“Fifteen people, at least!” Viktor said loudly into the phone as he paced across the living room. “We’ll celebrate at home. Why waste money for no reason?”
Marina stood by the sink, staring at the mountain of dishes left over from the previous night’s dinner. She had spent nearly three hours cooking.
Viktor continued 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 finish drinking it.
“Jellied meat, two different salads, something hot… Marina will handle everything. She’s a fantastic cook!” she heard him say.
Without a word, Marina turned off the tap. She dried her hands on her apron, once bright and colorful but now badly faded after years of use. She had owned it since their wedding.
Then she sat down on a kitchen stool and clenched her hands into fists on her knees.
It had been the same thing for four years.
 
Every holiday meant feeding twelve or fifteen people. Marina spent days preparing food, setting the table, cleaning the apartment, serving everyone, and washing mountains of dishes afterward.
And every single time, Viktor accepted the compliments as though he had personally organized the entire celebration.
Marina remained at the kitchen table until Viktor finally finished his calls.
Her mind went back to the previous New Year’s Eve. She had spent two full days cooking and another day cleaning afterward. By the end of it, her back hurt so badly that she could barely straighten up.
Meanwhile Viktor had spent the evening proudly accepting praise from his friends.
“You really know how to host people, man!”
“Your place is always so welcoming!”
They had been together for ten years.
At first, they rented a small two-bedroom apartment in Yaroslavl while saving money for a place of their own. Eventually, they took out a mortgage and bought a two-bedroom apartment in a newly constructed building on the northern edge of the city.
 
Marina had practically managed the renovation herself. She drove to hardware stores, chose tiles and wallpaper, argued with contractors, and supervised the work.
When they finally moved in, she had genuinely believed their life would become easier.
It never did.
“Marina!” Viktor appeared in the kitchen doorway holding a notebook. “I calculated everything. If we celebrate at home, it’ll cost about half as much as going to a restaurant.”
Marina looked up at him.
The night before, she had stayed at work until nearly eight thirty finishing a quarterly report. That afternoon, she had also visited her mother, Nina Alexeyevna, who had recently been discharged from the hospital and was still weak.
“Yes,” Marina said calmly. “It’s cheaper because nobody is including the cost of my labor.”
Viktor stared at her in surprise.
“What kind of thing is that to say? You enjoy cooking. Besides, Mom always says a woman is the one who keeps a home together.”
Marina stood and walked toward the window.
A ficus on the windowsill was slowly drying out because she had not found time to water it. Outside, darkness was already settling over the neighborhood even though it was not yet six.
She poured herself some tea and stepped onto the balcony.
The conversation had shaken her more than she wanted to admit. Her hands were still trembling.
She sat in the folding chair they had bought when they first moved into the apartment. Back then, they had imagined sitting there together in the evenings.
Voices drifted up from the courtyard. Children were playing football below.
Their neighbor Olga had recently started a new job, and her husband took their child to kindergarten every morning.
A normal partnership, Marina thought.
Then she thought about children.
She and Viktor had postponed having them year after year.
 
First there was the mortgage.
Then the renovation.
Then Viktor always said it was “not the right time.”
Now Marina was thirty-eight.
And suddenly something inside her relaxed.
The tension that had been building for years simply disappeared.
For the first time in a long while, she could breathe freely.
She finished her tea, returned to the apartment, and found Viktor watching football with his feet stretched across the coffee table.
“Viktor,” she said from the doorway. “If you want to celebrate here, go ahead. But I’m not cooking. Not one single thing.”
He glanced toward her from the sofa.
“Come on, Marina. You’re upset. Fine. But you can’t let me down like this. That’s not who you are.”
She said nothing.
On television, football fans were shouting from the stands.
“Don’t sulk,” Viktor added, turning back toward the screen. “Everything will be fine.”
 
Marina went into the bedroom.
Still wearing her clothes, she lay down and pulled a blanket over herself.
There were no racing thoughts this time.
Only relief.
She had made her decision, and she knew she would not change it.
Saturday morning.
Viktor’s birthday was two days away.
Marina sat at the kitchen table scrolling through her phone while a cup of coffee cooled beside her.
Viktor suddenly rushed into the room carrying his phone and notebook. He had already spent nearly an hour racing around the apartment.
“Marina, how much mayonnaise do we need for Olivier salad? Will three jars be enough for fifteen people?”
“I have no idea,” 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.”
 
Marina picked up her cup and placed it in the sink.
“You can’t seriously do this to someone,” Viktor snapped.
“I’m not doing anything to you. I’m simply not cooking.”
Then he noticed the handbag over her shoulder.
“Where are you going?”
“To my mother’s. I’ll come back after your birthday.”
The front door closed behind her.
The apartment became completely silent.
Late Sunday night, Viktor stood in the middle of the kitchen.
Shopping bags from the supermarket covered the table. Something on the stove hissed while a burnt smell filled the room.
He grabbed his phone.
“Mom, I need help. The guests are coming tomorrow, and I’m never going to finish all this alone.”
Forty minutes later, the doorbell rang.
His mother, Lyudmila Fyodorovna, arrived with his sister Katya. Both women were dressed casually and carrying grocery bags.
“She has really spoiled you,” his mother muttered as she opened the refrigerator. “What kind of wife refuses to cook?”
Katya chopped carrots aggressively while quietly complaining under her breath.
Viktor sat at the table with his head in his hands.
The birthday arrived.
The first guests were already removing their coats in the hallway while Lyudmila Fyodorovna, red-faced and exhausted, hurriedly arranged cold cuts on the table.
The Olivier salad had turned watery because they had added too much mayonnaise.
“You’ve spoiled that wife of yours, Viktor,” Katya whispered angrily while pulling a chicken from the oven.
Parts of it were badly burned.
About twelve guests eventually arrived.
Kolya from St. Petersburg looked around the room and quietly asked,
 
“Where’s Marina? Is she sick?”
“She went to her mother’s,” Viktor muttered as he poured vodka into glasses. “Anyway, cheers.”
The toast fell strangely flat.
Kolya’s wife, Sveta, tried the layered herring salad and discreetly placed her fork down.
The beets were still partly raw.
“Marina’s version was much better,” she whispered to her husband.
Viktor kept drinking.
He smiled, poured more alcohol, and tried to act as though everything was normal.
By nine in the evening, he was already struggling to follow conversations.
The guests began exchanging uncomfortable looks. Normally, Viktor never drank that heavily.
By ten, Lyudmila Fyodorovna collapsed onto the sofa.
 
“That’s it. I can’t move anymore. You can wash the dishes yourselves.”
Viktor walked into the kitchen and stopped.
Dirty plates were stacked everywhere.
Sauce covered the tablecloth.
A bottle cork lay on the sticky floor.
He slowly sat down on a stool and leaned against the table.
Laughter drifted in from the living room. His guests were telling stories without him.
He took out his phone.
Marina had not called.
She had not even sent a message.
Marina returned home Tuesday morning at around ten thirty.
An empty bottle lay near the front door.
The apartment smelled of stale cigarette smoke, alcohol, and spoiled food.
Someone’s jacket was still on the sofa.
The ashtray was overflowing with cigarette butts, and glasses covered the furniture.
The kitchen was even worse.
A greasy frying pan remained on the stove.
The sink was packed with dirty dishes mixed with leftover food.
The floor was sticky beneath her shoes.
Viktor was nowhere to be seen.
He did not answer his phone.
Marina called his mother.
“He’s here,” Lyudmila Fyodorovna said quietly. “He’s been lying around for two days. Says he needs to think. Marina, can’t you two just make peace?”
“Let him think,” Marina replied.
She ended the call.
Then she opened her laptop, searched for a highly rated cleaning service, and made a booking.
An hour later, two uniformed cleaners arrived carrying professional equipment.
“This will take at least four hours,” the senior cleaner said after examining the kitchen.
“That’s fine,” Marina replied. “Do you accept cards?”
 
While they worked, Marina sat peacefully on the balcony.
Her phone showed several missed calls from Viktor.
She noticed them.
She simply chose not to call back.
Two weeks later, Marina was working on her laptop at the kitchen table when she heard a key turn in the lock.
Viktor stepped inside.
He was unshaven, wearing a wrinkled jacket and carrying a travel bag.
“Hi,” he said awkwardly. “Can I come in?”
Marina nodded and closed the laptop.
He walked into the living room and sat on the sofa.
“I’ve been thinking for the last two weeks,” he began.
For a few seconds he said nothing.
“You were right. I behaved like an idiot. I kept thinking about how much money we could save, but I never thought about what all those parties were costing you.”
Marina listened without interrupting him.
“Things will be different now,” Viktor continued, rubbing his temple. “Mom said that restaurant called The Anchor by the river is really good. Maybe we could celebrate your birthday there?”
“We’ll see,” Marina replied.
Then she stood.
“Want some tea?”
“Yes.”
A year later, Marina celebrated her birthday at The Anchor.
 
There were waiters, live music, and a beautiful view of the river.
No one was rushing between the kitchen and the dining room.
No one was exhausted from cooking.
And no one had to spend the following morning washing mountains of dishes.
During dinner, Viktor raised his glass.
“To Marina,” he said. “The woman who taught me something very simple: a celebration should actually feel like a celebration for everyone—including the person organizing it.”
The guests applauded.
Marina smiled.
Not because she felt obligated to.
She simply wanted to.
From that year onward, they celebrated every major occasion in restaurants.
Yes, it cost more.
But they never again sacrificed an entire weekend just to save money.
