“Arina, bake a cabbage pie for dinner tomorrow,” Lyudmila Vasilievna ordered as she walked into the kitchen and sat down at the table. “I haven’t had proper pastries in ages. You’re always cooking something strange.”
Arina turned from the stove where she was frying cutlets. Her mother-in-law sat with her usual disapproving look, straightening the burgundy sweater she always wore.
“I’m allergic to cabbage, Lyudmila Vasilievna,” Arina said calmly, flipping a cutlet. “I won’t make it.”
“What do you mean you won’t?” her mother-in-law snapped. “I asked you, and you dare refuse? In my time, daughters-in-law respected their elders!”
“This isn’t about respect,” Arina replied, moving the pan to another burner. “If I cook cabbage, I’ll have an allergic reaction. If you want it so badly, make it yourself.”
“Make it myself?” Lyudmila Vasilievna shot up from her chair. “I’m not your servant! You’re the daughter-in-law—you cook what I say! Your allergy is just an excuse. You’re simply too lazy to deal with dough!”
“What does laziness have to do with this?” Arina turned to her. “I cook every day, I clean, I do laundry. But I won’t make a cabbage pie because I physically can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?” the older woman stepped closer, eyes narrowed. “You think just because my son married you, you can order me around? We’ll see who’s in charge here!”
Keys rattled in the hallway — Mikhail was home. Lyudmila Vasilievna’s expression instantly changed to one of suffering.
“Misha, son,” she hurried to him. “Good thing you’re here. Your wife has gotten so cheeky! I asked her for a pie, and she rudely refused me!”
Mikhail sighed, taking off his jacket. He gave Arina a weary look; she stood tense by the stove.
“Arina, what’s this about? Why are you refusing my mother?”
“I told her already, Misha,” Arina said softly. “I’m allergic to cabbage.”
“Allergy? What allergy?” Mikhail waved it off. “Mom, don’t worry. Arina will bake the pie tomorrow. Right, dear?”
Arina looked at her husband, then at her triumphant mother-in-law. Hurt tightened her chest.
“No, I won’t bake it,” she said firmly, removing her apron. “You can eat without me.”
She walked to the bedroom and shut the door. From the kitchen came muffled voices — Mikhail and his mother ate together, chatting calmly, as if nothing had happened. Arina lay face down on her pillow, tears soaking the fabric.
The next morning, she rose earlier than usual. The house was quiet; Lyudmila Vasilievna was still asleep. Mikhail sat at the kitchen table, scrolling through his phone.
“Misha, we need to talk,” Arina said, sitting across from him.
He frowned. “About what?”
“About your mother.” Arina took a deep breath. “I’m tired of the constant criticism. She comments on everything — how I cook, how I clean, what I wear. I’m tired of living like a guest in my own home.”
“Arina, what are you saying?” Mikhail put down his phone. “Mom’s fine. She just has her habits.”
“Habits?” Arina’s voice rose. “You call bossing around habits? Misha, maybe it’s time we find her an apartment. We’re still young — we need our own space.”
Mikhail slammed his cup down. “So you want to throw my mother out on the street? She asked to live with us, and you want to kick her out?”
“I didn’t say that,” Arina tried to calm him. “We could help with the rent…”
“I don’t want to hear this.” He stood, grabbing his jacket. “Mom stays. Period.”
The door slammed behind him. Arina sat in silence, staring at his half-finished coffee, bitterness rising inside her.
Soon after, Lyudmila Vasilievna entered, neat and stern as always.
“Well, you really embarrassed yourself yesterday,” she sneered. “But you see? My son sided with me. That means I’m the one in charge here. So you’ll do as I say.”
Arina tightened her grip on the kettle.
“Today you’ll clean the whole apartment,” her mother-in-law continued. “Windows, floors, bathroom. Yesterday I saw dust on the dresser! If you refuse, I’ll tell Misha you don’t respect me.”
Something inside Arina snapped.
“No!” her voice rang out. “I won’t do it! I’ve obeyed you long enough — cooking what you demand, cleaning when you say, staying silent when you yell. Enough!”
“How dare you talk back to me?” Lyudmila Vasilievna shouted, red with fury.
“I dare because I’m not your servant! And I won’t tolerate this anymore!”
“If you keep this up, my son will throw you out!”
Arina straightened, her voice stronger than ever.
“You seem to have forgotten whose apartment this is. Mine. Bought before I even met your son. I let you live here for free, and I can make you leave. From now on, you don’t dictate terms to me — understand?”
Her mother-in-law froze, stunned.
“Respect must be earned, not demanded by age,” Arina continued. “And you haven’t earned any.”
“You… you’ll regret this!” Lyudmila Vasilievna gasped. “Misha will always choose me!”
“Then the two of you can move out together,” Arina said coldly.
Lyudmila stormed off, slamming her door. Moments later, Arina heard her on the phone, complaining bitterly to Mikhail.
That evening, Mikhail came home furious.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he shouted. “How dare you threaten my mother?”
“I didn’t threaten. I reminded her this is my apartment,” Arina said evenly.
“This is ours! We’re married — what’s yours is mine!”
“No, Misha. I bought this place before our marriage. And I won’t live under your mother’s control.”
“She did nothing wrong! She only asked for help!”
“She gave orders and insulted me. And you backed her.”
“Of course I did — she’s my mother!”
“Then live with her,” Arina said, opening the front door. “But not here. Pack your things and leave.”
“You can’t be serious!” Mikhail stared at her.
“Dead serious,” she replied. “I choose peace. Without you both.”
Lyudmila appeared in the hallway, startled.
“What’s happening?”
“Pack,” Arina repeated firmly. “You have half an hour.”
For the first time in years, she felt free.
