Elena was arranging kitchen towels on the shelves—brand-new ones with a delicate floral pattern—when her phone vibrated. She sighed: four missed calls from Katya, a friend from work. Probably some nonsense. Elena went back to the cabinet, but the phone started buzzing again.
“Len, why aren’t you picking up?” Katya rattled off. “Do you know that Antonina Pavlovna’s anniversary is on Saturday?”
Elena froze, a towel clenched in her hand.
“What anniversary?”
“She’s turning seventy-five. Sveta called me—she and Dima are invited. She says Antonina sent out invitations two weeks ago.”
The towel slipped from Elena’s fingers. Thirty-two years married to Igor, and she’d never missed a family celebration. And now her mother-in-law’s milestone birthday—and silence.
“Maybe they forgot?” Elena whispered, not believing it herself.
“Forgot? Not a chance! Sveta says they’ve got a guest list of twenty people. Everyone’s invited—Igor’s brothers with their wives, even their old neighbor from the fifth floor.”
Elena sank onto a stool. Memories surfaced: how she’d cared for her mother-in-law after gallbladder surgery, how she’d spent her vacation money so Antonina Pavlovna could get new teeth, how she’d watched the grandchildren when everyone else was busy.
“I’ll tell you what,” Katya wouldn’t let up, “this is all because of that cake last New Year’s. Remember, you bought the wrong one?”
“Katya, the cake has nothing to do with it. She just… always considered me an outsider.”
The front door banged—Igor was back. Elena hurriedly said goodbye to her friend.
Her husband walked into the kitchen and, boyishly, shook the rain from his hair. Elena looked at the crow’s-feet around his eyes, the features she knew by heart. Thirty-two years together. And still—an outsider.
“Igor, is your mother’s anniversary on Saturday?” she asked, trying to keep her voice even.
He froze by the fridge, not turning around.
“Yeah, something’s being planned.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Igor opened the fridge and studied its contents for a long time, as if seeing them for the first time.
“Mom doesn’t want a big celebration. Just the closest family.”
“The closest,” Elena echoed. “So I don’t make the cut?”
“Len, why start this?” He finally turned to her. “You know my mom. She’s got her quirks.”
“Quirks?” Elena felt a wave rising inside her. “I’ve put up with her ‘quirks’ for three decades! They’re not quirks, Igor, they’re… they’re…”
She couldn’t find the word and just waved her hand.
“I helped her through surgery when you were on a business trip. I babysat the grandkids when your Irka ran off to a resort. I’ve spent thirty-two years trying to be a good daughter-in-law. And this is what I get?”
Igor rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“Len, do you really have to keep tally of who owes whom?”
“I’m not keeping tally!” Elena’s voice trembled. “I just want to be part of the family. Your family. Is that really so much to ask?”
Igor sighed heavily and sat down.
“Listen, you’re blowing this out of proportion. Mom just wants something small and intimate.”
“Intimate? For twenty people?” Elena felt each word scrape her throat. “Even the neighbor from the fifth floor is going to be there!”
“How do you…”
“What does it matter how!” She snatched up a dish towel and started furiously wiping an already dry countertop. “Thirty-two years, Igor! What did I do wrong? Tell me!”
Igor reached for her hand, but she pulled away.
“Lena, you know my mother. She still thinks you took me away from her.”
“Took you away?” Elena laughed bitterly. “You were twenty-five when we met! Not five!”
She remembered the first time she went to Antonina Pavlovna’s house. How she’d tried to make a good impression, baked a pie from her grandmother’s recipe. And her mother-in-law just pressed her lips together: “We don’t cook like that in our family.”
“All my life,” Elena went on, “all my life I’ve tried to please her. And she? Remember how she said in front of everyone that I was raising Denis the wrong way? Or how she told my parents I couldn’t cook? And you were always silent, always! Keeping your neutrality!”
“So what do you suggest?” annoyance crept into Igor’s voice. “That I fight with my mother over some party?”
“Not over a party!” Elena exclaimed. “Over respect! Over the fact that your mother hasn’t considered me part of the family for thirty-two years, and you’ve allowed it!”
She turned to the window. Outside, drizzle fell—gray and dreary, like her mood.
“Len, don’t dramatize,” Igor said, awkwardly putting an arm around her shoulders. “Do you want me to talk to her? Maybe it’s a misunderstanding.”
“A misunderstanding?” Elena slipped out of his embrace. “No, Igor. It would be a misunderstanding if this happened once. But now… now it’s just a slap in the face.”
The next few days Elena moved like she was in a fog. She forced a smile at work, kept quiet at home. Igor tried to smooth things over, but every argument only deepened the hurt.
“You can’t imagine how upset she was about that cake last year,” he said on Thursday evening at dinner. “Mom thinks you did it on purpose.”
“On purpose?” Elena put down her fork. “I went to three bakeries to find a gluten-free cake because she’s allergic!”
“But you know she only likes meringue, and you got one with cream.”
“Because the meringue ones were gone!” Elena felt tears rise to her throat. “Do you really think I spent half a day looking for a cake just to deliberately buy the wrong one?”
Igor said nothing—and his silence spoke louder than words.
On Friday night Elena went into her son’s room. Denis had come home for the weekend and was lying on the couch glued to his phone.
“Denis, your grandma’s anniversary is soon.”
“Uh-huh,” he replied without looking up. “Dad told me.”
“And you… are you going?”
Denis finally looked at his mother.
“Grandma asked me to. What am I supposed to do, not congratulate her?”
Elena nodded, trying to hide her disappointment. Even her son didn’t see the unfairness.
“Of course,” she said quietly. “Of course, congratulate her.”
On Saturday the house emptied. Igor and Denis left in the morning, loaded down with gifts and flowers. Elena stayed behind. She wandered aimlessly from room to room. In every photo, Antonina Pavlovna stood a little apart.
Elena ran her finger over the glass of a picture frame. A family photo from five years ago—Denis’s wedding. She in a blue dress, Igor in a formal suit, the newlyweds beaming. And Antonina Pavlovna looking as if she’d been forced to drink vinegar.
“Even on a day like that,” Elena whispered to the photo. “Even at her grandson’s wedding.”
She remembered how her mother-in-law had pulled her son aside and said loudly, so everyone could hear: “Well, at least my grandson married a decent girl, unlike some people.” And how Igor was silent again.
In the evening her husband and son came back tipsy. They smelled of Antonina Pavlovna’s expensive perfume.
“How did it go?” Elena asked, striving for an even tone.
“Great!” Igor flopped into an armchair. “Mom was so happy. You should’ve seen how she lit up when we…”
He broke off when he saw her face.
“Sorry, Len. I didn’t think.”
Denis shifted awkwardly in the hallway.
“I’m gonna turn in,” he mumbled and disappeared into his room.
“Mom sends her regards,” Igor added after a pause.
“Regards?” Elena felt something clench inside. “She remembered I exist?”
“Lena, come on…”
“No, you come on!” She snapped. “Stop pretending everything’s fine. Your mother humiliated me. Again! And you don’t care!”
“I do care,” Igor stood up. “I just don’t want to be caught between two fires. You both…”
“We both what?” Elena cut him off. “Go on—what are we both?”
Igor rubbed his temples.
“You’re both too emotional. You make a mountain out of a molehill.”
“Oh, I see,” Elena said with a bitter smile. “So my pain is just ‘making a mountain out of a molehill’?”
She turned and went to the bedroom, slamming the door.
Ten days passed.
Elena and Igor spoke curtly, businesslike. Denis left. Life returned to its usual course.
Elena stopped calling her mother-in-law on Sundays, as she’d always done. Stopped asking about her health. And strangely—rather than guilt, she felt a kind of relief. As if she’d shrugged off a heavy backpack she’d carried for three decades.
On the eleventh day after the anniversary, Elena’s phone rang. “Antonina Pavlovna” flashed on the screen. Elena froze, unsure whether to answer. The phone rang and rang, and she stared at it like a rattlesnake. Finally, she made up her mind.
“Hello?”
“Lenochka, hello,” her mother-in-law’s voice sounded unusually gentle. “How are you, dear?”
Elena closed her eyes. “Dear.” In thirty-two years, Antonina Pavlovna had never called her that.
“Hello, Antonina Pavlovna. I’m well, thank you.”
“I’ve really taken ill,” the voice turned plaintive. “After the anniversary I took to my bed. My blood pressure is up, my heart’s pounding, my legs won’t carry me.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Elena replied. “Have you seen a doctor?”
“Doctors—what’s the point? They just take your money and do no good. I need a sanatorium, to recover. Igor said you had some vacation money set aside?”
Elena felt a chill run down her back. So that’s what this was.
“Yes, we’ve been saving for a seaside trip,” she answered cautiously.
“Lenochka,” Antonina’s voice grew even sweeter, “you know how I feel about you. You’re like a daughter to me. I’d never ask if it weren’t so serious…”
“Like a daughter,” Elena repeated to herself. Thirty-two years without once calling her a daughter, and now—this.
“Does Igor know about your request?” she asked aloud.
“No, heavens no!” a flicker of anxiety crept into the older woman’s voice. “He worries so much about me; I don’t want to upset him. We women understand each other.”
Elena was silent. Images flashed through her mind: she hands over the money; she postpones, yet again, the beach trip she’s dreamed of for three years; Antonina at the sanatorium telling her friends how cleverly she wheedled cash from “that upstart.”
“Antonina Pavlovna,” Elena said, her voice unexpectedly calm, “how much do you need?”
“Oh, dear, the voucher is forty thousand, but even half would…”
“No, that’s not what I mean,” Elena interrupted. “I’m asking how much more humiliation you need from me. How many more years do I have to prove I deserve to be part of your family?”
A deafening silence hung on the line.
“What is this…” the mother-in-law faltered, then her voice shifted to its usual icy tone: “Are you refusing to help a sick old woman?”
“I’m refusing to be used,” Elena answered firmly. “You didn’t invite me to your anniversary. But you remembered me when you needed money.”
“How dare you!” Antonina shrieked. “After everything I’ve done for you! I gave you my son!”
“Gave?” Elena let out a bitter little laugh. “You didn’t give him to me. Igor and I chose each other. And you… you’ve spent thirty-two years trying to prove I’m not good enough.”
“I’ll tell Igor everything! He’ll choose between us, you’ll see!”
“Tell him,” Elena said calmly. “I’m not afraid of the truth anymore. Respect has to be mutual, Antonina Pavlovna.”
She hung up and sat for several minutes staring into space. Inside, a strange cocktail of feelings swirled: shame, relief, fear and… pride?
That evening Igor came home. One look at his face told Elena—his mother had already called.
“What have you done?” he began in the doorway. “Mom’s hysterical! She says you were rude and refused to help!”
Elena took a deep breath.
“Sit down, Igor. We need to talk.”
They sat in the kitchen until midnight. Elena spoke—calmly, without accusations—just telling him how she had felt all these years. How she’d tried, how she’d hoped, how she kept crashing into a wall of coldness. Igor defended himself at first, then got angry, then simply listened.
“What do you want from me?” he asked at last. “For me to cut my mother off?”
“No,” Elena shook her head. “Just don’t ask me to be an endless donor—emotionally, financially, in any way—to a person who doesn’t respect me. Take my side. Just once.”
Igor was quiet for a long time, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“You know, I always thought I was staying neutral,” he said finally. “But now I see it’s… cowardice. Just cowardice.”
Elena gently touched his hand.
“Not cowardice. A wish to keep everyone happy. But that’s impossible, Igor.”
“So what now?” He looked at her, exhausted.
“Now we learn to respect boundaries. Mine, yours, and your mother’s. I won’t bend over backward anymore to please her. But I won’t demand you choose between us, either.”
The next day Igor went to see his mother. He came back grim, but calm.
“I talked to her. I told her we won’t give money for a sanatorium. And that from now on, if she wants to see both of us, she needs to respect you.”
“How did she take it?”
“At first she threw a fit,” Igor managed a faint smile. “Then she blamed you for everything. And when I was about to leave… she cried. For real, not theatrics. She said she’s afraid of ending up alone.”
Elena felt a prick of sympathy.
“We won’t abandon her,” she said softly. “We just won’t let her boss us around anymore.”
A week later, Antonina called again—this time, straight to Igor. She asked him to bring some medicine. Igor brought it, and Elena came with him. Her mother-in-law met her warily, but without the usual chill.
“Would you like some tea?” she asked awkwardly.
“I would,” Elena nodded.
The three of them sat together. They drank tea with sour-cherry jam and talked. About the weather, health, the news. Not a word about the anniversary, not a word about the sanatorium. Elena felt that something had changed. Not in Antonina Pavlovna. In herself.