Tanya gazed out into the yard. Just yesterday, her grandmother Aleksandra Dmitrievna had been sitting under the old cherry tree in her favorite wicker chair. She watched the blooming peonies, squinting in the sunlight, a gentle smile tracing the wrinkles around her eyes. But today, the sky was heavy with gray clouds, and a silence settled that chilled to the bone. Only the wind swayed the branches as if bidding farewell.
“Tanya, we need to go,” Ilya appeared in the doorway, adjusting his tie. “Everyone’s already gathered.”
Without turning, Tanya nodded. She didn’t want to leave. It was hard to believe her grandmother was gone. No longer would she greet her at the door with, “I made you some pancakes!” No kisses, no questions about the children, no repeated “You look just like me when I was your age.”
Wiping tears from her wrist, Tanya asked her husband, “Where are the kids?”
“They’re already in the car. Mom dressed them.”
Nadezhda Sergeevna, Tanya’s mother-in-law, had arrived the day before, right after Aleksandra Dmitrievna passed away. She came with a suitcase, as if planning to stay indefinitely. “I’m here to help with the funeral,” she said. But instead of helping, she wandered the house, inspecting furniture, opening closets, murmuring about “good renovations.”
Stepping outside, Tanya felt the drizzle turning the ground to sticky mud. A hearse stood by the gate. Neighbors, distant relatives, and acquaintances of her grandmother spoke softly, all dressed in black with bowed heads.
“How are you holding up?” asked Masha, Aleksandra Dmitrievna’s neighbor.
Tanya only nodded; words stuck in her throat. Three weeks of constant care for her ailing grandmother—sleepless nights, IV drips, thermometers, pills on schedule. All in vain. She hadn’t saved her. Couldn’t protect her.
Yesterday, when her grandmother slipped away, it was just the two of them in the room. Tanya held her hand—so light, almost weightless. Aleksandra Dmitrievna tried to speak but couldn’t, only squeezed her granddaughter’s fingers before falling silent.
“Tanya, take Artyom,” Masha handed over her youngest son, shivering. The three-year-old buried his face in his mother’s neck. He carried his great-grandmother’s blood—the same eyes, the same furrowed brow when angry. Tanya’s elder daughter, eight-year-old Liza, stood quietly beside her father. They resembled each other—dark-haired, tall, silent.
The ceremony passed like a blur. Tanya remembered only the cold wind, black umbrellas, clumps of earth dropping onto the coffin. And a numbness—heavy and thick, preventing genuine tears.
After the funeral, everyone went to the grandmother’s house for remembrance. The house where Tanya had spent her childhood while her parents traveled for work. The house left to her by will. Old but sturdy, with a large yard, apple orchard, and river view.
Nadezhda Sergeevna busied herself at the table, arranging plates and pouring jelly. She directed neighbors helping in the kitchen.
“No, put that salad here! And slice the bread thinner!”
“Like she owns the place,” Tanya thought silently. Now wasn’t the time to argue.
People ate, shared stories about Aleksandra Dmitrievna—how she taught village children, helped everyone, saved a neighbor’s boy who fell through ice. Tanya listened, finally grasping what an extraordinary woman her grandmother was.
“Ilya, can I talk to you for a minute?” Nadezhda Sergeevna called her son, and they stepped into the hallway.
Tanya remained at the table, mechanically shifting food. She had no appetite.
“Tanya, listen,” Masha leaned across the table. “Don’t be upset, but your mother-in-law has been telling everyone she plans to live in this house. Said Ilya promised her a room. Is that true?”
Surprised, Tanya looked at her neighbor.
“What? No, of course not. Ilya and I haven’t even discussed it. We have our own apartment in the city.”
Masha shrugged vaguely and walked away.
When people began to leave, Tanya went upstairs, wanting to rest her pounding head. Her grandmother’s room was quiet and smelled of familiar herbs. She traced her hand over the bedspread, the books, the old photo of her grandmother in youth, beautiful with a long braid. Tears finally flowed—sharp and burning.
Voices came through the slightly open door. Nadezhda Sergeevna and Ilya were talking in the hallway.
“She needs to understand I have to live somewhere too,” the mother-in-law said. “My apartment is too small, and there’s so much space here! Aleksandra Dmitrievna would have agreed.”
“Mom, not now,” Ilya replied. “Let Tanya have some time to recover.”
“When? When she decides everything already? Are you my son or what?”
Frozen, Tanya feared to move. Were they really discussing splitting the house? On the day of the funeral?
That evening, everyone left. Ilya put the children to bed in Tanya’s old room. Nadezhda Sergeevna stayed in the guest room. Tanya stayed downstairs, cleaning the table and washing dishes, her mind swirling with fatigue and unspoken words.
“Tanya, we need to talk.”
Nadezhda Sergeevna stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, wearing a simple housecoat, hair tied up, glasses on a chain. She looked older, harsher.
“Let’s do it tomorrow,” Tanya turned to the sink. “I have no strength now.”
“No, now,” her mother-in-law stepped closer. “The house you inherited from the old lady, I’m taking it.”
Tanya slowly turned, disbelief in her eyes. Nadezhda Sergeevna’s gaze was cold and calculating.
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t play dumb,” her mother-in-law snapped. “At my age, I need a decent place to live. You’re young—you’ll earn more. Besides, you have your own apartment.”
“Aleksandra Dmitrievna was like a mother to me,” Tanya’s voice trembled. “She left me the house in her will.”
“So what?” Nadezhda Sergeevna snorted. “You know we’re family. What’s mine is yours, and yours is mine.”
Tanya looked at her wet hands. The will was drawn up a year ago. Grandma planned everything to avoid problems, to make sure Tanya and the children would get the house they loved—to have a place for summers, to tend the garden, welcome guests, and remember her.
“Nadezhda Sergeevna, the house belongs to me and the children. That was my grandmother’s decision.”
“I don’t care what your grandma decided!” the mother-in-law yelled. “Ilya! Come here!”
Ilya appeared in the doorway—tired, eyes red. His gaze flicked between wife and mother.
“What’s going on?”
“Explain to your wife,” Nadezhda Sergeevna said through clenched teeth, “that in our family, things don’t work like that. The house will be ours.”
Ilya shrugged helplessly.
“Tanya, you understand… Mom’s apartment is small. It’s hard for her alone. And there’s so much space here.”
“You too?” Tanya couldn’t believe it. “Ilya, grandma was just buried today!”
“What does that have to do with anything?” his mother snapped. “Business is business. Paperwork is one thing, family is another.”
Tanya silently wiped her hands and went upstairs to the children’s room. Artyom was asleep, his hand under his cheek. Liza lay sprawled under the blanket. Tanya tucked her in and stroked her hair.
“Well,” she thought, “morning will show what’s what.”
The next morning Tanya woke early, quietly slipped out of bed so as not to wake the children. Dawn was soft and pink outside, promising a clear day. She went to the kitchen and froze at the door.
Nadezhda Sergeevna was already bustling about. Two suitcases and a bag of pots sat on the table. She was cooking, organizing groceries, folding towels.
“Good morning,” she said upon seeing Tanya. “I decided to move everything at once. Why wait? I’m living here now.”
Tanya silently poured herself some water.
“I’ve already put my city apartment up for sale,” Nadezhda Sergeevna continued. “The money will help Ilya start a business. He’s wanted his own for a long time.”
“And what about asking me?” Tanya quietly asked.
“What’s there to ask?” her mother-in-law smiled. “The house is shared now.”
The front door slammed. Ilya came in with a toolbox.
“Hi,” he grunted. “Mom, I brought fence posts and paint.”
“What’s going on?” Tanya looked at her husband. “Why a fence? What paint?”
Ilya avoided her gaze.
“We need to fix up the yard. Mom’s wanted a flower bed for a while.”
“That’s it?” Tanya felt something cold and hard rise inside. “You just decided that?”
“Tanya, don’t start,” Ilya said, setting the box down. “You know—Mom lives alone. She needs a home, care.”
Nadezhda Sergeevna smiled triumphantly.
“So that’s settled. I’m taking the bigger room upstairs. You and the kids can have the corner one when you visit.”
“Wait,” Tanya clenched her glass until her knuckles whitened. “This house belongs to me. Grandma’s will says so. I decide who lives where.”
“Tanya,” Ilya’s voice grew irritated, “what will a will change? We’re family. We must support each other.”
“Especially your mom, right?” Tanya set the glass down. “And who helped me these past three weeks? Changing diapers, giving injections, calling the ambulance? Where were you all?”
“I have work,” Ilya shrugged.
“And I have kids and high blood pressure,” Nadezhda Sergeevna replied.
Tanya left the kitchen without a word and went upstairs to her grandmother’s room. There, in the old dresser, lay all the documents—the house deed, the land papers, the will. She took out the folder and flipped through the pages. Everything was in order. The house belonged to her.
Back in the kitchen, Tanya laid the papers on the table.
“Here,” she said calmly. “This house is mine. Officially. I don’t mind if you, Nadezhda Sergeevna, visit occasionally. But we—me and the children—will live here.”
Her mother-in-law didn’t even glance at the papers.
“That’s just a formality,” she waved off. “In a family, everything is shared.”
“Enough, Mom,” Ilya suddenly said. “Tanya is right. The house belongs to her.”
Surprised, Tanya looked at her husband. She hadn’t expected support.
“What?!” Nadezhda Sergeevna threw up her hands. “You’re against your mother?”
“I’m for fairness,” Ilya answered firmly. “The house was left to Tanya. We have no right to take it away.”
Her mother-in-law narrowed her eyes.
“I see. It’s clear. You chose her side,” she gathered her things, looking like she was ready to leave immediately. “And what am I supposed to do now? Where will I live?”
“In your own apartment, like before,” Tanya said.
“No,” she snapped. “If that’s the case, I can’t stay there anymore! I’m moving in with you—in the city.”
Something inside Tanya snapped. Out of the fire and into the frying pan. Ilya helplessly shifted his gaze between mother and wife.
Tanya silently went upstairs, grabbed the folder with documents and her phone. She called the local officer, Sergey Petrovich, a friend of Aleksandra Dmitrievna. Without yelling or drama—just to put an end to it.
“Sergey Petrovich, good afternoon,” she said softly. “This is Tanya, Aleksandra Dmitrievna’s granddaughter. I need your help.”
The next day, Tanya received a message from the officer that her complaint had been accepted. Her mother-in-law left—slamming the door behind her, calling Tanya ungrateful and threatening that Ilya would regret his choice. Ilya disappeared for three days—no calls, no home visits.
Tanya stayed alone in her grandmother’s house with the children. Liza, who had kept asking where her father had gone, finally quieted. Artyom, sensing his mother’s mood, behaved unusually calm—playing quietly in the corner, not demanding attention.
On the third day, Tanya’s phone rang. She jumped, seeing her husband’s name on the screen.
“Where are you?” she asked without greeting. “The kids are worried.”
“I’m at a friend’s,” Ilya’s voice sounded strange. “I needed to think.”
“And what did you decide?”
“I don’t know, Tanya. Mom says you threw her out like a dog.”
Tanya rubbed her temple tiredly. Lies had become routine for Nadezhda Sergeevna.
“Can I take the kids today?” Ilya asked. “Even for a few hours.”
“Of course. They’re waiting for you.”
Ilya arrived an hour later, looking gaunt and tired. He brought toys. Liza and Artyom ran to their father, hugging him and excitedly telling about the past days.
“Come back home,” Ilya said when the children ran off to get ready for a walk.
“I’m already home,” Tanya replied.
“You know what I mean.”
“To the city apartment?” Tanya shook her head. “With your mother? Who’s already made it clear my grandmother is just an old woman to her and that my rights to this house mean nothing?”
“You’re too harsh on her.”
Tanya looked at her husband, barely recognizing him. The man she married ten years ago kept his word. This one hesitated between his mother and wife, unable to take sides.
“You’re an adult, Ilya. It’s your decision how to live. But I won’t let myself be humiliated anymore. Neither by you nor your mother.”
Ilya took the children, promising to return by evening. He came back earlier—Liza and Artyom were tired and wanted to be with their mother.
Tanya didn’t want war. She wanted peace. The house remained hers, and she and the children gradually moved in. She brought essentials from their city apartment, enrolled the children in the local school and kindergarten. Officer Sergey Petrovich helped with documents and gave advice on what to do next.
Her mother-in-law called with accusations—each call filled with blame. “You broke up the family,” “You separated the father from the children,” “You took away his only comfort.” Tanya listened quietly, sometimes hanging up.
Ilya called with hesitant pleas. “Maybe you’ll come back?” “The kids need their father,” “Let’s forget everything.” Tanya replied shortly, “Come when you want to see the children. They’re waiting.”
A few weeks later, Ilya arrived with boxes. Silently, he moved things to the porch and began assembling furniture. Tanya watched from the kitchen window until he finished, then stepped outside.
“What are you doing?”
“A desk for the kids,” Ilya tested its sturdiness. “They need a place to do homework.”
“Thanks, but you could have asked first.”
Ilya straightened and looked at his wife.
“I thought I’d live here. With you.”
Tanya shook her head.
“We won’t live together anymore.”
“And the kids?” Ilya took a step closer. “I’m their father.”
“The kids will live where their mother is respected,” Tanya said calmly and closed the door, locking it.
Ilya stood on the porch for a long time, then left, got in his car, and drove away. The headache pills did nothing for Tanya that night.
Three days later, her mother-in-law returned. Thinner, using a cane, but just as determined. She knocked on the door unannounced.
Tanya didn’t open. She went to the garden, hugged her children, and started picking raspberries from bushes planted by Aleksandra Dmitrievna years ago. Behind her, the house remained closed—to noise, accusations, and unwanted claims on her life.
Nadezhda Sergeevna stood at the gate, glanced back at the house, at Tanya and the children—and left for good.
Tanya realized her grandmother had been right. A home isn’t just a roof over your head. It’s where you can truly be yourself. Where no one can take away what belongs to you—not just on paper, but in your heart.