— Twelve points, Valera. Twelve! She even listed the articles at the market.
I threw the phone onto the kitchen table. The screen flashed for a moment, highlighting a message from “Nina’s mother”: the list was longer than all my holiday plans combined.
At the top of the list, as if mocking me, was a Japanese bread maker for thirty-five thousand. Two paddles. White, to match her new kitchen — the one I had already paid a deposit for last March.
Valera didn’t even flinch. He sat on the stool, meticulously inspecting the hole in his gray sock, poking it with his big toe. That was his trick: when he sensed trouble, he completely broke inside, like a rag.
— Well, Jan… You know, it’s mom’s anniversary today. Thirty years since she met dad.
She raised us, my sister and me, alone. It’s only fair that she gets proper bread in her old age, not that plastic from the corner store shelf, but real bread with a crispy crust.
I looked at my husband behind her. Fifty-two years old, still talking about “mom’s legs” and “the nineties.”
I — an accountant at a major corporation — know in my dreams at three in the morning that debits and credits must balance, while he can’t manage anything in life at all.
— My money is ours, yours… your mother’s. Right, Valera? — I stepped to the window.
— When did you last pay the mortgage on the Khimki apartment? February?
— My mom deserves it — he repeated stubbornly without looking up.
— She… she’s sacred.
Sacred Nina Georgievna sent another message. A link for earrings. With topaz. “Marina, your jewelry store has a 20% discount now, Valera said. Get them, they match my eye color.”
Three days later, we went to the summer house. The weather was awful, typical Moscow suburb: the sun shone, but the cold from the shaded ground cut through us.
Nina Georgievna ruled her six percent of land in a new summer dress I had bought her “just because” two weeks ago.
I worked in the raspberry patch. The old branches scratched my arms, the soil stuck under my nails. At one point I sat behind the bushes to catch my breath and heard voices from the veranda.
Mother-in-law was receiving a guest, Antonina Petrovna. Cups clinked.
— Oh, Tonechka — her voice was syrupy, sticky.
— I sent Marina the list. Yesterday. Twelve items! She needs to work it off. She’s our “big person,” money doesn’t go bad on chickens. Surely she stacks it in bundles in the safe.
— She won’t be offended? — Antonina Petrovna sipped her tea.
— She’s not her own daughter. Or will Valerka get mad?
— Valerka? — Nina Georgievna giggled.
— My son listens like a first grader. Marina… my God, Tone, who is she? Just a temporary option. Valera appreciates my comfort: laundry, cooking, paying bills.
— If he gets bored, he’ll find another, younger. As long as she’s here and gives money — I’ll take advantage. Why let it go to waste? Did you see the bread maker? Forty thousand! I’ll bake a bundt, you’ll come to me.
I froze. The pruning shears in my hand felt heavy, like a hammer. “Temporary option.”
The sentence he said at the start of our marriage flashed in my mind: “You’re just temporary, but make sure the bread maker is good.” I thought he was joking. But it was the motto.
Something stabbed in my chest. Somehow… permanently. At fifty-one, people no longer cry from offense. At fifty-one, they open a bank account and start calculating.
In the evening, when I returned home, mother-in-law was in the kitchen. On the fridge door, held by a crown-shaped magnet, hung the list. She had rewritten it by hand — on squared paper, with the handwriting of a former teacher.
— Nina Georgievna — I stepped up and tapped her earring with my finger.
— Seventy thousand. You really think I’ll pay this?
Mother-in-law immediately sat on the stool. Her hand reflexively went to the collar of her flannel robe. Her eyes filled with tears instantly.
— You’re counting pennies on me, Marinachka? — her voice trembled.
— I raised Valera alone… my heart… oh… Valera!
Valera burst into the kitchen, nearly knocking me over.
— Marin, why are you starting this again?! — he shouted, grabbing at the filing folder.
— See, she’s unwell! Mom, here, drink some water. I’ll drip a little.
The smell of mint filled the kitchen. This was their well-practiced scene. Mother-in-law suffered, the son saved her, and I felt I was the last one to care about “sacred” things.
— I’m not counting pennies, Nina Georgievna — I said, watching her theatrically place her hand on her chest.
— I’m counting years. And interest.
I went out into the garden. My head was surprisingly calm. The scales no longer balanced, and I knew exactly what I would do.
The next week was quiet from me. I even nodded when Nina Georgievna remarked during dinner:
“The bread maker is better with a jam function in case I want to make jam.” Valera relaxed. He thought I had “swallowed it.”
But at night, when my husband snored, turned toward the wall, I sat in the kitchen with my laptop. I pulled up all archived bank transfers from the past five years.
The amount paid for her treats (most recently) — one hundred eighty thousand.
For her two-room apartment’s window replacement — ninety-five thousand.
Monthly “vitamins” — fifteen each.
The wellness retreat she said Valera “saved for.” Right, he saved. From my card, which he had access to “for household.”
The bottom line in the table took my breath away. Almost three million. Five years of paying for her was equivalent to a foreign car. Just to be a “temporary option.”
I went to the stationery store. Bought the most expensive leather-bound folder. Serious, like a report for the tax office. I placed all printed receipts in clear sleeves.
On the last page — a bank statement closing the joint account and dividing the loans.
Then I went to the gift shop. Bought a box, the size of the Japanese bread maker. And a huge red silk ribbon, provocative, defiant.
I remember sitting at home alone, trying to tie the cursed bow. The ribbon slipped, my fingers were uncooperative, it stung my nose.
I thought of when she brought the old, burned pan to our housewarming and said: “Until you buy your own, use this.” We hadn’t bought our own. The money always went elsewhere. Now I knew where.
On Saturday, it was impossible to get through mother-in-law’s apartment. Relatives came even from Ryazan. The crystal in the service room rattled from loud toasts. Nina Georgievna sat at the head of the table in a new blue dress (of course, I bought it for her).
— Well, what did the kids make? — Uncle Kolya shouted, pouring liqueur.
— Valerka bragged it would be a royal gift!
I stood up. The room fell silent, only the clock ticking. I carried out the box. The red ribbon blazed in the chandelier light like a brake lamp.
— Nina Georgievna — I began, my voice so calm Valera even twitched.
— Valera and I decided for the thirtieth anniversary the gift should be… memorable. Everything on her list. The oven, the earrings, the teeth. All in one box.
Mother-in-law beamed. She impatiently began tearing the wrapping paper. The guests craned their necks.
— Oh, it’s so heavy… — she complained.
— Valerka, help!
The lid popped off. Inside, on silk, lay my folder. Nina Georgievna froze. She opened the first file. Then the second. Her face slowly turned gray.
— What is this? — she whispered.
— These… are the receipts?
— This is your gift. Five years of full financial accounting — I said softly, but everyone in the silence heard.
— Here is everything, Nina Georgievna. Every ruble I spent for your comfort. On the last page, the total. Almost three million. Consider it as paying for your “wants” ten years in advance.
Nina Georgievna flipped the page, trembling. She saw the number.
— You… you did this… — she touched her neck.
— Valera! She… in front of them…
— More honest in front of them — I cut in.
— Valera, I blocked your card half an hour ago. Now everything is on your own. Loan, mom’s earrings, teeth. Your salary will just cover one paddle of the bread maker.
I turned to the guests, who were sitting with mouths open.
— Nina Georgievna recently said I was a temporary option here. Well, the time is up.
I stepped out of the house. The air was clear, smelled of rain. I felt no guilt. Only incredible lightness, as if I had lifted a sack of bread makers off my back.
I went to the neighboring house. Antonina Petrovna was already waiting in the kitchen — she left the celebration first, sensing something was wrong.
— Well, Marin, you really nailed it… she just called, — she whispered while pouring tea.
— Nina is hysterical, Valera is panicking. She dropped her dentures in the salad, can you imagine?
— Let her panic — I sipped. The tea was bitter, with mint.
— You know, at fifty, one realizes: it’s better to be “bad” in someone else’s eyes than invisible in your own home.
My phone vibrated in my bag. Fifteen missed calls from Valera. Five messages from my sister — just complaints. I simply deleted Messenger. Everything. Silence.
— The teeth… — I smiled.
— Keep the teeth for yourself. They’ll suit you better.
That night I stayed at Antonina’s. We sat long on the balcony, watching the city lights. In the morning, I went to the agency and booked a hotel by the sea for myself.
Two weeks later, Valera finally messaged. Brief, fragmented: “Mom called. Her tap broke. And no bread. Who pays for this?”
I read it sitting in a small café by the shore. The sun was different here — gentle, not biting.
I sipped my coffee. Bitter, hot, expensive.
I signed with three words:
— Sell the teeth, Valera.
And clicked “add to cart.” It wasn’t a message, it was their whole past.
At fifty-one, life doesn’t end. You just stop being a charity case for those who treat you as a temporary option.
I straightened my back. Nothing hurt. Neither my heart nor my conscience.
And could you, with a single move, close a five-year series played under the title of “good bride”? Tell me, when was the last time you did something solely for yourself, without considering the mother?
In our circle of women, it’s important to say such things, because often we stay silent where we should stand up for ourselves.
