Valery Petrovich considered himself a man who kept everything under control. At work he was the head of a department, at home the head of the family, in life the master of his own fate. He was used to everything going according to his plan, and when something slipped off schedule, his voice would fill the apartment like an ambulance siren.
“Lena!” he barked from the living room. “Why isn’t everything cleaned yet? The guests are coming in three days!”
His wife appeared in the doorway with a rag in her hands. She always appeared quickly, as if she were waiting for the next summons.
“Valera, I just finished the kitchen. I’m about to start on the living room.”
“‘About to, about to’…” he mimicked her. “It’s always your ‘about to.’ You should’ve started yesterday! My birthday isn’t just a family thing, you understand? Colleagues are coming, maybe the higher-ups too. I can’t afford to make a fool of myself.”
Lena nodded and went back to cleaning. She had long since learned not to answer when her husband was in that mood. Arguments only egged him on, turning a small irritation into a full-scale scandal.
Valery Petrovich was preparing for his fiftieth with special zeal. A milestone, a jubilee — that was no joke. He already imagined his colleagues admiring the table, how the head of the sales department, Mikhail Semyonovich, would nod approvingly, appreciating the scale of it. Maybe even the director himself would drop by. Those things are remembered. Those things build a reputation.
“And did you put together the menu?” he shouted, still in the living room, where he was laying out napkin samples on the coffee table, choosing between cream-colored ones and white ones with gold embossing.
“I did,” came her voice from the hallway.
“Bring it here!”
Lena wiped her hands on her apron and took a sheet of notebook paper from a kitchen drawer, covered in neat, tiny handwriting. Valery snatched it from her hands and ran his eyes over it.
His face fell.
“What is this?” He shook the sheet as if it were a counterfeit bill. “Olivier salad, herring under a fur coat, aspic, roast? Are you serious?”
“What’s wrong with it?” Lena tensed involuntarily.
“What’s wrong with it?!” Valery jumped up from the couch. “It’s boring! This is what’s on every table! I need a celebration, you get it? A presentable spread! So people’s jaws drop! And what are you suggesting? A canteen in the Soviet era!”
“Valera, I can add more dishes, but these are classics, people love them…”
“People love them!” he mimicked again. “People will also love hot dogs and macaroni if they’re hungry! I need my guests to see that Valery Petrovich Morozov knows how to live! So they understand I’m not some petty manager but a man of standing!”
Lena stood silently, eyes lowered. Her fingers nervously twisted the edge of her apron.
“Redo it,” Valery threw over his shoulder, flinging the sheet onto the table. “And by tomorrow evening I want a new menu. A proper one. With something refined. Hot and cold appetizers, unusual salads, red fish, maybe some oysters. In short, think! What do I keep you for?”
He turned and left the room, slamming the door. Lena picked the sheet up off the floor, smoothed it out and slowly shuffled back to the kitchen. She sat down at the table and stared out the window. A fine autumn drizzle was falling outside, and the city looked gray, blurred, tired.
“What do I keep you for?” — that phrase stuck in her head like a splinter. She remembered how, twenty years ago, Valery had been different. Attentive, gentle, even shy. He gave her flowers for no reason, kissed her goodbye, told her she was his only support. Then came his first successes, his first promotions, his career. And with each new rung on the ladder he became a little taller, a little more arrogant, a little louder.
And she stayed the same. A quiet wife who cooked, cleaned, did the laundry, and kept silent. Who had grown used to fitting herself around him. Who had forgotten when anyone last asked her: “And how are you? What do you want?”
The next day Lena spent the entire evening working on a new menu. She searched for recipes online, called a friend who worked in a restaurant, and wrote down ingredients. By night the list had grown to two pages: beef carpaccio, salmon tartare, duck breast, salad with arugula and parmesan, foie gras, profiteroles with crab mousse…
Valery came home late, tired but pleased — his project had finally been approved at work. Lena handed him the new menu. He read for a long time, frowned, nodded, then put the sheets aside.
“Now that’s more like it,” he muttered. “Although you still didn’t include oysters. Fine, let it be. The main thing is that everything’s fresh and nicely presented. And that everything’s on the table by six on Saturday evening. Guests at seven, I need a time cushion.”
“Valer, that’s a lot of work,” Lena began cautiously. “Maybe we can order something from a restaurant? Or I could ask Svetka to help?”
“Order?” He looked at her as if she’d proposed feeding the guests animal feed. “So that someone can then say Morozov can’t even set a table without help? No way. Everything has to be homemade, from the heart. And don’t call that Svetka of yours, she’s great at running her mouth, she’ll tell everyone afterward that something was wrong here.”
Lena pressed her lips together. She wanted to say she wouldn’t make it in time, that it was physically impossible to cook so much food in one day. But the words stuck in her throat. She just nodded.
The remaining days until Saturday flew by in feverish bustle. Lena was making shopping lists, calling stores, comparing prices. Every evening Valery held an inspection: checking what had been bought, what still needed buying, issuing instructions, criticizing her choices.
“What fish is this? Chum salmon? I asked for salmon! Chum is for poor people!”
“Valer, they didn’t have salmon, and chum is very good too…”
“I don’t care that they didn’t have it! Tomorrow you’ll go to another store and buy salmon. And why isn’t the cheese parmesan, but some grana padano? Are you saving money on my birthday?”
Lena stayed silent. She had learned to be silent so skillfully that sometimes it felt as if she wasn’t even in the room. Just a shadow carrying out orders.
On Friday evening Valery did a final check. He opened the fridge, took out the products, studied the labels, smelled them, squeezed them. Lena stood beside him like a schoolgirl in front of a strict teacher.
“Fine,” he exhaled at last. “Looks like everything’s here. Listen, start tomorrow first thing in the morning. Everything has to be ready by six. And lay it all out nicely on the platters, not just any old way. Buy more greens for garnish, parsley, dill or whatever. The table needs to look rich.”
“All right,” Lena said quietly.
“And wash the chandelier,” he added, heading for the bedroom. “It’s kind of dull. The guests will think we live in poverty.”
Lena looked at the chandelier. She had washed it the week before.
Saturday started at six in the morning. Lena got up, washed her face in ice-cold water to fully wake up, and set to work. Valery slept until ten — he believed the birthday boy had a right to rest.
When he came into the kitchen, Lena was already frying duck breast. Bowls of chopped vegetables stood on the table, broth simmered on the stove, profiteroles were baking in the oven. The air was thick with smells, the windows fogged up.
“So, are you managing?” Valery asked, pouring himself coffee.
“So far, yes,” Lena said without turning around, stirring the sauce.
“See that you don’t screw it up,” he warned. “Everything has to be perfect today. I’ll go take a shower, then I’ll handle the drinks.”
He left, and Lena exhaled. Her hands were trembling with fatigue — she’d already been at the stove for three hours. But there was no time to stop. The list on the fridge was still full of unchecked items.
At noon Valery came back to the kitchen.
“And the salads?” he asked, peeking into the fridge.
“I haven’t started them yet, I need to finish the hot dishes first.”
“Lena, are you kidding me? It’s already noon! The guests are in seven hours!”
“I know, Valer, I’ll make it…”
“You’ll make it, you’ll make it!” he raised his voice. “You’re always like this! Everything at the last minute! Couldn’t you have prepped something yesterday?”
“Yesterday you yourself said I should cook only today so everything would be fresh,” Lena turned, and something unfamiliar flashed in her eyes. Not submission, not fear. Something else.
Valery noticed it, but didn’t think much of it.
“Fine, get to work,” he snapped. “Just don’t let me down.”
At two o’clock Lena was still chopping vegetables for salad. At three she was marinating the fish. At four she was whipping cream for the appetizers. Valery kept coming in, commenting, advising, criticizing. By five the table was still empty, and the kitchen was chaos: piles of dirty dishes, cutting boards covered in scraps, sauce stains on the stove.
“Lena!” yelled Valery from the living room. “What are you doing in there, not cooking at all?! Guests in two hours! Where’s the spread?!”
Lena slowly wiped her hands on a towel. She looked at the clock, then at the fridge, then at the list. And suddenly she felt her patience snap. Quietly, almost imperceptibly. Like a string pulled too tight.
She took off her apron, hung it on the hook, and walked into the living room.
Valery was standing by the festive table, still empty, covered with a white tablecloth. He was setting out glasses, lovingly polishing each one to a shine.
“Where’s the food?” he asked without turning.
“Valer,” Lena said quietly but very clearly. “This is your party – so you can host and feed your guests yourself.”
He turned around. His face showed bewilderment, as if she’d started speaking a foreign language.
“What?”
“I said: this is your party. Your birthday, your guests, your reputation. So you’re the one who will do the cooking.”
Valery laughed — a short, nervous laugh.
“You’re joking, right?”
“No,” Lena picked up her bag from the couch and checked to see if her wallet was inside. “I’m tired. I’m very tired, Valer. I’ve spent three days preparing for your party, and you’ve done nothing but shout and nitpick. You want a perfect table — make it yourself. If you manage.”
“You… you can’t just leave!” Valery’s voice trembled. “The guests are coming! What am I supposed to tell them?!”
“I don’t know,” Lena shrugged. “Tell them the truth. Or make something up. You’re the man of standing here, you’ll figure it out.”
She headed for the door. Valery rushed after her and grabbed her arm.
“Lena, wait! You can’t! It’s… it’s my fiftieth!”
She looked at him with a long, tired gaze.
“That’s exactly why you should be the one to take care of it. I’m going out to walk around the shops. Maybe I’ll buy myself something pretty. I’ve wanted to for a long time.”
“But the food! The table! What am I supposed to do?!”
“There’s plenty of food in the fridge,” Lena said, freeing her arm. “Recipes are online. If you don’t manage to cook, order from a restaurant. Or apologize to your guests and postpone the party. The choice is yours.”
She opened the door and left without looking back. Valery stood in the hallway, bewildered, his face stretched. He couldn’t believe this was really happening. A wife couldn’t just up and leave. A wife had always been there. Always obeyed. Always endured.
He went back to the kitchen and looked around the wreckage. A mountain of dirty dishes. Half-raw duck. Chopped vegetables already starting to brown. Fish giving off a suspicious smell — apparently it had been left out of the fridge too long. The clock read five thirty.
The guests would arrive at seven.
Valery tried turning on the stove but couldn’t find the right burner — he hadn’t cooked in fifteen years, if not more. He grabbed a frying pan, poured in some oil, and threw in the vegetables. They hissed and started to smoke. He didn’t know how long to fry them and just stood there, stirring them helplessly with a spatula.
Then he grabbed his phone and called Lena. She didn’t pick up.
He called again. And again. The subscriber was unavailable.
“Damn it!” he swore and flung the phone onto the table.
He tried making a salad — more or less shredded the remaining vegetables and mixed them with mayonnaise. It turned into something shapeless and pathetic. He looked at the clock. Six o’clock.
Valery realized he wasn’t going to make it. Not just not make it — he had no idea what to do next. The fish was ruined, the duck was undercooked, the salads looked like they’d been made by a blind man. And the table was still bare, the white tablecloth showing like a rebuke.
He dialed Lena again. No answer.
So he called his first guest — Mikhail Semyonovich.
“Misha, hi, listen… I’ve suddenly come down sick,” his voice shook. “We’ll have to reschedule. Sorry, that’s just how it turned out.”
“Sick?” came the surprised voice on the line. “But you were at work today, looked fine.”
“Well, it hit me suddenly. My stomach, I guess. Let’s do it next week?”
Mikhail Semyonovich muttered something and hung up. Valery called the rest of the guests, repeating the same story to each. Some believed him, some didn’t, but no one argued.
When the last call was over, Valery collapsed onto a chair in the middle of the kitchen. He stared at the food, the dirty dishes, the empty table — and felt an unfamiliar feeling growing inside him. Shame? Anger? Hurt?
He pictured Lena right now wandering through the shops, calm, free. For the first time in twenty years, she had done something for herself. And he was left alone, amid the ruins of his own ambitions.
Valery Petrovich sat in silence for a long time, listening to the rain outside the window. There was no celebration. No guests. Only an empty table reminding him that even the most perfect plan can collapse if it’s built on someone else’s back.
And when at ten in the evening Lena came home — calm, with shopping bags in her hands and a new scarf around her neck — Valery didn’t start shouting. He just sat at the kitchen table with a cup of cold tea and looked out the window.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, without turning his head.
Lena set the bags on the floor and sat down across from him.
“For what?”
“For everything.”
She nodded. They sat in silence, and the rain drummed against the windowsill, washing away something old, unnecessary, heavy.
And maybe that was the real celebration — without guests, without a lavish table, but with something bigger. With the realization that sometimes you have to be left alone with yourself in order to finally see other people