“I won’t let you bully my wife! If you came over as a guest, then act like a guest,” he said, looking his mother straight in the eyes.
Anastasia was drying her hands with a kitchen towel when the doorbell rang. She glanced at the clock—three in the afternoon. Artyom would not be back until seven. So it was her mother-in-law again. For the fourth time that month, Polina Mikhailovna had come by on a weekday, when her son was not home.
The woman opened the door. Polina Mikhailovna stood on the threshold in a строгий gray coat, a handbag in her hands. Her face was unreadable, her gaze appraising.
“Hello, Polina Mikhailovna,” Anastasia said, stepping aside to let her mother-in-law in.
“Good afternoon,” the older woman replied dryly as she entered the apartment.
Polina Mikhailovna took off her coat, hung it on the rack, and walked into the living room. She stopped in the middle of the room, looking around. Her gaze caught on every detail—the couch cushions, the stack of magazines on the coffee table, the slightly ajar bedroom door.
“There’s dust on the shelf,” her mother-in-law stated, running a finger across the bookcase. “Anastasia, when was the last time you did a wet cleaning?”
“I did it yesterday morning,” the girl answered quietly, feeling her cheeks flush.
“Strange. It looks like it was a week ago,” Polina Mikhailovna said as she moved into the kitchen, continuing her inspection.
Anastasia followed her, clenching her hands into fists. It was becoming harder to breathe. Every visit turned into an exam she was doomed to fail.
“Please, sit down. I’ll make some tea,” the girl offered, turning on the kettle.
Polina Mikhailovna sat at the table and placed her bag on the chair beside her. She kept looking around the kitchen with a critical eye.
“The stove is dirty. See? Right here, near the burner, there’s grease left.”
Anastasia stepped closer and looked. Indeed, there was a tiny spot. Completely unnoticeable unless you were specifically looking for it.
“I’ll wipe it now,” the girl muttered, grabbing a sponge.
“You should have wiped it right after cooking,” her mother-in-law continued in a lecturing tone. “Later it’s much harder to clean. That’s how I taught Artyom—to clean up after himself right away.”
Anastasia silently scrubbed the stove. Her hands were trembling. She wanted to object, to say something in her defense, but her tongue would not obey. Her upbringing would not allow her to be rude to her elders. And the fear of Artyom finding out held her back too.
The kettle boiled. The girl made tea and placed a cup, a sugar bowl, and some cookies on a small plate in front of her mother-in-law.
“Store-bought cookies?” Polina Mikhailovna raised an eyebrow. “Nastya, a wife should know how to bake herself. Artyom loves homemade pastries. I baked him a pie every Saturday.”
“I… I’m not very good at it yet,” Anastasia admitted, lowering her eyes. “But I’m learning.”
“You’ve been learning for a year now, ever since you got married. It’s time you learned,” her mother-in-law said, taking a sip of tea and grimacing. “Too weak. Are you being stingy with the tea leaves?”
“No, it’s just…” the girl faltered. “I’m sorry, I’ll make it stronger right now.”
“No need. I’ll finish it like this.”
Polina Mikhailovna kept drinking her tea, commenting on everything around her as she did. The curtains were hanging crooked. The flower on the windowsill had turned yellow, which meant it was being watered incorrectly. The refrigerator was humming loudly—probably because it had not been defrosted in a long time.
Anastasia stood by the sink, gripping the edge of the countertop. Inside, everything was tightening into a hard knot. She wanted to scream, throw her mother-in-law out, slam the door. But instead, the girl only nodded, agreed, apologized.
“And what are you making for dinner tonight?” Polina Mikhailovna asked, finishing her tea.
“I was thinking of baking chicken with potatoes.”
“Potatoes again? Artyom doesn’t like eating the same thing every day. You need to add more variety to the menu,” her mother-in-law said as she stood up, walked to the refrigerator, and opened it. “Just as I thought. Nothing but convenience foods. Nastya, a good wife should cook fresh, healthy meals. Not feed her husband frozen food.”
“I work until six. There isn’t always enough time,” the girl objected timidly.
“Nonsense. I worked full-time and always fed Artyom fresh food. I got up earlier and cooked. It’s a matter of being organized,” Polina Mikhailovna said, closing the refrigerator and looking at her daughter-in-law critically. “You feel too sorry for yourself. You need to try harder for your family.”
Anastasia lowered her head. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she blinked them back. Don’t cry. Not in front of her mother-in-law.
“All right, Polina Mikhailovna. I’ll try harder,” Anastasia whispered.
Her mother-in-law stayed another half hour. She walked around the apartment, pointing out flaws. Then she got dressed and left without saying goodbye. Anastasia closed the door behind her.
She went into the living room and sat down on the couch, hugging her knees, until she heard the key in the lock. She jumped up, wiped her eyes, and hurried to the kitchen. Artyom must not see her like this.
“Hi, sunshine!” her husband came in with bags of groceries, set them on the table, and hugged his wife. “How was your day?”
“Fine. Just a little tired,” Anastasia said, pressing herself against Artyom, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne.
“You look kind of pale. Are you getting sick?” her husband asked, looking at her with concern.
“No, no. Just a lot of work.”
Artyom stroked her head and kissed her.
“Go get some rest. I’ll make dinner.”
Anastasia nodded and went to the bedroom. She lay down on the bed and closed her eyes. Inside there was emptiness mixed with heaviness. After every visit from Polina Mikhailovna, it got worse. The girl felt worthless, incapable, unworthy of Artyom.
Two weeks passed. Polina Mikhailovna came again. And again. Always on weekdays, always during the day. Artyom left for work at nine and returned at seven. Her mother-in-law appeared around three and stayed for about an hour and a half. That was enough for Anastasia to feel completely drained.
The criticism became harsher and harsher. Polina Mikhailovna no longer hid her dissatisfaction with her daughter-in-law. She said outright that Anastasia was a bad housekeeper, that she could not cook, that she did not take care of the home. The girl listened in silence, without arguing. She was afraid of conflict. Afraid that Artyom would take his mother’s side.
Her husband began to notice the changes. Anastasia had grown pale, and dark circles had appeared under her eyes. She slept badly, woke up in the middle of the night, and sat in the kitchen staring out the window. She had almost completely lost her appetite.
“Nastya, what’s wrong with you?” Artyom asked one evening, hugging his wife. “You’ve completely changed. Tell me what happened.”
“Nothing happened. I’m just tired from work,” the girl repeated her well-rehearsed phrase.
“Maybe you should go see a doctor? Get checked out?… Continued a little lower in the first comment.”
Anastasia was drying her hands with a kitchen towel when the doorbell rang. She glanced at the clock—three in the afternoon. Artyom would not be back until seven. So it was her mother-in-law again. For the fourth time that month, Polina Mikhailovna had come on a weekday, precisely when her son was not at home.
The woman opened the door. Polina Mikhailovna stood on the threshold in a strict gray coat, a handbag in her hands. Her face was unreadable, her gaze assessing.
“Good afternoon, Polina Mikhailovna,” Anastasia said, stepping aside to let her mother-in-law in.
“Good afternoon,” the older woman replied dryly as she entered the apartment.
Polina Mikhailovna took off her coat, hung it on the rack, and walked into the living room. She stopped in the middle of the room, looking around. Her gaze caught every detail—the couch cushions, the stack of magazines on the table, the slightly open bedroom door.
“There’s dust on the shelf,” her mother-in-law remarked, running a finger along the bookcase. “Anastasia, when was the last time you did a wet cleaning?”
“I did it yesterday morning,” the girl answered quietly, feeling her cheeks flush.
“Strange. It looks like it was a week ago,” Polina Mikhailovna said as she moved into the kitchen, continuing her inspection.
Anastasia followed her, clenching her hands into fists. Breathing was getting harder. Every visit turned into an exam she was doomed to fail from the start.
“Please, sit down. I’ll make some tea,” the girl offered, switching on the kettle.
Polina Mikhailovna sat at the table and placed her bag on the chair beside her. She continued examining the kitchen with a critical eye.
“The stove is dirty. See? Right here by the burner, there’s grease left.”
Anastasia stepped closer and looked. Indeed, there was a tiny spot. Almost invisible unless someone was looking for it on purpose.
“I’ll wipe it now,” the girl muttered, grabbing a sponge.
“You should have wiped it right after cooking,” her mother-in-law continued in a lecturing tone. “Afterward it’s much harder to scrub off. That’s how I taught Artyom—clean up after yourself right away.”
Anastasia silently scrubbed the stove. Her hands were shaking. She wanted to object, to say something in her defense, but her tongue would not obey. Her upbringing would not allow her to be rude to her elders. And fear of Artyom finding out held her back too.
The kettle boiled. The girl made tea and set a cup, sugar bowl, and cookies on a saucer in front of her mother-in-law.
“Store-bought cookies?” Polina Mikhailovna raised an eyebrow. “Nastya, a wife should know how to bake herself. Artyom likes homemade pastries. I baked him a pie every Saturday.”
“I… I’m not very good at it yet,” Anastasia admitted, lowering her eyes. “But I’m learning.”
“You’ve been learning for a year already, ever since you got married. It’s time you learned,” her mother-in-law said, taking a sip of tea and grimacing. “Too weak. Are you being stingy with the tea leaves?”
“No, it’s just…” the girl faltered. “Sorry, I’ll make it stronger now.”
“No need. I’ll finish this.”
Polina Mikhailovna kept drinking her tea while commenting on everything around her. The curtains were hanging crooked. The flower on the windowsill had yellowed, meaning it was being watered incorrectly. The refrigerator was humming too loudly—probably because it had not been defrosted in a long time.
Anastasia stood by the sink, gripping the edge of the countertop. Inside, everything was tightening into a hard knot. She wanted to scream, to throw her mother-in-law out, to slam the door. But instead, the girl only nodded, agreed, and apologized.
“And what are you making for dinner tonight?” Polina Mikhailovna asked, finishing her tea.
“I was thinking of baking chicken with potatoes.”
“Potatoes again? Artyom doesn’t like eating the same thing every day. You need to add more variety to your menu,” her mother-in-law said as she stood up, walked to the refrigerator, and opened it. “Just as I thought. Nothing but frozen convenience foods. Nastya, a good wife should cook fresh, healthy meals, not feed her husband frozen food.”
“I work until six. There isn’t always enough time,” the girl objected timidly.
“Nonsense. I worked full-time too, and I always fed Artyom fresh meals. I got up earlier and cooked. It’s a matter of being organized,” Polina Mikhailovna said, closing the refrigerator and looking at her daughter-in-law appraisingly. “You feel too sorry for yourself. You need to try harder for your family.”
Anastasia lowered her head. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she blinked them back. Don’t cry. Just not in front of her mother-in-law.
“All right, Polina Mikhailovna. I’ll try harder,” Anastasia whispered.
Her mother-in-law stayed another half hour. She walked through the apartment, pointing out flaws. Then she got dressed and left without saying goodbye. Anastasia closed the door behind her.
She went into the living room and sat on the couch, hugging her knees, until she heard the key turn in the lock. She jumped up, wiped her eyes, and ran into the kitchen. Artyom must not see her like this.
“Hi, sunshine!” her husband came in carrying grocery bags, set them on the table, and hugged his wife. “How was your day?”
“Fine. Just a little tired,” Anastasia pressed herself against Artyom, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne.
“You look pale. Are you getting sick?” her husband asked, looking at her with concern.
“No, no. Just a lot of work.”
Artyom stroked her head and kissed her.
“Go rest. I’ll make dinner.”
Anastasia nodded and went to the bedroom. She lay down on the bed and closed her eyes. Inside there was emptiness mixed with heaviness. After every visit from Polina Mikhailovna, it got worse. The girl felt worthless, incapable, unworthy of Artyom.
Two weeks passed. Polina Mikhailovna came again. And again. Always on weekdays, always during the day. Artyom left for work at nine and came back at seven. His mother would appear around three and stay for about an hour and a half. That was enough for Anastasia to feel completely drained.
The criticism was becoming harsher. Polina Mikhailovna no longer hid her dissatisfaction with her daughter-in-law. She said directly that Anastasia was a bad housekeeper, couldn’t cook, and didn’t take care of the home. The girl listened silently, not arguing. She was afraid of conflict. Afraid that Artyom would take his mother’s side.
Her husband began to notice the changes. Anastasia had grown pale, dark circles had appeared under her eyes. She slept badly, woke up in the middle of the night, and sat in the kitchen staring out the window. Her appetite had almost completely disappeared.
“Nastya, what’s wrong with you?” Artyom asked one evening, hugging his wife. “You’ve become completely different. Tell me what happened.”
“Nothing happened. I’m just tired from work,” the girl repeated her rehearsed phrase.
“Maybe you should go to a doctor? Get checked out?”
“No need. Everything’s fine, really.”
Artyom did not insist, but the worry in his eyes did not disappear. Anastasia saw it and felt guilty for lying. But she could not tell him. How could she explain that his mother was making her life unbearable? Artyom loved Polina Mikhailovna so much. He was so grateful to her for raising him. He would not believe her. Or worse—he would accuse his wife of disrespecting her elders.
One Wednesday, when Anastasia was returning from work, Polina Mikhailovna was standing by the entrance to the building. Her mother-in-law was waiting, leaning on a cane, although before she had managed without one.
“Hello,” the girl exhaled, feeling her heart sink.
“Hello, Nastya. Open the door, let’s go upstairs,” her mother-in-law said more gently than usual, almost affectionately.
That alarmed her even more. Polina Mikhailovna had never been affectionate with her daughter-in-law. Something had changed.
They went up to the apartment. Anastasia made tea and set it in front of her mother-in-law. Her hands were shaking so badly that the cup clinked against the saucer.
“Nervous?” Polina Mikhailovna asked, looking at the girl attentively.
“No, just tired,” Anastasia said, sitting down opposite her with her hands folded in her lap.
“Tired. Of course. From work,” her mother-in-law said, taking a sip of tea and setting the cup down. “Nastya, I want to talk to you seriously.”
The girl froze. Here it was. Something new was about to begin—something even worse.
“I can see that you’re not coping with the role of a wife,” Polina Mikhailovna began slowly, choosing her words. “The house is neglected, you cook badly, Artyom looks uncared for. I understand that you’re young and inexperienced. But that is no excuse.”
Anastasia sat staring at the floor. It was hard to breathe. Her mother-in-law’s words hit like fists.
“You need to try harder. You need to be better. Otherwise Artyom will realize he made a mistake in choosing you,” Polina Mikhailovna continued in the same calm tone. “Men do not like it when their wives disappoint them.”
“I’m trying,” the girl whispered, squeezing her hands together. “I really am trying.”
“Not enough. Look at yourself. Your hair isn’t styled, your face looks tired, your clothes are wrinkled. Do you think Artyom wants to see a wife like that at home?”
Anastasia lifted her head and looked at her mother-in-law. Polina Mikhailovna’s eyes were cold, hard. No sympathy, no warmth.
“I work all day. Then I do everything at home. I wash, iron, cook, clean. I don’t have any time left for myself,” the girl’s voice trembled, but the words finally burst out.
“You find time when you want to. I worked and still managed everything. You’re just lazy,” her mother-in-law snapped. “And you complain to Artyom that you’re tired. A man should not have to hear women’s complaints. He works and brings in money. Your task is to create comfort for him.”
“But I bring in money too!” Anastasia felt something hot boiling inside her. “I earn money too!”
“You earn pennies. Artyom brings in the main income,” Polina Mikhailovna waved her hand dismissively. “Don’t argue with me, girl. I know how things should be. I raised my son without a husband. I know what a man needs.”
Anastasia opened her mouth to respond, but her mother-in-law did not let her.
“You are not worthy of my son. I saw that from the very first day. But Artyom fell in love and didn’t listen to me. Now I’m trying to turn you into a decent wife. And you resist, sulk, and refuse to listen to advice.”
The girl jumped up and backed toward the wall. Her heart was pounding in her throat. Her hands were shaking.
“I… I’m not resisting. I do everything you tell me!” her voice broke into a cry.
“You do it badly. Half-heartedly. Without soul, without desire,” Polina Mikhailovna said, getting up and walking toward her daughter-in-law. “Anastasia, you are a disappointment. To me, and soon to Artyom too.”
Tears streamed down Anastasia’s face. She covered her face with her hands and turned toward the wall. Her shoulders shook with sobs. She no longer had the strength to endure it. No longer had the strength to stay silent.
“Why… why are you doing this to me?” the girl sobbed through her tears. “What have I done to you?”
“You took my son away from me,” her mother-in-law answered coldly. “And you failed to live up to expectations.”
At that moment, the lock clicked in the hallway. Footsteps. Artyom walked into the living room and froze in the doorway. His face instantly hardened when he saw his crying wife by the wall and his mother standing next to her.
“What is going on here?” his voice was quiet, but very firm.
Polina Mikhailovna turned to her son and smiled her usual warm smile.
“My son! You’re home early today. Nastya and I were just talking. Heart to heart.”
“Why is my wife crying?” Artyom walked over to Anastasia and put an arm around her shoulders. “Nastya, what happened?”
The girl could not speak. She only shook her head, sobbing. Artyom pulled his wife close and stroked her hair. Then he turned to his mother.
“Mom, what did you say to her?”
“Nothing special. I was just explaining how to run a household properly. The girl is sensitive, so she burst into tears,” Polina Mikhailovna shrugged. “Artyom, don’t make a mountain out of a molehill.”
“Anastasia does not cry for no reason,” her husband said, still looking seriously at his mother. “Tell me what happened. Everything, from the very beginning.”
“I already told you—we were talking. I give her advice, and she—”
“Mom, stop,” Artyom cut her off. “I know Nastya. She would not burst into tears over advice. You said something hurtful to her.”
Polina Mikhailovna straightened up and lifted her chin.
“I told her the truth. That she is a bad housekeeper. That the house is a mess. That you’re unhappy with her.”
Artyom froze. He looked at his mother in confusion.
“I’m unhappy? Where did you get that idea?”
“Well, she can’t cook, she doesn’t keep house properly. You can see that yourself,” his mother said, gesturing around the apartment.
“I see a clean apartment. I see a tired wife who works all day and then comes home and does everything around the house. I see you pressuring her,” Artyom’s voice grew harder with every word.
“I’m not pressuring her! I’m helping her!” Polina Mikhailovna protested.
“Nastya,” her husband turned to his wife and took her hand. “Does Mom come here often?”
Anastasia nodded without lifting her eyes.
“When I’m not at home?”
Another nod.
“And every time she criticizes you?”
“Yes,” the girl whispered. “Every time. She says I’m a bad wife. That I do everything wrong. That I’m not worthy of you.”
Artyom clenched his jaw. He turned to his mother. Polina Mikhailovna stood there with an impassive expression, but something like тревога flickered in her eyes.
“How long has this been going on?” the husband asked, looking his mother straight in the eyes.
“Artyom, I only—”
“How long?” he repeated more loudly.
“Three months,” Anastasia answered quietly. “Since March.”
Three months. Artyom ran a hand over his face and turned away. He was silent for a long time. Then he took a deep breath and looked at his mother.
“I will not let you pressure my wife,” he said slowly, stepping toward Polina Mikhailovna. “If you came here as a guest, then be a guest.”
“Artyom! I am your mother!” the woman took a step toward her son.
“Yes, my mother. But Nastya is my wife. The person I live with. The person I love. And I will not let anyone, even you, humiliate her,” Artyom’s voice was firm, unyielding.
“I’m not humiliating her! I’m teaching her how to be a good wife!”
“Nastya is already a good wife!” her husband raised his voice. “She works, keeps the house, takes care of me! What more do you want?!”
“But the house is a mess! And she cooks badly!” Polina Mikhailovna would not let up.
“The house is clean. The food is delicious. I’m happy with everything. You are inventing problems that do not exist,” Artyom crossed his arms over his chest. “Mom, I’m asking you to leave.”
“What?!” the woman’s eyes went wide. “You’re throwing your own mother out?”
“I’m asking you to leave and not come back until you change your attitude toward Nastya,” the husband repeated firmly.
Polina Mikhailovna shot a glance at her daughter-in-law, then at her son. Her face reddened, and her hands clenched into fists.
“You’re taking her side against me?!”
“I’m taking the side of what is right. Nastya has done nothing to you. She did not deserve this treatment,” Artyom stepped toward his mother and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Mom, I love you. But you crossed a line. Please leave.”
Polina Mikhailovna stood there, breathing heavily. Then she turned sharply, grabbed her bag, and walked to the door. On the threshold, she looked back.
“You’ll regret this, Artyom.”
“No, Mom. I won’t,” her husband answered calmly.
The door slammed shut. Silence covered the apartment. Anastasia stood by the wall, still unable to believe what had happened. Artyom came up to her, embraced her, and held her tightly.
“Forgive me,” he whispered. “Forgive me for not noticing sooner. Forgive me that you suffered for three months.”
“You… you defended me,” the girl wrapped her arms around her husband and buried her face in his chest.
“I will always defend you. You are my family. My main family,” Artyom pulled back, cupped his wife’s face, and looked into her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“I was afraid. I thought you wouldn’t believe me. Or that you’d get angry with me,” Anastasia wiped away her tears. “Polina Mikhailovna is your mother. I didn’t want to cause a fight between you.”
“Nastya, never stay silent about things like this. Never. I’m your husband. I’m on your side. Always,” Artyom kissed his wife. “Promise me you won’t endure something like that alone again.”
“I promise,” the girl whispered.
They stood there in each other’s arms for a long time. Anastasia felt the tension that had built up over months begin to leave her. Her shoulders relaxed, her breathing evened out. For the first time in a long while, peace appeared inside her.
That evening they sat in the kitchen drinking tea. Artyom held his wife’s hand, stroking her palm with his thumb.
“Tell me everything. What Mom said. How she behaved,” her husband asked.
Anastasia told him everything from the very beginning. About the visits, the criticism, the constant pressure. Artyom listened in silence, his face growing darker and darker.
“I can’t believe it,” he said when his wife had finished. “My mother… I thought she loved you.”
“Maybe she does. In her own way. She just wants me to be someone else,” Anastasia shrugged. “She wants me to be like her.”
“You do not have to be like her. You have to be yourself,” Artyom squeezed his wife’s hand. “I married you, not a copy of my mother.”
The girl smiled through her tears. For the first time in months, she felt needed, valued.
“I’ll call Mom tomorrow. We’ll have a serious talk,” Artyom said. “If she doesn’t apologize to you and change her attitude, then she’s not coming back.”
“Are you ready for that?” Anastasia looked at her husband anxiously. “She’s your mother.”
“You are my wife. My choice. The person I want to spend my life with,” Artyom lifted his wife’s hand to his lips and kissed it. “Mom has to accept that. Or keep her distance.”
A week passed. Polina Mikhailovna did not call or come by. Artyom called her three days after the argument. The conversation was short and harsh. His mother did not apologize and kept insisting she was right. Artyom told her that until she changed her position, she was not to come to their home.
Anastasia blossomed before his eyes. Color returned to her face, the circles under her eyes disappeared. The girl began smiling again, joking, making plans. The apartment filled with a lightness that had not been there for months.
A month later, Polina Mikhailovna called Artyom. She asked to meet. Her son agreed, but warned her that if the conversation turned to Anastasia, the meeting would be short.
They met at a café. Polina Mikhailovna looked tired, older. Artyom sat across from her, waiting.
“I want to apologize,” his mother began, not lifting her eyes. “To Nastya. To you. I was wrong.”
“Why did you do it?” her son asked. “Nastya never did anything to you.”
“I was afraid,” Polina Mikhailovna admitted. “Afraid I’d lose you. That you’d forget about me once you had a wife.”
“Mom, I can’t forget you. You’re my mother. But Nastya is my wife. You are both important to me,” Artyom leaned forward. “But if I have to choose, I will choose Nastya.”
Polina Mikhailovna nodded and brushed away a tear.
“I understand. I was a foolish old woman. I wanted to control your life. Forgive me.”
“You need to apologize to Nastya. Not to me.”
“I’m ready. If she’ll accept my apology,” his mother raised her eyes to her son.
Artyom called Anastasia and asked whether she would agree to meet with her mother-in-law. After some hesitation, the girl agreed.
The meeting took place the next day. At home, with Artyom present. Polina Mikhailovna brought flowers and a cake. She sat down opposite her daughter-in-law, folding her hands in her lap.
“Anastasia, forgive me. I behaved horribly. I said cruel things to you. You did not deserve such treatment,” her mother-in-law spoke quietly, but sincerely. “I was afraid of losing my son. I took that fear out on you. It was vile.”
Anastasia remained silent, studying her mother-in-law. Polina Mikhailovna looked different. Tired, guilty, almost lost.
“Thank you for the apology,” the girl said slowly. “It was very hard for me. You made those months unbearable.”
“I know. Forgive me,” her mother-in-law lowered her eyes. “I’m not asking you to forgive me immediately. Just… give me a chance to make it right.”
Anastasia looked at Artyom. Her husband nodded in support. The girl took a breath.
“All right. But from now on there will be boundaries. You come when we invite you. You do not criticize. You behave like a guest,” Anastasia said firmly.
“I agree. On any terms,” Polina Mikhailovna nodded.
From that day on, the relationship slowly began to improve. Carefully, cautiously. Her mother-in-law came once a week, by invitation. She no longer criticized, pressured, or lectured. They talked about simple things—work, plans, the weather.
Anastasia never became close friends with her mother-in-law. Too much pain had been caused. But she learned to be polite and patient. Polina Mikhailovna accepted the new rules and kept her distance.
And most importantly, Artyom proved that he stood by his wife. That for him, family meant, first of all, his spouse. His mother was important, but his wife came first. Anastasia no longer felt secondary. She felt loved, protected, valued.
And that was enough for happiness.
