“Don’t get underfoot, Galya, we have very important guests today,” Larisa ordered, pushing me away from the porch of my own house.
She adjusted her light chiffon scarf, which looked as out of place against our old, moss-covered Antonovka apple tree as a diamond tiara would on the head of a collective farm chairman.
I leaned against the doorframe, watching my sister-in-law with genuine curiosity. Just this Wednesday, Larisa had called my husband Sergey—her own brother—and pleadingly asked permission to “grill a couple of sausages as a small family gathering” for her fiftieth birthday. Sergey and I are not stingy people. The dacha came to me from my parents, and over ten years, Sergey and I transformed the neglected plot into a cozy place to relax, with a neat lawn, wrought iron gazebo, and a sea of flowers. A few years ago, Sergey gave his sister a spare key to the gate so she could occasionally drop by for apples. Turns out, Larisa took that as her deed of ownership.
But this “small gathering” started to look more like a Mongol invasion by eight in the morning.
First, a white van with “Elite Catering” written on the side squeezed through our open gates. Out poured gloomy guys in uniforms, who began unloading folding tables, tents, and boxes full of glassware onto my lawn. After them came the florist—a nervous young man who tried to stick a display of fake orchids right into my prized peony bed, for which he was promptly banished behind the bathhouse by Sergey.
I didn’t kick the workers out—they were just doing their job and weren’t to blame. Larisa swore there would only be a few guests and everything would be cleaned up the same evening. I warned Sergey that I’d let Larisa throw her party, but if she started pretending our dacha was hers or tried to put us down in front of the guests, I wouldn’t stay silent.
And then the birthday girl herself arrived with her husband Arkady.
Arkady, who owns a wholesale furniture fittings company, stepped out of his massive black SUV looking like he’d shown up to accept someone’s surrender.
“Galina, tell your husband to move this junk away from the gates,” he barked instead of saying hello, nodding at our perfectly fine, freshly-washed Niva. “Serious people are coming soon—a banker, Irina Leonidovna from retail. I don’t want them thinking we have a junkyard here.”
I exhaled slowly.
“Arkady,” I replied calmly, “that ‘junk’ is parked in our spot. Unlike your SUV, which is currently crushing my drainage system with your left rear tire. Move the car. The wheel is right on top of the plastic drain grate—it’s already bending, and after the next downpour, this will be a swamp.”
Arkady smirked patronizingly:
“Oh, Galya, don’t bore me with your gardening problems. I told you this spring, order an alpine lawn! It’s self-healing. Needs a special alkaline environment, I read about it. Italian technology!”
“Arkady,” I said with a slight smile, “that’s just ordinary bluegrass mixed with clover. It needs mildly acidic soil, which Sergey has been adjusting with peat for two years—not your fancy Italian ideas.”
“You’re always bringing your farm-girl mentality into elite landscape design!” the wholesaler squealed, his face turning red.
I just shrugged and walked to the kitchen, deciding to watch this absurd theater from the sidelines.
By two in the afternoon, our dacha was completely transformed. A string quartet played on the veranda, the hired photographer dashed around searching for the best angles, and women in evening dresses and heels paraded down the paths, mercilessly poking holes in our long-suffering bluegrass.
Larisa flitted between the guests. I stood at the open kitchen window and could clearly hear her giving a tour.
“Yes, this is our little country estate,” my sister-in-law declared, fanning herself in front of a tall, gray-haired man. “Arkasha has poured so much energy into it! We decided to keep a rustic style. No pretentiousness, just nature.”
The gray-haired man, apparently that same banker, nodded approvingly.
At that moment, my Sergey came up onto the porch. He had just finished fixing the well pump, so he was still in his favorite faded work pants and plaid shirt, wiping his hands with an old rag.
Seeing her brother, Larisa turned so pale that freckles showed through her foundation. She rushed over to him, glancing around nervously, and hissed in a low voice so the guests wouldn’t hear:
“Sergey! How could you show up like this? I asked you to stay out of sight! Go to the shed or behind the house—don’t embarrass me in front of the clients!”
Sergey stopped. My husband is a man of few words, calm as a rock. He looked at his sister with that steady, intense gaze—the one that used to make her heart sink even when they were kids.
“Larisa,” he rumbled. “This is my home. And I’m going to my bathroom to wash my hands.”
“Sergey, I beg you!” she pleaded, putting her hands together like a prayer, fake tears sparkling in her eyes. “Irina Leonidovna is here—she owns a chain of hypermarkets, and our big contract depends on her! Please, just stay in the summer kitchen for now.”
Sergey silently pushed her aside and walked into the house. I could see his jaw muscles tense. It’s one thing to let your sister throw a party, but quite another to be banished to your own shed just because you aren’t glamorous enough for her lies.
Soon, Larisa herself peeked into the kitchen.
“Galya,” her tone was no longer pleading but commanding. “The waiters can’t keep up. The hot dishes just arrived in containers. Take a tray and help serve. And smile, please.”
I looked at her with interest.
“So Larisa, let me get this straight: you invited fifty people I don’t know to our dacha, claimed our home was yours, and now you’re asking me to work as your unpaid waitress?”
“Oh, what’s the big deal?” she waved it off. “We’re family! You always make everything complicated. If anyone asks, I said you and Sergey are our distant relatives who look after the estate—you know, like caretakers. That’s very trendy nowadays.”
She spun around and fluttered back to the guests. The waiters had already started dumping dirty plates into my sink. After those remarks about the ‘managers,’ it became clear to me—there’s no point trying to talk to Larisa alone. If she lies to everyone’s faces, that’s the only way she’ll hear the truth too. I wiped my hands on a towel, poured myself a cup of tea, and stepped out onto the veranda.
Coming toward me was Arkady, escorting Irina Leonidovna—a woman in her sixties, with a sharp, intelligent look in her eyes, dressed simply but in such high-quality clothes that no sequins were needed to show their value.
“Here, Irochka, give this prosciutto a try,” Arkady declared, picking up a piece of meat. “It’s been aged for three years in the Calabrian mountain caves. Only our private chef knows the recipe—I order the ingredients for him with a special shipment.”
I stopped alongside them and offered a polite smile.
“Arkady, on the vacuum packaging that your ‘private chef’ from catering just tossed next to my compost bin, it says in Russian: ‘Sliced dry-cured meat. Made in the Moscow region.’ The expiration date is this Wednesday.”
Irina Leonidovna glanced at me with interest, then shifted her gaze to Arkady, whose face had started to go blotchy.
“Galina, you really are such a… narrow-minded woman!” he hissed, barely containing his anger. “You always ruin any glorious moment with your petty household problems! All you want is to dig around in manure!”
“Arkady, I only dig in manure when I’m fertilizing the roses,” I shot back. “Right now, I’m just stating the facts. Enjoy your meal, Irina Leonidovna.”
I continued down the path and spotted our neighbor, Tatyana Borisovna, standing by the fence with a watering can in hand, openly amazed at everything going on in our yard.
“Galyunya, what kind of aristocrat convention is happening in our ‘Stroitel’ garden association?” she called out loudly.
Larisa immediately ran over to her.
“Ma’am, please step away from the fence!” she waved her arms frantically. “This is a private event. Please respect our privacy!”
Tatyana Borisovna, a straightforward woman who’d spent her whole life working as an academic supervisor, was taken aback.
“Lariska, is that you? What’s with the bossiness? I borrowed some dill seeds from Galya, just wanted to return them…”
“I am not Lariska, I am Larisa Viktorovna!” my sister-in-law screeched. “Take your dill somewhere else, you’re ruining the concept!”
I walked up to the fence.
“Tanya, don’t pay any attention. She’s just playing a part. Stop by later, I’ve baked a pie.”
Tatyana Borisovna gave a knowing chuckle and walked off, while Larisa shot me a withering look.
By evening, the pretentiousness had reached its peak. The guests were seated at long tables spread out right on my lawn. Waiters circulated with champagne. By the gazebo, a microphone had been set up, and Maxim Olegovich from the catering company came up to it. He handed the mic to Larisa.
My sister-in-law stood up. She was sporting a dress more suited to the Cannes Film Festival red carpet than to our ordinary Moscow region dacha.
“My dear friends! Partners!” she began with a beautiful, well-trained voice. “I’m so happy to see all of you in our cozy country nest. Arkady and I poured our souls into this home. Every little bush was planted with love, every plank soaked with our warmth. We wanted to create a place to escape the city bustle, and I hope we’ve succeeded!”
The guests broke into applause. Arkady raised his glass with a look that suggested he’d personally designed the Hanging Gardens of Babylon.
I was standing by the veranda’s column when Sergey appeared beside me. He had changed into clean jeans and a shirt, but his face was as dark as a thundercloud.
“I’m about to smash that microphone over her head,” my husband muttered quietly.
“Don’t, Seryozha,” I said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Breaking the equipment isn’t our style. Let me through.”
I stepped off the veranda and slowly walked over to Larisa. With my friendliest smile, I gently yet firmly took the microphone from her hands. Larisa was so surprised she didn’t even resist—she just stood there with her mouth open.
A soft crackle came through the speakers. All the guests fell silent and stared at me.
“Good evening, dear guests,” my voice carried calmly and steadily across the yard. “I’d also like to raise a glass. For the owners of this house—my husband Sergey, there he is on the veranda, who built this gazebo with his own hands. And a little for myself, because every bush here I planted myself.”
A pause hung in the air. Larisa tried to snatch the microphone back, but I took a step aside.
“Actually, Larisa and Arkady had nothing to do with all this beauty,” I continued. “Today, they’re just guests here like all of you. Larisa spoke so touchingly about how much soul she invested. That’s amazing, considering she’s been here exactly twice in the last three years—and both times for barbecues that my husband cooked. And just on Wednesday, she asked if she could quietly have five people over here for her birthday and grill some sausages.”
There was sudden movement among the guests. People started whispering to each other. Arkady jumped to his feet, his face turning crimson.
“Galya, what are you talking about?! Are you drunk?” he yelled, trying to shout over the speakers.
“I am absolutely sober, Arkady,” I looked him straight in the eye. “Unlike your fantasies. Actually, since we’re being honest, I’d like to address the catering representative—Maxim Olegovich.”
A man in a sharp suit with a name tag straightened up, looking wary.
“Maxim Olegovich, could you please clarify who placed the order?” I asked.
“It was placed by Larisa Viktorovna. She paid the deposit, the remaining balance is due today,” he replied clearly.
“Wonderful. So Sergey and I are not listed on any of the paperwork, and we’re not responsible for paying for this banquet,” I concluded. “Therefore, I kindly ask that all documents and the remaining bill be given to Larisa Viktorovna. As for which spouse will actually pay, that’s up to them to decide. We have nothing to do with this circus.”
Larisa stood there frozen. Her face was blotched red and her chiffon scarf was slipping off her shoulder.
“You… you… how dare you embarrass us in front of everyone!” she hissed into the microphone, which I had politely handed back to her.
“I’m not shaming anyone, Larisa,” I said, no longer using the microphone, but in the sudden silence everyone could hear me. “I’m just putting things in their proper place. You invited strangers into our home, called us your staff, and sent my husband—your own brother—out to the shed. Being family doesn’t give you the right to turn someone else’s home into a free backdrop for your own grandeur.”
Irina Leonidovna stood up from the table. She dabbed her lips with a napkin, set it down, and looked at Arkady.
“You know, Arkady Petrovich,” the owner of the supermarket chain said in a calm, icy tone, “in business, the most important things to me are reputation and transparency. If you’re willing to lie so boldly about your own house and treat your brother this way just for empty bragging in front of clients… I can’t even imagine how you handle your business partners.”
She turned to Larisa:
“Happy birthday, Larisa Viktorovna. And yes, the prosciutto really did taste like plastic.”
Irina Leonidovna turned and walked toward the exit. A few more guests—clearly some of those ‘influential acquaintances’—followed her lead. The party crumbled before our eyes, like a house of cards knocked over by a gust of reality.
Maxim Olegovich hurried over to Arkady with a hefty folder in his hands.
“Arkady Petrovich, in light of recent events, I have to ask you to settle the bill right now. The remainder for the banquet and the broken dishes.”
“To hell with all of you!” Arkady barked, snatching the folder.
Sergey slowly came down from the veranda and approached his brother-in-law. He wasn’t holding any weapon or making threats, but just his presence made Arkady instinctively step back.
“Pay the workers, Arkady,” my husband said quietly. “And in an hour, I want all the tables and tents gone from here.”
“The remainder for the banquet and dishes will be paid by the client,” Maxim Olegovich clarified.
“And Sergey and I will send you a separate bill for repairing the lawn and drainage,” I added.
“You… you’ve ruined our biggest contract of the year!” Larisa shrieked, finally finding her voice. “You’re not my brother anymore! We won’t forgive you for this! You’re just jealous, pathetic country people!”
Sergey looked down at her. His eyes showed no anger or resentment—just a profound weariness with human foolishness.
“Larisa,” he said, “you’re the one who’s jealous of us. Because we have a home where we’re happy without any lies. All you have are decorations. Gather your things. And leave the gate key on the table. You’ll never set foot on this property again. Ever.”
An hour later, workers were hurriedly taking down the tents. The band had left long ago. Larisa sat sobbing loudly in the car, blaming everything on her ‘country relatives.’ Arkady, grinding his teeth, was transferring money to the catering company’s account, shooting us furious looks every so often.
By the way, a week later, Arkady paid for the lawn restoration and drainage repairs as well. Sergey had sent him the estimate along with photos of the damage, so Arkady didn’t argue—the tire marks on the grass and dents from the tent poles made it all too clear.
But when the black car finally rolled out through the gates, creaking heavily over the bumps in the road, Sergey and I were left alone on the now-empty lot. The lawn was trampled, there was a crushed paper napkin lying on the pathway, but the air was again filled with the scent of our peonies and the coolness of the evening—not some tacky, artificial bravado.
Tatiana Borisovna approached the fence, holding a plate of homemade pies.
“You two are something else, neighbors!” she said with admiration. “I’ve only seen scenes like this in TV dramas. Galya, the way you put her in her place—absolutely beautiful! I took notes, honestly.”
“Grab a pie, Sergey,” I said, taking one from our neighbor and handing it to my husband. “You know, Tanya, sometimes all you have to do is turn on the light. The cockroaches scatter on their own.”
Sergey took a bite of the pie, slipped an arm around my shoulders, and smiled genuinely for the first time all day.
“Tomorrow we’ll need to reseed the bluegrass,” he said, glancing at the flattened patch. “Our local Moscow region kind. It’s tough—you can’t trample it down that easily.”
And I couldn’t have agreed with him more.