In Eleonora Karolyné’s house, even the dust seemed afraid to settle on the antique parquet. Sterile cleanliness reigned everywhere, and the heavy, sweet scent of expensive wax filled the rooms — it always made my throat itch.
Today, however, that smell was overpowered by the aroma of truffle oil and roasted quail: my mother-in-law was celebrating her sixtieth birthday.
This wasn’t a birthday. It was a showcase of achievements.
Eleonora Karolyné stood by the large mirror in the living room, adjusting her necklace. She looked like a porcelain figurine — cold, fragile, and infinitely expensive.
— Olga, don’t run around — she threw at me from the mirror. — And about your mother.
I froze, holding the vase halfway in the air.
— She’ll arrive in an hour, Eleonora Karolyné. The train is on schedule.
— Wonderful. I hope she’s not bringing her jars of pickles again? We have French catering, and I won’t allow that on the table.
— Mom is bringing a gift.
— Fine. Listen carefully. — She turned, and her gaze became sharp. — I’ve revised the seating plan. There’s no place at the main table.
The Astakhov family will sit there — you know, the private clinic owners — and a deputy with his wife. It would be… awkward for them.
— Awkward in what way? — I felt my palms grow cold.
— Come on, dear, let’s be realistic. Your mother is a simple woman from the village. What would she talk about with people discussing Dubai real estate investments? Seedlings? Buckwheat prices?
She picked up the tablet and tapped on the screen.
— I’ve placed her here. By the terrace entrance. The driver, the Astakhovs’ nanny, and the photographer will be there. A simple, friendly crowd. She’ll feel comfortable. Essentially… it’s the staff table. Of course, it will be set just like everyone else’s.
— You want to seat my mother with the staff? — I whispered.
At that moment, my husband Vadim entered. His face was rosy, freshly shaved, and smelled of expensive cologne.
— Vadik, do you hear this? — I turned to him, seeking support. — They’re putting your mother, Antonina Petrovna, by the exit.
He glanced at his mother, then at me, and — as usual — lowered his eyes.
— Olja, why are you starting? — his voice became long, pleading. — Mom only wants the best. Honestly. Your mother would feel uncomfortable among these… sharks. There’s peace there, fresh air, the same salads.
— This is humiliation, Vadim.
— It’s subordination! — Eleonora Karolyné cut in sharply. — The matter is closed. It’s my birthday, not a charity event. Go greet the guests.
I stepped out onto the porch. I was shaking. For five years, I had endured these jabs.
Five years of “keeping up,” forgetting that I grew up in the same village as my mother. Vadim always said, “Bear with it, my mother has a difficult nature, but she helped us buy the apartment.” And I bore it.
My mother stepped out of the taxi, squinting at the bright sun. She didn’t match any of my fears.
No checkered bag, no hunched shoulders. She wore a simple linen dress, the color of wet sand, and comfortable shoes. Her hair was neatly tied back, minimal makeup.
She looked like someone who had nothing to prove to anyone.
— Hello, darling! — she hugged me tightly. The scent of wild herbs and wind surrounded her. — Why are you shaking? Cold?
— Mom… it’s just… — I swallowed a lump. — They seated you… separately.
I blurted it out, staring at the ground. I expected her to be offended, turn around, leave.
— At the children’s table? — she asked calmly.
— Worse. With the staff. My mother-in-law thinks you won’t fit in with society.
Mom was silent for a moment. Then she chuckled softly and straightened the collar on my dress.
— Olja, remember: it’s not the throne that makes a queen, but her posture. Let’s go congratulate the celebrant. It’s rude to be late.
The reception was cold. Eleonora Karolyné accepted my mother’s gift — an old brooch she had kept for decades — like a queen receiving tribute from a peasant.
— Thank you, dear. Lena will show you your table.
I spent the whole evening at the main table next to Vadim, feeling like a traitor. I watched my mother.
She sat by the exit, where the draft constantly blew. Next to her, the driver Tolia, already “tired” from the cognac, was telling a joke. The nanny was feeding someone else’s child.
Mom ate calmly, her back straight. She nodded politely, smiled. Such innate dignity radiated from her that Eleonora Karolyné seemed like a mere dressed-up doll in comparison.
The guests drank, ate, toasted. Words floated around: “elite,” “high society,” “level.”
Vadim placed some caviar on my plate and whispered in my ear:
— See? Everything’s fine. Your mother is sitting, eating. No one’s offended. You were worrying for nothing.
Around eight, a black government car with a flashing light pulled up to the gate. A whisper ran through the hall:
— Gromov! It’s Gromov!
Dmitry Sergeyevich Gromov was a monumental figure. Vice-governor, overseer of all national projects. A stern, closed man. Eleonora Karolyné had spent three months lobbying his office to attend — it was necessary for her husband’s business.
— Dmitry Sergeyevich! What an honor! — she rushed to meet him, shining. — Please, come in!
Gromov entered the hall, holding an enormous bouquet of burgundy roses.
— Happy birthday. Sorry for the short visit. Just five minutes.
He nodded politely, scanning the room with a bored expression. Then his gaze froze. He stared at the half-light by the exit.
Slowly, he let go of Eleonora Karolyné’s arm.
— Excuse me.
And he strode across the room. Straight to the “staff table.”
— Antonina Petrovna? — genuine disbelief laced his voice.
— Hello, Dima. Long time no see.
The man’s face darkened as he surveyed the situation.
— Do you know who’s sitting there? — he asked Eleonora Karolyné quietly.
— That’s… Olga’s mother. From the region… retired.
— Retired? — he smirked bitterly. — This is Antonina Sokolova. Chief agronomist-breeder of our region. Two state awards. I send a helicopter for her if I need an expert opinion.
Silence. Sharp, painful silence.
— Antonina Petrovna — Gromov bowed. — My cedars at the residence are dying. Could you take a look?
— Italian cedars in clay soil? — she shook her head. — I told your deputies they won’t survive. Alright, let’s go see.
She stood. Approached Eleonora Karolyné.
— Thanks for dinner. The quail was good, but the sauce is bitter. Oh, and the petunias at the entrance have aphids.
And she left, arm in arm with Gromov.
I looked at Vadim.
— Why didn’t you tell me?! — he hissed. — This is a connection! Opportunity!
— Does that change anything? — I asked.
I stood up.
— I will no longer let you shame me — I said quietly. — Never.
I left.
By the gate, the limousine was waiting. Mom nodded.
— You did the right thing — she said. — Rotten wood must be cut before it falls on you.
The car moved. For the first time in five years, I breathed freely.
