— You’re not my mother, so stop coming to our home all the time and trying to teach me how to live! If you show up here one more time, my husband won’t have a mother anymore! Do you understand me?!
— It’s dusty, Darina. I taught you that you need to start cleaning from top to bottom. First wipe the cabinets, then the shelves, and only then do the floor.
Galina Viktorovna’s voice—flat and emotionless—cut through the silence of the entryway. Her index finger, tipped with a flawless manicure, slowly traced a line across the dark surface of the shoe shelf, leaving a pale streak behind. She didn’t look at her daughter-in-law; her gaze was fixed on this tiny, yet oh-so-significant sign of domestic incompetence. It wasn’t a question and it wasn’t a reproach. It was a diagnosis.
Darina silently stepped aside from the door, letting her mother-in-law into the apartment. She didn’t bother explaining that she’d wiped that shelf that morning, or that in a city by a busy road, dust was a constant. Arguing was as pointless as arguing with the rain. She simply closed the door behind her, and the click of the lock sounded unusually loud.
Without granting Darina even a fleeting glance, Galina Viktorovna marched into the kitchen like an inspector stepping onto the deck of a ship that had failed an audit. Her posture was impeccable—back straight, every step measured. She wasn’t a guest. She was an inspection. Her hands, heavy with expensive rings, привычно fell on the refrigerator handle. The door opened with a soft hiss, and the mother-in-law began studying its contents.
— So, what’s this? A pot of yesterday’s soup? Darina, you know Kostya doesn’t eat reheated food. A man needs fresh meals so he has the strength to work, not to fight indigestion. And where’s the butter? Why is it in the door? It spoils faster like that. I gave you a special butter dish, ceramic.
Darina didn’t respond. She stood with her shoulder against the doorframe. Inside her, the familiar boiling cauldron of irritation was gone. It was cold and quiet. Over the past six months she had gone through every stage: from trying to please to crying into her pillow, from furious arguments to dull silence. It was all useless. Today wasn’t an exception—it was simply the last drop that overflowed a cup made of transparent, cold ice.
Calmly, she took her phone from the shelf. Her movements were smooth, unhurried. Noticing this, Galina Viktorovna tore herself away from the refrigerator inspection. A victorious, condescending smile flickered across her lips and then settled. Now the girl would complain to her husband. Classic.
Darina unlocked the screen, found “Kostya” in her contacts, and tapped call, immediately turning on speakerphone. Long rings filled the kitchen, mixing with the hum of the refrigerator.
— Hello? — her husband’s voice finally sounded.
— Kostya, your mom is at our place again, — Darina said. Her voice was perfectly even, without any emotion. Just a statement of fact.
Galina Viktorovna’s triumphant smile grew wider. She even demonstratively stepped away from the fridge and crossed her arms over her chest, ready to listen to the show.
— She’s teaching me how to live, — Darina continued in the same icy tone, looking her mother-in-law straight in the eyes. Her gaze was firm as steel. — Kostya, this is her last visit. Either you explain that to her right now, or I change the locks, and we won’t answer her calls anymore. Ever.
The smile on Galina Viktorovna’s face wavered, cracked, and fell away. She straightened up; her face turned to stone with shock and rising anger. She wanted to shout, to protest—but Darina raised her hand, demanding silence.
— I’m giving you one minute to decide.
And she fell silent. Silence hung on the line. And that silence coming from the tiny speaker wasn’t just the absence of sound. It was a vacuum in which Galina Viktorovna’s familiar world—where she was the main woman in her son’s life—was collapsing at breathtaking speed. That silence was louder than any scream.
The silence lasted no more than five seconds, but in that time an entire era seemed to change in the kitchen. Galina Viktorovna’s initial stupor gave way to blotchy, slowly reddening outrage. Her lips pressed into a thin, vicious line, and her eyes—minutes ago studying the fridge—now drilled into Darina with open hatred. She no longer saw a frightened girl in front of her, but an enemy daring to violate the sacred order of things.
Finally, the vacuum on the line broke with Kostya’s uncertain, confused voice.
— Darin… Mom… what are you doing? Let’s not do this… What happened again?
That conciliatory, almost ingratiating tone sounded like a verdict to Darina. He didn’t ask, “Mom, what are you doing in our house again?” He didn’t say, “Darina, I’ll handle it right now.” He put them both on the same level—equating victim and aggressor—and begged for peace, refusing to deal with the causes of war. He chose not a side, but comfortable inaction.
Hearing the familiar notes of weakness in her son’s voice, Galina Viktorovna seized the initiative at once. She stepped toward the phone as if she wanted to take it from Darina, and spoke loudly, filling the entire kitchen with her voice. It was aimed at one single listener—her son.
— Kostya, sweetheart, do you hear what she’s saying? I came to my son’s home, brought you some treats, wanted to help, put things in order. And she threatens me with locks! She’s throwing me—your mother—out the door! What kind of attitude is that? Is that how you raised her? To let her talk like that to her own mother?
— You’re not my mother, so stop coming to our home all the time and trying to teach me how to live! If you come here one more time, my husband won’t have a mother anymore! Do you understand?!
— Why, you little viper—have you completely lost your fear?! I’m older than you, for one thing! And I’m your husband’s mother! So just try threatening me again!
Darina stayed silent, letting her mother-in-law talk. She watched her expertly play the role of offended virtue, watched her voice fill with tragic notes. In this game, Darina had been assigned the role of the ungrateful, nasty shrew, while her husband was the arbiter who needed to be pulled to one side.
— Mom, stop it, — Kostya mumbled again through the speaker. — Darin, why so harsh? Mom means well…
It was that phrase—“means well”—that became Darina’s point of no return. She calmly walked to the table and, without looking at her mother-in-law, picked up the phone.
— Your minute is up, Kostya, — her voice was quiet, but not a drop of warmth remained in it. It sounded like ice cracking under a heavy weight. — You didn’t want to decide. You chose to be an observer. Fine. That’s also a choice. Then I’ll act on my own from now on.
And she ended the call. The click was barely audible, but for Galina Viktorovna it sounded like a gunshot. She froze with her mouth half open, unable to believe what had happened. The daughter-in-law had dared to cut off her conversation with her son.
— You… what do you think you’re doing? — she hissed.
Darina put the phone back on the shelf and turned to her. There was no fear in her eyes, no anger—only cold, absolute exhaustion, and the same cold determination.
— I’m allowing myself to live in my own home, Galina Viktorovna. And you, it seems, have overstayed your welcome.
But the mother-in-law wasn’t about to give up. She couldn’t believe this outburst was anything more than a tantrum. She’d seen this on soap operas: the girl would cry, then everything would go back to normal. She decided to reinforce her position.
— She’s having a fit. It’ll pass, — she said more to herself than to Darina, and demonstratively walked to the sink. — I’m not going anywhere. I’ll wait for my son, and we’ll decide together how to treat you. And in the meantime, I’ll bring some order here. I’ll start with these dirty dishes.
Her decision to stay and “put things in order” didn’t provoke any visible reaction from Darina. She didn’t block her way to the sink, didn’t snatch the plates from her hands. She simply watched as Galina Viktorovna, wearing the face of a martyr taking on an unbearable burden, began clattering the dishes. Every sound—the clink of a plate, the squeak of a sponge, the rush of water—was soaked in judgment. This wasn’t help. It was a punitive operation, a performance meant to demonstrate what a real homemaker should look like.
After finishing the dishes, Galina Viktorovna didn’t calm down. Her energy demanded an outlet, a new battlefield. She left the kitchen and, wiping her already spotless hands on an apron she always carried in her bag, marched into the living room. Her gaze slid over the space, assessing and passing sentence.
— The sofa is placed awkwardly, of course. It blocks all the light from the window. And why did you hang that painting here? It belongs in the hallway—it’s too dark for the living room. And the wedding photo… Kostya looks so tired in it. You can tell you wore him out even before the wedding.
She said it into the air, not directly addressing Darina, as if dictating observations for an invisible report. Darina walked past her in silence, not even bothering to answer. Her steps were light and quiet. She headed into the bedroom. Galina Viktorovna frowned but didn’t follow. She decided the daughter-in-law had gone to sulk into her pillow, and that suited her just fine. Let her sit there and think about her behavior.
But no sobbing came from the bedroom. A minute later, Darina came back out. In her hands was a large dark-blue wheeled suitcase—the same one she and Kostya had taken on their honeymoon. She rolled it silently across the laminate floor into the living room and opened it. The clicks of the latches rang out in the room with startling clarity.
Galina Viktorovna stopped talking about interior design and stared at her daughter-in-law in confusion.
— What kind of performance is this now? Are you going somewhere? Decided to run away without waiting for your husband? Fine—run. Maybe then you’ll finally understand what a treasure you’re losing… To be continued a bit lower in the first comment.