The Breaking Point

“Arina, bake a cabbage pie for dinner tomorrow,” Lyudmila Vasilievna announced as she entered the kitchen and sat heavily at the table. “I haven’t had a proper pastry in a long time. You’re always cooking these strange dishes.”

At the stove, Arina turned from the pan of cutlets she was frying. Her mother-in-law sat there with her usual sour expression, tugging at the sleeves of her familiar burgundy sweater.

“I’m allergic to cabbage, Lyudmila Vasilievna,” Arina replied evenly, flipping a cutlet. “I’m not going to make it.”

“What do you mean you’re not going to?” her mother-in-law snapped. “I asked you, and you’re refusing me? In my day, daughters-in-law respected their elders!”

“This isn’t about respect,” Arina said, moving the pan to another burner. “If I cook cabbage, I’ll have an allergic reaction. If you want it so badly, make it yourself.”

“Make it myself?” Lyudmila Vasilievna leapt from her chair. “I am not your servant! You’re the lady of the house—you cook what I say! Your allergy is just an excuse. You’re too lazy to bother with dough!”

Arina turned toward her, her voice firm. “What does laziness have to do with it? I cook every day, clean, do laundry. But I won’t make a cabbage pie because I physically can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?” her mother-in-law pressed, eyes narrowing. “You think just because my son married you, you can talk back? We’ll see who runs this house!”

At that moment, keys jingled in the hall. Mikhail had come home. Lyudmila’s face instantly transformed into one of pained martyrdom.

“Misha, thank goodness you’re here,” she rushed to him. “Your wife is out of control. I asked her to bake a pie, and she insulted me, refused outright!”

Mikhail slipped off his jacket and cast his wife a weary glance. Arina stood tense at the stove.

“Arina, what’s going on?” he asked. “Why are you refusing my mother?”

“I’m allergic to cabbage,” she answered quietly. “I explained it already.”

“Allergy? What allergy?” Mikhail waved it off. “Mom, don’t worry. Arina will bake the pie tomorrow. Right, dear?”

Arina’s chest tightened. Her husband’s tired indifference, her mother-in-law’s triumphant smile—it was too much. She pulled off her apron.

“No. I won’t,” she said flatly, and walked out. “Eat without me.”

She shut herself in the bedroom, face buried in the pillow as tears streamed silently. Behind the wall, Mikhail and his mother ate dinner as if nothing had happened—calm voices discussing everyday matters, as though she had vanished from their lives entirely.

The next morning, Arina rose early. The house was quiet. Mikhail sat at the kitchen table with coffee, scrolling through his phone.

“Misha, we need to talk,” she said, sitting across from him.

He frowned, glancing up. “About what?”

“About your mother. I can’t take it anymore—her constant criticism, her orders, her interference. This is our home, and I feel like a guest in it. Maybe it’s time we find her a separate place to live. We’d help with the rent.”

Mikhail slammed his cup down. “Throw my mother out on the street? Never. She makes our lives better—she cooks, she helps—”

“When?” Arina shot back. “I work, I cook, I clean, I do laundry. She only criticizes.”

“Enough,” he cut her off, already putting on his jacket. “I don’t want to hear it. Mom stays. Period.”

The  door slammed. Arina stood staring at the half-finished coffee, the bitterness of it spreading through her chest.

Not long after, Lyudmila appeared, robe buttoned, hair carefully styled, expression sour. She didn’t bother with a greeting.

“Well, what a scene you made yesterday. Did you really think my son would side with you? He knows who runs this house. And you’ll obey me.”

Arina set down the kettle a little harder than she meant to.

“Today,” the mother-in-law continued, “you’ll clean the apartment until it shines. Windows, floors, bathroom. This house is filthy.”

“The house isn’t dirty,” Arina said quietly.

“Not dirty? There was dust on the dresser yesterday! And the hallway mirror is streaked! If you argue, I’ll tell Misha you refuse to listen!”

Something inside Arina snapped. She turned sharply, her voice ringing through the kitchen.

“No! I won’t do it! I’ve obeyed you too long—lost myself in this! Enough!”

Lyudmila’s face reddened with fury. “How dare you talk back?”

“I dare,” Arina shot back. “I’m not your servant. I won’t tolerate your nitpicking anymore.”

“If you keep this up, my son will throw you out!”

Arina straightened, her voice steady, strong. “You’ve forgotten whose apartment this is. Mine. Bought before I ever met your son. You live here free of rent, free of bills, free of groceries. If anyone leaves, it will be you.”

For a moment, Lyudmila was stunned, mouth agape.

“And don’t speak to me about respect,” Arina continued. “Respect is earned, not owed by age. And you’ve earned none.”

Lyudmila gasped, clutching at outrage. “I’m Misha’s mother! You’re just temporary—he’ll always choose me!”

“Then you two can leave together,” Arina snapped. “I’ll stay in my own apartment.”

Lyudmila stomped to her room, slamming the door, her angry voice soon carrying through the walls as she called her son to complain. Arina finished her tea calmly, almost relieved.

That evening, Mikhail stormed in, furious. “What did you say to my mother? How dare you threaten her?”

“Out of my house,” Arina said evenly. “I didn’t threaten. I told the truth.”

Mikhail’s face twisted. “What’s yours is mine. We’re married!”

“No,” Arina said firmly. “This apartment is mine. Bought before the marriage. And I won’t live another day under your mother’s tyranny.”

“She only asked for help—”

“She gave orders. And you backed her.”

“Of course I did! She’s my mother!”

“Then live with her,” Arina said, opening the door wide. “But not here. Pack up and leave.”

Mikhail stared, stunned. “You’re serious?”

“Completely. You’ve used me long enough. I choose to be happy—without you.”

Lyudmila rushed in at the shouting, but froze when she saw the open door.

“Pack,” Arina repeated. “You have half an hour.”

Relief surged through her like fresh air. The hardest step was taken.