On Sundays, nearly all my relatives would usually gather at my house. I prepared for their arrival so carefully that you might have thought I was expecting some demanding inspection rather than people close to me. Perhaps it was because of my profession: I work as an insurance agent, and every day I explain to clients what can happen when they make a habit of leaving things to chance.
That was why I liked everything at home to be neat, clear, and in its proper place.
My younger sister, Rosa, is nothing like me. Tall and slender, with shoulder-length red curls, she constantly cracks her knuckles and generally gives the impression of someone who is almost always satisfied with life.
Her husband, Stanislav, a former firefighter, was a broad-shouldered, stocky man with coarse gray hair. Whenever he visited me, he behaved as confidently as if he were in his own home. I had never particularly liked Stas, but I tried not to show it.
After all, he was family.
My daughter Darya—quiet and plump, with sun-bleached blonde hair—usually sat at the end of the table. She watched Uncle Stas with a cautious smile, rather like people look at a large, unfamiliar dog: there might not be any reason to be afraid yet, but it was still better not to get too close.
Ever since I was a child, my mother had taught me one simple rule: everyone at the table should have their own spoon and glass, and no one should reach into a shared dish with a utensil that had already been in their mouth. It did not matter how closely related the people at the table were. My mother always said that it had nothing to do with being squeamish—it was simply a matter of basic respect for others.
I had learned that rule when I was still a little girl.
Then, during one of our Sunday gatherings, before I had even had a chance to serve the food onto everyone’s plates, Stas stuck his own spoon straight into the pot. He scooped up some food, tasted it, smacked his lips contentedly, and then reached into the pot again.
“I’m about to serve everyone myself,” I remarked calmly.
Stas merely smirked.
“Oh, come on. I only wanted to taste it. What’s the big deal?”
His spoon went back into the pot. Stas scraped it along the bottom, found a larger piece of meat, and took it for himself.
I felt my jaw tighten with irritation, but I said nothing. Perhaps some people really would have considered it trivial. But I had always believed that a shared table was not a feeding trough. To me, the dining table represented the household itself. When someone shamelessly ignored the rules of that household, it felt as though they were casually smearing dirt across its face.
By the following Sunday, I had calmed down. The relatives came over again, and once more I spent half the day at the stove preparing food. I was genuinely happy that everyone had gathered together. For some reason, I felt sure that Stas had understood me after our previous conversation.
I was wrong.
As soon as he sat down, he reached toward the shared salad bowl. He scooped up some salad with his own spoon, put it into his mouth, thoroughly licked the utensil, and immediately reached back into the bowl for a second helping.
This time, he looked directly at me as he did it.
It was as though he were deliberately testing me to see what I would do.
“Stas, we’ve already discussed this,” I began.
But then he launched into a tirade.
“Just look at her! This isn’t a kitchen anymore—it’s a proper operating room. Soon we’ll have to sit at the table wearing surgical gowns and scrub our hands all the way up to our elbows before eating.”
He winked at me cheerfully.
“Ira, honestly, you’re acting like a child. They’re our own germs—family germs, household germs. No one is going to die from them.”
Stas laughed, clearly delighted by his own joke. Rosa immediately giggled along with him and waved her hand dismissively at me.
“Ira, seriously. Why are you making such a scene over one spoon? It’s so petty, honestly. Sit down, eat, and be grateful that the whole family is alive and well.”
Petty.
So that was how they viewed my request.
But it was not the infamous germs that concerned me, nor the dirt Stas liked to accuse me of obsessing over in front of everyone. I was thinking about something else—about the way people treated one another. You made an effort for someone, cooked for them, invited them into your home, and laid the table. In return, you asked for one tiny thing: that they respect the rules of your home. Yet they responded condescendingly, mocked you in front of the entire family, and made you look like a tedious nag simply because you cared.
Without saying anything, I took the salad bowl and moved it onto a sideboard where Stas could no longer reach it from his seat. Then I picked up a large, clean serving spoon and went around the table, placing salad on everyone’s plates myself.
“This is how things will be in my house from now on,” I explained. “If anyone wants another helping, just tell me. I’ll serve it myself.”
Stas glared at me from beneath lowered brows, but he did not get up to retrieve the salad bowl.
I suppose I could have considered it a victory.
But it was a small victory, and it brought me no joy at all.
The atmosphere around the table immediately became tense. My relatives sat as though they were on pins and needles, while Rosa began praising the salad in an exaggeratedly cheerful voice, clearly trying to smooth over the unpleasant scene as quickly as possible.
Later, the men moved into the living room to watch television, while Darya stayed behind with me in the kitchen.
She remained silent for a long time, twisting a towel in her hands. Then, without taking her eyes off the sink, she suddenly said:
“Mom, I’m… pregnant. Just don’t tell anyone yet, all right? I need to be more careful about food now.”
I embraced my daughter.
I said nothing. I simply held her more tightly.
At that moment, I made a decision: I would tolerate Stas’s boorish behavior only one more time.
A month later, it was my birthday.
And Stas arrived at the celebration with a cold sore on his lip.
I had made a special effort that day. I set a lavish table, prepared many different dishes, and arranged everything so that everyone could reach the food comfortably.
Darya’s pregnancy was already beginning to show. She moved more carefully now and occasionally rested one hand on her rounded belly. I constantly hovered around her like an overprotective mother hen.
Stas arrived noisily, his face flushed from the cold. He kept sniffling and, as usual, wiped his nose with his fist. A dried sore was clearly visible on his upper lip.
Darya looked at her uncle and then discreetly pulled her plate closer to me, as though seeking protection.
Stas dropped heavily into his usual seat.
He picked up his spoon.
And immediately reached into the shared salad bowl.
He scooped up some salad and put the spoon into his mouth, closing his lips—with their dried cold sore—tightly around it. He chewed and smacked his lips.
Then he reached back into the bowl with the same spoon.
It felt as though boiling water had been poured through me.
Nausea rose in my throat. My palms instantly became sweaty. I wiped my hands and realized that I could no longer sit calmly at the table and pretend nothing was happening.
Rosa was enthusiastically telling everyone something about a gift. Stas laughed loudly at his own joke and reached toward the shared salad bowl for the third time.
I stood up.
I said nothing.
I walked over to the table, picked up the salad bowl with both hands, and placed it on the sideboard.
Silence immediately descended behind me.
I opened a cabinet and took out the small saucepan I usually used to heat milk. Then I placed a little of everything into it: salad, roast, and sliced meat. I set the saucepan directly in front of Stas.
“Here you are, Stas. This is your saucepan, and that is your spoon. I’ve given you a separate portion of everything on the table,” I said calmly. “I hope you won’t reach into the shared dishes anymore.”
No one at the table said a word. Outside the window, the falling snow rustled softly.
The silence did not last long, however.
Rosa flushed and sprang from her chair.
“Ira, do you even understand what you’re doing?” she exclaimed indignantly. “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? He’s family! He came here as your guest!”
“A guest,” I agreed. “Just like everyone else. Or is Stas some kind of special person?”
“Don’t get smart with me,” he muttered darkly, staring at the little saucepan in front of him.
Then he raised his eyes.
“Listen, what is this? Do you think I’m some little boy? What gives you the right to scold me and teach me how to live?”
“Apparently, because your mother never managed to teach you the most basic things,” I snapped.
I regretted the words almost immediately.
The conversation was beginning to turn into a common marketplace squabble, which was precisely what I had wanted to avoid.
Nevertheless, my underlying thought remained the same: if someone’s parents failed to teach them that the entire world was not obliged to accommodate them, sooner or later the people around them would have to do it.
Stas stared heavily at me for several more seconds.
Then he rose ponderously from the table and gave Rosa a brief nod, signaling that they were leaving.
My sister stood up as well.
They went to collect their things.
I noticed Darya quietly exhale with relief.
None of the other guests followed them.
The celebration continued.
A great deal of time has passed since then.
Darya safely gave birth to a girl—a strong, healthy baby. Now I look after my granddaughter with enormous pleasure, and every time I see her, I am amazed by how quickly she is growing.
After that incident, Rosa and Stas began visiting me much less frequently. When they do come, they sit stiffly for about an hour, exchange a few words, and then start preparing to leave.
Stas took serious offense at what I had done.
I understand that perfectly well.
But at least Rosa has never called me petty again.
Once, we happened to run into each other at the market. We chatted briefly about various trivial things, and then my sister suddenly looked away and said quietly:
“Ira, you know… you were right back then.”
I looked at her in surprise.
Still gazing off to one side, Rosa continued:
“I had felt uncomfortable about the way Stas behaved at the table for a long time. I just couldn’t bring myself to stop him. I didn’t have the courage.”
I did not try to prove anything to her.
What was left to prove?
On Sundays, just as before, I stand at the stove from early morning. I chop ingredients, prepare stews, taste the dishes, set the table, and wait for my relatives.
Life goes on.
But sometimes, when I pick up my granddaughter and rock her in my arms, I involuntarily remember that birthday.
And then an unpleasant thought creeps into my mind.
Perhaps I went too far after all.
Whatever else one might say, Stas is family. Yet I placed a separate saucepan in front of him as though he were some stray dog, and I did it in front of the entire family. Perhaps I should not have humiliated him in front of everyone.
But would he ever have listened to me otherwise?
Was it worth it?
