The notification in the family group chat arrived at half past seven in the morning, before Natasha had even managed to finish her first coffee. Her sister-in-law Ira — the self-appointed queen of organizing things, who somehow always managed to give orders without lifting a finger herself — was already handing out responsibilities.
Natasha read the message twice, then put her phone down and looked at her husband, Valentin, who was calmly spreading butter on a slice of bread.
“Your sister is at it again,” she said evenly.
Valentin did not even look up.
“What is it this time?”
“Your mother’s anniversary. Seventy-five years old. Everyone is chipping in fifteen thousand for the gift. And I’ve been assigned to cook the festive table for twenty people.”
Valentin shrugged.
“Well, you really do cook well.”
Natasha slowly set her cup aside. In twenty-seven years of marriage, she had learned how to control herself. But sometimes — like now — patience simply ran out.
They had met at the river station. Six months later, they got married.
During the first years, they lived in a factory dormitory — a twelve-square-meter room and a shared kitchen. When their son Grisha was born, the space became unbearably cramped. They saved for an apartment for almost ten years.
In 2007, they finally took out a mortgage on a two-room apartment in a panel building on the outskirts of the city. Forty-three square meters felt like a palace after the dormitory. They paid it off over fifteen years, making the final payment in 2022.
With their own hands. With their own work. Without help.
That mattered, because Valentin’s family was made of entirely different material. His mother, Alevtina Fyodorovna, had spent her whole life working as a deputy headmistress and was used to being obeyed.
His sister Ira, three years older than Valentin, had married well — her husband Slava owned a chain of car washes — and ever since then, she considered herself entitled to tell everyone what to do. Valentin’s younger brother, Vanya, lived in Krasnodar, worked as an agronomist, and rarely visited.
And now there was the anniversary.
Natasha opened the chat and reread Ira’s full message:
“Hi everyone! Mom turns 75 on Saturday! We’re celebrating at her place. Everyone chips in 15,000 for the gift — gold earrings, I’ve already picked some out at the jewelry store. And Natasha will handle the food, she cooks better than all of us! Natasha, you won’t say no, will you? Mom loves you so much!”
Below it were approving replies.
Vanya wrote, “Great idea! I’ll transfer today.”
Vanya’s wife, Oksana, added, “Natasha, you’re our treasure! I’m sure everything will be delicious!”
Alevtina Fyodorovna’s cousin Svetlana wrote, “I support this! Natasha’s salads are something special!”
Several other relatives — Aunt Klava, Uncle Gena, niece Vika — added approving emojis and short messages like, “I’m in.”
Natasha placed the phone face down.
Twenty people. A basin of Olivier salad, herring under a fur coat, a hot main dish, appetizers, cake. At least two days of preparation. Then serving, clearing, washing up.
And all of it for free.
Because she was “the daughter-in-law” and “cooked so well.”
Natasha remembered the previous New Year’s Eve. Fifteen people. Two days by the stove. She had brought seven containers of food in her own car, set the table, decorated everything.
And afterward — not one “thank you.”
Only Ira had said:
“The Olivier tastes a little different this year. Did you use a different mayonnaise or something?”
Natasha had explained that the mayonnaise was the same, she had only added a little mustard for flavor. Ira had grimaced and taken the crab salad instead.
Valentin had said nothing then.
He always said nothing.
And the next day, while Natasha was washing dishes — because her mother-in-law was “tired,” Ira was “in a hurry,” and the rest of the guests had already left — Alevtina Fyodorovna suddenly said:
“You know, Natasha, Ira couldn’t cook at all when she was a child. But she didn’t need to. She was always clever, studied well, graduated with a medal. Cooking is for simpler people.”
Natasha had not answered then. She clenched her teeth and finished washing the salad bowl. Her hands were red from the hot water, her back ached from exhaustion, and only one thought kept circling in her head:
“Simpler people. So that’s me. Simple. Me, with my honors degree in food technology. Me, the head of production. Simple.”
But now she was fifty. Her son Grisha was grown, working as a ship mechanic in Murmansk, calling once a week and sending photos of the northern lights. The mortgage was paid off. At the factory, Natasha was now head of production — three hundred people worked under her, three workshops, and an annual output of forty thousand tons of dairy products.
And she no longer wanted to tolerate this.
She opened the chat and began typing. Her fingers moved steadily, without hesitation.
“Good afternoon, everyone. I agree to cook. Here is the menu: Olivier salad, herring under a fur coat, roasted turkey, crab salad, sliced cheese, sausage and fish platter, vegetable platter, fruit, fried potatoes, and Napoleon cake.
The cost of groceries is 65,000 rubles.
Cook’s work — shopping, two days of cooking, and transportation — 15,000 rubles.
Total: 80,000 rubles.
There will be 20 guests, but 13 people are contributing, since children and pensioners are not counted. That makes 6,150 extra from each person. I’ll send my card details privately. I’m doing the shopping tomorrow, so I’ll wait for the transfers by tonight.”
She reread the message. For one second, she wondered if it was too sharp. Then she remembered “for simpler people” and hit send.
She put the phone on charge and went to take a shower.
When she came out, seventeen unread messages were glowing on the screen.
Naturally, Ira reacted first.
“Natasha, are you joking???”
“What do you mean, cook’s work?! You’re the DAUGHTER-IN-LAW!”
“We’re all contributing, everyone is trying, and you’re sending us an INVOICE?!”
“Is this even normal?!”
Vanya wrote cautiously, “Natasha, this feels kind of strange… We’re family. We’ve always helped each other.”
Oksana added, “I don’t want to interfere, of course, but it really is unusual. Maybe we should discuss it?”
Svetlana sent a sad emoji and wrote, “I didn’t expect this…”
Aunt Klava wrote, “In our time, this never happened. Young people are strange nowadays.”
Valentin said nothing.
Judging by his online status, he was reading everything. But he stayed silent.
Natasha poured herself tea, sat down at the table, and replied:
“Ira, you are Alevtina Fyodorovna’s daughter. But you are not cooking. Why?”
There was a pause.
Then Ira wrote:
“I DON’T HAVE TIME! I have children, a husband, my own things to do! Do you understand how much responsibility that is?!”
Natasha smiled. Her fingers moved across the screen again.
“I also have work, responsibilities, and time that I value. I manage three hundred people and three production workshops.
You live twenty minutes from your mother, but you are not cooking, and that is considered normal. I live an hour away, work full-time, yet everyone EXPECTS me to give two days of unpaid labor. Please explain to me why.”
The chat went silent for three minutes.
Natasha watched as typing indicators appeared and disappeared — someone would start writing, then erase it.
Finally, Ira wrote:
“Because you COOK WELL! It’s a compliment! We appreciate you!”
Natasha replied:
“I cook well because I spent years learning and practicing. It is a skill. Skills cost money. Why should my labor be free?”
Valentin entered the room. He had clearly read the chat — his face was tense, with a deep crease between his brows.
“Natash, why did you have to do that?”
“Do what?”
“Start a scandal. Mom will be upset. Ira already called me — she’s hysterical.”
“Ira is always hysterical when something doesn’t go according to her plan.”
“But this is Mom! Her anniversary! Seventy-five only happens once!”
“Exactly. It’s an important celebration. And I’m willing to provide it — for fair payment. Like any other specialist. You don’t expect an electrician to fix wiring for free just because he’s a neighbor, do you?”
Valentin sat down across from her and rubbed his forehead with his palm.
“You understand what’s going to happen now, don’t you? Ira will be offended. Mom will be offended. Everyone will say that you…”
“That I what?”
He did not answer. He looked away.
“Say it,” Natasha insisted. “What will they say? I want to hear it.”
“That you’re greedy. That you count every penny. And that you… well… don’t respect the family. That you’ve always had your own agenda.”
Natasha placed her cup on the table slowly and carefully, so the tea would not spill.
“Valentin, over all these years I have cooked about eighty holiday tables for your family. For free. Not once did anyone say thank you.”
Valentin was silent.
“And do you know what I heard instead of gratitude? ‘The salad is too salty.’ ‘The meat is a little dry.’ ‘Last year’s cake was better.’”
“Well… it’s family… that’s how it is…”
“Your family, Valentin. The same family that has never once come to congratulate me on anything. When I had pneumonia, which of them called?”
Valentin said nothing.
“And now, when I ask for fair payment for my work for the first time, I’m greedy? I don’t respect the family? I’m the bad one?”
Her phone vibrated again.
A private message from her mother-in-law — not in the group chat.
“Natasha, I read everything. Honestly, I did not expect this from you. We always treated you as one of our own, like a daughter. We accepted you into the family, shared everything with you.
Apparently, we were wrong about you. I have decided to celebrate my anniversary at a restaurant. I invite everyone except you. I don’t want my daughter-in-law to feel… obligated.
All the best.”
Natasha read the message twice.
Then she showed it to Valentin.
He read it and turned pale.
“She… she’s serious?”
“Looks like it.”
“But that’s… that’s unfair! She just… erased you!”
“Yes, she erased me. Because I refused to work for free. Interesting reaction, isn’t it?”
Valentin jumped up and grabbed his phone.
“I’ll call her! I’ll explain!”
“Don’t.”
“What do you mean, don’t?!”
Natasha stood and placed her cup in the sink.
“Valentin, you can go to your mother’s anniversary. I don’t object. She is your mother, it is your celebration. But I will not go — not because I wasn’t invited, but because I have nothing to do there. I don’t want to sit at a table with people who see me as a servant.”
“And what about me? How am I supposed to go there without you? What am I supposed to say?”
“That is your choice. An adult choice made by an adult man.”
For the next three days, Valentin walked around gloomy and silent. Several times, he tried to call Ira, but she did not pick up; she rejected the calls. Vanya wrote something conciliatory, but vague — something like, let’s all calm down, why argue, Mom is upset. Her mother-in-law remained silent.
On Wednesday evening, Valentin came home from work and said:
“I went to see Mom after my shift.”
“And?”
“She’s hurt. Very hurt. She says you humiliated her in front of the whole family. That everyone is now discussing how…”
“How what?”
“Selfish you are. That you always thought you were better than everyone. That you looked down on them.”
Natasha shook her head.
“For twenty-seven years, I silently cooked, cleaned, and served them — and that’s called looking down on people? Interesting logic.”
“I tried to explain… I said you were tired. That you have a hard job. That it isn’t fair to demand so much work from you for free.”
“And what did she say?”
Valentin was silent for a moment.
“She said Ira gets tired too. And Vanya works too. Everyone gets tired. But nobody sends invoices to relatives.”
“And what did you say?”
“Nothing. I didn’t know what to say.”
As always, Natasha thought.
But she did not say it aloud.
On Saturday, the day of the anniversary, Valentin put on a suit and tie. The same one Natasha had given him for his fiftieth birthday — dark gray, with a thin silver stripe.
“I’m going,” he said at the door. “She’s my mother. I have to be there.”
“Of course,” Natasha replied. “Go. Give her my congratulations.”
She watched him leave — slightly hunched, somehow lost in his formal suit. She felt no resentment, no anger. She was simply tired of explaining the obvious.
When the door closed, she took out her phone and wrote in the group chat with her friends:
“Girls, I have a free evening today. My husband is at his mother’s anniversary, and I’m home alone. Whoever wants to come over, come. I’ll make something tasty and we’ll sit together.”
Within fifteen minutes, four of them replied.
Natasha smiled and went to the kitchen.
She cooked with pleasure — for the first time in a long while. Not because she had to, but because she wanted to. Chicken rolls with prunes, arugula salad, and lemon tart for dessert.
By seven in the evening, her friends had arrived — all four of them. Polina from the factory, Sonya from the old dormitory, Karina, her school friend, and Yana.
They set the table in the living room.
They sat there until eleven. They laughed, remembered silly stories from their youth. Natasha caught herself thinking that she had not rested like that in a very long time — without expectations, without the need to please anyone.
After her friends left, she washed the dishes and sat down with a book.
Valentin came home at half past eleven.
He looked worn out. His tie was loosened, his jacket hanging from his hand.
“How did it go?” Natasha asked neutrally.
“Fine.” He threw the jacket over the back of a chair and sat down on the sofa. He was silent for a moment. “Actually, it was awful.”
“Why?”
“Ira chose the restaurant. Some pretentious place — expensive and tasteless. Portions fit for a sparrow. Mom sat there all evening with a sour face.” He paused, then added, “It would have been tastier if you had agreed to cook. The anniversary was ruined.”
Natasha slowly set her book aside.
“Repeat what you just said.”
“Well… I didn’t mean it like that… It’s just, if you had agreed…”
“Valentin, are you serious right now? You came home and told me I ruined the anniversary? Because I refused to work for free for two days?”
He hesitated.
“I just… everyone there was saying it… And Mom was upset…”
Natasha stood, walked to the window, and stood with her back to him.
“You know, Valentin, I hoped you would come home and say, ‘You were right. It was unfair.’ But you came home and said, ‘You ruined the celebration.’ That says a lot.”
They went to bed in silence. Each on their own side of the bed.
In the morning, Natasha woke first. Valentin was still asleep. She looked at him and wondered: did she still love him after all this?
Probably, yes.
But differently.
Not the way she had loved him when they first met. She did not regret the marriage. But she did not want to keep living the same way either.
In the afternoon, her mother-in-law called.
Natasha saw the name on the screen and hesitated for a second — should she answer or not?
She answered.
“Alevtina Fyodorovna.”
“Natasha.” Her mother-in-law’s voice was dry and formal. “I’m calling to say that yesterday’s celebration went well. Without your participation. We managed perfectly.”
“I’m glad for you.”
“But I want you to understand: your behavior was unacceptable. You insulted the entire family. Sending relatives a bill! For cooking! As if we were strangers off the street!”
“Alevtina Fyodorovna, I didn’t insult anyone. I called things by their proper names. Cooking for twenty people is work. Two days at the stove, twenty-eight thousand for groceries out of my own pocket. Why should that work be free?”
“Because it is FAMILY! We help each other!”
“Family means helping each other mutually. It means valuing one another. It means saying thank you. I have never heard a thank you from you. Not once.”
Her mother-in-law fell silent.
“I fed you when you were young!” her voice trembled. “I gave you things when Grisha was born!”
“You gave us Ira’s children’s old things, the ones they had outgrown. And yes, sometimes you fed us dinner when we visited — the way any hostess feeds guests. That does not make me indebted to you for the rest of my life.”
“You are ungrateful! We accepted you into our family, and you…”
“No. I simply stopped staying silent. For the first time.”
Her mother-in-law hung up.
All her life, Natasha had been convenient.
Reliable.
Free.
Not anymore.
And if someone did not like that — they could cook for themselves.