— “You bought a summer house—now vacate the apartment,” the mother-in-law set her sights on her daughter-in-law’s home
It all began with a phone call on Saturday morning.
“Olga, sweetheart,” Valentina Petrovna’s voice trembled with barely contained excitement. “I’ve been thinking… You’re going to buy a dacha anyway, right? And what, am I supposed to sit alone in my apartment? Let me move in with you, and I’ll rent mine out. That’ll be my contribution toward your dacha.”
Olga pressed the phone to her ear and looked at Andrey, who was drinking coffee in the kitchen, buried in his phone. He didn’t even glance up.
“Valentina Petrovna, we need to think about it,” Olga began, but her mother-in-law wasn’t listening anymore.
“There’s nothing to think about! Family should help each other. I’m ready to sacrifice my comfort for you. What, should I rent an apartment myself just so I can give you money for the dacha?”
After the call, Olga silently set her cup of cold tea on the table and looked at her husband for a long moment.
“She wants to move in with us,” she said evenly.
Andrey finally looked up from the screen.
“Mom? Well, it’s temporary. Until we buy the dacha. She’ll bring in money from renting out her place—that’s real help. Otherwise we’ll be saving until next summer.”
“Andrey, this is my apartment.”
“Ours,” he corrected automatically. “We’re married.”
“It’s in my name. Privatized before the marriage,” Olga spoke softly, but every word came out clearly. “And I’m not sure this is a good idea.”
“Oh, Ol, come on. She’s my mother. She’s helping us. A year, a year and a half—two at most—and we’ll have the dacha. You wanted it yourself.”
She did. Of course she did. She wanted to get out of the city in summer, plant flowers, grill shashlik, drink tea in a gazebo. She wanted a place where you could breathe, without these stifling walls and the upstairs neighbors who dropped something every night. But did she want to live under the same roof as her mother-in-law?
Valentina Petrovna moved in two weeks later. She arrived with four suitcases, three boxes, and a potted ficus nearly reaching the ceiling.
“It’s only for a little while,” she said, squeezing yet another box into the closet. “Just briefly. Olgochka, don’t worry—I won’t be in your way. I’m quiet, you won’t even notice me.”
The first month was relatively calm. Valentina Petrovna really did try not to interfere: she cooked, cleaned, even set aside part of her pension into a special account for the dacha. Olga came home from work to a spotless kitchen and fresh cutlets or borscht in the fridge.
“See how great this is,” Andrey would say, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Mom helps, we save up, and soon we’ll find a good dacha.”
But gradually, little details began to form an unpleasant picture. Valentina Petrovna rearranged all the dishes in the kitchen—“it’s more convenient this way, I cook more often.” Then she removed Olga’s photos from the living-room shelf—“they collect dust; I’ll put my figurines here instead.” Then she started giving advice.
“Olgochka, why are you wearing that dress again? With your figure, you should present yourself better. When I was your age…”
“Andryusha, maybe you should talk to Olga? She doesn’t know how to save at all. Yesterday she bought chicken for three hundred rubles, but at the wholesale warehouse you could get it for two hundred.”
“Kids, where are you going—movies? You’re saving for a dacha. Better stay home; I’ll brew you some tea.”
Olga clenched her teeth and kept quiet. She kept quiet when Valentina Petrovna criticized her cooking. She kept quiet when her mother-in-law complained to Andrey that Olga came home too late and “who knows what she’s doing there.” She kept quiet when Valentina Petrovna advised her to “be more affectionate with your husband, or he’ll get tired of you.”
“It’s temporary,” Olga repeated to herself like a mantra. “Just endure it. It’ll be over soon.”
They searched for a dacha for six months. They drove to listings, bargained, counted every penny. Valentina Petrovna carefully saved the rent money from her apartment, Andrey set aside money from bonuses, and Olga cut all her spending to the bare minimum.
By the end of the year they found a suitable one—thirty kilometers from the city: six соток of land, a small house, a bathhouse, fruit trees. The owner asked three million, but agreed to two point eight.
“We’re taking it,” Valentina Petrovna decided. “I’m putting in one million two hundred. You have one million six hundred? Then we’re taking it.”
“Mom, we’ll register it under the three of us,” Andrey said. “Fairly.”
“Fairly,” Valentina Petrovna nodded. “Of course, son.”
They closed the deal in January. The snow was knee-deep, but they still went to look at their purchase. Valentina Petrovna, wrapped in a fur coat, walked around the plot, peeked into the house, and nodded approvingly.
“Good place,” she said. “It’ll be beautiful here in summer. I can already picture how I’ll plant flowers, set up garden beds.”
On the way back they stopped at a café to celebrate. Valentina Petrovna ordered champagne and poured it into glasses.
“To our dacha,” she proclaimed solemnly. “To a new life.”
They drank. Olga felt warmth rise to her cheeks—not from the wine, but from relief. Finally. Finally it was over. Another month or two, until Valentina Petrovna asked the tenants to vacate her apartment, and everything would go back to normal.
Valentina Petrovna set her glass down, dabbed her lips with a napkin, and said:
“Well then, kids. You bought a dacha—now vacate the apartment.”
Olga froze with the glass halfway to her mouth.
“What?”
“I said—vacate the apartment,” Valentina Petrovna smiled calmly and kindly. “You’re young now; you need separate housing. Go settle in at the dacha, or rent a small place. And I’ll stay in yours.”
“You… what?” Olga felt her back go cold.
“Olgochka, you’re a smart girl. I’ve lived in your apartment for a year—so it’s practically my place too now. And I invested so much money into the dacha. It would be fair if you gave me the housing, and you started an independent life yourselves. It will be good for you, as a young family.”
Andrey opened and closed his mouth, clearly unable to find words.
“Mom, it’s… it’s Olga’s apartment,” he finally forced out.
“Yours,” Valentina Petrovna corrected. “You’re husband and wife. What belongs to one belongs to the other. And besides, I paid for half the dacha. You paid half. So I’m entitled to either the dacha or the apartment. I’m not greedy—I’m choosing the apartment, it’s closer to the center, more convenient for me. And you can keep the dacha.”
“You’ve lost your mind,” Olga said quietly. “This is my apartment. My parents left it to me. You have no rights to it.”
“Oh, so that’s how you’re talking now,” Valentina Petrovna’s face tightened. “So the apartment is yours, but you took my money for the dacha? So I lived with you for a year, helped you, cooked, cleaned, saved on everything—and now it’s ‘get out’? Andryusha, do you hear how your wife is talking to your mother?…”
“Mom, what does that have to do with anything?” Andrey ran a hand over his face. “Let’s stay calm. No one’s going anywhere. We agreed—”
“We didn’t agree to anything like that,” Valentina Petrovna cut him off. “I said I would help you buy a dacha. I helped. Now you help me—vacate the apartment.”
Olga stood up from the table. Her hands were shaking so badly that she clenched them into fists.
“I’m not leaving my apartment,” she said. “It’s my property. If you don’t like living with us—go back to your place. Your apartment hasn’t gone anywhere.”
“My apartment is rented out!” Valentina Petrovna’s voice rose. “I have a one-year lease! And besides, I’m used to this now. It’s convenient for me here—downtown, the clinic is nearby. I’m an elderly woman; I’m not allowed to get upset.”
“Then keep living here. But that doesn’t make the apartment yours.”
Olga grabbed her bag and walked out of the café. Outside, she stopped and gulped down the icy air. A minute later Andrey came out after her.
“Ol, wait…”
“Wait for what?” She turned on him. “Did you hear what your mother said? She wants to take my apartment from me!”
“She doesn’t want to take it, she just… said it wrong. Let’s talk calmly—”
“Calmly? Andrey, your mother planned this for a year! She moved in on purpose so she could claim rights to my home later!”
“You’re exaggerating. Mom is just… she’s always been a little peculiar. But she’s not a bad person. Maybe we can work something out…”
“Work what out?” Olga felt hot, furious tears rising. “Andrey, do you understand what’s happening? She’ll go back to the apartment now and she won’t leave. She’ll live there, tell me how to behave in my own home, and believe she has every right.”
“Why are you jumping straight to that… let’s try talking nicely.”
They didn’t speak for three days. Valentina Petrovna acted as if nothing had happened—made breakfast, watched TV, told the neighbor about “our dacha.” Olga came home late and left early, avoiding any encounters. Andrey ping-ponged between them, trying to smooth things over, not understanding why it wasn’t working.
On Thursday evening Olga came home and saw a meeting in progress in the kitchen. Valentina Petrovna, Andrey, and some unfamiliar man in his fifties sat at the table with papers.
“Oh, Olgochka, just in time,” Valentina Petrovna beamed. “Meet Yuri Semyonovich, an acquaintance of mine—a lawyer. He’ll help us get everything done properly.”
“Get what done?” Olga’s voice landed like a whip.
“Well, you see, I thought…” Valentina Petrovna lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Since we live together now, we should legalize my rights to the apartment. Yuri Semyonovich says we can draw up a deed of gift for part of the apartment, or I can simply register here… In short, there are lots of options.”
Olga slowly set her bag down on the floor. Something inside her snapped.
“Andrey,” she said very quietly. “Choose. Either your mother leaves my apartment tomorrow, or I file for divorce.”
“Ol!” Andrey sprang up. “Have you lost your mind?”
“No,” she shook her head. “I’ve finally come to my senses. The apartment is in my name. The dacha is in all three of our names. In a divorce I’ll get the apartment and one third of the dacha. Or half, if I prove I invested more. And you’ll get your mother—and the right to rent an apartment or live with her.”
“Olgochka, are you really—” Valentina Petrovna started, but Olga cut her off.
“Be quiet. I’m not talking to you. Andrey, I’m waiting for a decision.”
The lawyer hurriedly gathered his papers and muttered something about bad timing. Valentina Petrovna went pale.
“Son,” she said in a breaking voice. “You won’t let her treat me like this, will you? I’m your mother. I did everything for you…”
“Mom, stop,” Andrey rubbed his temples. “Olga, let’s not do this on эмоциях. Let’s discuss it calmly—”
“There’s nothing to discuss,” Olga picked up her bag. “You have until tomorrow evening. Either I see your mother packing, or I go to a lawyer. Decide.”
She shut herself in the bedroom and lay down on the bed without undressing. Her heart pounded so loudly it seemed you could hear it through the wall. Outside the door came muffled voices—Valentina Petrovna’s, tearful and indignant, and Andrey’s, trying to explain something.
An hour later Andrey came into the bedroom. He sat on the edge of the bed without looking at her.
“She says you’ll have nowhere to live after the divorce,” he said quietly. “That you’ll regret it. That the apartment is supposedly marital property.”
“The apartment was mine before the marriage,” Olga didn’t open her eyes. “And that’s easy to prove. I already consulted a lawyer when your mother started rearranging the furniture.”
Andrey sighed.
“So you’ve been thinking about this for a long time.”
“No. But I prepared for the worst. And the worst has arrived.”
“Ol, she’s my mother. I can’t just throw her out.”
“She can go back to her apartment. Cancel the lease with the tenants and return. Andrey, don’t you understand? She won’t stop. Today it’s the apartment, tomorrow it’ll be something else. She’ll live here, and this will be her home—and I’ll be a guest in my own apartment.”
Silence stretched into eternity.
“I’ll talk to her,” Andrey said at last.
The conversation dragged on until midnight. Olga heard shouting, crying, accusations. Valentina Petrovna wailed that they were throwing her into the street, that her son had betrayed her, that she’d devoted her whole life to him. Andrey spoke more quietly, but his tone was hard.
In the morning Valentina Petrovna didn’t come out of her room. Andrey looked as if he hadn’t slept.
“She’ll leave this weekend,” he said hoarsely. “Says she needs time to pack and terminate the rental agreement.”
“By Sunday,” Olga nodded. “No longer.”
“Ol, you understand that Mom and I probably won’t have a normal relationship anymore?”
“I understand.”
“And you’re ready for that?”
“I’m ready to protect what’s mine. This is my space, my home. No one has the right to demand that I leave it. Not even your mother. Especially not your mother.”
Valentina Petrovna packed for two days in deathly silence. She demonstratively folded her things, sighed loudly, sniffled. She didn’t address Olga once; with Andrey she spoke in short, prickly phrases.
“I hope you’ll be happy with your wife,” she said, zipping up the last suitcase. “When she kicks you out the same way, don’t come crying to me.”
“Mom, I’m not kicking anyone out. You live in your apartment, we live in ours. That’s how it should be.”
“I invested money in your dacha!”
“And the dacha is in three names. One third is yours, one third is mine, one third is Olga’s. Fair.”
“Fair,” Valentina Petrovna gave a bitter smirk. “So ‘fair’ means the mother lives alone, and the son is under his wife’s heel?”
Andrey didn’t answer. He helped carry her things out, called a taxi, and walked her to the car. Valentina Petrovna got in without saying goodbye, and the taxi drove off.
When Andrey came back into the apartment, Olga was standing at the window, watching the street. He approached and hugged her from behind.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t think it would turn out like this.”
“I know.”
“Mom was wrong.”
“I know.”
“But it’s still hard for me. She really is my mother.”
“I know,” Olga turned and pressed against him. “It’s hard for me too. But I couldn’t do otherwise.”
They stood silently in each other’s arms while winter dusk thickened outside the window.
The dacha remained registered in all three names. Valentina Petrovna never came there even once—either her health wouldn’t allow it, or she had things to do. She and Andrey now spoke once a month, dryly and formally. Olga offered to buy out her share, but Valentina Petrovna refused—either out of spite, or to keep at least some kind of tie to her son.
In summer they went to the dacha on weekends. They planted flowers, fixed the fence, built a gazebo. One day Andrey, digging a bed for tomatoes, straightened up and said:
“You know, I realized something. Mom really did want to help. But she wanted to help in a way that would make us indebted to her. Forever.”
“Yes,” Olga sprinkled soil into the hole. “Some people help not so you’ll be better off, but so they can have leverage later.”
“Are you angry at her?”
“No,” Olga shook her head. “I was just protecting what’s mine. And I will always protect it. It isn’t anger. It’s the right thing.”
Andrey nodded. They worked in silence, listening to birdsong and the rustle of leaves. And in the evening they drank tea in the gazebo, watching the sunset, and for the first time in a long while Olga felt that it truly was their place. Only theirs.
