You’ll regret your words, dear.
At that moment, Oleg returned, and the conversation ended. But Marina remembered that look, those words. She remembered and understood: Tamara Nikolaevna had declared war on her.
The mother-in-law came to the wedding in a black dress. Not a mourning dress, no, just a black, elegant, and expensive one. But the message was clear: for her, this day was not a celebration, but a funeral. The funeral of the hope that her son would remain only hers.
— Why is your mom in black? — Marina whispered to Oleg before the ceremony.
— It’s her favorite color, — he brushed it off. — Don’t overthink it.
“Don’t overthink it.” She would hear this phrase many more times. Every time she tried to draw her husband’s attention to her mother-in-law’s antics.
The wedding was modest, at Marina’s insistence. Fifty people in a cozy little restaurant on the outskirts of the capital. Live music, a simple but tasty menu. Tamara Nikolaevna sat with a stone face the entire evening. She didn’t dance, barely spoke. She responded to congratulations through gritted teeth.
— Congratulations, — she said to Marina when the guests had left. — You got what you wanted. You got my son. But remember: Oleg is mine. He was mine and will remain mine. And you are just a temporary phase for him.
— A temporary phase? — Marina chuckled. — We just got married. It’s called ‘forever’.
— Forever? — Tamara Nikolaevna laughed a dry, unpleasant laugh. — Girl, you’re naive. We’ll see how long your ‘forever’ lasts.
That was eight years ago. Eight years of cold war, petty meannesses, and endless jabs. The first year of marriage was relatively calm. The newlyweds lived in a rented apartment. Tamara Nikolaevna visited rarely; she didn’t want to demean herself with visits to that “kennel,” as she put it. But even those rare visits, Marina remembered for a long time.
Her mother-in-law would arrive without warning, with keys Oleg had given her just in case. She would walk in, look around like a health inspector, and start criticizing:
— What kind of curtains are these? Where did you dig them up? A second-hand shop? There’s dust on the shelves. Marina, do you ever clean? Oleg, my son, you’ve lost weight. Isn’t she feeding you?
Marina didn’t stay silent. She wasn’t one to meekly endure insults. But she responded with restraint, trying not to escalate to open conflict:
— We like the curtains. And Oleg lost weight because he started going to the gym.
Tamara Nikolaevna would just purse her lips and cast withering glances at her daughter-in-law.
— You’re too cheeky, — she said once. — Oleg doesn’t like that.
— Oleg loves me for who I am, — Marina replied. — And if you don’t like it, that’s your problem.
Her mother-in-law turned pale with anger but restrained herself. Apparently, she didn’t expect such a retort. But the real war began later, when Marina got pregnant. It happened in the second year of their marriage.
She and Oleg were happy—or so they thought. They were planning the future, choosing names for the baby, dreaming about how they would raise their child. Tamara Nikolaevna, upon learning of the pregnancy, reacted strangely. She wasn’t happy, she didn’t congratulate them. She just said:
— I hope the child looks like Oleg, and not like… — she trailed off meaningfully.
Marina understood the hint but said nothing. For the sake of the baby. And then tragedy struck. A miscarriage in the eighth week. The doctors said: “It happens, especially with a first pregnancy. The body couldn’t handle it. It’s okay, you can try again.”
Marina was in the hospital when Tamara Nikolaevna came. Alone, without Oleg. He was at an important meeting and couldn’t get away. The mother-in-law sat next to the bed, her face… pleased? No, not quite. More like, satisfied. Like someone who got what they were waiting for.
— What a pity, — she said, examining her nails. — Poor Oleg will be so upset.
— He already knows, — Marina said quietly. — I called him.
— Of course, he knows. But it’s one thing to know, and another to realize. You do understand what this means, don’t you?
— What does it mean?
Tamara Nikolaevna leaned closer. Her perfume, heavy and sweet, hit her nose.
— It means you can’t give my son what he needs. An heir. A successor to the family line. Maybe it’s a sign? Maybe you two shouldn’t be together?
Marina felt something inside her break. Not from her mother-in-law’s words—she was already used to her venomous remarks—but from the realization. This woman was actually happy about her grief. Happy that she had lost her child.
— Leave, — Marina said. Her voice was hoarse but firm.
— What?
— Leave. Immediately.
— How dare you? Get out!
Marina pushed herself up in bed, despite the weakness and pain:
— Get out of here. And if you dare say a single word of what you’ve said here to Oleg, I will tell him everything. Everything you’ve said to me over these years. Every insult, every dirty trick.
Tamara Nikolaevna paled, stood up, straightened her jacket, and walked out of the room. But before she left, she turned and hissed:
— You will regret this.
Marina didn’t tell Oleg anything. Not because she was scared, but because she didn’t want to add to his worries. He was already crushed by the loss of the baby. But from that day on, something changed. Marina stopped holding back.
The next time Tamara Nikolaevna showed up unannounced, Marina met her at the door:
— Good afternoon. Next time, please call in advance.
— I have keys, — the mother-in-law replied brazenly.
— You did. I’ll ask Oleg to take them back.
— Try it.
Marina tried. And, to her surprise, Oleg agreed. After a long conversation, after tears and explanations, he agreed. He took the keys from his mother. The fight was epic. Tamara Nikolaevna cried, screamed, accused Marina of all mortal sins, but she didn’t get the keys back. It was the first major victory. And Marina understood: if you stand your ground, you can get results.
But her mother-in-law wasn’t going to give up. She just changed her tactics. Instead of open attacks, there were subtle hints. Instead of rude insults, sympathetic sighs.
— Oh, Oleg, you look so tired. Marina is completely wearing you out with her demands.
— Son, I heard you’re having money problems. Maybe Marina should find a better job?
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