I cant stand my motherinlaws tantrums any longer, so I slip away from the New Years table and head straight to my friends flat.
Tamar, who are you chopping that salad for? she asks, eyes on the massive cubes of potato in the bowl. Those pieces are as big as a pigs snoutno one can fit them in their mouths! Her voice drowns out the television where Zhenya is once again promising a trip to the sauna.
Olga freezes, knife hovering over a bowl of boiled carrots. The clock on the mantel reads 4:00p.m. on December31st. Her back aches as if shed just unloaded a coal wagon, and her feet throb in the house slippers; a fresh cut on her finger throbs from the recent scrape.
Motherinlaw, Olga draws a deep breath, trying not to let her voice shake with the looming hysteria, these are regular cubes, the way we always cut them. If you dont like them, simply dont eat this salad. We have three other dishes coming.
Dont eat it? the older woman flails, nearly toppling the gravy boat. Whats this, a talk with my sons wife? I came here to celebrate, to bring the family together, and you give me a piece of bread and a side of sarcasm? Victor! Can you hear how your wife is talking to me?
Victor, Olgas husband, sits on the sofa untangling a string of fairy lights, sighing helplessly. He despises conflict, so he adopts the ostrich strategy: bury his head in the sand and wait for the storm to pass.
Olga, dear, cut the vegetables finer, will you? Mother wants whats best. She used to be a professional chef, she knows what shes talking about.
I was the head of a cafeteria! Tamar Igorovna declares proudly, adjusting the heavy brooch on her chest. I had strict sanitation standards. And you, Olga, your kitchen looks like a disaster zonestained towels, you wipe your hands on them. Gross hygiene!
Olga puts the knife down silently. A slow, steady anger rises inside her, the kind that usually leads to irreversible fallout. It isnt her first New Years with her motherinlaw, but it feels like the toughest yet. Tamar arrived two days ago, claiming she would help, but really she inspects every corner and issues a verdict: daughterinlaw is a mess, son is underfed, there are no grandchildren (apparently the daughterinlaw is either sick or selfish), and the apartment is tasteless.
The towel is clean, Olga replies calmly. I pulled it out this morning; a few drops of beet juice fell on it. Tamar, could you step out of the kitchen? I need to roast a goose; its getting hot and cramped here.
A goose? the motherinlaw squints suspiciously. How did you marinate it? In mayo like last year? Thats vulgar! A goose should soak in lingonberry sauce with juniper for two days. I sent you the recipe on the old social network. Didnt you read it?
I used my own recipeapples and honey. Victor loves that.
Victor loves what you fed him! You ruined his stomach with your cooking. Hes probably got gastritis now, look how pale he sits. I used to make steamed meatballs for him as a child, simple soups
Olga feels the moment when the goose might fly out the window instead of the oven, or head straight for her second mothers head.
Fine, thats it, she says, wiping her hands on the apron. The goose goes in the oven, the salads are ready. All thats left is to set the table and pull ourselves together.
Pull yourself together? Tamar eyes Olga critically. You look like youve been run through a burlap sackhair a mess, dark circles. Even a cucumber mask would help. Victor will look at you and lose his appetite. A man should see a queen, not a dishwasher.
Olga swallows the insult for her husband, for the holiday, to avoid starting the New Year with a fight. She slides the heavy tray into the oven, sets the timer, and drifts to the bathroom.
The hot water runs, and she finally lets the tears flow. She sits on the edge of the tub for five minutes, sobbing, mascara smearing her cheeks. Shes thirtyfive, a department manager at a large logistics firm, responsible for twenty staff. She and Victor bought the flat together, using the inheritance she received. Why should she endure humiliation in her own home?
Because family, a voice in her head whispers, sounding like her own mothers, you must be wiser, you must endure. A thin peace is better than a loud quarrel.
She washes her face, applies patches, forces a smile at her reflection. Alright, six hours left. Well listen to the chimes, eat, and shell go to bed. Tomorrow Ill send Victor and the kids to the treelighting, and Ill curl up with a book.
She emerges from the bathroom, hoping for a truce. The apartment smells of pine and roasting meat. Things seem to be settling.
In the bedroom, her dark navy velvet dresshalfofftherack, with a daring back cutlies on the bed. She bought it especially for the holiday, spending half her bonus.
Oh, Olga, are you really going to wear that? Tamars voice floats above her ear as the motherinlaw breezes into the room without knocking.
Yes, its my festive dress.
Good grief the velvet is heavy. Youll look like a boiled dumpling. The colour is mournful. New Year should be bright and sparkling! I have a sequined cardigan I could lend you if you fit.
Thanks, but I like this dress. Victor does too.
Victor doesnt care, as long as you dont bother him. Im telling you as a woman to another woman: it doesnt work. It shows every flaw. Youd look better in gym wear than in this dress.
Olga starts dressing in silence. Her hands tremble, the zipper jammed.
Ill help, or youll tear itthough its pricey, even if its a bit silly, Tamar tugs the zipper, causing Olga to lurch. See? I warned you. Dont complain later that Victor looks at younger women.
By ten oclock the table is set. Crystal glints, candles flicker, the goose, rosy and fragrant, dominates the centre. Victor wears a crisp shirt; Tamar dons the sequined festive dress and piles on gold jewellery, looking like a Christmas tree.
Olga feels like a squeezed lemon. She has no appetite, no moodjust wants the night to end.
Lets welcome the old year! Victor proclaims, pouring champagne. Its been a tough year, but we made it. The important thing is were together!
Indeed, a tough year, Tamar agrees, raising her glass. Especially for memy health is shaky, blood pressure soaring, no help. My son works, my daughterinlaw is always busy with her career. No grandchildren, just loneliness
Mom, we call, we visit, Victor tries to defend.
Call once a week just to tick a box. Fine, lets not dwell on the sad. Lets drink to everyone becoming better homemakers and remembering their feminine purpose.
Olga takes a sip, the champagne bitter on her tongue.
Try the salad, she offers, nudging a bowl of herring under the beet. I made it with homemade mayo, just how you like it.
Tamar spears a piece, sniffs, grimaces, and finally puts it in her mouth. She chews slowly, eyes rolling.
What can I say the herring is oversalted, the beet is undercooked, it crunches on my teeth. And the mayo Olga, did you splash in vinegar? Its way too sour.
Its lemon juice, as the recipe says, Olga replies softly.
Lemon juice! In a herring salad! Who taught you that? Your mother, who was a kitchen goddess? She never used premade mixes. She fed us simple dishes, not this
The comment hits a sore spot. Olgas mother died three years ago; she still cant accept her loss. Her mother was the kindest woman, juggling two jobs to raise her daughter, never making time for fancy marinades, but always keeping the home warm and welcoming.
Dont mention my mother, Olga whispers, blood rushing to her face.
What did I say? Speaking the truth isnt a sin. Victor, pass the breadthis salad is impossible to eat.
Victor silently hands her the bread, avoiding his wifes gaze.
Then, as if a switch flips, Olgas fury, hurt, and exhaustion melt into a cold calm. She looks at Victor the man who promised to stand by her in grief and joy, who now silently lets his mother trample her mothers memory and demean her work.
Victor, is it tasty? she asks.
What? he startles. Its fine. Olga, can we stop fighting at the table? Mother is just voicing her opinion.
Opinion, right. Fine.
Olga stands slowly.
You going for the hot dish? Stay a bit longer, Tamar commands.
No, Im not after the hot food.
Olga leaves the living room. In the bedroom she removes the velvet dress, folds it neatly in the wardrobe, puts on jeans, a cozy sweater, tosses a small sports bag with cosmetics, underwear, pajamas, and a phone charger inside.
In the hallway she dons a padded coat, hat, and boots.
From the living room she hears Tamars voice: I tell the neighbour why you need that slowcookerfoods dead in it! Its better in a pot, in a real oven She mentions Victor, asks where Olga is, says shes sulking, that shes nervous and should see a doctor.
Olga peeks into the doorway.
Im not offended, Tamar I just drew conclusions, she says.
Victor drops his fork.
Olga, where are you going? In jeans?
Im leaving, Victor.
Going to the store? Need anything? Im out of here!
No. Im leaving the house. Celebrate. Eat the goose. Its with apples, not juniper, so apologies. Toss the salads if you find them disgusting.
Olga, stop making a circus of this! Tamar snaps. Sit at the table now! Guests are at the door, the chimes in an hour!
I have no guests, Olga replies evenly. I have two strangers in this houseone who hates me and one who could spit on me. Happy New Year.
She turns and walks to the front door.
Olga! Olga, stop! Victor leaps up, toppling a chair, lunging after her. Are you crazy? Its night out there! Where are you going?
To someone who values me.
She opens the door.
If you go now, Victor shouts, fear and anger mixing, mom will be completely hurt! Youll ruin the family!
The family was ruined when you let her trample me, Olga says, slamming the door.
Outside, soft fluffy snow falls, the world quiet except for distant fireworks. The cold air hits her, but she doesnt feel chilly. She feels light.
She pulls out her phone and dials.
Svetlana, you awake?
Olga? What? Were partying! Need a greeting?
Can I come over right now?
Theres a pause, then Svetlanas voice grows serious.
What happened? Victor hurt you?
I left. Probably for good. Im standing at the entrance with my bag.
Come! Grab your coat, run here! Were having a blast, Misha made plov, champagne everywhere! Do you remember the intercom code?
I do.
A taxi arrives, its fare absurdly high for New Years Eve, but she doesnt care. She hops into the back seat and, for the first time all day, actually smiles.
Svetlanas flat is noisy, cramped, and heartwarmingly chaotic. The hallway smells of mandarins and rice. Svetlana, in a goofy reindeer sweater, embraces Olga, the sound of bones cracking.
Come in, love! Youre frozen solid! Misha, pour the penalty! she jokes.
A mixed crowdkids, a dog, a couple of friendsfills the living room. No crystal, no formal settings; paper napkins, a huge pot of plov, trays of buttered toast with caviar, a bucket of mandarins.
Olga, youre right on time! Misha shouts. Were about to make wishes! Sit!
They hand her a glass and a plate of steaming plov.
Eat! Youre probably starving, Svetla whispers. I know you wont touch crumbs while youre cooking.
Olga tastes the plov. Its divineno sanitary standards, no juniper, just love and spices.
What happened? Svetlana asks after the clock strikes twelve and everyone yells Hurrah! while sipping champagne.
Olga quickly recounts the goose, the salad, the burlap hair, Victors silence.
Wow, what a jerk, Svetlana says. His moms a witch. You did right leaving. Dont waste your life on them. Youre beautiful, smartyoull find a decent man wholl treat you like a queen and even love his mum.
Olgas phone, set to silent, lights up like a Christmas tree: twenty missed calls from Victor, five from Motherinlaw, messages like Olga, wheres the corkscrew? Where are the napkins? Moms blood pressure is spiking! Youre selfish, how could you ditch us on New Years?
She reads them and laughs, hysterical tears spilling.
They cant even find a corkscrew or napkins, she mutters, wiping her eyes. Two adults cant open a bottle and locate a napkin. Pathetic.
Screw it, Svetlana snatches the phone. Tonights yours. Lets dance!
They dance until three in the morning. Olga forgets her fatigue, her sore back, the hurt. She feels alive.
On the morning of January1st she wakes on Svetlanas couch, head a little fuzzy, spirit fierce. She knows she must return homebut not to apologize, just to put a full stop on that chapter.
She steps into her own flat around noon. The hallway is dark, the air thick with the smell of stale alcohol and something burnt. The corkscrew lies on the floor, the one they couldnt find. The living room is a mess: dishes scattered, leftovers drying. The goose sits untouched, a single wing ripped off. Without Olgas housewife touch, the appetite vanished.
Victor lies on the sofa, curled under a blanket. The motherinlaw is nowhere to be seen; the guest room door stays shut.
Olga stomps into the kitchen, slams the window, letting the frosty air rush in, and starts the coffee grinder. The whirring sounds like a cannon blast in the silence.
Victor shuffles in, hair mussed, guilt and irritation on his face.
Did I show up? he croaks. Thanks for the holiday. Mom spent the night on valerian.
Please, Olga says calmly, pouring coffee into her favorite mug. Did you enjoy the goose?
We didnt eat it. No mood. Olga, do you realize what you did? You embarrassed me in front of my mother. Shes thinking of moving out. She says she wont have her feet here anymore.
Thats the best news of the year, Victor replies.
Youre a stranger now. Harsh.
Im being myself, Victor. Im done being convenient. I want to be happy.
At that moment the guestroom door bursts open and Tamar Igorovna storms in, hand on her chest, a damp towel clinging to her hair.
There she is, the scold! she hisses. You came back after I gave my mother a heart attack! Im calling a taxi. I cant share a room with this woman. Shes a monster!
Tamara, Olga says, meeting her gaze, the taxi is a great idea. Please, take your recipes and complaints with you. And next time, if he ever returns, only come by invitation and behave like a guest, not a health inspector. Otherwise the door stays closed.
Tamar opens her mouth, gasping for air like a fish out of water. Victor! Do you hear? Shes kicking me out!
Victor looks at his wife. Olga stands by the window, bathed in winter sunlight, calm, beautiful, untouchable. He remembers the night before: his mothers whining, the cold, tasteless dinner, the feeling that something vital slipped away. He realizes that if he doesnt choose a side now, hell never see Olga again. She isnt threateningshes stating facts.
Mom, he whispers, Olgas right. You overdid it.
What?! Tamar shrieks. And you you too? Traitor!
Mom, lets go. Ill take you to the station.
No, Ill go myself! My legs
She hurls suitcases, slams cupboards, curses the damned house. Olga watches, sipping coffee, eyes on the falling snow.
When the motherinlaw finally slams the door shut, Victor returns to the kitchen, drops his head into his hands.
Forgive me, Olga. Im an idiot. I just got used to listening to her, afraid to hurt her. I hurt you.
Olga places a hand on his shoulder.
Youre an idiot, Victor. But you still have a chance to fix things.
What chance?
Start by taking out the trash. Well clean this mess together. Then well eat the gooseby hand. And maybe watch a Harry Potter film. And if I hear any talk of dust, youll followAnd as the first sunrise of the year painted the sky pink, Olga and Victor, side by side, finally felt the warmth of a new beginning.
