All Amazing Babies

 

Vera was wiping dust off the windowsill when Maksim walked into the room and handed her a sheet torn from a notepad.

“Here, sweetheart—these are my mother’s bank details. Take them to payroll so your salary will go to her.”

She froze, rag still in her hand.

“What?”

“Send your salary to Mom. She’ll manage it better. You’re young—silly. You’ll waste it on nonsense.”

Vera slowly lowered the rag. They’d been married three weeks. They’d furnished the apartment with wedding money—bought a couch, a table, a refrigerator. She thought they were going to live together now. The two of them.

“Maksim… are you serious?”

“Of course. I already transferred my salary to her on Thursday. She put it in a savings account. Says it’ll come in handy for our future.”

Vera didn’t yell. She didn’t slam doors. She just stood there and looked at her husband—who was already taking off his shoes and heading to the shower as if nothing had happened.

The sheet with the bank details stayed on the windowsill. Vera picked it up, folded it in half, and tore it into tiny pieces.

The next day she came home from work and went straight to the kitchen. Maksim was already sitting at the table, scrolling on his phone. When she set a plate of buckwheat and a boiled egg in front of him, he looked up.

“What’s this?”

“Dinner.”

“And where’s the meat?”

Vera sat across from him and served herself the same.

“There’s no money. I was counting on you helping with groceries. But since you gave everything to your mom, this is all we can afford.”

Maksim frowned.

“Vera, what’s gotten into you? You have a salary.”

“I’ll take mine to my mom. You said it yourself—older people know better.”

He froze with his spoon in midair. His face flushed.

“Are you mocking me?!”

 

“No. I’m just doing the same thing you did.”

Maksim shoved his chair back with a screech and stood up.

“Vera, enough! Do you even understand what you’re doing?! Tomorrow you go and get the money back!”

“You get yours back first. I’ll follow you.”

He grabbed his jacket and slammed the door so hard the glass rattled. Vera finished her buckwheat, washed the dishes, and went to bed. Maksim came back after midnight, lay down beside her, and turned to the wall.

That’s how four days passed. He ate at Raisa’s, she ate at her parents’. At home—silence. Maksim was angry, slammed doors, came home late. Vera stayed calm, though at night she kept thinking: what if he never understands?

On the fifth evening he came home earlier. He sat in the kitchen, staring at the table. Vera was washing dishes. He was quiet for a long time, then cleared his throat.

“My coworkers asked today why I eat lunch at my mom’s. They laughed. Said I’m a mama’s boy.”

He lifted his eyes.

“Vera… let’s make a deal. I’ll take my salary back from Mom. You keep yours. We’ll manage our budget ourselves.”

She nodded.

Maksim took out his phone and dialed. Raisa answered quickly.

“Mom, I need to take the money back. Vera and I decided to handle the budget ourselves.”

A pause. Raisa’s voice turned sharp—Vera could hear her shouting something.

“Mom, I’m not asking permission. I’m telling you how it’s going to be.”

Another pause. The voice in the receiver got louder.

“That’s it, Mom. I’ll come tomorrow and pick it up.”

He set the phone on the table and exhaled.

“She said you’ll bleed me dry.”

Vera wiped her hands and came closer.

“I won’t.”

Maksim covered her hand with his—the first time in a week.

For three weeks it was quiet. They kept a joint budget, saved a little. Raisa called less; her voice was cold, but she didn’t meddle. Maksim relaxed. Vera didn’t.

One evening he came home and put a bag of groceries on the table—expensive stuff they never bought.

“Where’d you get this?”

“Mom gave it to me. Said they had extra.”

Vera looked at the bag, then at her husband.

“Maksim, we had an agreement.”

“What’s the big deal? It’s groceries. Not money.”

She didn’t argue. Put everything in the fridge. But something lodged inside her: here we go again.

A week later Maksim showed up in new sneakers. Expensive ones.

“Where’d those come from?”

“Mom gave them to me. For my birthday.”

“Your birthday is in two months.”

“She bought them in advance.”

Vera said nothing. Went to bed. Lay there thinking: he’s taking from Raisa again—he’s just calling it “gifts” now.

The next day she opened a second bank account and transferred part of her salary into it. She didn’t tell Maksim.

A month and a half went by. Vera saved every time—little by little, but regularly. Maksim didn’t notice. He kept bringing things from Raisa: groceries, socks, once even a frying pan. Vera stayed quiet.

One evening he said the car needed repairs—serious repairs. They sat down to do the math. They were short.

“We’ll have to borrow from Mom.”

Vera pulled out her phone and showed him the screen.

“We won’t. I have it.”

He stared at the numbers.

“Where did you get this?!”

“I set it aside.”

Maksim went pale.

“So you’re hiding money from me?!”

“And you’re hiding what you take from Raisa.”

He opened his mouth, closed it. Stood up abruptly and paced the room.

“It’s small stuff! Groceries! What’s the difference?!”

“The difference is that you’re depending on her again. And I decided to protect us.”

Maksim stopped by the window with his back to her. Silent. Then he turned around.

“I really didn’t want to… She offered, and it seemed stupid to refuse.”

Vera stood.

“And it seemed to me that if I don’t protect us, we’ll end up back in her pocket.”

Maksim took out his phone and dialed. Raisa answered cheerfully:

“Maksimushka, hi!”

“Mom, don’t bring anything anymore. No groceries, no gifts. We’ll handle it ourselves.”

Something loud and offended burst from the receiver.

“Mom, I’m serious. Thank you, but we don’t need it.”

He ended the call and looked at Vera.

“Better now?”

She nodded.

Raisa didn’t call for two weeks. Then she called Vera—herself. For the first time.

“Vera, dear, can I have a minute?”

Her voice was syrupy. Vera tensed.

“I’m listening.”

“I was thinking… Maksim works so hard, he puts in so much effort. And you’re probably tired too? Maybe pay him a bit more attention? He complained you’re always busy.”

Vera went still. Maksim had never complained to her about anything.

“Raisa… he told you that?”

 

“Not directly. But I’m his mother—I can see. He’s tense. Try harder, dear.”

Vera hung up without saying goodbye. Sat on the couch and stared at the wall. Raisa was planting doubt: “He complained.” “You’re busy.” “Try harder.”

When Maksim came home, she met him with a question:

“Did you complain about me to your mother?”

He blinked, thrown off.

“What? No. What are you talking about?”

Vera repeated the conversation. Maksim listened, his face turning to stone.

“She said that?”

Vera nodded. He took out his phone and called. Raisa answered brightly:

“Maksimushka!”

“Mom, did you call Vera?”

“Well, yes, I wanted to see how things were…”

“And you said I’m complaining about her?”

A pause. Then her voice turned wounded.

“I wanted to help! You said you were tired…”

“I said I’m tired from work! Not from my wife!”

Raisa started making excuses, but Maksim cut her off.

“Mom, enough. Don’t meddle in our relationship. I’ll call when I think it’s necessary.”

He hung up. Sat next to Vera and hugged her.

“I’m sorry. I thought she’d calmed down.”

Vera leaned into him.

“She won’t calm down. Not while we listen to her.”

“Then we won’t.”

Raisa sent a long message—how hurt she was, how she tried, how ungrateful they were. Maksim read it and showed Vera.

“Are you going to reply?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“No. Let her cool off.”

A week later Raisa called again. Maksim answered briefly:

“Hi, Mom. How are you?”

Her voice was strained-cheerful. They talked five minutes—about the weather, about work. Not a word about Vera. When he hung up, Vera asked:

“Well?”

“Seems fine. But I told her we won’t be visiting anytime soon. We’re busy.”

Vera smiled.

“Good job.”

That evening they sat on the couch. Maksim scrolled on his phone; Vera read. Quiet. Calm. The phone rang—Raisa. Maksim looked at the screen and tapped “decline.”

“I’ll call back later.”

He put the phone away. Vera looked up. He caught her gaze and smirked.

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s just… that’s the first time you’ve done that.”

He shrugged and wrapped an arm around her.

“I’m learning.”

She leaned into him. Outside, it was getting dark. Inside the apartment, it was quiet—for the first time in a long time, truly quiet.

The phone rang in the middle of dinner. The whole family was at the table—Katya with her husband Denis, his parents, and his younger sister Angela.
Family games

“Don’t answer,” the father-in-law grunted. “It’s rude to be on the phone at the table.”

But it rang again. Katya gave the relatives an apologetic look and picked up.

“Hello?”

“Good evening. This is Romanov & Partners, a law firm. Am I speaking with Ekaterina Vladimirovna?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“We have a very important matter regarding an inheritance case. Would you be able to come to our office tomorrow?”

“What happened?”

“We don’t discuss this over the phone. I’ll only say this: it concerns a large sum.”

Katya set an appointment and hung up. Everyone stared at her with curiosity.

“Who was that?” her husband asked.

“Some lawyers. They’re talking about an inheritance.”

Her mother-in-law snorted.

“Inheritance! From whom, I wonder? Her parents weren’t wealthy.”

“Maybe some distant relatives,” Angela suggested.

“Yeah,” the father-in-law muttered. “Probably left her a tiny one-room apartment. Or some old dacha.”

Denis shrugged indifferently.

 

“Any money helps. Even ten thousand.”

Katya said nothing. For three years she hadn’t worked—she took care of the house and the household. The family didn’t have much money; they lived paycheck to paycheck.

After dinner, the father-in-law called his son into the kitchen. Katya was clearing the dishes and couldn’t help overhearing.

“Denis, you need to do something about your wife.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“Third year she’s sitting at home. Not earning a penny, but she eats like everyone else.”

“Dad, she runs the house, cooks—”

“Anyone can cook and clean. Bringing money into the family—not everyone can.”

“There aren’t many jobs right now…”

“It’s not that there aren’t jobs—she just doesn’t want to! She’s gotten used to hanging off your neck!”

Denis sighed.

“I’ll talk to her.”

That evening he really did.

“Katya, maybe you should finally get a job?”

“You want me to work?”

“The family budget isn’t endless. Dad’s right—extra money wouldn’t hurt.”

“So I’m a burden?”

“Not a burden. But you’re not the breadwinner either.”

Those words stung, but Katya didn’t argue. In her husband’s family she already felt like an outsider.
Family games

The next day she went to the lawyers. At the office she was met by an elderly man in an expensive suit.

“Ekaterina Vladimirovna, have a seat. I have news for you that will change your life completely.”

“I’m listening.”

“Three days ago, businessman Alexei Romanov died in a car accident. Your uncle.”

“Uncle Alexei?” Katya was stunned. “But we haven’t spoken for fifteen years…”

“Nevertheless, he left a will. He bequeaths his entire estate to you.”

The lawyer opened a folder and took out documents.

“A retail chain, warehouse complexes, real estate, securities. The total value of the assets is eighty million rubles.”

Katya’s vision dimmed. Eighty million? It was impossible to imagine.

“Are you sure? Could it be a mistake?”

“No mistake. Here is the will, notarized. The only condition is that the money passes to you only after the testator’s death—which means now.”

“But why me? He had friends, business partners…”

The lawyer nodded to the text.

“The will says: ‘To my niece Ekaterina, the only one who never asked me for money and never fawned over me because of my wealth.’”

He handed her the documents.

“The money has already been transferred to your account. Tomorrow you may dispose of it as you see fit.”

Katya rode home as if in a fog. In her purse were the inheritance certificates; in her head there was only one thought—she was rich. Very rich.

At home the family was eating dinner. Everyone looked at Katya as she came in.

“Well? What kind of inheritance is it?” her mother-in-law asked.

“Uncle Alexei died. He left me his business.”

“What business?” Denis asked.

“A retail chain. And real estate.”

The father-in-law smirked.

“A retail chain! Probably a stall at the market. Or some little shop.”

“Not a stall,” Katya said quietly.

“Then what?”

“A chain of supermarkets.”

“How many stores?” Angela asked.

“Twenty-seven.”

Silence fell over the kitchen. The father-in-law was the first to recover.

“Twenty-seven stores? Are you out of your mind, girl—telling fairy tales!”

“Not fairy tales. Here are the documents.”

Katya laid the inheritance papers on the table. Denis picked them up, scanned them, and went pale.

“Eighty million rubles,” he read aloud.

The mother-in-law gasped and clutched her chest. Angela’s mouth fell open, but no sound came out.

And the father-in-law jumped up and shouted:

“You’re lying! Our freeloader can’t have that kind of money!”

“Dad, quiet,” Denis tried to calm him down.

“Quiet? No! She’s been hanging on my neck for three years, eating my bread, and now she’s making up stories about millions!”

“You can see the documents…”

“Forgery!” the father-in-law barked, grabbing a frying pan from the table. “Cursed parasite!”

He swung it and struck Katya on the head with all his strength. She collapsed; blood ran from her split eyebrow.

“Dad, what are you doing?!” Denis rushed to his wife.

“I’m doing what should’ve been done a long time ago! Kicking the loafer out of the house!”

The mother-in-law stared silently at her bleeding daughter-in-law. Angela backed toward the door. The father-in-law kept raging:

“How long are we supposed to tolerate this burden? Three years we feed her, clothe her, and she tells us fairy tales about millions!”

Denis helped Katya up and pressed a towel to her wound.

“Dad, calm down. Let’s sort this out peacefully.”

“Nothing to sort out! Tomorrow she packs her bags!”

“Where will I go?” Katya asked quietly.

“I don’t care! To the street, to friends, to your parents—just out of my house!”

At last the mother-in-law spoke:

“Maybe the documents are real? What if she really did inherit something?”

“Are you out of your mind?” the father-in-law snapped. “Look at her! A regular housewife! What kind of millionaire relatives do people like that have?”

 

“But the papers—”

“Fake! She probably borrowed money to get them made so she could stay in the family!”
Family games

Katya dabbed at the blood and stood up.

“Fine. I’ll leave in the morning.”

“Good,” the father-in-law grumbled. “Sick of you.”

That night Katya didn’t sleep. Her head hurt from the blow, but her soul hurt more. For three years she’d lived with these people, trying to be a good daughter-in-law—and they’d seen her as a moocher.

Denis shifted beside her.

“Katya… what if it’s true? About the inheritance?”

“It’s true.”

“Then why did Dad get so angry?”

“Because he’s been building up anger for three years. And now he poured it out.”

“He’s not mean. He’s just… tired of being broke.”

“And am I to blame there’s no money?”

“You’re not to blame. But you weren’t helping to earn either.”

Katya said nothing. In the morning she would call the bank and check the account. And then everyone would understand.

At seven a.m. the phone rang. It was the bank.

“Ekaterina Vladimirovna? A large transfer was deposited into your account yesterday. We wanted to confirm that everything is in order.”

“Yes, everything is fine. What amount was deposited?”

“Eighty million rubles. We are required to inform you about the tax obligations…”

“I understand. Thank you.”

Katya hung up. In the kitchen, the whole family was having breakfast.

“Who called?” Denis asked.

“The bank. They confirmed the money was deposited.”

The father-in-law snorted.

“Yeah, sure. And how much came in?”

“Eighty million.”

“Stop lying!” he roared.

“I’m not. If you want, call the bank yourself.”

Denis took his phone and found the bank’s number. After five minutes speaking with the operator, he slowly lowered the phone.

“Dad… it really is eighty million.”

“What?”

“The money is real. It came yesterday.”

The father-in-law grabbed the table to keep from falling. The mother-in-law opened her mouth, but couldn’t speak.

Angela was the first to react.

“Katya! Katyusha! Forgive us, idiots! We didn’t know!”

“Now you do.”

“Dad was just nervous! He’s exhausted from work!”

“I see.”

The father-in-law tried to say something, but Katya cut him off.

“I’ve already packed my bags. Like you demanded.”

“Katya, that’s nonsense!” the mother-in-law burst into tears. “Where will you go? This is your home!”

“Yesterday you said the opposite.”

“We just didn’t know about the money!”

“And if there was no money? Then it was okay to throw me out?”

The family fell silent. Her logic was ironclad.
Family games

Denis tried to hug her.

“Katya, forgive me. I was wrong.”

“Wrong about what?”

“About not standing up for you. About letting Dad hit you.”

“You did let him,” Katya agreed.

“But now everything will change! We’ll live differently!”

“Differently?”

“Well, yes! We have money now!”

Katya gave a bitter smile.

“I have money. And you still have your debts.”

“How is that?” the father-in-law didn’t understand.

“Like this. The inheritance is mine. None of it is yours.”

“But we’re family!”

“Yesterday we were family. Today I’m rich, so suddenly everything changes.”
Family games

The mother-in-law rushed toward her.

“My dear girl, don’t say that! We love you!”
Gift baskets

“You loved me yesterday, when you thought I was poor?”

“We loved you! We just… we just didn’t show it!”

“You didn’t show it. But you showed what you really think.”

Katya took her suitcases.

“Goodbye. Thank you for your hospitality.”

“Katya, stop!” the father-in-law shouted. “I apologize! Forgive me, old fool!”

“It’s too late to apologize.”

“Not too late! I’ll crawl on my knees!”
Gift baskets

“Don’t. Just live the way you lived before.”

“Like before?”

“Without the freeloader who eats your bread.”

She left the apartment to the screams and pleas of her relatives. Denis caught up to her by the elevator.

“Katya, don’t go! Think about our marriage!”

“I’ve been thinking for three years.”

“Thinking about what?”

“About why I need a husband who can’t protect his wife.”

“I will protect you! No one will touch you again!”

“Yesterday you didn’t.”

“I froze…”

“And I got disappointed.”

The elevator arrived. Katya stepped in. Denis tried to follow.

“Katya, wait! Let’s talk calmly!”

“There’s nothing to talk about. Yesterday you said everything.”

The elevator doors closed. Downstairs, a taxi was waiting.

A month later Katya bought herself a house in an elite gated cottage community. She built a new life without reproaches, humiliation, and frying-pan blows.

And her former family beat their heads against the wall. Eighty million rubles were gone forever—all because of one uncontrolled outburst of rage and an unwillingness to believe in the success of someone close.

For another six months Denis tried to reconcile—he wrote, called, came by. Useless. Katya was polite but unyielding.

“But there was love!” he shouted.

“There was,” Katya agreed. “On my side. On your side there was a habit.”

“What habit?”

“The habit of thinking of me as a failure. A burden. A parasite.”

“We didn’t think that!”

“Your father said it outright yesterday. And you stayed silent.”

Denis fell quiet. There was nothing to argue.

A year later Katya finalized the divorce. She left her ex-husband their old apartment—let him keep living with his parents.

And she opened a charitable foundation to help women who had suffered domestic violence. From her own experience, she knew how painful and humiliating it was.

The foundation quickly became well known. Katya didn’t skimp on help—she paid for housing for survivors, covered medical treatment, helped with employment.

Journalists often asked why she chose that direction.

“Because I know what it feels like to get hit in the head with a frying pan by the people closest to you,” she answered calmly.

“But your offenders have understood their mistake…”

 

“They understood only after they learned about the money. And if there had been no money?”

That question left people speechless.

Meanwhile, the ex-family lived in poverty. The father-in-law lost his job—management found out how he treated his rich daughter-in-law and decided they didn’t want to deal with someone like that.

Denis lost his position too. Colleagues stopped respecting him after the story about the eighty million spread.

The mother-in-law fell ill from the stress. There was no money for treatment—the family was barely making ends meet.
Family games

Angela was the only one who tried to find work and somehow improve their situation. But there was no easy money.

Two years later the father-in-law couldn’t take it anymore. He came to his former daughter-in-law to ask forgiveness.

Katya received him in her office. The elderly man looked pathetic—thin, in worn clothes, with dull eyes.

“Katya… Ekaterina Vladimirovna… forgive me, old fool.”

“What are you asking forgiveness for?”

“For everything. For hitting you. For throwing you out. For calling you a parasite.”

“And why did you call me a parasite?”

“Because… because you didn’t earn money.”

“And what’s changed now?”

“Now I understand—it’s not about money. It’s about the person.”

Katya looked at him carefully.

“You realized that rather late.”

“Late, yes. But maybe it’s not hopeless yet?”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to forgive me. And for the family to be together again.”

“Family?”

“Yes. You’re Denis’s wife. My daughter-in-law.”

“Ex-wife. Ex-daughter-in-law.”

The father-in-law was silent for a moment, then asked:

“And you won’t give us any money? Things are really bad.”

Katya smirked.

“So that’s the truth. You didn’t come to make peace—you came to ask for money.”

“Not only money! I want reconciliation too!”

“Reconciliation for money?”

“Well… family, after all…”

“There is no family between us. And there won’t be.”

The father-in-law left empty-handed. A month later Katya learned he was telling everyone how greedy and spiteful she was.

“She’s got eighty million, and she won’t give her relatives a kopeck!” he complained to neighbors.

“What relatives?” people asked.

“What do you mean—what relatives? Father-in-law, mother-in-law, husband!”

“But she divorced you…”

“Formally divorced! But in essence—we’re family!”

People found such logic astonishing, but the father-in-law sincerely believed he was right.

Meanwhile, Katya met another man—Alexei, a doctor from a hospital her foundation sponsored.

He didn’t know about her wealth. They met in ordinary circumstances and fell in love without calculation.
Gift baskets

Only after six months together did Katya tell him the truth. Alexei listened and said:

“I understand why you hid it. After something like that it’s hard to trust anyone.”

“And how do you feel about money?”

“Calmly. If it’s there—great. If not—not a tragedy.”

“Really?”

“Really. What matters is the person beside you, not the size of their wallet.”

For the first time in a long time Katya felt she could relax. Not fear judgment, not expect a catch, not check every word for sincerity.

A year later they got married—quietly, without extravagance. Only their closest friends were at the wedding.

Her ex-husband learned about it from the newspapers. The article was titled: “Millionairess Marries a Simple Doctor.”

Denis stared at the photos of the happy couple for a long time, then said to his parents:

“That could have been us.”

“If it weren’t for Dad’s frying pan,” Angela added.

The father-in-law said nothing. He had nothing left to say.

And Katya built a new life—honest, open, based on mutual respect. For the first time in many years, she was truly happy.

Sometimes she remembered that evening and the blow from the frying pan—and thought how good it was that everything happened exactly like that. The удар (blow) opened her eyes to the true nature of the people she had called family.
Family games

And her real family turned out to be completely different. There no one kept score of who earned how much. There they didn’t love for money—they loved simply because.

 Anna dried her hands on a towel and stepped back to admire the bouquet of white roses she’d just finished for a loyal client. Outside, a thin October drizzle polished the street to a gray shine; inside, the air was crisp and alive—the complicated perfume of greens and petals she always called “the scent of life.” Three years ago she couldn’t have named half these varieties, let alone predict which stems drank greedily and which sulked at the wrong temperature. Now she could read them at a glance.

The bell over the door chimed. Not a customer—Mikhail. He rarely came in person; phone calls were his style.

“Hi. How are you?” He kissed her cheek, voice tight around the edges.

“Good. Fifth bouquet sold already. And Mrs. Kovalyova ordered another table arrangement—says only our flowers last more than a week.”

Mikhail nodded, distracted, eyes slipping past her work to nowhere. She knew that look. In twelve years she’d learned the small signs: the pressed lips, the shallow frown, the way he avoided her gaze when he was bracing for something unpleasant.

“Anya, we need to talk,” he said, lowering himself onto the chair near the counter. “About the shop.”

Her heart snagged. She set the scissors down, turned to face him. “What about the shop?”

“It’s not… unprofitable, exactly. But it isn’t making much either. Three years, and it still hasn’t broken even.”

“Misha, what are you saying?” Her voice wavered.

He exhaled and stared through the display glass at the rain. “Katya has problems. She divorced Igor, the apartment stays with him. She has nowhere to live. She’s with a friend for now, but that’s temporary.” A beat. “We’ll sell your shop and buy her an apartment.”

The floor seemed to tilt. He’d said it like he was asking her to pick up bread on the way home.

“What?” She stared at him. “How can you say we’ll sell my shop?”

“Anya, be reasonable. We’ve poured money in for three years with no real return. Katya needs help; she’s my sister.”

“And what about me?” The words tore out. “Am I not your wife? This is my work—my life.”

 

“But it doesn’t bring in money.”

“It didn’t. Now it does.” She gestured at the register. “Look around—more customers, more orders. I’m finally getting the hang of this.”

He rose, jaw set in a way that frightened her. “I’m not asking your permission. I’m informing you. The shop must be sold.”

“No.” Her fist struck the counter. A few white petals shook loose and fell. “I won’t allow it. It’s my shop.”

“The one I helped you open. With my money.”

That landed harder than a slap. Heat and hurt tightened through her chest. “So I’m just an employee you can fire when it suits you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. But family matters more than flowers. Katya needs us.”
Family games

“And I don’t?” Her voice trembled with unshed tears. “I don’t need my husband to believe in me?”

He lifted a shoulder. “I believed for three years. Isn’t that enough?”

She turned away, to the window where the rain threaded down the glass like invisible tears. “Leave,” she whispered. “Just… leave.”

“Anya—”

“Leave!” The force in her voice startled them both.

He hesitated, then went. The bell gave a mournful little ring. Anna sank onto the chair and cried—hot, helpless tears that tasted of confusion and disbelief. How could he sweep away three years of study, failure, persistence—of finally getting it right?

She remembered the beginning. He had supported her—warily. “Try,” he’d said. “And if it doesn’t work, don’t be upset.” She had tried. She’d read until midnight about conditioning water, spoke to growers, practiced spiral hand-ties until her fingers cramped. The first year was a disaster—flowers spoiled, customers didn’t come, she stored peonies like tulips and paid for it—but she kept going. Regulars trickled in. She learned to hear what the stems were saying.

And now, when the tide was finally turning, he wanted to smash it to pieces. For Katya.

She’d never warmed to his sister. Not open hostility, just a persistent undertone. Katya was glamorous, magnetic, always center-stage. “Annushka, you’re so lucky,” she’d purr. “Such a caring husband, gorgeous home—and now your own business!” Compliments that left a metallic aftertaste.

That evening at home Mikhail came in storm-cloud dark. “Have you thought about what I said?”

“I have. The answer is still no.”

“Anna, you’re being selfish.”

“Selfish?” She turned from the stove. “I poured my soul into this shop for three years, and I’m selfish for not wanting to sell it?”

“Katya has nowhere to go.”

“Why is that my problem? She can work, rent like everyone else.”

“She’s my sister.”

“And I’m your wife.” She caught herself. “Or was—”

He froze. The pan hissed.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean a husband supports his wife. He doesn’t burn down her dream to satisfy his sister’s whims.”

“This isn’t whimsy. She has real problems.”

“So do I.” Anna shut off the flame and faced him. “My husband wants to take away the work of my life.”

“The work of your life?” He smirked. “You’ve sold flowers for three years. Don’t exaggerate.”

Something snapped. “Get out of the kitchen,” she said, calm and final. He understood and left.

Days slid into a cold war—bare necessities spoken, separate rooms, eyes that found other things to look at. She felt the hairline fractures running through their twelve-year marriage and had no idea how to seal them.

At the shop, she buried herself in stems and ribbon. Flowers don’t lie, don’t choose sides, don’t trade your future for someone else’s catastrophe. They live as they can and give what beauty they have.

On Thursday, Marina from the beauty salon next door stopped by for coffee. “Anya, you look wrung out.”

“Family mess,” Anna sighed.

“Want to talk?”

She hesitated, then nodded. “Misha wants to sell the shop.”

“What?” Marina’s eyebrows shot up. “Why?”

“To buy his sister an apartment. Divorce, no place to live.”

Marina shook her head. “And she can’t earn like everyone else?”

“Apparently it’s easier to lean on her brother.”

Marina leaned in, voice low. “Anya, doesn’t something feel off? Remember I told you I saw Mikhail with a woman at a café?”

Anna stiffened. “You did. And?”

“What if it wasn’t random? What if he and Katya are… strategizing? Dividing things in case of a divorce.”

“Marina, please—”

“Just think. Why your shop? You two have a dacha. A second car. Other assets.”

“We do.”

“Exactly. Why the one thing that is yours?”

Anna’s thoughts snagged. Why, indeed? The dacha outside Moscow they never used. The second car gathering dust. Why her business?

“Maybe Katya’s whispering in his ear,” Marina went on. “Maybe telling him you don’t appreciate him.”

“Why would she—”

“Envy is a poison.” Marina lifted a shoulder. “Maybe she can’t stand that you have a loving husband and a business.”

That night Anna couldn’t sleep. Marina’s words circled like birds around a spire. What if Katya was sharpening knives behind the scenes?

The next day she called Lena, a friend to both families. “Lena, hi. Quick question—has Katya said anything about me lately?”
Family games

A pause. “Did something happen?”

“Just curious.”

“Anya… better to ask her.”

“Please. It’s important.”

A sigh. “All right, but don’t spiral. She said you don’t value Mikhail. That you live at the shop and neglect the family.”

“And?”

“And she hinted—” another pause “—that you might have someone. That you’ve been staying late, going out evenings.”

“What?” Anna felt her pulse drum in her temples. “That’s a lie. Shop and home—that’s it.”

“I know. I told her so. She insisted. Said she wanted to open Misha’s eyes.”

“Open his eyes?”

“To the idea that you’re lying. That he should divorce you before you take everything.”

Anna closed her eyes and sank into the chair. There it was. Katya had drawn the blueprint: isolate, smear, strip.

“Thanks, Lena.”

“Just… be careful.”

That evening, when Mikhail came home, Anna met him in the hall. “We need to talk.”

“About the shop? Did you come to your senses?”

“No. About your sister.”

His face hardened. “What about her?”

“What she told you about me isn’t true.”

“How do you know what—”

“It doesn’t matter how. What matters is that it’s a lie. All of it. The ‘affair,’ the ‘ungrateful wife,’ the ‘bad partner.’”

He blinked, thrown. “Katya wouldn’t lie.”

“Katya is jealous,” Anna said evenly. “She sees a husband who loves me and a business I’m building, and she can’t stand it. She wants to wreck it.”

“You’re being absurd.”

“Then explain why you chose my shop to sell. We have a dacha. A second car. Your investments. Why my livelihood?”

He opened his mouth and found nothing to put there.

“Because she wants me stripped of everything,” Anna said softly. “If you divorce me after that, I’m nobody. And the apartment? Hers.”

“That’s—”

“True. And somewhere in you, you know it.”

Silence thickened. Doubt flickered across his face.

“Even if you’re right,” he said finally, “Katya still needs help.”

“Then help her some other way. Sell the dacha. Lend her money. But don’t touch my shop.”

“It isn’t profitable.”

“It is.” She pulled a notebook from her bag. “Last three months: net profit two hundred thousand. Climbing each month.”

He turned pages, eyes narrowing. “Where did these figures come from?”

“From me finally running this properly. Regulars. Corporate orders. I’m even eyeing a second location.”

“A second?”

“There’s a space opening on Sovetskaya Street. Better foot traffic. We could grow.”

He closed the notebook, slower this time. “Why didn’t you show me this earlier?”

“Because you’d stopped listening. You decided the shop was a failure and turned off the sound.”

 

He sighed. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Not maybe,” she said. “You know it.”

The next day he went to see Katya. When he returned his face was gray and tight. He sat opposite her. “You were right. She fed me garbage.”

“And?”

“I told her I’m done bankrolling her. She’ll have to sort her own life out.”

Relief washed through Anna, trailed by a steady throb of anger. “And the shop?”

“It’s yours. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry isn’t enough. You almost ruined me.”

“I know.” He swallowed. “Let me make it right. I’ll help with the second shop—if you still want it.”

For the first time in days, Anna’s mouth remembered how to smile. “I do. Very much.”

A month later the new shop on Sovetskaya Street opened its doors. Mornings there, afternoons at the original store—she moved between the two like a current. Business was better than she’d dared hope. Mikhail helped for real this time—sending clients from his network, giving level-headed advice on margins and cash flow.

Katya stopped calling. Word had it she’d found a job and rented a place. Fine. Let everyone carry their own weight.

One evening, as Anna closed up, she lingered at the front window. White chrysanthemums and yellow roses glowed together—a pocket of sunlight on a dull day. Three years ago she couldn’t have told a chrysanthemum from an aster. Now she was sketching a chain.

Mikhail stepped in behind her and kissed her cheek. “How’s today?”

“Great. I sold more arrangements than all last week.”

“Perfect. I think I’ve found a spot for a third shop.”

“A third?” She laughed, startled. “I’m still learning to juggle two.”

“I’m already thinking franchising,” he said, grinning.

She actually laughed then—freely, for the first time in too long. “Let’s master two. Then we talk.”

“As you say, boss.”

They stepped outside. The rain had given up; a pale sun slid through the clouds. And Anna thought that life, like flowers, needs patience and faith. You keep tending, even when everything looks lost. Sometimes the fiercest storms precede the most beautiful bloom.

You won’t get anything in court!” my ex-husband cackled. But when my attorney walked into the hall, silence fell—and he started to cry.

His laughter echoed down the empty courthouse corridor—cloying, humiliating. He stood surrounded by his “entourage”: an expensive lawyer with a crocodile-skin briefcase and his mother, who looked at me with forced sympathy thinly veiling blatant judgment.

“We just want you to leave Dima alone,” she drawled sweetly, a poisonous spark flickering in her eyes. “He’s suffered enough.”

I looked at Dmitry—his well-groomed face wearing a mask of sham virtue. The man who had spent years methodically destroying my life was now playing the victim. And everyone believed him.

My public defender—a young guy who looked at the floor more than at me—fidgeted with his papers, as if he’d already accepted defeat. After our first meeting he’d advised me to “settle at any cost.”

“We have statements from the neighbors,” Dmitry went on, mocking me. “Everyone heard you screaming. How you couldn’t control yourself.”

He was a master at leaving things out. For example, that I screamed when he locked me in a room. Or when I found yet another flirtatious chat on his phone. In his version I was just a hysteric. And he was the poor martyr who’d endured “a woman like that” for years.

 

I glanced around the waiting area. People were watching us—at him with understanding and pity, at me with condemnation. I wanted to sink through the cold marble floor. I was ready to do anything just to end the humiliation. But somewhere inside a small flame still smoldered, refusing to let me give up completely.

That same evening, after the first meeting with his lawyers, I called an old university friend who worked at a law firm. I didn’t ask for help—just needed to vent. She listened silently and then said, “I know someone. He’s not simple, but cases like this are his specialty. I’ll pass him your number.” I expected nothing.

“Look at yourself, Lena. You’re alone. Who’s going to believe you?” Dmitry hissed, leaning closer. His expensive cologne mixed with the smell of my fear. “You’ll lose everything—your home, your money, your reputation. You’ll have nothing left.”

And at that moment, the doors at the end of the corridor opened. Everyone turned.

A tall man in an impeccable dark-gray suit walked in. He didn’t look like a lawyer—more like a surgeon or an architect; there was a cold precision in his eyes. His quick, penetrating gaze swept over everyone present, as though scanning them through.

Dmitry frowned; his confidence showed its first crack.

The man walked straight to me, ignoring everyone else.

“Elena Andreevna? Kirill Valeryevich,” he introduced himself calmly. His voice was even and assured. “Your friend called me. I’ve already reviewed the case materials. We can begin.”

The smile slid off Dmitry’s face. He glanced at his smug attorney, then at the newcomer, and in his eyes I saw something I had never seen before—fear.

His laughter died. His mother clutched his arm in a panic. And when Kirill opened his briefcase and set a thick folder of documents in front of my stunned public defender, Dmitry sank onto the bench. For the first time in many years I saw tears on his face—tears of rage and helplessness.

The hearing was only a preliminary one, but the tension in the courtroom was so thick you could cut it with a knife.

Dmitry’s lawyer—slick and overconfident—started first. He spoke about my “emotional instability,” about my “attempts to manipulate his client.”

“Your Honor, the plaintiff’s side is trying to tarnish my client’s spotless name,” he declaimed, flourishing his hand. “This is a classic case of female vindictiveness after a breakup.”

My new counsel kept silent, jotting brief notes in his notebook. When his turn came, he stood. No grand words, no theatrics.

“Your Honor, we won’t deny my client’s emotionality,” he said evenly. Dmitry’s attorney smirked. “We’ll simply give those emotions context.”

Kirill laid a single sheet of paper before the judge.

“This is a statement from a bank account opened in the name of Dmitry Petrovich three days before he filed his petition.

“As you can see, a significant sum was transferred to that account from the company where he works—the very company whose financial troubles he lamented to my client while pressuring her to sell her inherited apartment.”

Dmitry looked as if he’d been jolted with electricity. His lawyer’s face darkened at once.

“This is irrelevant!” he shouted.

“On the contrary,” Kirill replied calmly. “It has direct bearing on systematic psychological and financial pressure. This isn’t revenge. It’s evidence.”

The judge studied the document thoughtfully. A recess was declared.

In the hallway Dmitry rushed up to me at once. The victim’s mask had returned to his face, but now it sat crooked.

“Lena, why are you doing this?” He tried to take my hand; I jerked away. “You know this is all a misunderstanding. We can settle everything peacefully.”

His voice slid back into that insinuating tone I’d heard a thousand times—the voice that made me doubt my own memories, believe that I was the one to blame.

“Let’s just talk. Without them. Remember how good we were together? Are you really going to ruin everything over some piece of paper?”

For a moment I almost gave in—the old habit of yielding to avoid a fight, the longing for the nightmare to end.

But Kirill appeared beside me. He didn’t even look at Dmitry. He addressed me.

“Elena Andreevna, you mentioned that your ex-husband often recorded your arguments on a voice recorder to use against you?”

I nodded, not understanding where he was going.

 

“Just clarifying,” he said calmly, then looked straight at Dmitry. “I hope you’re recording this ‘peaceful conversation’ too? For the record.”

Dmitry recoiled as if from a flame. His face twisted with rage. His whole act, everything…

 

Nastya was tired. Not so much from work, or the renovation, or daily routine, but from this invisible intrusion that had gone on far too long. In her own apartment she felt like a guest—and all because of one person. Or rather, two: Ivan and his mother.
Wedding jewelry

When her parents left her this two-room flat, Nastya was happy to tears. She thought: now I’ll finally start living—an adult life, my own. She didn’t account for one thing: in that life there were too many “outsiders” who decided that everything around them should be theirs.

She loved Ivan. For a long time. Too long to realize in time that love leaves when it finds no support in respect.

As for Galina Petrovna… Nastya kept trying to be polite, to give way. “Let her stay with us a couple of days, they’ll fix the TV and she’ll leave.” But the TV had already been “fixed” three times, and the mother-in-law kept sitting. And sitting.

Thin Walls and Thick Skin

“You’re still a little girl, Nastenka,” Galina Petrovna almost whispered, but with an icy smile. “It’s all right—when you grow up you’ll understand that a husband is everything.”

Nastya looked at her and, for the first time in her life, wasn’t afraid to argue.

“Thank you for your concern, but you know, I’m probably grown-up enough if I can earn my own money, do my own renovations, and pay the bills myself. And Vanya—yes, he’s a big boy. Let him learn too.”

“You want to destroy everything!” Galina Petrovna cried so loudly that Nastya flinched. “You’re a family! Do you want him to leave?!”

Gift baskets

“He can leave if he doesn’t like it. No one is keeping him here.”

It came out so calmly that the mother-in-law was actually taken aback.

“So that’s your true face…” she muttered, grabbed a bag of cutlets, and headed for the door.

Nastya pulled the door to behind her, slowly turned the key, and for the first time in many weeks allowed herself to simply sit down on the floor in the entryway and cry.

But these tears weren’t from hurt. More from a strange, almost frightening feeling of freedom that was already pounding in her temples.

“We” and “I”

Ivan came home late, as usual; the smell of beer and cheap tobacco preceded him.

“Did you mouth off to her again?” he asked from the doorway.

“Who are you talking about?”
Family games

“Mom. She called me in tears. Says you threw her out—with the cutlets!”

“I didn’t throw anyone out. I just told the truth.”

“You know what, I’m tired of this. You and your rules all the time. This is mine, that isn’t yours…”

Nastya stood up from the floor and looked him straight in the eye.

“Vanya, you’re tired? You’re free.”

He fell silent. He looked as if he had never heard those words before—though she had said them to him in her head hundreds of times.

“Are you serious?” his voice quivered.

“Serious. If you want to live—live. But my apartment stays mine. Either you pack your things, or I’ll pack them for you.”

“You’re out of your mind!” he raised his voice, but Nastya didn’t flinch. The fear had gone along with the last drop of love.

“No, Vanya. On the contrary. I’ve only just come to my senses.”

He grumbled for a long time after that, threw the keys at the wall, threatened to leave “forever.” But that night he stayed—to sleep on the couch. Nastya locked herself in the bedroom and, for the first time in a long while, slept peacefully, without anxious dreams.

A New Chapter

A week later Ivan left for good. He took his mother and her pots with him. Only a pair of old slippers in the hallway and the smell of someone else’s shampoo in the bathroom remained. Nastya scrubbed everything until it shone. She erased both smells and traces.
Wedding jewelry

She woke up early, brewed coffee, and sat on the windowsill. Outside, the street buzzed, the sun struck the glass, and everything around belonged to her—every corner, every shelf.

Her phone rang. Mom.

“So, honey, how are you? Did you sort everything out?”

Nastya smiled. Now she knew for sure that she could handle anything.

“Everything’s fine, Mom. Really fine. I’ve got my own home again.”

Epilogue

Six months passed. Nastya photographed her kitchen and posted it on social media: “A nest of my own—built with my own hands.” The photo got a hundred likes and dozens of comments from friends. Some were jealous; some admired her.

And Galina Petrovna would still call sometimes. She’d try to coax her to “talk like human beings.” But Nastya no longer picked up.

She had a new renovation—and new dreams. And in those dreams there was no place for outsiders who come to “stay the night” and end up running the show.

She wasn’t afraid anymore. She knew her own worth—and the worth of her home.

Silence in Which You Can Hear Your Heart

The first weeks after Ivan and his mother left felt strange to Nastya. She caught herself listening to the emptiness: would the door slam? Would the bed creak under someone else’s weight? Would the mother-in-law’s heavy sigh sound behind her back?

But no one came. The apartment finally became her real fortress. Even the draft moved the way only she liked.

Nastya bought herself a new kettle—bright yellow, silly, completely out of step with the old kitchen. She could now allow herself anything that pleased the eye. A green orchid took up residence on the shelf in the entryway—the first in many years. It blossomed almost at once, as if it sensed its mistress.

New Rules of the Game

Her job had wanted to promote her a year earlier, but she kept putting it off: no time, the renovation, Ivan, his “let’s do it later.” Now “later” had left along with him.

“Nastya, are you sure you can handle it?” the department head asked, handing her a folder with a new project.

“More than sure,” she smiled. “Thank you for trusting me.”

Now she came home not exhausted and drained but elated—and with each passing day she felt that life was just beginning.

 

The First Party Without Unwanted Guests

A month later, Nastya hosted a small get-together in her apartment for the first time—she invited her old girlfriends over. White wine, strawberries, music—and not a single disapproving look from a mother-in-law or a sulky Ivan in the corner of the couch.

“Girl, you look amazing,” Lena said with a wink. “You can tell right away—free woman!”

“Maybe it’s time to refresh your life in the men department?” Katya added, nodding slyly at Nastya’s shelf of relationship psychology books.

Nastya laughed and waved them off.

“Girls, first I want to learn to live alone. With myself. For myself.”

That night no one banged on her door or got on her nerves. And in the morning Nastya woke with a clear head—and for the first time didn’t regret a single word she had said to Ivan and his mother.

An Unexpected Letter

Three months later there was a letter in her mailbox. At first Nastya wanted to throw it away—the handwriting on the envelope was Ivan’s clumsy scrawl.

“Nastya. I’m sorry. I understand everything. Can we meet?”

She stood there with that scrap of paper in her hand for about ten minutes. Her heart quivered at first—habits don’t disappear in a day. But then she carefully folded the letter, dropped it into the trash, and closed the lid.

Her life was no longer about “I’m sorry.” Her life was about “thank you,” “I can,” “I want,” and “it will be the way I decide.”

When the Past Returns

But the past didn’t give up so easily. A week later Ivan called anyway.

“Nastya, I’m begging you…” he spoke quietly, guilty, unlike his old self. “I understand it all now. I want to get it back.”

Nastya listened to that voice and thought only about how unbearably dull she had been before, next to him. How she had been afraid to say too much, how she had tried to please everyone around her.

“I’m sorry, Vanya,” her voice was calm. “I don’t go back anymore.”

“You’re not made of iron! You loved me!”

“I did. When you were a decent man. But you haven’t been one for a long time. Goodbye.”

She hung up and blocked the number. Her hand shook for exactly one minute. Then the trembling stopped.

First New Steps

A year later, Nastya did let someone new into her life. But not as the owner of the apartment—rather, as a friend, a partner, an equal.

It was Sasha—a colleague she used to laugh with on lunch breaks. He turned out to be as free as she was. He didn’t have a mother who would sit on their couch with a plate of cutlets. He had only his own life—and room in it for Nastya.
Wedding jewelry

They traveled around Russia, visited her parents in Sochi, sunbathed on the roof of the new dacha. The panel-block apartment was still her fortress—but now she let in fun, music, and laughter that no longer weighed on her chest like a heavy burden.
Wedding jewelry

The House That Nastya Built

Five years later, Nastya sold that very two-room flat—not because she was running from memories, but because she had outgrown it. Together with Sasha they bought a light-filled house on the edge of the city, with a garden and a small terrace.

“Well, mistress of the house?” Sasha said when they first moved in. “Let’s call it home.”

“Home,” Nastya squeezed his hand. “And no one will dare say that it’s ‘joint only on paper.’ Everything here is ours—because we are real.”

That evening they sat on the terrace steps, drank wine, and listened to the summer rain drum on the roof.

And Nastya knew for certain: there would be no more of those who come “just because.” Now her home was a place of strength. And if one day she had to defend it again—she already knew how.

⸻

The End?

Or maybe just the beginning. Because every day of Nastya’s is a new chapter. And she knows for sure: if she once defended her square meters, she’ll defend her happiness all the more.

An Unexpected Call

Six years had passed since the evening Nastya last heard Ivan’s voice on the phone. In all those years she hadn’t regretted her decision once. The house with Sasha, the small vegetable garden, the cozy workshop out back—all of it proved that you can grow beyond yourself once you’ve learned to say a firm “no” to the past.

But the past sometimes finds cracks even in the strongest walls.

It was a rainy evening. Nastya sat in the kitchen sorting fresh photos for her country-life blog. Sasha was in the shed—fixing an old garden bench. Suddenly the phone, forgotten on the windowsill, rang.

An unknown number.

“Hello?” Nastya was still smiling, expecting a business voice.

“Hello… Nastya.”

She recognized the voice at once. But she didn’t believe it right away.

 

“Ivan?”

“Don’t hang up. Please.”

The room grew so quiet that Nastya could hear the rain on the roof.

“What do you want?”

“I… You were right back then. I lost everything. My mother, my job… Nastya, I don’t know where to go.”

Nastya looked at her reflection in the window—a completely different woman from the one who once trembled before him and his mother.

“And what do you want from me, Ivan?”

“I’m not asking to come back. Just… can I come over? For a couple of days. I have nowhere else to stay.”

Nastya closed her eyes. Inside, everything argued: pity for someone who had once been close—and the cold certainty that compassion should be for herself, not the past.

“I’m sorry, Ivan. There’s no room for you here anymore.”

“You’ve changed, Nastya,” he said wearily. “You’ve become strong.”

“Yes. Thank God.”

She ended the call. Her heart was pounding fast, but not from fear—from pride.

Sasha came into the kitchen and saw her face.

“Who was it?”

Nastya looked at her husband and smiled.

“No one important. Not anymore.”

New Horizons

After that conversation, Nastya felt something close inside for good—the last little door in her soul through which regret or guilt could still seep in.

Together, she and Sasha took a big step: they started building a small guesthouse on their property. Sasha dreamed of running woodworking workshops; Nastya wanted a small space for yoga and retreats. They did it together—without loans, without other people’s promises.

Every day she woke to a morning that was truly her own—not someone else’s couch, not a kitchen where someone barked orders, but her own morning filled with the aroma of coffee and the clink of dishes.

A Face-to-Face with the Past

One day Nastya went into the city—to meet friends, see a notary about paperwork, and simply walk streets she knew well.

At the notary’s entrance she saw a woman with dull eyes in an old coat. It was Galina Petrovna.

The mother-in-law recognized her first.

“Nastya?.. Oh, my God… Dear!”

Nastya felt a slight jab under her ribs. But she smiled.

“Hello.”

“How are you… You’ve changed so much! I’ve heard things are good for you?”

“Yes, everything’s wonderful.”

“Forgive us…” Galina Petrovna almost burst into tears. “We were foolish back then. I only wanted what was best!”

Nastya felt neither anger nor resentment. Only an even calm.

“It’s all right. Live in peace. I have my own life now.”

She hugged the woman goodbye—just to finally lay that burden down from her soul. And then she walked on—steady, confident, light-hearted.

A Distant Shore

Two years later, Nastya and Sasha stood on the deck of a small river boat watching the sun slip behind the horizon.

“Are you happy?” Sasha asked, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

Nastya nodded. Once she had been afraid to be alone. Then she learned how to be alone. And now she knew: happiness isn’t about who stands beside you, but about who you are inside.

“Very,” she said, and added quietly, “Thank you for not demanding that I be the housekeeper under you. Thank you that we are together—as equals.”

The boat rocked gently on the water, and Nastya knew: whatever shore lay ahead—she was ready for any wind now.

⸻

The Real Ending

This is Nastya’s story about how a whole new life can begin with one firm “this is mine.” Honest, difficult, but her own—to the very last breath and all the way to sunset.

Olga was rearranging the photos on the shelf, admiring the sunbeams streaming through the windows of their two-room apartment. Two and a half years ago her parents had given their daughter this place as a wedding present—a cozy home in a quiet part of the city. Her mother had said then, “May you have a solid home, dear.” Her father hugged Olga without a word, but his eyes said plenty—the parents wanted to be sure of their only daughter’s future.

“Olga, are you home?” Viktor’s voice sounded from the entryway that evening.

“In the kitchen,” Olga answered, putting the kettle on.

Viktor came into the kitchen, tossed his bag onto a chair, and rubbed his face wearily. Two and a half years of marriage had taught Olga to read her husband’s mood from the smallest gestures. He was clearly preoccupied.

“How’s everything?” Olga asked as she poured tea into their favorite mugs.

“Fine,” Viktor grunted without looking up. “Listen, did Irina call today?”

Olga tensed. Her husband’s sister rarely called just to chat. Irina usually appeared in their lives when there was something to discuss—or to push along.

“No, she didn’t. Why?”

“Oh, just curious,” Viktor took a big sip of tea. “She stopped by Mom’s yesterday. They were talking about us.”

Olga sat down across from Viktor, feeling a knot of anxiety tighten inside her. In two and a half years of family life, she had come to know her husband’s relatives. His mother, Lyudmila Sergeyevna, was a domineering woman accustomed to controlling her son’s life. Irina, Viktor’s younger sister, was blunt and never hesitated to voice her opinions on any subject.
Family games

“And what were they talking about?” Olga asked carefully.

Viktor hesitated, turning the mug in his hands.

“Well… about our apartment. About how we live.”

Olga felt her shoulders tighten. The topic of the apartment had been a sore spot for Viktor since the beginning of their marriage. He could never quite accept that they were living in a place gifted to his wife by her parents. It pricked his masculine pride, even though Olga had never reproached him or reminded him whose property it was.

“And what exactly worries them?” Olga tried to keep her voice even.

“Irina said…” Viktor finally lifted his eyes, “that since the apartment was given for the wedding, it’s marital property. And that we could be using it more sensibly.”

Olga slowly set her mug on the table. Her sister-in-law’s words didn’t surprise her—Irina had hinted more than once that Olga was too attached to her parents’ gift.

“What does she mean by ‘more sensibly’?” Olga asked quietly.

“Well, for example, we could sell it and invest the money in some joint venture,” Viktor said, not looking at his wife. “Irina thinks that would benefit everyone.”

Olga kept silent, but something clenched inside her. She understood perfectly well what her husband’s relatives were driving at. The apartment was worth a good sum, and that money drew greedy eyes.

“Olga, what do you think?” Viktor asked cautiously.

“I think it’s my gift from my parents,” Olga answered, looking him straight in the eye. “And I’m not going to part with it.”

Viktor nodded, but she noticed a twitch in his eye. The conversation was over, but Olga knew this was only the beginning.

 

The next few weeks passed relatively calmly. Viktor didn’t bring up the apartment again, but Olga felt his occasional measuring glances—like he was sizing something up, gathering the courage for some important step.

The breaking point came one autumn evening. Olga was making dinner when Viktor came into the kitchen and sat down at the table. His face showed determination.

“Olga, we need to talk,” he began in a serious tone.

“I’m listening,” she replied, not turning from the stove.

“You understand that we got this apartment thanks to your parents,” Viktor chose his words carefully. “And I’m very grateful to Lidiya Nikolaevna and Andrey Mikhailovich for their generosity.”

Olga turned to him. There was something in his voice that made her wary.

“But?” she prompted.

“But maybe it’s time to think about a joint start?” Viktor blurted out. “We’re young, our whole life is ahead of us. We could create something of our own, build a future with our own hands.”

Olga switched off the stove and sat down across from him. She studied his face, trying to understand whether he was speaking his own words or channeling someone else’s thoughts.

“And what are you proposing?” she asked.

“Well, we could sell the apartment,” Viktor spoke quickly, as if afraid he’d lose his nerve. “Invest the money in a business or buy something more suitable for a young family.”

Olga looked at him squarely and answered coldly:

“It’s my gift. My parents entrusted the apartment to me, not to you and your sister.”

Viktor paled at her bluntness. He had clearly expected different words, a gentler reaction.

“Olga, we’re a family,” he tried to object. “Everything should be shared.”
Family games

“Not everything, Viktor,” Olga said firmly. “This apartment is a reminder of my parents’ care. And I won’t let their gift be turned into a bargaining chip.”

That ended the conversation, but Olga knew her husband’s family wouldn’t back down so easily. And she was right.

A few days later, Lyudmila Sergeyevna came to visit. The mother-in-law looked ceremonial and resolute, as if she were about to conduct important negotiations.

“Olga dear,” she began, settling into an armchair, “I want to talk with you. Heart to heart, like a mother with a daughter.”

Olga poured tea and sat opposite her, bracing herself for an unpleasant conversation.

“You see, a family is something shared,” Lyudmila continued in a didactic tone. “When people marry, they become one. There shouldn’t be any ‘mine’ and ‘yours.’”

“I agree,” Olga replied calmly. “But there are things that are precious not for their material value, but for their meaning.”

“Spirituality is lovely,” her mother-in-law nodded, “but practicality matters too. What, do you want to stand out? To show that you have something Viktor doesn’t?”

Olga felt indignation boiling up inside her. For Lyudmila, the apartment was a test of the daughter-in-law’s obedience. She wanted to make sure Olga would submit to the family hierarchy.
Wedding jewelry

“Lyudmila Sergeyevna,” Olga said, keeping her voice polite, “I don’t want to humiliate anyone or set myself apart. This apartment simply means a great deal to me.”

“So your feelings are more important than the family’s well-being?” the mother-in-law narrowed her eyes.

Olga stayed silent, knowing any words would be turned against her. Lyudmila had achieved her goal—she’d sown seeds of doubt and irritation.

After her mother-in-law left, Olga increasingly caught herself thinking that her marriage had become an arena for other people’s plans. Instead of warmth and support, she felt constant pressure and greed. Her husband’s relatives saw the apartment as a juicy prize to be seized at any cost.

Viktor changed, too. He became quiet and pensive, often speaking on the phone in a muffled voice. Olga didn’t eavesdrop, but she could guess—his family kept working on him, urging him to bring the apartment under their control.

The final conversation took place over dinner one November evening. Viktor set down his fork and looked at his wife intently.

“Olga, I’ve thought a lot about our talk,” he began. “And I realized we’re missing excellent opportunities.”

“What opportunities?” Olga asked, though she already suspected where this was going.

“If we sell the apartment, we could take out another mortgage and buy a larger place,” Viktor said enthusiastically. “Imagine: a three-room apartment in a new building, modern finishes, a great layout. It’s a smart move!”

Olga listened, and with each word her indignation grew. He was talking about her parents’ apartment like a commodity to be traded for better housing.

“What if I don’t want to sell?” she asked quietly.

“Why not?” Viktor was surprised. “We’d get better living conditions.”

“Because it’s my parents’ gift,” Olga replied. “And I’m not going to turn their care into a commercial deal.”

Viktor frowned.

“Olga, you’re thinking too narrowly. We need to think about the future, not cling to sentiment.”

Something inside Olga finally snapped. She stood up sharply from the table and looked at her husband with such fury that he instinctively leaned back.

“Just try to lay a hand on my apartment—and you’ll be out the door that very day,” Olga said icily.

Viktor blanched in shock. He was used to a gentle, accommodating wife, and now he saw a resolve in her eyes that truly frightened him.

“Olga, what’s this?” he muttered, confused. “I didn’t mean to hurt you…”

“Hurt me?” Olga laughed, but the laugh came out bitter. “You wanted to sell the memory of my parents for your own ambitions. And you’re surprised at my reaction?”

Viktor tried to object, but Olga had already left the kitchen, slamming the door.

The next day Irina showed up at their apartment. She looked outraged and ready for a fight.

“Olga, I need to talk to you,” Irina declared without even saying hello.

“I’m listening,” Olga replied, not inviting her to sit.

“You’re selfish!” Irina burst out. “You only think about yourself! Viktor is your husband, but you refuse to meet him halfway.”

Olga listened calmly and answered just as calmly:

“Irina, this apartment has nothing to do with you or your mother. It’s my personal property.”
Wedding jewelry

“Personal?” Irina flared. “You’re a married woman! You can’t have anything personal!”

“I can,” Olga said firmly. “And I will.”

After Irina left, Olga understood—if she kept silent and gave in, the apartment would become the prey of other people’s ambitions. Her husband’s relatives wouldn’t stop until they got their way. She had to act firmly, without compromise.

She took out the apartment’s documents and studied them carefully. Everything was in her name; there were no hooks for any claims. But the pressure from her husband’s family was becoming unbearable.
Family games

The decisive moment came a week later. Viktor came home after yet another family council at his mother’s. His face showed determination and a touch of aggression.

“Olga, we have to settle the apartment issue once and for all,” he announced without even taking off his coat.

“The issue is already settled,” Olga replied evenly. “The apartment stays mine.”

“No, it doesn’t!” Viktor raised his voice. “We’re a family, and everything should be shared. You can’t just decide for the two of us.”

“And you can?” Olga asked coldly.
Family games

“I’m the man, the head of the family!” Viktor exclaimed. “And I’m telling you—we need to sell the apartment for our future.”

Olga rose slowly from the couch and headed to the bedroom. Viktor followed, still trying to persuade her.

“Think about it—we’re young and healthy, we can earn for a new place. Why cling to the old one?”

Without a word, Olga took a suitcase from the closet and began packing. Viktor fell silent, watching what she was doing.

“What are you doing?” he asked, bewildered.

 

“Packing your things,” she answered, continuing.

“Why?”

“Go to your dear family, if living in MY apartment is such a burden to you,” Olga said.

Viktor grabbed her by the hand, trying to stop her.

“Olga, don’t be so dramatic! Let’s talk this through calmly.”

Olga pulled her hand free and turned to him. The resolve in her eyes made him step back.

“There’s nothing to discuss, Viktor,” she said coldly. “You’ve made your choice. Cashing in on the apartment at your mother’s and sister’s prompting turned out to be more important to you than your own wife’s opinion.”

“What do Mom and Irina have to do with it?” Viktor tried to object. “I’m thinking about our future!”

“No,” Olga shook her head. “You’re thinking about pleasing your family at my expense.”

“They’re proposing something sensible, and you’re being stubborn.”

Olga zipped up the suitcase and set it by the door. Viktor tried to explain, but she no longer listened. She pointed to the exit and spoke the words that became the verdict on their marriage:

“So the hunger for profit from the apartment—stoked by your family—matters more to you than respect for your wife. Well then, now you have neither the apartment nor a family!”

Viktor froze, lost for words. He left without looking back. He didn’t even manage to justify himself. Everything collapsed in a moment.

The days that followed passed for Olga like a fog. She tried to collect herself and decide what to do next. Viktor called, sent messages, asked to meet. Olga didn’t respond.

Lyudmila Sergeyevna and Irina also tried to contact her. The mother-in-law accused Olga of destroying the family; Irina threatened to sue. But the apartment documents were with Olga, and legally her husband’s relatives could do nothing.

A week later Olga met with a lawyer and filed for divorce. She no longer wanted to live in constant tension, defending her right to her own property.

Once all the formalities were settled, the apartment seemed different—more spacious and bright. As if some heavy weight had lifted.

It was painful for Olga to accept the collapse of her marriage, but she felt a sense of liberation. She knew it was better to be alone than to be someone else’s possession. Her parents had not given the apartment to their SON-IN-LAW—they gave it to their DAUGHTER. They wanted Olga to always have a home to return to.

Sitting in her living room that evening, Olga smiled for the first time in a long while. She had lost her husband but kept herself—and her home. And that turned out to be the most important thing. Outside, the city lights were coming on, and the apartment was warm and cozy. The home given with love remained with Olga. And no one would ever again dare to encroach on what rightfully belonged to her.
Gift baskets

“Good riddance! — his voice thundered through our tiny entryway. — Without you, I’ll only be better off!”

He was so sure he was right. So drunk on his sudden “freedom.” He had no idea he’d just signed, with his own hands, a death sentence for his business and his future. He thought he’d gotten rid of dead weight, but in reality he had thrown away the only life preserver he had. And just a month later he was standing on the threshold of my new office. Begging for help. But it was already too late. My answer was short. And it destroyed him.

“You just sit on my neck, Alyona! A freeloader!” Sergey’s voice boomed so loudly it seemed the glass in the old sideboard rattled.

Alyona stood in the middle of their small living room, hugging herself as if to fend off his words. They hurt worse than a slap. Ten years together. Ten years, of which the last five she’d lived inside his auto shop—his brainchild that had become her child too.
Child care services

“Seryozha, how can you say that?” her voice trembled. “I’m there from morning till night! I keep all the books, I negotiate with suppliers, I calm clients when your guys mess up! Petrovich called again yesterday asking when the advance is coming, and I—”

“What did you do?!” he cut her off, his eyes flashing with malice. “You ‘help’! It’s my business, I built it! And you just shuffle papers and chat on the phone. Any secretary for pennies could do that! I slave away like a damned ox, and you create the appearance of activity and spend my money!”

It was a lie. A brazen, disgusting lie. Before she came along, his “business” was a semi-basement garage with two perpetually drunk mechanics. She was the one who found a more respectable space, secured a low-interest loan, set up parts inventory, built a client base. She’d gone without sleep when she had to urgently find a rare part for an expensive foreign car or smooth out a conflict with the tax office. She had put not only her time but her soul into that shop.

“Your money?” she laughed bitterly. “Seryozha, we haven’t bought me a new fur coat in three years because ‘we have to invest in the lift.’ We didn’t go on vacation because ‘we have to settle with the suppliers.’ I’ve been wearing the same puffer coat for a fourth winter! Where is this money of yours that I’m supposedly spending?”

“Oh, so that’s it! Not enough money for you!” He grabbed at the phrase like a drowning man at a straw. “I knew it! All you women only want money! That’s it, enough! I’m tired of pulling this cart by myself! Tired of your sour face and constant problems!”

He went to the wardrobe, yanked the door open, and hurled her things onto the floor. The old puffer, a couple of sweaters, jeans…

“What are you doing? Stop!” she cried, rushing toward him.

“I’m freeing my life from ballast!” He shoved her so hard she flew back against the wall. “Get out! I want to live for myself! I want to spend money on myself, not on ‘business development’! I want a pretty, cheerful woman next to me, not a gloomy bookkeeper!”

He grabbed a big trash bag, scooped her things off the floor into it, and flung it toward the door.

“There! Your dowry! Take it and get lost!”

Alyona looked at him, and there were no more tears in her eyes. Only a cold, ringing emptiness. The man she loved, the one she had pulled out of every scrape, the one she believed in, stood before her with his face twisted into an ugly grimace of anger and contempt.

“Seryozha…” she whispered in one last, desperate attempt.

“Get out!” he roared, flinging open the front door. “Hear me? Out of my house and out of my life! Good riddance!”

She silently picked up the bag. It was almost weightless. Ten years of life fit into a single trash sack. She gave him one last look—a stranger, a spiteful man—and stepped over the threshold. The door slammed behind her with a deafening crash, cutting off the past.

For the first few days Sergey felt euphoric. Real, intoxicating freedom. No one buzzing in his ear about invoices and packing slips. No one meeting him with a tired look and the question, “So how are things?” The apartment seemed bigger. He cranked the music all the way up, opened a bottle of expensive whiskey that Alyona had “saved for a special occasion,” and drank straight from the neck, feeling like the master of life.

In just three days Kristina appeared at his place. A striking blonde with long legs and the appetites of a racing car. He’d met her at a bar a month earlier and had been messaging with her on the sly, feeding his ego. Kristina was the complete opposite of Alyona. She laughed loud and contagiously, knew nothing of debit and credit, and lived by the principle “live here and now.”

“Wow, what a business you’ve got!” she drawled when Sergey proudly took her to the shop. “You must be rich?”

“We try,” he tossed off carelessly, puffing up with pride. “Built it all myself, from scratch.”

Petrovich, the most experienced and solid mechanic, gave Kristina a sullen sidelong look as he wiped his hands with a rag. He wanted to ask about his wages, which were three days late, but Sergey pretended not to notice.

“Everyone, meet Kristina,” he announced loudly. “She’ll be helping me… with inspiration.”

The guys in the bays exchanged glances. They all knew Alyona. They knew she could find the right bearing in the city in five minutes, arrange a payment deferral, and pacify the grumpiest client. They respected her. The appearance of this dolled-up doll stirred only a dull resentment.

The problems began almost at once, but Sergey was too intoxicated with “freedom” to notice. The owner of a Mercedes they’d been fixing for the second week called.

“Sergey, your wife promised the part would arrive on Tuesday! It’s Thursday—where is it? I need my car!”

 

“We’ll sort it out,” Sergey waved him off. “Suppliers are backed up.”

He had no idea which suppliers or what exactly Alyona had ordered. He tried calling a couple of companies he found in her old notebook, but they answered with vague talk of SKUs and order numbers. He spat and decided it would sort itself out.

That evening Kristina dragged him to the most expensive restaurant in town.

“Babe, I want that necklace,” she pointed a finger at a jewelry shop window on the way. “It’ll go so well with my eyes!”

Without thinking, Sergey pulled out his credit card. He felt like a king. Finally he was spending on a real, beautiful woman, not on “consumables for the service station.” He deserved this. On the way home he saw three missed calls from the chief accountant of their corporate client, a large taxi company. “Must be some minor thing again,” he thought and didn’t call back. He was free of such trifles. He was happy.

Happiness built on self-deception turned out to be as fragile as thin ice. Within a week, that ice started to crack. First, a manager from AutoPartsTrade, their main supplier, called.

“Good afternoon, Sergey. You have an outstanding balance for the last shipment, almost three hundred thousand. Alyona Viktorovna always closed it by the twentieth. Today’s the twenty-fifth. We’re suspending shipments until full payment.”

“How three hundred thousand?” Sergey was taken aback. “Why so much?”

“Well, last month you took a big batch of oils and filters under a corporate contract. All the documents are with you. Alyona Viktorovna received them personally.”

Sergey scratched his head. The corporate contract… the taxi fleet! He frantically searched for their accountant’s number.

“Marina Igorevna? Hello, this is Sergey from Auto-Profi. About payment…”

“Ah, Sergey,” came the cold reply. “I’ve been calling you all week. Our maintenance contract expired. I asked Alyona Viktorovna to prepare a new one, taking into account the expansion of our fleet. She promised to handle it. I take it you’re not aware? We can’t work without a contract. We’ve already signed with your competitors. Good day.”

The dead beeps in the receiver sounded like a funeral march. That was their largest and most stable client. Money from them covered rent and salaries. Sergey sat down in the middle of the office that used to be Alyona’s. It still smelled of her perfume. Neat stacks of papers lay on the desk—he didn’t dare touch them.

Just then Petrovich walked into the shop. His face was darker than a storm cloud.

“Sergey, we need to talk. Last month you shorted my pay. Alyona always calculated overtime; I ended up with almost fifteen thousand more. You tossed me bare base pay. And for these three days of delay—you didn’t add a ruble. What’s going on?”

“Petrovich, not now!” Sergey exploded. “I’ve got problems!”

“You’ve got problems, and I’ve got a family to feed!” the mechanic shot back. “Alyona Viktorovna never did this. She was a woman of her word. If she said the advance was on the fifth, then it was on the card on the fifth. And you…”
Family games

He waved a hand and left, slamming the door.

At home that evening, a new surprise awaited him. Kristina greeted him in a new negligee.

“Baby,” she purred, “I’ve got a little issue. I need to pay off a loan urgently—one hundred and fifty thousand. Will you help your kitty?”

Sergey looked at her with a bleary gaze. One hundred and fifty thousand. He had less than two hundred left in the account, and that was before payroll and paying the supplier debt.

“Kris, now’s not the best time. The business has… temporary difficulties…”

The smile vanished from her face.

“What do you mean, ‘difficulties’?” Her voice turned hard. “You said you were a successful businessman! I didn’t sign up for ‘temporary difficulties.’ I need a man who solves problems, not creates them.

“Seems I misjudged you. I’d better call a taxi.”

The cracking grew into a roar. And Sergey realized with horror that he didn’t know how to plug the hole that was widening by the minute.

The collapse didn’t happen in a flash. It grew like a snowball, and then simply swept everything away. Losing the taxi company was the trigger. Without their regular payments Sergey couldn’t pay down the debt to AutoPartsTrade. As promised, they shut off shipments completely. The shop ground to a halt. Two cars hung on lifts waiting for parts that couldn’t be had. Clients called, swore, threatened lawsuits.

Petrovich, having gotten neither money nor apologies, simply didn’t show up for work. In the morning Sergey found a note on his desk, scrawled on a greasy scrap of paper: “I left for Sidorov’s ‘Garage.’ He pays on time. Invited the other guys too.”

By lunchtime only he and the young trainee Vasya remained in the shop—Vasya hindered more than he helped. The phone wouldn’t stop ringing. Furious clients. The landlord reminding him the rent was due. The bank calling about the delinquency on the loan Alyona had taken for diagnostic equipment. She always remembered due dates. He didn’t.

Sergey sat in the cold, grimy bay with his head in his hands. The smell of motor oil and despair hung in the air. He felt like the captain of a sinking ship that the entire crew had abandoned. Even the rats.

Kristina was the last to jump ship. He called her in some desperate, pathetic bid to hear a word of support.

“Kris, I’m really not doing well…” he began.

“Oh, Seryozh, I can’t talk now,” she trilled. “I’m in Dubai, it’s so sunny here! I told you I didn’t sign up for problems. Good luck with that!”

And she hung up.

He hurled the phone at the wall. It shattered to pieces. The silence that followed was deafening. He was alone. Completely alone. In an empty shop, with debts, no clients, no team, and no woman.

Suddenly it hit him with freezing clarity. Alyona hadn’t been the “burden.” He’d been a self-satisfied idiot. She hadn’t been “helping.” She had been the brains, the heart, and the backbone of that business. She had borne everything on her slender shoulders: finance, logistics, relationships. And he… he had been just a signboard. A pretty façade behind which she quietly solved all the problems while he bragged about “his success.”

He remembered her tired eyes, her requests to “stay home in the evening,” which he ignored, heading off to the sauna with friends. He remembered how happy she was about a new lift as if it were a diamond ring. He remembered her words: “We’re a team, Seryozha.”

And he had destroyed that team with his own hands. Out of pride, stupidity, and egoism.

The realization washed over him like an icy wave. He hadn’t just lost a business. He had lost the one person who truly believed in him and loved him. And he’d done it in the cruelest, most humiliating way. He sat on the cold concrete floor and cried for the first time in years. Not out of self-pity, but from belated, useless remorse.

For the first week Alyona lived in a fog. She slept at her old college friend Sveta’s place, on an air mattress in the kitchen, and stared at the ceiling for hours, replaying their last fight in her mind. Every word Sergey had thrown at her was a poisonous thorn in her heart. “Freeloader.” “Burden.” The pain was almost physical. It felt as if the world she had so carefully built over ten years had collapsed, burying her beneath the rubble.

“Lenka, stop moping,” Sveta shook her by the shoulders. “Look at yourself! You’re smart, you’re a hard worker. That… goat of yours is nothing without you. You think he’ll last long there? His business will start to split at the seams in a month!”

“I don’t care,” Alyona answered lifelessly. “I just don’t know how to live now. Everything I knew, everything I lived for, stayed there.”

“Nonsense!” Sveta wouldn’t relent. “What you know is in your head! You can calculate the profitability of any project in five minutes and win over the nastiest client. That’s your capital! Come on, wash your face; I’ll help you write a resume. Enough feeling sorry for yourself. Time to act.”

Her friend’s words worked. Alyona pulled herself together. She wrote a resume, laying out all her experience—from bookkeeping to procurement management and HR. Seeing it on paper, she surprised even herself. The list of her competencies was impressive.

She started going to interviews. It was scary. She felt like everyone could see her insecurity, her broken heart. But at the third interview, something unexpected happened. The director of a large dealership, a solid man of about fifty, looked over her resume and then raised his eyes.

“Alyona Viktorovna… your face looks familiar. Didn’t you work at Auto-Profi on Lesnaya? With Sergey?”

Alyona nodded, going cold.

“That’s right!” the man smiled. “I’m Igor Semyonovich. I had my Passat fixed with you a couple of times. I always wondered how a flake like Sergey could have such a competent manager. I remember you found me some rare injector in half an hour—the official dealer had me waiting three weeks. I always solved everything with you. So, you left there?”

“Yes, I left,” Alyona answered briefly, not going into details.

“And you did the right thing!” Igor Semyonovich said unexpectedly. “A specialist like you shouldn’t languish in a fly-by-night outfit. I happen to have an opening for a service area manager. The work is tough and responsible. But I can see you’ll handle it. Salary—here,” he wrote a figure on a slip of paper that made Alyona catch her breath. It was three times more than she had ever allowed herself to “take from the till” at her and Sergey’s business. “Deal?”

She walked out of his office on rubber legs. They hired her. Not out of pity, but because they valued her professional qualities—the very qualities Sergey had devalued and trampled on.

A month later Alyona was unrecognizable. She rented a cozy apartment. Bought an elegant business suit and a good coat. Work absorbed her. She put processes in order, optimized logistics, built a motivation system for the mechanics. Her subordinates respected her and management appreciated her. Every evening, coming home, she felt a pleasant fatigue and pride. For the first time in her life she was earning her own real money. For the first time she felt not someone’s shadow, but an independent, strong person. The pain gradually subsided, leaving only a cold scar and a new, steel rod inside.

Almost two months passed. It was a raw, chilly November evening. Alyona was leaving the dealership’s glass-sparkling building. She tucked her chin into the collar of her new cashmere coat and mentally ran through tomorrow’s plan. The day had been hard but productive. She felt in her element.

“Alyona…”

The voice made her flinch and freeze. She slowly turned.

Sergey was standing in front of her.

If she hadn’t known him, she would have walked past. He had grown gaunt, lost weight, dark circles under his eyes. The fancy jacket he’d been so proud of was stained; a two-day stubble shadowed his face. He looked lost and pitiful. He stared at her with hungry, hunted eyes. He took in her well-groomed face, the expensive clothes, her confident posture.

“Seryozha?” She barely recognized her own calm, even voice.

 

“Alyona, I… I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” he mumbled, taking a step toward her. “I know everything. That you work here. That you’re doing well…”

He fell silent, not knowing how to continue.

“What did you want, Sergey?” she asked just as calmly, with no trace of the old hurt.

“Forgive me,” he breathed, his voice breaking. “Alyonka, forgive me. I was such an idiot. Such a blind, self-absorbed jerk. I ruined everything. Everything. The business is gone. Debts, lawsuits… I’ve lost it all.”

He took another step and tried to take her hand. She instinctively pulled it away.

“I get it,” he rushed on, seeing her reaction. “I understand that without you I’m nobody. A zero. You were everything. You were my strength, my brains, my luck. And I… I didn’t value it. I’m begging you, come back. We’ll start over! I’ll fix everything! I’ll worship you, carry you in my arms! Just come back, Alyonka! Help me… I’ll go under without you.”

He looked at her with such desperate hope that anyone else in her place might have wavered. He looked like a beaten puppy begging to be let back into the warmth. But Alyona looked at him and felt nothing. No pity, no gloating. Only a cold, detached emptiness. The person standing before her was a complete stranger.

Alyona silently regarded Sergey’s face, contorted with pleading. For an instant, everything flashed before her eyes: that night when he threw her out with a trash bag; his sharp, prickly words; her tears on a cheap kitchen air mattress at her friend’s; the feeling of total, hopeless despair. Then she saw herself as she was today—well-groomed, in an elegant coat, respected by colleagues, with plans for a future in which there was no place for him.

“Start over?” she repeated quietly. Her voice was even and firm, like tempered steel. “You think you can just press a button and roll everything back?”

“We can do it! I’ll do anything—just say the word!” He leaned forward, eyes fever-bright. “I’ll sell the apartment, we’ll pay off the debts, we’ll start small! Like before!”

Alyona gave a bitter smile.

“There won’t be any ‘like before,’ Seryozha. Not ever. You don’t understand what you did. You didn’t just throw me out of the house. You tore faith out of me—faith in you, in us, in our family. You showed me that ten years of my life, my loyalty, my work meant nothing to you. You trampled me.”
Family games

He began to say something, but she raised her hand, stopping him.

“Do you know what’s the worst part? I believed your words. That night I truly believed I was a burden. A useless freeloader. It took me a month to realize it was a lie. It took other people to tell me I was worth something. And you, the closest person, did everything to make me doubt that.”

She paused, looking him straight in the eyes. There was no hatred in her gaze. Only a final, irrevocable verdict.

“You’re asking me to come back not because you love me. But because you’re hurting and it’s inconvenient. You don’t need me, Alyona. You need a free crisis manager, accountant, and therapist rolled into one. You need someone to raise your sinking ship again. But I’m not a rescuer anymore, Seryozha. I’m the captain of my own vessel. And it’s making full speed ahead.”

He stood with slumped shoulders, silent. He’d run out of arguments. He looked at her as at an unreachable star and, it seemed, only now began to grasp the depth of his loss.

“Goodbye,” she said softly.

“Alyona, wait! Don’t go!” he shouted after her as she turned.

She paused for a second but didn’t look back.
Gift baskets

“You showed me the road yourself, Sergey. Remember? I’m just walking it. And there’s no place for you on my path. Good riddance.”

And she walked away without looking back, her steps crisp on the wet asphalt. She walked toward the lights of the big city, toward her new life, leaving behind the trembling figure of a man who had once been her world and had now become only a ghost from the past.

Clinking crystal glasses rang through the spacious living room, where friends and relatives had gathered for the traditional summer celebration. Anna, as always, bustled around the table, arranging appetizers and checking whether everyone had enough napkins. Her slender fingers, adorned with a simple wedding band, fluttered over the table like birds.

“Anya, sit down already!” exclaimed Marina, her longtime friend. “Everything’s perfect!”

“Just a second,” Anna waved it off out of habit, tucking a loose strand of chestnut hair behind her ear.

Igor, her husband, sat at the head of the table, loudly telling yet another story from his youth. His cheeks were already flushed from the wine, and his voice kept getting louder. Anna knew that dangerous gleam in his eyes—the sign he might say too much.

“And my dear wife…” he suddenly pivoted to her, and Anna’s heart skipped a beat. “Do you know what stunt she pulled recently?”

“Igor, maybe don’t,” she said quietly, but her husband seemed not to hear.

“Imagine—she decided to start her own business!” He threw up his hands theatrically. “She, who can’t even handle the household budget! Saved up for some courses for three months and then—bam!—all the money down the drain!”

An awkward silence settled over the room. Someone coughed nervously; someone else pretended to be absorbed in their plate.

“No, just think about it!” Igor went on, oblivious to the way his wife’s face had gone rigid. “A housewife decided to become a businesswoman! She can’t even give a proper presentation—she stammers, she blushes… Remember how she embarrassed herself at the last office party?”

Anna felt the ground slip from under her feet. Every word of her husband’s struck home, exposing her most painful insecurities and fears. She glanced at her reflection in the polished serving tray—a pale face, trembling lips, and in her eyes… In her eyes was a pain so deep it frightened her.

“And remember how last year she…” Igor didn’t get to finish.

“That’s enough.” Anna’s voice sounded uncharacteristically firm. She slowly set down the napkin she had been crumpling in her hands and rose from the table.

“Oh, come on! I’m only teasing you because I love you!” Igor tried to grab her hand, but she drew away.
Gift baskets

“Thank you all for the evening,” Anna said, looking somewhere over the guests’ heads. “Please excuse me.”

She left the room calmly, back straight, like a ballerina on stage. Only in the hallway, feeling for her car keys in her purse, did she allow herself a ragged breath. Everything blurred before her eyes, but she stubbornly blinked back the unwanted tears.

The next morning Igor woke up on the couch with a headache and a vague sense that he had done something irreparable. Anna had already left for work, leaving an untouched breakfast in the kitchen—for the first time in their fifteen years of marriage.

“Anna, let’s talk,” he texted her.

“Not now,” came the short reply an hour later.

That evening she came home late, ate in silence, and went to the guest bedroom, locking the door. Igor paced around the house like a caged animal.

“How long are you going to sulk?” he shouted through the door. “So I made a bad joke, big deal!”

“A bad joke?” Her voice sounded muffled. “You humiliated me in front of everyone, you mocked my dreams and fears. And you call that a bad joke?”

There was such bitterness in her words that Igor involuntarily stepped back from the door.

Something in her tone reminded him of another voice, from long ago…

“You betrayed me, Igor. I can never trust you again,” echoed in his memory the words of his best friend, spoken twenty years earlier. Back then, he had also “joked,” blurting out his friend’s most private secret in front of everyone. His friend walked away, and they hadn’t seen each other since.

On the second day the silence in the house became unbearable. Every creak of the floorboards, every sound echoed in his ears like a gunshot. Anna methodically packed things into a gym bag.

“Where are you going?” Igor asked anxiously, watching her from the doorway.

“To my sister’s,” she answered shortly, folding a sweater. “I need time to think.”

“What is there to think about?” he exploded. “You’re making a mountain out of a molehill!”

Anna froze, slowly straightened, and gave her husband a long look.

“You know what’s the scariest part, Igor? Not what you said there in front of everyone. It’s that you still don’t understand what you did.”

She zipped the bag and headed for the door. She stopped on the threshold.

“For fifteen years I tried to be the perfect wife. I supported you, smoothed over rough edges, laughed at your jokes even when they were hurtful. I thought that’s how a loving wife should behave. And now I realize—I simply allowed you not to respect me.”

The door closed gently behind her. Igor was left alone in the empty apartment, where every object reminded him of Anna: the half-read book on the nightstand, the cup with a sip of tea left in it, her favorite throw on the armchair…

That evening he opened an old photo album. In the yellowed picture—he and Sergey, his former best friend, arms slung over each other after graduation. “Friends forever,” the inscription on the back read.

Igor gave a bitter smile. Back then, twenty years ago, he had also thought he’d made a clever joke when he told everyone about his friend’s secret crush on the literature teacher. And Sergey… Sergey simply vanished from his life, stopped answering calls, transferred to another school.

On the third day Igor couldn’t take it anymore.

He dialed Sergey’s number—kept all these years, never dared to call.

“Hello?” A voice from the past, so familiar and yet strange.

“Seryoga… it’s me, Igor.”

Silence on the line stretched into an eternity.

“What do you want?” Sergey said at last.

“I’m sorry,” Igor breathed. “For what happened back then, for my stupidity. I’ve only now truly understood what I did.”

“Twenty years have passed,” Sergey said with a wry note.

“Yes. And you know, I… I did the same thing to my wife. I mocked her, humiliated her in front of everyone. Just like I did to you.”

Silence again, but a different kind now—thoughtful.

“Do you remember what you told me then?” Sergey asked. “‘Oh, come on, it was just a joke!’ You know what I felt? Like my soul had been turned inside out. Like everything important and personal to me had been turned into a laughingstock.”

“I remember,” Igor answered quietly. “And now I did the same to Anna…”

“Do you know why I could never forgive you?” Sergey went on. “Not because of the joke itself. Because you never understood how deeply you hurt me. You kept acting like I was exaggerating.”

Igor gripped the phone until his knuckles whitened.

“Serge, I… I get it now. Too late, but I do.”

That same evening Igor gathered all their friends in the very same house. Anna arrived last, surprised by the sudden invitation from a friend.

“What is—” she began, but froze on the threshold.

Igor stood in the middle of the room, pale and resolute.

“I’ve brought everyone together because I have something to say.”

He turned to his wife.

“Anna, three days ago in this room I made a terrible mistake. I mocked your dreams, your fears, your efforts to grow. I did it in front of everyone, thinking it was funny. But it was

base and cruel.”

The room grew so quiet you could hear the clock ticking.

“Twenty years ago I betrayed my best friend the same way. I made a joke of his feelings and lost him forever. Today I spoke to him for the first time in all these years,” Igor’s voice wavered. “And you know what? I don’t want to make the same mistake again. I don’t want to lose you.”

Anna stood motionless; only her fingers worried the strap of her handbag.

“I’m not asking for immediate forgiveness. I know I betrayed your trust. But I swear that I will never…” He took a deep breath. “Never again allow myself to humiliate you. Not in private, not in public. And if you give me a chance, I’ll prove it.”

“If it happens even once more…” Anna began softly.

“You’ll leave,” he finished for her. “And you’ll be right.”

She walked up to him slowly.

“I need time to learn to trust you again.”

“I know,” he nodded. “And I’m ready to wait as long as it takes.”

Anna looked into his eyes—for the first time in three days. In his gaze she saw what she had never seen before: genuine remorse and the fear of losing her.

“All right,” she said simply. “Let’s try to start over.”

Igor took her hand carefully, and she didn’t pull away. In that moment they both understood: this wasn’t just a reconciliation. It was the beginning of a new relationship—one with respect, with boundaries, where words carry weight.

And somewhere in another city, Sergey looked at the phone he had used an hour earlier to talk to his former friend, and for the first time in twenty years felt the old resentment begin to loosen its grip. People can change—so long as they realize their mistakes before it’s too late.

 

Anna stood in the kitchen, immersed in pleasant chores. Outside, morning was slowly breaking, filling the room with a soft golden light. Today she had a day off—the first after weeks of intense work—and she had planned every hour in advance.

“Anyuta, how about we hit the shops? Refresh your wardrobe, have a little fun?” her friend Irina’s ringing, cheerful voice trilled through the receiver.

 

The thought of noisy malls and fitting rooms didn’t stir the least enthusiasm in Anna.
“Thanks for the invite, Irochka, but I have other plans,” she replied gently. “I want to cook something tasty and take it to Sergey at work. I haven’t been to his auto shop in a while. And then I’ll tidy up at home—maybe wash the curtains, clean the windows.”

After hanging up, Anna turned on the washing machine; its steady hum became the soundtrack to the start of her day. She took out pots and pans and began preparing the dishes her husband loved most. She hadn’t found much joy in cooking before, but everything changed when Sergey appeared in her life. He often said that there was nothing more delicious or heartfelt than homemade food prepared with warmth and attention. And Anna learned, tried, discovered new recipes—just to see that satisfied smile on his face.

A few hours later, neat containers of still-warm food stood lined up on the table. Anna looked over the results of her work with satisfaction. She packed a roomy bag, set the containers inside, then added a bag of freshly baked sweet buns—Sergey would surely want to treat his coworkers. Her friends were often surprised when they looked at her: where had the proud, independent, slightly aloof girl they once knew gone? But Anna would just wave it off. Why keep that coolness inside when you can become softer, warmer? When, for the sake of the man you love, you want to create coziness, to fill the home with the aromas of fresh pastries and cleanliness. She was ready to change in many ways, as long as her chosen one felt happy, protected, and knew he was awaited and loved.
Gift baskets

Deciding to make it a surprise, Anna didn’t warn her husband she was coming. She pictured how surprised and delighted he would be to see her. She timed it to arrive right before his lunch break, and today everything worked out perfectly: the bus came on time, there was no traffic, and soon she was already approaching the familiar door of the auto shop.

“Hi, Artyom. Where’s Sergey?” she asked the young man at the front desk.

“Anna, hello! It’s been so long since you’ve come by. You look wonderful—positively glowing,” he answered with a warm smile.

The girl smiled shyly in response. The compliments were nice, of course, but a faint shadow of unease stirred in her soul: what if Sergey heard and misunderstood those words?

“Thank you, Artyom, don’t embarrass me. Where’s my husband?”

“In the shop, at his usual spot. The guys are about to break for lunch. And I see you’ve brought treats? It smells so amazing my mouth is watering.”

Anna nodded and headed deeper inside, to where her husband usually worked. The door to the repair area was ajar, and from beyond it came the familiar smells of motor oil, metal, and gasoline. She had already stepped in when she froze on the threshold: she saw Sergey sitting on the floor, leaning against a car tire, talking animatedly with his partner, Dmitry. For a moment Anna stood still, admiring his profile, his focused face.

“Serёg, so what are you going to do about Marina now? Give her another chance, or keep playing the model family man?” Dmitry asked, taking a wrench from his friend’s hand.
Family games

Sergey sighed heavily.
“What am I supposed to do with her? I haven’t decided yet. First I need to tighten my belt a bit, make some money. She’s not going anywhere. Marina swears she loves me and says she’ll never let me go again.”

Anna’s heart quivered and plunged into an abyss. At the familiar name, her temples began to throb. Marina—his ex, his first and, it seemed, only real love. Their story had ended painfully—she had chosen someone else, more “promising,” or so she thought then. Sergey took it hard, and Anna had been there, supporting him, listening, and gradually, from a friend and comfort she became his wife.

“And what do you think? You have a wife. Anna may not be a model, but she’s smart, she’s got golden hands, and a wonderful character. Finding someone who won’t betray you these days is a rare thing.”

“I feel sorry for her, Dima, you understand? But you can’t order your heart around—it reaches for someone else. Anya really is wonderful, I won’t argue. She’d move mountains for me, do anything. But with me right now… it’s not that. When I’m with Marina, everything inside me boils; I feel truly alive, I feel real emotions. You know what I mean?”

“And you think that’s what real feeling is?” Dmitry snorted skeptically.

“I don’t know what to call it… and what difference does it make? With her I feel a rush, and with Anya… it’s calm, like with a sister. Yes, I’m attached to her, but that fire, that passion—no. And I’m still young, I want that. For now I’ll just put things with Anya on pause. I’ll say I’m worn out from work. I don’t want her getting pregnant right now, and later I’ll come and tell her I’ve decided to break up. Let Marina wait a little longer, think things through. We met yesterday—she was practically in tears, saying how much she misses me.”

Every word he spoke drove into Anna’s soul like a red-hot needle, leaving deep, painful scars. Sergey spoke of his betrayal so easily, so calmly, as if discussing the weather. He had been deceiving her all this time, and she had been too blind and trusting to notice anything. Her friends had hinted they’d seen Marina in town, but Anna had brushed it off, not wanting to believe it. She was sure that even if his ex returned, Sergey, remembering the old pain, would never go back to her. After all, he had married her, sworn love and fidelity. But it turned out he’d been with her only because it was convenient?

“I do like coming home to the smell of fresh food, where everything is neat and cozy. And I do like Anna, that’s true. But she… she isn’t Marina. She even gives me massages after a hard day, but it’s not the same… Eh! I’m probably acting like a complete fool. I’m afraid of making a mistake if I go back to the past. I need to weigh everything properly. After work today I’ll go walking with Marina again. We’ll see where it leads.”

Dmitry only shook his head, silently disagreeing. And Anna… she couldn’t move, couldn’t make a sound. She stood pressed against the doorframe, staring at her husband, while the echo of his merciless words rang in her ears without end. How could this be? Why? Why her? Her eyes filled with moisture, and hot, scalding tears slowly rolled down her cheeks. Suddenly she felt someone’s touch. It was Artyom. He gently took her by the shoulders and led her aside, to a quiet corner of the reception area.

“I’m sorry. I should have warned them right away that you were coming,” he said softly. “You shouldn’t have heard that.”

“It’s all right. This is even better. Now I know the truth. I know I was only a backup option, a convenient, comfortable match. Please don’t tell him I was here. All right? I’ll decide for myself what to do. I don’t want him to know…”

Artyom nodded silently and firmly. Anna handed him the bag with the containers and the sack of sweet buns.
“Take it—share it with the guys. I’m not taking all this back home.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to give it to him?”

She only nodded, unable to say a word. She no longer wanted to be convenient. She wouldn’t run after a husband who was making plans with another woman behind her back. Instead of returning to a home where a loving wife awaited him, he rushed to a date, dreaming of something happening between them. No… Anna understood that her place in Sergey’s life had been an illusion. To be completely honest, it had never been there at all. She had invented that love herself, built a fragile castle of sand, and believed she had become his whole world. But she turned out to be only a temporary substitute, a quiet harbor where he waited out the storm before rushing back into the ocean of passion with someone else.
Gift baskets

She didn’t remember how she stepped outside, how she walked along familiar sidewalks. The scenery slid past the bus window as a blurry smear. Back at the apartment, she silently began to pack. The place was his—bought before their wedding. And though they had chosen the furniture together, hung the curtains together, arranged every corner together over three years of marriage, now she didn’t want to take any of it. Only the essentials. Only her own things. She wanted simply to disappear, to leave, and try to forget.

Casting one last, farewell glance around the apartment, Anna closed the door with resolve. She slipped the set of keys into the mailbox, called a taxi, and went to her grandmother’s. It was time to return to where she had once started her path. Pain was tearing her chest apart, but somewhere deep inside a certainty was forming: she would manage. She would get through this. How could it be otherwise? She was not going to break and give up on life because of someone who couldn’t appreciate her. On the contrary, she wanted to fill her days with new colors, new meanings, and regret nothing. She didn’t curse Sergey and didn’t place all the blame solely on him. When her grandmother, Lyudmila Petrovna, asked why she had come back, Anna simply said that she and her husband turned out to be too different, and so their paths had diverged. The elderly woman didn’t press for details; she just hugged her granddaughter and promised she would always be her support and her rock.

Sergey called late in the evening. Apparently his date had gone well, since he got home so late and found emptiness.

“Anya, where are you? What happened? You had the day off. You didn’t even call.”

What would have been the point? Before, when she called him during the day, he often got irritated and said he was at work, not on vacation, and had no time to chat.

 

“I left you, Seryozha. I’m sorry, but we’re too different. I can’t live like this anymore. I feel there’s no love for me in you, and I… I need it. Do you understand? So just let me go.”

“But how? Why didn’t you talk to me, why did you just up and disappear? Anya, that’s not how problems get solved.”

“I know you’re seeing Marina again. And I wish you happiness. I don’t hold a grudge. Just give me a divorce, and our paths will never cross again.”

Every word cost her enormous effort. First and foremost, she was acknowledging to herself: this was the end. Their shared story was over. A sharp, cutting pain pierced her chest, but it was only the beginning—the beginning of her new, independent life. Sergey was silent on the other end. He couldn’t find words to justify himself, because he understood his guilt. He didn’t try to persuade her to return, didn’t insist on a conversation—he simply hung up.

Nearly two months passed. Anna received the coveted divorce papers and slowly began to heal her wounded heart. She stopped analyzing the past, stopped wondering what she might have done differently, how she might have influenced his feelings. You can’t force love, no matter how you twist it. He was fine with being loved by her, and he allowed himself to be loved. Now she wanted something else. She dreamed of meeting someone who would love her just as much and unreservedly as she once loved. She wanted to be truly desired and happy. Anna started with herself: she paid more attention to her appearance, her health, her hobbies. She began going shopping with her friends again, treating herself to new things. She got a more promising job and started saving for her own—however small—apartment, because she didn’t want to depend on anyone for the rest of her life.

A chance meeting with Artyom at the mall turned out to be unexpected but pleasant. Irina had just left on urgent business, and Anna didn’t want to go home yet, so she agreed to his offer to have a cup of coffee together. At a table in a cozy café, Artyom, a little embarrassed, confessed to her:

“You burst into my life like a ray of light on a gloomy day. From the very first time we met, I realized you were extraordinary. But I didn’t dare say a word, because you were my coworker’s wife. I tried not to think about you, but can you forbid your heart to feel? I’m not asking for anything, I’m not pressuring you. I just wanted you to know… Maybe someday you’ll give me a chance? I understand that now may not be the time.”

“Yes,” Anna answered, surprising even herself. “I’m ready to give that chance and see where it leads.”

Artyom was an engaging conversationalist—attentive and tactful. His words sounded sincere, and Anna felt that a few meetings would help her get to know him better and understand whether there was that very real connection between them. She didn’t overthink it and agreed to a first date.

It turned out they had far more in common than they’d imagined. They could talk for hours about everything and not notice time passing. They felt comfortable and calm together. Anna decided to trust fate. In Artyom’s eyes she saw that very spark, that warmth she had so lacked in her marriage. She felt that her wounded, cautious heart was gradually thawing and ready to love again. Perhaps it was too hasty to dive back into the ocean of feelings, but what was the point of running from them if they brought so much light and hope?
Gift baskets

Sergey realized the depth of his loss too late. His fleeting infatuation with Marina burned out quickly, leaving behind only the bitter ash of disappointment. He found himself missing Anna unbearably. He caught himself searching for her face in the crowd, coming to the empty home with a secret hope that it was all a bad dream and she would step out to meet him at any moment. But it didn’t happen. He pined and finally, with pain, understood that he had loved his wife all along, but had willingly turned away from that feeling, refusing to see and acknowledge it.

Sergey never managed to speak with his ex-wife. Anna found the strength to move forward. She met a man who wanted to protect her, care for her, love her every day. With Artyom, she felt a sense of safety and happiness she had never known before. He helped her heal old wounds and believe again that love exists. Sergey had spent too long convincing himself he loved another; he had been ready to betray the person closest to him—and now he could only gnaw his elbows, realizing his mistake. Anna silently wished him to find his own path and peace, and she stepped into a new life… a life in which she was not only loving, but truly, deeply, and devotedly loved.

 Outside the village store, smelling of fresh bread and dust, tempers, as always, were running high. The local gossips, gathered on the worn steps, were picking apart their neighbors’ lives. Today’s main topic was Viktor—the strapping fellow, the village’s prize catch—who had left his wife, Anna.

 

— “Hear this? Vitka’s run off to the city with a young one!” Claudia confided, lowering her voice and glancing around. “Left poor Anya behind, a cripple. They say that Lyuba of his is practically a girl, has him dancing to her tune.”

— “Shameless,” her neighbor chimed in. “And she wound up bedridden because of him. If not for that drunk, she’d be running around like before.”

Everyone nodded sympathetically. The village knew the tragedy down to the last detail. Three years earlier, in a bitter frost, a drunken Viktor decided to cut across the river and went through the ice. Anna, without a second’s thought, jumped in after him. She—slight and fragile—managed to shove the lump of her feckless husband up onto a solid floe, but she herself couldn’t get out.

A treacherous slab of ice came down over her, pinning her and breaking her spine. Since then, her world had shrunk to the four walls of her home. Anna could only move around the room with great difficulty, every motion answered by such agony that she spent most of her time in bed, staring at the ceiling.

She often replayed their last conversation. Viktor stood in the doorway with a bag packed, unable to raise his eyes.

— “Try to understand, Anya, I’m a young man,” he finally ground out. “I need a normal life, a healthy woman. And this—what is this? A prison, not a life.”

She kept silent, swallowing the tears that rose in her throat.

— “You should… get yourself into a home for the disabled,” he threw out cynically. “They’ll look after you there.”

He tossed a few crumpled bills onto the nightstand and walked out without looking back. The door slammed, cutting her off from her past, from hope, from everything she’d lived for.

Anna lay in bed, staring blankly at one spot. Her face was swollen from crying, and her body ached not only from the old injury but from all-consuming despair. Her husband’s words about the home for the disabled pulsed in her head, burning away the last remnants of hope. Maybe he was right. Who would want her like this? A burden to everyone. The thought of a state institution, where the abandoned and unwanted lived out their days, no longer seemed so terrifying. It felt like the only logical way out of a dead end.

 A sudden knock at the door made her flinch. Who could it be? The neighbors seldom dropped by, careful not to burden her with their presence. The knock came again, more insistent. Mustering her strength, Anna slid off the bed, braced herself against the walls, and hobbled to the door.

A man of indeterminate sort stood on the threshold—either a tramp or simply a down-and-out. Old, worn clothes, hair in disarray, a tired, hunted look.

— “Good day, mistress,” he rasped. “Let me stay a couple of nights? I just need to look around your village, find some work.”

Anna froze, peering into his face. Something in his eyes—some hidden pain—made her heart quiver. Anyone else would have shut the door in a vagrant’s face, but she, without quite knowing why, stepped aside and let him in.

— “Come in. There’s a spare bed in that room,” she said softly.

As soon as he disappeared into the room, she cursed herself in her thoughts. She’d gone mad. Letting the first stray that came along into the house! What if he was a thief? Or worse? Yet something kept her from throwing him out.

By evening, the house filled with the smell of fried potatoes. The stranger came into her room carrying two plates. Without a word, he helped her sit up in bed, tucking pillows behind her back. Then he set a wide board across her knees like a makeshift tray and placed the plate before her. Anna looked at him, speechless. In all her married years she hadn’t seen a hundredth part of such simple, quiet care from Viktor.

They ate in silence. The stranger ate quickly, with the hunger of a man who hadn’t had enough for a long time, while Anna picked at her potatoes, the tightness in her throat making it hard to swallow.

— “Dmitry,” he said suddenly, wiping his mouth with his hand. “My name’s Dima.”

He told his story. Five years earlier he’d been released from prison. He’d gotten into a fight while defending his wife from drunken harassment and hadn’t realized his strength. One of the attackers died in the hospital. His wife had promised to wait, wrote letters, but when he came back, it turned out she’d long been living with another man and had already had a child. He drifted around the city, scraping by on odd jobs, and then decided to go out to the countryside to start fresh.
Child care services

Anna listened, and sympathy stirred in her soul. Two broken lives, two betrayals.

— “Our chairman, Sergei Pavlovich, he’s a good, fair man,” she advised when he finished. “Go to him in the morning, tell it straight. Maybe he’ll help you with work.”

— “And what happened to you?” Dmitry asked quietly, nodding toward her legs.

And she told him. About the drunken husband, the icy river, the pain that had become her constant companion, and Viktor’s departure the day before. She spoke for a long time, for the first time in years letting it all out to the end, and with every word she felt a little lighter.

 

Meanwhile, the village buzzed like a stirred-up hive. The news that Anna had taken in some outsider had swept through every yard. And when someone found out the stranger was an ex-convict, the rumors took on a sinister shade.

— “She took a murderer into her house!” Claudia gasped outside the store. “He’ll finish her off and burn the place down!”

— “She’s gone mad from grief, looks like,” another chimed in. “Poor woman—but if something happens, it’ll be on her.”

Opinions differed—some pitied Anna, some condemned her—but everyone agreed on one thing: this would not end well.

Two weeks passed. As Anna had advised, Dmitry went to see the chairman. Sergei Pavlovich listened to his honest account, was moved, and took him on at his sawmill. Now every evening Dmitry came back to Anna’s little house. He brought groceries, cooked a simple supper, then sat by her bed and told her about his day, about the men at work, spinning yarns. At first, Anna only listened; then she began to smile a little; and one day she even burst out laughing at one of his jokes. The sound of her own laughter seemed strange and unfamiliar. She’d forgotten the last time she’d laughed.

Dmitry froze, looking at her.

— “You’re beautiful when you smile,” he said simply.

Anna blushed and looked away.

— “Tell me, what do the doctors say?” he asked suddenly, serious. “Is there a chance you’ll walk?”

— “I barely remember what they said,” she answered with a bitter little smile. “I practically ran away from the hospital back then. I was in such a hurry to get home, to the housework, to my husband… Thought he needed me.”

Dmitry’s face darkened. He said nothing, but something new and firm appeared in his eyes.

Three days later he came back from work earlier than usual, together with Sergei Pavlovich in his old Niva.

— “Get ready, Anya. We’re going to the hospital,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument.

Gently, as if she were the greatest treasure, he lifted her in his arms and carried her out of the house. A small crowd of the curious had already gathered at the gate. The villagers watched in silence as Dmitry settled Anna into the back seat of the car. Suddenly Nadezhda, Viktor’s cousin—who had been the loudest to shout that Anna had “shacked up with a con”—stepped forward.

— “Anya, you hang in there!” she called out. “And you, Dmitry, good for you! Don’t listen to us, you foo— I was wrong.”

The car pulled away, leaving behind a surprised and subdued village.

The doctor, an elderly, gray-haired professor, spent a long time studying the old images and then looked at Anna sternly over his glasses.

— “My dear girl, what have you done to yourself?” he scolded gently. “You should have been running ages ago! You abandoned rehabilitation, let it all go. Everything’s ‘stiffened up’ now, mended wrong.”

Anna listened, and tears of despair rose again in her throat.

— “Is there a chance?” Dmitry asked hoarsely, standing beside her.

— “There’s always a chance,” the doctor sighed. “But now you’ll have to work ten times harder. The pain will be hellish. But if she can endure it—she’ll walk.”

— “She’ll endure,” Dmitry said firmly. “I’ll make sure she does everything you prescribe. I give you my word.”

Back in the village, Dmitry threw himself into action. Following the diagrams the doctor had given him, he built a special training contraption for Anna out of boards and ropes—a device she immediately nicknamed “the rack.” Days that felt like torture began.

Dmitry made her exercise, pushing through terrible pain. She cried, screamed, begged him to leave her alone, but he was relentless. Firm, yet with endless care in his eyes, he made her do one more movement, one more set. He massaged her numbed muscles, wiped the sweat from her brow, and whispered: “Hold on, Anechka, hold on, my dear. You can do this.”

A month of daily torment passed. One morning Anna woke and, out of habit, went to push herself up with her hands—and suddenly realized she could do it without help. She sat up by herself. Simply sat up in bed. Tears of joy poured from her eyes.

Dmitry walked in, saw it, and smiled his warm, kind smile.

— “You see?” he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “And you didn’t believe. At this rate, we’ll be running to the registry office on our own two feet.”

Anna froze, staring at him in shock.

— “Dima, what are you saying? The registry office? Me?” she whispered. “I’m disabled…”

— “So what?” he replied calmly. “And I’m an ex-con. Sounds like a perfect match to me.”

She looked into his serious, loving eyes and understood he wasn’t joking. The pause stretched.

— “I’ll go,” she breathed at last. “If you ask me, I’ll go.”

— “I’ll ask,” he smiled, gently taking her hand. “I most certainly will.”

Later he admitted how hard it had been all that time—being near her, so fragile, so defenseless, and so desired, and being afraid even to touch her, afraid to start this conversation, so as not to frighten away her fragile trust.

…Three years passed. Viktor was trudging back into the village, raising dust on the road he knew by heart. City life with his young Lyubka had turned out nothing like he’d imagined. Constant demands, scenes, complaints about money—it all became a real prison. He ran from there the way he once ran from Anna, and now he was coming home. He was sure that Anya, worn down by loneliness and illness, would be thrilled to see him. She had always loved him and forgiven everything.

He reached his house and stopped in surprise. The place had been neatly repainted, and where the old, crooked picket fence had stood, there was a new, expensive metal one. “Well, I’ll be,” Viktor snorted. “Looks like they pay invalids well these days.”

He had just reached for the latch when the gate creaked open. A sturdy, unfamiliar man rolled a baby carriage out into the lane with businesslike ease. Behind him came Anna, adjusting a pretty summer dress. She was beautiful, healthy, happy. She was saying something cheerful to the man and laughing.

Viktor stood as if struck by lightning. He couldn’t believe his eyes. This wasn’t his cowed, sick Anya but a confident, blooming woman.

— “Anya?” he stammered, stunned.

 

Anna turned, and the smile slowly faded from her face. She looked at him calmly, without hatred, as if he were nothing.

— “Who… are you?” Viktor croaked, shifting his gaze to the man. “And whose child is that?”
Child care services

Dmitry stopped and looked at Viktor evenly.

— “I’m her husband,” he said in a level voice. “And you, I take it, are the ex. My advice—don’t come around here anymore. For everyone’s sake.”

From the neighboring yard, the same inquisitive Claudia peeked out. Seeing the bewildered Viktor, she decided to finish him off.

— “What’s the matter, Vitka, didn’t expect this?” she called out with a sneer. “That’s Anya’s new husband, Dmitry. He got her back on her feet. But you be careful with him—he’s a killer, fresh out of prison!”

Viktor felt his knees tremble. A killer. A con. He pictured what this solid man could do to him for one sideways word about Anna. Suddenly life with perpetually dissatisfied Lyubka didn’t seem so bad. Spinning on his heel, he headed at a brisk, almost panicked pace toward the bus stop, to leave for good the place where he had lost everything.