“Where do we keep the corkscrew?”
Boris’s voice carried in from the hallway, easily rising above the splash of water in the kitchen sink. At that moment, Maya was scrubbing a baking tray, trying to remove the grease that had burned onto it while the duck was roasting.
“It’s in the top kitchen drawer!” she called without turning around.
“It isn’t there!”
Maya shut off the water, quickly rinsed her hands, shook the droplets into the sink, and went to help him.
Boris stood beside the kitchen cabinets wearing only his trousers. Visibly irritated, he pulled open one drawer after another. Whisks, ladles, and metal spatulas clattered loudly against one another.
“Look more carefully.”
Maya walked over, lifted a wooden rolling pin, and immediately pulled out the corkscrew hidden beneath it.
 
“You’re always stuffing things into random places,” Boris grumbled as he took it from her. “You could have opened the bottles in advance. The guests will be here in half an hour, and practically nothing is ready.”
Maya pressed her lips together, forcing herself not to respond.
She had already spent eight hours on her feet. The previous evening, after work, she had dragged four heavy bags of groceries home from the store by herself. Boris, meanwhile, had been lying comfortably on the sofa. After all, it was going to be his birthday, and in his opinion, the birthday boy deserved to rest after such a difficult working week.
Maya had spent the entire Saturday chopping, baking, washing, slicing more ingredients, and arranging food on serving dishes.
Nearly all of her quarterly bonus had gone toward the celebration. She had spared no expense on quality cheeses, smoked salmon, and a farm-raised duck. She desperately wanted the first major gathering in their recently renovated apartment to be beautiful and flawless.
Their mortgage already consumed a large part of the family budget, but her husband’s birthday was a special occasion.
“I’ll get everything done, Borya,” Maya said calmly. “Just don’t start complaining. Go and put on your shirt. Anatoly and Valeria hate being kept waiting.”
Boris snorted and headed toward the bedroom.
Almost immediately, Raisa Stepanovna’s voice came from the living room. Maya’s mother-in-law had arrived nearly two hours earlier than everyone else. Officially, she had come to help with the preparations. In reality, Maya quickly realized that the older woman had come to inspect everything and make sure it was done according to her standards.
“Maya!”
Raisa Stepanovna pronounced her name as though she were giving an order to a subordinate.
“Why are all your tartlets uneven? In our family, everything served at the table has always been arranged properly.”
Maya returned to the living room. Her mother-in-law had settled comfortably into an armchair. She was wearing a festive buttoned blouse, with her reading glasses hanging from a long chain around her neck. Raisa Stepanovna held a platter of appetizers in front of her and examined it critically.
“The tartlets are perfectly fine, Raisa Stepanovna.”
Maya adjusted a hair clip that had begun slipping out of place.
“I had to make them quickly. Keeping an eye on the duck is more important right now.”
“And what will the guests think when they see such carelessness?”
 
Her mother-in-law pursed her lips disapprovingly.
“Tolya and Lerochka will be here soon, and half your table looks as though it was thrown together at the last minute. Tolya is accustomed to a different standard. Everything in Valeria’s home is always perfect. Her house is the very picture of prosperity.”
Any mention of Boris’s older brother had irritated Maya for a long time.
Anatoly managed a branch of a major trading company, drove an expensive car, and never missed an opportunity to make a subtle jab at his younger brother. Boris always felt inferior beside him, so every family celebration became another attempt to prove that he had achieved just as much.
Maya ignored her mother-in-law’s remark and bent down to check the new oven with its many complicated functions. Red symbols blinked across the touch-sensitive control panel. She pressed two buttons simultaneously, activating the safety lock. Without it, the slightest accidental touch could interrupt the cooking program.
The duck in cherry sauce needed exactly one more hour.
A thick, dark-red drop of sauce landed on Maya’s favorite apron.
She cursed silently. There was no longer enough time to change her clothes.
At that moment, the doorbell rang.
The guests entered together in one noisy group.
Anatoly appeared first, dressed in an expensive jacket. His wife, Valeria, followed him, her hair styled flawlessly as if she had just stepped out of a beauty salon. Behind them came Boris’s cousin and her husband.
 
The entrance hall instantly filled with loud greetings, the heavy fragrance of perfume, and the rustle of gift bags.
Boris came out to welcome his relatives, now wearing a perfectly ironed pale shirt. He straightened his shoulders, deliberately raised his voice, and began accepting presents.
“Come in, everyone! Make yourselves at home!”
With a sweeping gesture, he pointed toward the renovated interior.
“Take a look at the work we’ve done! I personally supervised everything. I chose every tile myself and argued constantly with the contractor!”
Standing near the kitchen doorway, Maya allowed herself the faintest smile.
It was true that Boris had chosen the tiles. He had spent exactly fifteen minutes doing so at the home improvement store.
Maya, however, had paid the contractors’ bills. She had also been the one who dealt with the workers when the walls were poorly leveled.
Still, she did not want to argue in front of the guests.
For the next hour, Maya barely sat down. She carried salads to the table, removed empty platters, and brought out clean plates. Not one person at the table thought to ask whether she needed help.
 
Meanwhile, the guests enthusiastically discussed real estate prices in the city’s newer neighborhoods.
“We’ll probably rent out our three-bedroom apartment,” Valeria said while spreading caviar on a slice of baguette. “We’re planning to move outside the city. Apartments feel so cramped and stuffy. Tolya has promised that the house will be finished by summer.”
“That’s the right decision,” Anatoly agreed. “Why spend your entire life surrounded by concrete walls? Boris, when are you two planning to buy a larger place? If you have children, this two-bedroom apartment will be far too small.”
Boris immediately became uneasy and shifted in his chair.
“We’ve only just finished renovating this place.”
He tried to make his voice sound as confident as possible.
“At the moment, I’m investing more money in business. Money should generate profit instead of simply disappearing into walls.”
About an hour later, Boris had become considerably more animated.
Sitting at the head of the festive table, he waved his fork energetically as he explained his views on family life to his brother.
“As a man and the family provider, this is how I see things: a husband must ensure that his family lives comfortably. If my wife wants smoked salmon, no problem. If she wants good cheese, I arrange everything. I don’t believe in cutting corners during celebrations. Sometimes you have to let yourself enjoy the finer things in life.”
Maya, standing beside the kitchen entrance, froze for several seconds.
She knew perfectly well whose bank card had paid for the salmon, the cheese, and the duck.
Anatoly smiled condescendingly and slowly swirled the wine in his glass.
“Well done, Borya,” he drawled. “A real man of the house, no question about it. Although I’ve noticed there still isn’t any hot food. Lerochka usually serves the main course by this point. Otherwise, the guests begin to get bored.”
Boris immediately tensed.
His brother’s remark struck precisely the insecurity he had been trying so hard to conceal beneath his stories of success.
He turned sharply toward the kitchen.
“Maya!”
 
His voice echoed throughout the apartment.
“Have you fallen asleep in there? Where is the duck? We’re all sitting here starving!”
Maya hurried out of the kitchen. The heat from the oven had left her face flushed.
“Five more minutes, Borya,” she said in a conciliatory tone, raising her hands. “The oven is running on a timer. The sauce only needs a little longer, and then I’ll bring it out.”
“A good housewife should have everything ready in advance,” Raisa Stepanovna immediately remarked.
Her mother-in-law carefully dabbed her lips with a paper napkin.
“People come to the table with an appetite. What kind of celebration is it if everyone has to wait endlessly for the main course? We can’t spend the entire evening eating nothing but salads.”
Valeria gave Maya an appraising glance. Her eyes briefly settled on the cherry-sauce stain covering the apron.
Boris’s cousin immediately lowered her head toward her plate, as though the appetizers had suddenly become extraordinarily fascinating.
“Exactly!” Boris exclaimed, encouraged by his mother’s support. “Everyone is sitting here, waiting for goodness knows what. You’re so slow that sending you to fetch death would probably make death immortal.”
Maya approached the table.
She first looked at the red numbers on the oven timer and then turned her gaze toward her husband.
“I’m doing everything as quickly as I can,” she said in a perfectly composed voice. “I haven’t sat down since early this morning. At least don’t create a scene in front of the guests.”
“You’ve become unbelievably lazy!” Boris declared loudly. “You can’t manage to do anything on time!”
He looked theatrically around at his relatives, clearly expecting them to agree with him.
“You’ve been at home all day, yet you can’t even prepare a festive dinner on schedule. Look at my brother’s wife. She looks wonderful, everything in her house is always ready on time, and her table is always overflowing with food. You can barely move. Did you deliberately decide to embarrass me in front of my family?”
Anatoly cleared his throat quietly and placed his wineglass on the table.
“Boris, don’t go too far,” he said, attempting to stop his brother. “Everything is fine. We’re having a perfectly good time.”
 
“What did I say that was so terrible?” Boris demanded, spreading his arms in exaggerated disbelief. “I work and bring money into this family! I paid for this entire celebration! Can’t I expect a decent piece of meat to be served on time on my own birthday? Don’t I deserve proper service in my own home?”
Maya silently studied her husband.
She looked at his impeccably clean pale shirt and the self-satisfied expression on his face. Then she glanced at Raisa Stepanovna, who had straightened her back even more after hearing her son’s words, as if his speech had finally confirmed that she had been right all along.
Maya suddenly remembered paying for that very duck. She remembered carrying the heavy shopping bags along an icy, slippery pavement. She remembered how Boris had slept until nearly noon that day, explaining that the “family provider” had been completely exhausted after his working week.
But Maya did not argue.
She did not raise her voice or begin listing, in front of everyone, exactly whose money had paid for the food on the table. She did not defend herself or attempt to prove what should already have been obvious.
Instead, she quietly reached both hands behind her neck.
There was a soft click as she released the plastic clasp. Then she untied the strings around her waist.
Maya pulled off her kitchen apron—the same one marked by a large stain of cherry sauce.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Boris asked with a frown.
Noticing his wife’s movements, he pushed his chair back slightly.
Maya walked right up to him. Without raising her arm or showing the slightest trace of aggression, she calmly dropped the crumpled apron over his head.
The fabric covered Boris’s face, while its sauce-stained edge slid across the collar of his expensive white shirt, leaving a dark burgundy streak behind.
“You can handle everything yourself,” Maya said simply.
She turned around and walked toward the entrance hall.
“Maya!” Boris’s outraged voice sounded muffled beneath the apron. “What kind of performance is this? Have you completely lost your mind?”
Maya opened the closet and took out her autumn boots. Then she removed her jacket from its hook and picked up the car keys from the shelf.
“Maya, come back here immediately!” Raisa Stepanovna cried as she leaped out of the armchair. “What will the guests think? You’re humiliating your husband in front of his own brother!”
Maya stepped onto the landing and calmly closed the apartment door behind her.
All that remained on the other side were Anatoly’s bewildered exclamations and her mother-in-law’s loud complaints.
It was freezing outside. Maya climbed into her old compact car, started the engine, and turned the heater up as high as it would go.
No salads.
No criticism.
 
No Boris trying to appear successful in front of his relatives.
Maya drove to her older sister’s home.
Zhenya lived on the opposite side of the city in an ordinary residential neighborhood. Maya had not called in advance. She simply knew that her sister would open the door no matter what.
Her phone began ringing inside her handbag just as she parked near the familiar five-story apartment building.
Boris’s name appeared on the screen.
She rejected the call.
A minute later, he called again.
Then three angry messages arrived one after another.
Maya climbed to the third floor. Zhenya opened the door wearing comfortable house clothes and raised her eyebrows in surprise.
“What are you doing here?”
Her sister examined her carefully.
“Isn’t it Boris’s birthday today? I thought you’d be at home running back and forth between the kitchen and the dining table with serving trays.”
“Boris is celebrating Independence Day,” Maya replied as she entered the hallway and removed her shoes. “Can I spend the night here? Because if I stay there any longer, I might end up killing someone.”
Zhenya did not ask any questions.
She simply took a spare pair of slippers from the cupboard and nodded toward the kitchen.
While her sister poured hot broth into a deep bowl for Maya, the phone continued ringing insistently.
Eventually, Maya grew tired of it and answered.
“Yes?” she said with perfect calm.
“Where on earth are you?” Boris shouted.
A terrible commotion filled the background. People were arguing, and several guests could be heard talking loudly at once.
“Come back immediately! Everyone is sitting here waiting! Tolya is already laughing at me!”
“I’m out enjoying myself,” Maya informed him as she calmly lifted a spoonful of broth. “You said you were the one who provided comfort for the family. You called yourself the provider. So go and provide everyone with the duck. It’s in the oven.”
“What do you mean, you’re enjoying yourself?” Boris’s voice suddenly became almost panicked. “The oven won’t stop beeping! The duck is burning! The whole apartment is filled with smoke, and we can barely breathe!”
Maya broke off a piece of bread.
“Then turn off the oven. You chose that appliance yourself, remember? You studied every button and later told everyone all about it.”
“I can’t turn it off!” Boris nearly screamed. “I keep touching the control panel, but it only says ‘Locked’! How do I remove the lock? Mother is coughing because of the smoke! Lera is trying to open the window, but the handle is jammed! Maya, stop playing games!”
“The instruction manual is in the top drawer,” Maya answered evenly. “In the same place as the corkscrew.”
She paused briefly.
“Enjoy your meal, Borya. And happy birthday.”
Maya ended the call and switched her phone to airplane mode.
It turned out that the best kind of evening was one when snow fell quietly outside and she did not have to justify herself to anyone.
Maya slept for fourteen hours straight at her sister’s apartment.
For the first time in months, she did not have to leap out of bed when the alarm rang, rush anywhere, or mentally list everything she had still failed to finish.
She and Zhenya spent almost the entire following day watching television series. They sat in the small kitchen, drank coffee, and discussed different recipes for pancakes.
Nobody asked where his clean shirt was.
Nobody criticized the shape of the tartlets.
 
Maya did not return home until Sunday evening.
The moment she entered, she noticed the powerful smell of burning mixed with the sour odor of spoiled salads.
The kitchen looked as though nobody had touched anything since the disastrous celebration.
Dirty plates and wineglasses covered nearly every available surface. The pots had not been washed. A large red-wine stain had spread across the tablecloth.
Boris sat at the dining table, still wearing the same shirt.
A huge brown stain from the cherry sauce had dried into the collar.
An open can of store-bought stewed meat stood in front of him. Boris ate directly from it with a fork, staring blankly into the distance.
When he noticed his wife, he lifted his eyes.
“You’re back,” he said without emotion.
“I’m back.”
Maya removed her jacket and carefully hung it on the hook.
Boris placed his fork beside the can.
This time, he did not begin shouting. He did not accuse Maya of making him look foolish in front of his brother. Nor did he start talking about his rights.
He merely looked wearily around the devastated kitchen.
“I spent two hours cleaning that cursed oven,” he said miserably. “By the time I found the instructions, the duck had already turned into charcoal. Tolya left half an hour later. He said we weren’t a family but some kind of madhouse. Mother had to take valerian drops.”
“These things happen,” Maya replied calmly as she perched on the edge of the table.
She looked directly at her husband.
“Next time, you’ll have to move a little faster. You can throw everything together at the last minute. After all, a good host is supposed to keep everything under control.”
 
Boris said nothing.
He simply stabbed his fork into the canned meat again.
Perhaps the following day, he would return to losing his temper over trivial things, complaining, and telling everyone how exhausted he was.
But sometimes it is useful for a person to spend at least a little time wearing someone else’s kitchen apron.
If only so they can finally understand who truly organizes—and pays for—the entire celebration.