Lera, not those blueprints again! My mom already made the decision,” Dmitry waved dismissively without even glancing at the plans laid out on the table.
Valeria sighed and let her hands fall to her sides. Yet another attempt to convince her husband had failed. An architect with honors, she sat before the project of their dream house—created by her own hands—unwanted by anyone.
“Dima, in your ‘friend architect’s’ project, the load-bearing walls are positioned so badly that the roof could collapse after the first snowfall. Do you even understand that?” Lera tapped her pencil on the paper, pointing out the obvious errors.
“Mom says Stanislav Sergeevich is a professional. He’s built houses for half her acquaintances.”
“Your mother knows nothing about construction,” Valeria bit her lip, trying to keep calm.
The doorbell rang. Lera already knew who it was before Dmitry even opened the door.
“Dmitry! Valeria!” Antonina Pavlovna’s voice rang through the apartment. “Have you signed the contract with Stanislav Sergeevich yet?”
Without waiting for an invitation, the mother-in-law walked straight to the kitchen and froze at the sight of the drawings.
“What is this?” Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me you’re back with your ideas again?”
“Hello, Antonina Pavlovna,” Lera forced a polite smile. “I just wanted to show an alternative layout.”
“Sweetheart,” Antonina Pavlovna sat down beside her and placed a hand on her daughter-in-law’s shoulder. “You’re wonderful at drawing sketches for magazines, but a house is serious business. You need a real specialist.”
Blood rushed to Valeria’s face. “Sketches for magazines” — that’s how she referred to her architectural projects that had been recognized in professional competitions.
“Mom’s right, Lera,” Dmitry chimed in. “Let’s trust the professionals.”
Valeria silently gathered her drawings. After all, it was their joint money, their joint house. But arguing further was pointless.
Six months passed. Money flowed like water. Stanislav Sergeevich constantly demanded extra payments for “unforeseen work.” Valeria bit her lip each time but said nothing as she watched their budget melt away.
One evening, Dmitry came home pale.
“Lera, we’ve got a problem,” he collapsed onto the couch. “The builders are refusing to continue. They say the project has serious flaws. We need to redo the foundation.”
“What exactly did they say?” Valeria straightened instantly.
“Something about load-bearing capacity and groundwater levels. I didn’t catch the technical stuff.”
Valeria closed her eyes. This was exactly what she’d warned about six months ago.
“How much will it cost to fix?” she asked quietly.
“About a third of the budget. Which we don’t have anymore,” Dmitry rubbed his temples. “Maybe we take a loan?”
“No,” Valeria replied firmly. “I’ll fix it myself.”
“You?” Dmitry looked at her with disbelief. “Lera, this is a house, not a picture!”
“Dmitry, I’m a certified architect. I know what I’m doing.”
The next day, Valeria took a leave of absence and went to the construction site. After assessing the damage, she realized it was worse than expected. There was no money to hire a new crew. Only one option remained.
For the next three months, Lera was on site daily. She learned how to mix concrete, reinforce the foundation, work with rebar. At night, she studied construction forums and consulted specialists. Her hands blistered, her back ached, but each day brought small victories.
Dmitry rarely helped. He mostly spent time with his mother or “de-stressed after work.” Antonina Pavlovna visited the site to “inspect.” The money? All from Lera. She worked nights and spent her days at the build.
“My God, what are you turning this house into?” the mother-in-law gasped at the sight of Valeria with a trowel. “This won’t be a house, but a makeshift hut!”
“Mom, you know there’s no money left,” Dmitry shrugged.
“Couldn’t you have hired proper workers?” Antonina continued. “What will the neighbors think seeing your wife climbing the roof?”
“They’ll think your son has an incredible wife,” Valeria snapped. “One who’s not afraid of hard work.”
Antonina scoffed and turned away.
Months passed. The house slowly but surely took shape. Valeria plastered walls, painted ceilings, laid wiring. On weekends, holidays, any free moment—she was there.
A year later, the house was done. Cozy, warm, thoughtfully designed—exactly as Valeria had envisioned in her original plans.
They moved in. Dmitry looked around in awe.
“Amazing! I never thought we’d end up with such a house!”
Valeria raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
“We?”
Soon Antonina Pavlovna showed up at the doorstep with a bag of goodies. She inspected the house with careful eyes.
“How lovely! So cozy! Who made it all so beautiful?”
“Lera,” Dmitry answered shortly. “She did everything herself.”
“Well done, dear!” Antonina hugged her. “I always said you had golden hands!”
Valeria just smiled. The house was her achievement, her triumph. No one could take that away.
They lived there for six months. Antonina visited every weekend, brought jams, rearranged trinkets, gave garden advice.
One day, Valeria’s friend Marina dropped by for tea.
“You’re lucky,” she said. “Most women can only dream of a mother-in-law like yours.”
Lera nodded, gazing out the window.
“Yes. Amazing how quickly she fell in love with the house. She used to call it a ‘makeshift hut.’”
Dmitry’s birthday was celebrated at the new home. Valeria spent all day cooking: baked meat, made his favorite salad, and baked a cake. His mother arrived first, with an expensive gift for her son.
“Dima deserves a celebration,” she kissed Valeria on both cheeks. “Such a wonderful house he built!”
Valeria said nothing. She was used to it by now. Used to her efforts being credited to others. As if she hadn’t built this house with her own hands.
Later, when the guests had left, Dmitry asked Valeria to stay in the living room. He looked unusually serious.
“Lera, we need to talk.”
“What happened?” Valeria tensed.
“Mom’s in trouble,” he lowered his voice. “She lost her apartment. Scammers tricked her into signing something.”
“Oh my God! We need to go to the police!”
“It’s too late. The apartment’s sold, the money’s gone. Mom’s homeless,” Dmitry sighed. “I thought… we should give her the house.”
Valeria froze.
“I built this house with my own hands! And now give it to your mother? What about us?”
“We’ll rent a one-bedroom. Temporarily, of course,” Dmitry avoided her gaze. “Mom’s elderly. She needs comfort.”
“Dmitry, I worked on this house for a year! No weekends, no holidays!”
“Lera, it’s just walls. But my mom—she’s family.”
“And what am I, Dima? Who am I to you?”
Antonina Pavlovna entered silently.
“Valeria, dear,” she began gently, “You’re young, beautiful. Your whole life is ahead of you. I’m an old woman. I don’t have much time left.”
“But this is our house,” Valeria said quietly. “We put all our savings into it. I put a year of my life into it.”
“Mother matters more than a bunch of walls,” Dmitry cut in.
That night Valeria couldn’t sleep. Something felt off. The story about scammers didn’t add up. The next morning, after Dmitry left for work, she went to the real estate agency where her friend Marina worked.
“Marina, I need information on Antonina Pavlovna Kovrova’s apartment,” she said, placing the address on the desk.
An hour later, she had the paperwork. The apartment hadn’t been sold. Under power of attorney from Antonina Pavlovna, it had been transferred to one Svetlana Igorevna Kovrova.
“That’s her daughter,” Marina explained. “Lives in another city. No scam. Just a family transfer.”
The room swam before Valeria’s eyes. Lies. All of it. And suddenly, everything clicked: the mother-in-law’s “admiration,” the frequent visits, Dmitry’s strange behavior.
At home, Valeria checked the documents for their house. Dmitry was the sole owner. She hadn’t interfered when construction started on that ridiculous plan. Pride had kept her silent. Now, it felt like a terrible mistake.
In Dmitry’s closet, she found a folder of documents. Among them—a draft of a deed gifting the house from Dmitry Kovrov to Antonina Pavlovna Kovrova. Date: next Thursday.
“So that’s it,” Valeria whispered. She understood everything. The apartment was given to her daughter, and now Dmitry wanted to give their house to his mother, so that in the event of a divorce, Valeria couldn’t claim anything.
Valeria acted fast. She gathered all receipts for construction materials she had bought. Collected photos of herself working on the house. Got written statements from neighbors about who had actually built it.
When Dmitry returned that evening, Valeria was waiting with a suitcase in the hallway.
“What’s going on?” Dmitry froze at the door.
“I know everything, Dima,” Valeria said calmly. “About your mom’s apartment. About the deed. About your plan.”
“What plan? You’ve lost your mind!”
“No, Dima. I’ve woken up. I’ve filed for divorce. And for division of property. This house is the result of my labor, and I will fight for it.”
Dmitry turned pale.
“You can’t prove anything! The house is in my name!”
“I have proof,” Valeria nodded to the folder. “And witnesses. Plenty of them.”
The trial lasted three months. Antonina never appeared. Dmitry claimed the house was his, and Valeria had just “helped a little.”
But the neighbors’ statements, photos, and receipts told a different story. The court acknowledged Valeria’s personal labor contribution and awarded the house to her, requiring her to compensate Dmitry for half the cost of the land.
A year passed. Valeria sat on the porch of that very house, watching the sun set. In the spacious living room worked three designers — her employees at her new firm, “Built by Hand.”
“Lera, a client’s here,” Marina, now her business partner, peeked in. “Says her husband hired an architect, but she doesn’t like the design.”
Valeria smiled.
“Invite her to the porch.”
A young woman with a folder of blueprints approached.
“Hello,” she said shyly. “I was told you help women create their dream homes.”
“Yes,” Valeria nodded, gesturing to the chair opposite. “Because sometimes, we have to build them ourselves. With our own hands.”