“You insulted my wife. One more word about her…”
“Did you see the invitation?” Andrey was holding a thick piece of embossed cardboard that looked like an opera ticket. “There’s only one name on it. Natalya Ivanovna’s.”
Olga looked up from her album of drawings. She worked as a landscape architect, designing complex tiered gardens, and at that moment she was trying to fit a Japanese maple into the rocky soil of a virtual plot.
“Well, maybe Sveta just saved paper?” she smiled, though something pricked inside her. “Mom lives alone, so it was addressed to her personally. They’ll probably send ours electronically. Or just call. We’re sisters.”
“Olya, it says: ‘Dear Natalya Ivanovna, we would be delighted to see you at the celebration…’ and so on. If they were saving paper, they would have written ‘The Kuznetsov family and Natalya Ivanovna.’ But here it’s specific. One guest.”
Andrey placed the card on the table. He was a taxidermist—he restored stuffed animals for museums, delicate work that required patience and strong nerves. Now his brows were drawn together the same way they were when he corrected the mistakes of inexperienced interns.
“Stop it,” Olga said softly, reaching for him. “I talked to Sveta a week ago. We even discussed the children’s menu. I agreed with Tatyana Viktorovna, the groom’s mother, that Sonya would have a place at the children’s table and an entertainer. Why would I discuss that if we weren’t invited?”
“Maybe they changed their minds?” Andrey did not share her calm.
“Because of what? Because Sonya laughs loudly? Andryusha, that’s nonsense. Mom simply forgot to give us our envelope. She’s been so distracted lately, worrying about Sveta’s move to the capital.”
Andrey sighed as he looked at his wife. He loved her endless patience and faith in people, but sometimes he wanted to shake her. After giving birth, Olga had gained a lot of weight—hormones had played a cruel trick on her. She felt self-conscious, but Andrey saw the same Olya in her, only softer and cozier. Still, he noticed how others glanced at her, and it seemed he was beginning to guess what was really behind the invitation.
“All right,” he kissed her temple. “Let’s test your theory. Shall we visit your mother this weekend? As a surprise. At the same time, we’ll ask about our ‘lost’ envelope.”
Saturday turned out windy. They left Sonya with Andrey’s parents so they could talk calmly. In the car, Olga was nervous, running her fingers over the strap of her bag. That feeling—the sticky, unpleasant premonition she had been driving away all week—came back again.
Natalya Ivanovna opened the door. She was wearing a dressy outfit, and the apartment smelled of baking—not simple everyday pastries, but something complicated, festive.
“Olya? Andrey?” her mother froze in the doorway, making no attempt to let them in. Her face stretched with surprise, and panic flashed in her eyes. “Why didn’t you call?”
“Hi, Mom,” Olga stepped forward, gently moving her mother aside so she could enter the hallway. “We decided to surprise you. Are you expecting guests? It smells amazing.”
The table was set in the living room. A white tablecloth, crystal glasses that were brought out only for New Year’s, elaborate salads in glass bowls.
“Well… no… I mean, yes,” Natalya Ivanovna fussed, brushing imaginary crumbs from her dress. “Some girls from work wanted to stop by.”
“Dressed like this? With crystal?” Andrey looked skeptically around the table. “Natalya Ivanovna, whose birthday is it?”
“No one’s!” his mother-in-law answered sharply, glancing at the wall clock. “Listen, you need to leave. Now. Right now.”
Olga froze in the middle of the room.
“Mom, what’s wrong with you? We just arrived. We wanted to ask about Sveta’s wedding. The invitation came only to you, and we thought…”
“There’s no time for that now!” Natalya Ivanovna was already pushing Andrey in the back, trying to turn him toward the exit. “We’ll talk later. Please leave.”
At that moment, the doorbell rang. A confident, demanding ring.
Natalya Ivanovna turned so pale that Olga was afraid she might become ill.
“Quick!” her mother hissed, grabbing Olga by the arm. “Into the bedroom! Lock yourselves in and sit quietly like mice. Don’t come out until I say so!”
“What nonsense is this?” Olga protested, pulling her arm away. “Am I a thief? Why should I hide in my own mother’s apartment?”
“Olya, please!” There was genuine fear in her mother’s voice. “Don’t disgrace me!”
“Disgrace you?” Andrey repeated, and his voice turned cold. “How exactly does my wife disgrace you? By being present?”
The bell rang again. Natalya Ivanovna rushed between the door and her daughter, but it was too late. She waved her hand helplessly and went to open it.
Svetlana flew into the hallway—bright, slender, smelling of something floral. Behind her came a tall young man with an arrogant face—Maxim—and his parents: a stately man with a cane and a pleasant woman with kind eyes.
“Mommy!” Svetlana rushed to hug Natalya Ivanovna. “We came a little earlier, the traffic cleared up… Oh.”
She saw Olga standing in the living room doorway. The smile slid off the younger sister’s face, replaced by a grimace of irritation.
“What are you doing here?” Svetlana asked without even saying hello. She looked over Olga’s figure in her loose dress and twisted her mouth.
Olga felt everything inside her collapse. So this was it. Not a postal mistake. Not her mother’s forgetfulness.
“We came to visit Mom,” Andrey answered calmly, standing beside his wife and taking her hand. His palm was warm and steady.
Maxim, the groom, entered the room, gave Natalya Ivanovna a careless nod, slid an indifferent glance over Andrey, and stopped on Olga. His face twisted with open disgust, as if he had seen a fat cockroach on the tablecloth.
“Sveta, who is this?” he asked, not bothering to lower his voice. “You didn’t say you were having… an open house for just anyone today.”
Tatyana Viktorovna, Maxim’s mother, coughed awkwardly.
“Maxim, behave yourself. Hello,” she nodded to Olga and Andrey. “We must have interrupted a family gathering?”
“No, no!” Svetlana exclaimed, throwing a vicious glance at her sister. “They’re just… acquaintances. They’re already leaving.”
“Acquaintances?” Olga repeated quietly. She looked at her mother. Natalya Ivanovna lowered her eyes, pretending to adjust the napkins.
“Well, yes,” Svetlana shrugged. “Olya, you really should go. We’re having the parents meet each other. It’s all official. We don’t have time for you.”
And then Olga saw everything with crystal clarity. Shame over her weight. Her own sister and mother were ashamed of her. Ashamed of her body, her simplicity, the fact that she did not fit the picture of the “ideal family” for a rich groom.
She looked at Maxim. He stood with his hands in the pockets of his expensive trousers, smirking at her, waiting for the “obstacle” to disappear.
“Are you sure you want to marry this?” Olga did not shout, but in the silence that followed, her voice sounded clear. She nodded toward Maxim. “Are you ready to risk your happiness for a person who doesn’t even hide the rot inside him?”
Svetlana flushed, red patches spreading down her neck.
“Shut up! How dare you talk about my fiancé like that? Get out of here! Now!”
She stepped toward Olga as if she intended to push her out, but she met Andrey’s gaze. He stood motionless, like a rock.
“She’s my childhood friend,” Svetlana suddenly blurted out, turning to the groom’s parents, trying to save the situation. “We haven’t seen each other in ages, so she dropped by… Right, Olya?”
The audacity was beyond belief. Konstantin Lvovich, Maxim’s father, frowned, looking from one sister to the other. The resemblance in their facial features was obvious, despite the difference in build.
“Friend?” Tatyana Viktorovna repeated. “But I thought Natalya Ivanovna said she had two daughters. I wanted so much to meet her… We even discussed a children’s menu for your niece, Svetochka. Didn’t we?”
Svetlana faltered, her lie crumbling. She looked Olga straight in the eyes, and in that look there was pleading mixed with hatred: “Leave. Don’t ruin my life.”
“My sister,” Svetlana said slowly, squeezing out the words, “unfortunately will not be able to come to the wedding. She has… health problems. And issues with her appearance.”
Olga gave a bitter, angry laugh.
“Health, then. Well, I wish you happiness, little sister. I hope your shape never changes, or you’ll be thrown into the trash faster than an old sofa.”
She and Andrey turned toward the exit.
A low whistle came from Maxim behind them.
“Well, Svetochka is lucky the genes turned out different. So she really is your sister? What a barrel. How does the earth even hold her?”
Andrey stopped. Olga felt his hand tense, turning to stone. He slowly released her palm and turned around.
“What did you say?” he asked very quietly.
Maxim smirked, feeling like he was in control. His fiancée was beside him, his parents were there, he was in an expensive suit, and in front of him stood some man in jeans.
“I said your wife is fat as a barrel,” Maxim repeated lazily. “And she’d better not show up at the wedding, so she doesn’t scare the guests or break through the floor.”
“Apologize,” Andrey demanded.
“Maxim, stop this immediately!” Tatyana Viktorovna intervened. “This is unacceptable!”
But Maxim had lost control. He felt awkward in front of his fiancée because of the earlier confusion, and now he wanted to assert his superiority.
“Why should I? I’m stating a fact. If she looks like a breeding sow, that’s her problem, not m—”
He did not finish.
Andrey stepped forward—quickly, precisely, without a swing, the way he struck only in the most extreme cases. His fist landed directly on the bridge of Maxim’s nose. There was an unpleasant crunch.
Maxim cried out, grabbed his face, and staggered back into the sideboard. Blood poured instantly, soaking his snow-white shirt, expensive jacket, and Natalya Ivanovna’s carpet.
“A-a-ah!” Svetlana screamed.
“Oh my God!” Natalya Ivanovna gasped, rushing not to her son-in-law, but to the carpet.
Maxim howled, clutching his nose as scarlet liquid seeped through his fingers.
Andrey stood over him without lowering his hands, ready to strike again if Maxim decided to get up. His face was calm—frighteningly calm.
“You insulted my wife. One more word about her, and I’ll knock your teeth out,” he said clearly.
Konstantin Lvovich, Maxim’s father, who had been silent until then, stood leaning on his cane and watched Andrey carefully. There was no horror in his eyes. Rather… interest.
“Let’s get out of here,” Andrey said, taking Olga by the elbow.
They left the apartment to the accompaniment of Natalya Ivanovna’s lamenting and Svetlana’s shrieks demanding that the police be called.
Outside, Olga greedily breathed in the cold air. Her hands were trembling.
“You… you broke his nose,” she exhaled, looking at her husband.
“Possibly,” Andrey inspected his knuckles. A little skin was scraped off, nothing serious. “I’m sorry I didn’t hold back. We probably should have just left.”
“We should have,” Olga nodded. And then she suddenly snorted. The nervous little laugh grew into full laughter. “Did you see his face? I can just imagine what kind of swollen snout that narcissist will have at the registry office! He’ll be purple!”
Andrey smiled and put his arm around her shoulders.
“The main thing is that he learns to think. Though I doubt it.”
They got into the car and simply sat in silence for about five minutes. Olga’s phone began exploding with calls from her mother, but she silenced it.
“Shall we go to your parents’ country house?” Olga suggested. “We’ll pick up Sonya and leave. I don’t want to be in the city.”
“Let’s go.”
But that evening, when they were already heating the sauna at Andrey’s parents’ country house, the phone rang again. This time Natalya Ivanovna was calling Andrey’s number.
Andrey put it on speaker.
“Andrey!” his mother-in-law’s voice trembled with outrage. “This is unthinkable! Sveta is hysterical! Maxim has a displaced fracture! The wedding is in danger!”
“If you’re calling so I’ll pay for his treatment, I won’t. He got what he deserved.”
“What do you mean, deserved?” his mother shouted. “Sveta agrees! Do you hear me? She agrees that you can come! Olya, you, and Sonya! Everything the way you wanted! But you must apologize. Immediately. Right now. I’ll give you Maxim’s number.”
“What?” Andrey exchanged a glance with Olga. “So now we are graciously allowed to attend if I repent?”
“You must apologize like a man! He’s ready to accept your apology if you call him right now. Otherwise they’ll file a police report! Write down the number!”
Andrey smirked and wrote down the digits. Olga shook her head, gesturing “don’t,” but Andrey winked at her.
“All right. I’ll call.”
He dialed the number. It rang for a long time. Finally, someone picked up. Voices and laughter could be heard in the background—apparently Maxim was not in the hospital, but at a bar or club with friends, “drowning” his grief.
“Hello?” Maxim’s voice was nasal and angry.
“This is Andrey. Olga’s husband. Your mother-in-law told me to call.”
“Ah, the boxer,” Maxim clearly put the phone on speaker, because the laughter in the background grew louder. “Well? Cooled down? Realized who you raised your hand against? My father said that if you apologize in front of everyone, we’ll let it slide. Come on, I’m listening. The guys are listening too.”
Andrey took a deep breath. Olga clenched her fists, feeling the wave of hurt for her husband rise inside her again.
“Listen to me carefully, you little pup,” Andrey’s voice was as firm as granite. “I’m not calling to apologize. I’m calling to warn you. If you so much as look crookedly at my wife again, if you open your mouth about her one more time, I will come back and finish what I started. I won’t just break your nose. I’ll smash your jaw so you’ll spend the rest of your life drinking through a tube. Do you understand me?”
Silence hung on the other end. The laughter stopped.
“Are you… threatening me?” Maxim’s voice cracked. “Father! Do you hear this?”
There was a rustling sound, and another person took the phone. The voice was older, deeper. Konstantin Lvovich.
“I hear it, Maxim. Give me the phone. I’m listening, Andrey.”
“Konstantin Lvovich,” Andrey’s tone changed to respectful, but remained firm. “Your son could use some lessons in manners. I will not let anyone hurt my wife. No one. Not him, not her sister, not the devil himself.”
There was silence on the line. Olga held her breath.
“You know, Andrey,” Konstantin Lvovich said slowly, “when my Tatyana gave birth to Maxim, she gained thirty kilograms. There were complications, hormones. For two years she couldn’t lose the weight, and she cried at night. And I… I loved her in any form. If someone had dared say to her what my son blurted out today, I wouldn’t have merely hit him. I would have destroyed him.”
Andrey was silent, not expecting such a turn.
“Maxim is an idiot,” the groom’s father continued. “A spoiled idiot, and we are to blame for that. Thank you for the lesson, Andrey. No one will insist on filing a police report. More than that, I will personally make sure he apologizes to your wife. Otherwise there will be no wedding at my expense.”
“Thank you,” was all Andrey managed to say.
“No, thank you. It’s rare these days to meet a man who is not afraid to defend what is his. And your wife… your wife is beautiful. Take care of her.”
Konstantin Lvovich hung up.
Olga sat with her hands pressed to her burning cheeks.
“Did he… did he really say that?”
Andrey put the phone on the table and pulled his wife toward him.
“He did. See? Not everyone in their family is rotten.”
“Maxim is probably furious,” Olga suggested.
“Let him rage. At least now he and your sister will know their place.”
The weekend was wonderful. They steamed in the sauna, Andrey taught Sonya how to fish in the little pond, and in the evening they drank tea with raspberry jam on the veranda.
They did not go to the wedding.
But a week later, a courier brought Olga a huge bouquet of flowers and a small box. Inside the box lay an elegant bracelet and a note, clearly written under dictation:
“Olga, I apologize for my unworthy behavior. I was wrong. Maxim.”
And below, in a different, firm handwriting, it said:
“Tatyana and I would be happy to see you, Andrey, and little Sonya at our home at any time. Without any wedding. K.L.”
Svetlana called a month later. The conversation was short and dry. She complained that Maxim had become suspicious, that her father-in-law controlled their spending, and that her mother-in-law constantly used Olga as an example.
“Can you imagine the nerve? She says Olya has backbone, and I’m an empty shell!”
Olga listened, nodded, and for the first time felt no desire to comfort her, help her, or justify herself.
She looked at her reflection in the hallway mirror. Yes, she was fuller than her sister. But beside her in the reflection, Andrey appeared, wrapped his arms around her from behind, and rested his chin on her shoulder.
“Why are you standing there frozen?”
“I’m thinking how amazing you are,” Olga smiled.
“I know,” Andrey snorted. “Come on. Sonya has organized a landscape design project in the sandbox, and an expert assessment is needed.”
And Olga went with him, feeling like the most beautiful, most protected, and most loved woman in the world. Her sister’s cruel stunt and her husband’s insult had become nothing more than the wind that blew the husks out of her life, leaving only what truly had value.
