“Come on now, did this mayonnaise go bad, or is that some kind of special idea?”
Olyka pushed the edge of the layered salad away with her fork in disgust. On the white tablecloth, a greasy yellow smear was left behind, as if even the words had stuck to it.
Marina froze beside the back of the chair. She was holding a dish towel in her hands, gripping it tightly, as if it were the only thing keeping her steady. From the oven came the smell of roasted duck, sweet and spiced, as if nothing unusual was happening in the room.
“The expiration date is good until March,” Marina replied in an even voice. “I opened the jar an hour ago.”
“Well, I don’t know,” the sister-in-law grimaced. “It tastes like soap. And it’s bitter too. Where did you even get this? Some discount store?”
Lyubov Ivanovna exhaled loudly. She was sitting at the head of the table, Denis’s place, actually, but the mother-in-law had taken it as soon as she entered, as if she had always belonged there.
“Olyka is sensitive to ‘chemicals,’” Lyubov Ivanovna hissed. “She can’t handle cheap substitutes. Her stomach is delicate.”
Denis sat to the side, picking at a piece of fish with his fork.
“Mom, the salad is fine,” he muttered uncertainly.
“Eat, Denis, it doesn’t matter for you anymore,” his mother smiled falsely. “After three years of marriage, your stomach can handle anything. You’ve gotten used to garbage food.”
Something inside Marina clicked quietly. A simple sound, like a tight switch finally snapping into place in a dark corridor.
Crystal glasses stood on the table, from her mother’s service set. Marina had spent three hours setting the table and six hours before that in the kitchen. There was a reason for it: January seventh, Christmas, and their third wedding anniversary all at once.
She had spent eighteen thousand rubles on groceries, her own money, from her vacation payout.
“So, soap?” Marina looked at Olyka’s plate.
“Yes, I’m telling you, it’s sour,” Olyka pushed her portion away dramatically. “Is there any normal food? Potatoes or sausages? I don’t understand these fruit salads. It’s some kind of perversion.”
Denis put down his fork.
“Marin, just cook her some sausages. What’s the big deal?”
Marina slowly looked at her husband.
Denis Andreyevich. Thirty-two years old. An engineer at a construction firm. A man who, in three years of marriage, had still not learned to protect his wife from his own family.
“There are no sausages,” Marina replied shortly.
“So what do you have?” Lyubov Ivanovna jumped in. She lifted a slice of salmon, sniffed it, then put it back. “Is this salmon?”
“Salmon.”
“Oh please. It looks pale. Probably dyed. Everything is fake these days. Did you keep the receipt? We should return it.”
“I cured it myself,” Marina snapped back.
“Oh.” The mother-in-law curled her lips. “Then I definitely won’t eat it. I only have one liver. How much salt did you use? Do you even know proportions?”
Marina tightened her grip on the towel. The fabric dug into her palm.
“Normal proportions.”
“Denis, don’t touch the fish,” his mother ordered. “Remember, you got food poisoning as a child.”
Denis obediently pulled his hand back.
Marina stood there, watching all of it. The apartment was warm, but a cold feeling ran down her back.
“So the salad is sour and the fish is pale?” she asked quietly.
“Marinochka, don’t be offended,” Lyubov Ivanovna began in a honeyed tone. “We’re just being honest. Who else will tell you the truth? You’ve never known how to cook. It’s not your thing.”
“My thing is paying the mortgage?” Marina asked.
Denis flinched.
“Marin, don’t start. It’s a holiday.”
“A holiday?” Marina looked around the table. “You’re all looking at this table like I served you rat poison.”
“Well, what do you expect if it’s not tasty?” Olyka snorted. “I’m a guest, I deserve proper service.”
“Proper service.”
Olyka was twenty-six. She didn’t work anywhere. Six months ago, Marina paid off her microloan—forty-five thousand rubles. Olyka had taken it for a new phone and never repaid it. It came out of Marina’s savings, because Denis had lost his bonus at the time.
“You want service?” Marina stepped closer to the table. “Go to a restaurant.”
“Give me money, and I will,” Olyka smirked. “Denis gives you his whole salary anyway.”
“Olyachka, don’t be sarcastic,” the mother-in-law said gently, then looked at Marina. “And the girl is right. You live beyond your means. You buy salmon while Denis wears last year’s jacket.”
Marina looked at her husband.
“Denis. Tell your mother who paid for this salmon.”
Denis stared at his plate.
“Mom, we agreed not to count money.”
“I’m not counting money. I’m feeling sorry for my son!” the mother-in-law raised her voice. “He works himself to exhaustion, and you feed him sour mayonnaise while living like royalty!”
Marina was wearing tiny silver earrings.
The oven beeped. The duck was ready.
Marina went to the kitchen and pulled out the heavy tray. The duck was golden brown with crispy skin. The smell of apples, rosemary, and honey filled the air.
She carefully moved it onto a platter and poured the sauce over it. It was perfect.
Still, she thought: why am I doing this?
“Oh, finally, hot food,” Olyka perked up. “I hope at least this is edible.”
Marina placed it in the center of the table.
Lyubov Ivanovna squinted.
“Overcooked. The wings are almost black. It’ll be dry like a shoe sole.”
Olyka stabbed it with her fork.
“Tough. It really is like a shoe sole. Marin, did you follow an internet recipe? They say you need a roasting bag.”
Denis cut a piece with a knife.
“It’s fine. A bit dry. Give me ketchup.”
“Ketchup with honey duck?” Marina stared at him.
“Well, it’s dry, it scratches my throat.”
That was the point.
Not even a point. A wall.
“No,” Marina said.
“What do you mean, no?” Denis didn’t understand.
Marina lifted the platter.
“You are not eating this.”
“Put it down!” Olyka screamed.
Marina carried the duck to the kitchen. Came back.
Then she started taking the salad. The fish. The bread. Everything.
“You’ve gone crazy!” Lyubov Ivanovna shouted.
“I’m saving your stomachs,” Marina replied coldly.
Denis stood up.
“Put it back. NOW!”
“No.”
“This is my family!”
“Then take them out of here.”
Olyka jumped up.
“You’re sick!”
Marina looked at them all.
“You’re not guests. You’re parasites.”
Silence fell.
Denis’s face turned red.
“Give the food back.”
“No.”
“This is my apartment too!”
Marina looked at him slowly.
“No. This is my apartment. Yours is only temporarily on paper.”
The keys clattered onto the table.
“Tomorrow you take your things and leave.”
Lyubov Ivanovna grabbed her coat.
“You’ll regret this.”
“I won’t.”
The door slammed.
Marina was alone.
The silence was heavy, but clean.
She went to the kitchen, put the duck back, sat down, and ate. The meat melted, sweet and salty at once.
She poured herself champagne.
Her phone vibrated: “Mom Lyuba” and Denis’s message: “Book me a hotel, I’m not sleeping on Olya’s floor.”
Marina deleted the message. Blocked both numbers.
Then she transferred ten thousand rubles into her own savings account.
And quietly asked herself:
What would you answer if your husband asked you to pay for a hotel after a night like this?
