“I asked you,” he began irritably, following his wife into the kitchen. “To set a proper festive table. And what’s this? You had the time. Mom isn’t pleased.”
“Your mom is never pleased. It’s impossible to satisfy her,” Milana replied calmly.
It was Sunday. As usual, Kirill and his wife, Milana, were visiting his parents. Yelena Vladimirovna was telling stories from her son’s childhood and smiling. Just as she was once again showing photos of little Egor, he suddenly announced that he wanted to celebrate his thirtieth birthday in a restaurant.
Yelena Vladimirovna fell silent and looked him straight in the eyes.
“Son, what are you thinking? Who throws that kind of event in a restaurant? It should be quiet, tasty, and family-style. Do you think a restaurant will make you homemade pelmeni or kholodets?”
“It doesn’t have to be pelmeni and kholodets. There are plenty of other delicious dishes,” Milana interjected.
His mother-in-law squinted and went on talking, ignoring her daughter-in-law.
“Don’t even think about it, son! You know how Aunt Sveta will be upset if she can’t see your new apartment. So drop this nonsense. And you’ll save money. Restaurants and cafés—what an idea.”
Soon Milana and Kirill began getting ready to go home. Yelena Vladimirovna wasn’t happy they’d stayed so briefly. Ever since her son got married, he almost stopped visiting, or so she thought—Kirill was always coming up with some excuse.
“At home?” Milana repeated as soon as their apartment door closed. “Are you serious?”
Kirill, out of habit, took off his jacket and hung it on the hook in the entryway, avoiding his wife’s gaze.
“Well… Mom said so. She has experience; she knows best. And what if the relatives really do get upset? They’ll say we’re hiding the apartment from them.”
“My apartment? So you think it’s right to show off your wife’s apartment to the relatives?”
“Who’s going to sort out those nuances?”
“You keep revealing new sides of yourself,” Milana said, tugging off her tight dress. “Fine, even if we set that aside. Who needs these big feasts anymore? No one will even say thank you. What will be left afterward is a mountain of dirty dishes and crumbs under the couch.”
Kirill raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture, as if surrendering without a fight.
“Okay, okay, you’re right,” he said gently. “I’m not thrilled about hosting a banquet at home either. It’s just… they’re my relatives. Mom, Aunt Sveta, Uncle Lyosha, Irinka and Petya. If I celebrate in a restaurant, everyone will think I’m trying to put on airs.” He smirked, but his look grew more serious. “Understand, I don’t want to turn our place into a circus. But I also don’t want to fight with Mom. It’s like a sign of respect… that I haven’t forgotten my roots. Just one evening, and then we can have a separate get-together with friends. Or get away for the weekend—just the two of us.”
Milana stood across from him, arms folded. She kept silent, weighing each of her husband’s words. In her mind, images of a hectic day flashed by: pans and plates, dashing around with a mop and vacuum.
“So,” she said after a pause, “you want it to be a holiday for everyone, but cooking, cleaning, and smiling will be up to me alone. Right?”
Kirill looked a little abashed.
“Well… you’re a great cook. And you won’t be alone—I’ll help. I promise.”
“Uh-huh, like with the deep clean before New Year’s…” She sighed. “In the end you got home at six p.m. on December 31, when everything was already done.”
Kirill exhaled.
“I’ll be more considerate. Trust me this time.”
“All right. But there have to be only a few guests,” his wife waved it off.
“Deal.”
A few days later, Kirill came home from work excited, with a guest list to share. It had just twelve people—only close relatives. Milana looked through the names carefully and nodded her approval.
The next morning, while she sketched out a sample menu in her notebook and marked which dishes to order and which to cook at home, the phone rang. It was her mother-in-law.
Milana sighed and answered.
“Yes, hello.”
“Milanochka, hi! First, I’m very glad you listened to your elders and will celebrate the birthday at home. Second, I was thinking—it’ll be easier for you if I tell you exactly what needs to be made for the guests. So you’re not scrambling at the last minute. You’re hosting this kind of party for the first time!”
“Thank you, Yelena Vladimirovna, but I’ve already jotted a few things down…” the daughter-in-law tried to decline politely.
“Yes, yes, but write this down: the pelmeni must be homemade. Without them, it isn’t a holiday. Then Olivier salad. But not with bologna—use chicken. And if you don’t know how to make kholodets, at least make an aspic. Don’t embarrass yourself in front of the relatives.”
Milana pressed the phone tighter to her ear and stared at a spot on the wall. She kept silent, occasionally murmuring, “Mm-hmm,” “Got it,” “Of course.” She knew arguing was useless. It was a monologue that couldn’t be interrupted. When the call finally ended, she turned off the phone and set it on the table.
“‘Don’t embarrass yourself’…,” she muttered, looking out the window. “As if I planned to put out a buffet of fast food.”
That evening, when Kirill came home, she was sitting on the couch with her phone, looking through the delivery menu of their favorite restaurant. On the table lay her notebook, with part of the dishes now crossed out.
Milana asked her husband to come over and look at the menu she’d put together. As always, Kirill came over with a warm smile, glanced through the list, and nodded approvingly:
“Looks really solid. Starters and canapés from the restaurant are a great idea. I can’t imagine you fussing with all that yourself. It’s a huge time sink!”
“Exactly,” Milana nodded, finally relaxing a little. “I’m glad we have the same taste. Means we didn’t get married for nothing.”
They laughed, and over dinner Milana told him about Yelena Vladimirovna’s call. She spoke calmly, without extra emotion—just stating facts. Kirill listened, chewing his meat, and didn’t look surprised.
“I knew she wouldn’t be able to resist,” he sighed. “Listen, if you want, we can order that kholodets or buy it at the store. The main thing is to keep her from sighing later that we forgot about her.”
Milana narrowed her eyes slightly.
“And you don’t consider that blackmail?”
Kirill laughed.
“Maybe it is. But, you know… family blackmail. There’s no malice in it—it’s just habit: if it’s a holiday, the table should groan with food, and in the center—kholodets. We’ll buy it, set it out—she’ll be happy. The rest will be our way.”
“All right, but only for the sake of peace on earth,” Milana agreed. “But I’m not signing up for pelmeni.”
“Of course,” Kirill nodded.
As the day approached, Milana took an extra day off before the birthday, determined to make everything as good as possible. She decided that despite her mother-in-law’s advice, the celebration had to be not just for the guests, but for her and Kirill too. An idea was already forming in her head to make the day special.
In the morning Milana ran errands. First—to the electronics store. She remembered how Kirill had twice lingered online over a new smartwatch model. He never asked directly, but this was one of those wishes you could read in a half-glance.
Milana chose exactly the model he wanted. While the clerk boxed it up, she pictured Kirill unwrapping the gift. The anticipation put her in a truly festive mood.
Next stop was the market. She bought fresh herbs, fruit, mushrooms, and some homemade roast pork from a trusted vendor. The rest of the groceries were due to arrive by delivery around noon, and everything was going according to plan.
Back home, the first thing Milana did was put a pot of chicken broth on for the soup they’d eat that day. Then she scrubbed the kitchen, vacuumed, washed the tiles in the bathroom, wiped the mirrors, and mopped all the floors. By tomorrow everything had to be impeccable.
When she heard the front door open, Milana peeked out of the kitchen with a bunch of dill in her hand. Half an hour earlier a courier had delivered the groceries and she hadn’t finished putting everything away yet.
Evening before the celebration arrived. The apartment gleamed with cleanliness, the kitchen smelled of spices, and her mother-in-law’s favorite salad—herring under a fur coat—was already in the fridge soaking. The to-do list for tomorrow was now half as long as it had been the day before.
Kirill, seeing all this, was beaming. His wife was bustling around, all for him alone. That meant she definitely loved him.
And she realized how much her husband loved her only the next morning.
She got up around ten—and to be honest, she immediately regretted it. Because sleepy Kirill, without opening his eyes, grumbled:
“Why did you get up so late? It’s already lunchtime, by the way. And you’ve got nothing ready!”
Milana gave him an annoyed look, pulled on her robe, and walked past him into the bathroom, pretending she hadn’t heard. Let him sleep—it was his birthday, after all. But in her head the thought pounded: “What lunchtime?! It’s only ten!”
While Kirill basked under the covers, Milana ate a quiet breakfast and checked the list of starters in the order—everything was set to arrive on time. Then she changed into house clothes, took out the ingredients, and happily got to cooking.
For the main course Milana decided to make a pork roulade stuffed with sautéed mushrooms and onions. It was labor-intensive, but worth it—the aroma of fried mushrooms already filled the kitchen. “This is worth a little extra effort,” Milana thought, stirring the filling in the pan.
For the meat she didn’t overcomplicate things—just a vegetable salad, so as not to overwhelm guests given the already generous table. From the fridge she carefully took out the kholodets she’d transferred yesterday into a porcelain dish. She garnished it with herbs and sliced egg—it turned out no worse than Yelena Vladimirovna’s.
When nearly half the dishes were ready, shuffling steps came from the bedroom. Kirill, rubbing his eyes, yawned and asked:
“So it’s still not ready? The guests are coming in a few hours!”
Milana turned to him.
“First, lunch is in an hour. Second, guests arrive at five. Third, if you weren’t sleeping like a hibernating bear, you’d already be helping instead of asking questions.”
“I was just saving my strength for the most important moment,” he muttered, walking over and kissing her on the cheek. “It’s my day, after all.”
“Right…” Milana nodded, already beginning to regret her fleeting decision about this at-home celebration.
“So I won’t cook anything and don’t have to,” Kirill concluded. “What’s for breakfast?”
His wife looked at him carefully, then turned away with regret without answering. There was no turning back time—and how she wished she could…
With every minute, Milana felt her festive mood fade. First it was mild irritation, then full-on disappointment. The same Kirill who two weeks ago had promised to help chop, wash, and fry had “remembered” that it was his special day.
When he said yet again,
“Well, you do it better anyway…”
Milana simply wiped her hands on a towel and went to the bedroom as if on some urgent errand.
There she opened the bottom drawer of the dresser—behind shopping bags and lingerie lay a small gift box. The smartwatch she’d bought for her husband. Milana looked at the box for a full minute, as if peering into the reflection of her own illusions. The joy of anticipation she’d felt when buying it had vanished. In its place was a sense of pointlessness.
“If only you’d put in even half the effort I did today,” she thought, putting the box back.
Then, as if nothing had happened, Milana went to the bathroom to get herself ready—washed up, took out her makeup, and sat down at the mirror. At least one person in this house should look festive.
She hadn’t even finished her mascara when the door flew open and Kirill appeared in the doorway.
“Are you putting on makeup?” he protested. “What about the kitchen? We’re not done yet!”
Milana slowly lowered the brush and looked at her husband.
“Kirill, you said it’s a holiday. I want to look nice too. Is that forbidden?”
“I thought you’d finish everything first… and then…”
“And then,” she cut him off, “I’d forget about myself in the fuss. And I’d run around with salads while you entertain the guests.”
“Don’t exaggerate…” he muttered, but then backed away, quickly losing interest.
Milana finished her makeup, tied her hair into a ponytail, and, glancing in the mirror, approved of the result.
She got everything done on time—even though, true to family tradition, Yelena Vladimirovna and Ivan Yegorovich arrived half an hour early, at four-thirty. The table was set, glasses sparkled, the appetizers lined up in perfect rows, and even the candles she’d almost forgotten stood on elegant holders.
Milana managed to steam her favorite dark blue dress, put it on, and looked stunning: restrained and elegant. Kirill looked festive too—a light-blue shirt, dark trousers, and cologne.
As expected, the first thing Yelena Vladimirovna did was head to the table. She examined the dishes with the concentration of a culinary competition judge. Ivan Yegorovich, for his part, limited himself to a perfunctory, “Milanochka, it looks great!” and immediately opened a bottle of mineral water.
But his mother frowned.
“Well… modest, of course. I thought that at least for her husband’s milestone she’d try harder.”
At that moment Milana went to the kitchen for a towel and didn’t hear the unpleasant comment. Kirill heard everything—and for some reason took it as a personal insult.
“I asked you,” he began irritably, following his wife into the kitchen. “To set a proper festive table. And what’s this? You had the time. Mom isn’t pleased.”
“Your mom is always displeased. It’s impossible to please her,” Milana answered calmly.
The guests kept coming. Aunt Sveta with a jar of homemade pickled mushrooms, Irinka with Petya, Uncle Lyosha with a boxed cake and an unfunny joke at the door. By five o’clock everyone was there, laughing, chatting, and clinking glasses with wishes for the birthday boy.
Everyone except Milana. She was constantly somewhere between the kitchen and the living room. When Svetlana Yegorovna started praising the beautiful furniture in the living room, her mother-in-law immediately cut her off:
“What’s so special? Furniture is furniture.”
Yelena Vladimirovna gave her daughter-in-law no chance to spread her wings. All evening Milana listened to little barbs aimed at her, served up with chuckles, as if they were jokes.
Each time, Milana nodded as though she’d heard but didn’t react. Kirill, meanwhile, didn’t say a word in her defense. On the contrary—he smiled and echoed his mother, laughed at her remarks, and acted as if “everything was planned that way.”
When the clock struck seven, Milana stood in the kitchen with a glass of wine, looking out the window. Inside, disappointment settled with a dull thud. The party was a success. Everyone seemed satisfied—except her. Then her slightly tipsy husband came up behind her.
“Wife!” he exclaimed. “I’ve already been given all the presents, but not yours.”
And then Milana remembered the watch, still lying in the dresser. In the bustle she’d completely forgotten it.
“Right, one second,” she said and went to the bedroom.
Back with the guests, she picked up her wine glass again and gave a modest toast to the birthday boy. It didn’t come out very cheerful, and she didn’t have the mood to come up with anything truly heartfelt. Then Milana handed Kirill a little box adorned with a cute bow.
He immediately guessed what was inside; his eyes lit up. But then Yelena Vladimirovna’s voice rang out:
“Why is the box so tiny? Stingy with your husband? Your father probably gives you plenty of money. You could have bought something worthwhile.”
Milana wanted to keep quiet again, but she couldn’t—especially when she saw Kirill carelessly toss her gift onto the table.
“That watch costs fifty thousand. I don’t think my gift is bad. What’s off is your attitude. You’re just itching to start a fight.”
“Stop it! Don’t embarrass me!” Kirill hissed, trying to lead his wife into the kitchen, but Milana pulled away.
“I think this little celebration of life is over for today. I can’t take the mockery in my own apartment anymore.”
The relatives began whispering; after all, Yelena Vladimirovna had always framed things as if it was her precious son supporting this insolent girl. Turns out it was the other way around. Meanwhile, Milana grabbed the watch box.
“If you don’t want it, I’ll wear it myself.”
And, in front of everyone, she unwrapped the gift. Her in-laws were stunned. Yelena Vladimirovna squinted and, unable to hold back, started calling her names in front of everyone. Kirill tried to calm his wife down, but nothing worked. It was as if Milana had released all the inner demons that had been clawing to get out since morning.
“I ask everyone to leave my apartment. I won’t keep anyone any longer.”
The relatives, glancing around, rose to their feet and headed for the door. Yelena Vladimirovna swept past her daughter-in-law and hissed:
“I won’t forgive you for this disgrace! You’ll beg my forgiveness on your knees.”
“Of course I will. Don’t you worry.”
Kirill tried to smooth things over and offered to walk his parents out.
“Walk them out,” Milana said close to his ear. “Come back tomorrow for your things. Happy birthday, darling!”
In shock, Kirill looked back at his wife, as if he couldn’t believe she meant it. A few relatives who hadn’t yet left froze. Silence fell.
“Milana, are you joking?” Kirill asked quietly, almost pleading.
“No, Kirill, I’m not joking. Everyone can go. And yes—I’m completely serious,” she said with such calm that even Uncle Lyosha, who could barely stay on his feet, felt uneasy.
Kirill suddenly lost all his bluster and tried to turn things to his advantage:
“You’ll regret this. And I, by the way, haven’t taken my gift—the watch.”
Milana gave a bitter laugh, picked up the watch from the dresser, and tossed it lightly from hand to hand.
“You should’ve thought earlier, Kirill. Now it’s too late. This watch will stay with me—so I know exactly how much time I won’t be spending anymore on someone who doesn’t value or respect me.”
Her mother-in-law tried to chime in again, but no one was listening. The guests hurried into their coats, whispered in the hallway, and, avoiding the hostess’s eyes, slipped out one by one. Kirill and his parents were the last to leave.
When the door closed behind them, the apartment grew very quiet. All evening Milana silently tidied up, washed dishes, did laundry, threw out wrappers and napkins.
In the morning she sat down at her laptop, went to the government services website, opened the “Family and Children” section—and began filling out an online divorce application, the logical conclusion to the night before.
She tossed all of Kirill’s things into a suitcase—she didn’t even forget the chargers and his silly superhero socks—and set the suitcase by the door. Then she bought herself a ticket to the next movie showing, got dressed, and went alone. Because sometimes it’s better to sit in a half-empty theater and watch someone else’s story for two hours than to keep living in your own—unfair and empty.