My husband decided to celebrate his birthday at home and invited all his relatives. Throughout the entire evening, my mother-in-law and sister-in-law criticized me and my cooking, until at one moment my patience simply snapped 😢🤔
My husband, Sergey, recently turned forty. It was a serious, milestone birthday, and I immediately suggested celebrating it at a restaurant so I wouldn’t have to run around with pots and pans and collapse from exhaustion. I wanted a nice hall, music, and to be able to sit at the table myself instead of living in the kitchen all evening. But Sergey waved his hand and said it was all nonsense.
— Why waste money on someone else’s chefs? — he said. — You cook better than any restaurant. Let’s gather our own people: my mom, my sister with her husband, Aunt Olga… ten or fifteen people, no more. We’ll sit at home, calmly, like a family.
I already knew what that “like a family” meant. It meant two days at the stove, washing floors, polishing mirrors, shopping for groceries, chopping salads in huge bowls, marinating meat, and then smiling as if none of it was hard. But I agreed. For some reason, I always agree.
By the evening of the celebration, I felt completely drained. I had a bandage on my finger — I had cut myself while rushing to slice the cheese. My hair no longer looked as neat as it had in the morning, and my legs ached so badly that I wanted to lie down on the floor and not get up. The guests arrived exactly at six. My mother-in-law, Raisa Petrovna, and my sister-in-law, Irina, entered the apartment like an inspection committee.
— It’s like a sauna in here, — my mother-in-law said instead of greeting us. — You could have opened a window. Sergey needs fresh air, he’s sensitive.
Silently, I led them to the table. We sat down. And I started running back and forth between the kitchen and the living room: serving food, clearing plates, bringing bread, pouring juice. Sergey sat at the head of the table, accepted congratulations, and smiled as if everything had appeared by itself.
At first, they started talking about the salads.
— Didn’t you skimp on the dressing? — Irina asked, poking at my salad with her fork. — It’s kind of dry. I would’ve made it juicier, so the flavor would be more interesting.
I smiled and said that everyone cooks in their own way.
Then it was time for the main course. I brought out the roasted pork that I had marinated for almost a whole day. Raisa Petrovna cut off a small piece, chewed for a long time, and finally said:
— You could’ve taken it out a bit earlier. It’s a little tough. Sergey has disliked overcooked meat since childhood. Young housewives still have a lot to learn. At your age, I cooked dishes that guests asked seconds for.
The table fell silent. I looked at my husband, hoping he would at least say something in my defense.
— Mom, don’t start, — he said weakly. — It’s basically fine, you just probably overcooked it a bit.
Those words hit harder than any slap. Instead of “thank you,” I heard him agree with their criticism.
Irina immediately continued:
— Lena, you should think about yourself too. You look tired. Pale skin, dark circles under your eyes. Sergey is a handsome man, and next to him you look completely worn out. You need to take care of yourself — competition is fierce these days.
They laughed as if it were a joke. Something inside me snapped. And at that very moment, I did something after which all the guests sat there in shock, unable to believe their eyes 😢🤔
I slowly placed the dish on the table, removed my apron, and laid it on my mother-in-law’s lap. — Since you know better, — I said calmly, — then today, you will be the hosts. At that moment, I felt something inside me finally break. I took the plate of meat. Slowly. Without shouting. Without hysteria. And simply poured all the contents first over my mother-in-law’s head, then over my sister-in-law. The sauce ran down their hair and dresses. There was dead silence at the table.
My husband had decided to celebrate his birthday at home and invited all his relatives: my mother-in-law and sister-in-law had been criticizing me and my cooking all evening, but at some point, my patience simply snapped. I wiped my hands with a napkin and calmly said: — If the meat is bad, let’s order delivery. Let the one who didn’t like it pay. My mother-in-law jumped up, started shouting that I was unbalanced and ungrateful. Oksana screamed that I had ruined their evening and dresses.
The guests panicked and moved away from the table. Sergey stood pale, unsure whether to run after his mother or after me. And I said nothing more. I simply turned, went to the bedroom, and closed the door from the inside. I sat in silence, listening to their screams in the hallway, doors slamming, and heavy footsteps.
After a while, it grew quiet. They left. And I suddenly realized that I would never again allow such “family” celebrations at my expense.
