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Story 05/02/2026 17:19

Why Did You Change the Locks? The Dacha Is Ours Too! the sister-in-law suddenly snapped

Why Did You Change the Locks? The Dacha Is Ours Too! the sister-in-law suddenly snapped


Why Did You Change the Locks? The Dacha Is Ours Too! the sister-in-law suddenly snapped

Part 1. The Locked Gate A sweltering July noon pressed down on the dacha settlement like a heavy wool blanket. The air above the gravel road quivered with heat, bending the outlines of leaning fences and dusty lilac bushes. A bright red crossover rolled up fast to the gate of a tidy, well-kept lot. Behind the wrought-iron fence stood a brick house with an attic floor. The car doors slammed. A noisy group spilled out laughing—two girls in light sundresses and two guys loaded with bags of charcoal and marinated meat. At the head of the little parade marched Milana, about twenty-eight, certain of her own irresistible charm and equally certain the world should revolve around her wishes. She shoved her sunglasses up onto her forehead and approached the gate like she owned it. “Alright, everyone—we’ve arrived!” she announced, turning to her friends. “We’ll set up right away. There’s a gorgeous gazebo, a real built-in grill—not those disposable tin trays you use. My brother worked on everything. He fixed it all up.” She dug a key ring out of her purse—the keychain shaped like a fluffy bunny jingled—and, whistling a stubborn little tune, slid a key into the lock. The key went in tight, scraped against metal… and stuck. Milana frowned and yanked it left, then right. The lock refused to budge. “What is this nonsense…” she muttered, pushing harder. “Mil, want help?” one of the guys called, setting the bags on the dusty grass. “Maybe it’s rusted?” “Don’t distract me. I’ll open it. Ilya always cheaps out on lubricant,” she snorted. But a minute passed, then five, and the gate still wouldn’t open. The key simply didn’t match. Worse, when Milana looked closer, the lock cylinder gleamed like new—no scratches at all, unlike the old brass one she remembered. Irritation boiled inside her. The sun baked her scalp, her friends shifted restlessly, and the “perfect little paradise” she’d promised remained out of reach. She tugged the handle, then kicked the metal gate with her light sandal and grimaced in pain. “Son of a—!” she hissed. Milana snatched her phone and jabbed at the screen. The ring tones dragged on unbearably long, each one mocking her awkward situation in front of her guests. “Pick up already!” she growled. At last, a calm “Hello” came from the other end. “Ilya! Are you messing with me?!” Milana shrieked, not even greeting him. “We’re roasting out here like fish in a pan! Why doesn’t my key work? Did you change the lock and not tell me?” “Milana?” her brother sounded genuinely confused. “What lock? Where are you?”
“Oksana, something’s going on. I’m at the dacha… Milana is here… the keys don’t work. We can’t get inside.” “And you won’t,” Oksana replied calmly. Ilya froze. Even the sparrow on the branch nearby seemed to go silent. “What do you mean?” he asked, feeling the ground turn soft beneath his feet. “I mean exactly that, Ilya. I changed the locks yesterday morning.” “But… why? Why didn’t you tell me? Milana’s here with friends—they’re waiting…” “And why did you decide Milana has the right to be there?” Oksana’s voice sharpened, turning harsh, like stone scraping glass. “We talked about this six months ago—after she threw her ‘party of the century’ out there.” Ilya squeezed his eyes shut. The memories hit him in a murky wave: the shattered veranda window, the couch burned through, the mountain of trash they hauled out for two days. And worst of all—the apple tree Oksana’s grandfather had planted. It never recovered, and it dried up this spring. “Oksana, I get it, but… she’s already here. We can’t just throw people out. I’ll supervise, I swear. I’ll clean up afterward. Just let us in. Tell me where the spare keys are. Or come yourself.” “No,” Oksana said flatly. “I didn’t give anyone permission. It’s my dacha, Ilya. My property—my grandfather left it to me. I tolerated your relatives for five years. Enough.” “You’ve got to be kidding me!” Milana cut in, yanking the phone from her stunned brother’s hand. “Hey, you—your little royal highness! Bring the keys. Now! The dacha is shared—we’re family! We’ve been stuck here for three hours because of your tantrums!” “Milana, don’t…” Ilya tried, but she waved him off. “What, you’re quiet now? Lost your tongue?” Milana screamed. “Go home,” Oksana’s voice came through the speaker. “You are not getting into the dacha. Not today. Not tomorrow.” The line went dead. Milana stood there, face flushed, staring at the dark screen. Then she slowly turned to her brother. “She hung up… She changed the locks and won’t let us in…” she hissed. “Ilya, are you a man or a rag? Your wife is humiliating your sister and you’re just standing there!” “Mil, you brought this on yourself. Last time…” Ilya began, but his voice was uncertain. He always got lost between two fires. “To hell with last time!” Milana shrieked. “Let’s go to her place. Right now! I’ll teach her a lesson! I’ll shove those keys down her throat! Get in the car—take me to her new little hole since she won’t answer calls!” “Milana, calm down…” “Drive, I said! Either you’re on my side, or you’re the same traitor as that witch!”
With a heavy sigh, Ilya trudged toward his car. He still hoped he could fix it, talk Oksana into it, smooth everything over. He’d always been the one smoothing things over—his whole life, he’d acted as a buffer between his sister’s entitlement and reality. But today, reality seemed ready to hit back. Part 3. Mutiny on Deck Oksana sat in her living room, sorting through old photographs. No, she wasn’t crying. Her tears had dried up a month ago, when she’d found yet another sign of invasion at the dacha—someone else’s things in the wardrobe, dirty dishes hidden under the bed. What filled her now was a ringing emptiness, laced with cold anger. She knew they were coming. The doorbell rang—insistent and arrogant. Someone pressed the button and held it down without letting go. Oksana stood slowly, straightened her home T-shirt, and went to the door. She didn’t look through the peephole. She flung it open. On the threshold stood a furious Milana, and behind her hovered Ilya, slumped and unhappy. “Why did you change the locks? The dacha is ours too!” Milana blurted, not even stepping inside so much as forcing her voice into the apartment. Oksana stood in the doorway, blocking the way. “And why exactly is it ‘ours’?” Oksana asked quietly, but clearly. “We’re one family!” Milana tried to shove past her with a shoulder, but Oksana didn’t move an inch. She braced one hand against the doorframe like a barrier. “Ilya is your husband! What’s his is mine! That’s how we’ve always lived! And you move in and start acting like a queen? Give me the keys. Now!” Ilya tried to take his sister by the elbow. “Mila, stop. Let’s talk calmly… Oksana, come on—why so harsh? People came to relax, they’ll leave.”

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