“‘We can celebrate Mom’s holiday too while we’re at it!’ my husband declared on our 10th anniversary. He was sure I’d swallow it again.”
Olya finished setting out the plates and looked around the kitchen. The March day off had turned out unusually sunny, and the light fell pleasantly across the table she had laid.
Ten years of marriage was a serious milestone. Olya had been preparing for it since early morning. In the oven, French-style baked meat was finishing up, while in the refrigerator elaborate layered salads and an expensive custom-made berry cake were waiting for their moment.
She had specifically asked her husband to come home early today. Taras had left first thing in the morning for his mother’s dacha. Zinaida Pavlovna had decided to put up a new fence, and her son obediently went to help.
Olya did not object. The main thing was that by four in the afternoon he would be home, washed, changed, and ready to celebrate their first round-number anniversary.
Taras was not late. The front door slammed, and her husband stepped into the hallway, stomping heavily in his work boots. Olya, who had already put on a beautiful dark-blue dress and done her hair lightly, came out to meet him.
“Happy anniversary, Olya,” Taras said, handing her a rustling package.
Olya unwrapped the paper. Inside was a bouquet of dried flowers. Stiff thistles painted in harsh artificial colors and dried stalks stuck out in all directions.
“What is this?” she asked calmly, examining the gift.
“Well, flowers,” her husband shrugged, taking off his jacket.
“So what? I thought fresh ones would wilt in three days — money down the drain. These will stand forever. No need to change the water. Besides, Mom’s fence cost a fair amount, materials are expensive these days, and I chipped in some of my own money. We need to save.”
Olya silently looked at the dry, lifeless broom. In ten years of marriage she had gotten used to her husband’s practicality, but on their anniversary it felt like mockery. Still, she had no intention of ruining her own celebration.
“All right. I’ll put them in the hallway,” she replied evenly, shoved the dried flowers into an empty vase, and went back to the kitchen.
Taras quickly took a shower, changed into a clean shirt, and sat down at the table. Olya sat across from him. She looked at the beautiful tablecloth, at her favorite plates, and waited for her husband to say some kind of toast or simply a few warm words. But Taras kept glancing at the clock.
At exactly five in the evening, the doorbell rang.
Olya looked at her husband in surprise.
“Who is it? We weren’t expecting anyone.”
Taras lit up like the host of a village party and clapped his hands.
“Surprise! I decided to do something nice for all of us.”
He jumped up and ran to open the door. A second later Zinaida Pavlovna bustled into the entryway, dressed in her best burgundy blouse, and behind her came Taras’s cousin-aunt Rimma — a heavyset former postal worker who never missed a feast, especially when someone else was paying for it.
“Oh, what smells!” Zinaida Pavlovna announced loudly, slipping off her coat. “And we’ve come right to a ready-made table!”
Olya stood up, feeling a heavy, sticky wave of irritation begin to rise inside her.
“Good evening,” she said with restraint. “And what is the occasion for guests?”
“Well, Mom’s birthday was last week!” Taras announced cheerfully, nudging his relatives toward the kitchen.
“She didn’t celebrate then — there wasn’t time. But today at the dacha I said we had a table set for tonight. Mom said, why let good food go to waste, we can celebrate her holiday too, family-style! I told her she could invite Rimma. We’re family, right?”
Olya shifted her gaze from her husband’s satisfied face to her mother-in-law. Zinaida Pavlovna, once the manager of a photo studio, had always known how to place herself in the foreground of any composition.
“Well, what’s the problem, Olechka?” her mother-in-law sang sweetly, brazenly sitting down in the very seat where Olya had just been sitting.
“You’d cooked all this anyway. And I get lonely at home by myself.”
Rimma had already pulled a chair up to the table and was staring at the seafood salad.
“Taras, put some meat on your auntie’s plate,” she ordered, holding it out.
Olya remained standing by the wall. Her tenth anniversary had just officially turned into a free dining hall for her husband’s relatives.
The scene unfolded quickly and shamelessly. The guests wielded their forks, helping themselves to the best portions. Taras fussed over his mother, pouring her fruit drink and pushing appetizers closer. He was clearly enjoying the role of gracious host and waiting for praise.
“The meat is a bit tough,” Zinaida Pavlovna remarked, chewing carefully.
“You should have left it in the oven longer. And, Olya, you buy cheese that’s too expensive. Taras works his back off, and you throw money away on delicacies.”
Olya leaned her hip against the kitchen counter. She worked as an adaptive physical education specialist, earned more than her husband, and had paid for every bit of food on that table entirely with her own money. But arguing with Zinaida Pavlovna was pointless — she always lived in an imaginary world where her son was the main breadwinner.
“Zinaida Pavlovna,” Olya said clearly and distinctly, looking straight at her mother-in-law, “at exactly what point did my anniversary with Taras become an add-on to your poor calendar planning?”
For a second, everyone at the table stopped chewing.
“Oh, here we go,” her mother-in-law rolled her eyes.
“What, are you stingy or something? A mother came to see her own son. You always want to keep him tied to yourself, never share him with anyone.”
“Olya, don’t ruin the evening,” Taras muttered irritably. “We’re sitting here just fine. Why are you being so greedy? … Continued just below in the first comment.”
Olya finished setting out the plates and looked around the kitchen. The March day off had turned out unusually sunny, and the light fell pleasantly across the laid table.
Ten years of marriage was a serious date. Olya had been preparing for it since morning. Meat à la française was finishing in the oven, layered salads were waiting in the refrigerator, and an expensive custom-made cake with berries stood ready for its moment.
She had specifically asked her husband to come home early that day. Taras had gone to his mother’s dacha first thing in the morning. Zinaida Pavlovna had decided to put up a new fence, and her son obediently went to help.
Olya did not object. The main thing was that by four o’clock he would be home, washed, changed, and ready to celebrate their first major anniversary.
Taras was not late. The front door slammed, and her husband stepped into the hallway, stomping heavily in his work boots. Olya, who had already put on a beautiful dark-blue dress and done her hair, came out to meet him.
“Happy anniversary, Olya,” Taras said and handed her a rustling package.
Olya unwrapped the paper. Inside was a bouquet of dried flowers. Stiff thistles painted in acid colors and dry stalks stuck out in all directions.
“What is this?” she asked calmly, examining the gift.
“Well, flowers,” her husband shrugged as he took off his jacket.
“What’s wrong with that? I figured fresh ones would wilt in three days, money down the drain. These will last forever. No need to change the water. Besides, Mother’s fence cost a lot, materials are expensive these days, and I chipped in some of my own money. We need to save.”
Olya silently looked at the dry, lifeless bundle. In ten years of marriage, she had gotten used to her husband’s practicality, but on their anniversary it felt like mockery. Still, she had no intention of ruining her own holiday.
“All right. I’ll put them in the hallway,” she replied evenly, stuck the dried bouquet into an empty vase, and went back to the kitchen.
Taras quickly took a shower, changed into a clean shirt, and sat down at the table. Olya sat across from him. She looked at the beautiful tablecloth, at her favorite plates, and waited for her husband to make a toast or at least say something kind. But Taras kept glancing at the clock.
Exactly at five in the evening, the doorbell rang.
Olya looked at her husband in surprise.
“Who is it? We weren’t expecting anyone.”
Taras beamed like the host of a village corporate party and clapped his hands.
“Surprise! I decided to do something nice for all of us.”
He jumped up and ran to open the door. A second later Zinaida Pavlovna came bustling into the entryway in her best burgundy blouse, followed by Taras’s cousin-aunt Rimma—a heavyset former mailwoman who never missed a feast, especially when someone else was paying for it.
“Oh, what smells!” Zinaida Pavlovna announced loudly, taking off her coat. “And we’ve arrived right to a ready-made table!”
Olya stood up, feeling a heavy, sticky wave of irritation rising inside her.
“Good evening,” she said with restraint. “And what is the occasion for guests?”
“But it was Mother’s birthday last week!” Taras announced cheerfully, steering the relatives toward the kitchen. “She didn’t celebrate then, there wasn’t time. So today at the dacha I said we had a table set for the evening.
And Mother said, why let good food go to waste, we might as well celebrate her holiday too, as a family! I told her she could invite Rimma. We’re relatives, right?”
Olya shifted her gaze from her husband’s satisfied face to her mother-in-law. Zinaida Pavlovna, a former photo studio manager, had always known how to place herself in the foreground of any composition.
“Well, what’s the big deal, Olechka?” her mother-in-law sang sweetly, shamelessly sitting down in the seat Olya had just been occupying.
“You cooked all this anyway. And I’m lonely at home by myself.”
Rimma had already pulled a chair closer and was staring at the seafood salad.
“Taras, put some meat on Auntie’s plate,” she ordered, holding it out.
Olya remained standing by the wall. Her tenth wedding anniversary had just officially turned into a free cafeteria for her husband’s relatives.
The scene unfolded quickly and brazenly. The guests wielded their forks, piling the best portions onto their plates. Taras bustled around his mother, pouring her fruit drink and sliding appetizers closer. He was clearly enjoying the role of hospitable host and waiting for praise.
“The meat is a bit tough,” Zinaida Pavlovna remarked, carefully chewing a bite.
“You should have kept it in the oven longer. And the cheese you buy, Olya, is too expensive. Taras works his back off, and you waste money on delicacies.”
Olya leaned her hip against the kitchen counter. She worked as a specialist in adaptive physical education, earned more than her husband, and had paid for every bit of food on this table with her own money. But arguing with Zinaida Pavlovna was useless—she always lived in an imaginary world where her son was the main breadwinner.
“Zinaida Pavlovna,” Olya said clearly and distinctly, looking straight at her mother-in-law, “when exactly did my anniversary with Taras become an add-on to your calendar management problems?”
For a second, everyone at the table stopped chewing.
“Oh, here we go,” her mother-in-law rolled her eyes.
“What, are you sorry for us? A mother came to see her own son. You just want to keep him tied to yourself and not share him with anyone.”
“Olya, don’t ruin the evening,” Taras muttered unhappily. “We’re sitting here just fine. Why are you being stingy?”
“I’m not being stingy, Taras,” Olya answered evenly.
“I’m just trying to understand why you gave my holiday—the one I spent all day preparing—to your mother, along with my mood. Especially considering that you gave me a dried broom.”
Aunt Rimma, deciding not to get involved in the conflict, heaved herself up and went rummaging in the refrigerator.
“Oh, there’s cake in here!” she announced joyfully, pulling a large box onto the table.
She opened the lid. Inside was a beautiful dessert decorated with fresh berries and an elegant chocolate number “10.”
“Ten?” Zinaida Pavlovna snorted.
“Well, let’s say it’s for my sixty-fourth, they just mixed up the digits. Taras, cut it for everyone.”
Taras took the special cake server and, without hesitation, drove it straight into the center of the chocolate ten, breaking the number in half. He started placing pieces onto plates, smiling at his mother.
Olya looked at the ruined cake, at the chewing relatives, at the husband who was willing to sell their shared holiday for his mother’s approval. For many years she had put up with this petty boorishness. She excused Taras by saying he was just a simple guy. She blamed her mother-in-law’s brazenness on age. She tried to be a wise, understanding wife. But now, looking at the crumbs from the number “10” smeared across the platter, she understood one simple thing. She no longer wanted to understand anything.
Olya walked over to the table and calmly took the plate out of Rimma’s hands.
“Hey, what are you doing?” the aunt protested.
“Dinner is over,” Olya said loudly and firmly.
She took Zinaida Pavlovna’s plate and stacked it on top of the first one.
“Olya, are you out of your mind?” her mother-in-law recoiled indignantly from the table. “We haven’t even had tea yet! What kind of stunt is this?”
“A stunt, Zinaida Pavlovna, is showing up at someone else’s celebration without an invitation and behaving as if you’re in a restaurant where everything has already been paid for,” Olya said without raising her voice, but something in her tone made Taras flinch.
“Get up. Both of you. And you too, Aunt Rimma.”
“Taras!” his mother barked. “Do you hear the way your wife is speaking to us? Stop her!”
Taras sprang up, trying to save face.
“Olya, stop embarrassing me in front of my relatives. Put the plates back.”
Olya turned to her husband. Her eyes were absolutely, crystal clear.
“You wanted to do something nice for your mother?” she asked.
“You did it. Now gather your guests and go do something nice for them somewhere else.”
She went into the hallway, took her mother-in-law’s coat from the rack, and thrust it into her hands. Then she grabbed Rimma’s coat as well.
“Out,” Olya ordered.
“My foot will never cross this threshold again after such rudeness!” Zinaida Pavlovna hissed, hurriedly getting dressed.
“Come on, Rimma. And you, son, think about who you’re living with.”
The women stormed out, stomping loudly down the stairs. Taras stood in the middle of the hallway, blinking in confusion.
“Are you even normal?” he finally managed. “Why would you do that? That’s my mother!”
“Exactly,” Olya nodded. “That is your mother. And this was our anniversary. And you chose your mother.”
She took his work jacket off the hook and threw it at his chest.
“What are you doing?” Taras caught the jacket.
“Throwing you out. Go catch up with them. And take this too,” Olya said, yanking the bouquet of dried thistles out of the vase and shoving it into his hand.
“They last forever. Just right for your family.”
She pushed her bewildered husband out onto the landing. Taras tried to say something, but Olya simply slammed the door in his face. The lock clicked. The apartment fell silent.
Olya went back to the kitchen. Half-eaten dishes were still on the table, and in the center lay the ruined cake. She took a clean fork, lifted a whole strawberry from the edge of the dessert, and put it into her mouth. The strawberry was sweet.
Olya walked to the window. Down in the courtyard, Taras was helping his mother and aunt into his car. He was angrily waving the dried broom as he spoke. Olya watched them and felt an enormous weight, built up over ten years, falling from her shoulders.
The holiday had, of course, been ruined. But the rules of the game had finally changed forever.
