“When Will This End?” I shouted, and Sergey let out a theatrical sigh, staring at the floor.
“Tanya, why are you yelling?” he mumbled, avoiding my eyes. “Mom’s not asking for that much.”
“Not that much? You really think another transfer for Vera Petrovna isn’t much? We’ve been barely scraping by for months!”
“She’s in a tough spot,” Sergey tried to justify, but I cut him off sharply.
“She’s always in a tough spot. And we’re not?”
We stood facing each other in the narrow hallway of our apartment. The neighbors probably heard every word—these walls carried everything. I didn’t care. Years of bottled-up exhaustion boiled over.
“You’re being selfish again,” Sergey snapped. “She’s my mother—can’t you understand? She called and said she can’t pay her bills…”
“And why can’t she pay them? Because she refuses to work! Someone even offered her a job at the library—she turned it down! She sits at home all day, then calls you: ‘Seryozha, help!’ You send her money, and we end up counting every penny!”
I realized I couldn’t hold it back anymore. I had played the role of the patient daughter-in-law too long.
“Fine,” he said suddenly, glaring at me. “If you refuse to support my mother, maybe we need to think about our future separately. Otherwise, what’s the point?”
“You’re threatening me with divorce?” I shot back, sarcasm lacing my voice. “Go ahead. Try it.”
He reached for his jacket, hesitating, probably expecting me to stop him. I didn’t. I stood with my hands on my hips, breathing heavily.
“Alright,” Sergey muttered, pulling on his sleeves. “I’ll go cool off at my friends’. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Don’t bother coming back,” I replied, watching him go.
He turned as if to say something, then slammed the door. And I stood there alone—angry, hurt, and oddly relieved.
It hadn’t started yesterday. Or a week ago. Or even a month ago.
I had met Sergey at a city fair where we volunteered at a charity booth. He was attentive and charming. We discovered we’d grown up in the same neighborhood, and soon we were taking long walks by the river.
On our first date, he told me his father lived abroad with another family and his mother, Vera Petrovna, rarely worked due to health issues. He painted himself as independent, with big plans.
But half a year later, I started noticing things. He often rushed out to hand his mother money, returning stressed. His excuses grew: “She can’t buy groceries,” “It’s her friend’s birthday,” “The cat needs the vet.” Always something.
A year later, we married. He was a manager at a small firm; I worked as a government lawyer. We rented a modest two-bedroom. Things seemed fine—until I realized our savings for renovations had vanished. Sergey had sent them to his mother.
When I suggested she stay with us, he warned me: “My mom’s a handful.”
That was an understatement. She criticized everything—our home, my cooking, our lifestyle. After two weeks of lamenting her “poverty,” she left with a suitcase full of things bought with our money.
From then on, her demands never stopped. She had no real illness, no intention of working, but endless excuses. Sergey always defended her. I endured for a year and a half, even when we moved to a cheaper apartment. But every payday, his first priority was sending her money.
I felt less like a wife and more like an ATM.
Eventually, I had enough. The night Sergey threatened divorce, I realized I no longer feared it.
The next day, he returned, eyes red, voice dull.
“Tanya… what did you decide?”
“I’ve decided I won’t support your mother anymore,” I said firmly.
“That won’t work for me,” he replied. “I won’t abandon her. That means one thing—divorce.”
“No problem,” I answered coldly. “I’m a lawyer. I know where to sign.”
And just like that, it was over.
After the divorce, life was… lighter. I moved to a new apartment, bought a small car, and rediscovered simple joys: movies, concerts, evenings without tension.
A year later, I ran into Sergey at the supermarket. He looked unkempt, worn out. He tried to talk, hinting at his mother’s new troubles.
I stopped him.
“Sergey, that’s not my family anymore. Not my problem.”
He muttered a curse and walked away. “I’m glad I divorced you!” he shouted.
I felt nothing. No guilt, no regret.
Back in my apartment, I unpacked my groceries in peace. The space felt truly mine—free of hidden transfers and endless demands.
Sometimes people think you’re cruel for drawing the line. But the truth is, you just get tired of living by someone else’s rules. I knew then: I had nothing to be ashamed of.
As for Sergey, he chose to remain under his mother’s thumb. Maybe one day he’ll grow up. But that’s no longer my concern.
