— Katya, about Saturday, — Andrey began as he walked into the kitchen. He stopped in the middle of the room, leaning against the doorframe with deliberate nonchalance. The gesture, meant to look relaxed, gave him away completely. It was how he always started this conversation. Once every three months. Before his mother came.
Katya didn’t lift her eyes from the tablet screen; she just slowly slid her finger over the glass, scrolling through an article on Scandinavian design. The evening light fell across her face, making it calm, almost serene. She didn’t say a word, giving him space to develop the thought himself. She knew what would follow by heart, like a rehearsed role in a shabby play.
— Mom called, confirmed. She’ll be here by three, — he went on, seeing his hint had been ignored. — I just thought… maybe this time we do everything perfectly? Remember how last time she noticed the dust on the top shelves in the living room?
He said it gently, almost apologetically, as if they were both victims of Tamara Igorevna’s incredible observance. As if he himself hadn’t worn a sour face all evening after, and Katya — who had spent the entire previous day cleaning — hadn’t felt spat on.
At last Katya looked up at him. Her gaze was clear, bright, without a trace of the usual irritation.
— I remember, — she said evenly. — You want there to be no dust on the shelves this time. I understand.
Such a simple, quick agreement threw Andrey off. Usually this was where the bickering began. He was already prepared for reproaches and a defensive speech about how tired she always was.
— Well, yeah… and also, — emboldened, he continued. — The salad. The one with chicken. Maybe you could try a different dressing? Because last time it was… well, a bit bland. For Mom.
— A bit bland, — Katya echoed. She set the tablet on the table and folded her arms over her chest. Her posture changed, becoming more composed, attentive. As if she were a student in a lecture, afraid to miss an important detail. — All right. A different dressing. Anything else? Let’s discuss everything at once so I don’t miss a thing.
Andrey felt awkward. This businesslike tone was unfamiliar. He had expected emotions, an argument, anything but this cold constructiveness.
— No, in general everything’s always fine… It’s just… — he faltered, choosing his words. — I just want Mom to come and feel at peace. To see that her son’s life is in perfect order. That nothing upsets her. She’s my only one. She deserves the very best.
There it was. The key phrase. The same one he recited every time, a universal incantation justifying any demand and any criticism.
— The very best, — Katya repeated slowly, almost syllable by syllable. A barely noticeable, peculiar smile touched her lips. — That’s a very important clarification, Andrey. Thank you for saying it. I’ve always tried to make things just “good.” Turns out what’s needed is “the very best.”
— Well of course! — he brightened, deciding she had finally understood him correctly. — Exactly! Like in the best home! Perfect cleanliness, restaurant-quality food. So she can see I didn’t make a mistake, that my wife is gold!
He stepped over and put his arms around her shoulders, feeling like a victor in a battle that never happened. He’d gotten his way without a scandal. Katya stood in his embrace straight and motionless, like a statue. Her hands hung at her sides. She looked somewhere through him, at the wall, and her smile grew wider, but not warmer. On the contrary, something sharp, predatory appeared at the corners of her mouth.
— Don’t worry, dear, — she said quietly but distinctly. — This time everything will be exactly like that. Your mother will get the very best. I promise you. She will be absolutely, completely satisfied with everything.
Saturday arrived with the inevitability of a verdict. Picking up a lush bouquet of asters for his mother on the way home, Andrey entered the apartment around two in the afternoon. He was ready for anything: the eye-watering smell of bleach, the hum of the vacuum cleaner, the sight of a worn-out yet compliant Katya in an old robe dashing between stove and sink. He was ready to walk in, hang up his jacket, and condescendingly say, “Well, how’s it going, soldier? Need a hand?” — fully aware that help would no longer be needed.
But the apartment met him with a deafening, dense silence. The absence of the usual chaos was so pronounced it felt almost physical. It didn’t smell like food and cleaning agents. It smelled like the foyer of an expensive hotel — a mix of floral diffuser, furniture polish, and something elusively sterile. The air was cool and completely lifeless.
He walked into the living room. Katya was sitting in an armchair. She wore an elegant dark-green silk house dress, her hair styled in soft waves, light makeup on her face. She was leisurely reading a hardback book, and on the side table stood a cup of steaming coffee. She raised her eyes to him, and there was no trace of fatigue or panic in them. Only calm, expectant curiosity.
— Hi, — she said, as if he’d come back from an ordinary stroll and not an hour before the start of the quarterly inspection.
Andrey froze on the threshold, his mind frantically trying to reconcile the scene with reality. The bouquet in his hand suddenly seemed ridiculous and out of place in this sterile setting.
— What… is going on? — he asked, sweeping his gaze around the room. The parquet gleamed. Not a speck of dust. Not a single extraneous item.
— Nothing is going on, — Katya took a sip of coffee. — I’m resting. Your mother will be here soon; one should greet her fresh and rested. Isn’t that right?
— Fresh? — panic crept into his voice. — Katya, what about dinner? The cleaning? Mom will be here in an hour! Did you… do nothing? Did you forget?
Without waiting for an answer, he bolted to the kitchen. And there the second blow awaited him. The kitchen sparkled. The countertops were bare and polished to a mirror sheen. The stove — cold and virginally clean. He yanked open the oven door. Inside it was dark and empty. Not a single dish sat in the sink.
— Katya! — his voice broke into a shout. He rushed back to the living room, his face twisted with a mix of anger and fear. — What kind of joke is this? You decided to boycott me? Right before my mother gets here?
— Calm down, Andrey, — she turned a page without even looking at him. — I told you I’d taken care of everything. I promised that your mother would get the very best. And I kept my word.
— How did you “take care” of it?! — he was practically gasping. — The fridge is bare! You could sleep in the oven! What are we going to feed her? Sandwiches? Do you have any idea what she’ll say? What she’ll think of me?!
He paced the room from corner to corner like a caged animal. Everything enraged him: her composure, that ridiculous silk dress, the scent of a foreign perfume in his home. He felt control slipping away, the tidy world he’d built crumbling before his eyes. She merely watched him with a faint, barely perceptible smirk, as if she were watching an amusing film.
— Andrey, sit down. Drink some water. You’re ruining your complexion, — her tone was utterly serious, which only pushed him over the edge.
— I’ll just… — he began, stepping toward her to rip that damned book from her hands and make her look him in the eye.
At that very moment, at the peak of his fury, the apartment was pierced by a sharp, peremptory ring of the doorbell. Short. Confident. It could only be her.
Andrey froze mid-step. He looked at Katya, then at the front door, and cold sweat beaded on his forehead. He was trapped. And the door to the trap had just opened.
— Open it, Andrey. It’s your mother, — Katya’s voice was even and calm, but there was a note in it that sounded like an order.
Like a sleepwalker, Andrey moved toward the door. Each step echoed dully in his head. Mechanically he turned the key, flung the door open, and tried to pull a semblance of a welcoming smile onto his face. On the threshold stood Tamara Igorevna — trim, in a perfectly pressed beige coat, hair set flawlessly. Her sharp, intelligent eyes instantly took in her son’s pallor and tense posture.
— Hello, son, — she extended a gloved hand not for a kiss but so he would take her bag. — You don’t look well. Are you ill?
— Hello, Mom. I’m fine, just… tired, — he muttered, taking the elegant yet heavy bag.
Tamara Igorevna stepped into the entryway and stopped. Her gaze slid over the spotless mirror, the gleaming floor, the immaculate order. She took a few steps deeper into the apartment, and her nostrils twitched slightly at an unfamiliar, chilly scent. It wasn’t the smell of a home. It was the smell of a service.
— How… sterile it is here, — she said. It wasn’t a compliment. It was a question dressed as a statement. She ran a gloved finger along a picture frame in the hallway. The finger remained perfectly clean. No surprise or joy showed on her face. Only a slight, almost invisible tension at the corners of her mouth.
At that moment Katya emerged from the living room. Her appearance completely destroyed Tamara Igorevna’s expectations. No apron, no face flushed from kitchen heat. An elegant dress, the calm smile of a salon hostess, not a daughter-in-law awaiting her mother-in-law.
— Good afternoon, Tamara Igorevna. Nice to see you, — Katya approached and lightly touched her hand. — Come in, make yourself comfortable. Andrey, help your mother.
They walked into the living room. Perfectly fluffed pillows on the couch, a glass coffee table polished to such a degree that the chandelier was reflected in it. And in the middle of this splendor — a woman in a gray uniform methodically, without a single superfluous movement, wiping the television screen with a special cloth. She worked silently and efficiently, as if she were part of the decor.
Tamara Igorevna stopped and stared at the stranger. Andrey froze beside her, feeling the ground fall away beneath his feet.
— Katya, and this is?.. — he began, but his voice treacherously trembled.
— Ah, this is Svetlana, — Katya explained breezily, following their gaze. — I decided that since we’re expecting such an esteemed guest, the cleanliness shouldn’t be just good but professional. So that not a single speck of dust mars your visit.
She smiled plainly and openly, first at her mother-in-law, then at her husband. And in that smile there was nothing but killer logic. The aroma coming from the kitchen grew stronger — complex, layered, teasing. It was the smell of roasted herbs, a creamy sauce, and something meaty. It enticed and at the same time frightened with its foreignness.
— And what smells so… exquisite? — Tamara Igorevna shifted her keen gaze toward the kitchen. — Surely, Katyusha, you didn’t decide to master French cuisine?
— Me? Oh no, Tamara Igorevna, hardly, — Katya smirked. — Come, I’ll show you everything.
She led them to the kitchen as if on a tour. Andrey trailed behind, feeling like a condemned man being led to hear the verdict. In the sparkling kitchen, in a snow-white jacket and a tall toque, presided an unfamiliar man of about forty. He was carefully spooning sauce over something on a plate, his movements precise and honed like a surgeon’s.
Andrey and Tamara Igorevna froze on the threshold. This was the finale. The coup de grâce.
— Katya… what does all this mean? — Andrey breathed. His face was white as a sheet.
Katya turned to him. Her eyes were cold and clear. She looked straight at him, ignoring the mother-in-law frozen in shock.
— You yourself said your mother deserves the very best, not my clumsy hands! So I hired her professionals! I’ll send you the bill for the cleaning and the chef!
— And who is that?..
— That’s Elena from the catering agency, — she nodded at the female chef who, paying them no attention, continued her work. — I decided your mother deserves restaurant quality, not my amateur cooking. So relax, dear. Everything is paid for. Or rather, will be paid for. By you. Since the guest is yours.
The air in the kitchen grew thick and viscous. The awkwardness was so palpable it seemed you could touch it. The chef, an imperturbable professional, set two porcelain plates with a soft clink on the work surface, each dish resembling a work of art. He operated at the epicenter of a brewing hurricane, but his world consisted only of sauces, temperatures, and plating times.
Tamara Igorevna was the first to shake off her stupor. Slowly, with emphasized dignity, she turned away from the chef as if he didn’t exist. Her gaze, cold and sharp as a scalpel, bored into Katya.
— You think me so unbearable, — she said quietly, each word striking like a slap, — that receiving me requires hiring a whole staff of servants? Was this meant as a compliment or a public humiliation?
At last Andrey found his voice. He stepped forward, shielding his mother, assuming the role of defender.
— Katya, this is cruel. It’s monstrously cruel. To stage such a spectacle… You could have just talked to me if something was bothering you. Why this circus? To humiliate me in front of my mother? To show what a worthless husband I am who can’t provide his wife with help?
Katya looked at him without anger, without hurt. Her face was the mask of a calm researcher studying the habits of strange, predictable creatures.
— Talk? — she tilted her head slightly. — Andrey, we’ve been talking about this for five years. Every time before your mother comes. Was it not you who relayed her words that my apple pie was too dry and the dough gummy? That was three months ago. You said then she just wants me to get better.
She turned her eyes on Tamara Igorevna, who flinched slightly at such directness. — And six months ago, remember, you noted that the tablecloth color didn’t harmonize with the napkins? And Andrey spent the whole evening persuading me that your taste is impeccable and that I should listen to your opinion. And a year ago there was a conversation about how I don’t tenderize the meat thoroughly enough and it comes out tough.
She spoke evenly, without emotion, listing facts the way an accountant reads a yearly report. Each point was a small but precise jab aimed at the sorest spots in their family system. Andrey grew paler with each phrase. He couldn’t deny anything because it was all true. He had been the postman dutifully delivering poisonous messages.
— I listened, — Katya went on, turning back to her husband. — I listened for a very long time, very carefully. And I understood. I will never be able to make “the very best.” My hands, as you put it, will always be “clumsy” for her. My food — “amateur slop.” My cleaning — an excuse for criticism. I can’t give her what she deserves. But I can arrange it.
At that moment the chef, as if on a director’s cue, intoned in a baritone:
— Madame, monsieur, dinner is ready to be served. Veal medallions with mushroom sauce and steamed asparagus.
Spoken in an atmosphere stretched taut as wire, the phrase sounded like mockery.
— I found a way, — Katya ignored the chef and took a step toward them. Her voice grew quieter but firmer. — I simply removed myself from the equation. I took out the weak link — myself. Now your mother gets perfect service, and you get peace of mind about her spiritual comfort. Everyone wins.
— You’re insane! — Andrey shouted. It was a cry of despair, the cry of a man whose world had been turned upside down.
— On the contrary. For the first time in many years I acted absolutely logically, — Katya cut him off. She stepped around them, heading toward the kitchen door. — And this is not a one-time act of unprecedented generosity, Andrey. This is the new standard. From now on, every visit from your mother will go exactly like this. Professional cleaning. A professional chef. The bill, as I said, I’ll forward to you. I will no longer take part in this. Not as a servant, and not as a punching bag.
She stopped in the doorway and looked back. In the living room the cleaning woman was already gathering her things.
— Dinner is served. Please, take your seats. Enjoy the very best. You both deserve it.
With that she walked into the living room, picked up her book and the cup of cooled coffee from the table, and left silently for the bedroom. No door-slamming. No tears. She simply left, abandoning the two of them in the middle of a kitchen gleaming with cleanliness, beside impeccably plated dishes. Andrey and Tamara Igorevna were left alone with their anger, amid a perfect dinner neither of them would be able to swallow. The old world — where their word was law and Katya’s humiliation was the norm — had just crashed down with a deafening crack. And on its ruins they were left alone…