Part 1. Someone Else’s Bill and a Forgotten Grudge
The office smelled of expensive leather and the air purifier that hummed steadily in the corner. Timur leaned back in his chair, savoring the pleasant weight of his new status.
Regional Director of Logistics at a major construction holding company. It sounded solid. He ran his palm over the smooth surface of the bog-oak desktop. Now everything would be different.
He took out his phone and scrolled through his contacts. He needed to gather everyone by Saturday. This had to be more than just a get-together—it had to be a demonstration of power and success. First on the list was Valery Pavlovich, the man whose signature decided million-ruble tenders. Then Oleg and his wife—useful people from the administration. Of course, his brother Igor and their mother. Aunt Tamara would invite herself the moment she heard.
Timur gave a satisfied snort. He liked it when everything went according to plan.
His gaze fell on the photo of his wife on the phone’s lock screen. Svetlana. Beautiful, convenient, domestic. Though lately she’d been oddly distant.
His memory obligingly served up an episode from three months earlier. Back then, Svetlana’s mother, Tatyana Borisovna, had a jubilee coming up—sixty years. Svetlana, usually calm, had approached him with a request that Timur considered the height of audacity.
“Tim, the restaurant is turning out expensive. Mom saved from her pension, but prices jumped. Can we add some? You got a bonus. It’s a jubilee—a round number.”
Timur hadn’t even looked up from his laptop. He was studying the specs of a new car he planned to lease.
“Svet, every penny is accounted for. I’m investing in our future. And your mom could celebrate at home if money doesn’t allow. It’s her holiday, not mine. Why should I sponsor someone else’s fun?”
Svetlana froze. Something flickered in her eyes—not hurt, no. More like surprise mixed with disgust. She didn’t say anything, just left the room.
She found the money for the jubilee herself—apparently broke open her little stash she’d been saving for vacation and took on extra translation work. At the party, Timur sat with a sour face, pointedly refused to drink what he considered cheap champagne, and left first, blaming a headache.
“NO, well what was I supposed to do?” he muttered now, justifying himself to an invisible interlocutor. “Everyone has their own budget.”
But now that the celebration would be his, Timur expected a completely different scale. He dialed his wife.
“Svet, hi. Listen. On Saturday I’m throwing a bash. Grand occasion—my promotion. Valer Palych and his wife are coming, and our people too. About fifteen guests.”
There was a pause on the line.
“Congratulations,” his wife’s voice was even. “Are we going to a restaurant?”
“What restaurant? Have you seen the prices? The cork fee alone would be some insane bill—no bonus would cover it. We’ll do it at home. Our living room is huge, we’ll extend the table. So, start thinking up the menu. It has to be top class. Jellied tongue, duck, the ‘sanctioned’ cold cuts—find them wherever you have to. Valer Palych likes a table that groans.”
“Timur, fifteen people? I work until seven all week. When am I supposed to cook?”
“Take Friday off. Svet, don’t start. This is important for my career. You want us to live better, don’t you? Then make an effort. And yeah—transfer about thirty thousand to my card. I blew a lot on alcohol, got a collectible cognac, and we still need to order caviar. My card limit is maxed.”
“You’re asking me to pay for food for your guests?” Metallic notes cut through Svetlana’s voice—unfamiliar, sharp.
“They’re not strangers! Family! Besides, you’ll be eating too. That’s it—don’t be a drag. I’m waiting for the shopping list in messenger.”
He hung up, confident the conversation had been productive. Timur was used to his word being law. He saw it as strength of character, never noticing how that “strength” flattened the people close to him like a steamroller.
Part 2. The Uninvited Auditor and Debits and Credits
Friday turned into hellish marathon for Svetlana. She really did take the day off unpaid, losing part of her salary—something Timur, of course, didn’t appreciate.
From early morning she ran between markets and supermarkets, dragging heavy bags. Timur never transferred any money. Worse—he took those thirty thousand he’d mentioned from their joint account, announcing that he’d “found caviar at an amazing price.”
The apartment looked like a battlefield headquarters. Something sizzled on the stove, something baked in the oven, mountains of vegetables piled up on the table. Svetlana, her face flushed and her eyes sticking together from exhaustion, chopped endless salads.
Around six in the evening, the doorbell rang. On the threshold stood Igor, Timur’s younger brother. Twenty-five, eternally “finding himself,” and completely lacking a conscience—compensated by a brazen grin.
“Oh, hi, sister-in-law!” Igor barged into the hallway without taking off his shoes and headed straight to the kitchen. “Timka told me to come early, keep an eye on the process. Otherwise you always oversalt or undercook something.”
Svetlana gripped the knife handle a little tighter than necessary.
“Hi, Igor. I’m managing. Take your shoes off—I just washed the floors.”
“Oh, come on, it’ll dry,” he waved her off, grabbing a piece of sliced dry-cured sausage from a plate. “Mmm. Kinda cheap-trash. Timka said it has to be top-tier. What, saving money on the brother?”
“It’s premium slicing, Igor. Don’t like it—don’t eat. And if you came, help. Peel the potatoes.”
Igor burst out laughing, nearly choking on the sausage.
“What are you, Svet? I’m a guest. Peel what? I’ve got a manicure.” He spread his fingers theatrically, though there was no manicure there at all. “My job is tasting. Where’s Timur?”
“He’ll be here soon. Trying on a suit at the tailor’s.”
Igor plopped onto the only free chair, blocking the walkway, and pulled out his phone.
“Alright, hustle, hustle. I’ll put some music on.”
Half an hour later, Timur arrived. He was shining like a polished copper basin. A new dark-blue suit fit perfectly; a heavy watch glittered on his wrist.
“Well?” he turned in front of the mirror in the hallway without even looking into the kitchen. “An eagle, huh?”
Svetlana peeked out into the corridor, wiping her hands on her apron. Fatigue pressed down on her shoulders like a concrete slab.
“Looks nice,” she said dryly. “Tim, I need help. Igor is sitting around—let him at least slice bread. I can’t finish setting the table, guests will arrive in an hour.”
Timur frowned as he walked into the kitchen.
“What’s with you, Svet? Igor is my brother, he’s invited. Making guests work is bad form. And you could move faster. Why is the table still empty?”
“Because I’m alone, Timur!” Svetlana’s voice trembled. “I’ve been cooking for fifteen people for two days. I spent my savings on groceries because you blew everything on alcohol and your watch.”
Timur grimaced like a toothache hit him.
“Money again? What pettiness. We’re one family—the budget is shared.”
“When it was my mom’s jubilee, the budget was separate,” she reminded him quietly.
“Don’t compare!” Timur snapped. “That was a pensioner’s whim, and this is a business meeting! An investment! By the way—” he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a receipt. “I ordered more delicacies from the fish place. Delivery will be here in twenty minutes. Pay the courier—five thousand. I don’t have cash and my card is at zero.”
“What?” Svetlana froze. “I don’t have any money left, Timur. I spent it all on meat and vegetables.”
“Then borrow from someone!” Igor cut in, chewing yet another piece of stolen roasted pork. “Ask your mom. Why are you creating problems out of nowhere? It’s Timur’s big day—you’re supposed to measure up.”
Timur nodded in agreement.
“Igor’s right. Svet, don’t embarrass me. Find the money. And hurry up—people will be here soon. And change clothes—you look like a dishwasher.”
Part 3. A Boomerang Flies Silently
Silence hung in the kitchen. Only the meat crackled in the pan and the wall clock ticked, counting down the minutes to disaster. Svetlana looked at her husband and his brother. She saw them as if for the first time, without rose-colored glasses.
Two smug types. One believed the whole world revolved around his career; the other was simply a parasite used to living off someone else’s tab. They stood in her kitchen—the kitchen she’d scrubbed until it gleamed late last night—eating food bought with her money and telling her she still wasn’t serving well enough.
Something clicked inside Svetlana. It wasn’t a breakdown. It was the sound of a chain snapping—a chain that for years had held back the beast called Patience.
She slowly took off her apron. Her movements were precise, calm, frighteningly smooth. She balled up the fabric and tossed it not onto the table but straight into Igor’s face.
“Hey! What the hell?!” he squealed, jerking back.
“Svet, have you lost your mind?” Timur exploded. “What the hell is this?!”
Svetlana started laughing. The laugh wasn’t cheerful—it was dry, angry, booming. She laughed at the stunned men, and in that laugh was real, primal rage.
“Measure up?” she repeated, abruptly cutting off. Her face twisted—not with tears, but with a vicious grimace. “I’m supposed to measure up to your piggery?”
“Watch your mouth!” Timur stepped forward, trying to crush her with authority. “I’m your husband! I’m the head of this family!”
“You’re not the head—you’re a CHEAPSKATE!” she shouted so loudly the glassware in the cabinet rattled. “To hell with you and your guests, Timur! And your brother, and your watch, and your career!”
Igor tried to butt in:
“Hey, hysterical—”
Svetlana grabbed a heavy crystal salad bowl filled with Olivier—the pride of any Soviet feast—and with one sweeping motion flipped it straight into the sink. The salad hit in a wet lump; mayonnaise splattered across Timur’s brand-new suit.
“Mother of—!” he screamed, jumping back. “My jacket!”
“I don’t give a damn about your jacket!” Svetlana snatched her purse off the windowsill. Adrenaline boiled in her blood, turning fear into fuel. “SO. Your party—you feed them. Want to eat—cook. Want to pay the courier—sell your watch. And I AM NOT HERE.”
“You won’t dare leave!” Timur hissed, his face blotched red. “Valery Pavlovich will be here in forty minutes! If you leave, I’ll destroy you! You’ll come crawling back to me—”
“Go to hell!” she cut him off, already pulling on her shoes in the hallway. Her hands weren’t shaking—if anything they felt filled with strength. She felt unbelievably light. “Feed them with your ambitions, darling. Enjoy your meal!”
The door slammed so hard an umbrella fell off the rack. Timur and Igor stood in the kitchen amid the smell of burning meat and mayonnaise splatters.
“What a psycho idiot…” Igor drawled. “Tim, the meat is burning.”
“Turn it off!” Timur barked, frantically rubbing the stain on his lapel with a wet wipe. “Nothing. She’ll cool down and come back. She has nowhere to go. She’ll run around the building and come begging for forgiveness.”
But ten minutes passed, then twenty, then thirty. Svetlana didn’t return. And the meat really did burn.
Part 4. A Feast During the Plague
The doorbell rang like a tribunal’s verdict. Timur, still unable to fully clean the stain, pulled on a fake smile and went to open the door.
Valery Pavlovich stood there with his wife Inga—a statuesque woman with a piercing grey gaze. Behind them came Oleg with his wife, Aunt Tamara, and finally Timur’s mother, Galina Petrovna.
“Congratulations on the promotion!” Valery Pavlovich boomed, handing Timur an expensive gift bag. “Where’s the hostess? The keeper of the home front, so to speak?”
A cold sweat ran down Timur’s spine.
“Come in, come in!” he fussed. “Svet… she’s a bit unwell. Migraine. Terrible. Had to lie down.”
The guests went into the living room. A long table stood there, covered with a tablecloth, but… completely empty. Only plates, forks, and a battery of pricey alcohol bottles. A lonely bowl of bread sat there—sliced by Svetlana before the blowup. And that was all.
A heavy pause filled the air.
“So… are we going to snack on spiritual nourishment?” Inga asked with a thin irony, scanning the bare table.
Aunt Tamara, a plainspoken woman, asked loudly:
“Timurka, where’s the food? I’m starving like a wolf from the road.”
“Right now, right now!” Timur darted into the kitchen, where Igor was trying to dig an edible middle out of a charred piece of meat. “Everything’s coming! Delivery’s just late!”
At that moment Galina Petrovna walked into the kitchen. She took in the wreckage: dirty dishes in the sink, the overturned salad, the burned tray.
“What happened here?” she asked in an icy tone. “Where’s Svet? And don’t lie to me about a migraine.”
Realizing he’d been cornered, Timur decided to attack.
“Your precious daughter-in-law threw a fit! Dropped everything and ran off, leaving me in front of guests like this! She set me up! I asked her to do one thing—set the table—and she… Ungrateful!”
Galina Petrovna walked to the counter, picked up the knife Svetlana had used to chop vegetables, turned it slowly in her hands.
“And why is Igor here, but not helping?” she asked quietly.
“I was tasting!” Igor jumped in. “And Svetka went nuts when Tim asked her to pay the delivery. She’s gotten greedy.”
The mother slowly shifted her gaze to her older son.
“You made your wife pay for your party? After you refused to help her with her mother’s jubilee?”
Timur blinked, stunned.
“How do you know about the jubilee?”
“Tatyana called me back then. She was crying. She was ashamed of you, son. And now I’m ashamed.”
Galina Petrovna turned and went into the living room. Timur ran after her.
“Mom, don’t start! The guests are waiting!”
In the living room Valery Pavlovich had already begun pouring cognac, trying to smooth over the awkwardness, but the atmosphere was taut as a string.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Galina Petrovna said loudly. “I apologize, but there will be no celebration. My son, unfortunately, has forgotten what respect for family means. He drove out his wife, who cooked for you for two days, because he decided she was a servant who should also pay for the privilege of serving him.”
A tomb-like silence fell over the room. Timur went crimson.
“Mom! What are you saying?! Have you lost it?!”
“Don’t you raise your voice at your mother,” Valery Pavlovich said calmly, setting his shot glass down. He hadn’t even drunk.
Inga, the boss’s wife, stood up. She looked at Timur like he was a speck of dirt.
“You know, Timur,” she said, “we don’t know Svet personally, but I already respect her. As for men who build themselves up at women’s expense—I despise them. Valera, let’s go. I’m not taking part in this circus. We’ll have dinner at a restaurant.”
“Valer Palych, what are you doing? Over women’s squabbles?” Timur pleaded, grabbing his boss’s sleeve. “I’ll order pizza right now! Sushi!”
Valery Pavlovich detached his hand with disgust.
“It’s not about pizza, Timur. It’s about reliability. A man who betrays the people closest to him will throw partners under the bus at the first opportunity too. All the best.”
After the “important guests,” the rest followed. Oleg and his wife mumbled something and retreated. Aunt Tamara sighed mournfully at the sight of the cognac going to waste and left too, saying, “Well, you’re an idiot, Timka.”
Galina Petrovna left last. She paused in the doorway, looked at her son and at Igor chewing a sandwich.
“If I were Svet, I’d have put that salad bowl on your head,” she said. “Don’t call me until you grow a brain.”
The door slammed. Only Timur, Igor, and the smell of burnt food remained.
“So,” Igor said, still chewing, “not bad. The cognac’s still here, right?”
Part 5. Emptiness in a Pizza Box
Timur sat on the floor of an empty apartment. Technically it was furnished, but it felt completely hollow. Echoes wandered through the corners.
Three months had passed.
That evening became the beginning of the end. Svetlana didn’t come back. She filed for divorce remotely, communicating only through a lawyer. No screaming. No pleas. No relationship postmortems. Total silence. It enraged Timur more than anything—he couldn’t splash his anger on her.
He had to give up the apartment—it had been rented, and before, most of it was paid by Svet from her salary while Timur “invested in his image.” Now one person couldn’t comfortably carry the rent on an elite three-bedroom.
He kept the promotion, but… only formally. Valery Pavlovich became cold toward him, pointedly official. No more invitations to closed clubs, no more “fat” projects. Timur got moved to an area where there was less money and more responsibility.
“You like saving so much—go optimize warehouse expenses,” the boss said then, with a crooked smirk.
At first Timur moved in with his mother. He thought he’d sit it out and save. But Galina Petrovna gave him a real boycott: she cooked only for herself, washed only her own clothes, and every evening demonstratively chatted on the phone with Tatyana—Svetlana’s mother—discussing what a golden child she had.
Igor, by the way, vanished quickly too, the moment he realized there was nothing left to take from his brother and nowhere to eat for free.
In the end Timur rented a tiny studio in a new high-rise “human anthill.” It was cramped, the walls were thin, and at night someone’s dogs howled in the courtyard.
He tried to start a new relationship. Joined a dating site, took one girl to a café. But gossip moves faster than the internet. When she learned his last name, she suddenly remembered she’d “left the iron on.” It turned out the story about “the party paid for by his wife” had become a local joke in circles close to his industry. Inga, the boss’s wife, made sure Timur’s reputation as a miser and domestic tyrant stuck like glue.
Now he sat on unopened boxes. On the small table was an open box of cheap pizza and a can of beer.
“To hell with all of you!” Timur said loudly into the emptiness.
He sincerely didn’t understand what he’d done to deserve it.
“I just wanted everything to be proper,” he thought, biting into a cold piece of dough. “She should have supported me. It was her duty. Women are evil.”
He still didn’t understand the main thing. Greed isn’t about money. Greed is about feelings. And the bill always comes with massive interest—when you end up alone at a table no one will set for you.
His phone chimed with a notification. The bank reminded him about a payment on the loan for that very blue suit, which now hung in the closet, stained with an unwashed greasy blotch—an eternal reminder of his fiasco.
Timur hurled the phone against the wall. The screen went dark, but the silence in the apartment only grew louder.
