All Amazing Babies

Her mother, Klavdia Petrovna, froze with a glass of expensive wine in her hand. Grigory slowly set aside the tablet on which he’d been picking out a new watch — on his sister’s dime. His wife Evelina stopped photographing the interior for her Instagram.

— Ninotchka, what’s wrong with you? — her mother tried to feign maternal concern, but a flicker of worry flashed in her eyes. — Are you tired from work? Sit down, rest…

— DON’T tell me what to do in MY house! — Nina swept her gaze over the trio. — Three years! THREE YEARS I’ve been supporting all of you! And what do I get in return? NOTHING but new demands!

Grigory stretched lazily on the sofa — the very one Nina had bought a month ago after his complaints about his bad back.

— Sis, don’t get worked up. We’re family. Helping each other is normal.

— HELPING? — Nina laughed, but there was no humor in it. — You call this helping? You haven’t worked for two years! You live on my money, eat my food, use my things!

— I’m having a creative crisis, — Grigory said, offended. — I’m an artist, I need inspiration…

— An artist? In two years you haven’t painted a SINGLE picture! But you reliably burn through a hundred thousand a month of my money!

Evelina rose from the armchair, her perfectly painted lips curling in a contemptuous smirk.

— Nina, envy is an ugly feeling. The fact you don’t have a husband and children isn’t a reason to take it out on us.

— ENVY? — Nina couldn’t believe her ears. — I envy YOU? A woman who hasn’t earned a single kopeck in five years of marriage? Who only knows how to post selfies and spend her husband’s money… or rather, MY money!

 

— Sweetheart, — Klavdia Petrovna tried to take control, — we understand you’re under strain. But family must stick together. When you were little…

— STOP! — Nina raised a hand. — Don’t start telling me about my childhood! Yes, you raised me. That was your DUTY as a mother! I didn’t ask to be born!

— You’ve become so heartless, — her mother shook her head. — Your heart’s closed off. That’s why you’re alone…

— I’m alone because YOU SCARE OFF all my men! — Nina blurted. — Remember Maksim? You started telling him how clumsy I was as a child right in front of him! And Artyom? Grigory borrowed money from him and didn’t pay it back! And the last one, Vladislav? Evelina flirted with him right before my eyes!

— If a man leaves over such trifles, then he didn’t love you, — Grigory remarked philosophically.

— TRIFLES? You destroyed three of my relationships!

— We were protecting you from the unworthy, — her mother parried.

Nina pulled a folder of documents from her bag and threw it on the table.

— Here are the bills for the last year. Mom — three hundred thousand for your beauty procedures, two hundred thousand for clothes, one hundred fifty for restaurants. Grigory — electronics for four hundred thousand, clothes for two hundred, entertainment for three hundred. Evelina — beauty salons three hundred thousand, shopping five hundred thousand, fitness and yoga one hundred thousand. Total — TWO AND A HALF MILLION in a year! And that’s not counting food, utilities, and gas!

— So what? — Grigory shrugged. — You earn well. You own your clinic…

— I SLAVE like a cursed soul! Twelve hours a day! I perform the most complex surgeries! And you just BLOW my money!

— Nina, it’s unseemly to count money spent on family, — Klavdia Petrovna intoned.

— And is it seemly to PARASITIZE on your own daughter? — Nina looked her mother straight in the eye. — You’re sixty, healthy as an OX, and you haven’t worked for five years! You live on my money!

— I raised you!

— And I’ve repaid you! I’ve supported you for five years! I bought you an apartment, a car, I pay for all your whims! But ENOUGH!

Evelina gave a demonstrative yawn.

— Nina, your hysterics are tiring. We get it, you’re in a bad mood. Maybe you should see a psychologist?

— A psychologist? Great idea! I just saw one! And you know what she told me? That you’re TOXIC people! You exploit me! You manipulate my guilt and sense of duty!

— Nonsense! — Grigory snorted. — Those psychologists only know how to destroy families.

— No, it’s YOU who are destroying things! You’re destroying my life! I’m thirty-five, I have no family, no children, no personal life! Because all my time and money go to you!

— No one forces you to help us, — her mother said coldly.

— REALLY? What about the constant calls complaining of poor health? The tears about having nothing to eat? The reproaches that I abandoned my own family?

— We never… — Evelina began.

— QUIET! — Nina barked so loudly they all flinched. — You come here, eat my food, drink my wine, and then you CRITICIZE! Saying my cooking is bad, the wine is cheap, the furniture uncomfortable!

— We’re just giving our opinion… — Grigory tried to insert.

— I’m NOT INTERESTED in your opinion! This is MY house! I bought it with MY money! And I no longer wish to SEE you here!

— You’re throwing out your own mother? — Klavdia Petrovna pressed a hand to her heart.

— I’m setting boundaries! From today — NO money! At all! Not a penny!

— But how… I have loans… — Grigory mumbled.

— LOANS? — Nina couldn’t believe it. — You took out loans?

— Well… a little… For a car for Evelina…

— For a CAR? I gave you money for a car!

— We bought a more expensive model, — Evelina examined her manicure. — The one you suggested was too basic.

— Too BASIC… — Nina shook her head. — And who’s going to pay the loan?

— We thought you’d help…

— GET OUT! — Nina screamed. — OUT OF MY HOUSE! NOW!

— Ninotchka, calm down, — her mother tried to approach.

— DON’T TOUCH ME! You think I don’t know about your LOVER? About Aristarh?

Klavdia Petrovna turned pale.

— How did…

— A private investigator, Mom! I hired one! I know you’ve been seeing him for a year! And you spend my money on him! You rent him an apartment — on MY dime!

— That’s… that’s not true…

— Here are the photos! — Nina pulled out her phone. — You two at a restaurant, at the theater, at his apartment! And here are the receipts — all paid with the card I gave you!

Grigory stared at his mother, stunned.

— Mom, is this true?

— None of your business! — Klavdia snapped.

— And you know what’s the MOST DISGUSTING? — Nina went on. — Aristarh is MARRIED! He has a family! Kids! And you’re wrecking someone else’s family with MY money!

— Love doesn’t choose…

— LOVE? He’s twenty years younger than you! He’s using you… or rather, my MONEY!

— Jealous that your mother has a man and you don’t? — Klavdia shot back viciously.

That was the last straw. Nina walked to the front door and flung it open.

— OUT! All of you OUT! You have fifteen minutes to pack your things!

— You wouldn’t dare… — Grigory began.

— Security! — Nina called into the hallway.

Two guards appeared immediately.

— Escort these people out. They no longer LIVE here.

— Nina, come to your senses! — her mother pleaded. — Where will we go?

— I DON’T CARE! Go to Aristarh! And Grigory can finally start working!

— I’m depressed…

— You’re LAZY! Pathologically LAZY!

Evelina stood, chin lifted proudly.

— Let’s go, Grisha. We’re not welcome here. Your sister has shown her true colors.

— My true colors? — Nina laughed. — YOU’VE shown YOURS! GREEDY, SELF-SERVING, VILE!

 

With the guards watching, the trio reluctantly gathered their things. Klavdia sobbed, Grigory muttered curses, Evelina maintained icy composure.

— And leave the keys! — Nina shouted. — To the apartment, the car, the dacha!

— The dacha? But that’s… — Grigory began.

— MY dacha! Bought with MY money! The paperwork is in MY name!

Grinding their teeth, they left the keys on the entryway table.

— You’ll regret this, — hissed Klavdia. — You’ll end up all alone!

— Better alone than with VAMPIRES!

The door slammed. Nina leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. Her heart was pounding wildly, her hands were shaking. But inside there was a strange lightness. As if a heavy stone had fallen from her soul.

The phone rang five minutes later. Mother. Nina declined. Then Grigory. Declined again. Messages poured in one after another.

“Come to your senses!”

“We’re family!”

“You’re making a mistake!”

“Heartless!”

“We raised you!”

Nina blocked all the numbers. Then she called her secretary.

— Zlata? This is Nina Sergeyevna. If my mother, brother, or his wife call — tell them I’m unavailable. And don’t let them into the clinic.

— Understood, Nina Sergeyevna. Did something happen?

— Everything’s fine. I’m just putting my life in order.

That evening Nina sat in the quiet of her apartment. No one turned the TV up to full blast. No one demanded dinner. No one complained. She opened a bottle of wine — not the cheap stuff she bought for family get-togethers, but the expensive kind she loved. She poured a glass and raised a toast:

— To freedom!

A month passed. Nina blossomed. Colleagues remarked she looked ten years younger. There was a sparkle in her eyes; her smile became genuine. She signed up for dance classes, started going to the theater, meeting friends — things she previously had neither time nor energy for.

There was no word from the family. Only through mutual acquaintances did news trickle in: Klavdia had moved in with her sister out in the provinces, Grigory and Evelina had rented a studio on the outskirts.

Business at the clinic was excellent. Without the constant stress, Nina worked even more productively. New clients appeared, the staff expanded. She even met an interesting man — Timofey, the owner of a network of labs. He was intelligent, well-off, and most importantly, self-sufficient.

— You know, — he said over dinner one night, — I admire your strength. Not everyone can break off toxic relationships, even with family.

— It wasn’t easy, — Nina admitted. — But I don’t regret it.

— Good. Life’s too short to spend it on people who don’t value you.

They clinked glasses. Nina smiled. She was truly happy.

Then calls began from unknown numbers. Nina didn’t answer. But one day she picked up — the number had a different city code.

— Nina Sergeyevna? — an unfamiliar male voice. — This is Investigator Vorontsov. I need to talk to you about your brother.

— What happened? — Nina went cold.

— Grigory Sergeyevich has been detained on suspicion of fraud. He was taking out loans using forged documents.

— What?!

— He used your data, forged income statements. The total is more than five million rubles.

Nina sank into a chair.

 

— But how… I never gave consent…

— Precisely why you’re listed as the victim. We need your statement.

— I… I need to think…

— I understand. But keep in mind — if you don’t file a statement, the banks will still demand payment from you. The loans are in your name.

After hanging up, Nina grabbed her head. Five million! Grigory had run up DEBTS of FIVE MILLION in her name!

The phone rang again. Mother. From an unknown number.

— Nina! — Klavdia’s voice was full of panic. — Grisha’s been arrested! You have to help!

— I HAVE to? After what he did?

— He’s your brother!

— He’s a CRIMINAL! He forged documents! Took out loans in my name!

— He was desperate! You abandoned us!

— I stopped SUPPORTING you! That’s not the same thing!

— If you don’t help, he’ll go to prison!

— Let him GO! That’s his choice!

— Heartless! I’ll curse you!

— GO AHEAD! I stopped caring long ago!

Nina hung up. Her hands trembled with rage. Even now, when Grigory had committed a crime, her mother demanded she bail him out!

The next call was from Evelina.

— Nina, I know we’re not on good terms, but…

— NO! No “buts”! Your husband is a SWINDLER!

— He did it for the family!

— For the family? He was buying himself gadgets and you a car with STOLEN money!

— If Grisha is imprisoned, I’ll be alone… Pregnant…

— Pregnant? You decided to have a child with no means to live?

— We thought things would work out…

— You thought I would start supporting you again! NO! ENOUGH! That’s your problem!

— You’re killing your nephew!

— I’m killing no one! YOU are irresponsible! Having children without thinking how to provide for them!

Nina switched off the phone completely. Then she called her lawyer.

— Spartak? I need help. My brother took out loans in my name…

The proceedings dragged on for two months. Nina provided all documents proving the signatures were forged. The examination confirmed the forgery. Grigory was found guilty.

In court he looked pitiful. Gaunt, unshaven. When the judge read the sentence — three years in a general-regime colony — he burst into tears.

— Nina! — he shouted. — Forgive me! I was a fool!

She walked out of the courtroom without a word.

Outside the courthouse her mother waited. Aged, haggard.

— Happy now? — she hissed. — You had your brother locked up!

— He locked himself up.

— Because of you! If you hadn’t thrown us out…

— ENOUGH! — Nina turned on her mother. — Your whole life you BLAME everyone around you! But never yourselves! Grigory’s a thief not because I stopped supporting him, but because YOU raised him to be a loafer and a freeloader!

— I gave him everything…

— You gave him everything but the main thing — the ability to TAKE RESPONSIBILITY! And now he’s paying for it!

— Heartless witch!

— Yes, I’m heartless! Toward those who leeched off me for years! Toward those who betrayed my trust! Toward those who saw me as a cash cow!

— You’ll end up alone!

— GREAT! Better alone than with relatives like you!

Klavdia shouted something after her, but Nina didn’t listen. She got into her car and drove away.

Another year passed. Nina married Timofey. A modest wedding, only close friends. She invited none of her relatives.

They were happy. Timofey proved to be a caring, attentive husband. They traveled, grew their business, made plans for the future. Nina became pregnant. Life was settling into place.

And then a letter arrived. From Evelina. Handwritten, on cheap paper.

“Nina, I know you don’t want to see me. But I have to tell you something. About your mother and Grigory. About what they hid from you for years.

Your father didn’t die when you were five. He’s alive. He lives in Germany. He has a new family. Klavdia threw him out when she learned of his affair. But she kept getting alimony all these years. In your name. Only you didn’t know. The money went to a separate account your mother controlled.

Grigory knew. He and your mother shared the money. Over eighteen years a decent sum accumulated. Several million. But they spent it all. On their whims.

I found out by accident while going through Grisha’s papers before his arrest. I found old statements, correspondence with your father. He wrote you letters, but Klavdia intercepted them.

Your father is Veniamin Kryukov, the owner of a construction company in Munich. If you want, you can contact him.

I’m sorry I kept silent before. I was afraid. And now I have nothing to lose. Grisha is in prison, I’m alone with a child, scraping by with odd jobs. Klavdia is also in dire straits — Aristarh dumped her as soon as the money ran out.

I don’t know why I’m writing. I guess I want you to know the truth. You have the right.

Evelina”

Nina read the letter three times. Then she slowly sank onto the sofa. Her father was alive. ALIVE! And all these years he’d paid alimony, written letters, tried to contact her!

— What happened? — Timofey put his arm around her shoulders.

She silently handed him the letter. He read it, and his face darkened with anger.

— How vile! They stole not only money from you, but your father!

— Thirty years… Thirty years of lies…

— Will you contact him?

— I don’t know… Probably… I need time…

Timofey held her tighter.

— I’m here. Whatever you decide.

A week later Nina wrote to her father. A brief letter in German — fortunately, she knew the language well.

The reply came three days later. Veniamin wrote that all these years he had dreamed of seeing his daughter. That Klavdia had blackmailed him — threatened to tell Nina awful things, to turn her against him. That he kept every photo of her he could obtain through acquaintances.

He enclosed tickets to Munich. For two.

 

— Shall we go? — Nina asked her husband.

— Of course. This is important to you.

The meeting was emotional. Veniamin — tall, gray-haired, with kind eyes — wept as he hugged his daughter. His wife, Marta, and the children — Nina’s half-brother and sister — welcomed her warmly.

— I’m so sorry, — her father said. — That I didn’t fight harder. That I let Klavdia steal so many years from us.

— You didn’t steal them. She did. And Grigory.

— I heard what became of them. Your stepmother… I mean Marta… found information online.

— And?

— Klavdia lives in a government nursing home. Aristarh not only left her, he cleaned her out. He emptied her accounts — she foolishly gave him access. And Grigory… After prison, there’s another case waiting.

— I don’t care, — Nina said honestly. — They chose their path.

— You did well. You managed to break free. To build your life.

— It wasn’t easy.

— But you did it. I’m proud of you, daughter.

They spent a week in Munich. Veniamin showed them the city, introduced them to relatives, told them about his life. When they said goodbye, he gave Nina documents.

— What’s this?

— A power of attorney to manage my stake in some Russian business. I still have assets there.

Nina severed her last ties with the past: she blocked her mother’s and brother’s remaining numbers, changed her address, and even took a new last name after marriage. Klavdia Petrovna spent the rest of her days in the nursing home cursing her “ungrateful daughter,” blaming her for all her misfortunes and never acknowledging her own mistakes. After his release, Grigory fled the city to escape creditors and a new criminal case, leaving Evelina and the child to fend for themselves. And Nina lived a full, happy life with her loving husband Timofey — they had a beautiful daughter, Sofya; the family business flourished; and every summer they visited Grandpa Veniamin in Munich, where little Sofya played with her German uncle and aunt in delight, and where Nina finally found the family she had always dreamed of.

Cody Wanted to Give His Dying Grandmother a Day Full of Love — The Kind She Spent Her Whole Life Giving Others. He Took Her on a Date, and She Was Delighted. But When He Brought Her to One Final Surprise, the Tears in Her Eyes Said It All.

The golden morning light spilled through Debbie’s bedroom window, casting a glow on the delicate purple petals of her beloved orchids. Spring had always been her favorite season — when her garden bloomed into a symphony of purples, pinks, and whites.

Cody, twenty-five, watched from the doorway as she carefully pinned back her silver hair, just as she’d done for as long as he could remember. Her nightstand overflowed with blooming orchids, all cared for by her patient hands.

“Grandma, you don’t have to worry so much,” he said softly. “It’s just a date.”

She looked at him in the mirror and smiled, crinkling the corners of her eyes with a warmth that wrapped around his heart. “A lady always dresses up for a date, sweetheart — even if it’s with her grandson.”

Her voice was weaker than it had been a week ago, but that mischievous spark still danced in her eyes. “Besides,” Debbie added, picking up her favorite coral lipstick, “you never know who you might run into. What if Joe’s already there waiting to take me with him?”

 

Cody’s throat tightened. He’d spent weeks planning this day ever since the doctors gave them the timeline. Three months, maybe four. Debbie’s cancer was spreading faster than anyone expected, and she had chosen to stop treatment.

“I’ve lived a good life,” she told everyone with her signature calm. “I’d rather spend what’s left of it making memories than fighting a losing battle in a hospital room.”

That day in the doctor’s office, Cody had held her hand as the oncologist laid out the options. He expected fear — but instead, she squeezed his fingers and said, “Well, that just means we’ll have to make every day count, won’t we?”

That night, Cody began to plan something extraordinary. He remembered her once saying she’d love to visit all the places she had shared with Grandpa Joe one last time. So he decided to take her on a date — a day full of memories and love, worthy of everything she had given him.

How many more mornings would he get to memorize the way she misted her orchids with such tender care? How many more chances to hear her laugh? Would there be enough time to hear all her stories, just one more time?

“All done,” Debbie announced, smoothing down her favorite lavender dress. “How do I look?”

“As beautiful as ever, Grandma,” Cody said — and he meant it.

Though illness had hollowed her cheeks and softened her once-vibrant complexion, she radiated a grace that transcended her physical state. The dress brought color back to her cheeks, and she wore the delicate orchid brooch Grandpa Joe had given her on their 40th wedding anniversary.

He remembered that day — how Grandpa’s hands trembled as he pinned it to her dress, eyes shining with pride. Debbie had laughed through tears, and he had sniffled, pretending it was nothing.

Then “Can’t Help Falling in Love” had played on the old record player, and without a word, Joe had pulled her close. They danced slowly in the living room, the brooch catching the soft glow of the lamp as they swayed, holding each other like they never wanted to let go.

“You’re such a sweet boy,” Debbie chuckled, picking up her cane. “Just like your grandfather.” But when Cody stepped forward to help her up, she waved him off.

“I can manage this part.”

He watched her rise from the vanity chair with careful but determined movements. He had to resist the urge to rush to her side when she wobbled slightly, knowing how much she valued these small victories of independence.

She had always been like that — strong and sure. Even after Grandpa Joe passed, she insisted on tending the garden alone, though she eventually let Cody help with the heavier work.

The ride to their first stop passed in a comfortable silence, occasionally filled with Debbie’s gentle humming — snippets of “What a Wonderful World,” the song she and Joe had danced to at their wedding.

Cody took the long route, passing places filled with memories: the elementary school where she’d picked him up every day when his parents were working, the ice cream shop where she’d treated him after every baseball game — win or lose — and the park where she taught him to feed ducks and told him stories.

When they pulled into the botanical garden parking lot, Debbie gasped. The spring orchid showcase was in full bloom, and through the glass walls of the conservatory, splashes of color lit up the inside.

 

“Oh, Cody…” her voice wavered. “You remembered.”

“Of course I did, Grandma. You used to bring me here every spring, remember? You’d tell me the name of every orchid and I’d pretend I could pronounce them all.”

He helped her out of the car. The morning air was crisp and clean, promising a beautiful day. As they approached the entrance, the first notes of a saxophone drifted toward them. Debbie’s steps slowed as she recognized the familiar tune — “What a Wonderful World.”

There, beside a stunning display of purple and white orchids, stood a saxophonist, his golden music winding through the morning light like sunlight through trees. Debbie brought her hands to her mouth, her eyes brimming with tears.

“May I have this dance, Grandma?” Cody offered his hand — just as he’d practiced with the hospice nurse, learning how to support her weight while still making it feel like a real dance.

Debbie placed her trembling hand in his, and he drew her close, letting her rest against him as they gently swayed to the music. She leaned her head on his chest, and he felt her tears dampen his shirt.

“Your grandfather and I danced to this at our wedding,” she whispered. “And every anniversary after. Even in the hospital that last week… he hummed it to me. Said as long as we could still dance, everything would be okay.”

“Tell me about your first dance with him,” Cody prompted gently, knowing how much she loved to share her memories.

“Oh, it was at the Mountain View Ballroom… long gone now. I wore a blue dress my mother made, and Joe… he looked so handsome in his Sunday best. He stepped on my feet three times, but I didn’t care. When the song played, he looked at me like I was the only girl in the world. Two weeks later, he proposed by the fountain.”

The music ended, and Debbie sighed. “Thank you for this, Cody. Today… it feels like I got a little bit of him back.”

But the date wasn’t over yet.

Cody took her to a quiet café where they used to go for tea, then to the scenic overlook where Joe had once promised her the world. And finally, just as the sun began to dip low in the sky, Cody said, “One last stop.”

He led her into a cozy hall lit by soft fairy lights. Inside were all her closest friends, neighbors, and family. In the corner, a projector screen glowed to life. Cody stood beside it.

“I wanted you to know how much you’ve given all of us,” he said. “So… I asked everyone you’ve ever touched to share a memory of you.”

One by one, video messages began to play — children she used to babysit, now grown with families of their own. Former students who still remembered her kind words. Garden club friends. Nurses. Strangers she had helped.

Tears streamed down Debbie’s face.

And then, the final video played. A young woman held up a tiny baby.

“Hi, Debbie,” she said through tears. “I wanted you to meet the little girl you helped save. You held me while my mom recovered. You told her not to give up. She didn’t — and because of that, I’m here. Thank you.”

Debbie clutched Cody’s hand.

“How did you…?”

He smiled softly. “I just wanted you to see what you’ve done. What you’ve meant. You spent your whole life giving love, Grandma. Today, we gave a little back.”

Debbie looked around the room filled with laughter, tears, and flowers — the people whose lives she had shaped, hearts she had touched — and whispered, “Joe would’ve loved this.”

As the lights dimmed and Cody pulled her into one last slow dance, she laid her head on his shoulder and murmured, “Now I’m ready, darling. Whenever Joe’s ready for me… I’ll go with joy in my heart.”

And in that moment, surrounded by love, music, and blooming orchids — she truly was home.

Would you like this as a printable story or audiobook format?

After years of longing, Emily’s dream finally came true: she gave birth to beautiful triplet daughters. But one day later, her husband abandoned them, claiming they were cursed.

I looked at my three little girls, and my heart swelled as I took them in. Sophie, Lily, and Grace were perfect, each a miracle. I had waited for them so long—years of hope, waiting, and prayers.

And now they were here, sleeping in their cribs, their faces so peaceful. I wiped away a tear, overwhelmed by how much I loved them.

But then I looked up, and there was Jack. He had just returned from running errands, but something was wrong. He looked pale. He wouldn’t look me in the eye, and he didn’t come closer. He stood by the door, as though he wasn’t even sure he wanted to be in the same room.

“Jack?” I said softly, stroking the chair by the bed. “Come sit with me. Look at them, they’re here. We made it.”

“Yeah… they’re beautiful,” Jack murmured, barely glancing at the babies. He took a step closer but still wouldn’t look me in the eye.

 

“Jack,” I said, my voice trembling. “What’s going on? You’re scaring me.”

He took a deep breath and said, “Emily, I don’t think… I don’t think we can keep them.”

It felt like the sky had fallen down on me. “What?” I choked. “Jack, what are you talking about? They’re our daughters.”

He grimaced in pain and turned his gaze away as though he couldn’t stand to look at my face. “My mom… went to see a fortune teller,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

I blinked, unsure if I had heard him right. “A fortune teller? Jack, you can’t be serious.”

“She said… she said that these babies… our girls…” He paused, his voice unsteady. “She said they would only bring bad luck. That they would ruin my life and be the reason for my death.”

I gasped, staring at him, trying to comprehend what he was saying. “Jack, that’s crazy. They’re just babies.”

He lowered his gaze, his face filled with fear. “My mom swears by this fortune teller. She’s been right before, and… she’s never been so sure about anything.”

I felt anger rising, hot and sharp. “So, because of some ridiculous prediction, you want to abandon them? Leave them here, just like that?”

He stopped, looking at me with fear mixed with guilt. “If you want to take them home… fine,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I won’t be there. I’m sorry, Emily.”

I stared at him, trying to process his words, but all I felt was shock. “You’re serious, aren’t you?” My voice cracked. “You’re going to walk away from your daughters over a story your mother heard?”

He didn’t say anything. He just lowered his gaze, shoulders slumped.

I gasped for air, trying to hold myself together. “If you walk out that door, Jack,” I whispered, “don’t come back. I won’t let you do this to our daughters.”

He looked at me one last time, his face twisted in agony, but then he turned and headed for the door. “I… I’m sorry, Em,” he said softly, and he left, his footsteps echoing down the hallway.

I sat there, staring at the empty door, my heart pounding in my chest and my mind spinning. A nurse came back in, saw my face, and placed a hand on my shoulder, offering silent comfort as she gathered my things.

I looked at my babies, tears blurring my vision. “Don’t worry, girls,” I whispered, stroking each little head. “I’m here. I’ll always be here.”
While I hugged my triplets, I felt a mix of fear and fierce determination growing inside me. I had no idea how I would manage on my own, but I knew one thing for sure: I would never abandon my daughters. Never.

Weeks had passed since Jack left, and every day without him was harder than I had imagined. Taking care of three newborns by myself was overwhelming.

Some days, I felt like I could barely hold on, but I pushed forward for Sophie, Lily, and Grace. They were my whole world now, and although Jack’s abandonment hurt, I knew I had to focus on them.

One afternoon, my sister-in-law Beth came to help with the babies. She was the only one from Jack’s family who was willing to stay in contact with me, and I accepted, thinking I might be able to convince Jack to come back. That day, I realized something was bothering her.

Beth bit her lip, looking at me with a pained expression. “Emily, I’ve heard something… I’m not sure if I should tell you, but I can’t keep it to myself.”

My heart raced. “Tell me.”

 

She sighed and took a deep breath. “I heard mom talking to Aunt Carol. She… admitted there was no fortune teller.”

I froze. “What do you mean there was no fortune teller?”

Beth’s eyes filled with sadness. “Mom made it up. She was worried that with the triplets, Jack would have less time for her. She thought… thought that if she convinced him the babies would bring bad luck, he would stay closer to her.”

The room seemed to spin. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I felt a wave of anger so fierce that I had to put Grace down before my trembling hands betrayed me.

“That woman,” I whispered, my voice thick with rage. “She destroyed my family for her own selfish reasons.”

Beth placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Emily. I don’t think she realized what she was doing to you, but… I thought you should know the truth.”

That night, I didn’t sleep. Part of me wanted to confront my mother-in-law, make her face what she had done. But another part of me wanted to reach out to Jack, tell him the truth, and hope he would come back.

The next morning, I called Jack. My hands were shaking as I dialed, each ring felt longer than the last. Finally, he answered.

“Jack, it’s me,” I said firmly. “We need to talk.”

He sighed. “Emily, I don’t know if this is a good idea.”

“Just listen,” I insisted, struggling to keep my voice steady. “There was no fortune teller, Jack. Your mom made it all up.”

There was a long silence. Then he spoke, his voice calm but dismissive. “Emily, I don’t believe it. My mom wouldn’t make something so serious up.”

“She did, Jack,” I said, my anger bubbling to the surface. “She confessed it to Carol. Beth heard her. She lied to you because she was afraid of losing you.”

He scoffed. “Look, Em, that fortune teller has been right before. You don’t know her like I do. My mom wouldn’t lie about something this big.”

I felt my heart sink, but I forced myself to continue. “Jack, please, think about it. Why would she lie? It’s your family, your daughters. How can you abandon them over something like this?”

He didn’t answer, and finally, I heard him sigh. “I’m sorry, Emily. I can’t do it.”

The line went dead. I stared at the phone, realizing he had made a decision. He was gone.

In the following weeks, I did everything I could to adjust to life as a single mom. Every day was a struggle, balancing meals, diapers, and my own pain over the life I thought I would have with Jack.

But little by little, things started to change. Friends and family stepped in to help, bringing meals and holding the babies so I could rest. And despite everything, my love for Sophie, Lily, and Grace only grew. Each smile, each coo, or each tiny hand wrapped around my finger filled me with a joy that nearly erased the pain of Jack’s absence.

Several weeks later, there was a knock at my door. I opened it, and there stood Jack’s mother. Her face was pale, her eyes filled with regret.

“Emily,” she began, her voice trembling. “I… I didn’t want any of this to happen.”

I crossed my arms, struggling to maintain composure. “You lied to him. You convinced him that his own daughters were a curse.”

Tears filled her eyes as she nodded. “I was scared, Emily. I thought… I thought he would forget about me if he had you and the girls. I never thought he would really leave.”
I felt my anger soften, but only a little. “Your fear destroyed my family.”

She lowered her gaze, her face twisted in guilt. “I know. And I’m so sorry.”

I watched her for a moment, but my mind was already with my daughters, sleeping in the next room. “I have nothing more to say to you.”

She left, and I closed the door, feeling a strange mix of relief and sadness.

A year later, Jack appeared at my door, looking like a ghost of the man I once loved. He begged, saying that he had finally realized his mistake and wanted to come back, to be with us, and to be a family again.

But now I knew better. I looked him straight in the eyes and shook my head. “I already have a family, Jack. You weren’t there when we needed you. I don’t need you now.”

As I closed the door, I felt like a weight was lifted from me. After all, it wasn’t me or our daughters who ruined his life. It was him.

When my father died, I packed up my life and moved into his old house with my two kids, Ashton and Adam, 12 and 14 years old—both growing fast and always mischievous. It wasn’t much, but it was ours.

The night we moved in, I found Adam crying in his new room, clutching an old photo of his grandfather. “I miss him, Mom,” he whispered. “And sometimes… sometimes I miss Dad too. Even though I know I shouldn’t.”

I pulled him close, my heart breaking. “Hey, it’s okay to miss him. Your feelings are valid, sweetheart.”

“But he left us,” Adam’s voice cracked. “He chose ‘her’ instead of us.”

“He’s the one who lost out,” I said firmly, even though it hurt. “Because you and Ashton? You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

My husband had left years ago, choosing another woman over us. He sent child support like clockwork but never cared about birthdays, holidays, or even the occasional “Hey, how are my kids?”

My mother left when I was little, so I knew I couldn’t count on anyone else. Now it was just the three of us against the world.

And then there was Vincent, my neighbor.

His house was right next to ours, always quiet. He never had visitors or went anywhere except to do errands. He sat on the porch, in his wheelchair, eyes fixed on the road as if waiting for something that never came.

“Good morning,” I said whenever I saw him.

“Good morning,” he replied.

And that was the extent of our relationship. Just a “Good morning,” a “Hello,” and a “Hi” back… and nothing more.

I imagined that would be life: playing the role of mother and housewife, days blending into one another, surrounded by silence.

Until my kids brought home what I had forbidden for years.

 

I was washing dishes when they burst through the door, loud and excited.

“Mom, look what we’ve got!” Ashton shouted, holding a wriggling bundle of fur.

An adorable German shepherd puppy twisted between them, its huge floppy ears and wagging tail as if it already belonged to us. I stood stunned as Ashton gently set the little one down.

“What did you say? Where did you get that from?” I asked, blinking, already fearing the answer.

“It was free,” Adam quickly added. “A lady was giving them away. She said if nobody adopted them, they’d end up in a shelter.”

I crossed my arms. “And you thought bringing a puppy home was the solution?”

“He’s small!” Ashton argued. “He won’t eat much.”

I sighed. “Yeah, buddy, I was small once too. Look how that turned out.”

“Please, Mom!” Adam begged. “We’ll take care of him. You won’t have to do ANYTHING.”

Then came Ashton’s puppy eyes. “Please, Mom. You’re going to love him… he’s so cute.”

I looked at their hopeful faces, remembering my childhood dreams of having a dog—dreams that ended when my mom left, taking our family pet with her.

“Mom?” Ashton’s voice was small. “Remember what Grandpa used to say? That every house needs a heartbeat?”

I caught my breath. Dad had always wanted us to have a dog, but my fear of attachment and loss had always won out.

I sighed, looking at the puppy. He was tiny, with ears too big for his head and wagging his tail like he already loved us more than anything in the world. They outnumbered me.
Sure! Here’s the English translation of your story:

⸻
“What’s its name?” I asked.
“Asher!” declared Ashton.
“No way,” replied Adam. “It looks like a Simba.”
“Mom, tell us which is better.”
I rubbed my temples. “I don’t know, guys, it looks like a…”
The puppy let out a small bark.
Ashton whimpered. Adam punched his fist. And just like that, Simba was ours.

Two weeks later, we were walking Simba down the street when I heard Vincent’s voice for the first time, beyond our usual greetings.
“Miss, can we talk?”
I turned, surprised. He was sitting by his fence, watching us. Or rather, watching Simba.
I hesitated but approached, waving my hand. “Yes?”

“I used to train German Shepherds,” he said. “When I was in the army.”
Something about the way he said “used to” gave me a dull ache in my chest.
“Do you mind if I pet him?” he added.
I nodded, and Vincent leaned forward. He extended his hand, rough and weathered. The moment his fingers touched Simba’s fur, something changed.
I had never seen him smile before.

“Can I give him a treat?” he asked.
He turned his chair toward his house, but before he could cross the threshold, I heard a loud crash. I ran inside. He was slumped in his chair, with a broken bowl of cookies at his feet.
“I’m fine,” he murmured, but his hands trembled.
“No, you’re not,” I said softly, kneeling beside him. “And it’s okay.”

A broken ceramic bowl with cookies scattered on the floor | Source: Midjourney
His eyes met mine, filled with years of unspoken pain. “Sometimes I forget,” he whispered. “I can’t reach things like I used to, like my legs still…” His voice cracked.
Ignoring that, I grabbed a broom. Then I noticed the pictures on the walls. Dozens of them.
Vincent, younger and in uniform. Standing next to powerful, disciplined shepherd dogs jumping obstacles, standing at attention, waiting for orders.
I looked back at him. His gaze was fixed on one particular photo: a younger Vincent in the field, surrounded by five shepherds, his hand raised halfway through a command.
“That’s Shadow,” he pointed to the largest female dog. “She saved my life twice during my deployment. The last time…” He swallowed hard. “The last time cost us hers.”

“I miss her,” he admitted, his voice raw with something deep. “Dogs were my whole world. My family. My everything.”
He hesitated before adding, “I never got married. Didn’t want kids. Didn’t feel the need. They were enough.”
“After the accident,” he murmured, “that was it.”
I swallowed and looked at his legs. I didn’t have to ask what had happened. His life was over, even though he was still here. And then I realized.
“Would you help my boys train Simba?” I asked.
He looked startled. “What?”

“You know more about shepherds than anyone else. Teach them, Vincent… teach me.”
“I do,” I said firmly. “You NEED this.”
His eyes welled up. “Why? Why do you want to help a broken old man?”
“Because no one is broken,” I said, thinking of my own scars. “We’re all just… waiting to feel whole again.”

Vincent’s fingers curled tightly around the arms of his wheelchair, his knuckles pale. He stared at me for a long moment, his jaw tense, as if trying to swallow something heavy.
“I don’t know if I can still do this,” he admitted tiredly. “It’s been years.”
I stepped a little closer. “Then try.”
His eyes flickered with something I hadn’t seen before: hope, longing, and a struggle between wanting to believe and fearing it. Finally, he exhaled and closed his eyes for a second, as if making peace with something deep inside.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll do it.”
A smile broke across my lips, though my eyes stung.

From that day on, Vincent became part of our lives. Every afternoon, he sat in our yard, guiding my children through commands, corrections, and rewards.
“Firm voice, Adam, not angry. Simba listens to confidence, not fear.”
“Good, Ashton, but don’t overdo the treats. He needs to obey without expecting a bribe.”
One day, during training, Adam broke down crying because Simba wouldn’t listen to him. “I can’t do it! I’m not good enough.”
Vincent turned, voice soft but firm. “Son, look at me. Do you know why I liked working with shepherds? Because they’re like people… they need patience, understanding, and most importantly, they need someone who believes in them. Just like I believe in you.”

 

Little by little, Simba went from being a hyper puppy to a disciplined and intelligent dog. And my children? They grew too: more patient and responsible.
And Vincent? He came back to life: his once lonely life was now full of purpose, laughter, and something he thought he had lost forever.
One morning, he came to my porch with a book in his hand.
“I wrote this years ago,” he said, handing it to me. “A guide to training shepherds.”
I flipped through the worn pages, reading his careful handwritten notes.
“You’ve given me back something I thought was lost, Sandra,” he admitted, eyes fixed on Simba.

My throat burned. “We should have met earlier,” I whispered.
“Maybe we met at the right time,” he said.
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. Vincent was no longer just a neighbor. He was family. And maybe, just maybe, we had saved each other.

A year later, I found myself sitting in my car after dropping the kids off at school. But this time, I wasn’t staring into space. I was watching Vincent in the yard, setting up an agility course for Simba’s evening training.
My phone buzzed with a message from Adam: “Mom, don’t forget that tomorrow is Vincent’s birthday. Can we do something special?”

A woman smiling while holding her phone | Source: Midjourney
I smiled, remembering how last week Vincent had helped Ashton with his history project about military service dogs, and how he had stayed late telling stories about his time in the service, his voice full of pride and pain.
That night, as we gathered for our weekly family dinner, I saw Vincent laughing at one of Adam’s jokes, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Simba lay at his feet, protective and loving, just like his predecessors in those old photographs.
“You know,” Vincent said while the kids cleared the plates, “I used to think God had forgotten me. Sitting in that chair, watching life pass by… I thought I was done. But He hadn’t forgotten. He was just waiting for the right moment to send me what I needed.”
“What was it?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

He crossed the table and squeezed my hand, tears in his eyes. “A family. A purpose. A reason to smile again.”
My eyes filled with tears of joy, and I simply nodded. Vincent had taught us that every ending can be a new beginning. That the wheelchair was no longer his prison… it was just his seat at our family table.
And what about me? Those morning moments in the car had transformed. Now, instead of wondering about the meaning of it all, I knew the answer: The meaning was love. The meaning was family. The meaning was finding purpose by helping others find theirs.
And sometimes, the meaning was making a disabled veteran smile again.

 

My new neighbors seemed strange from the beginning. Their little girl played alone, and I ended up spending half the day with her until her mother finally appeared. Out of courtesy, she invited me into their home.

The next day, I found the girl abandoned with a heartbreaking note. I decided to act immediately.

It was a typically quiet day in our small suburban neighborhood when I saw the moving truck pulling up to the old house next door. The place had been abandoned for years, and seeing any activity there was surprising enough.
I stood by the window, peeking through the curtains like a curious cat.

 

“Who are they?” I muttered to myself, trying to make sense of what I was seeing.
The man was tall, with sharp features that made him look like he’d stepped out of a film noir.
But the woman with him was something else entirely—pale, almost ghostly, with a distant gaze, as if she was there but not really present.

 

She couldn’t have been older than four. So tiny, with big, innocent eyes, clutching a worn-out teddy bear like it was her only friend in the world.
She played alone in the overgrown yard, and her small frame looked even smaller among the wild grass and tangled weeds.
What a strange family!

 

Samuel and I had always dreamed of having children. But after years of trying, it became painfully clear that it wasn’t going to happen for us.
Samuel never talked much about it—he always shrugged it off or quickly changed the subject.
And me? I couldn’t forget the dream. And seeing that little girl, so alone… stirred something deep inside me.

 

A few days later, I went out for my usual walk around the neighborhood. As I turned the corner, there was the neighbor’s little girl—this time dangerously close to the street.
“Hi, sweetheart,” I called gently, hurrying over. “Don’t play so close to the road, okay?”
She looked up at me with those big, innocent eyes, and for a moment, I just stood there, taking her tiny hand in mine.
I walked her back to her house and knocked on the door. No answer. My hand hesitated on the doorknob.

 

I took a deep breath and opened it—just a crack.
The house was nearly empty, just a few old pieces of furniture and scattered boxes. It was like they had moved in but never settled. There was no one inside.

 

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” I asked, crouching down to her level.
“Lily,” she answered, her voice soft as a whisper.
“Well, Lily,” I said, “how about we do some drawing?”
“I don’t have any crayons.”
Those words punched a hole right through my heart.
“Alright then! Let’s use a stick and some dirt outside,” I tried to cheer her up.
She nodded enthusiastically, and I began drawing simple shapes in the dirt with a stick: a heart, a star, and the letter “A.” Lily watched me closely, her eyes growing wide with each movement of the stick.
“Can I try?” she asked, picking up a stick.

“Of course,” I said, handing it to her. “Why don’t you try writing your name?”
She carefully drew a wobbly “L” in the dirt, then looked up at me for approval.
“Wonderful, Lily! You’re doing so well,” I encouraged her.
After a while, we moved on to another game. I pointed to some stones nearby.
“Let’s build something together. How about a castle?”

We gathered stones and stacked them on top of each other. It was really just a simple structure, but to Lily, it seemed like the most magnificent thing in the world.
“Look, it’s like a tower,” she said, carefully placing a little pebble on top.
“It is. And here’s another one for the other side,” I added, handing her a flat stone. “You know, a princess could live here.”
Lily’s face lit up even more at the idea.

 

“And the prince can live here,” she said, pointing to a spot on the other side.
I noticed how focused Lily was on the task, as if each stone were a precious gem. It made me wonder if she’d ever had real toys to play with.
“Thank you for playing with me.”
Her words filled my heart.

 

As the sun began to set, I started to worry about what to do.
Finally, the girl’s mother appeared—almost out of nowhere. She looked surprised to see me, but showed no emotion.
“Thank you,” she said curtly, walking toward the girl. “I was nearby the whole time.”
There was no warmth, no smile—just those words. Before she left, she added,
“Why don’t you come over for tea tomorrow?”

 

It wasn’t so much an invitation as a command. But I nodded anyway.
I looked at Lily. She had been so engaged, so full of life while we played, but the moment her mother appeared, something in her seemed to change.
“Lily, it’s time to go.”
Without a word, Lily walked to her mother, and her small hand slipped into the woman’s cold grasp. She didn’t protest or hesitate—just obeyed in silence.

 

Lily looked back at me. “Will you come play with me again?”
“Of course, sweetheart,” I replied, my voice catching in my throat.
As I watched them disappear down the path, a feeling of unease settled in my chest. That sadness in Lily’s eyes—it was like a silent plea, a cry for help she didn’t know how to express.
There was something strange about that family—something I couldn’t quite name.

 

The next day, I hesitated, staring at the peeling paint on the neighbors’ door, and then knocked. No answer. I knocked again, louder this time, but still no response.
“Hello? It’s me, your neighbor,” I called out, hoping to hear some sign of life inside.
Nothing. The house remained eerily silent, and the quiet weighed on me like a heavy blanket. After what felt like an eternity, I cautiously pushed the door open and stepped inside.

 

My footsteps echoed loudly on the wooden floor as I moved through the rooms, each one emptier than the last.
Then, in the living room, I found Lily. She was sitting on the floor with a pack of cookies and a bottle of water. She held a piece of paper in her small hands.

 

“Lily?” I whispered, kneeling down beside her.
She didn’t say anything—just handed me the note. I unfolded the paper, and the heartbreaking message sent a chill through me:
“She’s yours if you want her. We know you’ll take good care of her.”
I stared at the words, my mind racing.

 

Who would do such a thing? Abandon their child like this, leaving her in an empty house with nothing but a note?
Panic started to build in my chest, and I grabbed Lily, pulling her close.
“We have to go,” I whispered, lifting her into my arms.
As I headed toward the door, one terrifying thought crossed my mind.

I stood frozen for a moment, my heart pounding. But then I looked at Lily. I couldn’t leave her there, no matter the risks.
When we got to my house, Samuel was already home. He looked up from the sofa as we walked in.
I gently set Lily down and handed her a box of cookies and a glass of milk.

 

“Here you go, sweetheart. Why don’t you have a snack and watch some cartoons?” I said, turning on the TV to distract her.
Once she was settled, I turned to Samuel, who was now standing with an angry look on his face.
“Why is there a child in our house, Eliza?” he raised his voice.
“Samuel, I found her alone,” I began, my voice trembling. “In that empty house, with nothing but this note.”
I handed him the paper. He read the note quickly, then looked at me.
“You broke our agreement, Eliza. We agreed there would be no children in this house.”

 

“Samuel, I couldn’t leave her there! She was all alone, with no one to care for her,” I pleaded, trying to make him understand.
But his anger only grew.
“I told you I didn’t want children! And now you’ve brought a little girl into our home? Do you realize what you’ve done?”
His words cut deep, like a knife twisting in my chest.

 

“You never said that! All these years you said it was because of your health…”
He looked away, his jaw clenched.
“I lied. I never wanted kids, Eliza. I just didn’t want to lose you.”
It felt like the ground had been ripped out from under me. All those years, all those hopes and dreams… I had been living a lie.
Then Samuel gave me his ultimatum:

 

“Either you take her back, or both of you leave.”
I looked at him—the man I had loved and trusted—and realized I couldn’t stay. Not like this. Not with him.
Without another word, I walked away, gathering a few belongings. I packed a small bag, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to spill.
I couldn’t abandon Lily after everything she had already been through.

 

When I took Lily’s hand and led her to the door, Samuel didn’t stop me. He just stood there—cold and distant—as if we were strangers.
I had no idea where we would go.
Eventually, we ended up at the school where I work and spent the night in my office. I knew it wasn’t a permanent solution, but it was a start.

 

In the days that followed, I began the process to adopt Lily, but it wasn’t easy. The authorities insisted I needed a stable home.
Then, unexpectedly, I was informed that Lily’s biological parents had left her an inheritance: the house. So I could adopt Lily and move in there.
Shocked, I dug deeper and discovered that Lily’s adoptive parents—my neighbors—had only taken her in for the inheritance. But when they realized they couldn’t care for her, they decided she deserved better.

 

To make sure she wouldn’t end up in another home for the wrong reasons, they left both her and the house in my care. We moved in the same day, and the house became our home, filled with warmth and love.
Lily slowly began to open up, and every time she called me “Mom,” my heart swelled.
Samuel, who now lived alone, started to rethink his decisions. He began helping around the house and looking after Lily when I was busy.
Forgiving him wasn’t easy, but his efforts made me feel that maybe we could find our way back to each other.

 

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If you liked this story, read this one: My husband was cheating on me with my boss and I endured it in silence. Then my boss gave me tickets to faraway islands, clearly with her own agenda. At the airport, I found myself struggling to get a taxi. I didn’t know that chaotic moment would mark the beginning of an unexpected love story. Read the full story here.

When my ex-husband suddenly said that he wanted to reconnect with our daughter, I thought that maybe he was finally ready to be the father she deserved. I never imagined the real reason for his sudden interest. The truth made my blood boil.

Being a single mother of a five-year-old girl is not as easy as it seems. I’ve been doing it alone since the day my ex-husband, Leo, decided he wanted to live with the woman he had had an affair with.

Leo left me almost three years ago, when Lily was only two years old and I needed a partner who could be by my side while I took care of our little one.

But no, the man I trusted the most decided to abandon me and go live with another woman just a few blocks away.

Honestly, I didn’t stop him or begged him not to leave me. My pride didn’t allow me. But when Lily grew up, she started asking questions that broke my heart.

Questions like “Why doesn’t dad come to see me?” And “Dad doesn’t love me anymore?” Every time I asked, I felt like they were tearing out a piece of my heart.

I did everything I could to give Lily everything she needed. I worked double shifts at the hospital where I am a nurse, to make sure I had nice clothes and could go to a good daycare.

 

But seeing other children at school talking about their parents made her feel excluded. He got home and told me that he would like Dad to be present at the school works or to read him stories before going to sleep.

That’s when I swallowed my pride and decided to call him.

I told him about his feelings, how he cried sometimes at night, asking about his dad. I begged him to be present for our girl and to at least try to be the father she deserved.

“Leo, he misses you,” I told him during that call. “Ask for you every day. Can’t you visit it from time to time?”

“I’m busy, Stacey,” he replied coldly. “Now I’m building a new life. You’ll manage.”

He did not appear on their birthdays or at special events. Not even when he was given his first bicycle or when he lost his first tooth. I guess he was too busy with the new woman in his life, planning their perfect future together.

That’s how everything was until last week.

It was any Friday morning when I saw his name blink on my phone screen. I almost didn’t answer.

But something made me answer the call.

“Stacey, I’ve been thinking a lot,” he told me. “I’m ashamed of myself. I want to reconnect with our daughter.”

My heart turned upside down. After three years of silence, would you like to come back?

“Can I take it to you on the weekend? Just us,” he continued. “I want to show you how much it means to me. I want to show him that he still has his father. I… made a mistake and I want to fix it.”
b

Lily had been very quiet lately.

He had stopped asking about his father, which in a way seemed worse to me than when he used to cry for him. I thought maybe this could be good for her.

“Are you going to take this seriously, Leo?” I asked him. “Because if you hurt him again, I swear…”

 

“I’m serious,” he interrupted me. “I promise you. It’s about her, not us.”

I said yes. Because as much as he hated what he had done to me, I would never get in the way of his relationship with his father.

All children deserve to know that their father loves them.

So I made her unicorn backpack with pajamas, snacks, her favorite teddy bear and a pink dress that she loved.

I gave her the strongest hug and told her that Dad was going to spend the whole weekend with her, just as he had promised.

“Really, little one,” I said, kissing her forehead.

We agreed that he would bring her back on Sunday at five o’clock in the afternoon.

As I watched them walk away, I hoped I had made the right decision. I hoped I didn’t have to regret having sent her with him.

On Saturday he sent photos of Lily in the park, laughing on a carousel and applauding in a children’s theater. He smiled in each and every one of the photos, and it seemed that everything he had said he would do was really happening.

I was happy. I thought that maybe he had finally realized what he had lost when he walked away from us.

I was waiting at home, cleaning and getting ready for Lily’s return, when my sister called me.

“Stacey, how could you allow this?” he asked me. “Did you see what your ex did to Lily?”

“Allow what?” I asked, confused. “He promised her father-daughter time at an amusement park, ice cream, all those things. Lily misses him a lot and I thought…”

“My God, he lied to you,” he said, his voice softened by the shock. “Oh God. I thought you knew. I just saw it on Instagram.”

My heart began to beat hard. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m sending you a photo right now,” he told me.

My phone buzzed. It was a screenshot of an Instagram account that I didn’t recognize. But I immediately recognized the people who appeared in it.

There they were. Leo and his lover turned bride, Rachel, fully dressed as a bride and groom for a wedding.

And right between them, with a small bouquet in her hand and a white dress with ruffles that I had never seen before, was my daughter.

My innocent Lily, who seemed completely lost and confused.

That’s why Leo wanted to take Lily with him on the weekend. He was going to marry Rachel and they wanted Lily to be their florist. How could they do it without telling me?

The captions were all hashtags and false sweetness. “#OurDay #CompleteFamily #MyPrincess #FlowerGirl #BlessingFamily”.

Boiling with rage, I immediately called Leo, but the voicemail jumped directly.

I called again, but he didn’t answer.

 

I looked at the photos again and recognized the place in the background.

It was a local farm with a huge glass gazebo that I had passed by car hundreds of times. They were probably still there, celebrating their perfect day with my daughter as an involuntary prop.

So I took the keys and drove straight there.

My heart was racing at a thousand per hour while a million questions crowded into my mind.

How could he do this to him? How could he lie to both of us like that?

The twenty-minute journey seemed like hours to me.

Lily’s confused face kept coming to my mind. My little girl had no idea they were using her. I just thought that Dad wanted to spend time with her.

When I arrived at the place, I found them on the edge of the reception area. The bride laughed with her friends, showed her ring and posed for more photos.

Meanwhile, Leo sipped champagne as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t finished betraying his daughter.

I made my way through the crowd of guests, leaving behind the faces of amazement and the conversations in a low voice. I didn’t mind setting up a scene.

I only cared about finding Lily.

She was sitting on a bench in the corner, still in her flower girl dress, hugging her teddy bear and looking like she wanted to disappear. When he saw me, his whole face lit up with relief.

“Mommy, can we go home now?” he whispered, extending his arms towards me.

I immediately lifted her in my arms and held her against my chest. “Yes, honey. We’re going home right now.”

That’s when Rachel ran over, still with her fake smile.

“Wait!” he said. “We haven’t taken the family photo yet!”

Family photo, I thought. Yes, of course.

I looked her straight in the eyes.

“They used my daughter as a prop for her Instagram wedding,” I said, with a trembling voice with rage. “She’s not your flower girl. She’s my girl. And she had no idea why she was here.”

“Well, she looks pretty,” he said. “I needed a little girl as a florist for the photos. And it’s not that we have our own… yet.”

It was about to explode. I wanted to say things that I would regret later, but that moment never came.

One of Rachel’s bridesmaids, Sarah, stepped forward. I didn’t know that woman, but she seemed very upset by what she had just heard.

“She planned all this,” Sarah announced. “Rachel told us that she needed a flower girl for the photos, and that she would ask Leo to ‘lend her daughter’ and make it happen. He literally said, ‘Your mother will believe it. Tell him it’s a father-daughter weekend.”

That’s when all eyes turned to Rachel.

“Oh, Sarah is just jealous,” he said with a fake laugh. “He just wants to ruin my day.”

But it was already too late. People were already looking at Rachel and Leo with judgment in their eyes.

One of the godparents, Leo’s cousin, turned to me and said, “I’m very sorry, Stacey. I had no idea they were lying to you.”

I nodded, too exhausted to speak. What was left for me to say?

I had seen enough. Those people didn’t deserve a second more of my time, and of course my daughter didn’t deserve to be in the middle of that.

Without saying a word, I held Lily in my arms and left that place. I didn’t look back.

On Monday morning, half of the bride’s guests had stopped following her on social media. He had even removed the wedding photos from Instagram.

Honestly, I wasn’t surprised. This is what happens when you use someone else’s child as props for your wedding photos.

Looking back, I’m grateful that my sister called me that day. If I hadn’t done it, I wouldn’t have known the truth until it was too late.

Thanks to her, I was able to bring Lily home safe and sound.

And Leo? She won’t have the opportunity to be near my daughter in the near future. Not until I learn what it means to be a father.

This work is inspired by real facts and people, but has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters and details have been changed to protect intimacy and improve narration. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, or to real facts is pure coincidence and is not the author’s intention.

The author and the editor do not guarantee the accuracy of the events or the representation of the characters, and are not responsible for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is”, and the opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or the editor.

I vividly recall the fragrance of the fresh flowers at the wedding. The pristine white linens, the clinking of crystal glasses, the murmur of laughter—none of it could obscure the insignificance I experienced that day.My name is Isabelle Hart. I have never originated from wealth. During college, I had two jobs, frequently forgoing meals to afford rent. My mother was employed as a housekeeper, while my father worked as a handyman. While we were never devoid of love, we consistently lacked an alternative—stability. Subsequently, I encountered Daniel Weston. For demonstration purposes exclusively He exhibited kindness, intelligence, and humility in ways I had not anticipated from an individual born into substantial affluence. The media referred to him as “The Billionaire with a Backpack,” as he preferred sneakers over Italian loafers. We encountered each other in an unexpected location—a bookshop situated in a tranquil Boston neighbourhood. I was employed part-time while pursuing my master’s degree in education. He entered in search of a book about architecture, and we subsequently engaged in a two-hour discussion about classic literature. It was not a fairy tale. We possessed significant distinctions. I was unaware of the term wine sommelier, and he was oblivious to the concept of living pay cheque to pay cheque. We succeeded via love, patience, and much humour. Upon his proposal, his parents exhibited cordiality; yet, their eyes revealed that I did not align with their expectations. To them, I was the charitable beneficiary who had “captivated” their son. His mother, Vivian, would smile at me during brunches but then recommend that I don “something modest” for family gatherings, as if I had something to validate. His sister, Charlotte, was in a more dire condition. She feigned ignorance of my existence for a significant portion of the time. Nevertheless, I reassured myself that they would eventually change their perspective. That love would close the divide. Subsequently, Charlotte’s nuptials occurred. She was marrying an investment banker—an individual who vacationed in the Maldives and owned a yacht named Ambrosia. The guest list comprised prominent figures of East Coast society. Daniel and I had just returned from an overseas volunteering trip and flew directly to the home hosting the wedding.

 

For demonstration purposes exclusively The difficulties arose almost instantaneously. “Isabelle, could you assist us with the table arrangements?” Charlotte gently offered me a clipboard before I had even set down my suitcase. I closed and opened my eyes rapidly. “Certainly.” Isn’t that the responsibility of the wedding planner? “Oh, she is overwhelmed.” Your organisational skills are exceptional. It will require merely a minute. That minute extended into hours. I folded napkins, transported boxes, and organised the seating chart, since Charlotte asserted I possessed the ability to maintain neutrality. Other bridesmaids observed me as if I were a servant. No one enquired if I required water, sustenance, or a respite. During the rehearsal dinner, Charlotte’s mother ensured that I was seated three tables away from Daniel—adjacent to the valet staff. I attempted to dismiss it with laughter. I wished to avoid creating a disturbance. The following morning, when I donned my blush-hued gown—modest, naturally—I reassured myself, It’s merely one day. Allow her to possess it. You are uniting in matrimony with your soulmate, and that is what is significant. However, the ultimate tipping point arrived. At the wedding reception, I approached the head table to sit by Daniel when Charlotte obstructed my path. “Oh, dear,” she remarked, resting her manicured palm on mine, “the photographers require symmetry.” The table has been filled. Could you assist the servers in presenting the desserts? I gazed at her. “Do you wish for me to serve the cake?” She radiated joy. “Merely for a few photographs.” Subsequently, you may take a seat, I assure you. For demonstration purposes exclusively At that moment, I observed Daniel on the opposite side of the room. He had been approached by a family acquaintance. He was unaware. He had not observed. However, I was unable to move. I experienced a surge of heat in my chest, with humiliation enveloping me like cold rain. For a brief moment, I nearly acquiesced. Long-standing habits are difficult to relinquish. However, an individual collided with me, causing champagne to cascade down my dress—and Charlotte remained utterly unfazed. She only presented me with a serviette. At that moment, Daniel emerged behind her. “What is occurring?” He enquired with composure, although his tone conveyed firmness. Charlotte pivoted, beaming with joy. “Oh, Daniel!” We requested Isabelle’s assistance in serving the cake. Her practical approach is well-suited to her. Daniel glanced at me, then at the serviette I held, and subsequently at the subtle stain on my dress. Subsequently, all activity ceased. He approached the microphone adjacent to the band. It was tapped twice. The hall became silent. Numerous gazes were directed at him. “I trust you are all appreciating this splendid wedding,” he commenced. “Congratulations, Charlotte and Marcus.” The venue is exquisite, and the cuisine is exceptional. “Before we proceed with cutting the cake, I must express a few words.” My heart sank. “Many of you recognise me as Daniel Weston—associated with the Weston Group, the Fortune list, and various other accolades that individuals often mention.” However, none of those factors are as significant as the lady I adore. The woman positioned directly here. For demonstration purposes solely, he extended his hand towards mine. This is Isabelle. She is my fiancée. She is exceptionally intelligent, empathetic, and exhibits an unparalleled work ethic. However, today she was regarded as an afterthought. Desire assistance.

As if one were an outsider. A profound quiet. “That,” he added, “is intolerable.” Not solely due to her status as my partner, but because it is morally incorrect. No one should be made to feel insignificant in the presence of others who profess to understand love. If my presence here implies my endorsement of that behaviour, let me clarify—I do not. Charlotte’s jaw clenched. Vivian appeared pallid. Daniel faced me. “Isabelle, you merit more than this.” “Accompany me.” We exited. In that manner. He relinquished the remainder of the evening without hesitation. We entered his vehicle and departed, still attired in our bridal garments. No one pursued. We halted at a small diner along the highway, got pancakes, and split a milkshake. He removed his blazer, placed it over my shoulders, and remarked, “I apologise for not noticing it earlier.” “I wished to avoid spoiling her day,” I murmured. “You did not.” You have just preserved my life. That evening, he arranged a journey to the mountains, and we clandestinely married two days thereafter beneath a starry sky. Absence of seating charts. Prohibition of champagne towers. Only we, a local clergyman, and the wind as our testimony. For demonstration purposes exclusively In the subsequent months, we received unsolicited calls from relatives. Charlotte issued a perfunctory apology, primarily concerned about her reputation rather than genuine contrition. Vivian extended an invitation for breakfast “to resolve misunderstandings.” Daniel rejected all of them. “I do not wish for you to ever feel compelled to diminish yourself to conform to my existence,” he stated. “Let us construct one of our own.” And we accomplished that. I returned to academia and established a charity organisation for disadvantaged children. He contributed the initial funding and never claimed recognition. We relocated to a quaint house with a view of the lake, rather than a mansion, and populated it with laughing, literature, and pets we rescued collectively. Individuals frequently presume that affluence facilitates comfort. However, I have discovered that it is love that genuinely uplifts you.

I was treated as a servant at a wedding. However, I departed with a spouse who recognised my value. Consequently, I became the most fortunate woman present. Lesson of the Narrative: Occasionally, the most impactful declarations are conveyed not through elevated tones, but through silent departures. Do not permit someone to diminish your brilliance for their own comfort. When you encounter an individual who recognises your value in the absence of acknowledgement from others, grasp onto them firmly.This work is influenced by narratives from the daily experiences of our audience and composed by a skilled author. Any similarity to real names or locales is entirely accidental. All photos are solely for illustrative purposes.

The boom of a crimson Ferrari engine shattered the tranquilly of the suburban street. Onlookers stared as the opulent vehicle raced by, the maid’s white apron billowing dramatically while she clutched the steering wheel, her hands still encased in yellow cleaning gloves.

A little girl in the passenger seat lay asleep, her pallid face against the seatbelt. Household cleaning robots Jasmine Clarke, a live-in maid for the influential real estate tycoon Charles Davenport, had never operated a vehicle more luxurious than her cousin’s antiquated Toyota. Upon seeing twelve-year-old Emily Davenport fallen in her bedroom, struggling for breath and unresponsive, she had little time for contemplation. Her phone lacked signal. The closest ambulance would require a minimum of twenty minutes to arrive. In the driveway rested the sole vehicle capable of transporting Emily to the hospital in under five minutes. The Ferrari automobile. Her hands trembled as she seized the keys from the kitchen counter. Each second felt like an offence, yet Emily’s laboured breaths dictated her choice. Jasmine secured the girl in the passenger seat and hoped she recalled sufficient knowledge from her driver’s education course years prior. Household cleaning robots As she sped down the main road, horns sounded as traffic manoeuvred to evade her unpredictable driving. Jasmine’s heart raced. If she damaged the car, she would forfeit more than her employment—she may face imprisonment. However, if she did not make an effort, Emily’s survival could be jeopardised.

As the hospital approached, Jasmine murmured through tears, “Hold on, baby girl.” Do not abandon me. Upon her abrupt halt at the emergency entrance, physicians hurried outside. Jasmine lifted Emily into her arms and exclaimed, “She’s not breathing properly!” “Kindly assist her!” In just seconds, the girl vanished into the emergency room. Jasmine sank into the curb, her apron marked by sweat and tears, as the Ferrari’s engine idled. She scarcely acknowledged the astonished gazes of onlookers—she had just jeopardised everything. Unbeknownst to her, Charles Davenport had been notified on the unauthorised departure of his Ferrari from the estate. Upon his arrival at the hospital, seething with anger, he was prepared to contact the authorities. However, the vision that before him would alter everything. Charles Davenport entered the hospital lobby with fervour, his fancy suit attracting as much notice as the anger displayed on his countenance. “Where is she located?” He shouted at the receptionist. “My maid stole my Ferrari!” Household cleaning robots Before the woman could respond, Charles’s gaze fixated on Jasmine, who was slumped in a chair, her gloves still donned and her face marked by tears. “You,” he spat, advancing towards her.

 

“Are you aware of your actions?” The value of that car exceeds the entirety of your existence. Jasmine gazed at him, fatigued yet resolute. “I am indifferent to your automobile,” she stated hoarsely. Emily was unable to breathe. I needed to bring her here. Time was insufficient for waiting. Charles became immobile. “Is Emily present?” As if prompted, a physician emerged from the emergency department. “Mr. Davenport?” Your daughter experienced a critical asthma attack. She is currently stable; but, an additional delay may have been lethal. The individual who admitted her preserved her life. The words lingered in the atmosphere with the force of a hammer strike. Charles gradually faced Jasmine, his fury abruptly intersecting with incredulity. “You…” His voice wavered. “I did not appropriate your vehicle,” Jasmine said. “I rescued your daughter.” For the first time in years, Charles Davenport—billionaire, mogul, a man who believed all things had a price—experienced profound helplessness. The sight of his cherished Ferrari accelerating away had incited his fury. However, the sight of his daughter, comatose and brought into the emergency room by the maid he scarcely acknowledged, resonated more profoundly than any monetary setback. Household cleaning robots Nevertheless, pride gnawed at him. You ought to have summoned an ambulance. “That is the behaviour exhibited by typical individuals.” Jasmine’s eyes gleamed. “And wait twenty minutes as she perished?” You were absent. I was. Her words rendered him mute. The doctor remarked, “Honestly, Mr. Davenport, she responded more swiftly than the majority would.” Your daughter survives due to her. Charles remained unresponsive. His eyes fell to his shoes, his jaw clenched. For a guy habituated to dominance, he abruptly possessed none. After several hours, while Emily rested quietly, Charles emerged to find Jasmine seated alone on a bench. The Ferrari was parked nearby, its formerly immaculate paint now marred by dust and filth. Jasmine rose abruptly. “I comprehend if you wish to terminate my employment,” she stated softly. “However, I would repeat the action.” Each and every occasion. Charles scrutinised her. For the first time, he perceived not “the maid,” but a woman who had jeopardised her freedom, her means of subsistence, and potentially her life for his child. Household cleaning robots “He conceded gradually that he had considered Emily’s safety more than I had.” I was concerned about a vehicle. You expressed concern for my daughter. Jasmine swallowed, uncertain of how to respond. Charles exhaled audibly, then astonished her with unexpected remarks. You are not terminated. Indeed… I am indebted to you beyond my capacity to repay. “Had you not intervened, I would currently be arranging a funeral.” Tears accumulated in Jasmine’s eyes, yet she compelled a faint smile. “She is a commendable child.” She was undeserving of that treatment. After years, Charles extended his hand and placed it on another’s shoulder with sincere appreciation. “You did not either.” From this point forth, you are no longer merely my subordinate. You are considered family. Family holiday packages Jasmine blinked, astonished. Although the Ferrari’s engine had long since cooled, the narrative of the maid who “stole” it to rescue her employer’s daughter disseminated well beyond the confines of the hospital. To the astonishment of all, including herself, the billionaire’s response was not one of retribution. It was appreciation. At that time, Charles Davenport learnt a lesson that his affluence had never imparted: automobiles are replaceable. The family is incapable.

IDivorced, my husband threw an old pillow at me with a sneer. When I unzipped it to wash it, I was stunned by what was inside…

Héctor and I had been married for five years. From the very first day I became his wife, I grew accustomed to his cold words and indifferent glances. Héctor was never violent or loud, but his apathy drained me, little by little, until my heart felt hollow.

After our wedding, we moved into his parents’ house in a neighborhood in Mexico City.

Every morning, I woke up early to cook, do the laundry, and clean.

Every evening, I sat waiting for him to come home, only to hear the same dismissive words:

“Yeah, I already ate.”

I often wondered if this marriage was any different from simply being a tenant. I tried to build, I tried to love, but all I received in return was an empty silence I could never fill.

For illustrative purposes only.
One day, Héctor came home with his usual blank expression.

He sat across from me, placed a stack of papers on the table, and said in a flat voice:

“Sign it. I don’t want to waste either of our time anymore.”

I froze. Deep down, I wasn’t surprised. With tears stinging my eyes, I picked up the pen with trembling hands. Memories came rushing back—nights waiting at the dinner table, the lonely hours enduring stomachaches in the dark, the endless ache of being unseen. Each one felt like a wound reopening.

After signing, I began to pack my things.

There was nothing in that house that was truly mine, except for a few clothes and the old pillow I always slept with.

As I pulled my suitcase toward the door, Héctor tossed the pillow at me, his voice dripping with mockery:

“Take it and wash it. It’s probably about to fall apart.”

I caught the pillow, my heart tightening. It was indeed old—the pillowcase was faded, yellowed in places, and torn at the seams.

That pillow had followed me from my mother’s home in a small town in Oaxaca, where I grew up, to university in the city. Later, it came with me into marriage. I couldn’t sleep without it. Héctor used to complain about it often, but I never gave it up.

I left his house in silence.

Back in my rented room, I sat staring at the pillow, still hearing his sarcastic words. Wanting to at least rest peacefully that night, I decided to remove the pillowcase and wash it.

But as I unzipped it, I felt something strange. There was a hard lump hidden inside the soft cotton filling. My hand froze. Carefully, I reached in and pulled out a small bundle, neatly wrapped in a nylon bag.

For illustrative purposes only.
My hands trembled as I opened it. Inside was a thick stack of 500-peso bills and a folded piece of paper.I unfolded the note. The handwriting was instantly familiar—shaky, but unmistakably my mother’s:

“My daughter, this is the money I saved for you in case of hardship. I hid it in the pillow because I feared you’d be too proud to accept it. No matter what, don’t suffer for a man, my dear. I love you.”

Tears fell freely, blotting the yellowed paper. My mind flashed back to my wedding day. My mother had handed me the pillow, smiling as she said it was very soft and would help me sleep well.

I laughed and replied, “You’re getting old, Mom. What a funny thing to think. Héctor and I will be happy.”

She had only smiled again, though her eyes held a distant sadness I didn’t recognize back then.

Now I pressed the pillow to my chest, feeling as though my mother was right beside me, stroking my hair and whispering comfort.

She had always known. She had always understood how much her daughter could suffer if she chose the wrong man. And she had quietly prepared a safety net for me—not riches, but enough to keep me from despair.

That night, I lay on the hard bed of my rented room, clutching the pillow close as tears soaked the fabric.

But this time, I wasn’t crying for Héctor.

I was crying because I loved my mother.

Because I felt grateful. Because I realized I still had somewhere to return to, someone who loved me, and a whole wide world still waiting to welcome me.

For illustrative purposes only.
The next morning, I carefully folded the pillow and placed it in my suitcase. I told myself I would rent a smaller room, closer to my job. I would send more money to my mother. And I would live a life where I no longer trembled at a man’s cold words.

I looked at myself in the mirror and smiled faintly.

This woman, with swollen eyes, would now live for herself, for her aging mother back home, and for all the dreams she had left unfinished.

That marriage, that old pillow, that sneer—it was all just the end of one sad chapter.

My life still had many pages left to be written, and I would write them with my own resilient hands.

This piece is inspired by stories from the everyday lives of our readers and written by a professional writer. Any resemblance to actual names or locations is purely coincidental. All images are for illustration purposes only.

Natalya was hauling bags up to the fourth floor, cursing the broken elevator. The October rain had soaked through her jacket, and all she wanted was a hot shower and some peace. Working as an architect in a design bureau was draining—especially when clients changed plans at the last minute.

The key turned in the lock with difficulty—the lock was aging along with the building. Natalya pushed the door open and froze. In the narrow hallway stood two huge blue suitcases, taking up almost all the free space.

 

“Seryozha?” Natalya called, tugging off her wet boots.

Her husband stepped out of the living room. Sergey looked unusually tense for someone who usually greeted his wife with a smile and questions about her day.

“Oh, you’re back. Listen, here’s the thing…” Sergey rubbed the back of his head and nodded at the luggage. “This is my son—he’s going to live with us now.”

Natalya slowly hung her jacket on the hook, processing what she’d heard. Gleb, Sergey’s fifteen-year-old son from his first marriage, lived with his mother in another district. In the three years they’d been together, the boy had shown up at their place at most on weekends, and even then rarely.

“What do you mean, ‘going to live with us’?” Natalya frowned and tilted her head, trying to make sense of it.

“Just like that. Get used to it—and you’ll be the one feeding him. You’re the homemaker,” Sergey shrugged, as if he were announcing he’d bought a loaf of bread.

Natalya felt the blood rush to her face. Three years ago, when she married Sergey, she understood that a teenager came with the package. But occasional visits were one thing; living together permanently was something else entirely—especially when the decision was made without the slightest discussion.

“You decided it—so you handle it,” Natalya said evenly, suppressing the urge to raise her voice.

Sergey blinked, clearly not expecting that reaction.

“What do you mean? We live together, so—”

“So you inform me about your decisions instead of presenting me with a fait accompli,” Natalya cut him off. “Where’s my child?”

“Lena’s at a friend’s, doing homework. She’ll be home for dinner.”

Natalya nodded and went to the kitchen. Her daughter was in seventh grade and often stayed over at her classmate Sveta’s— the girls had been friends since first grade, and their parents kept warm relations.

Muffled voices sounded from the living room. Sergey was saying something to his son, but the words were indistinct. Natalya took food from the fridge for dinner. She usually cooked with leftovers in mind—Sergey liked to eat his fill, and Lena, at thirteen, could pack away an adult-sized portion.

Today she boiled exactly enough pasta for two. She fried two cutlets. She made a small bowl of salad.

“Dinner!” Natalya called.

All three came to the table. Gleb looked uncertain, glancing from his father to his stepmother. He’d grown since their last meeting, taller and broader in the shoulders, but he still held himself stiffly.

Natalya set out plates—for herself and for Lena. In front of Sergey and Gleb, the places at the table remained empty.

“And for them?” Sergey looked in surprise at the bare spots.

“You brought him—so you provide for him,” Natalya replied calmly, serving pasta to her daughter.

Lena raised her eyebrows but kept quiet. The girl had inherited from her mother the ability not to wade into adult conflicts unless absolutely necessary.

Gleb sat silently, staring at his empty plate. The atmosphere at the table thickened until it could be cut with a knife.

“Natalya, what are you doing?” Sergey spoke more quietly than usual, but tension vibrated in every word.

“Me? I’m having dinner. What are you doing?”

“Gleb is a child!”

“Gleb is your child. I feed my daughter; you feed your son.”

Natalya put a piece of cutlet into her mouth and began to chew, not taking her eyes off her husband. Sergey sat red-faced, his fists clenched on the table.

“Mom, can I go to Sveta’s?” Lena asked softly.

“Of course, sunshine. Just be home by ten.”

Her daughter quickly finished eating and disappeared into the hall. The front door slammed.

“Dad, I’m not really hungry,” Gleb mumbled.

“Sit,” Sergey snapped. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Natalya finished her cutlet and moved on to the salad. The silence stretched. Finally Sergey couldn’t stand it.

“Explain to me what’s going on!”

“What’s there to explain? You made a decision on your own—now handle it on your own.”

“We live in the same apartment!”

“In my apartment,” Natalya corrected him. “Which I bought before I met you. In my apartment, I set the rules.”

Sergey stood up sharply, knocking over his chair.

“Have you lost your mind? Gleb’s been left without a mother!”

“What do you mean, ‘without a mother’?” Natalya looked up. “Did something happen to his mother?”

“No, but… she’s getting married. To an American. She’s moving to the States. Gleb refused to fly—he wants to stay in Russia.”

“I see. And you decided to shift responsibility for raising your son onto me?”

“I thought you’d understand!”

“I do understand. I understand that you don’t think you need to consult me about matters that concern our family.”

Natalya stood and began clearing the table. The clatter of plates rang louder than usual.

“Gleb, go to your room,” the woman said without turning around.

“He doesn’t have his own room!” Sergey exploded.

“Then let him settle in yours. Or buy a bigger apartment.”

“With what money? I’m not an architect!”

Natalya stopped, dishes in her hands. Sergey worked as a metalworker at a factory, earning little and not overexerting himself. She made several times more, and he knew it perfectly well.

“Exactly. You’re not an architect. You didn’t buy this apartment. And you don’t get to decide who lives in it.”

Gleb rose from the table and slowly shuffled toward his parents’ bedroom. The boy was hunched, as if trying to make himself invisible.

“Natalya, think with your head!” Sergey lowered his voice. “Where am I supposed to put my son?”

“With his mother. Let her take him with her.”

“He doesn’t want to go!”

“Then to his grandmother’s. Rent him a room. There are plenty of options.”

“I don’t have that kind of money!”

Natalya put the dishes in the sink and turned to her husband.

“Sergey, I’m not against Gleb. I’m against you making decisions for me. If you want your son to live with us—let’s discuss the terms. Like adults.”

“What terms?” Sergey looked bewildered.

“Elementary ones. Who buys groceries, who cooks, who does the laundry, who cleans. Who pays the utilities, which will go up with a third resident. Who buys furniture—the boy needs somewhere to sleep, not the couch in the living room. Who goes to parent-teacher meetings, who handles doctors and tutors.”

Sergey stood silent, shifting from foot to foot.

“Did you think about any of that when you dragged in those suitcases?” Natalya continued. “Or were you counting on me taking everything on while you come home from work to a hot dinner and ironed shirts?”

“That’s not what I meant…”

“What did you mean, then?”

“Well… we’re one family now…”

Natalya sat down on a stool and looked closely at her husband.

“Sergey, in three years you’ve never once asked my opinion about raising Gleb. You’ve never asked how I feel about the boy coming here and behaving like it’s a hotel. He shows up, eats, sleeps, leaves. He’s never once said thank you.”

“He’s just shy…”

“Maybe. But that’s not my problem. That’s your problem as his father.”

“So what do you suggest?”

Natalya stood and opened the fridge. She took out eggs, bread, and sausage.

“I suggest you feed your child. And tomorrow morning we’ll calmly talk about the conditions under which Gleb can stay here.”

 

Sergey took the eggs and cracked them into the pan without a word. Natalya went into the bedroom. Gleb was sitting on the edge of the marital bed, staring at his sneakers.

“Gleb,” the woman called.

The boy looked up. His eyes were red.

“I have nothing against you,” Natalya said gently. “But decisions that affect everyone should be made by everyone. Do you understand?”

Gleb nodded.

“Good. Then tomorrow we’ll discuss how we can best live together.”

Natalya grabbed her pajamas and went to the bathroom. The mirror reflected the tired face of a thirty-six-year-old woman who had suddenly realized that family life could serve up surprises worse than a broken elevator.

On the other side of the wall, the eggs were sizzling, and a father was saying something quietly to his son. Natalya turned on the tap and began washing her face with cold water, wondering what the next day would bring.

On Monday morning, Sergey woke earlier than usual. Natalya heard him fumbling in the kitchen, trying to make breakfast. The sounds said it all—pans clanging, oil hissing, curses muttered through his teeth.

“Mom, what’s that smell?” Lena asked, appearing in the kitchen.

“Your stepfather is making breakfast for his son,” Natalya replied, pouring her daughter some juice.

“Smells burnt.”

“Then something’s burnt.”

Sergey came out of the kitchen red-faced and disheveled, holding a plate with a charred omelet.

“Gleb, breakfast is ready!” he shouted toward the bedroom.

The boy shuffled out, looked at the black mass on the plate, and grimaced.

“Dad, maybe just bread and butter?”

“Eat what you’re given,” Sergey snapped, though he knew himself the dish was inedible.

Silently, Natalya got her daughter ready for school, kissed her, and sent her off. Sergey left for the factory as well. Gleb stayed alone in the apartment—his classes at school wouldn’t start until the next day.

In the evening, her husband came home tired and hungry. As usual, Natalya cooked dinner for two—herself and Lena.

“Natalya, can you stop this mockery already?” Sergey sat across from his wife with an empty plate.

“I’m not mocking anyone. I’m eating.”

“Gleb was hungry all day!”

“And where were you all day?”

“At work!”

“Good. Then tomorrow leave him money for lunch or cook in the morning.”

Sergey was silent, realizing he had no argument. After dinner, he went to the store and bought convenience foods—dumplings, sausages, instant noodles.

On Tuesday morning, the story repeated itself. Sergey boiled the dumplings, but overcooked them until they turned to mush. Gleb poked at the soggy dough with his spoon and sighed.

“Dad, can I go to Grandma’s?”

“Why?”

“No reason… it’s just boring here.”

“Bear with it a bit. You’ll get used to it.”

But Gleb didn’t get used to it. He drifted around the apartment, watched TV, played on his phone. By midweek, the teenager started complaining that the place felt stuffy and uncomfortable.

“Dad, when is Mom coming back from America?”

“She’s not coming back, Gleb. She lives there now.”

“Maybe I should fly to her then?”

Sergey didn’t answer, but it was clear his patience was wearing thin. He wasn’t used to cooking, doing laundry, or keeping things tidy. By Thursday, a mountain of dirty dishes had piled up in the sink, laundry lay scattered across the bedroom, and the trash can overflowed with empty packaging from convenience foods.

“Everything’s on me!” Sergey exploded on Thursday evening. “I’m working, cooking, cleaning!”

“Welcome to the world of adults,” Natalya replied calmly, rinsing her plate.

“You can see I’m not managing!”

“I can. And?”

“Help me!”

“Why? This was your decision.”

Sergey grabbed his head and began pacing the kitchen.

“You’re cruel!”

“I’m consistent.”

“Gleb is a child!”

“Gleb is your child. You’re his father. Cope with it.”

Natalya stood and went to her room. Half an hour later, her husband tried to start a scene in the bedroom, but each time the woman calmly repeated the same thing:

“That was your decision.”

 

On Friday evening, the landline rang. Sergey snatched up the receiver.

“Hello, Mom… Yeah, everything’s fine… How are you? Gleb? He’s fine, adjusting…”

The voice on the other end grew louder. Natalya caught fragments:

“He called me! He’s complaining! He’s going hungry!”

“Mom, come on…”

“Bring him over immediately! Today!”

Sergey tried to object, but his mother clearly wasn’t going to listen. The call lasted about ten minutes. He put down the phone and sighed heavily.

“Mom’s taking Gleb to her place.”

“Good,” Natalya nodded, not looking up from her book.

“Good? You don’t care?”

“It’s not that I don’t care. It’s that I feel relieved. The apartment will be in order again.”

“Are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

Saturday turned out rainy. Sergey packed his son’s things into the same blue suitcases he had brought a week earlier. Gleb helped his father, but it was obvious the boy was more relieved than anything to be moving to his grandmother’s.

“Anna Petrovna is a good woman,” Natalya told her husband. “She’ll handle it better than you.”

“She’s a pensioner! She’s seventy!”

“But experienced. She raised a son; she’ll raise a grandson.”

Sergey zipped the suitcase and straightened up.

“Maybe I was wrong… somewhere.”

“Not ‘somewhere’. Specifically. You made a decision without consulting me. And you shifted the responsibility onto my shoulders without even asking my consent.”

Sergey dragged the suitcases into the hall. Gleb put on his things and went to stand by the door.

“Natalya, thank you for letting me stay,” the boy said quietly.

“You’re welcome, Gleb. You can always come visit. But as a guest—when you’re invited.”

The boy nodded, catching the subtext.

The door closed behind father and son. Natalya was left alone in the quiet apartment. She walked through the rooms, assessing the damage. A major cleanup would be needed—the men had managed to make quite a mess.

But first, she sat in an armchair and opened the book she had set aside for a week. The home smelled of cleanliness and calm. No one had to be fed against her will. No one was shifting their responsibilities onto someone else.

Around eight, Lena came back. She’d spent the weekend at her friend’s, waiting out the family crisis.

“Mom, where is everyone?”

“Gleb moved to his grandmother’s; your stepfather took him.”

“Did he talk to us about it?”

“He does now,” Natalya smiled.

“So we’re having dinner for two?”

“For two.”

Mother and daughter set the table for two. Lena told stories about her weekend at Sveta’s, and Natalya listened, understanding that the week of standoff hadn’t been for nothing. Her husband had learned the main rule: in this house, decisions are made together, and no one takes on someone else’s responsibilities.

Around nine, Sergey returned. He looked tired and guilty.

“How are things?” Natalya asked.

“Fine. Mom cooked him soups for the week. She was happy to have her grandson.”

“That’s good. Anna Petrovna loves taking care of someone.”

“And you don’t?” Sergey asked quietly.

“I do. But those I choose myself. And when I’m asked, not forced.”

Sergey nodded and sat at the table. Natalya silently set a bowl of soup in front of him. He looked up in surprise.

“That’s for you. Because today you did the right thing—you found the child a suitable place without shifting the responsibility onto me.”

Sergey picked up the spoon and began to eat. Over the week, he had come to understand that being a parent is hard work—and forcing that work onto others is wrong and unfair.

“Natalya, I’m sorry,” he said between spoonfuls.

“For what?”

“For not thinking. For not asking. For deciding for you.”

“Good. The important thing is that it doesn’t happen again.”

“It won’t.”

Natalya poured herself tea and sat across from her husband. Peace and order reigned in the apartment once more. Most importantly, Sergey had learned his lesson. He now knew: his wife would not let anyone decide for her, and she would not take on someone else’s duties without her own consent.

The evening passed quietly. A family of three had dinner, watched TV, and planned the next day. No one had to be forced to eat. No one complained about discomfort. Harmony was restored in Natalya’s home—built on mutual respect and shared decisions.