“The salad tastes like soap,” my sister-in-law grimaced. I silently walked over and cleared all the holiday dishes from the table.
“Did your mayonnaise go bad, or was that your idea?”
Olka disgustedly pushed aside the edge of the layered salad with her fork. A greasy yellow stain remained on the white tablecloth.
Marina froze at the back of her chair. She held a towel in her hands. The smell of roast duck wafted from the oven.
“Expiration date is March,” Marina replied evenly. “I opened the jar an hour ago.”
“Well, I don’t know,” my sister-in-law grimaced. “It tastes like soap. And it’s bitter. Where did you get it? On sale at the economy class?”
Lyubov Ivanovna exhaled loudly. She was sitting at the head of the table. Denis’s place, actually. But my mother-in-law had sat there the moment she entered the apartment.
“Olechka is sensitive to chemicals,” Lyubov Ivanovna muttered. “She can’t have surrogates. Her stomach is weak.”
Denis sat to the side, picking at a piece of smoked salmon with a fork.
“Mom, the salad’s fine,” he muttered uncertainly.
“Eat, Denis. Your stomach isn’t afraid of anything anymore. After three years of marriage,” his mother-in-law smiled falsely. “You’ve gotten used to the formula.”
Something clicked inside Marina. A familiar sound. Like a heavy light switch clicking in a dark hallway.
There was crystal on the table. The very same one from her mother’s set. Marina had spent three hours setting this table. And before that, she’d spent six hours at the stove. There was a reason. January 7th. Christmas, and exactly three years since their wedding.
She spent eighteen thousand rubles on groceries. Her own, from her vacation pay.
“So, soap?” Marina looked at Olka’s plate. Continue reading in the comments.
“Did your mayonnaise go bad, or is that your idea?”
Olka disgustedly pushed aside the edge of the layered salad with her fork. A greasy yellow mark remained on the white tablecloth.
Marina froze at the back of the chair. She held a towel in her hands. The smell of roast duck wafted from the oven.
“Expiration date is March,” Marina replied evenly. “I opened the jar an hour ago.”
“Well, I don’t know,” the sister-in-law winced. “It tastes like soap. And bitter. Where did you get it? On sale in the economy class?”
Lyubov Ivanovna exhaled loudly. She was sitting at the head of the table. Denis’s place, actually. But her mother-in-law had sat there as soon as she entered the apartment.
“Olechka is sensitive to chemicals,” Lyubov Ivanovna muttered. “She can’t have substitutes. Her stomach is weak.”
Denis sat to the side, picking at a piece of smoked salmon with his fork.
“Mom, the salad’s fine,” he muttered uncertainly.
“Eat it, Denis. Your stomach isn’t afraid of anything anymore. After three years of marriage,” the mother-in-law smiled falsely. “You’ve gotten used to the formula.”
Something clicked inside Marina. A normal sound. Like a heavy switch clicking in a dark hallway.
There was crystal on the table. The very same one from Mom’s set. Marina had spent three hours setting this table. And before that, she’d spent six hours at the stove. There was a reason. January 7th. Christmas, and exactly three years since their wedding.
She’d spent eighteen thousand rubles on groceries. Her own, from her vacation pay.
“So, soap?” Marina glanced at Olka’s plate.
“Yeah, I told you, it’s sour.” Olka pointedly pushed her portion away. “Is there any normal food? Well, potatoes? Or sausages? I don’t understand these pineapple salads of yours. How perverse.”
Denis put down his fork.
“Marin, go ahead and cook her some sausages. Are you being stingy?”
Marina silently turned her gaze to her husband.
Denis Andreevich. Thirty-two years old. An engineer at a construction company. A man who, after three years of marriage, still hasn’t learned to protect his wife from his own family.
“There are no sausages in the fridge,” Marina replied curtly.
“What is there?” Lyubov Ivanovna interjected. She picked up a piece of salmon. She sniffed it. She put it back. “Is that chum salmon?”
“Salmon.”
“Oh, come on. It’s so pale. Probably dyed. Fraud is everywhere these days. Did you keep the receipt? I need to return it.”
“I salted it myself,” Marina snapped.
“Oh.” Her mother-in-law pushed the plate of fish away. “Then I definitely won’t eat it. I only have a liver. How much salt did you use? Do you know the proportions?”
Marina clutched the towel. The fabric cut into her palm.
“The proportions are normal.”
“Deniska, don’t touch the fish,” her mother commanded. “Remember how you got food poisoning as a child?”
Denis obediently removed his hand from the dish.
Marina stood and watched this circus. The apartment was warm, but an unpleasant chill ran down her spine.
“So the salad is sour and the fish is pale?” she clarified.
“Marinochka, please don’t be offended,” Lyubov Ivanovna began in a honeyed tone. “We’re your people. Who else is going to tell you the truth? You’ve never been able to cook. It’s not your thing.”
“My job is paying the mortgage?” Marina asked.
Denis flinched.
“Ir… Marin, don’t start. It’s a holiday, isn’t it?”
“A holiday?” She glanced around the table. “You’re sitting there looking like I’ve given you rat poison.”
“And it’s our fault it’s not tasty?” Olka snorted. “Actually, I came to visit.” I have the right to normal service.
Normal service.
Olya was twenty-six. She wasn’t employed. Six months ago, Marina had repaid her microloan. Forty-five thousand rubles. Olya had borrowed it for a new iPhone, and she had to pay it back from Denis and Marina’s family budget. Or rather, from Marina’s stash. Because Denis wasn’t getting his bonus at the time.
“Do you need service?” Marina stepped toward the table. “Go to the restaurant.”
“Then give me the money, and I’ll go.” Olya chuckled. “Denis gives you his entire salary.”
“Olechka, don’t be sarcastic,” the mother-in-law gently chided her daughter. Then she looked at Marina. “The girl’s right. You live high on the hog. You buy salmon. And Denis is wearing a jacket from the season before last.”
Marina looked at her husband.
“Denis. Tell Mom whose salmon this is.”
Denis looked down at his empty plate. “Mom, we agreed not to count our money.”
“I’m not counting yours. I pity my son!” the mother-in-law’s voice rose. “He’s working hard, and you feed him sour mayonnaise. And you walk around in gold!”
Marina was wearing tiny silver carnations.
The oven timer rang. The duck was ready.
Marina turned and went into the kitchen. She pulled out a heavy baking sheet. The bird was golden brown. Apples sizzled around it. It smelled of rosemary and honey.
She picked up a large platter. Carefully transferred the duck. Poured the sauce over it.
She looked at it. Perfect.
She carried the platter into the room. Only one thought was racing through her head. Why am I doing this?
“Oh, it’s hot,” Olya perked up. “I hope at least this is edible.”
Marina placed the duck in the center of the table.
Lyubov Ivanovna narrowed her eyes.
“Overcooked it. Look, the wings are almost black. It’ll be as dry as a shoe.”
Olka poked the breast with her fork.
“Damn, it’s tough. It’s really a shoe. Marin, did you look at the recipe online? They say you should bake it in a sleeve.”
Denis took a knife. He cut off a piece. He started chewing.
“It’s a decent duck. A little tough, yes. But it’s chewable. Marin, give me some ketchup.”
“Ketchup? For the duck in honey sauce?” Marina stared at him.
“Well, it’s really dry, it’s scratching my throat. Bring me some ketchup.”
That was the end of it.
Not even a end. A concrete wall.
Marina looked at the table. At the eighteen thousand rubles smeared across the plates. At her mother-in-law, who was picking at her mouth with a toothpick, looking at the salmon. At her sister-in-law, who was pursing her lips. At her husband, asking for ketchup.
“No,” said Marina.
“What ‘no’?” Denis didn’t understand. “No ketchup? Well, give me mayonnaise.”
“No, you’re not eating this.”
She reached out and took the duck dish. She held it over the table.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” Olka recoiled. “Put it down, I’ll at least eat an apple.”
“Apples are hard too. You’ll break your teeth,” Marina replied dryly.
She turned and carried the duck into the kitchen. She placed it on the counter. She returned to the room.
There was silence at the table.
Marina approached Olya. She picked up a salad bowl with a layered crab salad. The one with “sour mayonnaise.”
“Marina, are you crazy?” Lyubov Ivanovna spoke up.
“I’m saving your stomach, Tamara… I mean Lyubov Ivanovna,” Marina said, keeping her rhythm. “You can’t have a surrogate.”
She took the salad bowl away.
Then she returned for the plate of salmon.
“Stop!” Denis jumped up from his chair. “What are you doing? Put the food back on the table.”
“Food?” Marina paused, holding the plate of fish aloft. “A minute ago this was dyed, sour, dry crap. Why are you choking on this on a holiday?”
“We’re guests!” Olya shrieked. “What are you doing, you psychopath?”
Marina stepped toward Olya. Her sister-in-law sank back into her chair.
Marina leaned over and snatched her personal plate, holding a half-eaten piece of balyk, from under her nose.
“Guests say ‘thank you’ and eat what they give them. Or they don’t eat at all. And you came here to wipe your feet on me. No way.”
She grabbed her mother-in-law’s plate. Lyubov Ivanovna tried to grab her hand, but Marina yanked the plate toward herself. The fork clattered to the floor.
“You rude woman!” her mother-in-law shouted. Her face turned red. “We only come to you out of politeness! Who needs you and your cooking?”
“Go to where the food is good,” Marina said, dumping the cutlery on the tray. She took the breadbasket. She took the olives.
The table was rapidly emptying. Only napkins and empty glasses remained.
Denis stood in the middle of the room. His face was flushed.
“Marina. Right now. Give. The. Duck. Back. On. The. Table.”
She stopped in the kitchen doorway.
“What if, Denis Igorevich? Get a divorce?”
“I order you! These are my mother and my sister!”
“Your mother and your sister can go to the dumpling shop on the corner. I’ll pay them a share. From the forty-five thousand that Olka still owes me.”
Olka jumped up.
“I don’t owe you anything! My brother gave me permission not to give it back!”
Marina slowly turned her gaze to Denis.
“Permitted? From my money?”
Denis looked away.
“Marin, well, she’s in a tough situation… I wanted to tell you later…”
The apartment fell silent again. The only sound was the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
Marina placed the tray on the nightstand. She went to the closet in the hallway. She opened the door. She took out Lyubov Ivanovna’s mother’s fur coat. She tossed it onto an empty chair. Olka’s down jacket flew after her.
“Tough situation? It’ll get even tougher. Get out.”
Lyubov Ivanovna slowly rose. She adjusted the gold chain around her neck.
“You’ll regret this, you little brat. Denis won’t stay with you. Right, son?”
She looked at Denis. He swallowed nervously.
“Marin, you’re overreacting. Apologize to your mother. You freaked out, it happens. Set the table back, and we’ll forget about it.”
“We’ll forget about it?”
She came right up to him. He smelled of the cheap cologne his mother had given him for February 23rd.
“Whose apartment is this, Denis?”
He blinked.
“What does the apartment have to do with it? We’re family.”
“The apartment was bought for two million before we got married. It’s registered in my name. You’re registered here temporarily. The registration ends in March.”
“Are you reproaching me?” Her husband’s voice wavered, breaking into a screech. “I was renovating here! I was hanging the wallpaper!”
“The wallpaper cost ten thousand. Your relatives have driven me crazy today, costing two hundred. Are you going to take the jacket yourself, or should I throw it away too?”
Denis took a step back. A flicker of genuine fear flashed in his eyes. He’d grown accustomed to Marina being comfortable. Marina never screamed.
“I’ll leave with them,” he said, trying to save face. “And until you come crawling on your knees begging for forgiveness, I won’t come back.”
“I’ll take you at your word. Put the keys on the nightstand.”
“What?”
“Put the keys on the nightstand, Denis. You can pick up your things tomorrow when I’m at work. I’ll put the boxes out in the hallway.”
Lyubov Ivanovna grabbed her fur coat.
“Let’s go, Denisochka. Let him choke on his duck. We’ll find you a normal woman, not this one… with all that arrogance.”
They dressed in silence. Olka snorted angrily, wrapping her scarf around herself. Denis demonstratively tossed the ring of keys on the mirrored nightstand. The ringing sound was deafening.
“You’re ruining a family over a piece of meat,” he said at the door.
“I’m cleaning the apartment of vermin,” Marina replied.
The door slammed.
Marina double-locked the door. She slid the chain on.
The hallway smelled of strange winter perfume and tension. She leaned her forehead against the cold iron door. She stood there for a minute, breathing.
Then she went into the kitchen.
She turned on the kettle. She took out a beautiful porcelain plate. She served herself a piece of roast duck with a honey crust. She scooped up some crab salad with a spoon.
She cut a slice of fresh, soft bread.
She sat at the empty table.
She bit into the duck. The meat melted in her mouth. Perfectly roasted. Not a trace of dryness. The juice mingled with the honey and apples.
She poured herself a glass of expensive champagne. The phone on the table vibrated. The message read: “Mama Lyuba.” Then came a message from Denis: “Transfer me 10,000 for a hotel, I won’t sleep on Olya’s floor.”
Marina finished her salad. She marked the message as spam. Blocked both numbers.
Then she opened her banking app and transferred the same 10,000 rubles to her savings account.
How would you respond to your husband’s request for a hotel after such an evening?
