— Natasha, you’re spreading the caviar on the tart the wrong way — my husband Arkady said seriously, adjusting his tie as if he were about to lead a parade on Red Square. — Caviar demands respect.
I silently looked at the little red roe, clinging there alone to the edge of the tart.
Arkady worked for the traffic police, standing guard at the entrance to Moscow, and he fully believed he was the barrier separating civilization from chaos.
This grandiose self-confidence showed in every gesture. Even with a fork, he moved as if directing traffic at an intersection.
We were sitting in the “Golden Swan” restaurant, celebrating my mother-in-law Alla Fedorovna’s sixty-fifth birthday.
The hall was draped in deep burgundy velvet, recalling the era of privatization, and the atmosphere at the table was thick with pomp and hidden disdain.
— In ’91, for a jar of salmon like this, the store manager even kissed my hand! — Alla Fedorovna declared, wiping her lips with a napkin.
She had spent her entire life working in a grocery store, and even now she measured people’s worth by their access to scarce goods. — Back then, I was the queen!
And now? Any little girl with money can walk into a supermarket. No respect for shopkeepers at all!
— Mom, you’re still our queen — my sister-in-law Anna chuckled, shoving the third éclair into her mouth. She was thirty-three,
weighing close to ninety kilograms, solely from her great love of sweets, and she truly believed she was born for luxury.
— A real man should carry a woman in his arms. I’m still waiting for my prince. No compromises.
— My future husband will only feed me fresh oysters; they contain aphrodisiacs and the energy of the ocean — Anna sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes,
adjusting her form-fitting dress, which was already straining at the seams from the energy of the éclairs.
— But then there’s also the Vibrio vulnificus bacterium if shellfish are stored improperly — I said calmly, carefully slicing the cucumber.
— It causes severe diarrhea and dehydration. So your prince will mostly be carrying you from the bed to the toilet.
Anna choked, grabbed her water glass convulsively, missed, and smeared custard thickly across her chin.
Her romantic aura popped instantly, like a balloon hitting an old cactus.
I work as a nurse in a city hospital. In fifteen years, I’ve seen so much human misery that I’ve developed a “toxic stupidity immunity.”
I looked at my husband’s relatives like a biologist observing an amusing colony of infusoria — with a light, polite smile.
Next to me sat quietly my thirteen-year-old daughter from my first marriage, Dasha. Slim, with huge serious eyes, she barely ate anything, just fiddling with the edge of the tablecloth.
Dasha was an excellent student, quiet and very sensitive. The presence of Arkady’s family always weighed on her, but today there was no one to leave her home with.
— Why is this girl sitting like she fell into water? — Alla Fedorovna shot her famous “storekeeper” look at Dasha, as if she had found a shortage.
— She came to my birthday and didn’t even recite a poem for her grandmother. Just sitting and eating someone else’s bread.
— Mom, what do you expect from her? — Arkady said condescendingly, leaning back in his chair.
— Genetics. Like mother, like daughter. Look, Natasha carries ducks in the hospital for pennies, yet her salary rivals the chief doctor’s. No hierarchy in the family.
I put down my fork. You know, in medicine there’s the concept of “tolerance to toxins.” If the body receives small doses of poison over time, it adapts and stops reacting sharply.
I had spent six years getting used to this family’s biting remarks, blaming their “difficult personalities.” But everything has a limit.
— Arkascha feeds both of you, lets you live in his apartment! — Anna picked up, wiping cream from her chin. — And you, Natasha, couldn’t even get a proper gift for mom.
Some wool blanket. Pfft! You could have given a gold chain, seeing as you’re hanging on your brother’s neck.
The air over the table became heavy. I opened my mouth to reply, but then something unexpected happened.
Dasha, quiet, timid Dasha, slowly rose from the table. She didn’t shout or cry. Her voice was thin, but in that clear, childlike honesty there was so much strength that people at the neighboring tables stopped clinking glasses.
— Excuse me, Alla Fedorovna — Dasha began, looking straight into my mother-in-law’s eyes. — You say that Uncle Arkady supports us. But for this banquet today, mom used her vacation days.
I saw the receipt on the nightstand. And mom pays for my classes, buys groceries for the house, and pays the electricity and water.
Yesterday, Uncle Arkady told mom that his salary is an “investment in road status,” and it must not be touched.
She shifted her gaze to the flushed Arkady, then back to my mother-in-law.
— I feel very sorry for you. You talk so much about money and old sausages because in the present, no one loves you. You’re cruel. Mom, let’s go home, please. I’m cold here.
The room fell silent, heavy and sticky like cooled jelly. I looked at my daughter, and my throat tightened. My little girl, my bird, had just put these arrogant adults in their place with a single simple weapon — relentless truth.
— I… I handle questions like this at my post! — Arkady jumped up, his face red as a ripe tomato. — I stop a truck with a single wave of my baton! And you, snot-nose, dare to…
— Too bad the same baton can’t stop your own stupidity and greed — I sighed, following my daughter toward the door.
Arkady tried to slam his fist on the table threateningly to assert patriarchal power, but missed. His fist hit a deep bowl of soy sauce, splattering brown drops onto his pristine, ceremonial shirt.
He stood there, sauce dripping on his chest, like an overfed city pigeon suddenly hit by a passing crow.
— Get out! — Arkady screeched, recovering, trying to wipe the stain with his tie. — Both of you, out! Tomorrow I’ll put your things on the stairs!
I stopped, adjusting my purse on my shoulder. At that moment, I felt an incredible lightness. The illusions collapsed, leaving a clear, bright horizon.
— Arkascha — I smiled at him with the gentlest, most medical smile I use to calm unruly patients.
— The apartment you tried to kick us out of was mine two years before our marriage.
Your new status-symbol G-Wagon, which you drive to your post with such pomp, was bought during the marriage — and it is also marital property.
I paused for a moment, savoring the way his expression changed.
— According to the Civil Code, personal property acquired before marriage is not divisible. But everything bought during marriage is joint property.
So tomorrow, I’m filing for divorce and division of property. Your authority, Arkascha, will soon be traveling by bus with a pass.
I took Dasha’s hand, and we stepped out of the restaurant into the cool evening city. Behind us remained the burgundy velvet, the uneaten éclairs, and the people clinging to their imagined grandeur.
But we moved forward, and I knew with certainty: our real, happy life begins right now.
