Marina lowered the heavy grocery bags onto the floor and leaned her back against the cool hallway wall. Her temples were pounding, her legs aching as if she had just run a marathon instead of working a full shift in accounting and then spending another hour pushing through a stuffy supermarket. The bag handles had cut into her palms, leaving red grooves that now itched unpleasantly. From the living room came the cheerful voice of a TV host and the clinking of dishes — her husband, Sergey, was already eating dinner without waiting for her.
“Marish, is that you?” he shouted without taking his eyes off the TV. “Did you buy bread? There’s only the crust left, and it’s completely stale. Impossible to chew.”
She exhaled, suppressing the sharp urge to throw her shoes into the corner, and silently walked into the kitchen. On the table rose the familiar mountain of dirty dishes: a plate with dried ketchup streaks, a cup stained dark with tea, crumbs scattered across the oilcloth as if pigeons had been fed there. Sergey had reheated yesterday’s cutlets for himself, splattering the stove with grease, but of course it had never occurred to him to clean up afterward.
At that moment, the phone rang in the pocket of her coat. The screen showed: “Galina Ivanovna.” Her mother-in-law. Marina closed her eyes for a second, gathering her strength. She knew this call — the evening report that would smoothly turn into a list of demands.
“Marinochka, hello, dear!” her mother-in-law’s voice dripped with syrup, which was always a sure sign: she needed something, and that “something” would require no small effort from Marina. “Are you home already? I’m calling about an important matter. I called Seryozha, but he muttered something and hung up. Busy, probably. Poor boy must be tired from work.”
“Good evening, Galina Ivanovna. Yes, I just came in. I haven’t even had time to take off my shoes. What happened?”
“Why must something have happened? We have joy coming, Marinochka! My anniversary is approaching — sixty years old, can you imagine? I thought it over, talked with my sister, with Aunt Valya… We decided we’ll celebrate properly! Relatives from Saratov will come, the Svatkovs from the village will join us, and our city people too. About thirty people, no fewer. Aunt Valya is already looking at train tickets.”
Marina mechanically began unpacking the bags, holding the phone with her shoulder and trying not to drop the eggs. Thirty people. In their three-room apartment, packed with furniture, that meant a local-scale Armageddon.
“Galina Ivanovna, thirty people is serious. Have you already chosen a restaurant? These days you need to book everywhere in advance, wedding season is starting, graduations are soon,” Marina asked cautiously, taking out the milk and feeling a bad premonition forming inside her.
There was a theatrical pause on the line, full of reproach.
“What restaurant, Marinochka?” her mother-in-law’s voice rang with offense. “You know what prices are like now! Pure robbery. The portions are tiny, they smear pâté across a plate and charge as if it were a whole ram. And there’s no soul in it. You sit in a restaurant like a stranger, the music is blaring, you can’t talk, waiters hover over you. No, I’ve decided we’ll do it at home. Your apartment is spacious, the living room is large. We’ll borrow an extendable table from the neighbors, gather chairs from friends. Homestyle, with love!”
Marina froze with a pack of cottage cheese in her hand. A chill ran down her back. She knew perfectly well what was hidden behind the words “homestyle.” It meant three days at the stove, swollen legs, and mountains of dishes.
“Galina Ivanovna, but I work. I’m in the reporting period right now. When am I supposed to cook for thirty people? That takes an enormous amount of time and strength. It’s industrial scale.”
“Oh, don’t start,” her mother-in-law brushed her off, and Marina could practically see her wrinkling her nose. “The anniversary is in three weeks, on a Saturday. Take Friday off, do the preparations. Seryozha will help, I’ll come early, peel the vegetables, sort the herbs. You’re such a wonderful homemaker, everything turns out so delicious when you make it! Aunt Valya still remembers your roast pork and has been talking everyone’s ears off about it in Saratov. Surely you won’t deny your own mother a celebration? It’s not every year I turn sixty. 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 argue against “Mom’s” pressure and feeling guilty at the thought of refusing, muttering something vague. Her mother-in-law, like an experienced strategist, took this as unconditional surrender and happily hung up, promising to bring the menu tomorrow.
That evening, after Marina had finally washed all the dishes, scrubbed the grease splashes 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 on his phone and occasionally chuckling at videos.
“Seryozh, your mother called. About the anniversary.”
“Ah, yes, she mentioned it,” he nodded without looking up. “Thirty guests, all that. You check what money is needed. I’ll contribute a bit from my salary, but Mom promised to add most of it.”
“Seryozha, do you hear me?” Marina sat on the edge of the couch, wiping her wet hands on a kitchen towel. “She wants to do it here. At our place. Thirty people. Do you understand what that means? Cooking for three days, cleaning before and after, a mountain of dishes. I’m not a horse. I get tired at work. Why can’t we rent a café? There are inexpensive options.”
Sergey frowned, finally putting his phone aside. He looked annoyed, as if he had been distracted from saving the world over some trifle.
“Marin, why are you starting? My mother is asking. She’s an old
er person, she wants a celebration, she wants home comfort. Is it really so hard for us to make an effort once? Are you that stingy?”
“If it’s not hard, then you take care of the hot dishes and appetizers,” Marina suggested, looking him straight in the eyes. “I’ll make the salads.”
“Well, you know I can’t cook,” he grimaced as if he had suddenly developed a toothache. “You’re better at it. And anyway, setting tables and creating comfort are women’s work. My job is to greet the guests, entertain them, pour drinks on time, keep order. 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 like a thick, gray mass, turning Marina’s life into an endless marathon. Galina Ivanovna brought the menu, just as she had promised. It was not a list; it was the menu of a royal feast from the time of Ivan the Terrible. Aspic — necessarily transparent, made from two kinds of meat, and it had to tremble but not melt. Jellied tongue. Three kinds of salads — and no store-bought mayonnaise, only homemade, whipped by hand. Julienne in cocottes — Marina had only six of them, and the rest had to be hunted down among friends. For the main course, duck with apples and stuffed cabbage rolls, because “Uncle Vitya doesn’t eat duck, he has a weak stomach.” And for dessert, Napoleon cake — homemade, soaked through, fifteen layers, with custard made with egg yolks.
Every evening Marina came home from work and, instead of resting, began searching for something, ordering something, discussing something. The apartment gradually turned into a wholesale warehouse: boxes of drinks piled up in the hallway corner, everyone tripped over them, and the balcony was crammed with jars of pickles that Aunt Valya had sent by train and that had to be dragged from the station.
Sergey removed himself from the preparations completely, taking the position of observer. His contribution was limited to bringing an old folding table from a friend, scratching the doorframe in the process, and grumbling in annoyance whenever Marina asked him to go to the market for heavy vegetables.
“Why are you so nervous?” he asked, watching his wife sort rice for the side dish at one in the morning because her mother-in-law had said it needed to be special and fluffy. “The celebration is soon. You should be happy. Smile at least.”
A week before the celebration, Galina Ivanovna arrived for an “inspection.” She walked through the apartment, running her finger along the shelves like a hotel inspector in a cheap motel.
“Marinochka, the curtains should be washed. They’re dusty, kind of gray. It’ll be embarrassing in front of people; they’ll say a slob lives here. And wipe the chandelier — there’s a little bug stuck in the shade, you can see it from below. And one more thing… I thought stuffed cabbage rolls are somehow too ordinary. Let’s make French-style meat instead. But with good cheese, not that plastic stuff, and choose sweet tomatoes, Baku ones. And fry the mushrooms yourself, not canned ones — they give a different flavor.”
Marina felt a thin, ringing string 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 up under the ceiling.”
“Oh, what is there to wash? You throw them in the machine and it spins by itself. You’re just being lazy, dear. In our day, we washed by hand in a basin, starched, ironed with cast-iron irons, and somehow managed everything. We raised children and set tables for fifty people. And now you have machines, robots, buttons — 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 properly so it would melt in the mouth, criticizing Marina’s choice of napkins along the way.
“Too simple, paper,” she snorted. “They should be cloth, starched. I had some lying around in a trunk somewhere. I’ll bring them, and you’ll bleach and iron them.”
Sergey sat nearby, agreeing with his mother and devouring cabbage pies with appetite — pies Marina had bought at the bakery near the house because she simply had no strength left to bake them herself.
“They’re tasty, but the dough is a bit heavy,” Galina Ivanovna remarked, taking a small bite and putting the rest aside with distaste. “I remember when you baked for Lenochka’s wedding yourself — that dough was like fluff, so airy. And this… Well, for family it’ll do, if you’re starving, but you can’t serve this to guests. For an anniversary, you need to bake yourself, Marin. Store-bought is disrespectful to guests.”
“Mom, she’s already running around so much,” Sergey tried weakly to defend her, but immediately retreated under his mother’s stern look. “Though yes, Marin, your Napoleon is incomparable. Do make the effort. It’s only once in a lifetime.”
The final straw came on Thursday evening. There were two days left until the anniversary. Marina had asked to leave work early, losing money, so she could boil the vegetables for the salads and cut the meat. She entered the apartment, loaded with bags so heavy that her fingers had turned white and gone numb. At home, it 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 searching for something in the cabinet, sorting through discs.
“Oh, she’s here!” Svetlana exclaimed instead of greeting her, without even turning her head. “Marin, do you have that creamy liqueur, the tasty one? Mom says there was some left from New Year’s. We decided to taste it for our reunion, wet our throats a little.”
“In the upper cabinet, behind the grains,” Marina answered dully, walking into the kitchen and almost hitting 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; it felt as if a red-hot nail had been driven into her lower spine. Laughter and clinking glasses came from the living room.
“Seryozh!” she called, trying to keep her voice from trembling. “Come help peel the potatoes. There are five kilos here. My hands can’t hold anything anymore.”
“Marin, I’m busy, I’m making the playlist, choosing music for dancing!” her husband called from the room. “That’s important too! You start, and I’ll come later when I’m free.”
Marina sighed, took out a knife, and began peeling potatoes. The skins were dirty, soil getting under her nails. Suddenly the knife slipped, and Marina painfully cut her finger. Blood appeared instantly, a bright drop falling onto the peeled tuber.
Ten minutes later, Sveta peered into the kitchen. She looked Marina over appraisingly and wrinkled her nose.
“Marin, you should at least put on some makeup for the anniversary, do a face mask or something. You’re pale as a moth, with bags under your eyes. You’ll look awful in the photos, and then we’ll be embarrassed to post them.”
Marina silently pressed a napkin to her cut finger.
“Oh, by the way,” her sister-in-law continued, not noticing Marina’s condition. “Mom says your white tablecloth has that little stain. Take a look, maybe bleach it tonight? It’ll look ugly; people will notice. And also, we revised the menu. Sveta says nobody will eat aspic — it’s not fashionable anymore, it’s last century. Carpaccio is fashionable now. Maybe you could run out and buy a good beef tenderloin? The butcher shop nearby is open until nine.”
Marina tried to take another potato, but her fingers loosened, and the tuber dropped to the floor with a dull thud, rolling toward Svetlana’s feet. She did not even move to pick it up.
“What’s wrong with you, butterfingers?” her sister-in-law smirked. “Pick it up before someone steps on it.”
Marina slowly straightened. She looked at her hands — dry, chapped skin, no manicure for a month, a red stain spreading across her finger. She looked at the mountain of unpeeled potatoes. She remembered that tomorrow she had to get up at five in the morning to start boiling broths, then spend the whole day chopping, frying, steaming, washing, listening to valuable instructions, and on Saturday run with plates between thirty guests, refilling, clearing, smiling until her legs fell off. And then, when everyone left, she would be alone with a mountain of dirty dishes and greasy stains on the carpet while “the family” slept.
And no one, not one person, had said a simple “thank you.” No one had asked how she felt. To them, she was just a function. A food processor with legs, one that still dared to get tired.
Something clicked inside her. Quietly, but clearly. 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 one second, leaving behind 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 bent over the laptop, her flushed mother-in-law, and her sister-in-law with a glass — turned their heads toward her.
“Carpaccio, then?” Marina asked quietly, looking straight at Svetlana.
“Well, yes,” Sveta nodded, sensing no danger. “It’s modern and light, and it doesn’t take long to make. Will you run out?”
Marina looked around at them.
“You know what, my dear relatives.” Her voice grew stronger, filling the room. “The anniversary is canceled! I am not going to serve your relatives. Let dear Mother-in-law run around herself!”
A ringing silence settled over the room. The only sound was the ticking of the old wall clock. Sergey’s jaw dropped. Galina Ivanovna broke out in red blotches. Svetlana’s glass trembled in her hand.
“What are you saying, Marina?” her mother-in-law hissed, heaving herself up from the couch. “Are you out of your mind? The guests have been invited! People bought tickets, they’re already coming! Do you want to disgrace us in front of the entire family?”
“They are your guests, Galina Ivanovna. And it is your anniversary. So you organize it. If you want, go to a restaurant. If you want, stand at the stove yourself. As for me — I’m out. I resign from my position as your unpaid servant.”
“Marin, what’s wrong with you, did you overheat?” Sergey jumped up, trying to turn everything into a joke, but fear flashed in his eyes. “You’re tired, I get it. Let me now… well, peel those potatoes… Or we’ll ask Sveta.”
“No, Seryozha. No need to peel potatoes. It’s too late.”
Marina turned and went into the bedroom. She took a travel bag from the closet. Her hands were not shaking; her movements were precise and restrained. She threw things into the bag: jeans, T-shirts, comfortable sneakers, a book she had bought half a year ago and still hadn’t opened. Her gaze fell on an envelope hidden in the drawer with her underwear. Inside was the money she had been saving for six months for new winter boots and a good coat.
“So be it,” Marina thought, decisively stuffing the envelope into the 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 do you think you’re going?” Sergey stood in the doorway, pale and confused. “Marin, stop this hysteria. Mom is 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 for a rest home outside Moscow? I refused, like a fool, because of the ‘anniversary,’ because I felt sorry for the money, because I was afraid of offending your mother. But now I called my colleague back while I was peeling potatoes. She hadn’t canceled the reservation yet. I’m going to rest, Seryozha. For the whole weekend. And I’ll take next week off at my own expense too.”
“You can’t do this!” Galina Ivanovna squealed from the hallway, forgetting about her bad heart. She stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips. “This is betrayal! Family doesn’t do this! What will people say?! You’re selfish, Marina! You only think about yourself!”
Marina zipped up the bag, slung the strap over her shoulder, and stepped right up to her mother-in-law.
“People will say, Galina Ivanovna, that a good mother-in-law does not have a daughter-in-law running away from home before a celebration with bloodied hands. And family is when people protect each other, not ride on someone’s back and whip them forward. The keys are on the nightstand. 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 fall from the ceiling. Outside, the air was fresh. The evening smelled of rain, damp asphalt dust, and freedom. Marina called a taxi, sat in the back seat, and smiled for the first time in a month. She took out her phone and turned it off completely.
The next three days passed like a haze, but it was a blissful, sweet haze. The sanatorium turned out to be old, still Soviet-era, but quiet. Pines stretched their tops into the sky, and the air was so thick she wanted to eat it with a spoon. Marina slept twelve hours at a time, walked through the forest, fed bold red squirrels nuts, read her book in a wooden gazebo, and most importantly, ate food that other people had prepared. She came to the dining hall, sat at a clean table, and food was 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 for it. She did not wash dishes. She simply existed.
She turned on her phone 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 times, then Sveta, Aunt Valya, and even some unknown numbers — probably guests who couldn’t get into the entrance. The messages ranged from threats and curses (“You ruined our celebration!” “Shameless woman!” “God will punish you!”) to panicked pleas (“Marin, where are the skewers?” “How do you turn the oven to grill?” “Our duck burned, the whole apartment is full of smoke, what do we do?!”).
Marina deleted everything without reading. She did not care.
She returned home a week later. A suspicious, ominous silence filled the apartment. There were no guests’ shoes in the hallway, but the smell… The smell hit her nose the moment she opened the door. It was a mixture of stale alcohol fumes, burned grease, something sour, and cheap floral air freshener that someone had used to try to cover the stench.
Sergey was sitting in the kitchen over a plate of store-bought dumplings. He looked beaten, unshaven, and somehow gray. When he saw his wife, he first twitched; anger flashed in his eyes.
“Hello,” Marina said, setting her bag on the floor.
“So you’ve appeared,” he said through clenched teeth. “Did you rest? And we, you know, had quite the fun here. Mom called everyone and said you were sick, that you had an infection. I had to lie to the guests’ faces! Do you even understand how I looked? Like an idiot! People asked where the hostess was, and I mumbled something about a fever. Aunt Valya even said you’d gone on a drinking binge.”
“Do you understand what I would have looked like if I had fainted with a tray in the middle of the room? Or if I had ended up in bed with a stroke?” Marina asked calmly, walking into the room.
She looked around the living room. What she saw was impressive. On her favorite linen tablecloth, the one she had embroidered herself, a huge purple wine stain had spread like an inkblot. In the expensive crystal vase, a gift from her parents, a soggy cigarette butt was floating. On the carpet there were traces of outdoor shoes and some greasy crumbs.
“You disgraced me, Marina!” Sergey continued winding himself up, following her. “Mom said she’ll never set foot here again!”
“That’s the best news of the year,” Marina answered calmly, lifting the vase and looking at the cigarette butt with disgust. “That means no more inspections for dust on the chandelier.”
“You… you’re heartless!” Sergey choked with indignation, but his pressure shattered against his wife’s icy calm. “We were spinning around here like damned people!”
“Tell me how you spun around. I’m interested.”
Sergey fell silent, deflated, lowered his shoulders, and sat down on a chair.
“Hellishly. It was hell, Marin,” he admitted quietly.
It turned out that after Marina left, panic began. Galina Ivanovna tried to take command, shouted, gave orders, but it quickly became clear that her culinary skills were in the distant past, and her strength was not what it used to be. Sveta declared that she had a five-thousand-ruble manicure and would not be cutting anything; she had come to relax. Sergey tried to roast the duck, but forgot to fully defrost it and remove the bag of giblets inside. In the end, the duck remained raw and bloody inside, while the outside turned to coal, filling the apartment with acrid smoke.
They had to urgently order food from the nearest shashlik place and pizzeria. It cost three times more than planned; Sergey’s and Galina Ivanovna’s entire budget went down the drain. The food arrived cold, tough, and tasteless. The guests were seated however they could manage; there was not enough table space, everyone sat cramped together, bumping elbows. The Saratov relatives loudly criticized the “store-bought” salads and rubbery pizza.
Galina Ivanovna became so nervous that her blood pressure rose, 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 ended up with.
Then someone spilled wine. Then the sink got clogged because drunk Sveta dumped the remains of a greasy salad into it along with bones. Nobody wanted to wash the dishes. They stood in a mountain for two days until gnats began multiplying, and Sergey had to sort it all out himself, cursing and fighting back the urge to vomit.
“Mom is mortally offended by you,” Sergey finished his story, staring at the floor. “She 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 it well. I will never again allow myself to be treated this way. If you want celebrations — cafés, restaurants, catering. At your expense. In 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 will be a horse, who will tolerate your relatives and smile while they’re rude to her. I’m out. I have one life, and I don’t want to spend it at the stove to please your mother.”
Sergey looked at her for a long time. What he saw before him was not the familiar, convenient Marina who was always rushing around, apologizing, and pleasing everyone. Before him stood a calm, confident woman, rested, with color in her cheeks. And he suddenly understood very clearly: she was not joking. And if he now continued to assert his rights or defend his mother, she would simply pack the rest of her things and leave. For good. And he really did not want to be left alone in an apartment with a burnt duck, a stain on the carpet, and his mother’s endless complaints. He suddenly remembered how cozy and clean everything had been 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 manage. You always managed…”
Marina nodded.
“I see you washed the dishes? Well done. But you’ll take the tablecloth and carpet to the dry cleaner yourself. Tomorrow. And you’ll get the money for it from your mother or Sveta. They made this mess.”
“All right,” Sergey agreed obediently. “I’ll take them.”
She took an apple from the vase, after first washing it clean of ash, bit into it with a crunch, and went to her room. Life was improving. And even if her mother-in-law now considered her a spawn of hell, at least her back no longer hurt, she would earn the money for the boots again, and peaceful evenings lay ahead. Just for herself.
Sometimes our inability to refuse is mistaken for weakness, and our kindness for obligation. But once you firmly say “no,” the people around you suddenly begin to see you not as a convenient function, but as a living person with self-respect. Value yourselves, dear women, protect your strength and your nerves, because no one gives us spare ones, and love for others begins with respect for yourself.
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