Diana stood in the kitchen, staring at her phone screen. A message from her mother-in-law, Alla Gennadyevna, glowed like an unnaturally bright blot in the evening half-dark:
“Pasha, just a reminder—my birthday is on Saturday at 6:00 p.m. I’m expecting you and Seryozha. There’ll be a big spread. Ask Diana for me to bake a cake—chocolate with cherries. I hope she remembers which one I like. She doesn’t need to come herself.”
The message had been sent to the group chat that included her, Pavel, and their son, Sergey. But the “Pasha,” “Seryozha,” and the detached “ask Diana” stung her eyes.
Diana hadn’t spoken to Alla Gennadyevna for almost a year. The conflict that had flared up at last year’s birthday had turned into a cold silence. Her mother-in-law pointedly acted as if Diana didn’t exist, and Diana—exhausted by endless reproaches—stopped calling and visiting. Pavel chose a policy of noninvolvement, which in practice meant silent approval of his mother’s behavior.
Diana slowly set the phone down on the table. Her ears were ringing. “Let her bake a cake… she doesn’t need to come.” It wasn’t even a request—it was an order, or a mockery.
Pavel came into the apartment. He was in a good mood until he saw his wife’s face.
“What happened?” he asked, taking off his jacket.
Diana silently handed him the phone. Pavel skimmed the text and frowned.
“Well, Mom…” he sighed. “She wants a cake. Yours are always the best.”
“Pasha, do you even realize how crazy this is?” Diana’s voice trembled. “I’m not invited. No one talks to me. I don’t exist to her. But my cake is supposed to exist so she can show off to guests: ‘And my daughter-in-law baked this—too bad I didn’t feel like inviting her’?”
“Don’t dramatize,” Pavel said, sitting down and avoiding her eyes. “She’s probably just too embarrassed to make peace directly. This is her way of taking a step toward you. The cake is a sign of reconciliation.”
“What ‘step,’ for God’s sake?” Diana let out a nervous laugh. “It’s written in black and white: ‘I’m expecting Pasha and Seryozha.’ I’m not even mentioned. I’m just… not there. I’m being politely put in my place—by the stove, in the kitchen.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Pavel’s voice hardened. “She won’t talk to you if she doesn’t want to. And the cake… she’s right, your cake is amazing. Please make it—for me—so there’s no scandal.”
“For you?” Diana stared at him in bitter disbelief. “So it’s convenient for you? So you can show up at your mom’s with my cake, sit at the table, and when they ask where I am, say, ‘Oh, she’s at home—she baked the cake, that’s enough from her!’ And everyone will just think that’s normal?”
Pavel didn’t answer. He went into the living room and turned on the TV. Diana stayed alone in the kitchen.
Everything inside her seethed. Her pride screamed, “No way! This is humiliating!” But the part of her that had spent years trying to please everyone whispered, “What if it really is a chance? You bake the cake, Pavel brings it, she appreciates it, and the ice finally breaks…”
Saturday came—the morning of Alla Gennadyevna’s birthday. Diana hadn’t slept all night. She ran through options in her head, but every one felt like a losing move.
At ten in the morning Pavel’s phone rang.
He stepped out onto the balcony to talk. Diana already knew who it was. Five minutes later he returned, his face tense.
“Mom called. She asked about the cake.”
Diana slowly turned to him. In her hands she held a cup of cold coffee.
“And what did you tell her?”
“I said I didn’t know and that you hadn’t decided.”
She looked at his helpless, guilty face—and suddenly she understood everything. Her role in that family was the role of hired help.
Diana put the cup in the sink, walked to the table, picked up her phone, found Alla Gennadyevna’s number, and dialed. The call was answered almost immediately.
“Hello?” Her mother-in-law’s voice was cold and wary.
“Alla Gennadyevna, happy birthday,” Diana said evenly, calmly. “Pavel told me you’d like me to bake a cake.”
There was a pause on the other end.
“Well… yes. That one—chocolate. You know which.”
“I do,” Diana nodded, though the woman couldn’t see her. “But I won’t be baking it.”
“Why?” Alla Gennadyevna sounded genuinely astonished, as if she’d just been told the laws of physics had been отменены.
“Because I’m not a cook or a pastry chef on call. I’m your son’s wife. And if I’m not at the holiday table as a guest, then I’m not in the kitchen as free labor either. Enjoy your celebration!”
She hung up. Her hands were shaking, but her soul felt strangely calm. Pavel stared at her with his mouth open.
“You… you just called my mother yourself and told her you’re not going to bake the cake?”
“Yes, Pasha, that’s exactly what I said. You heard me right,” Diana smirked. “And I don’t care that your mother didn’t like my answer!”
Pavel frowned, but he didn’t say another word to his wife. He went to buy his mother’s present himself.
That evening Pavel and Sergey went to Alla Gennadyevna’s birthday with two boxed cakes from the supermarket next door—dry and tasteless, according to Pavel. The guests said the same thing and left their slices unfinished.
From his mother’s face, Pavel could see she was unhappy with Diana’s behavior and with the cakes her son and grandson had brought. All evening she sat with a stone face, lips pressed tight. She reacted to guests’ jokes with a thoughtful little smile.
Pavel knew exactly what that meant. The next day his mother would definitely call with complaints.
And that’s exactly what happened. Alla Gennadyevna called her son the next day and spent half an hour scolding his ill-mannered, proud wife.
“Why didn’t you put her in her place? Why didn’t you make her bake the cake?” she wailed into the phone.
“How could I make her if she didn’t want to?” Pavel sighed irritably. “Diana is an adult, and she has the right to decide what she will and won’t do…”
“She humiliated me!” Alla Gennadyevna shrieked, hysteria in her voice.
“Mom, you and Diana haven’t spoken for a year. You didn’t invite her to your birthday, but you still sent a request—an order—through me to bake a cake. How did you think she’d react?” Pavel asked coldly.
“I understand everything, son… I understand,” Alla Gennadyevna sniffled.
“What do you understand, Mom?” Pavel asked with a sigh—already knowing the answer.
“That you betrayed me! Even on my birthday you couldn’t pressure your little wife!” she snapped venomously and hung up.
Pavel stared at his phone in confusion, then waved it off and decided not to take his mother’s tantrums to heart.