“Mom, now repeat that to my face,” Andrey said in an even, almost icy tone, pushing away his plate of aspic. “Only slowly and clearly.”
A heavy, sticky stupor thickened over the festive table. The guests froze with their forks halfway to their mouths. Uncle Vitya remained sitting there with a bottle of homemade liqueur suspended above a shot glass, while Aunt Sveta stopped chewing altogether.
I sat upright, not lowering my eyes. I am a technologist at a food production facility. My work is strict measurements, standards, and an understanding of processes. If you violate the technology, the result is an inedible defective product.
My relationship with my mother-in-law had been one continuous defective product from the very first day, but like an exemplary daughter-in-law, I had spent years trying to save this hopeless batch with pretty packaging, politeness, and endless patience.
Inna Valeryevna, a former department manager at a Soviet department store, was used to evaluating people like goods on a shelf — by their level of scarcity and their usefulness to her personally. I was not on her elite list.
Her daughter, my sister-in-law Mila, however — a twenty-nine-year-old young woman who made a living photographing other people’s children at school performances — always sat in the front row of her mother’s personal theater.
“What did Mom even say that was so bad?” Mila snickered maliciously, yapping from behind her parent’s back like a pocket poodle that had sensed its owner had allowed it to bite the guests.
“Tanya, seriously. It’s Mom’s birthday, she’s sixty-one, and you dragged her some kind of scarf. You work at a factory, your taste has been dulled. You’re used to work uniforms.”
For the record, the box did not contain “some kind of scarf,” but a luxurious Italian cashmere stole in the color of dusty rose. The very one my mother-in-law had been sighing meaningfully over a month earlier while flipping through a catalog in our presence. It cost exactly twenty-five thousand rubles — an amount Andrey and I had specifically set aside. But the problem was not the gift. The problem was that I was the one who handed her the box.
“I am simply used to a different level of attention,” my mother-in-law hissed arrogantly, adjusting the gold chain around her neck. “From my own son, I expected something more substantial. And these handouts…”
Andrey did not start performing diplomatic dances around his mother’s mood. He stood up, calmly took the box with the stole from the table, carefully closed the lid, and slipped it into his backpack.
“Here’s how it’s going to be,” my husband’s voice sounded like a hammer striking an anvil.
“We chose this item together. And we paid for it from our shared budget. If this is funny to you, Mom, then we’re ending this comedy. You can do without a gift.”
“Inna, don’t lose all sense of proportion!” Uncle Vitya suddenly spoke up, banging the bottle on the table.
“It’s a gorgeous thing. Give it here, I’ll take it for my Nyura if it’s rubbing your neck so badly. You’ve completely lost your bearings from your own self-importance, sister.”
My mother-in-law’s face became covered in unhealthy burgundy blotches, like an overripe beet. She noisily sucked in air through her nose, preparing to launch into a tirade about ungrateful children, but we did not stay to listen. Andrey took my hand, and we walked out into the hallway.
I did not throw hysterics in the car. I did not cry. On the contrary, a strange, cold calm was blooming inside me. I looked out the window at the flashing streetlights and understood: enough playing the good girl. It was time to take out the abacus.
Andrey’s family had lived for years according to an interesting arrangement. Inna Valeryevna and Mila firmly believed that my husband was their personal, free service center. Andrey worked as a master technician at a large service site; he had golden hands. Who repaired Mila’s camera lenses after she dropped them at corporate parties? Andrey. Who rebuilt the engine in his mother’s old foreign car for free? Andrey. Who hauled construction materials to their dacha every weekend because “delivery is expensive, and you’re her son”? My husband. And all of this was accepted like tribute from conquered peoples. With mild disdain.
Three weeks passed after the scandal at the birthday party. My mother-in-law, of course, did not apologize. She chose the tactic of an offended queen who was graciously prepared to give the serfs a chance to atone for their guilt.
On Wednesday evening, the phone rang.
“Andryusha,” Inna Valeryevna’s voice sounded sweet as syrup.
“The pipes in my bathroom have gotten completely awful. And it’s time to replace the tiles. I did some figuring, and you have vacation in a week, don’t you? So you can take care of it. Buy the materials yourself; you have those work discounts. Consider it your real gift to me. Last time, things turned out rather awkwardly.”
Mila’s voice came from the background on the phone:
“And have him hang up a mirror with lighting for me! I’ll be seeing clients at Mom’s place!”
Andrey tiredly rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was working two jobs so we could pay off our mortgage faster, and we needed that vacation like air. I placed my hand over his, pressed the end-call button on the phone, and said:
“I’ll handle this myself. Trust me.”
I spent the next three days gathering data. I pulled up all the receipts, card statements, and remembered all the “brotherly” and “filial” requests from the past five years. I composed the ideal technological process of retaliation.
On Saturday morning, we came to my mother-in-law’s apartment. Inna Valeryevna and Mila were sitting in the kitchen, drinking tea from porcelain cups. They were clearly expecting to see Andrey in work clothes, with a hammer drill and bags of cement.
But we entered in clean everyday clothes. I calmly pulled out a chair, sat down across from my mother-in-law, and placed a thick folder on the table.
“What kind of wastepaper is this?” Inna Valeryevna narrowed her eyes suspiciously, not touching the plastic folder.
“This, Inna Valeryevna, is an estimate,” I said with utmost politeness, looking directly at the bridge of her nose.
“Here is the detailed calculation. Removal of the old tiles, pipe replacement, waterproofing, laying new ceramic tile, installation of plumbing fixtures. Plus materials and delivery. Total: two hundred eighty thousand rubles. Mila’s mirror with installation is another fifteen thousand. As relatives, we gave you a five percent discount.”
The arrogance instantly evaporated from the former department manager’s face, leaving only comical confusion. Mila nearly dropped her cup.
“Are you… are you out of your mind?!” my mother-in-law shrieked, switching to ultrasound pitch. “Charging money from your own mother?! Andrey, why are you silent?! Your wife has completely lost all sense of decency! This is your duty as a son!”
Andrey leaned his hands against the edge of the table and looked at his mother with a heavy, unblinking stare.
“My duty, Mom, is to provide for my own family. Renovating an apartment is a commercial order. Tanya and I discussed it and decided: doing your renovation for free as an apology would be, as you so accurately put it at the birthday party, funny. We’ve decided not to disgrace ourselves anymore with free handouts. You pay the estimate — I work. No money — hire a crew from an ad.”
“Oh, so that’s how it is!” my mother-in-law jumped up, knocking over a stool. “Business now, is it?! Then you won’t be seeing me in your life anymore! I’ll sign this apartment over to dear Mila, and you, Andryusha, will be left with nothing! You won’t get a kopeck of inheritance!”
I had been waiting for that argument. The perfect moment for the final ingredient in my recipe.
“A very reasonable decision,” I said, taking a second sheet from the folder.
“Only first, Inna Valeryevna, you will have to buy out Andrey’s share. One third of the apartment, which he legally inherited after his father’s death. He never renounced it. So feel free to give Mila your square meters.”
I paused, enjoying the way the faces across the table changed.
“And one more nuance,” I said, placing a stack of printed bank receipts on the table.
“Since we are moving to market relations, let’s balance the accounts. For the past six years, Andrey has paid all the utility bills for this apartment from his salary card. You and Mila live here, you use the water, you burn the electricity, and he pays. Funny how that works out, isn’t it?”
Mila began blinking in panic, shifting her gaze from the papers to her mother.
“All the payments are collected here,” I continued in the tone of an auditor.
“The amount has become quite substantial. We will not demand interest for the use of someone else’s money; we are not monsters. But you are obligated to return half of this amount to Andrey. Otherwise, we will simply file a claim to recover unjust enrichment and separate the utility accounts. Then you can pay for yourselves.”
Inna Valeryevna shifted her hunted gaze from the printouts to my husband, searching for support. But Andrey stood beside me — a reliable, monolithic wall against which all manipulation shattered.
“You… you are shameless,” my mother-in-law whispered, sinking back onto the chair. There was no more steel in her voice, only a pitiful attempt to save face.
“We are fair,” I corrected, fastening my bag.
“You have Andrey’s card details. We expect the utility transfer by the end of the month. And don’t rush with the renovation estimate. Think it over.”
We left the apartment calmly, without slamming doors or theatrical gestures. We stepped outside into the fresh, frosty air. Andrey put his arm around my shoulders, inhaled deeply, and smirked:
“You know, that stole suited my Aunt Sveta perfectly. She called yesterday to thank us.”
“See?” I smiled back. “Good things should go to people who know how to value them.”
We walked toward the car, and I felt a years-long weight fall from my shoulders. The balance had been restored. And no one in that family thought anymore that they could ride on our backs for free.
