“We’ve Already Made the Menu for the Anniversary. All That’s Left Is for You to Cook Everything!” the Mother-in-Law Declared. And Then She Heard Something She Didn’t Expect
Alyona had been working in a restaurant since she was twenty-two, and over ten years she had managed to work her way up to sous-chef. That meant arriving at nine in the morning, leaving around eleven at night, and spending nearly all the hours in between standing at the stove until, by the end of the shift, she could barely feel her legs below the knees. It was real work—hard, noisy, with the constant smell of broth clinging to her hair. Alyona loved it the way people love something they have invested far too much of themselves in to simply stop loving it.
At home, she hardly ever cooked. Not because she couldn’t—obviously she could—but because after ten hours beside a scorching stove, the only thing she truly wanted was to sit down and not move.
Roman understood that, or at least pretended to. He didn’t cook much himself, but he managed: scrambled eggs, pasta, sometimes something ready-made from the store. For the first two years, that was simply the way things were, and nobody questioned it.
Then the weekends began.
At first, it seemed innocent enough. Elena Viktorovna called on a Saturday morning and asked whether she and Alyona’s father-in-law could come over for lunch. Alyona agreed—why not? Guests were coming, so they had to be welcomed.
She made soup, chopped a salad, and fried cutlets. Her mother-in-law praised the borscht, her father-in-law asked for seconds, and Roman laughed and said:
“You’re the best cook I know.”
Alyona laughed too.
Two weeks later, it happened again.
Then again.
By autumn, it had become something everyone simply took for granted: every weekend meant family. And every weekend meant Alyona in the kitchen.
Sometimes Roman’s brother came with his wife and children. Sometimes Elena Viktorovna’s aunt, who lived in a neighboring district, joined them. The table grew larger, the number of dishes increased, and not once did anyone ask whether it was convenient for Alyona, whether she was tired, or whether perhaps she wanted to spend that Sunday lying down with a book.
One day Roman said:
“Alyona, you have no idea how happy Mom gets when you cook. It means a lot to her.”
“Some things mean a lot to me too,” Alyona replied.
“Oh, come on.” Roman patted his wife on the shoulder. “You do it better than anyone. It must be nice to be appreciated.”
Alyona didn’t continue the conversation. She put the pot away and went to wash her hands.
Birthdays, New Year’s, Easter, the May holidays—somehow all of them ended up becoming her responsibility too. She planned the menu, went to the market, and spent hours at the stove.
Everyone else arrived around three, sat down at the table, ate, praised the food, and watched television.
Alyona cleaned up, washed the dishes, and thought about the fact that she would have to go back to work the next day.
Once, she tried to explain it to Roman.
She chose a quiet evening when no one else was around and it was just the two of them in the kitchen.
“Roman, I want to talk about the weekends.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened. I’m just tired of cooking every Saturday and Sunday. I spend my entire workweek standing at a stove. At home, I need to rest.”
Roman looked at his wife with genuine surprise—not fake surprise, but the real kind, as if someone had just explained something completely unexpected to him.
“But you’re a professional. It’s easy for you.”
“Something being easy and wanting to do it are two different things,” Alyona said.
“Well, Mom can’t cook the way you do. It wouldn’t be the same.”
“Roma.”
“What?”
“You’ve just explained why I’m obligated to cook because I’m good at it. Do you understand how that sounds?”
Her husband was silent for a moment.
Then he said:
“Don’t be so dramatic. They’re family, not strangers.”
The conversation went nowhere.
Alyona didn’t start an argument. She didn’t have the energy, and she didn’t see much point in it. Mentally, she postponed the issue, just as she had already done several times before.
Then Elena Viktorovna began talking about the anniversary.
Not immediately and not directly. At first, she mentioned it casually over tea. She and her husband would be celebrating forty-five years together in February. They ought to organize something proper, she said, not simply sit around with the immediate family.
The country house would be perfect—the place was spacious enough, and the guests wouldn’t be crowded.
Alyona listened without interrupting.
She already understood where the conversation was going, but she waited.
A week later, Elena Viktorovna came over again.
This time, she brought a notebook.
Alyona opened the door, let her mother-in-law inside, and put the kettle on. Roman hadn’t returned from work yet. Alyona suspected Elena Viktorovna might have chosen the timing deliberately, although later she could never decide whether it had actually been intentional or merely a coincidence.
Elena Viktorovna settled at the kitchen table and opened her notebook.
The pages were covered in neat, closely written handwriting.
“Alyonochka, I’ve been thinking about the anniversary,” her mother-in-law began. “Vitya and I want around forty people. Maybe thirty-five. The living room at the country house is large, and we could put another table on the terrace if the weather is good. What do you think?”
“I think thirty-five people is a big celebration,” Alyona said cautiously.
“Exactly!” Elena Viktorovna visibly brightened. “Exactly—it’s a big celebration. That’s why everything has to be done properly. I’ve already sketched out an approximate menu.”
Her mother-in-law turned the page.
“Cold appetizers: sliced meats and cheeses, of course, a fish platter, Olivier salad, herring under a fur coat. For the main course, something with meat. I was thinking duck—or would two main courses be better? And fish, naturally. You can’t have a celebration without fish. Some kind of hot soup too; in winter people want something warm. Three or four different salads. Side dishes. And a cake, obviously, a big one for everyone. What do you think—two cakes, or one large multi-tiered cake?”
Alyona stared at the notebook.
At the neat lines.
At the word duck, which had been underlined.
“Elena Viktorovna,” she said slowly. “Who is going to cook all of this?”
Her mother-in-law blinked.
“What do you mean, who? You, Alyonochka. You’re a cook.”
“I’m a sous-chef in a restaurant. That’s a little different.”
“Well, all the more reason.” Elena Viktorovna smiled. “You’re used to it. And of course we’ll help. We’ll chop things, set the table.”
Alyona took her hands off the table and placed them in her lap.
“Do you understand that this is several days of work? A menu for thirty-five people, several hot dishes, appetizers, a cake—it isn’t just ‘cooking.’”
“You don’t have to do everything at once,” Elena Viktorovna said, frowning slightly. “Some things can be prepared in advance. Preparations and so on. You know how these things are organized.”
“I do,” Alyona said. “That’s exactly why I’m telling you this.”
At that moment, the lock clicked in the hallway.
Roman had returned.
He took off his jacket, walked into the kitchen, saw his mother with the notebook, and kissed her on the cheek.
“Oh, you’re already discussing it?” he asked, reaching for the kettle. “Mom, did you show her the menu?”
“I did,” Elena Viktorovna nodded.
Roman turned toward his wife expectantly, wearing exactly the expression of someone waiting to hear, Of course, we’ll manage.
Alyona looked at her husband.
Then at her mother-in-law.
Then once again at the open notebook filled with neat lines in which nobody had bothered to ask her anything.
“I’m not going to cook it,” Alyona said.
The kitchen fell silent.
Elena Viktorovna stopped turning the pages.
Roman froze with a mug in his hand.
“Alyona…” her husband began.
“Wait.”
Alyona didn’t raise her voice.
“Elena Viktorovna, I respect you. But I work as a cook six days a week. It’s physical labor, and by the weekend I’m sometimes so exhausted I can’t even sleep properly. For several years now, I’ve cooked for every family celebration—not because I wanted to, but because that’s simply how things developed, and nobody ever asked whether it was convenient for me. A banquet for thirty-five people means two or three days of nonstop work. I’m not willing to take that on for free and simply because everyone assumes I will.”
Elena Viktorovna stared at her daughter-in-law with the expression of someone who had just been addressed in a foreign language.
“But you know how to do it,” she finally said. “It’s your profession.”
“My profession is something I get paid for,” Alyona replied. “At home, I’m not at work.”
Her mother-in-law closed the notebook.
Slowly, the way someone closes something they were using but no longer need.
“Well,” Elena Viktorovna said, hurt in her voice. “I wasn’t expecting this.”
Roman put his mug down.
“Alyona, why do you have to say it like that? It’s Mom. It’s their anniversary. Can’t you make a little effort for the family?”
Alyona looked at her husband.
“Roman, I’ve been making an effort for the family every weekend for three years. Have you ever noticed?”
Her husband opened his mouth, then closed it.
Finally, he said:
“Please don’t ruin everyone’s mood. Mom came here specifically to discuss this, and you…”
“And I what?” Alyona asked quietly.
Something in the way she said it made Roman fall silent.
Outside the window, it was already getting dark.
The kettle on the stove had long since stopped hissing.
Elena Viktorovna stared at the table, Roman looked away, and Alyona suddenly realized that this silence had actually been there for a very long time.
Before, it had simply been drowned out by voices, kitchen smells, the clatter of plates, and other people’s conversations around the table she kept setting again and again.
Her mother-in-law was the first to speak.
She waited a moment, raised her head, and folded her hands on the table.
“Alyona, I didn’t expect this from you. We’re family. I thought you understood that.”
“I do understand,” Alyona said. “That’s exactly why I’m saying it.”
“What do you understand?” Elena Viktorovna’s voice became firmer. “Do you understand how much we’ve done for the two of you? How many times we’ve helped you?”
Alyona looked calmly at her mother-in-law.
“Elena Viktorovna, let me remind you what I’ve done. New Year’s—I cooked. Roman’s birthday—I cooked. Your birthday last year—I cooked. Easter, the May holidays, March Eighth. Every weekend for the last three years, I’ve made lunch for the whole family, sometimes with additional guests. I never refused once. I never even asked anyone to help with the shopping or washing the dishes. I simply cooked.”
“So what?” Elena Viktorovna spread her hands. “You love doing it.”
“I love my profession,” Alyona replied. “When I’m being paid for it and when I get to decide what and when I cook. Not when everyone treats it as something they’re automatically entitled to.”
At that moment, Pyotr Alexeyevich appeared in the doorway.
Her father-in-law had apparently been sitting in the living room. Judging by his expression, he had come home with Roman and had heard the entire conversation.
He entered the kitchen, stood beside his wife, and crossed his arms.
“So that’s how it is,” Pyotr Alexeyevich said. “We’re a burden to you now?”
“Nobody said anything about you being a burden,” Alyona replied.
“Then what are you saying?” her father-in-law raised his voice. “That you don’t want to help your husband’s parents? That we don’t deserve a celebration?”
“I said I’m not going to cook a banquet for thirty-five people for free simply because everyone assumes that I will,” Alyona said without moving. “That is a specific job requiring several days of work. Work like that costs money. Any other cook would give you a bill.”
“Any other cook!” Elena Viktorovna threw up her hands. “You’re not just any other cook! You’re our daughter-in-law!”
“I am your daughter-in-law,” Alyona agreed. “But I’m not your staff cook.”
“Ungrateful,” her mother-in-law said curtly.
That single word contained everything—resentment, conviction, and something almost resembling disgust.
“We welcomed you into our family. We treated you well, and this is how you repay us.”
Something tightened inside Alyona and then immediately released.
It wasn’t anger.
It was something colder.
“Elena Viktorovna, I work as a cook six days a week. I come home at eleven at night. For three years, every weekend, I stood at this stove cooking for your family—not because I wanted to, but because nobody even thought to ask whether I did. That isn’t appreciation. That’s taking advantage of someone.”
“Taking advantage!” Pyotr Alexeyevich gave a short, humorless laugh. “Did you hear that, Lena? Taking advantage! Apparently, we’ve been taking advantage of her.”
“Dad,” Roman finally spoke. He was standing near the window, looking from one person to another. “Everyone calm down.”
“You tell your wife to calm down!” Pyotr Alexeyevich snapped.
“Alyona,” Roman turned toward his wife, his voice pleading, almost childlike. “Please. It’s an anniversary. Forty-five years is important. You understand that. Apologize, and let’s talk about this normally.”
Alyona looked at her husband.
“Apologize for what?”
“Well… for the way you said it. It came out harsh.”
“I said exactly what I think,” Alyona replied. “Calmly and directly. There’s nothing to apologize for.”
“Alyona.” Roman stepped closer. “You’re ruining everything now. We can’t leave the anniversary like this. We’ve always celebrated this way. It’s a tradition.”
“A tradition in which I’m the only one who cooks,” Alyona said. “Notice that, Roman. Not you and me. Not your parents. Me. For three years.”
Her husband fell silent.
“All right,” Alyona continued. “I’ll suggest another option. Book a banquet at a café or restaurant. Or hire a cook. It’s perfectly possible, and the price is reasonable for an event like this. You’ll still have the celebration, the food, and the guests. Just without me standing at the stove.”
The silence that followed was different.
It wasn’t confusion anymore.
It was outrage.
“Pay a stranger?” Elena Viktorovna said the words as though they were indecent. “For something a daughter-in-law is supposed to do? Absolutely not.”
“So I am supposed to do it,” Alyona said. “You’ve just said it out loud.”
“That’s not what I meant…”
“I heard exactly what you meant.”
Pyotr Alexeyevich spoke again.
This time, he wasn’t loud. Instead, he used that particular tone that could be worse than shouting—quiet, weighty, deliberate.
“Remember this, Alyona. That isn’t how things are done in our family. If someone has a skill, they help. Not for money. Not according to a schedule. They simply help. That’s what family means.”
“And what if that person is exhausted?” Alyona asked.
“Everyone gets tired,” her father-in-law snapped.
“Then why am I the only one who’s tired?”
Pyotr Alexeyevich had no answer.
Elena Viktorovna picked up her notebook and placed it inside her handbag.
The gesture said everything. It wasn’t conciliatory. It was final.
“Roma,” she said to her son, “talk to your wife. Explain to her that people don’t behave like this. The anniversary is in two months. We need to plan.”
“Mom, I…” Roman rubbed his forehead.
“Explain it to her,” Elena Viktorovna repeated.
Roman looked at Alyona.
There was something pleading and almost guilty in his expression, but apparently not enough guilt for him to say aloud what needed to be said.
“Alyona, just do it for me,” her husband said. “One time. After that, no more. I promise.”
“One time,” Alyona repeated. “You’ve been saying ‘one time’ for three years.”
Roman fell silent.
And that silence was enough for Alyona.
His parents left twenty minutes later.
Elena Viktorovna said a restrained goodbye. Pyotr Alexeyevich didn’t say goodbye at all.
Roman walked them to the door, returned to the kitchen, and sat down.
For a long time, he said nothing.
“Are you really not going to cook?” he finally asked.
“I’m really not.”
“And you don’t feel sorry?”
Alyona thought about it.
“I’m sorry I didn’t say this three years ago. I’m not sorry about anything else.”
The following days passed in a strange, tense silence.
Roman barely spoke to her. He wasn’t openly angry, but he didn’t make any effort to meet her halfway either.
Elena Viktorovna called twice.
The first time, she tried to persuade Alyona again.
The second time, she spoke in a wounded tone about how she had “never expected something like this.”
Alyona answered briefly and politely, without raising her voice.
Then there was another conversation with Roman late one evening, when both of them had grown tired of pretending everything was normal.
“Alyona, I don’t understand what you want,” her husband said.
“I want people to ask me before they make decisions for me.”
“You were always appreciated.”
“My work was,” Alyona replied. “But what about me?”
Roman didn’t answer.
And Alyona realized there was no answer—not because her husband was a bad person, but because in three years he had never learned to understand the difference.
She filed for divorce at the beginning of December.
Roman didn’t argue. He was confused and said several times that he couldn’t understand how things had reached this point.
Alyona didn’t explain it a second time.
Everything had already been said—there in that kitchen, over tea that had gone cold.
They had been renting the apartment together, so Alyona found a place of her own.
It was a small studio fifteen minutes from the restaurant—bright, with a large window and a separate kitchen area that Alyona furnished according to her own taste: nothing unnecessary, a good stove, sharp knives in a holder on the countertop.
Tools she had chosen for herself.
Elena Viktorovna and Pyotr Alexeyevich’s anniversary was held at a café.
Alyona learned about it by accident when Roman mentioned it in passing while they were exchanging belongings.
They had booked a hall for around forty people, chosen a modest menu, and everything had gone perfectly well.
Alyona nodded.
Apparently, it had been possible to do it that way all along.
On Saturday, Alyona finished work at half past eleven and went home.
She took off her shoes in the hallway.
The kitchen was quiet.
Nobody was waiting for lunch.
Nobody was making a list of dishes for her to prepare.
Alyona put the kettle on, sliced some bread, and took cheese out of the refrigerator.
Then she sat down by the window.
Outside, snow was falling—slowly, in large flakes.
Alyona watched it while drinking her tea and thinking about nothing in particular.
She simply watched.
For the first time in a very long time, Saturday belonged to her.