“Did you even hear what he said, Tanya?” Galina Sergeyevna’s voice cut through the kitchen like a blunt knife sawing through sausage.
“I heard him,” Tatyana replied, turning from the stove without lifting her eyes. “What I don’t understand is why it’s always ‘he said’ instead of ‘we decided.’”
Little Artyom was dozing in his stroller beside the radiator. The damp steam from the boiling kettle mixed with the scent of baby cream and the musty chill in the room. The heat had been turned on a week ago, but cold air still slipped in from the window.
“Because he is my son,” her mother-in-law said calmly, crossing one leg over the other. “And if he has doubts, it’s my place to guide him. You, on the other hand… you’re too emotional. Women with your temperament shouldn’t be trusted with major decisions.”
“Right. Especially when those decisions are mine,” Tatyana said with a faint smirk as she reached for a mug. “Do you even hear yourself, Galina Sergeyevna? You’ve been ‘guiding’ him so much that he’d probably be scared to turn on a kettle without you.”
“Don’t twist my words. I’m simply trying to make sure the two of you don’t make a mess of things. This is no longer just your business when an inheritance is involved.”
“Inheritance?” Tatyana set the cup aside. “So now I’m not a wife anymore, I’m a threat to your sense of stability?”
The door slammed. Sasha, her husband, appeared in the doorway with his permanently tired face and the eyes of a man who would rather be anywhere else but home. He put a grocery bag on the table, nodded to his mother, then to his wife.
“Hi,” he said shortly.
“Hi,” Tatyana answered just as coldly. “We were just discussing whether it’s dangerous for you to breathe without your mother’s approval.”
He gave a crooked smile.
“Tanya, why do you always have to start?”
“Who started it?” She turned to him, flour still dusting her hands. “Me, or your mother, who thinks the apartment my uncle left me belongs to the whole family?”
Sasha looked at his mother. She said nothing, but her expression clearly told him to hold the line.
“We just wanted to talk,” he began gently. “This is serious. Money, property… all of it needs to be decided together.”
“Together?” Tatyana nearly laughed. “When I was up alone all night with the baby because you were ‘on shift,’ were we together then too? Or does ‘together’ only count now that a will has appeared?”
“Don’t exaggerate,” Galina Sergeyevna cut in. “You have a child. You won’t manage this on your own. Sasha only suggested renting out that apartment so the two of you could live closer. That’s only logical.”
“Logical to you. To me, what makes sense is living in peace, without daily meetings of the family headquarters.”
Her husband looked away and sighed as if he were sitting an exam, not having a conversation.
“Tanya, you’re taking this too far. We all want the same thing—for things to be better.”
“Better for whom? For you, so you can pay off the mortgage? Or for your mother, so she can take control of one more kitchen?”
Silence followed. Only the ticking of the clock and the faint breathing of Artyom from the nursery broke the stillness.
Galina Sergeyevna adjusted the bracelet on her wrist and said quietly, “You should be grateful, girl. We’ve been helping you this whole time.”
“Helping me?” Tatyana wiped her hands on a towel and stepped closer. “You’ve commented on every single move I make. Every one. You even criticized the way I held my breast while feeding my baby. That’s not help. That’s control.”
“Oh, here we go. Young people throw around the word ‘control’ for everything now. We’re just old-fashioned, you see. We believe a family should be one team.”
“A team where you’re the captain and everyone else follows the schedule. I understand.”
Sasha threw up his hands.
“Enough! Mom, Tanya, let’s stop fighting. We’re all tired. Work feels like a battlefield, and home is starting to feel the same.”
“That’s because you never set boundaries,” Tatyana said calmly. “And because it suits you when your mother makes decisions for us.”
He looked at her as if she had just fired a shot at him.
“I just don’t want scandals.”
“And I don’t want this kind of life.”
She took off her apron and laid it over the back of a chair. Her voice dropped lower.
“Listen carefully, Sasha. I’m tired. Tired of you, tired of your mother, tired of this endless ‘let’s deal with it later.’ I am not an object. I’m not some accessory to your comfort.”