The Dacha
Tanya was sorting through old papers in her desk drawer—receipts, faded notes, instructions for long-defunct appliances—when her hand paused on the divorce certificate. December. Four months ago.
The end of her marriage to Misha had been strangely uneventful. No drama. No shouting. No flying plates. There wasn’t much to divide—Tanya kept the apartment her parents had gifted her before the wedding and the car she’d bought herself. Misha had simply taken his books, his clothes, and walked out. No parting words. Just a quiet departure, as if heading off on a business trip, not leaving for good.
She set the paper aside. Now, it was just another document with a stamp and a date. Once, she had feared divorce—its finality, its stigma. But it had turned out to be exactly what it looked like: paperwork.
The dacha had remained hers as well. A modest plot with a little wooden house, an old apple tree, and bushes of black currant. Nothing fancy—just a peaceful patch of land she’d bought long before Misha came into her life. He had no real interest in the place. His mother, Nina Sergeevna, however, had adored it.
Every season, she would arrive with seedlings and jars of homemade preserves, immediately taking over the garden like a general.
“Tomatoes next to cucumbers, Tanya? Everyone knows you don’t plant them together!”
Tanya would shrug, “It’s always worked for me.”
And Nina would sigh, dramatically, and start rearranging everything.
That winter, after the divorce, Tanya embraced the quiet. There was no blaring TV during football games, no scattered socks, no one asking what was for dinner with an air of entitlement. She rediscovered silence—and herself. She began painting with watercolors. Assembled puzzles. Danced in her kitchen when no one was watching.
By spring, she craved fresh air. The dacha called to her—not for planting or weeding, but for peace. She planned a quiet weekend: clean the house, tend the flowerbeds, maybe whitewash the trees. Breathe.
On Friday evening, she packed jeans, T-shirts, a hoodie, and some groceries. Traffic was light, and she reached the dirt road before dusk. The May air smelled of lilacs and damp earth. Lights glowed from neighboring dachas. People bustled about, excited to dig and sow after the long winter.
Tanya parked and grabbed her bags. But as she approached the house, she froze. A light was on.
That couldn’t be right.
She opened the gate cautiously. The yard was immaculate—flowerbeds neat, soil freshly turned, tiny green shoots already emerging.
Inside, the door was unlocked. Tanya pushed it open.
There, on the veranda, wrapped in a blanket with tea and a magazine, sat Nina Sergeevna.
“Oh! I thought you were coming tomorrow,” she said casually, adjusting her glasses. “Tea?”
Tanya blinked. “Nina Sergeevna? What… how…?”
“I always come in spring,” she said matter-of-factly. “The beds are ready. We’ll plant tomorrow.”
“But Misha and I… we’re divorced.”
“I know,” Nina said, unfazed. “But the land doesn’t stop needing care. I’ve always handled the garden. It’s habit.”
Tanya stood in the doorway, stunned. Had nothing changed?
“Misha remarried,” Nina added casually. “Irina from accounting. Just last month. I told him he was rushing.”
The words hit Tanya like a slap. She’d imagined him missing her, regretting everything. But he’d moved on—as if ten years had meant nothing.
Still, here was his mother, sipping tea like nothing had changed.
“You’re acting like I’m still his wife,” Tanya said, her voice finally firm. “But I’m not. And this is not your family retreat. It’s my house.”
Nina set down her cup. “What’s changed? The garden is the same. You’re the same. Only Misha’s gone.”
“No,” Tanya said. “Everything’s changed. I’m not obligated to host you. Not anymore.”
Nina frowned. “I’ve always come here. I know this land. I know the neighbors.”
“This is my home,” Tanya repeated. “And I want it back. Without your tablecloths, your cushions, your kittens on the windowsill. Without your preserves in my fridge.”
Silence fell.
“I thought we were close,” Nina said at last. “I treated you like family. Gave advice…”
Tanya almost laughed. Advice like how Misha liked his eggs. What perfume gave him a headache. How to fold his socks.
“I appreciate what you did. But that chapter is closed.”
Nina looked stricken. “Where am I supposed to go? I’ve always grown my seedlings here.”
“I’m sorry,” Tanya said. “But not here. Not anymore.”
The older woman hesitated. Then slowly, she stood. “Ungrateful,” she muttered. “All these years… And now I have nothing but a balcony.”
Tanya held out her hand. “The keys, please.”
With a long sigh, Nina placed them on the table. She gathered her things and left without another word.
Tanya closed the door behind her. The silence returned.
She walked through the house, pulling down the floral tablecloths. Opening the windows. Folding away the embroidered pillows. The kittens would be returned later through mutual friends.
Then she sat on the porch with her sketchbook. She drew the apple tree. The currant bushes. The rosebed Nina had planted. Maybe she’d keep the roses—they really were beautiful.
But now, they would bloom differently. Not as remnants of someone else’s order, but as part of her own.
The sunset painted the sky in soft pinks and oranges. Tanya closed her eyes and tilted her face toward the fading light.
Freedom, she thought, is quiet. And finally, it was hers.
