Alice stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the curls she’d spent ages perfecting. Her sea-green dress hugged her figure with effortless elegance, and her makeup was flawless—she’d booked a professional artist on purpose, even though she usually did it herself. Tonight had to be perfect. It simply had to.
“You’re breathtaking,” Ilya murmured, wrapping his arms around her from behind and kissing her temple. “Mom’s going to love it.”
Alice didn’t reply. She stared at their reflection. Five years of marriage, and she still hadn’t heard Marina Petrovna offer her a single word of approval. But tonight… tonight would be different. She’d prepared for this evening so carefully it couldn’t possibly go wrong.
Usually they spent New Year’s at her mother-in-law’s—inside that spacious three-bedroom apartment with antique furniture and crystal chandeliers. Marina Petrovna ruled there like a queen, and Alice always felt like a misplaced guest who did everything “wrong”: the salad wasn’t plated the way it should be, the table wasn’t set properly, she spoke to Ilya’s relatives in the “wrong” tone.
But three weeks earlier Marina Petrovna had slipped on the ice and hurt her leg. Nothing dramatic, but the doctors advised her to limit walking. And that was when Alice finally dared.
“Marina Petrovna,” she’d said into the phone, forcing steadiness into her voice, “why don’t we welcome the New Year at our place this year? You won’t need to cook or worry about anything… I’ll handle everything. You’ll just come and rest.”
The pause on the other end had stretched uncomfortably long.
“Well… if you insist,” her mother-in-law finally answered, in the tone people use when agreeing to an unpleasant medical procedure. “Just don’t go overboard with seasonings. And remember: I only eat Olivier with doctor’s sausage—no smoked chicken.”
Alice wrote it down. Then wrote down twenty more preferences Marina Petrovna listed over the next half hour.
And now, three weeks later, their apartment sparkled. Alice had scrubbed and polished, cleaned and re-cleaned, even washed the curtains. The tablecloth—snow-white with delicate lace—was ironed so perfectly you couldn’t find a single crease. She’d laid out the wedding china they almost never used: thin porcelain edged in gold.
She planned the menu for a full week. Olivier—with doctor’s sausage. Herring under a fur coat—the classic version, with finely grated beets the way her mother-in-law liked. Turkey aspic, because Marina Petrovna considered pork too greasy. Roast chicken with vegetables—her “signature” dish, the recipe she’d practically begged from the chef at the restaurant where they’d celebrated their anniversary. Mushroom julienne in little ramekins. Tartlets with caviar and salmon. A fruit platter. Napoleon cake—layered, airy, melting on the tongue.
She cooked for two days. Her hands ached from chopping, her back throbbed from standing at the stove. Ilya had wandered into the kitchen more than once, looking worried.
“Don’t you think you’re doing too much? Mom isn’t—”
“It’ll be fine,” Alice cut him off. “Just trust me.”
She wanted to believe those words. Wanted Marina Petrovna to finally see her not as the stranger who “took” her son, but as family. As someone of her own.
The doorbell rang exactly at eight. Alice flinched, smoothed her dress with both palms, and went to open the door.
Marina Petrovna stood on the threshold in an elegant gray suit, leaning on a cane. Her hair was styled with immaculate precision, her makeup strict and restrained. She swept an assessing glance over Alice from head to toe.
“Hello,” Alice smiled, stepping aside. “Come in, please. How are you feeling?”
“My leg aches,” her mother-in-law said, entering the hallway and wiping her shoes on the mat far longer than necessary. “But what can you do. Ilya, help me out of my coat.”
Her son rushed to comply. Alice took the heavy mink coat and hung it in the closet.
“Please, come into the living room,” Alice said, holding the door open and letting her guest go first.
Marina Petrovna walked in and stopped, scanning the room. Alice froze in the doorway, waiting for a reaction. She’d tried so hard: bought new throw pillows, put fresh flowers in vases, switched on the fairy lights that shimmered softly on the tree.
“The lights blink too quickly,” her mother-in-law said, settling into an armchair. “I’ll get a headache. And those flowers… lilies? I’m allergic.”
“They’re not lilies, they’re alstroemerias,” Alice felt something tighten in her chest. “And the lights aren’t blinking, they’re just… twinkling.”
“Twinkling, blinking—what’s the difference? Turn them off, please.”
Without a word, Alice pulled the plug. As he passed, Ilya squeezed her shoulder in sympathy.
“Mom, do you want tea? Or should we eat?”
“Tea first,” Marina Petrovna said, getting comfortable and continuing to study the room. “I need to catch my breath after the drive.”
Alice brewed tea—green jasmine, the most expensive one she’d found in a specialty shop—and brought it with cookies on a little plate.
“I don’t drink green tea at night,” Marina Petrovna pushed the cup away. “It keeps me awake. Didn’t you know that?”
“I’m sorry—I… I’ll make black tea.”
In the kitchen Alice leaned against the counter, fists clenched. Calm down. It’s just tea. Nothing disastrous. Dinner will fix everything. Every dish is perfect—she’d checked everything a dozen times…
They sat down at eleven. Alice lit the candles and poured the wine—semi-sweet red, chosen carefully to go with the meat. Marina Petrovna pulled her plate closer and served herself Olivier.
Alice watched as her mother-in-law lifted a spoonful, ate, chewed. Marina Petrovna’s face stayed unreadable.
“You used a bit too much mayonnaise,” she said at last. “And the potatoes are cut too big. You should’ve diced them smaller.”
“I cut them the usual way people do for Olivier…”
“Yes, the usual way. But I prefer them finer. I told you.”
“You never said anything about the size,” Alice replied, her voice coming out sharper than she meant. “You only mentioned the sausage.”
“Oh, so now it’s my fault you don’t understand the basics?” Marina Petrovna set down her fork. “Any competent hostess knows you dice potatoes for Olivier in small cubes.”
Ilya shifted uneasily in his chair.
“Mom, I think it’s really good. Alice worked so hard—”
“I didn’t say it’s bad,” Marina Petrovna replied coolly. “I’m simply pointing out shortcomings. Or am I not allowed to speak my mind anymore?”
Alice got up in silence and carried the other dishes to the table. The aspic quivered on its platter, glossy and appetizing. The chicken, golden and fragrant, was decorated with sprigs of rosemary. The juliennes steamed in their ramekins.
“Oh, aspic,” Marina Petrovna said, picking up a spoon. “Let’s see how it turned out.”
She tasted it. Alice watched her jaw move, watched her swallow, watched her expression sharpen with criticism.
“It didn’t set properly,” Marina Petrovna announced. “And you clearly overdid the gelatin. Real aspic should melt in your mouth—this has that rubbery texture…”
“I made it with turkey, like you asked,” Alice said, squeezing her hands under the table. “Turkey doesn’t gel as much, so without gelatin—”
“Exactly!” Marina Petrovna snapped. “You should’ve simmered it longer and added chicken feet for natural collagen. Why gelatin? This isn’t dessert jelly—it’s aspic!”
“But you said pork was too fatty…”
“So what? You could’ve used beef with chicken. Isn’t that obvious?”
Ilya reached for the main dish.
“Let’s try the chicken. It smells incredible!”
Alice watched him cut a piece, take a bite, and brighten with real pleasure.
“Alice, this is unbelievable! Mom, you have to try it.”
Marina Petrovna took the tiniest piece and examined it for a long time, turning it from one side to the other.
“A little dry,” she said after tasting. “And the crust is burnt in places. See—right here, along this edge? You should’ve lowered the heat and covered it with foil.”
“I did cover it with foil,” Alice felt tears rising. “For the first hour. Then I removed it so the skin would brown.”
“And it browned,” Marina Petrovna said, unimpressed. “Burned. You should’ve kept the foil on the whole time and only uncovered it for the last ten minutes.”
“Marina Petrovna,” Alice’s voice shook, “is there a single dish you can compliment? Anything at all that you like?”
Her mother-in-law lifted her brows in surprise.
“I’m not scolding you. I’m offering constructive criticism. It’s useful for you to know where you went wrong. Or would you rather I lie and pretend everything is wonderful?”
“I’d like you to at least try to see how much effort I—”
“Effort!” Marina Petrovna cut in. “That’s the point. Lots of effort, mediocre results. Because you don’t listen—you always do everything your way. I told you—”
“What did you tell me?” Alice felt something hot and dangerous rising inside her. “You gave me a list of demands three pages long! I cooked for two days! I slept four hours! I did everything exactly the way you asked!”
“Don’t raise your voice at my mother,” Ilya said for the first time, steel in his tone. “She was only trying to help.”
“Help?” Alice spun toward him. “She hasn’t said one kind word all night. Not one!”
“Oh, here we go,” Marina Petrovna sighed dramatically, leaning back. “I knew you’d make a scene. That’s how you are: I say one thing, and you’re instantly in tears and yelling.”
“I’m not making a scene! I’m trying—”
“Trying what? To prove you’re better than me? That you’re the best hostess, the best wife?” Marina Petrovna leaned forward; something cold flashed in her eyes. “You’re not. I’ve known my son for thirty-two years. You’ve spent five years pretending to be the perfect wife.”
“Mom!” Ilya went pale. “Stop.”
“Stop what? Telling the truth?” Marina Petrovna was on a roll now. “I kept quiet for five years. I kept quiet when you married her, though I warned you you were too different. I kept quiet when she pulled you away from our family, when you stopped coming by on weekends. I kept quiet when she talked you into renting this little place on the outskirts instead of living with me downtown—”
“This little place?” Alice’s hands started to tremble. “This is our home!”
“Home?” Marina Petrovna glanced around the living room. “Three tiny rooms in a panel building, no renovation. My apartment is twice the size and a hundred times better. And I cook better. And I dress with taste—not like…” her gaze slid over Alice’s dress, “…like some kind of rainbow.”
“Mom, stop it—right now,” Ilya snapped, standing up. “You’re crossing every line.”
“What lines? I’m expressing my opinion!” Marina Petrovna rose too, leaning on her cane. “Or are mothers not allowed to tell their sons the truth anymore? Ilyusha, you can see it yourself: she can’t cook, she can’t host, she has no taste—”
“Shut up!” Alice shouted.
A crushing silence fell. The candle flames flickered, throwing trembling shadows across the table. Alice stood braced against the back of a chair and, for the first time in five years, met her mother-in-law’s eyes without fear—without trying to please, without hoping for approval.
“Marina Petrovna,” she said, her voice calm and steady, “are you finished?”
“How dare you talk to my mother like that?” Ilya began, but Alice lifted a hand, stopping him.
“No, Ilya. I’m speaking now. I’ve been silent for five years. Five years I tried to win your approval,” she looked at Marina Petrovna. “I learned your recipes. I wore clothes I thought you’d like. I styled my hair the way you advised. I listened to your stories about what a wonderful mother and homemaker you are. I nodded while you lectured me on how to live properly.”
“See, Ilya,” Marina Petrovna turned to her son, “I told you she would—”
“I’m not finished,” Alice cut in, and there was such firmness in her voice that Marina Petrovna fell quiet. “For five years I tried to build bridges. And you destroyed them—methodically. Every time. With every word. With every look. I truly thought tonight would be different. That if I tried hard enough, you’d finally see I’m not your enemy. That I love your son. That I’m trying to be a good wife and a good hostess.”
Her gaze swept over the table piled high with food.
“But you can’t say one good thing. Not one. Isn’t it enough that I cooked for two days? That I ironed this damned tablecloth until it was perfect? That I paid for a makeup artist even though money was tight this month? Nothing is ever enough for you. Because it’s not about the food, or the apartment, or my dress.”
“Then what is it?” Marina Petrovna folded her arms across her chest.
“It’s that I’m not you,” Alice said. “It’s that your son chose me instead of staying with you—and you’ll never forgive me for that.”
“Alice,” Ilya stepped toward her, but she pulled away.
“And another thing,” she continued, staring straight at Marina Petrovna. “You just insulted more than me—you insulted my whole life. You called my home a ‘little place.’ You said I have no taste. You said I’m a bad hostess. And you said it in my home, at my table—the table I set for you.”
“So what do you want?” Marina Petrovna’s voice turned shrill. “For me to apologize? For me to lie and say I loved everything?”
“What I want,” Alice stepped closer, looking at the woman who five minutes ago had seemed untouchable, “is for you to leave. Right now.”
“What?” Marina Petrovna blinked, stunned.
“Have you lost your mind?” Ilya grabbed Alice’s hand. “She’s my mother! New Year’s is in an hour!”
“Exactly,” Alice freed her hand and pointed to the door. “Yes, I’m telling you to go—on New Year’s Eve. Do you think I should sit here and swallow insults in my own home?”
“Ilya!” Marina Petrovna shrieked. “Do you hear how she’s speaking to me?”
“I hear how you’re speaking to my wife,” Ilya said, rubbing his face. “And I don’t like either. But, Mom…” He exhaled heavily. “You really did go too far tonight.”
“You’re taking her side?” Marina Petrovna turned white. “Your mother, who gave birth to you, raised you—”
“Who’s spent the last five years trying to destroy my marriage,” Ilya finished. “I loved you. I still do. But Alice is right. You can’t behave like this.”
“I… I’ll go,” Marina Petrovna snatched her handbag from the table. “I understand everything now. You’re both against me. Fine. Wonderful. I’ll leave!”
She headed for the hallway, leaning heavily on her cane. Ilya hurried after her.
“Mom, wait—I’ll call a taxi…”
“No! I can manage myself—”
“Mom, you can’t walk with your leg like this. Let me at least—”
Alice stayed in the living room, listening to them argue in the entryway. Listening as Ilya ordered a taxi anyway, as his mother hissed something back. Listening as the front door clicked shut.
Ilya returned about ten minutes later—he must have walked her out to the car. His face looked gray.
“Was that really necessary?” he asked, staring at his wife as if he were seeing her for the first time.
“Yes,” Alice sank into a chair. Suddenly her whole body felt heavy, like lead. “It was.”
“She’s my mother.”
“I know,” Alice said quietly. “And this is my home.”
“Our home,” Ilya corrected.
“Then let’s agree on something,” Alice looked up at him. “I’m an equal хозяin here. And I get to decide who is welcome and who isn’t. I spent five years building bridges your mother demolished, brick by brick. I’m done. I’ve had enough.”
“So you’re forbidding me from seeing her?”
“No.” Alice shook her head. “See her as much as you want. Meet her at a café, at her place—anywhere. But she doesn’t step into this home again until she learns to respect me.”
“Is that an ultimatum?”
“It’s a boundary,” Alice managed a tired smile. “One I should have drawn five years ago. Ilya, I love you. But I won’t accept humiliation—ever again.”
He stood in silence, staring at the table of untouched food, the dying candlelight, the half-empty glasses.
“And if she never changes?”
“Then that’s her choice,” Alice shrugged. “I’m not going to keep trying to win her approval. If she wants a relationship—she’s welcome to it. But on my terms. With respect. Or not at all.”
In the quiet, the first chimes of the Kremlin clock rang out on the TV. New Year’s was a minute away. Ilya walked over and held out his hand to his wife. Alice stood, and they moved to the window together, watching fireworks bloom over the city.
“Happy New Year,” he whispered into her hair.
“Happy New Year,” she answered.
And for the first time in five years, Alice greeted the New Year without a stone in her chest—without fear, without trying to be someone else. In her own home. With her own rules.
On the table, the chicken cooled—uneaten, unpraised. But Alice didn’t feel pain anymore. She felt relief.
And freedom.
Finally.
