“Are you out of your mind?!” my mother-in-law shouted. “My back is killing me—do you expect me to cook for sixteen mouths and wash all those plates by myself?! Denis, tell your wife to cancel that trip immediately!”
We turned and started walking down the stairs, her loud complaints echoing behind us. Between the second and third floors, Denis slowed his pace:
“Marina, listen… Maybe I should at least transfer her five thousand so they can buy some ready-made salads from the deli? After all, she’s my mother and she looks so upset.”
I stopped and looked him in the eyes:
“Your mom will have one hundred thirty-five thousand rubles in her hands by lunchtime tomorrow. Meanwhile, after paying for the resort, I’ve got four thousand left until my next paycheck. You really want to pay for salads for Alyona’s ex-husband?”
Denis silently waved his hand, picked up the pace, and quickly headed for the exit. And the keys never came flying after us from the landing.
On December 30th, my husband’s phone wouldn’t stop ringing: Alyona was complaining, Aunt Valya was upset that she and Stasik had to run through the supermarket and spend their own money on chicken and mayo because it was embarrassing in front of the in-laws. Denis gave everyone the same answer: “Mom has the keys, get together and cook yourselves.”
On the morning of the 31st, we headed off to a snowy pine forest near Gorodets. We walked by the frozen Gorky Sea, caught up on sleep in the quiet, and in the evening sat together at a table for two in a cozy restaurant. At eleven o’clock, we called my mother-in-law on video.
Our kitchen appeared on the screen. Disheveled Zinaida Yegorovna, wearing my apron over her glittery dress, wiped her forehead with a towel, while Alyona was scrubbing a burnt baking sheet by the sink in the background.
“Oh, don’t rub it in, Denis!” his mother lamented. “I’ve been on my feet since morning! The chicken in your oven was burnt on the bottom and raw on top! Tamara and Gena showed up with only a three-hundred-ruble wafer cake, and that Makimova girl is glued to her phone—she wouldn’t even slice bread because of her fancy nails! Valya, Alyona, and I have been running around for sixteen people. I spent four thousand of my own at the store, and I’m afraid to even touch the dishwasher’s buttons in case you hit me with a twenty-thousand cleaning bill!”
“It’s okay, Zinaida Yegorovna,” I said gently. “The important thing is that family sticks together. Just soak the baking sheet overnight with a little soap—it’ll come off by morning.”
From the living room, Stasik yelled, demanding napkins and horseradish for the meat, and my mother-in-law hung up. Denis put his phone down on the tablecloth and gave a quiet chuckle:
“She spent four thousand. And every year we’ve shelled out fifteen, but never once got a thank you.”
We returned home on January second around six in the evening. The apartment was spotless and smelled of lemon floor cleaner. On the table sat a set of keys with a red keychain and a sheet from my notepad with my mother-in-law’s careful handwriting:
“Left the keys. Stasik took the chairs to Vitya. I didn’t take your detergent, cleaned with mine. Next year, everyone stays in their own home, my health isn’t public property.”
I opened the fridge—there sat a lonely opened jar of pickles with a currant leaf on the shelf.
“Denis,” I called out. “Your mom left the pickles behind. Should I throw them away or keep them?”
“Keep them,” my husband answered from the hallway. “We’ll make rassolnik for the two of us tomorrow.”