**Mum and Daughter-in-Law**
Tatiana Arkadyevna walked home at her usual leisurely pace. As she turned the key, unfamiliar voices reached her from inside the flat. Strangers. She slipped off her shoes and tiptoed to the kitchen.
What she saw knocked the wind out of her.
Three young women were laughing merrily at the table. At the centre, acting like the lady of the house, sat her daughter-in-law—Veronica. A pot bubbled on the stove, the flat thick with the smell of freshly made borscht. *Her* borscht—the one she’d cooked that morning for dinner.
“What on earth is going on here?” she snapped, and the kitchen fell dead silent.
Veronica lifted her head and offered a practised smile.
“Mum, the girls just popped round for a chat. I treated them. The borscht’s lovely, isn’t it?”
Tatiana Arkadyevna silently scanned the table. The guests’ plates held the remains of *her* supper. The finest dinner set had been taken from the cupboard. The weekend’s fruit, meant for the family, was nearly gone.
Veronica had been part of the family for almost two years. Her son, Andrew, had fallen head over heels, married in a rush. At first, they rented a flat, but when the landlord decided to sell, they were left with nowhere to go.
“Mum, please, just let us stay for a bit,” Andrew had begged. “We’ll sort something out soon.”
Tatiana had agreed—but laid down rules from the start. And from day one, she knew peace was out of the question. Veronica was sharp, disrespectful, always answering with an edge. Every day brought a fresh irritation.
First, it was crumbs left on the table. Then, clothes strewn about. Next, doors slamming.
“Why *were* you kicked out?” Tatiana had blurted one evening.
“The flat was sold,” Veronica cut back.
“I don’t believe you. Landlords give tenants a month’s notice—not two days. Maybe you talk to them the same way you talk to me?”
Veronica smirked, shoved in her earbuds, and turned away.
The next day, Tatiana gathered the crumbs off the table and theatrically dumped them onto Veronica’s bed. The girl shrieked, a row erupting between them.
When Andrew came home from work that evening, he listened silently before asking just one question:
“All this—over *crumbs*?”
“Over *respect*!” Tatiana shot back. “Either you both live by my rules, or you pack your things.”
Andrew promised to talk to Veronica. For a couple of days, she behaved—then it all started again. Until, suddenly, a change. Cleaning, silence, even a batch of homemade jam.
Tatiana grew wary. Rightly so. A week later, her son announced:
“Mum… you’re going to be a grandmother.”
Instead of joy, dread settled in. A baby—and no home of their own. And a daughter-in-law she couldn’t stand.
“So *that’s* why she changed! You talked her into this!” she accused. “But it changes nothing. You won’t raise a child under my roof. I’ve got years yet before retirement.”
Andrew said nothing. The next day, the moment Tatiana left to visit a friend, Veronica invited her mates over. The borscht *she’d* made was dished out generously.
But Tatiana returned early—and walked in on the “feast.”
“This is *my* home, not a restaurant. Get out,” she said coldly. “And *you*, Veronica—pack your bags.”
Veronica left without a word. That evening, Andrew came home, saw his wife’s suitcase by the door, and silently packed his own.
“If you walk out that door, don’t bother coming back,” Tatiana warned.
But he left.
For half a year, mother and son didn’t speak. Eventually, Tatiana Arkadyevna worked up the courage to call. They met at a café. She never spoke to Veronica again.
She became a grandmother—but from a distance. And if she regretted anything, it was ever letting her daughter-in-law cross her threshold. Because respect isn’t something you earn with a pregnancy bump. It’s either there—or it isn’t.
