When Alisa heard her mother-in-law’s voice over the phone, she could tell immediately from the overly cheerful tone that trouble was coming.
She held the receiver between her shoulder and ear, turned the key, and shut off the car engine. It was eight in the evening—far too late for anyone to be that enthusiastic.
“Alisa, is it true you bought a car? Miron mentioned it yesterday,” chimed Valeriya Vitalievna’s voice.
Alisa closed her eyes for a moment. The scent of the new car lingered inside, the freshly chosen seat covers she had agonized over still crisp under her fingers.
This car wasn’t a gift, nor a stroke of luck. It was the result of three years of self-denial.
“Yes, Valeriya Vitalievna,” she replied softly. “I brought it home yesterday.”
“Wonderful! Then you’ll drive us around the city for New Year’s Eve. My sister and I want to visit all our friends and wish everyone a happy new year. From now on, you’re the family chauffeur.”
Alisa opened her mouth, but no words came out. She stared at the steering wheel, her fingers tightening slowly around it. She remembered all the vacations, new clothes, and coffees with Kira she had skipped just to save a little more.
“Valeriya Vitalievna, Miron and I already have plans for New Year’s Eve,” she finally said. “We were thinking of going to the countryside, to a friend, Lesha.”
“What Lesha?!” Her mother-in-law’s voice sharpened. “Friends come first. I’ve already told everyone we’re going. It’s decided.”
“But I can’t—”
“Alisa, don’t make excuses. It’s just one night. Or do you not care about us?”
The line went dead. Her mother-in-law hung up without waiting for a response.
Alisa sat in the car for several minutes, staring at the dark street. Streetlights reflected off the wet pavement. It was mid-December, no snow yet. A hot, suppressed anger began to rise inside her, a feeling she knew all too well.
When she went up to the apartment, Miron was in the kitchen, taking a plate of yesterday’s pelmeni from the microwave.
“Hi,” he smiled at her. “How’s it going? The car treating you well?”
“Your mother called,” Alisa said, dropping the keys on the dresser louder than necessary.
Miron’s smile faltered.
“What did she want?”
“She said that on New Year’s Eve, I’m supposed to drive her and Aunt Galina around the city. She didn’t ask. She ordered.”
Miron slowly set the plate down.
“My mom exaggerates sometimes. We’ll talk to her tomorrow. She’s probably just happy you have a car.”
“Miron, we need to set this straight now. You spoke to Lesha two weeks ago.”
“Alisa, she’s probably asleep. I’ll call tomorrow. One night doesn’t matter. We can go to Lesha another time.”
Alisa removed her coat. Her hands shook. Three years married, and always the same thing. Whatever his mother said was law.
“It matters,” she said quietly. “This is my car. Bought with my money. I have plans too.”
“Don’t make a scene,” Miron waved. “She’s my mom. She’s done a lot for me.”
He sat down to eat without looking at her. Alisa lingered in the kitchen doorway, watching his familiar movements. Then she turned silently, went into the bedroom, and sat on the edge of the bed. She pulled out her phone and texted Kira.
The next morning, she woke early. Miron was gone, leaving only a note: “Sorry about yesterday. I love you.” Alisa crumpled it and threw it away.
At work, Kira was waiting.
“If you give in now, it’s over,” she said firmly. “Today friends, tomorrow shopping, the day after a doctor. You’ll be the driver.”
“I don’t want trouble,” Alisa sighed.
“Then the problem isn’t your mother-in-law—it’s your husband,” Kira replied.
A few days later, Valeriya Vitalievna showed up in person, holding a package. A new fur coat, perfect hair, bold lipstick.
“I bought rubber mats for the car,” she announced. “So it doesn’t get dirty when you drive us.”
She placed them on the table and pulled out a sheet full of addresses and times. Four hours of driving, down to the minute.
“I can’t drive you,” Alisa said. “We’re leaving.”
The smile on her mother-in-law’s face froze. Cold.
“Miron!” she shouted.
Miron appeared, helpless, standing between them.
“See?” the mother-in-law said triumphantly to Alisa. “She understands what family means.”
Alisa stayed silent. She knew that if she spoke now, there would be no turning back.
When her mother-in-law left, Miron began to plead.
“Just this once, Alis—”
“Not once,” she cut him off. “Always like this.”
That evening, Alisa went for a walk, then returned and said something she had never voiced before.
“I’m not going. And you will call your mother.”
Miron was afraid. Afraid of his mother.
The next day he called, skirting the truth. Looking for compromise. That’s when Alisa understood: Miron would never truly take her side.
On December 24, her mother-in-law stormed in, furious.
“You’re taking my son away!” she yelled.
Alisa didn’t flinch.
“I’m not your driver. I’m not your servant. If you want a relationship with your son, learn to respect him.”
The door slammed. Silence remained.
On New Year’s Eve, Miron went to his mother. Alisa stayed alone. She didn’t cry. She just sat, and for the first time, she felt free.
On January 1, she packed her things. Threw out the rubber mats. She left.
Later, Miron realized what he had lost. But it was too late.
Alisa found a new apartment. Small, empty, but hers. That first night, she sat on the floor, gazing at the city, and smiled.
She had lost a marriage, but regained herself.
And that was worth more than anything.
