Valentina Petrovna called her son on Wednesday morning. Her mother-in-law’s voice sounded cracked, with a hoarse edge.
“Son, I feel terrible. I have a temperature of thirty-eight, and my throat still isn’t getting better. I can’t manage alone. Come over.”
Rita heard only half of the conversation, but she understood immediately: expect guests. Her husband Viktor was standing by the window with the phone, nodding into the receiver.
“Of course, Mom. I’ll come now. Get ready.”
“What happened?” Rita asked, buttoning her blouse before work.
“Mom isn’t well. She’s sick. We’ll have to take her in for a few days.”
“Why to our place? She has her own apartment, neighbors. We can bring her groceries and medicine.”
Viktor shook his head.
“She’s alone. What if something happens? It’ll be better if she’s under supervision.”
Rita wanted to object, but her husband was already putting on his jacket and heading for the door. It was settled. Without discussion, without considering his wife’s opinion. As usual.
The two-room apartment was already cramped for two people. Rita worked as an administrator at a dance studio during the day, and in the evenings she earned extra money as a courier for a delivery service. Her schedule was packed, and there was still barely enough money for utilities and the car rental. She slept three or four hours between shifts.
That evening, Rita came home from work and found the sofa unfolded in the living room, a stack of blankets, and three bags of belongings. Valentina Petrovna was lying under a throw blanket, flipping through a magazine. When she saw her daughter-in-law, she did not even lift her head.
“Heat me some tea with lemon,” her mother-in-law said instead of greeting her. “And put the laundry on. I only have one clean change of underwear left.”
Rita stopped in the doorway. Her throat went dry from exhaustion and from the shock of such a welcome.
“Hello, Valentina Petrovna. How are you feeling?”
“I’m not getting any better. And the bathroom needs cleaning. Viktor said it’s not very clean here.”
Rita gripped the handle of her bag tighter. The bathroom had been washed two days ago. But her mother-in-law was used to sterile cleanliness and believed every apartment should shine like an operating room.
“All right,” Rita answered quietly. “I’ll do everything now.”
Viktor was sitting in the kitchen with a newspaper and drinking beer. He looked tired but pleased — his mother was settled, the problem was solved.
“Mom isn’t well,” her husband said when Rita came in for the kettle. “Will you help her? She doesn’t ask every day.”
Rita nodded and said nothing. Talking was useless. Viktor believed that a woman in the house should handle everything, while a man’s job was to earn money. Although Rita was now earning more than he was.
The next twenty-four hours passed like a fog. Rita cooked chicken broth, went to the pharmacy for medicine, washed her mother-in-law’s laundry, and cleaned the bathroom again. Valentina Petrovna accepted the care as something she was entitled to, occasionally nodding in approval. Viktor thanked his wife.
“Thanks for helping. I work late, you know. I don’t have time.”
On the second day, her mother-in-law felt better. The fever went down, but she decided to continue bed rest. Now Valentina Petrovna had special demands.
“Cook buckwheat separately for me,” her mother-in-law announced in the morning. “In water, without salt. And don’t wash my laundry with your things. Your detergent is some kind of chemical.”
Rita stood at the stove, stirring the porridge. Her head was pounding from lack of sleep.
“What detergent do you need?”
“Baby detergent. Fragrance-free. And also, warm milk with honey for me at night. It’s good for the throat.”
All of it came without “please,” without “if it’s not too much trouble.” As if Rita were a hired nurse with official duties.
Viktor came home late, ate dinner, and turned on the television. When his wife asked him to talk, he replied:
“I’m tired today. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Tomorrow, there was always a new reason to postpone the conversation. Either he had a headache, or an important match was on, or he simply wanted to sit in silence.
By the end of the week, Rita had turned into a shadow. She cleaned up after three people, cooked breakfasts, lunches, and dinners, went to work, did laundry, bought groceries. It was as if her own life had been put on pause. Rita’s own blood pressure rose from exhaustion, but there was no one to complain to.
Meanwhile, Valentina Petrovna was in no hurry to recover. She criticized the food.
“The soup is too salty. Next time put in less salt.”
She sniffed at the cleaning.
“There’s still dust under the bed. It’s obvious the housewife is inexperienced.”
She spoke to her son in a low voice, but loudly enough for Rita to hear:
“Your wife isn’t domestic. She can’t cook properly, and she cleans carelessly.”
Rita listened to these comments and kept silent. She no longer had the strength to argue. She only wanted to survive until the moment her mother-in-law went home.
On Friday, right in the middle of the workday, Rita received a call. It was the home number. Rita answered, thinking something serious had happened.
“Rita!” Valentina Petrovna’s voice sounded lively and demanding. “You need to take time off and come home.”
“What happened?” Rita was frightened. “Are you feeling bad?”
“No, everything is fine. It’s just that my nails have grown out, and there’s nowhere to get them done. I need a pedicure. You know how, don’t you?”
Rita froze with the phone in her hand. Around her, the studio was noisy — music was playing, children were laughing after lessons. And in the receiver, her mother-in-law was demanding that her daughter-in-law abandon work and come home to give her a pedicure.
“Valentina Petrovna, I’m at work. My shift ends at seven in the evening.”
“So what? Take time off. It’s not every day. And I’m uncomfortable going to strangers.”
“I can’t just get up and leave. We have a schedule, responsibilities.”
“What nonsense!” her mother-in-law’s voice became irritated. “What kind of responsibility is that? Children’s little dances, big deal. You call that important work?”
Rita took a deep breath. Something hot rose in her chest, demanding to break free.
Rita slowly hung up and looked at the phone screen. Her colleague Natasha, sitting at the next desk, noticed how Rita’s fingers had turned white.
“Did something happen?” Natasha asked quietly.
Rita did not answer immediately. She exhaled through her teeth, as if releasing something heavy she had been holding inside for a long time.
“No,” Rita finally said. “It’s just gone too far.”
The rest of the workday passed like a blur. Rita greeted parents, registered children for classes, and smiled at clients. But inside, something had changed completely. It was as if a switch had clicked, and she no longer wanted to be convenient.
That evening, Rita came home without groceries and without her usual apologies for being late. She walked past her husband, who was watching the news, and past her mother-in-law, who had settled on the sofa with a magazine. She sat down at the kitchen table, took yesterday’s leftovers from the refrigerator, and calmly said:
“From today on, everything is going to be different.”
Viktor lifted his head from the television.
“Why are you so tense?” he asked, as if he had only just noticed his wife’s mood.
“Because in this house, I’m the only one who does anything,” Rita answered, not taking her eyes off her plate.
“Come on,” Viktor tried to turn it into a joke. “Mom is sick. You can put up with it for a couple of days.”
Rita raised her eyes and looked at her husband for a long, careful moment.
“A couple of days have already passed. A week has passed. And today your mother called me at work demanding that I give her a pedicure.”
“A pedicure?” Viktor frowned. “What pedicure?”
“That is exactly what I’m talking about. You don’t even know what’s happening in your own home.”
From the living room came Valentina Petrovna’s voice:
“Rita! Where is my dinner? I’ve been waiting for half an hour!”
Rita got up from the table and went into the living room. Her mother-in-law was lying on the sofa under a blanket, flipping through a magazine.
“Valentina Petrovna,” Rita said calmly, “dinner is in the refrigerator. Warm it up in the microwave.”
Her mother-in-law lifted her head and stared at her daughter-in-law in bewilderment.
“What do you mean, ‘warm it up’? I’m sick! My blood pressure has gone up!” Valentina Petrovna’s voice grew louder. “Do I deserve to be treated like this?”
Rita smiled faintly. Not maliciously, but with a sudden lightness, as if she had understood something important about herself.
“Are you used to everyone running around after you?” Rita said quietly but clearly. “I am not your caretaker, and I am not your servant.”
Valentina Petrovna opened her mouth but found no words. Viktor came out of the kitchen and stood between his wife and his mother.
“Rita, what are you doing?” her husband began indignantly. “This is my mother!”
“Exactly. That is why you will take care of her,” Rita replied. “Instead of dumping everything on me.”
Rita turned around and went into the bedroom. She took a large sports bag out of the closet and began packing her mother-in-law’s things into it. Carefully, without hurrying. Cosmetics, medicine, clothes.
“What are you doing?!” Valentina Petrovna got up from the sofa and stood in the bedroom doorway.
“I’m packing your things,” Rita answered without stopping.
“I’m not going anywhere! I’m sick! I need care!”
“Hire a paid nurse. Or go to other relatives.”
Viktor grabbed his wife by the arm.
“Stop! Have you lost your mind?”
Rita calmly freed her arm and continued packing.
“Take your mother back home,” Rita said to her husband. “Either you do it, or call a taxi. I am not paid for this.”
“Rita!” Valentina Petrovna raised her voice. “You have no right to throw me out of my son’s home!”
“I do. Because this is not your son’s home. This is my apartment, which I rent with my own money.”
Viktor froze. He tried to say something, but the words would not form into sentences.
Rita zipped the bag shut and placed it by the door. She took out her phone and began scrolling through her contacts.
“What are you doing?” Viktor asked quietly.
“Looking for the taxi dispatcher’s number.”
“No need!” Valentina Petrovna said quickly. “I’ll call Lyosha myself!”
Lyosha was the son of Viktor’s sister-in-law, Viktor’s nephew. A young man with a car who sometimes earned extra money by giving private rides.
“Excellent idea,” Rita nodded. “Call him.”
Half an hour later, a car pulled up to the building. Valentina Petrovna silently gathered the remaining small items and put on her jacket. At the door, she turned around and said venomously:
“I’ll still show you who the real mistress of this house is.”
“Show it somewhere else,” Rita replied calmly and waved goodbye.
The door closed with a loud click. The apartment became quiet.
Viktor stood in the middle of the living room, looking at his wife in confusion.
“Why did you do that?”
“Because I’m tired of being convenient,” Rita answered. “Tired of working around the clock and then also serving your relatives.”
“But she’s my mother…”
“And that means you should have taken care of her yourself. Not shifted everything onto me.”
Viktor sat down in an armchair and rubbed his face with his hands.
“What happens now?”
“Now we make an agreement,” Rita said firmly. “If you ever drag someone here again without discussing it with me, you’ll live with your guests somewhere else. But not here.”
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely serious.”
Viktor was silent for a while, thinking over what he had heard. Then he nodded.
“All right. It won’t happen again.”
“Glad to hear it.”
Rita went into the bathroom, turned on the hot water, and finally took a shower. For the first time in a week, she did not hurry, did not think about needing to feed someone or clean up after someone.
Over the weekend, Valentina Petrovna did not call. Viktor also kept quiet, only sometimes glancing at his wife cautiously. As if he was afraid Rita might rebel again.
But Rita was not rebelling. She was simply living calmly, cooking for two, cleaning only after herself and her husband. She worked according to her schedule, waited for no one at home, and answered to no one.
A week later, Viktor cautiously asked:
“What if Mom calls and asks for help?”
“Let her call you,” Rita answered. “And no one says another word about a pedicure.”
Her husband nodded and did not raise the subject again.
The apartment became clean, calm, and free. No one demanded special dishes, criticized the cleaning, or forced her to abandon work for someone else’s whims. Rita understood a simple truth: boundaries must be set immediately and firmly. Otherwise, people get used to climbing onto your neck and dangling their legs there.