“You yourself said that your mother deserves the very best, not my clumsy hands! 🤨 So I hired professionals for her! Here’s the bill for the cleaning service.”
“Katya, about Saturday,” Andrei began as he walked into the kitchen. He stopped in the middle of the room, leaning casually against the doorframe. The gesture, meant to look relaxed, betrayed him completely. This was always how he started this conversation. Once every three months. Before his mother’s visit.
Katya didn’t lift her eyes from the tablet screen, slowly scrolling through an article on Scandinavian design. The evening light fell on her face, making it appear calm, almost serene. She didn’t say a word, letting him develop his thought on his own. She knew what would follow by heart, like a memorized role in a poor play.
“Mom called, she confirmed. She’ll be here by three,” he went on, realizing his hint had been ignored. “I just thought… maybe this time we could make everything perfect? Remember how last time she noticed the dust on the top shelves in the living room?”
He said it softly, almost apologetically, as if they were both victims of Tamara Igorevna’s incredible attentiveness. As if he hadn’t been sulking all evening afterward, and Katya—who had spent the entire previous day cleaning—hadn’t felt humiliated.
At last, Katya looked up at him. Her gaze was clear, steady, without a trace of her usual irritation.
“I remember,” she said evenly. “You want there to be no dust on the shelves this time. I understand.”
Such simple and quick agreement threw Andrei off. Normally, this was the point when arguments began. He had already prepared himself for reproaches and a defensive speech about how tired she always was.
“Well, yes… and also,” he continued, encouraged. “The salad. The one with chicken. Maybe you could try another dressing? Last time it was… well, a little bland. For Mom.”
“Bland,” Katya repeated like an echo. She put the tablet down on the table and folded her arms across her chest. Her posture changed, becoming more composed, more attentive. As if she were a student in a lecture, afraid of missing an important detail. “All right. Another dressing. Anything else? Let’s discuss everything right away so I don’t miss anything.”
Andrei felt uneasy. This businesslike tone was unfamiliar to him. He had expected emotions, an argument, anything but this cold constructiveness.
“No, in general everything is always fine… It’s just…” He faltered, searching for words. “I just want Mom to come and feel at peace. To see that her son has everything in order. That nothing upsets her. She’s all I’ve got. She deserves the very best…”
There it was. The key phrase. The very one he repeated every single time, like a universal incantation that justified any demand and any criticism.
“The very best,” Katya repeated slowly, almost syllable by syllable. A faint, strange smile touched her lips. “That’s a very important clarification, Andrei. Thank you for saying it. Because I always tried to make things just ‘good.’ But it turns out what’s needed is ‘the very best.’”
“Of course!” he exclaimed, delighted, thinking she had finally understood him correctly. “Exactly! Just like in the finest home! Perfect cleanliness, food like in a restaurant. So she’ll see I didn’t make a mistake—that my wife is pure gold!”
He came closer and put his arms around her shoulders, feeling like the victor of a battle that never even began. He had gotten his way without a fight. Katya stood stiff and motionless in his embrace, like a statue. Her arms hung straight down at her sides. She stared past him at the wall, and her smile widened—but it did not grow warmer. On the contrary, something sharp, predatory appeared in the corners of her mouth.
“Don’t worry, dear,” she said quietly, but distinctly. “This time everything will be exactly that way. Your mother will get the very best. I promise you. She will be absolutely, completely satisfied with everything.”
Saturday came with the inevitability of a sentence. On his way home, Andrei stopped to buy a lavish bouquet of asters for his mother and walked into the apartment around two in the afternoon. He was prepared for everything: the stinging smell of bleach that brought tears to the eyes, the hum of the vacuum cleaner, the sight of a worn-out but dutiful Katya in her old robe, rushing between stove and sink. He was ready to enter, hang up his jacket, and say condescendingly, “Well, soldier, how are you holding up? Need any help?”—knowing full well help would no longer be needed.
But the apartment greeted him with deafening, heavy silence. The absence of the usual chaos was so striking it felt almost tangible. It didn’t smell of food or cleaning agents. It smelled like the lobby of an expensive hotel—a blend of floral diffuser, furniture polish, and something imperceptibly sterile. The air was cool and utterly lifeless.
He walked into the living room. Katya was sitting in an armchair. She wore an elegant dark green silk house dress, her hair styled in soft waves, her face lightly made up. She was leisurely reading a hardcover book, and beside her on the side table was a cup of steaming coffee. She looked up at him, her eyes free of any trace of fatigue or panic. Only calm, patient curiosity.
“Hello,” she said, as if he had just returned from an ordinary walk, not an hour before the dreaded quarterly inspection.
Andrei froze in the doorway, his mind desperately trying to reconcile the scene with reality. The bouquet in his hand suddenly felt ridiculous and out of place in this sterile atmosphere.
“What… is going on?” he asked, scanning the room. The parquet floors gleamed. Not a speck of dust. Not a single misplaced item.
“Nothing is going on,” Katya sipped her coffee. “I’m resting. Soon your mother will arrive, and I should greet her fresh and well-rested. Isn’t that right?”
“Fresh?” His voice rose with panic. “Katya, what about dinner? The cleaning? My mother will be here in an hour! You mean you didn’t do anything? You forgot?”
Without waiting for an answer, he dashed into the kitchen. And there came the second blow. The kitchen gleamed. The countertops were bare, polished to a mirror shine. The stove was cold and immaculately clean. He yanked open the oven door. Inside was darkness and emptiness. Not a single dish in the sink.
“Katya!” his voice broke into a shout. He stormed back into the living room, his face contorted with a mix of rage and fear. “What is this? Some kind of joke? You decided to boycott me? Right before my mother’s visit?”
“Calm down, Andrei.” She turned a page in her book without even glancing at him. “I told you I took care of everything. I promised your mother would get the very best. And I kept my promise.”
“How did you ‘take care’ of it?!” He was nearly choking on his words. “The fridge is empty! The oven’s fit for sleeping in! What are we going to feed her? Sandwiches? Do you have any idea what she’ll say? What she’ll think of me?!”
He paced the room from corner to corner like a caged animal. Everything infuriated him: her composure, that ridiculous silk dress, the scent of foreign perfume in his home. He felt control slipping through his fingers, his carefully built world crumbling before his eyes. She merely observed him with a faint, barely noticeable smirk, as though watching an entertaining film.
“Andrei, sit down. Drink some water. You’re ruining your complexion,” she said in complete seriousness—and it was precisely that calm tone that drove him over the edge.
“I swear, I’ll…” he began, stepping toward her to rip that damned book out of her hands and force her to look him in the eye.
And at that very moment, at the height of his fury, the apartment was pierced by a sharp, commanding ring at the door. Short. Certain. It could only be her.
Andrei froze mid-step. He looked at Katya, then at the front door, as cold sweat broke out on his forehead. He had walked straight into a trap. And the door to that trap had just opened.
“Open the door, Andrei. It’s your mother.” Katya’s voice was steady and calm, but beneath it lingered a note that sounded almost like a command.
Moving like a sleepwalker, Andrei went toward the door. Each step echoed dully inside his head. Mechanically, he turned the key, pulled the door open, and tried to force a semblance of a welcoming smile onto his face. On the threshold stood Tamara Igorevna—poised, in a perfectly pressed beige coat, her hair styled to perfection. Her piercing, intelligent eyes immediately registered her son’s pallor and the tense set of his posture.
“Hello, my son.” She extended a gloved hand—not for a kiss, but for him to take her bag. “You don’t look well. You’re not sick, are you?”
“Hello, Mother. I’m fine, just… tired,” he mumbled, taking the elegant yet heavy bag from her.
Tamara Igorevna stepped into the hallway and froze. Her gaze slid over the spotless mirror, the gleaming floor, the immaculate order. She walked a few paces further, her nostrils faintly twitching as she caught the unfamiliar, cold aroma. It wasn’t the smell of a home. It was the smell of a service.
“How very… sterile,” she remarked. It wasn’t a compliment—it was a question disguised as a statement. She ran a gloved finger along the frame of a painting in the corridor. The finger came away perfectly clean. Her face showed no surprise, no delight. Only the faintest tension in the corners of her mouth.
At that moment, Katya appeared from the living room. Her appearance shattered all of Tamara Igorevna’s expectations: no apron, no flushed face from the kitchen heat. Instead—an elegant dress, the calm smile of a salon hostess, not the nervous daughter-in-law awaiting her mother-in-law.
“Good afternoon, Tamara Igorevna. I’m glad to see you.” Katya approached and lightly touched her hand. “Come in, make yourself comfortable. Andrei, help your mother.”
They moved into the living room. The cushions on the sofa were perfectly fluffed, the glass coffee table polished so flawlessly it reflected the chandelier above. And in the midst of this perfection—a woman in a gray uniform methodically, without a single wasted motion, was wiping the television screen with a special cloth. She worked silently and efficiently, like part of the décor.
Tamara Igorevna stopped, staring at the stranger. Andrei froze beside her, feeling the ground give way beneath him.
“Katya, and this is…?” he began, his voice betraying him with a tremor.
“Oh, this is Svetlana,” Katya explained airily, following their gaze. “I decided that since we’re expecting such an important guest, the cleanliness should be not just good, but professional. So that not a single speck of dust would mar your visit.”
She smiled openly, first at her mother-in-law, then at her husband. In that smile there was nothing but ruthless logic. From the kitchen came a stronger scent—complex, layered, tantalizing. The fragrance of roasted herbs, creamy sauce, and something meaty. It lured and unsettled at once, alien in its refinement.
“And what is that… exquisite smell?” Tamara Igorevna’s sharp eyes shifted toward the kitchen. “Surely you, Katyusha, haven’t taken up French cuisine?”
“Me? Oh no, Tamara Igorevna, hardly,” Katya smirked. “Come, I’ll show you.”
She led them toward the kitchen as though on a tour. Andrei trailed behind, feeling like a condemned man being led to hear his sentence. In the gleaming kitchen, dressed in a spotless white chef’s coat and tall hat, a stranger of about forty presided. He was carefully pouring sauce over something on a plate, his movements precise and exact, like a surgeon’s.
Andrei and Tamara Igorevna stopped dead in the doorway. This was the finale. The finishing shot.
“Katya… what is the meaning of this?” Andrei breathed. His face was white as a sheet.
Katya turned to him. Her eyes were cold and clear. She looked only at him, ignoring his stunned mother.
“You yourself said your mother deserves the very best, not my clumsy hands! So I hired professionals for her! I’ll send you the bill for the cleaning and the chef.”
“And who is this…?”
“This is Elena from the catering agency,” she nodded toward the female chef, who, paying them no attention, continued her work. “I decided your mother deserves restaurant quality, not my amateur cooking. So relax, dear. Everything is paid for—or rather, will be paid for. By you. Since the guest is yours.”
The air in the kitchen grew thick, viscous. The awkwardness was so palpable it could almost be touched. The chef, unflappable and professional, placed two porcelain plates with dishes that resembled works of art onto the counter with a soft clink. He worked at the very center of the brewing storm, yet his world was composed only of sauces, timing, and temperatures.
It was Tamara Igorevna who first shook off the paralysis. Slowly, with deliberate dignity, she turned away from the chef as though he did not exist. Her gaze, cold and sharp as a scalpel, locked onto Katya.
“So you think me so unbearable,” she said quietly, each word landing like a blow, “that hosting me requires hiring an entire staff of servants? Was this meant to be a compliment—or a public humiliation?”
