“You’ll withdraw the money on Tuesday. In cash. We’ve checked, and the bank charges a hefty commission for transfers—no need for extra expenses.”
Denis said all this in a matter-of-fact tone, eyes fixed on his phone screen.
There were just two people at the table: my husband Denis and his mother, Lyudmila Nikolaevna. They had a notebook with calculations open in front of them and both looked very businesslike.
“What money?” I asked, taking a seat on the empty chair.
“Anya, what do you mean, what money?” Lyudmila Nikolaevna carefully brushed away an invisible crumb from the table. “Your deposit matures on Tuesday. Denis and I have done the math. There’s a million and a half, plus interest. That’s just enough to pay off the remaining loan for the bathhouse. There will even be some left for finishing the steam room inside—we need quality aspen boards for that and they aren’t cheap.”
I glanced from my husband to my mother-in-law.
“My deposit, which I’ve built up over four years from my own bonuses and saved-up vacation pay, is supposed to go toward your loan?”
“Anya, let’s not get possessive about this,” Denis put down his phone. “Whose loan is it? The loan was for family needs. We’re a family. Our budget is shared. Why should your money just sit there? Inflation will eat it up. Meanwhile, we’re paying huge interest to the bank. We pay it off in one go and life goes back to normal, just like before.”
“Family needs?” I clarified. “Denis, you borrowed a million and a half rubles to build a two-story bathhouse on your mother’s country property. Property that’s in her name. A bathhouse I visited only once all summer, and that was just to help clear out old boards after the builders left.”
“You’re always dividing things up, Anna, into mine and yours!” Lyudmila Nikolaevna protested. “The bathhouse is a solid investment! Who will get the property in the end? Denis! So it’s yours, too. Someday you’ll be bringing your grandkids to steam in that bathhouse in your old age.”
“Lyudmila Nikolaevna,” I replied calmly, “as Famusov said—‘Blessed is he who believes; it’s warm for him in this world.’ Dividing up an inheritance you’re not even ready to part with yet just isn’t practical. The loan agreement is in Denis’ name. The land is yours. Why are my personal savings a part of this?”
Denis shot a displeased look at his mother, then at me, with the look of someone tired of explaining things everyone else should already understand.
“Anya, you know my payment was increased recently. My whole salary goes to this loan, gas and car maintenance. We’ve been living off your money for half a year. You buy the groceries, pay the utility bills, get all the cleaning supplies. That’s not fair to you, is it? If we close the debt with your savings, I can start contributing to our budget again. It just makes sense financially.”
Denis honestly didn’t see a problem with any of this. He explained his little scheme with confidence, as if he’d just laid out the most sensible plan in the world.
Six months ago, Lyudmila Nikolaevna became obsessed with the idea of building a bathhouse. Not a simple cabin for the country, but a full complex. She wanted a spacious lounge, carved porch, and a panoramic window upstairs. Her neighbor at the dacha had built something like that, and after seeing it, my mother-in-law couldn’t rest until she got her own.
Denis, who loves feeling like a successful provider and a generous son, agreed immediately. But he didn’t actually have any money. He worked as a logistics department manager with a nice salary, but he spent it all on expensive fishing rods, car parts, and fishing trips.
When he first suggested the idea of taking out a loan for the construction, I made my position clear right away. “If you want to build, save up. My money won’t be part of this, and I won’t co-sign. I have different plans for my savings.”
Denis gave me a little lecture about how we should support elderly parents. Then he went off to the bank and took out a personal loan with a high interest rate.
For the first two months, he spent every weekend at the dacha, supervising workers, buying insulation and roofing sheets. Lyudmila Nikolaevna would take her gardening friends on tours around the plot, proudly telling them what a caring son she had.
And then reality set in. The monthly payment turned out to be way too much for Denis’s budget.
First, he stopped doing grocery runs after work. “Anya, could you buy dinner? I’m totally broke until my next paycheck,” he would call me in the evenings.
Then he stopped paying the utility bills for our apartment. The apartment that I had owned even before we got married. “Can you cover them this month? They took the credit insurance out of my account, I’m out of cash.”
Then the refrigerator broke. The repairman charged fifteen thousand rubles to replace the compressor. I told my husband we should split the repair cost.
“Anya, where do you think I’d get that money right now?” he shrugged. “You know my deal with the bank. Pay for it yourself, you have a stash in your account.”
So I paid for the repair. But a week later, Lyudmila Nikolaevna arrived with a huge list of fancy rose seedlings for the dacha and asked Denis to order them. That’s when I stepped in.
“Lyudmila Nikolaevna, Denis won’t be buying roses. He doesn’t even have the money to fix things around our home.” My mother-in-law complained to Denis that I was too money-minded, and she ordered the roses herself.
And now here they were, sitting at my table planning how to use my one and a half million rubles.
“Let’s get the facts straight,” I put my hands on the table. “Denis, you took out a loan to build something on someone else’s land. To pay that debt, you’ve completely stopped contributing to our household. I’ve been supporting both of us for the last six months—buying food, paying for utilities, buying cat food. Now you both want me to give up all my savings just so you can stop paying the bank?”
“Anna, why are you keeping score in the family?” my mother-in-law protested. “Today you helped, tomorrow he’ll help you! You’re married, after all!”
“Lyudmila Nikolaevna,” I looked her right in the eye, “when you were renovating your hallway and buying new furniture last month, why didn’t you help your son pay off his loan? And you just paid for a trip to a health resort last week. Is that supposed to come out of the household budget too?”
My mother-in-law straightened up. “I’m retired! I’ve already worked my years at the factory! I have every right to rest. Meanwhile, your money just sits there doing nothing. What’s the difference to you where it stays—in a bank or some useful building?”
“The difference is that in the bank, the money belongs to me. If it’s in your bathhouse, it becomes yours.”
Denis leaned forward. “Anya, try to understand. It’s hard for me to manage this amount. I can’t keep up with the payments. The interest is huge. Let’s pay it off. I’ll pay you back every month from my salary.”
“In what installments?” I asked. “The way I pay the bank. But without interest. We’re family, after all.”
“No,” I said, pushing my chair back and standing up. “I’ll be withdrawing the money from my account, but not for you. I have completely different plans for it.”
Lyudmila Nikolaevna smirked. “Oh yeah? And what plans are those? Going to buy a mink coat? Or fly off to a resort while your husband breaks his back at two jobs?”
“That’s my business alone. If you’re struggling with the loan payments, you might want to reconsider your expenses. Sell the boat, Denis. Or your pricey fish finder. That should cover a few payments.”
I left the kitchen and went into the living room. Behind me, I heard my mother-in-law loudly complaining about how modern women have completely forgotten their duty to their husbands, and Denis’s muffled reply: “Mom, just wait. She’ll cool off. She’s not going anywhere; we’ll talk again tomorrow.”
The next day, I went to work. I’m an editor at a publishing house. My colleague Marina and I were having tea. Marina’s a woman with lots of life experience—she once went through a property split where she managed to outmaneuver her ex-husband and win even his collection of antique watches.
I told her all about our conversation from yesterday.
Marina carefully placed her cup on the saucer. “One and a half million? For a wooden shack on someone else’s land? Anya, tell me you didn’t just say no, but made your position clear.”
“I said no,” I replied. “The problem is, Denis thinks it was just some emotional outburst. He’s sure that come Tuesday, I’ll obediently bring a wad of cash. This morning he even bought pastries for me on his way to work. Left them on the table and said, ‘Anya, I know you’re wise. You’ll make the right decision.'”
“A wise woman in your situation stops feeding an adult man,” Marina said, tapping her finger on the table for emphasis. “Whose apartment is it? Yours—from before the marriage. Why on earth are you covering his living expenses for six months?”
“At first, I thought he just miscalculated his finances, made a mistake. He swore he’d pay everything off quickly. Now I realize he planned from the start to live off me while playing the devoted son in front of his mother.”
“So what will you do with the money?” Marina asked. “If you leave it in your account, he’ll drive you nuts piece by piece.”
“The deposit matures tomorrow. I’ve already sorted everything out.”
On Monday evening, Denis was nothing but considerate. He came home from work on time, bought groceries for dinner, and even vacuumed the living room carpet—something he hasn’t done in ages.
“Anya, what time are you planning to go to the bank tomorrow?” he asked over dinner, slicing himself a piece of bread. “Maybe I should take the day off and go with you? It’s a large sum, not safe to carry cash alone.”
“I’m not going to withdraw cash,” I replied as I started putting vegetables on our plates.
Denis looked relieved. “Oh, so you decided to do a bank transfer after all? Well, if there’s a commission, so be it. We’ll get through it. I’ll send you my credit account number in Messenger right now.”
“Denis. I’m not transferring the money to your credit account. Or to your mother’s card, either. This money is for the down payment.”
Caught off guard, Denis dropped his knife onto the wooden board. “What down payment?”
“My daughter Dasha was approved for a mortgage on a one-bedroom apartment. I’m giving her this one and a half million so her monthly payments are manageable. The deal is set for Wednesday.”
“You’ve got to be kidding, right?” he tried to force a laugh, but it came out pathetic. “What apartment? What Dasha? We just settled everything yesterday!”
“Who settled it? You and Lyudmila Nikolaevna?” I picked up my fork. “I never agreed to pay for your bathhouse. This is my money. Dasha is my own daughter. I want to and can help her with housing.”
Denis shot up from the table. “Are you out of your mind?! My credit history is on fire! The bank is about to start harassing me with calls! And you’re paying for some random girl’s apartment?!”
“Dasha is not some random girl to me, she’s my daughter.” I looked him straight in the eyes, my voice calm but firm enough that he’d get it the first time. “But your mom’s bathhouse? That’s absolutely someone else’s property as far as I’m concerned.”
“We’re one family!” Denis raised his voice. “You’re betraying our shared interests! You’re hiding money behind my back!”
“Lower your voice,” I stared right at him. “Hiding money? Let’s do some math. In the past six months, I’ve spent about three hundred thousand rubles on your food, water, electricity, and your little expenses. You haven’t contributed a single ruble to this house. Who’s the one taking advantage here, Denis?”
He grabbed his phone, nervously scrolled to the right contact, and stepped out onto the balcony. Through the glass, I could see him gesturing wildly, complaining to his mother about his treacherous wife.
I calmly finished my vegetables, put the dishes in the sink, and went to the bedroom to read my book.
An hour and a half later, the doorbell rang.
Standing at the door was Lyudmila Nikolaevna. She wasn’t carrying any gifts, but her expression clearly said she was there to right the world’s wrongs. Denis hovered behind her.
“Let’s go to the living room,” my mother-in-law commanded and marched straight to the lounge.
I set my book down on the nightstand and went out to them. “Good evening. I won’t offer you tea; judging by the look of things, this conversation won’t take long.”
Lyudmila Nikolaevna stopped in the center of the room. “Anna, I always suspected you were a selfish woman. But this much! Leaving your own husband drowning in debt just to please your girl’s whim?”
“A whim is a two-story bathhouse with a billiards room on a retiree’s small plot, Lyudmila Nikolaevna,” I replied calmly. “Having her own place is a basic necessity for a young woman.”
“She could have just rented a room like any normal newcomer!” my mother-in-law declared. “And now, because of your stubborn attitude, Denis is going to ruin his health working extra jobs! You’re his wife! It’s your duty to support your husband!”
“I did support him,” I nodded. “For six months. I fed him for free, took care of everything, and paid all the bills. That charity period is over now.”
I walked over to the desk, grabbed a printed sheet of paper, and handed it to Denis.
“What’s this?” He looked at the table suspiciously.
“This, Denis, is our new financial policy. Since you and your mom are so fond of planning other people’s budgets, I planned ours. Here’s a detailed calculation. Utilities—split 50/50. Groceries—split 50/50. Household expenses—split 50/50. I’ve already paid my share for this month. Your part is twenty-four thousand rubles. I expect the money on my card by tomorrow evening.”
My mother-in-law threw up her hands in outrage. “What do you mean, twenty-four thousand? He has a thirty-eight-thousand loan payment! He only makes seventy-five! How is he supposed to live?”
“That’s a question for his financial skills, not for me. As Chekhov said, you can’t expect mud not to be muddy. Likewise, you can’t expect me to pay for someone else’s ambitions. Denis can take extra shifts. He can sell his inflatable boat with the motor. Or, finally, he can rent out your bathhouse to summer residents on weekends—he actually suggested this to you a month ago.”
“Let strangers onto my private property? Never in my life!” my mother-in-law declared. “They’ll stomp all over my vegetable beds!”
“Well then, enjoy your spotless bathhouse in splendid solitude. But from now on, Denis can buy firewood for heating from his own half of the budget. And gas for driving out to your country place too.”
Denis crumpled the printout. “Anna, are you serious right now? You’re going to ruin our family over some paperwork?”
“Denis, it’s not paperwork that ruins families. It’s arrogance. You decided you could fix your personal problems at my expense without even asking about my plans. You spent six months fully supported by me and thought that was normal. And when I said ‘no,’ you made a scene.”
I looked over at my mother-in-law. “And you, Lyudmila Nikolaevna, love to talk about ‘family values’ when it’s financially convenient for you. When it was time to build the bathhouse, Denis was a hero, the man of the house. But now that it’s time to pay the bills, suddenly it’s ‘Anna, open your wallet.’ Well, my wallet is closed to you forever.”
Lyudmila Nikolaevna defended this building like an angry hornet. “If this shouting goes on for another minute, I’m calling the police!” I took a step toward the phone. “This is my apartment, you’re not registered here.”
My mother-in-law hesitated. “You’ll regret this!” she said as she headed for the hallway. “Denis, pack your things! Come to my place! You don’t have to put up with this!”
Denis looked at his mother, annoyed. “Mom, where am I supposed to go in the middle of the night? I live here. Go home, we’ll sort this out ourselves without all the shouting.”
He knew all too well that going to his mother’s place, where he’d have to shop for his own groceries and listen to her daily lectures on how to live properly, was not appealing at all. But staying in the apartment, now that the free services were over, was also uncomfortable.
“Oh, is that so!” his mother-in-law lifted her chin proudly. “Stay then! Just don’t come complaining later!”
She put on her shoes and left into the hallway. Denis locked the door behind her and headed to the kitchen.
On Tuesday morning, I actually went to the bank branch. I closed my deposit and transferred the funds to Dasha’s special account. On Wednesday, we successfully closed the mortgage deal. Dasha hugged me in the hallway of the MFC and thanked me. Looking at her happy face, I understood every penny of those savings went to something truly worthwhile.
At home, the tough days of financial equality began.
On Thursday evening, Denis opened the fridge looking for dinner. On the middle shelf, he found my containers with baked chicken and vegetable stew.
“What’s for dinner for us?” he asked.
“For me, it’s chicken,” I replied while checking my work emails on my laptop. “As for you—you know best. Your shelf is the bottom one. It’s still empty.”
He tried to start an argument, but I just pointed to the new budget sheet that I’d attached to the fridge with a magnet. “I haven’t received your half of the payment for the apartment and food. No transfer—no dinner.”
At first, he put up a front. He survived on cheap pasta and sausages. He tried to play the sympathy card, loudly lamenting how hard it was to live under constant stress. He even tried taking my cheese without asking a couple of times. I didn’t make a scene—I simply wrote down the cost of what he ate as his debt and reminded him of it in the morning.
Two weeks later, the bank automatically withdrew the next credit payment. Denis was left with exactly four hundred rubles in his salary account. Payday was still ten days away.
He went to his mother to ask for financial help. He came back looking grim.
Turns out, Lyudmila Nikolaevna gave him a long lecture about how she’s a poor pensioner with no spare money, and that as a grown man, he should handle his own problems. The next day, she went to her country house to show off to the neighbors her new stove.
Another week passed, and I spotted a familiar rubber boat and an expensive fishfinder listed on a popular classified site. The description read, “Urgent sale, good price negotiable.”
Denis sold his fishing gear for half its real value. He paid off two credit payments in advance and sent me his share for utilities and groceries.
“Happy now?” he asked, showing me the payment receipt on his phone. “You made your husband sell his last valuables.”
“Me?” I laughed sincerely. “Denis, I didn’t do anything. You took out the loan, you built the bathhouse on your mom’s property, and you ended up without a boat. I just stopped subsidizing this vanity fair.”
Three months went by.
We’re still living in the same apartment, but now our finances are strictly separate. Denis has learned to pay close attention to the yellow price tags at the supermarket. He now knows the real cost of good laundry detergent and that you actually have to buy dish soap regularly.
He rarely visits his mom at the country house anymore. He says gas is too expensive these days and he just doesn’t have the time—he’s picked up extra warehouse shifts on weekends to make sure he can keep up with his bank loan payments.
Lyudmila Nikolaevna doesn’t talk to me at all. She calls her son to complain about life. Apparently, the sauna at the country house just sits there unused. It costs too much to keep it heated—birch firewood is quite pricey, and heating two floors with electricity would wipe out her entire pension.
Recently, Zinaida, my mother-in-law’s neighbor at the country house, bumped into me at the city clinic.
“Oh, Anna!” she greeted me warmly. “Why don’t you ever visit the property anymore? Lyudmila built a sauna there—it’s like a real palace! But she keeps complaining to everyone that there’s no one to enjoy the sauna with her. She says her daughter-in-law is stingy and won’t give her son money to buy firewood.”
I smiled. “Please tell Lyudmila Nikolaevna next time that maybe she should try fueling the sauna with her ambitions. I hear they burn quite well—especially when other people’s free resources run out.”
I said goodbye to the neighbor and went about my business. After all, I am a selfish woman. I may as well live up to the reputation.