“Tomorrow is my anniversary, and the guests will come to your place! You’ll set the tables—there will be enough room for everyone!” — commanded her mother-in-law.
Irina adjusted the curtains in the kitchen and surveyed her work with satisfaction. The small rented two-room apartment in an old building had been transformed thanks to her efforts. Fresh flowers on the windowsill, homemade pillows on the sofa, neatly arranged knick-knacks—all of it turned an ordinary dwelling into a cozy home.
“How beautifully you’ve arranged everything,” Anton smiled, putting his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “Without you, this apartment would just be a box with furniture.”
Two years ago, when the young couple had first rented this apartment, the walls held the stories of previous tenants. Irina methodically erased all traces of the former occupants, creating her own atmosphere. Every detail had been thought out—from the color of the curtains to the placement of the paintings.
But most of all, Irina loved to cook. Real miracles happened in the small kitchen. Golden-crusted pies, fresh salads, tender French-style meat filled the apartment with aromas, creating a festive atmosphere.
“Where did you get such culinary talent?” Anton admired, tasting yet another dish from his wife.
“I learned from my mother,” Irina replied, kneading the dough. “Cooking is a way to show love for the family.”
Even after a long day at work, she could find inspiration to create new recipes to surprise her husband. Cooking for Irina was not a duty—it was art.
Anton was proud of his wife’s talents and often shared this with his mother, Lyudmila Petrovna. The elderly woman would come to dinner with joy, sincerely praising Irina’s dishes.
“My son, you’re lucky with your wife,” Lyudmila Petrovna would say over tea. “Such a housekeeper, such a cook! The house is tidy and cozy.”
“Thank you, Lyudmila Petrovna,” Irina would blush. “I’m happy to cook for my loved ones.”
Gradually, almost unnoticed by Irina herself, all family celebrations moved to their rented apartment. First, Anton’s modest birthday for ten people. Then Lyudmila Petrovna’s name day with relatives. And eventually, New Year’s Eve with Anton’s entire family.
“You have such golden hands,” Anton’s aunt admired. “Where did you find such a perfect housekeeper?”
The apartment, once a quiet retreat, became a place of constant gatherings. Relatives crowded around the large table, laughing, talking loudly, reminiscing. And Irina moved tirelessly between the kitchen and living room, serving dishes, replacing plates, pouring drinks.
“Irochka, may I have seconds?” Anton’s uncle asked.
“Of course,” the hostess smiled, though her legs were already aching with fatigue.
Rarely did she get even five minutes to sit and share in the joy with the guests. Over time, Irina began to feel like the serving staff in her own home.
Nothing seemed particularly wrong, yet deep down, exhaustion was building. Every celebration turned into a trial—shopping, cooking, setting the table, cleaning. Family members took her efforts for granted, never offering help.
“Why should I get in the way?” Lyudmila Petrovna would wave off when Irina asked for help clearing the table. “You handle everything so skillfully!”
The usual joy of gatherings gradually shifted into irritation and a sense that her labor went unnoticed.
One day, Irina mustered courage and tried to talk to her husband.
“Anton, it’s exhausting for me to turn every celebration into a cooking marathon,” she began cautiously. “Could we maybe meet at a café sometimes? Or at least divide the responsibilities?”
“Why? Everyone enjoys your cooking. Mom says she’s never had pies that taste so good.”
“But I get tired,” Irina tried to explain. “Sometimes I just want to be a guest at a celebration.”
“Oh, come on,” Anton waved her concern away. “You love cooking. And you’re excellent at it.”
After this conversation, Irina felt misunderstood, as if she were seen not as the housewife but merely as a cook. By spring, her fatigue and irritation had accumulated. She cooked now without joy, out of a sense of duty.
When Anton’s sister Svetlana’s birthday approached, Irina realized in advance that once again, everything would fall on her shoulders. A wave of exhaustion swept over her at the thought of endless pots and shopping trips.
“You know what,” Irina told her husband, “I’ll take a vacation from work. I’ll go to my parents for a week.”
“Right before Svetlana’s birthday?” Anton frowned. “What about the celebration?”
“There won’t be one,” his wife replied firmly. “You’ll manage without me.”
Irina went to her parents in another city. A week in her childhood home was like a breath of fresh air. She felt like a daughter again, not a perpetual housekeeper.
Returning home, Irina found Lyudmila Petrovna in a rage.
“How could you!” her mother-in-law snapped. “You abandoned the family right before the celebration!”
“What happened?” Irina asked calmly.
“What happened?” Lyudmila Petrovna exclaimed indignantly. “We had to order food from a restaurant! Spent money! All because you ran away!”
“I didn’t run away,” Irina replied. “I rested.”
“Rested!” her mother-in-law snorted. “And who was supposed to cook? Everyone’s used to your dishes!”
These words were the last straw. For the first time, Irina snapped:
“Why does it have to be me? Why can’t anyone else cook?”
“Because you’re a good cook!” Lyudmila Petrovna yelled. “It’s your duty!”
“My duty is to be a wife, not a servant!” Irina stood her ground. “I’m tired of serving everyone! It won’t happen again!”
The argument was loud and sharp. After the conflict, Lyudmila Petrovna stopped coming to the apartment. An unusual quiet settled in the home, both frightening and liberating.
A month of peaceful living passed. For the first time in a long while, Irina felt like the mistress of her own home. She cooked for herself and Anton with pleasure. Evenings became softer, conversations calmer.
Yet deep down, she knew—sooner or later, this calm would be disrupted.
One evening, the couple sat in the living room with tea when a sharp knock sounded at the door. On the threshold stood Lyudmila Petrovna—confident, composed, with a determined expression.
Without waiting for an invitation, she entered and went straight to the point:
“Tomorrow is my anniversary, and the guests will come to your place! You’ll set the tables—there will be enough room for everyone!” Lyudmila Petrovna ordered.
Irina felt the familiar anger rise in her chest.
“That won’t happen,” she answered firmly but restrained.
“What do you mean it won’t happen?” her mother-in-law flared. “I’m used to celebrating here! It’s a family tradition!”
“My home is not a restaurant,” Irina stood her ground. “And I’m not a waitress.”
“You must uphold family traditions!” Lyudmila Petrovna raised her voice. “Ungrateful! Your son took you in, and you turn your nose up at it!…”
“Anton didn’t take me in,” Irina replied coldly. “We live together. And we make decisions together.”
The argument flared up right there in the hallway. Her mother-in-law demanded, accused, and Irina realized that standing on the threshold was a decision that would change her life.
“Everything must be perfect!” Lyudmila Petrovna threw over her shoulder as she left. “So that no one thinks our family doesn’t know how to host guests!”
The mother-in-law stormed out, slamming the door behind her.
That evening, Irina tried to talk to Anton.
“I’m not hosting your mother’s anniversary,” she said firmly.
“Why are you overreacting?” her husband waved it off. “Mother just wants a celebration. One day can’t hurt.”
“One day?” Irina looked at him. “And then another. And another. When will it end?”
“Well, I don’t know,” Anton shrugged. “She’s my mother. It’s awkward to say no.”
His words finally convinced Irina that her exhaustion and personal boundaries were still being ignored.
That night she barely slept, replaying the events of recent years in her mind. How her life had changed. How she had gone from a loving wife to the household staff.
In the morning, while Anton slept, Irina quietly got up. She gathered her documents, some money, and a couple of changes of clothes. Her movements were calm and deliberate, as if the decision had long since ripened.
She dressed and, without looking back, left the apartment—leaving behind the noise, the resentment, and the endless celebrations.
At ten o’clock, the phone rang. Her mother-in-law’s name flashed on the screen. Irina answered.
“Where are you?” Lyudmila Petrovna screeched. “How could you do this? Today is my anniversary!”
“Happy anniversary,” Irina said evenly. “Tell Anton I’m filing for divorce.”
“What?” the mother-in-law asked, stunned.
“I’m neither a cook nor a servant,” Irina continued. “He can find someone else to serve your family.”
She hung up and turned off the phone. Walking down the street toward a new life, she felt not fear, but relief—as if she had dropped a heavy burden she had carried for far too long.
Ahead lay an unknown future. But it was her own future—one where no one would force her to turn her home into a restaurant or her life into endless service for someone else’s whims.
Irina straightened her shoulders and smiled. At last, she was free.
