“Lenochka, dear, a little more salad for this wonderful lady,” said my mother-in-law Tamara Pavlovna, her voice sweet like jam but felt more like burning Tabasco — a scorching pretense.
I silently nodded, taking the nearly empty salad bowl. The lady, my husband Slava’s third cousin, gave me a look full of irritation — the kind usually reserved for an annoying fly that has been buzzing around your head for ten minutes.
I moved quietly around the kitchen, trying to be invisible. Today was Slava’s birthday. Or rather, his family was celebrating his birthday in my apartment. The apartment I was paying for.
Laughter came from the living room in broken waves — the lively bass voice of Uncle Zhenya, the piercing bark of his wife. And over all of it — the confident, almost commanding tone of Tamara Pavlovna. My husband was probably sitting somewhere in a corner, forcing a tight smile and timidly nodding.
I filled the salad bowl, carefully decorating it with a sprig of dill. My hands worked almost automatically, while one thought kept spinning in my head: twenty. Twenty million.
Last night, after receiving the final confirmation by email, I just sat on the bathroom floor so no one could see me and stared at my phone screen. The project I had been working on for three years, hundreds of sleepless nights, endless negotiations, tears, and almost hopeless attempts — it all boiled down to one number on the screen. Seven zeros. My freedom.
“Well, where are you stuck?” my mother-in-law called impatiently. “The guests are waiting!”
I took the salad bowl and returned to the hall. The celebration was in full swing.
“You’re so slow, Lenochka,” the cousin drawled, pushing her plate away. “Like a turtle.”
Slava flinched but said nothing. As long as there was no scandal — his favorite life principle.
I put the salad on the table. Tamara Pavlovna, adjusting her perfect hairdo, loudly enough for everyone to hear, said:
“What can you do, not everyone is meant to be nimble. Office work is not the same as running a household. There you sit at the computer — and then home. But here you need to think, be resourceful, fuss around.”
She swept the guests with a victorious look. Everyone nodded. I felt my cheeks burning.
Reaching for an empty glass, I accidentally knocked over a fork. It clattered to the floor.
Silence. For a split second, everyone froze. Dozens of eyes — from the fork to me.
Tamara Pavlovna laughed. Loudly, cruelly, venomously.
“See? I told you! Hands like hooks.”
She turned to the woman sitting next to her and added, still in the same tone, sarcastically:
“I always told Slavik: she’s not a match for you. In this house, you’re the master, and she’s… just background dowry. Serve and fetch. Not a mistress — a servant.”
Laughter swept the room again, now even more malicious. I looked at my husband. He averted his eyes, pretending to be very busy with a napkin.
And I… I picked up the fork. Calmly. Straightened my back. And for the first time that evening, I smiled. Not a forced or polite smile — a real one.
They had no idea that their world, built on my patience, was about to collapse. And mine was just beginning. Right now.
My smile clearly threw them off. The laughter stopped as suddenly as it had started. Tamara Pavlovna even stopped chewing, her jaw frozen in confusion.
I didn’t put the fork down. Instead, I went to the kitchen, dropped it in the sink, took a clean glass, and poured myself some cherry juice. The very expensive one that my mother-in-law considered “nonsense” and “a foolish waste of money.”
With the glass in my hand, I returned to the living room and took the only free seat — next to Slava. He looked at me as if seeing me for the first time.
“Lena, the hot dishes are getting cold!” Tamara Pavlovna snapped back to herself. Her voice again rang with steel notes. “You need to serve the guests.”
“I’m sure Slava can handle it,” I took a small sip without looking away from her. “He’s the master of the house. Let him prove it.”
All eyes shot to Slava. He went pale, then red. Nervously, he cast pleading looks between me and his mother.
“I… Yes, of course,” he muttered and stumbled toward the kitchen.
It was a small but sweet victory. The air in the room grew thick, heavy.
Realizing her direct attack had failed, Tamara Pavlovna switched tactics. She started talking about the dacha:
“We decided to go to the dacha with the whole family in July. A month, as usual. To get some fresh air.”
“Lenochka, you need to start preparing next week, move the supplies, get the house ready.”
She spoke as if this had been decided long ago. As if my opinion didn’t matter at all.
I slowly set down my glass.
“Sounds wonderful, Tamara Pavlovna. But I’m afraid I have other plans this summer.”
The words hung in the air like ice cubes on a hot day.
“What other plans?” Slava came back with the tray, plates with hot food teetering on it. “What are you making up?”
His voice trembled with irritation and confusion. He was so used to me agreeing that my refusal sounded like a declaration of war.
“I’m not making anything up,” I calmly looked first at him, then at his mother, whose gaze was full of rage.
“I have business plans. I’m buying a new apartment.”
I paused, enjoying the effect.
“This one, you see, has become too cramped.”
A deafening silence fell, first broken by, of course, Tamara Pavlovna. She let out a short, cawing laugh.
“She’s buying? On what money, may I ask? Going into a thirty-year mortgage? You’ll work your whole life for concrete walls?”
“Mom’s right, Len,” Slava immediately joined, feeling supported. He slammed the tray down with a crash that splattered sauce on the tablecloth.
“Stop this circus. You’re embarrassing all of us. What apartment? Are you crazy?”
I glanced around at the guests’ faces. Each one wore a look of contemptuous disbelief. They looked at me like an empty space that suddenly thought it was something more.
“Why a mortgage?” I smiled softly. “No, I don’t like debts. I’m paying cash.”
Uncle Zhenya, who had been silent until then, snorted under his breath.
“Did you get an inheritance? Did some old millionaire lady die in America?”
The guests chuckled. They felt in control again. That upstart is bluffing.
“You could say that,” I turned to him. “Only the old lady is me. And I’m still alive.”
I took a sip of juice, giving them time to absorb the meaning.
“Yesterday I sold my project. The very one you think I was ‘just sitting around the office for.’ The company I built for three years. My startup.”
I looked Tamara Pavlovna straight in the eye.
“The deal amount — twenty million. The money is already in my account. So yes, I’m buying an apartment. Maybe even a little house by the sea. To make sure it’s not cramped.”
The room fell into ringing silence. Faces elongated. Smiles vanished, revealing confusion and shock.
Slava looked at me with wide eyes, his mouth opening but making no sound.
Tamara Pavlovna slowly lost her color. Her mask crumbled before our eyes.
I stood up, took my purse from the chair.
“Slava, happy birthday. This is my gift to you. I’m moving out tomorrow. You and your family have one week to find new housing. I’m selling this apartment too.”
I headed for the exit. No sound followed me. They were paralyzed.
At the door, I turned and threw one last look.
“And yes, Tamara Pavlovna,” my voice was firm and calm, “the servant is tired today and wants to rest.”
Six months passed. Six months I lived like a new life.
I sat on the wide windowsill of my new apartment. Through the panoramic floor-to-ceiling window, the evening city shimmered — a living, breathing creature that no longer seemed hostile.
It was mine. In my hand, a glass of cherry juice. On my lap, a laptop with open blueprints for a new project — an architectural app that had already attracted its first investors.
I worked a lot, but now it was a pleasure because work filled me instead of draining me.
For the first time in many years, I breathed deeply. The constant tension I’d lived with for years disappeared. The habits of speaking quietly, moving cautiously, guessing other people’s moods were gone. The feeling that I was living as a guest in my own home was gone.
Since that birthday, my phone hasn’t stopped ringing. Slava went through all stages: from furious threats (“You’ll regret it! You’re nothing without me!”) to pathetic midnight voice messages where he sobbed about how “good their past was.”
Listening to this, I felt only cold emptiness. His “good” was built on my silence. The divorce went quickly. He didn’t even try to demand anything.
Tamara Pavlovna was predictable. She called, demanding “justice,” shouting that I “robbed her son.” Once she even ambushed me near the business center where I rented an office. Tried to grab my hand. I just walked around her without a word.
Her power ended where my patience did.
Sometimes, in moments of strange nostalgia, I would visit Slava’s page.
From the photos, you can see he moved back to his parents. The same room, the same carpet on the wall. A face with the expression of eternal offense, as if the whole world was to blame for his failed life.
No more guests. No more celebrations.
A couple of weeks ago, returning from a meeting, I received a message from an unknown number:
“Len, hi. This is Slava. Mom is asking for the salad recipe. She says she can’t make it taste so good.”
I stopped in the middle of the street. Read it several times. And suddenly laughed. Not angrily, but genuinely. The absurdity of the request was the best epilogue to our story. They destroyed our family, tried to ruin me, and now they wanted… tasty salad.
I looked at the screen. In my new life, filled with interesting projects, respectful people, and quiet happiness, there was no place for old recipes or old grudges.
I added the number to the blacklist. Without hesitation. Just removed it like a random speck of dust.
Then I took a big sip of juice. It was sweet, with a slight tart note. It was the taste of freedom. And it was wonderful.