“You could have bought decent napkins for once, at least for the celebration. Not this cheap paper from the clearance aisle. Putting something like that in front of guests is embarrassing.”
Martha pinched one of the flimsy napkins between two fingers, as though it might stain her, then tossed it carelessly toward the edge of the linen tablecloth.
Eleanor stood frozen beside the china cabinet, holding a heavy crystal serving dish. A sharp discomfort pierced her chest, but she said nothing. Her fingers only tightened around the cold, faceted glass.
She had chosen those napkins the day before, especially for the family gathering. Delicate blue cornflowers decorated the white paper, and Eleanor had spent a long time comparing packages until she found a pattern that matched the old festive dinnerware her mother had left her.
The small living room was warm and inviting. The rich scents of homemade food filled the air—the kind of smell found only in a home where the hostess has spent nearly two days beside the stove. Fresh pastry, garlic, dill, roasted meat, and spices mingled together.
Eleanor had begun preparing on Thursday. After her shift at the medical laboratory, she went to the market and picked out a fresh pork shoulder. That evening, she stayed up late making jellied meat from a free-range chicken. She patiently skimmed every trace of foam and excess fat from the broth until it became perfectly clear.
The occasion truly mattered. Daniel and Claire were celebrating their wedding anniversary. It was an important date for the young couple, and Eleanor had wanted to give her children a warm family evening.
The couple had warned her beforehand that a café or restaurant was out of reach for them at the moment. Nearly all their spare money was going toward the payments on the car they had recently bought. Eleanor had agreed without hesitation to host the celebration in her own home and take care of all the food herself.
“Mom, you know perfectly well that Martha likes everything to look elegant,” Claire remarked, examining her fresh manicure without making the slightest attempt to help her mother-in-law arrange the plates. “You could at least have taken out cloth napkins, starched them, and folded them nicely. We are celebrating an anniversary at home, after all.”
Daniel was stretched out comfortably on the sofa, absorbed in the news on his phone. His posture made it clear that he considered the question of table settings none of his concern.
Martha’s husband, George, a sturdy, usually quiet man, sat a little apart from everyone else. He was studying the fern on the windowsill with such concentration that he seemed to hope he could disappear among its leaves. He knew his wife’s temper far too well.
“The tablecloth is clean, the good dinnerware is out, and everything is arranged properly,” Eleanor replied with restraint, placing the crystal serving dish beside a large round salad bowl. “Let’s sit down before the appetizers dry out.”
Martha lowered herself heavily into a cushioned chair, adjusted the bright silk scarf around her broad shoulders, and slowly surveyed the table like a strict inspector. The familiar look of superiority gleamed in her eyes.
For twenty years, she had worked as a purchasing clerk at a large wholesale company. Even now, whenever the opportunity arose, she brought up her former connections as proof of her elevated status.
“Eleanor, this really is something from another era,” she drawled with an exaggerated sigh, tapping the mayonnaise salad with her fork. “Another enormous bowl of this stuff. Who serves that at an anniversary anymore? Modern people make light salads—arugula, shrimp, avocado, a proper dressing. This is nothing but cholesterol. We’ll be paying for it with stomachaches all night.”
Eleanor carefully lowered herself onto the edge of a chair near the kitchen doorway. After spending the entire day on her feet, her knees and soles ached unpleasantly.
“Daniel has loved this salad since he was a child. I made it especially for him. The pickles are homemade, the chicken is from a farm, and I used real meat instead of cheap luncheon sausage.”
Martha twisted her brightly painted lips and pushed the bowl farther away.
“What difference does it make whether the chicken is homemade if everything is drowned in bargain mayonnaise? You could have asked the young couple what people serve at celebrations these days. And what is that supposed to be? Jellied meat? In May? Eleanor, that is simply bad taste. You make jellied meat in winter—for Christmas, or, heaven forbid, for a funeral.”
Claire pressed her lips together in agreement and nodded at her mother.
Daniel made a vague sound without lifting his eyes from the screen.
Eleanor looked at her son and suddenly remembered the previous week. Daniel had stopped by after work, exhausted, rumpled, and gray-faced. He had complained that he had no money left at all. After the latest car payment, he said, there was barely enough for gasoline.