It was supposed to be a quiet afternoon, the calm before the storm. Nikita and I had been planning for months to turn our soon-to-be-born baby’s room into the perfect nursery. We were both excited, even a little anxious, as the day approached. It was a dream come true, and we couldn’t wait to start the work together. Nikita had always been reliable, a man of his word, and I trusted him completely.
But as I sipped my coffee that morning, watching Nikita button his shirt before heading off to work, I had no idea that everything was about to change.
“Don’t worry, I remember. I’ll take care of everything,” he reassured me, his voice calm and confident.
I smiled, grateful for his dependability. He’d already bought all the materials for the room, just as we had planned. I handed him his briefcase as he rushed out the door, and he kissed me on the cheek before leaving for work.
The day started off normally. I cleaned the apartment, did some laundry, and prepared lunch. My mind was preoccupied with thoughts of the baby’s room and how much I wanted it to be perfect. I had everything under control—or so I thought.
Then the doorbell rang.
I glanced at the clock—it was only 2:00 p.m. Who could be stopping by at this hour?
When I opened the door, I froze. Standing in front of me was Zinaida Petrovna, Nikita’s mother.
“Hello, Marina,” she called, entering the apartment without waiting for an invitation.
I stiffened. Zinaida and I had never gotten along. From the moment I had met her, she had made it clear that she didn’t think I was good enough for her son. She would criticize everything I did, no matter how small or trivial.
“Hello, Zinaida Petrovna,” I replied, trying to remain calm. “Come into the kitchen. I was about to have some tea.”
She marched into the kitchen, scanning every corner of the apartment with judgmental eyes. I could already feel my patience thinning. I knew that this visit would lead to another round of complaints.
“This place is a bit messy,” Zinaida said, running her finger along a shelf. “And the wallpaper in the hallway… it’s time to change it. You really don’t take care of the house, do you?”
I took a deep breath, trying to keep my frustration in check. “We’re actually planning to renovate the baby’s room,” I said, hoping to steer the conversation in a more neutral direction.
“Renovate? And with what money?” Zinaida scoffed. “Nikita is working himself to the bone to support you. You should be saving, not spending.”
I felt irritation bubbling inside me, but before I could respond, the baby began to cry.
“Excuse me, I’ll go check on him,” I said, retreating from the kitchen.
When I returned, holding the baby in my arms, Zinaida was rummaging through the kitchen cupboards.
“You’re still breastfeeding?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “It’s time to switch to formula.”
“Zinaida Petrovna,” I replied, my voice strained, “the pediatrician recommended we continue breastfeeding.”
“Doctors today don’t know anything,” she muttered. “I raised my children without all this nonsense.”
I stopped listening, my mind racing with irritation. It seemed like every visit with her was becoming a test of my patience, and I was close to breaking.
“You know,” Zinaida suddenly said, “I’ve been thinking. Maybe it would be a good idea for me to come live here. I could help with the baby and the house. You obviously can’t manage on your own.”
That was it. Something inside me snapped.
“Zinaida Petrovna, thank you, but Nikita and I are doing just fine on our own,” I said firmly. “There’s no need for you to move in.”
Her face hardened. “Is that how you talk to me? I come here with good intentions, and you reject me? How ungrateful!”
I felt my blood begin to boil. I hugged the baby close to my chest, trying to remain composed, but I knew the confrontation was inevitable.
“You’ve gotten a big head, haven’t you, Marina?” she hissed. “You’ve manipulated my son, and now you want to shut me up! You think I don’t see what’s going on?”
“Zinaida Petrovna, I’m not trying to drive you out,” I said, trying to stay calm. “I’m just saying we don’t need your help.”
But she wasn’t listening. She was pacing the kitchen, growing angrier by the second.
“Look at this! The pan is all scratched! You don’t know how to cook properly! And these towels? They stink! You don’t even do the laundry right!”
My anger flared. I could feel my temper rising, but I was determined to keep it under control.
“Enough!” I shouted. “This is our home, and we decide how we live here! You don’t get to dictate anything to us!”
Zinaida stopped in her tracks, her face contorted in fury. Then, she let out a laugh, cold and mocking.
“You little bitch! You dare order me around? I’m your husband’s mother, and you owe me respect!”
“Respect is earned,” I shot back, my voice steady but filled with conviction. “You only criticize, you impose, and you create conflict.”
Her face turned red with rage. “I just want to help you! You ungrateful woman! I’ll tell Nikita everything, and he’ll know how you treat me!”
I felt my hands tremble. I had never been so angry, so hurt, in my life.
“Go ahead,” I said, my voice low. “But don’t forget to tell him that you came here uninvited and insulted me.”
Zinaida took a step forward, her eyes filled with venom. “You’re not going to lecture me! I’m older, wiser than you!” she spat.
Then, she raised her hand, ready to strike.
Instinctively, I stepped back, but I tripped over a chair. As I tried to keep my balance, I grabbed her arm. In that moment of chaos, we both lost our footing, and the two of us fell to the floor, gasping for air and glaring at each other with hatred.
“You pushed me!” Zinaida screamed, clutching her bruised elbow.
“I didn’t mean to,” I said, my voice shaking. “You’re the one who ran into me.”
She slowly got up, leaning on the table. But just as I turned my back, she lunged at me, throwing a punch. I tried to defend myself, but she kept hitting me, her words a blur of insults.
In a burst of frustration, I pushed her back with all my strength, and for the first time, I hit her—right in the face. She staggered back, spitting out two teeth.
“You’ll pay for this!” she yelled. “I’ll tell everyone who you really are! My son will—”
“Get out,” I interrupted, my voice firm. “Get out of my house. Now.”
She sneered. “Your house? Don’t worry. Nikita will find out the truth. And when he does, you won’t be the one in charge anymore.”
And just like that, she stormed out, leaving me standing in the middle of the kitchen, heart racing, body trembling.
I knew I had reached my breaking point. I had no idea what would happen next, but one thing was certain: nothing would ever be the same again.