— You’ve forgotten your place, Irina. This dacha and this apartment—all of it belongs to my son. So you’d better keep quiet if you want to stay here for a long time.
Irina had been living with her husband for several years. Together with Anton, they were raising a wonderful daughter, Ksenia, who was about six now. Thanks to a fortunate turn of events, Irina went back to work earlier, when their daughter was accepted into daycare at two and a half. That was when her mother, Svetlana Leonidovna, came to the rescue—she helped look after her granddaughter whenever Ksyusha was sick.
However, six months later, Svetlana Leonidovna began to suffer from back pain and could no longer help her daughter as often. Then Anton decided to enlist the support of his own mother—Anna Pavlovna.
The mother-in-law was a strict woman—after all, a veteran teacher—and she believed a daughter-in-law should cope with everything herself. Still, she agreed to the request of her only son.
— Anna Pavlovna, thank you so much, — Irina tried to be polite, though she understood that relations with her mother-in-law would always be difficult.
— “Thank you?” — she snorted. — Thanks to you I have to take sick leave from work. Maybe you should start watching your child. She’s always snotty with you.
— It’s only the second time in two years… — the daughter-in-law countered with a guilty look.
— So what? My job is more important! — the mother-in-law clicked her tongue and went home, leaving Irina bewildered.
Irina never turned her daughter against her grandmother. On the contrary, Ksyusha loved spending time with Grandma Anya. Still, Irina noticed that beside her mother-in-law the girl became too obedient, as if afraid to do something wrong. Anna Pavlovna could keep anyone in strict order—even adult colleagues at school, let alone a child.
— Grandma said I shouldn’t laugh like that, — Ksyusha once said, lowering her eyes sadly.
— Why? — Irina asked gently.
— Grandma said girls should be modest and quiet.
Irina’s heart twinged. Her cheerful, sunny little girl, under her mother-in-law’s influence, was becoming constrained and overly quiet. Thankfully the visits weren’t that frequent. Ksyusha was growing, getting sick less often, and Irina handled those bouts herself, occasionally taking sick leave to stay home with her daughter.
But one day everything changed. Anna Pavlovna divorced her husband just before their thirtieth wedding anniversary. Ivan Andreyevich left her for another woman. And not some young thing—she was the same age, and looked no younger or prettier than Anna Pavlovna. The woman was beside herself with rage.
“How dare he! Got a wild hair in his old age!” she thought, gradually turning Anton against his father.
Anna Pavlovna began showing up more and more at her son’s and daughter-in-law’s home, because in her own apartment there was no one left to lord over. She would drop by without calling, as if it were her own place, sweep the shelves and cupboards with a stern eye, and dole out “valuable” pointers and advice to Irina.
— Is this what you call order? Napkins should be folded differently! — she grumbled, straightening the stack in the kitchen.
— Irina, the pots should be arranged by size, from large to small. It’s elementary! — the mother-in-law instructed sternly.
— Ksyusha, don’t run around the house or you’ll knock something over! A girl should behave modestly! Sit and draw.
At first Irina tried not to pay attention. She understood: her mother-in-law was going through a hard time. A divorce after so many years of marriage had knocked Anna Pavlovna off balance. One could pity her and forgive the extra nagging.
But soon the visits became daily. Every evening, after work, at the same time, Anna Pavlovna appeared on their doorstep. Irina felt there was no personal space left in the home; the air seemed to disappear the moment she saw her mother-in-law.
— Anton, I can’t do this anymore, — Irina told her husband one evening. — I understand your mom has it hard, but we have our own family. She comes almost every day and looks for something to pick on.
Anton sighed, scratched the back of his head, and tried to justify his mother:
— Well, you know she’s worked at school all her life. It’s hard for her to change. And she’s alone now, she’s bored.
— Exactly! — Irina looked at her husband seriously. — She needs something to do besides monitoring how I arrange the pots. You know what I was thinking? Buy her a dacha. A small house somewhere near the city. Let her tend beds and flowers. It’ll distract her.
Anton frowned.
— A dacha? But that’s extra expense…
— But our nerves will be intact. Hers and ours. Think about it, — Irina said gently but firmly. — Let her have her own space. Otherwise soon you and I won’t be able to have a calm conversation.
Anton thought it over. On the one hand, he loved his mother and was used to listening to her. On the other, Irina was right. Each day the atmosphere at home grew more tense.
The next day he cautiously brought up the dacha with his mother for the first time…
At first, Anna Pavlovna took the news with hostility.
— A dacha? What do I need that headache for! — she protested. — You want to ship me off so I’m not underfoot? I’m still a young woman, I’ve got plenty of energy! I’m not some old granny to sit at a dacha all weekend.
Anton tried to explain that it wasn’t a punishment but, on the contrary, a chance to get distracted and take up something new. But his mother stood her ground, waving her hands irritably.
— I’m not going to sit alone on those garden beds of yours! — she snapped, and late that evening left, slamming the door.
Anton sighed heavily, and Irina just shook her head:
— It’s okay. She needs time. Maybe she’ll change her mind.
Irina was right. A week later, Anton convinced his mother at least to go and look at a plot he and Irina had already picked for her.
Anna Pavlovna rode with a stony face, but as soon as they got out of the car and she saw a neat little house with a spacious wooden terrace, her gaze visibly warmed. The plot was small—only six sotkas—but apple trees and currant bushes were already growing in the garden. A neighbor’s cat darted along the path, and from the terrace there was a lovely view of a green nook awash in flowers.
— Well… not so bad, — Anna Pavlovna said cautiously after walking around the house. — The terrace… is spacious. I can imagine how nice it would be to sit here in the evening with a book and a cup of garden tea with currant leaves.
Anton barely held back a smile. He could see his mother was melting.
— Of course, the house still needs work. But that’s just a matter of time. Irina and I will help, — he said gently.
Anna Pavlovna nodded reservedly, but her eyes shone with lively interest. She was already mentally setting dahlias and petunias along the beds, imagining planting strawberries and dill.
— All right, — she said at last. — If you insist so much, let’s try.
And so Anna Pavlovna got a dacha. It was easy to reach—just half an hour by car. She’d been driving for years, and the road posed no difficulty.
Anton registered the plot in his own name: after all, the money was joint—both his and Irina’s. But Anna Pavlovna didn’t even think about that. She was too caught up in the new pursuit and seemed to come alive again.
As soon as it warmed up, Anna Pavlovna practically moved to the dacha. From spring to late summer she lived there almost constantly. From morning till night she worked the beds, pruned trees, planted flowers, and even started a small vegetable garden.
Anton, Irina, and Ksyusha also came often: sometimes to help dig the soil, sometimes to bring seedlings, sometimes just to spend a weekend in the fresh air. Together they painted the fence, repaired the roof, set up the terrace, and even re-papered one of the rooms. By mid-summer the dacha looked neat and cozy—like something out of a country-living magazine.
Irina sometimes marveled at how much her mother-in-law had changed. It seemed that working the land had restored her zest for life: tired but content, in the evening Anna Pavlovna would come out onto the terrace and proudly show everyone her achievements.
And then one day in August, when the garden was full of apples, the whole family gathered at a big table outside. The grill smoked, kebabs sizzled, and Ksyusha ran happily across the grass. Everyone laughed, talked, and savored that rare feeling of family harmony.
Suddenly, when dinner was nearly over, Anna Pavlovna set down her fork and said in an even, cold tone:
— Well then… thank you, of course, for your help. We’ve got the house in order, the plot too. But now I want to live here alone. I need solitude. You’ve fulfilled your mission; from here I’ll manage on my own.
Silence fell at the table. Irina was dumbfounded, Anton frowned, and little Ksyusha looked at her grandmother, uncomprehending.
— Mom, are you serious? — Anton couldn’t help himself. — We’ve been coming here as a family, doing everything together…
— You said this plot was for me, — the mother-in-law cut him off. — So I want to be here alone.
It sounded rude and hurtful. Especially to Irina, who had put so much effort and patience into making the dacha exactly this kind of place. But she only smiled tightly and thought:
“Fine. At least the apartment will be quiet now, without my mother-in-law’s constant lectures.”
That same evening Irina and Anton packed their things and went back to the apartment. Anton wasn’t drinking, so he calmly got behind the wheel and drove the family home. No one said a word on the way. Ksyusha dozed peacefully in the back seat, and Irina thought only one thing:
“Let her stay there alone. The main thing is that it be peaceful at home.”
And indeed, the next weeks passed surprisingly quietly. Anna Pavlovna didn’t call or visit, and a new atmosphere seemed to settle in the apartment. Irina finally breathed freely: evenings passed with just the family, without strict remarks and constant criticism.
But the joy didn’t last. As soon as the cold October days arrived and the dacha season ended, Anna Pavlovna began dropping by often again. She showed up without calling, as before, and as if she had gathered strength in the fresh air, she unleashed a new wave of criticism on her daughter-in-law.
— How many times have I said the shoes must be arranged by size! First the men’s, then yours, and only then Ksyusha’s, — she reproached the moment she crossed the threshold.
— Irina, you’re ironing Anton’s shirts wrong; look at those creases! — the mother-in-law grumbled, peering into the closet.
— Ksyusha, stop drawing on the floor! A girl should sit at the table, not flop around anywhere like a boy!
Irina endured it. She was used to holding herself back for Anton’s and Ksyusha’s sake. But one evening, when her husband was late at work, her patience overflowed.
Anna Pavlovna was once again pacing through the apartment, sternly listing everything she disliked. Irina was standing in the kitchen when, surprising even herself, she spun around sharply:
— You know what, Anna Pavlovna… If you don’t like it when we come to your dacha, then don’t come to our apartment either!
The mother-in-law froze. Surprise flashed in her eyes, followed by something cold and venomous. She narrowed her eyes and said with emphasis:
— You’ve forgotten your place, Irina. This dacha and this apartment—all of it belongs to my son. So you’d better keep your mouth shut if you want to stay here for a long time.
Those words hit Irina harder than any nitpicking. She felt the ground slip from under her feet: there it was—the mother-in-law’s true attitude.
— Excuse me, but we bought the apartment together with Anton. On a mortgage, at that.
— Of course! You sat on maternity leave for two years. Don’t lecture me about rights. I know everything better than you, dear, — Anna Pavlovna sang in a syrupy-poisonous voice.
— Since you know so much, then I’ll ask you to leave! — Irina flared. — Don’t you dare show up here again until you apologize to me and stop criticizing everything in sight. I’m thoroughly sick of it!
Anna Pavlovna gasped at her daughter-in-law’s unexpected tone. She gathered her things and, head held high, swept out of the apartment.
As soon as Anton came home, his wife told him everything. She laid down an ultimatum:
— Either your mother apologizes, or her foot will never again cross our threshold. I will no longer tolerate her mocking tone. And if you go against me, then expect a divorce and division of property. It seems Anna Pavlovna has forgotten whose apartment this is.
— Yes, yes, all right, — Anton tried to calm his enraged wife. — I’ll talk to her. You probably misunderstood.
The next day Anton kept his word and called his mother.
— Mom, I’ll stop by after work. We need to talk, — he said calmly.
Anna Pavlovna understood at once:
“She managed to tattle, the viper!”
That evening she met her son fully armed—with ready reproaches and objections.
— What, your wife sang her song about me to you? — she threw out as soon as Anton stepped into the apartment.
Anton looked at his mother with a weary gaze, set a bag of fruit on the table, and said evenly:
— Mom, let’s skip the tricks. You know yourself you’re going too far.
— I’m the one going too far? — Anna Pavlovna protested, throwing up her hands. — If it weren’t for me, your place would have long since been buried in filth!
Anton sighed. He knew arguing was pointless. But he also knew the argument that would work.
— Mom, I’ll be blunt. If Irina decides to file for divorce, you’ll be left without your dacha. It’s registered to me, which means it’ll be subject to division of property.
Anna Pavlovna froze. Her lips trembled; shock flickered in her eyes. She had completely forgotten the legal aspect when she agreed to the dacha. Both Anton and Irina had put money into it.
— How… is that? — was all she managed to say.
— That’s how, — Anton continued calmly. — I’m not going to divorce Ira. She’s carrying my second child. We’re going to have a son soon. And if you want to be close to our family, you’ll have to accept it. If you want—come visit, but without shouting and reproaches. If you want—rest at the dacha. But stop tearing our family apart.
Her son’s words fell like a heavy weight. Anna Pavlovna gasped and sat down. It was bitter to realize power was slipping from her hands. But even more bitter to understand that her son had finally taken his wife’s side.
She was silent for a long time, then only waved her hand tiredly:
— All right… Have it your way.
Anton knew that would work. His mother could out-argue anyone, but losing the dacha she’d already grown attached to would be too painful.
After a while, Anton returned home. From the doorway he told his wife that his mother would think it over and apologize.
— Don’t worry. Everything will be fine. And you especially need to worry less now, — her husband said.
— All right, thank you. Honestly… I didn’t think you’d talk to her yourself. You usually liked to avoid such difficulties.
— What can I do? I started a family, which means I have to take responsibility and care for it.
— Thank you… — Irina hugged and kissed her husband.
And that evening true peace returned to their apartment—without having to apologize to anyone or wipe the same shelf for the hundredth time.