Anastasia was wiping her hands on a kitchen towel when the doorbell rang. The young woman glanced at the clock — three in the afternoon. Artyom would not be back until seven. That meant 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.
Anastasia 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 appraising.
“Good afternoon, Polina Mikhailovna,” Anastasia said, stepping aside to let her mother-in-law in.
“Good afternoon,” the 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 sofa cushions, the stack of magazines on the small table, the slightly ajar bedroom door.
“There’s dust on the shelf,” her mother-in-law stated, running her finger along the bookcase. “Anastasia, when was the last time you did a wet cleaning?”
“Yesterday morning,” the young woman answered quietly, feeling her cheeks flush.
“Strange. It looks as if it was a week ago.”
Polina Mikhailovna went 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 destined to fail from the start.
“Please sit down. I’ll make some tea,” the young woman offered, switching on the kettle.
Polina Mikhailovna sat at the table and placed her handbag on the chair beside her. She continued to examine the kitchen with a critical eye.
“The stove is dirty. Do you see? Right here, by the burner, there’s grease left.”
Anastasia walked over and looked closely. There really was a tiny spot. Barely noticeable unless someone was deliberately searching for it.
“I’ll wipe it now,” the young woman muttered, grabbing a sponge.
“You should wipe it right after cooking,” her mother-in-law continued in a lecturing tone. “It’s much harder to clean later. That’s how I taught Artyom — clean up after yourself immediately.”
Anastasia silently scrubbed the stove. Her hands were trembling. She wanted to object, to say something in her own defense, but her tongue would not obey her. Her upbringing did not allow her to be rude to elders. And fear of Artyom finding out stopped her, too.
The kettle boiled. The young woman brewed tea, set a cup in front of her mother-in-law, then the sugar bowl and cookies on a saucer.
“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 still not very good at it,” Anastasia admitted, lowering her eyes. “But I’m learning.”
“You’ve been learning for a year, ever since you got married. It’s about time you learned.”
Her mother-in-law took a sip of tea and grimaced.
“Weak. Are you saving the tea leaves?”
“No, it’s just…” The young woman faltered. “I’m sorry, I’ll make it stronger.”
“No need. I’ll finish it like this.”
Polina Mikhailovna continued drinking tea, commenting on everything around her as she did. The curtains were hanging crookedly. The flower on the windowsill had turned yellow — which meant it was being watered incorrectly. The refrigerator was humming loudly — it probably had not been defrosted in ages.
Anastasia stood by the sink, gripping the edge of the countertop. Everything inside her tightened into a hard knot. She wanted to scream, to throw her mother-in-law out, to slam the door. But instead, the young woman only nodded, agreed, and apologized.
“And what are you having for dinner today?” 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 variety to the menu.”
Her mother-in-law stood up, went to the refrigerator, and opened it.
“Just as I thought. Nothing but processed food. Nastya, a good wife should cook fresh, healthy meals. Not feed her husband frozen food.”
“I work until six. I don’t always have enough time,” the young woman objected timidly.
“Nonsense. I worked full-time, and I always fed Artyom fresh food. I got up earlier and cooked. It’s a matter of organization.”
Polina Mikhailovna closed the refrigerator and looked her daughter-in-law over appraisingly.
“You pity yourself too much. You need to try harder for your family.”
Anastasia lowered her head. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she blinked them back. Do not 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 through the apartment, pointing out flaws. Then she put on her coat and left without saying goodbye.
Anastasia closed the door behind her.
She went into the living room and sat on the sofa, hugging her knees, until she heard a key turn in the lock. She jumped up, wiped her eyes, and ran to the kitchen. Artyom must not see her like this.
“Hi, sunshine!” her husband said as he came in with grocery bags and set them on the table. He hugged his wife. “How was your day?”
“Fine. I’m just a little tired.”
Anastasia pressed herself against Artyom, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne.
“You look pale. Are you sick?” her husband asked, looking at her with concern.
“No, no. There was just a lot of work.”
Artyom stroked her hair and kissed her.
“Go rest. I’ll make dinner.”
Anastasia nodded and went into the bedroom. She lay down on the bed and closed her eyes. Inside her was emptiness mixed with heaviness. After every visit from Polina Mikhailovna, it became worse. The young woman 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. His mother appeared around three and stayed for an hour and a half. That was enough for Anastasia to feel completely drained.
The criticism became harsher. Polina Mikhailovna no longer hid her dissatisfaction with her daughter-in-law. She said outright that Anastasia was a bad housewife, that she could not cook, that she did not take care of the home. The young woman listened silently, never arguing. She was afraid of conflict. Afraid Artyom would take his mother’s side.
Her husband began to notice the changes. Anastasia became pale, and dark circles appeared under her eyes. She slept poorly, waking in the middle of the night and sitting in the kitchen, staring out the window. Her appetite almost disappeared completely.
“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 young woman repeated the phrase she had memorized.
“Maybe you should see a doctor? Get checked?”
“No. Everything is 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, though she had never needed one before.
“Hello,” the young woman breathed, feeling her heart sink.
“Hello, Nastenka. Open the door, let’s go upstairs,” her mother-in-law said more softly than usual, almost affectionately.
That made Anastasia even more wary. Polina Mikhailovna had never been affectionate with her daughter-in-law. Something had changed.
They went up to the apartment. Anastasia brewed tea and set it in front of her mother-in-law. Her hands trembled so badly that the cup clinked against the saucer.
“Are you nervous?” Polina Mikhailovna asked, looking at the young woman closely.
“No, I’m just tired,” Anastasia said, sitting opposite her with her hands folded on her knees.
“Tired. Of course. From work.”
Her mother-in-law took a sip of tea and set the cup down.
“Nastya, I want to have a serious talk with you.”
The young woman froze. Here it was. Now something new would begin, something even worse.
“I can see that you’re not coping with the role of wife,” Polina Mikhailovna began slowly, choosing her words. “The house is neglected, you cook poorly, Artyom looks uncared for. I understand you’re young and inexperienced. But that’s no excuse.”
Anastasia sat staring at the floor. It was hard to breathe. Her mother-in-law’s words struck her 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 even tone. “Men don’t like it when their wives disappoint them.”
“I’m trying,” the young woman whispered, squeezing her hands together. “I really am trying.”
“Not enough. Look at yourself. Your hair isn’t styled, your face is tired, your clothes are wrinkled. Do you think Artyom wants to see such a wife at home?”
Anastasia raised her head and looked at her mother-in-law. Polina Mikhailovna’s eyes were cold and hard. No sympathy, no warmth.
“I work all day. Then I do everything at home. I wash, iron, cook, clean. I have no time left for myself,” the young woman’s voice trembled, but the words finally broke free.
“You find time when you want to. I worked too, and I managed everything. You’re simply lazy,” her mother-in-law snapped. “And you complain to Artyom that you’re tired. A man should not hear women’s complaints. He works, he brings in money. Your job is to create comfort for him.”
“But I bring in money too!” Anastasia felt something hot begin to boil inside her. “I earn money too!”
“Pennies. Artyom provides the main income,” Polina Mikhailovna waved her hand dismissively. “Don’t argue with me, little 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 answer, but her mother-in-law did not let her.
“You are unworthy of my son. I saw it from the first day. But Artyom fell in love and did not 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 young woman jumped up and backed toward the wall. Her heart was pounding somewhere in her throat. Her hands were shaking.
“I… I’m not resisting. I do everything you say!” Her voice broke into a cry.
“You do it badly. Carelessly. Without soul, without desire.”
Polina Mikhailovna rose and walked over to her daughter-in-law.
“Anastasia, you are a disappointment. To me, and soon to Artyom.”
Tears poured 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. She no longer had the strength to remain silent.
“Why… why are you like this to me?” the young woman sobbed through her tears. “What have I done to you?”
“You took my son,” her mother-in-law answered coldly. “And you failed to live up to expectations.”
At that moment, the lock clicked in the hallway. Footsteps followed. Artyom entered 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 beside 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.
“Son! You’re early today. Nastya and I were just talking. Heart to heart.”
“Why is my wife crying?” Artyom walked over to Anastasia and put his arms around her shoulders. “Nastya, what happened?”
The young woman 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 just explained how to run a household properly. The girl is sensitive and started crying,” Polina Mikhailovna shrugged. “Artyom, don’t make a mountain out of a molehill.”
“Anastasia doesn’t cry for no reason,” her husband said, still looking at his mother seriously. “Tell me what happened. Everything, from the beginning.”
“I told you — we were talking. I give her advice, and she…”
“Mom, stop,” Artyom interrupted her. “I know Nastya. She wouldn’t burst into tears because of advice. You said something hurtful to her.”
Polina Mikhailovna straightened and lifted her chin.
“I told her the truth. That she is a bad housewife. That the house is a mess. That you are dissatisfied with her.”
Artyom froze. He looked at his mother in confusion.
“I’m dissatisfied? Where did you get that?”
“Well, of course. She can’t cook, she doesn’t take care of the home. You see it yourself,” his mother said, gesturing around the apartment.
“I see a clean apartment. I see an exhausted wife who works all day, 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!” Polina Mikhailovna protested.
“Nastya,” her husband said, turning to his wife and taking her hand. “Does Mom come here often?”
Anastasia nodded without raising her eyes.
“When I’m not home?”
Another nod.
“And every time she criticizes you?”
“Yes,” the young woman whispered. “Every time. She says I’m a bad wife. That I do everything wrong. That I’m unworthy of you.”
Artyom clenched his jaw. He turned back to his mother. Polina Mikhailovna stood there with an unruffled expression, but something like anxiety flickered in her eyes.
“How long has this been going on?” her husband asked, looking his mother straight in the eye.
“Artyom, I only…”
“How long?” he repeated, louder this time.
“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 allow you to pressure my wife,” he said slowly, approaching Polina Mikhailovna. “If you come as a guest, then act like a guest.”
“Artyom! I am your mother!” the woman stepped toward her son.
“Yes, my mother. But Nastya is my wife. The person I live with. The person I love. And I will not allow anyone, even you, to humiliate her,” Artyom’s voice was firm and 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, takes care of the home, takes care of me! What else is needed?!”
“But the house is a mess! She cooks badly!” Polina Mikhailovna would not calm down.
“The house is clean. The food is delicious. I am happy with everything. You are inventing problems that don’t exist,” Artyom said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Mom, I’m asking you to leave.”
“What?!” The woman’s eyes widened. “You’re throwing out your own mother?!”
“I’m asking you to leave and not come back until you change your attitude toward Nastya,” her husband repeated firmly.
Polina Mikhailovna shot a look at her daughter-in-law, then at her son. Her face turned red, and her hands clenched into fists.
“You’re taking her side against me?!”
“I’m taking the side of fairness. Nastya has done nothing to you. She didn’t deserve to be treated like this.”
Artyom approached 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 handbag, and headed for the exit. At the threshold, she turned around.
“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 over, hugged his wife, and held her tightly.
“Forgive me,” he whispered. “Forgive me for not noticing sooner. Forgive me for letting you suffer for three months.”
“You… you defended me,” the young woman said, wrapping her arms around her husband and burying her face in his chest.
“I always will. You are my family. My main family.”
Artyom pulled back, took his wife’s face in his hands, 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 be angry with me,” Anastasia wiped away her tears. “Polina Mikhailovna is your mother. I didn’t want to make you quarrel.”
“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 anything like this alone again.”
“I promise,” the young woman whispered.
They stood embracing 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, calm appeared inside her.
That evening, they sat in the kitchen drinking tea. Artyom held his wife’s hand and stroked 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 silently, his face growing darker and darker.
“I can’t believe it,” her husband said when she finished. “My mother… I thought she loved you.”
“Maybe she does. In her own way. She just wants me to be different,” Anastasia shrugged. “She wants me to be like her.”
“You don’t have to be like her. You have to be yourself,” Artyom said, squeezing his wife’s hand. “I married you. Not a copy of my mother.”
The young woman 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, she shouldn’t come here anymore.”
“Are you ready for that?” Anastasia looked at her husband with concern. “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 over. Artyom called her three days after the quarrel. The conversation was short and harsh. His mother did not apologize and continued to insist that she was right. Artyom said that until she changed her position, she should not appear in their home.
Anastasia blossomed before his eyes. Color returned to her face, and the circles under her eyes disappeared. The young woman began smiling again, joking, making plans. The apartment filled with a lightness it had not had 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 in a café. Polina Mikhailovna looked tired and older. Artyom sat opposite her, waiting.
“I want to apologize,” his mother began, not raising her eyes. “To Nastya. To you. I was wrong.”
“Why did you act that way?” her son asked. “Nastya did nothing to you.”
“I was afraid,” Polina Mikhailovna admitted. “Afraid I would lose you. That you would forget me once you had a wife.”
“Mom, I can’t forget you. You are 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 wiped 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 accepts my apology,” his mother said, raising her eyes to her son.
Artyom called Anastasia and asked whether she was willing to meet with her mother-in-law. After some thought, the young woman agreed.
The meeting took place the next day. At home, with Artyom present. Polina Mikhailovna brought flowers and a cake. She sat opposite her daughter-in-law, her hands folded on her knees.
“Anastasia, forgive me. I behaved terribly. I said cruel things to you. You did not deserve such treatment,” her mother-in-law said quietly but sincerely. “I was afraid of losing my son. I took that fear out on you. It was vile of me.”
Anastasia remained silent, studying her mother-in-law. Polina Mikhailovna looked different. Tired, guilty, almost lost.
“Thank you for apologizing,” the young woman 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 right away. Just… give me a chance to make things right.”
Anastasia looked at Artyom. Her husband nodded supportively. The young woman sighed.
“All right. But there will be boundaries now. You come when we invite you. You don’t criticize. You behave like a guest,” Anastasia said firmly.
“I agree. On any terms,” Polina Mikhailovna nodded.
From that day on, their relationship began to improve. Slowly, cautiously. Her mother-in-law came once a week, by invitation. She no longer criticized, pressured, or lectured them about life. They talked about simple things — work, plans, the weather.
Anastasia did not become 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.
Most importantly, Artyom proved that he stood on his wife’s side. That for him, family meant his spouse first and foremost. His mother was important, but his wife was more important. Anastasia no longer felt secondary. She felt loved, protected, and valued.
And that was enough for happiness.
