“Who’s going to roast the goose—me?” Galina Ivanovna’s voice crackled through the phone, demanding and wounded at the same time, with those familiar notes that had worked on her son for forty years straight. “My blood pressure’s been jumping for two weeks, and you want to run your own mother ragged at the stove?”
Marina stood beside her husband and watched Oleg do what he always did—hunch his shoulders as if he could physically shrink out of the conversation. He had the phone on speaker while slicing bread for dinner, and the call was clearly killing his appetite.
“Mom, why do you always make it sound like we’re trying to torture you?” Oleg mumbled, guilty by reflex. “It’s your milestone birthday—sixty is a big deal. Usually the birthday person either hosts themselves or invites everyone out to a restaurant.”
“A restaurant!” his mother snorted. “Have you seen the prices? You want me to throw money away? We’re a big, close family—we’ll celebrate at home. And your apartment is huge, the living room is spacious. Marina cooks beautifully—she’s got a light hand. I already made a list: jellied meat, Olivier salad, herring under a fur coat—only homemade, not that store nonsense. Goose with apples, caviar sandwiches… and cake. I want Napoleon—soft and moist.”
Marina quietly took the knife from Oleg’s hand—he’d started shredding the loaf into crumbs out of nerves—and motioned for him to stay silent. She drew a deep breath, gathering herself. This decision hadn’t appeared overnight. It had been forming in her for years, building like dust behind a wardrobe—until the moment finally came to sneeze and sweep it all out in one go.
“Galina Ivanovna, good evening. This is Marina,” she said clearly into the phone.
“Oh, Marinotchka!” her mother-in-law chirped. “Did you hear the list? Make a note to buy everything ahead of time—prices shoot up before the holidays. And don’t buy caviar on sale—get the good kind, in a glass jar.”
“Galina Ivanovna, Oleg and I talked it over,” Marina said, steadying her voice, “and we decided we’re celebrating your anniversary at your place this year.”
The line went dead silent—so thick Marina could practically hear the old wall clock ticking in the background.
“At my place…?” her mother-in-law finally forced out. “What do you mean at mine? I don’t have enough room. And my oven is old—it bakes properly only every other time.”
“That’s okay,” Marina shot back, surprised by her own boldness and the way her heart hammered. “You always say, ‘Crowded, but no one’s offended.’ Besides, for the last ten years, every celebration has been at our place. New Year’s, March 8th, every nephew’s birthday. I did the math: this year alone I spent a total of three full weeks in the kitchen cooking for your family. I’m tired. This time I want to be a guest—dressed up, looking nice, holding a glass of wine. Not standing over a greasy baking tray.”
“Oleg!” Galina Ivanovna shrieked. “Did you hear what your wife just said? What is this—an uprising? I’m your mother! It’s my milestone!”
Oleg threw Marina a terrified look—but she stared back so firmly he didn’t dare argue. Her eyes said plainly: If you don’t support me right now, we’re done. He swallowed hard.
“Mom… Marina’s right,” he managed. “We’ll come to you. Two o’clock, like you planned.”
“But the groceries… Who’s going to cook?!”
“Well, Sveta can come earlier and help,” Oleg blurted out, naming his younger sister. “She’s your daughter too—she can participate.”
“Sveta?!” Galina Ivanovna exploded. “She has children! She doesn’t have time!”
Marina ended the call.
A heavy silence settled over the kitchen. Oleg sank into a chair and wiped his forehead.
“Do you realize what’s coming?” he asked quietly. “She’ll make our lives hell. And Sveta will join in.”
“Let her,” Marina said, calmly pouring herself tea. “Oleg, yesterday I sat down and calculated what we spent last year on ‘hosting’ your relatives. One hundred and eighty thousand rubles. Food, alcohol, taxis for your mother, gifts for your nephews. And what did we get? For my birthday your sister gave me a set of potholders from a discount store, and your mother gave me expired hand cream she clearly re-gifted. Enough. The free buffet is closed.”
The next two weeks turned into phone warfare. Galina Ivanovna called with dramatic reports of sciatica, migraines, and “heart failure from children’s cruelty.” Sveta called too, yelling that Marina was selfish, that Sveta had “two little troublemakers” (who, in reality, were already ten and twelve), and she couldn’t possibly stand at the stove.
“Marina, at least let’s chop some salads,” Oleg begged two days before the big moment. “It’s humiliating to show up empty-handed. At least buy some deli platters?”
“No,” Marina said, cutting him off. “We’re going as guests. Think how they come to us—empty-handed. At most they bring one cheap chocolate bar for tea. So we’ll bring a cake. A wafer cake. The cheapest one.”
“That’s cruel.”
“That’s fair, Oleg. Mirror-image fairness.”
Saturday arrived. Marina booked a hair appointment in the morning. She put on her best dress—a dark blue sheath she’d been saving for the theater—and did her makeup. Oleg wandered around in a suit, nervously tugging at his tie, looking like a man walking to the gallows.
“At least let’s bring a gift?” he asked hopefully, nodding at a nice envelope where they’d set aside five thousand rubles in advance.
Marina thought for a moment.
“We’ll bring the envelope. It’s still a milestone. But nothing else. No grocery bags, no bottle of cognac, no containers of aspic.”
They left the apartment. The weather was awful—gray slush and wet cold—but Marina felt fantastic. For the first time in years she was going to a family event without collapsing from two days of nonstop cooking. She didn’t need to worry whether the meat was burning, whether there were enough napkins, or who would wash the mountain of dishes.
Her mother-in-law’s stairwell greeted them with the smell of fried onions and cats. They climbed to the third floor. Oleg pressed the doorbell, and his hand betrayed him with a little tremble.
Sveta opened the door. She wore a worn house robe, hair sticking out in every direction, and she was visibly on edge.
“Well, look who decided to show up,” she muttered instead of greeting them, stepping aside. “Come in, your majesties.”
The entryway was cramped. Something smelled scorched, mixed with valerian drops. From the kitchen came the clang of pots and Galina Ivanovna’s voice:
“Sveta! Where’s the peas? I told you to open the jar!”
Marina calmly took off her coat, changed into the heels she’d brought, and walked into the living room.
In the middle of a room dominated by an old Soviet wall unit full of glassware stood a fold-out table. It was covered with a worn tablecloth stained yellow—stains that looked like they’d survived the 1980 Olympics. On the table sat three sad plates of mismatched slices of the cheapest sausage, a bowl of sauerkraut, and a plate of boiled potatoes already drying at the edges.
No goose. No caviar. No homemade salads.
At the center stood a bottle of the cheapest vodka and a carton of juice.
“Oh, you’re here,” Galina Ivanovna floated in. She had on a dressy blouse, but an apron was tied over it. Her face was flushed and angry. “Sit down. We waited and waited… Thought your conscience would wake up and you’d come early to help your mother. But no—walking in like it’s a restaurant.”
Her eyes swept greedily over Marina and Oleg’s hands. When she saw that Oleg carried only a small gift envelope and Marina had nothing but a purse that couldn’t even fit a sandwich, her expression changed.
“And… where are the bags?” she asked, blinking in confusion.
“What bags, Mom?” Marina smiled politely as she lowered herself onto a wobbly chair. “We came to visit. Light and easy.”
“Light and easy?” Sveta appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on her robe. “So what are we supposed to eat? I thought you were bringing everything! Mom said you, Marina, were making aspic!”
“I didn’t make aspic,” Marina answered, smoothing her napkin over her lap. “I told you on the phone: this year I’m resting. I’m a guest.”
A ringing silence fell. In the next room, Sveta’s kids shrieked at a game console, mashing buttons.
“You… you’re mocking us?” Galina Ivanovna hissed. “It’s my anniversary! Guests are coming! Aunt Valya with her husband, the neighbor from the third floor… What am I supposed to feed them—plain potatoes?”
“Why ‘plain’?” Marina looked around the table. “There’s sausage. There’s cabbage. Potatoes are filling. And when you come to our place, we don’t always see ‘delicacies’ either. Remember last New Year’s—you brought a tin of sprats and said, ‘The main thing isn’t food, it’s the company’? Well, we came for the company. To congratulate you.”
Oleg stared down at his plate; his ears burned bright red.
“Oleg!” his mother barked. “Are you a man or what? Your wife is going to disgrace your mother in front of everyone and you’re just sitting there?”
“Mom… we warned you,” Oleg said quietly but clearly. “Two weeks ago. Marina said she wouldn’t cook. You and Sveta could’ve…”
“Could’ve?!” Sveta screeched. “I had a manicure appointment! And I’m tired too, by the way! And this princess—” she jabbed a finger at Marina “—sits in her office pushing papers around. Is it really that hard to chop a couple salads?”
Marina stood up—slowly, with dignity.
“Alright, dear relatives. Let’s make this simple. I’m a chief accountant. My workday often ends at eight in the evening. But for the last ten years, before every holiday, I took time off, stayed up nights, and spent my bonus to set a lavish table for you. I roasted meat, rolled sushi, hunted recipes, bought expensive alcohol. And you came, sat down, ate, drank—and then criticized. The salad was too salty. The meat was too tough. The wine was wrong. And not once—not once—did anyone offer to help. No one stayed to wash dishes. You left me with piles of dirty plates and stains on the carpet.”
She paused for breath. Galina Ivanovna opened her mouth and closed it, gulping air like a fish on shore.
“I thought we were family. Turns out, to you, I’m free catering and a sponsor. Well—the service is shut down. Bankrupt. From now on: equal terms. You want a celebration? Organize it. Split the costs, cook, set the table. And we’ll come, evaluate, and criticize—like you.”
The doorbell rang.
“That’s Aunt Valya,” Galina Ivanovna whispered, doomed. “God… what humiliation…”
She rushed to the door, yanking off her apron and fixing her hair on the move.
Noisy guests burst in—Aunt Valya, a heavy woman in a sparkly top, and her thin husband Uncle Kolya.
“Happy birthday, Galya!” Aunt Valya boomed, handing her a set of towels. “Oh, the young ones are already here! Why is it so quiet? And it smells like… something burnt?”
They approached the table. Aunt Valya scanned the meager spread and froze.
“Um… where’s the feast?” she asked innocently. “Galya, you said Marina was making goose and caviar… Kolya and I didn’t even eat lunch—we saved ourselves for the party!”
Galina Ivanovna turned so red it looked like steam might come out of her ears. She glared at Marina with raw hatred.
“Well… Marina decided to surprise us,” she spat sweetly. “Put us on a diet. Says it’s unhealthy to eat too much at our age.”
“I didn’t prescribe any diet,” Marina said loudly, not allowing the lie to settle. “Galina Ivanovna simply decided that at sixty it’s time to host in her own home instead of riding her daughter-in-law’s back. Please enjoy whatever the hostess has prepared.”
Uncle Kolya stared sadly at the lone vodka bottle and the dried sausage.
“Yeah…” he sighed. “Well. Let’s at least drink to health…”
The party didn’t take off. The potatoes were cold and undercooked—Sveta had clearly rushed. The sauerkraut tasted too sharp. The sausage lasted exactly one round of sandwiches. Aunt Valya, after eating two potatoes, launched into a story about a different anniversary she’d attended recently and how the table there “was bursting—red fish, little baked dishes, everything.” Each comment was like a lash across Galina Ivanovna’s pride.
Sveta jittered around, running to the kitchen for bread, then mustard, then something else—but nothing could fix it. Her kids ran in looking for food and started whining:
“Mom, we’re hungry! This sausage is gross! Where’s the cake? Grandma promised cake!”
There was no cake. Galina Ivanovna had been counting on Marina to buy one anyway—surely her “conscience” would kick in.
After forty minutes of thick silence and forks clinking against nearly empty plates, Marina nudged Oleg with her elbow.
“Time,” she whispered.
Oleg stood and pulled out the envelope.
“Mom, happy birthday. Health, happiness, and… well-being. This is for you.”
He placed the envelope in front of her. Galina Ivanovna snatched it without looking and didn’t even say thank you.
“We should go,” Marina said, standing. “We still have things to do.”
“What things?!” her mother-in-law erupted. “You sit for half an hour and run off like strangers! People haven’t even eaten properly!”
“There’s nothing to eat, Galya,” Uncle Kolya blurted honestly, pouring himself a second shot. “No offense, but your table looks like a poor man’s memorial. If I’d known, I would’ve brought my own cutlets.”
That was the final blow.
Galina Ivanovna burst into tears, dropping onto a chair and covering her face with her hands, sobbing loudly.
“You humiliated me! In front of everyone! It’s all her—this snake!” She pointed at Marina. “She turned my son against me! Came in like a queen, sat down, and watched! Disgusting!”
Sveta sprang toward Marina, eyes blazing.
“Get out! I don’t want to see you here again! Cheapskates! You show up with empty hands and you’re happy about it!”
“We came empty-handed because that’s exactly how you come to us,” Marina replied calmly, taking Oleg by the arm. “And notice, Sveta—you’re screaming at me because I didn’t do your job. It’s your mother’s anniversary. You’re her daughter. Why didn’t you set the table? Why didn’t you order delivery? Why didn’t you bake a cake? You got used to me doing everything for you. The free ride is over.”
They stepped into the hallway under the soundtrack of their mother-in-law’s sobbing and Sveta’s shouting. They dressed in silence. Oleg looked pale, but something new had appeared in his movements—an unfamiliar sharpness. He didn’t try to justify himself. He didn’t rush to comfort his mother. He simply handed Marina her coat.
Outside, the cold air tasted sweeter than anything Marina could remember. They walked a good distance from the building before Oleg finally spoke.
“You know… Uncle Kolya was right. That table was shameful.”
“No kidding,” Marina nodded.
“I was mortified at first,” Oleg admitted. “Then I watched Sveta, watched Mom… They didn’t even try. They truly expected us to bring food—even after you said ‘no’ a hundred times. They don’t see us as people. Just functions. I’m a wallet. You’re a cook.”
He stopped and looked at his wife.
“I’m sorry, Marin. For making you endure this for years. ‘For the family,’ ‘for Mom.’ I was an idiot.”
Marina smiled and leaned into his shoulder.
“Better late than never. Are you hungry?”
“Starving. There was nothing there except cabbage.”
“Restaurant?” Marina suggested. “That Georgian place by the river. Khachapuri, шашлык, good wine. Just the two of us. We’ll celebrate my release from kitchen slavery.”
“Let’s go,” Oleg said firmly, pulling out his phone to call a taxi. “And I’m turning my phone off. Until tomorrow.”
The evening was wonderful. They laughed, talked about vacation plans (which they could finally afford now that they weren’t feeding an army of relatives), remembered their younger days. When Oleg turned his phone back on before bed, it showed 28 missed calls from his mother and sister, and a dozen furious messages.
“You’re not my children anymore!” Galina Ivanovna’s last message declared.
“Return the money for the wedding gift we gave you fifteen years ago, since you’re like this!” Sveta raged.
Oleg read it, smirked, and blocked both contacts.
“One week on mute,” he said. “Then we’ll see. Let them cool off and think.”
A month passed. New Year’s was approaching. Marina planned the holiday with pleasure: she and Oleg bought tickets to a countryside spa for three days. No cooking—just a pool, skiing, and a buffet.
A week before the holiday, Aunt Valya called.
“Marinotchka, hi! Listen, I saw Galya… She’s walking around like a storm cloud, telling everyone you abandoned her. But here’s the funny part—now she’s bossing Sveta around. Made her wash windows, run to the store. Sveta howls, but she does it. No choice—her sponsors left.”
“Lovely,” Marina smiled. “A little work therapy never hurt anyone.”
“So… are you coming to their place for New Year’s? Galya’s cooled down a bit. Says if you bring caviar and cognac, she might let you in.”
Marina laughed out loud.
“No, Aunt Valya. Tell her we have other plans. We’re choosing ourselves now. And I recommend you do the same.”
When she hung up, Marina glanced at Oleg, who was happily browsing new swim trunks online for the pool. Life was finally settling into something sane. There was no longer room in it for one-sided obligations and games where only one team plays.
Respect is a dish that has to be served both ways—otherwise there’s no reason to sit at the table at all.
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