“Are you really planning to receive guests without caviar?” her mother-in-law asked reproachfully, slamming the refrigerator door shut.
Svetlana froze by the kitchen sink and did not turn around at once. Water ran in a thin stream, dripping from the freshly washed vegetables into the bottom of the sink. Outside, it was already growing dark—February evenings came early, and the light from the streetlamps slid across the apartment walls in soft yellow reflections. The air carried the smell of roasted chicken with garlic and rosemary—she had taken the bird out of the oven half an hour earlier and covered it with foil so it would not get cold.
Her mother-in-law’s voice sounded as though Svetlana had done something unforgivable. Not forgotten to buy bread or milk—but betrayed family traditions, disgraced the family line, violated some unspoken code of honor.
She worked as an administrator at a car repair shop on the outskirts of the city. Her day began at seven in the morning and ended closer to eight in the evening. Clients, phone calls, endless repair appointments, explanations to mechanics, arguments with insurance companies—by the end of the workday her head was buzzing, and her temples throbbed with exhaustion. She came home drained, with only one desire: to take off her shoes, change into something comfortable, and simply sit in silence. But lately, there had been less and less silence.
Over the past six months, her mother-in-law had begun showing up more often. At first once a month, then twice, then every week. Every visit came with an inspection: checking the cleanliness of the bathroom, examining the contents of the cupboards, commenting on the cooking. Raisa Pavlovna seemed to have made herself a checklist of the perfect daughter-in-law and methodically compared Svetlana against it, finding more and more shortcomings each time.
The apartment where she and her husband had lived for the past three years had come to her as an inheritance from her mother. Her mother had died suddenly—a stroke, intensive care, four days unconscious. Svetlana had not yet been married then; she lived in a rented one-room apartment on the other side of the city. After the funeral came the paperwork: the notary, the death certificate, requests to the property registry, queues at the public services office. Six months later she officially inherited the apartment and registered it in her own name. All of that had happened six months before she met Artyom. A two-room apartment on the fourth floor of a nine-story brick building, windows facing the courtyard, a school and a grocery store nearby. Ordinary housing in a residential district, but her own. The only thing left of her mother besides photographs and the old china set in the cabinet.
Her husband moved in with her after the wedding. Before that, he had rented a room in a communal apartment not far from the metro—a cramped space with a shared kitchen, where neighbors crowded around the stove every morning waiting their turn. Artyom worked as a sales manager at a construction company and earned fairly well, but he had never saved for a place of his own. His money went on his car, clothes, and restaurant outings. When Svetlana suggested he move in with her, he agreed with relief. She registered him in the apartment two weeks after their marriage—just a formality required by the local precinct officer. Back then, Svetlana saw no problem with it. They were husband and wife, living together, sharing a household. What difference did it make whose name was on the deed?
The difference showed up later. Gradually, imperceptibly. At first in small things.
Artyom was not the owner of the home. The apartment belonged to Svetlana, and that fact was never discussed out loud—until a certain point. He made no claims, expressed no dissatisfaction, demanded no transfer of ownership. He simply lived there, came home after work, had dinner, watched television, or scrolled on his phone.
But his mother, Raisa Pavlovna, saw it differently. She adored ostentatious entertaining, when the table was literally groaning under the weight of food: platters of three kinds of sausage, cheeses, smoked delicacies, several hot dishes, salads in crystal bowls, red caviar on white bread, champagne in an ice bucket. If there wasn’t that kind of abundance, it was considered a disgrace in front of relatives and acquaintances. Raisa Pavlovna could spend two hours talking about how someone had set their table at the last celebration, and she did it with an expression as though she were evaluating a person by the amount of mayonnaise in their salad. For her, a feast was a battlefield, and the winner was the one who displayed more expensive products. A family’s status was measured in grams of caviar and the price of cognac.
Svetlana believed something else. She thought the main thing was to welcome people warmly and feed them well, but without showiness. Guests came for the company, not for caviar. But every time she tried to explain this to her mother-in-law, the older woman looked at her with pity, as if she were someone who failed to understand the most basic things.
That evening, Artyom’s relatives were supposed to come over—his cousin with his wife, and an aunt from his father’s side. Svetlana found out about it only three days in advance. Artyom mentioned it casually while she was washing dishes after dinner.
“By the way, Igor and Lena are stopping by on Saturday. And Aunt Zina too.”
Svetlana turned around, drying her hands with a towel.
“Stopping by? For long?”
“Well, for a couple of hours. We’ll sit, chat. It’s fine,” he replied without taking his eyes off his phone screen.
She nodded. There was nothing to object to—guests were guests. On Friday after work, Svetlana stopped by the supermarket and bought groceries: chicken, vegetables for salad, potatoes, sour cream, fruit, juice, mineral water. She calculated the costs carefully so as to stay within a reasonable budget. She did not spend money on red caviar or gourmet cheeses—she considered them unnecessary for an ordinary family visit. At the end of the month, the utility bills still had to be paid, and there was no money for demonstrative extravagance.
Artyom paid no attention to her shopping. He came home from work, ate dinner, and buried himself in his phone. Svetlana asked whether he would help with the cleaning before the guests arrived. He nodded absentmindedly, but by nine in the evening he still had not gotten up from the couch. She vacuumed by herself, dusted, and washed the floors. The usual picture.
She spent Saturday in the kitchen. She roasted chicken with herbs and garlic, made salad, peeled the potatoes and boiled them in their skins, sliced the vegetables. By five o’clock everything was ready. She covered the table with a simple white tablecloth, set out the plates, and laid down the cutlery.
Raisa Pavlovna arrived without warning—an hour and a half before the appointed time. She rang the doorbell just as Svetlana was coming out of the shower. Her hair was still wet, and she was wearing an old robe. She opened the door and saw her mother-in-law standing there with a large bag in her hand.
“I decided to help you,” Raisa Pavlovna announced from the doorway, taking off her coat. “It’s hard to manage everything alone.”
Svetlana did not have time to answer. Her mother-in-law had already walked into the hallway, hung her coat on the rack, and headed for the kitchen without even taking off her outdoor shoes. Svetlana followed her with her eyes, clenching her teeth. Help she had never asked for. Svetlana was standing by the table with a cutting board in her hands. She had just sliced a lemon for tea; the knife still lay nearby. Raisa Pavlovna was methodically inspecting the refrigerator shelves: bending down, peering into containers, checking the contents of bags. Finally, the door slammed shut.
Her mother-in-law turned around. Poorly concealed disappointment was written in her eyes.
“Are you really planning to receive guests without caviar?”
Svetlana slowly wiped her hands on a kitchen towel, set it on the counter, and looked at her mother-in-law without a smile. Raisa Pavlovna stood there with her arms crossed over her chest, waiting for an explanation. There was an expectation of apologies or excuses in her posture.
“I’m planning to receive guests according to my means,” Svetlana answered calmly, without raising her voice.
“According to your means?” Raisa Pavlovna threw up her hands. “In decent families, people put the best on the table, they don’t pinch every penny! Igor and Lena are used to a proper reception, not to this…” She swept her hand around the kitchen as if pointing to some outrageous poverty of surroundings.
At that moment, Artyom was sitting in the room on the couch. He heard the entire conversation—the apartment was small, two rooms, and sounds carried easily through the half-open door. But her husband remained silent, pretending to be completely absorbed in his phone screen. His fingers slid across the display as though he were reading something extraordinarily important. Svetlana saw it out of the corner of her eye and felt…
“Are you really planning to receive guests without caviar?” her mother-in-law asked reproachfully, slamming the refrigerator door shut.
Svetlana froze by the kitchen sink and did not turn around right away. Water ran in a thin stream, dripping from the freshly washed vegetables into the bottom of the sink. Outside, it was already getting dark — February evenings came early, and the light from the streetlamps slid across the apartment walls in soft yellow reflections. The air smelled of roasted chicken with garlic and rosemary — she had taken the bird out of the oven half an hour earlier and covered it with foil so it would not get cold.
Her mother-in-law’s voice sounded as though Svetlana had done something unforgivable. Not forgotten to buy bread or milk, but betrayed family traditions, disgraced the family name, violated some unspoken code of honor.
She worked as an administrator at an auto repair shop on the outskirts of the city. Her day began at seven in the morning and ended closer to eight in the evening. Clients, phone calls, endless repair appointments, explanations for the mechanics, arguments with insurance companies — by the end of the workday her head was buzzing and her temples throbbed with fatigue. She came home exhausted, with only one desire — to take off her shoes, change into something comfortable, and just sit in silence. But lately, there had been less and less silence.
Over the past six months, her mother-in-law had begun showing up more often. At first once a month, then twice, then every week. Each visit came with an inspection: checking the cleanliness of the bathroom, examining the contents of the cupboards, commenting on the cooking. Raisa Pavlovna seemed to have made herself a checklist of the ideal daughter-in-law and methodically compared Svetlana against it, finding more and more shortcomings each time.
The apartment where she and her husband had lived for the past three years had come to her as an inheritance from her mother. Her mother had died suddenly — a stroke, intensive care, four days unconscious. At that time, Svetlana was not yet married and was living in a rented one-room apartment on the other side of the city. After the funeral came the red tape: the notary, the death certificate, requests to the property registry, waiting in line at the public service center. Six months later she officially inherited the apartment and registered it in her own name. All of this happened half a year before she met Artyom. A two-room apartment on the fourth floor of a brick nine-story building, windows facing the courtyard, a school and a grocery store nearby. An ordinary home in a residential neighborhood, but it was hers. The only thing left from her mother besides photographs and the old dinner set in the cabinet.
Her husband moved in with her after the wedding. Before that he had rented a room in a communal apartment near the metro — a cramped space with a shared kitchen where neighbors crowded in line for the stove every morning. Artyom worked as a sales manager for a construction company, earned fairly well, but had never saved for a place of his own. His money went to his car, clothes, and restaurant outings. When Svetlana suggested he move in with her, he agreed with relief. They registered him there two weeks after the marriage — a formality required by the district police officer. At the time, Svetlana saw no problem with it. They were husband and wife, living together, sharing a household. What difference did it make whose name the apartment was in?
The difference became clear later. Gradually, almost imperceptibly. At first in small things.
Artyom was not the owner of the home. The apartment belonged to Svetlana, and that fact was never discussed aloud — until a certain point. He made no claims, voiced no dissatisfaction, demanded no transfer of ownership. He simply lived there, came home after work, had dinner, watched television, or stared at his phone.
But his mother, Raisa Pavlovna, saw it differently. She adored ostentatious entertaining, when the table was literally groaning under the food: sliced platters of three kinds of sausage, cheeses, smoked meats, several hot dishes, salads in crystal bowls, red caviar on white bread, champagne in an ice bucket. If there was no such abundance, it was considered a disgrace before relatives and acquaintances. Raisa Pavlovna could talk for two hours about how lavishly someone had set the table at the last celebration, and she did it with the expression of a person judging someone’s worth by the amount of mayonnaise in their salad. For her, a feast was a battlefield where the one who displayed the most expensive food won. A family’s status was measured in grams of caviar and the price of cognac.
Svetlana thought differently. She believed the important thing was to welcome people warmly and feed them well, but without showiness. Guests came for company, not for caviar. But every time she tried to explain this to her mother-in-law, the older woman looked at her with pity, as if she were someone who did not understand the most basic things.
That evening Artyom’s relatives were due to visit — his cousin Igor with his wife, and an aunt from his father’s side. Svetlana had found out only three days earlier. Artyom had mentioned it casually while she was washing the dishes after dinner.
“By the way, Igor and Lena are stopping by on Saturday. And Aunt Zina too.”
Svetlana turned around, drying her hands with a towel.
“Stopping by? For long?”
“Oh, just a couple of hours. We’ll sit, chat. It’s fine,” he replied without looking up from his phone screen.
She nodded. There was nothing to argue about — guests were guests. On Friday after work, Svetlana stopped by the supermarket and bought groceries: chicken, vegetables for salad, potatoes, sour cream, fruit, juice, sparkling water. She calculated the expenses carefully so she would stay within a reasonable budget. She did not spend money on red caviar or gourmet cheeses — she considered that excessive for an ordinary family visit. At the end of the month, she still had utility bills to pay, and there was no money for demonstrative extravagance.
Artyom paid no attention to her shopping. He came home from work, had dinner, and buried himself in his phone. Svetlana asked whether he would help with cleaning before the guests arrived. He nodded absentmindedly, but by nine in the evening he still had not gotten off the couch. She vacuumed by herself, dusted, and washed the floors. The usual picture.
She spent Saturday in the kitchen. She roasted chicken with herbs and garlic, made salad, peeled the potatoes and boiled them in their skins, cut up vegetables. By five o’clock everything was ready. She set the table with a simple white tablecloth, arranged the plates, and laid out the cutlery.
Raisa Pavlovna arrived without warning — an hour and a half before the appointed time. She rang the doorbell just as Svetlana was coming out of the shower. Her hair was still wet, and she was wearing an old robe. She opened the door and saw her mother-in-law standing there with a large bag in her hand.
“I decided to help you,” Raisa Pavlovna announced from the doorway as she took off her coat. “It’s hard to manage all alone.”
Svetlana did not even have time to answer. Her mother-in-law had already stepped into the hall, hung up her coat, and headed for the kitchen without taking off her outdoor shoes. Svetlana watched her, clenching her teeth. Help she had never asked for.
Svetlana stood by the table with a cutting board in her hands. She had just sliced a lemon for tea; the knife was still lying beside it. Raisa Pavlovna was methodically inspecting the refrigerator shelves: bending down, peering into containers, checking the contents of bags. At last the door slammed shut sharply.
Her mother-in-law turned around. Barely concealed disappointment was written all over her face.
“Are you really planning to receive guests without caviar?”
Svetlana slowly dried her palms with a kitchen towel, placed it on the counter, and looked at her mother-in-law without smiling. Raisa Pavlovna stood there with her arms folded across her chest, waiting for an explanation. Her posture suggested she expected either apologies or excuses.
“I’m planning to receive guests within my means,” Svetlana replied calmly, without raising her voice.
“Within your means?” Raisa Pavlovna threw up her hands. “In decent families, people put the best on the table instead of pinching every penny! Igor and Lena are used to a proper reception, not this…” She waved her hand around the kitchen, as if pointing out some outrageous poverty in the surroundings.
At that moment Artyom was sitting in the living room on the couch. He could hear the entire conversation — the apartment was small, just two rooms, and sounds carried easily through the half-open door. But he remained silent, pretending to be completely absorbed in his phone. His fingers slid across the screen as if he were reading something tremendously important. Svetlana could see it out of the corner of her eye and felt a dull irritation spreading in her chest.
She took a step closer to her mother-in-law and said evenly:
“If someone wants caviar, they can bring it with them. I’m not stopping anyone.”
Raisa Pavlovna froze, as though she had not expected such an answer. Her face lengthened, her eyebrows shot upward. For a few seconds she stared at her daughter-in-law in silence, then flung up her hands and exclaimed:
“You’re disgracing us in front of the family! What will people think? That we’re stingy? That we can’t afford proper food?”
Svetlana tilted her head slightly, studying her mother-in-law with genuine curiosity.
“And why has the contents of my refrigerator become a matter for public discussion?”
Raisa Pavlovna opened her mouth, but Svetlana did not let her get a word in. She continued calmly, as though explaining something obvious:
“This is my apartment. My refrigerator. My money. I decide what to buy and what to serve my guests.”
Her mother-in-law turned crimson. She began listing what the lady of the house “owed” people: to welcome guests properly, not lose face, maintain the family’s reputation. The words poured out one after another, her tone becoming more demanding by the second.
Svetlana listened without interrupting, but when Raisa Pavlovna paused to catch her breath, she said quietly:
“The lady of this house is me. And I make the decisions here.”
There was a creak from the couch in the other room — Artyom had finally decided to intervene. He came into the kitchen with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans and tried to defuse the tension.
“All right, come on, don’t fight over little things. Mom, everything will be fine, don’t worry. Sveta cooked, everything tastes good — what more do you need?”
Svetlana slowly turned toward her husband. She looked him in the eyes and asked quietly, very quietly:
“Why is it that only my opinion is considered a little thing?”
Artyom was taken aback. He opened his mouth, but said nothing. Raisa Pavlovna snorted and turned toward the window, demonstratively showing that the conversation was over.
The guests arrived exactly at seven. Igor with his wife, Aunt Zina carrying a cake in a box. Everyone sat down at the table, Svetlana served the hot dish and poured tea. The conversation moved sluggishly — work, weather, the prices in the stores. None of the guests voiced a single complaint about the food. Igor even praised the chicken and asked for seconds. Lena asked Svetlana with interest about the salad recipe. Aunt Zina talked about her grandchildren and showed photos on her phone. An ordinary, quiet evening.
But Raisa Pavlovna did not miss a single chance to insert her own comments. She sat in the seat of honor at the head of the table as though it were her house rather than her daughter-in-law’s. She straightened napkins, rearranged plates, made remarks about the temperature of the tea.
“Do you remember how we celebrated Igor’s birthday last year?” she began, addressing Lena. “Now that was a table! Red caviar, salmon, three kinds of salad, a hot dish…”
Lena nodded politely, throwing an embarrassed glance at Svetlana.
“In the old days, tables were richer,” Raisa Pavlovna sighed, shaking her head. “People didn’t economize on guests. They knew how to welcome people properly.”
Igor coughed awkwardly.
“Aunt Raya, everything Sveta made is very tasty. The chicken is excellent.”
But her mother-in-law had already gotten going. She kept listing what dishes had been on that holiday table, how much had been spent, how the hosts had spared no expense. Svetlana clenched her teeth, feeling her face burn with shame and anger.
She kept silent. The evening dragged on мучительно долго — painfully slowly. When the guests finally left, she silently gathered the dishes, loaded them into the dishwasher, and wiped down the table.
Artyom was sitting on the couch, scrolling through the news feed. Raisa Pavlovna had left right after the guests, throwing Svetlana an eloquent look on the way out.
Svetlana walked over to her husband and sat opposite him in an armchair. He looked up from his phone.
“We need to talk,” she said.
“About what?”
“I’m tired of the constant inspections and comments in my own home. Tired of your mother thinking she has the right to tell me what to buy and how to live. Tired of her humiliating me in front of guests.”
Artyom frowned and slipped the phone into his pocket.
“She just wanted to help. You’re taking it too personally.”
“Help?” Svetlana leaned forward, her voice still quiet but tense. “She conducted an inspection of the refrigerator and scolded me like a naughty schoolgirl. Then she spent the whole evening hinting to the guests that I’m a bad housekeeper.”
“You’re exaggerating. Mom just wants everything to be nice.”
“And you? Were you ever planning to say anything at all? Or is it simply more convenient for you to stay silent while your mother tells me how to live in my own apartment?”
Artyom leaned back against the couch and sighed.
“Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill. It’s only caviar.”
Svetlana rose slowly to her feet.
“It’s not about the caviar. It’s about respect. About the fact that this is my home, and I have the right to decide what happens here.”
“So what are you suggesting?”
“I’m suggesting that you support me. Tell your mother that this is our life and we decide for ourselves how to arrange it.”
Artyom was silent for a moment, then shook his head.
“You’re taking it too personally. Mom just wants what’s best for us.”
At that moment Svetlana understood the conversation was over. Artyom had taken his mother’s side — not directly, not openly, but by default. He had chosen not to defend his wife, but to justify his mother-in-law. He had chosen silence instead of support.
The next day Svetlana made an appointment for a consultation with a lawyer. A week later she filed a claim in court for divorce and for her husband’s eviction from the apartment. They had no minor children together, and there was no jointly acquired property either — everything had been in her name before the marriage.
At first Artyom did not believe it. Then he tried to persuade her, begged for a second chance, promised to talk to his mother. Svetlana only shook her head. Too late. She had stayed silent too long, endured too much, hoped too long that something would change on its own.
Three days after she filed the papers, he came home drunk. Svetlana was sitting in the kitchen with a cup of tea when she heard the front door open. Artyom came in unsteadily, reeking of alcohol.
“Are you serious?” he leaned against the doorframe. “You’re getting divorced over caviar? That’s insane.”
“It’s not about the caviar,” Svetlana said, setting her cup down on the table.
“Then what is it about? That my mother wanted what was best?”
“It’s about the fact that you are always on her side. About the fact that this is my apartment, yet I feel like a guest here, constantly being judged.”
“She’s just caring!”
“She’s controlling. Ordering me around. Humiliating me. And you stay silent.”
Artyom waved his hand dismissively and went into the room. He fell face down onto the couch. Svetlana remained sitting in the kitchen, staring out the window at the dark courtyard.
The next morning he left for work without breakfast. That evening Raisa Pavlovna came by. Without calling, with her own key — the one Artyom had given her a year earlier. Svetlana heard the door open and came out of the room.
“We need to talk,” her mother-in-law said, taking off her coat.
“I didn’t invite you,” Svetlana replied.
“This is my son’s apartment.”
“No. This is my apartment. Artyom is only registered here.”
Raisa Pavlovna froze, clutching her bag. Her face flushed red.
“How dare you! You’re married!”
“We were. I filed for divorce.”
“You’re throwing my son out?!”
“I’m dissolving the marriage. Everything else follows from that.”
Her mother-in-law started breathing faster. For a few seconds she stared at Svetlana in silence, then turned sharply and stormed out, slamming the door. Her key remained in the lock.
Svetlana walked over, pulled it out, and placed it on the little cabinet. That evening she called a locksmith, who changed the lock.
The court case lasted two months. The decision was made in Svetlana’s favor: the marriage was dissolved, and Artyom was required to vacate the apartment within a month. She did not ask for alimony — there were no children, and the law did not oblige her to support her former husband.
At the first hearing, Artyom arrived with his mother. Raisa Pavlovna sat in the corridor outside the courtroom with a stone face, clutching a handkerchief. When Svetlana walked past, her mother-in-law hissed:
“Shameless.”
Svetlana stopped and turned toward her. She looked at her evenly and calmly.
“I just want to live in my own apartment. Without insults and humiliation.”
In the courtroom, Artyom’s lawyer tried to argue that the apartment had become jointly acquired marital property. Svetlana presented documents proving that the apartment had been inherited before the marriage. The inheritance certificate, the property registry extract with the registration date — everything was in her favor.
Artyom sat with his head lowered. When the judge announced the ruling, he stood up and walked out without looking at Svetlana.
After the decision came into legal force, Artyom packed his things. He came on a Saturday morning with two large bags, silently packed up his clothes, books, and chargers. Svetlana stood in the doorway of the room and watched him folding his life into suitcases. He took only what he had brought with him three years earlier. The television, the couch, the washing machine — all of it had been bought with her money and remained with her.
He zipped up the last bag, straightened up, and looked at Svetlana. In his eyes there was confusion, hurt, incomprehension.
“I thought we could come to an agreement,” he said quietly.
“We could have come to an agreement earlier. When your mother was inspecting the refrigerator and you stayed silent.”
“It’s still all because of caviar,” he said with a bitter smirk.
“No. It’s because you don’t know how to be a husband. You remained your mother’s son.”
Artyom picked up the bags and headed for the door.
Before leaving, he placed the keys on the little cabinet in the hallway. He turned as though he wanted to say something, but changed his mind. He simply nodded and walked out.
Svetlana closed the door, leaned against it with her back, and closed her eyes. Silence filled the apartment — unusual, ringing, but somehow right. She went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. On the shelves were the groceries she had chosen herself: yogurt, vegetables, cheese, chicken fillet.
No caviar. No ostentatious delicacies. No чужих ревизий and demands.
Only her choice. Only her life. Only her home.
She poured herself some tea and sat by the window. Rain was falling outside, drops sliding down the windowsill. Somewhere below, the entrance door banged shut — probably Artyom had gotten into a taxi and left. Forever.
Svetlana took a sip of tea. Hot, sweet, without any herbal additives the mother-in-law loved so much. Ordinary black tea with sugar.
A month later she brought in a painter who repainted the bedroom walls. Instead of the beige Raisa Pavlovna had once chosen, they were now light blue. Two months later she bought new bedding — white, simple, without lace or ruffles.
Her friends asked whether she regretted it. Svetlana shook her head. There was nothing to regret. She had reclaimed her right to live the way she wanted. Without looking back at other people’s expectations, without fear of judgment, without the need to justify every little thing.
In the evenings she came home from work, opened the door with her own key, and entered an apartment where no one was waiting for her with complaints. She cooked what she liked. Watched the films she wanted to see. Went to bed when she felt tired.
Sometimes she was lonely. But loneliness in her own home turned out to be better than living in constant tension, when any decision you make can become a reason for a scandal.
One day in the supermarket, Svetlana stopped by the delicacies counter. Small jars of red caviar stood on the shelf, gleaming under the lamps. She picked one up, turned it over in her hands, looked at the price tag. Then she smirked and put it back.
Not today. Maybe someday later, for herself, simply because she wanted it. But not for show. Not to impress anyone. Not to prove that she was worthy of someone else’s approval.
For now, the refrigerator held ordinary food. And that was enough. More than enough.
