I. The Questions Begin

“You billed me for a party I didn’t even attend?” — no, that had been another woman’s story.
Nika’s began with a glass of orange juice and a question that sliced sharper than any invoice:

“And what’s your income? Or are you planning to hop on my son’s neck and ride?”

Nika froze mid-motion. The condensation from the glass dripped slowly onto her fingers. She looked up, startled.

At the kitchen counter, Kostya stood awkwardly slicing cheese — his shoulders slightly hunched, his face beginning to flush. The knife slipped against the cutting board with a dull scrape.

The woman in the doorway — Larisa Arkadyevna, his mother — radiated authority. A tall, angular figure framed by a perfectly tailored charcoal suit. Not a single hair out of place in her honey-blond bob. She removed her gloves with theatrical precision, eyes sweeping over Nika as though assessing an exhibit at an auction.

“Mama,” Kostya murmured, trying for a tone of warning.

“Agreed on what, son?” she interrupted smoothly, removing her coat and hanging it up. “I’m simply asking questions. We’re all adults here.”

Her voice was calm but glacial. It wasn’t curiosity — it was an audit.

Nika forced a polite smile and extended her hand. “Nice to meet you. Kostya’s told me a lot about you.”

Larisa Arkadyevna’s handshake was brief, dry, and oddly lifeless. “I hope only good things. My Kostyushka tends to… embellish.”

And so began what Nika would later call the first interrogation.

II. The Interview Disguised as Tea

For the next hour, Larisa Arkadyevna occupied the armchair opposite Nika like a judge presiding over a polite inquisition.
“Where do you work? How much do you make? Do you rent or own? What’s your father’s occupation? Your mother’s?”

“I’m a psychologist at a private clinic,” Nika answered calmly. “The pay’s good. I rent a one-bedroom apartment.”

“Psychologist,” the older woman repeated with faint disdain, as if testing the word for rot. “You mean you… listen to people complain for money?”

Nika smiled tightly. “Something like that. I help people work through trauma, anxiety, emotional issues—”

“I see.” Larisa Arkadyevna’s lips curved into something that might have been a smile. “So, a humanitarian. Pity. You could’ve gone into law. Or business. Something useful.”

“Mama,” Kostya muttered, “enough.”

“Enough what? I’m just talking,” she replied with saccharine innocence. “By the way, dear, do you drive? Or are you planning to rely on Kostya for transportation too?”

Nika inhaled, slow and deep. It’s just one evening, she told herself. Be polite. Smile. Don’t let her see you flinch.

When the visit finally ended, the apartment seemed to exhale with her. Kostya hugged her, his face buried against her shoulder.
“I’m sorry. She’s… complicated. She’ll come around.”

But Nika wasn’t so sure.

III. Sunday Lunch

Larisa Arkadyevna invited them over the following weekend. “Family lunch,” Kostya said hopefully. “She’ll cook her famous casserole.”

Nika spent hours choosing a modest yet tasteful outfit — a light beige dress, soft curls in her hair. She even bought a bouquet of lilies for his mother.

The moment they walked in, Larisa’s eyes darted over Nika’s appearance.
“Cute dress,” she remarked. “Fast fashion?”

Nika blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Nothing, dear. I just mean it’s trendy. Economical.”

At the table, Nika received one spoonful of salad and a tiny square of casserole.
“You watch your figure, don’t you?” Larisa smiled. “At your age it’s wise. After twenty-five the metabolism slows down, you know.”

Kostya coughed into his napkin, avoiding his fiancée’s gaze.

As they ate, the older woman filled the air with stories — of friends’ children who’d “married well.” One to an oil executive, another to a surgeon with three apartments in the city center.

“And what about your parents?” she asked at last.

“My father’s an engineer. My mother teaches at an elementary school.”

“I see.” Two simple words, heavy with dismissal.

After lunch came “cooking lessons.” Only the conversation wasn’t about recipes.

“You’re very… independent,” Larisa began, polishing a spotless counter. “That’s not necessarily a good thing. Men don’t want a competitor. They want peace, admiration. My Kostya needs softness. He’s sensitive.”

Nika understood perfectly: You’re not one of us.

IV. The War of Politeness

Weeks followed. Nika called, texted, invited. Her efforts met only cool refusals.

When she brought theater tickets — “I’m busy.”
A restaurant invitation — “I already have plans.”

Kostya watched helplessly. “She’ll get used to you,” he said one night. “You just need to be patient.”

But patience became humiliation.

At the third family dinner, Larisa criticized everything: Nika’s clothes (“too short”), her tone (“too assertive”), even her cooking (“Kostya’s losing weight — do you feed him at all?”).

In the taxi home, silence stretched like glass between them. Kostya apologized, swore he’d talk to her. But Nika saw the truth: he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

V. The Private Meeting

A few days later, Larisa called. “Let’s meet. Without Kostya.”

They met in a quiet downtown café with golden lighting and soft jazz. The atmosphere was elegant, deceptive — like everything about Larisa Arkadyevna.

She stirred her espresso slowly. “Let’s speak frankly, dear. You and Kostya aren’t compatible.”

Nika sipped her cappuccino, silent.

“My son needs a woman who understands her role,” Larisa continued. “A home. Children. Simplicity. Not… therapy sessions about emotions.”

“Meaning?” Nika asked quietly.

“Meaning you should step aside. With dignity. Now, before things get messy.”

“And if I don’t?”

Larisa smiled — a slow, polished smile. “Then I’ll make your life unbearable. I’ll call, visit, interfere. Kostya will break under the pressure. He always does. You’ll leave eventually. I’m simply offering you a graceful exit.”

It wasn’t a threat. It was an inevitability pronounced like weather.

VI. The Choice

That evening, Nika walked the long way home, the city glowing in fragments around her — streetlights, puddles, neon signs. For the first time, her heart didn’t ache. It was simply… awake.

She realized Kostya had never truly chosen her. He’d only added her to his mother’s carefully curated life plan. He wanted love — but one that wouldn’t disturb the existing hierarchy.

At home, she called him. “We need to talk.”

He arrived half an hour later with a bouquet of white roses. “Nika, what’s wrong?”

“I’m leaving.”

The words dropped like stones into still water.

“What? Why? Did she say something again? I’ll fix it, I promise—”

“You won’t,” she said gently. “You’ve had months. You never once took my side. You never once said, ‘Mom, stop.’ You wanted me to adjust — to become convenient.”

“That’s not true!”

“It is. And you know what hurts most? You’re a good man. But you’ll never stop being her boy.”

Kostya sat down, his face in his hands. She packed quietly, methodically. By the time dawn lightened the curtains, she was gone.

VII. The Aftermath

A month later, Nika was back in her small rented apartment. The space was modest, but it was hers — the air free of judgment. She returned to work, saw clients, met friends. Life resumed its quiet rhythm.

Kostya called a few times. Once, he even came to the clinic, standing awkwardly in the hallway with another bouquet of white roses.

“Can we talk?” he asked.

“There’s nothing left to talk about,” she said kindly. “You’ve already shown me who you are.”

At a café one evening, she watched a young couple by the window — laughing, holding hands. Hopeful. And she thought:

“When you marry, you don’t just get a husband. You inherit his world — his fears, his loyalties, his past. Sometimes even his mother.”

She smiled faintly, finishing her coffee.

She wasn’t bitter. Just wiser.

She knew now what she wanted — a partner, not a boy. A man who would stand beside her, not behind someone else’s shadow.

And as she walked into the cool evening air, she felt something she hadn’t felt in a long time: freedom that didn’t need permission.