“Laris, ours are coming on Saturday,” Viktor said, eyes still glued to his phone. “All three of them, with the kids.”
Larisa stood at the sink, washing cherries. The water roared, and the berries rattled against the bottom of the colander.
“All three — that’s twelve people,” she replied.
“Yeah, so? They miss their dad. It’s summer, the country house. They’re not going to stay cooped up in their apartments.”
“Saturday is the day after tomorrow.”
“Yep. Artyom messaged, they’ll be here around noon. Kostya might be later, he’s got a shift. You know Kostya.”
She knew Kostya. She knew Artyom, Sveta, Alina, Denis, Olga, and her husband’s six grandkids — Miron, Eva, Vasilisa, Timofey, and the twins Mark and Marta. She knew by heart who didn’t eat onions, who wanted their compote without berries, who needed things plain, and who always said, “Just pasta with cheese, Aunt Larisa, sorry.”
She dried her hands and sat down on the stool.
“Vit. Are they bringing anything?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean literally. Meat. Anything at all.”
“Larisa, come on. They’re visiting their dad, they’re not going to haul in pots and pans. They’ll bring a cake like they always do.”
“A cake,” she nodded. “One. For twelve people.”
“There’ll be a feast. You’re cooking, after all.”
That was it, summed up in one phrase. Said so casually, like “turn on the light.” You’re cooking, after all.
The first time they came was six years ago, a year after the wedding. Larisa was frantic: how do you host so they don’t think their dad picked just anyone? She got up at five, marinated meat, baked, cooked, washed the porch windows, spread out the tablecloth she’d been saving. Viktor’s kids arrived at one, ate, walked to the river, came back and ate again, and left by nine — early day tomorrow.
She was still washing dishes at half past midnight. Viktor was already asleep.
“Larisa, you’re amazing,” said Alina, Artyom’s wife, air-kissing near her cheek as they left. “What a feast! We’re stuffed!”
That “you’re amazing” was repeated every year after, word for word.
By the third time, Larisa knew the routine. Three families arrive, bring one cake and plenty of good moods. Everybody’s in a great mood, except for her, because she’s on her feet from six in the morning. She bought the meat herself — four kilos, because Artyom eats a lot, and Denis even more. Charcoal by herself. Veggies, greens, bread, mineral water, juice for the kids, beer for the men — all on her. One Saturday feast cost about twelve thousand rubles, that was the year she still counted.
“Maybe you should say something?” suggested Nina, her friend and coworker. “Let them chip in.”
“How can I say that? I’m not their mom or mother-in-law. I’m just their dad’s wife, barely related.”
“So what are you now?”
“Now I’m a magician,” Larisa would grin.
She really did try. She wanted Viktor and his kids to have a good time, for no one to say he got married and forgot about his own. She baked raspberry pies, because Sveta loved raspberry. Kept dumplings in the freezer since the twins would only eat dumplings. She planted an extra three rows of cucumbers, because the jars of pickles would end up in three different apartments.
And then came last June.
Last June, her back started hurting. She strained it while carrying buckets to the greenhouse, and then struggled to straighten up for three days. Guests arrived, as always, by noon. She had been up since six.
By four, everything was eaten, the kids had run off to the river with Denis, and the men settled down in the shade. Larisa stepped onto the veranda to collect the empty plates and overheard Alina talking to Olga:
“No, I actually like it here. You arrive and it’s like a resort. Everything’s ready, everything’s clean—you just eat.”
“Lucky you,” Olga sighed. “Yesterday I spent half the day in the kitchen at my folks’ place.”
“But your mom’s alone, you need to help her. And here,” Alina lowered her voice, but not much, “it’s actually a joy for her. She stays at home, what else is she going to do? Pickles and pies. Let her be happy we come over—otherwise she’d just be sitting with her husband watching TV.”
Larisa stood there with the plates. The plates were heavy, her lower back ached, and for some reason she kept thinking: she doesn’t just sit at home—she’s been working as an accountant for a management company for twenty-eight years and had to take two days unpaid just to get everything done.
She took the plates in. Then she made another batch of compote. Then, until half past one, she scrubbed the grill, because Artyom said, “Tomorrow, Dad, not today,”—and then they left at nine in the morning.
They didn’t finish the honey cake. Alina took half back with her: “Otherwise it’ll spoil, and Eva loves it at our place.”
On Monday, Larisa went to see the neurologist.
“You have some protrusions in your lower back, nothing catastrophic,” the doctor said, looking at the scan. “But don’t lift heavy things, and don’t spend ten hours at the stove. It’s up to you from here, I’m not your warden.”
She lived with those words for a whole year. It’s up to you from here.
“Mom, just tell them straight,” her daughter Zhenya said on the phone. Zhenya lived in Voronezh, worked at a vet clinic, and visited twice a year. “Just say: guys, bring groceries.”
“They’ll get offended.”
“Over what? That they’re coming as guests and not empty-handed? Mom, that’s totally normal.”
“Maybe for us it is. But to them, I’m Aunt Larisa, the one with a house, pickles, and hands that never stop.”
“Then don’t be Aunt Larisa with the magic hands. Just once, don’t.”
“Dad will get angry.”
“Viktor Sergeevich isn’t my dad,” Zhenya said gently. “And he’s not your boss. Mom, you’re fifty-three. Are you planning to cook for them all the way until seventy?”
Afterward, Larisa sat for a long time on the porch. Evening was falling, the air smelled of lilacs and barbecue from the neighbor’s yard. She wasn’t thinking about the meat or about twelve thousand rubles. She was thinking how, in six years, not one of the three had ever once asked, “Larisa, aren’t you tired?”
Not once. She would’ve even refused, said: oh, I’m fine, go enjoy yourselves. But nobody ever asked, and that—she realized—hurt the most.
On Thursday at lunchtime, she couldn’t hold it in anymore and shared at work.
“Twelve people,” Nina repeated, stirring her sugar. “And a cake.”
“Just one.”
“Larisa, do they ever bring napkins?” Valya from the records office piped up. “One time my son-in-law brought a pack of napkins and for half a year he kept bringing up how he once came to his mother-in-law’s with a gift.”
The women laughed, though it wasn’t a very cheerful laugh.
“My mother-in-law lived like that for forty years,” said Valya. “She cooked for everyone and did all the laundry. But when she got sick—do you know who took care of her? Me. Her own children called her once a month: ‘Hang in there, mom.'”
“That’s exactly my point,” Nina nodded. “Laris, to them, you’re not a person, you’re the help. No one visits the help—they only come around when they’re hungry.”
“Thanks, Nina. That really cheered me up.”
“I’m not trying to cheer you up, I’m telling it like it is. And let me tell you: talking won’t do any good. You’ll say your piece and they’ll just nod and show up with a cake. This is the kind of thing you have to show them.”
“Show them how exactly?”
“Make it crystal clear. Just once. No drama, no slamming doors. Put on the table exactly what they brought with them. And then sit down next to it.”
Larisa imagined it and felt a chill run through her.
“Vitya will kill me.”
“He won’t kill you. He’ll grumble, then go eat your pies,” Nina waved her hand. “You’re fifty-three. In ten years, you’ll be just as kind, except your knees will be gone. And they’ll stop visiting anyway, because there’ll be no one left to cook for them.”
That last part was the one that broke her—not the bit about her knees, but the thought that they’d eventually stop coming.
That evening, she picked up her phone and held it in her hands for about twenty minutes. Then she called Kostya—it was always easiest to start with the youngest.
“Kostya, hi. Are you coming over on Saturday?”
“Yes, we are. Why? Is something canceled?”
“No. I just wanted to ask if you could bring some meat for kebabs, about three kilos, and some charcoal.”
“Sure. Got it. Anything else you need?”
“Plenty of water, and juice for the kids.”
“Noted. Larisa, should I pick up some tomatoes? They’ve got good ones at the market.”
“Yes, get them.”
Thirty seconds. She was actually a bit thrown off by how quick it was, and sat staring at the phone for a good three minutes right after.
It took longer with Sveta.
“Oh, we were hoping to travel light,” her stepdaughter said, sounding uncertain. “You know, since we’ll have the kids…”
“Sveta, just salads. You make great salads.”
“Alright. I’ll make them. Larisa, are you upset with us?”
“No.”
“It’s just… you sound a bit different.”
She called Artyom last. Alina answered instead.
“Artyom’s in the shower. Is it urgent?”
“No. Alina, can you bring meat for kebabs on Saturday, four kilos, and a bag of charcoal?”
There was a three-second pause.
“What do you mean by that?” Alina’s voice was suddenly very flat. “We’re coming to visit, not to a company barbecue where everyone chips in. We’re coming to see Dad. He raised them, by the way, and they’ve been visiting him for twenty years, and there’s never been any ‘assignments.'”
“It’s not an assignment. It’s a request.”
“Alright. We’ll see if we have time.”
“We’ll see if we have time” was Alina-speak for “no.”
Viktor came home around nine, ate, and sat across from her.
“Alina called me.”
“I figured as much.”
“Larisa, why? People will think we can’t afford things.”
“Because we can’t. We helped Zhenya pay off his mortgage, remember? And the roofer said we need to redo the veranda roof—it’ll cost a hundred and twenty thousand, and that’s the best price we’ll get.”
“But they’re our kids!”
“Artyom is thirty-three. He’s a manager at a car dealership and drives a newer car than us. Kostya works shifts. Denis is a taxi driver pulling twelve-hour days, but he eats enough meat for three people. Kids, Vitya.”
“You’re starting to sound like a shopkeeper. Counting everything.”
“I’m an accountant. I’ve been counting for twenty-eight years.”
He went off to watch TV. From there she heard, muffled:
“You embarrassed me in front of the kids…”
Larisa was finishing up the dishes and thinking: spending twelve thousand from the shared purse is perfectly fine. But asking someone to bring meat? Now that’s embarrassing.
On Saturday, she got up at seven. Not at five—at seven.
She baked two pies, one with raspberries and one with cabbage. She grabbed a jar of pickled cucumbers from the cellar, sliced some bread, set the samovar, cleaned the veranda, brought out the cups, a candy dish, and some jam. She arranged everything nicely, with napkins.
And that was it. She didn’t buy any meat. Didn’t buy any coal. Didn’t put any pot on the stove.
Viktor came out at half past eleven and looked at the table.
“Uh… what’s all this?”
“It’s tea.”
“Larisa.”
“What about it, Viktor? I called everyone and I asked everyone. I brought what was mine: the house, the pies, the pickles, the samovar. The rest will arrive soon.”
“What if it doesn’t?”
“Then we’ll have tea. With cake. There’s always cake.”
Viktor stood there for a while, then stepped out into the yard and started moving the grill around very loudly.
The first to arrive were Artyom and Alina. Miron and Eva rushed straight to the swings, and Alina stepped out of the car in white pants, carrying a big box.
“Hey everyone! We brought honey cake!”
She wasn’t holding anything else.
“Hello, dears,” Larisa kissed the kids and took the box. “Artyom, did you bring the meat?”
“Larisa, well, we…,” Artyom scratched his neck, “we pulled up to the store but there was a long line, and we figured you had already bought it.”
“Didn’t buy it.”
“Really?” Alina asked, not believing it.
“Really. Come on in, the tea’s hot, the pies are fresh.”
Twenty minutes later, Sveta and Denis showed up with Vasilisa and Timofey. Sveta was carrying a bag.
“We made salad!”
Larisa peeked in the bag. There was a container inside with two servings of crab stick and corn salad.
“Thanks so much, Svetochka. That’s just what we needed.”
Kostya was the last to arrive, at one o’clock. He climbed out of his beat-up car, popped the trunk, and started hauling out two five-liter bottles of water, bread, juice, a bag of tomatoes and cucumbers, and on top—a three-kilogram bag of marinated pork neck and a sack of coal.
“Hello, Larisa. Olya, help me out. I brought this just in case, since Artyom always forgets.”
“Kostya. Come here.”
And she hugged him. Kostya was surprised, but hugged her back.
They sat at the table at half past one. On the table were the samovar, two pies, a jar of pickles, a candy dish, a container of salad for two, and a box with the honey cake.
Six kids stared at this table with wide, round eyes.
“What about the shashlik?” Miron asked.
“Shashlik will be ready when the men grill it,” Larisa said. “Uncle Kostya brought the meat and the coal. One bag won’t be enough for everyone; Artyom’s dad was supposed to bring the second.”
“Larisa, that’s enough already,” Viktor said, turning red.
“I called Alina on Thursday and asked. I’m not letting anyone down, Viktor. I just didn’t step in this time to cover for everyone.”
The pause was so heavy, you could hear a dog barking on the neighboring property.
“Alright,” said Denis, Sveta’s husband, suddenly. “I’ll go. Where’s the store?”
“In Lugovoye, seven kilometers away,” Kostya answered. “I’ll go with you. We’ll split the cost.”
“Wait a minute,” Alina interrupted. “Why should we have to go? We’re guests. We started getting ready at six in the morning, dressing the kids and all.”
“And I was baking pies since six in the morning,” said Larisa.
“Well, no one made you do that!”
“Exactly. Nobody. For six years, nobody.”
Alina glanced at her husband. Artyom stared down at his plate.
“Tyoma, say something, will you?”
“What is there to say,” Artyom sighed. “Laris is actually right. We do show up with the same cake every time.”
“We only see Dad twice a year! Does that mean it has to be for money now?”
“It’s not about the money,” Larisa said quietly. “I’ll find the money somehow, I always have. I just can’t physically do it anymore. My back, Alina. The doctor told me not to spend ten hours standing in the kitchen. And then I thought, I don’t actually have to do it. It’s just what I’m used to.”
Denis and Kostya left and came back with coal, dumplings, ketchup, and ice cream for the kids. Olga quietly went to the kitchen and started rinsing tomatoes. Sveta stood still for a moment, blinked, and suddenly said:
“Larisa, can I peel some potatoes? Do you have potatoes?”
“I do. In the entryway, in a bucket.”
“How many should I peel?”
“For twelve people,” Larisa replied and sat down in the armchair on the veranda.
She sat in the armchair. In the middle of the day. With guests around. For the first time in six years.
And she picked up a book. It wasn’t anything special—a mystery novel with the cover torn off—but just holding it in her hands felt incredibly nice.
Alina walked around the yard, took some videos of the kids on her phone, and then sat down next to her.
“Larisa… I probably spoke too harshly.”
“It happens.”
“It’s just, our mom always did everything herself. Always. When we visited, the table would be piled with food. She barely even sat down; she was always rushing around. So we got used to it being that way, like that’s just how things should be.”
“How is your mom now?”
Alina was quiet for a moment.
“She has high blood pressure. She hasn’t invited us to the dacha for two years, says it’s too hard for her. We used to be upset about it.”
“Did you ever think to ask her about it?”
“We didn’t consider it,” Alina admitted honestly.
Larisa nodded. She didn’t feel angry. There was just this awkward feeling, thinking about some other woman in another city, one she didn’t even know, who had stopped inviting her own children—so they wouldn’t find out she couldn’t manage anymore.
They started the shashlik at four. Artyom did the grilling, because by that point Viktor had taken offense at the whole world and was lying in the hammock.
“Dad, what’s up with you?”
“Nothing. Just relaxing. Seems like I’m not allowed to do anything here, after all.”
“Dad, you can’t just be lying down while nine people are working. At least help out with the skewers!”
With some grumbling, Viktor got out of the hammock.
The table turned out wonderful in the end. Olga boiled the dumplings, Denis fried the potatoes—with onions and pork fat. Sveta chopped tomatoes and cucumbers, the kids kept bringing bread. The pies disappeared in no time, as did the cucumbers, and they finished every last crumb of the honey cake—nobody took anything home.
At eight in the evening, something happened that Larisa hadn’t seen in six years. Alina stood up and started clearing the plates.
“Olya, grab the dishes. Sveta, you take stuff off the table.”
Three women washed dishes in the little country kitchen while Larisa sat out on the veranda, listening to them laughing about something inside. Timofey had fallen asleep in her lap. The air smelled like embers and evening grass.
By half past ten, there wasn’t a single plate left in the yard. Kostya had cleaned out the grill. Denis took the trash with him so he could throw it out on the way.
“Larisa,” Sveta hugged her tightly as they said goodbye, a truly heartfelt hug. “Thank you. And please, forgive us, okay?”
“Come again,” Larisa said. And for the first time in six years, she truly meant it.
The real drama started when the last car door slammed shut.
“Well, you really stirred things up,” Viktor paced around the kitchen. “People came to see my father, and you had them peeling potatoes.”
“Didn’t you enjoy our get-together?”
“I didn’t like feeling like a beggar in front of my own kids! Just tea on the table! One cake!”
“One cake. That’s exactly what I told you on Tuesday. One cake for twelve people. I just showed you what it looks like.”
“This is a house! You’re supposed to welcome guests here!”
“This is my house,” she said quietly, and he fell silent. “My family’s home. I grew up here.”
“Here we go again. ‘My house.’ I fixed the fence, you know.”
“You did—once, two years ago, with Kostya. Thank you.” She folded up the towel. “Vitya, it’s not about the fence. It’s about how my role in this family is measured by how many pots I wash.”
Viktor sat down. There was a long pause. Then he finally said what she had, honestly, expected—and feared—to hear:
“By the way, I’ve been thinking… maybe we should put the dacha in Artyom’s name? He’s the oldest, he has a family to support, and really, how much do the two of us need at this point?”
Larisa turned very slowly.
“Oh, so that’s what this is about.”
“No, you’re misunderstanding me!”
“No, I understand perfectly.”
On Monday, during her lunch break, she stepped into the law office across from her work. She’d walked by it for twenty years, but never once had she gone in.
The lawyer looked over the certificate of inheritance and the registry extract.
“You inherited the house and the land before your marriage. According to the Family Code, that’s your personal property—it’s not considered joint marital property and is not subject to division,” he said in a flat tone, as if he was reading out a schedule. “Only the owner can decide what to do with it. No one can give it away, sell it, or transfer it without your personal wish and signature. Your spouse’s consent isn’t needed, and what he wants has no legal significance.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all. If you ever want to make a gift to one of your children, come back and we’ll draft the documents. If you don’t, no one can force you. But I’m not here to advise you on this.”
As she walked back, for some reason, she couldn’t help but smile. Not from joy. But because, for the first time in many years, she clearly understood where ‘we’ ended and ‘I’ began.
Viktor sulked for nine days. On the tenth, he came home from work, shuffled his feet, and said:
“Larisa, how about we head to the dacha on Saturday? I, uh, bought charcoal. Two bags.”
“Wow.”
“And I’ll get the meat. Just make your marinade—it’s always better when you do it.”
“I’ll make it.”
And about two weeks later, Sveta called. Just for no reason, in the evening—something she’d never done before.
“Larisa, I keep thinking about it. We really were something, weren’t we? Denis said, ‘Imagine if twelve people came over and just sat waiting for you to cook everything.'”
“So, did you imagine it?”
“I was horrified. We’ll come in August, okay? Just tell us what to bring.”
“Want me to list it out for you?”
“Please do! I work better with a list—I always forget something if I don’t have one.”
In August, they all came again. Artyom brought meat and charcoal. Kostya brought water, veggies, and a watermelon. Sveta brought three salads in containers and cutlets for the kids. Alina brought a honey cake—and, aside from the cake, a big bag of disposable tableware.
“So we don’t have to wash dishes,” she explained. “I figured, why should we leave you with a mountain of plates?”
“Alina, you’re a genius.”
“I’m actually pretty normal,” she sighed. “It’s just that no one ever told me before.”
In September, they wrapped up the season just the two of them. Viktor washed jars in a barrel while Larisa cut the last of the asters.
“Larisa.”
“Hmm?”
“Would you really have just given us tea and nothing else? If Kostya hadn’t brought the meat?”
“Yes, really.”
“And you wouldn’t have minded?”
Larisa paused to think.
“You know what I mind? I mind the six years. In all that time at my dacha, I never once sat in a chair in the afternoon. Not once did I go to the river with the grandkids—always stuck in the kitchen. That’s what I mind.”
He rubbed a jar with a rag.
“I guess I wasn’t much better myself. Always lounging in the hammock.”
“You did lounge,” she agreed.
“Well, sorry about that.”
Larisa placed the asters into a bucket of water.
“Take the jars to the shed. And put the bag of charcoal in there too, till spring.”
“But everyone will be coming again next summer,” Viktor said.
“Let them come,” she replied. “As long as they bring meat and charcoal.”
