The morning began with the hum of the iron and the smell of scorched cotton. Ksenia methodically guided the smooth sole over Roman’s snow-white shirt. Outside, a light rain was falling, monotonously tapping against the tin windowsill.
— Roman, Sofya Pavlovna will arrive on the suburban bus in an hour — Ksenia set the iron aside and looked at her husband.
The man stood in front of the large hallway mirror, carefully adjusting his collar and examining his reflection.
— Ksenia, I just picked up the car from the wash yesterday. The roads are muddy. Let Sofya Pavlovna call a taxi. We still need to stop for flowers for Rimma Arkadyevna, we’re short on time.
— She lives on a modest pension, Roman. What kind of taxi to a country club? She has to cross the whole city.
— I’ve already spent enough on a gift for my mother, I don’t have extra money to drive back and forth — he grimaced while fastening his cufflinks. — She’ll manage. She’s an adult. Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill.
Ksenia silently turned back to the ironing board. A heavy lump formed in her throat. Three years of marriage had taught her how to smooth over conflicts.
Roman depended on his domineering mother in everything, the owner of a wholesale network, and preferred not to notice problems if they didn’t affect him personally.
Ksenia met her mother, Sofya Pavlovna, already at the wrought-iron gates of the “Kedrovy Bereg” restaurant. The place was famous for its sky-high prices and heavy pomp: marble columns, stucco, doormen in white gloves.
Sofya Pavlovna stood in the wind, wrapped in a simple wool coat. She carefully held a paper bag in her hands. As always, she smelled of lavender soap and fresh pastries.
She had spent most of her life working in a regional boarding school with troubled teenagers, giving all her warmth to other people’s children.
— Ksenia, my dear — she smiled gently, adjusting her glasses. — I knitted a down shawl for Rimma Arkadyevna. Handmade. And I brought a jar of raspberry jam too, she seemed to like it last year.
Ksenia hugged her and felt how fragile her shoulders were under the coat. It was hard to imagine how the arrogant Rimma Arkadyevna would react to homemade jam.
Soft jazz played in the spacious lobby of the restaurant. Guests gathered in small groups: men in formal suits, women in evening dresses, surrounded by the scent of heavy, expensive perfume.
Rimma Arkadyevna stood in the center of the hall, receiving congratulations. She wore a burgundy silk dress, and a heavy gold necklace weighed on her neck. Noticing the relatives, she cast an appraising glance over Sofya Pavlovna’s modest outfit. Her smile instantly faded.
— Ah, Sofya Pavlovna. You came after all — she said dryly, without taking a single step forward. — Go ahead. Just leave your package in the cloakroom, no need to bring such bundles into the hall. We have respectable company here.
In the banquet hall, the tables were overflowing with delicacies. Baked sturgeon, crystal glasses filled with expensive sparkling wine. Rimma Arkadyevna confidently walked ahead, assigning seats.
She stopped by the double doors leading to the kitchen. A draft of cold air, steam, and damp cloths came from there.
— Sofya Pavlovna, your seat is at the staff table — she waved her hand carelessly. — There are a couple of empty chairs. You’ll be more comfortable there, away from the bustle.
Ksenia froze. Her chest tightened with indignation. Sofya Pavlovna simply nodded, lowering her eyes.
— Of course, Rimma Arkadyevna. I’ll be fine there. I’m a quiet person.
Ksenia turned to her husband.
— Roman, why is your mother speaking to her like that?
— Ksenia, don’t start. It’s my mother’s celebration. She decides who sits where. Important people are at the main table. What would Sofya Pavlovna talk to them about? Seedlings?
Ksenia clenched her teeth and hurried to her mother.
The woman sat on an uncomfortable chair. Waiters kept bumping into her. In front of her there was only a plate of vegetables and a glass of fruit drink.
— Mom, let’s go — Ksenia said.
— No, Ksenia. Everything is fine. The vegetables are very fresh — she replied softly.
Ksenia returned to her seat. She couldn’t eat.
Later, when the guests were already tipsy, Rimma Arkadyevna gave a speech.
— My greatest joy is my son, Roman. He has a big heart. He married a girl from a simple family. We accepted her. We are generous.
Laughter rolled through the hall.
— Roman, won’t you say anything? — Ksenia whispered.
— It’s true — he replied indifferently.
At that moment, the door opened. Vyacheslav Borisovich, the head of the region, entered.
The man went straight to Sofya Pavlovna.
— Sofya Pavlovna! — he said warmly. — I was looking for you!
He kissed her hand.
— Vyacheslav… what a great man you’ve become — the woman smiled.
— Why are you sitting here? — he asked.
— I’m fine here…
The man’s face darkened.
— Who could be more important than her? This woman made me who I am.
The hall fell silent.
— Shame — he said coldly.
Then he turned to her:
— Come, let’s go to my place.
Ksenia stood up. She took off her necklace and placed it on the table.
— I’m filing for divorce, Roman.
And they left.
They spent the evening in a warm, welcoming house. They drank tea, ate pastries. There was no falseness there.
Later, Rimma Arkadyevna’s business began to decline. The connections disappeared.
Roman tried to win Ksenia back.
— It’s not about your mother — the woman said. — It’s about you.
And she left.
Sofya Pavlovna still lives in her small village. But now every weekend a car comes for her — someone who remembers kindness and knows the true value of a genuine person.
