All Amazing Babies

Natalya looked at the documents calmly. For some reason, there was no anger either.

“So, you’ve really decided?” Vladimir looked at his wife with barely concealed irritation. “And what now? How are we going to divide things?”

Natalya raised her eyes. There were no tears, no pleas—only determination that had appeared after a sleepless night spent thinking about her ruined life.

“Take everything,” she said quietly but firmly.

“What do you mean ‘everything’?” Vladimir squinted skeptically.

“The apartment, the dacha, the car, the accounts. Everything,” she gestured around. “I don’t need anything.”

“Are you joking?” he started to smile. “Or is this some kind of female trick?”

“No, Volodya. No joke, no trick. For thirty years I put my life on hold. Thirty years I washed, cooked, cleaned, waited. Thirty years I heard that traveling is a waste of money, that my hobbies are frivolous, that my dreams are nonsense. Do you know how many times I wanted to go to the sea? Nineteen. Do you know how many times we went? Three. And all three times you grumbled that it was expensive and pointless.”

Vladimir snorted.

“There you go again. We had a roof over our heads, we had food…”

“Yes, we did,” Natalya nodded. “And now you will have everything else too. Congratulations on your victory.”

The lawyer watched the scene with undisguised surprise. He was used to tears, shouting, mutual accusations. But this woman was simply giving up everything people usually fight to the last drop for.

“Do you understand what you’re saying?” he quietly asked Natalya. “By law, you are entitled to half of the jointly acquired property.”

“I understand,” she smiled so brightly as if she had shed an invisible burden from her shoulders. “And I also understand that half of an empty life is just an empty life in miniature.”

Vladimir barely hid his glee. Of course, he hadn’t expected such a turn of events. He planned to bargain, maybe threaten, definitely manipulate. But here was a gift from fate!

“Now that’s adult behavior!” he slapped the table. “Finally, you showed some sense.”

“Don’t confuse sense with liberation,” Natalya replied quietly and signed the documents.

They drove home in the same car but as if from different planets.

Vladimir was softly humming to himself—seemed like a march or an old childhood song. The car gently rocked over bumps, and his whistle sometimes circled in the air, then suddenly stopped.

Natalya wasn’t listening—she hardly heard anything around her because her gaze was fixed on the cloudy window through which cheerful firs and pines rushed past, and her heart fluttered like a young bird taking its first flight.

How strange: an ordinary road, a tired evening, and suddenly—an inexpressible feeling of space inside. As if a heavy lump that had been there for a long time suddenly evaporated. Natalya smiled, touched her cool cheek with her fingers, and thought: this is it, this is freedom…

Sometimes a person only needs a single moment, a single glance through a window at the trees flying by in the distance—for life to burst into new, long-forgotten colors.

Three weeks later, Natalya stood in the middle of a small room in Klin.

The rented accommodation looked modest: a bed, a wardrobe, a table, and a small TV. On the windowsill sat two pots with violets—the first independent purchase in the new place.

“You’re really crazy,” her son Kirill’s voice sounded on the phone with clear irritation. “You just dropped everything and moved to this dump?”

“I didn’t drop it, son,” Natalya calmly corrected him. “I left it. Those are two different things.”

“Mom, but how? Dad said you gave him everything willingly. Now he’s even planning to sell the dacha—says he doesn’t want so much hassle by himself.”

Natalya smiled, looking at herself in the small mirror on the wall. For a week now, she had been wearing a new haircut she would never have dared to get when Vladimir was around. “Too youthful,” “unprofessional,” “what will people say”—the usual phrases echoed in her memory.

“Let him sell it,” she agreed lightly. “Your father always knew how to manage the property.”

“What about you? You have nothing left!”

“I have the most important thing left, Kirill. My life. And you know what’s surprising? It turns out at fifty-nine you can start it over.”

Natalya took a job as an administrator at a small private nursing home for elderly people. The work was not easy but interesting. And most importantly—new acquaintances appeared and free time she now managed herself.

Meanwhile, Vladimir was reveling in his victory.

For the first two weeks, he walked around the apartment like the owner of a new castle, looking at everything with a sense of complete possession. No one would scold him anymore, no one would remind him about unwashed socks or dirty dishes.

“You’re lucky, Volodya,” said his friend Semyonych, sipping cognac in the kitchen. “Other men lose half or more, and you—you’re in chocolate! The apartment, the dacha, the car—all yours.”

“Yeah,” Vladimir smirked smugly. “Finally, Natalya showed some sense. Apparently, she realized she’d be lost without me.”

By the end of the first month, the euphoria began to give way to the first inconveniences.

Clean shirts strangely stopped appearing in the wardrobe. The fridge gaped empty, and cooking a proper meal turned out harder than imagined. At work, colleagues began noticing Vladimir looked less tidy than before.

“You look drawn, Vladimiryich,” the department head remarked. “Everything alright at home?”

“More than alright,” Vladimir replied cheerfully. “Just some minor household reorganization.”

One evening he opened the fridge and found only a bottle of ketchup, a pack of processed cheese, and an opened bottle. His stomach betrayed him with a growl, reminding him that Vladimir had only managed a sandwich that morning.

“Damn it,” he muttered, slamming the door with visible irritation. “This can’t go on… Something has to be done.”

As if escaping these thoughts, Vladimir immediately ordered food—what else, without delivery, if the fridge was again like a spring steppe: empty, with only a few wilted green shoots on the bottom shelf. While waiting for the courier, he habitually sorted through a pile of bills. And there, like a cold shower, the numbers hit him: utilities, internet, card payments, electricity…

Before, it all seemed some background fuss, a problem from a parallel reality. Probably happens like this: as long as someone is around, life just happens. You don’t notice expenses, don’t think—just live.

Then a persistent ring sounded—as if dragged from a whirlpool of thoughts. The courier handed him the package and the terminal.

“Five hundred eighty rubles,” came the even tone.

 

“What?!” Vladimir jumped, almost dropping his keys. “For what, excuse me, for stew and water?”

“Well… standard price these days,” shrugged the courier, looking like someone who hears such surprise a hundred times a day.

He paid silently, returned to the apartment, and stopped at the kitchen door. All was quiet. Even the fridge hummed tensely, as if lonely. The apartment was large, with trendy lamps and mirrors, with all the things he had once dreamed of… But now it seemed just a waiting room. Cold. Empty. So huge that the wind could howl in the hallway—just like in Vladimir’s soul.

Natalya stood on the shore of the Black Sea, facing the sun and salty wind.

Around her bustled a group of similarly “aged” tourists—the active retirees club had organized a week-long trip to Crimea. For the first time in her life, she traveled without constant reminders of money “wasted,” without grumbling and calculations of how much could be saved by staying home.

“Natalya, come take a picture!” called her new friend Irina, an energetic sixty-year-old widow whom she’d met in a painting class.

Natalya happily ran to the group lined up for a group photo. Who would have thought you could wear a bright sundress, let your hair down, and laugh like a girl at her age?

“And now a selfie!” Irina commanded, pulling out a long phone stick. “And let’s definitely post it in the group!”

In the evening, sitting in her room, Natalya looked through the photos. There was a woman with shining eyes and a happy smile—a woman she barely recognized. When had that ever-tense crease between her brows disappeared? When had her shoulders straightened and her movements gained lightness?

“I should post these on social media,” Natalya said to herself and, after a moment’s hesitation, published several pictures on her almost forgotten profile.

Meanwhile, in Moscow, Vladimir was struggling with a burst pipe in the kitchen. Water flooded the floor, ruined a nightstand, and the plumber he called indifferently reported, “They don’t make those anymore,” and the whole riser would have to be replaced.

“What the hell!” Vladimir swore, wiping the wet floor with old towels. “Where’s that damn plumber’s number? Natalya always knew who to call.”

Suddenly he realized that his wife had kept dozens of phone numbers in her memory—from the plumber to a good hairdresser, from a trusted butcher at the market to a reliable shoe repairman. That invisible frame of household comfort collapsed in one moment, leaving him alone with problems that had previously been solved as if by magic.

“Damn pipe!” he threw the wet rag down with rage. “And I have to cook, and wash, and that damn job too…”

That evening, when the water was finally shut off and the puddle somehow cleaned up, Vladimir remembered that he hadn’t been on social media for a long time. Out of boredom, he started scrolling his feed and suddenly froze—the screen showed Natalya’s joyful face against the sea. She was in a bright sundress, with a new haircut and looked… happy?

“What nonsense,” he muttered, zooming in on the photo. “She left practically penniless!”

Comments under the photo only increased his confusion:

“Natalyushka, so young in the photo!”

“You look great, girlfriend!”

“The sea suits you!”

He scrolled further and found even more surprising things: some gatherings in a library, a group of people with easels in the park, Natalya with a bouquet of wildflowers sitting on a bench.

“What the hell,” Vladimir put down the phone and looked around the empty kitchen with dirty dishes in the sink. “She was supposed to… was supposed to…”

 

He couldn’t finish the sentence because suddenly he realized—he really expected Natalya to suffer without him, without all that he considered important. But in the photos was a completely different woman—as if she had shed years and found freedom.

A few days later, the dacha roof started leaking. A storm was coming, and the attic needed urgent covering.

“Semyonych, help me!” he begged on the phone. “Bring some nails at least, I can’t manage alone.”

“Sorry, Vovchik,” came the reply. “My mother-in-law is in the hospital, I’m with her. Listen, why don’t you call Natalya? She always helped you.”

“She…” Vladimir faltered. “She left.”

“Left? Where to?”

“Just left,” Vladimir cut off. “Okay, I’ll manage myself.”

But managing turned out harder than he thought. Rain drummed on the roof as he cursed while trying to stretch a tarp over the leaking area. Suddenly his foot slipped, and Vladimir rolled down, screaming. Falling to the ground, he felt a sharp pain in his ankle.

“Sprained ligaments, lucky you,” a young doctor at the emergency room said indifferently. “Could have been worse. A week of rest, keep your leg elevated.”

“A week?” Vladimir grimaced in pain. “And who will do the repairs? My roof is leaking!”

“That’s your problem,” the doctor shrugged, writing a prescription. “Let your wife take care of it, and you lie down.”

Vladimir wanted to argue but stayed silent.

He spent three days completely alone, barely moving around the apartment on crutches. The ordered food ran out and was expensive anyway. Attempts to cook something himself failed—standing by the stove on one leg was almost impossible.

On the fourth day, he couldn’t take it and called his son.

“Kirill, hi,” he started in an overly cheerful voice. “How are you?”

“Fine, Dad,” his son’s voice was cautious. “Something wrong?”

“No, just…” Vladimir hesitated. “I have a minor injury, leg. Maybe you could drop by and help the old man?”

There was a pause.

“Sorry, Dad, I’m in St. Petersburg on a business trip. Back in three days.”

“Ah… okay,” disappointment stuck in his throat. “No matter, I’ll manage.”

“Listen,” Kirill said hesitantly, “have you called Mom? She could…”

“No!” Vladimir sharply cut him off. “Why call her? I’m doing just fine.”

He hung up first and threw the phone on the couch. Absurd pride wouldn’t let him admit he missed Natalya, her care, her presence at home. Before, he never noticed how much she did—simply because everything was done quietly, without noise or demands for gratitude.

A week and a half later, Vladimir finally managed to walk without crutches. First thing, he went to the dacha to assess the storm damage. The sight was depressing—the attic ceiling was covered with mold spots, the favorite sofa was hopelessly ruined, and the air smelled musty.

“What the hell,” he muttered, sitting on a bench in the garden.

The apple trees, which Natalya had always cared for, stood neglected. The high grass almost hid the paths she had lovingly laid out with stones. Everything seemed orphaned without her caring hands.

On the way back, he stopped at a roadside café. Tired and upset, Vladimir ordered borscht and compote. The first spoonful unexpectedly caused a lump in his throat—the borscht was nothing like Natalya’s, too sour and tasteless.

“Are you okay, sir?” a passing waitress asked sympathetically.

“Yes, just…” he couldn’t find words. How to explain that a simple borscht suddenly reminded him of a whole life he had lost?

Back home, Vladimir sat in silence for a long time, looking at photos on the shelf. Here they were young, smiling against the Kremlin. Here was a family photo where Kirill was still small. Here was their twentieth wedding anniversary…

“What a fool I am,” he whispered, looking at his wife’s happy face in the old photo.

Summoning courage, Vladimir took the phone and wrote a message. But the reply was nothing like he expected.

Natalya had moved to a seaside town. New friends laughed around her, music played, and life—real life—finally belonged to her completely.

At almost sixty, she had finally begun to live.

Three years have passed since the day pain stormed into Irina’s life—not just any pain, but the loss of everything that made her life worth living. In an instant, like a snapped cable over an abyss, she was deprived of the two closest people: her husband Oleg and their little son Timur.

At first glance, nothing foretold disaster. The morning was ordinary—cool, quiet, with a light mist of fog outside the window. Oleg, as usual on weekends, was preparing to go fishing. It wasn’t just a hobby — more like a ritual, a way to escape the hustle, clear his mind, sit in silence with a fishing rod, and think. He even joked sometimes: «I’m at the bay like at confession — without sins and with a clear conscience.»

Sometimes he came back with a rich catch—proudly dumping the fish on the table like trophies. Irina would just sigh, roll her eyes, and silently start preparing freezer bags. She knew who she married—a man whose soul was tied to the waters. But even she liked how her husband’s eyes sparkled when he talked about his favorite place—the Quiet Bay, where the water mirrored the sky, and the air was filled with the scent of pine and birdsong.

She herself had gone with them a couple of times but couldn’t stand it long—mosquitoes ruined all the fun. Still, she admitted:
— The place is beautiful… but only for two hours. Beyond that — it’s hell.

But Timur adored that place. Since he was five, he literally begged to go fishing, like other kids begged to go to an amusement park. He ran along the shore, proudly waving his toy fishing rod, imagining himself a great fisherman. His laughter echoed over the water, and his eyes shone as if the whole summer glowed inside them.

That day started like any other. Oleg tried to dissuade his son—it was early, cold, and the mosquitoes were attacking again. But Timur pouted, grew sad, and his eyes flashed with hurt disappointment. Irina looked at him—her heart clenched. After all, her son was her living reflection: the same blue eyes, the same long eyelashes that drew admiring exclamations from everyone: «Like a girl!» They say if a boy looks like his mother, it’s good luck. How could she refuse him?

— Alright, — she said firmly. — But not a step away from your dad. Not a foot in the water. — I promise! — Timur shouted joyfully, as if he’d won a grand prize. — A fisherman is growing up, — Oleg smiled, kissing his wife on the temple.

Early in the morning, while it was still dark outside, Irina saw them off to the car. She wished them a good fishing trip, straightened her son’s jacket collar, and stood by the entrance until the car disappeared from sight. Yawning, she returned home and lay down again—it was only six o’clock.

The call came suddenly, like thunder out of a clear sky. Half asleep, she picked up the phone, seeing Oleg’s name.
— Strange… He should already be at the bay. What happened? — she thought.

But the voice on the other end was strange. Unknown. Male. At first, Irina thought it was some nightmare. But the nightmare didn’t end. Then — chaos, a taxi, a frantic race to the morgue, tears, prayers, screams: if only it was a mistake…

A miracle did not happen. There was no mistake. Oleg and Timur died on the way to their beloved place. At the exit from Berezovsk, their car was hit by a truck that had veered into the oncoming lane. The driver was drunk. They had no chance. Life ended in an instant.

The days after felt like a fog. The funeral, sorrowful faces of relatives, friends who took everything into their hands. They kept Irina afloat when she no longer understood why to live. But one morning came when everyone left, and she was left alone. Completely alone. In the house in the Southern neighborhood, where every object reminded her of those who were no longer there. Where every thing, every photograph, every corner whispered: «You let them go.»

Thoughts tormented her, guilt suffocated her. She blamed herself for letting the child go. She was angry at her husband for not insisting, for not stopping, for not dodging fate. She wanted to scream, cry, curse — but in the end, she just howled. Like a mother who lost her little ones. Like a woman who needed no one anymore.

The only thing that kept her from drowning in pain was work. She clung to it like a drowning person to a dam. Morning — office, evening — the way home if she had strength. More often she just wandered the city: looked at shop windows, sat on benches, stared at the sky until sleepiness came. Only then, exhausted, she returned to her apartment near the «Central» station, where cold walls and eternal silence did not wait, did not warm — they just were.

Every night was a new battle. Every day — a repetition of the same nightmare. She sat on the edge of the bed, buried her face in the pillow, and cried — silently, with a bitter lump in her throat. Such nights seemed endless.

No one knows how it would have ended if not for Lena. Her longtime friend who didn’t disappear, didn’t say banal things like «everything will be alright.» One day she said plainly:
— Ira, enough. You can’t keep living in this grave. Sell the apartment. Move somewhere. Maybe it will get easier.
— Are you serious? — Irina asked, shocked.
— Yes. I want you to get out. And the things… — Lena hesitated — Timur and Oleg’s things… maybe it’s time to give them away? At least put them away.

Irina flared up:
— You want me to throw away my son’s clothes? His toys? His drawings?! Do you even understand what you’re asking?!
Lena thought.
— Okay. Then let’s take everything to the dacha. Let it be there. Just don’t let it be near you every day. A compromise?

Irina agreed. Not immediately. Through tears, through inner protest. But she agreed. And it really became a little easier—just a little. The pain didn’t disappear but became a background. A shadow that doesn’t press down but simply reminds.

Three years passed. Irina didn’t laugh. Didn’t live. Just existed. Like a robot. Got up, washed, went to work. Came back, mechanically swallowed food, stared at the wall. All feelings died with her husband and son. She stayed there—in that day when everything was destroyed. Endless, mute, merciless.

Yes, the new apartment was closer to work—only ten minutes on foot. But it didn’t bring Irina any comfort. She didn’t even notice the difference. But the road to the cemetery became longer. Much longer. Yet that’s where she went almost every week—as to a sacred ritual.

Her friend sighed, her parents begged:
— Ira, you’re ruining yourself.
— Let go of the pain, — Lena said.
But Irina didn’t listen. Every Sunday—new flowers, soft toys, candies. She bought them with one thought: «Let them know I was here.» First by metro, then by bus—a long trip, like a trial she had to endure.

And again, on one of those mornings, Irina got off slowly at the final stop, as if reluctantly. The cemetery gatekeeper had long recognized her, nodded briefly:
— Hello.
— Good day, — she replied, walking on, clutching a big plush rabbit to her chest.

She stopped at her husband’s grave for only a moment, as if asking forgiveness for spending so little time there. Then she went to the children’s plot, decorated with a white stone angel. She knelt, carefully straightened the flowers, placed the new rabbit next to the other toys. Then she simply sat on the ground, hugging her knees.

— Son… — she whispered, running her fingers over the cold earth. — My little one… without you everything has lost its meaning… I’m so scared and so lonely…

Tears flowed on their own—hot, silent. She raised her face to the sky, as if addressing God Himself:
— Lord… why did you leave me? Why?.. For what?.. Take me too… I can’t anymore…

Her heart was torn by pain, her chest unbearably tight. A lark circled overhead, its cry so piercing it seemed it was crying with her.

Time passed—Irina didn’t know how much. She sat motionless until suddenly she heard a quiet child’s cry. It came very close—from behind the lilac bushes. A thin, trembling child’s voice.

She cautiously approached. Behind the bush, right on the ground, sat a girl about seven years old. Blonde, thin, all dusty. Her face hidden in her hands. Sobbing, she repeated:
— Mommy… take me with you… I don’t want to be with daddy anymore… I feel bad…

Irina clenched inside but gently touched the child’s shoulder. She startled, lifted her eyes. Their gazes met. The girl had the same bottomless blue eyes framed by dark lashes as Timur. That look struck straight to the heart.

— Hi… — Irina said softly, trying to smile. — Are you alone?
— Yes… I came to my mom, — whispered the girl.
— What’s your name, little one?
— Mila…
— How did you get here alone?
— I live nearby… But dad changed. After mom, he started drinking. He doesn’t hit me… but I’m scared.

Irina’s heart clenched. Before her was a child—frightened, lost, but so alive. Her own pain receded for a while, giving way to something new.

— Come with me. You shouldn’t be alone among graves.

Mila trustingly put her hand in the stranger’s. At the gate, the caretaker noticed them:
— You’re here again, Mila? We already warned you, took you home. But she slips away often.
— I just missed mom… — the girl pouted.
— We’ll sort it out, — Irina nodded shortly and pulled her along.

Outside, Mila spoke quietly but confidently:
— Just don’t send me to an orphanage. I don’t want to go there. Dad isn’t mean, just… he feels bad. He’s sad.

Irina bent down, hugged the girl’s shoulders:
— Don’t worry. I won’t give you away anywhere. Now we’ll go to a café—eat something, then decide what to do next. Are you hungry?

Mila nodded, swallowing her hunger:
— Very…

They entered a cozy café “Veranda”—bright, with the smell of cinnamon and soft jazz music playing. Irina ordered soup, pasta with cutlets, fruit juice, and later, ice cream with whipped cream for the girl.

She watched how Mila ate carefully, how she gently put down the glass, how diligently she scooped the last pieces with her spoon. When the dessert was over, the girl spoke:

— I’m six years old. Next year I’ll go to school.
— Oh really! And which one? — Irina asked, trying to sound light.
— I don’t know… Dad promised to find out. Before, he worked at a big company. But after mom everything changed. He now sits at home, smokes, does nothing.

Irina listened attentively, not interrupting.

— We live nearby, just five stops away. Sometimes I walk. They don’t let me on the bus alone. They threaten to call the police. Then I run away…

Irina’s heart clenched. People saw this girl—saw!—walking alone, crying at the graves, but instead of help—only threats. Someone should have stopped earlier. But that someone turned out to be her.

— Alright, — said Irina. — Let’s go to your home. Let’s see how things are there.

Mila nodded, but tension was obvious in her shoulders. She cautiously added:
— Just please… don’t call the police.
— I won’t, — promised Irina. — I promise.

They left, got on the bus. In a few minutes they arrived at an old two-story house with a crooked sign and wrought-iron gate. Once neat yard now overgrown, grass sprouting through the pavement tiles, gazebo hidden under ivy.

— We used to have a maid and a gardener, — Mila said, as if justifying herself. — But then dad fired them all. Said he had no strength left.

Irina sighed. Everything around screamed of former prosperity. Of a family that once laughed, loved, made plans. Now the house looked more like an abandoned lighthouse than a cozy family nest.

They went inside. First hit was a sharp smell—a mix of booze breath, mustiness, and unwashed dishes. In the living room, a man stretched out on the sofa. Unshaven face, sunken cheeks, empty bottle in hand. He wasn’t asleep—just stared at the ceiling, as if looking for answers to all his torments there.

— Dad… wake up… — Mila gently poked her father’s shoulder. — Daddy… please…

The man muttered something unintelligible, didn’t open his eyes, didn’t move. Irina hesitated at the doorway, not knowing what to say. But everything became clear when the girl curled up in the corner of the armchair and started crying—quietly, childishly, with sobs that tore the heart.

Leaving her there—Irina couldn’t. And she didn’t want to call the police yet. Not now.

— Get ready. You’re coming with me, — she said firmly, like a person who had already made a decision.

— And dad?.. — Mila asked fearfully, raising her eyes. Tears stood in them, and deep inside—a familiar fear. Blue like spring sky. Like Timur’s.

Irina’s heart trembled.

— He’ll wake up. And come for you, — she promised, though she didn’t know what she believed more—the promise or hope. She wrote her address and phone number on a scrap of paper and placed it next to the bottle. At least some trace, something.

Outside, Mila perked up a little. They walked silently, holding hands, but suddenly the girl spoke—lightly, almost joyfully. With this woman, with this «aunt,» it was calm. Safe. Real.

At home, Irina for the first time in a long time felt like cooking. She took out groceries, rolled out dough, put pizza in the oven. Cooked borscht—just like Timur liked. Then she and Mila went to the store, bought everything: chips, chocolates, soda—everything usually bought only on holidays.

— Sometimes it’s allowed, — Irina winked.
— Yes! — Mila laughed. — And you don’t even have to brush your teeth!
They laughed. Laughed like they hadn’t for a long time.

Then—a bath with foam, clean pajamas, warm blanket, and a book before bed. Irina read a fairy tale about the buzzing fly, and Mila lay beside her, cuddled up.

— Did you have a son? — the girl suddenly asked.
— Yes. His name was Timur. Now he’s in heaven.
— My mom is there too… — sighed Mila. — Maybe they’re happy together?
— I think so. And we’re here. Time to sleep, dear.
— Okay… — the girl answered sleepily, burying her face in the pillow.

Irina watched her for a long time until she fell asleep. Turned off the light, lay down next to her. She dreamed of Timur. And Oleg. They were walking in the park, laughing, eating ice cream. Timur laughed happily.

She woke up to a phone call.

The dream dissipated. Reality returned—sharp, merciless. A man’s voice broke through the silence of the room, full of rage and fear:

— Who is this?! Did you take my daughter?!

— Who are you? — Irina asked, trying to stay calm.
— Sergey! Her father! Where is she?!
— She’s sleeping. But where were you—that’s the question.

She went to the kitchen so as not to wake Mila.

— Listen, — she continued more quietly, — your daughter was alone. At the cemetery. Doesn’t that worry you?
— I… — the voice on the other end faltered. — Please, don’t call the police. I’m coming now.
— Okay. I’m waiting, — Irina said shortly and hung up.

Suddenly she felt some strange impulse inside—not exactly strength, but movement. Something began to shift. She opened the cupboard, took out a frying pan. Decided: today would be pancakes. The very ones Timur loved so much. Maybe Mila would like them too.

Half an hour later, the apartment filled with a homey, sweet aroma—like from childhood. The first rays of sun peeked through the window. And for the first time in three years, Irina felt it—inside, it was getting a little warmer.

The doorbell interrupted the morning silence. Irina opened—it was a man. Tall, with clear eyes, a little worn out, but no longer the man who had collapsed helplessly the day before. Now he was clean-shaven, neatly dressed—a fresh shirt, though with a hint of hangover fatigue. He still looked broken, but there was an attempt to pull himself together—to be a father again.

— I’m… Sergey. We talked on the phone. You seem to have my daughter… — he said timidly, as if afraid to hear “no.”

Irina looked at him for a long time, recalling the man from yesterday, lost in his grief. But now before her was someone else—alive, trying to come back to life. She silently stepped aside, letting him in.

At the kitchen table, where in the morning it smelled of honey and pancakes, they sat facing each other. Irina put a cup of tea in front of him and began to tell calmly, without anger but with utmost honesty. About how she found Mila at the cemetery. How the girl cried lying on her mother’s grave. How she feared the police, begged not to be taken to the orphanage.

Sergey listened, head bowed. Irina’s words fell like raindrops—heavy, cold, truthful.

Finally he spoke:

— We used to have a good life. Katya… my wife… she was an amazing woman. Kind, smart, beautiful. And Mila… our light. I worked at a big company, salary was good. Built a house, bought a car. Everyone envied us…
He faltered, swallowed as if the words began to fail him.

— Then everything collapsed. One day Katya just fainted. Taken to hospital, tests started… and like a blow—stage three cancer. Without pain, without symptoms. Just… suddenly. And when they found out—it was too late. No connections, no money helped. She left… so suddenly, as if she was never here.

His voice became hoarse, full of pain:

— I thought my life was over too. I started drinking to feel nothing. Even just to pass out for a bit. At work, they tolerated me… but I… I just didn’t know how to stop. And I told myself: Mila is little, she understands nothing. She’s at kindergarten, sleeps at home… But it turns out…

— Turns out she wanders the cemetery, Sergey, — Irina interrupted, her voice harder than she wanted. — And no one notices. Neither you nor the neighbors. Drivers chase her away, and she walks. A six-year-old child!

— I… didn’t know, — he whispered. — When she wasn’t home today, it felt like my heart was ripped out. If anything happened to her… I wouldn’t survive.

Silence hung.

At that moment, the door to the room gently opened, and Mila appeared in the doorway. Disheveled, in Irina’s large T-shirt, sleepy but smiling.

— Dad? — she raised her eyebrows in surprise.
— Hello, sunshine, — Sergey replied, opening his arms. — I just arrived. Come to me.

Mila ran to him, wrapped her arms around his neck:

— Daddy, I love you so much… I just feel really bad when you’re like that…

— Forgive me, daughter… — he whispered, holding her tightly. — I promise I won’t be ‘like that’ anymore. I promise you…

Irina stood nearby, watching the scene. Something inside her trembled—memories, pain, images. But now it wasn’t destructive. It was more like a light echo—reverberations of the past that no longer pull down.

— Time for breakfast, — she finally said. — The tea is still warm.

— We probably kept you… — Sergey began awkwardly. — You have work, right?

— I took a day off, — Irina replied calmly. — So drink tea, don’t rush.

— Can I stay? — Mila asked anxiously.
— Yes, — Irina repeated with a slight smile. — Stay.

— Then… thank you, — Sergey said, smiling shyly.

— Sit down everyone. The pancakes are still warm. Let’s have breakfast.

— Hooray! Pancakes! — Mila shouted joyfully.
— I love them too, — Sergey admitted like a child.

They sat at the table. Breakfast was simple but incredibly warm. They talked, laughed, drank tea. Outside the window, there was no autumn, no pain, no heavy memories—only an ordinary morning, one worth living.

Weeks passed. Months. Irina and Sergey met more often. Mila sometimes stayed over for weekends—and with each day she grew brighter, more cheerful. Sergey really quit drinking. Returned to work, order, and to his daughter.

Irina went to the cemetery less often. Not because she forgot. But because she learned to live on—for Mila, for herself, and even—why not—for something new.

She and Sergey slowly grew closer. No loud confessions, no rush. They simply found themselves nearby. Almost a family. And somewhere high, beyond the clouds or in the memory of those no longer here, eyes shone. Those who can’t be returned. But can be cherished through love, care, and the ability to let go of pain to give others a chance at happiness.

Because sometimes love is not holding on to the past, but giving the future a chance.

The young woman quietly hummed by the dishwashing sink, lost in her thoughts and music. Every time she started to sing, time seemed to slow down. Her voice—soft, pure, sounding like a gentle breeze amid the kitchen bustle—filled the space with unexpected harmony. She had no idea that behind her stood a man whose name was known throughout the culinary world—a famous chef, a millionaire whose fame preceded him, yet who preferred to remain in the shadows.

This man, known for his strictness and high demands, was like two sides of the same coin: a tough businessman and an invisible listener. Outwardly, he maintained a flawless image; inside, he had a soul capable of trembling at a single voice. Standing unnoticed by the door, he forgot discipline, rules, and the rush of the day for the first time in a long while. At that moment, he simply… listened. And felt.

His heart, accustomed to cold calculation, unexpectedly stirred. He realized such a voice could not remain in the shadows. He began imagining a new restaurant concept—where food would be only part of the evening, and the main impression would be live music coming from the depths of the soul. Thoughts of combining culinary art with singing started to take over his mind.

But how to approach her? How to tell the girl that her talent had shaken him to his core? After all, he, a man with a world-renowned name, suddenly found himself lost before the everyday routine. He was used to commanding, but now he was afraid to break the silence created by her voice.

One evening, when the last plate was washed and the workday was ending, he decided to act. He stepped out of the shadows and approached her. His appearance hadn’t changed—perfectly fitting suit, neat haircut, the confident gaze of a man. But in his eyes something new had awakened: sincere admiration.

“Excuse me for interrupting,” he said, trying to remain calm, “but I couldn’t pass by. You have an amazing voice. I’m the chef of this establishment, and I would like to offer you to perform here. Your singing could become a special experience for guests who seek more than just delicious food.”

She froze. She hadn’t expected to hear such words. Her heart raced. Before her stood a man everyone obeyed, yet he spoke to her—a simple worker—as if she truly mattered.

“But I… I only wash dishes,” she whispered.

“You are more than a dishwasher,” he answered confidently. “In every sound you make lives a soul. Let me help you show it. Believe me, people will listen to you, holding their breath.”

 

Thus began their story. One where culinary mastery met vocal talent. Where two worlds, seemingly distant, merged into a single rhythm. The chef, who found faith in dreams, and the girl who realized her place was not only by the sink, became partners in a project full of light, passion, and inspiration.

After several days of thought, she made her decision. It was a chance she had never expected. She agreed to perform. The chef took everything into his hands: helped select the repertoire, discussed lighting, recommended stage presence. Every word he spoke was precise but, most importantly, sincere. He believed in her. And she began to believe in herself.

When the day of the first performance came, the restaurant was bathed in soft lights, tables were neatly set, and the audience took their seats. She stood backstage, overwhelmed with excitement. But he came up, smiled, and quietly said:

“You’re ready. Remember, you’re not alone. Your voice is a connection between people. Let it sound free.”

She stepped out. The world froze. The first notes escaped her lips, and fear vanished. She sang about life, hope, and love. Each sound flew into the hall like a spark igniting hearts.

The hall erupted into a standing ovation. People gasped, clapped, called for an encore. And the chef watched from the shadows, his eyes shining not only with stage lights but with genuine emotion. He saw talent blooming. He saw true art being born. He saw how music and gastronomy created something more— inspiration.

After the performance, the hall resounded with applause. She stepped off the stage, still not fully realizing what had just happened. The chef was already waiting for her backstage—a rare smile spread across his face, his eyes glowing.

“You were amazing!” he said, his voice trembling with genuine excitement. “I knew you could do it. I just knew!”

But success did not go unnoticed. The very next day, the restaurant was filled with people from the industry: producers, radio representatives, event organizers. Everyone was curious about that very singer whose voice had made the whole hall hold its breath. The chef, a master at hiding his cards, began negotiations for a possible contract. The girl felt a slight fear of such attention but recalled the words he once told her: “Your voice unites people.” And that gave her the strength to overcome her inner barriers.

With each day, their bond grew stronger. They found support, understanding, and encouragement in each other. For her, he turned from a strict chef into a true friend, someone she could entrust with her dreams and fears. He told her again and again: she was not just a performer, but a true artist. And she needed to accept that fact.

She began recording songs, and he used his connections to help her take the first step into the big world of art. The restaurant became her second home. Her performances became a part of the evening that guests eagerly awaited. Soon, there were those who came specifically for her—audiences ready to listen again and again.

One evening, when the journalists had left and interviews were over, they stayed alone. Sitting on the restaurant’s rooftop, they watched the stars flickering above the city lights.

“You know,” broke the silence the chef, “I saw not only talent in you. Every day you change me. You inspire me to remember what I long forgot. I spent so much time on my career that I completely lost touch with what truly drives a person… passion.”

She smiled warmly and sincerely.

“I learned a lot too. I found within myself things I never even thought about. You gave me faith in myself. Without you, I wouldn’t have dared. You were my first audience, my first protector.”

Between them arose a special feeling—not just a work partnership or friendship. It was deeper: mutual understanding, trust, respect. They were bound not only by joint creativity but also by the path they walked together.

Their story was only beginning. Ahead awaited new challenges, trials, and perhaps even love—the kind that can be born amid the aromas of dishes, the sounds of music, and the sparkle of evening lights.

What will come next? What chapter will time open? It is still unknown. But one thing is certain: together, they can handle anything.

Valentin carefully parked his car in the only available space near the children’s hospital. As luck would have it, the place was especially crowded today – cars filled every available parking spot. Every day, he came here almost like it was a job: taking care of some business, stopping by his favorite café for a cup of coffee, and rushing to see his daughter, to spend at least a little time with her. For several months now, the girl had been in the clinic.

What exactly was wrong with the child, the doctors couldn’t explain. Valentin had taken her to the best specialists, but they only repeated one thing: the brain is operating on its own, controlling everything else. This drove Valentin mad.

“You’re just hiding your helplessness behind all these complicated terms!” he snapped one day.

The doctors could only shrug, lowering their eyes.

“It’s the result of enormous stress. The brain creates barriers that we cannot control,” one of the doctors tried to explain.

“I don’t understand anything! My daughter is fading away in front of my eyes, and you’re telling me she can’t be cured?! I have money, I’m ready to give everything! For Michelle, I’d give my last penny!”

“Money can’t help here,” the doctor sighed softly.

“Then what will help?! Tell me! I’ll find it, I’ll buy it!”

“It’s impossible to buy… Honestly, I don’t even know how to explain it to you… Something special has to happen. Or, on the contrary, something must not happen, so the body… the brain… can reset itself.”

“What are you saying?! Maybe you’ll advise me to see a healer next?” Valentin exploded.

The elderly doctor looked at him carefully.

“You know, if you decide to, I won’t stop you. I’ll repeat: conventional methods are powerless here. We can only ensure peace, positive emotions… and support the body with medication. And I’ll say one more thing,” the doctor lowered his voice, “If I were you, I’d leave your daughter in the hospital. She’s been brought in by ambulance twice already. You see, when she falls into this state, there’s a risk we won’t make it in time before they bring her here. But under constant supervision, that won’t happen.”

Valentin clutched his head. He was terrified of losing his wife, feeling that it could happen at any moment, and couldn’t even imagine how he would survive her loss. Michelle adored her mother, and he… he worshiped both of them. Now, he had to forget his own grief and focus on saving his daughter, also Michelle.

Surprisingly, the girl calmly accepted that she would have to stay in the hospital for a long time. She stroked her father’s cheek and quietly said:

“Dad, don’t worry so much. I won’t cry, and you’ll be able to work in peace instead of staying with me all the time.”

Valentin didn’t know whether to be happy or to cry. His eight-year-old daughter was speaking as if she were an adult.

“Hold her! Man!” Suddenly, a shout rang out. Valentin jumped and looked toward the noise. A girl was running toward the hospital from the street, out of breath, and a panting security guard was chasing her. It looked like she had stolen something. As she ran past Valentin’s car, she glanced at him in terror.

“My God… they couldn’t even spare a bun for a child?” Valentin muttered as he got out of the car just as the guard caught up.

“Stop! What’s all the shouting about?”

“I’ll deal with you in a minute! Get out of the way!”

Only now did the guard notice Valentin and his car.

“I need to catch her! She stole!”

“What did she steal?” Valentin smirked.

“A bottle of water and a bun… And who knows what else she’s got in her pockets!”

Valentin pulled out a few bills.

 

“This amount should be enough to settle up and even reward the return of the stolen goods,” he muttered to himself, watching the guard walk away.

After that, Valentin headed toward the doctor’s office. Their conversations were usually formal, but today, the doctor kept him a little longer.

“Valentin Igorevich, there’s one thing… Today, Michelle asked if she could talk to other children in the ward.”

“And what does that mean?” Valentin asked cautiously as he sat down.

“To me, it’s a good sign. She’s starting to take an interest in what’s happening beyond her room. However, not all my colleagues agree with that view. Many think that after such a long period of isolation, immediately interacting with a large number of children might be too much for her psyche. I can’t refute that argument, though I don’t fully agree with it. You need to think about it, talk to Michelle, and make a decision – whether to allow it or not.”

“I see, you want to shift the responsibility onto me,” sighed Valentin.

The doctor took off his glasses, cleaned them, and sighed as well.

“Yes, you’re right. We really want your daughter to get better, but… we understand that if something happens, you’ll crush us. And there are more than fifteen children in the ward.”

Valentin stood up and started heading toward the door, but stopped in the doorway.

“Thank you for your honesty. Perhaps you’re right. I’ll talk to my daughter.”

It seemed to him that the doctor sighed with relief. Before entering the room, Valentin tried to stretch his lips into a smile. He couldn’t walk in with a grim face. But no matter how hard he tried, the smile was forced. Now he would see his little girl, who had hardly gotten out of bed lately and couldn’t eat – not because she didn’t want to, but because her body refused to accept food.

The door creaked softly, and Michelle turned her head. At first, she looked at him in fear, as though she didn’t recognize her father, then smiled.

“Hi, Dad!”

Was it just him, or had a light blush actually appeared on her cheeks?

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

Suddenly, Valentin felt a strange sensation, as though his daughter wanted him to leave quickly. But that was impossible – she hadn’t seen anyone except the nurses and teachers assigned to the VIP ward. He sat down on a chair by her bed and started pulling out some treats.

“I stopped by the store… Look at these beautiful apples!”

“Oh, yeah, thanks, Dad,” Michelle replied quietly.

Valentin froze, his hand hovering over the small table. There were plates – dinner had just been brought in. But what surprised him wasn’t that, but this: the plates were completely empty.

“Michelle, what’s going on here?”

The girl sighed and said something to the side:

“Come out, don’t be afraid. I have a kind dad.”

And then Valentin saw a girl emerge from behind the curtain – the same one who had run past his car. She looked at him fearfully, and Michelle spoke up:

“Daddy, please don’t make her leave! I’m begging you! I’ll even share my apple with Katya. Where will she go? She has no one, and it’s cold and dark outside, and she was hungry and scared…”

Valentin stared at his daughter, confused. She was sitting in bed, biting her lip, and her cheeks were betraying her with a flush. He turned to the girl, who seemed to be a year or two older than Michelle.

“Are you Katya?” he asked.

The girl nodded.

“My name is Valentin Igorevich, I’m Michelle’s father.”

Katya nodded again, then hesitantly asked:

“Are you really Michelle? What a beautiful name!”

Michelle smiled faintly.

“No, I’m Masha. But my mom called me Michelle, and I always answered…”

“Oh, right… Mom’s not here anymore,” Katya sighed. “I don’t have a mom either, but that was so long ago I don’t even remember her.”

Valentin silently watched as the girls found common ground. Katya carefully settled on the edge of the bed, pulling back the sheet to avoid dirtying the bed with her worn-out clothes. “She really looks the part,” Valentin thought, cutting an apple into slices. He handed a piece to Michelle and Katya. The girls took them, continuing to whisper. Valentin couldn’t help but smile.

“I see you two have a lot to talk about.”

His daughter looked at him pleadingly.

“Dad, please let Katya stay! She can sleep on the couch over there. And we’ll talk a little more.”

Valentin thought for a moment. The girl seemed harmless, but you never knew what might happen.

“Listen, Katya, in the closet there are some of Michelle’s clothes. Take what you need and hurry up to the shower! And make sure you come out as a human. I’ll tell the doctor that Michelle’s sister is here and will stay the night. But you’d better watch out for me!”

Michelle clapped her hands happily.

 

“Thank you, daddy!”

Katya quickly darted to the closet, opened it carefully, and gasped in surprise. She chose some light pants and a T-shirt. “I’ll be quick!” she called out and disappeared behind the bathroom door.

When the door closed behind Katya, Valentin turned to his daughter.

“So, how are you, little one?”

“Dad, today was so boring! I even wanted to cry. I asked if I could join the other kids, but the doctor said I needed your permission. Then I crawled through the window to Katya… can you imagine? The window was so high!”

“Yeah… Are you sure you want her to stay?”

“Of course! When you leave, ask them to bring us some sweet hot tea.”

Valentin’s eyebrows raised in surprise. He just nodded. He had to work hard to arrange a place for Katya to stay. He even paid for the VIP ward. The doctor shook his head.

“I don’t know… It’s up to you, of course, but just keep in mind…”

“I’ve heard you. I’ll come in the morning for breakfast. Michelle asked for hot sweet tea… two cups. Who should I ask?”

The doctor looked at him in surprise.

“Two? For the girl and for yourself?”

“Exactly.”

“I’ll arrange it… You know, better safe than sorry.”

“What do you mean?”

“I won’t say anything for now. Let’s see how tomorrow goes. Then we’ll talk.”

Valentin felt that something had changed with Michelle today. But whether it was good or bad, he couldn’t tell. That night, he slept uneasily, waking up several times. Eventually, he called the on-duty doctor, Mikhail Petrovich.

“Sorry for calling so late.”

“No problem. Honestly, I was expecting your call sooner. Everything’s fine. They were chatting until midnight, until Alla chased them off. Now they’re sleeping. Michelle’s blood pressure is normal, no fluctuations. She drank her tea herself.”

“Thank you, Mikhail Petrovich,” Valentin sighed with relief and immediately fell into a troubled sleep.

The hospital had that characteristic smell: milk porridge and something indefinably childlike. Valentin carefully made his way between the little patients who were darting down the hallway. Surprisingly, those on crutches moved as fast as those with only a bandage on their head.

Finally, he reached Michelle’s ward and sighed with relief. Just as he was about to open the door, it suddenly swung open. Standing in the doorway was Alla, the nurse who had been taking care of Michelle. This kind-hearted young woman always inspired trust. She looked at Valentin, quickly wiped away a tear, and quietly said:

“You’re not just a father… You’re the best father. No one would guess that this is exactly what she was missing.”

With those words, Alla left, and Valentin, stunned, watched her go. “I’ll figure it out now,” he thought, and froze in the doorway. The girls hadn’t noticed him. How could they, when all their attention was focused on the TV screen, where a cartoon mouse was tormenting a cat?

They were sitting on the bed, with their legs curled up, each holding a plate of porridge. Laughing as they devoured it, porridge sometimes spilled out of the plates. Michelle’s clothes were clearly too small for Katya – he’d have to figure something out.

Valentin carefully watched his daughter. She scooped a spoonful of porridge, put it in her mouth – and nothing happened! Michelle calmly swallowed and went on laughing at the cartoon.

Katya noticed him first. She quietly nudged her friend with her elbow and nodded toward her father. Michelle turned around. Valentin couldn’t hold back a surprised sigh. Just yesterday, her gaze had been empty, as if she didn’t want to see or hear anything around her. But today, sitting before him was a lively, happy little girl… though completely worn out.

“Daddy!” Michelle exclaimed joyfully.

He silently walked over to the bed and hugged her tightly, then hugged Katya. Yes, now he was ready to do anything for this strange girl. But then Katya suddenly sniffled. Valentin became worried.

“Sorry, did I hurt you? Did I hug you too tightly?”

Katya shook her head, and Michelle firmly grabbed her hand and looked at her father sternly.

“Dad, don’t hurt her again!” she declared.

Valentin quickly nodded. Katya wiped her tears and quietly said:

“I’m not upset because of that… It’s just that no one has hugged me like that in a long time.”

A week later, Valentin took his daughter home. All this time, Katya had been by her side. Michelle had noticeably recovered, running down the hall with the other kids and chatting cheerfully. While the doctors, stunned by the “phenomenal” recovery of the girl, were doing a full check-up on her, Valentin focused on Katya.

Katya’s mother had disappeared when she was barely two years old. No one knew where she had gone, but everyone was sure she was no longer alive. She had lived anything but an innocent life. After her disappearance, Katya had stayed with her grandmother, but she passed away six months ago. The girl was sent to an orphanage, where she had a conflict with one of the nannies. The woman had raised a hand against the child, and Katya ran away. That was the sad story of her life.

When Valentin arrived to take Michelle, Katya had already packed her modest belongings. She stood up, hugged her friend tightly, then hesitantly glanced at Valentin.

“Thank you… I’ll go now…”

“And where are you going?” he asked.

Their eyes met.

“Probably to the orphanage. It’s cold outside now.”

Valentin thoughtfully replied:

“Does that mean I set up a room next to Michelle for nothing? You… don’t want to become her sister?” he asked gently.

Michelle was the first to squeal with joy and throw herself into her father’s arms. Katya followed, sobbing, and hugged him as well. When they left the hospital, all the nurses who had gathered to see them off were crying. But Valentin only saw Alla and her kind, understanding gaze.

And six months later, he couldn’t imagine his life without Katya. Just like the adopted sisters – Michelle and Katya – couldn’t imagine life without each other.

Tatiana adjusted the pillow behind her back and pressed the phone to her ear with a smile. Outside the window of her spacious three-room apartment, the sun was setting, painting the living room walls in warm orange tones.

“Marin, I’m leaning towards Turkey,” Tatiana said, flipping through a glossy catalog. “Five-star hotel, all inclusive.”

“Tanya, it’s been two years since your divorce,” Marina’s voice sounded firm. “You need something more exotic. Both of us do.”

Tatiana smirked, looking at pictures of pristine white beaches.

“I’ll be fine in Turkey. Sea, sun, buffet. What more do you need for happiness?”

“A man! A decent man, not like your ex. Let’s go to Thailand. The tours there are amazing! And the people are interesting,” Marina insisted.

Tatiana got up from the couch and went to the window, glancing at her brand-new Volkswagen parked in the yard. Quiet residential area, her own apartment, a car, a stable job as a department head at a large company. Everything she had dreamed of.

“I’ll think about it,” she smiled. “Let’s meet at our café tomorrow and discuss options.”

After ending the call, Tatiana decided to make dinner. She turned on her favorite jazz playlist and opened the fridge. The evening promised to be pleasant and calm.

The phone rang just as Tatiana was finishing dinner. Looking at the screen, she frowned. “Mom” flashed on the display. Tatiana’s hand froze over the phone.

Their last conversation had been two weeks ago and ended quite tensely. Tatiana’s brother, Sergey, had once again found a “promising business” requiring investment.

“Tanya, just half a million,” her mother had said then quickly, as if afraid her daughter would hang up. “Sergey will pay it back, he promised.”

“Like the last three loans?” Tatiana barely contained her irritation at the time. “Mom, I’m not a bank. And I don’t want to fund his crazy ideas anymore.”

Her mother had shouted for a long time, calling Tatiana spoiled, accusing her of not helping the family, saying her brother would be lost without her help. The conversation ended with loud yelling and a slammed phone.

The phone kept ringing. Tatiana muted it and set it aside. Five minutes later, the call came again. Then again. And again.

“What the hell,” Tatiana muttered, looking at the blinking screen.

That evening, her mother called ten times. Each missed call sent a sharp tension through Tatiana’s chest. But she didn’t give in.

At work the next morning, Tatiana found five more missed calls from her mother.

“Are you okay?” her deputy Olga asked, noticing the boss’s gloomy expression. “You look upset.”

“Family stuff,” Tatiana answered briefly, diving into work documents.

By the end of the week, the situation only worsened. Her mother called every day, several times. Not a single message — just calls that Tatiana stubbornly refused. On Sunday, her father joined in.

“Daughter, answer,” his voice sounded from the home phone’s answering machine. “Mom is worried. We need to talk.”

Tatiana deleted the message without listening.

“No way,” she said, turning the TV volume up. “Enough of these talks.”

She knew what would follow “talk.” More persuasion. More “help Sergey, you’re family.” More accusations of coldness and selfishness. And if she gave in now — the money would be as good as thrown away.

On Monday morning, Tatiana woke up to a call. Her father. She silenced it and went to get ready for work. The phone screen showed notifications: 27 missed calls over the weekend.

“They’re trying to wear me down,” Tatiana whispered, putting the phone in her bag. “Not going to happen.”

At work, a new project and quarterly plan discussions awaited her. The usual stable life she had built after the tough divorce. A life with no place for manipulation and empty promises.

In the evening, returning home, Tatiana first checked the answering machine. Five new messages — all from her parents.

“Tanya, pick up,” her father’s voice sounded tired. “It’s important.”

Tatiana shook her head and deleted all the messages. Not today. Maybe never.

Saturday morning started with a sharp knock at the door. Tatiana reluctantly opened her eyes and glanced at the clock — 7:30. She sluggishly got out of bed and put on her robe.

In the hallway, Tatiana mechanically approached the door and opened it without looking through the peephole. She immediately recognized the mistake.

“Tanechka!” exclaimed Valentina Sergeevna, Tatiana’s mother, pushing a huge bag into the hallway. “Finally! We thought you’d never open!”

Behind her entered her father, Nikolai Petrovich, carrying two suitcases and a backpack.

“Hi, daughter,” he nodded with a guilty smile.

Tatiana froze by the door, unable to utter a word. Meanwhile, Valentina Sergeevna had already taken off her outerwear and headed deeper into the apartment.

“Oh, what a living room you have!” her mother admired, looking around. “And what a sofa! Must be expensive?”

She ran her hand over the leather upholstery, then went to the kitchen.

“All the appliances are new! Dishwasher, oven… And look at that huge fridge! Dad and I never had anything like that.”

Valentina Sergeevna peeked into the bedroom.

“Look, Kolya, what a gorgeous bed! And a wardrobe with mirrors! Tanya, what is this room for?”

“Office,” Tatiana finally said. “Wait! What’s going on? Why are you here? And with your things?”

Her parents exchanged glances. Valentina Sergeevna returned to the living room and sat on the sofa, patting the space next to her, inviting Tatiana to join. Tatiana stayed standing.

“Mom, Dad, explain yourselves immediately,” Tatiana’s voice rang with tension.

Valentina Sergeevna sighed and straightened her shoulders.

“You see, here’s the thing… I gave the apartment to your brother. Now your dad and I will live with you!”

Tatiana blinked, unable to believe her ears.

“You… what?”

“Well, what’s wrong with that?” Valentina Sergeevna shrugged. “Sergey has a business; he needs his own space. And you have three rooms here! Why do you need so much space alone?”

“What business?” Tatiana raised her voice. “What, Mom? Selling fake Chinese phones? Or hopeless investments? Or another ‘innovative’ idea that will fail in a month?”

“Don’t you dare speak like that about your brother!” Valentina Sergeevna snapped. “He’s trying! He just needs family support!”

“I’ll ask again,” Tatiana crossed her arms. “What do you mean ‘gave the apartment to Sergey’?”

“Well, you know,” her father interrupted, sitting down next to his wife. “Remember Lucy from the third floor? She’s a realtor; she organized everything quickly.”

“You sold the apartment?” Tatiana clenched her fists until her nails dug into her palms.

“No, no,” Valentina Sergeevna hurried to explain. “We gifted it. It’s our son. Why sell? Now he’s the owner, and we’re moving in with you. You have plenty of space!”

Tatiana took a deep breath, trying to calm down.

“Do you seriously think you can just show up at my place and stay? Without warning? Without my consent?”

“Daughter, we’re family,” Nikolai Petrovich spread his hands. “Where else can we go?”

“To Sergey!” Tatiana exclaimed. “To the apartment you just gave him!”

“How don’t you understand,” sighed Valentina Sergeevna. “He needs personal space. For business. And for his personal life.”

“And I don’t?” Tatiana stepped closer, looking her mother straight in the eyes. “I’m supposed to drop everything and take you in?”

“Not take in, but accept your parents,” Valentina Sergeevna pursed her lips. “We’re not homeless. We’re your parents! And we have a right to your support!”

“Just like Sergey, right?” Tatiana smiled bitterly. “Everything for him, always. And now the apartment too.”

“He’s a man!” Valentina Sergeevna exclaimed. “He needs a foundation for life! You’re settled, you have everything!”

“Because I work!” Tatiana burst out. “Every day, for years! And Sergey?”

“He’s trying to find himself,” her father said quietly.

“At thirty-eight?” Tatiana laughed. “Dad, he’s not looking. He’s a parasite on you. And now you want to parasite on me.”

Valentina Sergeevna jumped up from the sofa.

“How dare you speak like that about us? Your own parents! After all we’ve done for you!”

“And what have you done for me?” Tatiana’s eyes narrowed. “I paid for college myself. Bought my own apartment. When I divorced, it was my friend who helped me, not you.”

“We raised you!” Valentina Sergeevna shouted.

“And you keep raising me, huh?” Tatiana shook her head. “No, Mom. No, Dad. You’re not staying here. Pack your things and leave.”

“Daughter,” her father began, but Tatiana interrupted him.

“Immediately. I’m not joking.”

“You’re kicking us out?” Valentina Sergeevna theatrically clutched her chest. “Your own mother? Father?”

“Yes,” Tatiana answered firmly. “I’m kicking you out. Like you kicked me out of your lives, choosing Sergey.”

“Tanyusha…” Nikolai Petrovich looked confused.

“Pack your things,” Tatiana pointed to the door. “You have a son. Let him take you in to his new apartment.”

Valentina Sergeevna pressed her lips into a thin line. Then slowly started gathering the scattered things.

“You’ll regret this,” she hissed, pulling on her coat. “Someday you’ll understand how wrong you were.”

“No, Mom,” Tatiana shook her head. “I won’t regret anymore. I’ve had enough.”

When the door closed behind her parents, Tatiana slowly sank onto the sofa. Her hands trembled slightly. She took out her phone and opened her contacts list.

“Mom,” “Dad,” “Sergey.”

One by one, she blocked all three numbers.

“I’ve had enough,” Tatiana repeated aloud, leaning back on the couch. “Never again.”

Outside, a new day was beginning. Her day. Without manipulation, without guilt, without endless demands. For the first time in a long while, Tatiana knew for sure: she had a long road ahead to herself, but she had already taken the first step.

— What is it again, Ivanova?! — came the displeased voice of the head nurse, Liliya Sergeyevna.

Nastya sighed. She knew that as a newcomer, she would get all the unpleasant tasks. But she hadn’t expected it to be this much.

—I did everything honestly! — she complained, looking at her colleague hopefully.

—I can see how honestly you do everything, — snorted Liliya, folding her arms across her chest. — Now you deal with it… well, you know.

She gestured with her eyes toward the farthest room, where judging by the smell and noise, the usual hospital bustle was already underway.

Nastya nodded and headed there. She had dreamed of becoming a nurse since childhood. Her mother always discouraged her:

— You’re too kind for this job. You should be sitting at a desk, reading books, not sticking needles into anyone.

But Nastya was stubborn. She wanted to help people, to see them get better thanks to her efforts. However, reality was tougher than her schoolday notions.

The emergency department was full of the usual chaos: drunken patients, hysterical relatives, shouting, moaning. Somewhere in a corner, a man raged without documents or understanding of where he was. Someone cried, someone sang songs, someone just lay there wrapped in a blanket, shutting out the world.

— Well, newbie? — one of the experienced nurses approached her. — Ready for your first real challenge?

Nastya nodded, though she felt a little tense inside. She wasn’t afraid of blood or pain, but sometimes human weakness scared her.

They sent her to a patient with a deep head wound. He was semi-conscious but felt pain. Nastya carefully treated the injury, applied a bandage, and soothed the man. She worked quickly but gently. The patient even nodded gratefully when it was over.

— You have a light touch, — the head nurse remarked. — Maybe you really will be a proper nurse.

Nastya smiled. It was the first day she felt part of something bigger. Not just an intern, not just an extra person, but a real participant in the process.

Later, when the flow of patients slowed, Nastya overheard Liliya Sergeyevna whispering with someone in the corridor. When she saw Nastya approaching, the women fell silent. The air was tense.

— Did you want to say something to me? — Nastya asked directly.

Liliya Sergeyevna chuckled:

— Consider yourself lucky. Sometimes newbies only observe for a whole month and don’t work at all.

Nastya said nothing. She had long realized that Liliya belonged to those who love power and know how to use it. She was also known for her jealousy — everyone knew she had long dreamed of marrying Ivan Konstantinovich, the chief doctor. But he, as if on purpose, paid her no attention.

When Ivan Konstantinovich entered the room, everyone straightened involuntarily. He was an authority. Not tall, not strict, but every look of his said: «I’m the one who decides here.»

— Hello, newbie, — he addressed Nastya with a slight smile. — How do you like our world?

— Harder than I thought, — she admitted honestly. — But also more interesting.

— Good answer, — he nodded. — Welcome to medicine. Now you’re one of us.

For some reason, those words meant a lot. Nastya felt she truly became part of the team.

A couple of days later, Liliya Sergeyevna approached her again.

— You know Ivan Konstantinovich? — she asked with an obvious hint of distrust.

— Only professionally, — Nastya replied.

— Uh-huh… — the head nurse drawled, staring her down. — Just know, girl, he has other plans. And you’d better stay away.

Nastya wanted to argue but changed her mind. Why explain to someone who had already decided everything beforehand?

Work went on. At night, as usual, new cases came in: injuries, alcohol, fights, domestic incidents. Every new patient was like a small test of endurance and compassion.

Ivan Konstantinovich came to Nastya from time to time, giving advice, sometimes just checking how she was managing. Sometimes moments slipped by when she caught his gaze. But nothing more. No hints, no words, no gestures. Just professionalism.

One evening, when the shift was almost over, Liliya Sergeyevna approached Nastya closely.

— Listen, you’re a smart girl, — she began with a sticky tone. — You understand Ivan Konstantinovich has preferences. He likes women… older, experienced ones. You’re far from that. So don’t dream, dear. You’re not his match.

Nastya looked at her and for the first time felt an inner wall awaken. Not anger, not offense, but a defense that said: «I won’t let you break me.»

— I’m not claiming anything, — she answered calmly. — I’m here to work. If you have complaints, speak to the point. If not, don’t waste my time.

Liliya stepped back. Not immediately, but she did. And Nastya understood: she was getting stronger. Not because she wanted conflict, but because she knew why she was here. And no one, not even someone like Liliya Sergeyevna, would take that goal away from her.

Since then, work became a bit easier. Of course, Liliya Sergeyevna remained herself, but Nastya learned to pass by without getting involved in the games. Ivan Konstantinovich stayed friendly and fair as before. And most importantly — every day she felt she was moving forward.

And even though she was still just an intern, and even though she was hurt by others’ looks and words. One day she would become a doctor. And then she would decide for herself who to be: a cold careerist or someone who heals not only the body but also the soul.

She laughed loudly — piercingly, bitterly, as if winning a small victory. Then she turned and left, leaving Nastya alone.

Without hesitation, Nastya headed to the indicated ward. In the far corner, there really was a man lying there. Dirty, ragged, covered with bruises and abrasions. Judging by his appearance, he looked like a homeless person who had it rough. He was quietly moaning in pain. It seemed like he had been thrown off a roof.

Nastya quickly examined the man. She had the impression he had fallen from a cliff. She started working: treated the wounds, checked the pulse, prepared antiseptic. At that moment, Ivan Konstantinovich approached.

— How is the patient? — he asked, holding the medical chart.

Nastya nodded, continuing her work. The doctor bent down, listened to breathing, checked pupil reactions. Behind him, Liliya Sergeyevna appeared. Her look was full of barely hidden triumph.

— Why hasn’t he been bandaged yet? Why hasn’t treatment started? — she sharply demanded, addressing Nastya.

—I just received him, — Ivan Konstantinovich answered calmly. — And he arrived last night. So the question is for you, Liliya Sergeyevna.

The head nurse flushed but said nothing. Turning around, she left, leaving only tension in the air.

Nastya, together with a nurse assistant, carefully removed the man’s torn clothes. She expected to see an emaciated, thin body, but instead before her was strong, muscular, clearly trained. Only his face was swollen, and it was almost impossible to guess his age.

All day she bandaged his wounds, gave injections as prescribed by the doctor, applied ointment to bruises. She treated him like any other patient — carefully, gently, with compassion. Near evening, Liliya Sergeyevna appeared again.

— You’re wasting your time, — she hissed. — He won’t remember you anyway.

— I don’t need him to remember me, — Nastya replied surprised.

— Everyone does, — the head nurse added mysteriously and left, casting one last poisonous look.

Nastya only smiled to herself. Marriage was not in her plans. She had completely different goals.

Close to midnight, the man suddenly groaned. His eyes fluttered, he tried to sit up. Nastya immediately ran over, gently supported his head, brought water, helped him take a few sips. Then laid him back down.

— Where am I? — he croaked.

— In the hospital. Don’t worry, you’re being helped.

— Why is it so quiet?

— Late. Everyone is asleep. You’re safe, — she answered softly. — The doctor is nearby, and I’m on duty tonight.

— Miss… help me… What’s your name?

— Nastya.

— Nastya… Listen to me, please… Don’t tell anyone, okay?

She nodded and leaned closer to hear every word. The man spoke with pauses, struggling to breathe. Nastya listened attentively, not interrupting once.

When he finished, the girl gently touched his hand:

— I understand everything. Don’t worry, I’ll do everything needed. The main thing is to rest. I promise, it will get better.

As soon as she laid the patient down and went to the nurses’ station, Ivan Konstantinovich approached.

— You did well, — he said, noticing her fatigue. — Now I’ll take over. You can rest a bit.

Nastya gratefully nodded, but as soon as he disappeared behind the door, she grabbed the phone receiver — she had to urgently report important information to someone. About ten minutes later, unfamiliar people appeared in the corridor. Soon after, Liliya Sergeyevna, just off her shift, showed up.

— Still fussing over that tramp? — she snorted. — Maybe you should start working with normal patients?

— Everyone here needs help, — Nastya calmly replied, rising from her crouch. — I give it to everyone. Without exception.

— You’re such a saint, — the nurse smirked. — Only don’t expect thanks from such as that.

Nastya didn’t argue. She just looked at her and fell silent. At that moment, Liliya Sergeyevna suddenly froze — stern men in white coats entered the ward. Behind them was a tall, confident man whose posture and gaze spoke for themselves: this was no ordinary visitor.

Approaching the bed, the man suddenly embraced the patient lying there:

— Son! Is that you… Forgive me, son! I didn’t believe you back then when you told me… But now I see — you were telling the truth…

While the patient was being prepared for transport, the man — the father — approached Nastya. His voice trembled, but there was gratitude in his eyes.

— Thank you… If not for you, we would never have met. We will definitely see each other again, — he firmly shook her hand and disappeared with his son.

Liliya Sergeyevna, who had been watching all this, couldn’t resist:

— Don’t even dream. In five minutes, he’ll forget you even exist.

A month passed. During that time, Nastya often thought about transferring to another department. Liliya Sergeyevna never let her be. At every opportunity, especially in front of other staff, she mocked her:

— Has your millionaire rewarded you yet? Or married someone else?

At first, Nastya tried to explain that the man was just a patient. Then she realized it was useless. Since then, the head nurse started calling her «the oligarch’s fiancée,» even when asking to bring medicine or change an IV.

And then, one ordinary day, Nastya stepped into the corridor for tea. But she didn’t take two steps before she heard a familiar voice:

— Nastya! Is that you?

She turned sharply. There stood the same young man for whom she had spent so much time at the bedside. Now he was in an expensive suit, well-groomed, holding a bouquet. Behind him stood two bodyguards.

—I just returned from Germany, was treated there, — he said smiling. — The first thing I did was come here. I wanted to see you. To say thank you. You didn’t just save my life… You turned out to be the kindest person I have ever met.

Nastya was slightly embarrassed. The whole staff’s curiosity was palpable. Even Liliya Sergeyevna came out of the break room, mouth agape.

— You… look completely different, — Nastya said.

— You are the different one, — he replied softly. — You turned out to be not what you seemed. You’re incredibly beautiful inside and out. May I invite you somewhere? To a restaurant, or just a walk in the city?

He looked at her with hope, as if he had waited an eternity for this moment.

Nastya looked into his eyes. In them, she saw not just gratitude — she saw a person who sincerely valued human kindness.

— Okay, — she finally said. — Tomorrow. After lunch.

An employee at a gas station found a box in the restroom. Inside lay a newborn baby girl and a note: «Take care of her.» The man couldn’t leave the child alone — his wife had dreamed of having children for many years, but doctors said they would never have their own.

 

The next day, the couple took the baby to the hospital to make sure she was alright. The doctors examined the girl and reported that she was healthy, born very recently, and that there were no birth records in the registry — as if she had come into the world out of nowhere.

The husband and wife named the child Anya and decided to raise her as their own. They felt as if fate had given them a second chance to become a family.

But a few days later, the police arrived at the gas station. Someone reported a missing newborn. An investigation began. The man honestly told where he found the girl and showed the note. The police took DNA samples and started searching for the biological parents.

Meanwhile, the family had already grown deeply attached to the baby. They were afraid to lose her. When the police found the real mother, it turned out she was a homeless underage girl who left the child because she couldn’t care for her. Learning that the girl was in safe hands and growing up in a loving family, she tearfully thanked them and signed an official relinquishment.

A few months later, Anya became a full part of the family — she was officially adopted. She grew up surrounded by love and care, and her arrival marked the beginning of a new life for those who had long stopped believing in their family happiness.

Years passed. Anya grew as if she had always been part of this family. Her father taught her to ride a bicycle and read fairy tales before bedtime. Her mother baked pies, braided her hair, and hugged her so tightly it seemed she wanted to protect her from the whole world with those arms.

The girl knew little about her past — only that she was once “found” and loved very much.

When she turned ten, a letter came to the house with no return address. Inside the envelope was a short note:

“Thank you for raising my daughter. I often think about her. Forgive me for not being able to stay close. With love — Mom.”

Until then, Anya did not know about the letter’s existence. Her parents decided to wait until she was older and could understand the whole truth.

When Anya became a teenager, questions began: why she looked different from her parents, why there were two birth dates in the documents. One evening, her mom and dad sat down next to her and told her everything — honestly, gently, and with love.

Anya cried, but not out of sorrow — out of gratitude. She understood: she was not abandoned, she was saved. And her real family was not those who gave her life, but those who stayed by her side till the end.

This story became a source of strength for her. Growing up, she dreamed of helping other children who found themselves in difficult life situations. As an adult, she chose to become a social worker and helped families find each other.

She knew from her own experience: sometimes a real miracle comes in a simple cardboard box with a note: “Take care of her.”

Years later, Anya, now a confident woman, stood by the window of the child assistance center she had created in her hometown. A sign on the facade read: “A Chance for Family.” This center became her main life’s work.

Every child who entered was greeted by her warm smile:

“You are not alone. Everything will definitely be okay.”

One day, a young frightened woman came to the center, holding a small child. She lowered her eyes and whispered:

“I… don’t know what to do. I can’t leave her, but I can’t raise her myself either.”

Anya sat beside her, took her hand, and shared her story — how once a girl left a child in a box, and how that act, born of despair and love, became the beginning of something greater.

“You have a choice,” Anya said softly. “And you are not alone. We will be here.”

The young woman burst into tears. But these were not tears of fear or despair — they were the release of pain finally finding relief. Anya hugged her, just as her adoptive mother once did, giving warmth in the hardest moments.

Later, back home, Anya took out the same note from an old box:

“Take care of her.”

Carefully placing it next to a photo of her parents — the people who once dared to believe in a miracle — Anya whispered:

“I’m doing everything I can. Every day.”

A few months later, the young woman who came to the center with her child made a decision: she was ready to fight for her future and for her daughter’s future. With Anya’s support, she found a job, began studying, and gradually found herself. Anya became not just a mentor but a true friend.

She increasingly noticed how events repeated, but differently — not through suffering and escape, but through strength, mutual help, and love.

The “Chance for Family” center kept growing: programs for foster families appeared, consultations for pregnant women, psychological support groups. People came from all over the region, knowing they would be welcomed without judgment.

One day, an elderly woman came to the center. In her hands was a worn old envelope, her voice trembling:

 

“Are you… are you Anya?”

Anya nodded.

“I… I was the woman who left you. I came to the gas station when I learned you were alive, that you were loved. I wrote you a letter. All these years, I prayed for your happiness. Forgive me…”

Anya looked at her for a long time, saying nothing. Then she slowly approached and hugged the woman.

“I forgave you many years ago,” she whispered. “Because of you, I wasn’t left in the dark. You gave me life. I’m grateful.”

They sat together for a long time, holding hands. Two lives, two stories, two paths — joined in silence and acceptance.

That night, Anya wrote in her diary:

“Now I understand why everything happened the way it did. I am the link between fear and hope, between loss and love. Though my story began in a cardboard box on a cold floor, it led me to warmth — the warmth I can now share with others.”

Years passed. Now a mature woman with the first gray hair at her temple, Anya stood before a hall full of people. It was the anniversary evening of the “Chance for Family” center. Over the years, hundreds of children found shelter, dozens of women found support, and families found new faith in the future.

Anya took the stage:

“I want to tell you a story. About a girl found in a cardboard box with a note: ‘Take care of her.’ She was not forgotten. She was saved. And then she got a family. That girl is me.”

The hall fell silent. Anya looked into the eyes of those gathered — parents, children, volunteers. Among them — the woman who gave her life, now with a kind look and a heart filled with peace. Nearby — her adoptive parents, aged but still proud of their daughter.

“I believe that every person has a chance. Even if their path begins with pain and loss. Love is a choice. And every time we choose it, we change someone’s destiny.”

The applause didn’t stop. People stood up, hugged, some cried, others smiled through tears.

That evening, Anya returned home tired but happy. She looked into her adoptive mother’s room and kissed her forehead. She whispered:

“We always knew you were not just our daughter. You are a light for others.”

Anya took out the same note again, faded by time:

“Take care of her.”

She gently placed it back in the box and quietly said:

“Thank you. We all did it.”

This story is not only about how she was found. It is a story about how she found herself — and helped others find themselves.

Marina stood by the window, watching as the last guests settled into their cars. The festive lights in the yard illuminated their faces, still lively after the anniversary celebration for her mother-in-law. Seventy years – a significant milestone, and the whole family had gathered.

And it was today that Oleg decided to «make a joke.»

«Well, what can I say, Marina is lucky to have me. I carry the whole family on my shoulders, and she just spends my money,» – those words still echoed in her ears. She remembered how she froze with her half-empty glass of drink, how the guests awkwardly laughed, how her mother-in-law tried to turn everything into a joke: «Oh, Oleg, what are you saying!»

Fifteen years of marriage. Fifteen years she had created comfort in their home, raised the children, supported his career growth. She had once given up a promising job at a publishing house so that Oleg could calmly build his business. «Darling, you don’t need to work. I’ll take care of the family,» he had said back then. And she had agreed, believing him.

Marina flinched at the sound of a car pulling up – Oleg had returned. She heard him humming something as he climbed the stairs. Clearly pleased with himself – after all, all the guests had praised his generosity and admired how great he was.

«Marinka!» – came from the hallway. «Why did you leave so early? Mom is upset!»

She remained silent, staring at her reflection in the dark glass. At forty-two, she was still an attractive woman – a slim figure, well-groomed hair, and a tastefully chosen wardrobe. «She just spends my money» – the words echoed in her head again.

«Marin, did you get offended?» – Oleg appeared in the living room doorway, swaying slightly. He smelled of brandy and cigars – they had obviously stayed late with the guys after the main celebration.

«No,» she replied calmly, «I’m just tired.»

«Come on! Everyone knows I was joking. You know how I joke!»

 

Marina slowly turned to her husband. In the dim room, his smug smile seemed especially out of place.

«Of course, I know. I’ve known for fifteen years. And you know what I realized? In every joke, there is a bit of a joke. Everything else – is the truth.»

«Here we go!» – Oleg plopped down in the armchair. «Let’s skip your… what do you call them… dramatic monologues!»

Marina smiled – for the first time that evening. But the smile didn’t reach her eyes.

«Don’t worry, no monologues. I just realized something important. Thank you for that.»

She headed for the door, leaving her puzzled husband in the chair. A plan of action was already forming in her mind. Fifteen years – enough time to understand: some things need to change radically.

The morning started unusually. Oleg woke up to silence – there was no clinking of dishes in the kitchen, no smell of freshly brewed coffee. His head hurt a little from the previous night, and he absentmindedly reached for the nightstand where Marina usually left a glass of water and a hangover pill. It was empty.

«Marin!» – he called out, but there was no answer.

In the kitchen, he was met with a surprise – no breakfast, no coffee, just a note: «The kids are at school. I didn’t make lunch – you have money, order delivery.»

«What is this, a daycare?» – Oleg muttered, grabbing his phone. But inside, an unpleasant feeling stirred – something was wrong.

At work, things weren’t going well. Usually, Marina would call, ask how the important meetings went, remind him of partners’ birthdays. Today – silence. He almost forgot about a negotiation with a big client, barely managed to prepare.

That evening, when he got home, an unfamiliar scene awaited him: Marina was sitting in the living room with a laptop, typing away with interest.

«Dinner is in the fridge,» she said without looking up from the screen.

«In the fridge? What’s there?»

«Containers of food for the kids. Heat something up for yourself.»

Oleg felt himself boiling. «Are you staging a strike?»

Marina looked up from the laptop. There was something new, unfamiliar in her gaze.

«Strike? No, not at all. I just decided not to waste your money. I cook only for the kids – they’re not to blame for our relationship.»

«What relationship? What’s going on here?»

«What’s going on?» – she calmly asked. «I’m just following your logic. Since I only spend your money, I’ll spend as little as possible. By the way, I updated my resume today – maybe it’s time to start earning on my own?»

Oleg froze. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t know what to say.

«You never wanted me to work…»

«That’s not true. You didn’t want me to work. ‘My wife shouldn’t work’ – remember those words? And now it turns out I’m just sitting on your neck.»

There was no hysteria or anger in her voice – just calm statement of facts. And that made him uneasy.

«Marin, enough already! It was just a joke at the anniversary…»

«You know,» – she closed the laptop, – «when a person jokes once, it’s a joke. When it’s constant – that’s their opinion. And I finally heard your true opinion of me. Thanks for your honesty.»

She stood up and headed for the stairs to the second floor.

«By the way, I signed up for professional development courses. I’ll have to spend some of your money – the last time.»

Oleg was left alone in the living room. Inside, irritation grew, mixed with unfamiliar anxiety. Something told him: this time, it’s serious.

On the third day, Oleg realized – this was war. Quiet, without scandals and broken dishes, but all the more terrifying for it. Marina had seemingly erected an invisible wall between them: polite, correct, but completely cold.

When he came home from work, he froze in the hallway – his suitcase was standing by the door. Neatly packed, lovingly put together – just as Marina always did.

«What is this?» – his voice trembled traitorously.

Marina emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. She was wearing a new dress – strict, businesslike. She used to wear mostly home clothes.

«This? Your things. I packed everything – suits separately, shirts ironed. You can check.»

«Are you kicking me out?»

«No,» – she shook her head. «I’m just giving you a choice. You said you carry the family on your back, and I just spend your money. So, without me, it will be easier for you, won’t it?»

Oleg felt the ground slip away beneath him. All these years, Marina had been his support, his foundation. Yes, he had allowed himself to make snide remarks, but she always forgave, always understood…

«Listen,» – he stepped toward her, – «let’s talk calmly. You know I love you…»

«Really?» – she looked him in the eye for the first time in days. «What does your love look like, Oleg? How does it manifest? In allowing me to spend your money?»

«Stop! I overreacted back then, at the anniversary…»

«No,» – she shook her head. «You just said out loud what you’ve always thought. You know, I met with a friend from the publishing house yesterday. It turns out they’re expanding and looking for editors. And guess what’s the most interesting part? They remember me. Fifteen years have passed, and they still remember.»

Oleg felt a chill inside. He remembered how Marina was passionate about her work, how her eyes would light up when she spoke of new projects. And then he had convinced her to leave…

«Do you want to go back to work?»

«I already have. I have an interview tomorrow.»

«But what about the kids? The house?»

«What about the kids? They’re already grown. Dima is in eighth grade, Alice is in sixth. We’ll manage. Unless, of course, you think that the wife of a successful businessman shouldn’t work?»

Her voice held a barely perceptible irony. Oleg suddenly realized – she wasn’t joking. All this time, he had lived with a strong, smart woman but had only seen her as a comfortable backdrop for his life.

«Marina,» – he took another step toward her, – «let’s fix everything…»

«Let’s,» – she nodded. «But this time differently. Either we’re equal partners, or…» – she nodded toward the suitcase, – «you know where the exit is.»

The next week turned their life upside down.

Oleg didn’t take the suitcase, but the old life was gone. Marina really did have the interview – brilliantly, as her future boss reported. «You have a natural talent, and your experience hasn’t gone anywhere,» – she repeated those words to the children at dinner.

Oleg watched the changes with a mixture of emotions: pride in his wife fought with a wounded male ego. Marina seemed to blossom – there was a new shine in her eyes, new energy in her movements. She smiled more often, but not at him.

«Dad, why didn’t Mom work before?» – Alice asked one morning at breakfast.

Oleg choked on his coffee. «Well… it just happened.»

«I think it’s because you didn’t want her to,» – the girl looked at her father with unexpected insight.

That evening, he sat for a long time in his office, remembering their first years together. How Marina had supported him when the business was just starting. How she stayed up nights with the kids so he could sleep before important meetings. How she saved on herself when there were financial difficulties…

And he? What had he done, aside from earning money? When was the last time he said something nice to her? When did he show interest in her thoughts, her dreams?

Meanwhile, Marina was transforming. New job, new wardrobe, new hairstyle. She seemed to have shed the cocoon of a housewife and turned into a confident businesswoman. At work, she was valued – just a month later, they entrusted her with an important project.

«Can you imagine?» – she shared with the kids, – «We’re going to publish a series of books by young authors. I’ll oversee the whole process!»

Oleg listened to her excited account and felt a pang of guilt. How many years had she kept this passion for her beloved work inside? How many opportunities had she missed, staying at home?

One evening, when the kids were already asleep, he decided to have the conversation.

«Marina, I owe you an apology…»

She looked up from her laptop: «For what exactly?»

 

«For everything. For not appreciating you. For making you give up your dream. For acting like… like…»

«Like a self-centered egoist?» – she suggested, but for the first time in days, there was a hint of a smile in her voice.

«Yes. Exactly. I was wrong. And it’s not about the anniversary – it’s about all these years when I took you for granted.»

Marina put the laptop aside. «And what do you propose?»

«To start over. But this time, for real, together. As equals.»

Marina looked at her husband carefully. In fifteen years of marriage, she had learned to read him like an open book. Now, there was something new in his eyes – genuine remorse and… fear. Fear of losing her.

«You know,» – she said after a pause, – «I could have really left. Packed my things and started a new life.»

«Why didn’t you leave?» – Oleg asked quietly.

«Because I still love you. And because I believe people can change. But,» – she emphasized that word, – «only if they truly want to.»

Oleg sat down next to her on the couch. For the first time in a long time, they were this close to each other.

«I want to change. I really do. These days without your attention, without your care… I realized how empty life can be.»

Marina smiled: «And I realized how full it can be. Work, family, self-development – all of it can be combined. And you know what? I became the best mother for our kids when I felt fulfilled.»

«I noticed. You seem to be glowing from within.»

«And this is just the beginning. I have so many plans, ideas…»

«Will you share them?» – for the first time in many years, he truly wanted to hear about her dreams.

They talked deep into the night. About work, about the kids, about the future. For the first time in a long time, it was a conversation between equals – not a condescending husband and a submissive wife, but two partners who respected each other.

«You know what’s the most interesting?» – Marina said when they finally got ready to sleep. «Now I truly feel lucky with you. Not because you provide for the family, but because you were able to admit your mistakes and change.»

Oleg hugged her: «I’m the lucky one. And I’ll never let you doubt that again.»

— Who’s crying out there? Stepan, can you hear? In such dismal weather, someone is crying!

— Probably it’s just the wind howling, Katyusha. What tears could there be on a night like this…

I ran out onto the porch without even grabbing my scarf. The autumn rain whipped against my cheeks, yet I kept straining my eyes into the darkness.

And suddenly — that sound again. Not the wind, no. Human sobbing, so faint, so vulnerable.

At the bottom step lay a bundle, wrapped in an old scarf. Inside — a child, a boy of about three years old.
His eyes were wide open, yet his gaze was empty. He didn’t blink when I brought my hand to his face.
Stepan came out, silently picked up the bundle with the little one, and carried it inside.

— It’s a divine decree, — he said simply as he set the kettle down. — Let’s keep him.

In the morning, we headed to the district hospital. Doctor Semyon Palych shook his head and sighed heavily:

— He’s blind. Apparently since birth. He doesn’t speak, but he does react to sounds. His development… it’s hard to say. Ekaterina Sergeyevna, you do understand, there are so many children like this in orphanages…

— No, — I replied softly but firmly enough to silence the doctor. — I don’t understand. And I refuse to understand.

Later, we completed the paperwork.

Nina from the village council helped — a distant relative on my mother’s side. They organized everything as an “adoption.” They named him Ilya — in memory of Stepan’s grandfather.

That day we returned home as a family.

— How are we going to manage him? — Stepan stammered, awkwardly holding the little one as I opened the door.

— We’ll manage as best we can. We’ll learn, — I replied, not fully trusting my own words.

I had to leave my job at the school — temporarily, I thought. Ilya required attention every moment.

He did not see danger, didn’t know where the edge of the porch was, where the stove was.

Stepan worked in the logging camps, coming home exhausted, but every evening he would create something for the little one — wooden handrails along the hut’s walls, pegs with ropes in the garden so that Ilya could move around by holding onto the stretched cord.

— Look, Ekaterina, he’s smiling, — Stepan smiled for the first time since Ilya appeared, showing me how the little one was feeling his big, rough hand.

— He recognizes you, — I whispered. — By your hands.

The neighbors split into two groups. Some expressed sympathy, while others condemned. The first group sent children to help, brought milk and eggs. The others whispered on the benches:

— And why do they need him? They’re healthy themselves; they could have their own.

That infuriated me, but Stepan wisely said:

— They don’t know, they don’t understand. We didn’t know either until Ilyusha appeared.

By winter, Ilya began uttering his first words. Slowly, hesitantly:

— Ma-ma.

I froze with a spoonful of porridge in my hand. In that moment, something inside me changed — as if a river that had been flowing in one direction suddenly reversed.

I had never considered myself a mother. A teacher, a wife, a village woman — but not a mother. And now…

In the evenings, when Ilya was falling asleep, I would sit by the stove and re-read old textbooks, trying to figure out how to teach a blind child.

Discoveries came gradually. I guided his hands over objects, naming them.

I let him touch different surfaces — smooth, rough, warm, cold. We listened to the sounds of the village — roosters, cows, the creak of gates.

— Don’t lose heart, — Baba Dunya said as she brought a pail of milk. — God willing, he’ll grow up. After all, blind children… have keener hearing and more sensitive hands. Who knows, he might even surprise everyone.

— I’m not losing heart, — I answered. — It’s just… we don’t know how. Nobody does. We simply love him.

— And that’s all he needs, — the old woman nodded, setting the pail on the table. — Love conquers all.

By spring, Ilya was already following me around the house, holding onto my apron.

He recognized Stepan by his footsteps, reaching out to him.

And when the neighborhood children started coming into our yard, he laughed for the first time upon hearing them play tag.

— Katyusha, — Stepan embraced me, watching as Ilya sat on the porch, listening to the children’s voices. — I’m thinking… it wasn’t we who found him. He found us.

Time passed. Ilya grew up, as all children do — remarkably fast. By the age of seven, he knew our home better than we did.

He could walk from the porch to the shed without ever straying from his path. He recognized the trees in our garden by the texture of their bark. He helped me sort through potatoes, unfailingly picking out the rotten ones.

— This one gives off a different scent, — he explained, setting aside a decaying tuber. — And if you tap it with your nail, the sound is muffled.

Stepan built for him an entire network of guides — pegs of different heights all over the yard, rope paths, handrails.

And I searched for ways to teach him reading.

— How will you learn your letters? — the neighbors wondered. — Perhaps you don’t even need it?

I stayed silent. At night, I would carve letters out of linden wood — three-dimensional, with sharp angles and raised curves. I’d hammer small nails into planks, stretch wire — forming lines. Though very simple, just a couple of words.

Ilya ran his fingers over these homemade symbols, memorizing the shape of each character.

The day he read his first word, Stepan brought an enormous pine board from the forest.

— Let’s make a desk for studying, — he declared, his eyes glowing. — With sides so that the textbooks won’t fall.

Official representatives learned about our Ilya when he turned eight. A commission from the district education department arrived — to check why the child was not attending school.
— Citizen Vorontsova, — began a stout woman in a strict suit, — do you realize that you are breaking the law? A child of school age is obliged to receive an education.

— He is receiving one, — I indicated at our homemade alphabet, the exercise books with pages punctured where Ilya learned to write, pressing the paper.

— But not from professional teachers, — she objected. — In our region there is a specialized boarding school for blind children. There you’ll get professional care, proper methods…

— No, — I felt my face stiffen.

— Think about it, citizen. He isn’t even your blood relative. Why suffer so? They’ll take better care of him there.

I slowly stood up from my seat.

— He’s ours. And he will live a full life, not merely exist.

They left, but I knew — they would return. Stepan was silent for two days, then began building an extra room onto the house.

— For Ilya, — he said as he hammered in the first nail. — His own space. To store his textbooks.

I was allowed to return to teaching at the school, and at home, I was given permission to educate Ilya myself. Every day after classes, we learned together. He absorbed everything instantly.

Sometimes other teachers would come by; we managed to arrange lessons.

— Ekaterina Sergeyevna, — the school principal once said to me, — do you know that your boy… is special?

— I know, — I smiled.

— No, I’m not talking about his blindness. He has an extraordinary memory. And his speech… How does a village child have such a vast vocabulary?

Every evening I read to him. Pushkin, Tolstoy, Chekhov. Stepan brought books from the district library — where Anna Pavlovna worked, who became our protector.

She would set aside the latest books for us, and when the first cassette recorder appeared, she began recording books onto tape.
Ilya listened, memorized, repeated. His speech truly stood out from that of other children — unhurried, thoughtful, as if he tasted every word before speaking.

In the village, everyone got used to him. The children no longer teased him, but ran toward him:

— Ilyukha, come with us! Tell us a story!

He told them fairy tales — both those I had read to him and those he composed himself.

He would sit on a log at the edge of the village, surrounded by wide-eyed village kids. Even adults would stop to listen.

— You know, Stepa, — I said to my husband one evening, — it seems he notices more than we do. Just in a different way.

— He sees with his heart, — Stepan nodded. — And we look with our eyes, yet don’t always truly see.

When Ilya turned seventeen, we sat together on the porch. I was mending Stepan’s shirt,

while Ilya ran his fingers over a book I had specially obtained for him — designed for the blind.

— Mom, — he suddenly said, — I want to write. So that others aren’t afraid.

— Write? — I pricked my finger with a needle. — You want to become an author?

— Yes, — he turned his face toward me. — I want to tell the story of those who can’t see. Yet still perceive the world. About you. About Dad. About everything you have given me.

I looked at his face — lean, with high cheekbones, so reminiscent of Stepan’s, though they were not related by blood. My son. Our son.
— I’ll record every word you say, — I told him, squeezing his hand. — Every single word.

The year 2025. Outside, spring resounded — noisy, ringing, with the cries of jackdaws and the scent of melting earth.

I sit in a wicker chair on the terrace of our new home. Spacious, bright, with wide corridors and no thresholds. A home that Ilya built for us with the royalties from his works.

— Mom, the tea is getting cold, — Ilya sets a new cup before me. Forty-seven years old, yet his movements remain as careful and deliberate as ever.

Now he navigates not only our home — but the entire world.

 

— I was thinking, — I smile as I take the cup. — I remembered how we started.

Stepan comes out of the garden, leaning on his cane. The years have not been kind to his sturdy back — he had hauled too much lumber, too many boards he had hewed.
— What are you two talking about? — he asks, sitting down beside me.

— About the past, — Ilya answers and laughs. — Mom, you’re lost in your memories again.

— She’s our dreamer, — Stepan takes my hand. His palm still rough, though now marked by age spots.

I look at them — the two most important men in my life — and I cannot believe how much has happened over the years.

After that conversation on the porch, Ilya began dictating stories to me. At first hesitantly, then ever more boldly.

I recorded every word in a thick notebook. When personal computers appeared, we mastered the technology together.

Anna Pavlovna from the library helped us establish contact with the editorial board of a literary publication.

Ilya’s first story was published in 2000. “Listening to the World” — a narrative about a boy who distinguished people by the sound of their steps. Then came a novella, a novel, a collection.

Ilya’s creativity is unique. It tells of people who perceive reality in another way. Of voices, sounds, touches.

Of a light that one can feel on the skin. Of a memory that is more powerful than sight.

Now he has his own studio in a large house — with a computer that voices everything that appears on the screen. With speech recognition programs that capture his words.

Technological innovations have transformed the lives of people like him. But Ilya asserts that the main transformation did not come from the equipment.

— People have started to listen, — he explains to journalists who come for interviews. — They have learned to heed those who are different.

Stepan activates a radio — an old device that we keep like a relic.

— They’ll be talking about our boy again, — he says proudly.

Ilya grimaces:

— Dad, turn it off. It’s awkward to listen to things about yourself.

— But I love it, — Stepan insists stubbornly. — Do you remember, Ekaterina, the first time he said “mom”?

I smile.

— How could I forget… I cried like the last fool back then.

The radio broadcasts news about Ilya Vorontsov’s new novel, which has become a significant event in literature. About his small charitable foundation for blind children.

About how society’s attitude toward people with visual impairments has transformed.

There’s a knock at the door — a new device has been delivered for Ilyusha’s studio. My son goes to answer — confidently, without brushing against the walls. In a house built for him, he needs no guides.
— Imagine, — he returns beaming, — they’ve invited me to join the “People of Light” foundation! They want me to be their representative.

— You’ll go? — Stepan asks.

— I don’t know, — Ilya sits between us. — Only if you come with me. I’m nowhere without you.

The three of us sit on the terrace, listening to spring. I watch my son — tall, a stately man with noble streaks of gray at his temples.

Behind him, my husband — aged, yet as reliable as ever. And I reflect on that rain, on that cry in the night.

I always believed that we gave Ilya life. But with time, I realized — he gave life to us. Filled it with meaning, with a light that cannot be seen but is felt every day. He taught us to notice what others miss. To listen with the heart.

If that October night were to happen again — I would run out onto the porch once more. Barefoot, into the rain. And I would again say: yes. Yes to this fate. Yes to this son. Yes to this life, which turned out to be far richer than I could have dreamed.

— Mom, what are you thinking about? — Ilya touches my hand.

— That you are the best thing that ever happened to us, — I say simply.

— No, — he shakes his head and smiles that special smile I’ve known for many years. — The best thing that happened is us. All of us together.

— Oh, son, there go your wife and daughter! Let’s go meet them.

And now, would you like to know how Ilya perceived everything that was happening? Let’s take a look at the story from his point of view.

My world was always peculiar. Not “dark” — as many believe. Just different, filled with sounds, scents, touches.

My earliest memories are of the warmth of my mother’s hands. Her voice, ringing like a spring brook. My father’s rough fingers, exuding the smell of resin and wood.

I don’t know when I realized I couldn’t see — because I had never seen otherwise. I was five when I first became curious about it.

— Mom, why can’t I see like everyone else?

She froze. I heard her breath catch. Then she took my hands and placed them on her face. — You see in a different way, Ilyusha. With your hands, with your ears, with your heart. Eyes are only one method. You have others.

That day she took me into the garden and let me touch every tree, every bush. “Remember their voices,” she said. — “The birch rustles differently than the aspen. The apple tree smells unlike the cherry.”

The world for me was a symphony of sounds. The creak of the floorboards in the house, which told me exactly where I was. The clatter of dishes in the kitchen. The rustle of pages when mom read to me in the evenings.

When I was six, a neighbor boy named Vovka asked: “And how do you see dreams?” I thought for a long time about how to explain. — In my dreams, I soar. I touch the treetops. I hear the sound of every leaf.

— But what color are they? — he pressed.

— Colors… they have sounds, — I said then. — Yellow rings like a little bell. Red rumbles like a trumpet.

Vovka fell silent. Then he grabbed my hand:

— Come on! I’ll show you something!

He led me to the river. He scooped up water with his hands and let me feel it.

— See how blue it is, — he said. — Like cold water.

Thus began our friendship. And my understanding of colors through touch, sounds, temperature. When it came time to learn, mom created a whole world of embossed letters for me. I would run my fingers over the rough boards for hours, memorizing the shapes. I mastered the alphabet in a week. Reading opened up a whole new universe for me.

— How do you remember so quickly? — mom marveled.

I didn’t know how to explain. To me, each letter had its own character, its own voice. And words came together in melodies I could not forget. At eight, people came who wanted to take me away. I stood by the door, listening as mom argued with them. “He’s ours,” — she said in a way that sent shivers down my spine. — “And he will live only with us.”

Then I realized for the first time — not being able to see in this world means being in danger. They could take you away, separate you, hide you from everyone else. And I also understood that I had protectors. Dad built me a room. I helped him, handing him nails, holding the boards. He never said “be careful” or “don’t touch” — he simply explained:

— Hold the hammer firmly. Strike accurately, without fear.

At twelve, I began to tell stories. First, I retold the ones mom read to me. Then I started inventing my own. — Where do you get these stories from? — the village kids asked, gathering around me.

— Out of thin air, — I laughed. — I hear them whisper.

In truth, the stories were born out of sounds. The creak of a door became the beginning of an adventure.

The sound of rain transformed into a march. The whir of mom’s sewing machine turned in my imagination into the measured clatter of train wheels.

I could almost physically feel how the train carried its characters further and further from familiar places — to where new territories and unknown challenges awaited.

At seventeen, I was struck with the realization — my stories should not vanish into thin air.

They yearned to be set on paper, demanded to exist beyond my voice. I wanted to reveal to people how the world is experienced by one who has never seen it. — You dictate, and I’ll write, — mom simply said when, overcome with emotion, I shared my dream with her. There was not a trace of doubt in her tone, as if she had been waiting for that moment for a long time.

She recorded every word I dictated. Every day after her school classes, she would sit beside her notebook. I heard the scratch of her pen, the rustle of the pages. It was our secret, our ritual. The first story was printed when I was twenty-two. I remember dad reading it aloud — published in a magazine, a real one. His voice trembled with pride.

The surrounding reality transformed around me. Computers appeared, talking programs, e-books. I embraced new technologies, discovered opportunities I never could have dreamed of in my childhood. At thirty, I met Marina — an editor at a publishing house who came to negotiate a new book.

She walked across our yard, and I immediately recognized her footsteps among all the other sounds — light, yet confident, with a distinctive rhythm, as if she were not walking but dancing along the edge of the earth.

And her voice… It interwove notes that touched something deep within me — like a string resonating in unison with my heartbeat.

— Confess, — she said, leafing through the manuscript of my new book, — what’s your secret? Your descriptions are so… tangible. I literally feel everything you write about.

— I perceive the world through other senses, — I answered. — And I translate them into a universal language.

 

A year later, we married. Two years after that, our daughter Anya was born — with eyes like Marina’s (as mom says), and long fingers like mine (I already know that by touch).

With each new book, the accolades kept coming.

Interviews, travels, meetings with readers. I founded a foundation to support blind children. Together with Marina, we created a small studio — our own little island where books come to life.

We built a home — not just walls and a roof, but an extension of ourselves, with rooms that seem to breathe in rhythm with its inhabitants. In the garden, where I know every bush by its scent, now rest parents whose hands have earned that peace.

On the threshold of forty-seven, I look back and feel like a collector of treasures that money cannot buy — they come only through fate, through encounters, through overcoming challenges.

Not sight — but the ability to perceive the world in layers, in depth. Not an ordinary childhood — but one filled with the love of two people who never let me feel “different.” People often pity the blind. They ask, “How do you cope?” I always answer, “And why should I not cope?”

My world is full of colors — they just have sounds, scents, textures. My world is full of faces — I just feel them with my fingertips.

I did not lose my sight — I found other ways to perceive reality.

And I also found parents who taught me the most important thing: blindness is not an obstacle. The obstacle is fear. And love is stronger than any barrier. Here, on the terrace, between the two dearest breaths, amid the mingling voices of the spring garden, I sometimes feel a strange sensation — as if I see the world more clearly than many who can see, because I have learned to distinguish the essence of things, sifting the chaff of the trivial from the grains of the genuine.

And if you ask me: “Would you like to see as everyone else?” I would answer: “Who said that I see any less?”

— He’s not coming, is he?» I asked the nurse, clutching the bundle with the baby close to me.

«Sometimes that happens, dear. Perhaps he was held up at work,» she replied, averting her gaze as if checking documents.

I looked at little Matvey’s tiny face, his barely noticeable eyebrows, and his pink lips, tied up like a bow.

The three-day-old son slept peacefully, unaware that his father had missed the most important moments—the first cry, the first feeding, the first sleepless night when I whispered lullabies to him, holding back tears of pain and joy.

The phone was silent. Igor hadn’t replied to any messages for two days now. The last time he wrote, “Busy. I’ll call back.” And that was it. Silence.
The ward filled with the voices of other women. Their husbands greeted them—with bouquets, with envelopes for the babies, with shining eyes. And I stood by the window, gazing down the road. Matvey squirmed, began to squeal, and I held him tighter.

«Lenochka, dear, we’re here.»

Mom appeared in the doorway of the maternity ward, followed by Dad carrying a huge bouquet of daisies—my favorite.
«He…» I began, then fell silent, noticing how Dad shook his head.

«They called him, sweetheart. No answer.»

My hand trembled so much that the nurse picked up Matvey while I was trying to put on my coat. My legs wobbled—not from weakness, but from a fear that filled my mind. Something had happened. Something irreparable.
«I parked the car around the corner,» Dad said, accepting his grandson from the nurse. «What a champ! So much of our own in him.»

There was a fierce edge in his voice. I knew—he was angry, ready to tear Igor to pieces. But he was silent because now was not the time.

The journey home seemed endless. Outside, trees, houses, and people flashed by. A normal life in which nothing would ever be the same again.
«Maybe something happened to him?» I asked when the car stopped by our house.

Mom patted my shoulder:

«Everything will work out, Lenochka. Right now, the baby is the most important.»

The old house greeted me with the familiar creak of its floorboards and the scent of Mom’s pies. This was where I had grown up.

The phone in my pocket vibrated as I stepped over the threshold. My heart leapt—finally! I handed Matvey over to Mom and took out the phone.

A message from Igor. A photograph.

In it, he was hugging a woman. Young, with long, light hair. In her arms—a baby wrapped in a blue blanket. Almost identical to our Matvey.

«Sorry. It will be better for all of us. Don’t look for me, I’ll sell the apartment, it’s long been in my name, and I’ll send your things to your parents’ place.»

It felt as if walls had suddenly closed in around me. The air vanished. I stood in the middle of my own home, unable to breathe.
«Sweetie, what happened?» Mom’s voice came through as if through cotton.

I handed her the phone. Her face contorted, and she passed the phone to Dad.

He looked at the screen—and his face turned to stone. He silently placed the phone on the table, went to the coat rack, and began putting on his jacket.

«I’ll find that bastard,» he muttered through gritted teeth. «I’ll make him regret it. He has no right to just…»

«Don’t, Dad,» my voice sounded oddly calm. «He’s not in our lives anymore.»

I approached and took Matvey into my arms. My son opened his eyes—clear, pure. They held not a trace of betrayal. They held only life, only the future.
«We’ll manage,» I said, looking into those eyes. «Right, baby? We’ll manage.»

Raindrops began to fall outside. But here, surrounded by familiar walls and loved ones, I realized—this was not the end. It was the beginning of a new chapter. Our story with Matvey, where there was no room for someone who didn’t want to be part of it.

Summer in the village exuded the fragrance of blossoming apple trees and honey. Matvey, using my fingers for support, took his first steps across the wooden floor of the family home.

Seven months—a time that transforms pain into a memory, and a tiny bundle into a person with character.

«Look at him, standing so firmly on his feet!» Dad said as he scooped up his grandson under his arms and raised him toward the ceiling. «A true hero! So much of our own in him.»

Matvey burst into laughter, his chubby legs flailing in the air. His eyes—deep and observant—explored the world with the eagerness of an explorer.

He didn’t yet understand that his family wasn’t just his mom and dad, but his mom, grandpa, and grandma. And that realization brought me a strange relief.

Grandma was embroidering on the porch, glancing at us through the open door.

«Sashenka, don’t toss him so high,» she smiled. «You’ll scare the little one.»

«Scare him?!» Dad burst out laughing. «He’s fearless. Right, Matveyka?»

I watched them, and inside something new began to blossom—not happiness just yet, but calm. As if after a long storm, silence had finally set in.

Spring turned into summer, and summer into autumn. With every month, every year, I recalled less and less of the photograph on the phone, which I had long deleted. Of the man whose name I no longer spoke aloud.

Work helped me move on. At first, I made custom children’s clothes—sitting by the window while Matvey slept peacefully.

Later, I was invited to conduct handicraft classes at the village school. I loved watching the kids’ eyes light up when something new and beautiful was born from a piece of fabric. Before that, I had worked in the city as a teacher.

Thus the years passed, and my son grew up.

In the evenings, Matvey and Grandpa created culinary magic in the kitchen. Dad—a former chef—shared with his grandson all the subtleties of the culinary arts.

«Remember, you must sprinkle salt as if it were precious metal,» he told the three-year-old, who stirred the pot with a serious expression. «Just a little, but with warmth.»

Matvey nodded with the importance of someone making a life-changing decision.

One evening, while tucking my son into bed, I heard the question I had dreaded for all these years:

«Mom, where’s my dad?»

My heart clenched, but I did not let myself falter. Matvey looked at me directly—without resentment, without sadness. Just with childlike curiosity.
«He left when you were just born,» I said, stroking his soft hair. «He chose another path.»

«Is that because I’m bad?» Matvey asked, and my heart shattered again.

«No, baby. You are the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to me,» I hugged him tightly. «Your father simply… couldn’t be a real father. But you have a grandpa who loves you more than anything in the world. And me. And grandma.»

Matvey pondered the words for a moment.

«So, I just have a different kind of family,» he finally said. «Like Petya from kindergarten. He doesn’t have a dad either, but he has two grandmas.»

I smiled, hiding my tears:

«Yes, families are different. But the most important thing is that there’s care in the family.»

«We have plenty of that,» Matvey declared confidently, yawning. «More than there are stars in the sky.»

That night, I sat on the porch for a long time, gazing into the dark sky. Matvey was right—there was indeed more warmth than stars.

For the first time in so many months, I felt that I could simply live—without counting every breath, without fearing that joy might vanish at any moment.

When I saw Dad standing with Matvey at the stove, patiently showing him how to fillet a fish, an inner warmth spread through me unlike any other moment in life.

It was something more—a quiet strength of family, roots that even the deepest betrayal cannot uproot.

«Mom, where are my sneakers? The new ones with blue stripes?»
Matvey’s voice, already shifting from child to young man, echoed through the house. I smiled, looking into the mirror.

Sixteen years. Sixteen years since the day I returned home with a newborn son and a broken heart.

«In the hall, under the bench,» I replied, fastening my earrings. «And you haven’t forgotten that today it’s your turn to cook, have you?»

From Matvey’s room came a sound somewhere between a groan and laughter.

«How could I forget? Grandpa will scold me if dinner isn’t up to his standards!»

I walked downstairs and froze, watching my son. When had he grown so much? Shoulders like an adult man’s, a guitar slung over his back, and confidence in his eyes.

I still couldn’t get used to the feeling: there he was, my little Matvey, and at the same time—a completely different person, with his own secrets, dreams, and shades of character I had never noticed before.

«We’ll manage,» I said, looking into those eyes. «Right, baby? We’ll manage.»

Outside, raindrops began to fall. But here, surrounded by the walls of home and loved ones, I understood—this was not the end. It was the beginning of a new chapter in our story, one where there was no place for someone who chose not to participate.

Summer in the village spread the scent of blooming apple trees and honey. Matvey, leaning on my fingers, took his first steps on the wooden floor of our family home.

Seven months—a time that transforms pain into memory, and a tiny bundle into a person with character.

«Look at him, standing so firmly on his feet!» Dad said, scooping up his grandson under his arms and raising him toward the ceiling. «A true hero! So much of our own in him.»

Matvey laughed, his little legs flailing. His eyes—deep and curious—explored the world with the zeal of a pioneer.

He still didn’t understand that his family wasn’t just mom and dad, but mom, grandpa, and grandma. And that realization brought me a strange relief.

Grandma sat on the porch embroidering, glancing at us through the open door.

«Sashenka, don’t toss him so high,» she said with a smile. «You’ll scare the baby.»

«Scare him?!» Dad chuckled. «He’s fearless. Right, Matveyka?»

I watched them, and inside something new began to bloom—not happiness just yet, but peace. As if, after a long storm, silence had finally taken hold.

Spring turned to summer, and summer to autumn. With every month, every year, I recalled less and less of that photo on the phone, which I had long since deleted. Of the man whose name I no longer uttered aloud.

Work helped me move on. At first, I sewed custom children’s clothes by the window while Matvey slept peacefully.

Later, I was invited to teach handicraft classes at the rural school. I loved watching the kids’ eyes light up when something new and beautiful emerged from a piece of fabric. Before that, I had worked in the city as a teacher.

Thus the years flowed by, and my son grew up.

In the evenings, Matvey and Grandpa worked their magic in the kitchen. Dad—a former head chef—shared all the secrets of culinary art with his grandson.

«Remember, sprinkle the salt as if it were precious metal,» he told the three-year-old, who stirred the spoon in the pot with a serious look. «Just a little, but with warmth.»

Matvey nodded with the importance of someone making a life-altering decision.

One evening, as I was tucking him into bed, I heard the question I had dreaded all these years:

«Mom, where is my dad?»

My heart clenched, but I didn’t let myself flinch. Matvey looked at me directly—without any resentment or sorrow. Just with childlike curiosity.
«He left when you were born,» I said, stroking his soft hair. «He chose another path.»

«Is it because I’m bad?» Matvey asked, and my heart shattered once more.

«No, baby. You are the most wonderful thing that has ever happened in my life,» I hugged him tightly. «Your father simply… couldn’t be a real father. But you have a grandpa who loves you more than anything in the world. And me. And grandma.»

Matvey pondered for a moment.

«So, I just have a different kind of family,» he finally said. «Like Petya from kindergarten. He doesn’t have a dad either, but he has two grandmas.»

I smiled, hiding my tears:

«Yes, families are different. But the most important thing is that there is care in the family.»

«We have plenty of that,» Matvey declared confidently, yawning. «More than there are stars in the sky.»

That night, I sat on the porch for a long time, staring into the dark sky. Matvey was right—there was indeed more warmth than stars.

For the first time in so many months, I felt that I could simply live—without counting every breath, without fearing that joy might vanish at any moment.

When I saw Dad standing with Matvey by the stove, patiently showing him how to fillet a fish, a warmth filled me that no other moment in life could provide.

It was something more—a quiet strength of family, roots that not even the strongest betrayal could tear out.

«Mom, where are my sneakers? The new ones with blue stripes?»

Matvey’s voice, already shifting from child to young man, echoed through the house. I smiled as I looked in the mirror.

Sixteen years. Sixteen years since the day I returned home with a newborn son and a broken heart.

«In the hall, under the bench,» I answered, fastening my earrings. «And don’t forget, today it’s your turn to cook.»

From Matvey’s room came a sound somewhere between a groan and a laugh.

«How could I forget? Grandpa will have my head if dinner isn’t up to his standards!»

I walked downstairs and froze, watching my son. When had he grown so much? Shoulders like an adult man’s, a guitar on his back, and confidence in his eyes.

I still couldn’t get used to the feeling: here he was, my little Matvey, and yet—a completely different person, with his own secrets, dreams, and nuances of character I had never noticed before.

«We’ll manage,» I said, looking into those eyes. «Right, baby? We’ll manage.»

Outside, raindrops began to fall. But here, surrounded by familiar walls and loved ones, I realized—this was not the end. It was the beginning of a new chapter. Our story with Matvey, in which there was no room for someone who chose not to participate.

Summer in the village exuded the fragrance of blossoming apple trees and honey. Matvey, using my fingers for support, took his first steps on the wooden floor of our family home.

Seven months—a time that transforms pain into memory, and a tiny bundle into a person with character.

«Look at him, standing so firmly on his feet!» Dad said, scooping up his grandson under his arms and raising him toward the ceiling. «A true hero! So much of our own in him.»

Matvey laughed, his little legs flailing. His eyes—deep and inquisitive—explored the world with the passion of an explorer.

He still didn’t understand that his family wasn’t just his mom and dad, but his mom, grandpa, and grandma. And that realization brought me a strange relief.

Grandma sat on the porch embroidering, glancing at us through the open door.

«Sashenka, don’t toss him so high,» she said with a smile. «You’ll scare the child.»

«Scare him?!» Dad laughed. «He’s fearless. Right, Matveyka?»

I watched them, and inside something new began to bloom—not happiness yet, but peace. As if after a long storm, silence had finally settled.

Spring turned into summer, and summer into autumn. With every month, every year, I recalled less and less of that photograph on the phone—which I had long since deleted. Of the man whose name I no longer spoke aloud.

Work helped me move on. At first, I sewed custom children’s clothes by the window while Matvey slept peacefully.

Later, I was invited to teach handicraft classes at the village school. I loved watching the children’s eyes light up when something new and beautiful emerged from a piece of fabric. Before that, I had worked in the city as a teacher.

Thus the years passed, and my son grew up.

In the evenings, Matvey and Grandpa created culinary masterpieces in the kitchen. Dad—a former head chef—shared all the intricacies of the culinary arts with his grandson.

«Remember, sprinkle the salt as if it were precious metal,» he told the three-year-old, who stirred the spoon in the pot with a serious look. «Just a little, but with warmth.»

Matvey nodded with the gravitas of someone making a life-changing decision.

One evening, as I tucked him into bed, I heard the question I had dreaded all these years:

«Mom, where is my dad?»

My heart clenched, but I did not let myself falter. Matvey looked at me directly—without any anger or sorrow. Just with childlike curiosity.
«He left when you were born,» I said, stroking his soft hair. «He chose another path.»

«Is it because I’m bad?» Matvey asked, and my heart shattered once again.

«No, baby. You are the most wonderful thing that has ever happened in my life,» I said, hugging him tightly. «Your father simply… couldn’t be a real father. But you have a grandpa who loves you more than anything in the world. And me. And grandma.»

Matvey thought about it for a moment.

«So, I just have a different kind of family,» he finally said. «Like Petya from kindergarten. He doesn’t have a dad either, but he has two grandmas.»

I smiled, hiding my tears:

«Yes, families are different. But the most important thing is that there is care in a family.»

«We have plenty of that,» Matvey declared confidently, yawning. «More than there are stars in the sky.»

That night, I sat on the porch for a long time, gazing into the dark sky. Matvey was right—there was indeed more warmth than stars.

For the first time in so many months, I felt that I could simply live—without counting every breath, without fearing that joy might vanish at any moment.

When I saw Dad standing with Matvey at the stove, patiently showing him how to fillet a fish, an inner warmth spread through me that no other moment in life could match.

It was something more—a quiet strength of family, roots that not even the strongest betrayal could tear out.

«Mom, where are my sneakers? The new ones with blue stripes?»

Matvey’s voice, already shifting from child to young man, echoed through the house. I smiled, looking into the mirror.

 

Sixteen years. Sixteen years since the day I returned home with a newborn son and a broken heart.

«In the hall, under the bench,» I replied, fastening my earrings. «And don’t forget, today it’s your turn to cook.»

From Matvey’s room came a sound somewhere between a groan and a laugh.

«How could I forget? Grandpa will have my head if dinner isn’t up to his standards!»

I walked downstairs and froze, watching my son. When had he grown so much? Shoulders like an adult man’s, a guitar slung over his back, and confidence in his eyes.

I still couldn’t get used to the feeling: there he was, my little Matvey, and yet—a completely different person, with his own secrets, dreams, and shades of character I had never noticed before.

«We’ll manage,» I said, looking into those eyes. «Right, baby? We’ll manage.»

Outside, the rain began to fall. But here, surrounded by familiar walls and loved ones, I realized—this was not the end. It was the beginning of a new chapter. Our story with Matvey, in which there was no room for someone who chose not to participate.

Summer in the village exuded the fragrance of blooming apple trees and honey. Matvey, leaning on my fingers for support, took his first steps on the wooden floor of our family home.

Seven months—a time that transforms pain into memory, and a tiny bundle into a person with character.

«Look at him, standing so firmly on his feet!» Dad said, scooping up his grandson under his arms and raising him toward the ceiling. «A true hero! So much of our own in him.»

Matvey laughed, his little legs flailing. His eyes—deep and curious—explored the world with the zeal of a pioneer.

He still didn’t understand that his family wasn’t just his mom and dad, but his mom, grandpa, and grandma. And that realization brought me a strange relief.

Grandma was on the porch embroidering, glancing at us through the open door.

«Sashenka, don’t toss him so high,» she said with a smile. «You’ll scare the baby.»

«Scare him?!» Dad laughed. «He’s fearless. Right, Matveyka?»

I watched them, and inside something new began to bloom—not yet happiness, but peace. As if after a long storm, silence had finally settled.

Spring turned into summer, and summer into autumn. With every month, every year, I recalled less and less of the photo on the phone—which I had long since deleted. Of the man whose name I no longer uttered aloud.

Work helped me move on. At first, I sewed custom children’s clothes by the window while Matvey slept peacefully.

Later, I was invited to teach handicraft classes at the village school. I loved watching the children’s eyes light up when something new and beautiful emerged from a piece of fabric. Before that, I had worked in the city as a teacher.

Thus the years passed, and my son grew up.

In the evenings, Matvey and Grandpa created culinary masterpieces in the kitchen. Dad—a former head chef—shared all the intricacies of the culinary arts with his grandson.

«Remember, sprinkle the salt as if it were precious metal,» he told the three-year-old, who stirred the spoon in the pot with a serious look. «Just a little, but with warmth.»

Matvey nodded with the gravitas of someone making a life-changing decision.

One evening, as I tucked him into bed, I heard the question I had dreaded all these years:

«Mom, where is my dad?»

My heart clenched, but I did not let myself falter. Matvey looked at me directly—without any anger or sorrow. Just with childlike curiosity.

«He left when you were born,» I said, stroking his soft hair. «He chose another path.»

«Is it because I’m bad?» Matvey asked, and my heart shattered once again.

«No, baby. You are the most wonderful thing that has ever happened in my life,» I said, hugging him tightly. «Your father simply… couldn’t be a real father. But you have a grandpa who loves you more than anything in the world. And me. And grandma.»

Matvey thought about it for a moment.

«So, I just have a different kind of family,» he finally said. «Like Petya from kindergarten. He doesn’t have a dad either, but he has two grandmas.»

I smiled, hiding my tears:

«Yes, families are different. But the most important thing is that there is care in a family.»

«We have plenty of that,» Matvey declared confidently, yawning. «More than there are stars in the sky.»

That night, I sat on the porch for a long time, gazing into the dark sky. Matvey was right—there was indeed more warmth than stars.

For the first time in so many months, I felt that I could simply live—without counting every breath, without fearing that joy might vanish at any moment.

When I saw Dad standing with Matvey at the stove, patiently showing him how to fillet a fish, an inner warmth spread through me that no other moment in life could match.

It was something more—a quiet strength of family, roots that not even the strongest betrayal could tear out.

«Mom, where are my sneakers? The new ones with blue stripes?»

Matvey’s voice, already shifting from child to young man, echoed through the house. I smiled as I looked in the mirror.

Sixteen years. Sixteen years since the day I returned home with a newborn son and a broken heart.

«In the hall, under the bench,» I replied, fastening my earrings. «And don’t forget, today it’s your turn to cook.»

From Matvey’s room came a sound somewhere between a groan and a laugh.

«How could I forget? Grandpa will have my head if dinner isn’t up to his standards!»

I walked downstairs and froze, watching my son. When had he grown so much? Shoulders like an adult man’s, a guitar slung over his back, and confidence in his eyes.

I still couldn’t get used to the feeling: here he was, my little Matvey, and yet—a completely different person, with his own secrets, dreams, and nuances of character I had never noticed before.

«We’ll manage,» I said, looking into those eyes. «Right, baby? We’ll manage.»

Outside, the rain began to fall. But here, surrounded by familiar walls and loved ones, I realized—this was not the end. It was the beginning of a new chapter. Our story with Matvey, in which there was no room for someone who chose not to participate.

Summer in the village exuded the fragrance of blossoming apple trees and honey. Matvey, using my fingers for support, took his first steps on the wooden floor of our family home.

Seven months—a time that transforms pain into memory, and a tiny bundle into a person with character.

«Look at him, standing so firmly on his feet!» Dad said, scooping up his grandson under his arms and raising him toward the ceiling. «A true hero! So much of our own in him.»

Matvey laughed, his little legs flailing. His eyes—deep and curious—explored the world with the zeal of a pioneer.

He still didn’t understand that his family wasn’t just his mom and dad, but his mom, grandpa, and grandma. And that realization brought me a strange relief.

Grandma was on the porch embroidering, glancing at us through the open door.

«Sashenka, don’t toss him so high,» she said with a smile. «You’ll scare the baby.»

«Scare him?!» Dad laughed. «He’s fearless. Right, Matveyka?»

I watched them, and inside something new began to bloom—not yet happiness, but peace. As if after a long storm, silence had finally settled.

Summer faded, and then one day, a knock echoed at our door.

I opened it to find Igor standing there—gaunt, with strands of gray in his hair, and a faded look in his eyes. In that moment, twenty-six years seemed to vanish—I recognized him instantly.
«Why are you here?» My voice didn’t waver, though everything inside me had turned upside down.

«I heard about the wedding,» he stuttered, shifting from foot to foot. «Through mutual acquaintances. I…I thought I had the right…»

«Right?» I said, not raising my voice, but he seemed to recoil. «What right do you have to a son you haven’t seen once in twenty-six years?»

He ran his hand over his face, as if wiping away an invisible cobweb:

«I know I acted like a horrible person. I just wanted to see him. To apologize. Maybe even…» he faltered.

«Even what?»

«Maybe just stand here, like a father…»

I laughed—a laugh that even surprised myself. It held no bitterness or anger—only genuine wonder.
«You’re twenty-six years too late, Igor. Today, the only one who stands beside my son is me. The person who was there every day. And my parents.»

Footsteps echoed in the corridor, and Matvey appeared in the doorway—in a dark blue suit, with a sprig of rosemary in his lapel.

He shifted his gaze from me to Igor, and his face turned to stone. Inside, everything nearly broke. But not today. Not on this day.

«Matvey,» I said softly, «you don’t owe him anything.»

«I know who you are,» my son said calmly, looking directly at Igor. «I saw your photograph.»

Igor stepped toward him:

«Son, I know I have no right… but I’d like to apologize. And, if you allow, meet you. With your fiancée.»

Matvey looked at him without anger—as if studying a stranger on the street.

«You weren’t there when I was sick and couldn’t sleep. When I started first grade. When I broke my arm and Grandpa drove me to the hospital across the village,» he said quietly. «I forgive you.»

Because resentment is a burden too heavy to bear. But in my life, there’s no room for you. Especially not today.

Igor seemed to age another ten years in those few minutes.

«I understand,» he whispered. «Forgive me. And… be happy.»

He turned and left, slouching.

Matvey hugged me:

«Everything’s fine, Mom. Shall we go?»

I clutched him, feeling my heart race:

«Are you sure you’re okay?»

He smiled—as he did in childhood when he’d scrape his knees but bravely carried on:

«I’m marrying the best girl in the world. With you by my side, Mom, I wouldn’t be who I am. How could I not be okay?»

The music began. Guests stood up. Matvey and I walked along a petal-strewn path. At the end, under an arch, stood Nastya—in a simple light dress, with a wreath of cornflowers, beautiful in her nervous excitement. Matvey squeezed my hand, and we walked on. With every step, I felt the weight of past years lift.

Once, betrayal had seemed to break me. But it merely pointed me toward a different path—the one that led to this perfect moment.

…

In the evening, as guests danced under the stars and Matvey twirled Nastya in their first family dance, I stepped out onto the porch for a breather. The air smelled of freshly cut grass and blooming linden.

The door creaked. Matvey came out and sat beside me.

«Why aren’t you with your wife?» I asked with a smile.

«I just wanted to check on you,» he said, resting his head on my shoulder. «Love you, Mom.»

«And I love you, dear.»

We sat in silence, gazing at the sky. How strange life was. Once, my life had crumbled because of the betrayal of a beloved person.

But today, I was truly happy—and I wouldn’t have been if he had stayed with us. My son grew up strong, honest, and capable of love. Could he have been that way with a father who led a double life?

«You know,» Matvey said quietly, as if reading my thoughts, «I wouldn’t change a thing—even if I could go back. We took the right path, Mom.»

I kissed his temple:

«Go to your wife. She’s waiting for you.»

He stood and, before leaving, said:

«Thank you for choosing life over sorrow. You taught me that.»

I sat on the porch for a long time afterward. The stars twinkled in the dark sky—the same ones that shone when I stood with a baby in my arms, holding a photo of someone else’s family.

We don’t choose who betrays us. But we choose with whom to build our lives. And I chose correctly.»