Diana stood in the kitchen, staring at the screen of her phone. A message from her mother-in-law, Alla Gennadyevna, glowed like an unnaturally bright spot in the evening half-darkness:
“Pasha, just a reminder: my birthday is on Saturday at 6:00 p.m. I’m expecting you and Seryozha. The table will be lavish. Ask Diana on my behalf to bake the cake—chocolate, with cherries. I hope she remembers the one I like. She doesn’t need to come herself.”
The message had been sent to a group chat that included Diana, Pavel, and their son Sergey. But the way it addressed “Pasha,” “Seryozha,” and the detached “ask Diana” made Diana’s eyes sting.
Diana hadn’t spoken to Alla Gennadyevna for almost a year. The conflict that flared up at last year’s birthday had grown into a cold silence. Her mother-in-law pointedly ignored Diana, and Diana, exhausted by endless reproaches, stopped calling and visiting. Pavel chose a policy of noninterference—which, in practice, meant silent approval of his mother’s behavior.
Diana slowly set the phone down on the table. Her ears rang. “Let her bake the cake… she doesn’t need to come.”
It wasn’t even a request—it was an order, or a taunt.
Pavel walked into the apartment. He was in a good mood—until he saw his wife’s face.
“What happened?” he asked, taking off his jacket.
Diana silently handed him the phone. Pavel skimmed the message and frowned.
“Well, Mom…” he sighed. “She wants a cake. And you always bake the best.”
“Pasha, do you even realize how insane this is?” Diana’s voice trembled. “I’m not invited. No one speaks to me. I don’t exist to her. But my cake is supposed to exist, so she can brag to her guests: ‘My daughter-in-law baked this—unfortunately, I just didn’t want to invite her herself’?”
“Don’t dramatize,” Pavel said, sitting down and avoiding her eyes. “She’s probably just embarrassed to make up directly. This is her step. The cake is like… a sign of reconciliation.”
“What step, for God’s sake?” Diana let out a nervous laugh. “It says in black and white: ‘I’m expecting Pasha and Seryozha.’ I’m simply not there. I’m left out. I’m being politely shown my place—on the kitchen side, by the stove.”
“What do you want me to do?” Pavel’s tone sharpened. “She won’t talk to you if she doesn’t want to. And the cake… she’s right, your cake is incredible. Please make it—for me—so there isn’t a scandal.”
“For you?” Diana looked at him with bitter disbelief. “So it’s convenient for you? So you can show up at your mom’s with my cake, sit at the table, and when they ask where I am, say, ‘Oh, she’s at home—she baked the cake, that’s enough from her!’ And everyone will think that’s normal?”
Pavel didn’t answer. He went into the living room and turned on the TV. Diana stayed alone in the kitchen.
Inside her, everything boiled. Pride screamed, No way! This is humiliation! But the part of her that had spent years trying to please people whispered, What if it really is a chance? Bake it, Pavel will bring it, she’ll appreciate it… maybe the ice will crack.
Saturday came—the morning of Alla Gennadyevna’s birthday. Diana hadn’t slept all night. She kept turning over possibilities in her head, but every option felt like a loss.
At ten in the morning Pavel’s phone rang.
He stepped out onto the balcony to talk. Diana already knew who it was. Five minutes later he came back, his face tense.
“Mom called. She asked about the cake.”
Diana slowly turned toward him. In her hands was a mug of cold coffee.
“And what did you tell her?”
“I said I didn’t know, and that you hadn’t decided.”
She looked at his helpless, guilty face—and suddenly understood everything. Her role in this family was the role of service staff.
Diana put the mug in the sink, went to the table, picked up her phone, found Alla Gennadyevna’s number, and dialed. The call was answered almost immediately.
“Hello?” Her mother-in-law’s voice was cold and wary.
“Alla Gennadyevna, happy birthday,” Diana said evenly, calmly. “Pavel told me you’d like me to bake a cake.”
There was a pause on the other end.
“Well… yes. That one, chocolate. You know.”
“I know,” Diana nodded, though the other woman couldn’t see her. “But I won’t be baking it.”
“Why?” Alla Gennadyevna sounded genuinely astonished, as if she’d just been told the laws of physics had been canceled.
“Because I’m not a cook or a pastry chef on call. I’m your son’s wife. And if I’m not at the праздничный table as a guest, then I’m not in the kitchen as free labor either. Enjoy your celebration.”
She hung up. Her hands were shaking, but inside she felt strangely calm.
Pavel stared at her, mouth open.
“You… you just called my mother yourself and told her you won’t bake the cake?”
“Yes, Pasha. That’s exactly what I said. You heard me right,” Diana smirked. “And I don’t care that your mother didn’t like my answer!”
Pavel frowned, but didn’t say another word. He went to buy his mother’s present himself.
That evening Pavel and Sergey went to Alla Gennadyevna’s birthday with two boxes of cakes from a nearby supermarket, which, according to Pavel, were dry and tasteless. The invited guests said the same thing—and didn’t finish their slices.
From his mother’s face, Pavel could see she was unhappy with Diana’s behavior and with the cakes her son and grandson had brought. All evening she sat stone-faced, lips pressed tight. She reacted to guests’ jokes with a thoughtful, tight smile.
Pavel knew perfectly well what that meant: the next day his mother would definitely call him with complaints.
And she did. Alla Gennadyevna called her son the next day and spent half an hour scolding his ill-mannered, proud wife.
“Why didn’t you put her in her place? Why didn’t you make her bake the cake?” the woman shrieked into the receiver.
“How could I make her if she didn’t want to?” Pavel sighed irritably. “Diana is an adult, and she has the right to decide what she will do and what she won’t…”
“She humiliated me!” Alla Gennadyevna squealed, hysteria in her voice.
“Mom, you and Diana haven’t spoken in a year. You didn’t invite her to your birthday, but you sent her an order—through me—to bake you a cake. How did you think she’d react?” Pavel asked coldly.
“I understand everything now, son… I understand,” Alla Gennadyevna sniffled.
“What do you understand, Mom?” Pavel asked with a sigh—already knowing the answer.
“That you betrayed me! Even on my birthday you couldn’t pressure your little wife!” she snapped venomously and hung up.
Pavel stared at his phone in confusion, then waved a hand and decided not to take his mother’s fits to heart
