If you don’t like my mother, then leave!” her husband declared, never expecting his wife to actually do it.
The evening was coming to an end, and the apartment where Nina lived with her husband Anton and her mother-in-law Vera Pavlovna was usually quiet at this hour. But today had gone wrong from the very morning. Two-year-old Semyon had been cranky, Vera Pavlovna kept finding reasons to be dissatisfied, and Nina felt completely exhausted. She tried as hard as she could: cooked her mother-in-law’s favorite dishes, cleaned the apartment, took care of Semyon. But pleasing Vera Pavlovna was impossible.
“Nina, you folded the towels wrong again,” Vera Pavlovna grumbled as she passed by the bathroom. “How many times do I have to tell you? The corner should face inward, not outward!”
Or:
“You dressed the child wrong, Nina! It’s chilly outside, and you put him in a light sweater! He’ll catch a cold!”
Each time, Nina only sighed. She did not argue. She endured it, hoping that with time everything would settle down, that Vera Pavlovna would get used to her, to Semyon, to their life together. Anton, when things became truly unbearable, usually kept silent. If Nina tried to complain, he would indifferently say:
“Well, just don’t pay attention, Nina. Mom is old. Her nerves aren’t what they used to be.”
Nina was preparing a surprise for their wedding anniversary. She had ordered a small cake and bought Anton a new leather belt, the one he had dreamed of for a long time. She wanted to arrange a cozy evening, just for the three of them—with Semyon, of course.
On the day of the celebration, when dinner was almost ready and Semyon had fortunately fallen asleep, Vera Pavlovna started another scene. This time it was because Nina, in her opinion, had “oversalted the soup.” Although the soup was completely normal.
“This is impossible to eat!” her mother-in-law shouted, banging her spoon on the table. “What, were you trying to poison us? Nina, you don’t know how to cook at all!”
Nina stood by the stove, gripping the ladle in her hand. The anniversary, the cake, the surprise—everything was falling apart. She turned to Anton, who was sitting at the table with his eyes lowered. She waited for him to finally say something, anything, to defend her, to stop this absurdity. But he remained silent.
“Anton,” Nina said quietly. “Are you going to say anything?”
He got up and slowly walked out of the kitchen into the hallway. Nina followed him.
“Mom is right,” Anton said without looking at her. “You’re always doing something wrong.”
Tears welled up in Nina’s eyes. That was the last straw. She looked at her husband, while he stared somewhere at the wall.
“Do you even understand what you’re saying?” Her voice trembled. “Today is our anniversary! I… I cooked, I tried! And your mother…”
Anton turned sharply toward her. There was no anger in his eyes, only fatigue and a kind of indifference.
“If you don’t like my mother, then leave.”
The words sounded so ordinary, so casual, that Nina did not immediately grasp their weight. He said them as if he were giving her advice, not passing a sentence. Then he turned away and went into the room. Dinner was ruined. The celebration was ruined. Everything was ruined.
Nina sat on the bed in their bedroom, holding sleeping Semyon in her arms. Her tears had dried, leaving salty trails on her face. She was in shock. He had said, “Leave.” Could he really mean it? This was their home. Their family. Could he really give up on her and their son so easily? She did not pack a suitcase. She simply could not believe that it was serious. It felt like some bad dream that would end in the morning.
A day passed. Then another. Anton did not apologize. He behaved coldly, distantly. He came home from work, ate in silence, then went to his room or sat down at the computer. He barely spoke to her. He played with Semyon formally, without his former enthusiasm.
When Nina tried to talk to him, he brushed her off.
“Mom is very hurt. She said you insulted her.”
“I insulted her?” Nina could not believe her ears. “She yelled at me because of soup!”
“It doesn’t matter,” Anton cut her off. “It all depends on you. Take the first step. Apologize. Then maybe she’ll forgive you.”
There was no reconciliation in his words. Only an ultimatum. And Nina began to understand. This was not her home. Here, she was temporary. She was tolerated as long as she was convenient, as long as she fulfilled every function. The moment she stopped being perfect, she could simply be thrown away like an unnecessary object.
The fear she had felt on the first day was replaced by a dull, crushing realization. This was not a family. This was a game of one-sided loyalty. She was expected to be loyal to Anton, to his mother, to their whims. And they owed her nothing in return.
She looked at her sleeping son. He did not belong here. She did not belong here. This house, this atmosphere—they were destroying her. Slowly but surely. And Anton, her husband, was simply watching it happen. And as it turned out, he himself was pushing her toward the edge.
Anton was sitting in a café with his friend Andrey. He spoke slowly, thinking over every word.
“Listen, man, I’ve got this thing with Mashka…” he began. “Well, with Nina. A problem.”
Andrey took a sip of coffee.
“What is it this time? Your mother-in-law?…”
Continuation just below in the first comment.
The evening was drawing to a close, and the apartment where Nina lived with her husband Anton and her mother-in-law Vera Pavlovna was usually quiet. But today had gone wrong from the very morning. Two-year-old Semyon had been fussy, Vera Pavlovna kept finding reasons to be dissatisfied, and Nina felt completely exhausted. She did everything she could: cooked Vera Pavlovna’s favorite dishes, cleaned the apartment, and took care of Semyon. But pleasing Vera Pavlovna was impossible.
“Nina, you folded the towels wrong again,” Vera Pavlovna grumbled as she passed by the bathroom. “How many times do I have to tell you? The corner should face toward you, not away from you!”
Or:
“You dressed the child wrong, Nina! It’s chilly outside, and you put him in a light sweater! He’ll catch a cold!”
Each time, Nina sighed. She did not argue. She endured it, hoping that with time everything would get better, that Vera Pavlovna would get used to her, to Semyon, to their life together. When things became completely unbearable, Anton usually kept silent. If Nina tried to complain, he would indifferently say:
“Well, just don’t pay attention, Nina. Mom is old. Her nerves are bad.”
Nina was preparing a surprise for their wedding anniversary. She had ordered a small cake and bought Anton a new leather belt, the one he had long dreamed of. She wanted to arrange a cozy evening, just for the three of them — with Semyon, of course.
On the day of the celebration, when dinner was almost ready and Semyon, fortunately, had fallen asleep, Vera Pavlovna caused another scene. This time it was because Nina, in her opinion, had “oversalted the soup.” Although the soup was perfectly normal.
“This is impossible to eat!” the mother-in-law shouted, banging her spoon on the table. “What, were you trying to poison us? Nina, you don’t know how to cook at all!”
Nina stood by the stove, clutching the ladle in her hand. The anniversary, the cake, the surprise — everything was going to hell. She turned to Anton, who was sitting at the table with his eyes lowered. She waited for him to finally say something, to defend her, to stop this absurdity. But he remained silent.
“Anton,” Nina said quietly. “Are you going to say anything?”
He stood up and slowly walked out of the kitchen into the hallway. Nina followed him.
“Mom is right,” Anton said without looking at her. “You always do something wrong.”
Tears welled up in Nina’s eyes. That was the last straw. She looked at her husband, while he stared somewhere at the wall.
“Do you even understand what you’re saying?” Her voice trembled. “Today is our anniversary! I… I cooked, I tried! And your mother…”
Anton turned sharply toward her. There was no anger in his eyes, only fatigue and a kind of indifference.
“If you don’t like my mother, then leave.”
The words sounded so ordinary, so casual, that Nina did not immediately grasp their weight. He said them as if he were giving her advice, not passing sentence. Then he turned away and went into the room. Dinner was ruined. The celebration was ruined. Everything was ruined.
Nina sat on the bed in their bedroom, hugging the sleeping Semyon. Her tears had dried, leaving salty tracks on her face. She was in shock. He had said, “Leave.” Was he serious? This was their home. Their family. Could he really be ready to give up on her and their son so easily? She did not pack a suitcase. She simply could not believe it was real. It felt like some bad dream that would end in the morning.
A day passed. Then another. Anton did not apologize. He behaved coldly and distantly. He came home from work, ate in silence, then went to his room or sat down at the computer. He barely spoke to her. He played with Semyon formally, without his former enthusiasm.
When Nina tried to talk to him, he brushed her off.
“Mom is very offended. She said you insulted her.”
“I insulted her?” Nina could not believe her ears. “She yelled at me because of the soup!”
“It doesn’t matter,” Anton cut her off. “Everything depends on you. Make the first move. Apologize. Then maybe she’ll forgive you.”
There was no reconciliation in his words. Only an ultimatum. And Nina began to understand. This was not her home. Here, she was temporary. She was tolerated as long as she was convenient, as long as she performed all her functions. As soon as she stopped being perfect, she could simply be thrown out like an unnecessary thing. The fear she had felt on the first day was replaced by a dull, crushing realization. This was not a family. This was a game of one-sided loyalty. She was supposed to be loyal to Anton, to his mother, to their whims. And they owed her nothing.
She looked at her sleeping son. He did not belong here. She did not belong here. This home, this atmosphere — they were destroying her. Slowly but surely. And Anton, her husband, simply watched it happen. And, as it turned out, he himself was pushing her toward the edge.
Anton sat in a café with his friend Andrei. He spoke slowly, thinking over every word.
“Listen, old man, I’ve got this thing with Masha…” he began. “Well, with Nina. A problem.”
Andrei took a sip of coffee.
“What is it this time? Your mother?”
Anton nodded.
“Yeah. Mom… she’s old, her nerves are bad. And Nina… she’s young, she should adjust. But she doesn’t want to. Always some kind of hurt feelings, complaints.”
He felt tired of this endless struggle. He was sick of the constant arguments, his mother’s nitpicking, Nina’s dissatisfaction. He wanted peace.
“I’m tired of all these endless grievances,” Anton continued, spreading his hands. “Honestly, maybe it would be better if we separated. I’m tired of living in constant tension. On one side there’s my mother, on the other side there’s her. And I’m in the middle. Why do I need all this?”
Andrei remained silent, listening.
“I told her straight: if you don’t like my mother, leave. Well, what else could I say? Mom is sacred. She raised me. She… she is alone. And Nina is always unhappy.”
There was no regret in his voice. Only righteous anger and a desire to get rid of the problem. He did not want to take responsibility himself. He wanted Nina to make the decision. For her to leave on her own. Then his conscience would remain clean. He would not be “throwing out” his wife. She would “choose” to leave herself.
“Let her decide for herself,” he repeated, as if convincing himself. “I’m tired of all this. I want to live peacefully. To come home and find silence there. And for no one to complain about anyone.”
He did not see his own guilt. He was certain that Nina was to blame, that she could not find common ground with his mother. He did not want to admit that the problem lay in his inaction, in his unwillingness to protect his wife. He simply wanted the problem to disappear. And in his mind, the only way for that to happen was for Nina to leave.
The next day, Nina rented a small one-room apartment nearby. She found it quickly through acquaintances. She moved her things out silently, without scenes. Anton was at work. A driver came with a small vehicle, and in a few trips they moved everything most necessary: her and Semyon’s things, a few children’s toys, some books. Nothing extra. No shouting, no arguments, no tears.
When Anton returned from work, the apartment seemed unusually empty. He went into the bedroom. Her things were not on the bed. There were no traces of her presence. He went to the kitchen. His half-eaten dinner was there. On the table lay a note. Short, emotionless.
“You said it — I did it. So it would be easier for you.”
At the bottom, in small handwriting, she had added: “Semyon is with me.”
Anton read the note several times. He could not believe it. Had she really left? He had been sure she would spend a couple of days at her mother’s, “cool off,” and then come back to ask forgiveness. He waited for her call. One day, two days, three. Nina did not call.
The next week began. He came home — and there was no child’s laughter to greet him. Semyon no longer ran toward him shouting, “Daddy!” The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.
He called Nina.
“Hi. How are you two?”
“Fine,” she answered. Her voice was even. Without resentment, but without warmth either. “Semyon is sleeping.”
“You… when are you coming back?” Anton asked, and was surprised himself by how much his voice trembled.
“Why? You said it yourself: ‘If you don’t like it, leave.’ So I left.”
“But I didn’t think that you…”
“But I did think,” Nina interrupted him. “And I made a decision. So it would be easier for you. And for me. And for Semyon.”
She hung up. Anton sat on the sofa, staring at one spot. He had done everything with his own hands. Not by accident. Not by mistake. He had driven her away himself.
Several months passed. Anton remained living with his mother. The apartment he had so desperately wanted to clear of “constant tension” truly became quiet. Too quiet.
Vera Pavlovna, his mother, was constantly dissatisfied. Now all her criticism was directed at him.
“Anton, you’re not sitting properly at the table!” she would say. “You’re slouching!”
“Anton, why did you put the tea there again? I asked you to put it on the napkin!”
“Anton, why are you eating so slowly? I’ve already cleared everything away!”
Everything that had once irritated Nina had now become his reality. Constant lecturing, groundless offense, reproaches over every little thing. No one disturbed him. No one argued. Only silence, interrupted by his mother’s voice. And her alien, all-consuming power.
He woke up in the morning, and the first thing he heard was her voice. He came home in the evening, and her voice was the first thing that greeted him. He was caught in his own trap. He had wanted to get rid of Nina so he could live peacefully. And he got that peace. Dead silence and constant dissatisfaction.
Sometimes he saw Nina from a distance when she walked with Semyon in the park. She looked… calm. Free. Without shouting, without struggle, without arguments. She had simply left, just as he himself had suggested. And she had taken with her everything that had made his life complete.
He was the master of his own home. But in that home, there was no love, no joy, no warmth. Only silence and someone else’s power. And this new reality was his punishment. Every single day.
