Early Morning Visit by Mother-in-Law Sparks Family Conflict
“Arina! Open up already, what are you dawdling for? I’m not a stranger, you know!”
The bold voice of Lidia Ivanovna echoed sharply through the quiet Saturday morning as Arina was just fiddling with her key in the lock. Apparently, her mother-in-law had been lurking by the door – how else to explain her sudden appearance at eight o’clock on a weekend?
“Oh God, why today of all days?” thought Arina silently. Saturday. A sacred day off! Stas was on a 24-hour shift at the hospital, leaving her the rare chance to be alone. To stay in bed until noon, savor coffee brewed directly from the cezve, and finally finish reading that Ulytskaya novel. Plus, there was a ticket to an exhibition at the Pushkin Museum that she’d been postponing for three months.
The door flung open, and Lidia Ivanovna – a sprightly sixty-year-old woman in a floral robe – burst into the apartment, nearly knocking Arina over. She clutched a large shopping bag swinging from her hand, from which protruded some rakes or hoes – one could hardly tell.
“Come on, quickly get ready, we’re going to the dacha!” the mother-in-law commanded in an authoritative tone that brooked no refusal. “The potatoes need hilling and the cucumbers tying up. I can’t manage by myself. And it’ll be good for you too – otherwise you’re just stuck in these four walls, as pale as a mushroom.”
Arina blinked several times. Was this a nightmare? A dreadful dream about dachas and potatoes?
“Good morning, Lidia Ivanovna,” Arina managed politely. “I have plans today. Sorry, but I won’t be going to the dacha.”
She cautiously retreated deeper into the apartment, hoping that by slowly stepping back, her mother-in-law might not notice.
Not a chance. Lidia Ivanovna’s eyebrows shot up, and her lips pressed into a thin line, unmistakably signaling an impending storm.
“What kind of plans could possibly be more important than helping your mother?” metallic tones crept into her voice. “Stas would definitely disapprove. He always says family is sacred and we should help each other. And I’m not doing this for myself – for your sake! So you’ll have your own potatoes in winter, not some store-bought poison!”
“Here we go,” Arina thought. Her mother-in-law’s favorite tactic was hiding behind Stas, as if her son’s opinion was an impenetrable shield. Implying he would be upset or disappointed.
“Lidia Ivanovna,” Arina tried to maintain calm despite the boiling rage inside, “Stas and I discussed this. He knows I absolutely hate gardening. Today is my only day off in two weeks. I want to rest and sleep in.”
“Sleep in, she wants!” exploded the mother-in-law, her face turning beet-red. “Do you think I’m made of steel? I’m sixty years old! I work from dawn till dusk in those beds! For whom? Ungrateful people like you!”
She stepped forward, pushing Arina against the wall.
“Listen to me, girl! I am not some neighbor Klavka for you to dictate terms! You’re going whether you like it or not! Or I’ll tell Stas how you treat his mother!”
Something inside Arina snapped. Enough. She had endured these tirades for three years, the constant, “Mother knows best,” endless complaints and reproaches. For years, she smiled and nodded when she wanted to scream. But everyone has limits.
“You know what, Lidia Ivanovna?” Arina’s voice turned icy. “I don’t care. About you, your dacha, your cucumbers or potatoes. Get out of here. Now.”
The mother-in-law staggered at the unexpected resistance from the usually polite daughter-in-law.
“How dare you!”
“I just did!” Arina stood tall, meeting her gaze. “If you don’t leave now, I will call Stas and tell him what you’re doing! Bursting into my home when I’m alone, shouting and threatening! Let’s see how he reacts!”
Lidia Ivanovna tried to speak but caught as if the words choked her. She gasped for air wildly for a few seconds before fuelling with venom:
“You venomous snake! Ungrateful wretch! I’ll remember this! I’ll tell Stas everything! You’ll regret it!”
Arina wordlessly pointed toward the door. That was all. Words depleted.
The mother-in-law stood for a moment, breathing heavily, shooting daggers with her eyes, then abruptly spun around and stormed out of the apartment, muttering about “spoiled youth” and “in our day…”
The door slammed shut. Arina sank slowly down the wall, trembling hands and heart pounding in her throat. She had done it. She had stood up to her mother-in-law and broken the unspoken rules of a “happy family.”
“What will happen now?” she wondered, hugging her knees. “How will Stas react? Will he support me? Or…”
Or not. And that thought frightened her even more.
“The breaking point comes when one can no longer endure endless manipulation and control.”
The evening slipped in unnoticeably. The day passed in a strange numbness—Arina wandered the apartment, performing tasks mechanically, her thoughts circling back to the morning’s upheaval, the enraged face of her mother-in-law, her threats…
A click of the lock announced Stas’s arrival: tired from a 24-hour hospital shift, dark circles under his eyes, but still familiar and dear. Normally, she would rush to him, embrace him, ask about his shift. But today…
“Hey,” she muttered, not looking up from the book she wasn’t really reading.
“Hey…” Stas looked at her with surprise. “Why are you like this?”
She met his gaze. “Your mom came by.”
“Ah, yes. I know. She called.”
Her heart dropped. Of course she called. Surely she had already painted a bleak picture of the daughter-in-law villain who had kicked out the poor old lady who only wanted to help…
“What did she say to you?” Arina crossed her arms.
Stas exhaled deeply, sinking onto the couch.
“She told me you kicked her out and were rude. She just wanted you both to go to the dacha together, but you…”
“And what about me?” Arina’s voice hardened.
“Arin, why did you have to do that?” Stas rubbed his temples. “You could’ve been gentler. She’s an elderly woman; it’s hard for her alone at the dacha…”
“Gentler?!” Arina jumped up. “Stas, she barged in at eight in the morning—my day off! Started ordering me to prepare to go hill the potatoes! When I politely refused, she began shouting and threatening!”
“Well, mom’s impulsive,” Stas attempted to smooth things over. “But she doesn’t mean harm. She just wants everything to be good for us. Maybe you could have said you’d go next time?”
Arina stared at him incredulously.
“So, I should have lied? Promised what I won’t keep? And why should I justify wanting to spend my day off as I choose, not as your mother dictates?”
“That’s not the point!” Stas was heating up. “We could’ve avoided this fight! She’s my mom, Arin! Not a stranger!”
“And what about me?” she whispered. “I’m not a stranger either, Stas. I’m your wife. And I’m exhausted by her constant interference, orders, and manipulation. And you… always take her side.”
“I’m not sides!” Stas exploded. “I just want peace between you two! Is it really that hard to say sorry to her? At least pretend?”
Arina felt something break inside her slowly, like an old door creaking open.
“Apologize? For defending my right to personal space? For not letting her walk all over me?”
She shook her head.
“You know what, Stas? If you can’t protect me from your own mother, if her comfort matters more to you than mine… what kind of husband are you?”
They stood across from each other — two people suddenly strangers. What was once a cozy nest now resembled a battleground.
Outside, a fine, unpleasant autumn rain was falling, although the calendar read mid-summer.
- Three days silently slipped by, conversations sparse and necessary only.
- Arina and Stas lived like neighbors in a shared flat, tactfully avoiding each other in the narrow corridor of their fractured relationship.
- Stas appeared gloomier each day, and colleagues worried if he was ill.
One Wednesday evening, the story took another turn. Stas stayed late for an emergency surgery, while Arina baked an apple pie—not for him, but for herself. She sought to occupy her hands and mind, filling the apartment with the warm scent of cinnamon and home.
A knock at the door interrupted her as the pie cooled. Heart pounding, she recognized the visitor through the peephole: Lidia Ivanovna, clutching a large wicker basket bearing a look of wounded innocence mingled with determination.
“Open up, Arina!” her voice was saccharine sweet, but Arina sensed steel beneath it. “I brought treats for my son. You’re probably starving, wandering off to your exhibitions!”
“Here we go again,” thought Arina. Should she keep the door shut? Hiding from one’s own home seemed foolish. She opened it.
“Hello, Lidia Ivanovna. Stas is at work,” Arina said.
Without an invitation, the mother-in-law entered, surveying the kitchen and lingering on the pie.
“Baking?” disdain colored her tone. “My pies are simpler but made with love. Not like your experiments.”
Setting her basket beside Arina’s pie like a flag on enemy ground, she said, “I actually came to see Stas. To talk mother-to-son. He’s been out of control since he got married; I hardly recognize my boy.”
“Maybe because he’s 32 and not a boy anymore?” Arina couldn’t resist retorting.
Lidia pursed her lips.
“A mother’s son is always her child. You’ll understand when you have your own. If you have one, that is. All career, career…”
“Lidia Ivanovna, if you are here to insult me…”
“Insult?” feigned shock. “I’m just telling the truth. Is my son happy? I see him and he looks defeated. It’s all your fault! He used to respect his mother, but now? The wife speaks and mother gets discarded!”
She sighed theatrically, hand over her heart.
“I wish only the best. I want you all to live well, for children to grow up on home-grown veggies instead of supermarket chemicals. But you… you treat me like the enemy.”
Key Insight: Family dynamics often become complicated when boundaries are ignored and respect is unevenly distributed.
“I do not see you as an enemy,” Arina replied wearily, “but I won’t let you dictate how I live. Stas and I have our own family.”
“Our family?” Lidia’s eyes gleamed with animosity. “What kind of family is that if the wife turns her husband against his mother? Stas told me you don’t understand him and that because of you his nerves are shattered!”
Arina felt a chill.
“What? Stas complained about me?”
“Yes!” her mother-in-law confirmed smugly. “The poor boy is worried he’ll lose his mother entirely. A mother is sacred and forever. Wives… they’re here today and gone tomorrow.”
At that moment, the key turned in the lock: Stas returned, exhausted and unprepared for the scene awaiting him.
“Mom? Arina? What’s happening?”
Lidia instantly transformed, her face pleading and tearful.
“Stas, my son! Finally! I brought your favorite pies, with cabbage, just like you love. And Arina…” she sobbed, “she attacked me again! Saying I’m ruining your life, that you don’t need me…”
Stas looked between them, eyes tired from all that had transpired.
“Is this true, Arina?”
Those two words extinguished everything—their love, trust, and hopes of understanding.
Arina stared at her husband and saw a stranger, someone unwilling to listen, already choosing a side.
She said nothing but looked long and hard, pain blazing in her eyes until Stas felt uneasy.
Then she turned quietly and retreated into the bedroom, closing the door softly behind her.
It was over. Everyone knew it.
What occurred next resembled agony—the slow, painful death of a family.
Arina leaned against the bedroom door. Voices of Stas and his calming mother drifted outside, followed by the opening door, Lidia’s accusing farewell about “an ungrateful daughter-in-law” and “a poor son.”
Silence followed.
Footsteps approached the bedroom door.
“Arina… may I come in?”
She didn’t respond but moved away from the door and sat on the bed, arms wrapped around herself.
Stas entered looking lost, like a child confused by parental conflicts.
“Arin, let’s talk. Please.”
“What is there to talk about, Stas?” Her voice was quiet but scorched. “That you didn’t even try to listen to me? Instead, asked if what your mother said was true? As if my words mean nothing.”
“I didn’t mean that…”
“What did you mean?” Arina raised her eyes. “Here sits your wife who has endured your mother’s tantrums for three years. Smiling when she wanted to scream. Listening to insults and lectures. And when she finally breaks down once, you ask if it’s true? Not ‘what happened?’ or ‘are you okay?’, but ‘is it true?’. As if I’m a criminal.”
Stas sat beside her, reaching to hold her hand, but she pulled away.
“Sorry. I… I’m just tired of it all. The conflicts, the constant choice between you two…”
“And I’m not tired?” bitterness tinged Arina’s voice. “Do you think I’m made of steel? Do you know what your mother said to me today? That you complained about me to her, that I don’t understand you, that because of me your nerves are in tatters. Is it true?”
Stas hesitated.
“Well… I didn’t complain exactly. Just sometimes told her about things. She’s a mother; she worries…”
“Worries,” Arina repeated bitterly. “And you shared our problems with her—problems between us—with a woman who already can’t stand me.”
She stood and walked to the window. Outside, the city lights flickered—the lives of strangers, the fate of others.
“You know, Stas? I thought we were a team. Whatever happened — we were together, for each other. But it turns out… you still can’t separate from your mother. Can’t tell her to stop, that this is my family, my boundaries.”
“That’s unfair!” Stas stood too. “I love you! But I can’t just disown my mother! She raised me…”
“I’m not asking you to disown her!” Arina turned sharply. “I’m asking you to protect me! To shield our family from her intrusions! But you can’t or won’t. And you know what? I can’t live like this anymore. I can’t fight alone. I won’t be in a family where I’m always the scapegoat.”
Stas paled.
“Arina… what do you mean? You don’t really think…”
“I do,” she interrupted. “I’ve thought a lot these days and realized nothing will change. Your mother will always see me as an outsider. And you will always be torn between us. Eventually, it will destroy us both.”
“Don’t say that! We can fix this! I’ll talk to Mom, I’ll explain…”
“Explain what?” Arina smiled sadly. “That she needs to respect your wife? She won’t understand. To her, I’m the one who took away her son. And you… you’re not ready to admit that.”
They looked across the growing chasm between them. When did it appear? Maybe at the start, when Stas first shrugged, “Well, Mom is like that, just bear with it.” Perhaps when Arina stayed silent, though she wanted to scream.
Or maybe the crack was always there, but they refused to notice.
“I need to think,” Arina finally said. “To be alone. I’ll stay with a friend for a few days.”
“Arina, don’t! Let’s talk this through!”
But she packed her bag methodically, hands steady, a strange calm settled over her, as happens after a decision is made.
Stas watched silently, wanting to say something but words stuck. Deep down, he knew she was right. He couldn’t protect their family. Couldn’t be the wall she could hide behind.
“I’ll call when I’m ready to talk,” Arina said at the door.
“Arina…”
But she was gone. The door closed quietly, without drama. This silence was scarier than any shouting.
Stas was left alone in the empty apartment. The apple pie Arina baked still sat untouched on the kitchen table next to the basket of the mother-in-law’s pies. Two worlds never reconciled.
Outside, summer rain began washing away dust and illusions.
The family had died, quietly, with no fights or broken dishes. Two people who once loved each other stood on opposite barricades.
Each alone with their truth.
Epilogue
A month later, Arina rented a small apartment across town. A humble one-bedroom in an old building overlooking the courtyard. But it was hers, free from old ghosts.
In the mornings, she drank coffee by the window watching the courtyard wake up. Elderly ladies walking dogs, mothers rushing to kindergartens, the janitor Petrovich sweeping paths whistling cheerful tunes.
Just ordinary life, ordinary people. And now, she was part of it.
At work, people noticed a change in Arina. Calmer, more confident. No longer apologizing for everything; she learned to say “no.” Friends said she seemed reborn.
Perhaps she truly was.
Stas called—initially daily, then less often. They met once in a café to settle formalities. He was thinner, worn out. He told her his mother visited daily—cooking, cleaning, lamenting about the “broken family.”
“She’s happy,” he said sadly. “Finally, I’m her boy again. But this boy is thirty-two and feels like an old man.”
Arina kept quiet. What could she say? Everyone makes their own choice.
“Maybe it’s not too late to fix things?” he asked at the end of the meeting. “I’ve learned a lot—about myself, about us. Maybe we could try again?”
Arina shook her head.
“Sorry, Stas. But I don’t want to return to where I was unhappy. And you… you won’t change. As long as your mother lives, you’ll always be her son first. And I’m not ready to come second in my own family.”
They parted outside the café. Stas walked toward the metro; Arina walked the other way—to her new life.
The rain had stopped, the August sun shone, and the city looked washed and fresh.
So did her life.
Arina smiled and quickened her pace. At home awaited an unfinished Ulytskaya novel, a ticket to tomorrow’s exhibition, and an entire evening that belonged just to her.
And that was wonderful.