— “I’m very tired,” Anfisa Tikhonovna shook her head. There was a plaintive note in her voice. “And it’s late already.”
— “As if I’m not tired!” Anna shot back, surprised at her own boldness. “And you’re right, it is late. And I don’t want to be stuck in the kitchen till morning after your party.”
“Anya, Mom’s having a milestone birthday in a month,” Mark said casually as he sat down next to his wife on the sofa.
“Yes, fifty is a serious date,” Anna replied absently, not looking up from the tablet where she was going over some work materials. “We need to think of a present. Maybe…”
“Listen, here’s the thing,” Mark hesitated. “She’s asking… Basically, she wants to celebrate at our place.”
Anna slowly lifted her eyes from the tablet.
“At our place?”
“Well, yeah. You see, all the people she wants to invite won’t fit in her one-room apartment. And we’ve got the space…”
“Mark,” Anna set the tablet aside, “you realize what that’ll be like? A ton of people, cooking, cleaning, noise!”
“Mom promises she’ll organize everything herself. Honestly, you won’t even notice it happening. She’s already roped in her friends—Natalya Eduardovna is doing the salads, and Margarita Renatovna will bring something too…”
“Your mother’s friends will cook at their places and then bring everything here? And how many people does she want to invite, exactly?”
“Fifteen… maybe twenty.”
“How many?!”
“They’ll fit if we extend the table. Anya, really, we won’t have to do anything. Just open the door. Mom said—no hassle.”
Anna walked to the window. The tops of young maples swayed beyond the glass. A quiet courtyard, a playground… They really had chosen a good neighborhood for the apartment.
“All right,” she said slowly. “But I have conditions. I’m not taking part in the preparations. At all. And after the party we’re not staying to clean up after them. That’s non-negotiable.”
“Of course!” Mark beamed and dashed off to call his mother.
Before the wedding, Anna had hardly interacted with Mark’s mother. A few short tea visits, a couple of phone calls—that was it. Anfisa Tikhonovna was friendly, but somehow strained.
When they announced their engagement, they had to meet more often—pre-wedding fuss began. “Isn’t it a bit early for you to get married? Marik hasn’t really found his footing yet,” or “Dear, are you sure that’s the dress you need? I think something more modest would be better.” Preparing for the wedding turned into a series of compromises, with every decision hard-won.
Then came three years in a rented apartment. Having lived her whole life in her own one-room flat, Anfisa Tikhonovna couldn’t understand why the young couple were spending so much on rent. “You could live with me for now and save for your own place,” she repeated. But Anna couldn’t even imagine such an arrangement. Besides, both she and Mark earned decent money at their IT companies and could afford to rent.
When they took out a mortgage and bought a three-room apartment in a new district, Anfisa Tikhonovna perked up. She came over to check on the renovations and eagerly discussed the layout. “What if you put a wardrobe here? And maybe choose lighter wallpaper?”
Anna tried to listen—after all, her mother-in-law had experience in making a home. But sometimes it felt like every suggestion from Anfisa Tikhonovna carried the subtext that whatever the daughter-in-law had done could have been done better. Perhaps Anna was just reading hidden meanings into words where there were none?
They hardly ever quarreled—just mild tiffs at family gatherings. Anfisa Tikhonovna wasn’t the type to stage open scandals. But her pointed remarks sometimes stung Anna more than harsh words would have. “Such a big apartment… Seems there’s lots of space, yet not much coziness. People used to know how to create atmosphere…”
On the morning of the birthday, the kitchen was bustling. “Time to start setting the table!” Anfisa Tikhonovna poked her head into the room where her daughter-in-law sat, as if she’d forgotten that Anna had flatly refused to take part in the preparations. Anna was just finishing an urgent work project—thankfully, she could work from home. She snapped the laptop shut. There was no focusing anyway—the clink of dishes and lively voices drifted in from the kitchen. Natalya Eduardovna and Margarita Renatovna had brought salads and appetizers: arranging, garnishing, discussing.
“Oh, girls, careful with the table—it’s new!” Anfisa Tikhonovna exclaimed.
“Oh, what could happen to it?” Natalya Eduardovna soothed her, spooning salads into bowls.
“Anfisa, did you bring your own tablecloth, or do the young ones have one?” asked Margarita Renatovna.
“We have a festive one,” Anna called back from the other room.
Mark was dashing between kitchen and hallway, unpacking the bags and totes his mother’s friends kept bringing. Anna watched him sympathetically and even helped a bit with the unpacking. There wasn’t any room for her in the kitchen, which made Anna sigh with relief.
By four o’clock the guests began to arrive. Anfisa Tikhonovna greeted them with delighted exclamations: “Ninochka, I’m so glad! Valechka, come in quickly!”
“Mark, son, Zoya Petrovna is on her way up—go meet her, she’s bringing pies,” the celebrant commanded.
Anna helped hang coats in the hallway. Mark introduced her to the guests—some of his mother’s colleagues, an aunt from Voronezh, childhood friends… The names blurred together, but Anna made an honest effort to remember at least a few; she would have to make conversation with them at the table somehow.
The living room filled with the clink of glasses and laughter. Anfisa Tikhonovna was radiant—she was clearly enjoying herself.
“Remember how Verochka and I in ’86…” drifted from one corner.
“No, that was in ’87!” someone argued from another.
“Anfisa, you’re as beautiful as ever!” one of the friends gushed.
“Oh, stop,” the celebrant waved it off. “I’m past that! Back then, yes… Not like some people now!” Anna looked at her mother-in-law in surprise. What was that supposed to mean?
By eight in the evening the fun was in full swing. Someone struck up a song, someone started dancing. “Oh, thank you, my dears! I’m so glad you all came!” Anfisa Tikhonovna kept exclaiming.
Around nine they remembered the tea. “Well, Anfisa, shall we cut the cake?” asked Natalya Eduardovna.
“Let’s! Anya, do you have a large platter?”
By ten o’clock only the closest friends remained. The living room was a festive wreck—the aftermath of fifteen people making merry. Dirty plates stood in rows, wine-smeared glasses lined the windowsill. The white tablecloth was blotched with sauce and wine. Sofa cushions lay askew—there hadn’t been enough chairs. On the coffee table, next to little dessert bowls, rose a mountain of crumpled napkins.
Anna automatically stacked plates—she hadn’t promised to clean, but she couldn’t just sit on her hands. And the sooner it was over, the better. It had been an exhausting day. A constant stream of strangers, the need to keep up conversation, smile, and field endless questions about when the grandchildren were finally coming… By evening her head was buzzing with voices and clinking glasses.
“Natalya, you’re driving, right?” Anfisa Tikhonovna perked up suddenly. “Could you give me a lift? It’s late already.”
“I don’t have space,” Natalya spread her hands. “I’m taking Verochka and Zoya Petrovna—I promised. They live on the other side of the city, you know.”
“Mark!” Anfisa Tikhonovna called to her son. “Will you drive Mom home?”
Mark, who was carrying empty bottles to the kitchen, poked his head into the living room. He looked tired too—he’d been running between guests all day, topping up drinks, taking away plates, keeping his mother’s friends entertained with small talk.
“Of course, Mom. I’ll grab my jacket.”
Anna froze, plates in hand. The situation felt unreal. Were they really just going to leave like that? Leave her to face this mess alone? And Mark had promised… She glanced toward the kitchen, where dirty salad bowls and platters were piled up—thankfully there weren’t any pots and baking sheets. The thought of having to clear this chaos by herself, after a full day of forced hospitality, finally pushed her to speak.
“Why should I be the one to clean the house after your mother’s guests?” she asked irritably, looking at the mess.
Silence fell. Margarita Renatovna, who had been buttoning a boot, froze with one knee bent. Natalya Eduardovna stopped tugging on her gloves. Somewhere in the hallway the coat rack creaked—the last guests, it seemed, were listening too.
“What’s the problem?” Anfisa Tikhonovna replied evenly, still adjusting her hair in the mirror. “We’ve had such a lovely time…”
“You’ve had a lovely time,” Anna cut in. Inside, she was trembling—she wasn’t used to conflict, but it was too late to back down. “And I’m supposed to clean up. Even though the deal was—we’re only providing the space.”
“Anya,” Anfisa turned to her daughter-in-law with a gentle smile—the very one that always made Anna go cold inside, “why are you so nervous? It’s just a bit of tidying…”
“A bit?” Anna swept her arm around the living room. “There’s two hours of work here! And we have to get up for work tomorrow.”
She felt herself flushing. Before, she always kept quiet, swallowed moments like this. But now… Now it somehow felt important not to stay silent. Maybe because this was their new apartment? Her and Mark’s home, the one they’d waited so long for?
“All right, ladies,” Natalya Eduardovna intervened, taking off her gloves. “Let’s all pitch in and tidy up quickly.”
“Yeah, this is a bit awkward,” agreed Margarita, setting down her handbag. “We partied here, and the daughter-in-law’s supposed to clean?”
“I’m very tired,” Anfisa shook her head. There was a plaintive note in her voice. “And it’s late already.”
“As if I’m not tired!” Anna answered, surprised at her own boldness. “And you’re right—it’s late. And I don’t want to be stuck in the kitchen till morning after your bash.”
Mark glanced between his wife and his mother. He clearly hadn’t expected the evening to take this turn. But he cleared his throat and said:
“Mom, Anya’s right. We agreed—you would organize everything yourself. From start to finish.”
It was as if Anfisa hadn’t heard her son. She looked in the mirror, slowly straightening the collar of her coat.
Natalya firmly took off her coat. “That’s enough arguing. We’ll all clean up now.”
“Yes, yes,” Margarita hurried to say. “Where should we stack the plates?”
Anfisa stood there for a minute, then silently took off her coat and began gathering glasses from the windowsill. In the hanging hush, the only sounds were the faint clink of dishes and the rustle of trash bags.
They cleaned in silence. Only Natalya occasionally asked where to put this or that. Anna opened cupboards, showed where the cleaning supplies were, and fetched garbage bags. The whole thing felt like a strange dream.
Mark collected bottles, trying not to clatter. Water ran in the kitchen—Margarita was rinsing plates before loading them into the dishwasher. Anfisa methodically gathered food remnants from the table and packed them away.
They folded the stained tablecloth into a basin and soaked it in cool water with stain remover. In the morning it would only need a wash cycle.
Half an hour later the living room looked like itself again. The table pushed back against the wall, chairs set in place, the floor mopped. In the kitchen the dishwasher hummed softly.
“Well, that’s much better,” Natalya broke the silence. “Thanks, everyone.”
It was finally time to go. Anfisa dressed without a word. In the hallway no one argued anymore about who was going where—everyone just wanted this long day to be over.
Mark grabbed the car keys. Anna walked them to the door. An awkward “bye”—and the stairwell fell quiet.
Closing the door behind her mother-in-law and husband, Anna returned to the living room. She sat on the sofa and leaned back. The fatigue hit all at once—the day had been long. From the kitchen, the gentle purr of the dishwasher was still audible.
Snippets of the day’s conversations circled in her head, guests’ laughter, the clink of glasses. Well, it could have been worse. At least they all cleaned up together—quickly and almost without arguments. Though, if not for the mother-in-law’s friends, who knows how it would have ended.
The lock clicked softly—Mark was back. He sat down beside her and put an arm around her shoulders.
“Sorry it turned out like this. I should have stepped in right away.”
“It’s okay,” Anna nestled against her husband. “The important thing is we sorted it out.”
“Tired?”
“Exhausted. Shall we go to bed? Work tomorrow.”
In the bedroom, Anna once again mentally thanked Natalya Eduardovna and Margarita Renatovna. It was a good thing her mother-in-law had such sensible friends—they hadn’t let the situation escalate into a real scandal.