Exactly three weeks ago, Andrey and I signed the final documents. Our house. Not a mansion, not a luxurious villa outside the city — just a cozy, neat little house with lilacs by the porch, an old wooden fence, and a shady garden. The city noise was left behind, as if we stepped out of thick smoke into fresh air. Instead of alarms and car horns — the singing of birds, the crunch of gravel underfoot, the smell of earth after rain.
Every evening we sat on the veranda, drinking tea wrapped in blankets, and made plans. Here will be Andrey’s workshop — he had dreamed of it for years. Over there — a flower bed I had carefully imagined: peonies, geraniums, daisies, all mixed up like in a fairy tale. And in the corner — an old greenhouse, almost abandoned but full of potential. We said that’s where our dream vegetable garden would start.
Everything was perfect. Until Olga Maksimovna arrived.
She came on a Sunday. By taxi. She got out of the car with a characteristic confidence, looked over our house as if assessing whether it met her standards, and said:
“Well, the place is decent. The air is certainly better than in your city box. Let’s see how you manage here without me.”
Andrey, my eternal peacemaker, immediately perked up:
“Mom, we weren’t expecting you… But of course, come in!”
What followed is what I later learned to call an “invasion.” Not malicious, not openly hostile, but confident and persistent. My mother-in-law began to take over the space, as if her arrival marked a new stage in the life of our home.
By the second day, she was already assigning zones.
“This little sofa on the veranda — my knitting corner. The sun is good here. And this cabinet in the kitchen — perfect for my jars of pickles. You won’t be cooking anyway, Sveta, so I’ll take care of it.”
I decided to observe. I wanted to see how far she would push. Soon the “recommendations” began:
“These wallpaper are just awful! I have some beautiful floral ones at my place. I’ll bring them. And the living room needs a rug, it’s cold. I have one — a bit worn, but good enough for the countryside.”
Andrey would whisper to me every time:
“Sveta, don’t take it personally. She just wants to help.”
One day, arriving earlier than usual (we still lived in the city then and only came on weekends), I caught a strange scene. Olga Maksimovna, wearing my old robe, was standing in our bedroom energetically stripping off the very wallpaper Andrey and I had put up recently. Nearby lay a roll with delicate pink daisies — a typical grandmother’s choice who believes “coziness starts with flowers.”
“What are you doing?!” I blurted out.
She wasn’t even embarrassed.
“Oh, Sveta! You’re here? Just in time. Help me. Your gloomy stripes give me the blues. Here are my daisies — it will be cozy! I already prepared the wall.”
That was when my patience finally snapped.
“Olga Maksimovna,” I said firmly. “Stop. Right now. Put down the spatula.”
She froze, surprised by my tone.
“This is my house. Mine and Andrey’s.” I approached and took the tool from her hands. “We bought it. We pay for it. We are renovating it. We decide what wallpaper and furniture there will be, and what will be in the cabinets. You are a guest. A dear, beloved guest. But — a guest. Not the owner.”
Her face flushed with outrage.
“I am your husband’s mother! I know better how things should be done!”
“You know how it should be done — in your own place. In your apartment. Or at your dacha,” I answered calmly but firmly. “But here — this is ours. Our rules. Our decisions. We will listen to your opinion respectfully. But the final word is ours.”
She looked at me, not recognizing the compliant daughter-in-law who used to try to be nice, agree, and smile.
“So I knew it! You bought a little house — and got conceited! Forgot who put you on your feet! Andrey!” she shouted.
Andrey stood in the doorway. He saw the stripped wallpaper. Saw my tense face. Saw how his mother, having lost control, was starting to get angry.
“Mom, Sveta is right. This is our home. We’re glad to see you, but… we make the decisions.”
Those were the first words from her son that really struck Olga Maksimovna. She packed her things silently, not looking at anyone. Leaving as if going into exile.
As she left, she said coldly:
“Well then, since you are the owners here… I know where I’m not welcome.”
Two months passed. Olga Maksimovna called, grumbled, complained to her friends, but no longer came for “inspections.” Sometimes I felt a slight pang of conscience — after all, she was my husband’s mother, a grandmother, a woman of age. But I knew that if I had stayed silent then, I would have lost not just the wallpaper — but the right to my own home.
And yesterday, there was a call.
“Sveta, this is Olga Maksimovna.” — Pause. — “I have… a lot of strawberries from my harvest. It would be a shame to waste them. May I bring some? Just for a day? Only strawberries. And… maybe we could have some tea? On your veranda? If that’s alright…”
Her voice sounded almost shy. Not the voice that commands or criticizes, but the one that asks. Perhaps for the first time.
“Of course, Olga Maksimovna,” I smiled into the phone. “Come. There’s room. We’ll boil the kettle.”
She came. Brought strawberries in a large plastic basket, neatly wrapped in a towel. Sat on “her” little sofa, drank tea, smiled a little embarrassed. Asked about our plans — not demanding anything be changed, but out of interest. Just wanted to know how we live.
Then, looking at the blooming lilacs, she said:
“It’s beautiful here. Cozy.”
These were not just words. It was a first step. A step toward respect. Toward boundaries. Toward understanding that not everyone can be owners in one house. And that love doesn’t mean possession. Sometimes — it just means being nearby. When you are asked.
✦ Final thought
A home is not just walls and a roof. It’s boundaries we learn to set. It’s a space that needs protecting, especially when someone thinks they have the right to control it. Sometimes love requires strength to say “no,” because true harmony begins with respect.
