— You’re not holding the knife right. The blade should face away from you, but you’re pulling it toward yourself—you’ll cut yourself, — came Anton’s nauseatingly familiar voice behind Marina.
She pretended not to hear, keeping up a steady rhythm as she chopped the onion. Fine, almost transparent half-rings fell in an even layer onto the cutting board. She was making a point of doing it right—tonight’s dinner was classic beef Stroganoff, a recipe that required precision.
— Marina, who am I talking to? — he wouldn’t let up, stepping closer. His shadow swallowed her hands. — You’re about to slice all your fingers off. Give it here, I’ll show you how it’s done.
— I’m holding it just fine, Anton. Go to the living room and watch TV, — she cut him off without turning around.
He ignored her. His eyes locked onto the pan where the oil was already sizzling.
— How much oil did you pour in there! Are you going to fry the meat or drown it like in a deep fryer? It’ll be swimming—no crust at all. It won’t be beef Stroganoff, it’ll be boiled beef in grease.
Marina clenched her teeth and flung the onion into the pan. It hissed. She took a bowl of thin meat strips she’d carefully sliced and pounded half an hour earlier while he was in the shower. That had been her only peaceful time in the kitchen.
— You’re going to dump it all in at once, aren’t you? — his voice took on a lecturing, know-it-all tone. — You have to brown it in batches so the oil temperature doesn’t drop. Didn’t your cooking blogs tell you that? And you need salt, otherwise it’ll be bland. You always undersalt.
He went on and on; his voice turned into a monotonous, irritating drone that drilled into her head. Suddenly Marina stopped hearing him. She watched the meat sizzle in the pan, the steam rising to the ceiling, and felt something inside her click. As if someone had flipped the breaker that powered her patience.
— Why don’t you shut your mouth with your advice—you’ve never cooked anything but dumplings in your life! And that’s exactly what you’ll be eating from now on, because I’m not cooking for you anymore!
Silently, she turned the burner knob all the way to the left. The hissing stopped. Without a word, she stepped around her husband, opened the freezer, and yanked out a rock-hard, frost-coated pack of dumplings. Back at the table, she slammed it down in front of the stunned Anton. The icy rectangle labeled “Siberian. Select” lay between them like a border post.
— Wait! Why are you starting this? I just want what’s best!
— You’re right, — her voice was utterly calm, stripped of any emotion. — I cook terribly. So cook for yourself.
Anton opened his mouth to retort, but she had already turned back to the stove. Click—the burner under her main pot flared back to life. Marina took a tiny, almost toy-sized skillet from the shelf and set it on a free burner. Then, with a skimmer, she scooped exactly half of the meat and onions from the pot and transferred it into her personal pan. For herself. A single portion.
She cooked, completely ignoring his frozen figure. Her movements were precise and deliberately unhurried. Here she added sour cream; there she sprinkled in spices. The aroma of dinner—the dinner he was now being denied—grew richer and harder to bear. He stood in the middle of the kitchen like a statue, looking from her back to the pack of frozen dumplings on the table.
— You can use my pot when I’m done, — she added without turning. — If you can manage to wash it, that is.
Anton drove, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the anger pounding in his temples. He replayed the kitchen scene over and over. Ungrateful! He only wanted the best. He was practically participating, sharing his expertise, and she… She tossed frozen dumplings at him like a bone to a dog. And that cold, detached look, as if he were nothing. No, this was beyond the pale. He was driving to the one person who always understood him—his mother. She would put Marina in her place with a single phone call.
Lyudmila Borisovna’s apartment greeted him with a cozy, familiar smell. Something bubbled on the stove, and the steady hum of the old refrigerator was soothing. His mother stood at the stove, stirring something bright burgundy in a big pot.
— What happened? You look a sight, — she asked, not taking her eyes off her task.
— Mom, can you believe what your daughter-in-law pulled? — he started from the doorway, tossing his jacket onto a chair. — I just gave her a couple of tips on how to cook the meat better. And she… She threw a pack of dumplings on the table and told me to cook for myself. Can you imagine? Total disrespect!
Lyudmila Borisovna listened to his tirade in silence, nodding now and then. She tasted the soup, clicked her tongue, and added a pinch of sugar. Having spent his first wave of outrage, he drifted closer, guided by instinct and years of habit. He peered into the pot.
— Borscht? Mom, you overcooked the beets again; all the color will leach out. You have to add them at the very end, with a little vinegar to fix the color, — he declared authoritatively.
His mother turned her head slowly. Her gaze was calm but unusually heavy.
— And you need to fish out the bay leaf after about ten minutes, otherwise it turns bitter. Yours has been floating there for half an hour, probably. You’ll ruin the flavor.
Without a word, Lyudmila Borisovna turned off the gas. She set the ladle down on a saucer with a distinct clink. Then she wiped her hands on her apron and looked straight at her son.
— So I don’t know how to cook either? — she asked quietly but firmly.
— No, that’s not what I meant, I just… — Anton began, sensing trouble.
— I fed your late father for forty years and raised you. Nobody complained, — she cut him off. — And now you’re going to teach me how to make borscht. Now I understand why Marina threw dumplings at you.
For Anton, it was like a punch to the gut. He’d expected anything—sympathy, maternal fury aimed at Marina, promises to “talk to that upstart.” But not this. Not only did his mother refuse to take his side—she condemned him. She took his wife’s side.
— Are you going to eat? — she asked in the same even tone, jerking her chin toward the pot. — Eat quietly what’s put in front of you. Don’t like it? There’s the freezer. I think there are dumplings in there too. You can boil them. Just put water in the pot. I hope you can handle that without advice.
— I’m not a little boy for you to push around! — Anton shouted, feeling the ground give way under his feet. — You’re both in cahoots, huh?!
She stared at him silently, and there wasn’t a drop of sympathy in her eyes—only a cold, sobering weariness. That look was more frightening than any criticism. It finally convinced Anton that he’d become a stranger both in his own home and in his mother’s. Grabbing his jacket, he stormed out without a goodbye. Humiliation, mixed with hurt, demanded immediate, decisive action. He would prove to both of them that he wasn’t what they took him for. He was a man, and he wouldn’t let anyone treat him like that.
First he rented a room at the nearest hotel. Cheap, with the stale smell of old furniture and a view of a blank wall, but that didn’t matter. The point was the gesture. He had left. Now both of them—Marina and his mother—would grasp the magnitude of their transgression. He pictured his wife pacing the empty apartment, his mother clutching her phone, both regretting their cruelty. He gave them a day. Two at most. By then, their pride would yield to remorse. He waited for the call.
The first day passed. Anton spent it blankly staring at the TV and ordering pizza to his room, which he inspected and criticized in his head: “Dough’s raw, skimped on toppings.” His phone was silent. He checked several times to see if he had service, if he’d accidentally muted it. Everything worked. So they were still holding out. Fine, proud women. Tomorrow they’d crack.
That evening, the phone rang in Lyudmila Borisovna’s apartment.
— Hello, — she answered.
— Mom, it’s me, — came Marina’s calm voice. — Just wanted to see how you’re doing. Is he with you?
Lyudmila sighed.
— He was. Put on a whole show about my borscht. Drove off somewhere, got offended. Said I was on your side.
A short pause hung on the line.
— I see, — Marina said at last. — So he’s on tour. Let him air out a bit. Are you all right, not upset?
— What do I have to be upset about, dear? — Lyudmila chuckled. — I’ve seen plenty of these shows in my life. Let him rest from us, and we’ll rest from him. Did you make yourself dinner?
— I did. Shrimp salad.
— Good girl, — her mother-in-law approved. — All right, rest up. If he calls, don’t pick up. Let him think.
On the second day, Anton started to fret. He finished yesterday’s cold pizza, washed it down with warm Coke from the bottle, and stared at his phone again. Silence. Deafening, total silence. His carefully crafted plan began to crack. Pride gave way to puzzlement and then to barely concealed panic. How could this be? He—the center of their universe, husband, son—had disappeared, and they weren’t even trying to find him. His thoughts tangled. Maybe something happened? But no—he’d left on purpose. Which meant they simply didn’t care. That thought was the most terrifying.
By evening of the second day, the cash he’d taken was almost gone. Tomorrow he’d have to check out. The prospect of coming home not in triumph but with his tail between his legs made him furious. But there were no other options. He was angry at his wife for her rebellion, at his mother for her betrayal, at the whole world for its injustice. But most of all he was angry at himself for a bluff that had failed so miserably. No one had noticed his ultimatum. They had simply struck him from their lives like a tedious line from a to-do list.
He turned the key in the lock a little harder than necessary. The door opened without a creak. Anton stepped into the apartment not as a guilty husband but as a master returning from a short business trip. A rich, teasing aroma of chicken roasted with garlic and herbs hit his nose. For a second he decided everything was back to normal, that his stunt had worked and a conciliatory dinner awaited him.
He went to the kitchen. Marina sat alone at the table, a plate before her with a golden-brown chicken drumstick and a mound of fresh salad. She ate slowly, with visible pleasure, cutting small bites. At his appearance she gave him only a brief, indifferent glance and returned to her meal. There was no anger in that look, no hurt, not even curiosity. Only a calm, cold indifference that disarmed and infuriated at once.
— Well, I’m back, — he said, trying to sound confident and a bit condescending.
She chewed, took a sip of water, and said nothing. As if he’d commented on the weather.
— This circus needs to stop, — he pressed on, irritation boiling at her silence. — I’m the man of this house. I came home from work, I want to eat. Where’s my dinner?
Marina slowly set her fork and knife on the plate. She raised her eyes, and this time her gaze was focused, hard, like a steel blade. She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time—assessing and delivering a final verdict.
— I’m not cooking for you anymore. I already told you that.
Her voice didn’t tremble or rise to a shout. It was even and deadly calm, and that calm made the words sound like a sentence. Anton was taken aback for a second by the blunt attack. He wanted to explode, to hurl an insult back, but she didn’t give him the chance.
Marina stood, went to the fridge, and flung open the freezer door. He saw neat rows of identical rectangular packs. Four, five, six… Ten packs of dumplings. His personal stash. His future menu.
— Here, — she gestured at them. — Your dinner. And breakfast. And lunch. Take your pick: “Siberian,” “Homestyle,” “Select.” I’ve provided you with a variety. The pot’s in the cabinet, water’s in the tap. I don’t think that’ll be too hard.
After that she returned to the table, picked up her fork, and calmly went on eating her chicken.
That’s when he snapped. He stopped pretending to be in control. A stream of filthy, demeaning words poured out of him—accusations of ingratitude, female treachery, of destroying the family. He shouted that she was worthless, a lousy housekeeper and an even worse wife, trying to hurt her, to provoke any reaction—tears, a shouting match, anything.
But Marina didn’t react. She finished her dinner to the last bite, pushed the plate away, stood up, rinsed it under the tap in silence, and set it in the rack. She walked past him—still spewing curses—and went into the other room. He was left alone in the kitchen, deafened by his own yelling and her impenetrable silence. His words, finding no target, hung in the air and now weighed on him instead. He fell quiet. The smell of garlic and roasted chicken still lingered, but now it felt alien, mocking. Anton slowly walked to the fridge, opened the freezer, and stared blankly at the neat rows of dumpling packs. This wasn’t compromise or a temporary measure. This was the end…