The living room of the modest Moscow apartment was a time capsule of faded glory. Soviet-era trinkets lined the shelves—a chipped porcelain figurine of a cosmonaut, a tarnished medal from some forgotten factory achievement, and a stack of yellowed newspapers no one had touched in decades. Floral curtains, threadbare at the edges, hung limply over the window, filtering the gray afternoon light into a muted glow. The air smelled faintly of cabbage and beetroot, a lingering reminder of the borscht simmering in the kitchen. At the center of this domestic museum, slouched on a worn-out couch with springs that groaned under even the slightest weight, was Ivan.
Eighteen years old, lanky as a stray alley cat, Ivan was a study in adolescent disarray. His dark hair stuck out in every direction, as if it had mutinied against the concept of a comb, and his oversized hoodie hung off his narrow shoulders like a tent. His pale fingers danced over the controller of an ancient gaming console, the flickering screen casting a bluish tint on his sharp, boyish features. He was deep in a virtual battlefield, muttering curses under his breath as his avatar took a particularly brutal hit.
The door to the kitchen swung open with the force of a small hurricane, and in stormed Svetlana. A formidable woman in her late forties, she was a force of nature wrapped in a stained apron and armed with a wooden spoon still dripping with borscht. Her dark hair, streaked with gray, was pulled back into a severe bun, and her sharp green eyes could cut through steel—or, more accurately, through the laziness of her only son. Her presence filled the room like a thunderclap, and Ivan barely had time to flinch before her voice boomed over the tinny sound of his game.
“Ivan, you useless potato! What is this? Another day spent rotting on my couch, killing imaginary enemies while your real enemy—your own future—laughs in your face?” Svetlana planted her hands on her hips, the wooden spoon jutting out like a scepter of domestic authority.
Ivan didn’t look up from the screen, though his shoulders tensed. “Mama, I’m not rotting. I’m strategizing. This game takes skill, you know. I’m basically a general.”
“A general of what? The army of unwashed socks piling up in your room? Or the legion of empty soda cans on my coffee table?” Svetlana stepped closer, her shadow looming over him. She snatched the controller from his hands with the precision of a hawk swooping down on prey. “Look at you, Ivan. Pale as a ghost, skinny as a twig. You’re eighteen, and what do you have to show for it? Not a job, not a plan, not even a haircut that doesn’t look like you lost a fight with a lawnmower!”
Ivan finally met her gaze, his hazel eyes wide with mock indignation. “Hey, my hair is a statement. It says, ‘I don’t conform to society’s rules.’”
“It says, ‘I don’t conform to basic hygiene,’” Svetlana shot back, her lips twitching into a smirk despite her irritation. “I didn’t raise you to be a slob, Ivan. I raised you to be something—someone I can brag about at the market. ‘Oh, my Ivan, he’s a doctor,’ or ‘My Ivan, he’s building bridges.’ Not ‘My Ivan, he’s building virtual castles while his mother works her fingers to the bone!’”
Ivan slouched deeper into the couch, crossing his arms defensively. “I’m figuring things out, okay? Give me time.”
“Time? Time is what I’ve given you, and you’ve turned it into a swamp of nothing! No, my boy, time is up.” Svetlana’s eyes glinted with something dangerous, a mischievous spark that made Ivan sit up straighter despite himself. She leaned down, her face inches from his, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “If you won’t make something of yourself, I’ll do it for you. Starting today, you’re not Ivan the Couch Potato. You’re going to be Ivanna—my perfect, beautiful daughter.”
Ivan blinked, then burst into a nervous laugh. “Wait, what? Mama, you’re joking, right? Ivanna? That’s not even a good name. Sounds like a discount perfume.”
Svetlana straightened, her smirk widening into a full, predatory grin. “Oh, I’m not joking, my little turnip. If you can’t be a man worth respecting, I’ll make you a woman worth admiring. Come with me. Now.” She grabbed his arm with surprising strength, yanking him off the couch before he could protest further.
“Mama, wait—ow!—what are you doing? I’m not some doll you can dress up!” Ivan stumbled after her as she dragged him across the small apartment to her bedroom, her grip like iron.
“You’re exactly a doll, Ivan. A sad, floppy doll with no spine. But don’t worry, Mama will fix that.” Svetlana shoved him down onto the stool in front of her vanity table, a rickety piece of furniture cluttered with ancient perfume bottles, hairpins, and a cracked mirror that reflected Ivan’s increasingly horrified expression. She began rummaging through a drawer, pulling out tubes of mascara, pots of rouge, and a lipstick so red it looked like it could stop traffic.
Ivan squirmed in the seat, his long legs awkwardly splayed out. “Mama, this is insane. I’m not wearing makeup. I’ll look like a clown!”
“You already look like a clown, darling. I’m just giving you better colors.” Svetlana held up the mascara wand like a weapon, her eyes narrowing as she studied his face. “Hold still, or I’ll poke your eye out, and then you’ll have a real excuse to cry.”
Ivan froze, his voice rising an octave. “You’re enjoying this way too much. What’s next? You gonna braid my hair and call me your little princess?”
“Don’t tempt me, Ivanna,” Svetlana purred, leaning in to swipe the mascara across his lashes. Her touch was firm, unyielding, and Ivan flinched as the cold wand brushed his skin. “Look at these lashes. Wasted on a boy who doesn’t even know how to flutter them. By the time I’m done with you, every man in Moscow will be tripping over himself to buy you flowers.”
“Great, just what I’ve always wanted. A bunch of creepy old guys following me around,” Ivan muttered, though his cheeks flushed a faint pink. “Can’t you just, I don’t know, send me to military school or something? That’s less humiliating.”
“Military school? Hah! They’d send you back in a week, crying for your mama. No, this is better. This is personal.” Svetlana stepped back to admire her work, tilting her head like an artist assessing a canvas. “Not bad. But we’re not done. Stay there.” She disappeared into her closet, emerging moments later with a frilly blouse that looked like it belonged in a museum of bad fashion choices. The fabric was a garish pink, adorned with ruffles and lace that seemed to mock Ivan’s very existence.
“No. No way. I’m drawing the line at that… that monstrosity,” Ivan said, pointing at the blouse as if it were a venomous snake.
Svetlana dangled it in front of him, her grin downright devilish. “Oh, you’ll wear it, Ivanna. You’ll wear it, and you’ll thank me for making you look like a proper lady. I wore this when I was your age, you know. Drove the boys wild at the local dance hall. Now it’s your turn to break some hearts.”
Ivan groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Mama, you’re killing me. This is worse than any boss fight I’ve ever played.”
“Good. Consider this your new level. And I’m the final boss.” Svetlana tossed the blouse onto his lap, folding her arms with a look of unshakeable determination. “Put it on, or I’ll do it for you. And trust me, I’ve wrestled bigger pigs than you into submission.”
Ivan stared at the blouse, then at his mother, realizing with a sinking feeling that there was no escape. Svetlana’s will was a fortress, and he was just a hapless peasant storming the gates. With a dramatic sigh, he muttered, “Fine. But if anyone sees me in this, I’m blaming you for the rest of my life.”
“That’s the spirit, my little flower,” Svetlana said, patting his cheek with mock tenderness. “Now hurry up. We’ve got a long way to go before you’re the daughter of my dreams.”
As Ivan reluctantly began to unbutton his hoodie, Svetlana watched with a mix of amusement and triumph. This was only the beginning, and she knew it. Ivan—or Ivanna—had no idea what he was in for, but under her iron grip, he’d learn. Oh, he’d learn.
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