This year, summer came suddenly. Lyudmila was driving to the dacha in the mood to start the new season, looking forward to digging in the garden beds, planting her favorite flowers, and making fresh vegetable salads for her husband, Andrey.
Barely opening the gate, she heard the familiar voice of the neighbor:
“Lyuda! Lyuda! You’re here!” — Galina Petrovna leaned over the fence, holding her voluminous hairstyle with one hand. “I’m so glad to see you! Come in for tea, I’ll tell you all the news.”
Lyudmila smiled. Galina always knew everything about everyone, but her gossip never carried malice.
“Galya, let me at least bring in my things and air out the house. I’ll come by in an hour.”
Galina Petrovna shook her head:
“Lyuda, I’m serious. There’s an important matter to discuss.”
Something in her voice made Lyudmila wary.
Half an hour later, they were already sitting on Galina’s veranda. The tea was cooling in their cups, and Lyudmila couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
“Galya, are you sure? Raisa Ivanovna couldn’t have done such a thing.”
“Lyuda, I’m telling you as a friend. My niece works in the administration. Raisa came there in March. She re-registered all the documents in her name. She is now the sole owner.”
“But we had an agreement!” — Lyudmila clutched her cup. “She promised to register half for Andrey and me.”
“That’s what she promised you,” — Galina poured more tea. “And you trusted her… How many years have you been family? Thirty-five?”
“Thirty-two.”
“And all that time you’ve been coming to the dacha, planting, building, investing…”
“Andrey and I gave money for the new roof,” — Lyudmila stared blankly. “And helped replace the fence. And that new greenhouse…”
Galina leaned closer:
“I told you, Raisa Ivanovna was always cunning. Even when Andryusha married, she cried that she’d be left alone and hoped you’d move in with her.”
“That’s true,” — Lyudmila nodded. “We lived with her the first five years. I endured everything, cooked, cleaned…”
“Exactly! And now you’re not listed as owners of the dacha! I saw her here yesterday, hanging birdhouses with some man. He was even measuring the plot.”
Lyudmila felt a lump of resentment growing in her chest.
“But why? We are family…”
“Check it yourself,” — Galina advised. “Where do the bills come? In whose name?”
Lyudmila thought. Indeed, for the past year, the electricity bills came only in her mother-in-law’s name. Raisa Ivanovna had explained it by some bureaucratic complications.
Returning to her dacha house, Lyudmila started cleaning, but her thoughts wouldn’t let her rest. Once, she and Andrey had put so much effort, so much soul into this place! Every garden bed, every tree was planted by their own hands. And now it turned out none of it belonged to them?
Suddenly the phone rang. The screen showed “Raisa Ivanovna.”
“Lyudochka, have you arrived?” — her mother-in-law’s voice sounded unusually cheerful. “How nice! I’ll be there tomorrow too. Don’t forget to prepare the beds for carrots and clean the greenhouse.”
Lyudmila swallowed hard.
“Raisa Ivanovna, is it true that you re-registered the documents for the dacha?”
A long pause on the line.
“And who told you such nonsense?” — her mother-in-law finally responded, but her voice noticeably cooled.
“It doesn’t matter. Is it true?”
“Lyudmila,” — there were steel notes in her mother-in-law’s voice — “I don’t advise you to listen to idle gossip. The dacha was our family’s and still is.”
“Our family’s? Or yours personally?”
“What difference does it make?” — Raisa Ivanovna suddenly asked. “Don’t you trust me? After all these years? When I’m gone, it will still go to Andryusha.”
“And me?” — Lyudmila asked quietly.
“What do you mean ‘and me’?” — her mother-in-law’s voice rose. “Are you expecting me to leave?”
“No, of course not,” — Lyudmila felt her cheeks burn. “It’s just that you promised to register half to Andrey and me three years ago.”
“You know what,” — Raisa Ivanovna cut her off — “if you don’t like it, you don’t have to come to the dacha anymore. I can manage on my own. Besides, I’m old now, I need peace, not these interrogations.”
The connection was cut off. Lyudmila sank into a chair. Her hands trembled. Thirty-two years of marriage, so many shared holidays, trips, cares… And such betrayal?
In the evening, Andrey came. Lyudmila told him about the conversations with Galina and his mother.
“Lyuda, what? — he frowned. “Mom couldn’t have done that. It must be some misunderstanding.”
“Call her and ask directly.”
Andrey talked to his mother for a long time, frowning more and more. After finishing the conversation, he looked at his wife bewildered:
“She says it’s a temporary measure. For some kind of tax optimization.”
“Andrey, she’s lying!” — Lyudmila threw up her hands. “I forgave all her antics for so many years, but this is too much!”
“Lyuda, don’t get upset,” — Andrey put his hands on her shoulders. “Let’s talk to her together tomorrow. I’m sure it will be resolved.”
The next morning, Raisa Ivanovna arrived early. Seeing her daughter-in-law, she pressed her lips together.
“Have you washed the greenhouse yet?”
“No,” — Lyudmila tried to speak calmly. “Let’s talk about the documents first.”
“What documents?” — Raisa Ivanovna threw up her hands. “I kept this plot in order for so many years, grew the garden, and now what, should I be reporting?”
“Mom,” — Andrey intervened, coming out of the house — “we just want to clarify the situation. You promised to register half the dacha to us.”
Raisa Ivanovna pursed her lips and turned away, deliberately inspecting the currant bushes.
“Lyuda doesn’t respect me at all. Did you hear how she talks to me? And now she’s turning you against me.”
Lyudmila felt anger boiling inside but held back.
“Raisa Ivanovna, this is not about respect. It’s about justice and keeping promises.”
“You know what,” — her mother-in-law sharply turned — “as long as I’m alive, I’m the mistress here. If you want to come, you must respect my rules. Don’t like it — find another dacha.”
She turned and went to the summer kitchen, slamming the door loudly. Andrey helplessly shrugged.
“Lyuda, you know Mom. She will grumble and calm down.”
“No, Andrey. This time it’s different.”
All day Raisa Ivanovna walked around with a stone face, giving orders: “Lyudmila, water the cucumbers. Lyudmila, prepare lunch. Lyudmila, go to the store for bread.” Lyudmila mechanically obeyed but something inside her broke.
In the evening, when her mother-in-law left for the city, Lyudmila resolutely climbed onto the shelves of an old wardrobe.
She clearly remembered that copies of the old documents for the dacha were stored somewhere here.
After an hour of searching, she found a yellowed folder. Inside lay a twenty-year-old contract stating that the plot belonged to Raisa Ivanovna and her late husband. Also, there was a power of attorney issued in Lyudmila’s name five years ago, giving her the right to represent the owners’ interests.
“So, there was a power of attorney,” — Lyudmila murmured. “And now there isn’t.”
The next day she went to the administration. Galina’s niece, Svetlana, met her sympathetically.
“Yes, Lyudmila Sergeevna,” — she confirmed after checking the documents on the computer. — “In March this year, Raisa Ivanovna did annul your power of attorney and submitted new documents. Now the plot is registered only in her name.”
“Can I see what documents she submitted?”
“Of course, you have the right to get a copy of the application.”
When Lyudmila saw the papers, her breath caught. In the application, her mother-in-law stated that her daughter-in-law had no rights to the plot.
For three days, Lyudmila wandered like in a fog. Andrey shuttled between his mother and wife. The conflict couldn’t be smoothed out. Raisa Ivanovna categorically denied everything, calling Lyudmila “ungrateful” and “greedy.”
On Friday evening, when everyone gathered again at the dacha, Lyudmila entered the house with a determined look.
“Raisa Ivanovna, I know everything. I was at the administration.”
Her mother-in-law paled but quickly composed herself.
“So what? This is my plot; I have the right to dispose of it as I want.”
“Of course you do,” — Lyudmila said unexpectedly calmly. “And I have the right not to work on someone else’s land.”
Raisa Ivanovna and Andrey froze, looking at Lyudmila in bewilderment.
“What do you mean ‘not work’?” — her mother-in-law was the first to recover.
“It means I will no longer plant, water, cook, or clean here,” — Lyudmila spoke quietly but firmly. — “Your plot — your problems.”
“Lyuda, what are you saying?” — Andrey was confused. — “What about our garden beds? The greenhouse? The apple trees we planted together?”
“These are no longer our garden beds, Andrey. According to the documents, everything here belongs to your mother,” — Lyudmila turned to her mother-in-law. — “You wanted to be the sole mistress — fine. Manage on your own.”
“How dare you!” — Raisa Ivanovna gasped in outrage. — “After everything I did for you!”
“And what exactly did you do for us?” — Lyudmila asked. — “Maybe you’ll tell Andrey how you wrote in the application that I didn’t participate in the improvement of the plot? After I worked my fingers to the bone here for thirty years?”
Andrey glanced distrustfully at his mother:
“Mom, did you really write that?”
Raisa Ivanovna waved her hands:
“These are just formalities! We had to put something down for the documents!”
“Formalities?” — Lyudmila smiled bitterly. — “Fine. Then I formally declare a strike. I come here to rest, not to slave away on someone else’s plot.”
With these words, she went to the bedroom, took a book, and demonstratively settled into the armchair. Andrey and Raisa Ivanovna exchanged glances.
“She can’t be serious?” — her mother-in-law tried to smile.
“Looks like she is,” — Andrey sighed.
The following week became a real test for Raisa Ivanovna. She was used to her daughter-in-law taking on most of the dacha chores. Now she had to carry the watering can herself, weed the beds, cook lunch. At 78 years old, it was not easy.
“Lyudmila!” — she couldn’t stand it on the third day. — “The tomatoes in the greenhouse are drying out!”
“I can’t help,” — Lyudmila replied without looking up from her knitting. — “Those are your tomatoes.”
“And will we eat them together?”
“No thanks. I’d rather buy some at the store.”
By the end of the week, Raisa Ivanovna’s face had become haggard from fatigue and resentment. She tried several times to involve her son, but Andrey, to her surprise, took a neutral position.
“Mom, I can’t force Lyuda to work. You are adults; sort it out yourselves.”
On Sunday, Galina Petrovna came with pies. Seeing the gloomy Raisa Ivanovna weeding strawberries by herself, she nodded meaningfully at Lyudmila:
“I see justice is prevailing?”
“Galya, don’t interfere,” — Lyudmila wearily waved her off. — “These are our family matters.”
“I understand,” — Galina winked. — “It’s just nice to see life putting everything in its place.”
A month passed. Lyudmila came to the dacha every weekend but only to relax: reading books, watching series on her tablet, going to the forest for mushrooms. And Raisa Ivanovna grew gloomier each day. The cucumbers didn’t bear fruit, the tomatoes got sick, the apple trees needed pruning.
One evening, her mother-in-law, groaning, sat down next to Lyudmila on a bench.
“You know, I keep thinking about justice,” — she began unexpectedly. — “All my life I felt cheated. My husband died early, I had to raise Andryusha alone. Then you married and moved into your own apartment. I always felt like I was losing something important.”
Lyudmila listened silently.
“I thought if the dacha was only mine, I’d be… calmer, maybe,” — Raisa Ivanovna continued. — “But it turned out the opposite. I ruined everything, didn’t I?”
Her voice trembled, and for the first time in many years, Lyudmila saw not a domineering mistress but just a tired elderly woman.
“Raisa Ivanovna,” — Lyudmila said softly — “it’s not about the dacha. It’s about trust. You didn’t even talk to us.”
“I was afraid,” — her mother-in-law admitted. — “I thought you’d consider me old and useless.”
The next day, Raisa Ivanovna pulled a folder with documents out of her bag.
“Here,” — she put the papers in front of Andrey and Lyudmila. — “I prepared everything. One-third of the plot for you, Andrey, one-third for Lyuda, one-third for me. That will be fair.”
Lyudmila felt a lump rise in her throat. Not from joy over the documents, but from the simple human recognition she had waited for all these years.
“Thank you,” — she squeezed her mother-in-law’s hand. — “I appreciate it.”
A week later, the three of them went to the MFC and registered all the documents. Returning to the dacha, Lyudmila silently put on work gloves and went to the greenhouse. The tomatoes needed pinching, cucumbers needed tying up, and the strawberries needed feeding.
In the evening, when the three of them sat at the table tasting the first strawberry harvest, Raisa Ivanovna suddenly smiled:
“You know, Lyuda, I always underestimated you. I thought you were soft and yielding. But you’re actually a fighter.”
“Not a fighter,” — Lyudmila shook her head. — “Sometimes even the closest people need a reminder about justice.”
Later, when Raisa Ivanovna went to bed, Andrey hugged his wife’s shoulders.
“Sorry I didn’t support you right away. I thought it was just women’s quarrels.”
“You know,” — Lyudmila looked thoughtfully at the starry sky — “I’m grateful for this story. For the first time in thirty years, I felt I could stand up for myself. And you know what? It’s a wonderful feeling.”
Somewhere in the distance, nightingales sang, on the neighboring plot Galina Petrovna quietly turned on the radio, and the air was filled with the smell of freshly cut grass and ripe strawberries. Lyudmila took a deep breath and smiled. This was her land, her home, her life. And now she knew for sure that she had the right to be happy here.
