Natasha ran her palm over the wooden wall, feeling the roughness of the old log. This house remembered her first steps, her first tears, her first joys. A sturdy, though old, village house with a carved porch and a small but well-kept garden had been her refuge since childhood. After her grandmother Anna Mikhailovna’s death, the house remained with Natasha — the only granddaughter who spent every summer and every weekend here.
“How’s the roof? Is it leaking?” Natasha knocked on a supporting beam, carefully inspecting the ceiling. Early May had brought heavy rains, and she needed to check that everything was okay.
“Seems dry,” replied Lyonya, sitting on a stool with a mug of tea. “You ask the same thing every year. The house is solid; your grandmother knew her way around building.”
Natasha smiled, recalling how Grandma Anna Mikhailovna had commanded the construction crew when they replaced the roof. Small, frail, but with such an authoritative voice that even the most experienced craftsmen dared not argue.
“Yes, she knew…” Natasha ran her hand over the old stove. “Remember when we just got married and came here for the first time? You were surprised how well the stove kept the heat.”
Lyonya nodded, but his eyes lacked the warmth they once had. The couple had been married seven years. After the wedding, Natasha moved to her husband’s city apartment — the one he had bought before they met. The village house became their dacha — a place to escape the city bustle, work in the garden beds, have barbecues with friends, or simply sit on the porch in the evening watching the sunset.
“How long are we staying today?” Lyonya put down his mug and stretched. “We should get back to the city by evening. I have a meeting with clients tomorrow.”
Natasha suppressed a sigh. Lyonya never really liked being here. At first, he pretended to enjoy the house, but gradually he found more and more reasons not to come or to shorten visits. For the last two years, Natasha often came alone, sometimes with her friend Masha, while her husband stayed in the city.
“I’ll stay until tomorrow; I want to prepare the garden beds,” Natasha answered. “You go if you need to. Masha promised to pick me up tomorrow evening.”
Lyonya was clearly pleased with the offer and left within an hour, leaving Natasha alone with the house and her memories.
The house was officially registered in Natasha’s name. It was her only personal property, carefully preserved — both as a memory of her grandmother and as a kind of backup plan just in case. Sometimes Natasha caught herself mentally calling the house her “island of independence.” Not that she didn’t love or trust her husband, but… sometimes it’s good to have something that’s only yours.
Mother-in-law Lyudmila Petrovna had from the start treated the house with thinly veiled contempt. On her first visit, she pursed her lips, looking over the small rooms, old furniture, and simple furnishings.
“Look how people used to live,” Lyudmila Petrovna said, running her finger along the wooden windowsill. “No comforts, no space. Why do you cling to this dump?”
Natasha remained silent, though the words stung deeply. Over time, her mother-in-law grew even more outspoken. Every visit was accompanied by remarks and disapproving comments: heating the stove was troublesome, fetching water from the well was inconvenient, the mosquitoes were too vicious.
“You should sell it, Natasha,” her mother-in-law said. “What’s the point? You spend money and effort on it. Lyonya has to fix the fence or patch the roof every year. For what?”
To Natasha’s surprise, Lyonya agreed with his mother. Though in truth, his contribution to the house’s upkeep was minimal. Natasha had fixed the fence last year herself, hiring a local helper. And the roof was repaired back when her grandmother was alive. Each year Lyonya treated the house more and more like a neglected asset — no investments, no respect, just irritation when something broke and required attention.
“Maybe we should really sell it?” he once suggested. “Buy a decent dacha closer to the city, with gas and running water. It’s inconvenient for you here without modern conveniences.”
“I’m comfortable,” Natasha replied firmly. “I grew up in this house. It’s not about conveniences.”
Her husband didn’t understand that the house was a whole world for Natasha, a repository of memories, a connection to the past. And, to be honest, a kind of guarantee for the future. The property documents had only her name, and that gave her a sense of security. Natasha didn’t like admitting it even to herself, but sometimes during arguments with her husband, she imagined returning here to start life over. Foolishness, of course… but the house was her support.
All day Natasha worked in the garden: she dug up two beds, planted radishes and onions, cleared last year’s leaves from the paths. By evening, her back ached, but her heart felt light and calm. She stoked the stove, made a simple dinner, and sat on the porch watching the moon rise over the forest.
“Grandma, I feel so good here,” Natasha whispered into the dark. “Thank you for leaving me this house.”
Back in the city the next day, Natasha immediately sensed a change in the atmosphere. Lyonya was tense, restless, spoke little, but constantly checked his phone. And in the evening, unexpectedly, her mother-in-law dropped by.
“Lyonya, I’ve made arrangements!” Lyudmila Petrovna announced at the door, removing her light jacket. “There’s a respectable local family. They’re good businessmen. They’re offering good money!”
Lyonya nodded, avoiding eye contact with Natasha, who looked between her husband and mother-in-law in confusion.
“What are you talking about?” Natasha asked.
“Oh, your mother found buyers for a plot,” Lyonya answered vaguely.
“Why immediately a plot?” interrupted Lyudmila Petrovna. “The house is good too, log-built. Overall neat, just needs some updating…”
A bad premonition pricked Natasha.
“What house are you talking about?”
“The village one, what else,” Lyudmila Petrovna shrugged, entering the kitchen and opening cabinets as if at her own home. “Lyonya said you’ve been thinking about selling that dump for a long time. Here’s your chance! My neighbor Marina’s son-in-law works at a real estate agency. He found clients right away, imagine! He says they’re building a cottage village there; they need a plot like that.”
Natasha felt the ground slipping beneath her feet. She looked at her husband:
“Lyonya, did you decide to sell my house? Without telling me?”
“Come on, Natasha, we talked about it,” Lyonya grimaced. “How long can you keep that shack? Neither you nor I really use it. Just spending money on upkeep.”
“We talked, but didn’t decide anything!” Natasha protested. “And you don’t spend any money on upkeep, by the way. I fixed the fence last time, at my own expense.”
Mother-in-law had already taken some papers out of the cupboard and laid them on the table.
“Oh, don’t start counting who spent what,” waved Lyudmila Petrovna. “You’re family! What’s yours is Lyonya’s, what’s Lyonya’s is yours.”
“This house was mine before I even met Lyonya,” Natasha said firmly. “And I’m not going to sell it.”
Lyudmila Petrovna looked at her like a spoiled child.
“Natashechka, but we already discussed everything. Buyers are coming tomorrow to look at your village house. We’re selling it,” the mother-in-law said as if it were her own property. “You don’t live there anyway.”
Natasha stared at the woman who was rudely managing her property and couldn’t believe her ears. It was said so matter-of-factly, without a hint of apology. As if they were talking about a pot in the kitchen, not Natasha’s only possession, her memories, her refuge.
Natasha slowly turned to her husband. He just shrugged:
“You haven’t been going there for a long time. It just sits unused.”
Natasha looked at her husband, at his indifferent face, and felt something inside break. Not a thread — a rope that tied her to these people. Year after year Natasha tried to please and adapt. She accepted her mother-in-law’s condescending comments, tolerated that her husband increasingly made decisions without her.
But now they crossed the line. Natasha did not scream or make a scene as her mother-in-law and husband probably expected. Instead, inside everything became crystal clear: no one else would decide for her anymore. Especially on matters that concerned only her.
“There will be no sale,” Natasha said, surprised at how calm her voice sounded. “The house is mine, and I’m not going to sell it.”
“Why are you so stubborn!” Lyudmila Petrovna threw up her hands. “They have the money ready. They’ll look tomorrow and put down a deposit immediately!”
“Let them not waste their time,” Natasha replied, heading to the bedroom. “No one will see anything.”
“Where are you going?” the mother-in-law called after her, but Natasha had already closed the door.
The night was sleepless. Natasha tossed and turned, trying to make sense of what had happened. How could Lyonya do this? How could he decide to sell her property without asking her opinion? It hadn’t happened before. Or maybe it had, but Natasha hadn’t noticed? After seven years of marriage, Natasha increasingly had to give in, agree, adapt.
“What if they actually go to show the house?” — the thought pierced Natasha’s mind sharply. The mother-in-law could easily use the spare key kept under the porch. Something had to be done, and immediately.
In the morning, without a word, Natasha packed a small bag with essentials. Lyonya watched silently, confused.
“Where are you going?” he finally asked.
“To the village,” Natasha answered shortly. “Need to check the roof after the rains.”
Lyonya snorted:
“You shouldn’t be so stubborn, think about us. About our future. A dacha closer to the city would be much more convenient.”
“I didn’t ask you to care about convenience. And certainly didn’t ask you to sell my house.”
“Why are you clinging to this old thing!” Lyonya snapped. “No one’s trying to rob you! The money will be joint, family money.”
Natasha zipped her bag, put on her coat, and headed for the door.
“Natash, what are you doing?” Lyonya grabbed her elbow. “Don’t be foolish. We’ve already discussed everything with Mom.”
“You discussed it. Without me. My house — my decisions.”
The road to the village seemed longer than ever. On the bus, she stared blankly out the window, thinking about how her life would change after today. The decision was made, although just yesterday Natasha wouldn’t have imagined acting like this.
In the village, the first thing Natasha did was go to the hardware store. She bought new mortise locks — reliable, with several secrets. Then she went to her neighbor Ivan Stepanovich, known in the village as a handyman.
“Ivan Stepanovich, please help,” Natasha asked the elderly man. “I need to change the locks on the house. Something stronger.”
The neighbor raised his bushy eyebrows but didn’t ask unnecessary questions. The village respected privacy.
“Let’s go take a look,” Ivan Stepanovich nodded, wiping his hands on a towel.
He worked quickly and skillfully. Within an hour, a new lock gleamed on the door, and Natasha installed additional bolts on the windows.
“Thank you,” Natasha handed him money, but the neighbor waved it off.
“Don’t mention it. We’re neighbors after all. Better tell me — what’s the trouble?”
Natasha sighed:
“No… I just want only those I allow to enter my house.”
Ivan Stepanovich nodded knowingly:
“Is your husband acting up? I saw him last time with his buddies. They were noisy, the lights stayed on until morning.”
Natasha looked at the neighbor in surprise:
“Lyonya came here? Without me?”
“Yeah, about a month ago. They drove up in a car, four men. Drinking, I think. I thought — God forbid they burn something down.”
Natasha thanked the neighbor and returned to the house. Her thoughts were tangled, but one thing was clear: something in her marriage had gone seriously wrong recently. Her husband had been coming to her house without asking, and with company no less. Obviously, the spare key always kept under the porch was used for more than emergencies.
Natasha bent down to the crooked step and slid it aside. In the hiding place beneath lay a key wrapped in oilcloth. Natasha took it and hid it in her pocket. No more free access to her house.
Entering inside, Natasha froze. The house felt an alien presence. Not her grandmother’s — she had been used to that since childhood. Something new, unpleasant. Bottles stood on the table, someone’s socks lay in a corner, and a hoodie Natasha had never seen before hung on the back of a chair.
Natasha started cleaning. All the stranger’s things went into a trash bag. Dishes she hadn’t bought, rags, blankets, old men’s clothes Lyonya had “suddenly brought” — all went out. With every minute, Natasha felt control returning to her own life. As if she were cleaning not only the house but her soul — of foreign claims, disrespect, betrayal.
When the house shone clean, Natasha sat at the table and took out her phone. Ten missed calls from her husband, three from her mother-in-law. Natasha opened the messaging app and typed a short text: “The house is mine. Decisions are mine. Sale canceled.”
She sent it first to Lyonya, then copied and sent to her mother-in-law. Then she turned off her phone.
Natasha spent the whole evening sorting old photographs. In one, a young grandmother stood on the porch, proudly hugging a post. It was the day she received the house documents. Her first own home after many years of moving from rental to rental. Natasha remembered the story.
“You know, Natashechka,” grandmother used to say, “when a woman has a roof of her own, she fears nothing. It’s like an anchor in a stormy sea. Whatever happens — you always have somewhere to return to.”
Natasha smiled at the memory. Grandma was right.
Near midnight, the landline phone rang. Natasha jumped — almost no one used it.
“Hello?” she said cautiously.
“What do you think you’re doing?!” an enraged voice of her mother-in-law burst out. “This is a family matter! We’ve already agreed everything with the buyers!”
“Without me?” Natasha asked calmly. “How come?”
“Lyonya said you didn’t mind! That this dump has only been a burden to you!” Lyudmila Petrovna nearly shouted.
“Lyonya lied. The house is mine, and I decide its fate. No sale.”
“You… you understand you’re putting us in a stupid position? People came specifically, wasted time! What will we tell them?”
“Tell the truth. That you tried to sell someone else’s property. And failed.”
“God, you’re so ungrateful!” Lyudmila Petrovna sobbed. “After all we’ve done for you!”
“Family means asking first,” Natasha said firmly. “Not announcing. My house is not for sale. That’s my final word.”
Natasha hung up and looked out the window. Outside, the May night was black, the old apple trees planted by her grandfather rustled. The house breathed, lived, held so many memories and so much love. How could they just take and sell it without asking the owner?
A week later, Natasha returned to the city apartment. Lyonya met her warily, ready for a scandal. But Natasha was calm.
“I’m filing for divorce,” she said, looking her husband in the eye. “And moving out.”
“Because of some house?” Lyonya couldn’t believe his ears. “Are you joking?”
“Not because of the house. Because of disrespect. Because you decided for me without asking me.”
Since then, no one interfered with her house. Natasha spent every summer in the village and returned to the city in autumn — but not to her ex-husband’s apartment, instead to a small rented studio on the outskirts. She began a new life.
And the house remained. Not sold, not given away, not lost. Natasha spent every weekend and every vacation there. She often thought of her grandmother’s words. And understood the main thing: as long as she has her own house, her own name, and her own voice — she will not get lost. Not in anyone’s family.