The holiday spread was laid out in Oksana’s apartment—the very place she had bought and turned into a home herself long before she ever married Igor. That tiny one-bedroom on the eighth floor of a gray nine-story panel building was, to her, the proudest achievement of her life. For three exhausting years she had saved with almost military discipline: by day she worked as a manager at a trading company, and in the evenings she tutored English. She denied herself nearly everything—walking instead of taking the metro, cooking at home instead of buying ready-made meals, wearing old clothes until they literally wore out.
She’d done the renovation with her own hands, too: painted the walls a warm beige, hung wallpaper with a small floral pattern, and assembled the kitchen set she’d purchased on installments together with her father. Nothing here was accidental. Every item had been chosen with love, taste, and care.
Light walls made the space feel bigger. A comfortable sand-colored corner sofa—picked after endless trips to furniture stores—sat against one wall. On the wide windowsill, living plants crowded together: violets, geraniums, a money tree. It was all hers—earned through her own work, her own sweat. And today she’d decided to host a small family celebration here for Igor’s thirtieth birthday.
“Oksan, maybe we should just go to a restaurant after all?” Igor had suggested that morning, still half-asleep as he poured coffee in the kitchen. “Why put yourself through all that cooking and cleaning? We could sit somewhere nice—waiters, service, the whole thing.”
“No. I want it at home,” Oksana shook her head, already pulling salad ingredients from the fridge. “Restaurants feel stiff. Cold. At home it’s warmer, more real. And we’re not having many people—maybe seven.”
“As you wish,” her husband shrugged indifferently, taking a sip. “Just… please don’t exhaust yourself. No need to make a hundred dishes.”
The guest list really was small: Igor; his mother, Tamara Sergeyevna, who had insisted she absolutely had to be there; two distant relatives—his cousin Sergey and Sergey’s quiet wife Lena, whom Oksana had seen perhaps three times in two years of marriage; and the neighbors from the fifth floor, a kind older couple—Viktor Petrovich and Nina Ivanovna—who came “for a friendly visit” at Oksana’s personal invitation. She had deliberately avoided a big, noisy party with a crowd.
She pictured a calm, warm evening—sincere toasts, gentle conversation, an unhurried meal at a beautifully set table. Oksana started cooking at dawn. She roasted fragrant spiced meat in the oven, chopped and mixed several salads, washed and sliced crisp vegetables, and baked Igor’s favorite three-layer honey cake using her grandmother’s recipe. By six o’clock, the table was practically groaning: classic Olivier, chicken Caesar, vinaigrette, meat platters, fish rolls, baked potatoes with mushrooms, and foil-roasted meat for the main dish. Oksana was unbelievably tired, but proud of what she’d pulled off.
“Oh, Oksanochka, sweetheart, you set everything up so beautifully!” Nina Ivanovna exclaimed sincerely as she stepped inside with her husband, offering a bouquet of white chrysanthemums. “It’s a feast for the eyes! And look at all this food—did you really start this morning?”
“Thank you so much,” Oksana smiled, accepting the flowers and breathing in their fresh scent. “Come in—please, take off your coats and sit down.”
“Our golden hostess has outdone herself,” Viktor Petrovich added with a hearty wink as he hung up his jacket. “Igor, you hit the jackpot with such a capable wife. Hold on to her!”
Tamara Sergeyevna came in right after them, breathing heavily from the stairs. She swept the table with a long, assessing look and pressed her painted lips together.
“Well… that’s a lot of frying and baking,” she said skeptically. “Let’s just hope people actually eat it. Otherwise you’ll be throwing half of it away.”
Oksana moved around the tight kitchen quickly and skillfully, but the tension in her shoulders gave away how exhausted she was. She’d been up since seven to fit everything in. First she went to the central market for the freshest ingredients—meat, fish, vegetables, fruit. Then she spent three solid hours glued to the stove, making one dish after another. After that she cleaned the entire apartment from top to bottom—mopped the floors, dusted everything, scrubbed the bathroom.
Then she set the table—plates and cutlery arranged neatly, napkins folded, everything placed just so. Then a quick shower, a dress, a bit of makeup. Her legs throbbed, her back screamed from standing all day, but she refused to complain. She wanted this evening to feel truly joyful—wanted Igor to be happy, wanted guests to leave with warm impressions.
“Oksan, sunshine, maybe sit down for at least one minute?” Igor whispered sympathetically as she hurried past him again with a plate of steaming food. “You’ve been on your feet for hours. Take a break.”
“In a second, love,” she waved distractedly, setting the plate down. “Let me serve the last hot dish and then I’ll sit with you.”
She kept going back and forth between the kitchen and the room—bringing out smoking platters, refilling wine and juice, making sure nobody lacked anything. Tamara Sergeyevna planted herself at the head of the table, right beside her son, and launched into a long story from Igor’s childhood.
“Remember, Igoryok, when you were five at the dacha…”
From the very first minute, the mother-in-law took over like she was the host and the toastmaster. She laughed loudly, demanded attention, and talked without pause. She recycled old jokes everyone had heard a hundred times, told endless stories about herself and her son, and gave running commentary on every dish on the table.
“Oh, I used to make this salad for my Igor all the time when he was little!” she announced for the whole room, piling a huge portion of Olivier onto her plate. “Only I always added fresh peas—not canned. Canned peas are disgusting, the taste is completely wrong. And the sausage had to be proper doctor’s sausage, not some cheap nonsense. Right, Igoryok? You loved it, didn’t you?”
“Of course, Mom,” Igor replied obediently, smiling and nodding.
“And this roasted meat…” Tamara Sergeyevna cut herself a generous piece, put it in her mouth, chewed slowly with exaggerated thoughtfulness. “Not bad. Not bad—edible, overall. Though I would’ve rubbed it with fresh garlic before roasting, for a sharper aroma. And kept it in the oven longer, at a higher temperature, so the crust would be more golden and crisp.”
Oksana stood at the stove with her back to the table, listening in silence to the steady drip of criticism. Nina Ivanovna noticed the tension in her pale face and tried to step in tactfully.
“Tamara Sergeyevna, what are you saying? Everything is absolutely wonderful! Oksanochka did such a beautiful job—so much work and heart!”
“Oh, I’m not arguing, not at all!” the mother-in-law fluttered her hands. “I’m just giving friendly advice—how to make it even better next time. I’m an experienced woman, I’ve cooked and baked my whole life.”
Igor sat at the table relaxed and pleased, as if none of it concerned him. He ate at ease, sipped his wine, laughed at jokes that weren’t particularly funny, and accepted congratulations with a satisfied smile.
“So, Igor, how does it feel? Thirty is serious business—another year older and wiser!” his cousin Sergey said, clapping him on the shoulder.
“Fine,” Igor grinned, leaning back in his chair. “The main thing is my health hasn’t let me down yet, and I’ve got a steady job. The rest will work itself out.”
“That’s exactly right. Let’s drink to the birthday boy’s health and to good work!”
Glasses clinked loudly. Igor sank back against the soft chair, content and carefree. At that exact moment Oksana hurried past him with another heavy tray—baked potatoes with forest mushrooms and onion. He didn’t even turn his head toward her, continuing his conversation with Sergey about suppliers and boring work problems.
Oksana placed the dish carefully between the salads and rushed back to the kitchen for sauce and herbs. Her legs were barely holding her up; she wanted to sit down for five minutes more than anything. But she knew if she sat, the table would empty in no time—drinks needed topping up, plates needed refilling, everything needed watching.
“Igor, tell your wife to sit down for a bit,” Lena said softly but firmly, leaning toward him. “Look at her—she’s exhausted.”
“Oksan, come sit next to me already,” Igor called lazily without turning from his conversation. “Everything’s on the table now.”
“I’m coming—just a minute,” Oksana answered from the kitchen, her voice muted.
When the glasses had been refilled yet again—probably for the fifth time—Tamara Sergeyevna rose noisily, swaying on her feet. She’d had plenty to drink. She tapped her fork against the crystal rim of her full glass.
“Attention, everyone! Attention!” she declared in a theatrical voice, waving her free hand. “Dear guests! I want to make an important toast!”
“Mom, you’ve already made three toasts in a row,” Igor laughed drunkenly, shaking his head. “Maybe that’s enough? Let someone else speak.”
“And what of it?!” she snapped, lifting her chin proudly. “This is my only beloved son—I have every right to make as many toasts as I want! So! Everyone quiet and listen to me!”
The room noticeably hushed. Guests turned toward her with raised glasses, bracing themselves for yet another speech. Sergey and Lena exchanged a quick uneasy glance. Viktor Petrovich set down his fork. Nina Ivanovna watched the mother-in-law with wary concern. Oksana stepped out of the kitchen at that moment carrying a heavy kettle of hot tea, intending to offer tea or coffee. She stopped at the edge of the table, gripping the kettle with both hands in oven mitts.
“Well then, my dear guests,” Tamara Sergeyevna began grandly, still swaying, her smile sly and loaded. “I want to raise my glass to our strong, close family! To my dearest son, Igoryok!”
“Mom, we already drank to me twice,” Igor tried again, but she flicked her hand dismissively.
“Don’t interrupt your elders! This toast matters—listen!”
“And so, my dears—here’s my toast,” she lifted the glass high with effort and spread into a smug grin. “We got ourselves a daughter-in-law who’s like a real workhorse. Lucky us—there’s someone to plow day and night for the whole family!”
And then she burst into loud, rolling, ugly laughter, throwing her dyed head back. The crude drunken cackle echoed through the suddenly quiet room.
“Ha-ha-ha! It’s the truth, isn’t it?” she went on, still laughing. “Look at her—running around all day without a break. Back and forth, back and forth—like she works in a stable! Igor and I have it good!”
Uneasy laughter rippled around the table—thin, forced, polite. Some people smiled awkwardly and looked away. Sergey let out a vague grunt and stared at his plate. Lena flushed bright red and pressed her lips together. Viktor Petrovich coughed loudly into his fist and reached for the water. Nina Ivanovna stared at Tamara Sergeyevna with open disapproval.
“Tamara Sergeyevna, how can you say something like that in front of everyone…” Nina Ivanovna began, indignant, but the mother-in-law waved her off so sharply she nearly spilled wine.
“Oh, come on! Why are you all so tense?” she scoffed. “It’s a harmless joke! Normal people understand. She’s hardworking—that’s what I’m praising!”
“That’s a very strange kind of praise,” Lena murmured under her breath, shaking her head.
Oksana stood frozen at the edge of the table, still holding the heavy kettle in both hands. Slowly, she lifted her head. She looked as if she had turned into ice—unable to believe what she’d just heard. For several long seconds she stared straight at her mother-in-law, forcing herself to process the words.
A horse. To plow. In her own home. In front of guests. As a “joke.” As a “compliment.”
Oksana’s face stayed perfectly calm—no twitch, no grimace—but her eyes turned hard and cold, a steel stillness that was almost frightening. She set the kettle down very slowly on the very edge of the table without breaking her stare.
Tamara Sergeyevna kept giggling, oblivious to how the air had changed, how everyone had stiffened.
“Oh, don’t get offended!” she continued breezily. “It’s a sincere compliment! Hardworking, domestic—look how much she cooked! The table can’t even hold it!”
“Tamara Sergeyevna, please…” Nina Ivanovna tried again, but Oksana lifted one hand—palm out—quietly stopping her.
Oksana didn’t argue. She didn’t shout. She didn’t raise her voice at all. She simply removed the apron she’d been wearing since morning, folded it neatly into a square, and placed it over the back of a chair. Then she picked up a large serving tray and set it down beside the salads. After that she straightened to her full height.
Her movements were calm, measured, almost mechanical—yet filled with something unbending. The entire table fell silent. Even the drunken mother-in-law stopped laughing and looked at Oksana with sudden caution.
Only then did Igor finally notice what was happening—but it was already far too late. He lifted his head from his plate, feeling the thick, heavy silence press down.
“Oksan… why are you standing?” he asked with a light, drunken smirk, still not grasping the seriousness. “Mom just made a bad joke. You know what she’s like. Ignore it.”
“A joke,” Oksana repeated, very softly, but so clearly every syllable landed. “I see.”
“Oh, don’t be dramatic over nonsense!” Tamara Sergeyevna flapped her hand nervously. “Why are you taking it so seriously? I meant it kindly!”
Oksana stared at her a few more seconds—then slowly turned that icy gaze toward her husband.
Drawing a deep breath, she squared her tired shoulders and said evenly—calmly, but with a firmness that sounded like a hammer strike:
“There will be no more humiliation in my home. Remember that. Not as a joke, not in a drunk toast—never. This is my apartment, and these are my rules.”
Tamara Sergeyevna blinked, stunned.
“What humiliation? Are you a child—can’t you take a joke?” she snapped. “Offended over nothing!”
“I understand normal humor perfectly well,” Oksana replied in the same dead-calm voice. “But calling me a workhorse in my own apartment—after I spent all day cooking for your son’s celebration—that isn’t humor. It’s blatant rudeness and disrespect.”
“Oksana, don’t blow this into a scandal…” Igor began uncertainly, but she turned to him with a look that made the words die in his throat.
“Did you want to say something, Igor?” she asked, her tone sharp with ice. “Do you also think that was a wonderful, funny joke?”
Tamara Sergeyevna tried to laugh it off, but her laugh came out short, strained, fake.
“Oh, honestly—such a fuss over nothing!” she said, scanning the guests desperately for support. “Igoryok, tell her something reasonable!”
But Igor stayed silent, staring at the floor.
“I didn’t say it out of spite!” the mother-in-law insisted, far less confident now. “I just… well… I used an image. A metaphor.”
“A metaphor,” Oksana echoed flatly. “A horse. To plow. What a beautiful image.”
“Well, excuse me if you took it the wrong way…”
“If I took it the wrong way?” Oksana’s gaze swept the table. “I’d love to know what other way there is to take words like that.”
Without another word she turned on her heel, walked straight to the front door, and pulled it wide open so the dark stairwell was visible. Then she stood beside it, one hand gripping the cold metal handle, and looked at the guests—quietly, steadily, saying nothing.
She didn’t need to.
“What are you doing?!” Tamara Sergeyevna screeched, jumping up so abruptly her glass nearly tipped. “Igor! Do you see what your crazy wife is doing?!”
Igor looked helplessly from his mother to his wife.
“Oksan… close the door, please. Don’t do this. Mom had too much to drink—she’s not controlling her words…”
“The celebration is over,” Oksana said quietly, but with absolute finality. “I’m asking everyone to leave my apartment. Now.”
The guests understood immediately and began gathering their things in silence, avoiding eye contact. Quiet Lena stood first.
“Thank you for the food and for having us, Oksana,” she said softly. “I’m sorry it turned out like this. Everything was delicious—you did an incredible job.”
“Thank you for coming,” Oksana nodded curtly, her face still stone.
Sergey took his wife by the elbow and hurried out. Viktor Petrovich and Nina Ivanovna were already putting on their jackets in the narrow hallway.
“Hold on, dear,” Nina Ivanovna whispered as she left, touching Oksana’s shoulder. “You did the right thing. You really did.”
Tamara Sergeyevna remained at the table, red with drink and rage.
“I’m not going anywhere! This is my only son’s home!”
“This is my apartment, Tamara Sergeyevna,” Oksana corrected, ice-calm. “My personal property. And I’m asking you to leave.”
“Igor! Tell her!”
But Igor only sat there, weak and silent, eyes down.
Slowly Tamara Sergeyevna shoved back her chair, grabbed her bag, and staggered toward the door, shooting Oksana a look full of venom.
“You’ll regret this!” she spat over her shoulder. “You’ll regret it bitterly!”
The door slammed.
Oksana stood alone in the emptied apartment with one crystal-clear understanding: this had been the last evening anyone would try to turn her into unpaid labor under the mask of “family.” She walked back to the table and looked at the wreckage—half-eaten, cooling salads, wine gone flat, crumpled napkins, glasses knocked askew. So much work. So much time. So many sincere hopes for a warm, happy night—shattered by one drunken sentence.
A horse. To plow. How it hurt.
Igor still sat at the table, not lifting his head.
“Why did you have to be so harsh?” he asked dully, still not looking at her. “That’s my mother.”
“And this is my apartment, Igor,” Oksana answered, lowering herself onto the edge of a chair. “The apartment where, according to your mother’s words, I ‘plow like a workhorse.’ Funny, isn’t it? I spent the entire day cooking, cleaning, trying to make your thirtieth birthday beautiful. And she decided it was the perfect moment to humiliate me in front of everyone.”
“She didn’t mean to hurt you…”
“Didn’t mean to?” Oksana gave a bitter, tired smile and shook her head. “Igor, she called me a horse. In front of guests. In my own home. And you sat there smiling.”
“I just… I didn’t know what to say.”
“Exactly,” Oksana said quietly. “You never do.”
They sat in oppressive silence for several minutes. Oksana stared out at the dark window and understood, with painful clarity, that something essential between them had changed forever. She would not tolerate humiliation again—from his mother, from him, from anyone.
This was her home. Her life. Her rules.
And only she would decide who was allowed to stay in it—and how they were allowed to behave.
