“We’re Selling Your Cottage. My Mother Needs It More.” – The Only Thing the Woman Did Was Make One Phone Call to the Neighbor
Seryozha threw his car keys onto the dining table and calmly began unbuttoning his coat. He said the next sentence so casually, as if he wasn’t talking about an important part of someone’s life, but about an old useless object that needed to be thrown away.
— We’re selling your cottage. My mother needs it more.
Anya froze beside the stove.
The oven mitt slipped slowly from her fingers and fell silently onto the edge of the table.
— What cottage are you talking about? — she asked quietly, still standing with her back turned.
Seryozha laughed in confusion.
— Yours, of course. There isn’t another one. I can’t talk about mine because I don’t have one.
He took off his shoes, kicked them aside carelessly, and walked into the kitchen as if they were discussing something that had already been decided long ago.
He stopped behind Anya, looked into the frying pan, and continued:
— Don’t start this again. We’re family. My mother is having serious problems. Her floor is ruined, the bathroom pipes are leaking, and any day now she could flood the downstairs neighbor’s apartment. She called me today, she was almost crying.
Anya slowly put down the wooden spoon.
She already felt that something was wrong.
— And?
— She found workers who can do the renovation, but she doesn’t have the money. And you’re sitting on a six-hundred-square-meter plot of land, going there only twice a year, and all that grows there is weeds. What’s the point of keeping it? We’ll sell it, and that’s it. We’ll fix my mother’s apartment with the money. There’ll even be enough left for new furniture.
The man’s voice was calm.
Too calm.
As if he wasn’t asking her, but simply announcing a decision.
Anya felt something cold tighten inside her.
— Are you seriously saying that I should use my inheritance to pay for your mother’s renovation?
She turned around.
She looked directly into her husband’s eyes.
— This property was a gift from my aunt. It is registered in my name. And I am not selling it.
Seryozha’s face tightened.
He had expected exactly this reaction.
He expected Anya to protest at first. To get angry. To resist for a while. Then, after a few days, to change her mind.
Because that was how it had always been.
First she objected, then she gave in.
But this time, there was something different in her voice.
— You’re making a problem out of everything again, — he said irritably while pouring himself water. — Yesterday I already discussed everything with my mother. The land is in a good location. We’ll find a buyer quickly. This weekend I’ll go there, take pictures, and put it up for sale.
Anya stared at him in disbelief.
— So you already want to advertise it? Without me?
— Anya, don’t act like some terrible injustice is happening. My mother really needs it.
Of course.
Zinaida Petrovna always thought this way.
Her daughter-in-law’s property never truly belonged to someone else in her eyes.
It was simply something she would eventually have a right to.
Four years earlier, when Anya inherited the small wooden cottage, her mother-in-law had already started making plans during her very first visit.
— We should build a sauna here for Seryozha, — she said.
— And this part can become a vegetable garden.
— That corner would be perfect for storing jars and preserves.
That was the first time in her life Anya had said no.
She didn’t want a garden for someone else’s benefit.
She didn’t want to spend her weekends working.
She didn’t want another place where everyone told her what to do.
She only wanted a little peace and quiet.
Zinaida was offended.
She called her useless.
Then she barely spoke to her for months.
But Seryozha found his own “use” for the property.
Slowly, he began bringing his belongings there.
Old pipes.
Rusty radiators.
Pieces of metal.
Car parts.
Everything he said would “be useful someday.”
— Scrap metal is worth money, — he always said.
But by the time Anya realized what was happening, her peaceful little cottage had turned into a junkyard.
The house was barely visible anymore.
Anya crossed her arms.
— My answer is no.
Seryozha looked at her.
— What?
— I’m not selling it. It’s my property. End of discussion.
The man’s face turned red.
He placed his cup on the counter harder than necessary.
— Then listen carefully. Tomorrow I’m bringing a real estate agent there. We’ll evaluate the land. And when a serious buyer comes, we’ll see how you plan to stop everything.
He stepped closer.
— My mother is already counting on that money. You’re not going to embarrass me in front of her.
Anya just looked at him.
It wasn’t his anger that frightened her.
It was the fact that he truly believed he had the right to decide for her.
Seryozha grabbed his coat.
— I’m going to help my mother before the renovation starts. Meanwhile, you should think about how selfish you’re being.
The door slammed shut.
The apartment suddenly became silent.
Anya stood in the middle of the kitchen.
She didn’t cry.
She didn’t break down.
She simply looked at her phone lying on the windowsill.
He was bringing a real estate agent tomorrow?
Fine.
Then she would do something too.
Slowly, she picked up the phone and searched her contacts under the letter “M.”
— Misha? Hi. It’s Anya, from the cottage.
A deep male voice laughed on the other end.
— Well, hello, neighbor! What happened? Did your husband bring another load of metal again? I’m starting to worry it’ll spill over into my yard one day.
Anya smiled.
But there was no kindness in that smile anymore.
Only determination.
— No, Misha. This time it’s something much more serious.
— What is it?
— You recently told me you bought a new welding machine. A powerful one.
The man’s voice immediately became more serious.
— Yes. Why?
Anya looked out the window.
— Because I need it.
A moment of silence.
— For what?
— For a lesson.
Forty minutes later, Anya was already sitting in her car on the way to the cottage.
She wasn’t crying.
She wasn’t shaking.
The plan was already complete in her mind.
Misha was waiting by the fence.
He stood there wearing canvas gloves, his welding mask pushed up onto his forehead, carefully examining the green metal fence.
And behind the fence stood Seryozha’s pride:
the enormous pile of scrap he had collected over the years.
And Anya knew one thing for certain:
tomorrow, she would no longer be the one being presented with a fait accompli.
