“Fine. Stay here alone with your pots and pans,” he said through clenched teeth. “You’ll be the one calling to apologize later. But I won’t answer. You ruined my entire celebration in front of everyone. I’ll never forget this.”
Eleanor replied evenly, “When you leave, close the door behind you.”
Once her son crossed the threshold, she shut the door and turned the key.
In the quiet hallway, the dry click of the lock sounded unusually loud.
Eleanor leaned her back against the door and closed her eyes for a moment.
She was certain her hands would begin to tremble. She expected tears, or the familiar guilt that always tormented her after a family argument.
But nothing happened.
Instead, an extraordinary lightness spread through her.
It felt as though she had finally removed a heavy sack filled with wet sand from her shoulders—a burden she had carried for years along an endless uphill road.
She returned to the kitchen.
The roasting pan stood beneath its lid on the stove. The warm, rich scent of meat, garlic, and herbs still lingered in the air.
Eleanor opened the china cabinet and took out her favorite porcelain plate with its narrow gold rim.
She had kept that plate for truly important occasions. She rarely even used it for guests, always afraid that someone might accidentally break it.
Apparently, today really was a special day.
She cut herself a generous, juicy slice of pork.
Beside it, she placed two tender potatoes soaked with meat juices and scattered fresh dill over everything. The dill had grown in a pot on her windowsill.
From the refrigerator, she took out a crisp, salty pickle.
Then she poured homemade cranberry liqueur into a small clear glass. She had started it the previous autumn. Carrying the plate and the drink to the window, she sat down.
Soft evening sunlight flooded the clean kitchen with gold.
Outside, young birch leaves rustled gently, while sparrows called loudly to one another from the thick branches.
Dinner was wonderful.
The meat was so tender it seemed to melt in her mouth. The potatoes broke apart beneath her fork, and the tart berry liqueur sent a pleasant warmth down her throat.
Eleanor did not hurry.
She ate slowly, savoring every bite and the unexpected quiet that had settled over the apartment.
After the meal, she brewed herself a strong cup of tea and happily ate a large slice of still-warm pastry filled with eggs and green onions.
She carefully divided the remaining meat, potatoes, and pastries into containers.
The next day, she would take everything to the laboratory and share it with her coworkers.
They always praised her homemade baking sincerely. They would probably ask for the recipe again and want to know how she made the dough so soft.
Three days passed.
On Tuesday, during her lunch break, Eleanor’s phone rang.
Her son’s name appeared on the screen.
Daniel.
She did not snatch up the phone immediately.
She calmly finished a sip of tea, set the cup on the table, and answered only after approximately the fifth ring.
“Hi, Mom,” Daniel said.
His voice was tense.
There was embarrassment in it, along with the familiar trace of irritation—as if Eleanor already owed him something.
“Claire and I talked. Anyway, we need to go to the country place this weekend. It’s time to plant the potatoes, and we’re already falling behind. You’re taking your car, right? You’ll drive us there? And, listen… Did you eat all that meat, or is there any left? We could stop by this evening and take it.”
Eleanor looked out through the laboratory window.
Tiny bluebirds hopped across the sun-warmed pavement outside the clinic.
A faint smile appeared on her face.
“Plant the potatoes yourselves now, son. You can use the entire plot. I’ll transfer my share to you so there won’t be any misunderstandings later. As for the meat, I gave it to my coworkers yesterday. They’re simple people, not difficult to please. They don’t turn up their noses at cat food or a poor person’s table. You should order yourselves something good from a restaurant. You’re used to modern food and an expensive menu now.”
Eleanor ended the call, placed the phone face down on the table, and opened her laboratory journal again.
For the first time in many years, her head did not hurt at all.
And the weekend ahead belonged entirely to her.
For the first time in a very long while, no one but Eleanor had made plans for it.