“You Owe Me!” my mother-in-law said when I refused to pay off her loan
“You owe me,” Irina Fyodorovna declared, sipping my rare collectible oolong with a slurping sound like she was unclogging a sink. “You married my son, which means you took on both his assets and his liabilities. And I’m his biggest liability. I mean—ugh—asset! Anyway, Marina, stop playing dumb and get your card out.”
I looked at my mother-in-law. In her eyes, heavily lined with something coal-black, was the determination of a bulldog spotting an unattended sausage. My husband Zhenya, sitting beside her, had pulled his head so far into his shoulders that he looked like a frightened turtle in a chunky knit sweater.
“Irina Fyodorovna,” I said, carefully moving the cookie bowl farther away from her before she annexed that too, “let’s clarify the legal details. At the registry office, I signed up for love and fidelity to Evgeny, not to sponsor your financial pyramid schemes.”
My mother-in-law froze with a gingerbread cookie halfway to her mouth. It was one of those moments when an unstoppable force met an immovable object—or, more precisely, when her audacity collided with my healthy indifference.
It had all started three months earlier. My Zhenya had been laid off. The company where he worked as an engineer had collapsed with all the grace of a house of cards in the wind. Zhenya is a golden man—handy, smart, and good-hearted—but emotionally delicate. While he was sending out résumés and going to interviews, I quietly kept our family budget afloat. I work as a financial analyst, and I like numbers much more than hysterics.
But Irina Fyodorovna, having caught the scent of change, decided that since her son had temporarily “slipped,” the food source had now shifted in my direction.
Before, she used to drain money from Zhenya. Sometimes it was for an “urgent surgery,” sometimes for replacement windows that somehow got changed more often than a teenager’s moods. Zhenya would sigh, but he always paid. “She’s my mother,” he’d say. But now the faucet had been turned off, so Mother dear came straight to the source.
The first warning sign was quiet.
“Marinochka,” she sang sweetly over the phone a week earlier, “my utility bill came in, and the numbers are terrifying. Zhenya isn’t answering his phone. Could you transfer me five thousand?”
I transferred it. I didn’t want to bother my husband—he had an important test assignment that day.
The second warning bell was more like an air-raid siren. She showed up at our place unannounced while we were having dinner.
“Oh! Shrimp!” she exclaimed, walking into the kitchen without even taking off her shoes. “And you say you have no money.”
“The money is mine,” I replied with a smile. “Zhenya is just on a temporary creative sabbatical.”
“Exactly!” She plopped down into a chair. “You have money. And your husband’s mother has nothing but hypertension and an old sofa. Speaking of sofas—I found this lovely corner one, the ‘Bergamo.’ With massage… oh, I mean, just a regular sofa. It only costs one hundred and fifty thousand. Will you take out an installment plan in your name? They’ll approve you. You have an honest face.”
Back then I laughed it off, saying my face had probably been blacklisted by the bank for excessive beauty. But Irina Fyodorovna didn’t get the joke. She went quiet, like a cobra hiding in a dill patch.
And today—that was the climax.
“You don’t understand!” Irina Fyodorovna pressed a hand theatrically to her chest, where ordinary people have a heart and she has a calculator. “Debt collectors are calling! I took out a loan. A small one.”
“For what?” Zhenya asked quietly.
“For a course called Goddess of Abundance: How to Open Your Money Flow,” she blurted out. “It’s an investment!”
I nearly choked on my tea. Zhenya covered his face with his hands.
“Mom,” he groaned. “You took out three hundred thousand just to learn how to breathe…?”
“That’s not the point!” she snapped. “The point is, the flow didn’t open. Apparently my chakras are clogged. But the payment is due tomorrow. Marina, you have money in a deposit account. I know because Zhenya told me. Pay off my loan, and later I’ll… from my pension…”
“Irina Fyodorovna,” I said, folding my arms across my chest, “I have a counteroffer. You sell your dacha—the one where you cultivate nothing but weeds and your son’s guilt—and pay off the debt.”
“The dacha?!” she shrieked. “That’s our ancestral nest! My grandfather sheltered under a burdock leaf there when it rained! How dare you even say that? You heartless… cracker! Zhenya, say something to her!”
My mother-in-law turned to her son, expecting her usual support. She was used to Zhenya being soft as modeling clay. But she’d forgotten that even clay turns hard as stone in the cold. And the air in the kitchen was icy.
“Mom,” Zhenya said, his voice shaking at first but growing firmer, “Marina is right. We are not paying for your ‘Goddess.’”
“What?” She blinked rapidly, and cheap mascara started flaking off her lashes. “You’re betraying your mother for this… office rat?”
“This ‘rat’ is feeding your son and paying for this apartment,” I said calmly. “And by the way, rats are very intelligent animals. Unlike you, they don’t walk into the same trap twice.”
Irina Fyodorovna jumped to her feet. The chair screeched backward.
She stormed out into the hallway, slamming the door so hard that my hat fell off the rack.
“I’m sorry,” Zhenya said, starting to gather the pieces of the cup his mother had knocked over in a burst of passion.
“It’s nothing,” I said, hugging him. “That was actually kind of entertaining. Like a circus—except the clown was mean and not wearing makeup.”
We thought that was the end of it.
Naive fools.
It was only the overture.
Three days later, I got a call at work.
“Marina Viktorovna? This is from the bank Fast Money, Long Sorrow. Your mother-in-law listed you as a guarantor. She has missed a payment, and according to the contract, we are beginning collection proceedings against you.”
I hung up and counted to ten. Then to twenty. Then I pictured Irina Fyodorovna in a giant shrimp costume being boiled alive in a cauldron. That helped.
That evening, I went to see her. The door was unlocked. The apartment smelled of valerian drops and old rags. My mother-in-law was lying on the sofa with a wet towel on her forehead, pretending to be a dying swan shot down at the peak of its career.
“I’m dying,” she announced in a graveyard voice, cracking one eye open. “My blood pressure is two hundred over zero. My heart is pounding like a jackhammer. This is all because of you.”
“Irina Fyodorovna,” I said, sitting on the edge of an armchair, “I went to the bank. Did you forge my signature on the guarantor agreement?”
“That’s not forgery!” she shot upright, instantly forgetting all about her blood pressure. “I was just practicing. My hand shakes, you know—old age. And anyway, we’re one family. What difference does it make whose squiggle it is?”
“A very big difference,” I said, pulling out my phone. “That falls under Article 327 of the Criminal Code of the Russian Federation. Forgery of documents. Up to two years in prison. And I hear the pasta there is free, so at least you wouldn’t have to worry about food.”
She went pale enough to blend into the wallpaper.
“You… you would send your husband’s mother to prison?”
“I wouldn’t,” I said. “But the bank gladly would. Still, I can withdraw the complaint if we come to an agreement.”
My mother-in-law narrowed her eyes. In her brain, fine-tuned for petty fraud, the gears began to creak.
“What do you want?”
“First: you write a statement saying the debt is yours alone. Second: you transfer the dacha to Zhenya. As a gift deed. Tomorrow. So the collectors can’t take it. Then we’ll sell it, pay off your loan, and whatever is left over goes to you for living expenses.”
“No way!” she screeched. “That’s blackmail!”
“That,” I corrected her, “is crisis management. Either the dacha or a prison bunk. The choice is like in a cafeteria: mashed potatoes or pasta, but one way or another, you’re eating.”
She tried to argue. She cried. She even tried to faint, but I told her I’d pour a bucket of cold water over her, and she quickly decided against collapsing and ruining the laminate flooring.
In the end, common sense—or fear of prison—won out.
A week later, we were finalizing the sale. The dacha, that monument to neglect, sold surprisingly fast. There was enough money to pay off her Goddess of Abundance loan, with some left over.
But the real finale of this story came at a family dinner that Irina Fyodorovna insisted on hosting in honor of our “reconciliation.”
She had clearly planned a comeback…
“You have to,” declared Irina Fyodorovna, taking a sip of my rare oolong with a slurping sound like she was clearing a clog in the sink. “You married my son, which means you took on both his assets and his liabilities. And I am his biggest liability. I mean—bah—asset! Anyway, Marina, stop playing dumb and get your card out.”
I looked at my mother-in-law. In her eyes, heavily lined with something coal-black, was the determination of a bulldog spotting an unattended sausage. My husband Zhenya, sitting beside her, hunched his head so deeply into his shoulders that he looked like a frightened turtle in a chunky knit sweater.
“Irina Fyodorovna,” I said, gently moving the cookie bowl away from her before she annexed that too, “let’s clarify the legal details. At the registry office, I signed up for love and fidelity to Yevgeny, not for sponsoring your financial pyramids.”
My mother-in-law froze, a gingerbread cookie halfway to her mouth. It was exactly that moment when an irresistible force meets an immovable object—or rather, when her audacity ran headfirst into my healthy indifference.
It had all started three months earlier. My Zhenya had been laid off. The company where he worked as an engineer collapsed with all the grace of a house of cards in the wind. Zhenya is a golden man—handy, smart, but with a delicate emotional makeup. While he sent out résumés and went to interviews, I calmly covered our family budget. I work as a financial analyst, and I love numbers more than hysterics.
But Irina Fyodorovna, catching the scent of change, decided that since her son had temporarily “slipped,” the food source had shifted in my direction.
Before, she used to pull money from Zhenya. Sometimes for an “urgent operation,” sometimes for replacing windows—which got replaced more often than a teenager’s mood swings. Zhenya would sigh, but he always paid. “She’s my mother,” he’d say. Now that tap had run dry, and Mother had come straight to the source.
The first warning sign was quiet.
“Marinochka,” she sang over the phone a week earlier, “my utility bill came in, and the numbers are terrifying. Zhenya isn’t answering his phone. Could you transfer me five thousand?”
I transferred it. I didn’t want to upset my husband—he had an important test assignment at the time.
The second warning sign came like an alarm bell. She showed up at our place unannounced while we were having dinner.
“Oh, shrimp!” she exclaimed, walking into the kitchen without even taking off her shoes. “And you say there’s no money.”
“There’s money with me,” I smiled. “Zhenya is just on a temporary creative vacation.”
“Exactly!” she plopped down into a chair. “You have money. And your husband’s mother has only hypertension and an old sofa. Speaking of sofas—I’ve had my eye on a corner one, the Bergamo. With massage… oh, I mean, just with massage. It’s only one hundred and fifty thousand. Will you take out an installment plan in your name? They’ll approve you—you have an honest face.”
Back then I laughed it off, saying that my face was on the bank’s blacklist for excessive beauty. But Irina Fyodorovna did not understand humor. She went silent and lay in wait like a cobra in a patch of dill.
And today—today was the climax.
“You don’t understand!” Irina Fyodorovna theatrically pressed a hand to her chest, where ordinary people have a heart and she has a calculator. “Debt collectors are calling! I took out a loan. A small one.”
“For what?” Zhenya asked quietly.
“For the course Goddess of Abundance: How to Open Your Money Flow,” she blurted out. “It’s an investment!”
I nearly choked on my tea. Zhenya covered his face with his hands.
“Mom,” he groaned. “You borrowed three hundred thousand to learn how to breathe…?”
“That’s not the point!” she snapped. “The point is, the flow didn’t open. Apparently my chakras are clogged. And the payment is due tomorrow. Marina, you’ve got money in a deposit account. I know, Zhenya told me. Pay off my loan, and later I’ll… from my pension…”
“Irina Fyodorovna,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest, “I have a counterproposal. You sell your dacha, where you cultivate nothing but weeds and guilt in your son, and pay off the debt.”
“The dacha?!” she shrieked. “That’s the family nest! My grandfather sheltered under a burdock leaf there when it rained! How dare you even say that? You heartless… dried-up crust! Zhenya, say something to her!”
My mother-in-law turned to her son, expecting her usual support. She was used to Zhenya being soft as clay. But she forgot that even clay turns hard as stone in the cold. And the atmosphere in the kitchen was icy.
“Mom,” Zhenya’s voice trembled, but then steadied, “Marina is right. We are not paying for your ‘Goddess.’”
“What?” She blinked rapidly, and cheap mascara began to crumble from her lashes. “You’re betraying your mother for this… office rat?”
“This ‘rat’ feeds your son and pays for this apartment,” I shot back calmly. “And by the way, rats are very intelligent animals. Unlike you, they don’t walk into the same trap twice.”
Irina Fyodorovna jumped up. The chair scraped back with a crash.
She ran into the hallway, slamming the door so hard my hat fell off the rack.
“Sorry,” Zhenya said, starting to gather the shards of the cup his mother had swept off the table in a burst of passion.
“It’s nothing,” I said, hugging him. “It was almost entertaining. Like the circus, except the clown was mean and without makeup.”
We thought that was the end of it. Naive fools. It was only the overture.
Three days later, I got a call at work.
“Marina Viktorovna? This is from the bank Fast Money — Long Sorrow. Your mother-in-law listed you as her guarantor. She is overdue on her payment, and according to the contract, we are beginning collection proceedings against you.”
I hung up and counted to ten. Then to twenty. Then I imagined Irina Fyodorovna in a giant shrimp costume being boiled in a cauldron. That helped.
That evening I drove to her place. The door was unlocked. The apartment smelled of valerian and old rags. My mother-in-law was lying on the sofa with a wet towel on her forehead, pretending to be a dying swan shot down at the height of her career.
“I’m dying,” she announced in a graveyard voice, opening one eye. “My blood pressure is two hundred over zero. My heart is pounding like a jackhammer. This is all your fault.”
“Irina Fyodorovna,” I said, sitting on the edge of an armchair, “I went to the bank. Did you forge my signature on the guarantor agreement?”
“That’s not forgery!” she said, suddenly sitting upright and forgetting all about her blood pressure. “I was just practicing. My hand shakes, you know, from old age. And besides, we’re one family. What difference does it make whose little squiggle it is?”
“A huge difference,” I said, pulling out my phone. “That falls under Article 327 of the Criminal Code of the Russian Federation. Document forgery. Up to two years in prison. They say the pasta there is free, so at least food won’t be a problem.”
She went so pale she nearly blended into the wallpaper.
“You… you would put your husband’s mother in jail?”
“I wouldn’t. But the bank would, gladly. Still, I can withdraw the complaint if we come to an agreement.”
My mother-in-law narrowed her eyes. You could almost hear the gears grinding in her brain, a mechanism fine-tuned for petty fraud.
“What do you want?”
“First: you write a statement saying the debt is yours alone. Second: you transfer the dacha to Zhenya. A deed of gift. Tomorrow. So the collectors can’t take it. Then we’ll sell it and pay off your loan. Whatever is left over will be for you to live on.”
“No way!” she screeched. “That’s blackmail!”
“That’s crisis management,” I corrected her. “Either the dacha or prison bars. The choice is like in a cafeteria: mashed potatoes or pasta—but one way or another, you’re going to eat.”
She tried to argue. She cried. She even tried to faint, but I told her I’d dump a bucket of cold water over her, and she decided against falling so she wouldn’t ruin the laminate floor.
In the end, common sense—or fear of state housing—won.
A week later we were closing the deal. The dacha, that monument to neglect, sold surprisingly fast. There was enough money to pay off her Goddess of Abundance loan, and there was even some left over.
But the real finale came at a family dinner Irina Fyodorovna insisted on hosting in honor of our “reconciliation.” She had clearly planned a rematch.
The table was groaning under the weight of salads with more mayonnaise than vegetables. My mother-in-law sat at the head of the table.
“Well then, children,” she began sweetly, raising a glass of homemade liqueur, “all’s well that ends well. Marina, of course, acted cruelly by depriving me of my feeding land, but as a wise woman, I forgive her. By the way, Zhenya, I saw an ad… They’re selling unique water filters with silver ions. Only forty thousand. The water becomes holy! We all need cleansing after all this filth. Marina, you’ll pay for them, won’t you? As a gesture of apology.”
Zhenya choked on his Olivier salad. I slowly set down my fork.
“Irina Fyodorovna,” I said with the most predatory smile I could manage, “did you know that silver ions in large amounts can cause argyria? Your skin turns blue. It would really suit you—you’d look like an Avatar, only retired.”
“You’re mocking me again!” she pouted. “I demand respect! I’m the mother! I let you into this house!”
“This is my apartment,” I reminded her.
“That doesn’t matter!” she waved her hand, nearly knocking over the salad bowl. “You are obliged to take care of us. Maybe I have a talent going to waste! Maybe I want to start a business!”
“What kind?” Zhenya asked. “Mass-producing problems on an industrial scale?”
My mother-in-law flushed deep red.
“How dare you! Did she teach you to say that? Henpecked fool! I was trying for your sake! I wanted us to live in wealth! And you…”
And then she decided to go all in.
“If you don’t give me money for those filters right now, I… I’ll move in with you! I’ll rent out my apartment and live here, in the living room! Every day I’ll teach you how to cook borscht, Marina!”
Silence fell. The threat was terrible, like nuclear winter. Living with Irina Fyodorovna would be like voluntarily locking yourself in a cage with a starving raccoon suffering from bipolar disorder.
I looked at Zhenya. He smiled. Broadly, calmly, confidently.
“Mom,” he said, pulling a folded sheet of paper from his pocket, “I found a job. I got the offer today. Chief project engineer. The salary is beyond anything you could dream of.”
My mother-in-law’s eyes lit up like two air-defense spotlights.
“My son!” she cried, instantly switching from wrath to mercy. “I knew it! My blood! Well, now we’ll really live! We’ll buy the filters, and the sofa, and a fur coat for me…”
“No, Mom,” Zhenya cut in. “We won’t buy anything. Marina and I discussed it. We’re taking out a mortgage for a bigger apartment. And until then, we’re saving—strict economy mode.”
“What?” She froze.
“That’s right. And by the way, we decided that since you’re so into esoterics and energies now, material goods are only harmful to you. Money is low vibration, Mom. We don’t want to damage your karma.”
“What?!” she gasped in outrage. “What vibrations? Give me money!”
“Can’t,” Zhenya said, spreading his hands. “Marina is my financial director. All questions go through her.”
Irina Fyodorovna turned to me. Her face looked like a crumpled five-thousand-ruble banknote an ATM refuses to accept.
“You…” she hissed.
“And I,” I interrupted, finishing my berry drink, “invest only in promising projects. And you, Mother, are a toxic asset. Too much risk and no return.”
Half a year has passed since that evening.
Zhenya is doing great at work, and we really did buy a new apartment. My mother-in-law? She calls once a month, complains about life, but never asks for money anymore. Apparently, she realized that the Son and Daughter-in-Law Bank had revoked her license.
And recently I found out she got a job as a concierge. She tells everyone it’s “for human interaction,” but we know the truth. Now she gets to monitor who visits whom in the building. The perfect job for someone who loves sticking her nose into other people’s business—only now she even gets paid for it.
