— Mom, everything’s fine. The road was good.
Her father came out of the house. Stepan Vasilyevich had declined a lot over the past year: he’d lost weight, looked haggard, and had more gray hair. But his eyes still looked young and cheerful.
— Marinochka! — he hugged his daughter, holding her close. — My beautiful girl! I’m so glad to see you!
— Daddy, happy early anniversary!
— Thank you, dear. Come in, come in. Mom has baked pies. The whole house is covered in flour.
Over dinner, her parents asked about her life, her work, her plans. Marina answered, trying to avoid sensitive topics. Not a word about her problems with Oleg or her mother-in-law. But her father, as always, saw right through her.
— You seem a bit down, daughter, — he said when her mother went to the kitchen for tea. — Problems?
— No, Dad, everything’s fine.
— Don’t lie to your father, I can see it!
Marina sighed. It was pointless to hide anything from him.
— My mother-in-law is coming. With Oleg.
— I know, your mother told me. So what?
— Nothing. I just don’t want her to ruin your celebration.
— Ruin it? — her father chuckled. — Daughter, I’m 60 years old. I’ve seen it all. Some high-society lady from the capital won’t scare me.
— Dad, she’s not just some lady. She… — Marina fell silent, searching for the right words. — She hates me. From day one. And she’s doing everything she can to make Oleg and I divorce.
Her father’s face darkened.
— I know. I remember her at your wedding. In that black dress, with a funeral face. I knew what kind of person she was right away.
— And why didn’t you say anything?
— What could I say? You loved Oleg. You were happy. I didn’t want to spoil it.
— Maybe you should have?
Her father shook his head.
— No, honey. Everyone has to make their own mistakes. I could have warned you, but the decision would still have been yours.
— Now I don’t know what to do. Eight years, Dad. For eight years I’ve been trying to get along with this woman. And every time, she finds a new way to jab at me.
— And Oleg? What about him?
— Oleg… — Marina sighed. — He’s caught between two fires. He loves his mother, he loves me. He doesn’t want to choose. But he’ll have to, sooner or later.
— I know. And I’m afraid he’ll choose her.
Her father covered her hand with his—large, warm, calloused from work.
— Marinochka, listen to me. You are my daughter. Strong, smart, beautiful. You deserve a man who will love and protect you. If Oleg isn’t capable of that, then he’s not your man.
— But I love him, Dad.
— Love is a good thing. But love shouldn’t be suffering. If you’re suffering next to someone, it’s not love. It’s a habit. Or fear.
— Fear?
— Fear of being alone. Fear of admitting you made a mistake. Fear of starting over.
Marina was silent. Her father was telling the truth. And that truth was painful.
— I’m not saying you need to get a divorce, — he continued. — I’m saying: value yourself. Don’t let anyone, not your mother-in-law, not your husband, not anyone, humiliate you. You deserve better.
— Thanks, Dad.
— And remember: no matter what happens, your mother and I are always on your side. Always.
Her mother returned with the teapot. The conversation shifted to other topics. But her father’s words stuck in her head: “Value yourself. Don’t let yourself be humiliated. You deserve better. Maybe it’s time to stop tolerating and start acting.”
The next two days passed in a flurry of activity. Marina helped her mother cook: chopping salads, peeling vegetables, setting the table. Her father tinkered in the garage, preparing the grill for shashlik. The usual pre-holiday hustle and bustle.
Oleg and Tamara Nikolaevna were supposed to arrive on Saturday around noon. Marina awaited this moment with anxiety. And then Saturday came. Around one in the afternoon, a familiar car pulled into the yard. Oleg got out first. Smiling, tanned from a recent vacation. Behind him, Tamara Nikolaevna.
The mother-in-law looked strange. No, externally everything was perfect: an expensive dress, pearls, flawless makeup. But something in her face was unsettling. A certain glint in her eyes. Anticipation?
— Hello! — she sang, opening her arms. — I’m so happy to see you!
She hugged her mom first, then her dad, then Marina. The hugs were brief, formal. But her voice was honeyed, almost sincere.
— What a charming house! — the mother-in-law exclaimed, looking around. — So cozy, just like a country cottage.
“A country cottage.” Marina clenched her teeth. To Tamara Nikolaevna, their family home was just a dacha, a rustic cabin, nothing more.
— Come in, come in, — her mom bustled. — Lunch is ready.
At the table, the mother-in-law behaved impeccably. She praised the food, asked her father about his work, admired her mother’s garden. The perfect guest. Too perfect. Marina watched her and couldn’t shake the feeling: something was wrong. Tamara Nikolaevna had never been this friendly. Never smiled so broadly. Never given so many compliments. She was up to something. Definitely.
After lunch, the men went outside to smoke and check on the grill. Her mom was clearing the dishes. Marina wanted to help, but Tamara Nikolaevna stopped her by the arm.
— Marinochka, let’s talk. Alone.
Here we go. It’s starting.
— About what?
— About your future with Oleg.
They went out onto the veranda. It was getting dark; the air smelled of autumn and decaying leaves. Beautiful. But Marina wasn’t in the mood for beauty.
— I’m listening.
Tamara Nikolaevna sat in a wicker chair and crossed her legs. The posture of a hostess, not a guest.
— I’ll be frank, — she began. — I don’t like your relationship with Oleg.
— That’s not news.
— Don’t interrupt, — a steely edge appeared in her mother-in-law’s voice. — You’ve been married for eight years. No children. Oleg is unhappy.
— What makes you say that?
— He tells me. Every time we talk on the phone. He says you’ve grown distant. That you only think about your career. That there’s no intimacy between you anymore.
Marina clenched her fists. Oleg discusses their relationship with his mother. Tells her intimate details.
— Our relationship is none of your business.
— My son is my business. Always has been and always will be.
— Your son is thirty-eight years old. He’s a grown man.
— He’s my child. And I want the best for him.
— The best being whom? Some obedient housewife who will pop out babies and cook borscht?
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