Dasha stood on the porch of her new dacha and took a deep breath of pine-scented air. Finally. Five years of saving, endless talks about loans, arguments with Maxim—and here it was: their very own land. A small but cozy house, a plot with young apple trees, and a view of the lake. A dream.

“Max, can you imagine—this summer we’ll hang a hammock here,” she smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“And I can already picture myself grilling shashlik on that barbecue,” he said, putting an arm around her shoulders.

They had barely carried in the last box when an old Lada rolled into the yard. Dasha frowned. The car was familiar.

Out climbed Lyudmila Petrovna, Dasha’s mother-in-law, in a bright dress and carrying an enormous bag. Behind her came Maxim’s younger brother Igor, a cigarette in his teeth, and his wife Katya, who immediately pulled out her phone and started furiously typing.

“Well, here we are!” Lyudmila Petrovna flung her arms wide as if expecting applause. “We decided to come see you—and relax a bit too. It’s stifling in the city, and here you’ve got…” She looked around. “Modest, but it’ll do.”

Dasha felt her fingers turn cold. They hadn’t even called.

“Mom… you didn’t say you were coming…” Maxim hesitated.

“And what, I need to file a report now?” his mother snorted. “Are we family or not?”

Meanwhile Igor was already hauling their suitcases into the house.

“Hey, where’s your fridge?” he yelled from the kitchen. “Beer needs chilling—after the drive it’s all warm and gross.”

Katya, without looking up from her phone, walked past Dasha and tossed over her shoulder:

“Oh, by the way, do you have Wi-Fi here? I need to upload content.”

Dasha clenched her fists. They were acting like it was their house.

“Maxim,” she said quietly but clearly. “Are they planning to live here?”

He rubbed his forehead, avoiding her eyes.

“Well… for a couple of days… Mom doesn’t ask often.”

“A couple of days?” Dasha looked at the suitcases. There were enough for at least a week.

By then Lyudmila Petrovna was already spreading her things out in the bedroom.

“Oh, Dash, you don’t mind if we stay in here, do you?” she called. “That little room of yours has a hard couch, and my back hurts.”

Dasha whirled toward Maxim.

“Are you serious?”

He exhaled.

“Oh, come on—what’s the big deal… Let them stay. Just a week.”

“No, Maxim.” Her voice trembled. “This is our home. And if you don’t tell them right now that they are guests here, I will. And you won’t like how that goes.”

Tension hung in the air.

Then from the kitchen came the crash of breaking dishes.

“Oh, damn!” Katya laughed. “Whatever—some cheap junk anyway, right?”

Dasha exhaled slowly.

It was only beginning.

The morning started with a loud slam of a door. Dasha flinched and opened her eyes. The sun barely filtered through the curtains, but the house was already noisy.

She threw on a robe and stepped into the hallway. From the kitchen came loud laughter and the smell of frying bacon.

“Morning, sleepyhead!” Lyudmila Petrovna stood at the stove flipping eggs. “We’ve almost made everything. You just make coffee—I don’t understand your machine.”

Dasha stared at the table in silence. It was obvious they’d cooked only for themselves: two plates piled high with food, croissants, bacon…

“Did it not occur to you that we might want breakfast too?” she asked, trying to keep her voice calm.

“Oh please, you’re on a diet,” her mother-in-law waved her off. “And Maxim can heat something up himself if he wakes up.”

From the living room Igor’s voice carried:

“Dasha, where’s the TV remote? I don’t get anything here—just your weird movies.”

She took a deep breath.

“In the desk drawer.”

“Didn’t find it.”

“Under the magazine.”

“Oh—there.”

A soccer match blared at full volume.

Dasha made coffee and sat down on the porch steps. A minute later Maxim joined her. He looked rumpled and clearly exhausted.

“What—running away too?” she couldn’t help a faint smirk.

“Are they always like this?” he dragged a hand down his face.

“What, you never noticed before?”

Maxim sighed.

“Okay, it’s just a couple of days…”

“Maxim.” Dasha turned to him. “They took our bedroom. They’re eating our food without asking. They’re blasting the TV at seven in the morning. These aren’t ‘guests.’ They’re occupiers.”

He rubbed his temples.

“I just… don’t want a fight.”

“And you think I do?”

At that moment the door flew open and Katya bounced onto the porch.

“Oh, you’re out here!” she smiled, but her eyes stayed cold. “Dash, do you have an iPhone charger? I forgot mine.”

“In the bedroom, top drawer.”

“Could you bring it? My nail polish just dried…” She showed off her fresh manicure.

Dasha slowly stood.

“Katya, are you aware that this house has legs?”

Katya froze for a second, then let out a fake laugh.

“Oh my God, you’re something else! Fine, I’ll get it myself.”

She disappeared inside, clicking loudly in her heels.

Maxim reached for a cigarette.

“Damn… maybe we really should tell them to—”

“To what?” Lyudmila Petrovna’s voice cut in. She stood in the doorway, arms crossed. “To leave? Is that how you welcome your own family? I raised you for thirty years, and you—”

“Mom, I just…” Maxim faltered.

“Just nothing!” She snapped her head toward Dasha. “It’s you putting him against us!”

Dasha stood up.

“Lyudmila Petrovna, you came without warning. You took our bedroom. You—”

“Oh, enough!” the older woman slashed the air with her hand. “You’re so ungrateful! We’re family!”

“Family doesn’t behave like this!”

Silence.

Lyudmila Petrovna’s face suddenly changed.

“Fine,” she stepped back. “You want it that way? We’ll leave. And Maxim will come with us.”

She spun around and stormed back into the house.

Maxim jumped up.

“Dasha…”

“Go,” she said, not looking at him. “Deal with your family.”

He hesitated for a second, then followed his mother.

Dasha stayed alone.

Something inside her tightened into a hard knot.

But she knew—this was only the beginning.

Dasha stood in the living room doorway and couldn’t believe her eyes. On the floor, among shattered porcelain, lay her favorite vase—the last gift her mother had given her before she died. And over it stood Katya with a carefree smirk.

“Why are you staring like I committed a crime?” Katya shrugged. “It fell on its own when I opened the curtains.”

Dasha walked closer. Every shard felt like it cut her from the inside. She bent down and picked up a piece of ceramic with part of the floral pattern still intact.

“Do you know how old it was?” Dasha asked softly. “Over a hundred. My mother’s grandmother protected it…”

“Oh, give it a rest!” Katya snorted. “Who cares? It’s just a trinket. Maxim said you’ve got tons of junk from your dead lady anyway.”

Dasha shot upright. Blood roared in her ears.

“Out.” Her hand shook as she pointed to the door. “Out of my house. Now.”

Katya rolled her eyes.

“Oh, shut up. This isn’t your house—it’s a family house! Lyudmila Petrovna said—”

“I said—OUT!” Dasha shouted so sharply Katya instinctively recoiled.

The noise drew the others. Lyudmila Petrovna immediately stepped between them.

“What’s going on here?”

“She did!” Katya jabbed a finger at Dasha. “Started screaming at me over some broken wreck!”

Dasha silently held out the shard with the pattern to her mother-in-law. The older woman glanced at it and waved it away at once.

“So what? It broke—things happen. You found some kind of holy relic?”

Maxim stood in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot. Dasha looked at him, searching for support, but he lowered his eyes.

“Maxim…” she began.

“Dasha, honestly,” he cut in, “maybe it’s not worth it over a vase…”

In that moment, she understood everything. She inhaled deeply.

“Fine.” Dasha spoke calmly. “Then I’m leaving. While they’re here—I’m not.”

Lyudmila Petrovna snorted.

“Go on, then. It’s quieter without you.”

Dasha turned and walked to the bedroom. Behind her Katya’s voice floated out:

“Seriously? She’s nuts!”

Dasha shut the door and leaned against it. Tears burned her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall. She took her phone and called a taxi. Then she started packing.

Half an hour later she came out into the hallway with a suitcase. Maxim sat at the kitchen table, his head buried in his hands.

“I… I’ll come back when they’re gone,” Dasha said.

He nodded silently, not lifting his gaze.

As the taxi pulled away, Dasha looked back at the house one last time. In the living-room window, Lyudmila Petrovna’s silhouette hovered—watching with a satisfied smile.

But the worst came later.

An hour after that, when Dasha returned for some forgotten documents, she heard her mother-in-law’s voice through the half-open bedroom door:

“Let her go. You’ll divorce—half the house will be yours, and we’ll take the other half through court. I’ve already talked to someone…”

Dasha froze. Then she quietly stepped back and left.

Now she knew: this was war.

Dasha sat in her friend Lena’s empty apartment and stared out the window. Rain tapped at the glass like it was counting down the hours of the fight. Three days already. Maxim hadn’t called.

Her phone lay on the table. The last message was from Lyudmila Petrovna:

“You’re destroying a family. Think about what you’ve done.”

Dasha picked up the phone and dialed her husband. Long ringing. Finally he answered.

“Dasha…” His voice sounded tired.

“Did you see your mother’s message?”

“Yes… She’s just worried.”

“She’s worried?” Dasha bit her lip. “Maxim, I heard what she said. About dividing the house.”

Silence. Then a heavy sigh.

“You misunderstood…”

“I understood perfectly. They want to take our home.”

“Dasha, it’s just words…”

“No, Maxim. It’s a plan.”

She hung up. Her hands were shaking.

An hour later there was a knock at the door. Maxim stood on the threshold—soaked, eyes red.

“I can’t live without you,” he whispered.

“And them?”

“They stayed at the dacha.”

Dasha stepped aside and let him in.

“I didn’t know they were planning something like that,” he dropped onto the couch, clutching his head. “Mom said you were making it up…”

“And you believed her.”

“I… I don’t know.”

Dasha sat beside him.

“Then listen to this.”

She pulled out her phone and played a voice memo. Lyudmila Petrovna’s voice rang out clearly:

“You’ll divorce—half the house is yours, and we’ll take the other half through court…”

Maxim went pale.

“Where did you—”

“I came back for documents. And recorded it.”

He sprang up and started pacing.

“My God… They… they…”

“Now do you understand?”

Maxim spun toward her.

“We’ll sell the dacha.”

“What?”

“We’ll sell it and buy another. Far from them.”

Dasha shook her head.

“No. This is our home. And we’re not giving it up.”

“But how—”

“We fight. Together.”

He looked at her, and something hardened into resolve in his eyes.

“Okay. Together.”

At that moment Maxim’s phone rang. The screen said: “Mom.”

They exchanged a look.

“Don’t answer,” Dasha said.

He set the phone down and pulled her into a hug.

But the ringing didn’t stop.

The next morning began with loud pounding on the door. Dasha glanced at the clock—7:30. Maxim was still asleep after a night shift. She threw on her robe and went to the door.

“Who is it?”

“Open up, sweetheart!” came a familiar voice.

Dasha inhaled slowly and turned the key. On the threshold stood Lyudmila Petrovna in a new coat, nails done, hair styled. Behind her Igor shuffled his feet.

“Well, do you welcome family like this?” she said, walking into the apartment without being invited, inspecting everything with exaggerated interest. “Cozy enough. Could be better though—if my son lived like he deserved.”

Dasha blocked her path toward the bedroom.

“Maxim is sleeping. He worked at night.”

“Oh, the poor baby!” Lyudmila Petrovna snorted loudly. “And what, I didn’t work nights raising him?”

Noise came from the bedroom. A minute later Maxim appeared, sleepy, hair mussed.

“Mom? What happened?”

“What a reception!” his mother spread her arms. “My son hasn’t called his mother for three days, hasn’t answered! I thought you were in the hospital!”

Maxim rubbed his eyes.

“I was working…”

“You’re lying!” Lyudmila Petrovna lunged toward him. “You were with her! You abandoned your own mother for that—” she threw a poisonous look at Dasha.

Dasha caught her husband’s eyes. He looked shaken—but there was determination there.

“Mom, enough,” he said quietly. “Dasha and I talked everything through. And I know about your plans for the dacha.”

Lyudmila Petrovna froze, then let out a fake laugh.

“What plans? What are you talking about?”

“I heard your conversation,” Dasha said clearly. “And I recorded it.”

The mother-in-law snapped her head toward her.

“You were eavesdropping? How disgusting!” She stepped forward, but Maxim moved between them.

“That’s enough, Mom. We are not selling the dacha. And we’re not divorcing.”

Lyudmila Petrovna’s face twisted. Then she abruptly changed tactics.

“My son,” her voice turned syrupy, “you understand I only wanted what’s best for you. She’s not your match! Look at her—no family, no status—”

“Mom!” Maxim raised his voice for the first time in years. “She is my wife. And if you ever again—”

“What? Ever again what?” Lyudmila Petrovna burst into tears. “So now your own mother is your enemy? After everything I did? I kept you from starving when your father drank!”

Igor, who had been silent until then, suddenly chimed in:

“Come on, Max. Mom’s just worried. Apologize.”

Dasha watched with an icy calm. She could see Maxim wavering under the pressure of their emotions.

“That’s it,” she said sharply. “I’m done. Lyudmila Petrovna, you came into my home and insulted me. Leave. Now.”

The older woman looked at her son, waiting for his reaction. But Maxim didn’t move.

“You… you hear how she’s talking to me?” she sobbed.

“I hear it,” Maxim replied softly. “And I’m asking you to leave. Both of you.”

Lyudmila Petrovna’s face turned crimson.

“So that’s how it is! Fine! But remember, Maxim,” she jabbed a trembling finger at him, “as long as I’m alive, you’ll answer for this! And for that dacha too!”

She whipped around and left, slamming the door. Igor shot them a hateful look and followed.

Silence flooded the apartment. Maxim sank onto the couch, his hands trembling. Dasha sat beside him.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He looked at her with wet eyes.

“Forgive me… for all these years…”

Dasha hugged him. Outside the rain grew heavier, beating on the windowsill like it was trying to deliver the final word in that brutal conversation.

But they both knew—this was only the beginning of the war. The real battle was still ahead.

Three days after Lyudmila Petrovna’s visit, Dasha was checking her mail when she noticed a strange message from a neighbor at the dacha:

“Dash, do you know your plot is for sale? There’s an ad on your fence…”

A лед-cold wave ran down her spine. She called Maxim instantly.

“Did you list the dacha?”

“What? No, of course not!” He sounded genuinely shocked.

“Then go there now. Our fence is decorated with a for-sale sign.”

An hour later he called back, voice tight.

“It’s Mom. She… she glued the ad up. ‘Urgent sale, inheritance dispute.’”

Dasha gripped the phone.

“Photograph it and tear it down. I’m calling a lawyer.”

That evening their apartment filled with the presence of attorney Sergey—an old friend of Dasha’s family. He studied the photos and the house documents.

“Technically they can’t do anything,” he concluded. “The house is registered to both of you. But…” He paused. “Be ready for dirty methods.”

As if to confirm his words, that same evening the family group chat exploded with messages from Maxim’s relatives:

“How could you throw your mother out on the street!”

“Dasha will ruin you!”

“Disgrace to the family!”

Maxim silently left the chat. His phone rang immediately—his uncle, a retired judge.

“Don’t answer,” Dasha warned.

But Maxim picked up.

“Uncle Vitya, I—”

“Boy, have you lost all conscience?” a hoarse voice thundered. “Your mother’s in tears, the family is in shock! Apologize at once and put everything back the way it was!”

Maxim went pale, but answered firmly:

“Uncle, you don’t know the whole situation.”

“I know a son owes his mother!” the uncle barked, and hung up.

Dasha wrapped an arm around Maxim’s shoulders. He was trembling.

“They… they’ve been like this my whole life,” he whispered. “They come at you, pressure you, force you…”

Suddenly Dasha’s phone vibrated. Unknown number. She answered.

“Hello?”

“It’s Katya,” a sugary voice said. “Listen, Dash, enough war. Let’s meet and talk woman-to-woman.”

Dasha froze.

“Katya, after you called my mother’s vase ‘junk’?”

“Oh, don’t be a baby!” Katya laughed. “Fine, Maxim will regret it himself. By the way,” her voice turned venomous, “did he tell you he borrowed money from Igor last year? With interest? A court recognizes that kind of debt…”

Dasha hung up. Maxim stared at her, eyes wide.

“What did she say?”

“She said you owe Igor money. Is it true?”

He dropped his head.

“Yes… fifty thousand. But I paid almost all of it back!”

“Almost?”

“Fifteen left. I thought it was just between brothers…”

Dasha closed her eyes. Now it all made sense. It was a trap.

“Tomorrow we pay every last cent,” she said. “And now…” She grabbed her laptop. “We’re writing a post on social media. With all the facts.”

Maxim lifted his eyebrows in surprise.

“Publicly? But that’s—”

“Self-defense,” Dasha said firmly. “Otherwise they’ll eat us alive.”

She opened a document and began typing: “Dear friends, we have to share an unpleasant story…”

Maxim watched in silence as a truthful—but terrifying—story of manipulation and betrayal formed on the screen. When she finished, he said quietly:

“Hit ‘publish.’”

That night the phone blew up with notifications. The post racked up hundreds of shares. Messages came from friends, colleagues, even distant relatives:

“I never believed Lyuda could do that…”

“Igor still owes me money from college—he’s a scammer!”

“Hold on—we’re with you!”

But at 3:23 a message arrived from Lyudmila Petrovna:

“You will regret this. Truly regret it.”

Dasha turned the phone off. Tomorrow would be a new day. And a new battle.

The morning began with a call from the local precinct officer. His voice was official and dry:

“Citizen Sokolova, a complaint has been filed about a disturbance of public order. Noise at night, insulting elderly people. Do you know anything about this?”

Dasha clenched the phone.

“That’s a lie. We’re in the city, and our ‘elderly relatives’ are currently occupying our dacha illegally.”

“So you confirm there is a conflict?” the officer sounded interested.

“I do—but from the other side. I have audio recordings and screenshots of threats.”

After the call, Dasha woke Maxim. They ate breakfast in silence, both understanding they’d have to go to the dacha today.

The drive took two hours. When they arrived, an unpleasant surprise awaited them—a new padlock on the gate.

“What the—” Maxim yanked the gate.

Lyudmila Petrovna came out of the house in a robe, mug in her hand.

“Oh, the new owners are here!” she shouted with fake cheer. “Only here’s the thing—we’re registered here now. So it’s our house.”

Dasha felt her hands go cold. Maxim went pale.

“Registered? That’s impossible!”

“It’s all legal, son!” Lyudmila Petrovna smiled smugly. “We have a lease agreement. Notarized.”

From behind her Igor appeared holding a stack of papers.

“Here, take a look. You signed it yourself last year, bro. Like always—without reading.”

Maxim grabbed the documents. Dasha peered over his shoulder—there really was an agreement with signatures among the papers.

“It’s a forgery!” Maxim shook with rage. “I never—”

“Prove it,” Igor smirked.

Dasha suddenly remembered.

“Sergey—our lawyer!” she said, dialing immediately.

While the attorney assessed the situation over the phone, Lyudmila Petrovna stood in the doorway looking triumphant.

“Well? Smart ones? Who’s right now?”

The answer came unexpectedly. A neighbor, Nikolai Ivanovich—a retired legal professional—stepped out of his car.

“Lyudmila Petrovna, do you know forging documents is a criminal offense?” he said calmly. “Especially with notarization.”

For a moment the mother-in-law looked unsettled, but she recovered quickly.

“Forgery? Everything’s legal!”

“Then show the original agreement,” Nikolai Ivanovich replied evenly. “And the notary certificate.”

Igor shifted nervously. Lyudmila Petrovna’s face changed.

“Oh, go to hell, all of you! You won’t prove anything!”

She slammed the door. But a minute later it opened again—Katya stood on the threshold, pale, with a suitcase.

“I… I don’t want anything to do with this,” she muttered and hurried toward the gate.

Dasha and Maxim exchanged a look. At that moment Sergey called back with a solution:

“The agreement is invalid. First: Dasha’s signature is required too. Second: they don’t have an original with the notary seal. It’s an obvious fake.”

Maxim walked to the door, steady and firm.

“Mom, open up. This is our home. Or we call the police right now.”

Silence. Then the lock clicked. Lyudmila Petrovna came out with her belongings, her face twisted with hatred.

“You’ll regret this, son. Blood against blood is a bad omen.”

Igor hurled the keys to the ground.

“Take your dump!”

When their car disappeared around the bend, Dasha exhaled deeply. They had won this round. But one unresolved question hung in the air:

“Maxim… what did she mean by ‘blood against blood’?”

He said nothing, just shook his head, staring after them. In his eyes was a grim understanding—this wasn’t the end.

Two weeks passed after Lyudmila Petrovna and Igor left the dacha. It seemed like everything had calmed down. Dasha and Maxim started putting the house back in order: changed the locks, installed cameras, ordered new property documents.

But one evening, as they sat on the veranda with tea, the gate buzzer rang.

“Who could that be?” Dasha frowned, looking at the camera feed.

A monitor showed an elderly woman in a modest dress, a handbag in her hands. A stranger.

Maxim went out to meet her. Dasha watched through the window as he spoke with the woman—then suddenly turned pale and hurried back inside.

“That’s… Aunt Shura,” he said, stumbling over the words. “Mom’s sister. From Voronezh.”

“And what does she want?”

“She brought a letter… from Mom.”

A chill ran down Dasha’s spine.

Aunt Shura entered, glancing around nervously.

“I don’t want trouble,” she said right away. “I’m just delivering this.”

She pulled an envelope from her bag and handed it to Maxim.

He tore it open with trembling hands. Inside was a single sentence in clumsy handwriting:

“If you don’t give half the dacha willingly, I’m filing in court for alimony. By law you must support your mother. The amount will be such that you’ll have to sell.”

Dasha shot to her feet.

“That’s blackmail!”

Aunt Shura lowered her eyes.

“She said it was the last chance…”

Maxim crumpled the letter in his fist.

“Enough. ENOUGH!” he slammed his fist on the table so hard the dishes rattled. “I won’t let her destroy our lives anymore!”

Aunt Shura flinched.

“She… she’s always been like this,” she whispered. “Since childhood. If something isn’t her way—she goes straight to war.”

“Why didn’t you speak up earlier?” Dasha asked.

“I was afraid…”

Maxim lifted his head.

“And now?”

Aunt Shura slowly pulled an old notebook from her bag.

“Because I have this.”

She opened it to a marked page. There were entries—dates, sums, names.

“These are… Mom’s ‘schemes.’ How she sued a house away from her sister. How she pushed Grandma out of her apartment. It’s all written down.”

Dasha and Maxim exchanged a look.

“Are you ready to testify?” Maxim asked.

Aunt Shura nodded.

“Enough fear.”

A month later.

The trial didn’t last long. Lyudmila Petrovna never showed up—“for health reasons.” But Aunt Shura, the neighbors, Maxim’s coworkers—everyone confirmed the manipulation and threats.

The alimony claim was dismissed. More than that—the court prohibited Lyudmila Petrovna from approaching their home.

When they walked out of the courthouse, the sun was bright.

“Is it over?” Dasha asked.

Maxim took her hand.

“No. It’s the beginning.”

They walked down the street without looking back.

And in Dasha’s pocket lay the key to their home—now, at last, forever.

Epilogue.

A year later a new sign appeared at the dacha: “Property protected. No trespassing.”

And on social media Lyudmila Petrovna continued to write furious posts about ungrateful children.

But now there were only three comments under them.

And all three were from relatives who had finally stopped being afraid.