— Can you imagine, Verunya, this has to be something grand! Not just sitting around in a café. I’ve already found a country venue with a big veranda overlooking a lake. A pearl wedding, thirty years together—that’s a whole era! First, a light outdoor reception while the guests arrive. A saxophonist playing something unobtrusive, you know… stylish.
Roman sat across from her at the kitchen table, his eyes alight with excitement. He gestured as if conducting an invisible orchestra, painting pictures of the upcoming celebration in the air. Vera watched him in silence, her hands resting on her knees, the tea in the cup before her growing cold. She didn’t interrupt. She listened, and every enthusiastic word of his echoed in her head—dull and hollow.
— Then everyone moves into the banquet hall. We absolutely need a good host. Not some toastmaster with vulgar contests, a real master of ceremonies—cultured, with a sense of humor. So the older generation feels comfortable and the young people don’t get bored. And the cake! Three tiers, Vera! Mom adores chocolate, so the bottom tier will be “Prague,” and the top ones—something lighter, with berries. And fireworks at the end! Definitely! So everyone goes outside and gasps!
The word “celebration” hit her like an electric shock. In her mind she went back a week. Friday. Her birthday. The scene was very different. In the center of this same table there wasn’t a three-tier cake but a cardboard sarcophagus from a Four Cheese pizza. The grease stain spreading across the lid looked like an ugly map of an unknown continent. Next to it—two plastic bottles of soda. That was the whole banquet.
Roman had been sitting across from her then too, but he wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at his phone, his thumb sliding quickly over the screen, scrolling the news feed. He said, “Happy birthday, love,” without taking his eyes off the glowing rectangle. The sound of his voice was as background and insignificant as the hum of the refrigerator. He didn’t ask what she might like. He didn’t suggest going anywhere. He simply solved the problem of her birthday in the fastest and cheapest way.
That evening her parents called. A couple of friends called. And that was it. From his family—Irina Petrovna and Viktor Semyonovich—there wasn’t a call, not even a short message in a messenger app. Nothing. As if she didn’t exist. As if the day she was born was just another date on the calendar, not deserving even a formal mention. She hadn’t said anything to Roman then. She simply swallowed that icy emptiness swelling inside her and smiled when he finally tore himself away from his phone to ask if the pizza was good.
— So what do you think of the idea? — Roman’s voice yanked her out of her memories. He had finished his fervent monologue and now looked at her with a radiant, expectant face. Pure, childlike anticipation of delight and immediate agreement was written on it. — You’re my expert organizer, I can’t pull this off without you!
He said it as the highest compliment, an acknowledgment of her indispensability. But to her, the words sounded different. They sounded like a sentence. She lifted her eyes to him. All the warmth that usually lived in her gaze had vanished. Two cold, dark lakes stared back at him, their surface absolutely still.
Roman didn’t notice right away. He was still smiling, but his smile, colliding with her icy silence, faltered and then slowly slid off his face. The air in the room suddenly grew dense and heavy, as if not only the oxygen had been pumped out of it, but all outside sounds as well. Only the ticking of the wall clock remained, counting off the seconds to the inevitable explosion. He didn’t understand what was happening. He thought she was just tired after work. He didn’t yet realize that he had just cocked the trigger with his own hands.
— What’s with you? — Roman finally broke the silence. His voice sounded uncertain, as if he were feeling his way across a dark room. — Tired or something? You don’t like the idea? We can do it differently if you want. Book a restaurant in the city, no saxophonist…
He tried to steer her back into the usual groove, into their ordinary world where she was his helper, his support, his “organizing whiz.” He didn’t see the chasm that had opened between them. He saw only a small bump he needed to carefully guide her over.
— Vera, say something. It’s for Mom and Dad. They do so much for us. Mom’s been looking forward to this celebration; she’s been talking about it for six months. I thought we’d do it together… I thought you’d be happy.
His words were like pebbles thrown into a bottomless well. They fell without a sound, causing neither a splash nor a reply. Vera looked straight through him. Her calm was unearthly, unnatural. There was no meekness or fatigue in it. There was the hardness of freshly poured concrete already beginning to set.
Roman started to get irritated. Her silence was turning from puzzling to insulting. He moved closer; a metallic note crept into his voice.
— What kind of game is this? I’m talking to you. I’m pouring my heart out here, making plans, and you sit there like a statue. If you don’t like something, just say so!
Then she moved. But she didn’t look at him. The movement was smooth and deliberate. She took her phone from the table. Her thumb glided lightly over the screen to unlock it. Roman fell silent, thrown off by this unexpected maneuver. He was expecting tears, reproaches, shouting—anything but this.
He watched her fingers, spellbound. She opened her messenger. Tapped on the new group icon. In the group name field her fingers typed without a single pause: “Romanov Anniversary.” Official. Cold. Like the heading of a document.
Then she began adding participants. On Roman’s phone, which lay nearby, names began flashing across the screen. “Roma’s Mom.” “Roma’s Dad.” “Roma’s Sister (Lena).” He watched as she methodically added his entire family to this group, one by one. And him as well. As if she were assembling a team for a project she herself had no intention of joining.
When everyone was gathered, she took the next step. With one tap she made him an administrator. Then, in the message field, she typed a short, perfectly calibrated text. It was nauseatingly cheerful and upbeat. “Hi everyone! Kicking off preparations for our dear parents’ pearl anniversary!” She even added a party-hat emoji at the end.
Roman stared at her, mouth open. He still thought this was some strange, sophisticated joke. That any second she would laugh and say, “Okay, fine, let’s talk about the menu.”
But she didn’t laugh.
Finishing her digital ritual, she raised the same empty gaze to him. And right before his eyes her finger found “Leave group” in the chat settings. She tapped without the slightest hesitation. Confirm. Exit.
At that very second his phone vibrated. Once. Twice. Three times. Notifications lit up the screen. “Lena: Roma, what’s this? Where’s Vera?” “Roma’s Mom: Roman, what is this group? Why did Vera leave?” He sat staring at the screen where new messages were already popping up. The phone buzzed in his hand like an angry wasp trapped in a jar. And Vera calmly set her device aside, got up from the table, and went to wash her cooled cup. As if she had just taken out the trash.
The phone on the table kept vibrating. Short, angry jolts rattled the kitchen quiet. First there were messages in the chat; now the calls began. Roman looked at the screen—his sister’s photo—and declined the call. A second later the phone rang again. This time—“Mom.” That call he couldn’t ignore.
Meanwhile, Vera, with pointedly slow, almost ritual calm, washed the cup, rinsed it, and set it in the rack. The sound of water running from the tap was the only thing that cut through the phone’s insistent buzzing. She acted as if none of it concerned her in the least. As if that rabid device in her husband’s hand was someone else’s problem from another life.
— Yes, Mom, — Roman finally answered, turning toward the window. His voice was taut as a string.
He listened for a few seconds; his back turned to stone. Then he began speaking quickly and incoherently, shooting short, angry looks at Vera, who was now drying her hands on a towel.
— I don’t know what these tricks are… Yes, I created… She just left… I don’t understand anything myself…
Vera could see his reflection in the dark windowpane. She saw him run his hand through his hair, saw his shoulder tense. He looked like a schoolboy called to the principal’s office for someone else’s prank. All the responsibility he had so enthusiastically planned to dump on her now crashed down on him alone—compressed into a single phone call from his mother.
He ended the call and flung the phone onto the sofa in the living room. It thudded dully against the upholstery. Roman turned. His face was crimson.
— Happy now? Got what you wanted? — he hissed, moving toward her. — Now my mother won’t stop calling! My sister says I’m embarrassing her! You set me up in front of my whole family!
Vera turned to him slowly. She finished drying her hands and carefully hung the towel on its hook. She looked him straight in the eyes, and the emptiness in her gaze was gone. In its place burned a cold, fierce fire.
— I set you up? — she repeated. Her voice was quiet, but steel rang in it. — I’m the one who embarrassed you?
And then the dam burst. The calm fell away like a thin porcelain mask, revealing a living, furious face beneath.
— So my birthday doesn’t matter to you, you just ordered a pizza, and now you’re asking me to organize a huge celebration for your parents’ anniversary? Not a chance! You handle it yourself!
She was almost shouting, flinging the words in his face like slaps.
— Did they congratulate me? Your parents, your sister? Did anyone send a message? A single damn word? To them I’m furniture! A free add-on to you that’s supposed to run around, fuss, and arrange their parties!
Roman recoiled, stunned by such an attack. He wasn’t used to seeing her like this. He was used to her softness, her compliance.
— What does your birthday have to do with it?! — he roared back, instinctively defending his family. — This is completely different! These are my parents!
— Oh, it’s different! — she laughed bitterly. — Of course it’s different! My birthday is pizza in a box. And their anniversary is a saxophonist and fireworks! You know what, Roman? You’re absolutely right. I really am great at organizing everything. And I’ve just perfectly organized an opportunity for you to take the lead yourself. Go on! Call, arrange, pick out the cake! You’re their son!
He looked at her, a mix of anger and confusion in his eyes. He couldn’t accept that she was right. Accepting it would mean admitting his own pettiness, his own indifference. It was easier to blame her.
— You’re just selfish! An ungrateful egoist!
He realized he couldn’t win this argument. Words were useless. She had built a wall he couldn’t break through. So he did what he always did in a dead end. He reached for the main power, the heavy artillery. He grabbed his phone again and, meeting Vera’s eyes defiantly, found his mother’s number.
— Mom, — he said into the receiver, keeping his burning gaze on his wife. — Come over. Yes, with Dad. Vera… she’s made a scene. We need to talk to her.
No more than twenty minutes passed. The doorbell rang—short and commanding, leaving no doubt about who stood behind it. Roman, who had been pacing the living room nervously the whole time, rushed to open. Vera stayed in the kitchen. She didn’t sit; she leaned against the counter, arms crossed. She wasn’t preparing a defense. She was preparing to execute a sentence.
Voices sounded in the hall. First Roman’s agitated whisper, then his mother’s firm, peremptory voice—Irena Petrovna—and the muted throat-clearing of his father, Viktor Semyonovich, who had always served as background to his energetic wife.
They entered the kitchen together, like a single punitive detachment. Irina Petrovna was in front. Her face, usually pointedly friendly in public, now resembled a mask of cold stone. She stopped a couple of meters from Vera, raking her with an appraising look from head to toe.
— Vera, I want an explanation, — she began without preamble. Her voice didn’t tremble; it was calm and filled with the unshakable confidence only people absolutely convinced of their own rightness possess. — What kind of circus did you put on? Do you understand what you’re doing? You’re trying to ruin your parents’ biggest celebration.
Roman stood at her shoulder like a loyal adjutant. Viktor Semyonovich froze silently by the doorframe, his stern silence louder than any words.
Vera slowly uncrossed her arms. She looked not at Irina Petrovna, but at her husband.
— I put this on? Roman, did I?
— Who else? — his mother cut in at once, not giving her son a chance to answer. — You’re behaving like a spoiled child! Over some trifle you decided to wreck such an event! We accepted you into the family, and you…
— Accepted me into the family? — Vera interrupted calmly. A strange, cold smile appeared on her lips. She turned her gaze to her mother-in-law. — Irina Petrovna, when did that happen? When was the last time you called me just to ask how I am—not to find out when Roman will be home from work?
Irina Petrovna was taken aback for a moment by the direct question.
— I… I always think about you…
— You think about your son, — Vera corrected in the same calm tone. — And I’m the convenient add-on to him. Viktor Semyonovich, — she turned to her father-in-law, who actually straightened in surprise, — do you remember when my birthday is?
He blinked in confusion; his eyes flicked to his wife, seeking help. He didn’t remember. It was written on his face so plainly that an answer wasn’t needed.
— My birthday was a week ago, — Vera went on, her voice growing firmer with each word. — None of you called. No one wrote. Your son, my husband, marked the day by ordering pizza and burying himself in his phone. And a week later he comes to me demanding that I organize a grand celebration for you because I’m, you see, “good at it.” And when I refuse to perform unpaid labor for people who refuse to see me, you come here to put me in my place.
She wasn’t complaining. She was stating facts. Dry. Methodical. With the precision of a surgeon lancing an old abscess.
— That’s pure selfishness! — Irina Petrovna finally found her footing; her face twisted with anger. — Thinking only of yourself when it’s about family!
And at that moment Vera understood that everything had been said. There was nothing to add. She looked again at her husband hiding behind his mother’s back.
— You know, Roman, you were right about one thing. I really am great at organizing everything. And right now I’ve brilliantly organized the finale. The final one.
Absolute silence fell over the kitchen. The three Romanovs stared at her, not yet fully grasping the meaning of her words.
— You’ll celebrate the anniversary without me, — Vera said, enunciating clearly. — As well as all the holidays to come. From here on, you handle it yourselves. It’s your family.
She turned and, without looking at anyone, walked out of the kitchen. She didn’t slam the door. She passed through the living room into the bedroom and quietly, without a single unnecessary sound, closed the door behind her.
Roman remained standing in the middle of the kitchen with his parents. He looked at the closed door behind which his wife—and his accustomed life—had just disappeared. Irina Petrovna started to shout something after her, but the words stuck in her throat. The three of them stood in a silence that felt foreign, stunned not by a scandal but by its sudden and total conclusion. The bridges weren’t merely burned. They had evaporated, leaving not even smoke behind…