They installed a camera borrowed from the neighbors, but accidentally found out what the mother-in-law was doing in their absence — and immediately drove her off the dacha.

They installed a camera borrowed from the neighbors, but accidentally found out what the mother-in-law was doing in their absence — and immediately drove her off the dacha.

When Galina Fyodorovna announced that she was handing over the garden plot to her son, Anton at first didn’t believe her. For thirty years his mother had fussed over those six hundred square meters, taking the commuter train there every weekend with heavy bags, lugging watering cans, digging in the soil until dark. And now she suddenly said, “Take it, children. It’s gotten too hard for me.”

“Mom, are you serious?” Anton asked again, glancing at his wife Olya, who was sitting at the kitchen table with a doubtful smile.

“Serious, sonny. My back aches, my blood pressure is up. And it’ll be good for you and Olya — fresh air, a break from the city.”

Olya nodded, but in her eyes flashed that same caution Anton had learned to read in ten years of marriage. His wife could enjoy gifts, but always expected a catch.

“And how will we handle the paperwork?” she asked practically.

“It’s simple,” waved the mother-in-law. “The plot’s in the gardening association; the chairman knows us. We’ll re-register it in Anton’s name, and that’s that.”

A month later they became the official owners of the plot in the Rassvet gardening cooperative. Anton remembered this place from childhood — the leaning fence, the old cottage with a veranda, the vegetable beds his mother divided with German precision: carrots, beets, potatoes, tomatoes. And the flowerbeds — a whole collection of blooms planted in old car tires painted yellow and red.

“You know,” Olya said when they came there for the first time as owners, “you could really make it pretty here.”

Anton looked over the plot with fresh eyes. Yes, it was a good spot. The forest nearby, clean air, only an hour’s drive from the city. They could truly fix it up.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, not digging up vegetables forever. Put in a lawn, set up garden furniture, maybe build a gazebo. We could come with friends in the summer and grill kebabs.”

Anton imagined the picture and realized he liked the idea. Their city apartment was cramped, but here they could spread out, create something of their own.

The neighbors — Valentina Ivanovna on the left and Klavdiya Petrovna on the right — greeted the new owners with poorly concealed displeasure. Both were Galina Fyodorovna’s contemporaries; the three of them had been friends, endlessly chatting over the fence about seedlings, pests, and watering.

“And where’s Galya?” asked Valentina Ivanovna when Anton and Olya began clearing the clutter in the shed.

“Mom gave us the plot,” Anton explained. “It’s hard for her to come now.”

“Really?” the neighbor drawled suspiciously. “And what about the beds — will you just abandon them?”

“We’ll see,” Olya answered evasively.

The women exchanged glances as if they’d heard something extremely suspicious.

By the end of the first month, Anton and Olya knew they wanted to radically transform the plot. They sowed lawn over most of the land, leaving just a small corner for herbs and a couple of apple trees. They painted the cottage a pleasant sky-blue, installed new windows, refreshed the veranda. They bought stylish garden furniture, strung garlands between the trees, and planted neat perennial flowerbeds.

“It’s turning out beautiful,” Olya said, admiring the result of their work.

Anton agreed. For the first time in many years he felt he was creating something truly his own.

The neighbors watched the changes with open horror. Valentina Ivanovna often came to the fence, peered at what was happening, and shook her head. Klavdiya Petrovna was more blunt — she openly criticized every innovation.

“Why sow lawn? Useless,” she said. “You’d be better off planting potatoes. And those lanterns of yours — just wasting electricity.”

“We like it,” Olya replied, trying to stay polite.

“Bet Galya doesn’t like it,” Klavdiya shot back. “She grew vegetables her whole life, and you’re turning it into a lawn.”

Anton realized the neighbors were regularly calling his mother and reporting everything. Galina Fyodorovna herself started phoning more often than usual, asking how things were going at the plot, if they needed help.

“Mom, everything’s fine,” Anton always answered.

“And my flowerbeds? Haven’t they withered?”

“Mom, we made other flowerbeds. Modern ones.”

An eloquent silence would settle over the line.

The problems began two months later. First, yellow patches appeared on the lawn — as if someone had poured acid on the grass. Then they found someone else’s trash on the property: plastic bottles, bags, tin cans.

“Where did this come from?” Olya wondered, gathering the garbage into a sack.

Anton suspected the neighbors, but had no proof. He decided to speak to them directly.

“Valentina Ivanovna, you didn’t happen to see who’s throwing rubbish onto our place?”

“How should I know?” the neighbor replied. “Maybe the wind blew it in.”

“Wind blows tin cans?”

“Anything can happen,” the woman shrugged and demonstratively turned away.

After that conversation, even more trash began to appear. And the yellow spots on the lawn spread with depressing regularity.

“We need to put up cameras,” Olya said. “Otherwise they’ll drive us crazy.”

Anton bought two surveillance cameras and installed them so that they covered the entire plot. Now he could watch from his smartphone what was happening at the dacha when they weren’t there.

In the first few days, the cameras didn’t record anything suspicious. But on the third day, Anton saw Klavdiya Petrovna sneaking up to the fence and pouring the contents of some bottle onto the edge of the lawn. And an hour later, Valentina Ivanovna tossed a bag of trash over the fence.

“Gotcha!” Anton said triumphantly, showing the footage to his wife.

But there was no conversation. That same evening, Galina Fyodorovna called. Her voice was agitated.

“Son, I’m coming over tomorrow. Valya called and said there’s some kind of chaos at your place. I want to see for myself.”

“Mom, there’s no chaos,” Anton tried to explain. “We’ve put everything in order.”

“Well, I’ll see, I’ll see,” his mother didn’t listen.

The next morning Galina Fyodorovna arrived early. Anton and Olya greeted her, ready to show off the results of their work.

“So, Mom, what do you think?”

His mother slowly walked around the plot, her face growing more and more bewildered.

“And where are my garden beds?” she finally asked.

“Mom, we planted a lawn. It turned out beautiful.”

“And where are the tomatoes? The potatoes?” her voice trembled. “I spent thirty years tending this vegetable garden!…”

“Mom,” Anton began patiently, “you yourself said you were giving us the plot. Now we’re the owners. We decided to make it a place for rest, not a vegetable garden.”

“Rest…” Galina Fyodorovna repeated, looking at the flowerbeds with perennials. “And where are my flowers? In the tires?”

“Mom, that’s not pretty. We made modern flowerbeds.”

Galina Fyodorovna said nothing, but Anton saw in her eyes the expression he remembered well from childhood — the look she had when she was very upset but tried not to show it.

“Well, all right,” she said at last. “You’re the owners, do as you wish.”

But her tone made it clear — this wasn’t the end of it.

She stayed until evening, wandering around the plot, touching the new garden furniture, inspecting the garlands. The neighbors didn’t miss their chance to chat with her over the fence.

“Galenka,” Valentina Ivanovna said sympathetically, “just look what they’ve done…”

“All your hard work down the drain,” echoed Klavdiya Petrovna.

Anton couldn’t hear what his mother answered, but the neighbors’ faces made it obvious the conversation was going in their favor.

In the evening, as they escorted his mother to the station, Anton tried once more to explain their position.

“Mom, understand, we don’t want to toil in the vegetable patch. We want to relax here, invite friends. It’s a different way of life.”

“I understand, son,” his mother nodded. “You’re young, you know best.”

But something in her tone was unsettling.

On Monday, Anton and Olya left for work as usual. In the middle of the day, Olya got a notification from the surveillance camera — motion had been detected on the plot.

“Anton,” she called anxiously, “check the app. Someone’s there.”

Anton opened the app and couldn’t believe his eyes. His mother was walking around the plot with the neighbors. The women held shovels, hoes, and buckets.

“What the hell…” he muttered, switching between cameras.

The scene was surreal. Three elderly women were methodically digging up the lawn, breaking it into vegetable beds. Valentina Ivanovna drove up with a wheelbarrow full of old car tires. Klavdiya Petrovna was dragging sacks of soil. And Galina Fyodorovna was assigning the work front, pointing out where to do what.

“What?!”

“They’re setting up a vegetable garden. Digging right through the lawn.”

“Let’s go,” Olya said shortly.

Anton took a day off, Olya also got permission to leave, and within an hour they were at the plot.

The sight was horrifying. The neat lawn was ruined with beds. Clumps of earth lay everywhere, along with old construction buckets where someone had planted flowers. A pile of manure the women had brought for fertilizer gave off a sharp smell.

“Mom!” Anton exclaimed. “What are you doing?”

Galina Fyodorovna straightened up, leaning on her shovel. Her face was resolute.

“What am I doing? Restoring the vegetable garden. You can’t just let the soil go to waste.”

“Mom, this is our plot! You gave it to us!”

“Yes, I gave it. But not so you could mess around here. The land must bear fruit.”

Olya stood in the middle of the dug-up lawn, looking as if she might burst into tears.

“Galina Fyodorovna,” she said with barely contained anger, “we agreed. This is our plot now. It’s our right to decide what to do with it.”

“Oh, listen to her!” Klavdiya Petrovna butted in. “Claiming rights! What about Mother Earth?”

“What Earth?” Olya exploded. “This is private property!”

“So what?” Valentina Ivanovna raised her voice. “Galya worked here all her life, and you came and ruined everything.”

Anton realized the conversation was going in the wrong direction. His mother, surrounded by allies, felt justified.

“Mom,” he said firmly, “pack your things. I’ll take you to the station.”

“What?” Galina Fyodorovna asked, startled.

“Very simple. You broke our agreement. You ruined our work. Now we’ll have to redo everything.”

“Son, I only wanted what’s best…”

“Mom, you wanted it your way. But this isn’t your plot anymore.”

Galina Fyodorovna looked at her son, then at her daughter-in-law, then at the neighbors. Confusion flickered in her eyes, but then her gaze turned stubborn.

“All right,” she said. “But I think you’re making a mistake. The land must work.”

“Let your land work, Mom. But this is our land, and we’ll do what we want with it.”

On the way to the station, his mother was silent. Only at the platform did she say:

“I pity you, children. You don’t know what you’re losing.”

“We know what we’re gaining, Mom. Peace and beauty.”

“Peace…” Galina Fyodorovna repeated. “But the soul needs work.”

When Anton returned to the plot, Olya was sitting on the veranda steps, staring at the torn-up lawn.

“Well, shall we start over?” he asked.

“Let’s. And what are we going to do about the neighbors?”

Anton walked over to the fence, where Valentina Ivanovna and Klavdiya Petrovna were still loitering.

“Listen,” he said, “I’m warning you. If you come onto our plot again or damage our property, I’ll sell this land.”

“Sell it to whom?” Klavdiya Petrovna sneered.

“To the local Roma. They’ve long been asking since Mom left. They’ve nowhere to keep their livestock.”

The neighbors’ faces changed instantly.

“What Roma?” Valentina Ivanovna asked, alarmed.

“Yours,” he gestured toward the well-known house in the gardening community. “They’ve got horses, cows. Those six hundred square meters will come in very handy for them.”

“But that’s… there’ll be noise, and the smell…”

“So what? I’ll sell and leave. You’ll be the ones living next to the animals.”

The neighbors exchanged glances.

“Are you serious?” Klavdiya Petrovna asked cautiously.

“Absolutely. One more trick from you — and the plot goes to the Roma. They’re ready to put down a deposit already, and with neighbors like you, saboteurs, we don’t need this land.”

“Anton,” Valentina Ivanovna began conciliatorily, “we didn’t mean any harm…”

“We won’t do it again,” Klavdiya Petrovna added quickly. “Honestly.”

“That’s good, then. Live peacefully, and we’ll live peacefully.”

That evening, while restoring the lawn, Olya asked:

“And what about Mom now?”

Anton thought for a moment. The conflict with his mother upset him more than he’d expected. But there was no backing down. If they gave in now, they would never truly become masters of their own land. They’d installed the neighbors’ camera and accidentally found out what his mother-in-law was doing in their absence — and immediately drove her off the dacha.

“Mom will understand,” he said finally. “She just needs time to get used to the fact that we’re adults and make our own decisions.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“She will. When we get everything properly arranged, we’ll invite her over. She’ll see how beautiful and cozy it is, and she’ll come around.”

Olya nodded, though doubt still flickered in her eyes.

A month passed. Anton and Olya restored the lawn and put the plot in order. The neighbors no longer caused trouble — apparently the prospect of a Roma encampment had truly frightened them. They even began to greet them over the fence, though without much warmth.

Galina Fyodorovna called rarely and spoke curtly. When invited to visit, she replied that she was busy. Anton understood that his mother was hurt, but he didn’t know how to fix the situation without sacrificing their principles.

“Maybe we should visit her?” Olya suggested.

“Let’s,” Anton agreed. “But we won’t give in. The plot stays the way we made it.”

“And if she never accepts our choice?”

“Then… then that’s her problem. We can’t live our whole lives the way other people want — even if those people are our parents.”

Olya took her husband’s hand.

“It’s hard…”

“Yes, hard. But honest. And sooner or later she’ll understand.”

They sat on the veranda of their blue cottage, drinking tea and gazing at the smooth green lawn, lit by garlands. Somewhere beyond the forest a rooster crowed, mosquitoes buzzed, the air smelled of freshly cut grass and the cool of evening.

“We really did make it beautiful,” Olya said.

“Beautiful,” Anton agreed. “And most importantly — it’s ours.”

In that word was a new note for them — the note of people who had finally understood what it meant to be masters of their own lives.