“No one will eat your pastries,” hissed the mother-in-law. A year later, she saw the queue outside my restauranther own husband standing in it. “What nonsense is this?”
The voice of Raisa Igorevna struck like a slap, though it was barely above a whisper. She stood in the doorway of my kitchen, arms crossed, lips pursed, inspecting the scene like a school inspector.
I had just pulled a tray from the oven. The scent of herbs, melted cheese, and golden pastry filled the air. My first test batchspinach and cheddar pastries. My small, fragile hope.
“I wanted to try something different,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “Something I love.”
She stepped inside, her gaze sweeping over the spotless counters, but her expression twisted as if shed walked into a den of thieves.
“You *love*? You lost a respectable job as a financial analyst, and now youre playing with flour? Kirill told me everything.”
Her words were small but sharp as needles. *Lost* wasnt quite right. The whole department had been cut. The recession. But in her mouth, it was a brand of failure, proof of my inadequacy.
“Its a chance to start my own business,” I replied, quieter than I meant to, but firm.
Raisa Igorevna picked up a pastry with two fingers, as if it were roadkill, and sniffed. “What is this? Some kind of weed? Normal women bake with beef or chicken.”
I looked at Kirill, who had followed her in. He gave me an apologetic smile and a pleading glance*dont argue, just endure*.
This was his usual rolethe peacekeeper, smoothing every edge, even when those edges cut me.
“Mum, its trendy now. Artisanal cooking, gourmet fillings,” he offered weakly.
“*Gourmet*?” She scoffed. “Listen to me, Katya. Drop this nonsense before its too late. No one wants your strange little pies.”
It wasnt just criticism. It was a verdict. Cold, final, unchallengeable.
I looked at my flour-dusted hands, at the pastries I had thought perfect. Something inside me coiled tightnot hurt, but something darker. Stubborn.
“I think they will,” I said, louder than intended.
Raisa Igorevna didnt flinch. She only glanced at Kirill, her eyes issuing an ultimatum.
“Your wife lives in fantasies,” she told him. “A man needs proper food, not weeds in dough. Tell her this is madness.”
Kirill hesitated. He took a bite, chewed mechanically, eyes fixed on the wall.
“Its fine,” he muttered. “But Mums right. Its not serious. Find a proper job. Why take the risk?”
That hurt worse than all her barbs. Because she was a stranger. He was mine. Or had been. In that moment, he chose her.
Raisa Igorevnas victory was complete. She gave me a pitying look and turned to leave.
“Good. Youve come to your senses. Come, Kirill. Ill fry you proper cutlets at home.”
They left. I stood alone in the kitchen, the air thick with the scent of my failure. I lifted a pastry to my lips but couldnt bite. My throat was too tight.
I didnt know then that this night would be the beginning.
I sat on the floor, back against the cupboard. The cooling pastries on the table mocked me like a monument to my foolishness.
The door clicked. I didnt turn. Footsteps. Kirill had returned. He stood for a moment, then sat beside me.
“Im sorry,” he whispered. “Im a coward.”
I said nothing. The anger was gone, replaced by hollow, ringing silence.
“I saw the way she looked at you and I panicked. Ive always panicked with her. Its easier to agree. To say what she wants to hear.”
He took my hand. His palm was warm.
“I walked her to the car. She drove off, smug, victorious and then I looked at our house. At you. And I felt like Id been shoved into ice water.”
*She leaves. I stay. With you. And I just betrayed the most important person in my lifeover cutlets.*
He looked up, and for the first time in years, I saw real pain in his eyes. Not guilt. Resolve.
“Katya, forgive me. What I said was a lie. I was just repeating her, like a parrot.”
He stood, took a pastrythe same one he had half-heartedly nibbled earlierand ate it slowly, deliberately, watching me.
“This is incredible,” he said. “Seriously. Unusual, but incredible. Juicy, spicy. Katya, its genius.”
He meant it. I could tell.
“Well do this. You bake. Ill handle the restselling, deliveries, accounts. Anything. Just dont give up. Dont let her win. Dont let me be that coward again.”
The ice inside me cracked. He wasnt just apologizing. He was offering himself. His faith. His support.
That night changed everything. We became a team. We emptied our savings.
I developed five more fillingsslow-cooked beef with juniper, mushrooms in cream sauce, pumpkin with ricotta. Kirill built a simple website, took photos that made mouths water.
The first order came in three days. A dozen pastries. Kirill delivered them across town and returned beaming.
“They loved them! Said theyd order more for their office party!”
But Raisa Igorevna wasnt done. She called daily.
“So, Kirill, has your little cook found a real job yet? No? I knew it. Zinaida Petrovnas son needs a secretary. Ill arrange it.”
“Mum, shes busy. She has her own business,” Kirill replied, though it cost him.
“*Business*?” Her laugh was venomous. “Playing with flour isnt a business. Youll be beggars!”
She escalated. She “accidentally” met our neighbour, Aunt Valya.
“My poor boy, so thin. Katya doesnt feed himtoo busy with her little hobby. Selling to strangers while her husband starves.”
Soon, Aunt Valya was slipping me jars of broth, her eyes full of pity.
We struck a deal with a small café. The owner, a young man, was thrilleduntil a week later, when he called Kirill, stammering.
“Sorry, mates. A woman came said you work in filth. Ive got a reputation.”
We knew who it was.
That evening, we sat in the same kitchen, staring at our earningsmodest, but ours. Not defeat. Cold, furious resolve.
“She wont stop,” I said.
“I know,” Kirill squeezed my hand. “So we get bigger. Stronger. Until her poison cant reach us.”
His idea was simple and risky. The citys annual food festival. Hundreds of vendors, thousands of visitors. Our chance to be seen.
We poured everything into it. Rented a stall, bought supplies with our last pennies.
I baked through the nights, perfecting recipes. Kirill designed packaging, printed flyers. Exhausted, but happy.
On festival day, we arrived hours early. Our stall, “Pie Guide,” looked stylish, inviting. The aroma drew crowds before wed even opened.
Thirty minutes before start time, they appeared. Two stern women in uniformsand Raisa Igorevna, lurking behind them, triumph in her eyes.
“Good morning,” one inspector said, flashing a badge. “Weve had a complaint. Food poisoning. A family fell ill after eating your meat pastries yesterday.”
My stomach dropped. *Yesterday?* We hadnt sold anything yesterday!
“Mistake,” Kirill began, voice shaking. “We opened *today*.”
“The complaint stands. Well have to confiscate everything for testing. Seal the stall.”
*Sealed.* It was over. The festival lasted two days. Losing today meant losing everything.
Then I looked at Raisa Igorevna. She didnt hide her glee. Her eyes said: *I told you. Ill destroy you.*
And in that moment, something shifted. Panic dissolved. Only clarity remained.
I turned to Kirill. “Film this. *Now.* Live.”
He hesitated, then obeyed, lifting his phone.
I stepped forward, addressing the crowd gathering around us.
“My name is Katherine Rowan. This is my business, built from nothing. That complaint is a lie.”
I spoke loud, clear. The inspectors shifted uncomfortably.
“We have certificates. I have a hygiene pass. But most importantlywe opened *ten minutes ago*. We *couldnt* have poisoned anyone yesterday.”
Then I turned to Raisa Igorevna.
“That woman is my mother-in-law, Rebecca Ingram. From day one, shes tried to ruin this. First with rumours,
