— What kind of peasants have dragged themselves in here? — Valentina Sergeyevna swept her eyes over my parents as if she had found cockroaches in her plate of oysters. — Security! Remove these… people from the hall immediately. There is no place for such an audience at my anniversary celebration in the Metropol!
My mother turned pale and grabbed my father’s arm. My father silently clenched his jaw. I knew that look. It was the same look he had when our drunken neighbor Vitka tried to take my bicycle from me when I was a child.
— Valentina Sergeyevna, these are my parents, — I said, rising from the table and feeling my knees trembling. — I invited them.
— Then escort them back to their… what is it called? Kozlovka? Some backwater dump? — my mother-in-law grimaced with disgust. — Look at them! Your father is wearing a jacket from a flea market, and your mother… Good Lord, is that a dress from a Chinese market for three hundred rubles?
Fifteen years ago, I came to Moscow from a small town with one suitcase and enormous dreams. My parents sold our cow, Zorka — our breadwinner — to pay for my first year in the dormitory. My mother cried as she saw me off at the station, slipping the last five hundred rubles into my pocket “just in case.” My father stayed silent, only hugged me tightly and whispered:
“Study, my girl. We believe in you.”
I studied like a madwoman. University during the day, part-time jobs in the evening. Waitress, promoter, courier — anything, as long as I didn’t have to ask my parents for money. I knew every kopeck mattered back home. My mother worked as a hospital orderly for fifteen thousand, and my father was a mechanic at a factory that was sometimes working and sometimes shut down.
And then Igor appeared. Handsome, confident, from a good family. I fell in love like a fool — at first sight. He courted me beautifully: restaurants, flowers, gifts. When he proposed, I was over the moon.
— Just let’s not have one of those village weddings, — he said back then. — My mother will organize everything properly. And your… well, we’ll meet them some other time.
That “some other time” stretched into three years.
Valentina Sergeyevna arranged a lavish celebration for her sixtieth birthday. Two hundred guests, a Michelin-starred restaurant, live music. I begged Igor to let me invite my parents.
— At least this time, — I pleaded. — They want so badly to attend a family celebration. Mom has already bought a dress…
— Fine, — my husband agreed reluctantly. — But warn them: no village nonsense. Let them sit quietly and not embarrass us.
My parents came by bus — fourteen hours on the road. I wanted to meet them at the station, but Valentina Sergeyevna threw a tantrum:
“How can you abandon preparations for my anniversary for the sake of some guests?”
My mother wore her best dress — blue, with a lace collar. She had bought it specially for the celebration and had saved up for half a year. My father took his only formal suit out of storage — the very same one he had worn when he got married thirty years earlier.
They entered the hall timidly, looking around. I rushed toward them, but Valentina Sergeyevna blocked my way.
— Is security asleep or what? — my mother-in-law snapped her fingers. — I said in plain Russian: remove these beggars from the hall!
— We are not beggars, — my father said, taking a step forward. — We are Katya’s parents. We came to congratulate you on your anniversary.
— Parents? — Valentina Sergeyevna burst out laughing. — Igor, have you seen this circus? Your little wife dragged peasants in here! Everyone, look — this is the stock my son is planning to have children with! This village breed!
The hall fell silent. Two hundred pairs of eyes stared at my parents. My mother began to cry, clutching her handbag to her chest. Inside was her gift — a tablecloth she had embroidered with her own hands, one she had worked on for three months.
— Let’s go, Masha, — my father said, putting his arm around my mother’s shoulders. — This is no place for us.
— Wait! — I snapped out of my stupor. — Mom, Dad, don’t leave!
— Katya, choose, — Igor said coldly. — Either these… relatives of yours leave the hall, or you go with them. Forever.
I looked at my husband. At my mother-in-law, smirking like a hyena. At the guests, greedily catching every word. And then I looked at my parents. My mother was trying to wipe away her tears unnoticed. My father stood straight, but I could see his hands trembling.
And suddenly everything fell into place.
— You know what, Valentina Sergeyevna? — I walked over to my parents and took them by the arms. — Take your elite restaurant and shove it where your words usually come from. My parents raised me to be an honest person. They sold the last thing they had to give me an education. And what have you done in life besides successfully marrying a rich idiot?
— How dare you! — my mother-in-law shrieked.
— Just like this, I dare! — I took off my wedding ring and threw it onto the table in front of a stunned Igor. — For three years I endured your humiliations. I was ashamed of my own parents. I lied to them that everything was fine, that you would accept us. But you know what? My mother is worth a hundred of you! She spent her whole life breaking her back to feed her family, while all you know how to do is spend your husband’s money on Botox and clothes!
— Katerina, stop this hysterical scene! — Igor barked. — You’ll regret this!
— The only thing I regret is wasting three years of my life on your mommy and on you, her mama’s boy! — I turned toward the hall. — And all of you are just a herd of sheep! Sitting here, stuffing yourselves with caviar and laughing at honest people. Shame on you!
The three of us walked out. My mother was still sobbing; my father said nothing. At the exit, I turned around. The hall was deathly silent. Valentina Sergeyevna had turned beet-red. Igor sat there with his mouth open.
— My daughter, what have you done? — my mother grabbed my hand. — Go back, ask for forgiveness! Where will you live now?
— I’ll go with you, Mom. Home. To our Kozlovka, — I hugged them both. — Forgive me. Forgive me for being ashamed of you. For not defending you right away.
— You silly girl, — my father smiled for the first time that evening. — There’s nothing to forgive. We always knew you would come back.
We got into my father’s old Zhiguli. It turned out they had driven it there to surprise me. My mother took a thermos of tea and sandwiches with homemade sausage out of her bag.
— I knew they wouldn’t feed you properly in that restaurant of yours, — she said, handing me a sandwich. — Eat, my girl. It’s a long way home.
I took a bite, and tears rolled down my cheeks. There was nothing in the world tastier than that simple sandwich.
A month later, Igor came to Kozlovka. He stood by the gate, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other. My mother wanted to call me, but my father stopped her.
— Let him roll on. We don’t need that city peacock here.
Igor left with nothing. And six months later, I found out that Valentina Sergeyevna had ended up in the hospital with a heart attack after her husband filed for divorce — he had found himself a young secretary. Igor was left without his father’s money and got a job as a manager at a car dealership.
And me? I opened a small pastry shop in Kozlovka. My mother helps with the baking; my father did the renovations. On weekends, half the town comes to us for tea and pies. And you know what? I am happier than I have ever been.
Yesterday my mother said:
— It’s good everything turned out this way, daughter. Back then, when I looked at you in that restaurant, you no longer seemed like ours. But now you’re our Katyusha again.
And I hugged her, breathing in the scent of homemade bread and childhood. Real life turned out not to be in elite restaurants, but here — where you are loved not for your status, but simply because you exist.