The phone rang precisely three days before New Year’s, shattering the quiet of my lazy afternoon.
I had just finished compiling my shopping list: modest, for two, with a bottle of sparkling wine and Andrey’s favorite tuna salad.
I pictured the evening serene and cozy: a movie, scattered tangerine peels across the kitchen table, maybe a stroll through the snowy park before midnight.
“Mashenka!” – the painfully familiar, overly enthusiastic voice erupted from the receiver. It was Larisa Petrovna. – “How are you, dear? Getting ready for the holidays?”
I gripped the phone tighter. That voice… too energetic, too prying. I knew exactly what undertone it carried.
“Good afternoon, Larisa Petrovna. Yes, we’re slowly getting ready,” I tried to respond calmly.
“Listen, sweetie, there’s a little situation…” – she paused dramatically – “Vera and Igor wanted to visit friends for the holidays, but their house is under renovation! Can you imagine? And the kids are so sad, just crying.
Petrovich and I thought – why don’t we all gather together, as a family? Give the children a proper celebration, they’re waiting for it eagerly!”
Vera was Andrey’s sister, Igor her husband, and the kids were Maksim and Sonya, seven and five years old.
I remembered perfectly their last visit in May: an empty fridge, a broken vase, a faulty bathroom faucet
(“It broke on its own, I promise!”), and me, like a waitress at a banquet, hauling plates back and forth while Vera and Igor “enjoyed a day off from parenting duties” at the mall.
“Larisa Petrovna, we had planned New Year’s just for the two of us…”
“Oh, Mashenka, why would you say that! Family is the most important thing! We’re coming only briefly, really just on the evening of the 31st, we’ll celebrate and leave immediately.
The kids just need the tree and the mood, you understand? You can’t take away their magic!”
Magic… I closed my eyes. For me, magic meant three days of cooking and cleaning, followed by a week spent restoring the apartment.
“I need to discuss it with Andrey…” I tried to soften the blow.
“Oh, I already spoke to him! He said he’ll be happy! You have such a wonderful husband, family-oriented. Okay, kisses, see you soon!”
The line went dead. I stared at the phone, feeling my inner irritation flare. Naturally, Andrey had agreed. He always did when it came to family.
The evening arrived, and Andrey stepped into the apartment with a guilty smile.
“Mash, Mom called…”
“I know.”
“I know you’re not thrilled, but it’s just one night! The kids are genuinely sad. Maksim even cried when he heard there might not be a celebration.”
“One night,” I repeated. “Andrey, remember May?”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“I remember. But this is family, Masha. We can’t let them down.”
“It’s not about letting anyone down,” I tried to stay calm. “They have fully functional credit cards and plenty of restaurants in town.
The real issue would be if they were kicked out or there was nothing to feed the kids. This is just their desire to save money and dump all their problems on us.”
“Mash, please,” Andrey said, taking my hand. “Just this once. I promise, I’ll help with everything. I’ll cook, clean, watch the kids. You won’t have to lift a finger.”
I looked into his pleading eyes. He truly believed what he said. I knew he would forget his promise the next day, because “men in the kitchen are just in the way” and “only moms can handle the kids properly.”
“Alright,” I said.
He lit up and hugged me.
“Thank you, darling! I knew you’d understand.”
I didn’t reply, because my plan was already forming in my mind.
The next two days were spent preparing. But not just for the celebration. In a secret notebook, hidden in the desk drawer, odd notes began to accumulate.
“Beef – 1200. Salmon – 1800. Shrimp – 950. Cheese – 4 types, 1500. Red caviar – 2300…”
I documented everything: every ingredient, every purchase, every receipt individually.
When Andrey asked why there were so many receipts, I said it was for next year’s budget. He nodded and went to watch football.
I added service costs too. The value of my time was calculated based on the city’s low hourly wage, as cook, cleaner, and babysitter.
Five hours of cooking – ten thousand rubles. Three hours of cleaning before arrival – six thousand. Childcare – five hundred rubles per hour.
A separate line for “damages.” I remembered previous visits perfectly: broken dishes, stains on the couch, damaged appliances. This time I meticulously inspected the apartment, photographing every corner. If something broke – I had proof.
Andrey, as expected, “helped.” He cut bread once, took out the trash, and then declared himself “dog-tired” and flopped onto the couch.
I quietly continued cooking, noting in the notebook: “Extra work due to husband’s lack of help – + five thousand.”
On December 31, at six, the doorbell rang.
“We’re here!” – Larisa Petrovna burst in, as if storming the Bastille.
Behind her, like a comet’s tail, followed the entire family: Petrovich with a cheap bottle of champagne (“gift for the young ones!”), Vera and Igor laden with bags, the kids already running around in the hallway.
“Mashenka, darling!” – my mother-in-law kissed me. – “How beautiful everything is here! What’s that smell? Duck? My God, what perfect timing, I haven’t eaten all morning, I was preparing for the celebration!”
“I prepared” – I thought. Meaning, she hadn’t eaten on purpose to gorge herself here.
