“Anya, I’ll write the menu and you’ll cook it,” Valentina Petrovna said, handing over a three-page list. “I would myself, but my hands… arthritis again.”
Cold starters, hot dishes, salads, three desserts. Eight guests invited by the mother-in-law—for their anniversary—without even asking.
“Maybe we should just order food?” Anna tried.
“Order?!” Valentina threw up her perfectly healthy hands. “So my friends think we can’t host? Absolutely not, Anya. Show them what you can do.”
Anna folded the list. Once. Twice. Again. A tiny square of paper lay on the table.
“All right,” she said softly. “I’ll show you.”
Seven months of living with her mother-in-law—supposedly “temporarily”—had turned Anna into full-time staff. Every headache, dizziness, or sudden “arthritic attack” came exactly when cooking or cleaning was required. Dmitry never questioned it.
“You’re young,” he’d shrug. “You can handle it.”
And Anna handled it. Five a.m. wake-ups, breakfast for three, teaching first-graders, coming home at six, working until midnight. Cooking, washing, cleaning. Dmitry ate, watched TV, and wondered why she was “always in a mood.”
Anna shrank. Grew pale. Lost herself.
Then came the “anniversary celebration.”
On the morning of the party, Anna got up at five—but didn’t go to the kitchen. She dressed nicely, did her makeup, and took out a spa certificate she had bought with her last savings. A gift for her mother-in-law.
Valentina appeared in her silk robe, eyeing Anna suspiciously.
“Why are you dressed up? You’ll be in the kitchen all day.”
“I have plans,” Anna said, handing her the envelope. “Happy anniversary.”
A spa day. Valentina hesitated—but vanity won. She wanted to outshine her friend Lyudmila. So off she went, Dmitry driving her.
As soon as they left, Anna called her friend Kira, a part-time makeup artist, and prepared for the evening. By five, her hair and makeup were flawless, her simple black dress elegant. She looked like someone she barely recognized—alive.
She never touched the kitchen.
By six-thirty, guests arrived. The table was set beautifully—crystal, candles, perfect linens. But no food.
“Where are the appetizers?” someone whispered.
Anna smiled. “Surprise. We’re waiting for the hosts.”
At seven, Valentina swept in, glowing from head to toe—until she saw the empty table. Her shriek filled the room.
“Anna! Where is the food?! I gave you the list!”
Dmitry stormed in after her, already shouting.
“Are you out of your mind? Guests are here! What is this?!”
Anna set down her glass. Her voice was calm.
“My surprise,” she said. “For our anniversary, I’m announcing I’m filing for divorce.”
She placed her wedding ring on the table. A soft metallic click.
Dmitry gaped. “Here? In front of everyone?!”
“I’m finally telling the truth,” Anna said. “Seven months I’ve cooked, cleaned, washed—while you both treated me like a maid. I’m done.”
Valentina tried to backpedal, promising a hired helper, promising changes. Dmitry grabbed Anna’s arm, demanding she stay.
“I can leave,” Anna said, pulling away. “Watch me.”
She walked out. Behind her, she heard Dmitry frantically calling a restaurant for an emergency delivery.
Anna spent a week at Kira’s. Dmitry called for days—yelling, begging, accusing. She blocked him. Messages from guests began arriving instead:
“You did the right thing.”
“You’re brave.”
“I wish I had left when I still could.”
A week later, Kira reported seeing Dmitry at the store: exhausted, red-eyed, cart full of frozen dumplings. His mother truly was bedridden now—and he was doing everything himself. Sold his car. Gave up hobbies. No time, no strength.
Anna felt nothing except relief.
Soon she rented a tiny room near the school. Ten square meters, shared kitchen, pigeons in the courtyard. Nothing special—but hers.
One evening she received a message from an unknown number:
“Anna, this is Valentina. I’m sorry. I didn’t understand. Please come back.”
Anna deleted it.
She opened the window. Cold air rushed in. The room smelled of autumn, wet asphalt, and someone else’s soup cooking downstairs. Not perfume. Not demands. Not exhaustion.
The next morning she woke with the sun. Saturday. No alarm. No chores waiting.
On the shared kitchen, the neighbor handed her a cup of tea.
They drank in silence. Ordinary morning noises drifted through the window.
Anna looked at her own reflection—pale, messy hair, no makeup.
Ordinary.
Free.
Alive.
She smiled.
