“Thank you, son, for this celebration!” said my mother-in-law into the microphone, completely ignoring me! My toast in response left the entire room speechless.
You know how it goes. My mother-in-laws 60th birthday was approachinga significant milestone requiring a grand celebration. And whos the familys chief organizer, the driving force, the so-called eternal engine? Thats rightme.
Nina Pavlovna, my mother-in-law, approached me with the most innocent look:
“Sweetheart, youre such a go-getter, so energetic!” Then came the usual spiel: “Help me with the anniversary, wont you? Im old, I dont understand these things.”
Oh, “help” indeed! Ladies, her idea of “help” meant I ended up handling everything. For two weeks, this party consumed my life.
I booked the venue, revised the menu three times because “Aunt Galya doesnt eat fish, and Uncle Kolya is allergic to nuts.” I hired the host, arranged the photographer, designed the decorations, and spent half the night blowing up ridiculous balloons.
The cherry on top? All this organizing was on our dime because she couldnt afford it.
My husband pretended to be busyriding along, sitting beside me, but really just glued to his phone. To every suggestion, he nodded without looking up:
“Yes, darling, brilliant idea!”
Meanwhile, Nina Pavlovna called daily with “valuable” instructions, never once asking if I needed help. Honestly, I lost three kilos from the stress.
The big day arrived. The restaurant sparkled, the guests looked lovely, the birthday queen shone in her new dress. And me? I barely had time to fix my hair.
I rushed around like a whirlwindsolving issues with waitstaff, tracking down lost kids, calming drunk Uncle Kolya. I wasnt a guestI was the unpaid event manager.
Mid-celebration, I finally sat down, hoping to taste some salad. Then the host announced:
“And now, a word from our dear birthday girl!”
Nina Pavlovna, full of grandeur, took the mic. Foolishly, I thought, *Here it comesshell thank me for all those sleepless nights.*
Instead, she swept the room with a regal gaze and declared:
“My dearest! Im so happy to see you all here! And I want to give a huge thank you to my beloved, my golden son! Andriy, without you, this celebration wouldnt have happened! Thank you, my dear!”
Girls, my fork clattered to the plate. The room erupted in applause. My husband stood, flushed with pride, blowing his mom a kiss. Not one word about me. As if I didnt exist. As if everything had magically arranged itself.
In that moment, something inside me died. And something else was born. The hurt was so sharp I forgot to breathe. Then came icy, razor-sharp rage. And a plan. Bold and public.
I waited for the applause to fade, then stood and marched to the host.
“Excuse me,” I said sweetly. “Id like to say a few wordsjust a minute.”
Unaware, he handed me the mic.
I stepped center stage, cleared my throat, and announced loud enough for the whole room:
“Dear guests! Nina Pavlovna! I wholeheartedly echo your kind words! Andriy truly is golda wonderful son and husband! Hes tonights hero! So, Id like to give him and his splendid mother a small gift.”
I reached into my purse and pulled out a folderthe restaurants invoice Id just collected from the manager.
Dead silence. I walked to the head table, locked eyes with my stunned husband and mother-in-law, and dropped the folder before them.
“If this celebration was *your* achievement,” I said into the mic, leaving no ambiguity, “then its only fair you cover the bill. After all, true heroes take responsibility to the end, right?”
Their faces were priceless. My husband went pale, gripping the tablecloth. Nina Pavlovna gaped like a fish out of water.
The room froze. Fifty guests swiveled between me, the invoice, and the flustered “honored hosts.”
I calmly set down the mic, picked up my purse, turned, and walked outhead high. Rumor has it, the party ended shortly after.
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