Anna once again ran her hand over the polished surface of the table, even though it already shone with impeccable cleanliness. The clock showed four—guests would arrive in two hours. Again, her husband’s guests. She caught her reflection in the gleaming surface of the sideboard—a haggard face, hair hastily gathered in a messy bun. When was the last time she had sat peacefully in a hairdresser’s chair?
The ringing phone made her jump.
— Anechka, — Sergey’s voice sounded his usual cheerful tone, — I invited Volodya and Marina as well. You don’t mind, do you?
She closed her eyes. Of course he hadn’t asked—it was just a fait accompli. As always.
— Sergey, we barely have enough seats at the table…
— Oh, you’ll figure something out, won’t you? You’re so clever! — and he hung up without waiting for an answer.
Anna slowly lowered the phone. “You’ll figure something out.” Of course. She always does. Rearranging the furniture, moving chairs, adding more appetizers, changing the table setting. As if she were made of rubber. As if time could be stretched. As if her energy were endless.
She mechanically moved into the kitchen. So, she needed to fetch another salad bowl, slice an extra portion of vegetables, find two more sets of cutlery somewhere… Good Lord, are there even enough forks?
Within ten minutes she was standing on a step ladder, trying to reach the top shelf of the kitchen cabinet, where the formal set of tableware was stored. The very one she kept for special occasions. The one that was being used more and more often now that Sergey constantly had guests over.
Her fingers found the dusty box. Now, carefully… But her body betrayed her, swaying, and she grabbed onto the shelf. Her heart pounded in fear. As if falling wasn’t enough! Who would then be scrambling around the house? Who would create the cozy atmosphere for yet another group of her husband’s friends?
Having descended, Anna began to polish the utensils. Every movement came out sharp and jerky. Uninvited thoughts whirled in her mind. When did it begin? When did she turn into a silent shadow, into a servant in her own home? Perhaps when Sergey was promoted at work and started bringing home more and more “useful people”? Or was it earlier?
She remembered their early years together. Back then they both cooked, set the table together, washed the dishes together, laughing and splashing foam at each other. Where had all that gone? When had she become merely a function—a silent, invisible, perpetually exhausted function?
A knock at the door sounded half an hour earlier than scheduled. Anna flinched, hastily scanning the kitchen. No, not everything was ready yet; there was still so much to do…
— Anya, open up! — Sergey’s voice at the door sounded festive. — Look who I brought!
She took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and forced a friendly smile onto her face. As usual. As always.
The living room filled with voices and laughter. Anna darted between the kitchen and the table, serving new dishes, pouring more wine, clearing empty plates. Her movements grew ever more abrupt, but no one noticed.
— And remember, Sergey, that incident with the client? — Volodya, a burly man with a flushed face, laughed loudly, spilling wine. Droplets flew onto the tablecloth that Anna was hand-washing, afraid to ruin the delicate lace.
— Of course! — Sergey beamed. — I was then…
Anna stopped listening to the story. Yet another tale about her husband’s work successes. She knew them all by heart—new guests every evening, yet the same stories. Automatically, she dabbed a wine stain with a napkin.
— Anechka, — Marina, Volodya’s wife, a prim woman with perfect manicure, called to her, — why don’t you sit with us?
“Then who will clean up your glass, which you’ve dropped on the couch for the third time?” almost burst out of Anna. But she restrained herself. She forced a smile:
— Thank you, I’ll join you later.
— Come on, — Sergey waved her off, — sit down! Look, Nikolai is just starting his story…
She gritted her teeth. Her husband hadn’t even noticed that all the dishes were dirty, that they had run out of napkins, and that only crumbs remained of the Olivier salad she had labored over for half a day. Something had to be done immediately…
— No-no, — Anna retreated back to the kitchen, — I’d better…
But no one was listening anymore. The company was engrossed in discussing some work project. Sergey, flushed from wine and attention, gesticulated animatedly. His elbow knocked a glass—it tipped over, and dark red liquid slowly oozed across the pristine white tablecloth.
— Oops, — he carelessly dabbed the puddle with a napkin, smearing the stain further. — Anechka, you’ll wash it later, won’t you, dear?
She froze in the kitchen doorway. Her heart pounded somewhere in her throat. “You’ll wash it.” Of course. And how else? Anechka washes everything, cleans, cooks, tidies up…
Sergey’s voice carried over from the other room: “Seryozhenka, tell us again about that incident with the director!” A dyed blonde woman, perhaps a new colleague from his department, chimed in. Anna watched as the woman playfully touched her husband’s shoulder. How they all laughed. How crumbs flew onto the floor that she had scrubbed twice that day. How the sticky traces of spilled drinks remained on the countertop. How Sergey, her Sergey—who once helped her with cleaning and cooking—now didn’t even notice her weary gaze.
In the kitchen, she leaned against the refrigerator. Her legs were numb—she hadn’t sat down once since morning. In the sink piled a mountain of dishes. On the stove, leftovers cooled. And ahead lay dessert, coffee, liqueurs… and more cleaning. Endless cleaning.
“I can’t do it anymore,” throbbed in her temples. “I can’t, I won’t, I’m done.”
But she pulled herself together. Retrieved the dessert plates. Arranged the pastries—store-bought, as she hadn’t had time to bake enough. In the living room another burst of laughter erupted.
— Anechka! — her husband’s voice called. — Where’s our hostess? Coffee, perhaps…
Something inside her snapped. “Hostess?” She was no longer the mistress of the house—she was the servant. Silent, invisible, endlessly exhausted servant in her own home.
It was well past midnight when the front door finally closed behind the last guest. A ringing silence hung over the apartment, broken only by the ticking of the clock. Anna slowly surveyed the living room: couch cushions askew, crumbs everywhere, a chaotic pile of dirty dishes on the table, puddles on the floor from spilled wine. The heavy scent of tobacco smoke lingered in the air—even though she had begged so many times for no smoking indoors.
Sergey flopped onto the couch with a self-satisfied look, kicking his feet onto the coffee table:
— What an excellent evening! Everyone praised the food. You must have had fun, too, right?
Anna stood, her pale fingers gripping the back of a chair. Her mouth was dry.
— Had fun? — her voice came out hoarsely. — Had fun?!
— Oh, come on, — he looked at her puzzled. — What’s the matter?
She felt something inside her shatter. Years of pent-up resentment, exhaustion, irritation—everything burst forth:
— When was I ever supposed to have fun? When I was darting between the kitchen and the living room? Or when your precious Volodya spilled wine on my favorite tablecloth? Or when your new colleague was clinging to you while I served you coffee?
— What’s gotten into you? — Sergey sprang up, irritation tinting his voice. — Here we go with these female hysterics again…
— Hysterics? — Anna grabbed a dirty plate from the table. — You call this hysterics? Do you have any idea how long I stood by the stove today? How many times I washed the dishes? Did you even notice that I haven’t sat down once all evening?
— Well, then you should have sat! Who told you not to? — he waved his hand irritably.
— Who told me not to? — she laughed, and that laughter sent shivers down her skin. — And who would clean up after your guests? Who would serve your beloved appetizers? Who would make sure everyone always had something to drink and nibble on?
She abruptly turned toward the sink piled with dirty dishes:
— You know what? Enough is enough! I’m not your servant! Not your cook! Not your waitress! I’m your wife! A wife, not your staff! — she forcefully threw a kitchen towel onto the table. — If you want to entertain guests, fine! Then you cook, you clean, you serve your endless feasts yourself!
Sergey jumped off the couch:
— What’s gotten into you? What kind of show is this?
— A show? — she tore off her apron. — No, darling. The show is over. I will no longer play the role of your silent maid. Enough!
She grabbed the bag hanging in the hall:
— You can deal with this mess yourself. I’m going to Tanya’s.
— Which Tanya? It’s one in the morning!
— The friend you don’t even remember because she isn’t among your “useful acquaintances”! — Anna flung open the front door abruptly. — And don’t call me. I need to be alone.
The door slammed behind her. In the complete silence, the hum of the elevator carrying her down could be heard. Sergey stood in the midst of the wrecked apartment, staring dumbfounded at the closed door. From the kitchen, the quiet dripping of water from a loosely closed tap echoed.
The first morning without Anna began in cold silence and with a headache. Sergey woke up on the couch—he hadn’t even made it to the bedroom last night. His mouth was dry, a throbbing pain pulsed at the back of his head. He struggled to open his eyes and immediately frowned: the harsh morning light brutally revealed the previous night’s devastation.
— What a fool! — he mumbled, struggling to rise. — What a mess she made here…
But even those words sounded false to him. On the coffee table lay a sheet of paper folded into quarters. Anna’s handwriting, hasty and nervous:
“I have gone to Tanya’s. Don’t look for me. It’s time you learned to live without a servant. Because I am a wife, not a staff member. I am a person too, Sergey. It’s a pity you never noticed.”
He crumpled the note and tossed it aside. He felt an unbearable thirst. In the kitchen, he was met by a pile of unwashed dishes, stubborn sauce stains on the stove, and an unpleasant odor.
Sergey reached for a clean cup in the cabinet—empty. He pulled out the drawer with the tableware—only a couple of random forks remained. Everything else was dirty.
— Just another problem, — he muttered, — as if dishes were a big deal…
But within half an hour, standing at the sink with hands reddened by hot water, he wasn’t so sure. The plates slid in the soapy foam, water ran down the sleeves of his shirt, and the mountain of dirty dishes seemed endless.
By the time he had washed the last fork, his back ached relentlessly. He glanced at the clock—he was running late for work. He dashed into the bathroom, hastily tugging off his wrinkled shirt. He opened the wardrobe—and froze. There were no clean shirts. All his perfectly ironed, starched shirts had vanished.
— How… — he began, then stopped.
For the first time in years, he wondered: who, exactly, washed and ironed all my shirts? Who made sure that the closet always held clean, ready-to-wear clothes?
He arrived at work in a crumpled T-shirt, which drew surprised looks from his colleagues. He couldn’t focus all day. At lunch he went down to a café—and for the first time noticed the prices. He had never thought about it before: at home, a hot lunch always awaited him…
He didn’t want to go home. He knew that there awaited emptiness and disorder. No one would greet him with dinner, no one would ask how his day had been.
In the supermarket he wandered aimlessly among the aisles, trying to figure out what to buy. How did Anna always manage to know exactly what and how much was needed? Why was there always everything necessary in the refrigerator?
In the evening, while heating a ready meal in the microwave, he suddenly recalled clearly their early years together. How they used to cook together, turning a simple dinner into a small adventure. How he would wrap his arms around her from behind when she stood by the stove. When had that stopped? When had he begun to take her care for granted?
A knock at the door made him jump. Standing at the threshold was Volodya:
— Sergey! The guys and I have decided to revisit that contract… Maybe come over? Let’s sit and discuss?
Sergey glanced around his apartment: socks under the coffee table, crumbs on the couch, a dirty cup on the windowsill…
— No, — he shook his head, — let’s meet at a café instead.
After the guest left, he stood for a long time by the window. The phrase from Anna’s note kept echoing in his mind: “I am a person too, Sergey.” For the first time in these twenty-four hours, he truly heard those words.
He took out his phone, found her number. His finger hovered over the call button. No. Apologies must be shown not merely in words.
On the third day, Anna returned home. She stood for a long moment at the door, gathering her courage. What awaited her there? The same chaos? Reproaches? Or indifference, which would have been even worse?
The key turned in the lock. The first thing she felt was a scent. An unusual, subtly familiar scent… A scent of freshness? In the hall, not a thing was out of place. Sergey’s shoes neatly stood on the shelf—for the first time in years.
She cautiously stepped into the living room. The floor was mopped, the curtains were pressed, the couch cushions fluffed. On the coffee table sat a vase with her favorite white chrysanthemums. How did he know? She had never mentioned it…
— Sergey? — her voice trembled.
From the kitchen came some clattering, the tinkling of dishes, muffled grumbling. She peeked in—and froze in the doorway.
Sergey stood at the stove in an apron that she had once jokingly given him. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, his cheek dusted with flour, and on the table… She blinked. On the table stood their old enameled pot, in which she always cooked borscht.
— Hello, — he turned, and she saw something new in his eyes. Bewilderment? Remorse? — I… I’m trying to cook borscht. Though it’s turning out a bit odd.
Anna slowly approached the stove. Peering into the pot:
— You forgot to sauté the carrots with the onions.
— And they need to be sautéed? — he scratched his head, embarrassed. — I just tossed them into the water.
She couldn’t hold back—a nervous, slightly hysterical laugh, but with an inner relief.
— What on earth have you done here?
— I… — he suddenly became very serious. — I understand now. I understand everything. These three days… You know, I never realized how much you did. Every day, constantly. And I took it for granted.
He put down the ladle:
— I’m ashamed, Anya. Of these endless guests. Of not noticing how exhausted you were. Of turning you into a servant. I… I can’t even remember the last time I asked what you wanted.
Anna leaned against the refrigerator. Everything inside trembled:
— And now what?
— Now everything will be different, — he took her hand. She noticed that his fingers were marked with small cuts—apparently from learning how to chop vegetables properly. — I can’t promise to be perfect. But I don’t want to be such a blind fool anymore.
— So, no more impromptu guests? — she squinted slightly.
— Only by mutual agreement. And we’ll cook together, — he smiled. — Will you teach me how to make this borscht properly? Mine’s turning out… pinkish.
She glanced into the pot:
— How much beet did you add?
— All I found in the refrigerator.
— Good heavens, — she rolled her eyes, but her voice carried a smile. — Alright, let’s see what you’ve got going on here.
She sampled a spoonful, grimaced:
— Mmm… Over-salted.
— I tried my best, — he said guiltily, shrugging his shoulders.
— I know, — she said, retrieving spices from the shelf. — So, shall we rescue your culinary masterpiece?
He hugged her from behind—just like in the early years, when they were together. He nuzzled her head:
— I missed you, Anya. So much.
She closed her eyes, feeling something thaw inside:
— I missed you too… the real you. And you know… it seems he’s coming back.
