Denis wants to come over for the weekend,” Maxim said quietly, leaning on the terrace railing.
Vera froze with her cup halfway to her lips. The evening sun gilded the tops of the pines, and the wind stirred the young apple trees planted along the fence. Their home—their own home—built over two grueling years of saving and stress.
“What do you mean—come over?” She set the cup down on the oak table. “To stay?”
“For a couple of days. He’s got some business in the city.”
Vera turned away, looking at the unfinished workshop in the corner of the yard. A scene from three years ago rose in her mind: she and Maxim, soaked by pouring rain, ringing the doorbell at his brother’s house. Denis opened the door but didn’t invite them in. “It’s awkward right now, I’ve got business guests. Family and work are two different things.” They were drenched to the bone by the time they reached a hotel. Later, she accidentally saw the photos on social media—just a regular party with drinks and karaoke.
“Does he know we still haven’t even started finishing things?” Vera gestured around the terrace: the incomplete railings, the toolboxes in the corner.
“Well, we’re living here already,” Maxim shrugged. “The electricity works, there’s water. We’ll deal with the second floor later.”
She walked along the railing. For two years they’d saved every penny, taken extra work. Maxim plastered the walls himself; she painted the ceilings. And now that they’d finally moved in, people were immediately demanding to invade their private space.
“Do you remember how they wouldn’t let us stay the night?” Vera tried to keep her voice even.
“He really did have important guests then,” Maxim rubbed the bridge of his nose. “It came out badly, but Denis didn’t mean it.”
“Didn’t mean it,” Vera repeated. “You know, while unpacking I found my old notebook. It has a list of disappointments. Guess what’s at the top? ‘My husband’s relatives think it’s normal to refuse us a roof over our heads, but they’re sure my home is an extension of theirs.’”
Maxim stepped closer and put an arm around her shoulders.
“Verочка… that’s just how they are. Village upbringing. For them the main thing is work, the household.”
She slipped out of his embrace.
“I grew up in a village too, but I was taught that if someone comes from far away, you feed them and put them to bed—not send them out into the rain.”
Maxim sighed and leaned on the railing again.
“I’ll handle everything myself, I promise. I’ll cook, I’ll make up the bed.”
“You’ll cook?” Vera raised an eyebrow skeptically. “The last time you cooked… let me think… never? And where are you going to put them? We only have one bedroom with a bed. We haven’t furnished the second one yet.”
“On the couch in the living room,” Maxim offered uncertainly.
“On the couch we haven’t bought yet?”
He fell silent, staring at the toes of his boots.
“Don’t you want to live peacefully for at least a few months?” Vera asked softly. “Without strangers in the house. Just you and me.”
“He’s my brother, not a stranger.”
“Being related doesn’t mean being close,” she said, lifting her gaze. “And it’s not that I don’t like your family. It’s that they’ve never shown us respect. Not even curiosity. In five years your mom has never once asked what I do. But now that we have a house, suddenly everyone wants to come?”
In the silence, a woodpecker could be heard somewhere in the forest. Maxim watched the sunset, frowning.
“So what do you suggest? Just refuse?”
Vera felt everything inside her tighten—that familiar feeling of being inconvenient, difficult, the one who ruins family ties.
“I suggest we meet them in the city,” she said after a pause. “Show them photos of the house, sit in a café. No overnight stay.”
“He’ll be offended.”
“And when we showed up at their place in the rain, do you think they worried about our feelings?” Vera folded her arms across her chest. “Why do we always have to adjust? I get up at six every day, drive to clients’ construction sites, draw projects in the evenings. You work ten hours a day at the computer. We poured all our strength into this house. Don’t we deserve some peace, at least for a while?”
Maxim walked to the edge of the terrace. The evening light painted his face honey-gold, emphasizing the tired lines around his eyes.
“I need to think,” he said at last.
In the morning at breakfast, he looked more resolute.
“Okay. Let’s do it that way,” he said, spreading jam on toast. “I’ll message him and say we have wiring problems on the second floor—sparking. I’ll explain convincingly why he can’t stay overnight yet.”
Vera lifted her eyes from her cup, surprised.
“Really?”
“Really,” he gave a weak smile. “You’re right. We’ve earned a little quiet.”
She walked around the table and hugged him from behind, pressing her cheek to the back of his head.
“Thank you.”
That evening Maxim showed her the message he’d sent his brother: short, businesslike, suggesting they meet for lunch in the city center. No apologies, no self-justification.
“You know,” Vera noted, “for the first time you managed to say ‘no’ to your relatives without apologizing.”
“They matter to me,” Maxim said softly, “but you matter more.”
On Thursday a message came from Denis: he was coming with a colleague and would stay at a hotel. “We’ll be busy all day; we might not even manage to meet. Another time.”
Vera read it twice, trying to tell if her brother-in-law was angry. But there was no offense in the words—only a business tone. Maxim looked slightly disappointed.
“See?” he said. “They didn’t even really need to stay with us. Just a formality.”
“Or saving money on a hotel,” Vera remarked.
“Maybe,” he shrugged. “But you know what’s strange? I’m not even upset.”
On Saturday his mother, Zinaida Petrovna, showed up unexpectedly. No warning—carrying a pie and a vase wrapped in newspaper.
“Decided to see how you’ve settled in,” she said, looking around the yard. “Why didn’t you invite Denis? He wanted so much to visit you.”
“Mom, we’re still building,” Maxim pointed at the workshop. “And we’ve got issues with the second floor.”
“Back in the day we all lived in one room as a family and nothing happened,” she pursed her lips. “Now you build two-story houses and you couldn’t spare a couple of days for your own brother.”
Vera poured tea in silence, feeling her fingers go numb. Zinaida Petrovna pulled photographs from her bag.
“Here, Denis sent these—their new veranda. And this is the bathhouse. He did everything himself, all with his own hands.”
“We did everything ourselves too,” Maxim said.
“I don’t know,” his mother scanned the kitchen doubtfully. “Feels kind of plain. And what’s that crack?” she pointed at Vera’s favorite cup.
“That’s not a crack, it’s the design,” Vera took the cup away. “Handmade.”
“Oh,” Zinaida Petrovna drawled. “Expensive, probably. Denis just buys regular dishes, but at least there’s enough for everyone.”
Maxim caught his wife’s gaze and gave her a barely noticeable smile.
After tea, his mother went to the bathroom, and Vera stepped out onto the terrace, breathing in the pine air. Maxim followed.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “She’s always like that—comparing, judging.”
“It’s okay,” Vera squeezed his hand. “The main thing is we’re together.”
When his mother left, they both exhaled in relief.
Maxim took a bottle of white wine and two glasses from the fridge. His hands trembled slightly—the visit had left an unpleasant aftertaste, as if someone had stepped with muddy boots onto a freshly washed floor.
“Let’s go to the terrace,” his voice sounded dull. “I want to wash this visit down with something stronger, but we’ll start with wine.”
Evening wrapped the yard in a bluish haze. Cicadas chirped from the forest; a dog barked somewhere in the distance. Vera sank into a wicker chair, cupping the glass in her hands as if trying to warm up.
“I’m still shaking inside,” she admitted. “Her look… like I’m some kind of impostor in your life.”
Maxim sat beside her, knee to knee. His face—usually soft and friendly—looked sharper now, with hard shadows at his temples.
“You know, I always took pride in us being a close family,” he took a sip of wine and winced as if it tasted sour. “Childhood in the village, Mom always at home, Dad working, Denis and I fishing together… Only now I’m realizing it was a picture from a family album, not reality.”
Vera reached out and touched his shoulder.
“I feel guilty,” she said, staring into the darkening sky. “That I got in between you and your family.”
Maxim turned sharply.
“No! You didn’t get between us. You just…” he stumbled, searching for words. “You just lifted the blindfold off my eyes. I thought there were rules—we owe each other, we’re obligated to help. But God help me, I can’t remember the last time Mom asked about my work. Or when Denis asked how we’re doing. And now I understand: relatives don’t have to be close.”
Maxim’s phone chimed. He pulled it from his pocket and frowned.
“That’s strange,” he said, looking at the screen.
“What is it?” Vera asked, pouring more wine.
“Denis texted. Says tomorrow morning they’ll stop by for five minutes. Just to say hello. He, his wife, and our cousin are on their way to the market and will be passing by.”
Vera tensed.
“What do you mean—stop by? We agreed…”
“Yeah, I know.” He ran a hand through his hair, flustered. “Mom must’ve already told him a bunch of things. He says literally five minutes—just to see the house.”
The next morning, Vera and Maxim hadn’t even had breakfast when a minivan pulled up at the gate. A whole delegation spilled out: Denis with his wife Katya, their cousin Pyotr with his girlfriend—and to Maxim’s astonishment, his mother, who’d been here only yesterday.
“Surprise!” Denis threw his arms wide for a hug. “We were passing by and thought, why not pop in for a minute. We have to see how you’ve settled in.”
Vera stood frozen in the doorway, her lips numb from a forced smile. Maxim awkwardly hugged his brother, then shot his wife a guilty look.
“Come in,” he managed. “Only we’re still—”
But the guests were already flooding into the yard, talking loudly and pointing at the unfinished workshop, the young apple trees, the terrace with its incomplete railings.
“The garage roof is leaking, huh?” Pyotr called out, scanning the yard. “You can see that corner got damp. I had the same screw-up, ended up replacing the whole sheathing.”
“The roof is fine,” Maxim replied curtly.
“Can we take a look inside?” Katya was already heading for the door. “I want to see the layout.”
Before Vera could say anything, they were already in the house. They walked through the rooms without ceremony, opened doors, peeked into closets.
“Well would you look at that—stretch ceilings,” Katya drawled with barely concealed envy. “We just whitewash ours. Denis says this is showing off.”
“My mom used them,” Vera did not say; she simply watched her own home being handled like a museum for criticism.
Zinaida Petrovna ran a finger over the kitchen countertop with distaste.
“So you really paid a hundred thousand for this piece of stone?” she snorted loudly. “You overpaid by half, one hundred percent. Denis got a regular one for twenty, but a sturdy one. Ten years and it’s still like new.”
“We chose it with a designer,” Vera said tightly.
“Oh, designers!” her mother-in-law waved her off. “All show! They bleed people for money and there’s no benefit. My neighbor planned everything herself and it turned out nice.”
Denis slid a critical gaze over the walls.
“And the wallpaper’s already bubbling in the corner. Must’ve glued it crooked. I told you, Max—hire proper workers, not those… off the street.”
“We did it ourselves,” Maxim ground out.
Katya opened the refrigerator and, with demonstrative curiosity, looked inside.
“You don’t cook at all?” she asked, pointedly examining the half-empty shelves. “It’s empty! Like a hotel.”
“We buy groceries as needed,” Vera felt her face flush.
“That’s weird,” Katya shrugged. “Our fridge is always full. You never know who might stop by. Denis even brings friends from the office over for my pies.”
Meanwhile Pyotr had already gone upstairs and was talking loudly on the phone from Maxim and Vera’s bedroom.
“No, bro, it’s insane!” his voice boomed from above. “They built a two-story house, like something out of a magazine. Why do they need so much space? No kids. If it were me, I’d rent it out in summer—you know how much you could make? But they’re just burning square meters for nothing.”
Vera caught Maxim’s eye. He stood by the staircase, jaw clenched, fingers gripping the railing so hard the wood creaked.
“Hey, the balcony looks kind of crooked!” Pyotr shouted down. “You should check it before it collapses. My neighbor buried money in the ground like that, then had to redo everything.”
Maxim spun around and stormed up the stairs. Vera heard a muffled exchange; then everyone came down again. Her husband’s face was taut as a wire.
“So, shall we get going?” Denis forced a smile. “The market’s going to close soon.”
“And won’t they offer us some tea?” Zinaida Petrovna sat down heavily at the kitchen table. “It’s a long road, my mouth’s dry.”
That was the final straw. Vera felt something inside her snap—either patience, or the fear of being impolite.
“No,” she said loudly enough that everyone turned. “There will be no tea.”
Silence fell over the room. Zinaida Petrovna’s mouth opened slightly in shock.
“What do you mean, there won’t be?” she asked, confused.
“I mean exactly that,” Vera folded her arms across her chest. “You came without an invitation. You’re walking through our house, criticizing everything you see, digging in our fridge, discussing how you’d rent out our home… and now you want tea? No. Absolutely not.”
Katya’s eyes widened; she darted a look at Denis. He stood there with his mouth open, not believing his ears.
“Vera,” Denis began conciliatorily, “we were just—”
“‘Just’ ended,” she cut him off. “Three years ago, when we were drenched to the bone at your doorstep and you didn’t even let us come in to dry off. That’s when ‘just’ ended.”
Zinaida Petrovna pressed her lips together.
“Well, what manners your wife has, Maxim. Not even to give her own mother tea!”
All eyes turned to Maxim. For a second he froze—then he slowly walked to the front door and flung it open.
“Mom, it’s time for you to go. All of you,” his voice was quiet but firm. “The market’s closing, like you said.”
“What is wrong with you?” Zinaida Petrovna protested. “Have you completely—”
“Time to go,” Maxim repeated. “If you want to visit, call ahead. We’ll think about whether we can host you.”
They stood on the porch, watching the minivan drive away. Vera was trembling, pressed against Maxim. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
“Are you angry?” she whispered.
“At them—yes,” he pulled her closer. “At you—no. I feel like I’ve woken up. They never respected our boundaries. And we kept apologizing and putting up with it.”
That evening they sat on the terrace with a plate of cheese and a bottle of wine. Instead of elegant glasses—ordinary ceramic mugs.
“This is from the dishes your mom called ‘weird and cheap,’” Vera smiled, filling the mugs.
Maxim raised his.
“To us. To a home where we decide what’s right and what isn’t.”
“And to the boundaries we finally set,” Vera added, clinking her mug against his.
“Mom probably won’t call for three days,” Maxim said thoughtfully.
“And then she’ll call and pretend nothing happened,” Vera replied.
“Most likely,” he smirked. “But you know what? It doesn’t scare me anymore. I’m not going to let guilt steer me.”
They fell silent, looking up at the stars.
“Tomorrow I’ll start finishing the workshop,” Maxim said. “And the terrace railings. This is our home. And it’ll be exactly the way we want.”
Vera smiled and leaned into his shoulder.
“You know,” she said softly, “I think today we finally became a real family—the kind where what matters most isn’t obligation, but respect