Lena stood in the kitchen, swirling the thick, steaming sauce with a wooden spoon. Her movements were mechanical, as if each motion had been etched into her over years of repetition, a silent ritual she followed without thought.
She heard the entrance door creak and didn’t even glance up when Igor entered, phone in hand, a smug, self-satisfied smile tugging at his lips.
That smile—the one that always heralded bad news while pretending to be cheerful. Lena instinctively knew something unpleasant was coming.
— Solnyiszko, I have news! — Igor began, his usual forced cheerfulness masking the looming discomfort. — Your mother called. She and Aunt Valya have decided to spend New Year’s with us!
Lena slowly turned off the stove, set down the wooden spoon, and faced her husband. Their eyes met, and she looked deep into his, her voice low yet sharp:
— If they both come at the same time, I’ll celebrate at my friend’s place.
At first, Igor laughed, but the laughter quickly shifted into tension, edged with irritation:
— You must be joking, right? This is my mother… and Aunt Valya.
— I’m not joking. This is an ultimatum.
— What ultimatum? — Igor asked, brushing aside the remnants of his laughter. — Lena, what on earth are you talking about?
Slowly, Lena removed the tired, swaying headscarf, folded it carefully, and placed it on the kitchen counter.
— Eight years, Igor. Eight years of smiling, cooking, cleaning, listening to your mother explain that the soup is too thin and that I spend too much on cosmetics.
Eight years of Aunt Valya announcing to everyone that she could have had a truly refined daughter-in-law, and yet she chose me—the “girl from a simple family.” Eight years of being the serving hand at every family celebration.
— Lena, but…
— No, Igor. Enough. Last Christmas, I spent six hours in the kitchen while everyone else lounged in the living room.
Your mother never offered a hand, yet she found the time to comment that Svetka, your brother’s wife, made “real aspic,” not like mine.
Igor buried his face in his hands:
— That’s not what I meant…
— Exactly what I meant. — Lena’s voice grew firmer, more resolute. — But for you, it’s easier to pretend nothing happened. Easier if I endure.
— They’re old women, it’s hard for them to change…
— Your mother is fifty-nine. Aunt Valya is sixty-one. They are not old, they can manage basic courtesy. They just think it’s their right to criticize me because I am your wife. As if serving them is my duty.
Igor leaned back in the chair, irritation flashing in his eyes:
— And what do you propose? That I tell my mother she’s not invited for New Year’s?
— I propose you accept my ultimatum. If they both come, I’m going to Marina’s. She’s been inviting me for ages to spend the holiday together.
— Marina? — Igor grimaced. — The friend of yours who’s divorced three times?
— The friend who won’t let anyone walk over me.
Silence followed. For the first time in years, Lena didn’t look away from Igor, didn’t bow, didn’t try to negotiate.
— And who will serve the guests? — Igor finally asked, not with concern, but with pure outrage that his wife wouldn’t comply.
Inside, Lena felt no anger, only a cold, liberating indifference:
— That’s your mother, Igor. Your problem. Decide.
And she stepped out of the kitchen, leaving her husband with his thoughts.
In the days that followed, Igor wandered the apartment gloomily. Lena knew he didn’t truly believe she would leave. He thought it was just female theatrics that would pass.
Every evening, he came home hoping Lena would apologize, say she was joking, and everything would return to its familiar rhythm. But Lena remained silent.
She lived her life, worked, cooked dinners for two, watched series. Igor tried multiple times to start a conversation, but Lena politely avoided the topic.
On the morning of December 28, Lena pulled out a travel bag. Igor, having breakfast, froze halfway to his coffee when he heard the zipper.
— What are you doing? — Igor asked from the doorway.
— Packing. — Lena calmly folded her clothes: jeans, sweater, cosmetics. — Marina is coming for me at noon.
— Lena, stop! This isn’t a joke anymore!
— I’m not joking. I never have.
Igor grabbed her hand:
— You can’t do this. This… this is betrayal!
Lena freed her hand quickly but without anger:
— Betrayal is watching your wife being humiliated for years and saying nothing. If it’s easier for you that I endure, because it’s convenient, then that is betrayal.
— My mother never humiliated me!
— Igor, — Lena’s voice had no anger, only weariness — last Easter she told everyone it would be good if I lost five kilos. In front of everyone. And when I tried to resist, you said, “Your mother’s only concerned about your health.”
— And? She was genuinely concerned…
— She humiliated me. And you always took her side. Always.
Igor turned pale and began to step back:
— So you’ve decided? You’ll leave me for the holidays?
— I’m not leaving you. I just won’t spend another New Year with women who don’t see me as worthy.
Lena picked up a dark blue, backless dress—the one Igor once called “too daring”—and carefully placed it in the suitcase.
— What’s that? — Igor asked, staring at the dress.
— Marina invited me to dance. A New Year’s party in the city.
— Dance? — Igor laughed hysterically, angrily. — You’re leaving your family to dance like… like some…
— Stop. — Lena looked him directly in the eyes. — Say what you were thinking.
Igor went silent, turning his gaze away.
— I didn’t mean that.
— Naturally. You never think about such things.
Lena closed the suitcase and sat at the edge of the bed:
— You know what’s the scariest part? Not that your mother doesn’t love me. Not that Aunt Valya thinks I’m not enough. But that you agree with them.
You truly believed I should be grateful that you married me, that I have a home, that I serve you. You never saw me as your equal.
— That’s not true…
— It is. If it weren’t, at least once you would have defended me. At least once you would have told your mother: “Lena is my wife, speak to her with respect.” But never, in eight years, never.
The doorbell rang—Marina had arrived. Lena stood and picked up her suitcase.
— Wait! — Igor blocked the doorway. — What should I tell your mother? Aunt Valya?
Lena gave a bittersweet smile:
— Tell the truth. That your wife is tired of serving.
She left the apartment without looking back.
