Anna stood at the stove, stirring chicken fillet in a creamy sauce in a frying pan. Behind her she could hear voices—her husband Viktor was greeting guests in the entryway. Today his colleagues were coming over for dinner with their wives, and she’d been cooking for three hours straight.
“Just please let it get through tonight without his stupid little jokes,” she thought, tasting the sauce. It turned out perfect—tender, aromatic, exactly the way all their guests liked it.
“Come in, come on into the living room!” her husband’s voice rang out. “Anna’s just finishing dinner. She’s quite the cook, though sometimes she overdoes it with the salt.”
Anna froze, spoon in hand. “Again! God—why does he do this every single time?”
Four people came into the living room: Sergey with his wife Olga, and Dmitry with his wife Svetlana. Anna only knew them superficially—they’d met a couple of times at corporate parties.
“How are you, Anna?” Olga leaned into the kitchen. “It smells невероятно appetizing!”
“Thank you,” Anna forced a smile, shooting a quick glance at her husband. “It’ll be ready soon.”
“Anna’s making chicken in a special sauce,” Viktor chimed in, pouring wine. “Last time it turned out kind of greasy, but today I’m hoping she’s corrected herself.”
Anna clenched her teeth until her jaw ached. “Greasy”? Last time everyone had asked for the recipe and seconds!
“Vitya, don’t pick on your wife,” Sergey laughed. “Olga can’t cook at all—we order food in.”
“But I’m rich in other talents,” Olga replied coquettishly, and everyone laughed.
Anna turned off the stove and began plating the food. Her hands were shaking with anger. “Why does he do this every time? I asked him not to joke about my cooking in front of people!”
“Dinner’s ready,” she announced, forcing herself to smile.
They all sat down at the table. Anna watched as the guests tried her chicken. You could tell by their faces the dish had turned out brilliantly.
“Anna, this is fantastic!” Svetlana exclaimed. “Such a refined sauce! Where did you learn to cook like this?”
“Oh, it’s not difficult,” Anna felt some of the tension ease. “The key is not to overcook the meat…”
“Yes, Anna likes experimenting with recipes,” Viktor cut in with a smirk. “Sometimes it even turns out edible.”
An awkward pause hung in the air. The guests exchanged confused looks, not knowing how to react to a “joke” like that—her husband making fun of his wife.
“Vitya, what are you saying?” Olga frowned at him reproachfully. “It’s unbelievably delicious!”
“Oh, I don’t mean anything bad,” Viktor spread his hands with exaggerated innocence. “Just being honest. Anna knows I value openness in a family.”
Anna looked at her husband, feeling fury boil inside her. “Values openness”? Then let him be openly honest and admit he can’t even boil dumplings!
“Do you cook yourself, Viktor?” Svetlana suddenly asked, her voice cool.
“Me? Of course not,” he waved it off. “I’ve got serious work. At home I want to rest. That’s women’s territory—the kitchen.”
“I see,” Svetlana nodded, icy notes appearing in her voice. “A very convenient position.”
The rest of the dinner went by in a tense atmosphere. Anna barely joined the conversation, answering questions mechanically. One thought hammered in her head: “How dare he treat me like this in front of people? I told him directly—don’t do this!”
After the guests left, Anna clattered plates into the dishwasher. Viktor settled onto the couch with a beer and brazenly turned football on at full volume.
“Not a bad evening,” he said without taking his eyes off the screen. “Sergey praised your chicken.”
Anna slammed the dishwasher door so hard the dishes rattled.
“Yes, he did. Despite your constant digs.”
“What digs?” Viktor glanced lazily at his wife. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Seriously?” Anna turned to him, crossing her arms. “‘Overdoes it with the salt,’ ‘last time it was greasy,’ ‘sometimes it even turns out edible’—those aren’t digs?”
“Anya, those are just jokes,” he shrugged, still watching TV. “You take everything too personally.”
“Jokes? In front of guests? At my expense?” Anna’s voice trembled with outrage. “Vitya, I told you—don’t do that!”
“What’s wrong with me honestly evaluating your cooking?” He finally tore his gaze from the screen and looked at her irritably. “You’re not a restaurant chef—you can make mistakes.”
Anna stared at him, not believing her ears. Fourteen years of marriage, and he still didn’t understand how much his “jokes” hurt.
“Can you cook better than me?” she asked.
“What does that have to do with anything?” he grimaced. “We have a clear division of responsibilities—I earn the money, you run the household.”
“Then don’t criticize what you can’t do yourself,” Anna snapped. “Especially in front of other people.”
“Anna, why are you freaking out?” He stood up, shaking his head in irritation. “You’re throwing a tantrum over a few words.”
“A tantrum?” she threw up her hands. “Vitya, you humiliate me in front of people! Every time guests come over, you have to say something dismissive about my cooking!”
“Oh, come on!” he waved her off. “You’re exaggerating! I don’t do it to be mean!”
“Then why? For laughs? To look witty?”
Viktor fell silent, clearly searching for words.
“It’s just… how guys talk. They rib each other, make jokes. It’s normal.”
“But you’re not joking about a buddy—you’re joking about me. About your wife.”
“Oh God, Anna, why are you acting like a child?” He rubbed his face with his hands. “So I joked a little. You know I actually appreciate your cooking.”
“How would I know that if you say the exact opposite in front of people?”
Silence filled the room. Viktor paced the living room, clearly not understanding what she wanted from him.
“Fine,” he muttered at last. “Next time I’ll try to be more tactful. That work for you?”
Anna looked at him for a long moment. “Try to be more tactful”? He still didn’t get the problem.
“Vitya,” she said slowly, “if you so much as hint again in front of anyone that I cook badly—you’ll be cooking for yourself. Forever.”
“What nonsense,” he snorted. “You’re going to destroy a family over such trivialities?”
“It’s not trivial to me,” Anna said firmly. “It’s disrespect. And I’m not going to tolerate it anymore.”
Three months passed. Viktor behaved more carefully, but Anna could feel he considered her complaints exaggerated. “He just won’t joke in front of me,” she thought. “But the moment there’s a chance, he’ll say something again.”
On Saturday they went to Anna’s best friend Marina’s place. A small group gathered to celebrate Marina’s husband Igor’s birthday. Besides them, there were two more couples—mutual friends.
Anna brought her signature Napoleon cake—a dessert that always had huge success. She’d spent four hours at the stove: rolling out the layers, cooking the custard. It turned out perfect as always—delicate, airy, melting in your mouth.
“Anya, you’re a magician!” Marina marveled as she cut the cake. “It’s so beautiful! And it smells divine!”
“Yes, it looks professional,” Igor agreed. “Anna, you have golden hands.”
Everyone tried the cake and began praising it. Anna bloomed under the compliments, feeling proud of her work.
“Anna really bakes wonderfully,” Viktor said, putting another bite in his mouth. “Though this time the cream turned out a bit runny—but overall, not bad.”
Dead silence. Everyone stared at Viktor in disbelief. The cream was perfect—everyone could see that.
“Vitya,” Anna called softly, feeling her face flush with shame. “The cream is fine.”
“Maybe it just seemed that way to me,” he shrugged. “Though compared to last time, it’s definitely runnier.”
Marina suddenly set her fork down with a sharp clink.
“Viktor, do you even hear yourself?” her voice rang with anger. “How can you humiliate your own wife like that?”
“What’s the big deal?” he looked at his wife’s friend, confused. “I’m not scolding her, I’m just being honest…”
“Honest?!” Marina stood up, eyes blazing. “Anna spent four hours making a masterpiece, and you still find something to nitpick—in front of people! That’s vile!”
“Marin, don’t,” Anna tried to intervene, but her friend didn’t listen.
“No—let him hear it!” Marina pointed at Viktor. “You do this every time! Anna told me! She cooks like a goddess, and you criticize her in front of everyone! What kind of behavior is that?”
“I have a right to my opinion,” Viktor mumbled, red as a lobster.
“What opinion?!” Marina snapped back. “Do you even know how to cook anything at all—besides bologna sandwiches?”
The other guests stayed silent, staring into their plates. The atmosphere became unbearably awkward.
“You know what,” Anna stood up, keeping her composure. “We should go. Thanks for the evening, Marin.”
“Anya, don’t leave because of this…” Marina began, but Anna shook her head.
“No, really—we should. Vitya, let’s go.”
They drove home in graveyard silence. Viktor gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles; Anna stared out the window, replaying what had happened again and again.
At home Anna went into the bedroom without a word and began changing. Viktor hovered in the doorway, clearly expecting a fight.
“Anya, what a mess that was,” he finally ventured. “Marina totally lost it. Over such nonsense…”
Anna turned slowly to him.
“Over nonsense?”
“Yeah. I really noticed the cream was a bit runny…”
“Viktor,” Anna cut him off. “The cream was perfect. You know that.”
“Maybe it just seemed…”
“It didn’t,” she stepped closer. “You just can’t stop yourself from those stupid jokes. Even after I asked you directly not to.”
Viktor looked away.
“It just slipped out… I didn’t mean it.”
“Slipped out?” Anna gave a small, bitter laugh. “For fourteen years it ‘slips out’? Every chance you get?”
“Anna, stop making drama!” he snapped. “So I said something wrong. You know I appreciate your cooking!”
“No,” she said calmly. “I don’t know that. Because in front of people you always say the opposite.”
Viktor paced the bedroom, tugging nervously at his collar.
“Fine, fine. Sorry. I won’t do it again. You see what an unpleasant situation it caused.”
“The unpleasant thing isn’t that Marina told you the truth,” Anna said, pulling a nightgown from the closet. “The unpleasant thing is that for fourteen years you’ve been humiliating your wife in front of people.”
“I’m not humiliating you!” he raised his voice. “I’m just making comments sometimes! That’s normal in a family!”
“In front of guests it’s not normal,” Anna cut in. “And you know it.”
“Okay, okay. I get it. I won’t do it again. I promise.”
Anna looked at him for a long time. In his eyes she saw no remorse—only irritation that he’d been “caught.”
“Too late,” she said quietly.
“Too late? What do you mean too late?”
“Too late to promise. I warned you three months ago. I said clearly—if you do it again in front of people, you’ll cook for yourself.”
Viktor blinked, stunned.
“You’re serious? Over one phrase?”
“Over fourteen years of the same phrases,” Anna began taking off her jewelry. “Starting tomorrow, you cook for yourself. I’m tired of being the punchline of your jokes.”
“Anna, that’s ridiculous! You’re going to break the household routine over such nonsense!”
“Not break it. Change it,” she replied evenly. “You call my cooking ‘nonsense’—then you’ll live without it.”
“But I don’t think it’s nonsense! I said I value it!”
“You say that to me. In front of people—you say something else.”
Viktor went quiet, thinking.
“So what, forever? You just won’t cook at all?”
“I will,” Anna nodded. “For myself. And you’ll manage on your own.”
“But I can’t cook anything complicated!”
“Then you shouldn’t have criticized someone who can,” she lay down, turning her back to him. “Good night.”
In the morning Anna got up, made herself breakfast, and ate calmly while reading the news on her phone. Viktor stumbled into the kitchen, hoping to find coffee and sandwiches ready.
“What about breakfast?” he asked, bewildered, staring at the empty stove.
“Bread’s on the shelf, butter and bologna are in the fridge,” Anna said without looking up. “Coffee’s in the cupboard.”
“Anna, come on, stop messing around,” he stepped closer. “Let’s just forget yesterday. I apologized.”
“I’m not messing around,” she stood up and rinsed her cup. “I said you’ll cook for yourself. And it’s going to be for a while.”
“How long is ‘a while’?”
“We’ll see,” Anna said and walked out, leaving him alone with the unfamiliar task.
Viktor tried to fry eggs and burned them into a rubbery sole. The coffee was either too strong or too weak. The sandwiches fell apart in his hands.
“Whatever, I’ll get used to it,” he thought, chewing charred eggs. “Anna will cool off and everything will go back to normal.”
But Anna didn’t cool off. One week, then two, then three—she cooked only for herself. Viktor ate convenience food, ordered delivery, sometimes went to cafés. He started spending three times as much money on food.
“Anna, this is stupid,” he tried to negotiate again. “You’re spending the same time cooking for one. Why not just cook for two?”
“Because you don’t value my work,” Anna answered calmly, stirring fragrant vegetables in a pan.
“I do! How many times do I have to say it?”
“In front of people, you don’t. Which means you don’t at all.”
Viktor watched her cook herself elegant dinners while he pulled yet another frozen pizza from the freezer. The smell of her food drove him crazy; the taste of processed meals became more and more disgusting.
Two months later Viktor’s parents came to visit. Anna made duck with apples for herself—his mother’s favorite dish. The smell throughout the apartment was intoxicating.
“Annochka, what is that wonderful smell?” his mother exclaimed. “Are you cooking duck?”
“Yes, but only for myself,” Anna replied calmly. “Vitya eats separately.”
His parents exchanged bewildered looks.
“How is it separately?” his father asked.
“Like this. I cook for myself; he cooks for himself,” Anna said, continuing to set the table for only one.
Viktor came into the kitchen holding a bag of dumplings.
“Mom, Dad, sit down. I’ll quickly boil some dumplings,” he said brightly, but his parents looked at him like he’d lost his mind.
“Vitya, what’s going on?” his mother asked. “Why is Anna refusing to cook for the family?”
“Oh, just temporary disagreements,” Viktor mumbled uncertainly. “It’ll be fine soon.”
“It won’t,” Anna cut in, slicing the duck neatly. “For fourteen years Vitya criticized my cooking in front of people. Now he can cook for himself.”
“Son, what nonsense is this?” his mother scolded. “Why criticize Anna? She cooks прекрасно!”
“I didn’t really criticize,” he blushed. “I just joked sometimes…”
“In front of guests,” Anna уточнила. “Every time you found something to nitpick.”
His father shook his head.
“Vitya, how could you? Your wife tries, and you embarrass her in front of people?”
“I didn’t embarrass her…”
“You did,” Anna said flatly. “And now you deal with the consequences.”
His parents tried to persuade their daughter-in-law, but she wouldn’t budge. They left upset, and Viktor spent the rest of the evening gloomily staring at a plate of overboiled dumplings.
Another month and a half passed. Viktor lost weight, looked worn out, grew irritable. Constant convenience food and café meals affected his health, mood—and his wallet.
“Anna, how long is this going to go on?” he begged one evening, watching his wife enjoy a fragrant roast. “I understand my mistake! I’ll never joke about your cooking again!”
“Too late,” she replied evenly. “I’m used to cooking only for myself. It’s calmer this way.”
“But this isn’t normal! We’re a family!”
“In a family people respect each other,” Anna looked at him. “And you didn’t respect me for fourteen years.”
“I did! I just expressed it badly!”
“Only badly in front of other people,” she pointed out. “With me you always praised my cooking. Which means you knew it was good. But in front of people, you wanted to be witty at my expense.”
Viktor fell silent, realizing he had nothing to argue with.
“So what now—this is how we’ll live?”
“We will,” Anna nodded. “You wanted to be witty in front of guests—you got what you wanted. Now you can be as witty as you like about your dumplings.”
She got up from the table, leaving her husband alone with his thoughts. Viktor looked at his half-eaten fried egg and thought that some jokes cost too much. But it was too late—words can’t be taken back, and he had lost his wife’s trust forever.
“I brought it on myself,” he thought bitterly, throwing yet another burnt meal into the trash. And it was the most honest thought he’d had in months.
