Saturday morning in Dnipro promised to be perfect. The sun flooded the rented two-bedroom apartment on the seventh floor, played on the glossy surface of the kitchen cabinets, and drew intricate patterns on the floor. Alisa stood by the window with a cup of fragrant coffee, watching the city awaken. Down in the courtyard, an elderly couple was walking a tiny dog, and a group of teenagers with backpacks ran out of the entrance.
The air was clean and fresh, smelling of spring and the anticipation of something good. Today, she and Denis were supposed to go to his great-aunt’s dacha. For the first time this year. Barbecue, fresh air, tranquility. Alisa already imagined them sitting on the veranda, wrapped in blankets, talking about everything in the world. The last few months had been stressful.
She had a complex project at her landscape design studio, and Denis was filing his quarterly report at his car dealership. They hardly saw each other, tired and frazzled. They needed this trip like a breath of fresh air.
— Are you not ready yet? — her husband’s voice pulled her from her daydreams.
Denis entered the kitchen, already dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, his hair disheveled from sleep. He came up from behind, hugged her shoulders, and kissed the top of her head.
— Mom called, she’s already hailed a taxi. She’ll be here in half an hour.
Alisa froze. Something inside her clenched unpleasantly, as if someone had tugged on an invisible string.
— Mom? Is she coming too? We agreed it would be just the two of us.
Denis sighed and went to the refrigerator, taking out a bottle of water.
— Come on, Alis, you know Mom. She heard we were going for a barbecue and decided we’d ruin everything without her. Says she marinated the meat with her signature recipe. I couldn’t say no to her.
Alisa silently turned back to the window. Of course, he couldn’t say no. It was generally difficult to refuse Zoya Pavlovna anything. For the last two years of their marriage, her mother-in-law had been an invisible, and sometimes quite visible, presence in their lives. Her calls came at the most inopportune moments, her advice was intrusive and categorical, and her visits always left behind the feeling that an inspector had just swept through the apartment.
Alisa tried to be patient. She understood that Zoya Pavlovna had raised her son alone, that Denis was the center of her universe. But sometimes, this understanding was incredibly difficult to maintain. Her mother-in-law never missed an opportunity to prick her, to hint at her “common” origins. Alisa had grown up in an ordinary family of engineers, while Zoya Pavlovna had spent her whole life boasting that her grandfather was some minor party official. She called Alisa “our little designer” with an intonation that made it sound like a swear word.
— Oh, come on, don’t be upset, — Denis came over and hugged her again. — So what if Mom comes? At least the meat will be delicious, and she won’t bother us. She’ll sit in the house, watch TV, and we’ll go for a walk.
He kissed her on the cheek, and Alisa forced herself to smile. Maybe he was right. Maybe she was overthinking it. After all, it was just one day.
She finished her coffee, put the cup in the sink, and went to get ready. While she was choosing what to wear, memories of buying the car surfaced. The white crossover, now parked under the windows, was her pride. She had bought it six months ago with money inherited from her grandmother and her personal savings. She registered it in her name, of course. Denis had been as happy as a child. He loved cars and, although he couldn’t afford one like it himself, he gladly drove his wife’s car. But Zoya Pavlovna… Alisa still remembered her reaction. She had come for the viewing, walked around the car from all sides with pursed lips, and delivered her verdict:
— White is impractical. And why does a girl need such a big car anyway? You should have bought some little bug, cheap and cheerful.
Alisa had said nothing then, but the bitter feeling remained. For her mother-in-law, everything she did was wrong, impractical, stupid.
The intercom buzzed exactly half an hour later. Alisa sighed and went to open the door. Zoya Pavlovna stood on the threshold, fully armed: in a tracksuit that made her heavy figure even more massive, with a huge bag in one hand and a thermos in the other.
— Well, slowpokes, are you ready? — she boomed, entering the hallway. — I’ve been waiting. Denis, my son, take the bag, it’s heavy.
She handed the bag to her son and walked into the kitchen as if she were the rightful owner. Alisa closed the door and felt the good mood from the morning sun slowly evaporating. She looked at Denis. He was already cooing with his mother, unpacking the bags she had brought. He noticed nothing: not his mother’s domineering tone, nor his wife’s sour expression. For him, everything was normal. Mom had arrived, which meant it would be tasty and cozy.
— Polina, why are you just standing there? — her mother-in-law called out. — Let’s hurry, or we’ll get stuck in traffic. And yes, Denis will drive. I don’t trust your female driving on the highway.
Alisa clenched her fists. Not Polina, but Alisa. Her mother-in-law constantly mixed up her name, as if on purpose. And this was after two years of marriage. She wanted to object, to say that it was her car and she would decide who drove. But meeting Zoya Pavlovna’s cold, unyielding gaze, she just nodded silently. Arguing was useless—it would only ruin the day completely.
She took her small handbag, checked that her keys and phone were there, and went into the hallway. The trip promised to be long. And it had nothing to do with the distance. A dull, inexplicable premonition grew inside her that this trip to the dacha would turn into something bad. She pushed the thought away, but the anxiety remained, settling as a cold lump somewhere in her solar plexus.
They left the city at the beginning of ten. Denis drove confidently, holding the steering wheel with one hand and changing radio stations with the other. Zoya Pavlovna settled into the front passenger seat, occupying it as if it were her personal throne. And immediately began giving instructions:
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