That day was supposed to be completely different. Sergey and I had planned to spend a quiet weekend at the dacha—grill some shashlik, putter around in the garden beds, and just laze in the hammock. But those plans crumbled to dust in an instant, the moment I walked into the house.
As always, the first thing I did was head to the kitchen to put the kettle on. And that’s when my fingers brushed against it—against the kettle. Cold, wet with condensation on the outside. I hadn’t used it the day before; we’d only just arrived. A strange, unpleasant feeling stirred low in my stomach. I opened the cupboard where I kept my tea collection. The packet of expensive oolong from our last trip lay there crumpled and half-empty.
“Sergey,” I called my husband, trying to keep my voice from shaking. “Did you make tea the last time we were here?”
He walked into the kitchen, looking around with the usual awkwardness of someone who rarely sets foot there.
“What tea? No, of course not. We left right after lunch on Sunday. Why?”
“Because someone boiled our kettle, and someone drank my oolong,” I said, holding up the packet.
Sergey sighed and rubbed his face. I knew that gesture by heart—it was the gesture of a tired peacemaker.
“Marina, maybe my mom dropped by? To air the place out, water the plants. Maybe she made herself some tea. It’s nothing.”
“Nothing?” I couldn’t hold back anymore. “Sergey, this isn’t the first time! Remember that new pack of coffee we never even got to open? It was half-empty. And my new garden bench? Where did those scratches come from, like someone raked it with nails?”
I walked out of the kitchen into the living room, and he followed. The air in the house was stale, smelling of dust and someone else’s perfume. Not mine.
“Mom says it could’ve been the neighbor’s cat,” Sergey mumbled uncertainly.
“What cat?!” I almost squealed with indignation. “A cat that opens packs of coffee and brews itself oolong? That’s a genius cat!”
I walked over to the washing machine we’d bought only a couple of months ago. It stood there like a silent reproach.
“And this, was that the cat too, in your opinion? We bought it, set it up, used it carefully. And three weeks later it broke down. Still under warranty. The repairman comes and says: ‘You’ve got a clog in the pump. Hair, some kind of fur.’ We have a short-haired hamster, Sergey! Where is all that fur from?”
He kept silent, staring at the floor. I could see he was uncomfortable, that he didn’t want to get into this. His mother, Lyudmila Petrovna, lived in the neighboring house, literally five minutes’ walk away. And for Sergey she was sacred. Widowed early, raised two sons alone, and he, the elder, had carried a lifelong guilt before her.
“Marina, calm down,” he finally said. “Mom’s not a thief. She’s just… a little tactless. She’s lonely, she comes over to feel useful. Maybe really to water the plants, tidy up a bit… Have some tea.”
“A little?!” I felt myself boiling over. “Sergey, this is my house! Our house! I’m supposed to feel like the mistress here, not a night watchman in a warehouse that’s constantly being pilfered! I can’t relax, I keep checking whether things are in their place, whether I’ve locked all the locks. What locks?! I’m sure your mother has spare keys!”
He stepped closer, trying to hug me, but I pulled away. His conciliatory position infuriated me even more.
“Fine, I’ll talk to her,” he promised, looking at me with pleading eyes. “Carefully, tactfully. I’ll ask her to knock before coming in.”
“She doesn’t ‘come in’, Sergey, she lives here when we’re gone!” I exhaled. “And it’s not just about the tea. It’s that the place smells like someone else. I don’t feel at home here.”
That evening we never did grill the shashlik. We just sat at the table in oppressive silence. I felt like a stranger in my own home, in a fortress whose walls had treacherously melted away. And Sergey didn’t see a loving wife in front of him, but a shrew attacking his poor, lonely mother.
Later, back in the city, I was complaining about all this to my friend Olga over the phone.
“Yeah, your mother-in-law is a real gift,” she sympathized. “You know what lots of people do now? Put in hidden cameras. Not to ‘spy’, but to keep an eye on things. Like those smart door intercoms. You install one, and everything becomes clear right away: who, when and why.”
I laughed, but the laugh came out nervous.
“A camera? Oh no, that’s too much. Like I’m in some spy movie.”
“Just think about it,” Olga insisted. “Otherwise you’ll keep snapping at Sergey, and he’ll keep thinking you’re paranoid. You need proof. Ironclad.”
I hung up, and her words lodged in my head like a splinter. “Proof. Ironclad.” All the next week I moved around like in a daze, constantly coming back to that thought. It seemed so radical, so… distrusting. But every time I remembered the wet kettle and the crumpled tea packet, I felt my certainty growing.
And then one evening, sitting in front of my laptop, I found myself scrolling through an online store catalog without any hesitation. My finger froze over one image. A small, minimalistic device disguised as a smoke detector. “Perfect,” I thought. “No one will ever notice.”
I added it to my cart and clicked “Place order.”
The package arrived faster than I expected. A small cardboard box, so harmless-looking. I hid it at the bottom of my bag like stolen goods, and on Friday, when Sergey and I were packing for the dacha, my heart was pounding wildly.
I spent the entire car ride in silence, staring out the window at the passing trees. My husband turned on the radio, and soft music filled the car, but it couldn’t drown out the voice of my conscience whispering, “You’re crossing a line. This is sneaky.”
But then I remembered that wet kettle, the ruined bench, and Sergey’s helpless face. No. I had to do this. For peace of mind. For proof.
Installing it took only a few minutes on Sunday, right before we left. Sergey was loading things into the trunk.
“I’ll be right there,” I called to him, going up the stairs to the bedroom. “Just checking we didn’t forget anything.”
I took the small plastic cylinder—so much like a real smoke detector—out of my purse. My fingers trembled as I fixed it to the ceiling, carefully snapping on the base. It blended with the white surface, looked completely natural. I plugged it into the power, downloaded the special app to my phone, and checked the connection. A clear image of the empty room popped up on the screen. Everything worked.
Just then Sergey’s voice drifted up from downstairs:
“Marina, how’s it going up there? Looks like we loaded everything!”
“Coming!” I answered, my voice cracking, and after taking a deep breath, I walked out of the room.
I didn’t tell my husband a word. My thoughts were a tangle. What if I was breaking some law? What if it got discovered? But no, I was protecting my property, my home. I had that right.
On the way back to the city, Sergey seemed to be in a good mood.
“Well, that was a nice weekend. No fights. Mom, by the way, walked past today, waved, didn’t even come in. See? And you were worried.”
I just nodded, clenching my phone in my jacket pocket. “Worried”… If only he knew.
The first two days at work I couldn’t concentrate. My phone lay on the desk in front of me like a rattlesnake ready to strike at any moment. I kept picking it up and opening the app. The screen showed an empty sunlit living room. Peace and quiet. I even felt a bit ashamed. Maybe I really had imagined it all? Maybe my mother-in-law did just drop in for a minute, and the rest was the product of my fevered imagination?
On the third day, Tuesday, around three in the afternoon, I was in a meeting. My phone suddenly vibrated briefly but insistently in my bag. My fingers went cold. It was a notification from the app. “Motion detected.”
I excused myself and stepped out into the empty staff kitchen. My hands were shaking so much I could barely unlock the screen. I tapped on the notification.
The image loaded. My heart dropped.
In my living room stood Lyudmila Petrovna. She was talking to someone, her back partly turned towards the camera. She held a key in her hand. My key. Then she stepped aside, and two more people entered the frame.
I almost dropped the phone.
Behind her came her younger son, Dima, my brother-in-law. He was carrying several full grocery bags. Next to him trotted his wife Irina with a shoulder bag and that same smug expression I always saw on her face.
I stood there, leaning against the fridge, unable to tear my eyes away from the screen. So that’s who the “thieves” were. Our own relatives.
Lyudmila took off her jacket and hung it over the back of my armchair, the one I’d brought back from a trip to the Baltics.
“Well, home at last,” her voice came through clearly on the microphone. “Unpack the groceries, Dimulek. I’ll put the kettle on.”
She headed for the kitchen, and in a moment I heard that familiar sound—the hiss and bubbling of water in my kettle.
I watched, my mouth gone dry. So that’s what “airing out the house” meant.
I stood in the silence of the office kitchen, glued to my phone screen. The picture was sharp, the sound crystal clear, as if I were in the next room. This wasn’t a passing visit. This was a full-blown picnic over my bones.
Dima plunked the bags down on my coffee table, noisily pulling out bottles of drinks, a packet of cookies, cheese.
“Ira, fix some snacks,” he threw over his shoulder to his wife, sprawling on the couch and slinging his leg over the armrest. “Mom, where d’you keep that whiskey Sergey was raving about? Bet he’s got something fancy stashed away.”
Lyudmila bustled over to the sideboard where we kept alcohol for special occasions, looking every inch the rightful hostess.
“Here, son, I know where. He keeps it on the bottom shelf so it’s not on display. Take it, don’t be shy. We’ll tell your brother we had guests over. He’s not stingy.”
A chill ran through me. They were talking about my husband, my generous, trusting Sergey with such matey disdain that the blood rushed to my head. Dima casually pulled out the expensive whiskey and, not immediately finding any glasses, poured the golden liquid into my favorite large coffee mugs.
Meanwhile Irina was looking around the room with interest. Her gaze slid over the shelves, the framed photos, and stopped at the bedroom door.
“Lyudmila Petrovna, can I have a look at what kind of bedding they’ve got?” she asked. “Last time I noticed Marina bought some new silky set. I want to see it up close.”
“Go on, go on, dear,” my mother-in-law said graciously. “Our dear daughter-in-law likes to pamper herself. Wouldn’t hurt you either.”
Irina disappeared into the bedroom. I switched the view to the bedroom camera as well. My heart started pounding again. She walked over to our bed, ran her hand over the silk duvet cover, then her eyes moved to my wardrobe. Without a second’s hesitation, she flung it open.
Heat flushed through me. She started rummaging through my dresses, tops, blouses, taking some off the hangers and holding them up to herself in front of the mirror. Then she picked one—a dressy sand-colored dress I’d worn only once, to Sergey’s birthday party. Irina took off her own sweater and jeans and slipped into my dress. It was a bit tight on her, but she spun in front of the mirror, striking sultry poses.
“Dima, come here!” she called. “Take a picture of me. Let people see how to really relax out of town.”
Dima lazily got up with his mug of whiskey, pulled out his phone and started snapping her. They laughed like kids pulling a prank while their parents were away.
“Look good?” she cooed.
“Very. Suits you. Maybe you should keep it? Marina probably won’t even remember it,” Dima snorted.
I watched, barely able to breathe. This wasn’t just crossing boundaries. This was mockery. They felt like masters here, entitled to everything.
Back in the living room, Irina continued her little fashion show for my mother-in-law. The latter nodded approvingly.
“Oh, what a beauty you are! A real model. And on Marina…” she paused briefly, “…it didn’t sit as well. That cut doesn’t suit her.”
I couldn’t take it anymore and muted the sound, sinking onto a chair. I felt physically ill. From their audacity, from the sheer sense of being completely powerless. I was sitting there in my office, miles away from the dacha, and they were playing house in my home, trying on my life like it was a borrowed dress.
Then I turned the sound back on. They were already sitting at the table, eating the food they’d brought and washing it down with our whiskey. The conversation flowed smoothly—and disgustingly.
“Well, how do you like it here, son?” Lyudmila asked, sweeping the room with a proprietary gaze.
“It’s fine,” Dima mumbled with his mouth full. “Sergey’s got taste. His wife helps, of course, but the base is ours, family property. We’ve been here all our lives, you and me. And she just showed up and made herself the mistress of the place.”
Lyudmila sighed, pouring herself more whiskey.
“What can you do, Dimulek. A stranger came into our family. Into our ancestral nest. And she thinks she’s in charge here. What does she understand about our history? Our traditions? Nothing. She just latched on.”
The word “stranger” sounded so open and venomous it was like a slap in the face. All my attempts to build a relationship, all my compromises, all the festive meals I’d cooked for them—everything shattered against the stone wall of their certainty in their own superiority.
Suddenly Irina, pushing her plate aside, went back to the wardrobe. But this time her eyes fell not on the clothes, but on a large cardboard box on the top shelf. I froze. That box held old family photographs, letters and several albums that had belonged to my late mother—my most precious possessions, priceless to me.
Irina took the box down, plunked it on the floor and started rifling through it without much interest. She flipped through albums, tossing photos back in. Then she came across one where I was about seven, sitting on my mother’s lap. Irina stared at it for a couple of seconds, shrugged, and, holding the picture by the corner, flicked it back into the box like some useless scrap of paper.
Something broke inside me at that moment. The tears I’d been holding back poured out in a flood. It wasn’t about things anymore. It was about my memories, my love, my mother, whom she’d never even known. This was a deliberate, cynical desecration.
I wiped my tears and turned the sound back on. I needed to hear all of it. Every word. Every chuckle. I watched those strangers in my home and for the first time in a long while felt not confusion and anger, but a cold, steely resolve. By their own hands and their own words, they were putting weapons into mine. And I fully intended to use them.
They stayed in the house for about another hour. I kept watching the screen, a mute, helpless witness to my own humiliation. They finished eating, drinking, Dima sprawled on the couch and turned our TV up to full volume, and Irina still hadn’t taken off my dress.
When they finally decided to leave, Lyudmila cast a satisfied look around the room.
“Well, that was a nice little get-together. We’ll come by tomorrow to take out the trash,” she said, as if bestowing a favor.
They left, abandoning dirty plates on the table, an empty whiskey bottle, and that invisible but acrid smell of someone else’s presence. The door slammed shut behind them.
I sat alone in the office kitchen, and only ragged sobs broke the silence. My hands were still trembling. I turned the sound back on, but the house was now hollow and quiet. The camera showed an empty living room littered with the traces of their feast.
So that’s what “airing the house out” meant. That’s why my tea was always gone. That’s where the bench scratches and the broken washer had come from.
My thoughts whirled, one replacing another. Fury. Pity for myself. A dull, gnawing sense of betrayal. But stronger than all of it was confusion. What now? Call Sergey? Scream into the phone: “I told you so! I saw everything!”?
I imagined his face. First disbelief. Then an attempt to justify them. “Mom must’ve just stopped by to tidy up, and Dima and Irina dropped in by chance… Don’t exaggerate, Marina.”
No. Words wouldn’t be enough. He wouldn’t understand. He wouldn’t feel that icy shiver that ran down my spine when Irina tossed my mother’s photograph aside. He hadn’t seen how gleefully they drank his whiskey while talking about his wife.
I didn’t need words. I needed a movie. That recording now stored in my phone’s memory.
I took a deep breath, wiped my tears and opened the app again. Now my movements were precise and deliberate. I found the archive function and began reviewing the recordings from the previous weeks. And I found them. Not as long, but still: short visits. Here’s Lyudmila alone, brewing tea and curiously inspecting the contents of my kitchen cabinets. Here she is bringing Dima in, and they’re chatting animatedly, though the microphone is too far to catch the words. And here’s Irina, popping in “for a minute” to drop off some box.
I started saving the most telling moments from that day to my phone. A separate clip of Irina trying on my dress. Another of them drinking the whiskey. Another of my mother-in-law’s monologue about the “stranger” in the family. And a separate, shortest but most painful one—my mother’s photo being flung back into the box.
Each saved clip was like a knife driven into my memory, but I forced myself to continue. I was gathering my weapons. Cold, ironclad, undeniable.
Later, at home, I tried to act normal, but everything boiled inside me. Sergey was talking about work, and I just nodded, hearing his voice as a distant hum. All I saw were their smug faces.
“You’re not yourself,” he noticed over dinner. “Tired?”
“Yes,” I answered honestly. “Very tired.”
He reached across the table and stroked my hand.
“It’s okay, you’ll get some sleep. Next weekend we’ll go back to the dacha, get some fresh air.”
I looked at his kind, unsuspecting face and felt a strange wave of pity. His world, his belief in a “friendly family” was on the brink of collapse. And I was the one who had to bring it down.
Lying in bed, I couldn’t sleep. I ran through all the scenarios in my head. Make a scene. Show the recordings right away. Dump everything into the family chat. But every option felt too emotional, too impulsive. They’d circle the wagons, declare me crazy, accuse me of faking everything. My mother-in-law would burst into tears, Dima would start threatening me, and Sergey would once again be stuck in the middle.
No. What they needed wasn’t a tantrum. They needed a verdict. And for that, one emotional talk wasn’t enough. I needed a full dossier. Multiple recordings. An airtight evidence system of their systematic, brazen, cynical behavior.
I quietly turned on my side and stared into the darkness. The anger was giving way to cold, calculated determination. They thought they were playing in their own sandbox. They didn’t know I’d already started digging a pit for them. And their next party in my house would be their last.
The following weekend came with a sense of heavy, oppressive anticipation. We were driving to the dacha, the silence in the car thick and ringing. I stared out the window, mentally rehearsing my moves. Sergey, sensing my tension, tried several times to start light conversation, but when I didn’t respond, he fell silent.
When we pulled up to the house, my heart began to race. On the veranda, just as I’d expected, they were sitting. All three. Lyudmila knitting, Dima scrolling on his phone, and Irina, seeing our car, stretching languidly like she’d just woken up at her own place.
We got out of the car. The air was fresh and clear, but between us hung an invisible wall.
“Well, finally, we waited long enough,” my mother-in-law greeted us, putting down her knitting. “The kettle’s already boiling.”
“Hello, Mama,” I said dryly, walking past her without offering a hug.
We went into the house. I immediately swept my gaze over the living room. Everything was clean, tidy. But I knew all too well what was hiding behind that façade.
Over tea, what I had dubbed “reconnaissance by fire” began. I took my cup and took a small sip.
“How odd,” I said thoughtfully, looking at the wall. “Right before we left, I had a full pack of good tea here. And somehow it disappeared. In just a week.”
The atmosphere at the table instantly changed, crackling with tension. Lyudmila froze with her saucer in hand.
“Maybe you finished it yourself and forgot?” Irina chimed in quickly, syrupy sweet.
“No,” I replied just as calmly. “I was saving it. Same with the coffee that mysteriously vanished last time. Or that new bench… Where did those scratches come from, like someone scraped nails across it?”
Dima tore himself away from his phone and slowly raised his eyes to me. They were full of irritation and challenge.
“Are you hinting at us?” His voice came out rough and loud.
Sergey immediately stirred.
“Dima, calm down. Marina is just stating facts.”
“What facts?” Lyudmila flared up, her eyes instantly filling with offended tears. “I keep an eye on this house, don’t take my eyes off it, and I get accused of stealing! I, your own mother, Sergey, to whom you entrusted your keys, get humiliated like this!”
She dabbed at an imaginary tear with the corner of a napkin.
“Mama, no one’s accusing you,” Sergey squirmed on his chair, shooting me a pleading look.
“Then who is?” Dima went on, heating up. “Your wife is straight up saying we’re stealing things and wrecking the place! Are you serious? I’ve got more money than I know what to do with! You think I need your tea and benches? Don’t make me laugh!”
“Who said anything about stealing?” I turned to him, keeping my voice icy-calm. “I simply listed the things that have disappeared or been damaged recently. I’m stating facts. And asking whether you might have seen anything.”
“We haven’t seen a thing!” Irina snorted. “Maybe you’ve got mice? Or your memory’s gone?”
“My memory is just fine,” I shot back. “It’s my sense of security in my own home that’s been suffering.”
My mother-in-law now burst into genuine tears, but I could see the pure theatrics in them.
“Sergey!” she sobbed. “Do you see this? Do you see how your wife talks to us? She thinks we’re thieves! Crooks! We’re family! And she… she’s the stranger here, if that’s how she treats us!”
The word “stranger,” spoken aloud, cracked across the table like a slap. Sergey turned pale. He was wedged between a weeping mother and a cold, unbending wife—pressure building on him from both sides.
“Marina…” His voice trembled. “Maybe that’s enough? Mom is upset. Maybe you could just apologize for the misunderstanding and we’ll forget it?”
Everyone fell quiet, staring at me. Dima’s eyes gleamed with gloating triumph. Irina was barely suppressing a smile. Lyudmila peered at me over her tissue, silent reproach in her gaze.
I slowly set my cup down on the saucer. The sharp clink of porcelain rang out in the tense silence. I lifted my head and looked straight at my husband.
“No, Sergey. I’m not going to apologize. Because there is no misunderstanding here.”
And standing up from the table, I walked out into the garden, leaving a dead silence behind me.
That evening we sat at opposite ends of the couch like two strangers accidentally locked in the same room. Sergey didn’t look at me, his attention glued to his phone. I could feel his hurt, his confusion, but inside me everything had frozen into crystal hardness. Their reaction had only confirmed that I was right.
The next morning, under the pretext of urgent business in the city, I left the dacha alone. Sergey just nodded when I said goodbye, his face like stone.
I drove along the empty Sunday highway, one thought pounding in my head: “What next?” An emotional blow-up wasn’t enough. I needed a plan based not on shouting, but on the law.
On Monday, during my lunch break, I met Olga in a quiet café. She was already waiting, and from her expression I could see she knew it was serious.
“So, how’s your James Bond operation going?” she asked. The joke came out strained.
I didn’t say anything. I just took out my phone, opened the saved videos, and handed it to her. I watched her face change gradually: curiosity, then surprise, then mute outrage. She watched Irina prancing in my dress, Dima pouring whiskey, my mother-in-law delivering her speech about the “stranger.”
“They are… they’re just…” Olga searched for words, pushing the phone away like it was hot. “This is insane! The nerve of them!”
“Now do you understand?” I said quietly, taking the phone back. “I showed this to Sergey. He asked me to apologize.”
Olga was silent for a few seconds, digesting that.
“Okay. Yelling at them is useless. They’ll twist everything. You need a lawyer. A real one. My cousin had a similar problem with neighbors. I’ll give you her contact.”
Two hours later I was sitting in a strict, tidy office across from a woman in her fifties with smart, attentive eyes. Her name was Alla Viktorovna. For the third time I replayed my humiliation, but this time it was easier. I spoke like a robot, listing facts.
Alla listened without interruption, occasionally jotting notes in a notepad. When I finished, she set her pen down.
“Let’s go through this step by step,” she began calmly. “First and most important: hidden recording in your own house or in a house you legally own is not a violation. You are not infringing on anyone’s right to privacy, because these people were in your home without your permission—or, more precisely, exceeded the permission you had granted. You had every right to protect your property this way. These recordings are material evidence.”
Relief washed through me at her words. I wasn’t the offender. I was the victim.
“Second,” she continued. “From what you’ve described, we can pick out several offenses. First, petty theft. Tea, coffee, food. Second, possibly unlawful entry, if we can prove that your mother-in-law exceeded the authority you gave her when you handed over the key ‘to water the plants’. Third, property damage—the scratches on the furniture. For now these are administrative violations, but under certain conditions it could escalate to criminal charges.”
She looked straight at me.
“What do you want as a result? A criminal record for your relatives? Compensation for the damaged bench?”
“No,” I answered firmly. “I want this to stop. For good. I want them to be afraid to even come near my house. I want my husband to finally see the truth and stop blaming me. And I want all the trump cards in my hands if they decide to retaliate.”
Alla nodded.
“Reasonable. In that case, you don’t need to run to the police with these recordings. Not yet. You need to structure your evidence. Make a detailed list of everything stolen and damaged with the cost for each item. Attach receipts if you have them. Edit the recordings into a short but striking video, five to seven minutes long, with the most telling moments. And prepare an informal written statement demanding compensation for damages and a pledge not to approach your house. We’ll notarize it.”
“And if they refuse to sign?” I asked.
The lawyer smiled slightly.
“Then you calmly inform them that your next step will be filing a report with law enforcement, along with all the material you’ve gathered. And then things will follow a very different script. I assure you, once they see those recordings, they’ll lose all desire to argue.”
I walked out of her office with a completely different feeling. Fear and uncertainty had given way to a clear, thought-out plan. I had a weapon. And now I knew how and when to use it.
That evening I came home to our empty apartment. Sergey hadn’t returned yet. I sat down at the computer, plugged in the flash drive with the recordings, and opened my editing program. Now, watching those clips, I felt no pain—only cold focus. I cut, spliced, added subtitles to the most offensive lines.
I wasn’t just making a video. I was preparing a verdict. And it would be read at the next family council.
Saturday greeted us with a dull sky and heavy, humid air. It felt like even nature was holding its breath before the storm. Sergey and I drove to the dacha in silence, denser and heavier than ever. He was still sulking, and I was mustering strength for the performance where I’d have the lead role.
When we arrived, they were already there. All three. Sitting on the veranda like we were the ones coming to visit them. Lyudmila with chilly dignity, Dima with a defiant smirk, Irina with a sickly-sweet, disdainful smile.
We went into the house. The atmosphere was taut as a drawn wire.
“So, have you made up?” Dima asked sarcastically, lounging in an armchair.
“I asked everyone to come because I want to put an end to this ‘misunderstanding’ once and for all,” I began, trying to keep my voice steady. I walked over to the big TV in the living room and connected my laptop.
“Oh, we’re watching a movie?” Irina snorted. “Should I make popcorn?”
Sergey looked at me with confusion and worry.
“Marina, what are you doing? Cut out the theatrics.”
“This isn’t theatrics, Sergey,” I said, looking him in the eye. “This is our life. And you’re about to see it without curtains and makeup.”
I picked up the remote. The big screen showed a frozen image of an empty living room from a high angle. Lyudmila frowned.
“What is this? What are these spy tricks?”
“You didn’t believe my word,” I said, and my voice finally hardened to steel. “You called me hysterical. Let’s take a look at the truth.”
I hit “play.”
The screen came to life. The sunlit room. The creak of the door opening. And there they were—Lyudmila, Dima with the bags, Irina. The audio was clear and loud.
“Well, home at last,” my mother-in-law’s voice rang out.
For the first seconds, the room was dead silent. They watched themselves, watched the screen, unable to grasp what was happening. Then, when Dima poured whiskey into my coffee cups and Irina headed into the bedroom, Lyudmila leapt to her feet.
“Turn that off right this minute! This is vile! This is illegal!”
“Sit,” I said coldly, not taking my eyes off the screen. “The most interesting part is just starting.”
On the screen, Irina, already in my dress, twirled in front of the mirror.
“Turn it off!” Dima roared, lunging toward me and grabbing for the remote.
But then Sergey stood up. His face was chalk white, and in his eyes burned a rage I had never seen before.
“SIT DOWN!” His voice cracked like a whip, making Dima freeze mid-stride. “Don’t move. I want to see everything. To the end.”
He said it with such absolute authority that Dima, blinking in shock, backed away and dropped heavily onto the couch.
And on the screen, that very monologue was playing.
“…She came into our family. Into our ancestral nest. And thinks she’s in charge here… She’s just a stranger…”
Sergey stood motionless, absorbing every word, every chuckle. He watched how they talked about him, his wife, his home. How they treated it all with cynical contempt.
When Irina tossed the photograph aside on screen, he clenched his fists so hard his knuckles turned white.
The film ended. I stopped the video. The room was buried in silence, broken only by Dima’s heavy breathing and Lyudmila’s quiet sobs.
All eyes turned to Sergey. He slowly turned to his mother. His gaze was empty and cold.
“So that’s what ‘airing out the house’ means?” he asked quietly. “That’s why things went missing? That’s why Marina was on edge? You… you just lived here. Like cockroaches behind a cabinet.”
“Son, I…” my mother-in-law began, but he cut her off sharply.
“Silence!” He jabbed a finger at the screen. “This is physical evidence. The next step is a call to the police. Marina, dial.”
Panic erupted.
“Sergey, dear, you can’t! We’re family!” Lyudmila wailed.
“Family?” He laughed bitterly. “Family doesn’t behave like looters. Like vulgar freeloaders.”
I had already picked up my phone, but not to call the police—rather to pull the papers from my bag. A written agreement to compensate for damages, and a pledge not to approach the house. The lawyer had been right. After that “movie,” they had no strength left to argue.
The silence in the living room was deafening. It hung like a thick, heavy blanket, pierced only by Lyudmila’s sniffling and Dima’s ragged breathing. They sat there, broken, unable to meet our eyes. All their fake grandeur and arrogance had evaporated, leaving only their pathetic core.
I silently laid two sheets of paper on the table in front of them. The text was printed in large, clear font.
“This is a written acknowledgment of full compensation for damages,” my voice sounded even and quiet, but in the silence it was perfectly audible to everyone. “I’ve made a detailed list. The damaged bench, food, alcohol, moral harm. The total sum is here. And this is a pledge not to approach our house and our land any closer than a hundred meters. Ever.”
Dima raised his eyes to me, rage and fear battling in them.
“And if we don’t sign?”
“Then I call the police immediately,” I replied. “And hand everything over to them, including the bit where you move menacingly toward me just now. It won’t stop at a minor offense. Do you want that?”
Sergey, still pale but completely composed, stepped forward. He was no longer the confused son trying to please everyone. He was a man defending his home.
“Sign,” he said quietly, in a voice that sent goosebumps down my arms. “And leave. While I’m still able to talk to you calmly.”
Lyudmila sobbed something about family, about forgiveness.
“Mom,” Sergey looked at her, and there was only tired sorrow in his eyes. “You destroyed it yourself. You called my wife a stranger in our home. You let them play house here. What kind of family is that? Sign and go.”
The signing took only a few minutes. They did it silently, hunched over like they were being led to execution. Shaking hands, illegible signatures. When the last dot was put down, they stood up without a word and, without looking at us, shuffled toward the door. Dima and Irina practically pushed Lyudmila outside. The door clicked quietly shut behind them.
We were alone. Sergey slowly came up to me. He took my hands in his. His palms were cold.
“Forgive me,” he exhaled, his voice breaking. “I was blind and stupid. I didn’t protect you. I didn’t protect our home. I let them think this was normal. I was so afraid of conflict I almost lost everything we have.”
I looked at him, and the stone wall inside me began to melt. In his eyes I saw no pity, no excuses—only pain and clear understanding.
“Our home is protected now,” I said softly. “Not by the camera. By our decision. By our unity.”
He nodded and pulled me into a hug. We stood there in the middle of the living room where a whole world had just collapsed—and for the first time in many months, the house smelled of peace again. Our peace.
A week later, I ordered a new surveillance system. Not hidden this time, but the real, obvious kind. Cameras on white brackets, visible wiring, and a big sign on the gate: “Video surveillance in operation.” I was done hiding.
One of the following Saturdays, Sergey and I went back to the dacha. A fresh wooden plank gleamed on the bench, covered with new varnish. I poured myself a cup of expensive oolong from a new packet and went out onto the terrace.
The air was clear and transparent. Birds sang in the garden, and not a single foreign sound disturbed the silence. I sat in my armchair, drank my tea, and looked at my house. It was mine again. Every speck of dust, every rustle of leaves in our garden.
Sergey came out, carrying two plates with freshly made sandwiches. We had breakfast, exchanging a word now and then, and it was an ordinary morning, completely cloudless.
I no longer checked the locks or listened for footsteps at the door. I just lived. And that was the most precious thing I had won in that war. Not the things, not the money, but my right to peace. To my home. And to my own life
