23December
Im sitting at the kitchen table, the same one where Oleg just slammed a receipt down, making the mugs wobble. The paper reads £500 for a new kitchen suite. My heart still thumps from the argument that erupted just moments ago.
£500 for a kitchen? I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
It was the only set left, the old one was falling apartdoors coming off, the worktop stained.
He stared at the receipt, then at me, as if Id asked him to hand over his soul. We agreed wed discuss any big purchase first!
I told you a month ago, Oleg. You said look for yourself. I never said you could spend that much without a word.
He muttered something about how much does a decent set cost? Ten pounds? That was the cheapest I could find. He paced the kitchen, tugging at his hair as if that would calm the storm.
Were pinching every penny right now. Weve been saving for a car!
Yes, weve been saving. And well keep saving. But I need a place to cook now, not when we finally afford a vehicle.
Why didnt you wait?
Wait? Do you expect me to cook on two burners for another six months because the other hob is broken?
He turned to me, eyes hard. If you could learn to be more frugal, wed have bought a car and a bigger flat by now.
A lump rose in my throat. Im frugal? I count every pound to make it last until payday. I buy the cheapest groceries and wear the same coat for three winters.
He scoffed, Now youre playing the victim again!
Im not a victim, Im stating facts!
We stood facetoface, breathing heavily. Tears threatened, but I swallowed them down. No crying, no showing weakness.
His phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, muttered Mum, and disappeared down the hallway. I was left alone, the weight of the silence pressing on me. I sank onto the chair, my head cradled in my hands, wondering how we got here. We used to argue over trivial things, never over money.
I thought back to how we met. I was the receptionist at a dental practice, he came in for a filling. We chatted while waiting, he invited me for a coffee, six months later he proposed. I was twentysix, he twentyeight. Both of us working, renting a modest flat in Sheffield. We later bought a onebedroom council house on the outskirtssmall, but ours. Life was modest, not luxurious, but we didnt struggle. Arguments were rare, usually about who left the lights on.
Then something changed. Oleg grew irritable, nitpicking, constantly bringing up money and savings. He earned a decent salary as a senior project manager at a tech firm, while my job in the local council paid less. I tried to help at home, cooking, cutting costs where I could. Yet nothing was ever good enough for him.
He returned to the kitchen, his face serious.
Lena, we need to talk.
I braced myself.
My mum called. Her health is failingblood pressure, heart issues. She cant live alone.
And?
Ive decided shell move in with us until she gets better.
I stared at him. We only have a onebedroom flat. Where will she stay?
On the sofa in the living room. Well shift the dining table into the kitchen and use a pullout couch.
His eyebrows rose. Youre serious?
Absolutely. Shes my mother; I cant abandon her.
I tried to suggest a livein carer, but he snapped, A carer costs money we dont havethanks to your splurges.
My fists clenched under the table. What about my parents? Theyre seventyplus, my dad cant manage the house, my mum struggles after her stroke.
Your parents have a cottage in the countryside, a garden. Theyre fine.
Its not fine! I travel every weekend to helpcut firewood, carry water, tidy up!
He shrugged, Then keep doing that. My mum will be here.
Why does your mum get priority while my parents have to stay in the village?
His voice turned cold. Because she lives alone. Your parents have each other, and theyre used to the countryside. In the city theyd need doctors, which is another expense.
He repeated his decision like a mantra, Mum will stay with us; your parents can stay in the village. I felt my world tilt.
Youre the head of the household, I said, my voice trembling.
He laughed bitterly, The head who spends on fishing gear but wont buy a proper kitchen set for his wife!
The argument spiraled, both of us shouting, both of us feeling unheard. He grabbed the car keys, declared he was tired of the fight, and left, telling me to tidy the guest room for his mums arrival on Saturday.
I collapsed onto the kitchen floor, sobbing silently. This is my flat, my decisions, my motherbut am I now just a servant, a shadow to Olegs will?
I dialed my parents. Hello, Mum?
Her voice was weak but warm. Oh, love, how are you?
I told her about the situation, about moving her to the city, and she laughed, Lena, dear, why would we leave our home? Weve lived here all our lives. Besides, where will you get the money for a city flat?
I swallowed the tears, promised to visit soon, and hung up. My parents never complained, but I saw their struggle: the old coalfired boiler, the water bucket from the well, my dads heart surgery leaving him barely able to walk, my mums left arm useless after a stroke.
My motherinlaw, Valentina Stevens, lived in a twobedroom flat in Leeds. She was younger than my parents, sixtyfive, still relatively spry, though her health wasnt perfect. Oleg was her only son; she called him ten times a day, nagging about what to wear, what to eat, where to go. He obeyed without question.
I endured, then began to resist, but Oleg always sided with his mother, accusing me of being ungrateful. Now Valentina was moving into our tiny flat, taking half the wardrobe, commanding the kitchen, dictating how I should clean. My parents were condemned to the cold village.
That night Oleg slipped back in, didnt even say hello. I lay on the sofa, pretending to sleep. The next morning he left a note: Prepare a room for mum on Saturday. Clean the floors, change the bedding. I crumpled it and tossed it in the bin.
Friday I drove to the village, brought groceries, medicine, helped my dad stack firewood, tidied the cottage. Over tea, my mum looked at me, concern in her eyes. You look pale, dear. Are you alright?
I forced a smile, Im fine, Mum.
She pressed, Your motherinlaw is moving in with you, isnt she?
My dad shrugged, Shell stay for a while. Old people need care.
I blurted, Does a daughter not have a duty to her parents?
They exchanged a glance. My dad asked, What did you propose?
I suggested we bring you both to the city, bigger flat, better care. Oleg had rejected that, saying the village was better for us. My mum patted my hand, Were used to this, love. Its our home.
Tears welled again, and I let them fall. Im exhausted, Mum. Im tired of being second to his mother.
She soothed me, It will pass, dear. Shell stay a short while, then return.
Saturday Valentina arrived with three massive suitcases and a mountain of complaints about the cramped living conditions, insisting we need a bigger flat. I replied simply, We cant afford it now. She lectured Oleg about earning more, about asking for a bonus, while I stood by the stove, trying not to let my temper flare.
The dinner that day was tense. Valentina dictated every move, even telling Oleg what he should eat. He tried to mediate, but the atmosphere was thin ice. After she left the kitchen, Oleg confronted me, Thanks for taking my mother in.
My choice? I snapped. You decided.
He raised his voice, Shes my mother! I wont let you insult her.
The shouting attracted the neighbours attention. I felt my resolve crumble. Enough, I whispered, Im leaving.
He stared, stunned. Where will you go?
To my parents.
He shouted, Youre crazy!
Im not crazy. Im choosing to care for those who actually value me.
I packed a bag, grabbed a suitcase, and walked out. Valentina watched from the hallway, a smug smile on her face.
The cold night air hit me as I stepped onto the street, snow drifting around my boots. I hailed a cab and headed for the train station, buying a ticket to the village. By the time I arrived, the house was dark; my parents were asleep. I slipped in, changed into my slippers, and collapsed onto the old sofa in the hallway.
Morning smelled of pancakes. My mum was at the stove, humming. Lena! Youre here! she exclaimed, hugging me.
Did Oleg stay? I asked.
Hes with his mum now. Itll be easier for them both.
We sat with tea, I recounted everything. My dad nodded, You did right. No one should endure that kind of disrespect.
She squeezed my hand, Love isnt about putting up with humiliation.
I took a job at the village librarymodest pay but enough for us. I helped my parents with chores, slowly adjusting to rural life.
Oleg called a few weeks later, pleading, promising change. He eventually showed up at the cottage, looking humbled. I sold the flat, he said, eyes earnest. Bought a threebedroom house so your parents could move in with us, if you want.
I stared, skeptical. Really?
Yes. Ive realized Ive been favouring my mother over you. Ill listen to you, Ill support your parents.
Tears welled as I looked at the man who had once dismissed me. Ill consider it, I whispered. But only if were equals. My parents are as important as yours.
He nodded, Agreed.
We embraced on the cottage porch, the cold wind swirling, knowing there was still work aheadrebuilding trust, redefining family. But for the first time in months, I felt a sliver of hope that love could be a partnership, not a hierarchy.
