— Do you really think I built all of this only to hand it over to strangers?”
Alexey scanned the room as if only now noticing every little detail in the house we had built together.
“— I never imagined our home would become a battleground for quarrels,” I replied softly, shrugging my shoulders.
The scent of freshly cut wood—exactly that fragrance filled the air when Alexey and I began constructing our little nest.
His palms, calloused from long hours working with wood, caressed every beam with tender care, as if he were cradling a newborn.
And I stood nearby, handing him tools, believing that these walls would witness our long and joyful life.
In the evenings, exhausted from the day’s work, we sat on the porch and dreamed.
My dreams were simple—a healthy child, a strong family, a cozy home. Alexey, however, had grander visions—he wanted a large workshop, new tools, and recognition from the local craftsmen.
“— Mash, you’ll be proud of me,” he would say, wrapping his arms around my shoulders. And I believed him. How could one not trust a man who carried the scent of resin and bright hopes?
When Petka was born, the whole house was filled with a new meaning. Alexey carved him a cradle from larch—“so that he may grow strong like this tree.”
In the evenings he would lift his son in his arms and tell him about every corner of their future workshop, and Petka would watch his father intently, as if understanding everything.
In his childhood, Petya would fall onto the hard floor and learn to rise by clutching the edge of the sofa. I wanted to rush to his aid, but Alexey would stop me:
“— Let him do it himself, Masha. A man must learn to rise after a fall.”
I worked on the farm, returning home imbued with the scent of milk and grass. He greeted me, tired from his work with wood, yet always found the strength to first lift Petka, then me—whirling around the room as he laughed:
“— My two treasures!”
Tamara, his sister, lived three houses away. She often dropped by—sometimes for salt, sometimes just for a chat.
Tall and statuesque, with thick chestnut hair, she always brought the fragrance of expensive perfume and snippets of city news. Alexey delighted in her visits, perking up and retrieving his festive cups.
Sometimes I noticed a special gleam in his eyes when he looked at his sister. She would talk about the city, about shops, about concerts, and he would listen, forgetting even to blink.
In those moments, something anxious tightened inside me, but I pushed the thought away. This is not how a family should be. I believed our home was as sturdy as the larch in Petka’s cradle.
We were not rich, but we had enough. Alexey made custom furniture—tables, chairs, wardrobes—that served people for decades.
I brought milk from the farm, made curd and sour cream. In the garden grew cucumbers and tomatoes, potatoes and carrots. On holidays we invited neighbors, and the house filled with voices, laughter, and the smell of freshly baked bread.
Little Petka ran among the adults, collecting smiles and candies. Our neighbor, Valentina Ivanovna, would always pat his hair and say:
“— A happy child grows in a happy home.”
And I nodded, believing that it would always be so. Eight years flew by like a moment—filled with labor, care, and a quiet family happiness that seemed as solid as the fine furniture from Alexey’s workshop.
I could never have imagined that happiness could crumble like rotten wood, eroded by time and hidden internal decay.
Changes began gradually, like the first frosts—initially barely perceptible, then growing deeper, penetrating the ground.
Alexey started coming home later than usual. He now smelled not of shavings and wood, but of cheap alcohol and foreign conversations.
His eyes, which once shone with warmth, now looked right through me, as if I had become invisible.
“— Where have you been?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“— I had things to do,” he retorted, avoiding my gaze. “What are you on about?”
Petka, now eight years old, understood perfectly. He had learned to disappear into his room when his father returned in a foul mood.
He learned to speak more quietly, to walk more carefully, as if treading on thin ice. And only with me, when his father was absent, did he remain his old, lively, curious self.
“— Mom, why is Dad completely different now?” he asked one day while helping me shape dumplings.
I remained silent for a long time, smoothing the dough.
“— Sometimes adults lose their way, son. But then they find it again.”
I believed my words—or wanted to believe. I hoped this was only a temporary haze, that Alexey would come back—the real him, my husband.
Then the fire at Tamara’s house occurred. No one was hurt, but all that remained were charred walls and the smell of burnt wood. Tamara came to us—without her belongings, but dressed in city clothes and with made-up lips.
“— I’m only here briefly,” she said, embracing her brother. “Just until I decide what to do next.”
Alexey looked at me—for the first time in many days, meeting my eyes directly. In his gaze was a plea and something else that made me shrink inwardly.
“— Of course,” I said. “You don’t leave relatives in trouble.”
I prepared a small room for her, where we kept jars of preserves. I brought clean linen and a towel.
Within a week, I realized she wasn’t going to leave. Her belongings quietly filled the house, her perfume displaced the smell of wood and herbs, and her voice became louder than mine.
Alexey watched her as if hypnotized. They could sit for hours in the kitchen, whispering about something private, falling silent when I entered. Petka clung to me like a frightened kitten.
One evening, when Tamara had gone to visit a friend, I decided to confront him.
“— Lesh, perhaps it’s time for Tamara to find her own place? It’s getting too cramped for us…”
He spun around sharply, and I did not recognize his face—it had twisted in anger.
“— Too cramped? My sister cannot live in my house?”
“— In our house,” I corrected softly.
“— What?” he advanced toward me. “You seem to forget who’s in charge here! Who built this house! Who provides for you!”
“— We built it together,” my voice trembled, yet I did not yield. “I work tirelessly too. And Petka is growing…”
“— Petka!” he mocked. “And you know what Stepan told me? That Petka might not even be mine at all!”
The air froze between us. I felt my lips go numb.
“— What… are you saying? How can you?”
At that moment, the door creaked—a glimpse of Tamara appeared in the doorway. She surveyed the room, me, her brother, and smiled.
“— What’s all this shouting? The neighbors will come running.”
Alexey blinked, as if coming to his senses. He looked at me, at his sister. And his face softened—but not for me.
“— Mashka is here making a fuss,” he muttered. “She says it’s time for you to move out.”
Tamara pressed a hand to her chest.
“— And what? Where am I supposed to go? Outside?”
“— She’s not going anywhere,” Alexey snapped, straightening like a taut string. “Every log in this house was laid by my hands; I decide.”
I shifted my gaze from him to Tamara and back again.
And as if a veil lifted from my eyes—in that moment I realized that for him, his sister was more important than his family, that he had long ceased to love us.
“— Lesha,” my voice was strangely calm. “How can you do this—to trade your family for your sister?”
He frowned.
“— You’re moving with the child to the shed; I’m giving the house to my sister! You’re strangers to me, unlike her,” he spat, looking past me.
I expected the ground to split open beneath my feet. That the walls would collapse. That something grand and earth-shattering would occur. But nothing happened. The house still stood. The clocks ticked on. And in my soul, a strange clarity gradually emerged.
I looked at my husband—and saw before me a completely unfamiliar man. All the years, all the words, all the touches—all of it became insignificant in an instant.
“— Mom?” Petya called from his room, and his voice brought me back to reality.
I did not scream, beg, or try to prove anything. Silently, I went to my son’s room and took his hand.
“— Pack your things, son. Only the essentials.”
“— Where are we going?” he asked, his eyes wide.
“— No trips. We’re walking.”
As we passed by Alexey, he stubbornly stared at the floor. Meanwhile, Tamara stood with her arms crossed over her chest, a slight smile of superiority on her face.
The shed greeted us with the aroma of hay and a cool air. I spread our jackets on the straw, covered Petka with my scarf. He didn’t cry; he only looked at me seriously, like an adult.
“— Mom, are you okay?” he asked, touching my cheek with his small hand.
“— I’m fine,” I lied.
He disappeared for a minute and returned with a blanket he had somehow managed to grab from the house.
“— Here,” he said, wrapping it around me. “I’m with you, Mom. We’ll get through this.”
And then I began to cry—silently, swallowing my tears. He hugged me, stroked my hair, and whispered comforting words. My little son turned out to be stronger than any of us.
The creak of a door woke me before dawn. A beam of light filtered through the shed—not sunlight, but from a kerosene lamp.
In that light, the face of Valentina Ivanovna appeared—wrinkled, stern, with eyes full of determination.
“— I knew it,” she pronounced, surveying our refuge. “Pack up, Masha. You have no business here.”
I sat down, clutching the blanket. Petka slept, curled up beside me like a kitten.
“— Where are we going, Valentina Ivanovna?”
“— To my place, of course,” she replied as if it were obvious. “Here, it’s damp and cold. You’ll spoil the child.”
Petya opened his eyes, looked first at our neighbor, then at me. Silently, he began folding the blanket—carefully, corner by corner.
“— Pack up, Mom. Valentina Ivanovna has something to say.”
I looked at them both, feeling a warm gratitude well up inside me. Perhaps I no longer had a home, but there were people who wouldn’t abandon me.
Valentina Ivanovna’s house welcomed us with the aroma of fresh buns and herbal tea. She led us into a large, bright room where a bed had already been made with clean linens.
“— I’ve prepared a bath for you,” she said. “First wash up, then we’ll have breakfast.”
I stood in the middle of the room, unsure what to say. Words of gratitude seemed too small for what she was doing for us.
“— Valentina Ivanovna…”
“— We’ll talk later,” she interrupted. “Go wash up.”
The hot water washed away not only the grime of the shed but also the numbness in my heart. I felt my strength returning—and with it, my determination.
Petya splashed nearby, launching little boats made from wood chips that he had carved with his pocket knife.
“— Valentina Ivanovna said she has a chicken coop,” he confided. “And that I can help her take care of it.”
“— Alright, son,” I nodded. “Just don’t forget about school.”
“— And what about you, Mom?” he suddenly asked very maturely.
I paused, looking at my hands—roughened from work yet still strong.
“— To live on,” I finally replied. “And to fight for our home.”
That very day, I went to the village council. The chairman, Nikolai Stepanovich, listened to me intently without interrupting. When I finished, he stared out the window for a long moment, then turned to me:
“— In whose name are the house documents registered?”
“— In both of our names,” I answered. “We built it together; we invested in it together.”
He nodded.
“— Then the court will be on your side, Maria. I’ll refer you to a lawyer in the district. In the meantime, gather testimonies from the neighbors.”
In the following weeks, I learned what an administrative apparatus was. Papers, affidavits, certificates.
I went door to door, from office to office. Valentina Ivanovna helped with Petya, and he helped her with the household chores.
Alexey made no effort to meet. Once, I even encountered him at the store— gaunt, with an unevenly trimmed beard. He continued to drown himself in the bottle.
“— Masha,” he began, but I walked past him, staring straight ahead.
The case was heard in the district court. I sat upright, shoulders back, though inside I trembled. Alexey sat opposite—lost, with a wandering gaze. Tamara was nowhere to be seen beside him.
One by one, the neighbors testified: about how we built the house together, how I worked alongside him, how everything had changed.
Valentina Ivanovna recounted the night in the shed in vivid detail. Alexey remained silent, head bowed. Only when the judge asked if he admitted his guilt did he lift his eyes:
“— I admit it. I was possessed. I got tired of my wife and son, wanted to give everything to my sister and leave.”
“— Possession has nothing to do with it,” I said, unexpectedly to myself. “It was your choice. Every day, every step—your choice.”
He shuddered as if struck.
When the judge asked what I wanted, I replied simply:
“— Justice. We built the house together. I want my son to live where his cradle once stood.”
The judge looked at me with a long, penetrating gaze.
“— And are you prepared for your ex-husband to be left without shelter?”
I hesitated. In my mind, images flashed by—Alexey handling the boards for our home; Alexey tenderly holding newborn Petya; Alexey driving us into the shed.
“— No,” I said after a pause. “I don’t want him to be left without a roof over his head. He has a workshop. He can convert it into living quarters. He’s a carpenter—he can do it.”
The judge nodded with a hint of surprise.
The decision was rendered in my favor. The house was to be transferred to me and Petya. Alexey was granted the right to use the workshop as a living space. Part of the plot was also allocated to him—everything was fair.
I signed the documents with trembling hands and stepped out of the courthouse into the bright sunlight.
Valentina Ivanovna and Petya were waiting for me on a bench. When Petya saw me, he jumped up:
“— So, Mom?”
“— Let’s go home, son,” I replied, scarcely believing my own words. “Home.”
We returned to our house a month later. During that time, Alexey had gathered his things and moved into the workshop. Tamara, as I later learned, left for the city—her brother no longer seemed as interesting to her as before, when he had a house.
The house greeted us with neglect and a thick layer of dust. But day by day, with each swipe of a rag, with every washed cup, it became ours again. Petya brought a young pine from the forest and planted it under the window:
“— Let it grow with us, Mom.”
I hugged him, watching the slender stem stubbornly reach for the sun.
I saw Alexey rarely—he worked in his workshop, fulfilling orders, and dutifully brought in money for Petya. I did not refuse—these were not handouts, but his duty to his son.
One autumn day, as Petya, Valentina Ivanovna, and I sipped tea on the porch, she suddenly said:
“— You know, Masha, a home isn’t just walls. A home is the people who will not betray you.”
I looked at my son, who was building a birdhouse from scraps of wood—so much like his father in his better days.
I looked at our wise neighbor, who had become almost like family, and I understood: my home was much more than these walls and a roof.
“— In the spring, the starlings will come,” said Petya, testing a plank. “They need a home too.”
I gazed at his focused face and thought that some losses turn into gains. We lost illusions, but we found true support—in each other.
“— They will surely come,” I said, looking into the cloudless sky. “And we will welcome them.”
And later, my husband went for treatment; he no longer touched the bottle. We became a family again. I gave him one more chance—my last—for the sake of our son.”