In the twenty-fifth year of our marriage, Dima pushed the salad bowl toward me and said:
“Olya, you put too much salt in it. Mom makes it differently.”
I was taken aback, but I didn’t argue. By then, our children were already grown and living on their own, so Dima and I were alone in the apartment, and there was no one I needed to protect from his constant nitpicking. Silently, I picked up the salad and carried it back to the kitchen. From the living room, Alevtina Vasilyevna asked whether I had any decent sour cream left. Dima answered for me:
“Olya will bring some now.”
I counted to ten. Then I added sour cream, mixed the salad again, and returned to the guests.
Alevtina Vasilyevna was the first to taste it.
“Now it’s edible,” she decided.
Dima nodded. He was always happy when his mother was satisfied, even if pleasing her meant redoing dinner, changing our plans, or even insulting me.
We had met back in college. Dima used to hold my coat for me, open doors, and remember my parents’ birthdays. My friends said he had been raised wonderfully. I thought so too.
Only much later did I realize that he wasn’t considerate toward everyone. He had simply learned to anticipate his mother’s wishes and called it caring.
Alevtina Vasilyevna had raised her son alone. Dima’s father had been living separately for years, and his mother had grown accustomed to believing she had a right to be involved in every decision her son made.
When we got married, she chose our curtains, inspected the dishes we bought, and told us where to put the bed. Whenever I objected, Dima asked me to be patient.
“She has no one but us.”
I gave in. I didn’t want to start married life with a war over curtains and pots and pans. Later, more important issues came along, but by then giving in had already become a habit.
Three years ago, my aunt left me a wooden house in the countryside in her will. The house needed repairs, and the property was overgrown with nettles, but a pine forest began just beyond the vegetable garden, and the river was within walking distance.
I immediately imagined a veranda, a round table, and hydrangeas growing along the fence.
At the very first family dinner after I inherited it, Alevtina Vasilyevna announced:
“You need to sell the house. We’ll use the money to renovate my balcony and replace my floors. You already have a good apartment. Why do you need another property?”
Dima didn’t even ask what I wanted.
“Mom’s right. It’s far away, and repairs are expensive. We’ll sell it and help her.”
“It’s my house,” I said. “My aunt left it to me.”
“Are we a family or not?” Dima asked in surprise. “What difference does it make who inherited it?”
I looked at my husband and, for the first time, clearly understood what he was saying.
My inheritance had already been divided up without anyone even asking me.
The next day, I went to a notary, received a list of the necessary documents, and began formalizing the inheritance. There was nothing secret about it. Property received through inheritance remained mine, and Dima had simply never taken any interest in such matters.
On weekends, I sorted through the belongings my aunt had left behind. Dima went with me once, wandered around the rooms, and quickly became bored.
Alevtina Vasilyevna called him every half hour, asking whether the roof leaked, how much we might get for the land, and whether there were any potential buyers nearby—perhaps one of the neighbors.
The entire drive home, Dima listed all the future expenses.
Once again, we never discussed the fact that I wanted to keep the house.
When he saw the ownership certificate, he became offended.
“You could have discussed it with me.”
“Discussed what? Whether I should accept my inheritance?”
“How am I supposed to explain this to Mom now?”
“Tell her the truth. The house belongs to me, and I’m not going to sell it.”
For a week, Dima answered me in monosyllables.
Alevtina Vasilyevna stopped greeting me first and, every time she visited, asked whether I was tired of “playing landed lady.”
I went to the village, repaired the roof over the veranda, cut down the dead bushes, and for the first time in many years, I did something without consulting the family council.
Six months later, my mother-in-law announced that renovations were beginning in her apartment. The workers supposedly had to tear up the floors, so she had nowhere to stay.
Dima brought his mother to our apartment with two suitcases and a box of dishes.
“One week,” he promised.
One week turned into months.
Alevtina Vasilyevna rearranged the dishes, hid my spices, and covered the table with an oilcloth.
In the mornings, she turned on the television in the living room and called Dima to breakfast as though I didn’t exist.
She even inspected her son’s shirts before he went to work.
“The cuff is wrinkled. Was Olya rushing again?”
“I ironed it myself,” Dima admitted once.
“Look what things have come to. A man comes home from work and has to stand at the ironing board.”
Dima looked at me reproachfully, as though I had given him the iron as punishment.
Whenever I asked about the renovations, my mother-in-law gave vague answers. Sometimes the workers were waiting for materials. Other times, the upstairs neighbor supposedly wouldn’t allow them to open the plumbing shaft. Then the contractor had gone away somewhere.
I suggested we go and look at the apartment.
“No need to walk around in all that dirt,” Dima said quickly. “Mom will handle it herself.”
My birthday fell on a Friday.
I wanted to invite my friends to a small café near my workplace.
A few days before the celebration, Dima informed me:
“Mom has planned the menu. She’ll make salads and roast a chicken. We’ll invite her sister and your brother.”
“I’ve already reserved a table for my friends.”
“Why waste money? Mom is making an effort.”
“Who is she making an effort for? She didn’t even ask about my friends.”
“Here you go again!”
“No. This time I’m finishing it. On Friday, I’m going to the café. Alone.”
Dima stayed home with his mother.
Close to midnight, he texted me:
“I hope you’re happy.”
I put the phone back in my purse and returned to my friends.
I felt awkward explaining why my husband wasn’t there, but it would have been even worse to sit at home looking at my mother-in-law’s sour expression.
Three months later, Dima was turning fifty-five.
He decided to invite his coworkers, his boss, friends, and relatives to our apartment.
I suggested a restaurant, but Alevtina Vasilyevna declared that celebrating at home would be warmer and cheaper.
Once again, all the preparations fell on me.
Dima brought home groceries and considered his part finished.
My mother-in-law followed me around, shifting plates and checking how I cut the food.
“The guests will think we’re skimping on food.”
“We are skimping,” I replied. “That’s why we’re celebrating at home.”
She pretended not to hear me.
By evening, Dima’s coworkers, his boss Viktor Sergeyevich, his college friends, and our relatives were all seated around the table.
One of his coworkers complimented the roast pork. Dima said his wife had made it, and my mother-in-law stayed silent.
I began to think the evening might actually pass peacefully.
Viktor Sergeyevich raised his glass.
“Dmitry, you’ve got a dependable woman behind you. Olga found a place for everyone and prepared all this food. Take good care of her.”
Alevtina Vasilyevna put down her fork.
“You’re giving Olya too much credit. I chose the fish. I fixed the table setting. And she’s hardly ever home. My Dimochka even washes the floors himself after work. He wasn’t very lucky with his wife, but he’s a patient man.”
Several guests stared down at their plates. Someone reached for a glass of water.
I looked at Dima.
“Mom, that’s enough,” he finally said, then immediately smiled at the guests. “She’s joking. Let’s have a drink.”
Alevtina Vasilyevna picked up her glass.
I stood and collected two empty plates.
I wanted to go into the kitchen, wait it out, and let the celebration end.
As I reached the doorway, my mother-in-law added:
“Olya always gets offended by the truth. Her aunt left her a house, and now she imagines she’s independent. Even though Dimochka has supported her all these years.”
I put the plates back on the table.
“If we’re going to discuss our household affairs in front of the guests, then let’s tell the truth,” I said. “Alevtina Vasilyevna has been living with us for six months because of renovations. Except there are no renovations happening in her apartment.”
Dima raised his head.
“Olya, don’t.”
“Yes, I will. Yesterday I ran into your neighbor. A young couple is renting your mother’s apartment. They moved in back in the spring.”
My mother-in-law jerked toward her son.
“I only wanted to save a little money… I don’t have much…”
I continued:
“For six months, you’ve been living here, acting like the mistress of my home, while telling everyone that you’re the one supporting us.”
“Stop humiliating yourself,” she hissed.
“I’ve already been humiliated. And you, Dima, once again didn’t defend me!”
He stood up.
“We’ll talk about this later.”
“We’ve been saying ‘later’ for twenty-five years. Today, you heard your mother call me a bad wife in front of your coworkers. And once again, you stayed silent!”
I looked around the table.
“The celebration is over. I’m sorry, everyone. I can’t keep pretending that nothing is happening.”
The guests began gathering their things.
Viktor Sergeyevich shook my hand and was one of the first to leave.
Alevtina Vasilyevna’s relatives whispered among themselves in the hallway.
Dima saw everyone out without looking at me.
When the door closed, my mother-in-law demanded that her son “put his wife in her place.”
That was the final straw.
“Tomorrow, you’re going back to your apartment. The rental agreement with your tenants will have to be terminated properly, so until then you can stay with your sister or rent a room. But you are not staying here anymore.”
“Dima, say something to her!” my mother-in-law cried.
Dima paced around the apartment for a long time, then took out a travel bag.
“After this, I can’t stay here. You’re throwing my mother out…”
“I understand.”
“You did all this deliberately in front of my boss! Why did you have to air our dirty laundry in front of him?”
“Your mother started the conversation in front of your boss. You could have stopped her.”
Dima packed several shirts and left with his mother to stay with her sister.
I didn’t throw away his belongings or change the locks.
A week later, he came back for the rest.
A few months after that, we filed for divorce.
The apartment was legally mine under an agreement my parents had arranged before our wedding. Dima knew that and didn’t contest ownership.
I never sold the country house.
Little by little, I repaired the veranda, installed running water, and planted hydrangeas along the fence.
I live in the city apartment, but from spring until autumn, I often stay at the house in the village.
My friends come for weekends. Sometimes the children visit too.
The round table on the veranda gets crowded, so we add a folding table beside it.
Dima moved in with his mother.
He works, visits the children, and occasionally messages me about practical matters.
Alevtina Vasilyevna tells the relatives that I destroyed the family because of one unfortunate toast.
Perhaps it really is easier for her to remember that evening that way.
Our mutual acquaintances still argue about it.
Some believe I was right to stop the humiliation immediately.
Others say I shouldn’t have exposed a family conflict in front of my husband’s coworkers or ended his birthday celebration halfway through.
I understand that I chose the worst possible moment too.
But if I had simply carried those plates into the kitchen again that evening, everything would have continued exactly as before the next morning.
