In Ljudmila’s family, voices were never raised — it was considered bad manners, almost a moral failing.
Her father, Yevgeny Borisovich, was an elderly professor of strength of materials who could embarrass even the most brazen truant with a single glance cast over the rim of his glasses.
Her mother, Elena Vladimirovna, had run a laboratory her entire life; she was accustomed to sterile cleanliness — not only among test tubes and flasks, but in thoughts and in actions as well.
In their home, every movement carried weight, every word bore responsibility.
Ljudmila became exactly the same.
At thirty-two, she was the lead attorney at a large real estate agency.
Behind her back, her colleagues called her the “Snow Queen” — not out of malice, but out of respect — because during long, drawn-out property division trials she would sit through everything with icy composure, her face almost devoid of emotion.
She never rushed, never raised her voice, never allowed her hands to tremble.
Her life moved according to a precisely scheduled order: work, training, reading, early nights. Everything was in its place, like in a carefully engineered structure.
And then Viktor appeared.
He worked in the same office building, in the lending department.
He was easygoing, always smiling, the kind of man who knew exactly when to ease tension with a joke and when to silently offer his arm as Ljudmila stepped out of the glass doors after ten in the evening, exhausted.
Less than six months had passed before Viktor was already talking about marriage — his eyes shining, full of grand plans. But there was one condition.
“Ljud, we need to visit my mother,” he said one evening, slightly uneasy. “You know, Galina Petrovna is a strong personality. Old-fashioned. But she’ll grow to love you, I’m sure of it. Just… be a little simpler, okay? Not so… formal.”
Ljudmila spent a long time choosing what to wear. In the end, she selected a midnight-blue sheath dress that followed her figure elegantly, and placed a string of pearls around her neck — refined, understated radiance.
In her hands she carried an artisanal cake made with real cream and a bouquet of heavy, cream-colored roses. She was used to perfection — and would accept nothing less now.
Galina Petrovna greeted them at the door of a two-room Khrushchyovka apartment. Inside, a heavy, suffocating smell lingered: sweetish fried fat mixed with sharp chlorine. The walls had yellowed over the years, and the linoleum bubbled in places.
“So, you’ve arrived,” she tossed out instead of a greeting, giving Ljudmila a quick, measuring glance. “Put the flowers in the bucket — there’s one in the bathroom.
And the cake… store-bought? We don’t eat things like that. It’s full of preservatives, pure poison. I suppose you only go to restaurants.”
Ljudmila smiled politely, as if the words did not scratch against her skin. She noticed Galina Petrovna touching the silk sleeve with two fingers, faintly disgusted.
“Go to the kitchen, why are you standing there?” the hostess snapped.
Oil crackled on the stove, the air thick with steam and smoke. Suddenly Galina Petrovna turned and shoved a greasy, stiff apron into Ljudmila’s hands.
“Why are you dressed up like that? Get to the stove and fry the cutlets!” Her voice rose into a sharp shriek. “Don’t imagine you’re some kind of princess. We don’t keep delicate white-handed ladies in this family.
There are zrazy in the pan — don’t take your eyes off them for a second. If they burn, Vityenka will go hungry!”
Ljudmila froze. The pearls suddenly felt heavy around her neck. Viktor stood by the refrigerator, staring at the tips of his shoes.
“Vitya?” she asked quietly.
“Ljud, don’t start…” he muttered without looking up. “Mom just wants to see what kind of housewife you are. Help her. It won’t kill you.”
Slowly, Ljudmila removed the pearls, carefully placed them into her purse, and tied the greasy apron over her expensive dress. The evening seemed endless.
Oil splattered onto her arm, she chopped onions with tears in her eyes, washed dishes in icy water. Galina Petrovna stood behind her, commenting constantly:
“More oil! Don’t be stingy with the pan! Look how she holds the knife — you can tell she’s a city girl!”
When they were leaving, Galina Petrovna gave a gracious nod.
“All right. You may come again. We’ll make a proper person out of you.”
A week later, Ljudmila’s parents invited them to the country house “to get to know each other better over some barbecue.”
Galina Petrovna arrived in a glittering lurex suit, her hair piled high and stiff with layers of hairspray. Viktor stepped through the gate in new designer jeans and dazzling white sneakers.
Yevgeny Borisovich greeted them at the garden gate. Instead of his usual jacket, he wore an old windbreaker, and in his hand he held a heavy hammer.
“Oh, young people!” he called out loudly. “Viktor, perfect timing! I need to fix up the sauna — the beams have rotted. I can’t manage alone.”
“Excuse me,” Galina Petrovna drew herself up, “but my son came to rest. He works in a bank. He does intellectual labor.”
Yevgeny Borisovich gave her a cold, examining look.
“My daughter is a lead attorney. Yet last week she stood in your kitchen wearing an apron and frying zrazy while you gave orders. Wasn’t that so?”
The air froze. Galina Petrovna opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
“Here you are, son-in-law,” he handed Viktor a paint-stained, lime-splattered work coat. “Put it on over those fashionable trousers. The walls need to be coated with oil. The smell is strong, but you’re not some delicate young lady, are you?”
“Dad…” Ljudmila began, but her father merely raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t disturb the men, daughter. We’re working. Or is Viktor only a hero at the dinner table?”
Without a word, Viktor put on the coat. The sun scorched overhead, the smell of paint sinking into his skin. All day he sanded, coated boards, painted the fence.
The paint seeped through the fabric, leaving dark, stubborn stains on the expensive jeans. Galina Petrovna darted nervously around the yard until Elena Vladimirovna stepped in front of her.
“Galina Petrovna, why are you standing idle?” she smiled gently. “Behind the raspberry bushes the nettles are waist-high, choking the cucumbers. Here are gloves, here is a scythe. Help as family. After all, we are welcoming a homemaker into the family, not an opera diva.”
That evening, once they were finally seated in a taxi, Galina Petrovna exploded.
“They’re barbarians!” she shouted into the phone to her friend. “Eleonora, you can’t imagine! They made my little boy work in paint! His hands are blistered! And they sent me into nettles!”
“And Viktor?” her friend asked in a thin voice.
“What could he do? He kept silent! Said he’ll never set foot in that place again. She’s not right for him. Let her find herself a man with a saw, not my prince!”
Ljudmila sat on the veranda, watching the sun slowly sink behind the forest.
The phone lay on the table. A message came from Viktor: “Ljud, that was too much. My mom is in shock, her blood pressure spiked. If you don’t apologize for your father, there’s no point in continuing.”
Ljudmila did not reply. She simply blocked the number. She felt no offense — only a transparent, endless silence. Cleanliness.
She remembered how Viktor had remained silent in his mother’s kitchen while she was humiliated. And how now he had raised his voice over paint-stained jeans.
“Dad,” she called softly into the house. “Thank you for the sauna.”
Yevgeny Borisovich sat in an armchair with a book in his hands. He adjusted his glasses and smiled almost imperceptibly.
“You’re welcome, daughter. Strength of materials is an exact science. If a structure cracks under the first load, you must not build a house on it. It will collapse.”
Ljudmila nodded and went into the kitchen. In the refrigerator, the cake was waiting. A simple, store-bought cake.
And it was incredibly delicious.
