On December thirtieth, four shopping carts collided near the entrance to the hypermarket, and Marina had no idea yet that the metallic clang would become the prelude to the most sobering New Year’s celebration of her life. Aunt Valentina was already ordering everyone around, telling them where to go, while Uncle Boris obediently pushed the cart toward the premium liquor section. Denis, Marina’s husband, walked beside them, his face wearing that particular expression of patience seen in people who are already prepared for trouble.
“Valya, maybe we shouldn’t?” Marina gently touched her aunt’s sleeve. “We agreed to keep the budget modest.”
“A modest budget is for ordinary days,” Valentina waved her off, grabbing a bottle of single-malt whisky that cost four thousand rubles. “New Year’s comes only once a year. Don’t be so stingy.”
“I’m not being stingy. It’s just that Denis and I are going through a difficult period right now. The mortgage, the car payments…”
“Everyone has a mortgage. Everyone has a car. But a holiday is sacred.”
Boris nodded with the expression of a man who found it easier to agree than to argue.
“We’ll figure out afterward who owes what. We’ll split everything evenly, and there’ll be no hard feelings.”
Everything imaginable went into the cart: black caviar in a crystal jar, lightly salted salmon, Camembert, prosciutto, truffle olives. Marina watched the growing mountain of delicacies and felt anxiety building in her chest. Denis squeezed her hand—silently, but knowingly.
“Aunt Valya, this is an insane amount of money,” she tried once again.
“Marina, don’t start. You’ve always been tightfisted, even as a child. Just like your mother.”
“What does my mother have to do with this?”
“She used to tremble over every kopeck too. You have to live beautifully.”
“Living beautifully means living within your means.”
“Living beautifully means not being embarrassed in front of other people. Liza and Artyom are coming. What are we supposed to serve them—frozen dumplings straight from a bag?”
Liza was Valentina and Boris’s daughter, Marina’s cousin. Artyom was her new boyfriend, whom Valentina spoke about with reverence, as though he were some kind of celestial being.
“Artyom is accustomed to a certain standard. He’s not just some ordinary guy.”
“So that means we are ordinary?” Denis asked quietly.
“You’re young. You still have a long way to go.”
They reached the cottage by evening. Liza and Artyom were already there, having arranged craft beer and marbled-beef steaks on the table. Artyom turned out to be a tall blond man with a lazy smile and a habit of speaking as though every word he uttered were a favor.
“Oh, the relatives!” he drawled without getting up from the sofa. “Finally, some working hands.”
“Marina is an excellent cook,” Valentina announced. “You can take care of the salads, niece. And Denis can cut the meat.”
“And what about you?” Denis couldn’t help asking.
“We’re tired from the trip. Besides, somebody has to supervise the process.”
For the next three hours, Marina chopped, peeled, and mixed. Denis worked on the meat and potatoes. Liza scrolled through her phone, Artyom sampled the beer, and Valentina commented on Marina’s every move from her armchair by the fireplace.
“Slice the carrots thinner. Chop the onions smaller. Don’t skimp on the mayonnaise. What are you, a pauper?”
“Aunt Valya, I know how to make Olivier salad.”
“Sure looks like it. Your hands are growing out of the wrong place.”
“Valentina Pavlovna, maybe that’s enough?” Denis put down his knife. “Marina is doing her best.”
“What? I’m helping. Giving advice. Without me, you wouldn’t manage to cook anything at all.”
Boris snorted from beside the window but said nothing. He rarely spoke at all—apparently, after years of marriage, he had learned to conserve his words.
The holiday table turned out luxurious. But the luxury was distributed rather strangely. The caviar, salmon, and prosciutto were placed closer to Valentina, Liza, and Artyom. The Olivier salad and chicken were closer to Marina and Denis.
“Try the caviar,” Denis whispered.
Marina reached for the jar.
“Wait,” Valentina stopped her. “That’s a delicacy. You’re supposed to savor it. Let’s finish the salads first.”
“We made the salads ourselves.”
“So what? Then you know how delicious they are.”
Artyom laughed. Liza giggled. Boris looked away.
By midnight, the caviar was gone—Marina hadn’t gotten so much as a spoonful. The whisky had disappeared into Valentina and Boris’s glasses. Artyom divided the steaks between himself and Liza, generously tossing Denis a charred edge.
“Happy New Year!” Valentina shouted. “To family! To those who are close to us!”
Marina raised a glass of cheap juice and thought that close was apparently a relative concept.
Artyom set off the fireworks at three in the morning. Twenty thousand rubles exploded above the snow-covered forest in golden and scarlet bursts.
“Now that’s class!” Valentina exclaimed. “Now that’s a celebration!”
“It’s beautiful,” Marina agreed, although something dark was already beginning to boil inside her.
“See? Artyom knows how to live. Unlike some people.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing. Just stating a fact.”
Denis clenched his fists inside his pockets. Marina placed a hand on his shoulder.
Wait. Not yet.
The morning of January first began with a calculator. Valentina sat at the kitchen table, running her finger down the receipt, with a notebook full of figures beside her.
“Right, then. The total bill is eighty thousand. We divide it by three: Boris and me, you and Denis, and Liza and Artyom.”
“Wait.” Marina frowned. “Why by three? There are six of us.”
“Because we’re counting by couples. That’s fairer.”
“Fairer? Eighty thousand divided by three means twenty-six thousand per couple?”
“Twenty-six and change. Let’s round it up to twenty-seven.”
“For what?”
“For everything. Food, the cottage, the fireworks.”
“The fireworks were Artyom’s idea. So were the steaks. You and Boris drank the whisky. I didn’t even taste the caviar.”
“But you saw the fireworks, didn’t you? You sat at the table, didn’t you? The food was shared, wasn’t it?”
“What do you mean, shared? You ate everything yourselves!”
Valentina grimaced.
“Here we go. I knew you’d start penny-pinching.”
“I’m not penny-pinching. I’m asking for fairness.”
“Fairness?” Artyom stretched lazily on the sofa. “Fairness means everyone pays equally. That’s how things are done in civilized society.”
“In civilized society, people don’t gorge themselves while leaving their relatives with scraps,” Denis replied.
“Who was gorging themselves? The table was shared.”
“Shared? I saw you move the plate of salmon away when Marina reached for it.”
“You imagined it.”
“No, I didn’t.”
Liza sighed dramatically.
“Guys, stop arguing. It’s New Year’s, after all.”
“New Year’s is over.” Marina stood up. “Now the accounting begins. Give me the receipt.”
“Why do you need the receipt?” Valentina pressed the piece of paper against her chest.
“To calculate it myself.”
“I’ve already calculated everything.”
“I want to do it myself.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“After you wouldn’t even let me taste the caviar you’re demanding that I pay for? No. I don’t trust you.”
Valentina’s face turned crimson.
“How dare you! I carried you in my arms when you were little!”
“That was thirty years ago. The receipt, please.”
“I’m not giving it to you.”
Denis stepped forward.
“Valentina Pavlovna, give us the receipt. Otherwise, we’re leaving right now without paying a single kopeck.”
“That’s blackmail!”
“That’s common sense.”
Boris let out a heavy sigh and placed the receipt on the table.
“Give it to them, Valya. Enough of this circus.”
Marina studied the receipt carefully, running her finger along every line. Whisky—four thousand. Caviar—seven thousand. Salmon—three and a half. Prosciutto, Camembert, olives—another six thousand. Artyom’s steaks—twelve thousand. Craft beer—five. Fireworks—twenty.
“All right.” She looked up. “Only you and Boris drank the whisky. Correct?”
“Well… yes.”
“Liza ate the caviar. And so did you, Aunt Valya. I didn’t get any.”
“You could have taken some!”
“You stopped me yourself. In front of everyone.”
Liza blushed.
“I don’t remember that.”
“Well, I do. You also ate the salmon. The steaks were for Artyom and Liza. The craft beer was Artyom’s. The fireworks were his idea.”
“What are you getting at?” Valentina hissed through clenched teeth.
“I’m getting at the fact that, out of the eighty thousand rubles, Denis and I actually consumed about five thousand rubles’ worth of food. Chicken, potatoes, vegetables for the salads. And we cooked all of it.”
“Cooking doesn’t count.”
“Then next time, cook it yourself.”
“Marina!”
“What—Marina? Did you think I was going to stay silent? Swallow this humiliation? Agree to pay for caviar I didn’t eat, whisky I didn’t drink, and fireworks I never asked for?”
“But we’re family!”
Marina took two one-thousand-ruble notes out of her wallet and placed them on the table.
“Five thousand is our share. I’m leaving two thousand here now. I’ll transfer another three thousand to Boris’s card. Keep the change.”
“You can’t just leave like this!” Valentina jumped to her feet.
“I can. Watch me.”
“This is betrayal!”
“Betrayal is when your own aunt cheats her niece out of money. When relatives stuff themselves with delicacies while leaving you scraps. When they force you to pay for someone else’s showing off.”
“Artyom, say something!”
Artyom shrugged.
“These are your family problems. I have nothing to do with it.”
“You set off twenty thousand rubles’ worth of fireworks!”
“My fireworks, my money. Or rather, your money now, since you’re splitting everything evenly.”
Liza gasped.
“Artyom, but we agreed…”
“I made an agreement with you, beautiful. Not with them.”
“Well, that clears things up,” Denis said, picking up their bags. “Marina, let’s go.”
“Wait!” Boris suddenly stood up. “Hold on.”
“What now?”
“Valya, they’re right. This isn’t what we agreed on. We drank the whisky. We ate the caviar. It isn’t fair.”
“You’re taking their side against me?!”
“I’m on the side of fairness. Marina is my niece. I don’t want her leaving here hurt and angry.”
“It’s her own fault!”
“For what? For doing the math? For refusing to let herself be cheated?”
Valentina nearly choked with rage.
“You’re humiliating me!”
“You’ve been humiliating yourself for twenty years.”
Marina and Denis stood beside their car. Snow fell slowly in large flakes. Through the cottage window, they could see Valentina’s silhouette waving her arms furiously.
“How are you?” Denis asked.
“Strange. Light.”
“She’ll call.”
“Let her. I won’t answer.”
“Your mother will be upset.”
“I’ll tell her the truth. She’ll understand. She’s suffered enough because of Valentina herself.”
Denis put his arms around his wife.
“Do you know why I love you?”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t let people push you around. Even when everyone is putting pressure on you.”
“I let them push me around for too long. Enough.”
They got into the car. The engine started on the first try—as though the universe had finally decided to take their side.
A year later, Marina and Denis were setting their New Year’s table for two. A small apartment, a modest Christmas tree, a couple of candles. On the table sat a jar of black caviar—bought with their own money, honestly earned.
“To us,” Denis said, raising his glass.
“To us,” Marina repeated.
The caviar was exquisite. Far tastier than the caviar she had never gotten to taste the previous year.
The phone remained silent. Valentina didn’t call—her pride wouldn’t allow it. Marina’s mother had cautiously brought up reconciliation once, but after hearing the amounts involved and all the details, she fell silent for a long time.
“She spent my whole life teaching me to give in,” Marina admitted then.
“I know.”
“Now I’m learning to live differently.”
“You’re doing well.”
Outside the window, someone else’s fireworks blossomed across the sky—the neighbors were celebrating.
Marina smiled.
Justice really did taste better than any whisky.
And it was certainly worth more than any family ties built on disrespect.
