Elena’s heart pounded as she stared at the glowing screen of her phone. The call was from Alla Viktorovna, and she already knew this wouldn’t be good. Every time that woman called, it felt like the calm before the storm.
“Alla Viktorovna,” Elena muttered under her breath, picking up the phone. She didn’t have the energy for one of her usual, exhausting conversations, but she had no choice.
“Lenochka, dear, I’m at the dacha,” came the cheery, high-pitched voice on the other end. “The buyers just arrived, they want to take a look around. Should I show them, or will you be coming yourself?”
Elena froze, her stomach sinking. “What buyers?” she asked, her voice colder than she meant.
“Well, Sergey and I talked it over. We thought it was reasonable, with how seldom you come out here and the house being in such bad shape,” Alla Viktorovna explained, as if she was talking about selling a second-hand couch, not a cherished family home. “It’s just that the young people need money more, you know?”
Elena’s chest tightened. She stood up from her chair, pushing the laptop aside. “You’re selling my dacha?” she said, her voice sharp. “My dacha, which is registered in *my* name?”
“Don’t get so upset, Lenochka,” Alla Viktorovna said, trying to soothe her. “We’re doing everything properly. You’ve barely been here, anyway. It’s a nice offer.”
Elena felt her temper flare. “You will leave my dacha right now and never come back without my permission. Don’t you dare interfere with what’s none of your business!” she snapped, hanging up before Alla could respond.
Her hands shook as she put the phone down, her heart racing. The audacity. How could Sergey and his mother even think of doing something like this behind her back? She was fuming.
Five minutes later, she was dialing Sergey’s number, praying for an explanation that would somehow make sense.
“Hello, sunshine!” Sergey answered cheerfully, as though nothing was wrong.
“What the hell are you talking about? What sale? What buyers?” Elena demanded, her patience thin as a thread.
“Relax, Lena,” he said, his voice faltering for a second. “It’s not a big deal. We just thought you weren’t using it, and, well, the house is old. We need money to pay off Tanya’s mortgage, and the offer for the dacha is really good. It’ll help a lot.”
Elena’s eyes flashed with disbelief. “So you and your mother decided to sell my property without asking me?” she hissed. “What is this, a family business?”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Lena. You’re an adult. You know how things are. Tanya needs help, and we can’t keep the house falling apart. It’s just a practical decision.”
Elena’s head spun with anger. “You and your mother don’t get to make decisions about my life, Sergey. I’m not a child, and I’m certainly not a bank for your daughter’s mortgage. You’ve crossed a line. You’re my *ex*-husband from now on. Do you understand?”
“Come on, Lena, don’t be so hasty. We’ll talk about this later, okay?” he pleaded.
“We’ll talk,” she retorted, “but only with a notary present.”
That night, when Sergey came home, the sight of the suitcase by the door hit him like a slap. A note was placed on top: *“Thanks for everything. Especially the dacha. No compensation will be given. Everything is in writing and according to conscience.”*
Sergey stared at the note for a moment before walking toward the bedroom door. Inside, Elena sat on the bed, phone in hand, looking drained but resolute.
“Are you serious, Lena?” Sergey’s voice was tinged with disbelief.
“Did you really expect me to just roll over and accept it?” Elena shot back. “I’m not some piece of property you can trade away. And neither is my dacha.”
“I was just trying to help Tanya…” Sergey mumbled, his face falling.
“Help her, sure. But not at my expense,” Elena said firmly.
He left quietly, without a word, and Elena remained in the apartment, alone, but with a clear sense of purpose. She had taken a stand—and she was keeping the dacha, come what may.
For three weeks, the dacha stood empty, and Sergey didn’t reach out. Elena was oddly relieved. Every time she thought of him, she remembered the moment he and his mother had tried to sell her home behind her back. He hadn’t even apologized. Not that she expected him to.
But today was different. Today, Elena was driving to the dacha. This time, not as a wife, not as someone’s half, but as the full owner, and that felt empowering.
The road to the dacha was bumpy as usual, with puddles and potholes making the drive feel like a military obstacle course. The grandmothers from the village sat outside, gossiping as usual, casting curious glances at her car.
“Ah, here comes the new lady of the manor. Tires still intact,” one muttered, though Elena knew they were just amused by the thought of someone like her owning the dacha now.
The gate creaked open as she parked, the yard overgrown with weeds and neglected plants. Lilacs had almost taken over the cherry tree, and scattered beer bottles lay around the gazebo. Elena grimaced.
“Well, Mom, Dad, I fought for your dacha. And this is what I find?” she said to the empty yard, shaking her head. She picked up a discarded bottle with two fingers, as if it were poison, and dropped it into a bag.
Half an hour later, she was clearing trash from the gazebo, sweat beading on her brow but a smile on her lips. This was *her* place, and she wasn’t going to let anyone disrespect it. This was her legacy.
The next day, someone appeared. A man in sweatpants, with a mustache that looked like it had seen better days, gave her an appraising look as he approached.
“Lenochka, well, well,” he said, his tone a mix of curiosity and mockery. “Running the show, huh? Missed nature, did you?”
Elena raised an eyebrow. “Who are you, exactly?”