Maria set the grocery bags on the kitchen table and started putting everything away—vegetables into the refrigerator, grains into the cupboard, cleaning supplies under the sink. Just another ordinary weekday evening. In the next room Dmitry sat in front of the TV, scrolling through news on his phone. He didn’t seem to notice his wife, the bags, or the familiar routine of her moving around the kitchen.
They’d been living together for three years. For three years they’d shared one budget. From the start, they had an arrangement: Dmitry handed over his paycheck, and Maria managed the money—groceries, utilities, household basics. It was simple and convenient. No arguments, no resentment. Not until recently.
Maria began to sense something was off about a month earlier. Her husband grew strange—quiet, withdrawn, lost in thought. Every so often he would throw her a look she couldn’t interpret, as if he wanted to ask something but didn’t know how. She told herself it was fatigue. Work. Springtime. Vitamin deficiency. Anything.
Then the questions began.
“Masha, how much did you spend at the store yesterday?” Dima asked one night, never lifting his eyes from the phone.
“I don’t remember exactly. Around three thousand, I guess. I bought meat, fish, vegetables. Same as always.”
“Three thousand,” he repeated. “That’s a lot.”
Maria paused with the knife in her hand while chopping salad.
“Dima, we eat together. I cook every day. Prices keep going up. Three thousand is normal.”
“I don’t know,” Dmitry shrugged. “Maybe you could’ve picked something cheaper?”
Cheaper? Maria frowned. She already chose items on sale, tracked prices, compared brands.
“Dima, I buy decent food. Not the most expensive, but not garbage either.”
“I’m not saying it’s garbage,” he said, getting up and walking to the fridge. “I’m saying we need to spend more sensibly.”
“I already spend sensibly,” Maria replied, setting the knife down. “You never complained before.”
“Before, I didn’t pay attention,” Dmitry said, opening the refrigerator and looking inside. “Now I’m thinking maybe we’re spending too much.”
“We?” Maria crossed her arms. “Or me?”
“Well, you’re the one doing the shopping,” he said, shutting the fridge. “So it’s basically you.”
The conversation ended without resolution. Maria went back to cooking. Dmitry returned to the living room. But something unpleasant stayed behind—sticky, sour—like she’d done something wrong.
A few days later, Dmitry asked to see the receipts.
“Why?” Maria asked, genuinely confused.
“I want to see what the money’s being spent on.”
“Dima, we’ve talked about the budget. You know how much goes to groceries and utilities. What changed?”
“Nothing changed,” he said, picking up the envelope of receipts from the table. “I just want to see the details.”
Maria watched silently as Dmitry went through them one by one, studying each line, grimacing, shaking his head.
“Masha, are you serious? You bought shrimp for five hundred rubles?”
“Yes. We wanted that seafood salad—remember? We talked about it.”
“We talked about it, but I didn’t realize it would be that expensive.”
“Shrimp are always expensive. You ate the salad. You liked it.”
“I liked it, but next time let’s skip the shrimp. Too pricey.”
Maria didn’t argue. Salad without shrimp. Fine. Let it be without shrimp.
But it didn’t end there. Dmitry started policing her shopping. A good cheese? Too expensive. Imported fruit? No—buy local. The detergent? Not that one—get something cheaper.
Maria tried to keep the peace. She attempted to cut costs—hunted for discounts, bought loose items instead of packaged ones, chose simpler brands. But Dmitry kept finding fault. There was always a reason to complain.
One evening Maria overheard him speaking on the phone in the kitchen.
“Yes, Mom, I understand. You’re right. It needs to be controlled. Of course. I’ll talk to her.”
Maria stopped in the hallway. Mom. Tatyana Petrovna—his mother.
“No, Mom, she isn’t thrifty. She buys all kinds of things. Yesterday she got that expensive sausage again—six hundred rubles. I asked her why, and she goes on about ‘quality.’ What quality, Mom? Sausage is sausage.”
Maria’s hands curled into fists. So that was where it came from. Tatyana Petrovna. Naturally. Who else?
Her mother-in-law had never liked her—not from the very beginning. She believed Maria wasn’t good enough for her precious son. Too plain. Too ordinary. Wrong background, no connections. As if Dmitry himself were royalty—he was just a mid-level manager. Nothing special.
Tatyana Petrovna constantly gave advice: how to cook, how to clean, how to dress. Maria endured it—nodded, agreed politely, then did things her own way once the woman left. Dmitry never interfered. “Mom just cares,” he would say.
But now that “caring” had turned into open interference.
“Okay, Mom, I get it. I’ll keep an eye on it. Yes, I’ll make her report. Fine. Kiss you.”
Dmitry ended the call. Maria hurried back into the room, sat on the couch, picked up her phone, and pretended to scroll. Dmitry came in and sat beside her.
“Masha, we need to talk.”
“About what?” she asked without lifting her eyes.
“About money. I think we need to be more careful with spending.”
“We are careful,” Maria said, putting the phone down. “Dima, what’s going on? You used to trust me. What changed?”
“Nothing changed,” Dmitry said, rubbing his face with both hands. “It’s just… Mom noticed we spend too much. She figured out what her friends spend on food, and they spend less.”
“Your mother,” Maria nodded slowly. “Of course. Your mother always knows best.”
“Don’t talk like that,” Dmitry said, raising his hand. “She just wants to help. To point out where we can save.”
“Dima, we have our own life. We’re adults. Why is your mother getting into our business?”
“She’s not getting into it!” Dmitry snapped. “She’s giving advice! Normal, reasonable advice!”
“Advice,” Maria stood up. “She’s put it in your head that I’m irresponsible. That I spend too much. That you have to control me. Isn’t that what this is?”
“No!” Dmitry sprang up. “I noticed it myself. On my own!”
“You noticed it only after your mother called!” Maria shouted. “For three years you were fine with everything! Not a single complaint!”
“Because I didn’t pay attention! Now I did—and I can see you really do spend too much!”
Maria paced the room. Her hands were trembling—anger, hurt, the helpless feeling of being cornered.
“Fine,” she said quietly. “Fine. You want to control spending? Control it. Tell me what to buy and what not to buy. I’ll obey.”
“Masha…”
“No, seriously,” she turned to him. “Let’s do it your way. I’ll ask permission for every purchase. Want bread? I’ll ask. Want milk? I’ll ask. Happy?”
“You’re exaggerating,” Dmitry muttered, looking away.
“I’m not exaggerating,” Maria stepped closer. “I’m trying to understand what you want. Control? You’ll get it. Reports? I’ll report. Just tell me—how far do you want to take this?”
Dmitry said nothing. He stared at the floor, chewing his lip.
“I don’t want us to fight,” he finally said. “Let’s just spend more wisely, okay?”
“More wisely,” Maria echoed. “Fine.”
But “wise” didn’t happen. It got worse.
Dmitry began demanding reports every day—what she bought, how much she spent, why it was necessary. Maria started writing everything down in a notebook. She showed it to him. She explained.
“Masha, why did you buy three packs of cookies?”
“Two for us, one in case guests come.”
“What guests? We aren’t expecting anyone.”
“You never know. It’s good to have something for tea.”
“Next time buy one pack. If guests actually come, then we’ll buy more.”
Maria nodded and wrote it down. One pack of cookies. Understood.
“Masha, why is the meat so expensive?”
“It’s good farm chicken—for soup.”
“You could’ve bought a soup kit. Cheaper.”
“There’s barely anything in those.”
“Still—savings.”
She wrote it down. Soup kit. Savings.
“Masha, why two kinds of yogurt?”
“You like one, I like the other.”
“Let’s buy one. What’s the difference?”
“The difference is I don’t like the one you like.”
“Oh, Masha, it’s a small thing. You’ll get used to it.”
You’ll get used to it—yes. Get used to eating what you don’t like. Drinking what you don’t want. Wearing what doesn’t suit you. The main thing was “saving.”
Tatyana Petrovna started coming over every Saturday. She inspected the refrigerator. Checked the cupboards. Shook her head.
“Dimочка, expensive cheese again. Why? There’s perfectly normal Russian cheese—cheaper and tastier.”
“Mom, I told Maria. I guess she doesn’t listen.”
“She doesn’t,” the mother-in-law said, looking at Maria. “Maria, dear, you need to learn to save. Money doesn’t grow on trees.”
“I do save, Tatyana Petrovna,” Maria said, wiping dishes. “I buy only what we need.”
“What we need,” her mother-in-law smirked. “Cheese for four hundred rubles is a need?”
“It’s not four hundred, it’s three,” Maria replied. “And yes, it’s a need. We eat cheese every day.”
“You can eat cheaper,” Tatyana Petrovna said, opening the fridge. “Look—expensive sausage, imported butter, foreign vegetables. Dimochka, do you see this?”
“I see it, Mom.”
“And what are you going to do about it?”
“I’ll talk to Maria.”
“You should’ve talked earlier,” Tatyana Petrovna snapped, shutting the fridge. “Now it’s already too late. Now you have to act.”
Maria squeezed the dish towel in her hands. Act. What did that even mean? What else was Tatyana Petrovna going to come up with?
That evening Dmitry called Maria in for “a serious talk.”
“Masha, sit down. We need to discuss this seriously.”
Maria sat. Hands on her knees. Silent.
“I’ve been thinking about our situation,” Dmitry began, “and I’ve decided we need stricter control over spending.”
“What kind of control?”
“You’re going to report to me about every purchase before you make it. Not after—before. If you want to buy something, you ask my permission. I approve it or I don’t.”
Maria blinked. Permission. Permission to buy bread.
“Are you serious?”
“Completely,” Dmitry nodded. “It’s the only way to bring order to our budget.”
“Dima, I’m an adult. I work. I’ve been running this household for three years. And you want me to ask you for permission to buy milk?”
“Don’t dramatize,” Dmitry grimaced. “It’s not about milk. It’s about expensive purchases. About your excesses.”
“What excesses?” Maria stood up. “Dima, I buy food. Normal food. I’m not buying caviar by the kilo. I’m not buying oysters. I’m buying ordinary products!”
“Products that cost more than they should,” Dmitry said, standing too. “Mom is right. You’re a spender, Masha. You don’t know how to handle money.”
“Your mother,” Maria went pale. “Always your mother. She’s washed your brain, Dima. Can’t you see that?”
“Mom wants to help us!” Dmitry yelled. “She cares!”
“She’s manipulating you!” Maria yelled back. “She wants to control our life—and she’s succeeding!”
“Shut up!” Dmitry grabbed her by the shoulder. “Don’t you dare talk about my mother like that!”
Maria jerked away and backed toward the wall.
“Don’t touch me.”
“I’ll touch my wife whenever I want!” Dmitry stepped forward. “And you’ll do what I say. Understand?”
“No,” Maria shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“Then I’ll make it simpler,” Dmitry crossed his arms. “Starting tomorrow you show me your shopping list every day before you go to the store. I’ll cross out what’s unnecessary. You’ll buy only what I allow.”
Maria stared at him—at the man she’d lived with for three years. The man who said he loved her. Who promised loyalty and support. And this was what it had come to.
“And if I refuse?”
“Then I stop giving you money for groceries,” Dmitry shrugged. “Use your own. Or ask your mother.”
“Ask my mother,” Maria let out a bitter laugh. “You seriously think I’ll go to my mother for money?”
“What choice will you have?” he spread his hands. “I can’t do this anymore. You throw our money around. It has to stop.”
Maria walked past him into the bedroom, took a bag from the wardrobe, and started packing. Dmitry appeared in the doorway.
“What are you doing?”
“Packing,” Maria didn’t turn around.
“Where are you going?”
“To my parents.”
“You can’t just leave!”
“I can,” Maria said, dropping a few shirts into the bag. “And I am.”
“Masha, don’t be stupid!” Dmitry rushed inside. “We can talk it through!”
“No,” Maria zipped the bag. “There’s nothing left to talk about. You made your choice—your mother and her control over having a normal relationship with me.”
“I didn’t choose Mom!” Dmitry grabbed her wrist. “I just want order!”
“Order,” Maria pulled her hand free. “You know what kind of order I want? Respect. Trust. Not being monitored for every step. You can’t give me that—because your mother won’t let you.”
“What does Mom have to do with this?!”
“Everything,” Maria snapped, lifting the bag. “This was her idea. You said it yourself: Mom is right, Mom noticed, Mom helps. Always Mom, Mom, Mom!”
“Because she is right!” Dmitry shouted. “You’re reckless, Masha! You can’t save!”
“And you can’t think for yourself,” Maria said, walking past him. “Congratulations. Enjoy being alone with your wonderful mother. Live together if you like it so much.”
Maria left the apartment, went downstairs, called a taxi, and sat on a bench near the entrance. Her hands were shaking—anger, hurt, disappointment.
Three years. Three years of her life spent on someone who ultimately believed his mother more than his wife. Someone who decided to control every purchase, every ruble, every step.
The taxi arrived quickly. Maria got into the back seat, gave the driver her parents’ address, and he pulled away.
On the road Dmitry called her. Maria declined. He called again—declined. A text came in. She didn’t read it. She blocked his number.
Her parents were shocked when she arrived. Her mother hugged her and led her into the house. Her father took the bag and set it by the door. No one asked questions. They could see from her face this wasn’t the moment for conversations.
Maria lay down on her old bed. The room smelled like childhood—books, a lavender sachet in the closet, her mother’s baking. Calm. Quiet. No one demanding reports. No one controlling. No one peering over her shoulder and counting receipts.
In the morning she woke to the smell of coffee. She went downstairs. Her mother sat at the table, reading the paper.
“Good morning, sunshine. Sleep well?”
“Yes, Mom. Thank you.”
“Sit. Let’s have breakfast.”
They ate in silence. Her mother didn’t ask anything—she was simply there, pouring coffee, adding pancakes to Maria’s plate, smiling softly.
“Mom, I want to file for divorce,” Maria said after her second cup.
Her mother nodded.
“Okay, sweetheart. If that’s your decision, then that’s what needs to happen.”
“You’re not going to ask why?”
“Why would I?” her mother said, clearing plates. “You’re grown. If you decided to divorce, you have reasons. Good reasons.”
Maria told her—briefly, without drowning in details. Her mother listened and shook her head.
“You know, Masha, I always felt something was off with his mother,” she said. “Too… clingy. Too involved. I thought she’d loosen her grip with time. I was wrong.”
“She didn’t loosen it,” Maria gave a humorless smile. “She tightened it.”
“Then you did the right thing leaving,” her mother hugged her. “That kind of life isn’t life. It’s hard labor.”
“Exactly,” Maria whispered into her shoulder. “I can’t do it anymore.”
“And you don’t have to,” her mother stroked her hair. “Stay here as long as you need. Recover. Get divorced. Start a new life.”
“And if he keeps calling?”
“He won’t,” her mother said quietly. “Men like that don’t call. They get offended. They assume the wife will come back on her own. Apologize. And when they realize she won’t—then it’s too late.”
Her mother was right. Dmitry didn’t call. He didn’t write. As if Maria had simply vanished from his life. Maybe she had. Maybe Tatyana Petrovna told him it was for the best—that Maria was the wrong kind of wife, and good riddance. Now he could find someone else. Obedient. Agreeable. Someone who would account for every coin.
A week later Maria called Dmitry herself. They met in a park near the civil registry office, talked, and filed for divorce—calmly, like adults.
“No property, no children. In a month you’ll be free,” the clerk said as she accepted their application.
A month later Maria received the divorce certificate. Standing in the registry corridor with the paper in her hands, she expected to feel relief—joy—freedom. Instead she felt only emptiness.
Three years. Three years that ended in control, distrust, humiliation. Because of one woman who couldn’t let her son go. And one man who couldn’t become an adult.
Maria tucked the certificate into her bag and stepped outside. The sun was bright. People hurried along with their lives. Life moved forward—ordinary, everyday life. Without reports. Without control. Without Tatyana Petrovna and her “advice.”
Maria took out her phone and texted her mother:
“It’s done. I’m free. I’m coming home.”
The reply came instantly:
“Waiting for you, sunshine. I baked your favorite pie.”
Maria smiled—truly smiled—for the first time in a long while. She called a taxi and headed to her parents’ house. To her home. To the place where she was loved, where she was trusted, where no one demanded an explanation for every purchase.
And Dmitry stayed in his apartment—with his mother. With her control. With her rules. Tatyana Petrovna was probably pleased. She’d gotten rid of the unwanted daughter-in-law. Now she could fully manage her son’s life—decide what he ate, what he wore, who he spoke to.
Maria didn’t regret those years. They were experience—bitter, painful, but experience. Now she knew exactly what she didn’t want: a husband who listened to his mother more than his wife. A relationship built on control. A life where you have to answer for every little thing.
Life continued—new, free, without Dmitry and his mother. And it was the best decision Maria had made in the last three years.