Natalya stirred the soup on the stove when a faint, familiar cough sounded behind her. Valentina Yegorovna entered the kitchen with her usual dignified but deliberate step, reminiscent of an officer surveying his troops.
“You’ve ruined the potatoes again,” her mother-in-law muttered, peeking into the pot from over Natalya’s shoulder. “Is this how you cook? Antosha prefers his potatoes intact, not mashed to bits.”
Natalya continued stirring silently. After a year under the same roof, she had learned to suppress reactions to such remarks—or at least, she was trying.
Anton walked into the kitchen, planting a kiss on his wife’s cheek. “The soup smells wonderful,” he said.
“That’s because you’re starving,” Valentina Yegorovna said, settling at the table. “By the way, you should sear the meat before adding it to the soup. It enhances the flavor.”
With a shrug, Anton left the kitchen. Natalya switched off the stove and began setting the table. From the adjoining room came eight-year-old Dima’s voice:
“Mom, can I go to Seryozha’s after lunch? He’s got a new construction set!”
“We’ll see—finish your homework first,” Natalya replied.
“Homework during summer?” Valentina Yegorovna exclaimed, throwing up her hands. “Kids need a break! You’re exhausting the boy with lessons. Back in our day, children played outdoors all summer and still turned out fine.”
Dima lingered at the doorway, eavesdropping.
“Dimochka, come here,” his grandmother beckoned sweetly. “Grandma has candy for you. Don’t mind your mother—summer is for rest, no homework needed.”
“Valentina Yegorovna, Dima and I agreed he will study one hour daily to keep sharp before school,” Natalya calmly explained.
“Exactly, you two agreed! And who asked me? Don’t I live in this house?”
Natalya swallowed her retort. Since moving in a year ago, her mother-in-law had repeatedly claimed this argument. Prior to that, the couple had lived in peace for two years; Valentina Yegorovna visited occasionally, roughly once a week or less. Then Anton called her permanent move a “logical decision”—she sold her home and moved in with them.
“Why should I stay alone in a big empty house?” Valentina Yegorovna said at the time. “The grandson is close by, and I can help. I’m family, not a stranger.”
Anton agreed immediately without consulting Natalya, presenting it as a done deal—the back room needed clearing for his mother. Natalya stayed silent. The house was large; there was space for everyone. She hoped her mother-in-law’s presence would ease her burden with childcare and chores.
Instead, reality proved harsh. Valentina Yegorovna was slow to offer assistance but quick to criticize every action Natalya took. Her cooking was all wrong. Her cleaning inadequate. Her childrearing too strict.
“Anton, tell your wife not to starve our grandson!” Valentina Yegorovna yelled towards the living room. “Lunch first, then the lessons!”
“Mom, please, don’t interfere,” Anton’s exhausted voice replied. “Natalya can handle it.”
His mother snorted and noticeably dumped a handful of caramels in front of Dima.
“Eat, my boy. Grandma will provide for you, since your mother’s busy with nonsense.”
Natalya slammed the plates on the table, clinking loudly. Dima looked frightened, first at his mother, then at his grandmother.
“I’ll eat candy after lunch,” the boy whispered.
“That’s right, sweetheart,” Natalya said, gently stroking his head. “Go wash your hands.”
After Dima left, Valentina Yegorovna pursed her lips.
“Are you turning the child against me?” she asked.
“I’m not turning anyone. Anton and I have rules for Dima,” Natalya answered.
“Anton?” her mother-in-law laughed scornfully. “My son never set rules. That’s your invention. You’ll only raise a neurotic with all these regulations.”
Natalya took a deep breath. Arguing was futile. She had learned that over the year. Attempts to maintain her position ended with Valentina Yegorovna reminding her the house was in her name.
The situation with the house added another layer of pain. When Natalya moved in after marriage, she had barely noticed Anton’s mention that the property was registered to his mother.
“It’s safer this way,” Anton explained. “No one can take anything from Mom. It’s a formality; I built it and funded it.”
Natalya trusted him. She had nothing of her own—after her first divorce, she left her one-room apartment to her ex-husband to conclude the process quickly. She and Dima rented accommodation until meeting Anton.
The first two years felt idyllic. Anton treated Dima kindly; the boy warmed to his stepfather. Their home was cozy with a large yard. Natalya cultivated a vegetable garden and planted flowers. Life seemed finally settled.
Then Valentina Yegorovna arrived with her bags.
“I have the right to live in my own house!” she declared, seeing Natalya’s dismay. “Are you against a man’s own mother residing with him?”
Anton hugged Natalya and whispered, “Just hold on a bit—we’ll adjust, she’ll calm down.”
But she did not. Instead, with each month she acted more like the homeowner. She rearranged furniture to her liking, threw out Natalya’s chosen curtains and replaced them with large rose-patterned drapes, claimed the best armchair by the television, and watched soap operas loudly for hours.
“Anton, can you speak to your mother?” Natalya asked one night. “She keeps the TV on all day; Dima can’t concentrate on homework.”
“Let her watch. What else has she to do?” Anton waved off her concern. “Don’t exaggerate. Mom behaves well—you’re just too sensitive.”
Natalya remained silent. What else could she say? Anton adored his mother and instinctively sided with her in conflicts—even in extreme cases.
Last month, for example, Valentina Yegorovna made a scene when Natalya purchased new sneakers for Dima.
“Wasteful!” she screamed through the house. “My Antosha wore one pair for three years without any problems!”
“It’s my money. I earned it,” Natalya tried to argue.
“Your money? In my house there’s no yours or mine—everything is communal! And don’t make your own rules!”
Anton left for the garage and returned two hours later, acting as if nothing had occurred.
During lunch, Valentina Yegorovna continued complaining:
“In our day, women respected their husbands. Now? They think they know everything and listen to no one.”
“Mom, enough,” Anton muttered, avoiding eye contact.
“Enough? I speak the truth! Your wife disrespects me, cooks poorly, overwhelms the child with lessons, and wastes money on God knows what.”
“Valentina Yegorovna, I am a nurse working double shifts, supporting my child alone, and managing the household. What exactly don’t you like?” Natalya could no longer contain herself.
Her mother-in-law placed her spoon down and glared.
“What I dislike is that you have forgotten whose home you live in. If I wished, I could throw you and your brat out. This is my house—my son gave it to me!”
“Mom!” Anton finally raised his voice. “What are you saying?”
“The truth! The house belongs to me; I am the mistress here. She should know her place.”
Dima looked frightened between his mother and grandmother; his lip quivered.
“Dimochka, go to your room and solve some problems,” Natalya said gently.
Once he left, she pushed away from the table.
“You know what, Valentina Yegorovna? I won’t endure this any longer.”
“Then leave!” her mother-in-law yelled. “Take your little brat and get out! My son gave me this house!”
Natalya stood up slowly. A constriction gripped her chest, but she squared her shoulders and met her mother-in-law’s gaze. She refused to show weakness.
“Fine, Valentina Yegorovna. We will leave.”
“Exactly! No free loaders here! Find someone else to tolerate your snot-nosed brat!”
“Mom, stop!” Anton attempted to intervene, but Valentina only aggravated the situation.
“Be quiet! Can’t you see how she manipulates you? She’s ensnared you and taken over my house!”
“I’m not a brat!” came a small voice from the hallway.
Everyone turned. Dima stood with clenched fists, flushed cheeks, and tear-filled eyes.
“You’re mean! A mean grandma! I hate you!”
Outraged, Valentina Yegorovna almost choked.
“What?! How dare you, you little pup! In my house! I’ll—”
She advanced toward the boy, but Natalya stepped between them.
“Don’t touch my son.”
“Your son? And who are you? Nobody! A stray! Moving from one rented hole to another with your bastard until my fool son picked you up!”
Anton sat speechless at the table. Natalya looked at him, hoping for even a single word of defense, but he remained silent.
“Dimochka, go pack your favorite toys,” Natalya said softly.
“Mom, are we leaving?” he sobbed.
“Yes, honey. We’re going to Grandma Galya and Grandpa Kolya’s.”
Dima nodded and ran to his room. Valentina Yegorovna snorted triumphantly.
“Go then! But don’t touch my things! Everything here belongs to me!”
Without a word, Natalya passed her to the bedroom, pulled two suitcases—hers and Dima’s—from the top shelf, and began methodically packing clothes. Valentina stood at the door, scrutinizing her every movement.
“That dress was bought here! Leave it!”
“I brought this dress three years ago,” Natalya calmly replied, continuing packing.
“You’re lying! Anton, say something!”
Anton did not appear. Natalya withdrew documents belonging to herself and Dima, her savings book, and a small jewelry box inherited from her mother. She carefully placed them in a separate bag.
“What’s that? Let me see!” Valentina Yegorovna tried to snatch the bag.
“These are our documents. Don’t touch them.”
Natalya went to Dima’s room. The boy sat clutching his teddy bear.
“Mommy, will we never come back here?”
“I don’t know, sweetheart. We’ll see.”
She quickly packed his clothes, textbooks, notebooks, and sketchbooks he cherished. Valentina Yegorovna followed, muttering threats.
“Try taking anything of mine! I’ll call the police! Thief!”
Natalya stopped, facing her.
“You know what? I’m going to get the neighbors to witness what I’m taking—no accusations of theft later.”
“Go ahead! Call the whole village for all I care!”
Outside, Nina Vasilievna was watering plants next door.
“Nina Vasilievna, could you spare a moment?”
The neighbor came to the fence; they were friendly and often talked.
“What’s wrong, Natasha? You look pale.”
“Dima and I are leaving, permanently. Could you and Pyotr Ivanovich come over as witnesses so Valentina Yegorovna can’t accuse me of theft?”
“Goodness, how far this has come! Of course—I’ll call my husband.”
Five minutes later, the neighbors stood in the hallway. Valentina Yegorovna looked puffed up like a turkey.
“Why are you here? Putting on a show?”
“We’re witnesses,” Pyotr Ivanovich declared firmly. “To confirm Natalya is taking only her personal belongings.”
With them present, Natalya moved through the house, showing two suitcases with clothes, a bag with documents, a backpack with toys, and some books.
“That’s all. The furniture, dishes, and appliances stay.”
“Good! Don’t take my things!” the mother-in-law shouted.
Nina Vasilievna shook her head.
“Shame on you, Valentina Yegorovna! Natalya kept this home running—the garden, the flowers…”
“Mind your own business! No rules in someone else’s house!”
Natalya carried the bags outside and ordered a taxi. While waiting, Dima clung to his mother, avoiding his grandmother’s gaze.
“Mom, is Uncle Anton coming with us?”
“No, honey.”
Anton finally appeared, looking confused.
“Natash, are you serious? Where are you going?”
“To my parents’ place.”
“But… why? We can talk it over…”
“Discuss what, Anton? Your mother is evicting me and my child. You say nothing. What is left to discuss?”
“She lost her temper. She didn’t mean it—she just has a temper.”
Natalya looked at the husband she’d lived with for three years; now he seemed a stranger.
“Anton, your mother insulted my son in front of you, calling him names. And you said nothing.”
“What could I say? She’s my mother.”
“And what are we? Strangers?”
The taxi arrived and the driver helped load the luggage. Dima climbed in the back seat as Natalya turned to Anton.
“I’m filing for divorce.”
“Nata—wait! Don’t do this! Let’s talk!”
But Natalya was already inside. As the car pulled away, Dima looked out the rear window. Anton stood in the yard, with Valentina shouting and gesturing beside him.
“Mom, are you crying?”
“No, sweetheart. Just tired.”
The drive to her parents’ took two hours. They lived in a regional town apartment. Galina Andreyevna opened the door, immediately understanding from Natalya’s expression what had happened.
“Come in, dear ones. Dima, Grandpa is in his room—he has a new book for you.”
The boy ran off as Natalya collapsed into her mother’s arms, finally letting the tears fall.
“It’s okay to cry, honey. You can tell us everything later.”
That evening, after Dima went to sleep, Natalya recounted the ordeal to her parents. Her father listened silently, clenching his fists.
“You did right to leave,” he said. “There was nothing to endure. I wish you had told us sooner.”
“I thought I could manage. I hoped Anton would come to reason and confront his mother.”
“Your Anton is a mama’s boy,” her mother sighed. “Men like that choose a new wife over a fight with their mothers.”
Anton repeatedly called, but Natalya ignored him until sending a message: “Don’t call. We’ll communicate through lawyers.”
The following day, Natalya consulted a lawyer. The divorce was straightforward—no shared property, the house belonged to the mother-in-law, and they had no children together.
“If your husband doesn’t object, the divorce will be finalized in a month,” the lawyer confirmed.
Anton came by three days later but was refused entry by Natalya’s father.
“Natalya doesn’t want to see you. Don’t traumatize the boy.”
“I have to explain! I’ll take my mother to live with us—we’ll be alone, just Natasha and me!”
“Too late, Anton. You should have thought of that earlier.”
After a month, the divorce was completed without dispute. Anton signed the papers willingly. Natalya found employment at the local hospital. Dima enrolled in a new school where he quickly made friends despite initial sadness.
One evening, Galina Andreyevna reflected to her daughter:
“It’s better this way. Imagine if you had stayed another ten years. What would have become of you and Dima?”
Natalya nodded. Her mother had spoken the truth. Leaving before enduring endless humiliation was the better path. With a job, a son, and her parents, she had what mattered most.
Six months later, Nina Vasilievna shared news: Anton still lived with his mother, who now commanded him as she pleased—making him cook, clean, and do all household chores. Anton appeared tired and stressed, often late to work because of his mother’s demands.
“She tells everyone you were ungrateful. But no one believes her. Everyone remembers how you kept the house running.”
Natalya listened with a shrug. Let her say whatever she liked. The important thing was that she and Dima now lived free from insults and conflict. And that peace was invaluable.
Key Insight: Setting boundaries and prioritizing one’s well-being, even in challenging family dynamics, can lead to reclaiming peace and self-respect.
In conclusion, Natalya’s story reminds us of the complexity and emotional toll of living with difficult family members. Despite initial hopes and compromises, sometimes the healthiest choice is to step away and rebuild life where respect and harmony exist. Protecting one’s child and self-worth is paramount, and seeking support, as Natalya did, is a brave and necessary step towards a better future.