All Amazing Babies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Later, we completed the paperwork.

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

That day we returned home as a family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That infuriated me, but Stepan wisely said:

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

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

— Ma-ma.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I searched for ways to teach him reading.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— No, — I felt my face stiffen.

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

I slowly stood up from my seat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

— I know, — I smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ilya grimaces:

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

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

I smile.

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

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

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

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

— You’ll go? — Stepan asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— But what color are they? — he pressed.

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

Vovka fell silent. Then he grabbed my hand:

— Come on! I’ll show you something!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

With each new book, the accolades kept coming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

«Lenochka, dear, we’re here.»

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

«They called him, sweetheart. No answer.»

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

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

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

Mom patted my shoulder:

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

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

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

A message from Igor. A photograph.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thus the years passed, and my son grew up.

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

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

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

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

«Mom, where’s my dad?»

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

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

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

Matvey pondered the words for a moment.

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

I smiled, hiding my tears:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

«Mom, where is my dad?»

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

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

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

Matvey pondered for a moment.

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

I smiled, hiding my tears:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

«How could I forget? Grandpa will have my head if dinner isn’t up to his standards!»

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

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

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

Outside, raindrops began to fall. But here, surrounded by familiar walls and loved ones, I realized—this was not the end. It was the beginning of a new chapter. Our story with Matvey, in which there was no room for someone who chose not to participate.

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

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

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

Matvey laughed, his little legs flailing. His eyes—deep and inquisitive—explored the world with the passion of an explorer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thus the years passed, and my son grew up.

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

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

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

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

«Mom, where is my dad?»

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

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

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

Matvey thought about it for a moment.

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

I smiled, hiding my tears:

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

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

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

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

When I saw Dad standing with Matvey at the stove, patiently showing him how to fillet a fish, an inner warmth spread through me that no other moment in life could match.

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

«How could I forget? Grandpa will have my head if dinner isn’t up to his standards!»

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

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

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

Outside, the rain began to fall. But here, surrounded by familiar walls and loved ones, I realized—this was not the end. It was the beginning of a new chapter. Our story with Matvey, in which there was no room for someone who chose not to participate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thus the years passed, and my son grew up.

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

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

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

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

«Mom, where is my dad?»

My heart clenched, but I did not let myself falter. Matvey looked at me directly—without any anger or sorrow. Just with childlike curiosity.

«He left when you were born,» I said, stroking his soft hair. «He chose another path.»

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

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

Matvey thought about it for a moment.

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

I smiled, hiding my tears:

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

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

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

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

When I saw Dad standing with Matvey at the stove, patiently showing him how to fillet a fish, an inner warmth spread through me that no other moment in life could match.

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

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

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

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

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

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

«How could I forget? Grandpa will have my head if dinner isn’t up to his standards!»

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

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

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

Outside, the rain began to fall. But here, surrounded by familiar walls and loved ones, I realized—this was not the end. It was the beginning of a new chapter. Our story with Matvey, in which there was no room for someone who chose not to participate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Summer faded, and then one day, a knock echoed at our door.

I opened it to find Igor standing there—gaunt, with strands of gray in his hair, and a faded look in his eyes. In that moment, twenty-six years seemed to vanish—I recognized him instantly.
«Why are you here?» My voice didn’t waver, though everything inside me had turned upside down.

«I heard about the wedding,» he stuttered, shifting from foot to foot. «Through mutual acquaintances. I…I thought I had the right…»

«Right?» I said, not raising my voice, but he seemed to recoil. «What right do you have to a son you haven’t seen once in twenty-six years?»

He ran his hand over his face, as if wiping away an invisible cobweb:

«I know I acted like a horrible person. I just wanted to see him. To apologize. Maybe even…» he faltered.

«Even what?»

«Maybe just stand here, like a father…»

I laughed—a laugh that even surprised myself. It held no bitterness or anger—only genuine wonder.
«You’re twenty-six years too late, Igor. Today, the only one who stands beside my son is me. The person who was there every day. And my parents.»

Footsteps echoed in the corridor, and Matvey appeared in the doorway—in a dark blue suit, with a sprig of rosemary in his lapel.

He shifted his gaze from me to Igor, and his face turned to stone. Inside, everything nearly broke. But not today. Not on this day.

«Matvey,» I said softly, «you don’t owe him anything.»

«I know who you are,» my son said calmly, looking directly at Igor. «I saw your photograph.»

Igor stepped toward him:

«Son, I know I have no right… but I’d like to apologize. And, if you allow, meet you. With your fiancée.»

Matvey looked at him without anger—as if studying a stranger on the street.

«You weren’t there when I was sick and couldn’t sleep. When I started first grade. When I broke my arm and Grandpa drove me to the hospital across the village,» he said quietly. «I forgive you.»

Because resentment is a burden too heavy to bear. But in my life, there’s no room for you. Especially not today.

Igor seemed to age another ten years in those few minutes.

«I understand,» he whispered. «Forgive me. And… be happy.»

He turned and left, slouching.

Matvey hugged me:

«Everything’s fine, Mom. Shall we go?»

I clutched him, feeling my heart race:

«Are you sure you’re okay?»

He smiled—as he did in childhood when he’d scrape his knees but bravely carried on:

«I’m marrying the best girl in the world. With you by my side, Mom, I wouldn’t be who I am. How could I not be okay?»

The music began. Guests stood up. Matvey and I walked along a petal-strewn path. At the end, under an arch, stood Nastya—in a simple light dress, with a wreath of cornflowers, beautiful in her nervous excitement. Matvey squeezed my hand, and we walked on. With every step, I felt the weight of past years lift.

Once, betrayal had seemed to break me. But it merely pointed me toward a different path—the one that led to this perfect moment.

…

In the evening, as guests danced under the stars and Matvey twirled Nastya in their first family dance, I stepped out onto the porch for a breather. The air smelled of freshly cut grass and blooming linden.

The door creaked. Matvey came out and sat beside me.

«Why aren’t you with your wife?» I asked with a smile.

«I just wanted to check on you,» he said, resting his head on my shoulder. «Love you, Mom.»

«And I love you, dear.»

We sat in silence, gazing at the sky. How strange life was. Once, my life had crumbled because of the betrayal of a beloved person.

But today, I was truly happy—and I wouldn’t have been if he had stayed with us. My son grew up strong, honest, and capable of love. Could he have been that way with a father who led a double life?

«You know,» Matvey said quietly, as if reading my thoughts, «I wouldn’t change a thing—even if I could go back. We took the right path, Mom.»

I kissed his temple:

«Go to your wife. She’s waiting for you.»

He stood and, before leaving, said:

«Thank you for choosing life over sorrow. You taught me that.»

I sat on the porch for a long time afterward. The stars twinkled in the dark sky—the same ones that shone when I stood with a baby in my arms, holding a photo of someone else’s family.

We don’t choose who betrays us. But we choose with whom to build our lives. And I chose correctly.»

I sat in the kitchen, mechanically stirring tea that had long since cooled. The old clock on the wall ticked away, its steady sound a monotonous reminder—it’s been a month since I’ve been alone. A month since Viktor packed his things and left. Left her. Left Larisa from the third floor.

—Galya, understand, it’s better for everyone this way, he said back then, shoving his shirts into an old suitcase. —We’ve long ceased to be one.

Thirty years of life together were summed up in one sentence. Thirty years during which I cooked borscht for him, ironed his shirts, endured his outbursts of anger and his long spells of silence. Once, I thought this was love—tolerating, forgiving, accommodating.

—Don’t you see how unserious this is? I asked then, trying to preserve my dignity. —At your age, chasing after a younger neighbor…

—Larisa understands me, he cut in. —With her, I feel alive.

Alive. And with me, then, not alive? Thirty years of slow decline—that’s how he saw it. I watched him leave, and inside, something snapped. Not my heart—no, something deeper. As if an invisible thread that had tied me to my former life had been torn.

For the first few weeks, I lived on autopilot. I woke up, went to work at the library, returned to an empty apartment. Neighbors whispered behind my back, some tried to console me. But I wanted neither consolation nor pity.

—Galina Petrovna, hang in there, said Nina Stepanovna from the neighboring entrance. —Men—they’re all the same. A beard of gray—like a devil in the ribs.

And I looked at my reflection in the mirror and did not recognize myself. When had I become like this—dimmed, resigned, as if faded? When did I allow myself to transform into the shadow of my own husband?

Gradually, something began to change.

At first, I signed up for a swimming pool—just to occupy my evenings. Then I bought a subscription to English classes. The children called every day, but I tried not to burden them with my problems. They had their own lives, their own cares.

—Mom, why don’t you come live with us? my daughter suggested. —You’d like it in St. Petersburg.

—No, Lenochka, I replied. —This is my home. All my life is here.

And now, after seven months, looking at my reflection in the dark window, I suddenly realized—I no longer cry at night. I no longer listen for footsteps on the stairs. I no longer wait for him to have a change of heart and come back.

I finished the cooled tea and went to bed, unaware that tomorrow would turn my life upside down. Once again.

A knock at the door sounded as I was brewing my morning tea. Persistent, demanding—completely unlike the delicate chimes of the neighbors. On the doorstep stood Larisa—made-up, wearing a figure-hugging dress, with some folder in her hands.

—We need to talk, she declared without greeting, stepping into the apartment. She smelled of sharp perfume and self-assurance.

—About what? I asked automatically, straightening my bathrobe, feeling uncomfortable under her appraising gaze.

—About the apartment, Larisa plopped down onto a kitchen chair, crossing her legs. —Viktor has decided it’s time to settle everything officially. He has the right to half.

Inside, something snapped. Again. But now it wasn’t pain—it was anger.

—What do you mean by “has the right”? My voice came out unexpectedly firm.

—It means exactly that, she said, pulling out some papers from the folder. —Thirty years of marriage—everything acquired is divided in half. Vitya and I plan to marry as soon as he gets a divorce. And he wants to transfer his half of the apartment to me.

I looked at her, not believing my ears. This woman, who was about fifteen years younger than me, was sitting in my kitchen and talking about my apartment as if it already belonged to her.

—Larisa, I said slowly, —Did Viktor tell you where this apartment came from?

She shrugged:

—What’s the difference? Joint property is divided equally—that’s the law.

—This is my parents’ apartment, I felt a wave of anger rising inside me. —They gave it to me as a gift even before my marriage to Viktor. And he knows that perfectly well.

—Listen, Galina, Larisa stepped forward. —Let’s not have any more of these dramas. Viktor said that if you insist, we’ll go to court. You don’t want a legal battle, do you?

At that moment something inside me switched. As if the last thread tying me to my former, submissive life had snapped.

—Get out of my house, I said quietly but firmly.

—What?

—Out! I stood up, feeling my hands tremble. —And tell your Vitya that if he wants court, so be it. I am no longer the woman who silently swallows every hurt.

Larisa smirked, gathering the papers:

—You’ll regret this, you old fool. We’ll show you the world.

When the door slammed behind her, I sank onto a chair and burst into tears. But these were not tears of despair—they were tears of anger and determination.

That very day, I called my friend Tamara—she worked at a legal consultancy.

—Galochka, you did the right thing by seeking help, she said after reviewing the apartment documents. —The gift deed from your parents is a rock-solid argument. Such property isn’t divided in a divorce.

I sat in her office, studying the stacks of folders on the shelves. Tamara was typing something quickly on her computer.

—You know what amazes me the most? she looked up at me over her glasses. —Your Vitya knows full well that the apartment is solely yours. He simply assumed that you would yield by habit.

Those words hit me hard. My whole life I had always given in—in the small things and the important ones. When he insisted that I quit my postgraduate studies. When he sold my mother’s piano because “it took up too much space.” When he unilaterally managed our family budget…

—Now listen to the plan of action, Tamara handed me a sheet with notes. —First: we file for divorce. Second: we prepare the documents that confirm your ownership. Third…

There was a knock on the door. A young female secretary stood in the doorway:

—Tamara Nikolaevna, there’s a man for you. He says it’s urgent.

—Let him wait, Tamara waved off, but at that moment Viktor practically burst into the office. Larisa was looming behind him.

—So, there you are! he said, looming over me. —Have you already run off to complain?

I shrank, out of old habit, but then straightened up immediately. No, I would no longer be afraid.

—Viktor Mikhailovich, said Tamara in a cold tone, —please leave the room. Or I will call security.

—Galka, his voice lowered to a threatening whisper, —don’t you understand that I will get my way anyway? Do you think I won’t find a way to get you?

—No, Vitya, I stood up, looking him straight in the eyes. —Understand this: I am no longer the henpecked woman you can boss around. The apartment is mine, period.

—Ah, you… he gestured wildly, but Tamara had already pressed the security call button.

As they were being escorted out, Larisa turned back:

—We’ll meet in court!

—We will indeed, I replied calmly. —And you know what’s most interesting? I am no longer afraid of that meeting.

The following weeks turned into a real nerve-wracking ordeal.

Viktor would send threatening messages, then try to pressure me through mutual acquaintances. Larisa would wait for me by the entrance, demonstratively showing some papers.

—Mom, maybe you should really come live with us? my daughter fretted over the phone. —Why do you need all this stress?

—Lenochka, I smiled, looking at the old family photographs on the wall. —It’s no longer just about the apartment. It’s about my life, about my dignity.

One evening, as I was sorting through old documents, I stumbled upon a yellowed folder. Inside was my father’s will, drawn up back in the eighties.

—My dear, he had said then, —this apartment is your fortress. No matter what happens, you will always be safe here.

I remember how Viktor grimaced when my father insisted on the gift deed before the wedding. “Your father doesn’t trust me,” he grumbled. And as if my father had foreseen it…

I grabbed my phone and dialed Tamara’s number:

—Do you remember you mentioned some additional documents?

—Of course, she perked up. —I’ll expect you tomorrow morning. And you know what? I did some digging into your dear man’s affairs. It turns out he has unpaid loans. I think that’s why he’s so desperately trying to seize your apartment.

That explained a lot. I recalled how for the past year Viktor was constantly borrowing money, hiding things…

—Galina Petrovna! a neighbor called out to me as I stepped out of the entrance. —Please forgive me, but I saw everything back then… How Viktor Mikhailovich with that… she shook her head. —If witness statements are needed, I’m ready.

—Thank you, Anna Vasilievna, I smiled genuinely for the first time in a long while. —You know, I used to be too ashamed to accept such help. But now I understand—I must not be afraid to be strong.

In the evening, there was a knock at the door. Viktor stood there—no longer the imposing figure I had feared all my life, but rather a pathetic man with a restless gaze.

—Galya, let’s talk this over nicely…

—No, Vitya, I shook my head, not inviting him inside. —No more talks.

—You must understand, I’m in a difficult situation, he tried to wedge his foot into the doorway. —Those loans.

—Oh, so you admit the loans now? I smirked. —You know what’s most surprising? I’m not even angry anymore. I just don’t care.

—Galya, his tone took a conciliatory note, —maybe you could spare a room? Larka kicked me out when she found out about the debts.

And then I burst out laughing. Loudly, heartily—for the first time in months. Before me stood not the fearsome husband I had dreaded all my life, but merely a pitiful man who had cornered himself.

—No, Vitya. Not a room, not a corner, nothing. Take your divorce papers and leave.

—You’ll regret this! he once again tried to sound threatening, but it came off as unconvincing.

—You know, what I really regret? I looked him straight in the eyes. —I regret the thirty years I spent being afraid to be myself. But that is in the past.

I closed the door and leaned against it. The apartment was quiet—only the ticking of the old clock on the wall, counting not bitter but peaceful minutes of my new life.

A month later, the court officially recognized my divorce and my sole ownership of the apartment. Viktor didn’t show up at the hearing—they say he left for another city. Larisa pretends not to notice me in the entrance.

And I—I finally bought a new piano—exactly like the one, my mother’s. In the evenings, its sounds spread throughout the apartment, and I feel my soul coming back to life. Next week, I’m going to St. Petersburg—to visit my grandchildren and, at the same time, see the city. Then perhaps I’ll travel to Europe—after all, I didn’t take those English classes for nothing.

Now, this is truly my fortress—not only the apartment, but my life. And I have finally learned how to defend it.

Ignat stood by the window, drumming his fingers on the windowsill. Outside, a light rain fell against the glass, turning the March evening into a gray shroud. A heavy silence hung in the apartment, broken only by Marina’s soft sobs and the rustle of bags as she hurriedly packed her belongings.

“Make sure there isn’t a soul left here in an hour,” he sneered without looking back. “And take the child with you.” “Ignat, pull yourself together!” Marina’s voice trembled. “Where are we going to go? I don’t even have money to rent a place!”

“Those are your problems,” he snapped. “You should have thought before sneaking around behind my back with your friends.”

Five-year-old Sasha, not understanding what was happening, clung to his mother’s leg and looked at his father with wide, frightened eyes.

“Dad, don’t chase us away,” the little boy mumbled.

Ignat finally turned. His gaze was as cold as ice:

“I’ve said everything. Get out of here.” Marina, clutching her son close, looked at her husband one last time:

“You’ll regret this, Ignat. I swear, you will.”

The front door slammed shut. Ignat poured himself a glass of cognac and smirked. Regret? Unlikely. That loser wasn’t going anywhere. After a month bouncing between rented apartments, she’d crawl back, begging to be let in. But he would remain unyielding.

He couldn’t have imagined how deeply he was mistaken.

Five years later.

Ignat was seated at a small table in the “Metropol” restaurant, distractedly studying the wine list. Across from him sat his business partner Viktor, with whom he was discussing yet another deal.

“Look at that woman!” Viktor suddenly whistled, nodding toward the entrance.

Ignat casually turned his head and froze. Marina was entering the restaurant. But what an entrance! A stylish black dress accentuated her perfect figure, and expensive jewelry shimmered in the light of the crystal chandeliers. She exuded confidence and dignity. Next to her walked a boy of about ten in a spotless suit – their son Sasha.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” came a melodious voice – that of the maître d’. “Madam Marina Alexandrovna, your table is ready.”

 

“Madam?” Ignat whispered in astonishment. “Do you know her?”

“Obviously!” Viktor snorted. “Marina Alexandrovna is the owner of the elite spa chain ‘Zhemchuzhina.’ She started from scratch, and now her business is valued in the millions. The smartest woman you’ll ever meet!”

Ignat felt the ground slip away beneath his feet. That very Marina—the one he had thrown out the door with just a bag of her things? The one who, in his opinion, was destined to languish in poverty?

“Pardon me,” he mumbled to Viktor and, as if hypnotized, walked to their table.

“Marina…” he began.

She looked up. In her eyes there was neither surprise nor fear – only cold composure:

“Hello, Ignat. Long time no see.”

“Mom, who’s this?” Sasha asked, curiously studying the stranger.

Those words struck Ignat like a slap in the face. His own son did not recognize him. And how could he? Five years is an entire lifetime for a child.

“This is…” Marina hesitated for a moment, “just an acquaintance, dear. Let’s place our order.”

“Just an acquaintance?” Ignat felt a fury boiling inside him. “I am his father!”

Sasha looked up from the menu:

“So, you’re the one who kicked us out?” the boy asked, his tone not showing any resentment or anger – only polite indifference. “Mom said you did that because you weren’t ready for a real family.”

“Sasha,” Marina softly hushed him, “let’s not talk about that now.”

“May I sit down?” Ignat pulled out a chair without waiting for permission.

“Actually, we’re expecting Uncle Andrey,” Sasha remarked. “He promised to show me his new 3-D modeling program. I want to be an architect like him.”

“Uncle Andrey?” Ignat shifted his gaze to Marina. She calmly adjusted her napkin:

“Yes, my husband. We’ve been together for three years now.”

Ignat felt a lump form in his throat. Three years… While he indulged his own ego, his son had found a new father.

“Marina, may we speak in private?” his voice betrayed a hint of vulnerability.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she shook her head. “Everything that needed to be said was said five years ago. You made your choice; we made ours.”

At that moment, a tall man of about forty with kind eyes and a welcoming smile approached their table:

“Sorry I’m late, my dear. The traffic was awful.”

“Andrey!” Sasha joyfully jumped up. “Did you bring the program?”

“Of course, champ!” Andrey tousled the boy’s hair and then noticed Ignat. “Good evening.” “Ignat is already leaving,” Marina said firmly.

Slowly, Ignat rose from the table, feeling as though the ground were slipping away beneath him. Seeing his condition, Andrey displayed an unexpected largesse:

“Maybe you’d like to join us? I think you have a lot to talk about.”

“Thank you,” Ignat rasped and sank back into his chair.

An awkward silence settled over the table. The waiter brought the menus, and everyone pretended to be engrossed in studying them. Finally, Andrey broke the silence:

“Sasha, show me your latest sketches. You mentioned you have something interesting for a school project.”

The boy enthusiastically pulled a tablet from his backpack and moved closer to Andrey. They delved into discussion, leaving Ignat and Marina alone.

“I didn’t know…” Ignat began.

“What exactly didn’t you know?” Marina asked softly. “That we could survive without you? That I could build a business? Or that Sasha would grow into a wonderful boy without your involvement?”

“Everything,” he admitted honestly. “I was blind. I selfishly thought only of myself and my career.”

“You know, I actually have to thank you,” Marina said thoughtfully.

“Thank you?” Ignat was astonished.

“Yes. That night changed my life completely. I realized then that I would never let anyone else decide for me!”

She had started small – opening a little beauty salon. She worked sixteen hours a day. Sasha often fell asleep right there on a small couch in the corner.

She paused, looking at her son who was passionately explaining something to Andrey.

“Then, regular clients started coming, I took out a loan, and opened a second salon. I constantly learned new things, raising my level of expertise. And every evening as I tucked Sasha in, I promised him that everything would be alright. And you know what? I kept that promise.”

Ignat listened without interrupting. Every word hit him squarely, forcing him to face the depth of his mistake.

“And then I met Andrey,” Marina smiled. “He came to the salon as a client – can you believe it? A successful architect who takes such good care of himself. We started talking and found so much in common. He, too, started from scratch and worked hard. And most importantly – he accepted Sasha immediately.”

“He’s a good man,” Ignat had to admit.

“The best,” Marina stated firmly. “You know what he did when he found out that Sasha is interested in architecture? He began taking him into his studio, teaching him the fundamentals of design. Together, they create 3-D models and discuss modern trends. Andrey doesn’t see him merely as his wife’s child; he sees him as a person with interests and dreams.”

A lump rose in Ignat’s throat. He recalled how he used to shoo little Sasha away when he asked to play, how he grew irritated by his child’s questions and noise.

“Have I ruined everything?” he asked quietly.

“You only showed us that we deserve better,” Marina replied calmly. “And we have found that better.”

At that moment, Sasha and Andrey resumed their conversation. The boy beamed with pride:

“Mom, guess what? Uncle Andrey said my project could be showcased at a real architectural exhibition! Though, I need to refine some details first…”

“That’s wonderful, sweetheart!” Marina smiled.

 

“Sasha,” Ignat suddenly said, surprising even himself, “may I also see your project?”

For a moment, the boy hesitated, then looked questioningly at Andrey. He gave a barely perceptible nod.

“Okay,” Sasha agreed and handed over the tablet. “This is a project for an eco-friendly residential complex. See, here are solar panels on the roof and, over here, a rainwater collection system…”

Ignat listened intently as his son explained every detail, amazed by the depth of his knowledge and the thoughtfulness behind each decision. Every detail was in its place, every choice justified. At just eleven years old, Sasha reasoned like a true professional.

“That is truly impressive,” Ignat said sincerely. “You’re doing a great job.”

“Thank you,” Sasha replied, and for the first time that evening, Ignat saw his son smile at him. “Uncle Andrey told me that the key in architecture is attention to detail and caring about the people who will eventually live in your designs.”

“Your Uncle Andrey is absolutely right,” Ignat nodded, finding it hard to accept these words.

The evening was drawing to a close. The waiter brought the check, which Andrey promptly claimed for himself, dismissing Ignat’s offers to pay for everyone.

“You know,” Andrey said as they left the restaurant, “if Sasha doesn’t mind, perhaps you all could meet from time to time. Of course, in the company of one of us.”

Marina remained silent, not objecting. Sasha thought for a moment, then nodded:

“That’s fine. But no promises, alright? Let’s just see what happens.”

“No promises,” Ignat agreed, understanding that this was the most he could hope for.

They said their goodbyes. Ignat watched the family leave – Andrey holding Marina’s hand, while Sasha animatedly talked, gesturing broadly. They were happy and whole without him.

Taking out his phone, Ignat dialed the number of his psychotherapist:

“Hello, doctor. Do you remember saying that I need to learn to accept the consequences of my decisions? I think I’m ready to start working on that. Truly ready.”

The rain had stopped, and the starry sky was reflected in the puddles. Somewhere in the distance, the lights of skyscrapers twinkled – maybe one day, among them, there would be a building designed by his son. And that would be beautiful, even if Ignat could only watch from the sidelines.

The village was almost extinct. Out of the eighteen houses, only two remained inhabited: in one, elderly Varvara lived; in the other — Stepan with Anastasia. They had no children, but they did have Mitrich the goat, three goats, chickens, and a garden, which they tended more out of habit than necessity. Everything they needed was long delivered from the district center by the mail truck.

That day, Anastasia Petrovna went into the forest to gather birch mushrooms. The end of August was generous with mushrooms, as if the forest wanted to thank her for her long years of patience. She carried an old woven basket on her back and quietly hummed a song from her youth. The forest had become her sanctuary, a place of refuge from loneliness and the deep melancholy that had settled inside her many years ago.

At first, she heard a rustling sound. She stopped and listened—and understood: it was crying. No, even two voices.

Anastasia ran toward where the sound was coming from. And there—on a clearing, right by a stump—lay a jacket. In it, there were two infants, pink, crying, naked, with their umbilical cords still attached. A boy and a girl. Very tiny indeed.

She froze. She put down her basket and sank to her knees. Tears started streaming down uncontrollably.

«Oh my Lord…» she whispered, holding the little girl to her chest, «who could have abandoned you, my dear ones…»

She wrapped the children back into the jacket, took them into her arms—heavily, yet gently—and walked back home through the forest, as if she knew the way even in the dark.

Stepan sat silently on the porch with a cigarette when she returned. Seeing the load she carried, he frowned.

“What is that?”

“Children,” replied Anastasia. “I found them in the forest. In a jacket. They’re crying. A boy and a girl.”

He said nothing. He simply got up, opened the door. On the table stood a warm porridge, left from the morning. He cleared it away and set up the goat’s milk to warm.

“Nastya… you do understand that we can’t keep them, right?”

“I understand. But I can’t abandon them.”

She wept. Not out of fear, but because at sixty years old a miracle had suddenly occurred. A terrible, wild, yet real miracle.

A day later, they went to see Gala — at the village council. She understood everything immediately. She took off her glasses, rubbed her nose bridge.

“So you found them… Well. You’re not the first, Nastya, and you won’t be the last. I’ll help. We’ll record them as ‘found,’ process the documents without any fuss. But you do understand — the village is not a city, here even the paramedic comes only once a month.”

Anastasia nodded. She knew. But her heart was breaking.

The little ones grew up in their home. Anastasia got up at night, fed them, and sang them lullabies. Stepan fetched water and changed their diapers, although he used to even wash the goat reluctantly. The children called him “gh-gh” — that was the sound of their first laughter.

When they turned six, a letter arrived from the boarding school. They were summoned to a commission. The children were to be taken away to study.

They packed small bundles. Anastasia put in the bundles the shirts she had sewn, knitted socks, and a few dried apples. On the porch, they embraced. The children wept, clung to them. Makar said:

“Grandma, don’t leave us.”

And Darya:

“We’ll be back soon, won’t we?”

Anastasia couldn’t answer. She only nodded, while tears streamed down her cheeks.

Eighteen years passed.

And one day, on their eighteenth birthday, Makar and Darya learned who they really were.

Everything turned upside down.

Makar barely slept all night. He sat in the hayloft, where he once hid from the storm. Now a storm raged inside him — deep, dragging, relentless.

Darya tossed in the house. Her thoughts were different: she dreamed, hoped, even quietly fantasized that maybe their mother had no other choice, not that she simply did not want to. She still sought excuses.

But Makar — no longer.

In the morning, they went to the district center. In the dusty administrative archive were stored old records — who had come when, who had registered, who had disappeared.

Galina Mikhailovna made a phone call, and the archive was opened for them “on old friendship.”

And there — a document. The year matched.

Full Name: Lilia S. — 18 years old. Arrived temporarily, not registered. Was noticed to be pregnant. Disappeared two weeks after giving birth.

Signature: District policeman Sokolova V.A.

Darya ran her finger along the edge of the sheet.

“Lilia… It’s her. L.S.”

“We’ll find her,” Makar said curtly.

At first, they went to see Varvara Antonovna — the only native of the village. She remembered everyone.

“Lilia? Of course, I remember. Black-haired, proud. She looked as if you owed her something. She said she would leave for the city, become an actress or a singer. Men swarmed around her like bees to honey.”

“Did she live with someone?”

“Alone. In an old bathhouse. And then — she disappeared. No one even noticed when she left.”

Darya found her on social networks.

Neat photos. Bright dresses. Eyebrows like fine threads, lips like a bow. Next to her, a man — dignified, in an expensive suit, with a watch and a severe look. The caption read:

“With my Viktor. Thankful to fate for stability, love, and support.”

Darya trembled all over.

“She… is happy. And they just threw us away like we were nothing.”

Makar silently stared at the screen, frowning. Then he said:

“I’ll go. I need to look her in the eyes.”

He set off alone.

A small café in the city center. Cozy and expensive. It was precisely here that Lilia often posted her “stories” — about breakfasts with her beloved, women’s days, and croissants with cappuccino.

She entered exactly at 10:30. A light scent of perfume, high heels, a stylish handbag. She sat at a table, ordered a coffee. Makar took the seat next to her, watching.

His heart pounded not from fear, but from tension. There she was. His mother. The woman who had given him life. And who had abandoned it.

He rose. Approached her.

“Excuse me, are you Lilia Sergeyevna?”

She looked at him coldly, scrutinizing.

“Yes. And what’s the matter?”

Makar took out a photograph — an old, worn one, where she was wearing that same jacket that once warmed them in the forest.

“Do you recognize this?”

Her hand trembled for a moment. But her voice remained cold.

“No. And who are you?”

“I am one of those you left to die. In the forest. In August.”

Makar spoke calmly, but his eyes were icy.

Lilia paled. She looked out the window.

“This is a misunderstanding. I know nothing. Sorry, I’m in a hurry.”

She got up and left. Her heels clicked, like nails.

Makar remained seated.

He did not expect an embrace.

But he didn’t even hear a simple word of regret.

That evening, Darya asked:

“How is she?”

“Empty. A beautiful shell. A showcase. But inside — emptiness.”

“What are we going to do?”

Makar looked up. Calmly, as if speaking about the weather:

“We will prove it. Through the court. Through the law. Through the truth.”

Let her have everything — money, a house, a husband.

But let the passport at least show that she is a mother. A mother who abandoned.

Viktor Pavlovich lived in a world of numbers, deals, and reliable connections.

He knew how to do things correctly — without scandals, without dirt. Always impeccably dressed, always polite. But behind his politeness hid a concrete wall.

He hadn’t noticed for long how Lilia was manipulating them. Or perhaps he was just pretending. She was convenient — beautiful, well-groomed, and never asked questions. And he provided, spoiled, bought.

When a young man entered his office and calmly said:

“I am your… stepson,” he first thought it was a joke.

But Makar was not one to joke.

He placed a folder on the table:

A DNA test, an extract from the archive, a statement of recognition of kinship.

And a letter from a notary.

“You are married to a woman who abandoned her children in the forest. We want nothing but the truth.”

“What are you going to do?” Viktor asked coldly.

“Do what must be done. Speak openly. Through the court, if necessary. And if you really are an honorable man, you will want to know who you spent half your life with.”

That evening at home, Viktor approached Lilia. She was just making a mask and watching a series.

“Lilia. We need to talk.”

“Not now, Vit’. I’m tired.”

“Now,” he said firmly.

He took out the photograph — the very one of her with the children in the jacket.

Lilia shuddered but quickly composed herself.

 

“This is a fake. I’m being set up.”

“Are you familiar with the concept of ‘leaving someone in danger’?”

“Viktor, you don’t understand! I was 18! I had no choice! I was scared! I just… wanted to start a new life!”

“Without children?”

“Yes! Without poverty, without filth, without judgment! I gave birth — and realized I couldn’t cope! That they… were dragging me down!”

He was silent for a long time.

“Did you never think that they might have their own life?”

“And what now? Do you want to adopt them?”

“No. But I won’t live with a woman who abandoned her children and lied to me for twenty years.”

A week later, Viktor Pavlovich came to the village himself.

Without a tie, without guards. He brought a basket of fruits and documents.

“Darya. Makar. I’m not a saint. And I’m not your father. But I’m a man. And if my signature can compensate even a little for what you experienced — it will be mine.”

He handed over the papers:

“Half the house. Officially. As a gift deed. Without conditions.”

“We are not asking for charity,” Makar replied reservedly.

“I know. That’s why this isn’t charity. It’s a gesture. Toward your conscience.”

He sat on a bench next to Stepan, lit a cigarette. They sat in silence for about five minutes. Then he said:

“You probably have very good children.”

“Not probably,” replied Stepan. “Absolutely.”

Lilia tried to resist. She wrote, called, threatened.

But the court didn’t care.

The evidence was convincing. Makar’s lawyer spoke clearly, without emotions, relying solely on facts. Darya couldn’t be present — she was crying. Anastasia held her hand in the waiting room.

At the hearing, Lilia said for the first time:

“I am sorry.”

But it sounded as if she was sorry not for the children, but for being exposed.

The court’s decision stated:

Recognize Lilia as the biological mother. Require the corresponding changes to be made in the documents. Confirm the fact of leaving minors in danger. Impose a suspended sentence and a fine. The media did not write about this case. But those who needed to know, did.

And in the evening, in a house under an old linden tree, Darya sat on the porch and quietly said:

“I still cannot understand how one can just leave. Just… throw away.”

Anastasia embraced her.

“You won’t understand. Because you are not like that.”

Chapter 5. The Home

A month had passed since the trial.

Lilia left. She said she couldn’t stand the “condemning looks.”

But in essence, she had simply fled. She disappeared from Viktor’s life just as she once disappeared from the lives of her children.

No letters, no calls, no apologies. Only silence.

And did she matter to anyone now?

Viktor, on the contrary, stayed.

He didn’t try to become a father to Makar and Darya — he didn’t intrude into their souls, nor impose himself. He was simply there. And that was enough.

The gift deed for the house was processed quickly. A large brick cottage on the outskirts of the city, with a garden and a spacious kitchen, now officially belonged to the twins.

The very first thing Darya suggested was:

“We need to bring the grandparents.”

“And make them a room with a separate entrance,” added Makar. “So that it’s warm and comfortable.”

Anastasia couldn’t hold back her tears.

Stepan simply put his hand on his son’s shoulder — not formally, but genuinely.

Two weeks later the whole family gathered at the threshold of the new home. On a cart were suitcases, jars of raspberry jam, a bag of potatoes, a bundle with icons, and embroidered napkins by Anastasia.

Darya showed them around:

“Here will be the kitchen-living room. This is your little corner, grandma. And here grandpa can tinker — even build a boat if he wishes.”

Stepan inspected the workshop and, for the first time in a long time, smiled widely.

“Maybe we can set up some beehives too…”

And Anastasia, holding Darya, whispered:

“You earned all this, my girl. Not out of revenge — but because of the truth. And the truth always prevails.”

 

Makar decided to continue his studies — to become a lawyer. He wanted to help other children, just like he had been “found.”

Darya got a job at the library. She led a club for teenagers. She wrote poems. Sometimes they were published in the district newspaper under the pseudonym: Darya Lesnaya.

Viktor visited on weekends. He brought saplings, honey, books. He wasn’t trying to atone for his guilt — he simply invested in his new family, gradually, step by step.

In the fall, when the first snow settled on the roof, Darya hung a large photograph in the living room.

In it were she with Makar, Anastasia with a warm smile, and Stepan with his rare but sincere laughter. In the background — apple trees. On the right — the old jacket, as a symbol of memory.

Below the photograph hung a wooden sign:

“Family isn’t about blood. It’s about choice. And we chose each other.”

And in the evening, over tea with pie, Anastasia suddenly said:

“You know, you saved me back then. It wasn’t that I found you — you found me.”

“No, grandma,” replied Darya, drawing close to her. “We found each other.”

“And also,” added Makar, “now you are not just a grandmother. Now you are simply a mother.”

Outside, the snow fell softly, as if covering all the past with a warm blanket.

And inside the house there was the aroma of pies, milk, and happiness.

A real, well-deserved happiness.

Kira froze in front of the door as if rooted to the spot. The key in the lock felt as painful as a splinter in her finger. Noises drifting from the apartment made one thing clear: someone was taking over. And that voice… of course it was her mother‑in‑law. Who else could it be?

“Yurochka, dear, push the sofa over here. And that cabinet—good grief, who even put it there? Straight to the dump with it, the room will feel so much bigger,” Tatyana Vasilyevna barked her orders with the tone of a woman remodeling a palace.

Kira turned the key carefully, trying not to make a sound. The hallway greeted her with piles of things: suitcases, bags, bits of clothing—even felt boots. In the living room her mother‑in‑law, like a field marshal, was directing two movers. Yuri stood beside her, nodding obediently like a wind‑up toy.

“And what’s this little furniture show?” Kira asked coldly, stopping in the doorway as though she’d caught them doing something indecent.

“Oh, Kirachka, sweetheart! Home already?” Tatyana Vasilyevna clapped theatrically. “We’re just freshening up the interior a bit. Nothing serious, don’t worry.”

“What ‘interior’?” Kira’s gaze snapped to Yuri. “Yura, have you lost your mind? What does all this mean?”

“Well, you see…” Yuri began, like a schoolboy hauled in front of the teacher. “Mom and Dad… have problems. She’ll stay with us for a while. Just a short time.”

“A while?” Kira repeated, stepping back. “How long is that? A day? A week? Or are you going to wow me with ‘six months’?”

“Oh, come now, Kira, don’t exaggerate,” Tatyana Vasilyevna waved her off. “Three months, maybe four. Just until I… pull myself together. You’ve plenty of space. I’ll be tidy.”

“Tidy?!” Kira dropped her bag. “Did anyone ask me? Or am I just a prop in your family drama?”

“Dear, where should I go—out on the street?” the older woman sighed dramatically, pressing a hand to her heart as if she’d been evicted from her last refuge.

“She’s my mother!” Yuri snapped, frowning. “You can’t be against my own mother.”

“I’m against the two of you making decisions without me!” Kira shot back. “This is my apartment. I lived here before we got married, and I’m not about to put up with an invasion by someone who calls my style ‘horrible.’”

“Exactly—before the wedding,” the mother‑in‑law parried, arms folded. “Now you’re family, and a son has the right to invite his mother—especially in a hard time.”

Gritting her teeth, Kira turned and stormed into the bedroom, slamming the door so hard it made her mother‑in‑law jump.

The first days Kira kept silent, holding herself together like a yogi in meditation. But by the end of the week it was clear: this woman hadn’t come as a temporary guest. She’d arrived with suitcases, rules, and a step‑by‑step manual titled “How to Remodel Someone Else’s Life to Suit Yourself.”

Furniture was rearranged, closets scrubbed, belongings tossed—anything that didn’t match her taste.

 

“That… that was a vase from my mom! Her last gift before she died!” Kira trembled with anger, clutching a bag of shards.

“Some trinket,” Tatyana Vasilyevna dismissed. “It just gathered dust. I bought a new one—modern, minimalist. Be glad.”

By the second week Kira felt like a prisoner in her own home—questioned, checked, controlled.

“Late again?” the mother‑in‑law greeted her, glasses perched on her nose like a detective. “Yura’s hungry. Men need dinner on time, not whenever you finish ‘building your career.’”

“I warned you—we’re on a deadline,” Kira muttered, walking past without taking off her coat.

“In our day wives were home by six. Soup, compote…” the older woman sniffed. “Now everyone’s a ‘businesswoman,’ apparently.”

After a month Kira woke up realizing she was no longer the mistress of the house—just a guest.

That evening she found Yuri in the kitchen.

“We need to talk,” she said quietly but firmly.

“Again?” Yuri chewed his sandwich as if nothing in the world could stir him.

“About your mother. She’s been here a month. When is she leaving?”

“Not now. She’s going through a rough patch—”

“And I’m having a party, right? Every day with my dear mother‑in‑law in slippers!”

“She’s only trying to help, Kira. You act like you’re under siege.”

“Help?! She threw out my things—my favorite sweater! Called it ‘junk’! I wore it back in college!”

“Mom knows what she’s doing. Maybe you should listen to her?”

“Do you even hear yourself? There are two women in this house, and one of them isn’t me.”

At that moment Tatyana Vasilyevna marched in, rag in hand, face set in disapproval.

“Another scandal? Kira, are you holding competitions for hysterics?”

“Me? You’ve turned everything upside down!”

“In ‘your apartment,’ yes. But you’re married—remember?”

“I haven’t forgotten. And since you understand papers so well, remember this: the apartment was bought before the marriage, with my mother’s money. Everything’s documented.”

“So what now—throw me out like a stray?”

Kira looked at her husband. He calmly chewed, as if nothing were happening.

“No, Tatyana Vasilyevna. I’m leaving. From this apartment. From this circus. I’ll take my things.”

She walked out, door banging. Came back for her keys. Left again in silence.

Days dragged like cold oatmeal. Kira stayed late at work, found any excuse to stay away.

“Yura, look at your wife,” her mother‑in‑law kept repeating. “Cold as a fish on ice.”

Yuri pretended everything was fine, scrolling his tablet, nodding to his mother like he was binge‑watching “Mother‑in‑Law vs. Everyone.” Waiting for things to fix themselves. They only got worse.

One morning Kira discovered her favorite blue dress missing. She searched every corner—found it in the trash, neatly folded like on a store shelf.

“Seriously, Tatyana Vasilyevna?” Kira’s voice shook as she pulled it out.

“Look at yourself—those rags are unbecoming. You’re a married woman, dress accordingly.”

“I’ll decide what to wear.” Kira wasn’t shaking now; she was boiling.

“Yura, say something!” the older woman appealed.

Without lifting his eyes, Yuri grunted, “Mom, stop it. Let her wear what she wants.”

“There! See? He doesn’t care how his wife looks!”

Kira slammed the closet so hard the cat hid in terror. A few days later her favorite shoes vanished. Then her makeup bag—gone.

The last straw came when she checked their bank account: negative balance. Not just empty—like someone had held a clearance sale.

“Yura, did you take money from our account?” she asked that evening, trying to keep calm.

“Yeah, I did,” he said without looking up. “Pasha needed it. My kid brother.”

“Which Pasha?”

“The younger one—business troubles.”

“You took the money and didn’t even ask?”

“Mom said we should help. Family, you know. Why be stingy?” He shrugged.

“Stingy?” Kira gripped her phone. “That was my money! I earned it!”

“Ours,” the mother‑in‑law cut in, judge‑like. “In a family everything’s shared. Pasha will pay it back, definitely.”

“When?” Kira’s voice rang like glass.

“When things pick up,” the older woman waved it off. “By the way, you need a bigger apartment. Sell this one…”

“What?!” Ice water down her spine.

“I’ve found a great three‑bedroom—shops nearby. Of course you’ll have to pay the difference… Yura can take a loan.”

“Mom, maybe not right now?” Yuri murmured, limp as soggy oatmeal.

“When then, Yura? Time to think of children—you’re cramped here. And I could use a room of my own.”

Kira rose and left. The kitchen—and its burnt toast and pointless arguments—stayed behind.

In the bedroom she opened the safe: deed from her mother, purchase contract, registry extract. She sorted the papers like a priest with prayer books—only instead of peace, anger kept rising.

Without knocking, Tatyana Vasilyevna burst in.

“All set! Tomorrow we’ll view the flat. Perfect option. I think—”

“No,” Kira said calmly, eyes still on the documents.

“What do you mean, ‘no’?” The older woman froze.

“Yura!” Kira called. “Come here, please. We need to talk.”

He dragged himself in like a schoolboy to the principal, phone in hand, distant.

“Sit down,” Kira pointed to the bed. “This is serious.”

“What a show,” the mother‑in‑law snorted, but sat, smoothing her skirt like she was at a board meeting, not about to be thrown out.

Kira slapped the folder on the table so hard it bounced. Then she turned to the pair occupying her sofa as if it belonged to them.

“I’ve had enough,” her voice shook from exhaustion, not fear. “First you barged in unannounced. Then the nitpicking—‘move this, toss that.’ Then you rifled through my things—clothes, books, makeup. And the cherry on top—my money. Just took it. Convenient, right?”

“Here we go again…” the mother‑in‑law rolled her eyes. “Yura, say something. She’s lost it.”

“No—you listen,” Kira’s voice went sandpaper‑rough. “These are the papers for the apartment. Mine. Bought before marriage. My mum helped. And here’s the deed. My money. Not shared. Mine.”

“So what?” the older woman hissed. “You’re family now. Everything’s shared. The flat too.”

“Wrong.” Kira pulled another sheet. “We have a prenuptial agreement. My idea. Surprise?”

Yuri flinched like whipped, paled, looked away.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” the mother‑in‑law hissed. “Prenup? Behind our backs?”

“Not behind yours,” Kira stared at her husband. “He signed it himself, perfectly sober, pen in hand. Remember, Yura? I said, ‘It’ll keep things calm.’”

“I thought it was just paper…” he mumbled at the wall.

“Well, now that paper is my exit.”

Kira fetched two suitcases: one brand‑new, tag still on; the other old and scuffed like the very idea of living with relatives.

“You have one hour to pack. No more.”

“What?!” the mother‑in‑law shrieked, leaping up. “You’re kicking us out? Your own family?”

“Exactly,” Kira met her eyes. “No more circus. My life, my things, my money. I won’t let you boss me around. I’m an adult and quite sane.”

“Yura!” the older woman howled. “Tell her we’re staying!”

“Kira, maybe we can discuss—” Yuri rose like a man walking to his execution.

“Discuss? We’ve ‘discussed’ for three months while your mother ruled this place like a general. Enough talk. Either you both leave now, or I call the police. My apartment. Papers on the table. Call a lawyer if you want.”

“You’ll regret this! Ungrateful girl! We came with kindness, and you—” She seized a suitcase as if it were a live grenade.

“With kindness, sure…” Kira laughed. “You came as guests but acted like occupiers—commanded, redecorated, took my money, even tried to sell my flat. Some ‘kindness.’ I’m nobody’s pet on a leash. This is my home. My life.”

Yuri stood between them, eyes darting like a child in a candy store who can’t afford a single

sweet.

“And you get out too!” the mother‑in‑law hissed. “Don’t you dare stay with this… upstart!”

“Yura will decide for himself,” Kira said, weary but calm. “If he stays, it’s on my terms. Your mother doesn’t rule here anymore. Orders are canceled—for everyone. Otherwise… you know what happens.”

Tatyana Vasilyevna stormed out, suitcase dragging and clattering—announcing war wasn’t over.

Yuri lingered, then edged toward the door. “Kira… maybe we could still talk…”

“Nothing left to say. Choose: me or your mother.”

“But… she’s my mom…”

“Exactly. Choose. It’s not an ultimatum—I just refuse to be the third wheel.”

He stood mute, sighed, and followed his mother. The door slammed so loudly the walls echoed, as if even they didn’t know what came next.

Kira sank onto the bed. Her hands shook, legs were weak, yet inside she felt calm, warmth spreading like the first sip of hot tea on a cold day. She was scared, but differently—more alive.

A week later Yuri called.

“Maybe we can meet? Mom’s at home, she’s cooled down…”

“No, Yura,” Kira whispered. “I’ve cooled down too. And I realized I don’t need someone who can’t defend me even from his own mother.”

“But I love you!”

“Love isn’t emojis. It’s standing up for me, not for her. Pick up your things this weekend. I’ve filed for divorce.”

She hung up and went to the window. Outside, someone laughed, someone smoked, and inside her soul there was silence—no anxiety, no shouting, no constant tension.

Three months. In those three months she learned the main thing: to value herself, even if it meant starting over.

The phone kept ringing. Relatives swarmed like ants around jam. She ruthlessly blocked numbers—even an old friend who lectured her on “saving the family.”

The first night she couldn’t sleep, listening to the apartment’s creaks and hush—at last without criticism, commands, endless disapproval. In the morning she calmly made coffee. Alone. No “you’re doing it wrong,” no “what are you wearing,” no “you only think of yourself.”

A month later she changed all the locks and felt reborn. The divorce went quickly—thank you, prenup. Yuri tried to protest, then gave up; he’d lived his whole life under someone else’s orders.

She never heard of her mother‑in‑law again—rumor had it she went back to her husband; apparently her son wasn’t the ally she’d thought.

And Kira… Kira finally took a full breath and began truly living.

In her home, the rules were hers—and no one would rewrite them.

— Mom, are you working the night shift again today? — Katya asked, looking at her mother with concern, as if hoping for a different answer.
— Yes, sweetheart. You and Yura will behave yourselves, won’t you? — Marina gently stroked her daughter’s hand, trying to reassure her.

— Of course, Mom. But you never rest at all, — Katya insisted, keeping her gaze fixed on her. — You need more time for yourself.
— Don’t worry, darling. I need the job so we can have everything we need, — Marina replied, forcing a light smile. — Don’t you want to be the prettiest girl at graduation?

Katya sighed heavily:
— I just wish you were home more often.

— Soon you’ll have that, Katya. There’s only one year left before we finally pay off this damned loan, — Marina said, wearily closing her eyes.

Her thoughts drifted back to the past. Once her life had seemed stable: a solid family, a loving husband, two children. But everything changed when her husband decided to start his own business. Marina hadn’t understood the details, she simply supported him as best she could. However, the loan had to be taken out in her name.

If only that had been the worst of it… Soon her husband confessed he’d fallen in love with another woman, but he promised to help with the payments so she wouldn’t worry. Marina hadn’t even recovered from that blow when a new tragedy struck—he died in a car accident.

She was left alone with two children and a massive debt. Standing at his grave, she wondered how she would live on. The kids needed attention, work drained all her strength, and there was barely enough money for the bare essentials. There were moments when she thought about the unthinkable—the sum of the debt seemed insurmountable. All she had left was her share of the apartment.

Five years passed. Marina endured so much, but now, with only a year left on the loan, she allowed herself to hope. All her income went toward the debt—child allowances and part of her salary. They lived on whatever was left. Fortunately, Katya helped with her younger brother, Yura.

— Alright, Katya, I have to go to work. Don’t worry, check Yura’s homework and make sure he’s home by nine, — Marina said, kissing her daughter on the forehead. — What would I do without you!

The hospital where Marina worked was far away—on the other side of town. She had to take multiple transfers, spending over an hour commuting. Sometimes she thought about finding a job closer by, but she’d grown accustomed to this hospital over the years.

— Good evening, Marina Nikolaevna, — came a calm male voice.

It was Sergey Andreyevich, a new doctor who’d joined the hospital just three months ago. He’d come out of retirement, saying he couldn’t sit idle. Marina noticed he often showed her attention, and she found herself blushing like a schoolgirl. After all, he was a widower, and she was single. Sergey was polite and tactful, only three years older than her. Rumors circulated among the nurses, but they never went beyond whispers.

— Hello, Sergey Andreyevich, — Marina responded, hurrying past to avoid curious glances from the other nurses.

In the doctors’ lounge, her colleagues greeted her with tea.
— Join us, Marina Nikolaevna. How’s it going?
— So far quiet, but as they say, the calm before the storm, — she replied.

Indeed, the start of her shift was uneventful: only one appendicitis patient and a laborer who needed his hand sutured. The weather was beautiful, and Marina stepped into the hospital courtyard, sitting on a bench to rest for a moment.’

She jumped when Sergey Andreyevich sat down beside her.
— Marina, I’d like to take you to the movies. I haven’t thought of anything better. A restaurant’s too mundane, a theater not everyone enjoys. And we don’t know each other well yet. But you can’t refuse! — He smiled at her.

Marina, about to politely decline, unexpectedly laughed.
— Are you reading my thoughts?
Sergey shrugged.
— And what is there to read? Every time I see you, you try to slip away.
— Is it that obvious? — she asked in surprise.
— Very. We’re both grown-ups and free. There’s no point denying that there’s something between us.

Marina took a deep breath.
— I’m out of practice with conversations like this.
— But life goes on, — Sergey said gently.
— Alright, I’ll go to the movies with you. But I really don’t have any time.
— I noticed how busy you always are, — Sergey shook his head.
— I have no choice. My husband left me terrible memories, — Marina replied bitterly.

Sergey nodded understandingly.
— That happens. If you want, you can tell me more.

Suddenly Marina felt an overwhelming need to confide. She described her situation in detail while Sergey listened without interrupting.
— That’s why think twice before inviting a woman with such “baggage” to the movies, — she concluded with a sigh.
— Nonsense. There’s always a way out, even in the toughest situations, — he said confidently.

— Maybe you’re right. I think about the past too much. I had a best friend, but after my wedding, we fell out. It turned out she was in love with my husband too. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if things had gone differently? — Marina said thoughtfully.
— But it’s pointless to dwell on what you can’t change. Have you ever reconciled with your friend?
— I don’t know where she is now. She left right after my wedding… — Marina answered.

Sergey looked toward the hospital gates.
— It’s quiet today. That’s unusual. Maybe there’s more work coming soon.

Marina stood and headed into the hospital building. A few minutes later, a nurse approached her.
— Marina Nikolaevna, you’re urgently needed in the operating room!

In the OR, Marina first reviewed the labs without looking at the patient.
— How are you feeling? — she asked, raising her eyes.

On the gurney lay her husband, Kostya, whom she believed was dead. He looked at her fearfully, then turned away.

“That can’t be… — she thought. — But he did die…”

His blood pressure was dropping rapidly, and he was losing so much blood that every second counted. Gathering her strength, Marina focused and began the surgery. Every movement was precise. When it was over, she had no doubt: this was Kostya, despite the documents showing another name. How could such a monstrous mistake have happened?

Exiting the OR, she ran into a woman whose question made her raise an eyebrow in surprise:
— How is he? How is my husband?

Marina recognized her immediately. Lena. The very friend who’d once been inseparable from her until their lives diverged.
— Lena? — Marina whispered in astonishment.
— Marina? I had no idea you worked here… — Lena took a step back, hesitating to meet her gaze.

She sighed deeply, as if gathering her thoughts before speaking:
— Did you operate on him?
— This is Kostya, right? I… I don’t understand…
— Oh, Marina, it turned out like this… We thought we had no choice. Probably we need to talk this through.

— Yes, I desperately want to understand what’s going on! — Marina’s voice trembled with emotion.

At that moment, Sergey Andreyevich appeared in the doorway:
— Is everything alright? Do you mind if I stay? I think you could use some support…

Lena glanced at him, then nodded. They settled into a small, quiet security office to talk.
— So, tell me, — Marina demanded, eyes fixed on Lena.

It turned out Lena had returned to town a few years earlier, accidentally met Kostya, and old feelings had flared up. Together they hatched a risky plan: take out a large loan and disappear to avoid debt and child support.
— Kostya had the right connections; we tried to start a business, — Lena explained, — but it failed. We moved to another city, but competition was too fierce. We ended up with debts, had to sell everything, and came back here. But the creditors found us today… The attack was their doing.

— And how do you plan to get out of this mess? — Marina’s voice was barely contained rage.
— Maybe… maybe you’ll sell your apartment? You own a share through Kostya…

Marina nearly choked on those words.
— Lena, are you even hearing yourself? Kostya left me with a loan I’ve been paying off for years, sacrificing everything for our children! Now you want me homeless?

Sergey Andreyevich sighed heavily:
— I think the right thing is to involve the police. Yes, he’ll have to face the law, but at least he’ll live, and you, Marina, will be free of this burden.

Lena jumped up sharply:
— Marina, don’t betray us! He’s your husband, the father of your children!
— You know, Lena, I don’t even feel sorry for you. Did you ever think of me when you staged this circus? Who thought of the children? We mourned him at the cemetery, and he… Sergey, call the police, please.

Sergey dialed, then turned to Lena:
— Stay here until they arrive.

Lena just waved and sat down. Marina left the room.

— Mom, did something happen? You look so sad… — Katya looked up anxiously when Marina reentered the room.

Marina took a deep breath and sat beside her daughter:
— Katya, I need to tell you something. I don’t even know how to begin…

She told her daughter everything that had happened. Katya listened silently, then quietly said:
— So while we were paying his debts, he was living it up? While we brought flowers to his grave, he was having fun with someone else? Mom, can I just believe that my dad really stayed dead?

 

Marina shrugged:
— I’m not going to persuade you otherwise. For me, he died twice.

Six months passed.

— Mom, are we celebrating? — The children, barely through the door, rushed to the kitchen. — What’s that wonderful smell?
— Hurry and take off your coats, — Marina bustled about.
Yura inhaled the aroma and whined:
— I’m starving!
Marina laughed:
— Just a little more patience. We’ll eat in half an hour.

Katya raised an eyebrow and approached her mother:
— Mom, are you getting married?

Marina blushed.
— Oh, Katya, what are you… Well… today I want to introduce you to someone. His name is Sergey. Katya, Yura, don’t just stand there—help me set the table.

She turned away, trying to hide her excitement, but saw the children’s surprised faces. In the next second, they hugged her.
— Mommy, we’re so happy for you! As long as he’s a good man, — they whispered, and Marina couldn’t hold back tears.
— He is good, believe me, — she said firmly.

A knock sounded at the door, and Yura ran to answer it:
— Me!

Marina closed her eyes for a moment. There was no turning back now.

A month later they held a modest wedding—a family dinner. Yura and Sergey quickly bonded, and the boy looked up to his new father with respect. Although Sergey asked them not to rush—relationships take time.

Kostya survived but was immediately charged. It turned out he and Lena had a trail of fraud behind them. Marina had to attend the court hearings, since her name was also involved. Kostya looked shattered, Lena no better. They hurled accusations at each other, and Marina felt disgusted watching it all.

The loan remained in her name. The court wouldn’t hear her arguments, since legally the debt was hers. But Sergey helped her pay off the remainder.
— That’s it, Marish, now we start a new life, — he hugged her. — Though now my wallet’s empty, — he added with a smile.

They laughed.
— The important thing is that we’re all alive and healthy; we’ll earn the money back, — Marina replied, firmly believing that everything would be alright now.

nobody’s going to take your apartment away? really? and when your ex-husband turns up at your door with his mother and suitcases, sure that he has every right to live here—what will you do? smile and step aside, clearing the way? or will you find the strength to slam the door in their insolent faces?

taisya still remembered the last day sergey left. it was an ordinary tuesday; she was cooking dinner in her little kitchen. he simply packed his things into a bag and said, ‘i’m tired. that’s enough for me. i’ve had enough.’

he didn’t slam the door, didn’t shout. he left quietly, as if vanishing from her life. to his mother.

sergey and alevtina pavlovna were two halves of the same apple. his mother had always mattered more to him than anyone else in the world. and a daughter-in-law to her was just a temporary nuisance. ‘your housekeeping isn’t great, my son,’ she used to say when she came over. ‘a family without children isn’t really a family,’ she repeated—though she never wanted grandchildren at all. she just needed her son by her side. always and constantly. maternal love.

thirteen years together dissolved without a trace.

in the first months after he left, taisya waited for a call. a message. anything. then she stopped. and oddly—it became easier for her.

after a year of solitude she grew accustomed to the silence. to her own pace. to the fact that no one winced at the scent of her favorite perfume. no one switched off her music in the middle of a song. no one commented on her every move.

in those early months she woke up feeling a void. then she realized: it wasn’t emptiness—it was freedom. gradually she began wearing makeup each morning. not for anyone else—for herself. she bought bright accent pillows. hung a painting of a tiger-woman that sergey had called ‘tasteless.’

and she grew to love her new life. to love herself.

after their wedding sergey had said everything was fine, that it was good for just the two of them. but when they’d visit friends who had children, he would change. first he’d play with the little ones, laugh—but then fall silent.

and at night they’d go to bed back-to-back. no hugs. no kisses. taisya once suggested, ‘maybe we should adopt?’ he just shook his head: ‘i don’t want someone else’s child.’ slowly a wall rose between them—not from fights or scandals, but from silence. every evening in the same apartment, at the same table, in the same bed—and infinitely distant from each other.

once, back in university, she’d refused to carry a pregnancy to term—she was afraid she couldn’t handle both studies and a baby. she regretted it every day of her life, especially when she learned she would never be able to become a mother.

a knock sounded at the door one sunday evening. taisya had just stepped out of the shower, wrapped in a large towel. sunday—her day. the day she allowed herself not to be a teacher. just herself, a woman with foam in the bath, a face mask on, and treats in hand.

throwing on her robe, she opened the door and froze, unable to believe her eyes.

there stood sergey. he looked thinner somehow, even with a new haircut. behind him—alevtina pavlovna, face triumphant. both carrying bags—he with his familiar duffel, she with two huge trunks.

‘hi,’ sergey said, surveying taisya from head to toe. ‘you look good.’

 

she instinctively tightened her robe. his gaze was unpleasant—appraising, as if he had the right.

‘mom’s apartment had a burst pipe—we got flooded,’ he continued, as if nothing had happened. ‘the repair will take two weeks, maybe a month. everything needs to dry out and the floors to be redone. we’ll stay with you. besides, you’re alone, and the apartment is practically shared. after all, we’re husband and wife in fact.’

a year. a whole year he hadn’t called, hadn’t written. and now he stands on her doorstep as if he’d left only yesterday.

‘we won’t be long,’ added alevtina pavlovna. ‘a couple of months at most. then we’ll leave. you don’t mind, taisya?’

‘taichka.’ it was the first time in thirteen years her mother-in-law had used a pet name. that frightened taisya more than anything.

she felt her old self stir—the self who had always been compliant, quiet—ready to say ‘yes, of course, come in.’ but another self had awakened beside her—the self who had learned to live alone. who had discovered the value of her solitude.

‘no,’ said taisya.

‘what?’ sergey asked, as if he hadn’t heard.

‘i said “no.” you will not live here.’

alevtina pavlovna stepped forward, practically wedging herself between taisya and the doorway:

‘what’s with that look, honey? you think we like begging at your door? we have a force majeure. we have nowhere else to go. besides, you owe sergey so much. he took you in after your… problems… others wouldn’t have accepted you.’

‘sergey, move your foot,’ taisya said through gritted teeth, pressing her weight against the door. ‘i’m not joking.’

‘come on now,’ he pressed harder, the door swinging wider. ‘we’ll stay a month or two and then we’ll be off. it’s no big deal. step aside, taika.’

he reached out to push her shoulder. taisya recoiled.

‘just try to touch me.’

alevtina seized the moment, forcing her way into the apartment, dragging her trunks behind her.

‘what a performance, girl?’ she hissed, scanning the hallway. ‘husband’s back home and you act like a witch. and that smell… need to air this place out.’

taisya felt her cheeks flame—with anger, with shame—they barged into her home and had the audacity to complain!

‘get out! right now!’ she screamed. ‘this is my apartment! MINE! and you are not living here!’

‘calm down,’ sergey rolled his eyes. ‘you’ll wake the neighbors. we’ll just stay for a couple of months, no one’s taking your dump.’

‘yes, dear,’ alevtina chimed in, shrugging off her coat. ‘no need for hysterics. better make us some tea.’

alevtina let out a caw like a crow:

‘what?! have you lost your mind? that’s your husband! your family!’

‘ex-husband,’ taisya corrected. ‘and certainly not family.’

taisya grabbed her phone from the bedside table and dialed 112. her hands shook, but her finger hit the keys precisely.

‘are you insane?!’ sergey lunged at her, trying to snatch the phone. ‘what the hell are you doing?’

‘don’t you dare!’ taisya shoved him back with her free hand. ‘i’m calling the police! you broke into my apartment unlawfully!’

‘hello,’ she said into the handset, retreating into the living room. ‘people have broken into my apartment. they’re trying to stay by force. i’m afraid! they’re aggressive! please send someone!’

she quickly gave her address.

‘you’ve lost it?!’ sergey looked at his mother. ‘mom, did you hear that? she’s calling the local officer!’

‘get out!’ taisya repeated, brandishing the phone like a weapon. ‘the officer is on his way!’

‘are you nuts?’ alevtina clutched her trunks, as if fearing they’d be taken.

‘this isn’t my problem,’ sergey spat. ‘step out of the way, taika.’

‘mom, do something!’ he wailed, trying to strong-arm the door. but theres…

 

the door swung open and in stepped officer sokolov—strong, in uniform, as if by magic. the hallway was still open, sergey and alevtina arguing with taisya when he appeared.

‘i’m inspector sokolov,’ he introduced himself. ‘we received a report of unlawful entry. what’s happening here?’

his gaze scanned all three, settling on taisya—tearful, trembling in her home clothes. she didn’t immediately recognize him—igor sokolov—the same boy from third-row in school.

‘igor?’ she exhaled, both surprised and somehow ashamed.

‘taisya?’ he frowned, then his face hardened. ‘what’s going on here?’

‘family drama, officer,’ sergey inserted himself, forcing a smile. ‘my wife got a bit carried away. we—’

‘he isn’t my husband,’ taisya interrupted, voice quivering. ‘we haven’t lived together for a year. and they broke in by force, refuse to leave.’

‘she’s lying,’ alevtina cackled. ‘my son came home, he has the right! and what does she do? you see for yourself.’

‘are you registered at this address?’ igor demanded of sergey.

‘no, but—’

‘who owns the apartment?’

‘she does,’ sergey pointed at taisya. ‘but we’re married; it’s community property!’

‘i received this apartment before marriage as a gift from my grandmother,’ taisya blurted. ‘it’s solely mine.’

‘if the property was in your name before marriage and you are the only one registered here, they have no right to stay without your consent,’ igor declared, then turned to sergey and his mother. ‘pack your things and leave.’

‘are you kidding me?’ sergey raised his voice. ‘where will we go? i cooked for her for twelve years, paid for this dump, did renovations, and now we’re out on the street?’

‘did you hear him?’ igor’s voice turned icy. ‘pack up. get out. or i’ll have you arrested for trespassing.’

‘how dare you!’ alevtina screeched. ‘my son is an honest man! and she… she couldn’t even give birth, couldn’t keep a home!’

‘i’ll give you one last warning,’ igor stepped forward, hand instinctively on his baton. ‘another insult and you’ll be detained for disrespecting an officer. get out. now.’

sergey tugged at his mother’s sleeve:

‘come on, mom. don’t humiliate yourself before her. you’ll regret this; you’ll crawl back later…’

‘get out!’ taisya’s voice—suddenly firm—rang out. ‘and never come back. NEVER!’

‘you’ll regret it,’ sergey snarled. ‘you’ll die alone—an old, worthless hag who couldn’t even have children!’

taisya shuddered. there it was—the thing he’d thought of her all those years. what he blamed her for.

hot tears streamed down her face—angry, helpless.

‘enough,’ igor’s tone was stern. ‘one more insult and i’ll arrest you. last chance. leave. immediately.’

sergey jerked his mother’s hand:

‘let’s go, mom. don’t humiliate yourself.’

‘but where will we go?!’ alevtina clung to her trunks, as though they were her last lifeline.

‘not my problem,’ igor snapped. ‘you have one minute.’

when the door slammed shut behind them, taisya sank to the floor, trembling, teeth chattering as if from cold.

‘hey,’ igor crouched beside her.

‘i hate them,’ she whispered, burying her face in her hands. ‘how could they… how could he!’

tears flowed in an unending torrent—hot, angry, long-held back.

‘what did i do to deserve this?’ she sobbed. ‘a whole year no word, no call—and now they show up! as if entitled!’

igor awkwardly placed a hand on her shoulder.

‘sorry to ask… but it’s true he left a year ago? you’re still married?’

‘yes,’ she wiped her eyes with her sleeve. ‘he just… packed and left. went to mommy. said he was tired. and i… waited. thought he’d come back and we’d talk… but he…’ another wave of sobs engulfed her. ‘i will never take him back! ever!’

‘good,’ his voice carried unexpected firmness.

taisya looked at him:

‘what?’

‘good that you won’t,’ repeated igor. ‘he doesn’t respect you. and his mother… i won’t say what i think of her.’

for the first time someone wasn’t judging. didn’t tell her to reconcile, give him another chance, that ‘after all he’s your husband,’ or ‘men have it hard.’ someone simply said: you’re right.

‘tea?’ she asked, dabbing her tears.

‘i’ll have some,’ he nodded. ‘your hands are shaking.’

‘wouldn’t you shake?’ she headed to the kitchen, surprised at how quickly she felt herself returning to normal.

they sat drinking tea. taisya jerked at every door slam in the hallway.

‘tomorrow i’ll file for divorce,’ she said, staring into her cup. ‘no sense delaying.’

‘that’s right,’ igor set down his cup. ‘you should rest now.’

‘thank you,’ she murmured, uncertain how to express gratitude without sounding grandiose.

when he left, taisya turned up the TV loud—she didn’t want to be alone with her thoughts.

in the morning she took a personal day and went to the mfc to submit the paperwork. that evening she found igor’s number in her phone and called.

‘hi. how are you?’ his voice sounded hesitant.

‘i’m fine. i filed the papers. divorce in a month.’

‘good you didn’t wait.’

‘why wait? i spent thirteen years on him. that’s enough.’

the phone became their lifeline. calls every evening. short at first, then longer. about work. the weather. weekend plans.

two weeks later he suggested going to the movies. taisya agreed immediately—didn’t even ask which film. they sat side by side in the dark auditorium, their hands brushing as if by accident.

she expected the kiss to be special. it wasn’t. they left the cinema into the night, rain misting down. igor draped his jacket over her shoulders.

‘warmer?’ he asked.

‘yes,’ she turned to him and, without thinking of anything else, kissed him.

simply. naturally. no theatrical pause. no trembling hand.

the divorce went through surprisingly fast. sergey didn’t even show up at court. they didn’t split the assets. the apartment was already hers.

‘i still want to sell it,’ taisya told igor.

‘why?’

‘everything in there… is wrong. you know that feeling when things are the same but feel different?’

he nodded:

‘i know. after my divorce i sold everything. even a couch i never slept on.’

they found a new place for her—a small one-room apartment on the ninth floor in a new development. white walls, east-facing windows, no furniture. perfect for a fresh start.

‘do you like it?’ igor asked when they stepped into the empty room.

‘very much,’ taisya nodded. ‘there’s none of him here. not a trace.’

the move was quick. books, clothes, a few boxes of mementos—that was all she owned. not a single item tied to sergey. even the photos stayed boxed in the old place.

igor carried the last box up when night had already fallen.

‘all done,’ he said, looking around. ‘time to celebrate.’

they sat on the floor, drinking from paper cups, laughing about school days.

‘remember P.E. when…’ igor began.

‘no,’ she interrupted. ‘i don’t want to look back anymore. not at school, not at marriage. not at anything. only forward.’

he was silent, studying her face.

 

‘right. i like this taisya.’

‘me too,’ she smiled. ‘i didn’t even like myself before, but now—yes.’

igor leaned closer:

‘i’ve always liked you.’

she took his hand, interlaced her fingers with his.

‘to be honest, in school i never thought of you. but now i think of you. a lot. and it feels good.’

and they sat there until late.

igor began gathering himself when the clock read eleven.

‘i have work tomorrow,’ he explained. ‘thanks for tonight. congratulations on your housewarming.’

‘don’t you want to stay?’ taisya asked him directly.

he looked surprised:

‘there’s barely anything here.’

‘there’s a mattress,’ she shrugged. ‘is that not enough?’

and he stayed. with no awkward questions, no second thoughts.

for the first time in years she allowed herself simply to do what she wanted. without looking back. without fear. and it seemed luck was on her side.

When Will This End?» I shouted, and saw Sergey let out a theatrical sigh and stare at the floor again.

“Tanya, why are you yelling?” he mumbled, avoiding my gaze. “Mom’s not asking for that much.”

“Not that much? You really think another transfer for Vera Petrovna isn’t much? We’ve been barely scraping by for three months!”

“She’s in a tough spot,” Sergey tried to justify, but I cut him off sharply.

 

“She’s always in a tough spot. And we’re not?”

We stood facing each other in the narrow hallway of our apartment. The neighbors probably heard every word—these walls let everything through. I didn’t care. I was boiling with a sense of injustice and exhaustion that had built up over years.

“You’re being selfish again,” Sergey snapped. “She’s my mother—can’t you understand? She called and said she can’t pay her utility bills…”

“And how is she supposed to pay them when she doesn’t work at all? Didn’t someone offer her a job at the library? They did. And she turned it down! She sits at home all day and then calls you: ‘Seryozha, help!’ You send her money, and we end up counting every penny!”

My anger overwhelmed me. I realized I couldn’t hold back anymore—I’d played the part of the kind, understanding daughter-in-law for too long, and now I saw no light at the end of this tunnel.

“Fine,” he suddenly said, glaring at me from under his brows. “If you refuse to support my mother, maybe we need to think about our future separately. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

“You’re threatening me with divorce?” I shot back, sarcasm lacing my voice. “Go ahead. Try it.”

He reached for his jacket, hesitated—probably expecting me to stop him. I didn’t. I stood there with my hands on my hips, breathing heavily. It felt like this scene had played out before, but this time his voice carried real resolve.

“Alright,” Sergey muttered, pulling on his sleeves sluggishly. “I’ll go to my friends, cool off there. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“Don’t bother coming back,” I replied, watching him go.

He turned like he wanted to say something, but then slammed the door shut. And there I stood alone—angry, hurt, and yet, oddly relieved.

It didn’t start yesterday. Or a week ago. Or even a month ago.

I met Sergey at a local city fair where we volunteered together at a charity event. He seemed kind, attentive—helping teens collect recyclables, joking around, sharing future plans. Turned out we were from the same neighborhood and went to nearby schools. I took that as a sign and agreed to a walk along the riverfront.

On our first date, he spoke of his parents as polar opposites: his father lived abroad with another family, and his mother, Vera Petrovna, barely worked due to health reasons. He painted himself as independent, said he worked in tourism and had big plans.

Half a year in, once we were serious, I started noticing odd things. He would suddenly rush out from a romantic dinner to withdraw cash and hand it over to his mom, returning flustered and stressed. One day I asked:

“Sergey, is everything okay with your mom?”

“Yeah… I mean, yeah… just a few issues, she can’t get her benefits sorted,” he said vaguely.

“Maybe she should look for a job?”

“Her health’s not great,” he waved it off.

I didn’t push. Maybe she really was unwell. But soon, the money transfers grew. So did the excuses: “She can’t afford groceries,” “It’s her friend’s birthday,” “The cat needs a vet.” Always a new reason.

We got married a year after we met. Sergey had started working as a manager at a small firm—not great pay, but steady. I was a government lawyer. We rented a two-bedroom apartment near my work. Everything seemed fine.

But the savings we had set aside for renovations began disappearing. I found out Sergey had secretly been transferring them to his mother. His excuse? She needed help. I tried to understand. I even suggested she come stay with us so I could see for myself.

 

“Okay,” he agreed, “but just so you know—my mom’s a handful.”

“Whose mom isn’t?” I joked. I wasn’t worried.

Vera Petrovna arrived, and I felt her disapproval immediately. She inspected our home like an auditor—checking shelves, flipping through books, commenting on our clothes. She asked questions like, “Why do you need such a big TV? It uses a lot of electricity.”

I smiled, offered dinner. She wrinkled her nose. Clearly, I hadn’t met her culinary standards. But I tried.

I didn’t yet realize I was on the road to carrying nearly all the family’s financial burden. Sergey started siding with her more and more. She spent two weeks with us, constantly lamenting her “lack of money” while living quite comfortably and taking home a suitcase full of things bought with our savings.

Over the last year, things spiraled. She needed money constantly—for whims, not essentials. She had no serious diagnosis and refused to look for a job. Every time I gently suggested something, she looked at me like I’d insulted her heritage.

Sergey backed her, always with the same line: her back hurt, her blood pressure was off. But she never saw a doctor.

I endured. For a year and a half. We even moved to a cheaper apartment. But her demands didn’t shrink. Every payday, Sergey would send her money first. I had to figure out how we’d survive.

“Tanya, you know it’s hard for her,” he’d say, eyes down.

“Sergey, I know. But my boss says layoffs are possible. I might lose my job. Then what?”

“I’ll get a side job,” he’d mumble—never doing anything.

Each month, I felt less like a wife, more like an ATM. Sergey loved me, I knew, but he was terrified of upsetting his mother. I once asked Vera Petrovna, kindly:

“Maybe you could look into discounts or support programs? Social services help seniors sometimes…”

“I don’t need charity,” she snapped. “I counted on you. On my son’s family.”

She once went on a vacation, posted seaside photos online. We, meanwhile, counted coins to get through the month. That’s when I started losing it. The fights became regular.

Standing in that now-empty hallway, I remembered all the big and small sacrifices I made for Sergey’s peace of mind. And I realized—I was done. Maybe divorce was best. He would never stand up to his mother. And I was tired of funding her life.

The next day, Sergey came back looking wrecked. Red eyes, distant look. No determination in his voice.

“Tanya… what did you decide?”

“I’ve decided I won’t support Vera Petrovna anymore,” I said firmly. “This is the final straw. I’m done catering to her whims.”

“That won’t work for me,” he replied darkly. “I won’t abandon my mother. That means one thing—divorce.”

“No problem,” I smirked, and for the first time, I saw uncertainty in his eyes. “I’m a lawyer—I know where to sign.”

“Fine,” he muttered, and started packing.

I watched in silence. I didn’t cry, didn’t beg. I just stood there. I felt bitterness, yes—but also freedom. No more endless demands.

“Tanya…” he turned to me. “Maybe you’ll think about it?”

“I already have. I loved you. Maybe I still do. But I can’t live like this. No savings. No future. Just money transfers for your mom.”

“So calm about it…” he whispered, sweating.

“Calm? You think I’m made of stone?”

He said nothing. Just zipped his suitcase and walked out.

“I’m leaving,” he said at the door.

“Great,” I replied. “Tell Vera Petrovna I said hi.”

I won’t bore you with divorce details. As a lawyer, I filed everything myself. Sergey didn’t resist—we had little to divide. He moved into a small apartment.

Vera Petrovna called once.

“Tanya, this is your fault! I have no support now. How will I live?”

“You should’ve thought about that earlier. You’re an adult. You could’ve gotten a job.”

“May you—”

“Goodbye,” I interrupted, and hung up politely.

A few months later, I moved to a new apartment nearby. Life was peaceful. I even bought myself a small car—something I’d long dreamed of but could never afford because of her.

I still worked as a lawyer, but something had shifted. I wasn’t staying late in fear. I went to the movies. To concerts. I wondered why I hadn’t done this sooner.

A year passed. One weekend, I was strolling through a supermarket when I spotted a familiar figure near the registers. I turned to walk the other way—but he saw me.

“Tanya, hey!” Sergey called out.

“Hi,” I replied coldly.

He looked rough. Overgrown hair. Dark circles. He shuffled over, eyes avoiding mine.

“How are you?” he asked like we were old friends.

“I’m fine,” I said, a knot of memories twisting in my gut.

“Things are a mess,” he began. “Mom’s threatening to move in with me. Says the neighbors are noisy, there’s a debt on the apartment—”

“Stop,” I cut him off. “Sergey, I don’t want to hear this. That’s not my family anymore. Not my problem.”

“But you…”

“No.” I shook my head. “Why are you telling me this? You made your choice. Now live with it.”

He frowned, gathered himself, then muttered a curse and walked off.

“I’m glad I divorced you!” he called over his shoulder.

 

I watched him leave. Felt nothing. No regret. No guilt.

Back at my new apartment, I unpacked my groceries, feeling like it was even cozier than before. Because now, this space was fully mine. No compromises. No hidden transfers. No tension from someone else’s demands.

Yes, a shadow of the past lingered. But I knew I’d done the right thing. Sometimes people think you’re cold or cruel—but in truth, you’re just tired of living by someone else’s rules. And as I looked at my life from the outside, I understood: I had nothing to be ashamed of.

As for Sergey… He chose to remain under his mother’s thumb. Maybe one day he’ll grow up. Learn to take responsibility. But that’s no longer my concern.

In the middle of the school year, a new student appeared when everyone had long since gotten used to each other. Nobody knew where she had come from, and few cared enough to ask. Her name was Masha — a thin girl with narrow shoulders and huge eyes filled with anxious anticipation. On her feet were worn-out slippers that had clearly seen a lot in their time. Instead of a regular backpack, she carried a knitted pouch with string straps.
The teachers immediately noticed her modesty: she spoke quietly, tried not to stand out, and avoided participating in school conversations. But in a group of children, even the smallest difference can be enough to become a target for ridicule.

The local boys would sneak glances at her and snicker as they passed by. They laughed at her slippers and mocked her, saying, «Look, she doesn’t even have a normal backpack.» The girls, slyer, pretended to be friendly, but the moment Masha turned away, whispering and giggling erupted at the back desks, accompanied by sidelong glances.
No one knew what story lay behind this fragile girl, why she flinched so often. The teachers noticed she didn’t fit in, but most just shrugged it off: «Well… she’s new, she’ll get used to it. She’ll adapt somehow.» Occasionally, a teacher would try to talk to her, ask how she was doing, but she would respond briefly, as if afraid to reveal too much.

Every day after school, avoiding contact with her classmates, Masha would quickly gather her notebooks, slip on her old slippers, and leave. Before long, it became obvious that she was heading toward the large pond at the edge of the settlement. Ducks lived there, and each time she would pull a packet of crumbs or grains from her pocket. She would sit on a wooden bench, quietly call the birds over, and they would swim up to her, as if sensing her trust. She would feed them, whispering something — maybe talking to the ducks or simply seeking comfort in that peaceful place.
Weeks passed: winter was ending, the ice on the pond was melting, and the ducks were gathering in flocks, waddling across the wet grass. And every day, Masha came to them with her humble offering.

One day, two boys from her class decided to prank the «strange» girl. They thought her silence was an invitation for «fun.»
They came up with the idea of tossing a rubber snake into the pond while she was feeding the ducks. One afternoon, they lay in wait. As usual, she walked down the path, sat on the bench, and pulled out her bag of crumbs. The boys hid in the bushes, preparing their «joke,» waiting for the right moment to throw the snake so it would surface near the shore, right in front of her.

Masha crumbled the bread and tossed it to the ducks. They quacked and paddled closer. At one point, one of the boys hurled the rubber snake into the water. It looked fairly realistic at a glance — green, patterned, long, and writhing.
When Masha noticed it, she didn’t immediately understand what it was. It seemed like some creature — long, slithering — was swimming toward her.
At first, she gasped in surprise, then was seized by panic. Perhaps she had once encountered a real viper, or maybe she was simply terrified of the unknown. She jumped up, stumbled, slipped on the wet grass, and with a scream, fell into the water. Her bag of crumbs dropped to the ground, and she plunged into the icy ripples.

 

The boys hiding in the bushes were stunned — they hadn’t expected things to go that far. They rushed along the bank, not knowing what to do.
Masha flailed, trying to grab onto a branch sticking out over the water. Her wet hair clung to her face; she screamed — from fear, maybe pain. The water was freezing, and her strength was fading fast. The more terrified she became, the more she choked on the icy water.

At that moment, Yegor from a parallel class happened to be passing by. His parents had sent him to visit his aunt, who lived by the river. He noticed the commotion and saw Masha, almost submerged. Without thinking, he stripped off his outer clothing and dove into the pond. Fueled by adrenaline, he barely felt the cold.
He swam — he could swim a little — and quickly reached her, grabbing her under the arms. The filthy, freezing water didn’t stop him: he dragged her to the shore.
Someone from the gathering crowd thought to hand them a stick to grab onto.
They finally made it out: trembling, pale Masha, and soaked, shivering Yegor, coughing and gasping for breath.

As the others regained their senses, the girl sat huddled on the ground, tears in her eyes, not understanding what had happened, why there had been a snake in the pond, or who was to blame.
The boys who had started it all quickly slunk away, hanging their heads in shame.
The others stood around awkwardly, glancing from Masha to Yegor.
Someone suggested, «We should walk her home — she’s soaking wet.»
But Masha shook her head: «No, I’ll manage…»
She got up, grabbed her backpack, and looked at Yegor. He stood there in wet pants, barely able to stay upright from the cold.
She mustered her courage and whispered, «Thank you. Sorry…»
He just shrugged: «What are you apologizing for? Less talking, let’s go, or we’ll both catch cold.»

They started walking along the narrow path by the pond.
Masha shivered and sniffled; Yegor walked beside her, biting his lip — whether from the cold or from confusion.
He glanced back at their schoolmates, but they had scattered.
He was left to accompany her alone.

After a minute of awkward silence, he asked, «Where should I walk you to? I don’t want to leave you like this.»
Masha looked at him, thought for a moment, and nodded toward an old alley: «That way. I live nearby, not far…»
They turned down a side path.
Along the way, Yegor briefly explained how he was on his way to his aunt when he saw her drowning.
Masha shrank with shame and fear — what if those boys now sought revenge because she had been rescued?
But Yegor’s gaze was calm.

When they reached the battered wooden fence at the end of the street, Masha quietly said, «Thanks again. You should go home before you get sick.»
He nodded and was about to leave when he noticed the house she entered looked abandoned.
The windows seemed boarded up, old rags hung from the porch.

«Is this your house?» he blurted out.
Masha nodded, trying to slip inside.
But he stepped forward: «Maybe you need help? You’re soaking wet!»

She hesitated, then quietly opened the door and let him in.

Inside the tiny entryway, the air was dim and smelled of medicine and something old and dusty.
Yegor immediately noticed a little boy, about five years old, peeking out from a room with wide, silent eyes.
He seemed to want to ask something but stayed quiet.

Masha took off her wet sweater, tossed it onto a chair, and turned to Yegor:
«This is my brother, Grisha.»
The little boy shifted his gaze between his sister and the unfamiliar boy.

Masha added, «He doesn’t go to kindergarten because… well, there’s no one to take him. Our grandma lives with us, but she… she can’t get up.»
Yegor glanced into the room and saw an elderly woman lying on a worn-out sofa.
She seemed paralyzed, her gaze fixed on the ceiling, her head barely moving.

«Hello,» he said quietly, unsure if she could hear him.
The old woman weakly moved her lips.

Masha led him to a small kitchen.
There was no gas stove — only an old electric one, and the refrigerator looked ancient, probably long broken.
In the corner stood two or three plastic buckets, probably for water, since there was no plumbing left in the house.

«Sorry, it’s not great here… I don’t usually bring strangers home,» Masha said shyly.

Yegor said nothing, feeling a heavy weight in his chest.
It became clear: this girl lived on the brink of survival.
Her parents were gone or had long abandoned them, her grandmother was bedridden, and her little brother too young to fend for himself.

And she, wearing worn slippers, trudged to school every day, scared to utter a word.

He looked at her and simply asked:
«Do you have anything dry to change into?»

Masha lowered her eyes. «Yes, there’s something wrong with the room. I’ve gotten used to it… It’s nothing serious, just some things got wet.» But Yegor, though only thirteen years old, suddenly felt a strong urge to help. He knew there wasn’t much he could do, but leaving everything as it was felt like betraying the courage he’d shown by the pond. He asked, «Can I come by tomorrow? If you don’t mind. I could bring some food. My mom often makes extra soup — maybe it could help you and your brother?»

The girl turned pale and looked up. «But we’re not begging for charity, we can manage ourselves…»
«It’s not charity,» Yegor interrupted. «It’s just a friendly gesture. We’re friends now… right?»

She shrugged uncertainly but didn’t argue. Deep down, she probably understood that surviving was hard. Every week, she received a small disability allowance for her grandmother, but it barely covered the basics — there was no way to afford new shoes or warm clothes. So there she stood, in wet socks, trying to hide her joy that someone cared enough to offer help.
Yegor stayed a bit longer, chatting with Grisha. The little boy was shy but smiled when he heard about school recess and the cafeteria. Their grandmother lay coughing weakly in the other room. Masha went to her, adjusted her pillow, moistened her lips with a sponge, and then returned to the kitchen.

When Yegor finally left, Masha walked him to the door, her eyes full of gratitude. «Thank you again. For saving me… and everything else.»
Yegor nodded. «Alright, see you tomorrow.»

At home, Yegor was immediately scolded by his mother for his wet clothes.
«Did you fall into the pond? What were you thinking? You could have caught a cold!»
At first, he stayed silent, but then he spilled everything — about the new girl everyone bullied, how she nearly drowned, and about her life in a half-ruined house with her sick grandmother and little brother. As he talked, tears threatened to fall; the injustice of it all was overwhelming.

His mother, a kind-hearted woman, calmed down quickly and asked, «She’s just a child — why isn’t anyone helping? Where are her parents?»
«They’re gone,» he muttered.
«What happened? Did they abandon her?»
«I don’t know. She doesn’t talk about it. But tomorrow, I want to bring them lunch — is that okay?»
His mother stroked his hair and sighed. «You’re a good boy… Of course, it’s okay. We should think of more ways to help — maybe some clothes or shoes…»
Yegor nodded. «As long as she accepts it. She’s proud.»

The next day after school, Yegor arrived at Masha’s house carrying a pot of soup wrapped in a towel to keep it warm.
Masha looked like she couldn’t believe he had really come. But she let him in and led him to the kitchen, blushing slightly as she apologized for the lack of proper dishes — only some old bowls and spoons.
Yegor ladled out the hot soup, and Grisha eagerly dug in, probably unused to anything warm besides the thin porridge Masha cooked with water.
Yegor’s mother had also sent bread, and they shared it.
Masha ate a few spoonfuls and said she’d save some for her grandmother, heating it up and feeding her from a spoon.
It was amazing to see how, at such a young age, her face carried such a mature expression when she cared for her grandmother.

Soon, visiting them became a routine for Yegor.
He brought whatever his mom cooked — porridge, soup, meat patties.
Though they weren’t a wealthy family, they could share a little.
A bond began forming between Yegor, Masha, and Grisha.
Masha even started smiling when she saw him.
Grisha would shout, «Yegor’s here!» and the grandmother would sometimes cough softly as if acknowledging the visitors.
Though the house was still filled with sadness, it gradually became lighter.

Meanwhile, rumors started at school.
People noticed Yegor carrying bags for Masha after classes.
They teased him: «Fell for the poor girl, huh?»
He brushed them off: «You’re crazy. She’s just in trouble. And you’re mocking her?»

Two girls from another class overheard and were touched by the story.
«Maybe we can help too?»
It turned out that one act of kindness could spark many more.
The girls asked Yegor what Masha needed.
She was embarrassed to accept help, but Yegor gently explained — her shoes were worn out, and she didn’t have a proper jacket, and spring rains were coming.
One girl had an extra windbreaker and offered it.
Yegor carefully asked Masha if she would accept it «as support.»
She hesitated but eventually agreed, saying it was easier to accept used things.

Slowly, the attitude of the class changed.
People realized that Masha wasn’t «strange» — she simply lived in terrible conditions.
The handmade backpack she carried wasn’t a fashion statement; it was probably all they had left.
Teachers also noticed the change and asked if she needed supplies.
The principal filed a request to social services to investigate her family situation.
Though bureaucracy was slow, the efforts didn’t stop.

Masha started staying after school, chatting with classmates instead of fleeing immediately.
Sometimes they invited her to play ball.
Even the worst students asked her for help with homework — she was a strong student despite her hardships.

One day, some girls invited her to the stationery store.
Masha declined at first, not wanting to spend money, but they reassured her: «We’ll just window-shop.»
For the first time, Masha felt part of a group, not an outcast.

She remembered the old taunts and how ashamed she’d once felt, but realized people could change.
Someone even secretly stitched the straps of her worn-out backpack to keep it from breaking.
Others brought her new notebooks because her old ones were falling apart.

As spring blossomed, so did hope in Masha’s heart.
She began trusting others, even laughing freely without hiding behind her hand.

Yegor remained her closest friend.
When someone teased her about her shoes, offering sneakers, Masha would gently refuse.
She seemed to treasure those old slippers — they reminded her of the day she found a true friend.
«Maybe someday,» she would say with a smile.

About a month after the pond incident, although life at home was still hard — the grandmother bedridden, little Grisha still without daycare — Masha herself had changed.
She wasn’t broken anymore.
She believed that the world wasn’t so terrible and that friends could make even the darkest days better.

Yegor kept bringing food, and other classmates helped in small ways too.
Some offered fruit, others cookies.
When she asked, «Why so much help?» they answered, «Because you’re a good person, and it’s easier together.»

The literature teacher praised the class for their compassion — something she hadn’t seen in years.

Still, the question of Masha’s parents lingered.
Rumors said her father had died in an accident and her mother left for work abroad but disappeared.
Masha rarely spoke about it, only pointing bitterly at the blank line in her documents where a parent’s contact should be.

Sometimes sadness flickered in her eyes.
Maybe her mother couldn’t come back.
Everyone understood that their help didn’t fix everything — but it made daily life a little easier.

Yegor and his mom offered to help Masha get official support.
But she was scared: scared that they would take Grisha away or put her grandmother in a home.

 

While the school principal pushed for official action, the children did what they could: food, clothes, support.

Neighbors noticed the difference.
The once-silent house was now visited by cheerful schoolchildren.

Masha learned to say, «Hi, thanks, come on in,» without fear.

The old woman, bedridden, sometimes smiled when she heard the laughter.
Grisha would proudly tell everyone about Yegor’s cookies.

Even the ducks at the pond seemed happier when Masha returned there — not alone this time, but with her classmates.

She fed the ducks, smiled, and realized she wasn’t alone anymore.
Her classmates surrounded her, laughing and joking.
No one made cruel pranks anymore.
Her worn slippers — a symbol of her past struggles — she still kept carefully, though she now wore donated sneakers.

When school ended and summer arrived, Masha worried she’d be forgotten.
But her classmates kept visiting, helping fix up her house, bringing groceries, inviting her to hang out.

Masha understood something important:
Even if life remained hard, she wasn’t alone.
One small act of kindness — like Yegor reaching out — had changed everything.

And in her room, tucked under a chair, the old slippers remained — a reminder that light can always break through, if someone dares to reach out a hand.