“First earn your own money—then you can fling it around left and right! Do you think I don’t know who actually brings money into your family? Of course you’re the one who spends it! And my dear Dima is still driving that old heap. You’ve drained him dry!”
Zhenya woke up early, with that familiar, slightly nervous excitement that always comes before a celebration. Outside it was still dark, but her mind was already running through lists—who eats what, how much to chop, which appetizers to make, where to find fresh herbs, and what cake to order.
Tomorrow was Dima’s birthday. He kept saying he didn’t want anything special, but Zhenya knew him well: to Dima, a real holiday meant close family and heartfelt toasts over clinking glasses.
She didn’t enjoy big gatherings—they wore her out. Zhenya preferred quiet evenings at home or a quick outing to a café. But there was another love living in her—her love for Dima. And that love sometimes made her compromise: for her husband’s happiness, she agreed to things she usually avoided.
“I’m thinking just relatives,” Dima said as they got into the car to run errands. “We’ll see friends later.”
He looked at Zhenya and gave her that charming smile—the one that usually made her give in. She smiled back, already building a shopping list in her head.
“Okay, just relatives,” she said. “But let’s plan a proper menu. And I’m not baking a cake.”
Dima laughed.
“Fine. I’ll handle the cake, and you take care of everything else. Deal?”
“Deal,” Zhenya agreed.
Dmitry opened the door for her and started the car. On the way to the supermarket they talked not only about groceries, but also about the weekend ahead.
“On Sunday, should we take Kostik to the movies—cartoons?” Zhenya suggested.
“Sure. I think I saw something New Year’s-themed already playing. I’ll check,” Dima said.
The store was packed—as usual before the weekend. Zhenya grabbed a cart and headed straight for the produce aisle: she needed herbs and tomatoes for appetizers. She inspected each sprig of dill, turned every tomato in her hands before placing it in the bag—everything had to be fresh and perfect. Meanwhile, Dima wandered happily between the wine and drinks, choosing what to buy.
“Did you get crab sticks?” he suddenly asked, placing wine into the cart.
“I did,” Zhenya replied with a smile. He really remembered everything— even the simple crab sticks without which none of her childhood celebrations had ever felt complete.
Zhenya had taken Friday off on purpose so she could clean the apartment thoroughly and prep some dishes in advance. That evening, after they got back, she went straight into the kitchen, while Dima sat down with their son to build LEGO.
The kitchen filled with aromas: onions sizzling in a pan, garlic releasing its bite, mayonnaise mixed with yogurt and fresh dill. Zhenya chopped salads and arranged snacks into porcelain bowls. She loved when everything looked neat—order made her feel calm, as if life was under control.
The next morning she woke up without yesterday’s rush—more focused, more businesslike. She liked it when everything was organized, when every plate sat where it belonged and each dish appeared at exactly the right moment.
By lunchtime the apartment looked perfect: salad bowls were on the table, appetizers sat in small dishes, and the roast was resting under foil, soaking in its own juices.
Dima spent the morning fiddling with the speakers, setting up a playlist—soft background music that always fit. Kostik raced around the apartment with a toy car, staging grand “rallies” from the kitchen to the living room.
“Everything ready?” Dima asked, peeking in from the doorway.
“Ready,” Zhenya said confidently, straightening the napkins. “Now we just wait for everyone. I’ll touch up my lipstick and fix my hair.”
“You’re beautiful even without that,” her husband smiled. “And you’re an amazing hostess.”
The guests arrived quickly. The family came in full force, as if on schedule: first Zhenya’s parents—Stepan Vladimirovich and Lyudmila Ivanovna—carrying two neat gift bags tied with beige ribbons.
Then came Dima’s parents, Svetlana Egorovna and Viktor Petrovich. Her mother-in-law walked in the way she always did—as if checking the apartment for dust with an invisible glove. Right behind them appeared Egor with Sasha and their daughter Lena—loud, smiling, carrying that warm “family” energy with them. Hugs, kisses, congratulations—it all filled the entryway with cozy chaos.
Soon everyone moved into the living room, and the table came alive with conversation, laughter, and heartfelt toasts. The men talked about work, the women quietly discussed New Year’s preparations, while Kostik and little Lena in the kids’ room threw their own little party.
Zhenya relaxed. Everything was going perfectly—exactly the way Dima liked it. Right up until the gifts.
Zhenya’s parents went first. Lyudmila Ivanovna gave her husband a small nudge as he handed Dima a neat envelope.
“We know you’ve had your eye on something for a while… We hope it comes in handy.”
Dima smiled warmly and thanked them. Inside was a gift certificate to a big electronics store. Stepan Vladimirovich shared Dima’s love of gadgets, so the choice was spot-on.
Zhenya looked at her parents with genuine happiness. They always gave gifts like that—no show, just meaning. She loved it.
Then it was her in-laws’ turn.
Svetlana Egorovna extended a large bag tied with a blue ribbon. Before anyone could peek inside, she announced loudly so everyone would hear:
“It’s a new set of bed linens. Excellent quality—and expensive. You two, of course, can’t really afford something like this… so I decided to spoil you.”
Zhenya’s breath caught. Svetlana Egorovna attacked the way she always did—through “kindness” that humiliated.
The smile slipped off Zhenya’s face. She didn’t understand—why? She and Dima lived well. They both worked, both contributed. Yet his mother spoke as if they were barely scraping by.
Dima only gave an awkward smile and set the bag aside. He was used to it. Zhenya wasn’t—and couldn’t be.
The evening continued. People ate, laughed, drank. The children dashed through the apartment playing tag. Zhenya seemed to settle down… until it was time for her gift. She stood up, and a light tremble ran through her fingers.
She hated speaking in front of everyone, but she wanted to do it beautifully.
“Dima…” she began, looking at her husband. “You’re our support—the man who’s always there. You’re kind, strong, and hardworking. You’re the man I always dreamed of… and I love you so much.”
She spoke for a long time—honestly, from the heart. About how he helped her after she gave birth, how he sat up at night with Kostik, how he always supported her even when she doubted herself. Then she handed him a small, long box.
Dima opened it, and the gold chain flashed under the lights. He smiled wide—pure, delighted—like a child receiving exactly what he’d wished for.
“Zhenya… it’s gorgeous. Thank you, my love,” he said, standing up, walking to her, and kissing her gently.
The guests looked impressed—the gift was elegant, expensive-looking, solid. Everyone except Svetlana Egorovna. She twisted her face as if she’d bitten into a lemon. And as Dima put the chain on, she said loudly:
“It’s not right to buy your husband gifts with his own money.”
Zhenya blinked. The words hit like a blow to the chest.
“Excuse me… what?” she asked evenly, though inside she felt herself boiling.
Svetlana Egorovna didn’t stop. If anything, she leaned in, folded her arms, and continued in an even more arrogant tone:
“First earn money—and then you can waste it! Do you think I don’t know who earns the money in your family? Of course you’re the one spending it! And my Dima is still driving that old wreck. You’ve drained him dry!”
Zhenya felt something tighten painfully in her chest. She had never tried to be “the main provider.” She and her husband had always been a team. And she earned well—well enough to buy her husband a decent gift.
“I… earn good money,” Zhenya said firmly, feeling the silence in the room turn thick. “And I can afford to buy my husband a gold chain. And besides—why does it matter how much I make? It’s not your concern.”
But Svetlana Egorovna only snorted, pleased with herself.
“Sure, sure. Say whatever you want—I can see the truth. My son comes last with you!”
That was when Dima stood up. There was no anger in his eyes, no irritation—only calm certainty. The kind of confidence Zhenya valued in him more than anything.
“Mom,” he said evenly, “we weren’t planning to announce it yet, but… we bought a new car.”
Heads lifted. Even Egor froze mid-bite, his fork hovering over the salad.
“We saved for a long time,” Dima continued. “We didn’t want a loan. I decided to give myself—and our family—a birthday gift.”
Svetlana Egorovna seemed to sink back into her chair. For a moment her lips twitched as she tried to find a new reason to attack… but she couldn’t get a single word out.
Stepan Vladimirovich coughed into his fist, and Lyudmila Ivanovna smiled with satisfaction.
“Well done, son-in-law. That’s the right decision!”
Zhenya finally exhaled. Everything inside her slowly loosened. She looked at Dima with such tenderness that her mother-in-law’s face twisted at the “too-sweet” scene.
Zhenya only smiled quietly—not out of spite, but out of relief. The evening was saved. And most importantly, Dima had finally put his mother in her place—clearly and calmly.
When the guests began to leave, the atmosphere gradually returned to normal. Stepan Vladimirovich shook Dima’s hand for a long time, as if trying to pass approval without words.
“Well done, Dimka,” he kept repeating, as if hearing it anew each time. “Really well done. A real man!”
Dima tried to brush it off, but it was obvious he liked the attention. Lyudmila Ivanovna hugged Zhenya and whispered in her ear:
“You two are doing great. Don’t take pointless chatter to heart. That chain is a wonderful gift. And you’re a wonderful wife.”
Zhenya nearly teared up.
When Dima’s parents were leaving, Svetlana Egorovna didn’t even look at her daughter-in-law. She walked around Zhenya as if she were furniture.
Only muttering darkly:
“Well… congratulations again, son.”
And she stepped out the door. Viktor Petrovich, however, lingered.
He came up to Dima, patted his shoulder, and offered his hand with an awkward but sincere warmth.
“Forgive your mother… you know what her character is like. But the car—that’s great. Congratulations to you both.”
Dima nodded. He hated conflict, but today he’d done what he believed was right.
Three weeks passed.
For New Year’s, the family went around congratulating relatives. Zhenya had prepared a list ahead of time—who would get what. She adored gift planning.
Kostik was thrilled by the street trees and the glowing garlands in shop windows. Dima couldn’t hide his pride as he pulled the brand-new crossover up to each house. And then it was time to visit his mother.
First Svetlana Egorovna appeared—wearing a coat buttoned all the way up. She stepped out of the entryway, saw the car… and stopped dead. Her eyes widened, her mouth fell slightly open—then she pulled herself together quickly. She pressed her lips tight, straightened up, and even tried to pretend she hadn’t seen anything unusual.
“So… is that your new car?” she asked, struggling to keep the tremor out of her voice.
Dima nodded calmly. Svetlana Egorovna circled it with her eyes—new, clean, solid. And most importantly—paid for without loans.
She couldn’t hold it in and blurted:
“Well, of course… If your wife weren’t such a spendthrift, maybe you’d have bought your parents a car too!”
Zhenya felt heat rush to her cheeks—not from embarrassment, but from outrage. She didn’t even get a chance to speak.
Dima answered sharply, putting his mother in her place.
“Mom, if Zhenya didn’t work too, we wouldn’t have this car at all—any car.”
He paused, letting the words land.
“She put in the same effort and the same money as I did. This is our purchase. Together. And it’s time you stop making critical remarks that have no basis.”
Svetlana Egorovna wanted to say something, but the words stuck. She swallowed her resentment—and for the first time in many years, she fell silent. Then she turned away stiffly and went back inside.
Viktor Petrovich mumbled quietly:
“You… did great, kids. Truly.”
And he invited them in. After that conversation, Svetlana Egorovna never again brought up money in her son’s family. Her attention shifted instead to her older son, Egor.
That same evening, back at home, Zhenya set a small table: Olivier salad in a glass bowl, mandarins, a meat platter, and a bottle of champagne they’d bought the day before.
Kostik fell asleep quickly—worn out from the trip, sweets, and emotions. Zhenya and Dima turned on an old New Year’s movie—the one they’d loved since their early years together. They lay on the couch in the living room, sipping champagne and laughing at scenes they knew by heart.
Outside the window, snow fell softly, covering the city like a gentle blanket. Zhenya looked at her husband and thought that everything—the holidays, the fuss, even the unpleasant conversations—had been worth living through for an evening like this, for family, and for love.