“Get a divorce, don’t torture your son!” my mother-in-law shouted.

What kind of pollution are you thinking of?

The weight of the kettle, or are you hoping I’ll move out soon?

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous!”

A dry cough came from the pipe.

You can also see: Paszkacska withers.

Yesterday he came in to eat pirozki and his eyes were like those of a wounded dog.

You’re ruining his life with your career and these… what do they call them… smoothies.

When will I finally get a divorce?

Stop torturing the man, let him find himself a decent woman who knows which side to stand on at the stove.

Marina froze.

Gray Moscow clouds drifted past the thirteenth-floor window.

Five years.

Five years of daily phone calls, where the question “When are you getting divorced?” was asked more often than “How are you?”

First it hurt, then it made me angry, and now… now it was just boring.

“You know, Eleonora Arkadyevna,” Marina suddenly smiled at her reflection in the dark glass of the stove.

You’re right.

It’s time to end this circus.

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For complete cooking times, go to the next page or click the Open button (>), and don’t forget to SHARE with your Facebook friends.