— My mother is moving in with us, clear out the room! — my husband declared firmly.
Denis threw the keys onto the hallway table, slipped off his boots without untying them, and walked into the kitchen. I was sitting at the table, sorting through orders.
On the countertop lay chunks of soap base, bottles of essential oils, silicone molds, and cardboard boxes. It was my little hobby, which was slowly starting to bring in money.
Hearing his words, I stopped cutting the tape. The roll made an unpleasant crack and hung in the air.
— What did you say? — I put the scissors aside, my hands trembling.
— Exactly what you heard, Rita. Tamara Ilyinichna is unwell. She’s moving this Saturday. Pack up your molds, pots, and boxes today. You’ll move them to our bedroom, we’ll put the table in the corner by the wardrobe. We’ll squeeze a little.
He took a juice pack from the fridge, poured himself a full glass, and drank it in one gulp. He set the glass on the sink with a loud clunk.
I felt completely unsettled. This small room with its narrow window looking onto the blank wall of the neighboring building was my only personal meter in the entire apartment.
My shelf stood there, and I could close the door and sit alone for an hour while our six-year-old son Ilja watched cartoons. Denis knew how happy I had been when we renovated that room. And now he had undone everything. Alone.
— Denis, we agreed to discuss such things together — I looked at his back in the crumpled shirt. — Where should I put the shelf? There isn’t even room in the bedroom for the ironing board.
— Don’t get worked up! — he turned sharply. — A person needs care. She’s alone. And you’re making a problem over your soap. That’s it. Conversation closed.
He went to the living room, his footsteps heavy on the laminate floor. Soon, the voices of sports commentators came through.
I sat over the half-packed box. The smell of lavender and sweet orange filled the air, but I felt queasy from it.
It wasn’t about my mother-in-law. It was about how easily I had been pushed aside, simply being presented with a fait accompli.
I brushed the cardboard scraps into the trash, wiped my hands with a damp cloth, and took out my phone.
— Hello, Mom? Are you awake? — I asked, listening to the ringing.
— Not sleeping, Rita — Antonina Sergeevna’s voice sounded lively, with the television murmuring in the background. — Knitting here. How are you? Iljuska not coughing?
— Not coughing. Mom, I have a proposition — I lowered my voice, glancing at the living room door. — Come live with us. Right now, for the winter. Why freeze alone in a country house, shovel snow? It’s warm in the city, shops nearby, Ilja will be happy.
There was silence on her end. The click of knitting needles against the table could be heard.
— Rita, did something happen? Is Denis acting up?
— No one’s acting up. We just freed up a small room. Plenty of space. Come tomorrow morning on the first train.
I spent the whole night packing my soap.
I carefully arranged the molds, wrapped the bottles in bubble wrap. Denis peeked in once, saw the boxes, nodded to himself, and went to sleep. He thought I had given in.
On Friday morning, the doorbell rang. Denis was chewing a sandwich before leaving for work. He unlocked the door.
On the landing stood my mother. In a gray quilted coat, with two large, sturdy fabric bags.
— Good morning, hosts! — Antonina Sergeevna stepped inside, setting the bags on the mat.
Denis choked. He looked at the bags, then at my mother’s face, then slowly at me. I stood calmly, leaning against the door frame.
— Antonina… Sergeevna? What brings you here so early? — he stammered.
— Rita invited me. She said it’s boring for me alone in the village. I’m old, my back aches, I have to carry firewood. I’ll stay with you until spring and take care of the little grandson — Mom took off her boots and went to wash her hands in the bathroom.
Denis called me into the kitchen, clearly wanting to talk without witnesses.
— Rita, what are you doing? My mother is coming tomorrow!
— I know — I gently moved his hand aside. — But you said yesterday that an elderly person finds it hard to be alone in four walls and needs care. My mother also finds it hard. So she will live with us.
— Where will she sleep?!
— In the small room. I set up the old fold-out sofa. There will be enough space for the two of them. They’re almost the same age; they’ll find common ground.
Denis opened his mouth, closed it, rubbed his chin. He couldn’t throw my mother out — we bought the apartment together on a mortgage, paying equally.
He didn’t want to make a scene in front of Ilja, who was already happily clinging to his grandmother. He grabbed his jacket and rushed out.
Tamara Ilyinichna arrived on Saturday by noon. In an expensive cream-colored coat, with a wheeled leather suitcase.
— Denis, be careful, it’s fragile! — she commanded from the doorway as my husband dragged the suitcase into the hallway. — And open the kitchen window, your place smells of frying oil.
She marched to the small room like a housekeeper, opened the door, and froze.
On the sofa sat Antonina Sergeevna, sorting yarn in a plastic container.
— Hello, Tamara. Come in — Mom adjusted her glasses on her nose. — I freed up the left shelf in the wardrobe for you.
The mother-in-law slowly turned her head to her son.
— What is this, a communal apartment, Denis? You promised me a separate bedroom!
My husband shifted from foot to foot, looking at the floor.
— Mom, well, it turned out this way… Rita invited her own too. We’ll have to squeeze.
The mother-in-law pursed her lips so tightly they almost disappeared from her face. She had nowhere to retreat — her own “two-room” apartment was already rented out for half a year. Silently, she shoved the suitcase into the corner and slammed the door demonstratively.
The strange days began.
My mother woke up at seven. Quietly she cooked oatmeal, fed Ilja, braided his hair after washing. She didn’t interfere in our conversations, didn’t move cups around in the kitchen. She just lived alongside us.
Tamara Ilyinichna came out at ten. She stared at the stove for a long time, then sighed loudly so it could be heard in the corridor:
— This peasant porridge again. Denis will get heartburn from it.
She washed the clean dishes after me, scolded Ilja if he dropped a toy on the laminate floor. Constantly ventilated the rooms, complained about the air. Denis and I stopped talking at dinner.
The clatter of forks on plates sounded unnaturally loud. No one wanted to start a conversation, lest it provoke a quarrel.
Two weeks later, the sore burst.
On Friday evening, Antonina Sergeevna made plov. Real, with cumin and barberry. The kitchen smelled warm and spicy. Mom and I were drinking tea when the mother-in-law came in.
She opened the fridge, scanned the shelves, closed the door. Then she looked at the pot with plov.
— You want to fill the whole house with this greasy smell? — her voice became so sharp it hurt my ears. — My coat in the hallway already smells of your dining room!
— Tamara, don’t quarrel over nothing — my mother answered peacefully. — It’s delicious. Sit, I’ll serve a portion.
— Keep your food to yourself! — the mother-in-law raised her voice. — You’re here on bird rights! Came from the village and giving orders!
I put down my cup. Tea spilled on the tablecloth.
— Tamara Ilyinichna, stop. My mother is in my house. You have no right to speak to her this way.
— Oh, in your house?! — she turned sharply toward me. — This house was bought by my son!
The lock clicked in the corridor. Denis entered. He took off his coat, went to the kitchen, and looked at us. He looked miserable, completely exhausted.
— What are we dividing now? — he asked softly.
— Your wife and her mother are driving me out! — the mother-in-law pointed at me. — They’re doing it on purpose!
Denis closed his eyes, took a deep breath.
— Enough. Just be quiet, all of you — he moved his hand from his face. — I don’t want to go home. I sit in the car outside for an hour just to avoid listening to this. You’ve done me in. Both of you.
Tamara Ilyinichna stepped back.
— So your own mother bothers you? — she swallowed. — Fine. I’ll leave. Tomorrow I’ll evict the tenants and go.
She went into the room and began slamming drawers open. Denis didn’t follow. He sat on a stool, staring out the window.
Later that evening, when the children and grandmothers had gone to their rooms, I went to my husband.
— Why did you even bring her here? She has a good apartment, a pension, friends.
He stared at his hands for a long time.
— Rita, after father passed, she changed. She called me at night, crying. She said she hears his footsteps in the corridor. She was visibly declining. I thought I’d bring her here; there’s noise, Iljuska running… I thought it would distract her.
My heart tightened. I suddenly vividly imagined this woman alone in an empty apartment. All her bitterness, sharpness, quarrels — it was just a twisted attempt to defend herself from enormous loneliness. She didn’t know how to ask for help any other way.
In the morning, my mother stepped into the corridor in boots and coat. In her hands — bags.
— Where are you going? — I stopped her.
— Time to go home, Rita. The chickens need the neighbor, the stove must be lit. You deal with things here yourselves — she hugged me. — Learn to talk without crutches. Call Tamara. She’s in the worst place right now.
When the door closed behind her, the apartment seemed empty. I went to the kitchen, poured coffee. Then I picked up the phone and called the mother-in-law. Tamara Ilyinichna answered on the fifth ring.
— Hello.
Her voice was colorless. Lacking the usual steel.
— Tamara Ilyinichna, hello — I looked out the window at the wet asphalt. — Come. There’s plenty of space. Denis is worried. Ilja has been asking about you since morning.
A long silence. Only soft breathing through the phone.
— I… I said too much yesterday, Rita — she spoke so quietly I had to press the phone to my ear.
— It’s okay. Come.
She returned by evening. Without commanding tones, without reproaches. Simply took off her coat, went to the kitchen, and took a box of eclairs.
Since this story, Denis has changed significantly. He asks my opinion before shopping, assembled my new work desk himself, and placed it on the heated balcony.
And Tamara Ilyinichna didn’t become the perfect mother-in-law from a commercial. Sometimes she grumbled out of habit at crumbs on the table. But one late evening, passing by my son’s room, I heard a soft voice.
The mother-in-law was sitting on the edge of Ilja’s bed, straightening the blanket, reading him a story. There was so much care in her words, which she had long hidden behind her constant grumbling.
People are not born evil. Sometimes they just receive too hard a blow from life and forget how to be warm. But if you do not respond to aggression with aggression, everything can be fixed. The most important thing is to want to.
