All Amazing Babies

Elena frowned as she looked through the patient’s medical chart. Her voice was calm, but worry showed in her eyes.

— No, — the elderly orderly replied, shaking her head. — They found him in the park, on a bench. His body temperature was almost below zero. A small hematoma on the back of his head. It’s a miracle he didn’t freeze to death in that frost.

Elena shifted her gaze to the man: about forty years old, lying under an IV drip, pale but calm. An ordinary face, slightly touched by the gray in his stubble. Hands neat, well-groomed — clearly not a vagrant.

— He’s been coming to for five days now, but we still can’t establish his identity, — the doctor tiredly rubbed her nose bridge, adjusting her glasses. — The police are checking the databases, but no matches. We’re keeping him for another week, then we send him to a social center.

— May I talk to him? — Elena suddenly asked, surprised at herself. She didn’t understand why this man sparked such interest in her.

— Good morning! How are you today? — Elena entered the ward with a thermometer and medicines.

— Fine, thank you, — the man smiled. — I had a strange dream today… I was in a field among some unusual plants. Touching the leaves, examining them…

— That’s a good sign, — Elena said softly, checking his pulse. — It means your memory might return. What would you like me to call you?

He thought for a moment.

— Andrey. I think that’s my name.

Three days later, he was sitting on the bed, slightly hunched.

 

— They’re discharging me tomorrow, — he said quietly. — Strange, but what scares me most is not that I don’t remember the past… but that I can’t imagine my future.

Elena looked into his eyes — gray, calm, but deeply confused inside. Then she said firmly:

— I have a spare room. You can live with us. Until you figure things out.

— Who did you bring home? — Elena’s son, Maxim, did not even hide his displeasure. — Seriously, Mom? Some stranger is going to live with us?

— He’s a good person, Max. He just doesn’t have a home right now.

— How do you know he’s good? He doesn’t even know who he is!

— Sometimes you just have to believe, — Elena put her hand on her son’s shoulder. — It’s temporary. And I feel he really deserves trust.

Andrey tried to stay unnoticed, almost like a shadow. He got up earlier than everyone, ate breakfast alone, washed the dishes after himself, helped around the house. Didn’t disturb, didn’t demand anything extra.

Two weeks later Maxim came home downcast.

— I failed the test, — he muttered.

— Maybe I can help? — Andrey unexpectedly offered. — Algebra is like a system. If you understand its language, it gets easier.

Maxim hesitated but handed over his textbook. Andrey flipped through the pages — his gaze changed. More focused.

— Yeah, it’s not that hard. Let’s figure it out together?

Two hours later Maxim looked at Andrey with respect.

— You explain like a teacher.

— Thank you, Elena, — Marina, Elena’s best friend, once said while sipping tea. — Your Andrey literally saved my business. All the plants in a client’s office started to wither — and he restored them in two days. Even figured out that the watering system’s water was spoiled.

— I didn’t know he knew so much about plants, — Elena was surprised.

— He’s like a living encyclopedia! Talks about plants like they’re friends. That they feel water, respond to light… I asked, “Are you a biologist?” And he just shrugged.

That evening Elena told Andrey about it.

— Strange, — he said thoughtfully. — I don’t remember where I know all this from. I just look at a plant — and the words come out. Like opening a book I read once.

— Mom, did you see how Andrey plays the piano? — Maxim excitedly told one evening. — We stopped by a music shop for sheet music, and there was an old piano. He just touched the keys — and started playing! Like a pro!

— I didn’t play, — Andrey said embarrassed. — My fingers just moved on their own. Like remembering a long-forgotten melody.

— That was Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata! — Maxim added, eyes shining.

Day by day Elena noticed Andrey becoming more thoughtful. At night she heard him pacing the room, as if trying to catch something important slipping away.

— I feel I’m about to remember, — he admitted one morning. — Snippets of memories. Faces. Voices. But it’s like a silent film with half the frames lost.

And then everything really started to change.

They lived under one roof for three months. One day, coming back from the market, Elena heard:

— Sergey! Sergey Verkhovsky! — their companion called out, a tall man. — Wait! That’s definitely him!

Andrey turned sharply but kept walking.

— You’re mistaken, — Elena replied calmly. — His name is Andrey.

— No, — the stranger insisted. — This is Sergey Verkhovsky. Associate professor of botany. We met at a conference last year!

Andrey hesitated, looked at Elena.

— I have amnesia. I don’t remember who I am.

The man left his phone number, but Andrey never called him. That evening he sat in the room staring out the window.

— I’m afraid to remember, — he finally said. — What if there’s something terrible in my past? What if I’m not who I seem now?

— Are you afraid you’ll have to leave us? — Elena asked.

Andrey looked at her surprised.

— Yes… Maybe. I’ve grown attached to you. To you. To Maxim.

Late at night, there was a knock at the door. Maxim was already asleep. A middle-aged man with a businesslike expression stood at the door.

— Hello, my name is Nikolai Zimin. I’m a private detective. I’m looking for a scientist-botanist who disappeared a year ago. Someone recognized your guest and informed me. May I talk to him?

Elena went pale but called Andrey.

— Andrey, it’s for you.

He came out and frowned upon seeing the visitor.

— Are you Sergey Verkhovsky? — asked the detective.

— Not sure. I have amnesia after an injury.

— Look here, — Nikolai held out a photo. — This is you.

Andrey looked — it was him in the photo, but different: with a short haircut, glasses, next to a woman with a cold, piercing gaze.

— Who is this? — he asked.

— Your wife. Irina. She hired me to find you.

— Wife… — Andrey repeated as if the word was foreign. — I don’t remember her. At all. If I loved her — I should remember, right?

— Tell me how I disappeared, — Andrey asked the next morning.

— A year ago you left for an expedition to a nature reserve. You were supposed to return in three days but went missing. The search lasted long but was unsuccessful. Everyone assumed you died.

— What was I studying?

— Rare plant species. Before leaving, you were working on an important project. Scientific or secret, no one is sure. Your wife should know more.

— Will she come? — Andrey asked with uncertainty in his voice.

— Tomorrow, — Nikolai answered shortly. — She’s already on her way.

After the detective left, Andrey slowly sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands.

— I’m afraid of this meeting, — he said finally, looking at Elena. — Not glad to know my name. Just anxiety. And emptiness inside.

— Didn’t you remember anything? — she asked quietly.

— No. Only fragments: laboratory, microscope, plants… Someone’s scream nearby… It’s like looking at a broken mirror — there’s a reflection, but the whole picture doesn’t come together.

The next morning, there was a call from Marina.

— Lena, don’t be scared, — her friend began. — I found something. About your… Sergey Verkhovsky.

— What exactly?

— An article in a scientific journal. From a year ago. About a scandal in the botanical institute. His colleague Pavel Dmitriev accused Sergey of data falsification. Then published a similar work himself. It’s all confusing but definitely shady.

— Send it to me, please.

— Already sent. Lena… be careful. Something’s wrong here.

Irina Verkhovskaya entered the apartment like a woman confident in herself and her rights. Cold hairstyle, perfect makeup, a calculating look. She didn’t even hug her husband, just inspected him as if checking whether the found object matched her expectations.

— Sergey… I thought you were dead, — she said without much warmth.

They sat in the living room. Elena offered tea but went to the kitchen to hear every word.

— Is it true you remember nothing? — Irina asked.

— Yes. Even you. Sorry.

— It doesn’t matter. The main thing is you’re alive. Now we go home.

— Not so fast, — Andrey’s voice became firmer. — I need to figure things out. What’s the conflict at the institute? Who is Pavel Dmitriev?

Pause. The air between them was tense like a stretched string.

— How do you know? — Irina asked coldly.

— Doesn’t matter. Tell me the truth.

— Just some academic mess. Pavel took part of your research for himself. You were depressed. That’s why you went on the expedition — supposedly to clear your head.

— What kind of research?

 

— A new plant species. You said it could make an important medicine. Sergey, stop digging into this. You need a doctor, treatment. We leave tomorrow.

That night Elena heard a knock on her door.

— May I come in? — Andrey asked. He looked worried but determined.

— What’s wrong?

— I remembered. Not everything, but the main thing. It wasn’t an accident.

He sat on the edge of the bed holding a worn notebook — the one they found with him.

— This notebook was with me then. I looked at the notes, sketches, formulas every day. Today they made sense. I really discovered a new plant species with unique properties. And Pavel tried to steal my discovery.

— And Irina?

— She was involved, — his voice trembled. — They acted together. I accidentally overheard their conversation right before I left for the expedition. They planned to take credit away from me. I was shocked. I went to the reserve to think it over. And there… rain, slippery path, hit my head. Hypothermia. Amnesia. And a new life.

In the morning Maxim ran into the kitchen, out of breath with excitement.

— Mom! Andrey! I overheard that woman!

— Maxim, that’s not good, — Elena said reflexively.

— Wait! She called some Pavel! Said he “remembered almost everything” and that they have to take him away before he finds evidence!

Andrey took out the notebook.

— Here are my proofs. Formulas, dates, notes. All here. Enough to reclaim my name and expose them.

At that moment Irina entered the apartment, confident as a woman used to getting what she wants.

— Sergey, they’re already waiting for us downstairs. Shall we go?

— No, — he said firmly. — I’m staying.

— What do you mean no? — her smile tightened.

— I remembered everything. You. Pavel. Your game.

— I don’t know what you’re talking about, — she replied coldly.

— Really? — he held out the notebook. — What if I show this to the institute? Or the police? These are documents, dates, notes. Mine, not his.

Irina’s face froze.

— Do you think they’ll believe you? A man with lost memory?

— We’ll see, — he simply replied.

When she left, slamming the door, Elena asked:

— You really won’t go with her?

— No, — he smiled. — You know, I remembered not only the bad things. I remembered I used to live wrong. Work was everything. Home was emptiness. The apartment was a design project, not warmth. You and Maxim became my family. If you allow, I want to stay.

— What’s next?

— I can work at the botanical garden. They’ve been looking for a specialist for a long time. Not prestigious, but real.

— Is that what you want?

— Yes. Maybe for the first time, I’m choosing myself, not an obligation.

Six months later, they sat on the balcony among pots with flowers that Sergey now grew with love. Maxim had just received a diploma for winning a physics olympiad.

— I didn’t think things would turn out like this, — Elena said looking at the sunset. — When I offered you to stay at the hospital, I didn’t imagine a new chapter would begin.

— A paradox, — he smiled. — Lost my memory — found myself.

— Do you regret anything?

— Only that I didn’t come into your life earlier. But maybe it’s not too late.

Elena touched his hand.

— Not too late. We have a whole life ahead.

Like spring awakening the earth, the story bloomed too. Not immediately. Not easily. But — truly.

In the backyard of the city hospital, in the shadow of gray concrete walls and under the sound of rare drops falling from the roof after rain, a boy often appeared — thin, as if woven from wind and loneliness. He was about ten years old, no more, but in his eyes already lay the fatigue of an adult who had endured too much. He did not stand with outstretched hands, did not steal, did not shout, did not cry. He simply worked. From morning till evening, in rain and frost, he washed the cars — doctors’, nurses’, orderlies’. Scraping the dirty wheels with a brush, rinsing rags in a bucket, patiently cleaning stains off the sides of the cars, as if each one were the last hope for a piece of bread. For this, coins were tossed to him, sometimes a piece of Borodinsky bread, leftover soup, or a bun from the hospital canteen. He accepted it without thanks, but with deep, almost religious respect for kindness, as if each piece was not just food, but proof that the world had not yet completely gone dark.

Orderly Galina Stepanovna had been watching him for a long time. From the first time she noticed his bare, frozen feet on the asphalt, she felt something twitch inside. The boy was barefoot, wearing a torn sweater, his pants held up by a single string, but his gaze was clear, firm, as if forged from steel. He did not ask. Did not complain. Did not cry. He just was. And in his silent presence was such strength that every time Galina looked at him, she felt her heart tighten with pain and admiration simultaneously.

One day, after a twelve-hour shift, when her body ached with fatigue and her soul begged for rest, she saw him again by the service entrance. The wind cut her face like a knife, and the boy stood by the last car, trembling all over, his fingers blue from the cold, yet he was still wiping the hood with a rag, as if his life depended on it.
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“Little one,” she said quietly, stepping closer, “you’ll freeze to death here! Why do you torment yourself like this?”

He looked up at her — dark as night eyes, but a fire burned within them.

“I’ll endure, auntie,” he whispered, “just two more cars — and I’ll buy bread. It’ll be enough for the day.”

She wanted to take his hand, but he pulled away — not out of fear, but pride. He did not ask for help. He deserved it.

That night, in ward number 14, an old man died. Pyotr Sergeyevich Vasilyev. Alone. Without relatives. Without cries or tears. Only the nurse recorded the time of death, and the body was taken to the morgue. And the belongings — an old coat, faded trousers, a worn-out shirt — remained lying in the locker. Galina passed by, looked at them, and her heart tightened. She knew those things would be thrown away. And the boy — shivering outside.

She hesitated for a long time. Then, gathering everything into a bag, she went outside. Found the boy near the bucket. Handed him the bundle.

“Here… for rags,” she said, looking away. “Maybe you’ll need them.”

He took the bag carefully, as if inside was not clothing, but fragile hope. Unfolded it — and froze. The coat was old but intact. Almost new, if not for the time.

“Thank you…” he whispered. “I can wear it. And it… isn’t torn?”

“Almost new,” she replied. “Grandpa was neat. Very.”

He nodded. And for the first time ever — he smiled slightly.

A week passed. Then — he appeared again. But now he was wearing the coat. It hung on him like on a hanger, but it was clean, washed, carefully darned at the elbow. He approached Galina, eyes shining like stars in a dark sky.

“Aunt Galya,” he said, trembling with excitement. “Did you know grandpa had a note in his pocket?”

“What note?” she asked in surprise.

 

He pulled a folded piece of paper from the inside pocket of the coat — yellowed, with faded ink. Carefully unfolded it. On the paper was a clear, elderly handwriting:

“If you found this — it means you are alive. Live honestly. I could not do anything — maybe you will. The things are yours. And forgive me if you are my grandson…”

Galina staggered. Sat down on a bench. Her heart pounded. Because she remembered. Before his death, the old man grabbed her hand and whispered with a trembling voice:

“I lost everything… I didn’t even find my grandson…”

“What is your name, boy?” she asked, barely breathing.

“Artyom… Artyom Vasilyev.”

At that moment, the world around froze. As if time curled into a ball, and past and present met at one point. Galina looked at him — at his face, at the features that seemed imprinted in Pyotr Sergeyevich’s memory. A puzzle formed in her mind: the surname, the age, the coat, the note, the photo that the old man kept in the nightstand. And this boy — barefoot, hungry, but with such strength of spirit that it was impossible not to believe: he was here for a reason.

She stood up. Straightened up. Her eyes became hard as steel.

“Let’s go,” she said. “First, we’ll eat. Then — we’ll look for documents. Maybe you really didn’t just find that coat by chance. Maybe fate brought you here.”

In the hospital cafeteria, amidst the smell of mashed potatoes and cheap soap, Galina sat Artyom at a table. She nodded to the cook. A minute later, hot soup, a sandwich with sausage, and a cup of tea with honey stood before the boy. He ate slowly, carefully, trying not to make noise, not to rush. Every bite — like a gift.

“Artyom,” Galina asked, “where are you from? Where are your parents?”

He lowered his eyes. Lips pressed tight.

“My mom died. Long ago. I don’t know my father. I lived with grandma… she fell ill. Then she died. Since then — alone. I don’t want to go to an orphanage. They beat there. I ran away. Slept at the station, then came here. Doctors don’t chase me away. They even give me food.”

Galina closed her eyes. Everything fit. No documents, no relatives. Only a coat with a note. And a boy who might be — the grandson of the dead old man.

“Have you ever heard the surname Vasilyev before?” she asked.

“Grandma said, ‘Artyomka Vasilyev, like your dad was.’ But I didn’t know dad. Only had a photo… lost it.”

“And grandpa…” Galina paused. “Pyotr Sergeyevich Vasilyev. Have you heard of him?”

Artyom shook his head.

Half an hour later, Galina returned with a worn folder. Inside — a copy of a passport, a certificate with an address, and… a yellowed photo. A man in his youth, with the same eyebrows, the same cheekbones.

“Do you recognize him?” she asked, handing over the photo.

The boy shuddered. His eyes filled with tears.

“That’s… dad,” he whispered. “Grandma had the same photo.”

From that day everything changed. Galina took him to the head nurse, then to the guardianship authorities. A surgeon who had known Pyotr Sergeyevich for many years went with them. The paperwork took a month. But from the very first night, Artyom slept in a warm room, in a clean bed, under a blanket that smelled of laundry detergent and home.

Six months later, he started school. With a new backpack, shiny notebooks, in a clean uniform. And in his pocket — the note folded in quarters from his grandfather. His talisman. His legacy. His beginning.

But one day Artyom disappeared.

The day after the talk about documents — he was gone. Neither by the entrance nor in the parking lot. Galina waited. A day. Two. Asked everyone — guards, cleaners, doctors. No one had seen him. Only the old watchman said:

“Early in the morning, in the fog, a boy got on the train. Looks like yours.”

Her heart sank. She understood: he was scared. Too much at once — grandpa, the coat, hope. He was used to running away. To disappearing. To not becoming a burden.

Months passed. Winter locked the city in ice. Galina kept working. Sometimes she found time to reread that very note — the one grandpa left in the pocket. She kept it in a drawer with bandages, as if it was not a piece of paper, but a heart left behind by a person.

Then — spring. First puddles, first thaw. And one morning — on her desk lay an envelope. Without a return address. Only her name — in a child’s handwriting.

She opened it with trembling fingers.

Hello, Aunt Galya.

This is Artyom.

I left because I was scared. You were kind to me, but I… couldn’t stay. But I have not forgotten. I keep the note. I believe he really could have been my grandpa.

I found work with kind people. Washing dishes in the cafeteria. They gave me a room. I am learning to read — by signs, by books. I am 11.

When I grow up, I will come back. For sure.

Thank you.

Your Artyom.

Galina read the letter ten times. Then placed it in the folder next to Pyotr Sergeyevich’s note. She sat for a long time. Then quietly said:

“Live honestly, Artyom. Just live. And maybe you really are a grandson. Or maybe you’re just a person who was given a chance. And that… is more than enough.”

Not all children stay close.

But if you have sown kindness in your heart — it will not disappear. It will go with them on a train, to another city, another life. And one day — it will rise.

Even after years.

Even in a foreign land.

Even without words.

Sometimes, to start a new life, you only need —

an old coat,

a forgotten note in the pocket,

 

and one kind heart

that did not pass by.

 Snezhana walked along the edge of the ancient forest, as if treading the boundary between worlds — past and present, fairy tale and reality. Beneath her feet, the fresh earth squelched, soaked by a recent rain that, like a wise mentor, left behind a generous gift — mushrooms. The air was filled with the scent of wet pine needles, rotting wood, and something delicate, almost mystical — the smell of rebirth. The rain had passed, and now the forest was waking up, like after a long sleep, revealing its secrets to those who knew how to see. And Snezhana knew.

The year had been harsh. The fields yielded a poor harvest, the livestock was sick, and people, as always, hoped for a miracle, relying on luck. But this time, contrary to expectations, no one appeared in the forest. There were no mushrooms — or so everyone thought. Or rather, it seemed there were none. Because not everyone knew that true treasures hide not in plain sight, but behind a veil of oblivion, in the depths where no hurried, unbelieving foot had stepped.

Snezhana walked alone, in a simple jacket, carrying a basket and a bag — just in case. Her neighbor, the very one who always considered herself smarter than everyone else, saw her at the forest’s edge and even raised a hand to her temple, as if to say, “Snezhana, have you lost your mind?”

“Snezhana, where are you going? To the forest? You won’t even find a dry branch there!” she shouted, crossing her arms over her chest as if guarding her modest world from foreign hopes.

But Snezhana just smiled slightly and moved forward silently. She didn’t argue. Why bother? People usually don’t believe in what they cannot see. And she was going where she saw — not with her eyes, but with her heart.

The path. The very one her grandfather showed her when she was a little girl with braids and eyes full of wonder.

“Snezhanka,” he said, “if one day the whole world loses its mushrooms, they will remain on the little island near the pines. The soil there is special, and forest spirits protect that place.”

And she remembered. How she and her grandfather came home with baskets overflowing with porcini, milk mushrooms, slippery jacks — mushrooms that seemed to grow by magic in the thick fog and silence. The passage was narrow, almost invisible, hidden under the roots of fallen trees and thick fern thickets. Only the two of them knew it.

Now Snezhana stood at the edge of a swamp, listening to the forest’s pulse. Every step was difficult. Roots grabbed at her feet, branches slapped her face, and gnats swirled in the air like living dust. But she kept going. Because she knew: if you believe — you will find.

And then — ahead, through the trembling mist of fog, it appeared. The island. A small patch of land framed by pines like a crown. And on it — gold. Young porcini mushrooms, firm, with rosy caps, as if just grown from a fairy tale.

Snezhana sat down on a stump, a smile blooming on her face.

“Mushrooms don’t disappear,” she whispered. “They’re just waiting for those who aren’t afraid to go deep.”

Within forty minutes, she filled the basket to the brim, and the bag to the top. The mushrooms lay tightly packed, as if they themselves were begging to come home with her.

But the forest does not like its secrets revealed too quickly.

When Snezhana was already about to leave, a sound stopped her. Not the rustling of leaves, nor a bird’s cry — a human voice. Quiet, trembling, full of fear. It came from the other side of the island — where she planned to return next time.

She set down the basket, took a deep breath, and moved forward. Walking was hellishly hard. The ground sank, branches whipped her arms, and her feet tangled in roots. She walked in a goose step — as they taught at school, so as not to fall into the quicksand. Every step was a challenge to fate.

 

And then — she came out onto a small clearing.

Before her sat a boy about fifteen. He held an empty basket, clutching it to his chest like a shield. His eyes were red from tears, his face pale and scratched.

“Hey!” Snezhana called out.

He turned sharply. And hope flashed in his eyes.

“Will you… help me? I… I’m lost.”

“Well, well,” Snezhana sighed. “Where are you from?”

“We went into the forest with the guys… I fell behind… And now I don’t know how to get out…”

“Come with me. I know the way.”

“Do you… have any water?”

“Have you been lost long?”

“No… but no one knows I left…”

He took the bag with the mushrooms as if it was a symbol of trust. Snezhana saw how he trembled. He had spent the night in the forest. Alone.

When they reached the forest edge, the sun was already leaning toward sunset.

“Is it far for you?” she asked.

“An hour’s walk to Sosnovka.”

“Then head there,” she pointed. “What’s your name?”

“Ivan.” He looked at her gratefully. “When I grow up — I’ll definitely help you!”

Snezhana laughed.

“Run along now! Your family must be going crazy. Meanwhile, I’ll think about how you can help me. Just don’t get lost again!”

“Okay!” he shouted, whistling, and ran down the path like the wind.

The forest does not forgive the overconfident. City folk often came here, thinking themselves masters of nature. But the forest swallowed them — quietly, without noise, like fog erasing footprints.

And Snezhana walked home. The village was close. Her neighbor, as expected, was already peeking out the window, ready to sneer. But when she saw the basket, filled to the top with mushrooms, and the bag too — her mouth dropped open like a perch’s.

“Mishka!” someone suddenly shouted. “Why are you lying there like a seal?! Everyone’s gathering mushrooms, and you — nothing! People are carrying buckets, and you’re on the couch! Get up, I say!”

Snezhana smiled and went inside.

“Snezhana?” her father’s voice called from the room.

“It’s me, dad.”

“Well, mushrooms? Wow… You must have been on that island?”

“I was. And you know, dad… a boy got lost there. I helped him find his way out.”

Their house was quiet. Her mother had died long ago. Her husband turned out to be a traitor — he left her with a child in her arms. Snezhana returned to the village, to her father’s home. He met her with open arms.

“At least I won’t be alone in my old age,” he said then.

Snezhana got a job. The house was repaired. Life settled. But she never remarried.

“All the suitors will run away, and you’ll be left alone,” her father sighed.

“I’m not waiting,” she replied. “I have Lesha. He won’t leave me. Right, son?”

Lesha nodded. He felt awkward about such talks, but he knew: his mother was his support.

Time flew.

Lesha grew up. He enrolled in a construction college. He came home on weekends. Snezhana was happy, but something was wrong. Her son became thoughtful, his eyes anxious.

“Mom…” he began. “I got into trouble.”

He defended a girl from hooligans. But they filed a complaint against him. They made up a story, as if he was the aggressor. And now they demanded money. A lot.

Snezhana went pale.

“And the girl?”

“They were scared into silence. She won’t speak.”

“How much?”

Lesha named the amount.

Snezhana’s head spun. It was impossible.

The next morning she went to the bank.

“Mom, maybe don’t?” Lesha said. “I might be in for a little while… and it will pass.”

“Let’s not be foolish,” she replied firmly.

The neighbor, seeing Snezhana get on the bus, immediately sensed trouble. But she was afraid to ask. Snezhana could answer in a way that would last a week. So the neighbor “accidentally” went to the store — that’s where everyone would find out.

At the bank, Snezhana sat in a soft chair. A young consultant sat across from her.

“What amount do you want to borrow?”

She named a figure.

The young man wanted to object. It was too much for her salary. He decided to take her to the director.

When she entered the director’s office, the director suddenly froze.

“Is that… you?” he whispered. “Lord… fate!”

It was Ivan.

The very boy she saved in the forest.

He listened to her story. And not just listened.

 

He used all his connections.

He uncovered the truth. Found witnesses. Proved Lesha was a hero, and the hooligans were fraudsters.

They were arrested.

Her son was free.

And Snezhana… Snezhana, a few months later, got married. To one of Ivan’s colleagues — a kind, smart man who looked at her with admiration and respect.

When the neighbor found out — her heart almost stopped.

“Mishka!” she yelled. “Did you hear?! Snezhana got married! Now she has money, a husband, and a heroic son! And you — still on the couch!”

Snezhana sat on the porch, holding her husband’s hand, watching the sunset.

“See, dad?” she whispered. “We made it.”

And the forest, somewhere far away, seemed to answer her with the rustling of leaves.

Because those who believe, who go deep, who are not afraid of the dark — always find the light.

 

Deep in an old village, lost among endless fields and whispering pines, stood a house with peeling paint and a roof slightly sagging under the weight of time. In this house, like a root grown deep into the earth, lived Zakhar Mikhailovich for seven decades — a man whose soul was filled with silence, wisdom, and unspoken words of love. He had spent forty years of his life alongside Maria — a woman whose name sounded on his lips like a prayer, whose presence was warmth in every corner of their modest home. A year ago, she passed away, leaving behind a void that nothing could fill.

Her funeral marked the end of one world for him and the beginning of another — a world of loneliness, where every morning began with a heavy sigh, and every evening ended by the window, where he looked at the sunset as if trying to see her face in the clouds. He almost stopped leaving the house, going out only on Saturdays, like a wound-up mechanism, to the cemetery — not just to remember, but to talk, to tell how the day went, what he remembered, what he dreamed of. There, by the modest cross covered with moss and rain, he felt she was listening.

“Maria, my dear,” he whispered, touching the cold stone with a trembling hand, “I’ll go to the city on Saturday. It’s time to put up a monument for you. A worthy one. As you deserve. I promised — you’ll have a beautiful little house in eternity. But for now… I’ll be back soon. Very soon.”

 

Their dream of having children remained just a dream. In those days, when medicine still could not perform miracles, they visited doctors, hoped, prayed. But it didn’t work out. They wanted to adopt a child from an orphanage — their hearts were open, their arms ready to embrace. However, officials deemed them too old, too poor, too… unsuitable. Fate, as if mocking them, closed the door, leaving only emptiness in the house and in their hearts.

The house became a stranger. Every object — a cup, a tablecloth, an old scarf draped over a chair back — reminded him of her. Within these walls there were no more footsteps, no voice, no laughter. Only tears, which the old man no longer hid, streamed down his wrinkled cheeks as he sat by the fireplace, staring into the flames as if trying to see her face there.

But in this sorrow appeared a ray of light — an eight-year-old boy named Danil. A neighbor’s child, with tousled hair and eyes full of childlike curiosity, who often visited the old man. He was not afraid of his silence, did not turn away from his sadness — he felt that here, at Grandpa Zakhar’s place, he could be himself. And the old man, in turn, came alive in his presence. He told him about his childhood — about homemade sleds, school bells, the war he knew from his father’s stories, and how he first fell in love with Masha while standing by the well with a bucket.

One day Danil came with his head down, eyes shadowed by fear.

“What happened, boy?” Zakhar asked, pulling him close. “Who hurt you?”

“Mom… stepdad hit her again,” Danil whispered, clenching his fists. “I was sitting in the garden, listening to them yelling… I couldn’t go in.”

The old man felt a flare of anger in his chest. He could not remain silent. He could not watch a small person suffer.

“Tomorrow I’ll go to the local officer,” he said firmly. “This isn’t life. It’s a disgrace. And you, little one, hang in there. Want some sweets? I’ll bring you candy, cookies, just like you like.”

“No, grandpa,” the boy whispered. “I only want Mom to be okay.”

Zakhar squeezed his hand. At that moment he realized: he was not just an old man, he was a protector. Even if he had no strength, even if he was old, he had to stand up for those in need.

The next day he went down to the basement — where memories, old things, and a single bundle wrapped in cloth were stored. His hands trembled as he took it out.

“What’s this, grandpa?” Danil asked, peeking into the basement.

“You’re too young to know,” Zakhar answered with a sad smile. “But maybe one day, I’ll tell you.”

It was gold — ancient nuggets found by Zakhar’s father in distant lands. He hadn’t sold them for years, keeping them as his last treasure. But now he understood: the time had come. He took them to the city, to a pawnshop, and with the money ordered a monument for Maria — granite, engraved with her name and dates, with an angel spreading wings over her eternal sleep.

On the way back, he stopped by the local officer, Pavel Dmitrievich.

“Something must be done about this man,” he said, clenching his fists. “If the boy sees his mother beaten every day, what will he become? A beast? A coward? I cannot sit idly by. Take action, and if you don’t — I’ll handle it myself.”

His words did not go unnoticed. That very night, Sasha, Danil’s stepfather, was arrested for domestic violence. For 15 days. He begged, swore he wouldn’t drink again, that he would work, care. But Nina — Danil’s mother — only shook her head.

“I’m tired,” she said. “I want my son to live at least half a month in peace.”

When Zakhar came to her, he looked at her with pain.

“How do you put up with him?” he asked. “He’s destroying you.”

“Uncle Zakhar,” she whispered, “when he’s sober… he’s kind. And I’m sick. Diabetes. I can’t lift Danil myself. At least he brings money.”

“Leave him,” the old man said firmly. “Strength will come. And I’ll help. Maybe you’ll meet a real man. A worthy father for your son.”

A few days later, returning from the cemetery, Zakhar heard a faint, plaintive whimpering. Looking back, he saw a tiny puppy shivering from cold and fear in a ditch. It seemed to have been abandoned. The old man picked it up, held it to his chest, warmed it with his breath. Took it home, fed it, covered it with a scarf.

The next day he knocked on Nina’s door.

“Ninusya, will you let Danil have a dog? He’s been dreaming of a puppy.”

“Of course,” she smiled. “But he must take care of it.”

Within half a minute Danil burst out onto the porch like a hurricane. Seeing the puppy, he froze, then broke into a happy smile.

“Wow! Is he mine?” he shouted.

 

“Yours,” Zakhar said, handing over the little one. “Now you have a friend.”

Two years passed. Danil grew. The dog — now grown and faithful — was his shadow. But the joy was overshadowed — the boy’s mother was wasting away. Diabetes consumed her. Doctors shrugged helplessly. When Nina died, Danil’s world collapsed.

Sasha, the stepfather, remained. But he drank every day. The house turned into a dump — filth, cockroaches, the smell of alcohol. Danil came to Grandpa Zakhar more and more often, begging:

“Take me to live with you! Please!”

“Oh, grandson,” the old man said bitterly, “I would give my life for that. But the guardianship authorities… they won’t give a child to an old man. They say a young family is needed to provide a future.”
Family games

But Zakhar did not give up. He went to social services, wrote applications, begged. Yet Danil was still sent to an orphanage. The old man achieved only one thing — the right to see him on weekends. Every Saturday he came, took his grandson, and they went into the forest, fishing, visiting friends. The dog ran beside them, a symbol of loyalty and love.

One day Sasha died — fell asleep drunk without putting out a cigarette. The fire took him. Soon after, three young men came to Zakhar’s house.

“We hear you’ve got gold? Share it?” one asked with a smirk.

“We did,” the old man calmly replied. “Sold it. For my wife’s monument.”

“We’ll see!” another shouted. They turned the house upside down but found nothing. Left empty-handed.

Years passed. Danil grew. Zakhar aged. And one day, during a visit, the old man quietly said:

“My time is coming, grandson. I won’t make it. I’ve bequeathed the house to you. It’s old, but it’s yours. And I will leave peacefully.”

“No, grandpa!” Danil shouted, crying. “I don’t want to lose you!”

“You will live,” Zakhar smiled. “You’ll start a family. And the house… maybe you’ll sell it and buy something better.”

Danil grew strong, handsome, kind. In the village, he met Olesya. They fell in love. But her parents were against it.

“He’s poor! What can he give you?” they shouted.

“I love him!” Olesya cried. “We can manage!”

Danil suffered. He felt worthless. But on his eighteenth birthday, the chairman summoned him. In his hands was his grandfather Zakhar’s will.

It said: “Go to the old oak by the forest. There, under the roots, I buried a barrel of gold. Sell it. Start your business. Live happily.”

Danil found the treasure. He was stunned. He told Olesya. Her parents, learning the groom had an inheritance, instantly approved the marriage.

The newlyweds opened a farm. A year later they had a son. They placed granite monuments for Grandpa Zakhar and his wife Maria. They cared for the graves like a shrine.

“Thank you, grandpa,” Danil whispered, standing at the grave. “You gave us everything. Now we are happy.”

And in the silence of the village, among the rustling leaves and the dog’s barking, it seemed that somewhere in the clouds two old souls smiled — Zakhar and Maria — knowing their love continues.

Marina stood in the doorway, greeting her parents with the same friendly face as always. Only the bright bruise under her eye betrayed what she so desperately didn’t want to talk about.“Mom, it’s okay, don’t pay attention,” she said quickly, noticing her mother’s attentive gaze.

Elena Igorevna sighed heavily.

“It’s your business, daughter. You have to live with it…”

Her father didn’t even greet his son-in-law. Silently, he went to the window and stared into nowhere, as if he hadn’t heard Marina mumbling something about a wardrobe and darkness:

“I just… yesterday night I was walking, accidentally bumped into something. Come on, Mom, Egor and I are fine!”

Fine? Marina herself clearly remembered what happened yesterday. Egor, already always on edge, didn’t just yell at her. When she dared to say she was tired of it all, he grabbed her robe collar so hard it almost ripped at the seams.

“Are you some kind of bastard who doesn’t remember who you owe your life to and that you don’t have to think about anything?!” he yelled, shaking her. “Forgot how I brought you home from bars when you ran off to that Denis? Forgot who loved you, you fool? I used to carry you in my arms!”Then — a sharp blow. Manly, as if to teach her a lesson. Stars flashed in her eyes, followed by pain… And Egor kept shouting curses.

“Yes, daughter, I understand. The wardrobe… darkness,” her mother muttered, though she knew perfectly well what had happened.

And she felt guilty. It was she who forced Marina to marry Egor! She was the one who drove Denis away from her daughter, thinking he was a bad influence.

“And judging by the bruise, daughter, your wardrobe seems to have fists,” Elena Igorevna said pointedly, glancing at her son-in-law.

Ivan Mikhailovich never turned from the window. He went out to the balcony to smoke. Unlike his wife, he never supported Egor. He seemed slippery to him. Proud and cloying. Yes, from a wealthy family, with an apartment, a car, connections, and prospects. But rotten inside

And now that rot showed itself — the bruise under his daughter’s eye.

Of course, Ivan Mikhailovich could have grabbed his son-in-law by the collar and punched him hard. But that would only lead to a scandal. And he didn’t want that. He barely restrained himself… Hence he went out to the balcony.He knew he would solve this problem differently. And he already knew how.

He talked on the

phone for a long time on that balcony…

Meanwhile, Marina served her mother coffee, and they chatted about nothing. After half an hour, her parents left.

Egor, who expected reproaches and a scandal, finally relaxed. He plopped down on the sofa, opened a beer, and even smirked. To him, the parents’ silence meant consent. Like, family is family, and bruises are part of life. No one steps on the heel. Right!

“See, Marinka, I told you — everything will settle down!” he said smugly. “Your parents are normal, sensible people. Not like you… Yesterday you attacked me with accusations! So what if I went out and drank? What’s wrong with that?”

He took a sip of beer and reached for some chips.

 

His happiness didn’t last long.Less than half an hour later, someone knocked on the door. Not rang — knocked. Hard and decisively. That confident knocking made Egor put down the can and tense up.

He went to the door, looked through the peephole… and turned pale.

Denis was standing on the threshold. His rival. Marina’s ex. The very one who once almost made her his wife but lost the chance. Handsome, tall, confident. In an expensive coat and with that very expression on his face that makes women sigh and men want to punch him.

“What do you want?” Egor barked, opening the door just enough to show irritation but not let him in.“Step aside,” Denis said calmly and simply pushed Egor aside with his shoulder.

Egor staggered back like a rag doll.

Marina got up from the couch, her eyes wide.“Denis…”

“Come on, come on, get ready,” he said shortly. “If you want — we’ll go to my place. If you want — to your parents’. But why do you need that bankrupt?”

“Who did you call bankrupt, scum?!” Egor exploded, but he remained stuck in the corner as if glued there.

He had his reasons to fear Denis.

“I called you, Egorushka. You,” Denis smiled calmly. “I didn’t want to interfere, didn’t meddle in your life. But when Marina’s father — by the way, a decent guy — called me and said you hit her… I just took your club.”

“What… what are you talking about?!” Egor croaked.

“Well, not exactly took it,” Denis smiled again. “Just the place you rent for your club belongs to my friend. A very good friend. In short, you will receive a notice of non-renewal of the lease. Got it? It’s already been delivered to your office.”Egor collapsed as if cut down.

“Plus, we recalculated your rent debts for six months. Remember, you were told: rent could increase when the club becomes profitable? Well, it went up six months ago. And the notice has been in your drawer for a long time — you just didn’t read it. Misha and I kept quiet, waiting for the debt to grow. Plus penalties, interest… You understand me? Now you officially owe a big, unpleasant sum. Want me to say the amount?”

Denis leaned toward Egor:

“And I know you don’t have money to pay this debt. Should have drunk less with your whores.”

Egor slumped into the chair, like a squeezed lemon.

“This is… a setup!” he muttered, eyes wide. “You… you planted those papers!”

“Think what you want,” Denis shrugged. “You can even sue. But your lawyer, it seems, quit. Or you fired him? Who’s going to defend you now — your bartender with the nose piercing?”Egor wanted to say something but only opened his mouth.

“Marina, let’s go. Don’t bother with your things. Everything you need, I’ll buy. And what you have here… you don’t deserve it. All sorts of rags from the market.”

“Denis, wait,” Marina said confusedly. “This all happened… so fast. I don’t understand…”

“Fast is when you get hit in the eye and still justify the one who hit you. Everything else is too slow.”

Denis held out his hand, and she took it.

“Are you guys out of your minds?!” Egor yelled. “This is my home! My wife!”

“Wife?” Denis repeated. “So you’re her husband who beats her, then hides behind a beer can and the TV? You’re not even a man, Egor. You’re a puff. Loud, momentary… nothing. You can’t even punch me in the face.”“But I… I…” Egor stammered.

“What? What?” Denis squinted. “Maybe you’ll go to court? Tell them about the bruise from the ‘wardrobe’? Or how your club failed because you drank instead of working, hoping for your daddy’s connections?”

Marina walked after Denis without looking back. Only at the door did she stop for a moment:

“Sorry, Egor. And goodbye.”

“Go to hell!” he yelled. “Yeah… sure, go to hell…”

And they left.

Two days passed. Egor sat in an empty apartment. The club was closed. The lease refusal papers were on the table, along with the debt notice.Denis turned out to be not just an ex but an ex with character and means. He just waited for the right moment to strike. And hit hard, painfully, and unerringly.

Meanwhile, Marina’s parents’ house was quiet. Her mother was cooking something in the kitchen, her father was flipping through a newspaper.

Then Marina entered the room.

“Hi,” she said.

“Where have you been, daughter? Did Egor look for you?” her father asked sternly.

“I… was with Denis.”

“So you left Egor?”

 

“Yes. I left.”

Her mother threw up her hands, and her father just nodded in agreement:

“That’s right! Right, daughter. And you know,” he said with a smile, “if that one ever comes near you again, I’ll break all his teeth.”

“Dad… did you call Denis?” Marina asked.

“Yes, I did. Who else?” her father winked. “He’s a decent guy. And a businessman — unlike that one.”

“That’s good! Good that you left that jerk!” her mother finished. “Forgive me, Marina, for almost ruining your life. Thank God you don’t have children from Egor…”

“Oh, Mom, you’ve got a sharp tongue!” her father chuckled. “But the main thing is she understood she was wrong.”

Meanwhile, Denis stood by the gate, leaning against his black SUV. He was smiling… smiling and knowing. Just certain that no one would ever hit Marina again.

Well, except with love and pleasant surprises. But that’s a completely different story…

Lera sat on the floor in the small room, moving baby things from one box to another. At eight months pregnant her back ached, her legs were swollen, but she didn’t want to stop what she’d started. Tiny onesies with bunnies, soft swaddles, rattles—everything lay around her, waiting for its time.

The nursery was small but cozy. Lera had chosen a light blue for the walls, bought a white crib with carved headboards, and hung a mobile with plush bears above it. The changing table stood by the window next to a dresser for baby clothes. Everything had been thought out down to the smallest detail.

Her husband, Artyom, came into the room, leaned against the doorframe, and took in the setup.

“Not bad,” Artyom nodded, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets. “You put the table in a good spot.”

Lera looked up and smiled.

“Really? I was wondering if maybe I should move it to the other wall…”

“It’s fine. Don’t stress.”

Artyom turned and went back to the living room without even offering to help gather the scattered things. Lera sighed and kept sorting the footed pants by size. She was used to it—her husband never really got into the details; he’d nod approvingly when required, and that would be the extent of his involvement.

Her phone rang while she was going through the crib covers. Her mother-in-law’s name—Tamara Ivanovna—lit up the screen. She called every day, sometimes twice. Lera grimaced but picked up.

 

“Hello, Tamara Ivanovna.”

“Hello, Lera. Well, how are things? Still sitting in that nursery?”

“Yes, just finishing the last touches. I laid out the toys, put the cover on the mattress…”

“Oh, why do you need all that nonsense?” her mother-in-law cut her off. “Babies grow fast; in six months you’ll throw it all out. Why waste money?”

Lera pressed her lips together. This was far from the first time they’d had this conversation.

“Tamara Ivanovna, I want everything to be pretty and comfortable for the baby.”

“Comfortable!” her mother-in-law snorted. “You’d be better off saving the money. When I raised little Artyom—no toys for a thousand rubles, no designer cribs. And look, he turned out just fine.”

Lera rolled her eyes and stepped away from the crib, settling into the chair by the window. There was no point arguing. Tamara Ivanovna always knew better than everyone how to live, what to buy, and how to raise children.

“I saw those swaddles you bought at the store yesterday,” her mother-in-law continued. “Way overpriced! And why? Get the regular chintz ones—Soviet babies slept in them and they were fine.”

“Okay, Tamara Ivanovna,” Lera answered tiredly. “I’ll think about it.”

“Do think. Otherwise you’ll be complaining later that you don’t have enough money.”

After the call, Lera set the phone on the windowsill and looked outside. The autumn wind chased yellow leaves around the courtyard, the sky was covered with gray clouds. Her mood soured instantly. Her mother-in-law could wipe out all her enthusiasm with a single phone call.

The next day Lera was back at it in the nursery. She arranged shirts on the shelves, hung a terry towel with a duck-hood on a hook, and set jars of powder and cream on the dresser. Everything looked sweet and homey. Lera imagined bathing the baby, changing his diapers, rocking him to sleep—and warmth spread through her.

Artyom peeked into the room closer to evening, glanced at the shelves, and nodded.

“Looks tidy. Good job.”

“What do you think, should I get a night light too?” Lera asked. “So I don’t have to switch on the overhead light when I’m up at night.”

“Go ahead, if you want. You know better what you need.”

Artyom left again. Lera winced. “You know better” was her husband’s stock phrase for anything to do with the baby. As if it was only her concern.

A week later, the doorbell rang. Lera opened it and froze on the threshold. On the landing stood Tamara Ivanovna with a huge bag in one hand and a folder of documents in the other. Her face was glowing, her eyes bright with excitement.

“Lerochka, hello! Well, aren’t you happy to see me?”

“Hello, Tamara Ivanovna,” Lera mumbled, taken aback. “You didn’t say you were coming…”

“Why would I? I’m going to be here all the time now!”

Her mother-in-law walked into the apartment without waiting for an invitation, dropped the bag on the hallway floor, and unzipped her coat.

“Where’s Artyom? Still at work?”

“Yes, he’ll be back in an hour.”

“Perfect, then I’ll tell you everything right away. Sit, there’s news!”

Tamara Ivanovna went into the living room, settled on the couch, and patted the spot beside her. Lera slowly perched on the edge, feeling anxiety rise inside her.

“So, listen,” her mother-in-law began, opening the folder. “I sold my apartment! We closed the deal yesterday, I got the money. Now I’m moving in with you—for good!”

Lera blinked a few times, trying to process what she’d heard.

“What do you mean… for good?”

“Just like that!” Tamara beamed. “I’ll live with you and help with the baby. It’s your first, you have no experience. I know everything; I’ll teach you.”

Lera felt her heart start pounding. A two-room apartment. One bedroom for her and Artyom, the other—the nursery. Where would her mother-in-law live?

“Tamara Ivanovna, but we… The apartment is small, two rooms. We’ve already set up the nursery…”

“Exactly!” her mother-in-law cut her off without losing any enthusiasm. “I’ll live in the nursery. The baby will be in your room at first anyway; why does he need his own room in the first months?”

Lera opened her mouth, but the words stuck in her throat. Her mother-in-law went on as if she didn’t notice her shock:

“I’ve thought it all out. We can move the crib into your bedroom for now—there’s enough space. And I’ll put my things in the nursery. Convenient, right?”

“But I spent so much time…” Lera began.

“Oh come on, it’s no big deal! We’ll move things around later when the baby’s older. What matters now is that I’m nearby. You won’t manage on your own; you need help.”

Tamara set the documents on the coffee table and leaned back, clearly pleased with herself.

“And actually, you know what I think?” she added, lowering her voice confidentially. “Maybe you shouldn’t fuss over the baby so much. Give birth and leave him in the hospital for a couple of weeks; let them take care of him there. In the meantime I’ll get settled, prepare everything properly. You’ll be tired after the delivery—you need to rest.”

Lera shot to her feet so fast her head spun. She grabbed the armrest to keep from falling.

“What?!” Lera gasped. “What did you say?”

“I didn’t mean anything bad,” Tamara waved a hand. “I’m thinking of your convenience. The first days are the hardest; why should you deal with a newborn right away? I’ll help—I’m experienced. You don’t know anything about raising kids.”

Lera stood in the middle of the room, staring at her mother-in-law in disbelief. Blood rushed to her face; her fingers curled into fists. Was Tamara seriously suggesting they leave a newborn at the hospital so she could take over the nursery?

“Tamara Ivanovna, this is my child,” Lera said in a low voice. “And I’m not abandoning him anywhere.”

 

“Who said ‘abandon’?” her mother-in-law protested. “I’m talking about help! You’re young and inexperienced; it’ll be hard for you. And I know how to do things right. I raised Artyom on my own, without all these modern gimmicks. And he turned out just fine.”

Lera turned and left the room, unable to continue. She locked herself in the bathroom, turned on the cold water, and held her hands under the stream. It was hard to breathe; her thoughts were tangled. Was this really happening?

Her mother-in-law had sold her apartment. She intended to live with them. In the nursery. The room Lera had spent two months preparing. And she was suggesting leaving the baby in the hospital.

Footsteps sounded outside the door.

“Lera, why are you offended?” Tamara’s voice was peevish. “Come out; let’s talk properly.”

“I need to be alone,” Lera said, trying to keep her voice steady.

“Oh, here we go. Pregnant women are always so touchy. Fine, I’ll put the kettle on.”

Lera heard her go to the kitchen and exhaled. She had to wait for Artyom. He had to do something. It was his mother; let him explain to her that this was impossible.

When Artyom came home from work, Tamara was already making herself at home in the kitchen. She’d made tea, sliced bread, and taken sausage out of the fridge.

“Mom!” Artyom was surprised. “Where did you come from?”

“Surprise, son!” Tamara hugged him and kissed his cheek. “I’m going to live with you now. I sold my apartment; I’m moving in for good.”

Artyom frowned.

“What do you mean, for good? We didn’t talk about this…”

“What’s there to talk about? I’ll help with the baby. Lera can’t manage alone; she has no experience. I know everything—I’ll teach her how to change diapers, feed him, put him down. It’ll be easier for you both!”

“But where are you planning to live?” Artyom looked around as if searching for a trick.

“In the nursery. The baby will sleep with you for the first few months anyway; why does he need a separate room?”

Lera stood in the kitchen doorway, watching silently. Artyom scratched the back of his head, looked at his mother, then at Lera.

“Well… In principle, Mom’s right. The baby really will sleep with us at first. Maybe it would be more convenient…”

Lera couldn’t believe her ears. Artyom was agreeing. Just like that. Without even asking her opinion.

“Artyom,” Lera said quietly, “can we talk?”

“Hang on, wait. Mom, what did you do with the money from the apartment?”

“It’s in a savings account. Don’t worry, I’m not a spendthrift. I’ll help you; I’ll put money aside for my grandson.”

“Okay. Well then, Mom, let’s really discuss how to organize everything.”

Lera felt everything inside her clench. Artyom wasn’t even going to object. He just accepted his mother’s decision as a given.

“Artyom, we need to talk. In private,” Lera repeated, raising her voice.

“Oh come on, don’t make secrets,” Tamara waved her hand. “We’re family; we’ll decide everything together.”

“I don’t want anyone living in the nursery,” Lera burst out. “I’ve been preparing that room for two months!”

“Lerochka, don’t be stubborn,” Tamara said in a conciliatory tone. “I’m not moving in there forever. When the baby grows, I’ll move out. For now I’ll help you.”

“But you sold your apartment! Where will you move out to?”

“Well, I’ll find something. Or I’ll rent. Don’t worry so much.”

Lera looked at Artyom, expecting support. But her husband just shrugged.

“Lera, let’s not start a fight right away. Mom wants to help. How is that a bad thing?”

“It’s bad that no one asked me!” Lera’s voice shook. “It’s our apartment, our baby, and someone just shows up and announces she’s taking the nursery!”

“Oh, how touchy you’ve become,” Tamara sighed. “Pregnant women shouldn’t worry like this; it’s bad for the baby.”

Lera turned and left for the bedroom, slamming the door. She sat on the bed and buried her face in her hands. Tears pressed, but she held them back. Crying was the last thing she needed.

A few minutes later Artyom came into the bedroom. He sat beside her and put a hand on her shoulder.

“Lera, come on. Mom really wants to help.”

“Artyom, she said I should leave the baby at the hospital and not bring him home right away,” Lera lifted her head and looked him in the eye. “Did you hear that?”

Artyom scowled.

“What? That can’t be.”

“It can. That’s exactly what she said. Word for word. I should give birth, leave him at the hospital, and she’ll get settled in the nursery in the meantime.”

“Well, Mom sometimes says things like that… She doesn’t mean it.”

“And what if she does?” Lera grabbed his hand. “Artyom, this is our child. I don’t want your mother dictating how I raise him. And I don’t want her living in the nursery!”

“Okay, okay, I’ll talk to her,” Artyom sighed. “But let’s do this without hysterics, okay?”

Lera nodded, though everything inside was boiling. “Without hysterics.” As if she were the one who’d started this circus.

 

Artyom left the bedroom, and Lera remained sitting on the bed. A strange calm came over her suddenly. Not anger, not resentment—calm. Cold and clear. Lera looked at her mother-in-law through the cracked-open door. Tamara sat at the kitchen table, drinking tea and flipping through a magazine as if nothing had happened.

This woman seriously intended to take the place of her future child. She had suggested leaving the newborn in the hospital. And her husband hadn’t even been truly outraged. He had just asked her not to make a scene.

Lera got up and went to the wardrobe. She opened the top drawer of the dresser and took out a folder of documents. The title to the apartment. In her name. Bought three years ago, before she met Artyom, with the money from selling the room in the communal flat she’d inherited from her grandmother.

The apartment was hers. Entirely. No marital property, no rights for her husband or his mother.

Lera ran her fingers over the seals on the document and suddenly felt the tension ebb. Everything became simpler. Much simpler than it had seemed a minute earlier.

That evening Tamara announced she was going home to pack for the move.

“I’ll come tomorrow with my bags and start settling in,” she said, zipping her coat. “Artyom, help me move the sofa tomorrow, okay? I’ve got a good fold-out one—it’ll fit the nursery perfectly.”

“Yeah, okay, Mom,” Artyom nodded, seeing her to the door.

Lera stood in the hallway and watched in silence. Tamara turned to her:

“Lera, don’t be offended, all right? I really want to help. You’ll see—once you give birth, you’ll thank me for being here.”

Lera didn’t answer. She just nodded. Her mother-in-law left; Artyom closed the door and turned to his wife.

“See? Mom is trying; she wants to be useful.”

“Yes, I see,” Lera said quietly.

“Let’s not fight about this. The baby will be here soon—we need support.”

“Of course.”

Artyom put his arm around her shoulders and kissed her temple. Then he went to watch TV. Lera stayed standing in the hallway, looking at the closed door of the nursery.

The next morning, while Artyom was at work, Lera went downstairs to the concierge. Aunt Vera sat at her desk doing a crossword.

“Hello, Vera Petrovna.”

“Oh, Lerochka!” the concierge looked up and smiled. “How’s the tummy? Soon now, right?”

“In a month. Vera Petrovna, I have a favor to ask.”

“I’m listening.”

“Don’t let anyone into the apartment without my permission. Under no circumstances. Even if they say I asked. Only if I call personally and ask.”

Aunt Vera frowned.

“Did something happen?”

“I don’t want extra visitors. Pregnant women need peace.”

“I see. All right, Lerochka, don’t worry. I won’t let anyone through.”

Lera went back upstairs. She sat in the nursery by the window and looked at the crib, the bear mobile, the neatly folded swaddles. All of this needed to stay here. For the baby. Not for her mother-in-law.

Closer to lunchtime, the doorbell rang. Lera looked through the peephole. Tamara stood there with two huge suitcases and several bags.

“Lera, open up!” her mother-in-law called. “I’m here!”

Lera didn’t open. She just stood behind the door, listening to Tamara knock and ring.

“Lera! Are you deaf? Open the door! I told you I’d move in today!”

Silence.

“Lera, stop this nonsense! Open up immediately!”

Lera picked up the phone and pressed the intercom button, connecting to the speaker on the landing.

“Tamara Ivanovna, the nursery is for the baby. You will not be moving in with us.”

“What?!” her mother-in-law’s voice leapt two octaves. “What kind of behavior is that?!”

“No theatrics. I’m simply not giving the nursery to anyone else. I wish you luck. In your life. Not in mine.”

“How dare you?! I’ll call my son—he’ll set you straight!”

“Call him.”

Lera hung up. She went into the bedroom, lay down on the bed, and placed a hand on her belly. The baby kicked from inside, as if in support. Lera smiled.

Ten minutes later the phone rang. Artyom. Lera answered unhurriedly.

“Lera, what are you doing?!” her husband shouted. “Mom just called and said you didn’t let her in!”

“That’s right. I didn’t.”

“What do you mean, didn’t? You were home!”

“I was. And still am. But Tamara Ivanovna is not.”

“Lera, that’s my mother! You have no right to treat her like that!”

“I do. This is my apartment. It’s in my name. I decide who lives here.”

Artyom fell silent. Then exhaled.

“Listen, let’s talk calmly when I get home. Mom didn’t mean any harm, she just…”

“She just suggested I leave the baby at the hospital so she could take the nursery,” Lera cut in. “Yes, I remember. Artyom, I don’t want to discuss this. The decision is made.”

“You can’t just kick my mother out!”

“I can. And I already did. See you tonight.”

Lera hung up. The phone rang again immediately. Artyom. Lera put it on silent and slid it into the nightstand.

For the next two days her husband tried to change her mind. He called ten times a day, came home from work gloomy, tried to talk, to persuade her, to explain that his mother hadn’t meant anything by it, that Lera was exaggerating, that she needed to be more tolerant.

“Mom didn’t mean it,” Artyom repeated for the third time that evening. “She just has her own view on raising kids.”

“Which includes suggesting we leave a newborn at the hospital?”

“Artyom, look me in the eye. Do you really think your mother was joking?”

He looked away. Was quiet for a moment.

“Okay, maybe she was serious… But we can just ignore her advice. Let her live in the nursery, and you do what you want.”

“No. The nursery is for the baby. Not for your mother.”

“Lera, you understand that Mom has nowhere to live now, right? She sold her apartment!”

“That was her decision. I didn’t ask her to sell it and move in with us.”

“You’ve become unbearable!” Artyom snapped. “Selfish!”

Lera rose from the couch without a word and went into the bedroom. She locked the door. Artyom knocked, demanded she open it, but Lera went to sleep, turning on white noise on her phone so she wouldn’t hear him.

In the morning Artyom left for work, slamming the door so hard the windows rattled. Lera had tea, ate breakfast, and then went into the nursery. She straightened the blanket in the crib, spun the mobile. Everything was in its place. No suitcases. No fold-out sofas.

Her phone rang. Mother-in-law. Lera declined. It rang again. Decline. A third time. Lera blocked the number.

A week later Artyom started coming home later and later. He said he was tied up at work, lots of projects. Lera didn’t ask. She just kept getting the nursery ready, buying the last little things, reading books about newborns.

One evening Artyom came home and silently packed a bag. Lera stood in the bedroom doorway and watched him fold his things.

“Are you leaving?”

“To Mom’s. For now. Tamara Ivanovna rented an apartment. It’s hard for her alone; she needs support.”

“I see.”

“Maybe you’ll change your mind. Before it’s too late.”

“Artyom, the nursery stays the nursery. If you want to live with your mother, go live with her. I won’t stop you.”

He zipped the bag and went to the hallway. He hesitated by the front door.

“You’re really letting me go just like that?”

“You’re the one leaving.”

“Because of Mom!”

“Because you chose her. Not me. Not our child.”

 

Artyom shook his head and left. The door closed with a soft click. Lera stood in the hallway for a moment, then went back to the bedroom. She lay down and looked at the ceiling. Oddly, she didn’t feel like crying. She didn’t feel like calling and asking him to come back. Just quiet and calm.

Two weeks later Lera went to the maternity hospital. She gave birth alone. Artyom didn’t come, although Lera sent him a message. He read it and didn’t reply.

The delivery went well. A boy. Three kilos two hundred grams. Healthy, loud cry, tiny fists clenched. Lera couldn’t take her eyes off her son. Tiny. Helpless. Hers.

On the third day after the birth a text came from Artyom: “How’s the baby?”

Lera replied: “All good. Healthy.”

“Did you pick a name?”

“Yes. Maksim.”

“Good name.”

There were no more messages. Lera didn’t write first. She was discharged on the fifth day. She called a taxi and came home with her son in her arms. She went up to the apartment, undressed, and changed Maksim into a clean onesie.

The nursery greeted her with the fresh smell of laundered swaddles and quiet. Lera laid her son in the crib and started the mobile. The plush bears spun to a soft melody. Maksim yawned and closed his eyes.

Lera sat by the window and looked at the sleeping baby. No suitcases. No strangers. Just a nursery where a child lived.

Artyom came a week later. He rang the doorbell; Lera opened it. He looked tired and worn. He stood on the threshold with a bag of toys.

“I brought some gifts for the baby,” Artyom said quietly.

“Come in.”

He took off his shoes and went into the nursery. He stepped up to the crib and looked at sleeping Maksim.

“He looks like me,” he smiled.

“Yes.”

He stood a bit longer, then turned to Lera:

“Mom wants to see her grandson.”

“No.”

“Lera…”

“No, Artyom. Not now. Maybe someday. But not now.”

“She is his grandmother, after all.”

“The grandmother who suggested leaving him at the hospital.”

Artyom pressed his lips together. He nodded.

“All right. I understand.”

He stayed another half hour; they talked about the baby, vaccinations, how Lera was managing alone. Artyom offered help; Lera declined. As he was leaving, he paused at the door:

“Maybe I could come back? We could try again?”

Lera looked at him for a long moment.

“You chose your mother over your family. I’m not offended. But you don’t need to come back. Maksim and I are fine on our own.”

“Lera, that’s ridiculous…”

“No. It’s honest. You’re not ready to protect your family from your own mother. That means we’re not on the same path.”

Artyom wanted to say something, but stayed silent. He left. Lera closed the door and leaned her back against it. Exhaled.

A month later Lera sat in the nursery nursing Maksim. He suckled, snuffling and opening his eyes now and then. It was raining outside; drops slid down the glass. Cozy. Peaceful.

Her phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number: “This is Tamara Ivanovna. Artyom said you had a boy. I want to see my grandson.”

Lera read it and set the phone face down. She didn’t reply. She didn’t block the number. She just ignored it.

Maksim finished, let go, and burrowed his nose into Lera’s arm, breathing softly as he drifted off. Lera stroked his head and looked at the crib. White, with soft bumpers and a blue-checked blanket. The mobile spun above it with bears. On the dresser stood jars of creams, powder, wet wipes. On the shelves—stacks of shirts, footed pants, socks.

A nursery. A real one. For a child. Not for a mother-in-law with suitcases and demands.

Lera stood, gently laid sleeping Maksim in the crib, and tucked him in. She lingered, watching her son. He snuffled, twitched his little hands in sleep, wrinkled his nose.

The home was quiet. Peaceful. Hers.

And no one would ever again tell her what to do with her own child.

Anya had always felt like a stranger in her own home. Her mother clearly favored her older sisters — Vika and Yulia — showing them much more care and warmth. This injustice deeply hurt the girl, but she kept her resentment inside, constantly trying to please her mother and get at least a little closer to her love.

 

“Don’t even dream of living with me! The apartment will go to your sisters. And you’ve looked at me like a wolf cub since childhood. So live wherever you want!” — with these words, her mother kicked Anya out of the house as soon as she turned eighteen.

Anya tried to argue, to explain that it was unfair. Vika was only three years older, and Yulia five. Both had finished university paid for by their mother; no one had rushed them to become independent. But Anya had always been the odd one out. Despite all her efforts to be “good,” in the family she was loved only superficially — if that can be called love at all. Only her grandfather treated her kindly. He was the one who had taken in his pregnant daughter after her husband abandoned them and disappeared without a trace.

“Maybe Mom is worried about my sister? They say I look a lot like her,” Anya thought, trying to find an explanation for her mother’s coldness. She had tried several times to have an honest talk with her mother, but each time it ended in a scandal or a tantrum.

But her grandfather was a real support to her. Her best childhood memories were linked to the village where they spent summers. Anya loved working in the garden and vegetable patch, learned to milk cows, bake pies — anything to delay going back home, where every day she was met with contempt and reproaches.

“Grandpa, why does no one love me? What’s wrong with me?” she often asked, holding back tears.

“I love you very much,” he answered gently but never said a word about her mother or sisters.

Little Anya wanted to believe he was right, that she was loved, just in a special way… But when she turned ten, her grandfather died, and since then the family treated her even worse. Her sisters mocked her, and her mother always sided with them.

From that day on, she never got anything new — only hand-me-down clothes from Vika and Yulia. They mocked her:

“Oh, what a fashionable top! Wipe the floor or for Anya — whatever’s needed!”

And if their mother bought sweets, the sisters ate everything themselves, handing Anya just the wrappers:

“Here, silly, collect the wrappers!”

Her mother heard it all but never scolded them. That’s how Anya grew up as a “wolf cub” — unnecessary, always begging for love from people who saw her not just as worthless but as an object of mockery and dislike. The harder she tried to be good, the more they hated her.

That’s why, when her mother kicked her out on her eighteenth birthday, Anya found work as a hospital orderly. Endurance and hard work became her habit, and now at least she was paid — though little. But here, no one hated her. If you’re not met with malice where you’re kind, that’s already progress. That’s what she thought.

Her employer even gave her a chance to get a scholarship and train as a surgeon. In the small town, such specialists were sorely needed, and Anya had already shown talent while working as a nurse.

Life was hard. By twenty-seven, she had no close relatives. Work became her whole life — literally. She lived for the patients whose lives she saved. But the feeling of loneliness never left her: she lived alone in a dormitory, just like before.

Visiting her mother and sisters was a constant disappointment. Anya tried to go as rarely as possible. Everyone would go out to smoke and gossip, and she would go to the porch to cry.

One day at such a moment, a colleague — orderly Grisha — approached her:

“Why are you crying, beautiful?”

“What beautiful… Don’t mock me,” Anya answered quietly.

She considered herself plain, a gray mouse, not even noticing that at almost thirty she had become a petite charming blonde with big blue eyes and a neat nose. The awkwardness of youth had disappeared, her shoulders straightened, and her light hair, tied in a strict bun, seemed to want to break free.

“You’re actually very beautiful! Value yourself and don’t hang your head. Besides, you’re a promising surgeon, and your life is shaping up well,” he encouraged her.

Grisha had worked with her for almost two years, sometimes giving her chocolates, but this was their first real talk. Anya cried and told him everything.

“Maybe you should call Dmitry Alekseevich? The one you recently saved. He treats you well. They say he has many connections,” Grisha suggested.

“Thanks, Grish. I’ll try,” Anya replied.

“And if that doesn’t work, we can get married. I have an apartment, won’t mistreat you,” he said jokingly.

Anya blushed and suddenly realized he was serious. He saw not a pitiful orphan, but a woman who deserved love.

“All right. I’ll consider that option too,” she smiled, feeling for the first time in a long time that she was not a “workhorse” or unnecessary, but a beautiful young woman with everything still ahead of her.

That same evening, Anya dialed Dmitry Alekseevich’s number:

“This is Anya, the surgeon. You gave me your number and said I could contact you if there were problems…” she began and hesitated.

“Anya! Greetings! How wonderful that you finally called! How are you? Although, you know, let’s better meet. Come over, we’ll have some tea and talk about everything. We, older folks, like to chat,” the man warmly replied.

 

The next day was Anya’s day off, so she went to see him immediately. She honestly told him about her situation and asked if he knew anyone in need of a live-in caregiver.

“You understand, Dmitry Alekseevich, I’m used to hard work, but now I feel like I just can’t take it anymore…”

“Don’t worry, Anechka! I can get you a surgeon’s job in a private clinic. And you’ll live with me. Without you, I wouldn’t be here now,” he said.

“Oh, of course, Dmitry Alekseevich, I agree! But your relatives won’t mind?”

“My relatives come only when I’m gone. They only care about the apartment,” the man replied sadly.

So they started living together. Two years passed, and a romance blossomed between her and Grisha, often continuing over cups of tea. But Dmitry Alekseevich didn’t like Grisha and never missed a chance to tell Anya:

“Sorry, dear, but Grisha is a good guy, just weak and too impressionable. You can’t rely on someone like that. Try not to get too attached to him.”

“Oh, Dmitry Alekseevich… It’s too late. We’ve already decided to get married. By the way, he jokingly proposed to me two years ago. And now I’m pregnant…” Anya joyfully announced, almost glowing with happiness. She had learned this news recently but immediately added, “But you’re still very important to me! I’ll visit every day. You’re like family to me.”

“Well, Anyutka… I’m not feeling well. Here’s what we’ll do: tomorrow we’ll go to the notary, and I’ll register a house in the village in your name. You’ve always loved rural life. Maybe it will be your dacha… or you can sell it if you want.”

He hesitated, not finishing his sentence, and frowned.

Anya tried to object: it was too much, he would live a long time yet, better to leave the house to his children. Although in the last two years they had visited him only once. But Dmitry Alekseevich was adamant.

Anya was shocked when she found out that the house was in the very village where her beloved grandfather had lived! His house had long been demolished, the plot sold, and strangers lived there now. But the fact she now had her own little corner there stirred warm feelings and memories.

“I don’t deserve this, but thank you very much, Dmitry Alekseevich!” she sincerely thanked him.

“Only one thing: don’t tell Grisha the house is in your name. And don’t ask why. Can I ask this of you?”

He looked serious, and Anya nodded, promising to comply. How to explain the origin of the house to Grisha was still an open question, but she could say she had reconciled with her mother.

Later, Anya learned that Dmitry Alekseevich, besides suffering stroke consequences, also had cancer. He refused surgery. In the end, Anya helped organize his funeral and moved in with her future husband.

Problems began closer to the seventh month of pregnancy — by then they had already lived together for six months.

“Maybe you should work a bit? Before the baby is born,” Grisha suggested.

By that time, Anya had temporarily left the clinic where Dmitry Alekseevich had gotten her a job. She thought she could live on savings, counting on Grisha’s support. But his words surprised and hurt her.

“Well… maybe…” she answered uncertainly. It was unpleasant since she bought the groceries, and Grisha turned out to be stingy. But the child was growing in her belly, and she didn’t want to give up the wedding.

But a week before the scheduled celebration, while Grisha was not home, an unfamiliar woman entered their apartment with her own key.

“Hello. I’m Lena. Grisha and I love each other, and he’s just afraid to tell you. So I’ll say it: you’re no longer needed,” said a tall, skinny blonde confidently and assertively.

“What?! Our wedding is in a few days! We’ve paid for everything!” Anya stammered in confusion. She had taken on most of the expenses to hold a modest celebration at a café.

“I know. No problem. Grisha will marry me. I have connections at the registry office; we’ll arrange everything quickly,” Lena brazenly declared, as if it was already decided.

Lena didn’t plan to leave. When Grisha appeared, he only muttered:

“Anya, sorry… Yes, it’s true. I’ll help with the baby but can’t marry you.”

“We’ll do a paternity test,” Lena added, putting her hand on Grisha’s shoulder.

“What paternity test?! You’re my first and only!” Anya shouted and rushed at him with fists.

“She’ll scratch you up, silly! She’s almost thirty but acts like a little girl!” Lena scoffed.

Grisha stood silently, not defending Anya, just awkwardly looking down. It became clear: everything depended on Lena; he was just a passive observer.

Anya began packing her things. There was no point fighting for a man who easily gave up on her. Lena added that she and Grisha had dated long ago — she was married then but now free. Anya was just a temporary replacement until the “dream woman” was available.

She could have demanded explanations from Grisha, but what was the point if he let Lena come and do it for him?

“So the house came in handy after all,” Anya thought.

The house really was good, though it had no running water. But the stove was excellent — her grandfather had taught Anya everything needed for village life. It was livable. Only how to give birth alone? Well, there was still time; she would figure something out.

Firewood was stocked, the shed was sturdy, and even snow lay in front of the entrance, ready to be cleared. The woodpiles were full — a real find in such cold!

It was good Dmitry Alekseevich had introduced her in advance to the neighbors as the new mistress and wife of his son. No unnecessary questions.

Anya, of course, called her mother and sisters. As usual, they didn’t disappoint — they advised her to give the baby to an orphanage and “next time don’t get involved with just anyone before the wedding.” They also gossiped about how Grisha hadn’t returned the money for the wedding, half of which she had paid.

But no one knew about the house. Now Anya could hide from everyone and gather herself.

It was terribly cold; she didn’t even take off her down jacket. But when she began raking the coals in the stove, she noticed the poker hit something hard.

Anya took off her gloves and pulled out a wooden box that had been blocking the firewood. It was neatly sealed, with large letters on the lid: “Anya, this is for you.” She recognized the handwriting immediately — Dmitry Alekseevich’s.

 

Inside were photos, a letter, and a small box. Her hands trembled as she opened the envelope and began to read:

“Dear Anechka! You should know that I was your grandfather’s brother. And one of those he asked to take care of you.”

From the letter, it became clear: many years ago there was a serious rift between the grandfather and Dmitry, but before dying, the elder brother found him and asked him to find Anya after she turned eighteen. He also left her an inheritance that his daughter would hardly ever give away.

Dmitry could not find Anya immediately — her mother and sisters hid her address. But fate brought them together in the hospital when he was undergoing treatment and she was his doctor. He wanted to tell her everything earlier but didn’t have time. So he decided to give her the house that her grandfather had bought from him while alive, knowing his daughter would never leave anything to the granddaughter.

Another shock awaited in the letter: it turned out her mother was not her biological mother. Anya was the daughter of her late sister, whom she hated and envied. In the photo — young mother and father, smiling, hugging a little girl. Anya survived because she was with her grandfather on the day of the accident.

In the box lay five-thousand-ruble notes left by the grandfather. Touching them warmed her heart. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Now she and her baby were safe!

When Anya lit the stove, it seemed to her that all her fears, betrayals, and resentments disappeared in the flames. She would start over — for the baby and for herself.

Of course, in time she would forgive those who hurt her. But she was done with them. This house would be her refuge.

Dmitry Alekseevich always said a good house should belong to someone who values it. He said he built it in his youth with his own hands, from the best materials.

“Not a house, but a wonder! It will stand for two hundred years!” he often repeated. The village was reachable by bus — two stops away.

Yes, the pay was low, and help with the baby was still uncertain. But the main thing — she had a roof over her head, savings, a profession. She was young, beautiful, and she would have a son!

For the first time, Anya felt she was truly a happy person.

Anastasia stood by the window of her one-room apartment, looking at the gray high-rises beyond the glass. Thirty-two square meters—a small space for two adults. She had bought the apartment five years ago, before the wedding, with the money she’d saved over years of work and from selling her share in her parents’ apartment.

The place was cozy—light walls, a minimalist interior, a small kitchen with new appliances. But it was cramped. Especially after Mikhail, Anastasia’s husband, moved in two years ago.

She worked as a manager at a logistics company; Mikhail worked in manufacturing. Their earnings were enough for living—groceries, utilities, the occasional outing. But Anastasia dreamed of more.

Of a house. A real house with a plot of land where she could plant a garden, put up a gazebo, get a dog. Not thirty-two square meters, but a full hundred. A place to breathe freely without bumping into walls.

Anastasia often pictured that house: two bedrooms, a spacious living room, a big kitchen with a dining area. Bright rooms with high ceilings. Wood floors, panoramic windows, a terrace overlooking the garden. She dreamed of arranging every room to her taste—choosing curtains, placing furniture, creating comfort.

“What are you thinking about?” Mikhail came out of the bathroom, toweling his hair.

“Oh, nothing,” Anastasia turned. “Thinking about a house.”

“About a house again,” her husband smirked. “Nastya, a house costs millions.”

“I know,” she nodded. “But I can dream, can’t I?”

“You can,” Misha shrugged and went to the kitchen.

Her husband didn’t share her dream. Mikhail was comfortable in the apartment—close to work, not far from the center, everything at hand. Why have a house somewhere on the outskirts if everything you need is here?

But Anastasia didn’t let go of the idea of her own house. And she started putting money aside.

Five years ago, she opened a separate account. Every month she transferred ten to fifteen thousand to it. She cut back on everything—bought clothes less often, skipped expensive cafés, didn’t go on vacation. Every saved thousand went to the account.

Mikhail didn’t contribute to the savings. He spent his salary on personal needs—clothes, gadgets, outings with friends. Anastasia didn’t object—let him live as he wished. The main thing was that he didn’t interfere with her saving.

The money grew slowly. In a year she saved about a hundred and fifty thousand. In five years—seven hundred and fifty thousand. A lot, but not enough. Houses in a decent area started at three million.

Anastasia studied the real estate market, browsed listings, compared prices. She dreamed of a house in the suburbs, in a quiet area with good ecology. With a ten-hundred-square-meter plot where she could set up a garden.

But the dream felt far away. Another ten years of saving at least.

And then something unexpected happened.

Anastasia’s grandmother died. The elderly woman had lived alone in a village, in an old house. When the will was opened, it turned out the grandmother had left all her savings to her granddaughter. Two million three hundred thousand rubles.

Anastasia couldn’t believe it. That kind of money. Such good fortune. Her grandmother had saved all her life, put aside her pension, sold a plot of land. And left everything to her beloved granddaughter.

“Misha,” Anastasia ran home, unable to contain her joy. “Can you imagine—Grandma left me money! More than two million!”

Mikhail tore himself away from the computer.

“Seriously?”

“Yes!” she twirled around the room. “Now we can buy a house! A real house!”

“Wow,” her husband nodded. “That’s good.”

Mikhail’s joy was restrained, but Anastasia didn’t mind. She immediately began searching for options—scrolling listings, going to viewings, comparing offers.

A month later she found the perfect option. A house in the suburbs, forty minutes from the city. One hundred and twenty square meters, three rooms, a spacious kitchen–living room. A ten-hundred-square-meter plot, an old garden, a small bathhouse. Price—three million. With Anastasia’s savings, it was enough.

She went to see it. The house was old and needed cosmetic repairs, but it was solid. The foundation was intact, the roof new, the utilities installed. They could move in immediately and fix things up gradually.

 

“Misha, I found it!” Anastasia showed her husband the photos. “Look how nice it is!”

Mikhail flipped through the pictures.

“It’s far from work.”

“But it’s our own house,” she put her arms around his shoulders. “Can you imagine? Our own home!”

“Well, if you like it,” he shrugged. “Buy it.”

Anastasia closed the deal quickly. The sellers were in a hurry and were ready to drop the price to two million nine hundred thousand. She agreed, paid the deposit, and signed the documents two weeks later.

The house became hers. Legally registered in Anastasia’s name. Her money, her dream, her property.

She devoted the next month to setting it up. She went to the house every weekend and did cosmetic repairs. She painted the walls in light tones, laid new laminate, replaced the doors. Her husband sometimes went with her, but mostly sat in the car on his phone.

“Misha, at least help bring in the furniture,” Anastasia asked.

“Yeah, just a minute,” he replied without looking up from the screen.

She didn’t press. She managed on her own and hired workers for the heavy lifting. Gradually, the house transformed.

A bright kitchen with new cabinets. A living room with a comfortable sofa and a big TV. A bedroom with a wide bed and a sliding-door wardrobe. The second room was still empty—Anastasia planned to make it a home office.

In the garden, she pruned the old trees, planted flowers, and set up a bench. The plot came to life and turned cozy.

“When are we moving?” Anastasia asked one evening as they drank tea in the apartment kitchen.

“Soon, I guess,” Mikhail shrugged.

“Maybe this weekend?” she looked at him hopefully. “I’ve almost got everything ready. Just need to pack and move our things.”

“Let’s make it in a week,” he avoided her gaze. “I’ve got a crunch at work right now.”

“Okay,” she nodded. “In a week then.”

Over the next few days she packed. She boxed up dishes, folded clothes, sorted books. The apartment gradually emptied.

On Saturday morning Anastasia got up early and started packing the last boxes. Mikhail slept until ten, then came into the kitchen and had some coffee.

“Misha, help me carry the boxes out,” she asked.

“Wait,” he sat down at the table. “I need to talk to you.”

She set the tape aside and looked at him. His face was serious, even tense.

“What’s wrong?”

“About the house,” he stirred his coffee. “My mother will live there.”

Silence. Anastasia stood holding a box of dishes, not understanding what she’d just heard.

“What… what did you say?”

“My mother will move into the house,” Mikhail repeated, staring into his cup. “Her apartment is small, ground floor, damp. The doctors say she needs a dry climate. The house is perfect.”

Anastasia slowly set the box on the floor.

“Misha, you’re joking, right?”

“No,” he shook his head. “I’m serious. Mom will move there permanently.”

“But… it’s my house!” Anastasia’s voice trembled. “I bought it for us!”

“So what?” Mikhail finally looked up. “My mother needs housing. She has health issues.”

“And I have an issue with some stranger living in my house!” Anastasia felt herself boiling inside. “Without my consent!”

“A stranger?” he frowned. “That’s my mother!”

“She’s a stranger to me!” Anastasia raised her voice. “I did not consent!”

Mikhail stood up from the table.

“Nastya, be reasonable. Mom really needs a house. Her apartment isn’t livable.”

“Then let her sell the apartment and buy another one!” Anastasia stepped toward him. “What does my house have to do with it?!”

“The point is, there’s a house,” he said evenly. “And it’s standing empty. Why shouldn’t Mom live there?”

“Because it’s my house!” Anastasia screamed. “I saved for five years! I got an inheritance from my grandmother! I bought it with my own money!”

“So what?” he crossed his arms. “Does that mean you get to be selfish?”

Anastasia froze. Selfish? She was selfish?

“Misha, do you hear yourself?” she forced herself to speak slowly. “I dreamed of this house. I saved for years. I set it up. I planned our life there.”

 

“You planned,” he nodded. “I didn’t ask for it. I don’t want to move.”

“You didn’t ask?” She felt the ground slipping away. “You agreed! You said it was a good idea!”

“I said it so you wouldn’t get upset,” Mikhail shrugged. “But to be honest, I’m fine in the apartment.”

“So this whole year I was killing myself with repairs and you didn’t care?” Anastasia’s voice shook.

“You wanted it yourself,” he turned away. “I didn’t insist.”

Silence. Anastasia stood, trying to grasp what was happening. Her husband didn’t want the house. He had never wanted it. He just kept quiet to avoid conflict.

“And now you’ve decided to give my house to your mother?” she asked slowly.

“Not give—let her live there,” Mikhail corrected her. “Temporarily.”

“How long is ‘temporarily’?”

“Well… until she finds another option.”

“So, indefinitely,” Anastasia gave a short laugh. “Wonderful.”

“Nastya, don’t dramatize,” he turned to her. “Mom is elderly. She needs help.”

“Help is one thing,” she stepped forward. “Moving her into someone else’s property is another.”

“Someone else’s property?” he frowned. “We’re a family.”

“A family?” Anastasia felt a wave of rage rise inside. “Is that what you call it when you make decisions without me?!”

“I didn’t make a decision, I just informed you,” he said calmly.

“Informed me!” she nearly choked with indignation. “That my property will now be occupied by your mother!”

“Stop it,” Mikhail waved a hand. “So you bought it. So what! Mom needs that house more than you do now!”

The words came out cold and peremptory. Anastasia stared at him, unable to believe she’d heard that.

“What did you say?” she asked quietly.

“I said the truth,” Mikhail looked her in the eye. “Mom needs the house more. She has health problems. And you’re fine in the apartment.”

“Needs it more,” Anastasia repeated mechanically. “Your mom needs it more.”

“Yes,” he nodded. “And you should understand that.”

Anastasia exhaled slowly. Inside, everything seethed—rage, resentment, pain. Five years of saving. Dreaming. Planning. Fixing the house with her own hands. And now her husband was saying his mother needed it more.

“Misha,” she made herself speak calmly. “Why should I think about your mother? Why not you?”

He looked at her in surprise.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that caring for parents is a child’s responsibility,” Anastasia crossed her arms. “If your mother needs housing, you should provide it. Not me.”

“But you have a house!”

“I have a house that I bought for myself!” Anastasia shouted. “For my family! Not for your mother!”

“My mother is part of the family!”

“No!” She stepped closer. “Your mother is your responsibility! If you want to help her—sell your car, take out a loan, rent her an apartment! But don’t touch my property!”

Mikhail turned pale.

“You… you’re a monster! How can you talk about my mother like that?!”

“I’m not talking about your mother!” Anastasia was almost gasping. “I’m talking about my rights! About my property! About my dream that you want to take away!”

“No one is taking anything away!”

“You are!” she jabbed a finger into his chest. “You want to give my house to your mother! The house I bought with my grandmother’s money! The house I poured my soul into!”

“Nastya, calm down…”

 

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” she backed away. “I won’t calm down! Because you’re betraying me! You’re spitting on my dreams! You’re putting your mother above your wife!”

Silence. Mikhail stood with his head down, not knowing what to say.

“Nastya, my mother really needs—”

“And I didn’t need anything?” Anastasia cut him off. “For five years I saved! I denied myself everything! To buy this house! And now you say your mother needs it more?!”

“She’s elderly…”

“So what?!” she was almost crying with fury. “I am not obliged to provide her with housing! She’s your mother! Your responsibility!”

Mikhail looked up.

“So you refuse?”

“Yes!” Anastasia screamed. “I refuse! Your mother will not live in my house!”

“Then we have nothing to talk about,” he said coldly.

“Agreed,” she nodded. “Pack your things. Leave.”

Mikhail froze.

“What?”

“I said—pack your things and leave,” she repeated. “This is my apartment. And I don’t want you to stay here.”

“You’re throwing me out?”

“Yes,” she looked him in the eye. “I am. Because you betrayed me. Because you don’t respect my rights. Because you tried to take my dream.”

“Nastya, you’re insane!”

“No,” she said calmly. “I’ve just realized who you really are.”

He wanted to say something, but Anastasia raised her hand.

“Leave. Now. Or I’ll call the police.”

He stood there for another minute, then turned sharply. He went into the room and began shoving things into a bag—clothes, shoes, documents. He packed quickly, angrily.

Twenty minutes later he was ready. He picked up the bag and walked to the door.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked.

 

“Leave.”

The door slammed. Anastasia was alone in the apartment.

She went into the room and sat down on the couch. Her hands were shaking, her breathing uneven. But inside—calm. A strange, cold calm.

The decision was made. Final and irreversible.

Anastasia spent the next week dealing with practicalities. She filed for divorce and submitted the paperwork to the court. Mikhail didn’t object, he only demanded half of the house. But the house had been bought with Anastasia’s money, so the court rejected his claim.

She also decided to rent out the apartment. She found tenants—a young married couple, quiet and tidy. She rented it for twenty-five thousand a month. That covered the house’s utilities and groceries.

Anastasia moved into the house. Alone, with her things, with her dreams. The house greeted her with silence and space.

She walked through the rooms, touching the walls, opening the windows. This was her life. Hers alone. No one else could lay claim to this space.

Anastasia turned the second room into a study. She set up a desk, a bookcase, a comfortable armchair. She now worked partly remotely, going to the office twice a week.

In the garden, she planted roses, put up a swing, and set up a barbecue area. She got a dog—a Labrador named Jack. He ran around the plot, rejoicing in his freedom.

In the evenings Anastasia sat on the terrace with tea, watching the sunset. Jack lay nearby with his muzzle on his mistress’s knees. Quiet, peace, freedom.

For the first few weeks Mikhail tried calling. He asked her to come back, said they could talk everything over. But Anastasia didn’t answer. She understood there was nothing to return to. Her husband had shown his true face. There would be no second chance.

Life went on. Work, the house, the garden, the dog. Simple joys that once seemed unattainable. Now all of it belonged only to Anastasia.

She stood by the window of her house, looking at the garden. The sun was setting beyond the horizon, painting the sky in pink and orange. Jack raced through the grass, chasing butterflies.

Anastasia smiled. This was freedom. This was her home. Her dream that no one managed to take away.

And it was the best decision of her life.

A warm May day wrapped the park in golden light. Lyova and Misha, both wearing identical school trousers and blue shirts, sat on the grass, and nearby, stretched out at full puppy length, lay Rex — a large, shaggy Alabai with a wet nose and kind, almost human eyes.

“Look what he can do!” Lyova exclaimed proudly, extending his palm. “Rex, give me your paw!”

The puppy immediately jumped up, joyfully nudged his nose into the hand, and clumsily placed his massive paw on it. Misha laughed, and sensing the fun, Rex dashed over, knocked him onto his back, and began tickling his face with affectionate licks. The boys squealed with delight, tangled together in a wild, playful heap where it was impossible to tell where the dog ended and the boy began.

“You spoil him too much,” Misha said, out of breath, smiling as he brushed grass from his hair.

“How else?” Lyova brushed sand off his knee. “He’s my friend. And besides — the smartest dog in the world.”

Rex, as if agreeing, nudged Misha’s hand with his nose and wagged his tail happily over the grass.

“It’s a pity I never had a dog,” Misha said softly, stroking the puppy’s fluffy head.

“But now you have me and Rex,” Lyova patted his friend on the shoulder. “Tomorrow I’ll bring him treats from home. Let him be happy too.”

The sun slowly tilted toward sunset. Lyova stood up and carefully brushed off his pants.

“I have to go. Dad gets worried if I’m late. But you come tomorrow, okay? I’ll definitely be waiting.”

Misha nodded, but inside, a strange premonition tightened his chest. He watched his friend leave, leading a bouncing Rex behind him. Staying alone on the empty clearing was always a little sad. Misha headed home, hoping tomorrow would bring something good, though anxiety lingered in his soul.

The apartment door creaked. Misha carefully entered, taking off his shoes at the threshold. The air was heavy with the smell of medicine, old wood, and a vague mixture of sorrow and hope. On the couch, wrapped in a blanket, lay his mother — Marina. She held a book, but her gaze wandered out the window.

“Hi, Mom,” Misha said quietly, trying not to disturb her thoughts.

“Back already? How was your walk?” Marina smiled, tired but with a warm spark in her eyes.

“Great. Lyova showed me how Rex gives his paw. He’s such a funny puppy.”

“It’s good you have a friend,” Marina gently stroked her son’s hand. “You know I’m always here.”

Other times came to mind. When Dad brought ice cream home, when the apartment smelled of fried potatoes, when they watched movies and laughed together. It was warm, it was peaceful.

Then everything changed. One day Mom slipped on the stairs and hurt herself badly. Hospital, white walls, doctors in masks, anxious talks. The home became different: medicine appeared, silence, the nighttime rustling of pills in their boxes. Dad was home less and less, then just packed his things and left, slamming the door. Marina cried, and Misha didn’t know how to hug her so the pain would go away.

Grandma Valentina Nikolaevna came over, scolded Dad, baked pies, but didn’t stay long. So the family shrank to two — mother and son. They learned to survive together, holding on to each other.

The next day Lyova came back different. His usually lively face was tense, worry in his eyes.

“Things are bad at home,” he said quietly as Misha approached. “Dad’s leaving on a business trip, and Inga is moving in. She’s terrible. Loves no one but Dad. She scolds me, even Tamara Semyonovna.”

“Maybe she just isn’t used to it yet?” Misha tried to comfort, though he didn’t believe it himself.

“No,” Lyova shook his head. “She does it on purpose. She can’t stand Rex either. Says he’s dirty trouble. But Dad gave him to me for my birthday. I wanted a dog for so long!”

He fell silent, staring into the distance, then perked up:

“You know, at night Rex quietly climbs into my bed. We’re like real brothers. But now Inga forbids everything. She won’t even let me walk him.”

The boys were silent, each lost in his own thoughts.

Lyova left earlier than usual and didn’t come for several days. Misha wondered what had happened but hoped his friend would return soon.

Misha couldn’t get the thought out of his head: sooner or later, Lyova would have to walk Rex. One day he set his alarm for five in the morning and went to the river. The park was empty, only birds chirped among the bushes.

He hid behind a bush and waited. Soon a silver car pulled up to the shore. A tall woman with a bright scarf, cold eyes, and sharp makeup got out. Without looking back, she pulled a heavy bag from the trunk, which oddly moved, and with effort threw it into the water.

Misha froze. His heart sank. But without thinking, he plunged into the icy water, found the bag, and pulled it ashore. Shivering with fear, he untied the knot. Inside, with tape over its muzzle, lay Rex — scared but alive.

“Quiet, little one,” Misha gently removed the sticky tape, pressing the puppy to himself. “It’s okay. I won’t leave you.”

Rex trembled but licked Misha’s cheek. At that moment, the boy made a decision: he would never give this dog away.

At home, Marina met her son with concern — there stood a wet, shivering Misha holding a huge puppy wrapped in a blanket.

“What happened?” Marina hurried to him worriedly.

“It’s Rex… someone tried to drown him!” Misha sobbed, stroking the puppy’s fluffy head. “I saw the woman throw him in the river. I couldn’t leave him there…”

Marina knelt down, hugged her son, and pressed the trembling dog to herself.

“You did the right thing,” she whispered. “But now we have to find out everything. Who was that woman? Did you remember her?”

“Yes. Tall, with a bright scarf. In a silver car. We need to tell Lyova. He has to know.”

Marina sighed, stroking Misha’s hair.

“We’ll keep Rex here. Until we figure things out, he’ll live with us.”

The next morning Misha went to Lyova’s house. He stood a long time behind the wrought-iron fence, watching the windows. Soon Lyova came out onto the porch with his father — Herman Arkadyevich. Stern, in an impeccable suit, he tried to calm his son.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “Maybe Rex just ran away. We’ll find him for sure.”

“No!” Lyova clenched his fists. “It’s Inga! I saw her angry at him yesterday. And today he’s gone!”

Herman frowned but shook his head:

“Don’t make things up. Inga wouldn’t do that.”

Then Misha couldn’t hold back and ran out of hiding:

“I saw everything!” he shouted. “The woman in the bright scarf, in the silver car. She threw a bag into the river, and Rex was inside! I saved him. Now he’s at my place.”

Herman sharply turned to his son:

“Are you sure it was Inga?”

Lyova nodded, wiping away tears. At that moment a silver car pulled up to the house. Inga stepped out in her signature scarf. Seeing them, she froze.

“Inga,” Herman’s voice was icy, “we need to talk. Now. Let’s go inside.”

She tried to say something, but Herman was firm.

“Wait here,” he told the boys and disappeared behind the door.

Fifteen minutes later he returned, pale but resolute.

“Where’s Rex?” he asked Misha. “Show me.”

At home, Marina met them reservedly. Herman suddenly recognized her and unexpectedly smiled:

“Marina? Is that really you? We went to school together. Remember the wooden doghouses in the yard and the apples from the neighbor’s garden?”

Marina was slightly embarrassed but smiled too:

“Of course, I remember. You were always the top student.”

While the adults recalled their school days, the boys and Rex had a real celebration of joy: running, laughing, hugging. Everyone was thankful that the puppy was alive, and the friendship only grew stronger.

In the kitchen, Marina and Herman continued their conversation.

“Sometimes it seems life will never get better,” Marina said quietly. “And then suddenly someone appears, and everything begins to change.”

Herman nodded, looking at her carefully:

“The main thing is not to give up. Everything can start anew.”

Their eyes met longer than usual — there was more in them than memories.

Herman gave the boys some money:

“Buy something tasty for tea. And come to us. Today we have a celebration!”

Misha and Lyova rushed to the store, returning with chips, ice cream, and candy. At Herman’s house, Marina helped Tamara Semyonovna cut salad, and the housekeeper baked her famous pies. At the table, everyone laughed, shared stories, and no one even remembered Inga — her things had disappeared as if she had never been.

The atmosphere was warm, homely, almost magical. It seemed all difficulties were behind.

Late at night, while the adults still sat drinking tea, Misha and Lyova settled in the room.

“Do you think if our parents were together, we’d be better off?” Lyova asked thoughtfully.

“Of course,” Misha smiled. “You’d be my brother, and Rex would be our dog.”

“Let’s test their feelings,” Lyova conspiratorially suggested. “We’ll write a note: we ran away and will only come back if they agree to get married.”

The boys giggled, wrote the message, and carefully placed it on the kitchen table.

In the morning, Marina couldn’t find her son. The house was in a bustle. Herman searched every room until he noticed the note.

Reading it, he laughed:

“Those rascals… Looks like we have no choice.”

They went outside, and Herman saw the boys behind the bushes.

“Well,” he smiled, “shall we make a deal?”

Marina nodded shyly, but hope and joy shone in her eyes.

Tamara Semyonovna, laughing, called the kids home:

“Hey, rascals! Come back! The adults have already decided everything!”

Misha and Lyova ran to their parents, Rex jumped around, barking happily. Everyone hugged and laughed, and outside, as if especially for this moment, the sun shone brightly.

And life became kind again.

— Mom, what’s wrong?

Nikita walked into the kitchen, drawn by a sharp, medicinal smell that overpowered even the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Marina Gennadyevna sat at the table, deliberately slowly dripping a dark liquid from a bottle into a faceted glass. Corvalol. Her battle standard, her shield, her weapon. She didn’t look at her son, but everything about her—from her mournfully pursed lips to her tense shoulders—screamed of universal suffering.

“I didn’t sleep all night,” she complained at last, lifting her eyes to him. Her gaze, usually keen and piercing, was now veiled with the misty film of martyrdom. She took a small sip and winced as if she were swallowing poison.

“Why?”

“Son, make your wife moan less at night! I didn’t move in with you to listen to such indecency! My heart is weak—I need peace!”

Nikita froze halfway to the coffeepot. Blood rushed hot and thick to his face, scorching his ears and neck. He felt naked, caught off guard. His mother’s words, spoken in an ostentatiously quiet, suffering tone, struck like a sniper’s bullet. They were meant not to provoke anger but shame—sticky, paralyzing shame about what was most personal, most intimate in his life and was now being publicly discussed at the breakfast table. He wanted to say something, to object, but his mouth went dry.

At that very moment Alla entered the kitchen as if woven from the morning light. She wore a light silk robe, her hair carelessly gathered at the back of her head, and a shadow of a content, relaxed smile played on her lips. She looked as if she had just woken up in paradise, and that look was the fiercest dissonance with the mourning atmosphere his mother had so diligently created.

Seeing her, Marina Gennadyevna straightened, her lips tightening into a thin, spiteful line.

“Good morning, Alya. Slept well, I suppose?” The venom in her voice seemed concentrated enough to burn through the tabletop.

Alla paused for a moment; her gaze slid over the Corvalol bottle, over her mother-in-law’s suffering face, over her husband, red as a boiled crawfish. She assessed the disposition of forces in a split second. No embarrassment or anger crossed her face. Instead, her smile only widened, turning from relaxed into dazzling and defiant.

“A most excellent morning to you, Marina Gennadyevna!” she sang. “And the same to you.”

She went up to Nikita, ran her hand over his tense back, and kissed him lightly on the temple. Then she turned to her mother-in-law, looking her straight in the eye.

“Nikit, darling, you didn’t forget we’re going today to pick out new lace lingerie for me, did you? I saw a stunning set yesterday. I think we’ll get something red. To make the nights even brighter.”

 

She playfully winked at her petrified husband, mischief sparkling in her eyes. It was a return shot—precise and merciless. She didn’t justify herself. She didn’t defend herself. She accepted the challenge thrown at her and raised the stakes to the heavens, turning the accusation of “indecency” into the announcement of even more unabashed pleasure to come. She left Nikita in complete stupefaction, mouth open and heart pounding, and left his mother, flushed with impotent rage, alone with her useless Corvalol and the utter failure of her morning assault.

The frontal attack with Corvalol had failed, but Marina Gennadyevna wasn’t one to retreat. She was a strategist, and the battlefield—her son’s apartment—offered endless tactical possibilities. She changed tactics from a cavalry charge to a measured guerrilla war. The pretext was “helping around the house.” Like a caring shadow, she slipped through the rooms while the young couple were at work, dusting where there was no dust and rearranging perfectly placed vases. Her target was the bedroom. The holy of holies, the enemy’s citadel.

And she waited for her moment. One day, coming back from the store, Alla carelessly left a branded paper bag with the logo of an expensive lingerie boutique on the dresser. From the hallway, Marina spotted it, and her heart beat with a predatory, triumphant rhythm. Waiting until Alla went to shower, she slipped into the room. Her fingers, accustomed to wool socks and laundry soap, unfolded the crinkling wrapping paper with disgusted curiosity. Out came that very red set. Bright scarlet, almost screaming silk; the finest black lace—it wasn’t just lingerie. It was a manifesto, a challenge, the very weapon her daughter-in-law had so brazenly struck her with days earlier. Marina didn’t look at it as an article of clothing but as the face of an enemy. And she struck.

That evening, when Nikita and Alla came home, they were met by the biting smell of bleach and demonstrative cleanliness. In the center of the kitchen, hanging over a chair like the flag of a conquered state, was… something. A gray-brown rag marred by ugly streaks, in which the outline of that scarlet set could barely be discerned. The lace had shriveled and yellowed; the silk had faded and looked stiff. Next to it, for contrast, hung an old checkered dishcloth. The tableau spoke louder than any words.

“Mom, what’s this?” Nikita asked, the first to break the silence. There was no anger in his voice, only bewildered confusion.

“Oh, Nikitushka, I was tidying up, decided to wash everything,” fussed Marina Gennadyevna, wiping perfectly dry hands on her apron. Her face portrayed pure innocence. “Found it in the laundry basket, so I tossed it in with the towels. Must’ve bled a lot. Chinese, I suppose—the quality these days is no good.”

Nikita looked at Alla. He expected her to explode, to start yelling, and that he’d have to, as always, dash between two fires, trying to calm everyone down. But Alla was silent. She wasn’t looking at the ruined item—she was looking straight at her mother-in-law. Her gaze was calm, cold, and so piercing that Marina involuntarily shivered.

“Mom, come on…” Nikita began conciliatorily. “That’s silk, an expensive thing. You have to wash it separately, by hand…”

Without a word, Alla slowly walked up to the chair. She didn’t examine the pitiful remains of her purchase. She picked up the ruined set with two fingers, as if touching something vile, walked past her stunned husband and mother-in-law to the trash bin, opened the lid, and, without looking, dropped the rag inside. The metal lid slammed shut with a dull, final sound.

She turned. There wasn’t even a hint of a smile on her lips.

“It’s all right, Nikita. We’ll buy a new one. An even better one. Apparently, some people take huge pleasure not in wearing beautiful things but in touching other people’s underwear—even if that means rummaging in a dirty laundry basket.”

The mask of the innocent busybody fell from Marina’s face in an instant. Her eyes on Alla were full of pure, undiluted hatred. She had lost this round, too. And she understood that this war would be waged to total annihilation.

The lost battle with the ruined lingerie didn’t break Marina; it only convinced her that all means were fair in this war. Alla was not just a daughter-in-law—she was an enemy who didn’t follow rules, didn’t feel shame, and wasn’t afraid of open confrontation. Fighting such an opponent alone was pointless. Marina realized she needed heavy artillery. And she summoned it.

The heavy artillery was her husband, Gennady Arkadyevich, Nikita’s father. A solid, heavyset man with a face fixed in an expression of perpetual rightness. He rarely interfered in family matters, preferring the role of a silent patriarch whose opinion was law by default. He arrived on Sunday, and a “family dinner” was arranged. This was not an invitation; it was a summons to a tribunal. The special-occasion china was set out, and in the center stood Marina’s signature dish—duck baked with apples. The aroma of celebration mixed with the oppressive sense of a trap.

Nikita sat between his father and mother, his head drawn into his shoulders. With unnatural diligence he cut his portion of duck into microscopic pieces, as if his life depended on it. He didn’t look up, feeling like the accused even though no charges had yet been voiced. Alla sat opposite, straight-backed and calm. She ate slowly, with regal dignity, as if she were not at a trial but at a reception at an embassy.

 

“Nice evening,” rumbled Gennady Arkadyevich after dabbing his lips with a napkin. His low, booming voice filled the kitchen, making the air vibrate. “The family gathered—that’s what matters. A family’s strength, Alla, rests on respect. Respect for elders, respect for tradition. And on feminine modesty.”

He paused, letting the words sink in. Marina nodded approvingly, looking at her daughter-in-law with triumph. This was it. You can’t argue with fatherly authority.

“A woman is the keeper of the hearth,” Gennady went on, staring somewhere above Alla’s head. “Her behavior, her manners—they’re the family’s face. And when there is no quiet and decorum in the home, when nights turn into… ahem… a circus, that means the hearth has cracked. That must not be allowed. A man needs peace to work, to be the head. Not all this…” He waved his heavy hand vaguely.

Nikita shrank even more, wishing he could sink through the floor. He braced for an explosion, for a cutting retort from Alla. But she finished chewing a piece of apple, carefully set down her fork and knife, lifted her clear, limpid eyes to her father-in-law, and smiled slightly.

“You are absolutely right, Gennady Arkadyevich. Family is sacred. And I’m very glad you brought up such an important topic.”

Marina and her husband exchanged glances. They hadn’t expected such compliance. It seemed the plan was working.

“You speak of passion, of nights,” Alla continued in a soft, insinuating voice with not a hint of sarcasm. “That’s precisely the spark that keeps a family alive, rather than just a union of two people under one roof. I’ve always wondered how people of your generation—after so many years together—manage to keep that passion. You must know some secret for carrying that fire through the decades, so it doesn’t go out—so the nights stay bright and the feelings sharp. That’s true respect for each other, isn’t it?”

Silence fell over the kitchen. But it wasn’t the oppressive silence Nikita’s parents had been aiming for. It was a deafening, paralyzing awkwardness. Alla hadn’t argued. She hadn’t been rude. She took their hypocritical moral lecture and, with an innocent air, turned it back on them, asking a direct, devastatingly personal question about their own intimate life. Five minutes earlier, Gennady had been a fearsome judge; now he sat, face dark red and mouth open, not knowing what to say. Marina looked at her daughter-in-law as if she had turned into a snake before her eyes. They’d wanted to stage a public flogging; instead, they themselves were stripped naked in the middle of their own kitchen. The only sound was the gentle clink of Alla’s fork on porcelain as she resumed her meal.

Dinner didn’t end in scandal. It ended in emptiness. Gennady, whose patriarchal grandeur had been punctured and deflated by one innocent question, retreated to the living room and the television, taking the last shreds of his dignity with him. Three people remained in the kitchen. Dirty dishes, cooling duck, and tension as thick as grease. The masks were off. Theatrical Corvalol scenes, helpful laundry, edifying speeches—none of it had been more than a prelude. Now the real game was beginning—without rules and without anesthesia.

Marina silently gathered the plates. Her movements were sharp and precise. She didn’t look at her son, but every fiber of her being was directed at him. Nikita sat staring at his half-eaten duck, feeling as if the air around him had thickened into concrete, making it impossible to breathe. He waited.

“Well then, son,” she said at last. Her voice was even, without a drop of suffering—cold as steel. She set the stack of plates in the sink and turned, leaning on the counter. “I think it’s time you decided. This house will have either order—or her.”

It wasn’t an ultimatum. It was a verdict. She didn’t shout, didn’t reproach. She merely stated a fact, like a doctor announcing injuries incompatible with life. She placed him before a choice that wasn’t really a choice but an act of capitulation. Either he accepted her rules, her world order with her at the center of the universe and everyone else revolving on a prescribed orbit, or he chose chaos, shame, and debauchery—embodied by his wife.

Nikita lifted his eyes to her. There was pleading in them. He wanted her to stop, wanted everything to return to a time when he could simply live without choosing every second between his mother and his wife. But in her gaze he saw only a firm, unbending will. She would not back down.

 

And he did what all weak people do. He chose the path of least resistance. He got up and went not to his mother to put her in her place, but to Alla, who stood by the hallway window, looking at the city’s night lights. He approached her from behind, pathetic in his attempt to reconcile the irreconcilable.

“Alla, listen…” he began in a wheedling, quiet voice. “Mom… she’s an elderly person. She got carried away. Maybe you shouldn’t have said that to Dad? Maybe you could just… apologize? You know, for appearances. Just so there’s peace at home. Mom’s living with us now, and she really doesn’t need to hear… what we do in the bedroom…”

Alla turned slowly at that moment. She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. Not with anger, not with hurt—with the cold, dissecting curiosity of a researcher studying a strange, incomprehensible specimen. She looked at his darting eyes, his weak, pleading smile, and understanding dawned—final and complete. She hadn’t been fighting his mother. She’d been fighting for him. And she had just realized there was nothing to fight for. Before her stood not an ally, not a husband, not a protector. Before her stood a trophy begging her to surrender voluntarily to the enemy to spare him the inconvenience of battle.

She said nothing. Not a single word. Her silence was more frightening than any scream. She walked around him the way one walks around an obstacle on the road. She passed by Marina, frozen in the kitchen doorway in a victor’s pose, and went into their bedroom. Nikita hopefully thought she’d gone to cool off, that things would settle down.

But a minute later she emerged. In her hands she carried his pillow and a neatly folded blanket. She walked through the living room where her mother-in-law sat on the couch. A predatory, triumphant smile slowly blossomed on Marina’s face. Alla came up to the couch and, without looking at either her husband or his mother, simply dropped the bedding onto the leather upholstery. The dull thump of the blanket hitting the couch sounded in the apartment’s silence like a gunshot.

“Now you can sleep here. Or go make your bed next to your mommy, if her peace matters more to you than our family and our life. From the start I was against her moving in because I knew she meant to drive a wedge between us. And she succeeded. Congratulations, Marina Gennadyevna. When you go back home, you can take with you this spineless creature I used to call my husband.”

Then she turned and walked back. Nikita stood in the middle of the room, paralyzed, shifting his gaze from the couch—now his new bed—to his mother, and then to his wife’s retreating back. He watched her reach the bedroom door, grasp the handle, and close it. The soft click of the lock was the last sound he heard. He remained standing in the scorched desert of his living room, between his victorious mother and the door behind which his family life had ended…