“Your plans can wait,” my mother-in-law snapped. But in the end, she was the one who had to wait
It was the last warm weekend of May.
The nighttime frosts had finally retreated, and summer residents were bringing seedlings to their garden plots in droves.
“Be at the dacha by nine on Saturday. At eleven, they’re delivering two hundred strawberry plants in trays and sixty pepper seedlings.”
My mother-in-law’s voice on the phone left no room for objections. No one asked whether I was free, how I was feeling, or whether I had other plans. As usual, I was simply presented with a decision that had already been made.
Lyudmila Pavlovna swallowed up my personal time like a seasoned pike gulping down a distracted little fish—without chewing and with absolute confidence in her rightful place at the top of the food chain.
“Lyudmila Pavlovna,” I said calmly, holding the phone between my shoulder and ear while continuing to check invoices at the building materials warehouse where I worked.
Our accounting procedures were strict: whoever ordered the goods was responsible for them.
“We’ve already paid for a cabin at a holiday resort, and the children’s activities have been booked. We’re leaving Friday evening.”
Heavy, indignant breathing came through the speaker.
“What holiday resort, Ira? These are premium seedlings, for dear Natasha. She asked us to plant more because the children need fresh vitamins for the winter.”
“Natasha has an appointment for an anti-cellulite massage and spa treatments! The poor girl has been sitting in an office all week. She needs to recover. She can’t lose her well-earned day of rest!”
A paradoxical reversal immediately formed in my mind: “Rest is sacred—especially when someone else is tired.”
My husband’s relatives possessed an astonishing talent for hunting other people’s resources with the grace of vultures. My mother-in-law spotted the prey, and my sister-in-law swooped down to peck at it.
“We won’t be there,” I replied evenly, moving the signed documents to the edge of the desk. “Natalia can cancel her spa appointment and plant whatever she asked you to order.”
That evening, I explained the situation to Sasha.
My husband defended his own family fiercely and never allowed outsiders to interfere.
Every spring, he faithfully transported bags of soil for his mother, started the water pump, repaired the fence, and fixed everything that had failed to survive the winter. Because he was always so dependable, my mother-in-law had grown accustomed to treating our weekends as a natural extension of her gardening schedule.
This time, however, Sasha immediately called his mother.
“Mom, cancel the delivery. Or call Natasha and tell her to buy some rubber boots. We won’t be there this weekend. And no, my wife is not going to break her back in the garden while my sister lies around in a cedar steam barrel. This discussion is over.”
After work on Friday, we loaded our bags into the car and left for the resort.
On the way, I received a message from my sister-in-law. Natalia had decided to change tactics and appeal to my sympathy.
“Ira, what’s wrong with you? Mom is upset. Is it really so difficult for you to work in the garden for one day? I’ll lose my spa day! Have some conscience.”
My fingers automatically typed a brief response:
“Are you planning to eat the strawberries for me too? Mom will be at the dacha from eight. The shovels are in the shed. Enjoy your massage.”
Other people’s entitlement is like a mortgage: if you don’t reject it immediately, you’ll be paying for years with enormous interest. I had paid off mine during the first year of our marriage.
Saturday morning at the resort was wonderful.
The children and I explored the rope park while Sasha lit the grill for the meat.
At around eleven, my phone rang. It was an unfamiliar number.
“I have a delivery in your name,” a deep male voice said. “Where should I unload it?”
I smiled. My mother-in-law had still tried to put me on the invoice as an additional contact, hoping she could wear me down.
“The order isn’t mine,” I replied calmly. “The recipient, Lyudmila Pavlovna, is at the dacha. She will sign the invoice and accept the goods.”
The driver ended the call and contacted my mother-in-law.
Apparently, Lyudmila Pavlovna had to sign for everything personally, pay the remaining balance in cash, and watch as ten trays containing twenty strawberry plants each, six trays of peppers, and eight heavy bags of soil, compost, and mulch were lined up outside the gate.
Soon my husband’s phone began ringing nonstop. “Mom” appeared on the screen.
Sasha answered on speakerphone.
“Sasha!” my mother-in-law shouted over the sound of the wind. “There are sixteen trays and eight bags at the gate! The cells are tiny, and the soil will dry out quickly in the sun! At the very least, they have to be moved into the shade, watered, and planted today! Drop everything and come here!”
“Mom, I warned you,” my husband replied evenly. “Call the person you ordered them for.”
He ended the call and switched his phone to silent mode.
That evening, after we had put the children to bed, Sasha turned the sound back on.
There were six voice messages from Natalia.
The first began with shouting and accusations. In the second, she complained that her salon treatment had already started, so no one would refund the ten thousand rubles she had paid for the spa day.
By the sixth message, my sister-in-law was barely holding back tears as she listed her aching lower back, blistered palms, hopelessly ruined manicure, and severe exhaustion after hours of planting.
In the same message, Natasha tearfully complained that because it had grown dark, their mother had been forced to pay a neighbor and her adult son four thousand rubles for emergency help in the garden beds.
We returned to the city on Sunday evening, rested and full of energy.
At seven thirty on Monday morning, someone rang the doorbell insistently.
Sasha was already getting ready for work and went to open the door.
Lyudmila Pavlovna stood on the landing. She was breathing heavily and walked into the hallway without removing her shoes, clutching her patent-leather handbag in a death grip.
“You could have left the children with a nanny for one day! Nothing would have happened to them!” she accused us from the doorway, glaring fiercely.
I stopped in the bedroom doorway and crossed my arms over my chest.
“So that your forty-year-old daughter wouldn’t have to cancel her massage, I was supposed to cancel our family trip and hire someone to look after our children?” I asked coldly. “Even by your standards of arithmetic, that is remarkably bold.”
Sasha stepped forward, positioning himself between us.
“You will not shout in our home,” my husband said sharply. “Being respected does not give you the right to appoint my wife as free labor. Ira never promised to work at the dacha. Ira did not order those seedlings. And she is not obligated to serve my sister’s plans.”
Lyudmila Pavlovna inhaled sharply.
Her usual method of applying pressure through guilt collapsed in an instant. She looked like an overconfident leopard that had made a graceful leap toward an antelope only to smash its forehead into a concrete post.
I decided it was time to put an end to the matter.
“And one more thing, Lyudmila Pavlovna: my weekends, my car, and my hands are no longer included in your gardening orders,” I said calmly. “From now on, deliveries will be accepted and planted by the people whose names appear on the invoice.”
“And after demands like this, I’m no longer driving you around to buy seedlings or repairing the dacha,” Sasha added. “If you need help, hire someone.”
My mother-in-law backed toward the exit. She understood that she would receive neither excuses nor apologies from us.
The door slammed shut, and the apartment became wonderfully quiet.
A week later, the pump at the dacha jammed.
Lyudmila Pavlovna called Sasha in her usual commanding tone. He sent her the phone number of a professional repairman and did not go. The repair cost her another seven thousand rubles. Since then, Natalia has never again asked her mother to order anything for her.
Lyudmila Pavlovna ordered two hundred seedlings along with my day off. In the end, Natalia planted her own vitamins, a paid repairman fixed the pump, and the delivery service for free labor to their dacha was permanently shut down.
