— Anniversary is canceled! I will not cater to your family, let the mother-in-law run herself!
Marina dropped heavy food bags on the floor and leaned her back against the cool hallway wall. Her whiskeys were tapping, her legs were buzzing, as if she had just run a marathon, instead of finishing a full shift in accounting, only to push for another hour in a crowded supermarket. The handles of the bags that hit the palms left red fringes that are now unpleasantly itchy. From the living room there was a cheerful voice of a TV presenter and the bell of the dishes — husband Sergey had already eaten dinner, not waiting for her.
— Marish, are you? — he screamed, without tearing away from the TV screen. — Did you buy the bread? There is only a humpback left, completely fresh, impossible to chew.
She breathed out, suppressing her strong desire to throw her shoes into a corner, and silently walked to the kitchen. A familiar mountain of dirty dishes was hanging out on the table: a plate with dried ketchup spills, a cup with a dark tea flush, crumbs scattered on the glue, as if they were feeding pigeons here. Sergey reheated yesterday’s cutlets by spraying grease on the stove, but of course, he did not know how to clean up after himself.
At that moment, the phone rang in the pocket of the cloak. «Galina Ivanovna» appeared on the screen. The mother in law. Marina closed her eyes for a second, getting ready. She knew this call — an evening report, flowing smoothly into the list of demands.
— Marinochka, Hello dear! — the mother-in-law’s voice followed a stream, which was always a true sign: she needed something. — Are you home yet? And I’m calling on an important matter. Sereje rang, he rangled something and hung up, he’s busy, I guess.
— Good evening, Galina Ivanovna. Yes, just entered, didn’t even have time to get out. What just happened?
— Well, why did it happen right away? We are planning to have fun, Marina! My anniversary is coming up, sixty years, is it a joke? I was thinking… Decided: we’re going to walk widely! Relatives from Saratov will come, and Svatkovs from the village will pull up. A man is thirty, no less will gain.
Marina machine began to unpack packages by pressing the phone with her shoulder. Thirty men. In their apartment, this meant Armageddon of a local scale.
— Galina Ivanovna, thirty people is serious. Have you checked out the restaurant yet? Now everywhere you need to reserve in advance.
There was a theatrical pause, full of mischief, hanging in the tube. — Which restaurant, Marinochka? You know what the prices are now! The trap is one and only. Portions of the Gulkin nose. No, I decided to stay at home. Your apartment is spacious, the hall is big. We’ll ask for a table book from the neighbors. At home, with love!
Marina froze with a pack of cottage cheese in her hand. Chill ran down my back. — Galina Ivanovna, but I work. I’m on a reporting period now. When should I cook for thirty people?
— Oh, don’t start, — the mother-in-law swung. — Anniversary in three weeks, this Saturday. If you take a walk on Friday, you’ll do the preparations. You are our hostess, you make it so delicious! Will you really deny your mother a holiday?
The conversation ended when Marina, unable to argue with the insistence of «mom», mumbled something vague. The mother-in-law joyfully passed out, promising to serve a list of dishes tomorrow.
In the evening, when Marina washed the dishes and made a salad, she tried to talk to her husband. Sergey was lying on the sofa, stretching his legs out, and lazily flipped through the tape on his phone.
— Serezh, your mom called. About the anniversary.
Continue the story in the comments below the post
Marina set the heavy grocery bags down on the floor and leaned her back against the cool wall of the entryway. Her temples were pounding, her legs ached as if she had just run a marathon rather than worked a full shift in the accounting department and then spent another hour shoving her way through a stuffy supermarket. The bag handles had dug into her palms, leaving red welts that now stung unpleasantly. From the living room came the cheerful voice of a TV host and the clatter of dishes—her husband Sergey was already eating dinner without waiting for her.
“Marish, is that you?” he called out, not taking his eyes off the television. “Did you buy bread? There’s only the heel left, and it’s stale as a brick, impossible to chew.”
She exhaled, suppressing the sharp urge to kick her shoes into the corner, and silently walked into the kitchen. On the table stood the usual mountain of dirty dishes: a plate with dried ketchup streaks, a cup stained dark with tea residue, crumbs scattered across the oilcloth as if someone had been feeding pigeons there. Sergey was reheating yesterday’s cutlets, splattering grease all over the stove, but of course it had never occurred to him to clean up after himself.
At that moment, her phone rang in the pocket of her coat. The screen lit up: Galina Ivanovna. Her mother-in-law.
Marina squeezed her eyes shut for a second, gathering herself. She knew this call—an evening “check-in” that smoothly turned into a list of demands.
“Marinochka, hello, dear!” her mother-in-law’s voice dripped with syrup, which was always a sure sign: she wanted something, and whatever it was would require a great deal of effort from Marina. “Are you home already? I’m calling about an important matter. I called Seryozha, but he just muttered something and hung up, probably busy, poor boy must be tired after work.”
“Good evening, Galina Ivanovna. Yes, I just walked in, I haven’t even had time to take my shoes off. What happened?”
“Oh, why do you always assume something happened? We’ve got something joyful coming up, Marinochka! My юбилей is approaching—sixty years old, imagine that! I thought it over, talked it through with my sister, with Aunt Valya… We decided: we’re going to celebrate in style! Relatives are coming from Saratov, the Svatkovs are coming in from the village, and then our city crowd too. We’ll have at least thirty people, no less. Aunt Valya is already checking train tickets.”
Marina automatically began unpacking the groceries, pinning the phone between her shoulder and ear and trying not to drop the eggs. Thirty people. In their three-room apartment—spacious on paper, but crammed with furniture—that meant a local-scale Armageddon.
“Galina Ivanovna, thirty people is serious. Have you already picked out a restaurant? These days you have to book in advance everywhere, wedding season is starting, and graduation parties are coming soon,” Marina asked cautiously, taking out the milk and feeling a bad premonition rising inside her.
A theatrical pause full of reproach hung on the other end of the line.
“A restaurant, Marinochka?” her mother-in-law’s voice rang with wounded offense. “You know what prices are like these days! Highway robbery. Portions no bigger than a postage stamp, they smear pâté across a plate and charge you as if they served a whole lamb. And it’s so impersonal. In a restaurant you sit there like a stranger, the music is blaring, you can’t talk, the waiters hover over your soul. No, I’ve decided—we’ll do it at home. Your apartment is roomy enough, the living room is big. We’ll borrow a folding table from the neighbors, collect chairs from friends. Homey, with love!”
Marina froze, a package of cottage cheese in her hand. A chill ran down her spine. She knew perfectly well what was hidden behind the words homey, with love. It meant three days at the stove, swollen feet, and mountains of dishes.
“Galina Ivanovna, but I work. It’s reporting period right now. When am I supposed to cook for thirty people? That takes an enormous amount of time and energy. That’s industrial-scale cooking.”
“Oh, don’t start,” her mother-in-law brushed it aside, and Marina could practically see her wrinkling her nose. “The birthday is in three weeks, on a Saturday. You’ll take Friday off, do some prep work. Seryozha will help, I’ll come early, peel the vegetables, sort the herbs. You’re our little homemaker, everything you make is so delicious! Aunt Valya still talks about your roast pork, she’s told everyone in Saratov about it. Surely you’re not going to deny your own mother a celebration? It’s not like I turn sixty every year. And it would be embarrassing in front of people—everyone knows what a golden daughter-in-law I have.”
The conversation ended with Marina, unable to withstand “Mom’s” pressure and feeling guilty even for the possibility of refusing, mumbling something vague. Her mother-in-law, an experienced strategist, took this as unconditional surrender and happily hung up, promising to bring over the menu list tomorrow.
That evening, after Marina had finally washed the dishes, scrubbed the grease splatters off the stove, and made a fresh salad, she tried to talk to her husband.
Sergey was lying on the couch with his legs stretched out, lazily scrolling through his phone, chuckling now and then at videos.
“Seryozh, your mom called. About the birthday.”
“Ah, yeah, she mentioned it,” he nodded without looking up. “Thirty guests and all that. You check how much money it’ll take, I’ll set aside a little from my salary, but Mom promised to cover most of it.”
“Seryozha, are you even hearing me?” Marina sat down on the edge of the couch, drying her wet hands on a kitchen towel. “She wants to do this at our place. At home. Thirty people. Do you have any idea what that means? That’s three days of cooking, cleaning before and after, a mountain of dishes. I’m not a horse, I get tired at work. Why can’t we just rent a café? There are affordable places.”
Sergey frowned and finally put his phone aside. He looked annoyed, as though she had interrupted him from saving the world over some triviality.
“Marin, why are you starting this again? Mom is asking. She’s an older person, she wants a celebration, she wants homey comfort. What, is it really that hard for us? Just strain ourselves once. What, are you that stingy?”
“If it’s not hard, then you take care of the hot dishes and appetizers,” Marina suggested, looking straight into his eyes. “I’ll make the salads.”
“But you know I can’t cook,” he grimaced as if he had suddenly gotten a toothache. “You do it so much better. And anyway, that’s women’s work—setting the table, creating comfort. My job is to greet the guests, entertain them, keep their glasses full, make sure everything runs smoothly. Don’t be such a grouch. The relatives are coming, we haven’t seen them in ages, Aunt Valya wants to see you.”
The days began to flow by in a sticky gray mass, turning Marina’s life into an endless marathon. As promised, Galina Ivanovna brought over a “list.” It wasn’t a list—it was the menu for a tsar’s feast from the days of Ivan the Terrible.
Aspic—absolutely clear, made from two kinds of meat, trembling but not melting. Jellied tongue. Three kinds of salad—and absolutely no store-bought mayonnaise, only homemade, whipped by hand! Julienne in cocotte dishes (Marina only had six, and the rest had to be hunted down from friends). For the main course—duck with apples and cabbage rolls, because “Uncle Vitya doesn’t eat duck, his stomach is weak.” And for dessert—Napoleon cake, of course homemade, properly soaked, fifteen layers, with custard made from egg yolks.
Every evening Marina came home from work and, instead of resting, started searching for things, ordering things, discussing things. Little by little the apartment was turning into a wholesale warehouse: in the corner of the hallway towers of drink crates piled up, everyone tripping over them; the balcony was crammed with jars of pickles that Aunt Valya had sent by train and which Marina had had to haul from the station.
Sergey completely withdrew from the preparations, taking the position of observer. His contribution was limited to bringing over an old folding table from a friend—scratching the doorframe in the process—and grumbling unhappily whenever Marina asked him to go to the market for heavy vegetables.
“Why are you so nervous?” he would ask, watching his wife sort rice for the side dish at one in the morning because his mother had said it had to be a special kind, fluffy and separate. “The celebration is coming, you should be happy. Smile at least.”
A week before the event, Galina Ivanovna arrived for an “inspection.” She walked through the apartment, running her finger along the shelves like a budget hotel critic.
“Marinochka, the curtains should really be washed. They look dusty, kind of gray. It’ll be embarrassing in front of people—they’ll say a slob lives here. And wipe the chandelier too, there’s a gnat stuck inside the shade, you can see it from below. Oh, and another thing… I was thinking, cabbage rolls are a bit ordinary. Let’s make meat French-style instead. But with good cheese, not that plastic stuff, and choose sweet tomatoes, the Baku kind. And fry the mushrooms yourself, not canned ones—they give a totally different flavor.”
Marina felt a thin, ringing wire tighten inside her.
“Galina Ivanovna, I won’t have time to wash the curtains. I work until seven every evening. I simply don’t have the strength to climb around under the ceiling.”
“Oh please, what’s there to wash? You throw them in the machine and it does the work itself. You’re just lazy, dear. In our day we washed them by hand in a basin, starched them, ironed them with cast-iron irons, and still managed everything. We raised children and laid tables for fifty guests. And you people now have machines, robots, buttons—you press one and sit drinking tea. You’ve all become spoiled.”
Her mother-in-law sat down in the kitchen, demanding tea with lemon, and began explaining how to marinate meat so it would melt in your mouth, while criticizing Marina’s choice of napkins.
“Too plain, paper napkins,” she sniffed. “You need cloth ones, starched. I have some somewhere in a trunk, I’ll bring them, and you can bleach and iron them.”
Sergey sat beside her, nodding along with his mother and eagerly devouring the cabbage pies Marina had bought from the bakery near the house because she simply no longer had the strength to bake them herself.
“Tasty, but the dough is a little heavy,” Galina Ivanovna remarked after taking a tiny bite and disdainfully setting the rest aside. “I remember at Lenochka’s wedding you baked them yourself—the dough was like пух, light as air. But this… well, for family it’ll do if they’re starving, but you can’t serve something like this to guests. For the jubilee you have to bake it yourself, Marin. Store-bought is disrespectful to guests.”
“Mom, she’s already running herself ragged,” Sergey weakly tried to defend his wife, but immediately backed down under his mother’s stern look. “Though yeah, Marin, your Napoleon cake is incomparable. Do your best, they’re only asking once in a lifetime.”
The final straw came on Thursday evening. The jubilee was two days away. Marina had left work early, losing a day’s pay, so she could boil vegetables for the salads and prep the meat. She came into the apartment loaded down with bags so heavily that her fingers had gone white and numb. The house was noisy and cheerful.
In the living room sat Galina Ivanovna and Sergey’s sister Svetlana, who had come “to help.” But her help consisted of sitting in an armchair with a glass of red wine, one leg crossed over the other, flipping through fashion magazines. Sergey was rummaging in a cabinet, sorting through CDs.
“Oh, there she is!” Svetlana exclaimed instead of greeting her, not even turning her head. “Marin, do you have that creamy liqueur, the tasty one? Mom says there was some left over from New Year’s. We decided to do a little tasting for the occasion, wet our throats.”
“In the top cabinet, behind the grains,” Marina answered dully, heading to the kitchen and barely missing the doorframe with her shoulder.
She began unpacking the bags. Meat, three dozen eggs, premium flour, butter, a mountain of vegetables, herbs. Her back ached mercilessly, as though a red-hot nail had been driven into her lower spine. From the living room came laughter and the clinking of glasses.
“Seryozha!” she called, trying to keep her voice from trembling. “Come help peel the potatoes, there are five kilos. My hands can barely hold anything.”
“Marin, I’m busy, I’m making a playlist, picking music for dancing!” her husband called back from the other room. “That’s important too! You start, I’ll come in later when I’m free.”
Marina sighed, took out a knife, and started peeling potatoes. The skins were dirty, earth worked its way under her nails. Suddenly the knife slipped, and she sliced her finger badly. Blood welled up at once, a bright drop falling onto the peeled potato.
Ten minutes later, Sveta poked her head into the kitchen. She gave Marina an appraising look and wrinkled her nose.
“Marin, you should at least put on some makeup for the jubilee, maybe do a face mask or something. You’re pale as a moth, and you’ve got dark circles under your eyes. You’ll look terrible in the pictures—we’ll be embarrassed to post them.”
Marina silently pressed a napkin to her cut finger.
“Oh, and by the way,” her sister-in-law continued, not noticing Marina’s state at all, “Mom says that white tablecloth of yours has a little stain on it. Check it—maybe you can bleach it tonight? It doesn’t look nice, people will notice. And also, we reconsidered the menu. Sveta says nobody’s going to eat aspic, it’s not fashionable now, it’s last century. Carpaccio is what’s fashionable now. Maybe you could run out and buy some good beef tenderloin? There’s a butcher nearby, they’re open till nine.”
Marina tried to pick up another potato, but her fingers opened and it dropped with a dull thud to the floor, rolling to Svetlana’s feet. She didn’t even move to pick it up.
“What’s wrong with you, all thumbs today?” her sister-in-law smirked. “Pick it up before someone steps on it.”
Marina slowly straightened up.
She looked at her hands—dry skin, chapped, no manicure for a month, a red stain spreading over her finger. She looked at the mountain of unpeeled potatoes. She remembered that tomorrow she would have to get up at five in the morning to start boiling broths, then spend the entire day chopping, frying, steaming, washing, listening to valuable advice, and on Saturday run around with plates among thirty guests, refilling glasses, clearing dishes, smiling until her legs gave out. And then, after everyone left, she would be left alone with a mountain of dirty dishes and greasy stains on the carpet while the “family” slept.
And not one single person had said a simple thank you. Nobody had asked how she felt. To them she was just a function. A kitchen appliance with legs that had the nerve to get tired.
Something clicked inside her. Quietly, but distinctly. As if the main fuse, which had endured overloads for years, had finally burned out. Fear, guilt, the desire to be good—all of it burned away in an instant, leaving behind an icy, crystal-clear calm.
Marina wiped her hands on her apron, untied it, and carefully hung it over the back of a chair. Then she walked into the living room.
All three of them—her husband hunched over his laptop, her flushed mother-in-law, and her wineglass-clutching sister-in-law—turned to look at her.
“Carpaccio, then?” Marina repeated quietly, looking straight at Svetlana.
“Well, yes,” Sveta nodded, still sensing no danger. “It’s modern and light, and doesn’t take long to make. Will you run out and get it?”
Marina swept them all with her gaze.
“You know what, my dear relatives,” she said, her voice growing stronger until it filled the room. “The jubilee is canceled! I’m not going to serve your relatives—let dear mother-in-law run around herself!”
A ringing silence fell over the room. The only sound was the ticking of the old wall clock. Sergey’s jaw dropped. Red blotches spread over Galina Ivanovna’s skin, and Svetlana’s wineglass trembled in her hand.
“What are you saying, Marina?” hissed her mother-in-law, struggling to her feet from the couch. “Are you out of your mind? The guests are invited! People bought tickets, they’re already on their way! Do you want to disgrace us in front of the whole family?”
“They are your guests, Galina Ivanovna. And it is your jubilee. So you organize it. Do it in a restaurant if you want, or stand at the stove yourself. I’m out. I am resigning from the position of your unpaid servant.”
“Marin, what’s wrong with you, did you overheat?” Sergey jumped up, trying to turn it into a joke, but fear flickered in his eyes. “Okay, you’re tired, I get it. I’ll… I’ll peel those potatoes now… Or we’ll ask Sveta.”
“No, Seryozha. Don’t bother peeling the potatoes. It’s too late.”
Marina turned around and walked into the bedroom. She took a travel bag out of the closet. Her hands didn’t shake, her movements were sharp and economical. She threw in jeans, T-shirts, comfortable sneakers, the book she had bought six months ago and never opened. Her gaze fell on the envelope hidden in the underwear drawer. Inside was the money she had been saving for six months for new winter boots and a good coat.
Oh well, Marina thought, firmly stuffing the envelope into the side pocket of the bag. I’ll wear the old ones. At least I’ll stay alive. My nerves are worth more than any boots.
“Where are you going?” Sergey stood in the doorway, pale and confused. “Marin, stop this hysterics. Mom’s clutching her heart out there, taking drops. What are you doing?”
“Let her drink valerian. Or the cognac she and Sveta are tasting. I’m leaving.”
“Where? At this hour?”
“To a sanatorium. Remember they offered me a last-minute voucher at work, to a country retreat outside Moscow? I turned it down like an idiot because of the ‘jubilee,’ because I was worried about money, because I was afraid of offending your mother. But I called my colleague back while I was peeling potatoes, and the booking is still available. I’m going to rest, Sergey. For the whole weekend. And I’m taking next week off unpaid too.”
“You can’t do this!” shrieked Galina Ivanovna from the hallway, apparently cured of her heart problem. She stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips. “This is betrayal! Families do not do this! What will people say? You’re selfish, Marina! You only think about yourself!”
Marina zipped up her bag, slung the strap over her shoulder, and stepped close to her mother-in-law.
“What people will say, Galina Ivanovna, is that with a good mother-in-law, a daughter-in-law does not flee the house before a celebration with blood on her hands. And family means taking care of one another, not riding each other like horses and cracking the whip. The keys are on the little table. The groceries are in the kitchen. Good luck with the carpaccio. And don’t forget to wash the curtains.”
She walked out of the apartment, slamming the door so hard it seemed plaster might crumble from the ceiling.
Outside, the air was fresh. The evening smelled of rain, wet asphalt dust, and freedom. Marina called a taxi, got into the back seat, and smiled for the first time in a month. She took out her phone and switched it off completely.
The next three days passed in a haze—but it was a blissful, sweet haze. The sanatorium turned out to be old, still Soviet-era, but quiet. Pine trees pressed their tops into the sky, and the air was so thick she felt she could eat it with a spoon. Marina slept twelve hours a day, walked in the woods, fed cheeky red squirrels nuts, read her book in a wooden gazebo, and most importantly, ate food prepared by other people.
She would come into the dining hall, sit down at a clean table, and food would be brought to her. Simple food: cutlets, mashed potatoes, compote. But it was the most delicious food in the world, because Marina had not stood at the stove for three hours to make it. She did not wash the dishes. She simply existed.
She switched her phone back on only on Monday evening, sitting in her room after a massage. The device vibrated and nearly exploded from the number of missed calls and messages. Sergey had called fifty-four times, Galina Ivanovna twenty, then Sveta, Aunt Valya, and even a few unknown numbers—presumably guests who had been unable to get into the building.
The messages ranged from threats and curses (“You ruined our celebration!”, “Shameless!”, “God will punish you!”) to panicked pleas (“Marin, where are the skewers?”, “How do you turn the oven to grill mode?”, “The duck burned, there’s smoke all over the apartment, what do we do?!”).
Marina deleted them all without reading. She didn’t care.
She came home a week later. The apartment was steeped in a suspicious, ominous silence. There were no guests’ shoes in the entryway, but the smell… The smell hit her the moment she opened the door. It was a mix of stale alcohol fumes, burnt grease, something sour, and cheap floral air freshener that had clearly been used in a failed attempt to cover it up.
Sergey sat in the kitchen over a plate of store-bought dumplings. He looked beaten, unshaven, and somehow gray. When he saw his wife, he jerked a little, and anger flashed in his eyes.
“Hello,” Marina said, setting her bag down on the floor.
“So, you showed up,” he muttered through his teeth. “Did you get your rest? Because we had a grand old time here, you know. Mom called everyone, said you were sick, that you had an infection. I had to lie to the guests to their faces! Do you have any idea how I looked? Like an idiot! People kept asking where the hostess was, and I was mumbling something about your temperature. Aunt Valya even said you’d gone on a drinking binge.”
“And do you understand what I would have looked like collapsing unconscious with a serving tray in the middle of the room? Or lying there with a stroke?” Marina asked calmly as she walked into the living room.
She swept her eyes over the room. What she saw was impressive. On her beloved linen tablecloth, the one she had embroidered herself, a huge purple wine stain had spread like an ink blot. In the expensive crystal vase, a gift from her parents, a soggy cigarette butt floated in the water. On the carpet were traces of outdoor shoes and greasy crumbs.
“You humiliated me, Marina!” Sergey worked himself up further, following after her. “Mom said she’ll never set foot in this house again!”
“That’s the best news I’ve heard all year,” Marina replied calmly, picking up the vase and looking at the cigarette butt with disgust. “So no more dust inspections on the chandelier.”
“You… you’re heartless!” Sergey choked with outrage, but his momentum shattered against his wife’s icy calm. “We ran ourselves ragged here!”
“Tell me how. I’m curious.”
Sergey fell silent. He deflated, his shoulders sagged, and he sat down on a chair.
“It was hell. Absolute hell, Marin,” he admitted quietly.
As it turned out, after Marina left, panic had erupted. Galina Ivanovna had tried to take command, shouting and handing out orders, but it quickly became clear that her cooking skills were a thing of the distant past, and her strength wasn’t what it used to be. Sveta announced that she had a five-thousand-ruble manicure and wasn’t going to chop anything—she had come to relax. Sergey tried to roast the duck, but forgot to thaw it completely and forgot to remove the bag of giblets inside. As a result, the duck remained raw and bloody inside while on the outside it turned to charcoal, filling the apartment with acrid smoke.
They had to urgently order food from the nearest kebab place and pizzeria. They spent three times more than planned; Sergey’s and Galina Ivanovna’s whole budget went down the drain. The food arrived cold, tough, and tasteless. They somehow squeezed the guests in, there wasn’t enough table space, everyone sat cramped together, elbows jabbing. The relatives from Saratov loudly criticized the “store-bought” salads and rubbery pizza.
Galina Ivanovna got so worked up that her blood pressure shot up, and she spent half the evening lying in Marina’s bedroom with a wet towel on her forehead while the guests drank and loudly discussed what a terrible daughter-in-law the poor hosts had.
Then someone spilled wine. Then the sink clogged because a drunken Sveta dumped greasy salad leftovers and bones into it. Nobody wanted to wash the dishes, so they sat in a pile for two days until gnats started breeding, and Sergey himself had to sort through it all, cursing and fighting back nausea.
“Mom is mortally offended by you,” Sergey finished, staring at the floor. “Says you’re enemy number one now.”
“I’ll survive,” Marina poured herself a glass of water. “Seryozha, I want you to hear me now. And remember this well. I will never again allow anyone to treat me like that. If you want celebrations—cafés, restaurants, catering. On your dime. At my home—only by invitation, and only for tea with a cake the guests bring themselves. If you don’t like it, find another wife. One who’ll be your workhorse, who’ll tolerate your relatives and smile while they insult her. I’m out. I have one life, and I do not want to spend it at the stove to please your mother.”
Sergey looked at her for a long time. He no longer saw the familiar, convenient Marina who was always fussing, apologizing, and trying to please everyone. Before him stood a calm, self-assured woman, rested, with color in her cheeks. And suddenly he understood with perfect clarity: she was not joking. If he kept throwing his weight around or defending his mother, she would simply pack the rest of her things and leave. For good. And the prospect of being alone in the apartment with a ruined duck, a stained carpet, and his mother’s endless complaints did not appeal to him at all. He suddenly remembered how cozy and clean it used to be when Marina was home.
“All right,” he said quietly, his voice trembling. “I understand. You… forgive me. We really went too far. I thought you’d handle it—you always did…”
Marina nodded.
“I see you washed the dishes. Good for you. As for the tablecloth and the carpet, you’ll take them to the cleaners yourself. Tomorrow. And you’ll get the money for that from your mother or from Sveta. They’re the ones who trashed everything.”
“Okay,” Sergey agreed meekly. “I’ll take care of it.”
She took an apple from the vase—after first washing the ash out of it—bit into it with a crisp crunch, and walked into her room. Life was getting better. Let her mother-in-law think of her as the spawn of hell now—at least her back didn’t hurt anymore, she could earn the money for boots again, and peaceful evenings lay ahead.
Just for herself.
Sometimes our willingness to do everything is mistaken for weakness, and kindness is treated like an obligation. But the moment you firmly say “no” just once, the people around you suddenly stop seeing you as a convenient function and start seeing you as a living person with self-respect. Value yourselves, dear women, protect your strength and your nerves, because no one is going to give us spares, and love for others begins with respect for yourself.
If you support Marina’s decision, leave a like!
