“Are you serious right now?” Vera’s voice trembled, but not from fear—from anger. “You’re just presenting me with a done deal?”
“Vera, don’t start,” Denis replied wearily, looking somewhere past her, out the window. “I just said it would be more convenient for everyone. Mom will be happy, and we won’t have to strain ourselves.”
“Convenient for everyone?” she repeated with a crooked smirk. “Do you even hear yourself? Do you have any idea what ‘everyone’ means? Your aunts, your cousins, their children—an entire horde of people. Do you even know how many there will be?”
“Well, about twenty… twenty-five at most,” Denis shrugged vaguely. “Mom is celebrating a milestone birthday. Sixty, after all. She wants it ‘home-style,’ no restaurants. She says our place is cozy and spacious.”
Vera sharply pushed her cup away. Coffee splashed onto the table.
“Spacious? In a two-room apartment where the old wardrobe creaks and the table barely fits? Wonderful! And where, I wonder, are all these ‘home-style’ guests supposed to sit? On the windowsill?”
Denis sighed. He was tired from work, from endless deadlines, from coming home not to peace but to new problems. But this time, he understood Vera. He just didn’t know how to get out of it.
“I’ll talk to Mom,” he said uncertainly. “I’ll explain that it’s not an option. Maybe I’ll convince her to do it in a café after all…”
“‘Maybe,’” she mimicked. “You know your mother can’t be ‘convinced.’ She can only be presented with a fact. But, as I can see, that’s not how things are done in our family. Everyone decides everything for me, then presents me with the facts, and I, like some kitchen appliance, am supposed to be ‘convenient.’”
He frowned.
“Vera, you’re exaggerating. Mom just wants a celebration. Don’t nitpick. She’s getting older. She wants warmth.”
“Warmth,” Vera scoffed. “Except I’m the fuel for that ‘warmth.’ Everything falls on me. The table, the cleaning, the cooking. ‘Warmth’ happens when I collapse from exhaustion and listen to your aunt whisper in the kitchen, ‘Now that’s a hostess, she carries everything herself.’ Yes, I carry it. Only no one bothered to ask whether I wanted to.”
She spoke quickly, in a muffled voice, almost through clenched teeth, as if afraid that if she fell silent, she would burst into shouting. Denis said nothing. Over the years, he had learned when it was better not to interrupt.
November was beginning outside. Dark linden branches reflected in the window; the wind drove dry leaves along the courtyard. The air in the apartment was stale, smelling of fried onions and cleaning detergent—an ordinary evening in a residential district. Vera stood up and slowly cleared the dishes from the table. Her hands were trembling.
“I can’t handle it,” she said quietly. “I don’t want to, and I won’t.”
Denis watched her wipe the coffee from the table, watched her press her lips together to keep them from trembling. Two feelings battled inside him—his usual softness and an inner irritation that everything was turning into another argument.
“All right,” he said conciliatorily. “I’ll talk to them. Tomorrow. Honestly.”
“Tomorrow will already be too late,” she threw over her shoulder. “They decided everything long ago. They just forgot to tell me.”
The call came in the morning. The phone on the kitchen table vibrated while Vera was tying her hair into a bun. The screen lit up: Tamara Ivanovna. She exhaled slowly, as if before jumping into icy water, and answered.
“Verochka, hello, sunshine!” her mother-in-law’s voice was sugary soft. “How are you two doing? Not freezing? I heard they only turned your heating on the day before yesterday.”
“Hello, Tamara Ivanovna. Everything is fine, thank you.”
“That’s good. I’m calling you for a reason. Denis and I were chatting the other day, and he said you didn’t mind hosting my anniversary at your place. I was so happy! I thought, finally, we’ll gather properly, like a real family. Those restaurants… noise, waiters, cold food. Not the same at all. But at your place—it’ll be heartfelt.”
Vera closed her eyes. “Like a family.” “Heartfelt.” Those very words always made a nervous tremor start inside her.
“Tamara Ivanovna,” she began carefully, “maybe we should still do it in a café? Our place is cramped. And it seems quite a lot of people are expected.”
“Oh, what are you saying, dear!” her mother-in-law interrupted with affectionate reproach. “It’s nothing terrible. You’re such a capable hostess. I remember how you organized everything that New Year—marvelous, simply marvelous! You’ll manage this time too. I’ll help you. Zoya will come early as well.”
Zoya was Denis’s younger sister. She always came to “help,” then spent half the day on her phone, pretending to be busy.
“All right,” Vera exhaled, feeling that arguing was useless. “But please keep in mind, I work. I won’t have time for… preparations.”
“Oh, don’t worry, child! We’ll do everything together. The main thing is desire. And you do want to make a celebration for your husband’s mother, don’t you?” Her voice grew quieter, but a steel note rang in it. “I’m not forcing anyone. I’ll simply ask: do you want to?”
And that “do you want to?” already sounded like a sentence.
“Of course,” Vera said evenly. “Where else would I go?”
“That’s wonderful!” Tamara Ivanovna brightened. “Then tomorrow I’ll stop by with Zoyenka, and we’ll see where to put the table and what to buy. We’ll make a little list. Make sure you’re home, all right? Kisses!”
Short beeps followed.
Vera looked at the phone, then at the clock. Half past eight. She was already late for work. And for some reason, she suddenly didn’t want to go at all.
That evening, when she returned home, Denis greeted her with a happy smile.
“So, did Mom call?”
“She did,” Vera said dryly, putting her bag on the floor. “She said she’ll ‘stop by tomorrow.’ List, plan, inspection. Everything as usual.”
“Really?” Denis frowned. “Strange. I was going to talk to her so there wouldn’t be any extremes.”
“You didn’t have time,” she cut him off. “As always.”
He reached for her, but she moved away.
“Vera, don’t start again. Mom is kind, just old-fashioned.”
“Kind?” Vera scoffed. “Is that when someone comes into your home and decides where your sofa should stand? Or when last time she told me I ‘ought to lose weight, because that dress doesn’t sit on you like it does on a newlywed’? Kind, sure. Only now I’m not a daughter-in-law, I’m an object for experiments.”
“That’s enough,” Denis winced. “You know she doesn’t mean harm.”
“I know,” she answered tiredly. “And it still hurts.”
She went into the bathroom, leaving him alone in the kitchen. The water behind the wall ran for a long time, steady as rain. Denis sat at the table and covered his face with his hands. It was unbearable being between them—between his mother, who “just wanted it like a family,” and his wife, who was growing more distant by the day.
The next day, exactly at ten in the morning, the doorbell rang. Vera was already waiting. Her hair was pinned up; on her face was a polite smile, the kind that never reaches the eyes.
Tamara Ivanovna and Zoya stood on the threshold, both in bright coats, carrying bags and wearing energetic expressions.
“Well, hello, little hostess!” her mother-in-law exclaimed cheerfully. “We’ve come with reinforcements! Let’s see what’s what.”
Zoya immediately went into the living room, looked around, and gave a little snort.
“Oh, you changed the sofa. Nice. But maybe it would be better by the window? That would give you more space.”
Vera clenched her teeth.
“No, it’s heavy. And besides, this way is convenient for me.”
“As you wish,” Zoya shrugged. “I’m just advising.”
Meanwhile, her mother-in-law was already giving orders in the kitchen as though she were at home.
“All right, Verochka, write this down: meat—three kilos, chicken—two, potatoes—a small sack, salads—Olivier and Mimosa are a must. And also a lavash roll with crab sticks, delicious! I’ll show you how to make it.”
“Maybe we should cut it down?” Vera tried to insert. “There won’t be that many people, why so much…”
“Dear,” Tamara Ivanovna interrupted softly, “it’s a celebration, an anniversary! We can’t embarrass ourselves. Guests should leave full and satisfied. Don’t worry, we’ll calculate everything.”
“We’ll calculate” meant: “I’ll tell you what to buy, and you’ll buy it.”
Two hours later, the “meeting” ended. The kitchen was cluttered with bags; the list on a sheet of paper stretched across two pages. As she was leaving, her mother-in-law hugged her a little too tightly.
“Thank you, Verochka. I knew we could count on you.”
When the door closed behind them, Vera sat down right on the floor and laughed. A dull, joyless laugh. It sounded more like a wheeze.
That evening, Denis entered the kitchen, saw the sheet with the “plan,” and turned pale.
“What the…” He picked up the paper. “Have they decided to sign you into slavery here?”
Vera shrugged.
“And you thought I was joking?”
“No, this is nonsense. I’ll call right now.”
“Too late. They’ve already decided everything. You’ll just sign off on their plan, as always.”
He wanted to object, but he couldn’t. Because deep down, he knew she was right.
Vera stood and walked to the window. It was getting dark outside; the first snowflakes were falling onto the sidewalk.
“Denis,” she said quietly. “I feel like furniture in their lives. Not a person, not a wife, just a convenient surface where everything can be dumped.”
He wanted to say something, but the words got stuck. And once again, silence hung between them—heavy and viscous, like late November.
The next day, Vera went out in the morning with a huge shopping list written in her mother-in-law’s neat handwriting. She held the sheet in her hand like a summons—she knew it was already too late to argue, but everything inside her was boiling. A cold November drizzle fell outside; the wind hurled wet leaves under her feet. Her bag quickly became soaked, her fingers numb, but Vera walked from store to store as if carrying out someone else’s will, not her own.
In the meat section, she ran into her neighbor Marina, with whom she rarely spoke beyond warm greetings at the entrance.
“Wow, Vera, getting ready for a party?” Marina smiled, looking at the cart full of bags.
“Yeah, ‘getting ready,’” Vera muttered. “Only I wasn’t the one who came up with the party.”
“Mother-in-law?” Marina understood instantly.
Vera nodded.
“Mm-hmm,” the neighbor drawled. “Been there, done that. Once I agreed to do things ‘like a family,’ and then I couldn’t straighten my back for a week. Smart people go to cafés, not penal labor.”
They both laughed, but Vera’s laugh came out squeezed and joyless.
When she returned home, Denis was already there—he had taken the day off. The kitchen was piled with bags. He tried to help, taking out groceries, but Vera silently pushed him aside.
“Don’t get in the way. I’ll do it myself.”
“Vera, I just wanted…”
“If you wanted to, you would’ve talked to your mother,” she snapped. “And now it’s too late.”
He froze, then quietly sat down on a stool, watching her methodically lay out meat, vegetables, and jars. There was no irritation in her movements, no haste—only cold, honed exhaustion.
On Saturday, a week before the anniversary, Tamara Ivanovna arrived “to inspect.” With her came Zoya, in a powder-colored puffer jacket and with her phone in her hand.
“We won’t be long,” her mother-in-law announced from the doorway. “We’ll see how things are going here and won’t bother you.”
“Here,” Vera noted to herself.
They went into the kitchen. Zoya immediately took the chair by the window, pulled pastries and tea from a bag.
“Vera, sit down, let’s have some tea and discuss everything,” she called.
But Vera was already standing at the stove, stirring something in a pot.
“I can’t. I’m busy.”
“Well, fine, we’ll manage ourselves,” Zoya snorted and served herself dessert.
Meanwhile, Tamara Ivanovna conducted a refrigerator inspection.
“All right, so there’s meat, fish too… Good girl. But there isn’t enough beetroot. I’ll add it to the list. And buy lemons, definitely. Are you making homemade mayonnaise?” she asked.
“No. I’ll buy it.”
“Well, well. Of course, store-bought is easier, but the taste… isn’t the same.”
Vera clenched her teeth to keep from answering.
“And one more thing,” her mother-in-law continued, pulling a squared notebook from her bag. “I sketched out the menu here. So we don’t get confused. Everything is written out: breakfast, snack, main dishes, appetizers, dessert. Even the time when each thing should be served.”
She proudly opened the pages. Everything was there, down to the minute—when “Asya” (and now “Vera”) should get up, turn on the oven, put the kettle on.
“Look, convenient, isn’t it?”
Vera silently took the sheet, scanned it, and felt a heavy lump rising in her chest.
“Convenient,” she said quietly. “Only why is my name everywhere?”
“Well, who else, child? Zoyenka and I are guests. And you’re the lady of the house, so the cards are in your hands.”
“Right. Guests,” Vera muttered.
Zoya looked up from her phone.
“Don’t get worked up, Vera. It’s not work, it’s joy. A celebration of the soul. Yes, there’s a bit of fuss, but afterward everyone will say, ‘What a wife Denis has!’ You’ll be pleased.”
Vera did not answer. She simply went to the bathroom, turned on the water, and stood for a long time staring into the mirror. Her face was pale, her eyes as if they had gone dim.
On Monday at work, she could barely hold herself together. Her colleagues discussed vacations and gifts for children, while Vera caught herself thinking not about books and readers, but about how many kilos of potatoes needed peeling.
After lunch, Denis called.
“Mom asked me to check what kind of tea set we have. She’s afraid there won’t be enough cups.”
Vera froze with the phone in her hand.
“Denis, I won’t survive this. Honestly. If I hear the word ‘Mom’ one more time, I’ll just leave.”
“Vera, don’t talk like that…”
“How should I talk? I’m not living at home anymore; I’m living in a food warehouse. I dream about your mother with a saucepan.”
He was silent. She heard him exhale heavily.
“All right,” he finally said. “I’ll talk to her tonight. I promise.”
“We’ll see,” she answered shortly and hung up.
By evening, Zoya was standing on the threshold again.
“I’ll be quick!” she said with a smile. “Mom asked me to check what tablecloths you have.”
“Ordinary ones,” Vera answered.
“Do you have a white one? No patterns, something festive?”
“No.”
“How is that possible?” Zoya was indignant. “Every normal housewife has a white tablecloth!”
“Well, apparently I’m not normal,” Vera cut her off.
Zoya raised her eyebrows.
“Why are you taking it like that… I mean it kindly. Fine, Mom will bring hers. It’s old, but it’ll do.”
She left a bag on the table. Inside was exactly that tablecloth—yellowed and smelling of mothballs.
“See you, hostess!” Zoya said cheerfully and disappeared.
When the door closed behind her, Vera quietly swore. Then she took the tablecloth, crumpled it up, and threw it into a basin of water. “Let their kindness soak out,” she thought.
The days before the anniversary turned into a marathon. Vera got up at six, went to work, came home—and went straight to the kitchen. Potatoes, meat, salads, sauces, casseroles. Everything blended into one endless stream. The smell of vinegar sank into her clothes, and her hands cracked from water. Denis tried to help. He carried groceries, washed dishes, but was always underfoot.
“Give it to me,” she would say, taking the knife or spoon from him. “I’m faster.”
“Vera, you’re going to destroy yourself.”
“And who’ll do it instead of me? Your mother and Zoya? They ‘help’ by sitting with tea and pastries.”
One night, he found her in the kitchen. She was sitting on a chair, staring at a bowl of chopped vegetables.
“Vera, you need to sleep.”
“Later.”
“When is ‘later’?”
“After the anniversary.”
He wanted to hug her, but she pushed him away.
“Don’t touch me. If I stop now, I’ll simply collapse.”
The day before the celebration, Tamara Ivanovna arrived. She brought “a few dishes” and “dessert for tomorrow.” Vera was standing at the stove when her mother-in-law came in and, without taking off her coat, went to the table.
“So, how are things?” she asked, lifting pot lids. “Oh, good girl! Smells delicious. Just add more mayonnaise, otherwise it’ll be dry.”
“All right, I’ll add it,” Vera replied mechanically.
“And another thing,” her mother-in-law continued. “I was thinking, maybe we should start earlier. At two, not three. So everyone has time. You don’t mind?”
Vera turned around.
“I do mind,” she said clearly. “I won’t have everything ready by two.”
Tamara Ivanovna raised her eyebrows.
“Oh, why are you like this? We’re doing it for convenience. People are coming from the region; they’ll have to get back…”
“For whose convenience? Mine?” Vera asked coldly.
For a second, silence hung in the air.
“Don’t start, Verochka,” her mother-in-law said softly. “Why do you always take everything so sharply? We’re family.”
Vera wiped her hands on a towel and looked her straight in the eyes.
“Exactly. Family. Only for some reason, it’s always convenient for everyone except me.”
Tamara Ivanovna frowned.
“You’re tired. It’s all because of exhaustion. Tomorrow it will all be over, and you’ll rest.”
“It won’t be over,” Vera replied. “Tomorrow is only the beginning.”
Late that evening, when Denis came home from work, the apartment was filled with smells. On the table were containers, pots, dishes, each neatly labeled with slips of paper. Vera was sitting by the window, motionless.
“You didn’t lie down?” he asked.
“No.”
He sat beside her.
“Vera, I talked to Mom. I told her they had piled too much onto you.”
“And?”
“Well… she said she was offended. That you’re ungrateful.”
“Excellent. That means everything is going according to plan.”
He fell silent.
“Listen, maybe we should still do a restaurant? I’m ready to pay. We can cancel everything tomorrow.”
“Too late,” she said. “They won’t forgive it.”
“Let them not forgive it.”
“You don’t understand, Denis. This isn’t just a celebration. It’s a test. For them. A test of who’s in charge here and who’s subordinate. And if I refuse now, they’ll decide I don’t respect your mother.”
“Let them decide whatever they want,” he answered quietly. “I’m tired of watching you wear yourself out.”
She looked at him and, for the first time in a long while, smiled—bitterly, but sincerely.
“It’s too late, Denis. I’m already worn out.”
He wanted to say something, but didn’t have time. The phone vibrated on the table—a message from Zoya:
“Vera, I’ll be there tomorrow by lunch. I’ll finish my nails and come straight over. Don’t worry, everything will be super! 💅🎉”
Vera closed her eyes.
Everything really would be “super.”
Just not the way they expected.
The morning of the anniversary began in complete silence.
At first, Vera thought she had overslept—but the clock showed six. It was still dark outside; in the kitchen, it smelled of cold meat and boiled eggs. Yesterday’s exhaustion sat in her body like lead, but her mind was strangely calm—steady, as if everything had already been decided.
She made coffee, sat by the window, and for the first time in a week allowed herself simply to sit. Without knives, without pots, without plans. Outside, rare passersby hurried to work; someone dragged a dog through puddles.
And suddenly she felt sorry—not even for herself, but for all those people who run somewhere every morning, try hard, endure, just so things can be “convenient” for someone else.
By eight, her mother-in-law arrived—in a coat, with her hair done, carrying boxes.
“Good morning, Verochka!” she said briskly. “Well, I see everything is ready?”
“Almost,” Vera answered calmly.
“Good girl, clever girl. I knew you’d manage. Now we’ll quickly set the table, and then I’ll change.”
She went into the room, checked the tablecloth, plates, napkins.
“Only the forks are wrong!” she said, correcting them. “And the glasses should be on the right, not the left. Never mind, I’ll fix it.”
Vera watched silently.
Everything happening seemed like a play in which she was not even an actress, but a prop.
By eleven, the house was filled with the smell of perfume, the hum of voices, and the rustle of bags. Zoya arrived—with a bouquet and loud music coming from the car. Behind her came Aunt Galya with her husband, then Uncle Kostya with his granddaughter.
Vera carried plates, warmed dishes, smiled. Every time she passed the mirror, she saw a woman with a neat hairstyle and empty eyes.
“Vera, put more salad out!” Tamara Ivanovna shouted from the room. “Men like it hearty.”
“All right,” she answered.
Half an hour later, the guests were already seated at the table. Toasts, laughter, clinking glasses.
Tamara Ivanovna was glowing.
“This is what it means to have a real hostess in the house!” she said, pointing at Vera. “She did everything herself! Doesn’t rely on anyone. Clever girl!”
Everyone applauded. Vera nodded and went to the kitchen for another dish.
Only there, in the silence, did she allow herself to close her eyes briefly.
“Everything herself,” her mother-in-law’s words echoed.
Yes, everything herself.
Just not the way they thought.
When it was time for the hot dish, Vera carefully carried out the tray of meat and placed it on the table. The guests exclaimed admiringly.
“It smells divine!” Zoya said.
“Verochka, you’re a magician,” Aunt Galya added.
“Enjoy your meal,” Vera said quietly and went back to the kitchen.
There, she took off her apron, folded it neatly on the table, walked to the window, and opened the small vent. Cold air struck her face, pinching her cheeks. She inhaled deeply—and suddenly, for the first time in many months, felt the taste of freedom.
Nothing heroic—just air, just silence, just the thought: “I don’t want to live like this anymore.”
When she returned to the room, everyone was already eating. Laughter, shouting, the clinking of spoons. Denis sat beside his mother, explaining something, looking at Vera guiltily.
Vera came up and placed her hand on his shoulder.
He turned around. There was something new in her gaze—quiet and firm.
“Denis, I’m going out for a while,” she said.
“Where?” he asked, surprised.
“Just outside.”
“But lunch is happening right now…”
“Let it happen without me.”
She took her coat, keys, and bag—and left.
The stairwell smelled of dust and cold. She walked down slowly. Outside, a drizzle was falling; sparse cars hissed through puddles. Vera walked without aim. She simply walked. Across the courtyard, past the store, past the bus stop.
At first, she wanted to cry, but there were no tears. Then suddenly it became light—almost funny.
Each step seemed to erase a little piece of what had been piling up inside her for years: resentment, exhaustion, the role of the “convenient” one.
She reached the park. Leaves stuck to her boots; crows cawed in the branches. Vera sat on a wet bench and took out her phone. For a long time, she stared at the screen—the list of messages from Zoya, reminders about tasks, notifications. Everything felt foreign.
She opened a new message and typed:
“Denis. Forgive me. I’m tired of being good. I need time. Don’t look for me today.”
She sat for a little while, then pressed “Send.”
Back at home, worry began.
“Where has she gone?” Tamara Ivanovna asked anxiously, looking at her son.
“She said she was stepping out.” Denis stood. “Maybe to get some air.”
“In the middle of the celebration?! Good Lord, what manners… People are at the table!”
Zoya tried to defuse the situation.
“Mom, let her be. She’s probably tired. We’ll finish eating, and she’ll come back.”
But Tamara Ivanovna did not calm down. She kept looking out the window, then called—no answer. When the guests began to leave, Vera still had not returned.
Night.
Denis sat in the kitchen, staring at his phone. For the third time, he reread the message.
“Don’t look for me today.”
He didn’t know what to feel—worry, resentment, or perhaps relief.
His mother entered quietly.
“Has she been found?”
“No.”
“Maybe she went to her family?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t say.”
“Well then,” Tamara Ivanovna sighed, “so much for a celebration. Women these days are so… unpredictable.”
Denis did not answer. He sat listening to the rain rustle outside the window and thought: maybe she had finally simply chosen herself.
Meanwhile, Vera was walking along the road under the drizzling sky. No plan—only the feeling that, for the first time in many years, she was free even from explanations.
She went into a twenty-four-hour bakery, bought coffee and a bun. She sat by the window.
For the first time in all this time, the food was hers. Not “for the guests,” not “for the celebration,” not “according to the list.” Just a bun, just coffee.
At the next table sat a girl of about twenty with a book. Vera glanced briefly at the cover—Chekhov. And suddenly she smiled. “Chekhov would understand,” she thought.
Outside the window, dawn slowly broke. The sky turned gray, traffic lights reflected in puddles.
Vera took a napkin and wrote on it with a pen:
“Life is too short to live by someone else’s menu.”
She folded the napkin and put it in her bag.
Then she stood and walked to the door.
Monday morning greeted the city with fog.
On Denis’s kitchen table stood a cup of unfinished tea. He sat in silence, the phone lying beside him.
Suddenly, it vibrated. A new message.
He opened it. It was brief:
“I’m all right. Don’t worry.”
He exhaled. Smiled—for the first time sincerely.
And somewhere, in a small town nearby, a new entry appeared in an employment register at a library:
“Vera Nikitina. Librarian. Probation period — 3 months.”
She signed her name, thanked the woman at the desk, and went outside. At the bus stop, the wind spun leaves around; it smelled of fresh bread and freedom.
Vera lifted her face to the sky. The sky was low and gray, but no one had power over it.
She walked on without looking back.
And for the first time, she was not afraid of being late.
