Zinaida slowly set her fork down on the plate. Sunday lunch at Roman Petrovich’s house followed the usual script—her father-in-law presided at the head of the table, handing out orders and remarks to everyone present. Most of it landed on her, the daughter-in-law he openly despised.
“Salted the soup again,” Roman Petrovich pushed the bowl away as if it contained poison. “To ruin such a simple dish—you really have to try. My late wife cooked so well you’d lick your fingers, and you…”
“I like Zina’s cooking,” Svyatoslav, Zinaida’s husband, put in quietly.
“SILENCE!” his father barked. “Are you even a man or a rag? Your wife’s washed your brains clean through. Look at yourself—skulking around like a stray dog, can’t say a word against her!”
Zinaida clenched the napkin under the table. For three years she had endured her father-in-law’s abuse, three years of his insults, because Svyatoslav begged her to be patient—“Father is an old man, his temper got worse after Mom died.”
“Roman Petrovich,” Zinaida tried to keep her voice calm, “maybe that’s enough, in front of guests…”
“What’s the matter?” her father-in-law turned his whole body toward her. “Does the truth hurt your eyes? You came into MY house, so you’ll listen to what I say. Svyatik could have found himself a normal woman, not this…” He flicked his hand at her with contempt.
Also at the table were Roman Petrovich’s brother, Yelisey, with his wife Varvara, and their daughter Yesenia. All of them kept silent, eyes lowered to their plates.
“I studied at a culinary college,” Zinaida tried to defend herself. “I have a chef’s diploma…”
“A DIPLOMA!” Roman Petrovich burst out laughing. “The only use for that diploma is in the toilet! You cook like a pig, you look like a scarecrow, and you still dare to open your mouth!”
Svyatoslav sat as red as a boiled crayfish, but said nothing. Zinaida looked at her husband—he averted his eyes.
“You know what infuriates me most?” the father-in-law kept raging. “What do you imagine yourself to be? Think that just because you got married, you can run things here now? NO, darling! This is MY house, MY rules!”
“Dad, maybe that’s enough?” Svyatoslav ventured timidly.
“SHUT UP!” his father snapped. “It’s because of men like you that women sit on your neck! Look at Yelisey—that’s a real man! And you? Pah, disgrace!”
Yelisey coughed awkwardly but kept quiet. Varvara furtively patted his hand.
“And anyway,” Roman Petrovich turned back to Zinaida, “when am I going to see grandchildren? It’s been three years! Or are you not up to that either? Barren, are you?”
That was the last straw. Zinaida pushed back from the table.
“Listen here, MAN, have you lost your mind?” Her voice rang with restrained fury.
A deathly silence fell over the dining room. Roman Petrovich rose slowly from his chair, his face turning purple.
“What did you say, girl?”
“What you heard,” Zinaida drew herself up. “I’m not your maid and not a punching bag. ENOUGH of you bullying me!”
“How dare you…”
“SHUT UP!” Zinaida suddenly shouted, to everyone’s astonishment. “Now you’re going to listen! For three years I’ve put up with your antics, for three years I’ve kept my mouth shut while you dragged me through the mud! But you know what? I’ve had ENOUGH!”
“Zina…” Svyatoslav began.
“And you BE QUIET!” she turned to her husband. “You let your father HUMILIATE me every single day! You’re a COWARD, Slava! A COWARD!”
“Don’t you speak to my son like that!” roared Roman Petrovich.
“Oh, so only you get to INSULT everyone?” Zinaida stepped right up to her father-in-law. “You think that just because you have a house and money, you can treat people like they’re nothing? You’re mistaken, OLD MAN!”
“GET OUT of my house!” Roman Petrovich shook with rage. “Out, you tramp!”
“With pleasure!” Zinaida tore off her apron and flung it on the table. “And Svyatoslav is coming with me!”
“Zina, wait…” her husband looked helplessly from her to his father.
“Choose, Slava. Either you come with me, or you stay here LICKING Daddy’s boots for the rest of your days!”
“If you walk out with her, don’t bother coming back!” Roman Petrovich growled. “I’ll strike you from my will!”
Svyatoslav blanched. Zinaida gave a bitter little smile.
“That’s that, then. Now it’s clear what matters more to you—Daddy’s money or your wife. Stay here with your millions!”
She turned and headed for the door.
“Zina, wait!” Svyatoslav jumped up. “Dad, apologize to her!”
“WHAT?!” Roman Petrovich practically choked. “I should apologize to that… that…”
“To my WIFE!” For the first time in three years, Svyatoslav raised his voice to his father. “You INSULT her every day! This can’t go on!”
“Oh, it can’t?” his father narrowed his eyes menacingly. “Then GET OUT, both of you! And don’t you ever set foot in here again!”
Yesenia, who had been silent all this time, suddenly stood up.
“Uncle Roma, you’re wrong. Zinaida is a good woman, and you are truly too CRUEL to her.”
“You too!” exploded Roman Petrovich. “You’ve all conspired against me!”
“No one conspired,” Yelisey spoke up. “You really are going too far, brother. Zinaida is right—you can’t treat people like that.”
“Traitors!” Roman Petrovich clutched his heart. “All of you, traitors! OUT! Get OUT!”
The guests began to gather their things in a hurry. Zinaida was already in the entryway, pulling on her coat. Svyatoslav ran to her.
“Forgive me, Zinochka. I was a coward. Let’s go home.”
“We don’t have a home, Slava. We’re renting an apartment with your father’s money, remember?”
“We’ll find another place. I’ll take a second job, we’ll manage somehow.”
Zinaida looked at her husband for a long moment.
“You know what? I’m going to my mother’s in Tver. I’ll think about whether I NEED a husband who let me be humiliated for three years.”
“Zina…”
“That’s it, Slava. I’m tired. When you decide what matters more—Daddy’s money or your family—give me a call.”
She walked out. Svyatoslav stood in the doorway, not knowing what to do.
“Svyatik!” his father’s bellow came from the dining room. “Get in here, you spineless amoeba!”
Svyatoslav clenched his fists and went back to the dining room. Roman Petrovich sat at the table, red-faced and disheveled.
“Well, happy now? The woman dumped you! I told you—she doesn’t love you, she only married you for the money!”
“She married me when I had nothing,” Svyatoslav said quietly. “You’re the one who suggested we move in here.”
“So I could keep an eye on you! And I was right—see what she turned out to be! A shrew!”
“Dad,” Svyatoslav sat down opposite him, “Mom wouldn’t have approved of your behavior.”
Roman Petrovich jerked as if struck.
“Don’t you dare mention your mother!”
“She always said you have to respect people. And you…”
“BE QUIET!” His father slammed his fist on the table. “Your mother was a saint! Not like that…”
“Dad, I’m LEAVING,” Svyatoslav stood up. “And I won’t come back until you apologize to Zina.”
“Good riddance!” rasped Roman Petrovich. “And don’t expect an inheritance!”
Svyatoslav shrugged and walked out. Roman Petrovich was left sitting in the empty dining room among the dirty dishes.
A week passed. Roman Petrovich sat in his study looking through paperwork. Or rather, trying to—letters blurred before his eyes. Since that disastrous Sunday his health had gone downhill—his blood pressure spiked, his head ached.
The phone was silent. Svyatoslav didn’t call, nor did Yelisey after that scandal. Even Yesenia, who used to visit often, disappeared.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in!”
In came the housekeeper, Margarita Arkadyevna—an elderly woman who had worked in the house since his wife’s lifetime.
“Roman Petrovich, lunch is ready.”
“I don’t want to eat.”
“You’ve barely eaten for three days,” the housekeeper said gently. “That won’t do.”
“Margarita Arkadyevna,” he leaned back in his chair, “tell me honestly—was I really that bad to Zinaida?”
The housekeeper hesitated.
“You were… strict with her. Very strict.”
“But she really does cook badly!”
“Forgive me, Roman Petrovich, but that’s not true. Zinaida Igorevna cooks wonderfully. I’ve tasted her dishes myself—they’re very good.”
He stared at the housekeeper.
“But… why did you keep quiet?”
“Would you have listened? You don’t listen to anyone, Roman Petrovich. Forgive me for being blunt.”
The old man sank back. When had he last listened to anyone?
“Go on, Margarita Arkadyevna. I’ll eat later.”
She left. He pulled out his phone and dialed Svyatoslav’s number. Long beeps, then voicemail. He hung up.
That evening the doorbell rang. He brightened—could his son be back? He hurried to open it.
A young man in a business suit stood on the threshold.
“Roman Petrovich Sviridov?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“My name is Miroslav Denisovich Zhuravlyov; I represent the law firm ‘Legal Standard.’ I’ve been instructed to deliver these documents to you.”
He handed over a folder. Bewildered, Roman Petrovich took it.
“What is this?”
“A claim for division of property. Your son, Svyatoslav Romanovich, is demanding allocation of his statutory share in the estate of your late spouse.”
“WHAT?! But she left everything to me!”
“By law, a son is entitled to a compulsory share. The details are in the documents. Good day.”
The lawyer left. With shaking hands, Roman Petrovich opened the folder. It was indeed a lawsuit. And Svyatoslav’s signature.
He grabbed the phone and dialed his son again. This time Svyatoslav answered.
“Yes, Father?”
“What are you doing?! What lawsuit?!”
“Father, you yourself said you’d cut me out of the inheritance. But by law I’m entitled to a share of Mom’s apartment and the dacha. She bought them with her own money when she worked as chief accountant.”
“Son, have you lost your mind? This is treason!”
“No, Father. Treason is when a father humiliates his son’s wife and thinks that’s normal. I found a job; Zina and I are renting an apartment. We need money.”
“She came back?! That…”
“Don’t start. Yes, Zina gave me a second chance. But if you say one more bad word about her, I’ll cut off all contact, permanently.”
“Svyatoslav…”
“Apologize to her, Father. Apologize publicly, and I’ll withdraw the suit.”
“NEVER!”
“Then I’ll see you in court.”
Svyatoslav hung up. In a rage, Roman Petrovich hurled the phone at the wall.
A month went by. Roman Petrovich sat in the waiting room of attorney Arseny Platonovich Melnikov—one of the best lawyers in the city.
“Roman Petrovich, the situation is difficult,” the lawyer shook his head. “Your son really does have a right to part of your late wife’s property.”
“But she left a will in my favor!”
“Yes, but the dacha and the apartment on Tikhaya Street were purchased before your marriage, with Elena Mikhailovna’s personal funds. By law, the son is entitled to half.”
“Half?!”
“I’m afraid so. If this goes to court, you’ll lose.”
He left the office completely crushed. At home another surprise awaited him—the housekeeper, Margarita Arkadyevna, announced with a guilty look that she was quitting.
“But why?!”
“Roman Petrovich, I’m not young anymore. I want to move to my daughter’s in Krasnodar. Help with the grandkids.”
“I’ll raise your salary!”
“It’s not about the money,” she said with a sad smile. “It’s just… this house has become too lonely and cold. I’m sorry.”
She left the same day. He was alone in the huge house.
That evening he tried to cook himself dinner. The pasta clumped together; the cutlets burned. He remembered with a pang how he had criticized Zinaida’s cooking. She really did cook deliciously…
That night he felt ill. A sharp pain stabbed his heart so badly he barely managed to reach the phone and call an ambulance. At the hospital, a young doctor named Vesta scolded him sternly:
“Roman Petrovich, you’re in a pre-infarction state. Stress, poor diet, loneliness—at your age all of that is very bad for the heart.”
“What should I do?”
“First, avoid stress. Second, eat properly. Third, don’t live alone. You need care.”
He returned home utterly dejected. The house seemed enormous and empty. He wandered through the rooms and everywhere he saw ghosts of the past—there was Zinaida setting the table, there Svyatoslav laughing at some joke, there Elena, his late wife, shaking her head reproachfully…
He took out his phone and called Yelisey.
“Hello, brother?”
“Yelisey, it’s me. Can you come over?”
“Roman, I’m busy. I have an important meeting.”
“Yelisey, I’m unwell…”
“Call a doctor. Sorry, I have to go.” The line went dead. Even his own brother had turned away.
Two more weeks passed. He received a court summons—the hearing on Svyatoslav’s claim was set for the following month. Attorney Melnikov advised settling, but pride wouldn’t allow it.
One evening the doorbell rang. Now cooking and cleaning for himself (he couldn’t find a new housekeeper—word of his nasty temper had spread through the whole district), he went to open.
Zinaida stood on the threshold. Alone, without Svyatoslav.
“Good evening, Roman Petrovich.”
“What do you want?” He meant to sound rude, but he had no strength left.
“May I come in? We need to talk.”
He stepped aside silently. Zinaida walked into the living room, glanced around.
“You look unwell, Roman Petrovich.”
“None of your business.”
“It is my business. You’re my husband’s father. The grandfather of my future children.”
He flinched.
“You… you’re pregnant?”
“Yes. Two months.”
The old man sank heavily into a chair.
“Does Svyatoslav know?”
“Of course. He’s happy. He wanted to tell you himself, but…”
“But I ruined everything,” he finished for her.
Zinaida sat down opposite him.
“Why are you doing this, Roman Petrovich? Why push away everyone who loves you?”
“Loves me?” he gave a bitter smile. “Who loves me?”
“Svyatoslav. Despite everything, he loves you. And worries about you. And I… I liked you too, until you started humiliating me.”
“I… I didn’t mean to,” he suddenly broke. “After Elena died, I turned into a beast. I felt like the whole world was against me. And you… you were a stranger. I was afraid you’d take my son away from me.”
“And instead you pushed him away yourself.”
“Yes,” he bowed his head. “I’m a foolish old man.”
Zinaida stood, came over, and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“It’s not too late to fix things. Apologize. Sincerely apologize, and we’ll come back.”
“Come back?”
“Yes. Svyatoslav misses you. And I… I understand that you’re just a lonely man who doesn’t know how to express his feelings except through aggression.”
He lifted his eyes to hers. They were full of tears.
“Zinaida, FORGIVE me. FORGIVE this old fool. I was wrong, terribly wrong. You’re a good girl, a good wife to my son. Forgive me…”
She embraced her father-in-law.
“I forgive you. But never again, do you hear me, NEVER again will you speak rudely to me or to anyone else.”
“I promise,” he whispered.
A week later, life returned to Roman Petrovich’s house. Svyatoslav and Zinaida moved back in with their things. The lawsuit was withdrawn; attorney Melnikov sighed with relief.
And Roman Petrovich truly changed. He no longer criticized Zinaida’s cooking (which turned out to be superb indeed), didn’t make cutting remarks, didn’t shout. When Yelisey and his family came to visit and saw the change, they could hardly believe their eyes.
“Brother, what happened to you?” asked Yelisey.
“I realized that family isn’t property,” said Roman Petrovich. “And that respect can’t be demanded by force. You have to earn it.”
Yesenia came up and kissed her uncle on the cheek.
“Now I like you, Uncle Roma!”
The dinner table buzzed with conversation. Zinaida talked about her plans to open a small homestyle café; Svyatoslav proudly shared news about his new job at an architecture bureau; Varvara chatted about the library where she worked.
“And what will you name the baby?” Yesenia asked.
“If it’s a boy—Miron; if it’s a girl—Vasilisa,” Zinaida replied.
“Beautiful names,” approved Roman Petrovich. “I’ll spoil my grandchild!”
“Just not too much,” his son warned. “Or you’ll ruin their character.”
“Like mine?” Roman Petrovich smiled ruefully.
“Dad, you’re changing. That’s what matters.”
After dinner, when the guests had left and Svyatoslav and Zinaida went to their room, Roman Petrovich remained in the living room. But now the quiet didn’t weigh on him—he knew that in the next room his son and daughter-in-law were sleeping, and that soon the house would ring with a child’s laughter.
He took out a photo album and opened it to a picture of his late wife.
“Forgive me, Lenochka. I was a fool. But it seems not everything is lost.”
It seemed to him that Elena’s smile in the photo had grown a little warmer.
In the morning, the aroma of fresh baking woke him. He went into the kitchen and saw Zinaida taking golden buns out of the oven.
“Good morning, Roman Petrovich! Breakfast is almost ready.”
“Good morning, my dear.”
Zinaida turned, surprised at the form of address.
“May I call you ‘daughter’?” the father-in-law asked shyly. “I never had a daughter…”
Zinaida smiled and hugged him.
“Of course you may. Dad.”
At that moment a sleepy Svyatoslav came into the kitchen.
“Oh, my favorite people are already hugging! Without me!”
He joined the embrace. Holding his son and daughter-in-law, Roman Petrovich thought how close he had come to losing all of this forever. It was a good thing Zinaida had turned out wiser and stronger than he’d thought. A good thing she had stood up to his boorishness and forced him to come to his senses.
“All right, enough sentimentality!” he stepped back, hiding the tears in his eyes. “Let’s eat before everything gets cold.”
They sat down at the table. He picked up a bun, took a bite, and froze.
“Zinochka, this is divine!”
“Thank you, Dad,” she said with a bashful smile.
“No, really! I haven’t eaten buns this good… I don’t even remember when!”
“I told you she’s an excellent cook,” Svyatoslav put in.
“Yes, son, you were right. And I was an old stubborn donkey.”
They laughed. Roman Petrovich looked at them and thought that this was the best morning he’d had in years.
