— Prepare everything for the anniversary so that the tables are groaning under the weight of food, — my mother-in-law demanded. — I can’t embarrass myself in front of the relatives.
Anna was thirty-four. An accountant. Her husband, Dima, was a long-haul truck driver. Their son Alyosha was seven and in first grade. Her mother-in-law, Galina Sergeyevna, lived twenty minutes away on foot and came by every day as if she were reporting for duty. She had her own apartment, a pension, excellent health, and one firm belief: a daughter-in-law was a woman who was supposed to serve.
At the end of September, her mother-in-law sat down in the kitchen without even calling first and announced:
— My anniversary is in a month. Fifty-five. Prepare everything so that the tables are groaning under the weight of food. I can’t embarrass myself in front of the relatives.
Anna stirred the soup and asked over her shoulder:
— How many people?
— Twenty-five. That’s just family. There’ll also be some former colleagues and neighbors. Thirty-five altogether. Better prepare extra.
Anna turned off the stove and sat down at the table. The soup bubbled once and went quiet.
— Who’s going to cook?
— You are, Anechka. You’re the hostess. I’ve already told everyone it’ll be a homemade banquet, not restaurant food. My friends throw celebrations like that all the time—you lick your fingers afterward. Why should you be any worse?
Anna glanced at the calendar. Reports at work, a school meeting, the dentist, quarterly accounts.
— Galina Sergeyevna, I work five days a week. I have to help Alyosha with his homework. I can’t handle cooking for thirty-five people by myself.
— Oh, here we go. I’m asking you for something once in my life. Some women have three children and manage just fine. You only have one. And Dima is such a wonderful husband. I’ll call him. He’ll tell you to help.
Of course, Dima didn’t say anything useful. Anna managed to reach him while he was on the road and heard:
— Just cook it. What’s the big deal? Mom hardly ever asks for anything. It’s just a few salads.
— Thirty-five people, Dima.
— Then hire somebody. Ask Lenka to help.
Lenka was Anna’s friend, a nurse who worked twenty-four-hour shifts.
Anna hung up and started washing the dishes. The water was extremely hot, almost boiling, but she didn’t move her hand away from the stream. Her skin turned red, then pale. She stared at it and thought that she couldn’t feel anything.
Two days later, Galina Sergeyevna brought over a notebook with a plastic-coated cover. The kind stationery shops used to sell in the nineties—blue, embossed to resemble leather, with an elastic band. Written across the cover in ballpoint pen were the words:
“Tables Must Be Groaning. Anniversary. 55 Years.”
— Here. I’ve planned everything out. The menu, groceries, table setting. So you don’t have to struggle. Just cook it.
Anna opened it.
Nine salads. Three hot dishes. Aspic. Stuffed fish. Five pies. Desserts. Cold cuts. Pickles.
At the end was a grocery list totaling thirty-five thousand rubles, the amount underlined in red ink with a flourish.
— And who’s paying for the groceries? — Anna asked.
— Well, you have savings. It’s my anniversary, Anechka. I raised Dima for you. Surely you don’t begrudge his mother a little money?
— We saved that money for Alyosha’s sports activities.
— Sports can wait. You only turn fifty-five once.
The notebook was placed on the windowsill. There was a grease stain on the cover and one corner was bent.
Anna looked at it every evening while washing the dishes.
The notebook just lay there.
One week.
Then two.
She tried to negotiate.
She came to her mother-in-law with calculations: four salads, one hot dish, and a store-bought cake would cost about fifteen thousand.
— Four salads? — her mother-in-law shook her head, her chin trembling. — People will think we’re poor. No. Do exactly what I wrote. And bake the cake yourself. You’re very good at it. Why waste money?
— I’ve never baked for thirty-five people.
— Then you’ll learn. A woman should know how to do everything.
At home, Anna sat on the sofa, folded her hands in her lap, and stared at the notebook.
Then she called Dima.
— Dima, I can’t do all this alone. Take a week off.
— Are you serious? I’ve got routes scheduled until December. Listen, you’re a woman. This kind of thing just happens naturally for you. Salads, pies. What am I supposed to do in the kitchen? I’ll only get in the way.
— Naturally, — she said.
— Exactly. I believe in you.
A couple of days later, Aunt Zina, a relative from outside the city, called.
— Anechka, make sure you do your best. Galya hasn’t stopped talking about how the tables are going to be groaning with food. We already bought our tickets. My husband loves fish, so make plenty of fish. And something sweet too. The children are waiting for pastries.
Anna hung up and opened the notebook.
She reread the list. Nine salads. Three hot dishes. Aspic. Fish. Five pies. Cake. She called her mother-in-law again.
— Maybe the relatives could help? Whoever arrives early could slice things and set the table.
— Relatives are guests. Guests relax and enjoy themselves. You’re the hostess, so you’re the one who runs around. Or are you trying to embarrass me?
— I’m not.
— Exactly. Women can do anything when they love their family. You love my family, don’t you?
Anna remained silent.
She could hear breathing on the other end.
Then she hung up.
Dima stopped by a week before the anniversary. He ate dinner, lay down on the sofa, and turned on the television.
Anna sat beside him and took the remote away.
— Dima, I don’t even have enough dishes for that many people. I only have one refrigerator. I can’t do everything overnight. Maybe we should order food from a cafeteria or catering place? It would be cheaper.
He kept staring at the screen without turning his head.
— Anna, leave me alone. Mom wants homemade food. Just give her this celebration. Why are you acting like you’re not part of the family? Everyone else has normal wives, and with mine everything is always a tragedy. Salads, pies—what’s so difficult?
— What’s so difficult, — she repeated and stood up.
That night, she couldn’t sleep.
The notebook lay on the bedside table. Its blue plastic cover gleamed in the light from the streetlamp.
Anna closed her eyes, but the words still danced behind her eyelids:
“aspic,” “stuffed fish,” “mimosa salad,” “Olivier salad.”
The day before the anniversary, she took a day off from work, brought Alyosha to her mother’s house, and spent thirty-two thousand rubles on groceries.
The last of their savings.
Her son’s winter boots would have to wait indefinitely.
At ten in the morning, she started cooking.
By three in the afternoon, her back had seized up.
At seven in the evening, she sat down on the kitchen floor and cried.
The cake had cracked in half, the cream had spilled onto the table, and one of the layers had broken into three pieces.
She sat there, wiping her nose with her sleeve.
Then she got up, glued the cake together with fondant, and covered the crack with decorative flowers.
Her hands were shaking.
At four in the morning, she started the dough for the final pie.
At noon, the guests arrived.
They packed into her mother-in-law’s apartment—Aunt Zina and her husband, nephews and nieces, neighbors, former colleagues.
Galina Sergeyevna, radiant in a new fuchsia-colored dress, accepted bouquets from everyone.
Anna stood at the stove.
Her apron was covered in flour, her hair stuck to her temples.
Her face was gray with exhaustion.
— Anechka, bring the Olivier salad! The herring under a fur coat! Now the mimosa salad!
Anna carried the dishes out.
The guests ate and praised the food.
— Galya, your daughter-in-law is worth her weight in gold! She made all this herself? Incredible!
— Is she going to sit down with us at all? — a distant relative asked.
— She’s the hostess. She doesn’t have time to sit. Anechka, bring the hot food!
By ten that evening, the guests had gone home.
They took leftovers with them in containers.
The kitchen was buried under dirty dishes.
A crushed piece of cake lay on the floor.
Crumbs crunched beneath Anna’s feet.
Galina Sergeyevna walked in and adjusted her hairstyle.
— There. The tables were groaning. Everything was exactly the way I wanted it. You did well. Clean everything up here, all right? I’m going to lie down. My blood pressure has gone up. I want the kitchen sparkling by morning.
She left.
Dima appeared in the doorway.
He stood there for a moment.
He looked at the mountain of dishes, at his wife, and at the cake on the floor.
— Why are you just standing there? Mom told you to clean up, so clean up. I’m going to bed.
And he left.
Anna stood in the middle of the kitchen.
She took off her apron.
Placed it on a chair.
Put on her coat and picked up her handbag.
The notebook with the plastic-coated cover was still lying on the windowsill.
The writing on it had become blurred.
From water.
Or maybe not.
Anna walked out, quietly closed the door behind her, and went to her mother’s house.
To her son.
In the taxi, she called Lenka.
— I’m leaving him. Tomorrow I’m filing for divorce.
Lenka was silent for a moment.
— Finally, Anka.
If you spend years standing at the stove while no one ever gives you a seat at the table, that isn’t love. They’re simply using your hands for as long as those hands can hold a knife—and your heart for as long as it can endure.
