I never felt like I truly belonged in my mother-in-law’s house. Even at holiday dinners, Zoya Arkadyevna seated the relatives according to some hierarchy that only she seemed to understand. Her daughter Snezhana and her husband were always placed closer to her, one niece sat on the right, another on the left, while I usually ended up in the farthest corner. Of course, supposedly no one did it on purpose. Somehow, it just happened that way every single time.
I didn’t really have any reason to be offended, or so it seemed. My mother worked as a seamstress, my father was a mechanic, and I myself worked at an instrument factory.
My husband’s family was completely different—educated, respected people through and through. Zoya Arkadyevna had once been a vice principal at a prestigious school, my father-in-law was considered a well-known engineer, and Snezhana, who had once dreamed of becoming a ballerina, had married the head of a government department. That was the kind of circle they moved in.
My mother-in-law and I had never really quarreled. And what kind of quarrel could there have been? To have a conflict with someone, you first have to consider that person your equal. To Zoya Arkadyevna, I was so insignificant that it was easier simply not to notice me at all. And that was usually exactly what she did.
Soon, a major family event was approaching—my mother-in-law’s milestone birthday. My husband, Fyodor, was the one who told me about it.
Snezhana had taken charge of organizing everything.
They were planning a large celebration right in Zoya Arkadyevna’s house. My mother-in-law disliked restaurants and firmly refused to celebrate family occasions in them.
The day before the celebration, I went to her house, deciding to help with the final preparations.
I brought two heavy bags with me. At home, I had prepared several salads in advance and baked a large batch of pies. I figured that at a big celebration, extra food certainly wouldn’t hurt.
Zoya Arkadyevna looked inside the bags, saw the containers, and grimaced in displeasure.
“And what is all this?” she asked, nodding toward them.
“Salads,” I replied calmly.
“Why?” My mother-in-law frowned again. “A professional cook is coming tomorrow morning. She’ll bring the groceries herself and prepare everything. We don’t need this… amateur effort of yours.”
“All right. Then I’ll just put everything in the refrigerator,” I said with a shrug.
“Fine, put it away,” Zoya Arkadyevna allowed condescendingly.
I arranged the containers and bags on the refrigerator shelves, and a few minutes later I heard Snezhana’s voice from the next room. She was talking to someone on the phone and clearly sounded nervous.
“What do you mean? How could that happen? We have…” There was a brief pause. “But at least she wasn’t seriously hurt, was she?”
Another pause.
“All right. We’ll think of something.”
At the time, I didn’t understand what she was talking about, and I didn’t ask. Besides, Snezhana probably wouldn’t have shared her concerns with me anyway. After all, in her view, we were on very different levels.
Soon afterward, I said goodbye to everyone and went home.
That evening, Fyodor told me that the cook his mother and sister had been relying on had been involved in a road accident.
“Oh…” was all I managed to say.
“Exactly. Oh…” my husband sighed heavily.
“Does your mother know yet?”
“Not yet.”
Then I remembered Snezhana’s worried voice and the things she had said on the phone: “What do you mean? How could that happen? But at least she wasn’t seriously hurt, was she?”
Now everything made sense.
“And when are you planning to tell Zoya Arkadyevna?” I asked.
“I don’t even know… Maybe never,” Fyodor muttered awkwardly.
“Then who’s going to feed the guests?”
My husband gave me a meaningful look.
“That’s the whole problem,” he said with a humorless smile. “There’s no one to cook. Snezhka is panicking… Now we’re trying to figure out how to get out of this mess.”
I merely shrugged. After all, I hadn’t been in charge of organizing the birthday celebration. Therefore, I wasn’t going to be responsible for what had happened.
For the rest of the evening, Fyodor kept calling people. Then people began calling him. After every conversation, his expression became gloomier.
“Why not just order prepared food?” I suggested.
“Mom won’t eat delivery food. To her, even suggesting it would be almost a personal insult,” Fyodor replied irritably.
“Oh yes, of course. Not the right level,” I remarked.
My husband gave me a suspicious sideways glance, while I put on my most innocent expression.
I already had a fairly good idea of what awaited us the next day. A genuine catastrophe on a local scale. And although I’m not usually the type to gloat, I really wanted to see the faces of people who were so accustomed to talking about “status” and “level.”
As it turned out, I got exactly that opportunity.
When Fyodor and I arrived at my mother-in-law’s house the next day, one of the relatives immediately pulled us aside and whispered about the emergency. The cook was in the hospital, no replacement had been found, the food wasn’t prepared, the table was empty, and the guests were due to arrive in just a few hours.
The birthday woman herself was sitting in an armchair, and I had never seen Zoya Arkadyevna like that before.
She was pale, her fingers were visibly trembling, and her expression made it seem as though something truly terrible had happened. Though to my mother-in-law, a ruined birthday celebration probably really did count as a disaster of enormous proportions.
Snezhana also looked completely lost. Of course, what had happened wasn’t her fault, but her mother kept shooting irritated glances in her direction.
Finally, Zoya Arkadyevna couldn’t hold back anymore.
“This is just like you. You never have a backup plan. And then you end up in a situation like this.”
Snezhana looked sharply at her mother but said nothing.
And that was probably the right decision. Arguing with Zoya Arkadyevna was usually pointless and only made things worse.
One of the nieces cautiously suggested ordering prepared dishes for delivery. The relatives immediately began objecting. Fyodor and I exchanged glances, and he raised his eyebrows meaningfully, as if to remind me, See? I told you.
Someone suggested grilling shashlik, but that idea was quickly rejected as well. For that many guests, the meat still would have needed to be purchased and prepared in advance.
The second niece endlessly scrolled through something on her phone, trying to find a solution. Everyone else spoke anxiously among themselves. No one had any real idea what to do.
At one point, my mother-in-law looked at her son and asked irritably,
“And you, Fedya, why have you been sitting there silently all evening? At least suggest something.”
“Uh…” Fyodor began. “Well…”
Zoya Arkadyevna immediately waved her hand hopelessly, as if to say that obviously there was no point expecting any help from him.
After a short silence, she suddenly grumbled,
“Honestly… He had to go and marry a simpleton, just my luck. If he’d chosen a proper girl from our circle, she would probably have the right contacts and connections. One phone call, and the problem would be solved. But our daughter-in-law… from ordinary people… What can she possibly do?”
Fyodor said nothing.
And then, even though no one had asked for my opinion, I decided to speak up.
“I brought food the day before yesterday. Remember?”
“What food?” Zoya Arkadyevna asked with her usual dismissiveness. “Oh, those pickles and preserves of yours?”
“Yes.”
“And what? Are you suggesting we feed the guests that?”
“No one has come up with a better solution so far,” I replied calmly with a shrug.
My mother-in-law pointedly turned away.
Unexpectedly, Snezhana supported me.
“Actually… she did bring some food yesterday…”
“Really?” one of the men brightened. “Then what are we sitting around for? There’s our solution!”
The other relatives immediately joined in.
“Of course, at least it’s something…”
“She’s right, we do have a way out…”
“Aunt Zoya, it’s up to you.”
My mother-in-law pursed her lips unhappily.
“Do whatever you want already. The main thing is that the guests don’t sit there hungry.”
After that, she sulked and turned away.
Snezhana, both nieces, and I went into the kitchen. We opened the refrigerator and took out my containers of salads and bags of pies.
Snezhana looked over everything.
“Well… it’s not much, of course,” she admitted. “But it’s better than nothing.”
Before long, there was food on the table. Pies filled with liver, cabbage, and apples, several salads, sliced cold cuts… For a large birthday celebration, it really was modest. But at least the table no longer looked empty.
Gradually, the invited guests began arriving. Fortunately, many of them didn’t come empty-handed. Someone brought a homemade appetizer, someone else brought pastries, and others brought dishes they had prepared themselves. After all, it was an important occasion—the birthday woman was turning eighty.
Eventually, everyone sat down at the table and began eating. Some guests praised the pies, while others asked for more salad. Zoya Arkadyevna remained silent most of the time.
One of the nieces, who occupied her usual place of honor to my mother-in-law’s right, suddenly looked at me approvingly and said,
“You know, Tomka really came through!”
“Yeah,” agreed the second niece from the left. “Whatever else you can say, she really saved us today.”
“And it’s delicious too!” one of the uncles added loudly. “Well, she may be a simpleton, but she can cook so well you’ll lick your fingers clean!”
“Exactly!” someone at the opposite end of the table agreed.
Then, unexpectedly, Zoya Arkadyevna spoke.
Though saying she made a speech would be a huge exaggeration. My mother-in-law said only two words.
“Thank you, Toma.”
Just two.
But coming from her, those words meant a great deal.
After that birthday, our family life did not change dramatically. To Zoya Arkadyevna, I was still a simple woman from outside their usual social circle.
But somehow, at family dinners, I no longer ended up in the farthest corner of the table. Now my mother-in-law seated me much closer to herself.
And the female relatives unexpectedly started calling me from time to time. Sometimes they asked how I made a certain salad; other times they wanted the recipe for my pies.
As for Fyodor and me, we never discussed that memorable birthday again.