1. The Kitchen
The kitchen was warm, filled with the scent of frying cutlets and the faint, persistent aroma of detergent. Arina stood at the stove, spatula in hand, concentrating on turning the patties just right. Behind her, the familiar, grating voice of her mother-in-law broke the peace.
“Arina, bake a cabbage pie for dinner tomorrow,” Lyudmila Vasilievna declared, lowering herself into a chair as though she were royalty. She wore her favorite burgundy sweater, the one she always wore when she wanted to feel important. “I haven’t eaten any proper baked goods in a long time; you keep making some strange dishes.”
Arina tensed, but kept her tone even. “I’m allergic to cabbage, Lyudmila Vasilievna. I won’t make it.”
“What do you mean you won’t?” The older woman’s voice rose, sharp as a knife. “I asked you, and you refuse? Who do you think you are to talk back to me? In my day, daughters-in-law respected their elders!”
Arina took a deep breath, moving the pan to another burner. “This isn’t about respect. If I cook cabbage, I’ll have an allergic attack. Cook it yourself if you want it so badly.”
“Cook it myself?” Lyudmila Vasilievna’s voice was incredulous. “I’m not your servant! You’re the lady of the house, so cook what I say! And your allergy — it’s just made up. You’re just too lazy to bother with the dough!”
“Laziness?” Arina turned, her patience thinning. “I cook every day, clean, do laundry. But I won’t make a cabbage pie because I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?” The older woman stepped closer, her eyes narrowed. “You think just because my son married you, you can boss me around? We’ll see who’s the boss in this house!”
At that moment, keys jingled in the hallway — Mikhail was home. Lyudmila Vasilievna’s face transformed instantly, adopting a wounded, suffering expression.
“Misha, son,” she called, hurrying to the door. “Good you’re home. Your wife has become completely insolent! I asked her to bake a pie, and she’s rude, refuses!”
Mikhail appeared in the doorway, tired from work. He glanced at Arina, who stood by the stove, tense and silent.
“Arina, what’s going on?” he asked, hanging up his jacket.
“I’m allergic to cabbage, Misha,” Arina said quietly. “I explained it to Lyudmila Vasilievna.”
“What allergy?” Mikhail waved his hand dismissively. “Mom, don’t be upset. Arina will bake the pie tomorrow. Right, dear?”
Arina looked at her husband, then at her mother-in-law, who smiled triumphantly. Her heart ached with hurt.
“No, I won’t bake it,” she said firmly, pulling off her apron and heading to the bedroom. “Have dinner yourselves.”
She closed the door behind her, muffling the voices from the kitchen. She lay face down on the pillow, tears wetting the fabric, while behind the wall, mother and son ate dinner and discussed their day as if nothing had happened.
2. The Morning After
In the morning, Arina woke early. The apartment was quiet; Lyudmila Vasilievna was still asleep. Mikhail sat at the kitchen table, scrolling through his phone.
“Misha, I need to talk to you,” Arina said, sitting across from him, hands clasped.
He looked up, frowning. “About what?”
“About your mother.” Arina steadied herself. “I’m tired of constant nagging. Lyudmila Vasilievna criticizes everything — how I cook, how I clean, what I wear. I’m fed up with obeying her in our own… our home.”
“Arina, what are you talking about?” Mikhail put down his phone. “Mom behaves normally. She just has her habits.”
“Habits?” Arina’s voice sharpened. “Is that what you call bossing around grown adults? Misha, maybe your mother should find a rented apartment? Let her live separately? We’re still young; we need our own space.”
Mikhail’s face hardened. “You want to throw my mother out? She asked to live with us, and you want to kick her out?”
“I’m not saying that,” Arina tried to reach for his hand, but he pulled away. “Just a separate place. We could help with the rent…”
“Listen, I don’t like this,” Mikhail stood, preparing for work. “Mom doesn’t bother anyone. On the contrary, she makes our life better — she cooks, helps around the house.”
“When does she cook?” Arina also stood. “Misha, open your eyes! I work, come home, cook dinner, clean, do laundry. And your mother just criticizes!”
“Enough,” Mikhail cut her off, pulling on his jacket. “I don’t want to hear this anymore. Mom is staying with us. Period.”
He left, the door slamming behind him.
Arina sat at the table, staring at the cold coffee in her cup, feeling utterly alone.
3. The Days That Followed
Days passed in a tense, prickly silence. Arina performed her chores wordlessly, moving through her own home like a ghost. Lyudmila Vasilievna, emboldened by her son’s support, grew even more demanding.
“Arina, the curtains are dusty. Why haven’t you washed them?”
“Arina, this soup is too salty.”
“Arina, you should dress more decently when Misha comes home.”
Every word was a pinprick. Mikhail avoided confrontation, spending longer hours at work, coming home late and eating quickly before retreating to the bedroom with his phone or laptop.
One evening, Arina sat on the balcony, staring at the city lights. She thought about her life before marriage — her job at the library, her friends, the small apartment she’d loved for its peace and privacy. She’d given it up for Mikhail, believing in the promise of partnership. Instead, she felt like a maid in someone else’s house.
The next morning, she called her friend Katya.
“Can we meet for coffee?” Arina’s voice trembled.
Katya agreed immediately. They met at a small café near the library, where the smell of books and fresh pastries mingled in the air. As soon as they sat down, Arina burst into tears.
“It’s like I don’t exist,” she sobbed. “I’m just… a servant. Mikhail doesn’t see me. His mother hates me. I don’t know what to do.”
Katya listened patiently, then squeezed her hand. “You need to stand up for yourself, Arina. This is your home, too. You have rights. You’re not a servant.”
“But if I push back, Mikhail just gets angry. He always takes her side.”
Katya’s eyes flashed. “Then maybe you need to decide what you want. Do you want to live like this forever?”
Arina wiped her eyes, silent.
4. The Breaking Point
That night, Arina lay awake, staring at the ceiling. She thought about her mother, who had raised her to be independent, to value herself. She remembered her father’s advice: “Never let anyone treat you like you’re less than you are.”
She rose quietly, went to the living room, and sat in the dark. She made a list in her mind: everything she did, everything Lyudmila Vasilievna did, everything Mikhail did. The imbalance was glaring.
The next morning, she made a decision.
At breakfast, she served coffee and toast, then sat down across from Mikhail and his mother.
“I’ve decided to go stay with Katya for a few days,” she said calmly.
Mikhail looked up, startled. “What? Why?”
“I need space. I need to think. I can’t live like this anymore.”
Lyudmila Vasilievna snorted. “Running away? How childish.”
Arina ignored her, looking only at Mikhail. “I hope you’ll use this time to think, too.”
She packed a bag, kissed Mikhail on the cheek, and left.
5. Katya’s Apartment
Katya welcomed her with open arms. The apartment was small but cheerful, filled with plants and sunlight. Arina felt a weight lift from her shoulders.
For the first time in months, she slept through the night.
The days passed quietly. Arina went for walks, read books, helped Katya with chores. She thought about her marriage, about what she wanted, about what she deserved.
One evening, Katya found her on the balcony.
“What will you do?” she asked gently.
Arina sighed. “I don’t know. I love Mikhail. But I can’t go back to being invisible. I want a partner, not a jailer.”
“Then tell him that,” Katya said. “If he loves you, he’ll listen.”
6. The Conversation
After a week, Mikhail called.
“Arina, come home. Please. I miss you.”
“Do you miss me, or do you miss having someone to cook and clean?” Arina’s voice was steady.
There was silence on the line.
“Come home,” he said finally. “We’ll talk.”
Arina packed her things and returned to the apartment. She found Mikhail waiting in the living room, looking tired and uncertain.
They sat together on the couch.
“Misha, I can’t live like this,” Arina said. “I need respect. I need boundaries. Your mother treats me like a servant. You don’t defend me. I feel alone in my own home.”
Mikhail rubbed his face. “I… I didn’t realize.”
“You didn’t want to realize. It was easier to ignore it. But I can’t ignore it anymore. I want us to be a team. I want our home to be ours, not your mother’s.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Set boundaries. Tell your mother she can’t order me around. If she wants to stay, she needs to respect me. If not… maybe it’s time for her to find her own place.”
Mikhail was silent for a long time.
“I’ll talk to her,” he said finally.
7. Confrontation
That evening, Mikhail called his mother into the living room.
“Mom, we need to talk,” he said.
Lyudmila Vasilievna sat down, folding her arms.
“Mama, this is our home. Arina is my wife. You can’t treat her like a servant. If you want to stay with us, you need to respect her. No more demands. No more criticism.”
His mother’s eyes widened in shock. “You’re taking her side?”
“I’m taking my wife’s side. I love you, but I love her, too. We need peace in this house.”
Lyudmila Vasilievna was silent, her lips pressed into a thin line.
“If you can’t accept that,” Mikhail continued, “maybe it’s time to find a place of your own. We’ll help you, of course.”
The older woman stood abruptly, her face red with anger.
“Fine! If that’s how it is, I’ll go. You’ll regret this, Misha.”
She stormed out, slamming the door.
8. The Aftermath
The apartment was silent. Mikhail slumped onto the couch, head in his hands.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
Arina sat beside him, taking his hand. “Thank you. I know it wasn’t easy.”
“I love you,” he whispered. “I don’t want to lose you.”
“You won’t. But we need to build something new. Together.”
They spent the evening talking, really talking, for the first time in months. They discussed chores, boundaries, dreams. They laughed, cried, and held each other.
9. A New Beginning
Lyudmila Vasilievna moved into a small apartment nearby. At first, she was cold and distant, but over time, she softened. She invited Arina and Mikhail for tea, learned to cook for herself, and even apologized — awkwardly, but sincerely.
Arina returned to her job at the library, rekindled friendships, and started painting again. She and Mikhail took dance classes, traveled, and learned to enjoy each other’s company without the shadow of disapproval.
Their home became a place of laughter and warmth, a true partnership.
One evening, as Arina pulled a tray of apple pastries from the oven, Mikhail hugged her from behind.
“Thank you for coming back,” he whispered.
“Thank you for fighting for us,” she replied.
Together, they set the table, the scent of cinnamon filling the air. There was no cabbage pie, but there was peace, and love, and the promise of many more dinners to come.

THE END