— Aren’t you ashamed? This is such a big day for your husband! What will the relatives say? What will people think?
****
The silver bracelet just didn’t want to clasp. For the third time, Khrystyna struggled to hook the tiny latch with her fingernail, when suddenly, she heard someone sharply inhale behind her.
In the bedroom doorway stood Tamara Andriivna. Mustard-colored cardigan, perfectly styled gray hair, and a striped linen apron slung over her arm. She brought the apron from home. For her daughter-in-law.
— What is this? — her mother-in-law slowly took in the floor-length dark green dress, the neatly pinned-up hair, the high heels. — Khrystyna. I’m asking you, what’s this about?
— I’m going to the theater, Tamara Andriivna.
The clasp finally clicked.
* * *
The phone rang at seven that morning, while Khrystyna was still at the stove with the coffee pot. Pavlo, not taking his eyes off the mirror, yelled, “Pick up; it’s Mom!” — so she put it on speaker.
— Khrystyna, honey, do you have a pen? — her mother-in-law’s voice was sweet, but with that unmistakable undertone after which no one argues. — Write this down. Irochka and Taras will be there, Kuma Toma, Sashko and his wife. Six o’clock sharp. It’s a big deal — commercial director! Let people see our family’s got it all together.
Pavlo had just been appointed yesterday. For seven years, he sold building materials, working in a windowless office next to the server room, dreaming of the position he finally got. Khrystyna was genuinely happy for him. Just yesterday evening.
— Mom, I’ll invite my guys from the department too! — Pavlo leaned over the phone, tie clip between his teeth.
— How many?
— At least five. Let them see how we celebrate.
— That’s right, son! So, Khrystyna. Pork under cheese, just like you made last New Year — Irochka loved it. Four different salads, so the table doesn’t look poor. Herring under a fur coat, that’s a must. Get some red fish, and make those eggplant rolls.
And use the wedding china, not your everyday plates. I’ll come early, around five, to help with the appetizers.
— Got it all written down, — Khrystyna replied.
She really had — on the back of the electric bill by the sugar bowl.
Her mother-in-law hung up. Pavlo finally managed his tie and came back to his wife, jacket on — a brand-new navy suit, just bought for the promotion.
— You heard Mom, right? Swing by the grocery store after work. The table’s gotta be overflowing.
— Pavlo, what about money for the groceries?
He raised his eyebrows, as if she was speaking another language.
— Use the money you’d saved for the seaside trip. I’ll pay you back from my first director’s paycheck. I’m broke after the suit and shoes — it comes with the position.
— We haven’t gone anywhere in two years. I saved that money a thousand at a time.
— The sea isn’t going anywhere, Khrystya. But today is once in a lifetime for me!
— Today’s important for me, too. It’s Solomiya’s premiere. I marked it in our shared calendar back in August. I even bought two tickets — for you as well.
Pavlo waved her off, grabbing his briefcase.
— What play? Your Solomiya will perform a hundred more times. And if the guys show up and your wife’s not home — what will that look like? Gotta run. I’ll be home before six. Don’t let me down, okay?
The door slammed. Coffee boiled over onto the stove, and Khrystyna just stared for a long time as a brown stain spread across the white enamel.
* * *
On the fridge, pinned by a lemon-shaped magnet, was a paper calendar. October. She’d circled the seventh in red back in August and written in small letters: “Solya. Premiere. 7:00 PM. Don’t miss!!!”
Khrystyna and Solomiya had been best friends since their first year at university. Fifteen years, Solomiya played maids, neighbors, and “woman with basket” in crowd scenes at the regional drama theater. For all fifteen years, Khrystyna sat in the audience. Every premiere. Always with flowers — even if Solomiya was on stage for two minutes and had just a single line.
This time, Solomiya had the lead role. Her very first. At thirty-eight, when even she had stopped hoping.
“Khrysty, if you’re not out there, I’ll forget my lines. I mean it,” she messaged the night before.
And three years ago, when Khrystyna got laid off, it was Solomiya who called every evening to ask about interviews. Not Pavlo. He said, “Well, just relax at home for a bit.”
Khrystyna remembered something else. Her birthday in March. Pavlo forgot to book a table, and she ended up baking her own cake — honey cake, eight layers, until two a.m. And Tamara Andriivna, after tasting it, said the cream was too sweet.
She cleaned the stove. Then she picked up a bright delivery flyer from the hallway floor — someone had slid it under the door over the weekend. She smoothed it and placed it on the table by the mirror. Somewhere visible.
Arguing at 7:30 AM was pointless. She put on her trench coat and headed to work.
* * *
At two in the afternoon, Khrystyna sat in the hair salon. Outside, a fine October drizzle forced her to dash from the trolleybus, covering her head with her bag so as not to ruin her freshly washed hair. The stylist was finishing a low chignon when her phone buzzed on the table.
— Khrystyna, change of plans! — Pavlo shouted, barely beating the street noise. — I invited the general manager! And his deputy! Both said yes, can you believe it?
— I believe it.
— You don’t get it, this is next level! Buy caviar. Get some proper drinks, the best — I can’t be embarrassed in front of the bosses. You got that?
— I hear you, Pavlo.
— Gotta go, I have a meeting. The table has to be perfect!
The stylist, hairspray in hand, looked at her in the mirror.
— Some special occasion today?
— My friend’s premiere, — Khrystyna smiled, a bit crookedly. — Just do what we agreed.
* * *
Tamara Andriivna arrived at quarter to six. She always came before the guests so she could keep everything under control. She hung her dripping coat by the door, adjusted her cardigan, and headed to the kitchen.
It smelled of coffee and the wet umbrella drying in the corner. The spotless countertop gleamed — not a single bowl. No pots on the stove. The fridge hummed gently, just like any regular evening.
— Khrystyna! — her mother-in-law’s voice shot up a note.
Now here she was, standing in the bedroom doorway with an apron she never got to use.
— What theater?! — Tamara Andriivna clutched her chest. — People will be here in thirty minutes! Irochka is already on her way!
— The regional drama theater. It’s the premiere tonight.
— Aren’t you ashamed? This is such a big day for your husband! What will the relatives say? What will people think?
Khrystyna reached for a small velvet clutch, tucked in a lipstick and her keys.
— It’s Pavlo’s celebration. Let Pavlo handle it.
— Twenty guests! What on earth am I supposed to feed them? Are you sane?
— I’m sure you’ll come up with something, Tamara Andriivna. You always do.
Footsteps rumbled in the hallway…
The silver bracelet just wouldn’t fasten. For the third time, Khrystyna tried to catch the tiny hook with her fingernail when suddenly, someone behind her took a sharp breath.
Tamara Andriyivna stood in the bedroom doorway. She wore a mustard-colored cardigan, her gray hair was neatly styled, and a striped linen apron was draped over her arm. She had brought the apron from home, just for her daughter-in-law.
‘What is this?’ Her mother-in-law slowly looked Khrystyna up and down—the floor-length dark green dress, her hair pulled back, her high-heeled shoes. ‘Khrystyna, I’m asking you, what is this?’
‘I’m going to the theater, Tamara Andriyivna.’
At last, the hook clicked into place.
* * *
That morning, the phone rang at seven, just as Khrystyna was standing by the stove with the coffee pot. Pavlo, without looking away from the mirror, yelled, ‘Pick up, it’s mom!’—so she turned on the speaker.
‘Khrystynka, sunshine, do you have a pen?’ Her mother-in-law’s voice was sweet as honey, but with that tone nobody usually argues with. ‘Write this down. Irochka and Taras will be there, godmother Toma, Sasha and his wife. For six o’clock. This isn’t just any occasion—commercial director! Let people see that everything in our family is just right.’
Pavlo had been appointed just the day before. For seven years, he sold building materials, sat in a windowless office next to the server room, and dreamed of the position he finally got yesterday. Khrystyna was genuinely happy for him. Just yesterday evening.
‘Mom, I’ll invite my guys from the department too!’ Pavlo leaned over the phone, a tie clip between his teeth.
‘How many?’
‘Well, five for sure will come. Let them see how we celebrate.’
‘That’s right, son! So, Khrystyna, here’s what you do: the baked pork with cheese, like you made for New Year’s—Irочка praised it so much. Four kinds of salad, so the table doesn’t look poor. Definitely herring under a fur coat. Get some red fish, and roll up some eggplant rolls too.’
‘And take out the dinnerware you got for your wedding, not those everyday plates of yours. I’ll come early, around five, and help with the cold cuts.’
‘I wrote it all down,’ Khrystyna said.
And she really had—on the back of the electricity bill that was lying next to the sugar bowl.
Her mother-in-law hung up. Pavlo finally managed his tie and turned to his wife, already in his new navy suit—the one he bought two days ago ‘for the new position.’
‘Did you hear mom? Swing by the supermarket after work. The table needs to be overflowing.’
‘Pavlo, what about money for the groceries?’
He raised his eyebrows in surprise, as if she had just spoken a foreign language.
‘Just use the money you set aside for the seaside trip. I’ll pay it back from my first director’s salary. Right now I’ve got nothing, you saw that—suit, shoes. The new position demands it.’
‘We haven’t gone anywhere for two years. I saved up that money, a thousand at a time.’
‘The sea isn’t going anywhere, Khrystya. But this day—I only get it once!’
‘Well, I have a big day too. Solomiya has her premiere today. I booked it in our shared calendar all the way back in August. And I bought two tickets, for you too.’
Pavlo waved his hand, grabbing his briefcase.
‘What play? Your Solomiya will perform a hundred more times. And my buddies will come—but the wife isn’t home? How’s that going to look? That’s it, I’m off. I’ll be home at quarter to six. Don’t let me down, okay?’
The door slammed. Coffee boiled over onto the stove, and Khrystyna stood for a long while, watching the brown stain spread across the white enamel.
* * *
On the fridge, underneath a lemon-shaped magnet, hung a paper calendar. October. Back in August, Khrystyna had circled the seventh in red and scribbled in small letters: “Solya. Premiere. 7:00 PM. Don’t miss it!!!”
Khrystyna and Solomiya had been friends since their first year at university. For fifteen years, Solomiya played maids, neighbors, and the “woman with the basket” in regional theater productions. And for all fifteen years, Khrystyna was in the audience. At every premiere. With flowers, even when Solomiya was only on stage for two minutes with a single line.
But this time, Solomiya got the lead role. For the first time. At thirty-eight years old, when even she herself had stopped expecting it.
“Khrystya, if you’re not in the audience, I’ll forget my lines. Seriously,” she texted last night.
And three years ago, when Khrystyna was laid off, it was Solomiya who called her every evening to ask about her job interviews. Not Pavlo. Pavlo just said, “Well, you’ll stay home and rest for a while.”
Khrystyna remembered something else. Her birthday in March. Pavlo forgot to book a table, and she baked her own cake—a honey layer cake, eight layers, until two in the morning. When Tamara Andriivna tasted it, she pointed out the frosting was too sweet.
She wiped down the stove. Then she picked up a bright delivery service flyer from the hallway floor, the one someone had slid under the door over the weekend. She smoothed it out with her hand and placed it on the table by the mirror. Right where it could be seen.
There was no point arguing at seven-thirty in the morning. She put on her coat and left for work.
* * *
At two in the afternoon, Khrystyna was sitting in the hair salon. Outside, a fine October drizzle was falling, and she had raced from the trolleybus, shielding her freshly washed hair with her bag. The stylist was fixing the low bun in place with pins when her phone rattled on the table.
— Khrystyna, everything’s changing! — Pavlo shouted over the city noise. — I’ve invited the director! And his deputy! Both said yes, can you believe it?
— I can imagine.
— You don’t get it, this is a whole new level! Buy caviar. And a proper drink—the best one—so I don’t have to be embarrassed in front of the bosses. Got it?
— I hear you, Pavlo.
— That’s it, I have a meeting. The table needs to be perfect!
The stylist, still holding the hairspray, glanced at her through the mirror.
— Is it some special day today?
— My friend’s premier tonight, — Khrystyna smiled. It turned out a bit wobbly. — Go ahead, just as we agreed.
* * *
Tamara Andriivna arrived at a quarter past five. She always came before the guests to make sure everything was under control. She hung up her coat, dripping water, on a hook, adjusted her cardigan, and walked into the kitchen.
The kitchen smelled of coffee and a damp umbrella drying in the corner. On the spotless, gleaming countertop—no bowls. On the stove—no pots. The fridge hummed quietly, like it did on any ordinary evening.
— Khrystyna! — her mother-in-law’s voice broke into a high-pitched note.
And now she stood on the bedroom threshold with an apron that wasn’t needed after all.
— What do you mean, theater?! — Tamara Andriivna pressed her hand to her chest. — People will be here in half an hour! Irochka’s already on her way!
— The regional drama theater. There’s a premiere tonight.
— Aren’t you ashamed! It’s a special day for your husband! What will the family say? What will people think?
Khrystyna reached for her small velvet clutch on the shelf, slipped in her lipstick and keys.
«It’s Pavlo’s celebration. Let Pavlo handle all the fuss.»
«Twenty people! How am I supposed to feed them all? Are you serious?»
«You’ll think of something, Tamara Andriyivna. You always organize everything for us.»
Footsteps thundered in the hallway. Pavlo burst into the apartment holding a huge bouquet wrapped in craft paper—clearly meant for the general director’s wife. He peeked into the empty kitchen, heard voices, dashed into the bedroom, and froze.
His wife stood there in a dress he’d never seen before. His mother wore an apron. The table behind them was completely empty.
«Mom, why is the table empty? Khrystya, what is going on here?»
«I’m leaving, Pavlo.»
«Where are you going?!» he turned bright red. «The general director will be here in half an hour! Are you trying to embarrass me in front of the whole company?»
Khrystyna turned to face him. Her hands were shaking, and she gripped her clutch tightly so no one would notice.
«For seven years, I’ve set tables, Pavlo. For your birthdays, for your mother’s, for New Year’s, for Irochka’s kids’ christenings. I’ve chopped, baked, washed dishes late into the night. But tonight, I want one evening for myself. And for someone who’s never let me down.»
«I told you, I’ll pay back the money!»
«It’s not about the money.»
She spoke quietly, making the room feel even more silent.
«There’s a delivery card on the hallway table. They have hot meals, salads, sushi—just chip in with mom and order whatever you want. They’ll even bring caviar.»
Then she opened her clutch, pulled out a ticket, and placed it on the bed next to the bouquet.
«Row six, seat eight. The show starts at seven. If you want to come, you still have time.»
She put on a light coat, grabbed her umbrella, and stepped out onto the landing. Behind the door, two people immediately started talking over each other—one was fiddling with the phone, the other searching for the delivery card. The elevator took ages, and all the while Khrystyna stared out the stairwell window, watching the lights flicker on in the neighboring apartment buildings as dusk settled in.
* * *
Seat eight in row six remained empty all evening.
Khrystyna placed her coat over it and stopped glancing back at the door about fifteen minutes in. Then Solomiya appeared on stage—and nothing else mattered anymore. She performed so beautifully that during the second act, nobody in the audience even rustled their programs. When the curtain fell, everyone stood up. Solomiya came out for an encore four times, each time searching the sixth row with her eyes.
Backstage, with smeared mascara and an armful of flowers, she rushed over and threw her arms around Khrystyna’s neck. Then she noticed the coat on the nearby seat that Khrystyna was now holding. She didn’t say anything. Just hugged her again, even tighter.
That was the first time all day that Khrystyna let herself cry.
* * *
She didn’t get home until after midnight. The night lamp was on in the living room, and from the sofa came the heavy sound of snoring—Pavlo was asleep in his shirt, his tie undone.
In the kitchen were piles of pizza boxes, plastic trays with dried soy sauce, and a sink stacked with the same everyday dishes. No one touched the wedding china. Tamara Andriyivna was already gone.
In the bedroom, a wilted bouquet lay on the bed. And under the paper wrapping—a ticket, in exactly the same spot she’d left it.
* * *
In the morning, Khrystyna brewed herself some coffee and sat at the edge of the table, pushing aside a box with leftover pepperoni pizza. Pavlo shuffled into the doorway, looking rumpled and nursing a heavy head. He spent a long while drinking water straight from the tap.
«You embarrassed me in front of my boss,» he said, not turning around. «We ended up serving pizza to the general director.»
«Pizza is a totally fine option for a party you throw together in two hours.»
«But you told me this morning you had everything written down!»
«I wrote it down. And I said I listened. But you were only hearing yourself.»
Pavlo sat heavily down on the stool.
«Mom said she’ll never set foot here again. She was so ashamed in front of Irochka, she walked home in the rain just so she wouldn’t have to cry on the bus.»
Khrystyna didn’t answer. Then Pavlo noticed a ticket on the windowsill—she’d moved it there during the night. He picked it up and turned it over in his fingers.
«So… how was the play?» he asked unexpectedly quietly.
She stared for a long time out the window, where yellow leaves lay scattered on the wet asphalt.
«Solomiya acted so well, the whole audience was on their feet. But there was an empty seat next to me the entire evening.»
Pavlo lowered his eyes. The ticket stayed clenched in his hand.
«Take out the boxes when you leave for work,» Khrystyna said, and walked into the room with her coffee cup.
She wasn’t angry. The anger had faded yesterday already, somewhere during the second act. What was left was a quiet, very clear understanding: all these years, her place in this family had always been at the stove. And she wasn’t going to just accept that anymore.
That evening, when Khrystyna returned from work, she saw the kitchen spotless, the dishes washed and stacked in the cupboard. And on the fridge, pinned under a lemon-shaped magnet next to the calendar, was a yellow note written in Pavlo’s messy handwriting:
«When is Solomiya’s next performance? I’ll go. I’ll buy the tickets myself. P.»
Khrystyna stood in front of the fridge for a long time. Then she grabbed a pen and circled the following Saturday on the calendar. This time—in blue.
