Part One
At her mother’s house, Polina always got put on the sofa like she was nine again. Irina Pavlovna would take her bag, push her gently into the cushions, and order, “Sit!” And Polina would sit—happy, barefoot, with her legs tucked underneath her.
“Mom, I can help,” she called toward the hallway. “My hands are working just fine, I checked this morning.”
“Your hands are busy six days a week,” came the reply. “Let them just look pretty for at least one day.”
“Then I’ll be pretty and lying down,” Polina stretched out and hugged a pillow. “Really complete the look.”
Vika, the younger one, plopped down next to her and stared at her sister—totally unashamed of her envy. She was twenty, had Stas, and her biggest dream was a wedding veil, a suitcase, and her own door with a lock of her own.
“Polya, be honest. Being married—that’s freedom, right?” Vika shook her hair. “You get to live how you want, and no one cares where you are till eleven o’clock.”
“Being married is two adults making agreements,” Polina smirked. “Freedom can come before or after. And sometimes, in a marriage, one person turns into an eternal teenager, and then the other has to grow up for two.”
“You’re just trying to scare me!”
“No, I’m just telling you the price,” Polina tapped her sister on the nose. “Don’t rush. You’re not about to miss a train. You’re choosing someone to share a fridge with for thirty years.”
“Stas is a good guy!”
“Let him be a good guy. Test him in boring situations,” Polina raised a finger. “Romance is obvious. But the real person shows when you have to carry bags, sit with a fever, and quietly do something unpleasant.”
“You’re so smart,” Vika sighed. “It’s almost annoying.”
“I read books instead of sneaking out at night. Now I pay the price by being wise.”
Irina Pavlovna sailed in with a tray and placed it on the table as ceremoniously as if she were bringing in a crown. Polina looked at her mother and realized how rarely she came these days. The days blurred together, weeks disappeared, and the affection—now tepid—needed rewarming.
“Mom, I’ll come next weekend. I promise.”
“Promise yourself, not me,” her mother stroked her head. “I’ll always let you in.”
She didn’t want to leave. Polina stood in the hallway, buttoning her coat, saying, “Okay, I’m off,” about five times without moving an inch. Then she hugged her mother, pressed into her shoulder, grabbed her bag of treats, and finally stepped out into the stairwell.
Part Two
At home, the TV was on, and Artyom sat in front of it wearing the face of someone who thought the whole world owed him. Polina took off her coat, hung up the bag, and cheerfully said, “Hi.” Silence—and a hint of reproach—was the only answer.
“Hey,” she peeked into the room. “Why are you sitting there like a statue of yourself?”
“I’m hungry,” Artyom said. “It’s been almost two hours.”
“There’s casserole in the oven, stew in the pot,” Polina raised an eyebrow. “Are you a victim of abundance?”
“I couldn’t figure out what to heat up.”
“Artyom,” she sat down on the armrest. “You’re thirty-four. You can set up the WiFi router, change winter tires, and argue on the internet about mortgage rates. But a pot has defeated you?”
“Don’t be sarcastic.”
«This isn’t sarcasm, it’s genuine admiration for the scale of the tragedy,» Polina said as she stood up. «Come on, I’ll show you a great mystery: a round handle, the number six, and seven minutes.»
He followed her, grumbling that he could have just placed an order. Polina set a plate in front of him and sat across, studying her husband the way you look at a puzzle piece that no longer fits. Something about him had been growing harder and heavier over the past few months.
The next evening, Polina came home and immediately sensed someone else in the kitchen. There was clattering, sizzling, and a bit of commotion. Standing by the stove was Ludmila Sergeyevna, Artyom’s mother, dressed in Polina’s own striped robe.
«Ludmila Sergeyevna?» Polina froze in the doorway. «Hello. You… you’re a surprise.»
«Hello, Polinochka,» she turned around calmly, not at all confrontational. «I’m just here for a short while. Artyom said he’s been walking around hungry.»
Polina slowly took off her shoes. Her mother-in-law had never meddled in their home, never rearranged jars, never peeked in their cupboards. This was a brand-new script, and it was clear the author at the stove wasn’t the one who wrote it.
«You need to feed your husband on time,» Ludmila Sergeyevna said gently, without a hint of malice. «A hungry man is behind half the quarrels in the world.»
«I agree,» Polina nodded. «But just for the record: there was dinner. It was on the second shelf, in a glass dish, with a label that said ‘reheat’. The only thing missing was someone willing to press the button.»
«Oh, Polina…»
«I’m not arguing, Ludmila Sergeyevna, and I don’t intend to,» Polina smiled. «You’re our guest, I love you, and honestly, the robe suits you more than it does me. But let’s be clear: hunger in this house isn’t from a lack of food. It’s from a lack of initiative.»
Artyom was sitting on the couch, waiting to be called over. Polina turned her head towards him and called out loudly and cheerfully:
«Artyom, please get up and help your mom. She traveled clear across town to visit us, not to take a second job.»
«I’m resting.»
«She’s a person too, not some delivery service for your comfort,» Polina said, handing him a towel. «Go on. Or should I put it into verse for you?»
He got up, clearly annoyed, threw the towel over his shoulder, and started banging things around, putting on a show of reluctance. Ludmila Sergeyevna watched her daughter-in-law closely and stayed silent.
Part Three
In the morning, Polina slipped on her shoes and reminded Artyom about the money. He kept nodding as he zipped up his jacket, repeating, «Yeah, yeah, I’ll leave it,» before rushing out the door. There was still no money on the table, nothing on her card, and his phone just kept ringing out all day.
That evening, she was going through the groceries she had bought with her own money.
«Artyom, can you transfer the money for groceries, please? I paid for everything today out of my own pocket.»
«I’ll send it tomorrow,» he replied, his eyes still glued to the screen.
«‘Tomorrow’ is a good word,» Polina remarked. «So versatile—you can settle everything with it except the cashier.»
Friday morning came and still nothing. Polina stood in the hallway, speaking evenly, without any trace of hurt in her voice—because hurt was a terrible negotiator.
«Artyom. Your mom and Kristina are coming over on Saturday. They called twice already.»
«I know,» he answered as he tied his shoelaces.
«Then please give me money for groceries. Lunch for four isn’t made of air; it’s a real shopping list.»
He straightened up, and suddenly, his face looked different—brazen and full of newfound confidence.
«Listen, seriously? The wife feeds the family, that’s just the way it should be. It’s a woman’s duty to set the table. What, do you expect me to walk around with shopping bags?»
«Duty,» Polina repeated with interest. «That’s a lovely word. Straight out of an epic tale.»
«Don’t start!»
«Alright,» she suddenly said, light as air. «Alright, Artyom.»
He was actually surprised, expecting an argument. But Polina just grabbed her purse, blew a kiss near his cheek, and left.
The evening passed quietly and uneventfully. Feeling pleased with himself, Artyom reminded from the couch in front of the TV:
«Mom will be here at twelve. That’s what works for her.»
«Okay,» Polina replied.
«And make sure everything is in order.»
«Everything will be exactly as expected,» she said, putting on her coat. «I’m off to the store.»
She came back with just a small bag: ground coffee, nut cookies, a lemon. The whole bag fit easily on the fridge door shelf, with room to spare.
Part Four
On Saturday morning, Artyom took over the bathroom. He washed his hair, shaved, then stretched out in a salt bath to unwind from the workweek, listening to music on his phone. He finally got out at 11:40, pink and relaxed, and sniffed the air.
Nothing. No hissing, no chopping sounds, no ticking timer. He went to the kitchen and stared at an empty oven and a cold stovetop.
«Polina!» he yelled. «What’s going on here?»
«Just pure technique,» her voice called from another room. «Be happy, there’s nothing for you to clean.»
The doorbell rang exactly fifteen minutes before noon. Artyom scrambled, yanked a T-shirt over his head, and hissed:
«Polina, get to the kitchen, now! Quick!»
Polina came in, sat on a stool, laid out a thick cookbook in front of her, and opened it to the middle, where the pictures were the prettiest.
Lyudmila Sergeyevna and Kristina walked in, took off their shoes, peeked into the kitchen—and stopped. Kristina slowly opened the fridge and peered inside.
«Kristina, close it, please,» Polina said calmly. «You’re letting out the cold, and that’s the most precious thing we have right now.»
«Polina, um… lunch?» Lyudmila Sergeyevna asked carefully.
«Artyom, tell our guests,» Polina turned a page.
«What’s for lunch?» he repeated dumbly.
«Exactly what you provided money for,» Polina said, lifting her gaze. «Exactly that, and in that variety.»
The silence thickened, like aspic they didn’t have. Kristina froze with her hand on the fridge door, Lyudmila Sergeyevna slowly sat down on the second stool, and Artyom stood barefoot in the middle of his own fortress.
«You did this on purpose!» he gasped. «Are you trying to embarrass me in front of my mother?»
«I’m trying to listen to you,» Polina closed the book. «You said: a wife feeds the family, that’s how it should be. I took it to heart. But you missed one detail: to feed, you need groceries, and groceries cost money. Not words about duty.»
«Polina, darling,» Lyudmila Sergeyevna interjected, «it’s really not that big an expense…»
«Let’s count it out,» Polina began, folding her fingers calmly, like she was keeping track of steps. «Household cleaning supplies—my responsibility. Fixing the air conditioner that broke down in July—also mine. The internet—mine. All essential groceries for the whole month—mine. The coffee he drinks three cups of every day—mine. Getting my shoes fixed—mine. One blouse in six months—yes, that was a treat for myself, I admit. Utility bills—mine. And the cherry on top: cleaning the apartment after Artyom’s party, when the carpet was soaked and trash was layered all over the place. That’s mine as well.»
Ludmila Sergeyevna turned to her son and gave him a look that made him flush red all the way down to his neck.
«Artyom. Is this true?»
«Mom, don’t listen to her!» he blurted out, trying to defend himself, his voice rising. «She’s manipulating! A wife is supposed to feed her family, that’s normal, that’s how it’s always been! Polina, get up and cook something, right now!»
Polina stood up. She took the apron off the hook, shook it out, and handed it to her husband.
«Get started. The grains are in the upper cupboard, potatoes are below. I think I’ll just make myself some coffee with cookies—that’ll be enough for me.»
«Are you… are you kidding me?!»
«I’m delegating,» she said. «You’ll like it, it’s very on-trend these days.»
«Okay, but what’s this fight all about?» Kristina finally cut in. «I don’t get it. Are we out of food?»
«We’re not out of food, Kristina. We’re out of patience for freeloading,» Polina replied, clicking the coffee grinder. «I haven’t been bottling up grievances for years, I wasn’t planning revenge. I just followed my husband’s instructions to the letter. If there are complaints, send them to the author.»
«I warned you on Thursday that my mother and sister were coming!» Artyom shouted.
«And I asked you for money for groceries on Thursday,» Polina replied, turning to him. «We’re even. We both heard each other, and both ignored it. The difference is, nobody went hungry because of me—I made sure to buy coffee for everyone ahead of time.»
He angrily ordered pizza, jabbing at his phone. Ludmila Sergeyevna sat perfectly still and silent. She felt uncomfortable and a bit strange—it was odd to come over and find nothing there; yet beneath her discomfort, there was a quiet respect for this girl, who neither yelled nor cried, but simply handed them the bill.
Part Five
As soon as the door closed behind the guests, Artyom exploded. He yelled so loudly it echoed through the building; Ludmila Sergeyevna, not yet in the elevator, stopped. Kristina listened for a moment and said:
«That’s it. He’s about to get carried out—apron and all.»
«You humiliated me!» Artyom screamed, stepping forward. «You made a fool of me! I said the wife cooks! I said so!»
Spit was flying everywhere as he waved his arms right in her face. Polina didn’t back down. She picked up a firm cushion from the couch, swung it from the shoulder, and smacked her husband—once, honestly, with all her strength.
The slap echoed loudly. Artyom tumbled over the armchair and landed on the floor behind it, falling silent instantly. Polina leaned over him, her voice genuinely curious:
«You alive?»
«My shoulder…» he croaked. «You’re crazy!»
«I’m practical. A pillow is the most humane argument in the house,» Polina said, reaching out her hand. He pushed it away. «Now listen calmly. Who bought this house, Artyom? Whose walls are these? Who paid every last ruble for it ten years ago?»
He stayed silent, clutching his shoulder.
«And if you ever raise your voice at me in my own home again, I’ll…» Polina didn’t finish her sentence and simply glanced toward the hallway, where the front door was.
«Don’t you dare threaten me!»
«This isn’t a threat, it’s just a weather forecast,» Polina replied as she sat down in the armchair. «Next. I am not obligated to feed you and your guests out of my own pocket. That’s not called a family, that’s a one-sided subscription. Either we share the expenses, or I’ll bill you for living here. Want to know how much rent is for an apartment like this in this area? I can give you the exact number, I looked it up recently.»
He turned pale. Anger was still pounding in his temples, but the math was sinking in slowly and heavily, like a load being carried up a narrow staircase.
«You… you’re going to kick me out?»
«I’m inviting you to be an adult,» Polina said. «It’s cheaper than rent and a lot more enjoyable.»
She left the room and returned five minutes later with a sheet of paper. On it was a neat list: meat, potatoes, three kinds of greens, cheese, cream, coffee, mineral water.
«This is what you’ll buy right now. With your own money, with your own hands,» Polina said, handing over the list. «Zhenya and Maksim are coming over tonight. We’ll cook together: I’ll handle the main dish, you do the salad and clean up. Any objections must be submitted in writing, with a copy for the archive.»
Artyom took the list. He looked at it, then at his wife, then at the list again. Without a word, he went to put on his shoes.
A week later, Lyudmila Sergeevna decided to visit her son again. She hadn’t heard any rumors about a massive fight, which in itself was suspicious. Kristina walked beside her, full of anticipation.
Artyom answered the door—in that same apron, with a towel over his shoulder.
«Mom, Kristina, come in! Here, these slippers are new, Polina bought them,» he fussed. «I’ll be right back, my salad isn’t finished yet.»
Kristina peeked into the room and whistled. The table was set: three salads, roasted meat, tartlets, compote in a tall carafe, everything arranged carefully and a bit crookedly, just like someone new to hosting would do.
«Polina,» Kristina whispered, «how did you do it? Some kind of pedagogy?»
«With a pillow,» Polina confessed honestly. «But mostly with logic. The pillow was just for punctuation.»
«Artyomka, did you really make the meat yourself?» Lyudmila Sergeevna asked skeptically.
«I did,» he muttered. «Followed a video. Turns out everything is written out—even on the package. Who knew.»
«The world is full of discoveries,» Polina nodded. «Especially on packaging.»
No one brought up last Saturday—not a word, not even a hint. All evening, Artyom kept serving his wife salad, the one he’d chopped himself, and refilling her glass with compote, while Kristina kept shooting meaningful winks at her sister-in-law across the table.
Lyudmila Sergeevna watched her son and thought how lucky she was. Not with her son—but with the woman who had taken his thirty-four-year-old self-assurance and gently put it in its place, without humiliating or crushing him, just by presenting the bill.
«Polina,» she said as she put on her coat in the hallway. «You did great. I only say this once, but I mean it.»
«Thank you,» Polina hugged her. «And please visit more often. Just call ahead—I’ll send you a shopping list for the way. Just kidding. Or maybe not.»
Kristina burst out laughing in the elevator, so loud that people could hear her on the entire floor. Meanwhile, Artyom stood there in his apron, right in the middle of his now truly earned spotless walls, realizing that everyone has their own role: some people speak loudly, others always count carefully. And this time, the loud one lost completely.
