All Amazing Babies

 

Marina’s kitchen was exactly the kind every woman over thirty dreams of: spacious, spotless, the tiles shining, a tablecloth on the table that wasn’t splattered with borscht, and a fridge stocked with food you wouldn’t be ashamed to serve even to your mother-in-law. Although, of course, for Tatyana Petrovna you could serve it on a golden tray—she’d still find something that was “dirty” or “not done properly.”

Marina sat with her laptop, checking work reports. Alexey had just come home from work, kicked off his shoes so hard his sneakers flew under the cupboard. She rolled her eyes out of habit.

“Did you throw your shoes like that when you were a kid too?” she tossed out dryly.

“Mom used to say a man should enter the house wide, so everyone can see who the master is,” Alexey smirked and headed for the bathroom.

Marina snorted: master of the house, while his wife’s salary was three times higher… sure, sure.

She hadn’t even gotten back to her spreadsheet when the doorbell rang—long, insistent, with that familiar rattling that always meant one thing: Tatyana Petrovna had come “for a visit.”

“Oh, Mom!” Alexey brightened, as if it were a pizza delivery at the door.

Marina clenched her teeth. Again without warning… She could at least send a text: “On my way to ruin your evening.”

Tatyana Petrovna walked in like it wasn’t Marina’s apartment—bought by Marina before the wedding—but her own nest. She took off her boots without looking and put her bag right on the couch.

“Well hello, my unhappy children,” she said in a tragic voice, as if she hadn’t come for tea but for a funeral.

 

“Mom, what’s with you?” Alexey tensed.

“How am I supposed to be cheerful when my son has nothing? No apartment, no car, not even a garage!” Tatyana Petrovna declared, wringing her hands.

Marina looked up from the laptop.

“Sorry, do you work at Rosreestr?” she asked calmly. “Where are you getting such precise information?”

Tatyana Petrovna narrowed her eyes.

“Don’t get smart. I’m his mother—I can see. There you are, all businesslike, in your own apartment… and who is my son to you? A tenant?”

“Mom, why are you like this…” Alexey mumbled, scratching the back of his head.

Marina closed her laptop and placed her hands on the table like a teacher facing a difficult student.

“Tatyana Petrovna, let’s be honest. The apartment is mine; I bought it before the marriage. Alexey is registered here—everything is official. What complaints do you have against him?”

Her mother-in-law rolled her eyes.

“People’s tongues are already sore from talking! Our neighbor Valentina Ivanovna asked, ‘So why is your Lyosha living off his wife? How am I supposed to understand that?’ What am I supposed to say—that he has neither stick nor yard to his name?”

“Tell her Valentina Ivanovna’s personal life is so boring she lives in other people’s apartments,” Marina smirked.

Alexey gave a nervous snort but stayed quiet.

“See, son?” his mother raised her voice. “She’s humiliating you right in front of me! And what did I tell you? You should’ve registered half the apartment in your name before the wedding! Then you’d feel like a real man.”

Marina straightened sharply.

“Excuse me, so now a ‘real man’ is defined by square meters and an extract from the property register?”

“Don’t you talk back!” Tatyana Petrovna screeched. “You ruined everything! Now my son has no apartment and no benefit!”

Alexey stepped between them, hands raised like he was breaking up a fight.

“Mom, that’s enough, seriously…”

“No, Lyosha, it’s not enough!” she cut him off. “You live like a renter and you’re happy about it! And your wife—she only thinks about herself!”

“About myself?” Marina scoffed. “Sorry, and who paid the mortgage on your ‘beloved three-bedroom’ while Lyosha was looking for a job—wasn’t it me?”

Her mother-in-law leaned forward.

“That was temporary! And now—”

“And now I’m supposed to transfer part of the apartment to your son, right?” Marina interrupted.

“Of course! That’s fair. A man needs a support.”

“You know what support is? It’s when a person works and buys himself an apartment—not when his mother walks into someone else’s home and demands a share,” Marina replied coldly.

Alexey sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands.

“I’ll pour some tea,” he said hoarsely, trying to change the subject.

“Tea!” his mother snorted. “You should pour yourself some bitter truth!”

Marina picked up a mug, but her hands trembled so much the spoon clinked against the rim.

How much more could she take? Every time it was the same. Some outsider considered it her duty to decide what Marina should do with her own property. And the worst part—Lyosha stayed silent. Standing there like a schoolboy at recess while his mother argued with the teacher.

“Mom,” Alexey finally exhaled, “let’s do this without scandals. Marina’s right: it’s her apartment, everything’s honest.”

Tatyana Petrovna froze as if she’d been hit.

“So you’re against me? Against your mother?”

“I’m for my wife.” Alexey’s voice was quiet, but firm.

His mother turned pale.

“Oh, I see. So I gave birth to you, raised you, carried it all alone—and now you’re throwing me out for some stranger…”

Marina shoved her chair back.

“Stranger?” her voice shook. “I’m his wife. And you… you’re a guest. An uninvited one.”

A silence fell so thick that even the kettle on the stove whistled awkwardly, like a schoolkid who’d ended up with the wrong crowd.

Tatyana Petrovna grabbed her bag and went to the door.

“Remember this, both of you!” she shouted from the hallway. “You, Lyosha—you’ll regret it! And you, Marina… you ruined everything!”

The door slammed so hard a cup fell off the shelf.

Marina stood in the kitchen trying to catch her breath. Alexey came up and awkwardly put an arm around her shoulders.

“I’m sorry… I didn’t expect her to be like that.”

“Expected it or not—what difference does it make?” Marina said wearily. “The question is: whose side are you on?”

Alexey looked her in the eyes and, for the first time in years, didn’t look away.

“Yours. Always.”

 

Marina sat back down at the table and gave a crooked half-smile.

“Then get ready, Lyosha. The war has only just begun.”

After that scandal, a strange quiet settled over the apartment. For a whole week Tatyana Petrovna didn’t call, didn’t come by— even the upstairs neighbor complained:

“Listen, Marinochka, why has your husband’s mother stopped walking around our stairwell? I got used to it: every evening a meeting by the elevator—news, advice. Now it’s boring…”

Marina just smirked. This isn’t the end. It’s the calm before the storm, she thought. And she wasn’t wrong.

On Saturday morning, when she and Alexey were getting ready to go to the market for vegetables, the doorbell rang. On the doorstep stood her mother-in-law—fully dressed up: hair sprayed into place, amber earrings, a folder of papers in her hands.

“Good morning, kids,” she sang sweetly. “I came to discuss something.”

Marina tensed immediately. Alexey tried to smile.

“Mom, we were just—”

“Nothing, the market can wait,” Tatyana Petrovna said confidently and walked into the kitchen.

She opened the folder and spread the documents across the table.

“Here, take a look. I consulted someone. By law, if an apartment is purchased during marriage, it’s shared property.”

Marina squinted.

“Only my apartment was bought before the marriage. Want me to bring you the registry extract?”

Without blinking, her mother-in-law went on:

“What difference does it make when! You live with my son—so you must share.”

Alexey timidly tried to step in.

“Mom, enough already…”

“Quiet!” his mother snapped. “You’re always quiet—that’s why you live like a tenant. I’ll speak for you.”

Marina raised an eyebrow.

“So you’ve decided to become a lawyer? For free, I hope?”

“Very funny,” Tatyana Petrovna hissed. “I’m his mother. And I won’t allow my son to be humiliated.”

“And I won’t allow someone to wave random papers around in my house,” Marina shot back.

Tatyana Petrovna slammed her palm on the table.

“So you refuse?”

“Yes.”

“Then know this: you’ll destroy the family!”

Marina laughed—dry and angry.

“A family isn’t destroyed by an apartment. A family is destroyed when third parties meddle where they weren’t invited.”

Alexey sighed heavily and stood up.

“Mom, really—enough. This is crossing every line…”

Tatyana Petrovna grabbed his hand.

“Lyosha, wake up! Are you blind? She’s using you! She only needs your hands to move furniture, and your salary for utilities. Everything else she keeps for herself.”

Marina gave a cold smile.

“Right, ‘using’ a person who bought himself new sneakers last week with my money. Alexey, confirm it was me who paid.”

Alexey blushed like a schoolboy at assembly.

“Well… yeah. That happened.”

“There!” his mother howled triumphantly. “She even counts your sneakers!”

Marina stood, stepped closer, and looked her mother-in-law straight in the eyes.

“No, Tatyana Petrovna. I’m not counting sneakers. I’m counting respect. And there’s zero of it.”

Alexey’s mother flinched, but recovered quickly.

“You’re going to lecture me about respect? You… you’re a crow in peacock feathers! You think if you work and have money, you’re better than everyone? But you don’t have kids. And I have a son. He’s my blood!”

Marina went pale but didn’t look away.

“And what—now we’re having a contest of whose blood is thicker?”

Alexey snapped.

“Mom, stop! I’m asking you.”

“I gave birth to you, Lyosha!” Tatyana Petrovna screamed. “And now you’re asking me?”

Marina took the “documents” off the table and shoved them back into the folder.

“Take this. These papers mean nothing. By law, it’s my property. If you want—go to court. But keep in mind: in court people talk in facts, not in neighbors’ gossip.”

Tatyana Petrovna pressed her lips together, grabbed the folder, and left without saying goodbye. The door slammed, plaster crumbling somewhere.

Marina sat on the couch and covered her face with her hands.

“God… when will this end?”

Alexey quietly sat down beside her.

“I’m sorry. She… she’s just afraid she’ll lose me.”

“Alexey,” Marina looked at him closely, “I’m not against your mother. I’m against her dictating how we live. We’re a family. We have to be a team.”

He nodded.

“I understand. It’s just… hard. She’s my mother.”

Marina gave a bitter smile.

“And who am I? An enemy of the people?”

He stayed silent.

That evening, while they were having dinner, the phone rang. It was the neighbor Valentina Ivanovna. Her voice buzzed with curiosity:

“Marinochka, is it true you had a scandal? People are saying you want to throw Alexey out of the apartment!”

Marina nearly choked on her cutlet.

“What?!”

“Oh yes! Tatyana Petrovna was telling everyone by the entrance. Said you’re a mean person and you’re preparing divorce papers!”

Alexey clenched his fists.

“That’s it. Enough. I’ll talk to her myself.”

Marina put a hand on his shoulder.

“No. Now I’ll talk.”

There wasn’t a drop of doubt in her voice.

Sunday. The apartment smelled of fresh coffee and syrniki. For the first time in a week Marina felt calm: the window was cracked open, outside a light rain fell, and inside there was silence. Alexey sat with a newspaper, but his eyes showed it—his thoughts weren’t about the weather or retirement.

And then—again—the doorbell. Loud, long.

“Well,” Marina said, “the final act is starting.”

Tatyana Petrovna swept in like a storm: coat unbuttoned, a bag of pies in her hands.

“I came to make peace!” she announced and dropped the bag on the table like a bribe. “Let’s do this like human beings: the apartment—half and half, period.”

Marina sat down, arms folded across her chest.

“So this is how you make peace. Interesting.”

“Marina, don’t push me!” her mother-in-law raised her voice. “Either you transfer half to my son, or I’m going to court!”

 

Alexey stood up.

“Mom, stop!”

“Shut up!” Tatyana Petrovna shouted. “You’re whipped, I can see it!”

Marina stood too.

“Tatyana Petrovna, you’re crossing boundaries. Go to court if you want. They’ll explain there that the apartment is mine and your son isn’t entitled to any share.”

Her mother-in-law turned purple.

“So you’re mocking me now?!”

She jerked the bag, and the pies flew across the floor. Alexey stepped toward her to stop her, but Marina got there first.

“That’s it! Enough! This is my home—and there will be no more scandals in it. Leave.”

“You’re throwing me out?” Tatyana Petrovna hissed.

Alexey came up and said firmly:

“Yes, Mom. Leave. Don’t come back here without an apology.”

Silence. Tatyana Petrovna looked from her son to Marina. Her lips trembled like a child’s who’s being punished for the first time—and deservedly.

“So… you chose her?” she whispered.

“I chose myself, Mom. And the family Marina and I are building,” Alexey replied, steady.

She silently took her coat and left. The door closed quietly—too quietly.

Marina sank into a chair.

“Well, now the war of rumors will definitely begin.”

Alexey took her hand.

“Let it. The main thing is—you and I are together.”

They sat in the kitchen among scattered pies. And suddenly Marina laughed.

“Symbolic, you know? Everything fell apart—but we stayed.”

For the first time in a long while, Alexey smiled too.

“Then we’ll start gathering it up again. But our own.

 

Marina was drying her hands on a kitchen towel when the phone rang. The number was familiar—Lena Sokolova, her classmate from the design faculty. They hadn’t spoken in over three years, ever since Marina went on maternity leave.

“Marish, hi! How are you, how’s the baby?” Lena’s voice sounded energetic, almost infectious. “Listen, I’m opening my own firm. A design studio. Remember how we dreamed about it? Well, I’ve decided! And I need people. Talented people. Do you remember that loft project of yours? I still keep the photos for inspiration.”

Marina felt something inside her stir after a long sleep. She glanced automatically at the calendar on the fridge—Thursday, an unremarkable day. Her son Timofey was at kindergarten; at home there was emptiness and a silence that had long since stopped being cozy and had simply become habitual.

“Lena, I… I haven’t worked for three years. I have a child, the house…”

“That’s why the pay won’t be great at first,” Lena cut in. “But the projects will be interesting, I guarantee it. Marish, at least think about it. You weren’t planning to bury your talent forever under pots and diapers, were you?”

After the call, Marina stood at the window for a long time, looking out at the familiar courtyard. She recalled herself five years earlier—an ambitious graduate with shining eyes, working at a small firm and dreaming of big projects. Then Viktor appeared—a reliable, solid man with a good salary as a mid-level manager. A wedding, a pregnancy, and the dreams were put off somewhere far away, for later.

 

In the evening, when Viktor came home from work, Marina met him with unusual enthusiasm.

“Vitya, just imagine—Lena called me! Remember I told you about her? She’s opening her own design bureau and she’s offering me a position!”

Viktor took off his shoes, set them neatly on the rack, and walked into the kitchen. Marina noticed his face take on that closed expression she’d learned to recognize over the years of their marriage.

“Marin, let’s be realistic,” he began, pouring himself tea. “What kind of salary will that be? Pennies, I bet. And what about home? I’ll come back from work to frozen dinners, the kid left to run wild. No, that doesn’t work for me.”

“Vitya, this is my profession. I put so much effort into my studies…”

“All my friends’ wives stay home, and everyone’s happy,” he said calmly, even a bit condescendingly, as if explaining obvious things. “Sergey’s, Kolya’s, Andrey’s. Normal families. A woman should run the household and raise the child. Why do you need this job? So the apartment gets dirty and you crawl home exhausted in the evenings?”

“It’s not just about money! I want to do what I love. I want to grow, to feel like a person and not a maid!”

“A maid?” Viktor set the cup down so hard tea sloshed onto the table. “Do I not earn enough for you? We have everything we need. You live in a nice apartment, you lack nothing. And you call yourself a maid?”

They quarreled. For the first time in a long while—truly, with raised voices and slamming doors. Marina lay awake half the night, replaying her conversation with Lena. By morning, she had made a decision.

A week later, she started work.

The first weeks were like a breath of fresh air after a long spell in a stuffy room. Marina woke with a sense of anticipation, hurried to the small office on the outskirts of town that smelled of fresh paint and coffee. She was once again discussing color palettes and composition, once again feeling like a professional whose opinion mattered.

She had to drop Timofey off at her mother-in-law’s—the latter was not thrilled with this turn of events, but kept quiet, only sighing meaningfully whenever they met. Viktor, for his part, demonstratively ignored his wife in the evenings, ate dinner in stony silence, and retreated to the room to watch football.

Two months later he spoke up.

“Marin, when is this going to end?” His voice sounded tired and irritated. “I’ve been eating pasta with hot dogs for a week. We haul Timka to my mom’s every day; he’s already getting fussy. And at home… I even have to find my own slippers when I get in.”

At that moment, Marina was at her laptop polishing a presentation for a client—Igor Vladimirovich Kruglov, the owner of a chain of stores who had commissioned the design of his new country house. It was their most promising project yet, and she couldn’t let the team down.

“Vitya, I understand, but I’m at a crucial stage right now. One more week and I can come up for air, I promise.”

“A week, then another week. When does normal life start?”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have the strength to argue.

On the eve of an important meeting with Kruglov, Marina stopped by a boutique and bought a suit—strict, elegant, and, of course, not cheap. She understood that meetings with clients like this required the right look. You can’t show up in old jeans and a sweater.

When Viktor saw the receipt that popped up in his mobile banking app, his patience snapped.

“Forty-five thousand for a suit?! Are you out of your mind?!” He waved the receipt in her face. “Where did you get that kind of money? From our family budget? I work, I provide for the family, and you spend it on rags?”

“Vitya, it’s work attire, I need to look presentable…”

“Presentable?!” He was beside himself. “You know what? Enough. You wanted to work—then work. Live on your salary and don’t touch my money,” he declared, not realizing how badly he was miscalculating. “I’m not going to bankroll your hobbies anymore. Starting tomorrow you’re on your own. You’ll buy the groceries, pay for kindergarten—everything yourself, on your designer’s salary.”

Marina stood silent. Inside, everything tightened into a hard knot, but she didn’t argue. She just nodded and left the room.

The following weeks passed in a strange silence. They hardly spoke. Viktor ostentatiously cooked for himself, not touching the food she now bought separately. Marina plunged headlong into work. The Kruglov project expanded—he was so pleased with her ideas that he also ordered designs for a guest house and a bathhouse. And then something unexpected happened.

A month after their quarrel, Marina met Viktor in the entryway holding the keys to a new car.

“What’s this?” He stared at the shiny key fob in complete bewilderment.

“A car. I took it on credit,” she replied calmly, fastening her coat.

“On credit?! With what money are you going to pay it off?! Do you even realize what you’re doing?!”

Marina turned to him. There was no gloating or resentment on her face—only quiet confidence.

“With my own, Vitya. You said yourself—live on your salary, don’t touch your money. So I’m not touching it. I need a car for work. Igor Vladimirovich recommended me to his friends—they have houses outside the city, and I need to drive out to their sites. I’ve already signed three contracts, and five more are in the pipeline.”

“What contracts?” Viktor sank onto the sofa, and for the first time in a long while Marina saw confusion in his eyes instead of the usual certainty.

“It turns out wealthy people move in tight circles. Kruglov told his partners about our work. Then they told their acquaintances. Now our studio has a waiting list for a year ahead. Lena offered me a partnership in the bureau—I brought in so many clients. My share is now thirty percent of the profits. In the last two months I’ve earned more than you have in half a year.”

Viktor was silent. Marina could see his entire picture of the world reshuffling itself in his head.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he finally managed.

“You didn’t ask. You were busy punishing me with silence and showing me how wrong I was.” Her voice wasn’t accusatory; it stated the facts. “By the way, the loan isn’t straining the family budget. The monthly payment is less than I currently spend on taxis to clients.”

Over the next few days Viktor moved quietly and thoughtfully around the house. Marina noticed him open his mouth to say something several times and then lose his nerve. Finally, on Saturday evening, after Timofey had fallen asleep, he knocked on the kitchen door, which served as her office in the evenings.

“Marish, can I come in?”

She looked up from her sketches.

“I wanted to… say I’m sorry.” The word came hard to him—she could tell. “I was wrong. I acted like a jerk, honestly. I thought I knew better how things should be. That my work mattered more, that I was the boss. And you… You’re amazing. You really are.”

Marina leaned back in her chair.

 

“You know, Vitya, I didn’t need your boss-of-the-house games. I needed you to support me. To believe in me. I didn’t ask you to bankroll my hobby, as you put it. I asked for the right to be myself.”

“I get it. Really.” He came closer and sat on the edge of the sofa. “I’m ashamed of what I said. Of making you prove to me that you had the right to work. You never should have had to prove anything.”

They were quiet for a long time. Then Marina handed him the tablet with her sketches.

“Want to see what I’m working on?”

Viktor took the tablet and began to scroll. His face slowly changed—surprise, then admiration.

“This… this is really beautiful. I didn’t realize you did things like this.”

“Because you never took an interest.”

“Yes.” He nodded. “I’m sorry.”

In the weeks that followed, something shifted between them. Viktor began asking about her projects, listening, studying her sketches. He started picking up Timofey from kindergarten himself when she had late meetings.

One evening at dinner he set down his fork and said:

“Marish, what if we think about a house. A country one.”

“A house?”

“Well, yeah.” He smiled a little shyly. “We’re doing well now. We can afford it. And you’ll design it—I’ve seen your projects, you’re great at this. It’ll be our family home, created by you.”

Marina felt a warm wave spread through her chest.

“Vitya, are you serious?”

“Absolutely. It’ll be our project. Together. The way it should have been from the start.”

She stood, walked over to him, and hugged him.

“You know, I agree. On one condition.”

“What condition?”

“You stop comparing our family to your friends’ families. We are us. We have our own path.”

Viktor pulled her closer and kissed the top of her head.

“Deal.”

That night, after everyone finally fell asleep, Marina lay for a long time staring into the darkness. She thought about how easy it would have been to lose herself in other people’s expectations. How she could have lived her life considering herself a maid in her own home, smothering her dreams with resentment and obedience. How their marriage might have turned into a cold coexistence of two people who had once loved each other.

But she took a chance. She pushed through the misunderstanding and hurt. And it turned out that beyond that wall there wasn’t a cliff, as she had feared, but a new road—for both of them.

Viktor turned in his sleep and held her tighter. Marina closed her eyes, feeling at last that she was home—not in an apartment, not in an office, but in her own life, the one she had chosen for herself.

And in the morning she had a meeting with a new client; then she’d need to pick up Timofey; in the evening—work on the sketches for their future house. An ordinary day. Her day. And it was wonderful

The taxi smelled of gasoline and a tiredness not its own, soaked into the seats. The driver glanced a couple of times in the rearview mirror at Katya and at the white envelope in her hands, but kept quiet. Wise guy, or just indifferent.

Katya watched the city lights flicker by, smeared into dirty streaks on the window. She wasn’t crying. Inside everything had simply become very light and cold, like an empty glass vessel that had been poured out.

Little Nikita, her son, slept in the infant car seat she had barely managed to wedge into the back. His quiet snuffling was the only real thing left in her collapsed world.

Right up to the end she kept running a different scenario in her head. She’d open the door and there would be Vadim. Flustered, guilty, with some ridiculous explanation about traffic, a dead phone, or a biblical flood. She wouldn’t even listen—just nod and go into the nursery. The main thing was that he was there.

But her husband hadn’t met her after the delivery. Not at the maternity hospital steps with silly balloons, not now at the entrance to their—apparently now only her—building.

The driver helped her lift out the heavy car seat.

 

“Congratulations on the new addition,” he muttered, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot.

Katya nodded silently and handed him the money.

The ride up in the elevator felt like an eternity. The walls, scribbled over by teens, pressed in from all sides. Each floor—like a new circle of her personal hell.

The key turned stiffly in the lock, as if reluctantly, as if the apartment itself resisted her returning alone.

Inside it was dark and echoing. No smell of dinner, no sliver of light under the bedroom door. Only the sharp, barely-there trace of his cologne, the one he always used before going out “on business.”

On the hall table lay a sheet of paper folded in half. Not an envelope, not a card. Just a page torn from an expensive planner.

She read it, and the words didn’t sink in at once; they clung to the edges of her thoughts, refusing to fall to the bottom.

“Kat, I can’t. I tried, honestly. But this isn’t for me. A child, the routine, all that responsibility… I want to live, to travel, to breathe. I’m leaving everything to you—the apartment, the car. Just don’t look for me. This will be better for everyone.”

She read the note again. And again. She searched the even, almost calligraphic letters for a drop of doubt, pain, regret. There was none. Only a cold, selfish statement of fact. He had simply written himself out of their life like out of a boring novel.

Katya didn’t scream. She carefully set the car seat on the floor, took off her jacket, and hung it on the rack. Mechanical, as if watching herself from the outside.

She went into the nursery. The room they had arranged with such love. Light-blue walls, a crib with a mobile of felt stars, a changing table. Everything was perfect. Sterile. And dead.

Nikita grunted a little in his sleep and stirred, pulling her back to reality.

Katya went to the window and looked down at the night city. The lights no longer blurred. They had become sharp, clear, prickly.

She was alone. Absolutely alone with a tiny human in her arms in a huge, alien city. And the only thought beating in her head was:

“Mom… I need to call Mom.”

The phone was picked up almost immediately, as if they’d been waiting.

“Katya? Well, did you get there? How’s the grandson?”

Her mother’s voice, Valentina Petrovna’s, was even and businesslike. Not a hint of suspicion in it.

“Mom…” Katya swallowed the viscous saliva. “Vadim left.”

Silence hung on the other end. Not surprised, not frightened. A heavy, all-understanding silence of someone who has lived life and knows it can be like this.

“Pack your things. Only the essentials for you and the baby.”

No questions—“how,” “why,” “what happened.” Just a clear, brief instruction.

“Where to?” burst out of Katya. A stupid question.

“Home, where else. Your father will set out in the morning to get you. Give him the address.”

Katya dictated the address that her father, Sergei Ivanovich, knew perfectly well anyway. They had visited her parents with Vadim last New Year’s. Back then everything still seemed unshakable.

“Block his cards if you have access,” her mother suddenly said sternly. “Do it right now.”

Katya blinked, confused. She hadn’t even thought about that. About money, about the cards. Her world had shrunk to the note on the table and her sleeping son.

“Got it.”

“Don’t fall apart there. You’re not alone now. You have Nikita. Sleep. Morning is wiser than evening.”

Short beeps sounded in the receiver.

The night passed in a fog. Katya fed Nikita, changed diapers, rocked him in her arms, staring at one spot on the wall. She didn’t unpack, didn’t prepare to leave. She simply existed, obeying instinct.

In the evening an old Niva pulled up by the entrance. Sergei Ivanovich—stern, taciturn, as always—hugged her without a word, glanced into the bundle with his grandson, and began carrying the bags down.

As they were getting into the car, her father looked at Vadim’s shiny sedan parked by the building and asked:

“And what about this one?”

“Mom said to sell it,” Katya answered flatly.

Her father grunted.

“Your mother’s right. Leave me the keys and documents. I’ll handle it when I have time. No need for you to bother with that now.”

They hardly spoke the whole drive. Katya watched as the bright lights of the metropolis gave way to the sparse lamps of small towns, and then sank altogether into the autumn dark. Nikita slept.

The village met them with the smell of smoke from stove pipes and barking dogs. Her parents’ house was old but well kept. Warm light glowed in the windows.

Her mother met them on the porch. She didn’t hug Katya, didn’t pity her, didn’t lament. She simply took the precious snuffling bundle from her hands.

“Come in, your father’s heated the banya. Have dinner and go wash up. I’ve prepared a room for you and Nikita.”

The house smelled of wood and dried herbs. On the table sat a plate of hot potatoes and pickles. Food whose taste Katya felt she had forgotten.

She ate silently, mechanically. Then she sat in the hot, steamy bathhouse and, for the first time in two days, cried. Soundlessly, letting tears fall into the wooden basin. It wasn’t the pain that left. It was the former her. The Katya who believed in “happily ever after.”

The following months blurred into one long, drawn-out, gray day. Feedings by the clock, sleepless nights, walks with the stroller along village roads turned to mush by the rains.

Life narrowed to a simple, almost animal cycle: sleep, food, caring for her son. She hardly looked in the mirror, forgot what music sounded like that wasn’t a lullaby.

A week later her father brought a thick wad of cash. Said he’d sold the car. Got a good price. Katya just nodded and put the money in a dresser drawer without counting. It was money from another, past life.

She hardly spoke with her parents. And they didn’t pry. Her mother took over the household; her father split firewood, carried water, fixed what broke. Their quiet support was far more important than any words.

One day, stepping out onto the porch, she saw their neighbor, Aunt Vera, talking to her mother over the fence. When she spotted Katya, the neighbor fell silent, following her with a long, sympathetic-and-curious look.

That look had everything in it: pity, judgment, and a touch of gloating. Katya realized the whole village already knew her story. The story of a girl who’d gone to the city for a pretty life and came back alone with a baby in her arms.

She didn’t hide. She just nodded to the neighbor and slowly went back inside. Let them look. Let them talk. She didn’t care. She was building a new fortress. Inside herself.

Eight months passed. Nikita learned to sit up and laugh out loud. That laughter became Katya’s tuning fork, setting her to life.

The money from the car and what was left in the accounts was dwindling. She knew it, seeing how her mother, without a word, bought another pack of expensive diapers or jars of baby food.

 

Dependence on her parents, a lifesaver at first, began to weigh on her. She loved them, was endlessly grateful, but felt infantile, a grown girl perched on their necks again.

In the evening, after Nikita fell asleep and her father watched soccer on TV, Katya sat with her mother in the kitchen. Her mother was sorting buckwheat, and there was an ancient wisdom in that simple act.

“Mom, I need a job.”

Valentina Petrovna didn’t look up.

“What job? Who’ll be with Nikita?”

“I’ll talk to Zoya Vasilievna. Maybe the school will take me. I have a teaching degree. Russian, literature.”

Her mother finally lifted her eyes to her daughter. Her gaze was piercing, with no trace of pity.

“At our school? Think Zoya will take you? No experience, a nursing baby. And the village will wag their tongues to no end.”

“Let them,” Katya’s voice was unexpectedly firm. “They have their life, I have mine. I can’t sit on your neck forever. Self-pity is an unaffordable luxury.”

The next day, leaving Nikita with her mother, Katya went to the school. An old two-story building smelling of paint and chalk. The smell of her own childhood.

The principal, Zoya Vasilievna, a stout woman with tired but intelligent eyes, listened in silence, tapping a pen on the desk.

“You’ve got a good diploma, with honors, I remember. But zero experience. And the baby is small. You’ll be out on sick leave all the time.”

“I won’t,” Katya cut her off. “My mom will help. I really need this job, Zoya Vasilievna.”

The principal sighed.

“I only have one opening. Lyudmila Sergeevna is going on maternity leave. But it’s a tough class, seventh grade. Mostly boys, lots from troubled families. They’ll eat you alive, girl.”

“It’s worth a try.”

Zoya Vasilievna looked at her for a long, appraising moment. She saw not a frightened abandoned woman but someone with a straight back and a stubborn gaze.

“Fine. Start in September. But mind you, I won’t go easy on you.”

Leaving the office, Katya nearly bumped into a tall man in a work jacket in the corridor. He was fixing a loose door in one of the classrooms.

He turned at the sound of her steps. He had fair hair bleached by the sun and very calm gray eyes.

“Careful, the threshold creaks here,” he said simply, without curiosity.

“Thanks, I know,” Katya replied. “I studied here.”

He nodded and went back to work.

Katya walked home and, for the first time in a long while, felt not the weight of the past but a fragile hope for the future. She just knew she’d taken the first step. The hardest one.

September first smelled of chrysanthemums and fresh paint. Katya stood before her seventh graders and felt like a gladiator in an arena. Twenty pairs of eyes looked at her with varying degrees of hostility and curiosity.

They were exactly as the principal had warned. Noisy, cocky, almost-grown boys and a few girls who kept to themselves. The ringleader was Yegor Kovalyov, a lanky kid with an insolent look, sitting at the back.

“Hello. My name is Ekaterina Sergeevna. I’m your new homeroom teacher and your Russian language and literature teacher.”

“So what, the old one ran away?” someone yelled from the back row. The class snickered.

Katya found Yegor with her eyes. He wasn’t laughing; he just watched her, studying her with lazy superiority.

“Lyudmila Sergeevna had a baby girl. She’s got more important things now than teaching you where to put commas,” Katya answered calmly.

The bell cut off the brewing back-and-forth. The first lesson passed in a state of cold war. They didn’t listen, whispered, dropped their textbooks. Katya didn’t raise her voice.

She methodically taught the class, addressing the few who tried to listen. Among them was a quiet girl with huge gray eyes, sitting at the front desk.

Katya remembered her name: Masha Zavyalova. The carpenter’s daughter.

It went on like that for a week. She came home wrung out like a lemon, hugged milk-scented Nikita, and remembered what she was doing it for. Every day at school was a small battle she had no right to lose.

The breakthrough came unexpectedly. They were studying “Taras Bulba.” The class was openly bored.

“This is all crap,” Yegor declared loudly. “About some old geezers with sabers.”

“What isn’t crap, Yegor?” Katya asked, walking up to his desk.

“Video games! That’s where the action is, real battles!”

Katya perched on the edge of the chair next to him. The class froze.

“Fine. Let’s imagine Ostap and Andriy are two players on the same team. They have a common goal, a shared mission. But at some point one of them betrays the whole team for a girl on the enemy side. What do they do with those in games?”

Yegor frowned, thinking.

“Well… they kick him from the clan. Ban him. Call him a traitor.”

“Exactly. Gogol basically wrote about the same thing. About betrayal. About the choice between duty and love. And about what happens when your best friend—your brother—ends up on the other side. Do you have a best friend, Yegor?”

The boy said nothing, just looked away. But Katya could see she’d hit the mark. For the first time, she’d dented his armor.

After classes, as she was leaving the school, Oleg Zavyalov caught up with her. He’d come for his daughter.

“Ekaterina Sergeevna.”

“Hello, Oleg,” she answered.

“Just Oleg,” he smiled. The smile transformed his stern face. “Masha says you put Kovalyov in his place today. That’s almost impossible.”

“I just talked to him,” Katya shrugged.

“Not many people talk to him. His father drinks, his mother works in the city. He’s on his own. Thank you.”

They stood a moment in silence.

“You’ve got chalk on your sleeve,” he said suddenly.

Katya looked at her sleeve and awkwardly tried to brush it off. Oleg stepped closer and lightly, barely touching, flicked away the white mark. His fingers were warm and rough.

Their acquaintance began with little things like that. He’d tighten a wobbly desk in her classroom; she’d send him a book through Masha when she learned he liked science fiction.

One winter, in a heavy snowfall, her car got stuck at the village exit. It was Oleg, in his old UAZ, who pulled her out, then spent half the night helping her father clear the yard.

They hardly spoke about personal matters. But in his calm presence, in his readiness to help without extra words, there was more support than in hundreds of empty phrases.

Two years passed. Nikita was already going to the village kindergarten. The seventh graders were now ninth graders, and Yegor Kovalyov, strangely enough, was preparing to take the literature exam.

One summer evening they sat on a bench by the river. Nikita and Masha were floating little bark boats.

 

“Katya,” Oleg said, looking at the water. “My house is big. For just Masha and me it’s too spacious. And I think Nikita would like his own room.”

It wasn’t a flowery declaration of love. It was something bigger. An offer to share a life. Not passion, but a quiet, deep certainty.

Katya looked at him, at his calm face, at the children laughing by the water, and realized she had long been home already. That her world, once shattered into a thousand pieces, had come together again. And this new picture was stronger, truer, and far more beautiful than the old one.

She didn’t go looking for freedom or travel. She found something more important. Herself.

Another five years passed.

A Saturday noon at the Zavyalovs’ smelled of freshly cut grass and meat roasting in the oven. Seven-year-old Nikita, the spitting image of Katya, was solemnly fixing his bike with Oleg in the yard.

Masha, already sixteen, sat on the veranda with a book, but kept glancing toward the gate. She had her first date today and was nervous.

Katya watched them from the kitchen window, stirring a sauce, and felt the absolute fullness of the moment.

Her life was here, in these simple sounds and smells. In her son’s laughter, in her husband’s focused snuffling, in the soft rustle of pages as Masha turned them.

She had long since sold that city apartment, investing the money in a large plot next to the house. A young orchard grew there now, which they had planted together.

Unexpectedly, an unfamiliar expensive car stopped at the gate. A man got out. Well dressed, fashionable glasses on his face, but somehow crumpled, tired. Too city for their village.

Katya recognized him at once. Vadim.

Her heart didn’t skip, didn’t beat faster. She felt only mild surprise, as if she’d seen a character from a long-forgotten film.

Oleg lifted his head from the bike and stood up silently, wiping his hands on a rag. Nikita looked at the stranger with curiosity.

Vadim came up to the gate but didn’t dare open it. He looked at Oleg, at the boy; then his gaze found Katya in the window. There was something like shock in his eyes.

He had apparently imagined a different picture. A tear-streaked, aged, unhappy woman in a shabby robe. Not this calm, self-possessed woman in a simple summer dress, standing on the threshold of her big, solid home.

Katya stepped out onto the porch.

“Hello, Vadim.”

“Katya… I… I’ve been looking for you.”

“What for?” Her voice was even, without a shade of emotion.

“I wanted to see… my son.”

Nikita stopped fussing with the bike and came over to Oleg, pressing against his leg. He didn’t know this man. Oleg was his dad.

“He doesn’t know you, Vadim.”

“But I’m his father!” Desperation broke through in his voice. “I’ve been a lot of places, Katya, seen everything. But it’s all… dust. I realized I left the most important thing here.”

Katya looked at him without anger and without pity.

“You didn’t leave it. You threw it away. There’s a difference. The freedom you chased turned out to be just emptiness, didn’t it?”

Vadim was silent, gripping the handle of his expensive bag. His world of travels and adventures collapsed into this awkward scene at a stranger’s gate.

“You have five minutes,” Katya said. “You can talk to him. Here. At the gate. Oleg, let’s go in the house. Nikita, come here.”

She didn’t humiliate Vadim, didn’t try to prove anything. She simply showed him his place. The place of an outsider who was politely given a few minutes.

The conversation didn’t take. Nikita answered in monosyllables, hiding behind his mother. To him this handsome man was nobody. After three minutes, Vadim gave up.

“He… he doesn’t look like me at all,” he said to Katya, bewildered.

“Of course not. He looks like someone who knows what a home is.”

Vadim looked at her calm face, at the solid man behind her, at the two children who were her family.

And for the first time, real, sharp understanding appeared in his eyes—not regret for what he’d done, but what he had lost. Not a woman with a child. An entire life he had traded for a glossy postcard.

He turned and walked to his car. Without looking back.

Katya watched him go and returned to the house, where the table was already being set. She hugged Oleg and ruffled Nikita’s hair.

Her world was here. And there was no place in it for ghosts from the past

 Girl, do you even realize what you’ve done?!” Semen shouted, waving a ladle. “Soup on the floor, the customer splashed, and you’re just standing there like a statue!”

Alyona looked at the dark stain on the man’s expensive suit and felt her insides tighten. This was the end of her job. Six months of effort — and all for nothing. Now this rich man would make a scene, demand compensation, and she’d be fired without severance.

“Please, I’m sorry… I’ll clean it up right away,” she stammered, grabbing napkins from the table.

The man raised his hand to stop her:

“Wait. It’s my fault. I turned suddenly and got distracted by a phone call.”

Alyona froze. In two years of working as a waitress, she had heard all kinds of things, but a customer apologizing to her — that had never happened before.

“No, it was clumsy of me…” she muttered.

“Don’t worry. The suit can be cleaned. But did you get burned?”

She shook her head, still not believing what was happening. The man was about forty-five, with graying hair and glasses. He spoke calmly, without the fake polite tone usually put on by wealthy customers.

“Then let me change clothes, and you bring a new soup. Just be careful this time,” he smiled slightly.

Igor, the hall administrator, appeared out of nowhere.

“Mr. Sokolov, sorry for the incident! We will definitely compensate for the suit…”

“Igor Petrovich, no need. It’s fine.”

Alyona brought a new serving of soup, her hands still trembling. Sokolov ate slowly, occasionally glancing at her thoughtfully.

“What’s your name?”

“Alyona.”

“How long have you worked here?”

“Six months.”

“Do you like it?”

She shrugged. What was there to say? A job is a job. The salary is okay, and the team depends on luck.

“And where did you work before?”

The question was easy, but Alyona tensed inside. Rich men don’t just casually ask about waitresses’ pasts.

“At another café,” she answered shortly.

Sokolov nodded and didn’t ask more. He paid, left a generous tip, and left.

“You’re lucky,” Semen grumbled. “If I’d had a client like that in my youth, I’d be retired by now.”

A week later, Sokolov came to the restaurant again. He took the same table and asked to be served by Alyona.

“How are you?” he asked when she brought the menu.

“Fine.”

“Where do you live?”

“I rent a room.”

“Alone?”

Alyona put down the menu a little sharply.

“And?”

 

Sokolov raised his hands in peace:

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. You just remind me of someone.”

“Who?”

“My sister. She was independent at your age too.”

Alyona felt something tighten inside. “Was” — meaning she’s no longer alive.

“Does she work somewhere?”

“No,” Sokolov paused. “She’s been gone for a long time.”

Their conversation was interrupted by another customer asking for the bill. When Alyona returned, Sokolov was finishing his salad.

“Can I come here often?” he asked. “I like it here.”

“Of course, it’s a public place.”

“And if I ask to always be served by you?”

Alyona shrugged. The customer is always right, especially when he pays well.

Sokolov started coming twice a week. Ordered the same thing: soup, salad, main course. Ate slowly, sometimes spoke quietly on the phone. The perfect visitor.

Gradually, he began to tell about himself. Owns a chain of hardware stores, lives with his wife in a house outside the city. They have no children.

“Where are you from?” he asked once.

“From the city,” Alyona answered evasively.

“Are your parents alive?”

“No.”

“Have they been gone long?”

“I don’t remember them. I grew up in an orphanage.”

Sokolov paused, his spoon hanging over the plate.

“Which one?”

“The fourteenth boarding school on Sadovaya.”

“Got it. How old are you?”

“Twenty-two.”

“When did you leave the orphanage?”

“At eighteen. First, they gave me a dormitory, then I rented on my own.”

Sokolov stopped eating. He looked at her strangely, as if just noticing.

“Is something wrong?” Alyona asked.

“No, it’s okay. It’s just… my sister also grew up in an orphanage.”

“Poor her.”

“Yes. I was twenty then, studying at university. I couldn’t take her in — I lived in a dormitory, barely making ends meet on a scholarship.”

“And then?”

“Then it was too late.”

There was such pain in his voice that Alyona didn’t ask more. It wasn’t her place to stir up someone else’s memories.

The next week, Sokolov brought her a gift — a small, neat box.

“What is this?”

“Open it.”

Inside were gold earrings — simple but elegant.

“I can’t take these.”

“Why not?”

“Because we hardly know each other.”

“Alyona, it’s just a token of attention. No strings attached.”

“For what?”

He paused a moment.

“Do you have any plans for the future?”

“What plans? I work and save money for an apartment.”

“Would you like to change jobs?”

“To what?”

“There’s a manager vacancy at one of my stores. The salary is three times higher than here.”

Alyona leaned back from the table.

“And do I have to do something for that?”

“Work. Receive goods, supervise salespeople, prepare reports. You’ll learn everything.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re responsible. No complaints in six months, always polite to guests. And because I want to help.”

“Why?”

Sokolov took off his glasses, wiped them with a napkin.

“My sister was sent to an orphanage at twelve — our parents died in a fire. I was in my third year at university. I thought I’d hang on a couple of years, get my degree, find a good job, and bring her to me.”

“What happened?”

“She died of pneumonia, a year before I graduated. I found out about the funeral only a month later.”

Alyona was silent. The story was touching, but what did it have to do with her?

“I’ve thought my whole life: if I had acted earlier, dropped out, got a job somewhere…”

“So what? You both would have survived, instead of struggling alone?”

“Maybe. But she would be alive.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I do. They treated her badly there. If she had lived with me…”

“Listen, I’m very sorry about your sister. But I’m not her.”

“I understand. But let me at least try to fix something.”

Alyona took the box with the earrings.

“I’ll think about the job. But take these back.”

“Alyona, come on! It’s just a gift, no conditions.”

 

“That’s exactly why I’m not accepting it.”

At home in her rented room, Alyona told her friend Valentina, who grew up with her in the orphanage.

“I don’t believe in kind rich men,” Valentina said, biting an apple. “They all want something.”

“He acts like an older friend. Even like a father.”

“Even worse. That means he has strange ideas.”

“Stop it, Val. Don’t say nonsense.”

“Alyona, we heard many times as kids: don’t trust adults who are too kind. Remember what happened to Natasha Krylova?”

She remembered. Natasha left with a man promising the world. Returned pregnant and bruised.

“But the salary really is good…”

“Talk to Igor. He’s experienced.”

Igor was cautious about the offer:

“Alyona, rich people don’t give anything for nothing. He definitely has his own goals.”

“What goals?”

“Don’t know. Maybe he wants to cheat his wife. Maybe he’s looking for a replacement daughter. Maybe worse.”

“He says he wants to atone for his guilt to his sister.”

“And you believe him?”

“Why not? The story sounds plausible.”

“You’re smart, Alyona. But you don’t understand people well. You expect too much.”

But after a week, Alyona agreed. Not for the money, though it was important. She was just tired of carrying trays and putting up with customers’ whims every day.

The store was on the city’s outskirts, selling building materials. Staff: three salespeople, a loader, an accountant, and her.

Sokolov trained her for a week. Explained patiently, repeated without anger at mistakes.

“You have a good memory,” he said. “And you can find common ground with people. I think you’ll manage.”

The first month was hard. The salespeople didn’t accept her — young, inexperienced, and with a patron. But Alyona wasn’t used to giving up. She worked from morning till night, studied the assortment, memorized prices, learned to deal with suppliers.

Over time things improved. Sokolov came once a week — checked documents, talked to staff. He treated Alyona kindly, but without familiarity.

“How are things?” he usually asked.

“Okay. Getting the hang of it.”

“If something is unclear — call. Don’t hesitate.”

“Okay.”

“And how’s the housing? Still renting a room?”

“For now. But I’m already looking for an apartment.”

“Maybe I can help? I know some realtors.”

“Thanks, I’ll manage myself.”

He nodded and didn’t insist.

Two months later, Sokolov invited her to dinner.

“To a restaurant?” Alyona asked, surprised.

“No, home. My wife cooks great. She wants to meet you.”

Alyona hesitated. It felt awkward to refuse the boss, but going to strangers’ home was strange.

“Don’t worry,” Sokolov laughed. “We’re not scary. Just want to chat in a calm atmosphere.”

The Sokolovs’ house was big, with a garden and pool. Marina, his wife, greeted Alyona rather reservedly.

“Marina,” Alyona introduced herself, extending her hand.

A beautiful, well-groomed woman, but her gaze was cold.

“Come in, come in,” she said. “Boris told me a lot about you.”

“Hopefully good things.”

“Some good, some not,” Marina smiled, but her eyes stayed indifferent.

During dinner, Sokolov asked Alyona about work and plans. Marina barely spoke, only occasionally making sharp remarks.

“Have you thought about getting a higher education?” she asked.

“I have. Just not now.”

“Got it. Work is more important.”

“Marish,” her husband gently corrected.

“What? I’m just curious. Rare to meet people who become independent so early.”

“In orphanages, you have to grow up fast,” Alyona replied.

“Yes, of course. Boris told me about your… background.”

That “background” sounded like something low.

“Marina, we agreed,” Sokolov said more strictly.

“About what? I said nothing bad. On the contrary, I admire it. Not everyone can survive those conditions.”

Alyona understood: it was time to leave.

“Thank you for dinner. I have to go.”

“How to go? We just ate!” Sokolov protested.

“Got to get up early tomorrow.”

“I’ll take you.”

“No need, I’ll get there myself.”

On the way home, she thought about Marina. She clearly hadn’t accepted her. And it made sense — the husband suddenly began caring for a young girl from an orphanage, spending time and money on her. Any wife would worry.

The next day, Sokolov called.

“Alyona, sorry about last night. Marina was in a bad mood.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. She had no right to behave like that.”

“I understand her. I’d worry too if I were her.”

“About what?”

“That my husband suddenly started helping some stranger.”

Sokolov was silent.

“You’re not a stranger to me. You’re… special.”

“Because I remind you of your sister?”

“Not only because of that.”

“Why else?”

“Because you’re strong. You didn’t break, didn’t complain about fate, didn’t lose faith. You keep moving forward.”

“There are many like that.”

“More than you think.”

A month later, what Alyona feared happened. She came to the store, and the staff were whispering.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Nothing special,” the senior saleswoman Svetlana replied. “Yesterday the boss bought an apartment.”

“What apartment?”

“A studio in a new building on Rechnaya. They say he’s putting it in your name.”

Alyona’s heart stopped.

“How do you know?”

“My son-in-law works in real estate. Says the papers are almost ready.”

Alyona waited until lunch and called Sokolov.

“We need to talk.”

“Of course. Come to the office.”

“Better at a café.”

“Okay. You know ‘Europa’ on Central? I’ll be there in half an hour.”

Sokolov was already waiting at the table.

“Something wrong at work?”

 

“Are you buying me an apartment?”

He didn’t deny it.

“Yes, I am.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to help you.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“I know. But it’s important for me to do this.”

“For what? What have I done for you?”

He took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes.

“Her name was also Alyona. She was a year younger than you when she died. Blonde, gray-eyed, stubborn. Just like you.”

Alyona felt a squeeze inside.

“And?”

“When I saw you, for a second it seemed — it was her. Grown up, matured, but the same.”

“Boris Viktorovich…”

“Wait. I know it’s silly. That you’re not her. But I needed to know that at least one child from the orphanage got a normal life. That I helped someone.”

“You’re not helping me. You’re helping yourself.”

He nodded.

“Maybe. But that doesn’t make the help any less real.”

“It does. Because you see not me. You see your dead sister.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is. That’s why I can’t accept the apartment.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to be anyone’s substitute. Even a generous one.”

Sokolov was silent for a long time.

“What if I offered the apartment to someone else — not you?”

“Then I’d believe you really want to help.”

“So it’s about motives?”

“It’s about me not being someone’s memory.”

He stood up.

“Understood. Sorry for wasting your time.”

“Don’t be angry. I’m grateful for the job, for your belief…”

“For what? For using you?”

“For trying.”

He left, leaving money on the table.

The next day Alyona submitted her resignation. Gave it to the secretary.

“Please pass it on.”

“Boris Viktorovich valued you very much.”

“I just decided to change direction.”

That evening Sokolov called.

“Alyona, don’t make hasty decisions. Not because of our conversation.”

“I’m not because of that. I just realized I want to be a cook.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely.”

He was silent.

“Then good luck.”

“Thank you.”

Igor welcomed her gladly.

“Alyonka! We thought you forgot us.”

“I wouldn’t forget if there was something to lose,” she laughed.

Semen took her desire to study seriously.

“You have the right hands. The main thing is not to rush.”

Alyona enrolled in culinary college courses. Worked as a waitress, studied in the evening, practiced at home at night.

Valentina tried her dishes.

“Tasty. But why?”

“I don’t want to depend on anyone’s mercy.”

“Who did you depend on?”

Alyona told the whole story.

 

“You’re such a fool,” her friend shook her head. “They were giving you an apartment, and you refused.”

“They weren’t giving it. They wanted to pay for the role of a dead sister.”

“So what? An apartment is an apartment.”

“It matters to me.”

Six months later Alyona was already working as a cook’s assistant. The salary was less than before, but she felt she was in the right place.

One day, Sokolov came to the restaurant. Sat at his usual table. Alyona went to serve.

“Good evening. What will you have?”

“Soup of the day, Greek salad, grilled fish.”

“Okay.”

She brought the order; he thanked her. They ate in silence.

Before leaving, he stopped her.

“Alyona, can we talk?”

“Sure.”

“I wanted to apologize. For everything that happened.”

“No need.”

“You were right. I was looking for my sister in you.”

“And now?”

“Now my wife and I do charity. We help orphanages. But we don’t try to replace anyone anymore.”

Alyona nodded.

“Meeting you changed my life. Made me rethink everything.”

“Mine too.”

“How?”

“I believed in myself. Realized I can choose my own path.”

Sokolov smiled.

“Then we’re even.”

“Looks like it.”

He put money on the table and headed for the exit. At the door, he looked back:

“Good luck, Alyona. Real luck.”

“You too.”

When he left, Alyona cleared the table. He left exactly the right amount of tip. No more, no less.

And that was just right.

I had always believed that life is not a straight road, but rather a winding path full of unexpected turns. Sometimes it leads you to a sunny clearing, and sometimes into a dense, impenetrable forest. My path led me to a small, cozy café called Melody, where I worked, keeping everything clean and in order.

My name is Sofia. And this job, though far from prestigious, was a real salvation for me. It allowed me to stay close to the dearest person in my life — my grandmother, Anna Petrovna. She was already past eighty, the years and all the hardships she had endured were taking their toll; it was difficult for her to move around, and leaving her alone for long was simply impossible. Every time I left the house, I would silently repeat to myself that everything would be fine, that I would be back soon.

Seven years ago, our life had been filled with completely different sounds. Not the squeak of a mop and the hum of the dishwasher, but the velvety, shimmering tones of the piano. I was studying music; my whole life revolved around the black-and-white keys. I remember my first solo concert. I was eighteen, the hall was packed, and after the final chord there was a moment of silence — then a thunder of applause. My parents looked at me with shining eyes; their pride was my greatest reward. We made plans, dreamed of the conservatory, of a big stage, of a future that seemed bright and cloudless.

But fate decided otherwise. That evening, on our way home after the concert, our car found itself in the path of a huge truck. My parents were gone in an instant. I survived, but spent a long three months in the hospital. My leg healed incorrectly, and from then on my gait was uneven, reminding me of that night every single minute. And my grandmother, Anna Petrovna, when she heard what had happened, suffered a stroke, after which her legs almost stopped obeying her. In a single moment, she and I were left alone, and our world turned upside down.

Our savings melted away before our eyes. First we had to part with my grandmother’s jewelry, the keepsakes of her youth. Then it was the turn of the most precious thing of all — my grand piano. It wasn’t just an instrument; it was a member of the family, an antique mahogany piano with a deep, velvety sound. My parents had saved for years to buy it. When they took it away, I sat in the empty room and listened to the ringing silence in my ears. It felt as if part of my soul was leaving with it. But we had to go on living, I had to take care of my grandmother, buy medicine, simply buy food.

With my education cut short halfway and my uneven gait, finding a job was next to impossible. I needed flexible hours so I could look after Anna Petrovna. And then, six months ago, I learned that a new café, Melody, was looking for someone to keep the place clean. I mustered all my courage and went there.

The owner, Artem Viktorovich, a stern-looking man, listened to me attentively.
— Do you have trouble with discipline?
— No, — I answered quietly.
— Things don’t disappear from customers’ tables?
— Never.
— Are you ready to work conscientiously?

— Yes, of course.
— Then start tomorrow.

The pay was modest, but it came on time. The staff was mostly nice; the girls — Svetlana, Marina, and Alla — treated me with understanding. Only one person, the assistant manager named Vladislav, seemed to take special pleasure in pointing out my smallest mistakes.
— Sofia, there’s a streak from the water here!
— Sofia, you missed that corner!
I would silently nod and redo everything. This job was far too important to waste energy on such things.

In the center of the café hall stood a magnificent black grand piano. It was there to create a special atmosphere. Every time I wiped its polished surface, I felt goosebumps run down my spine. My hands itched to touch the keys, but I held myself back. This was not my place. My place was with a rag and a bucket.

Once, about a month ago, a well-known local businessman, Mr. Orlov, booked the hall for his birthday party. A solid, influential man. We prepared for the event with particular care. Artem Viktorovich personally inspected every corner, and the waitresses rearranged the cutlery with jeweler’s precision.

And then, an hour before the start, the manager, a young man named Dmitry, burst into the storage room, his face white as chalk.
— Disaster! The musician we hired got sick! What are we going to do now?

Vladislav, standing next to him, only smirked maliciously.
— That’s not part of my responsibilities. I’m in charge of the service staff, not the creative types.

Dmitry was on the verge of despair.
— Orlov specifically asked about live music! He saw our piano! If there’s no performer, Artem Viktorovich will fire me!

I listened to this conversation, standing in the doorway with a wet rag in my hands. And suddenly, from somewhere deep inside, a crazy thought surfaced. My knees were shaking with fear. It had been seven years since I’d touched an instrument. But my fingers were clenching of their own accord, remembering the old movements.
— Dmitry, — I whispered so quietly that at first I wasn’t even sure I’d said it out loud. — Maybe I could try?

He turned sharply, his eyes full of bewilderment.
— You? Play the piano?
— A long time ago I studied.

Vladislav burst out laughing.
— Well, would you look at that! Our modest little backstage worker! A real Cinderella transformation!

But Dmitry, seeing how serious I was, clutched at this last straw.
— How confident are you? You do realize that if you mess up…
— It can’t be worse than no music at all, — I replied honestly.

I asked them to turn off the lights in the hall while I went to the piano. I was embarrassed by my uneven gait and my simple work clothes. But when the lights came back on and my fingers touched the cold keys, something clicked inside me.

A Chopin waltz poured out all by itself. I closed my eyes and was carried away to another time, another place. There was no pain, no loss, no hard work. There was only music. Pure, bright, soaring like the first morning of spring. It filled the entire space, touched every heart in the hall.

When the last notes faded into silence, I opened my eyes. The hall exploded in applause. People were rising from their seats, their faces lit up with smiles; someone was wiping the corners of their eyes. I hadn’t seen such genuine admiration even at my most successful performance.

Mr. Orlov approached me, his gaze serious and intent.
— May I ask your name?
— Sofia… Sofia Leonidovna.
— Anatoly Orlov. Tell me, have you had professional training?

I briefly, skipping over the most painful details, told him about my studies in the past. He listened without interrupting, nodding from time to time.
— What a pity, — he said thoughtfully. — A great pity. A gift like yours should not gather dust in oblivion.

After all the guests had left, Dmitry came up to me, his face radiant.
— Sofia, listen. Starting tomorrow you’re our staff musician. The salary is double, you’ll play from six to eleven in the evening. Will that work for you?

I felt warm drops running down my cheeks, but this time they were not tears of despair — they were tears of relief and quiet joy. Evenings at the instrument and days at home with my grandmother — it was exactly what I had barely dared to dream of.

Vladislav’s lips twisted into something resembling a smile.
— Well then, congratulations. You’re our star now.

There was barely concealed irritation in his voice — after all, my position at the café had just become much higher than his.

A week of my evening performances went by. The hall was almost full, guests chatted quietly over dinner, and I played something light and unobtrusive. And then I saw Mr. Orlov walk in, accompanied by another man. He came up to the piano and motioned for me to pause.
— Sofia Leonidovna, may I have a minute of your time?

We stepped aside. He handed me a business card.
— This is my old friend, Sergei Fedorovich. A very talented doctor. I told him your story, and he has offered to help. It’s possible that something can still be done for your leg.

My heart began to beat so fast that there was a ringing in my ears.
— But I… I can’t afford such treatment…
— Who said anything about payment? — he gently interrupted. — Talent is a treasure. It must be protected, not left to gather dust.

A month later I had the operation. The limp in my gait almost disappeared — only a barely noticeable peculiarity remained, which I soon stopped noticing at all.

And another month after that something happened that I still could hardly believe. Dmitry came up to me during a break, his eyes gleaming mischievously.
— Sof, someone’s here for you. They’re waiting in the hall.

I walked out and froze in place. In the middle of the hall stood two movers, and next to them… my piano. The very same one, mahogany, with the small scratch on the left leg that I had made as a child.
— How? — was the only word I could manage.

The older mover handed me an envelope.
— Mr. Orlov sent a new instrument to your establishment. And he told us to return this one to its rightful owner. He said that every thing must return to its own home.

I stood there, unable to contain the wave of emotion inside me. Later, my grandmother Anna Petrovna would say that for several days I walked around like a sleepwalker, constantly going up to the piano and touching it, as if checking whether it was real or just a mirage.

Dmitry, too, was deeply moved. Over the months we had grown very close. He had gone through a terrible loss — his wife had died after a long illness, and he was left alone. We understood each other almost without words; it was comfortable for us to share the silence.

Another six months passed, and one evening, after my performance, Dmitry said simply and sincerely:
— Sofia, let’s live together. I’m lonely in an empty apartment, and you need help with Anna Petrovna.

I agreed. Not out of calculation or gratitude. I realized that I had grown truly attached with all my heart to this kind, reliable, and understanding man. And he treated my grandmother with such tenderness and care, as if she were his own.

We celebrated our wedding in that very same café, Melody. Artem Viktorovich gave us the hall, and the girls from the staff helped us organize a modest but very heartfelt celebration. Even Vladislav came with a gift, though he looked a bit embarrassed about it.

Mr. Orlov came as well, to congratulate us in person.
— You see how life sometimes works out? — he said with a smile. — Nothing happens for nothing. A true gift will always find a way to the sunlight, even from the deepest shadow.

Now, every evening, I sit down at my piano — the very same one that returned to me like a message from a past, happy life. But I don’t look back with sadness. I look forward, because I see the shining eyes of my grandmother, Anna Petrovna, who seems to have grown younger from happiness. I feel the firm, steady hand of my husband, Dmitry, on my shoulder. I hear the soft, approving applause of the café guests who come not only to eat, but also to listen to the music that is born here and now.

 

Sometimes I think that the straight, bright road I once imagined for myself may not have been the only true one. My winding path, with all its bumps and turns, has led me exactly where I needed to be — to what truly matters. To love, to family, to a home where I am awaited. And my music has only grown deeper, wiser, and more piercing because of it. It has ceased to be just a set of notes and has become the true melody of my destiny — a melody that holds a touch of gentle sadness, endless gratitude, and a quiet, radiant joy that grows louder and louder with each new day

 

“For three years I’ve been divorced from your son, so let his new wife help you now. I won’t lift a finger,” I told my ex-mother-in-law the day before and hung up.

My hands were shaking with anger. Nadezhda Petrovna had already called me three times that week, each time with the same request—to help her with shopping, take her to the clinic, bring her medicines. As if nothing had changed, as if I were still her daughter-in-law, as if that painful divorce from her precious son three years ago had never happened.

In the morning I took my daughter to kindergarten, then poured myself some coffee and sat by the window. A fine October rain was falling outside, and the droplets slid down the glass like the tears I no longer allowed myself to cry. Three years… It felt like an eternity since the day I found out about Igor’s affair.

The phone rang again. I glanced at the screen—an unknown number.

“Hello?”

“Katya, it’s Elena, your Nadezhda Petrovna’s neighbor. Listen, please don’t hang up.”

I recognized the voice. Elena Sergeyevna had lived in the apartment next to my former mother-in-law’s for about twenty years; we sometimes ran into each other at the store.

“What happened?”

“Nadezhda Petrovna is in the hospital. A heart attack. They took her by ambulance last night.”

The world seemed to stop. I automatically set my mug down on the windowsill, and coffee splashed onto the white surface.

“How… how is she?”

“The doctors say it’s serious. She’s still unconscious. Katya, I know you and Igor are divorced, but… she keeps asking for you. Even in her delirium she says your name.”

“And Igor? He should be the one…”

“Igor and his new wife are on vacation. In Turkey. He’s not answering his phone. I found your number in her address book.”

I closed my eyes. I never thought I’d one day be grateful that Nadezhda Petrovna hadn’t crossed my number out of her contacts.

“Which hospital is she in?”

“The Fifth City Hospital, cardiology ward.”

An hour later I was already standing at the hospital entrance. The last time I’d been in the next building over was four years ago, when I gave birth to Dasha. Back then everything was different. Back then Igor stood beside me, holding my hand, and Nadezhda Petrovna brought a huge bouquet of roses and cried with happiness as she looked at her granddaughter through the maternity ward window.

Darya… my four-year-old little girl, who was now peacefully playing in kindergarten. She sometimes asked about Grandma Nadya, even though they hadn’t seen each other for over a year. After the divorce, Nadezhda Petrovna tried to maintain contact—she would come over and bring Dasha gifts. But then Viktoria appeared, Igor’s new wife—young, beautiful, childless. And the visits stopped.

In the cardiology ward I was met by a stern nurse.

“Are you a relative?”

“I…” I hesitated. “I’m her former daughter-in-law.”

“We’re not letting relatives in right now. Only tomorrow morning.”

“Please,” I took out my phone and showed her a photo of Dasha. “This is her granddaughter. We’re the only ones who can come.”

The nurse looked closely at me, then at the photo.

“Ten minutes. No more.”

Nadezhda Petrovna was lying alone in the room, connected to a bunch of wires and tubes. I hadn’t seen her in almost a year, and I was struck by how much she had changed. Her gray hair had turned completely white, her face was gaunt, and her hands on the blanket looked almost transparent.

I sat down on the chair by the bed and took her hand in mine. It was cold and so fragile.

“Nadezhda Petrovna, it’s me, Katya.”

No reaction. Only the steady beeping of the machines and her quiet breathing.

 

“You know, Dasha asked about you yesterday. She said she misses Grandma Nadya. She wants to show you how she learned to read.”

I wasn’t lying. Darya really did sometimes remember her grandmother, especially when we passed the park where Nadezhda Petrovna loved to push her on the swings.

“You have to get better. Do you hear? Dasha is waiting.”

The next day I came again, this time with Dasha. My daughter was holding a drawing—a bright house with big windows and flowers by the entrance.

“Mama, why is Grandma sleeping?” Dasha whispered, looking at the motionless figure in the bed.

“She’s very tired, sweetheart. But she can hear us.”

Dasha went closer and put the drawing on the bedside table.

“Grandma Nadya, I drew you a little house. It’s pretty, right? And I can read now. Do you want me to read you a story?”

Without waiting for an answer, Darya pulled a book out of my bag and began slowly, syllable by syllable, to read the fairy tale “Kolobok.” Her little voice sounded in the silence of the room, and it seemed to me that Nadezhda Petrovna’s breathing became just a bit more even.

“Mama, why doesn’t Daddy come to see Grandma?” Dasha asked as we were leaving the hospital.

I didn’t know what to say. How do you explain to a four-year-old that her father is enjoying a vacation in Turkey while his mother is dying in a hospital?

“Daddy is far away, honey. He can’t come.”

“And will we keep coming?”

“Yes, we will.”

And we did. Every day. I came in the morning before work, and in the evening I picked Dasha up from kindergarten and we went to the hospital together. Darya would tell her grandma about her day, show her new drawings, sing songs she’d learned at kindergarten.

The doctors said her condition was stably serious. No one could say if she would regain consciousness. But I didn’t give up. Every day I bought fresh flowers, changed the water in the vase, and talked about our lives.

“You know, Nadezhda Petrovna, I got a promotion at work. I’m a lead project manager now. Remember how you said I had a talent for organizing? You were right.”

I talked to her as if she were fully awake, told her the news, shared plans. Sometimes the nurses looked at me with pity, but I paid no attention.

On the fifth day a woman of about forty in a white coat came into the room.

“Are you Ekaterina?”

“Yes.”

“I’m the head of the department, Marina Viktorovna. Tell me, are you really the patient’s former daughter-in-law?”

“Yes, but…”

“You see, usually relatives don’t show this kind of… devotion after a divorce. Especially considering that her son didn’t even bother to come.”

I felt myself blush.

“She treated me well. And Dasha loves her.”

“That’s obvious. You know, I’ve been a doctor for twenty years, and I’ve noticed that patients who are regularly visited feel better. Even in an unconscious state, they somehow sense care.”

“So we can keep coming?”

“Of course. Moreover, I wanted to tell you—this morning we saw the first signs of improvement. Her reaction to light has gotten better.”

My heart began to pound harder.

“That means…”

“It means there’s hope. Keep doing what you’re doing.”

That evening I couldn’t resist and called Igor. He didn’t pick up right away; his voice sounded annoyed.

“Katya? What’s wrong? Is something with Dasha?”

“Dasha is fine. Your mother is in intensive care. A heart attack.”

A long pause. In the background I could hear music and laughter.

“How… serious is it?”

“Very serious. She’s been unconscious for a week.”

“Damn… Katya, I can’t come now. We’re in a five-star hotel in Belek, it cost a fortune…”

“Your mother is dying, Igor.”

“Don’t say that! She’s strong, she’ll pull through. And you… thanks for looking after her. I’ll reimburse all your expenses.”

I hung up before he finished. Expenses… He thinks this is about money.

Many evenings passed. And then came the evening when Nadezhda Petrovna opened her eyes.

I was reading an article from a magazine about parenting to her when I noticed she was looking at me. Not just with open eyes—she was actually looking, clearly conscious.

“Nadezhda Petrovna!” I jumped up from the chair. “Can you hear me?”

She tried to say something, but there was a tube from the ventilator in her mouth. Her eyes filled with tears.

“Don’t try to speak, it’s okay. I’ll call the doctor.”

When the nurse rushed in, Nadezhda Petrovna was still looking at me, not taking her eyes off me. Her hand weakly squeezed mine.

They removed the tube only the next day. The first word she said, in a hoarse voice from the long silence, was:

“Katya…”

“I’m here. It’s okay.”

“Dasha…”

“Dasha is here too, somewhere in the hallway. She came every day and told you stories. Do you want to see her?”

A weak nod.

Darya burst into the room like a whirlwind.

“Grandma Nadya! You woke up! And I thought you were sleeping like Sleeping Beauty!”

Nadezhda Petrovna smiled—the first smile in all those days.

“My… girl…”

Dasha climbed up on the bed and gently hugged her grandmother.

“I have so much to tell you! I learned how to tie my shoelaces! And I learned a poem about autumn! Want to hear it?”

“I do…”

And then Igor appeared in the doorway. Tanned, rested, holding an expensive bouquet of flowers. Behind him stood a young woman, a bit unsure of herself—apparently Viktoria.

“Mom!” Igor walked up to the bed. “How are you feeling? Sorry I didn’t come right away, we were at the seaside when we found out…”

Nadezhda Petrovna looked at her son, then at me. Her expression was strange—not joyful, as I had expected, but somehow assessing.

“Where… were you?” she whispered.

“Well, Mom, I just told you—at the seaside. Vika and I were in Turkey on vacation. As soon as we found out, we flew back.”

“Right away?”

“Almost.” Igor glanced at me awkwardly. “Katya, have you really been coming every day?”

I shrugged.

“Nadezhda Petrovna, we should go,” I said, taking Dasha’s hand. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Katya…” her weak voice stopped me at the door. “Thank you…”

At home Dasha couldn’t fall asleep for a long time.

“Mama, why didn’t Daddy come see Grandma when she was sleeping?”

“He was far away, honey.”

“And we were close?”

“Yes, we were close.”

“And that’s why we came?”

“Yes.”

“Mama, when people are close, they have to help each other, right?”

Out of the mouths of babes… I kissed my daughter on the forehead.

“They have to, Dashenka. They absolutely have to.”

Over the next two weeks, Nadezhda Petrovna steadily got better. We continued to visit her every day. Igor came too, but less and less often. Work, he said, business.

“Katya,” Nadezhda Petrovna said to me once when we were alone, “I need to talk to you.”

“About what?”

 

“About Igor. About what happened three years ago.”

I tensed up. I didn’t want to remember.

“Nadezhda Petrovna, that’s in the past…”

“No, it’s not in the past. I knew then. About his affair. I knew and kept silent.”

The world froze again. I slowly sat down in the chair.

“You knew?”

“He’s my son, Katya. I gave birth to him, raised him. Do you think a mother can fail to notice when her son has another woman? I saw how he changed, how he started lying, hiding his phone.”

“But you didn’t say anything…”

“I was a fool.” Tears ran down her cheeks. “I thought I was protecting the family. I thought if I ignored the problem, it would solve itself. And then you found out on your own, and everything collapsed.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“Katya, I wronged you. If I had talked to Igor back then, forced him to choose… maybe things would have turned out differently.”

“Maybe,” I said quietly. “Or maybe he still would have chosen her.”

“Perhaps. But I should have tried. For your sake, for Dasha’s. I loved you, but I still betrayed you.”

I took her hand.

“Nadezhda Petrovna, we can’t change the past. But you’re alive now, and we’re here. That has to mean something, doesn’t it?”

“It does. Katya… after Igor got married the second time, I stopped coming to see you. I thought it was the right thing to do—not to interfere, not to cause problems with Viktoria. But I missed you. I missed you and Dasha. You can’t imagine how much.”

“And I thought you just… forgot about us.”

“Never. I thought about you every day. And when the doctors say I called your name in my delirium… it’s true. I called the only person who, I knew, wouldn’t abandon me.”

My eyes filled with tears.

“But I didn’t come right away. When you called, I didn’t want to go.”

“And then you did. That matters more.”

We sat in silence, holding hands.

“Katya, I want to ask you for something.”

“What is it?”

“Don’t deprive me of my granddaughter. Please. I know I have no right to ask, but… Dasha is all I have left from that life when we were a family.”

“Nadezhda Petrovna…”

“And one more thing. I want to change my will. I have an apartment, a dacha, some savings. I want to leave everything to Dasha. Igor… he has a new family now, a new wife. And Dasha… she is my granddaughter, and she should know that her grandmother didn’t forget her.”

“There’s no need…”

“There is. I want to make things right.”

I was too choked up to speak.

“You’ll get better. We still have a lot of time ahead of us.”

“Maybe. But a heart attack is a warning. At my age, there may not be a second chance.”

When they discharged her from the hospital, I brought her home with me. “Just for a little while,” I said, until she was fully back on her feet. But we both understood she could stay as long as she wanted.

“Katya,” Igor called a week later. “What’s going on? Mom says she’s living with you.”

“Is that a problem?”

“That’s not the point… it’s just strange. We’re divorced.”

“You and I are divorced, Igor. Not your mother and me.”

“But Vika doesn’t understand…”

“Would Vika like to take care of a sick mother-in-law?”

A pause.

“Well… she’s not used to that. Her mother is still young.”

“I see. Don’t worry, I’ll manage.”

And I did. Nadezhda Petrovna recovered quickly, helped around the house, took walks with Dasha, read her stories. In the evenings we had tea and talked—about life, plans, Dasha’s future.

“You know, Katya,” she said once, “only now do I understand what a real family is.”

“What is it?”

“It’s when people are there for each other not because they have to, but because they can’t do otherwise. You didn’t have to come to the hospital. You could have said, ‘She’s not my relative, not my problem.’ But you came. And you brought Dasha. Because you couldn’t do otherwise.”

“You’re not a stranger to me.”

“On paper, I am. Officially, I’m nobody to you. But you acted like a daughter. No, better than a daughter. I know families where the children don’t show this much care for their elderly parents.”

I thought of Igor and his seaside vacation.

“It just turned out that way.”

“It didn’t just ‘turn out.’ You chose. And I’m grateful to you for that.”

A month later, a notary came to our place. As she’d promised, Nadezhda Petrovna changed her will. All her property was left to Dasha.

“Are you sure?” the notary asked. “What about your son?”

“My son has everything he needs. And my granddaughter will live in my apartment.”

That same evening Igor called. His voice was indignant.

“Katya, what is this? Mom changed her will in favor of Dasha?”

“That’s her right.”

“What do you mean, her right? I’m her only son! I’ll prove to any judge that the ex-daughter-in-law is manipulating an elderly woman!”

“Igor, calm down. No one manipulated anyone. Your mother is of sound mind and made her own decision.”

“She’s under your influence! Katya, I get that you want money, but this is wrong.”

I looked out the window. In the yard, Nadezhda Petrovna was playing with Dasha in the sandbox.

“You know what, Igor? When your mother was in intensive care, I wasn’t thinking about money. When she was learning to walk again after the heart attack, I wasn’t thinking about inheritance. When Dasha read her fairy tales every evening—we weren’t thinking about a will. We just loved her.”

“And what, I don’t love my mother?”

“I don’t know. You tell me—where were you when she was dying?”

A long pause.

“I didn’t know…”

“You did. I called you. And you were having fun in Turkey.”

“Katya…”

“Igor, your mother is alive. She’s healthy. We’re happy. If you want to be part of her life—you’re welcome. If not—don’t interfere with ours.”

I hung up and realized that for the first time in three years, I felt truly free.

In the evening, after Dasha fell asleep, I sat in the kitchen having tea with Nadezhda Petrovna.

“Do you regret it?” she asked.

“Regret what?”

“Getting involved with me. With a sick old woman who gets in the way of your personal life.”

I laughed.

“When I was married to your son, I had a mother-in-law. Now I have a mom. Feel the difference?”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“Thank you, daughter.”

“No, thank you. For teaching me that family isn’t a stamp in a passport. It’s the choice to stay by someone’s side every day.”

Outside, the first snow was falling. Tomorrow Dasha would definitely want to build a snowman. And Nadezhda Petrovna and I would stand at the window, drinking hot tea and watching our child play.

Ours. Because family is the people who are there when it matters. The ones who come to the hospital every day. The ones who read fairy tales and build snowmen. The ones who didn’t lift a finger three years ago—but are ready to reach out a hand today.

Family is a choice. And we’ve made ours

Valentina was standing in the middle of her own living room, clutching a bunch of keys in her hand. Her gaze darted between the two women sprawled on the sofa like full-fledged homeowners. Her husband’s aunt, Zlata Feoktistovna, a hefty woman in her sixties wrapped in a leopard-print dress, was swinging one leg in a patent leather shoe. Next to her lounged her daughter Evelina—a thirty-year-old with platinum-blond dyed hair and false eyelashes like fans.

“OUT of my apartment!” Valentina repeated, taking a step forward.

Zlata Feoktistovna burst out laughing, throwing her head back. Her laughter sounded like the cawing of a crow that had found carrion. Evelina joined in, letting out such shrill sounds that Valentina’s ears rang.

“Are you completely off your rocker, dearie?” Zlata wheezed, wiping away tears. “Lyoshenka himself offered to let us stay here. We’re FAMILY now, you understand? FA-MI-LY!”

“What damn family?” Valentina hurled the keys onto the coffee table. “Alexei didn’t invite you! You showed up with your suitcases a week ago all on your own!”

Evelina pulled a compact mirror from her purse and started touching up her lips with bright fuchsia lipstick.

“Mom, do you hear how she’s talking to us?” she drawled, stretching her lips into a smile. “She’s completely lost her manners. Lyoshka was right about her—hysterical.”

“What?” Valentina felt the blood rush to her face. “Alexei said that about me?”

“You bet he did!” Zlata heaved herself up from the sofa, the floorboards groaning in protest under her weight. “He complained all the time. Said you wore him out with your constant nagging. This isn’t right, that isn’t right. He doesn’t make enough money, doesn’t pay you enough attention. The poor boy is exhausted from you!”

Valentina clenched her teeth. Eight years of marriage, eight years of putting up with Alexei’s coldness, his constant late nights at work, canceled plans, forgotten anniversaries. And now she finds out he’s been discussing her with these… creatures.

“Where is Alexei?” she hissed through her teeth.

“At work, where else,” Evelina snapped her compact shut. “He’s out earning money. Speaking of money. Mom, remember? Lyosha promised to give us some for shopping.”

“Oh right, sweetie!” Zlata smacked herself on the forehead. “Valyusha, darling, give us fifty thousand from your stash, would you? Lyoshka will pay it back tonight.”

Valentina couldn’t believe her ears.

 

“Why on earth would I give you money?”

“Well, we’re relatives!” Zlata came closer, enveloping Valentina in the smell of cheap perfume. “Don’t be stingy. You’ve got it, I know. Lyosha said you’re secretly saving up.”

“GET OUT!” Valentina screamed. “Get out of my apartment RIGHT NOW!”

And that’s when it started. Zlata Feoktistovna let loose such a torrent of choice obscenities that even the battle-hardened Valentina blushed. Evelina kept pace with her mother, adding her own gems to the stream of abuse. The apartment filled with curses so thick it seemed the wallpaper should start peeling off the walls.

“…and you’re just a plucked chicken, anyway!” Zlata finished her fiery speech. “You think Lyoshka married you for love? He told me himself—you latched onto him like a bulldog! Chased him, called nonstop, begged him! He only agreed out of pity!”

Valentina froze. It was a lie, a filthy, disgusting lie. She and Alexei had met at a mutual friend’s birthday party; he was the one who approached her, who asked her out on their first date. The first years had been happy, full of plans and hope. When had it all gone wrong?

“You’re lying,” she said quietly.

“Yeah, sure, we’re lying!” Evelina snorted. “Mom, show her!”

Zlata pulled a smartphone out of the pocket of her dress and began poking at the screen.

“Here, look! Messages from Lyosha. Read!”

She shoved the phone under Valentina’s nose. There really was a chat open in a messenger app. The contact was saved as “Lyoshenka-nephew.”

“Auntie Zlat, please come. I can’t take her anymore. She’s driving me crazy.”

“Of course, dear! Evelinka and I will come right away. We’ll support you.”

“Thanks. Just don’t tell her I invited you. Say you decided to come visit on your own.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll do everything right. We’ll put her in her place in no time.”

Valentina recoiled. The style of the messages really did resemble Alexei’s way of writing—short phrases, no emojis, his usual abbreviations.

“It’s fake,” she forced out.

“Sure, fake!” Zlata snatched the phone away. “Everything’s fake to you! You live in your little fantasy world where Lyoshenka loves you. But he can’t stand you! He said he’ll divorce you as soon as he finds a good lawyer.”

A key turned in the lock. All three of them froze. Footsteps sounded in the hallway, and a moment later Alexei walked into the living room. A tall, fit thirty-five-year-old man in an expensive suit, with neatly trimmed dark hair. His gray eyes slid over everyone present.

“What’s going on here?” he asked evenly.

“Lyoshenka!” Evelina squealed, throwing herself at his neck. “Thank God you’re here! Valya’s gone completely crazy! She’s kicking us out!”

Alexei gently pushed his cousin away and looked at his wife.

“Valentina, what’s this about?”

“What’s this about?” Valentina could not believe what was happening. “Your dear relatives claim you invited them yourself! That you can’t stand me! That you’re planning to divorce me!”

Alexei frowned and turned his gaze to his aunt.

“Aunt Zlata, you must be mistaken. I didn’t invite you.”

“What do you mean, didn’t invite us?” Zlata threw up her hands. “Lyoshenka, sweetheart, you wrote it yourself! Look!”

She pulled out her phone again, but Alexei didn’t even glance at the screen.

“This is some kind of misunderstanding. I didn’t write that. And I don’t even have your number.”

“But… but…” Zlata blinked in confusion. “You… We’ve been here a whole week…”

“And I PUT UP with it out of politeness,” Alexei cut her off. “But if you’re spreading lies about me and my wife, then I’m asking you to leave our apartment.”

“Our home,” he corrected himself, taking Valentina by the hand.

Evelina edged back toward the sofa.

“Lyosha, what are you doing? We’re family…”

“Distant,” Alexei clarified. “Very distant. So distant that this is only the second time I’ve seen you in my life. The first was at Granddad’s funeral ten years ago.”

“Ungrateful!” Zlata shrieked. “We came to you with open hearts, and you…”

“With open hearts to DEMAND money from my wife?” Alexei stepped forward. “Yes, Valentina already managed to text me. You know what? You have half an hour to pack your things and GET OUT. Or I’ll call security.”

“Security?” Evelina scoffed. “What security?”

“The concierge downstairs. Former special forces, by the way. I’m sure he’d be happy to help you with your luggage.”

Zlata turned purple.

“We’ll sue you! For moral damage! For insults!”

“Go ahead,” Alexei replied calmly. “Just keep in mind I recorded your whole little show today. The recorder’s right there on the shelf behind the vase. I turned it on as soon as I heard your yelling from the stairwell.”

Valentina turned around. Sure enough, between the books she could see a small black device with a glowing red light.

“You… you planned this!” Zlata breathed.

“NO, I didn’t plan it. I just knew that sooner or later you’d show your TRUE face. Greedy, brazen, lying. Speaking of lies—Evelina, remember Yaroslav Kosmodemyansky?”

Evelina flinched and went pale under her layer of foundation.

“I… I don’t know any Yaroslav.”

“Strange. He remembers you very well. Especially the thirty thousand you borrowed from him for your supposedly sick mother’s ‘operation.’ The mother who, as I see, feels just fine.”

“How do you…” Zlata clutched at her chest.

“I have lots of friends in different cities, Aunt Zlata. And they told me some interesting things. For example, how you and your daughter wander from relative to relative, driving them out of their own homes. First you come ‘to visit for a week,’ then you start acting like you own the place, demanding money, making scenes. Six families in the last three years. Impressive.”

“That’s slander!” Evelina screeched.

“Those are facts. I’ve got contact information for all of them. Want me to arrange a face-to-face?”

Mother and daughter exchanged glances. Fear appeared in their eyes.

“Twenty minutes,” Alexei said, checking his watch. “Nineteen.”

Zlata grabbed Evelina by the hand.

“Let’s go! We’ve got nothing to do here! They’re… they’re…”

She didn’t finish and ran out of the room. Evelina hurried after her. A few minutes later, noises came from the guest bedroom—frantic packing, doors banging, muffled swearing.

Valentina was still standing in the middle of the living room, unable to believe what had just happened.

“Alexei… Is it true? About the recorder, about their past?”

Her husband hugged her and pulled her close.

“I’m sorry. I should have kicked them out right away. But I wanted to gather evidence. You understand, they could’ve gone around later spreading filthy rumors. Now we have a record of how they behaved.”

“But how did they get your texting style? Those messages…”

“Faking a chat takes five minutes. Any teenager could do it. They probably studied my social media posts and copied my manner. But they missed one detail—I never call you Valya or Valka in messages. Only by your full name or ‘my love.’”

Valentina buried her face in his shoulder.

“I thought… I thought you really stopped loving me. You’ve been so cold lately.”

“Problems at work. A big project, the whole department’s future depends on it. But that’s no excuse. I should’ve spent more time with you, with us. I’m sorry.”

There was a crash from the hallway. It sounded like Zlata had dropped a suitcase.

“Evelinka, help me!” her voice rang out. “It’s heavy!”

“Carry it yourself!” her daughter snapped. “Because of you we’re broke now!”

“It’s your fault! You should’ve been more careful!”

“My fault? It was your plan!”

Another loud quarrel broke out. Mother and daughter yelled at each other, not choosing their words. At last the front door slammed shut.

Alexei walked over to the window and looked outside.

“They’re gone. Dragging their suitcases to the bus stop.”

“I hope they don’t come back.”

“They won’t. I called Yaroslav. He’s already filed fraud charges against Evelina. And four more victims have joined the suit. They’re going to have serious problems soon.”

Valentina exhaled in relief. The apartment suddenly seemed brighter and more spacious, as if the heavy, oppressive atmosphere had left together with the uninvited guests.

“You know,” she said, “maybe it’s for the best. Their visit showed us how far apart we’ve grown. We need to fix that.”

“I agree. Let’s start right now. Dinner at that Georgian restaurant you like?”

“With pleasure. Just let’s air out the apartment first. It still reeks of their perfume.”

They opened all the windows, letting in the fresh evening air. The city hummed below with its usual life, indifferent to the small dramas playing out in separate apartments.

Two hours later, when they were already sitting in the restaurant at a table by the window, Alexei’s phone vibrated. He glanced at the screen and smirked.

“What is it?” Valentina asked.

“A text from an unknown number. ‘Alexei, this is Aunt Zlata. Evelina and I got into some trouble. We were detained right at the train station. Some Yaroslav claims we’re scammers. Please help! We’re FAMILY!’”

“And what are you going to answer?”

Alexei turned off the phone and slipped it into his pocket.

“Nothing. I don’t have an aunt named Zlata. I have a distant relative of my father’s that I don’t keep in touch with. What she does in her free time is not my problem.”

They raised their wineglasses.

“To our family,” Alexei said. “Our real family. Just you and me.”

“And no uninvited guests,” Valentina added.

“Especially ones with suitcases and leopard-print dresses.”

They both laughed, and Valentina felt that the closeness and understanding that had once brought them together was back between them.

Meanwhile, on the other side of town, at a police station, Zlata Feoktistovna and Evelina were sitting on a hard bench, waiting for the investigator. Evelina was smearing her runny mascara across her cheeks, and Zlata was mumbling something about the unfairness of the world.

“Ladies,” a young sergeant poked his head into the office, “the investigator will see you in ten minutes. And yes, you’ll be provided with a lawyer. A public defender. Although in your case… There’s a whole folder of complaints from victims. There’s even one from Novosibirsk.”

“From Novosibirsk?” Evelina hiccupped. “But we were there two years ago…”

“Exactly. The Kuropatkin family remembers you very well. Especially the jewelry that went missing.”

Zlata jabbed her daughter with her elbow.

 

“Quiet! Don’t say anything without a lawyer!”

But it was already too late. The wheels of justice had started turning, and there was no stopping them. Yaroslav Kosmodemyansky, a successful businessman whom Evelina had once conned, had used all his connections to track down other victims. And he had found them. Twelve families, deceived, robbed, humiliated.

A week later the first court hearing took place. Zlata and Evelina sat in the defendants’ dock, and the courtroom was filled with their former victims. The prosecutor read out the charges—fraud, theft, extortion, defamation. The list was long.

“Defendant Evelina Kharlampievna Kosmacheva,” the judge addressed the younger accused, “do you plead guilty?”

Evelina sobbed. Without makeup and teased hair she looked pitiful and lost.

“It was all my mom!” she blurted out. “It was her idea! She made me do it!”

“WHAT?” Zlata jumped to her feet. “You were the one who came up with all the schemes! Ungrateful brat!”

“Order in the court!” the judge banged his gavel. “Defendant Kosmacheva, continue.”

And Evelina began to talk. She told everything—how they chose their victims among distant relatives and acquaintances, how they gained their trust, how they drove people out of their own homes. Zlata tried to interrupt her, shouted that her daughter was lying, but the facts were undeniable.

In the end, the court delivered its verdict. Zlata Feoktistovna received three years in a general-regime penal colony, Evelina got a two-year suspended sentence with mandatory community service. In addition, they were ordered to pay compensation to all the victims. The total amount was astronomical.

“But we don’t have that kind of money!” Zlata screamed when she heard the amount.

“In that case all your property will be seized,” the judge replied calmly. “Your apartment, your car, your bank accounts. Everything will go toward paying off the debt.”

Evelina collapsed onto the bench and burst into tears. Her mother stared into space with glassy eyes.

At that moment Valentina and Alexei were leaving a movie theater. They had just watched a comedy and were laughing at the best jokes.

“You know,” Valentina said, “I’m glad it all turned out this way. If your relatives hadn’t shown up, we would’ve just kept drifting apart.”

“Kind of shock therapy,” Alexei agreed. “Though I’d have preferred a less radical method.”

They walked down the evening street, holding hands. Streetlights cast long shadows, shop windows glowed with light. Just an ordinary evening in a big city where every passerby has their own story, their own drama or comedy.

“Alexei,” Valentina suddenly asked, “did you really record them on a dictaphone?”

Her husband gave her a sly smile.

“What do you think?”

“I think you didn’t. You were bluffing.”

“Maybe. But they believed me, and that’s what matters.”

“You sly fox. And what if they’d demanded proof?”

“Then I would’ve played them the recording of today’s little concert. I really did turn on the recorder when I heard the shouting in the stairwell. Just not on the shelf behind the books, in my jacket pocket.”

Valentina laughed.

“You’re impossible! And I actually believed the part about the shelf.”

“The main thing is, they believed it. And finally got out of our lives.”

At home they were greeted by blessed silence. No strange voices, no foreign things scattered around the apartment. Just their home, their space, their life.

Valentina turned on some music—light jazz they both loved. Alexei opened a bottle of wine they had bought the previous year for their anniversary but never opened because of yet another argument.

“To us,” he said, raising his glass.

“To us,” Valentina echoed. “And to no more aunts with daughters bursting into our lives.”

They clinked glasses and drank. The wine was dry, with notes of cherry and oak. The perfect end to a strange day.

A month later, Valentina came across a short piece in the crime section online. “Mother and daughter convicted for series of frauds,” the headline read. The article mentioned Zlata Feoktistovna and Evelina Kosmacheva, their schemes to swindle relatives, the trial and the sentence.

She showed the article to Alexei.

“Look, your relatives are in the news. They’re celebrities now. Though of a very dubious kind.”

Alexei skimmed the text.

“They deserved it. Though I almost feel a little sorry for them. They could’ve lived a normal life, worked… but they chose the easy way. And here’s the result.”

“The easy way rarely leads anywhere good,” Valentina remarked philosophically.

“That’s for sure. By the way, remember the big project at work I told you about?”

“Yes, the one the whole department was working on.”

“We finished it. And it went so well that the company landed a three-year contract. And I got promoted to head of the department.”

“Alexei! That’s wonderful! Why didn’t you tell me right away?”

“I wanted it to be a surprise. We’ll have more money now, and I’ll be able to spend less time at the office. No more working till midnight.”

Valentina hugged her husband.

“The main thing isn’t the money. The main thing is that we’re together again. Really together.”

“FOREVER,” Alexei added, and the word sounded like a vow.

Outside, snow was falling. The first snow of the winter, light and airy. It covered the city with a white blanket, hiding the dirt and grayness underneath. A new beginning, a clean slate.

And somewhere far away, in a cold cell at a pre-trial detention center, Zlata Feoktistovna sat on a hard bunk and wondered where it had all gone wrong. Next to her, her cellmate—a hefty woman convicted of robbery—snored loudly.

“Hey, new girl,” the woman suddenly said without opening her eyes. “I heard you went around mooching off relatives, taking their money?”

“None of your business,” Zlata snapped.

“It is my business, since we’re roommates now. You know, people in here don’t like that kind. Going after relatives is the lowest of the low.”

Zlata stayed silent. What could she say? That she’d spent her whole life envying those who had money? That she felt cheated by fate and decided to “restore justice”?

Three years later, Zlata Feoktistovna was released and returned to her daughter in a cramped rented studio—their own apartment had been sold to cover the damages awarded in court. Now every evening mother and daughter had screaming matches, blaming each other for the collapse of their “business,” and the neighbors regularly banged on the wall in protest at the noise.

At the same time, Valentina was rocking a baby boy in her arms, Alexei was happily taking pictures of the child’s first steps, and their home was filled with the kind of true family happiness that no one could ever take away.

 

Kira worked as an interior designer in a small but successful studio, and weekends were sacred to her.

 

Today she had planned to meet Vera, who had come from Perm for a few days on business.

Her friend had promised to bring gingerbread from Perm and tell her about a new project to restore an old mansion.

Gorky Park was crowded; somewhere music was playing, children were riding scooters along the wide paths, and young mothers were strolling with strollers.

Kira was walking toward the main fountain, where she and Vera had agreed to meet, already imagining how their long-awaited get-together would go.

But all her plans fell apart when she saw her sister-in-law’s eleven-year-old daughter.

Natasha was standing next to a cardboard box on which cups, saucers, and small teapots were laid out.

The girl looked lost amid the bustle of the park, as if she had landed in a foreign world. Kira could not believe her eyes. What was her niece doing here alone?

“Natasha!” she called as she came closer. “Hi!”

The girl lifted her head, but instead of the happy smile Kira expected, Natasha’s face twisted, and she burst into tears.

She threw herself into her aunt’s arms, pressing her thin little body to her with all her strength.

“Aunt Kira,” she sobbed, “I’m so glad you’re here! I’m so happy to see you!”

Kira hugged her niece.

“Natasha, what happened? Calm down and tell me. Why are you here alone? Where is your mom?”

The girl only clung to her tighter, and through her sobs came:

“Aunt Kira, can you feed me? Please! I haven’t eaten anything today, and I’m so hungry.”

Kira looked at the child’s tear-streaked face and could not understand what was happening in her sister-in-law’s family.

They hadn’t spoken in three years. Back then, Lyuda had asked to borrow a large sum of money, swearing she would return it in a month.

But a month passed, then a second, a third. Lyuda seemed to vanish — she didn’t answer calls or messages.

Kira even went to her mother-in-law’s to find out what was going on with her daughter, but the older woman just waved it off and said that Lyuda had been irresponsible since childhood.

Her mother-in-law was a very particular kind of woman. After the divorce, when the children were ten, she started bringing new men home often and would send the kids out to play on the street until late in the evening.

She said it was good for them to get some fresh air. In reality, she just didn’t want them getting in the way of her dates.

Kira recalled these family stories and realized that all this time Natasha had been growing up in a troubled environment. But to let things get this bad — even she couldn’t have imagined.

“Natasha, tell me what’s going on. Why are you here selling these things by yourself?”

“Mom said I have to sell them,” the girl answered quietly. “Otherwise we won’t have any money at all.”

“And where is your mom? Why didn’t she come with you?”

Natasha hesitated, clearly not knowing how to explain.

“She stayed at home. She says she’s feeling sick.”

Kira took Natasha by the hand and started to lead her away, but the girl suddenly tore her hand free and cried out:

“No, Aunt Kira! We can’t leave the stuff here! Mom will be really angry if I don’t sell everything. She says I’m useless and good for nothing!”

Kira froze. Was Lyuda really forcing an eleven-year-old child to sell things out on the street?

“All right,” she said calmly. “Let’s pack everything up carefully and take it with us.”

Natasha gave a sigh of relief and hurriedly began putting the dishes back into the box. She wrapped each cup carefully in old newspaper, as if they were precious items and not just ordinary crockery.

“Now we can go,” she announced, lifting the box. “Mom says if something gets lost, it’ll be a disaster.”

They walked to a small café with an outdoor terrace where they served snacks and drinks. At the nearby tables, couples sat eating ice cream, a group of students was discussing a movie, and an elderly man was drinking coffee and reading a newspaper.

“Two shawarmas, please,” Kira asked the server. “And lemonade for the girl.”

“Of course! It’ll be ready in five minutes,” the young man behind the counter said with a smile.

Natasha settled at a table, set the box beside her, and laid her hand on it.

She was afraid someone might grab the things. But when a plate with hot shawarma appeared in front of her, she forgot about the box instantly.

The girl fell on the food with such hunger it seemed she hadn’t eaten in days. She took big, hurried bites; sauce smeared across her chin.

Kira waited until Natasha finished eating and didn’t ask unnecessary questions.

The girl ate with total focus, as if she were afraid someone might take the plate away.

Only when the shawarma was gone and the lemonade drained did Kira gently speak:

“Natasha, what were you doing in the park with those things? And why doesn’t your mom feed you at home?”

Natasha frowned and fell silent. For several minutes she sat there, clearly deciding whether she should tell the truth. Then she said quietly:

“Mom says I have to stand there and sell the cups. And give her the money.”

“But why you? Where is your mom?”

“She stays home. She says she’ll get sick and needs money for… for…” the girl stumbled, “for treatment.”

Kira remembered that three years ago Lyuda had been working as a secretary at some firm and earning a decent salary. Had she really lost her job?

“And do you go to school?” Kira asked.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Mom said I have to help her earn money, and they don’t teach that at school.”

“How long have you not been studying?”

“I don’t know… A long time. Maybe a year, maybe more.”

Kira felt a chill in her chest. So the girl had been out of school for over a year, selling things on the streets and going hungry. What was happening in that family?

“Natasha, what does your mom do at home while you’re out working here?”

“I don’t know. When I come back, she’s usually asleep. And sometimes Uncle Vitia is there. He sleeps a lot too.”

Kira moved closer to Natasha, put an arm around her, and said softly:

“We’re going to my place now, to Uncle Seryozha. All right?”

Natasha immediately grew anxious and tried to pull away:

“No, I can’t! Mom will be really mad if I don’t sell all the stuff! She yells at me when I bring home little money and says I’m lazy and stupid!”

“How much money do you usually bring home?”

“It depends. Sometimes two hundred rubles, and sometimes nothing at all. People don’t really want to buy the cups.”

“And what does your mom say then?”

“She…” Natasha faltered and lowered her eyes. “She says I’m useless and that it would’ve been better if she’d never had me at all.”

Kira clenched her fists. How could anyone humiliate their own child like that?

“Natasha, listen to me — no one is going to scold you anymore. I promise. At our place you’ll be fed, you’ll get a bath, and you can play with Olya. Remember your cousin?”

“I remember,” Natasha nodded uncertainly. “But won’t Mom look for me?”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll talk to your mom myself.”

Something in Kira’s voice calmed the girl. She nodded and obediently followed her aunt toward the park exit, even forgetting about the box of dishes.

On the way, Kira remembered about Vera and took out her phone. Her friend picked up right away:

“Kirочка, hi! I’m stuck at my husband’s relatives’. They’ve thrown some family celebration, and they won’t let me go. I think I’ll be at least two hours late.”

“You know what, Vera,” Kira said quickly, “something urgent came up for me too. Let’s just meet in the evening instead. Come over to my place, we’ll have dinner and chat over a glass of wine.”

“Oh, that’s even better!”

They reached the car; Kira opened the back door and Natasha climbed inside with curiosity. It was obvious she hadn’t ridden in a car for a long time — she inspected the interior with interest and touched the soft upholstery of the seats.

“Aunt Kira, your car is so pretty!” she said admiringly. “Can we put some music on?”

“Of course we can.”

On the way home, Kira decided she would first take Natasha to their place, and then go to Lyuda to find out what was really going on.

When Sergey saw his niece, he was stunned — they hadn’t seen her for so many years, and here she was, out of the blue.

“Natashka!” he exclaimed. “No way! Look how you’ve grown!”

The girl gave a shy smile and ran up to her uncle. Sergey swept her up in his arms and spun her around, and Natasha let out a ringing laugh — maybe for the first time in a long while.

“Uncle Seryozha, I remember you!” she said. “You gave me candy for my birthday!”

“Of course I did! And I’ll give you lots more.”

Kira bent down to the girl and quietly asked:

“Natasha, whisper to me where you and Mom live now. What’s your address?”

The girl whispered the address just as quietly and gave a sly little smile, taking it as a kind of game with her aunt.

 

“Seryozha,” Kira said to her husband, “I’ll explain everything later. For now, make sure Natasha takes a bath and changes. Give her something from Olya’s things.”

“Where’s Olya?” Natasha asked.

“She’s at Grandma’s,” Sergey explained. “But she’ll be back soon, and you two can play.”

He nodded, understanding from his wife’s expression that something serious had happened and that questions were better left for later.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “We’re going to have a great time here, right, Natasha?”

Kira went back down to the car, got behind the wheel, and drove to the address the girl had given her.

She needed to see with her own eyes what kind of conditions the child was living in and understand what was going on with her sister-in-law.

She pulled up to an old nine-story building that had clearly been built back in Soviet times and hadn’t been repaired since.

In the courtyard, the asphalt was cracked, with grass pushing up through the gaps.

Kira climbed to the third floor and found the right apartment. The number on the door was written in faded digits, and where the doorbell should have been there were bare wires sticking out.

She raised her hand to knock but noticed the door was slightly ajar.

Kira slowly pushed it open and stepped inside.

The first thing she noticed was the smell. A mix of stale air, old cigarette smoke, and something sour. Kira immediately pinched her nose.

Clothes were scattered all over the hallway, dirty plates stood on the floor, and in the corner there was a pile of boxes and bags.

A female voice drifted from the kitchen. Kira walked in that direction and saw a scene that explained everything.

Lyuda was sitting at the kitchen table with a puffy, bloated face and disheveled hair.

Her old housecoat was stained with spots; her eyes were red and glassy. Next to her at the table sat an unfamiliar middle-aged man in a wrinkled shirt, nodding off and mumbling something under his breath from time to time.

On the table stood an opened bottle of vodka, several dirty shot glasses, and a plastic one-and-a-half-liter bottle of water.

Lyuda seemed not to notice that someone had entered the apartment. She picked up a shot glass, with difficulty brought it to her mouth, tossed back the contents, and chased it with water from the bottle.

Then she muttered something and reached for the vodka again.

“Uh… who’s that?” the man drawled, forcing his head up and trying to focus his gaze on Kira.

Lyuda didn’t even turn around. Kira realized there was no point trying to talk to her sister-in-law in such a state. And there was nothing to talk about — everything was clear enough.

She turned silently and left the apartment, closing the door firmly behind her.

Now she knew exactly what was going on in Natasha’s life and was determined to change it.

The girl deserved a different kind of childhood, not begging and hawking things in parks, living in fear of her own mother.

At home Kira walked in on an unusual scene. Sergey was on all fours in the middle of the living room, pretending to be an elephant, while a freshly washed Natasha in one of Olya’s dresses sat proudly on his back.

The girl clung to his shoulders and laughed happily as her uncle trumpeted and stomped around the room, swaying carefully.

“Uncle Seryozha, now let’s play zoo!” Natasha begged. “You’ll be a giraffe, and I’ll be the zookeeper!”

“Okay, but first the giraffe needs a drink of water,” Sergey laughed. “I’m tired of being an elephant.”

Kira stood in the doorway and watched the scene with tenderness.

Natasha looked like a completely different child — clean, in a pretty dress, her eyes shining, her cheeks rosy.

As if in just a few hours not only the dirt had been washed off her, but also the heavy weight of fear and worry.

“Aunt Kira!” the girl exclaimed happily when she noticed her. “We’re playing zoo! Uncle Seryozha is such a funny elephant!”

“I can see that,” Kira smiled. “And have you eaten?”

“Yes! Uncle Seryozha made dumplings with sour cream for me, and then we had tea with cookies. And he showed me pictures of Olya!”

Sergey got up from the floor, brushed off his knees, and walked over to his wife.

“So, everything all right?” he asked quietly.

Kira shook her head and gave a meaningful look toward Natasha. Her husband understood without another word.

“Natasha,” he said to the girl, “how about we watch some cartoons?”

“Yay!” Natasha cried and ran to the TV.

When the girl had settled on the couch with the remote in her hand, Kira and Sergey went into the kitchen.

“Is it bad?” her husband asked softly.

“As bad as it gets. Lyuda’s become an alcoholic, the child is starving, not going to school, selling junk in the park.”

“And what are we going to do?”

“Tomorrow I’m going straight to child protective services,” Kira replied. “I’ll start the paperwork for temporary guardianship, and then I’ll push to have Lyuda’s parental rights revoked.”

Sergey nodded.

“Good. Natasha will be better off here.”

From the living room came the sound of happy, carefree laughter.

Kira thought that before they had one daughter, and now they would have two. And that was wonderful.

Natasha deserved a real childhood full of joy and care, not fear and deprivation

 

And when she entered the restaurant, her mother couldn’t believe her eyes…”

“Have you completely lost it?” she almost shouted, recoiling as if caught red-handed. “Me? In this? Playing your fiancée? Yesterday, I was digging food out of the trash!”

He calmly clicked the lock, closing the door, and, tiredly leaning against the wall, said:

“You have no reason to refuse. I’ll pay more than you could imagine. Just one evening. Be my fiancée. For them. For my parents. It’s just a game. A play. Or have you forgotten how to act?”

She was silent. Her fingers in worn gloves trembled. Her heart was pounding as if trying to burst out. “Could this be the start of a new life? Or at least the end of old pain?”

Thus began a story no one was prepared for.

He was as rich as a whole country. His name was Nathan Berg. Young, strict, with cold eyes and a serene face. His name graced business magazine covers, and his photos were on lists of the world’s most influential bachelors. Upbringing, money, power — everything was by the book. But his parents, living in Europe, kept repeating:

“When will we finally meet your girlfriend? Why are you hiding?”

They decided to come without warning. Tomorrow.

Nathan was not scared — he was confused. Not because he feared their judgment, but because he didn’t consider any woman suitable for the role. He despised actresses. Couldn’t stand fake smiles. He needed someone… real. Or at least very different from those they expected.

That evening, he was driving through the city. Cold, traffic jams, evening lights. And suddenly he noticed her — at the metro entrance, with a guitar and a cardboard sign saying: “I’m not asking for charity. I’m asking for a chance.”

Nathan stopped. For the first time, he didn’t drive past.

“What’s your name?”

She raised her eyes. Her voice was hoarse but full of pride:

“Why do you need to know?”

He smiled slightly.

“I need a woman who knows how to survive. For real. Alive. Without makeup. Like you.”

Her name was Marta. 27 years old. Behind her — an orphanage, escapes, years on the street, rehabilitation, cold nights, and a guitar. Her only truth.

The next evening, she stood in front of the huge mirror in the Emerald Hotel room. Her hands trembled as she smoothed the fabric of an expensive velvet dress the color of the deep sea. Her hair, freshly washed and stylishly done, shone. Makeup accentuated her features so much she was almost unrecognizable.

 

“They’re already at the restaurant,” Nathan said, adjusting his cufflinks. “We’re late for our happiness.”

“Think it will work?”

He looked at her for a long time.

“I think you’re the only person who can win over my mother.”

At the restaurant, everything seemed under control. Almost.

His father was reserved but attentive. His mother — a woman with refined manners and a sharp gaze, able to read a person with one eyebrow’s movement. Her eyes fixed on the girl across from her.

“How did you meet my son?” she asked.

Marta felt Nathan’s gaze on her. He nodded slightly.

“At a bookstore,” she answered. “I dropped a volume of Schopenhauer, he picked it up… and we both laughed.”

“Schopenhauer?” the woman was surprised. “You read philosophy?”

“As a child. In our orphanage, the librarian allowed us to take books even with the hardest topics — if we promised to return them.”

Silence hung. Nathan’s mother slowly put her glass down without taking her eyes off Marta. Too intently.

“In an orphanage?” she asked again, and her voice flickered with something elusive — curiosity, or a trace of old pain.

Then something happened that no one expected.

Marta suddenly straightened, gathered all her dignity into a fist, and said firmly:

“Sorry. I’m lying. I’m not your daughter-in-law. Not from a bookstore, but from the street. I’m homeless. Just a woman who got tired of being someone’s possession and today felt like a human being for the first time.”

Instead of judgment or scandal, the woman in a strict suit stood up, came over, and hugged her.

“My daughter… I started from nothing once too. Someone gave me a chance. And I’m glad you took yours.”

Nathan was silent. He just watched. And for the first time understood: the game was over. And real life was just beginning.

She told the truth — and received not contempt, but an embrace. None of them yet knew it was just the first step. Nathan’s mother turned out to be surprisingly sensitive — she saw in Marta not deception, but strength of spirit. His father remained distant.

“This is madness, Nathan,” he said coldly, cutting through the tension. “You brought us to a house of street fantasies?”

 

“This is my choice,” the son replied calmly. “Not your verdict.”

After dinner, Marta went outside. Took off her shoes, leaned against the wall, and cried. But not from shame — from relief. She told the truth. And no one turned away.

Nathan approached quietly. He held her coat.

“You won’t go back to the street. You’ll live with me. As long as needed.” He paused. “You deserve more.”

“I’m not asking for pity.”

“I’m not offering that. I’m giving you an opportunity.”

…

So began their strange, sharp, but honest life together. He worked late into the night, demanding of himself and others. She studied. Borrowed books, listened to lectures, cleaned the apartment, cooked. Sometimes she picked up the guitar again — not for money, but because something alive was waking inside.

She was changing.

“You’ve become different,” he said once.

“I’m just not afraid for the first time that they’ll throw me out.”

…

A month later his father left. Didn’t say a word. Just left a note: “If you choose your heart — don’t count on my fortune anymore.”

Nathan didn’t even open the envelope. Just threw it into the fireplace and quietly said:

“Money comes and goes. But if you lose yourself — you’re worth nothing.”

…

Three months later Marta saw two lines on a test.

“That’s impossible,” she whispered, sitting on the bathroom floor. “It’s too early… We’re not even a couple…”

When she told him, Nathan was silent for a long time. Then he hugged her.

“I don’t know what this feeling is called. But I know one thing — it’s right.”

…

There were court battles over the land his father wanted to take. There were rumors on the internet about “a billionaire and a homeless woman staging a show of happiness.” There were difficult births, fear of losing the baby, pain, anxiety.

And then there was a new life.

A life in which Marta became the author of her own book. A woman who stepped onto the stage not as a beggar by the roadside, but as a person who passed through poverty, indifference, and betrayal — and survived.

And every time she faced the audience, she said:

“I was a ‘fiancée for an hour.’ Now I’m a wife for life. Because one person saw me as a human being.”

…

The final scene — the very same restaurant. Marta holds the hand of a ten-year-old girl with lush curls.

“See, baby? Right here your dad smiled for the first time for real. Here we became a family, not a play for spectators.”

Nathan stands nearby. Smiling. Holding her hand. No hint of regret in his eyes.

He didn’t marry a princess. He chose a queen. Who once sat on the street with a cardboard sign asking not for help, but for a chance.

 — “She’s gotten on my nerves. She’s put on weight, she’s always unhappy about something. I don’t know why I put up with it.”

I heard my husband’s voice from the living room when I came back for my umbrella.

The truth overheard by chance

I froze in the hallway. The key was still in my hand. Rain drummed on the awning.

“Well, you chose her,” laughed Lenka, his sister. “She could at least take care of herself.”

“Take care… She should stop whining.”

I stood at my own apartment door and listened as the man I’d lived with for nineteen years listed my shortcomings.

Drops fell from the umbrella onto the tile.

I didn’t go in. I turned around and went back out into the rain.

Only then did I understand: I was going to get soaked anyway. But not by the rain.

In the rain

I walked along the boulevard without feeling the water filling my shoes. That conversation kept replaying in my head. Again and again. Vova’s voice—mocking, tired. Lenka’s laughter.

“Put on weight.” Yes, I’d gained some in recent years. But is that a reason for ridicule? We both got older. He’s got a belly now, his hair has thinned. I never discussed that with my friends.

“Always unhappy.” When did I complain? When did I ask for anything to change? I kept quiet. Cooked. Did laundry. Worked. Was convenient.

“I don’t know why I put up with it.” That’s the main thing.

So he puts up with me. I’m a burden. Nineteen years of marriage—for him, it’s endurance.

I stopped by a bench. Sat down. The rain was pouring down in sheets. People hurried by with umbrellas, glancing back. Some odd woman sitting in a downpour.

And I thought: what do I do now?

I could go back. Make a scene. Shout. Smash plates. Demand explanations.

And then what? They’d say, “You were eavesdropping? You’re paranoid. We were joking. You turned it into a tragedy.”

I’d become that hysterical woman Vova talked about.

No.

If I do anything, it’ll be different. Quiet. Calculated. No yelling.

I got up from the bench. Water streamed from my hair onto my shoulders. It didn’t matter. I’m wet—I’ll dry.

I went home.

A mask of calm

They were sitting in the kitchen when I walked in. Drinking tea. Lenka was saying something, Vova nodding.

An ordinary scene. Only now I knew what they talked about when I wasn’t there.

“Where were you?” Vova looked up.

“Out walking.”

“In the rain?” Lenka’s eyes bulged.

“I felt like it.”

I walked past them into the bathroom. Took off my wet clothes. Wrapped myself in a robe. Looked at myself in the mirror.

An ordinary face. Tired. A fifty-two-year-old woman. Not a beauty, not a monster. Just a woman.

“Put on weight.” So what? I had a child. I worked. I lived. Bodies change—that’s normal.

I went back to the kitchen. They were silent. Staring at me like I was crazy.

“Tea?” Vova asked awkwardly.

“I don’t want any.”

“Sveta, you’re acting strange,” Lenka cut in.

“Really?”

“Well, yes. You got soaked, you’re not talking…”

“I’m just tired.”

I went to the bedroom. Closed the door. Sat on the bed.

Three days of silence

For three days I moved like I was sleepwalking. Made breakfast. Cleaned the apartment. Answered questions in monosyllables.

Vova asked, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

And I thought. I weighed my options.

Forgive? Pretend I hadn’t heard? Talk to him?

And every time I came back to that line: “I don’t know why I put up with it.”

He endures me. Nineteen years. Discusses me with his sister. Laughs at me.

On the fourth day I knew: no. Enough.

I took out my phone. Typed into search: “divorce lawyer.”

Two dozen firms popped up. I read reviews. Looked for those who specialize in division of property.

I found a woman. Sixty years old, thirty-seven years of experience, lots of gratitude. “Helped divide the apartment,” “Restored justice,” “A competent specialist.”

I clicked the appointment form. Filled it out: name, phone, the issue. Wrote briefly: “Divorce. Division of property. Consultation.”

Sent it.

I lay down on the bed. Stared at the ceiling. Voices came from beyond the door—Vova and Lenka were sitting there again.

What were they talking about? Me? Discussing my strange behavior?

Let them. Soon they’d have something real to discuss.

The lawyer, Raisa Petrovna

In the morning the lawyer replied. “I’ve scheduled you for Wednesday at 16:00. Address attached. Bring your passport, marriage certificate, and apartment documents, if you have them.”

Wednesday. The day after tomorrow.

Vova went to work. I stayed home—I’d gotten the day off. I took all the documents out of the closet.

Marriage certificate—red cover, scuffed. Nineteen years ago we signed. I wore a white dress, he a suit. We smiled. It seemed forever.

“I don’t know why I put up with it.”

I photographed the certificate with my phone. The apartment documents too. Uploaded the files to the cloud. Backed them up to a flash drive—just in case.

Wednesday came quickly. I told Vova I was going to a friend’s.

He nodded without looking up. Scrolling on his phone.

“When will you be back?”

“By evening.”

“Okay.”

He didn’t even ask which friend. He wasn’t interested.

The lawyer’s office turned out to be in a regular apartment building. Third floor, a door with a plaque: “Family Law Consultations.”

I rang. A woman in a strict suit opened. Gray hair in a bun. Tired eyes. But a sharp gaze.

“Svetlana?”

“Yes.”

“Come in. I’m Raisa Petrovna.”

A small office. A desk, two chairs, a cabinet with folders. The window looked out on a courtyard. It smelled of coffee and paper.

“Sit down. Tell me.”

I told her. Briefly.

Came back for the umbrella. Heard the conversation. My husband and his sister were discussing me. He said I’d put on weight, that I whine, that he doesn’t know why he puts up with me.

Raisa Petrovna listened without interrupting. Jotted things down.

“How long married?”

“Nineteen years.”

“Children?”

“A son. Twenty-six. Lives separately.”

“The apartment?”

“In my husband’s name. We bought it during the marriage twelve years ago.”

“Then half is yours by law. Savings?”

“Yes.”

 

“Approximately how much?”

I named the sum.

“Open an account. At a different branch. But don’t transfer anything from the joint accounts yet—they could accuse you of hiding assets. Just document the balance. Get a statement. Photograph it. Save it.”

She spoke calmly. Businesslike.

“Make copies of all documents—marriage certificate, property records, bank statements. Hide them with someone. A friend, for example.”

“Why?”

“So he can’t destroy them if he guesses. Men can be vindictive when it comes to money.”

“And be ready to file suddenly.”

“Suddenly?”

“So he doesn’t have time to prepare. Surprise is your main trump card. While he’s in shock, you act precisely.”

“What if he starts begging?”

“Don’t give in. If you’ve decided—go to the end. Doubts ruin everything. He’ll see your weakness and use it.”

Raisa Petrovna slid a piece of paper toward me.

“Here’s a list of what to gather. Here’s my phone number. When you’re ready, call. We’ll file the petition. After that it’s just procedure.”

I took the paper. Looked at it. Items: documents, accounts, proof of joint property.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I hear stories like this every day. You know what I’ll tell you?

You’re doing the right thing. If a person doesn’t value you, why stay with them?”

I left a different person.

Not a victim. A strategist.

A month and a half behind the mask

For the next month and a half I lived like an actress.

In the mornings I woke up next to my husband. Made breakfast. Asked how work was. Watched TV in the evenings.

But inside everything had changed.

I watched. Noticed what I hadn’t seen before.

How Vova rolls his eyes when I speak. How, when Lenka comes over, she walks through the apartment—looking around, touching things. Calculating what her brother will get.

I used to think she was just curious. Now I understood: she’d always been jealous. Of our apartment, our life.

They exchanged glances when I left the room.

And I kept quiet. Collected documents.

I opened an account in another branch. Got statements from the joint accounts. Photographed the purchase agreement for the apartment. Sent all the files to my friend Marina.

“What happened?” she asked.

“I’ll tell you later. Just keep them for me, please.”

Marina didn’t pry. She’s smart. She understood.

One evening Vova asked:

“Sveta, a button came off my shirt. Will you sew it on?”

Before, I would have rolled my eyes. Said, “Can’t you do it yourself?”

But now—why bother?

“Give it here.”

I took a needle. Thread. Sewed the button on. Even. Tight. Neat.

Vova stared at his phone. Didn’t even look up.

I thought: that’s the last time I take care of his shirts. I won’t have to anymore.

And I felt lighter.

At dinner he asked:

“Sveta, why are you so quiet lately?”

“Tired.”

“Here we go again with the complaining?”

Before, I would have protested. Said I wasn’t complaining, just sharing.

But now—why?

“No. I won’t.”

I finished eating. Cleared the table. Went to the bedroom.

I heard him call Lenka. Whispering, but I caught it:

“I don’t know what’s with her. She’s gotten weird. Quiet all the time.”

Too late to worry.

Filing the papers

A month and a half after my consultation with Raisa Petrovna, I was ready.

Statements obtained. Documents copied. Plan laid out.

I called the lawyer.

“Raisa Petrovna, I’m ready.”

“Come tomorrow. We’ll prepare the petition.”

The next day I signed the papers. Raisa Petrovna explained everything: how the court would proceed, what to say, what to expect.

“The apartment is split in half. You can insist that he buy out your share. Or sell everything and split the money. Your choice.”

“I want him to buy me out. I don’t want the hassle of selling.”

“Good. We’ll state that in the petition.”

She typed up the document. Handed it to me.

“Sign here. We’ll file in court tomorrow. He’ll receive the summons in about a week. The hearing will likely be set for about two months from now.”

I signed.

The letters on the page—straight, crisp. “I request the dissolution of marriage. To divide jointly acquired property.”

Nineteen years reduced to three lines.

The reveal

The summons came to Vova’s workplace. He came home pale. Paper in hand. A blank look on his face.

“What is this supposed to mean?!” He flung the summons onto the table.

I was sitting in the kitchen. Drinking tea. Calm.

“A divorce, Vova. We’re getting divorced.”

“Out of nowhere?! At least explain!”

I set down my cup. Looked at him.

“I came back for my umbrella. I heard you talking about me with Lenka.”

He froze. His face turned gray.

“Sveta, that’s… That’s not what we meant…”

“You meant it. You said I’d put on weight. That I whine. That you don’t know why you put up with me. I decided not to make you put up with me.”

“But we were just… chatting! Not seriously!”

“For me—it’s serious.”

He tried to come closer. To take my hand. I pulled away.

“Sveta, understand. It was a meaningless conversation. Nonsense. I love you.”

“Really? Then why tell Lenka you put up with me?”

“I chose the wrong words…”

“You chose very precise ones. The lawyer has already filed everything. The papers are in. The apartment is split in half. The accounts too. You can buy out my share or we’ll sell and split the money.”

“Are you out of your mind?! What will you do?!”

“I’ll rent an apartment. Or buy a small one with my share. Not your concern.”

“But we’ve been together so many years!”

“Nineteen. I remember. And all nineteen, it turns out, you were putting up with me.”

He sat at the table. Clutched his head.

“I’m an idiot. Forgive me.”

“I forgive you. But I’m not going back.”

“Sveta…”

“That’s it, Vova. The decision is made.”

I stood up. Went to the bedroom. Closed the door.

I heard him call Lenka. His voice breaking: “She’s filing for divorce! Because of that conversation!”

Lenka was yelling something into the phone.

But I didn’t care.

Support from my son

In the evening I called my son. Danil sensed it right away.

“Mom, did something happen?”

“I’m divorcing your father.”

Silence. Long. Then quietly:

“Because of what?”

I told him briefly. The umbrella. The overheard conversation. His father’s words.

“I see,” Danil sighed. “Mom, I’m on your side. Do what you think is right. If you need help—say the word.”

“Thank you, honey.”

“He’s a fool. He didn’t appreciate you. It’s his fault.”

I hung up and cried. For the first time in all those weeks.

Not from pain—from relief.

My son understood. Supported me. Didn’t pry. He’d grown up.

Starting anew

The hearing took place two months later. The property was divided. Vova bought out my share—his parents helped with the money. He didn’t want to sell the apartment.

I rented a studio. Small, cozy. On the fifth floor of an old building. Windows to the courtyard. Quiet.

I changed jobs—became an administrator at an optician’s. Convenient hours, decent pay. All women on staff, friendly.

I lived alone.

And for the first time in many years, I felt calm.

 

A year later

I ran into Vova by chance. A year after the divorce.

I was standing at a bus stop when he stepped off a minibus. He saw me. Hesitated. Came over.

“Hi.”

“Hello.”

Silence. He looked at me. I looked at him.

He was slumped. Confused eyes. A pale band on his finger where the wedding ring had been. So he’d taken it off.

“How are you?”

“Fine.”

“I… Sveta, maybe we could talk?”

“About what, Vova?”

“I didn’t think you’d react like that. We were together so many years…”

“Nineteen. I remember. Do you remember what you said to Lenka?”

He swallowed.

“I was stupid. I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you. But I’m not going back.”

I looked at him calmly.

“You know, I realized something. It’s better to live alone than next to someone who thinks you’re a burden.”

“I didn’t think…”

“You did. You endured me. Discussed me with your sister. And I want to be where I’m valued. Or at least not talked about behind my back.”

The minibus pulled up. I stepped to the door.

“Take care, Vova.”

I got on. Looked out the window.

He stood at the stop. Small. Older. Alone.

And I rode home. To my apartment. To my life.

Finale

Evening. I sat by the window. Rain had started—the first autumn rain. It traced thin streams down the glass.

I never did take that umbrella that day. I got soaked.

But I realized this: there are some downpours you don’t hide from. You leave them.

And when you leave, you understand the umbrella was never for the rain. It was for other people’s words