The heavy lid of the cast-iron pot clanked as it dropped back into place. Steam burst out from underneath, misted the tiled backsplash for a heartbeat, then vanished—leaving only that sticky, suffocating heat behind.
Polina wiped the sweat from her forehead and caught her reflection in the dark window: a tired woman with her hair twisted into a bun, nothing like the owner of a flourishing chain of beauty salons.
At home, she became a function. A convenient household appliance that cooked, washed, and nodded in silence.
Three months earlier, Larisa Borisovna—Oleg’s mother—had moved into their spacious three-room apartment, blaming it on a never-ending pipe repair. Since then, the apartment had been shrinking around Polina, pushing her to the edges of her own life.
She picked up her phone from the hallway console to check her work email, then stopped short. From the living room—separated from the corridor by a thin decorative divider—came muffled voices. The TV was on as background noise, a curtain of sound, but her mother-in-law’s intonations, usually cloyingly sweet, now scraped harsh and dry—like sandpaper.
“Put up with it, Olezhek. Don’t be a doormat. You think it’s easy for me to even look at her?”
“Mom, I’m sick of her and those reports.” Her husband sounded petulant and wounded, like a sulky teenager rather than a forty-year-old man. “Yesterday she asked where I put five thousand. I said gas, and she started calculating mileage. She’s cheap, Mom. A real miser.”
A cold wave ran through Polina—from the base of her skull to her heels—tightening every muscle. Without thinking, she pressed her back to the cool wallpaper and became nothing but ears.
“It’s alright, son, it’s temporary.” Larisa Borisovna lowered her voice into a conspirator’s brisk whisper. “The main thing is—don’t twitch. Play at being in love. Let her finish the dacha; she’s poured a fortune into it, the roof alone cost a ridiculous amount. Once she registers the property, you and I will speak differently.”
“You really think she’ll sign it over? She’s slippery.”
“She’s not slippery. She’s stupid and soft. She wants ‘family,’ ‘coziness,’ all that nonsense. We’ll sing her a song about your health—weak blood vessels, nerves. Let her send you to a sanatorium, and while you’re gone I’ll look through the paperwork, see where she keeps what. Milk the cow while it still gives milk, son. And when the milk runs out—send it to slaughter.”
The words hit her mind with a dull, heavy thud, like stones dropped into an empty well.
“To slaughter.”
There wasn’t the chest pain novels promise. No shattered heart. Only an icy, surgical clarity—like a foggy film had been ripped from her eyes, the same film she’d been living behind for five years. She didn’t see a family. She saw parasites clamped to an artery.
Polina let out a slow breath and stared at her hands. Those hands had done three intricate VIP haircuts today, then spent two hours chopping meat for solyanka—just to please “Mom.”
“So… dinner,” she whispered, and something hard and metallic settled into her gaze. “You’ll get your dinner. With consequences.”
She returned to the kitchen noiselessly, like a shadow. From the upper cabinet she took the formal German dinner set she saved for special occasions—heavy plates with a blue rim, dignified and expensive. Today was exactly that kind of occasion: a memorial service for her own blindness.
“Polinochka, are you almost done?” Larisa Borisovna’s voice instantly flipped into “sweet granny” mode the moment she heard dishes clink. “Let me help you ladle it out—you’re exhausted, poor thing. On your feet all day, our little busy bee.”
Her mother-in-law glided into the kitchen, her velour house robe whispering—one Polina had bought her for her last birthday. Her small, sharp eyes skimmed the table, assessing the setting, checking the napkins and bread.
“Go change, dear. A pretty woman shouldn’t sit down in an apron. I’ll do everything. I’ll take care of you two.”
Polina froze for a second, tightening her grip on the ladle. Normally Larisa Borisovna never lifted a finger, preferring to play the honored guest who had to be served.
“Alright,” Polina nodded, keeping her voice level. “Thank you, Mom. That’s very kind.”
She stepped into the corridor, deliberately thudding her heels on the parquet so it sounded like she was leaving. But she didn’t make it to the bedroom. She stopped in a dark corner of the hallway, where she could see the kitchen through a half-open door and in the mirror of the sliding wardrobe.
Larisa Borisovna waited a couple of seconds, listening. When she was sure her daughter-in-law was gone, she transformed. Her hunched shoulders straightened; her face twisted into a sneer of disgust and spite.
She approached the table. At Polina’s place sat the blue-rimmed plate—the prettiest one, always reserved for the hostess.
Larisa Borisovna bent over the steaming solyanka, drew air into her mouth, gathered spit with a loud, revolting slurp, and hawked it—slow and deliberate—straight into the center of the bowl.
A thick string of saliva spread through the oily broth, mixing with sour cream and herbs.
“Eat up, you little bourgeois,” she hissed, grabbing a spoon and quickly stirring so there’d be no trace. “May you choke on every bit of your precious money.”
Polina shuddered with physical disgust. This wasn’t a petty prank—it was concentrated, animal hatred: a failure’s resentment toward the woman who fed and clothed her.
Larisa Borisovna wiped the spoon with a paper napkin and placed it beside the bowl, perfectly aligned. A satisfied, well-fed smile played on her lips—the smile of someone who’d done something nasty and enjoyed it.
Polina closed her eyes and counted to three. Inhale. Exhale. A cold, deliberate rage filled her from the inside out, pushing aside fear and doubt.
She wasn’t going to make a scene. She wasn’t going to cry or ask, “Why?” She would act like a businesswoman who’d uncovered theft: remove the threat and minimize losses.
A minute later she walked into the kitchen, shining with a smile so wide it would make a normal person’s jaw ache.
“Oh, it smells incredible! Larisa Borisovna, you’re a miracle worker—without you I’d never have managed.”
They took their seats. Oleg was already tearing into bread, scattering crumbs across the tablecloth. In front of Polina was the “loaded” bowl. In front of Oleg and his mother—clean ones.
Larisa Borisovna stared at her daughter-in-law with greedy, almost manic anticipation. Her nostrils flared as she waited for her private little victory—humiliation only she would know about.
Polina took her spoon, turned it in her fingers, catching a flash from the lamp. She brought it to her lips—then stopped a centimeter short.
“Oleg,” she said suddenly, her voice soft and soothing.
Her husband looked up, cheeks stuffed with bread.
“Hm?”
“You’re so pale today.” Polina leaned across the table, peering at him with practiced concern. “That grayish tone… Is your liver acting up again? Or your blood pressure?”
“I’m fine…” Oleg muttered, but he touched his cheek nervously. He was a hypochondriac; any talk about health threw him instantly off balance.
“No, no—I can tell. Your eyes are red, you look worn out. You can’t have something this spicy and greasy right now.” She shook her head with exaggerated worry. “And I poured myself a thicker portion—more smoked meat, extra heat.”
She pushed her bowl forward—smoothly but decisively. The same bowl. The one with the spit.
“Let’s swap. Yours has more broth, it’s lighter—you need a gentler diet. And mine…” She paused, looking straight into her mother-in-law’s eyes as they widened in horror. “Mine you eat. You need strength. A man has to eat well to provide for his family.”
In one quick motion, Polina switched the bowls. The liquid swayed, but nothing spilled.
Larisa Borisovna’s face twitched as if she’d been shocked. Her mask of goodwill cracked, revealing panic and a raw, animal fear.
“No!” she burst out in a strangled cry.
Oleg stared at his mother, startled, frozen with his spoon in midair.
“What’s wrong, Mom? What happened?”
“Don’t…” the older woman stammered, red blotches blooming up her neck. “Polina, eat yours! Why… why are you switching? That’s your bowl—you picked it!”
“Mom, what are you talking about?” Polina lifted her brows, feigning genuine confusion. “What does it matter whose bowl it is? We’re family—everything’s shared. I’m taking care of my husband. He shouldn’t overeat.”
She turned to Oleg and stroked his hand affectionately.
“Eat, sweetheart. This is thanks to Mom—she helped, she put her soul into it. Cooked with love.”
Oleg shrugged, pleased by the attention, and scooped up a full spoonful of thick, fragrant solyanka from Polina’s bowl.
Larisa Borisovna gripped the edge of the table so hard the tablecloth pulled tight. She watched as the spoon disappeared into the mouth of her precious, beloved son. Her throat bobbed.
“Mmm, good!” Oleg mumbled, chewing. “A little spicy—just how I like it. What did you put in?”
“That’s a secret ingredient,” Polina smiled, lifting a spoon from Oleg’s clean bowl to her own mouth. “Mom’s care. The purest, most concentrated kind.”
Larisa Borisovna made a sound like a choked hiccup. She sat there without touching her food, staring in horror and nausea as her son happily swallowed her own spit.
Every spoonful that went into Oleg’s mouth twisted his mother’s face as if she were in physical pain. It felt to her like she was the one eating it.
“What’s the matter, Larisa Borisovna?” Polina asked, sweetly—cruelly. “Are you feeling unwell? Water? Or maybe some soup too? It’s medicinal. Helps with everything. Greed. Envy. A rotten soul…”
“It’s… it’s so stuffy,” the older woman rasped, tugging at the collar of her robe.
“Eat, Mom, it’s really good—what’s your problem?” Oleg said, oblivious, wiping the bowl with a crust of bread. “Pol, got seconds?”
“For you—anything, love,” Polina answered, watching his empty bowl. “But I’m afraid seconds might cost too much. Out of reach.”
Dinner ended in heavy, oppressive tension. The dirty bowls sat on the table like mute witnesses. Oleg, full and content, leaned back and patted his stomach. Larisa Borisovna sipped water in tiny swallows; her hands shook so much the glass clicked against her teeth.
“Ol— I mean, Pol,” Oleg began, picking his teeth with a toothpick. “So, there’s this thing. The guys are offering a crypto investment—new coin, just launched. A sure thing, one hundred percent, Serёga told me. It’s only two hundred thousand to get in. Can you send it to my card? I’ll give it back tomorrow as soon as the first profit comes in.”
Polina looked at him. A grown man, forty years old—soft, dependent—sitting in her apartment, eating her food, wearing clothes bought with her money, asking for more so he could flush it down the toilet with yet another “business idea.”
The phrase surfaced again in her mind: Milk the cow.
“Two hundred thousand?” she repeated, frighteningly calm.
“Yeah. The growth is insane! In a month it’ll be a million—watch. Then we’ll finish the dacha roof in one go.”
“Perfect.” Polina stood, went to the window, and yanked the curtain aside, revealing the wet street. Rain drummed on the glass, rinsing grime away. “Only there’s no money, Oleg.”
“What do you mean, no money?” He stiffened, leaning forward. “You had cash collection yesterday—I saw the bank text on your phone.”
“I did. And I spent it. Every last ruble.”
“On what?!” Larisa Borisovna shrieked, instantly forgetting her nausea and fear. Money was the one thing that brought her back to life. “You said you were saving it for construction!”
“On charity,” Polina turned to them. Her gaze was heavy as a gravestone. “To a fund that supports cattle.”
Oleg blinked stupidly, not understanding.
“What? What cattle?”
“The exact kind,” Polina said. “Half an hour ago you called me a ‘cow.’ Said I should be milked while I still give milk. So I decided to help my own kind.”
A thick, ringing silence settled in the kitchen. All you could hear was the refrigerator’s steady hum and the drip from the faucet Oleg had promised to fix a month ago.
Slowly Oleg turned to his mother. Larisa Borisovna sank into her chair, seeming to shrink by half, as if she could melt into the upholstery.
“Did you… eavesdrop?” Oleg whispered, his voice trembling.
“No, sweetheart. I just came out for my phone. And I heard the truth—the only honest thing you’ve said in years. About meat. About milk. About the sanatorium.”
Polina walked to the table and set both palms on the countertop. Now she loomed over them like a judge delivering a sentence.
“So here’s how it is. The plan changes completely. I’m not finishing the dacha. I’m selling it exactly as it is.”
“Selling it?!” Oleg shrieked, jumping up. “We wanted a sauna there! I already promised the guys!”
“You wanted it,” Polina corrected. “And I wanted a family. But it turns out I don’t have a family—I have a farm. Where I’m the resource. Livestock for slaughter.”
“Polina, you misunderstood everything!” Larisa Borisovna wailed, trying to switch on her usual manipulator routine. “We were joking… It was a figure of speech! You know our sense of humor…”
“A joke?” Polina cut in, her voice snapping like a whip. “And spitting in my soup—was that a joke too? Or is that a special kind of family humor?”
Oleg went still. His eyes widened as the meaning sank in.
“What… spit? What are you talking about?”
“The one you just ate with such appetite, down to the last spoonful,” Polina said, smiling with only the corners of her mouth while her eyes stayed cold as ice. “Your mother—the saintly woman—spat into my bowl while I stepped out. Thought I wouldn’t see. I switched the bowls.”
Oleg turned green. The color drained from his face, leaving him the shade of stale dough. He stared at the empty bowl in front of him, at the greasy streaks on the bottom, then slowly looked at his mother.
“Mom?” His voice jumped into a high, broken pitch. “Is it true?”
Larisa Borisovna said nothing. She was crimson, like a boiled lobster. Her darting eyes and trembling hands gave her away.
“You… you fed me… that?!” Oleg stumbled back, knocking his chair over with a crash. His hand flew to his throat on reflex.
“I meant it for her! For her!” his mother screamed, jabbing a finger at Polina, spit flying now. “She’s a witch! She set it up! She did it on purpose!”
“I simply returned what was yours,” Polina said evenly, folding her arms. “Fair’s fair. Conservation of energy. You wanted your mother’s love? Here it is—sign for it. A full bowl of maternal care.”
Oleg vomited in the bathroom—loud, brutal sounds that spoke louder than any apology ever could.
Larisa Borisovna paced the corridor, clutching at her heart, her head, then her purse, unable to decide what she needed to save first.
“Murderer! You poisoned my son! I’m going to the police! I’ll sue you!”
Polina stood by the front door like a rock. Two suitcases and a duffel bag were beside her. She’d packed them before dinner while she was supposedly “changing.” Fast, clean, professional—like she was preparing for a work trip.
“The police?” Polina gave a short laugh. “And what exactly will you say? ‘I spat in my daughter-in-law’s soup and she fed it to my son’? Go ahead. We’ll all have a good laugh—our district officer hasn’t been entertained like that in a while.”
The bathroom door opened. Oleg crawled out—pale, damp, pitiful, water droplets clinging to his chin.
“Pol… why did you do that?” he whined, looking at her like a beaten dog. “We got heated… it happens… Mom’s old… forgive us…”
“Forgive?” Polina looked at him like he was nothing—like a stain on the carpet that needed to be removed. “Oleg, you still don’t get it. This isn’t a fight. This is the ending. Roll credits.”
She flung the front door wide. Cool air from the stairwell rushed into the stifling, lie-soaked apartment, thinning the poison.
“Out.”
“Where?” Larisa Borisovna shrieked, clutching her makeup bag. “It’s night! It’s raining!”
“You have your own two-room place. Pipes or no pipes—I don’t care. The same way you didn’t care about me all these years.”
“I’m not going anywhere!” Oleg tried to brace his hand on the doorframe, pretending at determination. “This is my home too! I have rights!”
“You have no rights,” Polina said, her voice like ice. “This apartment was bought by me three years before the marriage. You’re nobody here. A guest who overstayed.”
She kicked the suitcases onto the landing.
“Your things are out there. Keys on the console. I’ll count to three. If you don’t leave—I’ll call security and tell them strangers broke in. One.”
“Son, she’s crazy—she’s hysterical!” Larisa Borisovna hissed, hurriedly pulling on her boots, realizing Polina wasn’t bluffing. “Let’s go. We’ll show her. We’ll get a lawyer!”
“Two.”
Oleg looked at his wife, searching her eyes for the familiar softness—for pity, fear of being alone. He found nothing. Only the disgust of someone who had finally decided to take out the rotten trash that had been poisoning the air.
Without a word, he set the key ring on the console.
