“Your Wife’s Really Got Out of Hand, You Need to Teach Her How to Behave,” Lectured Max’s Mum “Marina, love, my housewarming’s tomorrow! I’ve invited so many people and you know nothing’s sorted in the new flat yet. Will you help?” “Of course, Mrs. Wilson,” Marina replied, though her weekend plans were very different. And so it began. Canapés for thirty guests. Caesar salad. Meat platters. Fruit displays. Decorating the sitting room. Arranging the furniture. Picture this: Friday evening instead of a romantic dinner with her husband—a trek to Tesco. Saturday, up at six, cooking in someone else’s flat. “Max, help me with the chairs, at least,” Marina pleaded with her husband. “You know better than me how it looks best!” he waved her off, flicking through news on his phone. By three o’clock, Max’s mum’s flat was transformed: a luxurious buffet in the lounge, everything tastefully arranged, flowers placed perfectly. Marina looked over the results, feeling worn out. The first guests arrived promptly at four. Mrs. Wilson’s colleagues, old neighbours, her friends. All hugged the hostess, admired the flat, and gave housewarming gifts. Marina stood in the kitchen slicing an extra lemon. “Where’s your daughter-in-law?” one guest asked. “Oh, she’s busy in the kitchen,” Mrs. Wilson waved dismissively. “Marina! Come say hello.” Marina came out, smiled, greeted everyone. “Oh, what a caring daughter-in-law!” exclaimed a lady in an elegant suit. “So good with her hands!” “Yes, I’ve raised her well,” Mrs. Wilson laughed smugly. “Now I have a reliable helper.” And then—here’s the real kicker. There wasn’t a chair for Marina. “Oh, Marina dear, you won’t have time to sit anyway,” Mrs. Wilson said apologetically. “Better keep an eye on the food, bring round plates.” Marina nodded. What else could she do? So there she stood, off to the side like a waitress—serving snacks, topping up champagne, clearing used napkins. While round the table, animated conversation, laughter, toasts. “Remember, Nina, back at your old job…” one colleague began. Marina quietly listened to memories from a life in which she was an outsider. “Marina, could you refresh the fruit?” Mrs. Wilson called loudly. Marina returned to the kitchen, washed grapes, arranged them on a platter. “How lovely!” the guests enthused. “Mrs. Wilson, you’ve got a real artist helping you!” “Max did well to pick such a capable wife!” the lady in the suit chimed in. “Bet the house is always in order and dinner’s ready!” Everyone laughed. Max grinned with pride. Proud of what—having a free housemaid? But that wasn’t the end. The party talk got louder, everyone relaxed, the atmosphere turned family-like. “Oh Nina, tell us about how Max was such a heartbreaker at uni!” giggled one of Mrs. Wilson’s old friends. “Oh, what’s the point!” Mrs. Wilson waved her hand coyly, though she clearly loved the attention. “The whole course was crazy for him! Twenty years old and such a handsome fellow!” Everyone laughed. Max blushed, the embarrassment wasn’t real—he was used to his mum’s praise. Marina stood by the serving table, polishing glasses. No one cared she was there. She was like the décor: necessary, but invisible. “And at university, girls queued for him!” Mrs. Wilson bragged. “The dean always joked, ‘Max will be a real Casanova for you!’ And he was! Before Marina he had loads of girlfriends!” “Alright, Mum,” Max half-heartedly tried to stop her. “What’s wrong? Marina knows she wasn’t the only one,” Mrs. Wilson laughed. “A man needs life experience—how else can he build a family?” The lady in the suit nodded approvingly. “Quite right, Nina. And it’s only good for women—shows their husband has experience.” “Exactly!” Mrs. Wilson agreed. “And Marina’s calm. Not jealous!” Everyone turned to Marina, awaiting her response, her confirmation she was indeed “calm.” Marina nodded. There was no alternative. “Marina, how did you and Max meet?” a neighbour asked. Marina opened her mouth, but Mrs. Wilson got in first. “At the bank! He’d just become a manager, she was a consultant. Instantly you could tell—she’s a serious, responsible girl.” Responsible. Like a reference for a job. “I told Max: pay attention to that one. Not flighty, but homely. Good for a family!” Imagine hearing yourself described as a commodity: “Good for a family.” “And you didn’t go wrong!” the suited lady exclaimed. “Look, so good with her hands! Organised the whole housewarming, fed everyone.” “Yes,” Mrs. Wilson confirmed proudly. “I knew right away—she’s trustworthy, not like today’s selfish girls who only think of themselves.” And now, the most infuriating bit—Max said nothing. No protest. No, “Mum, that’s enough.” He just sat and listened as his wife was appraised like a pedigree horse at auction. “So, when are the babies coming?” the inevitable question. “You’re desperate for grandchildren, aren’t you, Nina?” Mrs. Wilson sighed: “Oh, I long for it! But the youngsters keep putting it off—work, this, that. Time goes by, you know!” Marina felt her cheeks flush. This was a painful topic. She and Max had spent nearly two years trying for a baby. She saw doctors in secret, took vitamins. Everything was okay so far, but every month brought bitter disappointment. “That’s their private business,” the neighbour said tactfully. “Of course!” Mrs. Wilson agreed. “But I’ve dropped hints—it’s time! Years pass, I want grandkids to dote on.” Marina pressed her lips together. Hints? She “asked” every week: “Any good news?” And every time Marina blushed and mumbled apologies. “Maybe they’re just not ready?” one guest suggested. “Not ready!” Mrs. Wilson dismissed. “We were having babies at their age, and we managed! Now they invent things. Mother’s instinct doesn’t vanish!” Marina stepped over to the window. “Marina dear!” Mrs. Wilson called. “Why so down? Come over, we’re discussing important things.” Marina approached, standing beside Max’s armchair. “See what a compliant wife Max has,” Mrs. Wilson continued. “You ask—she does. Not like those modern types; they just make demands.” “What rights does a wife have?” philosophised the lady in the suit. “The main thing is the husband’s happiness, for the family to thrive.” “Everyone knows!” another guest agreed. “A woman’s happiness is in her family, her children.” Marina listened and felt something inside her tightening. They spoke about her, not to her. “Nina, remember Max’s first serious girlfriend?” someone asked. “Alison, wasn’t it?” “Oh, don’t remind me!” Mrs. Wilson laughed. “She was pretty, but so stubborn. Always had her say, always argued. Not a wife, but a trial! I even told Max—‘Son, think carefully. Do you need a troublemaker?’” Max squirmed uncomfortably but said nothing. “And you did right!” the suited lady approved. “A mother knows best what girl suits her son. Otherwise, he’d be miserable.” “Marina, fetch some more ice please!” asked Mrs. Wilson. Marina nodded and went to the kitchen. She opened the freezer, took out ice, and just stared at the cubes. Suddenly, she realised: she wasn’t part of this celebration—she was staff. Marina stood in the kitchen with the ice bucket, gazing out the window. Outside, evening was falling; lights twinkled on neighbouring balconies—people living their own lives. Voices and karaoke drifted from the lounge. “Marina!” Mrs. Wilson shouted, “Where’s the ice? And put the coffee on, please!” Mechanically, Marina started the coffee machine. Took the ice bucket to the lounge. “And here’s our hard worker!” the suited lady quipped. “Marina, why so serious? Join in and have some fun!” “She’s tired,” Mrs. Wilson dismissed. “On her feet all day. But that’s how it should be—women must do it all. It’s our lot, caring for the family.” “Absolutely!” agreed the neighbour. “And a man should earn the money!” “Do I not earn?” Marina asked quietly. Everyone turned. Silence fell. “Sorry, dear?” Mrs. Wilson looked confused. “I said—don’t I earn?” Marina repeated louder. Max frowned. “Why are you bringing this up, Marina?” “Because Auntie Gail says men earn and can relax. What about me? Don’t I earn?” The guests exchanged glances. No one expected this turn. “Well, of course you earn,” the suited lady said diplomatically, “But it’s not quite the same.” “How’s it not the same?” “Well,” she hesitated, “You’re a consultant. Max’s a project manager. He has more responsibility.” “I see. So my job isn’t really a job. And the housework’s all mine too. So, I work at the office and at home, and Max works only at the office. But it’s him who gets to rest?” Awkward silence. “Marina, what’s this about?” Max asked irritably. “About the fact,” Marina placed the bucket on the table, “I spent two days preparing this housewarming—shopping, cooking, decorating. Today, I’ve worked since morning, and there isn’t even a seat for me at the table.” “We didn’t mean it!” Mrs. Wilson tried to excuse. “Just a miscalculation.” “A miscalculation,” Marina agreed. “No one thought of me—because I’m just the help.” “Marina!” Max snapped. “Enough!” “Enough what—telling the truth?” “Marina, calm down,” one guest interjected, “Nerves.” “Stop making a scene!” Mrs. Wilson scolded. “This is embarrassing!” “But it’s fine to discuss my marriage in public? It’s fine to talk about me not having children—for all to hear? To gossip about Max’s exes—in public?” Mrs. Wilson paled. “I didn’t mean…” “You talked about Alison—how great she left because she had opinions. Everyone nodded—good thing Max married someone convenient.” Marina looked at each guest. “And you know what? Alison was right! You shouldn’t let yourself become free help!” “What are you saying?” Max stood up. “Help?!” “Do you know what I wished for today?” Marina continued quietly. “I hoped to hear, ‘Meet my wife, she works at a bank, she’s clever and talented.’ Instead, all I got was, ‘Such a homely wife, so accommodating, perfect for a family.’” “Marina, come on,” Max started. “What? That you were silent! When your mum said how convenient I was—you shut up! When Auntie Gail philosophised about wives’ rights—you shut up! When everyone dissected my private life—you shut up!” Her voice trembled. Tears she’d held back finally came. “You know what? I’m tired of being convenient.” Marina wiped her eyes. “Sorry for ruining your party. But I can’t be your perfect daughter-in-law anymore.” And she headed for the door. “Marina, wait!” Max called. “Where are you going?” “To the balcony—for some air,” she replied honestly, not stopping. “Carry on enjoying yourselves. Just without the hired help.” The door to the balcony closed. Behind it, muffled voices and music continued. Out in the night under the stars, Marina could finally be herself. She could cry. She stayed there for over an hour. At first, crying—from hurt, embarrassment, and relief. Then, drying her tears, she watched the city lights. Inside, voices had faded—just Max and Mrs. Wilson remained. “I don’t get what came over her!” Mrs. Wilson fumed. “Making a scene in front of everyone!” “Mum, maybe she’s not completely wrong,” Max mumbled. “Wrong in what? For shouting at her elders? For ruining the party?” Marina listened in. “She did work all day, you know.” “So what? I worked in my youth and never whined! Family takes effort, Max. A woman should know her place.” Marina smiled bitterly—his mother hadn’t understood a word. “Still…” “No ‘still’! You need to have a serious talk with her. Show her the right way to behave—she’s really got out of hand.” Marina opened the door and came in. Max and Mrs. Wilson were standing among dirty dishes in the lounge. “A serious talk—great idea,” Marina said calmly. They jumped. “Marina dear,” Mrs. Wilson started in a pleading tone, “Don’t be like this. We didn’t mean anything bad.” “I know,” Marina nodded. “You’re just not used to me speaking out.” “Let’s discuss it at home,” Max pleaded. “No. What started here, ends here.” Marina sat down in one of the armchairs where the guests had just been. “Max, tomorrow I’m going to my parents’ for a week. I need to think things through.” “What’s there to think through?” Max was worried. “Whether I want to stay in a family that doesn’t value me.” “Don’t be dramatic, Marina.” “This isn’t drama,” she said calmly. “It’s a choice. Either things change—or I change my life.” Mrs. Wilson scoffed: “Typical youngsters—straight to ultimatums!” “Max, if you care about our marriage—think. Not about how to ‘put me in my place,’ but why your wife was crying on the balcony while your mum accepted congratulations.” A week later, Max arrived at her parents’ house, fiddling nervously with his ring at the kitchen table. “Marina, please come home. Things will change.” Marina looked at him for a long time. “All right. Let’s try.” She never cried at a family party again. Because she’d learnt to stand up for her right to respect.