“If your wife doesn’t learn to communicate with me properly, I’ll rip out all her hair, son!”
A sharp, barely concealed anger trembled in the voice on the other end of the line, overpowering even the monotonous hum of the office. Maxim reflexively pressed the phone closer to his ear and turned away from his coworker, who was watching him with curiosity. The annual report froze on the monitor — a jumble of charts and numbers, meaningless in that moment. Reality felt volatile, thick, saturated with tension, all resting heavily on his shoulders.
“Mom, what happened?” he asked softly, weariness evident in his tone.
“My girlfriends came over — Lydia Markovna, Verochka! Respectable women, not just anyone! I was preparing the table, chopping salads, roasting the main dish. I politely called Yulia and asked, ‘Come over for half an hour and help me; I can’t manage on my own.’ And what did she do?!”
Tamara Pavlovna paused dramatically. Maxim pictured her standing in the kitchen wearing her favorite apron, phone in one hand, knife in the other. In the living room, her longtime friends sat like an audience, both witnesses and judges of this domestic drama.
“She said she was busy!” his mother blurted out. “She told me I should have warned her sooner! Is that even normal? And the way she said it — can you imagine? She scolded me, your mother, like I was a child, right in front of my guests! They stared while she lectured me about planning!”
Maxim rubbed the bridge of his nose. He had heard this story countless times. For his mother, any deviation from the plan was a catastrophe, and blame always fell on someone else. He was convinced that Yulia was genuinely busy. Her remote work often demanded more dedication than his office routine. Yet, for his mother, only one schedule existed — her own.
“Tell me everything from the beginning. What exactly did she say?” he asked.
“From the beginning?” his mother’s voice was tinged with metallic resentment. “She said, ‘Tamara Pavlovna, I can’t right now—I’m in an online conference. Once it’s over, in about three hours, I’ll come.’ That’s how it was! She put her work above my request! I’m fussing around here, and she’s sitting behind her computer! You need to bring her to me immediately. She must apologize. In front of everyone.”
The words sounded more like a verdict than a request. Maxim imagined dropping everything, rushing home, collecting his wife, and bringing her to his mother, where she would publicly repent before Verochka and Lydia Markovna. The idea was so absurd he almost laughed.
“I’m at work, Mom. I can’t come. We’ll talk tonight,” he said firmly.
“Tonight?! You don’t get it! The humiliation has just happened! They’re right now talking about the kind of bride you chose — an impolite woman who despises her mother-in-law! Fix it immediately! Call her! Make her come! Are you a husband or not?”
He felt trapped again in his mother’s manipulative game. She did not want a solution; she wanted to demonstrate authority — her son following her command and his wife acknowledging her dominance.
“I’ll sort it out tonight,” he repeated firmly as he ended the call. “I have to work.”
He placed the phone face down. His colleague pretended not to notice, but Maxim felt the invasive scrutiny, as persistent as the humiliation lingering from the call. The numbers on the screen blurred; the evening promised to be long.
At home, the aroma of coffee and fresh air greeted him. Not a trace of cooked meat or steam from pots — everything was different here: clean, strict, organized. Yulia sat at the living room desk, completely absorbed in her screen. It took a few moments before she noticed him.
Maxim went to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, and drank it to quell the fire inside. Finally, Yulia removed her headphones and faced him. Her expression showed no hint of guilt — only fatigue and calm.
“Hi. How was your day?”
“Mom called.”
“I guessed. She hung up when I said I was busy.”
“She wants you to apologize in front of her friends.”
Yulia carefully closed her laptop and spoke evenly, without emotion:
“I had a conference with clients from Germany. We were finalizing details on a project I have been working on for three months. I told Tamara Pavlovna, ‘I’m in an important meeting right now. When I’m free—about three hours—I’ll come and help.’ After that, she hung up. That’s it.”
Her words were as precise and factual as a report. In her calmness was an unshakable truth. Suddenly, Maxim saw two pictures: one, his mother’s hysteria over a few salads; the other, Yulia’s professionalism, which their joint future depended on. The lifetime choice imposed on him suddenly seemed laughable.
“Understood,” he said shortly. He approached the phone and dialed. “Come here,” he called.
Yulia approached. Maxim activated speakerphone, and almost immediately his mother’s tense voice came through:
“Well?! Will you come?”
“Mom, I’ve figured things out,” Maxim replied coldly. “Yulia was working. She couldn’t just drop everything because you decided to invite guests. She’s not a servant. She’s my wife.”
Silence hung on the other end, followed by a sharp breath of indignation.
“How dare you…”
“I’m not finished. You no longer have the right to speak to her like that or threaten her. If I hear it again — we won’t see each other anymore. Not at all. Understood?”
The quiet on the line grew heavy and intimidating, as if the ground had been pulled from under her feet. Maxim ended the call first, looking at Yulia. She showed no triumph, only understanding. This was just the beginning — the first victory in a war their mother had already started.
Two weeks passed — two weeks of oppressive silence. His mother did not call. This quiet scared Maxim more than shouts ever did. He knew she hadn’t given up; she was simply preparing another strike.
And it came.
His phone woke him on a Saturday morning. His mother’s voice sounded odd — too gentle, too sweet:
“Son, hello. I was thinking… my birthday is coming soon. Not a round number, but I still want to gather close relatives — sisters, nieces. Will you and Yulia come? It means a lot to me…”
Maxim looked out at the monotonous gray cityscape. Every word from his mother felt like a step up a ladder leading straight to a trap. “Closest relatives.” “Means a lot.” This was no invitation — it was a formal declaration of war, where she had already arranged all the pieces and set the rules.
“We’ll come,” he replied, knowing refusal would become her victory and proof to the family that she was right.
On the birthday, they entered her apartment. The air was thick with the scent of perfume, greasy meat, and polished old parquet. The living room was already crowded: Tamara Pavlovna’s sisters, Zoya and Nina — two women almost identical, like faded duplicates of each other; their daughters; Lydia Markovna, the main keeper of family secrets; and several others from the past gathered like actors in a play directed by one hand. All turned to the newcomers, smiling with forced politeness. Yulia walked in confidently, back straight, face calm and untroubled. She knew this would be a test — and she was ready to face it.
The evening began with heavy conversations, thick as molasses. Aunt Zoya, pushing some meat onto Yulia’s plate, sighed:
- “Eat, Yulia, eat. You’ll need strength. Modern women are all about work… but the main thing is family and home. And Maksimka has always stayed close to mom.”
“Indeed,” Nina added, exchanging a meaningful glance with Tamara Pavlovna. “He knew his place since childhood — beside his mother. Today’s youth are different. They have their own ideas, their own ‘I.’”
Yulia smiled politely and cut a small piece from a roulade.
“Times are changing, Nina Petrovna. Today, many manage to balance work and family.”
Her calm remark lingered in the air. They had expected embarrassment or excuses but received only unwavering confidence. For a moment, it threw them off balance, but soon they resumed pressure — now from a different angle.
Tamara Pavlovna shared stories about raising her son alone, sacrificing herself for the family, always keeping the home open for guests. Each tale ended with an invisible yet unmistakable reproach aimed at Yulia.
“…and then I realized,” she concluded another anecdote, “that a family’s foundation is respect — respect for elders, for their experience, for their words. Without it, the home collapses like a house of cards.”
The guests nodded, casting covertly judgmental looks at Yulia. She felt like an outsider in this world built on traditions and mutual protection. Maxim tried to ease the tension, but his voice was lost among the chorus. Here, he was no longer a son or nephew — he was simply the husband of a woman who didn’t fit their expectations.
The climax came when Tamara Pavlovna raised her glass.
“I want to drink to family,” she began, surveying everyone with triumphant eyes. “To young people listening to their elders, not putting their affairs above what is important. I wish my son wisdom, and his wife…” She paused, “to learn this wisdom, to understand that family is not something to be put off like work.”
This was a verdict, publicly delivered with no chance for appeal.
Maxim waited until the toast was finished. He chose not to argue. Instead, he stood up, placed a napkin on the table, and said quietly:
“Thank you for the evening. We need to go.”
He took Yulia’s hand, and they left under the stunned gazes of the relatives. They expected hysteria, confrontation, tears. But Maxim’s cold calmness struck them. He wasn’t playing their game. He simply walked away, leaving them with an empty victory and the bitter aftertaste of defeat.
The ride home was silent. In the car, Maxim didn’t start the engine immediately. Yulia sat quietly, looking out into the darkness. She asked no questions and sought no comfort. Her presence alone was a solid pillar of support. She trusted him completely.
“I have to return,” he finally said into the silence.
“Alone?”
“Yes. This has to end once and for all.”
He did not explain further; she understood perfectly. He turned the car around and parked at the same building. He didn’t ask her to wait. He just stepped out, feeling a cold, tight core forming inside. Emotions stayed behind; now only actions remained.
He called. Aunt Zoya opened the door; her satisfied smile faded when she saw Maxim. He passed by without a word and reached the living room. The feast continued, though the mood had dulled slightly. His mother, the center of attention, was accepting another compliment from Lydia Markovna.
“…you’ve always been a smart woman, Tomochka. You know where the root of evil lies.”
Seeing her son, she fell silent. Surprise mixed with anticipation flickered across her face. She assumed he had come to apologize.
“Changed your mind? Decided to congratulate your mother properly?”
Maxim stopped mid-room; he didn’t approach the table but surveyed everyone present — his mother, aunts, her friends — a court delivering their verdict.
“I came back to clarify something,” his voice was steady and clear. “All evening, you acted as if I had to choose between you and my wife. You staged this act to force me to endorse your choice.”
He stared directly at his mother. Her smile slowly faded.
“Today, you made your choice — in front of everyone. Now it’s my turn.”
Pause. Everyone was frozen.
“This apartment was inherited by us after father. My half is the only connection I have to this home. Tomorrow, I’m putting it up for sale.”
The room went quiet. Even the refrigerator’s hum was deafening. Nina opened her mouth but couldn’t utter a word. His mother’s expression hardened into a mask.
“What?” she whispered, not really a question.
“Because of the layout, we might have to sell the whole apartment. You’ll get your share. Enough for a one-room apartment somewhere outside the city. Yulia and I will buy a house — in another town.”
He spoke calmly, without anger. It wasn’t a threat but a consequence — cold, logical, inevitable. He looked at her one last time — at the woman who tried to control him through guilt, scandals, and pressure. Now she sat among her allies but was utterly alone. Her reign had collapsed. She had given him the tool to destroy it.
In the end, I choose my family.
He turned and left. No one stopped him, no one shouted. Only the click of the door behind him — this time, forever.
Conclusion: This story reveals the challenges when family loyalty and personal boundaries clash. It highlights the importance of standing up for one’s own family and the necessity of establishing healthy limits, even in the face of manipulative relationships. True respect is earned through understanding and balance, not control or domination.