— So, that’s how it is, Lenochka. We talked it over, and I decided: starting from the first, your salary will be shared. That’s enough of this free-spirited life with food deliveries and endless boxes from online shops.
A family means everything cooks in one pot — said Margarita Stepanovna, adjusted her glasses, then slapped her palm on the kitchen table as if stamping a verdict.
Lena slowly set down her coffee cup. Something traitorous trembled in her chest, but her face remained expressionless. Her husband, bent over his bowl of porridge, stubbornly studied the pattern on the tablecloth.
Sasha always did this when his mother went into battle: he disguised himself as a piece of furniture.
— Shared, you say? — Lena asked quietly. — And what exactly belongs to the concept of “shared,” Margarita Stepanovna? My bonuses too? Or only my base salary?
— Everything, dear. To the very last penny. I will keep the accounting, and I’ll give you and Sasha money for travel and lunches. After all, we’re saving for an expansion, have you forgotten?
Or would you rather that we squeeze into this two-room apartment until old age?
Margarita Stepanovna was glowing. She loved order. In her world, order smelled of chlorine and came with strict accounting.
— All right — Lena suddenly smiled, which finally made her husband look up at her in alarm. — I agree. But on one condition: if it’s “shared,” then it truly means everything.
All income, all savings, and every account that exists in the names of the family members. If we’re building communism in this apartment, let’s be honest to the very end.
The first week passed in strange silence. Margarita Stepanovna took out a thick linen-bound notebook. With pleasure she wrote down Sasha’s engineer salary and Lena’s marketing income.
— You see — she explained during dinner — today we saved three hundred rubles. We didn’t buy that… “almond milk raf.” In a month that’s nine thousand. Which, if you think about it, is three square centimeters of the new apartment!
Lena silently nodded and poked at the slightly dry cutlet with her fork. She waited.
— By the way, Margarita Stepanovna — Lena remarked casually — tomorrow is Saturday. We’re going to the bank.
— What for? — the mother-in-law squinted suspiciously.
— What do you mean what for? You said it yourself: from now on the budget is shared. In your pension account there’s the money from selling grandfather’s dacha and the savings you put aside over ten years.
I calculated: if we add them to the common fund, we can repay the mortgage five years earlier. After all, this is shared money, right? If my salary is yours, then your savings are ours.
The kitchen became so quiet that the dripping tap in the bathroom could be heard. Margarita Stepanovna opened her mouth, then closed it, and her face slowly turned the color of ripe beetroot.
— Th-that’s different! — she finally squeezed out. — That’s mine! For my old age!
— What old age, mama? — Lena said kindly. — We’re family, after all. We’ll take care of you, feed you, look after you. And money should work. You said it yourself: “everything in one pot.”
Or do you mean that your salary — I mean your pension — is yours, while mine is shared? That doesn’t sound very family-like. Sasha, what do you say?
Sasha, completely caught off guard by the question, coughed.
— Well… mom… Lena is right somewhere. Truth either applies to everyone or to no one.
Margarita Stepanovna realized she had made a tactical mistake. She wanted power over other people’s money but had never planned to share her own.
— I’m not going anywhere! — she snapped.
— Well — Lena shrugged — then tomorrow I’ll open my own savings account and transfer my salary there.
If the agreement about full transparency didn’t happen, then we return to the old system: everyone manages their own money. Oh, and you’ll also have to pay your share of the internet — last night you watched series all evening.
Margarita Stepanovna tossed and turned all night. The fear of losing control over her daughter-in-law battled with her stinginess. But in the morning Lena delivered the decisive blow.
A printed sheet lay on the kitchen table. Nice infographics, tables, calculations.
— Look here, Margarita Stepanovna — Lena pointed. — If we combine your savings with our income, we can buy not only a bigger apartment. A house. With a garden.
Your own veranda, where you can drink tea and grow your favorite hydrangeas. But the house will be registered in three equal parts. In all three of our names.
Hydrangeas were the mother-in-law’s weak point. Ever since she sold that dacha, she had dreamed about them.
— In equal parts? — she asked quietly. — And I will be an owner there too?
— A co-owner. In the family council your word will be worth the same as ours. But the expenses will also be accounted for together.
There will be no more secretly bought expensive porcelain sets that stand for years in the display cabinet. Every penny will go to the house.
A month later the linen-bound notebook was replaced by a mobile app. Margarita Stepanovna, who at first grumbled about “these internet things,” now enthusiastically tracked cashback offers.
She really did transfer her savings to the joint account. But the real miracle didn’t happen in the bank — it happened in the atmosphere of the apartment.
— Lenochka — she said one evening — I saw a sale on almond milk. Shall we buy some? Sometimes we can reward ourselves if we have a surplus in the other categories.
Lena looked at her mother-in-law. She no longer seemed like a supervisor. More like… a partner.
— Let’s buy it, Margarita Stepanovna. And good coffee too. We deserve it.
Six months passed. The house was still only a plan, but the foundations of their relationship already stood firmly.
Lena realized that her mother-in-law hadn’t wanted to control everything out of malice — she was afraid of becoming unnecessary, pushed to the edge of their lives.
And Margarita Stepanovna understood that a “shared salary” meant not only power, but enormous responsibility for other people’s happiness.
When Lena brought the papers for the plot of land, Margarita Stepanovna looked for a long time at her name in the line of owners. She took off her glasses, wiped them with a handkerchief, and quietly said:
— You know, Lena… I thought these “shared” rules would leave me penniless. But now, for the first time in ten years, I feel like I’m home. Not visiting my son — but at home.
They sat in the kitchen drinking that very almond-milk coffee.
At that moment the budget truly was shared. Not because it was written in a notebook, but because the joy of future hydrangeas together was worth more than any lonely pension savings.
— Just let’s build the fence high — the mother-in-law suddenly added, with the old mischievous sparkle in her eyes. — So the neighbors won’t see how much we spend on fertilizer. Let that be our little family secret.
Lena burst out laughing. In this house they had finally learned to share not only rubles, but life as well. Completely.
