How Life Changes with Motherhood
My existence was split into two distinct halves: before discovering those two lines on a test and after. The latter phase proved to be far more challenging than I had ever anticipated. Each morning began with lengthy minutes spent on the cold tiles of the bathroom, while the days morphed into an endless struggle against my own body. Swollenness transformed my legs into heavy, unrecognizable limbs; blood pressure spikes would blur my surroundings one moment, only to swiftly return with sharp, agonizing clarity the next. Mark, my husband, attempted to be supportive; however, he was preoccupied with work, new projects, and the overwhelming responsibilities that had suddenly multiplied. I was left alone in the quiet of our still unfamiliar Moscow apartment, confronted with my own fears and uncertainties.
These uncertainties were abundant. I often reflected on the drastic transformation my life had undergone. The warm, pastry-scented Yaroslavl had long receded into the past. Here in the capital, everything felt different: swift, loud, and alien. We resided in Mark’s apartment, which also belonged to his mother, Victoria Dmitrievna. From the very beginning, it was clear that I was not the daughter-in-law she envisioned for her only son. In her world, the ideal bride was ethereal, soaring above the mundane, shining brilliantly instead of meekly smiling from the corner.
“Markushka, I always hoped you would pay attention to Katya, my old friend’s daughter,” she stated in my presence, as though I were a transparent wall separating her from her son.
Forced to remain silent, I clenched my teeth painfully. I believed our love would serve as a shield, protecting us from any storms. How naïve I was, so confident in the strength of that feeling. Everything shifted when I learned I was carrying our child.
From that day forward, Victoria Dmitrievna seemingly abandoned any notion of personal boundaries. She became a shadow, monitoring every movement I made, every breath I took.
- “Sofia, are you eating that cream again? The baby will have terrible rashes! Do you want your child to suffer for life?”
- “Sofia, why are you lying with a book? Get outside and breathe fresh air! The baby needs oxygen to develop, not your silly novels!”
- “Sofia, this tea is poison! I brought you mine, made from healing herbs gathered at the dacha. Drink it, strengthen your health.”
Fortunately, after a few months, Mark found us a separate place. Our small but private apartment became our refuge, an island amidst the turbulent waters of his mother’s overbearing care. We were happy; we breathed deeply, believing that the toughest moments lay behind us.
However, that joy was short-lived. Victoria Dmitrievna began appearing on our doorstep daily, uninvited and with no warning. She brought bags of groceries, rearranged furniture according to a Feng Shui scheme she had devised, and adjusted curtains, grumbling that they hung incorrectly.
“Mom,” Mark finally mustered the courage to say one day, “we truly appreciate your help, but please give us some space. We want to feel like the owners of our home.”
“What do you know?” she snapped, without even glancing at her son. “Your first child isn’t a toy. It’s a huge responsibility. Without my guidance, you’ll make irreparable mistakes.”
“We will learn from our own experiences,” I replied quietly but firmly.
“Experiences that could cost my grandchild’s health?” Her voice turned icy. “No, thank you. If you choose not to heed reason, that’s your decision. But don’t come to me with complaints later.”
She stormed off, dramatically slamming the door behind her. For three blissful days, silence enveloped us. We relished each moment, each second spent in our solitude. But on the fourth day, a knock at the door signaled her return. She stood on the threshold, holding a large pot that sent up fragrant steam from a hearty soup.
“A growing body needs nourishment,” she declared, stepping over the threshold uninvited.
And everything spiraled back into the old, exhausting routine.
The eighth month arrived. One evening, the world began to swirl before my eyes, and the ground seemed to vanish beneath me. Hospital, IV drips, white coats, and stern faces of doctors. Threat. The most terrifying word for any expectant mother. The doctor, a young woman with weary yet kind eyes, explained that stress could be the cause and prescribed complete rest, only rest, and nothing else.
“What stress?” Victoria Dmitrievna fumed in the corridor just outside my room. “I’ve created a nurturing environment! No worries, no hassles! She’s simply too fragile, unprepared for the challenges of motherhood.”
Mark, who rushed at the first call, responded to his mother with an uncharacteristic sharpness:
“Mom, enough. Your ‘care’ is stifling her. If you don’t change your behavior, we will have to see you less often.”
I didn’t see her face in that moment, but the heavy silence that followed spoke volumes. After that episode, she seemed to relent slightly. She brought fruits to the hospital, fresh magazines, even attempted to joke, although her attempts were clumsy and forced.
I wanted to believe that something had shifted, that the ice was beginning to melt.
Yet fate has a way of testing our resilience. Everything happened two weeks ahead of schedule. Contractions seized me in the night, harshly and mercilessly. Mark was in St. Petersburg at a crucial meeting. In panic, I dialed my mother-in-law’s number. She arrived faster than the ambulance, collected and cold as ice.
“All right, no panicking,” her voice commanded like a battle cry. “Get ready. I’ve already called a car. I informed Mark; he’s on his way, but it’s a long trip.”
The pain increased in the car, becoming sharper, more unbearable. I couldn’t hold back a groan. Victoria Dmitrievna sat beside me, staring out the window at the flickering lights.
“Victoria Dmitrievna, I’m so scared,” I whispered, seeking even a morsel of support from her.
“Nonsense,” came her dry response. “Millions of women have gone through this. Nature ensures everything.”
The emergency room buzzed with chaos. Paperwork, questions, glaring lights. I was swiftly admitted and taken to the labor ward. The pain consumed me, waves washed over me, erasing my mind, leaving only primal fear. I screamed.
“Be quiet!” Victoria Dmitrievna sharply hissed, leaning down to me. “What will they think of us? Behave with dignity. I gave birth to Mark without making a sound.”
I bit my lip, trying to quiet one pain with another. A nurse administering an IV shot me a sympathetic glance.
“The doctor will be here shortly, hang in there, mommy.”
“And the pain relief?” I exhaled, feeling another contraction seize my entire body.
“We’ll see how it goes,” she replied evasively, disappearing behind the door.
Victoria Dmitrievna regarded me with undisguised disapproval.
“In my time, no pain relief was permitted. And we managed just fine. This generation is so pampered, so weak.”
I could no longer respond—my energies were spent on merely breathing. When the doctor—a calm, intelligent man in his forties—walked in, I felt a faint glimmer of hope.
“Sofia, let’s see how things are progressing,” he began the examination, and I couldn’t stifle a loud, almost animal-like scream. “Just endure a bit longer.”
“Doctor, I can’t… it’s so painful…” This was no longer a voice but a cry, wrenched from the depths of my being.
And at that moment, Victoria Dmitrievna, standing at the head of the bed, leaned down abruptly and whispered directly into my ear so the doctor wouldn’t hear:
“Shut your mouth and give birth in silence! Don’t disgrace our family name! What will the doctor think of you?”
The air froze. The doctor straightened slowly, his gaze turning hard and cold. He looked directly at my mother-in-law.
“Madam, if you cannot provide the emotional support that the birthing mother requires, I must ask you to leave the room.”
“I have every right to be here!” she blazed, straightening her back. “I will be present for the birth of my grandchild.”
“And I am here as the doctor,” he said, his voice quiet but resolute. “I am responsible for my patient’s health. Anyone who interferes with the birthing process will be removed. A woman has every right to scream, cry, and express her pain. It’s natural. Now, please leave.”
“In our time…” she began, but the doctor interrupted her sharply.
“In your time, many women and children suffered agonies that can now be prevented. Let’s not revisit the past. Please leave. Now.”
“I’m not going anywhere!” Her fingers dug into the metal frame of the bed.
With a sigh, the doctor pressed the call button. Two orderlies entered the room.
“Escort this woman to the waiting area,” he ordered. “And summon the anesthesiologist for an epidural.”
Victoria Dmitrievna fought against them, but she was firmly but respectfully led out of the room. As the door closed behind her, I felt an incredible, all-consuming relief wash over me. The air became breathable again.
“Thank you,” I whispered, tears of gratitude springing to my eyes.
“It’s my job,” he smiled gently. “Unfortunately, this happens. The older generation often projects their pain and traumatic experiences onto young mothers. But your mission is to give birth to a healthy child. And we are here to help you.”
After the injection, the pain receded, transforming into a distant, vague hum. I could focus, breathe, and assist my baby in entering the world. After several hours, he was born—a strong, rosy baby boy whose first cry became the most beautiful sound of my life.
In the postpartum ward, Mark awaited me. He stood by the window, clutching a massive, incredible bouquet of spring tulips and snowdrops.
“I’m sorry I didn’t make it in time, dear,” he pressed his cheek against mine, and his lips were warm and soft. “The flight was delayed. How are you? How is your heart?”
“Now it’s full,” I smiled, feeling the exhaustion and happiness swirling together into one. “Where is your mother?”
Mark’s face clouded.
“In the corridor. The nurse filled me in. We had a very serious talk.”
“And what did she say?”
“Of course, she’s upset. She claims she only wanted what’s best, that it’s how things were done in our family. I told her times are changing, and we will raise our son our way, in love and respect.”
I squeezed his hand, feeling an overwhelming gratitude flood me.
“Thank you for being here.”
“I’m always with you,” he simply stated.
There was a knock at the door. A nurse entered.
“Sofia, you have a visitor. Your mother-in-law. May I let her in?”
Mark and I exchanged glances. I took a deep breath.
“Yes, let her in.”
Victoria Dmitrievna entered tentatively, almost tiptoeing. Her face, usually composed and stern, appeared bewildered, and her eyes were red and puffy. In her hands, she held a small, neatly wrapped bundle.
“Sofia… my dear…” Her voice trembled. “I… I don’t know what to say. I am so ashamed. My behavior was unworthy.”
I remained silent, allowing her time to gather her thoughts.
“Mark told me everything,” she continued, looking away. “And he was entirely right. I pushed you, interfered, criticized every little thing. It’s just…” she paused to find the right words, “just when I gave birth to Mark, my mother-in-law stood over my bed saying the same words. And her mother-in-law did exactly the same. It was some awful relay, a tradition of suffering in silence, bearing pain without expression.
She carefully perched on the edge of the bed and timidly reached out her hand, brushing my blanket.
“But when I saw you there, so young, so frightened, I suddenly saw myself many years ago. And instead of being a support, I became the same monster that tormented me. I acted on autopilot, you see? Habitually, painfully accustomed to it.”
I nodded, feeling the stone of resentment that had weighed on my heart for months begin to crumble.
“I understand, Victoria Dmitrievna.”
“No, not entirely,” she shook her head. “And thank goodness. You don’t need to comprehend it. I want this cycle, this tradition of causing pain to those who come after, to end with me. With us.”
She unfurled the bundle. Inside lay a small velvet box.
“This is for you. My brooch. My mother gave it to me when I got married. I want it to be yours now.”
I took the box. Inside lay an elegant vintage brooch shaped like two intertwined branches adorned with tiny pearl buds.
“Thank you,” I said genuinely. “It’s beautiful and… precious.”
“And where is my grandchild?” the mother-in-law inquired, her voice once again ringing with familiar tones, but now they carried warmth and eager curiosity rather than command. “When will he be brought in?”
“Very soon,” Mark reassured her. “The pediatrician is examining him now.”
“And what have you named our boy?” Her gaze flitted between me and Mark.
Mark and I exchanged a long, happy glance. We had chosen this name long ago; it symbolized hope and light for us.
“Yegor,” Mark answered. “In honor of my paternal grandfather.”
I braced for objections, complaints that the name was unattractive or too simple. But Victoria Dmitrievna merely smiled. Initially uncertain, her smile broadened.
“Yegor… Yegorushka…” she tried the name. “Yes, that’s a strong, good name. It suits my grandson.”
When they brought the baby in, her face transformed. The severe features softened, and her eyes sparkled with wonder and tenderness, causing my heart to swell with emotion. She stretched out her finger, and the tiny hand of Yegor immediately grasped it.
“Look at that grip,” she whispered in awe. “A real hero. He’ll be an athlete.”
“Mom, he’s only a few hours old,” Mark chuckled. “Maybe he’ll become an artist.”
“I said he’ll be an athlete,” she insisted, although now her tone carried a lighter, almost childlike certainty. “I have a knack for these things.”
Suddenly she appeared to remember something and looked at me.
“Oh my, I’ve rambled on, and you need your rest. Sofia, you take it easy, regain your strength. Tomorrow I’ll bring chicken broth and casserole. And don’t argue with me!” she raised her finger, but this gesture now appeared caring. “A mother needs strength to care for such a treasure.”
As she left, Mark and I exchanged glances and laughed.
“It seems some things never change,” I remarked.
“The important thing is that the essence has changed,” my husband wisely replied. “Now she sees you not as a problem, but as a daughter. Believe me, that’s a completely different level of relationship.”
He was absolutely right. The following weeks and months confirmed this. Victoria Dmitrievna became our most reliable ally. She visited, cooked, cleaned, strolled with the stroller, allowing me to catch an extra hour of sleep. Yes, the advice never disappeared, but it now came through in a different tone, “Why did you decide to do it this way? I’m just curious; I want to understand your logic.”
Of course, there were times when she stumbled. Old habits die hard. But these outbursts grew less frequent and briefer, and her attempts to apologize became increasingly sincere.
When Yegor turned one, we threw a big family celebration. Among the guests was my mother, who had come from Yaroslavl. During the height of the festivities, I noticed Victoria Dmitrievna and my mother chatting excitedly in the corner, gesturing and laughing.
“What are they talking about?” Mark wondered as he approached me with a piece of cake.
“I don’t know,” I shrugged. “But it seems they’ve found common ground.”
Later, it turned out that Victoria Dmitrievna had suggested my mother move to Moscow to be closer to her grandson.
“Why should Yegor know only one grandmother?” she said. “Let him grow up surrounded by double love. I will help find a place; I know people.”
My mother readily agreed. A few months later, she settled into a cozy studio apartment close to us. And my son now had two grandmothers who, despite their differing personalities and upbringing, found remarkable harmony in their shared love for him.
One evening, Mark left with my mother to choose new furniture, leaving Victoria Dmitrievna and me alone. Yegor was peacefully sleeping in his crib. We sat in the kitchen sipping tea, and suddenly she said, gazing at the swirling tea leaves in her cup:
“You know, Sofia, I often think about what role you have played in our family. You brought something new, something bright.”
“Me?” I asked in surprise. “But you have changed so much.”
“It’s precisely because of you,” she fixed me with a steady gaze, her eyes clear and sincere. “You did not break. You did not endure and remain silent as we all did. You showed me that strength lies not in oppression but in support. That one can be strong without being cruel.”
She paused, then added quietly, almost in a whisper:
“And you know, I made myself a promise. When our Yegorushka grows up and brings his beloved to our home, I will never, hear me, never be like I was to you at first. I promise this to you. And to myself.”
I stood up, walked around the table, and embraced her. I felt her shoulders tremble and realized my eyes were moist as well.
“Thank you, Mom,” I said, and that word came out effortlessly, smoothly, naturally like a breath.
She hugged me back tightly, as if afraid to let go. And that evening, in the silence of the drowsy kitchen, beneath the soft snores of our son, something cold and steely within our family melted away altogether, making room for something fragile, warm, and incredibly resilient. We sat there for a long time, two women finally finding common ground not in rules or reproaches but in the unspoken understanding that love is the only tradition worth passing down through generations.
Outside, in the darkness, the Moscow spring blossomed, promising a new beginning, a new life full of hopes and quiet, bright happiness.