I first met Zakhar at a book presentation by an author. Our conversation quickly turned to literature, and we found ourselves deeply engrossed in discussing various works.

Zakhar gave me his phone number, and I shared mine in return. From there, we kept in touch. Our relationship unfolded at a comfortable pace, neither too fast nor too slow, and that suited me just fine.

A year after we met, Zakhar proposed marriage. I gladly accepted, and the engagement ring he offered me felt like a promise of a new chapter in our lives.

When we registered our marriage application, Zakhar suggested I meet his relatives.

“We can visit the dacha over the weekend,” he proposed. “My parents will be there, along with my two brothers and their families.” “Okay, let’s go,” I replied, eager to make a good impression. “My vacation is just starting.”

I was feeling nervous about meeting his family. On the way to the countryside, Zakhar reassured me that everything would be just fine, but I couldn't help feeling anxious.

“Veronika, it’s so wonderful to finally meet you!” cried Natalia Petrovna, Zakhar’s mother, rushing to greet me. “Come inside! Boris and Petya, my sons, are already here, and Tamara and Zhanna, their wives, are in the kitchen.”

I stepped into the house, trying to remember who was who as I greeted everyone. We chatted for a while, then Natalia Petrovna directed her sons to help their father. Zakhar and his brothers went to the garden where Anatoly Vadimovich, their father, was working.

“Veronika, come help in the kitchen,” she said. “We’re preparing lunch for everyone.” I agreed and went to the kitchen, where I was tasked with chopping vegetables. Zhanna and Tamara were working with the meat, and Natalia Petrovna was making soup.

Time flew by as we chatted, and before I knew it, hours had passed. We began setting the table and called the men in.

As soon as Anatoly Vadimovich sat down, he began to criticize.

“Why didn’t you bring napkins?” he complained. “And there’s too little salad for all of us.”

Natalia Petrovna quickly ran to the kitchen to get everything he had mentioned. Once everything was sorted, we finally sat down to eat.

During lunch, I was asked questions about my work, my family, and my life. I answered calmly, then asked a few questions of my own. Everything seemed fine on the surface, but deep down, something wasn’t sitting right.

After lunch, Zakhar, his brothers, and their father excused themselves and went off to watch football. I was surprised that no one helped clear the table. Feeling a bit frustrated, I voiced my thoughts out loud.

“In our family, we have traditional values,” Natalia Petrovna explained. “The men provide for the family, and the women handle the household tasks.”

I felt deeply uncomfortable with this, but I didn’t say much at the time. That night, before bed, I shared with Zakhar what I didn’t like about his family’s home. He didn’t seem to think it was a big deal, and we ended up going to bed without resolving anything.

The next morning, I was woken up by Zhanna at six o’clock. “It’s time to prepare breakfast,” she said. I followed her into the kitchen, and again, none of the men were helping. After breakfast, no one bothered to clear their own plates, let alone wash them.

“In the afternoon, the men will go to the bathhouse,” Natalia Petrovna said, “and we need to get it ready while they’re out fishing.”

I went with Tamara and Zhanna to the bathhouse to help prepare, and as we worked, I couldn’t hold back my frustration any longer. The girls seemed to understand, but they also warned me that nothing would change.

“This is how it’s always been here,” Zhanna said, her tone resigned. “I would file for divorce,” said Tamara, “but we have a child and a mortgage. I couldn’t manage on my own.”

When the men returned, I talked to Zakhar again. He insisted that there was nothing wrong with the traditions in his family, and that they should be respected. That’s when I realized—this was not the life I wanted.

While Zakhar and his brothers went to the bathhouse, I packed my things and left. I ran to the bus stop, afraid someone might follow me.

Once I was on the bus, I sent Zakhar a message: I was calling off the wedding. I explained that his family’s treatment of women wasn’t something I could accept.

Zakhar called me immediately after reading the message, but I didn’t answer at first. After some time, I picked up and told him, without hesitation, that my decision was final. There was no turning back.

I was grateful that I made this realization before the wedding. If I hadn’t, I might have ended up like Zhanna and Tamara—trapped in a life I couldn’t bear.