Larisa stood by the window, gazing at the gray clouds drifting lazily across the sky. Only three months ago, she had been a radiant newlywed, full of excitement and optimism. Now, she felt more like a servant in her own home.
The morning started like every other, with that familiar sharp knock on the bedroom door.
“Are you two planning to sleep all day?” her mother-in-law’s voice pierced through the quiet. “Andryusha, sweetheart, you’re going to be late for work!”
Larisa exhaled softly. As usual, Tamara Ivanovna seemed to ignore her entirely, directing all her attention at her beloved son. Andrey stretched, yawned, and sluggishly got out of bed.
“Did you pack him something for lunch?” his mother was already clattering around in the kitchen. “I hope you didn’t make one of those fancy salads again. A real man needs something filling—like borscht!”
“I made some yesterday,” Larisa thought, but kept quiet. Three months of marriage had taught her how to swallow her frustration, just like a bitter pill—unpleasant but necessary.
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