Marina inhaled deeply, feeling her heartbeat accelerate slightly. Adjusting the sleeve of her dark blue silk dress, which clung to her figure like a second skin, she admired how it elegantly traced every contour. The mirror reflected a woman striving for perfection not only in appearance but in actions. The pearl earrings, a gift from Andrey for their wedding anniversary, shimmered softly under the lamp’s glow, adding grace and dignity to her look. This day was special—the sixtieth birthday of Vera Petrovna, her mother-in-law. Once, Marina shared warm, almost motherly bonds with her. She wished this evening to become a celebration marked by love, respect, and recognition, to express appreciation not only for family ties but for the person herself.
Suddenly, Andrey’s brisk footsteps approached, and he appeared in the doorway. Tall and composed, he wore a gentle smile while straightening his tie before leaving. His gaze fell upon Marina, admiration glinting in his eyes.
“Marish, are you ready?” he asked, stepping closer. “Mom has called twice already. She says guests are beginning to arrive.”
“Almost,” Marina replied, picking up the carefully wrapped package from the vanity. The paper displayed golden patterns shimmering in the light. The ribbons were tied with such care it seemed as if every detail carried a piece of their soul.
“Are you sure this is the right choice?” she questioned.
Andrey embraced her waist, pulling her close. His warmth always brought calmness.
“Absolutely,” he whispered. “Imagine her surprise when she learns she’s getting a new refrigerator! And your painting… it’s a masterpiece! This gift isn’t just an item—it’s a memory, love, and home. Mom will surely feel that.”
Gripping the parcel tighter, Marina felt a faint tremor in her fingers—not from fear but from tension. Three weeks earlier, they had argued for hours about Vera Petrovna’s gift. The old refrigerator in her kitchen, which had been there for two decades, was now a troublemaker: its door wouldn’t close properly, the freezer refused to work, and the compressor buzzed like an angry hive, disturbing sleep even in the next room. Marina insisted on replacing it—not just any fridge but a large, modern one with a digital display, No Frost system, and spacious shelves. This was a significant financial burden on their family budget. The recent renovation of their child’s room had already cost a lot, but Marina believed that if she gave a present, it should be grand and full of care.
“But you can’t exactly bring a fridge to a birthday party,” Andrey laughed, shaking his head. “Picture us arriving with movers and appliances. Guests might think it’s a move, not a celebration.”
“Then we’ll give a heartfelt gift first,” Marina said. “I will paint a picture for her. Then comes the surprise. Two gifts: one from the heart, the other from the mind.”
Thus, she began her work. Each evening, after putting their son to bed and tidying the house, she sat before the easel, recalling summer days at her mother-in-law’s country house. The old cottage with carved window frames, the porch entwined with grapes, and apple trees blooming in May like enchanted lanterns—all lived vividly in her memory like a living photograph. The watercolor turned out warm, sunlit, filled with light and tenderness. Every brushstroke was not just a color but an emotion; not merely a line, but a memory. She poured all her love, respect, and gratitude for the years spent together into the painting.
“Every brushstroke reflected not just technique but sincere affection and reverence for years shared.”
However, recent months had witnessed changes. Vera Petrovna grew sharper and more irritable. She criticized the upbringing of her grandson, complained about the borscht, although it was cooked using her own recipe, and hinted that “wives in our time knew how to manage the household.” Andrey comforted Marina: “It’s age, loneliness; she just needs support.” Marina endured, smiled, yet inside the pressure mounted like a spring ready to snap.
“Let’s go, or we’ll be late,” Andrey said, grabbing the keys. “We shouldn’t start mom’s celebration on a sour note.”
On their way, they stopped at a flower shop. Marina chose a lavish bouquet of white and scarlet roses—emblems of purity, passion, life, and memory. The delicate fragrance mingled with the scent of leather seats and the autumn air. Outside, familiar streets passed by—the old neighborhood’s ornate houses, trees shedding leaves, streetlights glowing at dusk. Everything felt like childhood.
“Do you think she suspects the fridge?” Marina asked as they climbed the third-floor stairs.
“No way,” Andrey chuckled. “We never hinted. It’ll be a true surprise.”
The door swung open, revealing Vera Petrovna. Sixty, but she appeared a decade younger: neat hairstyle, subtle makeup, and an elegant black dress adorned with tiny beads at the collar. Yet eyes showed unease, a flash of lightning as she spotted Marina.
“Andryusha!” she exclaimed, embracing her son. “I’m so glad! And you…” She kissed Marina’s cheek briefly, almost formally. “Come in, guests are already here.”
The apartment was transformed. The table bore a ceremonial spread: antique porcelain, crystal glasses, dishes with appetizers, pies, and salads—everything resembling a glossy magazine photo. The air was filled with aromas of wine, baked goods, and flowers. Vera Petrovna clearly prepared for this day with great care, treating it as a significant milestone.
Guests—colleagues, neighbors, distant relatives—were already seated, chatting and laughing. Marina nodded, smiled, but felt like a stranger, sensing judgmental glances despite the silence. Andrey held her hand protectively.
“Dear friends,” Vera Petrovna stood holding a glass, “thank you all for coming. Sixty years—it’s more than a number. It is life, memories, and love.”
The guests raised their glasses, the clinking filling the room. Vera Petrovna smiled, though Marina noticed her often taking sips—too frequently.
“Vera Petrovna,” Marina rose, holding the gift, “we want to congratulate you, sincerely.”
Silence ensued; all eyes fixed on her. Her heart pounded in her temples.
“This is from Andrey and me,” she offered the package. “With love.”
Vera Petrovna unwrapped the paper and saw the painting. Her expression changed instantly. Eyebrows knitted, lips pressed into a tight line.
“What is this?” she raised the watercolor. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“Marina painted it specially for you,” Andrey said proudly. “Remember our country house? How we spent time there…”
“How dare you?” Vera Petrovna shrieked. “Coming to my anniversary with this… scribbles? I spent more on the feast than you did on that gift!”
Marina stiffened, Andrey froze.
“Mom, what are you saying?” he tried to take her hand.
“Don’t touch me!” she snapped, pulling away sharply. Alcohol erased her inhibitions. “Did you think I didn’t deserve a proper gift? You gave me a piece of paper with scribbles! You were stingy! You’re waiting for me to die to get the apartment! You turned your son against his mother!”
Guests froze. Some lowered their eyes, others stared at the floor. An awkward silence hung like a fog.
“Vera Petrovna,” Marina began quietly, “I painted this for three weeks, every evening. This is my home. Our home.”
“Silence!” Vera Petrovna interrupted. “You don’t love me! You never wanted to be part of this family!”
Andrey tried to calm his mother, but she raged on.
“My son never gave me such a gift before!” She waved the painting wildly. “But now? You decided to save money?”
“Enough, mom!” Andrey shouted. “You don’t understand!”
“I understand everything!” She gulped down her glass in one go. “I know that this is all you have left for your mother!”
Marina stood silently, took her phone, hands trembling but voice steady.
“Hello, delivery? Yes, this is Marina Koltsova. The Bosch refrigerator, please cancel the order for tomorrow, Mira Street, 15, apt 23. Yes, thank you.”
Silence filled the room. Vera Petrovna turned slowly.
“What refrigerator?”
“A good one, big, modern,” Marina lowered her phone. “The one we chose for you three weeks ago. Your main gift. The painting was just a heartfelt present to have something ready right away.”
Vera Petrovna’s face turned gray. She sank onto a chair, still clutching the watercolor.
“But… I didn’t know…”
“You didn’t,” Marina repeated. “Yet that didn’t stop you from humiliating me in front of everyone, calling me stingy, saying I’m waiting for you to die for your apartment.”
“Marina…” Vera Petrovna tried to get up. “I… I was drunk… I didn’t think…”
“A drunk person says what a sober one thinks,” Marina buttoned her coat. “Andrey, let’s go.”
Andrey looked between his mother and wife, pain evident in his eyes. He clasped Marina’s hand.
“Mom, you ruined everything,” he whispered. “Marina spent a month painting that picture. And the fridge… we used our last money on it.”
They headed for the door. The guests sat motionless. Only Aunt Lucy quietly wept.
“Wait!” Vera Petrovna shouted. “It’s my birthday! Don’t leave!”
“Now your fears have become reality,” Andrey said. “Happy birthday, Mom.”
The door shut. Their footsteps faded down the stairs.
Alone in the midst of what was no longer a celebration, Vera Petrovna sat holding the painting. She stared at it and for the first time saw that each brushstroke represented love. Each color embodied memory. Each detail symbolized the home she once built herself.
“I ruined everything,” she murmured.
Outside, rain fell. The guests had left. She remained isolated—with a phone she dared not use, a painting she felt undeserving of, and a refrigerator that would never arrive.
Key Insight: The most painful loss was never the appliance, but trust and a shattered heart.
This story illustrates how misunderstandings and unspoken feelings can fracture family relationships. Genuine intentions sometimes get overshadowed by pride and hurt, leading to enduring regrets. It reminds us of the importance of communication, empathy, and embracing gestures of love in all their forms.