“The Salad Tastes Like Soap,” My Sister-in-Law Grimaced. Without a Word, I Walked Over and Removed Every Holiday Dish from the Table
“Has the mayonnaise gone bad, or is it supposed to taste like this?”
Olga pushed the edge of the layered salad away with her fork in disgust. A greasy yellow stain remained on the white tablecloth.
Marina froze beside the back of a chair. She was holding a kitchen towel. The smell of roasted duck drifted from the oven.
“The expiration date is in March,” Marina replied evenly. “I opened the jar an hour ago.”
“I don’t know.” Her sister-in-law wrinkled her nose. “It tastes like soap. And it’s bitter. Where did you buy it? On sale at some discount store?”
Lyubov Ivanovna let out a loud sigh. She was sitting at the head of the table.
That was supposed to be Denis’s seat, actually. But his mother had taken it the moment she entered the apartment.
“Our Olenka is sensitive to chemicals,” Lyubov Ivanovna said through pursed lips. “She can’t eat cheap substitutes. She has a delicate stomach.”
Denis was sitting at the side of the table, poking at a slice of cured fish with his fork.
“Mom, the salad is fine,” he muttered uncertainly.
“Eat it, Deniska. After three years of marriage, your stomach can probably survive anything,” his mother said with a fake smile. “You must be used to animal feed by now.”
Something clicked inside Marina.
It was an ordinary sound, like a stiff light switch snapping in a dark hallway.
Crystal glasses stood on the table—the ones from her mother’s dinner set. Marina had spent three hours setting the table. Before that, she had spent six hours cooking.
There was a reason for the celebration.
It was January seventh: Christmas, and exactly three years since their wedding.
She had spent eighteen thousand rubles on the food.
Her own money, from her vacation pay.
“So it tastes like soap?” Marina asked, looking at Olga’s plate.
“I already told you, it tastes sour.” Olga demonstratively pushed her portion away. “Is there any normal food? Potatoes, maybe? Or sausages? I don’t understand these salads with pineapple. It’s some kind of perversion.”
Denis put down his fork.
“Marin, just boil her some sausages. What’s the big deal?”
Marina silently turned her gaze toward her husband.
Denis Andreyevich. Thirty-two years old. An engineer at a construction company.
A man who, after three years of marriage, had still not learned how to defend his wife from his own relatives.
“There are no sausages in the refrigerator,” Marina replied curtly.
“Then what is there?” Lyubov Ivanovna interrupted.
She picked up a piece of red fish, sniffed it, and put it back.
“Is this chum salmon?”
“Atlantic salmon.”
“Oh, please. It’s so pale. Probably artificially colored. Everything is fake these days. Did you keep the receipt? You should return it.”
“I salted it myself,” Marina snapped.
“Oh.”
Her mother-in-law pushed the plate of fish away.
“Then I definitely won’t eat it. I only have one liver. How much salt did you put in it? Do you even know the correct proportions?”
Marina clenched the kitchen towel. The fabric dug into her palm.
“The proportions are fine.”
“Deniska, don’t touch the fish,” his mother ordered. “Remember how you got food poisoning when you were a child?”
Denis obediently pulled his hand away from the plate.
Marina stood there watching the circus.
The apartment was warm, but an unpleasant chill ran down her spine.
“So the salad is sour and the fish is too pale?” she clarified.
“Marinochka, don’t take this personally,” Lyubov Ivanovna began in a syrupy voice. “We’re family. Who else is going to tell you the truth? You’ve never known how to cook. It just isn’t your thing.”
“Is paying the mortgage my thing?” Marina asked.
Denis flinched.
“Ir—Marin, don’t start. It’s a holiday.”
“A holiday?”
She looked around the table.
“You’re all sitting there as though I sprinkled rat poison into your food.”
“Is it our fault it doesn’t taste good?” Olga snorted. “I came here as a guest. I have the right to expect decent service.”
Decent service.
Olga was twenty-six and unemployed.
Six months earlier, Marina had paid off her payday loan. Forty-five thousand rubles.
Olga had borrowed the money to buy a new iPhone, and the debt had been repaid from Denis and Marina’s family budget.
More precisely, it had come from Marina’s savings, because Denis had not received a bonus that month.
“You want service?” Marina stepped toward the table. “Go to a restaurant.”
“Then give me some money and I will.” Olga smirked. “Deniska gives you his entire salary anyway.”
“Olenka, don’t be sarcastic,” her mother gently scolded her daughter.
Then she immediately turned to Marina.
“But she has a point. You two live extravagantly. You buy salmon, while Denis is still wearing a jacket from two seasons ago.”
Marina looked at her husband.
“Denis. Tell your mother who bought the salmon.”
Denis lowered his eyes to his empty plate.
“Mom, we agreed not to count each other’s money.”
“I’m not counting your money. I feel sorry for my son!” his mother’s voice rose. “He works himself to death, while you feed him sour mayonnaise and walk around covered in gold!”
Marina was wearing tiny silver stud earrings.
The oven timer rang.
The duck was ready.
Marina turned around and went into the kitchen.
She pulled out the heavy baking tray. The bird was covered in a golden crust. Apples sizzled around it. The kitchen smelled of rosemary and honey.
She took a large serving platter and carefully transferred the duck onto it. Then she poured the sauce over the top.
She looked at it.
Perfect.
As she carried the platter into the dining room, only one thought pounded in her head.
Why am I doing this?
“Oh, the main course,” Olga said, suddenly brightening. “I hope this is at least edible.”
Marina placed the duck in the center of the table.
Lyubov Ivanovna narrowed her eyes.
“You overcooked it. Look, the wings are almost black. It’ll be as dry as shoe leather.”
Olga poked the breast with her fork.
“Damn, it’s tough. It really is like shoe leather. Marin, did you find the recipe online? It clearly says you’re supposed to roast it in a baking sleeve.”
Denis took a knife, cut off a piece, and began chewing.
“The duck is fine. A little tough, maybe. But you can chew it. Marin, bring me some ketchup.”
“Ketchup? With duck in honey sauce?”
Marina stared directly at him.
“It really is dry. It scratches my throat. Bring the ketchup.”
That was the final straw.
No, not a straw.
A concrete wall.
Marina looked at the table. At the eighteen thousand rubles smeared across the plates.
At her mother-in-law picking at her teeth with a toothpick while staring at the salmon.
At her sister-in-law twisting her lips in disgust.
At her husband asking for ketchup.
“No,” Marina said.
“What do you mean, no?” Denis asked, confused. “There’s no ketchup? Then bring mayonnaise.”
“No. You are not going to eat this.”
She stretched out her hands, took the platter with the duck, and lifted it from the table.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Olga recoiled. “Put it down. I’ll at least eat an apple.”
“The apples are tough too. You might break a tooth,” Marina replied dryly.
She turned around, carried the duck back into the kitchen, and placed it on the counter.
Then she returned to the dining room.
Silence hung over the table.
Marina walked over to Olga and picked up the bowl containing the layered crab salad—the one made with the “sour mayonnaise.”
“Marina, have you lost your mind?” Lyubov Ivanovna demanded.
“I’m protecting your stomach, Tamara—I mean, Lyubov Ivanovna,” Marina said without breaking her rhythm. “You’re not allowed to eat cheap substitutes.”
She carried away the salad bowl.
Then she returned for the plate of salmon.
“Stop!” Denis jumped to his feet. “What are you doing? Put the food back on the table.”
“Food?”
Marina stopped, holding the plate of fish in midair.
“A minute ago, it was dyed, sour, dry garbage. Why would you force yourselves to choke it down on a holiday?”
“We are guests!” Olga shrieked. “What is wrong with you, you psychopath?”
Marina stepped toward Olga.
Her sister-in-law pressed herself against the back of her chair.
Marina leaned over and removed Olga’s personal plate, along with the half-eaten piece of cured fish, from directly beneath her nose.
“Guests say thank you and eat what they are served. Or they quietly choose not to eat. You came here to wipe your feet on me. That is not going to happen.”
She snatched up her mother-in-law’s plate.
Lyubov Ivanovna tried to grab Marina’s arm, but Marina pulled the plate away. A fork fell to the floor with a clang.
“You rude little shrew!” her mother-in-law shouted.
Red blotches spread across her face.
“We only visit you out of politeness! Who needs you and your cooking?”
“Then go to someone whose cooking you like.”
Marina tossed the cutlery onto a tray.
She removed the breadbasket.
Then the olives.
The table was rapidly becoming empty.
Only the napkins and empty glasses remained.
Denis stood in the middle of the room. His face had turned crimson.
“Marina. Put. The duck. Back. On. The table. Right now.”
She stopped in the kitchen doorway.
“Or what, Denis Igorevich? You’ll divorce me?”
“I’m ordering you! That is my mother and my sister!”
“Your mother and your sister can go to the dumpling café on the corner. I’ll pay for one portion each—from the forty-five thousand rubles Olga still owes me.”
Olga leaped to her feet.
“I don’t owe you anything! My brother said I didn’t have to pay it back!”
Marina slowly turned her gaze toward Denis.
“He said that? With my money?”
Denis looked away.
“Marin, she was in a difficult situation. I was going to tell you later.”
The apartment became silent again.
The only sound was the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
Marina placed the tray on the cabinet.
Then she walked to the wardrobe in the hallway, opened it, and took out Lyubov Ivanovna’s fur coat.
She threw it onto an empty chair.
Olga’s down jacket followed.
“A difficult situation? It’s about to become even more difficult. Get out.”
Lyubov Ivanovna slowly stood up and adjusted the gold chain around her neck.
“You’ll regret this, you vile woman. Denis won’t stay with you. Will you, son?”
She looked at Denis.
He swallowed nervously.
“Marin, you’re going too far. Apologize to Mom. You lost your temper—it happens. Put the food back on the table, and we’ll forget the whole thing.”
“Forget it?”
She walked right up to him.
He smelled of the cheap cologne his mother had given him for Defender of the Fatherland Day.
“Whose apartment is this, Denis?”
He blinked.
“What does the apartment have to do with anything? We’re a family.”
“The apartment was purchased for two million rubles before we got married. It is registered in my name. Your residence registration here is temporary. It expires in March.”
“You’re throwing that in my face?”
Her husband’s voice cracked and rose into a shriek.
“I renovated this place! I hung the wallpaper!”
“The wallpaper cost ten thousand rubles. Your relatives destroyed at least two hundred thousand rubles’ worth of my nerves today. Are you going to get your own jacket, or should I throw that too?”
Denis stepped back.
For the first time, genuine fear flickered in his eyes.
He was used to the agreeable Marina.
Marina never raised her voice.
“I’m leaving with them,” he said, trying to preserve his dignity. “And I won’t come back until you crawl to me on your knees and beg for forgiveness.”
“I’ll hold you to that. Leave your keys on the cabinet.”
“What?”
“Leave your keys on the cabinet, Denis. You can collect your belongings tomorrow while I’m at work. I’ll leave the boxes in the hallway.”
Lyubov Ivanovna grabbed her fur coat.
“Come on, Denisochka. Let her choke on her duck. We’ll find you a normal woman, not this arrogant—”
They dressed in silence.
Olga breathed angrily through her nose as she wrapped her scarf around herself.
Denis demonstratively threw his set of keys onto the mirrored cabinet. The sharp clatter cut through the room.
“You’re destroying our family over a piece of meat,” he said at the door.
“I’m clearing the apartment of parasites,” Marina replied.
The door slammed.
Marina turned the lock twice and fastened the security chain.
The hallway smelled of unfamiliar winter perfume and tension.
She rested her forehead against the cold metal door.
She stood there for a minute.
Breathing.
Then she went into the kitchen.
She switched on the kettle and took out a beautiful porcelain plate.
She served herself a piece of roasted duck with a honey-glazed crust and added a spoonful of crab salad.
Then she cut herself a slice of fresh, soft bread.
She sat down at the empty table.
She took a bite of the duck.
The meat melted in her mouth.
Perfectly cooked.
Not dry in the slightest.
The juices blended with the honey and apples.
She poured herself a glass of expensive champagne.
The phone on the table vibrated.
The screen displayed: “Mama Lyuba.”
A message from Denis followed:
“Transfer me ten thousand for a hotel. I’m not sleeping on the floor at Olga’s place.”
Marina finished chewing her salad.
She marked the message as spam and blocked both numbers.
Then she opened her banking app and transferred those same ten thousand rubles into her own savings account.
How would you respond if your husband asked you to pay for his hotel after an evening like that?
