Valentina woke up to the sound of the garden gate slamming.
Her right arm wouldn’t obey—hung there like it belonged to someone else. Her tongue moved slowly, clumsily in her mouth. It had only been two weeks since the stroke, but each day stretched on forever. The doctors had said recovery would come gradually. The main thing was rest—and fresh air would help.
That’s why her husband Gennady had brought her here, to the dacha. Six ares, a little house with a veranda they’d built with their own hands twenty years ago. Back when they were still young and full of plans. They planted apple trees, dreamed of grandchildren running around here…
“Val, how are you doing?” her husband’s voice drifted from the kitchen along with the smell of fried potatoes.
She tried to answer, but only a muffled grunt came out. The words got stuck somewhere inside, refusing to line up into sentences. It was enough to make her cry with frustration.
Her phone lay on the little table beside the armchair. With her clumsy left hand, Valentina typed a message to her daughter:
“Larisa how are you dear. I’m at the dacha getting better. Dad is taking care of me.”
The reply came half an hour later: “Mom, how are you feeling? I’m really worried! I can’t come right now—Dima is sick, and Igor’s on a business trip until Friday. I’ll definitely make it on the weekend!”
Valentina understood. Larisa lived in Moscow, worked at a bank; her husband was a well-paid programmer. The apartment they lived in had once been left to them by Valentina’s grandmother—a three-room flat. Now they lived there and rented out the smaller one they’d bought themselves. They were doing quite well.
Gennady brought dinner on a tray. He sat beside her and helped her eat. Patiently, gently. Just like in the first days after their wedding, when she’d come down with tonsillitis.
“Zina and Pyotr are coming tomorrow,” he said, slicing bread. “They want to check in. And Misha’s with them—like he’s got anything better to do.”
Zina—her husband’s sister. Pyotr—her husband. Misha—their son, a man in his thirties who still lived with his parents and changed jobs like gloves.
Valentina nodded. Relatives then. If they’re coming, they’re coming.
By evening it got chilly. Gennady helped her move into the house and tucked her into bed. He turned the TV on low—some melodrama. He himself stayed out on the veranda—said he’d get some air.
Around midnight, Valentina woke up to voices. Quiet, careful ones. They came from the front steps—the bedroom window opened onto them.
“…she won’t last long,” that was Zina’s voice. “I’ve seen ones like her. First one side stops working, then that’s it. Three or four months and she’s gone.”
“Don’t talk like that,” Pyotr muttered. “Maybe she’ll get better.”
“Oh, come on. You can see it yourself—she can’t even talk properly. And with those test results… Genka, why are you keeping quiet? You know best.”
Valentina tensed. Her heart pounded so loudly it seemed it could be heard across the whole plot.
“The doctors said the chances are small,” her husband answered dully. “Maybe a month, maybe half a year. Depends on luck.”
“Exactly,” Zina jumped in. “So we need to think everything through in advance. The apartment, the dacha, the bank accounts—let it all stay in our family. Otherwise Larisa will come running and start throwing her weight around.”
“Zina, what are you saying…” there was uncertainty in Gennady’s voice.
“What am I saying? The truth! Your daughter lives like a queen—an apartment from her grandmother, a programmer husband, a bank job. They’ve got money to burn! And what about us, are we supposed to die in the street? We’re family too! Misha needs an apartment, he’s already thirty-two!”
“Larisa is my daughter,” Gennady said quietly.
“Sure, your daughter—but she lives her own life. She visits at most once every six months! And who’s going to suffer here with Valya? You! Who’s going to spend money on treatment? You! So let at least something be left afterward. You’ve got plenty of life left to live. Build a new life. And share with us while you’re at it—what do you need so much for?”
Valentina lay there, holding her breath. Her chest burned—whether from betrayal or helplessness, she couldn’t tell.
“So what do you suggest?” Pyotr asked.
“Very simple. Write a will—leave everything to Gennady. And then he’ll decide who gets what. Valya will agree to anything right now—she knows she’s a burden. And we can promise he’ll share with his sister later and won’t forget the daughter. We’ll do the paperwork as soon as we get back to the city.”
“And what if Larisa objects?” her husband asked uncertainly.
“What can she do? Try to sue? By the time she tries, we’ll have everything transferred as a voluntary decision. The dacha—to Misha, for example; the apartment—to you. She won’t be able to prove a thing. It’ll all be clean.”
Misha had been silent all this time. Then he suddenly spoke up:
“Is Aunt really not going to live long?”
“Mishenka,” his mother replied sweetly, “Aunt Valya is very sick. Nothing can help her now. Life goes on. You need to start a family, have kids. Where will you live with your wife? In our two-roomer, the three of you? No, the dacha will come in handy. Later you’ll expand the house, start a little farm.”
Valentina closed her eyes. Inside, everything turned over—hurt, anger, despair. So they’d already buried her, it seemed. Divided up her things. Turned her husband against her daughter.
And this dacha—she had improved it with her own hands! Dug the beds, planted the seedlings, outfitted the house. When Gennady was out of steady work for three years, just odd jobs here and there, it was her vegetable garden that fed the family. Potatoes, tomatoes, cucumbers—she grew it all herself.
And they hadn’t even bought the apartment! It had come from her father.
And now… Now they’d written her off. Like old furniture.
“All right, enough,” Gennady grumbled. “Let’s go to bed. We’ll decide tomorrow.”
Valentina pretended to be asleep when her husband came into the bedroom. She lay with her eyes closed while he fussed around and lay down beside her. Listened to his snoring.
And she thought.
By morning, a plan had formed.
Gennady went to the store for groceries. Zina and Pyotr and Misha headed to the river—for a swim. Valentina was left alone.
She took out her phone. With her left hand, slowly, she typed a message to her daughter:
“Larisa dear I’m asking you please come urgently. Important matter. Don’t put it off.”
The reply came almost at once: “Mom, what happened? You scared me! Dima still has a fever, but if it’s urgent, I’ll ask Igor’s mom to watch him. I’ll be there tomorrow morning!”
“Good, I’ll wait. Don’t tell Dad you’re coming. It will be a surprise.”
Then she wrote another message:
“Larisa when you come find a notary. Semyon Petrovich Kovalyov lives in the village, last house, blue. Tell him I want to make a will. Don’t tell anyone why you came.”
“Mom, what is going on? A will? You’re scaring me!”
“I’ll explain when you arrive. Very important. I trust only you.”
Valentina hid the phone under her pillow. Her heart was pounding, but now not from fear—from anticipation.
So the dear relatives thought she was a dying old woman? We’ll see who outlives whom.
By evening Zina had perked up. She fried potatoes with mushrooms, pulled a homemade carrot cake out of her bag. She fussed over Valentina, cooing:
“Valyechka, eat, eat. Build up your strength. We’re all so worried about you!”
Hypocrite. Last night she’d discussed how long Valentina had left, and today she was playing at caring.
Misha silently wolfed down cake. Pyotr told jokes. Gennady helped his wife eat and wiped her mouth with a napkin. Playing the role of the caring husband.
After dinner Valentina went to bed early—her head hurt, and she didn’t have the strength to listen to Zina’s moaning. Gennady helped her settle in and turned the TV down low.
“Rest, Valyechka. We’ll sit on the veranda a bit.”
Valentina closed her eyes, feigning drowsiness. But she kept listening—the voices drifted in from the steps again. They were speaking more quietly than yesterday, but the window was open.
“Genka, we need to go to the city tomorrow,” Zina whispered. “We’ll stop by the notary. While she’s like this—now’s the time to redo the documents.”
“Zina, she might recover…”
“Recover? Look at her! Her tongue barely moves, her arm’s dead. That’s for life, Genka. And the business needs to be handled now, while she doesn’t understand anything.”
Valentina listened and could barely keep from bursting out laughing. Tomorrow, you say? Tomorrow’s going to be interesting around here.
Larisa arrived at noon. Tall, slim, in a business suit—dressed for negotiations even at the dacha. She hugged her mother carefully, without squeezing.
“Mom, how are you? You scared me with your message yesterday!”
“Now… I’ll… tell you… everything,” Valentina forced out.
Gennady came out. He was surprised:
“Lara? When did you get here? We weren’t expecting…”
“Mom asked me. Said it was urgent.”
“What’s urgent?” He looked questioningly at his wife.
Valentina stayed silent. She smiled with her eyes alone.
At one o’clock a car pulled up. Out stepped Semyon Petrovich—a short, neat man with a briefcase.
“Good afternoon! Valentina Mikhailovna asked me to come.”
Zina, who was just stepping out of the house, froze on the threshold.
“And who are you?” she asked suspiciously.
“A notary. I was called to draw up some documents.”
Zina’s face lengthened. She quickly went back inside and called her husband and son:
“Petya! Misha! Get out here, now!”
Everyone gathered in the living room. Semyon Petrovich laid the papers out on the table.
“So, Valentina Mikhailovna, you’d like to make a will. Please explain your wishes.”
Valentina took a deep breath. Speaking was hard, but she made herself speak clearly:
“All… my… property… I bequeath… to my daughter… Larisa… The apartment… the dacha… the accounts… Everything.”
Silence fell. Zina went pale. Gennady opened his mouth, then shut it.
“Mother, what are you doing?” he stammered. “That’s not what we talked about…”
“We… didn’t talk… at all,” Valentina answered slowly. “You… talked. At night… on the steps… You thought… I was asleep…”
Zina flinched like she’d been struck.
“Valka, what are you babbling about? What steps? We just…”
“Just… dividing… my things?” Valentina turned to the notary. “…draw it up… Larisa… is the sole… heir.”
Larisa stood there pale, not understanding what was happening.
“Mom…”
“Right now… the papers…”
The notary began filling out the forms. Zina rushed about the room:
“Valka, you’ve lost your mind! We’re family! How can you leave everything to just her! Look at her—she’s not in her right mind!”
“Larisa… is my daughter…”
“And what, Misha isn’t your nephew? And Genka isn’t your husband? You’ve lived together thirty years!”
“For thirty years… I thought… you were my… sister…” Valentina’s voice grew stronger. “Turns out… you’re a carrion bird… Waiting… for a corpse…”
Gennady sank into an armchair and covered his face with his hands.
“Valya… I didn’t want… Zina suggested it… I thought…”
“You thought… I’d die… and never find out?”
“I just… panicked… The doctors said…”
“The doctors… said… to fight… And you decided… to finish me off…”
Semyon Petrovich finished the paperwork. Valentina signed with her left hand—crookedly, but legibly.
“All done. The will is registered. Larisa Gennadyevna is the sole heir to all of Valentina Mikhailovna’s property.”
Zina threw up her hands:
“How can this be! My Misha will live in poverty his whole life! And she’ll live it up in Moscow!”
Larisa finally understood. She turned to her aunt:
“So while Mom was lying here sick, you were dividing up her property? How lovely!”
“And you’re any better?” Zina snapped. “You didn’t visit for a month! Barely called! But as soon as there’s an inheritance—you show up!”
“I work! I have a family, a child! But I have never wished my mother dead!”
“Enough!” Valentina struck the table with her left hand. “Zina… Pyotr… Misha… Get out… of my dacha… Right now…”
“Valka, come on!” Pyotr tried a conciliatory smile. “We’re family…”
“Not family… scavengers…”
“And what about Genka?” Zina asked venomously. “Is he guilty too?”
Valentina looked at her husband. He sat hunched over, tears running down his cheeks.
Larisa walked up to her father and put a hand on his shoulder:
“Dad stays. He’s Mom’s husband; he’ll take care of her. He’ll take good care of her.” Her voice was firm, like a manager in a meeting. “But if I find out you’re treating Mom badly—I’ll throw you out. I’m in charge here now.”
Zina grabbed her bag:
“Fine, stay with your precious daughter! We’ll see how she takes care of you from Moscow!”
“Better… alone… than with hyenas…”
Half an hour later the relatives left. Larisa stayed until evening—helped around the house, cooked dinner.
“Mom,” she said softly, “I didn’t know they were like that…”
“Now… you know… People… show… their faces…”
“And Dad?”
Valentina looked at her husband. He was washing dishes; his back was stooped, his movements uncertain.
“Dad… got scared… He thought… I’d die… and he’d be left… with nothing… We can forgive… But now… he has to… earn it…”
In the evening, when Larisa left, Gennady came up to his wife.
“Valya… forgive me… I believed Zina…”
“Gena…” she took his hand in her left palm. “We’ve lived… thirty years…”
He nodded without looking up.
“I’ll… take good care of you… I promise…”
“I’ll be… checking…” she smiled. “Our daughter… is strict…”
A month later, Valentina could already walk with a cane. Her speech had almost fully returned. Gennady really did look after her—attentively, patiently, with a tender guilt.
And Larisa came every weekend. She brought the grandson, who now adored the dacha. She helped in the garden, cooked, and talked with her mother late into the night.
Zina called twice—asked for forgiveness, hinted at reconciliation. Valentina answered briefly:
“I forgive you. But I won’t let you near me again.”
And the dacha blossomed. The apple trees they’d planted in their youth gave an especially rich harvest. As if the earth itself rejoiced—the mistress had survived, stood her ground, and protected what she had built over a lifetime.
The scavengers flew off with nothing.
And the family—the real family—remained