My only son, Ilya, and I had always tried to build our relationship on mutual respect, common sense, and honesty.
We were never the kind of family that raised children like little royalty. My husband and I believed that love does not mean blindly granting every wish, but teaching a person to become independent and responsible.
Not long ago, Ilya turned twenty-five.
He graduated from university, found a job as a manager at a logistics company with a perfectly ordinary starting salary, and six months ago proudly led his chosen bride to the registry office.
Alina was twenty-two. Pretty, polished, with full lips, extended eyelashes, and a flawless manicure. Somewhere she also had a diploma from some obscure college, though it had been collecting dust on a shelf for months. Before the wedding, she worked leisurely as an administrator at a tanning salon — two days on, two days off. Hardly a demanding career, more like a pleasant pastime.
My husband and I, old-fashioned people, generously paid for the wedding. We even helped with the down payment for a modest one-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of the city. After that, we finally exhaled with relief.
At last, we thought, the two of them were beginning real adult life. And perhaps we could finally start living a little for ourselves.
Then last Sunday, during our usual family dinner, something so absurd happened that at first I thought I had misheard it.
The young couple came over as usual.
I had spent the entire afternoon cooking: roasted duck with apples, several salads, and my signature homemade pie. The atmosphere was warm and peaceful. We drank tea, chatted about work, the weather, and ordinary little things.
Then Ilya slowly set down his cup, cleared his throat with great importance, wrapped an arm around his wife, and announced in the solemn tone of a man delivering a historic speech:
“Mom, Dad. Alina and I have made an important decision. Tomorrow she’s quitting her job. My wife is not going to work anymore.”
Alina lowered her eyes modestly, ran a finger across her fresh manicure, and sighed deeply, as though the tanning salon had drained the very life out of her.
My husband and I exchanged a glance.
“Well,” my husband said calmly with a shrug, “if you believe your salary can cover the mortgage, groceries, and utilities, then that’s your business.”
But suddenly a look of superiority appeared on Ilya’s face — the kind young people sometimes give their supposedly outdated parents.
“Dad, you just don’t understand the concept,” he explained condescendingly, clearly repeating the words of some fashionable internet guru. “A woman isn’t meant to slave away for bosses. She needs to remain in her feminine energy, create harmony at home, and inspire her man. If she gets exhausted, the financial flow gets blocked.”
I felt my left eye twitch.
“How fascinating,” I said sweetly. “And exactly how are you planning to maintain this ‘financial flow’ with a mortgage payment of thirty-five thousand a month?”
And at that moment, my twenty-five-year-old “provider” unveiled the most astonishing business plan imaginable.
“That’s where your help comes in!” he announced cheerfully. “You’re our parents. Your apartment is fully paid off, Dad earns well, and so do you. We calculated everything:
if you take over our mortgage and also give us about forty thousand a month for Alina’s basic needs — nails, fitness classes for feminine energy, cafés, things like that — then I can peacefully focus on finding myself and growing spiritually without being distracted by mundane daily problems.”
I looked at Alina.
She sat there completely calm. No embarrassment. No shame. Just the quiet confidence of someone who believed that becoming a wife automatically entitled her to lifelong financial support from her in-laws.
And suddenly, I became perfectly calm.
Not hysterical. Not angry. Just dangerously calm.
I dabbed my lips delicately with a napkin and smiled warmly.
“Ilya, sweetheart,” I said softly, “that is truly a brilliant plan. A masterpiece, really. But your father and I also have some exciting news.”
My husband immediately understood and struggled not to burst out laughing.
“I’ve realized,” I continued seriously, “that my feminine energy is critically depleted. I spent twenty-five years working as a chief accountant, and my inner financial channel has completely dried up.”
Alina’s smile faltered slightly.
“So tomorrow, I’ll also be handing in my resignation. I’ll stay home, make macramé, and inspire your father.”
“But Mom…” Ilya stammered in confusion.
“And your father,” I interrupted coldly, “has decided he’s tired of being a slave to the system. He’s quitting too, buying a fishing rod, and dedicating himself to deep meditation by the lake.”
My husband nodded solemnly.
“So,” I continued with a pleasant smile, “starting tomorrow, you’ll be the sole breadwinner for the entire family. Naturally, we’ll be counting on your support. One hundred thousand a month should be enough to start — your father needs new fishing gear, and I’d like regular spa treatments. We’re family, after all. We should support each other.”
An icy silence filled the kitchen.
Alina looked as though she had bitten into an entire lemon.
And Ilya sat there with his mouth hanging open like a fish thrown onto dry land.
“Are you mocking me?!” he finally exploded. “This is insane! We can barely survive ourselves! How can you be this selfish?”
I slowly rose from the table.
“Selfishness, my son,” I said coldly, “is disguising laziness and a refusal to grow up behind pretty phrases like ‘feminine energy’ and ‘spiritual growth.’ You are healthy, capable adults.”
I walked to the counter, picked up the three plastic containers of food I had lovingly packed for them for the week, opened them one by one, and calmly dumped everything back into the pot.
“The charity program is officially over,” I said evenly. “The sponsors are withdrawing. And now, please put your father’s garage keys on the table — the garage you use for free — and go start your own adult life.”
A few minutes later, the young couple stormed out of the apartment in outrage.
Alina even forgot to say goodbye.
And from the doorway, Ilya proudly declared that we were destroying the artist inside him and disrespecting traditional values.
A month has passed since then.
The “spiritual creator” surprisingly quickly found himself a weekend side job after discovering that plain buckwheat without his mother’s food containers makes for a very depressing dinner.
And the “feminine muse” Alina, whose sacred energy somehow failed to pay the electricity bill, miraculously returned to her job at the tanning salon.
Perhaps this is one of the greatest absurdities of modern life:
healthy young adults memorize beautiful internet slogans about “inspiring women” and “real providers,” while completely forgetting that adulthood requires personal responsibility.
Turning parents into lifelong free ATMs so a young wife can stay home filing her nails is not spirituality, and it is certainly not tradition.
It is simple parasitism.
And sometimes the only cure for it is this:
cutting off the financial oxygen and giving reality a firm push back into their lives.
