That year, neither the smell of mandarin trees nor fresh pine brought any joy.
December 31st was tense at Ira and Zseni’s apartment, stretched tight like an old guitar string, ready to snap at any moment.
That morning, Verá Ignatjevna and her sister, Ljuda, had come to visit—and the moment they stepped inside, they began giving orders as if it were their own home.
At the table, smoothing the folds of the festive tablecloth with queenly posture, sat Verá Ignatjevna—“acting as the lady of the house” in someone else’s apartment, even though she lived separately in her own home.
Next to her, nodding and clinking porcelain, sat her younger sister, Ljuda—a stout woman with a permanent look of disapproval and glaring, sparkling eyes.
Ljuda also lived separately, and she had come for the “holiday” only to feed her sister “wise” advice and encourage her to pressure the young couple.
— So, children, — Verá Ignatjevna wiped her lips with a napkin as if delivering a final judgment. — Hard times are coming. Prices are rising, pensions are not flexible.
Ljuda opened her eyes wide. Starting in January—everyone is responsible for themselves.
Ira froze, holding the salad bowl.
— What do you mean, Verá Ignatjevna? We share the rent with my husband, I handle the groceries…
— Exactly! — Ljuda cut in, brazenly stabbing a slice of smoked meat with her fork. — You, Irka, have a job at the restaurant, maybe some tips.
Zseni, my son, works at the factory. You young couples are responsible for yourselves. Verá is an elderly woman. Let the mother’s money be enough! Starting January—separate budgets.
Your money is yours, Zseni’s is his. Pay the rent according to the meter. And everyone buys their own food.
Ira looked at her husband. Zseni, thirty, a strong man who worked as a loader in a furniture factory, sat hunched over the cold aspic on his plate. He didn’t like conflict.
It was easier to stay silent than argue with his visiting mother, who spoke as if she had the right to make their decisions.
— Zseni? — Ira whispered. — Do you agree? We’re a family. We had a shared budget.
Zseni looked guilty, sad-eyed, muttering:
— Well, my mom says this is fairer. Saving, Ira. Let’s try it.
Something inside Ira snapped. She put down the salad bowl on the table with a thud that made Ljuda jump.
— Fine, — Ira’s voice turned icy, like a January wind. — Everyone is responsible for themselves. Remember this day.
January was snowy and cruel. The new life began immediately, without hesitation.
Ira worked as a sous-chef at the “Cozy Home” restaurant. The work was hard, twelve-hour days, heat and steam, but the team was kind and friendly.
Previously, Ira had brought groceries home, cooked three-course dinners to please her husband, washed, cleaned. Now, she changed tactics.
The restaurant provided two meals for staff. Very good quality: hearty soups, meat stews, fresh salads.
Chef Miska, a large Armenian man with good eyes, always said: “Irka, those who work well should eat well. Take it, don’t be shy, you can take it home too.”
But Ira didn’t take anything home. She ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner at work. She came home hungry but calm. Only yogurt for breakfast, fruit, and good tea.
At home, the fridge shelves were divided. Top shelf: Ira. Yogurts, cheese, avocado. Bottom: Zseni. At first, dumplings, cheap cold cuts, bread.
Zseni, used to homemade meatballs and hearty soups, soon became sad. Loader work required calories. Just sandwiches weren’t enough—he wouldn’t have the strength to move cabinets.
— Ira, dinner? — he asked once, peering into an empty pot.
— I already ate at work, Zseni. Separate budget. Cook your own pasta.
Zseni sadly chewed his empty pasta while Ira, with a mask over her face, read. She suddenly realized how much free time she had. No more standing at the stove, no more washing greasy piles of dishes.
The money that used to go into the “shared hole” stayed on her card. Ira bought new winter boots she had dreamed of for two years and signed up for a massage.
Two weeks later, Zseni found a solution: he started having dinners at his mother’s.
At first, Verá Ignatjevna triumphed. Her son at her place! Ljuda praised her: “See, he runs to mama, he’s not feeding her!”
But the joy was short-lived.
Zseni was a healthy man, with a wolfish appetite. After his shift, he ate half a pot of soup, asked for another portion, drank tea with cake.
— Mom, are there still meatballs? — he asked, wiping the plate with bread.
Verá Ignatjevna pursed her lips. Her pension wasn’t bad, but she had limits, and feeding a grown man every day wasn’t part of her plan.
The food disappeared before their eyes. Meat, butter, vegetables—all vanished into Zseni’s bottomless stomach.
By the end of February, Verá Ignatjevna snapped. Ljuda, who came to visit, found her sister at the stove—red, sweaty, and furious.
— Verka, why are you so exhausted?
— It’s this Zseni! — Verá Ignatjevna waved the ladle. — He eats everything! I cook for three days—by evening it’s all gone. There’s not even money left for medicine—it all goes straight into the toilet!
— Tell him to give you money! — encouraged Ljuda.
— To my own son? Embarrassing… It’s all Irka, the snake! She’s starving me to hurt me!
The turning point came on the first Sunday of March.
Ira was home alone, enjoying the silence, tidying the cupboards. Someone rang. Verá Ignatjevna stood in the doorway. Without greeting, in muddy boots, she went straight into the kitchen.
— What do you think, young lady? — she started from the door. — Are you starving your husband? Soon he’ll stay in his own apartment because there’s nothing here!
Ira calmly poured herself some water.
— Verá Ignatjevna, this was your decision: “Everyone is responsible for themselves.” I work at a restaurant; they feed me there. Zseni works at a factory; he gets paid. Buy and cook yourself. Or go to the cafeteria. I am not your servant.
— You are a wife! — the mother-in-law screamed, spitting her words. — It’s your duty to feed your husband! I fed his father my whole life!
— And don’t talk to me — Ira put down the glass. Her voice was quiet but firm. — You destroyed our family with your advice. Did you want to save money? Or power?
— Ungrateful! — Verá Ignatjevna choked. — I’ll tell Zseni you’ll be divorced! You’re a bad housewife!
Then everything erupted from Ira. Years of accumulated grievances, constant criticism, her husband’s weakness—all poured out.
— Am I bad? — she stepped toward her mother-in-law. The woman flinched. — No, Verá Ignatjevna. You are the bad mother. You didn’t raise a man, you raised a household cripple! You can’t take a single step independently.
If something goes wrong—he runs to mommy. Are you proud that he eats like this? Then feed him! This is your “creation.”
You wanted him at your place? Fine. I’m tired. I did not sign up to serve a grown man who can’t even defend his wife when she’s harassed.
The mother-in-law ran out of the apartment as if burned by boiling water, slamming the door so hard the plaster fell.
That evening, Ira felt unwell. Dizzy, nauseated. She thought it was from the argument. But the next morning, when she opened her eyes, she realized it was something else. A familiar feeling from friends’ stories, yet still unexpected.
The pharmacy test she bought showed two clear lines.
Ira sat on the edge of the bathroom, crying. Both in joy and fear. How could she raise a child in such an environment? With a husband who listened to his mother, and a mother-in-law who hated her?
Zseni came home late. Clouded, gloomy. His mother had already called, telling him in detail how Ira had driven Verá out and nearly been assaulted.
— Ira, we need to talk — he began sternly. — Mom said…
Ira looked at him tearfully, clutching the white test.
— Zseni, sit down.
Silence fell. He saw her face, her trembling hands.
— What happened? Are you sick?
— I’m pregnant, Zseni. Six weeks.
The room became dense, like cotton. Zseni looked at the test, then at Ira. Thoughts rushed through his mind. He remembered what his mother shouted on the phone: “Push her away! She’s not for you!”
He remembered Ira enduring months of silence, deprivation, and household helplessness alone in the cold weekdays.
Suddenly, it all made sense. He understood how insignificant the “separate budget” fight was.
How foolish and mean it was to leave his wife while he went to eat at his mother’s instead of buying a piece of meat and having dinner together. He realized he could have lost—Ira and this tiny, unborn child.
— Pregnant… — he whispered. — Irka… mine?
— Ours, silly — Ira sobbed.
Zseni knelt before her. The large, strong loader, carrying couches to the fifth floor, buried his face in Ira’s lap, his shoulders trembling.
— Forgive me — he muttered hoarsely through tears. — Forgive me for being such an idiot. Forgive me for letting them interfere. I didn’t know… I thought it was what mom wanted…
Ira stroked his thick hair, and her tears flowed too.
The next day, Verá Ignatjevna called her son, ready for the next accusation.
— Zseni, did you deal with that cheeky woman?
— Mom — Zseni’s voice was steel, like she had never heard before. — Shut your mouth.
— What?! — she choked. — How dare you talk to me like that? Did you learn this?
— Listen to me — Zseni interrupted. — Ira is my wife. She carries my child. If you or Ljuda say one bad word about her, if you interfere in our family— you won’t see us again. Ever. Understand?
Silence on the line.
— Zseni… grandchild?
— Boy or girl — none of your business, until you learn to respect your mother.
That’s it. We live by our own rules. Our budget is now shared, like normal people. Spend your own money on yourself and Ljuda. Don’t call us until I say so.
He hung up. His hands trembled, but his soul was clear and light, like after a storm.
That evening he came home with a huge bouquet of white chrysanthemums—Ira loved them—and bags full of groceries: beef, fruit, cottage cheese.
— What’s this? — Ira smiled, receiving him in the hallway.
— This is family, Irisha — he lifted it carefully, as if holding a glass vase, turning it around the room. — From now on, I cook. The factory men taught me to pick meat.
Important, they said: check the slice—it should have tight fibers, color not dark, but bright. And marinate in kefir. Grill meat?
— Yes — Ira laughed.
Justice is not when the guilty are punished. Justice is when people realize and begin to appreciate what they have.
Verá Ignatjevna was subdued. Ljuda tried to tease, but her sister quickly stopped her: the fear of losing her only son and not seeing her grandchild was stronger than sisterly influence. No one dared interfere in the young couple’s life.
Seven months later, Ira and Zseni’s little boy was born, strong, resembling his father.
When the mother-in-law cautiously visited at the hospital, standing to the side with a small gift, Zseni called her himself—but Ira held his hand tightly, not letting go. The boundary was set, and no one dared cross it.
