Darya Semyonovna handed me a stack of papers stapled together across the table.
“Anya, have some aspic, I didn’t hold back on the garlic. And here, take a look at this while you eat. It’s the estimate for the extension and roof repairs. The total’s on the second page. The money from your Aunt Zoya’s apartment sale should be just enough, and there’ll even be some left over for a new corrugated fence.”
Everyone around the big oval table in my mother-in-law’s living room suddenly stopped chewing. Only Uncle Borya, Darya Semyonovna’s older brother, crunched loudly on a pickled cucumber. My husband Pavel suddenly became fascinated by the pattern on the tablecloth, carefully brushing off invisible crumbs. My sister-in-law Marina, sitting across from me, reached for some sliced sausage with a nonchalant look, as if none of this concerned her at all—though I could tell her ears were perked up.
I took the printout and scanned the lines: wall insulation, profiled timber, high-quality metal roof tiles, labor for the construction crew, plastic windows made to look like dark wood. Total: two million, three hundred and fifty thousand rubles.
“These are some interesting numbers, Darya Semyonovna,” I said, placing the papers beside my plate. “But what does this have to do with me?”
“What do you mean, what does it have to do with you?” my mother-in-law exclaimed, her gold bracelets jangling. “We’re family! Now we finally have the chance to make this a proper family estate. You sold your aunt’s apartment in Reutov, didn’t you? The money’s just sitting in your account, losing value every day to inflation. But a country house––that’s a solid investment. It’s for all of us. We’ll gather here in the summer, grill shashlik. The kids will have space to run around. Marina’s twins especially need fresh air, they keep getting sick in the city.”
I looked over at Pavel. He kept his focus on the tablecloth. I had asked my husband not to tell the family that the sale of my aunt’s apartment was finalized. But Pavel has this amazing ability: the minute his mother sweetly asks about household affairs, every secret he has just spills out of him, like potatoes from a torn sack.
“Darya Semyonovna,” I replied calmly, pouring myself some sparkling water, “that’s the money from selling my aunt’s apartment. I was planning to buy a small studio to rent out, or put it in a high-interest savings account. Why on earth should I invest more than two million in your summer home?”
My mother-in-law pressed her lips together and looked at me with obvious disapproval.
“Anya, you’re a grown woman, forty-five, and you’re talking like a complete outsider!” piped up Slavik, Marina’s husband. After three glasses of fruit liqueur, he clearly saw himself as the chief strategist at the table. “We’re working on something big here, for the whole family. We all need a stronghold. Marina and I are planning to turn the whole second floor into a huge kids’ room, and we’re getting a spacious bedroom with a balcony.”
“You’re planning?” I raised an eyebrow and looked at Slavik.
“Yes,” Marina confirmed while eagerly spreading butter on a slice of bread. “Mom said the extension will be huge. We’ll all fit perfectly. You and Pasha can stay in the old room downstairs when you visit on weekends. There’s a good couch down there, we’ll clean it up with a brush. And upstairs we’ll set up for ourselves. We have kids after all, we need space.”
Listening to this crew, I could feel a pure admiration bubbling up inside me for human ingenuity. So, I hand over my two million so Slava and Marina can build themselves an entire second floor, and in return, I’m generously allowed to come on Saturdays and sleep on the old, sagging sofa downstairs. The whole clan’s behavior was just like a swarm of locusts: they descend on someone else’s crops as a team, truly believing the field was planted just for them. Just like in Gogol’s ‘The Government Inspector,’ only on a different scale.
“Anya, don’t be stingy,” my mother-in-law continued, using the stern tone of a kindergarten teacher. “You can’t take your savings to the grave. But here you’ll have a lasting legacy. I’m doing this for you. Pasha’s salary is modest right now, and Slava’s still searching for himself…”
“Searching for a reliable partner, mom!” Slava corrected her, puffing out his chest. “I have a unique business project for delivering farm products. I just need working capital to buy the first batch of vegetables and to rent a truck.”
“Right, searching for a partner,” Darya Semenovna immediately agreed. “Meanwhile, your money is just sitting there doing nothing. What’s the point of buying that studio apartment? You’ll just have to deal with tenants, fix their pipes, and stress out. But with the dacha, you invest and everyone knows you did a good thing. Pasha, tell your wife!”
Pasha finally looked up.
“Anya, seriously… Mom’s right. We don’t have our own dacha. We’d go visit them.”
“Great idea,” I broke off a piece of bread and set it on the edge of my plate. “Pavel, remind me—when our car broke down last year and needed a hundred thousand for emergency engine repairs, who helped us out?”
“We took a loan from the bank,” my husband replied, annoyed.
“That’s right. And when I asked Darya Semenovna for a two-month loan, what did she say?”
“Anya, what does that have to do with anything?” my mother-in-law protested, sliding the salad bowl farther away. “My money was in a savings account back then—the interest would be lost with early withdrawal! Besides, the car is your personal responsibility. You two are adults and need to pay for your own trips.”
“Brilliant logic,” I smiled. “My car is my problem. But your shiny new second floor for Marina and Slava—now that’s everyone’s concern. See the difference?”
Uncle Borya poured himself a shot of vodka, coughed loudly, and announced:
“Come on, kid. Why are you counting every penny like an accountant? We’re family! Today you help, tomorrow someone helps you. Life is long.”
“Uncle Borya, last year you borrowed twenty thousand from Pasha for new winter tires. Did you ever pay him back?” I asked, looking him straight in the eye.
Uncle Borya coughed again, waved his hands, and quickly turned away toward the television, where agricultural news was playing.
“Anya, stop worrying about other people’s debts!” Darya Semyonovna raised her voice. “We’re talking about real estate right now. I’ve already talked to the foreman. Our neighbor Petrovich promised to bring some good guys from his region. They can come out next week and start digging the foundation for the extension. We just need to give them an advance—around three hundred thousand—so they can buy the lumber before construction prices skyrocket. You can wire me the amount today, and pay the rest as the work progresses.”
She spoke with such absolute confidence that I couldn’t help but find it amusing for a moment. She had made all the decisions: planned my finances, hired the workers, decided how the rooms would be used. Compared to her boldness, even Chichikov with his dead souls seems modest.
I decided it was time to get everything out in the open.
“Let’s clarify the details,” I said, tapping the quote with my finger. “Darya Semyonovna, the cottage is registered in your name, correct?”
“Of course it’s in my name,” my mother-in-law sniffed, squaring her shoulders with pride. “I inherited it from my father many years ago.”
“And you’re asking me to invest two million into someone else’s property?”
Marina let out a noisy sigh and dropped her fork onto the table:
“What do you mean, someone else’s, Anya? Are you out of your mind? It’s Mom’s cottage! Pashka is her son, so it’s his too. We are all direct heirs.”
“So, heirs,” I nodded. “Darya Semyonovna, since we’re talking about serious investments. If I pay for the major construction, it’s only logical to re-register part of the cottage in my name. Say, half. We can notarize an agreement of purchase and sale for half the property and house. That way, I’ll know exactly where my own money is going.”
Everyone stopped eating. Slavik awkwardly bumped the pitcher of kompot with his elbow but managed to catch it. Marina stared at me as if I had suggested bulldozing their house.
“What?!” Darya Semyonovna clutched the collar of her fancy blouse. “Put it in your name? The daughter-in-law’s? Are you out of your mind?!”
“Why not?” I shrugged. “You’re asking me to fund the construction. If I’m building the house, I should own what I build. That’s basic economics.”
“That’s just plain greed!” Marina shouted, spitting as she spoke. “You want to take a piece of Mom’s land! You show up when everything is ready and start laying down demands! Pasha, are you hearing what your wife is saying?!”
Pasha looked at me, then at his mother.
“Anya, you’re taking this too far… Nobody would sign over property to a stranger. You must understand that.”
“A stranger?” I looked at my husband. “Five minutes ago, when you needed my two million, I was family. The moment we start talking paperwork, I suddenly turn into a stranger?”
“There needs to be trust!” my mother-in-law proclaimed, wagging her finger at me. “Today you’re Pasha’s wife, but tomorrow you might divorce. Then what? My cottage gets split in two? No way! I’m protecting what’s mine. Give us the money since you’re part of our family, but save your terms for your boss at work!”
As I listened, I realized I was enjoying the moment. People truly reveal themselves when someone else’s money is at stake.
“You know what’s most interesting about your estimate, Darya Semyonovna?” I said, picking up the papers and turning them over in my hands. “There are deadlines listed. Three months. You want to have everything finished by September.”
“Yes,” she grumbled. “So we can be under the new roof before the cold weather comes.”
“That’s a great plan. Do you want to go to the dacha right now and show me exactly what needs to be done?”
“Let’s go!” Slavik exclaimed, jumping up from the table. “I’ll show you right there where we’ll put the terrace, and where we’ll build the brick barbecue.”
Half an hour later, we were already driving down the highway. Pasha was silently steering the car, gripping the wheel tightly. In the back seat, my mother-in-law animatedly described the kinds of currant bushes she planned to plant along the new corrugated fence. Ahead of us, Marina and Slavik were in their old car.
We turned onto a dirt road filled with deep potholes, and soon stopped next to the sagging wooden fence of plot number forty-two.
The old dacha house looked sad. The paint on the walls was peeling, the slate roof was covered in green moss, and the porch sagged noticeably to one side. Waiting for us by the gate was our neighbor Petrovich—a stocky man in a worn-out coverall, holding a measuring tape.
“Oh, the clients have arrived!” Petrovich greeted us with a smile, shaking Slavik’s hand. “So, Vyacheslav, here’s what I’m thinking. We’ll start digging the foundation for the extension from this corner. And the old roof will need to come off completely, the rafters are rotten.”
I walked closer to the porch.
“Petrovich, do you think this old foundation can hold a second floor?” I asked, pointing to the cracked base.
“We’ll reinforce it with boards, pour some concrete, and it’ll hold up just fine!” the foreman waved away my concern. “The main thing is to get the materials delivered on time. Vyacheslav said the funding will be steady.”
Slavik puffed out his chest with pride.
“I told you, Anya, there’s a ton of work to do here. But it’ll look great in the end. How about we head to the building supply market? It’s only five kilometers away. We can just check the prices and see what they have in stock. You should know where your savings are going.”
We piled back into the cars and drove to the local building supply market. The massive warehouse was filled with stacks of lumber, rolls of insulation, and cans of paint. Marina immediately dashed off to the plumbing section, while Slavik grabbed a huge metal cart and headed for the aisles with tools.
They loaded the cart with the enthusiasm of people at an all-you-can-eat buffet. Slavik put in an expensive drill, a set of bits, and a large grill with wrought-iron legs. Marina grabbed three rolls of costly vapor barrier and a can of German wall paint. Darya Semyonovna added garden shears and a new watering hose.
When the pile of goods towered over the edge of the cart, they all wheeled it together toward the checkout counter. The cashier began systematically scanning the barcodes.
“That will be forty-two thousand five hundred rubles,” the cashier announced.
Slavik, Marina, and Darya Semyonovna all turned to look at me at the same time. Slavik stepped aside, pretending to study a display of screwdrivers.
“Anechka, go ahead and pay,” my mother-in-law said sweetly. “It’s for everyone’s benefit, after all.”
I calmly looked at the cashier, then at my relatives.
“All I have with me is my metro pass and a grocery store discount card,” I replied loudly and clearly. “I just came along to check out the selection. You all said we were coming here to compare prices.”
Marina gasped indignantly. Slavic dropped the screwdriver he’d been fiddling with.
“What do you mean, no money?” my mother-in-law hissed, stepping right up to me. “You knew where we were going!”
“I did. On a tour of the construction market. The tour is over,” I said, turning and heading for the exit.
Behind me, the disgruntled cashier asked, “Are you going to pay, or should I cancel this?” With the seller grumbling, Slavic and Marina had no choice but to put everything back on the shelves.
The ride back to the dacha was tense and silent. When we gathered again in the yard of the old house, Daria Semyonovna finally snapped.
“You embarrassed us on purpose!” she exclaimed, putting her hands on her hips. “How shameful, in front of everyone! You could’ve transferred the money from your card—it wouldn’t have made you poor! You have millions just sitting there!”
“Daria Semyonovna,” I said as I pulled a document folder out of my bag, taking out a folded paper with a blue stamp. “I told you at the table that you forgot to mention one little detail.”
“What kind of papers are those?” Marina asked suspiciously, stepping closer.
“This is an official statement from the Unified Real Estate Register. I ordered it through a friend who’s a realtor. It’s for plot number forty-two on Sadovaya Street. Your dacha, Daria Semyonovna.”
My mother-in-law started fidgeting, nervously adjusting the scarf on her neck, avoiding her son’s gaze.
“I’m old-fashioned,” I said. “I like to check the paperwork before I pay for other people’s grills and renovations. Pasha, can you please read aloud the ‘Owner’ section?”
My husband hesitantly took the paper. He looked at his mother, then at his sister.
“Owner…” Pasha squinted in the sunlight. “Ivanova Marina Viktorovna.”
He fell silent. Then he read it again, studying the blue stamp carefully.
“Marina? What do you mean?” he asked his sister, clearly confused.
“Exactly what it says, Pasha,” I replied, taking the document back from my husband. “Daria Semyonovna signed the property over to Marina back in April. The entire plot and house. Your mom is no longer the owner. All of it officially belongs to your sister now.”
Uncle Borya, who’d been sitting on the rickety bench this whole time, grunted and reached for a cigarette. Slavic suddenly became very interested in staring at his shoes.
“Mom?” Pasha turned to Daria Semyonovna. “Is this true? You gave the dacha to Marina? And you didn’t even tell me?”
“So what?!” Marina burst out, stepping forward. “I’m the daughter! I have kids— we need it more! You and Anya don’t have children, so why do you need the dacha? You’d just go there to relax on weekends!”
“Funny,” I smirked. “Just a minute ago, we were one big family in urgent need of a joint base.”
“Son, you have to understand,” Daria Semyonovna cried out, trying to grab Pasha by the elbow. “Marina’s in a tough spot, the girls need to grow up, Slava is trying to launch a business project. But you two have stability. You can buy yourselves anything! As a mother, I have to care for those who are struggling.”
Pasha gently pulled his arm free.
“Mom, this isn’t right,” her husband said, his voice unhappy but firm. “Three weeks ago you and I were patching the porch roof together. I had to take time off work, buy the planks and roofing felt with my own money! You stood there telling me, ‘Do a good job, son, it’s for you.’ But the dacha had already belonged to Marina for a month?!”
“But you’re my son! Of course you help your mother!” his mother-in-law replied with ironclad reasoning.
“I was fixing someone else’s house, Mom,” Pasha replied and turned away.
“Let’s sum this all up,” I looked at the family standing in the overgrown dandelion yard. “Daria Semyonovna secretly gifts the dacha to her daughter behind her son’s back. Then she gathers us all here, serves us aspic, and asks me to pay for the renovations—using money I got from selling my own apartment—for a house that already belongs to Marina. And for that, I’m graciously allowed to sleep on the old couch every now and then. Did I miss anything?”
My mother-in-law was silent, glaring at me with obvious irritation.
“Why do you care whose name it’s under?” Marina suddenly shouted. “We’d still let you come and relax here! Are you really that stingy?”
“Oh, I’ll definitely take you up on your generous offer. Never. And you know what’s hilarious? I truly came today with no money. I didn’t move it to savings or buy a studio in the suburbs. Yesterday, I paid off the mortgage on our apartment with Pasha. In full. I used all the money from my aunt’s old place. So I don’t have any extra cash. Not for your repair bill, or for Petrovich the neighbor’s workers, or for a barbecue grill with fancy legs.”
Pasha spun around toward me.
“Anya… you paid off our mortgage?”
“Yes, Pasha. The apartment is all ours now. No debts to the bank for the next fifteen years. And in case of a divorce, this place gets split fifty-fifty. Because I believe everything in a family should be fair. Not some secret gift deals behind everyone’s backs.”
Marina snapped her mouth shut and turned away. Slava kicked a stone down the path. Daria Semyonovna stood there with a completely stony face, realizing the construction of the century was over before it began.
“Let’s go, Pasha,” I adjusted my bag strap. “There’s nothing more for us here. Leave the repair estimate as a keepsake. Maybe ask Slava to pay, since he’s the future businessman.”
Pasha silently opened the door to our car. He didn’t say a single word to his mother. We got in and Pasha started the engine, staring at the road for a long time before driving off.
“Anya, I’m sorry,” he finally said as he pulled onto the highway. “I really thought she cared about all of us.”
“It’s okay, Pasha. Now you just know the true value of those sweet words about a loving family.”
His phone started blowing up with calls. His mother’s name flashed on the screen. He switched it to silent and tossed it onto the back seat.
We had a peaceful week, fully enjoying a life without monthly mortgage payments. No relatives showed up, and I thought the drama was behind us for good. Then, Saturday morning, Pasha’s phone started ringing off the hook. He answered the call.
“Pasha! Son! Disaster!” His mother’s voice was on the verge of hysteria. “Come to the dacha immediately! We’re being robbed! The builders are destroying everything, they’re threatening us!”
Pasha tensed up, sitting at the edge of the bed.
“What builders, Mom? What are they breaking?”
“They took off the roof! The house is flooding! Come now, we need to call the police, help us!” she screamed so loudly I could hear every single word even without the phone’s speaker.
We got ready in record time. Forty minutes later, we were speeding down the highway headed for the summer house community. The weather was turning for the worse, gray clouds closing in, and fat raindrops starting to hit the windshield. Pasha gripped the steering wheel tightly while I tried to figure out what kind of builders would attack an old dacha.
When we pulled up to plot number forty-two, there was no sign of any police. But what a scene we found—a moment worthy of a painting.
The old country house stood there missing half of its roof. Dirty sheets of old slate were thrown all over the peony flowerbeds, exposing the rotting wooden rafters. Three gloomy men in work coveralls sat on the porch, led by none other than Petrovich. Darya Semyonovna stood in the middle of the yard under the drizzling rain, waving her arms. Next to her was Slavik, fidgeting nervously with his jacket pulled over his head. Marina was nowhere in sight.
We stepped out of the car.
“What’s happening here?” Pasha called out loudly as he approached the porch.
Darya Semyonovna rushed over to her son.
“Look at what they’ve done! They showed up in the morning and started tearing off the roof! They claim someone paid them for demolition, now they’re demanding money for a new one or they’ll leave everything like this! And it’s raining! The house will rot! The furniture will get soaked!”
Pasha turned to Petrovich.
“Petrovich, why’d you take apart the roof? Who gave you permission to destroy someone else’s property?”
Petrovich calmly adjusted his cap and wiped his hands on his pants.
“Why us? We were just following the orders. There—Vyacheslav,” he nodded at Slavik. “Came to me the night before last. Told me, ‘Petrovich, the plan’s changed. We start urgently. I’ll send you payment for the demolition now, and for materials and building the new roof, my rich fiancée will pay on Saturday, she has money from the apartment.’ He insisted we remove the old roof immediately so the work could get going. We finished that job. If we get paid in full now, we’ll get right to work on the new roof. We only work when we have the money. We’re not about to stand in the rain for free.”
I turned my gaze to Slavik. The ‘businessman’ looked pale and terrified.
“Slavik,” I asked sweetly. “Did you hire the crew to tear down the roof expecting I’d come and pay for the new one?”
Slavik cleared his throat and shivered, pulling his jacket tighter.
— Well, what was I supposed to do? You both left, refused to help. And the house is old! I figured if we got the process started, you’d come, see that the situation was critical, realize the house needed saving, and give us money. You must still have some savings left! You couldn’t have given everything to the bank! And if you did, you can always get a consumer loan for repairs. Help us out!
I stood in the rain, trying to wrap my head around the sheer scale of this unbelievable scheme.
— Wait, — Pasha stepped toward Slavik. — You paid them for the work. Where did the money come from if your project has no funding?
— I took out a microloan, — Slavik admitted reluctantly, staring at the ground. — Fifty thousand rubles from a little company by the metro. I used Marina’s car as collateral. I thought Anya would give us two million, I’d pay the loan off from that right away and nobody would notice. It was a solid plan! We create an emergency, you pay for the repairs.
Darya Semyonovna started loudly lamenting again, grabbing Pasha by the sleeve:
— Anya, can’t you see how it turned out! The boy meant well, tried to take initiative! And now the house is open! The water’s pouring in! You can’t leave us in this kind of trouble! Transfer some money to Petrovich, let them at least cover it with plastic and bring some boards!
— Mom, — Pasha looked at her with such endless tiredness I felt sorry for him. — Are you serious right now? Your son-in-law took out a microloan to tear off the roof of your daughter’s house, hoping to force my wife to pay. And you’re asking us to cover this?
— But the house will get soaked! — his mother-in-law yelled, pointing at the attic. — The floors will be ruined!
Petrovich got up from the steps.
— All right, folks. If there’s a payment now, we’ll keep working. If not, we’re packing up our tools and heading out.
I turned to Slavik.
— Vyacheslav. You’re the client. You did the demolition, you have to rebuild, too. The house officially belongs to your wife Marina, so the two of you need to solve this construction problem together.
— We don’t have any money! — Slavik howled, waving his hands. — Marina doesn’t work, and regular banks haven’t given me credit in a long time!
— Then maybe it’s time for your business project to start making real money, — I suggested. — Pasha, let’s go home. It’s cold out here.
We turned and walked to our car.
— Pashka! Where are you going?! You’re leaving your own mother in the rain?! — Darya Semyonovna wailed, trying to catch up with her son.
Pasha gently brushed her aside.
— Mom, you have a daughter you gifted property to, and a son-in-law who can take out microloans at huge interest rates. I’m not fixing anything here anymore.
We got into the car. The rain was getting heavier, the big drops drumming loudly on the roof. In the rearview mirror, I could see Petrovich and his workers loading their tools into the trunk of an old Niva, with Slavik running around them, desperately trying to convince them to stay. Darya Semyonovna sat on the wet wooden porch, staring at the torn-up roof of her former home.
On the drive back to the city, we were silent for a long time. The wipers swept the water rhythmically from the windshield.
“You know,” Pasha finally said, still staring at the wet pavement. “I really thought, right up until the end, that she just made a mistake with that donation paper. That she didn’t think about the consequences. But they actually planned the whole thing out.”
“Well, at least now everything is crystal clear,” I replied, gazing out the window at the trees flashing by.
A month and a half later, we finally learned the outcome of this massive building saga. Marina and Slavik never managed to find enough money for the new metal roof tiles. They had to hire some local workers for next to nothing, just to cover up the demolished part of the roof with a cheap construction tarp, which they nailed down. Every time there was heavy rain, the tarp leaked and soaked the old attic floors. Slavik’s microloan quickly racked up huge penalties, and Marina had to rush to sell her car at a loss to some resellers to pay it off before the case went to court. Darya Semyonovna ended up quarreling with her son-in-law, and now she complains to all the neighbors in the yard about how ungrateful relatives have ruined her peaceful retirement.
Last weekend, Pasha and I went to a large furniture center. We were choosing a new sofa for our mortgage-free apartment. As we walked past the garden furniture section, Pasha suddenly stopped by a big wicker rocking chair. He looked at the price tag, touched the cushion, and said:
“Hey, what if we buy this chair? We could put it out on the balcony. Sit there in the evenings, drink mineral water, and watch the city.”
“And no second stories?” I asked.
“No second stories,” my husband replied firmly.
Looking at him, I realized this whole budget story ended up being our best investment. The money went to paying off the bank loan for our shared apartment, and as for any illusions about family, we got rid of those for free.
