The news of her grandfather’s death reached Yana in the middle of the workday. She was sitting at her computer when a message came from her mother: “Grandpa Misha is gone. His heart. Come as soon as you can.”
Yana didn’t cry—they hadn’t been especially close in recent years. But something snapped inside her, as if a steady piece of the world had vanished. Grandfather Mikhail Stepanovich had always been there. Simply there—with his habit of sipping tea from a saucer, his stories about the war, and the constant smell of tobacco and apples.
Two weeks after the funeral Yana learned that her grandfather had left her his house. The very one where she had spent every summer until she was fifteen. A two-story log house with a veranda and a garden full of apple and cherry trees. A small bathhouse at the edge of the lot and a well with icy water.
“He made the will five years ago,” her mother said, handing Yana the documents. “He wanted the house to stay in the family. All these years he was afraid it would be torn down or sold.”
Yana remembered that house down to the smallest detail. The creaky stairs to the second floor. The stove that radiated heat in the mornings. The floorboards you couldn’t walk on barefoot on especially cold days. The attic where she hid with a book on rainy days.
The house stood on the outskirts of a settlement, half an hour’s drive from the city. A small six-hundred-square-meter plot with an old but still fruitful apple tree, and bushes of currants and gooseberries. The place was quiet, yet had good transport access.
When Yana told her husband about the inheritance, Kirill reacted with unexpected enthusiasm.
“A country house? That’s fantastic!” His eyes lit up. “How many rooms does it have? Is the plot big?”
“Five rooms, if you count the kitchen,” Yana answered. “The plot is small, but cozy.”
“We have to go take a look,” Kirill said, already pulling out his phone to check his schedule. “Can we make it this weekend?”
Yana had planned to go alone—she wanted to be there, remember her childhood, say goodbye to her grandfather. But her husband’s enthusiasm was so genuine that she agreed.
“Alright, let’s go Saturday morning.”
The house greeted them with the smell of dust and stale air. Yana opened the windows to let in the spring breeze. Kirill walked from room to room, tapping on the walls and testing the floors.
“Solid house,” he concluded. “It needs renovations, of course, but the foundation is good, the walls are dry. This place could be set up beautifully.”
“I wasn’t planning on any major renovations,” Yana noted. “I like how everything is. It’s my grandfather’s memory.”
“I get it,” Kirill nodded. “But at least a refresh. New wallpaper, maybe relay the floors. And paint the exterior.”
Yana agreed—some updates wouldn’t hurt. They spent the whole day in the house, discussing what might be changed without disturbing the spirit of the place. Kirill snapped photos, took notes on his phone. Yana liked his excitement.
“It’s great that we now have a little place in the country,” Kirill said as they drove home. “In the summer we’ll come on weekends, grill kebabs. We can invite friends.”
“Our place,” Yana noted to herself. Well, they’d been married three years; formally speaking, Kirill had a right to think of the house as partly his. And Yana didn’t mind—both of them could use a place to get away from the city bustle.
A week later Kirill unexpectedly suggested:
“Let’s take Mom to see the house? She’s dreamed of a dacha her whole life.”
“Let’s,” Yana agreed. She and her mother-in-law had even relations—not warm, but without conflict.
On Saturday the three of them went out. Kirill’s mother, Nina Viktorovna, walked around as if she were evaluating a potential purchase.
“It’s a good location,” she said at last. “But there’s a lot of work. The wallpaper is stained, the floors creak. And that color is awful. Who in their right mind paints walls green?”
“Grandpa chose that,” Yana felt a prick of hurt. “He liked the color.”
“Well, Grandpa’s gone now, and you’re the ones living here,” Nina Viktorovna cut her off. “You should repaint everything. And buy new furniture. These Soviet cabinets ought to be thrown out immediately.”
Yana didn’t argue, though she liked those old cabinets and carved chests. They had soul, history—unlike the standard Ikea her mother-in-law prized.
The next weekend Kirill brought his older sister Lyudmila with her husband, Sasha, and their kids. He warned Yana at the last minute:
“I told Lyuda we now have a country house. She was thrilled! The kids have been begging for nature.”
“Our,” Yana noted again, but kept silent. After all, the house was big; there was room for everyone. And the children would have fun playing in the garden.
Then came Kirill’s aunt—Vera Ivanovna, a woman with a commanding voice and a habit of rearranging everything “for convenience.” She arrived with a measuring tape and a notebook, jotting things down while measuring the rooms.
“What are you doing?” Yana couldn’t hold back.
“Just estimating,” Vera Ivanovna answered evasively. “One needs to know which wardrobe will fit here, which sofa.”
“And why do you need to know that?” Yana asked, puzzled.
“Well, Kirill said we’ll all be coming here to relax in the summer! And I don’t like surprises. I prefer to plan everything.”
Yana found her husband, who was tinkering with something on the veranda.
“Kirill, did you tell your aunt she’d be living here in the summer?”
“Not literally,” Kirill looked slightly embarrassed. “I just mentioned the house is big, plenty of space. You don’t mind if now and then some of my relatives come? There are five rooms, Yanachka!”
Once again Yana yielded. After all, it was only for the summer, only on weekends. The rest of the time the house would stand empty. Why not share with her husband’s family?
But a month later things spun out of control. Every weekend the house filled with Kirill’s relatives. They brought things and left them, as if marking territory. First it was small items—towels, mugs, books. Then came pillows, throws, gardening tools.
Her husband’s relatives discussed what to put where, what furniture to buy, which walls to repaint. They asked Yana for form’s sake, but nobody cared what she thought.
“Maybe we should just remove this wall entirely?” Lyudmila suggested.
“No,” Yana said firmly. “It’s a load-bearing wall. You can’t touch it.”
“Well, you can reinforce it,” Lyudmila’s husband Sasha objected. “I checked with the guys at work—they said it’s easy.”
“I don’t want anything knocked down,” Yana repeated. “The house is fine as it is.”
“Don’t be stubborn, Yanochka,” Nina Viktorovna intervened. “We’re only trying to make it better. For everyone.”
And every time, Kirill took his family’s side. At first delicately, then more insistently.
“Yana, why are you so unyielding?” he would ask in the evening when they were alone. “These are trifles. Repainting a wall, hanging a shelf—why upset the family over that?”
One Saturday, when the house was once again filled with his relatives’ voices, Yana went to the kitchen for tea and overheard a conversation.
“We absolutely need to put a partition here,” Nina Viktorovna was saying, pointing at a floor plan they had already drawn. “Lyuda and I will be here, and Sasha can have the far room—he needs quiet.”
“And we can turn the shed into a summer kitchen,” added Vera Ivanovna. “The bathhouse is nearby, and a pool—perfect!”
“We’ll just have to grub up that old cherry orchard,” Kirill’s cousin Dima noted. “It’s useless, just takes up space. Better a lawn and a barbecue.”
Yana leaned against the hallway wall, feeling the ground go out from under her. The cherry orchard. The one her grandfather planted after the war. Where every tree had a name. Where she’d hidden as a child, picking berries and reading in the shade.
“And what does Yana think?” Sasha suddenly asked. “Formally, it’s her house.”
“Yana, schmana,” Nina Viktorovna waved it off. “Kirill will persuade her. He always can.”
“And besides, they’re family,” Lyudmila added. “So the house is shared. Kirill has just as much right to decide as she does.”
Kirill, who had been silent so far, finally spoke:
“Don’t worry, I’ll talk to her. Yana will understand. She always agrees in the end.”
Yana stepped back from the door without a sound. Cold anger spread inside her. The house of her childhood. The house her grandfather had protected all his life and had willed specifically to her because he knew she would keep its soul. And now these almost-strangers were deciding what to demolish and what to rebuild.
She returned to the veranda where the rest of Kirill’s relatives were sitting. She smiled and kept up the conversation, but inside she already knew what she had to do.
When everyone moved to the kitchen, Vera Ivanovna came into the room:
“Yanochka, we’ve talked it over and decided we need to reconfigure the layout. How do you feel about a remodel?”
Yana smiled her friendliest smile.
“Mm-hmm, good idea.”
But deep down she had already made the decision that would turn the whole story on its head.
The rest of the day Yana was unusually quiet. Her husband’s relatives went on making plans, dividing rooms, discussing future renovations. From time to time Kirill cast worried glances at his wife, but Yana only smiled and nodded.
When everyone finally left, Yana said to her husband:
“I’ll stay here until tomorrow. I want a little time alone.”
“Alone?” Kirill was surprised. “Maybe I should stay too?”
“No, you have work tomorrow. And I have the day off.” Yana kissed his cheek. “Go on. I’ll come back tomorrow evening.”
As soon as Kirill’s car turned the corner, Yana took out her phone and opened a search engine. First she found contacts for the nearest lock-installation service. Then a company that installs video surveillance systems.
“Good afternoon,” Yana said when someone picked up. “I need to have the locks changed urgently. This evening. Is that possible?”
The technician arrived two hours later, an older man with a careful eye.
“Are we changing all the locks?” he asked, inspecting the front door.
“All of them,” Yana nodded. “And the gate too. And preferably something more complex.”
By nine in the evening the job was done. New locks gleamed in the rays of the setting sun. Yana slipped the keys into her pocket and felt a strange relief. For the first time in a long while, the house was hers alone again. She also arranged for the surveillance system to be installed the next day.
In the morning Yana returned to the city apartment. Kirill had already left for work, leaving a note on the table: “Hope you rested well. Mom asked when she can bring wallpaper samples for the back room.”
Yana smirked. Nina Viktorovna wasn’t wasting time. But the rules of the game had changed.
That evening, when Kirill got home from work, Yana was setting the table.
“Kirill, about the house,” she began, arranging the plates. “No one can go there in the near future. I’ve scheduled renovations.”
“Renovations?” Her husband raised his eyebrows. “But we didn’t settle on anything concrete. Mom thought…”
“I decided,” Yana cut in calmly. “First we need to shore up the foundation and fix the roof. Without that, any cosmetic work is pointless.”
“But why didn’t you discuss it with me? With us?” Kirill looked bewildered.
“Did your family discuss it with me when they planned to rip out the cherry orchard and put in a pool?”
Kirill fell silent, at a loss for words.
“The house is closed for renovations,” Yana added. “I’d say two or three months.”
“Mom wanted to stop by tomorrow to show curtain catalogs,” Kirill said uncertainly.
“Tell her it’s not relevant right now,” Yana set down the salad. “Are you staying for dinner?”
Two days later Yana’s phone lit up with calls. First from her mother-in-law, then from Lyudmila, then from Vera Ivanovna. Yana politely explained the same thing to everyone—the house was under renovation; there was no point in coming. By evening Kirill called.
“Mom and I drove out to the house,” he said tensely. “The gate is locked, the keys don’t fit. What’s going on?”
“I told you—the house is under renovation,” Yana replied evenly. “I changed the locks for safety. They’ve pulled the electrical system apart.”
“But why didn’t you give us the new keys?” There was outrage in Kirill’s voice.
“Don’t worry, I’m in control. It’s just that things are different now.”
“What do you mean, ‘different’?” he demanded. “Mom is upset, she took the day off specifically to—”
“Kirill,” Yana interrupted. “I said the house is closed. Go back to the city.”
That evening a storm broke. Not meteorological—a family one. Kirill burst into the apartment, slamming the door.
“Can you explain what’s going on?” he began at once. “Why are you acting so strangely? Why are you hiding your plans from us?”
“From us?” Yana raised an eyebrow. “Or from you and your family?”
“Oh come on, Yana! You know what I mean! My relatives just wanted to help with the house!”
“Help?” Yana gave a short laugh. “They wanted to remake it for themselves. Uproot the orchard my grandfather planted. Knock down walls. Build a pool. And all without a single question about what I want.”
“You’re exaggerating,” Kirill shook his head. “They were just tossing out ideas. And anyway, it’s a shared house. I’m your husband, I have a say too.”
“Is that so?” Yana crossed her arms. “And when you decided that Nina Viktorovna and Lyudmila would take one room and Sasha the back one—was that just ‘tossing out ideas’?”
Kirill froze. It was obvious he hadn’t expected Yana to know about that conversation.
“You were eavesdropping?” he tried to go on the offensive.
“No, I just happened to hear you all divvying up my house as if I didn’t exist.”
Yana went to the other room and came back with her phone.
“Here, take a look,” she said, showing him the screen. “Your aunt and your mother are already discussing what appliances to buy for the summer kitchen. Your sister is choosing tile for the bathroom. Your cousin found a company to cut down the trees in the orchard. All of it—without a single word to me.”
Kirill looked at the photos of their chat with a dazed expression.
“Where did you get this?”
“From your family chat, the one I wasn’t added to, of course,” Yana shook her head. “Your sister left her phone on the table when she stepped out. I saw the notifications and took pictures.”
“But these are just conversations, Yana,” Kirill tried to sound convincing. “No one decided anything. They just got carried away with the idea of summer in the country.”
“You wanted a pool?” Yana looked him straight in the eye. “Great. Build one—for yourselves. Somewhere else.”
“Yana, you don’t understand…”
“No, you don’t,” she cut him off, quiet but firm. “This house belongs to me. It holds my childhood. My grandfather lived here. And I won’t let it be turned into an entertainment center for your relatives.”
“But we’re a family!” Kirill exclaimed. “My mom, my sister—they’re your family now too!”
“Family respects one another’s boundaries,” Yana replied. “Your relatives acted behind my back. And you enabled it.”
Kirill looked thrown. He clearly hadn’t expected such resistance from a wife who usually compromised.
“Listen,” he said at last in a conciliatory tone. “I admit they went a bit overboard. I didn’t realize they’d go that far. Let’s just talk it all through again, together. You’ll tell us what you want, we’ll find a compromise…”
“No, Kirill,” Yana shook her head. “Compromises are over. I’ve made my decision and put a period on it—literally, with new locks and an alarm.”
“An alarm?” Kirill was startled.
“Yes, I installed a video surveillance system with motion sensors. Now I’ll know who comes to the house and when.”
“You’re serious?” Kirill stared at her as if seeing her for the first time. “You trust me so little?”
“It’s not about trust,” Yana said. “It’s about respect for my wishes and my property. Which I didn’t see—from you or your family.”
The next day, Yana found her phone buzzing nonstop. Her mother-in-law, Lyudmila, and Vera Ivanovna all wanted to know what had happened, why Yana had suddenly become so “irrational,” why she was “setting herself against the family.”
“Did you turn your whole family against me?” Yana asked her husband that evening.
“I just told them what happened,” Kirill shrugged. “They’re worried.”
“They’re worried they’ve lost a free dacha,” Yana said.
“Don’t say that,” Kirill protested. “They honestly wanted to help!”
“Fine,” Yana nodded. “Let’s clarify things once and for all. The house belongs to me. I appreciate your care and support, but all decisions about the house are mine. If your relatives want to come as guests—fine, but only by invitation. No unannounced visits, no remodeling, no planning behind my back.”
“And what about me?” Kirill asked, offended. “Do I have to ask your permission to come, too?”
“No, Kirill,” Yana sighed. “You’re my husband. I’ll give you the keys. To you alone. On the condition that you respect my boundaries and my decisions.”
The next week was tense. Her mother-in-law called every day, alternately threatening and appealing to Yana’s conscience. Lyudmila sent a long message calling Yana selfish and saying how she’d disappointed the whole family. Even Sasha called, trying to “explain man to man” that Yana was wrong.
Kirill bounced between his wife and his relatives, sometimes taking Yana’s side, sometimes begging her to yield just a little.
“Just give Mom a set of keys,” he pleaded. “She promises not to touch anything, just to come breathe some fresh air sometimes.”
“No,” Yana answered firmly.
“Why are you so stubborn?” Kirill couldn’t understand.
“Because it’s my house,” Yana said every time.
A month later, the storm had somewhat passed. Her mother-in-law stopped calling every day. Lyudmila went silent altogether. Yana kept her promise and gave Kirill a key to the new lock. Sometimes they went to the house together on weekends. Sometimes Yana went alone, when she wanted quiet.
By mid-summer the cherries ripened in the garden. Yana picked the first crop and made jam according to her grandfather’s recipe, with a touch of almond. Kirill, tasting it, couldn’t hide his delight.
“I’ve never eaten anything better,” he admitted. “Now I understand why you treasure this orchard so much.”
Yana smiled. Perhaps not all was lost.
In August they celebrated Kirill’s birthday. Yana suggested holding the party at the house.
“We can invite your relatives,” she said. “I think it’s time to mend fences.”
“Are you serious?” Kirill brightened. “Mom will be thrilled!”
“With one condition,” Yana added. “No talk of remodeling, pools, or cutting down the orchard. It’s just a family celebration—nothing more.”
Kirill agreed. He called his mother, his sister, his aunt—everyone gladly accepted.
On the day of the party Yana met the guests at the gate. The outdoor table was already set with appetizers, cold drinks, a big cake. Strings of lights hung between the trees.
Nina Viktorovna approached Yana with a tight smile.
“Thank you for the invitation. It’s very… kind of you.”
“I’m glad you came,” Yana answered sincerely. “Please, come in.”
Little by little, the atmosphere eased. Kirill’s relatives, cautiously at first, joined in the conversation, joked, and congratulated the birthday boy. After lunch Yana suggested everyone take a walk through the garden.
“The cherries are especially good this year,” she said, showing the trees heavy with dark red fruit. “Grandpa would have loved it.”
Nina Viktorovna looked silently at the orchard she had so recently planned to uproot. Then, unexpectedly, she said:
“It’s beautiful here. Very… peaceful.”
“Thank you,” Yana nodded. “It’s a special place for me. Full of memories.”
That evening, as the guests were leaving, Nina Viktorovna lingered by the gate.
“You know, Yana,” she began, uncharacteristically gentle. “I was probably wrong. We all… got carried away. We didn’t think about your feelings.”
Yana looked at her in surprise—she hadn’t expected that kind of admission.
“I understand that the house is your memory, your story,” her mother-in-law went on. “And I respect that. Truly.”
“Thank you,” Yana managed.
When the last car disappeared around the bend, Kirill hugged his wife.
“See? It’s working out. Mom even apologized. In her own way, of course, but for her that’s a big step.”
“Yes,” Yana agreed. “I think things will be different now.”
And she was right. Relations gradually improved. Kirill’s relatives no longer tried to take over the house and came only by invitation. No one brought up remodeling or cutting down the orchard.
And a year later, when Yana and Kirill had a daughter, they named her Victoria and, among themselves, called her their little Cherry—in honor of Grandfather’s orchard, which had withstood every storm and continued to lavish the family with sweet fruit year after year.
“You know,” Kirill said one day, watching Yana rock the baby in the shade of the cherry trees, “I’m glad you drew the line back then. I can’t imagine what it would be like if we’d actually cut this orchard down.”
Yana smiled. Sometimes you just have to stand up for what’s dear to you—even if it means changing every lock.