“What are you doing here? We didn’t think you’d show up,” muttered her sister-in-law in confusion when she saw Rita standing on the threshold of her own dacha.
Rita switched off the engine and looked at the little country house through the windshield. It seemed nothing had changed—the same blue roof, the same birch trees along the fence, the same gate her father had once painted green. Only one thing was strange: the veranda light was on. Maybe the neighbors? But… the neighbors knew Rita hadn’t been here for almost a year.
She reached for her bag in the back seat—and froze. Someone was walking across the yard. A figure flitted between the apple trees, then appeared again, closer to the house. A woman in a tank top and shorts, carrying a child.
“What the hell…” murmured Rita, getting out of the car.
She walked up to the gate and stopped short. Voices, laughter, the clink of dishes drifted from inside the house. Children’s clothes were drying on the veranda. Under the awning stood bicycles—two adult and one child-sized. And the gate… the gate wasn’t locked. Rita pushed it; the latch gave easily with its familiar creak.
Her feet carried her to the porch. One thought hammered in her head: someone is living in the house. In her house. The front door was unlocked too. In the hallway, she nearly tripped over a pair of children’s sandals. Coats hung on the hooks that weren’t hers, in the corner stood two large suitcases and a basket full of toys.
Her heart pounded in her throat. She listened: from the kitchen came a woman’s voice talking about a walk in the forest tomorrow, then children’s laughter, the rattle of dishes. The smell of fried potatoes and dill filled the air.
“Mom, can we go to the river tomorrow?” rang out a boy’s clear voice.
“We’ll see, Artyomka. If it doesn’t rain…”
Rita stepped toward the kitchen. Another step. On the threshold she froze.
At the table sat a man of about thirty-five in a checkered shirt. Beside him a woman of similar age, fair hair tied in a ponytail. A little girl of about three perched on her lap, while across from them a slightly older boy was animatedly waving a fork, telling some story.
The woman noticed Rita first. Her face instantly went slack, eyes widening. A teacup slipped from her hands and shattered on the floor.
“What are you doing here?” the woman stammered. “We didn’t think you’d show up…”
Rita recognized the voice. Inna. Her ex-husband’s sister. The sister-in-law who had always been kind and welcoming—back when Rita was married to Viktor. After the divorce she had quickly begun avoiding her.
“Inna?” Rita’s voice came out hoarse, unnatural. “What are you doing here?”
The man—Inna’s husband, apparently—slowly rose from the table, face red, embarrassed. The children fell silent, staring curiously at the unfamiliar aunt.
“Rita…” the man began. “We thought… I mean, Vitya said you don’t come here anymore. That the dacha was just standing empty.”
“Vitya said?” Heat rushed to Rita’s face. “And what else did Vitya say?”
Inna bent down to pick up the broken cup, still holding her daughter in her arms. The child sniffled and buried her face in her mother’s shoulder.
“Well… we didn’t think…” Inna spoke quickly, nervously. “It’s just our vacation, and renting a place is expensive. Vitya said the keys were still around from when we used to come together. Remember? For your birthday three years ago we came…”
“The keys were still around,” Rita repeated slowly. “And you decided you could just move into my house?”
“We would have asked,” Inna’s husband added hastily. “But your phone… we didn’t know how to reach you.”
Rita blinked rapidly. Did they really believe the problem was only that they hadn’t asked? That if they had, she would have gladly let them stay in her house?
“How long have you been here?” Rita asked.
“A week,” Inna said softly. “We planned to stay another ten days…”
“Ten days,” Rita echoed.
A heavy silence filled the kitchen. The boy carefully set down his fork, glancing sideways at his parents. The little girl in Inna’s arms began to whimper—sensing the tension.
“Listen, Rita,” Inna’s husband began. “We didn’t mean any harm. The house was just sitting empty anyway. We’ve cleaned, watered the flowers, even mowed the grass. It’s not worse than before.”
“Not worse?” Rita’s voice cracked into a sharp note. “You broke into my house without asking, live here as if it’s yours, and you say ‘not worse’?”
“We didn’t break in!” Inna protested. “Vitya had the keys! We thought…”
“Thought what?” Rita cut her off. “That I died? That the house belonged to no one?”
Inna hugged her daughter tighter. Her face had gone pale.
“You don’t understand,” Inna whispered, her voice trembling. “We only get two weeks’ vacation a year. We can’t afford rent. The kids were so looking forward to the dacha…”
“And what has that got to do with me?” Rita stepped into the kitchen. The whole family instinctively edged toward the far wall. “This is my house! Mine! I inherited it from my father!”
“We know,” muttered Inna’s husband. “We just thought…”
“Thought what? That you could take what isn’t yours?”
The boy suddenly burst into loud sobs. Rita flinched and looked at him. A skinny kid of about eight, with unruly hair sticking out in all directions. Tears streamed down his cheeks, his lips trembling.
“Mom, are we going home now?” the boy whimpered. “But what about the river? And the bike rides?”
Rita’s heart clenched. The children weren’t to blame. They just wanted a holiday in the countryside. But… but this was her house! Her only place where she could find peace and quiet.
“Rita,” Inna spoke softly. “Please… Let us stay just a few more days. We’ve already planned everything, bought groceries for the whole week. The kids were so happy…”
“And where am I supposed to live?” Rita asked. “On the street?”
“The house is big,” Inna’s husband offered timidly. “There are plenty of rooms. We can squeeze in…”
Rita shot him a look that silenced him immediately.
“Squeeze in? In my own house?”
She glanced around the kitchen. On the table stood unfamiliar plates, in the sink lay someone else’s dishes. On the windowsill a bouquet of wildflowers bloomed in a vase Rita remembered from her childhood. On the stove simmered a pot of potatoes, giving off a mouthwatering smell.
They had settled in thoroughly. As if this were their rightful home, and not someone else’s property.
“Where’s Vitya?” Rita suddenly asked.
Inna and her husband exchanged glances.
“Vitya?” Inna repeated. “Why do you need him?”
“Because the keys were his. And apparently, he gave you permission too.”
“Vitya’s in the city,” Inna replied reluctantly. “He’s busy with his own affairs.”
“Uh-huh. His own affairs.” Rita gave a humorless smile. “And handing out someone else’s house—that doesn’t count as his affairs, does it?”
The little girl in Inna’s arms began to whimper again. The boy was still sniffling, his face buried in his shirt sleeve.
“Rita, please,” Inna pleaded. “We’re family. Once, we were close. Can’t you find it in your heart?”
“Family?” Rita frowned. “We were only family while I was married to your brother. After the divorce, what kind of family are we?”
“But still…”
“No ‘buts,’” Rita cut her off. “And what does it matter anyway? Even if we were family, that doesn’t give you the right to take over someone else’s property!”
Inna set her daughter down on the floor and straightened up. There was a new expression in her eyes—stubborn, resolute.
“You know what, Rita,” Inna said in a tone Rita had never heard from her before. “Of course you can throw us out. But think about it: the house stood empty for a year. We aired it out, cleaned it up, tended the garden. Maybe it’s time you stopped being so… stingy?”
Rita froze on the spot, blinking, unsure how to react.
“Stingy?” she repeated once she found her voice again. “I’m stingy because I don’t let strangers live in my own house?…”
“We’re not strangers!” Inna flared up. “We’ve known each other for so many years! And besides, what difference does it make to you? You don’t live here anyway!”
“And how do you know I don’t live here?” Rita’s voice grew quieter, more dangerous. “What if I was planning to move here for the whole summer?”
“Planning?” Inna snorted. “Like you planned last year? And the year before that?”
Rita clenched her fists. Inna’s audacity was staggering. First she had moved into someone else’s house without permission, and now she was telling the owner why she had no right to be outraged.
“Listen to me carefully,” Rita said slowly. “Tomorrow morning you pack your things and leave. That’s it. No discussions.”
“Rita, have you completely lost your mind?” Inna stepped forward, eyes flashing with anger. “How can you do this?”
“I’ve lost my mind?” Rita laughed, but it came out shrill, hysterical. “You’ve taken over my house, living here like the owners—and I’m the crazy one?”
The boy began to cry loudly again, this time joined by the little girl. The wailing of children filled the kitchen, echoing off the walls and ceiling.
“See what you’ve done!” Inna shouted, trying to be heard over the sobs. “Happy now?”
Rita looked at the crying children and felt a tight, painful knot form inside her. On the one hand, she pitied them. On the other—why should she be the one to pay for their parents’ brazenness?
“This is your doing,” Rita said. “Not mine.”
“We just wanted to rest!” Inna cried, picking up her sobbing daughter. “Is that really so terrible?”
“Rest if you want, but not in my house!”
“Where then?” Inna’s husband shouted. “Where are we supposed to rest? We can’t afford to rent! My salary is small, we have loans, a mortgage! We saved all year for this vacation!”
“Still not my problem,” Rita snapped.
But something in the man’s voice made her look at him more closely. His face was weary, dark circles under his eyes. His shirt was faded, patched at the sleeves. And Inna… Inna didn’t look much better. Her clothes weren’t new, her hair looked unevenly cut, clearly done at home.
“Rita,” Inna began quietly, rocking her daughter in her arms. “Try to understand. The kids looked forward to the dacha all year. We promised them…”
“You promised them with someone else’s house?” Rita cut her off. “What next—promise them someone else’s car too?”
“That’s not the same!”
“Why not? The principle’s the same—taking what doesn’t belong to you.”
Inna suddenly sank onto a chair and covered her face with her hands. Her shoulders shook.
“I just…” Inna sobbed. “I’m so tired of everything. Of work, of never having enough money, of not being able to give the kids anything. When Vitya suggested coming here, it seemed like a way out. Two weeks to live like normal people…”
Rita stood there, looking at her crying sister-in-law, the weeping children, the bewildered man, and didn’t know what to do. Pity wrestled with outrage, and outrage was still winning.
But the sight before her was pitiful: a family that couldn’t afford a proper holiday and so resorted to occupying someone else’s house. Yet—did that excuse anything? Did poverty grant the right to other people’s property?
“Inna,” Rita said at last.
The woman raised her tear-reddened eyes.
“What?”
“Where do you work? And how much do you earn?”
Inna wiped her nose on her sleeve.
“I’m a kindergarten teacher. Sergey works as a mechanic at the factory. I make fifty-two thousand, Sergey sixty-eight.”
“That’s over a hundred thousand for the family,” Rita calculated. “Not bad.”
“Not bad?” Inna let out a bitter laugh. “The mortgage is forty-five thousand a month. Utilities—eight. Kindergarten—twelve. Food, clothes, medicine… By the end of the month there are only pennies left.”
“And that gives you the right to take someone else’s house?”
“We didn’t take it!” Sergey shot back. “Vitya gave us the keys! He said you wouldn’t mind!”
“Vitya said?” Rita raised her brows. “And since when does Vitya have the authority to dispose of my property?”
“Well… he is your ex-husband…”
“Exactly. Ex. He has no rights to this house.”
Sergey opened his mouth, but Rita cut him off:
“Enough. This conversation is over. I’m tired and I want to rest in my house. You’re leaving today. Period.”
“Rita…”
“That’s it. Conversation’s finished.”
Rita turned and walked out of the kitchen. In the hallway she stopped, listening to the muffled voices. Inna whispering to her husband, his low reply, the children still sniffling.
Ahead lay a long night in her own house, taken over by strangers. And tomorrow morning…
Rita entered the bedroom—her bedroom—and saw children’s things on the bed. Tiny dresses, shorts, socks. On the nightstand stood a water bottle and a pile of children’s books. Everything about the room said Inna’s children slept there.
“Excuse me,” came a timid voice behind her.
Rita turned. In the doorway stood Sergey, looking guilty.
“Should we… should we start packing?” the man asked.
“Pack,” Rita answered curtly. “Right now.”
“But where… where will we spend the night? There are no hotels nearby.”
“I don’t know. That’s your problem.”
Sergey lingered a moment longer, then slipped away quietly. From the kitchen came muffled voices and the rustle of belongings. Rita sat on the edge of the bed and looked out the window. It was already dark outside, lights glowing in the neighbors’ houses.
Maybe she really was being harsh? The children weren’t to blame. And Inna and her husband… perhaps they really did believe nothing was wrong. But no. No, no, and again no. This was her house, and no one had the right to use it without her permission.
Half an hour later, the family was ready to leave. The children had jackets pulled over their pajamas, Inna shoved the last of the children’s clothes into a bag. Sergey silently hauled the suitcases to the car.
“Rita,” Inna called when everything was packed. “Really, couldn’t you let us stay the night? We’ll leave first thing in the morning, I promise.”
“No,” Rita replied. “Leave right now.”
“The children are exhausted! Artyomka was cycling half the day, and Lizka is still so little! Where can we go at this hour?”
“You should’ve thought about that earlier.”
Inna pressed her lips together and headed for the door. At the threshold she turned:
“Fine, be that way! That’s why you live alone.”
The door slammed shut. Rita went to the window and watched as the family loaded into their old car. Artyomka cried, refusing to get in. Lizka fussed in her father’s arms. Inna spoke sharply to her husband, waving her hands angrily.
At last the car started and rolled slowly down the path. The red glow of the taillights flickered between the trees and disappeared. Rita locked the gate with the bolt and went back inside.
Silence. At last—silence.
But her heart was uneasy. She walked through the rooms, gathering the children’s forgotten things—a hair clip, a rubber ball, a coloring book. In the bathroom, toothbrushes and a tube of children’s toothpaste sat on the shelf. In the fridge she found milk, yogurt, fruit.
All of it would have to go. Or maybe she’d give it to the neighbors.
Rita went to bed late, tossing and turning, listening for every sound. What if Inna’s family came back? What if they had another set of keys?
In the morning, the first thing Rita did was call a locksmith. The man arrived within an hour—a sturdy fellow in his fifties with a toolbox.
“Changing the locks?” he asked.
“Both. The gate and the front door.”
“Got it. Someone else still has the old keys?”
“They do. That’s why we’re changing them.”
The locksmith nodded with understanding and got to work. Two hours later, everything was done. New locks, new keys—Rita’s alone. Even if her ex-husband still had the old ones tucked away somewhere, they’d be useless now.
“Good locks,” the locksmith said as he accepted payment. “Strong. No breaking or picking them.”
“Thank you.”
When he left, Rita went through the house again. In the kitchen, unwashed cups stood on the table, dishes with porridge remnants lay in the sink. In the children’s room a pair of socks was left under the bed. In the bathroom, a towel with cartoon characters hung on the hook.
All of it—traces of strangers in her home. Rita methodically gathered everything into garbage bags. Food from the fridge into a separate bag—she’d give it to the neighbor. She rewashed the dishes, though they already looked clean. She wiped down the floors with disinfectant.
By noon, the house once again felt like itself. No trace of uninvited guests.
Rita went out to the yard and looked over the garden. It was true—the grass was mowed, the bushes tied up. Inna and her husband hadn’t lied; they had tended the plot. But did that give them the right to settle here without permission?
In the shed Rita found an old wooden sign left from her father. Once it had the name of some apple variety written on it. She scraped off the faded letters and carefully painted new ones: “Private Property. No Entry Without Permission.”
She nailed the sign to the gate in plain sight. Let everyone know—the owner lived here, and no one was welcome without her consent.
The phone rang closer to evening. An unfamiliar number.
“Hello?”
“Rita, it’s Inna.”
“What do you want?”
“We… we spent the whole night in the car. The kids caught cold. Artyomka’s coughing, and Lizka has a fever.”
Rita was silent for a moment. She felt sorry for the children, but…
“And what do you want me to say?”
“Maybe you could let us in for a couple of days? Just until the kids get better?”
“No.”
“Rita, how can you? The children are sick!”
“Go home. Treat them there.”
“You… you’re heartless!” Inna’s voice shook with tears. “How can you be so cruel?”
“I’m protecting my property. Next time, try asking permission before moving into someone else’s house.”
“We thought…”
“You should’ve thought sooner.”
Rita hung up and blocked Inna’s number. No more calls came.
On Sunday morning Viktor arrived. Her ex-husband looked older than three years ago, with new wrinkles around his eyes and gray at his temples. His clothes were sloppy—wrinkled jeans, a faded T-shirt.
“Rita, open up,” Viktor called, knocking on the gate. “We need to talk.”
Rita stepped outside but didn’t unlock it.
“Say what you came to say from there.”
“Inna called. She told me you kicked them out.”
“And?”
“What do you mean and? The children are sick because of you!”
“Because of me?” Rita laughed. “Was it me who gave them permission to move into my house?”
“I thought you wouldn’t mind…”
“You thought? And you couldn’t ask?”
Viktor shifted uneasily at the gate.
“Well, sorry. I really thought you’d take it calmly. The house was just standing empty anyway.”
“Empty doesn’t mean ownerless.”
“I get that! But Inna and the kids… They only get one vacation a year. They can’t afford rent.”
“And I’ll repeat it once again—that’s not my problem.”
“Rita, be human! Let them in.”
“No.”
“What happened to you? You weren’t like this before!”
“Before, people didn’t seize my house.”
Viktor lingered a little longer, then waved his hand and left. He never came back.
A week passed. Rita visited the dacha every weekend, sometimes staying for several days. The house gradually came back to life—she painted the fence, refreshed the porch, planted new flowers in the flowerbeds.
At first, the neighbors were surprised—Rita had rarely shown up before, and now suddenly she was there often. But they quickly got used to it. They greeted her over the fence, sometimes dropped by for gardening advice.
“What about that family who lived here?” asked her neighbor, Valentina Ivanovna, one day.
“What family?”
“The one with the children. They used to ride bikes, go into the woods.”
“Ah, them. They left.”
“That’s a shame. They were nice people. The kids were well-behaved.”
Rita said nothing. Let the neighbor think what she wanted.
A month later, Rita noticed a new lock on the shed gate. Someone had tried to get in—the lock was scratched, the soil around the door freshly disturbed. Apparently, Inna and her husband had hoped to find spare keys to the house.
They hadn’t. There were no spares.
Another week later, Rita installed surveillance cameras on the property. Two of them—one at the gate, another at the front door. Now any attempt to break in would be recorded.
By the end of the summer, the dacha was transformed. Rita had internet installed, bought new furniture for the living room, and set up a work corner. Now she could come not only on weekends but also work remotely.
The house became a home again, not an abandoned building anyone could take over. Most importantly, Rita no longer feared arriving to find strangers inside. New locks, cameras—all of it gave her a sense of safety and control over her own life.
Inna never called again. Viktor never came back. Apparently, they had finally understood: the days of using someone else’s property for free were over.
