“Where do you think you’re going?! You have guests here!” the mother-in-law exclaimed in surprise, but received the kind of answer she deserved.
Anna carefully pulled back the curtain and looked out the window. A familiar white Logan pulled up to the gate, followed by two more cars. The girl’s heart sank with frustration. Again.
“Seryozha,” she called to her husband, who was fixing the faucet in the kitchen. “Your mother is here. And she’s not alone.”
Sergey peeked out from behind the table, wiping his hands on a towel.
“Again? We agreed with her that she would warn us.”
Anna gave a bitter smile. Agreed… As if Valentina Petrovna had ever kept an agreement when it concerned someone else’s interests.
Just six months ago everything had been different. Her mother-in-law would occasionally call on holidays, sometimes drop by their city apartment, but always kept her distance. Anna even thought she wasn’t particularly fond of her. And that was tolerable — they lived their own lives, and Valentina Petrovna lived hers.
Everything changed when Anna’s grandmother died and left her a small country house in a picturesque spot by the river. The house was modest but cozy, with a veranda draped in grapevines, an apple orchard, and neat garden beds. Since childhood, Anna had spent summers there and loved the place dearly.
Barely a week after the inheritance papers were signed, Valentina Petrovna showed up at the dacha.
“I decided to visit my son,” she announced, stepping into the house without an invitation. “To see how you’ve settled in.”
Anna was a well-mannered young woman. She set the table, brewed tea, and brought out homemade jam. Valentina Petrovna was pleased.
“You see how hospitable you can be when you want to,” she praised her daughter-in-law. “That’s how you should welcome guests.”
The next time, the mother-in-law arrived with her sister. Then with a neighbor from her building. Then with three girlfriends at once. Each time she declared she was coming to see her son, but it was Anna who had to host and entertain the guests.
“Anya, dear,” Valentina Petrovna would say, settling into a wicker chair on the veranda, “could you put on some tea? And something to go with it. You must have something tasty.”
Anna would put the kettle on, cut the pie she had baked for herself and her husband, fetch jars of the jam she had preserved. The guests would praise the treats, marvel at the view of the river, while Valentina Petrovna nodded with importance, as though it were all her doing.
“The place here is wonderful,” she would say. “And the house is a fine one. You really got lucky with this inheritance, didn’t you, Anya?”
After such visits, Anna would clear the table, wash the cups, sweep the veranda, and think how yet another of her days off had slipped away, nothing like she had planned. Instead of reading in the hammock or weeding the beds, she played the role of waitress for uninvited guests.
Sergey sympathized with his wife but hesitated to take any real action.
“What do you want?” he would say. “She’s my mother. And besides, they only stay for a couple of hours.”
“A couple of hours?” Anna bristled. “Yesterday they were here from half past ten until seven in the evening! I spent the whole day running around after them! Cook this, carry that, bring this!”
“You exaggerate,” Sergey waved her off. “So you put on tea, so you set out a few things. Not such hard work.”
But Anna knew all too well how much work it was. Setting a table for five, then clearing it all away, washing the dishes, airing out the rooms filled with cigarette smoke (her mother-in-law’s friends smoked), gathering and taking out the trash. And on top of that, listening to endless lectures on how to run the household properly, what flowers to plant, and how spoiled young people were these days.
The advice was the worst. Valentina Petrovna loved giving instructions.
“Anya, why is your table so messy? I always keep mine spotless.”
“Anya, why haven’t you trimmed the roses? It’s August already — time to do it.”
“Anya, isn’t it time you thought about having a child? Sergey is already thirty.”
Anna kept silent at that last remark, though inside she was seething. What business was it of her mother-in-law what plans she and her husband had? And what right did she have to dictate anything in a house that wasn’t hers?
But the most unpleasant part was that Valentina Petrovna clearly considered the dacha something like family property. She would tell her friends about how wonderful “their” place was, how cozy “their” house, how beautiful “their” garden. “Our dacha,” “our plot,” “our house” — she spoke as if she had forgotten that the place had come to Anna as an inheritance from her grandmother.
And now today the story was repeating itself again. In the morning Anna had planned to weed the garden beds, then take a swim in the river and read her new book. Instead, she was once again expected to entertain her mother-in-law and her friends.
“Maybe we should go out to them?” Sergey suggested, buttoning his shirt. “At least say hello.”
“Go,” Anna replied curtly. “I’m busy.”
Deliberately, she pulled a swimsuit and a beach towel from the closet. It was hot outside, the river promised refreshing coolness, and Anna had firmly decided that today she would do what she had planned.
The voices on the veranda grew louder. Valentina Petrovna was explaining something to her friends, who gasped and admired noisily. Then footsteps followed, and Sergey entered the house.
“Mom says they’re hungry after the trip,” he reported in a guilty tone. “Maybe you could make something?”
But Anna stuffed the swimsuit into her beach bag and resolutely headed for the door.
“Where do you think you’re going?! You have guests here!” her mother-in-law exclaimed in surprise, appearing in the doorway.
Anna stopped and slowly turned around. Valentina Petrovna stood with an outraged expression, and behind her loomed the curious faces of her companions.
“Guests?” Anna repeated, her voice edged with steel. “Guests are those who are invited. Guests are those who are expected. Guests are those who ask permission before they come. But people who show up unannounced, as if it were their own home, and demand to be served — those are not guests. Those are freeloaders.”
Valentina Petrovna opened her mouth in indignation, but Anna didn’t let her interrupt.
“You want to know where I’m going? I’m going swimming. To the river, next to my house, which I inherited from my grandmother. And you, Valentina Petrovna, may treat your friends to whatever you like — but at your own expense and with your own hands. There’s sausage and cheese at the store nearby, you’ll find bread there too, and anything else you want. The tea is in the cupboard. Don’t be shy!”
“How dare you…”
“How dare I?” Anna took a step forward, and her mother-in-law instinctively stepped back. “And how dare you come here every weekend with your friends and turn my house into a free resort? How dare you dictate my time, my food, my home? How dare you lie to your acquaintances, telling them this is your dacha?…”
Valentina Petrovna’s friends exchanged glances. One of them coughed awkwardly.
“Valya, maybe we really did come at the wrong time…”
“Nonsense!” Valentina Petrovna protested quickly, but her voice no longer carried its former confidence. “We’re family! Anya is just tired, that’s why she’s talking nonsense.”
“Nonsense?” Anna laughed, but the laugh was joyless. “Nonsense is thinking you can take advantage of someone else’s kindness all your life without consequences. Nonsense is believing that if someone stays silent once, they will stay silent forever. Nonsense is promising your friends a good vacation at someone else’s expense.”
The last line struck home. Valentina Petrovna flushed, while her companions looked at her with curiosity.
“So this isn’t your dacha?” one of them asked.
“Of course it is ours!” Valentina Petrovna blurted. “I mean… it’s a family dacha… my son—”
“My son has nothing to do with it,” Anna cut her off firmly. “This dacha belongs to me. To me alone. And I am the one who decides who is welcome here.”
She walked toward the gate but turned back before leaving.
“By the way, Valentina Petrovna. Tell Sergey that if he wants dinner, he’ll find me by the big stone down the river. And as for you, I ask that you leave my house before I return.”
“Anna!” Sergey called after her, but his wife was already gone through the gate.
The walk to the river took about ten minutes through a small pine grove. Anna walked briskly, feeling the tension slip away with every step. At last, she had said everything she needed to say. At last, she had put her mother-in-law in her place.
At the water’s edge it was quiet and cool. Anna undressed, stepped into the river, and swam toward the middle. The water was warm from the August sun, the current gently embraced her body. She rolled onto her back and gazed up at the sky, where white clouds drifted lazily.
About an hour later, Sergey appeared on the bank. He sat down on the grass beside his wife’s things and remained silent for a long time.
“They left,” he said finally.
“All of them?” Anna asked, climbing out of the water.
“All of them. Mom said she won’t come here again. That you insulted and humiliated her in front of people.”
Anna dried herself with a towel but said nothing.
“And her friends asked why I didn’t tell them this was your dacha,” Sergey continued. “I felt embarrassed.”
“You felt embarrassed?” Anna turned to her husband. “And how do you think I felt every weekend, turning into a servant? How do you think I felt, listening to your mother claim my house as her own?”
Sergey sighed.
“You’re right. I should have stepped in earlier. I’m sorry.”
They sat on the riverbank, listening to the water lapping and the reeds rustling. The sun was dipping toward the horizon, painting the sky pink.
“You know,” Anna said, “I never wanted to hurt her. But I couldn’t bear it anymore. Better she thinks I’m a bad daughter-in-law than for me to end up hating her for what she does to my life.”
“She won’t come again,” Sergey repeated. “She definitely won’t.”
Anna nodded. There was a touch of sadness—their relationship with her mother-in-law was irreparably damaged. But there was also relief. For the first time in many months, she could plan her weekends without fear that a white Logan full of hungry guests would drive into the yard at any moment.
“Shall we go home?” Sergey suggested. “I’ll cook dinner.”
“All right,” Anna agreed. “But first I’ll call my mom. I’ll tell her we’re coming over tomorrow. Just like that—I’ll call and ask if it’s okay. The way polite people do.”
Sergey smiled.
“Message received.”
They walked home along the forest path, hand in hand. The dacha greeted them with silence and peace. On the veranda lay rumpled cushions on the chairs and a few cigarette butts in the ashtray—the only traces of the recent visitors.
Anna cleared away the butts and fluffed the cushions. Tomorrow she would tend to the garden beds, just as she had planned. The day after, she would pick up the new book she had long wanted to read. Or maybe she would invite her friend Olga—the one who always called ahead and always brought something for tea.
Real guests. Welcome guests.
That evening, as they sat on the veranda drinking tea, Anna thought about how sometimes one must gather the courage to say “no.” Even if it seems rude, even if it offends someone—your right to your own life is worth more than anyone else’s approval.
Valentina Petrovna never came to the dacha again. Sometimes they met in the city, at family gatherings, and her mother-in-law behaved with pointed coldness. But that didn’t upset Anna. She had her own dacha, her own weekends, and her own right to decide whom she allowed into her life.
And the right to say “no”—that too is part of happiness.
