In Lyudmila’s family, people never spoke loudly—it was considered bad form. Her father, Evgeny Borisovich, a longtime professor of strength of materials, could make even the most shameless truant turn red with a single look over his glasses. Her mother, Elena Vladimirovna, had headed a laboratory all her life and was used to sterile cleanliness—at home and in one’s actions.
Lyudmila resembled them. At thirty-two she was a senior attorney at a large real-estate agency. Behind her back, coworkers called her the “Snow Queen” for the icy composure she kept during long, exhausting property-division trials. She was used to everything running on schedule: work, workouts, reading.
Until Viktor appeared.
He worked in the same business center, in the lending department—quick on his feet, permanently smiling, always knowing when to offer an arm or a supportive shoulder when Lyudmila left the office after ten at night. Six months later, Viktor started talking about marriage, but he had one condition.
“Lyuda, we need to visit my mom. You understand—Galina Petrovna is… a strong personality. Old school. But she’ll grow to love you, I’m sure. Just… try to be a little simpler, okay?”
For the introduction, Lyudmila chose a sheath dress the color of midnight and a single strand of pearls. She brought a handcrafted cake made with real cream and a bouquet of heavy, ivory roses. She wanted everything to be flawless.
Galina Petrovna met them at the doorway of a small two-room Khrushchev-era apartment. The air inside was thick and unpleasant: fried grease mixed with bleach.
“So you came,” she tossed out instead of hello, giving Lyudmila a quick once-over. “Put the flowers in a bucket—there’s one in the bathroom. And the cake… we don’t eat store-bought. It’s all preservatives, pure poison. You probably only eat at restaurants anyway, don’t you?”
Lyudmila smiled politely, pretending not to notice how Galina Petrovna touched the silk sleeve with open disgust, as if it were contaminated.
“Go on to the kitchen. Why are you standing there like statues?” the hostess ordered.
Something was sizzling on the stove, steam rising in a thick column. Galina Petrovna suddenly turned and shoved a greasy apron into Lyudmila’s hands.
“And where do you think you’re going dressed like that? To the stove—fry the cutlets, now!” her voice shot up into a shrill screech. “Look at her, the princess arrived. We don’t keep soft-handed ladies in this family. There are zrazy in the pan—don’t take your eyes off them. If they burn, Vitenka will be left hungry.”
Lyudmila went still. She looked at Viktor. He stood by the refrigerator, studying his shoes.
“Vitya?” she called quietly.
“Lyud, don’t start,” he grunted without lifting his head. “Mom’s just checking what kind of homemaker you are. Help her out—you won’t break.”
Slowly, Lyudmila removed her pearls, slipped them into her purse, and tied the apron over her expensive dress. The entire evening she fried, peeled onions, and washed dishes in ice-cold water. Galina Petrovna hovered behind her, narrating every move.
“More oil! Don’t be stingy with the pan! Look at how she holds a knife—city delicate, you can tell.”
When it was time to leave, her future mother-in-law gave a magnanimous nod.
“All right. You’re allowed to come again. We’ll turn you into a proper person yet.”
A week later came the return visit. Lyudmila’s parents invited the future in-laws to their dacha—“to get to know each other better over shashlik.”
Galina Petrovna arrived in a formal lurex outfit, hair piled high and drenched in hairspray. Viktor wore new designer jeans and spotless white sneakers.
Evgeny Borisovich met them at the gate. Instead of a professor’s jacket, he had on an old storm jacket, and in his hands was a heavy hammer.
“Oh, young folks!” he called out loudly. “Viktor, come in. Perfect timing—you showed up just when I need to fix up the bathhouse. Some logs have rotted through; I can’t manage alone.”
“Excuse me,” Galina Petrovna snapped to attention, “but my son came here to relax. He works at a bank—his work is intellectual.”
Evgeny Borisovich looked at her with that cold, “exam” gaze.
“And my daughter is a senior attorney. Yet a week ago she was in your kitchen, frying zrazy in a smock while Your Majesty stood there giving orders. Isn’t that right?”
A sharp silence hung in the air. Galina Petrovna opened her mouth, but no words came.
“Here, son-in-law,” Lyudmila’s father said, handing Viktor a painter’s coat smeared with whitewash and old paint. “Put it on over those fashionable pants. The walls in the anteroom need a coat of linseed oil. The smell is… special. But you’re not some fragile little miss, are you? You’ll cope.”
“Dad…” Lyudmila started, but her father only raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t interfere, daughter. We’re doing men’s work. Or is Vitya only brave when he’s sitting at the table?”
Viktor obediently took the coat. All day under the scorching sun, he sanded boards and painted the fence. The oily paint still seeped through, leaving permanent stains on his expensive jeans. Galina Petrovna rushed around the yard in agitation, but then ran into Elena Vladimirovna.
“Galina Petrovna, why are you standing around with nothing to do?” Lyudmila’s mother asked with a gentle smile. “Over there, behind the raspberries, the nettles have grown waist-high—they’re choking the cucumbers. Here are gloves, and here’s a scythe. Help out like family. After all, we’re bringing a homemaker into the family, not an opera guest.”
That evening, the moment she sat down in the taxi, Galina Petrovna erupted.
“They’re savages!” she shouted into the phone at her friend, not caring that the driver could hear. “Eleonora, you can’t imagine! They made my Vitenka work in that stench! Covered in paint, hands full of blisters! And that snake—her mother—sent me into nettles!”
“And what did Vitya do?” a shrill voice squeaked from the speaker.
“What did he do? He kept quiet like a fish! Said he’s never setting foot in that pit again. Rude, uncultured people! I told you she’s not a match for him. Let her find herself a man with a saw, not my prince!”
Lyudmila sat on the veranda watching the sun slowly sink behind the forest. Her phone lay on the table. A message from Viktor arrived: “Lyud, that was too much. My mom is in shock—her blood pressure shot up. If you don’t apologize to her for your father, there’s no point in continuing.”
Lyudmila didn’t reply. She blocked his number, feeling not hurt, but an endless, crystalline quiet inside.
She remembered how Viktor had stood silent in his mother’s kitchen while she humiliated Lyudmila with her “to the stove, quickly.” And she compared it to how fiercely he was now defending himself—over paint on his jeans.
“Dad,” she called as she stepped into the house. “Thanks for the bathhouse.”
Evgeny Borisovich, peacefully reading in an armchair, adjusted his glasses and smiled almost imperceptibly.
“Anytime, sweetheart. Strength of materials is an exact science. If a structure cracks under the first load, you can’t build a house on it. It’ll collapse.”
Lyudmila nodded and went to the kitchen. There, in the refrigerator, a cake was waiting for her—plain, ordinary, from the store.
And it was unbelievably good.