I was standing by the kitchen window, mechanically stirring the borscht when Andrey came back from his mother’s. I immediately saw from his face—the conversation hadn’t gone the way we hoped. He went to the table, sat down, rested his elbows on the countertop, and rubbed his temples.
“Well?” I asked, although I already guessed from his look.
“Mom is threatening to take the apartment away from us if we don’t let her spend the summer at the dacha,” he admitted quietly, without looking up.
I turned sharply, almost dropping the ladle.
“What?!” My voice was higher than I intended. “Say that again.”
Andrey lifted his tired eyes to me:
“She said the apartment is still officially in her name, and if we don’t allow her to spend the summer at the dacha, she’ll evict us.”
I turned off the stove and sat opposite my husband. Twenty-two years. Twenty-two years we have lived in that apartment. When we got married, Valentina Petrovna solemnly handed us the keys, saying, “This is my gift to the young couple. Live well, be happy, have children.” And she herself moved to her sister’s spacious two-room flat on Shchyolkovskaya.
“Andrey,” I began slowly, feeling the familiar wave of anger rise inside me, “remind me, please, who renovated this apartment twenty years ago? Who replaced the pipes when the neighbors flooded us? Who paid for the installation of meters, new windows, new wiring?”
“We did,” he answered quietly.
“And who saved money for the dacha for fifteen years? Who gave up vacations, new furniture, a car?”
“We did.”
“And who picked the plot, who visited the builders, who supervised the construction while you were busy at work?”
Andrey was silent, staring at the table.
“I did,” I answered for him. “I planned every square meter of that dacha. I chose the bathroom tiles, the wallpaper for the bedroom, I searched for that exact kitchen for three months. And now your mother wants to come there, plant her cabbage and cucumber beds, hang her polka-dot curtains, and boss everyone around as if it’s her own house?”
“Lena, she’s my mother…”
“And who am I?” I exploded. “A servant? Who must endure her whims just because she once gave us the apartment? Which, by the way, she now threatens to take away?”
I remembered how just a month ago we celebrated the housewarming at the dacha. Valentina Petrovna was one of the first to arrive, walking around the house like an inspector, touching the curtains, checking if the faucets closed well. At that moment, I thought—well, she’s the mother-in-law, she has the right to see how the children spent the money.
But then, after the guests left, she sat on the veranda with a cup of tea and said:
“You did well. I was thinking—I could move here for the summer. The forest air, the quiet. And I could have a garden—there’s plenty of space.”
I was stunned by her audacity but said nothing. I thought Andrey would handle it himself. Naive.
“Lena, understand,” my husband continued, “she’s old, lonely…”
“Lonely?” I interrupted. “She has a sister she lives with. She has friends nearby. There’s a clinic close, familiar shops. And why does she need the dacha? To make my life miserable?”
“Don’t exaggerate…”
“I’m not exaggerating!” I slammed my fist on the table. “Do you remember when she stayed with us for a week two years ago? How she told me the soup should be cooked differently, and the children should be raised another way? How she rehung all the towels in the bathroom and rearranged the dishes in the cupboards? And that was just a week, Andrey! And now she wants the whole summer!”
My husband sighed:
“But the apartment is really still in her name…”
“And who is the dacha registered to?” I asked sharply.
“To you.”
“Exactly. And I have every right to decide who goes there and who doesn’t. It’s my home, Andrey. Mine. I built it; I put my soul into it. And no one, hear me—no one—will dictate terms to me there.”
I stood up and began pacing nervously around the kitchen. My thoughts were tangled, but one was clear—we had to do something about this. And fast.
“You know what,” I stopped in front of my husband, “tomorrow I’m going to your mother’s.”
“Lena, don’t, I’ll—”
“No,” I cut him off. “You’re already ‘doing it yourself.’ And what came of it? She threatens you, and you sit there looking guilty. Enough. I’ll talk to her.”
The next day, gathering all my courage, I went to Valentina Petrovna’s. Her sister let me in with surprise—I rarely came without Andrey.
“Where is Andryusha?” the mother-in-law asked first, coming out of the room.
“Andrey is at work,” I answered dryly. “I came to talk to you.”
She gestured for me to sit, but I stayed standing.
“Valentina Petrovna, I know about your conversation with my son yesterday.”
“Yes,” she nodded, “so? I have the right to spend the summer at the children’s dacha.”
“No,” I said calmly, “you don’t.”
Her eyes narrowed:
“Why not?”
“Because it’s our dacha. Our family built it; we put money into it; we plan to live there. And we decide who will be there.”
“Oh, is that so!” Her voice turned icy. “And whose apartment is it?”
“Your apartment,” I agreed. “But let’s be honest. If you want to evict us—go ahead. Just know that as soon as you evict us from the apartment, we will sell the dacha, take the children, and leave. To another city. Forever.”
“What?” she was taken aback.
“Exactly,” I continued calmly. “Andrey has a job offer in Yekaterinburg. We thought about it a lot, but now the decision is made. Don’t want to see us at the dacha—you won’t see us anywhere. Neither your son nor your grandchildren.”
“Lena, what are you saying…”
“I swear,” I interrupted, looking her straight in the eyes, “that’s exactly what I will do. You take away our home—we leave your life. Completely. Forever.”
Valentina Petrovna paled. For the first time in all the years I’ve known her, I saw her confused.
“But I… I just wanted…”
“You wanted to be in charge. You wanted to show who’s boss here. You decided we owe you something for the apartment you gave us twenty years ago. But you know what? We don’t owe you anything. We grew up, we created our own family, we built our home. And if you can’t accept that, then we’re not meant to be.”
I turned to the door, but her voice stopped me:
“Lena, wait…”
I turned back. My mother-in-law was sitting on the couch, suddenly aged, shoulders slumped.
“I didn’t want to… I just thought…” She paused, then looked up at me. “Sorry. I won’t talk about this anymore. And I won’t threaten. Just… please don’t take the children away.”
A strange feeling overwhelmed me—a mixture of relief and pity. This authoritarian woman, who for so many years kept everyone in fear with her whims, suddenly seemed to me just a lonely old woman.
“Valentina Petrovna,” I said softly, “we won’t take the children away. But you won’t interfere in our lives either. The dacha is our territory. If you want to see the grandchildren, invite them to you, we don’t mind. But you won’t dictate how we live anymore.”
She nodded, not looking up.
“And one more thing,” I added, “if you really need that apartment, re-register the documents. We will find somewhere to live. But stop with the blackmail.”
“No,” she said quickly, “the apartment is yours. Tomorrow I will go to the notary and do everything properly.”
I went home feeling as if a heavy weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Andrey met me at the door with a guilty and hopeful look.
“Well?” he asked.
“Everything’s settled,” I said, taking off my jacket. “Your mother won’t threaten us anymore. And she won’t interfere with the dacha either.”
“How did you do it?”
I hugged my husband, pressing against his shoulder:
“I explained to her that every choice has consequences. And that we also know how to make choices.”
“I was afraid you’d have a final quarrel with her…”
“You know, Andrey,” I stepped back and looked into his eyes, “sometimes you have to quarrel to live in peace later. Your mother is used to everyone crawling before her because she’s ‘older,’ because she once gave something. But respect cannot be extorted by threats.”
That evening, while the children were doing their homework and we were sitting at the kitchen table drinking tea, Andrey suddenly said:
“You know, I’m proud of you.”
“For what?”
“For not letting them humiliate us. For protecting our home. For not being afraid to put everything on the line.”
I took his hand in mine:
“Our home isn’t just the dacha, Andrey. It’s our family. And no one has the right to trade it, not even your mother.”
A week later, Valentina Petrovna really re-registered the apartment to us. She brought the documents herself, apologized again, and asked permission to occasionally invite the grandchildren over, and sometimes come to visit the dacha.
“Of course,” I agreed. “They love you. And we don’t mind you having contact. But on our terms, within the bounds of mutual respect.”
We defended the dacha—our fortress, our world, which we created with our own hands and dreams. And no one dared to threaten it anymore.
Sometimes I think about that day when I decided to have an honest talk with my mother-in-law. I was scared—what if she really kicked us out? But it was even scarier to imagine living forever under threat, at the mercy of someone else’s whims.
Family is not a place where one commands and everyone else obeys. Family is a place where everyone has the right to respect and understanding. And if someone violates that right, it must be defended—even if it means taking a risk.
Our dacha has truly become our home now—a place to relax, where no one dictates what curtains to hang or what to plant in the garden. A place where we can just be ourselves, our family, without looking over our shoulder at someone else’s ambitions and claims.
And it was worth it.