“Zoya, I just need two hours, I swear—just two! I have to take documents to the MFC for mom’s disability paperwork, and they only accept by appointment. My appointment is Thursday at eleven. I can’t leave mom alone after her IV, she gets dizzy. Please, just stay with her a bit. Just sit with her and maybe pour her some tea.”
“Oh Ksyusha, I can’t on Thursday. Kiryusha has swimming at eleven.”
“How about Friday? I can reschedule my appointment.”
“Friday I have a manicure appointment—I’ve been waiting a month for it.”
“Zoya, please. Any day. Even just for an hour.”
There was silence on the line. Then Zoya answered, her voice tinged with irritation:
“Ksyusha, I honestly can’t. I really don’t know how to be around sick people. It scares me. What if something happens to her? What would I do? Just hire a sitter for a couple of hours—they have tons of agencies now.”
Oksana sat in the corridor of the specialized clinic, on a hard plastic bench beside her mom’s purse and a bag with a water bottle. Behind the glass door of the procedure room, her mom was getting her third IV of the month.
“Alright, Zoya,” Oksana said. “I understand.”
She never did find a sitter for those two hours. On Thursday, she took half a day off work and brought her mom to the MFC with her. Her mom sat waiting, pale, lips gray, gripping the armrest. After forty minutes, she got sick right in the hallway at the MFC, into a bag Oksana—thankfully—always carried with her.
That was two years ago. Her mom recovered, and has been in remission for a year and a half now. Yet Oksana remembered that conversation with Zoya word for word.
She married Vladimir ten years ago, when she was twenty-four.
Oksana grew up with only her mom. Her father left when she was three and never came back. Lidiya Arkadyevna worked as chief accountant at the factory, late into the evenings, with no days off. There were hardly any grandparents: her mother’s parents died young, and Oksana never knew her father’s. Holidays were just the two of them, at a small kitchen table with Olivier salad and champagne in two glasses.
When Oksana first visited Vladimir’s home to meet his family, she felt dizzy.
There were about fifteen people gathered around a big expandable table in the living room. Vladimir’s mom, Tamara Ilinichna, was lively and bustling, wearing an apron over her fancy dress. His father, Pyotr Semyonovich, was quiet and mustached. Zoya, the younger sister, was cheerful and chatty, still single back then. Two aunts, an uncle, cousins, some kids, even a neighbor—everyone talking at once, laughing, passing salad bowls, pouring drinks for each other.
Oksana wanted that so much—a big, happy family, the kind that greets you with hugs at the door, where the table is noisy and you truly belong.
She tried so hard to fit in. She tried for ten years.
When Zoya got married and had Kiryusha, Oksana would pick her nephew up from daycare if Zoya couldn’t make it. Then from school. Then from swim practice. Once a week, sometimes twice. Zoya would call at lunchtime: “Ksyusha, can you pick up Kiryusha? I’m stuck at work.” Oksana would get off early and go pick him up.
Whenever Tamara Ilyinichna needed to buy something, she would call Oksana. Curtains for the living room, a new tablecloth, medicine from a specific pharmacy all the way across town. ‘Ksyusha, you have a car, it’s no trouble for you,’ she would say. And truly, it wasn’t a problem for Oksana. She would drive out, buy what was needed, and bring it over.
Then, at some point, all the family celebrations quietly moved to her place.
Oksana had a spacious three-bedroom apartment in a Stalin-era building. She inherited it from her grandmother on her mom’s side—the only grandma she could remember, who passed away when Oksana was eighteen. High ceilings, a big living room with a bay window, a wide hallway. Tamara Ilyinichna, meanwhile, had a two-room apartment in a Khrushchev-era building—there, fifteen people barely fit and would end up sitting on each other’s laps.
‘Ksyusha, let’s have New Year’s at your place?’ Tamara Ilyinichna once asked. ‘It’s so spacious there. It’ll be comfortable for everyone.’
Oksana agreed—she was even happy about it. It meant her place had truly become home for this family.
After that New Year, her place became host to International Women’s Day, Easter, Petr Semyonovich’s birthday, Vladimir’s, Kiryusha’s. May barbecue on the balcony. Zoya’s wedding anniversary. Oksana bought twelve folding chairs, an extendable table for fourteen, and a dinner set for twenty. The chairs were kept in the overhead closet, the dishes in the buffet.
Every holiday, she would spend two days preparing. She would buy groceries with her and Vladimir’s money—the relatives always arrived ’empty-handed, because we’re among our own.’ She’d chop salads until midnight, roast meat, bake a cake. On the day of the celebration, she’d set the table, serve dishes, clear them, then serve again. She’d wash dishes until three in the morning and put the chairs back up in storage.
She thought this is what family was supposed to be.
But gradually, she started to notice something. At first, it was just a feeling—then it became clear as day.
Help in this family only went one way. From her, to them.
When Oksana needed help, no one was around. Once, she caught a fever of nearly 40°C and asked Zoya to pick up Kiryusha, just this once. Zoya replied, ‘Oh, but I really can’t fit it in—I thought you’d take him.’ Another time, Oksana’s car broke down, and she asked Petr Semyonovich—he had a garage and tools—to have a look. Petr Semyonovich said, ‘I’ll check on it,’ but never did. Two weeks later, Oksana just took the car to the service center herself.
She saw it most clearly of all two years ago, when her mother fell ill.
Lidiya Arkadyevna was diagnosed with a tumor in December. Surgery took place in January, followed by six courses of chemotherapy. Oksana worked as a logistics coordinator at a transportation company, from eight to six, often until seven. After every IV, her mom would be bedridden for three days—nausea, weakness, dizziness, unable to make it to the bathroom without support. It was terrifying to leave her alone.
Oksana was constantly torn—work, her mom, hospital trips, pharmacy runs, paperwork for disability. She’d visit her mom in the mornings before work, again in the evenings, often stayed overnight on a folding bed. She lost six kilos, barely slept at night.
Sometimes, Oksana needed to leave for two or three hours—to get documents at the government center, visit the social security office, or see her own doctor (she’d started having blood pressure issues herself). And there was no one to leave her mom with.
She called Zoya several times. Each time, Zoya had an excuse: Kiryusha’s swimming pool, a manicure, an important meeting at work. “I’m not good with the sick, it scares me.” “Hire a nurse.”
Once, Oksana called Tamara Ilinichna.
“Ksyusha,” her mother-in-law said, “you know I have high blood pressure. I can barely walk myself. I just can’t.”
The next day, Saturday, Oksana later found out Tamara Ilinichna spent the whole day digging in her garden at the dacha.
She complained to her husband. Vladimir hugged her and said:
“Ksyusha, Zoya has her own worries—her kid, work, husband. Mom has her blood pressure. Don’t be upset with them. They don’t mean anything by it.”
In half a year of her mom’s chemotherapy, Vladimir visited his mother-in-law four times. Each visit lasted only an hour.
After that year, Oksana quietly stopped hosting big gatherings at her place.
There were no scandals or announcements. When Tamara Ilinichna once again suggested, “Ksyusha, let’s have March 8th at your place,” Oksana replied, “Tamara Ilinichna, I can’t, my mom isn’t well.” When Zoya proposed celebrating Kiryusha’s birthday “at your place, like always,” Oksana said, “Zoya, let’s go to a café this time. I won’t have time to cook.”
That New Year, they celebrated at Tamara Ilinichna’s—a cramped two-room apartment, everyone squeezed together.
Her husband’s relatives didn’t like the change. It was obvious. Tamara Ilinichna pressed her lips together. Zoya sighed and complained at the table, “It used to be so nice and spacious at your place, but now we’re all crowded.” Vladimir fidgeted and looked at his wife reproachfully.
But no one said anything openly. No one dared argue with the lady of the house directly.
At the end of September, Tamara Ilinichna and Petr Semyonovich had their ruby wedding—forty years of marriage.
Of course Oksana knew about it. She also knew her mother-in-law wanted to gather the whole family. She even bought a gift in advance: a nice set of Egyptian cotton bed linens, double-sized, burgundy to match the ruby occasion.
No one told her where the celebration would be. She assumed it would be at Tamara Ilinichna’s or maybe in a café.
On Friday evening, the day before the anniversary, Oksana got home from work around seven-thirty. There had been a quarterly inventory at the warehouse, and she’d have another shift until eight the next evening. Vladimir was in the kitchen, and looked away when she entered.
Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang. Zoya stood on the doorstep with a huge bag slung over her shoulder.
“Hi, hi!” Zoya walked into the hallway without waiting for an invitation and headed straight for the kitchen. She put her bag on the table and started pulling out plastic containers—empty, colorful, about ten of them. “Here, I brought these. So we can prep the salads tonight and pack them. Tomorrow we just dress them and we’re done. It’s convenient, right?”
Oksana stood at the kitchen door, still wearing her jacket.
“What salads, Zoya?”
“What do you mean, what? For the anniversary. Mom’s and Dad’s. Tomorrow at your place, at six. Didn’t Volodya tell you?” Zoya was surprised.
Oksana looked at her husband. Vladimir gazed out the window.
“He didn’t,” she replied.
“Alright, here’s what I’ve got so far,” Zoya said cheerfully as she pulled a folded sheet of paper from her pocket. “So, here’s the list. For meat, we need about three kilos of pork neck, roasted whole. Fish: lightly salted salmon and herring for the ‘shuba’ salad. A couple of jars of red caviar, since Dad loves it. We’ll need to order a cake from ‘Karavay’ for twenty people, with ’40 years together’ written on it. Cognac, vodka, red and white wine. For fruit: grapes, tangerines, and pineapple to make it look nice. Salads: Olivier, shuba, mimosa, crab stick salad, Caesar. For the hot dish—country-style potatoes. And of course, cold cuts like cheese, sausage, and pickles.”
She unfolded the paper and handed it to Oksana.
“You and Volodya will buy all this. You both have salaries. Mom and Dad are retired, what kind of money do they have? They’ll get a gift from all of us anyway.”
Oksana didn’t take the paper.
“Zoya. Why is the party at my place?”
“Well, where else?” Zoya honestly didn’t get it. “Mom’s apartment is cramped, you know that. But your place is spacious. Mom’s already invited everyone—Aunt Valya, Uncle Kolya, Svetka and her husband, the Petrov family. There’ll be about twenty people. Everyone knows it’s at your place.”
“Mom’s already invited everyone,” Oksana repeated. “To my apartment. Without asking me.”
“Oh, Ksyusha, why are you acting like a stranger?” Zoya frowned. “We’re family. We’ve always gotten together at your place and it was fine. What’s there to ask?”
Oksana looked at her husband.
“Volodya. Did you know?”
Vladimir was silent for a moment. Then, still staring out the window, he said:
“Well… Mom mentioned it. Back on Monday.”
“Monday. And you didn’t tell me.”
“Come on, Ksyusha…” He finally looked at her—apologetic, but also a bit stubborn. “I figured you’d agree. You always do once things are settled. Mom’s celebrating their anniversary—it’s forty years. They can’t have it at a cafe.”
“Zoya,” Oksana said, still standing in her jacket, right by the kitchen door. “I have work tomorrow. Until eight in the evening—we have inventory. There’s no way I can cook all night or host twenty people at six tomorrow. I’m not going to do it.”
Zoya set the list down on the table, on top of the food containers, and straightened up.
“Ksyusha, what’s wrong? You could just take the day off. Just this once. It’s Mom and Dad, after all! The whole family will come to your place tomorrow, so the table should be impressive. Don’t embarrass us in front of Aunt Valya—she’s already telling everyone you’ve gotten all high and mighty.”
Oksana looked at her sister-in-law. At the ten empty, brightly colored containers on her kitchen table. At the list, written in Zoya’s round handwriting: “A couple of jars of red caviar, Dad loves it.” And at her husband, who was staring out the window.
And suddenly, she saw the whole picture—like she’d stepped back from a painting she’d studied up close for ten years.
Her time was for everyone. Anyone could make her take off work without asking, wake her at midnight to chop salad, send her across town for curtains or medicine. Her money was for everyone: “you both have salaries,” “a couple jars of caviar.” Her apartment was for everyone: “Mom’s already invited everyone,” “everyone knows it’s at your place.” Without even asking. Without any warning.
But when she needed just two hours—just two hours for someone to stay with her sick mother—every member of this big, happy family had a reason to say no. Swimming pool, manicure, high blood pressure, “I don’t know how to care for sick people.”
The only things shared were hers. Never theirs.
“No,” Oksana said.
“No what?” Zoya didn’t understand.
“No. There will be no celebration at my apartment. Not tomorrow, not ever.”
She walked over to the table, gathered up all ten of Zoya’s containers, along with the list, stacked them together and carried them out to the hallway. She placed them on the floor next to Zoya’s shoes.
Zoya turned crimson.
“How dare you? This is for mom and dad! Forty years! You’re ruining their anniversary!”
“I’m not ruining anything, Zoya. The anniversary can be celebrated anywhere. At a café, at your place, at Tamara Ilyinichna’s. Just not at mine.”
“Volodya!” Zoya turned to her brother. “Why are you just sitting there?! Say something!”
Vladimir stood up from the table.
“Ksyusha, come on. It’s mom. This is family. It doesn’t feel right. We’re family, Ksyusha. We should help each other. We’re obligated, even. It’s just…”
“Volodya,” Oksana interrupted, “where was this family two years ago?”
He fell silent.
“When mom was getting chemo,” Oksana continued quietly. “When she was vomiting after IVs and couldn’t make it to the bathroom. When I just needed two hours. Two hours, Volodya, for someone to sit with her. I called Zoya. I called your mom. Do you remember what they told me? Kiryusha had swimming. A manicure. High blood pressure. And the very next day, your mom spent the whole day digging in the garden at the dacha. Where was the family then, Volodya? Where was all that ‘we’re obligated to help each other’?”
Vladimir looked at her in silence.
Zoya opened her mouth, then closed it again.
Vladimir stood in the middle of the kitchen for a long time. He had nothing to say, and they both knew it.
Zoya left in a rage five minutes later. She grabbed her containers from the entryway and slammed the door as she left. Out on the landing, Oksana could hear her yelling into her phone: “Mom! You won’t believe what she just did!”
Tamara Ilyinichna and Petr Semyonovich’s anniversary was moved to a café on the next street. Zoya managed to arrange everything with the manager overnight, for sixteen guests instead of twenty. Aunt Valya and Uncle Kolya couldn’t make it at the last minute.
Oksana attended the anniversary. Vladimir had insisted, and she decided they should still bring a present. She gave a set of burgundy bed linens. Tamara Ilyinichna accepted the box with two fingers and set it in the corner without opening it. Neither her mother-in-law nor Zoya spoke a word to Oksana the entire evening.
Oksana and Vladimir rode home in complete silence.
For several days, Vladimir sulked. He wandered around the apartment looking hurt, replied with short answers, and went to bed early. Oksana neither tried to persuade him nor justified herself. In the past, she would have always been the first to make up. She would have explained, apologized for being blunt, maybe even offered to host next time, you know, ‘for your mom’. But this time, she didn’t.
On the fifth evening, as Vladimir buried himself in his phone at dinner once again, she said:
“Volodya, let’s talk.”
He reluctantly looked up.
“I want you to understand something,” Oksana said. “This is my apartment. My grandmother’s. It’s not going to be a banquet hall for your family anymore. If someone wants to visit, they can—but only if I agree. No more ‘mom already invited everyone,’ no more ‘everyone knows the party is here.’ They ask me first. If I say no, it’s no. End of discussion.”
Vladimir stared at her for a long time.
“But what if my mom wants…”
“If your mom wants to, she can call me and ask.”
He looked away and fiddled with his fork in his hands.
“Okay,” he finally said. He was reluctant and clearly unhappy, but he said it. “Okay. I get it.”
Three weeks later, in the middle of October, Oksana came home from work and heard Vladimir talking on the phone out on the balcony. The door was slightly open.
“Zoya, no,” he was saying. “No, we can’t host it at ours.”
There was a pause. Oksana stood in the hallway, keys in hand.
“No, Zoya. We won’t celebrate the birthday at ours. I’m against it, too. And I’m not about to spring it on Ksyusha again. Have it at mom’s or at a cafe, like normal people. Yes, I’m serious. That’s it, bye.”
He came in from the balcony, noticed Oksana in the hallway, and looked a little embarrassed.
“Oh, you’re home. Zoyka called. She wanted to celebrate Kiryusha’s birthday at our place.”
“I heard,” Oksana replied.
“I told her no.”
“I heard, Volodya.”
He was silent for a moment. Then he shrugged and went to put on the kettle.
Oksana took off her coat, hung it in the closet, and stood in the hallway for a bit.
He didn’t apologize. Not for September, not for not telling her about the anniversary, not for two years ago when he said ‘Zoyka has her own worries.’ But today, for the first time in ten years, he didn’t ask her to just put up with it. He didn’t leave the decision to her or hide behind, ‘let’s ask Ksyusha.’ He took the call himself, said no to his sister himself, and explained why himself.
To Oksana, that meant more than any apology ever could.
At the end of October, Lidiya Arkadyevna called her daughter and said her test results were good. The doctor said at her check-up that she could forget about the hospital for another six months.
On Sunday, Oksana invited her mom over for lunch. Just her.
That morning, Vladimir went to the market himself and bought chicken, potatoes, and greens. He roasted the chicken with potatoes himself—he’d picked up the recipe from some cooking blogger. He set the table by himself in their big bay-windowed living room, found three plates from a twenty-person dinner set, three glasses, three forks.
Oksana watched as he arranged the napkins and remembered how, in the past, this table would extend for fourteen people, and how she’d stay up until 3 a.m. putting away twelve folding chairs in the storage loft.
Lidiya Arkadyevna arrived exactly at two, in a new dress, carrying a box of marshmallows. Vladimir helped her with her coat. The three of them sat down: Oksana, her mother, and Vladimir. The chicken turned out a bit dry, but her mom said it was delicious and even asked for seconds.
The folding chairs were still up in the storage loft. All twelve of them.