Spring, my country house. I sat with my knees drawn up to my chest, wrapped in a wool shawl, staring at the garden I had tended for many years. I had built that house almost with my bare hands.
And now it no longer belonged to me.
“Mom deserves better,” my husband said, as if we were selling an old piece of furniture. “You’ll buy another one… someday.”
“Someday.” Just like that.
He spoke on behalf of his mother—a woman who had always looked at me with suspicion, as if I weren’t worthy of her son.
She wanted that house. The spacious apartment wasn’t enough for her.
I didn’t sleep all night. I sat in an armchair by the fireplace, haunted by my thoughts. And suddenly… something clicked. I realized I needed a revenge plan.
It took shape at dawn. In a single morning I transformed the garden beyond recognition. I moved the flower beds, hid the tools, and where there had been a cosy tea corner I placed an old rusty bathtub filled with reeds.
Everything looked abandoned, as if no one had lived there for years.
Then I set about the house. I took down the curtains, removed the cozy cushions, packed away the dishes, and draped the furniture in grey cloth. The house was empty in an instant.
When my mother‑in‑law came to “visit her new property,” she froze at the gate.
“This isn’t what you described to me…” she murmured to my husband.
I just shrugged. “Everything’s in order. The house as it is. You can live here or sell it. But now, good luck on your own.”
And I left. Neither crying nor angry.
A few months later, I opened a small tea room in town.
My mother‑in‑law didn’t stay at the country house long. I hear she put it up for sale. But nobody wants to buy it.
And I regret nothing. Because sometimes, to preserve what is ours, we have to know how to let go.
