“Set the table again and take care of your guests,” my mother-in-law demanded.
I had never imagined that a child’s birthday party could turn into an actual battlefield. But when I saw the remains of my tartlets scattering across the tiled floor and a triumphant smile spreading over my mother-in-law’s face, I understood: war had been declared. And it would be a war to the death—at least, to the death of my dignity as a mother.
It had all started a week earlier, when Maxim and I were discussing our son Artyom’s fifth birthday.
“You know Svetlana Petrovna will be unhappy with everything again,” I sighed as I put away the children’s toys. “No matter what I cook, she’ll find something to criticize.”
“Don’t worry so much, Katya. Mom really is a difficult person, but this isn’t about her. It’s about Artyom. We’ll organize the party for him,” my husband said, putting an arm around my shoulders and kissing the top of my head.
“Of course, you’re right. As long as our son has fun.”
“Exactly! Nothing else matters,” Maxim said with a wink as he packed his briefcase for work.
“Don’t forget the thermos of soup! And take some napkins—the meat borscht might drip onto your shirt.”
After he left, I began thinking about the upcoming celebration. My relationship with my mother-in-law had been difficult from the very first day we met. Svetlana Petrovna disapproved of practically every aspect of my personality—my provincial background, the fact that I had been raised by a single mother, and my profession as a choreographer. The last one irritated her most of all.
After graduating from a choreography college and later earning a second degree in child psychology, I had fallen in love with working with children. Following the restructuring of local cultural institutions, our small center, Raduga, was closed. Fortunately, I found a position at a new, modern complex called Sozvezdie. The parents of my students followed me there because they did not want to change teachers.
I specialized in contemporary dance and adored my girls. They returned my affection, trained diligently, and regularly brought home awards from competitions. Our certificates and trophies filled every shelf in the apartment. Each medal represented an important stage in our creative journey.
Maxim never reproached me for my modest income. He believed that being passionate about one’s work was more important than earning a great deal of money. He worked as a designer at an advertising agency and made a very respectable salary. His projects appeared on billboards throughout the city, and he had recently completed a large-scale advertising campaign for a supermarket chain called Izobilie.
The fee had been so generous that we were able to renovate the entire apartment. I had inherited the property from my grandfather, who had once managed a large company and had made sure his granddaughter would have a home of her own. When I got married, my mother transferred the documents for the spacious three-bedroom apartment into my name.
Our family life with Maxim was harmonious. Conflicts were rare, even after Artyom was born. We had planned the pregnancy together and truly wanted a child. Although we would have been equally happy with a girl, it was now impossible to imagine anyone else in place of our mischievous little boy.
As soon as I learned that I was pregnant, I told my husband, and he positively glowed with happiness. He became even more involved than I was in preparing for the baby, buying practically everything he saw in children’s stores.
“We don’t even know the baby’s sex yet, Maxim! Why are you buying so much?”
“I’m not suggesting we buy piles of pink dresses. We’ll get more green onesies and a neutral-colored stroller. They’ll suit any baby. And we’ll find out who’s growing inside your belly at the ultrasound next month!”
My husband came with me to the appointment. The older doctor studied the monitor for a long time, then gave Maxim a mischievous smile.
“Well, Dad, if you’ve already built a house and planted a tree, here’s your heir! The minimum program is complete!”
We were as excited as children. And when Artyom was born, I could not have wished for a better father for him. Maxim adored the baby. He bathed him himself, helped with feeding, and patiently cleaned himself and everything around him after Artyom thoroughly decorated the kitchen with vegetable purée.
Watching the two most important men in my life, I realized how incredibly fortunate I was.
Even the birth of a grandson did not soften Svetlana Petrovna’s attitude toward me. She visited regularly, mainly to criticize absolutely everything—from the way I cooked soup to the clothes I chose for the child.
Sometimes it seemed that the problem was not what I did, but simply that I was the one doing it. That was just my mother-in-law’s nature—she was perpetually dissatisfied with everyone and everything.
Since her visits were infrequent, I tried not to dwell on it. Whenever she attempted to influence Maxim, he gently defended me, explaining to his mother that we would handle our family matters ourselves. That was usually enough to make the proud Svetlana Petrovna take offense and stop calling for several weeks.
But now a special occasion was approaching—Artyom’s fifth birthday—and we wanted to organize an unforgettable celebration for our son.
We decided to spend the first day with the family, naturally inviting his grandmother. My mother could not come because she had fallen ill, so my sister went to stay with her. Once I knew Mom would not be alone, I felt reassured, although I had already been considering an urgent trip to Omsk.
The second day was to be devoted entirely to the birthday boy: amusement park rides, ice cream, and walks near the fountains.
When Svetlana Petrovna heard about the family dinner, she became enthusiastic and announced that she had already bought presents. But she delivered the main surprise two days before the celebration: it turned out that she had invited her sisters and their husbands.
Fortunately, their grown children declined to come. Still, I was not thrilled by the prospect of spending the evening with a group of my husband’s female relatives, whose personalities were not very different from my mother-in-law’s.
Maxim noticed my anxiety and did everything he could to encourage me, asking me to endure it for the sake of family peace.
I understood how serious the coming ordeal would be, so I planned the menu and bought all the groceries in advance. My husband helped carry the heavy shopping bags from the store.
I chose simple dishes made with high-quality ingredients—reliable, time-tested recipes. I decided to make Caesar salad, Stolichny salad, sandwiches with red fish and olives, tartlet shells filled with liver pâté, sliced vegetables, and roast duck as the main course. I had wanted to try a new marinade with soy sauce and ginger for a long time.
For Artyom’s birthday, we bought an expensive model railway set. Maxim had ordered it well in advance to make sure it arrived by the right date. While our son was at kindergarten, we checked that everything worked properly and then wrapped it again in beautiful paper with a bright bow.
Artyom was going to be delighted.
In addition, our son had been asking for a dog for a long time. We bought him a golden retriever—a fluffy, chubby-pawed little puppy. Maxim insisted on getting a pedigree dog, and the little miracle, with a name that was almost impossible to pronounce, was traveling to us from Kazan.
The problem was that the courier had been delayed on the road. At best, the dog would arrive late in the evening. Maxim and I were not upset. Artyom would still be overjoyed when he saw his long-awaited pet in the morning.
Once all the preparations were complete, I went to change clothes while my husband answered the door. The guests had already arrived and were ringing the bell insistently.
Why they needed to keep pressing it for so long was unclear, but I focused on quickly putting on my new blue dress. It flattered my figure beautifully and left my shoulders bare.
“Hello, Maxim! Artyom, my darling! Look how grown-up you are—five years old already!” my mother-in-law chirped in the entryway, surrounded by her relatives…
The continuation is just below, in the first comment.
I never imagined that a children’s birthday party could turn into a real battlefield. But when I saw the remains of my tartlets scattering across the tiled floor and a triumphant smile spreading over my mother-in-law’s face, I understood: war had been declared. And it would be a war to the death—at least, to the death of my dignity as a mother.
It had all started a week earlier, when Maxim and I were discussing our son Artyom’s fifth birthday.
“You know Svetlana Petrovna is going to be unhappy with everything again,” I sighed as I put away the children’s toys. “No matter what I cook, she’ll find something to criticize.”
“Don’t worry so much, Katya. Mom really is a difficult person, but she isn’t the important one here. Artyom is. We’ll make the celebration special for him,” my husband said, putting an arm around my shoulders and kissing the top of my head.
“Of course, you’re right. As long as our son has fun.”
“Exactly. Nothing else matters,” Maxim said with a wink as he packed his briefcase for work.
“Don’t forget your thermos of soup! And take some napkins. The borscht has meat in it and might drip onto your shirt.”
After he left, I began thinking about the upcoming celebration. My relationship with my mother-in-law had been difficult from the very first day we met. Svetlana Petrovna categorically disapproved of every aspect of my personality—my provincial background, the fact that I had been raised by a single mother, and my profession as a choreographer. The last one especially drove her mad.
After graduating from a choreography school and earning a second degree in child psychology, I fell completely in love with working with children. Following a reorganization of local cultural institutions, our small center, Rainbow, was closed, but I was fortunate enough to find a position at a new modern complex called Constellation. The parents of my students followed me there because they did not want to change teachers.
I specialized in modern dance and adored my girls. They returned my affection, trained diligently, and regularly brought home awards from competitions. Our certificates and trophies filled every shelf in the apartment, and each medal was a reminder of an important stage in our creative journey.
Maxim had never criticized me for my modest income. He believed that being passionate about one’s work was more important than earning a great deal of money. He worked as a designer at an advertising agency and made a very respectable living. His projects appeared on billboards throughout the city, and he had recently completed a major advertising campaign for a supermarket chain called Abundance.
The fee had been so generous that we were able to completely renovate the apartment. I had inherited the property from my grandfather, who had once managed a large enterprise and had made sure his granddaughter had a home of her own. When I got married, my mother transferred the documents for the spacious three-bedroom apartment into my name.
Our married life was harmonious. Conflicts were rare, even after Artyom was born. We had planned the pregnancy together and wanted the baby very much. We would have been just as happy with a girl, although now it was difficult to imagine anyone else in the place of our little rascal.
When I found out I was pregnant, I told my husband immediately, and he positively glowed with happiness. He prepared for the baby’s arrival even more enthusiastically than I did, buying practically everything he saw in children’s stores.
“We don’t even know the baby’s sex yet, Maxim! Why are you buying so much?”
“I’m not suggesting we buy piles of pink dresses. We’ll get more green onesies and a stroller in a neutral color. It’ll suit any baby. And we’ll find out who’s growing in your belly next month at the ultrasound.”
My husband came with me to the appointment. The older doctor studied the monitor for a long time, then gave Maxim a mischievous smile.
“Well, Dad, if the house is built and the tree is planted, here comes your heir. The minimum program is complete.”
We were as happy as children. And when Artyom was born, I could not have wished for a better father for him. Maxim adored the little one. He bathed him himself, helped with feeding, and patiently cleaned both himself and everything around him whenever the baby enthusiastically decorated the kitchen with vegetable puree.
Watching the two most important men in my life, I realized what a winning ticket fate had handed me.
Even the birth of her grandson did not soften Svetlana Petrovna’s attitude toward me. She visited us regularly so that she could criticize absolutely everything, from the way I cooked soup to the clothes I chose for the child.
Sometimes it seemed that the problem was not what I did, but simply the fact that I was the one doing it. That was my mother-in-law’s personality—she was eternally dissatisfied with everyone and everything.
Since her visits were not frequent, I tried not to dwell on them. If she attempted to influence Maxim, he would tactfully defend me, explaining to his mother that we could manage our family affairs ourselves. Usually that was enough to make the proud Svetlana Petrovna take offense and stop calling for several weeks.
But now a special event was approaching: Artyom’s fifth birthday, and we wanted to arrange an unforgettable celebration for our son.
We decided to spend the first day with the family and, naturally, invited his grandmother. My mother could not come because she had fallen ill, so my sister went to stay with her. Once I knew Mom would not be alone, I calmed down, although I had already been considering an urgent trip to Omsk.
The second day would be devoted entirely to the birthday boy: rides at the amusement park, ice cream, and walks near the fountains.
When Svetlana Petrovna heard about the family dinner, she became enthusiastic and announced that she had already bought presents. But she revealed the biggest surprise a couple of days before the celebration: she had invited her sisters and their husbands.
Fortunately, their adult children declined to join them. Even so, I was not thrilled by the prospect of spending the evening with a group of my husband’s female relatives whose personalities were not very different from my mother-in-law’s.
Maxim noticed my anxiety and did everything he could to encourage me, asking me to endure it for the sake of family peace.
I understood the seriousness of the challenge ahead and prepared the menu in advance, then bought all the groceries. My husband helped me carry the heavy bags home from the store.
I planned simple dishes made with quality ingredients—reliable, tested recipes. I decided to make Caesar salad, Stolichny salad, sandwiches with red fish and olives, tartlet shells filled with liver pâté, sliced vegetables, and roast duck for the main course. I had wanted to try a new marinade with soy sauce and ginger for a long time.
For Artyom’s birthday, we had bought an expensive model railway set. Maxim had ordered it well in advance to make sure it arrived on time. While our son was at kindergarten, we tested everything to make sure it worked, then wrapped it again in beautiful paper with a bright bow.
Artyom would definitely be delighted.
Our son had also been asking for a dog for a long time. We had bought him a golden retriever—a fluffy little puppy with enormous paws. Maxim had insisted on getting a pedigree puppy, and the little miracle with an almost unpronounceable official name was traveling to us from Kazan.
The problem was that the courier had been delayed on the road. At best, the dog would be delivered late in the evening. Maxim and I were not upset. Artyom would still be delighted when he saw his long-awaited pet in the morning.
Once all the preparations were complete, I went to change while my husband answered the door. The guests had already arrived and were ringing the bell insistently.
Why they had to keep pressing it for so long was beyond me, but I focused on putting on my new blue dress as quickly as possible. It flattered my figure beautifully and left my shoulders bare.
“Maxim, hello! Artyom, my darling! Look how grown-up you are—five years old already!” my mother-in-law chirped in the entryway, surrounded by her relatives.
After being smothered with kisses by his great-aunts, our son ran into the room carrying an enormous box. His face was covered in lipstick marks.
“Mom, look! Roller skates! Can you believe it?”
“Skates? Wow! Now you’ll learn how to skate. What else did they give you?”
“Aunt Nina brought me a bicycle, Aunt Olga gave me a winter jacket, and Aunt Larisa gave me a building set. Look!”
My son’s eyes shone with happiness.
“Now you’re a truly wealthy man,” I laughed as I tried to wipe the lipstick marks from his face.
The makeup would not come off properly, and all I managed to do was smear the bright marks around.
“Mom, are we definitely going to the park tomorrow?”
“Of course, sweetheart. Tomorrow you, Dad, and I will spend the whole day at the park. And there’ll be another surprise waiting for you in the morning. Come here.”
I took out some micellar water and a cotton pad and finally cleaned Artyom’s cheerful little face.
The relatives settled in the living room, where Maxim had shown them. I headed into the kitchen, where the prepared salads were already waiting on the table.
“Katya, what is this? Caesar salad? Who serves dishes like that at a proper celebration these days? You know my sisters are accustomed to sophisticated cuisine. They won’t eat this,” Svetlana Petrovna declared.
“They came to my son’s birthday,” I said, emphasizing the word “my.” “We aren’t oligarchs who can serve them truffles and lobsters. It’s an ordinary table, and everything here is food Artyom likes.”
“Don’t you dare talk to me about money! My son supports your family while you live off him. You could find a respectable job instead of prancing around in tights in front of children. Is that really an occupation for a decent woman?”
“Svetlana Petrovna, we’ve already discussed this a million times. I enjoy my work, and Maxim doesn’t criticize me for it.”
This was absolutely not the time to restart the old argument about my career and salary.
I was saved when the relatives noisily invaded the kitchen, instantly making the room feel crowded.
“Set the table again and start taking care of your guests,” my mother-in-law demanded.
I was stunned by her audacity.
Then Svetlana Petrovna began poking at the Caesar salad with a spoon, ruining the careful presentation. I grabbed her wrist and glared at her.
“Stop that immediately and don’t ruin my child’s birthday.”
“You ruined it yourself! You could at least have served potatoes with herring, you provincial nobody,” my mother-in-law snapped as we openly struggled beside the table.
Svetlana Petrovna managed to knock over the platter of tartlets. Fortunately, the dish was not breakable. But the pâté-filled tartlets scattered across the floor. Some cracked, some stuck filling-first to the tiles, and the rest were crushed into a mess that could only be thrown away.
“How dare you!” I shouted, and that was when the real performance began.
“Maxim, darling, look what’s happening! She threw a platter of her peasant food at me!” my mother-in-law cried indignantly as my husband entered the kitchen.
Maxim was carrying Artyom in his arms. Our son looked in confusion from his grandmother to me, my face flushed with agitation.
“Mom, Aunties, leave our home immediately. I saw everything, and I will not allow you to insult my wife,” my husband said firmly, looking at the relatives’ stunned faces.
The uncles said nothing and were the first to head for the exit, understanding that a major scandal was brewing. They took their wives by the arms and led them away.
It was summer, so no one needed much time to put on coats, and soon the apartment was quiet. Only the wall clock ticked loudly. I could also hear my own heart pounding furiously.
“Katya, forgive me for Mom’s behavior.”
“It’s all right. At least there’ll be more food left for us,” I tried to joke, blinking rapidly.
“Is the party canceled, Mom? Did Grandma hurt your feelings? I’ll show them!”
Artyom’s words were interrupted by the sound of the doorbell.
“If that’s your mother, Maxim, I’m not letting her cross the threshold,” I said angrily as I marched toward the door.
A young man I had never seen before was standing on the landing with a large sports bag.
“Good evening. Who are you looking for?”
“Ekaterina Sergeyevna Volkova?”
“Yes, that’s me. Who are you?”
“My name is Denis. I brought your order,” the young man said, flashing a dazzling white smile. “Take it carefully. The passenger got very nervous, and the bottom of the bag is wet.”
I accepted the rather heavy bag, inside which something warm and unmistakably alive was moving. I signed the documents and closed the door.
“Well, what did they bring?” my husband asked, coming into the hallway.
“Mom, what’s in there? What is it?” Artyom bounced up and down impatiently. “Is it for me? Is it a present?”
I carefully placed the bag on the floor and unzipped it.
“Don’t make any noise or grab him. Pet him gently, all right? He’s tired from the journey and doesn’t know you yet.”
A buttery golden muzzle emerged from the darkness of the bag. Intelligent dark eyes stared at Artyom, who had frozen with happiness.
Our son leaned toward the puppy, and the puppy immediately licked his cheek, making him burst into laughter.
“I’m going to call him Peach!”
“And whenever he misbehaves, he’ll become Peach the Terrible,” my husband laughed as he watched Artyom playing with his new friend.
The unpleasantness with the relatives was quickly forgotten. We had a wonderful evening.
And the next day, we spent the entire day together at the park—with Peach.
