Irina stood on the porch watching the evening sun paint their brand-new frame house in warm peach tones. Sergey was fussing with string lights, carefully hanging them along the fence. For three years they’d saved, scrimped, skipped vacations—and here it was at last. Their very own dacha.
— Sergei, maybe that’s enough? It’s getting dark, — she called to her husband.
— Just a second! I’ll fix the last one, — he squinted. — Ira, it turned out pretty, didn’t it?
She smiled. It really was pretty. Modest, of course—not like the garage neighbor’s two-story mansion—but it was theirs. Honestly earned, with no loans or debts. Budget finishes, pine furniture, but everything neat and tidy. A grill in the yard that Sergey had welded himself out of an old barrel. And those string lights, found at a clearance sale after the summer season—creating a magical atmosphere.
— Let me turn them on! — Sergey flipped the switch, and the yard flooded with a soft yellow light.
Irina gasped. Yes, it really was like magic.
The first housewarming was noisy. Everyone came: Irina’s mom with her stepfather, her sister with her husband and kids, Sergey’s mother with Aunt Lyuda and her clan. About fifteen people milled around the small yard, grilling shashlik and posing for photos in front of the house.
— Masha, come here, I’ll take your picture! — Aunt Lyuda grabbed Irina’s niece by the hand. — Stand here—no, a bit left—so the house is in the background!
— You two are so clever to have built this, — Sergey’s mother stroked her son’s shoulder. — Your own little nest.
— You guys are something else, — the sister’s husband, Vadim, marveled. — We keep talking about it, talking about it, and still haven’t moved an inch.
Irina smiled, accepted the compliments, and carried around salads. Inside, a pleasant glow of pride warmed her. They’d done it. On their own.
Aunt Lyuda, Sergey’s mother’s sister, was still walking around with her phone, filming everything: the house from all angles, the yard, the lights, the grill.
— For social media, — she explained. — I don’t have many followers, but it’s still nice to show.
— Film away, — Sergey waved it off.
The relatives left late, tipsy and loud, promising to come again.
They threw a second housewarming two weeks later—for those who hadn’t made it the first time. The third—just because the weather was good and they wanted one more family get-together in nature.
— That’s enough, probably, — Irina said wearily when the gates closed behind the last car. — I’m tired of these gatherings.
— You’re the one who wanted everyone to be happy for us, — Sergey reminded her, picking up plastic cups.
— I did. And they were. Now I just want to rest here. But just the two of us. Not with that whole crowd.
Sergey kept quiet. He was also tired of the endless hosting, the cleanup after guests, and having to play the gracious master of the house.
October came. It turned cold. They went to the dacha, shut off the water, sealed the windows, and put away anything that could be ruined by frost. The dacha sank into a winter sleep.
The call came closer to the end of November, while Irina was unpacking groceries in the kitchen.
— Irinochka, hello, dear! — Aunt Lyuda’s chirpy voice trilled in the receiver. — How are you, how’s your mood?
— Hello, Lyudmila Petrovna, — Irina held the phone to her shoulder and kept sorting the food. — Everything’s fine, thank you.
— Listen, I have a favor to ask, — the aunt dropped her voice to a confidential tone. — Tolik and I were thinking… could we go out to your dacha this weekend? We just really want to get out of the city, breathe some fresh air. We’d take the kids, grill some shashlik…
Irina was at a loss. On one hand, she really didn’t want to give anyone the keys. On the other—how could she refuse? Sergey’s aunt was family, after all.
— Lyudmila Petrovna, it’s cold out there already. We shut off the water.
— Oh, we’ll manage! We’ll heat the stove—fresh air is what we need, you know? This city can drive you crazy.
— I’ll check with Sergey, okay?
— Of course, of course! I’ll call you back this evening.
Sergey, as expected, agreed right away.
— It’s not like we’re stingy, right? Let them relax. Aunt Lyuda has always been good to us.
— I just don’t really want to give the keys to other people, — Irina admitted.
— They’re not other people. They’re family.
Family. The magic word that opens any door and sweeps away any objection.
Irina met Aunt Lyuda at the metro, handed over the keys, and explained everything in detail.
— We shut off the water for winter, so you’ll need to start up the plumbing. Be careful with the stove; there’s firewood in the shed, but not much. The electricity’s on—write down the meter reading before and after, then send us the numbers. The string lights are easy to turn on; you’ll see them right away.
— Oh, Irinushka, don’t worry so much! — Aunt Lyuda stuffed the keys into her purse. — It’s not like we’re vandals. Everything will be fine—we’ll leave it even cleaner than we found it!
They left Friday evening and came back Sunday. On Monday, Aunt Lyuda called and thanked her a dozen times, gushing about how wonderful it had been.
— Such beauty, such air! The kids are thrilled, Tolik says he hasn’t relaxed like that in ages!
Irina listened in silence, feeling a faint irritation. Well, they relaxed, fine—no need to rave on and on.
A week later, Aunt Lyuda called again.
— Irish, can we go one more time? Tolik’s parents came in from Saratov, and we’d love to take them out to nature, show them your place.
This time Irina hesitated longer.
— Lyudmila Petrovna, maybe better in spring? It’s really cold out there.
— We already know how to heat the stove! Nothing will happen, I promise. Just for one day.
There it was again—“family”—and it felt awkward to refuse. Irina sighed and agreed.
Then came another request. And another. By mid-December, Irina had lost count of how many times Aunt Lyuda had taken the keys.
— Listen, this is over the top, — she said to Sergey one evening. — Every weekend she’s out at our dacha like it’s her own home.
— So what? What’s it to us? We won’t be going there till spring anyway.
— Sergey, it’s our dacha! We saved for it for three years!
— And? You want it to sit empty? At least someone’s using it, warming it up.
Irina fell silent. Maybe he was right. Maybe she was just being stingy.
In December they needed to go to the dacha—Irina remembered she’d left her down vest there, and the winter promised to be cold.
They arrived on a Saturday afternoon. The first thing they noticed were the tracks in the snow. Lots of tracks. Clearly not from just two people.
— Sergei, look, — Irina pointed at the trampled paths.
— So what? Maybe they came with the kids.
The door was stiff— the lock was sticking. Inside it smelled of smoke, food, and something else unpleasant. Alcohol, maybe?
Irina stepped into the room—and froze. The chair they’d bought in August was lying by the wall with a broken leg. On the sofa—some kind of stain that looked like wine. The bedroom door was scuffed, as if something heavy had slammed into it.
— Sergei! — she called. — Come here!
Sergey walked in, looked around, and turned pale.
— What happened here?
They went through the whole house. In the kitchen were piles of unwashed dishes; the trash bin held empty bottles. Lots of bottles. The toilet wouldn’t flush.
— I’m calling Aunt Lyuda right now, — Irina pulled out her phone with trembling hands.
— Wait, — Sergey grabbed her hand. — Let’s calm down first.
— Calm down?! Just look at what they’ve done!
But she listened. She sat on the scuffed sofa and wrapped her arms around her knees. Sergey paced silently through the rooms, assessing the damage.
— We can fix the chair, — he said at last. — Sand and repaint the door. The sofa… we’ll try to get the stain out.
— That’s not the point! — Irina exploded. — The point is we trusted them! This is our house, do you understand? Ours!
Sergey nodded. He understood. He just didn’t know what to do with that understanding.
Irina called anyway. Aunt Lyuda didn’t pick up right away; when she did, her voice sounded guilty.
— Irisha, I was just about to call you myself…
— What happened here?
— Oh, I’m sorry, dear. It was an accident. Tolik’s friends came by, and they, well… overdid it a bit. But I’ll reimburse everything, I swear! Tell me how much the repairs cost and I’ll transfer the money.
— Lyudmila Petrovna, this isn’t about money. You promised to be careful!
— I know you’re upset. I was shocked myself when I saw it. But we didn’t mean it! It was an accident.
— An accident? There was a whole party here!
— Well… Tolik invited a couple of friends, they celebrated his birthday a little. I couldn’t forbid it, you understand? He’s my husband, after all.
Irina felt a boil of hurt and anger inside.
— Fine, — she said coolly. — Thank you for the explanation.
— Irish, don’t be mad! I really will cover the damage!
— Goodbye, Lyudmila Petrovna.
They drove home in silence. Irina stared out the window, Sergey gripped the steering wheel. Only when they were pulling up to their building did he finally speak:
— We won’t give out the keys again.
— Uh-huh, — Irina nodded.
But she knew her husband. She knew how hard it was for him to say no to relatives. “Family,” “it’s not a big deal,” “nothing terrible.” Those phrases were second nature to him.
Aunt Lyuda transferred the money two days later—five thousand rubles. Not nearly enough for new furniture, but Irina kept quiet. At least it was something.
For a week, the aunt didn’t call. Irina thought maybe it was over, when near the end of December the familiar voice rang out:
— Irish, hi! How are you?
— Hello, — Irina replied coldly.
— Listen, I know we didn’t part on the best note last time… But here’s the thing. Tolik’s sister is coming from Moscow with her family, and she really wants to get out to the dacha. Could you lend the keys one last time? I’ll personally make sure everything is proper and respectable!
Irina’s breath caught at the nerve of it.
— Lyudmila Petrovna, we’ve decided not to give the keys to anyone anymore.
— Oh come on, Irish! You know I’m responsible for everything now! It was so awkward last time, but this time I’ll keep it under control!
— No, — Irina said firmly. — I’m sorry.
— How can you say that? — the aunt’s voice turned hurt. — We’re family! I thought you weren’t so stingy.
— This isn’t stinginess. It’s our right.
— Fine, fine, — Aunt Lyuda snorted. — I’ll tell Sergey and let him decide. He’s an understanding person.
Irina hung up and pressed her forehead against the cold wall. She knew what would happen next. The aunt would call Sergey and turn on her “we’re family, how can you not help relatives,” and Sergey would agree. Because he didn’t know how to refuse. Because he feared conflict. Because “what’s it to us.”
And that’s exactly how it went. In the evening, Sergey came home looking guilty.
— Ira, Aunt Lyuda called…
— I know.
— Listen, maybe we give them the keys one last time? She promised…
— No, — Irina cut him off. — I said no.
— But she apologized! And she transferred money!
— Sergey, it’s our dacha! Ours! We saved for it for three years! And I don’t want drunken parties there every weekend!
— Well, not every weekend…
— Sergei, — Irina turned to him, and he saw such tiredness in her eyes that he fell silent. — I don’t want to give the keys to anyone anymore. If you want to—that’s your choice. But then you’ll deal with the consequences alone. I can’t do this anymore.
He was quiet for a long time, then nodded.
— Okay. We won’t.
But Irina saw his fists clench. And she understood—this wasn’t over. Aunt Lyuda wasn’t the type to give up easily.
The next day, while Irina was at work, Sergey took the keys to Aunt Lyuda. In the evening he confessed, staring at the floor:
— She begged so much… Said this really would be the last time. What was I supposed to do?
Irina just sighed. There was no point fighting. This was Sergey. Her Sergey, who couldn’t say “no” to relatives.
But something inside her snapped for good.
— Sergei, you know what? I’ve gotten curious.
— Curious about what?
— What they’re doing out there. In winter. In a cold house. What are they doing that the furniture breaks and the doors get damaged?
Sergey shrugged:
— Well, they party, they relax…
— In a deep freeze? Every weekend? — Irina narrowed her eyes. — No, something’s off.
She remembered Aunt Lyuda constantly filming, taking photos for social media. She remembered the too-frequent requests. She remembered the heaps of bottles and dirty dishes. And a vague, unpleasant suspicion took shape.
— I want to install a camera, — she said.
— What?
— A camera. At the dacha. To see what’s going on.
— Ira, are you serious? That’s… well, spying on relatives…
— I have a feeling we’re being used, Sergei. And I want to know exactly how.
— You’re exaggerating.
— Then the camera will show that I’m wrong.
Irina bought a small camera with a motion sensor and a memory card. During the week they stopped by the dacha, and she hid the camera among the books on a shelf, positioned to see the living room and the kitchen doorway.
— What’s the point of all this? — Sergey sighed, watching her carefully disguise the lens.
— Just for me, — Irina said. — I want to know the truth.
Aunt Lyuda went out to the dacha on Friday. Irina knew because she called to say she was taking the keys “for the very last time.”
All week, Irina thought about the camera. She almost regretted putting it in. Maybe she really was exaggerating? Maybe they were just careless people, and there was no need to turn this into a detective story?
But on Sunday evening something made her open the footage.
Saturday evening. People come through the door. Lots of people. Twenty at least. They laugh, take off their coats, and settle at the table.
Aunt Lyuda bustles about, sets the table, carries plates. She’s in a dressy blouse with a fixed smile, like a restaurant hostess.
Irina went cold. A corporate party. That’s what it was.
She watched further, and the picture became clearer. The guests ate, drank, made noise. Someone turned on music. Two men danced with women in the middle of the room—bumping into the door and leaving scratches on it. Someone spilled a glass of wine—again onto the sofa.
By midnight, half the guests were drunk. Someone tried to stand on a chair—it broke. Someone smoked right in the room, despite Aunt Lyuda’s scolding.
By two in the morning, the guests started to leave. Aunt Lyuda and her husband did a quick, half-hearted tidy and left too. The dacha was empty.
Irina stared at the laptop screen, feeling a boil inside. They’d used them. Simply took their house and used it for business.
She skipped ahead to the next day. Sunday morning. Aunt Lyuda drove up again, this time with her daughter. They cleaned quickly and efficiently—washed dishes, wiped floors, aired out the rooms. The daughter complained about something; Aunt Lyuda replied:
— I know it’s risky. But it still works for now. A couple more corporate parties and that’s it. I’ve already got three bookings for January.
Irina stopped the recording. That was enough. She’d seen all she needed.
She went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. — So, I watched the camera footage.
— And?
— Let’s watch it together.
They sat side by side on the sofa, and Sergey stared at the laptop screen like he couldn’t believe his eyes.
— She… rented it out? Our dacha? For corporate parties?
— Uh-huh, — Irina nodded. — And made a nice profit, looks like. Three bookings for January, did you hear?
Sergey said nothing. Irina saw the muscle in his jaw twitch—sure sign he was really angry.
— I’m calling a locksmith tomorrow, — he said at last. — He’ll come and change the locks. All of them.
— And Aunt Lyuda?
— To hell with Aunt Lyuda, — Sergey stood and paced the room. — You were right. You were right from the start, and I didn’t listen.
— Sergei…
— No, really. This is our dacha. Our home. We saved for it for three years, denied ourselves everything. And she just decided she could profit off our hard work? No. Enough.
Irina walked up to him and hugged him. He pulled her close, and she felt his hands trembling.
— I’m sorry I didn’t listen sooner.
— It’s okay, — she said softly.
On Monday, Sergey took the day off and went to the dacha with the locksmith. By evening, the locks were changed and the old keys were useless.
Aunt Lyuda called on Tuesday. Her voice was indignant:
— Sergei, what nonsense is this? I went to the dacha yesterday and the keys don’t work!
— I know, — Sergey said calmly. — We changed the locks.
— What do you mean, changed them? Are you going to give me the new ones?
— No, — Sergey paused. — We’re not.
— What do you mean, you’re not?! Sergei, we had an arrangement! I’ve got January still…
— We know what you’ve got in January, — he cut in. — Three corporate parties, right? Sorry, Lyudmila Petrovna, but you’ll have to find another venue.
There was a pause. Then Aunt Lyuda spoke in a completely different voice—hard and cold:
— So you were spying on me?
— We installed a camera, — Sergey confirmed. — And watched the recording.
— Oh, that’s how it is! What a family! Spying on your own!
— Renting out someone else’s dacha without permission and profiting from it—is that what you call family?
— I paid for everything! I covered all the damage!
— Five thousand for broken furniture and gouged doors? Lyudmila Petrovna, our idea of “covering damages” is a bit different.
— Oh, forget you! — Aunt Lyuda snapped. — You’re stingy! Nasty! You’ve made your money and think you’re something, but help your own? No way! You couldn’t spare your precious dacha!
— Goodbye, Lyudmila Petrovna, — Sergey hung up.
Irina, who’d been listening, came over and hugged him.
— Good job.
— That was hard, — he admitted. — But right.
Together they decided to cut Aunt Lyuda out of their lives—they couldn’t forgive her for treating their property that way