My husband threw my mother-in-law a celebration at my expense. And then, for the first time, he got my “gift” in return.
“Did you take everything? Cleaned it out completely?” Lena’s voice did not shake, but it had gone flat and hollow, as if she were speaking into an empty barrel. In her hands, she gripped her phone, its screen lit up with a bank notification: “Balance: 120 rubles.”
Igor, sprawled lazily across the sofa, did not even look away from the television. He was cracking sunflower seeds, neatly spitting the husks into his palm. The room smelled of frying oil and his heavy, sickly-sweet cologne.
“Why are you getting so worked up, Lenochka?” he drawled lazily. “It’s Mom’s юбилей. Sixty years old. That’s a milestone, by the way. It has to be celebrated properly. A restaurant, guests, a toastmaster. You don’t want us looking like paupers in front of Aunt Galya from Syzran, do you?”
“That was the money for Pavlik’s braces,” Lena said quietly. “And for his health resort voucher. He has asthma, Igor. The doctor said sea air is essential for him this autumn. You stole my son’s health to pay for your mother’s drinking party?”
Igor finally deigned to turn his head. His face twisted into the look of disgust he usually reserved for conversations about his stepson.
“Oh, come on! Nothing’s going to happen to your Pavlik. He can breathe over a pot of potatoes the way we did in childhood. And his teeth… crooked is crooked. A man doesn’t need beauty. A mother is sacred. She raised me. And you, as always, only think about money. You’re mercenary, Lenka. Boring.”
At that moment, the bedroom door opened a crack. Pavlik stood in the doorway. He was eight, but looked six—thin, with translucent skin and huge frightened eyes. He held a sheet of drawing paper in his hands. On his feet were old socks, darned at the toe.
“Mom…” he whispered, glancing warily at his stepfather. “I drew a card… For Grandma Tamara. Can I give it to her?”
Igor snorted, wiping his hands on his pants.
“A drawing? Kid, the old lady is sixty. She needs gold, appliances, a fat envelope—not your scribbles. Don’t embarrass me. Hide it and don’t show it to anyone.”
Pavlik flinched as if he had been struck. He pressed the sheet to his chest, and Lena saw how white his thin fingers had gone. On the drawing, which he had so carefully colored for two days, was a huge bouquet of flowers and a crooked but touching inscription: “Happy Birthday!” The boy’s lips trembled, his eyes filled with tears, but, used to cruelty in this house, he did not make a sound. He simply turned around in silence and went back to his room, quietly closing the door behind him.
Something inside Lena snapped. As though a taut string, the one that had held this marriage together for the past three years, had finally broken. She remembered how a month ago Igor had “forgotten” to pick Pavlik up from school. The boy had stood in the rain on the steps for an hour before she rushed from work to get him. She remembered how Tamara Petrovna, when she came to visit, would pointedly move Pavlik’s things aside, lifting them with two fingers in disgust: “Why does this house smell like someone else’s child?”
She looked at her husband. A handsome, impressive man, the one she had married with such hope. Now all she saw before her was a parasite swollen with his own self-importance.
“All right,” Lena said unexpectedly calmly. “You’re right, Igor. An anniversary is sacred. We’ll give your mother a celebration she will never forget.”
Igor broke into a satisfied smile.
“There you go! See? You can be a normal woman when you want to. I knew you’d understand. By the way, I’ve already put together a guest list—about forty people. Book the Imperial Restaurant. Mom loves luxury.”
The preparations moved along at full speed. Igor floated on clouds of self-importance. He called relatives, inviting everyone to the “lavish banquet” that he, the loving son, was organizing for his mommy. The fact that the banquet was being paid for from his wife’s account, he modestly left unmentioned.
Lena silently did everything he told her. She booked the most expensive hall, approved a menu with caviar and sturgeon, and hired a host.
“Lenka, don’t you dare be cheap!” Tamara Petrovna lectured her over the phone two days before the celebration. “I want Lyubka from work to burst with envy. And wear something decent, not those gray rags of yours. And, for heaven’s sake, leave your Pavlik at home. He has no business getting underfoot around grown-ups.”
“Of course, Tamara Petrovna,” Lena replied obediently. “Pavlik won’t come. He’ll go to my mother’s.”
The night before the celebration, Lena sat in the kitchen rereading the Civil Code. Knowledge of the law is a useful thing, especially for a woman who has decided to start a new life. According to Article 34 of the Family Code of the Russian Federation, property acquired by spouses during marriage is their joint property. However, there are nuances. The money in her account had come from the sale of a summer house she had inherited from her grandmother before the marriage. Igor, in his greed and legal illiteracy, had failed to consider that those funds were easily traceable, and withdrawing them without the owner’s consent was a reckless move.
But suing over the money would take time. Lena needed something else. She needed to restore justice here and now.
The Imperial Restaurant blazed with lights. The tables groaned under the weight of delicacies. Tamara Petrovna sat at the head of the table in a purple lurex dress, resembling an overripe plum. Around her neck glittered a gold necklace—another of Igor’s “gifts,” bought with Lena’s credit card, which she had carelessly left on the nightstand.
“A toast!” Igor proclaimed, raising a glass of expensive cognac. “To my beloved mother! To the woman who gave the world me! Mom, I laid everything at your feet so this evening would become a legend!”
The guests applauded. Aunt Galya from Syzran wiped tears of emotion from her eyes. Tamara Petrovna beamed.
“Thank you, son! You’re a real man. A provider! Not like certain people…” She cast a sidelong glance at Lena, who sat at the edge of the table without touching her food.
The banquet was in full swing when the administrator approached Igor with a folder.
“I beg your pardon,” he said politely but firmly. “We’re changing cash registers, and we need to close the bill for the banquet and service. Only the deposit for reserving the tables has been paid.”
Igor, flushed from alcohol and praise, waved carelessly in the direction of his wife.
“My wife will take care of it now. Lenochka, handle it.”
Silence fell over the hall. All eyes turned to Lena. She rose slowly. In her hands was a beautiful gift envelope tied with a scarlet ribbon.
“Igor,” Lena’s voice rang out clear and sharp, “you said this celebration was your gift to your mother. That you are a ‘provider’ and a ‘real man.’ I would never dare take that honor away from you.”
She walked over to her mother-in-law and, smiling, handed her the envelope.
“Tamara Petrovna, congratulations. Your son truly has arranged an unforgettable evening for you. And this is my modest contribution. Open it.”
Her mother-in-law greedily tore open the envelope, expecting to find a resort voucher or a jewelry certificate inside. But instead there were several folded sheets of paper.
She unfolded the first one. It was the restaurant bill for one hundred and eighty thousand rubles.
“What is this?” she hissed, her face changing color.
“That,” Lena explained calmly, “is the bill. And the second document is even more interesting. Read it out loud—Igor will appreciate it.”
Igor snatched the papers from his mother’s hands. His eyes ran over the lines, and his face began turning dark red. It was a statement of claim for divorce and an eviction notice.
“You… what do you think you’re doing?” he croaked. “What eviction? This is our apartment!…”
“Did you take everything? Cleaned it out?” Lena’s voice did not tremble, but it had gone flat and hollow, as if she were speaking into an empty barrel. In her hands she clutched her phone, its screen glowing with a bank notification: Balance: 120 rubles.
Igor, lounging arrogantly across the sofa, did not even look away from the television. He was cracking sunflower seeds, neatly spitting the husks into his palm. The room smelled of fried oil and his heavy, sickly-sweet cologne.
“Well, why are you getting worked up, Lenusya?” he drawled lazily. “It’s my mother’s юбилей—her sixtieth birthday. That’s a milestone, by the way. It has to be celebrated properly. A restaurant, guests, a toastmaster. You don’t want us to look like paupers in front of Aunt Galya from Syzran, do you?”
“That money was for Pavlik’s braces,” Lena said quietly. “And for his health retreat. He has asthma, Igor. The doctor said sea air is essential for him this autumn. You stole my son’s health for your mother’s drinking party?”
Igor finally deigned to turn his head. His face twisted into a grimace of disgust, the kind he usually reserved for conversations about his stepson.
“Oh, come on. Nothing’s going to happen to your Pavlik. He can breathe over boiling potatoes the way we did as kids. And his teeth… crooked is crooked. A man doesn’t need beauty. A mother is sacred. She raised me. And you, as always, only think about money. You’re mercenary, Lenka. Boring.”
At that moment the door to the room opened a crack. Pavlik was standing on the threshold. He was eight, but looked six—thin, with translucent skin and huge frightened eyes. In his hands he held a sheet of drawing paper. On his feet were old socks, darned at the toe.
“Mom…” he whispered, glancing nervously at his stepfather. “I drew a card… for Grandma Tamara. Can I give it to her?”
Igor snorted, wiping his hands on his pants. “A drawing? Kid, the old lady is turning sixty. She needs gold, appliances, a fat envelope full of cash—not your scribbles. Don’t embarrass me. Put it away and don’t show it to anyone.”
Pavlik flinched as if he had been struck. He pressed the sheet to his chest, and Lena saw how his thin fingers turned white. On the drawing, which he had carefully colored for two whole days, there was a huge bouquet of flowers and a crooked but touching inscription: Happy Birthday! The boy’s lips trembled, his eyes filled with tears, but, used to cruelty in this house, he made no sound. He simply turned silently and went back to his room, closing the door softly behind him.
Something inside Lena snapped. As if a taut string had finally broken—the one that had been holding this marriage together for the past three years. She remembered how a month ago Igor had “forgotten” to pick Pavlik up from school. The boy had stood for an hour on the steps in the rain until she rushed out of work. She remembered how Tamara Petrovna, when she came over, would pointedly move Pavlik’s things aside, holding them with two fingers in disgust: “Why does this house smell like someone else’s child?”
She looked at her husband. A handsome, impressive man she had married with such hope. Now she saw only a parasite, puffed up with his own self-importance.
“All right,” Lena said unexpectedly calmly. “You’re right, Igor. A jubilee is sacred. Let’s give your mother a celebration she’ll never forget.”
Igor broke into a satisfied grin.
“There you go! You can be a normal woman when you want to. I knew you’d understand. By the way, I already made a guest list—about forty people. Book the Imperial restaurant. Mom loves luxury.”
The preparations went full speed ahead. Igor floated on clouds of his own grandeur. He called relatives, inviting everyone to the “lavish banquet” he, the loving son, was arranging for his mommy. He modestly left out the fact that the banquet was being paid for from his wife’s account.
Lena silently did everything he told her. She booked the most expensive hall, approved a menu with caviar and sturgeon, and hired an emcee.
“Lenka, don’t be stingy!” Tamara Petrovna lectured her over the phone two days before the party. “I want Lyubka from work to burst with envy. And wear something decent, not those gray rags of yours. And for heaven’s sake, leave your Pavlik at home. He has no business getting underfoot among grown people.”
“Of course, Tamara Petrovna,” Lena replied obediently. “Pavlik won’t be going. He’ll go to my mother’s.”
The night before the celebration, Lena sat in the kitchen rereading the Civil Code. Knowing the law is useful, especially for a woman who has decided to start a new life. Under Article 34 of the Russian Family Code, property acquired during marriage is considered joint marital property. However, there are nuances. The money in her account had come from the sale of a dacha she had inherited from her grandmother before the marriage. Igor, in his greed and legal ignorance, had failed to consider that those funds were easily traceable, and withdrawing them without the owner’s consent was a reckless move.
But suing over the money would take time. Lena needed something else. She needed justice restored here and now.
The Imperial restaurant was ablaze with lights. The tables groaned under delicacies. Tamara Petrovna sat at the head of the table in a purple lurex dress, like an overripe plum. Around her neck glittered a gold necklace—another of Igor’s “gifts,” bought with Lena’s credit card, which she had carelessly left on the bedside table.
“A toast!” Igor proclaimed, raising a glass of expensive cognac. “To my beloved mother! To the woman who gave the world me! Mom, I laid everything at your feet so that this evening would become legendary!”
The guests applauded. Aunt Galya from Syzran dabbed tears of emotion from her eyes. Tamara Petrovna beamed.
“Thank you, son! You are a real man. A provider! Not like some people…” She cast a sideways glance at Lena, who sat at the edge of the table without touching her food.
The banquet was in full swing when the administrator approached Igor with a folder.
“Excuse me,” he said politely but firmly. “We’re changing shifts at the register, and we need to settle the bill for the banquet and service. Only the deposit for the table reservation has been paid.”
Igor, flushed with alcohol and praise, waved carelessly in his wife’s direction.
“My wife will take care of it now. Lenusya, handle it.”
Silence fell over the hall. All eyes turned to Lena. She slowly stood up. In her hands was a beautiful gift envelope tied with a scarlet ribbon.
“Igor,” Lena said, her voice clear and ringing, “you said this celebration was your gift to your mother. That you were the ‘provider’ and a ‘real man.’ I would never dare take that honor away from you.”
She walked up to her mother-in-law and, smiling, held out the envelope.
“Tamara Petrovna, congratulations. Your son really did arrange an unforgettable evening for you. And this is my modest contribution. Open it.”
Her mother-in-law greedily tore open the envelope, expecting to see a resort voucher or a jewelry store certificate. But inside were several folded sheets of paper.
She unfolded the first one. It was the restaurant bill for 180,000 rubles.
“What is this?” she hissed, her face changing color.
“That is the bill,” Lena explained calmly. “And the second document is even more interesting. Read it out loud—Igor will appreciate it.”
Igor snatched the papers from his mother. His eyes ran over the lines, and his face began turning crimson. It was a divorce petition and a notice of eviction from the apartment.
“You… what do you think you’re doing?” he croaked. “What eviction? That’s our apartment!”
“You’re mistaken, darling,” Lena said with icy calm, savoring the moment. “The apartment was bought by my parents before the marriage. You’re not even registered there. You lived there on borrowed privileges for as long as I tolerated you. And the money you stole from a sick child just to throw dust in people’s eyes… consider that I lent it to you. And believe me, my lawyer will prove that it was unjust enrichment.”
“How dare you!” Tamara Petrovna shrieked, leaping up from her chair. “In front of people! To disgrace us like this! Who do you think you are?”
“I am the mistress of my own life,” Lena snapped. “And you eat, Tamara Petrovna, eat. The sturgeon is fresh, caught just yesterday, the very best. Just don’t choke when you and the guests have to chip in to pay for it. Igor has no money—he’s been unemployed for six months, only pretending he’s ‘building a business.’”
She picked up her handbag and headed for the exit.
“Lena! Stop!” Igor shouted, rushing after her. “You can’t leave us here! How are we supposed to pay?”
She turned in the doorway. Forty pairs of eyes were staring at her—astonished, frightened, gleeful.
“Sell the necklace, Igor. Or the watch you bought yourself last month. I don’t care.”
She stepped outside and inhaled the cold autumn air. For the first time in three years, breathing felt easy.
At home it was quiet. Pavlik had been taken by his grandmother, and Lena was glad of it—the boy did not need to see his former stepfather packing his things. She knew Igor would come crawling back. He would beg, threaten, appeal to pity.
She took out her phone and blocked Igor’s number, then her mother-in-law’s as well. In her bag lay a new contract with the clinic—her mother had had to borrow money to pay for Pavlik’s treatment, but now Lena knew for certain: she would pay it all back herself.
An hour later, the doorbell rang. It was not Igor. On the doorstep stood a courier with flowers. The note contained only two words:
Thank you. Mom.
Lena smiled. She knew there would be court hearings ahead, division of property—or rather, Igor’s attempts to grab at least something—and long conversations with her son, who would need an explanation of why Uncle Igor was no longer around.
But the most important thing she had already done. She had chosen herself and her child. And as for the “gift” to her mother-in-law… well, they say pleasures must be paid for. So let them pay.
Lena made herself tea, sat down in the kitchen, and for the first time in a long while felt not resentment, but a deep, ringing satisfaction. Life was only beginning, and in this new life there was no longer any place for those who steal children’s dreams for the sake of cheap showmanship.
