I used to think things like this only happened in movies—where the young wife stands by helplessly as her home is gradually taken over by her mother-in-law, unsure how to respond, what to say, or even how to hold her ground. And yet, there I was, watching in stunned silence as Dima’s mother settled herself into the small space that my husband and I called home. What she said next left me so speechless, it was as if all language had abandoned me.
Dima and I had been married for less than a year. We met at university—we studied different subjects but crossed paths in the cafeteria. He was from another city and lived in a dorm, while I rented a modest one-room apartment close to campus. My parents helped with the rent, and I covered the rest—groceries, clothes, school materials—through my part-time jobs and scholarship money.
I kept the apartment neat, always had something to eat in the fridge, and managed to cook pretty decent meals even with the most basic ingredients. Dima liked that about me, and I fell hard for him. I wanted to care for him, to make him happy. We moved in together quickly, married just as fast, and stayed in that same apartment after finishing school. I’d landed a job nearby, and the landlady, who had always been kind to me, didn’t mind if I was ever a little late with rent. That was especially helpful now that my parents had stopped covering it.
“You’re working now, and you’re married,” my dad had said. “Time to learn how to stand on your own.”
And we did. Dima worked too, and for a while, I felt proud of us. We were young and trying to build our lives with no help from anyone. But that feeling didn’t last long.
In the haze of love and the rush of newlywed life, I didn’t realize that I had become the sole keeper of our home. Dima and I worked the same hours, but I was the one cleaning, cooking, doing laundry, ironing, grocery shopping—everything. Dima’s only contribution was a smile and a “Thanks, Nastya, that was delicious” before falling asleep on the sofa. His gratitude was sweet at first, and I kept on doing everything quietly, thinking he deserved to rest.
Maybe I would’ve kept letting it slide if not for his mother, Angelina Petrovna. She started visiting us, uninvited. It’s not like I dislike guests, but there’s a limit. My own parents visited every couple of months and always let me know in advance. But Dima’s mother showed up suddenly, always claiming it would just be for the day.
How could I refuse? She was my husband’s mother. I didn’t want to seem rude or cause any drama over one day. She’d traveled far, and I felt obligated to be accommodating. But those days meant more work for me—feeding her, cleaning up after her. She walked in like royalty, as if everything revolved around her.
I didn’t expect her to start scrubbing floors, but at the very least, she could’ve washed her own teacup. That’s when it really hit me—Dima never helped with anything, and the little rest he enjoyed came at my expense. I too would’ve liked to lay down after work, but someone had to cook and clean. And it was always me.
Still, I might have swallowed that reality too, if it weren’t for how critical and demanding Angelina Petrovna became. I couldn’t seem to do anything right. I ironed Dima’s pants wrong, the dishes weren’t spotless, I folded rags the incorrect way. And her food preferences—what a headache. One moment I was salting too much, the next, not enough. She claimed Dima didn’t like this or that, even though I’d seen her eat those very dishes without complaint.
“Learn how to do things properly,” she’d say, always correcting me like I was a child.
But even though she clearly enjoyed giving orders, I never felt like she actually considered me part of the family.
“Clean this up,” she’d say. “Dima and I are going shopping.”
It was always Dima and her. I was invisible. Just the unpaid maid. I even made a joke once about serfdom being abolished, and she tattled to Dima, claiming I was disrespectful.
It was already tight with two people in that small apartment. When she came—especially on weekends—it robbed me of my only chance to rest or spend time with my husband. Soon, her visits grew more frequent. First monthly, then biweekly.
That’s when I started planning my own escapes. I made lunch plans with friends or went to see my parents. I figured if Dima got his weekend off, so would I. If his mother wanted food, she could cook it herself. The pots and pans were there for her to use.
She didn’t take kindly to this change. At first, she just made snide remarks. “Of course the floor isn’t clean—your friends must be waiting. Look, my socks are already dirty.”
But the second time I tried to leave, she crossed a line. I was getting ready in the kitchen—wearing a nice dress, doing my makeup—when she walked in to pour some tea.
“You look ready for battle, Nastya,” she said casually. “Off to the bathhouse?”
It took a moment for the insult to sink in. At first, I was confused. No one talks like that anymore. But the tone and the look she gave me made the message clear. My hand froze mid-stroke with the mascara wand. I looked at myself in the mirror—my dress was stylish, my makeup neat. There was nothing inappropriate about how I looked.
I stood up, walked into the room, and asked directly, “Angelina Petrovna, did you just insult me?”
Dima was lying on the unfolded sofa, watching something on his phone. His mother sat at the edge, sipping tea. She barely glanced at me before turning her head away, like I wasn’t even there.
“Am I talking to myself?”
That was it. The argument erupted. I finally let out everything I’d been holding in. I was certain Dima would defend me—after all, who wouldn’t stand up for their wife when she was being insulted? But he just lay there, wide-eyed and silent, as if this wasn’t his problem.
“Say something!” I shouted. “Your mother is humiliating me, and you’re just lying there!”
“Don’t speak to my son like that!” she snapped. “Who do you think you are?”
“I’m his wife,” I said, then stormed out of the room and slammed the door. Not the most mature move, I know, but I needed some way to release my anger.
I sat in the kitchen, trying to pull myself together, when she made her dramatic exit.
“Well done,” she announced. “You’ve made your point. I’m leaving.”
She slammed the door so hard the glass rattled. I ended up canceling my outing with friends. I didn’t want to ruin their day with my frustration.
Dima didn’t try to comfort me. When I went back to the room to put away my makeup, he was asleep. Just like that. As if nothing had happened. I didn’t speak to him for days. I couldn’t understand how someone could stay so passive while his wife was being treated that way. Eventually, I decided to talk to him. I poured out my thoughts, not sure if he truly listened, but I had to try.
A few days later, he started washing his own plate after dinner. A small gesture, but I took it as progress.
I don’t hold grudges. I let my anger go, especially since I assumed she might’ve learned her lesson. But I also decided that I would no longer serve someone who clearly didn’t respect me. If she treated me with kindness, I would have done anything for her. But I was done being anyone’s maid.
In one sense, I was right—she had changed. But not for the better.
I came home from work one Monday to find her waiting at the door with unfamiliar bags. She smiled coldly.
“I’ll be staying with you for a week,” she said. “Those are my things.”
“No,” I replied immediately. “No one told me you were coming.”
“I don’t need permission,” she said smugly. “This is my son’s home.”
I stood there, arms crossed, as she walked in and made herself comfortable in the kitchen. I realized she wasn’t here for a visit—this was about power. She wanted to show me she could come and go as she pleased.
“We don’t have space for three,” I said. “Dima, explain that to your mother.”
Dima hovered behind me, clearly uncomfortable, his eyes darting back and forth. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Silence.
“Yes, dear,” she chimed sweetly to him. “It’s really too cramped in here. Nastya should go live with her mother. She can come visit us to cook and clean.”
I was speechless. I watched her digging through drawers as if she owned the place. Technically, the apartment wasn’t mine, but the lease was in my name. I’d lived there for years. And now, they were suggesting I move out to make space for them, only returning as their maid.
“You’ve lost your crown, Your Majesty,” I said finally. “Cook and clean for yourselves.”
“Is that how you treat guests?” she asked sharply. “Didn’t your parents teach you anything?”
Mentioning my parents—that was the final straw. I snapped.
“Get out,” I said.
Dima finally opened his mouth—but to defend her.
“Watch your tone,” he said. “She’s your mother.”
For the first time, I was thankful that he was such a spineless man. It made it easier to shove him out into the hallway alongside her. He didn’t even resist properly.
“Why?” he asked, bewildered.
“Ask your mother,” I replied, then slammed the door.
That night, I called my parents and told them everything. I didn’t expect advice—I just needed to say it out loud. They told me what I needed to hear: “You’re an adult. Do what’s best for you.”
And I did. I realized life was far easier without a man-child and his overbearing mother. If I ever wanted to clean up after strangers again, I’d get paid for it. There’s a word for that: employment. Not marriage.