Valery Petrovich liked to believe he had everything under control. At work he was a department head, at home the unquestioned patriarch, and in life the man steering his own destiny. He was used to the world moving according to his schedule, and the moment something slipped out of line, his voice filled the apartment like an ambulance siren.
“Lena!” he barked from the living room. “Why isn’t it cleaned yet? The guests will be here in three days!”
His wife appeared in the doorway with a rag in her hand. She always appeared quickly, as if she’d been waiting for the next summons.
“Valera, I just finished the kitchen. I’ll do the living room now.”
“Now, now…” he mocked. “Always your ‘now.’ You should’ve started yesterday! This isn’t just some family get-together, do you understand? My colleagues are coming. Maybe even the bosses. I can’t afford to embarrass myself.”
Lena nodded and went back to cleaning. She’d learned long ago not to answer when her husband was in this mood. Arguments only wound him up—turning a minor complaint into a full-blown fight.
Valery Petrovich was preparing for his fiftieth birthday with particular fervor. A round number, a proper jubilee—no small thing. He could already see it: coworkers admiring the lavish spread, the sales head Mikhail Semyonovich nodding in approval at the scale. Maybe even the director would “drop by.” People remembered evenings like that. Evenings like that fed reputations.
“And did you put together the menu?” he shouted without leaving the living room, where he was laying napkin samples on the coffee table, choosing between cream-colored ones and white ones with gold embossing.
“I did,” came Lena’s voice from the hallway.
“Bring it here!”
She wiped her hands on her apron, pulled a sheet from a notebook out of the kitchen drawer—filled with neat, tiny handwriting—and handed it over. Valery snatched it and skimmed.
His face fell.
“What is this?” He shook the paper as if it were counterfeit cash. “Olivier salad, herring under a fur coat, aspic, roast meat? Are you serious?”
“What’s wrong with it?” Lena tensed instinctively.
“What’s wrong?!” Valery sprang up from the couch. “It’s boring! It’s what everyone serves! I need a real celebration, do you hear me? A presentable table! Something that makes people gape! And what are you offering? A Soviet cafeteria buffet!”
“Valera, I can add more dishes, but it’s classic—people like—”
“People like!” he mimicked. “People like macaroni and sausages too if they’re hungry! I need my guests to see that Valery Petrovich Morozov knows how to live! I want them to understand I’m not some small-time manager—I’m a man with status!”
Lena stood silently with her gaze lowered, fingers nervously worrying the edge of her apron.
“Redo it,” Valery snapped, flinging the sheet onto the table. “And by tomorrow evening, I want a new menu. A proper one. With sophistication. Hot appetizers, cold appetizers, unusual salads, red fish—maybe even oysters. Think! What am I keeping you for?”
He turned and left, slamming the door.
Lena picked the paper off the floor, smoothed it out, and slowly went back to the kitchen. She sat at the table and stared out the window. A fine autumn drizzle was smearing the city into something gray, blurry, exhausted.
What am I keeping you for? The phrase lodged in her mind like a splinter.
She remembered Valery twenty years earlier—attentive, gentle, even a little shy. He brought her flowers for no reason, kissed her goodbye, told her she was his only anchor. Then came the first successes, the first promotions, the climb. And with every rung he rose, he grew a little taller, a little more arrogant, a little louder.
And she stayed the same: the quiet wife who cooked, cleaned, washed, and kept her mouth shut. The woman who learned to adapt. The woman who couldn’t remember the last time anyone asked, “How are you? What do you want?”
The next day Lena spent the entire evening building a new menu. She searched recipes online, called a friend who worked in a restaurant, wrote down ingredients. By night the list had grown to two pages: beef carpaccio, salmon tartare, duck breast, arugula salad with parmesan, foie gras, profiteroles filled with crab mousse…
Valery came home late—tired, but pleased. His project had finally been approved at work. Lena handed him the new menu. He read for a long time, frowning, nodding, then set the pages aside.
“Now that’s better,” he grunted. “Though you still didn’t add oysters. Fine, let it be. The main thing is that everything’s fresh and looks beautiful. And by six on Saturday evening, everything should be on the table. Guests arrive at seven—I need a time cushion.”
“Valer, that’s a huge amount of work,” Lena began carefully. “Maybe we could order some of it from a restaurant? Or I could ask Sveta to come help?”
“Order?” He looked at her as if she’d suggested serving livestock feed. “So someone can say Morozov can’t even set a table without assistance? No. Everything must be homemade—‘from the heart.’ And don’t bring your Sveta. She’s a gossip, she’ll spread it around that something’s wrong in our house.”
Lena pressed her lips together. She wanted to say she wouldn’t manage, that it was physically impossible to cook that many dishes in one day. But the words stuck. She simply nodded.
The remaining days before Saturday passed in feverish chaos. Lena made shopping lists, called stores, compared prices. Every evening Valery held inspections: checking what she’d bought, what still needed buying, issuing orders, criticizing her choices.
“What fish is this? Chum salmon? I told you to buy salmon! Chum is for poor people!”
“Valer, there wasn’t any salmon, and chum is good too—”
“I don’t care that there wasn’t!” he snapped. “Tomorrow you’ll go to another store and buy salmon. And why isn’t this cheese parmesan but some grana padano? Are you trying to save money on my birthday?”
Lena stayed silent. She’d learned to be silent so perfectly that sometimes it seemed she wasn’t even in the room—just a shadow carrying out commands.
Friday evening Valery conducted the final inspection. He opened the refrigerator, pulled out groceries, studied labels, sniffed, squeezed packages. Lena stood beside him like a schoolgirl in front of a strict teacher.
“Alright,” he finally sighed. “Seems like everything’s here. Tomorrow start early. By six it must all be ready. And arrange it nicely—don’t slap it down any which way. Buy more greens for decoration—parsley, dill—whatever. The table should look expensive.”
“Okay,” Lena said quietly.
“And wash the chandelier,” he added, heading toward the bedroom. “It looks dull. The guests will think we live in poverty.”
Lena looked up at the chandelier. She’d washed it a week ago.
Saturday began at six in the morning. Lena got up, splashed her face with icy water to wake fully, and went straight to work. Valery slept until ten—because, in his mind, the birthday man deserved rest.
When he finally came into the kitchen, Lena was already searing duck breast. Little bowls of chopped vegetables covered the counter, broth bubbled on the stove, and profiteroles were baking in the oven. The air was heavy with aromas; the windows were fogged with steam.
“Well, are you keeping up?” Valery asked, pouring himself coffee.
“For now, yes,” Lena answered without turning, stirring sauce.
“No surprises,” he warned. “Everything has to be perfect today. I’m going to shower, then I’ll handle the drinks.”
He left, and Lena exhaled. Her hands were trembling with fatigue—she’d already been standing at the stove for three hours. But she couldn’t stop. The checklist on the fridge still screamed with unfinished tasks.
At noon Valery returned.
“And the salads?” he asked, peering into the refrigerator.
“Not yet. I have to finish the hot dishes first.”
“Lena, are you mocking me? It’s already noon! The guests will be here in seven hours!”
“I know, Valer. I’ll make it—”
“You’ll make it, you’ll make it!” he raised his voice. “You always do this! Everything at the last second! Couldn’t you prepare something yesterday?”
“Yesterday you told me to cook only today, so everything would be fresh,” Lena turned—and something flashed in her eyes. Not obedience. Not fear. Something else.
Valery noticed, but didn’t give it weight.
“Fine. Work,” he threw at her. “Just don’t let me down.”
At two Lena was still chopping vegetables for salads. At three she was marinating fish. At four she was whipping cream for appetizers. Valery kept drifting in and out, commenting, advising, criticizing. By five the table was still empty, and the kitchen looked like a war zone: towers of dirty dishes, cutting boards scattered with scraps, sauce splashed across the stovetop.
“Lena!” Valery roared from the living room. “Are you even cooking in there?! Guests in two hours! Where’s the table?!”
Lena slowly wiped her hands on a towel. She looked at the clock, then at the refrigerator, then at the list. And suddenly she felt it—her patience finally snapped. Quietly, almost invisibly. Like a string pulled too tight.
She took off her apron, hung it on the hook, and walked into the living room.
Valery was standing by the festive table—still bare, covered with a white tablecloth. He was arranging glasses, polishing each one lovingly until it shone.
“Where’s the food?” he asked without turning around.
“Valer,” Lena said softly, but with perfect clarity. “It’s your celebration—so you can feed your guests.”
He turned. Confusion spread across his face, as if she’d spoken to him in a foreign language.
“What?”
“I said: it’s your celebration. Your birthday, your guests, your reputation. So you’ll be the one cooking.”
Valery laughed—short, sharp, nervous.
“You’re joking, right?”
“No.” Lena picked up her handbag from the couch and checked for her wallet. “I’m tired, Valer. Really tired. I spent three days preparing for your party, and all you did was shout and nitpick. You want a perfect table—make it yourself. If you can.”
“You… you can’t just leave!” Valery’s voice wobbled. “Guests are coming! What am I supposed to tell them?!”
“I don’t know,” Lena shrugged. “Tell the truth. Or make something up. You’re the important man with status—you’ll figure it out.”
She headed for the door. Valery lunged after her and grabbed her arm.
“Lena, stop! You can’t! It’s… it’s my fiftieth!”
She looked at him for a long moment—tired, steady.
“Exactly. That’s why you should take care of it yourself.” She pulled her arm free. “I’m going shopping. Maybe I’ll buy myself something nice. I’ve been wanting to for a long time.”
“But the food! The table! What am I supposed to do?!”
“The fridge is full of groceries,” Lena said. “Recipes are online. If you can’t cook in time, order from a restaurant. Or apologize and postpone. Your choice.”
She opened the door and walked out without looking back.
Valery stood in the hallway, stunned, his face slack. He couldn’t believe this was really happening. His wife couldn’t just… leave. She was always there. Always obedient. Always patient.
He went back into the kitchen and stared at the disaster. A mountain of unwashed dishes. Half-cooked duck. Chopped vegetables already starting to darken. Fish giving off a suspicious smell—probably left out too long. The clock read 5:30.
Guests were arriving at seven.
Valery tried turning on the stove—but couldn’t even find the right burner. He hadn’t cooked in fifteen years, maybe more. He grabbed a frying pan, poured in oil, dumped in vegetables. They hissed, then smoked. He didn’t know how long anything needed, so he just stood there helplessly, stirring with a spatula.
Then he grabbed his phone and called Lena. No answer.
He called again. And again. Subscriber unavailable.
“Damn it!” he cursed, and threw the phone onto the table.
He attempted a salad—hacked up the remaining vegetables, drowned them in mayonnaise. The result looked shapeless and sad. He checked the time: six o’clock.
Valery understood he wasn’t going to make it. Not just “not in time”—he didn’t even know what to do next. The fish had gone bad, the duck wasn’t cooked through, the salads looked like they’d been made blindfolded. And the table still sat empty, the white cloth glaring at him.
He dialed Lena again. Still nothing.
So he called the first guest—Mikhail Semyonovich.
“Misha, hi, listen… I suddenly got sick,” Valery’s voice trembled. “We’ll have to reschedule. Sorry—it happened out of nowhere.”
“Sick?” Mikhail sounded surprised. “But you were at work today—you looked fine.”
“It hit me suddenly. Stomach, I guess. Next week?”
Mikhail grumbled something and hung up. Valery called the rest of the guests, repeating the same story. Some believed him, some didn’t—but no one argued.
When the last call ended, Valery sank onto a chair in the middle of the kitchen. He stared at the food, the dirty dishes, the empty table—and felt something unfamiliar swelling inside him. Shame? Anger? Resentment?
He imagined Lena wandering through shops right now—calm, free. For the first time in twenty years, she’d done something for herself. And he was alone, surrounded by the wreckage of his own ambitions.
Valery Petrovich sat in silence for a long time, listening to the rain outside. There was no celebration. No guests. Only an empty table—reminding him that even the most flawless plan collapses when it’s built on someone else’s back.
And when Lena came home at ten—calm, carrying shopping bags, a new scarf wrapped around her neck—Valery didn’t shout. He just sat at the kitchen table with a cup of cold tea and looked out the window.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, without turning.
Lena set the bags down and sat across from him.
“For what?”
“For everything.”
She nodded. They sat in silence while the rain tapped the sill, washing something old and heavy away.
And maybe that was the real celebration—no guests, no lavish spread, but something bigger: the understanding that sometimes you have to be left alone with yourself to finally learn how to see the people beside you.