The heavy oak door of the “Empire” restaurant yielded only after a struggle, as if it didn’t want to let random people inside. From deep in the dining hall came a thick, deafening roar of voices, sliced through by clinking glasses and the clingy pulse of pop music.
Elena stopped at the threshold, feeling the weight of a bouquet of fifty burgundy roses tugging her arm downward. She searched the room for the cozy corner table for four they had reserved a week ago.
It wasn’t there.
Instead, in the very center of the hall beneath a massive crystal chandelier, a long table had been arranged in a U-shape. At least twenty people were already seated, and the loud, multicolored caravan of guests didn’t match the words “quiet family dinner” in any universe.
“Igor,” Elena turned to her husband. Her voice stayed level, but there was metal in it now. “Tell me we’ve got the wrong door.”
Igor nervously tugged at his shirt collar, refusing to meet her eyes. Red blotches rose on his face—the sure sign he was terrified of the scandal he could already smell coming.
“Len… Mom decided at the last second,” he mumbled, staring at the floor. “It’s her anniversary, a big one. We can’t offend the relatives—they came all the way from out of town.”
Elena’s eyes moved to the table. The crowd was a mismatch: women in glittering lurex dresses, men who had already loosened their ties, a few vaguely familiar neighbors from the summer cottages.
At the head of this feast sat Galina Petrovna, presiding like a merchant’s wife from a Kustodiev painting. She wore a fuchsia dress stretched ruthlessly over her heavy figure, and around her neck sparkled a chunky necklace—clearly costume jewelry, though it was trying very hard to be “luxury.”
When she spotted her son and daughter-in-law, the birthday woman theatrically threw up her hands, making the many bracelets on her wrists chime.
“There they are!” her booming voice drowned even the music. “My dear guests—welcome them! Our main sponsors have arrived!”
Elena’s stomach tightened into a hard knot, but her face didn’t change.
She gripped her purse more firmly. Inside was a thick envelope of cash—three hundred thousand rubles. A sum she and Igor had saved for six months by cutting back on vacations and every little indulgence.
Galina Petrovna had spent weeks drilling into their heads that the old bathhouse on the property was about to collapse, that she was ashamed in front of her neighbor Valentina Petrovna, who already had a brand-new log bathhouse. The money was meant as a targeted gift—comfort she’d dreamed about, wrapped up with a neat bow.
“Why are you two stuck in the doorway? Come in, my dears!” her mother-in-law glided over, trailing a cloud of heavy, sugary perfume. “Elena, why are you so pale? Smile—this is a celebration!”
She snatched the bouquet without even looking at the blooms and immediately handed it off to a waiter, as if it were some useless broom.
“Galina Petrovna,” Elena said quietly, making sure only her mother-in-law could hear. “We weren’t expecting a banquet. We only brought the gift.”
For a heartbeat, her mother-in-law’s eyes narrowed into two sharp slits, but her lips kept their syrupy smile.
“Oh, don’t be silly!” she flicked her hand as if swatting a fly. “You’ll just swipe your card and that’s that. What’s it to you? You’ve got a business—three shops!”
She raised her voice on purpose so the teased-up-haired aunties nearby could hear.
“Did you hear that, girls? My daughter-in-law is rich—she has her own flower salons! I booked a restaurant for twenty people and said, ‘The daughter-in-law will pay, she’s wealthy’—and now she’ll learn what happens when you test my patience!”
The guests rumbled approvingly, raising glasses filled with something amber and obviously expensive. From the far end of the table someone shouted, “Young people live well these days—not like we did!”
Elena walked to the table, feeling like she’d been shoved onto the stage of an absurd play. A chair had been set for her beside Igor’s father, Sergey Ivanovich.
Her father-in-law sat quietly, shoulders rounded, looking small next to his thunderous wife. He gave Elena a guilty little smile and immediately dropped his gaze to his plate, trying to disappear.
“Waiter!” Galina Petrovna barked, snapping her fingers. “Champagne for everyone! And bring French cognac—the Hennessy! We’re celebrating!”
The waiters started darting back and forth, piling the table with new dishes. Not modest salads—actual mountains of food: hot-smoked sturgeon, caviar in crystal bowls, a whole roasted piglet with a glossy, browned crust.
Elena stared at the gastronomic madness and calculated in her head. The “Empire” was known for prices that bordered on cruelty.
Igor sat down beside her, poured himself a full shot of vodka, and knocked it back without even taking a bite. His hands trembled.
“You knew it would be this big?” Elena asked, watching his profile.
“Mom said she’d invite a couple of friends…” he forced out, still not looking at her. “Len, don’t start, okay? Don’t embarrass me in front of the family. We’ll pay, then we’ll sort it out later.”
“Sort it out later?” she echoed. The icy calm in her voice made him flinch. “So you’re suggesting I pay for someone else’s ambitions with the money we were saving for construction?”
“But it’s for Mom…” he mumbled.
Across from them sat Igor’s aunt, Valentina Petrovna, gnawing enthusiastically on a chicken leg. Fat dripped down her chin, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“And I told her—Galia, take everything you can from life!” she preached to the woman beside her. “As long as the daughter-in-law’s paying, you’ve got to live! They’ve got money coming out their ears—so what if we set a big table?”
Every word spoken at that table was soaked in envy and greed. Galina Petrovna reigned at the head, issuing orders and sliding the best bites to the people she wanted to impress.
“Marinochka, eat the mushrooms!” she shouted across to a third cousin. “Elena’s treating you! For her beloved mother-in-law, nothing is too much!”
Elena silently set down her fork. Her appetite was gone. She was a practical person—someone who believed in clear agreements and respected boundaries.
She had built her business from the ground up, working fourteen-hour days, shredding her hands on rose thorns and hauling heavy boxes of inventory. Every ruble in that envelope had been earned—none of it had fallen from the sky.
Three hours passed. The air grew thick and stale. Guests turned red-faced, voices got louder, and the toasts dissolved into slurred nonsense.
Galina Petrovna swayed over to Elena. Her face shone, her eyes glittering from drink and the thrill of total control.
“Well, sweetheart,” she said, dropping a heavy hand onto Elena’s shoulder with fake familiarity. “Time to do the honorable thing. People are waiting for dessert. I ordered a custom cake—three tiers!”
“Wonderful,” Elena replied evenly. “A beautiful finale.”
“Go settle up with the administrator,” her mother-in-law winked. “Close it out so they don’t bother us. We’ll sing a song while you’re gone.”
Igor sank into his chair, trying to melt into the upholstery. Sergey Ivanovich sighed heavily, but stayed silent—like he’d stayed silent his entire life.
Elena rose slowly, picked up her purse, and walked to the administrator’s desk. Her back was straight as a wire. Her mother-in-law watched her with a victorious smirk—certain she’d broken the “proud” one.
At the counter, Elena asked for the bill.
A young man in a sharp suit printed a long strip of receipt and slipped it into a leather folder.
“Total: two hundred eighty-four thousand five hundred rubles,” he stated without expression. “Service is included.”
Elena opened the folder. The numbers were merciless. Nearly three hundred thousand. The price of a new bathhouse. The cost of months of saving. The cost of her nerves.
She returned to the table just as the waiters rolled out a towering cake, sparklers crackling. Guests applauded.
A waiter set the folder with the bill at the edge of the table, waiting for payment. A pause fell over the hall—everyone expected a grand moment of generosity.
“Attention!” Galina Petrovna tapped her fork against a glass. “Now my beloved daughter-in-law is going to make a big gesture—she’ll pay for our banquet!”
Elena slowly opened her purse. She took out the thick envelope with gold embossing—the very one meant as the gift.
Her mother-in-law’s eyes flashed with greedy excitement. She knew exactly what that envelope was: money for the bathhouse. She was counting on a “double win”—the banquet paid by card, and the envelope handed over as a present.
Elena untied the ribbon. Her movements were calm, surgical. She pulled out a stack of five-thousand-ruble bills.
“Whoa,” someone whistled. “Now that’s a wad of cash!”
Elena placed the money on the table beside the bill folder—then began counting bills methodically, matching them to the final amount on the receipt.
“Fifty… One hundred… Two hundred…” her voice sounded crisp in the hush that had taken over.
Galina Petrovna’s smile began to slide off her face, replaced by raw horror.
“Lena… what are you doing?” she hissed, leaning across the table. “That’s for the bathhouse! Pay by card—by card!”
Elena didn’t even look at her. She kept counting.
“Two fifty… Two eighty-four thousand. And four-five hundred in change.”
She neatly placed the money into the folder, closed it, and pushed it toward the waiter. He nodded and disappeared without a sound.
In Elena’s hand remained a thin little stack—change of about fifteen thousand rubles. She casually slid it back into the gift envelope.
“What have you done?!” her mother-in-law shrieked so sharply it seemed to make the chandelier rattle. “You robbed me! That was my money! My gift!”
The guests froze with cake halfway to their mouths. Sergey Ivanovich covered his face with both hands.
Elena stood. Now she was towering over her seated mother-in-law, and the dignity in her posture made Galina Petrovna instinctively recoil.
“Galina Petrovna,” Elena said loudly and clearly, “Igor and I saved that money for your bathhouse. You’ve been dreaming about it for five years.”
She paused, sweeping her gaze over the silent relatives.
“But you decided that feeding your third cousin smoked sturgeon and pouring cognac for the neighbors mattered more than having a warm bathhouse. That was your choice. You ate your dream in a single evening.”
She tossed the half-empty envelope onto the table in front of her mother-in-law.
“That’s the change. Buy yourself a plastic washbasin. And a broom. Whatever that covers.”
“Igor!” Galina Petrovna screamed, clutching her chest. “Tell her! She humiliated me! My blood pressure—!”
Igor finally looked up at his wife, eyes full of animal fear and pleading.
“Len, why would you do it like this… in front of everyone…” he rasped. “Mom meant well…”
“Meant well?” Elena let out a cold, short laugh. “No, darling. Not me. This is you.”
She took her purse and walked out without saying goodbye. No one dared to stop her. The silence behind her was so thick it felt like it could be cut with a knife.
Outside, it was already dark. Cool evening wind hit her face, clearing the stench of booze and cheap perfume from her head. Elena ordered a taxi.
A minute later Igor rushed out after her—no jacket, hair messed up.
“You can’t just leave!” he shouted, grabbing her elbow. “Go back and apologize! Mom is sick!”
Elena shook off his hand as if it were a dirty rag.
“If she’s sick, call an ambulance. If you’re sick, drink more vodka. You know how.”
“Do you realize the whole family will talk about us now?!”
“Let them talk. At least they won’t be talking about the bathhouse. There won’t be one.”
The taxi pulled up. Elena opened the door.
“I’m going home, Igor. I’ll pack your things in the morning. Leave your keys with the concierge. And if you go back to that table now—you might as well stay there and live with them.”
Igor froze with his mouth open, eyes darting between his wife and the restaurant windows where his mother’s storm still raged. His habit of obeying his mother tugged him back toward the suffocating hall.
Elena didn’t wait for his decision. She got into the car and shut the door.
Epilogue
A week passed. Elena’s flower shop was quiet and cool. The air smelled of freshly cut tulips and damp soil—the scent of honest work and calm.
Elena sorted a new shipment, arranging stems by length. Igor’s number had been in her blacklist for five days now—ever since he sent a message: “Mom demands compensation for emotional distress.”
The doorbell jingled. Elena didn’t look up, continuing to work with her pruning shears.
“Lena.”
Galina Petrovna’s voice sounded dull and strangely timid. Without its old swagger.
Her mother-in-law stood at the counter in an old raincoat. No gold jewelry. She looked older, hunched—an ordinary tired pensioner.
“Here to return the change?” Elena asked calmly, setting a flower aside.
“The bathhouse warped,” Galina Petrovna blurted awkwardly. “We had heavy rains. The roof is leaking badly. Neighbor Mikhailych looked at it—said the logs will rot if we don’t redo the roof.”
“It happens,” Elena replied indifferently.
“Mikhailych says it’ll be a hundred thousand. Materials and labor.”
Galina Petrovna stepped closer. The same greed from the restaurant was still in her eyes—only now it wore a mask of pity.
“I don’t have that kind of money, Lena. My pension comes in two weeks. And the guests left—nobody gave even a ruble. Valka just left a scarf.”
“And?” Elena looked her straight in the eye.
“Well, you…” her mother-in-law stumbled, unable to bring herself to say “rich,” but kept going. “Lend it to me. I’ll pay you back from my pension. Two thousand at a time.”
Elena took off her work gloves. She remembered Igor, who never came to collect his things, choosing instead to “comfort Mom.” She remembered that shameful table.
“Galina Petrovna,” Elena said softly, but firmly, “the bank is closed. License revoked.”
“But the roof is leaking!” her mother-in-law cried, hysteria slipping into her voice. “It’s our family nest! Igor grew up there!”
“You ate your nest,” Elena said evenly. “You ate the roof with the roasted piglet. The walls went on cognac. And you sent the foundation into the sky with fireworks. It burned beautifully, didn’t it?”
“You’re cruel!” Galina Petrovna breathed. “I’ll tell my son!”
“Tell him,” Elena answered. “Let him fix the roof. He has two hands and two legs. Let him work off the dinner he swallowed.”
Galina Petrovna stood there another minute, breathing heavily. In the cool air among flowers, her manipulations crumbled to dust. She understood she no longer had power. None at all.
She turned and shuffled out of the shop.
Elena went back to work. She took an armful of white hyacinths and began assembling a new bouquet.
Life is like a garden, she thought. If you don’t pull weeds in time, they choke everything beautiful and alive. She had pulled her weeds. Now all that remained was to water what truly mattered.
Outside, the sun shone brightly, and the day promised to be productive. Elena smiled at her reflection in the window and snapped her shears, cutting off an extra stem.
Perfect.