“You Owe Me!” my mother-in-law said when I refused to pay off her loan
“You owe me,” declared Irina Fyodorovna, sipping my rare collectible oolong with a slurping sound like she was unclogging a kitchen drain. “You married my son, which means you took on both his assets and his liabilities. And I’m his main liability. I mean—bah, asset! Anyway, Marina, stop playing dumb and get your bank card out.”
I looked at my mother-in-law. In her eyes, thickly lined with something coal-black, was the determination of a bulldog spotting an unattended sausage. My husband Zhenya, sitting beside her, 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 sliding the cookie dish away from her before she annexed that too, “let’s clarify the legal details. At the registry office, I signed up for love and loyalty to Yevgeny, not to sponsor your financial pyramids.”
My mother-in-law froze with a gingerbread cookie halfway to her mouth. It was one of those moments when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object—or rather, when her brazen 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 folded with all the grace of a house of cards in the wind. Zhenya is a golden man—handy, smart, and kind—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 love numbers far more than hysterics.
But Irina Fyodorovna, having caught the scent of changing times, decided that since her son was temporarily “underwater,” the food source had shifted in my direction.
Before, she used to squeeze money out of Zhenya. Sometimes it was for an “urgent operation,” sometimes for replacing windows that somehow got changed more often than a teenager’s mood swings. Zhenya would sigh, but he always paid. “She’s my mother,” he would say. Now that the tap had run dry, Mother had come directly to the spring.
The first warning bell 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 picking up. Could you transfer five thousand?”
I transferred it. I didn’t want to worry my husband—he had an important test assignment that day.
The second warning bell was a full alarm 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.”
“I have money,” I smiled. “Zhenya is just on a temporary creative sabbatical.”
“Exactly!” She flopped into a chair. “You have money. And your husband’s mother has nothing but hypertension and an old sofa. Speaking of sofas—I’ve got my eye on a corner model, the Bergamo. With massage—oh, I mean, just a regular one. It’s only a hundred and fifty thousand. Will you take out an installment plan in your name? They’ll approve you. You have an honest face.”
That time I laughed it off and said my face was probably blacklisted by banks for being excessively beautiful. But Irina Fyodorovna did not understand humor. She went still, like a cobra hiding in dill weeds.
And today—today was the climax.
“You don’t understand!” Irina Fyodorovna pressed a hand dramatically to her chest, where ordinary people keep a heart and she keeps 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 important thing is, the flow didn’t open. My chakras must be blocked. But 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, folding my arms across my chest, “I have a counterproposal. You sell your summer cottage—the one where you cultivate nothing but weeds and guilt in your son—and use the money to pay off the debt.”
“The dacha?!” she shrieked. “That’s our ancestral nest! My grandfather once hid under a burdock leaf there to keep out of the rain! How dare you even say that? You heartless… cracker! Zhenya, say something to her!”
My mother-in-law turned to her son, expecting the usual support. She was used to Zhenya being soft as clay. But she had forgotten that even clay turns rock-hard in the cold. And the atmosphere in our kitchen was icy.
“Mom,” Zhenya said, his voice trembling at first, then growing firmer, “Marina’s right. We’re not paying for your ‘Goddess.’”
“What?” Her eyes fluttered, cheap mascara sprinkling from her lashes. “You’re betraying your mother for this… office rat?”
“This ‘rat’ feeds your son and pays for this apartment,” I replied calmly. “And by the way, rats are very intelligent animals. Unlike you, they don’t walk into the same trap twice.”
Irina Fyodorovna sprang to her feet. The chair screeched back loudly.
She stormed into the hallway, slamming the door so hard that my hat fell off the rack.
“I’m sorry,” Zhenya said, starting to gather the shards of the cup his mother had swept off the table in a fit of passion.
“It’s fine.” I hugged him. “It was actually kind of entertaining. Like a circus, only 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 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 in a cauldron. That helped.
That evening, I went to her place. The door was unlocked. The apartment smelled of valerian drops and old rags. My mother-in-law lay on the sofa with a wet towel on her forehead, playing the role of a dying swan shot down just as its career was taking off.
“I’m dying,” she announced in a sepulchral voice, opening one eye. “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 said, jerking upright and 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 huge difference,” I said, taking out my phone. “That’s Article 327 of the Criminal Code of the Russian Federation. Forgery of documents. Up to two years in prison. They say they serve pasta for free there, so at least food won’t be a problem.”
She went so pale she practically blended into the wallpaper.
“You… you’d send your husband’s mother to prison?”
“I wouldn’t,” I said. “But the bank would be delighted to. Still, I can withdraw the complaint—if we come to an agreement.”
My mother-in-law narrowed her eyes. In her brain, finely 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. A gift deed. Tomorrow. So the collectors can’t take it. Then we’ll sell it and pay off your loan. Whatever remains is yours to live on.”
“No way!” she screeched. “That’s blackmail!”
“That,” I corrected her, “is crisis management. Either the dacha or prison bars. The choice is like in a cafeteria: mashed potatoes or pasta, but you’ll have to eat something.”
She tried to argue. She cried. She even tried to faint, but I promptly told her I’d dump a bucket of cold water on her, and she decided against collapsing in order not to ruin the laminate floor.
In the end, common sense—or fear of a state institution—won.
A week later, we were finalizing the sale. The dacha, that monument to neglect, sold surprisingly fast. The money was enough to pay off her “Goddess of Abundance” loan, and there was even some left over.
But the ending of this story came at a family dinner, which Irina Fyodorovna insisted on hosting in honor of our “reconciliation.” She had clearly planned a rematch…
“You have to,” declared Irina Fyodorovna, taking a loud slurp of my rare oolong as if she were unclogging a sink drain. “You married my son, which means you took on both his assets and his liabilities. And I am his main liability. I mean, damn it, asset! Anyway, Marina, stop playing dumb and get out your card.”
I looked at my mother-in-law. In her eyes, heavily lined with something coal-black, there was the determination of a bulldog spotting an unattended sausage. My husband Zhenya, sitting beside her, had pulled his head so deep into his shoulders that he looked like a frightened turtle in a chunky knit sweater.
“Irina Fyodorovna,” I said, carefully sliding the cookie dish 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 sponsorship of your financial pyramids.”
My mother-in-law froze with a gingerbread cookie halfway to her mouth. It was exactly that moment when the unstoppable force met the immovable object—or rather, when her nerve 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 folded with all the grace of a house of cards in the wind. Zhenya is a golden man—handy, intelligent, but with a delicate emotional makeup. While he was sending out résumés and going to interviews, I calmly covered our family budget. I work as a financial analyst, and I love numbers more than hysterics.
But Irina Fyodorovna, having caught the scent of change, decided that since her son had temporarily “sagged,” the feeding ground had shifted in my direction.
Before that, she used to draw money out of Zhenya. Sometimes for an “urgent surgery,” sometimes for replacing windows—which got replaced more often than a teenager’s mood. Zhenya would sigh, but he always paid. “She’s my mother,” he would say. Now the tap had been turned off, and Mother had come straight to the source.
The first warning bell 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. Transfer me five thousand, will you?”
I transferred it. I didn’t want to disturb my husband—he had an important test assignment right then.
The second warning bell was a full alarm. She came over 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 smiled. “And Zhenya is temporarily on a creative sabbatical.”
“Exactly!” she plopped down on a chair. “You have money. And your husband’s mother has nothing but hypertension and an old sofa. Speaking of sofas—I’ve found a corner one, the Bergamo. With massage… oh, I mean, just with massage. Only one hundred and fifty thousand. Will you take out an installment plan in your name? You’ll get approved. You’ve got an honest face.”
Back then I laughed it off, saying my face was blacklisted by banks for excessive beauty. But Irina Fyodorovna didn’t understand humor. She went quiet, like a cobra hiding in 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. “Collectors are calling! I took out a loan. A small one.”
“What for?” Zhenya asked quietly.
“For the course Goddess of Abundance: How to Open Your Money Flow,” she blurted out. “It’s an investment!”
I choked on my tea. Zhenya covered his face with his hands.
“Mom,” he groaned. “You borrowed 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. And the payment is due tomorrow. Marina, you’ve got money sitting in a deposit account. I know, Zhenya told me. Pay off my loan, and then later I’ll… from my pension…”
“Irina Fyodorovna,” I said, folding my arms across my chest, “I have a counterproposal. You sell your dacha—the one 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 used to shelter under a burdock leaf there when it rained! How could your tongue even say that? You heartless… dry stick! Zhenya, say something to her!”
My mother-in-law turned to her son, expecting the usual support. She was used to Zhenya being soft as clay. But she had forgotten that even clay turns hard as stone in the cold. And the atmosphere in the kitchen was icy.
“Mom,” Zhenya said, his voice trembling at first, then growing steadier, “Marina is right. We are not paying for your ‘Goddess.’”
“What?” She blinked, and cheap mascara started crumbling off 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 traps twice.”
Irina Fyodorovna shot to her feet. The chair scraped loudly backward.
She stormed into the hallway, slamming the door so hard that my hat fell off the coat rack.
“Sorry,” Zhenya said, starting to gather up the shards of the cup his mother had swept off the table in a burst of passion.
“It’s nothing,” I said, hugging him. “Honestly, it was kind of fun. Like the circus, except the clown was evil and didn’t have makeup on.”
We thought that was the end of it.
Naive.
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 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 pictured Irina Fyodorovna in a giant shrimp costume being boiled in a cauldron. That helped.
That evening I went to her place. The door wasn’t locked. 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, impersonating a dying swan shot down at the height of its career.
“I’m dying,” she announced in a sepulchral voice, cracking one eye open. “My blood pressure is two hundred over zero. My heart is pounding like a jackhammer. This is all your doing.”
“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 sat up briskly, instantly 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 squiggle it is?”
“A big difference,” I said, pulling out my phone. “That’s Article 327 of the Criminal Code of the Russian Federation. Document forgery. Up to two years in prison. They say they give you pasta for free there, so food won’t be a problem.”
She turned so pale she almost blended into the wallpaper.
“You… you would put your husband’s mother in prison?”
“I wouldn’t,” I said. “But the bank would gladly do it. Still, I can withdraw the complaint—if we come to an agreement.”
She narrowed her eyes. In her brain, finely 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. A deed of gift. Tomorrow. So the collectors can’t seize it. Then we’ll sell it and pay off your loan. Whatever is left over, you keep for living expenses.”
“No way!” she shrieked. “That’s blackmail!”
“That,” I corrected, “is crisis management. Either the dacha or prison bars. It’s like in a cafeteria: mashed potatoes or pasta, but either way you’ll have to eat.”
She tried to argue. She cried. She even tried to faint, but I promptly told her I’d dump a bucket of cold water on her, and she decided not to collapse after all—didn’t want to ruin the laminate. In the end, common sense—or fear of state housing—won.
A week later we were signing the sale. 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 of the story happened at a family dinner, which Irina Fyodorovna insisted on hosting in honor of our “reconciliation.” She had clearly planned a comeback.
The table was groaning under salads in which there was more mayonnaise than vegetables. My mother-in-law sat at the head of it.
“Well then, children,” she began in a pleasant voice, raising a glass of fruit liqueur, “all’s well that ends well. Marina, of course, acted cruelly by depriving me of my mother-earth, 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 this filth. Marina, you’ll pay for it, won’t you? As a sign of apology.”
Zhenya nearly choked on the Olivier salad. I slowly set down my fork.
“Irina Fyodorovna,” I said with the most predatory smile I had, “did you know that silver ions in large quantities cause argyria? Your skin turns blue. It would really suit you—you’d be like an Avatar, only retired.”
“You’re being sarcastic 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 a hand, nearly knocking over the salad bowl. “You’re obliged to take care of us. Maybe I have 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 turned crimson.
“How dare you! Did she teach you that? Henpecked coward! I did everything for you! I wanted us to live richly! And you…”
And then she decided to go all in.
“If you don’t give me money for the filters right now, I… I’ll move in with you! I’ll rent out my apartment and live with you in the living room! Every day I’ll teach you, Marina, how to cook borscht!”
Silence fell.
The threat was terrifying, like nuclear winter. Living with Irina Fyodorovna would be like voluntarily locking yourself in a cage with a hungry raccoon suffering from bipolar disorder.
I looked at Zhenya. He smiled. Broadly, calmly, confidently.
“Mom,” he said, pulling a folded sheet of paper out of his pocket, “I found a job. They sent me the offer today. Lead project engineer. Salary—you couldn’t even dream of it.”
My mother-in-law’s eyes lit up like two anti-aircraft searchlights.
“My son!” she cried, instantly switching from fury to affection. “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 interrupted. “We’re not buying anything. I discussed it with Marina. We’re taking out a mortgage on a bigger apartment. And until then, we’ll be living in strict economy mode.”
“What?” She froze.
“Exactly that. And by the way, we decided that since you’re so into esoterics and energies, material goods only harm you. Money is low vibration, Mom. We don’t want to damage your karma.”
“What?!” she choked with indignation. “What vibrations? Give me money!”
“Can’t,” Zhenya said, spreading his hands. “Marina is my financial director. All questions go to her.”
Irina Fyodorovna turned to me. Her face looked like a crumpled five-thousand-ruble note rejected by an ATM.
“You…” she hissed.
“And I,” I interrupted her, finishing my fruit drink, “invest only in promising projects. And you, Mother, are a toxic asset. The risks are too high and the return is zero.”
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 doesn’t ask for money anymore. Apparently, she finally understood that the Son and Daughter-in-Law Bank has revoked her license.
And recently I found out she got a job as a concierge. She tells everyone it’s for the “social interaction,” but we know the truth. Now she gets to control 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.
