The first time Lyudmila Petrovna came over was a month after our wedding. I still hadn’t really settled into the apartment Dima and I were renting on the outskirts of town. Boxes were piled in the corner of the bedroom, the kitchen was missing half the essentials, and I was tearing myself in two—work on one side, and the desperate attempt to make the place feel even slightly like a home on the other.
“Oh, Lenochka,” my mother-in-law drawled as she stepped inside, “you could at least buy some guest slippers. It’s awkward, you know.”
I gave her an apologetic smile and dashed off to find my spare flip-flops. Dima hugged his mother, took her bag, and sat her down on the couch. Lyudmila Petrovna looked around like an inspector and pressed her lips together.
“Well,” she announced, “for a start it’s not bad. Though I’d hang different curtains. These are kind of gloomy.”
I brewed tea and brought out cookies I’d bought специально for her visit. We sat in the kitchen, and I tried to keep the conversation going, but Lyudmila Petrovna got more and more absorbed in listing everything we “needed” to change in our apartment. Dima nodded, agreed, promised we’d take it all into account.
“Mom, don’t worry, we’ll get settled,” he said, and I felt something strange rising in me—almost like hurt, but not quite.
Back then I told myself it was just забота. That Lyudmila Petrovna wanted to help, to share her experience. I really didn’t know much about interiors, and my cooking wasn’t as good as I wanted it to be.
Her second visit was about three months later. By then we’d unpacked all the boxes. I’d bought new curtains—though not the ones she’d suggested, but the ones I liked. I’d hung a few pictures, arranged books on the shelves. The apartment finally started to feel like our home.
Lyudmila Petrovna arrived with pies. It was sweet, and I was genuinely happy to see her. But the moment she crossed the threshold, she started again:
“Oh, Len, you still didn’t buy the right curtains. I told you—light ones. They make the space look bigger.”
“I like these,” I said carefully.
“Well, like them if you want,” she flicked her hand in a tone that clearly meant: your choice is wrong, but I’ll pretend I’m being polite.
At lunch she tried my roast and chewed the first bite thoughtfully.
“Mmm… not bad. But I’d have used less meat and more potatoes. And it’s a bit under-salted, I think. Dima, don’t you think so?”
Dima ate with appetite and shrugged.
“It’s fine to me.”
“Well, men don’t understand those subtleties,” Lyudmila Petrovna smirked. “We women know better.”
I said nothing. I told myself it wasn’t страшно. That she was simply used to controlling everything—after all, Dima was her only son. That with time we’d adjust and she’d accept me.
But time passed, and each visit became more and more tense for me. She came every two or three months, usually without being invited—she’d just call Dima in the morning and announce she’d be there that evening. And every time, I prepared like I was about to sit an exam.
I cleaned the apartment until it gleamed. I planned the menu. I tried to wear something neutral so there would be nothing to criticize. And still, Lyudmila Petrovna always found something.
“Lenochka, you didn’t dust the bookshelf again. Look—right here.”
“Len, your soup is too salty. Dimочка, tell your wife men don’t like food that’s over-salted.”
“Oh, what a strange blouse. Dima, can’t you buy your wife something normal?”
I clenched my teeth and smiled. I said, “Thank you for the advice,” and “I’ll definitely keep it in mind.” But inside, everything tightened into a hot, heavy knot.
Dima didn’t notice. Or pretended not to.
“Len, she doesn’t mean any harm,” he’d say when I tried to explain how I felt. “That’s just how Mom is. She’s used to teaching everyone. She doesn’t come that often—you can just put up with it.”
Put up with it. That phrase became our family mantra.
A year later it only got worse. It was as if Lyudmila Petrovna sensed I wouldn’t fight back—and she fully unleashed herself.
She started commenting on my job:
“Len, what kind of manager are you if you can’t even keep your home in order?”
On my appearance:
“You should go to the hairdresser—honestly, you look worn down. Dima, a man should make sure his wife looks decent.”
And on the fact that we still didn’t have children:
“Len, when are you going to make me a grandmother? Or are you one of those career women who doesn’t want kids? In our day women worked and raised children too.”
That topic hurt the most. Dima and I were trying for a baby, but it still wasn’t happening. I was going to doctors, getting tests, taking vitamins. It was a difficult period, and my mother-in-law’s remarks lodged in me like splinters of glass.
And Dima kept repeating, “You can put up with it.”
Then one day I accidentally learned a small secret about Lyudmila Petrovna.
She came over in the middle of the week while Dima was away on a business trip. She called in the morning and said she’d be there in an hour—she needed to pick up some documents Dima had left at our place.
I was working from home, sitting in old jeans and a stretched-out T-shirt. When the doorbell rang, I opened up, let her in, apologized for how I looked, and said I’d go change.
“No need, Len, I’m only here for a minute,” she waved it off.
She went into the room, took the folder of papers, then paused and stared out the window.
“Can I smoke on the balcony?” she asked неожиданно.
I was stunned. Lyudmila Petrovna had always spoken about women who smoked with pure contempt—called them “fallen.”
“You… smoke?” I blurted out.
She looked embarrassed, her cheeks flushing.
“Well… sometimes. When I’m nervous. Just don’t tell anyone, especially Dima. He wouldn’t understand.”
I nodded. I promised I’d keep quiet—and I did. It wasn’t my secret to expose.
But after that, I began to notice other little things. The way she criticized my apartment yet didn’t bother wiping her feet when she came in from the street. The way she’d pour herself tea and leave the used teabag right on the table even though she scolded me for being “messy.” The way her voice would change on the phone—suddenly sweet and syrupy—as if she were speaking to a man, even though she’d been a widow for years and constantly insisted she was faithful to her late husband’s memory.
Lyudmila Petrovna was just a normal person with weaknesses. The difference was, she forgave herself those weaknesses—and never forgave me anything.
I prepared my thirtieth birthday carefully. I invited my parents, my friends, Dima’s friends. I cleaned the apartment, set the table, baked a cake—a honey cake using my grandmother’s recipe, my signature dessert.
Lyudmila Petrovna arrived with a bouquet and a box of chocolates. She congratulated me curtly and swept the table with a critical gaze.
“Oh, so much food,” she drawled. “Lena, you could make it simpler. Why overload the table? Half of it will be left anyway.”
I smiled and went to greet the other guests.
The evening started well. Everyone laughed, ate, drank champagne. My friends praised the cake, my mom was proud, Dima’s friends joked and toasted. I felt happy.
And then it was time to cut the cake.
I brought it out from the kitchen and set it on the table. It looked beautiful—smooth, even layers, creamy filling, berries on top. The guests murmured and smiled.
“Wow, Len, you’re a real hostess!” my friend Katya said.
“Dima, you got lucky with your wife,” his friend Seryoga added.
Dima slipped an arm around my shoulders, and I could see he was proud. I started slicing the cake, placing pieces onto plates—and that’s when my mother-in-law’s voice cut in:
“Oh, Lenochka, did you maybe overdo it with the honey? It’s kind of cloying. And the layers are a bit dry. You should’ve added more butter.”
The room went silent. Everyone looked at Lyudmila Petrovna, then at me.
And in that moment everything that had piled up over two years—every remark, every jab, every “you can put up with it”—finally hit the breaking point.
I set the knife down slowly and met her eyes.
“Lyudmila Petrovna,” I said calmly, “thank you for your opinion. But you know, I think all of us have flaws. For instance, I might bake a cake that isn’t perfect. And you, for example, smoke on the balcony when you think no one can see you. You leave dirty footprints on the floor. You forget to turn off the light in the bathroom. And you talk far too sweetly on the phone with strange men, even though you tell everyone how loyal you are to your husband’s memory.”
I didn’t raise my voice. I simply listed facts. But every word landed in the silence like a stone dropping into water.
Lyudmila Petrovna’s face went from white to red, then to a furious, dark purple. She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again.
“You… how dare you!” she finally forced out. “Dima! Do you hear the way your wife is speaking to me?!”
Dima stood beside me, and I felt his grip tighten on my shoulder. But I didn’t look away from my mother-in-law.
“I’m only answering you the way you’ve been criticizing me in front of everyone,” I said. “You think it’s acceptable to point out my faults in public. Why am I not allowed to respond the same way?”
“That’s… that’s disrespect!” Lyudmila Petrovna snatched up her bag. “I’m your mother-in-law! I’m older! I have the right!..”
“The right to what?” I cut in. “The right to humiliate me in my own home for two years? The right to criticize every step I take, every decision I make? The right to tell me I’m a bad wife, a bad homemaker—that I dress wrong, cook wrong, live wrong?”
My voice trembled, but I kept going:
“I put up with it. Because Dima asked me to. Because I thought you’d get used to me, accept me. But you don’t accept me—you just take advantage of the fact that I don’t answer back. Well, you know what? Enough.”
Lyudmila Petrovna grabbed the bouquet from the table—the one she’d brought me as a gift.
“I won’t stay in this house another minute!” she declared. “Dima, you’re coming with me!”
She stared at her son like a challenge. Dima stood in silence. I could see him fighting with himself, the tension in his face. Then, slowly, he shook his head.
“No, Mom. I’m staying. This is our home. And Lena is right.”
Lyudmila Petrovna went even paler. For a second she stood frozen—then turned and stormed out, slamming the door.
The guests left earlier than planned. The atmosphere was ruined, and even though everyone pretended nothing terrible had happened, the awkwardness hung in the air.
When the last guest finally left, Dima and I were alone. He sat on the couch with his head in his hands. I cleared the table, not knowing what to say.
“Len,” he called at last. “Come here.”
I walked over. He took my hand and sat me down beside him.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was a blind idiot.”
“Dima—”
“No, listen. I truly didn’t understand how hard it was for you. I thought Mom was just заботится. That her remarks were… I don’t know, her weird way of showing love. But I saw your face tonight. And I finally realized what you’ve been going through.”
He hugged me, and I leaned into him, feeling the tension finally start to drain away.
“I didn’t want to fight with her,” I whispered. “But I couldn’t take it anymore.”
“You did the right thing,” he said. “I should’ve protected you раньше. It’s my fault it got to this point.”
We sat in silence among half-eaten salads and the remains of the cake. And for the first time in a long while, I felt like we were truly on the same side.
Lyudmila Petrovna didn’t call for three days. Then she called Dima—short, cold. She said she was offended and wouldn’t come to our home again until I apologized.
Dima told her she was the one who owed an apology—that Lena had endured two years, and she had crossed every boundary.
The conversation was brief. Lyudmila Petrovna hung up.
Two weeks passed. Then a month. Dima tried to reconcile with his mother. He called her, suggested meeting somewhere neutral. But she refused every time, repeating that the daughter-in-law had to be the first to ask forgiveness.
I wasn’t going to apologize. Not for telling the truth. Not for finally defending myself.
Another month later, Dima went to see his mother alone. He came back late, exhausted.
“So?” I asked.
“She doesn’t want contact,” he sighed. “She thinks you humiliated her. That now she can’t even look me in the eye.”
“Dima, I didn’t want to humiliate her,” I said. “I just wanted her to understand what it’s been like for me all this time.”
“I know,” he said, kissing my cheek. “And I told her that. But she… she’s not ready to accept it. Not yet, anyway.”
He hugged me tighter.
“Honestly, maybe it’s for the best. Let there be a pause. Maybe during that time she’ll come to her senses.”
A year passed. Lyudmila Petrovna never came back to our home. Dima saw her from time to time—stopped by her place, sometimes met her at a café. She asked about his life, but never about me. She acted as if I simply didn’t exist.
At first it was hard. I felt guilty, even though I knew I shouldn’t. I wondered if I’d been too harsh, if I should’ve found different words.
But with time, I understood: I did what I had to do. I protected my dignity. My right to live in my own home the way I see fit. My right to be imperfect—not ideal, not molded to someone else’s standards.
And Dima changed. He became more attentive, more tender. He learned to truly see me, to hear me. We became a real team.
Sometimes, while cleaning the apartment, I’d think back to that evening—to Lyudmila Petrovna’s face when I finally answered her criticism. To the silence in the room. To how easy it felt to breathe after I finally said everything out loud.
I simply answered my mother-in-law back after she criticized me in front of guests. She never appeared in our home again.
And you know what? I didn’t regret it. Not one bit.