The dream of a house by the sea had been a family dream for many years. Inna remembered how, as a child, sitting at the table in the tiny kitchen of their Khrushchev-era panel apartment, she and her mother and father would leaf through photos of the seashore and imagine how one day they would live in their own cozy house, listening to the roar of the surf.
— “Once I retire, sweetheart,” said Inna’s father, Sergei Ivanovich, stroking newspaper clippings with ads for houses on the Black Sea coast, “your mother and I will live like royalty. We’ll get up in the morning, drink coffee on the terrace, and then head straight to the sea.”
The years went by; Inna grew up, got an education, and married Viktor. The dream seemed to recede to the background amid everyday worries and routine. But every time Inna visited her parents on the weekend, she noticed how her mother, Svetlana Petrovna, carefully kept that same folder with clippings, periodically adding new ones.
The decision to buy a house came when her father’s health worsened. Doctors strongly recommended a change of climate—the harsh winters in the Moscow region had become too difficult for Sergei Ivanovich with his heart condition.
Inna worked as a financial consultant at a bank and steadily set money aside; her parents contributed their share as well—they sold the old dacha they hadn’t used in a long time. Even after pooling all their savings, it still wasn’t enough for anything truly decent. Then chance helped—a bonus for a successful project and a small inheritance from one of Svetlana Petrovna’s cousins. At last, the amount was sufficient.
The search began that spring. Inna looked through dozens of listings, called agents, and carved out time to go see options. Her husband Viktor showed no interest whatsoever.
— “Vic, maybe you’ll come with me to Gelendzhik for the weekend? There’s an interesting option,” Inna suggested once.
— “What for?” Viktor didn’t even look up from his phone. “You’re managing perfectly well on your own. They’re your parents—you know better what they’ll like.”
Sometimes Inna was stung by such indifference, but she let the thought go quickly. After all, she and Viktor had agreed before the wedding: each would support their own parents. He regularly helped his mother, Valentina Sergeevna—drove her groceries, paid utilities, bought medicines. And Inna took care of her own.
In June, Inna found the ideal option—a small one-story house fifteen minutes’ walk from the sea. Two bedrooms, a kitchen, a bathroom, and most importantly—a spacious terrace with a view of the mountains. Inna immediately knew: this was it. The plot was small but well tended, with fruit trees and rosebushes—her mother would be delighted; she loved fussing with flowers.
The paperwork was completed quickly. By mutual decision, the house was registered in the parents’ names—Sergei Ivanovich and Svetlana Petrovna. Inna felt it was the right thing to do: the house was being bought for them, part of the money was their own savings, and it would avoid any legal complications, just in case.
Returning from the last trip, where the formalities were wrapped up, Inna was practically glowing with joy. At last, a long-standing dream had become reality! Her parents had already started packing, preparing to move in a month.
— “Vic, can you believe it? It all worked out!” Inna set the folder with the documents on the table. “Look how beautiful it is!”
She opened her phone gallery and began showing photos:
— “Here’s the terrace—the view is just wonderful. This is my parents’ bedroom. And this is the kitchen—small, but functional. Dad’s already planning how he’ll grill shashlik in the backyard.”
Viktor put his phone aside, glanced at the photos without much interest, and nodded. No joy, no “Well done, honey, I’m happy for you and your parents.” Just an indifferent look and a slight dip of the head.
Inna went on talking, not noticing her husband’s odd behavior:
— “The move is set for mid-July. Dad’s already arranged for movers and booked a truck. Just imagine how nice it’ll be to visit them in winter when we’ve got snow and cold here and it’s still warm there…”
Viktor suddenly cut off her monologue:
— “You bought a house in the south for your parents? Perfect! Only my mother will live there—it’s more necessary for her health.”
Inna froze, phone in hand, the house photo on the screen—her triumph, her joy, her gift to her parents. At first she thought Viktor was joking, but his expression was absolutely serious.
— “What do you mean, your mother?” Inna blinked several times, bewildered. “We bought the house for my parents. We’ve talked about this a hundred times.”
— “So what?” Viktor shrugged. “My mother has hypertension; doctors have long recommended a southern climate. She’s sixty-eight, older than your folks. Logically, she’s the one who needs it first.”
— “Logically?” Inna felt everything go cold inside. “Viktor, we’ve been talking about this for years. You knew the house was for my parents. Your mother has never even mentioned wanting to move south.”
— “Because she knew we didn’t have that possibility,” he replied dryly. “And now we do.”
— “The house is registered to my parents,” Inna began speaking more slowly, as if explaining obvious things to a child. “They contributed part of the money. It’s their property.”
— “Family is family,” Viktor waved it off. “You don’t mind helping my mother, do you? What makes your parents better than mine?”
Inna felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach. How do you explain to someone that you can’t just take someone else’s property? How to get across that this isn’t a carton of milk from the fridge, but a house bought for specific people?
— “Viktor, you can’t just take and settle your mother in my parents’ house. That’s… that’s absurd.”
— “Nothing absurd about it,” her husband stood and headed for the door. “Think it over. My mother is a lonely elderly woman; your parents have each other. It’s only fair.”
Inna didn’t sleep all night. She lay staring at the ceiling and wondered what had happened to the man she married. Viktor breathed evenly beside her, as if nothing had happened, as if with one sentence he hadn’t crossed out years of planning and dreaming.
In the morning, Inna woke to the sound of a phone call. Viktor was standing by the window, talking to someone.
— “Yes, Mom, the house is great—you’ll like it. Yes, the sea is close… No, don’t worry, everything will be fine. I’m already looking into moving your things.”
Inna sat up in bed, unable to believe her ears. Viktor didn’t even think it necessary to continue yesterday’s conversation. He simply acted as if the decision had already been made.
— “Viktor,” she called to her husband. “What are you doing?”
— “Talking to my mom,” he said, covering the mic with his hand. “Mom, I’ll call you back.”
Putting down the phone, Viktor turned to Inna:
— “Is something wrong?”
— “Everything’s wrong,” Inna got out of bed. “You’re calling your mother and discussing her move into my parents’ house. Without my consent. Without their consent. As if you had the right.”
— “Why not?” Viktor frowned. “Is your selfish wish really more important than my mother’s health?”
— “Selfish?” Inna was breathless with indignation. “Viktor, it’s my parents’ house! They’re the owners! They put in money! How can you?”
— “How can you be so callous?” Viktor shot back.
Inna grabbed her phone, her hands trembling. She had to call her parents, warn them. Something had to be done!
— “Mom, are you home?” Inna’s voice shook with anxiety.
— “Honey, what’s happened?” Svetlana Petrovna immediately sensed something was wrong.
— “Mom, I need to come over and talk to you. It’s about the house.”
— “Is there something wrong with the documents?” Svetlana Petrovna grew worried.
— “No, the documents are fine. It’s just… I’ll come and explain.”
Viktor watched the conversation with a stony face, and when Inna finished, he simply said:
— “Don’t make it complicated. It’ll be better if my mother moves there. She has health problems.”
Inna looked at her husband for a long moment. In five years of marriage she had never seen him so… alien. As if a mask had fallen off and a completely unfamiliar person stood before her.
An hour later Inna was already sitting in the kitchen of her parents’ apartment. Sergei Ivanovich was knitting his thick brows, and Svetlana Petrovna was nervously sorting through kitchen towels she was planning to pack for the move.
— “I’m sorry it turned out this way,” Inna stared at her hands, smoothing nonexistent creases on her jeans. “I didn’t think Viktor would do this.”
— “Honey, what do you have to be sorry for?” Svetlana Petrovna sat down next to her daughter. “Don’t apologize for him.”
— “But I spoiled our joy. Instead of a happy move, we’ve got this… situation.”
Sergei Ivanovich, who had been listening in silence, slapped his palm on the table:
— “Innochka, don’t talk nonsense. The house is ours. We’ll decide ourselves who lives there.”
— “But Viktor thinks…”
— “I don’t care what he thinks,” Sergei Ivanovich rarely raised his voice, and now his calm firmness worked better than any shout. “The documents are in our names. We put in our own money. And we’ll move just as we planned.”
— “Viktor may cause trouble,” Inna remembered how determined her husband had been when talking to his mother on the phone.
— “What trouble?” Sergei Ivanovich shrugged. “Let him try.”
The next day, Svetlana Petrovna and Sergei Ivanovich went to the local administration and filed to register their permanent residence at the new house. Now, even formally, the house was their official place of residence.
Inna didn’t tell Viktor about the legal steps her parents had taken. The tension in the apartment could be cut with a knife. The spouses hardly spoke, exchanging only the necessary phrases about household minutiae.
Three days later Viktor unexpectedly changed his tone. Coming home from work, he brought a bottle of wine and made dinner—for the first time in a long while.
— “Inna, I wanted to talk,” Viktor began, pouring wine into glasses. “Maybe we reacted too sharply to the situation.”
— “We?” Inna raised an eyebrow.
— “Fine, I did,” Viktor corrected himself. “Listen, nothing terrible has happened. I think we can find a compromise.”
— “What kind?” Inna didn’t even touch her glass.
— “Mom could live in the house at least in the summer,” Viktor suggested conciliatorily. “Three months a year. We can make it work.”
Inna slowly shook her head:
— “No, Viktor. That won’t work.”
— “Why?” a hard note crept back into his voice. “You don’t even want to discuss it?”
— “I don’t want to discuss something you already decided without me,” Inna said calmly, surprised at her own calm. “You didn’t ask. You decided for me. For my parents. And you acted as if you had the right. But you don’t.”
— “You’re just greedy,” Viktor pushed his plate away. “Cold and heartless. I didn’t think you were like this.”
— “And I didn’t think you were capable of appropriating what isn’t yours and considering it normal,” Inna shot back.
— “You could just give in,” Viktor spread his hands. “It’s just a house.”
Inna looked at her husband as if he’d suddenly started speaking a foreign language:
— “And I’m not just your wife. I’m a person with boundaries. And I won’t let you cross them.”
After that conversation, a suffocating silence settled over the apartment. Viktor demonstratively moved to the couch in the room they used as an office. One day, two, three—her husband walked around sullen and irritable, but didn’t even try to apologize. Moreover, Inna read condemnation and bewilderment in his gaze, as if she really were the one to blame for the whole situation.
On the fourth day, Inna packed a suitcase. Viktor watched her pack, leaning against the doorframe:
— “You’re leaving?” his voice sounded deliberately indifferent.
— “I’m going to my parents to help with the move,” Inna stacked her clothes in neat piles. “We need to get the house in order, buy furniture.”
— “And when will you be back?”
Inna paused for a moment. Good question. Did she even want to come back?
— “I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “I haven’t decided yet.”
Two weeks in the house by the sea flew by in a flash. Inna helped her parents settle in, went shopping with them, and together they chose curtains for the windows and dishes for the kitchen. Every evening they sat on the terrace, drank tea, and watched the sunset. No one demanded more of Inna than she was ready to give. No one manipulated, accused, or tried to make her feel guilty.
Before she left, Svetlana Petrovna hugged her daughter:
— “Innochka, you know you can always come back here, don’t you? It’s not only our house now, but yours too.”
— “Thank you, Mom,” Inna hugged her mother tightly in return. “I know.”
Back in the Moscow apartment, Inna felt like a guest. Viktor met her warily, as if expecting a scandal or reproaches. But Inna wasn’t going to scandalize or reproach. She had simply brought a small piece of sea-side calm back into this home.
— “How are your folks?” Viktor tried to sound friendly, but tension leaked through his voice.
— “Great,” Inna smiled. “They really like the house.”
— “Happy for them,” Viktor answered curtly.
That evening they sat in the kitchen, each busy with their own thing. Inna suddenly caught herself thinking: when did Viktor become so alien? Or had he always been this way and she just hadn’t noticed? Once it seemed that the walls of this apartment protected their shared space, their love. Now the walls felt like a prison where two people had accidentally ended up in the same cell.
— “Vic,” Inna called softly. “I want to talk.”
— “About what?” Viktor looked up from his phone.
— “About us. About what happened. You didn’t even apologize.”
— “For what?” Viktor asked, genuinely surprised. “For wanting to help my mother?”
Inna looked at her husband and understood: the person sitting across from her didn’t consider himself guilty. He saw nothing wrong in what he’d done. And he never would.
— “You know,” Inna said with a calm that surprised even herself, “I think we need to separate.”
— “Because of the house?” Viktor frowned. “Seriously?”
— “Not because of the house,” Inna shook her head. “Because you showed who you really are. And I don’t want to live with someone who sees me as a resource—an add-on to his plans.”
Viktor wanted to object, but Inna raised her hand:
— “Don’t. I didn’t betray our family. I simply refused to be a silent add-on to someone else’s decisions. And that’s not up for discussion.”
And in the summer, when Moscow grew stifling from heat and smog, Inna took a vacation and went to the sea for two weeks. To her parents, who met her at the door with hugs and gratitude in their eyes. And sitting on the terrace in the evening, watching the sky darken, Inna thought that sometimes you have to lose something familiar to find what truly matters—respect for yourself.