Anna woke to crying. Third time that night.
Without fully registering where she was or what time it was, she reached for the crib on instinct. Miron’s warm little body wriggled in her arms as he rooted for the breast, snuffling and hiccuping through tiny sobs.
“Shh… shh, sweetheart,” she whispered, shifting higher on the pillows to get comfortable.
The bedroom door eased open. A shadow filled the doorway.
“Anya, you’re feeding him again?” Lyudmila Petrovna’s voice—her mother-in-law’s—didn’t sound like a question. It sounded like a charge. “He just ate. You’re overfeeding him. His tummy will hurt.”
“Lyudmila Petrovna, it’s three-thirty in the morning,” Anna replied, exhausted, eyes still on her son. “Can we talk about this in the morning?”
“Exactly—night!” the older woman snapped. “And you’re getting him used to being held. You should’ve let him cry—he would’ve calmed down on his own. In our day we didn’t fuss like this, and look—people grew up just fine.”
Lyudmila Petrovna didn’t leave. She stayed planted in the doorway, a heavy figure in a washed-out robe, waiting.
Waiting for what, Anna couldn’t tell. Maybe for her daughter-in-law to say, You’re right—take the baby.
“Thank you for the advice,” Anna said flatly, and turned toward the wall on purpose.
The door shut. But sleep was gone for good.
Lyudmila Petrovna arrived a week after Anna came home from the maternity hospital. She showed up announcing she’d come “to help the young couple,” hauling three huge bags. Inside were baby clothes “for later,” some herbal teas “for lactation,” and a full arsenal of old-fashioned remedies for colic.
“You won’t manage alone, Anya,” she declared right on the threshold, without asking whether help was needed. “First baby, no experience. I raised Igor without nannies and without all these pregnancy classes. A mother’s intuition—that’s what matters.”
Igor, Anna’s husband, only gave an apologetic smile and carried the bags inside.
“Mom, you could’ve at least called,” he mumbled. “We would’ve met you.”
“What am I, a child?” she scoffed. “I got here fine. The important thing is helping you—before it’s too late.”
The first day went relatively quietly. Lyudmila Petrovna settled on the living-room sofa, hung her robes in the closet, and immediately took over the cooking. By evening the apartment smelled of fried onions, dill, and some thick brew that, according to her, was supposed to “bring Anna’s milk in.”
“Eat, eat,” she insisted, pushing a bowl of hearty soup closer. “A nursing mother has to eat for two.”
Anna ate obediently, though she had no appetite. Her body still hadn’t recovered from childbirth—everything hurt and ached—and more than anything she was desperately, painfully sleepy. Miron woke every two hours, and between feedings she barely managed to fall into a dead, shallow doze.
“Why aren’t your bottles sterilized?” Lyudmila Petrovna called from the kitchen. “And the pacifier has to be boiled every time! You’ll give the baby an infection.”
“We’re not using a pacifier right now,” Anna answered, feeling irritation creep up her throat.
“No pacifier?” Lyudmila Petrovna came out wiping her hands on a towel. “Sweet girl, you can’t do that. The sucking reflex needs to be satisfied. He’ll wear you out nursing.”
“The doctor said a pacifier isn’t necessary if you’re breastfeeding.”
“The doctor!” her mother-in-law waved it off. “They read too many books now. But what happens in real life? In real life you raise a child the old way. You’ll see—you’ll suffer.”
Igor walked in when he heard the raised voices.
“Mom, maybe we shouldn’t…” he tried gently, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “Anna will figure it out. She read a lot, she prepared.”
“She read!” Lyudmila Petrovna snorted. “Books are one thing—life is another. You were a difficult baby too; I carried you in my arms until you were six months. And then I spent my whole life treating my back. So I know what I’m talking about.”
Anna didn’t reply. She’d already learned to swallow her words. But inside, pressure kept building—like water behind a dam.
On the third day, “getting the place in order” began.
Lyudmila Petrovna got up at six in the morning and launched a massive cleaning campaign. The vacuum woke not only Miron—who’d slept barely an hour after a night feeding—but the upstairs neighbors too; an angry knocking came through the pipes.
“Lyudmila Petrovna, it’s so early!” Anna burst out of the bedroom with the crying baby in her arms. “Miron just fell asleep!”
“Early?” her mother-in-law looked at the clock, genuinely surprised. “It’s already six! I’ve gotten up at six my entire life. Cleanliness is health—especially with a newborn. Germs, you know, don’t sleep.”
“But you could’ve waited until eight!”
“Until eight?” Lyudmila Petrovna shut off the vacuum and fixed her with a scolding look. “Anya, with a baby you have to get up early. Routine is everything. You’ve spoiled him already—he sleeps whenever he wants. He needs to learn a schedule.”
“He’s three weeks old!”
“Exactly! Now is the time. At our children’s clinic they told us: feed strictly by the clock, put them down at the same time every day. And you feed on demand—so of course he doesn’t even know day from night.”
Miron screamed in Anna’s arms. She rocked him, tears sliding down her cheeks—tears of helplessness, exhaustion, and despair. She had imagined these first weeks with her baby as quiet, tender, special. Instead, chaos had moved into their home.
“Anya, don’t cry,” Igor said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. He looked worn out too—work didn’t stop, and coming home felt like entering the epicenter of a storm. “Mom just wants what’s best.”
“Best?” Anna pulled away. “Igor, I haven’t slept properly in a month. My stitches still hurt. I can barely walk. And your mother turns the vacuum on at six a.m.—is that ‘help’?”
“She’s trying…”
“She tells me how to hold my own baby! Yesterday she took Miron from my arms without asking and carried him out to ‘air him out’ on the balcony—in a single onesie. In December!”
“Okay… that’s too much, I agree,” Igor said, rubbing his forehead. “I’ll talk to her.”
“You’ve said that five times.”
“I’ll talk to her again. She’s just worried. She means well.”
The road to hell is paved with good intentions, Anna thought, but she didn’t say it out loud. She pressed the whimpering baby to her chest and went back into the bedroom. Behind a closed door, she could at least pretend there was still a corner of her life that belonged only to her.
By the end of the first week, Anna had learned to smile through clenched teeth. Every day brought a new “valuable tip” from Lyudmila Petrovna.
“You’re washing him wrong! Front to back, not back to front!”
“Why are you putting him in diapers? His skin can’t breathe! In our day we used gauze.”
“That cream is harmful—chemicals. I’ll make a herbal infusion, that’s what he needs.”
“You’re dressing him too warm—he’s sweating!”
“Too cold—he’ll catch a chill!”
Everything Anna did was criticized. Lyudmila Petrovna was always nearby, always watching, always ready to intervene. Even when Anna breastfed—an intimate moment between mother and child—her mother-in-law might walk in without knocking and start demonstrating how to “do it properly.”
“See? He’s latching wrong. You’ll get cracks. Let me show you.”
And Lyudmila Petrovna would wedge herself between Anna and Miron with her large hands—pulling, adjusting—hurting both baby and mother.
“Lyudmila Petrovna, please, don’t,” Anna begged one day. “We’re fine. We’ve figured it out.”
“You figured it out wrong,” her mother-in-law cut her off. “You’ll regret it. My friend’s daughter-in-law didn’t listen either—she ended up with a nightmare. They had to go to the hospital.”
Fear. That was Lyudmila Petrovna’s main weapon—fear that Anna was doing something wrong, that she would harm her baby, that she was a bad mother. And for an exhausted woman riding unstable postpartum hormones, those fears took root like seeds in fertile soil.
At night, Anna lay awake thinking: What if she’s right? What if I really am doing everything wrong? What if Miron cries because I’m a terrible mother? What if my mother-in-law is right and I’m just stubborn and stupid?
Igor tried to walk a tightrope between his mother and his wife: Anna’s grievances in the morning, his mother’s complaints in the evening.
“Your wife doesn’t listen to me,” Lyudmila Petrovna declared at dinner, while Anna fed Miron in the bedroom. “I tell her, and she does it her way. Stubborn. Do you think I want something bad? I have experience—I raised you, by the way.”
“Mom, Anna’s just exhausted,” Igor tried. “The first month is the hardest. She needs support, not criticism.”
“This is support!” Lyudmila Petrovna snapped. “I help her, I teach her. And she takes it like an attack. Ungrateful—that’s what it is.”
“Maybe you really are a little… too intense?”
“Igor!” his mother put down her spoon and stared at her son, wounded. “I’ve been living on a hard sofa for three weeks for you. Cooking, cleaning, watching my grandson! And you’re saying I’m ‘too intense’?”
“I didn’t mean it like that…”
“You know, if I’m in the way, I can leave. Handle it yourselves. We’ll see how she manages without me.”
Igor fell silent. He knew what an offended mother meant: long calls to relatives about an ungrateful son and his wife. He was tired of the fights, the tension, the fact that home no longer felt calm.
“Mom, come on. Of course you’re helping. Just… be gentler, okay?”
Lyudmila Petrovna snorted and kept eating her soup. The conversation was over. Nothing changed.
The breaking point came a week before New Year’s.
Anna stepped out of the shower, having allowed herself—for the first time in three days—the luxury of ten minutes alone. Her skin still burned from the hot water, her hair was dripping, her robe thrown on in a hurry. She was heading for the bedroom, craving at least half an hour of sleep while Miron napped, when she stopped by the living-room door.
She heard her mother-in-law’s voice.
Lyudmila Petrovna was on the phone—loud, emotional, unaware she could be heard.
“…No, Galya, can you imagine? She doesn’t listen at all! I tell her a hundred times, and she does it her way. Stubborn. Young and inexperienced—that’s understandable, but she has to learn! Poor Igor is torn between us… No, of course I won’t leave—who would help them? Her mother lives in another city, she has her own life. No, I have to save my grandson from this… well, you know. She does everything wrong! The baby cries and she picks him up—she’s spoiled him already. And recently I took him to bathe him properly—in herbs, like you’re supposed to—and she practically threw a fit! Says the doctor told her no additives. Doctors! The things they say now… In our day we raised children without doctors—and they were healthier. Anyway, I’ll suffer with them, but what can you do? Family…”
Anna stood there as if she’d been struck by lightning. The blood drained from her face; her temples pounded.
“Saving my grandson from this…”
So that’s what she was. A threat to her own child. A bad mother who needed round-the-clock supervision.
Anna turned and walked into the bedroom. She sat on the edge of the bed and looked at sleeping Miron—her tiny, warm, perfect boy. He breathed softly, fists clenched, eyelashes fluttering in his sleep. She lived for this little life. She carried him for nine months, birthed him in pain, sacrificed sleep, health, herself.
And nobody—nobody—had the right to say she was endangering him.
When Igor came home from work, Anna was sitting in the kitchen with a cup of cold tea. Lyudmila Petrovna was fussing in the bathroom, starting yet another load of baby laundry.
“Igor, we need to talk,” Anna said quietly, but with steel in her voice.
“What happened?” he asked at once, alarmed. One look at her face told him her patience had finally snapped.
“I don’t need your mother’s help,” Anna said, holding his gaze without blinking. “She needs to leave before the holidays—because if she doesn’t, I can’t be responsible for what I do.”
“Anya, come on…”
“I’m serious,” her voice trembled, but she didn’t back down. “Either she leaves, or I leave—with Miron. I need peace, do you understand? I need to recover. I need to learn how to be a mother on my own, without someone constantly telling me I’m doing everything wrong. I’m on the edge of a breakdown. I cry every night. I can’t do this anymore. I don’t want to.”
Igor rubbed his face with both hands. He could see it wasn’t an empty threat. Anna had reached the limit.
“She’ll be offended…”
“She’ll be offended?” Anna’s restraint cracked. “Igor, today your mother was on the phone discussing me with her friend! She said she’s saving her grandson from me! I’m a danger to our child—do you understand what that means?”
“She doesn’t think that, she just… said it badly…”
“I don’t care,” Anna shook her head. “I can’t live under this pressure. This is my home, my child, my life. She leaves—or I do.”
Silence stretched like a rubber band before it snaps. From the bathroom came water splashing and humming—Lyudmila Petrovna was singing something about a winter evening, completely unaware that her place in this house was being decided in the kitchen.
“Okay,” Igor finally exhaled. “Okay. I’ll tell her. Tomorrow.”
“Today,” Anna corrected him. “Right now.”
Lyudmila Petrovna didn’t see it coming.
She sat on the sofa with pure confusion on her face while Igor, stumbling over his words, explained that “Anna needs rest,” that “it would be better if you went home for now,” that “after the holidays we’ll definitely invite you back.”
“So you’re throwing me out,” Lyudmila Petrovna said softly. “Right before New Year’s?”
“Mom, we’re not throwing you out,” Igor said, feeling like the worst person alive. “We just really need to be the three of us for a while. To settle in. Anna is so tired.”
“Anna is tired!” Lyudmila Petrovna’s voice shot up. “And I’m not tired, I guess? I worked like a dog for three weeks! Cooked, cleaned, stayed up at night when the baby cried! And now it’s goodbye?”
“Lyudmila Petrovna,” Anna said as she stepped into the room. She had waited in the bedroom on purpose, but it was clear Igor couldn’t do it alone. “Thank you for your help. Truly. But I need to learn to be a mother myself. Without prompts and orders. I need to understand my own baby—and I can’t do that when someone is constantly telling me I’m doing everything wrong.”
“Wrong?” her mother-in-law sprang up. “I’m sharing life experience! And you call that—”
“Criticism,” Anna finished firmly. “You criticize every step I take. Every decision. I understand you have experience, but times have changed—methods too. And most important: he is my child. I have to learn to understand him myself, not just do whatever you say.”
A heavy pause fell. Lyudmila Petrovna looked from her son to her daughter-in-law. Color crept slowly into her face.
“So that’s how it is,” she said at last. “So you don’t appreciate me. Fine. I understand. I’ll leave tomorrow. And I won’t come back. Handle it yourselves. And when things get hard—don’t call me.”
She turned and went to the living room to pack. Igor looked helplessly at Anna.
“She’s offended,” he murmured.
“She’ll survive,” Anna said calmly. For the first time in three weeks, she was truly calm.
In the morning, Lyudmila Petrovna left.
She left with a wounded expression, refusing help with her bags, and tossing back only a dry, “Be healthy,” on her way out. The door slammed with a sound like a coffin lid closing—like the burial of whatever warmth had existed in their family.
Igor stood in the hallway, torn between running after his mother and holding his wife. He chose the second.
“Maybe we did the wrong thing?” he asked uncertainly.
“No,” Anna pressed herself against him. “We didn’t.”
And then there was silence—blessed, healing silence. The apartment seemed to exhale, the walls relaxing. From the bedroom came soft breathing—Miron was waking.
Anna went to him, lifted him into her arms, and carried him to the window. Outside, snow swirled as the city prepared for the holiday. Somewhere below, Lyudmila Petrovna’s figure moved away with heavy bags—but Anna didn’t look down. She looked at her son.
“You know, sweetheart,” she whispered, “I don’t know if I’m doing everything right. Maybe I’m making mistakes. But they’ll be my mistakes. And we’ll learn to fix them together. Okay?”
Miron scrunched his face and yawned. Anna laughed—lightly, simply—for the first time in what felt like forever.
They welcomed the New Year as a family of three.
Igor decorated a small tree. Anna made a simple dinner—nothing fancy, only what she had the strength for. Miron slept in his crib beside the table, lit by the soft glow of the string lights.
At midnight, the chimes rang out. Igor held Anna, and they stood like that, pressed close, watching their sleeping son.
“I’m sorry,” Igor said.
“For what?”
“For not protecting you sooner. I should’ve understood earlier.”
“You protected me when I asked,” Anna kissed his cheek. “That’s what matters.”
Igor’s phone buzzed. A message from his mother: “Happy New Year. I’m still offended, but I understand. I’ll come in the spring if you invite me. Kiss my grandson for me.” Igor showed the screen to Anna.
“In the spring,” she said thoughtfully. “Maybe. We’ll see.”
“We’ll see,” he agreed.
Miron shifted in his sleep and smiled. They say newborns can’t smile on purpose, but Anna liked to believe her son could feel it—now everything would be okay.
The apartment was quiet—warm, calm, theirs. Outside the snow kept falling and the city slept in its pre-holiday hush. And in the small bedroom a young mother held her firstborn, finally feeling she had the right to be a mother in the way she believed was right.
No commands. No criticism. No чужие правила—no one else’s rules.
Just mother and son.
And that was enough.