“This is my dacha, and your grandchildren have nothing to do with it,” Lida slammed the door in her mother-in-law’s face.
“I’m not giving it to your grandchildren! This is my dacha,” Lida snapped, shutting the door right in her mother-in-law’s face, gripping the key tightly.
Then she stood there, breathing. Heavy. As if she’d been running, though she hadn’t moved at all.
Her mother-in-law left. Lida could hear the click of heels on the path — quieter… farther… farther…
Silence.
Lida leaned her back against the door. Cold. Metal. Painted green back when her husband was still alive. He used to say, “Green is the color of hope.” And he would laugh. She never understood what he meant then.
Now she does.
Hope… For what? That everything would be fine? That the family wouldn’t fall apart? That the children would grow up grateful?
A dacha. Six hundred square meters of land and a fifty-square-meter cottage. That’s the whole inheritance. Her husband had been gone for three years. And the mother-in-law… The mother-in-law believed the dacha should belong to her grandchildren — to her son’s children from his first marriage.
“You’re not blood!” the mother-in-law had said today. “They are! They’re blood!”
Blood… Funny. And thirty years of marriage — what is that? Water?
Lida stepped away from the door and went to the kitchen. Put the kettle on. Her hands trembled slightly. From anger or fear — she couldn’t tell.
From the window she could see the neighbors’ yard. Mikhálych was digging in the garden. He waved. Lida waved back. Automatically.
Good neighbors. They didn’t pry. But they knew everything. Saw everything. Understood everything.
The kettle boiled. Lida brewed strong tea. Just like her mother loved. “Tea should invigorate, not just tint the water,” she used to say.
Mom… She’d been gone ten years. But her advice remained. Living in Lida’s head. Helping.
“Lidochka,” her mother used to say, “the most important thing in life is not to give up. Even when it’s hard. Even when it hurts. If you are right — stand your ground to the end.”
Was she right? Lida sat down at the table. The same table where their family had gathered for so many years. Her husband reading the paper. The children — his children — coming on weekends. Eating what she cooked. Praising her…
And now?
Now she was a stranger to them. “Not blood,” as her mother-in-law said.
But the dacha… The dacha was legally hers. Her husband had transferred it to her before he died. He said:
“You’re the mistress here. You were and you always will be.”
He knew. He sensed something.
Lida finished her tea. Got up. Went to the living room. Sat on the couch. Her husband used to sit here in the evenings. Watching TV. Dozing off…
“What should I do, Vitia?” she said out loud. “What?”
Silence answered her.
But then she remembered. How he spoke about his children. His children from his first marriage.
“They’re spoiled, Lid. Their mother handed them everything on a silver platter. And now they think I should give them everything, too. Just because. Because of their pretty eyes.”
“But Vitya, they’re your children…”
“Mine. But I didn’t raise them to be like this. Consumers. Never satisfied. Everything’s wrong, everything’s not enough. And they themselves — they don’t do anything. Don’t create anything.”
He had been right. Lida knew it. In thirty years of marriage, his children had never once helped. Never came to fix anything. Never asked how she was doing…
But the moment he died — they showed up. With papers. With demands. With a lawyer.
They wanted everything. The apartment in the city. The dacha. The car.
But the apartment had been Lida’s before the marriage. The car had been sold. And the dacha…
The dacha remained the only point of dispute.
Until today.
Lida stood up from the armchair. Walked to the window. Outside — her world. Her life. The garden beds she had dug herself. The flowers she had tended. The apple trees she and her husband had planted together.
Every bush here was familiar. Every pebble on the path.
And they wanted to take it. Sell it. Divide the money.
“Not in this lifetime,” Lida whispered. “Never.”
The phone rang. Harsh. Unpleasant.
Lida looked at the screen. An unknown number.
“Hello?”
“Lidiya Petrovna? This is Attorney Semyonov. I represent the interests of your late husband’s children…”
Her heart skipped a beat. But her voice stayed calm:
“I’m listening.”
“My clients are willing to settle. They agree to grant you lifetime residence at the dacha. And after… well, you understand.”
“I understand. And what do I have to do in return?”
“Renounce part of the inheritance. Sign the corresponding documents.”
Lida stayed silent. They were offering her the status of a temporary tenant in her own dacha. And later they would find some excuse to throw her out entirely. Just sign the papers…
“Mrs. Lidiya Petrovna? Are you still there?”
“I hear you. The answer is no.”
“Think about it. Litigation is expensive. And long. And the result…”
“I know the result. I have a will.”
“Wills can be contested. In my experience…”
Lida hung up. Her hands no longer trembled. On the contrary — they were firm. Steady.
She went to the bedroom. Opened the wardrobe. Took out a box of documents. Found the will. Read it again.
Everything was correct. Everything was legal. The dacha was hers.
But it wasn’t about legality…
She had been a wife for thirty years. A homemaker. When needed, she took care of someone else’s children. Washed their clothes. Cooked for them. Nursed them when they were sick.
And what did they do?
Lida remembered the last conversation with her stepdaughter. Six months ago. Over the phone.
“Lida, we need money. We have a mortgage.”
“Ever tried working?”
“We do work! But salaries are low. And you have a dacha. Sell it. We’ll share.”
Just like that. “We’ll share.”
And what did she receive all those years? Nothing.
Lida put the documents back. Closed the wardrobe.
Evening was setting in. Soon she would have to turn on the lights. But she loved twilight. The time between day and night. The time for reflection.
Her husband used to say:
“At twilight, all problems seem smaller.”
He had been a philosopher at heart.
Lida turned on a floor lamp. A soft, cozy light.
And then she realized — she was not alone. She hadn’t been alone all these years after his death. She had memories. Traditions. Routines.
The dacha wasn’t just a house and a plot of land. It was her story. Her life.
And no one — hear that, no one! — had the right to take that story away.
It grew dark outside. Lights appeared in the neighbors’ windows. Somewhere music was playing. Somewhere children were laughing.
Life went on.
And her life — too.
Tomorrow she would go to a lawyer. She would defend her right. Her happiness.
But for now… Now she would just sit quietly. Think of good things. Of how she would plant new flowers in spring. How she would make blackcurrant jam in summer.
How she would live. Here. At her dacha.
Because it truly was her dacha. And she wasn’t giving it to anyone.
No one.
But in the morning, everything went wrong.
Lida woke up to loud knocking at the door. Harsh. Insistent. As if someone wanted to frighten her.
“Open up! Court bailiffs!”
Her heart dropped to her feet. Lida threw on her robe. Went to the door.
“What bailiffs? I have no debts!”
“Open up!”
Her hands shook. Lida unlocked the door.
Two men in uniform stood on the porch. And lawyer Semyonov. The same one who had called yesterday.
“Mrs. Lidiya Petrovna, here is a court order. Your property is under seizure pending clarification.”
“What court?! I didn’t even know there was a case!”
“A case has been initiated based on the heirs’ claim. There is reason to believe the will was signed under duress.”
Semyonov smiled. Nasty, smug smile.
“You can’t do this! The dacha is mine legally!”
“We can. And we are. Here is the property inventory. Sign it.”
Lida read the paper. The letters blurred. Not from tears — from rage.
“Residential house — one. Land plot — six hundred square meters. Outbuildings…”
Her whole life turned into a list. A list of objects.
“I won’t sign.”
“Then we’ll sign without you. We have witnesses.”
The bailiffs worked silently. Taking photos. Writing notes. Sticking papers to doors.
And Semyonov kept smiling.
“Mrs. Petrovna, my clients are still willing to compromise. Lifetime residence…”
“Go to hell with your clients!”
“You’re making a mistake. The court may rule differently. Very differently.”
When they left, Lida sat on the porch. Just sat and looked at her land. At the apple trees. At the beds she’d soon need to dig.
Or maybe she wouldn’t need to?
Why plant what doesn’t belong to you?
Neighbor Mikhálych approached the fence.
“Lida, what happened? I saw cops came.”
“Bailiffs. They put a seizure on the dacha.”
“For what?”
“The stepsons. They’re suing. They want to take it.”
Mikhálych was silent. Turned his shovel in his hands.
“You know, Lida… I had the same. After my wife died. Her sister tried to take the apartment in court. Said I wasn’t family.”
“And what happened?”
“Nothing. We fought in court three years. Spent a fortune. Nerves shot. Then she died. The sister. And it all disappeared by itself.”
“Easy for you to advise — to wait for someone to die.”
“Not advice. Just telling you how it goes.”
He walked away. And Lida kept sitting on the porch.
She thought about how there was no justice. None at all.
You could be a good wife for thirty years. Care. Love. And then they tell you — you’re not family. And take everything. And you can’t do a thing.
In the evening, her friend called. Tamara. They had gone to school together.
“Lida, I heard about your trouble. Hold on.”
“I’m holding on. But what’s the point?”
“Maybe you should accept? At least you’d get to stay at the dacha.”
“Toma, do you understand what you’re saying? How long do you think they’d let me stay there after that? I’d live here in fear!”
“I understand. But what can you do? The law is the law.”
“What law?! I have a will in my hands!”
“A will can be contested. You know that.”
She knew. Of course she knew.
After the call, Lida sat in the dark for a long time. She didn’t turn on the lights. She didn’t want to.
Outside, the wind rustled. Swayed the branches of the apple trees. The very apple trees she and her husband planted twenty years ago. Little saplings back then.
And now they were big. Bearing fruit. But the fruit, it seemed, no longer belonged to her.
Nothing belonged to her.
Even her memories felt like they were becoming someone else’s.
Lida stood up. Went to the bedroom. Lay down in bed. But she couldn’t sleep.
She listened to the silence. And she understood — tomorrow would begin another day. Just as hard. Just as unfair.
And no one would help her. No one would take her side. Because she truly wasn’t family. Not to her husband’s children. Not to his mother.
A stranger.
And the dacha, it turned out, was a stranger’s too. She had nothing of her own left here. Only memories. But those would soon be useless too. When the dacha was sold. When new people settled here. Then the memories would die as well.
A month passed
Lida was still living at the dacha. Technically. The property seizure didn’t forbid residence. Yet.
But each day brought new papers. Summons. Requests. Orders to appear somewhere by some date.
She went. Answered questions. Explained to judges and lawyers that the dacha was hers. By will. By justice. And they nodded. Wrote things down. Scheduled new hearings.
Money was running out. Her own lawyer was expensive. And the opposing lawyer was clearly more experienced. And bolder.
On Thursday morning, Lida arrived at the courthouse.
“Ivanova!” the clerk called.
Lida entered the courtroom. The judge — a woman around fifty — didn’t even look up from the papers.
“The case regarding recognition of the will as invalid is being heard…”
After that, Lida barely listened. The words merged. Became noise.
Her husband’s children’s lawyer spoke. Told how Lida “pressured” a sick man. How she “forced” him to sign documents.
“Viktor Stepanovich was in depression after his heart attack,” he said. “He was suggestible. The defendant took advantage of this.”
Lies. Nothing but lies.
Her husband had been fully competent. He made the decision himself. Went to the notary himself.
But who would prove it? Her husband was gone. The notary remembered only the fact of signing.
And the children… The children swore that their father loved them. That he wanted to leave them the inheritance. That “this woman” deceived him.
“This woman.” Not even a name.
The judge finally looked up.
“Defendant, what can you say in your defense?”
Lida stood. Her throat was dry.
“I was Viktor Stepanovich’s wife for thirty years. Thirty years! And his children… his children visited twice a year. On his birthday and New Year. And not always.”
“That is irrelevant,” the opposing lawyer said.
“It is relevant!” Lida raised her voice. “I cared for him when he was sick! I was there when he was suffering! And where were they?”
“Ms. Ivanova, stay to the merits of the case,” the judge said.
“I am staying to the merits! The dacha is my life! My home! My work!”
“But legally…”
“Legally, there is a will! And morally?”
The judge paused. Then said:
“Morality is a moral category. The court is guided by the law.”
And Lida understood. Fully understood. She lost.
Not in court. In life.
A decision was made.
The will was declared invalid. The dacha was added to the inheritance estate. Lida would receive her spouse’s share. The rest — to the children.
Lida listened to the ruling as if in a fog. The meaning barely reached her…
The lawyer said something…
Lida signed the papers. Mechanically. Like a robot.
She left the court. Sat on a bench outside.
People passed by. Rushing to their own business. Solving their own problems.
And she had no more problems. She lost what she cherished for so many years…
She didn’t want to go back — to the dacha. Why? To look at something that was already not hers?
Lida got on the bus. Went to the dacha. One last time.
In the evening she walked through the yard. Saying goodbye.
To the apple trees. To the garden beds. To the little house that was her world.
Neighbor Mikhálych peeked over the fence.
“Well, Lida? How did court go?”
“I lost.”
“Ah… I thought justice would prevail.”
“Justice, Misha, is when the strong don’t hurt the weak. And here it’s the opposite.”
“Where will you go now?”
“I’ll go to my place in the city…”
Lida went inside. Packed her things. Not much — only the essentials. Everything else would stay. For the new owners.
In the morning a realtor would come. To evaluate the “property.” Think how best to sell it.
And she would leave. Forever.
Her story here was over. Unfair. Bitter. But over.
And something else would begin.
Lida turned off the lights. Locked the door. Left the key with the neighbors. Just as the lawyer asked. And walked to the bus stop. With a small suitcase in her hand.
Without looking back.
