“The tablecloths could have been chosen with a gold pattern. These look like hospital sheets,” Vera Mikhailovna whispered irritably, leaning toward Marina. “And the cold cuts are already drying out. I asked you to keep an eye on the kitchen!”
Marina silently pushed her plate of appetizers away. She had no strength left to argue. Preparing her father-in-law’s anniversary celebration had drained her completely. The last three weeks had turned into an endless marathon: approving the menu, choosing the main course, tasting cake fillings, searching for a decent host. Her mother-in-law appeared only at the most stressful moments, and only to criticize, without contributing a single ruble or a single minute of her time. Marina’s husband, Denis, had removed himself from the process as usual.
“You two figure it out yourselves. I don’t understand anything about banquet arrangements.”
So Marina figured it out. After work, she drove around paying deposits, calling decorators, and arguing with the delivery service.
By five in the evening, the restaurant had filled with guests. There was noise, movement, the rustle of gift bags. Vladimir Petrovich, the birthday man, was glowing as he accepted congratulations. Vera Mikhailovna fluttered between the tables in her new burgundy dress, receiving compliments as if the entire evening were her personal performance.
“Oh, Vera, what a table! What beauty!” admired a cousin-aunt from Samara, helping herself to fish. “How much effort must it have taken to organize all this!”
“Well, what can I say? For my Volodya, nothing is too much,” Vera Mikhailovna sighed sweetly, adjusting her hairstyle. “I barely slept at night, thinking about how to make sure everyone would be pleased. I put the menu together myself, checked every single item.”
Marina stared into her glass of mineral water. She only wanted the evening to end as soon as possible. She had even accepted the fact that Denis was sitting beside her, absorbed in texting someone on his phone, paying no attention to how openly his mother was taking credit for someone else’s work.
The celebration gained momentum. Music began to play, and the first predictable toasts were made. The mood grew warmer, relatives’ faces flushed with wine and excitement. Vera Mikhailovna tapped her fork against a crystal glass. The conversations gradually died down. She rose from her seat, majestically swept her gaze over all forty guests, and smiled radiantly.
“My dear ones,” she began in a singsong voice. “Today we have said so many kind words to our birthday man. But I want to raise this glass to our family. To what we have become. And, of course, to our younger generation.”
She turned her gaze toward her daughter-in-law. The instinct Marina had developed over the years of marriage told her one thing: another jab was coming.
“I look at our dear Marinochka,” Vera Mikhailovna said, making a theatrical pause. “Denis, of course, got lucky. His wife is quiet and domestic. Well, maybe our daughter-in-law isn’t exactly brilliant, maybe she doesn’t reach for the stars, but she is so pretty! A real little doll! The main thing in a woman is obedience, isn’t it? Intelligence is a man’s business!”
Laughter broke out around the table. Uncle Valera let out a booming laugh, and some of the aunties nodded along. Denis leaned toward his wife and whispered irritably:
“Don’t start. Mom means it lovingly. That’s just her sense of humor.”
Everyone was laughing.
Everyone except Marina.
Before, she would have lowered her eyes. She would have pretended not to understand the insult hidden behind the questionable compliment. She would have swallowed that lump of hurt so as not to spoil the celebration for respectable people. But in that exact second, the noise of voices suddenly became nothing more than meaningless buzzing. The exhaustion that had weighed on her shoulders for the past three weeks vanished, leaving behind something frighteningly clear and absolute.
Marina calmly pushed her chair back.
She stood up.
The murmur around the table began to fade. The guests noticed that the daughter-in-law had risen to say something in return. Vera Mikhailovna smiled condescendingly, clearly expecting embarrassed mumbling.
Marina’s voice was steady, without the slightest tremor, loud enough to be heard in the farthest corner of the hall.
“Thank you for your warm words,” she said. “You are right, Vera Mikhailovna. I didn’t have enough intelligence. But I did have enough of my personal bonus to pay the deposit for this hall, the décor, and the host. Only a very foolish woman would spend her evenings after work choosing fabrics and arguing with chefs about how meat should be cooked for other people’s guests.”
The smile slowly slipped from her mother-in-law’s face. She blinked in confusion.
“Marina, what nonsense are you talking about?” Denis hissed. He tried to grab her hand, but she calmly pulled away.
Marina reached into her handbag and took out a sheet of paper folded in half. It was the final bill from the restaurant.
“But since I clearly don’t measure up intellectually, I am handing the financial part of the evening over to you,” Marina said, taking a step forward and placing the paper directly in front of her mother-in-law’s plate. “You are the wise and educated woman here. I’m sure you’ll manage. This is the final bill for the banquet. The total amount is one hundred eighty-five thousand rubles. My advance payment has already been deducted, and the remaining balance must be paid by the end of the evening. I am passing this honorable responsibility to you.”
Absolute silence fell over the spacious hall.
Only the hum of the air conditioner under the ceiling could be heard. Forty people sat frozen, not daring even to let a fork clink against porcelain. Vera Mikhailovna stared at the numbers on the receipt, her mouth slightly open.
“It was… it was just a joke,” she forced out, all her royal confidence gone.
“I’m not laughing,” Marina replied.
At that moment, the kitchen doors swung open. Waiters carrying large trays of steaming hot meat froze halfway into the room, instantly sensing the heavy atmosphere at the table.
Marina looked at her husband. He had sunk his head into his shoulders and was staring down at his empty plate. He was ashamed, but not of his mother’s behavior. He was ashamed because now someone would have to pay real money.
“Enjoy your meal,” Marina said loudly.
She turned, picked up her handbag, and walked confidently toward the exit. The sound of her heels against the parquet floor rang like a metronome counting down the final seconds of her old life.
Once outside, she breathed in the cool evening air. From a thick paper bag, she took out a spare pair of ballet flats, slipped off her tight shoes with relief, and changed into them. Her phone screen lit up—calls from her husband began coming one after another. Marina calmly opened her contacts, deleted the restaurant administrator’s number, and silenced her phone.
Tomorrow there would be a new day. There would be long conversations, accusations, and resentment.
But that would be tomorrow.
Today, she knew one thing for certain: no one would ever dare call her a fool again.
