“Give me your card—I’ll take however much I need myself,” my mother-in-law declared, carefully wiping her mouth with one of my own linen napkins.
“You’re always busy anyway, and I need to prepare for my anniversary. The restaurant, the menu, the outfits. I’m an elderly woman; it’s too late for me to learn all these bank transfers of yours. Paying by card is more convenient.”
She said it as casually as though she were asking me to pass the salt, rather than demanding the keys to our family budget.
Zinaida Arkadyevna possessed a truly unique talent: she could demand other people’s money with the intonation of a royal personage graciously allowing her subjects to finance the renovation of her palace.
I slowly lowered my mug of hot herbal tea onto the table.
The kitchen smelled of freshly cooked golden pancakes and hot July strawberry jam, but for some reason, my appetite vanished instantly.
“Your card?” I clarified, enjoying the confidence with which this woman was skating across the thin ice of my patience. “My salary card?”
“Whose else would it be?” my mother-in-law asked with genuine surprise, spearing the crispiest pancake with her fork and generously dipping it into thick farm-fresh sour cream.
“My son Pasha is away on a business trip, and he has expenses there. Your money is just sitting uselessly in your account anyway. We’re family, Anechka! A sixty-fifth birthday is sacred.”
She finished chewing and added:
“Besides, I have to order sturgeon. Prestigious sturgeon, you understand? You can’t celebrate turning sixty-five without a baked sturgeon on the table. That would be a joke, not a proper celebration.”
Sturgeon. So that was what this was about.
The word appeared in Zinaida Arkadyevna’s vocabulary whenever she needed to impress distant relatives. To her, that prestigious fish was something like a royal scepter and orb.
I looked at my mother-in-law. There was not the slightest trace of embarrassment in her eyes.
Family duty is a remarkable form of currency: someone borrows it from you, yet somehow you are also the one who pays the interest.
“All right, Zinaida Arkadyevna,” I said meekly, smiling. “You’ll have the card. I’ll give it to you tomorrow.”
Had my husband entered the kitchen at that moment, he would immediately have begun packing an emergency suitcase, because he knew that my “meek” smile usually preceded a localized family storm.
But Pasha was away on business, and my mother-in-law, sensing no danger, nodded triumphantly and reached for another pancake.
The plan formed in my mind during the three seconds it took her to chew.
The next day, I stopped by the bank.
Now, my dears, I am going to share a useful secret that should be in every married woman’s arsenal.
Using the banking app, I opened a separate account and received an instant, unnamed card for it—black, respectable-looking, and completely harmless to my main budget.
The point is that the app allows you to set strict purchase limits, prohibit cash withdrawals, block online payments, and, most importantly, see every single transaction.
A teenager won’t be able to buy an electronic cigarette, and shameless relatives won’t be able to purchase a mink coat at a summer sale with your money. The perfect educational tool.
I transferred exactly thirteen thousand rubles into the account. Ten thousand was for the deposit at the Imperial restaurant, as my mother-in-law had requested. The rest was for those mythical napkins and other small expenses.
That evening, my mother-in-law came to visit, and she was not alone.
My sister-in-law appeared in the hallway. Vika, a thirty-year-old “girl who was trying to find herself”—mainly on the sofa and at other people’s expense—fluttered into the apartment, escaping the heat and fanning herself like a stern government inspector.
“Hi, Anya!” she chirped, kicking off her sandals and immediately heading for the refrigerator.
“Mom said you’re sponsoring our celebration. That’s so generous! I’ve already found a dress for Mom’s anniversary. It costs only forty-five thousand.”
She peered into the refrigerator and added:
“Practically nothing for you and Pasha, right? I can’t stand next to the prestigious sturgeon wearing last year’s rags.”
I folded my arms across my chest and observed her proprietary confidence.
My sister-in-law evaluated other people’s incomes with the ease of someone who had earned the money herself. The difference in scale was astonishing. A person whose greatest achievement that year had been paying her streaming-service subscription on time was managing my money like the minister of finance.
“Forty-five thousand,” I repeated like an echo. “Practically nothing indeed.”
“That’s exactly what I said!” Vika exclaimed happily, taking a jar of expensive pâté from my refrigerator. “Will you transfer it to my card, or should I pay with Mom’s?”
“With Mom’s, Vika. Pay for everything with Mom’s card.”
I took a black envelope out of my handbag and ceremoniously handed it to Zinaida Arkadyevna.
My mother-in-law grabbed the plastic card with the speed of a hungry seagull diving toward a French fry dropped by a tourist. Her eyes gleamed predatorily.
“The PIN is my birth year,” I told her sweetly. “Use it, Mom. Don’t deny yourself anything.”
“You’re a golden daughter-in-law, Anechka,” Zinaida Arkadyevna sang emotionally, hiding the card in the depths of her enormous leather handbag.
“Tomorrow, Vikusya and I will go and pay the restaurant deposit. We’ll order the fish too. I’ll arrange everything to the highest standard, so don’t worry!”
They left behind a cloud of heavy perfume.
I slid the door bolt into place, poured myself a glass of cold apple juice, and opened the banking app on my phone.
The show was beginning.
The next morning, I was sitting in a meeting. My phone, lying face-up on the table, discreetly lit up.
A message from the bank read: “Declined. Established limit exceeded. Elite Beauty Salon. Amount: 12,000 rubles.”
I quietly chuckled. Apparently, Vikusya had decided to begin preparing for her mother’s anniversary with professional hair and makeup.
A minute later, the phone lit up again.
Another bank message: “Declined. Limit exceeded. Milan Seasons Boutique. Amount: 45,500 rubles.”
The dress. How predictable.
Ten minutes later, my phone vibrated with an incoming call. The name “Zinaida Arkadyevna” appeared on the screen.
I excused myself to my colleagues, stepped into the corridor, and answered.
“Anya!” my mother-in-law’s voice rang with such indignation that the speaker nearly cracked. “What’s wrong with your card?! We’re standing at the checkout counter in the shopping center looking like beggars!”
She caught her breath and shouted even more loudly:
“The cashier is looking at us with pity! The card doesn’t work!”
“What do you mean it doesn’t work?” I pretended to be extremely alarmed. “Zinaida Arkadyevna, were you trying to buy something?”
“A dress for Vika! And shoes for me!” she blurted out, completely revealing her intentions. “We also went to the beauty salon.”
For some reason, relatives’ generosity is always measured exclusively by the depth of someone else’s pockets.
“Oh, Mom,” I cooed with exaggerated patience, as though I were explaining something obvious to a person who could not understand. “It’s the bank’s security system! You probably don’t know how it works.”
I paused briefly.
“I have fraud protection enabled. The system detects unusual expenses—boutiques, beauty salons—and immediately rejects suspicious purchases so that criminals can’t steal my money. You said you needed the card for the restaurant and the sturgeon, didn’t you?”
There was a long, sticky silence on the other end.
My mother-in-law was feverishly processing the information, trying to reconcile her lie with my apparent “innocence.”
“Yes… yes, of course,” she finally forced out. “We just… decided to combine everything.”
“Absolutely not!” I said sternly. “You can’t fool the banking system. Buy only groceries and pay for the banquet. That’s what the algorithms are configured to allow.”
I ended the call, barely suppressing my laughter.
An hour later, I received a notification about a charge of ten thousand rubles. The deposit had been successfully paid to the Imperial restaurant.
The plan was working perfectly.
A couple of hours later, another purchase was made at a neighborhood grocery store for 450 rubles. They bought a loaf of bread, milk, and, apparently, some valerian.
Pasha returned from his business trip that evening.
My husband is a good man with a technical mind and reinforced-concrete logic, but when it comes to family intrigues, he can sometimes be rather slow.
As I set the table and placed a bowl of refreshing homemade okroshka made with kvass in front of him, he cautiously asked:
“Anya, Mom called me. She complained that you gave her some defective card. She says she and Vika ended up in an embarrassing situation.”
I sat opposite him and rested my cheek against my hand.
“Pasha, your mother asked for a card to pay the restaurant deposit and buy fish for her anniversary. Instead, she tried to spend sixty thousand on clothes and beauty salons.”
I looked at him calmly.
“I simply enabled strict financial controls. Or rather, protection against scheming relatives.”
Pasha said nothing.
His expression showed that, for the first time, his mother’s version of events categorically failed to match the facts. He frowned and put down his spoon, but he did not argue. Instead, he sank into troubled thought.
“Wait,” he said slowly. “Mom told me that she and Vika were paying for the banquet themselves. She said she had only asked you for a little help—about ten thousand for the deposit and a few small things.”
I burst out laughing.
The contrast between the version she had given her son and her actual appetite was phenomenal.
“Pashenka, your mother decided to organize a reception worthy of a diplomatic embassy at our expense.” I patted his hand. “But don’t worry. She has the card. Let her deny herself nothing.”
My husband looked me in the eyes, sighed heavily, and nodded.
Two days remained before the anniversary. The moment had arrived when the main restaurant payment had to be made and the legendary “prestigious sturgeon” had to be collected from the premium seafood supplier.
Zinaida Arkadyevna called me in the morning. Her tone was businesslike, dry, and filled with self-importance.
“Anna, Vika and I are going to the market. We’re collecting the fish, caviar, and farm-raised meat. Then we’re going to the Imperial to pay the remaining balance for the banquet. Remove those ridiculous limits of yours. It will be a large amount.”
“Of course, Mom,” I replied cheerfully. “The limits have been removed. The card is completely at your disposal. Happy shopping!”
I really did open the app and remove all spending limits.
Then I transferred seventeen hundred rubles back out of the account, leaving exactly 850 rubles on the card—enough to buy a couple of kilograms of potatoes and a bunch of dill.
Pasha picked me up during my lunch break.
We sat in a small café across from my office, sheltering from the summer heat. I drank cold lemonade with ice and watched the clock.
The finale of our educational story was rapidly approaching.
At 12:45, my phone came alive.
A bank message read: “Declined. Insufficient funds. Sea Pearl Eco-Market. Amount: 32,400 rubles.”
Pasha and I exchanged glances. The sturgeon had spectacularly slipped off the hook.
A second later, the phone rang. I switched on the speaker.
“Anya!” The receiver erupted with an outraged scream mixed with the noise of a crowd and the hum of powerful refrigerators. “What’s happening?! Why was the payment declined?!”
“Zinaida Arkadyevna? What happened?” I filled my voice with maximum concern.
“The card won’t go through!” my mother-in-law shouted hysterically. “The fish is lying here! And the caviar! The cured fish! There’s a line behind me, people are staring, and the seller is complaining! Do something!”
I pictured the scene: a premium eco-market filled with people escaping the summer heat in expensive, pale linen suits, and display cases covered in ice upon which royal fish rested.
And Zinaida Arkadyevna, red with indignation, striking the payment terminal with a piece of black plastic.
“Mom,” Pasha said loudly and calmly, leaning toward the phone’s microphone. “What are you buying for thirty-two thousand?”
For a second, the woman on the other end fell into a deep stupor, broken only by the beeping of checkout machines. My mother-in-law clearly had not expected to hear her son’s voice.
“Pasha? You’re supposed to be on a business trip!” she said in confusion.
“I’m back,” my husband replied firmly. “So what are you buying, Mom? You told me that you only needed ten thousand for the deposit and a few small things.”
“I… we… it’s for the family! It’s an anniversary!” my mother-in-law began squirming, losing her royal composure.
She began speaking more quickly, swallowing her words.
“The sturgeon is prestigious! How am I supposed to look people in the eye?! Pasha, transfer the money immediately! Vika, take out your wallet instead of just standing there!”
My sister-in-law’s squeaky voice sounded in the background:
“I don’t have any money! I thought Anya was paying!”
The sound of retreating high heels clicked through the speaker.
I could clearly imagine Vika backing away from the checkout counter like a frightened hermit crab desperately searching for an empty shell in which to hide from harsh reality.
“Pasha!” my mother-in-law shouted into the phone. “Pay for it!”
“Mom, Anya and I have already bought you a good robot vacuum cleaner as a present,” Pasha said firmly. “We’ve exhausted our budget for your anniversary. Pay for your prestigious banquet yourself.”
“But I wasn’t planning to spend my savings! I don’t have that much on my card right now!” Zinaida Arkadyevna said desperately.
“Then, dear Mom,” I joined in with a velvety voice, “put the sturgeon back on the ice. Buy some pollock. It’s also very tasty when fried in batter.”
I took a sip of lemonade.
“By the way, there are 850 rubles on the card. That should be enough for a couple of kilograms.”
“You… you’re mocking me! I never want to see either of you again!” my mother-in-law shouted furiously before hanging up.
Pasha and I leaned back in our chairs.
My husband shook his head, but a faint smile played across his lips. If you try to organize a luxurious celebration at someone else’s expense, be prepared to be offered pollock at the crucial moment.
Naturally, that was not the end. The restaurant remained.
An hour later, another notification arrived.
Declined. Imperial Restaurant. Amount: 75,000 rubles.
She did not call again. She had no way to pay the remaining balance, and her pride prevailed.
According to the restaurant’s strict booking conditions, the deposit was nonrefundable.
There were two days left before the anniversary, and Zinaida Arkadyevna had to urgently call all the guests and move the celebration to her country house, buying food with her own hard-earned savings, from which she parted with almost physical pain.
Instead of the pretentious hall at the Imperial, the guests gathered on the veranda. Instead of crystal chandeliers, there were country-house light bulbs around which July moths were already circling.
And instead of masterpieces of haute cuisine, the tables were covered with the stern classics of a low-budget feast.
Pasha and I arrived on time, presented her with the box containing the robot vacuum cleaner, and modestly sat at the end of the table.
Zinaida Arkadyevna sat at the head of the table. She was wearing an old burgundy dress because Vika, having lost her source of sponsorship, had not only failed to buy herself a new outfit but had also refused to lend her mother any money.
My sister-in-law sat with a dissatisfied expression, poking at the food on her plate with her fork. The relationship between mother and daughter had developed a serious crack the moment Vika fled from the checkout counter at the fish market.
But the most wonderful part was the menu.
I surveyed the table.
There was a bowl of crab salad that had begun to melt in the summer heat. Thick slices of cervelat sausage. Last year’s pickled pattypan squash, hastily retrieved from the country-house cellar. Hot homemade cutlets dripping with oil and consisting of almost fifty percent bread.
No sturgeon. No caviar.
With a mournful expression, my mother-in-law chewed an ordinary fried chicken leg. She tried to keep her back straight and hold her little finger away from her hand, but the chicken bone she was clutching mercilessly destroyed her image as a sophisticated socialite.
“What wonderful chicken, Zinaida Arkadyevna,” I said loudly enough for all the guests to hear, happily crunching on a cucumber. “It simply melts in your mouth!”
My mother-in-law shot me a scorching look.
“I did my best,” she muttered irritably without looking in my direction.
“Where’s the fish?” asked Aunt Valya innocently. She was my mother-in-law’s cousin and had traveled from Voronezh. “Zinka, you talked my ears off on the phone about some kind of sturgeon! I deliberately didn’t eat anything this morning because I was saving room for it!”
Everyone around the table fell silent at once and stared at their plates. Vika lowered her eyes. Pasha coughed into his fist to hide his laughter.
Zinaida Arkadyevna’s face turned a deep crimson. The façade she had so carefully constructed was collapsing in front of her astonished relatives from Voronezh.
“The sturgeon…” my mother-in-law swallowed nervously. “Sturgeon isn’t fashionable anymore. It’s heavy food. Doctors strictly forbid it in hot weather. We have a dietary menu today! Healthy eating!”
“Really?” Aunt Valya drawled disappointedly, spearing a chunk of pork fat with her fork. “Well, if it’s a diet, it’s a diet. I thought we were going to live it up.”
I leaned toward my mother-in-law.
“Zinaida Arkadyevna,” I whispered with the sweetest smile I could produce, “could you return my card? I have to pay the utility bills tomorrow, and you still have it.”
My mother-in-law froze. Her face twisted into the grimace of someone who had just watched a fly fall into a glass of expensive champagne.
Without saying a word, she opened her handbag, extracted my respectable black card with trembling fingers, and threw it onto the table beside a serving plate upon which a half-eaten chicken carcass lay abandoned.
“Take it,” she said irritably. “It’s useless anyway.”
“Why would you say that?” I carefully picked up the card, wiped it with a napkin, and placed it in my wallet.
I looked at her with satisfaction and added:
“It was extremely useful. It helped all of us understand that family generosity ends where personal savings begin. And you must admit, the lesson cost us very little.”
Zinaida Arkadyevna never asked me for money again. Not even as a loan. Apparently, the memory of standing over a pile of unpaid fish was stronger than her natural audacity.
And now, the only person who cooks prestigious sturgeon in our home is me—for my husband, on holidays, and exclusively with my own money.
You don’t serve someone else’s wallet with good fish.
