— Could you at least warn me for once that she’s coming again? — Ira’s voice was tight, stretched thin like a drawn wire.
Sergey stood with the refrigerator door open, drinking straight from the bottle. He didn’t even glance in her direction.
— Who? — he asked, flat and detached, as if he genuinely had no idea.
— Not the neighbor from the third floor! Your mother, Sergey. She rang my doorbell at six in the morning. You were already gone. I thought there was a fire—or someone had died.
Sergey shut the fridge, turned slowly, and looked at her the way you look at a child having a tantrum.’
— Mom brought me vitamins. What’s the big deal?
— Six in the morning, Seryozha. Six! — Ira pressed her hands to her face. — I hadn’t even managed to make coffee, and she was already sitting in the kitchen telling me “everything’s wrong” and that I “look terrible.”
— So? She cares.
— Cares? — Ira gave a short, bitter laugh. — Or controls?
— Here we go again… — Sergey sighed. — She’s just worried about me.
— She’s worried about me! — Ira cut in sharply. — Because she said I’ve “become irritable.”
— You have, — he replied calmly.
Ira stepped back. Something inside her chest seemed to splinter.
He said it with absolute certainty—like it wasn’t him who’d forgotten what it felt like to kiss her before leaving for work, like it wasn’t him who’d spent weeks not noticing she was living beside him like a ghost.
— Listen to yourself, — she said quietly. — You’re excusing the fact that your mother comes into my home without asking, checks the refrigerator, goes through my things, and wipes down the shelves.
— She just wants to help!
— I don’t need her help! — Ira snapped. — I need a husband, not an inspector with a mother-in-law hitched to him like a trailer.
Silence dropped between them. Only the clock on the wall kept clicking.
Sergey turned away, took a jar of coffee from the cupboard, and began pouring grounds into the cezve as if the discussion had ended.
— I don’t have anything against your mother, — Ira said at last, keeping her voice under control. — But I’m not obligated to tolerate her poking into every corner of my life. Let her at least warn us before she comes.
Sergey flicked a brief look at her.
— She’s my mother. She doesn’t need permission to see her son.
— And I’m your wife. So I’m supposed to live with the constant feeling that any moment someone who hates me can walk into my home?
— She doesn’t hate you, — he dismissed it. — It’s just hard for her. You don’t understand.
— I understand perfectly! — Ira’s voice shook. — She’s lonely, she’s bored, but why am I the one to blame because you can’t say no to her?
Sergey turned toward her again. His face held irritation mixed with condescension.
— Ira, Mom is getting old. She has no one but me.
— She has more energy than both of us combined! — Ira blurted out. — Yesterday I saw her at the grocery store making the cashier cry over one ruble of change.
— Don’t start, — Sergey cut her off.
— And you stop pretending you don’t see it! — Ira shouted. — She manipulates you, and you let her.
He set his cup down with a dull, heavy sound.
— You’re just jealous.
— What? — Ira froze. — Jealous… of your mother?!
— Yes. You don’t like that I give her attention.
— God… — Ira whispered. — Are you serious?
Sergey shrugged, as if nothing about that sounded strange.
Ira stared at him and didn’t recognize him. This wasn’t the man she’d once dreamed of children and seaside trips with. This Sergey was cold, convinced his mother was untouchable—and his wife was simply an inconvenience.
— Listen, — Ira exhaled. — I’m not asking you to choose. Just… keep some distance. Let her call before she comes. That’s not a crime.
— For you, maybe, — he said softly. — For her, it’s an insult.
— Then let her be insulted, — Ira nodded. — I’m a human being too. I’m not obligated to be “easy.”
He smirked—bitter and sharp.
— There. You finally said what you really think.
— Have you ever even once thought about what I feel?
— And have you ever thought about what I feel when I see you attacking my mother?
— I’m not attacking her! I’m protecting my home!
— Your home… — Sergey smirked again. — Yes, I remember. The apartment is in your name. No need to remind me.
Heat flooded Ira’s face.
— That’s unfair.
— And you’re ungrateful.
— Ungrateful for what? For your mother watching how I cook and how I clean?
— She just wants to make it easier for you.
— Easier for her, — Ira shot back. — So she can feel in control. So everything goes by her rules.
Sergey said nothing. He just gripped the cup so hard it looked like it might crack.
— I won’t let you talk about her like that, — he said at last.
— And I won’t let her humiliate me in my own home, — Ira answered. — We haven’t been a family in a long time. We’re a battlefield.
He stood up sharply; the chair scraped the floor.
— Stop dramatizing.
— It’s not drama. It’s reality.
Ira turned toward the window. Outside, November was gray: wet snow, gray coats, old women dragging wheeled shopping bags. Everything as usual—except inside her, where a storm was raging.
Sergey’s phone rang in his pocket. He answered.
— Hi, Mom, — his voice instantly softened. — Yeah, I’m home… No, everything’s fine.
Ira closed her eyes. Even his tone said it all: he was ready to drop everything and run.
— Of course, Mom, — he said into the phone. — I’ll come by tomorrow. Or maybe… you can come over to our place.
Ira spun around.
— Sergey! — she exclaimed. — Don’t you dare!
He glanced at her, covered the microphone with his hand.
— Mom, I’ll call you back, — he said quietly, and ended the call.
— Have you lost your mind? — he asked coldly. — I’m talking to my mother and you’re putting on a show.
— A show? — Ira stepped closer. — She already told you I’m “tired” and “mean,” didn’t she?
Sergey stiffened.
— How do you know?
— Because yesterday she said it to my face. Nicely, of course—smiling. And now you’re repeating it. Word for word.
He didn’t respond. He turned away and ran water in the sink, pretending to be busy.
— Sergey, — Ira said quietly. — I can feel her pulling you away from me. And you don’t even notice you’ve already taken her side.
— I don’t have “sides,” — he snapped. — There’s a mother who needs help, and a wife who never stops complaining.
— I understand, — Ira nodded. — Now everything is clear.
She went into the bedroom, closed the door, and sat on the edge of the bed.
No tears came—only emptiness.
She remembered how he used to tell her, “You’re my home.”
And now it turned out his home was his mother.
From the kitchen came the clink of a cup, the refrigerator door, and then a door slamming.
Sergey left—without saying a word.
— Mom, don’t just stand there—come in already, — Sergey said, pulling the front door almost shut behind him.
Ira froze in the hallway. She knew that voice: soft, almost tender. He hadn’t spoken to her like that in months.
— Hello, Irinka, — Valentina Petrovna drawled as she appeared in the doorway. She wore a long puffer coat with a neatly tied scarf, and in her hands were two suitcases. — Don’t worry, I won’t be here long.
— Suitcases mean “not for long”? — Ira asked evenly, staring at the bulky bags.
Sergey looked away.
— Mom, just leave them in the hall for now. We’ll figure out where to put everything.
— “We’ll figure it out”? — Ira repeated. — Are you serious, Sergey?
Valentina Petrovna fluttered her lashes, arranging surprise on her face.
— What do you mean, “serious”? My blood pressure is acting up, and living alone is dangerous, your son said. So I came to stay with you.
Ira let out a dry laugh, though her stomach tightened.
— Blood pressure? Interesting. Yesterday, when you were arguing with the cashier at Magnit, you looked perfectly energetic.
— Me? — her mother-in-law bristled. — Imagine being slandered right on the doorstep!
Sergey stepped between them.
— Enough. Mom, ignore it.
— Sergey, — Ira moved closer. — We talked yesterday. I asked you—
— You forbade it, — he cut her off. — And I’m not a little boy who has to obey.
— This isn’t about obedience. It’s about respect.
— I respect everyone, — he snapped. — Especially my mothe
r.
Ira felt herself shaking—not with anger, but with helplessness.
— Fine, — she said. — Then answer me plainly: is she living here now?
Sergey met her eyes.
— Yes. In the second bedroom.
Silence. Somewhere in the kitchen, water dripped steadily from the faucet.
It felt as if someone had pulled the air out of Ira’s lungs.
— You didn’t ask. You just decided.
— Because otherwise you’d never agree, — he said calmly. — And I’m tired of your “no.”
Valentina Petrovna sighed theatrically.
— Children, don’t fight because of me. If I’m in the way, I can sleep in the entryway. On the doormat.
— Mom, stop it, — Sergey said gently.
— Yes, stop, — Ira echoed coldly. — The martyr role really suits you.
— Ira! — Sergey barked. — Enough!
She said nothing.
She simply went into her room and shut the door.
The next days dragged on like a prolonged nightmare.
Valentina Petrovna didn’t just “stay”—she took over.
Her jars of pickles appeared on the kitchen counter. Strange pots filled the fridge. Her robe hung in the bathroom on the hook where Ira’s used to be.
— Ira, why are you washing whites with colors? — her mother-in-law would ask in passing. — That ruins the fabric.
— I’ve been doing laundry for twenty years. I’ll manage, — Ira answered without looking up.
— Mm-hm, — Valentina Petrovna would sigh. — Young people always think they know better.
Ira counted the seconds until the front door would finally close and her mother-in-law would go somewhere—at least to the pharmacy. But she didn’t go anywhere.
She was everywhere, all the time—like cheap perfume that soaks into the walls.
And Sergey, of course, noticed nothing.
— Mom, don’t pay attention, — he’d say in the evenings. — Ira’s just tired.
And Ira sat in the bedroom listening to their voices, thinking how strange it was: in her own apartment now lived two strangers.
One evening she came home from work and found them both in the kitchen.
Valentina Petrovna was frying cutlets. Sergey was chopping salad. Laughter, the smell of oil, a cozy domestic scene—only without her.
— Oh, the lady of the house has arrived! — her mother-in-law chirped. — Come in, Irisha, sit down, eat with us.
— No thanks. I already ate.
— Where? — Sergey asked.
— At work.
— Ah, — Valentina Petrovna drawled. — At work. Of course. For modern women, career matters more than family.
— Mom, why are you— — Sergey started, but Ira cut him off.
— No, let her talk. It’s true. I’m the guest here now.
— Don’t exaggerate, — Sergey muttered.
— Then explain why I’m not on that kitchen anymore. Why you’re cooking dinner with her instead of with me.
— Because you come home like you’re walking back into prison, — he flared. — Tense all the time. Unhappy.
— Try living under one roof with your mother and see how relaxed you are.
— Stop it, — he snapped.
— No, Seryozha, I won’t stop. You want me to pretend everything’s fine? That your mother is some harmless little accident—with suitcases and remarks about my plates?
Valentina Petrovna froze, spatula in hand.
— Lord, it’s unbearable living with a woman who does nothing but complain…
— And no one promised you it would be easy, Valentina Petrovna, — Ira said coldly. — This is my home, and I want peace in it.
— My son is part of this home too, — her mother-in-law snapped. — And if you don’t like something, then the problem is you.
— Maybe, — Ira said. — Then I’ll solve the problem.
— And how, exactly? — Valentina Petrovna smirked.
— Very simply. Tomorrow you move out.
— What?! — Sergey even set a plate down. — Have you lost your mind?
— No. I just remembered who owns this apartment.
— You can’t— — he started, but Ira was already walking away.
That night was endless.
Sergey didn’t come into the bedroom. He slept on the couch in the living room.
At three in the morning Ira woke to a low murmur—mother and son whispering in the kitchen.
— Mom, just hold on a bit longer, — Sergey said. — I’ll talk to her.
— My boy, — Valentina Petrovna sniffled, — I can’t do this anymore. She looks at me like I’m the enemy. And I’m not doing this for myself… I came here for you.
— I know, Mom.
Ira lay still, listening.
For him.
Always for him.
And he didn’t even notice she simply didn’t want to be alone—and was using him as a lever.
Morning began with suitcases.
Ira was sitting on the couch when she heard the sound—zippers, wheels rolling across the floor.
She stepped into the hallway and stopped short.
Valentina Petrovna stood by the door in her coat. Beside her was Sergey with a plastic bag in his hand.
— Mom, wait… — he said, like he was justifying himself to someone. — We’ll stay at your place for a while, until things calm down.
— At her place? — Ira repeated. — So you’re leaving too?
He nodded.
— Yes. It’ll be better this way.
— Better for whom? — she asked softly.
— For everyone.
— You’re running away, Sergey.
— I’m leaving, — he corrected.
She stepped closer, looking straight into his eyes.
— Do you remember you used to say family is trust?
— Yes.
— Then why did you believe her instead of me?
He didn’t answer. He only shrugged and lifted the suitcase.
Valentina Petrovna said quietly:
— Forgive me, Irinka. I didn’t want this. My heart is old—it can’t handle loneliness.
Ira smiled.
— And mine can.
The door slammed.
Two days passed.
The silence in the apartment was thick—almost tangible.
Without their voices, the walls seemed to exhale.
She didn’t cry. Not once.
She just sat in the kitchen in the evenings, staring at tea that went cold.
Sometimes she caught herself thinking she even missed something—not Sergey, but the habit of being two people in a space, even if being two had been miserable.
Her phone stayed quiet.
Sergey didn’t call. He didn’t write.
On Sunday, a message finally came:
“We’re at Mom’s for now. We need time to think everything over.”
Ira smiled.
“Take your time. You’ve got someone to discuss it all with now.”
She turned the phone off.
She went to the window and looked down: old ladies walking dogs in the courtyard, someone hauling grocery bags from the discount store, life moving on.
And for her—there was a new chapter.
Without extra people.
And for the first time in a long while, she breathed freely.
Not a victory—just a return to herself.
Yet deep down, something still pricked:
in every marriage there are three—husband, wife, and the shadow of the one who can’t let go.
The End.