“If my son bought you the car, then I’m taking it!” — my mother-in-law hid the keys. I suggested she open my trunk.

“My Son Bought You the Car, So I’m Taking It!” — My Mother-in-Law Hid the Keys. I Suggested She Open My Trunk
“Tamara, the keys to the crossover are now under my control. You won’t need them until the snowdrifts come anyway. Public transportation works perfectly well in our neighborhood, and I even got you a transit pass. A pensioner’s one, admittedly, but the stamp over the photo is conveniently smudged. If an inspector asks, just pretend the city’s bad air made you age prematurely.”
Raisa Andreevna stood imposingly in the middle of our kitchen in a felt hat with enormous brims and a colorful scarf tied around her neck. Hanging from her shoulder was a huge, bulging faux-leather handbag, from which protruded a roll of aluminum foil and the wooden handle of a toilet plunger.
My car keys, which only moments earlier had been lying on the small cabinet beside the microwave, disappeared into the depths of her bottomless pocket with the inevitability of a meteorite plunging into the ocean.
Raisa Andreevna possessed an extraordinary talent for materializing in our apartment precisely when every minute counted. The spare key Vitalik had given her strictly for emergencies such as burst pipes or a fire had become, in her hands, more like a season pass granting unlimited access to private property.
Today she had turned the key in the lock so quietly that neither my husband nor I had even heard the front door open.
At that moment, I was carefully arranging a composition of white ranunculus, dusty-pink lisianthus, and eucalyptus branches inside a special transport box fitted with damp floral foam.
In two hours, those flowers were supposed to decorate the head table at a luxurious wedding, where the bride had been calling everyone since eight in the morning to ask whether Mendelssohn’s Wedding March, played by a string quartet, would sound sincere enough.
My husband, Vitaly, stood a meter away, wrapping transparent tape around boxes filled with heavy crystal vases.
“Raisa Andreevna,” I said, putting my pruning shears aside and brushing bits of stems from my apron. “Apparently, I somehow missed the historic moment when my private property was transferred into your personal fleet. Please put the keys back on the table. We have to leave in ten minutes. The clients are waiting.”
My mother-in-law looked at me with the kind of condescending pity a professor of higher mathematics might show someone from the humanities who couldn’t calculate a restaurant tip.
“Tamara, spare me one of your dramatic performances,” she said, adjusting the brim of her hat. “I’ve worked everything out fairly. Vitalik bought the car using his annual bonus, didn’t he? He did. Which means the money was earned by my son for the family. And I have bad joints. I need to go to a sanatorium for therapeutic mud treatments. Lida and I are going to Pine Forest for the entire autumn. Lida has a driver’s license. She even drove a tractor on a collective farm back when Brezhnev was around, so I’m sure she’ll figure out your automatic transmission on a straight road.”
“Mom,” Vitaly said.
He put down the roll of tape and straightened up. His voice was quiet, but it carried considerable weight.
“Put the keys down. Right now.”
“Vitalik, stay out of women’s business!” his mother snapped, waving him away. “You’re completely under your wife’s thumb! It’s painful to watch! Your wife spends all day twisting flowers into bouquets while your own mother has to drag herself around on trains with three transfers and luggage! I’ve already decided everything. I even brought our things downstairs and put them in the trunk while you two were packing your weeds. Lida is downstairs by the hood, keeping watch.”
My phone suddenly rang loudly in the pocket of my work apron.
The screen showed: Arkady, Event Organizer.
Arkady was such a delicate soul that he could develop a migraine over the wrong font being used on a banquet menu.
“Tamara!” Arkady screamed so loudly through the phone that the speaker practically rattled across the kitchen. “I’m begging you! The bride thinks the flower arch doesn’t look tropical enough! Are you coming soon? I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I’ve already chewed through two pencils, and I’m ready to start eating the guest list! She’s threatening to cancel the outdoor ceremony!”
“Arkasha, pull yourself together,” I replied calmly, looking straight into my mother-in-law’s eyes. “I’ll be there in forty minutes. That arch will bloom so wildly the guests will think they’ve landed in the Amazon jungle. Keep the bride away from mirrors, champagne, and overly sensitive relatives.”
I ended the call.
Raisa Andreevna triumphantly crossed her arms over her chest, looking like the embodiment of common sense defeating my frivolous profession.
“Wonderful,” she declared. “Tell your Arkady that you’ve had unforeseen circumstances. You can’t take flowers on a bus anyway—they’ll break. So you cancel one of your little parties. You’ll find new clients. And while you’re home, wash the windows. The weather is still decent. As for me, I’m leaving. We need to get out of the city before the traffic jams start near the country houses.”
Her logic was so shamelessly impenetrable that arguing with it was pointless.
“You know what, Raisa Andreevna?” I said evenly. “There’s really no reason for us to argue. Let’s go downstairs. You said Lidia Markovna is waiting there, didn’t you? It’s not right to make an elderly woman freeze outside in the autumn wind. We can also check how you packed the trunk. There’s one little secret about this car. A special button that prevents the rear wheel from locking on the highway.”
My mother-in-law narrowed her eyes suspiciously, searching for a trap, but the technical terminology did its job.
She gave a satisfied little grunt, completely convinced that her irrefutable arguments had finally brought me to my senses.
“That’s more like it,” she said grandly, heading toward the hallway. “Vitalik, learn how to handle your wife properly. You’re always treating her like she’s made of glass.”
Vitaly looked at me questioningly.
I merely winked at him, picked up the heaviest flower box, and nodded toward the door.
“Take the vases, darling. Let’s go see your mother off on her wellness retreat.”
We went down into the courtyard.
The lazy autumn sunlight illuminated my cherry-colored crossover. Standing beside it and shifting from foot to foot was Lidia Markovna.
If Raisa Andreevna looked like a bargain-basement version of the British Queen, then Lidia Markovna looked like the former manager of a vegetable warehouse who had suddenly become convinced of her own aristocratic sophistication.
She wore a leopard-print blouse, tight leggings stretched over powerful calves, and sunglasses roughly the size of two saucers. A long, thin cigarette hung languidly from her lips.
“Oh, Raya, finally!” Lidia Markovna croaked, blowing smoke toward the playground. “I thought you were upstairs rewriting your will. And who’s that with you? Your daughter-in-law? Why is she carrying boxes? Has she become a mover because life is treating her so well?”
“Hello, Lidia Markovna,” I said, placing the box on the asphalt. “No, I haven’t become a mover. I am the legal owner of this vehicle.”
Lidia Markovna adjusted her enormous sunglasses and stared at my mother-in-law in confusion.
“Raya, you told me the car was yours. Well, your son’s, which means it’s completely under your control.”
“That’s right!” Raisa Andreevna exclaimed indignantly, sensing that her grand plan was beginning to crack right in front of her friend. “Don’t listen to her, Lidochka. She’s just being difficult because I won’t give her the keys. Tamara, open the trunk, show me where that wheel button is, and then we’re leaving. That therapeutic fresh air isn’t going to breathe itself.”
I walked right up to my mother-in-law and held out my hand.
“The keys.”
“I’m not giving them to you!” Raisa Andreevna instinctively covered her pocket with one hand. “Don’t try to distract me with your nonsense! I’m his mother! I have the right to make decisions!”
“Mom.”
Vitaly’s voice rolled above us like spring thunder.
He carefully placed the box of vases on the hood, walked over to his mother, and looked down at her.
“Give Tamara the keys. We’re late for work.”
At moments like this, my husband stopped being his usual gentle, easygoing self.
Reluctantly, my mother-in-law took the keys out of her pocket and dropped them into my palm.
“What rudeness!” she exclaimed. “Throwing your own mother out onto the street in front of everyone! I’ll have you know—”
“Calm down, Raisa Andreevna.”
I pressed the button on the key fob.
The crossover flashed its headlights cheerfully as the alarm disengaged.
“No one is throwing anyone out. I promised to help you with the trunk, remember? Let’s see what kind of strategic supply you’ve packed for the autumn.”
I lifted the trunk door.
The three of us—Vitaly, Lidia Markovna, and I—froze.
The trunk of my crossover, normally filled with neat rows of flower boxes, looked like a customs warehouse full of confiscated goods.
Raisa Andreevna had approached the matter thoroughly.
There were three enormous plaid shuttle bags straight out of the 1990s, with terrycloth robes sticking out of them. Beside those rested a cardboard box containing the protruding blades of a large standing fan.
Two incredibly heavy sacks of peat soil for seedlings had been rammed tightly against one side.
In the center stood an enormous ficus in a large ceramic floor pot.
And, as the crowning achievement of the composition, there was a homemade wooden crate filled to the top with hard green tomatoes.
“Raisa Andreevna,” I said with genuine admiration. “Why do you need soil at a sanatorium? Don’t they have enough therapeutic mud there? Did you decide to enrich the local ecosystem?”
“It’s for seedlings!” my mother-in-law replied proudly. “There’s an excellent plant nursery along the highway. On the way back, I’ll buy saplings. Why should we drive home with an empty car?”
“I’m almost afraid to ask,” Lidia Markovna interrupted, stepping closer. “Raya, why do we need tomatoes? Are we going there to treat our joints or preserve barrels of lecho?”
“They’ll ripen on the dashboard!” my mother-in-law snapped. “The sun shines through the windshield, and they’ll be ripe within a week! Homegrown vitamins, no chemicals!”
“On what dashboard?!” her friend exclaimed. “What am I, a long-haul truck driver? Am I supposed to spend two hundred kilometers staring at tomatoes ripening in front of me? You told me we’d travel in complete comfort! You said there would be plenty of room in the back so I could stretch my bad legs! And what is this? I’m supposed to ride two hundred kilometers hugging a ficus and breathing peat dust?”
Lidia Markovna’s voice grew louder.
“You told me, ‘Lidochka, we’ll travel like queens! Air conditioning, music, my own car, and my daughter-in-law will even bake pies for the road!’”
“Lidia Markovna,” I said, addressing the leopard-print motorist. “I’m afraid Raisa Andreevna may have misled you slightly. First of all, I wasn’t planning to bake any pies. My order schedule is packed. And secondly, have the two of you already discussed the rental price for the car?”
Both retired women stared at me.
“What rental price?” Lidia Markovna rasped.
“What do you mean?” I exclaimed, throwing my hands up and widening my eyes innocently. “A crossover, automatic transmission, climate control. Five thousand rubles per day. Plus fuel, of course. And a fifty-thousand-ruble deposit in case the green tomatoes explode all over the leather seats because of temperature fluctuations.”
I paused.
“You’re going away for two months, aren’t you? That comes to three hundred thousand rubles. Raisa Andreevna, you brought cash, right? Unfortunately, I don’t have a card terminal.”
Lidia Markovna slowly turned her head toward my mother-in-law.
Her huge sunglasses flashed in the sunlight.
“Raya,” she said in a dangerously quiet voice, “you told me we were traveling completely free. You said your son gave you this car for your anniversary. You made me buy a reservation at that bug-infested forest dump because of it! I could have gone to the seaside with that money. They have proper service and a buffet there!”
“Lidochka, don’t listen to that actress!” Raisa Andreevna cried, panicking as she realized that her brilliant plan was collapsing. “She’s making all this up just to spite me! The car belongs to Vitaly! My son! Tell her, Vitalik!”
Vitaly gave a heavy sigh.
He walked over to the trunk, picked up the crate of green tomatoes, and carefully placed it on the asphalt beside his mother’s feet.
“Mom, the car was bought before our wedding, and according to the documents, it belongs to Tamara,” my husband said in a perfectly calm voice. “It’s her personal property. It was my premarital gift to her. You don’t have any authorization to drive it. Only the two of us are listed on the insurance.”
He looked at Lidia Markovna.
“So if Lidia Markovna gets behind the wheel, the first traffic officer who stops her could have the car taken to an impound lot for driving without the owner’s authorization, and Lidia Markovna could receive a very large fine.”
Then he reached into the trunk, lifted out the ficus, and placed it beside the crate of tomatoes.
“Vitalik! What are you doing?!” my mother-in-law wailed. “Why are you putting it on that filthy asphalt? It’s covered in germs!”
“I’m emptying the trunk, Mom. We have to go to work. The flowers aren’t going to deliver themselves.”
Without the slightest emotion, Vitaly continued unloading everything.
The enormous plaid bags landed on the asphalt, followed by the sacks of soil and the box containing the fan.
Soon the area around us looked like a small exhibition dedicated to the achievements of eccentric country-house living.
Lidia Markovna watched the process with an expression of profound disappointment.
Then she turned to Raisa Andreevna.
“You know what, Raisa? You’re not just a fantasist. You’ve wasted my time too. Because of you, I spent two weeks on a strict diet just so I could squeeze into these leggings in front of the men at the resort!”
“Lidochka, wait!” my mother-in-law cried, trying to grab her friend by the leopard-print sleeve. “We’ll call a cargo taxi! I’ll pay! We’ll get there quickly and comfortably!”
“A cargo taxi? To a sanatorium two hundred kilometers away? With a ficus and a sack of dirt?”
Lidia Markovna burst out laughing so loudly that a flock of crows flew noisily from a nearby tree.
“No normal driver will take us! And if someone does, it’ll cost so much that renting a helicopter would be cheaper! That’s it, Raya. The show is over. My reservation is going to waste, but so is yours. Sit here with your bags and wait for a ride!”
Lidia Markovna turned sharply and marched proudly toward the tram stop.
“Lida! Lidochka, wait!”
Raisa Andreevna hurried after her for a couple of steps, but stumbled over her own crate of tomatoes.
Meanwhile, Vitaly removed the final bag, closed the trunk, and turned toward me.
“Done. Let’s load our order.”
I carefully placed my box of ranunculus into the newly emptied trunk, while Vitaly loaded the boxes containing the heavy crystal vases.
Arkady the Event Organizer could safely drink his chamomile tea now. His precious flower arch would be rescued on time.
Raisa Andreevna stood in the middle of her belongings, blinking helplessly.
Her earlier arrogant confidence had completely evaporated, leaving behind nothing but the bewilderment of a person who had just been struck squarely in the forehead by her own clever scheme.
“And what am I supposed to do with all of this now?” she asked, waving her hands toward the mountain of belongings spread across the pavement. “My check-in is in three hours. Vitalik, sweetheart, at least drive me to the bus station!”
Vitaly looked at his watch, then at his mother.
“Mom, we have a delivery with a strict schedule. If we’re late, Tamara will have to pay a penalty three times greater than the cost of your sanatorium reservation. Order a cargo vehicle using the app on your phone. You have money—you were saving it for fuel, weren’t you?”
He paused before adding calmly:
“I hope you have a wonderful vacation. But next time you decide to take control of someone else’s property, ask the owner for permission first.”
He opened the passenger-side door and got into the car.
I walked around to the driver’s side, opened the door, and glanced at my mother-in-law one final time.
She was sitting on top of the largest plaid bag, clutching the ficus pot in her hands and frantically tapping the screen of her smartphone, apparently trying to find the number of an inexpensive transportation company.
“Have a wonderful vacation, Raisa Andreevna,” I said sincerely. “They say mud baths work miracles. Especially for the nervous system. And don’t forget to put those tomatoes in the sun, or they won’t ripen in time for dinner.”
I got behind the wheel, started the engine, and turned on some pleasant jazz music.
The crossover moved smoothly away, leaving behind a woman who genuinely believed that being related to someone gave her the right to control their property.
In the rearview mirror, I saw the local janitor, Uncle Misha, walk over to Raisa Andreevna and begin explaining something energetically while pointing his broom at the soil spilling from one of the torn bags.
Apparently, her therapeutic sanatorium treatment had started a little earlier than she had planned.