For seventeen years, Oleg’s classmates have made our home their regular meeting spot. Five weeks before the big anniversary, my husband decided, right in front of everyone, to point out just how much my help actually meant. I didn’t argue—I simply cleared some things from the table that weren’t food at all.
“Vera doesn’t understand the important things. She just sits at the table, checking what’s being served. That’s what she does best,” Oleg said with a laugh.
We had five people around the table. None of them backed him up right away, but he didn’t seem to mind. Oleg was laughing so confidently, as if he’d just told the most hilarious story about his own wife.
Lidia looked away. Boris twirled a pen in his fingers. Gennady, who just a minute ago had been talking about renting a projector, stared at his tally sheet.
I sat across from my husband, gazing at the paper layout for the table arrangements.
We weren’t just planning an ordinary gathering.
In five weeks, it would be thirty-five years since their graduation. Oleg went to university with these people, and I joined their circle later on, after we got married.
For the past seventeen years, nearly every annual get-together has happened at our place.
At first, it was just chance. Someone couldn’t book a café, someone else had sick kids, and I offered—twelve people could fit just fine in our living room.
The next year, fourteen people showed up.
Then it was eighteen.
People started bringing spouses. Someone brought their grown daughter one year because they had no one to babysit her child. One time, an old classmate of Oleg’s arrived from Tyumen—it had been nearly twenty years since they last saw him.
The group grew, changed, thinned out, and always came back together.
And every year, about a month before the reunion, the calls would start.
Who’s coming.
Who can’t make it.
Who needs to avoid spicy food.
Who’s taking the train and needs help finding a hotel.
Who got the date mixed up again.
Who promised to bring photos and will absolutely forget.
Who has a new phone number.
Who needs two reminders, and who’s better off not being called during work.
I didn’t keep track of all this because of some amazing memory. It was just years of taking notes.
For the big anniversary, around thirty people were expected. That night, we gathered a small planning team: Lidia and Boris, Gennady, and Irina.
Oleg was supposed to handle the program and main toasts. Boris volunteered to find a projector. Gennady was on photo duty, bringing pictures from their university days.
I was gathering RSVPs, thinking through seating, food, and everyone’s arrival time.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
Until Lidia said:
“Vera, will you finally join us at the table from the beginning this time? For as long as I can remember, you always vanish for the first two hours—greeting guests, in the kitchen, moving the tables around.”
“I’ll try to get everything ready in advance.”
“You say that every year,” Lidia smiled. “If it weren’t for you, our reunions would’ve ended ages ago, with just a message saying, ‘we should get together sometime’.”
Oleg winced.
I noticed, because after thirty-one years, I knew his face by heart.
“Don’t exaggerate, Lida,” he said. “People don’t come just for Vera’s herring.”
“I’m not talking about the herring.”
— What’s the big deal? It doesn’t take a genius to call people and set up some plates.
Lidia was about to reply, but Oleg had already turned his eyes on me.
— Vera doesn’t understand serious matters. She just likes sitting at the table and checking out what’s being served. That’s what she does best.
And he laughed.
Before this evening, Oleg used to joke about me in front of friends too. Sometimes his jokes missed the mark. Sometimes they were just unpleasant.
But before, there was always just enough room in his words for him to later say, ‘It didn’t come out right.’
Now, he looked around at everyone, eager for recognition of his wit.
— Oleg, that’s enough, — Irina said.
He waved her off.
— Everyone’s so sensitive these days. We’ve known each other thirty years and you can’t say a word.
I stood up from the table.
— Vera, where are you going? — Lidia asked.
— I’ll be right back.
I went to the kitchen and opened the bottom drawer where we kept trash bags.
I pulled out the biggest, newest one.
Then I went back to the room.
Oleg glanced at the bag.
— You decided to start cleaning up in the middle of the conversation?
I didn’t answer him.
On the top shelf of the cupboard was a box of things we used at almost every get-together. I took it down.
First into the bag went a long garland with numbers. We only ever swapped out the last digits, so some of the pieces had been reused many times.
Then the plastic frames for old photos.
Table signs.
Two power strips.
A box of clothespins for hanging up the pictures.
A roll of heavy paper, which we usually used to label the photos.
Lidia watched me do this, looking more and more worried.
— Vera, what are you doing?
— Packing up things for the anniversary.
— In a trash bag?
— It’s new and big. The box is falling apart.
Oleg smirked.
— Here comes the show.
I took a folder from the drawer of the dresser that held the current planning. It had a list of confirmed attendees, some phone numbers, a seating chart, and notes about what people promised to bring.
I placed the folder in front of Lidia.
— Everything that’s been gathered so far is here. Seventeen people have confirmed for sure. Six more are thinking about it. There are phone numbers next to the names.
Lidia didn’t take the folder.
— Why are you giving this to me?
— Because the anniversary is in five weeks.
— I remember the date. What I don’t understand is something else.
— I’m not organizing it anymore.
Oleg laughed again, but this time it was shorter.
— There you go. Now it’s a protest.
Boris looked at him.
— If I were you, I wouldn’t be making any jokes right now.
— What did I do? I just said Vera doesn’t handle serious things. It’s true.
I grabbed the bag by the handles and set it down next to Lidia.
— Please take this. You’ll need the stuff.
— Vera, I can’t just take all this with me.
— You can. It was all set aside for these gatherings.
Oleg slid his chair back.
— Leave the bag where it is. No one’s taking anything anywhere.
I turned to him.
— Do you want to organize the anniversary?
— Of course I do. It’s my group.
— Then you will organize it.
— I already am organizing it.
— Now you really will be.
He looked at the others.
— Did you hear that? One little comment and she’s decided to ruin the anniversary.
— I’m not ruining anything. The date is set. The people are set. The venue is still available. I’ve given you the list.
— What do you mean, ‘still’ available?
“If you want to celebrate the anniversary here, go ahead. But I’m not taking care of the food, the calls, guest arrangements, photos, cleaning, or planning the program.”
“You just listed off half the household details.”
“Then it shouldn’t be hard for you.”
Lydia finally picked up the folder.
“Let’s wrap up for today. We’re not going to have a productive discussion anyway.”
She handed the bag to Boris.
Oleg looked at him as if Boris was carrying out a cherished family heirloom.
“Are you seriously going to take that home?”
Boris shrugged.
“Since Vera’s handing it over, I’ll just put it in the car. We’ll sort it out later.”
Ten minutes later, the guests had left.
Oleg walked them to the door and then went back to the room.
The table was left with cups, plates with snacks, and a furniture arrangement plan that Lydia hadn’t noticed.
Oleg picked up the sheet.
“So, what was that all about?”
“You saw everything yourself.”
“I saw an upset woman with a trash bag.”
“Then we were watching different things.”
“Are you planning to put on this act for five weeks?”
“I’m not planning to put on any act.”
“People are going to come here. Are you just going to sit in the bedroom and pretend you don’t notice thirty guests?”
“If you decide to host the gathering here, just let me know in advance how you plan to handle the apartment. I have nothing against guests. I just don’t want to be the one taking care of everything after today’s conversation.”
Oleg stacked the plates one on top of another.
“Did you deliberately choose the word ‘take care’ to sound harsh?”
“I chose it because it’s accurate.”
“Vera, don’t make me laugh. You actually enjoy these gatherings.”
“I do.”
“You like to cook.”
“Sometimes I do.”
“You like when people thank you.”
“I do like it.”
“Then why make this a whole show?”
I looked at my husband.
“Because choosing to do what you love and being someone whose only value is to feed everyone are two very different things.”
“I said something stupid.”
“While the guests were here, you kept insisting you were just being honest.”
“You’re fixating on how I said it.”
He took the plates to the kitchen and came back.
“Fine. Want to prove that everything will fall apart without you?”
“I’m not trying to prove anything.”
“Then what do you want?”
“I want you to organize your own gathering.”
“I will.”
“Great.”
Oleg stood for a few seconds, waiting for more.
But nothing else was said.
“You think I can’t handle it?”
“I think you have five weeks.”
“I’ll only need two.”
“Then all the better.”
He sat at the table, found his phone, and opened the group chat.
For the first time in seventeen years, I didn’t suggest which of his classmates he should call personally.
The first three days, Oleg was almost cheerful.
He set up a menu poll in the chat. Found a catering service. Called someone about renting folding chairs. Made arrangements with Boris for a projector.
On Thursday evening, he showed me his phone screen.
“See? Everything’s moving along.”
“I see.”
“Twenty-two people have confirmed.”
“It’s good that people are responding.”
“The food will be delivered ready to go. No late night cooking till 3 AM.”
“That makes sense.”
“I’ll schedule cleaning for the next day.”
“Also reasonable.”
He frowned.
“You’re not even upset.”
“Was I supposed to be?”
“It’s like you were waiting for something to go wrong.”
“You’re the one who decided I was waiting for anything.”
Oleg could actually handle some tasks faster than I did. He had a habit of calling someone and demanding a clear answer right away. He negotiated prices easily, wasn’t shy about asking follow-up questions, and always managed to make sure people called him back on time.
I never thought my husband was incompetent.
Trouble began when there wasn’t one specific task to focus on.
First, Tamara called me—she’s the wife of Oleg’s university friend, Mikhail.
“Vera, Oleg messaged about the food. Did you tell him that Misha is on a strict diet after his surgery?”
“I’m not handling the menu this time. Message Oleg.”
“I did. He replied there would be plenty of options.”
“Then it’s better if you clarify exactly which options.”
“Previously, I just used to tell you directly.”
“This time, tell him directly.”
Tamara went quiet for a moment.
“Did you two have a fight?”
“We just changed how we split up the responsibilities.”
“Well, that’s quite the way to put it.”
“But it’s accurate.”
An hour later, Yuri from Kaluga called.
“Vera, Nina and I are coming after all. But we’ll be late. Where should we park the car?”
“Yura, message Oleg. He’s handling the arrivals.”
“I messaged him about something else. He said he’d decide on parking later.”
“Then he’ll figure it out.”
“Are you sick?”
“I’m fine.”
“Then why should I ask Oleg about parking?”
“Because this year he’s the organizer.”
Yuri laughed.
“He’s finally been promoted!”
I smiled too.
“This time, I think the role is all his.”
On day six, Oleg asked:
“Where’s your list of spouses?”
“In the folder I gave to Lida.”
“That only has the graduates’ names.”
“I wrote next to each name how many people were planning to come.”
“Two of them have no number.”
“That means they hadn’t responded at the time.”
“Can’t you just tell me who usually brings their wife?”
“I can remember a few, but you’ll still need a definite answer from them.”
“I’m asking you, and you’re giving me a lecture.”
“I’m answering your question.”
He left, annoyed.
The following week, we discovered that Gennady had only collected photos from up to the third year. Pictures from after graduation were with different people. Before, I used to reach out to everyone individually and ask them to send me ten or fifteen photos in advance.
Oleg sent out a general message in the chat.
Two days later, we received one hundred and eight photos.
Half of them had no captions.
Some were sent four times each.
Five people sent photos of their pets.
Someone uploaded a picture of their summer house.
Lidia called me that evening.
“How did you use to sort through the photos?”
“I would ask each person to send photos directly to me, along with the year, location, and who was in the picture.”
“So that’s why everything is labeled in your old collections?”
“Exactly.”
“Where are they now?”
“I have two containers of printed photos at home. I’ve still got digital copies too.”
Lidia fell silent.
“Vera, I have to ask you something, but please don’t get upset.”
“Go ahead.”
“Can you give us the archive? Don’t sort it, don’t make a presentation. Just hand it over so we can handle it ourselves.”
I glanced at the cabinet in my office.
Two transparent containers sat inside.
The first held university photos people had dropped off over the years. The second was full of snapshots from our reunions.
I wanted to say I’d rather keep the archive at home.
Not out of spite.
I was the one who collected these photos. I labeled them all myself. Some of them I even restored at the copy center because the originals had faded.
But then I pictured twenty-five people, none of whom ever said anything demeaning to me, who just wanted to see themselves captured when they were young.
“I’ll give them to you,” I said. “Just come pick them up yourself. I’ll show you how everything is organized.”
“Thank you.”
“Lida, I’m turning over the archive to the group. I’m not coming back to the organization.”
“I understand.”
“It’s important to me that you really understand.”
“Now I understand much better than I did a week ago.”
She came over on Saturday.
I brought the containers into the living room and showed her how the photos were sorted by periods. There was a separate envelope with pictures of the teachers. Another envelope held photographs of classmates who were no longer with us.
Lidia sorted through the captions.
“You did all this yourself?”
“Not right away. It took many years.”
“I thought you just had a box of old snapshots.”
“That’s how it started.”
She found the photo from our very first meeting at my house.
“Look at Oleg in this one.”
In the photo, my husband was standing in the doorway with a tray. I was thirty-eight. I was sitting on the couch between two women, laughing.
“That was still the year he used to carry the food himself,” I said.
Lidia laughed.
“So, there is historical proof!”
I closed the container.
“Don’t make Oleg out to be a villain. He’s just gotten used to things.”
“You defend him quickly.”
“I’m not defending him. For a long time, living that way worked for me too. At some point, it stopped being comfortable for me, but he didn’t notice.”
“After that comment, I wouldn’t have given anything to anyone.”
“Then the punishment would have hit more than just him.”
Lidia looked at me more closely.
“That’s why he’s so sure you’ll end up finishing everything.”
I didn’t like that thought.
Not because it was new to me.
Because Lidia actually said it out loud.
A few days later, we met at Lidia’s place.
She asked me to come for an hour and help figure out which photos needed to be rescanned.
When I arrived, Boris, Gennady, and Irina were already sitting at the table.
Oleg showed up about twenty minutes later.
He saw me, took off his jacket, and smiled.
“There you go, you put up a fight but you came back.”
I kept sorting the photos.
“I’m handing the archive over to Lida.”
“Of course. That’s usually where it starts.”
Lidia looked up.
“Oleg, Vera made it clear from the start she’s just helping with the archive.”
“Lidochka, I’ve lived with her for thirty-one years. I know how these declarations usually end.”
“So far, your expertise isn’t working all that well,” Boris remarked.
Oleg looked at him.
“So, the whole group’s decided to lecture me now?”
“Nobody’s lecturing you. We’re just trying to organize the reunion.”
Oleg sat down.
“The reunion will happen. I’ve taken care of the food, the chairs, and the music. Just a few details left.”
Irina opened her notebook.
“Not just a few. We have twenty-nine confirmed people. Eight are coming as couples. One person is only coming at nine. Two don’t eat meat. Mikhail has specific dietary restrictions. Boris found the projector, but the screen in your living room blocks the way to the kitchen.”
“We’ll move the table.”
“Then we won’t have enough seats.”
“We’ll add more chairs.”
Boris shook his head.
“Thirty-seven people just can’t fit comfortably in your apartment anymore. We never used to have this many, you know.”
“We used to fit even more than that.”
“Oleg, twenty-nine alumni and their spouses already make thirty-seven. Three more are still deciding.”
Oleg looked over at me.
“Vera, what’s the most we’ve ever had?”
I didn’t answer right away.
“Thirty-two.”
“And everyone sat fine.”
“Two left before dinner that time, and four were on folding stools in the hallway.”
“But we still held that reunion.”
“We did.”
He turned to Boris.
“See?”
Lidia closed her folder.
“I suggest we just rent a hall.”
Oleg didn’t get it right away.
“What hall?”
“Boris found a space at the cultural center. Tables, a catering kitchen, a screen, and forty-five seats.”
“We’re marking our thirty-fifth graduation, not hosting it at some neighborhood club.”
“The hall is actually quite nice.”
“We’ve always hosted at home.”
“You’ve been hosting at home for seventeen years,” Lidia said. “Before that, it was somewhere else. This isn’t a state holiday with an official address.”
Oleg looked back at me.
“Is this your idea?”
“I just found out about the hall now.”
“Convenient timing.”
“What does that mean?”
“You organized that little protest of yours, and now the reunion’s getting booted out of our home too.”
I suddenly felt something I didn’t expect.
I felt sad.
Not for Oleg.
For our home.
At these reunions, I always knew where to fit the extra armchair. I knew who’d show up first. I knew Gennady would always peek into the kitchen and ask if I needed anything—and then slip right back out to the others. And I knew Lidia would always leave her bag in the bedroom, because she hates leaving it in the hallway with everyone else’s stuff.
Seventeen years of memories were tied to these rooms.
And now I was the reason the reunion might be leaving.
For a moment, I really wanted to say, “Fine, let’s do it the old way one last time.”
I could already see myself slipping right back into organizing mode.
I’d call the people who hadn’t replied yet.
I’d rearrange the tables.
Order one more folding table.
Split the food delivery into two.
And in five weeks, everyone would say the party was a success.
And Oleg would be standing in the middle of the room again, telling everyone how great we are at bringing people together.
“Vera?” Lidia asked.
I looked at her.
“I think the hall just makes more sense.”
Oleg gave a little smirk.
“Of course.”
“It’s not because we had a fight. There really are more people than we can fit at home.”
“You always managed it before.”
“I used to think it was my responsibility.”
“And now you want to punish everyone.”
Irina put her pen down.
“Oleg, stop. No one’s canceling the reunion. We’re just having it somewhere else.”
“To you, it’s just a venue.”
“And what is it to you?”
He didn’t answer.
I answered for myself:
“It’s not just a venue for me either. I’m sad to see the reunion leave our home.”
Oleg looked at me, no longer smirking.
“Then why are you doing this?”
“Because being sad doesn’t mean we have to keep everything the same.”
We finished with the archives around nine.
I gave Lidia the digital copies and the list of names for the oldest photos.
Then I packed my own bag.
“Vera, wait,” Oleg said. “Let’s go together.”
“Let’s go together. I’m done here.”
“What about the menu?”
“What about it?”
— Irina wants to get approval tomorrow.
— Let her handle the approval.
— But you’re here now.
— I was only here for the archive.
He looked at the others.
— Do you all see how she’s being deliberately stubborn?
Lydia replied before I could:
— I see something else. You still think that if Vera walks into the room, she automatically has to be responsible for everything again.
Oleg stood up.
— I get enough family drama at home.
— Then don’t start it here, — said Boris.
We went home together.
Oleg spent almost the entire ride staring out the window.
At the entrance, he asked:
— Are you happy that they took the meeting away from us?
— No one took it away.
— People have been coming to us for seventeen years.
— I remember that.
— Does that mean nothing to you?
— If it meant nothing to me, it would be a lot easier.
For the first time in two weeks, he didn’t have an immediate reply.
On the anniversary, I woke up at eight.
Before, on such days, I used to get up at around six.
First, I’d check the oven. Then count the chairs. After that, I’d call the person who promised to arrive first and help move the table.
This time the house was quiet.
Oleg left around ten. He had to meet the person with the equipment and help Boris set up the hall.
Before leaving, he peeked into the room.
— What time will you get there?
— By four.
— The event starts at four.
— That’s why I’ll come by four.
— People usually show up earlier.
— I know.
He stood for a moment by the door.
— Lida asked everyone from the organizing team to be there by three.
— I’m not part of the organizing team.
— I remember.
He said that without the usual sarcasm.
When the door closed behind him, I suddenly had a free morning.
Not ceremonial.
Not symbolic.
Just free.
I went to the store for tights I’d forgotten to buy earlier. Then I called my sister. After lunch, I got dressed calmly.
I arrived at the hall without carrying any bags.
That felt more unusual than anything else.
At the entrance, Gennady was trying to hang a poster on the wall.
— Vera, thank goodness. Tell me, what height do you usually hang this at?
— At a height where it’s easy to read.
— Very helpful advice.
— Gen, today I’m a guest.
He laughed.
— I heard. Alright, I’ll develop some independence.
The hall really wasn’t perfect.
One table was crooked.
The name cards were printed far too small.
The catering company delivered the salads almost an hour before the main dishes.
The presentation wouldn’t open on the screen at first.
No one died over it.
People arrived, hung up their coats, found familiar faces, and started talking right there in the hallway.
Lydia ran up to me.
— Vera, you made it. I was afraid you’d change your mind.
— Why would I?
— I don’t know. I just worried.
She hugged me.
— The archive paid off. Gennady spent half the night with it.
— Now he knows why I always started sorting photos early.
— He’s already told everyone he could catch.
Oleg was standing by the projector, talking with two of his college friends.
He noticed me, nodded, but didn’t come over.
I sat down next to Irina.
In the first ten minutes, I wanted to stand up five times.
To straighten the plates.
To rearrange the water bottles.
To ask why the napkins were only on one side.
To check if there were enough forks.
By the sixth time, I caught myself just noticing a problem—without feeling like I had to jump in and fix it.
Boris brought over the napkins himself.
Lidia asked the waiter to add some more cutlery.
One of the men moved the table to a new spot.
The celebration kept on going.
The hot dishes were served closer to six o’clock.
I sat in my place and ate together with everyone else.
I wasn’t just eating after the last person got their salad.
I wasn’t standing near the kitchen table.
I wasn’t grabbing bites in between two trips to the dish cupboard.
Just eating a warm meal felt strangely unfamiliar in my own life.
“You’re sitting unusually well today,” Gennadiy remarked.
“I’m practicing.”
“You’re doing great.”
“Thanks for the moral support.”
Oleg overheard and shot us an unhappy look, but stayed silent.
After the first part, they turned on the photos.
The screen showed classrooms at the institute, the student work crew, dorm life, weddings, kids, and our first gatherings.
Then they got to the photos taken at our house.
In one, Oleg was in the middle of the room, raising his glass.
In another, I was carrying a dish in from the kitchen.
On the third, the two of us were sitting among the guests.
Lidia, who was guiding this part of the evening, said:
“This is where all our years of home gatherings really began. I used to think these parties just happened on their own every year. The past month has really taught me a lot about how these self-sprouting holidays are actually made.”
Everyone laughed.
Oleg smiled, too, though his lips were tight.
“So thank you to everyone who helped carry the load this time,” Lidia continued. “Boris for the venue and tech, Irina for the food, Gennadiy for the photos. And Vera for the archive—without her, half the presentation would’ve just been our cats and garden plots!”
The laughter got even louder.
I raised my hand.
“The cats were very respectable, though.”
Someone shouted from the far table:
“Let’s do a whole evening just for the cats next time!”
The conversation went off in another direction.
No one made a grand speech about my years of hard work.
And to my surprise, I actually liked that.
There was no need to turn me into a martyr just to admit a simple fact: there was work involved.
By nine, everyone was already talking about the next gathering.
Before, this was always decided automatically.
“Oleg, are we meeting at your place again next year like usual?”
This time, Yuriy was the first to ask:
“So, where are we meeting next? This hall seems pretty decent.”
Oleg pushed his glass away.
“Next time we can go back home. Today was the big anniversary, so there’s a lot of people, but a normal gathering is smaller.”
I didn’t say anything.
Lidia looked at Irina.
“I wouldn’t go back to the old way.”
“Why not?” Oleg asked.
“Because this past month, we finally realized how much work we’d been piling on one person every year.”
“We could just hire cleaners and order food.”
“It’s not just about the food.”
Boris chimed in:
“Let’s switch off every year. Whoever’s in charge next picks the place and puts together a small team.”
“So now we’re starting an organizer’s union?” Oleg joked.
“Call it whatever you want. At least this way, no one’s stuck being responsible for seventeen years straight.”
Gennadiy raised his hand.
“I’m in. But I’m never taking on photos again.”
“You’ll take them again in three years, once you forget tonight,” Irina quipped.
The conversation got livelier.
Suggestions were flying from every direction.
Someone wanted to plan a picnic.
Someone suggested opening a small café.
Yuri said that in a year, he and his wife are ready to take on the organizing together.
Oleg was sitting next to me and kept out of the conversation.
After a few minutes, he leaned over.
“Is this what you wanted?”
“What exactly?”
“For us to stop gathering here.”
“I just didn’t want to automatically be in charge of the meeting anymore.”
“It turned out even better. Now, I’m not anyone special here either.”
“You’re a classmate here. I think that’s the whole point of coming together.”
He looked at me.
“That’s easy for you to say.”
“Why?”
“Because this isn’t your group.”
I turned to him.
“That’s exactly why it’s especially interesting that for seventeen years, I did most of the organizing.”
Oleg looked away.
He didn’t argue anymore.
That evening, for the first time, I stayed until the group photo.
Not because I hadn’t been in the photo before.
I had.
It was just that, usually right before the photo, I was being called from the kitchen three times.
This time, I stood next to Lidia while Gennady tried to set the timer and grumbled about his phone.
The photo worked out on the second try.
In the first one, Boris had his eyes closed.
In the second, everyone was looking at the camera.
A normal photo.
No proof of victory needed.
After eleven, people started heading out.
We helped stack chairs, since no one was dividing roles into organizers or guests anymore.
I was gathering empty frames from the tables when I saw Lidia near the stage.
A big black bag was on the floor next to her.
The very same one.
I recognized it by the small tear near the handle. Boris made it that first evening when he caught the bag with the car door, then taped it up with clear tape.
Inside, the garlands, frames, signs, clips and extension cord were all packed up again.
“The bag has survived all the way to the big evening,” I said.
Lidia laughed.
“It’s turned out to be sturdier than half of our plans.”
Yuri walked over with his wife.
“Where’s all this going?”
“To you,” Lidia replied.
He stepped back.
“Why to us?”
“Because you volunteered for next year.”
“I thought that was just a general idea for now.”
“The general idea has already made you responsible.”
His wife took the bag from Lidia.
“Hand it over—before he changes his mind.”
Yuri looked at her.
“Nina, you got used to being in charge really fast.”
“I’ve been preparing for thirty-four years.”
Oleg walked up just as Nina tied the bag closed.
“Why are they taking all that?”
Lidia was surprised.
“So that next year, we don’t have to look for everything all over again.”
“But those are our things.”
I looked at my husband.
“I gave them to the group five weeks ago.”
“You gathered them.”
“That’s why I could give them away.”
Oleg frowned.
“You could’ve left them at home. Maybe they’d come in handy again.”
Nina picked up the bag.
“They will come in handy. That’s exactly why I’m taking them.”
Yuri took the second container of frames from her.
“Oleg, next year you can come and criticize our organization.”
“That’s what I do best,” my husband replied.
“Then the job’s a good fit.”
Yuri and Nina headed for the exit.
Oleg watched them go for a few seconds.
“Can you imagine? Now they’ll remind me of this every year.”
“Remind you of what, exactly?”
“How I opened my mouth at home, and a month later lost my own anniversary celebration.”
“The anniversary happened.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
He sighed.
“I’ll regret for the rest of my life that I had to show off in front of Lida back then.”
“Maybe it wasn’t really about Lida.”
“I know.”
We didn’t start digging into our marriage right there, next to the folding chairs and empty boxes.
That conversation needed its own time, and one anniversary wasn’t enough for it.
Near the exit, Nina tried to hold the door open with her shoulder, but the bag kept getting in the way. I walked over and held the door for her.
“Thanks, Vera.”
“Take care of the set. Half of those things are ten years old.”
“They’ll survive until next year.”
She carried the bag outside.
Before, after every meeting, those things used to come back home with me.
Now they were heading in a different direction.
And for the first time in seventeen years, it didn’t mean the end of our tradition—it meant those things finally had more than one owner.