Svetlana froze at the sink, a glass of water suspended in her hand. The sentence hung in the kitchen air so unexpectedly that at first it seemed like Sergey was joking. But her husband stood in the middle of the room with an absolutely serious face, waiting for a reaction.
She was an engineer in production. For seven years now, every morning Svetlana had been arriving at the shop floor where the metallic smell of the machines mixed with oil and dust. The schedule was tight—half past six until six in the evening, plus overtime that had become routine. Management loved to remind everyone that targets hadn’t been canceled and deadlines were looming. Over the past year, the fatigue had mounted so much that even weekends didn’t help her recover. Moral exhaustion layered over physical, and Svetlana knew—she needed a real break.
So she had started planning her vacation back in the winter. Every month she set aside ten thousand, sometimes twelve if there was a bonus. By May the amount had grown to one hundred and twenty thousand—enough for plane tickets to Sochi, a decent hotel with breakfast, and some excursions. The voucher was already in the document folder, the transfer booked, the suitcase under the bed awaiting final preparations.
Sergey knew about his wife’s plans. He’d asked the vacation dates a couple of times, nodded when Svetlana showed him photos of the hotel room. He spoke briefly: “Do what you think is best.” He didn’t offer any ideas of his own, didn’t take part in choosing the package, not even when his wife asked which type of room he’d prefer. He waved it off—figure it out yourself, you know better.
And now, a week before departure, her husband had “remembered” the dacha. Standing in the kitchen with a cup of coffee, he announced it as if it were the most natural thing in the world:
“Mom’s counting on it—her back’s acting up. The garden’s totally neglected. The fence leaned over after the winter—there’s at least two weeks of work there. It’s time to earth up the potatoes and plant the cucumbers.”
At first, Svetlana thought it was a bad joke. She had a printed voucher, all the paperwork ready, the money spent. But Sergey stood there with an entirely serious expression and proposed to “postpone the trip until later, once we deal with the dacha.”
“What are you even talking about?” Svetlana set the glass on the table. “I’ve already bought and booked everything. The vacation is approved, the paperwork’s done.”
“So what?” Sergey shrugged. “You’ll cancel. Or move it. Mom can’t manage the plot on her own, and we’ve got a crunch at work. I can’t take time off right now.”
“So I can?”
“You’ll be on vacation anyway. What’s the difference—lying on a beach or resting at the dacha? Fresh air, nature. It’s even better than sweating in a crowd of tourists.”
Svetlana slowly sank into a chair. The air in the kitchen seemed to thicken; her husband’s words sounded unreal. Seven months of planning, meticulous budgeting, choosing dates—and all of it was supposed to evaporate for the sake of her mother-in-law’s crooked fence.
“Sergey,” she began carefully, “I understand your mom has problems. But why right now? Why during my vacation?”
“When else?” her husband started raising his voice. “Fix the fence in winter? Or when the snow falls? Now’s exactly the time for dacha work. Mom’s an elderly woman, her back hurts, and you’re only thinking about yourself.”
Then Sergey went on the offensive. He said Svetlana was “growing callous with age,” that she “couldn’t just walk by when an elderly person was struggling.” He listed everything that needed doing on the plot: dig the beds over, repair the greenhouse, treat the apple trees for pests. The list grew by the minute, as if up until now his mother had lived in total neglect.
The irony was that Sergey himself wasn’t planning a vacation. He just kept droning on about the dacha, about duty, about how “family values matter more than entertainment.”
“You know,” her husband’s voice hardened, “there are things more important than your whims. Mom has done everything for us her whole life, and now she needs help. And you are simply obliged to help. This is not up for discussion.”
That word—“obliged”—was the turning point. Svetlana sat staring at one spot on the table, where her travel documents lay. Sergey kept talking, his voice getting louder, words about selfishness and heartlessness spilling out like grain from a sack. And his wife sat in silence. She just sat and listened as all her plans collapsed, as her year of anticipation turned into forced labor at the dacha.
Then she stood up. Slowly, without abrupt movements. She went into the bedroom and pulled the suitcase out from under the bed. Sergey fell silent, watching as his wife began putting things into a bag.
“What are you doing?” he asked in confusion.
Svetlana didn’t answer. She took out her toiletry bag and neatly arranged creams and shampoos in it. She took from the shelf the swimsuit she’d bought especially for this trip. She added summer dresses, sandals, sunglasses. She did everything calmly, methodically, as if she were getting ready for work.
“Sveta, what are you doing?” Sergey stepped into the bedroom. “I just explained the situation to you.”
His wife kept packing. She took her phone charger, added the book she’d long wanted to read. She checked that all the documents were in her purse.
“So you’re really going to leave?” There was a hint of dismay in her husband’s voice. “After everything I said to you?”
Svetlana closed the suitcase and turned to Sergey. Her face was calm, but her eyes burned with a strange fire.
“I’m leaving tomorrow morning,” she said evenly. “And you can go to your mother’s and help her with the fence. Since a stranger’s harvest is more important to you than my rest.”
“How is it ‘a stranger’s’?” Sergey flushed. “She’s my mother!”
“Exactly. Your mother, your dacha, your fence. And the vacation is mine. And I’ll spend it the way I planned.”
Svetlana went into the kitchen and began making dinner, as if nothing had happened. She peeled potatoes and took chicken out of the freezer. Sergey paced around the apartment, muttering under his breath, occasionally peeking into the kitchen with a bewildered look.
“Do you seriously think I’m going to let you go?” he finally asked.
“Let me?” Svetlana didn’t even turn away from the stove. “Sergey, I’m a grown woman. I don’t need anyone’s permission for a vacation I paid for with my own money.”
“But Mom is expecting help!”
“She can expect it from you. You’re her son, the heir to the dacha plot. And I’m just the wife who, it turns out, is obliged to work someone else’s garden instead of taking a well-earned rest.”
They barely spoke that evening. Svetlana double-checked all the documents, charged her phone, and made a list of things to grab in the morning. She ordered a taxi for half past six—the flight left at ten.
Sergey sat in the living room in front of the TV, but it was obvious he wasn’t watching. He flipped through channels, glancing toward the bedroom where his wife was getting ready for the trip. Several times he started to say something, then stopped.
In the morning Svetlana got up at five. Shower, coffee, final packing. Sergey lay in bed pretending to sleep, but his tense posture made it clear he wasn’t dozing.
At half past six the intercom buzzed.
“The taxi’s here,” Svetlana said, taking the suitcase.
Her husband jumped out of bed and threw on a robe.
“Wait,” he rushed after her. “We haven’t finished talking. You can’t just leave and ignore all the problems.”
“What problems?” Svetlana was lacing her sneakers. “Your mother has an adult son, and you have weekends. You’ll figure it out without me.”
“But how—”
The door slammed. Svetlana was walking down the stairs with her suitcase while Sergey stood on the threshold in his robe, not knowing what to do next. The car started up, and the sound of the engine faded into the morning quiet.
On the first day in Sochi, Svetlana put her phone on silent. It was eight fifteen when the screen lit up with an incoming call from her husband. Sergey usually only woke up around then. She stepped out onto the balcony of her room, ordered coffee to the room, and took a selfie with a view of the sea. The photo came out great—her tanned face against an expanse of blue, a genuine smile, rested eyes. She posted the shot on social media with the caption “First morning of vacation.”
The air smelled of salt and seaweed, gulls cried somewhere below, and the waves rhythmically rolled onto the beach. This was exactly what she’d been missing—quiet, unhurried time, the chance to think only about herself. No one to feed breakfast to, no one to ask where their socks were, no one to listen to about urgent dacha problems.
The day passed peacefully. Svetlana strolled along the promenade, bought souvenirs she’d long wanted to bring colleagues. In the evening she had dinner at a seaside restaurant—she ordered dorado and white wine, savoring every sip. At home, such dinners were rare; she usually cooked something simple and quick.
Messages from Sergey started on the third day. First a short one: “So how are you?” Then a long, resentful one: “If you could see how Mom is trying, and we’re here slogging away alone, and you don’t care about anything. We barely fixed the fence, the greenhouse is falling apart. And you’re having fun.”
Svetlana read the messages while having breakfast on the hotel terrace. The waiter brought an omelet with salmon and freshly squeezed orange juice. She looked at her husband’s text, shrugged inwardly, and didn’t reply. Instead she signed up for a mountain excursion. Then for a trip to Abrau-Dyurso—she’d long dreamed of trying authentic Russian “champagne” at the winery.
The mountain tour was amazing. The bus wound along the serpentine road, opening up new views of the sea and cliffs. The guide told stories about the area, pointed out ancient dolmens and waterfalls. Svetlana took photos, listened, asked questions. Next to her sat an elderly couple from St. Petersburg—Valentina Ivanovna and Boris Nikolaevich. They’d been traveling together for thirty years, spending every vacation in a new place.
“And where’s your husband?” Valentina Ivanovna asked when they were standing at a lookout.
“Working,” Svetlana answered shortly. “He couldn’t get time off.”
“A pity. Such beauty, and no one to share the impressions with.”
But Svetlana didn’t feel lonely. On the contrary, for the first time in a long while she felt completely free. No one hurried her, told her “we’d be better off going there,” or complained about fatigue or heat.
Her husband called the next day while the tour group was on the road to Abrau-Dyurso. The phone vibrated right during the tasting. Svetlana looked at the screen, saw “Sergey,” and declined the call. Beside her, the sommelier was explaining the nuances of producing sparkling wines and showing the old cellars. Much more interesting than family complaints.
That evening a new message arrived: “Fine. I hope you rest well. Mom asks when you’ll be back.” The tone had changed, conciliatory. Apparently Sergey had realized that pressure wouldn’t work.
Svetlana spent the remaining days exactly as planned. She sunbathed, read books, got massages, and tried local cuisine. She bought what she liked without glancing at the family budget—after all, it was her own money, earned and saved.
She returned home calmly. She knew there wouldn’t be shouting or hysterics. Sergey wasn’t the type to stage scenes. They would just need to reset some boundaries and explain the new rules of the game.
Her husband waited for her by the entrance with a gloomy look. He stood by as the taxi pulled up, helped lift the suitcase from the trunk. He stayed quiet while Svetlana paid the driver.
“How was the trip?” he finally asked.
“Fine.” Svetlana walked past him toward the elevator. “Don’t say anything now. We’ll talk later, after I unpack.”
The apartment smelled of food and cleanliness. Clearly, Sergey had prepared for her return—tidied up, gone shopping. On the table lay the mail that had come while she was away, neatly stacked.
The serious conversation happened the next day. Calmly, at the kitchen table, after both had had coffee and fully woken up. Svetlana opened a notebook where she had written down all the numbers in advance. She calculated how many hours she’d spent at her mother-in-law’s dacha over the past year. It came to nineteen weekends, two vacations in summer and winter, plus six workdays she’d taken unpaid to help with planting and harvesting.
“Altogether, three hundred and twenty-eight hours,” Svetlana said, showing her husband the calculations. “That’s more than eight workweeks. Unpaid labor. On someone else’s property.”
Sergey was silent, studying the numbers in the notebook.
“Are you saying you won’t help anymore?” he asked cautiously.
“I’m saying my limit is used up.” Svetlana closed the notebook. “Your mother isn’t my mother. The garden isn’t my garden. And I get one vacation a year. It will no longer end with ointments for mosquito bites and basins of strawberries I have to turn into jam.”
“But how will Mom cope alone?”
“Your mother has an adult son. She has neighbors. She can hire help or sell the plot if it’s become too much. There are plenty of options, and I’m no longer on that list.”
Her husband tried to object, reminded her of family obligations, said “that’s not the done thing.” But Svetlana was unyielding. She explained she was ready to help in critical situations—if her mother-in-law fell ill or there was an emergency. But routine dacha work was no longer her problem.
“And if I go to Mom’s on my own?” Sergey asked.
“That’s your right. She’s your mother and it’s your choice.”
“And you?”
“I’ll spend my vacation where I want. The sea, the mountains, excursions. The things I work all year for.”
From then on, the spouses vacationed separately. Sergey—at his mother’s dacha; Svetlana—wherever she’d long dreamed of going. There was no need for a divorce, though the relationship changed drastically. They lived like neighbors who had long stopped hearing each other but out of habit shared an apartment.
A year later, Svetlana went to Karelia; in two—Crimea. Then the Golden Ring, Lake Baikal, Kamchatka. She posted photos from her trips on social media and received enthusiastic comments from colleagues and friends. Some even started planning joint travels.
Sergey continued to spend every vacation at the dacha. He fixed the fence, updated the greenhouse, even laid out new beds. His mother was pleased—her son came regularly, helped, didn’t complain. And Svetlana became to her simply a woman who “works and lives her own life.” The complaints stopped—clearly, pressure didn’t work.
Sometimes Svetlana thought about how things might have been different. If Sergey had understood boundaries from the start, respected her plans, and hadn’t considered his wife free labor for his family. But time showed—people rarely change. The habit of giving orders and managing someone else’s time ran too deep in her husband.
But now Svetlana had certainty: no one has the right to control her time off. Vacation is sacred. And anyone who tries to take it away or ruin it will meet a firm rebuff. Life is too short to spend the only free weeks of the year on someone else’s vegetable patches and imposed obligations.