The rays of the setting sun timidly slipped through the kitchen curtain, painting the wall in soft peach tones. I was standing at the sink, slowly wiping my damp hands on a fluffy terry towel. The water was quietly running down the drain, and in that almost meditative silence a sudden scream rang out. It was so sharp and piercing that even the crystal glasses carefully arranged in the sideboard trembled with a faint, anxious clink, as if warning of an approaching storm.
“Your wife has completely stopped taking anyone else’s opinion into account!” a voice from the living room rang out, cold and sharp as a blade.
For a moment I froze, my fingers involuntarily clutching the towel. My mind refused to believe that this shout was directed at me, that they were talking about me. Then came silence, taut as a string ready to snap at the slightest touch. Her footsteps across the linoleum were short, decisive, filled with boundless disappointment and anger. She burst into the kitchen like a hurricane sweeping everything in its path. On her was an old housecoat with gaudy flowers that she loved, and her eyes blazed with hurt and unjust fury.
“So you’ve decided you can make all the decisions in this family by yourself now?” she snapped out without even bothering with a usual greeting. “I sit there and think: maybe we should just sign the house over to you as well, or are you waiting for me to finally go to my grave so that everything becomes your property?”
I took a deep, slow breath, trying to find the strength to stay calm. I understood perfectly well that our conversation about the dacha plot, the one we supposedly had already settled, had surfaced again. We’d talked about it a few days before, when she had casually, as if in passing, remarked: “You should put the plot in my name. Everyone would feel calmer that way—who knows what can happen in life.” I had laughed it off at the time, changed the subject. But apparently she had decided that my silence wasn’t an answer, but a sign of weakness.
“Galina Petrovna,” I said, putting all my composure and self-control into my voice. “That plot is mine. I bought it before we got married, it’s my personal property.”
“So what?” My mother-in-law threw up her hands theatrically, as if she’d just heard something utterly absurd. “You’re my son’s wife now. Which means everything should be shared, everything should be decided together.”
She took a few steps forward. The faint smell of her perfume mixed with the aroma of fried onions hanging in the air. The strange combination made my head spin slightly.
“We’re one family,” she went on, growing irritation clearly ringing in her voice. “Or do you think my son should be your errand boy, that his word means nothing?”
“I have never thought that, and I don’t think so now,” I replied, doing my best to keep my temper and not rise to the bait. “It’s just that I bought that plot myself, with my own honestly earned money, and it’s registered solely in my name. That’s simply an objective fact, nothing more.”
She snorted loudly and demonstratively, expressing her total contempt for my “facts.”
“A fact, you say? You’d be nothing in this life without my son! He’s the one who gave you stability, he’s the one who gave you a reliable roof over your head!”
“What roof?” I couldn’t hold back, and my voice shook with surging emotion. “We rented an apartment while we were saving together for the down payment on a mortgage! That was our shared goal!”
My mother-in-law widened her eyes, as if I’d said something unthinkable and horrible.
“That’s ingratitude made flesh,” she yelled, addressing the empty hallway. “I do everything for you, give you everything, and you shove me aside like some worthless old thing!”
My husband cautiously peered into the kitchen. His face was pale and sleepy, his hair tousled.
“Mom, why are you making a scene again?” he asked tiredly, his voice creaking like an unoiled door.
“Because your chosen one has completely lost her mind,” my mother-in-law squealed, pointing a trembling finger at me. “She’s rude to me, says she’ll never give up that plot, like it’s some kind of sacred treasure!”
“I’m not giving away something that legally belongs to me,” I repeated, feeling righteous anger boiling up inside. “That’s the whole point of ownership.”
My husband frowned, his brows merging into one dark line.
“Maybe you could at least consider putting it in Mom’s name? It really would be calmer for everyone.”
“And for me?” I asked, my voice quiet but clear. “Who’s going to look after my peace of mind and my confidence in tomorrow?”
He just gave a helpless shrug, avoiding my eyes.
“Why do you need so much land anyway? We only go to the dacha in the summer for a couple of weeks. Mom really needs it more, for her this is a matter of principle.”
That simple phrase hit me harder than any shouted insult. I stood looking at my husband and, for the first time, realized with absolute clarity: that’s his real position. Not my family, not my job, not my work and hopes—Mom needs it more. My mother-in-law smiled with satisfaction, sensing his silent but weighty support.
“You see? My son understands and supports me,” she said triumphantly. “And you just drag everything to yourself. The money, the things, and now even a tiny scrap of land. You’ve really got some nerve.”
I slowly, as if in slow motion, wiped my hands on the towel to hide their trembling and not betray my inner state.
“Galina Petrovna, you’re a stranger to me. I’m sorry for being so blunt, but that’s the harsh truth of life. I am not obliged to give you what belongs to me by law and by right.”
She froze, as if I’d struck her, then suddenly snapped forward like a spring and jabbed her finger into my chest.
“This is what you say to me after everything I’ve done for you, after all my care?”
“Yes,” I replied with icy calm. “Because you constantly and brazenly cross every imaginable boundary.”
“Boundaries?” She laughed, but the laugh was nervous, hoarse and unpleasant. “The nerve of you. You live with my son, use everything we have, and you dare to talk about some boundaries?”
“I’m not freeloading off anyone and I don’t ask you for anything,” I looked straight into her eyes, trying not to blink. “And I’m not going to in the future.”
My husband edged back toward the doorway, his whole posture showing a desperate wish to dissolve, to disappear, just so he wouldn’t be involved in this heavy argument.
“Maybe that’s enough already?” he muttered, staring at the floor. “Stop turning the kitchen into a circus.”
“Circus?” My mother-in-law threw up her hands again, acting utterly outraged. “I’m turning this into a circus? She spits in my face, and you stand there and say nothing, like it has nothing to do with you.” She turned sharply to him. “Son, at least tell her who the real master of this house is.”
He sighed heavily, without looking at either of us.
“Mom, don’t start again, please.”
Suddenly I felt my hands begin to tremble. Not from fear, but from unbearable, accumulated fatigue. This had been going on far too often, becoming a habitual but no less painful ritual. Her endless demands, the constant pressure, his silent consent.
“I’m not going to discuss this anymore,” I said firmly, putting all my will into each syllable. “The plot is mine, and that’s final.”
My mother-in-law exhaled with a hiss, as if preparing to strike.
“Alright, I get it,” she spat through clenched teeth. “Now I see who you really are. No conscience, and not a drop of respect for your elders.”
She gave me a destroying, contemptuous look and left the kitchen, slamming the door so hard the glass rattled. I sank down onto a stool, feeling as if a heavy sack had fallen from my shoulders. My husband silently pulled his phone from his pocket and started scrolling through something, staring into the bright screen.
“You could have been a little softer,” he said quietly, almost in a whisper, without raising his eyes from the phone.
I looked at him and, for the first time, clearly understood that we were living in completely different, non-intersecting worlds.
“Softer? After everything she just said? No, I don’t have any strength left for compromises.”
The next day the house was filled with a dull, unpleasant buzz. From early morning my mother-in-law had convened a proper meeting. In the living room, like on a podium, sat her two closest friends, the neighbor from the first floor, and some distant relative I had never seen before. They all held teacups importantly, crunched on cookies and cast me sympathetic and at the same time judgmental glances. I understood at once—today I would once again become the main enemy of the people, the topic of discussion and the target of general condemnation.
“Tell me, girls,” my mother-in-law began, expertly playing the suffering martyr. “Is it really acceptable to treat your family like this? My very own daughter-in-law lives in my son’s house, uses everything—and now she wants to grab the plot for herself. I’m not a stranger to her, I’m practically a mother.”
Her friends exchanged glances and, as if on cue, nodded in unison.
“Young people these days are so selfish,” one of them remarked knowingly, sipping tea from her saucer. “In the old days women always respected their elders, listened to their opinion, and now the only things they care about are papers and money.”
“And you, Galya, are far too patient and kind,” another chimed in, shaking her head. “If I were in your place, I would have packed her suitcase long ago and put it outside the door so she’d learn her lesson.”
I stood in the doorway, listening to all this, and felt something boiling inside me, rising to my throat in a lump. The words themselves were simple, almost banal, but they cut painfully, like sharp knives. Still, I had firmly decided not to sink to her level, even though that was exactly what she seemed to want— a scandal, a hysterical scene, confirmation that she was right.
“Galina Petrovna,” I said calmly but firmly, stepping closer to the little circle of guests. “Could you please stop airing our private family matters in public? It’s not very decent, and certainly not very ‘family-like’.”
“Oh, I see how it is!” she exclaimed, feigning extreme astonishment. “Now she wants to tell me what I can and cannot say!”
Her friends gasped and tut-tут in chorus, shaking their heads as though I had committed some unforgivable mortal sin.
“How dare you speak like that, young woman?” one of them protested, straightening her back. “Galina Petrovna is older than you, she has life experience, you ought to respect that.”
“And what does that experience consist of?” I couldn’t hold back anymore; the words burst out on their own. “In how skillfully she can claim what belongs to others?”
A heavy, tomb-like silence fell over the living room. Everyone turned to me as if I were a monster that had violated sacred social rules. My mother-in-law flared up like a match, her face flooding with a dark red blush.
“You’re ungrateful and cruel!” she screamed, losing the last remnants of self-control. “I gave you everything! I raised my son, gave you a roof over your heads, and you bare your teeth at me like a little wolf cub!”
I noticed my husband standing in the farthest corner of the room, as if he were trying to become invisible. He saw it all, heard it all, but chose to remain silent. His indifference and detachment burned my soul far worse than the harshest of words.
“Artyom,” I turned to him, trying to get through. “Say something at least. You know this isn’t right or fair.”
He shrugged again, stubbornly keeping his eyes down.
“What can I say? You’re the one provoking the conflict. Mom feels hurt, and you keep arguing and insisting on your own way.”
I froze, feeling the ground slipping from under my feet.
“So you’re saying it’s my fault that I’m trying to defend what legally belongs to me?”
“Just be smarter, wiser,” he muttered, barely audible. “Mom really does care about that plot more than you do. For her it’s a matter of status and peace of mind.”
I felt hot, salty tears rise to my throat. But they weren’t tears of hurt or helplessness. They were from the realization that I was standing absolutely alone against an entire chorus of accusations, and even the person closest to me refused to see how I was being systematically destroyed emotionally. My mother-in-law, meanwhile, continued her well-rehearsed show. She rose solemnly from the chair, pressed a hand to her chest and sighed deeply, theatrically.
“You see, girls, who I have to share my home with. Not a drop of respect, not a grain of conscience—just papers, property and sheer egoism.”
“Be patient, Galya,” the neighbor said with fake wisdom. “Everything in this life comes back like a boomerang. Both good and evil.”
I gave a bitter little laugh, looking at their smug faces.
“Only what a person does themselves comes back,” I replied, my voice firm and confident. “And judging by your rich life experience, you should understand that very well.”
The women started whispering, exchanging glances; one of them sniffed disdainfully, showing her contempt. My mother-in-law turned pale, then suddenly flushed again, stepped right up to me and hissed so only I could hear:
“I will never forgive you for this. Remember that.”
“I don’t need your forgiveness,” I answered calmly. “Just stop interfering in my life and in my property.”
I turned and went back to the kitchen; behind me, the whispers, sighs and head shaking started up again at once. I sat down at the table, poured myself a cup of hot tea and stared out the window. In the courtyard outside, children played carefree, someone laughed loudly. Ordinary everyday life went on as usual, indifferent to our petty squabbles. Only in this house, within these walls, reigned a suffocating atmosphere of poison, mistrust and endless grievances.
When her friends and the neighbors finally left, my mother-in-law looked into the kitchen and said in a cold, distant tone:
“Don’t think this is over. I’ll still get what I want, you know me.”
I said nothing. For the first time in all the months we’d been living together, I felt not a trace of fear of her. Only a calm, granite-hard certainty. I would no longer let anyone run my life or tell me what to do with what is mine by right.
Several days passed, but the silence in the house was heavy, cold and oppressive. My husband barely talked to me, got up early, came home late, and ate dinner in complete silence. My mother-in-law, it seemed, made a point of coming into the kitchen more often “to check” whether everything was alright and whether I needed her help. Every one of her visits ended the same way: thin hints, barbed remarks, heavy, probing looks. I tried not to react, pretended to be completely absorbed in work, cleaning, cooking—anything, just to avoid contact—but inside everything seethed and frothed. Sometimes I wanted to just scream at the top of my lungs: “Leave me alone! Let me just live!” But I knew perfectly well—then she’d get exactly what she wanted. She needed a dramatic scene, a loud scandal, a reason to show everyone that I really was just that—hysterical, ungrateful and unable to live peacefully with others.
On Friday I made a firm decision to go to the dacha, just to clear my head, think alone, pull myself together. I told my husband briefly and dryly, without extra emotion:
“I’m going there for a couple of days. I need to be by myself.”
He didn’t even look up from his smartphone, just nodded.
“Do whatever you think is best. You always do anyway.”
That indifference was the last drop that overflowed the cup of my patience.
When I finally arrived, the plot was filled with a blessed, soothing quiet, broken only by birdsong. The air smelled of fresh soil, dampness and smoke—someone nearby was burning dry branches after winter. On the old wooden bench by the crooked shed lay my forgotten shovel, a little rusty now, but still sturdy and reliable. I ran my hand slowly along the handle and, with sudden clarity, remembered how my father and I had dug the first beds here, and how he used to joke that the earth only loves hard-working and honest people. Back then, in my distant childhood, I’d thought this modest little patch of land was my own inviolable island of peace and safety in the whole world.
I slowly walked around the entire plot, checked the small but cozy house. Everything was in its place, just as I’d left it in autumn. Only a light veil of dust and cobwebs in the corners reminded me that winter had been long and cold. On the kitchen table stood my old thermos, in which I used to leave tea. Now it smelled of metal and stale time. I brewed fresh, fragrant tea and sat by the open window. Gentle spring sunlight filtered through the still bare but ready-to-bud branches of the old apple trees. My soul felt so calm, so light that for the first time in the last week I felt truly alive and free.
But that fragile peace, alas, didn’t last long. My phone suddenly vibrated, shattering the silence. My mother-in-law’s name flashed on the screen.
“So?” she began without any greeting or preamble. “Decided to run away from your problems? Think if you hide at your dacha I’ll calm down and leave you alone?”
“I’m not running away from anyone,” I answered, trying to keep my voice steady. “I just needed some fresh air and time alone.”
“Alone from whom? Your own family?” Her sarcasm was unmistakable. “Or is your conscience bothering you so much that you had to go into hiding?”
“Absolutely nothing is bothering me,” I said with deliberate firmness. “I just want a bit of peace and quiet. That’s my right.”
“I’m afraid you’ll be alone for a very long time,” she laughed sharply, unpleasantly. “Without a husband, without children, without respect or support. Do you really think my son will put up with this for long?”
I said nothing, not wanting to prolong this pointless conversation.
“You’re destroying everything you have with your own hands,” she went on when I didn’t answer. “And then you’ll complain to everyone about your unhappy fate. But it’ll be too late, girl, far too late. Mark my words.”
She abruptly hung up. I sat for a long time staring at the dark phone screen. No tears came, but a heavy knot tightened in my chest. Her words sounded not just like reproach, but like an outright threat—and perhaps that’s exactly what she wanted: to scare me, to force me to back down.
The next day I went out to the gate and was surprised to see that someone had ripped off the little sign with the plot number. A trifle, of course, but it felt unpleasant and worrying. Then I noticed fresh footprints in the earth, as if someone had recently walked along the fence, stamping the grass down. In the evening my dacha neighbor, a woman of about sixty, called me.
“Some woman was looking for you today,” she said. “She was hanging around by your gate, peering in, saying that you’re obligated to hand the land over to her by law. I thought—maybe she’s a relative? Decided to warn you.”
I exhaled heavily, but also with a strange sense of relief.
“Of course she’s a relative. My mother-in-law. She won’t leave me alone even here, at the dacha, even at a distance.”
That same evening I firmly decided to act. I filed an application at the public services office so that all the documents for the plot would be finalized once and for all and no one would even think of disputing them. I had been gathering the paperwork for a long time, I just hadn’t had the time or strength to finish everything—but now I had both.
When I came home, my mother-in-law met me right at the door with a poisonous smirk.
“Well? Get enough fresh air? Or maybe you finally felt ashamed of your behavior?”
“Neither,” I replied with unshakable calm. “I’ve made everything official. Now the plot legally, on paper, belongs only to me, and that matter is closed forever.”
Her face changed instantly, turning into a mask of rage and frustration.
“What do you mean, ‘made everything official’?” she hissed, clenching her fists. “Without telling me? Without the family’s consent?”
“I mean exactly that. It’s now documented and confirmed by law.”
She went pale, then suddenly flushed, the color rushing into her cheeks.
“How dare you?” she screamed, losing control. “I asked you nicely, like family!”
“Nicely?” I echoed. “You’re trying to take away my legal property. Forgive me, but that’s not what I’d call ‘nicely.’”
“You’re my enemy now,” she shouted, hatred blazing in her eyes. “I’ll remember this, don’t you worry—I will remember.”
“And I’ll remember how you tried to take away what I earned with my own hard work.”
My husband stood in the hallway, dark, confused and crushed. He looked at me with reproach and whispered:
“You could at least have talked it over with me before making a decision like that.”
“With whom? With you, so I could hear ‘Mom needs it more’ again?” I cut him off sharply.
He dropped his gaze, unable to meet my eyes.
“You’re putting me in a really awkward position, between two fires.”
“No, Artyom,” I said in an icy calm voice. “It’s your mother who’s putting you between two fires, and you’re just letting her do it without trying to protect either me or our relationship.”
I walked past him and closed the bedroom door behind me. On the other side of the thin wall, I could hear my mother-in-law shouting again, the crash of breaking dishes, accusations and reproaches, but I wasn’t listening anymore. I sat on the bed, holding the freshly issued documents in my hands, and for the first time in many months I felt that I had won not a small skirmish with her, but a great war for myself—for my dignity and my right to manage my own life.
That same evening everything finally exploded. I was quietly making dinner, the kitchen smelled of vanilla and freshly baked pastry, when the door flew open with a crash and my mother-in-law burst in, flushed, her phone shaking in her hand. Her eyes were filled with blood and fury.
“Congratulations,” she hissed, stepping right up to me. “You’ve now officially betrayed our family.”
I slowly set the pot down on the table without even turning fully toward her.
“What has happened this time, Galina Petrovna?”
“Don’t play the innocent lamb with me!” she screamed, her voice sliding into a shriek. “You’re turning everyone against me! You’re twisting my son’s head, forging documents to humiliate me!”
“I haven’t forged anything,” I replied, deliberately calm. “Everything has been done completely legally, in full accordance with the law.”
“Legally?” She slammed her fist on the table hard enough to make the dishes rattle. “I’m his mother, do you understand? His mother! And you’ve made it look as if I’m some thief trying to steal from you!”
My husband came into the kitchen behind her. His face was tense, but he stayed silent, not knowing what to say. He tried to gently take his mother by the arm and lead her away, but she snatched her hand back, waving her arms like a windmill.
“Son, just look what she’s done!” my mother-in-law cried, turning to him. “She wanted to take the plot away from us, and now she’s trying to destroy our happy family too!”
“Mom, calm down, please,” he said softly, without conviction. “Nothing terrible has happened, everything can be solved peacefully.”
“Nothing?” she whirled on him, pointing at me. “You allowed this! She manipulates you like a puppet, and all you do is go along with it!”
I felt everything inside me go cold, hard and unmoving. In those moments she wasn’t just angry or offended. She was enjoying the chaos, the discord. She liked fanning the flames, watching us fight, watching our relationship fall apart.
“Galina Petrovna,” I said loudly and clearly, cutting through her screams. “Enough. I will no longer let you insult me in my own home.”
“In your home?” she laughed bitterly. “Who gave you this house? My son! This is all ours, a family home!”
“You’re mistaken,” I looked her straight in the eye without blinking. “It’s shared only as long as I allow you to be here.”
A heavy, deathly silence fell. My husband lowered his head, as if trying to hide. My mother-in-law stood there, breathing hard like a cornered animal, then suddenly exhaled sharply, with a sob.
“Alright. So you’re throwing me out of my own home.”
“I’m just asking you to leave, at least for a while, so we can all calm down and collect ourselves.”
“I see,” her voice broke, becoming hoarse and rasping. “So I’m in your way. I’m just extra here.”
“Yes,” I answered simply and honestly. “You’re keeping me from living peacefully and happily.”
She turned white as a sheet. Then, without another word, she grabbed her bag that was standing by the door and strode into the hallway.
“I won’t leave it like this,” she threw over her shoulder at the doorway. “You’ll regret ever getting mixed up with our family. Bitterly and deeply regret it.”
The door slammed so loudly the glass rattled again. My husband and I stood in the middle of the kitchen in ringing silence. He stared at the closed door for a long time, then slowly turned to me, confusion and pain in his eyes.
“You really couldn’t find another way? Without such harsh measures?”
“I could have,” I answered honestly. “But then absolutely nothing would have changed. Everything would have stayed exactly the same.”
He sighed heavily, raggedly, rubbing his face with his hand.
“I don’t know what to do now, how to live after this. Everything is falling apart.”
“You just need to decide,” I said quietly but distinctly. “Whose side are you on? Your mother’s or your wife’s? Unfortunately, there is no third option.”
He didn’t answer, just dropped his head even lower. I silently set the table, put out plates and cutlery. The food had already gone cold, but its smell was still warm and comforting. I lit a candle and began to eat slowly, almost mechanically, feeling a strange, unfamiliar calm settle over me. It wasn’t joy, not gloating, not a sense of victory. It was simply silence—long-awaited, deep silence after a long, exhausting storm. Somewhere deep down I understood very well: tomorrow it might all start again. Phone calls, reproaches, new attempts to pressure me, to demand explanations. But now I knew one thing: I wouldn’t break this time, and I wouldn’t back down. I had my inner strength and, most importantly, the legal right to choose who I live with, whom I listen to, and how I manage my own life. And I would never give that right up to anyone, ever again.
Beautiful ending:
Several months passed. On the very same dacha plot I had once fought for, the apple trees were now in full bloom, filling everything around with a tender, sweet fragrance. I sat on that same old bench by the shed, but now in my hands there wasn’t a phone with anxious messages—there was a cup of warm tea. And next to me, on a blanket, our little son with Artyom played happily.
That old conflict had become a harsh but necessary lesson for us. After many long reflections and honest conversations, my husband finally realized that a real family is not blind obedience, but partnership, respect and protecting each other’s boundaries. Galina Petrovna hadn’t suddenly turned into a different person, but she had learned to keep her distance, having understood that her son had grown up and built his own separate life.
Sometimes on Sundays she comes to visit, and we drink tea together, chatting about neutral things. I look at the little boy playing nearby and feel that the storm has passed—not breaking us, but tempering us. And most importantly, it taught me that you cannot build happiness on someone else’s constant concessions. You can only grow it on your own piece of land, enriched with respect for yourself and for those who are truly close.
And now, watching the apple blossoms spinning in the air, I know: we’ve found our world.
And it is beautiful