“Go to hell!” Oksana snapped, flinging her handbag onto the shoe shelf in the hallway. The keys flew from her hand and clattered across the floor.
Artyom leaned out from the living room, where he had been watching football. One look at his wife’s face told him that another encounter with his mother had ended badly.
“What happened this time?” he asked wearily, muting the TV.
“What happened?” Oksana yanked off her boots so furiously she nearly lost her balance. “Your precious mother decided to lecture me again. Right there in the middle of the store. In front of everyone.”
She straightened up, her face burning with anger and humiliation.
“Can you imagine it? She walks up to me while I’m standing in line and says, ‘Oksana, what kind of dress is that? It’s too short, completely inappropriate for your age!’” Oksana mimicked her mother-in-law’s tone, exaggerating every syllable. “And then she actually told the cashier I was her daughter-in-law and that young women these days had no sense of decency!”
Artyom winced inwardly. His mother really did have a talent for making comments at the worst possible moment.
“And I am not going to obey your mother,” Oksana went on, getting more worked up with every word. “She’s nothing to me. She has a husband and a son—let her boss them around!”
Artyom let out a heavy sigh. This conversation came around every week, like a scratched record. His mother loved giving advice, especially to Oksana. And Oksana, proud and fiercely independent by nature, exploded every single time.
“Oksana, she doesn’t mean any harm…”
“Doesn’t mean any harm?” Oksana spun toward him, planting her hands on her hips. “She literally told me I make soup the wrong way, that I don’t clean the apartment properly, and just yesterday she hinted that it was about time I gave her grandchildren!”
At that moment, footsteps sounded in the hallway. Slow, heavy, familiar. Artyom immediately recognized his father’s tread.
“Tyoma, are you home?” came Ivan Viktorovich’s voice.
Oksana went pale. His father had not come alone. Behind him stood the imposing figure of Liliya Vasilyevna in her usual dark blue suit. A woman born to command. She had spent thirty years as a school vice principal, and the habit of running people’s lives had never left her.
“Hello,” Oksana said dryly, without moving.
“Oksanochka,” Liliya Vasilyevna said as she walked into the kitchen, casting an appraising glance around the room. “I brought you my pilaf recipe. You remember you said yours never turns out right? The trick is—”
“Liliya Vasilyevna,” Oksana cut in, and there was steel in her voice now, “my pilaf is excellent. Artyom loves it. Don’t you, darling?”
Artyom felt the ground slipping beneath him. Once again, a war was breaking out between the two most important women in his life, and once again he was stuck in the middle.
Liliya Vasilyevna raised one eyebrow—the same look that had once terrified underperforming schoolchildren.
“Of course, Oksanochka. I only wanted to share a little experience. I’ve been cooking for forty years, while you…” She let the rest hang in the air. “You’re still learning.”
Oksana clenched her fists. She had grown up as the youngest child in the family, with everyone constantly telling her what to do. At thirty-two, she had no intention of taking that from another woman, even if she happened to be her husband’s mother.
“Still learning?” she repeated in a low, dangerous voice. “Or maybe you’re the one who needs to learn that your son grew up and started his own family.”
Ivan Viktorovich shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. He knew his wife well—Liliya never backed down first. And in the three years he had known Oksana, he had come to understand her too. She reminded him of a younger version of his own wife: just as proud, just as stubborn, just as impossible to bend.
“Ladies, maybe we shouldn’t…” he began.
“What ladies, Ivan Viktorovich?” Oksana said sharply. “I’m a married woman. And in my own home, I have every right to cook however I see fit.”
Artyom saw his mother stiffen. Her lips pressed into a thin line—a sure sign that trouble was coming.
“In your own home…” Liliya Vasilyevna repeated slowly. “Interesting. And who bought this apartment? Who paid the down payment?”
It was a direct hit.
Oksana flushed instantly.
“Oh, so now we’re bringing up money?” She turned to Artyom. “Do you see? Do you see her real face now? Help always comes with strings attached!”
“Nobody is bringing anything up,” his mother replied. “I simply believe that gratitude—”
“Gratitude?” Oksana gave a bitter laugh. “For what? For meddling in our lives? For calling every day just to criticize me?”
At that exact moment, the front door slammed open.
“Hey, family! I’m here!” came a cheerful voice.
Ilya.
The younger son. Liliya Vasilyevna’s favorite. The one she had always held up as an example to his older brother.
Oksana closed her eyes for a second. Perfect. One more witness to the family circus.
Ilya appeared in the kitchen doorway—a tall, easygoing man with flowers in his hand.
“Oh, Mom’s already here!” he said brightly. “Actually, I wanted to ask you something…” He stopped when he sensed the tension. “Did something happen?”
“Nothing important,” Liliya Vasilyevna said with an overly smooth smile. “We were just discussing housekeeping.”
“Discussing,” Oksana echoed coldly. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
Ilya looked questioningly at his brother. Artyom could only spread his hands helplessly.
“Mom, remember you promised to teach me your special Olivier salad recipe?” Ilya said, trying to steer the conversation elsewhere. “I want to surprise someone with it for New Year’s.”
“Of course, sweetheart!” Liliya Vasilyevna brightened instantly. “Now listen carefully. The most important thing is homemade mayonnaise, never store-bought…”
Oksana watched the scene and felt something boiling inside her. There it was again—that obvious difference in treatment. With the younger son, warmth and eagerness. With the daughter-in-law, criticism and constant correction.
“How touching,” she muttered. “Funny how you force advice on me, but when it’s Ilya, you’re delighted to share.”
Liliya Vasilyevna turned toward her.
“Ilya is my son. He asks for help. He doesn’t snap at every word I say.”
“Mom!” Artyom warned.
Too late.
Oksana snatched the car keys off the table.
“That’s it. I’m leaving. You can all sort things out with your mommy yourselves.”
“Oksana, wait—”
But she was already hurrying toward the door. A second later it slammed shut behind her, and the kitchen dropped into a suffocating silence.
Ivan Viktorovich spoke first.
“Lilya, maybe you really shouldn’t have…”
“Shouldn’t have what?” his wife snapped. “Cared about my son? Worried that he married a hysterical woman?”
“She’s not hysterical, Mom,” Artyom said quietly. “She’s just… proud.”
“Proud?” Liliya Vasilyevna scoffed. “And I’m not? I’ve been married to your father for forty years, raised two sons, and never once said a word out of line!”
“Mom, you know exactly what you’re like,” Ilya cut in, trying to ease the tension. “You’re basically a general in a skirt. And Oksana’s no picnic either—she’s got a temper just like—”
“Just like who?” Artyom asked sharply.
“Come on, don’t start,” Ilya said. “I’m not saying it to be mean. They’re just the same. Two strong-willed women. Both want to be in charge.”
Liliya Vasilyevna pursed her lips. There was truth in that, but she had no intention of admitting it.
“I am not trying to control anyone. I only want my son to be happy.”
“And he is happy,” Artyom said. “Until you start…”
He did not finish the sentence, but everyone understood.
Outside, the sound of an engine started up—Oksana driving away. Artyom rushed to the window, but it was too late. Her red Mazda was already turning the corner.
Where would she go? To her friend Marina? To her parents? His mind raced. She and Marina had argued a month ago over something trivial. Her parents lived in another city…
Then his phone rang.
He grabbed it at once.
“Oksana?”
“Not Oksana,” said an unfamiliar male voice. “This is the service center. Your wife was in a minor accident…”
The world tilted.
Artyom caught himself against the wall.
“What? How? Is she alive?”
“She’s alive. Don’t panic. Just some bruises. But the car’s damaged. Please come to…”
Artyom scribbled down the address with shaking hands.
His mother had gone pale.
“What happened?”
“She crashed the car. I’m going.” He grabbed his jacket.
“I’m coming with you,” his father said.
“Me too,” Ilya added.
Only Liliya Vasilyevna remained standing in the kitchen, clutching the sheet of paper with the pilaf recipe in her hand.
Oksana was sitting in a chair at the service center, pressing an ice pack to her bruised shoulder. Her face was pale. Her eyes were empty.
When Artyom stepped through the door, she looked up. And in her eyes he saw not just pain, but something else.
Resolve.
“How are you?” he rushed to her side.
“Alive,” she said flatly.
“What happened?”
“I was driving and crying. Ran a red light without noticing…” She shrugged and immediately winced.
Artyom wrapped his arms around her carefully.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. For me. For my mother…”
“Artyom,” she said, pulling back and looking him straight in the eye, “I need to tell you something.”
“All right. Tell me.”
“Not here. At home. When we’re alone.”
He nodded, though her calm tone unsettled him. Something told him this day was about to change everything.
An hour later, they were still dealing with paperwork at the service center. Oksana answered the mechanic’s questions in short, detached replies. Artyom filled out forms and kept glancing at her.
“Let’s go home,” he said when they were done. “You need to rest.”
The ride back was silent. Oksana stared out the window. Artyom drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Whatever she wanted to say hung between them like a wall.
But home brought a surprise of its own.
In the entryway stood a suitcase and a travel bag.
“What is this?” Artyom asked.
“My things,” Oksana said calmly as she walked into the living room.
“My things? What do you mean?”
She lowered herself into an armchair, grimacing at the pain in her shoulder, and looked at him steadily.
“Artyom, I’m leaving.”
The words exploded in the room.
Artyom sat down hard on the sofa opposite her.
“Because of today? Oksana, that’s ridiculous…”
“Not because of today. Because of three years of humiliation. Three years of swallowing it. Three years of you choosing her over me.”
“I’m not choosing anyone! I’m just trying to keep peace in the family!”
“Peace?” she said with a bitter smile. “What peace? Your mother thinks I’m not good enough for her son. She says it every single time we meet, just in different words.”
“She’ll get used to you.”
“It’s been three years. She hasn’t. She won’t.” Oksana stood and went to the window. “And do you know what hurts most? You understand her. Deep down, you think I fall short of your family’s standards too.”
“That’s not true!”
“It is true, Artyom. When she criticizes my cooking, you stay silent. When she comments on how I dress, you excuse her. When she hints about grandchildren, you nod.”
He stared at his wife, lost. Had he really been like that? Had he truly failed to see how much pain she had been carrying?
“I thought eventually you’d find common ground…”
“We’re too different. But more importantly, she doesn’t want to accept me as I am. And you’re not willing to stand up for me.”
Just then his phone rang.
Mom.
Oksana looked at him.
“Go ahead. Answer. She’s probably worried about her precious son.”
Artyom hesitated. Then he rejected the call.
“Oksana, let’s just talk. Calmly. Tell me exactly what happened in the store.”
She came back and sat down again.
“I was buying groceries. I ran into your mother by accident. She looked me up and down and immediately said the dress was too bright for a married woman. That I should dress more modestly. More respectably.”
“And what did you say?”
“What could I say? That I’m thirty-two, not fifty? That I have the right to wear what I like?” Her voice trembled. “The way she looked at me… like I was something indecent.”
Artyom closed his eyes. His mother really was capable of that. Especially when it came to her rigid ideas about what was proper.
“And then she told the cashier, ‘That’s my daughter-in-law. Young women these days have no idea what’s appropriate in public.’” Oksana’s fists tightened. “Do you have any idea how humiliating that was?”
The phone rang again.
His mother. Again.
“Pick up,” Oksana said quietly. “Tell her about the accident. Let her know what she did.”
He declined the call a second time.
“No. First we deal with us.”
“Deal with us?” Anger flashed back into her voice. “What is there to deal with, Artyom? For three years I’ve put up with her insults while you act like none of it matters!”
“I’m not acting like that—”
“Yes, you are! Every time she humiliates me, you explain it away. ‘She worries.’ ‘She means well.’ ‘She’s just used to being in charge.’ You always defend her. You never think about what it’s doing to me.”
Oksana stood and began pacing the room.
“And do you know what I was thinking in the car, when I was crying and ran the red light?”
He shook his head.
“I thought it would be easier to crash than to keep feeling like an outsider in my own family.”
“Oksana…” He got up, reaching for her.
“Don’t.” She stepped back. “I’ve already decided. I’m going to Moscow. To my sister. For a while. We need a break.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know. A month. Maybe longer. Maybe forever.”
The word forever landed like a blow.
“Oksana, we love each other…”
“We do. But love isn’t always enough.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Not when one person is expected to sacrifice her dignity to keep the peace.”
The phone rang for the third time.
This time, Artyom answered.
“Mom, not now.”
“Sweetheart, what’s going on? Why do you sound like that? And why weren’t you answering?”
“We have problems. Serious ones.”
“What kind of problems? Is something wrong with Oksana?”
Artyom looked at his wife. She was standing by the window, arms wrapped around herself.
“Yes, Mom. Something is wrong with Oksana. And with me. And with all of us.”
“I don’t understand…”
“Oksana wants to leave me. Because of what you did in the store today.”
There was silence.
Then: “What did I do? I did nothing! I only made one remark…”
“Mom, you humiliated her in front of strangers.”
“Artyom, I am your mother! I have the right—”
“No!” For the first time in three years, he raised his voice at her. “You do not have the right to humiliate my wife!”
Oksana turned sharply, staring at him in surprise.
“How dare you speak to me like that?” Liliya Vasilyevna said.
“The same way you speak to my wife,” Artyom shot back. He could feel something shifting inside him. “Mom, Oksana has packed her suitcase. Do you understand that? She is leaving me.”
“And good riddance! If she’s ready to go over something so trivial, then she never loved you properly to begin with!”
“It’s not trivial!” he shouted. “It’s three years of constant humiliation! Three years of me staying silent while you crushed the person I love!”
Oksana stared at him as if she were seeing a stranger.
“Artyom, what is wrong with you?” his mother asked, stunned.
“With me? Nothing. I’ve just finally realized that I choose my wife. Not my mother.”
“How could you—”
“Very easily. Mom, I love you. But if you cannot learn to respect Oksana, then you won’t be seeing me—or the grandchildren you keep waiting for.”
“Artyom!” she gasped.
“That’s enough for now. We’ll talk when you’ve calmed down.”
He ended the call and turned to his wife.
“Oksana…”
She was crying.
But these were not tears of grief. They were tears of relief.
“Did you really choose me?” she whispered.
He pulled her into his arms.
“I’m sorry it took me so long. I’m sorry I let her…”
“Shh,” she whispered back. “The important thing is that you finally understood.”
“Can we unpack the suitcase?”
She leaned away slightly and searched his face.
“Are you really ready to fight with your mother because of me?”
“Not because of you,” he said. “For us. For our marriage.”
She nodded slowly.
“Then yes. You can unpack it.”
But what waited ahead would not be simple. Liliya Vasilyevna had no intention of surrendering quietly. And in family wars, no one really wins. There are only survivors.
The next morning, Artyom woke to the sound of keys turning in the lock. Oksana was still asleep, her back pressed against him. The phone conversation with his mother from the night before still throbbed in his temples like a bruise.
“Tyoma!” a loud whisper came from the hallway. “Are you home?”
Ilya.
Artyom carefully slipped out of bed, threw on a robe, and went to meet his brother.
“What are you doing here so early?”
“Mom didn’t sleep all night,” Ilya said, looking anxious. “She cried. Said you turned your back on her. Said you chose some outsider over your own mother.”
Artyom rubbed his forehead.
Here we go.
“She’s not an outsider. She’s my wife.”
“Tyoma, what are you doing?” Ilya went into the kitchen and switched on the kettle. “Mom’s not young anymore. Her heart’s weak. And you upset her like this…”
“And who’s been upsetting Oksana for the last three years?”
“That’s different! Oksana’s young, healthy—she can handle it. But Mom…”
“Ilya,” Artyom said, sitting down at the table, “Mom is not made of glass. She’s a grown woman who can be responsible for what she says.”
Ilya poured the tea and set two mugs on the table.
“Listen, maybe you should talk to Oksana. Ask her to apologize to Mom…”
“For what?” Artyom nearly choked.
“For being rude. For the way she spoke…”
“You weren’t in the store yesterday, Ilya. You didn’t hear what happened.”
“No, but Mom told me…”
“Mom told you her version. I believe my wife.”
His brother shook his head.
“You’re destroying your family over women’s nonsense.”
“I’m trying to save my family. The nonsense is coming from one person only.”
At that moment, Oksana appeared in the doorway in a robe, sleepy and tousled.
“Good morning,” she said softly to Ilya.
“Morning,” he replied stiffly.
She poured herself a glass of water and stood by the window. The silence in the room thickened.
“Oksana,” Ilya finally said, “maybe you should talk to Mom. She’s really upset…”
“And I’m not?” Oksana turned to him. “I’ve been upset for three years.”
“You’re both grown women. Can’t you just work it out?”
“Work what out?” Oksana gave a mirthless laugh. “An agreement that says I should tolerate insults? Or one where I have to report every item I buy because I’m thirty-two and still somehow expected to answer to my mother-in-law?”
“Mom just wants you to be a worthy wife…”
“A worthy wife?” Oksana’s voice dropped. “And who gets to decide if I’m worthy? Your mother?”
Artyom stood and moved toward his wife.
“That’s enough, Ilya. Stay out of it.”
“How can I stay out of it when your whole family is falling apart?”
“It’s been falling apart for three years. Nobody wanted to admit it.”
“Tyoma, are you seriously ready to fight with your parents over her?”
“Over her?” Artyom flared. “She is my wife, Ilya! The woman I’m supposed to spend my life with! And all of you treat her like some temporary inconvenience!”
“Stop yelling!”
“I’m not going to stop!” Artyom felt rage rising fast now. “I’m sick of hearing that Mom is some fragile old woman! She’s fifty-four, Ilya. She’s healthy, strong, and perfectly capable of controlling everyone around her!”
“Tyoma!”
“And if she cannot respect my family, then she can stay alone with her principles!”
Ilya pushed back his chair and stood up.
“Fine. Clearly there’s no talking to you. Your wife has gotten into your head.”
“Ilya,” Artyom said warningly.
“What? It’s true! You were normal for three years, and now you’re barking at your own mother!”
“Get out,” Artyom said, pointing at the door.
Ilya gave a short, disbelieving laugh.
“So now you’re throwing me out too. Fine. But for your information, Mom collapsed. Her blood pressure shot up. Dad had to call a doctor.”
Oksana came over and put a hand on her husband’s shoulder.
“Don’t blame yourself,” she said softly. “That’s emotional blackmail.”
“What if she really is sick?”
“Artyom, look at me.” She took his face in her hands. “If we keep giving in every time she manipulates you like this, we will never live our own life.”
His phone rang.
Dad.
“Artyom,” Ivan Viktorovich said tiredly, “come to the hospital. Your mother’s been admitted.”
His heart lurched.
“What happened?”
“Hypertensive crisis. Her pressure went through the roof. The doctors say stress.”
Artyom closed his eyes. Oksana tightened her grip on his hand.
“We’re coming,” he said.
“Better come alone,” his father replied quietly. “She… doesn’t want to see Oksana.”
“Then neither of us is coming.”
“Son…”
“Dad, either we come together, or we don’t come at all. Oksana is my wife. If Mom can’t accept that, then she can recover alone.”
There was a long pause.
“All right,” his father said at last. “Come together.”
The hospital corridor smelled of bleach and medicine. Liliya Vasilyevna was lying in intensive care, pale, an IV running into her arm. When she saw her daughter-in-law, she turned her face to the wall.
“Mom, how are you?” Artyom asked as he stepped closer.
“Wonderful,” she answered coldly. “My son preferred his wife over his mother. I’m in perfect health.”
“Liliya Vasilyevna,” Oksana said, taking a step forward, “I’m sorry things turned out this way.”
“Don’t,” her mother-in-law cut in. “Don’t pretend.”
“I’m not pretending. I truly am sorry.”
Liliya Vasilyevna finally turned her head.
“Sorry? Were you sorry yesterday, when you called me a stranger?”
“Yesterday I was hurt. And I said what I felt.”
“Oh, what you felt!” Liliya Vasilyevna tried to sit up. “What you felt was that some old fool was standing in the way of your happiness!”
“Mom, lie back,” Artyom said, gently pressing her shoulder.
“Don’t call me Mom! You’ve already made your choice!”
“Liliya Vasilyevna,” Oksana said again, “may I say something?”
Her mother-in-law gave a contemptuous little snort, but stayed silent.
“I don’t think you’re some old fool. And I’m not trying to take your son away from you. It’s just…” Oksana searched for the right words. “It’s hard to keep feeling like I’m wrong all the time. Like I’ll never be enough.”
“And who said you were enough?”
“Artyom did. He chose me. Not you. Not me. Him.”
Liliya Vasilyevna said nothing.
“And if you really want your son to be happy,” Oksana continued, “then accept his choice. You don’t have to love me. But can you at least tolerate me?”
“Tolerate you…” Liliya Vasilyevna repeated slowly.
“Yes. For Artyom’s sake. For the family.”
Her mother-in-law closed her eyes. The room went quiet except for the beeping of the machines.
“All right,” she said at last. “We’ll try. But on one condition.”
“What condition?”
“You will tolerate things too. My remarks. My advice. You won’t snap at me the way you did yesterday.”
Oksana looked at Artyom. He gave a small nod.
“Fine,” she said. “But you need to try as well. I am not your student, and I’m not your daughter. I’m an adult woman.”
“We’ll see,” Liliya Vasilyevna muttered.
It was not reconciliation.
It was a truce.
But for now, a truce was enough.
As they left the hospital, Artyom took Oksana’s hand.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For agreeing to try.”
“Did I really have a choice?” she said with a faint smile. “She’s your mother. If we’re going to stay together, I have to learn how to live with that.”
“And what if it doesn’t work?”
Oksana stopped and looked him in the eye.
“It will. Because now I know you’re on my side.”
And that changed everything.
The truce lasted exactly two weeks.
It began with a phone call at seven o’clock on a Saturday morning.
“Artyom, come here immediately!” Liliya Vasilyevna’s voice was sharp and commanding, the voice of a vice principal in full force. “I bought gifts for you two, and you need to come pick them up!”
“Mom, it’s Saturday. We’re still asleep…”
“I’ve been awake for two hours already! I went shopping early just for you!”
Oksana opened one eye, looked at the clock, and groaned into the pillow. Artyom stroked her back.
“Mom, we’ll come after lunch, okay?”
“After lunch I’ll be busy! Come now while I’m free!”
“But we agreed—”
“We agreed I would speak more softly, not that I’d need permission from that… from Oksana to see my own son!”
Artyom sat up in bed. Oksana had already heard enough to understand.
“Mom, we agreed on mutual respect.”
“She doesn’t respect me! Yesterday I saw her in the pharmacy, and she barely acknowledged me! Just nodded and walked right past!”
“Mom, I was out of town. I don’t know what happened.”
“But I do!” Her voice was rising toward hysteria. “She thinks now that you support her, she can act superior! She thinks she can ignore me!”
Oksana rolled her eyes and went into the bathroom. A second later the shower came on—loudly, pointedly.
“Mom, maybe we can talk this evening? Calmly?”
“By evening it’ll be too late! I demand that you come right now! And that your wife apologize for the way she behaved yesterday!”
“For what behavior?”
“For walking past me like I was a lamp post! For not even asking how I felt after the hospital!”
Artyom rubbed his temples. A headache was already building.
“Mom, I’m not going to demand an apology from my wife because she didn’t stage some emotional reunion with you in a pharmacy.”
“So you’re not coming?”
“I’m coming. Just not right now. And no one is apologizing.”
“Then don’t come at all!” She slammed the phone down.
Oksana came out of the bathroom with a towel around her shoulders.
“Again?”
“Again. This time you greeted her incorrectly in a pharmacy.”
“Artyom, I didn’t even see her in a pharmacy. I was there the day before yesterday buying vitamins. If she was there, I didn’t notice.”
“And she thinks you deliberately ignored her.”
Oksana sat on the bed and exhaled slowly.
“Do you see what she’s doing? She’s looking for reasons. On purpose.”
“Why?”
“To prove I’m rude, ungrateful, disrespectful. To make you think supporting me was a mistake.”
Artyom said nothing. In his heart, he knew she was right.
“What do we do?” he asked.
“I honestly don’t know,” she said.
The phone rang again.
This time it was Ilya.
“Tyoma, what have you done now? Mom’s crying, saying you’ve abandoned her completely!”
“Ilya, she demanded that we drive over at seven in the morning on a Saturday…”
“So what? You couldn’t go?”
“Yes, I could. But not on command. And not so my wife can apologize for something imaginary.”
“What imaginary thing?”
“Ask Mom. She’ll tell you.”
“Tyoma, can’t you see where this is heading? Mom says she’s done calling. Says if you’ve chosen some outsider—”
“Stop.” Artyom’s voice turned hard. “If you call my wife an outsider one more time, I’ll punch you. Brother or not.”
“What is happening to all of you?” Ilya asked, bewildered.
“Nothing is happening to us. We just want a peaceful life. And nobody will let us have one.”
“But this is family!”
“Yes. My family is me and Oksana. Everyone else is relatives. And when relatives start destroying your family, you choose.”
He hung up and looked at his wife.
“Oksana, I’ve made a decision.”
“What decision?”
“We’re moving. To another city.”
She stared at him.
“You’re serious?”
“I’m serious. I have a job offer in Saint Petersburg. A good one. I never considered it because I didn’t want to leave Mom. But now…”
“What about your parents? Your brother?”
“Oksana, I’ve spent thirty-five years trying to be a good son. Now I just want to be a happy husband.”
She wrapped her arms around him.
“Are you sure? You won’t regret it later?”
“No. You know why? Because Mom made her choice too. I offered peace, and she chose war. I offered compromise, and she demanded surrender.”
“And what do we tell everyone?”
“The truth. That we’re moving because we want to start a new life. Without daily conflict, criticism, and guilt.”
A month later, they were packing their last boxes.
Liliya Vasilyevna never called. Apparently she was waiting for her son to break first and come apologize. Ilya came by a couple of times and tried to talk Artyom out of it, but it was useless.
Ivan Viktorovich came to see them off on their final day.
“I’m sorry it came to this,” he said, hugging his son.
“Dad, try talking to her,” Artyom said. “Explain that a mother’s love is not ownership. And not control.”
“I’ll try. But you know her…”
“I do. That’s why I’m leaving.”
Oksana stepped up to her father-in-law.
“Ivan Viktorovich, I’m sorry too.”
“Don’t apologize, girl. Lilya brought this on herself. She’s just… afraid of becoming unnecessary. All her life she’s been in charge—first at school, then at home. Now the children have grown up, and she doesn’t know who she is anymore.”
“Maybe she could just be a grandmother,” Oksana said quietly. “A kind, loving grandmother.”
“Maybe. When the grandchildren come, maybe she’ll understand.”
“They will come,” Oksana said with a small smile. “One day.”
Saint Petersburg welcomed them with rain and gray skies, but their mood was bright. A small apartment downtown. Work they actually liked. And most of all—peace. No constant calls. No advice. No criticism.
Six months later, Oksana told her husband she was pregnant.
“Now we really have to make peace with your parents,” she said. “A child needs grandparents.”
“Yes,” Artyom said. “But not at any cost.”
“Should we call? Tell them?”
He thought for a moment. Then he picked up the phone and dialed.
“Mom? It’s Artyom. From Petersburg. We have news… You’re going to be a grandmother.”
Silence.
Then: “When?”
“In four months.”
“And what do you want from me?”
“Nothing. We just wanted you to know.”
Another pause.
“May I… may I come see my grandson?”
“You may. If you behave yourself.”
“I will. I promise.”
“Then come. We’ll be glad to see you.”
When he hung up, Oksana asked, “Do you really think she’ll change?”
“I want to believe she can. Maybe becoming a grandmother will teach her how to be one, instead of a commander.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Then we raise our child without a toxic grandmother. That’s not the worst thing in the world.”
Oksana nodded. They sat together on the sofa, her head on his shoulder, his hand resting gently on her still-flat stomach.
“You know what matters most?” she asked.
“What?”
“That you chose me. Really chose me. And now I know that whatever happens, we’ll handle it. Together.”
“Together,” he said.
Rain streaked the windows, but inside their little apartment it was warm and quiet. They were building a life that belonged to them alone—one without someone else’s rules. And it felt like freedom.
Liliya Vasilyevna did come after the baby was born. She kept herself under control. She barely criticized anyone. She even helped with the baby. But after a week, she cracked and started giving advice—how to feed him, how to swaddle him, how to raise him properly.
“Mom,” Artyom said then, “you have a choice. You can be a loving grandmother who comes to visit. Or you can stop coming altogether.”
This time, she chose the first option.
Not immediately. Not gracefully. But she chose it.
And that, in its own way, was a victory.
You do not get to choose your family.
But you do get to choose how you let them treat you. And at last, Artyom had learned how to make the right choice.