Valery had just pulled into the driveway when a scream pierced the stillness of the afternoon. It was Alyona. He knew that voice anywhere—raw and panicked.
What now? he thought, heart racing as he yanked the key from the ignition.
The elevator stalled somewhere above, refusing to come down. Cursing under his breath, Valery took the stairs two at a time. By the time he burst through the apartment door, his wife’s sobs filled the air.
In the living room, Alyona sat weeping on the couch. At her feet lay shredded pieces of bright silk. Perched calmly in an armchair was Valery’s mother, Natalya Ivanovna, a pair of heavy scissors glinting in her hands.
“What happened?” Valery asked, scanning the scene.
Alyona pointed at the torn fabric through her tears. “That was my new lingerie set. I bought it yesterday. I was going to surprise you tonight.”
“No decency,” Natalya Ivanovna muttered, folding her arms. “And with a child in the house, no less! What kind of example is this?”
“Lyosha’s at camp,” Valery snapped. “And how did you even get in here? I took your spare key.”
“You’d deny your own mother access to your home?” she shot back, standing. “I come when I need to. I won’t let you wallow in sin.”
“I can’t do this anymore,” Alyona choked out and stormed into the kitchen.
Valery turned back to his mother. “Why do you keep attacking her? She’s done nothing to you. I’m happy with Alyona.”
“She’s a disgrace,” Natalya said coldly. “A real woman wouldn’t need lace to keep her husband’s attention.”
“Mom, that’s enough. I’m done discussing my marriage with you. Go home. Stay out of our lives.”
“The hen doesn’t teach the rooster how to crow,” she said, gathering her things.
Valery followed her out, locking the door behind her.
In the kitchen, Alyona was already halfway through a glass of wine, her eyes puffy. The bottle stood open on the counter.
“She’s unwell, Valera,” she said, her voice hollow. “This is not normal behavior. What happens next? Will she come after me?”
“She wouldn’t hurt you,” Valery replied, though he sounded unsure even to himself.
“She cut up my clothes,” Alyona said, pouring another glass. “Next time, it might be worse. You need to do something. I won’t keep living like this.”
As if on cue, a knock echoed through the apartment. Both flinched.
“God, not again,” Alyona whispered, her hand instinctively reaching for a kitchen knife. Valery quickly caught her wrist.
“It’s probably not her,” he said, heading to the door.
It wasn’t. Marina, his younger brother Dmitry’s wife, stepped inside. “The door was open,” she said. “And I think we need to talk.”
“You had a visit too?” Alyona asked, pointing toward the remains of her ruined evening.
“My new stockings didn’t make it,” Marina said with a shrug, her tone oddly satisfied.
She had that glint in her eye—the look of someone about to unveil a long-held secret.
“I think I’ve figured out why Natalya’s been acting like this,” she said, taking a seat. “But I want Dimka to be here too. You’ll want to hear everything.”
When Dmitry arrived, Marina wasted no time. She pulled up an old social media profile filled with faded photos from the late ’80s. The kind that carried the unmistakable scent of scandal.
Each image showed young women in skimpy outfits, wrapped around rough-looking men, beers in hand and cigarettes dangling from painted lips.
“Recognize her?” Marina asked, pointing to one woman in particular.
Valery and Dmitry leaned in. Silence.
It was their mother.
“I visited her friend, Nina Grigorievna,” Marina explained. “She confirmed it all. Back in the day, your mother and Nina… well, let’s just say they weren’t exactly Sunday school teachers.”
Valery’s face turned pale. Dmitry slumped back in his chair.
“She made a living the old-fashioned way,” Marina added. “Your dad knew. Beat her for it, apparently. You guys were with your grandparents so much, you never saw it. Now, she sees your stable marriages, and it makes her bitter.”
A long silence fell over the room.
“She’s miserable,” Marina continued. “And she wants you to be miserable too. All this cult nonsense, her raids—it’s just a mask.”
With the photos in hand, Valery and Dmitry left to confront their mother. What was said behind closed doors remained unknown. But from that day forward, Natalya Ivanovna was never seen inside their homes again.
Gone were the intrusions. The ruined evenings. The broken shoes and candles. Peace, once unimaginable, had finally returned.
The locks stayed changed.
The women, bruised but unbroken, reclaimed their lives. And Natalya—whether from guilt, shame, or fear—vanished from their doorsteps for good.
It took courage to end her reign.
But sometimes, courage is all you have. And it’s enough.