Vera stood in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for the stew. Her hands worked mechanically while her thoughts wandered far away. Anna Sergeyevna had been gone for a week now. And that time seemed endless.
The mother-in-law had left so suddenly—just a month after her husband. The doctors said her heart had given out. But Vera knew—it wasn’t only her heart; her soul could not bear the separation from Mikhail Petrovich. Forty years together, not a single day apart.
Outside, a light rain was falling. A gray October day, as if nature herself were mourning Anna Sergeyevna.
The front door slammed.
“It’s me,” came the voice of her husband, Andrey, from the hallway. She was not alone—other footsteps and hushed conversation could be heard.
Vera wiped her hands on a towel and stepped out of the kitchen. In the corridor, Andrey was helping his sister Irina remove her coat.
“Hello, Vera. Sorry for coming without warning,” said Irina, nodding without even looking into her eyes.
The behavior of the brother and sister was somehow odd.
“Would you like some tea?” Vera asked, trying not to betray her irritation.
“Sure,” Andrey grumbled as he walked into the living room. “And make it as strong as possible, if you have it.”
Irina settled into an armchair, straightening her back and folding her hands on her knees. Always like that—perfect posture, immaculate makeup, even in a moment of sorrow.
Vera put the kettle on and returned with a bottle. Andrey immediately poured himself and his sister some.
“To mom,” he said, raising his shot glass.
They drank. Vera did not touch her own glass.
“How are you, Vera?” Irina asked, though her tone lacked genuine interest.
“I’m managing,” Vera replied shortly. “So many troubles after everything.”
“You know, Andrey would have told you anyway, so I’ll say it directly,” Irina continued, setting her glass on the table and looking at Vera. “My brother and I have decided that we will sell our parents’ summer house.”
Vera froze. Her breath caught.
“You’re selling? — she asked, almost in disbelief. — When?”
“The sooner, the better,” Andrey interjected. “Why delay? It’s a good lot, not far from the city—we’ll find a buyer quickly.”
Vera stared at them both, not believing her ears. That very summer house she had visited every weekend for the last three years. Where she had weeded the garden beds together with Anna Sergeyevna. Where she had painted the fence with Mikhail Petrovich. Where she had cooked meals for everyone when the elders could no longer manage.
“Tomorrow we’ll go to the notary, and we’ll arrange everything,” Andrey continued, oblivious to the pallor that had overtaken his wife’s face. “I’ve already gathered the documents.”
“Do you even remember the last time you were at that summer house?” Vera asked softly.
Andrey and Irina exchanged glances.
“What does that have to do with anything?” Andrey frowned. “It’s our parents’ summer house, and we are their children. We have every right to dispose of the inheritance.”
“Two years ago,” Vera said, looking directly at her husband. “You were there two years ago. During the May holidays. You grilled kebabs and then left. And Irina hadn’t been there even longer.”
“I have work, children,” Irina snapped. “Not everyone has time to make trips to summer houses.”
“And I, then, have a truckload of time?” Vera raised her voice. “I drove to your parents’ place every weekend. I shopped for groceries, cleaned, repaired what I could. Alone! Because you all were too busy!”
“Vera, stop it,” Andrey tapped his shot glass on the table. “You aren’t their daughter by blood to make demands.”
Five years of marriage—three of which Vera had, in effect, replaced Anna Sergeyevna and Mikhail Petrovich as the caregivers for children who had turned their backs on them.
“Not by blood,” she repeated slowly. “And were you ever really their own? When father fell ill, who took care of him? When mother asked for money for medicine, who brought it? When the roof leaked, who called the repairmen?”
“Vera, let’s not get melodramatic,” Irina frowned. “You did your duty. We’re grateful, of course. But these are our parents, and the inheritance is, by law…”
“Grateful?” Vera bitterly smiled. “Do you know what your mother used to say every time I came? ‘Vera, dear, how wonderful that we have you. At least someone remembers us.’”
Irina looked away.
“Tomorrow at eleven we’re going to the notary—our family’s notary. We’ll take care of the documents,” said Andrey, ignoring his wife’s words. “If you want, come with us.”
“I’ll come,” Vera declared as she rose from the table. “I’ll definitely come.”
She left the room, leaving them alone with their plans. In her ears, the words of her mother-in-law, spoken not long ago, echoed: “Vera, you are the one who never abandoned us. I will never forget that.”
In the bedroom, Vera sank onto the bed and covered her face with her hands. Before her eyes appeared the image of Mikhail Petrovich teaching her how to tie tomatoes. Anna Sergeyevna demonstrating the proper way to can cucumbers. Their happy faces when she arrived on Saturday mornings with little gifts.
And now someone wanted to sell their home, their garden, their world—like an object, like useless junk.
There was a knock on the door.
“Vera, why did you run away?” Andrey entered the room. “We haven’t finished discussing everything.”
“What is there to discuss?” she looked up at him. “You’ve already decided everything.”
“Listen, we can buy a bigger apartment. Sell the summer house, split the money, and it will be enough,” Andrey sat down beside her. “You yourself said you want to move.”
“Not at this cost.”
“At what cost?” he waved his hand irritably. “There are no parents left. Who needs that summer house? No one is left to go there, no one is left to take care of it.”
“I would go.”
“Alone?” Andrey smirked. “Why?”
“Because a part of their soul remains there,” Vera answered quietly. “Your mother and father. Whom you, it seems, have already forgotten.”
Andrey abruptly stood up.
“You know what? Tomorrow we’ll finalize all the papers, and that’s that. Enough of this sentimentality.”
He left, the door slamming loudly behind him.
Vera approached the window. The rain had intensified, drumming against the glass. How often had she gazed at similar rains, sitting on the porch of the summer house with Anna Sergeyevna, wrapped in a blanket and sipping tea with raspberries. “Children do not always understand what’s important,” her mother-in-law used to say. “Sometimes they see only what they wish to see.”
She took a deep breath. Tomorrow they would meet the notary, and then everything would collapse.
The notary’s office greeted them with a cool atmosphere and the scent of paper. Irina tapped her nails nervously on her purse. Andrey checked his phone every two minutes.
“Please come in,” invited their notary, Pavel Dmitrievich—a gray-haired man with attentive eyes.
They entered the office. Vera sat a little apart from her husband and sister-in-law.
“So, we have gathered here regarding the inheritance of Mikhail Petrovich and Anna Sergeyevna Sokolov,” began the notary, laying out the documents. “I understand that your loss is fresh; please accept my condolences.”
“Thank you, let’s get to the point,” Irina interrupted impatiently.
Pavel Dmitrievich nodded. “I have a will that was prepared by your parents,” he said, pulling out a folder. “It was executed three months ago.”
Andrey straightened up.
“A will? What will? By law, the heirs of the first order are you and your sister.”
“Yes, if there were no will,” confirmed the notary. “But your parents left clear instructions regarding their property.”
He opened the folder and put on his glasses.
“The summer house plot with the house and all the outbuildings in the ‘Berezka’ gardening association, as well as the bank account at Sberbank, pass to… — he paused — to Vera Alexeevna Sokolova.”
Silence fell over the room.
“What nonsense?!” Irina jumped up. “This must be some mistake!”
“No mistake,” the notary replied calmly. “The will was executed and notarized in full compliance with the rules. Here, take a look.”
He handed over the document. Andrey grabbed it, scanned the paper quickly, and his face flushed.
“This is impossible,” he muttered through gritted teeth. “They could not have done this.”
“They could have, and they did,” the notary said firmly. “There is also a letter in the will addressed to all of you. Would you like to read it?”
Without waiting for an answer, he produced another envelope.
“‘Our dear children, Andrey and Irina, — the notary began reading, ‘the decision we have made may seem unfair to you. But in the last years of our lives, only Vera cared for us. Only she found the time and strength to be by our side. We bequeath to her the summer house and a modest savings balance not as a rebuke to you, but as a token of our gratitude. We hope that you will understand. With love, your parents.’”
Irina clutched her purse.
“How much is in the account?” she snapped.
“One million seven hundred thousand rubles,” replied the notary.
Vera’s eyes widened in astonishment. She had not known that her in-laws had managed to save anything.
“They were saving for treatment,” she murmured quietly. “Anna Sergeyevna had said they wanted to go to a sanatorium…”
“And you will go!” Andrey exploded. “You seduced our parents, you took advantage of their trust!”
“ Andrey!” the notary interjected. “Please, calm down.”
“How could she?!” Andrey persisted. “While we were working, she was bewitching my parents!”
“I did not bewitch them. I loved them.”
“You loved their money and property!” Irina glared at her with hatred. “Clearly, all those years of effort were not in vain!”
“Enough!” Vera stood up. “Have you ever once visited them at that summer house when father could barely rise? Not even once visited mother? Even once?”
Irina looked away.
“I have my own family,” she mumbled.
“And they only had me,” Vera finished softly.
The notary cleared his throat.
“If you wish to contest the will, that is your right. But I must warn you: in cases like these, judicial practice…”
“We will contest it!” Andrey interrupted. “It’s unfair. They were our parents!”
“They were your parents,” Vera corrected. “But you only remembered that when you needed something.”
They left the notary’s office in silence. The rain had stopped, but the sky remained low and gray.
“Let’s go home,” Andrey declared. “We need to talk about everything.”
The discussion turned into a shouting match as soon as they crossed the threshold of the apartment.
“You must renounce the inheritance!” Andrey yelled, pacing in the living room.
“It’s our money! Our summer house!” Vera retorted. “When the roof was leaking, you said there was no money for repairs. When the fence collapsed, you dismissed it. When father needed medicine…”
“Shut up!” Andrey bellowed. “You always wanted more of their attention than we did!”
“I wanted them not to feel abandoned!” Vera shouted back. “I was there while you were splitting up their apartment!”
A silence crashed down like thunder. Irina turned pale.
“You know…” she whispered.
“Of course I know,” Vera replied bitterly. “Anna Sergeyevna told me everything—how you persuaded them to reassign the city apartment, how you promised to buy them a house closer to the city, and how quickly you sold it, splitting the money.”
“We wanted what was best,” Andrey mumbled, not looking at his wife.
“You only thought of yourselves,” Vera said sharply. “And now you want to take even the last bit.”
She headed toward the bedroom. Andrey lunged after her.
“Where are you going?”
“Packing,” Vera replied, grabbing her suitcase.
“Vera, what are you doing?” Andrey grabbed her hand. “Are you really willing to tear everything apart over some summer house?”
“Not for the summer house,” she freed herself. “But because today I saw the real you. And that frightens me.”
“You are my wife!” Andrey suddenly changed his tone. “Let’s discuss this calmly. We could sell the summer house and split the money three ways, fairly.”
“Fairly?” Vera shook her head. “No, Andrey. I will not surrender the summer house. I won’t disgrace their memory.”
“Then I’ll file for divorce!” Andrey threatened.
“I don’t care!”
Eight months later, Vera stood on the porch of the summer cottage, inhaling the scent of pines. She had renovated it, hired a crew that reinforced the foundation and replaced the roof. And with the money from the account, Vera bought a small studio in the city.
The trial was brief. The will was upheld, and Andrey’s and Irina’s claims were deemed unfounded. The divorce was processed quickly, and there was practically nothing to divide.
Vera sat on a bench beneath the apple tree that Mikhail Petrovich had once planted. She planned to expand the garden in the spring and plant strawberries, just as Anna Sergeyevna had dreamed.
From the open window of the porch drifted the aroma of freshly brewed tea. Vera often imagined that her mother-in-law was sitting there again, in her favorite armchair, waiting for her daughter-in-law to return from the garden beds.
“I did everything the way you wanted,” Vera whispered, watching the sunset. “Your home will always be here.”
The evening wind gently swayed the branches of the apple tree, as if Mikhail Petrovich and Anna Sergeyevna were nodding in response. Deep in her soul, Vera felt—they knew. They always knew that she would not betray them.
