“Stop acting like you own the place! This is my son’s dacha!” Raissa Fyodorovna declared sternly, putting her hands on her ample hips and looming over my prized variety hydrangea bush. “Dima is the boss here, which means we belong here too. So come on, Marina, drop those city-girl airs. Family’s here now—try to act accordingly.”
I stood on the porch, pruning shears in hand, silently watching this guest suddenly take over half the yard. Raissa Fyodorovna surveyed my perfectly trimmed lawn with a commanding squint, as if she were a veteran school principal suddenly handed a promising collective farm. Behind her, at the open trunk of an old taxi, my sister-in-law Lena was shifting her weight nervously. Meanwhile, Lena’s son Vovochka had already sprawled himself out on my favorite garden swing—a fourteen-year-old teenager lounging with such unshakable confidence, you’d think he was less a chronic D-student allergic to work and more of a liquid terminator who had just seized a strategic target.
From under the porch, Graf emerged slowly, with all the dignity of an English lord whose estate had just been stormed by gypsies. Twelve kilos of purebred Maine Coon. The cat sat beside me, wrapping his fluffy tail around, and fixed a heavy, unblinking stare on our uninvited visitors. Graf never liked chaos; as for Raissa Fyodorovna, he’d despised her ever since she tried to feed him cheap ‘Krasnaya Tsena’ sausage.
“Mom,” came my husband’s calm voice from behind me. Dima stepped out of the house, wiping his wet hands on an old t-shirt. “You’ve got it wrong. This is Marina’s dacha. She bought it before we got married, with money from selling her aunt’s apartment. The only thing of mine here is the fence I built, and the gazebo.”
“Oh, Dima, don’t start with that accountant talk!” his mother waved a hand dismissively, showing no embarrassment whatsoever. “What’s in the family is everyone’s! Since she’s your wife, the dacha is ours, a family place. Lena and I decided we’d stay with you for a couple of weeks. The air’s good here. Vovochka needs fresh air before school starts. And Nadya and Kolya will come for the weekend too, they’ve been wanting to see how you settled in.”
I slowly lowered the pruning shears.
Funny thing: in my husband’s family, family unity always starts with my wallet and my living space, while their personal resources are somehow always declared strictly off-limits.
I searched for this dacha for half a year. Bought an abandoned plot with a rickety shed, invested every spare penny, hired crews, argued with foremen, picked out tiles, paint, paneling and seedlings. To his credit, Dima worked hard right alongside me. He never tried to claim ownership, always saying the construction was my project and he was just the supportive husband. We created this little paradise for both of us—a place to escape the city rush, drink wine on the porch, and savor the silence.
And now, right in the middle of my peaceful silence, stood Raisa Fyodorovna with three checkered bags stuffed with old bathrobes poking out, and she went ahead and declared my land a branch of a free family resort.
“Nadya and Kolya?” Dima clarified, his voice suddenly heavy, his jaw muscles tensing. Aunt Nadya was his mother’s sister—loud, pushy, and absolutely convinced that the world owed her just for existing. And her husband, Uncle Kolya, had a habit of lecturing everyone on life and building bathhouses after his third shot of vodka.
“That’s right!” Lena, my sister-in-law, announced cheerfully as she grabbed one of the bags. “We told them Dima now has a real estate! They’re coming with their two grandkids. Saturday.”
Marina, you should show us the rooms. I need the one facing south—I get migraines from northern light. And give Mom the bedroom on the first floor, she can’t do stairs. You and Dima are young, you’ll manage in the attic. And by the way, we’re starving after the journey. What’s for lunch? But nothing cheap and chemical from the supermarket for me—I only eat farm-fresh foods. We’d rather have some wild-caught fish baked, or steamed veal. My body can’t tolerate regular food.
She said it so casually, as if she was ordering from a waitress at some mid-tier restaurant.
I looked at Dima. He’d gone pale, his jaw clenched tight. I knew that look—any second now, my usually calm and cultured husband would lose it and yell so loud that little Vovochka would drop his phone on the swing, and the suitcases would fly back into the taxi. But suddenly, a switch flipped in my mind.
Trying to convince a brazen person that they’re being brazen is pointless. They’ll only be offended that you didn’t let them use your life for free. Raisa Fyodorovna loved generosity—especially the wonderful, cost-free kind where she’d hand out someone else’s property with the air of a great benefactor, having spent not a single ruble herself.
I gently touched my husband’s hand, stopping him. He glanced at me in surprise out of the corner of his eye. I smiled softly.
“You’re absolutely right, Raisa Fyodorovna,” I said in the sweetest, most singsong voice, dragging out the words. “Really, what am I doing? A wife should know her place. It’s not a woman’s business to interfere in her husband’s domain. The dacha belongs to the son, so it’s the son’s dacha. Dima, dear, take care of your guests. Your family, your property—your rules. I’m just visiting, here for the fresh air.”
My mother-in-law nodded in satisfaction, not even noticing the sarcasm.
“Exactly! Well said, Marina. If only you’d acted like this sooner, instead of always being so proud. Lena, bring the bags in.”
They marched into my hallway like a Tatar-Mongol invasion—only with checkered bags and demands for farm-fresh meals.
Dima looked at me, completely stunned.
“Marina, what are you doing? The attic? Kolya and Nadya? I’m about to throw them out—let them walk to the station!”
— Dima, — I winked at him conspiratorially. — Aren’t you our eastern lord? The master of this estate? Well, then it’s time to bear the burden of power. Mom wanted to be the guest of the host? She’ll get her wish. But I don’t provide free service for everyone here. I’m washing my hands of it.
My husband watched me for a couple of seconds, then the corners of his lips twitched in a smirk. He was a smart man and immediately caught on to the rules of the game.
— Got it. So I’m the host now? Well, well.
We walked into the house. Lena was already taking charge in the kitchen, opening cupboard doors like she was conducting an inspection.
— Marina, where do you keep real tea? All I see is these… herbal infusions. I don’t drink that stuff. I need black tea with bergamot. And I saw a chunk of parmesan and some lightly salted salmon in the fridge. Don’t cut them up yet—I want to have them with wine tonight. And right now, I’d like some chicken soup.
Without saying a word, I walked to the fridge. I took out the salmon, parmesan, a jar of olives, a stick of cured sausage, two beef steaks, and a box of perfect strawberries. I packed all of it into a big bag.
— Where are you taking that? — Lena frowned.
— These are my personal groceries, — I replied calmly. — I bought them with my own money for myself. And since I am, as your mom wisely pointed out, not the hostess here but just the host’s wife, I’m not authorized to provide a feast. Dima’s fridge is right down there, at the bottom.
In the lower compartment there was half a head of cabbage, a lonely jar of pickled cucumbers, a can of cheap barley with pork fat, a rock-hard pea soup brick (Dima bought it for fishing), and a carton of kefir.
Lena opened her mouth in outrage, but just then Raisa Fedorovna confidently squeezed into the kitchen.
— Marina! What kind of rules are you making up? Why are you hiding the groceries?
— Come on, Raisa Fedorovna, — I fluttered my lashes innocently. — I’m not hiding anything. I’m just taking my things up to my attic. As you yourself said: Dima is the host, so he should take care of the guests. I don’t meddle in men’s business. Dima! — I yelled into the hallway. — Your family is hungry! Handle it!
I grabbed the bag, called for Graf (who was sniffing Lena’s sneakers in disgust), and headed up to the second floor.
The next couple of hours were pure enjoyment. I arranged my groceries in the little mini-fridge (bought long ago just for the attic), poured myself a glass of wine, sliced some cheese, and opened a detective novel. Graf sprawled on the windowsill, occasionally flicking his ears toward the staircase where muffled but quite emotional voices drifted up.
Downstairs, I could hear my husband’s booming voice:
— Lena, there’s no soup. My wife didn’t make any, and I don’t know how to. Just heat up the barley with fat on the skillet. Or gnaw on that pea soup brick.
— Barley?! Pig fat?! — my sister-in-law shrieked. — I’m on a farmer’s diet! My stomach is delicate! Dima, tell Marina to come down and cook the salmon properly!
— Marina is resting, — Dima cut off the argument firmly. — She’s tired this week. And I’m the host, just like Mom said. My house — my rules. If you don’t want barley, there’s a patch with burdock and nettles outside. Go chew on that—it’s natural, full of vitamins.
By evening, the tension in the ‘manor’ had noticeably increased. Raisa Fyodorovna, realizing that the free restaurant was closed indefinitely, tried to start a scandal. She made her way up to my attic, breathing heavily and leaning on the railing.
“What’s with the boycott?!” she exclaimed from the doorway, watching me eat strawberries. “We’re guests! We just traveled here! Why did you leave your husband alone to do all the chores?”
“Raisa Fyodorovna,” I put my book aside. “I think you’re confused. This morning you clearly defined the legal status of this place: ‘my son’s dacha.’ I respect your decision. I won’t impose my rules in someone else’s house. Your son is an adult, fully capable. You came to see him. So please discuss the menu, leisure activities, and bed linens with him.”
“He dumped stuck-together pearl barley with pork fat in a pan! And tea from bags! And little Vovochka is basically starving, he won’t eat that kind of dog food!”
“Poor Vovochka,” I sighed with genuine sympathy. “Maybe he should go to the village store. It’s about three kilometers through the woods if you walk briskly. That’ll work up his appetite.”
My mother-in-law pressed her lips so tightly they turned into a thin chicken’s rump, and silently went downstairs.
The next morning began with a full-blown technical meltdown.
The thing is, a modern dacha is not just a simple house in the village. It’s a complex organism that needs constant care. We had an autonomous sewage system, an expensive water filtration system, a boiler, and a complicated pump in the well. I was usually in charge of all this—I watched the filters, added bacteria to the septic tank, switched heating modes.
Waking up around nine in the morning, I immediately heard Lena’s panicked screams coming from the first floor.
Going downstairs in my silk robe, cup of freshly brewed French press coffee in hand, I saw quite the scene. Lena stood in the middle of the bathroom, head all soaped up, wrapped in a bit of cloth, staring in horror at the faucet, which wasn’t producing a single drop.
Raisa Fyodorovna was yanking furiously at the toilet flush handle.
“There’s no water!” Lena shrieked when she saw me. “Marina, what happened to the water?! My hair is covered in expensive shampoo!”
“I have no idea,” I shrugged, sipping my coffee. “I’m not the hostess. All questions go to the owner of the estate. Dima!” I called out.
My husband, dressed in old work pants, came out of the boiler room with a wrench in his hand and the deeply troubled face of a true laborer.
“Dima, what’s with the water?” his mother immediately jumped on him. “Lenochka is covered in foam!”
“It’s bad, mom,” Dima sighed, loudly wiping sweat from his brow. “The well pump’s stopped. It’s got complicated automation, and my wife usually handles it—she’s got the manual. But I tried to fix it like a real man, twisted a few things… Anyway, the fuse burned out.”
“Then fix it!” Raisa Fyodorovna snapped indignantly.
“I can’t,” my husband spread his hands. “We need a part. I’ll have to go to the city for it. But I can’t leave—I need to paint the fence. You came to my house, I have to prove I’m a reliable handyman.”
“So how are we supposed to flush?!” Lena wailed.
“There’s an old well behind the bathhouse,” Dima kindly suggested. “And you’ll find galvanized buckets in the shed. Just go, turn the handle, draw up some water, and carry it into the house. It’s a bit of outdoor fitness, too! No trendy farmer diet can compare.”
Watching my sister-in-law, suds still in her hair and wrapped up in a towel, hauling a ten-liter bucket of water across the entire yard was truly priceless. Vovochka tried to film it on his phone, but his mother smacked him in the face with a wet rag and recruited him to help carry water for the toilet.
By lunchtime, the guests were grumpy, exhausted, and dirty. Raisa Fedorovna sat on the veranda, fanning herself with a newspaper.
Just then, her phone rang.
“Yes, Nadyusha!” My mother-in-law’s voice instantly switched, dripping with sweet, fake grandiosity. “Yes, we’re already here. Oh, we’re relaxing wonderfully! The air is amazing. Dimochka is taking such good care of us, such good care! Of course, come tomorrow as planned. Barbecue? Absolutely! I’ll tell Dimochka, he’ll organize everything—he’ll buy some lamb, all kinds of veggies. Can’t wait to see you, dears, can’t wait!”
She hung up the phone and looked at me triumphantly. I just happened to be watering my orchids on the windowsill with a small watering can.
“Dima!” my mother-in-law commanded. “Aunt Nadya and her family are coming tomorrow. Four of them!”
There’d better be a gorgeous feast by evening. Go to the store and get real meat—not those sausages of yours, but a proper cut. Get vegetables, good wine, greens. And fruit for the kids.
Dima appeared from around the corner with a notepad and pen.
“Noted, Mom. Lamb, veggies, wine, fruit. It’ll be a fantastic spread!” He walked over to her and extended his hand, palm up.
“What’s this?” Raisa Fedorovna looked confused.
“What do you mean? Money,” my husband answered calmly. “Nadya and Kolya are your guests. You invited them. As the gracious host, I’m more than happy to drive to the store in my car, use my gas, and bring back everything we need.”
But my budget isn’t endless. All my money went to buy building materials for the veranda. I have two hundred rubles left on my card.
I did the math,” Dima glanced at his notepad, “for five people, plus us, we’ll need about four kilos of meat, plus wine, appetizers… That’ll be twenty-five thousand from you, Mom. Transfer or cash?”
Everyone on the veranda suddenly went silent, and you could only hear a bumblebee buzzing somewhere under the roof.
“What do you mean, twenty-five thousand?!” my mother-in-law sputtered, coughing in outrage. “Dima! Are you out of your mind? Asking your own mother for money just to feed your own aunt in your own house?! You’re the host, you should provide! Your wife works at some company, makes good money! Let her pay!”
There it was. The moment of truth.
I put the watering can aside and stepped out onto the veranda. Graf, sensing there was a show coming, slipped out behind me and settled down at my feet.
“Raisa Fedorovna,” I said, my voice still gentle but with a new chill. “We sorted this out yesterday. The dacha belongs to Dima. It’s his property. I’m just the modest, powerless wife. My income has nothing to do with hosting your guests. I spend my money on myself. And the family tradition of throwing lavish feasts with someone else’s money seems to be over now.”
“Are you… are you kidding me?!” Lena screeched as she stormed out of the house, her hair sticking out in all directions after washing it with well water. “Mom, they’re tormenting us! Marina turned off the water on purpose! And she hid the food! It’s all her, I know it! She’s turning Dima against us!”
“Me? I turned off the water?” I pressed my hands to my chest. “Lena, for heaven’s sake, I don’t even know where the pump is. I’m a girl, I just know how to plant flowers. Dima said the automation burned out.”
“You have to feed us!” the sister-in-law kept insisting, her shrill voice cutting right through me. “We’re family! We came here to relax!”
And that’s when Vovochka, who until now had just been quietly suffering without internet (I had very thoughtfully taken the router upstairs, saying it was my essential work tool), suddenly said:
“Mom, Grandma Raya, let’s just go home. This place sucks. There’s nothing to eat, no Wi-Fi, and that cat keeps looking at me like it’s about to eat me. I’d rather play my console back in the city.”
“Shut up, you fool!” Grandma snapped at him. “We’re not going anywhere! Nadya is coming tomorrow! How am I supposed to look her in the eye?! I promised her a top-notch vacation!”
“Well, Mom, I guess you’ll have to open your wallet,” Dima remarked calmly, closing his notebook. “Or cancel Aunt Nadya’s visit. Tell her the house owner got sick.”
Raisa Fedorovna paced the veranda like a fox trapped in a henhouse who just realized the chickens are armed and furious. She clutched at her collar, breathing heavily, trying to guilt-trip Dima, then would shoot me a truly withering look. But my husband and I were unyielding. We sat in our armchairs, sipping tea from a thermos (I’d brought the hot water upstairs, too), calmly watching the destruction of the family’s fantasy of a free paradise.
In the end, greed lost out to the fear of shame. Raiysa Fedorovna simply couldn’t cancel Nadya’s visit—it would mean admitting defeat and revealing that her tales of her son’s ‘luxurious estate’ were nothing but thin air.
Clenching her teeth, she pulled out her wallet from her bag and counted out fifteen thousand rubles for Dima.
“That’ll be enough for meat and wine,” she snapped through her teeth. “And you’ll just have to eat vegetables straight from the garden.”
“Marina’s the one who planted those veggies in the garden,” my husband said matter-of-factly, tucking the money into his pocket. “They’re not for sale. So I’ll buy tomatoes at the market. Whatever we can afford.”
Saturday morning started with a dramatic arrival. Uncle Kolya’s jeep roared down our street like a tank breaking through enemy lines. Out spilled Aunt Nadya in leopard print leggings, Uncle Kolya himself already a bit red-faced and rumpled, and their two grandkids, who immediately started tearing around my lawn, screaming like wild Indians on the warpath.
Raisa Fedorovna dashed out to meet them, arms open wide, playing the role of the gracious hostess.
“Nadyusha! Kolenka! Come on in, dears!”
“Wow, what a mansion!” Uncle Kolya boomed, looking around. “Dima, you really built this place up! Where’s the sauna? We want to steam after the road!”
Dima, stepping out onto the porch with a paint-splotched t-shirt, shrugged apologetically:
Uncle Kolya, the sauna isn’t working right now. I took the pipe off to clean it, but didn’t get a chance to finish.
“Oh come on,” our relative sighed in disappointment. “But we brought all this beer… Well, alright. Let’s fire up the grill! Where’s the meat?”
“Mom bought the meat, it’s in the fridge. The grill’s behind the house. As for charcoal… oops, I forgot to buy any. But there’s some birch firewood there. The axe is in the shed. Chop away, Uncle Kolya. Household chores are a man’s job, you know – tough work.”
Watching Uncle Kolya – hefty and short of breath – trying to split firewood with a blunt axe (I’d hidden the good Finnish one under the bed ahead of time) was like watching a documentary on surviving in the wild.
Meanwhile, Aunt Nadya took over the kitchen.
“Raya, where are your decent utensils? All of these here are dull!” she yelled. “And where are the cutting boards? And why is there only one chicken and some weird piece of pork in the fridge? You said there’d be lamb!”
Raisa Fyodorovna, red-faced and sweating, rushed between the kitchen and the yard. The fifteen thousand rubles given to Dima the day before had barely covered what he grabbed at the roadside supermarket without a loyalty card: two kilos of tough pork leg, three packs of chicken wings, cheap “plastic” tomatoes and a few bottles of the simplest wine.
“Marina!” My mother-in-law burst onto the porch, where I was relaxing in a wicker chair, reading a magazine. “Why are you just sitting there?! Come help Nadezhda! We need to cook for eight people!”
I looked up at her with eyes full of genuine confusion.
“Raisa Fyodorovna, you’re scaring me. Are you having memory problems? I’m a guest here. I have no right to take over your son’s kitchen. Besides, Aunt Nadya is already in charge there. Two cooks at one stove—that’s a catastrophe waiting to happen. I’ll just sit out here and stay out of the way.”
“Are you mocking me?” she hissed, stepping closer. “You set this all up on purpose! You want to embarrass me in front of my sister?!”
“Me?” I said, genuinely surprised. “How am I embarrassing you? You said this is your son’s dacha. I agreed. You said you’re not strangers here and came to visit him. I don’t object. Your son went shopping with your money and bought what he could, now Uncle Kolya is chopping his wood. It’s idyllic! The classic patriarchal family you’ve always dreamed of: men making fire, women preparing salad. What does any of this have to do with me?”
The real fun started two hours later.
After failing to split any decent firewood, Uncle Kolya decided to light the grill with gasoline from the lawnmower. The gas burst into flames, singeing his eyebrows and burning half the chicken wings to blackened cinders. The pork, cut into thick, uneven chunks, didn’t cook through on the inside, but its outside turned pitch black.
Aunt Nadya, tired of slicing rubbery tomatoes with dull knives, finally put a bowl of salad and bottles of wine on the table.
The guests gathered at the table in the gazebo. Raisa Fyodorovna, with the face of a martyr, tried to give a toast, but Uncle Kolya cut her off, grimly chewing on the undercooked meat.
“Hey, Raya,” he said, spitting out a tough piece of meat. “You called us saying: ‘The estate, top-notch reception, sauna, lamb.’ But what do we get? There’s no water from the tap, have to fetch a bucket to use the toilet, the meat is tough as a shoe sole, and the sauna isn’t working. We sat in traffic for three hours for this?”
“Kolya, these are just technical hiccups…” my mother-in-law started stammering. “Dima just didn’t have time…”
“What’s Dima got to do with it?” Aunt Nadya snorted, pouring herself some sour wine. “You said you two run the place. But in reality—just a mess. My old summer house was better organized than this. And your daughter-in-law here is just sitting like a lady, hasn’t lifted a finger!”
Raissa Fyodorovna, pushed to the boiling point by shame, heat, and her ruined plans, suddenly leapt to her feet. Her cheeks and neck turned a deep, furious red. She turned to face me just as I stepped down from the porch carrying Graf in my arms.
“It’s all her fault!” my mother-in-law shrieked, jabbing her finger with its polished fake nail at me. “She ruined everything on purpose! She’s greedy, mean, selfish! She’s rolling in money—she could’ve ordered a restaurant if she’d wanted to welcome us properly! She could’ve bought decent meat! She could’ve been serving us like a real wife should!”
She was practically choking from yelling. Aunt Nadya and Uncle Kolya froze with pieces of undercooked pork in their hands. Lena shrank back, burying her head into her shoulders in fear.
I walked closer to the table. Graf growled threateningly in my arms, staring at Raissa Fyodorovna as if weighing which artery to start with.
“So, I could’ve bought it?” I asked quietly, but loud enough for everyone to hear. “I could’ve ordered a restaurant? With my own money?”
“Yes! You’re the wife! It’s your duty to respect your husband’s family!” my mother-in-law kept screaming, finally losing all sense of logic.
“You have interesting math, Raissa Fyodorovna,” I said, tilting my head just a little. “When you need a free stay, the dacha is suddenly ‘your son’s property.’ But when it turns out your son can’t pay for a banquet, suddenly I’m supposed to foot the bill because I’m ‘the wealthy wife.’ Make up your mind: are we living by patriarchal rules, where the man is in charge, or by freeloaders’ rules where you all just ride on my back?”
“How dare you?! I— We— Dima! Say something to her!”
Dima slowly stood up from the table. Brushed the bread crumbs from his hands, glanced at Uncle Kolya, then at his mother.
“What do you want me to say to her, mom? She’s right. You came to someone else’s house. Started laying down the law. Said Marina was nobody here. She agreed with you. I took over. Here’s the result: I have no money, I can’t fix the pump, I don’t know how to cook. Without Marina this dacha is just a shed and a couple of veggie patches. Your so-called ‘family unity’ only exists because of her wallet and her hard work.”
He paused, taking in the now-silent relatives.
“You all wanted a holiday at someone else’s expense, hiding behind big words about ‘family.’ Didn’t work out. So, here’s what we’re going to do. Right now, you gather your things and leave. That’s it.”
“Dimochka… son…,” Raisa Fyodorovna suddenly seemed to deflate, her shoulders slumping as all her fighting spirit vanished. “But where are we going to go? It’s already evening. And Nadya and Kolya…”
“Nadya and Kolya have their car, they’ll manage,” her husband cut her off sternly. “You and Lena and Vova will go to the station. The electric train’s at 20:15. If you walk briskly, you’ll make it.”
“But we have bags! Aren’t you going to drive us?” Lena squeaked.
“No, I’m not driving,” Dima sat back on the bench. “I’m tired. I’ve been playing the tough host all day, my back hurts. And don’t you dare ask Marina for a car—she’s not the hostess here, why would you need her vehicle?”
This was total defeat. Complete, unconditional, and unbelievably humiliating.
Aunt Nadya, realizing there’d be no free spa resort—just a family scandal and raw meat—quickly ordered her own crew to pack up. They left in a huff, with Nadya shouting sharply at Raisa Fyodorovna through the Jeep’s window:
“Shame on you, Raya! You’re all talk! Only good at bragging about someone else’s stuff! I’ll never come visit you again!”
The Jeep disappeared in a cloud of dust.
Raisa Fyodorovna, unsteady on her feet, went back inside. Half an hour later, she and Lena, dragging their heavy checkered bags, walked out the gate. Vovochka trudged behind, furiously tapping on his phone screen, trying to catch the last bits of mobile internet. None of them said a single word of goodbye to us.
My mother-in-law walked along the dusty village road, and there was nothing left of that commanding mistress of the estate who, just two days ago, inspected my hydrangeas. Now she looked like a simply tired, elderly woman who finally realized that the traditions of hospitality are especially valued only by those who don’t pay the price.
Dima and I stood on the porch and watched them go.
When their figures disappeared around the bend, my husband let out a loud sigh, turned to me, and wrapped his arm around my shoulders.
“I’m sorry. I should’ve stopped this on the very first day.”
“It’s okay, Dima,” I pressed against him. “If you’d just kicked them out, they’d see themselves as innocent victims of the wicked daughter-in-law. But now… They punished themselves. By the way, what’s going on with the pump?”
Dima grinned slyly:
“Nothing’s wrong. I just pulled the plug out in the boiler room. I’ll go and plug it back in now. And you can bring the router down; it can run again.”
I burst out laughing, watching Graf strut proudly across the plot—now cleansed of intruders—making his way toward his food bowl.
That evening we sat on the veranda. The water was running, the fridge was humming, there was the smell of freshly brewed real tea and perfect pork grilled over proper coals from my own stash. The only sounds were the crickets singing and the cat’s rhythmic purring.
I took a sip of wine from my glass, looked at my home’s glowing windows shining in the dark, the neat flowerbeds, my husband engrossed in cleaning the grill grate, and with a smile I said aloud:
“You know, our son really does have a lovely dacha. We’ll have to come visit again sometime. That all right with you, master of the house?”
Dima grinned, looked up at me, and saluted me with the tongs:
“For such smart guests, madam, the doors of my estate are open around the clock.”
And finally, we enjoyed a peaceful dinner. In our own home. Following our own rules.
