Rita switched off the car engine and gazed at the countryside home through the windshield. Everything appeared as familiar as ever—the familiar blue roof, birch trees encircling the perimeter, and the gate painted green by her father years ago. The only unusual detail was the light shining from the veranda. Could it be the neighbors? Yet they surely knew she hadn’t visited the property for almost a year.
She reached back to grab her bag from the rear seat but suddenly froze. Movement caught her eye—someone was roaming the grounds. Between the apple trees, a shadow flickered and suddenly appeared nearer to the house. A woman clad in a tank top and shorts held a child in her arms.
“What on earth…” Rita murmured as she stepped out of the vehicle.
Drawing closer to the gate, she halted abruptly. Sounds of voices, laughter, and the clinking of dishes drifted from inside. Children’s clothing was drying on the veranda, bicycles stood beneath the awning—two for adults and one smaller. The gate wasn’t locked. She gently pushed it open, the creaking familiar and haunting.
Her legs carried her to the porch almost automatically, a persistent thought echoing in her mind: someone was inhabiting her house—her home. The front door stood ajar, and in the hallway, she almost stumbled over children’s sandals. Jackets she didn’t recognize hung on hooks, while two large suitcases and a basket filled with toys occupied a corner.
Her heart pounded fiercely as she listened. From the kitchen, a woman’s voice spoke about a hiking trip planned for the next day, followed by the sound of children laughing and dishes being handled. The aroma of fried potatoes and fresh dill wafted toward her.
“Mama, can we visit the river tomorrow?” a clear boy’s voice asked.
“We’ll see, Artyomka. If the weather holds…” came the reply.
With cautious steps, Rita approached the kitchen entrance but stopped at the threshold.
At the table sat a man around thirty-five, dressed in a plaid shirt. Beside him was a woman with light brown hair tied into a ponytail, cradling a three-year-old girl on her lap. Opposite them, a slightly older boy animatedly talked, waving a fork.
The woman noticed Rita first, her face paling and eyes widening. The mug in her hands slipped and shattered onto the floor.
“What are you doing here?” the woman stammered, flustered. “We didn’t expect you to come…”
Rita recognized the voice immediately. It was Inna, her ex-husband’s sister—the relative who had been warm and friendly during Rita’s marriage to Viktor but had distanced herself after the divorce.
“Inna?” Rita’s voice sounded oddly hoarse. “Why are you here?”
The man, apparently Inna’s spouse, rose slowly, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. The children fell silent, staring at the unfamiliar visitor.
“Rita…” the man began hesitantly. “We thought… Vitka said you haven’t been coming here, that the dacha was unused.”
“Vitka said?” Heat rose to Rita’s cheeks. “What else has he told you?”
Inna picked up the broken mug while still holding her daughter tightly. The little girl sniffled, burying her face against her mother’s shoulder.
“Well… we didn’t think…” Inna replied nervously. “We’re on vacation and renting accommodation is costly. Vitka mentioned the keys were still available from when we all gathered here together. Remember? We visited for your birthday three years back…”
“The keys were available,” Rita repeated slowly. “And so you decided to simply take them and move into my house?”
“We would have asked!” Inna’s husband interjected hastily. “But we couldn’t reach you—your phone was off…”
Rita blinked in disbelief. Did they truly think the issue boiled down to the lack of permission? That had they asked, she would have gladly allowed a family to occupy her home?
“How long have you been here?” Rita inquired sharply.
“A week,” Inna answered quietly. “We planned to stay another ten days…”
“Ten days,” Rita echoed.
A tense silence enveloped the kitchen. The boy carefully lowered his fork, glancing at his parents. The girl on Inna’s lap began whimpering, sensing the heavy atmosphere.
“Listen, Rita,” Inna’s husband spoke up. “We intended no harm. The house was empty anyway. We cleaned, watered the flowers, mowed the lawn. It’s not in worse shape than before.”
“Not worse?” Rita’s tone sharpened. “You moved into my home without consent, live here as if it’s yours, and say it’s ‘not worse’?”
“We didn’t break in!” Inna protested. “Vitka had the keys! We thought…”
“Thought what?” Rita cut in. “That I was gone? That the house belonged to nobody?”
Inna hugged her daughter tighter; her face had turned pale.
“You don’t understand,” she said, voice trembling. “We only get two weeks off a year. Renting costs too much. The kids were thrilled about coming to the dacha…”
“And what does that have to do with me?” Rita stepped further into the kitchen. The family instinctively backed away to the opposite wall. “This is my house! I inherited it from my father!”
“We know,” Inna’s husband mumbled. “We just thought…”
“Thought what? That you could take what isn’t yours without asking?”
- Rita’s claim to ownership was clear and unwavering.
- Inna’s family sought shelter out of financial necessity.
- The house had become a battleground of conflicting needs and rights.
Suddenly the boy burst into loud tears. Rita flinched as he sobbed, a thin child around eight with disheveled hair, tears streaming down his face.
“Mom, are we going home? What about the river and bike rides?” he wailed.
Rita felt a tight pang in her chest. The children were innocent—they only longed for outdoor fun. Yet, this was her sanctuary, the sole place where she could find peace.
“Rita,” Inna pleaded softly. “Please let us stay a few more days. We planned everything, bought food for the week. The kids were overjoyed…”
“And where am I supposed to live? On the street?” Rita countered.
“The house is spacious,” Inna’s husband suggested timidly. “There’s room for all of us. We could make it work…”
Rita’s glare silenced him instantly.
“Make it work? In my own home?”
She scanned the kitchen—the used dishes, children’s items scattered about, a bouquet of wildflowers in her childhood vase, and the pot of aromatic potatoes on the stove. They had truly made themselves comfortable as if it were their rightful residence.
“Where’s Vitka?” Rita inquired abruptly.
Exchanging glances, Inna repeated, “Vitka? Why do you ask?”
“Because he had the keys and, apparently, gave you permission.”
Reluctantly Inna replied, “He’s in the city. Preoccupied with his own matters.”
“Uh-huh. His own matters,” Rita scoffed without humor. “And giving away other people’s houses isn’t part of that, I guess?”
The little girl started whining again while the boy sniffled, hiding his face in his sleeve.
“Rita, we’re family,” Inna begged. “We used to be close. Can’t you show a little compassion?”
“Family?” Rita frowned. “Only when I was married to your brother. After the divorce, what family remains?”
“But—”
“No buts,” Rita interrupted. “Even if we were family, that wouldn’t grant you the right to claim someone else’s property!”
Inna set her daughter down and straightened. A firm resolve shone in her eyes.
“You can evict us, sure,” Inna said in a tone unsounded before. “Yet think: the house has lain empty for a year. We aired and cleaned it, tended the garden. Perhaps ease up on being… stingy?”
Rita paused, blinking in astonishment.
“Stingy?” she echoed. “Because I refuse to let unknown people inhabit my home?”
“We’re not strangers!” Inna exclaimed. “We’ve known each other for years! And what harm does it do you? You don’t live here now!”
“How do you know I don’t?” Rita’s voice softened but grew sharper. “Maybe I was about to spend the entire summer here.”
“Were you?” Inna chuckled scornfully. “A year ago, you were ‘about to,’ and two years ago?”
Fists clenched, Rita was amazed at Inna’s audacity—moving into another’s home, then lecturing the owner.
“Listen carefully,” Rita said deliberately, “Come morning, you pack up and leave. That’s final. No negotiations.”
“Are you insane?” Inna advanced, her eyes blazing. “How dare you!”
“Insane?” Rita laughed, hysteria thick in her tone. “You took over my home, living like owners, and you accuse me of madness?”
The children’s cries rose again, a chorus of distress filling the room.
“Look what you did! Happy now?” Inna shouted, trying to be heard.
Rita glanced at the sobbing children, feeling a painful knot tighten inside. While sympathy stirred, she questioned why she should suffer for their parents’ disrespect.
“This is your fault,” Rita said firmly. “Not mine.”
“We only wanted a peaceful rest!” Inna lifted her crying daughter. “Is that wrong?”
“Go rest elsewhere—just not in my home!”
“Where?” Inna’s husband shouted. “Where will we go? We can’t afford rent! Bills, loans, mortgage! We saved all year for this!”
“Still not my concern,” Rita retorted.
Yet looking more closely at the man—a worn face with dark circles, patched clothes—and at Inna’s unkempt appearance, Rita discerned hardship.
“Where do you work? And what are your incomes?” Rita asked.
Inna wiped her nose and answered, “I teach preschool. Sergei’s a mechanic at a factory. I earn fifty-two thousand, Sergei sixty-eight.”
“Over a hundred thousand for your family, then,” Rita calculated. “Not insignificant.”
“Not significant?” Inna laughed bitterly. “Mortgage takes forty-five thousand. Utilities eight. Kindergarten twelve. Essentials consume the rest.”
“So you think that justifies moving into someone else’s property without consent?”
“We didn’t take over!” Sergei erupted. “Vitka gave us keys! Said you wouldn’t mind!”
“Vitka said?” Rita raised her eyebrows. “Since when does he have rights over my property?”
“Well… he’s your ex-husband…”
“Exactly: ex. No rights at all.”
Before Sergei could reply, Rita spoke decisively, “We are done here. I want peace in my house. You leave today. End of story.”
“Rita…”
“It’s over.”
Turning away, Rita left the kitchen but paused in the hallway, hearing whispered voices and sniffles. A long night awaited in a home recently shared with strangers.
When she entered her bedroom, children’s clothes were folded on the bed with books and water nearby—a sign Inna’s children had slept there.
“Excuse me,” a hesitant voice spoke behind her.
She turned to see Sergei standing in the doorway, guilt on his face.
“Should we start packing?” he inquired.
“Start now,” Rita said curtly.
“But where will we sleep? There are no nearby hotels.”
“That’s your problem.”
Sergei lingered a moment then left. From the kitchen, Rita heard the sound of belongings being gathered. Sitting by the window, she watched night fall and neighbors turn on their lights.
Was she too harsh? The children were innocent, and maybe her former sister-in-law truly underestimated the severity of their intrusion. Yet no, this was her home to protect.
Within half an hour, the family was ready to depart. The children wore jackets over pajamas; Inna packed the last items; Sergei carried suitcases silently to the car.
“Rita,” Inna called as they prepared to leave. “Could we stay just one more night? We’ll leave first thing.”
“No,” Rita answered firmly. “Leave now.”
“The kids are tired! Artyomka biked all day, and Lizka’s just little! Where will we go this late?”
“You should’ve thought ahead.”
Inna paused at the door, then swung back.
“Fine! That’s why you live alone.”
The door slammed. Rita watched as the family loaded into the battered car, Artyomka resisting, Lizka fussing, Inna arguing with Sergei.
Finally, the vehicle drove away, red taillights diminishing between the trees. Closing the gate, Rita returned to the silent house—finally, peace.
Yet unease lingered. As she walked through, she picked up forgotten items: a hair clip, a rubber ball, a coloring book. In the bathroom, unknown toothbrushes and children’s toothpaste sat on the shelf. The refrigerator held milk, yogurt, and fruit—food left behind.
All would need disposing or donating. Rita cleaned the dishes again and mopped the floors thoroughly with disinfectant.
By midday, the house resembled itself once more, free from evidence of uninvited guests.
Stepping outside, Rita inspected the garden. The grass was indeed cut, and the bushes trimmed. Inna and Sergei hadn’t lied about care, but did that justify their unauthorized stay?
In the shed, Rita found an old wooden sign from her father that labeled an apple variety. She scraped off the faded letters and wrote a clear message: “Private Property. Do Not Enter Without Invitation.” She affixed it prominently on the gate—a firm declaration.
That evening, the phone rang—it was an unfamiliar number.
“Hello?”
“Rita, it’s Inna.”
“What do you want?”
“We spent the night in the car. The kids caught colds. Artyomka’s coughing, Lizka has a fever.”
Rita hesitated, feeling compassion for the children, but…
“What should I say?”
“Could you let us stay a couple of days until they recover?”
“No.”
“Rita, how can you? The kids are ill!”
“Go home and care for them.”
“You’re heartless!” Inna’s voice cracked with tears. “How could you be so cruel?”
“I am safeguarding my property. Next time, ask before using someone else’s home.”
“We thought…”
“You should have thought sooner.”
Rita ended the call and blocked the number. The calls ceased.
A week later, Viktor appeared—aged with gray temples and wrinkles, dressed carelessly.
“Rita, open up,” he called, knocking on the gate. “We need to talk.”
Rita stepped outside but left the gate closed.
“Speak from there.”
“Inna told me you kicked them out.”
“And?”
“What do you mean, ‘and’? The kids are sick because of you!”
“Because of me?” Rita laughed. “Was I the one who gave permission?”
“I thought you wouldn’t mind…”
“You thought? Didn’t you ask?”
Viktor shuffled away.
“Sorry. I believed you’d be okay with it. The house was empty.”
“Empty does not mean ownerless.”
“I understand! But they only have one vacation a year and cannot afford rent.”
“I’ve told you, it’s not my business.”
“Rita, be humane! Let them stay.”
“No.”
“What’s come over you? You weren’t like this.”
“Before, no one moved into my home unlawfully.”
Viktor lingered briefly before departing, never to return.
Weeks passed. Rita returned to the dacha regularly, restoring the fence, repainting the porch, planting flowers. Neighbors, surprised at her frequent visits, soon greeted her warmly.
“What happened to the family staying at your place?” Valentina Ivanovna asked.
“What family?” Rita replied.
“You know—the ones with the kids, biking and wandering the woods.”
“They moved out.”
“A shame. They seemed nice. Well-behaved children.”
Rita said nothing, letting neighbors believe what they wished.
Later, a new lock appeared on the shed gate. Scratches showed an attempt to force entry, likely by Inna and her husband searching for spare keys. There were none.
Another week later, Rita installed two security cameras—one watching the gate, the other overseeing the front door—ensuring any future entry attempts would be recorded.
By summer’s end, the dacha had been renewed. Internet was installed, new furniture purchased, and a work space created. Now, Rita could not only work remotely but also enjoy her country house securely.
Inna never called again. Viktor did not return. It seemed they finally accepted that free use of someone else’s home was over.
Final Reflection: Rita’s experience illuminates the complexities when family boundaries and property rights collide. While compassion for struggling loved ones is natural, respect for personal property remains crucial. Her story is a compelling reminder: ownership warrants protection, even amidst hardship, and communication is key before crossing any thresholds not one’s own.