“Recognize the voice?” — the voice on the other end of the line was nauseatingly familiar. Soft, ingratiating — the same one that had once promised me forever.
I stayed silent, staring at the frost patterns on the windowpane. A call from my ex-husband, Dmitry, after nearly two years of complete silence — that couldn’t be good. It was always the prelude to some request.
“Anya, don’t be quiet. I’ve got something to discuss.”
“I’m listening,” I said, my voice dry, like the snap of a broken twig.
He hesitated, picking his words. That habit of his — probing the ground before delivering the blow.
“I know it probably sounds crazy… but Lena and I are in a tough spot. We had to move out of our apartment, and we can’t find a new place.”
I kept silent, letting him get it all out. Every word was a pebble tossed into the still waters of my peace.
“Could you let us stay at your dacha? Just for a couple of months, until things settle. We’ll be quiet — you won’t even notice us.”
‘My new wife and I have nowhere to live — let us stay at your dacha.’ He said it as casually as if asking me to pass the salt at dinner.
As if there hadn’t been betrayal, lies, and the way he’d left me to pick up the pieces of myself.
A memory flared up — twenty years ago, the two of us building that very dacha. Dima, young and tanned, hammer in hand, laughing.
“This is our fortress, Anka!” he’d shouted back then. “No matter what happens, we’ll always have this place. Our rear guard.”
How poisonous those words sounded now. Our rear guard. He had brought another woman into that “fortress.” And now he wanted to bring her again, but as its mistress.
“Dima, are you out of your mind?” I asked, keeping my voice from shaking.
“Anya, please. We have nowhere else to go. You know Lena… she’s expecting. We can’t sleep on the street.”
He hit me right where it hurt. Children — the one thing we’d never had. And with her — it was easy, effortless.
I closed my eyes. Two beasts fought inside me. One wanted to scream into the phone everything I thought of him, hang up, and erase his number forever.
But the other… the other was slyer. It whispered that this was an opportunity. Not to forgive — no. To restore justice.
“You promised to always help each other, no matter what,” his voice became almost pleading. He was pressing on that “good girl” sense of duty I had carried for years.
Another memory — our wedding. We were so young, and he’d looked into my eyes and said: “I swear I’ll never betray you.”
And then, fifteen years later, packing his things: “Sorry, it just happened. My feelings are gone.”
Betrayed. Gone. And now he wanted help.
A cold, ringing clarity filled my mind. The plan came instantly. Cruel. Perfect.
“All right,” I said evenly, almost surprised at my calm tone. “You can stay.”
A sigh of relief on the other end. He began babbling thanks, saying he knew I wouldn’t leave him in trouble. I’d already stopped listening.
“The keys are where they’ve always been — under the stone by the porch.”
“Thanks, Anya! You’ve saved me!”
I hung up. The trap was set. Now I just had to wait for the beast to lose all caution.
Two days passed. Two days of me flinching at every phone notification.
The call came on Saturday morning.
“Hi! We’re here, everything’s great,” Dima reported cheerfully. No more pleading tone — now he sounded like he owned the place.
“There’s a ton of work here, of course. Cobwebs in the corners, the garden’s overgrown. But don’t worry — Lena and I will get everything in order.”
My hand clenched on the kitchen counter. We’ll get it in order. In my house.
“I didn’t ask you to get anything in order,” I said coldly. “I let you stay.”
“Anya, come on, we’re just trying to make it better. Lena says the air’s great here, good for the baby. She’s already picked a spot for a flower bed — right under the bedroom window.”
The bedroom. Our bedroom. Where the wallpaper still had a faint scratch from our cat’s claws — the cat who died a year before the divorce.
“Don’t touch my roses,” was all I could say.
“Who wants your prickly bushes,” he snorted. “Lena wants peonies. Oh, and another thing — there’s a lot of your old junk in the attic. Boxes, old dresses. We have nowhere to put our things. Mind if I move it all to the shed?”
Flashback — our first apartment. Dima “improved” the bathroom without asking, tearing off the tiles my mother and I had spent weeks choosing.
“They’re outdated, Anya, I’ll make it modern,” he’d said. “Modern” turned out to be badly laid cheap plastic and a hole in our budget that I patched for half a year. His initiatives always cost me too much.
“Don’t touch my things, Dima.”
“Why do you hold onto them? It’s trash!” He was losing patience now. “We need living space! Can’t you understand? Lena’s stressed, she can’t be!”
I heard whispering, then her sugary voice:
“Dimochka, don’t argue with her. Ask nicely. Anechka, we mean no harm. We just need a place for baby things. A crib, a stroller…”
They were playing good cop/bad cop. He pushed, she smoothed things over. And I was supposed to melt at the mention of a crib and hand over everything — including my dignity.
“I said don’t touch my things. And don’t plant anything in my garden. Live in the house and be grateful.”
“Grateful?” he exploded. “I spent fifteen years of my life on you! And you lecture me over old dresses? You know what — I’m changing the shed lock. You can get your boxes later. When we leave.”
He hung up.
I looked out at the gray cityscape. He wasn’t just living in my house — he was claiming it. Erasing me, my memories, my past. Changing the lock was more than arrogance — it was a declaration of war.
Fine. He’d get his war.
I waited a week. Forced myself not to think about what they were doing there. I worked, saw friends, lived my life — but beneath it all, a cold, calculated plan was forming.
The next Saturday, I drove to the dacha. Unannounced. Parked around the corner and walked to the property like a thief.
The first thing I saw — my rose bushes, ripped out by the roots. The ones my mother had planted. They lay by the fence like corpses.
In their place — freshly turned earth with pale peony shoots sticking up.
Something snapped inside me. This wasn’t just interference. This was desecration.
I walked around the house. New wicker furniture on the veranda. Floral curtains in the windows — not mine. They were settling in. Putting down roots.
The shed door was ajar. The one he’d changed the lock on. Apparently, he didn’t need it locked now. I peeked inside — and froze.
My boxes were open. My things dumped on the dirty floor. My mother’s letters, once tied with a ribbon, now lay with the ribbon in a puddle from the leaky roof. My school diaries, pages torn.
And on top of that wreckage — my wedding dress. Once white, now stained with soil and, I think, motor oil. An empty beer bottle beside it.
They weren’t just making space. They were destroying what I held dear — deliberately, with pleasure. Stomping on my life and laughing.
Enough.
The “good girl Anya” who feared conflict died in that cold shed, staring at her trampled dress. Something else was born — calm, icy, merciless.
I didn’t scream. Didn’t burst in. I turned, walked to my car, and left.
My hands on the wheel didn’t shake. My mind was utterly clear.
First stop — the hardware store. I bought the sturdiest padlock I could find. And a new chain — thick, welded steel.
By seven the next morning, I was at the gate.
I wrapped the chain myself and snapped the massive lock shut.
Then I parked where I could see the house and waited.
Around ten, Dima came out, stretching, strolling lazily toward the gate. Pulled once, twice. Stared at the welded links.
His relaxed posture stiffened. He began shaking the gate harder and harder.
Lena ran out, her shrill voice audible even through my car windows.
My phone rang.
“What the hell are you doing?!” Dima yelled. “You locked us in!”
“I’m just protecting my property,” I said icily. “You showed me locks mean nothing to you when you broke into my shed.”
“What shed?! You’re crazy! Lena’s pregnant, she’s not feeling well! What if we need an ambulance? Open up now!”
“An ambulance? Sure. I’m just about to call the police. I’ll file a report for unlawful entry, property damage, and trespassing. I’m sure they’ll have tools to open the gate.”
Silence. Only Lena’s whining in the background.
“What… what trespassing? You let us in!”
“I let you stay temporarily. You decided you owned the place. You ripped out my roses, trashed my shed, ruined what wasn’t yours. You crossed the line, Dima.”
“Who cares about your old junk? You’d send people to jail over that?!”
“It’s not junk. It’s my memories. The ones you betrayed — and then trampled.”
I hung up and called the police. Calmly, clearly, I told them that strangers were on my private property, had entered my home, damaged my belongings, and refused to leave.
The patrol car arrived surprisingly quickly. I met them with all my property documents in hand.
They listened while Dima and Lena shouted over the fence. I handed over my papers.
“They say you let them in,” one officer said.
“I allowed my ex-husband to stay temporarily, as a kindness. He started acting like the owner, changing locks, destroying my things. I asked them to leave. They refused. I was afraid they’d take more, so I locked the gate until the police arrived. Look what they did to my garden.”
One officer went to the fence. Dima was gesturing wildly toward Lena, who was clutching her stomach theatrically.
“Pack your things and get out,” the senior officer told Dima. “You have thirty minutes.”
The humiliation on his face was my sweetest reward. They left with their bags like beaten dogs.
Lena shot me looks of pure hatred. Dima just stared at the ground. He didn’t say another word.
When they disappeared around the bend, I walked into my yard. Surveyed the wounds to my home — the uprooted roses, the alien curtains, the trampled past in the shed.
No triumph. No intoxicating sense of victory. Only a quiet, firm knowledge that the fortress had been defended.
Wounded, but mine again. And no one — ever again — would dare to set the rules in my own world.