“Excuse me, young lady, do you think our stove is just for decoration?!” burst in Adelina Prokofyevna from the hallway, slamming the lid down on an empty pot with a clang.
“Three nights in a row the burners are ice cold! Are you and Tarasik supposed to go on a hunger strike now?”
Fyokla unbuttoned her beige coat and hung it on the hook in the hallway. Friday had been a mess at accounting. Her back was stiff, and she really wasn’t in the mood to argue.
“Have dinner without me, Adelina Prokofyevna,” Fyokla replied calmly as she put her shoes on the shelf.
“I had a bite at the cafeteria during lunch. Now I just want some kefir and then I’ll go to bed.”
“Kefir, huh!” her mother-in-law shot back, hands on hips so that her thickly-buttoned cardigan popped open.
“And your man is supposed to drink kefir too after his shift?!”
Behind his mother, Taras appeared in the doorway. Dressed in a home sweater and sweatpants, he looked as gloomy as a thundercloud.
“Fyokl, what’s with you today?” her husband grumbled, leaning his shoulder on the doorframe.
“I came home hungry from the auto shop. Wednesday we finished off yesterday’s noodles. Yesterday it was boiled sausages.”
“So what?” Fyokla asked calmly.
“So what? It’s Friday, that’s what!” Taras raised his voice.
“Rimma’s coming for lunch tomorrow. And you haven’t done a thing!”
They’d been married five years. There were no kids, but the first four years in Taras’s two-room apartment had been peaceful enough.
Fyokla rented out the small apartment she’d inherited from her aunt. The rent from tenants and most of her own paycheck went toward food and making their home comfy.
Six months ago, Fyokla even bought a spacious chest freezer for the glassed-in balcony using her annual bonus. She picked a convenient model with a lock built into the lid and a small flat key.
The sellers said those freezers were popular for the dacha. Back then, Fyokla packed it to the brim with farm pork, homemade cutlets, wild berries, and hand-made dumplings.
Peaceful life ended two months ago. Adelina Prokofyevna decided to rent out her own home and save up some money for her younger daughter, Rimma. So, mother-in-law moved in with her son, bringing three big bags along.
From then on, Taras stopped handing over money for the household. He blamed it on the car loan, but ever since, appetites at home had tripled.
Every Saturday, thirty-eight-year-old Rimma would visit with empty plastic containers and take away half of what had been prepared for the week.
Fyokla walked over to the kitchen unit and pulled a bottle of kefir from the old appliance. On the dining table, there was already a tall stack of clean plastic containers with yellow lids. Her mother-in-law had thoughtfully prepared containers for the youngest one.
“Maybe, Taras, you could stop at the market on your way home from work,” Fyokla said ironically, sipping kefir straight from the glass.
“You could buy some meat and potatoes. Maybe even cook up some soup for your sister. After all, your hands still work, don’t they?”
“What do you mean, ‘Taras’?!” her husband exploded, banging his palm on the dresser.
“I work my fingers to the bone! All day long tightening bolts, paying the bills, covering the car loan! Yet the money just disappears in this house like a black hole!”
“Oh, don’t even get me started, son!” Adelina Prokofyevna chimed in right away, pursing her lips painted carrot-orange.
“I’ve been watching her for a long time! She fries up a whole pan of cutlets—completely tasteless and oniony! Totally inedible! Just wastes good ingredients for nothing!”
Fyokla set her glass down and fixed her mother-in-law with a steady gaze.
“If my cooking is so bad, then why does Rimma take home full containers of my food every Saturday?” she shot back.
“And you, Adelina Prokofyevna, had two bowls of my rassolnik just yesterday. Couldn’t get enough of it.”
“Don’t keep track of what I eat, freeloader!” the mother-in-law snapped, her eyelids, heavy with blue shadow, angrily quivering.
“You live in my son’s apartment, not lifting a finger! Any decent woman would hold on to a man like him with both hands!”
“And she’d serve homemade pickles every night,” Taras chimed in, gaining confidence behind his mother.
“Why should I have to feed you? You don’t make a decent borscht or show any respect for my mother! I’m not going to spend all evening in the kitchen after my shift!”
“Well, I didn’t sign up to slave away after my day at the accounting office either,” Fyokla shot back, without any drama.
“Especially not on my own dime.”
“What do you mean, on your dime?!” Taras protested.
“Exactly what I said!” his wife retorted sharply.
“Taras, you haven’t contributed a cent to food in two months. But every weekend, you give me as many meal orders as if this were a restaurant!”
“Oh please, you think you’re scaring me?” Adelina Prokofyevna scoffed haughtily.
“Who even wants your slop anyway? Throwing a strike, are you now?”
“She’s right, Mom,” Taras mumbled, scratching his head.
“We’ll manage just fine without your favors.”
“We’ll live even better without your pots and pans!” the mother-in-law kept at it.
“I’ll set out such a feast for Taras and Rimma—they’ll be licking their fingers! They’ll finally get to eat some real homemade food!”
Fyokla didn’t answer. She sat down on a stool by the window, looked at the empty containers, and rubbed the bridge of her nose.
She wasn’t really upset at her loud mother-in-law. She’d figured her out in the very first week.
It was watching her forty-eight-year-old husband that bothered her. He just stood there, puffing out his cheeks and convinced he was supporting the family.
But the shock quickly passed. Two weeks ago, the students had moved out of her aunt’s apartment. Fyokla had already cleaned the floors and washed the curtains over there. Somehow she knew this family idyll was about to end.
“Well, that’s just great,” Fyokla straightened up.
“Set your own table from now on. I won’t be in your way.”
“And where do you think you’re going at this hour?!” Taras stared after her as she headed to the bedroom.
“I’m going home, Taras. The tenants moved out—my place is free.”
“Well, aren’t you something!” came a voice from the kitchen.
“Say a word and she’s off, flipping her tail!”
While her husband and his mother exchanged glances in the hallway, grumbling about women’s nonsense, Fyokla pulled her travel bag from the closet.
She packed her underwear, two changes of blouses, a warm sweater, and her makeup bag. She decided to come back later with movers for her winter things.
Before leaving, she checked the glassed-in balcony. Her huge freezer stood gleaming in the corner.
Over the past three weeks, they’d finished off all the meat and dumplings that were in there, and Fyokla had stopped buying new supplies.
Just last Saturday, while her husband and mother-in-law were at Rimma’s place, she defrosted the freezer, wiped it dry, and unplugged it from the wall.
The other day, Adelina Prokofyevna demanded that her old rabbit hat and dog knee pads be hidden away in the cold to protect them from moths. She also added several packets of pharmacy chamomile and a bottle of valerian to the stash.
Without arguing, Fekla packed everything up into an empty, unplugged freezer and turned the flat key in the lock.
“Let her go, Tarasik! Don’t you dare try to stop her!” Adelina Prokofyevna declared loudly from the kitchen.
“In three days, she’ll come crawling back, you’ll see! Who else is going to want her with that attitude!”
Fekla made sure the tiny key to the freezer chest was in her coat pocket. The key to her husband’s apartment she left on the shoe rack, grabbed her travel bag, and stepped out onto the landing.
A week in her own apartment went by in a flash. There was no one banging pans in the morning or demanding pancakes by 7 AM. No one called her just to complain about how much butter she put in the porridge.
In the evenings after work, Fekla would buy herself some cottage cheese or bake a piece of fish in the oven—and suddenly her paycheck was more than enough.
Taras didn’t call. Not surprising—his pride wouldn’t let him. Still, Fekla knew exactly how their household worked.
When she left, the kitchen only had half a pot of pickle soup, a dozen eggs, a piece of cheese, and a pack of store-bought dumplings.
With Taras and his mother’s appetites, that would last no more than four days at best.
And that’s exactly what happened. On Saturday morning, exactly one week later, Fekla’s doorbell rang insistently.
Fekla threw on a dark blue cardigan and unlocked the door. Standing there in all her glory was Adelina Prokofyevna in an open raincoat, lips messily outlined with carrot-colored lipstick.
Behind her, Taras was glumly shifting from foot to foot.
“What do you think you’re doing, young lady?!” her mother-in-law started right away, barging into the hallway without a trace of politeness.
“You ran off, but at least return the freezer key! Tarasik and I have nothing to eat for lunch!”
Fekla leaned against the doorframe and squinted at her uninvited guests.
“Good morning, Adelina Prokofyevna. So what happened to your grand feast you boasted you could throw without me?”
“Don’t you try to distract me!” her mother-in-law stomped her foot and shook a finger right in her face.
“You stopped cooking, and now you’ve even locked away all the supplies! Yesterday I tried to get some meat off the balcony for Rimmochka’s visit, and the lid was locked tight!”
“Honestly, Fekla, you went too far,” Taras muttered, avoiding eye contact and staring at the doormat.
“There’s nothing left in the kitchen. My mother and I have been living on sandwiches for three days.”
“And what does that have to do with me?” Fekla asked, curious.
“What do you mean, what does that have to do with you?!” her husband threw up his hands.
“Rimma’s coming for lunch today and the freezer is locked. Please, give us the key. There’s a month’s worth of pork and dumplings in there!”
Fekla looked at her husband, and she didn’t even feel angry anymore. The two of them looked so ridiculous—grown adults who’d traveled all the way across town by bus just for a batch of frozen cutlets.
“So you both were living it up all week,” she said with a mocking tone.
“But as soon as you ran out of food, suddenly you remembered your wife’s address?”
“Why should we even think about you if you keep showing your bad temper?!” snapped Adelina Prokofyevna, clearly annoyed.
“Have some decency! Tarasik pays the electric bill! So everything inside the fridge is for the family! You have no right to hide food from your own husband!”
“Come on, Feokla, don’t be upset,” Taras suddenly tried to shift to a kinder tone and even took a step closer.
“Enough with all the noise. Hand over the key and start getting ready to head back.”
“Back?” Feokla raised her eyebrow in surprise.
“Of course!” her husband nodded enthusiastically.
“You’ve got just enough time before Rimma arrives to toss the meat and potatoes in the oven and throw together a quick salad. Mom, just this once, is willing to let it go.”
“Just this once, I forgive you,” the mother-in-law confirmed with importance, adjusting a big button on her sweater.
“It happens to everyone, you got a little carried away, it’s enough now.”
For five years, Feokla lugged heavy bags from the market, made ground meat every weekend, molded hundreds of dumplings, and swallowed their constant complaints.
All just so she could finally get the great honor of peeling potatoes for her perfectly healthy thirty-eight-year-old sister-in-law.
“So you really aren’t holding a grudge?” Feokla asked quietly, but her tone made Taras involuntarily take a step back.
“Such generosity, honestly!”
“What did you expect?” the mother-in-law said, frowning.
“You need to appreciate the family!”
“Family?!” Feokla laughed loudly.
“For five years, I fed a grown man with my hard-earned money! For two months, I did everything for both of you, and even packed containers for your Rimma! And now you’re acting like you’re doing me a favor by letting me back in the kitchen?!”
“Don’t you dare raise your voice at my mother!” Taras blurted out, though he looked pretty intimidated himself.
“I contributed to this household, too!”
“You contributed to your car, Taras!” Feokla snapped back, carefully enunciating each word.
“And slipped cash to your mom while she rents out her fancy place to tenants! But for groceries, you haven’t given a single ruble in two months!”
“We’re saving for something important!” Adelina Prokofyevna shrieked.
“We need to help Rimmochka!”
“Well, go ahead and help her yourselves, my dears, because my shop is closed!” Feokla shot back.
“I’m not coming near your kitchen ever again, not even with a ten-foot pole.”
“How dare you, you shameless woman!” the mother-in-law wailed, clutching her collar.
“So proud, aren’t we?! And did you keep our meat for yourself? Hand over the key this instant!”
Feokla reached toward the shelf by the mirror, grabbed the small flat key and dropped it right into her mother-in-law’s outstretched palm.
“Take it, Adelina Prokofyevna. Enjoy it—don’t spill anything on yourself.”
Her mother-in-law clenched her fist around the key greedily and squinted suspiciously. Clearly, she hadn’t expected Feokla to give in so fast.
“That’s more like it!” she spat out triumphantly.
“See, was that so hard? Quit putting on a show! Let’s go, Tarasik, let’s fry up some cutlets. Let this show-off sip her own kefir in here!”
“Definitely fry some up,” Feokla encouraged them with a playful tone, backing toward the door frame.
“Just so you know — I stopped buying meat and dumplings for the freezer three weeks ago, right after you started lecturing me over a piece of bread.”
Taras froze in the doorway, his neck stretched out comically.
“Wait… you stopped?” he managed to choke out.
“Then why is it locked?”
“And in there, Tarasik, are mom’s old doggie kneepads, her ancient rabbit hat full of moth holes, boxes of chamomile tea, and a bottle of valerian!” Fyokla burst out laughing.
“What?!” gasped Adelina Prokofyevna.
“Exactly that!” her daughter-in-law cheerfully confirmed.
“You finished the pork two weeks ago! And I defrosted the freezer last Saturday, cleaned it, and unplugged it.”
“I locked it so you wouldn’t snoop around before you should, or blow up my phone all week!”
Adelina Prokofyevna’s face broke out in red patches, and her painted lips opened helplessly.
“How can it be… a hat?!” the mother-in-law whispered hoarsely, staring at the flat key on her palm.
“What about the pork fillet?! The homemade cutlets?!”
“On the store shelf, Adelina Prokofyevna!” Fyokla replied playfully.
“Feel free to stop by on your way! They’ve got excellent pork, just right for your apartment savings.”
“Are you… are you making fun of me?!” the mother-in-law sputtered, breathless with indignation.
“Not at all!” Fyokla smiled.
“By the way, the movers are coming for my freezer tomorrow at ten in the morning. So, don’t forget to take out the hat and kneepads by then!”
After ushering the stunned pair out to the landing, Fyokla locked the door behind them and listened with satisfaction as the mother-in-law’s indignant complaints and Taras’s gloomy mumbling faded away down the stairs.
Two months passed. The movers took the freezer away on a Sunday morning. Taras didn’t even peek out of the bedroom, and Adelina Prokofyevna loudly banged empty pots in the kitchen for effect.
At the start of winter, Fyokla happened to run into her former neighbor from the building near the clinic. With a giggle, the neighbor shared how Adelina Prokofyevna ran back to her own apartment just two weeks later, kicking out her tenants.
Feeding her grown son and filling containers for Rimma every Saturday out of her own pension proved to be a bit much for her.
But to this day, the mother-in-law still complains to everyone in the yard about what a devious daughter-in-law she has—deliberately keeping an empty freezer locked for a whole week to drive an honest woman to valerian.
