I was sitting in front of my computer, scrolling through photos of shower cabins for what had to be the tenth time—glass panels, chrome faucets, water streams falling in a perfect cascade. My dream was so close I could almost smell fresh silicone and hear the soft hiss of a modern drain system.
“Len, are you looking at shower cabins again?” Oleg’s voice came from the entryway before I even heard the door creak.
I turned around. My husband was taking off his shoes without lifting his eyes.
“Just imagine—I’m almost there,” I said, unable to hide my excitement. “Three more weeks and I can order it. The installer promised he’d finish in a week. By the start of October, we’ll have a completely different bathroom.”
Oleg went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. I knew that habit of his—he always paused before an important conversation, as if the right words might be hiding somewhere between the yogurts and the containers of leftovers.
“Listen… maybe we should think this through,” he said at last, pulling out a bottle of kefir. “Mom’s birthday is coming up.”
My heart sank in a way that made me feel instantly uneasy. I knew that tone. It was the tone of someone who was about to ask for something inconvenient, but would present it as perfectly reasonable.
“She’s turning sixty-five,” Oleg continued, pouring kefir into a glass. “That’s a big milestone.”
“Mm-hmm,” I said, waiting.
“She’s been asking for a fur coat for a long time. You know that. All her friends have proper coats, and she’s stuck in that down jacket. Even if it’s an expensive one, it’s still not the same.”
I felt my jaw tighten.
“Oleg, what does your mother’s fur coat have to do with anything?”
“What do you mean, what does it have to do with anything?” He turned to me, genuinely convinced he was stating something obvious. “It’s her birthday. We should give her something serious. Something worthy.”
“Then buy it,” I shrugged and turned back to the screen.
“Len, you know I don’t have that kind of money. That business trip fell through, my bonus got cut. And you’ve saved up, and…”
Slowly, I turned around. The chair squealed as it shifted.
“I saved up for a shower cabin.”
“Right, but that can wait. Mom can’t. It’s her юбилей, a real anniversary. Lena—she’s my mother!”
I stood up, walked closer, and looked him in the eyes.
“I’ve been saving for six months, Oleg. I’ve denied myself things, skipped dinners with the girls, didn’t buy the dress I loved. For six months, every payday I put away a third. A third, Oleg. Do you understand what that means?”
“I do, but—”
“No, you don’t!” A lump rose in my throat—not because I wanted to cry, but because I was furious. “Our bathroom is the size of an ancient tomb. There’s a Soviet-era claw-foot tub sitting there, eating up half the space. The tiles are falling off the walls. That musty smell never goes away. Every morning I wake up and walk in there like I’m going to hard labor!”
“You’re exaggerating…”
“Exaggerating?!” My hands started trembling. “Two years ago I first brought up fixing the bathroom. Two years! And you kept saying: later, later, not now. Then you needed a new car. Then it was the trip to Turkey—which, by the way, we spent with your mother because ‘she’d dreamed of the sea.’ And I dream of being able to shower in a normal bathroom!”
Oleg put the glass down. Wiped his mouth. His face turned rigid.
“So for you, a shower cabin is more important than my mother?”
“Don’t twist my words!”
“No, you’re the one twisting things!” he snapped, raising his voice. “My mom has spent her whole life for me… for us. And now I can’t give her a decent gift because my wife wants a glass box instead of a bathtub!”
“My wife,” I said slowly, syllable by syllable so I wouldn’t scream, “wants to spend her own hard-earned money on the apartment she actually lives in. That’s normal. And you know what else? Your mother gets gifts from us every holiday. Every single one. March 8th, her birthday, New Year’s. We go to her dacha and work there like we’re doing prison time. I take her to doctors because you always have ‘meetings.’ I buy her groceries whenever she complains that ‘their store never has anything good.’ So don’t give me that speech about how she ‘spent her whole life’!”
Oleg went pale.
“Are you… serious?”
“Completely.”
“So you’re refusing my mother a fur coat?”
I laughed—sharp, bitter, and shaky.
“I’m not refusing anything. I’m simply not buying a fur coat with my money. If you want to give her that present—then do it. Your mother, your gift. Take out a loan, sell something, ask for an installment plan. But my money stays my money.”
“Fine,” Oleg said, his voice turning icy. “You’re selfish. Just plain selfish.”
“Maybe,” I folded my arms. “But I’ll be a selfish woman with a new shower cabin.”
He grabbed his jacket.
“I’m going to Mom’s.”
“Say hi,” I replied.
He slammed the door so hard the glass in the cabinet rattled.
I dropped onto the couch and covered my face with my hands. Everything inside me was shaking—anger, hurt, exhaustion. Why was it always like this? Why was his mother “sacred,” while my wishes were called selfish?
My phone buzzed. His mother.
“Lenochka, Olezha told me you two had a misunderstanding. I don’t want to cause a fight, but you do understand that at my age… All my friends have fur coats, and I look like a pauper. I’m even ashamed to meet them. You’re a kind girl, aren’t you?”
I reread it three times. Then I typed:
“Galina Petrovna, I respect you very much. I understand. But I have my own plans for my money. I’m sorry.”
I sent it without hesitating.
A minute later another message came in:
“So that’s how it is. The shower is more important. I see.”
I locked my phone and tossed it onto the couch.
Oleg came back late. I was already in bed, but I wasn’t asleep. In the dark he undressed, climbed in, and lay on his side without a word. A wall of silence settled between us—so thick you could almost touch it.
“Mom cried,” he said into the darkness.
I stayed quiet.
“She really is ashamed in front of her friends.”
“Then let her friends buy her a coat if they care so much,” I snapped.
“You’re impossible.”
“Right back at you.”
We fell silent again. I listened to his breathing—steady, calm. He always settled down so quickly. But I lay there thinking about the bathroom, the fur coat, and why his mother always won in this family.
In the morning we didn’t speak. Oleg left early, slamming the door. I sat at my computer and transferred the deposit to the contractor. Fine. Now I couldn’t be tempted to spend it on anything else.
The days that followed were strange. We lived in the same apartment, but it felt like we existed in parallel universes. Oleg came home late. I pretended to be busy. In the evenings he talked to his mother on the phone, and I caught scraps: “Yes, Mom… I know… Of course we’ll come up with something…”
It made me feel both sick and oddly satisfied. Sick because that wall between us kept growing. Satisfied because I had finally drawn a line.
Then Oleg left on a two-week business trip. We said goodbye politely, like neighbors on the same landing. I was even relieved—finally I could breathe without feeling that constant silent accusation.
The contractor, Viktor, arrived the very next day after Oleg left.
“Alright,” he said, walking around the bathroom and tapping the walls. “We remove the tub, move the pipes, the cabin goes here. We’ll have to replace some tile. About a week of work—maybe ten days.”
“Go ahead,” I said.
He nodded and started. I listened to the drill, metal scraping tile, the crash of old fragments. The bathroom was dying so it could be born again.
Every evening I stepped in to check the progress. The old tub disappeared, revealing ugly, forgotten tiles underneath. Pipes that had been hidden for decades crawled into view—rusty and miserable. Then new walls went up, new tile appeared—light, creamy, nothing like the old Soviet blue.
Oleg called once a day. Short. “How are you?” “Fine.” “How are you?” “Fine too.” I didn’t mention the renovation. It was my secret, my small revolution.
My mother-in-law’s birthday landed right in the middle of the work. I mailed her a card and transferred five thousand rubles. Modest, but within my means. Galina Petrovna replied with a thank-you so cold it practically frosted the screen.
“Thank you, Lenochka. Very generous. I bought gloves with that money.”
I smirked and turned off my phone.
Viktor finished in nine days. On the last day he installed the cabin, connected everything, and tested the water.
“All set, красавица,” he said, wiping his hands. “Enjoy it.”
I stood in the doorway and stared. A spacious room. Snow-white tile. A huge mirror. A modern sink. And the shower cabin—glass-clear, with chrome handles and a rainfall showerhead.
I waited for Oleg.
He returned late in the evening—tired, carrying a big bag, rumpled from the train. I met him in the hallway.
“Hi,” he said cautiously.
“Hi.”
We looked at each other. Two weeks apart had made us almost strangers.
“How was the trip?”
“Fine. Exhausted.”
He took off his shoes, walked into the room, dropped his bag. His hand reached for his phone—probably to call his mother, like always after a trip.
“Oleg,” I called.
He turned.
“Come on. I want to show you something.”
He frowned, but followed me. I opened the bathroom door and turned on the light.
Oleg froze on the threshold.
He stood there, staring in silence. His face was unreadable, but I saw a vein jump at his temple.
“This is…” he started.
“The shower cabin,” I finished. “The one I saved for eight months.”
“You… while I was gone…”
“Exactly. While you were gone.”
He turned to me. His eyes flashed—anger, surprise, something else I couldn’t name.
“You waited until I left.”
“No. It just worked out. Viktor was ready to start, so I gave him the go-ahead.”
“And if I’d been against it?”
“You were against it anyway. Or rather—you didn’t care until it involved your mother.”
Oleg ran a hand over his face.
“Lena, I told you—”
“My husband decided I was supposed to buy his mother a fur coat,” I said clearly. “Oh, how wrong he was.”
We stood face to face. I didn’t look away.
“This isn’t funny,” he said.
“I’m not joking. It’s my money. And it’s my apartment too, by the way. I’m an owner, in case you forgot. This is my life, my comfort. I’m done being convenient.”
“Convenient?” he snapped. “Did I ever ask you to be convenient?”
“Constantly!” I raised my voice too. “Every time I have to sacrifice my wishes for your mother. Every time you say, ‘Mom wants,’ ‘Mom asked,’ ‘Mom will be upset.’ I’m tired, Oleg. I’m tired of being second place after your mother!”
“She’s my mother!”
“And I’m your wife! The wife who lives with you, cooks, cleans, earns money, saves money—and has every right to spend that money the way she chooses!”
He was silent, breathing hard. Then he nodded slowly.
“Got it. So now it’s going to be: everyone for themselves?”
“I don’t know,” I said, sinking onto the lid of the laundry basket. “Honestly, I don’t know, Oleg. I just don’t want to feel guilty anymore for having my own wants.”
He stood there, staring at the shower cabin. Then he said quietly:
“It looks… really good.”
I lifted my eyes.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.” He ran his hand along the glass. “It really is beautiful. And the bathroom feels bigger.”
We were quiet for a moment.
“Mom’s upset,” Oleg said. “For her birthday I gave her a certificate to a beauty salon. Borrowed money from Dima. She said it wasn’t what she wanted.”
“It’s never going to be ‘what she wants,’ Oleg. Understand that. No matter how much you give her, it will never be enough. This isn’t about a fur coat. It’s about attention, power—about her wanting to be the most important person in your life.”
“She’s my mother…”
“I know. But I’m your wife. And there has to be a boundary where I begin—my money, my decisions, my life.”
He sat down on the edge of the tub beside me. We didn’t speak. Water dripped inside the cabin—Viktor probably hadn’t tightened a valve all the way after the test.
“I didn’t mean to,” Oleg said softly. “About Mom. I just… got used to it. She’s alone, Dad’s been gone forever, and it’s just me for her…”
“I understand. But that doesn’t mean you get to sacrifice me on the altar of her wishes.”
He snorted.
“Altar of wishes. That’s… exactly right.”
Then he laughed—his first laugh in two weeks. I smiled too.
“I’m sorry,” Oleg said. “About the fur coat. About not even thinking what it cost you to save. About not understanding how important it was to you.”
“I forgive you. But it can’t be like that anymore.”
“I get it.”
We sat in silence a little longer. Then Oleg stood up.
“Can I try the new shower?”
“You can.”
He stepped inside the cabin and turned on the water. The rainfall shower roared, spraying everywhere. Oleg shouted:
“Lena! This is unreal! It has three modes!”
I laughed.
“Four! You haven’t found the massage one yet!”
He fiddled with the switches, clicking through settings. The water grew stronger, then thinner. Then he stuck his head out.
I left, closed the door behind me, and sat on the couch in the living room. I picked up my phone. Fifteen messages from my mother-in-law. I deleted them all without reading.
Then I texted my friend Irina:
“Installed the shower cabin. Husband is thrilled. Mother-in-law is furious. I’m happy.”
The reply came instantly:
“QUEEN!!!”
I smiled and set my phone down.
From the bathroom came the rush of water and Oleg’s satisfied humming—he’d probably found the massage mode.
That evening we sat in the kitchen. I boiled dumplings while Oleg chopped salad. Almost like before—but something had shifted. The air felt cleaner somehow.
“Mom will have to accept it,” Oleg said, tossing cucumbers in the bowl. “That there won’t be a fur coat. At least not from us.”
“She’ll have to,” I agreed.
“She’ll sulk.”
“Let her.”
“She’ll sulk for a long time.”
“I can handle it.”
He looked at me—serious, studying me.
“You’ve changed.”
“No,” I stirred the dumplings. “I just stopped bending.”
“I… like it.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Really?”
“Really.” He walked up and hugged me from behind. “You’ve gotten… solid. In a good way.”
“It’s the shower cabin,” I joked. “Hardens the character.”
We laughed.
The dumplings floated to the top. I turned off the stove.
We sat down to eat. Outside the window it was dark. The apartment felt warm and quiet. Only somewhere in the bathroom, water was dripping. I decided I’d fix that faucet tomorrow. Or ask Oleg. We’d handle it together.
And the fur coat… the fur coat could wait. Or never happen. Not my problem anymore.
I looked at my husband. He chewed his dumplings and smiled. He really did seem happy about the bathroom.
And I thought: thank goodness I didn’t give in. Thank goodness I stood my ground. Because if I’d caved on the fur coat, I would’ve kept caving forever. But this way—I have a shower cabin. And I have a husband who finally understood that his wife isn’t an accessory, but a whole person.
“What are you thinking about?” Oleg asked.
“About happiness,” I said. “A small kind of happiness—made of glass, with chrome handles.”
He laughed, and I laughed too.
And in the new bathroom, water dripped softly—the nicest sound in the world.