My father stood in front of the mirror and untied his tie for the third time. His fingers moved awkwardly, as if they had suddenly forgotten something they had done naturally for decades.
The knot was either too tight and pressed against his collar, or it loosened and slipped crookedly to the side.
I stepped closer and carefully adjusted the silk fabric. But in the mirror, I could see that Dad was not looking at himself. His eyes had wandered past my shoulder,
toward the large banquet hall where his former students, neighbors, and relatives had already taken their seats. At a separate table, several of my employees were sitting.
— Maybe coming here was a mistake? — Dad asked quietly. — We could have just sliced herring at home. Your mother would have baked a pie.
I smiled as I fixed his tie again.
— Tonight you are not cutting anything, and you are not walking into the kitchen to help. Tonight you are just sitting at the table and accepting the congratulations you have deserved your entire life.
Inside the thick folder, next to the contract and bank statements, was the restaurant bill. That morning I had met with my accountant and reviewed the family expenses from the past few months.
After the celebration, I had planned to sit down with Roman and cancel the additional cards that his mother and sister were using.
My father was turning seventy.
He had spent most of his life as a mathematics teacher at a small school near Yaroslavl. They never earned much money. My parents barely had anything left to save, but our house was always filled with other people’s notebooks,
textbooks, and test papers. In the evenings, students came to him, and he explained algebra to them for free because he believed that no child should fall behind simply because their family could not afford private lessons.
When I was accepted into university, my parents sold our small countryside plot. For years, I had heard my mother say that she was tired of taking care of the greenhouse and no longer wanted to deal with it.
I learned the truth later from my aunt.
The money had gone toward my first dormitory payment, my textbooks, and my winter clothes.
From that day on, I wanted to give my parents a celebration that they would not have to repay through months of saving afterward.
Roman had promised to arrive by six.
He was almost forty minutes late.
And he did not come alone.
His mother and younger sister were with him.
Raisa Semyonovna wore a purple suit with large, eye-catching buttons. A week earlier, I had paid for it at the store. Zhanna arrived holding a brand-new phone, occasionally turning the screen toward the guests as if she wanted everyone to notice it.
I had bought the phone for her birthday.
But she told her friends that her brother had purchased it for her.
— This is quite the celebration, — Raisa Semyonovna said instead of greeting us. — Elderly people should sit at home. Why spend money on a restaurant? If your son earns well, then I suppose you can afford things like this.
Roman took off his coat and quickly kissed my temple.
— Mom, go ahead inside, — he said, then walked toward the table.
Dad lowered his eyes.
One of his shoes had a double knot in the lace. That morning he had polished his shoes himself and asked Mom to check whether there was any dust left on them.
For the first hour, I tried not to pay attention to Roman’s family.
Raisa Semyonovna demanded different bread, argued with the waitress about the salad dressing, and found something wrong with every little detail.
Meanwhile, Zhanna was placing pastries into a paper bag that she had taken from her own gift bag.
Mom quietly asked her to leave a few pieces for the people sitting at the neighboring table.
— They’ll throw half of them away anyway, — Zhanna replied while putting two more pastries into the bag.
At the same time, Roman was talking to one of my father’s former students.
He was explaining how hard he worked and how he alone carried the financial burden of the family.
— Women always need something, — he said loudly. — First it’s a restaurant, then gifts, then trips.
I was about to turn toward him, but then I saw Dad.
He was sitting beside a former colleague and politely smiling, even though he had heard every word.
I did not want to create a scene during the first moments of his celebration.
I went to the manager and asked them to lower the music. Then I checked whether everyone had received their hot meals and moved my mother’s sister to a table farther away from Raisa Semyonovna.
But nothing helped.
My mother-in-law found a new reason to complain every few minutes.
When Dad finally stood up to thank the guests, the room slowly became quiet.
The waiter standing by the wall placed a cup onto a saucer and stepped away.
Dad began speaking about the school, about Mom, and about the people who had come to celebrate with him. He thanked his former students for the old photographs and started telling stories about his first graduating class.
At that moment, Raisa Semyonovna leaned toward Roman.
— Your parents are already a burden to you, — she said loudly enough for several people to hear. — Celebrations like this are not for people who have no money. Young people work, and then they have to pay for other people’s wishes.
Dad stopped mid-sentence.
Slowly, he sat back down.
Mom stood near the edge of the room holding a bouquet of flowers. She pressed the flowers tightly against her chest, and beneath her fingers, a thin chrysanthemum branch snapped.
I looked at Roman.
He had heard his mother.
He had seen my parents.
— Mom, speak more quietly, — he said with a smile. — Olya takes everything too seriously.
I picked up the folder from the chair and walked over to their table.
— You started talking about money. Then let’s calculate the expenses together.
Roman immediately stood up.
— Olya, don’t do this here.
— Here is where you called my parents a burden.
I placed the restaurant contract in front of Raisa Semyonovna and showed her the payment made from my personal account.
Then I took out the statements I had received from my accountant that morning.
They showed twelve months of separate expenses.
Raisa Semyonovna’s suit had cost forty-two thousand rubles.
Zhanna’s phone had cost almost ninety thousand.
My account had paid for renovations to my husband’s mother’s house, groceries, a fitness membership, and Roman’s credit card debt.
— I paid for this evening, — I said calmly. — I paid for the suit too. Zhanna’s phone was bought with my card. Three additional cards are connected to my account. Roman does not support my parents. For the last five years, I have covered most of the family expenses.
Raisa Semyonovna grabbed the paper with a trembling hand.
— A husband and wife’s money belongs to both of them.
I looked directly at her.
— Then why do your friends believe Roman pays for everything?
Zhanna slowly placed her phone on the table.
She was no longer smiling.
Roman reached for the folder, but I placed my hand over it.
— We’ll talk about this at home, — he hissed.
— At home I will say the same thing. The additional cards are being canceled.
Roman went pale.
— You have no right to leave my mother without money.
— Your mother has a pension, savings, and an adult son. My account will no longer be the fourth source of income.
When Raisa Semyonovna raised her voice, the manager approached.
I explained that three guests were preventing the celebration from continuing and asked for security to be called.
My mother-in-law shouted that she had been humiliated.
Zhanna tried to take the bag of pastries while recording everything on her phone at the same time.
Roman demanded that I apologize.
None of the guests intervened.
One of Dad’s former students moved his chair aside to clear a path for security.
Then Dad stood up.
— Leave, — he said to Roman. — You have said enough today.
Roman looked at me.
But I did not look away.
A few minutes later, he left the hall together with his mother and sister.
The guests stayed.
At first, they spoke more quietly and avoided looking toward the door.
Then one of Dad’s former students brought out an old class journal that he had kept since the 1990s.
Dad opened it.
Inside, he found the names of several guests.
One man laughed and admitted that he still remembered the failing grade he had once received from Dad on a test.
Slowly, the room filled with conversation again.
The memories of the school returned.
I went home with my parents.
Mom took dough out of the freezer and began rolling it out on the kitchen table.
She always kept her hands busy when she was nervous.
Dad sat beside the window.
— Have you been paying for them for a long time? — he asked.
— Five years.
— And Roman?
— He always said he would pay me back. First after his bonus. Then after his promotion. Later, he stopped promising anything.
Mom placed the rolling pin on the table.
— Why didn’t you tell us?
I lowered my eyes.
— I was ashamed to admit that I let it get this far.
The next day, I canceled the three additional cards.
I stopped the grocery deliveries, several automatic payments, and Zhanna’s membership.
It took less than half an hour.
Zhanna wrote first.
She said she could not pay at the salon.
Then Raisa Semyonovna’s voice messages started arriving.
Roman sent only one sentence:
“You chose the wrong side.”
At noon, he came to my office.
I ran a small accounting firm. Twelve employees worked for me, and eight major clients provided most of our revenue.
Roman walked past the receptionist and slammed his palm onto the desk.
— Give back access to the family money.
Office doors opened.
My employees began watching.
Roman deliberately spoke loudly.
— You have a meeting with Vector tomorrow, — he continued. — I have already written to eight of your clients. They need to know how you handle your husband’s money.
I felt my palms grow cold.
He mentioned the clients he had heard about at home.
Their contracts paid for rent, salaries, and taxes.
— What did you write to them?
— That you are using family money and blackmailing my relatives. Unlock the cards again, apologize to my mother, and I will withdraw the messages.
The receptionist had heard everything.
I asked her to open the conference room and turn on the speakerphone.
The first person I called was Pavel Andreyevich from Vector.
— Good afternoon. My husband sent you a message about me. He is currently in my office demanding that I restore access to my personal account. In exchange, he promises to stop sending messages. Roman, repeat your condition.
Roman said nothing.
He only looked at the phone.
Then at the employees standing in the hallway.
— You will regret this, — he finally said and walked toward the elevator.
Pavel Andreyevich was still on the line.
— Are the documents for tomorrow’s meeting ready?
— Yes.
— Then send them according to schedule. Your marriage has nothing to do with our contract.
I called the other seven clients myself.
I explained that my husband was trying to use a personal conflict against my company.
Everyone focused on the work.
Not my family dispute.
By evening, every client confirmed that they would continue working with us.
Roman had lost his power.
And I finally regained control over my own life.
