A Wife’s Fight Against the Morozov Family Expectations
“School? Seriously?” Valentina Sergeevna’s grimace spoke volumes as if a sharp pain had struck her. “Artyom deserved a wife of higher status,” she muttered disapprovingly.
Silently, I poured tea into fine porcelain cups, careful not to spill a drop. My hands shook with restrained fury, emotions I dared not reveal to my mother-in-law.
After three months of marriage, one truth was clear: in that household, I remained an outsider.
“Mom, please, stop,” Artyom whispered quietly, squeezing my hand beneath the table. “Katya is an extraordinary wife.”
“Extraordinary?” My father-in-law shot a disdainful glance up from his tablet. “Son, you could have married into a family like ours, yet you brought home… a teacher.”
He spat the word with such derision, as though I had committed an unforgivable offense. I wanted to rise and leave, but Artyom’s firm grasp held me in place. “Dad, I love Katya. Isn’t that what matters?”
“Love,” Valentina Sergeevna scoffed. “In our circles, marriages are based on far different foundations. But you have always been a dreamer.”
Her gaze swept me critically—from my simple blouse to my neatly tied hair—her eyes full of open contempt.
“Katerina, dear,” my mother-in-law cooed in a saccharine tone, “what exactly is it that you teach at your… school?”
“Literature and Russian language,” I replied calmly.
“Ah, literature!” she exclaimed dramatically, throwing up her hands. “So you spend your days reading fairy tales to children?”
“Mom!” Artyom’s voice rose sharply.
“What ‘mom’? I’m merely curious about your wife’s profession. By the way, Katerina, do you realize the family you’ve married into? We maintain particular standards.”
I took a sip of tea to buy some time. A lump tightened in my throat, but I steadied my voice to respond: “I understand, Valentina Sergeevna. I strive to meet them.”
“Strive?” she laughed coldly. “Dear, you have no idea what it means to be a Morozov wife. This is no ordinary school parent meeting.”
My father-in-law nodded in concurrence. Artyom squeezed my hand tighter.
“Enough,” he said firmly. “Katya is my wife, and I ask you to treat her with the respect she deserves.”
“Respect is earned, son,” Viktor Petrovich said, setting aside his tablet. “So far, I only see the aspirations of a provincial girl fortunate enough to marry well.”
Tears threatened to spill from my eyes, but I forced a smile. Showing weakness was not an option; that was precisely what they sought.
“I’m not a provincial girl, Viktor Petrovich. I was born and raised in Moscow, just like you.”
“Moscow?” Valentina Sergeevna raised an eyebrow. “Which district, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Biryulyovo.” Their exchanged glances gleamed triumphantly. For them, Biryulyovo symbolized low status.
“I see,” Viktor drawled. “Well, the important thing is that you know your place in this family.”
“What place?” Artyom challenged.
“The role of a wife who must match her husband’s rank,” Valentina cut in sharply.
The following week was heavy with silence. Artyom expressed regret for his parents’ attitude and promised to speak with them, but I sensed futility.
In their eyes, I was forever an interloper from Biryulyovo with designs on their fortune. Ironically, they were unaware I had fallen for Artyom long before discovering his wealth.
We had met in a bookstore, debated Dostoevsky, and shared laughter. Back then, he was a kind-eyed man in worn jeans.
One Thursday morning, the call came from my mother-in-law while I prepared lessons. “Katerina, come at four. We must have a serious discussion.” Her tone foreshadowed ill news.
I left school early despite the principal’s sharp look over impending tests, convincing myself family mattered more, although dread filled my heart.
The Morozov mansion greeted me with unnerving stillness. The usual staff vanished; even housekeeper Marina was absent.
Valentina Sergeevna awaited in the living room—impeccable hair, luxurious suit, cold smile.
“Sit, Katerina. Tea?”
I shook my head as my throat closed, unable to swallow even water.
“I’ve contemplated how best to tell you this,” she began, reclining as she assessed me. “You’re not naïve—you must realize this marriage is a mistake.”
“A mistake for whom?” I asked, calmer than expected.
“For everyone, especially Artyom. He’s heir to an empire, and you…” she grimaced, “you’re a burden dragging him down.”
Rage surged within like wildfire. How much more humiliation must I endure? Yet I held my silence, allowing her to continue.
“I’m ready to offer you a deal,” Valentina leaned in. “Five million for a quiet divorce. Tell Artyom you’ve lost feelings.”
“No.”
“Ten million.”
“Valentina Sergeevna, I am not for sale.”
Their mask of nobility slipped to reveal cold malice. “Listen well,” she hissed, “if you stay, remember: you are to serve my husband, cook, clean, and fulfill any whim.”
“No claims to inheritance. No children without my approval. You will be a shadow—understand?”
I stared in disbelief. A servant? In the 21st century? My anger boiled beneath my calm demeanor. “And if I refuse?”
“Then I’ll ensure Artyom leaves you. I have my methods.” She stood, signaling the end of the talk. I rose as well, legs trembling with fury.
“Think it over. One week.”
Outside, I struggled to steady myself by the car. My hands were so shaky I couldn’t insert the key.
Should I tell Artyom? He might not believe me. And if he did, what then? Valentina Sergeevna wielded power, wealth, and influence.
I went for a drive to clear my mind, heading toward the mall for coffee. As I crossed the parking lot, I spotted a familiar figure—Valentina Sergeevna exiting a silver Mercedes.
But she wasn’t alone. A tall man embraced her waist as she laughed joyfully, throwing back her head. This was not Viktor Petrovich.
I instinctively hid behind a pillar, heart pounding wildly. They approached a restaurant entrance, and the man whispered close to her ear.
She playfully hit his shoulder, then pulled him by the tie and kissed him.
My phone was in my hand instantly. Click after click, capturing every moment.
They entered the restaurant, leaving me staring at the screen. Here was the so-called moral guardian, lecturing me about propriety.
Throughout the drive home, I contemplated the photos. Could I use them for leverage? But would I truly stoop to blackmail? Deep in my soul, tears stung—not from pain but helplessness. How did I end up trapped in this nightmare?
The Morozov family gathered for their customary Friday dinner—a weekly event to discuss business and plans. I tried to stay in the background, but tonight was different.
My purse held the incriminating photos, and my heart harbored firm resolve.
- Viktor Petrovich noticed my weight loss, asking Artyom if he was too harsh on his wife.
- Valentina Sergeevna reminded me of her proposal.
- I revealed the photos, exposing her secret.
“Katerina has lost weight,” Viktor Petrovich observed, cutting his steak. “Artyom, are you being too strict with your wife?”
“Dad, why do you say that?” Artyom glanced at me in surprise.
“Just overwork,” I muttered.
“Ah, yes, school,” Valentina Sergeevna smirked. “By the way, have you considered my offer?”
I looked her in the eyes. She sat across—the perfect wife, mother, and liar.
“What offer?” Artyom questioned.
“Just idle talk,” the mother-in-law dismissed. “Katerina, remember our agreement about your position in the family?”
Distracted by his phone, Viktor didn’t notice the tension as Artyom’s brow furrowed, sensing a trap. I took out my phone.
“I remember, Valentina Sergeevna. But first, I have something to show you.”
She paled when seeing the screen.
“Here you are last week—with a very… close friend, it seems.”
The phone circulated the table. Viktor frozen, fork poised, staring at the image of his wife embracing a stranger.
“How dare you…” Valentina began.
“And how dare you demand I be a servant?” I stood, resting my hands on the table. “Threaten me with false accusations? You preach about family honor, yet…”
“What’s going on?” Viktor finally spoke. “Valentina, explain!”
“This isn’t what you think…”
“Not what?” he snapped, tossing the phone on the table. “Thirty years of marriage, and you…”
The rest drowned in shouting. Valentina tried to defend herself, but Viktor refused to listen.
Under the table, Artyom squeezed my hand. His eyes conveyed shock—and pride. Pride in me.
“Let’s leave,” he whispered.
We departed, leaving their quarrel behind. On the porch, Artyom embraced me tightly. “Forgive them. Forgive me. I should have protected you sooner.”
“No need,” I murmured, burying my face in his shoulder. “I handled it myself.”
Indeed, for the first time in months, I felt less like a victim and more like someone who could defend herself.
While my approach wasn’t noble, neither were theirs.
Returning to our apartment, leaving the Morozov mansion behind, Artyom received a message from his father the next morning—divorce proceedings, property division, and Valentina Sergeevna’s departure.
He also received a lunch invitation signed: “Forgive the old fool. You have proven stronger than we imagined.”
I read the message twice. Stronger. Perhaps they forged that strength in me—taught me to fight for happiness, to never surrender or bend. For that lesson, I was unexpectedly thankful.
Key Insight: Even within the most challenging family dynamics, maintaining self-respect and courage can lead to empowerment and transformation.
In conclusion, this story reveals how resilience in the face of adversity and unjust expectations can inspire strength. The journey from being perceived as an outsider to standing firm for personal dignity highlights the power of self-belief amidst complex social pressures.