All Amazing Babies

Tatyana Alexandrovna struggled to understand what exactly she had been given. That day, her son-in-law had invited her simply for a «visit,» supposedly for a barbecue. Only when the fragrant smoke started to rise from the grill, and the meat began to sizzle, did Oleg casually hand her a set of keys.

At first, she laughed, thinking it was some kind of game. But he, calm, confident, always a bit reserved, said:

— «This is now yours. The house, the land, the gazebo—all official. I just wanted to do something nice.»

Oleg never liked grand gestures or pompous statements. Even now, he spoke as if he hadn’t bought a house, but had simply taken it from a friend to «save the good,» as if the land had been overgrown, and he decided it was better to give it to his mother-in-law than let it sit idle.

Tatyana silently turned the keys over in her hands. They were weightless, almost like toys. But the feeling… that was enormous. Was her heart lightly rejoicing? Or was it pulling her back to the thought: what do I do now with this entire gift?

On the way home, in the car, Larisa—her daughter—beamed with joy:

— «Mom, now you’re rich! There’s a whole lawn, flowerbeds, roses! And the house—it’s like something out of a movie!»

But a moment later, she added:

— «But this year, I probably won’t make it. The pregnancy is tough. We decided that you’ll go alone for now. Don’t let the place go to waste! It’ll do you good to rest there.»

The next morning, Tatyana, still not fully believing the reality of what had happened, set off for the country house. The trip was long—electric train, bus, then on foot. But when she reached the gate, she heard the familiar creak and stopped. In front of her was the perfect lawn, neat paths, fresh air. She stood in the middle of the plot, unable to believe it all now belonged to her.

Two windows with white curtains, a veranda with carvings, wooden swings under a birch tree, gooseberries in the corner, and in the center—a flowerbed with young sprouts. It seemed like the house had come out of the pages of an old fairy tale. And the most important thing—silence. No shouting, no cars, no TV. Only the wind in the leaves and the chirping of birds.

She went inside. She ran her palm over the back of a chair, inhaling the scent of wood and herbs. On the kitchen counter were jars of honey and dried fruits, in the fridge— a bottle of milk. In the bedroom—clean bed linens, in the bathroom—new lavender-scented soap. Someone had worked hard, not sparing anything. She knew it was Oleg. No fanfare, no unnecessary words. He simply did it.

 

That night, she didn’t turn on the TV. She simply sat on the veranda, drank tea, and watched the sunset paint the clouds pink. For the first time in a long while, it seemed like peace had arrived. And life had stopped in the right place.

A few days later, back at home, she posted a couple of pictures on social media: sunset, tea cup, green veranda. The caption was short:
«Cozy can be different. Sometimes, it’s like this.»

She didn’t expect it to stir such interest.

The very next day, Lyuba—a distant relative whom they hadn’t spoken to in a long time—called. Her voice rang in the receiver:

— «Tanyusha! I saw your photos! Is that your country house? Oh my God, how beautiful! Did your son-in-law give it to you? I can’t believe it! Such people! We must meet! We haven’t seen each other in so long!»

Tatyana tried to answer politely, but Lyuba was already charging forward, like a spring hurricane:

— «Yura and I will come to visit on the weekend! Shashlik, wine, good mood—what could be better?»

It was impossible to refuse.

By Saturday noon, the gatebell announced their arrival. Lyuba burst in first—with a smile, bags, vodka, and a voice that could wake up the whole neighborhood:

— «Oh, Tanyusha, how beautiful it is here! Just like in a movie! Wow, lucky you!»

Yura—her husband—walked past almost without greeting, immediately sitting down on the bench. He was silent, drinking, looking at his phone. Meanwhile, Lyuba talked about everything under the sun—neighbors, work, how hard it is to live with someone who is «just special.»

Tatyana walked around, almost as if in a fog. She set the table, poured more shashlik, didn’t eat herself. When Yura, after the meal, lay down on her bed—still in his shoes, with muddy boots on the floor—she said nothing. When the evening ended, she was left alone among spots of ketchup, scattered rags, and empty bottles. The morning began with a weight on her chest. The country house no longer felt like paradise.

Later, she noticed that the syrniki, a jar of jam, and a packet of milk had gone missing—the little bit she had left «for reserve.» And then it dawned on her: the guests hadn’t just stayed—they had taken part of her comfort with them. And in return, they left exhaustion.

In the following days, she stopped answering the phone when Lyuba called. But one day, in the middle of the afternoon, the phone rang again. The voice on the other end was solemn:

— «Tanyusha, we’re coming with the girls! With the kids. We’re not bringing Yura. Are you okay with that?»

— «And the kids… are they very little?» Tatyana asked uncertainly.

— «No! Eight and ten years old. Lovely children! You just hold them for a bit, and we’ll stay by the grill!»

And again, she couldn’t say «no.» For some reason, it felt awkward, as if it were she who were breaking the rules.

Saturday arrived, the gate swung open, and the kids rushed into the garden. One straight to the flowerbed, the other pulling off flowers, shouting that «they smell bad,» and tossing petals everywhere. The mother, busy chatting with Lyuba, just waved it off:

— «Don’t shout, don’t bother Aunt Tanya.»

And Tatyana felt everything tighten inside her. From shame. From helplessness. She wanted to disappear.

She was alone again. Only the kitchen, empty chairs, and silence that no longer felt cozy. After the guests, there were traces left behind: crumbs, stains, trampled grass, indentations on the pillows. She cleaned it all up. Wiped down the tables, washed the floors, even sprayed lavender mist— as if the old sense of peace could return.

But the air still carried someone else’s energy. And Tatyana began to wonder: «Is it worth coming back here? Maybe it’s better to let the house just stand… remain empty. Why keep it if I can’t rest here?»

Not even two days later, the phone rang again. The screen showed Lyuba’s name. «What now?» flashed in Tatyana’s mind. But she picked up the phone, trying to sound calm:

— «Hello.»

— «Tanyusha! Hi, darling! Tanya and I are thinking—why don’t we come to you for the weekend? Just the two of us, no kids. A girls’ night, shashlik…»

— «We’re leaving, with my husband, to the city. Business. I’m busy.»

— «Husband? So you really got married?»

— «Dmitry Nikolaevich. We’re not making it public. It just happened.»

— «Are you serious? Is he so gloomy?»

— «He’s reliable,» Tatyana answered. «And I feel safe with him.»

And she hung up.

She stared at the phone for a long time. Her hands were shaking, but inside—there was warmth. For the first time in a long time, she hadn’t given in. She hadn’t explained. She hadn’t apologized. She had just put a period on the conversation.

That same day, a new photo appeared on social media: she and Dmitry on the veranda. Tea, strawberries, silence. The caption: «Honeymoon. Phone off.»

Comments poured in: some were happy, some were surprised, some were jealous. She didn’t reply. She just liked, sometimes smiled. And that was it.

Saturday arrived. The morning was unusually calm. Athos lazily chewed on grass, Dmitry sharpened a knife, and Tatyana watered the flowers. But by noon, the noise began again.

— «Tanya! Tanyusha! We’re coming to you! Surprise! We’re like family!»

He went out. Calmly. No shouting. Behind him—Athos.

— «She’s resting. No one’s here.»

— «What’s this circus? We’re friends! Let us in!»

— «We’re not expecting anyone today,» Dmitry said.

— «We brought juice for the kids! Wine, fruit! Just for a little while! Call Tanya!»

He didn’t answer. Silently, he went back inside and came out with two chocolates, a bottle of water, and a couple of plastic cups. He placed everything at the gate.

— «Goodbye.»

— «Who are you, anyway?!» Liza couldn’t hold it in.

Dmitry didn’t respond. He just closed the gate. The click of the latch sounded like the final punctuation mark. A pause. Silence.

Tatyana watched all of this from the window. Her hand was on her chest, as if trying to calm her racing heart. But inside, there was… warmth. For the first time, she didn’t feel lonely in the face of someone else’s insistence. She was being protected. Not with words. With actions.

 

When the noise outside died down, they sat on the veranda, drinking tea. Tatyana cautiously asked:

— «Have you always been able to do that? Chase away an entire delegation with just a glance?»

— «The service leaves its mark. The key is to stay silent. People figure it out on their own when it’s not the right time.»

On Monday, the phone rang. The screen read: Lyuba. Tatyana sighed and picked up.

— «Tanyusha, this is too much! We just wanted to help, and you… you’ve completely forgotten about us?»

— «I have a husband at home, Lyuba. He doesn’t like guests. Don’t be offended, but I think we won’t see each other again.»

— «He’s so… harsh! Couldn’t you find someone simpler?»

— «I couldn’t,» Tatyana answered firmly. «And I didn’t want to.»

— «Well, live how you want!» Lyuba muttered and hung up.

She never called again.

The quiet weeks followed. No phone calls, no visits. Occasionally, someone from the «well-wishers» would show up at the gate, but seeing Dmitry or hearing Athos growl, they would quickly disappear. The plan worked without words. No scandals. Just—a boundary drawn clearly and firmly.

Tatyana became herself again. Or rather—the new version of herself. The woman who once feared saying «no» was now in the past. Now, she had her own home. And she knew: no one would ever cross its threshold against her will again.

One evening, she sat down next to Dmitry on the bench. He was reading a newspaper, focused and silent. She looked at the garden, where twilight was descending, and suddenly said:

— «Thank you. I mean… everything. Not just what you did. But how you did it. Very… gently.»

He raised his eyebrows slightly.

— «I just honored the agreement. You paid, and I played the role.»

— «Maybe it was an agreement, but it felt real.»

— «Then let’s celebrate. Tea, a little sugar, a little cake. And a bone for Athos.»

For the first time in a long time, he smiled. Not widely. But sincerely. Like someone who enjoys being around, not because it’s necessary, but because it’s wanted.

They sat until dark. Talking. Not about plans, not about the past—just being together. Like people who are comfortable with each other. Not because they have to. But because they truly want to.

And then Tatyana understood: this whole «show marriage» story had been a turning point. Not to protect her from guests. But to learn how to protect herself. To say: «I no longer need to tolerate.» And start living—truly.

— «You know,» she said, «I used to start every morning with anxiety. I was afraid someone would call, show up, destroy my peace. But now… I can just wake up, open the window, and know: it’s safe here.»

Dmitry looked at her for a long time, thoughtfully. Then he said:

— «I’ll leave you my number. If anyone shows up—call me. I’ll come.»

— «And if I just want you to come?»

— «Then I’ll come not as a protector. But as a guest. A voluntary one.»

They fell silent. Listening to the evening, which smelled of pine wind, blooming gooseberries, and something else—more personal. Something that didn’t need words.

— «What if someone comes and you’re not here?» she asked quietly.

— «I won’t leave,» he said. «I’ll stay. Right here.»

And he touched her shoulder—almost imperceptibly. But that was enough to make it clear: this was no longer a game. This was life. And it seemed she had finally chosen her side.

Since then, not much time has passed. Neighbors whispered, guessing: is he really her husband, or just a good acquaintance? Some called them a couple from a movie, some envied silently.

But Tatyana didn’t care. Because now it wasn’t a masquerade. This was their home. Their summer. Their story.

Lena found out about her husband’s departure by accident. She came home early and caught her husband in an unusual activity: for the first time, he was packing his own bag.

Elena entered the room and quietly watched for a few seconds as he struggled to fold a t-shirt and shorts. He was failing miserably, so Lena decided to make his task easier.

“Let me help. Is this how you fold clothes?” she couldn’t help but ask, walking up to him from behind. He jumped in surprise, even though he wasn’t the athletic type.

“Lena?!”
“What?” she quickly stuffed the clothes into the bag that had been pulled out of the wardrobe. He hadn’t even had time to say where he was going. “Are you leaving again? Should I make pancakes for the trip?”

“Well… I wouldn’t mind…”

“Okay, I’ll change from my dress into a robe.”

Lena hummed her favorite song as her husband checked the drawers to see if there was anything valuable he could take with him. The apartment belonged to Lena, and he had already figured out that his claim would be limited to movable property that could fit into his suitcase.

“Will ten pancakes be enough?”

“Yeah…”

“Should I pour some condensed milk over them?”

“Better with sour cream.”

Lena pulled out a jar of 20% fat sour cream from the fridge, and before opening it, she finally asked her husband:

“How far are you going? Won’t the sour cream spoil?”

“I’m going just next door… to the neighboring building.”

At first, Lena didn’t think much of it, but after analyzing it, she set the jar aside.

“Wait, what?”

“Yeah… I’m leaving for another woman. I’m going to file for divorce. Thanks for the pancakes.”

Her husband shuffled around, grabbed the container with the pancakes, and walked toward the door. Lena stood frozen, holding the frying pan in her hands.

When realization hit, she ran out into the street, wearing nothing but her robe, apron, and holding the hot frying pan. Thankfully, her husband had already managed to load his things into a taxi and literally slipped away from under her nose, just as Lena was ready to do anything.

She had to go back home. The frying pan cooled down, and the sour cream started to sour. Perhaps it was the summer heat, or maybe Lena’s mood.

“He left for another woman! And I packed his things…” she cried, calling her friend.

“What do you mean?!”

Lena explained everything, mixing her speech with sobs and hiccups.

“He left! How do I live now?!”

“Like everyone else, Lena. That’s how you’ll live.”

“I won’t be able to do it on my own!”

“You will.”
“No!”

“Then go to your son.”

“I’ll be in the way there.”

“Get a dog.”

“My husband is allergic to fur…”

“Your husband left you! What does it matter what he’s allergic to?!”

“Maybe he’ll come back?” Lena asked hopefully. But her friend gave her a lecture about how after 50, a woman should be self-sufficient and learn to enjoy life not just in her husband’s presence but also on her own.

Despite her friend’s words, they didn’t have the desired effect. Lena couldn’t sit still.

“How could I not notice? He was living with someone else on the side… Maybe he was missing my attention. Why did I go to those tailoring and sewing classes?! I should’ve stayed at home, spent more time with my husband,” she thought, searching for the reasons for his betrayal in herself.

“Mom, stop moping! I saw dad, and he’s not sad at all. He’s walking around like a proud peacock, bought himself a new suit! And you? Look at yourself… no hairstyle, no manicure!” her son even evaluated his mother’s condition, though he had never cared about the state of her nails before. “Here, take this.”

He handed his mother some money. Vova was already working and could financially help her. She had never taken money from her son before, but this time, she decided to accept it.

“If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask…”

“Yeah, okay. Thanks, son.”

Lena made an appointment with a hairdresser, bought fabric for a new top, and chose special perfume. She loved changing scents when her life went through changes. The fragrance was fresh, like a sea breeze. Lena liked to dream while generously spraying herself with perfume.

Perhaps that’s why she met Vasily.

“You smell so good…” he said when they were on the bus together. Lena even blushed with embarrassment. She wondered if she had forgotten to use deodorant in the morning, but fortunately, the man added, “Very delicious. What perfume is that?”

“Do you like it?” she exhaled. It wasn’t that she cared about his opinion, but at that moment, the desire to appear well-groomed from the outside was important to her.

“Yes! I work in a perfume store, and I’ve never smelled anything like it.”

“This is a ‘resourceful’ scent. It was made specially for me. Personally, so to speak. There are several types of oils that match my mood right now.”

“Now it’s clear why I’ve never heard of it before.”

“And you… A perfumer?”

“In a way, yes. My name is Vasily. And you?”

“My name is Elena. Oh! I almost missed my stop!” she jumped up and rushed toward the exit. Thankfully, she made it just in time.

She didn’t think about the stranger until they met again on the bus.

“Oh, Lena! Good morning!”

“Good morning to you too…”

“You know, I’ve noticed you for a while now.”

Elena tensed.

“Don’t think anything bad, it’s just not every day you see an interesting woman on the bus.”

“My husband used to drive me to work.”

“And now?”

“We’re divorced.”

“In that case, you’re not just interesting but also free?”

Elena shrugged. Her stop was approaching.

“Give me your number, I’m leaving for another city tomorrow on business, and I don’t want to lose contact.”

Elena looked at Vasily, then at the toes of her shoes, then back at him… and without knowing why, she quickly gave him her number.

Vasily called her a week later. During all that time, Elena wondered, and now he finally called.

“I want to invite you on a date.”

“Go ahead.”

“Come to my place. Here’s the address.”

“But that’s not Moscow…”

“Yes, I live in the suburbs. I moved because of circumstances. My ex-wife decided the apartment should go to her and the son.”

“I see.”

“Is that a problem for you? There are trains, and I’ll pick you up at the station.”

“I need to think about it.”

“Okay. I’m not in a hurry.”

Elena didn’t think long. Once again looking at the empty room and talking to the cactus, she put the address into the navigator and set the route.

Vasily met her as promised. He didn’t bring flowers but paid for the taxi.

“Where are we going?”

“To my place.”

“Just like that?”

“Why waste time and money? I have everything at home. Wine, ‘salad,’ my mom cut it, sausage, cheese…”

Elena looked at Vasily. Her first thought was to ask him to call a taxi back. But imagining herself walking into an empty apartment, Elena quickly changed her mind.

“Okay, but promise me you’ll take me to the train station when I want to go. And no trying to pressure me into doing something I don’t want to do.”

“Of course.”

Elena entered Vasily’s apartment with mixed feelings. On the one hand, she hoped that this meeting on the bus might turn out to be fate — here it was, a second chance… But on the other hand, the voice from the kitchen nearly crushed her hopes.

“Vasya! Is that you?”

 

“Yes, mom.”

“Did you buy kefir?”

“No.”

“Why not? What am I supposed to eat my okroshka with?”

“Mom, I came with a guest.”

“With a guest? Okroshka doesn’t go with guests. I need kefir.”

“Lena, go on in, make yourself at home. I’ll be right back… the store is in our building,” Vasily apologized and, without waiting for a response, dashed out the door.

Lena decided to head toward the kitchen.

“Good afternoon…”

A woman in her seventies stood across from her in an apron. Her hair was pulled back in a bun, and her sharp features and dryness reminded Lena of a nasty old woman with a rat on a leash from her favorite cartoon. And as if to confirm her thoughts, a small dog, resembling a rat, ran out from behind the corner. The rat-dog started barking at Lena.

For some reason, Vasily’s mother didn’t notice this. She just kept staring at Elena, waiting for something.

“Hello!” Lena repeated a little louder.

“Good day…”

“Could you please calm your dog? I’m afraid he might bite me.”

“He’s part of the family, and he won’t bite you. He’s just showing that he’s protecting his owner.”

Lena didn’t know how to respond to that. She decided to wait for Vasily in the hallway.

“What are your plans for my son? Do you want to marry him?” the woman asked Lena’s back.

“I don’t have any plans. He invited me over, and I came.”

“Oh, I see. Well, I’m back. Mom, here’s the kefir. Lena, this is my mother, Larisa Nikolaevna. Baron, hush!” Vasily tried to lighten the mood. “Well, let’s sit down at the table.”

“Wash your hands before sitting down at the table!” commanded Larisa Nikolaevna. “And how can we sit down without Alexander?”

“Who’s Alexander?” Lena quietly asked.

“Sasha — my son. I’ll call him now.”

The guy didn’t pick up the phone, and after a few minutes of pointless arguing, they decided not to wait. Finally, Lena was invited to the table.

The table didn’t look abundant: aside from the okroshka, there was stale cheese, questionable-looking sausage, and a lot of bread. Instead of the promised wine, there was a carton of kefir on the table.

“So, you’re divorced?” Larisa Nikolaevna asked.

“Yes.”

“Why did your husband leave you? Although don’t answer, I can guess…”

“And why’s that?”

“He found someone young and beautiful? What’s it like living with us old women?” Larisa Nikolaevna laughed hoarsely.

“I’m far from old. I’m not even retired yet,” Lena blushed.

“Do you work? At least that’s a plus… What do you do? I hope your salary’s good? At our place, it’s understood: all the money goes to me. And I’ll make sure to save it.”

“Vasily, didn’t you say you work as a perfumer?” Lena turned to Vasily to avoid hearing her potential mother-in-law’s nonsense.

“A perfumer?!” Larisa Nikolaevna nearly fell off her chair from laughter. It was so loud and hoarse, it was unclear whether she was laughing or dying.

“Vasya the perfumer! Ha ha ha!”

“What? That’s not true?” Lena raised an eyebrow.

“He’s a security guard. In a household goods store.”

“What about the perfume?”

“We sell perfume and cosmetics, and other household products,” he confessed.

“I see…”

“Well, you probably got your hopes up! Oh, I can’t stop laughing! Vasya the perfumer! With his education and health, it’s a miracle they hired him as a guard! And by the way, are you healthy? No chronic diseases? Don’t answer though. I won’t believe you on your word. You’ll bring me all the documents. I need to know you won’t infect me with anything.”

Throughout the meal, Lena sat on edge. She couldn’t leave, but she didn’t want to stay either. Also, the chair they gave her was squeaky and incredibly uncomfortable…

She declined the “main dish,” asking for tea instead.

“We’ll have tea after the meal. Nobody drinks tea first!” Larisa Nikolaevna snapped.

“And why aren’t you eating the okroshka?” Vasily asked.

“I don’t like it.” Lena couldn’t understand how anyone could eat pickles, sausage, and onions drenched in kefir or kvass.

“What do you like?”

“Olivier salad.”

“Same as okroshka,” Larisa Nikolaevna sniffed. “And anyway, you don’t come to someone’s house empty-handed. You should’ve brought your ‘olivier’ with you. Then we could evaluate your culinary skills.”

“Lena, what do you like to cook?” Vasily asked.

“I like cooking everything. Cooking is my passion.”

 

“Maybe you could demonstrate something for us?”

Lena didn’t have a chance to respond before the doorbell rang, and Vasily’s son arrived.

“Hey, grandma! Hey, dad!” the teenager sat down at the table. He didn’t pay any attention to Lena.

“Lena, don’t just sit there! You see, a young man has arrived? He needs a clean plate, utensils…” Larisa Nikolaevna demanded, staring at the guest.

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing to apologize for. Go to the kitchen and bring everything I said, quickly!” Vasily’s mother repeated sternly.

“Me?”

“You!”

Lena was taken aback.

“And take the dirty plates from the table. Wash them, dry them, and bring them back. We haven’t finished our meal yet.”

Lena stood up, gathered the dishes, and took them to the kitchen. She wasn’t planning on washing them. This whole situation felt like a prank. While she was trying to figure out what to do, Vasily appeared in the kitchen.

“Listen, Lena… Since you promised, could you quickly whip something up for tea? Maybe some pancakes, something quick? Sanya doesn’t like okroshka either, and my mom’s been acting strange lately. She demands kefir and okroshka every day…”

“I noticed her peculiar behavior.”

“Don’t pay attention, Lena. You’ll get used to it.”

“I’m afraid I won’t.”

“What are you two stuck on? Lena! How much longer do we have to wait for a simple plate?! You should be sent for death, that’s how slow you are!” Larisa Nikolaevna shouted. “You brought some kind of shabby woman! Unpolished, careless! What kind of wife can’t even bring a fork?”

Lena didn’t respond. She looked pityingly at Vasily, who didn’t really appeal to her, and, thanking him for the “romantic” dinner, she headed for the door.

“Lena, what about the pancakes?”

“Maybe next time.”

“She’s already leaving?!” Vasily’s mother noticed the noise in the hallway and the dog’s barking. “No sense of tact! She came, ate us out, and now she’s leaving! Where do you find such rude women, Vasily?!”

“MOM…”

“Goodbye, Larisa Nikolaevna,” Lena said, and without looking back, she hurried out.

At home, she was greeted by silence and peace.

“Oh, how good it is! I’m the mistress of my own life! I can eat jam if I want, I can make pancakes… but I won’t bake!” she said, surveying the room: her favorite couch, the chair with the soft upholstery, and her beloved cactus. What more do you need for happiness? Maybe just a little kitten.

Vasily called several times, tried to make suggestions. Once, he even waited for her at the bus stop. But Elena refused to continue the strange relationship.

Now Lena clearly understood that clinging to a man was a thankless task. Better alone than with a whole family of cockroaches in the potential mother-in-law’s and his relatives’ heads.

Grandma Lyuba struggled to lift the bucket of icy water from the pump and, heavily shifting her feet, walked along the well-trodden path to the house. The frost tickled her face, her fingers slipped uncontrollably on the rusty handle. Right at the door, she stopped to catch her breath: she placed one bucket on the step, reached for the second… and suddenly slipped.

“Oh, Lord!..” she barely managed to whisper before collapsing to the ground.

Her shoulder painfully hit the edge of the step, and a dull aching pain echoed in the back of her head. For several seconds, she lay motionless, unable to move.

Then she tried to get up—but her legs didn’t obey. It was as if she was cut off from the waist down. Gasping from pain and fear, she began crawling toward the door, grabbing at anything within reach: an old stool, a broken broom, the edge of her own skirt. Her back ached, sweat broke out on her forehead, and everything around her swayed and blurred.

“Come on, Lyubanya… come on…” she muttered to herself, scrambling onto the old couch in the hallway.

The phone lay on the windowsill. With trembling fingers, she dialed her son’s number.

“Pashenka… son… I’m not well… come… ” she whispered and lost consciousness.

By evening, Pavel arrived. He burst into the house with a crash, letting in cold air. Without a hat, wind-tousled, he froze in the doorway, seeing his mother half-lying on the couch.

“Mom… what’s wrong?” he approached, gently taking her hand. “God, she’s ice-cold…”

Without hesitation, he called his wife.

“Olya, come quickly… Yes, she’s not well… Seems like she can’t move at all.”

Grandma Lyuba heard everything, though her face showed no emotion. Inside, a spark of hope flared: her son was scared, which meant he cared. Maybe the family would finally come together? Maybe they would save her?

She tried to move her legs—no result. Only the fingertips twitched faintly. Suddenly she cried—not from pain, but from the thought that maybe not all was lost.

Olya appeared only two days later. She stood at the doorway holding Anya’s hand, irritated and tired, as if torn away from important matters.

“Well, you’ve done it now, old woman,” she hissed through clenched teeth, casting a glance at her mother-in-law. “Now lie there like a log, since that’s how it turned out.”

Anya clung to her mother’s hand, looking at grandma with worry. Grandma tried to smile, but her face did not respond.

Olya entered the house without greeting. Pavel took her to the kitchen. There they spoke quietly but tensely. Grandma Lyuba could not catch the words but felt the conversation was bitter and ill-meaning.

After a few minutes, her son returned. Silently, he lifted her into his arms.

“Where to?..” she whispered.

He did not answer. Just pressed his lips into a thin line. She wrapped her arms around his neck, inhaling the familiar scent—a mix of machine oil and tobacco.

“To the hospital?..” she asked again.

Silence. Only the footsteps grew quicker.

 

But he did not go to the hospital. He carried her past the house to the annex—once used to store potatoes, old skis, iron buckets. Cold pierced through clothes, wind whistled through window cracks, and the floorboards were cracked. The smell of dampness and neglect filled the air.

Pavel laid her on a hard bench covered with a worn blanket.

“You’ll rest here,” he said without looking her in the eyes. “It’s too late to change anything now. You’re almost eighty, mom.”

He turned and left without giving her a chance to say a word.

Shock came slowly but completely. Grandma Lyuba lay motionless, staring at the ceiling, feeling the cold penetrate beneath her skin. Why was he like this? What had she done?

Images from the past flashed before her eyes: how she raised her son alone, worked as a cleaner, bought him a jacket on credit. How she paid for the wedding because her daughter-in-law’s parents turned away—“not a match, uneducated.”

“I always stood up for him…” she whispered, unable to believe what was happening.

She remembered Olya’s image—always restrained, sharp-tongued, never a warm word. Not a drop of gratitude for her help. At least once she would have come herself without waiting to be asked. But no—she had come only once, for the granddaughter’s birthday.

And now she lay here in a cold little room like unwanted junk. She did not even know if she would live until morning.

Each day, the certainty that something terrible was happening grew stronger. Pavel came less and less—putting down a bowl of soup and disappearing immediately. Olya sometimes opened the door, glanced briefly from afar, checking if she was still alive.

But one morning, Grandma Lyuba heard a stranger’s voice outside—cheerful and lively.

“Nice house. Bright, spacious. Gas connected?”

“Of course,” Olya answered. “Want me to show you the kitchen?”

Grandma Lyuba froze. Her heart pounded. Could it be? They were planning to sell the house?

Later, voices reached her ears—someone praising the sauna, asking about the foundation. She felt like an object not yet buried but already being sold. Tears streamed into her pillow—hot and silent.

“So that’s it…” flashed through her mind. “I don’t need help. I’m a burden. And the house is a profitable deal.”

She lay still. Only her lips moved slightly—whispering long-forgotten prayers. And then—a slight, almost imperceptible movement in her right hand. She froze. Tried again—yes, the fingers obeyed. Her voice returned too—hoarse but alive.

She tried to lift her head—to call for help…but froze again. No. They would hear. They’d think she was delirious. Or worse, they might finish her off.

“Be quiet, old woman… be quiet…” she whispered as if swearing an oath.

Two days passed in silence until a new quarrel erupted. Voices behind the wall were loud and irritated. Every word came through the door cracks.

“Why did you let her go barefoot?!” Pavel yelled.

“Where were you yourself? She ran after her doll, I didn’t notice!”

“She has a fever! Her whole body is shaking!”

“I’m not a doctor! Call your paramedic—Mikhail!”

The name struck like thunder from a clear sky. Grandma Lyuba shuddered. Mikhail… she had heard about him. Some said he had been imprisoned for fighting, others for something worse. But he worked—because there was no one else.

Grandma Lyuba tensed. She wanted to say, “I have honey, jam, linden brooms… I would help.” But she lay forgotten and helpless. Anya was sick, and she couldn’t even bring water to her granddaughter.

Inside, everything contracted—humiliation, fear, powerlessness. But deep down, something else flickered. Hope. Maybe Mikhail would understand. See the truth.

When the door burst open and a stranger entered the room, she immediately knew—it was him. Mikhail. His steps confident, his inspection professional. He spoke softly, examining Anya. Before leaving, he said:

“And where is the lady of the house?”

Pavel hesitated. A pause hung in the room. Grandma Lyuba froze. She wanted to scream—but couldn’t. Only her eyes opened wide, full of pain and hope.

She twitched, reached out her hand—and accidentally knocked a mug off the stool. It fell with a dull thud.

“Oh…” Pavel hurried to clean up. “Don’t pay attention. Mom is in the nursing home. We’re here temporarily. Selling the house…”

Mikhail said nothing. He nodded and left. But his gaze—calm and sharp—caught something inside Grandma Lyuba.

A little later, the door to the annex suddenly flung open. Pavel stormed in, his face twisted with rage.

“What are you doing?! Are you crazy?! Dropping mugs?!” He loomed over her, breathing anger and heaviness. “Not another sound, understand?! Not a single extra movement!”

He cursed and slammed the door, leaving her alone. Her heart pounded, her throat tightened into a lump. But somewhere deep inside, in her very heart, a flicker appeared:

“He understood. Mikhail understood…”

At night, a barely audible creak woke her. The door… someone gently pushed it open. Grandma Lyuba tensed. Her heart froze. Darkness thickened, every noise seemed threatening.

“Could it be Pavel?.. Or Olya?.. Maybe they forgot to close the window…”

Quiet footsteps. A beam of a flashlight slipped through the cracks. A man entered the room. Grandma Lyuba squinted. The face was unseen, but the voice… she recognized it.

“It’s me, Mikhail…” he whispered, sitting down beside her.

She sobbed. Wanted to rush to him, but only her fingers trembled. He sat close, gently took her hand. She gripped his fingers with all her might.

“I knew… I knew you would come…” she whispered.

“Shh, shh. I won’t be long.”

Mikhail carefully turned her onto her side, began feeling her back. She grimaced but did not recoil.

“Here, between the lower back and the sacrum. A pinched nerve. But not hopeless.”

He took out some oil and started a massage—soft at first, then deeper, pressing firmly. Grandma Lyuba clenched her teeth, sweat covered her forehead, her shirt got wet. Tears flowed—not from fear, but from pain and tension.

“A little more… breathe… like that…”

More than an hour passed. Mikhail finished, covered her with a blanket.

“That’s enough for today. It’ll be easier tomorrow. You’re strong, Grandma Lyuba. You’ll manage.”

He fixed the pillow and got ready to leave.

“Mikhail… thank you…” she whispered, almost losing consciousness.

Morning came suddenly. Grandma Lyuba awoke to noise—at first, she thought it was a dream. But then she heard shouting, stomping, the clatter of a gate.

“You have no right!” Olya screamed. “This is our house! We live here!”

“Calm down. Open the annex. There should be a woman named Lyudmila Alekseevna,” a firm male voice said.

“She’s in the nursing home! No one is there!” Pavel shouted.

Knock on the door. Grandma Lyuba froze. Looked at her feet. Felt warmth. Real warmth. She cautiously leaned on her elbows, pulled herself up… and sat. Then slowly stood.

“God… I’m standing… I’m really standing…” she whispered, holding onto the wall.

At that moment the door flew open. A young police officer stood in the doorway—in uniform, notebook in hand. Behind him was Mikhail—calm, collected, attentive.

“Here,” he said shortly.

He stepped back, and Grandma Lyuba slowly stepped into the light. Wearing only a nightgown and a shawl on her shoulders, but her legs held her. She stood. Looking straight ahead.

“That’s me,” she said.

The officer looked at her as if she had risen from the dead.

“I was told you don’t walk…” he mumbled.

“But I do. And not in a nursing home,” Grandma Lyuba said firmly.

Mikhail approached, gently took her arm.

“Let’s go,” he said simply.

She took the first step outside. Pavel and Olya stood in the yard. Seeing their mother, they froze like statues. Olya’s face paled, lips trembled. Pavel looked down—as if caught holding someone else’s good.

No words were spoken. Not a single sound broke the awkward silence. They turned and quickly disappeared into the house.

The officer continued writing something in his notebook, but the woman stopped him:

“No need. They were just visiting. This is my house. Everything is fine.”

The policeman looked at her, then glanced at Mikhail. He nodded slightly. The officer shrugged and left.

Silence descended on the yard like a veil. Only leaves rustled underfoot. Grandma Lyuba stood barefoot, free, like for the first time in many years.

When the officer left, a commotion started inside the house. No shouting, no scandals—just frantic movement: suitcases, boxes, children’s things—all flying into the car as if driven by invisible fear. Grandma Lyuba watched from the window, clutching an old lace shawl to her chest.

Pavel came closer. His voice was quiet, his face gray.

“We’re leaving… It’ll be better this way. You’ll be calmer alone, right?”

She did not blink. Stood straight like a tree.

“Go, Pasha. Don’t come back. Ever.”

He froze as if struck. Pressed his lips, bowed his head.

Olya, standing a little apart, hissed through her teeth:

“You asked us to help… And now we’re nothing to you?”

Grandma Lyuba didn’t answer. Not a single word. Just looked—cold, calm, with a pain inside that could no longer be hidden.

“Son… But a son doesn’t do this. How can you abandon your mother like useless junk?”

She couldn’t forgive. Even if she wanted to, her soul would not allow it.

Pavel stood a little longer, then abruptly turned.

 

“Let’s go, Olya. I don’t care. She’s lost her mind.”

Tires squealed on the gravel. The car drove off. Without goodbye. Without a last glance.

A heavy silence hung in the house. Not just quiet—but a heavy stillness. Grandma Lyuba slowly walked down the corridor, entered the kitchen. The sun shone through dusty windows. On the table—crumbs, dried cup stains. On the floor—a broken doll.

“What a mess…” she muttered, sitting down on a stool.

She took off her shawl, fixed her hair. Her hands trembled—either from exhaustion or from the realization that all this time she had been alive. Just alive.

She lit the samovar. It hissed, as if reminding her: life is not over.

She looked around the room. The tablecloth torn, windows dust-covered, floor darkened with time. Once it smelled of pies, firewood, warmth. Now—oblivion.

But there was strength in that too. It meant the house belonged to her again. Without lies, without hostile looks, without fear.

“Where to start? Floors? Or dishes?” she smiled to herself.

She stood up, grabbed a bucket and rag. The first step—cautious. The second—more confident. She stopped. Listened. Silence. But not oppressive—alive. Birds outside, the steady tapping of the samovar lid.

A knock at the door. Light but determined.

She shuddered. Heart—thump. Held her breath. Approached. Opened.

Mikhail stood on the threshold. Tall, in a jacket with a worn elbow, a shadow of fatigue in his eyes. But smiling.

“Well, Grandma Lyuba? Time to get a cane, huh?” he said with a light teasing tone to ease the tension.

She froze at first. Then laughed—not bitterly, but warmly, from the heart.

“Mikhail… you came.”

“I promised. How are you?”

“Standing. Walking. And even smiling.”

They sat at the table. Silently. Listening to the water dripping into the samovar. No words were needed. Everything had already been lived through. Experienced. Cried over.

And only now did Grandma Lyuba truly understand:
She was home.
She was alive.
And no longer alone.

— Alright, I get it. You won’t sign. Then maybe you’ll lend me money?
— How much?
— A million.
— Are you serious?
— I’ll pay it back,» Olga insisted.

Alina opened the door without even being surprised. Olga stood in the doorway, shifting nervously from foot to foot, wearing a gray coat that once belonged to Alina herself. Her sister had never known how to take care of things, and now the soft wool was covered in pills, the sleeves stretched out. She always did that — took things, used them, and forgot about them.

«Hi,» Olga tried to smile, but her lips trembled like a child wanting to hide behind an adult.

Alina held her breath and let her in.

«Come in.»

The hallway was narrow and cluttered with strangers’ jackets — relatives of Alina’s husband were visiting. Olga walked inside, threw her bag on the floor, which smelled of something sharp. She looked around tiredly, as if weighing how best to start the conversation.

«Sorry for coming without warning…»

Alina just nodded. They moved into the living room. It was too crowded — her husband’s nephews were building a construction set, her aunt was talking about a new store near the house, and from the kitchen came the voices of Andrey’s parents.

«To the bedroom,» Alina said quietly, going ahead out of the room.

Closing the door behind her, she leaned her back against the dresser. Olga carefully sat on the bed and fluffed a pillow as if hoping to create an illusion of home comfort.

«You look… good,» she started uncertainly.

Alina didn’t answer. Her sister always said what she thought but never thought about what she said.

«What happened?» she finally asked.

Olga sighed, reached into her bag, and pulled out some folded papers.

«Here… well, documents. If you sign, the bank will approve my mortgage.»

Alina looked at her for a long time.

«In my name?»

«In your name. But I will pay. Really,» Olga hastily added.

She always said that word — «really,» as if trying to convince not only Alina but herself.

Alina took the papers, unfolded them, and quickly skimmed through.

«Your parents gave you money. Where did you put it?»

She knew Olga didn’t want to answer, but she asked anyway.

Olga dropped her shoulders, looked away, avoiding eye contact.

«Things… happened.»

«Where?»

«I don’t really understand,» she smiled tightly, trying to make a joke out of it.

«You want me to take out a mortgage in my name, and you don’t even know where three million went?»

«Not exactly…» Olga grimaced. «I don’t know how to explain.»

Alina flipped the contract page without reading, staring at one spot.

«Try.»

Her sister bit her lip, then suddenly stood up and began pacing the room.

«At first, I thought I would buy an apartment, but then I realized there wouldn’t be enough for furniture. I decided to wait a bit. Then… a friend suggested we fly to Barcelona. You know, once in a lifetime. Then I needed money for courses… And then it just happened.»

«It just happened?» Alina felt a hot irritation rising inside her.

«There’s three hundred thousand left.»

She expected anything. But three hundred thousand? That’s not even a third of the amount.

«Are you serious?»

«Alina, don’t start…»

«I’m not starting. I’m just trying to understand.»

Olga stopped by the window, staring into the darkness outside the glass.

«I didn’t come for a lecture. I just came for help.»

Alina folded the papers slowly.

«You want me to take out a mortgage in my name because you blew through three million?»

«I will pay!»

«You couldn’t hold onto a finished apartment, but you plan to pay a loan for twenty years?»

«I’ve changed,» Olga said quickly. «I realized how important responsibility is.»

Alina looked at her long and slowly.

«When? When did the money run out?»

Her sister twitched as if she had been hit.

«You were always the right one, I know. But I really need your help now. If our parents find out…» She stopped.

There it was, the main argument. Olga was always afraid of their disappointment.

Alina looked at the papers again.

«I need to think.»

«But…»

«Olga, I need to think.»

Her sister pressed her lips but stayed silent.

Voices came from the living room. The air smelled of cinnamon and roasted meat. Family warmth. The kind Olga always avoided but tried to hide behind when she came for another favor.

Alina got up, went to the door, and slightly opened it.

«Shall we go have dinner?»

Olga hesitated, then nodded.

Entering the living room, she immediately put on a light smile, easily fitting into the conversation, pretending everything was fine.

Alina didn’t rush to answer. She stretched out that uncertainty like a torn thread on a sweater, although deep down she knew she wouldn’t sign those papers.

She thought about it at the supermarket, pushing a cart down narrow aisles while her husband grumbled by the grains shelf that buckwheat had gone up in price again. She thought while helping her nephew assemble the construction set, brushing off his questions: «Why do you always have such sad eyes, Aunt Alina?» Even when her sister wasn’t around, her presence hung in the air like an unresolved mystery.

But she truly understood her answer the day she met Olga in a café.

Her sister picked a spot by the window in the far corner where fewer people were. Her fingers drummed on the edge of the table — nerves giving her away. Alina sat down, feeling a tight knot form in her chest.

«Well, have you thought about it?» Olga asked without waiting for a greeting.

«I have.»

She took the folded papers from her bag and placed them in front of her sister.

«I won’t sign.»

Olga didn’t immediately understand. Or didn’t want to.

«Why?»

«Because I know how it will end.»

«But I…»

«You say you will change, but I’ve heard that hundreds of times. You promise, but I know it won’t happen.»

Her sister frowned, pushed the papers aside, crossed her arms.

«You know, you never believed in me.»

«No, Olga. I just know you too well.»

She wanted to explain it wasn’t about disbelief but reality. But Olga already turned away, pressed her lips, as if trying to hold back angry words.

«Fine,» she said quietly. «I understand.»

Alina expected her to start persuading, getting angry, accusing. But her sister was silent.

After an awkward pause, they stood and went outside. The wind blew, the sun was already setting, and the sky above the houses was painted a warm copper shade. Olga fixed her hair, looked at Alina, then suddenly stepped forward and hugged her.

«I still love you,» she whispered before turning and leaving.

Alina watched her go, knowing this conversation wasn’t over.

She was wrong.

Three days passed, and Olga didn’t call. Didn’t write. Didn’t appear at the door as usual.

«Maybe she’s really offended?» Andrey asked when Alina got distracted again during dinner, staring at her phone screen.

«No, that’s not like her.»

«Then maybe she’s up to something?»

The thought haunted Alina.

She remembered how Olga once disappeared from home as a child because their parents forbade her to go to a festival with friends. They searched all night, the police were about to file a report, until the girl returned home herself, happy as if nothing had happened. «Well, I knew you’d find me anyway,» she said then.

Olga was always like that. She didn’t accept no for an answer.

Alina found her in the old yard behind the supermarket where they used to play as kids.

Olga sat on a crooked bench, smoking, thoughtfully drawing shapes on the ground with the tip of her boot.

«You didn’t even try to convince me,» she said without looking at Alina.

«What’s the point?»

«I thought you’d save me anyway.»

Alina closed her eyes.

«Olga, you’re an adult. You’re twenty-six. Maybe it’s time to learn to save yourself?»

«I didn’t ask to be born younger than you,» Olga snapped.

«But you always used that.»

Her sister abruptly stood up, threw the cigarette butt in the trash, and looked Alina straight in the eyes.

«Alright, I get it. You won’t sign. Then maybe you’ll lend me money?»

«How much?»

«A million.»

Alina laughed. Not because it was funny. It was just beyond reasonable.

«Are you serious?»

«I’ll pay it back,» Olga insisted.

«No, you won’t.»

«Why are you so sure?»

«Because you didn’t even ask if I could afford it.»

Her sister froze.

«I… You always helped me.»

Alina exhaled.

«I can’t anymore.»

For a moment Olga just looked at her as if she hoped she misheard. Then her face changed — the vulnerability and plea vanished, leaving only coldness.

«Fine then,» she said, looking away. «Since you’re so righteous.»

Two months passed.

Olga didn’t write, didn’t call, didn’t remind anyone of herself, and that worried Alina more than her constant requests. Olga didn’t know how to be silent, didn’t know how to back down. If she disappeared — it meant she either planned something or got into another mess.

Alina didn’t ask about her sister to their parents, knowing they didn’t suspect anything. Olga probably kept them convinced she was in control, and they always believed her.

But one day, coming home from work, Alina got a message from her friend Sveta: «Did you know Olga is looking for an apartment?»

She stopped right in the middle of the street, holding the phone in her hands.

«What kind?»

«For rent. She says she wants to rent something downtown. Asked me for a loan.»

Alina stared at the screen for a few seconds as if hoping the message would disappear.

Olga was looking for an apartment. Downtown. After saying she didn’t have a penny.

She didn’t go home but turned onto the street where the real estate agency where Olga once worked was located.

The door was open; inside behind the counter sat a girl in a pink blouse nervously fiddling with pencils in a holder.

«Hello,» Alina approached. «Does Olga Sokolova work here?»

The girl looked away, then nodded hesitantly.

«She worked here. But she was fired.»

«When?»

«A week ago.»

 

Alina felt a sick tightening in her chest.

«Why?»

«She had problems with clients. She took an advance payment from someone, but the deal fell through, and the money wasn’t returned. The management didn’t want a scandal, but in the end…»

The girl hesitated, choosing her words.

«Better talk to her yourself.»

Alina nodded silently and went outside.

Olga had gotten herself into trouble again. Only this time, it looked much more serious than just lost parental money.

She found her sister in a small restaurant on the outskirts of town.

Olga was sitting at a table with two guys. She wore an expensive dress; her long hair was perfectly styled, and on her face was a light, serene smile. She laughed, leaning toward one of the men, her hand lightly sliding over his wrist.

Alina didn’t recognize her.

But when Olga looked up and met her gaze, her expression changed.

For a second, fear flickered in her eyes. Then irritation. And finally — indifference.

Alina stepped closer, ignoring the questioning looks of her companions.

«We need to talk,» she said quietly.

Olga pretended not to hear.

«Olya.»

Her sister sighed and smiled at her companions.

«One minute, boys.»

She stood, walked confidently outside, and only then dropped the mask of ease sharply.

«What are you doing here?»

«Looking for you.»

«Found me. Happy?»

Alina clenched her fists to hold back irritation.

«You took money from clients and didn’t return it. You were fired.»

«What, are you following me?»

«Do you even understand how serious this is?»

Olga snorted.

«Oh, stop it. They’ll get their money back, I just need time.»

«Are you gambling again?»

She wasn’t going to ask, but the question slipped out.

For a second, something like fear flashed in Olga’s eyes. Then she frowned, shrugged, and said evenly.

«No. Just… I was unlucky.»

Alina was silent for a long time.

She remembered how as a child Olga lost the money she had saved for a new phone. Then came student debts. How she always promised it was «the last time.»

And here they were again.

«You do realize this won’t end here, right?»

Olga tiredly rubbed her forehead.

«Alina, if you came to judge me, you shouldn’t have.»

«I came to help.»

«Really?» her sister smirked. «Then give me money.»

Alina gritted her teeth.

«I’m not pulling you out this time.»

«Why?»

«Because I’m tired.»

Olga looked at her carefully, as if trying to understand if this was really the sister who always saved her.

«Fine,» she said. «Then just leave.»

Alina sighed.

«I won’t be able to pull you out anymore, Olya. At some point, you’ll have to do it yourself.»

Her sister didn’t answer.

She turned and went back into the restaurant without looking back.

Alina didn’t call Olga. She stopped looking for meetings, stopped asking about her to acquaintances. It wasn’t a decision but more of an instinct — to save herself. But even if she didn’t ask, information found her anyway.

A week later, Sveta wrote again: «I heard Olga moved into a hotel. Debts are growing.»

A few days later, one of Alina’s colleagues who happened to know one of the agency’s harmed clients dropped a comment: «Is your sister a scammer? People are furious.»

Alina listened, nodded, but didn’t interfere.

Until one evening, her mother called.

«Alin, can you come?»

There was something anxious in her voice.

«What happened?»

«It’s Olga… She… Just come, please.»

The parental home greeted her with dark windows. She entered, took off her shoes, and moved toward the living room, knowing they were waiting for her there.

Olga sat on the couch hugging herself. Her eyes were swollen, her gaze wandering. Next to her was her father, gloomy and tired; opposite was her mother, clutching the armrest tightly.

«What happened?» Alina repeated.

Her mother pressed her lips.

«Olga owes people money. A lot. They found her… It’s good she’s here now. But they will come.»

Olga was silent.

Alina sat opposite her, folded her hands.

«Are you going to say something?»

Her sister raised her head. In her eyes was a frightening emptiness.

«What do you want to hear? That I screwed up? That I can’t manage money? That I’m to blame?» Her voice was muffled.

«Are you going to solve the problem or pretend nothing’s happening again?»

«What can I do?» she bitterly smiled. «I don’t have that kind of money.»

Her father sighed heavily.

 

«Alinochka, maybe you can help her?»

Alina turned her head sharply.

«With what? Money?»

«Well… You understand…»

She felt something squeezing her from inside.

«You want me to solve her problems again.»

«We just…» her mother nervously clenched her fingers. «She’s your sister.»

«My sister who keeps doing the same thing over and over, and you keep expecting me to pull her out.»

«Alina…»

She stood.

«I can’t.»

Her mother jumped up after her.

«But they could…»

«I know,» Alina turned. «But if I help, it won’t be the last time.»

They were silent.

Alina looked at Olga.

«It’s time you learn to handle it yourself.»

Her sister looked up.

«Are you abandoning me?»

«No, Olya. I’m just not carrying you anymore.»

She turned and left without looking back.

Three months passed before she saw Olga again.

They bumped into each other by chance in a shopping mall.

Her sister looked different — thinner, without expensive things, her hair tied back in a ponytail. She saw Alina, froze for a moment, then approached.

«Hi.»

Alina nodded.

«How are you?»

«I paid off the debts. With two jobs, but I did,» she exhaled and smiled. «And I rented a room.»

«Good.»

Olga looked at her attentively.

«You did the right thing then.»

Alina exhaled slowly.

«I know.»

Her sister nodded, looked down as if thinking, then said quietly.

«Thank you.»

She left first.

Alina watched her go and for the first time in a long while, didn’t feel guilty.

Nika—that’s what everyone called her, although her real name was Veronika—was just heading to her table in the café to finally have a quiet bite to eat. At that moment, she suddenly turned around—someone called her by her old nickname. Here, at the company office where she had worked for five years, no one addressed her by anything other than her first name and patronymic: Veronika Andreyevna.

A man was quickly approaching her from the entrance. His smile seemed painfully familiar to her. And then Veronika almost gasped in surprise.

“Andrey?! It can’t be!”

The man laughed joyfully, stepped closer, and hugged her tightly—in a friendly way, like before, like a huge, good-natured bear.

“Maybe, Nika, maybe! All sorts of things happen in this world!”

She stepped back a little, studying his face.

“What are you even doing here? You left, almost to the edge of the world! They said it was forever. And I heard that everything worked out for you there and that you never thought of coming back!”

Andrey laughed again, throwing his head back.

“So our local ‘telegraph’ still works without interruptions?”

Veronika smiled awkwardly:

“Well… you know our grandmothers by the entrances. As soon as you arrived, each of them hurried to tell everyone how you were doing and how much you weighed!”

“Didn’t doubt it,” he smirked. “But I wanted to come back in a way that you’d regret not stopping me. You know what I mean?”

Veronika laughed—lightly, without the old bitterness. Twelve whole years had passed since they parted. And the first year after the breakup was pure torment for her—even smiling was forced.

Back then, they had quarreled over some trivial matter. Now it seemed insignificant, but then it was as if a war had started between them. Sparks flew, voices thundered, the air trembled with tension. Andrey literally burned with anger.

“Do you think that once people get married, they lose the ability to grow? That careers end and they just stop developing?!”

Veronika wanted to stay silent. She knew how much Andrey valued family. But she couldn’t help herself, as if pushing herself into conflict. She jumped up sharply from the chair:

“Yes! Exactly that! After the wedding, everything changes. People start thinking differently. They lose ambition, lose drive. To be precise—they become dull!”

Andrey recoiled. Veronika immediately regretted her words. She wanted to soften the situation, but it was too late. Until then, they had never quarreled. They only made plans, talked about a shared future. About starting a business, about being together. Only not now. Not today. They had nothing yet. No money, no stability.

One word led to another, and a chasm formed between them. Later Veronika long tried to understand what had happened to them then. It seemed they were both overtaken by sudden madness.

“All right, Nika!” he said, throwing a devastating look at her. “I’m getting married. Right now. And I will achieve everything I want. Got it?”

“I told you, I’m not ready!” she shouted after him, her voice trembling with pain.

“I wasn’t going to marry you!” he sharply replied, already leaving. “There are many other girls who don’t see marriage as a sentence.”

“Then go far away!” she yelled, barely holding back tears. “And may your brains finally dry up!”

He left. She left too. They parted like two enemy ships out of ammunition but unwilling to surrender.

They met in first grade and were inseparable throughout school. They spent all their youth together. Always sure they would marry someday. And now—the breakup.

Of course, the grandmothers by the entrances didn’t stay out of it. They eagerly awaited news. A couple of months later, Veronika heard: Andrey had married. The very next day after their quarrel, he left for the north. She didn’t believe it. Didn’t want to believe it. She didn’t even check social media on purpose—to prevent him from writing or trying to apologize. But curiosity got the better of her. She logged in—and froze. In the photo, he stood next to a girl in a wedding dress.

Veronika cried all night. And woke up different the next morning. A year later, she herself got married. Her chosen one, Gennady, was kind but too dependent on his mother and not very ambitious. The proposal came from her—more precisely, she just announced her decision.

“Gen, we’ve been living like a family for a long time. I think it’s time to make it official. No big celebration—just go somewhere together. Or the three of us, if you want, we can take your mom.”

Gena was glad—Veronika never figured out if he was happier about the wedding or about taking his mother on a trip. The mother-in-law indeed became a permanent part of their lives, but Veronika, busy with work, hardly noticed.

But back to the café.

“If it makes you feel better,” said Veronika Andreyevna, looking her ex straight in the eye, “then yes, it was unpleasant to hear about your success. I may not have bitten my elbows, but… it hurt.”

“It’s simple, Nik,” Andrey shrugged, his gaze darkened. “I got tired of the north. Split up with my wife. Divided the business. She stayed there, I came back. Bought a building nearby. Going to modernize it, organize fish processing. Bring products from the old plant—start over.”

“Do you… still have such a good relationship?” Veronika asked, hesitating a little. “With your ex-wife?”

“Yes, we’ve always been more than just a couple,” Andrey smiled. “We’re basically best friends. No resentment, no complaints. She’s getting remarried soon—to her school friend. I think it’s her old love that unexpectedly returned. And I’m genuinely happy for her.”

He looked at Veronika thoughtfully.

“And you? Tell me.”

“I’m fine,” she replied, smiling too, without the old tension. “Working. Married.”

“And where do you work?”

“There, see that blue building?” she nodded toward the window, beyond which a modern skyscraper rose.

“Yeah… I heard. They say it’s a serious, powerful company.”

“People say right,” nodded Veronika. “Three competitors have already joined our holding. We’re expanding further. By the way, today they signed my promotion order. Now I’m responsible for an entire division.”

“Congrats!” he said sincerely. “Happy with the position?”

“Well… rather happy with life in general. I’ve achieved much of what I aimed for. Of course, people always want more—that’s normal. So we’ll keep moving forward.”

A strange thing: this meeting knocked her off balance. Something troubled her inside, but understanding why was difficult. Only later, sorting through her feelings, she realized—it would have been easier if Andrey hadn’t done so well. If he hadn’t achieved such success. After all, her family’s burden lay entirely on her. She worked, developed, motivated herself. And Andrey… built his career together with his wife. They grew together. Supported each other.

Veronika remembered household chores. Gennady, her husband, had a higher education but was now at home. At her insistence. He didn’t work, didn’t develop, didn’t strive for much. Only now did she realize: that’s exactly how she boxed him in. Didn’t let him grow, didn’t support or inspire him.

The house greeted her with silence. Not long ago, she and Gena moved here—a perfect house she chose herself. He chose neither the wallpaper nor the furniture—nothing. Infantile, too soft, he just went with the flow.

Gena peeked out of the kitchen:

“Hi. I made a festive dinner. Chilled the champagne.”

“Why?” Veronika was surprised, not even taking off her coat.

Husband was confused:

“What do you mean why? You said—promotion!”

She didn’t know why those words slipped out. Maybe to test his reaction?

“I got fired.”

Gena’s face fell. He was silent. Stood silently and watched.

Veronika went to the bedroom, changed into an expensive suit, and came back out. Husband looked puzzled.

“I’m leaving.”

“And dinner?! I… I tried!”

She held back harshness but not irritation.

“Later. I don’t want to eat now.”

Incredible, right? Wife says she lost her job, and he suggests eating.

She drove around the city for a long time, repeatedly taking Andrey’s business card out. Wanted to call but each time put it back. No way! He had her number. He knew he could call anytime. Let him make the first move.

A couple of times she circled the neighborhood; it got boring—she went home. Decided to say she joked. That work was fine.

She quietly entered the house. And heard voices. In the kitchen sat Gena and his mother. Talking.

“Genochka, maybe it’s for the best?” said the mother-in-law. “Now you can return to work. You loved your profession so much. Besides, they’ve been calling you back for a long time.”

“Yes, mom, you’re right… But how do I tell Veronika? You know how she’ll react. She’ll say: ‘Work? Who needs you there?’”

Veronika froze in the hallway. They were talking about her. About her like she was a stranger, a terrible person.

“You can’t do that, son,” the mother continued. “I understand she does a lot. But life isn’t solitary. You have to share everything equally. Not chase away everyone near you.”

“Mom, she has such a character. Not out of malice.”

“Gena, I love you, but I’ll say it plainly: there’s no love in your house. Only duties. No glance, no word. You live like neighbors, not like husband and wife.”

With every word, Veronika felt her heart tighten. It was a blow. And pain. And truth.

Running out onto the street, she quickly called her friend:

“Katyukha, tell me honestly… how do you feel about me?”

“Are you crazy?”

“Seriously. Answer me. If I ask one question, will you tell the truth?”

“All right, what happened?”

“Tell me… is my husband lazy by nature or did I make him that way?”

Pause. Long, heavy.

“Nika… you… you know how to break people. Not spitefully. Just… you bend them to yourself. You bent him. And with subordinates, you repeat the same—same phrases, same style.”

“With me at work too?”

“Well, yes. Think about it yourself. Then decide whether to be mad at me or not.”

“Thanks, Katya. For honesty.”

Veronika got into the car. Left. Didn’t want to go home. Needed to think. Just be alone.

She ended up by the river—the very one where she once spent evenings with Andrey. Funny how her feet brought her here by themselves.

“Nika,” a voice sounded behind her.

She turned around—it was him. Without surprise.

 

“Hi,” she said, looking down.

Andrey sat down next to her on the grass.

“What’s with your face? You look all tense.”

She began to talk. Slowly at first, then faster and faster. Jumping from memories to the present, from the past to today. Tears were ready to fall from her lashes.

“Andrey… I’m such a fool…”

“Ah,” he stretched, listening carefully. “It took many years for you to realize that.”

“Andrey… what should I do now?” Veronika asked, looking confused at him.

“What do you think?” he gently replied with a question. “What do you want?”

She thought.

“You know… I want to let Gena go. Let him leave. We never had real love. Probably, that’s how it is.”

“Not ‘probably,’” Andrey said firmly. “There definitely wasn’t. He deserves to do what he loves. And you’re great for finally understanding that. And he’s great, too. He put up with you for a long time.”

Veronika jumped up.

“Right now! This minute I’ll go and tell him everything!”

Andrey smiled:

“I was going to call you many times after our meeting at the café. Afraid you wouldn’t want to hear me. That you were already someone’s wife…”

“You were wrong,” Veronika smiled through unshed tears. “I was waiting very much for your call.”

At home, the situation was unexpected: Gena and his mother sat in the kitchen, tense and worried. They clearly noticed her sharp departure and probably guessed she overheard their conversation.

“Hello,” Veronika said calmly, entering. Sat down at the table. Looked at her husband. “Well, get your treats out. And champagne too.”

Gennady raised his eyebrow in surprise but stayed silent. A couple of seconds later, snacks and three glasses stood on the table.

“The first toast… to my promotion,” Veronika said, raising her glass.

Gena glared gloomily at her—he was sure she had just been fired. But he didn’t object.

“And the second… to a new life.”

Gena looked confused at his mother.

“Whose new life?”

“Yours. Mine. And mom’s,” Veronika said firmly. “Gen, we’re divorcing.”

Husband froze. His mother gasped.

“Not as enemies. As friends. We’ll split everything evenly. So you won’t even think that I’m leaving you. You were always there. Only I… I didn’t let you live. Develop. Fulfill yourself.”

She looked him straight in the eyes:

“Answer honestly. Do you love me?”

Gena was silent. Lowered his eyes. And shook his head.

“No.”

“I can’t say ‘I love you’ either. It was convenient. Convenient for me. And you’re right—it’s wrong to live at someone else’s expense. That’s not right.”

A long silence hung. Gena was digesting what he heard. Then slowly raised his eyes. Relief flickered in them.

“You know, Veronik…”

“What?”

“Thank you. Seriously. I feel like I can breathe easier.”

The divorce went quickly, without scandals or mutual accusations. The house stayed with Veronika. From their joint savings, Gennady was given a good apartment. The cars stayed with their previous owners. She helped him a little to get a job—where he used to work with pleasure.

At the farewell, they hugged.

“Thank you, Veronik,” Gena said.

“For what?”

 

“For not letting me make decisions.” He smirked a little. “And for this step, too. Now I want so much! To work, move forward!”

“I believe in you,” she quietly replied.

Veronika stood by the window in the large, now completely quiet house. Holding a glass of wine. The silence was unusual—not empty, but somehow free. Light. She knew: she had made the right choice.

Nearby, the phone rang on the table. Veronika picked up.

“Hi,” Andrey’s voice sounded. “Someone hinted to me that you’re a free woman now. Wanted to know… can I come visit?”

Veronika laughed—lightly, sincerely.

“People like you, Andrey… I accept at any time, day or night.”

And already calmly, without the old anxiety, she added:

“Come. I’ve been waiting for you a long time.”

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

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

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

“Take everything,” she said quietly but firmly.

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

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

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

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

Vladimir snorted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about you? You have nothing left!”

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

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

Meanwhile, Vladimir was reveling in his victory.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Comments under the photo only increased his confusion:

“Natalyushka, so young in the photo!”

“You look great, girlfriend!”

“The sea suits you!”

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

“She…” Vladimir faltered. “She left.”

“Left? Where to?”

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

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

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

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

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

Vladimir wanted to argue but stayed silent.

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

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

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

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

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

There was a pause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At almost sixty, she had finally begun to live.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mila nodded, swallowing her hunger:
— Very…

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

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

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

Irina listened attentively, not interrupting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Irina’s heart trembled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She woke up to a phone call.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finally he spoke:

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

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

His voice became hoarse, full of pain:

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

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

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

Silence hung.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She smiled warmly and sincerely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The doctors could only shrug, lowering their eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The elderly doctor looked at him carefully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Only now did the guard notice Valentin and his car.

“I need to catch her! She stole!”

“What did she steal?” Valentin smirked.

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

Valentin pulled out a few bills.

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi, Dad!”

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

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

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

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

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

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

“Michelle, what’s going on here?”

The girl sighed and said something to the side:

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

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

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

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

“Are you Katya?” he asked.

The girl nodded.

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

Katya nodded again, then hesitantly asked:

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

Michelle smiled faintly.

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

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

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

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

His daughter looked at him pleadingly.

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

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

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

Michelle clapped her hands happily.

 

“Thank you, daddy!”

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

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

“So, how are you, little one?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The doctor looked at him in surprise.

“Two? For the girl and for yourself?”

“Exactly.”

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

“What do you mean?”

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

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

“Sorry for calling so late.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Daddy!” Michelle exclaimed joyfully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you… I’ll go now…”

“And where are you going?” he asked.

Their eyes met.

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

Valentin thoughtfully replied:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tatiana smirked, looking at pictures of pristine white beaches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tatiana deleted the message without listening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Valentina Sergeevna peeked into the bedroom.

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

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

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

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

Valentina Sergeevna sighed and straightened her shoulders.

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

Tatiana blinked, unable to believe her ears.

“You… what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tatiana took a deep breath, trying to calm down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Valentina Sergeevna jumped up from the sofa.

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

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

“We raised you!” Valentina Sergeevna shouted.

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

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

“Immediately. I’m not joking.”

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

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

“Tanyusha…” Nikolai Petrovich looked confused.

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

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

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

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

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

“Mom,” “Dad,” “Sergey.”

One by one, she blocked all three numbers.

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

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