“Mother-in-law! I don’t care that you’ve already given everyone my address! This is my home, not a cafeteria branch for your friends!”
“No, Alexey, your mother will not be celebrating her anniversary in my apartment,” Margarita said so evenly that her husband’s face froze. “And don’t look at me as though I’ve just thrown an old woman out into the cold. I refused a grown woman who had already handed out my address to her guests and brought me a list of dishes as though I were a waitress.”
Alexey stood in the middle of the kitchen with his phone in his hand. Buckwheat simmered on the stove, two dirty plates sat souring in the sink, and wet snow clung to the window outside. An ordinary November in the Moscow suburbs: a gray courtyard, muddy footprints in the entrance hall, and the smell of someone’s fried fish drifting through the ventilation.
But inside Margarita, nothing was gray.
Something had finally snapped into place.
“Rita, are you starting again?” he asked wearily. “Mom is turning fifty-five. Can’t we do this properly just once?”
“Once? Lyosha, this ‘just once’ has been happening for two years. Your aunt’s birthday, Natasha’s birthday, International Women’s Day, the May holidays, Accountant’s Day, your aunt’s neighbor’s name day. At this point, I feed half your family more often than I feed myself.”
“Don’t exaggerate. They’re family.”
“They’re family to you. Some of those people still don’t even know my name. Last time, Aunt Galya called me Irina and asked me to wrap up some chicken for her to take home.”
“She’s elderly.”
“She’s sly. Those are two different things.”
Margarita had inherited the apartment from her Aunt Lyuba before she had even met Alexey. It was a two-room apartment in an old brick building, with high ceilings, wide windowsills, and parquet flooring that creaked only in the hallway.
Margarita did not love it because of the renovations. The renovations were ordinary: a bright kitchen, slightly faded wallpaper, and a cramped bathroom.
She loved it because it was her place, somewhere she could close the door and not have to explain anything to anyone.
When they got married, Alexey had said:
“We’re lucky, Rita. We have a place of our own.”
She had smiled then, but thought, I’m the lucky one. You’re simply living with me.
She had not said it aloud. No one wants to begin a marriage by dividing up the walls.
The first celebration happened quickly.
Svetlana Viktorovna, Alexey’s mother, called on a Friday evening.
“Ritochka, you’re such a kind girl, aren’t you? My sister has a special occasion coming up. My one-room apartment is too small to fit everyone. Could we gather at your place? Eight people, maybe ten. We’ll bring almost everything.”
“Almost everything” turned out to mean two bottles of lemonade and a box of cookies.
Margarita bought everything else after work: chicken, potatoes, fish, cheese, sausage, herbs, eggs, and a cake. She spent Saturday chopping salads until late at night, then washed the floors and ironed the tablecloth the following morning.
The guests arrived cheerful and hungry.
Svetlana Viktorovna entered in a burgundy dress and immediately announced:
“Look how lovely the young couple’s place is! I told you, now we finally have somewhere to gather.”
“Svetlana, your son married well,” Aunt Galya said as she helped herself to herring under a fur coat. “The apartment is beautiful, and the daughter-in-law is such a good homemaker.”
Margarita’s mother-in-law nodded as though she had personally given Margarita the apartment.
“I always told Lyosha to choose a homely girl, not some empty-headed doll.”
Margarita smiled and went into the kitchen to bring out the hot food.
Had she stayed, she might have said too much.
Back then, she still knew how to swallow her resentment in silence.
After that, it became routine.
“Rituyla, it’s Natasha’s birthday. Can we celebrate at your place?”
“Ritochka, let’s gather at your home for Women’s Day. It’s cozier there.”
“Rita, it’s going to rain during the May holidays. Forget the barbecue. Let’s stay indoors.”
Every time, Margarita said, “Fine.”
Every time, she dragged shopping bags home from the supermarket, looked at the receipt, and reminded herself that the salary of an economist working for a small construction company was not unlimited.
Thirty-two thousand rubles was not the kind of income that allowed for grand gestures. It covered utilities, groceries, transportation, and occasionally a new pair of shoes.
But Svetlana Viktorovna loved putting on lavish celebrations and appearing generous, especially when somebody else was paying.
At those gatherings, Alexey played the beloved son. He opened bottles, laughed loudly, and told stories about the repair shop where he worked as a mechanic.
After the guests left, he usually sat down “for five minutes” and fell asleep.
Margarita collected sticky napkins, washed pots, wiped muddy shoe marks from the floor, and found other people’s hair in the bathroom.
One day, after yet another celebration, she sat across from her husband and said:
“Lyosha, this cannot continue.”
“What is it this time?”
“It isn’t ‘this time.’ This is the first time I’m telling you clearly. Your mother invites the guests, while I buy the food, cook it, and clean everything afterward. Why?”
“Mom has a small salary.”
“And what do I have, an oil pipeline running through the basement?”
“She raised Natasha and me alone.”
“I sympathize with her. But I am not obligated to spend my entire life financing her desire to look generous.”
“You’re being very harsh.”
“Because being gentle doesn’t get through to you.”
A week later, Svetlana Viktorovna came over for tea. She did not hang up her coat. Instead, she spread it over a chair as though she owned the place.
“Ritochka, my friend Vera Petrovna has a birthday coming up. She’s a lonely woman, poor thing. Let’s gather here and celebrate properly.”
Margarita set down her cup.
“Svetlana Viktorovna, let’s agree on something. Either you buy the food, or every guest brings a dish.”
Her mother-in-law slowly raised her eyes.
“What did you say?”
“I said that I’m no longer paying for other people’s celebrations.”
“Other people? They’re your husband’s family.”
“Is Vera Petrovna my husband’s family?”
“Don’t nitpick. A home should be generous.”
“Generosity is when someone shares what belongs to them, not what belongs to somebody else.”
“The apartment belongs to both of you.”
“The apartment belongs to me. We live here together, but this is not a public cafeteria.”
“I see,” Svetlana Viktorovna said coldly. “I thought you were hospitable. It turns out you count every kopeck.”
“I’m not counting kopecks. I’m counting weeks of work. One of your celebrations costs me almost a third of my salary.”
“Greed does not make a woman attractive.”
“And does shamelessness make anyone attractive?”
Her mother-in-law stood so abruptly that the teacup rattled.
“Lyosha will hear about the way you speak to me.”
“He will. I’ll tell him myself.”
Alexey came home angry that evening.
“Mom was crying.”
“Tears are cheaper than meat.”
“Rita!”
“What? I told her the truth.”
“You could have been gentler.”
“I was gentle for two years. People have started wiping their feet on me.”
They argued.
There were no smashed dishes, but there was the kind of coldness that later lies in bed between two people.
Three days later, Alexey put the kettle on himself and quietly said:
“Maybe Mom really is going too far.”
“I’m glad you noticed before we bought her a banquet hall.”
For two months, everything was quiet.
Svetlana Viktorovna called her son but did not visit them.
For the first time, Margarita spent a Saturday at the hairdresser instead of standing over the stove. She bought herself winter boots and did not feel as though she had stolen the money from a platter of sliced sausage.
Then her mother-in-law appeared again.
She arrived in the morning without calling.
Margarita opened the door with wet hands because she had been scrubbing the sink with baking soda.
Svetlana Viktorovna stood there dressed elegantly, with a folder tucked beneath her arm.
“Rituyla, I won’t stay long. My anniversary is next Sunday. I’m turning fifty-five. Restaurants charge prices as though they’re serving caviar by the spoonful, so we’ll gather here. Twelve people. Maybe fourteen. I’ve already given everyone the address.”
Margarita dried her hands on a towel.
“You already gave everyone the address?”
“Of course. People need time to plan. Here’s the menu.”
She pulled out a sheet of paper.
It neatly listed Olivier salad, herring under a fur coat, French-style meat, chicken, potatoes, sliced cold cuts, sandwiches with red fish, and cake.
Notes were written in the margin:
“Proper cheese.”
“Cucumbers not too sour.”
“Good mayonnaise.”
“That’s a good list,” Margarita said. “For a restaurant.”
“What does a restaurant have to do with this?”
“It means none of this will be happening in my home.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Your anniversary celebration will not take place in my apartment.”
Svetlana Viktorovna became as still as stone.
“Are you joking?”
“No.”
“The guests have already been invited!”
“Call them and give them a new address.”
“What address? My place is too small, Natasha is renovating, and restaurants are expensive!”
“You can celebrate at home with four people. You can ask everyone to bring a dish. You can rent a small room at the local community center. There are plenty of options, provided you stop treating my apartment as your own.”
“You want to humiliate me?”
“I want to wake up on Sunday without thinking that I have to chop an enormous bowl of salad for people who will later criticize my curtains.”
“Nobody criticized your curtains!”
“Zina said the color looked cheap. She thought I was out on the balcony.”
“I am your husband’s mother!”
“You say that very often when you have nothing relevant to say.”
“Lyosha will not allow you to treat me this way.”
“Lyosha is welcome to buy the groceries himself, cook everything himself, wash the floors himself, and explain to me himself why strangers are opening my cupboards.”
Her mother-in-law pulled out her phone.
“I’m calling him right now.”
“Go ahead. Just tell him honestly that you forgot to ask me first.”
She switched the call to speakerphone.
“Lyosha, sweetheart, your wife is throwing me out. I came to discuss my anniversary, and she says there will be no celebration. The guests have already been invited, but she has decided to humiliate me because she’s greedy.”
Margarita spoke loudly.
“Alexey, I’m standing right here. Your mother brought me a list of dishes she expects me to prepare, even though I never agreed to anything.”
The noise of the repair shop could be heard through the phone.
Alexey remained silent for a long moment.
“Mom, did you really invite everyone already?”
“What else was I supposed to do?”
“Ask first.”
“You’re taking her side?”
“I’m taking the side of common sense. You cannot make decisions about somebody else’s apartment.”
“Somebody else’s? It’s your home!”
“It’s the home where we live. But decisions about guests are made together. Rita said no.”
“So your own mother can just be thrown out?”
“Mom, nobody is throwing you out.”
“Everything is clear. I raised a son and ended up with a stranger.”
She ended the call.
The kitchen fell silent. Only the refrigerator hummed like an old bus.
“Are you satisfied?” her mother-in-law asked.
“No. But I’m calm.”
“You’ve destroyed the family.”
“No. I closed the door. Those are different things.”
Svetlana Viktorovna left, slamming the door behind her.
She took the folder, but one sheet had fallen beneath the table.
Margarita picked it up and saw calculations written on the back:
“Fish — 1,800.”
“Meat — 2,300.”
“Cake — 1,500.”
“Rita will buy it.”
The final three words had been underlined.
That evening, Alexey sat across from Margarita and placed the sheet on the table.
“She really wrote that?”
“You can see it yourself.”
“I’m sorry,” he said heavily. “I thought you were exaggerating.”
“I don’t need only an apology. I need you to stop waiting until I become the villain. You should be able to recognize when people are using us.”
“I’ll recognize it from now on.”
“Not ‘from now on.’ Start right now.”
He nodded.
“All right. I’ll speak to Mom. The anniversary will not happen here.”
“And there will be no guests standing at our door either.”
“No guests at the door either.”
On Sunday, Margarita expected some kind of trick.
She deliberately bought no extra food.
The refrigerator contained soup, cottage cheese, and a jar of pickles.
Let them try to make a banquet out of cottage cheese.
Alexey went to his mother’s place with a gift: a warm stole and a gift certificate for a cosmetics store.
Margarita did not go with him.
“I don’t want to sit somewhere people will devour me with their eyes instead of eating salad.”
“I understand,” he said. “I won’t stay long.”
He returned late.
He looked tired, but also strangely surprised.
“Well?” Margarita asked.
“We celebrated at Mom’s.”
“In her one-room apartment?”
“Yes. Only five people came.”
“Where was everyone else?”
“That’s the interesting part. Mom called everyone and said the address had changed. She told them to come to her place but asked them to bring something for the table. Aunt Galya suddenly remembered that she had high blood pressure. Zina said her husband had caught a cold. Vera Petrovna asked, ‘Will there be a hot main course?’ Mom told her everyone was bringing their own food. Vera Petrovna replied that she would be too tired after work.”
“Beautiful.”
“It was me, Natasha, the neighbor, her colleague Lida, and Aunt Galya for an hour. Natasha brought a pie, I bought grilled chicken, and Lida brought a salad in a plastic container. At first, Mom sat there as red as a beet. Then she suddenly said, ‘So they only needed me when I had somebody else’s apartment and a table full of food.’”
Margarita remained silent.
“And you know,” Alexey continued, “I even felt sorry for her. Not because she was right. She wasn’t. It’s just that her entire life, she has tried to prove that she is no worse than anyone else. A full table meant that she had succeeded in life. But it turned out people weren’t coming to see her. They were coming for the food.”
“Feeling sorry for her does not erase what she did.”
“I know. That’s exactly what I told her.”
A week later, Svetlana Viktorovna came by herself.
There was no folder and no commanding tone.
She carried a small bag of apples.
“May I come in?” she asked from the doorway.
“Come in.”
They sat in the kitchen.
Alexey was at work, which made the conversation more honest.
“Rita, I didn’t come to argue.”
“All right.”
“I thought you simply didn’t like me.”
“I am not obligated to love you. But I was prepared to respect you.”
Her mother-in-law nodded.
“And I decided that if you stayed silent, it meant you were fine with everything. It was convenient for me to believe that.”
“Very convenient.”
“After the anniversary, I understood something unpleasant. The people I invited were not coming to see me. They were going somewhere they could eat for free, sit comfortably, and then take home a piece of cake. And I wanted to look generous in front of them. At your expense.”
“That was the most hurtful part.”
“I know. I was wrong. And not only because of the money. I behaved as though what belonged to you belonged to everyone, while what belonged to me was mine alone.”
Margarita looked at her closely.
There was none of her mother-in-law’s usual sweetness in her voice.
She spoke awkwardly and plainly, but sincerely.
“Thank you for saying that.”
“I’m not asking to hold celebrations here again. There’s no need. I don’t want to anymore. They cost too much. Not in money, but in relationships. But I would like to come for tea sometimes. Without lists. With apples.”
Margarita smiled.
“Apples are allowed.”
“And if I start ordering everyone around again, tell me immediately. Just without that smile of yours that makes a person feel like an unpaid tax debt.”
“And you stop saying, ‘I am Alexey’s mother.’ We’ve all memorized it already.”
Svetlana Viktorovna snorted.
She almost laughed.
“Agreed.”
That evening, Alexey found them drinking tea together.
A homemade apple cake made from those same apples sat on a plate.
It was not some grand symbol of reconciliation.
The apples simply had to be used for something.
“Have you made peace?” he asked cautiously.
“A truce,” Margarita said.
“With a probationary period,” Svetlana Viktorovna added.
After her mother-in-law left, Margarita closed the door and leaned against it.
“How are you?” Alexey asked.
“Strange. I thought victory would be loud. Instead, it arrived carrying a bag of apples.”
“But you won.”
“I don’t know. Maybe nobody won. Maybe everyone simply sobered up a little.”
She looked around the kitchen: a clean table, two cups in the sink, and half an apple cake beneath a towel.
There were no enormous bowls of salad, no strangers’ coats piled on the bed, and no whispered conversations behind her back.
The home was a home again.
Margarita suddenly understood that boundaries were not created to drive people away.
They were created so that the people who remained would enter properly—not carrying menus and demands, but bringing respect.
Or at least a bag of apples.
For a start, even that was not so bad.