Don’t even think about sitting at the table with us

— Don’t you dare sit at the table with us! First feed the whole family, then go eat in the kitchen, — his mother growled, unaware that her son had installed surveillance cameras.

I froze. It had only been two months since I’d moved in with Stanislav, and already I felt like I was living in a cheap soap opera. Olga Arcadievna, his mother, was a mix between a retired military officer, a toxic mother-in-law, and a discount clothing appraiser.

— Where do you work, little girl? — she asked, eyeing me as if she were evaluating the price of a clearance dress.

I gently placed my cup on the saucer. A heavy silence settled in the massive dining room.

— At “Garant-Ucet,” I work in accounting, — I replied calmly, not lowering my gaze.

— And how long have you been there?

— Almost four years.

— And your position?

— Chief accountant.

She laughed, dripping with disdain:

— Chief accountant at some tiny firm with what, five employees? Ten?

— Eight, — I said curtly, without adding that I could buy a hundred such firms in one go.

— And your parents? Where are they? — she continued the interrogation. — Stanislav said he’d introduce us to your family.

— They’re away on a business trip. My father works in international transport — he’s on the road most of the time.

— International transport? — her voice oozed mockery. — So, he’s a truck driver?

Stanislav cleared his throat:

— Mother!

— What “mother”? I have the right to know where this girl comes from.

I smiled. That kind of smile you wear when you’d rather scream, but choose diplomacy instead.

— Yes, he’s a truck driver. He owns his own logistics company, twenty-four trucks, and he’s an official supplier for three major supermarket chains across Europe.

Silence fell. I could’ve sworn a muscle twitched in her cheek.

I continued, just as calmly:

— My mother is a lawyer. She has an office downtown and two international collaborations. But I understand, Olga Arcadievna, you probably imagined something else. Something more… convenient.

Stanislav tried to change the subject, but his mother stood up:

— It doesn’t matter how much you earn — you can’t buy class.

I looked her straight in the eyes:

— Neither can you buy decency.

Stanislav flinched. I stood up, apologized for my tone, and went into the kitchen. I took a slice of pound cake and ate in peace.

The next day, Stanislav installed cameras in the dining room and kitchen, claiming it was “for security.” But he knew exactly why. For two weeks, he watched the recordings. One evening, when I came home, he took my hand and said:

— I saw everything. What she says to you, how she treats you… You don’t deserve that.

I shrugged:

— She’s your mother.

— And you’re the woman I want to spend my life with. Tomorrow we’re moving.

I left it all behind. A month later, the recordings “accidentally” ended up on a flash drive forgotten at a family gathering.

Since then, Olga Arcadievna calls me “madam” and asks me to sit with her at the table.

But I still eat in the kitchen. With the door closed.
And a big, wide smile.