“I Took My Son’s Salary. You’ll Pay the Mortgage Yourself!” My Mother-in-Law Declared. I Called My Husband to Settle the Score
Lyudmila Petrovna barged into my entryway with the confident stride of someone who owned the place, kicked off her shoes right onto the light-colored rug, and looked at me as if I were a servant working here for food.
She ceremoniously removed her burgundy beret, brushed a few imaginary specks of dust from it, and announced with the air of a high-ranking official:
“I took my son’s salary. You’ll pay the mortgage yourself! You’re a working woman. You won’t break your back over it.”
Instead of the thick envelope of cash my husband was supposed to send me through her from the carpentry workshop, my mother-in-law pulled a long receipt from her handbag, its end curling into a tube.
With the triumphant expression of someone who had just accomplished a great deed, she tossed the strip of thermal paper onto the shoe cabinet.
At the food-production facility where I had been a workshop supervisor for ten years, surprises happened regularly. I knew exactly what to do if an invoice accidentally fell into a vat of dough, and I knew how to save a batch of marshmallows during a sudden power outage.
But life had not prepared me for the fact that, somewhere between my husband and me, 180,000 rubles could turn into a piece of cash-register paper.
“Good evening, Lyudmila Petrovna,” I said evenly, picking up the receipt with two fingers as though with tweezers.
I looked at the numbers.
“And what benefits of civilization did you exchange your son’s monthly income for?”
“Fair compensation!” my mother-in-law replied proudly, lifting her chin without even bothering to take off her coat.
She looked around the hallway.
“Seryozha hasn’t replaced my bedroom furniture in five years. And I am his mother, after all! I stayed awake at night for him, gave him the best years of my life, ruined my health raising him. So this is my rightful bonus for maternal labor. I stopped by the furniture showroom and ordered myself the Versailles bedroom set. With gold patina! They’re taking away my old furniture tomorrow and redoing the floors, so I told them to deliver everything here for now. In a couple of days Seryozha and the guys from the workshop will move it to my place. I’ve already decided everything. And you can cover your mortgage payment from your own reserves. You always have money tucked away somewhere. I know that habit of yours.”
She folded her arms across her chest, clearly expecting me to wring my hands, start wailing, or call an ambulance.
I had no time for dramatics. There were only two hours left before the end of the banking day.
I took out my phone.
“Who are you calling?” Lyudmila Petrovna stiffened like a hunting dog preparing to leap.
“Your son. I want to find out whether he knows he financed gold patina instead of our apartment payment.”
The phone rang for a long time.
Finally, over the shriek of a circular saw, a cheerful baritone answered:
“Papa Carlo’s Workshop! Senior woodworm Pashka speaking!”
Pasha was Sergey’s partner, an irrepressibly cheerful guy capable of selling wood shavings at the price of mahogany.
“Pash, hi. It’s Olya. Is Sergey far away?”
“Olyushka, light of our lives!” Pasha bellowed into the phone.
He laughed.
“Seryoga’s wrestling with a slab of solid oak right now. Someone ordered a wardrobe so huge you could fit all three bears inside it together with Masha. Is it urgent, or should I let him finish sawing?”
“Urgent, Pash. We’ve had some unexpected changes to the family budget.”
“Got it. I’m confiscating the machine from the master.”
I heard movement through the receiver, followed by Pasha shouting:
“Seryoga, drop the lumber! Your wife’s on the phone!”
A second later, my husband answered.
“Olya, what happened? Did Mom get there? Did she give you the money?”
“She got here,” I said, looking meaningfully at my mother-in-law, who had suddenly begun adjusting the collar of her coat nervously.
I sighed.
“And she brought a receipt. For a Versailles bedroom set. She says it’s your bonus to her for all her sleepless nights and that I’m supposed to pay the mortgage myself.”
The other end of the phone went completely silent.
I could hear nothing except water dripping rhythmically somewhere in the workshop.
“What Versailles?” Sergey asked so quietly that goosebumps ran across my skin.
He took a breath.
“I personally handed her the envelope. One hundred eighty thousand. I said, ‘Mom, I’m covered in glue and we’re finishing an urgent order. Please drop this off with Olya. We have to pay for the apartment tomorrow.’ What bonus is she talking about?”
“For the years and health she sacrificed,” I helpfully repeated my mother-in-law’s words.
“Don’t sign anything,” my husband said sternly.
I heard the sound of a tool being thrown down.
“Don’t accept any deliveries. I’m changing clothes and coming home now. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
I lowered the phone into the pocket of my cardigan.
“Well, Lyudmila Petrovna. Your son knows nothing about your bonuses. Which means this was not a gift. It’s called taking it upon yourself to dispose of someone else’s money.”
“How dare you!” my mother-in-law exploded, immediately going on the offensive.
She shook her handbag in the air.
“I raised him! I have every right to decide what happens to his income! He’s my son, while you’re just an outsider! Husbands and wives are together today and divorced tomorrow, but a mother is sacred! Pay the mortgage out of your savings. You won’t become poor!”
I opened my banking app, transferred the necessary amount from my savings account to the loan account, and pressed confirm.
“There. The mortgage is paid,” I said, showing her the green check mark on the screen.
I looked at her calmly.
“No scandals. You asked me to do it, and I did.”
Lyudmila Petrovna gave a victorious snort.
In her worldview, she had just carried out a brilliant tactical operation. Her daughter-in-law had submitted, her own savings remained untouched, and soon an expensive new bedroom set would be assembled in her apartment.
“That’s a good girl,” she drawled condescendingly, slipping comfortably into the role of a benevolent noblewoman.
She adjusted the belt of her coat.
“You should’ve done that from the beginning instead of starting all these arguments…”
“And now,” I interrupted, pronouncing every word distinctly, “you’re going to open your banking app and transfer 180,000 rubles to my account. To restore our family budget.”
Lyudmila Petrovna froze as though someone had poured liquid nitrogen over her.
“What?! What transfer? I’m a pensioner! I don’t have that kind of money!”
“I am perfectly aware of the savings account you call your ‘rainy-day fund.’ There’s enough money in it to arrange a funeral procession with an orchestra for a small town. If you suddenly decided you absolutely had to sleep on gold patina, you can pay for it out of your own pocket. You will return our money right now.”
“You won’t get a kopek!” she snapped, finally losing all traces of dignity.
She stamped her foot.
“That’s my own son’s money!”
At that moment, the doorbell rang.
Loudly. Persistently. With an elaborate chime.
I unlocked the door.
Two colorful characters in blue work overalls were standing on the landing.
One of them was enormous, gloomy, and silent, resembling a wardrobe that he probably carried on his back for a living.
The other was skinny and red-haired, with restless eyes and a work tablet in his hands.
“Delivery service from the Empire of Comfort furniture showroom!” the red-haired one announced brightly.
He looked at his paperwork.
“Who’s the customer, Lyudmila Petrovna? Come receive your expensive purchase! We’ve only brought the mirror and bedside tables so far. The rest is still being loaded at the warehouse. Where should we bring this magnificent stuff? Careful, Vitalya, don’t scrape the gilding on the corner. It costs more than your kidney!”
The gloomy Vitalya breathed heavily through his nose and shifted the huge cardboard box into a more comfortable position.
“Don’t bring it anywhere,” I said calmly, blocking the entrance.
“Take it straight into the living room!” my mother-in-law ordered immediately from behind me.
She tried to squeeze past.
“That’s my furniture! I paid for it!”
The red-haired mover looked at me, then at my mother-in-law, thoughtfully scratching his head with the end of his ballpoint pen.
“Ladies, perhaps you could come to some kind of agreement. We’re just employees. They gave us an invoice, so we brought the order. This is urgent delivery. Paid at double rate.”
“There!” Lyudmila Petrovna exclaimed triumphantly.
She pointed at the red-haired man.
“It’s paid for! Carry it in, young man. Don’t listen to her.”
“Boys,” I said, looking the red-haired mover directly in the eye.
I folded my arms.
“This apartment belongs to me. I bought it before marriage. I am the only owner here. If you put that gilded box inside my hallway, I will immediately call the police.”
The commotion on the landing attracted attention.
The neighboring apartment door opened slightly, and Zinaida Makarovna peered outside.
She was a retired literature teacher, an extremely strict woman who nevertheless adored other people’s family scandals.
“Good heavens,” Zinaida Makarovna said, adjusting the downy shawl around her shoulders.
She narrowed her eyes with interest.
“Are we staging the classics in a modern setting? Who are we evicting?”
“Nobody, Mother,” Vitalya replied in his booming voice, lowering the heavy box onto the tiled floor of the landing.
He wiped his forehead with his sleeve.
“Sanya, I’m going for a smoke. You deal with this.”
Sanya was not bothered in the slightest.
He sat directly on the top stair and pulled sunflower seeds from his pocket.
“Well, it’s your business,” he said with a shrug, spitting the shells into his fist.
He nodded toward the boxes.
“But we charge for vehicle waiting time. Five hundred rubles every ten minutes. And if we have to take this magnificence back, it’s registered as a failed delivery. That costs extra too. We can watch your family drama until nightfall if you want. The company pays us a salary. But you’ll have to decide which one of you is paying the company.”
Lyudmila Petrovna blinked rapidly.
“Olya! Let the workers inside immediately! Why are you embarrassing yourself in front of our cultured neighbors?” she hissed angrily.
“I’m waiting for my husband. And you, Lyudmila Petrovna, can decide which account you’ll use to pay for the waiting time. The timer is already running. The first five hundred rubles have gone on the bill.”
Zinaida Makarovna nodded approvingly.
“Bravo. The plot is developing beautifully.”
I picked up the crumpled receipt from the cabinet, found the furniture store’s telephone number, and called.
“Empire of Comfort showroom, senior sales associate Anton speaking. Good evening!” came a cheerful voice.
“Hello, Anton. My mother-in-law, Lyudmila Petrovna, placed an order with you two hours ago. The Versailles bedroom set.”
“Oh yes! Exquisite taste!” the salesman replied enthusiastically.
He added:
“We’ve already dispatched the first part of the order with urgent delivery.”
“We’re canceling the order,” I said dryly.
I took a step backward.
“The customer has realized that the purchase is not financially advisable.”
Lyudmila Petrovna tried to grab the phone from me, but I stepped toward the kitchen.
“Cancel it?” Anton’s voice immediately lost its cheerful tone.
He sounded offended.
“But we already issued the receipt! The truck is at your address! And they’ve already started cutting the mattress for that bed to custom measurements!”
“You can keep the mattress as a showroom sample. What are your return conditions?”
I heard frantic clicking on a keyboard.
“A return is possible…” Anton began muttering.
Then he read out the terms.
“However! Because the order was placed with our ‘Elite Same-Day Assembly’ service and a special delivery vehicle was assigned to it, those services are considered rendered. According to the contract, if the customer cancels, they must compensate transportation expenses, the cancellation fee for assembly, and the penalty for returning an individually customized order. Altogether… twenty-eight thousand rubles will be deducted from the amount paid.”
I turned on speakerphone.
“Lyudmila Petrovna, did you hear the terms?”
My mother-in-law, who had followed me into the kitchen, froze.
“What twenty-eight thousand?! I’m not canceling anything! Olya, tell him we’re keeping the boxes!”
“Anton, we’re processing the return,” I said into the phone.
I looked at my mother-in-law.
“The customer’s son will arrive shortly, and we’ll finish the procedure. Wait for our call.”
I hung up.
A key turned in the front door.
Sergey stepped into the hallway.
He surveyed the scene: Sanya sitting on the stairs, Vitalya smoking by the open stairwell window, Zinaida Makarovna watching eagerly through her glasses, and the two of us standing in the kitchen doorway.
“Good evening, neighbors. Who are we moving?” he asked, looking at the shiny box.
“Well, they delivered your royal furniture,” Sanya replied.
He put his sunflower seeds back into his pocket.
“We’re waiting for instructions. Waiting time keeps adding up. The meter’s running.”
Sergey entered the apartment.
My mother-in-law rushed toward him, pressing both hands to her chest.
“Seryozhenka! My son! Your wife is throwing me out of the house! She won’t let them bring the furniture in! Oh, my poor henpecked son, look how she bosses you around!”
Sergey gently moved his mother aside.
Then he walked over to me and put an arm around my shoulders.
“Did you make tea?” he asked quietly.
“The water’s hot,” I replied.
He turned toward his mother.
There was no aggression in his posture.
“Mom. I wish you good health and a long life. But I gave you money that I earned with my own work, and I asked you to deliver it to Olya. You decided that you were entitled to manage the budget of my family however you pleased.”
“I’m your mother! I gave birth to you! I have the right!” Lyudmila Petrovna began repeating her usual refrain.
“You have the right to my care. To the groceries I bring you every weekend. But you do not have the right to take my family’s money. Olya is my wife and the owner of this home. If she says that plywood isn’t coming through this door, then it stays on the landing.”
He looked his mother directly in the eyes.
“You have two choices. First: you open your savings account right now and transfer 180,000 rubles to Olya. Every last kopek. After that, you take your furniture, transport it to your apartment, and sleep on it in good health.”
My mother-in-law swallowed nervously.
“And the second?” she squeaked.
“Second: we cancel the order. You personally pay the movers for delivery, waiting time, and the return trip. Then you go to the showroom and file for a refund. The store will deduct a twenty-eight-thousand-ruble penalty. They’ll transfer the remainder back to your card. But you transfer 180,000 rubles to Olya right now from your own money. Later, you can replenish your savings with whatever the store refunds you. Choose.”
Lyudmila Petrovna began pacing anxiously around the hallway.
She was accustomed to using authority and pressure to get what she wanted. But now her own methods had worked against her.
“But I… how can… Seryozha, son… just let it stay here for a while!”
“The movers are waiting, Mom.”
From the landing came Sanya’s voice:
“Folks, you already owe us a thousand rubles in waiting time!”
Zinaida Makarovna added:
“Mark my words, the climax approaches!”
My mother-in-law realized that she had lost.
The most terrifying thing for her was having to touch her own sacred savings because of her own foolishness.
With trembling hands, she pulled out her smartphone.
She put on her glasses.
For a long time she jabbed at the screen with one finger, breathing heavily.
A notification appeared on my phone.
One hundred eighty thousand rubles had been deposited into my account.
“Balance restored,” I confirmed.
“Go settle up with the delivery men,” Sergey ordered.
Lyudmila Petrovna stormed out onto the landing.
“Take this garbage away!” she shouted.
She waved angrily toward the movers.
“Take it back to the showroom!”
“As you wish,” Sanya agreed easily, pulling out his payment terminal.
He entered the amount.
“For delivery, failed delivery, and waiting time, that will be four thousand five hundred rubles.”
My mother-in-law made a sound resembling the groan of someone whose sore corn had just been stepped on.
She tapped her card against the terminal, grabbed her coat, and rushed toward the elevator.
“That’s it! I’ll never set foot here again! Remember this historic day!” she shouted as the elevator doors closed. “I’m leaving my apartment to an animal shelter!”
“Goodbye, Mom,” Sergey said calmly.
He closed the door behind her.
Vitalya lifted the box and carried it downstairs.
Zinaida Makarovna applauded and disappeared into her apartment.
The hallway finally became quiet.
Sergey removed his jacket and walked into the kitchen.
I placed a mug of strong tea in front of him.
“You know,” I said, sitting down across from him.
I looked at him.
“We need a new rule. From now on, all payments involving the workshop are done electronically. No more sending money through relatives.”
Sergey took a sip and looked at me with tired eyes.
“Agreed. Our logistics are becoming far too expensive.”
He placed his large hand over mine.
Order had returned to our home. The mortgage payment was waiting to be processed, and the gold patina was on its way back to the warehouse.