Irina was sitting in the kitchen with a cup of tea that had already gone cold when the phone rang. Her sister’s number lit up the screen. She winced, but picked up anyway.
“Ira, what the hell are you doing?!” Sveta’s voice practically crackled with indignation. “Anton and I have been standing at the gate for two hours! The keys don’t work! Did you change the locks?”
“I did,” Irina replied evenly, taking another sip.
“How can you just—change them?! You couldn’t warn us? We’re here for the weekend with the kids! We packed, bought food—are you even thinking straight?”
Irina set her mug down slowly. Her temples were already pounding from sheer fatigue—they and Sergey had spent the entire week cleaning up after the November holidays. She kept finding shards of Grandma’s porcelain set in absurd places: behind the couch, under the radiator, even one piece wedged into a flowerpot.
“Sveta, let’s meet and talk,” she said in a level tone.
“Talk about what?! Just bring us the new keys and that’s it! Anton and I are in the car, the kids are whining! Kirill had a fever—doctor said he needs fresh air! And you—”
“Café Ogonyok. One hour,” Irina cut in, and ended the call.
She’d known this moment was coming. She’d known it the instant she spotted the broken china in a shoebox shoved carelessly under the couch in the guest room. Sveta had clearly assumed no one would notice. But Irina noticed. And everything else came rushing back with it.
Three years earlier, when their grandmother passed away, Irina hadn’t been surprised by the will. The dacha went to her. Only her. Sveta had erupted—made a scene right in the notary’s office, yelling about unfairness and favorites. But Grandma had spelled it out plainly: “I leave the dacha to my granddaughter Irina Sergeyevna, because she was the one who helped me all these years—took care of the property, worked the land, repaired what needed fixing. Sveta only came to visit.”
It was true. Irina drove out every weekend—mowed grass, whitewashed the trees, patched up the fence that was falling apart from age. Sveta would roll in with friends for shashlik, then complain to her girlfriends that Grandma’s place was “a complete dump.”
When the dacha became Irina’s, it was in miserable condition. The roof leaked, the veranda had tilted, and the fence was held together by sheer luck. Irina and Sergey spent two summers pouring money and sweat into it: replacing the roof, putting up a new fence, redoing the wiring because it was a fire hazard. Irina painted the walls herself, picked bathroom tiles, and spent endless hours working the garden.
Over those two years, Sveta showed up once—“to see what you did.” She walked around, criticized the color scheme (“too boring”), drank coffee, and left. She didn’t offer to help, even when Irina hinted she could really use an extra pair of hands.
And then, once the renovation was done—once the dacha had turned into a warm, comfortable place with a solid roof, new furniture, and a tidy garden—Sveta suddenly started calling it their “family nest.”
“Ir, you don’t mind if we stop by sometimes with the kids, do you?” she’d asked one day over the phone. “It’s still Grandma’s dacha—so many memories. Kirill and Liza love being out in nature.”
What was Irina supposed to say? No, don’t come? That wasn’t who she was. She’d always been the “good” sister. The “understanding” one. The one who didn’t fight, didn’t demand, didn’t throw her weight around.
“Of course you can,” she’d said back then. “Just give me a heads-up first, okay?”
The first time Sveta came with her family—in June—they were careful. They brought treats, cleaned up after themselves, even watered the flowers in the yard. Irina thought it might work. That sharing was possible. That letting family use the dacha was the right thing.
But after that, something went off track.
Sveta began coming more often. At first, once every two weeks. Then every weekend. Then long holidays with overnight stays. She stopped asking for permission and started announcing it instead: “We’re coming Saturday.”
One Sunday Irina and Sergey decided to go out themselves and discovered Sveta was already there. Since Friday. Kids’ clothes hung all over the veranda, the bedroom was taken over, and the kitchen was buried under piles of dishes.
“Oh, you’re here!” Sveta beamed, stepping out in a robe. “Perfect—we were about to make shashlik. You brought meat, right?”
A strange tightness spread through Irina’s chest, but she said nothing. They bought the meat. They grilled it. Sveta and Anton lounged in deck chairs while the kids tore around the yard shrieking. And Irina and Sergey, like always, cleaned up, washed dishes, wiped down tables.
“Thanks for letting us stay,” Sveta said as she left, completely missing the bitterness in her own words. “It’s gotten so nice here! We’ll be coming all the time now.”
And they did. Constantly.
“Why do you look so miserable?” Sergey asked, rubbing Irina’s shoulder when she told him about the call. “You wanted this conversation.”
“I did,” Irina sighed. “But I’m scared. You know Sveta—she knows how to push, how to manipulate. She’ll say I’m greedy, heartless, that I’m depriving the kids of fresh air.”
“Then don’t cave,” Sergey said firmly. “We spent three years fixing that place. Three years. Our money, our time, our work. And they show up like they own it—then smash Grandma’s things on top of it.”
The china set. That damn china set was the final straw.
Irina remembered it from childhood: delicate porcelain with blue flowers. Grandma guarded it like treasure, bringing it out only for big holidays. After Grandma died, Irina took it to the dacha and placed it in an antique glass cabinet—like a piece of memory preserved.
For the November holidays, Sveta and her family came for four days. Without warning. Irina and Sergey were in the city and planned to come out on the last day—but Sergey’s mother got sick, and they had to go to her.
When they finally made it to the dacha on Wednesday, the house looked like it had been hit by a storm. Dirty dishes in the sink and on the table. Wine spilled. Cigarette butts in the garden (even though they’d asked them not to smoke on the property). Used towels thrown on the bathroom floor.
And the shards. Hidden, but not hidden well.
Irina found the shoebox under the bed by accident while vacuuming. She opened it—and froze. Inside were pieces of Grandma’s porcelain set. Not all of it; some had probably been tossed or never recovered. But enough to make one thing clear: the set was broken.
She called Sveta. Sveta stayed silent at first, then finally admitted, reluctant and defensive:
“Yeah, okay… Anton accidentally broke a couple cups. Sorry. I meant to tell you, but I forgot. It wasn’t on purpose.”
“A couple cups?” Irina could barely hold herself together. “Sveta, half the set is in that box.”
“Oh, stop—half?” Sveta snapped. “And why are you acting like someone died? It’s just dishes. Old dishes. We’ll buy you new ones. Nice ones.”
“It was Grandma’s.”
“So what? Grandma wouldn’t want you upset over cups. She’d say the main thing is everyone’s alive and healthy.”
That was when Irina realized: it was done. Enough.
Sveta arrived at the café twenty minutes late. She burst in flushed and furious, in an expensive puffer coat, a huge handbag on her shoulder.
“What kind of stunt is this?!” she started immediately, without even greeting her. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? The kids cried all evening! We planned this weekend! Anton took the day off!”
“Sit down,” Irina said calmly.
“I’m sitting!” Sveta dropped into the chair across from her. “Explain this nonsense.”
A waitress brought menus; Sveta waved her away.
“I don’t want anything. I’m not staying long.”
Irina ordered for both of them—tea and pastries. Sveta crossed her arms and stared at her like she was ready for a fight.
“Sveta,” Irina began carefully, “the dacha is mine. Grandma left it to me. Only me.”
“So what?” Sveta flared. “I’m not taking it from you! I just want to come sometimes! That’s normal!”
“Sometimes is normal,” Irina agreed. “But you come every week. You take over the whole house. You don’t ask if it’s okay. You don’t clean up after yourselves.”
“I don’t clean up?!” Sveta shot up. “We always wash everything! Always!”
“After your November holiday, I scrubbed that house for two days,” Irina said, exhaustion sharpening her voice. “The couch was drenched in wine. Cigarette butts all over the property. Dirty towels on the bathroom floor. You ate everything in the fridge—everything—and didn’t even think about replacing it.”
“Well, sorry!” Sveta rolled her eyes. “We were rushing, we didn’t have time! And what’s with this petty nonsense—groceries? You’re not starving!”
“It’s not about money,” Irina said, feeling a heat rise inside her—anger she’d been swallowing for far too long. “It’s about respect. You behave like you own the place. And I feel like a guest in my own home.”
“Ridiculous!” Sveta flicked her hand. “You’ve just become greedy. You got the dacha and now you think you’re better than everyone.”
“I spent three years pouring money and work into that dacha,” Irina said quietly, but with steel in her voice. “Three years. Do you have any idea what that renovation cost? What Sergey and I paid for the roof, the fence, the furniture? Did you ever once offer to help?”
“I didn’t ask you to renovate!” Sveta snapped. “That was your choice! And anyway, it was Grandma’s dacha, which means it’s family property!”
“It’s mine now,” Irina said, crisp as a gavel. “Legally. By the will. Grandma left it to me because I took care of her. You came to eat shashlik.”
Sveta went pale.
“Oh, so that’s what this is!” she hissed. “You’ve been stockpiling resentment all this time! Thinking you’re better than me! That you’re the saint and I’m the bad one!”
“I never thought I was better,” Irina shook her head. “I did what I believed was right. I helped Grandma. And then I restored the house I inherited.”
“So what now?” Sveta’s voice trembled. “You’ve decided I don’t even deserve to come there?”
“I decided I’m tired of feeling like a maid in my own house,” Irina said. “Tired of cleaning up after you. Tired of you doing whatever you want there. Tired of you not asking—just announcing you’re coming.”
“So I’m supposed to beg on my knees now?” Sveta asked, venom sweetening every word.
“No,” Irina said, steady. “You’re supposed to understand boundaries. That’s my home. I let you in because I cared. But once you start acting like the owner—once you break Grandma’s things and can’t even manage a real apology, once you leave a mess and treat it as normal—that’s it. That’s where my kindness ends.”
“The china,” Sveta whispered. “So it’s because of that stupid china set?”
“Not only,” Irina exhaled. “Sveta, you don’t even get it. You show up and assume I’ll be happy. That I’ll run around, cook, clean. You barely say thank you. You act like I owe you.”
“But we’re sisters!” Sveta cried. “Do sisters do this? Do sisters slam doors in each other’s faces?”
“Do sisters use each other?” Irina asked softly.
A heavy silence dropped between them. The waitress brought tea and pastries. Sveta stared down at the table; tears slid down her cheeks.
“So that’s it,” she managed, thick-voiced. “You’ve decided I’m not your sister anymore.”
“I didn’t say that,” Irina felt a sharp stab of guilt—but forced herself not to retreat. “Sveta, I just want boundaries. I want you to ask if you can come. I want you to clean up after yourself. I want you to treat my home with respect. Is that really so hard?”
“And you couldn’t just say that instead of changing the locks?!” Sveta lifted her head, eyes blazing. “You’re cruel. Cold. Grandma wouldn’t approve of this!”
“Grandma left the dacha to me,” Irina reminded her. “Because she knew who would take care of it—and who would simply use it.”
Sveta stood abruptly, nearly knocking her chair over.
“You know what,” she hissed, “keep your dacha. I don’t need it. I don’t need your pathetic charity. Anton and I will buy our own—better than yours. And I won’t invite you there. Ever.”
She snatched her bag and stormed out. Irina remained motionless, staring at the untouched tea and pastries. Something inside her tightened into a hard knot. It hurt. It hurt badly.
But at the same time—she felt lighter. As if a weight she’d carried for years had finally slid off her shoulders.
Sergey found her later at the dacha. She was sitting on the veranda wrapped in a blanket, looking out at the garden. Early December—bare trees, brittle air—but in her head she was already planning what she’d plant in spring.
“So?” he asked, sitting down beside her.
“I don’t know,” Irina admitted. “She said I’m cruel. That Grandma wouldn’t approve.”
“And what do you think?” he asked. “Would she?”
Irina thought for a long moment. She pictured Grandma: fair, but firm. A woman who knew how to say no. Who knew how to draw a line. Who didn’t allow people to treat her like a tool.
“You know,” Irina said slowly, “I think Grandma would’ve said, ‘Finally you learned not to be a doormat.’ She always said kindness without boundaries is just stupidity.”
“Exactly,” Sergey said, putting an arm around her shoulders. “You did the right thing. Sveta should’ve understood a long time ago. Better late than never.”
“Maybe I really was too harsh,” Irina said uncertainly. “Maybe I should’ve just asked her to be more careful?”
“Ira, you did ask,” Sergey replied. “A hundred times. She didn’t listen. She thought she had the right. But she didn’t. It’s your home. Your work. Your life.”
They sat in silence, listening to the wind stir dry leaves. Then Sergey said:
“You know what we’ll do tomorrow? We’ll go buy a new china set. A beautiful one. One that’s only ours. And we’ll drink tea from it every weekend. How does that sound?”
Irina smiled.
“Sounds like a perfect plan.”
A week later, a message came from their mother: “Sveta is very hurt. She says you’ve changed. Maybe you two should make peace? You’re sisters.”
Irina stared at the screen for a long time. Then she typed back: “Mom, I didn’t go anywhere. I just stopped being convenient. If Sveta wants to talk like adults—with respect—I’m always open. But showing up like she owns the place and not valuing it? No. Enough.”
Her mother didn’t answer right away. When she finally did, it was short: “I understand. You’re right. I spoiled her myself.”
And that—unexpectedly—felt like relief. To be heard. To be understood.
In spring, Irina planted new roses. Sergey built a gazebo. They came every weekend, soaked in the quiet, invited friends over. The house came alive for real—without tension, without the dread that uninvited guests might appear at any moment.
Sveta didn’t call. Didn’t text. Irina sometimes thought about her, but she didn’t regret her decision. She’d learned the most important thing: she didn’t have to feel guilty for protecting her boundaries.
And in June, their mother mentioned that Sveta and Anton really were looking at plots of land. Far away—another district. Expensive. Irina simply nodded and said nothing.
Maybe one day they’d reconcile. Maybe Sveta would understand. Or maybe she wouldn’t. But it no longer mattered.
What mattered was that Irina had finally stopped being convenient—and started being happy.
She sat in the new gazebo, drank tea from the new china set, and looked at the new roses. And for the first time in years, she felt it in her bones:
This was truly her home.
And no one had the right to treat it as theirs without asking.