Lera had always imagined her thirtieth birthday differently. As a child, it seemed that by thirty she would have everything: a career, children, her own house with a garden and a white picket fence. Reality turned out to be more complicated and at the same time simpler. She had Maksim — a husband she had loved for eight years. She had a job that brought her pleasure and a decent income, even if it was behind a computer at home rather than in an office with a beautiful view from the window. She had a two-room apartment in a good neighborhood, a gym membership, and weekly visits to the cosmetologist.
The only things missing were children. And mutual understanding.
“Lera, seriously, let’s do it without them,” she told Maksim a week before her birthday, stirring her coffee and looking out the window at the October courtyard. “I want to celebrate quietly. Just with you, Anya, Dimka, and Svetka. That’s all.”
Maksim looked up from his laptop. A spreadsheet with some numbers was open on the screen — he worked at an IT company, and his workday often started at home with morning coffee.
“They’ll be offended,” he said quietly.
“I’ll be offended if they come,” Lera sat down opposite him at the kitchen table. “Maks, seriously. I don’t want to hear on my birthday that it’s time for me to have kids because ‘the clock is ticking.’ Or that freelancing isn’t real work but just messing around.”
Maksim closed his laptop. Lera saw him mentally weighing the arguments — his and hers, his and his parents’.
“Alright,” he finally said. “I won’t even tell them where we’re celebrating.”
“Really?”
“Really. I’ll say we’re having a romantic evening.”
Lera walked around the table and hugged him by the shoulders.
“Thanks. I just want to not have to justify myself once. Is that okay?”
“Okay,” Maksim kissed her hand. “But we’ll still buy Mom a gift, right?”
“We will,” Lera laughed. “I’m not a monster.”
She chose the restaurant “Granat” for its coziness and proximity to home. A small place on the ground floor of an old building, with wooden tables, dim lighting, and a menu without pretensions to haute cuisine, but with good steaks and homemade desserts. A place where you could sit for hours, neither hurrying anyone nor feeling rushed yourself.
Anya arrived first — a friend from university days, a witness at their wedding, a person who knew all of Lera’s secrets and never judged. She brought a huge bouquet of white roses and a box of macarons.
“Happy anniversary, old girl,” she said, kissing Lera on the cheek.
“You’re the old girl,” Lera replied. “You’re two months older.”
Dimka and Svetka came with Maksim — he had picked them up. Their families had been friends for about four years, since meeting at a mutual friend’s birthday. Dimka and Svetka had a two-year-old daughter and were those rare people who never advised “you should have one too” and never asked when they would finally.
“Lerochka,” Svetka hugged the birthday girl and handed her a small box. “These are earrings. I saw you looking at ones like these at Pandora.”
Lera opened the box. Stud earrings with small cubic zirconia stones, simple and elegant.
“Sveta, thank you. They’re perfect.”
Dimka shook hands, Maksim ordered champagne, and they sat down at the round table by the window. Rain drizzled outside the glass, soft music played in the restaurant, and Lera thought this was exactly what she wanted. No fuss, no obligatory toasts or routine congratulations. Just people who loved her.
“To Lera,” Dimka raised his glass. “May the next thirty years be even better than the first thirty.”
“To friendship,” added Anya.
“To love,” Maksim said, looking at his wife.
They clinked glasses, and Lera felt a warm calm spreading inside her. This was happiness. Not loud, not showy, but quiet and real.
They ordered salads and hot dishes, Svetka told a funny story about her daughter, Anya complained about her new boss, Dimka planned a vacation. Ordinary conversations of ordinary people who knew each other well enough not to play roles.
“By the way, I’m thinking of taking some courses,” Lera said, cutting her steak. “Marketing, maybe. I want to develop myself.”
“Good idea,” Anya nodded. “I’m thinking about learning SMM. I’m tired of working just for a salary.”
“Lera is already doing great,” Maksim said. “So many projects completed this year.”
“Oh, stop,” Lera blushed, but it felt nice. Maksim always supported her work, never considered it less important than his own.
They were finishing their second glass of champagne when the restaurant door opened, and Maksim’s parents entered.
Lera felt her insides freeze.
Anna Sergeyevna and Vladimir Petrovich stood in the doorway, surveying the room like people who had come to the wrong place. Anna Sergeyevna wore her usual beige coat and her perpetually dissatisfied expression. Vladimir Petrovich held a huge, bright bouquet of gladioli — completely out of place.
“So here you are,” Anna Sergeyevna said, heading toward their table. “Maksim, what’s with keeping secrets from your parents?”
Lera looked at her husband. Maksim sat with his eyes downcast, and she understood everything without words.
“Happy birthday, dear,” Vladimir Petrovich handed her the bouquet and kissed her cheek. The gladioli smelled sickly sweet and artificial.
“Thank you,” Lera forced out.
“Strange choice of place,” Anna Sergeyevna glanced around the interior. “Some kind of dive. It’s a jubilee, after all. You could have gone to a decent restaurant.”
Dimka and Svetka exchanged glances. Anya looked down at her plate. Maksim remained silent.
“Sit down,” Lera said, because she needed to say something.
Anna Sergeyevna sat next to her son, Vladimir Petrovich took the seat between Dimka and Svetka. The waiter brought two more sets of cutlery.
“Well,” Anna Sergeyevna said after being poured champagne. “Let’s toast the birthday girl. May God grant her the greatest thing in the new year — maternal happiness. Thirty years — quite mature years.”
Lera felt her mouth go dry.
“Mom,” Maksim said quietly.
“What ‘mom’?” Anna Sergeyevna looked at him in surprise. “Am I not telling the truth? At your age, we were already raising you.”
“At thirty, we already had three kids,” Vladimir Petrovich added.
“Times were different,” Svetka said quietly.
“Times, times,” Anna Sergeyevna waved her hand. “But biology is the same. The clock is ticking, no matter what.”
Lera clenched her hands into fists under the table.
“By the way,” the mother-in-law continued, “who are these?” She nodded toward Dimka and Svetka. “Maksim, you didn’t introduce them.”
“They’re our friends, Dima and Sveta.”
“Oh, I see.” Anna Sergeyevna gave them an appraising look. “And how do you know Lera?”
“Mutual acquaintances,” Dimka answered.
“Hm. I thought you’d invite Irochka Sokolova, remember, Maksim? Volodya’s daughter. She’s Lera’s age, married, and already has two kids. Someone to talk about family with.”
“Mom,” Maksim said firmly. “We wanted to celebrate in a small circle.”
“A small circle is family,” Anna Sergeyevna snapped. “Not some… ” she looked again at Lera’s friends.
“Anya is my best friend,” Lera said. “Since university days.”
“Oh, student friendships,” Anna Sergeyevna nodded as if she understood everything. “Well, sure. Where do you work?”
“At an advertising agency,” Anya replied.
“In an office?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Unlike our Lera who just sits at home doing something on the internet. I tell Maksim — that’s not work, that’s fooling around. You need to go to work, socialize, gain experience.”
Lera felt a familiar wave of anger rise inside her.
“Anna Sergeyevna,” she said as evenly as she could. “I earn as much as Maksim.”
“Money isn’t everything,” the mother-in-law waved her hand. “Stability is what matters. Social benefits, vacation, sick leave. And what do you have? One day you have orders, the next day you don’t.”
“I have regular clients.”
“Yeah, yeah. And then what? Some crisis, and you’re out of work. I don’t understand modern youth. Instead of having a family, having children, you go to gyms, to cosmetologists. Throwing money away.”
“Mom, enough,” Maksim said.
“What’s enough? Am I saying something wrong?” Anna Sergeyevna spread her hands. “I wish you well. Lera, you’re a pretty girl, but time passes. And beauty is wasted if you don’t have a proper family.”
“We have a family,” Lera said.
“What family without children?” Anna Sergeyevna snorted. “You’re playing at having a family. Family is responsibility, a full home, continuation of the lineage.”
Lera stood up.
“Anna Sergeyevna,” she said, voice trembling despite all her effort, “I ask you to leave the restaurant.”
Silence fell. Anna Sergeyevna opened her mouth in surprise.
“What did you say?”
“I said — leave. Please.”
“Maksim!” Anna Sergeyevna turned to her son. “Do you hear how she talks to me?”
Maksim sat, not raising his eyes.
“Maksim!”
“I…” he finally looked at his mother, then at his wife. “I told them where we were celebrating.”
Lera felt her legs give way.
“What?”
“Yesterday Mom asked where we were celebrating, and I… I couldn’t lie.”
“Maksim,” Lera said very quietly. “You promised.”
“Lera, why are you so worked up?” Vladimir Petrovich interrupted. “We came with good intentions, to congratulate.”
“What do you think you are?” Anna Sergeyevna exclaimed. “We are parents! We have rights!”
“No,” Lera said. “You have no right to poison my birthday. You have no right to tell me how to live. And you,” she looked at her husband, “have no right to lie to me.”
“Ler,” Maksim started.
“No.” Lera grabbed her purse. “Anya, let’s go.”
“Lera, where are you going?” Maksim stood up.
“You go to your mother,” Lera said. “Apparently, her opinion matters more to you than mine.”
“Lera!”
But she was already walking toward the exit, Anya hurried after her.
“That snake,” Anya said when they sat in the taxi. “Sorry, not about you.”
Lera laughed through tears.
“Don’t apologize. She really is a snake.”
“And Maksim…” Anya shook her head. “How could he?”
“I don’t know,” Lera looked out at the wet streets. “I thought he was on my side.”
“Men,” Anya philosophized. “They’re all mama’s boys deep down.”
“Where to?” the taxi driver asked.
“To the karaoke hall on Mayakovskaya,” Anya said without asking Lera.
“Right,” Lera nodded. “I want to scream.”
The karaoke was noisy, stuffy, and fun. Groups of students were celebrating their own things, a couple around forty sang a duet of “A Million Scarlet Roses,” someone in the next booth was screaming along to Tsoi.
Lera and Anya rented a small booth, ordered wine, and started with “Happy Birthday.” Then moved to “Crazy Empress” by Allegrova, then to “VIA Gra,” then to whatever.
“You know,” Lera said, finishing her third glass, “I think I’m happy.”
“From the wine?” Anya asked.
“From freedom,” Lera took the microphone. “Ank, let’s sing ‘Murka’?”
“Let’s!” her friend laughed.
They sang “Murka,” then “Katyusha,” then “Moscow Nights.” Lera felt something lift from her heart with each song. Some burden she had been carrying without realizing.
Her phone buzzed with calls from Maksim, but she didn’t answer.
“Actually,” Anya said during a break, “think about it. Maybe it’s for the best?”
“For what’s best?”
“All of this. Maybe the universe is sending you a sign?”
“What sign?”
“That it’s time to change something. In the relationship, in life.”
Lera twirled the microphone in her hands.
“You think divorce?”
“I think live for myself. Then we’ll see.”
“He’s not bad, Maksim. Just…”
“Weak,” Anya finished. “Sorry, but that’s the truth. A good guy, but weak. And as long as he hides under his mom’s skirt, nothing will change. And you won’t have kids with him because of that.”
Lera nodded. She understood that herself but was afraid to admit it.
“Let’s sing something fun again?” she suggested.
“Let’s do ‘Let’s Drink to Love’!”
They sang until three in the morning. Then Anya went home, and Lera went back. Maksim waited in the hallway, sitting on a stool with his head in his hands.
“Ler,” he said when she came in. “I’m sorry.”
“We’ll talk tomorrow,” Lera said tiredly. “I want to sleep.”
“Ler, please…”
“Tomorrow, Maks. Tomorrow.”
In the morning, they sat in the kitchen with coffee and silence. Outside, the October day was bright and cold.
“I didn’t want to,” Maksim said finally. “Mom asked, and I thought… what’s the harm? They come, congratulate, leave.”
“You knew,” Lera said. “You knew perfectly well what they would do. And you still said it.”
Maksim nodded.
“Knew.”
“Why?”
He was silent for a long time, then sighed.
“Because I’m tired of lying to Mom. Because it’s easier to agree than argue.”
“And arguing with me isn’t easier?”
“With you…” Maksim looked at her. “With you, I thought you’d understand.”
“Understand what? That your mom is more important than me?”
“No. That… I don’t know how to stand up to them.”
Lera set down her cup.
“Maksim, I’m thirty. Not twenty, not twenty-five. Thirty. I work, earn money, pay for the apartment, buy groceries. I’m a grown woman. And I don’t want to prove my right to exist every day.”
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t. If you did, you wouldn’t have brought them yesterday.”
Maksim hung his head.
“What do you want?”
“I don’t know,” Lera said honestly. “I’ll think.”
For three days, Lera thought. Worked, met Anya, talked to her mother on Skype — who lived in St. Petersburg and had long been divorced from her father, so she understood well that life can be different.
“Lerochka,” her mother said, “don’t rush. And remember — you have the right to happiness. True happiness, not compromises for family peace.”
On the fourth day, Maksim came home from work and said:
“I talked to my parents.”
“And?”
“I told them if they’re rude to you again, I’ll stop communicating with them.”
“Really?”
“Really. And I told them we live as we see fit. And we’ll have children when it happens. And this topic is delicate and private for us.”
Lera looked at her husband and saw he was serious.
“And them?”
“Mom cried. Dad said I’m an ungrateful son.” Maksim shrugged. “But I’m tired, Lera. Tired of choosing between you and them. I choose you.”
“Better late than never,” Lera said and hugged him.
Maybe everything could still be fixed. Maybe yesterday’s nightmare was really a sign — not of divorce, but that it’s time to put things straight.
“Happy birthday,” Maksim said, kissing her temple. “I want all your birthdays to be happy.”
“This one already is,” Lera said. “At karaoke.”
“You’ll tell me about it?”
“I will. Anya and I sang ‘Murka.’”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously!”
Maksim laughed, and Lera thought maybe thirty wasn’t the end, but just the beginning. The beginning of the life she had finally decided to choose for herself.
