“Barbara said you’d be better off staying home. This year it’ll be a strictly family holiday.”
Jason didn’t even look up from his phone. Grace froze in the middle of the kitchen, a cleaning rag in her hands. December twenty-seventh—three days until New Year’s—and she had just been crossed out of the family. Again.
“What do you mean—stay home?”
“Well, like that. You wouldn’t fit in anyway, right? Barbara’s apartment isn’t made of rubber.” He finally looked up from the screen, surprised, as if she’d asked something silly. “She did ask you to cook, though. Here’s the list.”
He handed her a sheet of paper covered in Barbara’s round handwriting. Grace took it with two fingers.
Aspic. Three kinds of salad. Baked fish. Meat pies and apple pies. Assorted deli platters. At the bottom, a note added: “And don’t forget to make it look nice, Grace. There will be guests, after all.”
Guests. So guests were allowed—but not her.
“She wants me to cook for twenty people, but she won’t let me sit at the table.”
Grace wasn’t asking. She just said it out loud, testing how it sounded.
“Yeah. You understand, they have their own circle. You’d feel awkward there.”
Twelve years of marriage. Twelve years she had cooked for this family at every gathering, birthday, and name day. She’d been allowed at the table maybe three times, no more. The rest of the time—reheat, serve, clear, wash.
“Okay,” Grace said.
Jason nodded and went back to his phone.
On the twenty-ninth, she stood in the supermarket by the tray of meat for the aspic. Half her monthly paycheck—the very one she’d been saving for a winter coat. Grace took the meat and put it in the cart. Then salmon, avocados, pineapples for the salads. Barbara liked everything to be “proper.”
At home she boiled, chopped, mixed. Her hands moved on their own.
On the thirtieth, she got up at six in the morning and kept going. At some point she caught herself thinking that she wasn’t even angry. She was just doing the work.
At lunchtime, her sister Amanda came by. She saw the table crammed with food containers and let out a low whistle.
“Are you opening a restaurant or something?”
“It’s for Jason’s family. For New Year’s.”
“And where are you going to be?”
“Here. Alone. I wasn’t invited, but they ordered the food.”
Amanda sat down on a stool and was quiet for a long time.
“Listen, I’ve been wanting to tell you this for years. Do you remember your wedding? I accidentally overheard Barbara talking to a friend near the restroom. She said, ‘Our Jason found himself a simple girl. Oh well, at least she knows how to cook. She’s good enough for the kitchen.’”
Grace stopped. The knife hovered over the cutting board.
“You stayed quiet for twelve years?”
“I thought it wasn’t my place. I’m sorry,” Amanda rubbed the bridge of her nose. “But now I’m looking at all this and it makes me sick. Are you really going to give them the food and spend New Year’s alone?”
“I am.”
Amanda left, slamming the door.
At seven in the evening, Barbara called. Her voice was sweet as caramel.
“Grace, dear, I was just thinking—maybe you could add shrimp too? And red caviar. It is New Year’s, after all, important guests. Jason will pay you back somehow later.”
Somehow. Later. In twelve years, Jason had never once paid her back a single cent for groceries for family holidays.
“All right, Barbara. I’ll take care of it.”
Grace hung up. She sat on the couch for about ten minutes, staring at one spot. Then she stood up, put on her jacket, and went out. At the pharmacy on the corner, she bought two vials of a strong laxative with no taste or smell.
At home, she opened the first container with the aspic. She dripped the medicine into the broth and stirred it with a spoon. Closed the lid. Opened the next one—herring under a fur coat. A few more drops into the mayonnaise. Then the Olivier salad, the mimosa salad, the sauce for the fish. Her hands moved steadily, without shaking. Inside, there was emptiness. Cold and calm.
When she finished, it was eleven o’clock. Grace threw the bottles into the trash, tied the bag, and took it out to the dumpster.
Jason came home at one in the morning, drunk. He collapsed into bed without asking how she was. Grace lay down beside him. She slept without dreams.
On the morning of the thirty-first, Jason rushed out the door.
“Come on, hurry up, where’s the food? Barbara told me to bring it by lunchtime—they’re going to start setting the table.”
He grabbed the bags and loaded them into the car. He slammed the trunk, turned back, and shouted:
“That’s it, I’m off! You’ll manage here on your own!”
He didn’t even say happy holidays.
Grace waved. The car disappeared around the corner.
She went back into the apartment, made some coffee, and turned on the TV. She spent the whole day on the couch. It was quiet and strangely calm. Amanda called three times, inviting her over, but Grace refused. She wanted to be alone.
At midnight she clinked her glass of sparkling wine with the screen, where the president was congratulating the country. She sat by the window, watching the fireworks. Lights exploded over the city, bright and brief.
At two in the morning, the phone buzzed.
“WHAT DID YOU PUT IN THERE?!”
Jason was shouting so loudly she pulled the phone away from her ear.
“What happened?”
“IT’S HELL HERE! Everyone’s stuck in the bathroom! Barbara, my sister, all the guests! The kids are crying, people are throwing up, nobody can come out! My sister’s husband messed himself right at the table! Everyone’s left, the holiday’s ruined! What did you do?!”
Grace took a sip from her glass.
“I cooked everything exactly the way Barbara asked. Homemade, with heart. Apparently your bodies can’t handle food from outsiders anymore. You said it yourself—you have your own circle.”
“You… did this on purpose?!”
His voice cracked.
“I’m just a cook, Jason. For the kitchen, remember? A simple girl who’s good enough for the kitchen. That’s what your mom said at our wedding. Twelve years ago.”
Silence.
“How do you—”
— It doesn’t matter. What matters is that now I know my place. And it’s definitely not in your family, — Grace stood up and walked over to the window. Fireworks were still blazing outside. — By the way, Happy New Year. You never did congratulate me.
She turned off the phone and set it face down.
Jason came back on the morning of January second. He looked rumpled, his face gray.
— Barbara is in the hospital. Dehydration. My sister isn’t speaking to anyone. All the guests left without even saying goodbye, — he said quietly, staring at the floor. — It was a real nightmare. A holiday with side effects.
Grace was standing by the window with her cup of coffee.
— That’s a shame, of course.
— Do you really think this is normal?
He looked up.
— And do you really think it’s normal to treat your wife like a servant for twelve years? To not let her sit at the table with your family? To make her spend her last money on food for people who despise me?
Jason was silent.
— You know what’s the funniest part? I would have forgiven you. If just once you had taken my side. Just once you had told your mother that I’m your wife, not a cook. But you stayed silent. For twelve years.
— I didn’t think it was that important to you…
— Exactly. You didn’t think. You never thought about me at all, — she took his jacket off the hook and handed it to him. — Get ready. Go to your mom, she’s not well. And I’ll think for now about whether I need a husband who sees me as nothing but a cook.
Jason took the jacket. He stood there, opening his mouth as if to speak. But he said nothing. He got dressed and left.
Grace closed the door. She leaned against the doorframe. The silence in the apartment was deafening. But this time it didn’t press down on her. It filled her with lightness, as if Grace had shed a burden she’d been carrying for far too long.
Outside it was frosty, bright, and calm. The New Year was just beginning. And this time, it was her own.
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