All Amazing Babies

“I definitely wouldn’t marry a man like that!” rang out a clear, bright child’s voice in the silence—surprisingly confident for someone so young.

Marina flinched and turned sharply. In front of her stood a little girl—about six, with a long fair braid, a worn jacket, and eyes that held a strange, beyond-her-years clarity.

The bride in a snow-white dress, rustling with every step, froze at the entrance to the restaurant. Inside, guests, music, a three-tier cake, and the groom—Artyom—were waiting. But the child’s words pierced the hush like a thunderclap.

“Sorry… what did you say?” Marina asked again, trying to smile, though something inside her gave a little jolt, like an alarm bell.

The girl shrugged.
“He’s mean. I saw him yesterday. He pushed my mom.”

Marina frowned. Her heart started pounding. She crouched to be at the girl’s level.
“What’s his name?”

“Artyom. He came to our place yesterday. He yelled. Mom cried after.” The girl wiped her nose with her sleeve. “I thought he was just an acquaintance, and then I saw—he’s your groom…”

Marina walked into the restaurant as if through a dense fog. Everything around her—chandeliers, smiles, camera flashes—felt distant, not her own.

Artyom came up quickly, flashing a dazzling smile.
“Everything okay, sweetheart?”

“Tell me…” Her voice trembled. “Were you with a woman and a child yesterday?”

Artyom froze. For a moment something flickered in his eyes—fear? guilt?—but then he scowled.
“What nonsense is this? Of course not! Is this a joke? Have you lost it on a day like this?”

“The girl had a braid. She said you pushed her mother. That you came by yesterday.”

“Kids get all sorts of ideas!” he snapped. “You didn’t actually believe her, did you?”

Marina looked at him, and for the first time she saw—not a groom, but a stranger. Strong, self-assured, in an expensive suit… with cold in his eyes.

“I’ll be right back,” she said quietly, took off her veil, and headed for the exit.

The girl was waiting in the same spot.

“Will you show me where you live?”

She nodded silently.

It was only a few blocks away. The girl ran ahead; Marina followed, holding up the hem of her dress. They turned into a courtyard—old, with a rusty slide and broken windows on the third floor.

“This is us. Mom’s home.”

Marina climbed the creaking stairs behind her. The girl opened the door with a key.

The room was cold. A young woman sat on the floor by the radiator, hugging a notebook. She looked up.

“I… don’t know who you are,” she whispered.

“I’m Marina. Today I was supposed to marry Artyom.”

The woman went pale and pulled her daughter closer.
“He… didn’t say he was getting married.”

“Did he push you yesterday?”

“Yes. When I said I didn’t want this anymore. We were together for two years. He promised he’d divorce and start a new life. But then everything changed. He started shouting, forbade me to work. And yesterday he came drunk. He wanted to take Polina. He said, ‘You’re nobody. But she’s mine. I can do whatever I want with her.’”

Marina sat down on the edge of the rug. Her throat tightened. She wanted to cry, but inside there was only emptiness.

“Why didn’t you go to the police?”

“Who would listen to me? I have no job, no support. And he’s rich, influential.”

The girl pressed herself quietly to her mother.
“Mom, she’s nice…”

That evening Marina didn’t return to the wedding hotel but to her own apartment. It was quiet there. Only the cat curled up purring in her lap.

Her phone wouldn’t stop ringing: first her friend, then her mother, then Artyom himself.

She didn’t answer.

Then she opened her messenger. His message:
“You made a spectacle of me! You’ll regret this!”

She simply tapped “Block.”

A month passed. Life slowly found a new rhythm. Marina started working at a center that helped women in difficult situations. And one day she saw that same mother there again—Natalia.

Now Natalia was learning to sew, taking part in fairs, and her daughter Polina wore a bright ribbon and no longer hid behind her mother’s back.

“Thank you,” Natalia said one day. “You saved us without even knowing it.”

Marina only smiled.

One evening, as they were walking in the park, Polina suddenly took her hand.
“I told you all that because you were beautiful but very sad. And I got scared that you would start crying too, like Mom.”

Marina squeezed her little hand.
“Thank you, Polina. Because of you, I got out too.”

And for the first time in a long while, she smiled for real.

The real tears came later—when she was alone.

Marina closed the door, took off her coat, sank to the floor in the entryway, and finally allowed herself to cry—to sob, to let go. The pain wasn’t only that Artyom had turned out to be a liar. It was deeper—an ache that she had never truly been wanted. Not in childhood, not in youth, not now. All her life she had tried to be “right”—pretty, smart, agreeable, the “perfect wife.”

But who was she—really?

She sat down at the table and wrote a letter—not to anyone else. To herself:

“You deserve more. You are not a thing. You should be loved not for your looks, but for who you are. You don’t have to keep quiet to be accepted. You don’t have to endure for the sake of being ‘nice.’ You are a person. Alive, real, feeling. You have the right to be happy. To be weak. To be yourself. And to have the right to choose.”

The next morning she woke up different, as if she’d shed an old, tight skin. She went to the hairdresser and, for the first time, didn’t ask, “Does this look good on me?” She simply said, “Do what I want.”

And the world around her felt different. The air—softer. The sun—warmer. She began to hear herself.

Natalia and Polina became her family. They came over—at first for tea, then to read books, watch movies, and make crafts together.

One day Marina fell asleep in an armchair. When she woke, a child’s blanket had been carefully laid over her, and beside her lay a paper flower. Polina whispered softly:
“You’re ours now.”

And Marina cried—without shame, without holding back.

Life gradually found a new rhythm. Marina began hosting meetings for women in difficult circumstances—women who had once been as she was. She helped with paperwork, looked for housing, supported them in finding work.

And in each of them—tired, frightened, shoulders slumped—she recognized a reflection of her former self.

And she said quietly but firmly:
“I know how much it hurts. But let’s start with the most important thing—with you. With your ‘I.’”

Six months later she happened to see Artyom—in a café on the corner, at a table with a new girlfriend. He laughed loudly, stroked her hand in a showy way, as if to prove to the world everything was fine.

He didn’t notice her.

She looked at him—not with pain, not with resentment, but with mild surprise. Like an old photograph where everything has faded and the faces are no longer recognizable. Like a stranger. And suddenly she understood: he could no longer hurt her—neither her heart nor her life. His shadow no longer lay across her path.

And Polina…

Polina now left her notes more and more often—on magnets on the fridge.

“You’re the kindest!”
“I want to be like you!”
“Mom smiles every day now.”

And one day, on Marina’s birthday, the girl came with a big box. Inside was a homemade cake decorated with jelly candies and a card with crooked letters:

“You became a bride—but not to that man.
You became the bride of our family.
We chose you ourselves.”

Marina hugged them both tightly—Natalia and Polina.
And for the first time, she truly felt she was home.
Not in a fancy house, not in a wedding dress, not under applause.
Just—home.
In a heart that is warm. Where you are awaited. Where you are loved not for the image, not for success, not for appearance—
but simply for being you.

Eight years passed.

Polina grew up—from a skinny, shy girl with frightened eyes into a strong, bright young woman. The same eyes, but now they shone not with suffering, but with faith, courage, and dreams. She entered a teacher-training college. Her goal was simple:
“So that no child ever feels alone. So that everyone knows—they are valued.”

By then, Marina was no longer just helping—she had opened her own center. Small and warm, in an old house with wooden windows and gentle light. There were children’s toys, books, cozy armchairs with throws. And most importantly—the light was always on. Not the electric kind, but the human kind. Women came here who had lost their homes, their hope, themselves. And here they were truly welcomed.

Natalia changed too. She completed accounting courses, found a job, rented a bright apartment. Once quiet, afraid of her own shadow, now she could calmly say:
“No. That’s not part of my job. I have boundaries.”

They became a family. Not by blood—by choice. By heart.

And then, on a warm spring day, Marina stood by a big window, her forehead resting against the glass. Down in the garden, girls were decorating a floral arch. The air smelled of lilacs; soft music played; women laughed.

Today was a wedding.

But not hers.

Today Polina was getting married.

Marina had spent a long time choosing a dress. Not white—that was the bride’s day. But light, soft, with a gentle sheen. The dress she once couldn’t wear. And now—she could.

When the music started, everyone stood. Polina walked slowly, in a long white dress, with a wreath of fresh flowers. And beside her—not a father, not a relative, but Marina. They walked hand in hand.

All the while they moved down the path strewn with petals, Polina didn’t take her eyes off her. And when they reached the altar, she turned and whispered:
“You are my family. You saved me. Mom gave me life, and you taught me how to live.”

Marina wanted to answer but couldn’t. The words stuck in her throat. Only tears ran down her cheeks.
But they weren’t tears of pain.
They were tears of release. Tears of healing.

After the wedding, as dusk settled, Marina stepped out into the garden. The air was heavy with the scent of lilacs and fresh cake. Someone was dancing, someone hugging their children; in the corner a guitar played softly.

Suddenly a quiet voice sounded behind her.
“May I sit?”

She turned. In front of her stood a man of about fifty, gray at the temples, with kind, slightly tired eyes. He was holding a cup of tea.
“I’m the groom’s father,” he smiled. “And you—you’re Polina’s mom?”

Marina smiled gently in return.
“Not exactly. More like… a mother by fate.”

He looked at her for a long moment.
“You know… that’s even more important.”

They talked for a long time—about books, about losses, about how to survive loneliness. He had been widowed two years earlier. He understood what it meant to start from scratch when it feels like the world has stopped.

And suddenly Marina felt calm. Not anxious. Not wary. Just—well.

When he left, she remained standing under an old cherry tree, gazing up at the clear evening sky.

The stars were just coming out—like drops of light on dark watercolor.

And in the quiet she whispered:
“Thank you, fate.
Thank you for that little girl with the braid by the restaurant.
For the tears that taught me to value things.
For the falls after which I learned to rise.
And—for the meeting.
Not back then.
But right on time.”

A wooden hand-carved sign now hung above the center’s entrance:

“A home where you can begin again.”

And every time new women with children came here, Marina looked at them and remembered that day.
That voice.
Those words:

“I wouldn’t marry a man like that!”

One child’s cry—honest, sincere, like a heartbeat—changed not just a wedding.
It changed everything.

And now she knew:
Sometimes the simplest word, spoken by a small heart, becomes a beacon in the darkest night.
And it leads you not just toward the light—
but home.
Toward love.
Toward yourself.

“Well then, mommy, ready to meet daddy?” the nurse smiled, handing me a tightly swaddled bundle. “Look—everyone’s already gathered under the windows with flowers.”

I nodded, pressing my son to me. His tiny face was serious, almost frowning. My boy. Our boy—Oleg’s and mine. I went to the window, searching for my husband’s familiar car, but it wasn’t there. Only strangers’ happy faces, balloons soaring into the sky, and bouquets that looked like clouds.

The phone in the pocket of my robe buzzed. Oleg. At last.

“Hello! Where are you? They’re discharging us already,” I blurted out before he could say a word. “I’m already dressed, and the baby’s ready.”

I heard a noise like the hum of an airport in the receiver, and a woman’s laughter somewhere in the background.

“Anya, hi. Listen, here’s the thing…” His voice was oddly detached, cheerful. “I’m not coming.”

My smile slid off my face.

“What do you mean? Did something happen?”

“No, everything’s great! It’s just that I’m flying out. To relax. You know, a last-minute package came up—how could I say no?”

I looked at my son. He snuffled in his sleep.

“Flying… where? Oleg, we have a son. We were supposed to go home. All three of us.”

“Oh, come on, it’s no big deal. I asked your mom, she’ll meet you. Or take a taxi. I transferred money to your card.”

Money. He said “money.” As if buying us off, like we were an annoying mistake.

“Are you flying alone?”

He hesitated. And in that brief pause, I heard everything. All the deceit, all his late-night “meetings” and “urgent business trips.” That sticky fog of lies I’d stubbornly refused to notice.

“Anya, don’t start, okay? I’m just tired, I want to unwind. I’ve got the right.”

“You do,” I said evenly. The air in my lungs suddenly ran out. “Of course you do.”

“Well then, great!” he brightened. “Okay, they’re boarding. Kisses!”

The line went dead.

I stood in the middle of the ward, furnished with government-issue pieces, and looked at my son. He was so real, warm, alive. And my whole former life had just turned into a cheap stage set.

The nurse peeked into the room.

“Well? Did Dad make it?”

I slowly shook my head, my gaze never leaving my son.

“No. Our dad went on vacation.”

I didn’t cry. Something inside simply turned very hard and very cold, like a stone thrown into icy water. I took out my phone and dialed my mother’s number.

“Mom, hi. Can you come pick me up?… Yes, alone. Please take us home. To your place. To the village.”

Father met us at the maternity hospital gates in his old Zhiguli (Lada). Wordlessly, he took the bundle with Misha from me and, awkward but careful, pressed him to his broad chest. He didn’t say a word the entire drive to the village, just watched the road while the muscles in his weathered face worked.

That silent support was better than any words.

The village greeted us with the smell of smoke and damp leaves. Our old house, where I hadn’t lived for ten years, felt foreign. Everything there was steeped in a different, forgotten way of life: creaking floorboards, a stove that had to be stoked in the morning, water from the well. My city life, with its comforts and illusions, was somewhere far behind us, hundreds of kilometers away.

The first weeks blurred into one endless day filled with Misha’s crying and my despair. I felt like a burden. My mother sighed when she looked at me, a quiet sorrow fixed in her eyes. My father withdrew, and I knew he blamed me—not for coming back, but for choosing Oleg once, ignoring his parental instinct.

Then he called. Two weeks later. Cheerful, judging by his voice—rested and full of life.

“Hi, love! So how are you two doing, you and the champ?” he practically shouted into the phone, as if that conversation at the hospital had never happened.

“We’re at my parents’,” I answered curtly, wiping Misha’s bib.

“Ah, right, right. Good—fresh air, nature. That’s good for him. I’ll be back soon too; I’ll drop by and play with the heir.”

The heir. He spoke of his son like some object you could set aside and pick up later to play with.

He started calling once a week. He asked me to show Misha on video, cooed sweetly at the phone screen, and then quickly signed off. He acted as if we were just temporarily living in different places by mutual consent. As if he hadn’t left me alone with a baby in my arms.

Then one of my city “friends” sent me a screenshot from social media. A photo. The same woman whose laugh I’d heard on the phone sat at a café table, and in the background Oleg stood behind her, arms around her shoulders. Happy. In love. The caption read: “The best decision of my life.”

I looked at the picture, then at my own hands with their broken nails, at the mountain of diapers I had to wash in icy water. And I understood. He wasn’t just on vacation. He was building a new life.

And we—Misha and I—were merely an annoying obstacle to be bought off with paltry handouts so he could sleep at night.

The screen went dark, but the photo stayed before my eyes. The humiliation was almost physical; it burned my cheeks and squeezed my throat.

I stopped writing to him and calling. I just waited.

Oleg called himself a month later. His voice was businesslike, collected, with no trace of his former playfulness.

“Anya, hi. We need to talk. I’ve decided to sell our apartment.”

I sank down onto the old wooden bench in the yard. Misha was asleep in the stroller beside me.

“Our apartment? Oleg, that’s our only home. Where am I supposed to go back to with the baby?”

“Listen, it’s business. I need the money for a new project. I can’t keep it frozen in concrete. I’ll allocate you your share, of course. I think three hundred thousand will be enough to start.”

Three hundred thousand. He valued his son’s future at three hundred thousand rubles.

“Oleg, you can’t do this. By law, half belongs to me and Misha.”

He gave a cold, unpleasant little laugh.

“By what law, Anya? The apartment’s in my mother’s name, remember? ‘So there’s no hassle.’ You agreed to that yourself. So sue all you like. Good luck.”

And that was the last straw. Not the cheating. That cold, businesslike tone with which he stripped his own son of a future.

That evening I sat on the porch. My father came out of the house and sat beside me.

“A man, Anya, isn’t the one who talks pretty,” he said at last. “He’s the one who acts. You have to do what’s right for your son. Your mother and I are here.”

His simple words flipped a switch inside me. Enough of being a victim.

The next day the pump in the well broke. Father called someone, and an hour later an old motorcycle rolled into our yard. A tall man of about thirty-five swung off it. Sergey. A neighbor from the other end of the street whom I vaguely remembered from childhood. Calm, laconic, with strong, calloused hands. In half an hour he had the pump apart and fixed, refusing payment.

“Neighbors should help each other,” he said simply, wiping his hands on a rag. His gaze fell on Misha in the stroller, and he smiled ever so slightly. “He’s going to be a stout little warrior.”

When Sergey left, I went inside. I took a folder of documents from the cabinet: our marriage certificate, Misha’s birth certificate, where “Oleg” stood in black and white in the “father” field. I found the number of a city lawyer.

My fingers no longer shook. My voice was steady and firm.

“Hello. My name is Anna. I want to file for divorce and for child support. My husband refuses to support his child.”

The court process wasn’t quick. Oleg didn’t appear at the first hearing, sending an expensive lawyer who announced that his client doubted his paternity.

A low blow, meant to make me back down. I only clenched my fists tighter.

“What are you doing, you fool?” Oleg hissed over the phone after the court ordered a DNA test. “Trying to clean me out?”

“You chose this path yourself, Oleg.”

The test, of course, confirmed paternity. The court set child support at a quarter of all his income. His lawyer tried to prove Oleg’s business wasn’t profitable, but my attorney dug up all his shady schemes.

The amount turned out to be substantial—so much so that his “best decision in life” quickly packed her things and vanished from the picture.

While the court cases dragged on, my life in the village began to take shape. Sergey started dropping by more often—patching the roof, playing with Misha. One day he brought Misha a little wooden horse he’d carved. Misha, who had just turned two, hugged the toy at once.

“Papa!” he said, showing the horse to Sergey.

Sergey froze and looked at me. I just smiled. Because my son had chosen his father himself.

We married a year later. Quietly, without a lavish wedding. Sergey adopted Misha and gave him his name. He turned out to be the kind of man people mean when they say, “with him, you’re as safe as behind a stone wall.”

A few more years passed. We built a new, spacious house. We had a daughter.

Oleg showed up on our doorstep one autumn evening. Older, hollow-cheeked, in a worn jacket.

“Anya, I… I came to see my son,” he mumbled.

Sergey opened the door.

“Misha!” he called into the house. “Someone’s here to see you.”

Five-year-old Misha ran out onto the porch. He looked curiously at the unfamiliar man.

“Hello.”

“Hey there, son…” Oleg reached a hand toward him. “I’m your…”

He didn’t finish. He looked at me, at Sergey, at the sturdy house behind us. And he understood he was too late.

“Sorry, I’ve got the wrong address,” he said quietly, and trudged away.

Ten years passed. We sat on the veranda of our house. Our eleven-year-old Katya laughed as she tried to steal the ball from fifteen-year-old Misha. Tall, broad-shouldered—he looked so much like Sergey, not by blood, but by something far more important.

“Mom, Dad, we’re off to the river!” Misha shouted.

I leaned into my husband. Oleg’s betrayal didn’t break me. It threw me out of a fake world into reality. I heard that Oleg went bankrupt. His chase after easy money and a flashy life ended in collapse. He never learned how to build anything real, anything lasting.

I looked at Sergey’s strong hands resting on my shoulders. I am a happy woman.

And my happiness began not in spite of that betrayal, but because of it. Sometimes, to find the right road, you first have to get lost and hit bottom—so you can push off and swim. Toward the light. Toward a real life.

Maria drove slowly along the familiar streets of her hometown. Ten years in the capital had erased many memories. She reached her mother’s apartment by GPS.

The front door opened before Maria had time to ring. Her mother stood on the threshold—older, tired.
“So you finally came,” Galina Petrovna said dryly. “Come in.”

Maria stepped over the threshold. Teenagers crowded the hallway. Her stepbrother and stepsister looked her over with undisguised curiosity.

“Kids, this is Maria,” their mother introduced her. “Your sister.”

A girl of about fourteen looked Maria openly up and down. The designer coat, the expensive handbag, the elegant shoes—all of it marked her as a successful city dweller.

“She has such a beautiful car,” the girl whispered to her brother.

“Hush, Lena,” their mother snapped.

A middle-aged man came out of the kitchen. The stepfather gave Maria a silent nod. His gaze slid over her clothes and lingered on the expensive watch.

In the living room stood an old sofa and worn armchairs. The television had clearly seen better days. Maria sat down, taking in the surroundings.

“As you can see, we live modestly,” her mother began.

Maria nodded.

“Vladimir works as a foreman at the factory,” Galina Petrovna went on. “The pay isn’t much. And the children need so many things.”

The teenage son sat in a corner staring at his phone. The screen was cracked. Lena was tugging at the sleeve of a sweater that had clearly seen better days.

“Mom, when will you buy me new sneakers?” the girl asked loudly. “Everyone in my class has normal ones, and I’m stuck with these old things.”

“Lena, not now,” her mother hissed.

Maria kept quiet. The atmosphere was growing more and more tense.

“You must be tired from the trip?” the stepfather asked.

“A little,” Maria admitted.

“And is your job in Moscow good?” her mother inquired.

“Yes, everything’s fine.”

“I heard your father left you the company,” Galina Petrovna began cautiously. “Things must be going well there?”

Maria sighed. Yesterday she had met with the company’s manager. The scale of the business had amazed her. The firm’s turnover was in the tens of millions.

“Yes, things are going well,” she said.

Vladimir Sergeyevich exchanged a glance with his wife. Something predatory flickered in their eyes.

“Maria, could I talk to you?” her mother asked. “In private.”

They went into the bedroom. Galina Petrovna closed the door.

“Daughter, you can see how we live,” she began quietly. “The children need so many things. Lena needs a math tutor. And Andrei wants to take programming courses.”

Maria listened in silence.

“There are layoffs planned at Vladimir’s work,” her mother continued. “We don’t know what to do. And now you’ve come into such money…”

“Mom, I just got here,” Maria gently interrupted. “Let’s give Dad a proper farewell first.”

“Of course, of course,” Galina Petrovna agreed. “But you understand—family is family. Your father always said we must help one another.”

Maria nodded. She didn’t want to argue.

When she returned to the living room, she walked in on a family meeting. Vladimir was whispering something to the children. When they saw Maria, everyone fell silent.

“Maria, will you be in town long?” the stepfather asked.

“I don’t know yet. I need to sort out my father’s affairs.”

“Is the house he left big?” Lena asked.

“Lena!” her mother said sharply.

“What? I’m just curious,” the girl shrugged.

Andrei finally tore himself away from his phone.
“Is it true your dad had a construction company? It must be cool to be the boss.”

Maria looked at this family and understood—everything revolved around money. Her money. No one asked how she was coping with the loss of her father. No one cared about her plans.

“All right, I’ll go to a hotel,” Maria said, getting to her feet.

“What hotel?” her mother protested. “You’re home! Stay with us.”

“No, Mom. I’d rather rest on my own.”

Galina Petrovna walked her to the door. She gave her daughter a tight hug goodbye.
“Think about what I said. Family is sacred.”

Maria returned to the hotel with a heavy heart. Her mother’s words kept circling in her head. The next day she said goodbye to her father. The ceremony was modest. Her mother and her family kept to themselves.

After the cemetery, Galina Petrovna approached her daughter.
“Come to us for dinner tomorrow. Aunt Valya and Uncle Pyotr are coming. We need to discuss everything as a family.”

Maria nodded. It would have been awkward to refuse.

The following evening she came to her mother’s apartment. Relatives were seated at the table—Aunt Valentina and Uncle Pyotr. Their faces were serious.

“Sit down, Maria,” her mother indicated an empty chair.

The atmosphere was tense. Lena and Andrei sat quietly, casting sidelong glances at Maria.

“We’ve been thinking,” Galina Petrovna began. “Your father was always a fair man. He loved family.”

Aunt Valentina nodded.
“Boris always talked about family values, about how relatives should support one another.”

“And what are you getting at?” Maria asked carefully.

Uncle Pyotr cleared his throat.
“You see, Maria, you now have a large inheritance. And your brother and sister are living in need.”

“That’s not fair,” the aunt added. “One child is rich, the others are poor.”

Maria tensed. The conversation was taking an unpleasant turn.

“We think,” her mother continued, “that you should share with Lena and Andrei. At least give them half.”

“What?” Maria couldn’t believe her ears.

“What’s so terrible about that?” Vladimir Sergeyevich shrugged. “A real daughter wouldn’t leave her family in need.”

“Your father would have wanted you to share with your brother and sister,” her mother said coldly.

Lena looked at Maria hopefully. Andrei, too, waited for an answer.

“You understand,” Aunt Valentina chimed in, “it’s a family duty. You lived in Moscow for ten years. You didn’t help with anything. Now you have a chance to make it right.”

“That’s right,” Uncle Pyotr supported her. “Justice above all. The children have a right to an equal share.”

Maria looked around at the faces gathered there. They all stared at her expectantly.

“I’m not obligated to give anything,” she said quietly.

“How are you not obligated?” her mother exploded. “This is your family!”

Maria replied,
“If Father had wanted to divide the inheritance, he would have written it that way in his will. But he never mentioned you in our conversations. He never said he loved you. And who was there to love? You became strangers! I am his only daughter!”

Galina Petrovna boiled over.

“Oh, that’s how it is! So you don’t care about us?”

“Not exactly…”

“No?” her mother cut her off. “Then prove it! Give the children their share!”

Vladimir Sergeyevich leaned forward.
“Maria, think sensibly. You have millions. We’re barely scraping by.”

“Lena will be applying to the institute soon,” the aunt added. “There’s no money for her education.”

“And Andrei needs a computer for school,” Uncle Pyotr put in.

Maria saw the children looking at her. In their eyes she read both resentment and hope.

“Decide,” her mother said harshly. “Either you share the inheritance, or you lose your family forever.”

Silence fell. Maria slowly rose from the table.

“No,” she said firmly.

Galina Petrovna jumped up so sharply that her chair toppled backward.
“What?! Have you completely lost your conscience?! How can you look at these children and refuse them?!”

“Ungrateful selfish woman!” Aunt Valentina shouted, waving her arms. “You were gone for ten years! You didn’t even come for your mother’s birthday!”

“Heartless,” the stepfather said, shaking his head and looking at Maria with contempt. “I thought you had at least a drop of humanity left.”

Lena burst into tears, burying her face in her hands.
“I hoped… we all hoped… And you…”

Andrei looked at his stepsister in silence. In his gaze there was the fierce anger of a teenager watching all his dreams collapse.

“You drove up in an expensive car!” he suddenly blurted, his voice shaking with rage. “Your bag costs as much as our monthly groceries! And we don’t even have money for new clothes!”

“The boy is right,” Vladimir Sergeyevich nodded. “You’re bathing in luxury while we’re just surviving.”

Maria headed for the exit, but her mother blocked her way.
“Stop!” Galina Petrovna screamed, grabbing her daughter’s arm. “If you walk out now, don’t come back! You’re no daughter of mine! Not a daughter at all!”

“I’ll tell the whole town how stingy you are!” the aunt threatened, trembling with anger. “Everyone will know you abandoned your own family!”

“I’ll tell all the neighbors!” her mother chimed in. “In the shops, at the clinic! Everyone will know!”

“And your business will have problems,” Vladimir Sergeyevich warned coldly, raising his voice for the first time that evening. “I have connections. We’ll make your life here miserable.”

“Go away!” Lena cried through her tears. “Go away and don’t ever show your face again! We’ll manage without you!”

“A disgrace to the family!” Uncle Pyotr added. “Your father is turning in his grave!”

Maria pushed her mother aside and moved toward the door. Shouts followed her:

“I curse you!” Galina Petrovna screamed. “May you never know happiness!”

“You’ll end up alone!” Aunt Valentina yelled. “Completely alone!”

The door slammed. But the shouting was still audible through the wall.

The next day Maria moved into her father’s house. She changed the locks and put the rooms in order. The house was large and cozy.

A year passed. Her mother still hadn’t spoken to her. When they met, she demonstratively turned away. The children were resentful as well. Neighbors whispered behind Maria’s back.

“See how stingy she is,” they said. “She chose money over family.”

“Completely heartless,” the old ladies tutted.

But Maria wasn’t bothered. The company was growing; new orders were coming in. She was building homes for other people, creating jobs. Her father’s business lived and developed.

She remembered perfectly well why her parents had divorced. Her father was just getting the company off the ground; there was no money. And her mother left for Vladimir, who was earning well at the time. Her father took the breakup hard. After that he poured all his love into his daughter. First he took her to live with him. Then he sent her to study in the capital and helped her find her feet. He never even mentioned her mother’s new family.

Now her mother had decided to pretend the past didn’t exist—and to get her hands on part of what her father had built with such effort. But Maria had no intention of dismantling her father’s empire so easily.

In the evenings Maria sat in her father’s armchair, leafing through his photos. She understood she had done the right thing. She had preserved his legacy for herself.

The relatives stopped calling. Family ties were severed for good. But she had no regrets. Her father had entrusted her with his life’s work, and she did not let him down.

Dima had wanted to become a doctor for as long as he could remember. It wasn’t just a childhood fantasy — it felt like his calling. Yet life seemed determined to block his path at every turn. First came the sudden death of his father, shattering the ground beneath his feet. Then his mother’s health began to fail; the nerves and endless grind of two jobs wore her down. When the time came to take the medical school entrance exams, Dima simply didn’t have the strength — and failed.

Now, for the second year in a row, he worked as an orderly at the regional hospital. He scrubbed floors, wheeled patients through echoing hallways, and ran errands from dawn till dusk. Still, deep inside, he nurtured the fragile hope that someday he’d earn the right to wear that white coat.

That day began like any other — mopping, cleaning, carrying. But after lunch, something unusual happened: the head of the therapeutic department, Andrey Pavlovich, sent for him.

“Dima, there’s a delicate matter,” the doctor began without preamble, studying him intently. “We have a patient — Lidiya Semyonovna. She’s very ill. She has a grandson, also named Dima. Only… she hasn’t seen him in years, and she wishes, more than anything, to see him one last time before she goes. We thought… maybe you could pretend to be him? For her peace of mind, if nothing else.”

Dima froze. Pretend? Deceive an elderly woman on her deathbed?

“Andrey Pavlovich, I… I’m not sure. Isn’t that wrong?” he asked quietly.

The doctor’s voice softened. “Sometimes a lie can be merciful. For her, it would be a final comfort. You wouldn’t be taking advantage — only helping someone leave this world with a little less pain.”

Dima hesitated. His conscience whispered that it was wrong, yet the thought of a frail woman waiting for her grandson gnawed at his heart. At last, he nodded. The nurses quickly filled him in: what the real Dima liked as a child, where he studied, the little phrases he used to say. The strange performance — with a single audience member — was set.

That evening, exhausted after his shift and the conversation with Andrey Pavlovich, Dima stopped by the store for bread and milk. His mother still needed him. On the way home, he unexpectedly ran into Marina, the girl from the neighboring building who had caught his eye long ago. Light-hearted, warm, with a smile that could brighten even the grayest day.

“Hi, Dima! Where have you been hiding?” she laughed.

They chatted easily — about nothing in particular, a new movie playing at the cinema. On impulse, Dima suggested they go together. To his amazement, Marina’s eyes lit up.

“Saturday? Perfect.”

As he walked home, a rare smile played on his lips. The mere thought of the date made the day feel brighter. Maybe this was the start of something new — maybe happiness wasn’t so far away after all.

The next day, after his shift, Dima changed into civilian clothes and cautiously stepped into Lidiya Semyonovna’s room. His heart pounded as if it might burst. What if she saw through him immediately? But the frail woman, tiny and thin yet with sparkling eyes, studied him and smiled faintly.

“Dimochka… you came, my dear…”

Relief washed over him. She believed. He sat beside her, and to his surprise, their first conversation flowed easily, almost naturally. He’d expected to feel like an actor on stage, but instead he found himself listening — really listening. Lidiya Semyonovna spoke about her life, about the past, even about death — with a serenity that humbled him.

Day by day, he visited more often. He brought her water, fluffed her pillow, or simply sat holding her hand. One afternoon she asked if he had a girlfriend. Dima thought of Marina and blushed. The old woman smiled knowingly.

“Tell me later how the date went. I still love hearing about young love.”

But Saturday didn’t unfold as he had hoped. After the movie, they strolled through the park when Marina suddenly grew serious.

“Dima, you’re a good guy. Really. But we’re different. I want to travel, build a career, see the world. And you… you’re an orderly. That’s important work, of course, but… not the life I want.”

She didn’t need to finish; he understood. His meager salary, his uphill battles, his uncertain future — all of it stood like an invisible wall between them.

He walked her home in silence. When he returned, his mother asked how it went. Dima just waved it off.

“Nothing came of it.”

She sighed. She had never approved of the “grandson” charade either.

“Dima, I know you wanted to help. But you can’t carry other people’s hopes and expectations on your shoulders forever. Some burdens just aren’t yours to bear.”
He sat in silence, hollow inside. Marina’s words were a sharp reminder of how far his life had drifted from his dreams, and his mother’s quiet reproach only deepened his guilt toward Lidiya Semyonovna.

The next day, Dima returned to the old woman’s bedside. He forced a smile, but she immediately saw through him.

“What’s wrong, grandson? Did that girl hurt you?” she asked gently.

And so he told her everything—about his dreams, his failures, how far he had fallen from the future he once imagined. Lidiya Semyonovna listened in silence, nodding, and then said:

“Love, Dimochka, comes in many forms. Don’t chase the one who only dazzles. You need the one who warms.”

Then she pulled an old, worn photo album from her bedside table.

“Take this. These are pictures of my son, Alexey—your father. Keep them. The memories belong to you now; I don’t need them anymore.”

Her voice trembled. Dima understood: this was a farewell, not just to her, but to part of his illusions.

That evening at home, he leafed through the album. A smiling young man looked out from the faded photographs—Alexey, the father he knew only from stories. Suddenly his eyes caught on one picture—a group shot from what looked like a university event. Among the faces stood a young woman with a radiant smile. Dima froze. It was his mother.

His breath caught. This couldn’t be a coincidence. His parents had known each other. But why had she never said a word? Why keep it a secret all these years?

Questions swirled through his mind. He needed answers now. He jumped up and rushed back toward home.

As he hurried out of the hospital, still unsure what he would say, a muffled conversation caught his ear near the doctors’ lounge. The door was ajar, and he recognized Andrey Pavlovich’s voice:

“…yes, we’ll increase the dose slowly—no one will suspect a thing. We’ll blame it on the illness getting worse. She has a nice inheritance, and that ‘official grandson’ of hers is already impatient for her to settle down.”

Then another voice crackled nastily over a speakerphone: “Just hurry it up, Pavlovich. I’m sick of waiting. That old woman’s time should have been over long ago.”

Dima’s heart pounded. A conspiracy! They were deliberately hastening her death—for money. His own grandmother, whom he had only just found, was in danger. Panic hit him like a wave, but there was no time for fear—he had to act.

He flew out of the hospital and stormed home. Bursting into the apartment, he shoved the photo at his mother.

“Mom, who is this?! Who is Alexey really?!”

She saw the picture and went pale. Then the words poured out like a dam breaking.

Alexey had been her first and only love. They were planning to marry, but his mother, Lidiya Semyonovna, had fiercely opposed their union. She believed her son deserved someone “better” than a poor girl from the outskirts.

When she became pregnant, Alexey wanted to protect her and suggested they leave. But tragedy struck—he died in an accident before Dima turned one. Left alone and penniless, she had no choice but to place her baby in an orphanage temporarily while she searched for work and the strength to rebuild her life.

She wrote to Lidiya Semyonovna, begging her to acknowledge her grandson, but the grieving, prideful woman never replied.

As Dima listened, the ground shifted beneath him. The woman in the hospital wasn’t just a lonely patient—she was his grandmother. And now someone wanted her dead.

“Mom, we have to save her,” he said, resolute.

Late that night, when the hospital was quiet, Dima and his mother slipped into Lidiya Semyonovna’s room. She was weak but alert.

“Dimochka… and who’s this with you?” she whispered.

“Lidiya Semyonovna… it’s me… Katya,” his mother’s voice shook. “Don’t you remember? I loved your Alyosha. And this is your real grandson—our Dima.”

In minutes, they spilled out the truth: their past, the conspiracy, the mortal danger. The old woman’s eyes filled with tears.

“My dear grandson… and you’re here, Katyenka…”

But there was no time for sentiment.

“Grandma, we need to leave. Now!” Dima urged.

They quickly packed a few belongings and gently helped her up. Hand in hand, they slipped out through the service exit where a taxi waited. All the way, Lidiya Semyonovna clutched Dima’s hand, afraid to lose him again.

That night was both chaotic and miraculous—a family, once broken by pride and tragedy, was made whole again.

Months passed. Thanks to a nurse Dima confided in, Andrey Pavlovich and his accomplice faced justice. Lidiya Semyonovna recovered slowly, surrounded by love in the small apartment of her daughter-in-law and grandson. For the first time in years, she felt warmth, care, and belonging. And for the first time, Dima truly understood what “family” meant.

Evenings became sacred: his grandmother’s stories about his father, old childhood photos, his mother’s laughter finally freed from secrets. The man in the photos—once a legend—felt alive again.

One evening, the phone rang. The screen lit up: Marina.

“Hi, Dima,” her voice was hesitant. “I was thinking… maybe we could meet?”

Dima smiled faintly. “Sorry, Marina, I’m busy. I have a different life now.”

And it was true. He had found someone who saw him for who he was—Katya, a kind medical student who asked for nothing but to stand by his side.

Around the family table, with tea steaming, his grandmother telling jokes, and Katya’s warm gaze meeting his, Dima finally felt it—real happiness.

No, he still wasn’t a doctor, and the white coat in his closet remained just a symbol. But now he understood: purpose isn’t a title or career; it’s the people who love you. And he had found his path—the path of family, faith, and truth.

He was no longer the lost boy he once was. He had grown, become strong and steady, ready to face each new day with hope, love, and an open heart.

The SMS from the bank came at 7:15 a.m.: “Debit transaction in the amount of…” I swiped the notification away without opening it.

Dima often transferred money for building materials for the dacha. That was normal.

The second message arrived a minute later. The third—while I was pouring water into the kettle. The phone vibrated non-stop, insistent, like an alarm bell. Irritation turned into anxiety.

I opened the banking app, and my familiar world collapsed. The joint account we used to pay for our apartment, car, life—empty.

Zero. Completely. The savings account—the one “for old age,” “for the kids’ weddings”—was also wiped out. To the last penny. The money we’d been saving for a quarter of a century.

I walked into the bedroom on trembling legs. The bed was made with military precision, just the way Dima liked it.

His half of the wardrobe gaped empty. Inside hung only my dresses, lonely and lost. No suits, no silly T-shirts with prints. He’d taken everything.

On the pillow lay a white envelope. Unsealed.

“Alya, forgive me. I’m tired. I want to live for myself while it’s not too late. I met someone else, and it’s serious. Don’t look for me, don’t call. You’ll have enough to get by for a while. You’re a smart girl, you’ll figure something out.”

“For a while.” I checked my salary account. About a hundred thousand rubles were there.

That, in his opinion, should have been enough. After twenty-five years of marriage.

I didn’t cry. The tears were stuck somewhere in my throat, a cold lump. I slowly walked around the apartment, like a forensic investigator examining a crime scene. Here was his armchair.

Here the shelf with his books about “success.” There the photo on the wall—us with our grown children, smiling. A fake. All of it had been fake.

He had planned everything. Left on a Thursday, knowing I always went to the dacha on Friday. He had a three-day head start. Three days to pack his life and clean out ours.

I sat at the table and took my old laptop. Opened a completely different tab, the one only I knew the password to.

Twenty years ago, after Kirill was born, I received a small inheritance from my grandmother. Dima brushed it off back then: “Spend it on yourself, on dresses.” And I did. Only not on dresses.

I opened a brokerage account. It became my secret. My second life. All these years I’d kept double books. Small sums from tutoring—Dima thought I did it “for the soul”—money saved on groceries, all went there.

Correspondence from the broker came to a P.O. box, and for online access there was a separate email, unknown to anyone.

Once a year I filed a separate tax declaration as self-employed. Dima just laughed.

“Alya, you? A businesswoman?” he’d say. “Your job is home, coziness. I’ll earn the money.”

And he did earn. Not badly, but always barely enough. And I stayed quiet. Quietly bought stocks, read analysis at night, reinvested dividends.

My portfolio loaded on the screen. The numbers glowed calm and confident in green. I looked at the seven-figure number in dollars and at my husband’s pathetic note.

He thought that by taking everything he’d destroyed me. But he hadn’t considered one thing. He simply didn’t know that all these years I had been building my own ark. And now, when his flood hit me, I realized I was standing on the deck of a huge liner.

I smirked. For the first time that morning.

The first thing I did was call the children. Kirill and Olya appeared on the video chat screen—smiling, unsuspecting.

“Hi, Mom! Where’s Dad? Ran away on one of his fishing trips again?” my son asked cheerfully.

I took a breath. And in a steady, calm voice, I told them everything. About the empty accounts. About the empty closet. About the note.

The smile slid off Kirill’s face. Olya covered her mouth with her hand.

“He… took everything?” my son repeated, steel creeping into his voice. “Mom, do you have money? I’ll come over right now.”

“I’m fine, sweetheart. I have money, don’t worry. I just… wanted you to hear it from me.”

“Did he… did he say anything? Call you?” Olya’s voice trembled. “Maybe it’s a mistake?”

I shook my head. There was no mistake. Just cold, calculated precision.

After the call I ordered the locks changed. Then I called the bank and blocked all third-party access. Dima’s number rang that evening. I let it ring almost to the end, then answered.

“Yes.”

“Hey,” his voice was lively, even cheerful. “So how are you? Not panicking?”

I stayed silent.

“Alya, come on. I’m being nice. Listen, down to business. The car’s in your name. I need you to come tomorrow and sign it over to me. I’ll send the address.”

“I’m not coming.”

A pause hung on the line.

“What do you mean? Alya, don’t start. I need the car.”

“It’s joint property, Dima. Bought during the marriage.”

He laughed. Cruelly.

“Now you remember the marriage? Don’t complicate things. Just sign the papers.”

“I’m not signing anything until I talk to a lawyer.”

That hit him like a punch to the gut. Me—the quiet, homely Alya—saying “lawyer.”

“What lawyer? Are you crazy? Alya, I took what I earned! I left you the apartment! Be grateful and don’t do anything stupid.”

“The apartment that my parents’ money went into.”

“Enough!” he barked. “Tomorrow at ten I’m waiting. If you don’t come—don’t blame me. You know me.”

And he hung up. He was sure I’d be scared. Break. But that Alya died this morning. I opened my laptop and typed: “Best divorce lawyer.”

The lawyer, Marina Sergeyevna, was a woman with a piercing gaze and a steel haircut. She listened to me, reviewed the statements.

“It’s a lousy situation, Anna,” she said. “Proving intentional asset withdrawal is hard. Court can drag on for years. We’ll file to freeze his assets, but if he’s already transferred everything to his new sweetheart…”

“What do you suggest?”

“First, we file for divorce and division. The car, the dacha. We’ll fight over the money. The main thing now is not to make sudden moves. He’ll provoke you. Wait.”

That evening my son called.

“Mom, Dad called. He said you’ve lost your mind, hired a lawyer to ruin him. Said you were always a spendthrift and he saved. Asked us to ‘talk sense into Mom.’”

That’s his style. Hit where it hurts most. Use the kids.

“And Olya?”

“She told him off. I tried talking… Said he’s wrong. You know what he answered? ‘You’ll come crawling back to me when your mother leaves you penniless.’”

There it is. The point of no return. He tried to trample the only thing I had left. My kids. Their faith in me.

Enough. No more defense. Only attack.

I opened the laptop again. Logged into my brokerage account. My quiet life, my secret. Now it would become my weapon.

I sold a small part of my stocks. The amount that hit my account equaled Dima’s annual income.

Then I found the contacts of the best private detective.

“Good afternoon. I need all the information about a man. Dmitry Volkov. And his… companion. Kristina.

Everything you can find. Accounts, property, business projects, debts. Especially debts. I’ll pay any money.”

The game by his rules was over. A new game began—by mine.

A week later the first report lay on my desk. The detective confirmed: all the money went into Kristina’s beauty salon.

A loss-making salon. Dima, carried away by the dream of “his own business,” invested everything there, and even convinced Kristina to take a loan secured by her apartment.

The detective dug deeper and found old unpaid debts Dima had to former partners.

I handed the folder to Marina Sergeyevna. She flipped through the documents, a predatory smile touching her lips.

“Well, Anna. Looks like the game is turning. We have leverage.”

Our plan was simple and elegant. It took almost a month. Through a financial consultant hired by Marina, we reached Dima’s old creditors. These were angry, cheated people.

We offered to buy his debt. All of it, with interest. They, hardly believing their luck, agreed.

Now Dima no longer owed them. He owed an anonymous investment fund. In other words, me.

At the same time Marina’s lawyers, through an intermediary company, began buying up the beauty salon’s debts. To suppliers, to the landlord. Step by step we were tightening the ring around his new life.

He showed up in a month. Didn’t call—he came in person. Furious, aged ten years.

“What’s going on, Alya?” he hissed from the doorway. “Why are collection agencies calling me?”

I silently walked to the kitchen.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. That’s your new life, Dima.”

“Don’t play dumb! This is all you! Where did you get that kind of money?”

I laughed.

“The only thief here is you, Dima. As for me… I’ve just been investing for twenty years. In stocks.”

I turned my laptop screen toward him. He looked at the numbers, his face slowly turning ashen. He understood.

“This… this is impossible…”

“Possible. While you told me my place was in the kitchen, I was earning. More than you could ever imagine.

And now all your debts, and your sweetheart’s debts—are mine. Your whole beautiful life—mine. And I can turn it off.” I snapped my fingers.

He collapsed into a chair. In his eyes was animal fear.

“Alya… Alyonushka… forgive me. I was an idiot. I’ll leave her right now! We’re a family…”

At that moment the front door opened. The children came in.

“Dad?” Kirill looked at him without hatred, with cold contempt. “What are you doing here?”

“Son… Olya… Talk to your mom! She… she wants to destroy us!”

Olya stepped up and stood behind my shoulder.

“You destroyed us, Dad. The day you robbed Mom and ran. Leave. We’re not talking to you anymore.”

Dima looked from one cold face to the other. He was a stranger. He got up, staggering, and headed to the door. At the threshold he turned.

“Alya… I love you…”

I just smirked in response.

A year later.

I sat on the terrace of my new house overlooking a pine forest. On my lap—a tablet with stock charts. It was no longer a secret. It had become my job.

I didn’t bankrupt the salon. I just sold its debts to a specialized agency, which quickly auctioned off the place.

Kristina’s apartment was taken by the bank. What happened to them afterward didn’t interest me. I struck him out of my life like a failed investment.

I sold the car and used the money to buy Olya a trip to Italy. My son Kirill, with my help, opened a small IT company. We became closer than ever.

Sometimes I thought about Dima. Not with anger, no. With cold curiosity. He believed power was in money you could take.

He didn’t understand that real power is in the ability to create it. In knowledge, discipline, patience. In what can’t be stolen.

My divorce wasn’t a story of revenge. It became a story of liberation. Not from my husband.

From that quiet, compliant Alya I had been for twenty-five years. The one who hid her intelligence behind the role of “keeper of the hearth.”

The phone on the table vibrated. It was Olya. Her smiling face appeared on the screen, with the Colosseum in the background.

“Hi, Mom! It’s so amazing here! Thank you!”

“I’m happy for you, sweetheart.”

We chatted for a few minutes. And when I hung up, I looked at the forest and realized that for the first time in many years I was truly happy.

Not because I had a lot of money. But because I had finally become myself.

“Seriozha, for heaven’s sake, what is she wearing?” Tamara Pavlovna’s voice rang with a venomous sweetness she made no attempt to conceal. “That dress is from a flea market. I saw one just like it last Saturday at a reseller’s stall.

At most — five hundred.”

I quietly adjusted the collar of my blue dress — simple, inexpensive. Like everything I wore. It was one of the strict terms of the cruel agreement I had made with my own grandfather.

Sergey, my husband, coughed nervously and looked away.

“Mom, that’s enough. The dress is fine.”

“Fine?” his sister Irina screeched, fanning the flames. “Seriozha, your wife has the taste of a… Well, what can you expect from an orphan from the sticks?”

She gave me a disdainful once-over, her eyes lingering on my thin wrists. Poorly hidden triumph flickered in her gaze.

“You could at least wear a bracelet. Oh, right — you don’t have any, do you?”

I slowly raised my eyes to hers. Calm, almost cold, as if I were studying a specimen under glass.

In my mind, I made a note: Subject No. 2 — Irina. Aggression level: high. Motivation: envy, desire to dominate by humiliating others.

It was like watching a pack of predators. Interesting. Entirely predictable.

Tamara Pavlovna gave a theatrical sigh and plopped down next to me on the couch, heavily laying a hand on my shoulder. She smelled of cheap hairspray and greasy food.

“Anya, we’re not your enemies. We want what’s best for you. It’s just… our son is a man of standing, a boss, a respected person. And you… well, you understand yourself.”

She paused, waiting for tears, excuses, trembling in my voice. In vain. I only observed.

Where was the Sergey I fell in love with? The confident, witty, free man? Now only a shadow sat before me — a puppet in the hands of his mother and sister.

“I have an idea!” my mother-in-law’s face lit up with her own genius. “You still have your mother’s earrings, don’t you? The ones with the tiny stones? You hardly wear them. Let’s sell them.”

Sergey coughed as if he’d swallowed air the wrong way.

“Mom, are you serious? That’s a keepsake.”

“Oh, what kind of keepsake?” Tamara Pavlovna waved dismissively. “A keepsake of poverty? At least they’d do some good. With the money, we’ll buy Anya a couple of decent outfits. And a new grill for the dacha. Everyone wins.”

Irina immediately chimed in:

“Of course! Those earrings on her look like a harness on a mare anyway.”

They didn’t realize they weren’t humiliating me. They were exposing themselves — their pettiness, greed, and spiritual poverty.

I looked at their faces, twisted with smugness and a sense of superiority. Every word, every gesture — straight out of a textbook. Perfectly fitting my hypothesis.

The experiment was progressing according to plan.

“Fine,” I said quietly.

Silence fell in the room. Even Sergey stared at me in surprise.

“What do you mean, ‘fine’?” my mother-in-law asked.

“I agree to sell them,” I allowed myself a slight smile. “If that’s what’s needed for the family.”

Tamara Pavlovna and Irina exchanged glances. For a moment, doubt flickered in their eyes, but it quickly drowned in the euphoria of victory. Once again, they mistook my strategy for submission.

To me, they weren’t family — they were pieces on a chessboard. And they had just made their move straight into the trap.

The next day, my mother-in-law dragged me to a pawn shop. Irina accompanied us like a spectator at a show. Sergey drove in silence, his face grim. He tried to object, but his mother snapped:

“Don’t interfere! Can’t you see she walks around like a beggar?”

The pawn shop was a cramped little room with bars on the window and the stifling smell of old metal. The appraiser — a man with tired eyes — lazily took the velvet box I handed him.

He examined the earrings through a loupe for a long time. Tamara Pavlovna tapped her nail impatiently on the counter.

“Well? They’re gold, right? The stones sparkle. You’ll give twenty?”

The appraiser snorted.

“Gold, yes, 585 proof. But the stones are cubic zirconia. Cheap work. Five thousand. And that’s being generous.”

My mother-in-law’s face stretched out. Irina snorted in disappointment:

“Five? I thought at least enough for a pair of boots.”

I did exactly what they expected me to. Leaned forward and said timidly:

“Maybe we shouldn’t? They’re a keepsake… And five thousand is so little. Maybe we should check another pawn shop?”

It was a calculated move — a false compromise doomed to fail.

“Shut up, Anya!” Tamara Pavlovna barked. “What do you know? The specialist said five, so five it is!”

Irina chimed in:

“Exactly! Otherwise you’ll drag us all over town and get even less. You always ruin everything with your stubbornness.”

Sergey tried to intervene again:

“Mom, maybe we could go to a jewelry store instead?”

“Shut up!” his sister cut him off. “Are you under her heel now? We decide what’s best for the family!”

They got the money. And right there on the street, they split it. Three thousand to Tamara Pavlovna: “For the grill and seedlings.” Two to Irina: “For an urgent manicure.”

“And what about… the blouses for me?” I asked softly, still playing my role.

Irina laughed loudly in my face:

“Oh, Anya, don’t joke. For that pittance — maybe a thrift shop.”

They left, satisfied, leaving me with my husband. Sergey looked broken. He hadn’t defended my memory or me. Another point in his personal dossier.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, staring at the ground.

“It’s okay,” I gently took his arm. “I understand. This is your family.”

But the real blow came that evening. When I got home, I saw the nightstand was empty. The laptop was gone. An ordinary-looking one, but in reality — protected, triple-encrypted. My key to information, plans, controls.

My heart froze for a second. But my face remained calm.

“Seriozha, where’s my laptop?”

Irina entered the room, all smiles.

“Oh, you mean that relic? I took it. Mine broke, and I need to work urgently. What do you need it for? You don’t work. Watch movies on your phone.”

I slowly turned to her. My face — a mask. Inside — a mechanism clicked. Loudly. Finally.

The trap closed. The last participant entered the cage. Everything needed for the final phase was in place.

That laptop wasn’t just a thing — it was the key to my real life.

My working tool. An encrypted portal to a world none of them even suspected existed. Inside — reports, analytics, a chronology of every step of my social experiment. No hacker could break into its systems. But that wasn’t the point.

Theft. Open, cynical. Without shame, without doubt. As if I were nothing. As if my right to personal space, to dignity — meant nothing.

I looked at Sergey. This was his last chance. His final test.

“Sergey, give me back my laptop,” I said. My voice was quiet, but not pleading. It was a command disguised as a request.

He hesitated. His eyes darted to his sister, then back to me.

“Ir, give it back, please. It’s hers.”

“Oh, come on!” Irina snorted, settling into an armchair. “You actually listen to her? I need it urgently! We’ll buy her a new one when you get your bonus.”

“Well, Anya, you heard her,” Sergey turned helplessly to me. “She needs it for work. Be reasonable. Don’t make a scene.”

At that moment, something inside me finally snapped.

This was rock bottom. He didn’t just stay silent. He took their side. Justified them. Condemned me.

The image of the Sergey I loved — confident, honest, free — crumbled to dust. I had clung to memories like a straw, but reality was concrete. He made his choice. Now it was time for me to make mine.

Enough.

The experiment was over. Data collected. Results unequivocal.

I pulled an old flip phone from my pocket. Found the contact labeled “Curator.” That line existed for only one scenario — activation of the final phase. I pressed call.

“Dmitry Alekseevich, good evening,” I said evenly, coldly, in a voice so foreign none of them recognized me. “The observation phase is complete. Proceed to action. For all three subjects. Initiate Protocol ‘Consequences.’ Start with the sister-in-law.”

I ended the call. Placed the phone on the table. Raised my eyes to Irina, who was watching me with feigned mockery and a growing, instinctive fear.

“You have ten minutes to return my laptop. In the condition it was.”

Irina giggled:

“Are you threatening me? With your curator? Who even are you?”

“I’m not threatening,” my voice turned icy. “I’m informing. In nine minutes and fifty seconds, your ‘urgent project’ will vanish from your company’s servers. And five minutes after that, your boss will have a full report of your involvement in passing trade secrets to competitors. That’s called corporate espionage. It carries criminal charges.”

Her face instantly went pale. The laughter died in her throat.

“You’re lying! You have nothing!”

“Nine minutes,” I said, glancing at the screen. “Countdown started.”

Irina’s eyes darted from me to her phone. At that moment it rang. The screen read: “GENNADY PETROVICH.” Her boss.

She snatched the phone with trembling hands.

“Yes, Gennady Petrovich… What? What report? No, it wasn’t me… That’s a mistake!”

She threw me a terrified glance. I silently nodded toward the laptop. Irina stumbled to the wardrobe, pulled it out, and threw it onto the bed.

“Here! Take it! Just tell them to stop!”

“Too late,” I said calmly. “The process is irreversible.”

Sergey, who had stood paralyzed until now, finally croaked:

“Anya, what have you done?! That’s my sister!”

I slowly turned to him. The mask was gone. No need to pretend anymore.

“You still don’t get it? You thought I was a poor provincial girl you could trample on, humiliate, hand out her things like spare rags? That I was furniture, not a person?”

I walked to the window. Below, by the entrance, stood a black sedan with tinted windows — inconspicuous, but significant. It wasn’t visible from their apartment.

“My last name isn’t what you think. I am Orlova. And my grandfather, whom you thought a modest pensioner, is the founder and head of Orion Capital investment holding. And all of this,” I swept my hand around the room, “was a one-year experiment. My grandfather’s condition: I had to live like an ordinary girl, without access to my status, to see why you married me.”

I gave a bitter smile.

“I wanted to prove him wrong. That you loved me, not my future fortune. But you… you exceeded all expectations. You showed your true selves: petty, greedy, cruel, ready to trample anyone you deem weaker.”

There was a knock at the door. I knew who it was.

“That’s Dmitry Alekseevich, my grandfather’s head of security. He’s here to collect my things. And to hand you documents.”

Sergey rushed to me:

“Anya, forgive me! I didn’t know! I truly love you!”

“You don’t love me,” I cut him off, stepping aside. “You love convenience. You love a woman who stays silent, doesn’t argue, doesn’t demand. You failed the main test, Sergey. Not once. Not once did you take my side.”

Dmitry Alekseevich entered. Calmly, without unnecessary words, he handed each of them an envelope.

“Irina Sergeevna — notice of dismissal for disclosure of trade secrets and notice of initiation of criminal proceedings. Tamara Pavlovna — demand for early repayment of the collateral loan due to breach of surety conditions. And you, Sergey,” he looked at him without a trace of emotion, “notice of termination of the lease. This apartment belongs to Orion Real Estate Fund. You have 24 hours to vacate.”

I took my laptop, my phone, and headed for the door. I didn’t look back. Not once.

There was no malice, no triumph. Only cold, almost scientific satisfaction. Task completed. Hypothesis confirmed.

Downstairs, a car was waiting for me. I got into the back seat.

“Home, Dmitry Alekseevich.”

I didn’t gain freedom. I gained confirmation. That trust should be placed not in words, but in actions. That real strength is not in wealth, but in the ability to stay true to yourself while playing the victim.

And that sometimes, to see a person’s true face, you just have to let them believe you’re weak.

Epilogue

Six months later.

Outside my office window on the 45th floor of Orion Tower, the sun was setting, painting the city in gold and crimson. I leaned back in my white leather chair, took a sip of water.

“You were harsh, granddaughter,” said my grandfather, sitting across from me. His voice even, without reproach. Just a statement.

“I was fair,” I corrected. “I gave them no more and no less than they deserved.”

He nodded. He always valued precision over emotion. He had taught me: any project, whether a billion-dollar deal or a human relationship, requires analysis, calculation, control.

“Your reports were impeccable. Psychological profiles, motivation analysis, behavior forecasts. You could head our analytics department.”

“I’ll think about it,” I smiled. “But first I need to finish one personal project.”

The fates of my former “family” turned out predictably. Irina was fired in disgrace. Her reputation plummeted faster than she could blink. She lost her lawsuits — my grandfather’s lawyers’ arguments were ironclad. Now she works as a cashier in a suburban supermarket, avoiding the eyes of former colleagues.

Tamara Pavlovna, deprived of support, sold the dacha to pay off her debt. Returned to her old apartment, where she now complains to neighbors about her “treacherous, deceitful daughter-in-law.” No one believes her. And rightly so.

And Sergey… His fall was the deepest.

He stood on the platform of his hometown station — the same one he once left for the capital full of hope. Now he returned with nothing. In his hand — a battered suitcase. In his pocket — his last money. He looked at the departing trains and, for the first time in his life, felt he’d lost not just an apartment, not just a job, but something greater.

He hadn’t betrayed a millionaire. He had betrayed the quiet Anya who loved him. And that realization weighed heavier than any bankruptcy.

“Do you regret it?” my grandfather asked, pulling me from my thoughts.

I thought for a moment.

“I regret that I hoped. That I believed you were wrong. That there was more to people than calculation and fear.”

“Some people have more,” he nodded. “But the ability to tell them apart — that’s the real capital, Anya. Not millions. Knowledge of people.”

He was right.

I had lost my illusions. But in return, I gained clarity. Learned to see behind smiles — contempt; behind care — greed; behind love — self-interest.

I understood: power isn’t in money, but in the ability to remain yourself, even when the whole world thinks you’re weak.

I looked at the city beneath me. It no longer seemed hostile. It was my world. A world where I set the rules.

And my next experiment wouldn’t be about testing people.
It would be about changing the system.

Marina shoved the dirty dishes into the dishwasher and turned on the express-wash mode. The Friday dinner had been a success: Igor devoured her signature mushroom pie with gusto. Even Nastya, who always wrinkled her nose at any dish “that upstart” cooked—as she called Marina behind her back—ate two slices.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Igor called from the hallway. “We’ve got football with the guys tomorrow; I need a good night’s sleep.”

“Go on,” Marina waved her hand and began wiping down the countertop.

Nastya sat in the living room, glued to her phone. She had arrived the night before—just like always, without warning, with a mountain of shopping bags and her usual sour expression. “Just here for the weekend,” as always.

“Want some tea?” Marina asked, poking her head through the doorway.

“No,” Nastya snapped without looking up from the screen.

Marina shrugged and went back to the kitchen. She was used to this kind of treatment by now. Three years of marriage had taught her not to react to her sister-in-law’s jabs. Igor always said, “Nastyukha’s prickly, but she comes around. Don’t take it to heart.”

The sound of running water came from the bathroom. Marina turned on the kettle and opened the upper cupboard to grab her favorite mug. Then she heard Nastya’s voice from the living room:

“Mom, how are you? Yeah, I’m at their place… No, she cooked her crap again… Listen, I spoke to the lawyer.”

Marina froze with the mug in her hand. Nastya lowered her voice to a whisper, but in the quiet apartment the words carried clearly into the kitchen.

“Yes, through the court… Since the apartment came from Grandma to Igor, not both of them… No, that fool doesn’t even know she can be taken off the registration… Igor will sign anything if you ask him the right way…”

The mug slipped from Marina’s fingers and crashed to the floor, shattering.

“What’s going on in there?” Nastya’s voice instantly got louder.

“Dropped a mug,” Marina managed to reply, feeling ice spread inside her.

The apartment… The three-bedroom in the center where she and Igor had lived for three years. A gift from his grandmother. “For the young couple,” the old woman had said back then. And now this snake wanted to have her thrown out?

“As always,” Nastya appeared in the kitchen doorway. “All thumbs, aren’t you.”

“Sorry, got distracted,” Marina bent down to collect the shards, glad Nastya couldn’t see her face.

“Why are you making a mess? Grab a dustpan.”

Marina obediently fetched the dustpan and brush. Her hands were shaking.

“What are you trembling for?” Nastya squinted. “You dropped it, big deal.”

“I… just got startled,” Marina lied.

“Ah, right. Our delicate little flower,” Nastya snorted and went back to the living room.

In Marina’s head one thought kept spinning: They want to kick me out. Out of my own home. That’s why Nastya suddenly came…

Igor came out of the bathroom, whistling some tune.

“Oh, you smashed a mug?” he smiled. “Don’t worry, we’ll buy ten more like it.”

“Yeah,” Marina forced a smile.

Igor kissed the top of her head and went into the bedroom.

That night Marina didn’t sleep a wink. Igor snored peacefully beside her while she stared at the ceiling, thinking. Tell her husband? But he adored his sister and always defended her. Complain to her mother-in-law? She was clearly in on it with Nastya! She had never been warm toward Marina, though she tried to hide it.

I have to do something myself, Marina decided by dawn. But what?

In the morning, Marina jumped out of bed first and tiptoed to the kitchen. Her hands trembled so much she missed the coffee cup twice with the spoon.

“Okay, calm down,” she whispered to herself. “Think.”

Her gaze fell on a lawyer’s business card lying on the fridge since last month. Sergey Valentinovich had helped their neighbor with property division. Marina grabbed her phone.

“Good morning! Is this Sergey Valentinovich? This is Marina Kotova, Olga Petrovna’s neighbor.”

She spoke quietly, almost in a whisper, glancing constantly at the door.

“I urgently need a consultation. Can it be today? At one? Perfect!”

Igor shuffled into the kitchen, sleepy, a pillow crease on his cheek.

“Morning,” he leaned in for a kiss. “Why are you up so early?”

“Oh, just woke up,” Marina looked away. “Igor, I’m going to visit a friend today, okay? Haven’t seen her in a while.”

“Which friend?”

“Lenka,” she blurted the first name that came to mind.

“Ah, sure,” he yawned. “I’m taking Nastya to the movies. She asked yesterday.”

Of course she did, Marina thought, but said nothing.

The lawyer’s office smelled of coffee and paper. Sergey Valentinovich, a balding man in glasses, listened attentively.

“So, the apartment’s from your husband’s grandmother… Are you registered there?”

“Yes, right after the wedding.”

“And whose name is on the deed?”

“Sorry?”

“Well, the ownership document. Deed of gift? Will?”

Marina blinked blankly.

“I don’t know… Igor handled everything.”

The lawyer sighed.

“Here’s what you need to do, Marina. First, find out who legally owns the apartment. If it’s only your husband—you’ve got a problem. If it’s both of you—his sister can’t touch you.”

“How do I find out?”

“Request an extract through the government services portal or at the municipal office. Do it today.”

Marina came home with a clear plan. In the hallway she stumbled over Nastya’s shoes.

“Oh, you’re back!” Nastya came out of the kitchen. “Where’ve you been? We lost you.”

“At a friend’s,” Marina tried to keep her voice steady.

“We went to the movies with Igor,” Nastya smirked, leaning against the wall. “Little bro never grows up—picked those stupid action flicks again.”

Marina walked past with a nod. In the bedroom she closed the door and pulled out her phone. Quickly found the government services site, ordered an ownership extract. Paid. Now just to wait.

That evening, when Igor was asleep and Nastya holed up in the guest room, Marina checked her email. The extract had arrived. With trembling fingers she opened the file.

“Owner: Sokolov Igor Alekseevich.”

Marina gasped. So Nastya was right—legally, the apartment was only his. And she was just registered there. Fear gave way to anger. Not a chance!

In the morning, while everyone slept, Marina called the lawyer again.

“Sergey Valentinovich, here’s the situation…”

“Listen carefully,” the lawyer interrupted. “Have you been registered there over three years?”

“Almost three.”

“Excellent. Then you have a right of use. Plus everything bought during marriage—from furniture to appliances—is joint property. And if you can prove you contributed to renovations…”

“We renovated! I kept all the receipts,” Marina remembered.

“Then you’ve got a good case. Gather all documents. And most importantly—don’t sign anything your husband or his relatives give you.”

“Thank you!”

“And Marina, you should tell your husband…”

Marina sighed. “Not sure he’ll take my side.”

The next two days Marina walked as if through a minefield. She smiled, cooked, pretended all was fine. Meanwhile she gathered evidence: all the receipts for furniture, appliances, renovations. Bank statements showing transfers for materials. Scanned the marriage contract that clearly stated jointly acquired property.

On Monday Nastya announced she was staying another week.

“I suddenly got vacation,” she smiled sweetly at her brother. “You wouldn’t kick out your own sister, right?”

“Stay as long as you want!” Igor laughed.

Marina clenched her teeth in silence.

That evening she overheard Nastya whispering on the phone again:

“Mom, everything’s going according to plan… Yes, I’ll stay longer… No, that idiot suspects nothing… The papers are almost ready… Igor will sign, he has no choice…”

Marina’s blood boiled. Not so fast, darling.

The next day she took a day off and went to the notary. Then the municipal office. By evening she had a full folder of documents and a clear plan.

“Honey, maybe we should invite your parents this weekend?” she casually asked Igor over dinner. “It’s been a while since we all got together.”

Nastya snapped her head up, eyeing her suspiciously.

“Great idea!” Igor lit up. “Nastyukha, Mom will be thrilled you’re here too.”

“Of course,” Nastya muttered through her teeth. “I’m all for it.”

On Saturday Marina cooked from early morning. Frying, baking, stewing—she gave it her all. The last family dinner, she thought bitterly, chopping vegetables.

By six the table was groaning with food. Igor’s parents arrived—Alexei Petrovich and Vera Sergeevna. As usual, her mother-in-law gave Marina an appraising look.

“You look good, Marina dear,” she said with feigned warmth.

“Thank you,” Marina smiled back. “Come in, have a seat.”

Once everyone sat and started eating, Igor raised his glass:

“To family! To all of us together!”

“To family,” Marina echoed, taking a sip.

Nastya caught her gaze and smirked faintly. Not for long, Marina thought.

“By the way,” Marina said loudly, “I need to discuss something.”’

All eyes turned to her.

“Igor, I accidentally overheard Nastya talking to your mom a couple days ago.”

Silence fell. Nastya turned pale.

“What are you talking about?” Igor frowned.

“That your sister and mom are planning to convince you to transfer the apartment solely to yourself and deregister me. Throw me out on the street.”

“What nonsense!” Vera Sergeevna protested. “Igor, your wife’s gone mad!”

“Marin, what is this?” Igor looked confusedly between his wife, sister, and mother.

“I heard everything,” Marina said firmly. “Word for word. Nastya said: ‘That fool doesn’t even know she can be deregistered,’ and Igor ‘will sign anything if you ask him right.’”

Nastya leapt up: “You were eavesdropping on my calls?!”

“I overheard while cleaning the kitchen,” Marina retorted. “But that’s not the point. The point is you want to kick me out of my own home.”

“Your home?” Vera Sergeevna interjected. “The apartment belongs to Igor! Grandma gave it to him!”

“Marinka, this is some nonsense,” Igor took his wife’s hand. “No one’s throwing you out.”

Nastya and Vera exchanged glances.

“Here’s a folder,” Marina pulled out the prepared documents. “Everything you need to know is in here.”

Igor opened it, flipping through.

“What is all this?” he asked, bewildered.

“Receipts for all the furniture, appliances, and renovations in our apartment,” Marina pointed to the first stack. “Bank statements—half the expenses are mine. And this,” she pulled out a separate file, “is the lawyer’s statement about my housing rights.”

Nastya turned ghostly pale.

“You went to a lawyer?” she hissed.

“Of course. As soon as I heard your plans,” Marina straightened. “I won’t let myself be thrown out of a home I’ve considered mine for three years, invested money and effort into.”

Igor looked up from the documents.

“Wait… Nastya, Mom, is this true? You actually planned this?”

Vera Sergeevna gave a nervous laugh: “Igoryok, don’t be silly! We were just discussing…”

“Discussing what exactly?” Marina cut her off. “How best to deceive your son?”

“Don’t you talk to my mother like that!” Nastya exploded.

“And you don’t plot how to kick me out of my own home!” Marina raised her voice too.

“Quiet!” Igor slammed his fist on the table. “Nastya, is it true?”

Nastya pressed her lips tight: “We just wanted to protect your interests. You never know…”

“You never know what?” Igor’s face flushed with anger. “I’ve been married to Marina for three years! We renovated together, bought furniture together!”

“Son, but the apartment is Grandma’s,” Vera tried. “She gave it to you, not both of you.”

“So what?! Does that give you the right to decide behind my back how I manage my property?”

Alexei Petrovich, who had been silent until now, shook his head: “Vera, Nastya, what are you doing? He’s right. This is ugly.”

“Dad, you don’t understand!” Nastya flailed. “What if they get divorced? She’ll sue for half!”

“So you were preparing for our divorce?” Igor asked quietly, staring at his sister.

Nastya bit her tongue. Silence.

“You know what,” Marina gathered the documents back into the folder. “I’ve already filed for determination of my share of this apartment as jointly acquired property. With all the investments, it’s at least 30%. If you want a war—fine, but I won’t give up what’s mine.”

“Marinka…” Igor rubbed his temples. “Why didn’t you tell me right away?”

“Would you have believed me?” she smiled sadly. “You always say Nastya would never deceive you.”

Igor looked at his sister and mother differently now.

“I want you both to leave,” he said quietly. “Now.”

“Igoryok!” Vera gasped.

“Leave!” he repeated louder. “I need to talk to my wife.”

Nastya grabbed her bag and bolted out. Vera slowly stood, shot Marina a burning look, and headed for the door. Alexei lingered:

“Sorry, son. I didn’t know what they were planning.”

After they left, Igor sat across from Marina:

“Forgive me… I didn’t think they’d pull something like that.”

“And I didn’t think I’d have to defend myself from your family,” she replied softly.

A month later everything was officially settled. Marina became a co-owner of the apartment—her share was 40%. Igor insisted it be higher than the lawyer suggested.

Nastya stopped visiting. She rarely called, only her brother, and never asked about Marina. Vera was politely cold at family gatherings. Dinners were tense now.

One evening Igor hugged Marina:

“You know, I’m glad you turned out stronger and smarter than all of them. And that you didn’t let them fool you.”

“I just realized no one would fight for me except me,” she smiled. “Not even you.”

“That’ll never happen again,” he kissed her forehead. “I promise.”

Marina nodded. She no longer feared losing her roof over her head. And she knew for sure: she’d never let anyone decide her fate behind her back. Not her mother-in-law, not her sister-in-law. Not even her husband. From now on—only herself.

Irina and Grigory divorced when their daughter Anya turned two years old. Grigory simply couldn’t live with his wife. She was always dissatisfied, angry. Sometimes she complained that Grisha earned too little, sometimes that he spent too little time at home and didn’t help her with the child at all.

Grisha really tried to please her. But it didn’t work out. Many acquaintances said that Irina had postpartum depression. Maybe she should see a doctor and take some pills.

But Grisha doubted that very much. She hadn’t been an angel even before the child appeared, and now it was like she had lost her mind.

The man couldn’t even remember the last time he saw a smile on Irina’s face. Even when she was with the child, irritation was written all over her face, making him want to take the daughter away and hide her somewhere immediately.

Still, Grisha actually suggested that his wife see a psychologist. But in response, he received such a flood of negativity that it’s hard even to imagine.

— What, you think I’m crazy?! You think I’m hysterical, huh?! How could I not go crazy with you here?!

After all that, Grisha couldn’t take it anymore and said he would file for divorce. And Irina, to spite him, took their daughter and moved to another city. She didn’t apply for child support and didn’t tell him the new address.

Grisha searched for his daughter for a while, then gave up. He loved Anya and would have gladly remained her father. But just thinking about what he would have to face, how much he would hear from his ex-wife, made him decide to accept the situation.

Irina, meanwhile, was full of anger. And that anger never went away. She blamed her ex-husband for everything, believing he left her because he found someone else. And that it had nothing to do with her.

That bitterness was later directed at her daughter.

She never hit Anya or abused her, but the girl grew up surrounded by negativity that many people never even experience.

There were never any celebrations in their home. Anya only learned that people celebrate birthdays when she started kindergarten.

— Mom, imagine, Antoshka had a birthday today, and everyone congratulated him! And then they gave him a present! Will I have that too?

— No. That’s nonsense. There’s nothing to celebrate that you have nothing to do with. I gave birth to you, so I should be the one celebrating! And don’t ask those questions again. It’s a waste of money!

They didn’t celebrate New Year in their family either. Luckily, Father Frost came to the kindergarten and congratulated the children, so that was Anya’s one holiday. On New Year’s Day itself, she and her mother ate the simplest food and went to bed as usual.

Irina couldn’t stand laughter. Probably because she herself had forgotten how to laugh. And when Anya watched some funny cartoons and laughed loudly, Irina would always scold her.

— Why are you neighing like a horse?! There’s nothing funny there!

And Anya learned that smiles are bad. Laughter is bad. You have to be serious and sad, like Mom.

Whether Irina had any mental problems is unknown. After all, she never went to a psychologist, considering it a money drain. She thought people didn’t live for fun. And those who are always happy are just shallow and foolish.

Anya tried candy for the first time at kindergarten, when someone had a birthday. It was so delicious!

At night she dreamed that she would grow up and buy herself a whole bag of candy. That thought warmed her soul, and even the forbidden smile appeared on her face.

It’s unknown what would have happened to this girl if she had continued to grow up with her mother. Every year her mother became angrier and more resentful of life. Even the neighbors avoided her, and old women crossed themselves as she passed by. They said the devil himself lived in her, because a person couldn’t be so cruel.

But apparently, all this anger had a detrimental effect on her health. Irina was diagnosed with cancer. Since she didn’t trust doctors, she ended up in the hospital only by ambulance when it was already impossible to help her.

The neighbor took Anya in when Irina was taken away. Before leaving, Irina gave the neighbor Anya’s father’s name, surname, and the city where he lived. After all, she did care about her daughter.

Irina didn’t return from the hospital. Anya wasn’t even told right away that her mother was gone. The girl was already very scared and afraid to say or do anything extra.

The neighbor passed Irina’s words to child protective services, and they quickly found Anya’s father.

By then, he had already been married for six months. When child services called him and explained the situation, he told his wife he would not abandon his daughter. Besides, he had been looking for her.

His wife was indeed a good woman and knew how much Grisha suffered because he was separated from his daughter. So she told him to go and get the child.

Anya, of course, did not remember her father. She was very scared and thought life with her dad would be worse than with her mom.

When Grisha arrived, the girl was still with the neighbor. Child services allowed her to stay there until her father arrived so as not to traumatize her further.

On the way, Grisha bought a big plush cat and took various candies.

When he entered, Anya stood frightened to the side. But her attention was immediately drawn to the big toy in Grisha’s hands. Then she saw the candies.

This immediately won Anya over. She thought those who brought candy couldn’t be bad. After all, Father Frost gave candies at kindergarten to her and her friends. No one else had ever given her candy.

While Anya got acquainted with the new toy, the neighbor told Grisha about his ex-wife.

— They say not to speak ill of the dead, but she was quite a character. Never greeted anyone, never smiled. She cursed anyone she didn’t like. And poor Anya was scared and beaten down.

Grisha’s heart bled when he thought about how hard it was for his daughter. He blamed himself for not coming to her rescue. He should have fought and searched for them. But his fear of meeting his ex-wife stopped him. And because of his fears, his daughter suffered.

When all the paperwork was done and the funeral over, Anya went with her dad to a new home.

— Your birthday is coming soon, — he said with a smile, trying to win the child’s favor, — what would you like as a gift?

Anya looked at him surprised, and Grisha didn’t understand what she was so surprised about.

— I don’t know. Mom never gave me presents. And we didn’t celebrate birthdays.

— How come? — Grisha was stunned.

— She said it was nonsense. That I didn’t deserve congratulations.

— That’s not true… Everyone should be happy on their birthday, — the man said with a lump in his throat.

— Can I have a bag of candy then? — Anya asked. — I love candy very much.

Grisha only nodded. The words stuck in his throat.

Later, when Grisha’s wife met the girl, they put Anya to bed. The man closed himself in the kitchen, took out a bottle of wine, and drank a glass in one gulp.

— She didn’t celebrate her birthday… — he said when his wife entered the kitchen. — You know what Anya asked me for as a gift? Candy… The kind kids usually have… Lord, how could I? And if she didn’t have money, why did she do that? She was ready to deprive our child of all joys just to spite me?!

Natasha, Grisha’s wife, hugged him.

— Don’t blame her. Life has already punished her enough…

— I’m not blaming her. I blame myself. I convinced myself that Anya and her mom would be fine, that there was nothing to worry about. And now I see a child who is even afraid to be happy.

— You know, — Natasha smiled, — we’ll throw Anya a wonderful birthday party. For all the birthdays she never had.

The birthday was in a week. During that whole week, Anya got used to her new family.

What surprised her most was that dad and Aunt Natasha smiled so much. That they laughed! Anya truly thought adults no longer knew how.

And it turned out that in the morning you could eat more than just sticky, tasteless porridge. Aunt Natasha made syrniki, pancakes, cottage cheese with fruits and berries, and lots of other things.

But, of course, what surprised Anya the most was that there were always candies in the house. Dad said she could eat them without asking! The only thing he asked was not to eat too many so her tummy and teeth wouldn’t hurt.

And on her birthday, when Anya opened her eyes, she thought she was still dreaming.

The whole room was decorated with balloons. And for breakfast she had a cake! On which she blew out the candles!

After that, they went to an amusement park. And she got seven gifts — one for each year.

Children adapt quickly to everything. Especially to good things. Already after a month, Anya laughed loudly, screamed when she couldn’t hold back her emotions, and very often hugged her dad and Aunt Natasha. Mom didn’t allow that; she didn’t like when Anya clung to her.

Anya went to school, and life got better. Sometimes she couldn’t even tell what from her memory was real and what she had imagined. But she knew she was very lucky to be in her dad’s family. And although she felt sorry for her mom, she thought life with her mom would have been worse.

And a year later, Anya called Aunt Natasha “mom” for the first time. Because, sad as it was, she was a better mother than Irina.

Margo was staring intently at the door. The day had come when she could settle scores with her husband.

Her eyes gleamed with a malevolent fire. How long she had waited for this day… A whole 2 years.

Finally, she heard the sound of the door opening, and her heart nearly leaped out of her chest.

On the bed lay her belongings, piled up, next to which was a bag where she was supposed to pack everything.

A woman in uniform entered the room.

“Time to leave, Margosha!” Margo got up, quickly packed her things, and then hurriedly left her cell.

“What, can’t wait to meet with your lover?” sneered the guard, who followed her.

Margo said nothing. She walked with her head held high. She no longer cared what was said behind her back. She had endured enough trials, but now she was ready to settle scores with her abusers.

She looked forward, but events from three years ago flashed before her eyes.

Margo and Grisha were successful businessmen. When they got married, things immediately started looking up.

Success not only turned their heads but also brought discord into their family life. Margo knew all about her husband’s affairs, but for the sake of a successful business, she endured everything.

It hurt, but she still remembered her husband as he was when they first met. Back then, they were simple people, in love with each other. But over the years, that love had faded, giving way to habit.

Margo trusted her husband. She signed all the documents he presented her without looking. It turned out that this played against her. Her successful and happy life disappeared in one day.

That day, she was accused of major fraud and hiding money. And she ended up in jail. Her own husband framed her, presenting forged documents.

The trial was brief. Her husband testified against her. She was not provided with a good lawyer. She couldn’t find one herself. Most likely, her husband had bribed someone because the court quickly dismissed the case, pinning all the blame on her.

She was sentenced to 5 years. In prison, over two years, she remade herself. Now she was no longer the frightened girl who couldn’t stand up for herself. She had now cultivated a strength within herself.

For her good behavior, she was released early, and now she craved revenge.

And Grisha was the main character she had to show her new “self” to. Margo thought about all this while her belongings were handed to her.

“Good luck, beauty!” the guard slapped her on the shoulder. When Margo was outside the prison gates, she couldn’t take a single step. Fear seized her again. For two whole years, she had nurtured a plan for revenge, and now she was afraid she might not be able to carry out what she so desired. She stood there for about five minutes, then saw a familiar figure approaching her.

Her body immediately relaxed. Thank God, he was here. She ran to meet him. He quickened his pace too. A few moments later, they met, and the man embraced her.

“Margo, I can’t believe this moment has come.”

Margo buried her face in his neck, nervously laughing. But he had been waiting for this moment no less than she had. It was Artem, her husband’s friend.

Right after she was put in jail, he began visiting her. He believed in her innocence and knew that Grisha was not as innocent as he seemed. Here, Artem’s long-standing affection for Margo played a significant role. However, he never spoke of his feelings, only confessing to Margo a year after his visits.

By then, Margo felt more than just gratitude towards Artem. They fell in love, her in jail, him in freedom. Now nothing could stop these lovers.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t come for me,” the woman whispered.

The man squeezed her tighter in his arms. “How could I leave you? I will never let you go again.”

Margo inhaled his scent and sighed contentedly. When she was in jail, she started to find out interesting things with Artem’s help.

Artem was a close friend of Grisha’s, and he knew some details of his schemes. Artem told her that all this was orchestrated by Grisha because of his mistress, who wanted to take part of the business that belonged to Margo.

With her help, her husband thought through and executed his dirty deeds. When Margo learned about this, she promised him revenge. And Artem helped her in this.

He often visited Margo and Grisha’s house. Her husband suspected nothing of any relationship between the two. He did not keep track of Margo’s condition in jail, so he didn’t know about Artem’s visits.

After the trial, he divorced Margo, and now he didn’t care about her fate.

“Let’s get out of here. I want to take a shower after these walls. I feel like I reek of this rotten prison smell.”

Margo wrinkled her nose. Artem laughed:

“What are you talking about? You smell better than any woman in the world.”

He kissed her on the forehead and loosened his arms, releasing her from his embrace.

Margo laughed, relishing the sound of her own laughter in the open air. Now fate was in her hands. She could laugh whenever she wanted. Not fearing the angry yells of the mean guard.

They took each other’s hands and walked to the car parked nearby. Margo dreamed of a hot shower and a cup of coffee. After a while, she already sat in a chair at Artem’s house.

Her hair was damp. She wrapped herself in a terry robe, holding a mug of coffee in her hands. She savored the first sip, then blissfully closed her eyes. When the coffee was drunk, she resolutely placed the cup on the coffee table and said:

“Now I want you to show me those documents. I need to make sure everything went as we dreamed.” Margo impatiently clenched her fists.

Artem looked at her intently. This woman had driven him crazy for a long time. He had kept his feelings inside for years. His sister worked at Margo and Grisha’s company, so he not only often visited their home but also stopped by at work.

He told everyone he wanted to see his sister. In reality, he needed Margo. He adored watching her in a business suit with documents in her hands.

She caused a tremor in him that no other woman could cause in his entire life. And now Margo was sitting in his chair, wearing his robe. Wasn’t this true happiness?

He took out several documents from a small safe in the closet, carefully brought them to Margo, and handed them to her. Margo took them with a smile. She knew this was the end for Grisha.

It felt so good to hold his fate in her hands. She smiled at Artem again:

“Tell me in more detail how it all happened. I couldn’t ask you about the details in prison. Please, tell me.”

She took his hand and pulled him to the floor beside her. Artem smiled and began to tell:

“My little sister couldn’t refuse me. She also believed that you had nothing to do with it.

So I promised her that we would not leave her when everything happened. She is our accomplice, and we will take care of her.

I gave her these documents, which she had to slip in for a signature. At that moment, when I was in Grisha’s office, he was telling me about another mistress.

His mood was splendid. At that moment, the sister walked in. She slipped him a stack of papers, which he was supposed to sign.

He felt relaxed after you went to jail, and he no longer followed the company’s affairs as closely.

That’s when he signed all these documents without even reading them.”

Margo blissfully closed her eyes. Yes, now he would pay for all his schemes. He would fully pay for what he did to her life. She would make sure it hurt him.

She opened her eyes and looked at Artem. Fate had sent her this man. She had known him for years but never suspected his feelings. Love for Grisha had blinded her. Then the pain after his betrayal. Only after she was put in jail could she remove the blindfold from her eyes. And then she saw something in Artem’s eyes that made her feel an incredible tremor.

He had helped her so much. He betrayed a friend for a loved one, who hadn’t even promised him anything. She leaned towards Artem and hugged his neck, then whispered softly:

“I love you and want to be with you. When I finish everything, will you marry an ex-convict? I have no right to ask you this, but I need to know. I want to find out right now.”

Artem cupped her face in his hands.

“I will never leave you. I’ve dreamed of this for years. And you’re asking me? But if you want to hear a proposal from me, here it is. Will you marry me?”

Margo laughed:

“Yes, yes, yes.”

They merged in kisses, and then what they both had been waiting for so long happened.

The next day, Margo approached the tall building where the main office of the company was located.

She was wearing high heels. She felt confident, holding a folder with copies of the documents in her hands. She was ready for the meeting with her ex-husband.

When she entered the office, dead silence reigned. No one stopped her when she opened the door to Grisha’s office. She confidently entered and closed the door behind her.

Grisha was sitting at the desk, talking to someone on the phone:

“Yes, of course, I’ll pick you up in the evening, baby, you can tell me everything, I’ll call you when…”

Grisha fell silent mid-sentence when he saw Margo in the middle of the office. He turned pale, then silently hung up the phone. His face was a mix of fear and wild anger:

“What are you doing here and why were you let in here without permission?”

Margo smiled, then approached the desk. She sat down, crossed one leg over the other, and placed the folder with the documents on her lap.

“Probably because I’m also the owner here. Or maybe because everyone knows that you are the main fraudster here, not me.”

Grisha clenched his fists, his anger growing by the second:

“You know what, I don’t care what others think, especially you. You’re no longer my wife, and you’re nobody here.

I don’t want you here. Since you’re out of jail, kindly go your way. And don’t cross my path again, or I’ll lock you up again.”

Margo sweetly smiled, but her eyes were icy.

“You’re foolishly throwing me out. I have a surprise for you that won’t please you at all. Well, that’s fine. I’m ready to endure your rage because it will be justified.

You locked me away while enjoying all your women. And now it’s my turn. Now you’ll taste what you made me endure.”

Margo slowly opened the folder with the documents, pulled out a few papers, and placed them on the table in front of Grisha:

“Please review these documents. I warn you, you can destroy them, these are copies.

The originals are with my lawyer, who will represent my interests in court. Whatever you do now, it will all turn against you in the future. So I’m telling you right away, touch me with a finger, and you’ll spend the rest of your life behind bars.”

Grisha frowned and took the documents in his hands. After examining them, he raised his eyebrows in astonishment.

“Is this some kind of joke?” Grisha stared at his ex-wife.

Margo leaned closer to the table and whispered:

“You taught me two years ago that there’s no room for jokes in this life. I’m a good student, right?” Several months later, Margo married Artem. Now she was the rightful owner of her company. She also took back her mansion from her ex-husband. And his expensive car passed to her.

Grisha was left with nothing. He disappeared from her life as if he had never existed. The court proved by all documents that he voluntarily wrote off all property and the company in favor of Margo.

This time, Margo won the victory and celebrated it already with her new husband, who helped her find herself again.

Andrey remembered that day with extraordinary clarity, as if it had happened just a few hours ago. The autumn wind, chilling to the bone, drove yellowed leaves across the asphalt, as if reminding of the approaching end of the year. In the pocket of his worn-out coat lay the last bun — the only food for the entire day, bought with the last savings he had been collecting for a whole week. He was rushing to his part-time job, knowing that being late could cost him his position, but suddenly his gaze caught a small figure on the roadside. It was a girl wrapped in an old, dirty scarf, almost blending into the autumn dusk. She sat right on the ground, leaning her back against the wall, and her huge, sad eyes looked at passersby with some hopeless hope. It seemed she was waiting for help that no one had given her for a long time.

Andrey couldn’t walk past. His feet slowed on their own, his heart clenched with pain, and overcoming his inner hesitation, he sat down next to her. From his pocket, he took out that very bun and handed it to her. The girl flinched with surprise, as if used to people just passing by without paying attention. But then she timidly took the treat with her small fingers, stiff from the cold. Her gaze met his, and in that brief moment, Andrey read gratitude, surprise, and even a childlike faith that the world could still be kind.

He smiled at her, a little embarrassed, and ran on, now clearly late for work. That meeting quickly faded among other thoughts, worries, and problems. At that time, Andrey could not have imagined that this incident would become one of the most important in his life.

Years passed, and Andrey’s life began to change. He met a wonderful girl, truly fell in love, and they decided to join their lives together. They had shared dreams: children, a home, stability, the warmth of a family hearth. They made plans for the future, confident that the faster they moved forward, the better tomorrow would be. However, fate decided otherwise. One day, their happiness was shattered by a terrible diagnosis — his beloved Maria was found by doctors to have an extremely rare disease requiring complex and expensive treatment abroad. For the young family, who were just starting out, it was a real tragedy.

Andrey worked tirelessly. He took extra jobs, borrowed money from friends and relatives, sold belongings to raise whatever funds he could. But the sum needed for treatment was colossal. Hope dwindled every day. He felt helpless, as if floating down a river without a life preserver. And when it seemed his strength was completely gone, and the light at the end of the tunnel began to fade, a letter arrived from a charity foundation. It stated that the treatment for his wife had been fully paid for by an unknown anonymous sponsor. Andrey was stunned, reread the letter several times, not believing his eyes. On one hand, he felt incredible gratitude; on the other, he was tormented by the question: who was this person who saved his wife?

He wrote a reply asking the foundation to reveal the benefactor’s name. However, he received a refusal, explained by the person’s wish to remain anonymous. Andrey respected this decision, but inside his soul kept asking the same question: “Who?”

And then, several months after the treatment began, when Maria was starting to recover, the phone rang. It was the foundation calling. They said the sponsor had agreed to a personal meeting. Andrey and Maria, filled with excitement, arrived at the given address. His heart was pounding, as if sensing something important. When the door opened, Andrey for the first time in many years was speechless. Before him stood a woman whose face seemed familiar. In her eyes, he suddenly recognized those same large, sad eyes that once looked at him from the street. She smiled and said:

“Hello, Andrey. Do you remember the girl with the bun?”

Time stopped. Andrey felt the invisible gears of memories click in his mind. Yes, it was her. The very same girl he had once fed, saved from hunger and despair. But now before him stood a grown, confident, beautiful, and successful woman.

“I never forgot that day, Andrey,” she said softly, looking him straight in the eyes. “That bun was the only food I had in many days. You gave me hope, you saved me not only from hunger but from despair. I grew up, got an education, found my purpose. Now I have the opportunity to help others. And when I learned about your misfortune, I could not act otherwise. It was my duty to life and to you.”

Tears welled up in Andrey’s eyes. He could not say a word, only hugged the woman who had become a true angel for his family. His wife Maria also cried, deeply moved. At that moment, they understood that kindness done from a pure heart sooner or later returns a hundredfold, sometimes even after decades. What seemed a simple human gesture turned out to be a seed that took strong root in the future.

The meeting ended with warm hugs, thanks, and promises not to lose touch. Andrey and Maria left home as different people. They would forever remember this lesson of kindness and mercy taught to them by the little girl with the bun. They realized that the humblest deeds can change a person’s fate, and that true goodness always finds its way back.

After the woman who had become a symbol of justice and gratitude left, Andrey sat by the window for a long time, lost in thought. Memories of his impoverished youth, endless struggle for every piece of bread, constant lack of money surfaced anew with sharpness. In difficult times, he often asked himself: is it worth sharing the last with a stranger? Now he knew the answer. This small act of kindness not only saved a child’s life but came back to him like a boomerang when he needed help the most.

Maria came up to her husband and took his hand.

“You have always been a kind person, Andrey. You just sometimes forgot it in the hustle of life. This meeting is a sign. We must help others just as we were helped.”

They made an important decision: to create a small fund to help needy families in their city. Their own experience of hunger, illness, and despair became a guiding star in their new endeavor. They wanted no child to endure what that little girl once had.

The fund started to work. At first, the aid was small: food, clothes, medicines. But over time the fund gained momentum. Andrey and Maria personally took part in all events, distributions, visits. They listened to people, learned their stories, tried to see in each not just a number on a list but a living person in need of support.

Andrey was especially tender toward children. In each of them, he saw that same girl with the bun, reminding him how important every act of kindness, every expression of humanity was. They learned not to judge people by appearance, position, or social status, but to see in every person a spark of God needing warmth and care.

Over time, their fund became known not only in the city but far beyond its borders. People from the entire region came for help, and others, inspired by Andrey and Maria’s example, became volunteers joining their team. What began as a small bun had turned into a real tree of goodness whose branches spread over the whole community.

Andrey and Maria’s lives were filled with new meaning. They no longer feared hardships because they knew: there is kindness in the world always ready to come to help. And they would forever remember the little girl who taught them the most important lesson in life: kindness is an investment in the future that always returns a hundredfold.