— Lena, we’re already at the gate — my sister-in-law had no idea that instead of the hostess, an Alabai would be the one to greet them.
— Lenka, why aren’t you answering your phone? We’re already on the Novorizhskoye Highway! One hour left — put the kettle on! — Irina’s voice, my sister-in-law’s, was so shrill that I had to turn the volume down so the speaker wouldn’t rattle.
I glanced at my smartphone screen. December 30, 2:15 p.m. Outside the window, wet Moscow snow was drifting down lazily, turning into a gray slush on the asphalt.
My apartment smelled of freshly ground coffee and, faintly, pine. In the corner stood a small Christmas tree I had decorated yesterday while watching an old movie — modestly and with taste.
— Ira, — I took a sip, savoring the silence of my kitchen. — And where exactly are you going?
— Oh, come on! — the voice on the line laughed, and somewhere in the background I heard children squealing and a man’s booming laughter. — To the dacha, of course! To ours! We decided — why mope around in the city? We’re bringing the salads, Vadik bought fireworks. You get the sauna ready over there, little by little. We’re coming with the kids — the house should be warm.
“To ours.”
That short pronoun grated on my ears — for the third year now, ever since my husband, Irina’s brother, had passed away.
The dacha was a solid but perpetually demanding timber house. It had come to me from my parents. Not from my husband. But to Irina, it was “our family hearth,” where she held a lifetime pass to vacation.
— Ira, — I said calmly, feeling the tension inside me ease. — I’m not at the dacha.
There was a pause on the line. Only the rustle of tires and the car radio could be heard.
— What do you mean, you’re not there? — my sister-in-law’s voice lost its festive brightness and took on the steely notes I knew so well. — Then where are you? We agreed that New Year’s is a family holiday.
— We didn’t agree on anything, Ira. You just informed me of your plans. I’m at home. In Moscow.
— Well then, — she was clearly thinking fast, rearranging plans on the fly. — All right. Of course it’s bad that the house is cold. But you always keep the keys under the porch in a jar — we know that. Vadik will light the stove, he’s not a child. And you get yourself ready, grab a taxi or take the commuter train. We’ll wait for you. It’s not right for you to sit there alone.
She wasn’t asking. She was giving orders.
Just as she had ordered my time last summer, when she brought three nieces and nephews and left them with me for two weeks (“Len, you’ve got nothing to do out in the fresh air anyway, and I’ve got a report burning”).
Just as she had ordered my money, when I silently paid the electricity bills after their winter visits, because “oh, we forgot to take the meter readings, we’ll settle up later.”
They never did.
The point of no return
— Ira, don’t go there, — I said, watching a snowflake melt on the windowpane. — Turn back.
— What’s wrong with you, Len? Have you lost your mind? The trunks are full of food! The kids are all excited! Vadik’s tired, he can’t drive back. Stop being ridiculous. That’s it, the connection’s breaking up, we’ll be there soon. The keys are under the porch, I remember!
She hung up.
I set the phone aside and looked at my hands. Calm. And yet just a year ago, after a conversation like this, I would already have been rushing around the apartment, packing a bag, calling a taxi, trying to make it in time to heat the house for the arrival of the “dear guests.”
So as not to offend anyone. So as to be good.
You know that feeling, don’t you? When everything inside you is resisting, but your lips stretch into a smile on their own: “Of course, come over, I’ve just baked a pie.”
We women of our generation were raised to be convenient. We were taught that “a bad peace is better than a good quarrel.”
But sometimes life throws you a situation where you have to choose: either they sit on your neck for good, or you remember that you have a backbone.
I got up, went over to the secretary desk, and took out a folder. On top lay the contract dated December 23.
A week earlier, I had sold the dacha.
Sold it quickly, to a man who was looking for seclusion.
I didn’t tell Irina a word. I knew that the moment I mentioned the sale, the entire family would swoop in. There would be shouting about “ancestral memory,” about “how can you deprive the children of fresh air,” about “it was Volodya’s too.”
They would have ruined the deal. They would have made me feel guilty.
But I simply needed the money. My proofreader’s salary and modest pension didn’t allow me to maintain two hundred square meters that constantly demanded either roof repairs or a boiler replacement. I was tired of being the caretaker of other people’s vacations at my own expense.
I glanced at the clock. I had an hour to decide: turn off my phone or accept the fight.
The new owner
I spent that hour in a strange stupor. I imagined their drive. Here they pass the turnoff. Here Vadik, Irina’s husband, cracks his usual jokes. Here the kids buzz with anticipation of freedom.
They were heading toward a house that had already been someone else’s fortress for a week.
The new owner, Oleg Petrovich, a retired officer, struck me as a tough but fair man. When he inspected the property, he asked about the fence.
— I don’t like guests, — he said curtly as he signed the papers. — I’ve got a serious dog. I need peace and quiet.
I warned him honestly:
— Relatives might show up out of old habit.
He just smirked.
— That’s my concern now, Elena Sergeyevna. Private property is private property.
And now two cars stuffed with salads and absolute confidence in their own righteousness were pulling up to his gate.
The phone came to life exactly an hour and fifteen minutes later. It was Irina calling.
I exhaled, straightened my shoulders, and answered.
— Lena! — what came through the phone wasn’t just a shout; it was a shriek mixed with the barking of a large dog and a man’s booming voice in the background. — Lena, what is going on?!
— What happened, Ira? — my voice sounded even.
— The keys are gone! The locks are different! We started knocking, and then… then some guy came out! In uniform! With a huge dog! He says this is his house! Lena, he’s some kind of weirdo! Call the police, we’re afraid to get out of the cars!
— He’s not a weirdo, Ira, — I said, looking at my reflection in the dark window.
— Then who is he?! Who is he?! Why won’t he let us into OUR house?!
— Because it’s no longer our house. I sold it.
The silence on the line was so dense that I could almost hear Irina’s thoughts grinding as they tried to process what she’d heard. In the background, the dog kept barking furiously.
— What?.. — she breathed out. — Sold it? How could you sell it? To whom? And what about us?..
— And you, Ira, are standing in front of someone else’s gate. And I’d advise you to leave before Oleg Petrovich lets the dog out of the enclosure. He’s a strict man and doesn’t appreciate jokes.
— You… you… — Irina was choking. — You couldn’t have! We’re with the kids! The trunk is full of food! Where are we supposed to go now?! It’s December thirtieth! Lenka, you’re shameless! Do you even understand what you’ve done?! We’re family!
— Family, — I repeated. — Who didn’t even bother to ask whether it was okay to come.
— How could we ask?! It was always shared! Volodya’s! You’ve just taken the holiday away from us! Get back on the line right now and tell that… man that we’re your own people! Let him at least let us stay the night!
At that moment, I realized that if I showed weakness now—if I asked the new owner (though what right would I even have?), or let them into my Moscow apartment—everything would snap back into place. I would become convenient Lenka again.
And then what happened was exactly what I had both expected and feared.
There was a dull thud on the line—apparently someone had started pounding on the metal gate. And immediately after that, a growl that made me uneasy even through the phone. Then the voice of the new owner:
— I’m counting to three. Then I open the gate. One…
“The free option is closed”
— Two… — came from the speaker. Oleg Petrovich’s voice sounded ordinary, like a ticket inspector on a commuter train.
— Vadik! Get in the car! Now! — Irina shouted.
You could hear the heavy doors of an SUV slamming shut, then muffled children’s crying and some unprintable words from Vadik, already from inside the car.
The dog barked—deep, booming, the way animals bark when they know exactly where their territory ends.
— Lenka, you’ll pay for this! — my sister-in-law’s voice was trembling now, no longer with arrogance, but with fear and anger. — You’ve thrown us out into the cold! We’ll freeze!
— You’ve got climate control in your cars, Ira, — I said, stepping away from the window and sinking into my favorite armchair. My legs suddenly felt heavy, as if after a long run. — And it’s an hour’s drive to Moscow. Don’t invent drama where there is none.
— We’re not going back to Moscow! Our mood is ruined! We wanted a holiday! What are we supposed to do with three crates of food?!
It was astonishing.
Even now, sitting in a locked car in front of someone else’s gate, she wasn’t thinking about the fact that she’d crossed every possible boundary, but about where to put the salads.
— Listen carefully, — I cut her off. — At kilometer forty-five, before the interchange, there’s a hotel called “Uyut.” I’ll send you the location pin now. They’ve got a sauna and a barbecue area. There should be rooms available.
— A hotel?! — she choked. — You’re suggesting we celebrate New Year’s in a roadside hotel, at our own expense?!
— I’m offering you options. The free option—“the dacha”—is closed. Permanently.
— I’ll never forgive you, Lenka. You’re a traitor. You sold Volodya’s memory for pennies!
— I sold walls that were draining the life out of me, Ira. Volodya’s memory is in my heart, not in old boards. And yes, the money from the house is my safety cushion—which you and Vadik, by the way, never paid back when you borrowed it from us for a car five years ago.
There was silence on the line. That debt was something the family had “tactfully” chosen not to mention, pretending it had long been forgotten.
— Go to hell, — she snapped. — Don’t ever call us again. We don’t want to know you.
— Happy upcoming New Year, — I said and pressed the red button.
Then I went into the contact settings for “Irina — Sister-in-law” and selected “Block.” Vadik’s number followed straight into the blacklist.
Changing the locks
The apartment grew quiet. Only the clock on the wall was ticking, and bubbles hissed softly in a glass of mineral water.
I sat there, waiting for the guilt to crash over me. That’s what our mothers and grandmothers taught us: “Die yourself, but save your comrade,” “Family is sacred.” I listened to myself. Where was that burning shame for having hurt the “poor dears”?
It wasn’t there.
Instead, there was a strange, long-forgotten feeling of lightness.
I opened the folder with the documents again. A bank statement. A sum with six zeros. Those weren’t just numbers. That was my freedom.
The option to go to a sanatorium in Kislovodsk not on a “social voucher” in slushy November, but in May, when the gardens are in bloom. To take care of my health at a good clinic, without lines or ticket stubs.
I could buy a small studio by the sea. In Svetlogorsk or Zelenogradsk. I’d been browsing listings for a while. Pines, dunes, and a cold, stern sea that calms the nerves better than any medicine.
And most importantly—no one would know the address of that studio.
My phone chimed. I flinched, but it was just a message from the bank: “Interest credited to your deposit…”
I went to the window. Snow was still falling over Moscow, covering the streets with a clean white sheet.
Somewhere out there on the highway, their cars were turning toward a hotel. They would have to pay for their vacation. For the first time in many years.
Was I cruel? Possibly.
Was it fair? Yes.
Sometimes, to reclaim your life, you just need to change the locks—not only on the doors of a country house, but in your own soul as well.
I poured myself some hot tea with lemon, switched on the lights on the Christmas tree, and smiled sincerely at my reflection in the dark glass.
The New Year would be quiet. And it would be mine.
And what would you have done in Elena’s place? Should she have warned the relatives in advance, knowing there would be a scandal, or was this kind of “cold shower” the only thing that works with people who have no sense of boundaries?
