My husband Seryozha truly is a gem of a man. He’s one of those rare, almost extinct types who shows love through actions, not just empty promises. He brews coffee for me in the mornings, genuinely praises my cooking experiments, loves the scent of my favorite vanilla perfume, and would move mountains just to see me smile.
But like any fairytale prince, Seryozha came with his own set of personal trials. Namely, a whole fire-breathing nest made up of his closest relatives.
His mother, Irina Mikhailovna, is quite a striking woman who is absolutely convinced of her own uniqueness. She truly believes that a real woman’s status is measured by how often she visits expensive manicurists and by the way she can wear a fluffy mink hat even when it’s warm outside in early spring. She has always despised working, certain that daily labor is only for ordinary mortals. On the other hand, she absolutely loves managing other people’s affairs and giving out valuable instructions on the proper way to live.
The second permanent member of this remarkable crew was Zoya—Sergey’s older sister. Zoya had a legal husband, Igor. The main, and probably only, achievement of this man was his unrivaled skill at lounging on the couch in front of the TV, lazily scratching his satisfied belly.
To top off this ensemble were Zoya and Igor’s two hyperactive sons. The boys had a talent for dismantling any apartment into tiny pieces within five minutes, turning it into a zone of total chaos. They could smear chocolate on light-colored wallpaper, scatter Lego blocks all over the hallway, and shove their mom’s lipstick into the computer’s CPU while the adults were distracted by tea.
When Sergey and I first got married and moved into my spacious, bright three-room apartment, Irina Mikhailovna immediately appreciated all the advantages of my place. I had bought this apartment myself, long before I met my future husband. I poured all my nerves, yearly bonuses, and hundreds of sleepless nights at my laptop into it. I picked the tiles myself, argued with the contractors myself, and cleaned the windows myself after the renovation.
“Well, the apartment is not bad at all,” my mother-in-law summed up with the air of a strict health inspector on her very first visit. She ran her finger along the expensive kitchen countertop as if searching for dust. “You can live here, the layout is convenient. So, from now on, we’ll gather at your place every Sunday. The family needs to stay united—it’s our new tradition. Zoya’s place is cramped, and just look at your spacious living room going to waste.”
Back then, out of sheer naivety and a desire to be a good, understanding daughter-in-law, I agreed. I thought, what could be so hard about hosting my husband’s relatives once a week for some fresh tea and homemade pastries?
If only I had known that Irina Mikhailovna’s modest word “tea” actually meant a mandatory rotation of three hot dishes, top-shelf drinks flowing freely, and plastic containers of food they would take home for dinner, I would have boarded up the front door and put a padlock on it that very same day.
At first, these were just ordinary, if exhausting, family meals. But then, the appetites of our dear guests started growing rapidly. Zoya took to calling me on Friday evenings to dictate a detailed menu for the weekend.
— Vikul, — she sang sweetly into the phone as I was coming home tired from work. — The boys are really craving homemade pizza. Just make sure to get good-quality sausage, no fat, and absolutely no olives—they spit them right onto the table. And be sure to make a meaty casserole for Igor. He gets so exhausted after work, he needs plenty of protein. Mom asked for a julienne with wild mushrooms—try to add more cheese, she loves it that way.
They’d show up as a noisy crowd and devour absolutely everything I’d cooked during half of my Saturday. They’d leave behind a mountain of dirty, greasy dishes and sticky stains on my light carpet from spilled cherry juice, then head out with a sense of a job well done.
Meanwhile, Irina Mikhailovna somehow found a way to criticize every tiny detail in my house, from the thickness of the cucumber slices on the plate to the color of the new curtains in the living room. Nothing was right, nothing was refined enough for her taste, but she’d always eat with a big appetite and ask for seconds.
I put up with it for a long time. I watched this free show with a calm smirk and sometimes threw in a well-aimed comeback to my mother-in-law’s remarks, but I always tried not to let it become a full-blown scandal. It was all for Seryozha’s sake.
He saw perfectly well how exhausted I was by these invasions, and he tried to help clean the dishes and put away the toys. But his mother skillfully and methodically piled on the guilt.
— Son, we’re your closest family! — she would lament on the phone if Seryozha even gently suggested skipping a weekend. — Does your wife really begrudge your own mother and only sister a hot bowl of soup? I never expected such coldness! Family should always come first!
But as everyone knows, pushy people simply have no idea what ‘enough’ means. Their rich vocabulary really boils down to just one favorite word: ‘more.’
The storm finally broke on the last Sunday in May, when the weather had truly turned warm.
We were sitting at that fateful Sunday lunch. Zoia’s kids were running wild through the apartment, yelling at the top of their lungs, knocking into corners and tipping over chairs. Igor chewed on baked salmon with a gloomy look, while Irina Mikhailovna loudly rejected it for not being ‘meat in French style.’
Then Mother-in-law, having majestically pushed her plate aside, moved on to the main item on that spring day’s agenda.
— So, kids, Zoia and I have talked things over at length and made a decision, — she began, sounding every bit like a boss who won’t take arguments from her underlings. — It looks like summer will be scorching and stuffy. It’s too hard on the children to stay in the city with all the dust and the bad air. So, in the first days of June, Zoia’s family and I will move into your dacha.
Her words caught me so off guard, I nearly choked on a sip of water.
The dacha. My personal pride and sanctuary. A cozy, perfectly designed two-story wooden house nestled in a quiet pine forest. There was a flat green lawn, luxurious blooming rose gardens I had planted myself, and a huge bright terrace.
I bought this property when it was nearly falling apart, for next to nothing. I personally searched for and hired all the construction crews, picked out every board and can of paint myself at the markets. This place has always been my special retreat. It was where Sergey and I dreamed of spending our summer vacations together, toasting marshmallows over the fire and sipping tea under the stars.
“At our summer house?” Sergey asked quietly. I caught a glimpse of his eyebrow twitching nervously out of the corner of my eye.
“Well, whose else would it be?” my mother-in-law replied, genuinely surprised as she batted her mascara-coated lashes. “We’re family, after all, not strangers. The air is fresh out there, there’s nature, a forest nearby. The boys need to run free and recharge before school.”
She adjusted her hair and gave me a stern look:
“Vika, make sure you clear out the large walk-in closet on the second floor before we arrive, we’ll need somewhere to put our things. Put on fresh bed linens. And pack the fridge full of good food, we plan to arrive Friday evening.”
She made these outrageous demands with such ease and normalcy, it was like she was just asking me to pass the salt across the table.
“Irina Mikhailovna,” I slowly put my glass of water back on the table and gave her my most welcoming smile. “What a wonderful and refreshing idea. But may I ask, who will be weeding my collection of roses, regularly watering the lawn, and paying the electricity bills while you’re out there enjoying the fresh air at my expense?”
My mother-in-law shot me a look of outrage, as if I’d just suggested she mop the apartment building’s hallway floors.
“Vika, have you lost your mind?” she scoffed loudly, curling her lips with disdain. “At my age, should I be digging around in the dirt? And Zoya is busy with two small kids—she needs to keep a close eye on them! You and Sergey are young and healthy; you can come on weekends and take care of the garden yourselves. And you can bring us fresh groceries for the week too, so Zoya doesn’t have to carry heavy bags. Surely you won’t begrudge your own nephews a bit of meat, will you?”
“Let’s clarify,” I deliberately nodded slowly, relishing this spectacular moment of shamelessness. “So you’re planning to live in my private house all summer, use my appliances and dishes, eat at my expense, and Sergey and I will just get to come out on weekends—as your unpaid staff and delivery service? Did I get that brilliant plan right?”
“What plan?!” Zoya shouted indignantly, snapping her attention away from her phone. “We’re one big family! We have every right! Sergey has his share there, too—he’s your lawful husband!”
“The only things Sergey owns there are his blue toothbrush in the bathroom, and his favorite striped hammock hanging between the pines,” I gently but very clearly corrected my sister-in-law. “I bought the summer house before we got married, with my own hard-earned money. And I’m the only one who has the keys to the front door.”
“How about we get together at your place next Sunday, Irina Mikhailovna?” I suggested. “I’ll invite my parents, you can cook the main dish, Zoya will bring a salad, and Sergey and I will handle the dishes. Nice and family-style, just the way you like it!”
My mother-in-law shot me a look like I’d just asked her to feed an entire army for free.
“Vika, I didn’t sign up to wait on and feed your relatives!” she snapped. “My house isn’t a cafeteria! Why should I waste my groceries on your side of the family?”
I glanced at her empty plate, then at Zoya, Igor, and their two kids. It felt like we were about to have a revelation in the world of family math.
After I called her out on those weekly Sunday dinners paid by me, Irina Mikhailovna’s cheeks turned bright red. She jumped up so fast she nearly knocked over her chair and declared loudly:
“Zoya, get the kids together right this minute! We will never set foot in this inhospitable house again! They don’t appreciate us here!”
They got dressed in the hallway as quickly as possible, slamming every door behind them on the way out. Igor was the last to leave, looking longingly back at the unfinished pie.
Sergey looked at me, guilty and completely lost.
“Vika, maybe you were a bit too harsh on them? Now mom’s going to be checking her blood pressure all night and probably call an ambulance. You know how sensitive she is.”
“Sergey,” I walked right up to him and gave his shoulders a tight hug. “Believe me, your mom isn’t taking her blood pressure right now. She’s having tea in Zoya’s kitchen and plotting her next move to get her way. I know her type way too well.”
And I wasn’t even a little bit wrong. All week, my mother-in-law put on an Oscar-worthy performance, playing the part of the hurt, unappreciated woman. She called Sergey every evening, sighing and moaning into the phone, complaining about her health, about being mistreated, and that her cruel daughter-in-law was tearing their family apart.
Zoya jumped in too, sending Sergey long messages about how the kids (his nieces and nephews) were crying and wanted to go out in nature. Sergey, being the kind and soft guy he is, was torn between the two sides. He didn’t want to argue with me, but his mother’s complaints really got to him.
And then, on Thursday evening, exactly what I had expected from the start finally happened.
I got home from work an hour early. I walked into the hallway, quietly closed the door behind me, and caught a wild scene: Sergey, looking extremely guilty, was quickly hiding a set of keys inside his spring jacket. My spare set of keys to the dacha, the ones that always sat in the drawer under the mirror.
“Sergey?” I stood calmly in the doorway, arms folded across my chest.
His face turned as red as a schoolboy caught by the principal behind the gym. He started fidgeting, tugging at his collar.
“Vika… Look, mom called me earlier today. She was crying her heart out. She said her doctor insisted she needs fresh country air, or else her health will really go downhill, she just has no energy left. Honestly, would we really mind? We only go there on weekends anyway. Let them stay for a couple of weeks, breathe the pine air, and regain some strength.”
I promised her I’d bring the keys over today, so tomorrow evening they could head out just like they planned.
You don’t mind, do you? I swear I’ll buy all their groceries myself with my own money, honestly! Not a single penny from our family budget!
I looked at my beloved but oh-so-naive husband and knew for sure: my mother-in-law’s cheap emotional tricks had finally pierced his armor.
Right now, I was certain Irina Mikhailovna was sitting at home, absolutely positive she’d won a magnificent victory in this battle. She had cunningly flanked me, skillfully pressed on her son’s sense of duty, and was already packing her summer dresses, dreaming about sipping coffee in style on my gorgeous veranda while I’m stuck in a stuffy office in the city.
“Did you give her the keys?” I asked in an even, calm voice, not moving a muscle.
“Not yet, I was just about to deliver them…” he hesitantly handed me the jingling key ring, bracing for drama and a scene.
I took the keys and spun them around my finger thoughtfully. The metal felt pleasantly cool against my skin. I didn’t feel a drop of anger or any urge to fight with my husband. All I had was a crystal clear, ice-cold understanding that it was finally time to put an end to this childish nonsense. If words don’t work, then it’s time to move on to practical lessons.
“Go ahead and take them,” I calmly handed the keys back with a big, bright smile. “Let them go. Great idea.”
Sergey immediately lit up. He exhaled with such relief, as if a huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He hugged me tight, whispered all sorts of sweet things about what a wise, kind, and understanding wife I was, and then rushed out, thrilled to go save his mom’s fragile health.
Meanwhile, I strolled to the kitchen, poured myself a big mug of strong black coffee, and grabbed my phone. I had exactly twenty-four hours before that bold caravan marched onto my legally-owned territory.
First thing, I called Mikhailych, the foreman who built my gazebo last year.
“Mikhailych, good evening. Remember, we agreed to replace the plumbing and expand the terrace in September? The estimate’s already set. Is there any way you guys can start tomorrow instead? You said your crew was almost done with the neighbor’s project. I’ll pay extra for urgent service, just please start first thing in the morning. And don’t touch my roses, they haven’t done anything wrong!”
After that, I called my trusted country spa hotel and booked the best suite with unlimited pool and massage access for the whole weekend. I paid in full right away.
On Friday evening, Irina Mikhailovna and Zoya felt like they were truly on top of the world. As I later learned from our mutual friends, they extravagantly ordered a large cargo truck. They packed it full of giant checkered bags with their belongings, boxes of tomato seedlings (which, I suspect, they were planning to make me plant on my well-deserved weekend), and set off for the countryside in style.
My mother-in-law spent the entire drive busily messaging all her relatives on her phone. She bragged to everyone about how marvelously—and for free—they had secured themselves a summer retreat, and how clever she was for teaching that city upstart (me) a lesson.
They breezed up to my woodland property, the keys they’d fought so hard for jingling triumphantly. Irina Mikhailovna strode majestically up to the gate, already savoring the moment she would grandly swing open the door to her new summer palace and pick out the best bedroom.
But the gate wasn’t where it was supposed to be.
Seriously, it was completely gone—along with a sizable chunk of the fence facing the road.
My mother-in-law hesitantly stepped onto the property and froze, clutching the handle of her suitcase in a death grip.
Instead of welcoming coziness, they were greeted by a full-on construction site. A massive yellow excavator was noisily digging a trench along the fence. By the porch stood a mountain of dug-up earth, stacked sewer pipes, piles of planks, and bags of construction mix.
The luxurious wooden terrace, where my mother-in-law had dreamed of sipping her morning coffee, was half dismantled. Two workers were noisily prying up old boards while a third carried them off to a container. The yard was strung with safety ribbons and the only way to the front door was a narrow path between heaps of construction debris.
“Hey, folks with the suitcases!” called out one of the workers. “Where do you think you’re going? This area’s closed! We tore up the old sewer, fenced off the pit—keep kids away! Water is shut off in the house, and the toilet doesn’t work. The owner’s been warned: until the main work is finished, no living here!”
In shock, Irina Mikhailovna dropped her heavy bag full of summer hats. Zoya’s kids, squealing with delight at the sight of the enormous real excavator, dumped their backpacks and dashed straight to play in the nearest giant pile of wet sand, immediately getting their clean shorts dirty.
My phone rang exactly three minutes after their arrival at the country house. At that wonderful moment, I was relaxing in a soft velour chair at a spa hotel, leisurely deciding with Sergey which relaxing massage we’d enjoy before dinner.
“Vika!!!” my mother-in-law’s voice exploded into a shriek so loud it nearly made my ears ring. “What on earth is happening at the dacha?! What excavators? What trench? We came with all our things, our bags are heavy, we bought groceries!”
“Oh, Irina Mikhailovna, good evening!” I cheerfully put the call on speaker so Seryozha, sitting next to me on the couch, could hear everything. “Have you arrived already? That’s wonderful! Guess what—I decided to surprise you with an early treat and moved the September renovations to the start of summer. We’re changing the plumbing and expanding the terrace. Mikhalych has been working since morning—the water’s off, the whole yard has been dug up. But just imagine how beautiful it’ll be when it’s done! Of course, nobody can stay at the house for the next few weeks… But you wanted some fresh air, right? There’s plenty of that, even more with construction everywhere!”
“What renovation?!” Zoya was screaming into the phone in the background, trying to outshout the noise of construction equipment. “Where are we supposed to sleep?! The workers put a portable toilet right in the middle of the yard! The kids are covered in sand already!”
“But you said you wanted to be close to nature, breathe fresh air,” I replied in the most sympathetic and gentle tone. “Now you can supervise all the work! The foreman is a great guy—his name is Mikhalych. Just go up to him, say you’re from me, and he’ll give you newer shovels. Honestly, they’re desperate for more hands to dig the trench for the new cable. Fresh air and some activity—it’s the best thing for a bad heart, the doctors recommend it! And it’ll be good exercise for Zoya, too.”
“Are you just mocking us?!” my mother-in-law gasped, seething with fury. She genuinely couldn’t understand how her brilliant plan had fallen apart so badly. “We’re coming right back to your apartment in the city! Wait for us, we’re on our way!”
“I’m afraid that’s absolutely impossible,” I said, taking a very satisfied sip of hot herbal tea. “We’ve started renovations at home, too. Actually, it’s an emergency sanitation. I called a special pest control service. They’re treating for bedbugs and cockroaches. They use this really harsh chemical—it’s strictly forbidden to enter the apartment for three days, it’s dangerous for your health.”
I paused for a moment, enjoying the silence on the other end, then added:
“Seryozha and I went to a country hotel for the whole weekend. So, you’ll have to manage at the house in the fresh air somehow. If you ask, Mikhalych can lend you a good army tent. He’s also got a grill, so you can cook up some sausages. Have a great weekend in nature!”
Smiling, I hung up the phone.
Seryozha sat across from me, staring at his long-cold coffee with wide, stunned eyes. He kept glancing from my phone to my calm face.
“Vika…” he whispered in confusion. “You told me we weren’t renovating the dacha until September, after the season was over… And since when do we have cockroaches in the apartment? We live on the ninth floor, it’s always perfectly clean here!”
— Our plans have changed a bit, my dear, — I said with a playful wink. — As for cockroaches… you see, some pesky invaders can only be dealt with in advance—otherwise, they settle in, start eating your food, and act like your home belongs to them. Pack your things! There’s a warm pool and an all-you-can-eat delicious dinner waiting for us. We’ve earned this break.
Sergey’s phone started buzzing with endless calls from his mom, but I gently took the phone from his hand and set it to Do Not Disturb without a word.
— She doesn’t have time to chat with you now. She’s got a serious logistical puzzle on her hands: figuring out how to load her bags and heavy crates of seedlings back onto the truck—which has probably already left for the city, — I said calmly as I tucked the phone into my bag.
We had an absolutely amazing weekend.
On the first day, Sergey was a bit anxious and kept wanting to check his phone, worried about his mom. But after his second long session of relaxing back massage, a swim in the warm pool, and an absolutely delicious dinner at the restaurant, he finally melted into relaxation.
For the first time in ages, he wasn’t listening to his mom’s endless lectures or solving his older sister’s imaginary problems. He just truly relaxed—body and soul—enjoying the peace and tasty food. We walked in the forest, laughed a lot, and made plans for the fall.
On Monday evening, we came home to an immaculate apartment that smelled fresh, with a hint of frosty lemon. Of course, there was never any actual pest control or chemicals—I simply called a great cleaning service while we were away to wash the windows and clean the carpets.
As evening fell, there was a brief ring at the door.
Irina Mikhailovna stood on the doorstep. Completely alone. No dramatic Zoya, no perpetually disgruntled Igor, no screaming kids.
She looked as if she had just walked across a scorched desert with a heavy backpack. Gone was her usual grandeur—no demands, no airs. Her perfect hair was slightly mussed, her shoulders slack with exhaustion.
She walked silently into my kitchen, dropped heavily onto a chair by the window, and sat quietly, watching me as I wiped down the clean stove.
— You win, — she finally said softly, gazing at her hands resting on her lap. — We spent the whole weekend cooped up at Zoya’s tiny two-bedroom. It was impossible to stay at the dacha, the truck left, and we had to call a taxi for an outrageous price. Igor was furious about his ruined barbecue plans, the kids screamed from boredom, and the city heat was unbearable.
— I wasn’t competing with you, Irina Mikhailovna, — I replied calmly as I set a plain mug of hot tea in front of her. Just regular black tea in a bag—no fancy pastries, expensive chocolates, or caviar sandwiches. — I just showed you what real life looks like. The kind where every adult pays for their own whims and desires out of their own pocket.
She wrapped the warm mug tightly in both hands, trying to warm herself up, even though it was a summer evening.
“Seryozha is really mad at me,” she admitted, turning her gaze toward the window. “He told me on the phone today that I’ve completely lost my conscience, demanding someone else’s dacha from him. He said he has his own family now, his own home, his own rules. And that he won’t let me manipulate him anymore.”
“Smart boy,” I nodded in agreement, sipping water from my glass. “Probably takes after his mom. He learns fast.”
My mother-in-law suddenly shot me a sharp look, trying to decipher from my completely calm face whether I was mocking her or being genuine. But I was absolutely serious.
Half a year has passed since then. Want to know the funniest part of this story? Our exhausting Sunday lunches stopped for good. It was like someone cut them off with a knife.
Zoya suddenly remembered, as if by magic, that she could cook for her demanding husband on her own, and even learned how to use the oven. And Irina Mikhailovna unexpectedly signed up for the local Nordic walking club. Now she strolls enthusiastically through city parks with her poles, chatting with friends about the weather instead of stomping on my frayed nerves.
Now we only see each other on big holidays, like birthdays. Always on neutral ground. In a nice café, where everyone pays for their own meal after dinner.
And, amazingly, everyone’s digestion immediately improved. Igor eats what he orders, the kids behave politely, and that awful salmon allergy hasn’t flared up for anyone since.
And we completely finished the renovations at our dacha back at the beginning of September. Built a huge new terrace out of light wood, installed new wiring, and planted new bushes. Now I sit on this terrace on warm evenings, sipping delicious tea with fresh mint and smiling as my beloved Seryozha fusses by the grill, preparing a tasty dinner for the two of us. Life truly becomes wonderful when everyone knows their place and doesn’t try to put their burdens on someone else.