Helen Bennett had been the unpaid housekeeper for her family ever since she married, until the anniversary of her graduation finally pushed her out of the kitchen and into a business venture abroad.
Stephen Bennett stood at the stove, stirring the soup, when he slipped a glossy invitation onto the table.
Your school reunion, he said without looking up from his phone. Saturday.
Helen stared at the card a thirtyyearold invitation, the schools crest embossed in gold.
Youre going, arent you? she asked, wiping her hands on her apron.
Of course. Just make sure you look presentable, love. Dont turn up looking like a sloppilydressed hag. Dont disgrace the family.
The words hit her like a slap. Helen froze, ladle still in hand. Stephen moved toward the door just as their sons, Max and Dan, entered the kitchen.
Mum, whats that? Max asked, holding the invitation.
A school reunion, Helen whispered.
Cool! Youll go in that endless bathrobe? Dan laughed.
Dont mock your mother, intervened his grandmother, Dorothy Bennett, stepping in with the solemn air of a woman ready to dispense wisdom. You need to spruce yourself up. Dye your hair, buy a decent dress. Appear respectable.
Helen gave a silent nod and returned to the stove, the ache in her chest hidden beneath a practiced smile. Twentysix years of marriage had taught her to bury resentment deep.
Dinners ready, she announced half an hour later.
The family gathered around the table. The borscht was perfect the right tang, tender beef, fragrant herbs accompanied by fresh crusty bread and cabbage rolls.
Delicious, Stephen grunted between spoonfuls.
Just as always, Dorothy added. You can at least cook.
Helen ate a few spoonfuls, then drifted to the sink to wash up. In the mirror above the basin she saw a weary woman in her late forties; grey at the temples, fine lines around her eyes, a dull look that seemed older than the years shed lived. When had she grown so old?
On Saturday she rose at five a.m. She had to prepare dishes for the reunion everyone was supposed to bring something. She decided on a spread: solyanka, herring under a fur coat, meat and cabbage pies, and for dessert, a delicate confection called birds milk.
Her hands moved automatically chopping, mixing, baking, decorating. In the kitchen she found peace; here she was the master, free from criticism.
Wow, youve made a lot, Max said, descending the stairs at eleven.
For the reunion, Helen replied curtly.
Did you buy anything new for yourself?
Helens eyes fell on a respectable black dress hanging on a chair.
Thatll do.
By two oclock everything was ready. She changed, applied makeup, and even put on the earrings Stephen had given her for their tenth wedding anniversary.
You look fine, Stephen said. Lets go.
The country house of Sarah Clarke towered with grandeur. Their former classmate had married a businessman and now entertained guests in a manor with a swimming pool and a tennis court.
Helen! Sarah hugged her. Youve changed so little! What did you bring?
A few dishes, Helen placed the containers on the buffet.
Some had become rich, some older, but everyone still recognized each other. Helen lingered at the edge, watching former classmates boast about their successes.
Who made this solyanka? shouted Victor, the old class monitor. Its a masterpiece!
Its Helen, Sarah pointed.
Lena! a short man with kind eyes approached. Do you remember me? Paul Michael, from the third bench.
Paul! Of course I do, she beamed.
Is that you who made the solyanka? Im thrilled! And those pies Ive never tasted anything better.
Thanks, Helen blushed.
No joke. Ive lived in Dublin for ten years; they love Russian food, but Ive never seen anything like this. Are you a professional chef?
Just a housewife.
Just? You have real talent.
All evening people flocked to Helen, asking for recipes, praising the food. For the first time in years she felt important, needed, seen.
Stephen chatted about his garage business, stealing glances at his wife, amazed by her sudden popularity.
Monday began as usual breakfast, cleaning, laundry. Helen ironed her sons shirts when the phone rang.
Hello?
Helen? Its Paul. We met on Saturday.
Paul, hi, she said, surprised.
Ive got a business proposition. Can we meet? Talk?
About what?
About work. In Ireland. I want to open a Russian restaurant and need a coordinator. Someone with good taste, who can train chefs and design the menu. The salary is generous, plus a share of the profits.
Helen sank onto a chair, her heart pounding.
Paul, I I dont know what to say.
Think it over. Call me tomorrow, okay?
The day passed in a haze. A restaurant in Ireland? She was just a housewife.
At dinner she tried to explain to the family.
Imagine, they offered me a job
What kind of job? snorted Dan. You cant do anything but cook.
They want me to cook in a restaurant in Dublin.
Dublin? Thats nonsense, Stephen retorted.
Mother, what are you talking about? How old are you now? Fortyeight? Max interjected.
Besides, Dorothy added, who will run the house? Keep it tidy? Cook?
Probably someone was joking, Stephen waved his hand.
Helen fell silent. Were they right? Was it a joke?
The next day the same argument resurfaced over breakfast. Stephens critical eyes lingered on her.
Youve changed, must be exercising, he noted.
Mom, dont come to my graduation, okay? Dan said, spreading butter on his toast.
Why not? Helen asked, puzzled.
Well, all the other parents are so stylish. You seem dated.
Dans right, Max said. Dont be offended, we just dont want the kids gossiping.
Dorothy nodded. They say a woman must look after herself. In our day, women stayed beautiful into old age.
Helen rose, retreated to her room, and with trembling hands dialed Paul.
Paul? Its Helen. Im in.
Really? Thats wonderful! But I warn you the job will be tough. Lots of responsibility, long hours, big decisions. Are you ready?
Ready, she said firmly. When do I start?
In a month. Well sort the paperwork, the visa. Ill help with everything.
A month slipped by unnoticed. Helen handled the documents, brushed up on some Irish phrases, drafted a menu. Her family remained skeptical, convinced the adventure would be a fleeting fancy.
Shell be back soon, realise home is better, Stephen told his mates.
The important thing is she doesnt lose money, Dorothy agreed.
Her sons treated her plans as a joke; to them she was part of the décor cooking, washing, cleaning. What could she possibly do abroad?
On the day of departure Helen rose early, packed a weeks worth of leftovers, left notes for laundry and cleaning. She went to the airport alone; everyone else was busy.
Well call, Stephen muttered as he saw her off.
Dublin greeted her with rain and unfamiliar scents. Paul waited at arrivals with a bouquet and a broad grin.
Welcome to your new life, he said, pulling her into an embrace.
The next months flew by in a blur. Helen hired staff, refined the menu, discovered she could lead as well as she could stir.
Three months later the restaurant opened, the dining room packed, patrons lining up for borscht, solyanka, dumplings, pancakes.
You have golden hands and a sharp mind, Paul declared. Weve created something special.
Helen watched satisfied faces, heard compliments, and finally understood she had found herself. At fortyeight she was living anew.
Six months later Stephen called.
Helen, hows it going? When are you coming home?
Fine, works good.
When will you be back? Were barely managing here.
Hire a housekeeper.
What kind of wages?
The same I earned for twentysix years.
What do you mean?
I was the free housekeeper for my family until my graduation anniversary sent me abroad for business.
Silence hung on the line.
Lena, can we talk normally? No hard feelings?
No hard feelings, Stephen. Im just living. For the first time, Im living.
Her sons couldnt grasp how their mother could become independent, successful, needed by anyone but them.
Mom, stop pretending to be a business lady, Max said. The house falls apart without you.
Learn to live on your own, Helen replied. Youre already twentyfive.
Stephen didnt contest a divorce; it was merely a legal acknowledgment of what had already happened.
A year later the restaurant Moscow was one of Dublins hottest spots. Investors knocked on her door, TV chefs invited her onto shows, critics praised her.
The Russian woman who conquered Dublin, read a headline.
On the restaurants anniversary Paul proposed. Helen thought long before saying yes. It wasnt distrust Paul was kind she simply wanted to stay independent.
I wont cook for you every day or wash your shirts, she warned.
The following day Stephen arrived with the boys. Seeing Helen in a sleek business suit, accepting congratulations from local celebrities, they were stunned.
Mum, you youve changed, Dan stammered.
Youre beautiful now, Max added.
Ive become myself, Helen corrected.
Stephen spent the evening silent, stealing surprised looks at his former wife. When the guests finally left, he approached her.
Im sorry, Helen. I never saw you as a person, only as part of the household.
What exactly?
That you have talent, dreams, needs. I thought you were just the house.
Helen nodded, feeling no anger, only sorrow for the wasted years.
Maybe we could start over? he asked.
No, Stephen. My life is different now.
Now Helen is fifty, running a chain of restaurants, hosting her own cooking show, and her recipe book tops bestseller lists. Shes married to a man who respects her as an individual, not as unpaid help.
Her sons call occasionally, bragging about how proud they are, asking to visit. She enjoys hearing them, but no longer bears the guilt of living for them.
Sometimes she stands in the kitchen of her flagship restaurant, watches her chefs perfect her dishes, and thinks, What if Id never taken that step? What if Id stayed in that bathrobe? She shoves the thought away. Not everyone gets a second chance; she was lucky, and she seized it.
Starting over at fortyeight was terrifying, but it turned out to be the only way to discover who she truly was.
