“Deniska, my dear boy, eat your soup before it gets cold!” Tamara Vasilyevna’s voice filled the kitchen like a military command disguised as motherly care.
Denis sighed, set his phone aside, and obediently picked up the family silver spoon.
It was his thirty-eighth birthday.
Thirty-eight.
And yet he was sitting in the same apartment, at the same table, eating the same soup his mother had been cooking for him for nearly thirty years.
Tamara Vasilyevna’s love was like a thick feather blanket—warm, safe… and sometimes so overwhelming it felt hard to breathe underneath it.
Everything in the kitchen looked exactly the same as it always had. Crystal glasses sparkled inside the display cabinet, the old herringbone parquet floor creaked softly, and the clock on the wall ticked just as it had twenty years earlier.
It was as if time itself had stopped.
“Did you throw your socks under the couch again?” Tamara asked, automatically smoothing a stray lock of hair from her son’s forehead.
“Mom, I’ll pick them up later.”
“Sure. Just like last week.”
“I did pick them up last week.”
“Yes. After I found them.”
Denis smiled.
They had probably had this exact conversation a thousand times before.
Then he took a deep breath.
“Mom… I’m getting married.”
The ladle froze in midair.
Tamara Vasilyevna’s face went completely still.
A second later, the ladle slipped from her hand and splashed loudly into the hot soup.
“What?”
“I’m getting married.”
Several seconds of stunned silence followed.
Then came the storm.
“To whom?!”
“To Nastya.”
“What Nastya?”
“The only Nastya I’m dating.”
“How long?”
“Six months.”
“SIX MONTHS?!”
Tamara looked at him as if he had just announced that he was secretly moving to Mars.
“And you’re only telling me now?!”
“There just wasn’t a good moment…”
“No good moment in six months?!”
The interrogation began immediately.
Age.
Job.
Salary.
Parents.
Grandparents.
Medical history.
Blood type.
She was only one question away from asking about Nastya’s kindergarten nickname.
When she learned that Nastya worked at a bank, Tamara narrowed her eyes suspiciously.
“A bank?”
“Yes.”
“I see…”
She didn’t.
But she already disliked it.
The following Saturday, Nastya arrived in person.
She wore an elegant dress and carried a beautiful cake along with a bottle of expensive wine.
She smiled.
Tamara Vasilyevna did not.
Standing in the doorway, she looked Nastya up and down.
The cake.
The wine.
Then Nastya again.
Without a word, she handed her a pair of enormous, awkward house slippers.
Nastya had a feeling this was only the warm-up.
She was right.
Dinner felt like a diplomatic summit between two hostile nations.
Everyone smiled.
Nobody relaxed.
“Try our soup,” Tamara said sweetly. “I imagine young people these days mostly eat fast food.”
“I actually enjoy cooking,” Nastya replied calmly.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“And what do you cook?”
“Light broths and soups.”
Tamara nearly froze.
“Broths?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not food. That’s a diet.”
Denis had the growing feeling that someone might need an ambulance before the evening was over.
Then the conversation moved on to illnesses.
Heredity.
Family background.
The past.
The future.
Apartments.
Children.
Money.
To everyone’s surprise, Nastya handled it all remarkably well.
Every attack was calmly deflected.
Sometimes she even counterattacked.
Tamara found that increasingly difficult to tolerate.
The situation became truly dangerous when Nastya’s mother arrived.
Nina Pavlovna.
A decisive woman.
Strong opinions.
And absolutely no fear.
The two women sat opposite each other in the kitchen.
Later, Denis said it felt like watching two nuclear powers negotiate the fate of the world.
At first they argued about everything.
Soup.
Meat.
Apple varieties.
Medicine.
Parenting.
Marriage.
They even debated the proper way to peel potatoes.
Then something unexpected happened.
The argument slowly turned into a conversation.
The conversation became a confession.
They discovered that they had spent their entire lives doing exactly the same thing.
Overprotecting their children.
Interfering in their relationships.
Trying to shield them from every disappointment.
And, in the process, sometimes making their lives more difficult.
For a few seconds, silence filled the room.
Then Nina Pavlovna burst out laughing.
Tamara followed.
The laughter grew louder and louder.
A few minutes later, they were talking as if they had been best friends for twenty years.
Completely stunned, Denis and Nastya retreated to the next room.
From the kitchen came the sound of clinking wine glasses and cheerful laughter.
“Denis…” Nastya whispered. “You do realize those two have just formed an alliance, right?”
“I know.”
“And I think that’s much worse than when they were fighting.”
Denis stared at the door.
Another burst of laughter came from the other side.
“Do you think we should move away?”
“Preferably to another continent.”
“It wouldn’t help.”
“You’re right.”
Just then, Tamara’s voice rang out from the kitchen:
“We’ll organize their vacations together!”
“And we’ll help decorate their apartment!” Nina added enthusiastically.
Denis closed his eyes.
Nastya laughed.
The two mothers had finally made peace.
Unfortunately, it was at their children’s expense.
