“Be more frugal,” my mother-in-law demanded. I listened — and saved money on her gift…
“Vika, dear, are you spreading butter on your bread again as if we lived in the Emirates? It should be thinner, almost transparent! Your conscience should show through the layer of butter,” Lidiya Sergeyevna rustled in my ear just as I lifted the knife over the loaf.
I froze. The usual lava was already boiling inside me, but I kept my face steady. It was Saturday morning, and my mother-in-law, following her long-standing tradition, had come over to “help.” Her help consisted of finding dust where there was none, rearranging my face creams in the bathroom by height, from the smallest tube to the tallest, and, of course, auditing the refrigerator.
“Lidiya Sergeyevna,” I smiled with the exact smile usually reserved for tax inspectors, “that’s not butter, it’s discount margarine. I bought it especially for you so you wouldn’t get nervous. Just kidding. It’s farm butter, and I spread it thick enough so my husband — your son — doesn’t glow from hunger on an X-ray.”
Maksim, who was sitting across from us devouring his scrambled eggs, looked up and broke into a grin.
“Mom, why are you starting again? My Vikulya is a wonderful housewife — her cooking is finger-licking good! And the butter… let her eat it with a spoon if she wants, I don’t begrudge her anything!”
He kissed the hand holding my sandwich. Lidiya Sergeyevna twisted her face as if she had bitten into a lemon peel, but instantly pulled her benevolent mask back into place.
“Maksim, my son, I only want what’s best!” she sang sweetly, fixing her hair. “Times are hard now, every penny counts. Vika is young, inexperienced, wasteful… and I’m teaching her.”
The moment Maksim stepped into the hallway to get his phone, the “saintly mother” mask slipped, revealing the predatory grin of an amateur accountant.
“You, dear, don’t listen to your husband,” she hissed, leaning in close. “He’s generous, just like his father was — God rest his soul — a fool. But if you want to stay in this family, learn to save. Hear me? On everything! Otherwise I’ll quickly open his eyes to whose neck you’re sitting on with your trash-heap rags.”
I work in a secondhand luxury clothing store. I have an expert eye for brands, and I can tell vintage Dior from a cheap Chinese fake. But to Lidiya Sergeyevna, my job was a permanent stain — proof that I was a “trash picker.”
“Lidiya Sergeyevna,” I carefully moved her cup aside, “you’re discussing economics right now with the confidence of someone who thinks Bitcoin is the last name of the finance minister.”
To be continued in the comments.
“Vika, dear, are you spreading butter on your bread again as if we live in the Emirates? It needs to be thinner, more transparent! Your conscience should be visible through the layer of butter,” Lidiya Sergeyevna hissed into my ear just as I lifted the knife over the loaf.
I froze. Inside, the usual lava was already starting to boil, but I kept my face composed. It was Saturday morning, and my mother-in-law had arrived, as was her long-standing tradition, to “help.” Her help consisted of finding dust where there was none, rearranging my bathroom creams by height (from the smallest tube to the biggest), and, of course, auditing the refrigerator.
“Lidiya Sergeyevna,” I said with the same smile people usually reserve for tax inspectors, “that’s not butter, it’s discount margarine. I bought it especially for you so you wouldn’t get upset. I’m kidding. It’s farm butter, and I spread it thick enough so that my husband — your son — doesn’t glow from hunger on an X-ray.”
Maxim, who was sitting across from me devouring scrambled eggs, looked up and broke into a grin.
“Mom, why are you starting again? My Vikulya is a wonderful homemaker — her cooking is finger-licking good! And the butter… let her eat it with a spoon if she wants, I don’t begrudge her anything!”
He kissed the hand that was holding my sandwich. Lidiya Sergeyevna grimaced as if she had bitten into a lemon peel. But at once she pulled her mask of benevolence back on.
“Maximushka, son, I only want what’s best!” she sang in the sweetest voice, adjusting her hair. “Times are hard now, every kopeck counts. Vika is young, inexperienced, wasteful… and I’m teaching her.”
As soon as Maxim stepped into the hallway to get his phone, the “saintly mother” mask slipped off, revealing the predatory sneer of an amateur accountant.
“You, dear, don’t listen to your husband,” she hissed, leaning in close. “He’s generous, just like his father — God rest his soul, he was a fool too. But if you want to keep your place in this family, learn to save. Hear me? On everything! Otherwise I’ll quickly open his eyes to whose neck you’re hanging off with all your garbage-bin rags.”
I work in a secondhand shop that sells luxury clothing. I have an expert eye for brands, and I know how to tell vintage Dior from a Chinese fake. But to Lidiya Sergeyevna, my job was a badge of shame — “trash picker.”
“Lidiya Sergeyevna,” I said, carefully moving her cup aside, “you speak about economics with the confidence of someone who thinks Bitcoin is the surname of the finance minister.”
“What?” She practically choked on air.
“I’m saying that my salary lets me spread butter on both sides of the bread. And if you keep getting this worked up, your blood pressure will spike, and medicine is expensive these days. Not very economical.”
My mother-in-law turned crimson, opened her mouth, closed it again, hiccuped, and clutched at her heart.
“Shameless girl!” she gasped, collapsing into a chair like a deflated balloon at a children’s party.
The next week passed under the sign of total surveillance. Lidiya Sergeyevna had keys — which kind-hearted Maxim had given her “just in case” — and she started dropping by when I wasn’t home.
One evening I discovered that our toilet paper had been replaced with a gray, sandpaper-like roll that looked like bus tickets from the nineties. My expensive laundry capsules had disappeared, and in their place stood a box of the cheapest detergent imaginable, smelling like a chemical attack.
“Vika, I did an inspection!” my mother-in-law announced cheerfully over the phone when, sneezing from the detergent, I called her. “Why overpay for a brand? Everyone’s backside is the same, it doesn’t care what it’s wiped with! And my neighbor Zina recommended this detergent — it washes out even the sins of youth!”
“Lidiya Sergeyevna,” I began in an icy tone, staring at my favorite blouse, which after being washed in that ‘miracle product’ now looked like gauze, “your economy has already cost me a five-thousand-ruble item.”
“Oh, don’t make things up!” she cut in. “The fabric was probably rotten, just like your whole job. Better listen to me. My юбилей is in a month. Sixty years old. I want everything done properly. I’ve already booked the restaurant, and your part is the gift.”
Here she paused dramatically.
“I’ve picked out a fur coat for myself. Mink. Auto-lady style. And don’t you dare give me your castoffs! I want a new one. Maxim promised. But since unfortunately you’re the one managing the budget in this family… well, use your head. Save on yourself, save on food, but honor the boy’s mother. Understood?”
I looked at Maxim, who was peacefully watching football.
“Max, your mom wants a fur coat.”
“Well then, we’ll buy one!” he waved a hand without taking his eyes off the screen. “My mom’s amazing. She deserves it. Vik, you’re a financial genius — think of something. You know we’ve got the mortgage and car repairs right now, but… it’s Mom!”
At that moment, the puzzle in my head snapped into place. My mother-in-law was demanding the impossible: spend no money, because we didn’t really have any to spare, and still buy her a fur coat, while I was supposed to “tighten my belt.” She was counting on me either going into debt or causing a scandal and looking like a hysterical wife who begrudged money for a “saintly woman.”
“All right,” I said quietly to my reflection in the mirror. “You’ll get your total economy, mommy.”
For the next three weeks I played the obedient daughter-in-law. I stopped buying delicacies. We switched to buckwheat and seasonal zucchini. When Lidiya Sergeyevna came by for an inspection and saw empty soup on the table, she beamed.
“There! So you can do it when you want to!” she poked at the overcooked zucchini with her fork. “And it’s healthy. Good for the figure and for the wallet. So, how’s my gift coming along? Saving up?”
“Of course, Lidiya Sergeyevna,” I smiled so hard my cheekbones cramped. “I’m putting aside every kopeck. Following your teachings, so to speak.”
“Good girl,” she said condescendingly, patting me on the shoulder. “By the way, I saw some tights in the underpass for fifty rubles. Got you a pair. The color is kind of ‘baby surprise,’ but they’ll do under jeans. Wear them, but don’t wear them out.”
“Thank you for your concern,” I shot back. “You’re so generous it makes me want to cry. I hope those tights aren’t disposable, like your promises to stay out of our lives?”
“What?!” She froze with a piece of zucchini halfway to her mouth.
“I said the color is very practical. You can’t see dirt on it,” I replied, batting my eyelashes innocently.
My mother-in-law frowned, trying to figure out whether I had insulted her or not, but she couldn’t come up with an argument and merely snorted like a hedgehog sitting on a cactus.
Then came the big day. The Golden Goose restaurant gleamed with gilt and was packed with relatives. Aunt Zina in lurex, Uncle Borya with his accordion, envious cousins — the entire family elite had gathered to honor Lidiya Sergeyevna.
The birthday woman sat at the head of the table like a cream cake tied with ribbons. She had already accepted a multicooker, a bed linen set, and envelopes of cash. Then it was our turn.
Maxim stood up, glowing with pride.
“Mommy! Congratulations! You’re the best, the wisest! Vika and I thought long and hard about how to make you happy. You asked for a fur coat… and Vika, my brilliant girl, did the impossible!”
Lidiya Sergeyevna craned her neck. In her eyes, cash registers were already ringing. She was imagining draping herself in fur and rubbing Aunt Zina’s nose in it.
I stepped forward, holding a huge, beautiful shopping bag with the logo of a very expensive boutique on it — I had bought the bag on Avito for 100 rubles. Silence fell over the room.
“Dear Lidiya Sergeyevna,” I began loudly and distinctly, “for a whole month you taught me how to economize. You said: ‘Be more modest, tighten your belt, don’t waste money.’ I took your words as a guide to action. You asked for a fur coat. A real one. Mink. And you wanted the family budget not to suffer.”
With a flourish, I pulled a luxurious fur cape out of the bag. Dark, thick fur shimmered under the chandeliers. A gasp of admiration ran through the room. Even Aunt Zina stopped chewing her Olivier salad.
“My God!” my mother-in-law breathed, jumping up and snatching the gift. She immediately draped it over her shoulders and twirled. The fur fit perfectly. “Oh, Maximushka! You did well! Now that’s a thing! You can tell at once — expensive and fancy! Not like those synthetic fillers of yours!”
She looked triumphantly at the guests.
“You see? My son loves his mother! He didn’t spare the money! And you said my daughter-in-law was stingy. Here, learn from this!”
Then she turned to me, and in her eyes I read the gloating of a victor. She was sure I had surrendered, emptied our pockets, gone into debt, but obeyed.
“Well, thank you, Vika,” she said loudly, dripping sarcasm. “At last you’re of some use. For once you listened to your elders and spent money on something worthwhile instead of on your secondhand rags.”
That was my cue.
“Lidiya Sergeyevna,” my voice rang out like crystal about to be shattered, “why spend so much? I followed your advice to the letter. You wanted me to save money, didn’t you?”
I paused. Maxim looked at me in confusion, the guests with curiosity.
“Maxim allocated one hundred thousand rubles for the gift. But I thought — why pay a hundred when I can listen to my wise mother-in-law? This cape is not natural mink. Made in Italy. Vintage. I found it in our store, in the ‘Everything for 3,000 Rubles’ section, on the day of the final sale.”
Such silence fell over the room that you could hear a fly buzzing against the windowpane, trying to escape the shame. The smile slid off Lidiya Sergeyevna’s face like plaster from an old wall.
“What?..” she croaked.
“Three thousand rubles, Mom!” I went on cheerfully, pulling the receipt from my pocket. “There was a tiny hole under the arm — moths must have gotten to it — but I sewed it up, you can hardly tell! And I almost got rid of the mothball smell too, didn’t I? But just think of the savings!”
I turned to Maxim and handed him a thick envelope.
“Maxim, here’s the change. Ninety-seven thousand rubles. Back in the family budget, just like Mom asked. We’re saving for a new car, after all!”
Aunt Zina was the first to break — she snorted into her fist. Uncle Borya started chuckling after her. Within seconds, laughter rolled through the Golden Goose like a wave.
Lidiya Sergeyevna stood in the middle of the room in her “3,000-ruble fur coat,” red as a beet in borscht. She tried to rip the cape off, but one of the buttons got tangled in her lace collar. She flailed like a trapped bird under the relatives’ laughter.
“You… you…” she hissed, finally tearing the “gift” off herself and hurling it onto a chair. “You humiliated me! In front of everyone! Wretch!”
“Me?!” I looked sincerely surprised. “Lidiya Sergeyevna, I was just being economical. You always said, ‘The brand doesn’t matter, functionality does.’ Is the fur warm? It is. And if someone wore it thirty years before you — well, that’s history! Almost an antique. Just like you.”
My mother-in-law clutched her heart again, but this time nobody ran for the valerian — everyone was too busy discussing the “gift of the century.” Maxim stood there, staring from the envelope of money in his hands to his red-faced mother to calm, composed me.
“Mom,” he finally said, his voice trembling with suppressed laughter, “well… she’s right. You did buzz everyone’s ears off about saving money. Vika just… overdid the obedience.”
Lidiya Sergeyevna swept the room with a crazed look, realized no sympathy was coming, shrieked something incoherent, and ran out of the restaurant.
We finished the evening without the birthday woman, but very merrily. Aunt Zina even tried on the cape and said that for three thousand rubles she’d have bought two.
At home, while counting the returned money, Maxim suddenly hugged me.
“You know, I guess I was a fool. Mom is Mom, of course, but… you’re a dangerous woman, Viktoria.”
“I’m just economical, darling. Very economical.”
My mother-in-law didn’t call for a month. And when she finally did, her voice was quiet and cautious.
As one wise woman once said: a miser pays twice, and a fool pays with their reputation.
