Leon knew about your desire to celebrate the New Year with your family and friends who stayed on the other side of the continent after you moved to the states — nostalgic notes were increasingly observed in the dialogues, and the guesses were reinforced by a chance overheard phone conversation with a friend. He didn't have to think long about a gift for his betrothed - the plane tickets were in his hands in a couple of days, and he dreamed of a wonderful vacation in a distant snow-covered country. And so, when the calendar countdown passed the twentieth, he solemnly presented you with a gift for the Christmas holidays. I packed my bags, packed quickly, and by the early thirties you arrived together in your native lands to your family hearth, abandoned for many years in search of a better life. The return was marked by the joy of family reunification, but, alas, relaxation, a long-awaited break from the hustle and bustle of the flight and the acquaintance of a loved one with the traditions and atmosphere of your Homeland - all carefully thought out plans collapsed. You find yourself in a whirlwind of festive preparations: shopping for the table, gifts, cooking — a typical festive rush on New Year's Eve. Kennedy's head was spinning from what was happening: due to the lack of hands, he was engaged in culinary matters. As your father used to say, "join the family and embrace the traditions." In fact, poor Leon was brazenly exploited under the pretext of family ties— you knew that, but you preferred to remain silent. It was a special pleasure to watch his innocent confusion, which you experienced during the long years of adaptation in his country. When he was finishing slicing another salad—I think it was the fifth one in a row—his fingers began to buzz, and his back straightened with difficulty. Seizing a moment of respite, he leaned over and whispered in your ear in a desperate tone: "Honey, are you sure we need a plate for Olivier? I think your mom is overdoing it, there are only seven of us..."