“What did you come barging in for, you cow? We didn’t invite you. You’re not part of the family, so get out!” the mother-in-law snapped, having gathered with the relatives for Easter at her daughter-in-law’s dacha. And ten minutes later, everyone was running off, slippers flying.
Sunbeams slid across the light wallpaper, glinting off the crystal vase on the coffee table. Elena sat in an armchair, hands wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee, watching the play of light. Saturday morning was the only time in the week she could allow herself such a luxury—just sitting and staring out the window, thinking of nothing. In truth, it was an illusion. As always, dozens of thoughts were spinning in her head—about work, meetings, plans for the weekend. The three-room apartment in a new residential complex was her and Viktor’s pride.
Four years ago they had taken out a 15-year mortgage, and now a large part of their income went to the monthly payment. Elena didn’t regret it. A spacious kitchen, a living room with floor-to-ceiling windows, a bedroom with a walk-in closet, and a study they had fitted out for her interior-design studio—worth every effort and expense. “Vitya, have you seen my tablet?” Elena called out, remembering she needed to finish a sketch for a client. Muffled mumbling came from the study, and then Viktor himself appeared—tall, with tousled fair hair and glasses slipping down his nose.
At thirty-six he still looked like a student, especially when he got absorbed in work and forgot to shave. “Your tablet?” he repeated absently. “I think you left it on the kitchen table last night when we were having dinner.” Elena nodded gratefully and headed to the kitchen. The tablet was indeed where she’d left it, under a stack of interior-design magazines. Opening the project file, she dove into a world of lines and color. Elena Sergeyevna Vorobyova, née Kovalyova, was a well-known interior designer in certain circles.
After graduating from the architecture institute, she hadn’t gone to work for a big firm like many of her classmates; she decided to take a risk and open her own studio. The first two years were incredibly hard—almost no commissions. She had to take side jobs to pay rent on a tiny office. But gradually, thanks to word of mouth and a few lucky projects for prominent people in the city, things took off. Now she had a steady stream of clients, two assistants, and the reputation of a specialist who could bring the boldest ideas to life.
Elena worked a lot, sometimes to the point of exhaustion, but the results always brought satisfaction. Every completed project was a small victory—a proof she’d chosen the right path. Viktor worked a lot too. A software engineer at a major IT company, he often stayed late, and sometimes even slept at the office when a project was nearing completion. But he and Elena always found time for each other: Saturday breakfasts, Sunday walks in the park—rare, and thus even more precious—short trips together. Those moments held their marriage together and gave them strength to keep going. “I thought I’d go see my parents today,” Viktor said, pouring himself coffee. “Are you coming?” Elena looked up from the tablet and hesitated for a moment. Her mother-in-law, Valentina Sergeyevna, was the one cloud in the clear sky of their family life.
From the first meeting there had been an invisible but palpable line of estrangement between them. “I’ve got a client meeting at two,” Elena answered. “I’m afraid I won’t make it.” “Len, you know how upset Mom gets when you don’t come.” There was a pleading note in Viktor’s voice. “Does she?” Elena thought. More likely, Valentina felt relieved when her daughter-in-law didn’t show up—free to talk about her behind her back, lament that her son had married a careerist, and drop hints that it was high time to think about children instead of ‘those designs.’ “Send her my regards and apologies,” Elena replied diplomatically. “I’ll definitely come next time.” Viktor sighed but didn’t insist. In five years of marriage he’d grown used to the tension between his mother and wife and had learned to navigate between the two women he loved. A retired Russian-language and literature teacher, Valentina Sergeyevna had devoted herself to three things—growing flowers on her balcony, singing in a church choir, and, of course, tending to her only son. Even after Viktor married, she never stopped trying to run his life, dispensing advice on every occasion and criticizing any decision made without her input. Elena remembered their first meeting.
Valentina had given her an appraising look and immediately started asking about her family, education, and plans for the future. When Elena mentioned she was an interior designer and dreamed of her own studio, her mother-in-law pursed her lips and uttered a phrase that set the tone for the years to come: a young woman, she said, should be thinking about starting a family and having children, not chasing ephemeral career achievements. Five years had passed and their relationship hadn’t improved. Valentina never missed a chance to put her daughter-in-law in her place: a hint that the apartment was dusty, a complaint about modern women who couldn’t cook, or a gift of a book with the telling title “How to Become the Ideal Wife.” Elena tried to ignore it and stay polite. In the end, this was the mother of the man she loved, and for Viktor’s sake she was ready to endure these little stings. But sometimes, like today, she preferred to avoid meetings altogether. When Viktor left, Elena returned to work.
She needed to finish a bedroom design for a young couple and had promised to show it today. Work swallowed her whole and she didn’t notice time fly. The phone rang, pulling her out of her creative trance. On the screen: Grandma—Sofya Andreyevna Kovalyova. “Hi, Grandma! How are you feeling?” Elena always worried about her eighty-year-old grandmother’s health. “Hello, my dear!” Sofya’s voice sounded brisk. “I’m fine. I’m calling to remind you I’m expecting you for tea tomorrow. You haven’t forgotten, have you?” “Of course not. I’ll be there at three.” “Good. I’ve got something for you. An important talk.” Elena heard a note of excitement unusual for her grandmother. “Has something happened?” she asked, alarmed. “No, no, everything’s fine. We just need to discuss something. See you tomorrow, darling.”
Elena hung up and fell into thought. After her parents, Grandma was the closest person in her life. As a child, Elena often spent time at her dacha in a picturesque settlement an hour from the city. There, among ancient pines and sprawling apple trees, she first felt the pull of creativity—sketching landscapes, imagining how to turn an old shed into a summer veranda, dreaming of a house she would design herself. Sofya supported all her granddaughter’s endeavors. When Elena’s parents doubted her choice of profession—interior designer wasn’t “serious”—Grandma took her side. “The girl has talent. Don’t stand in her way,” she said—and that settled it. Looking at her, it was hard to believe she was eighty: slim, always elegantly dressed, with lively eyes and a keen mind. She still led an active life—worked in the garden, read new books, followed the arts.
In her youth Sofya was a restorer at the city’s art museum. Her talent and infinite patience brought dozens of paintings back to life—works that had seemed hopelessly ruined by time. But her greatest feat, still remembered in museum circles, was saving a group of canvases during the flood of 1967. After weeks of rain, the river that ran through the city burst its banks. The water rose so fast many didn’t manage to evacuate. The museum, housed in an old mansion on the embankment, was in the flood zone. Most exhibits were carried out in time, but several valuable paintings remained in the basement storage. Young Sofya, risking her life, waded into the flooded basement and carried out five canvases by nineteenth-century Russian artists. People said that when she emerged from the building the water was up to her chest, and she held the paintings above her head, trying not to soak them. After that, her career took off. She became the museum’s chief restorer, went on internships abroad several times, and took part in international cultural-heritage projects.
Even after retiring, she didn’t leave the profession—consulting young specialists and writing for professional journals. Elena was proud of her grandmother and often thought her own vocation—creating beautiful interiors—was a legacy of Sofya’s work, just in a different form. Both worked with space, color, composition: one restored what others had created, the other created anew. Shaking her head, Elena returned to work. She had to finish before the client meeting—and then get ready to see Grandma. The meeting went well. The young couple were thrilled with her ideas, and Elena left their apartment with a sense of accomplishment and a deposit in hand. On the way home she stopped at the supermarket for weekend groceries and a little something for Grandma. Viktor was waiting at home, back from his parents’.
“How was the visit?” Elena asked as she unpacked. “Fine,” he said, helping her. “Dad’s tinkering with his motorcycle. And Mom… well, you know Mom.” “What was it this time?” Elena braced for another round of criticism. “She asked when we’re finally going to think about children. Says all her friends have long been looking after grandchildren, and she’s still waiting.” Elena sighed. The topic of children was a sore one. They wanted a child, but had decided to wait a bit—pay off at least half the mortgage and get steadier financially. Valentina considered that nonsense and never missed a chance to remind Elena of her ticking biological clock. “You know,” Viktor said thoughtfully, slicing bread, “sometimes I think Mom’s just afraid of being alone. Dad spends all day in the garage, I got married and moved out. She lacks attention and care.” “Maybe,” Elena agreed, though she thought otherwise. In her opinion, Valentina simply couldn’t accept that her son had grown up and lived his own life. “I’m going to Grandma’s tomorrow,” she changed the subject. “She called—wants to talk.” “Something serious?” “I don’t know.” Her voice was agitated. “But she said everything is fine.” “Give her my regards.” “It’s a pity I can’t go with you, but I have a meeting tomorrow.” “On a Sunday?” Elena was surprised. “Deadlines,” Viktor spread his hands. “The client is pushing.”
They spent the evening together, watching their favorite series and discussing summer plans. Viktor dreamed of the mountains; Elena leaned toward a beach holiday. They decided to spend two weeks at the sea and then a few days in the mountains. In the morning Elena woke earlier than usual. Spring sunshine promised a warm day. She got up quietly so as not to wake her husband and went to make breakfast. She felt cheerful, anticipating the visit. When Viktor, sleepy and rumpled, appeared in the kitchen, coffee and omelets were already on the table. “Mmm, smells amazing!” He hugged her from behind and kissed her neck. “You’re up early.” “I want to stop by the florist before I go—buy tulips for Grandma. She loves them.” After breakfast, Viktor left for work, and Elena started getting ready. She chose a light floral dress—Grandma’s favorite. She packed the sweets she’d bought and a fresh art magazine she thought might interest Sofya. On the way, she stopped for a bouquet of pale pink tulips. It was a truly spring day—bright sun, a light breeze, the first leaves on the trees. Driving a familiar road, Elena kept thinking about the upcoming conversation. What could be so important?
The door opened at once, as if Sofya had been standing behind it waiting. “Lenochka, my dear!” Grandma hugged her, taking the flowers and the bags. “I’m so glad to see you!” “I missed you too, Grandma!” The apartment was small but wonderfully cozy. Everything breathed history—antique furniture from Elena’s great-grandmother, paintings on the walls (copies of famous canvases done by the hostess herself), porcelain figurines on the shelves. And books, books, books—floor to ceiling, in cabinets, on tables, on stands. “Sit down, the tea’s ready,” Sofya said, pointing to the table laid with cups, a teapot, a plate of homemade cookies, and a small bowl of jam. For a while they chatted about everyday things—Elena’s work, Grandma’s health, the latest news. But Elena felt Sofya was nervous, hesitant to broach the main topic. “Grandma, you wanted to discuss something?”
At last she asked, when the first cup of tea was finished. Sofya sighed, set down her napkin, and looked straight into her granddaughter’s eyes. “Lenochka, I’ve decided to sign the dacha over to you.” Elena froze with the cup in her hands. “Grandma, but… why?” was all she could say. “I’m eighty, dear. I can’t care for the garden like before. The place sits empty. That’s wrong. You’ve loved it since childhood. I know you’ll keep it—you won’t sell it to the first buyer. You and Viktor can come, and later…” She smiled. “With children.” “But you could still spend summers there,” Elena objected. “Of course I can, and I will. But legally it’s better to transfer the property now, while I’m of sound mind.” Sofya smiled slyly. “And it’s nice to make you happy while I’m alive, not leave an inheritance when I’m gone.” A lump rose in Elena’s throat. She couldn’t bear the thought that someday Grandma would be gone. “Don’t say that,” she pleaded. “You’ll be with us for a long time.” “Of course I will,” Sofya nodded. “But my decision is final. I’ve prepared all the papers; we just need to sign at the notary. You’ll come with me tomorrow.” Elena nodded, still hardly believing it. Grandma’s dacha—the corner of paradise where she’d spent her childhood—would be hers. “I don’t know what to say.” “Say you’ll cherish it,” Sofya said gently. “And that you’ll let me visit sometimes?” “What are you talking about? It will always be your home too.” They hugged, and Elena breathed in the familiar scent of lily-of-the-valley—Grandma’s perfume since Elena was small, the scent of safety, love, and home. “And now,” Sofya said, pulling back, “there’s something else I must tell you. Something I’ve been silent about for many years, but I think you should know.”
She stood, went to an antique secrétaire in the corner, and took from the top drawer a worn notebook in a leather cover. “This is my diary,” she said, returning to the table. “I started it in 1967, right after the flood.” Elena carefully opened it. Neat handwriting, faded ink, the date May 15, 1967. “I never told you the whole truth about that flood,” Sofya went on. “About what really happened at the museum, and how it changed my life.” Elena listened, hardly breathing, as she heard a story she’d never known. On the day the river overflowed, Sofya had indeed saved five paintings from the flooded basement. But there was something else. Among the canvases, wrapped in oil paper and hidden behind a rack, was a small painting not listed in any official catalog. Someone had concealed it there on purpose.
When Sofya unwrapped it in a safe place, she found the portrait of a young woman in Art Nouveau style, executed with astonishing mastery. On the back of the canvas there was an inscription: “To M.S. Kalinina from V. Kalugin, 1918.” “I didn’t know what to do,” Sofya continued. “From the style and quality it was clearly valuable. But why was it hidden? And who was V. Kalugin?” She began her own investigation—searching the archives, asking older colleagues, studying exhibition catalogs from the early twentieth century. The story gradually emerged. Valentin Kalugin was a talented Silver Age painter, a student of Mikhail Vrubel. At one time his works were exhibited alongside recognized masters. But after the Revolution he fell into disgrace due to his political views. Many of his paintings were destroyed; he emigrated to France and died in the 1930s, forgotten. But that wasn’t the most interesting part. Sofya lowered her voice, as if they might be overheard. M.S. Kalinina, the recipient of the portrait, turned out to be Maria Sergeyevna Kalinina, the wife of a high-ranking Party official. She and Kalugin had had an affair, and the portrait was proof. Apparently, after he emigrated, she hid the painting for fear of repression. “And what did you do with the portrait?” Elena asked, stunned. “At first I wanted to turn it over to the museum, as one should. But then…” Sofya faltered. “It was a complicated time. The rehabilitation of the repressed had only just begun; many topics were still taboo. I feared the painting would be destroyed as ideologically harmful. So I decided to keep it myself.” “You mean…” Elena could hardly believe her ears. “Yes, dear. Kalugin’s portrait of Maria Kalinina has been with me all these years—at the dacha, in a hiding place no one knew about.” Elena was shocked. Her upright, principled grandmother had in effect appropriated a museum piece. “Don’t judge me too harshly,” Sofya said, reading her thoughts. “I saved that painting twice—first from the water, then from oblivion. I always hoped a time would come when it could be shown to the world and its story told—a love preserved in paint and line.” “And now that time has come?” Elena guessed. “I think so. I’m too old to handle it myself. But you could. That’s why I decided to give you the dacha. Along with it, you’ll get the portrait and all the documents I’ve collected over the years. What you do next is up to you.” The story felt unbelievable—like the plot of an adventure novel, not a piece of her own family history. Elena was silent, absorbing it. “Will you show me the portrait?” she asked at last. “Of course. As soon as we get to the dacha. It’s there—in a hiding place under a floorboard in my bedroom.” Sofya gazed out the window. “You know, sometimes I talk to her—to Maria. I look at the portrait and imagine her—brave, passionate, willing to risk everything for love. And there’s something else I’ve kept at the dacha.” “What else?” Elena asked, still reeling.
Sofya smiled mysteriously. “I didn’t work in a museum for nothing. Some things… call to you, ask to be saved from oblivion. Over my career I rescued not only paintings but other works of art that would otherwise have been lost.” “For example?” “There’s a small collection of old coins at the dacha.” “Coins?” Elena was surprised. “In the ’70s the museum received a numismatics collection from a Leningrad professor. Among the items were very rare coins from Ancient Rus’. But the management decided they weren’t of special value and were going to ship them off to a provincial local-history museum, where storage conditions were awful. I ‘borrowed’ a few of the most valuable specimens.” Elena didn’t know whether to admire her grandmother’s daring or be horrified. “Grandma, but that’s…” “Stealing?” Sofya shook her head. “I prefer to think of it as saving cultural heritage. These things weren’t lost, destroyed, or sold off to private collections abroad. They’re here, in Russia, preserved in ideal conditions, and someday they’ll return to museums. Their time just hasn’t come yet.”
Elena was speechless. Her grandmother had always seemed a model of honesty and principle; behind that façade had lived an adventurer ready to defy the system to save art. “Who else knows?” she asked finally. “No one,” Sofya replied softly. “Not even your mother. Only you now.” “Why tell me now?” Sofya sighed and took her granddaughter’s hands. “Because I’m getting old, Lenochka. I need to know these treasures won’t be lost if something happens to me. Besides…” She hesitated. “There’s something else you need to know. It concerns Viktor’s family.” Elena tensed. “What could connect my grandmother to Viktor’s family?” “Valentina Sergeyevna,” Sofya said slowly, “your husband’s mother. We know each other.” “We do?” Elena was floored. “How?” “We met at the museum in the ’80s. She was a young teacher and often brought her students for tours. We started talking; she took an interest in my work and in art history. We became… friends of a sort. We even went to a conference in Leningrad together.” “So what happened? Why did you never mention it?” Sofya lowered her eyes. “We had a falling out. A bad one. Because of Kalugin’s portrait.” She paused. “Valentina accidentally saw it at my place. I was careless. She immediately understood it was a museum piece and began to accuse me of theft, threatened to report me to the museum leadership. I tried to explain I was saving it, but she wouldn’t listen.” “And what did you do?” “The only thing I could.” Sofya’s voice hardened. “I reminded her of some compromising facts from her life she’d once confided to me—namely, an affair with a married man that ended in an abortion which nearly cost her the chance to have children.” “Viktor!” Elena gasped. “No, no—this was before Viktor. That affair ended with the abortion. No one knew except me. And I… threatened to tell if she went to the museum.” “Grandma!” “I’m not proud of it, Lenochka. But I couldn’t let her destroy what I had guarded for so long. After that we never saw each other again. She married, had Viktor, built her life. I lived mine. And then… you met her son.” “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“I was afraid it would affect your relationship with Viktor. And I hoped Valentina wouldn’t realize the connection. Judging by everything, she never told you, did she?” “No,” Elena shook her head. “But it explains a lot. Her attitude toward me was strange from the start—like she was predisposed against me.” “She may have suspected when she learned your maiden name,” Sofya sighed. “Kovalyova isn’t that rare, but still…” “So that’s why she loves repeating that I’m not a match for Viktor, that I’m too ‘artsy’…” Elena began fitting the pieces together. “She sees you in me, Grandma—the woman who once blackmailed her.” Sofya nodded guiltily. “Forgive me for not telling you sooner. I should have—especially after your wedding. But I was afraid. Afraid of losing your respect and love.” Elena hugged her. “You’ll never lose my love,” she said firmly. “Whatever happened between you two doesn’t change who you are to me.”
They sat a long time in silence, each lost in her thoughts. Elena tried to picture how this would affect her dealings with her mother-in-law. Her imagination painted scenes of the past—young Grandma saving paintings from floodwaters, her secret cache of rescued treasures, a friendship with her future mother-in-law and a dramatic break. “There’s one more thing,” Sofya broke the silence. “About how you met Viktor.” “What do you mean?” Elena was surprised. “We met at a contemporary-art exhibition—you know that.” “Yes. But it wasn’t by chance,” Grandma said, looking her straight in the eyes. “I arranged your meeting.” “What?” Elena shot to her feet. “How?” “I’d kept up with Valentina’s life from a distance through mutual acquaintances. I knew she had a son, that he’d gone to a technical university, worked in IT. When I saw his photo in the paper—in an article about young specialists—I recognized his mother’s features. And I thought it would be symbolic if our families were united. It felt like a kind of atonement for the past. So I arranged your meeting.” “How?” “I knew you loved contemporary art and never missed major exhibitions. And Viktor, as I learned, was interested in technological installations. That exhibition had just such an interactive piece. I called one of the organizers, an old colleague, and asked him to invite promising specialist Viktor Vorobyov as a technical consultant. And I prodded you to go, remember?” “Yes,” Elena nodded slowly, recalling that day. “You said there’d be something special I absolutely had to see.” “I meant Viktor,” Sofya said softly. “But that you liked each other and everything worked out—that wasn’t my doing. That was fate.” Elena didn’t know what to feel—anger at the manipulation, gratitude for being brought to Viktor, or shock that their “chance” meeting had been engineered. “Why tell me all this now?” she asked at last. “Because now that the dacha is yours, you should know the whole truth. And because…” Grandma hesitated. “I think you and Viktor should spend the summer there. Perhaps invite his parents. It’s time to heal old wounds, Lenochka. Life is too short for grudges.” “Invite my mother-in-law to the dacha?” Elena thought it fantastical—especially now that she knew about the old conflict. “I want you to find common ground,” Sofya said gently. “For yourself, for Viktor, and maybe for your future children—so they won’t grow up amid hostility between their mom and grandmother.” “I’ll think about it,” Elena said at last. “But first, the papers for the dacha—the portrait—and your… ‘rescued treasures.’” “Of course,” Grandma nodded. “We’ll do everything in order.” They talked until evening—memories of the past, plans for the future. Elena asked about Sofya’s work, the items she’d saved, the risks she had taken. Sofya spoke freely, as if a heavy burden had been lifted—eyes alight as she recalled her adventures, fears, hopes. At the door, saying goodbye, she added suddenly, “You know the most amazing thing?” “What?” “That you and Viktor truly fell in love despite my interference. It proves real feelings can’t be programmed—you can set the scene, but love either appears or it doesn’t.” Elena smiled and hugged her tightly. “I love you, Grandma—no matter what.” “And I love you, more than life.”
All the way home, Elena thought of Grandma’s story—the portrait, the coins, the quarrel with her mother-in-law, the orchestrated meeting with Viktor. Her idea of family, of the past, of her grandmother had changed in a single day. Viktor was at the kitchen table, surrounded by drawings for a new project, sketching on his tablet. “How’s Grandma?” he asked without looking up. “Good.”
Elena hesitated—should she tell him everything? “She’s decided to sign the dacha over to me.” “Seriously?” Viktor looked up. “That’s great! You’ve always loved that place.” “I have,” Elena said, remembering long summer days, the garden swing her grandfather built, the scent of ripe apples and warm rain. “And I was thinking—what if we spend part of the summer there instead of the sea?” “You don’t want to go to the sea?” Viktor was surprised. “No, of course I do. Maybe a week before the sea trip? We could prep the house and the lot, do some repairs. And after the sea—another week or two in August.” “Sounds good,” he agreed. “And… what else did Grandma say? You have a strange look on your face.” Elena decided not to reveal all her cards yet. “We talked about the past, about her museum work. She told me a lot I didn’t know. For example, how she saved several paintings during the flood of ’67. It was an amazing story.” She wasn’t lying—just not telling the whole truth. “Your grandma is an amazing woman,” Viktor said with respect. “It’s a pity my parents don’t know her better.”
Elena almost choked. “If only you knew…” “Maybe we can fix that,” she said cautiously. “I was thinking of inviting your parents to the dacha for the May holidays—show them the place, spend time together.” Viktor looked genuinely surprised. “You want to invite my parents? You, who usually try to avoid Mom?—” “It’s time to improve relations,” Elena shrugged. “She’s your mother, I’m your wife. We should learn to get along.” Viktor got up, came over, and hugged her. “Who are you and what have you done with my wife?” he joked. “Seriously, I’m happy you’ve decided this. It means a lot to me.” If only he knew what kind of ‘language’ the women had used before, Elena thought. Aloud she said, “We’ll see how it goes. I’m willing to try.” The next two weeks were busy. They finalized the dacha paperwork—Elena became the official owner. Work was a whirlwind—several big projects at once kept her late. Viktor was swamped too, but they found time to discuss summer plans, including the trip to the dacha. “I talked to my parents,” he said one evening. “They agreed to come for the May holidays. Dad’s excited—he’s been wanting to get out into nature.” “And your mom?” Elena asked carefully. “At first she wasn’t thrilled, then agreed. Said she’s curious to see ‘your family’s’ dacha.” “‘Your family’?” Elena felt anger rise. “You know Mom,” Viktor sighed. “She always talks like that. Don’t pay attention.” Elena held her tongue. She had hoped knowing the backstory would help her understand Valentina; instead it only sharpened her irritation. How dare that woman speak like that after everything Elena had learned?
Finally the weekend came, and they went to the dacha as its new owners. The day was sunny and warm, a real spring day. The drive took a little over an hour: the familiar turn from childhood, the pine-lined lane leading to the settlement, and at last the old wooden house with carved window frames, surrounded by apple trees and lilacs. “We’re here,” Elena said excitedly when Viktor cut the engine. They got out, and Elena inhaled the familiar scent—pines, blossoming apple trees, and damp earth after a recent rain. She remembered every path, tree, and bush—so many happy days spent here. “Where do we start?” Viktor asked, hauling bags of groceries and tools from the trunk. “Let’s air out the house first,” Elena said, pulling from her pocket the new key Grandma had given her. “Then we’ll light the stove—the well water should be fine.” Inside, it smelled of stale air and old wood. Elena flung open all the windows, letting in spring freshness. The furniture was draped in old sheets against dust. She pulled them off, and the rooms slowly came to life. “It’s cozy,” Viktor said, looking around. “You can feel a master’s touch.” “Grandma always knew how to create coziness,” Elena agreed. “And Grandpa made a lot with his own hands—this bookshelf, the veranda table, the kitchen cabinets.” They spent the whole day busy—Elena washing floors and windows, sorting dishes, changing linens; Viktor splitting wood, lighting the stove, checking wiring and plumbing. By evening the house had transformed—clean, warm, ready to welcome its owners. “Tired?” Elena asked as they finally sat down to dinner on the veranda. “A bit,” Viktor smiled, helping himself to salad. “But I like it. It’s been a while since I did real physical work—all day at a computer, you know. It’s good here.” Elena watched the sun’s last rays gild the pines. “Very,” he agreed. “I see why you loved summers here.” After dinner, when Viktor went to shower, Elena finally dared to go into Grandma’s bedroom. Her heart pounded. Somewhere under those floorboards lay the mysterious portrait that had once come between two women.
She walked the room slowly, listening to her steps. Near the head of the bed a board creaked faintly. Elena knelt and examined the floor. One board looked a shade newer than the rest. She pressed at one edge; it lifted. Beneath was a small niche with a flat bundle wrapped in oil paper—just as Grandma had described—and a tin biscuit box. With trembling hands Elena took out the bundle and carefully unwrapped it. Inside was a painting—a small portrait of a young woman with a pensive gaze and a faint half-smile. The artist had set her against a blooming garden, in a light white dress with a string of pearls. The work was masterful—every detail drawn, every shade chosen with astonishing precision. “Maria Sergeyevna Kalinina,” Elena whispered, looking at the portrait. She turned the canvas and saw the faded ink inscription: “To M.S. Kalinina from V. Kalugin, 1918.” Just then Viktor entered, toweling his hair. “Len, did you see—” He stopped short at the sight of Elena kneeling by the lifted floorboard with a painting in her hands. “What is that?” For a moment Elena was at a loss. She hadn’t planned to tell him so soon, but now there was no choice. “It’s… a long story,” she said, getting up. “Sit down, I’ll tell you everything.” And she told him about the flood, the saved painting, the hiding place—but did not mention the conflict with his mother, deciding that could wait. Viktor listened, more and more amazed. “So your grandmother essentially stole a museum piece?” he said at last. “And kept it here all these years.” “She saved it,” Elena corrected. “If not for her, it would have perished in the flood or been destroyed later for ideological reasons.” “And what are you going to do with this… inheritance?” Viktor nodded toward the portrait. “I don’t know,” Elena admitted. “Grandma said the decision was mine. Maybe now, with the times changed, it should go back to the museum—with its story told. Or maybe I should first learn more about the artist and the woman in the portrait?” “Find out whether it’s truly a significant work of art or just a family relic someone once hid,” Viktor suggested. “Grandma said she had documents confirming its value. They should be here.” Elena took the tin box and opened it.
Inside were papers—clippings from old newspapers, photocopies of early-twentieth-century exhibition catalogs mentioning Kalugin, a few letters, and a small notebook. In an envelope lay several old coins. “These must be the coins Grandma mentioned,” Elena showed Viktor. “She saved them from being shipped to the provincial museum.” “Your grandma’s a real adventurer,” Viktor said, examining the coins. “They look genuinely old. Silver?” Elena held one up to the light. Faint lettering gleamed on the worn surface. “Looks like it. Some kind of Old Russian script.” They spread everything on the table and began to study it. The yellowed clippings spoke of exhibitions where the young Valentin Kalugin showed his works alongside Serov and Vrubel. The photocopied catalogs confirmed that critics and collectors had valued his paintings highly. “Listen to this,” Elena read from one clipping. “‘Particular attention is due to the portraits of V. Kalugin, executed with remarkable subtlety and psychological depth. The young artist captures not only likeness, but the inner world of his models.’” “That’s him—the artist who painted this woman,” Viktor said, taking the notebook and leafing through the pages. “Seems to be your grandma’s journal—notes on her search for information on Kalugin, meetings with elderly people who remembered him.” “She conducted a real investigation,” Elena said, reading over his shoulder. The entries dated from the late ’60s and early ’70s—careful notes on a forgotten artist, recollections, archival excerpts. “It’s incredible,” she whispered. “She kept this secret for so many years—gathering information, preserving these treasures. And now it’s all passed to us.” “What do you plan to do?” Viktor asked, setting down the diary. “With the portrait, the coins, everything?” Elena pondered, gazing at the documents. “Part of me wants to keep Grandma’s secret, continue her work. Another part understands these things belong to the public—people should see them in a museum.” “Don’t rush,” Viktor said, laying a hand on her shoulder. “You have time to think, consult lawyers and art historians. Maybe there’s a way to return them without putting your grandmother at legal risk.” Elena nodded, putting the papers back in the box. “You’re right. There’s no need to decide this minute. For now, we should keep everything safe.” They returned the box and the portrait to the hiding place and lowered the board. They spent the rest of the evening on the veranda, discussing garden plans and a potential roof repair. That night Elena dreamed she was standing in a museum hall before Maria Kalinina’s portrait, and on the other side stood her mother-in-law, Valentina, looking at the painting with hatred and fear. In the morning, Elena lay awake, recalling the dream and thinking how she would soon invite Valentina to the dacha and try to make peace—knowing what she now knew. It seemed almost impossible, but she was ready to try for Viktor, for their future, for peace between two elderly women who had once been friends. In the morning they worked in the garden. The spring sun grew warmer; the soil was ready for early plantings. Elena planned to refresh the beds by the house with Grandma’s favorite flowers—tulips, daffodils, irises.
Viktor took on the garden furniture—sturdy wooden benches and a table that needed sanding and a new coat of paint. Toward noon, their neighbor, Anna Vladimirovna, stopped by—this time with Grey, a large German Shepherd with intelligent eyes and an imposing bearing. “I thought I’d introduce our protector,” she smiled as Elena came to the fence. “Grey, meet Lena and Vitya—our new neighbors.” The dog sniffed warily, then relaxed and let them pet him. “What a handsome boy!” Elena said, scratching behind his ear. “And so serious!” “Oh, he takes his duties very seriously—especially when it comes to uninvited guests,” Anna nodded. “Remember I told you about those hooligans? Grey proved a real hero.” Elena couldn’t help thinking about the upcoming encounter with her mother-in-law and how Grey might prove an unexpected ally if things spiraled. She chased the thought away. She was trying to build bridges, not burn them. “We’re planning to invite my husband’s parents for the May holidays,” she told the neighbor. “Introduce them to the dacha, spend some time together.” “Wonderful idea,” Anna approved. “Family time in nature—what could be better? If you need anything, I’m here.” After she left, Elena wondered how it would go. She knew Viktor’s father, Igor Petrovich, would be happy. But Valentina… that was harder. Elena could never please her, and now that she knew the old story, she doubted the attempt would succeed. That evening, on the veranda, she decided to talk to Viktor. “Do you think your mother will come?” she stirred her tea. “You know how she feels about me—and my family.” Viktor rubbed his chin. “I think she’ll come. Especially with Dad—he’s wanted a nature getaway, and Mom rarely lets him go alone. But…” He hesitated. “Be ready for her to criticize everything. That’s… her way of interacting with the world.” “I know,” Elena sighed. “And I’m ready. For you—for us.” He squeezed her hand. “Thank you. That means a lot. I’ll call them tomorrow and suggest the May holidays.” On Sunday evening they returned to the city, leaving the dacha transformed and ready for guests. A week of work lay ahead, then the May holiday at the dacha with Viktor’s parents. The week flew by in a blur of preparations.
Elena was swamped—several projects at once. Between meetings and delivering sketches, she found time to shop for the trip. Viktor invited his parents. As expected, Igor accepted with enthusiasm; Valentina was skeptical but agreed. “She said she’s curious to see your dacha,” Viktor relayed, trying to soften the phrasing, “and that she hasn’t been out of town in a while.” Elena nodded, bracing for the worst—criticism from the furniture arrangement to the curtain color. But for Viktor’s sake she would endure it and even try to find common ground. The day before they left, Elena called Grandma with the news and for advice. “Grandma, we’re going to the dacha tomorrow with Viktor’s parents,” she said, striving for calm. “I’m a bit nervous.” “Naturally, dear,” Sofya replied gently. “Hosting your mother-in-law for the first time is always nerve-racking—especially given your complicated relationship.” “It’s not just that,” Elena lowered her voice, though Viktor was in another room. “After what you told me about your conflict, it’ll be hard to act as if nothing happened.” There was silence on the line, then a sigh. “I understand. But try not to dwell on it. Give her a chance. Maybe she’s changed, grown wiser—like I have. And if she figures out who you are—if she realizes I know about your past?” “Then be honest,” Grandma advised. “Tell her you know the story but hope to start fresh. It’s been many years. You’re one family now—like it or not.”
Elena felt steadier after the call. She decided to truly try to find common ground and not fixate on old hurts. Friday dawned sunny and warm—perfect for a trip. They loaded the car with things, groceries, garden tools, and set off. They stopped for Viktor’s parents, who lived in the old neighborhood where he’d grown up. Igor was waiting outside with a small duffel. He waved cheerfully as they pulled up. “Hello, youngsters!” he boomed, shaking his son’s hand and hugging Elena. “What a perfect day for a drive! Where’s Mom?” Viktor asked, helping with the bag. “She’s coming—finishing her hair,” Igor winked. “You know how important that is to her.” Valentina appeared minutes later, dressed as if for a formal reception—severe suit, neat hairstyle, makeup, pearl earrings. “Good morning,” she said coolly, barely nodding to Elena. “Viktor, help with my bag.” He hurried to take her oversized suitcase, struggling to fit it in the full trunk. “Mom, we’re only going for three days,” he remarked. “Why so much stuff?” “You never know what you might need,” she snapped. “There’s probably nothing at that dacha.” Elena bit her tongue. “Give her a chance,” she reminded herself. “There’s everything we need,” she said evenly. “We got the house ready last weekend.” Valentina cast her a skeptical look but said nothing. The drive took a little over an hour. Viktor drove with his father beside him; Elena and Valentina sat in back, keeping maximum distance. The men chatted animatedly about news, work, and holiday plans. The women were silent, each absorbed in her thoughts. Elena watched the spring landscape flicker past and marveled at how strange life had become. Two weeks ago she’d never have imagined inviting her mother-in-law to her grandmother’s dacha, knowing the complicated history between the two. That she’d try to make peace with someone who’d disliked her from day one. That her life would suddenly resemble a novel—with hidden treasures and old conflicts. The turn to the settlement appeared at last.
Viktor slowed onto the pine-lined road. “It’s beautiful here,” Igor said, taking in the surroundings. “I’ve wanted to get somewhere like this.” “The settlement dates to the 1950s,” Elena said. “Many dachas have been in families for generations.” “Like yours?” Igor nodded. “Did your grandmother buy it long ago?” “No, it was a service dacha from the museum where she worked. Then, in the ’90s, she privatized it.” “From the museum?” Valentina’s voice cut in suddenly. “Your grandmother worked at a museum?” A chill ran down Elena’s back. Did Valentina not know she was Sofya’s granddaughter? Hadn’t she connected the surname? “Yes,” Elena answered carefully. “She was a restorer at the art museum.” Valentina gave her a strange look but said nothing. Elena exhaled—perhaps her mother-in-law hadn’t made the connection. Or had and chose to wait. The car stopped at the familiar gate. “Welcome to the Kovalyov dacha,” Viktor announced, turning off the engine. Elena opened the gate and let their guests in. The house looked welcoming—freshly painted porch, clean windows, a neat front garden with early spring flowers. “Not bad,” Igor approved. “A solid house—built with love.” “My grandfather built it,” Elena said with pride. “He was a structural engineer—did everything by the book.” Valentina silently surveyed the lot; her face gave nothing away. Elena couldn’t tell whether she liked it or not and decided not to ask. “Let me show you the house, then we’ll unload,” she offered. They climbed the steps and Elena opened the door. Inside, it was bright, clean, and smelled of fresh baking—Elena had made a pie that morning to welcome the guests. “Come in, make yourselves at home.”
She showed them around, the guest room where Viktor’s parents would stay, the layout, how to use the stove and the well and the garden tools. Igor listened with genuine interest and asked questions; Valentina maintained a disdainful silence, scrutinizing each room. Finally, the things were brought in, the guests settled, and Elena invited everyone to the table. She had set it on the veranda—light and cozy. Apple pie, herbal tea from Grandma’s summer harvest, homemade jam—everything looked appetizing and homely. “What a spread!” Igor exclaimed, taking a seat. “Haven’t had a homemade pie in ages.” “As if I don’t bake,” Valentina sniffed. “You do, dear,” her husband said placatingly. “But Lena’s is a different recipe. It’s interesting to try.” Elena set tea and generous slices before everyone. Viktor winked supportively; she gave him a faint smile. “To our arrival,” Igor raised his cup, “and to our gracious hosts.” They echoed the toast. Conversation gradually loosened. Igor talked about his new hobby—woodcarving. Viktor shared plans for the lot. Elena spoke about flowers for the front garden. Only Valentina stayed mostly silent, adding brief remarks now and then.
After tea, the men went to look over the outbuildings; the women remained to clear the table. The tension grew—being alone with Valentina was hard. “You have a very… distinctive house,” Valentina said at last, helping stack dishes. “Those old paintings on the walls. Books everywhere.” “Grandma worked in a museum all her life—she values art,” Elena answered neutrally. “And what is your grandmother’s name?” the mother-in-law asked suddenly, staring at her. “Sofya Andreyevna,” Elena answered, meeting her gaze. Valentina turned pale and sat down, gripping the table. “The restorer at the art museum. Sofya Andreyevna Kovalyova,” she said slowly. “Yes,” Elena nodded. “Do you know her?” Valentina gave a short, nervous laugh. “Do I know her? Oh yes. Very well. And she… she’s your grandmother.” “Yes,” Elena repeated, feeling her heart speed up. “And she knew,” Valentina said quietly, almost whispering, “she knew you were seeing my son… that you married. That I’m your mother-in-law.” “Yes,” Elena said a third time. “And she told you nothing about us—about her and me?” “Until recently, no,” Elena answered honestly. “I found out two weeks ago when she decided to sign the dacha over to me.” Valentina shook her head. “What irony! After so many years our paths cross again.” She looked intently at Elena. “And what did she tell you?” Elena hesitated. The truth would be better than lies. “She told me about your friendship—how you met when you brought schoolchildren to the museum. How she showed you the storage rooms, talked about art.” “And about how you quarreled over…” “The portrait.” “The portrait,” Valentina echoed. “Yes, the portrait. A stolen portrait your grandmother hid for years.” “She believed she saved it,” Elena said gently. “Saved it?” Valentina snorted. “She stole a museum piece. And not just that, as far as I understand. And when I was about to report it to the administration, she… she…” “She threatened to reveal your affair with a married man,” Elena finished softly. “And the abortion.” Valentina flinched as if struck. “So she told you that too,” she said bitterly. “All my shame, all my pain—she paraded it before you.” “No,” Elena shook her head. “She didn’t judge you—just explained why she did what she did. And she regrets it. Truly.” “Regrets?” Valentina smiled bitterly. “After she destroyed our friendship—after she blackmailed me?” “People make mistakes,” Elena said, touching her hand gently. “Especially when they’re protecting what’s dear to them. Grandma was defending a work of art that could have been destroyed. You were defending your reputation and future.” Valentina pulled her hand away. “Don’t try to justify her,” she said sharply. “You don’t know what I went through after our fight—how I feared she’d tell someone, how I stopped trusting people, how I closed off.” “I’m sorry,” Elena said sincerely. “Truly. But maybe it’s time to leave the past behind? Grandma would like to make peace with you.” “Make peace?” Valentina shook her head. “After everything? And you expect me to believe she didn’t orchestrate your meeting with Viktor—that this isn’t her revenge?”
Elena froze. She hadn’t expected Valentina to guess so quickly. “I can see by your face that I’m right,” Valentina said triumphantly. “She set up your meeting. God, how blind I was! How did I not recognize whose granddaughter you were when I heard your maiden name?” “Yes, Grandma arranged our meeting,” Elena admitted. “But not out of revenge. She hoped it would heal old wounds—unite the families.” “Unite?” Valentina laughed. “More like take my son away from me. And she succeeded—you chose her granddaughter, her family. Now you’ll run this dacha together, and I’ll come as a guest if you deign to invite me.” Just then the men returned, animatedly discussing plans to repair the shed. Seeing the women’s tense faces, they fell silent. “Is everything okay?” Viktor asked cautiously. “More than okay,” his mother said dryly. “Lena and I have just clarified some fascinating details about our families.” “What are you talking about, Mom?” Viktor looked from his mother to his wife. “About the fact that your wife is the granddaughter of Sofya Andreyevna Kovalyova—the woman who was once my friend and then betrayed me. And about the fact that your meeting wasn’t a coincidence.” “Lena?” Viktor asked, bewildered. Elena drew a deep breath. “Yes—my grandmother and your mother knew each other years ago. They had a conflict. And yes—Grandma helped us meet.” “What do you mean ‘helped’?” “She arranged it at the exhibition—asked a friend to invite you as a technical consultant.”
Viktor looked stunned. “So our meeting was staged. All this time.” “But that doesn’t make our feelings any less real,” Elena said quickly. “Grandma only created the circumstance in which we could meet. The rest is us.” “Ha!” Valentina exclaimed. “She manipulated you. And now she’s manipulating this situation. She even signed the dacha over to you to cement it. What else did she pass on to you?” Her gaze swept the room, as if searching for hidden treasures. Cold crept through Elena. Had Valentina guessed about the hiding place too? “Mom, that’s enough,” Viktor intervened. “Even if our meeting wasn’t entirely accidental, what does it matter now? We love each other—we’ve been married five years.” “What does it matter?” Valentina’s voice rose. “It matters that this woman”—she jabbed a finger at Elena—“comes from a family that takes what it wants without regard for others. Her grandmother stole museum pieces, blackmailed me, and now, through her granddaughter, is trying to control my son.” “What do you mean ‘stole exhibits’?” Igor, who had watched silently, spoke up. “Her grandmother was a restorer and appropriated valuable items,” Valentina said angrily. “A painting, coins—God knows what else. And when I found out and was going to tell the museum, she threatened to reveal… certain facts from my private life.” “Grandma believed she was saving those items from destruction,” Elena said quietly. “It was a complicated time—many works were destroyed for ideological reasons.” “Tell that to someone else,” Valentina cried. “She was a thief, and I’m sure those things are still here—in this house, at this dacha. Aren’t they?” Elena was silent, not knowing what to say. The situation was spinning out of control. “I think we all need to calm down,” Igor suggested. “Have some tea, rest.” “Tea?” Valentina exclaimed. “I’m not staying in a house steeped in lies and theft.” “Mom, stop,” Viktor tried to take her hand; she jerked away. “No, I won’t! I won’t let this family manipulate you the way they’ve manipulated everything from the beginning!” She turned to Elena. “What did you come here for, you cow? We didn’t invite you! You’re not part of the family—so get out!” A stunned silence fell. Even Valentina seemed shocked by her own outburst. “What did you say?” Viktor asked quietly, staring at her in disbelief. “I…” She faltered, then lifted her chin. “I said she’s not part of our family. She never was and never will be. She’s just carrying out her grandmother’s orders—taking you away from me.” Elena looked at her mother-in-law calmly.
Everything she had tried to build—every attempt to make peace—was crumbling before her eyes. Her throat tightened with hurt and tears pricked, but she refused to give Valentina the satisfaction of seeing her break. “Valya, what’s with you?” Igor came to his wife. “You’ve never spoken like this.” “Because I kept silent for years,” she snapped. “I put up with this daughter-in-law who is taking my son, her arrogance, her so-called successful career, her plans that leave no place for me.” Elena rose slowly. “I’m not going to listen to this,” she said calmly. “This is my house, and I won’t allow you to insult me or my family here.” “Your house?” Valentina sneered. “You didn’t even earn it. You just got it from your grandmother—like everything else in your life.” “Mom, stop,” Viktor said sharply. “I won’t let you speak to my wife like that.” “Now you defend her, not me,” Valentina threw up her hands. “Of course. She’s young, pretty, successful. And what am I? Just an old mother who gave you her whole life.” Elena turned and silently left the house. She needed air—time to think, to calm down. She walked quickly through the garden and out the gate. Without thinking where she was going, she took the path along the fence. Suddenly, ahead, neighbor Anna appeared with Grey.
Seeing Elena’s pale face, Anna waved and hurried over. “Lenochka, is something wrong?” she asked, concerned. “My mother-in-law,” Elena said briefly. “We had a fight.” “Ah, mothers-in-law,” Anna nodded knowingly. “I had a complicated one too—God rest her soul.” “This one’s a special case,” Elena sighed, and briefly told her about Grandma and Valentina, their meeting that day, and the explosive insult at the end. “How awful,” Anna shook her head. “Throwing you out of your own home—that crosses all lines.” “I don’t know what to do,” Elena admitted. “I wanted to make peace, but now… I’m not sure it’s possible.” Anna stroked Grey’s neck; the dog listened intently, as if understanding every word. “Sometimes people need a lesson,” Anna said slowly. “To show them their behavior is unacceptable.” “What lesson? I don’t want to stoop to her level.” “No, nothing like that,” Anna smiled. “Just a little performance so she understands you can’t treat people like that in their own house.” Elena looked blankly. “What do you suggest?” “Grey is very well trained,” Anna patted the dog. “He never attacks people, but he can be very persuasive—especially about protecting territory from uninvited guests.” “You want to use Grey to scare my mother-in-law?” Elena was shocked. “Not scare—just show that every house has rules to be respected,” Anna explained. “And that sometimes words have consequences. I’d bet your mother-in-law is afraid of dogs.” Elena remembered Valentina once crossing the street to avoid a large dog. “Yes, she doesn’t like them.” “Then here’s what we’ll do,” Anna said conspiratorially. Elena listened, interest growing. It wasn’t revenge so much as a boundary—something Valentina constantly violated—that might make her reflect.
When Elena returned, the argument was still going. Viktor tried to reason with his mother; Igor tried to calm everyone; Valentina kept pouring out grievances. “Ah, the little daughter-in-law is back,” Valentina drawled when she saw Elena. “Had a nice walk? Find your grandmother’s hidden treasure while you were at it?” “Mom!” Viktor protested. “Valentina,” Elena said evenly, stepping closer. “I understand you have your hurts and complaints. But this is my home, and I won’t allow you to insult me and my family here.” “Your home?” Valentina smirked. “So I’m an unwanted guest? Fine. Then we’re leaving. Igor, pack.” “No one said you were unwanted,” Elena sighed. “I’m asking you to respect me and my house.” “‘Your house, your house,’” Valentina mimicked. “You’re the hostess here, and I’m nobody—just an old, useless mother-in-law tolerated out of politeness.” At that moment a loud bark sounded on the porch. Everyone turned to see Anna standing in the doorway with Grey. The huge German Shepherd stood alert, gaze fixed on Valentina. “Sorry to intrude,” Anna said calmly. “I heard raised voices and came to check on my neighbors. Grey is very sensitive to conflict—especially when someone raises their voice at the lady of the house.” Valentina paled and took a step back. “What does this mean? What is that—that dog—doing here?” “Grey keeps order on our street,” Anna said with a mild smile. “He doesn’t like it when someone disturbs the peace. Especially when guests don’t respect their hosts.” “Is that a threat?” Valentina asked in a trembling voice. “Not at all,” Anna stroked Grey’s head. “Just a friendly reminder about good manners. Grey is very well-behaved—he never attacks. Unless he’s provoked.” As if understanding, Grey gave a low growl, eyes never leaving Valentina. “I’m not staying in this house with that beast!” she cried. “Igor, we’re leaving now.” “But Valya, how will we go? It’s already evening,” her husband tried to object. “I don’t care. I won’t spend another minute here.” She began feverishly gathering her things. “Viktor, are you coming with us—or staying with her?” Viktor looked from his mother to his wife to the neighbor with the dog, confusion and distress in his eyes. “Mom, calm down,” he said at last. “No one will hurt you. It’s just the neighbor’s dog.” “Just a dog?” Valentina laughed hysterically. “Can’t you see it’s all staged? First Sofya arranges your meeting, then her granddaughter lures us here, and now they sic a dog on me.” Grey growled again and took a step forward. Valentina squealed and jumped back, bumping a table and knocking over a vase. “It seems Grey senses aggression,” Anna observed calmly. “He doesn’t like when someone behaves aggressively toward his friends.” “I can’t stand this,” Valentina cried, grabbing her bag and rushing to the door. “I’m leaving. And if that animal touches me, I’ll sue.” “Grey never touches people without a command,” Anna said, stepping aside to clear the way. “Unless they pose a threat to his friends.” Valentina bolted onto the porch; Igor hurried after her. At an almost invisible signal from Anna, Grey followed at a distance, eyes fixed on the mother-in-law. “Mom, wait!” Viktor ran after them. “Where are you going at this hour?” “Anywhere, as long as it’s away from here!” Valentina shouted, hurrying toward the gate. “I won’t stay another minute!”
At that moment Grey barked loudly and lunged forward—not to attack, but the sheer size and sound had the desired effect. With a shriek, Valentina took off running, losing her slippers. Igor ran after her, trying to calm her. “Mom, stop!” Viktor called, chasing them. “He won’t hurt you!” But Valentina didn’t listen. She sprinted down the path as if all the hounds of hell were after her, while Grey merely escorted her to the gate and stopped, satisfied at seeing the disturber of the peace depart. “And ten minutes later everyone was running off, slippers flying,” Anna said quietly, standing beside Elena. “Just as I warned you—Grey is very persuasive about uninvited guests.” Elena watched the retreating figures of her mother- and father-in-law, with Viktor behind them, and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. In a sense, justice had been served—her mother-in-law had been taught a lesson for her arrogance and rudeness. But at the same time something twisted inside Elena at the thought this could destroy the family and push Viktor away. “Thank you for your help,” she told Anna. “Though I’m not sure it was the best way.” “Sometimes people need a mirror to see themselves,” Anna said philosophically. “Your mother-in-law is used to dominating, controlling. Today she faced consequences.” Grey came over and laid his head on Elena’s knees, offering comfort. She stroked him absently, wondering what would happen next. Soon Viktor returned—alone. “They left by taxi,” he said wearily. “Mom wouldn’t even talk to me. Said I betrayed her—chose you and your crazy family.” “Vitya, I’m so sorry,” Elena said, hugging him. “I didn’t want it to be like this.” “It’s not your fault,” he said, hugging her back. “Mom’s always been… difficult. But today she outdid herself.” Tactfully, Anna withdrew with Grey, leaving the couple alone.
They sat on the porch a long time, talking through what had happened and deciding what to do next. “You know,” Viktor said at last, “maybe it’s for the best. Mom needed a lesson. Maybe it will make her think about her behavior.” “And you?” Elena asked softly. “Do you blame me for any of this—for Grandma arranging our meeting, for me not telling you sooner?” Viktor looked at the setting sun. “No. Yes, our meeting was engineered. But does that make our feelings less real? Does it mean we didn’t truly love each other?” Elena shook her head. “I loved—and love—you honestly. I just feared you’d think I was in on the plan.” “I know you, Len,” he said gently. “You couldn’t pretend like that. What we have is real. As for the past—every family has skeletons in its closet.” “And hiding places under floorboards,” Elena smiled faintly. Viktor laughed. “Yes—those too. By the way, what are you going to do with the portrait and the coins?” “I think Grandma’s right—it’s time to return them to the museum,” Elena said. “Tell the story, make them accessible to people. It’s the right thing.” “And Grandma? She could be accused of theft.” “I’ll talk to lawyers. Maybe we can arrange it as an anonymous donation. The important thing is that these valuables go where they belong.” They sat on the porch late into the night, talking and planning. Something ended that day—the illusion of possible reconciliation with Valentina. But something also began—a new stage of their relationship, based on complete honesty. A week later, back in the city, Elena called Grandma and told her what had happened. “I’m sorry it turned out this way, dear,” Sofya sighed. “I’d hoped time had softened Valya, that she could leave the past behind.” “Some wounds don’t heal, Grandma,” Elena said sadly. “But you know, maybe it’s for the best. At least everything is clear now.” “And Viktor? How is he?” “It’s hard for him. But he doesn’t blame me. Or you. He says adults choose their own actions.”
After the May holidays, relations with Viktor’s parents didn’t recover. Valentina refused to talk to her son, ignored his calls and messages. Through his father she relayed that she felt betrayed and wanted nothing to do with a family that had humiliated her. The summer was hard. Elena and Viktor often went to the dacha—worked in the garden, repaired the house, hosted friends. Sofya came sometimes, enjoying the place without the burden of upkeep. Anna stopped by often with Grey—the dog seemed to have bonded with the new neighbors and greeted them at the gate. In early autumn, Elena carried out her plan. With an experienced lawyer’s help, she arranged for Maria Kalinina’s portrait and the coin collection to be returned to the city museum as an anonymous gift. They kept Grandma’s diary and the other documents in the family—memories to be preserved. The museum organized a special exhibition on forgotten Silver Age artists, with Kalugin’s portrait as the centerpiece. Elena, Viktor, and Sofya came to the opening, watching proudly as visitors admired the painting that had lain for so many years beneath a floorboard.
Then, at Christmas, something unexpected happened. The doorbell rang, and on their city apartment’s doorstep stood Igor—alone, without Valentina. “Valya asked me to give you this,” he said, handing Viktor an envelope. “She’s not ready to meet in person. But it’s a first step.” Inside was a short letter—just a few lines in Valentina’s neat hand: “Viktor and Elena. I was wrong. Pride won’t let me say it face to face, but I must admit my behavior was unacceptable. I’m not asking for forgiveness, but I want you to know the door to reconciliation isn’t closed forever. —Valentina Sergeyevna.” They saw in the New Year at Grandma’s house—not with the big family Elena had dreamed of, not with the reconciliation Viktor had hoped for, but with new understanding and a measure of hope. Perhaps not all wounds would heal, not all bridges be rebuilt. But life goes on, and there’s always room for new beginnings. When the clock struck midnight, Elena made a wish—that one day children’s laughter would ring through that house that had seen so many stories. Looking at Viktor, she felt certain that wish would come true. That’s the story.
