The key doesn’t fit, Igor,” Svetlana stopped at the threshold, looking puzzled at the front door of their country house. “It doesn’t fit at all.”
Her son frowned, took the bunch of keys from his mother’s hand, and tried himself. The metal scraped uselessly in the keyhole.
“Strange. Maybe something got jammed?”
Their country house greeted them with an unusual sense of estrangement. The May air smelled of lilacs and freshly mown grass, but instead of the usual feeling of comfort, Svetlana felt a prick of unease. Something had subtly changed.
“Marina was here over the weekend,” Svetlana said flatly. “I left her the keys before my business trip.”
Igor pulled out his phone and dialed his wife’s number. Svetlana watched her son, noticing how his expression changed — from puzzled to worried, then confused.
“That’s odd,” he said, lowering his hand with the phone. “Marina says the lock was sticking, and she called a locksmith. Now there are new keys. She forgot to warn us.”
Svetlana silently looked at her son. At fifty-two, she had learned to recognize moments when it was better to remain silent.
Inside stirred a strange feeling—not quite anxiety, more like a premonition. Suddenly she remembered how Marina had asked about the house documents, the will, the plans.
“We have to go back,” Svetlana sighed. “We’ll have to go back to the city by evening. We only came here for work papers.”
The return trip was long. Igor drove attentively, and Svetlana stared at the passing landscape, thinking about how quickly life changes.
Not long ago, she and Igor worked together on architectural projects, visiting all the sites together. But now — the daughter-in-law, who had appeared so swiftly. Beautiful, educated, polite. Too polite.
Marina met them in the city apartment with a smile, wearing an apron. The kitchen smelled appetizingly of casserole.
“You’re back already?” she was surprised. “I thought you’d come tomorrow. Can you imagine, such trouble with the lock!
It was completely jammed, had to be replaced. Here,” — she pulled new keys out of her pocket — “no duplicates yet, I’ll get those tomorrow.”
Svetlana accepted the keys and smiled:
“No problem, dear. Thank you for taking care of it.”
Igor relaxed and hugged his wife. Marina gently touched his arm.
“Tired? Dinner’s almost ready. Tell me, how was the business trip?”
At dinner, Marina was especially attentive — giving Svetlana the best pieces, asking about the project, inquiring about clients.
“Svetlana Mikhailovna,” she suddenly said when Igor went out to the balcony, “have you ever thought… about living here permanently? We could live at your dacha… The air, the space…”
Svetlana slowly put down her fork.
“I haven’t thought about that. I often have to be in the city for work, but I spend all my free time at the house.”
Something clicked in Svetlana’s mind, as if a missing piece of a puzzle fell into place.
“Of course, Marinichka. I’ll think about it.”
Later, alone in her room, Svetlana took out an old box with documents. The house she and her husband had built over twenty years was registered in her name.
For this house, they had denied themselves everything, saved every penny. The house where her son and daughter grew up, the house that remembered her husband’s voice…
In the morning, preparing for work, Svetlana noticed a sheet on the table — a printout of some legal documents. Marina quickly folded the papers:
“It’s nothing, just some paperwork for work.”
But Svetlana caught the heading: “On recognition of ownership rights…”. Her heart skipped, but she only smiled in response.
When Marina’s door closed behind her, Svetlana called her longtime friend — a lawyer.
“Lyuda, tell me… if a daughter-in-law changes the locks in my house without asking, what do you think that means?”
Lyuda was silent for a few seconds:
“Sveta, you’re a smart woman. You know exactly what that means.”
In the evening Marina came back late. Svetlana was leisurely cooking in the kitchen when she overheard a conversation in the hallway.
“So, everything’s okay?” Marina’s voice was quiet but clear.
“Yes, I prepared the documents,” a male voice, unfamiliar, answered. “But to finalize, we need either a gift deed or…”
“Shhh!” Marina cut him off. “We’ll discuss later.”
Svetlana froze with a knife in her hand. Suddenly her mouth turned bitter, as if she had bitten into wormwood.
An hour later, when Igor returned from work, Marina was fluttering around the apartment, humming something cheerful.
“Igoryoshka,” she said in passing, “I was thinking… maybe your mother would want to give us the house? So we can live there as a family and raise the children. And she could stay in the city, it’s quieter.”
Svetlana, standing in the kitchen doorway, saw her son’s face — confused, surprised. And something else — a shadow of doubt that flashed in his eyes.
“Why all of a sudden?” he asked. “Mom loves that house.”
“Well, I just thought…” Marina smiled gently, but her eyes remained cold. “Eventually, anyway…”
She didn’t finish the sentence, but the meaning hung in the air.
Svetlana turned away and silently returned to the kitchen. A plan began to form in her mind.
At night, Svetlana woke from the sound of footsteps in the corridor. At first, she thought someone was approaching her door, but the footsteps stopped, then came a barely audible knock on Igor’s room.
Svetlana waited about ten minutes and left the bedroom. A strip of light slipped from under her son’s door. She approached and heard muffled voices.
“Have you completely lost your mind?” Igor’s whisper was tense. “The house? Now?”
“When else, darling?” Marina’s honeyed voice was barely audible. “We’re expecting a child soon, we need our own space.”
Svetlana froze. A child? She felt her face grow cold.
“What child?” Igor’s voice sounded astonished.
“Well, not now, of course,” Marina answered quickly. “But soon. I want a family, children. And your mother… she’s a reasonable woman. She has her life, we have ours.”
There was the creak of the bed, the rustle of clothes.
“We need to talk to Mom,” Igor said. “Just like that…”
“No-no,” Marina interrupted. “I’ll handle it. Woman to woman. We’ll work it out.”
Svetlana silently returned to her room. Her hands trembled as she typed a message to her friend: “Lyuda, I need your help. It’s urgent.”
In the morning, Marina fluttered around the apartment like a model housewife from a glossy magazine. She laid out hot avocado sandwiches on the table, brewed strong coffee with cinnamon, and smiled as she handed a cup to Svetlana.
“Try it, mother-in-law usually teaches daughter-in-law, but for us, it’s the other way around,” she winked, wiping the countertop. “My grandmother always used cinnamon.”
At lunch, when the apartment fell into a midday drowse, Marina put down her fork and leaned toward Svetlana with a confidential look:
“Svetlana Mikhailovna, you know, I keep going around in circles. Let’s be frank? We’re both smart women, no need to waste time.”
Svetlana looked up from her plate:
“I’m listening, Marinichka.”
“You know, Igor dreams so much about his own house, children,” Marina lowered her eyes, playing the modest role. “He needs his own space. For development, you understand? And I thought… maybe you could give us that house? You live here anyway.”
Svetlana slowly put down her fork:
“Have you already prepared the documents?”
Marina flinched as if struck:
“What documents?”
“For the gift deed. Or… whatever your consultant suggested?”
Marina’s face changed — the mask of kindness slipped, revealing cold calculation.
“Were you eavesdropping?” Her voice lost all softness.
“In my house?” Svetlana smiled. “Yes, imagine that. You won’t get anything.”
Marina abruptly stood up, knocking over a glass. The liquid spread across the table, dripping to the floor.
“Don’t think this is the end,” she hissed. “Igor is my husband. He’ll choose me.”
“I don’t doubt that,” Svetlana nodded calmly. “He loves you.”
In the evening, when Igor returned, Marina greeted him with tears. Svetlana heard her sobbing in their room, complaining about the “unbearable mother-in-law.”
Her heart tightened painfully — would her son believe it?
But at night, her bedroom door quietly opened.
“Mom,” Igor sat on the edge of the bed, “are you awake?”
“No, son.”
Moonlight fell on his face — gaunt, with shadows under his eyes.
“What’s going on, Mom? Marina says you insulted her. Threatened to kick us out.”
Svetlana sat up in bed:
“Do you believe her? I allowed you to live here, come to the house, I do everything for you, and it’s still not enough for her.”
Igor was silent, then shook his head:
“I don’t know. She cries, says different things… But it doesn’t sound like you.”
“And what sounds like me, son?”
“Patience. Support. You never…”
Igor fell silent, looking out the window. Then suddenly asked:
“Mom, why did she change the locks?”
Svetlana took her son’s hand:
“What do you think?”
Silence stretched. Finally, Igor exhaled:
“I think… she’s scheming with the house.”
“And how do you feel about that?”
“I don’t want to believe it,” his voice trembled. “But yesterday I found searches on her phone. About ‘how to prove the incapacity of an elderly relative’ and ‘how to contest a will’.”
Svetlana squeezed his hand tightly:
“Igor, listen to me. I won’t tell you what to do. You’re a man, you’ll decide yourself. But I want you to know: Marina plans to take the house. Possibly declare me insane. I have proof.”
She took her phone from under the pillow and turned on the voice recorder:
“…if the old woman resists, there are other methods. My aunt is a doctor, she can confirm senile dementia. The main thing is that your husband doesn’t find out too soon…” — Marina’s voice was businesslike and cold.
Igor straightened as if struck:
“When did you record this?”
“This afternoon. She was calling someone, thinking I had gone to the store.”
Igor was silent for a long time, absentmindedly stroking his mother’s hand.
“What should I do, Mom?”
Svetlana smiled in the dark:
“I have a plan. We’ll pretend I agree to give up the house. We’ll arrange a meeting with all the relatives — as if for the official gift deed. And then…”
“Then what?”
“You’ll see,” Svetlana pulled her son close. “It’s important she suspects nothing. Can you play along?”
Igor nodded:
“I can. Now I can.”
The sun flooded the terrace of the country house. Svetlana arranged glasses on the large wooden table, the spread tablecloth rustling in the wind.
Relatives bustled around — Aunt Vera cut fruit, cousin Lena arranged chairs, and Igor’s godmother decorated the terrace with flowers.
“Nervous?” Lena whispered as she passed Svetlana.
“A little,” she smiled, though inside she was tense.
In a small gazebo by the fence, Igor and neighbor Ivanych set up equipment. Ivanych — a former sound engineer — busily connected cables to a laptop.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “Everything will be heard perfectly.”
Marina arrived last, by taxi. Svetlana watched her walk along the path — light steps, new dress, styled hair. A victorious smile shone on her face.
“Svet-la-na Mi-khay-lov-na!” Marina sang out, hugging her mother-in-law. “What a wonderful day! Thank you for everything!”
Igor approached and hugged his wife.
“You look wonderful,” he said, and for a moment Svetlana thought her son really was not pretending.
“Is everyone here?” she asked loudly. “Then please, come to the table!”
The relatives sat down. Svetlana stood up. Her summer dress outlined her still slender figure, the gray in her hair caught sun rays. She swept a glance over the quiet guests.
“Here I sit and think,” she began with a gentle smile, “how quickly life changes. It seems like I was young just yesterday, and today I’m passing the house to the next generation — Igor and his chosen one.”
Marina squeezed her husband’s fingers triumphantly, barely nodding to the guests — yes, everything is going according to plan.
“You know,” Svetlana’s voice softened, “every currant bush here remembers my husband’s hands. In this soil are our dreams and hopes. Our children learned to walk here. And now I am ready to give it all away…”
“Mom, we appreciate your sacrifice,” Igor mumbled guiltily.
Svetlana interrupted him with a gesture:
“One moment, son. Before we finish with the formalities, I must explain to everyone why I suddenly decided to make such a serious step right now. There is a… good reason.”
She nodded to Ivanych. He pressed a button on the laptop, and Marina’s voice echoed over the garden:
“…if the old woman resists, there are other methods. My aunt is a doctor, she can confirm senile dementia…”
Marina froze, horror showing on her face.
“…the main thing is to have the house registered before the divorce. Then I’ll kick out that mama’s boy, he’ll know…”
Svetlana pressed the button on the remote she held in her pocket. The recording stopped.
“What is this?!” Marina exhaled, looking around. Her face turned pale, then blotchy. “This… this is fake! Igor, don’t believe it!”
But Igor slowly stepped away from her. In perfect synchronization, Svetlana took documents out of a folder and placed them on the table.
“And this is a police report on attempted fraud,” she said calmly. “A statement to a lawyer about the illegal changing of locks on private property without owner’s consent. And this…”
She took out the last sheet.
“An expert’s conclusion on my mental health. Certified by an independent specialist — my friend, in fact. In case you decide to go all the way.”
Marina jumped up, throwing a chair back.
“You staged all this! Recorded me! It’s illegal!”
“In my own house?” Svetlana shook her head. “No, dear. It’s called ‘protection from fraud’.”
Marina turned to Igor:
“You… you were behind this? You knew everything?”
Igor slowly nodded:
“I knew. And wanted to give you a chance. But what I heard…”
“You’re a fool!” Marina screeched. “You think I’m with you for love? You’re gray, boring, always under your mommy’s skirt! I’m only here for this house!..”
She stopped, realizing she said too much. The relatives looked at her with cold disdain.
“Marina, you should leave,” Aunt Vera said quietly. “Before you completely disgrace yourself.”
Marina glared wildly, grabbed her bag, and without another word, ran to the gate. No one moved to stop her.
When the sound of her heels faded, Igor wearily sank into a chair.
“Mom, I’m sorry. I was blind. I wanted so badly…”
“To believe in love,” Svetlana finished for him. “It’s normal, son.”
She swept a glance over the quiet relatives:
“Well, shall we have some tea? It’s a good day.”
Later, when everyone had left, Svetlana and Igor sat on the porch, watching the sunset. The warm evening wrapped the garden, filling the air with the scent of jasmine and apples.
“Mom,” Igor said quietly, “do you know what’s the strangest thing?”
“What, son?”
“I don’t feel grief. Only… relief. Like waking up from a bad dream.”
Svetlana took his hand:
“That means it’s right. It will hurt later, but it will pass. You’re young. There’s so much ahead…”
“Now I’ll be more careful,” Igor smiled. “I’ll keep an eye out.”
“No need,” Svetlana shook her head. “Just listen to yourself. True feelings don’t rush, don’t pressure, don’t manipulate. They… just are.”
The May evening slowly turned to dusk. Behind them, the old house with its cracked porch steps soaked up the last warmth of the day — enduring, victorious, still theirs.
The wind swayed the branches of the apple trees, already beginning to sprout green clusters of future fruit.
Svetlana caught her son’s gaze and smiled involuntarily, imagining how in autumn they would pick the ripest for jam, argue about the amount of sugar, how Igor would still secretly steal hot samples fresh off the stove.
“We’ve been sitting too long,” Svetlana lightly tapped her son’s knee. “Come on, tomorrow’s a day off. I’ll make pancakes. The ones with your beloved cinnamon.”