The relatives were offended that I didn’t invite them to my wedding at a restaurant, even though they had never once wished me a happy birthday.
“Alinochka, there’s something we don’t understand. Why haven’t you shared the restaurant address with us yet?” Aunt Valya’s voice on the phone sounded so sugary that my jaw immediately tightened, and I could practically taste cheap caramel on my tongue.
I shifted the phone to my other ear and continued carefully arranging the guest place cards on the table. In the kitchen, Ilya was loudly pounding chicken fillets, and the steady, muffled thumping was helping me keep my composure.
“What restaurant, Aunt Valya?” I pretended not to understand.
“What do you mean, what restaurant? The one where you and your Ilyusha are getting married this Saturday. Seryozha has already taken his car to the wash, and Lyudochka, his wife, bought a sequined dress and got her nails done. We keep waiting and waiting, but we haven’t heard a word from the bride. What time are we supposed to arrive? Oh, and Alina, tell the cooks not to put mushrooms in Seryozha’s salad. They give him heartburn.”
I looked at the cards spread across the table.
There were exactly fourteen of them.
My parents, Ilya’s parents, and our closest friends. The people who had been there for us when we took out a mortgage, when I was sick, and when Ilya changed jobs. Aunt Valya, Uncle Vitya, and especially Seryozha with his heartburn were not on that list—and never were going to be.
“Aunt Valya, we’re not having a big wedding,” I replied calmly. “Just our parents and a couple of friends. We’re celebrating with a very small group.”
There was silence on the other end of the line. I could practically picture Aunt Valya standing in her kitchen, indignantly adjusting her perm.
“A small group?” she finally managed. “So what does that make us? A large group? Or are we some strangers who wandered in off the street? Alina, we’re family!”
Family. Such a proud word.
If, of course, you ignored the fact that this same family had last called me three years ago, when Uncle Vitya urgently needed to borrow three hundred rubles until payday. Apparently, that payday was still on its way somewhere between Moscow and their small district town.
“Aunt Valya, the restaurant is very small,” I tried to keep my voice even and not rise to the provocation. “We physically can’t invite every relative. It’s just a dinner for the people closest to us.”
“Oh, stop making excuses!” she snapped so loudly that the phone speaker crackled. “Your friends can make room. Friends come and go—you have them today, tomorrow they’re gone. But family is sacred! Do you want us to be humiliated in front of the neighbors? Petrovna from the third floor has been asking me all week what we’re giving the newlyweds. What am I supposed to tell her? That my own niece wouldn’t even let her aunt through the door? That you begrudged us a plate of Olivier salad?”
Ilya stopped pounding the meat. He appeared in the kitchen doorway, wiping his hands on a dish towel, and raised an eyebrow questioningly. His calm gray eyes silently asked, “Had enough?”
I shook my head.
No.
This boundary needed to be established once and for all.
“You’re giving us a present?” I couldn’t hold back a short laugh. “Aunt Valya, do you even remember how old I am?”
“What kind of nonsense are you talking about? What does your age have to do with anything?” she protested, but suddenly her voice became suspiciously flustered, losing some of its accusatory confidence.
“It has everything to do with it, because in the last five years you haven’t wished me a happy birthday even once. Not once. Not with a phone call, not with a VKontakte message, not even with the dumbest free greeting picture on social media. Last year, when I turned twenty-five, you posted a recipe for pickled zucchini on your page that very same day. That was it. And when I moved into a new rented apartment and asked Seryozha to help me move my things in his van, he said gasoline was expensive these days and charged me twice the price of a city taxi.”
“Alina!” Aunt Valya’s voice rose into an outraged shout. “Have you lost your mind? I’m a working woman! My blood pressure goes up and down, I have osteochondrosis, and my cat is sick! Am I supposed to mark every date with a little cross on the calendar? You’re a grown woman—who even cares about birthdays anymore? But a wedding is a major social event! It’s about showing respect to your elders!”
“Respect has to go both ways,” I cut her off. “Sorry, my broth is boiling over. Goodbye.”
I placed the phone facedown on the table.
Ilya came up behind me and silently kissed the top of my head.
The kitchen smelled of fried meat and garlic.
But I knew this wasn’t over.
Relatives like mine didn’t give up so easily when free alcohol and an opportunity to show off a sequined dress were at stake.
The silence lasted exactly twelve minutes.
Then my phone chimed with a VKontakte notification.
My cousin Seryozha—the same one who charged relatives double rates—had sent me a voice message.
I pressed play and put it on speaker.
“Hey, sis, why are you upsetting my mother?” Seryozha’s relaxed voice came through the speaker, with the radio playing in the background. “She’s taking valerian and clutching her heart. We were getting along just fine. Lyuda and I already made plans. We dumped the kids on her mother for the weekend. Come on, stop acting special and send us the location. We bring an envelope, you provide the feast. The way normal people do it. And tell your future husband to buy some decent cognac.”
An envelope.
I knew Seryozha’s envelopes.
At my mother’s anniversary party, he had also brought a beautiful, thick envelope with gold embossing. Inside was a greeting card with a poem copied from the internet and a five-hundred-ruble banknote.
Meanwhile, he ate about three portions of shashlik that evening, drank half a bottle of whiskey, and when he left, asked us to pack some cold cuts and two slices of cake for him to take home—“a little treat for the kids.”
I typed a reply:
“Seryozha, the wedding is private. There are no seats available. Sorry.”
His response came instantly.
This time it was a text.
“You’re such a bitch, Alinka. You’ve really gotten full of yourself in Moscow. We come to you with open hearts, and you turn your ass on us. Who even needs your pathetic broke-ass wedding? Sit there and choke on your salads.”
I didn’t even have time to block his number before the screen lit up again.
This time, it was my mother calling.
“Alinochka,” Mom’s voice sounded tired and guilty. “Valya called me. She’s crying. She says you practically told her to go to hell. Sweetheart, maybe we could add a couple of chairs? They are family, after all. It feels awkward. People will say we’ve become arrogant. I’ll pay for their meals myself, just so there won’t be a scandal.”
“Mom,” I closed my eyes, feeling the vein in my temple throb, “it’s not about the money. It’s about the fact that I don’t want people who don’t care about me at my celebration. If I add a couple of chairs, Seryozha will get drunk and start causing trouble, Aunt Valya will spend the whole evening telling everyone about her illnesses and how skinny Ilya is, and Uncle Vitya will inevitably bring up some ridiculous story from my teenage years. Do we really need that?…”
Continuation just below in the first comment.
The relatives were offended that I didn’t invite them to the restaurant for my wedding, even though they had never once wished me a happy birthday.
“Alinochka, there’s something we don’t understand. Why haven’t you sent us the address of the restaurant yet?” Aunt Valya’s voice sounded so sugary over the phone that my jaw immediately tightened and I could practically taste cheap caramel on my tongue.
I switched the phone to my other ear and continued carefully arranging the guest place cards on the table. In the kitchen, Ilya was loudly pounding chicken fillets, and the steady dull thumping helped me keep myself under control.
“What restaurant, Aunt Valya?” I pretended not to understand.
“What do you mean, what restaurant? The one where you and your Ilyusha are getting married this Saturday. Seryozha has already taken the car to be washed, and Lyudochka, his wife, bought a sequined dress and got her nails done. We’ve been waiting and waiting, but not a word from the bride. What time are we supposed to arrive? And Alina, tell the cooks not to put mushrooms in Seryozha’s salad. They give him heartburn.”
I looked at the place cards spread out in front of me.
There were exactly fourteen.
My parents, Ilya’s parents, and our closest friends. The people who had been there for us when we took out a mortgage, when I was sick, and when Ilya changed jobs. Aunt Valya, Uncle Vitya, and especially Seryozha with his heartburn were nowhere on that list and never were going to be.
“Aunt Valya, we’re not having a big wedding,” I replied calmly. “Just our parents and a couple of friends. We’re celebrating with a small group.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. I could practically picture Aunt Valya indignantly adjusting her perm in her kitchen.
“A small group?” she finally managed. “And what are we, then? Too big? Or are we strangers you picked up off the street? Alina, we’re family!”
Family.
It sounds impressive, if you forget that this same family had last called me three years ago, when Uncle Vitya urgently needed to borrow three hundred rubles until payday. Apparently that payday was still on its way, somewhere between Moscow and their little district town.
“Aunt Valya, the restaurant is very small,” I said, trying to keep my voice even and not rise to the provocation. “We physically can’t invite all the relatives. It’s just a dinner for the people closest to us.”
“Oh, stop making excuses!” she snapped so loudly that the phone speaker crackled. “Your friends can squeeze together. Friends come and go—here today, gone tomorrow. But family is sacred! Do you want us to be humiliated in front of the neighbors? Petrovna from the third floor has been asking me all week what we’re giving the newlyweds. What am I supposed to tell her? That my own niece wouldn’t even let her aunt through the door? That you begrudged us a plate of Olivier salad?”
Ilya stopped pounding the meat. He appeared in the doorway, drying his hands on a dish towel, and raised an eyebrow questioningly. His calm gray eyes silently asked, “Had enough?”
I shook my head.
No. This boundary needed to be established once and for all.
“You’re giving us a present?” I couldn’t suppress a short laugh. “Aunt Valya, do you even remember how old I am?”
“What kind of nonsense are you talking about? What does your age have to do with anything?” she exclaimed, though now she sounded suspiciously flustered, losing some of her accusatory confidence.
“It matters because for the last five years, you haven’t wished me a happy birthday even once. Not once. No phone call, no VKontakte message, not even one of those silly free greeting pictures people send on social media. Last year, when I turned twenty-five, you posted a recipe for pickled zucchini on your page that same day. That was it. And when I moved into a new rented apartment and asked Seryozha to help me transport my things in his van, he said gasoline was expensive these days and charged me twice the going taxi rate.”
“Alina!” Aunt Valya’s voice rose into an outraged shriek. “Are you out of your mind? I’m a working woman! My blood pressure goes up and down, I have osteochondrosis, and my cat is sick! Am I supposed to mark every date with a little cross on my calendar? You’re a grown woman—who even cares about birthdays anymore? A wedding is a status event! It’s about respecting your elders!”
“Respect has to go both ways,” I said firmly. “Sorry, my broth is boiling. Goodbye.”
I placed the phone face down on the table.
Ilya came up behind me and silently kissed the top of my head. The kitchen smelled of fried meat and garlic.
But I knew this wasn’t over.
Relatives like mine didn’t give up easily when free alcohol and an opportunity to show off a sequined dress were at stake.
The silence lasted exactly twelve minutes.
Then my phone chimed with a VKontakte notification. My cousin Seryozha—the same one who charged relatives double rates—had sent me a voice message.
I pressed play and turned on the speaker.
“Hey, sis, why are you upsetting Mom?” Seryozha’s lazy voice came through the phone over the sound of a radio playing in the background. “She’s drinking valerian and clutching her heart. We’ve always gotten along fine. Lyuda and I already got ourselves ready for this. We dumped the kids on her mother for the weekend. Come on, stop acting difficult and send the location. We bring the envelope, you provide the feast. Like normal people. And tell your future husband to buy some decent cognac.”
An envelope.
I knew all about Seryozha’s envelopes.
For my mother’s anniversary, he had also brought a beautiful thick envelope with gold embossing. Inside was a greeting card with a poem copied from the internet and a five-hundred-ruble banknote.
Meanwhile, that evening he ate about three servings of barbecue, drank half a bottle of whiskey, and before leaving asked us to wrap up some sliced meats and two pieces of cake “for the kids.”
I typed a reply:
“Seryozha, the wedding is private. There are no seats available. Sorry.”
His answer came immediately, this time as a text.
“You’re such a bitch, Alinka. Got too full of yourself living in Moscow. We come to you with open hearts, and you turn your ass on us. Who even needs your pathetic cheap wedding? Sit there and choke on your salads.”
I didn’t even have time to block his number before the screen lit up again.
This time it was Mom.
“Alinochka,” Mom said, sounding tired and guilty. “Valya called me. She’s crying. She says you practically told her to go to hell. Sweetheart, maybe we could add a couple of chairs? They are family, after all. It feels awkward. People will say we’ve become arrogant. I’ll pay for their meals myself, just so there isn’t a scandal.”
“Mom,” I closed my eyes, feeling a vein pulse in my temple. “It’s not about the money. It’s about the fact that I don’t want people at my celebration who couldn’t care less about me. If I add a couple of chairs, Seryozha will get drunk and start causing trouble, Aunt Valya will spend the whole evening telling everyone about her illnesses and how skinny Ilya is, and Uncle Vitya will definitely bring up some ridiculous story from my teenage years. Do we really need that?”
Mom sighed heavily into the phone.
She had never liked her husband’s sister either, but she had spent her entire life tolerating her because of that mythical fear of “what will people say?”
“You’re right, sweetheart,” she finally gave in. “It’s your day. Do what you think is best. I just wanted to warn you. Valya said they’re going to come congratulate you at the registry office anyway. She said they’ll arrange a surprise.”
That was when I genuinely started feeling uneasy.
A surprise from Aunt Valya at the registry office practically guaranteed a scandal on the steps, complete with shouting, hurt feelings, and attempts to force their way into the wedding procession.
The phone rang again.
Aunt Valya.
I turned on the speaker so Ilya could hear too.
“Alina,” she said, now sounding tragic, like an actress in a provincial theater delivering her final monologue. “I’m calling you for the last time. Do you understand that you’re cutting off your roots? Uncle Vitya is so upset he can’t even get up from the sofa. He pushed you around in your stroller, you know!”
“Aunt Valya,” I replied, watching Ilya pour me a glass of cold water, “Uncle Vitya pushed me around in a stroller twenty-five years ago. Since then, he has shown genuine interest in me exactly once—when he needed someone to co-sign a loan for him. And thank God the bank rejected him.”
“You might as well send us a bill!” Uncle Vitya roared in the background, miraculously cured and apparently able to get off the sofa after all. “Money-grubber! Just like your mother!”
“I’m not sending anyone a bill,” I said, surprised by how calm my voice sounded.
Inside, I no longer felt hurt or afraid. I was simply certain that I was right.
“You only call me when you need something. A free meal, a place to stay for a couple of days when you’re passing through the city, or money to borrow. To you, family is just a convenient free service. But that service has changed its rules.”
“You… we…” Aunt Valya sputtered indignantly, unable to find the words. “Lyudochka bought a dress! Where is she supposed to wear it now?! And the present! We already bought you a present! Real bed linen!”
“You can return the dress to the store. Or Lyuda can wear it to your birthday. Assuming Seryozha remembers when your birthday is. And there’s no need to come to the registry office. We won’t be there. We’re signing the papers quietly on a different day.”
Silence fell on the other end of the line.
It was finally beginning to sink in that there would be no free show and no free banquet under any circumstances.
“You know what,” Aunt Valya hissed in a voice sour enough to curdle milk. “We don’t need your wedding. You don’t ever have to call us again. You don’t have any relatives anymore!”
She was waiting for me to apologize.
She expected me to be frightened by those dramatic words about being “cut off from the family”—the kind of phrase old-school manipulators love to use when they’re accustomed to keeping their relatives on a short leash of guilt.
I looked at Ilya.
At his warm, supportive smile.
At our bright kitchen, where dinner for the two of us was waiting.
At my real family—the one I had chosen for myself.
“All right, Aunt Valya,” I said completely calmly. “Deal.”
And I ended the call.
