“Are you seriously deciding to invite your mom to live with us without my consent?” I blurted out irritably, feeling everything inside me boil with indignation.
Andrei froze, his coffee cup halfway to his mouth. Outside, a soft autumn rain drizzled, the drops tapping rhythmically against the cornice, lending a tense soundtrack to our conversation. The kitchen, usually warm and cozy in the evenings, suddenly felt cramped and stifling.
“Olya, let’s not…” he began in his usual soothing tone—one that made me want to throw a kitchen towel at him. “Mom’s all alone. It’s been hard for her since Dad’s death…”
“No, let’s talk about it!” I interrupted, sitting down opposite him. “We’ve been married for fifteen years, Andrei. Fifteen! Haven’t you learned to discuss important decisions with me?”
He put his cup on the table, and I noticed his fingers trembling slightly. His hands—once the most reliable in the world—now made me want to pull away so he couldn’t see how my eyes shone with betrayal.
“Mom called yesterday,” he said quietly, looking out the window. “A pipe burst, flooding the apartment below. You know that old building… I couldn’t say no.”
“We could have helped with the repairs,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm but failing as it wavered. “Hire workers. But live together? Andrei, we have two kids, a life…”
“It’s temporary,” he said, reaching for my hand. I pulled away. “A month, two at most.”
I smirked bitterly. Fifteen years of marriage had taught me enough about my mother-in-law. Tatyana Petrovna never missed a chance to remind me I wasn’t a good enough wife, that my borscht was inferior, or that my curtains were poorly hung.
“Two months will stretch into six, then a year,” I said, standing. Tears threatened. “And I’ll feel like a stranger in my own home. Thanks for at least warning me, instead of springing it on moving day.”
I whispered the last words as I left the kitchen. The bedroom was dark and cool—the window had been left open since morning. I peered through the gray rain veil. Somewhere in that old building, Tatyana Petrovna was probably packing, imagining how she’d “help” with the household and the kids.
“Sweetie, cutlets should be like this… Olechka, the kids need a schedule… Son, I told you Olechka can’t cope…”
Just the thought made me sick. Downstairs, the front door slammed—Andrei had left for work without even saying goodbye. For the first time in fifteen years.
A week later, Tatyana Petrovna appeared in our home. I was finishing dinner when a car stopped outside. Through the window, I saw Andrei hauling two huge suitcases from the trunk, his mother in her usual light-gray coat, scrutinizing our yard with pursed lips.
The kids ran out, ecstatic. Masha and Dimka adored her—she always brought gifts and never scolded them for their messy rooms. I watched them cling to her, as she pulled treats from her purse.
“My dears!” Tatyana Petrovna’s voice carried across the yard. “I’ve missed you! Here are some sweets—just don’t tell your mother, she doesn’t like sweets before dinner…”
I clenched my teeth. It was starting already.
“Mom, let me carry that,” Andrei offered, but she waved him off.
“I’m independent,” she said. “I raised you alone, after all.”
I turned away, heart pounding. The borscht boiled in the pot—maybe tonight it would escape critique.
The front door opened, voices and footsteps filled the room.
“Olechka!” Tatyana Petrovna said, flushed and flustered as she stepped into the kitchen. “It smells wonderful! And I hope I’m not bothering you…”
She looked around, lips trembling. For a moment, I felt sorry—she was no spring chicken, used to her own space.
“Come in, Tatyana Petrovna,” I forced a smile. “Dinner’s almost ready. Kids, wash your hands!”
“I’ll set the table,” she said, heading to the cupboard. “But these plates… Andryusha, you should buy new ones. These are so outdated…”
I silently grabbed the ladle, breathing deeply, counting to ten.
“Mashenka, sweetheart, sit close to grandma,” she cooed, arranging plates. “I brought you a doll—such a marvel! Though your mother says you have too many toys…”
My daughter gave me a guilty look. I stirred the borscht slowly, sweat running cold down my back.
“Where will mom sleep?” Dimka asked, eyeing the suitcases.
“In your room,” Andrei said, setting cutlery. “You don’t mind sharing with Masha?”
Masha beamed—she’d dreamed of an eternal pajama party. I froze, ladle in hand. The kids’ room? We had agreed on the living room sofa…
“No, no,” Tatyana Petrovna waved off. “I’ll be fine in the living room. I don’t want to inconvenience the children.”
But her tone said otherwise—she was already planning to rearrange furniture and change curtains. After all, she was the “experienced mom,” unlike some.
Dinner passed in an uneasy atmosphere—Tatyana Petrovna asked the kids about school, glanced at me sideways, Andrei kept up the chatter, and I counted minutes until I could retreat to the bedroom.
“The borscht is tasty, Olechka,” she said suddenly. “But you know, if you added just a bit more…”
I pushed back my chair with a clatter, standing abruptly.