. Okay. You’re right. It’s time.”
She turned toward him. His eyes were tired—but there was determination there too.
“I should’ve done this years ago,” he admitted. “I was always scared of upsetting Mom. But you… you matter more. I’m sorry I didn’t understand that sooner.”
Marina hugged him, and for the first time in months she felt relief flood through her.
That same day they scrolled through dozens of listings. By evening they’d found a small two-bedroom in a good neighborhood—not fancy, but clean and bright, with decent renovations. They scheduled a viewing for the next day.
Valentina Mikhailovna locked herself in her room and wouldn’t come out. When Dmitry knocked to talk, she answered through the door:
“I have nothing to say to either of you.”
Three days later they signed the lease and started packing. Valentina Mikhailovna kept up the silent treatment, pointedly acting as if they didn’t exist. When they carried boxes out, she sat in the kitchen with a cup of tea, staring out the window like they were ghosts.
“Mom,” Dmitry tried one last time. “We don’t want to fight. We just—”
“Do whatever you want,” she said coldly, without turning her head. “I don’t care.”
The door closed behind them with a dull click.
The new apartment was quiet—almost unnervingly quiet at first. For the first week Marina caught herself listening, half-expecting familiar footsteps, or that disapproving voice from the hallway. But no. Just the two of them. Their own space. Their rules. Their life.
Dmitry seemed to straighten up—literally. He smiled more, talked more. In the evenings they cooked together, laughed at burnt pancakes and oversalted soup, watched movies late into the night without worrying someone would complain the TV was too loud.
Marina felt the heaviness slide off her shoulders. At work she became even more efficient—now when she came home, she actually rested instead of bracing for the next round of conflict.
But sometimes, especially at night when they sat on the small balcony with tea, Dmitry would go quiet and stare into the distance.
“Do you miss her?” Marina asked once.
He shook his head.
“No. Well… yes, maybe. She’s still my mother. But I don’t regret our decision. It’s just sad it had to happen like this.”
“I didn’t want it to be this way either,” Marina said, taking his hand. “But I couldn’t agree. If I’d paid that bill, it would’ve become the rule. Every time she wanted something, she’d expect me to solve it. I wasn’t obligated to pay for a party I didn’t ask for, and never agreed to.”
“I know,” he squeezed her fingers. “You did the right thing. Mom is used to everyone revolving around her—like her wishes come first. Maybe this was the lesson she needed.”
“Do you think she’ll ever understand?”
He shrugged.
“I don’t know. But even if she doesn’t… we can’t live by her rules forever.”
Marina nodded. Somewhere deep inside, she still hoped that time would soften things—that Valentina Mikhailovna would call, that they’d talk calmly, maybe even apologize to each other.
But a month passed, then another. The phone stayed silent.
Dmitry tried messaging his mother a few times—short, cautious texts. She replied in one-word answers or ignored him completely. When he suggested meeting up, she wrote: “I have nothing to discuss with a man who chose his wife over his mother.”
“As if you can’t love both,” Dmitry said wearily, showing Marina the screen.
She wrapped her arms around him, and they sat together until the sky outside went dark.
Spring turned into summer. Marina received her first major bonus in the new position, and they decided to celebrate with a small trip—a week by the sea, just the two of them, free of obligations.
At the hotel, stretched out on the beach with the surf in her ears, Marina suddenly thought: when was the last time she’d felt this free? This… happy?
“What are you thinking about?” Dmitry asked, turning his head.
“That we did it,” she smiled. “That we made it through.”
“We did,” he agreed. “And you know what? I’m proud of us. Proud we didn’t back down.”
She took his hand.
“Me too.”
Of course there was still a small knot of guilt and sadness inside her. The birthday incident still surfaced in her mind—especially when she saw happy families where mothers-in-law and daughters-in-law laughed together in kitchens, cooking and teasing each other.
But she didn’t regret her choice. She’d done what her conscience demanded. She’d defended her boundaries. She hadn’t allowed herself to be used.
And if Valentina Mikhailovna never understood that… then that was her choice.
Marina had a home now. Her own space. Her own life.
And she wasn’t giving it up.
Even if the price was a broken relationship with someone who believed “family” meant having the right to control other people’s money, time, and life.
Family is love and respect, Marina thought, watching the sunset melt into the sea.