My husband Denis is a man with a rare, practically endangered kind of soul. He sincerely believes in Santa Claus, fair lotteries, and that relatives want nothing but the best for him.
Denis works as a clown in a circus. Apparently, the professional distortion has carried over into his perception of reality: to him, the world is full of cotton candy and kind smiles. I, on the other hand, work as a financial auditor, so my world consists of hidden risks, unpaid bills, and clever schemes.
That Friday, I came home looking forward to a quiet evening. Denis was juggling three oranges in the kitchen, radiating good cheer.
“Olga, my sunshine!” he cheerfully announced, catching the last citrus fruit.
“Today I did such a great thing! I transferred the dacha to Mom. The one from Grandma’s inheritance. For safekeeping!”
The news dropped between us like a cast-iron weight onto a glass table.
Five years. For five years I had poured my bonuses, nerves, and time into that run-down shack. I paid for drilling the well, a complete rewiring of the electrical system, building a proper bathhouse, and installing an expensive septic system. During all that time, Denis planted radishes and entertained the neighbors’ children.
The dacha had been his premarital property, so legally he had the right to give it away. But financially, it had been my personal project.
“Mom said the taxes would be lower this way, and besides, property should be in the strong hands of the older generation,” my husband kept chirping.
“Denis,” I said calmly, mentally calculating the losses.
“For the last three years we denied ourselves vacations because I was paying for the roof replacement. In all that time, your mother invested in the dacha exactly one old colander and three rolls of electrical tape. What exactly is her ‘reliability’ supposed to be?”
My husband blinked. He dropped an orange, which rolled under the refrigerator with a dull thud.
“Well… she’s Mom.”
He stood in the middle of the kitchen like a stuffed teddy bear whose batteries had suddenly died.
The next day, those “strong hands” arrived at our apartment in person. Alina Maksimovna, my mother-in-law, a woman of remarkable cunning, crossed the threshold looking as if she had come to review a military parade.
“Olechka, don’t be upset,” she began in a sugary voice, lowering herself onto my favorite couch.
“You young people have nothing but wind in your heads. Today you’re a family, tomorrow you split up. But the dacha is our family nest. I’m moving there for the whole summer, and I’ll invite my sister and my nieces and nephews. The air is clean there.”
I sat down across from her, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Alina Maksimovna,” I said, my voice soft but with a metallic edge, “according to the Civil Code, ownership rights mean not only clean air, but also the burden of maintenance. This morning I canceled all my bank autopayments.”
My mother-in-law stopped chewing her cookie.
“Starting today, payment for security, garbage removal, electricity, and the gardening association fees will be your responsibility,” I continued.
“That comes to about twenty thousand rubles a month. Here are the blank forms and the payment details.”
The cookie slipped from her fingers and scattered across the carpet in fine crumbs.
“What twenty thousand?!” she shrieked, frantically brushing the crumbs off her knees as if she had suddenly sat on an anthill.
A week later, the conflict entered a new orbit. Alina Maksimovna called a family council. My sister-in-law, a couple of random aunties, and a bewildered Denis gathered in our living room. My mother-in-law launched her offensive, determined to seal her triumph in public.
“So here’s how it is,” she declared, tapping her finger on the table.
“The dacha is mine now. But Olga must keep paying the bills, since she’s the one who did all those renovations. And the furniture stays too.
My relatives and I are planning to vacation there, and we need comfort. And you will hand me the keys right now.”
The aunties nodded approvingly. Denis tried to say something, but his mother hissed at him in such a way that he instantly seemed to shrink.
I looked around at this real-life circus.
“You know, Alina Maksimovna,” I said quietly, making everyone lean in to listen, “wise people say: before you take over someone else’s beehive, make sure you own a beekeeper’s suit and know how to run fast. Otherwise, the honey may turn out to be very bitter.”
“Don’t get philosophical with me!” my mother-in-law barked. “Keys on the table! And make sure you pay the gardener by Friday! That’s my condition!”
“As you wish,” I said with a smile, taking out the key ring and placing it in front of her. “Enjoy.”
She snatched the metal with the greed of a seagull lunging for a piece of bread.
The plan formed in my head in a split second. I had no intention of hiring movers or wrecking my own renovations—that’s not my method. I’m an auditor; I work with documents and harsh reality.
My mother-in-law forgot two small details. The first was practical: all the utility contracts had been signed personally by me. On Tuesday I went to the local electricity provider and officially terminated the contract.
The house was promptly disconnected from the power line. And without electricity, a country house turns into a pumpkin: the pump can’t pull water from the well, the gates won’t open, and the boiler won’t heat water.
But my real trump card was a legal detail. Two years earlier, when the amount of money I had invested exceeded all reasonable limits, I had convinced Denis to sign an official lease agreement.
My sole proprietorship leased that dacha for 49 years for the symbolic sum of one hundred rubles a month, with mandatory registration in Rosreestr. Denis had waved it off and signed it. And the contract provided for a draconian penalty if the owner terminated it on their own initiative—five million rubles.
On Saturday, my mother-in-law went to the dacha to bring prospective buyers—to show off the “family nest” and quickly convert it into cash.
At 12:15, my phone vibrated. Alina Maksimovna was calling.
“Olya!” came a hysterical screech through the phone, against the background of thick, soul-chilling dog barking. “What is going on?! Why is there no electricity?! And get rid of that monster!”
I opened my messenger. Our dacha neighbor, Baba Masha, with whom I had arranged everything in advance, had sent me a vivid photo just five minutes earlier, taken over the fence.
The scene was worthy of a master painter’s brush. Alina Maksimovna and some pot-bellied man clutching a folder were huddled on the sloping roof of the old woodshed.
Below them, Cerberus—our enormous Caucasian Shepherd—was pacing around with leisurely purpose. I had deliberately left him roaming free, knowing Baba Masha would feed him well. The dog knew his territory perfectly and did not allow strangers in. The guests had managed to enter through the gate, but getting any farther had proved impossible.
“Good morning, Mother,” I sang sweetly. “What seems to be the problem? You wanted the family nest—you’re on its territory. I turned off the electricity; I’m not the owner anymore, so I have no reason to pay someone else’s bills.”
“We can’t get down!” my mother-in-law shrieked. “We came to show the dacha, but there’s no light, no water, and this bear wants to eat us!”
“To show it? To whom?” I pressed the button to record the phone conversation.
“To a buyer!” she blurted out. “I wanted to sell it! I need the money! Call the neighbor and make her take the dog away, you lunatic!”
Denis was standing next to me. He was listening to the call on speakerphone. His rosy illusions were collapsing with a loud crunch, leaving behind only a bitter understanding of reality.
“Mom,” Denis said, his voice trembling at first but then growing firm, “you said it was for our future. For safekeeping.”
A pause hung on the other end of the line, broken only by Cerberus’s low growling.
“Denisochka… son…” my mother-in-law babbled. “I did it for us…”
“Turn off the speaker and hand the phone to the buyer,” I said sharply. “Hello, sir? I advise you to order an extract from Rosreestr. This lovely house is under an official encumbrance—a 49-year lease. The penalty for evicting the tenant is five million rubles. Happy purchase!”
I heard the man swear heartily, jump off the woodshed, narrowly avoid Cerberus, and, judging by the sounds, slap his way quickly toward the lifesaving gate.
“Alina Maksimovna,” I added into the phone, “Baba Masha will put the dog away now—he listens to her. And on Monday you are going to the notary and transferring the property back to Denis.
Otherwise, you’ll be paying the property taxes yourself, paying again to reconnect to the power grid, and trying to sell a house that is legally untouchable. The choice is yours.”
On Monday, the documents were transferred back. My mother-in-law sat in the notary’s office red-faced, furious, and silent.
I watched her with a feeling of deep, crystal-clear satisfaction. I had forced her to swallow the consequences of her own greed, feeding her retribution with a large spoon.
That evening Denis and I sat in our kitchen. He was no longer juggling. He drank tea and looked at me with a new, conscious respect. That weekend we were to return to the dacha—re-sign the electricity contract and treat Cerberus to a sugared bone.
“You know, Olya,” my husband said quietly, “you really were right. You should trust the people who build with you, not the ones who show up when everything’s already finished.”
I smiled. Justice is not something that falls from the sky. Sometimes it has to be properly documented—and backed up with good security.
