Marina tore herself away from the laptop screen where she was reviewing the estimates for the new project and saw Sergey standing in the doorway. He looked uncertain—his shoulders slumped, his head slightly lowered. Marina knew that look all too well: it foretold trouble.
After twelve years of marriage, she had learned to read his silence better than the blueprints she studied every day at work.
“Mom wants to celebrate her anniversary at our dacha. We need to organize everything,” Sergey said. He didn’t yet realize that this sentence would mark the beginning of a real crisis.
The words hung in the air like a heavy lump. Marina slowly closed the laptop lid. Inside, a wave of irritation was already rising. The dacha… her dacha. The very one she had inherited from her beloved Aunt Lida and had spent years turning into a little paradise. Every bush, every path, every flower was the result of her labor, effort, time, and money.
“How many people?” she asked, although she already sensed the answer.
“Well… about thirty. Maybe a little more. Mom has almost invited everyone already.”
Thirty people. On a six-hundred-square-meter plot, where every meter was occupied by roses, lilies, and peonies. Where just a week ago she had planted young hostas that hadn’t yet strengthened.
“Have you or Mom ever thought that I might be against this?” Marina’s voice was too calm. Sergey should have understood: that was a bad sign.
“Marin, come on. It’s Mom. The anniversary—seventy years! It’s important.”
She stood and walked to the window. Outside the glass were city lights, life beyond their apartment. And here, inside these four walls, was her mother-in-law again, with her demands, again those seemingly “natural” things accepted without discussion.
“Remember what happened last time?” she asked, turning to her husband. “At your birthday?”
Sergey grimaced. How could anyone forget that nightmare? Guests swarmed the property like locusts, trampling the lawn, breaking a young apple tree, burning a flower bed with a bonfire, while children played football among the garden beds, turning them into a muddy mess.
“But this time it will be different,” he tried to object. “Mom promises to do everything civilized. We’ll put up a tent; nothing will be touched.”
“A tent?” Marina laughed, but it was a bitter laugh. “And where do you imagine putting it? Right in the rose garden? Or on my alpine rock garden that I built for two months?”
“Well… we’ll find a place,” he muttered.
“There’s no place! I planned every centimeter with flowers. Who will cook for thirty people? Who will clean up afterward? Who will fix what they inevitably ruin?”
She saw Sergey tense up. He was shifting his weight from foot to foot, as if trying to find solid ground. But he couldn’t.
For him, the dacha was a burden. For her, it was life. She had created that garden with her own hands, spending hours in the soil while he rested at home. He never understood. Never felt it.
“Mom says preparations should start a couple of days before the party,” he added cautiously. “She’s already made the menu.”
“And work?” Marina’s voice rose. “I have deadlines, the project is due next week! I can’t take time off for a celebration nobody asked me about!”
“Well, maybe you can negotiate with your boss…”
“Negotiate?” She looked at him incredulously. “Sergey, are you even listening to yourself? I’m an architect; we have strict schedules. I can’t just disappear to serve your relatives!”
Memories flashed through her mind: years of work, money, weekends without rest, seedlings she protected like the apple of her eye, rare rose varieties she traveled to another city to get. Her garden. Her refuge.
“Why can’t we rent a restaurant?” she asked. “If Mom needs space for thirty people, let her celebrate there.”
“Marin, you understand… It’s a family celebration. A homey atmosphere. The dacha. Mom has dreamed about this for a long time.”
“And who dreamed about me?” Her voice trembled. “About the fact that this is my dacha, my work, my life?”
She stepped closer. Sergey involuntarily took a step back.
“Tell me honestly: has Mom ever asked for my opinion? Ever thought I might be uncomfortable?”
“She thought you’d be happy. It’s family.”
“Family is when you are asked. When you’re taken into account. When your ‘no’ matters.”
Sergey looked at his phone as if searching for support in it.
“Mom has already sent out invitations. Relatives from other cities are coming. Tickets are bought.”
“And that’s my problem?” she asked coldly.
A heavy silence fell. Her heart pounded in her temples. Marina felt everything inside her twist at the thought that her personal space was about to become a battleground again.
“And Mom also said it would be great to give her a new laptop. The old one barely works anymore.”
Marina froze. There it was. The thing that crossed every boundary.
“How much does this laptop cost?” her voice was icy.
“Well… about eighty to a hundred thousand. But Mom has done so much for us…”
“For us?” she repeated. “Or for you? Because I don’t recall your Mom ever doing anything for me. Only criticizing my haircut, my career, and the lack of children in the early years of our marriage.”
“Marina, you understand… She raised me. Took care of me. She deserves gratitude.”
“She deserves it—from you. You’re her son. You should be grateful. Why should I pay the son’s debt instead of you?”
She walked back to the window. The city continued living its life. People hurried somewhere, attending their own affairs. And at home, yet another conflict unfolded in which her voice was once again just background noise.
“Tell me,” she said without turning around, “do you even realize how absurd all this is? That your mother plans a celebration on my dacha without asking me? That I will have to cook, clean, buy gifts. And all of it is taken for granted.”
“But she’s family…”
“And what am I?” Marina spun around sharply. “A servant? Staff?”
Her words hung in the air. Sergey was silent. But even in that silence, she felt he was unwilling to back down.
“We?” she repeated. “And what will you do? Besides handing me your mother’s to-do list?”
“I’ll buy groceries,” he answered uncertainly.
“With my money, as usual?”
Sergey’s face flushed. They both knew the truth: her salary covered most expenses. His pay was smaller, and his responsibilities minimal.
“Then why not rent a restaurant?” Marina asked again. “If the anniversary is so important, if there are so many guests, let them celebrate in a proper place.”
“She wants it at the dacha,” Sergey said. “She says there’s a special atmosphere.”
“Uh-huh,” Marina replied coldly. “Special. Especially if you imagine your relatives trampling my roses with their heels.”
Sergey stayed silent. He understood she was right but couldn’t admit it aloud. His mother’s influence was too strong.
“What if I just refuse?” she asked. “If I say ‘no’?”
“You can’t do that. Mom already invited everyone. People are coming from other cities. It’ll be a scandal.”
“And who caused it? Me? Or your mother, who handed out invitations without thinking that the owner of the plot might be against it?”
Marina sank onto the sofa. Her legs trembled with fatigue, nervous tension, and the constant feeling that her voice didn’t matter.
“Do you know what hurts me most?” she said quietly. “Not the fact of the celebration. Not the number of guests. But that no one considers me. That to you I’m not a person, just background. Function: organize, cook, clean, pay.”
“You’re exaggerating,” he tried to object.
“Exaggerating?” She looked him in the eyes. “Sergey, your mother has never once thanked me for what I do. For fixing up the dacha, for gifts, for cooking at family celebrations. Never! Only criticism, demands, and constant dissatisfaction.”
“She’s just like that…”
“And I have to endure it? Because she’s ‘like that’?”
She stood and walked to the closet. Tomorrow was an important day: the project presentation she had worked on for six months. A big shopping center. Her project. Her success.
“I’m not doing it,” she said firmly. “Neither the dacha, nor the banquet, nor the hundred-thousand-ruble laptop. Enough.”
“But Mom has already decided everything…”
“Let her find another place. A restaurant, a café, a floating palace on the river—I don’t care. Just not my dacha.”
“She’ll be offended…”
“That’s not my problem. That’s your mother. Your problem.”
Sergey grabbed his phone and dialed a number. Marina immediately understood what he was going to do.
“Are you going to talk about it here?”
“I need to warn her…”
“Then go. I don’t want to hear this conversation.”
He went out onto the balcony, closing the door behind him. But even through the glass, she could hear him trying to calm his mother. Marina knew this script. Soon there would be hysteria, then tears, then accusations that she ruined the party, spoiled the anniversary, and disrespected the elders.
A minute later Sergey returned. His face was pale, his voice trembling.
“Mom says… if we can’t provide the dacha, then we have to pay for the restaurant. We are obligated because we let her down.”
Marina froze. Something inside snapped.
“Repeat,” she said quietly.
“She says if we refuse the dacha, we have to pay for the banquet. Because people are already invited, tickets bought…”
“Get out.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Get out of my apartment. Now.”
“Marin, are you crazy? This is our home…”
“Former. This is my home. Bought with my money. And I don’t want to see you here.”
“But…”
“Take your things and go. To your mom. Let her explain why the wife should pay for someone else’s whims.”
Sergey stood frozen. He clearly didn’t expect such a turn.
“Let’s talk calmly…” he began.
“Where was this calm talk when your family made decisions for me?” she interrupted. “No, Sergey. I won’t tolerate this anymore. I won’t play by your rules.”
She went to the closet, took his jacket, and threw it at him.
“Put it on. Leave. Before I change my mind.”
“Are you serious?”
“More than ever.”
She opened the door. Sergey slowly put on his jacket, still hoping this was a joke.
“Is this all because of flowers?” he asked bitterly.
“No,” Marina answered. “It’s because you don’t respect me. Neither you nor your mother. You think you can control my life, my time, my money—without my consent.”
“I thought you loved me.”
“I thought you loved me too. Looks like we were both wrong.”
The door closed behind him with a quiet click. Marina leaned against it with her back and slowly sat down on the floor. The apartment fell into silence. Deafening. Without shouting, demands, or outside expectations.
She sat quietly for a few minutes, then took out her phone and opened the album with photos of the dacha. Blooming roses, neat flower beds, the alpine rock garden she had built for a month. Her garden. Her world. Her small victory.
Tomorrow she would go there. Prune the bushes, check the irrigation system, maybe plant new tulips. Alone. Without the husband who thought the garden was “just flowers.” Without the mother-in-law who saw her as free help.
The phone vibrated. A message from Sergey:
“Marin, let’s talk tomorrow. When we cool down.”
She read it and deleted it. Some conversations are no longer needed. Some relationships have run their course.
Outside, darkness was falling. The air was growing colder. Somewhere far away, outside the city, in the quiet of an autumn night, her garden slowly fell asleep under the first frosts.
And here, in the empty apartment, Marina for the first time in a long time felt—freedom. Not joy, not elation. But that heavy, painful freedom that comes after a breakup.
What would happen next—she did not know. But one thing was clear:
No one would decide for her anymore.
Never.
