«The whole apartment smells like burnt cooking again,» said Emma Markovna as she yanked open the window. «At least leave your jacket on the balcony, dear.»
I sat on the kitchen stool by the stove, massaging my tired feet. The wedding I worked last night for ninety guests ended at half past two. I got home by four, and by eight my mother-in-law was clattering pots and pans like there was a fire. I’d left my chef jacket at work, of course. The smell wasn’t from my clothes, but from my hair, which was full of smoke from the grill after a long night.
I’ve been living in her three-bedroom apartment on Zarechnaya for five years. All this time, I keep hearing the same thing, just in different words.
«So, what do we have here?» my mother-in-law adjusted her glasses on their chain and stood at the window, like she used to at the chalkboard. «Fifty-one years old. No place of your own, not a penny to your name. You came to us with one suitcase, and that’s still all you have. By the way, it’s taking up a whole shelf in the attic. Move it.»
The suitcase was brown, on wheels, with a lock that always got stuck. I really did come here with it right after the wedding, straight from the small room I was renting near the train station. I was forty-six, Vitaly was forty-nine, and for the first time in a long while, I believed that I didn’t have to live alone.
I knew what I was getting into. Vitaly told me right away: he wouldn’t rent, his mom has a three-bedroom, so why pay someone else. After a year, I suggested a mortgage, but he wasn’t interested. Another year later, I showed him calculations on my phone—the down payment, the monthly payment. «Zhanna, it’s hard for Mom to live alone,» he said. Once, after a really loud argument about my night shifts, I spent a week at a colleague’s place. Vitaly came by every evening, standing under the window with a bag of mandarins, promising he’d talk to his mom. I came back. Whether he talked to her, I never found out.
My mother-in-law’s phone rang.
«Fainochka!» Her voice instantly turned sweet. «Wednesday? Of course, let’s go to ‘Verkhovye’—where else? I get a discount there, you know, fifteen percent! Vitalik arranged it, he’s got friends there. And we’ll get the honey cake—they’ve got the best one in town, I promise you.»
I folded the towel into quarters and placed it on my lap.
If only she knew whose ‘friends’ those really were. Two years ago, I was promoted to head of banquet services at ‘Verkhovye’, and with the position, they gave out a special card for relatives of employees. Vitaly asked me then, «Give it to Mom, let her enjoy it.» So I did. The very next day, my mother-in-law was telling everyone in the building how thoughtful her son was. And the honey cake at ‘Verkhovye’? They bake it using my recipe: twelve layers, sour cream frosting, set in the fridge for a full day before serving.
My mother-in-law was sure I was still dishing out cutlets in a factory canteen. Vitaly never corrected her. Otherwise, he’d have to admit that his wife earns almost twice as much as he does, and in this house, he’s supposed to be the breadwinner. That’s how his mom wanted it.
«See? Take note,» my mother-in-law set her phone on the windowsill. «A son gives his mother a discount. And what do I get from you? Living under my roof, eating out of my fridge.»
I glanced at the fridge. Just yesterday, I brought in almost six thousand’s worth of groceries: cheese, fish, her favorite country cottage cheese I always get at the market from the same lady. My fingers clenched the towel, feeling the damp fabric gather under my nails.
No. I can’t keep silent about this, at least.
I reached for my phone, opened my banking app, and set it on the table, screen facing up.
«What’s this now?» my mother-in-law wrinkled her nose.
«It’s the auto-payment history. Utility bills for your apartment, Emma Markovna. Sixty payments since July 2021. Four hundred fourteen thousand. You can scroll through, I’ll wait.»
She took off her glasses and let them rest on her chest. She leaned toward the screen, then straightened up, as if it had burned her.
«Well, keep paying,» she finally said. «You’re supposed to. This isn’t a hotel you’re living in.»
«Supposed to,» I agreed. «But then please don’t call me a charity case. Poor people don’t pay for someone else’s three-room for years.»
«And what about the suitcase?»
«Let it stay there. I might still need it.»
My mother-in-law opened her mouth, but stayed silent. She pressed her lips together, ran her hand along the oilcloth like she was erasing my words, and left. The door to her room shut so hard that the cups rattled in the dish rack.
I was left alone in the kitchen. The tap dripped, and outside, pigeons argued on the windowsill. My feet ached after my shift, but inside, I felt warm and calm, just like after a perfect serve when the whole room stands and applauds.
That day, my manager called to say that yesterday’s newlyweds were thrilled, and the bride’s mother was already reserving an autumn anniversary with us. I rode home in the minibus, watched the wet lindens pass by the window and smiled. For the first time, I’d said out loud what I’d always known deep down.
In the evening, Vitaly ate buckwheat and a cutlet, staring into his plate.
«Zhan, please don’t get my mom worked up, okay? Her birthday’s on the fourth. Seventy-six. Let her at least have a nice day.»
I nodded. Back then, I still believed things could ever be truly ‘nice’ in this house.
***
The knife was lying on the balcony, on a cutting board next to a half-thawed chicken.
I recognized it instantly by its dark walnut handle. It was a Japanese Gyuto, twenty-one centimeters long, with an engraving at the base: “To Zhanna from the ‘Verkhoviya’ team.” The restaurant owner gave it to me the day I was promoted. Thirty-four thousand rubles—I knew exactly how much because he left the receipt in the box.
The knife was missing its tip. Instead of a sharp point, there was a crooked chip, as if the blade had been bitten off. On the board, in the pink, icy crumbs, the broken-off piece of steel, about the size of a fingernail, was shimmering.
“Emma Markovna!”
My mother-in-law stepped out of the room in her robe, curlers tucked under a scarf.
“So what? The chicken was frozen, I had to chop it up. Can you cut through it with your fancy knives? This one’s sharp.”
“You’re not supposed to chop with this knife. Especially not bones. Especially not frozen ones.”
She waved me off. “It’s just a knife. Vitalik will buy a new one.”
Vitalik will buy one. Out of his fifty-five thousand, most of which goes toward his old Skoda, gas, and repairs.
I picked up the broken tip with two fingers. It was icy cold and smelled of raw meat. As I held it, I wondered how many more things in this house would break as long as I kept silent.
“You should look at me instead,” my mother-in-law suddenly grinned broadly. Her teeth were white and straight. “A whole year has passed, and they’re still like new. That’s what having a son means! Vitalik got my teeth fixed, and Fainka is still green with envy. And what have you done for me in all this time? You’re just feeling sorry for your knife.”
Vitaliy was standing in the bathroom doorway, a towel around his neck. He had heard everything. I looked at him, waiting for him to say something—anything.
“Come on, Mom,” he said, smiling at his mother and looking away.
My ears buzzed, like the kitchen hood was on full blast.
The implants cost a hundred and forty thousand. A year ago, my mother-in-law couldn’t chew, was eating pureed food, and crying at night in the next room. Vitaliy shrugged—where would he get that kind of money? I gave up my annual bonus. I only asked one thing, not to make a big deal out of it. “Let’s just say we did it together,” he suggested at the time. Together it was. But that ‘together’ somehow quietly turned into ‘Vitalik’.
I put the broken piece on the windowsill, wiped my fingers on my apron, and opened my email on my phone. «Clinic» folder, an email from last June.
“Emma Markovna, please read this. Right here.”
She adjusted her glasses. Read to herself, lips moving: “Payer: Zhanna Olegovna Kovaleva. Amount: one hundred and forty thousand rubles.” She slowly turned to her son.
“What does that mean?”
“Mom, what does it matter who paid,” Vitaliy fidgeted with the towel. “We’re family, aren’t we?”
“It does matter,” I said. “That was my annual bonus. I never asked for thanks. But don’t lie to your friends on my behalf either.”
My mother-in-law looked from the screen to her son, back and forth. For the first time I could remember, she seemed at a loss for words. Then she turned and headed to her room, shuffling her slippers loudly on purpose the way hurt children do.
I stayed on the balcony. The air smelled of poplar fluff, raw chicken, and someone else’s meat patties from the third floor. My heart was pounding fast, but my head was clear—like I had just pulled a baking tray from the oven that everyone else thought was burnt.
Vitaly followed after and stood behind me.
«Zhan, why did you have to do that? And in front of Mom,» he said.
«Well, what was I supposed to do, Vitaly? Stay silent for just as long again?»
He shrugged and went back to finish watching football.
The next day, I took the knife to our sharpener, who visits ‘Verkhovye’ once a month with his grinding wheel. He spent a while inspecting the blade under the lamp and then grunted:
«We can save it. I’ll reshape the tip, it’ll end up a centimeter shorter. But it’ll cut just like before. It’s yours, not somebody else’s.»
On the way home, I had the knife wrapped in a towel, and I almost felt cheerful. Maybe I could be sharpened up again too, I thought.
At night, when Vitaly had fallen asleep in front of the TV, I opened up a classified ads site. A one-room apartment near the Central Market, fourth floor, twenty-six thousand a month, elderly landlady who asks for ‘no pets and no noise.’ I added it to my favorites.
Deposit plus first month’s rent. I’ll still have enough left for the down payment. It’s enough.
In the morning, Vitaly spent a long time stirring sugar into his mug, never raising his eyes.
«Mom asked,» he finally said. «Can you set the table for her birthday? You’re a cook. There’ll be six guests. Just this one last time, okay?»
***
Preparing a table for six people takes about three hours if you don’t rush.
I didn’t rush. Aspic tongue, fish roulade with spinach, salad with roasted beetroot and goat cheese, veal with prunes. My mother-in-law dictated the menu herself, adding to each item: ‘Just don’t make it cafeteria style.’ The ingredients cost me eleven thousand. Vitaly promised to return half after payday.
There were five guests: Faina, two neighbors from upstairs, and my mother-in-law’s cousin from Rybinsk. Emma Markovna sat at the head of the table in amber beads, smiling at compliments for the roulade and nodding as if she’d baked it herself.
After the third shot, she stood and tapped her fork on her glass.
«I want to toast my son. Our breadwinner. He got his mother teeth, got us a discount at ‘Verkhovye,’ he shoulders the house alone. And on top of all that,» she paused for effect, like it was the annual review, «he’s still putting up with her. Fifth year putting up with a pauper and her suitcase. A saint!»
The guests laughed unsurely. Faina giggled into her napkin.
«Don’t believe me?» my mother-in-law perked up. «Vitalik, get it down from the top shelf.»
Vitaly blushed but went. A minute later he put my brown suitcase in the middle of the room, right by the table between the neighbors’ chairs.
«There!» Emma Markovna spread her hands. «Her dowry. Everything she’s acquired in fifty years.»
Now everyone was laughing loud, even Vitaly. He chuckled at his mother and winked at Faina, as if to say, what can you do.
I looked at my husband and felt my fingers grow cold, even though the room was stuffy with food and candles. My mouth was still sour with the vinegar from the aspic I’d tasted half an hour before. I could’ve handled the suitcase. But that laugh—not a chance.
So that’s how it is. All these years I thought he was just weak. But he’s with them. He was always with them.
I stood up, straightened my scarf at the back of my head, and walked over to the suitcase.
«Thank you, Emma Markovna,» I said. «For getting it down. I never could’ve reached the top shelf myself.»
The laughter died away. I grabbed the handle and rolled the suitcase into the bedroom. The wheel squeaked, just like always.
It took me twenty minutes to pack. Uniform, documents, laptop, a knife wrapped in a towel, my mom’s photo in a frame. The rest could wait. Vitaly stood in the doorway.
«Zhan, what are you doing? It was just a joke. Mom’s been drinking.»
«I’m moving out, Vitaly. I found a place last week. Come with me.»
He glanced back toward the room where dishes clattered and voices buzzed.
«Where would I go? It’s Mom’s celebration.»
«Then go celebrate,» I said.
Anna Ilyinichna, the owner of the one-bedroom, was surprised to get a call at nine at night, but said, «Come over, dear, the key’s with my neighbor.» The taxi arrived in seven minutes. As I rolled my suitcase through the hallway, the room fell silent. Only my mother-in-law shouted after me:
«Good riddance!»
The apartment smelled like fresh paint and someone else’s detergent. I sat on the couch without taking off my shoes, suitcase still by the door. The fridge hummed, down by the market movers bickered. No one told me I was taking up space. I must’ve sat there for an hour, just not thinking about anything.
In the morning, I bought coffee at the kiosk below my window and drank it standing, watching the market vendors lay out new potatoes on their stalls. The coffee was nothing special. But it was my first coffee in my own place—even if it was just rented.
Two weeks later Vitaly called.
«Zhan,» his voice was guilty, almost familiar. «Mom’s crying. She says she went too far that night. She wants to apologize. Can you come back? Let’s meet on Sunday and talk things over.»
I stayed silent. Maybe it really was just a heated moment? Seventy-six years old, guests, some drinks. Maybe I was harsh too. Years aren’t just a single evening.
«Alright,» I said. «Sunday.»
«Great!» he sounded relieved. «Also, we got another bill. Did you disable the autopay?»
«I did. I don’t live there anymore.»
It went quiet on his end. Then he coughed:
«Oh. Right. Never mind.»
I put my phone down and stared at it for a long time. For some reason, that ‘never mind’ stung more than anything else.
Saturday, I had a wedding for eighty people. Only one day left until Sunday.
***
By one o’clock, the banquet kitchen smelled of dill, clarified butter, and warm caramel. Eighty main courses, a three-tiered cake, two trays of canapés. My two cooks were chopping away while I worked on sauces and watched the clock: guests arrive at five, prep finished by four.
Gleb walked in without knocking, which was unlike him. His ears were burning.
«Zhanna Olegovna, excuse me. At table seven in the main hall, there are four women. I tried to run a pre-check, but they have an employee’s relative card. Your last name, Kovalyova Zh O, is on the screen.»
«That’s my mother-in-law,» I said. «Almost ex. So what?»
«She’s talking about you. Loudly. I thought you should know.»
For two years, only the cashier and the manager knew about that card. We don’t usually discuss family ties with guests, and my mother-in-law would come for lunch during the week when I was hunched over estimates in the banquet wing. Gleb had been working here since spring. Looks like he was the first to hear her out loud.
I wiped my hands, folded the towel into quarters, and followed him. Table seven stood right behind a wooden slat partition at the bar, and through the gaps I could see a white tablecloth and amber beads.
Finally, that beggar woman moved out! Emma Markovna clinked glasses with Faina, toasting with juice. I’ve been breathing easy for three weeks! The room is empty, the kitchen is spotless, no more burnt smell.
But what about Vitalik? one of the friends asked.
What about Vitalik? He keeps calling her, asking her to come back. I told him myself: say your mother is crying. Who else is going to pay the bills? Seven thousand a month, that’s no joke! she laughed. Let her pay, she can live in a doghouse for all I care. Am I supposed to apologize? No way.
And what about your discount? Faina nodded at the card by the napkin holder.
That’s from my son. Everyone here knows me, Fainochka. Fifteen percent, you won’t find that anywhere else.
So that’s what the ‘mother’s crying’ was about. Not about me. About the autopayment.
I was standing behind the partition, the wooden slats sticky with varnish under my hand. The bar smelled like coffee, and the table sent up the aroma of my honey cake, which Gleb had just brought them for dessert. There was no hurt. Just a cold, clear feeling, like in a freezer where nothing melts and you can see all the way to the very back shelf.
I took out my phone and called the shift manager.
Sveta, table seven, the family card under my name. Please remove it right now.
Removing it, Sveta said, and didn’t ask any questions.
Half a minute later, Gleb glanced at his tablet and nodded: the discount had disappeared from the pre-check.
Gleb, go over to them. Quietly and politely. Tell her one phrase, word for word.
I dictated. He repeated it, straightened his apron and went to the table.
Gleb bent over to speak to my mother-in-law and said it so quietly I could barely make it out—almost guessed it.
Emma Markovna, for two years our chef Zhanna Olegovna gave you a discount on this card, and she asked me to let you know that today she closed it.
My mother-in-law raised her glasses on their chain to her eyes, as if that would help her understand.
Which chef?
Zhanna? Faina set down her spoon. Your Zhanna? Emmochka, you told me she dishes out cutlets at the factory cafeteria.
I stepped out from behind the partition. Dressed in a white chef’s jacket, scarf, and with a towel tucked into my waistband. The nearby tables went silent.
Good afternoon. Don’t worry, Emma Markovna, I’ll just be a minute—I’m running an eighty-person wedding today. Yes, I’m the head of banquets at ‘Verkhovye.’ For three years now. I set up that family discount card for you myself, Vitaliy just brought it. You’ve saved almost sixty thousand on my name. I paid your apartment bills all this time, without missing a single month. The teeth Vitalik fixed for you cost me my annual bonus. And the honey cake on your table? That’s my recipe.
My mother-in-law was silent. She pressed her lips together and kept smoothing the same spot on the tablecloth over and over.
I’m not a beggar, Emma Markovna. I just paid, for five years, to be called that. I’m not paying anymore.
I turned to Gleb.
Put the honey cake on my bill. Everything else as ordered from the menu. Enjoy your meal, ladies.
Emma, Faina said quietly as I was walking away. And what about the teeth? You talked about Vitalik all year.
My mother-in-law didn’t answer. She was trying to dial a number, missing the buttons, and I heard behind me:
Vitalik, transfer money to my card. Now! Don’t ask how much. Whatever you have!
The kitchen still smelled just the same: dill, butter, caramel. My cooks pretended not to hear anything, even though the door to the serving area was wide open. I grabbed the newly sharpened knife—now a centimeter shorter than the last—and started slicing veal for the canapés. The blade slid through so easily, like it was gliding through butter. Delicate pink slices landed perfectly one after another.
Breathing felt as if I’d just set down a heavy tray I’d been holding out at arm’s length for years.
About twenty minutes later, Faina appeared in the kitchen doorway. Purse tucked under her arm, her face looked embarrassed.
«Zhanna, please forgive me,» she said. «I just didn’t know. By the way, can I order a cake for a birthday from you? It’s my granddaughter’s, in September. Like that honey cake you make.»
«Of course, Faina Petrovna. Just go through the administrator. Tell them it’s from me.»
She nodded and left. At five o’clock, the newlyweds entered the banquet hall, and I served the hot dishes right on time.
***
At the beginning of October, our divorce was finalized. We’d filed the paperwork together through the state online portal, back in August: after that night at the restaurant, my mother-in-law told her son that she never wanted to see me in their lives again, and Vitaly, it seemed, couldn’t forgive me for the truth coming out in front of Faina. At the registry office, he signed the papers without looking up and only said, “Well, goodbye.”
Now, Emma Markovna pays for the apartment herself, from her pension. Vitaly drives a Skoda as a taxi in the evenings to cover groceries. His mother hasn’t set foot in «Verkhovye» since. Faina told all her friends what happened that Saturday, and now, they say, people gossip on the bench outside about Vitaly’s «acquaintances» instead of my suitcase. But she did order the birthday cake for her granddaughter after all. A honey cake, twelve layers.
I still live in the same one-bedroom near the market. The money I saved for my down payment is intact, and has even grown—my salary no longer disappears on someone else’s bills. In the spring, I’ll go to the bank on my own, and the apartment will be mine alone. Mornings, I drink coffee by the window; in the evenings, I slice bread with the same knife. It’s a centimeter shorter, but feels just right in my hand.
Yesterday I finally unpacked the last boxes and tossed my suitcase onto the top shelf. Brown, with wheels and a lock that still sticks. Now it sits there empty. And no one can say it’s in someone else’s way anymore. It simply has nowhere else left to go.
