Anna stood by the stove, stirring julienne in individual clay pots and silently running through the evening’s plan.
She’d need to take the pots out in ten minutes; the salads were already done; the meat in the oven would finish right as the guests arrived. Same as always. The perfect family dinner for her husband’s relatives.
Her mother-in-law would once again criticize her cooking—delicately, with a smile. Her father-in-law would tell the story about how Denis broke a window with a ball when he was a kid—for the fifth time this year. Oksana, her husband’s sister, would complain about the apartment loan and kindergarten fees, and her husband, Sergei, would bury himself in his phone without a word.
“Anya, are you making Olivier salad?” her husband shouted from the living room, where he was arranging chairs. “Mom said without Olivier, a birthday isn’t a birthday!”
“I am,” she replied, sliding the pots into the oven.
In seven years of marriage she had learned all the family traditions: Olivier was a must, herring under a fur coat was desirable, and the cake had to be sponge. No experiments, no new dishes.
Her phone vibrated on the counter. A message from her mother:
“Anyechka, how are you? What are you up to? It’s a pity you decided not to celebrate. Dad was getting ready. He picked such beautiful tomatoes! We thought we’d bring them to you. Give Denis our birthday wishes. Kisses!”
Anna looked at the screen and almost burst into tears.
Her parents lived in Tosno, in their own house with a garden that her father tended from morning till night.
“The back of beyond,” Denis called it—even though it was just an hour by commuter train from St. Petersburg.
“Den,” she walked into the living room, wiping her hands on a dish towel, “Mom sends happy birthday. Maybe we should invite them after all? They could be here by eight, right in time for the cake.”
Denis looked up from the stack of plates. A familiar expression flashed across his face—one Anna had learned to recognize instantly—a mix of irritation and condescension.
“Anya, we’ve already talked about this. We’re having a family dinner, a close circle. Your parents… well, they don’t really fit our crowd. Did you forget how last time your father talked about fertilizers for half an hour? Mom complained about it for a week.”
“Dad is into gardening; that’s normal,” his wife retorted, annoyed. “And anyway, why are your relatives ‘family circle’ and mine aren’t?”
“Because we live in the city, not digging around in garden beds,” Denis set down the last plate with a soft clink. “Listen, let’s not ruin each other’s mood. Today is my birthday, not a conference devoted to your parents.”
Anna went back to the kitchen and mechanically continued spooning salad into the serving bowl.
She remembered that ill-fated evening six months ago, when her dad really had gotten carried away talking about a new tomato variety. But Galina Petrovna had asked him about the garden herself! And then, when her parents left, she’d spent half an hour sniping about “country talk” and “simple folk.”
The doorbell cut off her thoughts.
Her in-laws were the first to arrive. Galina Petrovna looked superb in her favorite beige suit, with a salon blowout and the little handbag she never let go of. Nikolai Ivanovich wore a white shirt clearly chosen by his wife.
“Anyechka, dear!” Galina Petrovna pecked her on the cheek, leaving a lipstick mark. “You look pale. Not getting sick, are you? At your age you really need to look after your health.”
“At my age”—thirty-one.
Anna smiled her usual strained smile and went to hang up coats.
“Anyechka, where are your parents?” Nikolai Ivanovich asked, pouring himself a second glass. “We haven’t seen them in a while. How’s Mikhail Semyonovich? How was the harvest this year?”
Anna froze with the tray in her hands.
“Yes, I’m curious too,” added Sergei, Oksana’s husband, who usually kept quiet. “I wanted to ask Mikhail Semyonovich about that grill he welded last year. I still haven’t gotten around to making one like it.”
“Is Grandpa Misha coming?” Oksana’s eight-year-old son, Vasya, perked up. “He promised to show me how to plant onions!”
“Thank goodness he’s not,” snapped Galina Petrovna, delicately pushing her plate away. “Otherwise he’ll start in again about his cucumbers and tomatoes. You know, there are topics for polite society and there are… shall we say, simpler ones.”
“Yeah! And Nina Borisovna with her canning,” Oksana chimed in, adjusting her new blouse. “Last time she explained how to brine cabbage for half an hour. I almost fell asleep.”
Anna felt her fists clench. She remembered how her mother had enthusiastically shared the recipe, and how those two women had exchanged glances, barely stifling their giggles.
“Come on, Galya,” Nikolai Ivanovich objected gently. “They’re decent people, live by their own hard work. I always enjoy talking to Mikhail. He’s a capable man.”
“Grandpa Misha promised to teach me how to make a fishing rod,” Vasya persisted.
“Sure, sure,” Oksana grimaced. “Do you really need fishing in some ditch? Better sign up for a proper club.”
Anna set the tray on the table a bit more sharply than she’d intended. All eyes turned to her.
“Indeed,” she said as calmly as she could, “it is strange that my parents weren’t invited to a family celebration.”
Denis choked on his wine.
“Anya, we talked about this…”
“No, we didn’t,” his wife cut him off. “You just declared that they don’t fit your crowd. And yet Uncle Kolya and Sergei, it turns out, would be happy to see them.”
“Of course we would,” Sergei confirmed. “Mikhail Semyonovich has golden hands. I’d love to chat with him.”
“And Grandpa promised to teach me how to make a fishing pole!” Vasya added, wounded.
Galina Petrovna pursed her lips in displeasure.
“Children are naturally drawn to simple amusements, of course. But adults should understand the difference between… how shall I put it… levels of socializing.”
“Mom, don’t start,” Denis said in a warning tone.
“I’m not starting anything. It’s just that there are people of our circle and there are… well, simpler people. That’s normal—why should we pretend otherwise?”
“And what exactly does your social circle include?” Anna took a seat at the table, not taking her eyes off her mother-in-law. “Discussing fur coat prices? Gossiping about neighbors?”
“Anyechka,” Oksana smiled sweetly, “don’t be offended. We’re just used to a certain standard. And your parents are more about garden beds and canning. It’s boring.”
“At least it’s honest,” Anna shot back. “They don’t talk about people behind their backs and they don’t play at being aristocrats.”
“Anya!” Denis raised his voice. “Enough. It’s my birthday, not a place to pick a fight.”
“So is Grandpa Misha coming after all?” Vasya asked quietly.
Silence fell.
Nikolai Ivanovich coughed awkwardly. Sergei stared at his plate. Galina Petrovna and Oksana sat stone-faced, and Denis looked at his wife with a gaze that promised a serious talk after the guests left.
“He isn’t coming,” Anna said at last, looking at the boy. “Because he wasn’t invited.”
The guests left at half past ten. Anna silently cleared the table, loading dirty plates into the dishwasher. Denis paced the apartment, collecting empty glasses.
“Well? Happy now?” her husband finally exploded. “You put on a circus in front of the whole family.”
“I put on a circus?” she turned and met his eyes defiantly. “Was it me who called someone’s parents simple people not of our circle?”
“And isn’t that the case? Anya, let’s be honest. Your father is a plant mechanic, your mother is a retired nurse. They live in the sticks, grow tomatoes and pickle cabbage. Beaten down and uncultured! And we live in central Petersburg—we’re educated, we have careers…”
“So what? Does that make us better than people who’ve worked honestly all their lives?”
“Not better—just… different. We have different interests, different topics to talk about. I get bored listening to potato harvests, you understand? I’m a manager at a reputable construction firm!”
Anna fell silent.
Seven years ago Denis had seemed smart, well-read, a promising young man. She’d fallen in love at first sight when she saw him at a library corporate event, where he’d come with another girlfriend.
“And does your mother talk fascinatingly about the neighbors? Or Oksana about loans and kindergarten?”
“That’s different,” Denis waved it off. “Those are current topics and problems.”
“And my parents’ problems aren’t current?”
“Your parents live in some world of their own!” he stood and began pacing nervously. “Vegetable patches, preserves, taking the commuter train into the city once a month to shop. It’s… it’s like some kind of jungle!”
“Oh, a jungle!” Anna felt everything inside her begin to boil. “And when our faucet was leaking, who fixed it? Your intellectual father or my provincial mechanic?”
“What does the faucet have to do with anything?”
“It has to do with the fact that my provincial father did in an hour what the housing office plumber wanted five thousand for!”
“Stop twisting things,” Denis stopped and looked at his wife irritably. “I’m not saying your parents are bad people. I’m saying I have nothing to talk about with them. They live in their world; we live in ours.”
“Then why does everyone else get along with them just fine? Your father, Sergei—even Vasya?”
“Because they don’t care!” the man exploded. “My father, out of the goodness of his heart, can chat with anyone; Sergei’s a man of few words; and a child… a child just wants someone to play with!”
Anna looked at her husband in despair.
“What changed, Denis? You used to treat them normally.”
“You want the truth?” he said with a sneer. “I was acting. Lying. Pretending! I hoped you’d grow out of your attachment to your parents’ apron strings. That we’d build our own family, our own circle. I hoped I could lift you up. But it’s not working! You’re dragging me down! And that’s not all—you tell them everything about our life, you consult them on everything…”
“I consult my parents. Is that so terrible?”
“It is when a grown woman can’t make a decision without Mommy and Daddy!” her husband’s voice grew louder and louder. “It’s terrible when she can’t pull herself out of the dirt she was born in! You’re stuck in a swamp!”
Anna opened her mouth to object, but Denis continued. Each word felt like a slap.
“Your parents are not family to me, do you hear? They never were! Two beaten-down pensioners from the boondocks who think their advice matters to anyone! Let them sit in their Tosno and stay out of our lives!”
The woman felt dizzy. She leaned against the wall, unable to believe what she was hearing.
Seven years of pretense. Seven years of lies.
“You… you’re serious?” she whispered.
“Absolutely!” he was breathing heavily, like after a run. “And since we’re being honest, stop dragging me to see them. You want to go to Tosno? Go by yourself!”
Anna stared at her husband in silence. A plan began to take shape in her head. Devious, precise, and very fair.
Her husband’s humiliating words lodged in her mind and surfaced at the worst moments: when she brushed her teeth, when she stood in line at the store, when she scrolled social media before bed.
“Beaten-down pensioners,” “Let them sit in their boondocks”…
She wanted to break something, to scream or cry—or sometimes both at once.
There was a month left until her birthday. Just the time for justice.
“You know what,” she said over breakfast, spreading jam on toast, “I want to celebrate my birthday in a restaurant. I’ve dreamed of it for a while.”
Denis looked up from his phone:
“In a restaurant? What’s wrong with home? Cheaper.”
“I want it to be elegant, festive. I’ve already booked Petrovsky. Remember, we were there at your company party?”
“That’s expensive,” Denis grumbled, but he didn’t argue. Apparently, he still felt guilty after that ill-fated blow-up.
Over the next weeks Anna prepared with manic thoroughness: she ordered beautiful invitations with gold embossing, reserved the table, planned the menu.
Her husband just chuckled.
“Like a queen, huh. It’s just a birthday, and you’re getting ready like a coronation.”
“Once a year I can pamper myself,” she answered, sifting through invitation samples.
A week before the party Denis was heading to his parents’ place to pick up winter tires from their garage.
“Listen, I can hand out the invitations while I’m there,” he offered, shrugging into his jacket. “To Mom, Dad, Oksana. I’ll give them directions to the restaurant too.”
“No need,” Anna replied quickly. “I want to deliver them myself. Nicely and ceremoniously! I’ll explain everything in person.”
Denis shrugged indifferently.
“As you wish. Just don’t drag your feet; they like to plan ahead.”
“Of course, of course. I’ll take care of it a couple of days before.”
When he left, Anna took out the invitations and laid them on the table. Elegant cream cardstock, gold letters:
“I invite you to share with me the joy of my birthday.”
Eight in total. And only six would find their addressees.
On her birthday, Anna got up early, had her hair styled at a salon, and put on a new dress. She felt wonderful—like before an important performance.
“You’re kind of… glowing today,” Denis noted, straightening his tie. “Like a bride.”
“It’s my birthday,” she smiled. “Thirty-two is a serious date!”
On the drive to the restaurant, Denis seemed nervous, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, flipping from one radio station to another.
“Hey, are your parents definitely coming?” he asked at a red light. “You know how they are about restaurants. They’ll feel awkward!”
“They’ll come and feel absolutely fine. Don’t worry!” she reassured him, touching up her lipstick in the mirror.
At the restaurant the host met them and led them to the reserved table. It was set for eight—beautifully laid, decorated with flowers.
Denis glanced over the place settings and frowned slightly.
“Strange… There should be ten of us. You, me, my parents, yours, Oksana and her husband, the kids…”
“It’s correct,” she said, taking the head seat.
Anna’s parents arrived first. They looked around shyly, clearly feeling out of place in the expensive establishment.
“Anyechka, darling,” her mother hugged her. “It’s so beautiful here! And you look so lovely!”
Then came Nikolai Ivanovich with a bouquet of roses, followed by Sergei and his son Vasya, who ran straight to “Grandpa Misha” to tell him about a new game.
Denis stood by the table counting places. His face gradually changed: from puzzlement to comprehension, from comprehension to fury.
“Where’s Mom?” he asked quietly, coming up to his wife. “Where’s Oksana?”
Anna looked at him with innocent eyes.
“They’re not on the guest list.”
“What do you mean, ‘not on the list’?”
“Just that. I invited only family. My real family.”
Denis turned white as chalk.
“Anya, you are going to call Mom and Oksana right now,” he hissed. “Invite them this minute. You will be very polite and courteous! And you will not start the party until they arrive! Otherwise I’m shutting down this whole circus and we’re going home.”
His wife slowly turned to face him. The other guests pretended to be studying the menus, but she could tell they were all listening.
“Denis, dear,” she replied calmly, “I am the hostess of this celebration. I will decide who is at my birthday and who is not.”
“This is my family!” Denis almost shouted. “You can’t just not invite my mother!”
“I can,” Anna leaned back in her chair and looked at her husband steadily. “Because I am no longer going to tolerate people who don’t respect my parents. Who think they’re ‘not our circle.’”
Her father started to rise, but her mother laid a hand on his shoulder. Nikolai Ivanovich cleared his throat awkwardly. Vasya stared wide-eyed, looking from Uncle Denis to Aunt Anya.
“Fine,” Denis straightened up and buttoned his jacket. “Then here are my terms. Either you call Mom and Oksana right now and invite them, or I’m leaving too.”
Silence fell. Anna looked at her husband and felt an astonishing calm. It was as if a heavy burden she’d been carrying for weeks had finally slipped from her shoulders.
“Head out in whatever direction you like,” she said coolly, unfolding her napkin.
Denis froze.
“What?”
“I said: go. The door is where it was. I hope in the last thirty minutes you haven’t forgotten where it is.”
“Anya, are you out of your—” he tried to lower his voice, but she cut him off:
“I’m perfectly sane. It’s just that during our last fight I realized I don’t want to live with you anymore. I put up with you these three weeks only so you would experience the same humiliation my parents did at your birthday.”
Mikhail Semyonovich snapped his head up.
“What humiliation? What happened?”
“I’ll tell you later, Dad,” Anna didn’t take her eyes off her husband. “So, Denis, are you leaving, or are you going to keep spoiling my mood?”
“Anya, you can’t do this…”
“I can. And you know what? It’s amazing how easy it turned out to be. For seven years I thought you loved me. But you were just tolerating me. Tolerating me and my family. Well then… you won’t have to tolerate us anymore. Get lost.”
Denis darted his gaze from face to face at the table, apparently looking for support.
“Dad,” he appealed to Nikolai Ivanovich, “you understand this isn’t right…”
His father-in-law slowly shook his head.
“Son, what is right? What you said about Mikhail Semyonovich and Nina Borisovna? Do you think Anyechka is wrong?”
“Denis,” Sergei interjected, “maybe don’t make a scene? Anya has the right to invite whomever she wants.”
“This is betrayal!” Denis exploded. “I’m your relative!”
“So what?” his wife stood and came very close. “And what are my parents to you? For seven years they considered you a son, and it turns out you were just tolerating them. Pretending. Lying to me every day. So who’s the traitor here?”
Denis opened and closed his mouth like a fish washed up on shore. Then he spun around sharply and headed for the exit.
“You’ll regret this! You’ll crawl back to me on your knees!”
“Don’t hold your breath,” Anna replied calmly.
The door slammed. Silence settled over the table.
Anna sat back down and looked at the familiar faces.
“Well then,” she said, raising a glass of champagne, “shall we celebrate? Looks like I’ve got a real reason for a party.”
Her mother was the first to lift her glass. Then her father. Then everyone else.
“To freedom,” Anna said softly.
“To family,” her father added, looking at his daughter with pride. “To a real family!”
