“Artyomka, come on—you’re a man!” my mother-in-law, Lidia Pavlovna, was saying. Her voice oozed that special kind of venom people like to label motherly concern. “Your Vera is a crafty one—an accountant. Always counting every kopeck, hoarding penny by penny. But Oksanochka needs it more right now. The poor thing is short again with that marketplace of hers—some shortage, some fines…”
I froze on the dacha veranda, a plastic basin of rinsed blackcurrants in my hands. The old tulle curtain on the kitchen window swayed in the draft, making every word carry perfectly.
“Mom, but that’s Vera’s money,” my husband said, listless, like a balloon gone limp. “Her quarterly bonus. We wanted to buy bathroom tile—Italian. We found a sale.”
“The tile isn’t going to run away!” Oksana—the poor thing herself—cut in. I could hear her chewing cookies. “And my life is falling apart. Tyoma, I only need one hundred and fifty thousand. I’ll cover the debt and then I’ll get back on my feet. I found a new thing—reselling vintage clothes. That’s trending right now!”
“What trend, Oksana?” Artyom sighed. “Last year your ‘trend’ was snail farming. We spent three months collecting those snails all over the garden.”
“Don’t rub it in my face!” Oksana squealed. “Mom, tell him! Vera won’t even notice if you say the crew raised the prices. You’re a foreman—make up a fake estimate! She’s clueless about construction, even if she sleeps with a calculator.”
That’s where something in me prickled. Not hurt feelings—no. More like cool, professional excitement. The kind a surgeon has before a difficult operation.
I set the basin on the bench, wiped my hands on my apron, and after counting to three, walked into the kitchen.
It looked like a staged tableau.
Artyom sat with his head lowered over a cup of tea. Lidia Pavlovna—heavyset, in a bright floral robe—loomed over him like a thundercloud over the neighborhood. Oksana, in shorts that were a bit too young for her and a messy bun, scrolled her feed, stress-eating my signature oatmeal cookies.
And in the corner, like a random grand piano in a bush, sat our neighbor Tatyana Ivanovna. Her small eyes darted from one person to another like lottery balls. That one would never miss a chance to spread gossip across the whole gardening co-op.
“Oh, Verochka!” my mother-in-law sang out, instantly switching from attack mode to sugary sweetness. “We’re just having tea. Is the currant ripe?”
“It’s ripe, Lidia Pavlovna,” I said, setting the kettle on the stove and clanking the lid on purpose—loudly. “And not only the currant. I see you’ve got a whole business plan brewing here for ‘developing’ my budget.”
Silence dropped over the kitchen, broken only by the buzz of a fly slamming itself into the window. Artyom hunched his shoulders.
“So you were eavesdropping?” Oksana pounced immediately. “How rude!”
“I’m not eavesdropping. I’m auditing incoming information,” I replied evenly, pulling a jar of honey from the cabinet. “And about that ‘fake estimate,’ Artyom… Article 159 of the Criminal Code—fraud. Of course a wife won’t file a report against her husband, but trust is a nonrenewable asset. Like a company’s goodwill. Do you even know what goodwill is?”
Artyom blushed so hard he looked like an overripe tomato.
Then the “heavy artillery” rolled in—my mother-in-law. She decided to play her trump card: the pseudo-scientific wisdom she scooped up from daytime TV.
“Vera, you’re far too materialistic!” Lidia Pavlovna lifted a finger toward the ceiling, where a sticky fly strip hung. “Money is energy. If you squeeze it, if you won’t share it with your own blood, you block the family’s money flow! Psychosomatics will punish you. Why do you think your back hurts? That’s the weight of greed pressing down!”
In the corner, Tatyana Ivanovna nodded enthusiastically, ears pricked.
I turned to my mother-in-law slowly, smiling the same smile I reserve for a tax audit.
“Lidia Pavlovna, my back hurts from sitting at a desk—and from carrying a mortgage on my shoulders while Oksana hunts for ‘flows.’ And as for psychosomatics… you’re mixing up esotericism with basic physiology. Osteochondrosis is treated with exercise and an orthopedic mattress, not by throwing money away. By the way, a ‘blocked money flow’ is usually caused by a lack of financial literacy and the habit of living beyond your means. Any economist will tell you that—no fortune-teller required.”
My mother-in-law opened her mouth to argue, but choked on air. She tried to stage a heart attack—clutching at her chest—but her hand betrayed her and slid down to her stomach, which let out a very loud, very unhelpful growl from overeating. She hiccupped awkwardly and plopped back into her chair, knocking the sugar bowl with her elbow.
She looked like a deflated blimp trying to land in fog.
“Oksana,” I said, shifting my gaze to my sister-in-law, “about the vintage thing. Sounds fascinating. But if you want to resell, you need to register—either as self-employed or as a sole proprietor. Are you planning to pay taxes? Or will I be cleaning up your fines again—like that time with the ‘natural cosmetics’ when half your buyers broke out in allergies?”
Oksana snorted and rolled her eyes theatrically.
“Ugh, you’re so boring, Vera! It’s the era of personal branding! I’m doing a manifestation marathon—my coach said the key is to believe and visualize. The universe is abundant! I’m visualizing a million, and it’ll come. And you with your numbers just lower the vibrations.”
“Visualization is wonderful,” I nodded, pouring myself tea. “It’s just that the universe, for some reason, tends to work on prepayment. And your coach probably lives off the money of dreamers like you. To get a million, you have to create a million’s worth of value. So far you’re creating nothing but losses. Also—under consumer protection rules, reselling used clothes without proper sanitation and documents can get you fined. Are you ready for an inspection?”
Oksana flinched and bumped her mug. Hot tea splashed straight onto those very “fashionable” shorts.
“Ow! Hot!” she yelped, jumping up and doing a ridiculous little dance, shaking herself out like a grasshopper blown sideways by the wind.
She looked like a chicken trying to take off—then remembering gravity doesn’t take weekends off.
“Alright,” I said, setting my cup down. The porcelain clack against the table sounded like a judge’s gavel. “We’re buying the tile tomorrow. Artyom, the card is with me. I changed the PIN this morning—had a feeling.”
Tatyana Ivanovna, realizing the scandal was turning practical and there wouldn’t be a fistfight, decided to toss in her two cents.
“Oh, Verochka, you’re so strict with them. They’re family… A husband is the head, the wife is the neck. Wherever she turns…”
“Tatyana Ivanovna,” I cut in gently but firmly, “a neck is vertebrae, muscles, and ligaments. And a family’s financial safety is clear planning and the absence of parasites. And by the way—Article 137 of the Criminal Code is about invasion of privacy. I’m mentioning it because you shouldn’t be discussing our budget by the well.”
The neighbor choked on her cookie and hurried to gather her things.
“Oh! My zucchini will burn!”
When the door slammed behind her, the kitchen went quiet. Truly quiet.
“Mom, Oksana,” Artyom finally looked up. In his eyes was a mix of shame and relief. He probably didn’t want to lie to me—but he didn’t have the backbone to refuse his mother. “Vera’s right. No shady schemes. If you want a business, Oksana—go work, save your starting capital. I’m not sponsoring you anymore.”
“Traitor,” Oksana hissed—but softly, without much fire.
Lidia Pavlovna stood up in silence, adjusted her robe with dignity (or what she imagined was dignity), and headed for the exit.
“Come on, daughter. We’re not loved here. Here they only love… calculators.”
“Love is care, Lidia Pavlovna,” I called after them. “And care means not letting your loved ones climb into a debt pit.”
That evening, Artyom and I sat on the same veranda. He was quiet for a long time, then covered my hand with his. His palm was rough and warm—the hand of a working man who was simply exhausted from trying to be good for everyone.
“I’m sorry, Ver. I went weak.”
“You did,” I agreed, not pulling my hand away. “But remember this, Tyoma. In accounting there’s a term: ‘misuse of funds.’ People go to prison for that. And in a family, people get divorced for it. Consider this my last ‘budget report’—the cheap Chinese version.”
He nodded. And I watched the sunset, thinking that sometimes being a “boring accountant” is far better for your nerves than being a “wise woman” from Mother’s fairy tales.
And our tile will be excellent.
Italian.