Gennady Petrovich called Alisa late Wednesday afternoon. His voice was calm, but it carried that particular note of caution that always appeared whenever he was about to say something important. Alisa put the kettle on and sat down on a kitchen stool. Conversations with her father-in-law were rarely brief.
“Alisa, are you alone?”
“Yes. Polina is at Marina’s. She and Ulyana are drawing. Anton went to see Denis.”
“To Denis,” he repeated.
The silence lasted about five seconds.
“All right. Listen, I’ve wanted to speak to you for a long time. Not over the phone. Can you come and see me tomorrow? Without Anton.”
“Gennady Petrovich, has something happened?”
“Nothing has happened. Not yet. But something may happen if I keep silent again.”
Alisa agreed. It was impossible to refuse him—not because he pressured her, but because in six years he had never asked her for anything unnecessary. In fact, he rarely asked for anything at all. He usually gave instead.
When Polina was born, he had arrived with a stroller and three bags of baby clothes, placed everything in the hallway, and said, “They’re for my granddaughter. Don’t argue.”
The next day, Alisa went to see him.
Gennady Petrovich lived alone. His apartment was clean, although it was obvious that he did the cleaning himself—neatly and practically, without decorative touches. Two cups stood on the table beside a plate of cookies and a thin folder.
“Sit down. Would you like some tea?”
“Yes, please.”
He poured the tea, sat opposite her, and looked at her as though he had spent a long time choosing his first words.
“Alisa, I respect you. You know that. When Anton first brought you home, I was honestly happy. You’re calm, patient, and you’re raising my granddaughter well. The family accepted you. Katya adores you. After her divorce, you helped her more than the rest of us put together.”
“Gennady Petrovich, you’re frightening me.”
“I’m not trying to frighten you. I’m warning you. And asking something of you.”
He opened the folder.
There were official documents inside. Alisa saw the familiar words: deed of gift.
Gennady Petrovich pushed the first page toward her.
“It’s the country house. The one we all use. Twenty sotkas of land, two floors, the bathhouse, the whole property. I want to transfer it to you as a gift. Not to Anton. To you.”
“To me? Why?”
“Because you have Polina. Because you deserve it. And because I know something you don’t know yet.”
Alisa set her cup down.
Gennady Petrovich looked directly into her eyes.
“What do you know?”
“Anton has another woman.”
Alisa said nothing.
Gennady Petrovich did not rush her. He sat with his hands folded on the table and waited.
“How long?” she finally asked.
“About a year. Perhaps longer. I found out by accident. My friend Boris has a daughter named Nastya. This woman Anton is seeing is Nastya’s friend. Apparently, she talks too much. She told Nastya, Nastya told her father, and Boris told me.”
“Are you certain?”
“Boris wouldn’t invent something like that. We’ve been friends for forty years.”
Alisa sat upright, staring at the documents. It seemed as though she were counting something inside her mind—not money or years, but perhaps all those occasions when Anton had gone “to Denis’s” and returned later than promised.
“Does Denis cover for him?”
“Yes. Every time. Anton calls him in advance, and Denis confirms the story if you phone him.”
“I never called. I thought checking up on my husband would be humiliating.”
“Exactly, Alisa. You refused to humiliate yourself, and he took advantage of it.”
She looked at the folder again.
“Why are you telling me this while offering me the country house?”
“Because I’m afraid.”
“Of what?”
“That when you find out—and sooner or later you will—you’ll leave. And you’ll be right to leave. But when you do, you need to have something of your own. The apartment belongs to both of you. The car is his. But the country house is mine. And I want it to become yours.”
“Anton will be furious.”
“Anton won’t know. Not yet.”
“You want me to remain silent?”
“I want you and Polina to be protected. Everything else can happen when the time is right.”
Alisa ran her fingers along the edge of the document.
The country house.
The place where the entire family gathered every summer—Uncle Lyosha, Aunt Tamara, Katya and Ulyana, Anton’s cousins. Twenty sotkas of land, old apple trees, and a second-floor balcony overlooking the river.
Alisa loved that place. Every weekend she cooked there, set the long outdoor table, and washed the tablecloths. Anton’s relatives had accepted her, and she had treated them like family in return.
“Gennady Petrovich, I can’t simply take this. It’s your home. You built it.”
“I built it for my family. You are my family. You and Polina. Anton is my son, and I love him. But loving someone and approving of what they do are two different things. If you agree, we’ll go to the notary right now.”
Alisa signed the documents.
A week later, everything was finalized. She placed the papers in her handbag, hid the bag in the wardrobe beneath a pile of winter clothes, and continued living as before.
She cooked dinner, picked Polina up, and greeted Anton whenever he returned from visiting “Denis.”
Only now, whenever she watched him leave, she knew the truth.
Summer arrived early. By May, the weather was already hot.
Alisa arranged for her friend Marina to stay at the country house at the end of June. Marina lived modestly. She owned neither an apartment nor a car. She rented a room and took her daughter Ulyana everywhere by bus.
Alisa invited her every summer, but Marina always refused, saying she did not want to impose.
“Marina, come. Polina misses Ulyana. There’s plenty of room.”
“Won’t Anton object?”
“Anton will be in the city for two days. I’m inviting you myself.”
“Alisa, I don’t want to cause trouble for you.”
“You’re not causing trouble. You’re coming to visit me.”
Marina agreed.
But three days before her arrival, the plan changed slightly. Alisa’s mother, Vera Nikolaevna, called and said she unexpectedly had the weekend free.
Alisa was delighted.
“Come to the country house. You haven’t seen Polina in ages.”
“Are you sure it’s appropriate? It belongs to Anton’s family.”
“It’s fine. Come and don’t worry.”
Vera Nikolaevna arrived on Saturday morning carrying strawberries. Polina rushed toward her grandmother and wrapped her arms around her knees.
Alisa arranged plates on the veranda.
The morning was warm and peaceful. Marina sat in a rocking chair, while Ulyana and Polina played on the lawn.
Then Anton arrived.
A full day earlier than he had promised.
He stepped out of the car, noticed the unfamiliar shoes on the porch, heard children shrieking with laughter, walked around the house, and froze.
His mother-in-law was sitting on the veranda. Beside her was a woman he barely knew. His wife was pouring fruit compote as though she owned the place.
“What is this?” he asked.
Quietly.
For the moment.
“Hello, Anton,” Vera Nikolaevna said. “How was the drive?”
He did not answer her. He looked directly at his wife.
“Can I speak to you for a moment?”
They went inside.
Anton closed the door behind them.
“You invited your mother here. To my parents’ country house.”
“Yes, I invited her.”
“Without my permission.”
“Do I need your permission to invite Polina’s grandmother to see her?”
“You need my permission before inviting anyone to this house. It belongs to my father. To my family. You are a guest here, Alisa.”
She slowly placed the pitcher on the table.
“A guest?”
“That’s right. A guest. I’ve wanted to tell you this for a long time. You behave as though this is your home.”
“And whose home is it, Anton?”
“Mine. It belongs to my parents, which means it belongs to me. You have nothing to do with it. Tell your mother to pack her things. And take Marina with her.”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“I mean no. I’m not calling my mother and asking her to leave. And I’m not asking Marina to go either.”
Anton stepped closer.
It was not exactly threatening. He was simply surprised.
He was not accustomed to hearing Alisa say no. In six years, she might have said it four times.
“Alisa, I’m not asking. I’m telling you. They are leaving.”
“And what happens if I refuse?”
“Then you can leave too. Take your daughter and your mother with you.”
Alisa stood still and looked at him.
Anton waited.
He was certain she would lower her eyes, say, “All right, fine,” walk onto the veranda, and gently explain to her mother that she needed to leave.
That was what usually happened.
Alisa did not argue.
Alisa gave in.
Alisa kept the peace.
But not today.
“Are you throwing me and my daughter out?”
“Our daughter.”
“Our daughter, then. You’re throwing your own child out of the house because her grandmother came to visit?”
“I’m throwing out the mother-in-law you dragged here without asking. And your friend along with her. This isn’t a boarding house.”
“Marina is my friend. She has nowhere to relax. She has nothing, Anton. No country house, no apartment, no car. I invited her because I can.”
“You can’t. This doesn’t belong to you.”
Gravel crunched on the driveway.
Alisa looked out of the window.
Tamara, Anton’s aunt, climbed out of a dark-blue car. She was a heavyset, confident woman carrying a large handbag. Denis, Anton’s friend, followed her, dressed in a pale shirt.
A minute later, another car arrived. Katya, Anton’s cousin, stepped out with her daughter, little Ulyana.
Apparently, Anton had made calls before arriving.
He had summoned reinforcements.
Tamara walked onto the veranda, saw Vera Nikolaevna and Marina, and pursed her lips.
“Anton, who do we have here?”
“Alisa’s mother and her friend. Uninvited guests.”
“At our country house? Without discussing it with anyone? Alisa, have you completely forgotten your boundaries?”
Vera Nikolaevna stood up.
“Perhaps I should leave. I don’t want to—”
“Sit down,” Alisa said quietly. “Please. You aren’t going anywhere.”
Tamara looked at her with an expression Alisa knew by heart—condescension mixed with a lifelong habit of giving orders.
“My dear girl, you seem to have forgotten where you are. This is the family country house. It belongs to our family. Anton is the head of this family after his father. He decides who is welcome here and who is not.”
“Tamara Petrovna, when was the last time you spoke to Gennady Petrovich?”
“What does my brother have to do with this?”
“Everything.”
Denis stood slightly apart with his hands in his pockets. That was how he always stood—off to the side, ready to nod, confirm a story, or provide cover.
Anton glanced at him for support.
Denis gave a slight nod.
“Alisa, don’t make this more complicated than it needs to be,” Denis said. “Anton is right. This property belongs to his family. You’re allowed to stay here because he permits it. Tell your mother to pack. Why create a scandal?”
Katya remained by the gate.
She had come because Anton had messaged her: “Come over. There’s a problem.”
But now, watching everything unfold, she said nothing.
She remembered how six months earlier, after her divorce, Alisa had arrived with groceries and sat beside her until two in the morning, until Katya finally stopped trembling.
She remembered how Alisa had driven little Ulyana to her activities when Katya could barely get out of bed.
“Katya, tell her,” Anton demanded.
Katya looked up at him.
“Tell her what?”
“Tell her this is our country house. Our family property. Tell her she has no right to give orders here.”
“Anton, I’m not going to say that.”
“Why not?”
“Because Alisa was the only person who stayed beside me when I was falling apart. You didn’t even call.”
Anton flinched but said nothing.
Tamara stepped forward.
“Katya, this is no time for sentimentality. We’re talking about property. About a house my father built and Gennady later expanded. Alisa is a wife. Wives come and go. The house remains.”
Alisa listened.
She stood beside the table and the pitcher of compote, absorbing every word.
Each sentence settled into place like another brick in a wall behind which they expected her to remain—quiet, obedient, and grateful.
“Wives come and go,” Alisa repeated. “Interesting. Anton, would you like to tell Tamara Petrovna where you go when you claim you’re visiting Denis? Or shall I tell her?”
Silence.
Denis looked away.
Anton turned pale.
“What are you talking about?”
“Zhanna. Nastya’s friend. Nastya, the daughter of Boris Arkadyevich. You do know Zhanna, don’t you? She talks too much. The entire town knows about the two of you, apart from those who chose not to hear.”
Anton did not move.
Tamara turned toward him.
“Anton, what nonsense is she talking about?”
“It isn’t nonsense, Tamara Petrovna,” Katya said quietly. “I heard about it too. From Nastya. A month ago. I thought it was a lie. Now I can see it wasn’t.”
Anton swallowed.
“Alisa, we’ll discuss this later. Not in front of everyone.”
“No, Anton. We’ll discuss it now. In front of everyone. You wanted to make a public example of me, and now you have one. You called your aunt. You called Denis. You called Katya. You wanted them all to watch you put your wife in her place. Fine. Let them all see the truth.”
“What truth?” Tamara still did not seem to understand the full scale of what was happening.
“This truth: for an entire year, Anton has been seeing another woman. Denis has covered for him every time. Every evening Anton said he was with his friend, he was somewhere else. Denis, would you like to confirm that? Or would you prefer to discuss it ‘later’ too?”
Denis remained silent, staring at the ground.
Anton turned toward him. This time, he was not expecting help. He understood that none was coming.
Denis did not even raise his head.
“Fine,” Anton said at last, his voice dull. “Fine. Let’s say you found out. It changes nothing. The main issue remains the same. This country house is mine. You will leave, taking your mother and your friend with you, and then we’ll talk at home like reasonable adults.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“Alisa, I’m serious.”
“So am I. The country house isn’t yours, Anton.”
There was a pause.
“What do you mean, it isn’t mine?”
“I mean exactly what I said. The property is registered in my name. Gennady Petrovich transferred it to me through a notarized deed of gift. The documents are entirely legal.”
The color drained from Tamara’s face.
“That’s impossible. Gennady would never—”
“Tamara Petrovna, Gennady Petrovich knew about Anton and Zhanna before I did. He did not want his granddaughter to be left with nothing. He did what he believed was right. Call him if you don’t believe me. Call him now.”
Anton pulled out his phone and dialed.
Everyone heard it ringing.
Then Gennady Petrovich answered in his usual calm voice.
“Anton.”
“Dad, what’s this story about the country house?”
“Which part of the story?”
“Alisa says it has been transferred to her.”
There was a brief but heavy pause.
“Yes. That’s true. I gave her the house. For Polina’s sake. Because Alisa has spent six years tolerating things she should never have had to tolerate. And because you, my son, have not earned the right to inherit that home.”
“Dad, you couldn’t have—”
“I could. And I did. The house belonged to me. Now it belongs to her. Legally. You’re welcome to investigate if you wish. The documents are clean.”
Anton ended the call.
He placed the phone on the veranda railing.
Then he looked at his wife, at Tamara, and finally at his friend, who was already walking quietly toward his car.
“Denis, where are you going?”
“Home,” Denis answered without turning around. “There’s nothing for me to do here.”
Tamara sat down on the bench.
She said nothing.
For the first time in all the years Alisa had known her, Tamara Petrovna had no idea what to say. She repeatedly opened and closed her handbag, taking out a handkerchief and then putting it back for no apparent reason.
Katya approached Alisa quietly, without making a show of it.
“I’m on your side. If you need me, I’ll be a witness. For anything.”
“Thank you, Katya.”
“There’s no need to thank me. You stayed with me when I was frightened. I remember.”
Marina came out of the house carrying Polina.
The child squinted in the bright sunlight.
Vera Nikolaevna stood on the porch, pale but upright. She did not completely understand what had happened, but she could see that her daughter was standing straight.
She was no longer bending.
Anton took a step toward Alisa.
“You planned all of this.”
“No. You arranged it yourself, Anton. You brought Tamara. You brought Denis. You wanted everyone to watch me fall silent. But I didn’t stay silent. The difference between us is that I prepared for the worst, while you did not.”
“And what happens now?”
“Now you leave. Go wherever you want. To Denis, to Zhanna—I don’t care. The country house stays with me. And Polina stays with me.”
“You won’t stop me from seeing my daughter.”
“I have no intention of stopping you. You may visit. But not as the owner. As a guest. For a few hours.”
Anton looked at her for a long time.
Then he turned and walked toward his car.
Tamara stood, grabbed her handbag, and followed him. At the gate, she turned back.
“Gennady will answer for this.”
“Gennady Petrovich answered for everything six months ago, when he signed the documents,” Alisa said. “You’re too late, Tamara Petrovna.”
The cars drove away one after another.
The sound of tires on gravel gradually faded.
Polina asked to be put down. Marina lowered her to the ground, and the little girl ran toward the swings. Ulyana raced after her.
Katya sat on the porch steps and closed her eyes.
Vera Nikolaevna approached her daughter.
“Alisa, I don’t understand any of this. What just happened?”
“I’ll explain later. Everything is fine.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes. Sit down. The compote is still warm.”
Alisa returned to the table.
Marina placed a glass in front of her.
Katya opened her eyes and quietly asked, “Alisa, how long have you known about Zhanna?”
“Six months.”
“And you said nothing?”
“I waited. Gennady Petrovich asked me to. He said, ‘Let the documents cool down first. After that, decide for yourself.’ So I decided.”
Katya nodded.
“You made the right decision.”
From the swings, Polina shouted, “Higher! Higher!”
Ulyana pushed her, and both girls laughed.
The sun stood high in the sky. The tablecloth was white and clean.
Alisa straightened its edge and thought that the balcony railing needed repairing next weekend. She had been meaning to fix it for a long time.
Now she no longer needed to ask anyone’s permission.
