All Amazing Babies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He waved a hand and left, slamming the door.

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

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

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

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

The smile vanished from her face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And she hung up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alyona nodded, going cold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Alyona…”

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

Sergey was standing in front of her.

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

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

 

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

He fell silent, not knowing how to continue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alyona gave a bitter smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Goodbye,” she said softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Anna, let’s talk,” he texted her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Seryoga… it’s me, Igor.”

Silence on the line stretched into an eternity.

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

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

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

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

Silence again, but a different kind now—thoughtful.

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

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

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

Igor gripped the phone until his knuckles whitened.

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

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

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

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

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

He turned to his wife.

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

base and cruel.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She walked up to him slowly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

Dmitry froze, looking at her.

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

Anna blushed and looked away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anna froze, staring at him in shock.

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

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

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

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

— “I’ll ask,” he smiled, gently taking her hand. “I most certainly will.”

Later he admitted how hard it had been all that time—being near her, so fragile, so defenseless, and so desired, and being afraid even to touch her, afraid to start this conversation, so as not to frighten away her fragile trust.

…Three years passed. Viktor was trudging back into the village, raising dust on the road he knew by heart. City life with his young Lyubka had turned out nothing like he’d imagined. Constant demands, scenes, complaints about money—it all became a real prison. He ran from there the way he once ran from Anna, and now he was coming home. He was sure that Anya, worn down by loneliness and illness, would be thrilled to see him. She had always loved him and forgiven everything.

He reached his house and stopped in surprise. The place had been neatly repainted, and where the old, crooked picket fence had stood, there was a new, expensive metal one. “Well, I’ll be,” Viktor snorted. “Looks like they pay invalids well these days.”

He had just reached for the latch when the gate creaked open. A sturdy, unfamiliar man rolled a baby carriage out into the lane with businesslike ease. Behind him came Anna, adjusting a pretty summer dress. She was beautiful, healthy, happy. She was saying something cheerful to the man and laughing.

Viktor stood as if struck by lightning. He couldn’t believe his eyes. This wasn’t his cowed, sick Anya but a confident, blooming woman.

— “Anya?” he stammered, stunned.

 

Anna turned, and the smile slowly faded from her face. She looked at him calmly, without hatred, as if he were nothing.

— “Who… are you?” Viktor croaked, shifting his gaze to the man. “And whose child is that?”
Child care services

Dmitry stopped and looked at Viktor evenly.

— “I’m her husband,” he said in a level voice. “And you, I take it, are the ex. My advice—don’t come around here anymore. For everyone’s sake.”

From the neighboring yard, the same inquisitive Claudia peeked out. Seeing the bewildered Viktor, she decided to finish him off.

— “What’s the matter, Vitka, didn’t expect this?” she called out with a sneer. “That’s Anya’s new husband, Dmitry. He got her back on her feet. But you be careful with him—he’s a killer, fresh out of prison!”

Viktor felt his knees tremble. A killer. A con. He pictured what this solid man could do to him for one sideways word about Anna. Suddenly life with perpetually dissatisfied Lyubka didn’t seem so bad. Spinning on his heel, he headed at a brisk, almost panicked pace toward the bus stop, to leave for good the place where he had lost everything.

Vadim didn’t come into the apartment alone. Behind his broad back, as if hiding and peeking out at the same time, stood a young girl.

Her hand clenched the strap of an unnaturally bright bag, and her eyes drank in the details of our entryway with greedy curiosity — the massive mirror in an oak frame, the onyx key holder, my watercolor on the wall.

“Katya, meet…” my husband’s voice was even, almost businesslike, as if he were introducing me to a new employee or a distant relative who’d come to apply to a university. “This is Veronika.”

I slowly tore my gaze from his face, which showed not a trace of embarrassment, and looked at her. Pretty, yes.

Young, with a fresh blush and that spark of defiance in her eyes that people have when they’re certain of their own irresistibility.

“She’s going to live with us now,” Vadim went on, casually kicking off his shoes. “I’ve thought about it for a long time and decided this will be simpler and, you know, even more honest for everyone. We’ll live as three.”

He waited for an explosion. He anticipated it. Tears, shouting, accusations, smashed dishes — the whole arsenal he so despised in other women and had vainly expected from me for all ten years of our marriage. He didn’t get it this time either.

I smiled. A calm, light, almost social smile, and for the first time in this conversation the corner of Vadim’s mouth twitched. He’d expected anything but that.

“All right,” I said simply.

He froze mid-sentence. The girl’s eyebrows shot up in surprise; her confidence faltered for a moment.

“Only I have one condition,” I shifted my gaze to Veronika, completely ignoring my husband, who suddenly became an unnecessary detail in the interior. “And it concerns only you. Let’s go to the kitchen and discuss it over tea.”

I turned and went first, feeling the bewildered silence hanging in the hallway behind me. A second later I heard uncertain footsteps following.

 

In the kitchen I put the kettle on and sat at the table, gesturing for Veronika to take the chair opposite. She sat down cautiously, clutching her screaming-pink bag to herself like a life buoy.

“So, Veronika,” I began, looking her straight in the eyes. “Do you really want to live here? In this home, with this man?”

She nodded nervously, pressing her lips together.

“Excellent. I have no objection. You can use everything you see. But in return, you take on all of my duties in this house.”

Veronika frowned in confusion; her pretty little face showed puzzlement.

“Absolutely all of them,” I repeated, enunciating each word. “You’ll get up at six in the morning to make him a three-course breakfast, because he doesn’t eat porridge.

“You’ll make sure his shirts are ironed perfectly, without a single crease. You’ll make shopping lists, pay the utility bills, book his dentist appointments, and remember his mother’s birthday.

“All the things I’ve done for the past ten years. And I”—I paused for effect—“I will simply rest.”

She glanced around at the impeccable cleanliness of the kitchen, the expensive Italian appliances, the view of the park from the huge window.

A glint of excitement flashed in her eyes. She saw only the pretty wrapper, with no idea of the daily labor behind all that gloss.

“I… I agree,” she exhaled, clearly picturing herself as the full-fledged mistress of this little paradise.

“Then we have a deal,” I smiled again. “Welcome to the family, Veronika.”

The first act of this theater of the absurd began that very evening. I settled into the living room with a book I hadn’t managed to finish for half a year. For the first time in a long while, I didn’t listen for the timer on the oven.

From the kitchen came the sounds of vigorous but chaotic activity. The clatter of dishes, sizzling, and the sharp smell of burning oil that slowly but surely seeped into the living room, pushing out the usual delicate sandalwood scent from my incense sticks.

Vadim walked into the living room, wrinkling his nose in displeasure. He looked at me, then at the closed kitchen door.

“Couldn’t you help her?” he asked in a tone that brooked no argument. “She doesn’t seem to be managing. She’s already burned two frying pans.”

“That’s out of the question,” I replied without lifting my eyes from the page. “Veronika and I have a verbal agreement. And you, dear, were its silent witness and guarantor. You wanted honesty. Here it is.”

He started to protest, but Veronika appeared in the doorway, flushed and disheveled.

“Dinner is ready!”

Calling it dinner would’ve been generous. Chicken burned on the outside and raw inside sat next to slimy overcooked pasta. Vadim poked at his plate with disgust and pushed it away.

“Thanks, I’m not hungry,” he tossed, getting up from the table.

Veronika pouted in offense. I calmly ate the salad I had sensibly prepared for myself earlier that day.

The following weeks turned into a slow, methodical collapse of Vadim’s familiar, comfortable world.

His perfectly ironed shirts began appearing in the closet wrinkled, because Veronika didn’t know how to use the steamer.

The morning coffee was either too bitter or too weak. The house filled with a new smell — Veronika’s cloyingly sweet perfume mixing with the aromas of her failed culinary experiments. That thick, intrusive scent followed Vadim everywhere.

One evening he snapped. I was sitting on the balcony with my laptop when he came up to me. Veronika was loudly discussing the latest gossip with a friend on the phone in the bedroom.

“Katya, this is unbearable,” he began, lowering his voice to a hiss. “I come home and it’s a mess. The food is disgusting. She can’t do anything! She doesn’t even know how to book us a table at the Metropol!”

“You chose her,” I observed calmly, not looking up from the screen. “You brought her into this home. You said this is how we would live.”

“That’s not what I meant!” he raised his voice. “I thought you would… be like before. And she… you know, for the soul.”

“For the soul you have to create the right conditions,” I countered, snapping my laptop shut. “You destroyed the old ones and failed to build new ones. Veronika is doing her part of the deal as best she can.”

“What deal, for God’s sake?!” he exploded. “This is my house! I want it clean here and smelling like decent food!”

“Then talk to the mistress of the house,” I nodded toward the bedroom, where shrill laughter drifted out. “The one who’s now responsible for cleanliness and food. My powers, as you recall, have expired.”

I stood and left the room, leaving him alone on the balcony. He watched me go with a look as if he was seeing the real me for the first time. And he categorically didn’t like this new image.

The point of no return was my study. A small room I had fought for many years ago.

There stood my old drafting table, and on the shelves were folders with sketches and projects — everything that remained of my life before Vadim, of my career as an architect.

It was my sanctuary, the place where I was still myself.

 

I walked in on a Saturday morning and froze. On the floor stood an open box with Veronika’s things, and on my table, right on top of a spread-out design for a country house I had once drawn for my parents, was an ugly blot of bright pink nail polish.

Several folders with my best work had been shoved aside carelessly, and sketches had spilled out of one.

“Oh,” came Veronika’s voice behind me. “I just wanted to make space for my things. And there’s so much old paper here. Vadim said you don’t need it anymore.”

She said it simply, without malice. Like a child breaking something intricate without understanding its value.

I stayed silent. I looked at the pink stain spreading across the drafting paper, soaking into lines and calculations. In that moment I felt nothing. No anger, no hurt. Only a deafening emptiness, at the bottom of which something cold and hard was forming, like steel.

Vadim came in. He saw my face, looked at the table.

“Katya, come on now,” he began in his usual conciliatory tone. “Veronika didn’t do it on purpose. They’re just old drawings; you haven’t touched them in a hundred years.”

And that was the last straw. Not the pink polish. His words. That light, careless belittling of what was my essence, my passion, my life. He hadn’t just allowed another woman to intrude into my home. He’d allowed her to desecrate my soul.

The smile that had irritated him so much these past weeks vanished. I slowly turned to him.

“These aren’t just drawings, Vadim. They’re the only thing I have left of who I used to be. And you knew that.”

“Oh, stop it, Katya…”

“Now to business,” my voice was calm, but there wasn’t a drop of warmth in that calm.
“This apartment was bought during the marriage, but the down payment — seventy percent of its cost — was made with money I inherited from my parents. I have all the documents.”

The self-assurance on his face gave way to bewilderment. He had always handled our finances, but I hadn’t let him into these matters.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about your visit having dragged on too long. I’m filing for divorce and for division of property. And the court, I assure you, will take the origin of the money into account. So I’m giving you a week to find a new place and move out.”

Veronika gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. Vadim stared at me, not believing his ears.

“You can’t!” he blurted out. “This is my home too!”

“Soon it won’t be,” I corrected. “And this”—I swept my gaze around the room—“is my territory. Your time on it has expired. The door is right there.”

Over the next few days, Vadim tried his entire arsenal of manipulations. There were threats, attempts to make me feel guilty, and memories of “our best years.” But he was appealing to a ghost. The Katya who feared conflict no longer existed.

Veronika, realizing the fairy tale was over and she had been nothing but a pawn in someone else’s game, quickly wilted. She silently packed her things, throwing Vadim angry, disappointed looks. She had lost, never understanding that true value belongs not only to things but also to people.

On the last evening he made a final attempt.

“Fine. She’ll leave,” he said when Veronika went to the store. “I understand everything now. I was wrong. Let’s start over. Just you and me.”

“Start over, Vadim?” I let out a bitter laugh. “‘Start over’ was when you respected my work. ‘Start over’ was when my study was mine. You yourself burned every bridge that led back to that ‘start.’”

He realized he’d lost. Completely and irrevocably. Their departure was pitiful and frantic.

When the door closed behind them, I walked through the apartment. I opened all the windows, letting in the fresh autumn air.

Then I went back to my study, took solvent, and carefully began removing the ugly pink stain from the drawing. It came off slowly, leaving a pale, barely visible trace on the paper, like a scar.

I took a freshly sharpened pencil and drew a new, confident line. A completely different one.

Two months later

A phone call caught me at work. I was standing at the drafting table, which now occupied the center of the study.

Creative disorder reigned around me: sketches, material samples, models. The smell of freshly brewed coffee mixed with the scent of paper and wood.

It was Oleg, a mutual acquaintance of mine and Vadim’s.

“Katya, I just ran into Vadim by chance… He asked me to tell you that… well, he’s sorry.”

I kept silent, letting him finish.

“He and that… Veronika… it didn’t work out. They split up after three weeks. She thought he’d settle her in a golden palace, but he rented a studio on the outskirts. The fights started, reproaches… Turned out that without your support his business isn’t all that stable. And she’s not the kind to put up with hardship.”

“Makes sense,” I said calmly.

“He’s alone now. Looks, honestly, not great. I think he realizes what he lost. He asked if he has any chance at all.”

I looked at the large sheet of drafting paper in front of me. On it, a design for an eco-hotel in the mountains was coming to life — bold, modern, full of light and air.

The very project that began with one new line drawn over an old scar.

“You know, Oleg,” I said. “You can’t burn down a house yourself and then complain it’s cold in it. Tell him I wish him luck. But I’m already building my life according to a new plan.”

I hung up. No gloating, no pity. Just a sense of completion. A period at the end of a long sentence.

I picked up my pencil. The graphite slid easily over the paper, extending the line of a panoramic window that looked out over the mountains.

 

Drawn mountains. But I could already feel their real, fresh air.

And a couple of years later I truly found my person; we built a wonderful family and wonderful children — and this time, I didn’t make the wrong choice.

 When I got married at thirty, I didn’t have a penny to my name. No, I wasn’t poor—I just had no savings, no inheritance, no financial cushion. My wife, Anna, came from the same kind of family, where every kopek was accounted for. Her only close relative was her father, a quiet, taciturn man in his sixties living on a modest pension.

Soon after our wedding he moved in with us. I didn’t see anything wrong with that. He was Anna’s father, and I respected her wish to take care of him. What I couldn’t possibly foresee was that he would stay with us for many, many years.

Two decades. He lived under our roof for twenty years.

In all that time, not once did he offer to help pay the electric or water bills, buy groceries, or cover his medicine. He never volunteered to watch the kids, never cooked dinner, never cleaned up after himself, and he rarely joined in conversation. Some of our acquaintances jokingly called him “the neighborhood’s chief homebody.”

I tried to remain patient, but sometimes the irritation rose right to my throat. I’d come home after a hard day, open a nearly empty fridge, and see him sitting in the living room in his armchair, calmly sipping tea as if that were the natural order of things. I remember once muttering through my teeth, “Must be nice—living without paying for anything…” But I never said it out loud where he could hear.

Every time anger started to boil in me, I stopped myself. He’s old. He’s my wife’s father. If not us, who would look after him? And so, over and over, I swallowed my resentment and carried on.

That’s how our days flowed into years. Our children grew up. We scraped by—sometimes living from one paycheck to the next—but we managed. And he stayed the same: silent, motionless, like part of the furniture, a familiar element of the home’s scenery.

Then, one morning, it was all over. As usual, Anna made his breakfast—a bowl of oatmeal. When she went to call him, she found him sitting still, his hands resting calmly on his knees. He had passed away quietly in his sleep.

The funeral was very modest. Since he had no other relatives, all the arrangements and expenses fell on our shoulders. I didn’t complain: to me it was the last duty I owed. After all, he had lived with us for twenty years, whether I liked it or not.

Three days later, as life was slowly settling back into its usual rhythm, the doorbell rang. On the threshold stood an elderly man in a formal suit, a leather briefcase in his hand.
“Are you Mr. Artyom Semyonov?” he asked politely.
I nodded, feeling a flicker of unease.
He entered and set his briefcase on the coffee table in the living room.

 Chapter 1

The stranger introduced himself: Sergei Petrovich, an attorney. His face was impassive, but there was a certain solemn gravity in his eyes.

“Your father-in-law, Ivan Grigoryevich Belov, left a will,” he said clearly. “In this document, you and your wife are named as the sole heirs.”

My mind refused to process what I’d heard.
“Heirs?” I repeated, bewildered. “Heirs to what? He had nothing but his pension and an old suitcase with war medals.”

Sergei Petrovich allowed himself a faint, barely noticeable smile.
“That’s just it, Artyom. Your father-in-law left you a house. And funds in a bank account. The amount totals seven hundred and twenty thousand dollars.”

The air seemed to thicken around us. I looked at Anna—she had gone as pale as a sheet.
“This… must be a mistake,” she whispered. “Papa? Seven hundred thousand? That can’t be.”

The lawyer gently but firmly shook his head and laid a certified copy of the will before us. Everything was official: signatures, seals, the date—the document had been drawn up two months before his passing.

Chapter 2

We sat in complete silence, unable to say a word. Scenes from the past flashed before my eyes—twenty years spent side by side with a man I had thought of as a quiet, unassuming lodger. He rarely spoke, ate little, spent his days at the window with a cup of tea and old newspapers. Sometimes he dozed. Sometimes he would slowly write something in a thick notebook.

But an estate? Savings? It seemed utterly unreal.
“Excuse me,” I finally managed, trying to collect myself. “Are you absolutely sure there’s no mix-up? Maybe he… sold something before he died? Or…”

Sergei Petrovich delicately cut off my wandering guesses.
“All the documents have been thoroughly verified. The funds were in an account opened in his name twenty-five years ago. The heirs named are you and Anna.”

He handed us a heavy envelope. Inside was a key and a short note written in an unsteady, trembling hand:

“Artyom, forgive the trouble. Everything I had now belongs to you. Don’t judge me harshly. You can’t imagine what I had to go through to save this.”

Anna began to cry softly. I sat there, clutching the slip of paper, as a hot, heavy wave of shame washed over me.

 

Chapter 3

The next day we went to the address listed in the will. It was a small, time-blackened wooden house on the very edge of the city, looking long abandoned. The paint on the shutters had peeled; the yard was overgrown with weeds.

The key from the envelope fit the lock perfectly. Inside, it smelled of dust, old paper, and time.

Right on the table stood a metal box. Inside, neatly arranged, were stacks of notebooks, cracked photographs from the war years, several letters, and… an old, worn diary.

With trembling hands, Anna opened to the first page.
“1944. France. If I’m destined to return alive, I must repay them this debt…”

We read, holding our breath.

It turned out that during the war Ivan Grigoryevich had saved the life of a young French businessman—the son of the owner of a small jewelry workshop. In gratitude, the man registered a share of the family business in Ivan’s name. After the war, Ivan never returned to France, but that little workshop eventually grew into a successful chain of stores. And his share—ten percent—had continued to yield income all those years. The money quietly accumulated in an account no one knew about.

Chapter 4

We sat in his old house until late evening. Every object breathed the history of a life lived in the shadows—the worn armchair by the window, the stack of letters with French stamps, a small box with a “For Courage” medal.

“Why didn’t he tell us anything?” Anna asked softly, almost in a whisper. “Why did he live so modestly, almost in need, if he had those means?”

I thought for a moment. And then it struck me. He didn’t want to live for himself. He lived for her. So that one day she would have the security he himself had never known.

I remembered how he would silently hand me a cup of tea when I was especially anxious about the bills. How sometimes, passing by, he would simply lay his hand on my shoulder at a hard moment. No extra words. He was just there.

And the shame surged again, searing and merciless.

Chapter 5

In one of the notebooks we found an envelope marked: “To be opened only after my death.”

Inside was a letter addressed to both of us.

“Artyom, Anna,
I know you were often irritated with me. I felt it, even though you tried not to show it.
Forgive me.
I didn’t tell you about the money because I didn’t want it to change anything between us. I saw how honestly you live, how hard you work. You are the kind of people I can rely on.
This money is not a reward. It is protection.
Artyom, you taught me to forgive myself. You never turned me out, even when I felt I’d become a burden.
And you, Anna—you were the light of my life all these years.
I wasn’t the best father, but I hope I managed to become part of your home.
With love,
Ivan.”

Chapter 6

We came home completely different people. The house where his quiet footsteps had sounded for twenty years now felt empty, and yet it was filled with a new, profound meaning.

Anna completed all the inheritance paperwork, and a month later the very sum appeared in our joint account.

I assumed she would immediately want to buy something expensive—a new car, a larger apartment. But Anna looked at me and said:
“We’ll create a fund. A fund in my father’s name. To help veterans who have no family left. Let it make life a little easier for someone.”

I couldn’t help smiling.
“He would be proud of you.”

Chapter 7

A week after the fund’s official opening, the bank called.
“Mr. Semyonov,” the manager said politely, “while processing the documents we discovered another safe-deposit box registered to Ivan Grigoryevich. You may want to come in.”

In the box lay a small envelope and an old photograph: Ivan Grigoryevich in uniform, embracing a young woman holding a small child.

On the back was written: “Marie and little Jean. Paris, 1946.”
And in the letter—just a few lines:
“If fate has arranged for you to read this, tell them I never forgot them. That I was grateful for every day I had the chance simply to breathe.”

At the bottom an address for a notary office in France was added.

Anna looked at me, a silent question in her eyes.
“Do you think… he had a family there?”
I only shrugged.
“Maybe. Or maybe they were the ones whose lives he once saved. But one thing is clear—he wanted us to know.”

Chapter 8

In the spring we went to Paris. The French notary confirmed: yes, Ivan Grigoryevich Belov was indeed an owner of a share in the company “Maison Duret.” We were received in an old stone building where archives from the 1940s were still kept.

The senior manager, a silver-haired, elegant man named Jean Duret, turned out to be the very child from the photograph.

He couldn’t hold back tears when we told him who we were.
“Your father-in-law saved my father’s life,” he said, his voice trembling. “And he refused to take any money. He left only one note: ‘If your business ever prospers, help those who truly deserve it.’ And we did. All these years.”

He led us to his office and showed us a wall where an old black-and-white photograph of Ivan Grigoryevich hung with a simple, eloquent caption: “The man who gave us life.”

Chapter 9

On the way home I thought about how true greatness sometimes lies not in loud words or in deeds that everyone sees.

It lies in quiet, daily patience. In the readiness to live modestly and unnoticed so that one day other people’s lives might be better and brighter.

Anna and I began a new life. We opened a small shelter for elderly people left alone. A modest plaque hung on the door: “Ivan’s Home.”

Every time I pass by, I catch myself thinking that somewhere, just beyond our understanding, he is sitting in his armchair with a cup of tea, looking out the window. Calm. Having finally found his peace.

Epilogue

Five years have passed. Our fund has helped many people. Not long ago one of our beneficiaries, a gray-haired veteran, said to me: “Your father-in-law was a very wise man. He understood that a person doesn’t live to hoard wealth, but to leave at least a little light behind.”

 

And that evening, for the first time in a long while, I set two cups of tea on the kitchen table.
One for me.
And one for him.

Sometimes the most precious gifts are given to us by those we considered the most unnoticeable.

And gratitude is not just a word. It is an entire life lived with the simple knowledge that you’ve already been given everything that truly matters.

Polina was trudging home from work reluctantly. The autumn wind tugged at the hem of her coat, and the leaden clouds seemed to press down on her shoulders. But it wasn’t the weather that weighed on the young woman. An unexpected guest had appeared at their home today.

In the afternoon, during an important meeting with a client, Andrey had called her:
“Polina, don’t be mad, but I picked Mom up from the station. She missed the grandkids. She’s come to stay for a couple of days.”
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Those words sent a chill through Polina. Her mother-in-law, Valentina Petrovna, was a real thorn in her side. In ten years of marriage, Polina had never managed to find common ground with her.

“Andrey, we agreed,” she said, keeping her irritation in check. “You were supposed to warn me in advance.”

“Sorry, darling. She called out of the blue and said she needed some test

s at the regional hospital. And she’d visit us too. I couldn’t refuse her.”

Polina sighed heavily. Of course he couldn’t. Andrey had always been too soft with his mother, despite all her antics.

“Fine, I’ll stay late at work. I have to finish the project by tomorrow.”
“Don’t worry, Mom will watch the kids. She brought them gifts, and I’ve got to go to the client urgently—there’s a software issue.”

So Polina put off going home as long as she could. Ahead of her lay the unbearable prospect of spending the evening with the woman who had once thrown her and little Kirill out into the rain, blaming her for every sin under the sun.

Her phone vibrated in her coat pocket. A message from Andrey:
“Still with the client. I’ll be late. How are you?”

Polina sighed and typed back:
“Almost at the house. I’ll manage.”

Memories of the first years of their marriage flashed through her mind. Back then they had lived in her mother-in-law’s house—big, but as cold as its mistress’s heart.

Six years earlier.
Young Polina was at the stove, stirring soup. Somewhere upstairs, little Kirill—barely five months old—was crying. She wiped her hands on her apron, about to go up to her son, when Valentina Petrovna walked into the kitchen.

“Don’t you hear the child crying?” the mother-in-law snapped.
“I was just going to him,” Polina answered calmly.
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“You’re always ‘just going,’” Valentina snorted. “And nothing ever gets done. My Andryusha slept like an angel at his age. Must be your genes showing.”

Polina bit her lip. She heard remarks like that almost every day.

Valentina peered into the pot.
“And what is this swill? Andrey doesn’t eat that.”
“It’s his favorite soup,” Polina objected. “He asked me to make it.”

“Nonsense. I’m his mother. I know better what he likes!”

Valentina grabbed the pot and poured its contents into the sink. Tears sprang to Polina’s eyes.
“Why did you do that? I spent two hours cooking!”
“Don’t be dramatic. Go to the baby, and I’ll make a proper dinner for my son myself.”

When Andrey came home that evening, his mother met him in the hall:
“Son, can you believe it—your wife did nothing all day! The baby cried and she didn’t even go to him. Good thing I was here.”

Andrey looked at his mother wearily.
“Mom, I’m sure Polina takes care of Kirill.”

“Of course you defend her!” Valentina threw up her hands. “She’s wrapped you around her finger and you’re happy about it. And I’m nothing to you now!”

She let out a theatrical sob and went to her room. Andrey looked at his wife apologetically.
“Sorry, she’s just worried…”

“Andrey, she pours out the food I cook,” Polina said quietly. “She tells Kirill I’m a bad mother. It’s unbearable.”

“Just hold on a little longer,” he pleaded. “We’ll move out soon, I promise.”

But the weeks turned into months, and things only got worse.

A passing car yanked her out of her reverie. Polina came to and quickened her pace. She was almost home.

Without noticing how she’d reached the entrance, she darted into the elevator and pressed her forehead to the cold wall.
“Everything will be fine,” she whispered. “Just a couple of days…”

When the elevator doors opened, Polina heard something that froze her blood—desperate child’s crying. It was Sveta’s voice.

She ran to the apartment. Her hands shook as she tried to fit the key. At last the door gave way.

What she saw made her go numb.

In the living room stood Valentina Petrovna. In her hand—a belt, which she was using to lash little Sveta. The girl, cowering, was sobbing in the corner. Kirill was trying to shield his sister, tears streaming down his face.

“I’ll teach you not to touch Grandma’s things!” the mother-in-law shouted, raising her hand for another strike.

Polina felt her face flush hot.
“What are you doing?!” she screamed, rushing to the children.

Valentina turned, unashamed:
“Oh, you finally showed up! Your daughter spilled tea on my new handbag—an expensive one, mind you!—and then she talked back!”

Polina hugged her sobbing children.
“You’re beating my child?! Are you out of your mind?!”

“Don’t tell me how to handle kids!” she snapped. “I raised my son alone! I could make a proper person out of you too if you’d listen!”

Looking over her daughter, Polina saw red stripes from the belt. Something snapped inside her.

She gently set the children aside and straightened up.
“Get out of my house.”

 

Valentina stared in genuine surprise:
“I’m not going anywhere! I came to see my son and to raise my grandkids!”

“Mom,” Kirill said in a trembling voice, “Grandma hit Sveta because she accidentally spilled tea. And then Sveta said it was bad to hit children, and Grandma got even angrier…”

“Silence!” Valentina barked at him, but Polina stepped between them.

“Don’t you dare yell at my son! You hit my daughter. You would have hit him too if he hadn’t jumped away in time!”

At that moment the front door opened. Andrey walked in.
“What’s going on here? Why are the children crying?”

Valentina’s expression changed instantly. Her eyes filled with tears.
“Sonny, Polina shouted at me! I merely scolded Sveta, and she caused a scene!”

Andrey’s gaze shifted to the belt in her hand.
“Mom, what’s that?”

“I just took it out of your old briefcase… I wanted to polish the buckle…”

“Dad!” Sveta sobbed. “Grandma hit me with that belt because I spilled tea by accident!”

Andrey went to his daughter and stroked her back.
“Show me where it hurts, sweetheart…”

Seeing the marks on the child’s legs, he slowly straightened. His usually kind eyes turned hard.
“Mom, you’re beating my children?”
Child care services

He went to the cabinet, opened it—inside was a security camera.
“We have a system set up to keep an eye on the kids when we’re out. I just watched the recording.”

Valentina turned pale.
“Andryusha, come on now! You know how much I love my grandkids! It was just a little disciplinary action… In our day everyone was raised like that—and we turned out fine!”

“In our day,” he repeated in an icy tone, “children shouldn’t be afraid of their grandmothers. In our day adults learn to talk to children, not beat them.”

“That’s what this modern parenting leads to! Kids walk all over you! And you, Andrey, are under your wife’s thumb! I came to help you, I’ll have you know! I have surgery in a week—I thought maybe you’d stay with me…”

“What surgery?” he frowned.

“A serious one,” she sighed meaningfully. “The doctors say something has to be removed…”
“What exactly, Mom?”
“It’s not important! What matters is I need support! I thought… maybe you could move in with me for a while? The house is big… And Polina can stay here if she wants.”
Wedding jewelry

Andrey shook his head:
“Mom, is that why you came? To try again to break up my family?”

The doorbell rang. In stepped a gray-haired man with kind eyes—Nikolai Stepanovich, Polina’s father.

“Hello,” he said, looking around. “I thought I’d check on the grandkids… What’s going on here?”

The children ran to their grandpa.
“Grandpa! Grandma Valya hit me with a belt!” Sveta sobbed.

“Don’t interfere!” Valentina snapped. “This is our family matter!”
Family games

“When someone hurts my grandchildren,” Nikolai Stepanovich said firmly, “it’s my matter too.”

He suggested everyone sit down.
“Let’s talk like adults. Valentina Petrovna, please take a seat.”

Something in his tone made the woman obey.

“You know,” he began, “when my Polina got married, I wasn’t thrilled either. I thought Andrey was too much of a city boy for our village girl… But I gave them a chance and saw how much they love each other.”
Family games

He turned to the mother-in-law:
“And you’re trying to control your son’s life, to keep him to yourself—and you’re only pushing him away. And now you’re turning the grandkids against you.”

“What do you know?!” she flared. “I raised my son alone! My husband died early—everything fell on my shoulders!”

 

“And you’re afraid of ending up alone,” he said gently. “That’s why you made up the surgery story…”

Valentina’s shoulders sagged.
“Just a small examination… But I really am scared…”

“Mom,” Andrey came over. “If you need help, you could have just asked. Why lie? Why try to destroy what’s dear to me?”

“I didn’t want to…” she faltered. “It’s just… when I see you happy without me, it feels like you don’t need me anymore…”

“You’re my mother,” he said firmly. “Of course I need you. But not like this—angry, trying to run my life. I need you as my mom, who respects my choice and loves my children.”
Wedding jewelry

“I don’t know how to be otherwise…” she whispered.

“Try,” suggested Nikolai Stepanovich. “Start by apologizing to the grandkids. Children know how to forgive when they see sincerity.”

With difficulty, Valentina lifted her eyes:
“Forgive your grandma… I… I was wrong.”

Unexpectedly, Sveta nodded:
“Okay… but don’t do it again. It hurts.”

“I won’t,” she promised.

Nikolai Stepanovich took a bottle of homemade compote out of his bag.
“Now let’s all have dinner together. I’ve got an apple pie in the car—baked it just for the grandkids.”

Later, when everyone gathered at the table, the atmosphere was still tense, but no longer hostile. Valentina silently watched Polina gently slice the pie, and Andrey joke with the children.

After dinner, Nikolai Stepanovich suggested:
“Valentina Petrovna, I think it’s best if you come with me tonight. I’ve got plenty of space at my place. Until things settle, there’s no need to rush it.”

She agreed, unexpectedly.

As they were leaving, Sveta tugged her grandmother’s sleeve:
“Will you really not fight anymore?”
“Really.”
“Then… will you come to my performance? I’m going to be a snowflake in kindergarten…”

Something flickered in Valentina’s eyes.
“Thank you… If your parents allow it, I’d like to come.”

A month passed. The first winter frosts bound the ground.

Today was an important meeting—the first since the incident. At Nikolai Stepanovich’s suggestion, they gathered at his house. Valentina had agreed to the conditions: no unsolicited advice, no manipulation, and no criticism of Polina.

“Are you ready?” Andrey put his arm around his wife’s shoulders.
“I don’t know… but I’ll try.”

When they arrived, the mother-in-law was already there. She wore a simple blue dress—not the showy outfit she used to use to outshine her daughter-in-law.
Best clothing retailers

Over lunch they spoke about neutral topics. Afterward, Nikolai took the children off to show them his coin collection, leaving the adults alone.

“I’ve been seeing a psychologist,” Valentina said suddenly. “On Nikolai Stepanovich’s advice… It’s helped me understand a lot.”

She looked at Polina:
“I behaved horribly all these years… And what I did to Sveta… there’s no excuse for it. I just… thought I was losing everything that mattered to me. And instead of figuring out why, I started destroying even more.”

For the first time Polina saw not an overbearing woman, but a lonely person afraid of being left entirely alone.

“Valentina Petrovna,” she said slowly. “I can’t say everything’s forgotten… but I’m willing to try to start over. For Andrey’s sake. For the children.”

“Thank you…” tears glimmered in the mother-in-law’s eyes. “That’s more than I deserve.”

Sveta ran into the room with a little box:
“Grandpa gave me a lucky coin! Want to see?”

Valentina carefully took it, as if afraid the girl might change her mind.
“It’s very pretty… Thank you for showing me.”

When the family was getting ready to leave, the mother-in-law approached Polina:
“You know… I always thought Andrey chose the wrong woman. But now I see—I was wrong. He chose a strong one. The kind I wanted to be myself.”
Family games

“You’re strong too,” Polina replied. “Just in a different way.”

That night, after putting the children to bed, Polina stood for a long time at the window, watching the snow fall. She didn’t know how their relationship with her mother-in-law would unfold from here. But for the first time in a long while, she felt hope.

And Valentina, returning home, took out an old photo album. In a yellowed picture, little Andrey smiled, sitting on her lap.

“I’ll try to be better…” she promised herself. “For my son. For my grandchildren. And… maybe even for myself.”

The road to reconciliation was only beginning. But the first—and hardest—step had been taken.

 At first, Genka thought his mother had simply gained weight. Though in a strange way. Her waist had suddenly rounded out, while the rest of her looked the same as before. It felt awkward to ask—what if his mom took offense? His father kept quiet, gazing at her with tenderness, and Genka pretended he hadn’t noticed anything either.

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But soon her belly was clearly growing. Once, walking past his parents’ room, Genka happened to see his father stroking his mother’s belly and whispering something to her sweetly. She was smiling, pleased. The scene made him uncomfortable, and he hurried away.

“Mom is expecting a baby,” Genka suddenly guessed. The thought didn’t so much surprise him as shock him. His mother, of course, was beautiful and looked better than many of his classmates’ moms, but a pregnancy at her age filled him with a kind of rejection. It was embarrassing even to think about it. Genka had long known where babies came from and suspected a lot more, but he couldn’t picture his parents doing that. After all, it was his mom and dad.

“Dad, is Mom expecting a baby?” he asked his father one day.
For some reason it was easier to talk to him about it.

“Yes. Mom’s dreaming of a daughter. It’s probably silly to ask which you’d prefer—a brother or a little sister.”

“Do people even give birth at that age?”

“At what age? Mom is only thirty-six, and I’m forty-one. Are you against it?”

“Did anyone ask me?” Genka shot back roughly.
His father looked at him carefully.

“I hope you’re grown-up enough to understand us. Mom’s wanted a daughter for a long time. When you were born, we were renting. Mom stayed home with you, I was the only one working, and the money barely covered the bare necessities. So we decided not to rush into a second child. Then Grandma died, and your grandparents gave us her apartment. Do you remember Grandma?”

 

Genka shrugged.
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“We did some remodeling and moved in. When you got older and Mom went back to work, money got easier, I bought our first car. We kept putting off having a daughter, telling ourselves there was time. And then it just wouldn’t happen. And now, when we’d already stopped hoping and waiting…”

“I hope it’s a girl, like Mom wants. Of course our mom is young, but she’s not a girl anymore. So at least try not to upset her, so she won’t worry. Think before you snap or say something you’ll regret. If anything, tell me. Deal?”

“Yeah, I got it, Dad.”

Later they found out it really would be a girl. Pink baby things started appearing around the house. To Genka they seemed tiny, doll-like. A crib showed up. Mom often drifted out of conversations, sitting distant as if listening to herself. Then Dad would ask anxiously if everything was all right. His father’s anxiety rubbed off on Genka.

Personally, he couldn’t care less about a baby—especially a sister. What did he need with snot and diapers? The only person he needed was Yulya Fetisova. If his parents wanted another child, that was their business. What was it to him? It was even good in a way. They’d be busy with her and nag him less. At least there was some benefit to a future sister.

“Is it dangerous? I mean, giving birth at her age?” Genka asked.

“There’s risk at any age. Sure, it’s harder for Mom now than when she was expecting you—she was thirteen years younger then. But we don’t live in the woods or a village; we live in a big city with well-equipped hospitals and doctors… Everything will be fine,” his father added wearily.

“When? How long?”

“What, the birth? In two months.”

But Mom gave birth a month early. Genka woke to noise. He heard a groan and footsteps rushing around behind the wall. He got up and, blinking sleepily, went to his parents. Mom was sitting on the rumpled bed with her hands on her lower back, rocking back and forth like a pendulum and moaning. Dad was nervously running around the room, gathering things.

“Just don’t forget the folder with the documents,” Mom managed, closing her eyes.

“Mom,” Genka called, instantly awake and catching the general alarm.

“Sorry we woke you. The thing is… Where’s that ambulance?” Dad asked the air.
The air answered with the doorbell, and he dashed to open it. Genka couldn’t decide whether to get dressed or stay with Mom, just in case. But then a man and a woman in EMS uniforms came in, went straight to Mom, and started asking odd questions:
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“How long have the contractions been? How often? Has your water broken?” When another contraction hit, Dad answered for her.

No one was paying attention to Genka, so he slipped out. When he came back already dressed, Dad and Mom were leaving the apartment. She was still in her robe and slippers. At the door Dad glanced back.

“I’ll be right back—tidy up here.” He wanted to add something else, but Mom cried out and hung on his arm.

Genka stood listening to the unfamiliar silence for a while, staring at the door. Then he went back to his room and checked the time. He still had two hours to sleep. He carefully folded out the sofa, picked up the scattered things, and went to the kitchen. Dad returned when Genka was getting ready for school.

“So? Did she have the baby?” he asked, trying to read his father’s face.

“Not yet. They didn’t let me in. Pour me some tea.”

Genka set a cup of tea before his father and made sandwiches.

“I’m going?” he asked.

“Go. I’ll call when there’s news,” Dad promised.

Genka was late to school.

“Mr. Kroshkin has deigned to grace us with his presence. Why are you late?” the math teacher asked.

“We called an ambulance for my mom; they took her to the hospital.”
“Sorry. Sit down,” the teacher softened.

“His mom’s having a baby!” Fyodorov yelled, and snickers rippled through the class. Genka snapped his head toward him.

“Quiet! Kroshkin, sit down already. And what’s so funny about that?”

Dad called during the last period.

“May I step out?” Genka raised his hand.

“Nature’s calling? There are twenty minutes left—hold it. And put your phone away,” the Russian teacher said.

“His mom’s in the maternity ward,” Fyodorov shouted again, but this time no one giggled.

“All right, go,” the teacher allowed.

“What is it, Dad?” Genka asked when he stepped into the hallway.

“A girl! Three kilos one hundred grams! Whew,” his father shouted into the receiver, relieved.

“Well?” the Russian teacher asked when he came back into the classroom.

“It’s all good—a girl,” Genka answered automatically.

“Now Kroshkin will be the babysitter,” Fyodorov snorted again. The class exploded with laughter, drowning out the bell.

Firsova caught up with him on the street and walked beside him.

“How old is your mom?” she asked.

“Thirty-six.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for you—for you all. A little sister is great. I’m an only child. My parents didn’t want more kids…” They walked and talked, and for the first time Genka felt glad he had a sister.
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Three days later they discharged Mom from the hospital.

“What a beauty!” Dad said, peering at his daughter.
Genka saw nothing beautiful. A tiny, wrinkled body, a red face, a little bow mouth and a button nose. His standard of beauty was Firsova. Then the baby opened her toothless mouth and squeaked. And immediately turned as red as a tomato. Mom quickly took her in her arms and began rocking her, murmuring “Shhh…” over and over. It was strange to realize that his mom had become someone else’s mom too.

“What will we name her?” Dad asked.

“Vasilisa,” Mom answered.

“What a cat’s name. They’ll call her Vasya at school,” Genka snorted.

“Then Masha, after Grandma,” Dad suggested.

Life now revolved around little Mashenka, as Mom fondly called her—around her needs. No one paid attention to Genka, except to ask him to run to the store, take out the trash, pull the laundry from the washer and hang it in the bathroom. Genka gladly helped.

But when Mom once asked him to take the stroller out for a walk while she washed the floor, Genka balked. Better Mom go for a walk herself—it would be good for her to get fresh air—and he’d wash the floor.

“I’m not going. What if the guys see me? They’ll laugh,” he muttered.

“I’ve already dressed her; she’ll overheat. And you dress warmer yourself—it’s cold outside. If you catch a cold, you could infect Mashenka, and she’s too little and fragile to get sick,” Mom said.

Genka was circling the yard with the stroller when he saw Firsova. Before, she would’ve walked past pretending not to notice him; now she came straight toward him.

“Mashenka! She’s so sweet,” Firsova cooed and walked along with him. The neighbors smiled when they met, and Genka didn’t know where to hide his eyes from embarrassment.

In the evening Mom rocked Mashka and sang her a lullaby. Genka listened and drifted off unnoticed.

But Mashenka fell ill anyway. At night her fever spiked. Medicine brought it down a little. Mom and Dad took turns carrying her in their arms all night. In the morning the temperature began to creep up again; nothing would bring it down. Mashenka breathed fast and with effort. Dad called an ambulance.

No one blamed Genka for anything, but he felt guilty. He hardly left his room.

“She really gave us the business,” Dad said, stepping into his room after the ambulance took Mom and Mashenka away.

“Will she get better?” Genka asked cautiously.

“I hope so. Of course she will. There are good medicines now, antibiotics…”

Genka hadn’t thought he would worry so much. At school he answered at random and got a C, though he knew the material cold. When he came home, Dad was sitting in the kitchen staring at a single spot. Anxiety stirred in Genka’s heart.

“Dad, why are you home? Are you sick?” he asked.
His father was silent for a long time.

“Our Mashenka’s gone,” he said with a sigh.

Genka thought his father was raving, and then the meaning sank in.

“It happened so fast… There was nothing they could do…” Dad covered his face with his hands and either growled or sobbed.

“Dad…” Genka came over, not knowing what to say.
His father hugged him, and for the first time Genka saw him cry. He himself burst into tears like a little kid.

He wanted to disappear. If only he had died and not Mashka. Later Mom came back from the hospital. Genka barely recognized her. She’d become a shadow of his former mother. Silence and darkness settled over the apartment, though it was bright daylight outside. Genka’s heart tore to pieces—from pity for Mom, for Mashenka, and from the awareness of his own guilt.

After the funeral Mom sat for hours by the empty crib. At night she would jump up and run to it. She dreamed she heard Mashenka crying. Dad could barely lead her back to bed. A week passed like that, then another, a month. Spring was coming. It seemed joy and laughter had left their home forever.

“Listen, before the roads turn to slush, we need to take the crib and things out to the dacha, or your mom will go out of her mind,” Dad said on Saturday. “I’ll take apart the crib, and you gather all the things and toys. The bags are over there.”

“What about Mom?” Genka asked.

“She went to Aunt Valya’s. She doesn’t need to see this.”

There was still snow along the highway outside the city. The sun peeked through dense gray clouds. Genka suddenly thought that Mashenka would never see spring, never squint at the sun’s rays, never hear thunder… Tears welled up, and he shook with silent sobs. Suddenly Dad pulled over to the shoulder.

“Sit tight, I’ll go see if anyone needs help.”

Only then did Genka notice the cars ahead and a cluster of police. He got out and walked over too. A mangled red car caught his eye. The truck’s door was open; a man sat on the step repeating, “I only closed my eyes for a moment…” One policeman was holding a baby carrier. Something pink was inside. Genka stepped closer. A girl about Mashenka’s age was sleeping there.

“Can you imagine—parents dead, and she’s fine, not a scratch,” said a young policeman.
In the distance a siren wailed. The girl woke up and started screaming, just like Mashenka. The policeman flustered and stared at her helplessly.

“Give her to me. I had a little sister…” Genka faltered.
The policeman looked doubtful but handed him the carrier. Genka lifted the girl out and pressed her to his chest. And miracle of miracles—she quieted!

“How did you do that, kid?” the policeman marveled.

“Girl from the car? Let’s go,” another policeman came over and led Genka to the ambulance.

“Brother?” the doctor asked Genka. “Give me the girl.” But Genka stepped back.

 

“Are you going to take her to the hospital?” he asked.

“Yes, they’ll examine her there, and then she’ll go to a baby home or orphanage.”

“Dad…” Genka looked reproachfully at his father, who had come up too. And his father understood everything.

“Could we take her? She seems fine. You see, my wife and I recently lost a child about the same age. My wife is suffering terribly. This girl would be her salvation,” his father began.

“By all means. Go to the guardianship office and file an application. If they don’t find relatives or the relatives refuse to take the child, then you can take her in. It all has to be formalized. Come on, kid, don’t waste time.”
Reluctantly, Genka handed the girl to the doctor.

“What’s her name?” he asked.

“Her documents say Vasilisa.”

He and his father exchanged a quick look.

“All right, let’s go,” Dad headed for the car first.

“To the dacha?” Genka asked, settling into the front seat.

“Home. We’ve no business at the dacha. We’ll still need those things.”
And Genka calmed down. He was surprised himself at how worried he was about someone else’s child.

“Dad, what if Mom won’t agree to take Vasilisa?”

Mom was sitting on the couch staring at the empty corner where the crib had stood.

“You’re back? The road was impassable?” she asked indifferently.

“Mom, you see, we met Vasilisa,” Genka said quickly, barely holding back his excitement.

“Whom?”

“Vasilisa.” And he and Dad began telling her about the accident.

Mom was silent for a long time. Then she said she would go to the hospital tomorrow and find out everything.

“Hooray!” Genka and Dad shouted…

“— It’s all so sad…” Katya drooped. “What is a childhood without parents?
… No matter how hard she tried to convince herself that an orphanage was a forced necessity, she couldn’t believe in such a way of the world. It was strange that most people didn’t feel this horror, soaked through with the smells of institutional life. They could come here to work, do their tasks, and not notice the children’s screaming gaze: ‘take me home.’
… Every adult, unlike a child, has a choice. And that choice is never easy—it’s always complicated, agonizing, and full of doubt. But it can give hope.”

Sofia took a slow, very deep breath, trying to master the unruly tremor that ran through her knees. She felt her heart pounding fast, like a little bird trapped in a cage. This interview at the large, well-known company “Stalmonstroy” wasn’t just an opportunity for her—it was the only ray of light in a long tunnel of unending problems and worries. A high salary, full benefits, and most importantly—the office was just a fifteen-minute unhurried walk from the kindergarten. For her, it was a true dream, the embodiment of stability and hope for a better future.
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She had planned and organized everything in advance, carefully and meticulously. Her little four-year-old daughter, Liza, was supposed to stay with a neighbor, a kind and sympathetic woman. But fate, as often happens, made its cruel corrections. At the very last moment, when Sofia was practically ready to leave the house, the phone rang shrilly. The neighbor, her voice breaking with anxiety as she apologized again and again and stumbled over her words, said that her mother had suddenly taken a turn for the worse and she had to rush to her immediately. Sofia had no choice—absolutely no choice at all. Clutching her portfolio in one hand, damp with nerves, and in the other the small, warm, defenseless hand of her daughter, she stepped over the threshold of the chic office, all gleaming mirrors and expensive finishes.

Liza fell quiet at once, pressing her little face tightly to her mother’s leg, while her huge clear eyes peered with curiosity and shyness at the glossy floors, the stern faces of men in impeccably tailored suits, and the towering plants rising in massive tubs.

The HR manager, Svetlana Arkadyevna, a woman with a cold, impassive face that showed nothing at all except a faint but distinct disgust, shot a brief assessing glance at the child and pressed her thin lips in disapproval.

“Please, have a seat,” she said in a dry, lifeless tone.

The interview began. Sofia did everything she could to concentrate, to pull herself together. She answered questions clearly and structurally, giving specific, convincing examples from her previous professional experience. She felt inside that she was managing it, that everything was going as well as it possibly could. But little Liza, tired of sitting still so long and so boringly, began to fidget ever so slightly in her chair, and then she carefully pulled a crumpled, slightly worn coloring book from her coat pocket and a short stub of a pencil.
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“Mommy, may I draw a little bit here?” she whispered, looking up into her mother’s eyes.

“Hush, my sunshine—of course you may, but very quietly,” Sofia whispered back, trying not to attract attention.

Svetlana Arkadyevna instantly broke off mid-sentence, casting the girl a truly icy look that seemed capable of freezing everything around it.

“Sofia, I wish to remind you that we conduct very serious business here, not a daycare for entertainment. I find this sort of behavior extremely unprofessional and absolutely unacceptable.”

 

“Please accept my apologies—this is a real force majeure, it will never happen ag—” Sofia started to explain, feeling the hot flush of shame spread over her cheeks.

“We unfortunately have no place at all for employees who are unable to properly and clearly separate their private lives from their working hours,” cut in Svetlana Arkadyevna, not even letting her finish. “I believe we can end here. The decision regarding your candidacy will be strictly negative. And let’s not waste each other’s precious time any further.”

Sofia felt her legs literally give way as darkness swam before her eyes with a rush of despair. The one chance—so close and so desired—was dissolving right before her eyes like smoke. Bitter tears rose in a hard lump to her throat, making it hard to breathe. In silence, trying not to look at anyone, she began to gather the papers she had laid out on the table. Liza, sensing her mother’s deep despair and pain, asked in a small, frightened voice:

“Mommy, are we leaving already? Why do your eyes look so sad?”

At that very tense, heavy moment, the office door swung open smoothly and soundlessly. A tall, handsome man in a perfectly tailored, expensive suit entered with confident steps. He looked as though he had just stepped off the society pages of Forbes. In an instant, Svetlana Arkadyevna transformed—her face spread into an obsequious, sugary smile.

“Mark Alexandrovich! What troubles you? What brings you to us? We’re just finishing a single interview.”

But the company director, a successful and influential man, didn’t even glance at her. His intent, attentive gaze was fixed entirely on little Liza who, startled by the woman’s loud, stern voice, had accidentally dropped her pencil. It clinked brightly and merrily across the glossy floor, rolling straight toward the director’s polished, mirror-bright shoes.

Sofia froze, bracing herself for another, final portion of humiliation and reproach. But Mark Alexandrovich did something completely unexpected: he calmly bent down, picked up the pencil, and gently handed it to the little girl.

“Here you go, my little princess,” he said, his voice surprisingly soft and warm. “And what are you drawing that’s so interesting?”

Liza instantly forgot her fear and beamed at him. “I’m trying to draw a kitty. But it’s not working at all—it’s just some kind of messy scribble.”

“Ah, those kitties,” the director replied with utter seriousness, “they’re such complicated and independent fellows, you know.” For a brief moment he crouched down so he was at the girl’s level. Then he lifted his eyes to Sofia, taking in her reddened, tear-brimming eyes and the face clamped tight with inner strain, and after that slowly turned his gaze to Svetlana Arkadyevna.

“What exactly is the problem here, Svetlana Arkadyevna? Would you care to explain?”

“Oh, mere trifles, Mark Alexandrovich, nothing of note. The candidate presumed to show up for an important interview with a small child. I have already made it clear to her that such behavior is absolutely unacceptable under our strict rules.”

Mark Alexandrovich straightened up slowly, with a sense of dignity, to his full height. For several seconds, a heavy, absolute silence hung in the room, broken only by Sofia’s nervous breathing.

“You know, Svetlana Arkadyevna,” he began surprisingly quietly, yet each word struck home like a well-honed arrow, “I grew up in a simple family where our mother raised the three of us alone, without any help. She had to scrub filthy floors in an office where they wouldn’t initially hire her for a proper position precisely because she had so-called ‘problems with children.’ She was ready to take any job, even the hardest, just to feed us and give us what we needed.”
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He unhurriedly approached the table and picked up Sofia’s résumé.

“I see, Sofia, that your résumé is truly excellent. Very solid experience with our key, important clients. Good references from your previous workplaces.” He shot another heavy, testing look at Svetlana Arkadyevna. “And you, I see, for some incomprehensible reason, want to deprive our company of a promising, talented employee simply because she has a child—because she demonstrates the highest responsibility not only on paper but in her real, everyday life?”

Svetlana Arkadyevna noticeably blanched; tiny beads of sweat appeared on her brow.

“Mark Alexandrovich, I was only trying to follow the established rules and internal regulations to the letter…”

“Rules that, by their nature, deprive us of valuable talent and promising people are the worst and most short-sighted rules. They are hopelessly outdated and do not fit the spirit of the times. Not long ago, Ivan Sergeyevich himself from ‘Gorstroy’ called me and personally, in very warm terms, recommended Sofia to me as a specialist. I actually stopped by to meet her and speak with her personally. And now I am not the least bit sorry that I came at this exact moment.”

He turned toward Sofia, who couldn’t utter a single word, overwhelmed by emotion.

“Sofia, on behalf of Stalmonstroy, I have the honor to offer you the position of lead manager in our department. We are ready to begin the paperwork as early as tomorrow. I also want to note that we have an excellent corporate kindergarten for employees, and I’m sure your daughter will be comfortable and happy there. And”—he smiled kindly at Liza again—“I want you to know, little princess, they have real professional art teachers there. They’ll definitely help you learn to draw the best and most beautiful kitties in the world.”
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Sofia could only nod silently, squeezing her daughter’s small warm hand. In that moment she saw not just a successful millionaire in an expensive suit, but a real human being who had reached out to help and support her at the most difficult, desperate moment of her life.

Svetlana Arkadyevna slipped out of the office noiselessly, like a shadow, trying not to attract any attention to herself. And Mark Alexandrovich, taking a business card from his inside pocket, wrote his personal mobile number on the back in his own hand.

“Please come tomorrow at ten in the morning. And don’t worry anymore. Sometimes the most difficult and nerve-wracking interviews end not just with getting a job, but with the true beginning of something important and meaningful in life.”

When they finally left the building, Sofia scooped up her daughter and hugged her tightly—truly tightly. Little Liza, not yet grasping the full depth and significance of what had happened, whispered in her ear:

“Mommy, is that man kind?”

“Yes, my sunshine,” Sofia breathed out in relief, looking up at the skyscraper’s glass glittering in the sun. “He’s very kind. And, what’s very important, fair.”

From that memorable day, Sofia’s life was clearly divided into “before” and “after.” The first weeks at her new job were like an exhilarating, insanely busy, and intense marathon. She threw herself into new projects, actively got to know her team, and tried to master all the company’s internal processes and nuances as quickly as possible. And she knew that every day at exactly 6:00 p.m. she had to hurry to the corporate kindergarten with the beautiful name “Constellation,” which looked more like a fairytale palace than an ordinary preschool.

At first, Liza had to be patiently persuaded to let go of her mother’s hand, but within a couple of weeks she herself ran happily to her group to hug her favorite teacher. She showed Sofia her new drawings with great pride and shining eyes—and it must be said, her cats were becoming more and more recognizable with each passing day.

The general atmosphere in the office was friendly and cohesive, but Sofia sometimes still caught the sharp, unkind look of Svetlana Arkadyevna. The latter maintained outward politeness and courtesy, but through that façade seeped a cold, impenetrable wall of alienation and dislike. Sofia understood perfectly well that a wounded ego in an employee—especially one from HR—was a genuine time bomb that might go off at any moment.

One day, toward the end of her first month, Sofia was summoned to Mark Alexandrovich’s office. For a moment her heart squeezed unpleasantly—had she done something wrong? Had she already disappointed him? But he sat behind his massive, expensive desk with an open, friendly smile.

“Well, Sofia, how are you settling in with the team? Any regrets about agreeing to tie your future to us that day?” he asked with interest.

“Not a shred, Mark Alexandrovich—not a single shred. Thank you again for believing in me. It… it literally changes everything in my life.”

“Think nothing of it—no thanks needed. In my work I’ve always staked everything on talent and promise. By the way, I have an important matter for you. Our partner ‘Gorstroy’ is launching a new large residential complex soon. And Ivan Sergeyevich personally asked that you oversee the project. It’s a tough assignment—the client is rather capricious and demanding—but believe me, it will be a real leap in your career. What do you think—can you handle that responsibility?”

Sofia felt a true surge of adrenaline and inspiration. This was her star moment—her chance to prove to everyone, and above all to herself, that she wasn’t just working, she was a genuine professional.

“Absolutely. I’ll put all my strength and knowledge into it.”

The project began at full boil from day one. Sofia spent long, exhausting hours in meetings; sometimes she stayed late at the office. But she always knew Liza was completely safe—the kindergarten stayed open for employees until 8:00 p.m. She gave it her all, and the first crucial results arrived quickly. The client from Gorstroy was pleasantly surprised and satisfied with her work.

 

One late evening, as Sofia was finishing up another report, there was a restrained but insistent knock on her door. On the threshold stood an older, very strict and trim woman in an elegant suit—Valentina Petrovna, the company’s finance director, a living legend and one of its longest-serving employees.

“May I have a minute?” she asked politely, closing the door behind her. “I’ve long wanted to look at you with my own eyes—the very one because of whom our Svetlana Arkadyevna nearly lost her place in HR.”

Sofia, embarrassed by such directness, dropped her gaze.

“I honestly didn’t want to cause extra trouble or problems for anyone…”

“Oh, come now—no need to fret,” Valentina Petrovna waved it off. “To be honest, it was high time her arrogance got taken down a peg. Mark Alexandrovich is still young and straightforward, but I personally have worked here since his late father’s time. Let me be frank: you’re doing well—keep it up. The main thing is to stand firm and never let anyone push you around. And one more thing… please be especially careful with your upcoming presentation for Gorstroy. Double-check all the budget figures—just in case.”

With that, she slipped out as calmly as she had come. Sofia sat at her desk with a growing sense of light but persistent anxiety. What exactly had the seasoned financier meant by “double-check”? She immediately opened the presentation file on her computer and began to scrutinize every line of numbers and calculations. At first glance, everything seemed absolutely correct. But the warning wouldn’t let her rest.

Then she saw it. In the section titled “Cost of Materials,” an outdated—and therefore severely understated—price for rolled metal had been entered. Had she gone into the presentation with those figures, and then, at the contract stage, the real market price came to light, the company could have suffered colossal losses—millions—and her own professional reputation would have been destroyed beyond repair. The error was hidden with surprising skill and cunning—something any inattentive or overtired employee might miss. But Sofia had a strong feeling it was no mere accident.

She corrected everything at once, printed two versions of the presentation—one with the error, and one corrected—and placed them carefully in her briefcase.

In the morning, on the day of the important presentation, the large conference hall was packed with nearly all the company’s leadership, including Mark Alexandrovich himself. Svetlana Arkadyevna sat at the far edge of the table with a taut, perfunctory smile. When Sofia stepped up to the screen, she distinctly felt all eyes turn to her.

She began brilliantly—confident and structured. The Gorstroy clients nodded their approval. Mark Alexandrovich watched her with open support. Then, as she reached the key budget slide, she made a small but pointed pause.

“And now, dear colleagues and partners, I want to show you a very important and telling point. In preparing this presentation, an unfortunate but very serious error slipped into the source data.”

The silence was so complete you could hear the air conditioner humming. Svetlana Arkadyevna straightened ever so slightly, her face turning to stone.

“Someone carelessly used outdated price lists,” Sofia went on, calm but firm, looking directly at Svetlana Arkadyevna, who by duty oversaw the preparation of final client materials. “Here is how our calculations would have looked with this unfortunate error.” She pointed to the screen. “And here are the corrected, fully up-to-date figures. As you can see, the difference is fundamental and very substantial.”

A thick, tense silence hung for a few seconds. Mark Alexandrovich examined each number on both slides, then turned his heavy, testing gaze to Svetlana Arkadyevna, who was trying with all her might to keep a mask of indifference, betrayed only by the whitened knuckles of the hand clenched around her pen.

“Thank you for your vigilance and professionalism, Sofia,” he said clearly, breaking the silence. “I strongly request that HR and Security look into this incident immediately and report to me personally how such ‘errors’ became possible in our key, strategically important projects.”

The presentation ended in complete triumph. The client was so impressed by Sofia’s professionalism and honesty that they signed all preliminary agreements on the spot.

That evening, Sofia picked up a radiant Liza from the kindergarten—she’d earned a gold star for best drawing of the week. As they left the office building, Mark Alexandrovich unexpectedly caught up with them.

“Do you mind if I join you for a little walk?” he asked courteously.

They strolled along the quiet streets sinking into dusk, while Liza skipped ahead, trying to catch her long shadow.

“You know, you acted very wisely and maturely today,” he said after a brief silence. “You didn’t publicly accuse anyone without proof, but you clearly and convincingly showed everyone the irrefutable facts. This very day, after the meeting, Svetlana Arkadyevna submitted her resignation. A quick check revealed she had a personal, self-interested stake in that old contractor we would have been forced to use at the understated price.”

Sofia merely nodded. She had suspected as much herself.

“You know, Sofia,” he stopped briefly, “the words I said to you in the office weren’t for show or a checkbox. You are gradually becoming that very backbone, the reliable foundation our company can truly lean on in tough times. A career isn’t only about money and high positions. It’s first and foremost about responsibility to others. You’ve proven you have that responsibility—double, if not triple.”

He looked warmly at Liza, who was spinning under a streetlamp, trying to catch her long, whimsically bending shadow.

“And you have a wonderful, very smart girl growing up. She is, without a doubt, your greatest victory in life.”

Sofia took her daughter’s hand firmly, and they walked home together. She was no longer just a single mother desperately looking for any job, but a confident professional who knew her worth and valued fairness. She looked at the lights of the evening city with warmth and hope and smiled quietly. She knew for certain this was only the beginning of her new path.
Family relationship books

Two years passed—two years that changed absolutely everything in her life. Sofia transformed from a timid, unsure applicant for a junior position into a confident, respected head of the project management department. Her team sincerely respected her not only for her high professionalism and dedication, but for her unfailing honesty, decency, and genuine humanity. The story of how she once came to her first interview with her little daughter gradually became part of company folklore—a legend not about weakness and helplessness, but an inspiring tale of how true talent and perseverance always break through prejudice and barriers.
Family relationship books

Liza continued going to the corporate kindergarten “Constellation” with great joy. She no longer just drew her beloved cats—she was mastering the basics of reading and arithmetic, making real, loyal friends, and taking part in all the morning performances and celebrations. Sofia no longer ran headlong, constantly afraid of being late—she now knew her daughter was safe and in good hands.

One warm, truly sunny spring day, Stalmonstroy celebrated a major victory—the successful, early completion of that very residential complex for Gorstroy. A grand corporate party was thrown at a chic restaurant with a city view. Absolutely all employees were invited with their families.

The hall was full of bright light, cheerful laughter, and pleasant, unobtrusive music. Sofia, in a beautiful, elegant evening dress, stood with a glass of juice and watched with warmth as Liza—decked out in a puffy ball dress—romped with other employees’ children in the play area.

Mark Alexandrovich approached her unhurriedly. He looked businesslike and trim as always, but today there was an unfamiliar, genuinely warm softness in his eyes.

“Well, Sofia, do you often think about your first, very tense appearance within our walls?” he asked with a gentle smile.

“Oh yes, Mark Alexandrovich, often. Sometimes it still feels as if it was just an incredible dream—a very frightening and anxious one at first, which miraculously turned into the most beautiful, vivid reality.”

“It’s no dream,” he said seriously, with a note of conviction. “It’s your truly deserved success, earned by your work. Your personal story… you know, it’s taught me a lot as well. It reminded me that behind the dry figures in financial reports there are always living people with their unique fates. And that sometimes a single right decision, a single act made in good conscience and from the heart, can change absolutely everything in a person’s life.”

He paused, watching the children dance and laugh.

“I want to make you a very important proposal, Sofia. And I’m speaking now not as your boss to an employee, but as a person who trusts you and your principles without reservation.

 

“I’m planning to establish a major charitable foundation to help single mothers in difficult life situations. I want it not to be a mere formality for the tax office, but a genuinely effective instrument of assistance—to help women not only financially, but also with employment, housing issues, and legal consultations. I saw with my own eyes what you had to go through, and now I fully understand how many similarly strong yet despairing women are left outside normal life due to ordinary prejudice and human callousness. I want you to head this foundation.”

Overwhelmed by surprise and emotion, Sofia couldn’t say a word. She looked at him with wide eyes filled with tears—not of grief or resentment, but of luminous feelings: boundless gratitude, new hope, the realization that her personal pain and struggle could now help hundreds, perhaps thousands of other women in the same situation.

“I… I honestly don’t know what to say…” she whispered, her breath catching.

“Just say ‘yes,’” he smiled gently, encouragingly. “That would be the best and most sincere thanks for me.”

At that tender moment, Liza ran up to them, breathless and glowing with happiness.

“Mom! Uncle Dima! I was dancing and everyone clapped for me!”

With ease, Mark Alexandrovich scooped her up and hugged her tightly.

“I saw, my little princess, I saw everything. You were the very best and most graceful dancer at the whole party.”

He looked at Sofia over the child’s head.
Child care services

“So—will our team be complete?” he asked hopefully.

Sofia brushed away a single, joyful tear and smiled her happiest, brightest smile.

“Of course our team will be complete. I agree.”

In just six months of active, devoted work, the foundation with the beautiful, symbolic name “New Start,” now headed by Sofia, had already helped dozens of women in difficult circumstances. It found them decent jobs with partner companies, provided temporary but comfortable housing, and—most importantly—restored their faith in themselves, in their own strength, and in justice.

At one of the foundation’s very first events, Sofia stood on a small stage in a simple but cozy hall and spoke from the heart about her own story. She didn’t talk about how she had once been humiliated or wronged, but about how important it is never to break, never to lose yourself, and to keep believing that fairness, kindness, and mutual help really do exist in our world.

“…And I want you to remember one simple but very important thing,” her voice rang with sincere conviction and inner strength. “Your current life situation is not a sentence. It is only a challenge that fate has thrown at you. And I firmly believe that each of you will surely find your own ‘Uncle Dima’—your solid support. And if there isn’t one nearby yet—know that our whole foundation team will become that support for you.”

After her inspiring speech, a young woman, frightened and confused, with a small child in her arms, came up to her.

“Thank you so much for your words,” she whispered, tears of relief shining in her eyes. “I had almost stopped believing that anything could truly change for the better in my life.”

Sofia hugged her kindly, maternally, while looking over at her grown daughter, Liza, who was diligently helping volunteers hand out small gifts to other children. Over the years she had grown, become more serious and thoughtful, but in her eyes remained the very same unchanging light of kindness and hope that, once upon a time, melted the ice in the heart of a stern millionaire.

As often happens, life put everything in its place. The pain and despair of that difficult interview day became the firm, reliable foundation on which Sofia built not only a successful career but a calling that filled her life with true meaning and harmony. She was no longer a single mother fighting a cruel, unjust world. She had become a genuine beacon of hope and support for those still searching for their shore and their harbor. And in that, without a doubt, lay her greatest and most significant victory in life.
Family relationship books

Lena had long realized that marriage had turned into hard labor. Five years ago, Andrey had seemed like a caring man who wanted to build a strong family. But after the wedding it was as if he’d been swapped for someone else. He quit his job three months in, blaming back problems, though doctors found no serious diagnosis.

“Len, why should I run around for pennies?” Andrey declared when his wife once again suggested he look for openings. “You make decent money at the mall. I’ll keep the place in order at home.”

Of course, he didn’t keep anything in order. Andrey lay on the couch all day, scrolling social media or playing computer games. Lena got up at six, worked as a sales consultant in an electronics store, and in the evening cooked dinner, did the laundry, and cleaned the apartment. Andrey took this arrangement for granted.

Her mother-in-law, Valentina Mikhailovna, only poured oil on the fire. She visited regularly and always found a reason to criticize.

“Andryusha, have you lost weight?” she lamented, eyeing her son. “Lena, you don’t feed him at all! Look how thin he’s gotten!”

“Valentina Mikhailovna, Andrey eats more than I do,” Lena explained patiently. “He just stopped exercising after he left his job.”

“Don’t argue with your elders!” the mother-in-law cut her off sharply. “My son has always been an active boy, and now he sits at home. That means he can’t find an outlet for his talents.”

Lena flushed with indignation but kept quiet. Arguing with Valentina Mikhailovna meant triggering a scandal that would drag on for a week.

The last straw came on an October evening when Lena came home from work especially exhausted. The store had inventory that day; it had been tense. At home there was the usual mess: dirty dishes in the sink, crumbs on the table, clothes strewn about.

“Andrey, you promised to at least wash the plates,” Lena said wearily.

“Oh, I forgot,” her husband replied indifferently, not taking his eyes off the computer screen. “I’ll do it tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow I’ll be working late again! Is it really impossible to spend half an hour on basic help?”

Andrey swiveled in his chair and gave his wife a contemptuous look.

“Listen, stop riding me! What am I, some kind of slave? If I want to wash them, I will; if I don’t, I won’t. It’s my apartment too!”

“Yours?” Lena frowned and tilted her head. “Do you remember that I bought the apartment before our marriage? With my own money?”

“So what? After the wedding everything became joint property!”

“No, Andrey. Property acquired before marriage remains personal. And in five years you haven’t put a single ruble into the family budget.”

Her husband jumped up, his face contorted with rage.

“How dare you!” he shouted. “I’m your husband, not some freeloader! And anyway, my mother’s right—you’ve gotten too big for your britches!”

Lena stood in the middle of the room, looking at the man she had once married with such hope. Now there was a stranger in front of her—aggressive, yelling, waving his arms.

“You know what, Andrey?” Lena said calmly. “Tomorrow I’m filing for divorce.”

“What?!” Andrey froze, mouth open. “Are you out of your mind?”

“On the contrary—I’ve finally come to my senses.”

The next day Lena took time off and went to a lawyer. The consultation lasted almost an hour. She learned that the divorce would go through the courts, since Andrey was unlikely to agree to dissolve the marriage voluntarily. The lawyer explained what documents she needed to protect her property.

“Do you have the purchase agreement for the apartment?” the attorney asked.

“Yes, of course. I bought it two years before I even met my husband.”

“Excellent. And whose name is the car in?”

“Formally, my father’s. He bought the car on credit, but I made the monthly payments. It was easier that way—the bank approved the application more readily because of his higher salary.”

“Good, but it would be best to transfer the car to your name before the divorce. Or get a written statement from your father that the car effectively belongs to you.”

Lena nodded. In five years of marriage they hadn’t acquired any joint property—on a sales clerk’s salary you could survive, not buy anything substantial.

At home, her husband greeted her warily. All day Andrey had clearly been nervous, realizing he’d gone too far during the previous night’s blow-up.

“Len, you’re not serious about the divorce, are you?” he asked cautiously. “We were both just tired and said things we didn’t mean.”

“I filed a petition with the court this morning,” Lena replied evenly.

Andrey went pale, then his face flushed with fury.

“How dare you do it without me! I’m your husband!”

“And that’s exactly why I’m divorcing you. I’m done putting up with your rudeness and laziness.”

“Who do you think you are?!” Andrey flared. “So you’re a salesgirl—big deal! How much do you even make with your little courses and certificates?”

“Enough to support a family of two. But three is getting tough.”

“I’ll call my mother right now!” he threatened. “We’ll see what she has to say!”

“Call her. I don’t care.”

Valentina Mikhailovna rushed over half an hour later. She burst into the apartment without knocking, as if it were her family’s property.

“Lena!” the mother-in-law thundered. “What foolishness have you come up with?”

 

“No foolishness. I just can’t live any longer with someone who doesn’t want to work or help around the house.”

“Andrey is ill! The boy has spinal problems!”

“Valentina Mikhailovna, the doctors found no serious illnesses. Yet somehow he’s healthy enough for twelve hours of video games a day.”

The mother-in-law snorted and turned to her son.

“Andryusha, don’t worry. We’ll take everything through the courts. The apartment, the car—we’ll split everything in half. Maybe more, if we get a good lawyer.”

Lena clapped her hands in disbelief.

“Do you even hear yourself, Valentina Mikhailovna? What is there to split? The apartment was bought before the marriage; the car is registered to my father.”

“We’ll see!” the mother-in-law sneered. “In marriage everything becomes joint. My son isn’t stupid; he knows his rights.”

“Then see you in court,” Lena replied coolly.

The next two weeks passed in a tense atmosphere. Andrey alternated between trying to make peace—promising to find a job and change—and flying into rages, threatening to claim half the apartment. Lena gathered documents and prepared for the proceedings.

Her father supported her unconditionally.

“Lena, you’re doing the right thing,” said Ivan Nikolaevich. “I never understood what you saw in that layabout from the start. We’ll transfer the car to you right away so there are no questions.”

“Thanks, Dad. They’re already divvying up your property over there.”

“Let them try. The loan agreement is in my name; all payments came from my card. The money you sent me was help to your father, nothing more.”

A month later, the court summons arrived. Lena was nervous but ready to stand her ground. She understood that an unpleasant process lay ahead, but there was no alternative. For five years she’d been carrying an adult man who refused to work or help at home. Enough.

The day of the hearing was overcast and rainy. Lena put on a tailored suit, took her folder of documents, and went to court. Andrey and Valentina Mikhailovna were already seated in the courtroom. The mother-in-law was dressed as if for a celebration and looked quite pleased with herself.

Judge Irina Petrovna—a middle-aged woman with an attentive gaze—entered and took her seat. The clerk announced the start of the session.

“Hearing the case for dissolution of marriage between Elena Vladimirovna Sokolova and Andrey Valentinovich Morozov,” the judge read. “Plaintiff—Sokolova, Elena Vladimirovna.”

Irina Petrovna began reading the case materials, clarifying dates of marriage registration and acquisition of the disputed property. Lena listened carefully, checking that all information was correct.

“The apartment at the address… was acquired by the plaintiff in two thousand eighteen,” the judge stated. “The marriage was registered in two thousand nineteen. The automobile is registered to Sokolov, Ivan Nikolaevich, in two thousand twenty-one.”

Valentina Mikhailovna couldn’t stand it. She shot to her feet and shouted:

“My son will take everything from you—you’ll be left without a kopek!”

Lena froze, blinking. She couldn’t believe an adult would stage such a scene in a courtroom. Then she frowned and shook her head—her mother-in-law’s behavior was simply indecent.

“Citizen Morozova!” Irina Petrovna snapped. “Maintain order in the courtroom. You are not a party to this case and have no right to interfere in the proceedings.”

“But I’m his mother!” the woman insisted. “I have the right to defend my son!”

“Sit down and be silent,” the judge ordered sternly. “Or I’ll have you removed.”

The mother-in-law grudgingly sat, but continued to bore holes in Lena with a hateful stare.

“We continue,” said Irina Petrovna. “Do the parties have claims regarding the division of property?”

Lena rose and answered calmly:

“Your Honor, I have no claims. The apartment was acquired before the marriage with my personal funds—here is the purchase agreement and a bank statement showing the mortgage was paid off. The automobile is registered to my father; the loan agreement and payment records are attached.”

She handed the folder to the clerk. All documents were in perfect order; the dates raised no doubts.

“Does the respondent have objections?” the judge asked Andrey.

He exchanged a confused glance with his mother, then said uncertainly:

“I believe I have a right to part of the apartment. We were married for five years.”

“On what grounds?” Irina Petrovna asked. “The residence was acquired before the marriage was registered.”

“But I lived there! I did repairs!”

“What repairs?” Lena asked in surprise. “Andrey, you didn’t drive a single nail in five years.”

“Oh yes I did!” he protested. “I hung shelves and fixed faucets!”

Lena nearly laughed. He had hung one shelf in the hallway, which fell down with the books a week later. After that, he never touched a household task again.

“There is no documentary proof of any repair work by the respondent,” the judge stated. “Moving on.”

She studied the documents carefully. The purchase agreement for the apartment was signed in October 2018; the marriage certificate was dated May 2019. A seven-month gap—legally more than enough to classify the residence as premarital property.

“The automobile was purchased on credit by Sokolov, Ivan Nikolaevich, in two thousand twenty-one,” the judge continued, turning the pages. “All payments were made from the owner’s bank card. Does the respondent have evidence of participation in acquiring the vehicle?”

Andrey faltered and glanced helplessly at his mother. She nodded meaningfully, but he clearly had no idea what to say.

“I…” he began. “I mean… we were a family. Shared money, shared purchases.”

“Do you have specific evidence?” the judge pressed. “Transfer records, receipts, IOUs?”

“No,” Andrey said quietly.

The judge nodded and continued reviewing the file. Inside were Lena’s income statements for the past five years, bank account statements, and documents confirming that her husband had had no official employment since quitting.

“It is established that the respondent has had no permanent employment since August two thousand nineteen,” the judge said. “The family budget was formed exclusively from the plaintiff’s income.”

Again, the mother-in-law couldn’t hold back.

“What about moral damages?” she blurted out. “My son wasted five years of his life on this ungrateful woman!”

“Citizen Morozova, final warning!” the judge snapped.

Lena watched with a kind of detached calm. The behavior of her ex-family no longer upset her—it simply baffled her. How could they so openly display such greed and brazenness?

“Thus,” Irina Petrovna concluded, “the plaintiff has provided exhaustive evidence that the disputed property is not jointly acquired during the marriage. The apartment was purchased before the marriage with the plaintiff’s personal funds. The automobile belongs to the plaintiff’s father, which is confirmed by documents.”

Andrey turned pale. Until that moment he had clearly counted on getting half the apartment. He looked at his mother, who could only glare spitefully at Lena.

“The respondent has no legal grounds to assert property claims,” the judge continued. “The fact of cohabitation and maintaining a household together is not grounds for acquiring rights to a spouse’s premarital property.”

“But something should be left to me!” Andrey burst out. “I’m not some beggar!”

“No jointly acquired property was created in this marriage,” Irina Petrovna replied evenly. “All major purchases were made before the marriage or were registered to third parties.”

Lena silently thanked her father for his foresight. When Ivan Nikolaevich had suggested putting the car in his name, she hadn’t thought much of it. Now it was clear how prudent he’d been.

“Proceeding to the final part of the hearing,” the judge announced. “The parties may make closing statements.”

Lena stood.

“Your Honor, I ask that the marriage be dissolved. I have no claims regarding division of property, since there is no jointly acquired property. There are no alimony obligations between the spouses, as there are no minor children in common.”

“Does the respondent wish to add anything?”

Andrey shifted, clearly at a loss. At last he muttered:

“I don’t agree to the divorce. We can fix everything, reconcile.”

“The decision to dissolve a marriage is made by the court regardless of one party’s consent,” Irina Petrovna explained. “The one-month reconciliation period ends tomorrow.”

The judge withdrew to the deliberation room. Lena sat calmly, leafing through her documents. Andrey paced nervously, while Valentina Mikhailovna whispered heatedly in his ear.

Twenty minutes later, the session resumed.

“In the name of the Russian Federation,” Irina Petrovna intoned. “The marriage between Sokolova, Elena Vladimirovna, and Morozov, Andrey Valentinovich, is dissolved. The request for division of property is denied due to the absence of jointly acquired property. The court’s decision enters into legal force in one month.”

Valentina Mikhailovna shot to her feet as if stung.

“Disgraceful!” she shouted. “The judges are corrupt! My son spent five years of his life, and now they’re throwing him out on the street!”

“Citizen Morozova, keep order!” the bailiff said sternly.

“I won’t keep quiet!” she raged on. “That witch took everything from us!”

“Remove the disruptive party from the courtroom,” the judge ordered.

Two bailiffs approached Valentina Mikhailovna and firmly led her out. She shouted and tried to pull away, but the officers were unyielding.

“Andrey!” the mother-in-law yelled as she was taken out. “File an appeal! Don’t you dare give up!”

Lena watched the scene with curious detachment. She felt neither gloating nor pity—only bewilderment at the behavior of people she had lived with for five years.

Her husband stood in the middle of the room looking lost. He clearly hadn’t expected this outcome and didn’t know what to do.

“Lena,” he began uncertainly. “Maybe we really could try again? I’ll find a job, I’ll change.”

“Too late, Andrey,” Lena replied calmly. “You had five years to change.”

“But where am I supposed to go? I have nothing.”

“That’s no longer my problem.”

Lena gathered her documents, neatly put them in the folder, and headed for the exit. Behind her she could hear her ex-husband’s bewildered laments, but she didn’t turn around.

A fine drizzle was falling outside. Lena took out her umbrella and walked slowly to the bus stop. Inside, a strange feeling was rising—not joy, not relief, more like a kind of emptiness. Five years of her life had ended, and now she had to start from scratch.

 

At home, Lena brewed coffee and sat at the table with the court decision. She needed to read the document carefully and understand all the nuances and consequences. She opened her home safe and took out a folder of important papers. The court decision went there as well—a symbol of a completed chapter of life.

An hour later the phone rang. It was her father.

“Lena, how are you? How did the hearing go?”

“Everything’s fine, Dad. The divorce is granted, and the property stays with me. Thank you for the advice about the car.”

“I told you those types only count on freebies. So, will you finally live in peace now?”

“I hope so.”

“And where will Andrey live?”

“I don’t know and don’t want to know. He can move in with his mother or rent a place. He’ll have to work anyway.”

Ivan Nikolaevich snorted.

“If only he’d done his military service twenty years ago, maybe he would’ve turned into someone. Now it’s too late.”

After the call, Lena felt tired. She took a hot shower, changed into home clothes, and sat down in front of the TV. For the first time in many years, she didn’t have to clean up after anyone, cook for anyone, or argue with anyone about dirty dishes.

The apartment seemed too quiet and spacious. Three people had lived here for five years; now only Lena remained. But she didn’t feel lonely—she felt she had finally found peace.

The next day Andrey came to collect his things. He looked rumpled and upset, as if he’d only now grasped the scale of what had happened.

“Lena, I’ll be living with my mom,” the ex-husband said, packing clothes into bags. “Just for now, until I get a job.”

“Good luck.”

“Maybe…” Andrey hesitated. “Maybe after some time we could… you know, stay friends?”

“No,” Lena said firmly. “It’s better if we forget about each other.”

Andrey nodded and silently kept packing. Half an hour later he left, putting the keys on the kitchen table.

Lena took the keys and put them in the dresser drawer. There was now nothing left in the apartment to remind her of the marriage. She walked to the window and looked out at the autumn courtyard. The leaves on the trees had yellowed and were slowly falling, preparing nature for winter. But for Lena this period was not an end, but the beginning of a new life.

In the evening her friend Marina called.

“Len, how are you? I heard you finally got divorced?”

“Yes, the hearing was yesterday. Everything went smoothly.”

“Thank God! I thought you’d be dragging that freeloader around until you were old. Maybe we should celebrate your freedom?”

“Maybe,” Lena smiled. “But not now. I just want to be alone for a bit, to get used to it.”

“I get it. Well, call me if you need anything—we’ll talk.”

After the call, Lena made herself dinner—a light salad and a piece of baked fish. There was only one plate on the table, one fork, one mug. Somehow, that didn’t make her sad—it made her happy. No one would demand seconds, criticize the cooking, or leave dirty dishes in the sink.

Before bed, she opened the safe again and looked at the documents: the apartment deed, the car title, the court decision. All of it belonged to Lena alone now, and no one could lay claim to the fruits of her labor.

Valentina Mikhailovna never calmed down. She called Lena several times, making threats and demanding a “fair division,” but the former daughter-in-law simply declined the calls. In the end, Lena blocked her number—she had no desire to speak to that woman again.

A month after the divorce, Andrey found a job—he became a courier for a food delivery service. The pay was modest, but enough to rent a room in a communal apartment. His mother constantly nagged him for failing to “snag” at least part of his ex-wife’s home.

Lena heard these details from mutual acquaintances, but she had little interest in her ex-husband’s fate. She was busy with her own life: she finally had time for hobbies, reading, and meeting friends. The salary that used to be spent on three people now allowed her to live comfortably.

Six months after the divorce, Lena met a colleague from the neighboring store. Viktor turned out to be a divorced man with a child—hard-working and responsible. Their relationship developed slowly, with no pressure and no rush to move in together.

The apartment still belonged to Lena alone, the car had been transferred from her father to her, and the safe held documents confirming her independence. Five years of marriage to a parasite had taught Lena to value freedom and never again let anyone live at her expense.

Life was finally back under control.