Marina paused her work at the laptop, which displayed the cost estimates for her latest architectural project, when she noticed Sergey hesitating at the doorway. His posture—slumped shoulders and a bowed head—spoke volumes: trouble was looming.
Over twelve years of marriage, Marina had mastered the art of interpreting Sergey’s silences more acutely than the technical drawings she pored over daily.
“Mom wants to celebrate her anniversary at our dacha. We need to arrange everything,” Sergey announced. Neither of them yet realized this simple declaration would ignite an intense conflict.
The words lingered heavily. Slowly shutting her laptop, Marina felt irritation bubbling beneath the surface. That dacha—her dacha—was a cherished inheritance from Aunt Lida, painstakingly nurtured into a personal sanctuary. Every shrub, path, and blossom bore witness to her dedication, time, and resources.
“How many guests?” she inquired, bracing herself for the inevitable.
“Around thirty, maybe more. Mom’s nearly sent every invitation,” he replied.
Thirty visitors on a 600-square-meter plot, where every square meter thrived with roses, lilies, and peonies. Only days earlier, she had planted delicate young hostas that had yet to establish roots.
“Have you or Mom considered that I might oppose this?” Marina’s calm tone carried an unspoken warning.
“Marin, it’s Mom. It’s her seventieth birthday! It’s important to her,” Sergey reasoned.
She moved to the window, gazing at the city lights beyond their apartment. Within these walls, her mother-in-law’s demands loomed again like unyielding expectations disguised as family traditions.
“Remember last time? At your birthday party?” Marina confronted him.
Sergey winced. The memory was painful: guests had devastated the lawn, trampled flowers, broken a young apple tree, and left the garden beds ruined as children played rough games across them.
“This time will be different,” Sergey insisted. “Mom assured me it’ll be civilized. We’ll set up a tent. Nothing will get damaged.”
Marina’s bitter laugh echoed. “A tent? Where? In the rose garden? Or on the alpine rockery I crafted over two months?”
“We’ll find somewhere,” he murmured uncertainly.
“There’s no free space. I plan everything meticulously. Who’s going to prepare food for thirty people? Clean up? Fix the inevitable mess?”
Sergey shifted nervously, unable to find solid footing.
For him, the dacha was a responsibility to bear; for her, it embodied life itself. She had planted and tended it while he rested. He never fully understood the significance it held for her.
“Mom wants preparations to start a few days ahead,” Sergey added hesitantly. “She already planned the menu.”
“And what about my work?” Marina’s frustration rose sharply. “The project deadline is next week! I can’t just drop everything for a party I didn’t agree to!”
“Maybe you could talk to your boss…” Sergey suggested timidly.
“Talk? Sergey, do you hear yourself? I’m an architect with strict deadlines. I can’t just vanish to serve your relatives!”
Her mind flooded with memories of years spent working tirelessly, sacrificing weekends, protecting delicate seedlings, and acquiring rare rose varieties from distant cities—a garden that was her refuge.
“Why not rent a restaurant?” she proposed. “If Mom needs space for her guests, why not celebrate there?”
“She wants the family atmosphere—the dacha,” Sergey answered. “It’s been her dream.”
“And what about my dreams?” Marina’s voice quivered. “This is my dacha, my creation, my life.”
Stepping closer, she watched Sergey recoil.
“Has Mom ever asked for my opinion? Considered my feelings?”
“She assumed you’d be happy. It’s family,” he murmured.
“Family means asking, considering, respecting ‘no.’”
Sergey diverted his gaze to his phone, seeking refuge.
“Mom’s already sent all invitations. Relatives are coming from afar; flight tickets are bought.”
“And what does that have to do with me?” Marina’s voice was cold.
A heavy silence descended. Her heart pounded. The idea of her sanctuary becoming a battlefield tightened around her soul.
“Mom also suggested gifting her a new laptop; the old one barely works.”
Marina’s expression froze—this was the final straw.
“How much does this laptop cost?” Her voice was icy.
“About eighty to a hundred thousand. But Mom has given so much to us…”
“To us?” Marina echoed sharply. “Or to you? I don’t recall your mom ever doing anything for me—only criticizing my haircut, my profession, or the absence of children in early years.”
“She raised me. Cared for me. She deserves gratitude,” Sergey defended.
“She deserves it from you. You’re her son. Why should I pay for your debt?”
Returning to the window, she watched the bustling city. At home, another conflict unfolded where her voice barely counted.
“Do you realize how absurd this all is?” she demanded. “Your mother plans a party on my property without consulting me. I have to cook, clean, and buy gifts—all taken for granted.”
“But she’s family…”
“And what am I?” Marina spun around. “A servant? The staff?”
Her words hung heavy. Sergey remained silent but resistant.
“We?” she repeated sharply. “And what will you do besides giving me your mother’s list of tasks?”
“I’ll buy groceries,” he said uncertainly.
“With my money, as usual?”
Sergey flushed. Both knew she financed most household expenses while his contributions were modest.
“Then why not a restaurant?” Marina pressed again. “If the anniversary means so much, why not celebrate properly somewhere else?”
“She insists on the dacha,” Sergey admitted. “Says the ambiance is special.”
“Special? If your relatives trample my roses?” she snapped.
Sergey’s silence acknowledged her point, though he couldn’t admit it aloud. His mother’s influence ran deep.
“What if I refuse?” she asked quietly. “Simply say ‘no’?”
“You can’t. Mom has invited everyone; guests are coming from distant places. It would cause a scandal.”
“And who created that scandal? Me or the one sending invites without consulting the landowner?”
Marina sank onto the sofa, her legs weak from exhaustion and tension, weighed down by the relentless feeling of invisibility.
“Do you know what hurts the most?” she whispered. “Not the celebration or guests, but the fact that I’m ignored. To you, I’m invisible—just the organizer, cook, cleaner, payer.”
“You’re exaggerating,” Sergey retorted.
“Exaggerating?” She fixed him with a piercing gaze. “Your mother never thanked me for maintaining the dacha, for gifts, for cooking at family gatherings. Never—only criticism and complaints.”
“She’s just that way…”
“And I should endure it? Because she is ‘that way’?”
She rose and walked to the closet. Tomorrow held the presentation of her six-month labor: a major shopping center, her achievement.
“I won’t do it—neither the dacha nor the party nor the expensive laptop. Enough.”
“Mom’s already decided everything…” Sergey protested.
“Let her find another location—a restaurant, cafe, even a floating palace on the river—but not my dacha.”
“She’ll be offended…”
“That’s your problem, not mine.”
Sergey grabbed his phone, dialing quickly. Marina anticipated the ensuing call.
“Are you going to have this discussion here?”
“I need to warn her.”
“Then go. I don’t want to listen.”
He stepped onto the balcony, shutting the door behind. Even through the glass, she heard his attempts to soothe his mother. She knew the pattern: hysteria, tears, blame, accusations that she had ruined the anniversary.
Minutes later, Sergey returned, pale and shaking.
“Mom says if we can’t provide the dacha, we must pay for the restaurant. We owe it because we disappointed her.”
Marina froze. Something inside snapped.
“Say that again,” she demanded softly.
“If we refuse the dacha, we must cover the banquet costs. Invitations are sent, tickets bought…”
“Get out.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Leave my apartment. Now.”
“Marin, this is our home…”
“Formerly. This is my home, bought with my money. I don’t want you here.”
“But…”
“Take your things. Go to your mom. Let her explain why her son’s wife should pay for her whims.”
Sergey stood motionless, shocked at this unexpected turn.
“Let’s talk calmly…” he began.
“Where was the calm when decisions were made without me?” She interrupted. “No more, Sergey. I won’t play by your rules.”
She grabbed his jacket from the closet and tossed it at him.
“Put it on and leave before I change my mind.”
“Are you serious?”
“More than ever.”
She opened the door. Sergey reluctantly dressed, still hoping it was a joke.
“Is this about flowers?” he asked bitterly.
“No,” Marina answered firmly. “It’s about your disrespect. From you and your mother. You think you can control my life, time, and money without my consent.”
“I thought you loved me.”
“I thought so too. Seems we were both mistaken.”
The door clicked shut behind him. Marina leaned against it, then slowly lowered herself to the floor. The apartment fell silent—deafening in its quiet absence of yelling or demands.
Minutes later, she opened an album filled with images of the dacha: blossoming roses, tidy flower beds, the alpine rock garden she had carefully constructed for a month—her world, her triumph.
Tomorrow she would visit her sanctuary. She would prune bushes, check the watering system, perhaps plant new tulips. Alone. Without the husband who saw the garden as “just flowers.” Without the mother-in-law who viewed her as unpaid help.
The phone buzzed—it was a message from Sergey: “Marin, let’s talk tomorrow once we’ve cooled down.” She read it, then deleted it. Some dialogues no longer hold meaning. Some relationships reach their end.
Outside, night deepened and the air chilled. Far away, beyond the city, her garden slowly surrendered to the first frost of autumn.
Final Reflection: This story reveals the profound struggle when familial obligations clash with one’s personal space and dignity. It highlights the importance of respect, communication, and setting boundaries in relationships. Marina’s experience underscores that no one should feel invisible or powerless within their own home and life. True family values encompass mutual consideration and honoring each person’s feelings and autonomy.