You can’t see how hard Mitya is working? Have some conscience, find yourself a second job,” my mother-in-law declared, putting a plate with a pie on the table.
“I will,” I replied calmly, looking her straight in the eyes. “But in that case, I’ll leave your son the same day I start it.”
Yulia Nikolaevna froze with her hand poised over the table. Her confidence in her own righteousness cracked for the first time in three years.
“What is this? Blackmail?” the mother-in-law sat down on the edge of the chair.
“No, just informing you in advance of the consequences. You’re a businesswoman, Yulia Nikolaevna, you should understand that every decision has its price.”
I spoke evenly, though I was boiling inside. This conversation had been brewing for a long time, from the very first day Mitya introduced me to his mother. She looked me over with a keen eye and immediately asked, “And where do you work?”
“Elementary school teacher,” I answered.
“That’s it?” she raised an eyebrow.
Now, three years later, I recognized those tones unmistakably. And today…
“What does Mitya think about this?” Yulia Nikolaevna leaned back in her chair.
“About what exactly? About you trying to arrange my life or about me not willing to silently endure it?”
“About the fact that his wife refuses to help the family!”
“Why don’t you ask him? Ask if he’s happy with how I manage the household. Ask if he likes my cooking. Find out why he rushes home every evening. If I find a second job—I’ll leave your son. You understand that, right?”
“That’s the point!” the mother-in-law interrupted. “He rushes because he’s tired like a horse. And you? You’ll see, with two jobs you’ll pay off the mortgage faster,” she added.
“And the fact that the family will fall apart doesn’t bother you? I sit over notebooks every evening, preparing for lessons, making presentations. And you know what? I love my job. I love the kids in my class. And yes, I could find a side job. Tutoring, after-school clubs… But then I’d become tired and irritable. I’d turn into a worn-out horse, dreaming only of reaching the couch.”
Yulia Nikolaevna opened her mouth to object, but I didn’t give her a chance:
“Then no one would rush home. Neither I nor Mitya.”
The mother-in-law remained silent, but her face showed—the conversation was not over. She stood up from the table, straightened her perfectly ironed blouse:
“You know, Tatyana, I used to love my job too. At the kindergarten. As a head. Then I had to take an evening job doing accounting at a grocery store. Because my son needed vitamins, fruits, new clothes. And I managed. You have to find a second job, Mitya can’t handle it alone.”
“You did well, Yulia Nikolaevna. But Mitya and I have a different story.”
“Oh really? What about the mortgage for the apartment? The car? Groceries with current prices?”
“We manage.”
“Oh, indeed! Mitya can’t even buy himself a new shirt for months!”
I laughed involuntarily:
“Can’t buy? Yulia Nikolaevna, his closet is stuffed with shirts. And he doesn’t wear them because the office has had a casual style for a long time. When was the last time you were at our place?”
“Last week I stopped by, Mitya wasn’t there…”
“And did you look in his closet? Or what did you talk about with him?”
The mother-in-law headed to the exit:
“I see you’re set to argue. But I’m a mother, I can’t calmly watch my son work alone for the whole family. Aren’t you ashamed to sit without a second job? I already told all my friends that you take kids for extra classes.”
She left, and I sat in the kitchen, staring at the untouched pie. Apple. Her favorite. Baked specially for her, thinking we might finally find common ground.
In the evening, when Mitya came back from work, I decided not to tell him about his mother’s visit. But he asked himself:
“Did Mom stop by?”
“How did you know?”
“The pie on the table. You only bake it for her.”
“Yes, she stopped by. Brought some joyful news—she found me a job.”
Mitya froze with his fork in mid-air:
“What?”
“She says I should find a second job. Because you’re overworking yourself.”
“Tanya…”
“Wait. I said if I take a second job—I’ll leave you.”
Mitya put down his fork:
“Listen, I’ll talk to her tomorrow myself. I’ll explain…”
“No,” I interrupted. “Don’t explain. Let her think we’re barely making ends meet. If it makes her feel better.”
“But that’s stupid!”
“To me, it’s funny. Especially considering your promotion.”
He shook his head:
“I wanted to make a surprise. Save up for a vacation.”
“I know. But maybe you should tell Mom? She’s worried.”
“No,” now he was adamant. “I know her. She’ll immediately start planning where we should go, what to see, make a program. And I want to plan it myself. For the first time in my life, without her advice.”
I sighed. Mitya was right—his mom always tried to manage our lives. With the best intentions, of course.
And then a week later a storm broke. I was returning from school early—third period was canceled. At the entrance, I ran into a neighbor from the fifth floor:
“Tatyana! I was just about to come to you. Yulia Nikolaevna said you’d be giving extra lessons. So, I wanted to know the rates. My granddaughter is in second grade, she can’t make sense of these new Russian language rules.”
I froze:
“Excuse me, what?”
“Well, your mother-in-law said you’re looking for students for tutoring. Said you’re an experienced teacher, prepare for exams, and prices are reasonable…”
I felt heat rush to my cheeks:
“Sorry, but there’s some mistake. I don’t give extra lessons.”
“But Yulia Nikolaevna…”
“Yulia Nikolaevna jumped to conclusions. Good day.”
I literally stormed into the apartment. With trembling hands, I dialed my mother-in-law’s number:
“Yulia Nikolaevna, what are you doing?”
“What’s the matter?” her voice was serene.
“Why are you telling people I give lessons?”
“What’s wrong with that? I just prepared a client base for you. Wonderful people, financially capable. And close to home.”
“But you didn’t even ask me!”
“Why ask? You’re a teacher. Surely you wouldn’t refuse people?”
“That’s exactly what I just did.”
There was a pause on the line.
“Well,” she finally said. “Then I was mistaken in you. I thought you cared about the family. And you…”
I hung up. Sat on the couch. Wanted to cry from powerlessness and anger.
In the evening a friend called:
“Listen, your mother-in-law is telling everyone that you decided to open an extended day group right at your home. Says the conditions are excellent, prices are affordable.”
I threw the phone on the couch and dialed my husband:
“Mitya, we need to talk. Urgently.”
“What happened?”
“Your mom started an advertising campaign for me. Half the district thinks I’m opening a daycare at home.”
There was a heavy sigh on the line:
“I’m coming home.”
“And work?”
“To hell with work. Enough of this.”
Forty minutes later, we were sitting in the kitchen. Mitya grimly stared into his tea cup:
“I’ll talk to her myself.”
“No, we’ll go together. Right now.”
“Now?”
“Why wait? Before she enrolls someone else in my classes.”
Yulia Nikolaevna opened the door and beamed:
“Mitya! I was just about to call you. Here’s the thing…”
“I know your thing,” Mitya interrupted. “Why did you set this up?”
“What did I set up?” the mother-in-law theatrically raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t pretend. Why are you telling everyone that Tanya will be dealing with children?”
“What’s wrong with that? I’m looking out for you. Look, five people have already signed up. If we charge five hundred rubles an hour…”
“Mom!”
“What, mom? I, by the way, worked two jobs at your age. And nothing, I didn’t fall apart.”
“Enough!” Mitya slammed his fist on the table. “Enough reminding about your two jobs. Enough deciding for us. Enough commanding our lives.”
“I’m not commanding, I’m helping!”
“No, mom. You’re not helping. You’re meddling where you’re not asked.”
“How can you talk like that to your mother?” tears chimed in Yulia Nikolaevna’s voice. “I’m worried about you. I see how you’re exhausted at work…”
“And did you ever ask why I’m exhausted? No, you immediately decided that we’re in poverty. That we lack money. That Tanya should toil in the evenings because that’s what you did.”
“Isn’t that so? You yourself said that there’s a mess at work!”
“Yes, I said. Because I was promoted a month ago. I’m now a department head. And my salary has increased. But I needed time to get into the swing of things, figure out the new responsibilities.”
Yulia Nikolaevna slowly sat down on a chair:
“Promoted? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I wanted to make a surprise. Save money and send you and dad to a sanatorium. Then go on vacation with Tanya.”
“To a sanatorium?” the mother-in-law blinked in confusion.
“Yes, mom. That one, in Kislovodsk, where you and dad have long wanted to go. I know you’re saving, denying yourselves everything. So, I decided to make a gift.”
Yulia Nikolaevna covered her face with her hands:
“And I set up…”
“Yes, you set up,” I decided it was time to intervene. “And you know what? Let’s start over. You stop looking for a job for me, and I’ll bake your favorite apple pie. And we’ll all sit down and calmly talk. Like a normal family.”
The mother-in-law looked up at me with tearful eyes:
“Will you really bake a pie? After everything I said?”
“Really. Just promise that you’ll stop arranging my life.”
“I promise,” Yulia Nikolaevna wiped away her tears. “You know, I really did mean well. I always thought that if a person can work more—they should. It worked for me…”
“But I’m not you,” I said softly. “Everyone has their own path. And their own happiness.”
“And what is yours?” for the first time in three years, the mother-in-law asked me about it.
“My happiness is a beloved job, a cozy home, and a husband who rushes home in the evening not to an empty apartment, but to a wife who waits for him with a hot dinner. And also—a mother-in-law who bakes the most delicious cabbage pies.”
Yulia Nikolaevna smiled:
“Cabbage, is it? I thought you liked apple.”
“I bake apple for you. But I love cabbage. Like you make it.”
“Teach you?”
“Of course.”
Mitya watched us and smiled. And I thought about how sometimes a little storm is needed to clear the sky. And that even the most complicated knots can be untied if you do it with love and patience.
Three months passed. During that time, a lot changed in our family. Yulia Nikolaevna truly kept her word—she no longer tried to find me a job. Instead, she took up teaching me the intricacies of cooking.
Every Saturday, we gathered in her kitchen. She pulled out an old notebook with recipes, and a real master class began.
“The main thing in a cabbage pie is the dough,” the mother-in-law said, skillfully kneading the springy lump. “It should be elastic, but not tough.”
I carefully repeated her movements, and gradually began to understand: cooking is not just following a recipe. It’s a special mood, a state of soul.
Mitya was pleased with our reconciliation. Now he could stay late at work, knowing there would be no reproaches or tension at home.
One evening, he returned particularly pleased:
“Mom, Tanya, I have news.”
Yulia Nikolaevna and I had just finished another culinary experiment.
“I booked the sanatorium tickets,” he announced. “For July.”
The mother-in-law threw up her hands:
“Mitya, but dad and I were planning to go to the cottage…”
“Then you won’t go. The tickets are already paid for.”
“What about the tomatoes? Cucumbers?”
“Mom, what’s more important—cucumbers or health?”
Yulia Nikolaevna fell silent, then suddenly laughed:
“Commanding? Just like me.”
“Runs in the family,” Mitya winked.
“And where will you and Tanya go?”
“We haven’t decided yet. Maybe to the sea, maybe to the mountains.”
“The mountains are better,” the mother-in-law immediately reacted, then checked herself. “Oh, sorry. There I go with my advice again.”
Mitya and I exchanged glances and laughed.
“No, mom, go on. Why are the mountains better?”
And Yulia Nikolaevna, beaming with happiness, began to explain the advantages of mountain rest. And I watched them and thought: how simple it all is, really. You just need to learn to listen to each other.
In the evening, as we walked home, Mitya said:
“You did well. Handled mom better than I did in thirty years.”
“I wasn’t handling. Just showed that I also have character.”
“And you really do,” he took my hand. “Remember how you said you’d leave if you found a second job?”
“I remember.”
“Would you have really left?”
I pondered:
“No, of course not. But it was useful for your mom to hear it.”
“And now? Regret not finding that second job?”
“No. I have enough to do with the first one. You know, next week is the city math olympiad. I’m preparing three of my students.”
“That’s why you sit late over notebooks?”
“Yes. I want them to win.”
Mitya stopped:
“That’s why I love you. Because you put your soul into everything you do. Into work, into the home, into relationships.”
“Even into cabbage pies?”
“Especially into cabbage pies.”
And a week later, a miracle happened—my students took first and second places at the olympiad. When I told Yulia Nikolaevna about it, she unexpectedly hugged me:
“Forgive me, silly me. I really didn’t understand how important your work was.”
“Important?”
“Of course! You’re teaching kids to win. That’s worth a lot.”
And so ended the story of how my mother-in-law wanted to arrange my life. And began another—about how we learned to respect each other’s right to their own path to happiness.
I often think: maybe we all need to remind ourselves more often of a simple truth—happiness is personal. And it’s not measured by the amount of work or money, but by whether your heart is light when you return home.