The aroma of fried onions wafted throughout the apartment. Lyuda mechanically stirred the gravy while glancing at the clock. Valera was supposed to return from work in half an hour, and dinner needed to be served hot—her husband couldn’t stand cold food.
Lately, Lyuda found herself more and more thinking that she was cooking like a robot. In the past, every dish was a soulful creation: she experimented with recipes, decorated the plates, and tried to amaze. Now, it had simply become a duty. Just like many other things in this apartment.
The door slammed earlier than usual. Lyuda flinched, quickly wiped her hands on her apron, and peeked into the hallway.
“Valera, are you home already? Dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes,” she said hastily.
“I’m not alone,” her husband remarked as he kicked off his shoes.
Behind him appeared the imposing figure of his mother.
“Good afternoon, Nadezhda Pavlovna,” Lyuda attempted a smile. “Come in, I’m just cooking.”
“Frying gravy again?” the mother-in-law sneered while surveying the kitchen. “How many times must I repeat: the onions should be cooked until they are golden, not charred to black ashes. Otherwise, everything tastes bitter.”
Lyuda silently turned away towards the stove. Arguing was pointless. Nadezhda Pavlovna would always find a reason to criticize. And besides, the onions were perfectly caramelized—not burnt at all.
“Come on, Mom, don’t be like that,” Valera plopped into a chair. “My wife cooks just fine. As long as she feeds me, I’m happy.”
“Exactly, ‘happy’ is not enough,” the mother-in-law jumped in. “They should be so good that you’d lick your fingers. At my age, I used to cook such meals for my husband that everyone at work envied them!”
Lyuda habitually tuned out their conversation. Five years of marriage had taught her not to take constant nitpicking to heart. After all, her mother-in-law and son always found common ground, and trying to interfere only rattled the nerves.
The phone on the table vibrated. Lyuda reached for it, but Valera was faster.
“It’s from Berezovka,” he said, looking at the screen. “Probably the social services again about your grandmother.”
Lyuda’s heart tightened. Three weeks ago, her grandmother Zina had passed away—the only person who had always supported her. The calls from Berezovka, where her grandmother’s little house remained, still caused her pain.
“Hello,” Lyuda answered softly as she moved toward the window.
It was Antonina Sergeyevna, the grandmother’s neighbor, calling. Her voice was warm yet insistent:
“Lyudochka, you need to come. We have to process the house documents. And really, take a look at what’s going on. The estate and garden deserve some care—it’s a shame to just let it go.”
“Yes, of course, I’ll come on the weekend,” Lyuda replied.
Although the conversation was brief, after it Lyuda felt an unfamiliar resolve. Truly, it was time to settle her grandmother’s inheritance.
“Were they calling about the little house again?” Valera asked with his mouth full. “Sell it quickly—to avoid any trouble. Don’t waste money on it.”
“I don’t want to sell it,” Lyuda answered quietly but firmly. “It’s a memory of my grandmother.”
“Oh, just don’t start singing about memories now!” her husband snapped off irritably. “What memory? It’s a rundown shack on the edge of the village, where there isn’t even gas.”
“But there’s a river nearby,” Lyuda countered. “And an apple orchard. Grandmother was always proud of them.”
Her mother-in-law snorted:
“My goodness, and now you’re saying you plan to live there! In this backwater with no modern conveniences. Really, you’ve gone and found yourself a castle.”
The following weeks passed in an endless rush. Lyuda took leave from work to sort out the inheritance. She had to shuttle between the notary, the multifunctional center, and the rural council office in Berezovka. Valera showed no interest in these matters—he only got angry at her absence from home.
“Where have you been all day?” he fumed when Lyuda returned exhausted. “My shirts aren’t ironed, and there’s no dinner!”
“Valera, I told you—I’m sorting out the inheritance,” Lyuda answered wearily. “They only gave me two weeks off at work.”
“Who needs your rundown dump?” her husband wouldn’t let it go. “Sell it to the first passerby and forget it!”
Over time, Lyuda learned to answer these constant disputes with silence. Inside, a strange feeling was growing—almost as if that little house in Berezovka, which she hadn’t really seen since her grandmother’s passing, meant more than just a building. It was a piece of the past that she longed to preserve.
The day Lyuda received the documents confirming her ownership of her grandmother’s house was meant to be joyful. She even prepared a celebratory dinner and bought a bottle of wine. She wanted to share at least a part of her life with her husband.
That evening, when Valera returned from work, Lyuda laid the documents out on the table and proudly announced:
“Finally, everything is official. The house is officially mine now.”
But instead of congratulations, her husband merely gave a skeptical snort:
“Well, at least now you have somewhere to go.”
Lyuda smiled uncertainly:
“What do you mean?”
“That’s all I mean,” Valera shrugged. “It won’t work out for us—there’ll be somewhere to leave. To your little house.”
Later that evening, Nadezhda Pavlovna made another appearance, as if sensing the perfect moment for her remarks. Spotting the real estate extract, the mother-in-law sarcastically whistled:
“Oh, now you’re a landlady! How many acres is it—fifteen hundred square meters with that decrepit little house?”
“The house isn’t decrepit,” Lyuda began to defend herself. “It’s just that nobody lived there or took care of it for a long time…”
“Come on, what are you saying,” interrupted Valera, exchanging looks with his mother. “We’re joking. Your little house will be useful if need be.”
Both of them laughed. But that laughter wasn’t the kind shared among loved ones. It carried an undercurrent of something hurtful, demeaning. Lyuda felt everything constricting inside her. It wasn’t humor—it was contempt.
The next day, Nadezhda Pavlovna arrived early in the morning. Lyuda was just getting ready for work when her mother-in-law entered the apartment without knocking.
“I brought you some tomatoes,” the woman announced, heading straight into the kitchen. “From the market. None of that tasteless, store-bought stuff.”
“Thank you,” Lyuda replied calmly, continuing to gather her things. “But we already have tomatoes. I bought them yesterday.”
Nadezhda Pavlovna opened the refrigerator, pulled out a tray of tomatoes, and demonstratively sniffed them.
“What kind of tomatoes are these? Just skins!” the mother-in-law exploded. “Throw them out and take mine.”
“Why throw them out?” Lyuda asked in surprise. “They’re perfectly good. I bought them specially for the salad.”
“Can’t you hear what I’m telling you?” Nadezhda Pavlovna raised her voice. “I said, throw them out!”
At that moment, something inside Lyuda finally broke. Five years of constant criticism, attempts to please, and unending tension all suddenly seemed meaningless. Slowly approaching the refrigerator, she took out her tomatoes and just as calmly put them back on the shelf.
“No, Nadezhda Pavlovna, I’m not going to throw them out. They’re fine. And even if they were bad, I’m the one who should decide what to do with them.”
Her mother-in-law gasped in outrage.
“Valera!” she shouted. “Come here and see what your wife is doing!”
A yawning Valera emerged from the bedroom.
“What happened?”
“Your wife has no respect!” Nadezhda Pavlovna fumed. “I told her, throw out these tomatoes, and she argues!”
Valera shifted his gaze awkwardly between his mother and his wife.
“Lyud—why are you doing this? If Mom says…”
“What if Mom told you to throw out all our furniture because she doesn’t like it? Would you still listen?” Lyuda asked calmly.
“Don’t compare!” Valera exploded. “It’s just tomatoes!”
“It’s not about the tomatoes,” Lyuda replied softly. “It’s about how they treat me.”
Seeing that the situation was getting out of control, Nadezhda Pavlovna launched into another tirade:
“You ungrateful girl! I’ve come to you with all my heart, and you… I raised your husband all by myself! Without a father! Can you imagine how hard it was for me?”
Lyuda had heard this argument too many times. Every conflict, every quarrel always boiled down to the fact that Nadezhda Pavlovna had raised her son alone and therefore had the right to decide how he should live.
“I’m leaving,” Lyuda declared suddenly, feeling an unexpected clarity in her thoughts. “I need to be alone.”
“Where do you think you’re going?” Valera objected indignantly. “You have work!”
“I’m taking some time off,” Lyuda answered, heading to the bedroom. “I’m going to my grandmother’s house. At least it’ll be quiet there.”
The next half hour passed like a haze. Lyuda gathered only the essentials: documents, warm clothes, her laptop, and her cherished photo album with childhood pictures. In the end, she decided to take her dog—a little Spitz named Lucky, whom Valera practically ignored.
“Do you really think you’ll be able to survive there?” her husband mockingly asked while watching her pack. “In your little house there isn’t even proper heating.”
“The wood-burning stove works,” she retorted. “My grandmother lived in that house all her life.”
“Grandmother was a country woman, used to that life,” Nadezhda Pavlovna interjected. “And you’re a city girl—soft and pampered. You’ll be back by tomorrow!”
Lyuda silently closed her suitcase. Valera and his mother exchanged knowing looks.
“Go on—go to your rotten little house that you got from your granny!” Valera laughed harshly. Nadezhda Pavlovna echoed his laughter.
Lyuda looked at them—mother and son, now so alike in their malicious glee. In that moment, she realized that there had never been anything in common between her and these people.
“Goodbye,” she whispered, grasping Lucky’s leash.
“See you tomorrow—you did say that!” Nadezhda Pavlovna shouted after her. “Where do you think you’re going?!”
Lyuda never returned home—not the next day, nor the next week. Life in her grandmother’s house began with hardships. The roof leaked, the wind blew through the old frames, and the stove smoked. At night, the young woman huddled under an old blanket, holding Lucky close, and cried softly—not out of pity for herself, but from the accumulated fatigue of years.
The neighbor Antonina Sergeyevna helped to find a stove repairman. The craftsman quickly cleaned the chimney and fixed the masonry.
“Is that how you’re going to live here?” he asked as he bid farewell, wiping his hands.
“I will,” Lyuda nodded, handing over some money. “Keep the change.”
The repairman shook his head. “My son will take care of the window frames if need be. He’s a good carpenter.”
Day by day, the house began to come back to life. Lyuda mopped the floors, cleared out the clutter, and discovered her grandmother’s trunk of documents. Of special value was a worn-out notebook of baking recipes. Grandmother was famous for her pies—locals often ordered her festive treats.
With nothing else to do, Lyuda baked a cherry pie. She found enough cherries in the pantry. The dough turned out fluffy, and the filling was juicy. The young mistress took a photograph of the result and posted it on social media with the caption: “My first pie in grandmother’s house.” The post unexpectedly received numerous responses. People asked for the recipe and expressed interest in the rural lifestyle.
Thus was born the idea to create a blog about country life and grandmother’s culinary secrets. The first post was made using an ordinary phone placed on a shelf. She demonstrated how to prepare a cottage cheese casserole and, in passing, talked about the snowy apple trees visible through the window. The video quickly gained views.
As spring arrived, new chores emerged—the garden needed attention. Lyuda had never engaged in farming before, but the neighbors were happy to share their know-how. By the beginning of summer, the house had noticeably transformed: the porch was painted in a warm yellow, old windows were replaced, and the former shutters were turned into decorative frames for photographs.
Lyuda’s blog continued to grow and evolve. Now, she not only shared recipes but also showcased everyday life in the village and the process of renovating the old house. Her audience actively participated in the discussions, offered advice, and some even traveled to Berezovka to try her famous pies and meet the lady behind the popular blog “The Pie Cottage.”
Six months later, under one of the posts, a comment appeared from a user with the nickname “Real_Housewife”: “There’s nothing but sorrow and gloom in the village. In the old days, people valued family—not a mess for sale. Modern youth have completely forgotten family values!”
Lyuda immediately recognized Nadezhda Pavlovna’s style, but she chose not to respond. The blog’s subscribers quickly intervened on their own: “Typical mother-in-law,” “Family is built on mutual respect, not control,” “It’s obvious that the author is much happier now.”
Another six months passed, and as Lyuda was regularly hosting baking masterclasses for guests, a letter came from Valera. In it, he confessed that he had changed a great deal over the past year, recognized his mistakes and his mother’s difficult character. He wrote that he missed her and was ready to start over.
“I’m willing to fix everything I’ve done wrong,” he concluded his letter.
Lyuda did not rush to reply. The year spent away from constant criticism and pressure had completely changed her. She thanked Valera for his sincerity but proposed that they meet only as guests—he could stay at a local hotel.
Valera never showed up. Instead, increasingly frequent visits came from Mikhail—the baker from a neighboring district, whom Lyuda had met at a fair and with whom she started filming joint videos. A sturdy man with kind eyes, he brought her new baking molds, helped out in the garden, and eventually became a regular guest in her home.
The local villagers began talking about a forthcoming wedding. “Our dear Lyudmila! You’ve renovated the house and found your happiness,” the neighbors whispered.
That very “cottage,” once mockingly called a “rotten shack” by Valera and Nadezhda Pavlovna, transformed into a place of attraction. Lyuda organized village fairs, hosted children’s festivals, and even contributed new books to the local library. On the front door hung a plaque: “The House of Varvara Grigoryevna. Love does not burn nor rust”—in memory of her grandmother, who often repeated that phrase.
After a regional television segment featured Lyuda and her blog, Valera reappeared. The ex-husband stood by the fence with a bouquet of roses and spent a long time explaining how he had changed during that period.
“Now I understand my mistakes,” he said, avoiding eye contact. “My mother influenced me too much, and I couldn’t stand up to her. Now everything is different—I’ve rented a separate apartment, and I live on my own.”
Lyuda listened without any bitterness. Then she handed him a box of freshly baked pastries.
“This is for you as a farewell,” she said calmly. “I’m glad you’re looking for your own way, Valera. But our paths have already diverged.”
The next day, a call from Nadezhda Pavlovna came through.
“You’ve completely grown callous,” her mother-in-law chided. “You ruined everything foolishly! Valera suffered so much, and you didn’t even try to preserve the family!”
Lyuda listened to the tirade with an unexpected calm. She simply put the phone down, added Nadezhda Pavlovna’s number to her blacklist, and disabled notifications.
Two years after her move, Lyuda no longer referred to her house as a “cottage.” Now it was a true home—warm, cozy, filled with the aromas of freshly baked goods and laughter. No one ever thought to call it “rotten” again.
“Before and after” photos became exhibits at the “Handmade” exhibition in the district center. Lyuda gave a lecture on the importance of believing in oneself. In the audience sat women who, like her once, had been told, “Leave if you must.”
“Sometimes, all it takes is a step into the unknown,” Lyuda explained, showing slides of her home. “I thought I was heading to an old dump, but it turned out—I was returning to my true self.”
After the event, an elderly woman with neatly styled gray hair approached her.
“We haven’t met,” the woman began. “My name is Irina Petrovna. I’m a neighbor of Nadezhda Pavlovna.”
Lyuda tensed internally, expecting yet another reproach.
“I just wanted to express my admiration,” Irina Petrovna smiled. “I’ve known Nadezhda for a long time, and I understand how difficult it is to get along with her. You did the right thing by finding the strength to leave and create a new life.”
That encounter was another confirmation that she had chosen the right path. Lyuda realized that happiness does not lie in the approval of others or in noisy crowds, but in the quiet confidence of one’s own decisions.
That evening, upon returning home, she sat for a long time on the porch. Mikhail followed her out, draped a warm blanket over her shoulders.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, settling beside her.
“I’m pondering how fate has a way of delivering surprises,” Lyuda smiled. “Sometimes the most painful moments become the beginning of a better journey.”
Mikhail nodded silently and took her hand. Together, they watched the stars, enjoying the tranquility and peace. Lyuda had long understood that true happiness is the ability to be yourself—without fear of judgment or the need to constantly justify yourself.
And the grandmother’s house, once mockingly called the “cottage,” had now become a beacon of warmth and comfort for anyone seeking refuge and understanding. Life often begins anew precisely when it seems that all roads have been closed. The key is to find within yourself the resolve to move toward a place where you can spread your shoulders and remember your true essence.