Valentina Petrovna handed Anna a three-page menu.
“Anniversary dinner. Eight guests. You’ll cook everything, Anechka. My arthritis is terrible.”
Anna glanced at the list — cold starters, hot dishes, salads, desserts.
“Maybe we could order catering?”
“Order?!” Valentina raised her hands — perfectly healthy ones. “My friends would think we can’t host! No, dear, show what you can do.”
Seven months earlier, right after the wedding, Dmitry had announced they would “temporarily” live with his mother. Temporary turned into permanent. Valentina suffered not from loneliness but from cooking, cleaning, and laundry — which conveniently triggered migraines, dizziness, or “arthritic flares” whenever chores appeared.
Anna took over everything. Waking at five, teaching all day, then coming home to scrub, cook, wash and collapse near midnight. Dmitry never noticed.
“You’re young. You’ll manage. Mom has health issues.”
Anna grew thinner, pale, hollow-eyed. She saw a stranger in the mirror.
Three weeks before the anniversary, Valentina delivered the menu. On the morning of the celebration, Anna woke at five again — but didn’t go to the kitchen. She dressed nicely, put on makeup, and took out a gift she had bought with her last savings: a full-day spa certificate for her mother-in-law.
Valentina appeared in her silk robe and frowned.
“Why are you dressed up? You’ll be chained to the stove today.”
Anna handed her the envelope. “Your anniversary gift.”
The moment Valentina realized she could return glowing — and outshine her friend Lyudmila — vanity won.
Within an hour, Dmitry was driving her to the spa.
The apartment fell silent.
Anna called a friend who was a makeup artist. By evening, she stood in a second-hand black dress, hair and makeup flawless. She didn’t touch the kitchen.
Guests arrived at 6:30. The table was beautifully set — candles, glasses, perfect linens.
But no food.
“Where are the appetizers?” someone asked.
“Surprise,” Anna said calmly.
At 7, Dmitry and his mother returned. Valentina swept in, glowing and proud—until she saw the empty table.
Her scream filled the room. Dmitry followed with rage.
“Anna, are you out of your mind?! Guests are here!”
Anna placed her glass down.
“My surprise,” she said softly.
“In honor of our anniversary, I’m filing for divorce.”
She slid off her ring and placed it on the white tablecloth.
Gasps. Silence.
“I’ve been your maid for seven months. Cooking, cleaning, washing until midnight. You never asked how I was. You only used me.”
Some guests nodded quietly. Others looked away.
Valentina rushed forward.
“Anechka, don’t be foolish. We’ll hire help—right, Dima?”
“Too late,” Anna said, picking up her bag.
Dmitry grabbed her arm. “You can’t just walk out!”
“I can.” She freed herself. “Watch.”
She stepped out. Behind her, she heard Dmitry yelling into his phone:
“Hello? Restaurant? I need food for eight — immediately! I’ll pay double!”
Anna walked down the stairs and texted her friend Kira:
“Can I stay with you?”
“Get over here. Should’ve done it earlier.”
She stayed a week. Dmitry called nonstop — first shouting, then begging. She blocked him. Valentina wrote guilt-filled messages too. Deleted.
A guest from the party messaged her: “You did the right thing. I never had the courage.”
Later Kira ran into Dmitry at the store: unshaven, exhausted, cart full of frozen dumplings. His mother really was sick now; he had to work, cook, clean. He’d already sold his car.
Anna felt nothing but relief.
She rented a tiny room near her school — ten square meters, shared kitchen. Plain, quiet, hers.
One evening she opened the window to the smell of autumn and wet pavement. No perfume of her mother-in-law, no shouting, no endless demands. She inhaled deeply. Slept at eight just because she wanted to.
In the morning, sunlight woke her.
Saturday. No chores unless she chose them.
She drank tea with a neighbor in the communal kitchen. Ordinary life. Peaceful.
In the window’s reflection she saw her tired, makeup-less face — and smiled.
Ordinary. Free. Alive.
