All Amazing Babies

— What happened? — asked Anya, watching her husband’s reaction.
Vitya, clutching the phone tightly in his hand, slowly sank onto the sofa.

“— My mom’s house burned down,” — he managed to say.
“— How?” — Anya said, confused, as she sat down next to him.

“— I don’t know; she just called and said there was a fire, the house burned down,” — after a pause he turned to his wife. “— What should we do?”
“— I really don’t know,” — Anya admitted.

She had never experienced such a tragedy in her family. Once some boys had climbed in through a window at her aunt’s place, but they only stole candy. There’d been a row with the neighbors — they loved to play loud music. And also with the neighbors downstairs — they had dogs. But for a house to burn…

“— And now?” — she asked her husband, though by his look she already sensed he had made up his mind. “— Speak up,” she urged him.

“— My mom and dad will come to us.”

Silence followed. Anya looked out the window at the evening city, where the first streetlights were turning on.

“— Well, what do you say?” — Vitya broke the silence.

The woman turned to her husband:

“— For how long?”
“— About a month, I think. By then my mom and dad will have sorted out their housing problem.”
“— A month…” — Anya repeated thoughtfully.

She would, of course, be able to tolerate her husband’s parents for a month—even though once she had nearly fought with Antonina Pavlovna. The woman nodded silently. Her husband immediately dialed his mother’s number and said that they were waiting for them and would prepare a room right away.

Preparations for the arrival of the unexpected guests began in the apartment.

Two hours later, the doorbell rang. Anya was still lost in thoughts about the fire, unable to imagine what it would be like to experience one herself. Stepan Yuryevich, her father-in-law, was very proud of his house. It was on the outskirts of the city: a small plot of land, a shed, a bathhouse, a garage, and a spacious brick house.

The owner had already opened the door and voices could be heard—Antonina Pavlovna, Stepan Yuryevich, and someone else. Anya hurried into the corridor and froze. Her brother-in-law Alexey stepped over the threshold. He carried large bags, squeezed in ahead, and behind him, like a shadow, entered her sister-in-law carrying a small bundle with a baby.

“— Come here!” — Anya called to her husband.

Vitya dragged a large trunk into the living room and approached his wife.

“— I thought you mentioned only your parents. What are your brother and sister doing here?”
“— Well, my brother lived with my mother. And my sister, well…” — he didn’t finish before Anya raised her finger.

 

 

“— No, no, we didn’t agree on that!”
“— Where are they supposed to go?” — the man protested.
“— I have no idea! I only agreed to have your mother and father here!”

Vitya looked at his wife, bewildered.

“— Let’s discuss this later,” — he said, and quickly went into the corridor to haul more trunks into the room for his parents.

The sister-in-law entered the living room, and her baby immediately started crying.

“— Hush, hush, hush,” — whispered Irina as she began rocking the child.

“— Let’s go over here for now,” — said Anya. As the mistress of the house, she knew very well that having a baby in the living room was not a good idea. Opening her bedroom with her husband, she beckoned the sister-in-law over. “— Put him on the bed.”

Alexey placed two large bags in the corner and began looking around.

“— Bear with us,” — Antonina Pavlovna approached the lady of the house.
“— Thank you for taking us in,” — said her father-in-law.
“— It’s nothing,” — Anya replied, flustered.

Immediately, her home turned into a beehive: people walking, talking, taking things, rearranging furniture. She stepped aside and could only watch what was happening in her apartment.

“— We should make something to eat,” — her husband approached.
“— Yes, of course, right away,” — Anya replied, still in a daze.

Finally, little Dima, the sister-in-law’s son, stopped crying. Her father-in-law, without asking for permission, grabbed the TV remote and turned it on. Antonina Pavlovna finally unpacked her things from the trunks and, settling on the sofa, nodded in satisfaction.

“— Just bear with it for a week or two, and we’ll leave,” — her words were addressed to her daughter-in-law.

“‘That would be nice,’” — Anya thought to herself; perhaps that was the only thought that soothed her.

Vitya approached her.

“— Your sister has a baby,” — he hinted.
“— And so what?” — his wife asked, as if not understanding him.
“— She needs a separate room.”
“— So then,” — Anya looked discontentedly at her father-in-law—who was pressing buttons on the remote like a little boy, while the TV screen flashed—“we have three rooms: one pass-through room (the living room), one for us, and one we’ve set aside for your parents. Are you suggesting that Irina should take our bedroom?”
“— We can’t have her with the baby…”
Logically, Anya understood. But on the other hand, why the hell should she give up her own bedroom?

“— So are we to live with you in the living room with your brother?” — she asked indignantly.
“— Alexey will sleep in the kitchen.”
“— Bear with it a little,” — Antonina Pavlovna said, upon hearing what was being suggested.

And what else was there to do but to bear it? She couldn’t kick them out. Maybe they did have somewhere to go, but now it would seem unwise—and surely lead to a fight with her in-laws.

Biting her lip, Anya silently nodded. Vitya immediately went off to inform his sister that his wife had agreed to give up the bedroom for her.

Half an hour later, the door rang again. Meanwhile, the lady of the house was standing by the stove when her husband approached.

“— There’s your sister-in-law, your little sister,” — he said, nodding toward the corridor.
“— Keep stirring the potatoes,” — Anya said, stepping away from the stove.

Olya entered the living room and looked at the guests in surprise. Stepan Yuryevich and Alexey greeted her. Antonina Pavlovna didn’t even come out of her room—and Irina was nowhere to be seen.

“— Wow!” — Olya exclaimed upon seeing her sister.
“— Yes, that’s how it is,” — Anya replied with a heavy sigh. “— They’ve had a tragedy; their house burned down.”
“— Holy crap,” — Olya added immediately, “— I’m so sorry. And are they staying long?” — she meant the guests.
“— Antonina Pavlovna says a week or two.”
“— Yes, a week or two!” — another voice from another room confirmed.

Anya was surprised at how sharp her hearing was—her sister was speaking in a whisper.

At that moment, a baby cried from the nursery.

“— Oh my,” — Olya said, “— you really have a little daycare here!”
“— Yes indeed,” — Anya agreed.
“— Listen, if it’s just for a week or two, maybe you could come stay with me? It’s going to be so hard to live like this.”
Hearing the suggestion, Anya sighed with relief. The idea had never even occurred to her.
“— Thank you,” — she said gratefully and kissed her sister on the cheek.

After gathering her things, the mistress of the house bid farewell to the uninvited guests, asked her husband to keep things in order, and to call her if needed. Vitya didn’t even see his wife off, so Anya and Olya had to carry two bags.

The next day, closer to evening after work, Anya stopped by the house. It was now hard to recognize: the sofa had been moved, the TV was in another spot, and there was a smell… the smell of cigarette smoke. Anya entered the kitchen and flung open the windows.

Looking at her brother-in-law, she said disapprovingly: “— In my house, no one smokes!”
“— Then where?” — Alexey wondered, meaning where he should smoke.
“— That’s your problem,” — she replied irritably, “— but no smoking in my house.”
“— Alright, alright, calm down,” — her husband came over.

Taking him by the arm, the wife led him into the corridor: “— By Monday, neither your brother nor your sister is allowed in my house!”
“— Oh, come on,” — Vitya said with a sour expression.
“— I only agreed to have your parents here, not them.”
“— You are so heartless!” — a voice from the living room, that of her mother-in-law, rang out.

“‘Big ears,’” — Anya thought, meaning that Antonina Pavlovna had again been eavesdropping on their conversation.

“— If you had a problem, we would gladly take you in. And now you’re ready to kick us out!”
“— Not you,” — she replied without raising her voice, though she did not specify whose removal she meant. “— Your brother,” — the lady of the house addressed her husband, “— an adult man who can rent an apartment, and Irina has a husband, so what is she doing here?”
“— Well…” — Vitya mumbled uncertainly.
“— They must leave by Monday!” — the woman declared sharply and started getting dressed.

And in that house, there was nothing else she could do—she wasn’t going to ghost around or clean up after the guests.

A minute later, Anya left.

A week passed. The lady of the house visited several times and spoke with her husband, who always promised that his brother would leave soon and that his sister had a conflict with her husband. After the 20th of each month, when Anya entered the utility bill data, she noticed that the rent hadn’t been paid. She immediately confronted her husband:

“— Why didn’t you pay the rent?”
“— I have no money now,” — Vitya replied.
“— And where did it all go?” — Anya asked curiously.
“— It all goes to food.”
“— Wait, wait,” — the woman paused for a moment, then asked, “— And why don’t your mother and father buy groceries? They receive a pension. And why doesn’t your brother buy? After all, someone used to feed them. And what about your sister?”

Vitya began to say something in his characteristically uncertain way.

Irritated, Anya walked over to the kitchen window and flung it open: “— I asked you not to smoke. Is that so hard to understand?”
Alexey merely shrugged, offering no reply. “— If you live in my house, then please respect it.”

 

A voice from a TV announcer resounded in the living room.

At least once a day, the lady of the house would visit to see if everything was alright and to greet the relatives, and as long as she could remember, her father-in-law had always sat in front of the TV. And then she wondered: “What is happening to this house?”

“— You’ve promised me for the tenth time that your brother and sister would leave,” — Anya said resentfully.
“— They will leave, they will leave,” — Vitya replied discontentedly.
“— Let me remind you: this is my house.”
The man lowered his head, shook it a couple of times, and then replied,
“— Yes, they will leave.”
“— When?” — his wife pressed, but Vitya did not answer.

Habitually, the woman took a sponge and began washing the dishes, not noticing how the kitchen was gradually being tidied.

“— I’m thinking,” — she said to Vitya, “— then why do I need such a husband?”

When Anya had moved into this apartment (this was before she was married), she had rejoiced in this house—but now that joy had evaporated.

“— I’m leaving,” — she told her husband. “— Pay the rent, and settle the utilities too. I don’t know where you’ll get the money—maybe shake down your brother or sister.”

After bidding farewell to her in-laws, who wouldn’t even look away from the TV, the lady of the house left.

At the end of the second month, her husband’s relatives were still living in her house. Every day she called to ask when his brother and sister would leave. In the end, she couldn’t live with them forever—she had her own family. And each time, Vitya said that Alexey was now living in the living room, and Irina was still in their bedroom.

A couple of times Anya quarreled with her husband, but she couldn’t find a way out of the situation. She didn’t dare to simply kick them out, although, to be honest, thoughts like “go in and throw them out” had begun to surface. Let them fight, be hurt, shout, curse—even if they did, in the end, this was her house. Once, she even considered kicking out her husband—to show him what it felt like to not live in his own home.

One Saturday, Anya decided to go to her mother-in-law’s house to personally inspect the supposedly burned house. However, when she arrived, she was surprised—the house was standing. She approached the gate, opened it, and stepped into the yard. Nearby stood a burned shed, and the entrance to the house was also damaged. It appeared that the firefighters had removed part of the roof, but the house itself looked perfectly normal: the windows were intact, and even the walls hadn’t blackened.

At that moment, a woman approached her. “— Hello,” — Anya greeted. “— And who are you?” — the woman asked. “— I’m the daughter-in-law of Antonina Pavlovna.” “— Ah, so that’s it,” — the woman shook her head. “— I’m a neighbor; Antonina asked me to keep an eye on things.” “— So, is it really that bad?” — Anya inquired about the state of the house. “— No, it’s normal. Come on, let’s go,” — the neighbor said, producing some keys and, stepping over the charred beams near the entrance, opened a perfectly normal door.

They entered the house. Yes, it smelled of something burnt, but the floor was intact; the ceiling was only slightly scorched. In the rooms everything was as it should be: the TV was there, the refrigerator, the beds, the sofa—everything in place.

“— They’ve cut off the electricity; we need to rewire,” — the neighbor explained. “— But is it livable?” — Anya asked, curiously. “— Yes, of course. It’ll be just a matter of a couple of days: fix the roof, whitewash the ceiling, and do a few minor repairs. My husband could finish it in a week.” “— A week?” — Anya said in confusion, and in that same second, anger flared in her chest toward her husband, her mother-in-law, and her father-in-law—the man who was always sitting in front of the TV. “— Thanks for the tour,” — the daughter-in-law said, and as she stepped outside she almost called her husband, but then reconsidered.

An hour later, Anya returned to her own house and immediately noticed that Stepan Yuryevich was once again sitting in front of the TV, and there was the odor of tobacco in the kitchen. Opening the window, the lady of the house addressed her mother-in-law: “— No smoking in my house!” “— And where then?” — Alexey wondered, meaning where he should smoke. “— That’s your problem,” — she replied irritably, “— but no smoking in my house.” “— Alright, alright, calm down,” — her husband came over. Taking his arm, she led him into the corridor: “— By Monday, neither your brother nor your sister is allowed in my house!” “— Oh, come on,” — Vitya said with a sour look. “— I only agreed to have your parents here.” “— You are so heartless!” — a voice from the living room, that of her mother-in-law, thundered.

“‘Big ears,’” — Anya thought, noting that Antonina Pavlovna had again been eavesdropping on their conversation.

“— If you had a problem, we would gladly take you in. And now you’re ready to kick us out!” “— Not you,” — she replied quietly, without specifying whom she meant. “— Your brother,” — the lady of the house addressed her husband, “— an adult man who can rent an apartment, and Irina has a husband, so what is she doing here?” “— Well…” — Vitya mumbled uncertainly. “— They must leave by Monday!” — the woman declared firmly and began getting dressed.

And in that house, there was nothing left for her to do—she wasn’t going to become a ghost or clean up after the guests.

A minute later, Anya left.

Three months passed. Anya visited her mother-in-law’s house several times and learned from the neighbor that no repairs were planned at all. From her talks with her husband, she understood only one thing: her father-in-law would begin repairs not in the spring, but in the summer. It was time for drastic measures.

One morning, Vitya went outside to drive to work. He walked across the parking lot, then turned around and walked back, shaking his head, but couldn’t find his car. “What the hell?!” he thought, straining his memory, wondering if he’d left it somewhere else—but no, he always left it here, and yesterday he had parked it here too. “— It’s been stolen!” — the cold thought flashed through his mind. “— Stolen,” — he said aloud. He had never heard of anything being stolen around here. Yes, before boys might have come by, scratched or even broken a mirror, but to have a car stolen—that was a first. With trembling hands, he grabbed his phone and called the police. To his surprise, they arrived quickly, took a few photographs, and asked for his documents. “— Here,” — he handed over his passport. “— And the car documents?” — the inspector asked. “— They’re in the car.” “— Both your passport and the insurance?”
“— Everything’s there.” The officer didn’t ask further questions. He returned to his car, where his partner was already checking data on a display, and then showed his screen to his partner. “— Are you familiar with Zuyeva Anya Nikolaevna?” — the inspector asked Vitya. “— Yes,” — he replied immediately and approached the police car. “— The car wasn’t stolen,” — the inspector said promptly, “— it was sold today.” “What?!” — Vitya’s eyes widened in surprise and his face paled. “— Yes, and this Anya Nikolaevna is listed as the owner in the database, and you…” “— I’m her husband.” The inspector, who had been sitting in the car, smirked. “— Well, I can only say one thing: she must have punished you,” — he murmured to his partner. At that moment, Vitya’s phone rang. He didn’t immediately notice it—only feeling the vibration in his pocket. He took the phone to his ear and heard his mother’s angry shout. “— We’re on our way, good luck,” — the inspector said, and the police car drove off.

“— Don’t shout!” — Vitya said angrily into the phone. “— What happened?”
“— The police came to our house; hurry and come here!” — his mother’s voice rang with strain; he had forgotten the last time she had shouted like that. Cursing under his breath, Vitya headed for the house. He quickly climbed to his floor and saw two men in blue uniforms and a woman in epaulettes. “— Here!” — Antonina Pavlovna ran into the corridor. “— Here’s the owner!” — she pointed at her son. “— Are you Zuyev Viktor Stepanovich?” — the woman asked. “— Yes, what happened?” — he asked, immediately addressing everyone in uniform. The woman opened her folder and produced a piece of paper. “— A court order for eviction.” “What eviction order?” — he took the paper and began reading. “— What eviction?” “— Why aren’t you answering the calls?” — the woman asked coldly. She took out her phone, switched on the loudspeaker, and dialed Vitya’s number. After a few seconds, short beeps were heard. “— You have blocked the call,” — she said, her voice as cold as ice. Vitya took his phone, activated the screen, and saw that the number had indeed been blocked. “— I get a lot of advertising calls,” — he said, tucking his phone back into his pocket. “— A letter was sent to you with a notice demanding that you vacate the apartment by the 15th. Today is the 17th; you had five days to leave.” “— I didn’t receive any letter,” — Vitya replied dryly. “— An SMS warning was sent, but you didn’t respond, nor do you answer the calls of the bailiff. You can say a lot to me, but the order has taken effect.” “What order?” — Vitya still couldn’t make sense of it. “— What’s all this about?” — the order seemed to flash before his eyes, and he couldn’t focus. “— Here is the court decision,” — the woman said, pointing to a number written on the paper, “— it clearly states: vacate the apartment of Zuyeva Anna Nikolaevna.” And then it dawned on Vitya. “— Damn!” — he cursed, realizing that his wife had initiated the eviction. He grabbed his phone and quickly dialed his wife’s number, but immediately heard short beeps. “Blocked, bitch!” A man standing aside finally spoke: “— My name is Oleg Yuryevich, I’m a representative of the plaintiff,” — he said, showing a notarized document to the bailiff, then handed it to Vitya. But Vitya only glanced at the paper. “— You never appeared in court.” “— How was I to know about your court? I live here!” “— You are registered,” — the man recited the address of his mother’s house. “— I don’t live there!” Oleg Yuryevich paused for a moment, then opened his folder and handed over a copy of the court decision: “— Zuyeva Anya Nikolaevna filed for divorce, but you never appeared in court.” “— Divorce?” — this time Vitya’s voice was clearly surprised. “— Divorced?” “— You should have just come to court. But you ignored it.” The man looked at his mother with a pale face; her face also turned pale upon hearing this. Stepan Yuryevich, his father, swore and went into the living room. “— If you had been in court, you’d know that the apartment rightfully belongs to Zuyeva Anya Nikolaevna. And since you refused to leave voluntarily… The letters were sent to this address—I assume you didn’t even check your mailbox. You had time—five days have passed, and now you must vacate the apartment.” “— Are you kidding me?” — Vitya tried to understand the situation. Just half an hour ago he had learned that his wife had sold the car, and now he and his parents were being evicted. Vitya took out his phone again and tried calling his wife, but once more heard short beeps. Antonina Pavlovna realized what he intended and also tried calling her daughter-in-law—but her number was also blocked. “— We’re starting to leave,” — the bailiff said sternly. “— No, no,” — Antonina Pavlovna exclaimed anxiously. A man in uniform stepped away from the wall. “— Then I’m calling for a police unit, or we’ll do it by force,” — his voice promised nothing good. It appeared that he wasn’t just a representative of the law but of the authorities, and he wasn’t going to be gentle with anyone in that house. Vitya realized that he had lost. He squeezed past the people in the corridor and entered the living room. He immediately saw his mother, who glared at him angrily, his father, who was still cursing and pacing about, his brother sitting silently on the sofa, and his sister Irina, clutching her son Dima, standing like a ghost in the back of the bedroom. “— Gather your things,” — Vitya said quietly, “— and leave.” “— Your wife has gone crazy!” — Antonina Pavlovna roared. “— Zuyeva Anna Nikolaevna is divorced,” — Oleg Yuryevich entered the living room and addressed the woman standing near the guest room door. Finally, everyone realized that the former daughter-in-law had filed for divorce, and that Vitya, ignoring even the most basic rules, had never come to court and then even managed to block calls from the bailiffs. “— How dare she get divorced!” — Antonina Pavlovna screamed. Zuyev snorted and looked at the woman with contempt. “— All because you behaved like pigs!” — hearing this, Stepan Yuryevich jumped up and almost lunged at the offender, but, seeing the law enforcement officials enter the room, he stepped back. “— We have nowhere to go!” — the elderly woman wailed. “— Our house burned down!” “— Don’t lie,” — Oleg Yuryevich said, retrieving a photograph from his folder and showing it to the bailiffs. “— Your house is intact.” Cursing, Antonina Pavlovna went into a room to gather her things. Stepan Yuryevich followed her. Alexey had no choice but to collect his belongings, pack them into a large bag, and leave. Irina tried for the hundredth time to call her daughter-in-law, but each time she only heard short beeps. “— Fool!” — she scolded herself, realizing her number was blocked. “— Get ready!” — Antonina Pavlovna entered the room and began helping her daughter pack her things. Vitya didn’t know what to do. This was his house; he had come here to live with his wife, but now it turned out he was no longer a husband, and the house was no longer his. He looked at his mother, who, having turned away from him, wouldn’t speak; his father continued cursing, blaming both his daughter-in-law and his son for having to leave. “— I live here!” — Vitya finally found his voice and addressed the bailiff. “— Not anymore,” — Oleg Yuryevich said. “— You have no share in this apartment; you are not registered, the divorce has been finalized, and there is a court decision for eviction. Please,” — and he walked away, making room for Stepan Yuryevich who was dragging a large trunk with his belongings. The bailiffs did not interfere. The woman sat on the sofa, and two men stood aside like a support group. About an hour later, Antonina Pavlovna left the apartment. Alexey drove off without even saying goodbye or thanking his brother for sheltering him. Stepan Yuryevich carried his daughter’s suitcase into the corridor. Irina lingered in the bedroom for a while longer, but there was nothing left for her there. She picked up her child and, glaring at her brother, followed her mother. A few minutes later, only Vitya and the law enforcement officials remained in the apartment, and there was nothing more for him to do. Yes, he could pack his things, but Isakov said he might come for them later when the owner was home. Vitya did just that: he took one last look at the apartment where he had spent a couple of years, and then he left.

Stepping outside, Vitya saw his ex-wife. Anya was standing aside, watching as one by one her former relatives exited the building. None of them greeted her or thanked her for having taken them in. Each of them cursed the daughter-in-law, spat, and berated her. “— Are you upset because my parents lived here?” — Vitya asked Anya. “— No,” — the woman replied calmly. “— I’m upset about your piggish behavior.” A grimace of contempt appeared on the man’s face. “— And you should have come to court. I told you I filed the application, but you laughed. And you laughed at the wrong time.” “— Why didn’t you say a hearing was scheduled?”
“— All documents were sent to your registered address. In my house, you are nobody.” The man stood silently, wanting to shout at his wife but fearing it might only make things worse. “— I’ll come for my things tomorrow.” “— No,” — Anya replied, “— tomorrow we have court at twelve o’clock.” “— What court?” — Vitya’s face paled with fear. “— You hid from me that you bought land and started building a house,” — she said. “— Twenty acres in a pine grove. We’ll split it, since it was bought during the marriage,” — she stated firmly rather than asking. Vitya cursed under his breath; his mother had once offered to have the plot registered in her name, but he didn’t believe her—she was always too eager to favor her daughter Irina, so he feared that one day she might give the land to her. Therefore, at his own risk, he registered the plot in his own name. “— I have an offer,” — Anya said. “— You can sell it to me.” Vitya said nothing. “— You have no money now; your mother won’t let you in; you have to rent an apartment. I’m ready to buy that land from you,” — then, after a pause, she added, “— at a discount. And if not, tomorrow the court will issue a decision and the land will go to auction. Decide.” For a minute, Vitya stood in indecision, and indeed he had almost no money left in his pocket. “— Oh, I forgot to mention—there will be another court hearing.” “— What?” — Vitya managed to say. “— You lived in my apartment with your relatives and didn’t pay the rent. I’ll calculate the average rent for your stay and send you the bill. And that comes to roughly three hundred and fifty thousand, plus the rent and utilities. So decide about the land, and tomorrow please don’t be late for court.”

 

An hour after Vitya left, a cleaning crew arrived to carry out a general cleaning in the very apartment where his relatives had once lived.

And the next day, Vitya did appear in court. His appearance was something else—it seemed as if his mind had been washed all night by his mother, father, brother, and sister. In court, Vitya agreed to sell his share of the plot to his ex-wife, because he really needed money just to survive this period. He lost everything: the wife he loved (who now despised him), the home in which he had hoped to raise his children, the land, and on top of that, he earned the curse of his parents and the contempt of his brother and sister.

A late summer evening enveloped the city in a damp chill. In a cozy apartment on the fifth floor of an old brick building, Anya was tidying up. After a thorough cleaning, the room filled with freshness and cleanliness. In the corridor, a neat pile of her ex-husband’s things and the hastily packed belongings of her in-laws lay. She called a transport company and sent everything off to Antonina Pavlovna’s house.

In the kitchen, fitted with modern appliances, two sisters sat at a round table. Olya, the younger, sidled up to Anya with a mischievous smile: “— So, ready for another hunt?” Olya always joked like that when Anya began scouting for a new man. “— Oh no!” — the lady of the house said, spitting over her shoulder. Seeing this, her sister giggled: “— And I have someone in mind…” “— Don’t start,” — Anya replied decisively and, taking a photograph from the bookshelf, crossed out Vitya’s face with a thick marker. “— Well, he wasn’t bad, after all.” “— Yes, he was,” — Anya agreed, “— exactly that he was.” It hurt that things had turned out this way—she had loved her husband deeply and never imagined he would betray her so. But what was done was done. In the end, she had put in so much effort to fix the situation, yet every step only led to worse consequences. Olya, always ready to support her sister, took a bottle of red wine out of her bag, set it on the table, and went to fetch a corkscrew. Outside, it was long dark, and as the sisters settled comfortably on the soft sofa in the living room, they began to reminisce. They sat and laughed, recalling their childhood. But this time they did not speak about men—it was taboo, forbidden—even if only temporarily. Only well past midnight, tired and satisfied with the evening, did they disperse to their rooms. Anya sat on the bed, ran her hand over the empty sheets, and then, hugging a pillow, she fell asleep.

Yulia Antonovna had served the Grigoryevs’ household for a long time — Vladimir and Lyudmila. Today, the hosts had gone somewhere, and the maid, having finished all the household chores, sat down to rest by the window. Suddenly, her attention was drawn to a little boy outside. Thin, in tattered clothes, he was wandering along the fence of their property.

 

 

“Probably hungry,” sighed Yulia Antonovna, feeling pity for the poor child. Glancing at the large clock in the living room, she decided that the couple wouldn’t return for a while, and went outside.

— What’s your name? — she asked gently, addressing the boy who was studying the street intently. — Vasya, — he replied, looking up at her suspiciously from beneath his messy bangs. — Well, Vasya, let’s go with me. I’ll feed you some fresh apple pie, — suggested the woman, and the boy, without hesitation, followed her. His stomach had been growling with hunger for a long time: he hadn’t eaten anything today.

In the kitchen, Yulia Antonovna carefully cut a large piece of pie and placed the plate in front of the hungry child.

— Oh, it’s so tasty! — exclaimed Vasya, eagerly biting into the soft pastry. — My mom used to bake pies like this! — And where’s your mom? — asked the woman cautiously. The boy froze, stopped chewing, and sadly lowered his eyes. — I’ve been looking for her for a long time… She’s gone, — he said barely above a whisper. — Eat, eat, — Yulia Antonovna gently encouraged him. — Your mom will be found, she definitely will.

 

 

At that moment, the front door creaked, and Vladimir and Lyudmila entered the house. The maid jumped, hearing their footsteps.

— Who’s this visiting us? — Vladimir asked, surprised, peering into the kitchen. His eyes widened when he saw the boy. — Who did you bring, Yulia? — he said sternly, addressing the maid. — This child is looking for his mom, he’s hungry, and I decided to feed him, — the woman replied calmly, shrugging her shoulders.

— So now you’re feeding every stray? Does our opinion not matter to you and Lyudmila anymore? — the homeowner fumed.

Vasya, hearing these words, began to cry. — I’ll leave now, — he muttered, placing the unfinished piece of pie back on the plate.

At that point, Lyudmila intervened in the conversation: — Wait, boy, — she said softly. — Tell me, where are you from? Where did you lose your mom?

Lyudmila had always been gentler than her husband. Sometimes Vladimir scolded her for being too kind, but he could never change her nature.

— I live with my granddad, but he’s mean. He’s always scolding me for something, and sometimes he hits me. I ran away from him, — Vasya confessed, pulling a yellowed photograph from his pocket.

— These are my parents. We used to live together, — said the boy, wiping tears from his eyes, and handed the photograph to the hosts.

Lyudmila froze as she took the photo. It was a picture of her daughter, Varya! — Look, Volodya, this is our girl! — she exclaimed, trembling as she passed the picture to her husband.

Vladimir reluctantly took the photograph. — Vasya, how did you get this photo? — he asked in surprise.

 

 

— I stole it from my granddad. There’s an address written on the back, so I came here. I thought maybe my mom lives here, — the boy replied, calming down. — Granddad always says my mom is a cuckoo, that she abandoned me. But I don’t believe him!

— It can’t be! It can’t be! — Lyudmila repeated, remembering how their daughter Varya had once run away with a gypsy named Manush. They hadn’t spoken to her for years, but then she came back, only to be in an accident soon after. That day became a nightmare for them, leaving them alone in this big house.

— And where’s your dad? — Vladimir asked. — Dad’s gone. They buried him six months ago, — Vasya cried again.

The couple stood in stunned silence. They had found their grandson! Tired of loneliness, they decided to keep the boy.

— You know, little one, we’ll take you to your room, — said Lyudmila. — Will my mom come? — asked Vasya. — Your mom is with your dad now, — the woman replied sadly.

Vasya turned pale.

After a while, the couple completed the adoption papers. The boy’s grandfather didn’t object when he found out that the wealthy couple might take the boy in.

Yulia Antonovna was happy. Thanks to the day she met the little boy, the hosts became happy. Soon, Vasya was no longer like that poor, hungry vagabond. He was now a well-dressed boy, well-mannered, with a loving family.

Anna sat on the edge of the sofa, in the half-light of the living room, listening to the washing machine purring quietly behind the wall. The evening stretched on endlessly, reminiscent of hundreds of similar evenings over the past two years. Andrey wasn’t in any hurry to come home. She knew that soon he would enter without even glancing at her, drop his briefcase by the door, and head for a shower. They would have dinner in silence—if he even felt like eating. Then he would sit at his laptop, and if she tried to speak, he’d throw out an irritated “I’m tired, let’s do this another time.”

Before, everything was different. When they’d first moved in together, they could sit in the kitchen until late, arguing about movies and planning vacations. Andrey would compliment her new dresses, touch her back as they strolled, and his voice was lively—not tired, not irritated. Now, silence always reigned in their home, even when the radio was on.

A click of the lock was heard, followed by footsteps in the corridor.

“Are you sitting in the dark again?” his voice was even, devoid of emotion.

“I’m thinking,” she replied.

He didn’t ask what she was thinking about. He slipped off his shoes, removed his coat, and walked past her into the bedroom. Water was running from the bathroom.

Anna closed her eyes. She didn’t need to see his face to imagine him frowning and rolling his eyes at her “silly things.” He hadn’t asked about her day in a long time. Whereas before he liked that she didn’t demand attention and gifts, now he was irritated that she no longer met his idea of a “successful man’s wife.”

 

 

She got up, walked to the kitchen, and turned on the light. Dinner was in the refrigerator, but she didn’t bother to heat it up.

“Tomorrow dinner is at my parents’,” Andrey said as he entered the kitchen, buttoning the sleeves of his shirt. “My mom asked that you not come in this…” he gestured vaguely toward her old cardigan. “You do understand how it looks, don’t you?”

She looked at him.

“How what?”

“As if I can’t afford to buy you proper clothes.”

For the first time in a long while, she wanted not to remain silent but to say something—something sharp, biting—but her tongue wouldn’t form the words. She just nodded.

“Alright,” she said.

Andrey nodded in satisfaction, grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator, and went into the bedroom.

She stood there, feeling a dull tension spreading.

The next morning they left the house together. In the elevator, Andrey was absorbed in his phone, replying to work messages, while Anna looked at her reflection in the mirror. She hadn’t updated her wardrobe in ages—not because she couldn’t afford it, but because she saw no point. Comfortable, practical clothes suited her. But today, recalling yesterday’s conversation, she put on a dress that had long lain unused in the closet. A flash of approval crossed his eyes, but he said nothing.

When they reached his car, he said, “Come on, I’ll give you a ride.”

“I’m taking the metro.”

He looked up in surprise.

“You hate the metro.”

“I just want to walk,” she shrugged.

He didn’t argue.

That evening, they arrived at his parents’ house. A spacious living room, expensive curtains, and photos of Andrey on the walls—from childhood to recent corporate events. In every picture, he looked successful, determined. Anna was absent from all of them.

“Oh, Anna, you finally decided to wear something decent!” his mother said, appraising her.

She remained silent.

At dinner, they discussed business, Andrey’s career, and his achievements. Anna sat there feeling like a guest remembered only out of politeness.

“Anna, are you still working at your office?” Andrey’s sister asked while pouring wine.

“Yes,” she replied.

“When will you join a proper company? With a husband like him, you can afford not to count every penny.”

She glanced at Andrey. He didn’t intervene, support her, or even look her way.

“I like it there.”

His sister shrugged.

“Well, if you’re comfortable being a gray mouse…”

Anna fell silent again.

Then Andrey said it—casually, without looking at her, with a slight hint of mockery.

“You’re nothing but empty space to me.”

She froze. The table fell silent, but no one seemed surprised.

Her mother continued slicing meat, her sister sipped her wine calmly, and her father buried himself in his phone.

Anna realized that no one was surprised—because to them, she had always been just empty space.

She set down her cutlery and slowly stood.

“Is everything alright?” Andrey’s mother asked absentmindedly, her tone lacking any real concern.

Anna said nothing. She took her bag and stepped toward the door.

“Anna,” Andrey finally looked up, “where are you going?”

“Home,” she said.

“We haven’t finished dinner yet.”

She looked at him.

“For an empty space, dinner is over.”

He frowned in surprise.

That evening, she just walked. Without purpose, without thoughts, simply moving forward, hearing only the sound of her own footsteps. The city buzzed around her, but the noise of passing cars, voices, and flashing advertising screens seemed muted, as if she were moving through a transparent cocoon separating her from the rest of the world.

She didn’t think about where she was going until she found herself in front of a familiar, modest brick building—a place known all too well since childhood. It was her aunt’s apartment, the only person who had ever been kind to her. It smelled of old furniture, lavender sachets, and something warm, homely.

“Anna?” her aunt froze in the doorway, tying her robe at the waist. “What happened?”

Anna didn’t answer. She just stood in the doorway, feeling the leaden weight of fatigue settle on her shoulders.

“Do you want to come in?”

She nodded.

The apartment was cozy, but this time it didn’t feel comforting. Everything around seemed temporary, foreign—as if she had ended up there by chance and would soon disappear again.

 

 

“You haven’t called me once in the last six months.”

Anna knew. She remained silent.

“So, something serious must be going on.”

Her aunt didn’t press further. She simply went to the kitchen, leaving Anna in silence.

Nothing had changed: the worn blanket, the shelves of books, the cuckoo clock. As if time had frozen.

She, too, froze.

The next morning, while her aunt was busy with some paperwork, Anna grabbed her bag and left without saying goodbye. She knew her aunt would understand.

Now, another home lay before her—the apartment she once shared with Andrey. Standing in front of the door, she felt a strange emptiness.

She entered.

Everything was just as it had been. Everything was in its place. Andrey’s coat hung in the hall, his laptop sat on the coffee table, and the scent of his cologne still lingered in the air.

Anna grabbed her suitcase and went into the bedroom. She opened the wardrobe.

Methodically, in complete silence and without fuss, she packed her things. It didn’t matter what she took with her and what she left behind—the very act of leaving was what mattered.

She heard the sound of the lock.

“Are you here?”

Andrey stood in the doorway, looking at her as if she were unexpected.

“Have you come back?”

She tossed her last sweater into the suitcase, zipped it up, and looked at him.

“No.”

He frowned.

“What are you doing? Is this because of yesterday?”

Anna didn’t answer.

“Anna, don’t be childish.”

She closed the suitcase, picked it up, and walked around Andrey, heading for the exit.

“Are you serious?”

He stepped behind her but didn’t try to stop her.

“Over one evening? Over some phrase?”

She placed the suitcase by the door, put on her coat.

“You haven’t said that for the first time,” she said calmly.

He opened his mouth, but no words came.

She grabbed her suitcase and left.

Six months passed.

Anna had gotten used to her new life, but to say it was easy would be a lie. For the first few weeks, she moved on autopilot: home – work – home. She rented a small apartment with bare walls that felt alien. She slept with the window open, unable to bear the silence—too sharp after years spent with Andrey.

But then, one day, everything changed.

Upon entering a building, Anna immediately sensed something different. The usually friendly secretary, Elena, was nervously fidgeting with a pen, as if preparing for an important conversation.

“Anna Sergeyevna, you have a meeting in fifteen minutes.”

“What meeting?” she raised her eyebrows.

“A new candidate for the position of lead specialist.”

Anna nodded, went to her office, and tossed a folder on the desk. A meeting was just a meeting—her work schedule was now so packed that she had long stopped delving into every detail in advance.

But as soon as the office door opened, everything fell into place.

Andrey.

He entered with confident strides, but when he saw her, he abruptly stopped. A flash of confusion crossed his face—he didn’t know. He didn’t know whose interview he had come for.

Anna slowly looked up from the documents laid out before her.

“Please, have a seat.”

He sat down, still trying to maintain an air of control, although the corners of his mouth twitched slightly.

“So…” Andrey coughed, lowering his eyes to his resume as if he were seeing it for the first time.

Anna folded her hands on the table.

“Are you looking for a job?”

“Yes,” he finally mustered, looking up. “The company I worked for shut down. Now I’m looking.”

He said it with a challenging tone, awaiting her reaction.

“I see,” she nodded calmly.

Seconds passed slowly.

“You… you work here?” he finally asked.

“I’m not just working here. I’m the managing partner.”

Anna watched him process the information—confusion in his eyes giving way to shock.

“You… but how?”

“It’s a family business. I own it.”

Now he looked at her as if he were seeing her for the first time.

She allowed herself a small pause, giving him time to absorb the revelation, then gently closed the folder with his resume.

“Thank you for coming. We will call you.”

Andrey left the office slowly, as if he couldn’t believe the interview had ended so abruptly. He passed by the secretary, mechanically adjusting the sleeves of his shirt.

Anna watched his back through the glass door.

She felt relief. Not schadenfreude, not satisfaction, but pure relief.

Now he knew.

 

 

Anna looked out the window, watching the sun slowly slide across the glass facades of neighboring buildings. The office was filled with silence—a silence that still carried the remnants of their recent meeting. Andrey had left, yet his presence lingered in the air like an invisible ghost of the past.

She closed her eyes. Should she feel triumph? Relief? Revenge? But in her heart, there was only calm. Perhaps because she had long since left it all behind.

“He was your husband, wasn’t he?” asked Mikhail, her business partner, as he entered the office without knocking. He already knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it from her.

“He was.”

He leaned against the door, arms folded.

“And now?”

Anna looked at the closed folder containing Andrey’s resume.

“He isn’t suitable for us.”

Mikhail nodded, as if he had expected that answer.

“You could have taken him—let him work under your leadership.”

“Why?”

“Just to see how he manages.”

Anna smiled.

“I’ve already seen how he manages.”

Mikhail nodded silently and left, leaving her alone.

After leaving the building, Anna noticed Andrey standing by the gate, his hands in his pockets, staring straight ahead. Unexpectedly, she approached him.

“You knew that one day everything would change,” she said.

He looked up and smiled slightly.

“Did you really think I’d come here of my own accord?”

“I didn’t.”

“I didn’t know this was your company.”

“Now you know.”

They fell silent.

“Are you really not going to hire me?” he asked.

She looked at him.

“What if I were sitting in front of you and you were interviewing me? Would you hire me?”

He didn’t answer.

Anna didn’t wait. She turned and left without looking back.

Evening. The windows were open. The wind roamed through the rooms, filling them with freshness. On the shelves were books she’d longed to reread but had always postponed, and on the table lay a contract for a new project—a project that would mark the beginning of a new phase in her work.

Her phone vibrated—a message from Mikhail.

“Dinner at eight. No refusal.”

Anna smiled, closed her laptop, and rose from her chair.

Somewhere in the past remained the Anna who waited, endured, and tried to meet someone’s expectations.

Are you sure?” the realtor reviewed the documents once more.
“A deed of gift is serious. It will be difficult to reverse later.”

“I’m sure,” Yana signed. Her hand did not tremble—she had decided everything.

The May morning bathed the notary office in sunlight. The air conditioner hummed peacefully on the windowsill, and the reception area smelled of coffee. An ordinary day when unusual issues are being decided.

“Mom knows what to do,” Yana said, tucking a copy of the documents into her purse. “In case something happens.”

That was a year ago—long before Dima began staying late at work. Before the appearance of an unfamiliar woman’s perfume on his shirts. Before the strange evening phone calls.

Yana was not naive. She had grown up in a family of lawyers, where from childhood she was taught to think two steps ahead. They had bought the apartment with her money—a legacy from her grandmother. Dima was just starting his career then and had signed a car loan.

“Sweetheart, transfer the title to me,” her mother had said at length. “Not for a divorce—just as insurance. You never know what life holds.”

And Yana agreed. No scandal, no explanations to her husband. She simply gifted the apartment to her mother. On paper—a clean transaction. In fact—a backup plan.

The phone rang—a message from Dima: “I’ll be late today. An important meeting.”

Yana smiled sadly. An important meeting. Just like yesterday. And the day before. She opened the photo that a private detective had sent: Dima and some blonde walking into a restaurant. His hand on her waist, happy smiles.

“Would you like some?” the secretary offered a cup of coffee.

“Thanks, I don’t feel like it,” Yana replied as she stood up. “Is everything ready?”

“Yes, in an hour the full set of documents will be here.”

Yana stepped outside. May was warm—the lilacs had already finished blooming, but the air still held their scent. She and Dima had met in May, six years ago. He had seemed so reliable, so faithful. She believed him…

The phone rang again: “Darling, sorry, tonight will be very late. Don’t wait.”

“Okay,” she answered. “I’ll be late too. I need to settle a few things.”

The café was quiet—a post-lunch lull. Yana chose a table by the window and pulled out a folder with documents. It was her and her mother’s favorite place—cozy, with pastries like in childhood.

“Got everything?” her mother asked as she sat opposite, removing her light jacket. “Let’s take a look.”

Elena Sergeyevna, who at fifty-five looked only forty, was a renowned family law attorney. She had seen hundreds of divorces and knew all the pitfalls.

“Here’s a bank statement,” Yana spread out the papers. “He withdrew almost all the money from our joint account. Yesterday.”

“He’s getting ready,” her mother nodded. “And this?”

“The detective sent this. The last three months—restaurants, hotels, a jewelry store…”

“Jewelry?” Elena Sergeyevna raised an eyebrow. “Hasn’t he given you anything recently?”

“No,” Yana smiled sadly. “But his new girlfriend wears a Cartier bracelet—the very one I saw on the card statement.”

A waitress brought their favorite lavender tea. Yana mechanically stirred in sugar—two teaspoons, as always.

“Alright, so,” her mother pulled out her planner. “The apartment has been registered in my name for a year. Clean, legal. No joint loans. His car—let him keep it. But as for the accounts, we’ll have to work on those.”

“Mom, I don’t need money.”

“You do,” Elena Sergeyevna looked sternly at her daughter. “It’s not just money—it’s your years. You’ve worked, saved. And he…”

“I know,” Yana said, clutching her cup. “He spoke with a lawyer yesterday. I overheard the conversation. About dividing assets, about the apartment…”

“Let him talk,” her mother smiled. “He doesn’t know about the deed of gift, does he?”

“No. He thinks he can claim half, or at least a share.”

“Are you sure? About the divorce?”

Yana gazed out the window. A young couple strolled down the street—so young, holding hands. Like they once were with Dima.

“Do you remember when you taught me to drive?” she suddenly changed the subject. “You said: look not only ahead, but also in the mirrors. Danger could be there.”

“I remember,” Elena Sergeyevna covered her daughter’s hand with her own. “And what do you see in the mirrors now?”

“Lies. Betrayal. A double life,” Yana said as she pulled out her phone and opened the gallery. “Look. This is from a week ago—at the restaurant ‘Nebo.’ And this is from three days ago—at the cinema. And this one…”

“That’s enough,” her mother gently took the phone away. “I understand. When?”

“Today. He’ll come home late, after meeting her. I have prepared everything.”

“Documents?”

“In the safe at your office. I’ve packed my essentials. I’ll collect the rest later.”

The phone rang—the message from Dima: “Want to buy something for dinner?”

“No need,” Yana typed. “We have a serious conversation.”

Yana returned home by seven. The apartment smelled of freshness—she had opened the windows in the morning, changed the curtains, rearranged the vases. The final cleaning in this house.

On the table—their wedding photo. Back then, she had worn a simple white dress, he— a gray suit. No lavish ceremony, just close ones. “The wedding isn’t the main thing, but the life afterwards,” Dima had said. How beautifully he spoke.

Yana picked up the photograph, running her finger along the glass. Six years. Six years she believed that everything between them was real.

The phone rang—the detective’s message: “They are leaving the restaurant. Sending the photo.”

In the snapshot, Dima was kissing a blonde. Right on the street, without hiding. In that same shirt Yana had given him for his birthday the day before.

“Thanks,” she wrote. “No more needed.”

Keys jingled in the hall—earlier than usual. Yana placed the photo back on the table and sat in an armchair.

“Darling, I’m home!” Dima sounded unusually cheerful. He smelled of wine and someone else’s perfume. “And I’ve got a surprise!”

“Oh, really?” she watched as her husband pulled a bottle of champagne out of a bag. He wavered slightly.

“Yes! Imagine, I got promoted! Now I’m the Development Director. My salary is doubled, and…”

“And more time for meetings?” Yana asked quietly.

“What?” he froze with the bottle in hand.

“Meetings. At the restaurant ‘Nebo.’ At the cinema. At the ‘Riviera’ hotel…”

Dima slowly lowered the bottle. The smile faded from his face.

“Have you been watching me?”

“Not me. The detective,” Yana said, pulling out her phone. “Want to see the photos? Very clear. Especially the one of you kissing her outside the restaurant. And in the car. And…”

“Wait,” he raised his hands. “Let’s talk. It’s not what you think.”

“And what do I think, Dima?” she stood up. “That my husband is sleeping with another woman? That he gives her bracelets worth three hundred thousand? That he withdraws money from our joint account?”

“How did you…?”

“Never mind,” Yana moved toward the window. “The important thing is this: I know everything. And I’ve known for a long time.”

“Sweetheart,” he stepped toward her. “It’s a mistake. I’ll explain everything. Lena is just a colleague…”

“Lena?” Yana smirked. “So it’s Lena. And I thought it was Sveta. In your phone, she’s saved as Sveta.”

“Yana…”

“Don’t touch me,” she pulled away. “And you don’t have to explain. I have already decided everything.”

“And what have you decided?”

Yana looked out the window. A couple strolled down the street—so young, holding hands. Like they once were with Dima. “I have decided on divorce.”

“Divorce?” Dima laughed nervously. “Over a few meetings? Are you serious?”

“A few meetings?” Yana opened her phone gallery. “Look—March 15, restaurant. March 20, theater. March 25—restaurant again. In April—four hotel meetings. In May—already eight…”

“Did you count?”

“The detective did. A very detailed report—dates, times, locations. And photos. Lots of photos.”

Dima flopped onto the couch. His tie was askew, dark circles under his eyes. Not as happy as he had been in the photo with his lover.

“And now?” he asked, burying his face in his hands. “Are you going to blackmail me?”

“Why?” Yana shrugged. “Just a divorce. You want this, don’t you? Otherwise, why else would you withdraw money from our account?”

He flinched: “How did you…”

“Bank statement. Yesterday, almost all—four million withdrawn. Are you preparing for dividing the assets?”

“And what’s so special about that?” Dima suddenly became aggressive. “I have the right! It’s our joint money. And the apartment is ours. By law, I’m entitled to half!”

“Apartment?” Yana smiled calmly. “Honey, the apartment isn’t mine—it’s Mom’s. So go ahead and file for divorce,” Yana said calmly to Dima. “Here is the extract from Rosreestr. You can check.”

Dima grabbed the papers. His hands trembled as he read.

“How… when?”

“A year ago. A legal deed of gift. Mom is a lawyer—everything was properly arranged.”

“Did you… did you do it on purpose?” he paled. “Were you planning for this?”

“As insurance,” Yana moved to the closet and retrieved a packed bag. “Mom taught me—always think one step ahead. Especially when your husband starts staying late at work.”

“Fuck…” Dima hissed.

“Don’t stoop to insults,” she wrapped her coat around herself. “I’ll collect my things later. I’ll leave the keys with Mom—it’s her apartment. And you… can live here until the divorce. Mom agreed.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“No. It’s the end of the game, Dima. You lost.”

“Wait!” Dima jumped up, blocking her path to the door. “Let’s talk. This can all be fixed!”

“What can be fixed?” Yana calmly fastened her coat. “Your hotel trips? Or the three-hundred-thousand bracelet? Or the lies about staying late at work?”

“I’ll explain everything! It’s over with Lena, I swear!”

“Really?” she pulled out her phone. “And this photo was taken an hour ago. A very passionate kiss for ‘it’s over’.”

Dima clutched his head: “Damn… Yana, listen. I’m confused. It was a mistake. Let’s start over!”

“Start over?” she smiled sadly. “And do you know what’s the funniest part? I truly loved you. I believed in you. When Mom suggested transferring the apartment, I resisted. I said—why, we’re a family…”

She moved to the table and picked up their wedding photo. “Remember that day? You said that we’d always be together. That you’d never betray me…”

“I love you!”

“No, Dima. You only love yourself. And now, when you realize you’re going to be left without an apartment, you’re trying to salvage something.”

“That’s not true!” he paled. “I really do love you!”

“Then why did you withdraw all the money from our account?” Yana placed the photo back down. “Why did you consult a lawyer about asset division? Why did you look for another apartment?”

“How did you…”

“The realtor you met on Monday—my old client. He called and told me. You were looking for a two-bedroom in the center. For you and Lena, right?”

Dima fell silent. The ticking of the clock on the wall—a wedding gift from his parents—could be heard.

“I had planned everything,” he finally managed to say. “I intended to talk. To split up honestly. To divide the assets…”

“And take half of the apartment,” Yana finished. “But you miscalculated. The apartment is Mom’s. And as for the joint money… well, take it. Consider it payment for six years of lost life.”

She moved toward the door. Dima grabbed her hand: “Don’t go! I’ll fix everything!”

“Too late,” she gently freed her hand. “Divorce papers will be ready tomorrow. You sign—and you’re free. You can live with Lena, give her bracelets… but now with your own money, not our joint funds.”

“I’ll go to court!” he shouted after her. “I’ll prove that the deed of gift is fake!”

“Try it,” Yana turned back. “Mom will be pleased. She hasn’t been in court for ages—she’s been missing the process.”

The door closed. Yana slowly descended the stairs. Her hands trembled, but she held herself together. Mom was waiting in the car.

“How did it go?”

“Just as you predicted,” Yana buckled her seatbelt. “At first he denied, then pleaded to come back. When he realized about the apartment—he threatened to sue.”

“Typical scenario,” Elena Sergeyevna started the car. “Home?”

“No. To your place. I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

The car set off. Yana watched the city glide by through the window. Somewhere out there, in a rented apartment, Lena was waiting for Dima. Waiting for a glamorous life, expensive gifts…

“You know,” her mother said as they stopped at a traffic light, “you did well. Many suffer for years, too afraid to leave.”

“I just realized in time: it’s better to be alone than with a traitor.”

“And there’s a whole life ahead,” Elena Sergeyevna smiled. “Without lies, without humiliation. You will make it.”

Yana nodded. Her phone jingled in her bag—Dima. She silenced it without looking at the screen. Tomorrow would be a new day. And a new life.

– Gena, are you sure you’ve thought everything through properly?
– Mom…
– I know what I’m talking about. She’s with you only for your money, isn’t she?

Gennady let out a heavy sigh.

– Mom, I understand your concerns, but they are completely unfounded. Arguing with you is pointless; you won’t change your mind anyway. Think what you want. We’re not planning anything grandiose.

– Gena, stop it. I’m sure she’s just using you. You know that very well. That girl…

– Mom, please, let’s not continue this. Lena and I have known each other for over five years, and we’ve been preparing for this step for a long time.

– I just want to remind you: you’re a sought-after groom. Any woman would go for you. You do realize our situation, don’t you?

Gennady closed his eyes, as if shielding himself from fatigue.

– Mom, be honest with me: what’s more important to you—our status or my happiness?

Anna Nikolaevna looked helplessly at her husband.

– Sasha, why are you silent?’

 

Alexander, having set the newspaper aside, smirked slightly.

– Anya, you know, there’s one thing about you: you only come to me when you hit a dead end. For the past 27 years, you’ve been making all the decisions on your own. And whenever something goes wrong, you always blame me.

Anna Nikolaevna squinted.

– Are you done? Now let’s talk seriously.

– Gena is an adult, fully capable of making decisions. I don’t understand why we should interfere in his choices. In my opinion, Lena is a decent girl.

– Decent? In our day, without money no one survives.

– By the way, weren’t you not always wealthy either? Have you forgotten that?

Anna Nikolaevna was clearly beginning to lose control.

– Sasha, you’re irresponsible! Our son is about to ruin his life!

– Calm down. Nothing terrible is happening. He’ll continue his treatment, and perhaps his wife will even have a positive influence. What are you so upset about? I don’t understand.

Anna Nikolaevna abruptly left the room, and Gennady struggled to rise from his chair.

– Thanks, Dad.

– How are you feeling?

– Fine, don’t worry.

When their son turned 17, something strange happened to him. The doctors could never determine a precise diagnosis. One moment they would have one hypothesis, the next another—the treatment only helped partially. One renowned professor once said:

– It seems as though your son has lost the ability to fight off illnesses. Had this happened a hundred years ago, I would have called it a curse. But now… all we can do is shrug our shoulders and watch.

Alexander knew that money couldn’t solve everything, yet he spent enormous sums on treatments at the best clinics. However, one day Gennady asked:

– Please, let me have a little break. I’ve already forgotten what our home looks like, and I can’t even recall the last time I slept in my own bed.

Unexpectedly, the mother—who had previously insisted on every possible treatment method—supported her son:

– Sasha, maybe it really is time to let Gena rest? Let’s follow the doctors’ recommendations.

Alexander waved his hand dismissively. He would have argued if he had seen even the slightest improvement. But there was none. Yet at home, Gena felt better: his appetite returned, and he even gained a little weight.

Since then, he would check into a clinic for examinations twice a year, then return home with new doctors’ instructions.

Gena still managed to finish university thanks to his father’s financial support. He was a capable student, but his regular absences from classes due to illness did not endear him to the professors.

He and Lena met back in their student days. Their friendship lasted for several years until recently when Lena confessed her feelings to him. It gave Gena a boost, as if wings had sprouted behind him.

As he had expected, the wedding turned out to be much more lavish than he had imagined. His mother organized such a celebration that it seemed the whole town had been invited. Lena did her best to keep smiling all evening, ignoring the tense atmosphere.

The relationship between Lena’s mother, Galina Ivanovna, and Anna Nikolaevna did not get off to a good start. The latter believed that Galina, having neither status nor money, should be grateful for such a marriage. However, Galina preferred to keep her distance from the groom’s parents.

The highlight of the evening was the gift presentation. When Lena’s mother announced that the young couple was being presented with a small house inherited from her grandfather and located in a protected area, Anna Nikolaevna couldn’t hold back:

– My God, how can you present that rundown shack on the edge of nowhere as a valuable gift? – Anna Nikolaevna fumed.

 

Gena looked at his mother reproachfully: – Mom, enough.

– Enough of what, Gena? Now nothing can be fixed!

After Galina Ivanovna left, Anna immediately turned to her husband: – Did you see her? She’s no one, yet she acts as if she were a queen!

A few days after the wedding, Gena announced to his parents: – Lena and I have decided to move into the house that Galina Ivanovna gifted.

Anna Nikolaevna nearly lost her senses: – Are you out of your mind?! This is all her influence! She wants to hide you in the middle of nowhere so that you’ll deteriorate faster and she can seize the inheritance!

Alexander frowned: – Anya, what are you talking about? Have you completely lost it?

Anna exploded: – I’m speaking completely rationally! He needs constant medical supervision, and he’s planning to move to the middle of nowhere! I won’t allow it!

– We already have the tickets in hand, – Gena replied calmly.

– Fine, – Anna said coldly. – If that’s how it is, don’t come to me for help anymore. Let your new family take care of you.

– Gena, don’t be angry with your mother; you know her character, – Alexander said reassuringly. – She’ll come around. If you need anything, call me—I’ll help.

– Thanks, Dad.

– But still, why there? In that place, you’re right—there’s a real dump.

Gena smiled: – Maybe you won’t believe it, but there are healing springs there. Lena and her mother are convinced that this place will help me recover. Honestly, I don’t really believe in it, but why not give it a try?

– You’re such a skeptic. Sometimes, what can’t be explained turns out to be the most effective. I wish you luck.

When they drove up to the house, Gena looked around in astonishment at the overgrown yard: – Everything is wildly overgrown here!

Lena smiled: – Of course, nobody has lived here for many years. But don’t worry, a little work and it’ll be as good as new.

She opened the door, and they went inside. To Gena’s surprise, the house turned out to be quite cozy, and there was hardly any dust. He was so exhausted from the journey that he barely managed to sit on the couch before he fell asleep immediately.

For a while, Lena took care of the cleaning, while Gena helped as much as his strength allowed. To his amazement, he began to feel better—his energy returned, and his appetite became voracious. After a week, he completely finished his dinner and even surprised himself: – I can’t understand how, but everything just went in!

Lena smiled mischievously: – I told you, miracles happen in these parts.

 

Gena looked at her curiously: – Why are you so sure?

– In my childhood, I used to come here often and saw many strange and wonderful things.

– Well, of course, and all the local guys were chasing after you!

– Stop it, – Lena laughed. – By the way, tomorrow there’s a surprise waiting for you!

Despite all his attempts to find out from his wife what the surprise was, Gena never did learn. They went to bed, happy and full of hope, embracing each other.

— Sasha, I don’t understand how you can be so indifferent! It’s been half a year since that girl took our son away, and you haven’t lifted a finger! — Anna Nikolaevna grumbled.

Alexander tore himself away from his papers: — And what do you suggest? Call in the riot police and forcibly bring him home? Don’t forget, he’s now married and living his own life.

Anna stamped her foot: — What nonsense! A month ago, he was supposed to be admitted to the hospital, yet all he does is assure me that everything’s fine and then immediately hangs up. How can he be alright without treatment?!

Alexander realized that behind that torrent of words lay his mother’s deep concern. Setting his documents aside, he gently suggested: — If you’re so worried, let’s pay them a visit. Let’s see how they’re settling in.

Anna thought for a moment, then smiled: — That’s a great idea.

— Then get ready. I’ll call Gena, and tomorrow morning we’ll set out.

They reached the village only by evening.

— My goodness, what a wreck! — Anna Nikolaevna sighed.

Alexander smiled: — I like it. Fresh air, no clutter… Oh, look, a hare!

Anna watched in amazement as a hare dashed past the car: — It’s like a nature reserve! I wouldn’t be surprised if bears roamed the streets here.

— It seems we’re here, — Alexander observed.

At that moment, the house gates swung open, and Gena appeared on the porch. Anna froze, and Alexander nearly lost his speech. Standing before them was a strong, healthy young man, completely unlike the pale youth he used to be.

— Mom, Dad, how I’ve missed you! — Gena exclaimed joyfully.

They embraced for a long time, and Anna couldn’t hold back her tears: — Gena, how you’ve grown!

— It’s all thanks to Lena. And also—to the bees. You have no idea how fascinating it is!

Lena stepped onto the porch, smiling shyly. She too embraced the husband’s parents.

— Thank you, dear, — Anna Nikolaevna said tearfully. — You did what even the best doctors couldn’t do.

After mutual greetings and embraces, they finally unloaded the car and presented all the gifts they had brought. Lena, smiling warmly, invited everyone to the table. Anna Nikolaevna examined the dishes with interest, as if they had transported her back to her childhood: everything looked incredibly appetizing and homely. Meanwhile, Gena took out a bottle:

— Dad, here’s some mead. Real, homemade.

Alexander laughed: — You’re like true hosts! You really have everything here!

Everyone tried the mead, except Lena.

Noticing this, Anna Nikolaevna asked with slight irritation: — What, are you still upset? Not even a sip for our visit?

Lena blushed and replied shyly: — I can’t have it.

Anna looked at her son in surprise: — Is she sick?

Gena smiled broadly: — We’re going to have a baby. So, Mom, get ready to be a grandmother!

These words triggered a flood of emotions in Anna Nikolaevna. Tears streamed down her face; she alternated between embracing her son and Lena, and then began crying again with happiness. At one point, completely unexpectedly for everyone, she decisively declared:

– That’s it, I’m staying here for a couple of weeks. I need to buy a few things and help you settle in. Sasha, didn’t you offer me a new car a while back? So, buy it! And a big one, so I can bring the baby everything needed before he or she arrives. We’ll definitely bring Lena to the city—let her give birth in a good clinic.

She continued giving orders, but those around couldn’t help but laugh. Anna Nikolaevna blushed slightly:

– Well, I just want what’s best!

Lena approached her and hugged her: – I’ll listen to you. Gena doesn’t know anything about these matters, and I’m a little scared.

Anna gently held her close and comforted her: — Don’t be afraid, I’m always here.

That evening, Polina was climbing the stairs to her apartment. Her heart felt light and joyful – the renovation had finally been completed. Three months of hard work – endless trips to the stores and quarrels with the workers – were now behind her. Now, in the apartment she inherited from her grandmother, everything exuded coziness and warmth.

“Now, we can finally live,” Polina whispered, running her hand along the freshly painted walls. Although the paint had long dried, she still couldn’t help the gesture.

The apartment had transformed beyond recognition. Gone were the old wallpapers, replaced by light walls; the creaky parquet was swapped for modern laminate; and in the kitchen, there was a brand-new set in the color of milk chocolate – something Polina had long dreamed of.

Polina went into the kitchen and turned on the kettle. Today, she had purposely come home early from work – she wanted to enjoy the fruits of her labor in silence. Nikolay, her husband, was delayed at the office, which gave her time to quietly consider where to place the remaining little touches.

She retrieved from a cupboard a cup adorned with an ornate pattern – a housewarming gift from a friend. The kettle had just begun to boil when the doorbell rang.

“Who is it?” Polina asked as she approached the door.

 

 

“Hello, I’m your neighbor, Marina,” came an unfamiliar female voice. “I really need to talk to you.”

Polina opened the door. Standing on the threshold was a woman of about thirty-five, with a tired face and an anxious look. Her hands nervously fiddled with the strap of her bag.

“Sorry for the disturbance,” began Marina, “but this is very important. I know your mother-in-law, Oksana Ivanovna, and her son.”

Polina tensed. Ever since the wedding, her relationship with her mother-in-law had been difficult. Oksana Ivanovna – a dominant and headstrong woman – constantly tried to interfere in her life with Nikolay.

“Please, come in,” Polina said, opening the door wider to let the stranger into the apartment.

“No, no, it’s better if we talk here,” Marina shook her head. “Listen to me carefully. I rent an apartment one floor below, and a few years ago I also got to know your mother-in-law – back when I still lived in my own apartment in the city center.”

Polina leaned against the doorframe, listening intently.

“Oksana Ivanovna seemed so kind and caring,” Marina continued, her voice trembling. “She often came to visit me, brought pies, asked about my life. And then she introduced me to her son.”

“To Nikolay?” Polina clarified, feeling a chill run down her spine.

“Yes. We started dating. It was like a fairy tale – flowers, restaurants, sweet words. And then…” Marina paused for a moment, gathering her thoughts. “Then they proposed that I invest money in a joint business. They persuaded me to re-register the apartment as collateral.”

Polina felt the ground give way beneath her feet. She remembered how, just last week, Oksana Ivanovna had mentioned that it might be a good idea to merge their properties with Nikolay’s so that it would be easier to help out.

“I lost everything,” Marina said in a hollow tone. “They pulled off some kind of scam with the documents. By the time I realized what was happening, it was too late – the apartment had been sold, and I was left out on the street.”

“But how…? Why didn’t you go to the police?” Polina’s throat suddenly felt dry.

“I did. But all the documents were legally in order. I signed everything myself – even though I didn’t understand what I was signing,” Marina bitterly smiled. “They are very persuasive. Especially Oksana Ivanovna – she speaks so sweetly, so convincingly. And Nikolay… he’s a master at creating the image of the perfect man.”

Polina felt a wave of nausea. She remembered how she had met Nikolay – at a café where Oksana Ivanovna had invited her for a cup of coffee. How his son had coincidentally been there, and how quickly their romance had ignited…

“Why are you telling me this now?” Polina asked, though she already knew the answer.

“Because yesterday I saw Oksana Ivanovna talking with a realtor by your building’s entrance. I recognized him – he’s the same person who helped them with my apartment.”

At that moment, Polina’s phone vibrated in her pocket. A message from her mother-in-law appeared on the screen: “Dear, I’ll come by tomorrow with some documents. We need to discuss something about your apartment with Kolya.”

Polina’s hands trembled as she recalled all the oddities of recent weeks: how Nikolay had started staying later at work, how the visits from her mother-in-law had increased, how her husband had grown increasingly interested in the apartment’s documents…

“Thank you,” Polina said quietly, looking at Marina. “I have a lot to think about. Let’s exchange contacts.”

After jotting down her phone number, Marina nodded and, giving one last sympathetic look, headed for the stairs. Polina closed the door and leaned against it. Memories of a recent conversation with Oksana Ivanovna resurfaced.

“Dear, you and Kolya should be thinking about the future,” her mother-in-law had said while arranging the pies she’d brought on the table. “Why do you need that old apartment? Sell it and buy a big family house. We could all live together and raise grandchildren.”

At that time, Polina had merely waved off those words. But now every phrase from her mother-in-law took on a new, ominous meaning.

The doorbell rang again, shattering the silence. On the threshold stood Oksana Ivanovna holding a thick folder of documents.

“Polinushka, how nice that you’re home!” her mother-in-law exclaimed as she stepped into the apartment without waiting for an invitation. “I brought some documents; we need to discuss something.”

Polina felt a chill inside.

“Oksana Ivanovna, maybe we can talk another time,” Polina tried to protest. “I’m busy right now.”

“Nonsense! It’ll only take a couple of minutes,” Oksana Ivanovna insisted as she began laying out the papers on the kitchen table. “Look, Kolya and I have thought everything through. We’ll sell your apartment, add our savings, and get a wonderful house outside the city. There’ll be enough space for everyone.”

 

“I’m not going to sign anything,” Polina stated firmly.

For a moment, Oksana Ivanovna’s smile faltered, only to return immediately.

“Don’t be foolish, girl. It’s all for your own good. Kolya has already agreed.”

That evening, the conversation with her husband turned tense.

“Why are you refusing?” Nikolay nervously paced around the room. “Mother is trying, organizing everything, and you’re making a fuss. Think about it – a big house, all together. Is that so bad?”

“And what about my opinion? Doesn’t it matter?” Polina tried to speak calmly. “This is my grandmother’s apartment. I’m not going to sell it.”

“You’re too attached to the past!” Nikolay’s tone turned harsh and unfamiliar. “You need to think about the future.”

From that day on, the pressure only grew. Oksana Ivanovna began appearing almost every day, always with new arguments – sometimes talking about real estate contacts, sometimes about lucrative offers, sometimes about how difficult it was for Nikolay to commute from that neighborhood.

Polina held her ground, but each day became harder. Nikolay increasingly disappeared to his mother’s, returning home irritated and cold.

One evening, having left work earlier than usual, Polina heard her mother-in-law’s voice near the building entrance.

“Yes, there’s a slight delay with the documents,” Oksana Ivanovna was saying on the phone. “Polina will come around, but it’s temporary. Kolya knows what to do. Everything will be ready by next week.”

Polina’s heart pounded faster. She barely waited until her mother-in-law left before climbing the stairs to her apartment. An hour later, Nikolay arrived – unusually animated, carrying a folder of documents.

“Let’s settle everything today,” he said, spreading the papers out on the table. “I’ve prepared everything; all I need is your signature. And then we can start a new life.”

Polina looked at her husband’s face and no longer recognized him. Where had the caring, attentive man she married gone? Before her stood a stranger with cold eyes that showed nothing but impatience.

“I’m not signing anything. I’m done with this. I want you out. Here are your things. And leave the keys.”

The next day, Polina went to work earlier than usual. Throughout the day, she couldn’t sit still, constantly checking her phone. Around three o’clock, a call came from Marina.

“Polina, they’re trying to get into your apartment!” Marina’s voice trembled with worry.

“This can’t be! I kicked my husband out yesterday and took the keys,” Polina insisted.

“Come quickly. Oksana Ivanovna and Nikolay – they have keys. I’ve already called the police!”

 

Polina sprang from her desk, grabbing her bag. She remembered that the apartment contained many valuable antiques and paintings.

“I’ll be right there! Please make sure they don’t take anything!”

When Polina arrived at the entrance, a police car was already parked there. Marina met her at the door.

“They managed to open the door, but I didn’t let them in,” Marina recounted. “I started shouting that I would call the police. Oksana Ivanovna tried to convince me that this was just a family matter, but I didn’t give in.”

Nikolay stood by the wall, pale and confused. In the officer’s hand, a bunch of keys glistened.

“Ma’am, do you confirm that these are duplicates made without your knowledge?” the officer asked.

Polina nodded, tears welling in her eyes.

“I’m filing a report. Against everyone – for attempted illegal entry and fraud,” Polina’s voice trembled with tension.

“What are you saying?!” Nikolay finally snapped back. “I’m your husband! What fraud?”

“Ex-husband,” Polina said firmly. “From this moment on – ex-husband.”

The following weeks turned into a whirlwind. Polina filed for divorce while simultaneously making a police report. Marina helped gather evidence – it turned out there were other victims of Oksana Ivanovna’s and Nikolay’s scams.

“You know,” Marina once said while making tea in Polina’s kitchen, “when I lost my apartment, I thought my life was over. But now I see – it was a lesson. You can’t blindly trust and rely solely on feelings. It was hard, but necessary; I learned to understand people. I’m glad I was able to save you from this.”

Polina nodded in agreement. After the incident with the keys, she seemed to have awakened from a long sleep. Each day brought new revelations – she realized it was possible to live without constant control, to plan her day without being weighed down by others’ expectations, to meet friends without guilt.

The divorce proceeded quickly – Nikolay didn’t drag out the process, fearing an investigation into his past schemes. Oksana Ivanovna tried to cause a scandal in court, but the bailiffs quickly subdued her.

Polina kept her apartment and regained her confidence. Now, as she prepared breakfast in her cozy kitchen, she often reflected on how important it is to learn to say “no” and trust your feelings.

“You’ve become a completely different person,” Marina remarked one day, noticing the sparkle in her eyes and her buoyant walk.

“I finally feel at home,” Polina smiled as she looked around her apartment. “Everything here is mine – every item, every inch of space. And I will never let anyone take that away from me again.”

Gradually, life settled. Polina received a promotion at work, started attending yoga classes, and even got a cat. The fluffy friend greeted her after work and adored her for a bowl of milk.

Every evening, as she returned home, Polina thanked fate for that chance visit from Marina. One conversation had changed her entire life and saved her from a terrible mistake. And now, whenever she meets new men, she tells them that she lives in a rented apartment, choosing to remain silent about her career successes.

Darling, can’t you put more effort into this?” Rita said, watching as Stas, sprawled across the couch cushions, took long drags on his cigarette, deep in thought.

He snorted irritably: “Rit, do you even realize what you’re suggesting? I have no desire to swap the comfort of this couch for a prison cell.”

 

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Rita softened her tone. “I’m just curious—don’t you want to be rid of this burden as soon as possible?”

Stas rolled onto his stomach and fixed her with a penetrating look: “And you? We’ve said a thousand times that it’s better to wait it out for now.”

“I agree, but Olga isn’t someone you can easily fool,” Rita countered. “She knows that time is against her. All it needs is a little push… As long as there’s hope, a person clings to a straw. And when it’s gone…”

Stas silently studied the features of his companion. Their secret affair had lasted a year already, yet the dream of a life together was shattered by two obstacles: first, abandoning a wife bound by illness would be scandalous, and second, all their shared assets—the apartment, the car, the bank accounts—legally belonged to Olga. Stas had tried more than once to start his own business using her money, only to face failure every time.

“A true master of manipulation,” he smirked. “Maybe if we play to her weaknesses, she’ll decide to speed things up on her own?”

“Exactly!” Rita nodded in agreement.

Stas returned at dawn. In the kitchen, Olga awaited him, pale, with dark circles under her eyes.

“What are you doing here?” he snapped, unable to hide his irritation.

“I was waiting… I felt uneasy without you. Where have you been?” Her voice trembled.

“Am I now obliged to report to you?” he said coldly. “Or have you forgotten that at home I’m not waiting for a cripple, but a woman with whom I can talk about something other than pills and diagnoses?”

Olga lowered her gaze: “Sorry… I was just asking.” Struggling to get up, she leaned against the wall and headed toward her room, but Stas caught up with her at the doorway.

“Tomorrow we’re going somewhere. Let’s take a walk.”

“Will I… be able to?” A spark of hope flickered in her eyes.

“Of course. I’ll help you,” he replied, barely containing a smirk.

“Thank you!” she managed a weak smile.

He recoiled at the smell of medications lingering in her room.

Olga’s illness had struck suddenly. Once, she could do it all: run a company, manage a household, be the life of the party. But one day her strength simply ran out. At first, she dismissed her malaise as fatigue, but after a brief improvement, her condition sharply deteriorated: while driving, she nearly hit pedestrians and lost consciousness.

The hospital, endless examinations, yet the diagnosis remained a mystery. A year of torment. Thoughts of selling the business gnawed at her: Stas, once he inherited, would bankrupt the company in a month. People would be left without jobs. Although Nikolai, her manager, kept everything under control, Olga increasingly worried about the future.

When she opened her laptop, she stumbled upon a letter from Nikolai. The text stunned her. He not only revealed Stas’s and his mistress’s plans to hasten her demise but also confessed his own feelings.

Olga read the lines over and over. There had been suspicions of her husband’s infidelity, but such a cynical plot… Her eyes lit up with a familiar fire—the very same that flared during risky business deals. Nikolai was offering not only help but something more. Now she had an ally. And the game was just beginning.

“Get ready to go out,” Stas said that morning as he peered into Olga’s room.

 

 

She studied his face intently: “Where are we going?”

“You’ll find out when we get there,” he snapped, avoiding her gaze.

After gathering themselves, they got into the car. As Stas buckled his seatbelt, he remarked sarcastically: “You’re unusually silent. Not even complaining about how you feel. Is today some kind of angelic patience?”

“Is there any point?” she said wearily, leaning back against the headrest. “My complaints are nothing to you.”

Stas gripped the steering wheel. His plan required precision: the shock of visiting a cemetery was supposed to break her will. But Olga, it seemed, was reading his thoughts.

At the cemetery, leaning on his elbow, she surveyed the gravestones with a troubled look: “Why did you bring me here?”

“Your time is running out,” he replied with a sardonic smile. “Pick a grave plot so we don’t have to guess later.”

He expected tears, panic, but Olga merely sighed. Noticing Nikolai’s car in the distance, she straightened as if finding support: “Alright, let’s look at the options.”

Stas tensed. Since childhood, cemeteries had filled him with a superstitious dread. The silence, broken only by the rustling of leaves, was oppressive. Memories of Olga’s colleagues’ warnings echoed in his mind: “Don’t mess with her if you cross her path.” He used to laugh at them, but now her determined stride between the tombstones made his heart contract.

“We’re here,” Olga announced, stopping at a plot enclosed by a wrought-iron fence.

Stas was stunned to see plaques bearing their names.

“What the hell is this nonsense?!” he blurted.

“You wanted me to secure a place in advance,” her voice was icy. “And I did.”

“I’m not planning to go to the afterlife for the next several decades!” he hissed.

“Are you sure?” she stepped closer. “What about the vows ‘to be together until the end’? If I leave this world, you’ll follow me.”

Steel flashed in her eyes. “Affairs, overspending—you let everything slide. But a conspiracy with a mistress to hasten my departure…” she moved her face closer to his as if hypnotizing him. “Keep it up—and your name on a headstone will become a reality sooner than you can even be frightened.”

Stas recoiled. The woman he had thought was broken suddenly revealed the strength of a predator.

“You’re talking nonsense!” he spat. “I’ll leave, and you’ll perish here. Everyone will think you took your own life!”

He dashed off, stumbling over stones. Olga sank onto a bench, watching his figure fade into the distance.

“Why torture yourself?” a familiar voice said.

Nikolai, sitting down beside her, gently took her hand: “Get up. It’s time to reclaim your life.”

“Go to a restaurant?” she asked with a weak smile. “I’d forgotten what that felt like…”

“Even better,” he said, helping her to her feet. “Choose: cabbage soup, dumplings, or pancakes?”

At a table in a cozy eatery, after tasting the first piece of cabbage pie, Olga unexpectedly laughed: “Thank you, Kol. You’re… like a breath of fresh air.”

“Empty words,” he waved his hand dismissively. “Those plaques at the cemetery were a masterpiece. I thought Stas would turn as white as chalk.”

“Too bad I didn’t see his face at that moment,” she suddenly mused. “But what now?”

“Now—rest,” Nikolai declared firmly. “Your home is a nerve-wracking hell right now. Move in with me.”

Olga paused, then nodded. For the first time in a year, she felt that the future was not a dead end but a road with unexpected turns.

 

 

“Kol, I can’t be the same as before,” Olga said, gazing out the car window as the landscapes flashed by like scenes from a forgotten movie.

Nikolai abruptly turned to her: “Who told you that rubbish?”

She fell silent, fiddling with the folds of her dress.

“The doctors never gave a definitive answer,” she began hesitantly.

“Clear your mind of that empty space that’s just waiting for your end,” Nikolai said harshly, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. “I have a plan. Let’s go to my hometown.”

“To your mother’s?” she frowned. “Why?”

“The air there smells of childhood and apple pies,” his voice softened. “It’s the best place to reset.”

“Show up at a stranger’s house in a semi-conscious state?” she laughed nervously. “That’s absurd!”

“More absurd than breathing poison in a house where you’re being slowly killed?” he countered.

The ride rocked Olga. She woke from a gentle jolt—the car had stopped at an old house with carved shutters.

“My God, it’s like being in a fairy tale…” she gasped, examining the garden fence, drowned in hydrangeas.

Ekaterina Yevgenyevna, embracing her like a daughter, led her into a room adorned with embroidered cushions and porcelain elephants on the dresser. That evening, Nikolai found Olga lost in thought over an album of black-and-white photos.

“Kolya, I… won’t go back there,” she sighed, caressing the tattered snapshots with her finger. “This morning I was preparing for death, and now…”

He sat beside her, clasping her cold hands: “You will live. Even if I have to convince you of that all over again every day.”

A stubborn spark pulsed in his eyes—the very same spark that had ignited the fires in their company’s workshops during crisis times.

“Let go of the past,” he murmured, bringing her hand to his lips. “Death can wait. But not your mother’s cherry compote.”

Meanwhile, Stas, fidgeting on Rita’s leather sofa, chewed mint gum as if to muffle his nerves: “File a missing person report? If they don’t find the body, the inheritance will be frozen for years! And what if the bitch escapes?”

“You always said she smells like incense,” Rita clicked her nails on her phone screen. “We should have finished her off at the cemetery then! What about the money she was transferring? You blew it all on my fur coats, didn’t you?”

“Damn fur coats!” he leapt up, knocking over a vase. “It’s all your fault—I…”

The door slammed. Rushing out into the street, Stas frantically thought: Olga took her phone. That means she might record our conversations. So…

Three weeks later, he paused at the entrance of a building. On a bench sat Olga—emaciated but with bright red lipstick and a laugh as she sorted through documents with two men in sharp suits.

“Let’s play family,” Stas sneered as he stepped out of the car with a saccharine smile.

Olga gave him a dismissive glance, as if dusting herself off: “That’s the former tenant. He’ll vacate the premises by Thursday.”

He blocked her path, ranting about his right to half the property, but from around the corner, Nikolai appeared with a video camera in hand: “Please, continue, Mr. Sokolov. Every word will be used in court.”

As their car pulled away, Olga didn’t turn her head. The wind played with her scarf, and in her purse lay a referral from a private Swiss clinic marked “Urgent Diagnostics.

Oksana took her husband’s phone to find the photos she had once sent him on social media so they wouldn’t get lost.

There were a bunch of private messages. Doesn’t he read them or something… She decided to take a look at who was writing to him. Various postcards from relatives, “good morning” wishes, congratulations on various holidays – nothing interesting.

One message remained. Hm, who is this… Some Olga Migunova…

 

 

Oksana opened the message. A long text, interesting…

“Alexey, hello! This is the neighbor and friend of Vera Lomakina, your ex-fiancée, writing to you.

Unfortunately, Vera passed away recently; she had a heart condition and couldn’t be saved. But she left Vanya behind – your son with Vera.

When Vera learned she was expecting a child, she wanted to tell you. But when she went online, she saw your photo with a girl, where you wrote that you were planning to get married.

Vera didn’t want to interfere with your happiness. She deleted her social media page. She raised her son on her own, and loved him very much. She had no relatives – you know, she had grown up in an orphanage.

They discovered her heart condition during a medical examination. She was taking some pills and never complained. She died suddenly, at work.

Vanya has withdrawn into himself and is suffering a lot. He’s a good, quiet boy, it’s so sad – he’s all alone now…

For now, I’ve taken him in. But I won’t be able to keep him forever; my house is already full, I’m taking care of my ailing husband and my three children.

That’s why I thought of you. After all, you share the same blood. I understand that this news may not please you and your wife, but I feel it is my duty to inform you about your son.

If no one claims him for a family in the near future, he will be sent to an orphanage, and his fate will mirror his mother’s. You know what kind of life awaits him there. Poor kid.

I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but in memory of Vera, I had to do this. She often spoke of you, only good things. Knowing your first and last name, I found you here; I saw your photo with Vera – she kept it for her son.

Vanya knows he has a father. Vera said that you disappeared without a trace and that maybe you have a new family, so you know nothing about him.

I await your reply. If you refuse to take the boy, I will understand. Not everyone is capable of accepting a child, even if it is one’s own. And your wife would hardly agree – why should she? Not every woman would accept him. My home number is 47; I live next to Vera.

Sincerely, Olga.”

Oksana’s face lit up after reading. Well, what do you know… It turns out that shortly before their meeting, Alexey had a girlfriend. He had never mentioned anything. And now he has a son…

What should be done? How will he react to this news? Will he want to acknowledge this Vanya?

Oksana and Alexey had raised a son, Egor. Her husband had high hopes for him. They had even been thinking about a second child, they wanted a daughter. They had their own apartment, a three-room one, recently updated their car, and were planning a trip to the Mediterranean, putting money aside for the journey.

And now there’s Vanya. Why would she need someone else’s child? Especially one from her ex-husband. And what about this Vera, and what kind of son has she raised… It turns out the boy is about seven or eight – already a schoolchild.

“Ksyukha, I’m here! I bought everything as you asked. I forgot my phone at home, didn’t anyone call me? It’s typical bad luck – no one calls, but once you leave your phone, everyone urgently needs it…”

“No, Lyosh, no one called… Here’s your phone…”

“Perhaps he will log into social media and see the message, and since it’s already been read, he’ll suspect that someone rummaged through his account and withheld information…

Later, when he falls asleep, I must take the phone, delete the message, and block this Olga so she can’t write again. Don’t worry, they will figure something out with the boy, he won’t be lost. Maybe good people will adopt him…” thought Oksana.

When her husband fell asleep, she quietly took his phone and tried to delete the message. But it wouldn’t delete. Oksana pressed the “Delete Message” button many times, but all in vain.

 

She decided that it must be problems with the internet or that the site was glitching. She would try again tomorrow. Then she went to sleep.

All night she dreamt of a woman with long black hair. The woman was handing her a small, pretty little girl and saying, “Please help, please help…”

Oksana tried to take the child, but nothing happened; her hands passed right through the girl. Oksana woke up in terror. What a stupid dream… It must be because of all the worry, probably…

After breakfast, her husband left for work. He kept the phone with him all the time. Oksana took their son to kindergarten and then went to work. She spent the entire day thinking about the boy. I wonder what he’s like, does he resemble Alexey?

She decided to tell her friend Larisa about the message, as she always shared everything with her. She stopped by Larisa’s home after work.

“Ksyukha, why do you need all these problems? Who knows what kind of person might have been born there – now you’re ruining your life? Vera should have thought with her head when she decided to have a child. She should have had an abortion, and there wouldn’t be any illegitimate children. What was she thinking?
Besides, she knew about her heart condition – who knows what could happen to her. She could have planned in advance for the boy’s future fate…

In short, delete that message and live peacefully. It’s like it never happened. The kid will adjust to life in an orphanage; he’s not the first, and won’t be the last.”

In the evening, Oksana took her husband’s phone again while he was in the bathroom. But the message still wouldn’t delete. It was as if it were enchanted.

“Ksyukha, I’ve started having stupid dreams… Maybe it’s because I eat before bed; I should stop…”

“And what do you dream about?”

“Some acquaintance, always offering me a child and crying… The same thing every day…”

“What acquaintance?” Oksana tensed up.

 

 

“You don’t know her… Her name is Vera. We used to correspond a long time ago…”

“Hmm, you used to correspond… I know about your correspondence, they’ve covered up the child…” thought Oksana, and fell silent.

It turns out that the late Vera began appearing in her dreams, asking for her son. But then, what is with the girl she was handing over? Unclear…

What a situation… Oksana didn’t believe in mysticism, but now some kind of miracle was happening… And the message still wouldn’t delete. How can this be explained? I must tell my husband the truth!

“Lyosh, what would you say if you found out that you had a child with Vera?” Oksana decided to confess, amazed at herself.

“Oh, nonsense. So many years have passed, what child? I completely forgot about her. It was what it was. I liked her; we dated a little.

Then, when I went to the village to see my parents, we met a few times – she invited me over. But I never promised anything. My parents moved away, and I didn’t go there anymore. Then I met you.”

“I can’t hide it any longer; this is disgraceful. You have a son, Vanya. Vera died recently, she had a heart condition, and the boy has probably already been sent to an orphanage… His neighbor wrote to you on social media – I read it and kept it from you out of fear.
Log into your messages and read it…”

Alexey looked at his wife in astonishment. He took the phone and read the message.

“Well, what do you know… I’m shocked, to be honest. Unexpected. Why didn’t Vera say anything? I would have helped with money… Oksana, what should we do in such a situation?”

“I’m in shock myself. We must do what is right. We need to go and take the boy. He doesn’t belong in an orphanage. After all, he’s your own blood. The child is innocent…”

Alexey sighed heavily. Oksana embraced her husband.

“Let’s go tomorrow then…”
When they arrived, they knocked on Olga’s window – the same Olga who had sent the message. The door was opened by a woman in a bathrobe.

“Alexey, is that you? So you’ve come… Well, come in. Vanya is doing his homework.”
Alexey and Oksana went inside. It smelled of medicine. In one room, on a special bed for bedridden patients, was Olga’s husband. In another room, children were playing.

In the corner, behind a table, in a checked shirt and sweatpants, sat a boy with black hair, reading a book.

“Vanya, come out, someone has come to see you…”

“To me? Who?” the boy asked in surprise. He did not know the man and woman standing in the doorway.

“Hello, Vanya. I am your father. I didn’t know about you until Aunt Olga found me and wrote… How are you?”

“Aunt Olga doesn’t mistreat me. Soon I’ll be sent to an orphanage – there are many children there, and I’ll be fine. There are lots of toys. And when I grow up, I’ll become a football player.”

Vanya looked very much like his mother. The same hair, the same eyes.

“Vanya, will you come with us? We have plenty of toys too, and you have a younger brother, Egor. You’ll be friends. You can play football together…”

“A brother? I have one?” the boy’s eyes lit up.

“And I am your father’s wife, Oksana, and I would be happy if you lived with us…”

Vanya shrugged and looked at Olga.

“Oh, why are we standing around! Let’s go have some tea; I have candies and marshmallows. Vanya loves pink marshmallows very much…”
In a cramped kitchen, they sat down to drink tea. Vanya furtively glanced at his father and silently ate the marshmallows, washing them down with warm tea.

“You need to get the paperwork done for Vanya, they’ve already started preparing him for an orphanage… In a family, life will be much better for him than there, you understand. Thank you, Alexey and Oksana, for your kind heart, for not turning away from the boy…”
Tears welled in Olga’s eyes. She quickly took a handkerchief from the pocket of her robe and wiped them away.

After handling all the formalities, Vanya was taken to his new life. He immediately became friends with Egor. Oksana and Alexey bought Vanya a bed, a wardrobe, beautiful clothes, and his very own football.

On a bedside table, Vanya placed a frame with his mother’s photo. One day, Oksana overheard him talking to the portrait.

“Mommy, Daddy and Aunt Oksana treat me well, and I even have a little brother, Egor. He draws dinosaurs amazingly. I have a football, and sometimes we go to the playground and play there with Daddy and Egor.
Don’t worry, Mommy, I have everything I need and no one hurts me. And come visit me in my dreams more often, I miss you so much…”

Oksana’s heart ached. Poor boy, he missed his mother… But it’s all right, they will surround him with care and warmth…

Later, in another dream, the woman with black hair appeared to her again, but now she was smiling, handing Oksana a little girl.

“Thank you for everything… This is for you…”
Oksana extended her arms and took the little girl. And then she immediately woke up…

Nine months later, Oksana and Alexey welcomed a daughter, Nastya. The brothers grew very fond of their sister and helped their mother take care of her.

Oksana never regretted telling the truth to her husband and taking Vanya in. They acted according to their conscience, as one should…”

Anya sighed as she exited the office building. Today was just one hassle after another. Did he really need those reports right now? She could have managed everything tomorrow. Her day at work had been stressful, so she decided to drop by her usual café. She was already imagining herself enjoying a Greek salad, sipping a cup of coffee, and for a moment, life would shine in different colors.

When she entered, the café was almost empty. Just as she was about to sit at her usual table and finally order her salad, she suddenly saw a familiar face. Her husband, Sergey. And not alone, he was sitting with some flashy woman.

 

Anya froze, as if doused with cold water. The stranger looked like she stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine. A platinum blonde in a tight dress, almost sparkling with expensive jewelry. Her makeup—flawless. She and Sergey were having an animated conversation. He was telling a story, and the woman laughed, flirtatiously touching his hand.

Inside, Anya felt everything turn upside down. “So that’s how it is, huh?” she almost burst from her place. Her first reaction was to approach their table and sort everything out right there, loudly and dramatically, like in a movie. But she checked herself. No, that would be too simple.

She decisively stepped back, pondering her plan. She would play a real game.

Anya chose a table in another corner of the café, positioned so she could see them both clearly. She ordered a Greek salad and coffee but didn’t rush to eat. She took out her phone and dialed Sergey. The phone rang on the table. Her husband glanced at the screen and quickly muted it. Anya smirked. So, he doesn’t want to answer? What kind of important conversation was he having?

She kept her eyes on them, noticing every movement. Sergey leaned toward the blonde, whispering in her ear. She burst into laughter, covering her mouth with her hand. A heavy diamond ring sparkled on her finger.

Anya’s heart clenched. She looked away, trying to compose herself. “Okay, Anya, stay calm. It’s not time to panic,” she told herself, nervously fidgeting with a napkin.

Flashes of memories flickered in her mind. Their first meeting, awkward dates, declarations of love. Was it all a lie? Was he now playing both sides? Anya gritted her teeth but decided to continue watching. She wanted to believe he was just a colleague. Yes, too well-groomed and sitting too close.

Anya, gripping her phone tighter, continued to observe the pair. But then her gaze landed on a man passing by her table. Tall, attractive, with a light stubble. He looked as if he had just stepped out of a commercial. And then it hit her. She boldly waved her hand.

“Excuse me,” Anya called the man over. He paused, turned his head, and approached.

“Yes?” he asked, sizing her up.

“Listen, I have a somewhat silly request…” Anya paused, pondering how to best explain the situation, “to stage a scene. Nothing complicated. You see, over there,” she nodded toward Sergey, “my husband. And apparently,” she bitterly smirked, “he’s cheating on me. Could you play along? I want him to feel the same as I do.”

The man thought for a moment, then smiled broadly.

“Sure, why not?” he stepped forward and sat opposite Anya.

“I’m Anya,” she smiled.

“Igor,” the man smiled back.

Anya smiled, trying to keep calm, but her heart was pounding. She glanced at Sergey. He noticed. Confusion flashed in his eyes.

He clearly didn’t expect to see his wife here, especially with another man. Sergey froze for a second, then turned back to his companion. He tried to act as if nothing was unusual. But Anya noticed how his hand tensed.

Anya sat up straighter in her chair. She pretended to be completely engrossed in conversation with Igor. She leaned in closer, as if sharing something very intriguing. Igor caught her mood, playing along. He nodded and laughed at the right moments.

 

Anya glanced at Sergey and his blonde. Now Sergey was clearly nervous. He began tapping his fingers on the table. He kept glancing over at Anya and Igor.

The blonde was saying something to him, but his reactions were no longer as lively as before. Anya decided to take the next step. She boldly took Igor’s hand. The man, understanding her plan, lightly squeezed her fingers and smiled. Sergey looked at them again, this time longer. He said something to his companion, and she stopped laughing. Anya was curious to see how far she could push this “game.”

“Igor, you’re an excellent actor,” she said.

“See how tense he is?” Igor whispered. “Just look at his face. Do you think we’ve marinated him enough?”

“Let’s walk past them,” Anya suggested. “See what he does.”

Igor nodded, and they both stood up. Anya took his arm, and they slowly headed for the exit, passing by Sergey and the blonde. As they passed, Anya decided to throw her last trump card. She turned to Sergey with the most innocent expression and said:

“Oh, hello, dear! What a pleasant surprise to see you here. And who is this friend of yours?”

Sergey was clearly flustered. The blonde looked at him, waiting for an explanation.

“This is…,” Sergey stumbled, trying to find the right words. His gaze darted between his wife and the blonde, “a work colleague.”

The blonde frowned, casting a suspicious glance at Sergey.

“Oh, a colleague?” Anya raised an eyebrow. “How interesting! And I thought you had client meetings today.”

Sergey clenched his teeth.

“Anya, what is this circus?” He stepped toward her, clearly losing patience. “Who is this guy? What are you allowing yourself?”

“And you? What would your ‘colleague’ say? Maybe she doesn’t know about your marital status?”

The blonde tensed.

“You’re married?” she asked coldly, not taking her eyes off Sergey.

The blonde quickly turned and left the café.

“Great,” he threw back at his wife. “Are you satisfied? Why did you set this up? She was an important client. The deal depended on her. She had her eye on me. This meeting was a business maneuver, not what you imagined!”

“Maybe you’d better explain who this guy is with you?” Sergey glanced at Igor.

“And what? You can have fun on the side, but I can’t?”

“So you’ve been cheating on me?” Sergey clenched his teeth.

“Yes,” Anya lifted her chin, wanting to hurt Sergey.

“Listen, I think you can sort this out without me,” Igor awkwardly smiled and tried to quickly disappear from the café.

“Well, aren’t you just great, Anya,” Sergey threw a few bills on the table and exited the café.

Anya felt like bursting. She couldn’t believe all this had happened. She didn’t even know how to return to work now. She called a colleague, asking her to cover for her with the boss, and then she went home. When she opened the door, there sat Sergey on the couch. He looked surprisingly calm.

“Anya,” he looked at his wife with pain in his eyes. “Did you really cheat on me?”

His look was so sincere that Anya decided to sit next to him and sighed:

“No. I met that man for the first time today. I saw you, and I just wanted to hurt you. I couldn’t believe you were cheating on me.”

 

 

Sergey ran his hand through his hair.

“Listen, this situation is utterly silly. I now realize that I acted like an idiot. Please forgive me. I should have told you about all this. I know I’m at fault. I was a fool to even agree to that meeting. But you must believe me, there was nothing between us.”

Anya was silent, then buried her face in his shoulder. She was still angry at him, but at the same time, she was glad to hear his words.

“Promise me you won’t deceive me again.”

“I promise,” Sergey tenderly kissed her on the top of her head. “Forgive me, my foolish one.”

He hugged her tighter, and Anya felt the tension of the last few hours gradually release. She still didn’t like thinking about the blonde. But she saw that her husband was repentant. The main thing was that, in the end, everything was okay.

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A knock on the door sounded just as I was about to toss another batch of burnt pancakes into the trash. Three in the morning isn’t exactly the best time for culinary experiments, but insomnia mixed with VK video recipes is a dangerous combination.
— If it’s Petrovich again with his homemade moonshine, I swear I… — I muttered, wiping my hands on an apron that read “Best Monday Cook.”

The knock came again. This time it was softer, as if the person at the door had changed their mind and decided to leave. I peeked out the window—it was so dark you couldn’t see your own eyes, only the lantern by the gate flickered like a hangover-stricken firefly.
When I opened the door, I froze. On the doorstep sat a wicker basket. “Not this,” flashed through my mind as a soft whimper emanated from inside the basket.

 

Two infants. One was asleep, tiny fists clenched, and the other looked at me with tear-filled eyes. Nearby lay a note, the handwriting jittery and hurried: “Please, save them. This is the only thing I can do.”
— Damn it… — I began, suddenly remembering the children. — I mean, oh my God.

My hands trembled as I carried the basket into the house. Thirty-five years old, a single woman with a cat that doesn’t even catch mice—and suddenly children. I had always dreamed of having them, but in a more… traditional way.

— Alright, calm down, Anna, — I told myself as I laid the infants on the sofa. — Now we’ll call the police, and…

The phone was already in my hand, the number dialed, but my finger hesitated over the call button. Images flashed before my eyes—news reports about orphanages, stories of acquaintances working in the foster system. No, not that.

The crying baby spoke up again. I dashed to the refrigerator—one liter of milk. That should do. The internet had kindly provided instructions on how to make a homemade milk formula for newborns.

— There, there, quiet down, little one, — I cooed as I fed the first baby. — Good job.

The second one woke up and started crying too. I darted between them like a penguin on roller skates, trying to soothe both simultaneously.

Morning found me in the kitchen. The half-eaten pancakes had become coasters for baby bottles, and there I sat, head in my hands, watching the sleeping infants.
— What am I going to do with you? — I whispered.

One of the little ones smiled in his sleep, and something inside me either shattered or mended itself. I looked at the phone, then at the children, then at the phone again—and decisively deleted the police number.

— Alright, kids, — I said, feeling my lips curve into a smile. — Looks like you now have a mom. A bit clumsy, but very dedicated.

At that moment, both babies woke up and cried in unison.
— And yes, we urgently need to learn how to change diapers, — I sighed as I opened the internet. — Because it looks like we have a very interesting morning ahead.

Sixteen years passed in what felt like a single day. Well, not exactly—a day that resembled one endless episode of “Santa Barbara,” where every scene was filled with drama, comedy, and unexpected twists.

— Aunt Anna, why don’t we have any baby photos? — Kira asked one morning at breakfast, picking at her oatmeal with a spoon.

I nearly choked on my coffee. Over sixteen years I had become a virtuoso at lying about my non-existent sister, inventing an entire story about a tragic car accident, and even shedding a few tears at parent-teacher meetings, all while claiming I had heroically taken care of my nieces and nephews.
— They… burned in a fire, — I blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

— Along with Mom and Dad? — Maxim interjected, glancing up from his phone.

— No, it was a different fire, — I faltered, getting tangled in my own lies. — At a photo studio. All the films were there…

— In the digital age? — Kira raised an eyebrow. I, who had once poured my heart out in my youth, now with an even heavier dose of sarcasm.

— Darling, are you finishing your oatmeal? Otherwise we’ll be late for school.

Working two jobs had taught me how to change the subject with ease. In the morning I was an accountant at a construction firm; in the evening, an English tutor. In between were cooking, cleaning, checking homework, and endless parent chats where moms competed over whose child was the most brilliant.

— Anna Sergeyevna, — my neighbor Maria Petrovna called out to me as I walked our dog Balamut (a gift to the kids on their seventh birthday to distract them from questions). — Is it true that your sister was a ballerina?

— An artist, — I automatically corrected myself, silently cursing my memory. A week ago I had called her a math teacher.

— And Klavdia from the fifth building said…

— Sorry, Balamut ate something! — I shouted, hauling the perfectly healthy dog home.

In the evening I sat in the kitchen, checking my students’ notebooks and listening to the children’s bustling in the next room. They were whispering about something, and it never boded well.

— Mom, — Maxim appeared in the doorway like a ghost, making me jump. — I mean, Aunt Anna…

That “aunt” stung my heart. In recent years they had increasingly called me that, especially when they were upset.

— Kira and I were thinking… — he hesitated. — Can we look at the old photo albums? With Mom and Dad?

— Of course! — I replied too quickly. — Only they’re in the attic; we need to find them…

— We already looked, — Kira entered the kitchen, arms crossed. — There’s nothing there.

I froze, feeling a chill down my spine. There were indeed albums in the attic—my old photographs, children’s books I had bought before they even existed, when I dreamed of having my own kids. And that very basket with the note that I couldn’t bring myself to throw away.

— Children, I…

— No need, — Kira raised her hand. — Just tell the truth. Just once.

At that moment the phone rang—another mom wanted to discuss her child’s progress in English. I had never been so grateful for spam offering to install plastic windows.

— Excuse me, it’s an important call, — I mumbled, darting out of the kitchen.

The evening ended with a silent dinner. The children retreated to their rooms, and I remained in the kitchen, gazing at their childish drawings on the fridge. There was a stick-figure family drawn by Kira in first grade—a mom with a huge smile and two children holding her hands. And a superhero drawn by Maxim—somehow with my hairstyle and wearing an apron that read “Best Monday Cook.”

Suddenly I heard a rustle in the attic. My heart skipped a beat. No, not this. Not now.

Quietly, I climbed the stairs and saw light coming from the attic hatch. Then I heard Maxim’s voice:

— Look what I found…

In his hands was that same note, yellowed by time yet still holding the secret of that night that changed our lives forever.

I froze on the last step, unable to move. Sixteen years of lies, fabricated stories, and evasive answers crumbled like a house of cards. My throat dried up, and only one thought pounded in my head: “I could lose them. Right now.”

— Mom? — Kira’s voice trembled. — I mean… who are you to us, really?

The story demanded a resolution. And it came in the dusty darkness of the attic, amid boxes of the past and the awkward silence of the present.

— I… I don’t know where to start, — my voice sounded hoarse in the dusty quiet of the attic.

Kira switched on an old desk lamp, and our shadows danced on the walls like actors in a silent film. Maxim still clutched the note, his fingers trembling slightly.

— Maybe start with the truth? — Kira’s voice rang out like steel. — For a change.

I sank onto an old trunk, feeling my knees buckle. I had rehearsed this moment in front of the mirror for so many years, coming up with the perfect words, but now every prepared speech evaporated.

— Do you remember that time with Balamut, when he ate my papers? — I began unexpectedly.

— What does that have to do with this… — Maxim started.

— I said back then that it was the worst night of my life. I lied. The worst—and at the same time the best—night was 16 years ago, when I tried to learn how to make pancakes at three in the morning.

And I told them everything. About the knock at the door, about the basket, about the note. About my fear and panic. About how I googled “how to calm a crying baby.” About sleepless nights and first smiles.

— I should have called the police, — my voice trembled. — But I looked at you and… I couldn’t.

— You kidnapped us, — Kira whispered.

 

— No! Well, yes. I mean… — I stammered. — I stole you away from a system that would have turned you into statistics. From an orphanage that might have torn you apart. From everything you didn’t deserve.

Maxim sat down on the floor, leaning against an old dresser.
— And our real parents? — he asked. — You didn’t even try to find them?

— I tried, — I stood up and walked over to a cardboard box in the corner. — Here.

Inside the box were newspaper clippings, forum printouts, letters to various institutions. Ten years of searching that yielded nothing.

— I looked. God, how I looked. But… — I spread my hands.

— And that’s why you decided to lie? — Kira flipped through the clippings, her voice quieter. — To invent a dead mom—ballerina, artist, math teacher?

— I know, it was stupid, — I smiled sadly. — Especially mixing up her professions. But I wanted… I wanted you to have a story. So you wouldn’t feel…

— Abandoned? — Maxim looked up. In the lamp’s glow, I saw tears in his eyes.

— Loved, — I said as I sat next to him. — I wanted you to feel loved. I just… did it all wrong.

A silence fell, broken only by the rustling of papers as Kira sorted through them. Suddenly she pulled out a photograph.
— And what is this?

I looked at the picture and felt a lump in my throat. It was a photo taken on their first birthday. I had bought two toy cakes because real ones were still out of the question. In the photo, I was holding them on my lap, and the three of us were laughing.

— Why did you hide it? — Maxim asked.

— Because there’s no “real” mom in it. Just me.

Kira clutched the photograph so tightly I feared she might tear it. But instead, she suddenly burst into tears.
— You’re strange, — she sobbed. — So strange…

— I know, dear.

— No, you don’t! — she looked up at me with tearful eyes. — Did you really think we needed some made-up mom—ballerina—when we have you?

I felt Maxim hug me from the other side. We sat there in the dusty attic, embracing and crying like characters in a tearful melodrama. Balamut, sensing something was wrong, limped up to the attic and tried to join our embrace as well.

— I still want to find them, — Kira said after a while. — Our biological parents.

I stiffened, but she continued:
— Not to go to them. Just… to know. And maybe to say thank you.

— For what? — Maxim wondered.

— For leaving us right at that door, — Kira smiled through her tears. — With the craziest mom in the world, who teaches English, makes inedible pancakes, and lies worse than a five-year-old.

I laughed, feeling the weight of sixteen years lift from my shoulders.
— Speaking of pancakes, — Maxim stood and stretched. — Maybe we should order pizza?

— At three in the morning?

— Well, it’s kind of a family tradition—to do silly things at three in the morning, — he winked.

 

We went down to the kitchen, and I brought out a worn album.
— What’s this? — Kira asked.

— Our new family album, — I said, opening it to the first page and inserting that same photograph from the first birthday. — I think it’s time to start our real story.

On the next page I pasted the note with which it all began. And underneath I wrote: “Thank you for the best gift of my life. And sorry for all the burnt pancakes.”

Write what you think about this story! I’d be delighted to hear your thoughts!