My mother-in-law thought I would swallow their shamelessness at the dinner table. But the table fell silent—and not because of me.
“Olenka, when you clean the bathtub, don’t just drag the sponge across the enamel. You have to put your heart into it. The bathroom is the face of the lady of the house,” Alla Markovna proclaimed from the doorway, her arms folded across her chest.
She herself was dressed in a burgundy velvet robe that made her look either like an aging Roman patrician or a curtain from a provincial theater.
I straightened up, pulled off one rubber glove, and looked at my mother-in-law. My husband Sasha and I had moved into her three-room apartment a month earlier. Our own two-bedroom apartment was in ruins because of a major renovation, and Alla Markovna had graciously offered to take us in.
“We’re family. We’ll work something out,” she had said.
We worked it out quickly enough: I became an unpaid cleaning service, chef, and laundress all rolled into one.
“Alla Markovna,” I replied calmly, “if the bathroom is the face of the lady of the house, why is Zhanna’s hair floating all over that ‘face,’ and why is her coffee-ground body scrub drying on the edge of the tub?”
“Zhannochka is tired! The poor girl has a difficult exam period at her private university. She’s investing in her future! And you work from home on your laptop. You’re sitting around anyway, so you could wipe it up.”
I smirked. Zhanna was twenty-three. Her “investment in the future” consisted of getting eyelash extensions thick enough to resemble furry caterpillars and making regular trips to hookah bars.
“Speaking of cleaning,” I said, deciding to give my mother-in-law a short educational lecture before she floated back to her private chambers. “Yesterday you poured a mixture of baking soda and vinegar into the toilet because some television program recommended it. The thing is, an alkali and an acid simply neutralize each other, producing carbon dioxide and water. That’s basic eighth-grade chemistry. To remove limescale, you only need acid. Baking soda and vinegar just make an impressive fizz. It’s useful for making dough rise, not for cleaning plumbing.”
My mother-in-law raised her chin haughtily.
“In our day, we knew how to do everything without all your clever talk and chemistry. True feminine energy cleans a home better than any acid because it is transferred through hard work and humility!”
“Alla Markovna, you worked as a cashier in a factory cafeteria for thirty years,” I said, leaning against the mop with interest. “Did you disinfect thirteen-kopeck cutlets with the power of your mind and charge the trays with feminine energy through the cash register?”
“You ungrateful little shrew! I took you and your husband in off the street, and you spit venom in this sacred place!” my mother-in-law shrieked, red blotches spreading across her face.
She spun around and marched proudly toward the kitchen, carrying her profound offense like a ceremonial red banner.
I merely shrugged and returned to work. I wasn’t suffering. The situation amused me because of its crystal-clear absurdity.
My husband Sasha spent all day at our apartment overseeing the renovation, and in the evenings he collapsed into bed. He genuinely believed that we were living like one happy commune. I didn’t complain. I was simply collecting material.
The truly useful evidence arrived on Thursday.
The landline, a device left over from the age of the dinosaurs that Alla Markovna kept for conversations with her friends, began ringing hysterically. My mother-in-law had gone to the clinic, and Zhanna, as usual, was sleeping until two in the afternoon.
I picked up the receiver.
It was the university dean’s office. A pleasant female voice asked dryly why student Zhanna Igorevna had not attended classes since February. She also reminded me that unless the eighty-thousand-ruble tuition debt for the semester was paid by the end of the week, the expulsion order would be sent to the rector for approval.
I carefully put down the phone.
The puzzle pieces fell into place.
The previous week, Alla Markovna had boasted to her friends over the phone that she had given Zhannochka the money to pay for her studies. Judging by the latest-model iPhone in my sister-in-law’s hands, knowledge was apparently being downloaded directly into the device these days.
The climax of the absurdity was scheduled for Saturday.
Alla Markovna was hosting a refined social evening for three of her old school friends.
From early morning, my mother-in-law commanded the parade.
“Olya, stuff the duck with apples, but don’t dry it out. Cut the salads into thin strips. Nina Ilyinichna can’t chew large pieces because she has new dental bridges. And polish the crystal!”
I cooked in silence.
The duck sizzled in the oven, three types of salad decorated the table, and tartlets topped with caviar waited for their moment. Zhanna crawled out of her room five minutes before the guests arrived, dressed in a little silk outfit. She stretched, picked up a tartlet from the table, and took a bite.
Soon, the hallway smelled of heart medicine and heavy vintage perfume. The guests had arrived.
The ladies settled around the table, gasping with admiration.
“Allochka, what an incredible hostess you are!” Nina Ilyinichna exclaimed, her new dentures gleaming. “The duck simply melts in your mouth! And the salads are just like something from a restaurant! How do you manage all of this at your age?”
Alla Markovna theatrically dabbed her lips with a napkin, cast a quick glance at me, and gracefully gestured toward her daughter sitting beside her.
“Oh, girls, don’t be silly. Do you think I could have managed all this alone? It was all my Zhannochka. She’s been in the kitchen with me since early morning, busy as a bee! I told her, ‘Sweetheart, go and rest. You have exams. You’re a straight-A student, my pride and joy!’ But she said, ‘Mommy, I’ll help you!’ My clever girl is growing up and knows how to do everything. Unlike certain modern young women who do nothing but stare into their laptops.”
The stone thrown into my garden whistled past like a missile.
The guests gazed affectionately at Zhanna. She modestly lowered the eyes she had painted with her mother’s money.
Sasha, sitting beside me, raised his eyebrows in surprise and started to open his mouth, but I gently placed a hand on his knee, asking him to remain silent.
I stood, picked up an empty gravy boat from the table, and smiled.
“Yes, Zhanna is remarkably talented,” I said in an even, friendly voice. “She did an especially good job with the duck. Particularly considering that she woke up exactly five minutes before you arrived, Nina Ilyinichna.”
Everyone at the table stopped chewing.
“Olya! What nonsense are you talking about?” Alla Markovna’s face turned burgundy, matching her robe. “Have you been drinking too much of my homemade liqueur?”
“Not a drop,” I continued smiling. “I’m simply admiring her talents. For example, her talent for distance learning. The dean’s office called on Thursday. They asked me to tell you that if Zhanna doesn’t appear there for the first time since February, and if the eighty thousand rubles you gave her for tuition, Alla Markovna, are not deposited into the university’s account by Monday, she will be expelled. But apparently a new phone was more important than investing in her future.”
A piece of duck fell out of Nina Ilyinichna’s mouth.
Zhanna turned so pale that the line where her foundation ended on her neck became clearly visible.
“You… you’re lying! Mom, she’s jealous!” my sister-in-law shrieked, jumping to her feet.
“The number for the dean’s office is on the table beside the phone, Alla Markovna,” I said, carefully pushing my chair back. “You can call them on Monday. As for the meal… enjoy your dinner, ladies. I can send you the salad recipe on MAX. Zhanna probably won’t remember it.”
I turned toward my husband.
Sasha looked at his mother, then at his sister, and finally at me. There wasn’t a trace of doubt in his eyes.
“Go pack our things, Olya. I’ll call a taxi,” he said quietly but firmly. “We can already sleep on a mattress in our apartment. We’ll survive the dust somehow.”
We left two hours later.
Alla Markovna locked herself in her bedroom with cold compresses on her head. Zhanna sobbed hysterically in the hallway, trying to convince her mother’s friends that “it was all a mistake and slander.”
The guests made a hasty retreat without finishing dessert.
There was no reconciliation.
A week later, we learned that Zhanna had indeed been expelled. The money was gone for good. From then on, the housework, cooking, and care of her overgrown daughter rested entirely on Alla Markovna’s shoulders.
Her friends began visiting much less often. Who wants to listen to endless complaints in a messy apartment when there is no signature roast duck?
We finished our renovation.
And I never regretted what happened that evening.
Because once you allow people to treat you like a servant, the next time they won’t thank you. They’ll simply hand you another cleaning rag.
In the end, the truth is the best acid of all.
It eats through any shamelessness right down to its foundation, without leaving so much as a fizz.