December 23 began at six in the morning with Marina burning her finger on a baking tray. She yanked her hand back, muttered a curse under her breath, and held her index finger under cold water. Inside the oven, the final—third—batch of cookies for the school fair was finishing. The night before, her youngest, Mishka, had happily announced, “All the parents are bringing something tasty,” and looked at her with those eyes that made it impossible to refuse.
Marina checked the time. 6:20. Igor was still asleep, sprawled across the entire double bed. Their older son, Kirill, was asleep too—he was on winter break. Mishka was asleep. Everyone was asleep except her.
She pulled out the last tray, carefully moved the little stars and Christmas trees onto a plate, and covered them with foil. Then she opened the refrigerator and stared at the shelves packed with bags, containers, and wrapped bundles. There was “Mimosa” salad for Igor’s office party—tonight. Canapés for her own workplace event—tomorrow afternoon. Chopped vegetables for tomorrow’s family dinner. Three kilos of meat for cutlets she’d promised her mother-in-law for the day after…
“Mom, are there going to be pies?” Mishka appeared in the kitchen doorway, tousled and half-asleep.
“What pies?” Marina felt something tighten in her chest.
“Well… Dima’s mom said she’s baking cabbage pies. Aren’t you going to…?”
“Mish, I baked cookies. Three trays of cookies. At six in the morning.”
“But everyone brings pies and cakes…” the boy’s voice turned pleading.
Marina closed her eyes and counted to ten.
“Fine. There will be pies. I’ll make them by lunchtime.”
Mishka’s face brightened and he dashed off. Marina stayed standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the mountain of dishes in the sink, the shopping lists held to the fridge by magnets, the calendar where every day until New Year’s was scheduled minute by minute: Igor’s office party, her office party, the school fair, Igor’s parents arriving, her mother arriving, deep cleaning, grocery runs, cooking Olivier salad, herring under a fur coat, aspic, roast pork…
Her phone buzzed. A message from Svetka, her friend since university:
“Marish, are you sure you won’t change your mind? Mountains, snow, mulled wine by the fireplace! No cooking, no cleaning, no Olivier salad! Tickets are still available—flight on the 31st at lunchtime.”
Marina gave a small, tired smile and put the phone away. For three years in a row, Svetka had invited her to spend New Year’s somewhere—Sheregesh, Krasnaya Polyana. And every time Marina said no. Because family. Because traditions. Because “how will we manage without you—you do all the cooking.”
She started on the pies.
By the evening of December 23, Marina had managed to: bake three dozen pies, take Mishka and the cookies to the fair, pick Mishka up afterward, hit three different stores for groceries (she found decent salmon and good sour cream only in the second one, and had to go to a third for the specific mayonnaise her mother-in-law liked), iron Igor’s shirt for his office party, make the “Mimosa” salad, and pack it into a nice container.
Igor got home at eleven at night—cheerful, tipsy, wearing a smeared, satisfied grin.
“Marish, you’re a star!” he kissed her cheek. He smelled of whiskey and the expensive perfume of the secretary in his department. “They grabbed your salad in seconds! The boss said I’ve got the most hardworking, domestic wife!”
“Wonderful,” Marina replied, washing the pot where beets were boiling for herring-under-a-fur-coat.
“Hey, you remember my parents are coming tomorrow?” Igor dropped into a chair. “Mom asked about that meat… you know, the one she likes…”
“Roast pork,” Marina said. “I remember.”
“Perfect! You’re the best.” He patted her shoulder like a dog that had obeyed a command. “I’m going to bed.”
Marina kept scrubbing the pot even though it was already clean. Then she set the sponge down, dried her hands, and picked up her phone.
“Svetka, how much are the tickets?”
The reply came thirty seconds later: “We reserved for the group. There’s still one spot open. Decide fast!”
Marina looked at her bank card. She had about fifty thousand of her own—saved from her salary over three months. For emergencies. For something for herself, someday. And she still had credit cards.
“Not sure yet. Send me the hotel name.”
December 24, Marina was on her feet from eight in the morning until midnight. She cooked roast pork for her mother-in-law, made canapés for her own office party, simmered aspic (because “without aspic it isn’t New Year,” her mother said on the phone), chopped salads, marinated meat for shashlik (Kirill wanted to celebrate at a friend’s dacha and pleaded, “Mom, please make your signature marinade”).
At the office party, people praised her:
“Marina, you’re a wizard! These canapés are unreal!”
“Marin, can you share the recipe?”
“How do you manage everything—work, kids, the house, and still make all this?”
Marina smiled, nodded, handed out recipes—while inside, something kept heating up, slow and steady, like water reaching the boil.
That evening, when she came home and saw the pile of dishes (Igor and the boys had “snacked”—emptied half the fridge and cleaned up nothing), something snapped.
She silently washed everything, wiped the counters, and looked into the fridge. Tomorrow’s list was long: boil tongue for aspic, make Olivier, assemble herring under a fur coat, slice the meat platter, bake a pie…
“Svetka, can we still buy the tickets?”
“Yes! Still possible. Marish, are you serious???”
Marina looked at the calendar. December 31 was the day after tomorrow. Igor’s parents were arriving tomorrow evening. Her mother too. Igor’s sister was also supposed to stop by with her husband and kids. Around ten people at the table. Everyone would expect salads, hot dishes, appetizers. Everyone would sit in a spotless apartment at a fully set table—and no one would think about the fact that she had done all of it. Alone. Because “Marish is so good at this,” “Marish has golden hands,” “Marish will handle it.”
“I’m serious. Where do I send the money?”
December 25. Marina got up at seven and started cooking. Not because she’d changed her mind—because she still couldn’t stop. Her hands moved automatically: slicing, boiling, frying. She made Olivier—but only one bowl instead of the usual three. She boiled eggs for the herring salad but didn’t assemble it.
At three in the afternoon, Igor’s parents arrived. Galina Petrovna, his mother, went straight to the kitchen.
“Marinochka, you’re such a good girl! I knew I could count on you.” She peered into the pots. “Where’s the roast pork?”
“In the fridge,” Marina said, sitting at the table with a cup of coffee.
“And the pie? You remember I can’t live without your pie.”
“I didn’t get to it,” Marina said calmly.
“You didn’t get to it?” Her mother-in-law turned to her. “But Igor said you’ve been cooking all week.”
“I’ve been cooking all week for everyone. For the school fair, for both office parties, for everyone. The pie didn’t happen.”
“Well, Marinochka…” Galina Petrovna pursed her lips. “You’re the hostess. It’s your duty.”
At that moment Marina’s mother walked in. Tamara Vasilievna was carrying a huge bag of groceries.
“Marishenka, I came to help!” she kissed her daughter. “We’ll finish together—it’s too much for one person.”
“Mom, no.”
“What do you mean, no? Look how much there is! I’ll assemble the herring under a fur coat, you handle the hot dishes.”
“Mom, I said no.”
“What’s gotten into you?” Tamara Vasilievna studied her. “You’re acting strange.”
“I’m fine. I’m just tired.”
“Tired?” Igor cut in from the living room, where he’d been watching TV. “Tired from what? You’re at home!”
Marina slowly set her cup down. She looked at her husband, her mother-in-law, her mother. Then she stood up and walked into the bedroom. She pulled a suitcase out from under the bed.
“Marina, where are you going?” Igor froze in the doorway.
“I’m packing.”
“Packing? For what? Where?”
“To a ski resort. Flight is the day after tomorrow at lunchtime.”
“Are you out of your mind?!” Igor stormed in and shut the door. “A resort? We have guests! New Year’s!”
“You have guests. You have New Year’s,” Marina said, folding warm clothes into her suitcase. “I have unpaid servitude.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the fact that I’ve cooked all week, Igor. For your office party, for mine, for Mishka’s school, for your parents, for my mom. Do you even remember the last time I slept eight hours? And you?”
“Well, I work! I earn money!”
“And I work!” Marina spun toward him. “I go to work every day too! But somehow everything else—cooking, cleaning, the kids, laundry, ironing—automatically becomes my job. Why can’t you bake pies for your son? Why can’t you make a salad for your own office party? Why can’t you cook roast pork for your own mother?”
“Because I don’t know how!” Igor threw his hands up.
“And you don’t want to learn.” Marina zipped the suitcase shut. “Great. Then I’m going. You’ll celebrate without me.”
“You can’t do this!” Igor’s voice rose. “You’re a mother! A wife! You have responsibilities!”
“And you don’t?” Marina shot back. “You’re a father. A husband. Where are your responsibilities?”
They stood facing each other. Igor opened his mouth, closed it again—no words.
“I’ll be back on January 3,” Marina said evenly. “There’s food in the fridge. Olivier is in a bowl. You’ll do the rest yourselves.”
She walked out of the bedroom. In the hallway everyone was gathered: her mother-in-law with bulging eyes, her mother looking lost, Kirill and Mishka peeking out of their rooms.
“Marinochka, you can’t leave!” Galina Petrovna blocked her path. “What will people say?”
“Let them talk.” Marina put on her coat.
“Sweetheart,” her mother grabbed her hand, “you know this is wrong. Family is—”
“Family is when everyone helps each other, Mom,” Marina said. “Not when one person drags everything alone. I’m sorry.”
She moved to the door. Igor lunged after her.
“Marina, don’t make me look like an idiot in front of my parents!”
“You did that yourself,” she said, gripping the handle.
“You’ll regret this!” Igor’s face was red with rage. “Everyone will think you—”
“I’m celebrating somewhere else,” Marina said—and slammed the door in her husband’s face, and in the faces of the stunned guests.
At the airport, she felt strange. Lighter—her suitcase rolled along easily; in her bag were only documents, her phone, and a book. No containers of salads. No grocery bags. No lists and schedules.
But she was also scared.
The calls started within an hour. First Igor—angry, demanding. Then her mother—hurt and reproachful. Then her mother-in-law—outraged and lecturing. Then Igor again, now sounding rattled: “What do I do with this tongue? And how do you even cook aspic?”
Marina declined every call and sent one message in the family chat:
“Recipes are online. You’ll manage.”
Svetka met her at Krasnaya Polyana airport with champagne in her hand.
“I can’t believe it! Marina Terekhina dropped everything and flew out!”
“I didn’t drop everything,” Marina said. “I took a vacation—from all of it.”
“And good for you!” Svetka hugged her. “Come on. The mountains are waiting!”
New Year’s Eve in the mountains was nothing like her usual holiday. No cooking. Marina slept until ten—and that alone felt unreal: nobody woke her up, nobody asked for breakfast, nobody called to ask, “Where are the socks?” She drank coffee in the room, staring at snowy peaks. Then she and Svetka went skiing.
Marina hadn’t skied in fifteen years. And it turned out she hadn’t forgotten much at all. Her body remembered: balance, turns, stopping. She flew down the slope and the wind stripped everything off her—fatigue, resentment, anger, guilt. When they came back to the hotel, Marina laughed for the first time in a week—just because she could.
Her phone wouldn’t stop. Igor texted every hour: “The kids are asking where you are,” “Mom is crying,” “This is childish,” “When will you grow up?” “You’re destroying the family.”
Marina read the messages and realized: before, she would have burst into tears, rushed to pack, run back. Now she only felt fury. Destroying the family? Her—who had served that family for twenty years? Who had forgotten herself, her wishes, her life?
She typed:
“Igor, I’m tired of being your unpaid household staff. You, your mother, my mother, even the kids—everyone got used to me owing you everything. Cooking, cleaning, laundry, ironing, remembering everyone’s needs, taking care of everyone. And who takes care of me? Who asks if I’m tired? If I even want that Olivier? If I like living this way? No one. I’ll be back January 3. And we’re going to have a serious talk about what happens next.”
She sent it. Then she turned her phone off.
They celebrated New Year’s at the hotel restaurant. About twenty guests—strangers to each other, all just there to rest. Champagne, laughter, live music. At midnight everyone went outside, released lanterns, watched fireworks above the mountains. Marina stood with her head tilted back and for the first time in years didn’t think about whether she needed to run to the kitchen, whether the hot dish was ready, whether the herring salad was chilling enough, whether the pie was burning.
“Happy New Year, friend,” Svetka hugged her. “You did the right thing.”
“I’m not sure,” Marina admitted.
“You gave them a chance to understand what it’s like to do everything themselves. That matters.”
Marina nodded. Somewhere back in Moscow, her husband, children, and relatives were sitting at a table. She didn’t know whether they managed a holiday meal. She didn’t know if they were still angry or if something had finally clicked. And, strangely, she didn’t care. Because for the first time in twenty years of New Year’s holidays, she wasn’t on her feet fourteen hours a day. She wasn’t smiling through exhaustion. She wasn’t counting who needed another spoonful of salad and who hadn’t tried the aspic.
She was simply there. In the mountains. Under a starry sky. Free.
On January 3, when she opened the apartment door, she was met by silence—unfamiliar, cautious silence. The entryway was spotless. Her slippers were neatly placed by the coat rack.
She walked into the kitchen and stopped.
On the table stood a bouquet—big, awkward, a mix of roses and chrysanthemums. Beside it, a note: “Sorry. We understood.”
The refrigerator was clean. The dishes were washed. The stove had not a drop of grease. Not a single plate in the sink.
Igor stepped out of the room. He looked… smaller somehow. Or just shaken.
“Hi,” he said quietly.
“Hi.”
“I… We…” He ran a hand through his hair. “You were right.”
Marina said nothing.
“We completely failed,” Igor admitted. “Like, totally. Mom tried to make herring under a fur coat—it turned into mush. I tried frying the meat—I burned it. Your mom made salad and forgot the salt. Kirill… well, Kirill said he finally understands why you lose it. And Mishka… Mishka cried.”
“Mishka?” Marina’s chest tightened.
“He said the holiday was wrong without you. Because you always made it… magical. And we didn’t even notice what it cost you.” Igor stepped closer. “Marina, I’m an idiot. I got used to it—used to you doing everything, remembering everything. And I stopped seeing it as work. I started taking it for granted.”
“Not only you,” Marina said, sinking into a chair. “Mom, your mom, the kids… everyone got used to it.”
“Yeah.” Igor sat across from her. “I told my mother she no longer gets to demand you cook her favorite dishes. If she wants roast pork, she can do it herself—or ask me. I… I’ll learn.”
“Igor…”
“Wait. I’m not done.” He took her hand. “Kirill and I made a schedule. Cleaning, cooking, shopping—we split it among the four of us. Even Mishka said he can help with dishes. And I realized… God, Marishka, I realized you physically can’t do all of it. And I’m nothing but a fool who used you for twenty years.”
Marina felt her throat tighten. She’d thought she would be angry. That she’d yell, demand, accuse. Instead, she wanted to cry.
“I don’t want to be a servant,” she said softly. “I want to be a person. A wife, a mom—yes. But a person who’s allowed to be tired. Allowed to say ‘I can’t.’ Allowed to rest.”
“You have every right,” Igor said, squeezing her hand. “And I… we all… will respect that. I promise.”
Mishka appeared in the doorway—sleepy, rumpled. He saw his mother and rushed into her arms.
“Mom! You’re back!”
“I’m back, sweetheart.”
“Are you not going away again?”
Marina looked at Igor, then at her son.
“I will,” she said. “Absolutely. Maybe next time not alone—maybe with you. We’ll go отдыхать together, and nobody will cook fourteen hours a day.”
“And we can ski?”
“And we can ski.”
Mishka lit up. He turned to his father.
“Dad, did you hear? We’re going skiing!”
“I heard, son,” Igor smiled. “We’ll learn as a family.”
Marina looked at them—her husband, her child, the clean kitchen, the ridiculous bouquet—and understood something had changed. Maybe not forever. Maybe they would slip back into old habits again. But now she knew: she could leave. She could say “no.” She could put herself first—and that wasn’t selfishness. It was her right.
“So,” she said, standing, “who’s on kitchen duty today?”
“Me!” Igor jumped up. “I’m making breakfast. Or… attempting to. I won’t mess up fried eggs.”
“We’ll see,” Marina smiled.
And for the first time in days, she sat at the table not to cook—but simply to be. To drink coffee. To look out the window. To listen to her husband clattering around in the kitchen, trying to figure out a frying pan.
It wasn’t the holiday she was used to. Not perfect. Not her standing at the stove with a mountain of salads and appetizers.
But strangely, it was much better.
Because for the first time in twenty years, she welcomed the New Year not as hired help—
but as a person.