Anna stood at the stove, slowly stirring julienne in small clay ramekins, replaying the evening schedule in her head.
The dishes needed ten more minutes. The salads were already done. The meat in the oven would reach perfection right as the guests arrived. Everything—like always—exactly on time. A picture-perfect family dinner for her husband’s relatives.
Her mother-in-law would criticize Anna’s cooking again—carefully, with a sweet smile. Her father-in-law would tell, for the fifth time this year, how Denis once shattered a window with a soccer ball as a kid. Oksana, Denis’s sister, would complain about her mortgage and daycare payments, while Oksana’s husband Sergey would silently scroll his phone as if the world around him didn’t exist.
“Anya! Are you making Olivier?” Denis shouted from the living room where he was arranging chairs. “Mom says a birthday without Olivier isn’t a birthday!”
“I am,” Anna answered, sliding the pots into the oven.
Seven years of marriage had taught her the rules: Olivier—non-negotiable. Herring under a fur coat—highly encouraged. Cake—only sponge. No experiments. No surprises. No “new” dishes.
Her phone vibrated on the counter. A message from her mother popped up:
“Anyochka, how are you? What are you doing? It’s sad you decided not to celebrate properly. Dad was getting ready—he picked the prettiest tomatoes! We wanted to bring them. Please wish Denis a happy birthday from us. Kisses!”
Anna stared at the screen and felt tears sting her eyes.
Her parents lived in Tosno, in their own house with a vegetable garden her father worked from morning to night.
“A backwater,” Denis called it—though it was barely an hour from St. Petersburg by commuter train.
“Den,” Anna said, walking into the living room and drying her hands on a kitchen towel, “Mom says happy birthday. Maybe we should invite them after all? They could come by eight—right when we serve cake.”
Denis looked up from the stack of plates. The expression flashed across his face—the one Anna had learned to recognize instantly: irritation wrapped in condescension.
“Anya, we’ve been over this. It’s a family dinner. A close circle. Your parents… well, they don’t really fit our crowd. Did you forget how your dad went on for half an hour about fertilizer last time? Mom complained for a week.”
“Dad likes gardening—so what?” Anna snapped. “And why is your family the ‘close circle,’ but mine doesn’t count?”
“Because we live in the city, not with our hands in garden beds,” Denis replied, setting the last plate down with a soft clink. “Listen, let’s not spoil the mood. It’s my birthday, not a conference dedicated to your parents.”
Anna returned to the kitchen and began spooning salad into a bowl on autopilot.
She remembered that miserable dinner six months ago, when her father really had gotten carried away describing a new tomato variety. But Galina Petrovna had asked him about the garden first. And after Anna’s parents left, Galina spent half an hour making snide jokes about “country talk” and “simple people.”
The doorbell interrupted her thoughts.
Denis’s parents arrived first. Galina Petrovna looked flawless in her beloved beige suit, hair set, tiny purse clutched like a trophy she never put down. Nikolai Ivanovich wore a crisp white shirt—clearly chosen by his wife.
“Anyochka, dear!” Galina kissed Anna’s cheek, leaving a bright lipstick mark. “You’re so pale. Are you getting sick? At your age, you really should watch your health.”
“At your age”—thirty-one.
Anna forced the familiar tight smile and went to hang up their coats.
Later, when everyone had settled, Nikolai Ivanovich poured himself a second drink and asked, “Anya, where are your parents? We haven’t seen them in ages. How’s Mikhail Semyonovich? How was the harvest this year?”
Anna froze with a tray in her hands.
“Yeah, I was wondering too,” Sergey said—Oksana’s husband, the quiet one, surprising everyone by speaking up. “I wanted to ask Mikhail about that grill he welded last year. I still haven’t gotten around to making one.”
“Is Grandpa Misha coming?” eight-year-old Vasya asked excitedly. “He promised to show me how to plant onions!”
“Thank God he isn’t,” Galina Petrovna cut in, politely pushing a plate away. “Otherwise we’ll get another lecture about cucumbers and tomatoes. You know… there are topics suitable for decent society, and then there are… well—simpler ones.”
“And Nina Borisovna with her pickling,” Oksana chimed in, smoothing her new blouse. “Last time she explained how to salt cabbage for half an hour. I nearly fell asleep.”
Anna felt her fists clench. She remembered her mother sharing the recipe with genuine enthusiasm while those two women exchanged looks and struggled not to laugh.
“Galya, come on,” Nikolai Ivanovich said softly. “They’re good people, living by honest work. I like talking to Mikhail. He’s a solid man.”
“Grandpa Misha promised to show me fishing,” Vasya insisted.
“Sure, sure,” Oksana twisted her mouth. “But why do you need fishing in some ditch? Better join a real club.”
Anna set the tray down a little harder than she meant to. Everyone looked at her.
“It really is strange,” she said as calmly as she could, “that my parents weren’t invited to a family birthday.”
Denis choked on his wine.
“Anya, we talked about this—”
“No,” she cut him off. “We didn’t talk. You simply announced they ‘don’t fit your circle.’ Yet Uncle Kolya and Sergey here seem like they’d be happy to see them.”
“Of course,” Sergey nodded. “Mikhail has golden hands. I’d love to talk to him.”
“And Grandpa promised to teach me how to make a fishing rod!” Vasya added, offended.
Galina Petrovna pressed her lips together.
“Children are attracted to all sorts of… simple entertainment,” she said. “But adults should understand the difference between… well, different levels of conversation.”
“Mom, don’t start,” Denis warned.
“I’m not starting anything,” she replied coolly. “There are people from our circle, and there are… simpler ones. That’s life. Why pretend?”
“And what exactly is in your ‘circle’?” Anna sat down, staring straight at her mother-in-law. “Discussing fur prices? Gossiping about neighbors?”
“Oooh, Anyochka,” Oksana smiled sugary sweet, “don’t take it personally. We’re just used to a certain level. And your parents—well, it’s always garden beds and canning. It’s boring.”
“At least it’s honest,” Anna snapped. “They don’t talk behind people’s backs and play aristocrats.”
“Enough!” Denis raised his voice. “This is my birthday, not a courtroom!”
“So is Grandpa coming or not?” Vasya asked quietly.
A heavy silence fell.
Nikolai Ivanovich cleared his throat awkwardly. Sergey stared at his plate. Galina and Oksana sat stone-faced. Denis looked at Anna with a stare that promised a serious talk later.
“He’s not coming,” Anna finally said, looking at the boy. “Because nobody invited him.”
The guests left around ten thirty.
Anna cleaned in silence, loading plates into the dishwasher. Denis walked around collecting empty glasses.
“Well, are you happy now?” he snapped at last. “You made a circus in front of everyone.”
“I made a circus?” Anna turned and met his eyes. “Was I the one who called someone’s parents ‘simple people not from our circle’?”
“And isn’t it true?” Denis shot back. “Let’s be honest. Your dad is a factory locksmith, your mom is a retired nurse. They live in the middle of nowhere, grow tomatoes, salt cabbage. Beaten-down and unpolished. And we live in the center of St. Petersburg. Education, careers—”
“And?” Anna’s voice shook. “Does that make us better than people who worked honestly their whole lives?”
“Not better—just… different.” Denis began pacing. “Different interests. Different conversation. I’m bored listening about potato harvests, do you get it? I’m a manager at a serious construction company!”
Anna went silent.
Seven years ago Denis had seemed brilliant, well-read, full of promise. She’d fallen for him instantly at the library corporate event, when he’d shown up with yet another girlfriend.
“And your mother’s stories about the neighbors are fascinating?” Anna asked. “Or Oksana’s endless complaints about loans and daycare?”
“That’s different,” Denis waved it off. “Those are real problems. Relevant.”
“And my parents’ problems aren’t real?”
“Your parents live in their own little world!” Denis exploded, pacing faster. “Garden, jars, commuter trains into the city once a month. It’s like—like a jungle!”
“A jungle?” Anna felt heat rush through her. “And when our faucet burst, who fixed it? Your refined father—or my ‘provincial’ locksmith?”
“What does the faucet have to do with anything?”
“It has everything to do with it. My ‘provincial’ dad fixed in one hour what the housing office plumber wanted five thousand rubles for.”
“Stop twisting things,” Denis snapped. “I’m not saying they’re bad people. I’m saying I have nothing to talk to them about. They live in their world—we live in ours.”
“Then why can everyone else talk to them just fine? Your dad. Sergey. Even Vasya?”
“Because they don’t care!” Denis shouted. “Dad will chat with anyone. Sergey barely talks at all. And the kid—kids just want someone to play with!”
Anna stared at him, desperate.
“What changed, Denis? You used to treat them normally.”
“You want the truth?” he said with disgust. “Before, I was acting. Lying. Pretending. I thought you’d outgrow clinging to your parents. I thought we’d build our own family—our own circle. I thought I could lift you up. But it’s not working. You’re pulling me down. And you’re not even satisfied with that—you tell them everything about our life, you ask them for advice on everything…”
“I talk to my parents,” Anna whispered. “Is that a crime?”
“It is when a grown woman can’t make a decision without mommy and daddy!” Denis’s voice rose higher and higher. “When she can’t crawl out of the mud she was born in! You’re stuck in a swamp!”
Anna opened her mouth to respond, but Denis kept going—each word hitting like a slap:
“Your parents are not my family. Do you understand? They never were. Two beaten-down pensioners from some hole in the ground who think anyone needs their advice. Let them sit in Tosno and stay out of our life!”
The room tilted. Anna leaned against the wall, dizzy, unable to believe what she’d just heard.
Seven years of pretending. Seven years of lies.
“You… you mean that?” she breathed.
“Absolutely.” Denis was breathing hard like he’d been running. “And since we’re being honest—stop dragging me to them. You want to go to Tosno? Go alone.”
Anna stared at him. And slowly, in her mind, a plan began to take shape—cold, precise, and perfectly fair.
His words echoed in her head for weeks, surfacing at the worst moments—while brushing her teeth, while standing in a grocery line, while scrolling her phone at night.
“Beaten-down pensioners.” “Let them sit in their backwater.”
She wanted to scream, cry, smash something—sometimes all at once.
Her own birthday was a month away.
Perfect timing.
“You know what,” she said at breakfast one morning, spreading jam on toast, “I want to celebrate at a restaurant. I’ve wanted that for a long time.”
Denis looked up from his phone.
“A restaurant? What’s wrong with home? It’s cheaper.”
“I want it to feel special. Elegant.” She smiled. “I already booked ‘Petrovsky.’ Remember it? We went there for your corporate party.”
“That’s expensive,” he muttered, but he didn’t argue. Maybe guilt from that awful fight still clung to him.
Anna prepared with almost obsessive care: gold-embossed invitations, a reserved table, a menu chosen down to the smallest detail.
Denis smirked.
“Look at you—like a queen. It’s just a birthday and you’re acting like it’s a coronation.”
“Once a year, I can spoil myself,” Anna replied, sorting invitation samples.
A week before the celebration, Denis went to his parents’ place to pick up winter tires from their garage.
“I can hand out the invitations while I’m there,” he offered, pulling on his jacket. “Mom, Dad, Oksana—also give them directions.”
“No,” Anna said quickly. “I want to give them personally. Make it formal. Elegant. I’ll explain everything.”
Denis shrugged.
“As you wish. Just don’t wait too long—they like to plan ahead.”
“Of course,” Anna nodded. “I’ll do it a couple days before.”
As soon as he left, she took the invitations and laid them on the table.
Eight invitations.
Only six would ever be delivered.
On her birthday, Anna woke up early, had her hair styled at a salon, and slipped into a new dress. She felt brilliant—like an actress stepping onto the stage at the most important scene.
“You look… glowing,” Denis said, straightening his tie. “Like a bride.”
“It’s my birthday,” Anna smiled. “Thirty-two is a serious number.”
On the drive to the restaurant, Denis was oddly tense, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and flipping radio stations every few seconds.
“Your parents are definitely coming, right?” he asked at a red light. “You know how uncomfortable they can feel in a restaurant…”
“They’ll come and they’ll be wonderful,” Anna said, calmly touching up her lipstick in the mirror.
At the restaurant, an administrator led them to their reserved table. It was set for eight people—beautifully arranged, flowers in the center.
Denis scanned the place settings, frowning.
“That’s weird… There should be ten. You and me, my parents, yours, Oksana and her husband, the kids…”
“It’s correct,” Anna said, taking the seat at the head of the table.
Her parents arrived first. They looked around timidly, clearly unsure in such an expensive place.
“Anyochka, sweetheart,” her mother hugged her. “It’s so beautiful here. And you look so lovely.”
Then Nikolai Ivanovich arrived with roses. After him came Sergey with Vasya, who immediately ran toward “Grandpa Misha” to tell him about a new game.
Denis stood near the table, counting seats. His face changed—confusion, then realization, then rage.
“Where is my mother?” he asked quietly, stepping closer to Anna. “Where’s Oksana?”
Anna looked at him with innocent eyes.
“They aren’t on the guest list.”
“What do you mean, they aren’t on the guest list?”
“I mean exactly that.” Anna folded her hands. “I invited only family. My real family.”
Denis went pale.
“Call my mother and Oksana right now,” he hissed. “Invite them immediately. Be polite. And you’re not starting this celebration until they arrive. Otherwise I’m shutting down this whole circus and we’re going home.”
Anna turned slowly to face him. The others pretended to study the menu, but she could see everyone listening.
“Denis, darling,” she said evenly, “I’m the host. And I will decide who is here—and who isn’t.”
“That’s my family!” Denis almost shouted. “You can’t just not invite my mother!”
“I can.” Anna leaned back. “Because I’m done tolerating people who disrespect my parents. People who call them ‘not from our circle.’”
Her father started to rise, but her mother gently pressed his shoulder back down. Nikolai Ivanovich cleared his throat. Vasya’s eyes darted between Uncle Denis and Aunt Anna, wide as plates.
“Fine.” Denis straightened and buttoned his jacket. “Then here’s my condition: you call them right now and invite them—or I’m leaving too.”
Silence.
Anna felt an astonishing calm, as if a heavy weight she’d carried for weeks had finally slid off her shoulders.
“Go,” she said flatly, unfolding her napkin.
Denis blinked.
“What?”
“I said leave. The door is still in the same place. I hope you haven’t forgotten where it is in the last half hour.”
“Anya, are you out of your mind—”
“I’m completely sane.” Her voice stayed level. “I just realized during our last fight that I don’t want to live with you anymore. These three weeks I stayed quiet for one reason only—so you could feel the same humiliation my parents felt on your birthday.”
Mikhail Semyonovich jerked his head up.
“Humiliation? What happened?”
“Later, Dad,” Anna said without taking her eyes off Denis. “So—are you leaving, or are you staying to ruin my evening?”
“You can’t do this, Anya…”
“I can.” Anna’s gaze didn’t waver. “And you know what? It’s shocking how easy it is. For seven years I thought you loved me. Turns out you just tolerated me. Tolerated my family. Lied every day. Well—good news. You don’t have to tolerate anything anymore. Get out.”
Denis looked around the table, searching for allies.
“Dad,” he turned to Nikolai Ivanovich, “you understand this is wrong—”
Nikolai Ivanovich shook his head slowly.
“Son… what’s right? What you said about Mikhail and Nina? Do you think Anya is wrong?”
“Denis,” Sergey added quietly, “maybe don’t make a scene. Anya has the right to invite whoever she wants.”
“This is betrayal!” Denis shouted. “I’m your relative!”
“And my parents are what to you?” Anna stepped close, her voice still controlled. “For seven years they thought you were a son. And you were just ‘tolerating’ them. Acting. Lying. So who’s the betrayer here?”
Denis opened and closed his mouth like a fish on dry land. Then he spun around and stormed toward the exit.
“You’ll regret this! You’ll come crawling back to me on your knees!”
“Don’t hold your breath,” Anna said calmly.
The door slammed. Silence lingered over the table.
Anna sat down and looked at the faces she truly loved.
“So,” she said, lifting her champagne glass, “shall we celebrate? Looks like I finally have a real reason.”
Her mother raised her glass first. Then her father. Then everyone else joined in.
“To freedom,” Anna said softly.
“To family,” her father added, pride shining in his eyes. “To real family.”