“What on earth are you doing, throwing your own sister out on the street with her kids?” his mother cried out. “So you live by the sea now, and your own family—well, that’s how it is…”

“What on earth are you doing, throwing your own sister out on the street with her kids?” his mother cried out. “So you live by the sea now, and your own family—well, that’s how it is…”

“Mooom! Can I have a cupcake? Pleeease, at least half of one!” Varya’s voice carried from the kitchen, rising over the sound of running water and the hum of the ventilation.

Olga, standing by the bathroom mirror wrapped in a terry towel, was drying her hair and couldn’t help smiling. Droplets ran down her shoulders; the shampoo left a gentle lavender scent in the air.

“Only after you finish your porridge, bunny. Cupcakes are a reward.”

There was a brief silence, then Varya sighed with exaggerated sorrow:

“Okaaay… But then I’ll eat my porridge super fast!”

Olga nodded to herself in the mirror, crumpled the towel, and walked out, pulling on her sweatpants as she went. Maksim, barefoot, holding a cup of coffee, stood on the balcony. Below, the palm crowns swayed, somewhere a car door slammed. The air was warm, slightly humid, tinged with sea salt and the smell of blooming acacia.

He took a slow sip of coffee, took out his phone, and scrolled through his photos. One showed the façade of the new house, bright and fresh; two folding chairs stood on the porch, with a pile of construction scraps against the wall. Young trees stood a little farther away—still thin and vulnerable, but already alive. He touched the screen, typed a short message and attached the photo:

“Three years of evening work — and it’s finally done.”

He sent it to the family chat. Then he remained standing there, pressing the cup to his chin, listening to Varya clattering her spoon against her bowl in the kitchen.

That evening, Olga was kneading dough. Her hands were dusted with flour, her hair twisted into a bun; her nose itched, but she couldn’t touch it or she’d get flour everywhere. Varya sat at the table drawing — the little bear she sketched had long eyelashes and a rainbow tail.

Maksim was glued to his phone again. First he checked whether the message had frozen. Then he opened the chat. Not a single word. Only one message from his sister. Just five words, but they hit like a slap:

“At least Grandma’s apartment wasn’t wasted,” Maksim read aloud and silently held the phone out to Olga. She glanced at the screen while wiping her hands on her apron and sighed heavily.

“Perfect,” Olga said without looking up. “No ‘well done,’ no ‘congratulations.’ Just criticism. Classic.”

Maksim looked away from the screen, slid the phone into his pocket, straightened up, and rubbed his neck.

“I didn’t expect anything else,” he said quietly. “It’s all predictable.”

A cool draft slipped through the slightly open terrace door. Inside, it was quiet except for Varya giggling as she colored the bear’s teeth purple.

Olga looked at her husband.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have sent anything at all. Should’ve kept it to ourselves. Why give them anything?”

Maksim shrugged.

“I just wanted to share. Not to brag. Share. We built it with our own hands…”

She walked up to him and touched his shoulder with her flour-dusty hand.

“We know who built it. And what it cost us. That’s enough.”

A week later, Maksim was washing the car at the car wash. Water streamed down the body, sunlight danced across the hood. He had just dried his hands when his phone vibrated. His cousin’s name lit up on the screen.

“Max! Hey! Listen, we were thinking—maybe we’ll come visit you this summer? A house by the sea and all that… The kids have been dreaming of a vacation.”

Maksim leaned on the counter, watching droplets hit the tiles.

“I don’t know… We’re not finished yet, it’s a mess, we’re all squeezed into one room. Definitely not ready for guests.”

“Oh come on! We’re undemanding. We can sleep on the floor, on a mat! The main thing is the sea!” his cousin laughed.

Maksim fell silent. He wanted to say something, but no words came.

“Just think about it, okay? Only a week at most…”

“Fine,” he said shortly and hung up.

A couple of days later, the morning started with a call. The phone buzzed on the edge of the table; the tea hadn’t even cooled yet.

“Listen,” his sister began without greeting, “you’re not the same anymore. You won’t even invite us over. Built yourselves a mansion with Grandma’s apartment and now you think you’re—”

Maksim clenched his cup.

“We built it together. And we used money from my apartment sale and from Olga’s dacha. Three years with no vacations, no weekends. And yes, we built it ourselves, with our own hands.”

“Oh, listen to you talk…”

“No, I’m just tired of explaining myself,” he replied into the silence.

But there were already beeps on the other end. He put the phone down as if it were hot.

That evening, after Varya fell asleep, Olga and Maksim continued working. A bare light bulb swayed from the ceiling in the draft. Maksim was installing outlets — in dusty jeans, on his knees, a flashlight between his teeth. Olga washed the paintbrushes; the water in the bucket was cloudy with pink streaks.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she said, wiping her forehead with her arm. “This construction is like a third job.”

“Hang in there. Just a little more. Then everything will be ours. Quiet, simple, ours.”

She sat down on a stool, hugging her knees.

“I just hope it’s not all for nothing.”

He didn’t answer. He pulled the extension cord closer, stood up, and checked if the light would turn on.

The next day, Maksim was tinkering in the garage. The shelf was finally secure on its anchors. Dust tickled his nose; his hands smelled of wood. Then the phone rang again.

“Hello there, nephew! I heard your house is already up? Good, good. Why aren’t you inviting anyone over? The air, the sea… my grandson would love to visit you.”

“Uncle Valer, we’re still living in just one room. Everything else is under renovation.”

“Oh, come on! I trekked across Kamchatka in a tent, slept on the ground! I’ll find a spot anywhere!”

Maksim pressed his lips together but stayed silent.

In the evening the apartment again smelled like dinner. Olga was frying zucchini, and Varya was rolling across the floor on a plush hippopotamus, making “vrrm-vrrm” noises as the wheels rattled.

The phone vibrated again. His mother.

“Son, I was thinking… I’ll come spend the summer with you. The sea, the fresh air, warm up my old bones. At my age…”

Olga looked at Maksim and immediately shook her head:

“No,” she whispered. “Don’t even start.”

Maksim sighed.

“Mom, really — we don’t even have a shower yet, no bed, the floors aren’t finished. We’re barely managing ourselves.”

“Well… alright. As you wish.”

He hung up. The air grew heavy.

Several days passed in silence. Even Varya noticed:

“Why isn’t Grandma calling?”

“She’s busy, probably,” Olga replied, pulling a cherry pie out of the oven.

Early in the morning, just as sunlight began creeping onto the windowsill, the phone rang — his sister again. Maksim reached for it sleepily.

“Hello?”

“We’re already on the train. We’ll arrive tomorrow morning. Can you meet us? We’re with the kids. For about two weeks, okay?”

Maksim sat up on the edge of the bed.

“What?”

“Well, you said you have one room. We don’t need much. We’re not picky!”

He stared at the wall.

“I said we have one room. For the three of us. There’s no space for anyone else.”

Olga, hearing his tone, came closer.

“Who is it?”

He covered the microphone.

“My sister. She’s already on the way.”

“She’d better not even think about it. I’m not turning my life into a train station,” Olga said sharply, her voice like rust scraping metal.

“Listen, you shouldn’t come. We won’t be able to host you. Don’t be upset, but really — there’s nowhere to put you.”

“I see…” she said. Then the line went dead.

Maksim lowered the phone and covered his face with his hands.

The next morning dragged on slowly. Varya was still asleep, her hair spread across the pillow, and the hallway smelled of damp wood — they had left rags to dry after painting the night before. Olga stood at the stove, cracking eggs into a bowl. The butter in the pan had just begun to sizzle when a persistent knock sounded at the door…

Maksim froze. His eyes shifted to Olga. She only shook her head, as if she couldn’t believe it. He slowly walked toward the hallway.

His sister stood on the doorstep. Sweatpants, a messy ponytail, one hand gripping a rolling suitcase, the other holding a backpack. Behind her — two kids: the younger one holding a half-eaten banana, the older girl clutching a faded plush tiger. Behind them, a taxi with its trunk open.

“Hi!” she said cheerfully. “Barely made it here!”

Olga appeared behind Maksim. No smile. No words.

“We… we told…” he began, but his voice faltered.

His sister raised her eyebrows, offended by the slightest hint of resistance.

“What? Not happy to see us? I thought you’d at least offer some coffee.”

“There’s no space,” Olga said calmly, evenly. “We truly live in one room. There’s nowhere to sleep. And no basic conditions.”

His sister snorted.

“So that’s how it is. A ‘house by the sea,’ yet you slam the gate in guests’ faces?”

Maksim stepped onto the porch.

“We told you. On the phone. That it wouldn’t work. Why did you come?”

“And why did you post the photo in the family chat? To show off?”

Olga held her breath and grabbed Varya’s little jacket from the railing as if gripping it for support. Behind them, Varya peeked down the hallway, rubbing her eyes with a fist.

“Come on, kids. We’re not welcome here,” his sister said and turned toward the taxi. The children picked up the bags without asking. One snagged on the doorstep, something spilled out.

Maksim stepped after her, stopping by the gate.

“Wait. This isn’t right. It shouldn’t be like this. But we really can’t…”

His sister didn’t turn around.

Olga walked after him, caught up with his sister on the gravel path, and lightly held her elbow for a moment.

“We’ve never heard a single ‘how are you,’ or ‘need help.’ But now everyone shows up the moment the house is finished. We’re not a hotel. And we’re not obligated.”

His sister yanked her arm free.

“Got it. You didn’t build this for your family. Now I see what kind of people you are.”

She climbed into the taxi, the kids followed. The car turned around and headed toward the highway.

Olga and Maksim stood by the gate. Gravel crunched under their feet. Varya ran over and grabbed her father’s hand.

“Dad, why is Auntie upset?”

Maksim didn’t answer.

A couple of hours later, the phone rang. “Mom” on the screen. He didn’t want to answer. But he did.

“What are you doing? Throwing your own sister onto the street? With kids?!”

“Mom, I told her. We live in a construction zone. We barely have room for the three of us. She did it on purpose. Didn’t warn us. Didn’t ask.”

“Oh, now you’re all proud. Living by the sea. And your family — what, trash now?”

He wanted to respond. But didn’t. He simply hit decline.

In the evening, the family chat lit up again.

Sister: Today my brother threw me out. I came to rest, and he sent me to the street. And he built his palace using Grandma’s apartment.

A minute later the uncle replied: Well, well. He used to be a decent person — now look at him.

Maksim didn’t read any further. He clicked “exit chat.” The phone screen went dark.

Olga was washing dishes. Varya sat on the floor, playing with pot lids.

“Are they writing again?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Maksim said and placed the phone on the fridge.

In the morning he woke to beeping. His mother again.

“Maksim, you’re wrong. You sold your apartment, and now you won’t even invite us over. That’s not right.”

He sat up, feet touching the cold floor. In the hallway, Olga was packing Varya’s things for kindergarten.

“Mom. Where were you when we plastered walls at night? When we skipped meals to buy the pipe for the second floor? When we sanded, painted, slept three hours, and went to work — where were you then?”

His mother was silent.

“You’ve become cruel, Maksim. That house changed you.”

He looked out the window where the breeze fluttered the thin cotton curtains.

“No, Mom. I’m just done being convenient. This is our home. Built with our own hands. It’s not a resort. And not a place to vacation at someone else’s expense.”

“Well, live how you want.” She hung up. Said nothing else.

All day long Olga was quiet, burying herself in tasks — cooking compote, replanting seedlings on the veranda. Varya cut paper flowers.

Late that evening, she and Maksim sat on the terrace steps. Varya slept. Warm mint tea in their cups.

“I shouldn’t have sent that photo,” he said quietly. “Why did I even do that?”

“No,” Olga said. “It was right. Now you know who is who.”

He nodded. Softly. Then aloud:

“Grandma would’ve been happy. She always said I belonged near the sea.”

In the distance, the sea murmured — dry, muffled, peaceful.

The next day, closer to noon, someone knocked on the gate. On the doorstep stood Tamara Andreyevna — their neighbor, with whom they occasionally exchanged a few words near the store. In her hands was a pie covered with a towel.

“Hi, Olya,” she said with a smile. “I see you’re almost done with the renovation? Well done. Doing so much with your own hands — that’s worth a lot.”

Olga nodded, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

“It’s been really hard, honestly.”

“You look exhausted,” Tamara Andreyevna noted, peering at her face. “Is everything alright?”

“Relatives are getting on our nerves. For a whole month — one calling, then another. Everyone wants to come rest. As if we’d opened a resort here.”

Tamara waved her hand dismissively:

“Oh, believe me, I know that all too well. When Kolya—God rest his soul—and I bought our house, whole crowds started coming. Entire families. Until one day I put everyone in their place. And since then — silence.”

Olga smiled — truly, sincerely — for the first time in a long while.

“Thank you. That’s exactly what I needed to hear.”

The next morning, Olga woke to the sound of spoons clinking in a mug — Maksim was making tea. The veranda smelled of soil and something fresh, as if the day itself promised to be right. Outside, a dog barked somewhere behind the fence. Everything felt different — quieter. Cleaner. Freer.

On the porch, it smelled of wet tiles — it had rained the night before. Maksim placed a box of seedlings next to the watering can. The roots were already breaking through the packaging — it was time.

On the neighboring lot someone was mowing the grass; the hum of the motor drifted over. Varya sat by the garden bed, drawing on the damp soil with a stick. Nearby lay the dog — a mutt that had wandered to them in the spring. They had named her Peach, though she was dark gray.

“Dad, can I help?” Varya asked as she stood up.

“Of course,” Maksim pulled out one of the seedlings. “Just don’t step into the hole. Look, right here.”

He placed the young apple tree into the dug-out pit and began pushing soil around it. Varya handed him the watering can, then stepped carefully on the earth, pressing it down with her little foot.

Olga, wearing a work apron, was laying tiles along the path. She moved methodically, almost dissolving into the rhythm: pick up a tile, place it, tap it with the rubber mallet, check the level.

“Well, three more and it’s done,” she said without raising her head.

“I’ll join you soon,” Maksim nodded. “Just two trees left.”

Varya ran to the next hole and crouched beside it.

From the other side of the fence came:

“Ooooh, you’ve got everything looking like a showpiece here! Maksim, Olya, hello!”

It was Pyotr — their neighbor. Broad-shouldered, short gray hair, always in shorts, even in winter.

“Hello, Pyotr Semyonovich,” Maksim called back. “Want to stop in for tea?”

“No, just passing by. Wanted to say — you two are doing great. On your own, without anyone’s help. Respect. People like you are rare these days.”

Maksim smiled. Olga also looked up, rising slightly from her knees.

“Thank you. That means a lot to us.”

Pyotr waved and walked on.

Maksim continued planting the trees. Varya stayed by his side. By evening, a clean row of seedlings stretched along the fence. Small, thin, but theirs.

Varya ran her fingers along the nearest slender trunk.

“Dad, is this our tree now?”

Maksim crouched down, put his arm around her shoulders.

“Our tree, sweetie. All of this is ours now.”

She nodded — not quite understanding, but feeling its importance.

The house was quiet. The phone had long been tucked away in a drawer. No one called anymore. No one asked, demanded, or reminded them of themselves.

On the table — apple compote. In the hallway — the shoes of three people. On the wall — Varya’s drawing: the sun and a house with a green roof.

Olga came over, crouched down beside them, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Done,” she said, looking at the finished path. “Now we can just… live.”

Maksim nodded. Varya took their hands.

And suddenly the air grew quiet. Not on the outside — inside. As if the world had stopped demanding.

Maksim ran his palm over the soil next to the newly planted tree and lingered on the neat line of seedlings.

“We ended up with a house… but without relatives,” he said softly.

Olga lifted her head.

“You think that’s our fault?”

He shook his head.

“No. I know they’re holding grudges. They’ll remember it for a long time. Maybe forever. But, Olya… we didn’t do anything wrong. We just stopped living by someone else’s rules. And that isn’t a crime.”

She looked at him, saying nothing. Then slowly nodded. And Varya, as carefree as ever, ran off to fetch the watering can, splashing water and laughing.

“Everything’s right,” Olga whispered. “Everything’s right.”