“Fine. Stay here alone with your pots and pans,” he said through his teeth. “You’ll be the one calling to apologize later. I won’t answer. You ruined my entire celebration in front of everyone. I’ll never forget this.”
Margaret’s reply was simple.
“When you leave, close the door.”
As soon as 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.
Margaret leaned back against the door and closed her eyes.
She expected her hands to begin trembling. She thought tears might come, or that familiar guilt might return—the guilt that had tormented her after every family argument.
But none of it happened.
Instead, she felt lighter with every breath.
It seemed as though she had finally taken from her shoulders a heavy sack filled with wet sand, one she had carried for years along an endless uphill road.
Margaret went back to the kitchen.
The roasting pan still sat beneath its lid on the stove. The warm, full scent of meat, garlic, and herbs lingered in the air.
She opened the china cabinet and took out her favorite porcelain plate, the one edged with a thin line of gold.
She had saved it for truly important occasions. Even guests rarely used it because she was always afraid someone might break it.
Apparently, this was an important day after all.
Margaret cut herself a thick, juicy slice of pork.
She added two soft 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 a crisp salted pickle.
Then she poured a small glass of homemade cranberry liqueur, which she had set aside to steep the previous autumn, and sat down by the window.
The gentle evening sun spread a golden glow across the spotless kitchen.
Outside, young birch leaves whispered in the breeze, while sparrows called loudly to one another from the thick branches.
The dinner was wonderful.
The meat was tender enough to fall apart in her mouth. The potatoes crumbled beneath her fork, and the sharp berry liqueur warmed her throat pleasantly.
Margaret did not hurry.
She ate slowly, savoring every bite and the unexpected peace that had settled over her apartment.
Afterward, she brewed herself a strong cup of tea and happily ate a large piece of still-warm pastry filled with egg and green onions.
She packed 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 baking sincerely. They would probably ask for the recipe again and wonder how she managed to make the dough so soft.
Three days passed.
On Tuesday, during her lunch break, Margaret’s phone rang.
Her son’s name appeared on the screen.
Daniel.
She did not reach for it immediately.
She calmly finished her sip of tea, placed the cup on the table, and answered only after roughly the fifth ring.
“Hi, Mom,” Daniel said.
His voice was tense. It carried both awkwardness and the familiar trace of mild displeasure, as if he already believed she owed him something.
“Emily and I were talking. Anyway, we need to go to the country house this weekend. It’s time to plant the potatoes, and we’re running out of time. You’re taking your car there with us, right? And, um… did you already eat all that meat, or is there any left? We could stop by in the evening and take it.”
Margaret looked out the laboratory window.
Small blue tits hopped across the sun-warmed pavement outside the clinic.
A faint smile touched her face.
“You’ll 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 and not difficult to please. They don’t turn up their noses at cat food or a poor person’s table. You can order something expensive from a restaurant instead. You’re used to modern, sophisticated menus now.”
Margaret 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 ache at all.
A free weekend lay ahead.
And for the first time in a very long while, no one but Margaret had made plans for it.