What to do if someone has disposed of your hospitality behind your back? On New Year’s Eve, guests are already standing on the doorstep, having been promised a feast fit for a king, but instead of a set table, icy disappointment and an uncomfortable truth await them.
Lida stood at the kitchen sink, wringing out a rag, and looked at the new cutting board. Massive, oak, with a beautiful grain pattern, it lay in the middle of the table like an artifact that had suddenly materialized from another reality. It definitely wasn’t there this morning. Lida remembered every item in this kitchen, remembered how much every pot and every spoon cost, but she hadn’t bought this board. She ran her palm over the cold surface: the wood was smooth, sanded to silkiness. Expensive. Too expensive for their budget.
Lida felt something clench inside her—not from joy, but from anxiety, as if a stranger had entered her space, rearranged the furniture, and left without explaining why.
“Do you like it?” Andrey appeared in the doorway, beaming, in a new shirt. He was smiling broadly, the way people smile who have just done something great and are waiting for admiration.
“Is this you?” Lida turned to him, trying to keep her face straight.
“Well, of course it’s me! A little advance for the holiday.” He walked over and hugged her by the shoulders. “You’re my wizard in the kitchen, so let there be a worthy tool for culinary masterpieces.”
His tone was too cheerful, his gesture too broad. Lida felt falseness in every word but couldn’t explain exactly what it consisted of.
“Thank you,” she squeezed out, forcing a smile. “It’s beautiful.”
“That’s excellent.” Andrey pecked her on the top of her head and let go. “I’m off, I have a call. Can you manage here?”
“I’ll manage.”
The eternal question. Lida always managed. She nodded, and Andrey disappeared behind the living room door. A second later, the sounds of a computer turning on and his muffled voice came from there:
“Yes, hi, I’m connected.”
Lida remained alone in the kitchen. She looked at the board again. The price tag had been torn off neatly, but a trace of the sticker remained on the back—a sticky square. Lida rubbed it with her fingernail. The residue wouldn’t yield. The board didn’t feel like a gift. It felt like evidence.
In the evening, when Andrey went to meet friends, Lida opened her laptop and logged into the banking app. The habit of checking accounts had become second nature to her after she realized three years ago that Andrey perceived money as something abstract, not requiring accounting. Mortgage, utilities, groceries, gas… Lida kept a spreadsheet where she entered every expense item. The apartment was registered to both of them, but the down payment—2 million—she had made herself, selling her grandmother’s dacha near the Dnieper. Andrey had promised back then that he would pay half of the monthly installment. The promise lasted four months, then he “started having problems with a project,” then “payment was delayed,” then something else. Lida silently took on the entire mortgage. And the utilities. And the groceries.
She looked at the numbers on the screen. Salary card—hers. Savings account—theirs jointly, but only she replenished it. There was 80,000 in it. The result of three months of strict austerity. Lida was saving for a summer vacation. She wanted to go to the sea, to Odessa, rent a small house far from the crowds of tourists. She had already found options and saved the links.
Andrey earned money, but unstably. Freelance designer: sometimes feast, sometimes famine. When it was a feast, he bought himself new sneakers, a new phone, dined with friends in restaurants. When it was famine, Lida plugged the holes.
She closed the laptop and looked out the window. Wet snow was falling behind the glass, melting on the asphalt. There were a few days left until the New Year. Lida didn’t like this holiday. Too many expectations, too little joy. It always seemed that everyone around was playing at happiness, and she alone saw the scenery.
The phone vibrated on the table. Lida glanced at the screen. Tamara Ignatyevna. Mother-in-law. Lida picked up the phone, preparing in advance for the usual tension.
“Hello, Tamara Ignatyevna.”
“Lidochka, hello, dear,” the mother-in-law’s voice was honeyed, enveloping. “How are things? How is your health?”
“Thanks, everything is fine.”
“Well, that’s wonderful. Is Andryusha home?”
“No, he went out.”
“I see.” Pause. Lida knew these pauses: something unpleasant always followed them. “Listen, I keep thinking about how you are there, in your palace. The apartment is so luxurious, Andryusha keeps bragging.”
Lida pursed her lips. “In your palace.” “Andryusha keeps bragging.” The mother-in-law never missed an opportunity to remind her that the apartment was allegedly her son’s achievement, not Lida’s.
“We live normally,” Lida answered neutrally.
“And are you getting ready for the holiday? I was at Ira’s yesterday, she’s already bought everything, the fridge is packed. She says she’ll make both kholodets (meat jelly) and aspic. And what are you cooking?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“What do you mean haven’t decided?” a note of surprise bordering on reproach sounded in the mother-in-law’s voice. “Lidochka, the New Year is a week and a bit away. You know everything will be bought up in the stores later.”
“I’ll manage,” said Lida briefly.
“Well, well.” Tamara Ignatyevna was clearly dissatisfied with the answer. “And how will you be celebrating? Just the two of you?”
Here it comes. Lida became alert.
“Yes, just the two of us.”
“Oh, how sad. Young people, yet sitting like old folks.” The mother-in-law sighed theatrically. “Gena, Ira, and I were thinking of gathering the whole family. Haven’t seen each other for a long time. That would be great! Family-style, at a big table. Remember how it used to be, in Soviet times? All together, noisy, fun. And now everyone has scattered…”
Lida remained silent. She felt the mother-in-law testing the ground, preparing for an attack.
“Okay, I won’t distract you. Tell Andryusha to call his mother.” The voice became slightly colder. “Kisses.”
Lida hung up and exhaled. Everything was clear. Tamara Ignatyevna had already planned something. She never called just for the sake of it.
The next day, Lida was going to pay the utility bills and opened the banking app. She went to the savings account. The numbers on the screen ceased to be perceived for a second. Lida blinked, refreshed the page.
Zero money. No, not zero. There’s three hundred. The remainder after the deduction. Eighty thousand had disappeared.
Lida went cold. Her hands began to tremble. She clicked on the transaction history. Yesterday, at 15:23. Transfer to the card of Andrey Sergeyevich Krylov. Eighty thousand.
She sat motionless, staring at the screen. One thought pulsed in her head: he took all the money. Without asking. Without warning. He just took it and transferred it to his card.
The door in the hallway slammed. Andrey had returned…
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