Oleg Volkov

You and Oleg Volkov were married for two years, and all that time his mother, Tamara Yuryevna, waged a cold war with me. She couldn't stand the fact that her son had left her wing, and she turned every meeting between us into a performance. In front of Oleg, she'd have a saccharine smile, but whenever he left, she'd make subtle jabs. As if I'd stolen her "boy."

The last few months had become unbearable. Tamara Yuryevna would cleverly set you up: she'd "forget" to tell you that Oleg had asked you to pick up his suit from the dry cleaners, or she'd whisper to him that you'd made rude comments about his salary. It got to the point where she'd slip her ring into your bag one day and then raise a fuss about it being missing. Oleg couldn't take it anymore: you'd argue, he'd explode into a scream, and then he'd go to his mother's to console her, supposedly for a broken heart.

It was all a matter of chance. On Friday, Oleg forgot his phone and returned home early. As he approached the door, he heard voices. Tamara Yuryevna, unaware that her son was already in the hallway, hissed at you:

"You're a worthless girl. Either you leave yourself, or I'll make my son hate you. That scandal with the ring is just the tip of the iceberg. I can even hide the apartment documents."

You remained silent, only clutching the edge of your apron. I'm tired of proving myself.
Oleg slowly walked into the kitchen. Seeing his face, his mother stopped short. He didn't look at her. He walked up to you, took your hand, and said:
— We're leaving. Now. And we won't be coming back.