Olga had felt it since morning — a heavy foreboding, like the air before a storm. Today all of Igor’s relatives would gather again. His mother’s birthday. A laid table, endless toasts, laughter, hugs. And his jokes. Always his jokes.
She stood at the stove and looked out the window at the gray November sky. Eight years of marriage. For eight years she had been the grateful audience to his personal comedy show. At first she even liked it — Igor could make any company laugh, he was the life of the party. His charm had won her over back in her first year at university. Tall, witty, always in the spotlight. Back then she thought she was lucky.
“Olushka, what are you daydreaming about?” Igor walked into the kitchen in sweatpants and a stretched-out T-shirt, yawning after a daytime nap. “Guests will be here soon and you’re in here philosophizing.”
“I’m cooking,” she answered shortly.
“Ooh, borscht! Just don’t overdo it with the sour cream — remember last time Mom hinted it turned out a bit watery,” he stepped up to the stove and peered into the pot. “Though why am I even saying this. My wife and cooking are like a ballerina and a weightlifter. Both sports, sure, but somehow it doesn’t come together.”
Olga clenched her teeth. Here we go. And the guests hadn’t even arrived yet.
“Igor, maybe today…”
“Maybe today what?” he was already rummaging in the fridge. “Today’s a celebration! Mom turns sixty-five. Everyone’s coming. It’ll be fun.”
Fun. Yes, it was always fun for him.
By six in the evening the apartment was full of voices. Igor’s mother, Valentina Petrovna, arrived first — with her usual hairstyle and a stern look. Then came his sister Sveta with her husband Yury and their two kids. After them his brother Pavel with his wife Marina. And, of course, Uncle Slava and Aunt Nina — veterans of every family feast.
Olga darted between the kitchen and the living room, carrying plates, topping things up, clearing away. Igor, meanwhile, sat at the head of the table, had already poured everyone their first shot, and started entertaining the crowd.
“Alright, people, a toast to the birthday girl!” he raised his glass. “Mom, you’re like a good wine — you only get better with age. Though unlike wine, you get sourer,” he winked, and everyone laughed.
Even Valentina Petrovna smiled, shaking her head slightly.
“You’re shameless.”
“What? I’m telling the truth!” Igor downed his shot. “Alright, eat up!”
Olga brought in the salads. Igor immediately grabbed her by the hand.
“Look how hardworking my wife is. Spent the whole day in the kitchen. True, the result is so-so, but at least she put her heart into it!” he laughed loudly, and the others joined in.
“Igor, come on, everything is very tasty,” Marina, Pavel’s wife, said gently.
“Marin, you’re just kind,” Igor waved her off. “We know the truth, me and Olya. She’s a master of simple dishes. Borscht, dumplings, pasta with sausage. Fine dining — that’s not us.”
Olga set down the last plate and stepped away to the window, pretending to adjust the curtain. Inside, everything tightened into a hard knot. Breathe. Just breathe.
The feast heated up. Toasts followed one after another. Igor was on a roll — cracking jokes, telling stories, mimicking acquaintances. The relatives were howling with laughter. He knew how to hook each person, how to get a smile. He was a virtuoso.
“Remember last year when Sveta and Yura went to Cyprus and then spent a month telling us how beautiful it was?” Igor launched into another story. “And Olya and I went to Sochi. We get there, I say, ‘Olush, look — the sea!’ And she goes, ‘I’ve seen it already, all seas are the same.’ Romance!”
“Igor, stop it,” Sveta said quietly, though the smile never left her face.
“Come on, what’s the big deal,” he brushed it off. “I love my wife just the way she is. Cold and practical. Like a Swiss watch. Works perfectly, just don’t expect surprises.”
Laughter. Again, laughter.
Olga sat on the edge of the sofa in the living room, gripping a wineglass. She barely drank, but today she took a few sips. She needed something to drown the rising rage.
“And Pavel’s a good one,” Igor went on, turning to his brother. “Quiet, modest. Though so modest his wife runs the show. Marina, confess — did you allow him to come today?”
Pavel smiled awkwardly.
“Oh, come on.”
“No ‘come on’! I can see who wears the pants in your family. And it’s definitely not you, bro.”
Everyone laughed again. Marina blushed, but she was smiling too. No one was offended. No one except Olga.
She looked at her husband and didn’t recognize him. That mocking mouth, those eyes sparkling with азарт, that confidence that he could say anything and get away with it. When did it start? Or had he always been like this, and she just didn’t notice?
No, she noticed. Of course she did. She just kept quiet. Clenched her teeth and stayed silent. Because “he doesn’t mean it,” “he’s just joking,” “don’t be so serious.” How many times had she heard that from his family? How many times had he himself told her, “Olushka, you have no sense of humor at all. Relax.”
And then there were their evenings alone, after the guests left. That’s when Igor allowed himself different jokes. About his relatives.
“Did you see Mom’s new haircut?” he would cackle, undressing for bed. “She looks like a poodle after grooming. Of course I told her it suits her. But did you see her face? She knows herself it’s a disaster.”
Or: “Sveta gained weight again. I think by forty she’ll weigh a hundred kilos.”
Or: “Pasha is a total rag. Marina twists him around however she wants. I wonder if he’s ever made a decision in his life.”
Or: “Uncle Slava is such a bore. Every time he tells the same stories about work. I already know by heart who said what to whom. We could act his stories out with him by roles.”
Olga listened and stayed quiet. What could she say? It was his family. His right to think whatever he wanted. Let him vent at home — and be sweet and charming around them.
But now, sitting on the edge of the sofa and looking at the laughing faces of relatives who didn’t know the truth, Olga suddenly realized: she was an accomplice. She kept silent and by doing so allowed him to humiliate both her and them. She had become his secret storage unit — the place where he dumped all his anger and mockery so that afterward he could go out to people pure and innocent.
“And remember, Olya, last week when you couldn’t open that jar of pickles?” Igor turned to her again. “You fought with it for half an hour. I come in, open it in three seconds. Hard to open it if you twist the wrong way.”
“Uh-huh,” Olga answered quietly.
“What do you mean ‘uh-huh’? Tell people how it was. You even got offended that I didn’t help you right away!” he shook her shoulders playfully. “My wife can get offended over nothing like nobody else. That’s her talent.”
Valentina Petrovna cut in:
“Igor, enough already. Let the girl sit in peace.”
“Mom, I’m not being mean! Olya knows I love her. Right, Olush?”
Olga lifted her eyes and met her husband’s gaze. In his eyes there was smugness, certainty in his own righteousness. He didn’t even understand what he was doing. To him it was a game, a way to entertain the crowd. And the fact the crowd was laughing at his wife — well, so what, she wasn’t offended. He loved her, after all.
Loved her.
She set her glass on the table and slowly stood up. All eyes turned to her.
“Igor,” her voice sounded surprisingly calm. “Now, my dear, let me tell your relatives what you call them.”
Silence fell. Igor blinked, not immediately understanding what she meant.
“What?”
“I said: let me tell your relatives what you call them. You’ve got nicknames for everyone. Such sweet, homey ones. Why not share?”
Igor’s face changed. The smile slid off, replaced by wariness.
“Olya, what are you talking about?”
“About the truth,” she turned to the table. “Valentina Petrovna, do you know what Igor calls you?”
Her mother-in-law frowned.
“Olechka, what is going on?”
“He calls you the Harpy. Or Cerberus. Depends on his mood. Says you’re always unhappy with everything and have been nagging him since childhood. And he also laughs at your hair. He said you look like a poodle after a bad haircut.”
Valentina Petrovna went pale. Her mouth fell open, but no words came.
“Sveta,” Olga turned to her sister-in-law. “He calls you ‘Little Ball.’ Because, in his words, you’ve ‘puffed up like a beach ball’ and you’ll ‘burst any day now.’ After every visit he tells me he doesn’t understand how Yura can live with you.”
Sveta jumped up from the table, her face turning dark red.
“That’s not true!”
“It is true,” Olga spoke evenly, without emotion, as if reading from a page. “Pasha, to him you’re a Rag. Or a Henpecked Husband. He thinks you’re weak-willed and Marina controls you. He says you’re not a man.”
Pavel slowly set his fork down.
“Yura,” Olga continued, looking at Sveta’s husband. “To him you’re a Doormat. Because you put up with a ‘fat wife’ and ‘kids who are always whining.’”
“Enough!” Igor shouted, jumping up. “Olya, shut up right now!”
“No,” she looked at him. “I won’t. Uncle Slava, you’re a Bore. Every time you leave, Igor imitates your voice and retells your stories, yawning exaggeratedly. Says you’re stuck in the last century.”
Uncle Slava, an older man with gray mustache, went crimson and breathed heavily.
“Aunt Nina — he calls you a Cuckoo. Because of your voice and the way you laugh. Says you ‘chatter like a crazy person.’”
Aunt Nina sobbed and covered her face with her hands.
“Stop! Stop, I said!” Igor came around the table and grabbed Olga by the shoulders. “What are you doing?! Have you lost your mind?!”
“No,” she calmly freed herself. “I’m just tired. Tired of being your target. Tired of listening to you humiliate me in front of people and then humiliate them at home. Tired of keeping quiet.”
“It’s all lies!” his voice broke into a scream. “She’s lying! She made it up!”
“Lies?” Olga smirked. “Fine. Then look them in the eye and say you’ve never called your mother a Harpy. That you’ve never laughed at Sveta’s weight. That you’ve never said Pasha is a rag. Go on. Look.”
Igor’s eyes darted from one face to another. Everyone was staring at him, waiting for an answer. But he stayed silent.
Valentina Petrovna slowly rose from the table. Her face had turned to stone.
“Is it true?” she asked quietly. “Do you really talk about us like that?”
“Mom, I…”
“Answer!”
“I don’t… It’s just… Olya misunderstood, I didn’t mean it…”
“Didn’t mean it,” Olga repeated his words. “Like your jokes about me? You didn’t mean those either?”
Sveta grabbed her bag and took the children by the hands.
“Yura, we’re leaving. Right now.”
“Sveta, wait…”
“Don’t you dare talk to me!”
Pavel stood too, helping Marina up. His face was expressionless, but his hands were trembling.
“Let’s go,” he said shortly to his wife.
One by one the relatives began to gather their things. Uncle Slava and Aunt Nina left first, without even saying goodbye. Sveta with Yura and the kids followed. Pavel and Marina lingered at the doorway.
“You were always like this,” Pavel said, looking at his brother. “Always loved to mock people, put someone lower than yourself. I thought you’d grow up. But no.”
The door slammed shut.
Valentina Petrovna stood in the entryway, pulling on her coat. Igor came up to her.
“Mom, I’m sorry. I didn’t want…”
“I don’t care whether you wanted to or not,” she looked at him coldly. “You betrayed all of us. You laughed behind our backs. You used our love.”
“It’s all Olga! She turned you against me!”
“Olga?” his mother gave a bitter little laugh. “Olga told the truth. That’s your problem — you can’t stand the truth about yourself.”
She left without looking back.
Igor stood at the door, staring into emptiness. Then he slowly turned to Olga. On his face were anger, bewilderment, fear all at once.
“Why did you do that?”
“And why did you do it all these years?”
“I was joking! Just joking!”
“Jokes should be funny for everyone,” Olga began collecting dirty plates from the table. “Not only for the one who’s joking.”
“They all loved my jokes!”
“No,” she stopped with a stack of plates in her hands. “They put up with them. Like I did. Because that’s how you’re built — if someone doesn’t laugh at your jokes, it means they have no sense of humor. You never considered that the problem could be you.”
“You destroyed my family!”
“You destroyed it yourself,” Olga carried the plates to the kitchen. “A long time ago. Today it just came out.”
He followed her.
“So what now? You think everything will fall into place? They’ll hate me!”
“Maybe.”
“And you don’t care?”
Olga set the plates in the sink and turned to him.
“Igor, for eight years no one cared about me in your family when you mocked me in front of them. Maybe it’s time you felt what that’s like.”
He went pale.
“You’re taking revenge on me.”
“No,” she shook her head. “I’m just tired of being your toy. Your clown. And your storage for dirty secrets.”
“I loved you.”
“No,” sadness sounded in her voice. “You loved yourself. I was just a spectator in your one-man theater. Like everyone else.”
Igor sank onto a chair. For the first time that evening he looked lost, defenseless. As if the script he’d lived by his whole life had suddenly ripped, and he didn’t know what to do next.
“What happens next?”
Olga poured herself water and took a sip. Her chest still burned — but not with rage anymore, with relief.
“Next I’m filing for divorce.”
“Because of one evening?”
“Because of eight years,” she corrected him. “This evening was just the last straw.”
“But we can fix everything! I’ll talk to them, explain…”
“What will you explain?” she looked at him. “That you don’t really think they’re idiots? That the nicknames were a joke? They won’t believe you. Because every joke has a grain of truth. And your jokes were a hundred percent truth.”
“And what about us?”
“There is no ‘us’ anymore,” Olga said simply. “If there ever was.”
That night they didn’t talk. Igor locked himself in the bedroom; Olga stayed in the living room. She sat by the window, looking out at the night city, and for the first time in years she felt something like peace.
In the morning Igor tried to start a conversation, but she stopped him.
“Don’t. Everything has already been said.”
A week later she filed the papers. Two weeks after that she moved in with a friend. The divorce process was quick — they hadn’t acquired much property, and there were no children. Igor didn’t resist. It was as if he broke after that evening, losing all his sparkle and self-confidence.
The relatives didn’t come back to him. Sveta and Pavel stopped answering his calls. Valentina Petrovna agreed to speak only after six months — and even then coldly, formally. The family fell apart like a house of cards.
Olga felt no triumph. Only exhaustion and a strange relief. She was free — from constant humiliation, from the need to smile through pain, from the role of silent accomplice.
A year later she ran into Igor by chance in a shopping mall. He had aged and looked somewhat unkempt. When he saw her, he tried to smile, but the smile came out pathetic.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” Olga replied.
“How are you?”
“Good. And you?”
“Well… I’m living.”
They fell silent. Then Igor asked:
“So you never forgave me?”
Olga thought. Had she forgiven him? Probably, yes. The anger was long gone. Only the understanding remained that they had been the wrong people for each other. He needed an audience that would admire him. She needed a partner who would respect her.
“I’m not angry at you,” she finally said. “But I don’t want to come back. And I never will.”
He nodded, as if he expected that answer.
“I’ve changed,” he said softly. “Really. I don’t joke like that anymore.”
“That’s good,” Olga answered sincerely. “Then that evening wasn’t for nothing.”
They said goodbye. Olga walked on without looking back. In her new life there was no room for the past. Ahead there was freedom — and she moved toward it with a steady step.
And Igor stayed standing in the middle of the mall, watching her go. He understood: it was the end. That evening destroyed not only his family. It destroyed the illusion that you can laugh at people without consequences, that you can hide contempt and anger behind jokes, that everyone will forgive you because “he didn’t mean it.”
He was wrong. And now he had to live with that knowledge.
And Olga walked down a sunlit street and smiled. Ahead was life — new, without mockery, without humiliation, without the need to pretend. A life where she could be herself. And it was the best thing that had happened to her in the last eight years