And with her large hands, she physically inserted herself between mother and child, wounding both.

“Lyudmila Petrovna, please stop!” Anna begged. “We’re fine!”

“You’re doing it wrong,” her mother-in-law cut in. “My friend had the same thing with her daughter-in-law—didn’t listen, had to end up in the hospital.”

Fear—it was Lyudmila Petrovna’s weapon. Fear that Anna would fail, harm the baby, be a bad mother. And in the exhausted, hormone-ravaged body of a new mother, those fears took root like seeds in fertile soil.

At night, Anna lay awake, wondering: What if I really do something wrong? What if Miron cries because I’m a bad mother? What if she’s right?

Igor tried to mediate between his mother and his wife, listening to complaints in the morning, scolding in the evening.

“Your wife doesn’t listen,” Lyudmila Petrovna would declare at dinner while Anna fed Miron. “I tell her, she does her own thing. Obstinate! I only want the best! I raised you, among others.”

“Mom, Anna is just tired,” Igor tried to explain. “The first month is the hardest. She needs support, not criticism.”

“This is support!” Lyudmila Petrovna snapped. “I help, I teach, and she takes it wrong. Ungrateful.”

“Maybe you’re… overbearing?”

“I’ve been living on a hard couch for three weeks for you! Cooking, cleaning, watching the baby! And you say I’m overbearing?!”

Lyudmila Petrovna didn’t leave. She lingered, massive in her old robe, waiting. Waiting for Anna to say, “You’re right, take him.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Anna said sharply, turning deliberately toward the wall.

The door clicked shut. Sleep was gone.

Lyudmila Petrovna arrived a week after Anna left the maternity ward. She came armed with good intentions—three huge bags of “for later” baby clothes, lactation teas, and an arsenal of old-fashioned remedies for colic.

“You won’t manage alone, Anna,” she declared at the door. “First child, no experience. I raised Igorik without nannies, without prenatal classes. Maternal instinct—that’s what counts.”

Anna’s husband, Igor, smiled awkwardly and carried the bags into the bedroom.

“Mom, you could’ve called…” he murmured. “We could’ve come to get you.”

“Call? I came alone. The point is to help while there’s still time.”

The first day passed relatively calmly. Lyudmila Petrovna claimed the couch, hung her robes in the closet, and immediately began cooking. By evening, the apartment smelled of fried onions, dill, and some kind of broth “to stimulate Anna’s milk supply.”

“Eat, eat,” she insisted, pushing a heavy plate toward Anna. “A breastfeeding mother must eat for two.”

Anna ate obediently, though she had no appetite. Her body was still recovering, her muscles ached, and she was running on sleep stolen between two-hour feedings.

“Why aren’t the bottles sterilized?” came the kitchen voice. “And you must boil the nipple each time! Otherwise, the baby will get sick.”

“We’re skipping the pacifier for now,” Anna replied, irritation creeping in.

“No pacifier?” Lyudmila Petrovna emerged from the kitchen, drying her hands. “My dear, impossible. The sucking reflex must be satisfied. He’ll harass you if you don’t.”

“The doctor said it’s not necessary with breastfeeding.”

“The doctor!” She waved dismissively. “Books, yes, but life… life is different. You’ll suffer—you’ll see.”

Igor stepped in, hearing the voices.

“Mom, maybe we shouldn’t…” he said gently. “Anna is managing. She’s prepared, she’s read, she knows what to do.”

“She read!” sniffed Lyudmila Petrovna. “Books, pfft! Life is something else. You too, you were a difficult baby. I carried you for six months, and my back hurt forever. I know what I’m talking about.”

Anna stayed silent. She had learned the art of silence. But inside, tension coiled like water behind a dam.

By the third day, the “tidying” began. Lyudmila Petrovna rose at six, launched into a full-scale cleaning operation. The vacuum woke Miron, who had only just fallen asleep after the night feed, and roused the neighbors upstairs—a fist pounded the radiator.

“Lyudmila Petrovna, it’s too early!” Anna shouted, carrying the crying baby. “He just fell asleep!”

“Too early?” she said, checking the clock. “Six a.m. is my usual. Cleanliness is the key to health, especially with a baby. Germs never sleep.”

“But you could’ve waited until eight!”

“Eight?” she snapped, turning off the vacuum. “With a baby, you rise early. Routine is everything. You’ve spoiled him already; he sleeps at any hour. He must learn a schedule.”

“He’s three weeks old!”

“Exactly! Perfect time. Our pediatric clinic says: feed on schedule, put to bed on schedule. You feed on demand; he doesn’t know day from night.”

Miron cried harder. Anna rocked him, tears running down her cheeks—tears of exhaustion, despair, helplessness. She had imagined those first weeks as calm, tender, sacred. Instead, chaos reigned.

“Anna, don’t cry,” Igor said, resting hands on her shoulders. He looked drained, caught in the crossfire of two generations. “She only wants to help.”

“Help?” Anna said, breaking from his embrace. “Igor, I haven’t slept in a month, my stitches still hurt, I can barely walk, and your mother runs the vacuum at six a.m.! This is help?”

“She’s trying…” Igor said.

“She tells me how to hold my own child! Yesterday, she took Miron from my arms without asking and carried him onto the balcony in only a onesie! In December!”

“Yes, that’s too much. I agree,” Igor rubbed his forehead. “I’ll speak to her.”

“You’ve spoken five times already.”

“I’ll speak again. She only worries for her grandson. Good intentions.”

The road to hell is paved with good intentions, Anna thought, but she did not speak aloud. She clutched Miron to her chest and retreated to her room. Behind the closed door, at least a semblance of autonomy remained.

By the end of the first week, Anna had learned to smile through gritted teeth. Every day brought a new “valuable tip” from Lyudmila Petrovna:

“You’re changing him wrong! Inside out!”
“Why put diapers on him? Skin must breathe! In my day, we used cotton swaddles.”
“This cream is bad, too chemical. I’ll make you an infusion—that’s what you need.”
“Too warm! He’ll sweat!”
“Too cold! He’ll catch a chill!”

Every move Anna made was scrutinized. Lyudmila Petrovna was always present, always watching, always ready to intervene—even during breastfeeding, a sacred mother-baby moment, she could enter without knocking to demonstrate the “proper latch.”

“You see? He’s not nursing right! You’ll get cracks! Let me show you.”

Anna woke once again to the sound of her baby, Miron, crying. Still half-asleep, she lifted him into her arms, his tiny body warm against hers.

“Shh… shh, my little one,” she murmured softly, rocking him gently.

In the doorway, the imposing figure of her mother-in-law, Lyudmila Petrovna, loomed.

“Feeding him again? He just ate!” Her voice carried more accusation than question.

Anna, drained and barely awake, replied calmly, “It’s four in the morning… Can we talk about this tomorrow?”

But Lyudmila did not leave. For three weeks since Miron’s birth, she had taken over their apartment under the guise of “helping.” Every movement Anna made was criticized, every decision questioned. She imposed her schedule, intervened during the most intimate moments with the baby, and sowed doubt in Anna’s exhausted, hormonally fragile mind.

The breaking point came a few days before New Year’s. Anna overheard her mother-in-law on the phone, speaking of her “terrible” inability to care for Miron. That was the spark.

Later that evening, Anna made a firm, unwavering decision:

“You need to leave. Or I will take Miron and go. I need quiet… I need space to learn how to be a mother.”

Lyudmila, shocked and affronted, finally left the next day. For the first time in weeks, Anna felt a deep, freeing relief wash over her. She held Miron close and whispered:

“Maybe I’ll make mistakes… but they will be my mistakes. And we will learn together.”

That night, the three of them—Anna, Miron, and her husband—celebrated the New Year in peace. Anna realized, finally, that she had the right to mother in her own way. No rules imposed. No endless critiques. Just her. And her son.