“You want the order? Then forget about me!” the groom chuckled confidently, certain the bride wouldn’t dare to refuse him.
Svetlana stood before the mirror, trying on her third outfit. The vivid blue appeared too glaring, the black too severe. Finally, she settled on a modest beige dress, accented with a simple collar. Tonight, her fiancé would introduce her to his parents, and she felt as nervous as if preparing for an important exam.
The small one-room apartment where Svetlana and Ilja had lived for the past six months was compact but comfortable. With care, Svetlana had arranged every detail herself — each item chosen with affection. A beige sofa rested by the window, bookshelves lined the walls, and fresh flowers adorned the windowsill. As an interior designer, this home reflected her signature style.
“Are you ready?” Ilja stepped out of the bathroom buttoning his shirt. “We’re already running late.”
“Almost,” Svetlana replied, gathering her purse and giving her makeup one last check. “Ilja, are your parents strict?”
“They’re perfectly normal,” he shrugged. “Average people. Mom’s a great cook, dad enjoys talking. Don’t worry, everything will go smoothly.”
Svetlana nodded, although her anxiety lingered. It was crucial for her that her future in-laws accepted her. Family meant a great deal to her, and she wished their relationship to be warm and friendly.
Recently, Svetlana had been promoted — no longer just a design assistant, she had become a full-fledged professional at the studio. Managing her own projects and clients now, she worked daily to prove her worth. Ilja encouraged her with supportive words and sometimes joked, reminding her not to lose herself entirely in work, as family came first.
Ilja’s parents’ spacious two-story house stood outside the city, surrounded by a well-kept garden. When their car arrived at the gate, Svetlana took a deep breath and smoothed her dress.
“You look perfect,” Ilja smiled, squeezing her hand reassuringly. “Relax.”
The door was opened by Ljudmila Viktorovna — a tall woman with a neatly styled hairdo and a stern gaze. Her smile was polite but didn’t reach her eyes.
“Ilja!” she hugged her son warmly before turning her gaze to Svetlana. “So, this is your fiancée?”
“Good evening, Ljudmila Viktorovna,” Sveta extended her hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you.”
“Please come in,” the future mother-in-law invited them. “Viktor Sergeevich is already waiting.”
Inside, the opulence was clear — expensive furniture, heavy draperies, and polished parquet flooring. The dining table was impeccably set with salads, hot dishes, and pastries. Ljudmila Viktorovna had clearly prepared thoroughly.
When Svetlana and Ilja entered, Viktor Sergeevich stood to greet them. He was tall, with graying hair, and his intense eyes seemed to scrutinize Svetlana as if she had arrived for a job interview.
“Good evening,” Svetlana offered her hand.
“Good evening,” the man replied curtly, giving a brief handshake. “Please, take a seat.”
The dinner began with casual topics — the weather, their journey, Ilja’s work. Ljudmila Viktorovna inquired about her son’s health, diet, and living conditions, as if doubting Svetlana’s ability to care for him.
- Ilja seemed thinner, his mother remarked reproachfully.
- “I hope your fiancée feeds you well,” she added.
- Ilja shrugged, assuring that Sveta cooked satisfactorily.
“What do you usually prepare?” Ljudmila Viktorovna pressed Svetlana.
Feeling caught off guard, Svetlana answered hesitantly, “A variety of dishes — soups, main courses. I try to make them tasty and healthy.”
“Healthy?” the future mother-in-law pursed her lips. “A man needs hearty food — borscht, meatballs, pies. That’s a real meal.”
Svetlana nodded silently, warmth rushing to her cheeks. Ilja ate quietly, offering no defense. Viktor Sergeevich silently observed the scene.
“And do you have a job?” finally asked the groom’s father.
“Yes, I work at a design studio,” Svetlana seized the chance to shift the topic. “I’m an interior architect. I was recently promoted and now lead my own projects.”
“Projects,” Viktor Sergeevich sipped his wine thoughtfully. “And do they pay well?”
“Adequately,” she smiled. “I’m satisfied. The work is interesting and creative. Currently, I’m preparing a major order for a downtown apartment with demanding clients. Success here will open new opportunities.”
Ljudmila Viktorovna glanced at her husband, and for a moment their eyes revealed disapproval or disdain — Svetlana couldn’t be sure, but the atmosphere shifted palpably.
“So, you plan to continue working?” the mother-in-law inquired with a light smile that contrasted sharply with the tension she caused.
“Of course,” Svetlana answered honestly, unaware of the looming conflict. “I love my job and want to grow professionally.”
“In our family,” began Viktor Sergeevich solemnly, “women have never worked.”
Svetlana froze, uncertain whether to interpret his words as joke or declaration.
“What do you mean?” she asked nervously, trying to ease the mood.
“Exactly as I said,” he replied sternly. “My mother never worked. Ljudmila neither. And Ilja’s wife won’t work, either.”
She searched Ilja’s eyes for support, but he looked away silently. Meanwhile, Ljudmila Viktorovna maintained a blank expression as if discussing the weather rather than her fiancée’s future.
“But… what does that mean?” Svetlana’s hands trembled. “Is this some family tradition?”
“You could say that,” Viktor Sergeevich leaned back. “Women take care of the household, men provide for the family. It has always been this way.”
“But we live in the twenty-first century,” Svetlana smiled faintly, “women work and build careers…”
“Not in our family,” he interrupted firmly. “End of discussion.”
The conversation abruptly turned to the wedding — dresses, the celebration — as if the fate of a stranger had not just been decided. Svetlana sat silently, absorbing the reality of such beliefs. Could people like this truly exist?
The dinner ended in a tense atmosphere. Ilja thanked his parents and promised they would visit again soon. Svetlana forced a polite smile and got into the car. Neither spoke during the ride home as she stared out the window.
Once home, she could no longer contain herself and confronted Ilja immediately after closing the door.
“Ilja, what was that all about?”
“What do you mean?” he asked, removing his coat and hanging it up.
“My work! Your father said after the wedding I wouldn’t work anymore. Is that serious?”
Ilja sighed, rubbing his nose bridge.
“Sveta, my parents told the truth. This is our custom.”
“Your custom?” she couldn’t believe her ears. “Ilja, do you really mean that?”
“Completely,” he answered firmly. “After the wedding, you’ll quit. You’ll take care of the house, kids, and family.”
Svetlana stepped back as if struck.
“Ilja, I can’t quit. This is my career. I’ve worked for years to get here.”
“Then what?,” he shrugged. “A woman belongs at home — cooking, cleaning, raising children. Not wasting time on projects.”
“Projects?” the bride’s anger rose sharply. “This is my profession! I’m a designer, Ilja. I love what I do!”
“Work passion fades,” Ilja sat on the sofa, switching on the TV. “When we have children, you’ll see family is more important.”
“Ilja, in two months my big project starts,” she approached and sat on the sofa’s edge. “This could be a turning point for my career. I can’t just stop.”
“You can,” he replied without looking away from the screen. “And you will. Family or work.”
“Why must it be my choice?” her voice trembled. “Men manage to balance career and family. Why can’t women?”
“Because that’s right,” Ilja finally looked at her with cold certainty. “A woman with her own income becomes arrogant and independent. She starts demanding. I don’t want a wife like that.”
Svetlana was stunned — a stranger seemed to have replaced the man she knew. The one she spent a year with suddenly turned cold and frightening.
“Want the order?” Ilja smirked. “Then forget about me!”
The words hung heavily in the air: an ultimatum — cold, strong, and absolute. Svetlana looked at him, seeing no trace of the tenderness or support he once showed.
“Ilja, work is not just income for me,” she spoke softly, trying to reach him. “It’s where I found myself. It gives me purpose and confidence.”
“Purpose comes from family,” he dismissed. “Confidence comes from your husband. Why would a woman need her own money? I’ll provide for you. You’ll stay home, everything will be fine.”
“You don’t understand,” Svetlana stood. “I want to be independent. To have my own earnings, not rely on anyone.”
“That’s exactly my point,” Ilja stood and followed. “A woman with money becomes independent, disobedient. She thinks she’s equal to her husband.”
“We are equal,” she stepped closer. “Ilja, this is outdated thinking. Should a wife obey?”
“She must,” he said decisively. “The man is head of the family. The woman is his support. You stay home, obey, raise the children. Period.”
Each word filled Svetlana with growing disgust — not anger, but revulsion. A tyrant, not a loving partner, sought to control her by his own rules.
“Did you always think like this?” she asked quietly.
“Of course,” Ilja shrugged. “I thought it was obvious. You’re smart; you should have understood.”
“Understood what?” She clenched her fists. “That you want to lock me in the house? Make me a housekeeper?”
“Not housekeeper, but wife,” he corrected. “A normal wife, like my mother. Ljudmila Viktorovna devoted her life to the household and she’s fine. Happy even.”
“Happy?” she laughed bitterly. “Ilja, your mother is unhappy. She’s full of fear and depends on your father. She doesn’t even have her own money!”
“But she has a husband who provides everything,” Ilja crossed his arms. “Sveta, this is the last time I say it. Quit your job or there will be no wedding.”
Svetlana looked at Ilja, seeing cold determination in his eyes. He wasn’t joking; he was ready to break off their relationship if she didn’t obey.
Fear gripped her throat — not fear of losing Ilja, but the realization she had almost bound her life to a tyrant. She nearly gave herself to someone who saw her not as a partner, but a servant.
Slowly, she removed her ring, placed it on the table. The soft thud felt final.
“There will be no wedding,” Svetlana declared firmly. “Pack your things. This is my home.”
Ilja froze, disbelieving.
“Are you serious?” he stepped closer. “Sveta, you’ll regret this. You’re throwing away a chance at a normal life.”
“Normal?” she raised an eyebrow ironically. “Life in a cage, without work, without money, entirely dependent on a husband? That’s your normal, not mine.”
“You’re making a mistake,” Ilja tried to reach for her hand, but Svetlana stepped back.
“The mistake would have been marrying you,” she grabbed his suitcase from the closet. “Pack it. Now.”
“Sveta, you love me,” his voice softened, almost pleading. “We can talk…”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” she placed the suitcase by her feet. “You gave an ultimatum. I decided. Leave.”
Ilja stood silently, watching her for a moment before his expression twisted and his voice hardened.
“You’ll regret this. You’ll be alone. Who wants an old maid with a job?”
“I want myself,” she replied coldly. “And I don’t want you.”
Without a word, Ilja stormed into the bedroom, slamming the closet doors and tossing clothes inside. Ten minutes later, he emerged dragging his bag.
“You’ll regret it,” he repeated at the door.
“I won’t,” she opened the door. “Go.”
Ilja left with a last angry glance. The door shut behind him, and silence filled the apartment. So quiet she could hear her own breath.
Svetlana leaned against the door, hands trembling, heart pounding wildly. Yet within rose a strange lightness, as if shedding an unnoticed burden.
She went to the room, sat on the sofa, hugged her knees, and bowed her head. She wanted to cry, but tears did not come. Only exhaustion and relief.
That night, Svetlana sat watching TV with a bowl of ice cream. Her phone remained silent — Ilja didn’t call or message. It was as if their year-long relationship vanished in a moment.
The next day, Svetlana went to work. Colleagues noticed the missing ring but didn’t ask. She immersed herself in her project — the important order she told Ilja about: a downtown apartment for sophisticated clients.
The work captivated her completely: design sketches, measurements, floor plans. She lost track of time and meals. It was just her and the job she loved. A week later, the project began to take shape, clients were pleased, and management praised her efforts.
- One month passed.
- Svetlana adjusted to living alone.
- She found comfort in autonomy.
- No rules, no restrictions.
Her home truly felt like hers again.
One evening, a friend called, inquiring if she missed her ex-fiancé.
“No,” Svetlana replied honestly. “Not at all.”
“Don’t you regret breaking up?”
“Not in the slightest,” she smiled. “You know, I nearly made the biggest mistake of my life. It’s good I realized in time.”
The friend paused softly.
“You’ve changed. You’re stronger.”
“Maybe,” Svetlana gazed out the window. “I just learned I’m not willing to give up who I am. For no one.”
Two months later, the project was completed. Clients were thrilled; the apartment was stylish, modern, and functional. Photos were added to the studio’s portfolio. Svetlana received two more major orders.
Her career soared — salary grew, regular clients appeared, and management discussed promotion. Though busy, she worked joyfully, sensing real progress.
Sometimes she recalled that evening — Ilja’s ultimatum, the ring on the table, the cold in his eyes — and every time she knew she had chosen wisely.
Once, she ran into Ljudmila Viktorovna at a shopping mall. The former future mother-in-law furrowed her brow upon seeing Svetlana and passed without greeting. Svetlana smiled inwardly, unoffended, quietly thankful she had not become part of that family.
A year later, Svetlana opened her own small studio with two employees, a steady clientele, and solid income. She sold the apartment and moved into a brighter, more spacious two-room place in a pleasant neighborhood.
Her personal life flourished as well — she met a man who supported her career and was proud of her achievements. He never demanded she choose between work and relationship; simply stood by her side.
One evening, sitting at the kitchen table in her new home, Svetlana remembered that night a year ago. Ilja’s words. The ultimatum. And smiled.
Key Insight: She was grateful not to have been frightened, to have chosen herself. Because life without self-respect isn’t truly living. And the freedom to be herself meant far more than any ring ever could.