Irina nervously ran her fingers through the wooden bead rosary— a gift from her daughter from Bali. Thirty-five years of marriage with Vladimir had been a whirlwind of memories: here they were, young in a dormitory, making soup with just potatoes; here she sewed late into the night for orders while he finished his studies at the institute; here was their first apartment, renovated by their own hands; here was the birth of their daughter…

And through it all, she had always stood just half a step behind.

"You know I have the right to manage our property as I see fit," Vladimir's voice sounded deceptively calm, just like it always did when he was about to say something unexpected.

"Volodya, but we agreed…" Irina tried to hide the tremor in her voice. "The dacha is our shared property…"

"Our?" Her husband raised an eyebrow, a gesture that had become familiar in the last fifteen years, along with his first graying hair and his position as head of the department. "Who paid for it? Who built it? Who took out the loans?"

"I’ve worked my whole life too!" Irina slammed the cup onto the table, so sharply that tea splashed onto the tablecloth. Normally, she would have rushed to clean it up, but not now. "And we built the dacha together. I, by the way, worked the whole garden!"

"The garden?" Vladimir laughed, as if amused by a joke. "Are you seriously comparing your tomatoes to my investments?"

"I’m serious, Volodya. We did this together," Irina replied, frustration rising in her chest.

"Listen, Ira, let’s not get upset. Tomorrow we’ll go to the notary, and I’ll arrange the deed for Sergey."

"Your nephew?" Irina felt a chill inside. "What about our daughter? The grandchildren?"

"Sergey is family too. Besides, he has a business; he’ll keep it and make it grow."

"But why now? Why behind my back?"

Vladimir stood up from the table, casting a condescending look over his shoulder.

"Because I decided so. And no theatrics. Tomorrow at eleven, at the notary’s. You can be there if you want, but I’ll be the one making the decisions," he added with finality. "After all, legally, you’re nobody to me. We didn’t even officially get married, if you’ve forgotten. So, thirty-five years of cohabitation."

The words hit Irina like a slap. They had been together for so long, and yes, they had never officially gotten married—but they had made a life together. That moment, when they had just signed papers before their daughter was born, felt like a distant memory now.

When the bedroom door closed behind Vladimir, Irina stayed sitting in the kitchen, staring at the table. Hurt and helplessness overwhelmed her. Was she really just a convenient housekeeper for him all these years? "You’re nobody to me"—those words felt like a wound.

She couldn’t sleep. At 3 a.m., she finally gave up, got up, and turned on the computer. With trembling fingers, she typed in the search engine: "Spouse’s rights to shared property."

By 8 a.m., Irina was standing at the door of a legal consultation office, nervously glancing at the clock.

The night spent reading legal articles had left dark circles under her eyes but had also brought an unexpected revelation: she knew catastrophically little about her rights.

"Hello, are you here to see Anna Sergeevna?" the young secretary greeted with a warm smile. "Come in, she’s already waiting for you."

Anna Sergeevna, a petite woman in her forties dressed in a sharp suit, listened intently to Irina’s story without interrupting.

"So, you say the marriage is registered, but your husband claims otherwise?"

"Yes, I even began to doubt… so many years have passed. But I found the certificate in an old box."

"And when was the dacha acquired?"

"We started building in 1996. We bought the land a year earlier."

Anna Sergeevna wrote something down quickly.

"So, during the official marriage. And whose name is the property in?"

"Vladimir’s," Irina lowered her head. "It was easier then... He insisted."

"But did you contribute? Were you involved in the construction?"

"Of course! I worked as a teacher and contributed all my salary. In the summer, we built it together: I did the plastering and painting. Then, I worked on the yard and planted the garden…"

The lawyer nodded and pulled a folder of documents from her desk.

"Irina Nikolaevna, listen to me carefully. According to the law, property acquired during marriage is considered joint property, regardless of whose name it is in. Your husband cannot unilaterally dispose of the dacha without your consent."

"Really?" Irina felt a lump form in her throat.

"Furthermore," Anna Sergeevna leaned forward, "if you have payment receipts, construction photos, or witness statements, all of this will strengthen your position."

Two hours later, Irina left the office with a folder of documents and a clear action plan. A spark was igniting inside her, something she hadn’t felt in years. On the way home, she mentally reviewed everything: photo albums, old receipts in a box on the top shelf, bank statements…

"Where were you?" Vladimir didn’t even look up from his newspaper when she entered. "Is lunch not ready?"

"We need to talk," Irina barely recognized her own voice—calm, firm.

"What else? I think we’ve already discussed everything. In an hour, we’re going to the notary."

"Vladimir," she purposely avoided calling him “Volodya,” "I want you to know: I will not consent to the gift of the dacha."

Her husband finally put the newspaper down, and surprise flickered in his eyes.

"What do you mean ‘won’t consent’? You don’t need to give or withhold anything. You’re not even part of this."

"Is that so?" Irina placed the marriage certificate in front of him. "I think the notary will find it interesting to know that we’ve been officially married for thirty-one years. And that the dacha is our joint property."

Vladimir turned pale, then flushed, his hand trembling as he crumpled the newspaper.

"Are you out of your mind? What does this have to do with anything… It’s just a piece of paper! I bought everything, I built it!"

"We built it," Irina corrected firmly. "And I can prove it. I have photos, documents, witnesses."

"Are you threatening me?" His voice dropped dangerously low.

"No, I’m simply saying 'no' to you for the first time in thirty-five years."

They stood there silently, staring at each other, like two strangers. Then, Vladimir suddenly stood up, knocking over the chair.

"As you wish. Let’s go to the notary. Let’s see how much your threats are worth."

The notary office greeted them with the coolness of the air conditioner and a calm, businesslike atmosphere. The elderly woman with neatly styled gray hair—Inna Pavlovna—gave the couple a careful look and seemed to immediately sense the tension between them.

"So, you want to arrange a deed for the country property?" the notary flipped through the documents. "To your nephew, Sergey Anatolievich?"

"That’s right," Vladimir settled into the chair, acting like everything was going his way. "I have all the documents with me."

Irina sat next to him, gripping her folder tightly. Her heart was pounding so loudly it seemed to echo throughout the room.

"Vladimir Petrovich, as I understand it, you are married?" Inna Pavlovna looked over her glasses.

"Well, formally yes," he waved dismissively. "But the dacha is in my name, and my wife has no claim to it."

The notary turned to Irina:

"And do you agree with the gift?"

The moment of truth. Irina took a deep breath.

"No, I don’t agree. And I want to state that this property is our joint property."

Vladimir snorted loudly, making it almost obscene.

"What nonsense! I paid for everything! My money, my work!"

"Inna Pavlovna," Irina opened her folder, trying not to let her hands shake, "I have documents confirming that the dacha was purchased and built during our official marriage. Here’s the certificate," she laid the first document on the table.

"Half the country lives in a civil marriage!" Vladimir threw up his hands dramatically. "What’s the difference if there’s a paper or not?"

"Legally, it makes all the difference," the notary replied coolly, studying the certificate.

"Here are photos of the construction of the dacha, where we’re both working," Irina laid out a stack. "Here are bank statements from my salary card with monthly large withdrawals—all of it went toward the construction. And witness statements from our neighbors, confirming my participation in the construction and setup of the dacha."

Vladimir turned crimson and jumped up.

"What kind of circus is this? You’ve been collecting this... this compromising information behind my back?"

"Not compromising, but confirming my rights," Irina replied calmly, surprised by her own composure. "For thirty-five years, I stood behind you. It’s time to stand beside you."

"Legally," Inna Pavlovna broke the silence quietly, "anything that spouses acquire during marriage is considered joint property. Unless you have a prenuptial agreement. Do you have one?"

"What prenuptial agreement?" Vladimir slammed into the chair with force. Tiny beads of sweat appeared on his forehead as he nervously gripped the armrests. "What agreements... we got married when no one even heard of this!"

"Then," the notary calmly crossed her arms on the table, "in order to sell the property, you need written, notarized consent from your wife. Without this consent, the transaction could be declared invalid."

The room fell into a ringing silence. Irina suddenly felt a strange warmth inside—not schadenfreude, but something akin to justice finally coming back into place.

"This is blackmail," Vladimir’s words broke the silence, hissing through the air. "You’re just getting back at me—"

"No," Irina shook her head, smiling gently. "I’m tired of being 'nobody.' I’m your wife, the mother of your daughter, the grandmother of your grandchildren. I have the right to speak, do you hear me? And now—I’m speaking."

"I think you should discuss this privately," the notary suggested hesitantly, looking over her glasses. "If you reach a compromise, I’ll prepare the documents."

"What compromise?!" Vladimir slammed his fist into the armrest of the chair. "Either my way, or no way! That’s all."

"Then—no way," Irina quietly but surprisingly firmly said. "I won’t sign."

For the first time in her life, she saw not anger in his eyes, but confusion. And something else... something resembling respect. And how good it felt to suddenly feel this rising wave within herself—her own right to be heard.

They returned home in complete silence. Vladimir stared intently at the road, his knuckles turning white from the tension with which he gripped the wheel. Irina glanced at her husband, trying to guess what was going on in his head. Thirty-five years together, and now he seemed like a stranger to her.

When the car stopped in front of the building, Vladimir didn’t turn off the engine.

"I’m going for a walk," he said, without looking at his wife.

Irina silently got out of the car. The thought that he might not return flashed across her mind and vanished. For some reason, she wasn’t scared. The strange calmness she had felt in the notary’s office didn’t leave her.

At home, she immediately called her daughter.

"Mom, what happened?" Natasha always sensed her mood. "Your voice is different."

"Your father and I... talked. We had a serious conversation."

"Don’t tell me you’re getting a divorce!" Panic was in her daughter’s voice.

"No, of course not," Irina suddenly laughed. "On the contrary. It seems like, for the first time in many years, we’re finally starting to talk to each other."

When it got dark, Irina set the table, took out two crystal glasses—a gift for their silver wedding anniversary—and sat down to wait. Time dragged slowly. At half-past ten, the front door slammed. Vladimir entered the kitchen, wearily sitting down at the table across from his wife.

"I thought you were already asleep," he said, trying unsuccessfully to hide his surprise at the sight of the table set.

"I was waiting for you," Irina simply answered. "Will you have dinner?"

"I will," he paused, rubbing his nose. "Listen… about today…"

"Not now," she shook her head. "Let’s just eat."

They ate dinner in silence. Irina poured the drink Vladimir had brought from his last business trip into the glasses.

"What are we drinking to?" he asked, smiling uncertainly.

"To a new beginning," Irina raised her glass. "To us."

The sound of the crystal touching was like a small bell. Vladimir drank it in one go, put the glass down, and stared at the tablecloth for a long time, as if the right words were written there.

"I was scared today," he finally said. "Not the notary, not your documents… You. You were… different."

"I was myself," Irina quietly said. "The one you once loved. Do you remember?"

"I remember," he suddenly smiled. "You argued with me about Brodsky. I thought, 'What a thorn!'"

"And then we went to your friend’s dacha and talked all night on the veranda."

"And you said you wanted a house just like it, with a veranda."

Irina nodded. A lump caught in her throat.

"Volodya, I don’t want to take away your right to decide. I just want us to decide together. Like we used to."

He reached across the table, covered her hand with his—a gesture that hadn’t been there in many years.

"You know, I wanted what was best. Sergey is a businessman, he has connections, he would have kept the dacha…"

"And our grandchildren? They spend every summer there. Do you remember how Dima learned to swim in our pond? How Alice picked strawberries for you?"

"I remember," now his voice trembled. "But I thought… damn, I don’t even know what I was thinking. Probably about prestige, about status… All foolishness."

"Not foolishness," Irina gently disagreed. "You just forgot to ask me. And I forgot to remind you that I also have a voice. We’re both to blame."

They talked until dawn—just like they had thirty-five years ago, on someone else’s veranda. About their daughter, the grandchildren, the abandoned gazebo at the dacha that needed repairing, and their plans. For the first time in many years—about their plans together.

In the morning, over breakfast, Vladimir laid out papers on the table.

"Here’s what I propose: we’ll register the dacha as joint property, as it should be. Then we’ll make a will for Natasha and the grandchildren."

"What about Sergey?" Irina asked carefully.

"I changed my mind. A nephew is good, but not at the cost of family peace. I drove around a lot yesterday, thought… Please forgive me for 'nobody.' I’ve been nobody without you all these years, I just didn’t want to admit it."

Irina looked at her husband and saw in him both the stubborn student she once fell in love with and the experienced man she had gone through all the difficulties with. But now, they were no longer two against the world, but two together—with each other and with themselves.

"So, peace?" she extended her hand.

"Peace and a new chapter," Vladimir firmly shook her extended hand. "By the way, how about that veranda you dreamed of? Maybe we’ll finally build it?"