The mouse cursor jittered on the bright laptop screen, grabbed the gray rectangle marked ‘Table #1,’ and dragged it about one and a half centimeters to the left on the virtual banquet hall diagram.
“No, Artyom, you’re not listening to me,” Yegor’s voice trembled with suppressed tension as he spoke to the restaurant manager on speaker. “If we leave the first table in the center, the airflow from the main air conditioner will hit my mom right in the neck—she already has pain there. And the distance to the restroom… I asked you to measure it yourself step by step! My father can’t walk even a few extra steps easily. He won’t be running marathons across your entire hall. Move the table to the left, closer to the panoramic window, but not directly in the sun.”
Irina stood silently behind her husband, holding a cup of cold coffee. Their tenth wedding anniversary—a true milestone—was approaching with the inevitability of a tax inspection. Inevitable, but joyless. She watched over Yegor’s shoulder as he checked the screen and saw where they’d stuck another rectangle on the chart—”Table No.5.” That spot was marked for her parents, Elena Maksimovna and Dmitry Petrovich.
Table Five was squeezed elegantly into the darkest corner of the hall, forming a Bermuda triangle between the DJ’s booth, the kitchen door (where waiters would carry out the hot meals), and the exit for smoking breaks.
“Yegor,” Irina carefully set her cup on the table. “All night long, dirty dishes will be passing over my parents’ heads and the bass will be pounding in their ears. That corner isn’t meant for guests at all.”
Yegor dismissed her like an annoying fly, saying goodbye to the manager at the same time. Snapping his laptop shut, he pinched the bridge of his nose like a man who’d just prevented a nuclear disaster.
“Oh, Ira, don’t start, okay?” he let out an irritated sigh. “Your folks are social—they’ll have a blast no matter where they are. Your father’s a career military man, he’s used to Spartan conditions, that DJ won’t even bother him. But my mom, her blood pressure skyrockets with any draft; she needs peace and quiet. Honestly, it’s a perfectly good table—stop inventing problems. What matters to your parents is that we’re happy, they don’t care where they sit!”
Irina stayed silent. The problem wasn’t the DJ or the kitchen door. The real problem was that after ten years of marriage, their families had quietly split into two castes. Yegor’s parents had long found their place as “Ming Dynasty crystal vases”—fragile, precious artifacts you tiptoe around, constantly monitoring the climate, noise level, and even humidity. Irina’s parents, by contrast, had been labeled “people of titanium.”
Titanium people didn’t need comfort. No special treatment, no dietary menus, no extra attention. In Yegor’s logic, titanium people thrived on holy spirit and happiness for their daughter, could sleep on beds of nails, and felt great under any Spartan conditions.
The worst part was that Irina herself had spent years cementing this foundation. She thought it was right not to give her husband any trouble. She even took pride that her parents—Elena Maksimovna, a former physics teacher, and Dmitry Petrovich, a retired colonel—never complained, never acted up, never stole the spotlight.
But gradually, quantity turned into quality. And now Irina, as if rewinding a tape, could see the full anatomy of their marriage—woven from hundreds of small, everyday humiliations she chose to swallow.
She remembered how, three years ago, they were setting up their newly bought dacha. Back then, Yegor took two days off just to visit furniture stores and personally test mattresses for the guest bedroom.
“Ir, look at this—it’s got an independent spring base and coconut coir,” he declared, bouncing on a double bed that cost twice his monthly salary. “Mom has lumbar osteochondrosis, she needs firm support. We’re taking this one.”
“And what will we put in the walk-through room for my parents?” Irina asked, mentally tallying the now-empty budget.
“Oh please, we’ll just haul the old couch the previous owners left. I already cleaned it!” her husband dismissed the concern. “Your folks only come on weekends to dig in the garden and grill shish kebabs. By evening they’re so wiped out, they could sleep on wooden boards. Your dad spent half his life sleeping in tents!”
And her father really did sleep on the creaky, sagging sofa, its springs poking into his ribs. He never complained—not a word of reproach—just rubbed ointment on his lower back every morning for a long time.
And those epic New Year’s feasts? That was a whole separate brand of psychological servitude. At every family gathering, Irina would reflexively become a free entertainer, caregiver, and waitress for her in-laws. She’d slip pillows behind Nikita Nikolaevich’s back, dash to open and close windows at Valeria Pavlovna’s every sigh, and listen to endless monologues about how incompetent the doctors at the clinic were.
“Don’t twist my words!” Egor raised his voice, red blotches creeping up his neck. “Your parents are normal, easygoing people! Why are you making a mountain out of a molehill? They won’t even care where they sit!”
“My parents are normal people. On that, you’re right,” Irina replied with an icy tone, looking her husband straight in the eyes. “But for some reason, the normal people in this family are always left with your leftovers. Your folks’ needs are law here, while mine are just optional extras.”
“Here we go again!” Egor threw up his hands, launching into his favorite gaslighting move. “You’re just looking for something to pick on! You always want to feel superior because of my sick mother! You’re upset that the old folks will be comfortable? You’re so petty, Ira. Counting every penny, every table, the DJ… I do everything for the family, while you just pick fights!”
“I’m not counting money, Egor. I’m counting respect. And let me tell you, the balance here has been negative for a long time. Just because my parents aren’t making a scene over drafts doesn’t mean you can walk all over them.”
“Do whatever you want!” he barked, jumping up from the table. “Sit them on the chandelier for all I care! But you’ll be the one listening to my mother’s complaints about her migraine and how the party felt like a village disco!”
He shoved his chair back loudly, turned around, and stormed into the living room, slamming the door behind him. Egor was completely sure of how this always played out: Irina would stay in the kitchen, cry a bit, realize she’d overreacted, and then—wanting not to ruin such an important day—would leave everything as he wanted. After all, she was smart, understanding. She would cool off eventually.
Irina really did stay seated in the kitchen. But she had no intention of being the convenient one anymore….
The big day arrived. The restaurant’s luxurious hall sparkled with crystal, bathed in warm spotlights, and buzzed with the voices of elegantly dressed guests.
Egor, dressed to the nines in an expensive navy-blue suit, positively beamed with satisfaction. His perfect plan was running like clockwork. Valeria Pavlovna and Nikita Nikolaevich sat regally at table number one, right in the safe zone’s center. No drafts, perfect acoustics, and a wonderful view of the head table where the couple themselves would sit.
But in the far corner of the hall, near the kitchen door, something unexpected was happening. Egor squinted, trying to spot table number five through the sea of guests.
The Bermuda triangle between the speaker and the storeroom had vanished. The kitchen door was now elegantly hidden behind a gorgeous designer screen made of lush ivy and white hydrangeas. That awkward corner had suddenly transformed into a private VIP lounge.
“Ira, what is this, a botanical garden?” Egor hissed, leaning over to his wife as they took their places at the head of the hall. “And where did that penguin in a tux come from?”
Irina casually sipped her champagne.
“That’s our personal waiter. We had a joint budget, Egor. I decided not to waste my nerves on kitchen debates and just used my half as I saw fit. You didn’t exactly give my parents the best seats, so I made up for their discomfort… gastronomically.”
Egor craned his neck. While all the other guests—including his own “crystal” parents—were getting the standard but high-quality banquet fare with eggplant rolls and meat platters, table number five was turning into a Michelin show.
A specially hired waiter in white gloves bowed as he served Elena Maksimovna and Dmitri Petrovich icy, rare champagne. Their table boasted a three-tiered stand with oysters, crab claws, and tuna tartare. In front of the entire hall, the so-called “cheap seats” transformed into an elite VIP zone.
Egor’s face turned red with blotches, but he didn’t have time to cause a scene—the host handed the mic to Valeria Pavlovna for the first toast. His mother-in-law got up with difficulty, gave the routine wishes for family happiness, and then, like flipping a switch, began her usual ritual.
“Oh, Irochka,” she whined for the whole room to hear, not even lowering the mic. “The air conditioner is still blowing on my legs. And this meat platter is tough—I won’t chew it. Could you ask the waiters to bring me some warm, still water, and maybe a blanket?”
Usually, at that moment, Irina would instinctively jump up from her chair, turning into a dutiful nurse and rushing off to save her mother-in-law. But not today.
Irina didn’t budge. She flashed a dazzling smile, elegantly pulled her mic closer, and replied to the whole room in a sweet, caring voice:
“Egorushka! Mom’s feeling chilly! You spent all last night calculating the airflow just to protect your dear mother’s health. Go quick, darling, find the administrator and organize a blanket for Valeria Pavlovna!”
There was a second of silence at the tables, broken by a knowing chuckle from some distant relatives. Egor was stunned. He looked at his wife, expecting it to be a cruel joke. But Irina stared back at him, calm and patiently waiting.
He had no choice but to stand up awkwardly, squeeze through the chairs, and go look for the manager.
From that moment on, Irina’s “Italian strike” kicked into full power.
Every time Nikita Nikolaevich grumbled that he didn’t get the right sauce, or Valeria Pavlovna complained about the bass being too loud, Irina enthusiastically delegated everything to her husband.
For Egor, the celebration turned into a grueling marathon. His pristine suit lost its shape, his shirt stuck to his sweaty back. He didn’t get a single bite of hot food or a single glass of wine with his friends. He couldn’t throw a fit in front of the guests—formally, Irina was nothing but charming.
Meanwhile, Valeria Pavlovna, wrapped tightly in the government-issued blanket her son brought, kept casting envious glances at the fifth table piled high with seafood, where the “titanium people” were laughing to bright jazz and enjoying a truly luxurious evening. They weren’t cold. It wasn’t too loud for them. Everything was absolutely perfect.
At the end of the evening, when the host announced the final dance, an utterly exhausted, red-faced Egor collapsed into a chair next to his wife.
“You…” he hissed, breathing heavily and loosening his tie. “You tormented me all evening. I didn’t even get to sit at the table properly!”
Irina took a sip from her glass, set it carefully down on the tablecloth, and looked at her husband with a gaze of incredible, icy clarity.
“I didn’t torment anyone, Egor. I simply gave you a wonderful chance to take care of your most fragile, important people. You were so worried about their comfort before, weren’t you? Well, you made sure they were comfortable. With your own hands.”
She adjusted a strand of hair that had slipped out of her hairstyle and added:
“And as you can see, my titanium parents really are comfortable anywhere. But they feel especially good where they are valued. If you need those crystal vases to shine, you’ll have to dust them yourself. My shift is over. For good.”
Empathy and care within a family are not a finite resource—not a pie you divide up so that whoever shouts the loudest gets the biggest slice. When one partner continually saves all their energy and attention for their own relatives, excusing it with so-called ‘unpretentiousness’ or ‘simplicity’ of the other’s loved ones, they’re eventually sawing off the branch they’re sitting on. Even the most understanding people have a limit to their patience. Eventually, the selfish one is left alone with their own whims, which no one will take care of but them. The comfort of one person can never and should never come at the expense of humiliating or devaluing someone else.
Have you ever had to deal with this kind of ‘first-class’ and ‘second-class’ relatives division in your own family?