The door slammed.
I was left alone with the children.
The refrigerator was empty. A pot of soup, half a pack of butter, and the cheap sausage.
Alina came out of the room. She was fourteen years old. She had piercing eyes, peering from under her eyebrows.
“Mom, my socks are worn out. The last ones. Can I wear jeans?”
“You can go,” I sighed. “Alina, are you eating yet?”
“No. I’m going to Grandma’s. Dad said the table would fall apart there. Caviar, fish… I want fish, Mom. I haven’t eaten it in a hundred years.”
My heart sank.
He wants fish. The child wants fish. His father takes this fish to his grandmother, who already has diabetes and high cholesterol, and the child can’t even eat half of it.
We got ready. I put on my only decent dress. It’s five years old, a little tight around my chest, but I have nothing else to buy.
We arrived at two o’clock.
Tamara Petrovna opened the door. She was wearing a velvet dressing gown, tied in a bun. She smelled of perfume and fried chicken.
“Oh, you’re here. Come on. Just be quiet, my head hurts.”
The table was set in the living room.
A beautiful tablecloth. Crystal glass.
And plates.
On the plates… boiled potatoes. Herring (plain, salty, with onions). Olivier salad. Vinaigrette. A whole roasted chicken.
I looked around the table.
“And where is it?” I exclaimed.
“Where are we going?” the mother-in-law sat down in the main restaurant.
– The fish. The caviar. The balyk. The blue cheese. Vitya brought it.
Vitia sat down next to her mother.
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