When I saw a kid’s scooter on the veranda, two suitcases, and a drying rack with unfamiliar towels, I thought we must have mixed up the weekends.
Pavel turned off the car and froze as he looked at the porch. His nephew Kostya burst out of the house, barefoot and holding a cookie.
«Uncle Pasha, we live here now!»
I silently opened the gate. There was a bag of toys on my bench, rubber boots by the door, and children’s sneakers drying on the windowsill. The door was wide open.
Oksana, Pavel’s sister, came out of the kitchen wearing my old sweater—the one I’d left at the dacha for chilly evenings.
«Oh, you’re here. We thought you were coming tomorrow.»
Pavel looked away. That’s when I realized that the words «stopping by for a day» hadn’t meant what I thought they did.
I was the one who gave them the key.
I bought the dacha four years before the wedding, with my own money, and registered it in my name: an old community, a wooden house, two rooms, a veranda, and a summer shower. Pavel repaired the porch and gate, fiddled with the pump, but he never called it «his dacha» or decided for me who could visit.
Two years ago, we left for ten days, and I gave a spare key to his mother, Lidiya Petrovna.
«Water the tomatoes and make sure the veranda window doesn’t slam.»
She did everything I asked, but instead of returning the key when we got back, she tucked it into her bag:
«I’ll just keep it. You never know.»
I waved it off—and I shouldn’t have.
It only escalated from there. Oksana and Kostya started coming while we were at work. Lidiya Petrovna would call after: «We picked the raspberries so they wouldn’t go to waste.» Mysterious containers showed up in the fridge, and my towel was drying on the fence after someone else’s swim.
One day I told Pavel:
«I want to know who’s on my property.»
He was sitting on the porch, screwing a bolt into a chair leg. Without looking up, he just shrugged:
«Mom isn’t a stranger. Neither is Oksana. They’re not breaking anything.»
«It’s not about things getting broken.»
«Okay, I’ll tell them to let you know next time.»
He did mention it to them. It lasted for two weeks.
In spring, we seemed to reach an agreement
In April, my mother-in-law called one evening, starting vaguely about the summer being forecasted as hot and how it would be hard for a child in the city. Then she got to her main point:
«Oksana could stay at your place in July. And maybe a bit of August too. The house is empty half the week anyway.»
«No. No one is going to stay for weeks. This isn’t a hotel.»
«I’m not suggesting strangers!»
To her, ‘not strangers’ was like a universal permit. Not strangers could pop in, take things, move in. And you weren’t supposed to offend ‘not strangers’ by saying no.
Immediately, Oksana texted Pavel and then called. I could only hear his side from the kitchen:
«No, Ksyusha, you can’t stay all summer… It’s not about you… Why are you getting upset?»
Then he came to me:
«She says mom blew it out of proportion. They only needed a few days, at most.»
«A few days is one thing. Months are something else entirely.»
«That’s what I told her.»
That was the end of that subject.
A week later, my colleague Sveta asked if I was renting out the house. Her daughter has a little one, and they needed to get out of the city for the summer.
«We don’t need any luxuries,» she said. «There’s a shower, electricity, a shop nearby – that’s enough. We’re willing to pay ninety thousand for June, July, and August. Electricity separate.»
I said no:
«We’ll be going ourselves. Pavel’s taking his vacation in July.»
At home I told my husband about the money. He gave a wry smile: «Not bad.» As I later learned, that very evening he mentioned it to his mom. Just as a bit of news: people were ready to pay ninety thousand for the season, but we turned it down because we wanted to relax there ourselves.
Lidiya Petrovna heard it differently: if I turned down money just for the sake of our own rest, then a standing-empty house could just as well serve the family.
«We’ve already brought everything over»
On the first Saturday of June, we planned to plant seedlings, sort out the shed, and stay until Sunday. Instead, I walked into a house where strangers were living.
Oksana was frying onions in the kitchen. For the first time that day, I realized the smell of my own home felt foreign. In the bedroom where Pavel and I usually slept, an open travel bag was on the bed, and Oksana’s dresses were already hanging in the closet. Someone had shoved my old sneakers into the corner. In the second room, there was a box of toys by the couch, a scooter under the table, and a child’s windbreaker on the back of a chair.
I walked back into the kitchen.
«Oksana, how long are you staying?»
She didn’t even turn around as she set mugs on the table:
«I told Pasha. Until school starts.»
Pavel frowned:
«You didn’t tell me that.»
«Well, not directly to you. Mom said she’d arranged it.»
«She didn’t arrange anything with me,» I replied.
Oksana finally turned around and crossed her arms:
«Mom gave us permission. We’re here until September.»
She said it so calmly, so matter-of-factly, like she was talking about getting a seat on the train.
«And you didn’t think to ask me?»
«Why ask? The house is empty five days a week. We’re not strangers. I’ll take care of the utilities.»
— So, you’re planning to live here for three months.
— And? Does that bother you?
Pavel asked both of us not to get worked up, but then he just stoked the fire:
— Maybe they should just stay a couple of weeks? I mean, since they’ve already brought everything over.
I slowly turned to him:
— A couple of weeks, or until September?
He stayed silent. Oksana jumped in:
— What difference does it make! You can come on weekends, we’ll squeeze into the little room.
Just three minutes after “we’re here until September,” I was graciously given permission to visit my own summer house only on weekends.
I walked out onto the porch and sat down. I was angry, but it wasn’t just this situation getting to me. Once again, I was being told to give in just because everything had already been arranged and it would be awkward to change anything now. It was the same with the key, with the raspberries, with people dropping by without calling. Every time, it was already a done deal, and I could either accept it or be seen as difficult.
This time, I decided not to choose.
Ninety thousand
When I came back, Oksana was unpacking groceries: butter in the fridge, bread into the cupboard.
— Fine, — I said. — Stay here.
She smiled so quickly that I almost burst out laughing.
— Great.
— The season costs ninety thousand.
She froze, holding a packet of pasta in her hand.
— What?
— June, July, August. Ninety thousand, and you’ll pay for electricity separately, according to the meter.
— Are you serious?
— Completely. Someone offered me that exact amount, and I turned them down because I wanted to stay here myself. If you’re going to be here for three months, I’m losing out on that.
— But we’re family! — Oksana raised her voice.
— Being family doesn’t give you the right to decide what happens with someone else’s house.
She grabbed her phone:
— I’m calling Mom, she’ll explain everything to you.
Lidia Petrovna answered right away. Oksana put her on speaker:
— She’s demanding ninety thousand from me!
— For what? — asked my mother-in-law.
— For the dacha!
Now she was talking straight to me:
— Are you for real? Charging your husband’s own sister?
— Lidia Petrovna, did you promise Oksana my summer house for the whole summer?
— I just said she could stay for a while. The house is sitting empty.
— Who gave you the right to decide that?
— Don’t take that tone with me. I didn’t steal the key, you gave it to me yourself.
— For watering the plants.
— What difference does it make now?
Explaining it all again was pointless. I turned to Pavel:
— If you think your sister should stay here for free, then pay for her yourself. Ninety thousand. You know where that number comes from.
Oksana turned red:
— Pasha, are you really going to just listen to this?
He didn’t take my side, or hers. He sat down at the table, looked at his sister and asked:
— Ksyusha, why did you show up for three months if neither of us ever agreed to it?
— Mom said I could!
— The dacha isn’t Mom’s.
— So I’m not wanted here, is that it?
— Don’t twist my words.
— What’s there to twist? I need a break with my kid, and you care more about money.
Kostya poked his head in, and we all instantly lowered our voices. Pavel took him outside, and Oksana spent another ten minutes whispering into the phone to her mother. Then she said:
— We’ll sleep here tonight and leave in the morning.
— Fine, — I replied. I didn’t want to kick a child out at night.
Mother-in-law showed up in the morning
Lidia Petrovna arrived at half past eight. She opened the gate with her own key, walked into the house, and set the bunch of keys down on the table in front of me:
— Here. Since they’re so precious.
I put the keys in the dresser drawer.
— Thank you.
«You’re welcome. You got what you wanted.»
Oksana was packing the kids’ clothes into a bag. Kostya was putting toys into a box. My mother-in-law was pacing the house, commenting on every move we made:
«Look what it’s come to. Family turning into business partners, all about the money.»
At first, Pavel stayed quiet, then he couldn’t keep it in any longer:
«Mom, that’s enough. You promised something that doesn’t even belong to you.»
«So now your wife is closer to you than your mother?»
«That’s not what this is about. The dacha doesn’t belong to you or to me.»
She looked over at me:
«So, you’ve decided to make some cash off the summer?»
«I haven’t decided anything yet.»
«Oh, you’ll decide. Ninety thousand can make anyone lose sight of reason.»
I could have reminded her that I turned down that money for the sake of a family vacation, but I chose not to argue.
Pavel helped load the bags into his mom’s car. Kostya had stopped sulking and was now showing him a game on his phone. Right before leaving, Oksana threw out:
«I’m never coming back here again.»
«That’s your choice.»
Lidia Petrovna scoffed, started the car, and they drove off. Suddenly, the place felt strangely quiet.
Pavel paused at the door.
«It’s my fault. I should’ve taken Mom’s key right away. And I shouldn’t have told her about the rental idea—she twisted the whole thing.»
«Did you really not know that Oksana was planning to stay until September?»
«No, I thought it was just for a week.»
It took me a while to believe him. Maybe the worst part of all of this was realizing that I’d never even thought to question his words before.
That evening, he showed me his messages with his sister. Nowhere did it mention three months. Oksana had only spoken to their mother.
«Tomorrow I’ll change the lock cylinder,» he told me. «From now on, you’ll be the only one with keys.»
He did it on Monday, before he left for work.
I called Sveta
That same day, I dialed up a colleague:
«Is your offer about the dacha still on the table?»
«Absolutely. We still haven’t found a place. Aren’t you guys staying there yourselves?»
«Plans have changed.»
I didn’t want to go somewhere every nook and cranny had already been claimed behind my back. And leaving a vacant house was just a temptation for the next round of, «Mom said it’s okay.» A formal contract with real people and signatures was better protection than any lock.
Sveta came on Saturday with her husband and daughter. They calmly walked through the property, asked about the water, the train, and where the main valve shut off. No one opened cupboards, no one picked out their room in advance.
We signed a contract for ninety thousand for the season—from June 15th to August 31st. Electricity was by meter, and no outsiders were allowed to stay. I handed them one set of keys.
Pavel didn’t object. He helped take our things out of the wardrobe and took the tools home.
In July, we rented a little lakeside cottage for a week. The rest of the weekends, we visited friends or stayed in the city. Lidia Petrovna called Pavel but left me alone. Oksana ignored my messages for over a month.
In September, after the tenants left, I went to the dacha alone. I washed the windows, cleared out extra things from the closets, and gathered fallen apples into a bag.
An hour later, the gate lock jingled. Pavel showed up with new hinges.
«Mom asked if she could come for Antonovka apples on Saturday,» he said.
«And what did you say?»
«That you’d have to say yes first.»
I wiped my hands on my apron and put the kettle on the stove.
«She can come. But only on Saturday—because I’ll be here.»
Pavel nodded and headed to the gate to put on the hinges.
