“Why didn’t you transfer your salary to my mother?” Kirill demanded indignantly, without even saying hello.
Alla froze with the ladle in her hand above the pot. The stew was bubbling, releasing lazy puffs of steam, while she stared at her husband and felt something snap inside her. The thin thread of patience she had so carefully wound around her silence over the past few months had finally broken.
“Sorry, I think I must have misheard you,” she said slowly, placing the ladle on the cutting board. “Repeat that.”
“Mom called. She says you promised to transfer money to her, but you only did it once. The bathhouse still needs to be finished, and the workers are waiting.”
Alla closed her eyes. Counted to five. Opened them.
“Kirill, I transferred money once because you asked me once. You said, ‘Allochka, come on, let’s help her just this once. I’ll negotiate with the workers and pay you back.’ Do you remember that?”
“So what? Mom said she had an agreement with you on an ongoing basis. Until we finish the bathhouse.”
“Your mother has spoken to me exactly twice in the past month,” Alla’s voice trembled. “Once when she explained what shape that damned bathhouse should be. The second time when she asked why I still hadn’t given her a grandson. Everything else went through you.”
Kirill pulled off his tie and threw it over the back of a chair. His face looked tired and irritated. Alla knew that expression. It appeared every time he had to choose between his mother and his wife.
“You’re exaggerating. Mom is just an active woman. She needs attention.”
“Active,” Alla repeated with a bitter smile. “You know how much I love that word. Active. Your mother is so active that she controls your every step. Where we go on vacation, what car we buy, what school we send the children to — children we don’t even have yet. And now she’s controlling my salary too.”
“You’re talking about my mother!” Kirill raised his voice. “She raised me alone, worked two jobs so I could get an education. And now, when I can help her, you’re throwing tantrums?”
“I’m throwing tantrums?”
Alla felt her cheeks grow hot. Her hands clenched into fists on their own. She walked over to the table and sat down because her legs had suddenly gone weak.
“Kiryush, my dear,” she began quietly — too quietly. “Let’s take this step by step. Your mother wanted a bathhouse. Fine, let there be a bathhouse. But why are we building it? Why with our money?”
“Because I’m her son. Isn’t that natural?”
“What would have been natural was asking your wife. Discussing it. Calculating whether we could afford it. Not presenting me with a fact: hand over your salary to my mother.”
Kirill paced around the kitchen and stopped by the window. His back was tense, his shoulders raised.
“I earn good money. We’ll have enough. You can endure it for a couple of months.”
“And asking me?” Alla stood up and walked toward him. “I work too. Every day I travel across the entire city to that office, sit there for eight hours, prepare reports no one reads. And my money is mine, do you understand? I have the right to decide where to spend it.”
“Decide, then. But Mom is waiting.”
That phrase. That short, ordinary phrase exploded in Alla’s head like fireworks made of anger.
“Mom is waiting!” she shouted. “And what about me? Am I not waiting too? I’m waiting for you to finally talk to your mother like a grown man. To explain that you have a family. That we make decisions together. Not like this: Mom said, Mom decided, Mom got offended!”
“Don’t yell at me,” Kirill turned around, and something like fear flashed in his eyes. “I’m just asking you to help. Is that so difficult?”
Alla took a step back. Sat down on the chair again. Placed her hands on the tabletop, staring at her fingers. Short nails, no manicure. There was never enough time.
“Do you know the difference between a request and a demand?” she asked wearily. “A request can be refused. A demand doesn’t tolerate refusal.”
Kirill stood in the middle of the kitchen, and Alla could see irritation and confusion battling inside him. He was used to her giving in. She had always given in. When his mother rearranged the furniture in their apartment because “that’s better according to feng shui.” When she criticized Alla’s soup, even though Kirill ate it by the bowlful. When she hinted that it was time for a baby crib to appear in their bedroom.
“Alla, please understand. Mom is lonely. Her friends come over, and she doesn’t even have a bathhouse. She’s embarrassed.”
“Embarrassed,” Alla echoed. “Your mother, who last month told the neighbor right in front of me that I iron your shirts badly, is embarrassed because she doesn’t have a bathhouse?”
“You’re exaggerating again.”
“I’m stating facts.”
They looked at each other across the kitchen table, and suddenly Alla saw their future. This was how they would stand in a year, in five years, in ten. She would explain, ask, beg him to hear her. And he would shift the blame, defend his mother, demand understanding. And at some point, she would simply get tired. She would fall silent. She would turn into a shadow who cooks borscht and transfers her salary wherever she is told.
“I’m not transferring any more money to your mother,” she said calmly.
“What?”
“You heard me. Not a single kopeck. If you want to build the bathhouse, build it. With your own money. If your mother wants a bathhouse, let her save up for it herself. But no one will touch my salary anymore.”
Kirill’s face turned crimson.
“You’re selfish. I always knew it, but now you’ve outdone yourself.”
“Selfish?” Alla stood up, and her voice rang with fury. “I’m selfish? I, who have endured your mother’s instructions for three years? I, who listen to her lectures on how to live properly? I, who skipped meetings with friends because ‘Mom asked for help with repairs at the dacha’?”
“She’s alone!”
“And am I many people?” Alla stepped toward him. “I have a mother too. But for some reason, I know how to keep boundaries. I don’t drag you to her house every weekend. I don’t force you to transfer money to her for her whims.”
“A bathhouse is not a whim!”
“A bathhouse is the third building on that dacha in the last two years!” Alla shouted. “First there was the shed, which was urgently needed. Then the veranda, because ‘how can we live without a veranda?’ Now the bathhouse. What’s next, Kirill? A swimming pool? A golf course?”
He said nothing, his jaw clenched. Alla could see the muscles moving beneath his skin.
“My mother deserves respect,” he finally said through his teeth.
“She does,” Alla agreed. “But respect is not money. It’s not control. It’s not manipulation. Your mother twists you around her finger, and you don’t even notice.”
“Shut up!”
Kirill slammed his palm against the table. The stew on the stove continued to bubble, indifferent to the family drama.
“Don’t you dare talk about my mother like that. She’s a saint. She devoted her entire life to me. And if I want to do something nice for her, to build her a bathhouse, that is my right.”
“Your right,” Alla nodded. “With your money. Mine will remain mine.”
“We’re a family! We have a shared budget!”
“A shared budget is when we both decide where the money goes. Not when you spend however you want and then demand that I hand everything over to my mother-in-law.”
Kirill grabbed the jacket he had thrown over the chair when he came home from work.
“I’m going to Mom’s. It’s impossible to stay here.”
“Go,” Alla said tiredly. “Maybe while you’re there, you can explain to her that no one will be financing her bathhouse anymore.”
He slammed the door so hard the glass in the cabinet rattled. Alla was left alone in the kitchen. She walked to the stove and turned off the gas. No one wanted to eat anyway.
She sat down on the sofa in the living room and buried her face in a pillow. She wanted to cry, but the tears were stuck somewhere in her throat, a painful lump. She thought about when exactly everything had gone wrong. Maybe from the very beginning? Back at the wedding, when her mother-in-law declared that Alla’s dress was too revealing. Or when they were looking for an apartment, and she insisted they choose this exact district, closer to her house.
Her phone vibrated. A message from Kirill: “Mom is in tears. Are you happy now?”
Alla threw the phone to the other end of the sofa. Happy. She would have laughed if she could. Happy that her family life had turned into an endless tug-of-war between her and her mother-in-law. Happy that her husband saw her as an enemy, not an ally.
Two hours passed. Kirill returned.
“I talked to Mom,” he said, sitting in the armchair opposite her. “She’s upset. But she’s willing to be understanding. The workers can be paid in four installments instead of two. If you transfer money just one more time, they’ll finish the bathhouse, and the rest can be paid later.”
Alla looked at him and wondered whether he could hear himself from the outside. Whether he understood that he had just returned from another mission assigned by his mother.
“Kirill,” she began, “I love you. But I’m tired. I’m tired of explaining the same thing over and over. I’m tired of being third in our family. Behind you and your mother.”
“You’re not third. You’re being dramatic.”
“Then answer one question. When was the last time you chose me? My interests, my wishes?”
He opened his mouth, closed it. Thought for a moment.
“I always take your opinion into account.”
“Taking something into account and choosing it are different things.”
They sat in silence. The clock on the wall ticked obnoxiously loudly.
“What are you suggesting?” Kirill finally asked.
“I’m suggesting that you talk to your mother. Explain that the bathhouse is her wish, which means it is also her responsibility. We can help, but within reasonable limits. And decisions about helping are made together. Not by you alone. Together.”
“She’ll be offended.”
“Let her,” Alla shrugged. “Offense passes. But the resentment building up inside me has a tendency to explode. Like it did today.”
Kirill stood up and walked around the room. He stopped by the window, exactly as he had done in the kitchen. His favorite thinking pose.
“All right,” he finally said. “But how do I explain it to her?”
“Honestly. Tell her we’re a young family. We need money ourselves. For the future, for children, for life. And the bathhouse can wait.”
“She’ll say I abandoned her.”
“She will. Standard manipulation. Don’t fall for it.”
He turned to her, and confusion flashed in his eyes.
“And what if she really thinks I’m abandoning her?”
Alla stood up and approached him. She placed her hands on his shoulders.
“Kiryush, love for your mother and love for your wife are not a competition. You can love us both. But relationships have to be healthy. And healthy boundaries mean understanding where care ends and dependence begins.”
He hugged her, awkwardly, tensely.
“I’ll try to talk to her.”
“Don’t try. Do it.”
The next few days were strange. Kirill called his mother and spoke with her for a long time behind a closed door. Alla heard fragments of phrases: “Mom, please understand,” “That’s not true,” “I love you, but…” A full stop was finally beginning to appear in their relationship.
On Saturday, he announced that he was going to the dacha. Alone.
“Why?” Alla asked.
“To finish the bathhouse. The workers say only small things are left. I can handle it myself. Fix the insulation, adjust the roof. I’ll help Mom, and I won’t bother you.”
Alla watched him pack tools into an old backpack and felt a strange mixture of relief and sadness. Relief because the boundary had finally been drawn. Sadness because it had taken so long to get there.
“Do you want me to come with you?” she offered.
“No,” Kirill shook his head. “This is my responsibility. I’ll do it myself.”
He left early in the morning. He returned late in the evening, dirty, exhausted, with splinters in his palms. Alla silently brought out iodine and tweezers and sat beside him.
“How did it go?” she asked, pulling out another splinter.
“Fine. Almost finished. One more day, and it’ll be ready.”
“And Mom?”
Kirill smirked.
“Mom sulked at first. Then she treated me to pies. Then she sulked again. By evening, she seemed to accept it. She said I had grown up and now made my own decisions.”
“Progress.”
“You could say that.”
He looked at Alla, and there was something new in his gaze. Understanding, perhaps. Or simply exhaustion from the fight.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I really didn’t notice. I thought that was how it was supposed to be. Mom is alone, after all. She tries so hard for me.”
“She does,” Alla agreed. “But she overdid it. And you allowed her to.”
“I won’t anymore.”
She smiled and placed a bandage over the last small wound.
“We’ll see.”
The bathhouse was finished by the end of the month. Her mother-in-law held a ceremonial opening and invited her friends. Kirill and Alla came for a couple of hours, drank tea, and listened to enthusiastic comments about what a wonderful building it had turned out to be.
“Thank you, children,” her mother-in-law said, hugging her son. “Especially you, Kiryusha. You did everything yourself, like a real man.”
Alla stood off to the side, holding a cup of cooling tea. Her mother-in-law didn’t even look in her direction. Old habits die slowly.
But Kirill pulled away from his mother’s embrace and reached his hand out to Alla.
“We did it together, Mom. It was our joint decision. And Alla supported me.”
His mother pressed her lips together but nodded.
“Of course. Thank you both.”
The words sounded strained, but they were spoken. And that was already worth something.
On the way home, Alla looked out the window at the city lights flashing past. Kirill drove silently, focused on the road.
“You know,” she said, “maybe it was worth building that bathhouse.”
“Why?”
“Because you finally saw the problem. You felt it in your own hands and back — what it means to carry everything yourself for the sake of someone else’s whims.”
He chuckled.
“The splinters were worth it?”
“Absolutely.”
They laughed, and the tension that had been building for weeks finally loosened its grip. There was still a lot of work ahead. Boundaries had to be protected constantly, reminded of, explained in all their length and breadth. Her mother-in-law was unlikely to quickly accept the new order of things. But the beginning had been made.
And sometimes, a beginning is all that is needed.
