On Friday evening, Artyom came home carrying twelve pairs of disposable slippers.
Polina was just unpacking her bag after work and at first thought her husband was getting ready to do a deep cleaning with a whole team. But Artyom neatly lined the purchases up by the shoe rack and headed to the kitchen, looking very pleased with himself.
“Are slippers cheaper in bulk now?” she asked.
“I got them for Sunday. So there’s enough for everyone.”
“Everyone—who exactly is everyone?”
Artyom grabbed a bottle of mineral water from the fridge, took a few swigs, and then finally shared the news: on Sunday, the family was coming over. His father, Viktor Pavlovich, was turning sixty-five. It was a big milestone, so Artyom decided to host a full family dinner.
Polina stopped zipping up her bag.
“And why am I only hearing about this from the slippers?”
“I was going to tell you. I just hadn’t found the time yet.”
Turns out, invitations had already gone out two weeks ago.
Artyom’s parents, his sister Oksana with her husband Denis and their two kids, his cousin Sergey with his wife Irina and their two kids, plus Aunt Lidia with her husband were all coming. That made twelve guests.
With the hosts, that’s fourteen people in total.
“When did you decide we were throwing a banquet?” Polina asked.
“What banquet? Just a regular family dinner. We have plenty of space.”
They really did have plenty of room.
Five years ago, the couple bought a spacious four-room apartment. They sold their two one-bedroom places from before the marriage, pooled their savings, and took out a small mortgage they were still paying. The new apartment had a bedroom, a living room, a study with a fold-out couch, and a separate guest room.
Polina loved this apartment. After cramped one-bedrooms, it was especially nice that everyone finally had their own space.
But, as it turned out, Artyom considered the extra square meters a good reason to open an at-home restaurant.
And apparently, this restaurant was supposed to run with just one employee.
Polina got along fine with her husband’s relatives.
Viktor Pavlovich was an easygoing man, never interfered in family matters, and could talk about fishing for hours, without realizing that his conversation partner had already finished three cups of tea and gone to the store.
Her relationship with Galina Semyonovna, her mother-in-law, was also perfectly decent. They weren’t trying to become best friends, but they could have conversations without hints or debates about who owed whom.
So the anniversary itself didn’t bother Polina at all.
If Artyom had suggested getting together ahead of time, they could’ve agreed on a menu, split expenses, ordered some food, or even celebrated the birthday at a café.
But her husband had already made all the decisions.
“So what did you promise everyone?” Polina clarified.
“A nice spread. Meat, salads, potatoes. And your pie, of course.”
“Which of my pies?”
“That one, with meat. The one you made for New Year’s.”
Polina remembered the pie.
It took almost half a day to make. She made the dough from scratch, prepped the filling, and then had to scrub the baking tray because the meat juices had overflowed and dripped onto the bottom of the oven.
“And who did you promise it to?”
“Everyone. Dad really loves it.”
Polina sat down on a stool.
— Artyom, do you even realize how much food you need to make for fourteen people?
— It doesn’t have to be fourteen dishes! Two salads, a main course, some appetizers. Sandwiches for the kids. We can make some fruit drink. We’ve got that big oven tray.
Turns out my husband already had the menu planned out—in his head, at least. No shopping list, no ingredient estimates, and zero clue about how long the cooking would actually take.
But what he lacked in preparation, he certainly made up for in optimism.
And that wasn’t even all the news yet.
Artyom invited Oksana and her husband and kids to stay the night. Since they live a hundred kilometers away, it’s too much of a hassle to drive back in the evening.
He told his parents, too, that they didn’t have to return to their village after the party.
And to Sergey, he suggested coming earlier—with the kids in tow.
Polina slowly counted up how many people would be sleeping over.
Six people.
So on Sunday evening, not only would she need to feed all the guests, but she’d also have to prepare three beds, gather sheets and towels, and make sure everyone gets breakfast in the morning.
— Did you even ask if I’m free this weekend?
— What have you got going on?
— Inventory at work tomorrow. I won’t be home before nine. On Sunday, I scheduled a haircut, plus I was going to sort through some work documents.
Polina manages a pharmacy, so inventory means spending the whole day on her feet surrounded by boxes, invoices, and employees—each one increasingly convinced by evening that any missing packs of medicine were hiding from them personally.
After a Saturday like that, all she wanted was to relax, not compete in a vegetable-chopping marathon.
— Well, your haircut is in the morning, — Artyom pointed out.
— So what?
— Nothing. There’s still plenty of time.
He spoke with the confidence of someone who has never actually cooked a full dinner for a big group.
In eight years of marriage, Polina had rescued her husband more than once.
Artyom could realize the day before a friend’s birthday that he’d forgotten about a gift. Polina would find something suitable, order delivery, and wrap it up.
He might invite friends over to watch football with just a couple hours’ notice to his wife. She’d pull together food, dream up some snacks, and dig out extra plates.
He once promised homemade kebabs to his coworkers at their dacha, but the morning of the event, nobody had bought meat and the grill was still at the neighbor’s place.
Polina saved the day that time, too.
The problem was, Artyom hadn’t noticed for ages just how much she was saving the day.
He just assumed everything sorted itself out on its own.
But lately, Polina was becoming more and more aware that after these gatherings, her husband would relax, the guests would thank them, and she’d be cleaning up the kitchen late into the night.
This time, she didn’t want to follow the same old script.
— Here’s how it is, — she said. — No need to cancel the anniversary. Since you’ve invited everyone, let them come. I’ll congratulate your dad, join the table, chat with the family. But the shopping, the cooking, the cleaning, and arranging the sleepover—that’s all your responsibility.
Artyom smirked.
— Are you serious?
— Absolutely.
— Polina, don’t start. We’re a family.
— Exactly. And that’s why it would be nice if you’d ask your family member before assigning her all the work.
He still tried to pin down exactly what his wife was refusing to do.
Turned out, it was pretty much everything he’d already planned for her to handle in his head.
“I didn’t invite them. And no one can make promises on my behalf,” Polina explained.
Her husband just shrugged.
He didn’t believe her.
By Sunday, he figured his wife would calm down, look at the groceries, remember that the guests were waiting for her pie, and start cooking.
That had happened before.
On Saturday morning, Artyom headed to the hypermarket.
Polina had left for inventory even earlier.
In the afternoon, her husband sent her a photo of two huge shopping bags.
Right after, she got a message:
“Did a big shop. This will definitely be enough.”
Polina replied with a brief “Okay” and went back to counting up the medicine supplies.
That evening, when she came home almost at nine, she noticed the fridge was much fuller.
Artyom had bought four kinds of sausage, two types of cheese, two kilos of pork, cucumbers, soda, a cake, olives, and a jar of marinated mushrooms.
Sitting on the table was a receipt so long, it could have taken the place of a holiday garland.
But there were no potatoes.
Or eggs.
No greens, bread, or mayonnaise either.
Polina examined the groceries.
“So, what exactly were you planning to make the salads out of?”
Artyom, who was standing over the cutting board, paused to think.
“Well, we’ve got cucumbers.”
“I can see that.”
“And sausage.”
“And the rest?”
“I’ll pick up whatever else we need tomorrow.”
He looked down at the pork, then at his phone, which had a recipe for roast meat open.
“Hey, it says here you need to marinate it for a few hours.”
“That means you’ll have to marinate it.”
“What if I just roast it straight away?”
“You’ll end up with a different kind of meat.”
Artyom flipped the meat over, as if hoping to find a simpler set of instructions on the other side.
“It also says two kilos isn’t enough for fourteen people.”
Polina didn’t answer.
She had asked her husband that very question back on Friday.
At the time, he had confidently explained that nobody would eat half a kilo of meat.
Now, it turned out that there were quite a few options between half a kilo per person and a few thin slices.
Polina took the last two eggs from their stash, made herself an omelet, and put the kettle on.
Artyom watched her, clearly expecting something.
“Maybe you can at least help with the marinade?”
“You’ve got the recipe open.”
“But you know how to make it even tastier.”
“I do. But today I’m really tired.”
She had her dinner, cleaned up her plate, and went to relax.
A while later, from the kitchen came:
“Do we have any mustard?”
“Check the fridge door.”
“Found it!”
Twenty minutes later, her husband asked where the roasting sleeve was kept.
Polina named the drawer.
Then she closed the bedroom door.
That night, Artyom got so friendly with the marinade that he could still smell it even after his shower.
On Sunday morning, Polina woke up to the sound of a falling lid.
The clock read half past eight.
Artyom was already busy in the kitchen.
Overnight, the meat had marinated. It was roasting now, and her husband was trying to slice ingredients and figure out what else he needed for the salads—all at the same time.
Polina peeked into the kitchen.
Near the kettle was a pile of cucumber peels. The kitchen scale was sitting in the sink. On the cutting board, slices of sausage, cheese, and an open jar of mushrooms were squeezed together.
She was especially intrigued by the salad bowl filled with chopped cucumbers.
— What’s this going to be?
— Not sure yet. Still figuring out what to fill it with.
— Got it.
Polina had breakfast, got ready, and headed to the hairdresser just as she had planned.
Before she left, Artyom asked her:
— Will you be back by one?
— Around then.
He suddenly perked up.
Apparently, he assumed that one o’clock would be the magical time when the salads would appear.
But Polina came home without groceries and with no intention of stepping into the kitchen.
At least she had a fresh, neat haircut.
Artyom looked at her, then at the kitchen, then back at her.
— Looks nice, he said, not sounding especially enthusiastic.
The parents arrived at ten minutes to two.
Lunch was set for two, but Viktor Pavlovich always liked to be early. He believed it was better to sit and wait an extra hour than have to tell everyone about traffic jams later.
Galina Semenovna was the first to notice there was no festive table yet.
In the living room, clean plates were stacked, and the napkins were still in their packaging.
The kitchen smelled of roasted meat.
— You haven’t set the table yet? his mother-in-law asked in surprise.
Artyom peeked out from the kitchen.
— I’m almost done. Just a few little things left.
Galina Semenovna went to have a look at these ‘little things.’
A minute later, she returned.
— Where are the salads?
— I’ll make them now.
— And the potatoes?
— Need to buy them.
— Artyom, guests will arrive in forty minutes.
— I know, Mom.
His mother-in-law turned to look at Polina.
Polina had already congratulated Viktor Pavlovich and handed him a present — a good thermos for fishing. His old one had been leaking for a while, so Polina picked out a new one a week before anyone even mentioned the anniversary.
— Polina, are you not cooking today? Galina Semenovna asked carefully.
— No. I didn’t invite them, so I’m neither cooking nor serving, Polina replied calmly. Artyom decided to throw the party, so he’s in charge. I’ll happily welcome the guests, but I’m not part of the kitchen crew.
At first, her mother-in-law frowned.
Artyom looked at his wife as if she’d just overturned the order he’d planned in his head.
— Polina, but my mom is here. Can you just give in already?
— What’s supposed to change just because your mom arrived?
Galina Semenovna wasn’t in a hurry to step in.
She clarified when everything had been agreed on.
That’s when everyone realized — there were no agreements at all.
Her son explained about the invitations, the overnight stay, the pie, and the promised table.
His mother listened and then unexpectedly asked:
— Did you tell Polina two weeks ago?
— On Friday.
— Why?
— Well, I thought we’d have time.
— So you thought about it, but she was the one who was supposed to get it all done?
Artyom didn’t have an answer.
His mother-in-law took off her jacket and hung it in the hallway.
— I see. Well then, let’s see how you handle hosting.
— Mom!
— What? You invited us. I want to see what you’ve learned in thirty-seven years.
Viktor Pavlovich, who was checking out his new thermos, smiled.
— Let him try! At his age, I was already making fish soup for twenty people.
— Yeah, you made it in the big pot at the country house, his wife reminded him, — and then you spent three days telling everyone how tired you were.
— Because I really was tired.
For the first time that morning, Polina laughed.
By two o’clock, the apartment was full of people.
Oksana arrived first with her husband and kids. Right after them, Sergey came in with his wife Irina and their two boys. Aunt Lydia and her husband showed up last.
Everyone congratulated Viktor Pavlovich, hung up their coats, and started asking where they could put their things.
Artyom noticed for the first time how all the questions Polina used to answer have a way of piling up.
Oksana needed a spot to put her travel bag.
Her younger son wanted to eat immediately—he’d been promised sandwiches in the car.
Aunt Lydia asked where she could wash her hands.
Sergey wanted to know where to put the drinks he’d brought.
Denis wondered if there was an extension cord for charging his phone.
Each of these questions on its own was completely normal.
But as soon as Artyom answered one, three more popped up.
He was opening the fridge, running to the hallway, searching for clean glasses—all at once.
Meanwhile, Polina sat next to Viktor Pavlovich, showing him pictures from their last trip to the lake.
She wasn’t ignoring the guests.
She asked Oksana how the kids finished the school year, chatted with Irina about work, and helped the birthday boy figure out his new thermos.
But she didn’t go to the kitchen.
Oksana was the first to piece together what was happening.
“Artyom, you promised mom’s pie. Where is it?”
“Didn’t work out.”
“What do you mean?”
“Polina didn’t make it.”
His sister turned to her sister-in-law.
“Are you sick?”
“No. Artyom just forgot to ask if I planned to bake it.”
Oksana looked at her brother.
“So, you invited everyone two weeks ago, but only told her on Friday?”
“Don’t you start, too!”
“I’m not starting anything. I just want to know where the promised lunch is.”
In the end, Oksana took charge of the salads.
Not because she thought Polina was obliged to help, but because the kids were already asking for food and the store was close by.
Sergey and Denis quickly made a list of missing groceries.
They had to buy potatoes, bread, eggs, herbs, mayonnaise, and a few more things. Sergey also brought back ready-made chickens from the deli, so there’d be enough hot food for everyone.
Artyom immediately transferred the money his brother had spent from his own account.
Galina Semyonovna started setting out the dishes.
Denis peeled the potatoes and put them on to boil.
Despite his wife’s protests, Viktor Pavlovich sliced the bread himself.
“Dad, you’re the birthday boy,” Artyom suddenly remembered.
“Exactly. At sixty-five, I’d like to finally get a sandwich without waiting until dinner.”
Aunt Lydia arranged the appetizers, and Irina helped Oksana finish the salads.
Artyom, meanwhile, was running the show like someone suddenly appointed station manager before three trains depart.
And of course, he didn’t have the schedules.
Polina watched everything without a hint of gloating.
She even felt a little sorry for her husband.
He really was trying his best.
The meat he made turned out pretty decent, even if it wasn’t as tender as he’d hoped. He sliced the cold cuts and cheese carefully. The cake he bought was delicious.
But Artyom just couldn’t understand why all this food didn’t magically turn into a festive table.
It turned out that someone had to wash the veggies, get the right dishes, find the utensils, put drinks in to chill, heat up the main course, remember the bread, and make sure the kids had something to eat before lunch.
By three o’clock, the table was finally set.
On the table there were two salads, potatoes, roasted pork, store-bought chicken, various cold cuts, vegetables, and snacks.
Instead of homemade fruit drink, there was juice and soda.
And instead of the promised pie, there was a cake.
When everyone took their seats, Artyom was the first to confess to his father:
“Dad, I couldn’t pull off the pie. I promised it, but just couldn’t manage to make it.”
Viktor Pavlovich tried the meat.
“It’s fine. I honestly came for the birthday, not to check on your pie.”
For some reason, that simple remark hit Artyom harder than any of his wife’s criticisms.
He had spent two days pretending the most important thing was to feed everyone with homemade dishes.
But his father—the one he planned everything for—just wanted to see the family.
Soon, talk at the table shifted to old family stories.
Aunt Lidia recalled how little Artyom once tried to make breakfast for his mom and boiled pasta without putting any water in the pot.
Oksana added that after that, her brother kept claiming it was the stove that didn’t work right.
Polina was also laughing.
Artyom tried to argue back, but he couldn’t win.
The celebration slowly turned into what it was meant to be—noisy, fun, a little chaotic, and full of conversations and family jokes.
After lunch, Polina snapped a photo of Viktor Pavlovich with his children and grandchildren.
Then she took four of the youngest guests outside. They had time to play ball and explore the playground while the adults enjoyed their tea.
When Polina came back in, she found people already clearing the dishes in the kitchen.
Artyom was standing at the sink.
He looked at his wife, but didn’t ask for any help.
By evening, it was clear that the real challenge was still ahead.
Sergey and his family and Aunt Lidia with her husband went home.
Left behind were Artyom’s parents and Oksana’s family—six overnight guests.
Oksana’s kids were already yawning, Denis wanted to take a shower, and Galina Semyonovna was looking for a place to put her medicine for the night.
Suddenly, Artyom remembered he had promised everyone a comfortable place to sleep.
There was a fold-out sofa in the guest room for his parents.
Oksana and Denis could stay in the living room.
The kids could use the couch in the office.
Furniture wasn’t the issue.
The real problem was that the bed linens didn’t find their way to the right rooms on their own.
Artyom took the sets out of the closet and started spreading them out.
But in the second room, he realized one duvet cover was too narrow for the chosen blanket.
He had to swap it out.
Then, they needed extra towels.
Next, his youngest nephew asked for a glass of water.
Then Oksana asked where she could leave the kids’ jackets so they wouldn’t get mixed up with everyone else’s things in the morning.
Artyom answered, pointed things out, fetched what was needed, and kept heading off to help again.
Polina was chatting with Galina Semyonovna in the living room.
“Listen,” his mother-in-law suddenly said, “I used to finish up everything for Viktor too. He’d invite guests, and then I’d be sorting dishes for two days.”
Polina smiled.
“So how did you stop?”
— Not right away. One time I asked him to organize a get-together with his classmates by himself. For a month afterward, he kept talking about how tough it was to pick out meat for the barbecue. Even though he’d grilled before.
Galina Semyonovna fell silent.
— Artem didn’t mean anything by it, of course. He’s just used to you always making everything work out.
— I still do make things work out. I just don’t want to do it for everyone.
Her mother-in-law nodded.
She decided not to give her daughter-in-law a lecture on women’s wisdom.
And for that, Polina was especially grateful.
By eleven at night, the guests had all retreated to their rooms.
In the kitchen, dirty baking sheets, a pot from the potatoes, cutting boards, knives, glasses, and a mountain of dishes were left behind.
Artem opened the dishwasher.
It was already full.
A second load would have to go in after the first was done.
Some of the larger items would have to be washed by hand.
He stood in front of the sink for a moment, then reached for the sponge.
Polina came over to fill a glass with water.
— You going to bed? he asked.
— Yes. I have to get up early tomorrow.
— Alright.
He didn’t ask for help.
He just wiped his forehead with his wrist, leaving a tiny drop of water.
— I always thought you just loved cooking, he said suddenly.
— I do love cooking. When I actually want to.
— I’ve realized that now.
Polina looked at the overflowing sink.
— And when someone asks me in advance.
Artem nodded.
But the conversation ended there.
He still had a lot to think about before it all really sank in.
On Monday morning, Artem was the first one up.
There were just a few things left to tidy up after the night’s cleaning. The fridge still held the leftovers from the celebration, but it clearly wasn’t enough to feed eight people breakfast.
Artem found the eggs Sergei had bought the day before, took out bread, cheese, milk, and set a frying pan on the stove.
By half past eight, omelet, sandwiches, tea, and coffee were on the table.
No fancy restaurant spread.
But everything was ready on time.
Polina stepped out of the bedroom, already dressed for work.
— Oh, breakfast.
— Yeah. The omelet turned out a bit dry though.
— We’ll survive.
Galina Semyonovna tried the omelet and praised her son.
Artem even smiled.
Then he gathered up all the dirty dishes himself.
Just before leaving, Oksana lingered in the hallway.
— Hey, brother, she said quietly while her husband took the bags out to the car. — Next time, book a restaurant.
— Very funny.
— I’m serious. Or at least talk things over with Polina beforehand. You told me two weeks ago that everything was set. So I assumed you’d worked it out together.
Artem zipped up his nephew’s coat.
— I honestly thought it wasn’t anything complicated.
— Got a different perspective now?
He glanced over toward the kitchen.
— More than you know.
Oksana didn’t add anything.
For her, the issue was settled.
For Artem, though, it looked like it was just beginning.
That evening, Polina came home from work to a spotless kitchen.
Not just clean dishes.
Artem had put away all the leftover food, packed up the folding couches, tossed the bedding into the wash, and taken out the trash.
There was a note on the table.
Polina took a look.
Her husband had made a list of everything he’d had to do over the past two days.
It included shopping, meal prep, setting the table, cleaning, overnight arrangements, breakfast, and a whole bunch of other tasks.
At the very end, he wrote: ‘Next time—let’s agree first.’
continued in the comments.
‘Why did you do that?’ she asked.
Artyom came out of the bathroom with a towel over his shoulder.
‘So I won’t forget.’
‘You could’ve just asked without making a list.’
‘I could. But honestly, I didn’t even notice half the things you were doing.’
He sat down across from her.
‘When the guests left, I thought the party turned out pretty well. Then I realized you’re usually the one doing everything, while I’m busy chatting with everyone.’
Polina didn’t say anything.
It mattered to her that her husband was finally bringing this up himself.
‘And another thing,’ Artyom continued, ‘I shouldn’t have promised you’d make the pie. Or promised anything at all.’
‘I completely agree with you on that.’
‘I’m sorry.’
She accepted his apology.
But she didn’t make a big deal out of their reconciliation.
Ordinary life was waiting ahead, and what really mattered was not the pretty words, but how Artyom would act the next time.
The following months were pretty uneventful.
Artyom didn’t become a cooking enthusiast. He still preferred a good steak to ready-made pizza, but wasn’t in a hurry to cook that steak every weekend, either.
However, he did start approaching household chores differently.
Now, if he wanted to invite someone over, he discussed it with his wife first.
One time, his friends were planning to drop by after football. Artyom ordered the food himself and tidied up the kitchen after they left.
Polina was even a bit surprised, but didn’t comment on it.
Three months later, his birthday was coming up.
One evening Artyom peeked into the room where Polina was working at her computer.
‘I was thinking of inviting a few friends over on Saturday. Maybe eight people. Are you okay with that?’
Polina looked away from her screen.
‘At our place?’
‘Yes. Nobody needs to cook, though. I already found a place to order food. We can get appetizers, hot dishes, even a cake.’
‘What about dishes?’
‘We have enough. I counted them yesterday.’
‘And cleaning up?’
‘That’s on me.’
‘What if someone wants to stay overnight?’
‘Then we’ll discuss it first. But so far, no one has said anything.’
Polina looked at her husband for a moment.
‘Alright. Go ahead and invite them.’
On Saturday, Artyom really did organize everything himself.
The food arrived on time. There were enough drinks. He even bought ice ahead of time instead of waiting until someone asked for cold water.
There were even small plates for the cake on the table—before, Polina always had to search for them during tea.
She genuinely enjoyed the evening.
She chatted with the guests, laughed, took photos of the birthday boy.
Artyom took care of serving the food himself and later loaded the dishwasher.
Right before the friends arrived, Polina noticed a pack of disposable slippers by the shoe rack.
‘Stocked up again?’
‘Eight pairs,’ her husband replied. ‘One for each guest this time.’
‘So you finally learned to count?’
‘I could always count. I just thought everything else was as easy, too.’
Polina smirked.
‘You don’t think that anymore?’
Artyom checked the time, made sure the delivery had already arrived, and said:
‘Now, I figure out how much work it’s going to be first. Only then do I invite the guests.’
By the way, after his birthday, Viktor Pavlovich called Polina a few more times to thank her for the thermos.
And not once did he mention the pie that never got made.
But every time he talked to Artyom, he made sure to remind him how wonderful the birthday turned out. What he loved most was how the whole family came together to cook.
One day, he even asked his son to write down the recipe for the baked pork.
Artyom sent him a link to the exact recipe he’d studied on that Saturday evening, and then added:
“Just make sure to start cooking early. Trust me on this one.”
Polina read this conversation and burst out laughing.
After all, she never had anything against family celebrations.
She just wished that those who loved gathering everyone around one table would sometimes remember: there’s a lot of work between the words ‘invite guests’ and ‘feed everyone.’
And that work doesn’t always have to be done by the woman who forgot to mention she’s got a shift at the home restaurant this Sunday.