Aline heard the front door click—Igor was back from work. She stood at the stove, stirring vegetables in a pan for a stew, and didn’t turn around. Over the last few weeks, a polite chill had settled between them, as if they weren’t husband and wife at all, but two roommates sharing the same space because they had no choice.
“Hi,” her husband’s voice floated in from the hallway. “Smells great.”
“Dinner in ten minutes,” Aline replied curtly, eyes still on the pan.
Igor went to the bathroom. A moment later she heard him changing in the bedroom. When he appeared in the kitchen in sweatpants and an old T-shirt, Aline was already arranging the food on plates. They sat down without a word. Igor picked up his fork, but didn’t start eating—he set it aside and cleared his throat.
“Listen, Alin,” he began, avoiding her gaze. “Mom called today. She wants to come over this weekend. Saturday morning. She’ll spend the night and leave Sunday evening.”
Aline froze with a piece of bread halfway to her mouth. Slowly, she set it down and looked at him. He still wouldn’t meet her eyes, staring at the tablecloth pattern like he was cramming for an art history exam.
“You have to be kidding,” she said evenly.
“No, why would I… She hasn’t visited in a long time, she misses us. And it’s hard for her alone in the village, especially now with the garden…”
“Igor,” Aline cut him off, her voice turning sharp as steel. “Look at me.”
He lifted his eyes reluctantly. What he saw there wasn’t the anger he expected—it was something closer to fatigue and disappointment. Somehow, that was worse.
“Why did you decide I’d be happy to see your mother here after the scene she made in this apartment?” Aline asked slowly, pronouncing every word. “Just explain it to me.”
Igor swallowed. He’d known this conversation would happen sooner or later, but he’d hoped to delay it as long as possible. Better yet, he’d hoped time would heal things and everything would somehow smooth itself out. But Aline’s face made it obvious: nothing had smoothed out.
“Well… that was two months ago,” he started uncertainly. “Maybe we shouldn’t—”
“Two months,” Aline repeated. “Only two months. Igor, she came into our home—into our apartment—the one we bought together, renovated together, furnished together. And what did she do?”
“Alin, she didn’t mean any harm…”
“She accused me of not taking care of you!” Aline’s voice shook, but she forced it steady. “She walked into our bedroom and started inspecting how I iron your shirts. She opened the fridge and lectured me about how a real wife should cook soup every single day. She said I was starving you because I only make light dinners—when you were the one asking me to cook less, because you were on a diet!”
Igor rubbed his face with both hands. He remembered that visit. Every detail of that awful Sunday when his mother, Galina Petrovna, came to “check on her son.”
Aline went on, her words spilling faster now:
“She checked the dust on the bookshelves! Ran her finger along the windowsill! She said women in her day knew how to run a household instead of sitting at work all the time. Igor, I work just as much as you do! We both come home exhausted, and we both split the chores. Or at least, that’s what I thought.”
“We do,” Igor muttered.
“Then why did you stay silent?” Pain broke through her voice. “Why did you stand there in the kitchen and not say a single word? She tore me apart for half an hour, and you just stood there like a statue. I waited for you to defend me—to tell her she was wrong, that she was being disrespectful. But you said nothing.”
It was true, and Igor knew it. He’d said nothing because he’d been trained to say nothing since childhood. He’d grown up believing you don’t argue with your mother, that she’s always right, that her word is law. Galina Petrovna had raised him alone after his father left when Igor was five. She worked two jobs, went hungry, slept too little—but she pulled her son through and got him an education. And Igor grew up with an endless sense of debt, convinced he owed his mother everything. Absolutely everything.
“I didn’t know what to say,” he admitted quietly.
“You didn’t know?” Aline gave a bitter laugh. “Igor, you’re my husband. That’s your main role now—not your mother’s son, but my husband. And you should have stood up for me.”
“She’s my mother…”
“And I’m your wife!” Aline slapped her palm on the table; the plates clinked. “We created a family—you and me. A new family. And in this family I’m not a servant, not a maid you can scold over floors that aren’t washed well enough. I’m the woman of this home—just as much as you are.”
A heavy silence settled. Igor stared at his cooling dinner and understood that his wife was right. But how was he supposed to explain that to his mother? How do you tell the woman who gave you her whole life that she no longer gets to command your household?
“Mom just worries about me,” he tried again. “You know what she’s like. She’s always been overprotective. But it comes from love…”
“Love—or a need to control?” Aline snapped. “Igor, your mother is fifty-eight. You’re thirty-two. We’ve been married four years. And she still treats me like some nobody who stole her precious boy. She doesn’t respect our marriage. She doesn’t respect me.”
“That’s not true…”
“It is.” Aline pushed back from the table and paced the kitchen. “Igor, I tried. I truly tried. I invited her for holidays, cooked her favorite dishes, asked her advice so she’d feel needed. I called her, asked how she was. I sent her packages with gifts. But no matter what I did, it was never right—never up to her standards.”
She stopped at the window, looking out at the evening city. Streetlights flickered beyond the glass; somewhere below, people laughed and life moved on. And here, in their cozy two-room apartment on the fourth floor, something important was cracking apart.
“Do you remember,” Aline continued without turning around, “last year on your birthday, when I baked that cake? I spent three hours on that Napoleon because you mentioned your mom used to make it for you when you were a kid. I wanted to make you happy. And what did your mother say when she tasted it?”
Igor remembered. He remembered the way his heart tightened when his mother grimaced and said, “The cream’s too heavy, the layers aren’t soaked enough. But what can you expect—girls these days don’t learn to cook properly.”
“She didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said weakly.
“She never means to,” Aline turned, and Igor saw tears in her eyes. “And yet she does. Constantly. With every word, every look. Every visit she makes sure I understand I’m not good enough for her son.”
“Alin…”
“Let me finish,” she raised a hand. “That last visit was the final straw. After she left, I cried all night. You slept in that room,” she nodded toward the living room, “because you didn’t want to talk. And I lay in our bedroom thinking—why am I doing this? Why should I live in a home where I feel like an outsider? Where my mother-in-law thinks she has more rights here than I do?”
Igor went cold. He knew that fight had been serious, but he hadn’t realized how deeply his wife had been wounded.
“You were thinking about divorce?” he forced out.
Aline was silent for a beat, then nodded.
“I was. Seriously.”
The words hit Igor like a slap. He’d always believed their marriage was solid, dependable. Sure, they argued sometimes—who didn’t?—but he’d never imagined it could end in divorce.
“But I love you,” Aline said, and her voice softened. “That’s why I’m still here. That’s why I’m willing to give us a chance. But only on one condition.”
“What condition?”
She returned to the table, sat across from him, and took his hands. Her fingers were cold.
“Igor, I’m not forbidding you to see your mother. She’s your mom—you love her, and that’s normal. But I won’t allow her to step into this home again and act as if I’m nobody. Do you understand?”
“So you want me to ban her from coming?”
“No,” Aline shook her head. “I want you to talk to her. Like an adult man talking to his mother. Set the rules. Either she comes as a guest—polite, respectful, no complaints, no lectures—or she doesn’t come at all. This is my space—our space. And I’m not obligated to tolerate disrespect in my own home.”
“But how do I even say that?” Igor ran a hand through his hair, lost. “She’ll be offended. She’ll think I’m choosing you over her…”
“That’s exactly how it should be,” Aline said firmly. “Igor, the Bible says: ‘A man shall leave his father and mother and cleave to his wife.’ That doesn’t mean you stop loving your parents. It means you build a new family where the main bond is husband and wife. And parents become extended family—people who must respect boundaries.”
Igor was quiet. All his life he’d been afraid to upset his mother—afraid of her tears, her wounded pride. Galina Petrovna knew how to weaponize guilt; it was her sharpest tool. I devoted my whole life to you. I gave up having a personal life for you. Don’t I deserve basic respect from my own son? He’d heard versions of those lines since his teenage years, whenever he tried to show independence.
“What if I can’t do it?” he asked softly. “What if I can’t convince her?”
Aline squeezed his hands tighter.
“Then you’ll have to choose, Igor. I won’t live in constant stress, waiting for your mother’s next visit and the next humiliation. And one more thing…”
“What?”
“We’re done helping her if she can’t learn to respect me,” Aline said flatly. “No money for house repairs, no groceries, no rides to doctors. I’m tired of pouring time, energy, and resources into someone who thinks I’m unworthy of her son.”
It was an ultimatum—hard and uncompromising. Igor understood she wasn’t bluffing.
“Let me think until morning,” he asked.
“Fine,” Aline said, standing up. “But the decision has to be made quickly. You said she wants to come Saturday. Today is Tuesday. You have three days to call her and explain everything. If you don’t, I will. And believe me—my conversation with her will be a lot less diplomatic than yours could be.”
She left the kitchen. Igor stayed at the table with his untouched dinner, his head spinning. How had he ended up in a place where he had to choose between his mother and his wife? And yet… was it really a choice? Or was it simply time to grow up and learn how to set healthy boundaries?
That night, Igor barely slept. He tossed and turned while Aline lay beside him, turned toward the wall. He knew she was awake too, but neither of them spoke—each trapped in their own thoughts.
By morning, Igor had decided.
Over breakfast he told his wife, “I’ll call Mom tonight. I’ll tell her she can come, but only if she behaves like a guest. No lectures, no criticism, no inspections.”
Aline studied him carefully.
“You really mean it?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted honestly. “But I have to try. Because I don’t want to lose you. And because… I guess it’s time to stop being a mama’s boy and become a man who’s responsible for his family.”
For the first time in a long while, Aline smiled at him—not forced, but real.
That evening, Igor dialed his mother’s number. She picked up after the third ring.
“Igor!” Galina Petrovna’s voice was bright and cheerful. “So, did you talk to Aline? I’ve already started packing—I want to bring you some jars of jam and pickled cucumbers…”
“Mom, wait,” Igor interrupted. “We need to talk. A serious talk.”
A guarded pause filled the line.
“Did something happen?”
“You can come,” Igor said. “But there’s one condition.”
“What condition?” Her tone sharpened, metal creeping in.
Igor drew a deep breath. This was harder than he’d imagined. But he remembered Aline’s tears, her mention of divorce, and he found the strength to continue.
“You need to act like a guest in our home. No criticism, no inspections, no telling Aline what she should be doing and how. This is our apartment, our life. And if you can’t respect my wife, then it’s better you don’t come at all.”
A long, heavy silence followed. Then Galina Petrovna spoke, her voice trembling with offense.
“So that’s how it is… She got into your head, and now you’re turning against your own mother. I knew that girl—”
“Mom!” Igor cut her off sharply, surprising himself with the firmness in his own voice. “Don’t you dare talk about my wife like that. Aline is a wonderful woman, and I love her. And you… you’ve been disrespectful. Last time you brought her to tears. And I stayed quiet because I was afraid of upsetting you. But I was wrong.”
“Wrong?!” his mother’s voice jumped to a shout. “I gave you my whole life! I raised you alone, got you into college! And now you’re pushing me out of your life!”
“I’m not pushing you out,” Igor said, exhausted. “I’m asking you to respect my family. Our home. Our rules. Mom, I love you. But Aline is my wife. And if I have to choose, I’ll choose her.”
The words landed like a verdict. Galina Petrovna let out a small sob.
“So you’ve already chosen.”
“No, Mom. The choice is yours,” Igor said. “You can come as a loving mother and mother-in-law who’s happy to see us doing well. Or you can stay home and sulk. Decide.”
He ended the call. His hands were shaking. Aline stood in the living-room doorway, looking at him with pride and relief.
“You did it,” she whispered.
“I don’t know,” Igor rubbed his face. “She’s probably crying right now. And I feel like the worst person alive.”
“You’re not,” Aline came over and hugged him. “You just finally grew up.”
The three days until Saturday dragged on painfully. Galina Petrovna didn’t call back, and Igor had no idea whether she would come. He tried to prepare for any outcome—her staying away in anger, or showing up and making a scene.
But on Saturday morning, the doorbell rang. Galina Petrovna stood on the threshold with a small bag and a plastic sack full of jars.
“Hello,” she said stiffly.
“Hi, Mom,” Igor stepped aside to let her in.
Aline came out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel. The two women met each other’s eyes. A tense pause hung in the air.
“Hello, Galina Petrovna,” Aline spoke first.
“Hello,” her mother-in-law replied after a moment.
They drank tea in the kitchen. Galina Petrovna held herself tight, clearly restraining her usual impulses. She talked about village life—neighbors, the garden, the orchard. She didn’t make a single remark. When Aline served a pie she’d baked for the visit, Galina Petrovna tasted it and said, “It’s good. Thank you.”
It felt like a small miracle. Igor finally let out a breath.
That evening, after Aline went to take a shower, Galina Petrovna sat down next to her son on the couch.
“Igor,” she began quietly. “I’ve been thinking a lot these past few days. And I realized… I really did behave badly. I was just scared I was losing you. That I’d become unnecessary to everyone.”
“Mom,” Igor took her hand, “you matter to me. But not as a supervisor. As my mother—someone who’s happy for my life instead of trying to control it.”
Galina Petrovna nodded and wiped away a tear.
“I’ll try. I really will.”
On Sunday evening, as he walked his mother to the door, Igor hugged her goodbye.
“Thanks for coming,” he said. “And thank you for… understanding.”
“Take care of each other,” Galina Petrovna said, looking at Aline. “Family is what matters most.”
When the door closed, Aline leaned against the frame and exhaled.
“I think we made it.”
“I think so,” Igor wrapped his arms around her. “It’s only the beginning. But we’ll make it.”
Outside, the sunset was fading, washing their apartment in soft gold and pink. Peace returned to their home—fragile, earned through a difficult conversation and hard choices. But it was their peace, their home, their family.
And they were ready to protect it.
