Are you seriously going to serve this to the guests for the anniversary?” Larisa Pavlovna said with disgust, poking her fork into the salad her daughter-in-law had just made.
Nastya froze with a towel in her hands. She had been preparing the праздничный table for her husband’s thirtieth birthday for four hours now, and only now her mother-in-law had decided to conduct an inspection.
“What’s wrong with the salad?” Nastya tried to keep her voice calm.
“Everything is wrong!” Larisa Pavlovna pushed the plate away theatrically. “The mayonnaise is store-bought, the cucumbers are chopped too big, and the carrots are practically raw! Don’t you know that for Olivier salad you’re supposed to boil the carrots separately from the potatoes?”
Nastya took a deep breath. Five years of marriage had taught her one thing: arguing with Larisa Pavlovna was pointless. The woman could always find something to nitpick—especially when it came to her beloved son, Maksim.
“I cooked the vegetables according to the recipe,” Nastya replied quietly. “The guests will be here in two hours. I’ll have time to finish everything.”
“Finish?” Larisa Pavlovna threw up her hands. “This doesn’t need finishing—it needs redoing from scratch! Maksimka deserves a proper celebration, not this…” She waved at the laid table. “…amateur arts-and-crafts project.”
Maksim appeared in the doorway, drawn by the raised voices.
“Mom, you’re here already?” He kissed her on the cheek as if he didn’t notice the tension in the air.
“I’m here, sonny, and just in time!” Larisa Pavlovna instantly transformed, beaming. “Look what your wife made for your birthday. It’s a disaster!”
Maksim quickly looked over the table—appetizers, cold cuts, salads.
“I think it all looks great,” he shrugged.
“Great?” Larisa Pavlovna shook her head. “You just don’t understand. For your twenty-fifth birthday I set a table people still talk about! And this… It’s embarrassing to show anyone.”
Without a word, Nastya began gathering up the salad plates. If her mother-in-law had decided everything was bad, it was easier to redo it than listen to an hour-long lecture on how to cook properly.
“Where are you taking that?” Larisa Pavlovna snapped. “Planning to throw it out?”
“I’ll remake it the way you want,” Nastya kept her tone neutral.
“There you go—always the same!” her mother-in-law turned to her son. “First she does it her way, and then wastes the food! Do you know how much a kilo of decent sausage costs these days?”
“Mom, nothing needs redoing,” Maksim tried to step in. “Nastya’s been cooking since morning. Everything’s fine.”
“You haven’t even tried it!” Larisa Pavlovna pointed at the food. “I did. The potatoes are falling apart, the meat is dry, and that vinaigrette—I won’t even start. It’s basically just beets!”
Nastya set the bowls back on the table, understanding it was useless. Larisa Pavlovna had already slipped into her favorite role: the expert on everything.
“I brought proper ingredients,” her mother-in-law announced, pulling bags from her purse. “I knew I’d have to save the day. Maksimka, you go rest for now—Nastya and I will handle this.”
“Maybe you don’t need to…” Maksim offered uncertainly, but his mother was already waving him off.
“Go on, go on—women’s business. And I’ll teach your wife how to prepare for holidays properly.”
Maksim shot his wife a guilty look and retreated to the living room. Nastya was left alone with her mother-in-law, already sensing the next two hours would be the longest of her life.
“Right,” Larisa Pavlovna rolled up her sleeves. “First we throw out this whole nightmare, and then we start cooking for real. You write down what I do—maybe you’ll finally learn something after five years.”
“Larisa Pavlovna,” Nastya tried one last time. “The guests are expecting certain dishes. I agreed on the menu with everyone.”
“She agreed,” her mother-in-law snorted. “What do they know? They’ll see my signature dishes and lick their fingers. And your little creations—even Barsik wouldn’t eat them.”
Barsik was Larisa Pavlovna’s cat, who, in her opinion, had refined taste and could tell good food from bad.
The next hour passed like a small war. Larisa Pavlovna commanded, criticized, and lectured. Nastya silently followed instructions, feeling irritation build inside her.
“No, not like that!” her mother-in-law exploded for what felt like the hundredth time. “Onions for salad must be translucent, like a tear! And what is this—little sticks?!”
“It’s a trendy cut,” Nastya tried to explain. “I saw it in a cooking magazine.”
“A magazine!” Larisa Pavlovna rolled her eyes dramatically. “Because of those magazines, you young people have forgotten how to cook. You watch nonsense and then your husbands go around hungry.”
Nastya bit her tongue. Maksim had never complained about her cooking—if anything, he often praised it. But to Larisa Pavlovna, that meant nothing. In her mind, her son was simply too kind to criticize his wife.
“And what kind of meat is this?” her mother-in-law eyed the package suspiciously. “Why isn’t it from the market?”
“It’s farm beef from a trusted shop,” Nastya answered. “They have all the certificates.”
“Certificates!” Larisa Pavlovna scoffed. “I’ve been buying meat at the market for fifty years and I’ve never seen a single certificate. But I know every butcher by face, and none of them would ever slip me something bad.”
Nastya stayed silent. Arguing about the benefits of certified products was pointless. For her mother-in-law, there was only one correct way: her way.
“And anyway,” Larisa Pavlovna went on as she cut the meat, “I don’t understand why you didn’t consult me about the menu. I’m the birthday boy’s mother!”
“Maksim and I made the list together,” Nastya said evenly. “He chose what he wanted on the table.”
“Maksim doesn’t understand these things,” his mother waved it off. “Men are like children when it comes to food. Tell him pasta with ketchup is a праздничный dish and he’ll believe you.”
From the living room came laughter—Maksim was watching some comedy show, completely unaware of the battles in the kitchen.
“By the way, about the guests,” Larisa Pavlovna switched topics. “Who did you invite?”
Nastya began listing them: friends from university, Maksim’s colleagues, a few neighbors they were friendly with.
“And Verochka Sokolova?” her mother-in-law cut in.
“Which Verochka?” Nastya didn’t understand.
“What do you mean which? Maksimka’s first love! They still keep in touch—she always calls him on his birthday.”
Nastya froze with the knife in her hand. This was news. In five years of marriage, Maksim had never once mentioned any Verochka.
“We didn’t invite her,” she said curtly.
“How could you not invite her?” Larisa Pavlovna threw up her hands. “They’ve been friends since childhood! I always said they would’ve made a wonderful couple. Verochka is so хозяйственная, so smart! She’s divorced now, though—but that’s even for the best.”
“For the best for whom?” Nastya couldn’t hold back.
“Well, I mean…” Larisa Pavlovna faltered, realizing she’d said too much. “For her, of course. Her first husband was no good.”
Nastya turned to the stove, trying to cope with the emotions rushing over her. Did her mother-in-law really think her son would be better off with another woman?
“It’s fine, I’ll call her,” Larisa Pavlovna decided. “I’ll tell her to come. Maksim will be happy.”
“Don’t call anyone,” Nastya said firmly. “The guest list is agreed on, and we planned the food for that number of people.”
“Oh, come on—one more person!” Larisa Pavlovna pulled out her phone. “Besides, Verochka will bring something. She bakes pies like you wouldn’t believe!”
Nastya snatched the phone out of Larisa Pavlovna’s hands—surprising even herself with her decisiveness.
“I said—don’t call anyone!”
“How dare you?” her mother-in-law turned red with outrage. “How dare you grab my phone?”
“And how dare you invite people to my home without my permission?” Nastya shot back, no longer holding it in. “Especially my husband’s exes!”
“What ex?” Larisa Pavlovna tried to grab the phone back. “They’re just childhood friends!”
“Who ‘could’ve made a wonderful couple,’ as you just said!”
Maksim looked into the kitchen, drawn by the raised voices.
“What’s going on?”
“Your mother wants to invite Verochka Sokolova to your birthday,” Nastya turned to her husband. “Your first love—who you somehow never told me about.”
Maksim looked back and forth between his wife and his mother, confused.
“Mom, why are you doing this?”
“What am I doing?” Larisa Pavlovna bristled. “I want all my son’s close friends at his birthday!”
“Vera isn’t a close friend,” Maksim shook his head. “We haven’t talked in ten years.”
“But she calls you on your birthday!” his mother insisted.
“She messages on social media, like another hundred people,” Maksim stepped closer to Nastya and put his arm around her shoulders. “Mom, stop, please.”
Larisa Pavlovna pressed her lips together, offended.
“I just wanted what’s best. But if my opinion doesn’t matter here…”
She turned demonstratively to the stove, radiating wounded dignity. Nastya and Maksim exchanged a look.
“Let’s just finish cooking calmly before the guests arrive,” Maksim suggested. “Mom, we do appreciate your help—really. Just don’t invite anyone else, okay?”
“Fine,” Larisa Pavlovna muttered, stirring something in a pot with unnecessary force. “Just don’t complain later that the birthday turned out boring.”
Maksim left, and the women were alone again. The air in the kitchen felt so tense you could cut it with a knife.
They worked in silence, each lost in her thoughts. Nastya mechanically chopped vegetables, thinking that five years should have been enough for her mother-in-law to accept her as family. But no—Larisa Pavlovna still saw her as an outsider, unworthy of her precious son.
“Where’s the salt?” her mother-in-law barked.
“In the cabinet above the stove,” Nastya replied.
“Not where it should be!” Larisa Pavlovna immediately found a new reason to criticize. “Salt should be right next to the stove so you don’t have to reach every time.”
Nastya said nothing. Debating the proper location of salt was beyond her strength.
Another hour passed. The table was almost ready—now it displayed both Nastya’s dishes and Larisa Pavlovna’s “masterpieces.” Her mother-in-law looked at the result with satisfaction.
“Now this is better. You can tell my salads right away—they look more appetizing.”
Nastya bit her tongue. Her salads looked no worse—just plated in a more modern style.
“By the way,” Larisa Pavlovna returned to the sore subject, “why didn’t you invite your parents?”
“My parents are on vacation, at a санаторий,” Nastya answered. “And your husband…”
“My husband can’t stand noisy gatherings, you know that,” her mother-in-law cut in. “But I’m here! Thank God. Otherwise I’d like to see how you’d manage without me.”
Nastya glanced at the clock—less than an hour before guests arrived. She needed to change, do her makeup, and mentally prepare for the evening.
“I’m going to get changed,” she said.
“Go,” Larisa Pavlovna allowed generously. “Just don’t dress up too much. Remember, it’s Maksim’s birthday, not yours. No need to drag attention to yourself.”
Nastya froze in the doorway.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you love those revealing dresses of yours,” her mother-in-law shook her head. “Last New Year’s you dressed so that all the men were only looking at you.”
“That was a normal cocktail dress,” Nastya couldn’t believe her ears. “And Maksim chose it himself.”
“Maksim is kind—he didn’t want to upset you,” Larisa Pavlovna continued arranging plates. “But I saw how embarrassed he was.”
Nastya turned and left, not trusting herself to continue. In the bedroom she sat on the bed, trying to calm down. Would this ever end? Would she spend her whole life listening to jabs and remarks?
Maksim found her fifteen minutes later.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” he sat down beside her. “The guests will be here soon.”
“Your mother thinks I dress too provocatively,” Nastya turned to him. “And that you were embarrassed because of me on New Year’s.”
“What nonsense,” Maksim frowned. “You were the most beautiful one there. I was proud of you.”
“Then why don’t you tell her that?” Nastya looked him in the eyes. “Why do you let her say nasty things about me?”
Maksim sighed.
“She doesn’t mean it maliciously, Nastya. It’s just… hard for her to accept that I grew up. That I have my own family.”
“Five years, Maks!” Nastya raised her voice. “Five years I’ve put up with her nitpicking! When is it going to end?”
“Just hang on a little longer,” Maksim hugged her. “She’s not always like this. She’s just nervous today because of the celebration.”
Nastya wanted to argue that Larisa Pavlovna was always like this, but the doorbell rang—the first guests had arrived.
The evening went surprisingly smoothly. Everyone laughed, congratulated the birthday boy, and praised the food. Larisa Pavlovna glowed, accepting compliments for “her” dishes, and nodded graciously when people praised Nastya’s salads too.
“Your mother-in-law is a treasure!” one of Maksim’s colleagues said. “She helps you so much!”
Nastya forced a smile, not explaining what that help had cost.
By ten, the guests began to leave. Larisa Pavlovna—flushed from wine and compliments—sat in an armchair like a queen.
“A wonderful evening,” she declared. “Good thing I came. You wouldn’t have managed without me.”
Nastya began clearing the table, trying not to react to the next jab. Maksim helped, carrying dirty dishes to the kitchen.
“Leave it, son,” Larisa Pavlovna waved him off. “That’s women’s work. Nastya will clean up.”
“Mom, I live here too,” Maksim objected. “And I can help my wife.”
“There!” his mother jabbed a finger at him—then aimed it at Nastya. “Look what you’ve done to him! A man washing dishes! Happy now?”
“Larisa Pavlovna,” Nastya set down a stack of plates. “In modern families, men and women share housework.”
“Modern!” her mother-in-law snorted. “In normal families the woman creates comfort and the man earns money. I didn’t raise Maksim so he’d run around the kitchen in an apron!”
“I’m not running around in an apron,” Maksim said wearily. “I’m just helping clean up after the celebration. Which, by the way, was for me.”
“And what?” Larisa Pavlovna stood up. “The birthday boy should serve himself? What kind of family is this?”
“A normal family,” Maksim said unexpectedly firmly. “Where husband and wife are partners, not master and servant.”
Larisa Pavlovna opened her mouth to retort, but Nastya finally snapped. The exhaustion, the tension of the entire day, the hurt from years of humiliation—everything burst out.
“Enough!” she raised her voice so sharply Larisa Pavlovna flinched. “I’m not going to tolerate this anymore! For five years you’ve been coming into our home and acting like I’m the hired help! You criticize everything I do, compare me to some Verochkas, teach me how to live!”
“Nastya…” Maksim started, but she stopped him with a gesture.
“No, Maks—let me speak!” Nastya turned to her mother-in-law. “You raised a wonderful son, that’s true. But he’s an adult! He has his own life, his own family! And I am part of that family—whether you like it or not!”
“How dare you…” Larisa Pavlovna began, but Nastya cut her off.
“I dare—in my own house, I dare to say what I think! You criticize my cooking? Maksim has never complained! You judge how I dress? My husband likes how I look! You say I’m a bad homemaker? Our home is clean and cozy!”
“I taught Maksim to be undemanding!” Larisa Pavlovna blurted out. “He just doesn’t want to hurt your feelings!”
“No, Mom,” Maksim stepped up beside his wife. “Right now you’re hurting both of us. Nastya’s right—you don’t accept her no matter what she does.”
“Maksim!” Larisa Pavlovna stared, stunned. “You’re taking her side against your own mother?”
“I’m taking my family’s side,” he said firmly. “Nastya is my wife, the closest person I have. And if you can’t accept that…”
“Then what?” his mother crossed her arms. “What will you do—throw your mother out?”
“No,” Maksim shook his head. “But I will protect my wife from unfair attacks. And if you can’t speak to her respectfully, then…”
“Then we’ll have to limit your visits,” Nastya finished.
Silence fell. Larisa Pavlovna looked at her son as if seeing him for the first time.
“So that’s how it is,” she finally said. “So some woman matters more to you than your mother.”
“Not some woman—my wife,” Maksim corrected. “And it’s not about who matters more. It’s about respect.”
Without another word, Larisa Pavlovna picked up her purse.
“I understand,” she said dryly. “I won’t get in your way anymore.”
“Mom, don’t драматизировать,” Maksim tried to stop her. “Let’s just talk like people—without all the constant jabs.”
“I did everything for you my whole life,” Larisa Pavlovna looked at him with reproach. “Gave you all of myself. And you…”
“And I grew up, Mom,” Maksim said gently. “And that’s normal. Children grow up and build their own families. That doesn’t mean I love you less. But my life now is Nastya’s life too.”
Larisa Pavlovna stood for a moment longer, then turned and left. The front door slammed, and the apartment became strangely quiet.
Nastya and Maksim stood in the middle of the living room, not knowing what to say.
“Thank you,” Nastya finally whispered. “Thank you for standing up for me.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t do it sooner,” Maksim pulled her close. “I thought if we ignored it, everything would sort itself out.”
“Nothing sorts itself out,” Nastya pressed her face into his shoulder. “But now maybe we have a chance.”
They stood like that for a few minutes, holding each other. Then together they started cleaning up, talking about the evening and laughing at the funny moments.
The next morning, Maksim called his mother. The conversation was long and difficult, but in the end Larisa Pavlovna agreed that maybe she had been too категорична.
“But she still uses way too much mayonnaise,” his mother couldn’t resist adding.
“Mom,” Maksim warned.
“All right, all right—I’m quiet,” Larisa Pavlovna sighed. “Come over for tea on Sunday. I’ll try to behave properly.”
It was a beginning. Not perfect, not easy—but a beginning. Nastya knew there was still a lot of work ahead in their relationships. But the main thing had already happened: Maksim had taken her side, shown his mother that his family was now the two of them.
And Larisa Pavlovna… well, maybe in time she would learn to see her daughter-in-law not as a rival, but as an ally—someone who loved her son and cared about him, someone willing to build bridges instead of burning them.
Time would tell. For now, Nastya enjoyed the quiet of her home—and the fact that she no longer had to оправдываться for every pinch of salt and every slice of onion.
