“Come in, Tanya dear—take off your coat,” Lidiya Vasilievna said, waving a towel as she wiped her wet hands. The entryway smelled of pine needles, mandarins, and something sizzling—pure holiday.
“Thank you,” Tanya replied, carefully placing her elegant little handbag on the shoe shelf while she took in the small but cozy apartment. Her eyes lingered on the bright patterned rug in the hallway and on the walls lined with old photographs in wooden frames.
“How was the drive?” the hostess continued, straightening her headscarf. “Bet the snow piled up again, didn’t it?”
“It was fine. Just long,” Tanya said, pressing her lips together. “Artyom said it would be faster to take a taxi from the station. But… it is what it is.”
“And why didn’t you meet her yourself?” Tanya turned to her fiancé, who avoided her gaze as he helped her out of her coat.
“Well, Tan… you said you didn’t want to wait,” Artyom muttered. “I figured it would be more convenient like that.”
“Yeah. Convenient. Couldn’t be better.”
Tanya stepped into the room—and stopped cold. A festive table spread out before her: a floral tablecloth, salads in bright bowls, caviar sandwiches, and Olivier in a glass dish. Everything was lavishly decorated with sprigs of dill and heavy swirls of mayonnaise.
“Here we are—come in, sit down!” Lidiya Vasilievna perked up. “Everything’s ready. We’re just waiting for the hot dish.”
“Oh,” Tanya nodded, keeping her face carefully controlled. “Well… it’s certainly very… home-style here.”
“You can say that again!” Lidiya Vasilievna chimed in, missing the sarcasm completely. “I made it all myself—cabbage pies, and fish the special way I do it. You’ll try it and tell me what you think.”
Tanya looked around. In the corner, the Christmas tree glittered with tinsel and old ornaments—the foil star on top had clearly survived decades. Paper snowflakes hung in the window.
To Tanya, the whole place seemed to shout: We’re from another era.
“Why is there so much?” she asked cautiously as she sat down. “No one’s going to eat all of this.”
“Why? Because New Year’s is the biggest holiday—everything should be generous!” Lidiya Vasilievna smiled.
“It’s just… I don’t know… I’m used to less, but prettier,” Tanya grimaced, eyeing the platter of sliced meats. “So the table looks… well, modern.”
Lidiya Vasilievna froze for a moment, then leaned in.
“And what exactly does ‘modern’ mean, Tanya?” she asked. “We do things properly here. Tradition. Cold dishes first, then the hot course. And after that, we’ll get to champagne.”
“I was only suggesting,” Tanya waved a hand. “Maybe we could arrange the salads differently? Or put some away—just so it looks neater?”
Lidiya Vasilievna narrowed her eyes but said nothing, pouring kompot into glasses.
“Tanya, don’t get worked up,” Artyom tried. “My mom always does it like this—and it’s good. Try it first, then judge.”
“I’m not talking about taste,” Tanya said, nervously straightening her napkin. “I just want it to be not only tasty, but… aesthetic.”
“Tanya, stop,” Artyom murmured. “Why are you starting again?”
“Me—starting?” she snapped, turning to him. “You’re the one who said you wanted everything to be better than last year. I’m trying to help.”
“And I never complained!”
“Oh, sure,” Tanya sighed theatrically and reached for a salad bowl. “Let’s at least move this.”
“Tanya, don’t!” Lidiya Vasilievna suddenly raised her voice. “Everything is where it should be.”
“What’s the big deal? It’ll look nicer,” Tanya insisted and slid the bowl anyway.
Lidiya Vasilievna flushed.
“Tanya, you’re not even my daughter-in-law yet—and you’re already trying to dictate your rules?!” Her voice rang out loudly, almost drowning out the New Year songs playing on the TV.
Tanya jerked her hand back. A heavy silence settled over the room. Artyom stared from his mother to his fiancée, at a loss. Outside the window, snow fell softly.
“Mom, why did you go on the attack right away?” Artyom said, trying to ease the tension as he stepped between them. “It’s New Year’s. Why fight?”
“And I’m the one at fault?” Lidiya Vasilievna planted her hands on her hips, eyes stinging with hurt. “I let a person into my home, sat her at my table, and she starts in with ‘not aesthetic’! You heard her yourself.”
“Mom, she just wanted to help,” Artyom spread his hands. “Tanya, tell her—you didn’t mean anything bad.”
“Well…” Tanya rolled her eyes but softened her voice. “I just wanted it to be better. At my place we celebrate totally differently. I’m used to everything being minimalistic, beautiful. And here…”
“And here what?” Lidiya Vasilievna stepped closer, arms akimbo. “Here we do it like human beings—with heart—like people do, not like those… what do you call them? ‘Trendsetters’?”
“Not trendsetters—modern people,” Tanya shot back, heating up. “Just neat. That’s all. And these rugs on the walls and this tinsel—it’s practically the century before last!”
“Tanya, come on,” Artyom frowned. “This is Mom’s home. She likes it.”
“Likes it, doesn’t like it…” Tanya waved a hand. “When I look at this, I just… I can’t, honestly. It’s like I walked into a museum. It’s New Year’s—it should be bright and stylish. Not… this.”
“A museum, is it?” Lidiya Vasilievna snorted. “Well in this ‘museum,’ my dear, I’m the hostess. And I spent the whole day cooking for you. What’s next—are you going to teach me how to cook?”
“Cook?!” Tanya threw up her hands. “No, I’m not claiming that. I just think if you can buy everything at the store, why waste time?”
“So that’s your ‘young generation’—buy it all, ready-made,” Lidiya Vasilievna snapped. “And what are hands for then? I’ve been on my feet since morning so all of this could be here! And nobody’s complaining—except you. And you’ve even confused my Artyom, look at that.”
“Mom, that’s enough!” Artyom exhaled wearily. “Don’t make it worse.”
“I’m the one making it worse?” Lidiya Vasilievna flung her arms up. “I kept quiet! But my patience isn’t steel. She seems like a good girl, smart… but the moment she opens her mouth, everything falls apart.”
“I ruin everything?” Tanya jumped up. “You just can’t accept that someone sees the world differently! Everything here is old-fashioned, like the last century. Where is something new—something beautiful, stylish? You raised Artyom, and he’s not like this at all. He wants a real celebration, not these… salads drowning in mayonnaise!”
“Tanya!” Artyom’s face darkened. “How can you talk to my mother like that? Do you even hear yourself?”
“I hear myself. Do you hear me?” Tanya turned on him. “You said you wanted our New Year to be modern. And now you’re silent because it’s Mom, right?”
“Tanya, you don’t get it!” Artyom threw up his hands. “For us New Year’s is tradition. Family. Not some ‘trendy little things’! Mom has always done it this way. And that’s normal.”
“Maybe it’s normal for you,” Tanya said stiffly. “For me it’s… I don’t know. Boring.”
Lidiya Vasilievna gave a short laugh and turned back toward the stove.
“Well, now everything’s clear. If you don’t like it—no one is holding you here. But how are you going to live if you can’t hear each other already?”
“Mom, at least you stop,” Artyom rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Tanya, you could’ve been gentler. This isn’t a restaurant—it’s a home. Different rules. And if you want to be with me… you need to show respect.”
Tanya bit her lip, her face hardening.
“Respect? And who respects me? I came here with good intentions and got, ‘You’re not even my daughter-in-law and you’re already bossing me around.’ What kind of attitude is that?”
Lidiya Vasilievna turned, staring at her intently.
“You know, Tanya, I’m listening to you and thinking—maybe you came into our home too soon. You have a family, don’t you? You do. So take your ‘modern rules’ to them. We have our own way here.”
“Is that so?” Tanya narrowed her eyes. “Then handle it yourselves. I’m done.”
She snatched up her purse and headed for the door. Artyom started after her, but Lidiya Vasilievna stopped him with a look.
“Let her go,” she said curtly. “If she’s smart, she’ll come back. If not—well, so be it.”
Outside, Tanya’s quick footsteps sounded, followed by the sharp slam of the door. Artyom stood in the middle of the room, lost, glancing between his mother and the empty seat at the table.
“Mom… that was… a lot,” he finally said.
“A lot?” Lidiya Vasilievna smiled sadly. “That was only the beginning.”
Artyom let out a tired breath, staring at the overloaded table. Then noise came from the hallway—Tanya had returned, closing the door a bit louder than necessary. Her heels clicked across the floor, and a second later she appeared in the doorway.
“Well, happy now?” she tossed at both of them. “Happy New Year, as they say.”
“Back already,” Lidiya Vasilievna said quietly, turning to her. “Changed your mind?”
“I didn’t change my mind,” Tanya said, hands clasped behind her back as she stopped by the door. “I just decided fighting over nonsense is pointless. It’s New Year’s.”
“And who started it?” Lidiya Vasilievna lifted an eyebrow. “Me? You think I invented it out of thin air?”
“Even if you did,” Tanya snapped. “I still don’t get why you pounced on me. You’ve got your own atmosphere here, sure—but you could listen, too.”
“And why exactly did you decide I should listen to you?” Lidiya Vasilievna shot back. “You walked into my home—so be kind enough to respect it!”
“Mom, enough!” Artyom raised his voice, and both women fell silent at once, staring at him in surprise. “Don’t you understand? You’re both acting like children! It’s New Year’s! Instead of celebrating together, you’re measuring pride. And who wins from that?”
“I just wanted it to be normal…” Tanya began, but Artyom cut her off.
“Normal is when everyone is happy. And right now nobody is. Mom, you’re pushing her. Tanya, you overdid it too. Seriously. If something bothers you, say it normally—not like you’re the manager here.”
“I…” Tanya hesitated, dropping her eyes.
“And you, Mom,” Artyom turned to Lidiya Vasilievna, “could’ve tried not to take everything as an attack. She isn’t your enemy. She’s my girlfriend. Or do you want us to stop coming at all?”
Lidiya Vasilievna pressed her lips together.
“All right,” she muttered. “Maybe I did go a little too far.”
“A little?” Tanya scoffed, but when she caught Artyom’s look, she lifted her hands. “Fine, fine. I’m no angel either.”
“See?” Artyom spread his hands. “Now can you sit down and talk like normal people?”
The two women exchanged a glance. Lidiya Vasilievna pursed her lips, and Tanya took a step toward the table.
“Fine,” Lidiya Vasilievna sighed. “Sit. Tell me how you do it… ‘the modern way.’”
“Well, for example…” Tanya sat carefully. “You can serve salad in portions. Like in little glass cups. And not so much mayonnaise.”
“Cups…” Lidiya Vasilievna snorted. “Sounds like a lot of fuss.”
“But it looks pretty,” Tanya brightened. “Try it—you’ll like it.”
“Well… maybe I’ll try it sometime,” Lidiya Vasilievna smiled at the corner of her mouth. “But I’m not taking the tinsel off the tree. Sorry. It’s my favorite.”
“Keep your tinsel,” Tanya waved her hand. “What’s New Year’s without it?”
Artyom leaned back in his chair with obvious relief.
“There. So what was all that drama for?” he said. “Now let’s open the champagne.”
So, at the table, they started a conversation where the two women gradually found some common ground. Compromise turned out to be possible, even though a faint tension still lingered.
But at least now they understood what mattered to each of them. They welcomed the New Year peacefully—if not without a few lingering jabs and careful looks.
Three years passed. Tanya and Artyom never married, but they remained on good terms. Tanya found herself in a creative field, opened an event décor studio, and—strangely enough—often remembered Lidiya Vasilievna, who once told her, “Put your soul into it, and the ordinary becomes beautiful.” Tanya understood that line much later, when she learned how to blend modern style with the warmth of family traditions.
Artyom married a girl from his hometown—someone who, like him, loved cooking using his mother’s recipes.
Tanya learned about it by accident after seeing a photo of them on social media: a festive table, tinsel on the Christmas tree, and small glass cups for salad. Something pricked in her chest—not envy, more like a quiet sadness over how that puzzle could have come together differently.
And still, each of them seemed to have found their own place.