— Yes, I’m kicking you out—right on New Year’s Eve! Do you really think I should put up with insults in my own home? — Alice pointed her mother-in-law toward the door.

— Yes, I’m kicking you out—right on New Year’s Eve! Do you really think I should put up with insults in my own home? — Alice pointed her mother-in-law toward the door.

Alice stood in front of the mirror, fixing the curls she’d spent so long styling. The sea-green dress hugged her figure elegantly, her makeup was flawless—she’d even booked an appointment with a makeup artist, though she usually did it herself. Everything had to be perfect. It simply had to be.

“You look gorgeous,” Ilya said, wrapping his arms around her from behind and kissing her at the temple. “Mom will be thrilled.”

Alice stayed silent, watching their reflection. Five years of marriage, and she still hadn’t heard a single word of approval from Marina Petrovna. But today… today would be different. She’d prepared for this evening so carefully that it couldn’t possibly turn out otherwise.

Usually, they spent New Year’s at her mother-in-law’s place—in her spacious three-room apartment with antique furniture and crystal chandeliers. Marina Petrovna reigned there like a queen, and Alice always felt like an unwelcome guest who did everything wrong: she made the salad “wrong,” set the table “wrong,” spoke to Ilya’s relatives “wrong.”

But three weeks ago, Marina Petrovna slipped on the ice and injured her leg. Nothing serious, but the doctors advised her to walk less. And that was when Alice finally decided to take a chance.

“Marina Petrovna,” she said into the receiver, trying to keep her voice steady, “why don’t we celebrate New Year’s at our place this year? You won’t have to cook or worry about anything… I’ll organize everything. You’ll just come and relax.”

The pause on the other end was long.

“Well… if you insist,” her mother-in-law finally said in the tone people use when agreeing to an unpleasant medical procedure. “Just don’t overdo it with the seasonings. And remember—I only eat Olivier with doctor’s sausage. No smoked chicken.”

Alice wrote it down. Then she wrote down twenty more preferences that Marina Petrovna dictated over the next half hour.

And now, three weeks later, the apartment gleamed with cleanliness. Alice had scrubbed, cleaned, washed and rewashing the curtains. The tablecloth—snow-white with the finest lace—had been ironed so carefully not a single crease showed. On it stood the dinner set they’d received as a wedding gift and hardly ever used: delicate porcelain with a gold rim.

She’d planned the menu for a week. Olivier—with doctor’s sausage. Herring under a fur coat—classic, with finely grated beetroot, just the way her mother-in-law liked it. Turkey aspic—Marina Petrovna considered pork too fatty. Roasted chicken with vegetables—her signature dish, a recipe Alice had practically begged from the chef at the restaurant where they’d celebrated their anniversary. Mushroom julienne in ramekins. Tartlets with caviar and salmon. A fruit platter. Napoleon cake—layered, melting in your mouth.

She cooked for two days. Her hands ached from chopping, her back throbbed from standing at the stove. Ilya peeked into the kitchen several times, looking worried.

“Are you sure you’re not overdoing it? Mom isn’t—”

“Everything will be fine,” Alice cut him off. “Just trust me.”

She wanted so badly to believe those words. She wanted Marina Petrovna, at last, to see in her not a stranger who had taken her son away, but someone dear. Family.

The doorbell rang precisely at eight. Alice flinched, smoothed her dress with her palms, and went to open the door.

Marina Petrovna stood on the threshold in an elegant gray suit, leaning on a cane. Her hair was set in a perfect style, her makeup strict and restrained. She swept Alice with a measuring glance from head to toe.

“Hello,” Alice smiled, stepping aside. “Please, come in. How are you feeling?”

“My leg aches,” her mother-in-law said as she entered the hallway, wiping her shoes on the mat far longer than necessary. “But what can you do. Ilya, help me take my coat off.”

Her son rushed to comply. Alice took the coat—heavy mink—and hung it in the closet.

“Come into the living room,” she said, throwing the door open and letting the guest go first.

Marina Petrovna walked in and stopped, surveying the room. Alice froze at the doorway, waiting for her reaction. She’d tried so hard: she’d bought new cushions for the sofa, put fresh flowers in vases, switched on the string lights that glowed softly on the Christmas tree.

“The lights are blinking too often,” her mother-in-law said, settling into an armchair. “It’ll give me a headache. And these flowers… lilies? I’m allergic to them.”

“They’re not lilies, they’re alstroemerias,” Alice felt something tighten inside her. “And the lights aren’t blinking—they’re just twinkling…”

“Twinkling, blinking—what’s the difference. Turn them off, please.”

Without a word, Alice pulled the plug from the socket. Passing by, Ilya squeezed her shoulder sympathetically.

“Mom, do you want some tea? Or should we sit down to dinner right away?”

“Tea first,” Marina Petrovna said, settling in and continuing to look around the room. “I need to catch my breath after the trip.”

Alice brewed tea—green with jasmine, the most expensive one she’d found in a specialty shop. She brought it with cookies on a little plate.

“I don’t drink green tea at night,” her mother-in-law pushed the cup away. “It keeps you awake. Didn’t you know that?”

“Sorry, I… I’ll make black tea.”

In the kitchen, Alice leaned against the counter, clenching her fists. Calm down. It’s just tea. No big deal. Dinner will start and everything will fall into place. All the dishes are perfect—she’d checked everything so many times…

They sat down at the table at eleven. Alice lit the candles, poured the wine—semi-sweet red, chosen specifically for the meat. Marina Petrovna pulled her plate closer and began serving herself Olivier.

Alice watched as her mother-in-law took a spoonful, raised it to her mouth, chewed. Marina Petrovna’s face remained expressionless.

“You’ve gone a bit heavy on the mayonnaise,” she finally said. “And the potatoes are cut too big. You should’ve diced them smaller.”

“I cut them the way people usually do for Olivier…”

“Yes, usually. But I like it smaller. I told you.”

“You didn’t say anything about the size,” Alice felt her voice come out harsher than she wanted. “Only about the sausage.”

“Oh, so now it’s my fault you don’t understand?” her mother-in-law set down her fork. “Any decent hostess knows potatoes in Olivier should be in small cubes.”

Ilya shifted uneasily in his chair.

“Mom, I think it’s really delicious. Alice tried so hard…”

“I’m not saying it’s not delicious. I’m just pointing out the flaws. Or am I not allowed to give my opinion now?”

Alice got up in silence and brought the rest of the dishes to the table. The aspic trembled on the platter, glistening appetizingly. The chicken—golden and fragrant—was decorated with sprigs of rosemary. The juliennes steamed in their ramekins.

“Oh, aspic,” Marina Petrovna said, taking a spoon. “Let’s see how it turned out.”

She scooped some up and tasted it. Alice watched her jaw move, watched her swallow, watched her expression grow more and more critical.

“It didn’t set enough,” her mother-in-law delivered her verdict. “And you clearly overdid the gelatin. Real aspic should melt in your mouth, but this has a rubbery texture…”

“I made it with turkey, like you asked,” Alice clenched her hands under the table. “It gives less natural gel, so without gelatin—”

“Exactly! You should’ve simmered it longer, added chicken feet for the collagen. Why gelatin? This isn’t jelly—it’s aspic!”

“But you said pork was too fatty…”

“So what? You could’ve used beef with chicken. Isn’t that obvious?”

Ilya reached for the hot dish.

“Let’s try the poultry. It smells heavenly!”

Alice watched as he cut off a piece, put it into his mouth, and his face brightened with pleasure.

“Alice, this is incredible! Mom, you have to try it!”

Marina Petrovna took a tiny piece and examined it for a long time, turning it one way and then the other.

“A bit dry,” she said after tasting. “And the crust is slightly burnt in places. See—here, on this edge? You should’ve lowered the temperature and covered it with foil…”

“‘I did cover it with foil,’” Alice felt tears rising. “For the first hour. Then I took it off so it would brown.”

“Well, it did brown. Burnt,” Marina Petrovna said coolly. “You should’ve kept it under the foil the whole time and only uncovered it for the last ten minutes.”

“Marina Petrovna,” Alice’s voice trembled, “can you praise even one dish? Is there anything you like?”

Her mother-in-law lifted an eyebrow in surprise.

“I’m not scolding you, I’m giving constructive criticism. It’s useful for you to know where you made mistakes. Or would you prefer I lie and say everything is wonderful?”

“I’d like you to at least try to see how much effort—”

“Exactly—effort!” Marina Petrovna cut her off. “A lot of effort, and a mediocre result. Because you don’t listen to advice, you do everything your own way. I told you—”

“What did you tell me?” Alice felt something hot and dangerous begin to boil inside her. “You dictated a three-page list of requirements! I cooked for two days! I slept four hours! I did everything exactly the way you asked!”

“Don’t raise your voice at my mother,” Ilya вмешался for the first time, steel in his tone. “She just wanted to help…”

“Help?” Alice turned to him. “She hasn’t said a single kind word all evening. Not one!”

“Well, here we go,” Marina Petrovna said, leaning back theatrically in her chair. “I knew you’d make a scene. That’s always how you are—one thing I say and you’re in tears and shouting.”

“I’m not making a scene! I’m trying to—”

“Trying to do what? Prove you’re better than me? That you’re the best hostess, the best wife?” Her mother-in-law leaned forward; something cold flashed in her eyes. “But you’re not. I’ve known my son for thirty-two years, and you’ve only been playing at being the perfect wife for five.”

“Mom!” Ilya went pale. “Stop it!”

“Stop what—telling the truth?” Marina Petrovna barreled on. “I kept quiet for five years. Quiet when you married her, though I said you were too different. Quiet when she pulled you out of our family, when you stopped coming on weekends. Quiet when she talked you into renting this little place on the outskirts instead of living with me downtown…”

“A little place?” Alice felt her hands begin to tremble. “This is our home!”

“Home? Three tiny rooms in a prefab building with no renovation?” Marina Petrovna swept her gaze over the living room. “My apartment is twice the size and a hundred times better. And I know how to cook better. And I dress with taste, not like…” Her eyes slid over Alice’s dress, “like some kind of rainbow.”

“Mom, stop. Now,” Ilya said, getting to his feet. “You’re crossing every line!”

“What lines? I’m expressing my opinion!” Marina Petrovna stood too, leaning on her cane. “Or are mothers not allowed to tell their sons the truth now? Ilyusha, you can see it yourself—she can’t cook, she can’t host, she has no taste…”

“Shut up!” Alice shouted.

A deafening silence fell. The candles flickered, casting trembling shadows. Alice stood with her hands braced on the back of a chair and—for the first time in five years—looked her mother-in-law straight in the eyes without fear, without trying to please, without hoping for approval.

“Marina Petrovna,” her voice was calm and firm, “are you finished?”

“How dare you talk to my mother like that?” Ilya began, but Alice raised a hand to stop him.

“No, Ilyusha. Now I’m speaking. I’ve been silent for five years. Five years I tried to win your approval,” she looked at Marina Petrovna. “I learned your recipes. I wore clothes I thought you’d like. I styled my hair the way you advised. I listened to your stories about what a wonderful mother and hostess you are. I nodded when you explained how to live ‘properly.’”

“See, Ilya,” Marina Petrovna turned to her son, “I told you she—”

“I’m not finished,” Alice cut her off, and there was such hardness in her voice that Marina Petrovna fell silent. “For five years I tried to build bridges. And you methodically destroyed them. Every time. With every word. With every look. I thought tonight would be different. That if I tried hard enough, you’d finally see I’m not your enemy. That I love your son. That I’m trying to be a good wife and a good hostess.”

She swept her gaze over the table laden with food.

“But you can’t say one good word. Not one! Was it not enough that I cooked for two days? That I ironed this damn tablecloth until it was perfect? That I booked a makeup artist even though I barely made ends meet this month? Nothing is ever enough for you—because it’s not about the food, not about the apartment, not about my dress.”

“Then what is it about?” Marina Petrovna crossed her arms.

“It’s because I’m not you. Because your son chose me and didn’t stay with you. And you’ll never forgive me for that.”

“Alice,” Ilya stepped toward her, but she pulled away.

“And one more thing,” she continued, looking her mother-in-law in the eyes. “Just now you insulted not only me, but my family. You called my home a ‘little place.’ You said I have no taste. That I’m a bad hostess. And you said it in my home, at my table—the table I set for you.”

“So what do you want?” Marina Petrovna’s voice took on hysterical notes. “For me to apologize? For me to lie and say I liked everything?”

“I want,” Alice stepped closer, looking at the woman who five minutes ago had seemed invincible, “for you to leave. Right now.”

“What?” Marina Petrovna stared.

“Have you lost your mind?” Ilya grabbed Alice’s hand. “She’s my mother! New Year’s is in an hour!”

“Exactly,” Alice pulled her hand free and pointed to the door. “Yes, I’m kicking you out—right on New Year’s Eve! Do you really think I should put up with insults in my own home?”

“Ilya!” his mother screeched. “Do you hear how she’s talking to me?”

“I hear how you’re talking to my wife,” Ilya dragged a hand over his face. “And I don’t like either of it. But, Mom…” he exhaled heavily, “you really did cross every line today.”

“You’re taking her side?” Marina Petrovna went white. “Your mother—who gave birth to you, raised you—”

“Who’s spent the last five years doing everything she can to destroy my marriage,” Ilya finished. “I loved you. I love you. But Alice is right. You can’t behave like this.”

“I… I’ll go,” his mother snatched her handbag from the table. “I understand everything. You’re both against me. Fine. Wonderful. I’ll leave!”

She moved toward the exit, leaning heavily on her cane. Ilya darted after her.

“Mom, wait, I’ll call you a taxi—”

“No! I’ll do it myself—”

“Mom, you can’t walk with your leg like that. At least let me—”

Alice stood in the living room, listening to them argue in the hallway. Listening as Ilya ordered a taxi anyway, as his mother hissed something back. Listening to the front door click shut.

Ilya returned about ten minutes later—apparently he’d seen his mother to the car. His face was gray.

“Was that necessary?” he looked at his wife as if he were seeing her for the first time.

“Yes,” Alice sank into a chair. Her whole body suddenly felt heavy as lead. “It was necessary.”

“She’s my mother.”

“I know. And this is my home.”

“Our home,” Ilya corrected.

“Then let’s agree on something,” Alice looked at him. “I’m an equal хозяин in this home. And it’s up to me who is welcome here and who isn’t. I spent five years building bridges your mother methodically destroyed. I’m tired. I’ve had enough.”

“So you’re forbidding me to see my mother?”

“No,” she shook her head. “See her as much as you want. Meet her in a café, at her place, anywhere. But she won’t step into this home again until she learns to respect me.”

“Is that an ultimatum?”

“It’s a boundary,” Alice gave a tired smile. “One I should have drawn five years ago. Ilya, I love you. But I won’t endure humiliation. Not ever again.”

He was silent, staring at the table of untouched food, the dying candles, the empty glasses.

“And if she doesn’t change?”

“If she doesn’t,” Alice shrugged. “That’s her choice. I’m done trying to win her approval. If she wants to mend things—she’s welcome. But on my terms. With respect. Or not at all.”

In the silence, the first chimes of the Kremlin clock rang out. A minute remained until the New Year. Ilya walked up and held out his hand to his wife. Alice rose, and they stood by the window, watching fireworks blossom over the city.

“Happy New Year,” he whispered into her hair.

“Happy New Year,” she replied.

And for the first time in five years, Alice welcomed the New Year without a stone in her chest—without fear, without trying to be someone else. In her own home. By her own rules.

On the table, the chicken cooled—chicken no one had praised. But Alice no longer felt pain. She felt relief.

And freedom.

At last.