When I met Olga, I thought I had found the love of my life. We quickly became inseparable. Just four months later, we decided to move in together. A few months after that, I proposed to her.
She said yes.
I was the happiest man in the world.
But there was one big detail in our fairytale that we kept postponing to discuss: our families. I nodded, ready for a conversation about family, care, and respect. But his next words made my fingers tighten around my fork.
— Olga has always dreamed of being a housewife. You’ll have to support her entirely. She won’t work—this is unacceptable in our family.
I glanced quickly at Olga—she smiled and nodded calmly, as if this was obvious.
— Besides, — added Tatiana, swirling her wine glass, — supporting your wife’s parents is a sign of a good husband. We’re counting on your help.
I blinked.
— Excuse me, what?
Ivan explained that I would need to buy Olga’s apartment from them, then buy a spacious house for future children, and also arrange a separate room for them—”in case they want to stay with us.”
— Fair enough, — he concluded, sliding the bill toward me when our order arrived.
I don’t remember finishing my dinner. One thought kept ringing in my head: this is a joke, right?
The drive home was silent. I felt something breaking inside me.
When we got back to the apartment, I finally exhaled:
— Olga, I can’t marry you.
She froze, then laughed:
— You’re exaggerating! This is just how our family is! You love me!
I looked at her, still hoping to hear: “You’re right, this is too much.” But she only shrugged:
— It’s normal. Real men do this.
I left that same night.
Months passed. Olga wrote, tried to convince me, but I already knew: she didn’t see me as a person, just a convenient life companion, ready to fulfill her family’s wishes.
Olga often talked about her parents—Ivan and Tatiana. She said they were strict but loving, that they were “a bit old-fashioned,” and, of course, they already adored me, even though they hadn’t met me.
Deep down, I was nervous, but I believed I could win them over with sincerity and respect. We arranged to meet at a restaurant.
From the first moment, I could feel the tension. Ivan, a tall man with a heavy gaze, shook my hand as though testing how firmly I stood. Tatiana, dressed up and wearing large gold jewelry, sized me up with her look.
As soon as we sat down, Ivan, not wasting time on pleasantries, said:
— So, Timofey, let’s get straight to the point. You’re marrying Olga—this means you’re taking on responsibility.
