Anton was zipping up the last zipper on the travel bag when Lena walked into the room with her phone in her hand. The look on her face told him immediately—something had happened.
“Your mother called,” she said quietly—too quietly. “She congratulated you on the trip. Said she’s very happy for us. And that Sveta and Igor and the kids are coming to our dacha too. Tomorrow evening.”
Anton froze. The bag slipped from his hands and thudded onto the floor.
“Len, I…”
“Are you serious?” his wife’s voice trembled, but she pulled herself together. “Anton, we agreed! You promised you wouldn’t tell anyone!”
“I didn’t!” He lifted his hands defensively. “Len, I swear—I only told Mom that we wouldn’t be in the city for the holidays…”
“And she, of course, immediately figured everything out.” Lena gave a bitter little smile. “And called your precious sister right away. You know, I can even imagine how it went. ‘Lenočka and Anton got some kind of dacha, can you believe it? They’re celebrating New Year’s there. Alone. How selfish of them, right?’”
“Lena, Mom didn’t say it like that…”
“Not like that?” She turned to him, and he saw tears in her eyes. “Then why has your sister already packed her suitcases and is coming with her whole family? With the kids, by the way!”
Anton sat on the edge of the bed, feeling everything collapse. Half a year. Half a year they had worked at that dacha like slaves.
When Aunt Nina died in the spring, Lena’s mother called late in the evening with the news: Aunt Nina had left Lena her dacha outside Moscow. A small plot of land, an old house, a bathhouse, a greenhouse. Lena had burst into tears—she loved Aunt Nina, even though they didn’t see each other often.
“We could…” she began, wiping her cheeks. “Maybe we should try? Put everything in order? We’ve never had our own place where we could just run away from everything.”
Anton agreed immediately. The city apartment—constant noise, upstairs neighbors renovating for the third year in a row—was exhausting. And here: their own house, quiet, the forest nearby.
“Just let’s not tell anyone,” Lena asked. “Not yet. Not until we get everything sorted out. You know how it is—everyone suddenly becomes an expert, everyone knows best. And your family…”
She didn’t finish, but Anton understood. His family. A mother who considered it her duty to control their every step. A sister, Sveta, who could turn any event into a chance for personal gain. And Igor—Sveta’s husband—an eternally carefree joker who acted like the world owed him simply for existing.
“Okay,” Anton agreed. “We won’t tell anyone.”
And they truly kept quiet. Every weekend from May on, they went to the dacha. First they cleared out the mess—Aunt Nina hadn’t been able to care for the property in her last years, and everything had grown wild, tangled, fallen apart. Then they began renovating the house.
Anton painted the walls, replaced wiring, fixed the roof. Lena scrubbed floors, hung wallpaper, hunted for furniture at flea markets and online. They poured every spare ruble, every free minute into it. In summer they came every weekend—no rest, no seaside vacation like their friends. Just work.
“Look how it’s turning out!” Lena glowed with happiness when they finished the veranda in August. “Anton, can you imagine—we can celebrate New Year’s here! We’ll put up a tree, light the fireplace…”
“We don’t have a fireplace,” Anton smiled.
“Then we’ll build one!” She laughed and hugged him. “We’ll make it work.”
They built one. Anton found a craftsman who helped install a real wood-burning hearth in the living room. It cost a pretty penny, but when they lit the first fire in October, Lena sat on the floor in front of the dancing flames and cried from happiness.
“This is our place,” she whispered. “Ours. Do you understand? The first thing that’s truly ours.”
By December the house was ready—cozy and warm, with new windows, a repaired bathhouse, a woodshed full of birch logs. Lena bought beautiful linen curtains, soft throws, arranged candles everywhere in elegant holders. In the kitchen stood a huge wooden table they’d found at a flea market and restored together.
“We haven’t actually relaxed here even once,” Anton noted on one of their trips. “We only worked.”
“But on New Year’s,” Lena pressed herself to him. “On New Year’s we’ll come here, and it’ll be just you and me. Snow, silence, the fireplace. Champagne at midnight on the veranda. Like in a movie.”
She talked about that dream so often Anton memorized every word: how they’d watch the sunrise on January first wrapped in blankets, how they’d cook breakfast in the new kitchen, how they’d walk in the forest where the snow would surely be up to their knees, how they’d lie by the fire with books and wine.
“We need this rest so badly,” she’d say. “We work like dogs all year. You with two jobs, me with these projects. When was the last time it was just us? Really just us—not running between errands?”
And now this—two days before they were supposed to leave.
“I didn’t invite them and I don’t want to see them!” Lena shouted, her voice breaking. “If they come, you’ll be celebrating New Year’s without me!”
“Len, don’t…”
“How can I not?” She wiped her tears with the back of her hand. “Anton, I’ve been dreaming about this for half a year! We worked like slaves to finish everything in time. I wanted to spend these days with you. With you! Not with your family who’ll barge in, devour everything, mess the place up, and leave us to clean up after them!”
“Sveta isn’t like that…”
“Sveta is exactly like that!” Lena slammed her palm on the table. “Did you forget last year when she came to us ‘for a couple of days’ and stayed two weeks? How Igor drank your whiskey while lecturing you that you work too much and forgot about ‘family’? How their kids broke your mug—the one I gave you for our anniversary—and Sveta didn’t even apologize, just said, ‘kids will be kids’?”
Anton was silent, because it was all true. Sveta was two years older and had always behaved as if everyone owed her. As kids she bossed him around, took the best toys, got more attention from their parents. As an adult she didn’t change—she just used him as free labor, a source of “loans” never repaid, and a convenient vacation spot whenever she wanted.
“She’s my sister,” he said weakly.
“So what? Does that give her the right to everything?” Lena looked at him with so much pain it made him feel physically sick. “Anton, I’m not asking the impossible. I want to spend three days with you. Three days alone, in our house—the one we built with our own hands. Is that too much?”
“No. Of course not…”
“Then call her. Now. And tell them they weren’t invited.”
“Lena, you know what kind of scandal it’ll be…”
“Let it be,” she said, folding her arms. “You know what, Anton? I’m tired. I’m tired of always being last on your list. First work, then your mom, then Sveta and her needs—and somewhere at the very end, if I’m lucky, me. Your wife.”
“That’s not true!”
“It is true!” She walked to the window, staring at the winter evening outside. “Do you remember when we got married you promised I’d come first? That we’d be a team—you and me against every problem? And what is it in reality? Your mom always has something ‘urgent,’ Sveta is always in some crisis, and you run to them, dropping everything. And I wait. I always wait.”
Anton went to her and tried to hug her, but she stepped away.
“Don’t,” she said quietly. “Just answer honestly: how do you want to spend this New Year’s? With me—or with them?”
He stood there, speechless, realizing he didn’t know what to do. Images flashed in his mind: his mother calling every day, getting offended if he couldn’t come; Sveta throwing a fit if he refused; Igor’s snide jokes about “henpecked husbands.” Then other images: Lena painting the walls, Lena smiling by the fire, Lena dreaming out loud about the magical New Year’s they had earned.
“With you,” he finally breathed out. “Of course—with you.”
“Then prove it.” She turned to him, and there was so much hope and fear in her eyes at once that his breath caught. “Call Sveta. Right now. And tell her she can’t come.”
“Len…”
“This is an ultimatum, Anton.” She straightened up, and he saw the strength in her—the strength he’d fallen in love with long ago. “Either you call her and tell the truth, or I stay in the city and you celebrate New Year’s alone. Or with them, if you want. But without me.”
“You can’t do that…”
“I can.” She grabbed her bag and headed for the door. “And you know, maybe I should’ve done it earlier. I’ll give you five minutes to think. If you make the right decision—I’ll stay. If not—I’m going to my friend’s. And then we’ll see.”
The door slammed, and Anton was left alone in the bedroom with the travel bags and his phone in his hand.
Five minutes. That was all he had.
He paced the apartment like an animal in a cage. He imagined calling Sveta—her screaming that he was selfish, that he’d forgotten “family,” that their mother would be devastated. He pictured his mother crying into the phone, saying she’d raised an ungrateful son. He pictured the holidays ruined by a scandal that would drag on for months.
And then he pictured the other option: New Year’s at the dacha with Sveta, Igor, and their kids. The TV blaring, drunken toasts, children racing through the house. Sveta inspecting every corner, every thing, making remarks: “This wallpaper is kind of crooked, see?” Igor sprawled in front of the fire with a beer. And Lena not there—Lena, who had dreamed of those days for half a year.
He picked up the phone. His hands shook as he dialed Sveta’s number.
“Tosha!” her cheerful voice burst through. “We’re almost packed! Masha can’t find her skis, but it’s fine—we’ll buy them on the way…”
“Sveta, wait,” he said, closing his eyes. “We need to talk.”
“About what? If it’s about food, don’t worry, we’ll buy everything ourselves, just—”
“You can’t come.”
Silence hung on the line. Long and heavy.
“What?” she finally asked, and her voice turned metallic.
“Sveta, I’m sorry, but we didn’t invite you. Lena wanted us to celebrate New Year’s alone. We’re very tired this year—we need some time just to—”
“Are you kidding?” she cut him off, and now rage was unmistakable. “Are you seriously telling me this? The day before you leave?”
“I didn’t know Mom told you…”
“Didn’t know!” Sveta laughed, but it was an ugly laugh. “Of course you didn’t know! You never know anything when it’s inconvenient! You know what, Anton? I don’t give a damn about your dacha! But it turns out you’re a complete egoist!”
“Sveta…”
“Shut up!” she was shouting at full volume now. “You think I don’t get it? This was your precious Lenka’s idea, right? She never liked us from the start! Always looked at us like we were diseased! And you—spineless—you do whatever she says!”
“Don’t you dare talk about my wife like that!”
“I’ll say whatever I want!” Sveta’s voice rang with fury. “We’re family, you understand? Family! And she’s an outsider! And if you choose her, know this—Mom will hear about it. And she’ll be very upset. Very.”
“Let her know.” Anton felt something inside his chest come undone, like a knot finally loosening. “I’m married to Lena. She is my family. And you…”
“And we what?”
“You can sometimes understand that the world doesn’t revolve around you. That I have the right to a personal life. To my own home. To boundaries.”
“Boundaries!” Sveta snorted. “She taught you that psychological crap, huh? Boundaries, personal space… What about family values? What about blood ties?”
“Family values aren’t when one person keeps giving and the others only take,” Anton said, surprised by the steadiness in his own voice. “Sveta, I love you. You’re my sister. But Lena and I are celebrating this New Year’s alone. I’m sorry.”
Sveta breathed into the phone—hard, uneven.
“You know what, Antosha?” she finally forced out. “To hell with both of you and your dacha. We’ve got plenty of other places to go. And don’t expect things to be the way they were after this. You crossed a line.”
“If the line is that I’m not allowed to have a personal life, then I’m glad I crossed it,” Anton said—and ended the call.
The phone slipped from his hands. He sank onto the couch, feeling a strange mix of terror and relief flood through him. He’d done it. For the first time in his life, he’d told his sister “no.” For the first time, he’d put Lena first without looking back at his mother’s or sister’s opinion.
Five minutes later a message came from his mother: “Sveta told me everything. I’m very disappointed in you. I didn’t expect such coldness from my son.”
He didn’t reply. He just set the phone on the table and went to the window. Snow was falling outside—big flakes drifting down onto the sleeping city. Somewhere out there, forty kilometers away, stood their house. Warm, cozy, waiting for them.
The door opened. Anton turned and saw Lena. She stood in the doorway with red eyes, biting her lip.
“I heard,” she admitted softly. “I heard you shouting.”
“I called her,” he said simply. “I told her they’re not coming.”
Lena took a few steps toward him, stopped—and then suddenly rushed forward and hugged him so tightly he felt her trembling.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered against his chest. “Sorry I put you in front of that choice. I know how hard it is for you to go against your family…”
“You are my family,” Anton said, stroking her hair. “The most important one. And I should’ve proven that earlier. Much earlier.”
They stood there, holding each other, while the snow kept falling outside. The phone chirped with new messages—probably Sveta typing something nasty, his mother sending long reproachful texts. But Anton didn’t even look.
“Are we really going to celebrate New Year’s just the two of us?” Lena asked, lifting her tearful face to him.
“We are,” he kissed her forehead. “You, me, the fireplace, and snow. Just like you dreamed.”
“It’ll be a scandal for years, you know that?”
“Let it be. At least we’ll finally rest for the first time in half a year. Together. In our home.”
Lena smiled through her tears and hugged him tighter.
Two days later they stood on the veranda of their dacha, wrapped in blankets, looking up at a starry sky. Five minutes until midnight. Inside, the fireplace crackled; champagne glasses waited on the table; a chicken finished roasting in the oven. The air smelled of pine from the tree they’d decorated the day before, mandarins, and candles.
“Happy?” Anton asked, putting an arm around her shoulders.
“More than I can put into words,” she murmured, leaning into him. “You know, I keep thinking… if you hadn’t called Sveta, if they’d come…”
“They didn’t. And they won’t.” Anton held her close. “This is our place. Ours.”
Somewhere far away the chimes began to ring. Lena turned to him, and in the light spilling from the windows he saw her radiant face.
“Happy New Year, my love.”
“Happy New Year, my sunshine.”
They clinked glasses and drank champagne right there in the cold air under the stars. Then they went inside—to warmth and quiet, to a world where the crackle of the fire was everything, and there was no one there but the two of them.
And it was the best New Year’s of their lives.