Vika came home around nine in the evening. Her mother-in-law’s familiar shoes were in the entryway. The woman exhaled and squared her shoulders—another little performance was about to begin.
In the kitchen, Galina Sergeyevna sat at the table drinking tea. Denis was next to her, glued to his phone.
“Good evening,” Vika hung her bag on the back of a chair.
“It’ll be night soon,” her mother-in-law gave her a measuring look. “You work late, and there’s a hungry man at home.”
Denis looked up from the screen and shrugged. An empty plate from scrambled eggs sat on the table—clearly, her husband hadn’t been starving.
“We had a big project, a client presentation,” Vika opened the fridge to see what was left from yesterday’s shopping.
“In my day women knew how to do both. They worked, cooked, and kept the house in order.”
Vika took out a supermarket salad. Galina Sergeyevna grimaced as if she’d seen something indecent.
“Store-bought again? Denis, do you eat this?”
“It’s fine, Mom,” her husband buried himself in his phone again.
“Fine? My son, have you forgotten the cutlets I used to make for you? With homemade mashed potatoes and gravy… And soups? Do you remember my rassolnik?”
Vika silently reheated buckwheat with chicken in the microwave. Three years married, and for the last year these visits had become regular. Galina Sergeyevna lived fifteen minutes away and considered it her duty to check how her son was living.
Her job at a marketing agency took a lot out of her. Vika headed a department and handled major clients. She came home exhausted, and the last thing she wanted was to stand at the stove. Denis had never complained. Until his mother showed up.
“Just the other day I saw beautiful meat for a roast at the store,” Galina Sergeyevna continued. “I bought it and cooked it. The neighbor Valentina came by, had a taste—she was thrilled! Said she hadn’t eaten anything like it in ages. And what do you have here? Convenience food and plastic containers.”
“Galina Sergeyevna, we both work. There’s simply no time for complicated dishes.”
“You can always find time if you want to. I worked at the factory, raised Denis, and the table was always full. Meat, a side dish, a salad, compote. Fresh every day.”
Denis cleared his throat but kept quiet. Vika knew—her husband wouldn’t argue with his mother. It was easier to wait her out.
“By the way, it’s Lidiya Pavlovna’s birthday on Saturday,” Galina Sergeyevna turned to her son. “We’ll gather at her place. Every hostess will bring something. Vika, what will you bring?”
“I could buy a cake from the pastry shop?”
Her mother-in-law threw up her hands.
“A store-bought cake? For a birthday? Vika, that’s improper! Everyone will bring something homemade, from the heart. And you—something from a shop.”
“They make excellent cakes, all by hand…”
“‘By hand’!” Galina Sergeyevna shook her head. “Strangers’ hands made it. No, dear, that won’t do. Bake something simple. At least a charlotte. Even a child could manage that.”
Vika set her plate aside. She’d lost her appetite. Denis continued studying his phone, pretending not to hear.
“All right, I should go,” Galina Sergeyevna stood up. “Denis, see me out.”
Her husband left with his mother to the entryway. Vika heard her whispering something to him, then the front door slammed.
Denis returned to the kitchen and sat across from his wife.
“Listen, Vik… Maybe you could try cooking something? At least on the weekends.”
“Denis, I get up at seven, come back at nine. On weekends I do laundry, clean, and shop. When am I supposed to make your cutlets with gravy?”
“Not mine, ours. It’s just that Mom’s right—home-cooked food is healthier.”
“Your mom hasn’t worked for five years. She has time to cook.”
“She worked and cooked all her life.”
Vika got up and carried her plate to the sink. Arguing was pointless. Denis adored his mother, and any criticism of her was taken as a personal insult.
The next day, Vika ordered groceries for delivery—she decided to cook dinner. She bought meat, vegetables, spices. She found a braised beef recipe online. After work she rushed home, hoping to finish before her mother-in-law arrived.
Galina Sergeyevna appeared when the meat was already simmering.
“Oh, you’re cooking?” She walked into the kitchen without being invited. “What is it?”
“Beef with vegetables.”
Her mother-in-law opened the oven and sniffed.
“Strange smell. What did you put in there?”
“Rosemary and thyme.”
“Why so many seasonings? Meat should smell like meat. And why is it in the oven? You should braise it on the stove, on low heat.”
Vika bit her tongue. An hour of cooking, and everything was wrong.
At dinner Denis tried the meat and nodded.
“Tasty. Unusual, but tasty.”
“Unusual—that’s for sure,” Galina Sergeyevna pushed her plate away. “I won’t eat this. Too many spices, and the meat is tough.”
“Mom, the meat’s fine.”
“You just don’t remember what proper braised meat should be like. Come on Sunday and I’ll make it.”
After his mother left, Denis was quiet for a long time.
“Vik, don’t be upset with Mom. She has her own ideas about cooking.”
“She has her own ideas about everything. And the main thing is—hers are the only ones that are ‘right.’”
“Don’t dramatize.”
On Friday evening, Vika came home to find a whole council in the kitchen. Galina Sergeyevna had brought a pot of soup, a jar of pickles, and a bag of cutlets.
“Here,” her mother-in-law pointed proudly at the table. “Real home-cooked food. Heat it up for Denis when he gets in.”
“Thanks, but we were going to order sushi.”
“Sushi?” Galina Sergeyevna sat down. “Raw fish? Are you serious?”
“We like Japanese food.”
“Japanese food! Denis, do you hear? Your wife feeds you raw fish while a pot of your mother’s soup is sitting right here.”
That evening Denis did, in fact, heat up his mother’s soup. The sushi never got ordered.
“It’s good,” he showed his empty plate. “Just like childhood.”
Vika said nothing. A lump of hurt sat in her throat.
Saturday was Lidiya Pavlovna’s birthday—her mother-in-law’s friend. Vika got up at six and started on the charlotte. The batter didn’t rise; the apples released too much juice. It came out flat and soggy.
The second attempt was better. The charlotte rose and browned. Vika packed it in a container with relief.
At the party, the table groaned with homemade dishes. Salads, pies, meat roulades. Vika’s charlotte looked modest.
“Oh, Vika baked something!” Lidiya Pavlovna took a piece. “Interesting taste. Unusual.”
“A bit sour,” one guest whispered.
“Probably picked the wrong apples,” another added.
Galina Sergeyevna demonstratively didn’t touch her daughter-in-law’s charlotte.
“Vika’s a career woman,” the mother-in-law said loudly. “She has no time for family. Poor Denis eats whatever he can find.”
“How is that, ‘no time’?” Lidiya Pavlovna protested. “A woman should know how to do everything at once.”
“Exactly! I worked all my life and kept the house in order. My husband was fed and my son well cared for.”
Vika sat stone-faced. Denis pretended to be engrossed in conversation with some of the men.
At home that evening her husband unexpectedly spoke first.
“Mom’s right—your food isn’t tasty.”
Vika looked up. Irritation showed in her husband’s eyes.
“But I know how to earn money,” Vika replied.
Denis was taken aback by the answer. Galina Sergeyevna, sitting nearby, raised her eyebrows. Usually the daughter-in-law stayed silent or made excuses.
“What are you trying to say?” her husband frowned.
“Nothing special. Just a fact. While I’m paying the mortgage, utilities, and groceries, complaints about my cooking sound odd.”
“Vika!” Denis flushed. “What do money have to do with it? We’re talking about decent food!”
“Decent food? Fine, let’s count. My salary is one hundred twenty thousand. Yours is forty-five. Mortgage—sixty thousand. Utilities—twelve. Groceries—twenty-five. Your salary doesn’t even cover half the mortgage.”
Galina Sergeyevna gasped. Denis clenched his fists.
“Money isn’t everything in a family!”
“I agree. But cooking isn’t everything either. I work twelve-hour days and support our family. If my food doesn’t suit you—the kitchen’s free. Cook yourselves or hire a cook.”
“How can you say that in front of my mother?”
“And how can your mother come into my home and criticize me in front of you?”
Galina Sergeyevna stood up. Her face had turned crimson.
“Your home? This is my son’s home!”
“Check the documents. The apartment is in my name. The down payment was my savings. The mortgage is paid from my salary. Denis is registered here, but he isn’t the owner.”
Silence fell. Denis looked helplessly from his mother to his wife. Galina Sergeyevna opened and closed her mouth like a fish on the shore.
“I didn’t want to bring this up,” Vika went on calmly. “I thought such things didn’t matter in a family. But since we’re talking about who contributes what, let’s be honest.”
“Denis, do you hear that?” his mother grabbed his hand. “Your wife is throwing it in your face that you… that you…”
“That he criticizes what he doesn’t pay for,” Vika finished. “If Denis cooked, cleaned, and managed the house—that’d be different. But he comes home from work and sits down at the computer to play. And then complains about the food.”
“I get tired at work!”
“And I don’t? I’m running three projects at once, I have twenty people reporting to me, daily client meetings. And I still do the grocery shopping, clean the apartment, and pay the bills.”
Galina Sergeyevna sat back down. Her fighting spirit had clearly ebbed.
“In my day the man was the head of the family…”
“In your day one man supported the family. Times are different now. Denis can’t support a family on his salary. And that’s fine, I’m not blaming him. But then he shouldn’t blame me for not standing at the stove for hours like you.”
“Vika, you’re exaggerating,” Denis tried to smooth things over. “I was just joking about the food.”
“No, you weren’t. You backed your mother in her constant criticism. Every time she comes over, it’s the same. Not tasty, not filling, not the way she’s used to. And you keep silent or agree.”
“What do you mean, ‘agree’?”
“Yesterday you told your mom you miss her cutlets. The day before you said my salad was too light. On Monday you agreed that store-bought food is unhealthy.”
Denis dropped his gaze. Galina Sergeyevna sighed heavily.
“You know what?” Vika stood up. “Let’s do this. The fridge is full of groceries. The stove works. Pots are in the cupboard. Cook whatever you want, whenever you want. I won’t force my tasteless food on anyone anymore.”
“Vika, don’t be like that…”
“I have to, Denis. I’m done feeling guilty for not standing at the stove like your mom. My priorities are different. I’m building a career, earning money, providing our stability.”
“But family…”
“Family isn’t just food. It’s support, respect, understanding. When I got my promotion, you didn’t even congratulate me. But when your mom brought a new recipe for pickled tomatoes, you gushed for half an hour.”
Galina Sergeyevna stood.
“I think I’ll go.”
“Wait,” Vika turned to her mother-in-law. “Galina Sergeyevna, I respect you. You raised a son and worked hard. But times have changed. Women no longer have to choose between a career and pots and pans. You can combine things, but in your own way. My food is simple, yes. But it’s fresh and good quality. I don’t skimp on products. I just don’t spend three hours a day cooking.”
Her mother-in-law headed for the door without a word. Denis saw her out and came back to the kitchen.
“Why did you talk to her like that?”
“Why does she talk to me like that? I’ve been listening to reproaches for a year. Nodding and keeping quiet. Enough.”
“She’s only trying to do something for us.”
“No, Denis. She’s trying to show what a bad wife I am. And you’re helping her.”
Her husband sat down at the table and cradled his head in his hands.
“What now?”
“Now? Now you can cook for yourself. Or eat my simple food without commentary. Or order delivery with your own money. Your choice.”
That evening Denis silently reheated the leftovers from yesterday’s dinner. He ate without a word. Vika worked on her laptop in the living room, preparing a presentation for the next day’s meeting.
The next day, Galina Sergeyevna didn’t come. Nor the day after. For the first time in six months, a week went by without a visit from his mother.
On Saturday Denis got up early and went to the store. He came back with bags of groceries.
“What’s all this?” Vika asked.
“I want to cook lunch. Mom told me a recipe over the phone.”
“Great. Good luck.”
Denis spent three hours in the kitchen. Something sizzled, smoked, smelled burned. Vika didn’t interfere; she minded her own business.
By lunchtime there were cutlets on the table. Lopsided, burned on one side. Mashed potatoes in lumps. A salad with oversalted cucumbers.
“Well?” Denis looked at his wife hopefully.
Vika tried a cutlet. Tough, over-salted, with a burnt-oil aftertaste.
“For a first try, not bad. With practice it’ll get better.”
“Mom said I did everything right.”
“Your mother’s been cooking for forty years. She has experience. You need practice.”
Denis chewed his cutlet thoughtfully.
“It’s not tasty, is it?”
“It’s edible.”
“But not tasty.”
Vika shrugged.
“Now do you understand? Cooking is a skill. It takes time, effort, and desire. I don’t have any of the three.”
From that day Denis stopped criticizing his wife’s food. Sometimes he cooked himself—simple dishes, fried eggs, pasta. Galina Sergeyevna started coming once a month and brought prepared food, but she stopped making comments.
Six months later Vika was promoted to department director. Her salary rose to two hundred thousand. That evening Denis made a celebratory dinner—he ordered sushi, bought a cake, and opened champagne.
“To my talented wife,” her husband raised a glass. “Who knows how to earn money. And that’s more important than any cutlets.”
Vika smiled. Peace finally settled in their home. Not perfect, but honest. Everyone did what they were best at. And no one reproached anyone else.
Galina Sergeyevna never apologized, but she ended her attacks. At family gatherings she sat farther from her daughter-in-law and spoke only with her son. But that was better than constant criticism.
Vika kept ordering food or cooking simple dishes. Denis no longer complained. Sometimes he bought ready-made food from his mother at the deli. But now it was his choice, his money, his decision.
Life fell into place. Not as Galina Sergeyevna imagined it, but in a way that suited the young family. And that turned out to be more important than all traditions and conventions.