I never hid my dislike for my daughter-in-law, the wife of my only son. Why, my John is a very smart guy, graduated with honors from university, got a great job with a great salary. There were so many successful and beautiful girls chasing after him. Some were just like from a fairy tale. What about John? He did not want a beautiful girl with a great education and an excellent family.
When he was 26, he married Anna, no lineage, no tribe. Anna herself was from the countryside, and her parents drank. She herself barely finished nine grades, worked here and there, flitting from one job to another. What John saw in her, I don’t understand.
After the wedding, John brought Anna to live in the apartment he bought. You see, I wouldn’t have anything against her if she had at least been a normal hostess. But she wasn’t. Every time I went to their place, the dishes were unwashed, the fridge was empty, and there was no food. But Anna was like a tsarina lying on the sofa on the phone, clacking away and laughing. More than once I told her, “Get up, you lazy bum, get busy. But she laughs, yaps, and that’s it. Ugh, shameless.
So that made me sad. It was March 8, the holiday of all women and mothers, I invited my son with this ignoramus to my place. The table was set, everything as it should be. John brought me a flower – some kind of smelly, pardon the expression, carnations in a plastic bag. I would have been happy about that, too, if he didn’t have any money, it was a difficult situation. But I could have been more respectful to my mom. And then we are sitting at the table, Anna grabs my hand and pokes my finger in the phone so I can look.
-There, look closely, my husband, John gave it to me today. -I’m looking, and there’s a huge bouquet of expensive Dutch roses. And she’s laughing too, the viper. What? So this ignoramus got an expensive bouquet, and I got a carnation for three kopecks. And what has she done for him? I gave birth to him, brought him up, raised him. Ungrateful son of mine, insulted me to the bottom of my heart.
