Ludmila sat at the kitchen table, absently tapping her spoon against the edge of a cooling cup of tea.
Through the window, she watched Marina carry the last of her boxes to the car. Finally, Ludmila thought with grim satisfaction, this outsider is gone from my son’s life.
She snorted quietly. Everything had gone according to her plan. The marriage had fallen apart, just as she intended — all thanks to her careful interference.
“She fooled you completely,” she had told her son Alexey over and over. “Lazy, selfish — couldn’t even keep the house in order. You deserve better.”
But Alexey sat silent, his fists clenched in frustration. He knew the real reason his marriage had failed — his mother’s constant meddling, her sharp remarks, her endless suspicion. Marina wasn’t perfect, but she didn’t deserve what had happened.
Ludmila had seen her as a threat from the beginning. First came the little comments: “Are you sure she’s faithful to you?” Then the lies: “I saw her with another man at a café.” And finally, the cruelest blow — a planted letter, supposedly from Marina’s secret lover.
That was the breaking point. Alexey lost his temper, accusing Marina of betrayal. Tearfully, Marina had only said, “If you trust her over me, then we have nothing left to say.” The divorce followed soon after.
Ludmila was delighted. She imagined Alexey returning to her care, as he had before marriage — eating her meals, listening to her advice, dependent on her again.
But things didn’t go as planned.
Alexey wasn’t happy. He grew distant, withdrawn. One evening, he quietly asked her, “Are you happy now, Mom? Marina’s gone. I’m alone. And I barely see my daughter. Is this really what you wanted?”
Ludmila couldn’t answer.
Soon, Alexey stopped coming to see her altogether. He rarely answered her calls. Meanwhile, Marina, far from falling apart, was thriving. She found a new job, bought a small apartment, and seemed freer, stronger.
That’s when Ludmila realized — she was losing everything. Her son was slipping away. Her granddaughter Liza avoided her. And Marina, whom she had once called weak, was building a new life.
Months passed. The silence in Ludmila’s home grew unbearable.
Desperate, Alexey tried reaching out to Marina — calls, messages, apologies. But Marina’s reply was always the same: “It’s over. Move on.”
When he visited her one day, Liza opened the door — and closed it in his face without a word.
That night, Alexey ignored his mother’s call for the first time. Ludmila called again and again, but there was only the empty ring of rejection.
She decided to visit him. Alexey answered the door, unshaven, exhausted, his eyes empty.
“Look at yourself!” she burst out. “All because of that Marina!”
But Alexey’s voice was steady, stronger than she’d ever heard: “No, Mom. Not because of Marina — because of you. You destroyed everything. I lost my wife. I lost my daughter. And now I’m losing myself. I don’t want to see you anymore.”
It was the first time in her life that Ludmila felt powerless.
Days passed. No calls. No visits. The house was silent.
One afternoon, wandering through the neighborhood, she passed the old playground where she used to take Liza. She saw a little girl on the swings — her granddaughter’s familiar silhouette — and her heart clenched.
Memories came flooding back — sticky hands, carefree laughter, summer afternoons.
Ludmila had thought she was saving her son, protecting her family.
But in the end, she had lost them both.
Now, all that remained was silence.
And it was far too late to fix it.
I Spent Every Thanksgiving with My Husband’s Family, but the One Time We Went to Mine Turned into a Nightmare — Story of the Day
Every year, Sarah had to devise a new excuse to explain to her family why they wouldn’t be visiting. “I won’t miss a single-family holiday because of your parents!” her husband Peter always insisted. But this time, Sarah stood her ground and defended her family values.
The end of autumn and the beginning of winter had always been my favorite time of year.
Сrisp air carried the smell of woodsmoke, and the golden leaves gave way to the first frost.
It was the season when my family would gather, no matter what, to share holiday dinners and exchange thoughtful gifts.
Those gatherings were the heart of my childhood, moments of warmth and laughter that felt like nothing else in the world.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
But since marrying Peter, those moments had become memories. Each year, I found myself on the phone, explaining to my parents why I couldn’t make it.
Why, once again, I’d be spending the holidays with Peter’s family instead of my own.
My mom would try to sound understanding, but I knew it hurt her. It hurt me too.
This year, though, things were going to be different. For the first time, Peter had agreed to spend Thanksgiving with my parents.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
It had taken weeks of discussion—if you could call the arguments discussions—but he finally relented.
And now, here we were, strolling through the grocery store, picking out a bottle of wine for my mom, a new roasting pan for my dad, and the ingredients for the pumpkin pie I wanted to bake.
I clutched a small bundle of festive napkins with turkeys printed on them and held them up for Peter’s opinion.
He shrugged. His lack of enthusiasm was obvious, and it had been simmering all day.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
“Are you okay, love?” I asked, trying to keep my tone light.
“Yeah. Couldn’t be better,” he said, his words dripping with sarcasm.
I sighed.
“Are you still upset about going to my parents’ house?”
He stopped walking and turned to me, his face tight with frustration. “Of course, I’m upset! Why should I skip my family’s holiday for your whims?”
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
“My whims?” I said, my voice rising despite myself. “I’ve done this for you every single year since we started dating, Peter. Every. Year.”
“Oh, here we go,” he said with a bitter laugh. “It’s always about you, isn’t it? You didn’t like this, you didn’t like that. What about me? Why don’t you care if I’m happy?”
“Peter,” I said slowly, keeping my voice as steady as possible, “we’ve already talked about this. I just want one season with my parents. If that’s too much for you, maybe we should celebrate separately.”
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
His eyebrows shot up.
“Season? Are you saying you’re skipping Christmas with my family too?”
“Yes,” I replied firmly, though my stomach churned.
“This year, I’m spending the holidays with my parents.”
He laughed, a harsh, humorless sound.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
“Fine. Then you can explain that to my parents.”
“I will,” I said, keeping my tone quiet and even.
I felt wrung out, as if every ounce of energy had been drained by this conversation. I just wanted it to be over.
We stood in the aisle for a moment, the silence between us louder than the buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead.
He grabbed the cart handle and pushed it forward without another word.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
I followed, clutching the napkins to my chest, trying to hold on to the excitement that had felt so real just hours ago.
The tension hung heavy in the car as we neared my parents’ house.
Peter gripped the steering wheel tightly, his jaw set in a way that warned me not to push too hard. But I couldn’t let it go entirely.
“Peter,” I started softly, “please, just be kind to my parents. They’re excited to see us, and they’re nervous about making a good impression.”
He let out a sharp laugh.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
“Oh, great! Now you’re giving me instructions? Should I juggle for them too? Or maybe do a little dance?”
I took a deep breath, steadying myself. “I’m not asking for much. I just want this to go well.”
“Well,” he shot back, his voice rising slightly, “maybe you should’ve just invited them to join us at my family’s house. Wouldn’t that have been easier?”
I shook my head, exasperated. “Peter, they’re old. Traveling for the holidays isn’t easy for them.”
“Great. Just perfect!” he muttered, throwing one hand up dramatically before gripping the wheel again.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
The rest of the drive was silent except for the hum of the engine.
I focused on the frosty trees lining the road, trying to calm the knot in my stomach.
When we arrived, I forced a smile and rang the doorbell.
My mom, Charlotte, opened the door almost immediately, her face lighting up as she threw her arms around us.
“I’m so happy to see you! Finally, you’re here!” she exclaimed, her warmth like a balm to my nerves.
Behind her, my dad, Kevin, offered a small, reserved smile, his usual quiet presence grounding the moment.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
Peter muttered a half-hearted “hello” and walked inside without eye contact.
I gave my mom an apologetic look, silently willing her to understand. Then, with a deep breath, I followed him into the house.
Inside the warm glow of the house, my mom and I moved around the dining room, setting the table with care.
The soft clatter of plates and the occasional hum of her voice filled the space as we arranged the dishes.
In the living room, Peter sat stiffly on the couch, his arms crossed, while my dad quietly flipped through a magazine beside him.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
Mom glanced toward Peter, her movements slowing. “Is Peter okay?” she asked softly. “He seems… upset.”
I hesitated, trying to find the right words.
“He’s just… frustrated, I think,” I said finally, keeping my voice low. “He wishes we were spending the holiday with his family.”
Her hands paused mid-air, holding a serving spoon. “Oh,” she said, her tone tinged with confusion and sadness. “Did we do something wrong?”
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
“No, Mom,” I said quickly. “It’s not you. It’s just—” I stopped, unsure how to explain the unspoken tension between Peter and me. “It’s complicated.”
She looked at me, her brows drawn together.
“We’re not family to him?” she asked quietly, almost to herself.
Her words hit me like a cold wind. I didn’t know how to respond.
Was that how Peter saw it? My family, my parents—were they nothing to him? The thought stung more than I wanted to admit.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
“I’m sorry,” I murmured, though I wasn’t sure what I was apologizing for. For Peter’s mood? For his indifference? For years I’d put my family on hold for his?
Mom placed a hand on my arm, her touch warm and steady.
“You don’t have to apologize, sweetheart,” she said gently.
But her eyes still held a shadow of hurt, and it lingered in the air as we finished setting the table in silence.
The table was set beautifully, with crisp white linens, shining silverware, and the aroma of roasted turkey filling the room.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
My mom, Charlotte, stood back to admire her work before clapping her hands.
“Everything’s ready! Come and eat!” she said with cheerful warmth, her voice echoing into the quiet living room.
We all gathered around the table. My dad, Kevin, pulled out my mom’s chair for her, and I couldn’t help but smile at his small gesture of old-fashioned chivalry.
Peter followed sluggishly, barely making an effort to engage, and slumped into his seat with a sigh.
The meal began, but the air was tense like a storm waiting to break. My mom tried valiantly to spark a conversation.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
“So, Peter,” she started brightly, “how’s work going? Busy this time of year?”
He gave a noncommittal grunt, stabbing a piece of turkey with his fork.
“Dad’s been working on the deck in the backyard,” I chimed in, trying to fill the silence. “It’s really coming together.”
My dad nodded. “It’s slow, but it keeps me busy. Maybe you could come by and give me some tips, Peter.”
Peter didn’t even look up. “Yeah, maybe,” he muttered, flicking a crumb off the table.
I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment. “Peter,” I said softly, leaning toward him, “what’s wrong? Can I help?”
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
He dropped his fork onto his plate with a clatter and leaned back in his chair. “Everything’s wrong!” he snapped, his voice loud enough to make my mom flinch.
“How is this even Thanksgiving without my mom’s chocolate pudding?”
“Pudding?” my mom echoed, her voice unsure, her hands trembling slightly as she reached for her glass of water.
“It’s fine,” I interjected quickly, trying to calm the situation. “His mom always makes it for him. It’s no big deal.”
Peter scoffed, his eyes blazing. “No big deal? Of course! Because nothing I want ever matters. It’s always about Sarah, isn’t it? What Sarah wants. What Sarah needs.”
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
“Peter, please,” I begged, my voice cracking. “This is supposed to be a happy day.”
He pushed his chair back, the chair’s legs screeching against the floor. “Listen, I’m done! We’re leaving. Get your coat, Sarah!”
“NO, YOU LISTEN!” my dad shouted after Peter, jumping up from his chair. But Peter just ignored him and walked right past! I saw my dad clutch his chest.
The weight of the moment pressed on me as I stood slowly. My mom’s eyes brimmed with tears.
“I’m so sorry, honey,” she said, her voice trembling. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“No, Mom,” I said, my throat tightening. “I’m sorry. I’ll fix this.”
I walked to the doorway, where Peter stood waiting, arms crossed.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
“Put your coat on! We’re leaving!” he barked.
“No,” I said, surprising myself with the strength in my voice. “You’re leaving. I’m staying.”
“What? You’re my wife. You’re supposed to listen to me!”
I took a deep breath, meeting his glare.
“You don’t respect my parents, you don’t respect me, and behaving like this, you don’t even respect yourself. I’ve put up with your selfishness for years, hoping the loving man I married was still there. But now, I don’t believe he is.”
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
“You want to talk about respect?” he sputtered, disbelief written all over his face.
“Yes,” I said, my voice steady. “Leave, Peter. It’s over.”
His mouth opened, but no words came. He stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
I returned to the dining room, my heart pounding, and found my parents sitting quietly, their faces a mixture of sadness and concern.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
“I’m sorry, Mom. Dad,” I said, my voice soft but resolute.
“I let this go on for too long. But not anymore.”
Charlotte stood and wrapped me in a warm hug. “You’re home now. That’s all that matters,” she whispered.
For the first time in years, I felt free. I had chosen the family that truly mattered and wouldn’t trade them for anything.
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