Tanya was looking out at the yard. Yesterday, grandmother Alexandra Dmitrievna was still sitting there under the old cherry tree in her favorite wicker chair. She watched the blooming peonies, squinting in the sun and smiling with the wrinkles around her eyes. But today — gray clouds and silence, chilling to the bone. Only the wind swayed the branches of the trees, as if saying goodbye.
“Tanyush, we have to go,” Ilya appeared in the doorway, adjusting his tie. “Everyone’s already gathered.”
Tanya nodded without turning around. She didn’t want to go anywhere. It was hard to believe grandmother was gone. That she wouldn’t meet her at the door with her usual “I would have made you some pancakes!”, wouldn’t kiss her, ask about the children, or say once again, “You look so much like me when I was young!”
Tanya wiped her eyes with her wrist and turned to her husband:
“Where are the kids?”
“They’re already in the car. Mom dressed them.”
Nadezhda Sergeevna — Tanya’s mother-in-law — had come to the house yesterday as soon as she heard about Alexandra Dmitrievna’s death. She arrived with a suitcase, as if planning to stay for a long time. “To help with the funeral,” she said. But instead of helping, she wandered the house, looked over the furniture, peeked into cupboards, muttering something about “nice renovations.”
Tanya went out into the yard. The rain was drizzling, turning the ground into a sticky mess. A hearse stood by the gate. People spoke in hushed voices. Neighbors, distant relatives, grandmother’s acquaintances. All in black, eyes downcast.
“How are you holding up?” asked Masha, Alexandra Dmitrievna’s neighbor.
Tanya only nodded. Words would not come. Three weeks of constant care for the sick grandmother, sleepless nights, IV drips, thermometers, pills on schedule. And all in vain. Didn’t save her. Didn’t protect her.
Yesterday, when grandmother was passing away, it was just the two of them in the room. Tanya held her hand — so light, almost weightless. Alexandra Dmitrievna tried to say something but couldn’t — only squeezed her granddaughter’s fingers and fell silent.
“Tanechka, take Artemka,” Masha handed her the younger son. “He’s freezing, poor thing.”
Three-year-old Artem buried his face in his mother’s neck. The boy carried Alexandra Dmitrievna’s blood — the same eyes, the same furrow between the eyebrows when angry. The elder daughter, eight-year-old Liza, stood beside her father. They looked alike — dark-haired, tall, quiet.
The whole ceremony passed like a fog. Tanya only remembered the cold wind, black umbrellas, clumps of earth falling on the coffin lid. And numbness — heavy, sticky, preventing a real cry.
After the funeral, everyone went to grandmother’s house to remember her. The house where Tanya had spent all her childhood while her parents were away on business trips. The house that was now hers by inheritance. Old but solid, with a large yard, an apple orchard, and a view of the river.
Nadezhda Sergeevna bustled around the table, setting plates, pouring jelly. She bossed around the neighbors helping in the kitchen:
“No, put that salad here! And slice the bread thinner!”
“Like at home,” Tanya thought but remained silent. Now was not the time.
People ate, recalled Alexandra Dmitrievna, told stories from her life. How she taught children in the village school, helped everyone around, saved a neighbor’s boy when he fell through the ice. Tanya listened and only now began to understand what a wonderful person her grandmother had been.
“Ilya, can I have a word?” Nadezhda Sergeevna beckoned her son with a finger, and they stepped into the hallway.
Tanya stayed at the table, mechanically moving food on her plate. She didn’t want to eat.
“Tanya, listen,” Masha leaned toward her across the table. “Don’t be offended, but your mother-in-law… She’s telling everyone she’s going to live in this house. Says Ilya promised her a room. Is that true?”
Tanya looked at her neighbor in surprise:
“What? No, of course not. Ilya and I haven’t even talked about that. We have our own apartment in the city.”
Masha shrugged vaguely and stepped back.
When people began to leave, Tanya went upstairs — wanting to lie down briefly; her head was splitting. In grandmother’s bedroom, it was quiet and smelled of familiar herbs. Tanya ran her hand over the bedspread, the books on the shelf, the old photo on the dresser — grandmother in her youth, beautiful, with a long braid. Tears finally broke free — sharp, burning.
Through the slightly open door, Tanya heard voices. Nadezhda Sergeevna and Ilya were talking in the hallway.
“She needs to understand that I need somewhere to live too,” said the mother-in-law. “My apartment is too small, and there’s so much space here! Alexandra Dmitrievna would have decided the same herself.”
“Mom, not now,” Ilya replied. “Let Tanya have some time to recover.”
“When? When will she decide everything? Are you my son or what?”
Tanya froze, afraid to move. Something inside snapped. Were they really discussing… dividing the house? Now? On the day of the funeral?
By evening, everyone had left. Ilya put the children to sleep in Tanya’s old room. Nadezhda Sergeevna settled in the guest room. Tanya stayed downstairs — to clear the table, wash the dishes. Her head buzzed from fatigue and unspoken words.
“Tanya, we need to talk.”
Nadezhda Sergeevna stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed. Without her usual polish — a housecoat, hair in a bun, glasses hanging on a chain. In this look, she seemed older, harsher.
“Nadezhda Sergeevna, let’s do it tomorrow,” Tanya turned away to the sink. “I don’t have the strength now.”
“No, now,” the mother-in-law stepped closer. “The house you got from the old lady — I’m taking it!”
Tanya slowly turned, not believing her ears. In Nadezhda Sergeevna’s eyes, there was no sympathy — only cold calculation.
“What, excuse me?”
“Don’t play dumb,” snapped the mother-in-law. “At my age, you need a decent place to live. You’re young; you’ll earn more. You already have your own apartment.”
“Alexandra Dmitrievna was like a mother to me,” Tanya barely restrained the tremble in her voice. “She bequeathed the house to me.”
“So what?” Nadezhda Sergeevna snorted. “You know we’re family. What’s mine is yours. What’s yours is mine.”
Tanya looked down at her wet hands. The will had been drawn up a year ago. Grandmother had planned everything in advance — so there would be no problems, so Tanya and the children would get the house they loved so much. A place to come in summer, to grow a garden, to welcome guests. A place to remember Alexandra Dmitrievna.
“Nadezhda Sergeevna, the house stays with me and the children. That’s what grandmother decided.”
“I don’t care what your granny decided!” the mother-in-law raised her voice. “Ilya! Come here!”
Her husband appeared in the doorway — tired, with red eyes. He shifted his gaze from his wife to his mother and back.
“What happened?”
“Explain to your wife,” Nadezhda Sergeevna hissed, “that this is not how things are done in our family. The house will be ours together.”
Ilya helplessly shrugged:
“Tanyush, you understand… Mom’s apartment is small. It’s hard for her alone. And there’s so much space here.”
“And you too?” Tanya couldn’t believe what was happening. “Ilya, my grandmother was just buried today!”
“What does that have to do with it?” the mother-in-law intervened. “Business is business. Paper is one thing, family is another.”
Tanya silently wiped her hands with a towel, walked past her husband and mother-in-law. Went upstairs, where the children slept. Artem was snoring, his palm tucked under his cheek. Liza was sprawled asleep, having thrown off the blanket. Tanya covered her daughter, stroked her head.
“Well,” she thought, “morning is wiser than evening.”
The next day Tanya woke early. Carefully got out of bed, trying not to wake the children. Outside, dawn was breaking — pink, gentle, promising a clear day. She went down to the kitchen and froze in the doorway.
Nadezhda Sergeevna was already bustling about. On the table stood two suitcases and a bag with pots. The mother-in-law was cooking something, sorting products in the fridge, folding towels.
“Good morning,” she said, seeing Tanya. “I decided to move everything right away. Why wait? I’ll live here.”
Tanya silently poured herself some water.
“I’ve already put my city apartment up for sale,” Nadezhda Sergeevna continued. “The money will go to Ilya’s business. He’s wanted to start his own thing for a long time.”
“Would you have asked me?” Tanya quietly asked.
“What’s there to ask?” the mother-in-law smiled. “The house is now shared.”
The front door slammed. Ilya entered the kitchen carrying a toolbox.
“Hi,” he grumbled. “Mom, I brought poles for the fence. And paint.”
“What’s going on?” Tanya looked at her husband. “Why a fence? What paint?”
Ilya avoided looking her in the eyes:
“We need to fix up the yard. Mom’s wanted to make a flower garden for a long time.”
“And that’s it?” Tanya felt something cold and hard rising inside. “Just decided like that?”
“Tanya, don’t start,” Ilya put the box down. “You understand — mom’s alone. She needs a home, care.”
Nadezhda Sergeevna smiled triumphantly:
“So we decided. I take the bigger room upstairs. And you and the kids — when you come — take the corner one.”
“Wait,” Tanya clenched the glass of water until her fingers went white. “This house belongs to me. By Alexandra Dmitrievna’s will. And I decide who lives where.”
“Tanya,” Ilya’s voice became irritated, “what will you with the will? We’re family. We have to help each other.”
“Especially your mother, huh?” Tanya set the glass down. “And who helped me when I was here three weeks with grandmother? Changing diapers, giving injections, calling the ambulance? Where were you all?”
“I have work,” Ilya shrugged.
“And I have kids and high blood pressure,” countered Nadezhda Sergeevna.
Tanya silently left the kitchen. Went upstairs to grandmother’s room. There, in the old secretary desk, were all the documents — for the house, the land, the will. She took out the folder and leafed through the papers. Everything was in order. The house belonged to her.
Returning to the kitchen, Tanya placed the documents on the table.
“Here,” she said calmly. “The house is mine. Officially. I don’t mind if you, Nadezhda Sergeevna, visit sometimes. But we with the children will live here.”
The mother-in-law didn’t even look at the papers.
“It’s just a formality,” she waved it off. “In a family, everything is shared.”
“Mom, enough,” Ilya suddenly said. “Tanya is right. The house is hers.”
Tanya looked at her husband in surprise. She didn’t expect support.
“What?!” Nadezhda Sergeevna threw up her hands. “You’re against your mother?”
“I’m for justice,” Ilya answered firmly. “The house was bequeathed to Tanya. We have no right to take it away.”
The mother-in-law narrowed her eyes.
“Clear. I get it. You chose her side,” she gathered her things as if planning to leave right now. “What am I supposed to do now? Where live?”
“In your own apartment, like before,” Tanya said.
“No, if that’s so — I can’t stay there anymore! I’ll live with you, in the city.”
Tanya felt something inside snap. From the fire into the frying pan. Ilya helplessly shifted his gaze from his mother to his wife.
Tanya silently went upstairs, took the folder with documents and her phone. Dialed the number of the district police officer — Sergey Petrovich, who was a friend of Alexandra Dmitrievna. Without yelling, without a scandal. Just — to put an end to it.
“Sergey Petrovich, good afternoon,” she said quietly. “This is Tanya, Alexandra Dmitrievna’s granddaughter. I need your help.”
The next day, Tanya received a message from the officer that the statement had been accepted. The mother-in-law left — slamming the door, calling Tanya ungrateful and threatening that Ilya would regret his choice. The husband disappeared for three days — didn’t answer calls, didn’t come home.
Tanya stayed alone in grandmother’s house with the children. Liza, who constantly asked where her dad had gone, finally quieted down. Artem, as if sensing his mother’s mood, behaved unusually calmly — quietly playing with cars in the corner of the room, not demanding attention.
On the third day, the phone rang. Tanya jumped, seeing her husband’s name on the screen.
“Where are you?” she asked without greeting. “The kids are worried.”
“I’m at a friend’s,” Ilya’s voice sounded unusual. “I needed to think.”
“And what did you decide?”
“I don’t know, Tanya. Mom said you treated her like a dog.”
Tanya tiredly rubbed her temple. Lying about what wasn’t true was normal for Nadezhda Sergeevna.
“Can I take the kids today?” Ilya asked. “At least for a few hours.”
“Of course. They’re waiting for you.”
Ilya arrived an hour later. He looked haggard, tired. Brought toys for the children. Liza and Artem ran to their father, hugged him, eagerly telling what had happened in those days.
“Come back home,” Ilya said when the children ran off to get ready for a walk.
“I am home,” Tanya replied.
“You know what I mean.”
“To the city apartment?” Tanya shook her head. “With your mother? Who already made it clear that my grandmother is an old hag to her, and my rights to the house mean nothing?”
“You’re too harsh with her.”
Tanya looked at her husband and didn’t recognize him. The man she married ten years ago kept his word. This one wavered between his mother and wife, unable to take either side.
“You’re an adult, Ilya. You decide how to live. But I won’t allow myself to be humiliated anymore. Neither by you nor your mother.”
Ilya took the children, promising to return by evening. He returned even earlier — Liza and Artem were tired, wanting to go home, to mom.
Tanya didn’t want war. She wanted order. The house remained at her disposal, and she and the children began to gradually move there. She moved the necessary things from the city apartment, enrolled the children in the local school and kindergarten. Officer Sergey Petrovich helped with the documents and advised how best to proceed.
The mother-in-law called with reproaches. Every call — a new dose of accusations. “Destroyed the family,” “separated father from the children,” “took away the only consolation.” Tanya listened silently, didn’t answer, sometimes just hung up.
Ilya called hesitantly. “Maybe you’ll come back?” “The children should be with their father,” “Let’s forget everything.” Tanya answered shortly: “Come when you want to see the children. They’re waiting for you.”
After a couple of weeks, Ilya came to the house. Not alone, but with boxes. Silently carried things onto the veranda and began assembling some furniture. Tanya watched from the kitchen window until he finished. Then she went out on the porch.
“What are you doing?”
“A table for the kids,” Ilya checked the stability of the structure. “They need somewhere to do homework.”
“Thanks, but you could have asked first.”
Ilya straightened up, looked at his wife:
“I thought I’d live here. With you.”
Tanya shook her head:
“We won’t live together anymore.”
“And the kids?” Ilya took a step toward her. “I’m their father.”
“The kids will be where their mother is respected,” Tanya calmly answered and closed the door. Locked it.
Ilya stood on the porch for a long time. Then left, got into the car, and drove off. The headache pills didn’t help Tanya that evening.
The mother-in-law came three days later. Somehow she found out that Ilya left empty-handed. Came without warning — complaining about her health, ingratitude, how “everyone destroys families.”
“I have high blood pressure,” Nadezhda Sergeevna pursed her lips. “And you won’t even let me in the house?”
Tanya offered her mother-in-law a chair on the porch. Brought tea and cookies, sat opposite her.
“This is my last request,” Nadezhda Sergeevna spoke slowly, as if with effort. “Give me the house. You don’t need it anyway, and I need it more.”
“No.”
“But why?!” the mother-in-law raised her voice. “You have your own apartment!”
“Because this is my house. My memories. Alexandra Dmitrievna was like a mother to me. Every corner here is a part of her soul.”
“What nonsense?” Nadezhda Sergeevna flared up. “Just a house and land! And quite valuable! Want to take it all for yourself?”
Tanya looked at her mother-in-law and realized: she would never understand. For Nadezhda Sergeevna, grandmother’s house was just material value. Real estate to be resold for a profit.
“I think there’s nothing more to talk about,” Tanya said, standing up. “The children need to sleep.”
“You’ll regret this!” the mother-in-law threw over her shoulder as she left.
Tanya did not regret it. Two months passed. Life flowed evenly. The children went to school and kindergarten. Tanya resumed teaching remotely — running art history courses for high schoolers. She started a flower garden in front of the house, planted the same flowers Alexandra Dmitrievna loved — tulips, daffodils, peonies. The house was quiet. Tanya’s mind was at peace.
Ilya came every weekend. Took the children for walks, to the movies, to the park. Brought them back happy but tired. Liza became quieter, as if matured over those months. Artem sometimes cried, “I want dad to live with us.”
Tanya didn’t know what to say to her son. She didn’t want to lie or give false hope, but you can’t explain the truth to a three-year-old.
When Ilya realized Tanya wouldn’t return to his life as before, he filed for divorce. Without disputes. Without claims to property. Just an apology message Tanya ignored.
The divorce went quietly and quickly. No one demanded anything extra or dragged out the process. Tanya calmly signed the papers, feeling neither joy nor grief. Only a strange emptiness inside.
Nadezhda Sergeevna didn’t appear. Ilya said his mother went to his sister in Crimea, to warm her bones by the sea. Tanya silently nodded. She didn’t care where the former mother-in-law was, as long as she was not nearby.
Tanya didn’t rejoice at the divorce but felt relief. No longer had to prove her right to what belonged to her. Neither by words nor deeds.
Liza started doing better at school and joined an art club. Artem went to kindergarten and no longer cried over the absence of his father — got used to it. Tanya sometimes thought that this rapid adaptation by the children to new circumstances was the saddest part of the whole story. As if a child’s soul already knows that becoming too attached is dangerous and painful.
Half a year later, the officer called Tanya to say there was another complaint filed against her. Anonymous. “Using the house illegally.” Sergey Petrovich checked the documents, shrugged. Tanya smiled. The papers were in perfect order.
“I didn’t think Nadezhda Sergeevna would give up so easily,” the officer shook his head.
“She hasn’t given up, just came at it from another angle,” Tanya replied.
“If there are more problems — call immediately,” the officer said goodbye and left.
Life went on. Tanya repaired the roof, painted the fence, planted new apple trees. The ones her grandmother had planted were old and bore less fruit.
One evening, while Tanya sat on the porch watching the children play in the yard, she got a message from Ilya: “Mom’s been hospitalized. Stroke. She’s asking for you.”
Tanya stared at the phone screen for a long time. Nadezhda Sergeevna, who tried to take her house. Who insulted grandmother’s memory. Now asking to come.
“Kids, go wash up, it’s late,” Tanya called out.
She put the phone down and didn’t reply. Some doors must remain closed.
The old house with its peeling facade became her fortress. The kitchen curtains sewn by Alexandra Dmitrievna’s own hands. The chipped-edged dishes but so familiar. The smell of apples in the pantry, gathered back when grandmother was alive. It wasn’t property. It was support. Protection. Foundation.
“Mom, look, I found something interesting,” Artem ran in from the attic, holding an old box.
Tanya opened it. Inside were photos — grandmother young, Tanya as a child, parents, friends. And a letter. On the envelope — Alexandra Dmitrievna’s handwriting: “To Tanya, when I’m gone.”
Inside — several sheets written in her familiar handwriting. Tanya began to read but tears blurred her eyes. The letter was about the house. About how important it is to have your own place. How grandmother had kept this house all her life — for Tanya, for her children. How she hoped these walls would protect her granddaughter from troubles.
The last lines were a plea to forgive those who do not understand the value of the house. Who see only walls and a roof, not memory and warmth.
And a week later, the former mother-in-law came again. Thinner, with a cane, but just as determined. Knocked on the door.
Tanya didn’t open. Just went out into the garden, hugged her children, and started picking raspberries from the bushes Alexandra Dmitrievna had planted many years ago. And the house behind her stayed closed — from noise, reproaches, and strangers’ claims on her life.
Nadezhda Sergeevna stood by the door, then slowly walked to the gate. Looked back at the house, at Tanya with the children. And left — this time for good.
And Tanya realized that grandmother had been right. A house is not just a roof over your head. It’s a place where you can be yourself. Where no one can take away what rightfully belongs to you. Not only on paper but also in your heart.