“You’re not a mother, you’re a disaster!” — Nastya had reached her breaking point with her mother-in-law’s constant drama.
Nastya was at the stove, flipping some pasties, when her husband, Oliver, walked into the kitchen.
“Nastya, my mum called today,” he started. “Says you won’t let her see her grandson.”
“Oh, did she complain?” Nastya asked, surprised.
“Yeah. She said you keep making excuses. She hasn’t seen little Archie in a month,” he added.
Nastya wiped her hands nervously on her apron.
“Oliver… This is hard to say,” she hesitated. “Your mum… said something to me that you should know.”
She told him everything. Oliver went pale and sank into a chair—he hadn’t expected this.
It all started a month ago. That day, Margaret, his mum, had shown up unannounced, as usual. The moment she stepped inside, she eyed the hallway with disapproval.
“Absolute chaos again! Toys everywhere! How can you raise a child in such a mess?”
Nastya forced a smile, but inside, she was seething. Archie had just fallen asleep, and the toys were exactly where he’d left them after playing. But for Margaret, it was just another excuse to vent.
“Oliver!” she raised her voice. “Are you a man or what? You should be telling your wife how to keep a proper home!”
“Mum, it’s fine,” he muttered, barely looking up from his phone.
“Fine? The place looks like a bomb’s hit it, and you’re acting like you’re on holiday!”
“Archie’s just energetic,” Nastya said calmly, though her voice betrayed her tension.
“Energetic! You should be watching him, not letting him run wild!”
And once again, the conversation circled back to how Oliver had been raised—the perfect child under constant supervision. Nastya nodded silently, but with every word, her frustration grew.
“Margaret,” she finally said, “I’m raising my son my way. He’s two. He’s exploring the world.”
“Exploring? Next thing, he’ll be covered in scrapes and bruises, and you’ll just shrug and say ‘he’s exploring’!”
“That’s childhood. They learn through mistakes, through experience.”
“No! That’s neglect. What if he seriously hurts himself?”
“Mum…” Oliver tried to interject, but Margaret only got angrier.
“If you don’t learn to be a proper mother, I’ll have to report this!”
The next day, Margaret came again—banging on the door like always.
“What took you so long? I almost thought you weren’t home!” she snapped.
“I was busy,” Nastya answered flatly.
“Still toys everywhere! Do you ever clean?”
“Of course. But Archie plays. That’s normal.”
“Normal? Back when Oliver was little—”
“Yeah, I know. He was perfect. Not a speck of dust, not a scratch. Except he still can’t fry an egg!”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That you raised a man who can’t function on his own.”
“He’s got a job, brings in money! While you sit around!”
“I’m raising a child. And I want him to be independent. Not helpless like his dad.”
Just then, the sound of shattering glass and a child’s cry came from the living room. Nastya rushed in—Archie stood there, his hand bleeding.
“Oh god—” Nastya scooped him up. “It’s alright, sweetheart, you’re okay!”
“See what I mean?!” Margaret hissed. “I warned you! You’re not a mother, you’re a disaster! I’m calling social services!”
Nastya froze. This wasn’t just an insult—it was a threat.
“Fine. Come back with an inspector. But right now—you need to leave.”
From that day on, Nastya changed. She didn’t slam doors—she just stopped opening them to Margaret without a reason. There was always an excuse—quarantine, doctor’s orders, renovations, Archie being poorly…
One day, Margaret turned up unannounced. Nastya peeked through the gap in the door.
“Oh, didn’t you get my text? Sorry! Archie’s had a weak immune system lately, the doctor said no visitors.”
“I’m not a stranger!”
“No, but… rules are rules. We’ll catch up soon, promise!”
Margaret left in silence, furious.
That evening, Oliver came to his wife.
“Mum says you’re keeping her from Archie. Why?”
“Because I’m scared. She threatened me with social services.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“And you’re sure she won’t do it if she gets angry again?”
He went quiet. Nastya took his hand.
“He’s our son. His safety comes first.”
“You really think she’d hurt him?”
“She doesn’t see boundaries. Her ‘care’ is dangerous.”
“Alright,” he gave in. “I won’t push it.”
Nastya smiled in relief. Margaret had crossed the line—now the game had new rules.
