“My mother is moving in with us, clear out the room!” my husband declared firmly.Denis tossed the keys onto the hallway cabinet, casually slipped his feet out of his shoes, and headed to the kitchen. I was sitting at the table, packing orders. The soap base chunks, bottles of essential oils,
and silicone molds created the illusion of chaotic disorder, although this little hobby was gradually starting to bring in some income.When I heard his words, I stopped cutting the tape. The roll squeaked as it hung in the air.“What did you say?” I put the scissors aside, almost whispering.
“What you heard, Rita. Tamara Iljinich will be moving in on Saturday. Pack her pots and boxes today, and we’ll put the shelf in the corner of the bedroom. A little anxiety won’t hurt.”Denis drank the glass of juice in one gulp and set it down loudly on the sink.
I felt my stomach tighten. This small room, with its narrow window facing the neighbor’s wall, was the only place I truly felt was mine. Here I could immerse myself in work, or sit quietly while my six-year-old son, Ilja, watched cartoons. And now, everything was being rewritten in an instant.
“Denis, we agreed we would discuss these things together,” I said, looking at his wrinkled shirt from behind. “Where should I put the shelf? There’s not even space for the ironing board in the bedroom.”“Listen, don’t get upset!” he snapped sharply. “People need care. She’s alone.
And you’re making a problem because of your soap. Case closed.”He went into the living room, and the sports commentators’ voices quickly filled the space.I sat over the unpacked boxes, feeling nauseated by the scent of lavender and sweet orange. It wasn’t my mother-in-law I had a problem with,
but how easily I stepped back, simply confronted with facts.I shoved the cardboard scraps into the trash, wiped my hands, and picked up the phone.“Hello, Mom? Aren’t you asleep?” I asked, listening to the ringing.“No, Ritucska,” Antónina Sergeyevna replied cheerfully, the murmur of a TV in the background.
“I’m knitting. How are you? Is Iljuska coughing?”“He’s not coughing. Mom, I have an idea,” I lowered my voice, glancing stealthily at the living room door. “Come live with us. Now, immediately, for the winter. Alone in the village, in the cold, shoveling snow… In the city it’s warm, stores nearby, Ilja would be happy.”
A long silence on the phone. Only the clinking of knitting needles was heard.“Rita, did something happen? Is Denis angry?”“No one’s angry. We just freed up a little room. Plenty of space. Come tomorrow morning on the first tram.”
I spent the whole night packing my soap. I carefully wrapped the bottles in bubble wrap, the molds went into boxes. Denis peeked in once, saw the boxes, nodded, and went to bed. He thought I had obeyed.On Friday morning, there was a knock. Denis was munching on a sandwich before leaving for work.
In the hallway stood my mother, in a gray quilted coat, with two large canvas bags.“Good morning, hosts!” Antónina Sergeyevna stepped over the threshold and set the bags on the carpet.Denis choked. He looked at the bags, then at his mother’s face, then at me. I stood calmly leaning against the doorframe.
“Antónina… Sergeyevna? What brings you here so early?” he muttered.“Rita invited me. It’s boring alone in the village. I’m old, my back hurts, carrying firewood. I’ll stay here for the winter, taking care of the little grandson,” she said, then took off her boots and went to the bathroom to wash her hands.
The next few days passed strangely. My mother got up early, quietly cooked porridge, braided Ilja’s hair, didn’t interfere with anything. Tamara Iljinich, however, constantly complained, aired grievances, criticized, while Denis and I tried to eat without saying a word.
Two weeks later, the tension exploded. Tamara Iljinich sharply criticized the pilaf, the smells, every corner of the house. My mother calmly sat down and offered a portion of food, but Tamara continued shouting. Denis held his head, sighed deeply.
At night, I went to him.“Why did you bring her here? She has a good apartment, friends, a pension.”He looked at my hand for a long time, then spoke:“Rita… after your father died, she became very lonely. She would call at night, crying. She heard her husband’s footsteps in the hallway.
I saw her weaken. I thought she’d be better here.”Suddenly, I understood everything. The nagging, the yelling—it all stemmed from loneliness. She didn’t know any other way to ask for help.In the morning, my mother went home. But the relationship between my husband and the woman changed.
Tamara Iljinich returned quietly, with her own food. Denis started asking for my opinion before shopping, helped assemble the new workbench for my soap, and paid attention to the small things.And I saw that Tamara Iljinich could also care for Ilja with love, even while hiding her concern behind grumbling.
People aren’t born cruel. Sometimes they just forget how to be warm. And if we don’t respond to aggression with aggression… everything can be okay. The most important thing is that we want it.
