“Fifteen people, at least!” Viktor said loudly into the phone as he paced around the living room. “We’ll celebrate at home. Why waste money?”
Marina stood at the sink, staring at the mountain of dishes left from the previous night’s dinner. She had spent at least three hours cooking.
Viktor kept walking back and forth with the phone pressed to his ear, waving his free hand as he talked. A mug of tea sat abandoned on the edge of the sofa. It was already the third cup that day he had left wherever he happened to be.
“We’ll have aspic, two kinds of salad, something hot… Marina will take care of everything. She’s great in the kitchen!” she heard him say.
Without a word, Marina turned off the tap. She dried her hands on her apron, once bright but now faded almost beyond recognition. She had owned it since their wedding. Then she lowered herself onto a kitchen stool and clenched her fists in her lap.
 
It had been the same thing for four years.
Every holiday meant a table prepared for twelve or fifteen people. And every single time, Viktor accepted everyone’s compliments as though he had arranged the entire celebration himself.
Marina remained at the kitchen table until Viktor finally finished his calls.
She thought about the previous New Year’s Eve. She had spent two full days standing over the stove, followed by another day cleaning up afterward. By the end of it, her back had hurt so badly that she could barely straighten up.
Meanwhile, Viktor had spent the entire evening enjoying the attention.
“Man, you’ve got an amazing place. We always feel welcome here!”
They had been together for ten years.
At first, they rented a two-bedroom apartment in Yaroslavl and saved every spare ruble toward buying a place of their own. Eventually, they took out a mortgage on a two-bedroom apartment in a newly built complex on the northern outskirts of the city.
Marina had handled nearly all the renovation herself. She drove to building-supply stores, chose the tiles, compared materials, supervised the workers.
When they finally moved in, she had genuinely believed life would become different.
It hadn’t.
“Marina!” Viktor appeared in the kitchen doorway holding a notebook. “I worked it out. If we celebrate here, it’ll cost about half as much as any restaurant.”
Marina looked up at him.
The day before, she had stayed at work until nearly eight-thirty in the evening finishing a quarterly report. That afternoon, she had also gone to visit her mother, Nina Alexeyevna, who had recently been discharged from the hospital and was still weak.
“Cheaper,” Marina repeated evenly. “Because my labor isn’t included in the price.”
Viktor stared at her in surprise.
“What kind of thing is that to say? You like cooking anyway. Mom always said the woman of the house is the one who keeps everything running.”
Marina stood and walked toward the window.
A ficus plant was drying out on the windowsill. Neither of them had gotten around to watering it.
Outside, darkness was already falling even though it wasn’t yet six.
Marina stepped onto the balcony carrying a cup of tea.
The conversation had shaken her more than she wanted to admit. Her hands were still trembling slightly.
She settled into a folding chair they had bought when they first moved in. Back then, they had imagined sitting there together in the evenings.
Children’s voices floated up from the courtyard below as they kicked a ball around.
Their neighbor Olga had recently started a new job, and her husband took their child to kindergarten every morning.
A normal life, Marina thought.
Then she thought about children of her own.
 
She and Viktor had always postponed it.
First because of the mortgage.
Then because of the renovation.
Then because “the timing wasn’t right.”
Now Marina was thirty-eight.
And suddenly something inside her stopped tightening.
It simply let go.
For the first time in a long while, breathing felt easy.
She finished her tea, stood up, and went back inside.
Viktor was watching football with his feet stretched out on the coffee table.
 
“Vitya,” Marina said from the doorway. “If you want to celebrate at home, go ahead. But I’m not cooking. Nothing at all.”
He glanced at her from the sofa.
“Come on, Marina. You’re upset, fine. It happens. But you can’t let me down like this. That’s not who you are.”
She said nothing.
On the television, football fans were shouting from the stands.
“Stop sulking,” Viktor added, turning his attention back to the screen. “Everything will be fine.”
Marina went into the bedroom.
Without even changing her clothes, she lay down and pulled a blanket over herself.
In the darkness, there were no racing thoughts.
Only relief.
She had made her decision.
And she knew she wasn’t going to change it.
 
Saturday morning.
There were two days left until Viktor’s birthday.
Marina sat at the kitchen table scrolling through something on her phone. A cup of coffee beside her had already gone cold.
Viktor rushed into the kitchen with his phone in one hand and his notebook in the other. He had been charging around the apartment for nearly an hour.
“Marina, how much mayonnaise do I need for Olivier salad? Three jars for fifteen people?”
“I don’t know,” she replied without looking up. “I told you. I’m not involved.”
“You’re serious?” He slapped the notebook onto the table. “I’ve already invited everyone! Kolya is coming all the way from St. Petersburg!”
“Your guests. Your birthday.”
She picked up her mug and placed it in the sink.
“You…” Viktor stopped himself, then snapped, “Do you really think it’s normal to abandon someone like this?”
“I’m not abandoning you. I’m simply not cooking.”
“Where are you going?” he asked when he noticed her picking up her bag.
“To my mother’s. I’ll come back after your birthday.”
 
The door closed behind her.
The apartment fell silent.
Sunday, eleven-thirty at night.
Viktor stood in the middle of the kitchen.
Shopping bags from Pyaterochka covered the table. Something was sizzling on the stove and smelled distinctly burned.
He grabbed his phone.
“Mom, I need help. The guests are coming tomorrow, and I can’t manage everything by myself.”
Forty minutes later, the doorbell rang.
His mother, Lyudmila Fyodorovna, arrived with his sister Katya. Both were dressed casually and carrying bags.
“She’s really got you under her thumb,” his mother muttered as she opened the refrigerator. “Calls herself a homemaker and refuses to cook.”
Katya chopped carrots while swearing quietly under her breath.
 
Viktor sat at the table with his head in his hands.
The birthday arrived.
The first guests were already crowding into the hallway while Lyudmila Fyodorovna, red-faced and breathless, arranged sliced meats and cheese on the table.
The Olivier salad had turned out a little runny. They had added too much mayonnaise.
“You’ve spoiled her, Vitya,” Katya hissed as she pulled the chicken from the oven.
Parts of it were burned.
About twelve people eventually showed up.
Kolya from St. Petersburg looked around and quietly asked, “Where’s Marina? Is she sick?”
“She went to her mother’s,” Viktor muttered, pouring vodka into glasses. “Anyway, here’s to all of us getting together.”
The toast landed awkwardly.
Kolya’s wife, Sveta, tasted the herring under a fur coat salad and discreetly lowered her fork.
The beetroot was still half raw and crunched between her teeth.
“Marina’s was better,” she whispered to her husband.
Viktor kept smiling, drinking, and refilling glasses.
By nine in the evening, he was already struggling to keep track of the conversation. The guests exchanged glances. Normally, he never drank that much.
By ten, Lyudmila Fyodorovna had collapsed onto the sofa.
“That’s it. I’m not getting up again. You can wash the dishes yourselves.”
Viktor walked into the kitchen and stopped.
Mountains of plates filled every available surface.
Sauce stained the tablecloth.
A bottle cork lay on the floor.
 
He lowered himself onto a stool and leaned against the table.
Laughter drifted in from the living room. The guests were telling stories without him.
Viktor took out his phone.
Marina hadn’t called.
She hadn’t even sent a message.
Tuesday.
Marina returned home at half past ten in the morning.
An empty bottle stood near the front door. The living room smelled of stale cigarette smoke and something sour.
Someone’s jacket had been left on the sofa.
The ashtray was full of cigarette butts.
 
Glasses were scattered everywhere.
The kitchen was even worse.
A greasy frying pan sat on the stove. The sink was overflowing with dirty dishes mixed with scraps of food.
The floor was sticky under her shoes.
Viktor wasn’t home.
He wasn’t answering his phone either.
Marina called her mother-in-law.
“He’s here,” Lyudmila Fyodorovna said quietly. “He’s been lying around for two days. Says he needs to think. Marina, please, just make peace with him.”
“Let him think,” Marina replied and ended the call.
She walked through the apartment, opened her laptop, and found a cleaning company with excellent reviews.
She called and booked them.
An hour later, two cleaners arrived in uniform carrying professional equipment.
“This is at least four hours of work,” the senior cleaner said after inspecting the kitchen.
 
“That’s fine. Do you take cards?”
While they worked, Marina sat on the balcony.
Her phone showed several missed calls from Viktor.
She saw them.
She didn’t call back.
Two weeks later, Marina was sitting in the kitchen with her laptop when she heard a key turning in the lock.
Viktor walked in.
He was unshaven, wearing a wrinkled jacket and carrying a travel bag.
“Hi,” he said. “Can I come in?”
Marina nodded and closed the laptop.
Viktor walked into the living room and sat down on the sofa.
“I’ve been thinking these past two weeks,” he began.
He fell silent for a moment.
“You were right. I behaved like an idiot. I kept thinking about money and never once thought about what all of it cost you.”
Marina watched him without interrupting.
“Things will be different now,” he continued, rubbing his temple. “Mom says the food at Yakor on the embankment is really good. Maybe we could celebrate your birthday there?”
“We’ll see,” Marina said, getting to her feet. “Do you want tea?”
“Yes.”
A year later, Marina celebrated her birthday at Yakor.
 
There were waiters, live music, and a beautiful view of the river.
Viktor raised his glass.
“To Marina,” he said. “The woman who taught me one simple thing: a celebration should actually feel like a celebration for everyone. Including the person who organizes it.”
The guests applauded.
Marina smiled.
Not because she was trying to.
Simply because she wanted to.
From that evening on, they celebrated every major occasion at restaurants.
Yes, it cost more.
But no one had to sacrifice their weekends anymore.
