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Story 05/02/2026 17:26

SO HERE’S HOW IT’S GOING TO BE. It’s your celebration—you foot the bill. If you want to eat, cook it yourself

SO HERE’S HOW IT’S GOING TO BE. It’s your celebration—you foot the bill. If you want to eat, cook it yourself

Part 1. Someone Else’s Tab and a Grudge That Didn’t Fade The office smelled of expensive leather and the faint bite of ozone from an air purifier that hummed steadily in the corner. Timur leaned back in his chair, savoring the satisfying weight of his new title. Regional Logistics Director at a major construction group. It sounded impressive—solid. He slid his palm over the slick surface of his smoked-oak desk. From now on, everything would be different. He pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts. Everyone needed to be there by Saturday. This wasn’t supposed to be just dinner—it was meant to be a performance, a public display of power and success. First: Valery Pavlovich, the kind of man whose signature could decide million-dollar tenders. Then Oleg and his wife—useful people from the administration. Of course, his brother Igor and his mother. Aunt Tamara would invite herself the second she heard.Family Relationship Counseling Timur chuckled to himself. He liked it when everything went according to his plan. His eyes landed on his wife’s photo on the lock screen. Svetlana. Beautiful. Convenient. Domestic. Lately, though—oddly distant. His memory offered him a scene from three months earlier. Svetlana’s mother, Tatyana Borisovna, was turning sixty—a milestone birthday. Svetlana, usually calm and measured, approached him with a request Timur considered the height of audacity. “Tim… the restaurant is coming out really expensive. Mom has been saving from her pension, but prices jumped. Could we add a bit? You got a bonus. It’s a юбилей—an important number.” Timur didn’t even look up from his laptop. He was studying specs for a new car he planned to lease. “Svet, I have every penny accounted for. I’m investing in our future. And your mother could celebrate at home if she can’t afford it. It’s her birthday, not mine. Why should I bankroll someone else’s entertainment?” Svetlana froze. Something flashed in her eyes—not hurt, no. More like surprise, mixed with a kind of disgust. She didn’t argue. She simply left the room. She found the money herself—apparently cracked open the stash she’d been saving for a vacation and picked up extra translation gigs. At the party, Timur sat with a sour expression, deliberately refused what he called “cheap” champagne, and left early, claiming he had a headache. “What was I supposed to do?” he muttered now, as if defending himself to an invisible jury. “Everyone has their own budget.” But with his own celebration coming up, Timur expected a completely different kind of spectacle. He called his wife.
“Svet, hi. Listen. Saturday I’m throwing a party. Big occasion—my promotion. Valer Palych is coming with his wife, plus our people. Around fifteen guests.” A pause. “Congratulations,” Svetlana said evenly. “Are we going to a restaurant?” “What restaurant? Have you seen the prices? Their corkage fee alone would be a bill no bonus could cover. We’ll do it at home. Our living room is huge—we’ll extend the table. Start planning the menu. Everything has to be top shelf. Tongue aspic, roast duck, imported cold cuts—find them wherever you have to. Valer Palych likes a table that looks like it’s collapsing under food.” “Timur… fifteen people? I work until seven all week. When am I supposed to cook?” “Take Friday off. Don’t start, Svet. This matters for my career. You want us to live better, don’t you? Then make it happen. And send about thirty thousand to my card. I spent a lot on alcohol—picked up a collector’s cognac—and we need to order caviar. My card’s tapped out.” “You’re asking me to pay for groceries for your guests?” A hard, metallic edge crept into her voice. “They’re not strangers. They’re family. Besides, you’ll be eating too. Don’t be dramatic. I’m waiting for the shopping list in messenger.” He hung up, satisfied—convinced the conversation had been handled. Timur was used to his word being law. He called it strength, never noticing how that “strength” rolled over the people closest to him.Legal Advice Service Part 2. The Uninvited Inspector and Debits vs. Credits Friday turned into a brutal marathon for Svetlana. She really did take the day off—unpaid, losing money from her paycheck, something Timur naturally failed to value. From early morning she ran between markets and supermarkets, hauling heavy bags. Timur never transferred a single ruble. Worse—he pulled that “thirty thousand” from their joint account himself, declaring he’d “found caviar at a crazy discount.” The apartment looked like a war headquarters. Something crackled on the stove, something baked in the oven, and piles of vegetables crowded the counters. Svetlana, cheeks flushed and eyes sticky with exhaustion, chopped endless salads. Around six, the doorbell rang. On the doorstep stood Igor—Timur’s younger brother. Twenty-five, permanently “finding himself,” and completely lacking a conscience, which he replaced with a smug grin. “Oh, hey, sis-in-law!” Igor barged into the hallway without taking his shoes off and marched into the kitchen. “Timka told me to come early and supervise. You always mess something up—too much salt, undercooked meat…” Svetlana tightened her grip on the knife handle—just a little too hard. “Hi, Igor. I’ve got it under control. Take your shoes off—I just mopped.”
“Relax, it’ll dry,” he waved her off, snagging a slice of cured sausage from a plate. “Mmm. Feels kind of bargain-bin. Timka said we needed top-tier stuff. What, you saving money on the brother?” “That’s premium charcuterie, Igor. If you don’t like it, don’t eat it. And if you’re here, help—peel the potatoes.” Igor burst out laughing, nearly choking. “What are you talking about, Svet? I’m a guest. Peel potatoes? I’ve got a manicure,” he spread his fingers theatrically, though there was no manicure in sight. “My role is quality control. Where’s Timur?” “He’ll be back soon. Trying on his suit at the tailor.” Igor dropped onto the only free chair, blocking the walkway, and pulled out his phone. “You hustle, hustle. I’ll put on some music.” Half an hour later Timur arrived, glowing like he’d been polished. The dark-blue suit fit perfectly, and a heavy watch flashed on his wrist. “Well?” he spun in front of the hallway mirror without even looking into the kitchen. “Sharp, right?” Svetlana leaned into the hall, wiping her hands on her apron. Exhaustion weighed on her shoulders like concrete. “Looks nice,” she said flatly. “Tim, I need help. Igor’s sitting around—have him at least slice bread. I can’t keep up with setting the table. Guests will be here in an hour.” Timur frowned as he stepped into the kitchen. “What’s wrong with you, Svet? Igor is my brother—he’s invited. Making guests work is bad manners. And you could’ve moved faster. Why is the table still empty?” “Because I’m alone, Timur!” Svetlana’s voice shook. “I’ve been cooking for fifteen people for two days. I spent my savings on groceries because you blew everything on alcohol and your watch.” Timur winced like he’d bitten into something sour. “Money again? Honestly, how petty. We’re one family—one shared budget.” “When it was my mother’s birthday, the budget was separate,” she reminded him quietly.Family Relationship Counseling “Don’t compare!” Timur snapped. “That was a pensioner’s whim. This is a business gathering. An investment! By the way—” he reached into his suit pocket and produced a receipt. “I ordered more delicacies from the fish shop. Delivery’s coming in twenty minutes. Pay the courier—five thousand. I don’t have cash, and my card is empty.” “What?” Svetlana went still. “I don’t have any money left, Timur. I spent everything on meat and vegetables.” “Borrow it from someone,” Igor chimed in, chewing another stolen chunk of roast from the counter. “Ask your mom. Why are you making problems out of nothing? It’s Timur’s party—you’re supposed to rise to the occasion.” Timur nodded in agreement. “Igor’s right. Svet, don’t embarrass me. Find the money. And hurry up with the table—people will be here soon. And go change. You look like a dishwasher.” Part 3. A Boomerang Doesn’t Make a Sound
Silence settled over the kitchen. Only the meat hissed in the pan, and the wall clock ticked steadily, counting down to disaster. Svetlana looked at her husband and his brother. For the first time, she saw them without any softness, without excuses. Two smug men: one convinced the whole world revolved around his career; the other a parasite, living off whoever would feed him. They stood in her kitchen—the one she’d scrubbed spotless late last night—eating food she’d bought with her money, and telling her she still wasn’t serving them well enough. Something inside Svetlana clicked. Not a crack. A release. Like a chain snapping—one that had kept a creature named Patience locked up for years. She slowly untied her apron. Her movements were calm, precise, almost frighteningly smooth. She wadded the fabric into a ball and flung it—not onto the table, but straight into Igor’s face. “Hey—what the hell?!” he squealed, jerking back. “Svet, have you lost your mind?” Timur exploded. “What is this?!” Svetlana started laughing. Not happy laughter—dry, sharp, ugly. She laughed at their stunned faces, and there was something raw in it, something primal. “Rise to the occasion?” she repeated, suddenly cutting the laughter off. Her face twisted—not with tears, but with fury. “I’m supposed to rise to your cruelty?” “Watch your mouth,” Timur stepped forward, trying to crush her with authority. “I’m your husband. I’m the head of this family!” “You’re not the head—you’re a stingy pig!” she shouted so loudly the glass in the cabinet rattled. “Go to hell with your guests, Timur! With your brother, and your watch, and your career!” Igor tried to jump in. “Listen, you hyster—” Svetlana grabbed a heavy crystal salad bowl filled with Olivier—the pride of every old-school feast—and with one brutal motion dumped it straight into the sink. The salad landed with a wet slap. Mayonnaise splattered across Timur’s brand-new suit. “Are you kidding me?!” he screamed, leaping back. “My jacket!” “I don’t give a damn about your jacket!” Svetlana snatched up her handbag from the windowsill. Adrenaline burned through her veins, turning fear into fuel. “So here’s how it’s going to be. It’s your celebration—you host it. If you want to eat, cook it yourself. If you want to pay the courier, sell your watch. And as for me—I’m not here.” “You won’t dare leave!” Timur hissed, red blotches blooming across his face. “Valery Pavlovich will be here in forty minutes! If you walk out, I’ll destroy you. You’ll come crawling back—” “Go haunt the woods,” she cut him off, already slipping on her shoes in the hallway. Her hands weren’t trembling—if anything, they felt strong. She was light, almost weightless. “Feed them your ambitions, darling. Enjoy.”
She slammed the door so hard an umbrella fell off the rack. Timur and Igor stood frozen in the kitchen, surrounded by the smell of burning meat and splattered mayonnaise. “Psycho…” Igor muttered. “Tim, the meat’s burning.” “Turn it off!” Timur barked, furiously scrubbing his lapel with a wet wipe. “She’ll cool down and come back. She has nowhere to go. She’ll pace around the building and return to beg forgiveness.” Ten minutes passed. Twenty. Thirty. Svetlana didn’t return. And the meat really did burn. Part 4. A Feast in the Middle of Ruin The doorbell sounded like a tribunal’s verdict. Timur, still unable to fully clean the stain, forced a fake smile and opened the door. Valery Pavlovich stood there with his wife, Inga—a statuesque woman with piercing gray eyes. Behind them came Oleg with his wife, Aunt Tamara, and finally Timur’s mother, Galina Petrovna.Family Relationship Counseling “Congratulations—new position, new life!” Valery Pavlovich boomed, handing Timur an expensive gift bag. “So where’s the hostess? The keeper of the home front?” A cold sweat slid down Timur’s spine. “Come in, come in!” he fussed. “Svet… she’s a little unwell. Migraine. Terrible. She had to lie down.” The guests walked into the living room. A long table stood there, covered with a tablecloth… and completely bare. Plates, forks, and a lineup of pricey alcohol bottles. A lonely little bowl of bread—sliced by Svetlana before the blowup—and that was it. A heavy pause thickened the air. “So… are we supposed to snack on spiritual nourishment?” Inga asked, scanning the emptiness with dry irony. Aunt Tamara, simple and blunt, said loudly, “Timurka, where’s the food? I’m starving.” “Any minute now!” Timur darted into the kitchen, where Igor was trying to carve an edible center out of a scorched slab of meat. “It’ll be here! Delivery’s just running late!” At that moment Galina Petrovna entered the kitchen. She took in the wreckage: dirty dishes in the sink, the overturned salad, the burned pan. “What happened here?” she asked, her tone icy. “Where is Svetlana? And don’t lie to me about migraines.” Cornered, Timur decided to attack. “Your precious daughter-in-law threw a tantrum! She abandoned everything and ran off, leaving me like this in front of my guests! She set me up! I asked her for one simple thing—set the table—and she… ungrateful!” Galina Petrovna stepped closer, picked up the knife Svetlana had used for vegetables, and turned it in her hand. “And why is Igor here instead of helping?” she asked quietly. “I was tasting,” Igor cut in. “And Svetka flipped when Tim asked her to pay for the delivery. She’s gotten stingy.” Galina Petrovna slowly lifted her gaze to her older son. “You made your wife pay for your celebration—after you refused to help her with her mother’s birthday?” Timur blinked, thrown off.
“How do you even know about that?” “Tatyana called me that day,” his mother said. “She was crying. She was ashamed for you, son. And now I’m ashamed too.” She turned and walked into the living room. Timur hurried after her. “Mom, don’t start. The guests are waiting!” In the living room Valery Pavlovich was already pouring cognac, trying to smooth over the awkwardness, but the air was tight as a wire. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Galina Petrovna announced loudly, “I’m sorry, but there will be no celebration. My son, unfortunately, has forgotten what respect for family means. He drove his wife out after she cooked for you for two days—because he decided she’s a servant who should also pay for the privilege of serving him.” The room fell into grave silence. Timur’s face went crimson. “Mom! What are you saying?! Have you lost it?!” “Don’t raise your voice at your mother,” Valery Pavlovich said calmly, setting his glass down. He hadn’t even taken a sip.Family Relationship Counseling Inga stood up and looked at Timur as if he were something stuck to her shoe. “You know, Timur,” she said, “I don’t know Svetlana personally—but I already respect her. And men who build themselves up by humiliating women? I despise them. Valera, let’s go. I’m not taking part in this circus. We’ll have dinner at a restaurant.” “Valer Palych—come on! Over women’s drama?” Timur pleaded, grabbing his boss’s sleeve. “I’ll order pizza! Sushi!” Valery Pavlovich shook his hand off with disgust. “This isn’t about pizza, Timur. It’s about reliability. If a man betrays the people closest to him, he’ll betray a partner the first chance he gets. Good luck.” After the “important guests” left, the others followed. Oleg and his wife mumbled something and slipped out. Aunt Tamara sighed mournfully at the sight of untouched cognac and left too, muttering, “What an idiot you are, Timka.” Galina Petrovna was last. She paused in the doorway, looked at her son, then at Igor chewing a sandwich. “If I were Svetlana, I’d have put the salad bowl on your head,” she said. “Don’t call me until you grow up.” The door shut. Only Timur, Igor, and the smell of burnt food remained. “So…” Igor said, still chewing, “not bad. Cognac’s still here, right?” Part 5. Emptiness in a Pizza Box Timur sat on the floor in an empty apartment. Technically it was furnished, but it felt hollow—like the walls had stopped holding warmth. Echoes drifted in the corners. Three months had passed. That night had been the beginning of the end. Svetlana didn’t come back. She filed for divorce remotely, speaking only through a lawyer. No screaming. No pleading. No dramatic showdowns. Just total silence. That silence enraged Timur more than anything—because he couldn’t unload his anger onto her.
He had to give up the apartment. It was rented, and for a long time Svetlana had paid most of it from her salary while Timur “invested in his image.” Now the upscale three-bedroom was too expensive to carry alone. He kept the promotion—but only on paper. Valery Pavlovich turned cold, strictly formal. No more invitations to closed clubs, no more lucrative projects. Timur got moved to a direction with less money and more responsibility. “You like saving so much—then go optimize warehouse costs,” the boss had said with a crooked smirk. At first Timur moved in with his mother, thinking he’d ride it out and spend less. But Galina Petrovna launched a full boycott: she cooked only for herself, washed only her own things, and every evening she loudly talked on the phone with Tatyana—Svetlana’s mother—discussing what a wonderful daughter she had. Igor, by the way, disappeared fast too—once he realized there was nothing left to take from his brother and nowhere to eat for free. In the end Timur rented a tiny studio in a crowded new high-rise. It was cramped, you could hear everything through the walls, and at night someone’s dogs howled in the courtyard. He tried to start dating again. Signed up on an app, took a woman to a café. But gossip travels faster than Wi-Fi. Once she heard his last name, she suddenly remembered she’d “left the iron on.” It turned out the story about “the party on his wife’s dime” had become a local joke in circles close to his industry. Inga—his boss’s wife—had made sure Timur’s reputation as a cheapskate and home tyrant stuck for good. Now he sat on half-unpacked boxes. On the tiny table was an open box of cheap pizza and a can of beer. “To hell with all of you!” he shouted into the emptiness. He truly didn’t understand why everyone had done this to him. “I just wanted things to be right,” he thought, biting into a cold piece of crust. “She was supposed to support me. That was her responsibility. Women are poison.” He never understood the main thing: stinginess isn’t about money. It’s about feelings. And the bill for it always arrives—with brutal interest—when you’re left alone at a table no one is willing to set for you. A notification chimed on his phone. The bank reminded him about the payment on the loan for that same blue suit—the one hanging in the closet now, still marked by a greasy stain that wouldn’t wash out, a permanent reminder of his collapse. Timur hurled the phone at the wall. The screen went dark—yet the silence in the room only grew louder.

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