Tamarka from the neighboring table gave a thumbs-up and silently mouthed, “How beautiful.” Natasha nodded, although she was no longer seeing any of that beauty. She was watching Viktor Stepanovich, who had walked up to the microphone with an envelope in his hands, and her palms suddenly became damp. Something was wrong. It was in the way her father-in-law kept glancing at Katya. In the way her mother-in-law was already dabbing at her eyes.
Her father-in-law loved making speeches. Everyone knew that. At every family gathering, he would inevitably stand up and give a fifteen-minute toast, reminiscing about his Komsomol youth and his years working at the factory, and he always ended with something about family unity. Katya, the bride, his youngest daughter, sat beside her groom, Artyom, glowing so brightly it almost hurt to look at her.
“My dear ones,” Viktor Stepanovich began. “Today is a special day. Our dear Katya is getting married.”
Natasha glanced sideways at her husband. Seryozha sat there with a stony expression. He did not like his father’s speeches either, but he endured them. He always endured them.
“Nina Pavlovna and I spent a long time thinking about what to give the newlyweds. And we decided that we would give them a future. We would give them a place where they could raise their children and escape the noise of the city.”
Natasha stopped breathing.
“We’re giving you the country house in Sosnovka.”
The hall erupted in applause. Katya jumped up and rushed to hug her father. Nina Pavlovna wiped away tears. The guests murmured approvingly. It was a generous gift—there was no denying that.
Natasha looked at Seryozha. He sat completely still, as if frozen. Then he slowly turned his head toward his wife.
“That’s our country house,” he said so quietly that only she could hear him.
“I know.”
Three years earlier, Viktor Stepanovich had called his son over for a talk. They sat in the kitchen while Nina Pavlovna poured tea.
“Seryozha, we have a plot of land in Sosnovka. Six hundred square meters. We want to build a country house there for the whole family. But we’re getting too old to manage it ourselves. Maybe you could take charge?”
Seryozha had looked at Natasha. She shrugged—your family, your decision.
“We’ll help,” Nina Pavlovna added. “With money, as much as we can. But physically, we just can’t do it anymore.”
“All right,” Seryozha said. “If it’s for the family, we’ll build it.”
Later, Natasha asked him what exactly “for the family” meant. Who would the house be registered to? Seryozha waved the question away.
“What difference does it make? The land belongs to my parents. They got it back in the nineties. We’ll build a house and everyone will use it.”
“And when they die? Who will inherit it?”
“Natash, why are you talking like a lawyer? My parents are alive and healthy. God willing, they’ll live another hundred years. We’ll figure it out.”
She did not argue. Not then.
The first summer went into laying the foundation. Seryozha took vacation in June and then another week of unpaid leave. Natasha came every weekend and cooked for the whole crew—Seryozha, his father, and two hired workers. Nina Pavlovna came too, but she mostly gave orders instead of helping.
“Move the window farther left. Farther left. Viktor, tell them.”
Viktor Stepanovich sat in the shade reading a newspaper. He liked giving instructions in theory, but whenever there was actual work to be done, something more important always seemed to come up.
His parents contributed money for the foundation—150,000 rubles. Natasha and Seryozha added 200,000 of their own.
“We’ll settle everything later,” his father said at the time. “It’s for everyone, after all.”
The second summer was spent putting up the walls and the roof. Seryozha lost eight kilograms. Every Friday after work, he got behind the wheel and drove 120 kilometers to Sosnovka. He returned Sunday evening, then went back to work on Monday.
“Seryozha, you’re going to work yourself into the ground,” Natasha told him.
“It’s fine. I’ll rest in winter.”
He did not rest in winter. He and Natasha spent the winter choosing a boiler, pipes, and radiators. They drove around building-supply markets, calculating every expense and saving wherever they could. By then, his parents had contributed another 100,000 rubles. Seryozha and Natasha had invested almost 400,000—everything they had saved for a car.
“All right,” Natasha said at the time. “The car can wait. A country house is a good thing. At least we’ll be staying at our own place instead of relying on other people.”
The third summer was devoted to finishing work. Natasha painted the walls herself and put up wallpaper in the bedroom. Seryozha installed the kitchen they had bought on an installment plan.
“It’s going to be beautiful,” Nina Pavlovna would say when she came on weekends. “Katya will love it.”
Natasha had not thought anything of that remark at the time. Mothers-in-law said all kinds of things.
“Seryozha, how are you?” Natasha asked when they stepped outside from the banquet hall. Seryozha did not smoke, but he needed air.
“I don’t know. I really don’t know.”
“Did you know they had decided this?”
“No. I swear I didn’t. I thought it was for everyone. Just like they said.”
Natasha was silent. She believed him. After twelve years of marriage, she knew when he was lying and when he was not.
“Dima called me yesterday,” Seryozha suddenly said.
Dima was his older brother. He lived in Novosibirsk and had not come to the wedding because it was too far and too expensive.
“And?”
“He said, ‘They’ll give everything to Katya again. You’ll see.’ I didn’t believe him. I thought he was just angry because he hadn’t been invited to the wedding.”
“He wasn’t invited?”
“He was. He chose not to come. He said, ‘I’ve had enough. I was always the one they called when they needed something. Katya was born when I was already grown, so I babysat her. When Katya was applying to university, you and I chipped in for tutors. Now Katya gets married, and they give her the country house.’”
“He actually said that? About the country house?”
“Exactly that. Yesterday. And I thought he was exaggerating.”
They did not return to the banquet hall. Seryozha sent Natasha home in a taxi and went looking for his father. He found him near the back entrance.
“Dad, we need to talk.”
Viktor Stepanovich smiled.
“Of course, son. What happened? It’s a celebration.”
“How could you do this? We spent three years building that house. Three years. With our own hands. We put our own money into it.”
Viktor Stepanovich frowned.
“Seryozha, don’t start. You were building it for the family. Katya is family. She’s our daughter. Now it’s her house.”
“And what are we? Aren’t we family?”
“You’re adults. Independent. You have an apartment, you have jobs. Katya is just starting her life. She and Artyom need a nest of their own.”
“A nest of their own? We spent three years building that nest. Natasha was putting up wallpaper while I was roofing the place. Every weekend, three summers in a row.”
“Seryozha, don’t dramatize. You were helping the family. That’s normal.”
“Helping? We weren’t helping. We were building it. You only helped financially, and even then you paid maybe a quarter of the total.”
Viktor Stepanovich straightened up. His voice became harsher.
“The land is ours. We got it when you were still in school. We can do whatever we want with it.”
“And what about our investment? We put almost 600,000 rubles into that place. Not counting the labor.”
“We’ll settle it. Later. Now isn’t the time.”
“When will it be the time? When Katya is living in our house and we’re left with nothing?”
Viktor Stepanovich was silent. Then he said:
“Seryozha, you’re acting like a child. You’re jealous of your sister. It’s unbecoming.”
Seryozha stared at his father as if he no longer recognized him. Or perhaps, for the first time, he was seeing him clearly.
“We won’t be coming to see you anymore. And we won’t build anything else for you.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“No. I’m finally seeing things clearly.”
Seryozha came home after midnight. Natasha was awake, waiting for him. He sat down in the kitchen and dropped his head into his hands.
“What did he say?”
“That the land belongs to them. That we’re adults and independent. That Katya is just beginning her life.”
“And the money?”
“He said we’d settle it.”
“When?”
“Later. He didn’t say when.”
Natasha sat beside him and stroked his back.
“Seryozha, how are you?”
“Awful. Sorry.”
“It’s okay. You have every right to feel that way.”
They sat in silence. Then Seryozha lifted his head.
“You know what hurts the most? I believed them. I genuinely believed we were building it for everyone. I thought when my parents got old, we’d take them there. When the kids grew up, they’d spend their summers there. But it turns out we spent three years working for Katya.”
“Katya may not have known anything about it.”
“Maybe. Or maybe she did. It doesn’t matter anymore.”
A week later, Nina Pavlovna called.
“Seryozha, what do you think you’re doing? Your father is upset because of you. His blood pressure is all over the place.”
“Mom, I’m not ‘doing’ anything. I said what I think.”
“You ruined your sister’s wedding. She cried afterward.”
“I didn’t ruin anything. I left quietly. Nobody even noticed.”
“Your father noticed. And he was very upset. We’ve done so much for you, and you’re so ungrateful.”
“Mom, we spent three years building your country house. We put our own money into it. And we’re the ungrateful ones?”
Nina Pavlovna fell silent. Then she said:
“You make everything complicated. We’re family.”
“Yes. We were.”
He hung up. Natasha looked at him from the sofa.
“Your mother?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“She said I’m ungrateful and that I ruined Katya’s wedding.”
“I see.”
The next several months were difficult. His parents did not call. Seryozha did not call them either. Natasha suggested making peace a couple of times, but her husband shook his head.
“Not now. I can’t.”
Dima called from Novosibirsk on New Year’s.
“Seryoga, you did well. I wouldn’t have been able to do that. It’s easier for me—I’m far away. But you lived nearby and still managed to distance yourself.”
“I didn’t cut them off. I just realized something.”
“What?”
“That to them, we’re service staff. We always have been. Dima babysat. Seryozha built things. And Katya is the princess.”
“Exactly. That’s how it’s always been. They had her late, when they no longer expected another child. So they treated her like something precious. And we were just expendable.”
“Don’t say that.”
“What else am I supposed to say? It’s the truth.”
Natasha listened to the conversation and thought about the fact that she had known her in-laws for twelve years. In all those years, she had never once truly felt like family. She had always been “Seryozha’s wife.” Not Natasha. Not a daughter. Just their son’s wife.
In the spring, Seryozha came home carrying printouts.
“Look,” he said, spreading the papers across the table. “There’s a plot in Petrovskoye. Twenty kilometers from the city. Fifteen hundred square meters, flat and dry. They want 400,000 rubles.”
“Four hundred thousand? We don’t have that kind of money.”
“We’ll take out a loan. We can manage it. I’ve done the calculations.”
“Seryozha, we just finished paying off the mortgage on the apartment. Another loan?”
“Yes. Another one. But this will be ours. Do you understand? Not my parents’. Not ‘the family’s.’ Ours. Belonging to the two of us.”
Natasha looked at her husband. He had changed over the past few months. He had become harder, more decisive. Before, he always looked for a compromise and tried to please everyone. Not anymore.
“Let’s go see it,” she said.
They went the following weekend. The plot turned out to be good—truly flat, with a slight slope toward a river. The neighbors seemed normal, the road was decent, and the train station was a fifteen-minute walk away.
“Should we buy it?” Seryozha asked.
“Let’s buy it.”
The paperwork took two months. They took out a loan secured against their apartment. Natasha was nervous—what if they could not afford it? But Seryozha remained calm.
“We can manage. I took on extra work. We’ll get through it.”
Seryozha worked as an engineer at a factory. His salary was good, though there were no bonuses. Natasha worked as an accountant for a construction company—steady income, but nothing luxurious.
“Seryozha, maybe we shouldn’t do this?” she asked one evening. “Maybe you should make peace with your parents? They’re old already. How much time do they have left?”
“Natash, I’m not angry with them anymore. Really. I just don’t want to be part of that system anymore. There will always be Katya, and we’ll always be the ones expected to help.”
“But they’re your parents.”
“Yes. And they made their choice. Now I’m making mine.”
The first summer on the new plot, they put up a fence and a small temporary cabin. Seryozha worked alone—they could not afford hired labor. Natasha came every weekend, brought food, and helped however she could. Their son, Mishka, was already four. He ran around the plot collecting beetles in a jar.
“We could plant apple trees here,” Natasha said, looking over the empty land. “And currants. My mother always said currants are useful.”
“We’ll plant them. We’ll plant everything. Just give me time.”
By autumn, the cabin was standing and the fence was finished. Electricity had been connected—they were lucky, there was a utility pole nearby. They still had no water and had to bring it in canisters.
“Next year we’ll drill a well,” Seryozha planned. “And pour the foundation.”
“Seryozha, that means another several years.”
“I know. But this time it’s for us. Do you understand the difference?”
Natasha did.
On New Year’s, Katya called. Seryozha did not answer. Then Nina Pavlovna called back. He ignored that call too. Natasha watched him but said nothing.
“I can’t,” he said, almost apologetically. “Not yet.”
“I’m not making you.”
“I know. I’m just explaining.”
A week later, a letter arrived. A regular paper letter in an envelope. It was from Viktor Stepanovich. Seryozha read it and silently handed it to Natasha.
“Seryozha, your mother and I understand that you’re upset. But half a year has already passed. It’s time to make peace. We’re family. Come to the country house and we’ll talk. Katya and Artyom are living there now and doing renovations. You could help them out. Artyom isn’t very handy; everything he does comes out crooked. You know how to do these things.”
Natasha finished reading and put the letter on the table.
“Is he serious?”
“Apparently.”
“He wants you to help Katya renovate the house you built yourself?”
“Exactly.”
“And he doesn’t see anything strange about that?”
“No. To him, it’s normal. Seryozha is the workhorse. Always was, always will be.”
Seryozha picked up the letter, carefully tore it into pieces, and threw it in the trash.
The second summer was devoted to the foundation. By then Seryozha knew exactly how to do it. His experience building his parents’ country house had come in useful. He dug the trenches himself, tied the rebar himself, and poured the concrete himself.
“Seryozha, hire someone,” Natasha pleaded. “You’re going to kill yourself working like this.”
“We don’t have money for workers. And I’m not going to kill myself. I’m healthy.”
By September, the foundation was finished. Level and solid. Seryozha stood in the middle of the plot looking at what he had made.
“Beautiful,” Natasha said, walking up behind him.
“It’s ours,” he replied. “Do you understand? This foundation is ours. The two of us own it. Nobody can take it away.”
In autumn, Dima called.
“Seryoga, have you heard the news?”
“What news?”
“Mom and Dad are selling their Moscow apartment. They’re moving in with Katya at the country house.”
“What do you mean, moving to the country house? You can’t live there in winter. There’s no proper heating.”
“Exactly. They want Katya and her husband to install heating. But those two don’t know how and don’t want to. They’re fighting now.”
Seryozha was silent.
“You hear me?” Dima asked. “You still there?”
“I’m here. Thinking.”
“What is there to think about? Karma caught up with them. You spent three years building the place, and they screwed you over. Now they’ve got neither a proper country house nor the son who could fix it. Katya doesn’t know how to do anything.”
“Dima, I don’t feel sorry for them. But I’m not happy about it either.”
“Well, I am. Sorry, but I am. Maybe now they’ll finally understand what they did.”
That winter, Seryozha got a promotion at work. His salary increased, making the loan easier to handle. Natasha also took on additional responsibilities.
“Seryozha, why don’t we start the walls next year?” she suggested one evening.
“Let’s do it. But there’s no need to rush. We have time now. Nobody’s pushing us.”
“That’s true. Nobody is.”
“Natash,” Seryozha suddenly said. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not pressuring me. For not forcing me to reconcile with them. For not telling me I was wrong.”
“Were you wrong?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I think maybe I should have handled it differently. Talked more, explained things. But then I remember that letter from my father—‘you could help Katya with the renovations’—and I understand that no, nothing would have changed.”
“Seryozha, you don’t have to forgive them. But you don’t have to hate them either.”
“I don’t hate them. I just let them go.”
The third summer was for the walls. Seryozha hired two workers from a neighboring village. They were inexpensive, but skilled. He worked alongside them as an equal.
Natasha came every weekend. She painted, plastered, and cleared away debris. Mishka, who was already six, helped carry boards and felt like a real builder.
“Mom, is this going to be our house?”
“Ours, sweetheart. Ours.”
“Can I have a room upstairs? Under the roof?”
“You can. We’ll make you an attic room.”
By autumn, the walls were standing. They decided to leave the roof until the following year because they had run out of money. But the house was already taking shape. A real house.
“Beautiful,” Seryozha said, putting his arm around his wife.
“Beautiful.”
“It’s ours.”
At the end of September, Nina Pavlovna called. Seryozha did not answer, but she left a voice message.
“Seryozha, it’s Mom. We need help. Katya and Artyom are getting divorced. The country house is in terrible condition, the roof leaks and the heating doesn’t work. Your father is sick. He’s not doing well. You know how that house was built—you built it yourself. Help us. We’re family.”
Seryozha listened to the message twice. Then he deleted it.
“What was it?” Natasha asked.
“Mom. She wants help with the country house. The roof is leaking.”
“And what are you going to do?”
“Nothing. Let Katya deal with it. It’s her house now.”
“Seryozha, maybe you should still—”
“No, Natash. I spent three years building that house with my own hands. And they gave it to Katya without even asking me. Now they have problems? They can solve them themselves.”
Natasha did not argue.
The fourth summer was for the roof. Seryozha bought the materials himself and negotiated with the roofers. Slowly, the structure turned into a home.
In July, Dima called.
“Seryoga, news. Mom and Dad sold the Moscow apartment. For good.”
“And where did they move?”
“To Katya’s. To the country house. Except nothing works there. Katya got divorced, Artyom left, and she can’t manage on her own. Mom and Dad are old and sick. The three of them are basically living in an unfinished house.”
“I feel sorry for them.”
“You really do?”
“I really do. But I’m not going to help.”
By autumn, the house was finished. It was small—two rooms, a kitchen, and a veranda. But it was theirs. Truly theirs.
Seryozha registered the property in both his and Natasha’s names, with equal shares.
“Here,” he said, showing his wife the official property registry extract. “Now it’s official. It belongs to us. Both of us. Nobody can take it away.”
“Seryozha, I already knew it was ours.”
“You knew. But now it’s in writing.”
The fifth summer, they moved to the country house for the entire season. Mishka, now eight, ran around the property building a shelter from branches. Natasha planted currant bushes, just as her mother had advised. Seryozha started building a bathhouse.
In August, they had a visitor.
Viktor Stepanovich.
He had aged. He looked thinner and stooped. He stood by the gate staring at the house.
“Seryozha,” he said. “Can we talk?”
Seryozha went out to him. Natasha stayed on the veranda.
“What do you want?”
“Seryozha, we need help. The roof on the country house is falling apart completely. Katya can’t manage. Your mother is sick. I’m not well myself.”
“And what do you want from me?”
“Help us. You know how. You built that house.”
Seryozha looked at his father. The older man stood with his eyes lowered.
“Dad,” Seryozha said. “I spent three years building that house. I put my own money, my own time, and my own health into it. And you gave it to Katya. In front of everyone. Without even asking me.”
“Seryozha, we didn’t know things would turn out this way.”
“Turn out what way?”
“That Katya would get divorced. That Artyom would turn out to be useless. That the house would start falling apart.”
“And if it hadn’t? If everything had gone well for them? Would you have come here to apologize?”
Viktor Stepanovich was silent.
“There’s your answer,” Seryozha said. “Go home, Dad. I can’t help you.”
“Seryozha, we’re family.”
“We were family. Until you showed me who your real family was and who was just free labor.”
Viktor Stepanovich stood there for another minute, then turned and walked toward the gate. Slowly, heavily.
Seryozha returned to the veranda.
“Seryozha, are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Really?”
“Really. You know, it used to hurt. Now it doesn’t. There’s just emptiness.”
“Completely empty?”
“Almost.”
He paused.
“Maybe someday I’ll be able to forgive them. But not now.”
Mishka came running from the far end of the yard, covered in dirt and grass.
“Dad, I finished my shelter! Come see!”
Seryozha stood up and followed his son.
