— You’re going to organize my mother’s anniversary party, and you’re paying for it yourself! — Oleg declared, placing a sheet of paper with a guest list in front of me. — I’ve already told the relatives we’re celebrating at a restaurant. Don’t make me go back and explain myself now.
At the top of the page were the words: “Valentina Sergeyevna — 60.” Underneath were twenty-two names, followed by the name of a banquet hall, an emcee, a photographer, a cake, and flowers. Next to my name, Oleg had drawn two check marks and added a note: “Welcomes guests, handles payment, supervises the program.”
Until the evening of July 8, all I had known was the date of the birthday. Valentina Sergeyevna had mentioned that she wanted to gather the whole family, and Oleg had confidently told her he would take care of everything.
Apparently, by “take care of everything,” he meant using my time and my bonus.
He had found out the amount that very morning when the payment notification appeared on the tablet we both used at home.
— Why am I supposed to pay for it? — I asked.
— You just got a hundred and fifty thousand. Mom only turns sixty once, and you’re good at negotiating and arranging things. So handle it.
For several years, Oleg and I had kept our finances separate. Every month, we each transferred an agreed amount toward groceries, utilities, and other household expenses. Whatever remained belonged to each of us individually.
It had been Oleg’s idea in the first place. He didn’t want to explain what he spent on his car or on evenings out with friends.
But now that I had received some extra money, the rule he had insisted on suddenly seemed much less convenient to him.
— You came up with the party. You invited the guests. So you can organize it and pay for it. I’ll give Valentina Sergeyevna a present and flowers.
— We’re a family, — he said. — A normal wife doesn’t start separating money when her husband’s mother is involved.
I looked at the list again. Oleg had already chosen the venue, spoken to the host, and promised his relatives a big celebration.
Not once had he asked whether I wanted to be involved.
And this was far from the first time.
Several years earlier, I had volunteered to organize Valentina Sergeyevna’s birthday at home. After that, people began asking me to order flowers, call the relatives, and choose the menu.
Eventually, the requests disappeared, but the responsibilities remained.
Oleg made toasts and accepted everyone’s gratitude while I monitored the food, searched for missing candles, and cleared dishes from the table.
— I’ll come and congratulate your mother, — I said. — But I’m not organizing the party.
Oleg picked up the sheet.
— You’ll cool down by tomorrow.
To him, my refusal apparently meant only that he would have to wait a little longer before getting the answer he wanted.
The next morning, July 9, I received a call from the administrator of the Lilac banquet hall.
She confirmed the date, number of guests, and estimated price: 126,000 rubles. To secure the reservation, a 30,000-ruble deposit was required.
— Oleg Melnikov listed you as the client and the person responsible for payment, — she explained. — Should I send you the payment link?
— No. I didn’t book anything and I haven’t confirmed anything. Please discuss all payment and organizational matters with Oleg Melnikov.
The administrator verified his phone number and said they could not prepare a contract without confirmation from the actual client.
A few minutes later, she sent me a short message confirming that Oleg had been listed as the contact person and that payment would be expected from him.
Then the host messaged me.
After that, the pastry chef called. Oleg had given him my number too.
I told both of them that I was not their client.
After that, none of the contractors contacted me again.
Around lunchtime, Oleg sent me a message.
“Why are you making me look like an idiot who doesn’t even know who’s paying?”
I replied:
“Because you really didn’t know who was paying.”
That evening, Oleg came home later than usual. He dropped his keys on the shelf and announced that the administrator refused to hold the reservation without a signed contract and a deposit.
— She said the booking has to be in the name of the person who confirms it, — he said irritably. — Now everyone is calling me.
— Because you’re the organizer.
— Mom has already told everyone about the restaurant.
— So have you.
Oleg went into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, stared inside, then closed it without taking anything.
— I only have eighty-two thousand in savings. I was planning to keep some of it for repairs on the car.
— Then either plan an eighty-two-thousand-ruble party or invite fewer people.
He turned toward me.
— Don’t you feel sorry for Mom at all?
This wasn’t about helping someone who was in trouble.
Valentina Sergeyevna wanted a host, a photographer, a large banquet hall, and a bouquet of a particular size.
There was nothing wrong with wanting any of that—as long as the person supporting those wishes was prepared to pay for them.
What Oleg was trying to do was turn his mother’s wishes into my responsibility.
— What bothers me is that you made promises first and then decided to pay for them with my bonus, — I said. — There’s nothing else to discuss.
The next day, Valentina Sergeyevna came over carrying a printed menu covered in handwritten notes.
Oleg made her tea and sat beside her, apparently hoping that the two of them together could steer the conversation back toward the result they wanted.
My mother-in-law replaced two salads, added a fruit platter, and decided that the photographer should stay for four hours.
With her changes, the expected cost rose to 195,000 rubles.
— I haven’t invited anyone unnecessary, — she said. — You only turn sixty once.
— Mom, I don’t have that much money, — Oleg replied.
Valentina Sergeyevna slowly folded the papers.
— Anna does.
— My money is not part of the party budget, — I said.
— In my family, we don’t behave like that. A wife is supposed to support her husband, especially when his mother is concerned.
— Supporting your husband and paying for promises he made behind your back are two different things.
Oleg interrupted before she could answer.
— Anna, at least transfer the deposit. I’ll find the rest somehow.
— The administrator already explained everything to you. You are the client. You decide what to do.
This time, the argument could not be shifted onto my personality or my supposed attitude toward my mother-in-law.
The amount was written clearly on the table. Everyone knew how much Oleg had in savings. Whether the booking survived depended entirely on what he chose to do.
Valentina Sergeyevna was finally forced to acknowledge one simple fact: her son had chosen the format, invited the guests, and promised to pay for it.
— Fine, — she said eventually. — Let Oleg decide. But I don’t want the relatives thinking nobody cared enough to give me a proper anniversary.
She left the organization to her son, but in her mind, I was still responsible for the celebration becoming smaller.
When she left, she gave me a cold nod and refused the taxi I offered to call.
That was the first noticeable consequence of my decision.
Previously, after every disagreement, I would rush to smooth things over.
This time, I didn’t follow her.
On the morning of July 11, the preliminary reservation expired.
The administrator informed Oleg that the hall would be offered to another client because no contract had been signed and no deposit had been paid.
He silently showed me the message on his phone.
— Now I have to find everything all over again.
— Yes.
I didn’t bother reminding him that I had warned him.
He was about to discover for himself how much time one of my “usual responsibilities” actually required.
For almost three hours, Oleg called cafés.
He asked about available rooms, menu prices, whether guests could bring their own cake, and what time the restaurants closed.
Meanwhile, six distant relatives declined because of work or travel plans. Another four people whom Valentina Sergeyevna had planned to invite never confirmed.
The original twenty-two guests became sixteen.
By that evening, Oleg had found a small café near his mother’s home.
It had a private room and ordinary background music, but no host and no photographer.
The banquet, cake, and bouquet would cost 76,000 rubles.
Valentina Sergeyevna accepted the new arrangement without a word of thanks.
Several times she asked why they couldn’t keep at least the photographer, then requested an additional hot dish.
Oleg told her the budget had already been finalized.
I heard exhaustion in his voice—the same exhaustion I had known after so many previous family celebrations.
During the following week, he personally confirmed the guests, approved the menu, and arranged the timing for serving the cake.
He discovered that one relative didn’t eat fish, a cousin would arrive late, and his mother disliked the way the gift bouquet was going to be wrapped.
Every little detail required another decision, another phone call, and another explanation.
I stayed out of it.
I bought Valentina Sergeyevna a pair of earrings for twelve thousand rubles, wrapped the present, and signed the card from myself.
Oleg noticed the signature on the evening of July 17.
— You could have written that it was from both of us.
— Then send me half the cost.
He said nothing.
He opened his banking app and transferred six thousand rubles to me.
Between the celebration and our shared present, every ruble of his savings was gone.
On the evening of July 18, we arrived at the café separately.
Oleg went ahead of me to receive the cake and check the tables.
I arrived at the agreed time carrying the present.
Valentina Sergeyevna met me near the entrance. She was wearing the blue dress she had shown Oleg before the conflict began.
— So you came after all, — she said.
— I never said I wouldn’t come to congratulate you.
She stepped aside without inviting me to walk in with her.
The relatives were already seated.
Two women I had known for years stopped talking the moment I approached.
Later, one of them asked whether it was true that I had refused to help Oleg because of money.
I told her that Oleg had organized the celebration he himself had promised.
Nobody asked me about it again, though the usual warmth toward me was noticeably absent that evening.
I understood that some of the relatives had already heard Valentina Sergeyevna’s version and had decided who the villain was.
I had no intention of walking from guest to guest correcting her story.
Oleg barely sat down all evening.
He greeted late arrivals, spoke with the waiter, found a box for the gifts, and checked when the cake would be brought out.
At one point, he came over to me.
— Have you seen the spare candles?
— No.
He nodded and went looking for them himself.
The celebration was more modest than originally promised, but it was perfectly successful.
People talked, made toasts, laughed, and took pictures of Valentina Sergeyevna on their phones.
When the cake arrived, she finally smiled without looking tense.
Near the end of the evening, Oleg’s uncle thanked him for organizing everything.
Several relatives raised their glasses in agreement.
— Anna probably planned the whole thing for you, didn’t she? — Valentina Sergeyevna asked.
Oleg set down his glass.
— No, Mom. I did it myself.
She looked at him for a moment, adjusted one of the gift boxes, and said nothing.
We returned home after midnight.
Oleg took off his jacket and stood silently beside the kitchen counter for a long time before speaking.
— I spent all my savings and barely put my phone down for an entire week.
— You chose this party yourself.
— You used to handle everything much faster.
— I used to do everything alone while you assumed it somehow organized itself.
He sat down across from me.
I wasn’t expecting an apology.
A person doesn’t abandon a long-standing habit of controlling someone else’s time and money in a single week, especially after years of believing that behavior was perfectly normal.
— From now on, anything either of us spends on our parents comes from our own money, — I said. — Major shared expenses get discussed in advance. And you do not give my phone number to anyone without asking me first.
— This is starting to sound like accounting.
— The accounting started the moment you listed me as the person responsible for payment.
Oleg didn’t agree aloud.
Instead, he picked up his phone and typed a message to his mother:
“Next time there’s a big celebration, we’ll discuss everything in advance. I won’t promise anyone that Anna will pay again.”
He read the message once, sent it, and placed his phone face down on the table.
There was nothing more to discuss.