Olga gazed out at the falling snow as the door shut with a thud. Dmitry arrived home earlier than usual on January 3rd, the holiday rush fading, with offices operating at half speed.
“Hey Ol, guess what?” he called out from the kitchen, leaving a trail of wet footprints. “I just gave Leshka a call…”
Olga turned, catching an unsettling sense of cheer in his voice.
“So, how is he?” she asked, wary of what would come next.
“He’s good. I was thinking maybe we should invite them over for Christmas on the sixth? They’ve got time, and we haven’t seen the whole family in ages.”
Olga slowly placed her cup on the table, her expression growing colder.
“Wait. You already invited them?”
Dmitry hesitated, unzipping his coat. “Well… I kind of suggested it, and he was thrilled. Said the kids needed a change of scenery, and Sveta agreed. So, they’re coming. Four of them.”
“Four,” Olga echoed icily. “Lesha, Sveta, and their two kids.”
“It’ll be fun, right? We can get together, catch up, and the kids will have a blast…”
“Dima.” Olga stepped forward, and Dmitry instinctively backed away. “It’s January 3rd, and you invited four people for the sixth. Without consulting me. Without asking if I had plans. You just invited them.”
Dmitry tried to defend his actions. “But Ol, we’ll be home anyway. It’s Christmas, a family holiday!”
“Family,” she nodded. “Do you know what a family holiday with four guests means? It means I have to buy groceries, plan a menu, cook several dishes for six, set the table, serve everything, clean up, wash a mountain of dishes, and tidy up after two children wreak havoc!”
“I’ll help…”
“Help!” Olga laughed, but it was a tense, short laugh. “Do you know how you help? You sit with guests, chat, laugh, relax! At best, you’ll take plates to the kitchen and say: ‘Ol, you’re amazing, everything’s delicious!’ Meanwhile, I’m the chef, waitress, dishwasher, and cleaner rolled into one!”
“Olga, you’re exaggerating…”
“Exaggerating?!” she yelled. “Last time your parents visited, I prepared for three days and took two days to recover! And you just discussed football with your dad! During your office party at our place, I was stuck in the kitchen while you entertained your colleagues! It’s always the same — you invite, you relax with them, and I’m the one working!”
Dmitry tried to reach for her hand, but she stepped back.
“Ol, don’t. It’s my brother. Family.”
“You know what?” Olga’s voice became calm, the deceptive calm before the storm Dmitry had learned to recognize over the years. “You invited them, now you entertain them! It’s my turn to take a break worth the same amount!”
“What?” Dmitry was confused.
“I’ll calculate the cost of a typical banquet I prepare for your guests: groceries, my time, my work. And I’ll go to the spa with that amount. You’ll cook for your brother, his wife, and kids. You’ll serve, wash dishes, and clean up yourself.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I’m very serious.” Olga was already reaching for her phone. “I’ll find a nice spa, book for the fifth, spend the whole day there, and on the sixth I’ll be out in the morning. I’ll return when your guests leave.”
“Olga, it’s ridiculous! You can’t just leave!”
“I can. And I will.” Her eyes were cold as she looked at him. “Then you’ll know what it’s like to be the perfect host without a wife acting as the help.”
Dmitry sank into a chair, realizing the situation was serious. He had expected a disagreement, but not this turn of events.
Following two days were silent in the apartment. Olga packed her things methodically, browsed spa websites, read reviews. Dmitry tried to start a conversation several times but was met with polite silence.
“Ol, maybe we should…”
“Dima, I’ve already booked. The deposit is non-refundable.”
“But I…”
“You have the internet. Recipes. A grocery store. You’ll manage.”
On January 4th, a panicked Dmitry called his mother.
“Mom, can you talk to her?”
“Talk about what, son?” His mother’s voice was calm. “You invited guests without consulting your wife. She deserves a break.”
“But it’s absurd!”
“What’s absurd is that you don’t understand the effort behind each family gathering. Your wife isn’t the help. She’s your equal partner. If you make decisions on your own, be prepared for the consequences on your own.”
Dmitry swallowed hard. “You’re on her side?”
“I’m on the side of common sense. Get ready, son. You’ve got until the sixth.”
He hung up, staring at the empty fridge. Then he opened his laptop and searched: “Christmas menu for five.”
January 5th dawned with Olga leaving at 8 AM, giving Dmitry a peck on the cheek.
“See you later, darling. Good luck!”
Dmitry watched her go and sighed deeply. Grabbing his shopping list, he headed to the supermarket.
In the vegetable section, he spent twenty minutes trying to recall which type of cabbage was best for braising. Red? Green? Savoy? In doubt, he bought all three.
At the meat counter, panic surged again. The recipe called for “pork, good cut for roasting.” But which cut is best? Neck? Leg? Shoulder?
“Sir, have you decided?” the butcher asked, tiredly.
“I need something for roasting,” he mumbled.
“Take the neck, can’t go wrong.”
He bought three kilograms, then remembered there were four guests plus him and Olga… though Olga wouldn’t be there. He added two more kilograms, just in case.
Fish, poultry, cheese, sausage, fruit, vegetables, herbs, spices… The cart filled rapidly. At checkout, the total came to 23,000 rubles, and Dmitry paled.
“Is this… correct?” he asked again.
The cashier nodded indifferently.
Back home, unpacking the bags, he realized he’d forgotten flour, needed for two recipes. Another trip to the store was necessary.
By evening, the apartment resembled a battlefield. Dmitry sat in the kitchen surrounded by a mountain of ingredients, trying to plan his next steps. He calculated he needed to make: a festive salad, roasted pork, fish in French style, roasted vegetables, dessert, and… He checked his list again. Appetizers. And pastries. Olga usually baked pastries.
“Oh, how does she do it all?” he groaned.
He called Olga. She answered after a brief pause.
“Hello?” Her voice sounded relaxed and content.
“Hi Ol, what do you usually put in the pastries?”
“Cabbage and meat. The recipe is in the red folder on the shelf. Sorry, love, gotta run to a massage. Kisses!”
She hung up. Dmitry sighed heavily and reached for the red folder.
January 6th began at 6 AM. Having gotten just three hours of sleep, Dmitry felt like he’d been hit by a truck. He had struggled with dough all night, discovering late that the yeast was expired and required a late-night run to a 24-hour store for fresh packs.
By 8 AM, the pork was roasting in the oven, a pot of stock bubbles on the stove, and Dmitry, sleepy and unkempt, was chopping vegetables for salad.
At 10, Alexey called:
“Hey, Dimon, we’re on our way! Should be there by 2.”
“Great,” Dmitry croaked, slicing his finger in the process. “Waiting for you.”
By 1 PM, he realized time was running out. The meat was still undercooked, the pastries were just browning, the fish remained untouched, and chaos ruled the apartment — scattered food, dishes, packaging everywhere…