I. The Setup

“Come in, Marina. Dinner needs to be cooked; the groceries are in a bag in the kitchen. The laundry’s in the basket. Dust the living room too—haven’t had a chance in ages,”
the future mother-in-law rattled off, as if giving instructions to a maid, not to her son’s fiancée. Then, in the same breath, she added casually:
“And Vanya and I will watch a movie in the living room in the meantime.”

For a few seconds, Marina stood in the doorway, blinking in confusion.
She’d thought this would be an ordinary visit — tea, small talk, maybe dessert. But the tone in Yelena Ivanovna’s voice told her that something else was happening here.

“Excuse me…” Marina asked quietly. “I’m supposed to cook dinner?”

“What’s the problem?” Yelena Ivanovna smiled thinly, a smile sharp as glass. “You’re my son’s future wife, aren’t you? Time to show what you can do. Or did you think you’d only be receiving flowers and going to cafés? Vanechka has already spent more than fifteen thousand on you. Time to give back, my dear.”

Marina froze. Her face flushed. She looked at Ivan, hoping he’d intervene, laugh it off, say it was all a joke.

But Ivan just shrugged and said,
“Mom wanted you to show yourself.”

And at that moment Marina understood: this was not a misunderstanding. It was a test.

II. How It All Began

She hadn’t chosen this family. Her mother had.

At twenty-seven, Marina was constantly reminded that her “biological clock” was “ticking like a bomb.”

Her mother, Svetlana Vladimirovna, would say every morning over breakfast,
“Marina, hold on to Vanechka, or you’ll end up alone. No one will take you at your age. You’re lucky someone decent looked your way!”

“Mom,” Marina would sigh, “people marry at forty now. Times have changed.”

“Changed, my foot! That’s what your internet tells you. Real life is different. A woman’s worth fades faster than milk on a hot day.”

There was no point arguing. Her mother’s voice had ruled her life since childhood — calm at times, cutting at others, but always final.
What to wear, where to go, which subjects to study, which men to meet — it was all decided for her.

And so it was that Svetlana’s old friend, Yelena Ivanovna, invited them for tea one Sunday.
They’d worked together years ago and had remained close. Now, both women had grown-up children — and both saw themselves as architects of destiny.

“Lena’s bringing her son today,” Svetlana had told Marina that morning.
“So set the table properly. Not in the kitchen — the dining table. And change that blouse. You look like a pensioner.”

“Her son?” Marina blinked. “The one who works in IT?”

“Yes, Vanechka. Don’t ask stupid questions. Just be polite and smile.”

III. The Arrangement

That evening, under the approving gazes of both mothers, Marina and Ivan met. He was tall, calm, well-mannered, and his handshake firm. He spoke little but carried himself with a quiet confidence that impressed Svetlana.

Within a month, Marina found herself introduced as “Vanya’s girlfriend.”
Their mothers were already planning the wedding color scheme.

“He’s a gem,” said Svetlana Vladimirovna proudly to anyone who would listen. “Polite, steady job, doesn’t drink. Not like these modern loafers.”

In truth, Ivan was polite — but polite like a customer at a shop who doesn’t intend to buy anything.

He brought flowers, opened doors, and texted her “good morning” daily. Yet there was no warmth in his eyes, no excitement in his voice. He was with her because it was time to marry — not because he couldn’t imagine life without her.

Still, Marina convinced herself she was lucky. Love could come later.

That’s what her mother said.
“That’s how all normal marriages start,” she declared. “Love grows after the wedding. But first you need a husband.”

IV. The Hidden Plan

One evening, as Marina was helping her mother wash dishes, she overheard Svetlana on the phone with Yelena Ivanovna.

“Lena, I’ve been thinking,” Yelena said, “before the wedding, let the girl stay with us for a while. You never know with today’s young women — some can’t even boil eggs. I’ll see how she manages a household.”

“Excellent idea!” Svetlana exclaimed. “Let her live there and prove herself. If she passes your test, she’s ready for marriage.”

Marina didn’t know about that conversation.
Ivan did — but kept silent. For him, it was easier to let the women “sort things out.”

V. The Invitation

“Marin,” he said one evening, almost casually, “why don’t you stay at our place for a bit? You know, until the wedding. Mom would love it. It’ll be cozy — like a trial run.”

She hesitated.
“I thought we’d live separately. You said you wanted our own place.”

“Of course, of course,” Ivan waved his hand. “Later. This is temporary. We’ll get used to each other.”

She nodded — though her gut twisted with unease.

VI. The “Test”

And that’s how she found herself in Yelena Ivanovna’s apartment, standing in the hallway, while her future mother-in-law handed out orders like a commander to a recruit.

Marina walked to the kitchen, opened the grocery bag — potatoes, chicken, onions — and took a deep breath.

“Fine,” she muttered. “Let’s see how they like my version of dinner.”

The meat went into the pan, sizzling furiously. The smell of burning rose in seconds. Marina didn’t flinch. She salted it as if she were seasoning an icy road in February. The pasta boiled for two minutes — no more — and came out crunchy.

The result: a meal that could break teeth.

She set the table in silence, wiped her hands, and picked up a rag to “dust” the living room — one lazy swipe here, another there.

When Yelena Ivanovna and Vanya sat down to eat, the reaction came fast.

“What is this horror?” Yelena snapped. “It’s inedible! The pasta’s raw, the meat’s salted to death!”

Marina folded the rag neatly and placed it on the shelf.
“Thanks for the evening,” she said evenly. “I’m going home.”

And she left.

VII. The Fallout

The next morning, Svetlana’s phone rang.
“Sveta, your daughter is a disgrace!” shouted Yelena. “She can’t cook, she can’t clean, she’s lazy! Forget about the wedding. I’ll never let my son marry that girl!”

Svetlana, red with embarrassment, didn’t argue.
But when Marina came home that evening, her mother’s fury erupted.

“What was that yesterday? You humiliated me! Do you know what people will say? I thought I raised a woman, not a slacker!”

Marina met her gaze calmly.
“I didn’t humiliate you. I just refused to humiliate myself.”

“You’ll die alone at this rate! You don’t understand happiness!”

“I understand perfectly,” Marina replied. “It’s not washing someone else’s floors.”

“Get out! Go think about your behavior!”

So Marina did.

VIII. The Breakaway

The next day she packed a suitcase.
She didn’t slam doors, didn’t shout. She simply said,
“Mom, I’m moving out. I’ve already found an apartment.”

Svetlana gaped.
“With what money?”

“My own. I’ve been saving. I’ll manage.”

A week later, Marina signed a mortgage for a small studio — ground floor, old building, creaky pipes. But it was hers.

The first night she lay on the sofa she’d bought second-hand, listening to the hum of the city outside. The room smelled faintly of paint and freedom.

“Small,” she whispered, smiling. “But mine.”

She spent her weekends painting the walls and hanging curtains. She embroidered in the evenings, watched movies, cooked what she liked. For the first time in her life, she didn’t have to answer to anyone.

IX. The Confrontation

When Svetlana found out her daughter had taken a mortgage, she nearly fainted.

“A ground-floor Khrushchyovka? Are you insane? You could have had Vanya, a stable family, security!”

Marina smiled softly.
“Mom, I’ve met someone else. His name’s Igor. He works hard, he’s kind, and he doesn’t expect me to earn love by scrubbing his mother’s floor.”

Svetlana’s voice rose an octave.
“How dare you talk to me like that? Do you think you deserve something better?”

“Yes,” Marina said simply. “That’s exactly what I think.”

And she walked out — quietly, without slamming the door.

X. The Freedom

Three years later, on her thirtieth birthday, Marina sat in her own renovated apartment — now bright, filled with plants and soft light.
Beside her sat Igor, her husband, pouring tea.

He looked at her with warmth, not expectation.

“You know,” he said, “this place really feels alive. Like you.”

Marina smiled.
“It’s not the place. It’s just that no one here tells me what I should be.”

She raised her cup.
“To peace, and to the ground floor,” she laughed.

From the shelf, her embroidery glowed softly under the lamp — patterns of blooming trees. The same hands that once scrubbed someone else’s floor now created beauty.

And if her mother ever called to say, “You’ll regret leaving Vanya,”
Marina would only smile.

Because happiness wasn’t found in someone’s kitchen.
It was found the day she walked out of one.