“Since you’re so sure I’m a whore, why don’t you tell everyone here who your son really belongs to? Because you yourself let it slip to me!”
Dmitry’s voice was quiet, almost pleading. He stood in the middle of the room already dressed in his formal suit, nervously smoothing an impeccably tied tie. Svetlana didn’t turn around. She kept looking at her reflection in the mirror, slowly, with surgical precision, outlining her lips with a dark cherry lipstick. The deep burgundy silk of her dress hugged her figure, emphasizing every curve while still looking strict and elegant. It was the outfit of a woman who knew her own worth. An outfit for battle.
“And what’s wrong with it, Dima?” Her voice was even, calm, without a hint of irritation. That was exactly what frightened him most. He was used to her flare-ups, to quarrels after which they could embrace and pretend nothing had happened. But this icy detachment was something new and foreign.
“Well, you know my mother. She might think the dress is too… revealing,” he picked a word that didn’t sound like a direct accusation.
Svetlana finished her makeup, set the lipstick aside, and slowly turned to him. A barely noticeable, cold smile played on her lips.
“Your mother would find a reason to condemn even a hijab if I were the one wearing it. Or did you forget her call to Aunt Lyuda last week? When she was whispering—loud enough for you to hear—that I was ‘flirting’ with our pensioner neighbor? With Grandpa Nikolai, who is eighty-three and mistakes me for a nurse from the clinic.”
Dmitry flinched as if struck. He remembered that conversation. He’d stood in the hallway pretending to look for his keys while his mother spread her poisonous gossip in the kitchen. He had simply gone to the bedroom then, and in the evening told Svetlana she ought to rise above it.
“Svet, please, don’t start. Today is her birthday. Fifty-five. Let’s just have a normal evening. For my sake. Just ignore it, okay?”
“Just ignore it.” That phrase had become the motto of their last two years. Ignore it when the mother-in-law criticized her borscht in front of guests. Ignore it when she gave, for their wedding anniversary, a book called “How to Keep Your Husband.” Ignore the hints, the looks, and the blatant lies Galina Stepanovna gladly spread among the relatives. Svetlana endured. Stayed silent. For him. For Dima, whom she loved—and who each time looked at her with the eyes of a guilty puppy, torn between his mother and his wife.
But something broke. Maybe a month ago. Maybe this morning, when she chose this dress. She looked in the mirror and understood: she couldn’t do it anymore.
“Alright, dear,” she suddenly said softly. Dmitry exhaled in relief. “I won’t pay attention to anything. I’ll be polite. I’ll smile at your aunts who think I sleep around. I’ll kiss your mother on the cheek and wish her good health.”
She stepped close and straightened the lapel of his jacket. He wanted to hug her, but her body was taut like a drawn bowstring.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “I knew you’d understand me.”
Svetlana lifted her eyes to him. There was no warmth there, no love. Only cold resolve.
“I’ll even give a toast. A beautiful one. To family. To honesty. Your mother will like it.”
She picked up her purse, and the air filled with the tart scent of her perfume. Dmitry smiled, missing the catch. He didn’t know Svetlana was going to that birthday not to make peace. She was going to war.
The banquet hall of the “Tsarsky” restaurant drowned in gilding and heavy velvet drapes. The air was thick with a mix of perfume, hairspray, and roasted meat. Relatives—many of whom Svetlana was seeing for the first time—approached their table and handed the mother-in-law…
