All Amazing Babies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“All right,” I said simply.

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

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

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

 

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

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

She nodded nervously, pressing her lips together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dinner is ready!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, stop it, Katya…”

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

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

“What are you talking about?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

On the last evening he made a final attempt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two months later

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

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

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

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

I kept silent, letting him finish.

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

“Makes sense,” I said calmly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 Chapter 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Chapter 3

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

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

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

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

We read, holding our breath.

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

Chapter 4

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

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

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

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

And the shame surged again, searing and merciless.

Chapter 5

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

Inside was a letter addressed to both of us.

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

Chapter 6

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

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

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

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

Chapter 7

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 8

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

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

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

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

Chapter 9

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

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

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

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

Epilogue

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

 

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

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

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

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

In the afternoon, during an important meeting with a client, Andrey had called her:
“Polina, don’t be mad, but I picked Mom up from the station. She missed the grandkids. She’s come to stay for a couple of days.”
Wedding jewelry

Those words sent a chill through Polina. Her mother-in-law, Valentina Petrovna, was a real thorn in her side. In ten years of marriage, Polina had never managed to find common ground with her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t you hear the child crying?” the mother-in-law snapped.
“I was just going to him,” Polina answered calmly.
Child care services

“You’re always ‘just going,’” Valentina snorted. “And nothing ever gets done. My Andryusha slept like an angel at his age. Must be your genes showing.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What she saw made her go numb.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What surgery?” he frowned.

“A serious one,” she sighed meaningfully. “The doctors say something has to be removed…”
“What exactly, Mom?”
“It’s not important! What matters is I need support! I thought… maybe you could move in with me for a while? The house is big… And Polina can stay here if she wants.”
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Andrey shook his head:
“Mom, is that why you came? To try again to break up my family?”

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

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

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

“Don’t interfere!” Valentina snapped. “This is our family matter!”
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“When someone hurts my grandchildren,” Nikolai Stepanovich said firmly, “it’s my matter too.”

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

Something in his tone made the woman obey.

“You know,” he began, “when my Polina got married, I wasn’t thrilled either. I thought Andrey was too much of a city boy for our village girl… But I gave them a chance and saw how much they love each other.”
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He turned to the mother-in-law:
“And you’re trying to control your son’s life, to keep him to yourself—and you’re only pushing him away. And now you’re turning the grandkids against you.”

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

 

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

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

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

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

“You’re my mother,” he said firmly. “Of course I need you. But not like this—angry, trying to run my life. I need you as my mom, who respects my choice and loves my children.”
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“I don’t know how to be otherwise…” she whispered.

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

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

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

“I won’t,” she promised.

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

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

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

She agreed, unexpectedly.

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

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

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

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

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

When they arrived, the mother-in-law was already there. She wore a simple blue dress—not the showy outfit she used to use to outshine her daughter-in-law.
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Over lunch they spoke about neutral topics. Afterward, Nikolai took the children off to show them his coin collection, leaving the adults alone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do people even give birth at that age?”

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

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

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

 

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

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

“Yeah, I got it, Dad.”

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

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

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

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

“When? How long?”

“What, the birth? In two months.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m going?” he asked.

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

Genka was late to school.

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

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

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

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

Dad called during the last period.

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

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

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

“All right, go,” the teacher allowed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How old is your mom?” she asked.

“Thirty-six.”

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

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

“What will we name her?” Dad asked.

“Vasilisa,” Mom answered.

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

“Then Masha, after Grandma,” Dad suggested.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Will she get better?” Genka asked cautiously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about Mom?” Genka asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s her name?” he asked.

“Her documents say Vasilisa.”

He and his father exchanged a quick look.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Whom?”

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

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

“Hooray!” Genka and Dad shouted…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mommy, is that man kind?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

Sofia, embarrassed by such directness, dropped her gaze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sofia merely nodded. She had suspected as much herself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He paused, watching the children dance and laugh.

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looked at Sofia over the child’s head.
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“So—will our team be complete?” he asked hopefully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her husband jumped up, his face contorted with rage.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Andrey went pale, then his face flushed with fury.

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

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

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

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

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

“Call her. I don’t care.”

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

Lena clapped her hands in disbelief.

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

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

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

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

Her father supported her unconditionally.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lena rose and answered calmly:

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But I lived there! I did repairs!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” Andrey said quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lena stood.

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

“Does the respondent wish to add anything?”

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

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

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

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

Twenty minutes later, the session resumed.

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

Valentina Mikhailovna shot to her feet as if stung.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s no longer my problem.”

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

“I hope so.”

“And where will Andrey live?”

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

Ivan Nikolaevich snorted.

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

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

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

The next day Andrey came to collect his things. He looked rumpled and upset, as if he’d only now grasped the scale of what had happened.

“Lena, I’ll be living with my mom,” the ex-husband said, packing clothes into bags. “Just for now, until I get a job.”

“Good luck.”

“Maybe…” Andrey hesitated. “Maybe after some time we could… you know, stay friends?”

“No,” Lena said firmly. “It’s better if we forget about each other.”

Andrey nodded and silently kept packing. Half an hour later he left, putting the keys on the kitchen table.

Lena took the keys and put them in the dresser drawer. There was now nothing left in the apartment to remind her of the marriage. She walked to the window and looked out at the autumn courtyard. The leaves on the trees had yellowed and were slowly falling, preparing nature for winter. But for Lena this period was not an end, but the beginning of a new life.

In the evening her friend Marina called.

“Len, how are you? I heard you finally got divorced?”

“Yes, the hearing was yesterday. Everything went smoothly.”

“Thank God! I thought you’d be dragging that freeloader around until you were old. Maybe we should celebrate your freedom?”

“Maybe,” Lena smiled. “But not now. I just want to be alone for a bit, to get used to it.”

“I get it. Well, call me if you need anything—we’ll talk.”

After the call, Lena made herself dinner—a light salad and a piece of baked fish. There was only one plate on the table, one fork, one mug. Somehow, that didn’t make her sad—it made her happy. No one would demand seconds, criticize the cooking, or leave dirty dishes in the sink.

Before bed, she opened the safe again and looked at the documents: the apartment deed, the car title, the court decision. All of it belonged to Lena alone now, and no one could lay claim to the fruits of her labor.

Valentina Mikhailovna never calmed down. She called Lena several times, making threats and demanding a “fair division,” but the former daughter-in-law simply declined the calls. In the end, Lena blocked her number—she had no desire to speak to that woman again.

A month after the divorce, Andrey found a job—he became a courier for a food delivery service. The pay was modest, but enough to rent a room in a communal apartment. His mother constantly nagged him for failing to “snag” at least part of his ex-wife’s home.

Lena heard these details from mutual acquaintances, but she had little interest in her ex-husband’s fate. She was busy with her own life: she finally had time for hobbies, reading, and meeting friends. The salary that used to be spent on three people now allowed her to live comfortably.

Six months after the divorce, Lena met a colleague from the neighboring store. Viktor turned out to be a divorced man with a child—hard-working and responsible. Their relationship developed slowly, with no pressure and no rush to move in together.

The apartment still belonged to Lena alone, the car had been transferred from her father to her, and the safe held documents confirming her independence. Five years of marriage to a parasite had taught Lena to value freedom and never again let anyone live at her expense.

Life was finally back under control.

Tatiana slowly twirled to the lilting waltz, feeling the white silk of her wedding dress flow around her legs. Igor held his wife firmly by the waist, his eyes full of tenderness and promises of a happy future. The hall was decorated with roses and golden ribbons; guests smiled, raising their glasses of champagne.

“You’re so beautiful today,” Igor whispered in her ear, and Tatiana’s heart began to beat faster.

“I can’t believe we’re husband and wife now,” the young woman replied, nestling closer to her husband’s shoulder. “It feels like a dream.”

“Not a dream, my dear. This is the beginning of our real life.”

Tatiana closed her eyes and pictured their cozy one-room apartment they’d been renting for six months. Their shared furniture stood there—the sofa they’d bought together, the bookshelves Igor had assembled, the little table by the window where they drank coffee in the mornings. Everything simple, but dear. After the wedding they planned to move to a larger place, to find something in a quiet neighborhood, maybe with a balcony.

The music ended, and the guests grew lively, congratulating the newlyweds. The groom’s and bride’s parents hugged, shared plans for the future, and talked about grandchildren. Lyudmila Petrovna, Igor’s mother, looked especially pleased, constantly adjusting her hair and smiling at the guests.
Wedding jewelry

“What a beautiful couple!” an elderly neighbor exclaimed. “And how wonderful that Igor has finally found himself a life partner!”

“Tatiana is a golden girl,” Lyudmila Petrovna nodded. “Hard-working, modest. That’s the kind that makes good wives.”

By evening the guests began to leave. The waiters were clearing dirty dishes from the tables, the air held the scent of wilting flowers and the remnants of festive bustle. Tatiana felt a pleasant weariness—the day had been full and exciting, but now she wanted to be alone with her husband.

 

“Shall we go home?” Igor suggested, helping his wife gather the train of her dress.

“Of course,” Tatiana smiled. “I’m dreaming of taking off these shoes and just sitting with you in silence.”

“Thank you for everything, Mom,” Igor said, hugging his mother, and she whispered something in his ear.

“Take care of each other, children,” Lyudmila Petrovna wished, kissing her daughter-in-law on the cheek.

In the taxi Tatiana leaned against her husband’s shoulder and closed her eyes in bliss. The city lights flickered past the window, and peace reigned in her heart. A whole life together lay ahead—breakfasts in bed on weekends, movies together in the evenings, trips to her parents’ dacha, maybe children in a couple of years.

The hum of the engine lulled her, and Tatiana dozed off without noticing. She woke to a sudden jolt—the taxi had braked in front of a familiar building.

“We’re here,” the driver said.

Tatiana looked around in confusion. It was Lyudmila Petrovna’s building—a five-story Khrushchyovka on the outskirts of the city, with an old poplar growing beside it.

“Igor,” his wife said in surprise, “we’ve come to the wrong place. This is your mother’s building.”

“It’s the right place,” her husband replied calmly as he paid the driver. “Get out.”

“But why? It’s late—your mom must be asleep.”

“She’s not. She’s waiting for us.”

Igor took Tatiana by the arm and led her toward the entrance. The young woman followed, bewildered, not understanding what was happening.

The apartment door opened immediately, as if Lyudmila Petrovna had been standing by the window watching for their arrival.

“At last!” the mother-in-law said happily. “Come in, come in. You must be tired?”

“Mom, why are we here?” Tanya asked.

“What do you mean why?” Lyudmila Petrovna was surprised. “You’ve come home.”

Tatiana took in the familiar entryway with its flowered wallpaper and the rug with little dogs. The air smelled of borscht and old furniture.

“You must be joking,” Tatiana said. “We need to go to our place.”

“Your home is here,” the mother-in-law said loudly.

“What?” Tatiana frowned and tilted her head, trying to make sense of the words.

“Go on into the room—why are you crowding in the hall?” Lyudmila Petrovna waved them in.

In the living room by the wall stood two large suitcases and several cardboard boxes. Tatiana recognized her things—her favorite lamp with the shade, a stack of books, framed photographs.

“What is this?” the young woman asked quietly.

“Your things,” Lyudmila Petrovna reported as if it were self-evident. “I asked the guys; they packed everything carefully and brought it over. Igor gave them the keys.”

“Igor, what is she talking about?” Tatiana turned to her husband.

“Tanya, we’re going to live here now,” he said calmly. “With Mom.”
Wedding jewelry

“What do you mean, with your mom?” Tatiana couldn’t believe her ears. “We’re renting an apartment. Our lease runs through the end of the year.”

“I terminated the lease. Why waste money when Mom has room?”

“But we never agreed to this!” his wife protested. “Igor, you should have discussed it with me!”

“In our family, that’s how it’s done,” Lyudmila Petrovna interjected. “The son lives with his parents. It’s the right way.”

“What family?” Tatiana felt panic rising inside. “Lyudmila Petrovna, we’re adults. We need our own space.”

“Nonsense!” the mother-in-law waved her off. “There’s room enough for everyone. I have a three-room apartment.”

“Mom’s right,” Igor backed her up. “Why the extra expense? It’s convenient here, quiet.”

Tatiana looked at her husband and didn’t recognize him. This was not the man with whom she had planned a shared life, Sunday walks, joint decisions. This was a stranger making important decisions without her.

“Igor, I don’t want to live here,” Tatiana said firmly. “We need to talk in private.”

“About what?” her husband shrugged. “It’s already decided. Mom is alone; she needs help around the house. And you’re part of our family now.”
Family games

“Exactly!” the mother-in-law rejoiced. “Tanyechka, dear, you’ll help me now. I’m not young anymore; I don’t have the strength I used to. And you two are young and energetic.”

“Help with what?” Tatiana asked warily.

“Well, with everything! Cooking, cleaning, laundry. I have arthritis; it’s become hard to manage.”

“Lyudmila Petrovna, but I have a job. I can’t sit at home all day.”

“A job?” the mother-in-law was surprised. “What do you need a job for? Igor earns enough for everyone. A wife should run the household and take care of her husband.”

“Mom’s right,” Igor agreed. “Tanya, submit your resignation. What do you need all that clerical fuss for? Better to focus on the family.”

Tatiana froze, blinking at what she’d heard. In a single evening her life was supposed to change completely—new housing, quitting her job, the role of housemaid.

“No,” the young woman said quietly. “I won’t agree to this.”

“What do you mean you won’t agree?” Lyudmila Petrovna didn’t understand.

“I won’t live here and I won’t quit,” Tatiana repeated louder. “Igor, we need to get back to our plans.”

“What plans?” her husband asked irritably. “Tanya, don’t be childish. You’re a married woman now; it’s time to grow up.”

“Grow up?” Blood rushed to Tatiana’s face, betraying the indignation she was barely holding back. “Igor, adults make decisions together!”

“In a family the man makes the decisions,” declared Lyudmila Petrovna. “And the wife obeys. That’s how it’s always been.”

“Not always!” Tatiana exclaimed. “And not in my family!”

“In our family it is,” Igor said coldly. “Tanya, enough hysterics. You’ll get used to it.”

“I won’t get used to it!” Tatiana felt tears spring to her eyes. “I’m not going to become your servant!”

 

“Servant?” the mother-in-law bristled. “What servant? You’re a daughter-in-law! A helper! That’s your duty!”

“My duty?” Tatiana repeated. “And where is my choice? Where are my rights?”

“Rights?” Igor laughed. “Tanya, what rights are you talking about? You’re my wife. Your duty is to take care of the family.”

“You mean your mother!”
Wedding jewelry

“Our family!” her husband raised his voice. “Mom raised me, accepted you like a daughter; now it’s our turn to care for her!”

“Let the one she gave birth to take care of her!” Tatiana shouted. “I didn’t sign up for this!”

“You did!” Igor shot back. “You signed at the registry office! In marriage the wife is obliged to obey her husband!”

Tatiana looked at the man she had stood beside at the altar that very morning and didn’t recognize him. Where had the gentle, attentive fiancé gone—the one who brought flowers and read poetry? In his place stood a stranger demanding complete submission.

“Igor,” Tatiana said, trying to keep her voice steady, “I want to talk to you alone.”
Wedding jewelry

“What is there to talk about?” her husband brushed her off. “It’s clear. Tomorrow you go to work and write your resignation. The day after, you start helping Mom.”

“I will not do that!” Tatiana burst out. “Do you hear me? I won’t!”

“You will!” Igor shouted, grabbing his wife by the hand. “And stop making scenes!”

“Let me go!” Tatiana tried to pull free.
Family games

“I won’t!” Igor dragged his wife toward the hallway. “You’ll go to the room and think about your behavior!”

“What room?” Tatiana didn’t understand.

“I cleared out the back room just for you!” Lyudmila Petrovna shouted.

Igor forced his wife into a small room with a single window. There stood an old sofa, a nightstand, and a Soviet-era wardrobe. On the windowsill, violets in plastic pots were withering.

“Forget about your freedom—you live by our rules now!” the husband declared, closing the bedroom door.

Tatiana heard the click of the lock and rushed to the door.

“Igor!” the young woman pounded her fists against it. “Open up! You can’t lock me in!”

“I can!” came her husband’s voice from behind the door. “You’ll sit and think. We’ll talk in the morning when you’ve calmed down.”

“I am calm!” Tatiana shouted. “Igor, open the door!”

But silence fell on the other side. Tatiana tugged at the handle, shoved the door with her shoulder, but the lock held. Her husband had really locked her in like a disobedient child.
Child care services

The young woman sank onto the edge of the sofa and looked at her hands. A wedding ring glinted on her ring finger—a symbol of love that now felt like shackles. The white dress that had made her feel like a princess in the morning now weighed on her like a shroud.

“How did this happen?” Tatiana whispered, gazing out at the nighttime city. “Where did I go wrong?”

In a year and a half of dating, Igor had never shown authoritarian tendencies. It was true he was very attached to his mother, often visited her, consulted her about little things. But Tatiana took that as a sign of care. Lyudmila Petrovna had also seemed like a sweet elderly woman who baked pies and knitted socks.

And now it turned out that all this time a completely different person had been beside her. Someone who considered his wife his property and her opinion—a childish whim. Someone capable of deceiving, locking her up, and breaking another person’s life for the sake of his own comfort.

Tatiana got up and went to the window. The streetlights were on outside; a few passersby were hurrying home to their families. And she sat locked up in a stranger’s apartment, in a room assigned to her without her consent.

“No,” she said to her reflection in the window glass. “I won’t stay here.”

All night the young woman sat on the windowsill, staring at the stars and thinking through the situation. The tears had long since dried; cold resolve had replaced despair. Whatever her husband and mother-in-law had planned, she would not let herself be turned into a household slave.

It gradually grew light outside. Sounds arose in the apartment—someone walked down the hallway, dishes clattered in the kitchen, the radio played. Igor’s family was waking up, getting ready for a new day in which Tatiana was assigned the role of obedient maid.
Family games

At seven in the morning a key turned in the lock. The door opened, and there stood Lyudmila Petrovna with a tray in her hands.

“Good morning, dear,” the mother-in-law said cheerfully. “I brought breakfast. How did you sleep?”

“I didn’t,” Tatiana answered curtly.

“That’s just because it’s new,” the mother-in-law nodded understandingly. “You’ll get used to it—you’ll sleep like a baby. You’ll see.”

“I’m not going to get used to it.”

“Oh now, Tanya,” the mother-in-law laughed. “Where would you go? You’re married now; it’s time to have children. Igor wants kids very much. But first you need to learn to run a household. I’ll teach you everything.”

“Lyudmila Petrovna,” Tatiana rose from the sofa, “I want to talk to Igor.”

“Igor has gone to work. He didn’t want to wake you—said, let her rest. You’ll talk in the evening.”

“Then I’m going home.”

“What home?” the mother-in-law didn’t understand. “You are home.”

“This is not my home,” Tatiana said firmly. “And it never will be.”

Lyudmila Petrovna set the tray on the nightstand and looked closely at her daughter-in-law.

“Tanyechka, I understand this is unfamiliar. But you’re a smart girl. You’ll realize this is better for everyone.”

“Better for whom? For you?”

“For the family!” the mother-in-law protested. “Igor will be at peace knowing you’re under supervision. I won’t be lonely. And you’ll become a true homemaker.”

“I don’t want to be a homemaker in someone else’s home.”

“Not someone else’s! A family home!” Lyudmila Petrovna took Tatiana’s hands. “Child, I know it feels like we’re forcing you. But in a month or two you’ll see how good it is here. No responsibility, no problems. Igor earns, I provide experience, and you just live and enjoy.”

“Enjoy what? Being a prisoner?”

“What prisoner!” the mother-in-law laughed. “You’re a daughter-in-law in a good family! Many girls dream of this!”

Tatiana pulled her hands free and stepped away.

“Not all, Lyudmila Petrovna. Not all.”

“Well then, if you don’t want breakfast, don’t,” the older woman said, offended. “And I made an omelet… I’ll go unpack. I cleared space in the wardrobe—you can put your things away.”

Lyudmila Petrovna left, leaving the door open. Tatiana waited a few minutes, listening to the sounds of the apartment. Her mother-in-law was bustling in the kitchen, washing something, banging pots.

The young woman slipped quietly into the entryway. Her shoes stood next to the household’s footwear. Her wedding purse lay on the console—her documents and some cash should be inside.

“Where are you off to?” came Lyudmila Petrovna’s voice.

Tatiana turned. The mother-in-law stood in the kitchen doorway with wet hands and a suspicious look.

“Outside. For a walk.”

“In a wedding dress?” Lyudmila Petrovna was surprised.

“Why not?”

“You can, of course, but it’s a bit odd. People will stare.”

“Let them stare,” Tatiana shrugged, putting on her shoes.

“Tanya, maybe change clothes first? You have things here.”

“I don’t want to,” the girl said, eager to leave quickly.

Tatiana took her purse and headed for the door.

“Don’t go far!” her mother-in-law called after her. “Be back by lunch; I’m making soup!”

“All right,” Tatiana lied, and stepped out of the apartment.

 

It was chilly outside. People really did turn to look at the girl in a wedding dress walking alone down the sidewalk. Some smiled, thinking it must be a post-wedding photo shoot.

Tatiana got on the first bus that came and rode to the city center. In her purse lay her passport and the marriage certificate she’d received yesterday. A document that was supposed to be a symbol of happiness now seemed like a slip of paper about a mistake.

The registry office was in an old building with columns. Holding up her train, Tatiana climbed the steps and entered the familiar hall. Yesterday solemn music had played here; today it was quiet and routine.

“Miss, are you here to see us?” an elderly clerk asked in surprise when she saw the bride.

“Yes. I need to file for divorce.”

“Divorce?” The woman took off her glasses and wiped them. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

“I want to divorce my husband,” Tatiana repeated.

“But you’re… in a wedding dress…”

“We registered here yesterday. Today I want to dissolve the marriage.”

The clerk looked helplessly at her colleagues. At the neighboring desk they stopped working too, unable to believe what was happening.

“Miss,” the woman said gently, “perhaps you’ve had a quarrel? That happens in the first days. Don’t act in the heat of the moment…”

“I’m not acting in the heat of the moment,” Tatiana interrupted. “I’ve thought it through. The marriage was entered into under false pretenses.”

“In what sense?”

“My husband hid his plans for our life together. I only learned of them last night.”

Tatiana took the documents from her purse and placed them on the desk.

“Please accept my application. I want to terminate this marriage as soon as possible.”

“You don’t have children, joint property?”

“Nothing. Only a mistake that needs correcting.”

The clerk looked at the documents, then at the young woman’s resolute face.

“All right. You can submit the application. But there is a one-month reconciliation period…”

“There will be no reconciliation,” Tatiana said firmly. “You can be sure of that.”

“Then fill out the form. Sign here, and the date here…”

Tatiana filled out the application carefully, trying not to smudge the white dress with ink. Each letter was a small victory over deception, each signature a step toward freedom.

“Done,” the young woman said, handing back the papers.

“Come back in a month with your husband. If he doesn’t appear, we’ll finalize the divorce in absentia.”

“Thank you.”

Tatiana stepped out of the registry office and took a deep breath. The air seemed cleaner, and the sun brighter. The future was unknown, but it was her own unknown, not someone else’s cage.

At the bus stop an elderly woman approached.

“Daughter, what happened?” the stranger asked kindly. “Did the wedding fall through?”

“On the contrary,” Tatiana smiled. “A new life has begun.”

The woman looked at her in puzzlement, but the bus pulled up, and there was no need to explain. Tatiana sat by the window and watched the city glide past the glass. Somewhere back there lay deceived hopes and shattered plans. But somewhere there, too, real life awaited—life with freedom of choice, the right to one’s own opinion, and the chance to build a future independently.

And she decided to keep the white dress—as a reminder that even the most beautiful wrapping can conceal a bitter lie. And as a symbol that there is a way out of any cage if you don’t give up and fight for your freedom.

Trying not to make any noise, 27-year-old Elizaveta Andreevna Malinkina cautiously moved down the corridor toward the room of Alisa — the 14-year-old daughter of the house owner. She needed to check if the girl was asleep so she could finally go to bed herself.

For two weeks now, Liza has been working in the house of billionaire Voropaev instead of her older sister Antonina, who suddenly fell ill during her vacation. She had to take over her duties. This job was very important for the family — the salary here was much higher than anywhere else in their area. Antonina had two children: 14-year-old Marina and six-year-old Vanechka.
Family games

The work was simple — keep the house tidy and, if possible, avoid being seen by the owners. But there was one “but”: on the days when Aleksey Voropaev and his fiancée Anzhelika were absent, Elizaveta had to spend the night in the mansion.

Aleksey Anatolyevich had a daughter, Alisa, and on such evenings she was left alone in the huge house. The servants’ quarters were on the other side of the estate.

Already on the stairs, Liza heard crying. She looked at the clock — three a.m.

“What’s this strange business? Crying again… This is beyond normal,” she muttered under her breath.

Gathering her courage, she knocked on the door. She wanted to understand what was happening. She was sure something serious had happened. If the girl had such a wealthy life, would she really be crying?

Although her sister had strictly warned her: “Don’t show yourself in front of the owners,” Malinkina still decided to go inside. Instead of just listening by the door, she opened it wide and entered the room.

“What are you doing here?! Who let you in?! Get out right now! I’ll call security!” Alisa screamed and threw a pillow at the maid.

Liza skillfully caught it and immediately threw it back. The pillow hit the mistress’s daughter right in the head.

“How dare you?! I’ll tell Dad, and you’ll be fired!” the girl protested.

“Let him fire me, I don’t care,” the woman replied with a hint of sarcasm. “It’s unbearable to live in your house. Not even peace at night. Someone is always crying. Don’t know who? — she smirked. — Oh right, it’s you. Probably Daddy didn’t give you the right star from the sky, or you broke an acrylic nail?”

Alisa burst into tears:

“You don’t understand anything! If you only knew how much I suffer!”

“I agree, hell,” Liza nodded. “If I had been driven to school by a chauffeur at 14, I’d cry too.”

“Why?” the girl asked in surprise.

“We used to go swimming after school, pick mushrooms in autumn, sometimes go to a café for ice cream. And you? No one visits you, you have no one to talk to.”

Malinkina headed toward the door, but Alisa stopped her:

“How do you find friends? I don’t have any at all.”

“None?” the woman was amazed.

“Not a single one. I used to have a mother, then my parents divorced. I was sent to study abroad, got sick there, and my father brought me back.”
Family relationship books

“Why do you live with your father, not your mother?” Liza asked, feeling a familiar pain.

“Mom doesn’t want to see me. She has a new family — a husband and little kids.”

“Did she tell you that herself?”

“No. I haven’t seen her for a long time. My father tells me,” Alisa sighed.

“Your father is an idiot!” Elizaveta couldn’t help herself. “Only a complete selfish person would say such things to their child.”

“Are you talking about me?” came a voice from the doorway.

Both froze. A man about thirty-five entered the room.

“Oh, Dad, you’re back already?” the girl panicked, hiding under the blanket.

“Stop calling Anzhelika a poodle,” Voropaev said sternly and turned to Liza: “Who are you and what are you doing in my daughter’s room?”

“I’m the housekeeper. I just wanted to check if she was asleep,” Liza answered embarrassed.

“You were warned: do not enter, only listen behind the door. If necessary, wake Tamara Petrovna, don’t barge in.”
Family games

“Yes, I was warned,” the woman lowered her eyes, unwilling to betray Alisa.

“You’re fired,” Aleksey said coldly and approached his daughter’s bed.

Liza stood, not knowing where to go. She felt humiliated and worried — how to explain everything to Antonina?

Voropaev turned around:

“You’re still here? Leave. You’re fired.”

“Dad, no, she’s not to blame,” Alisa begged. “I asked her to come in. I had a terrible nightmare.”

“All right, this time I’ll forgive you. But if I see you near my daughter again — it’s on your own head.”

Liza quickly went to her room. How foolish it had turned out. She almost let her sister down. She definitely would not go to Alisa again.

Falling asleep, Liza thought about her older sister — Antonina Grineva. To her, she was always the dearest person. The age difference between them was eight years.
Child care services

She remembered the times when their father was alive, the family was big and close, and their mother cared for them. Then their father got sick. He was taken to the city clinic and never returned.
Family games

Mother mourned for a long time but soon started abusing alcohol. Liza was thirteen then. She did not want to live with her mother and her new husband, Yuri Zhukov, and kept running away to her father’s house. They took her back by force, but she escaped again.

Once Liza went by train three hundred kilometers away. The police found her and sent her back. After that, social services intervened for the first time.

Then Antonina, who had just had her first daughter Marina, decided to take her sister in:

“Sasha, let’s take Liza? The girl will be lost,” she said to her husband.

“I don’t mind. But can you handle a baby and a teenager? Especially since I’m often on business trips,” answered Alexander, a helicopter pilot by profession.

He loved the sky but agreed to be home more for Tonya’s sake. However, he couldn’t completely give up flying.

So Antonina now lived in constant worry when her husband was on duty. But at least she saved her sister from the harsh conditions at their mother’s. Natalya Egorovna didn’t even resist — she wanted freedom, and Liza caused many problems.

The mother, handing over the younger daughter to the elder’s care, only sighed with relief and plunged fully into her careless life. Elizaveta was lucky — she ended up in Antonina’s caring home. For the first time in many years, Liza felt warmth, attention, and support.
Family relationship books

Gradually, the girl pulled herself together: calmed down, improved her studies, and began to enjoy life. Now after school she hurried home not only to do homework but also to help her beloved sister.

She no longer visited her mother, even though she lived just a few blocks away. The resentment was too great. But at night she often cried, remembering her father — the dearest person who was no longer there.

Elizaveta graduated school with a silver medal and entered university without much difficulty. After earning a law degree, she became a lawyer and within three years joined a bar association.

The young Malinkina quickly earned a reputation as a promising and competent lawyer. Colleagues and professors predicted a bright future for her. A huge role in her career was played by Naum Yakovlevich Goldman — one of the best lawyers in the region, who became not just a mentor for Liza but also a close person.

Naum Yakovlevich had his own daughter but they had long lost touch — the Goldman family moved to Canada after a divorce. He stayed in Russia and now considered Liza his spiritual daughter. To many, he was a legend — not just talented, but a true genius of his craft.

Liza fully understood this and always considered it her fortune to study under such a master. And the only pain in his life was loneliness. Malinkina became his support. It was especially touching that she resembled his own daughter, so Goldman affectionately called her “my child.”
Child care services

They met when Liza was lucky to become his intern. Later, starting her own practice, she maintained trusting relations with him, continuing to help and communicate almost like family.

“I will never abandon you, Naum Yakovlevich. Don’t even hope!” Liza said, driving the old man to his dacha.

“My child, I could get there myself. Why did you rush in the morning?”

“Get dressed and don’t argue. I’m waiting for you in the car. Where are your things?”

“I’ll pack my bags myself. I’m a man, after all. Or should I swallow them? Wait, I’ll be soon. You’ll have time to scold me,” Goldman grumbled hiding a smile.

Such dialogues were common between them — two people who became closer than family. Naum Yakovlevich even changed his will, leaving half of his fortune to Liza. Although she knew nothing about it — and did not strive for wealth.

For Elizaveta, the most valuable thing was the very presence of this person. Next to Goldman, she felt peace, protection, security — a feeling she had only experienced in childhood while her father was alive.

The old lawyer also couldn’t imagine life without Liza. He feared that one day she would leave — marry, start a family. If he had survived parting with his own daughter, now he could not. But he didn’t want to talk about it.
Family games

He made plans for Liza: marry, create a family, have children, become the country’s best lawyer. And thought of himself last.

Meanwhile, they only parted once a year — during vacations, when Liza went to her sister. Antonina had cared for her for so many years that Malinkina wanted to repay by helping, being near, at least partly repaying the debt.

Although now Liza could afford any travels, she still chose her sister’s home. It was a way to say “thank you” and simply spend time with loved ones.

She repeatedly offered Tonya to move to the city, where they could rent a spacious apartment, work, and raise children together. But Antonina refused. She was waiting for her husband — Alexander Grishin, a helicopter pilot whose aircraft crashed five years ago during a mission. The body was never found, and he was officially declared dead.

But Tonya did not believe this:

“I won’t go anywhere, Lizonka. What if Sashka returns? How will he find us in the city?”

“We will leave a note with the address,” Liza joked though feeling bitter.

She admired her sister’s strength of spirit, loyalty, and love. But deep down she felt sorry — years go by, life moves on. And Tonya keeps waiting…

Semyon Krachkov had long courted her, but she refused:

“How can I marry if my husband is alive? No one has seen his body — so he will return.”

Thus the Grishins lived in the village. Only when their daughter Marina finishes school and goes to study in the city, Liza would take care of her niece. Meanwhile, she visited relatives on holidays, sometimes on weekends, and always for her entire vacation.

It was during one of those vacations that Liza had to urgently come to help. Antonina had been suffering for the third day in pain but couldn’t afford to miss work. She was a housekeeper in the house of billionaire Voropaev.

The rich like to live outside the city — they buy plots, build houses. The staff is usually recruited from local residents. The village was nearby; it took ten minutes by bike to get to work.

Therefore, Liza easily agreed with other workers — they agreed to cover the replacement and not tell anyone that Antonina was being substituted by her sister. The owners would not find out since most of the servants were strangers to them. Staff had to be invisible, trying not to be seen.

There were no such strict rules before, but since Voropaev’s fiancée Anzhelika moved in, everything changed. The future wife did not tolerate people without a million in their pocket. She despised the servants and did not want to see them.

The mistress demanded that cleaning be done outside the family’s presence, and when seeing any owner, workers had to disappear immediately.

“So we have to move like shadows?” Liza smirked hearing this for the first time.

“Yes, something like that,” shrugged housekeeper Tamara Petrovna, who had worked in the house for many years. “It’s all Anzhelika’s doing. She’s not even the wife yet but already acting like the boss.”

“While she’s the fiancée, and that means a guest,” Malinkina noted. “Guests can ask, but they don’t have the right to command.”

“Of course,” sighed Tamara Petrovna, “but no one wants to get involved with her. Voropaev proposed, gave her a diamond ring — the wedding is soon.”

“Well, good,” Liza smiled, “it works in my favor. Nobody knows me, so no one will guess I’m substituting for my sister.”

“To be honest, Lizonka, you better hide well if you suddenly see Anzhelika,” Tamara Petrovna grimaced.

“Why?” Malinkina frowned.

“You’re too young and beautiful. They don’t allow such to work here. Even your sister, Antonina, is too young for a servant — she’s the same age as Voropaev. And you are even younger…”

“Is she really that jealous?” Liza asked thoughtfully.

“Definitely! She even fired Masha Grenkina, though she’s not a beauty. But Anzhelika knows all about female cunning. They say she used to work in escort. Now she decided to ‘settle down’ — age is catching up, the forties are near,” the housekeeper lowered her voice.

It was clear the woman was eager to gossip. Liza already noticed that the household staff loved to discuss the owners among themselves, but no gossip left the mansion. Disclosure meant dismissal — not just for one but the whole staff. Everyone understood and treated the rule as a commandment. The job was too good to lose.

“Why did Aleksey Anatolyevich decide to marry such a woman?” Liza asked.

“Do you know how cunning she is? Like a fox. Years in escort gave her social manners: she speaks English, follows the news, understands politics, fashion, show business. With her, it’s not shameful to appear in public, and she looks decent. Now you understand?”

“No,” Elizaveta shook her head.

“Well, well, Liza! Aleksey never loved anyone. I’ve seen many women here, but he only looked at Vera — his first wife. He really loved her. The rest were indifferent. Anzhelika is part of the image. He buys her trinkets, takes her out. A man like Voropaev needs a wife.”

“A married businessman inspires more trust among partners. A bachelor is somehow unrespectable. So he decided to marry.”

“So he’s buying her?” Liza said thoughtfully.

“You could say that,” nodded Tamara Petrovna. “He pays, and we have to tolerate this village geisha. And Alisa doesn’t like her at all,” the housekeeper grimaced.

“Why did Voropaev separate from Alisa’s mother? The girl seems to suffer a lot.”
Family relationship books

“Vera couldn’t take it. She felt like a bird in a cage here. Aleksey loved her, spoiled her, protected her, but almost never had time for her. He came home late when she was already asleep and left early before she woke up. Then he sent their daughter to study in Europe — that’s when Vera got really sad.”

“Then she found another man. Conflicts began due to her husband’s constant absence. Aleksey shouted money doesn’t fall from the sky, and Vera needed simple human relationships. But he couldn’t change his schedule.”

“Then Voropaev advised his wife to find something to do: entertain herself or find a hobby. Vera had graduated from art academy. She started attending exhibitions, communicating with artists, and asked to buy her a studio. Aleksey agreed. Since then she hardly left it.”

“One day at breakfast, as if casually, she said:
— Lesha, I’m leaving you.
— Why? — he was shocked.
— I fell in love with another man.”

It turned out she had been corresponding with an Englishman Jack — a famous and wealthy artist. They met at a Russian exhibition where he bought paintings. Then he came several times to Russia and met Vera in that very studio Voropaev gave her.

Now Vera is married to Jack and lives in London. After the divorce, Aleksey immediately brought their daughter back from Europe and transferred her to a Russian school. He forbade his ex-wife to see Alisa — still does not allow it.

The girl cannot adapt. Although she has been in Russia for three years, she can’t get along with classmates. She is too withdrawn and keeps everything inside. Childhood trauma and separation from her mother take their toll.

“In Aleksey’s soul lives resentment toward Vera, but his daughter suffers,” sighed Tamara Petrovna.

“You’re a real psychologist,” Liza smiled.

“Oh, come on! I’ve lived long and seen everything. Sometimes I say better than any psychologist: you are not one of us. Not the right berry from the bush.”

“What do you mean?” the girl asked surprised.

“What I see. You feel like a different breed — educated, intelligent. You’re clearly not a servant. Your sister is a simple woman, but who are you?”

Liza did not plan to reveal more about herself, so she answered evasively:

“I’m from a district center. Raised there but studied in the city. Now, excuse me, I have to go. The owners will wake up soon, and I haven’t cleaned the gazebo. They will have breakfast there.”

“True!” Tamara exclaimed. “What am I talking about? If Kopeykin wakes up, we’ll all be in trouble.”

“Who is Kopeykin?” Liza didn’t understand.

“That’s Anzhelika!” the housekeeper laughed. “She pretends to be an aristocrat, but in fact — Anzhela Vasilievna Kopeykin, daughter of our village’s zootechnician. From my village — from Sinkovka. Familiar name?”

“Familiar,” Malinkina smiled, grabbed a bucket of water, and ran to clean.

The girl hurried so fast she didn’t notice she bumped right into the house owner himself. Water spilled from the full bucket right on Aleksey Anatolyevich’s pants and shoes.

The billionaire’s eyes widened; he was speechless for a second but quickly composed himself:

“Again you? Listen, you weren’t fired yesterday only because Alisa asked. But that won’t save you from being fired for other offenses. Get out…”

“Forgive me… forgive me…” Liza took a brush from her apron pocket and began moving it through the puddles on the floor.

“Are you completely crazy? Do you think you can clean water with these brushes?” the owner shouted angrily. He was about to leave to change but suddenly stopped and sharply turned: “Tell me, how long have you been working as a housekeeper? It seems you don’t understand how to do it at all.”

“No-no, what are you saying! I’ve done all the housework since childhood. I have huge experience,” Liza’s heart pounded with fear — she was afraid she would be fired again.

“What’s your name?”

“Liza.”

“All right, Liza, keep working. For now.”

Malinkina quickly headed to the gazebo that needed cleaning for a long time. On the way, she overheard a fragment of a conversation between the owner and his fiancée:

“She poured water on you? You fired her, darling? Why?! Where is this person? I’ll kick her out myself right now!”

What Voropaev answered was unheard, but Liza felt he was persuading Anzhelika not to touch the staff.

While Liza feverishly prepared the gazebo for breakfast, Alisa came up to her:

“Hi. What are you doing?”

“Hi. Don’t bother me, please. Your dad almost fired me for the second time in the last twelve hours. At this rate, I’ll definitely lose this job soon. And I need to stay here, you understand?”

“Why?”

Liza stopped and stopped wiping the table:

“It’s a secret. Can you keep secrets?”

“Of course,” the girl blushed. Until then, no one had ever trusted her with real adult secrets. Her father always sent her out of the room when serious talks started.

“Then swear — not even under torture will you spill.”

“I swear,” Alisa whispered.

“All right. Just remember — this is very important. I’m not just a servant. I snuck in here secretly. Actually, I don’t work here.”

Alisa covered her mouth to keep from gasping and also whispered:

“You’re a spy?”

“No. Listen carefully.”

Liza told a little about her childhood, about her sister, and how she was ready to do anything for the family. Now her sister was sick and in the hospital, and Liza was substituting for her at work. Besides, she now had two nephews — fourteen-year-old Marina and six-year-old Pavlik. Marina tried to look after her brother while Liza worked, but the responsibility was still on her.
Family games

Alisa herself did not notice how she began helping to clean. Together they finished quickly, and from that moment their shared secret made them so close that the girl felt initiated into the most important cause in the world.

“I will never betray you, Liza,” she promised seriously, putting her hand on her chest.

“Thank you. You’re a true friend,” Liza said sincerely. Alisa took these words deeply and even cried:

“Really? Can I be your friend?”

Liza was a little confused but quickly recovered:

“Alisa Voropaeva, I offer you the hand of friendship.”

She did not yet know she had just found her most faithful friend. Alisa had never had friends before but was smart, loved books, and perfectly understood what true friendship was. Deceit, betrayal, and distrust were alien to her.

“Liza, are you staying here again tonight? What about Marina and Pavlik?”

“Yes, I’ll pick them up in the evening. But no one must be invited to my room — what if the owner finds out?”

“It’s okay, they can stay with us. We’ll swim in the pool, watch movies in the home theater, order pizza and sushi — Konstantin cooks great!”

“Who is Konstantin?”

“Our chef,” Alisa laughed.

“No way, I’ll definitely be fired if they find out.”

“They won’t. My friend can be anywhere he wants here. So don’t worry. And I’ll deal with the poodle myself.”

“What poodle?”

“Anzhelika,” the girl answered shortly, and they both laughed.

At that moment, Voropaev’s fiancée entered the gazebo. She looked contemptuously at Alisa and the housekeeper:

“Alisa, what are you doing here? Go into the house. When breakfast is served, you will be called. Until then, you have nothing to do here, especially with the servants.”

“But you didn’t ask,” the girl answered boldly. “You are nobody here. Manage your village.”

“Ah, you… Wait, when my time comes — then you’ll dance!” Anzhelika hissed through her teeth. Her lips trembled, fists clenched. It seemed she was about to attack Alisa. But suddenly she glanced at Liza, who lowered her eyes hiding her face. She remembered Tamara Petrovna’s warning: the bride fires young maids without hesitation.

This time Liza was lucky — the storm passed her by. She hurried to clean Voropaev’s and Anzhelika’s bedroom while everyone went to breakfast. After Aleksey Anatolyevich left on business, the usual work hustle began in the house.

Gardeners, cooks, guards, maids — all worked trying not to provoke the owner’s displeasure. Everyone wanted to keep their job.

After cleaning, Liza rested a little, talked on the phone with Marina and Pavlik, called her sister, and promised the children she would pick them up in the evening and they would spend time together in the billionaire’s house. Pavlik was thrilled — mom never allowed them to play in the mansion.

Having settled her affairs, Liza went to Voropaev’s office. The door was ajar, which seemed strange — usually the office was locked. Having gotten the key earlier from the head of security, she knew she had to return it after cleaning.

She stopped, thought, carefully leaned the cleaning equipment against the wall, and crept to the door. What she saw shocked her to the core.

Anzhelika, Aleksey Anatolyevich’s fiancée, was rummaging through the safe. She took out several documents, photographed them, carefully put them back, closed the safe, and wiped it with a handkerchief. Then she took off her gloves, hid the phone in her pocket, and straightened papers on the table.

Liza managed to record video and take several photos. When the woman finished, Malinkina grabbed her buckets and cloths and hid around the corner to avoid being noticed.

A moment later, Anzhelika left the office, looked around, locked the door, and hurried away. Liza took a deep breath — the danger passed. Barely had her heart stopped pounding when she cautiously peeked from behind the corner.

With trembling hands, Malinkina opened the door and began cleaning. When finished, she watched the recorded video several times, checked the quality, and sent it to Naum Yakovlevich. Then they exchanged a few messages, after which Liza smiled, said goodbye, and confidently walked down the corridor. She knew: now she had to strictly follow the instructions of her old mentor.

As soon as she told the lawyer everything that happened during her work at the Voropaev house, he sighed heavily:

“My little bird, how come you constantly find yourself at the center of the most scandalous stories?”

“I don’t understand myself, Naum Yakovlevich. I didn’t want to interfere with anyone. Tonya got sick, so I had to substitute her. Otherwise, she could have lost her job. And the owner’s fiancée — she’s just a snake! You can’t imagine. She fires all the young maids, and if someone is sick — immediately ‘out of the house.’ In her opinion, the staff must be flawless, like robots.”

“Voropaev… Aleksey Anatolyevich?” the lawyer was surprised.

“Yes, that’s him. Do you know him?”

“More than that. I’ve handled his family affairs for a long time. His father, Anatoly Mikhailovich, was a kind man. I defended his interests back in the eighties. Aleksey has been familiar to me since childhood. So you are now in his house?”
Family games

“Exactly there.”

“Listen carefully: don’t take any independent action. I’ll check Anzhelika through my channels first, then we’ll decide what to do next. I promise — quickly. Can you hold out a couple of days?”

“Of course,” Liza smiled.

The conversation ended. After work, when Voropaev and his fiancée flew to Sochi for the weekend, Liza took Marina and Pavlik, and together with Alisa, they had a real celebration.

They spent the whole evening having fun, playing, laughing. At night, when the children fell asleep, Liza checked on Alisa to make sure the girl was asleep. The room was silent — Alisa was indeed peacefully dozing. Today she was happier than ever. Malinkina understood how hard life was for her with her father and his new fiancée. But she also knew: the main thing is attention, care, and love. That was exactly what the girl lacked.

Elizaveta decided for herself that even when this story ended, she would remain in Alisa’s life. She imagined how many years later she would say: “I have known Alisa Alekseevna since childhood. I was always there when she had a hard time.”

Liza smiled but at that moment bumped into Voropaev himself in the corridor.

“It’s you again?” he was surprised.

“What are you doing here?” the girl asked fearfully. Thoughts raced: her nephews were sleeping in her room, the living room was still messy after the party.

“I live here,” Voropaev laughed quietly. “And you seem to feel at home already. This is the second time we meet in the corridor at night.”

“Sorry,” Liza smiled and whispered, “I was just checking if Alisa was asleep.”

“And?”

 

“She is. For the first time so peacefully and without worries.”

“What did you do to her? She suffered from insomnia for years.”

“I just became a true friend to her,” Liza shrugged.

“Listen, Liza, come to my office. We need to talk about my daughter. We stand like in the square, and it’s night outside.”

They quietly went inside. The owner offered the girl to sit in a soft chair and handed her a glass of drink.

“Sorry for my frankness, but why did you return early? Your fiancée is in Sochi, isn’t she?”

“Troubles in business. Someone got information he shouldn’t have known. Oleg Zaporozhnikov — my old friend and enemy. I think he leaked the data. I don’t understand how he managed to get the project before the tender announcement.”

“Do you think the staff won’t understand you?” Liza asked, slightly offended.

“No, not at all! I don’t think that. Forgive me for these words. By the way, about Anzhelika… I myself feel disgusted that she fires people without reason. But soon she will become the mistress of the house, and such decisions will no longer be mine.”

“Then why do you marry her if you don’t love her?” Liza asked, blushing but holding his long look.

“It’s not about love. I need a woman who will play the role of mistress, Mrs. Voropaev.”

Malinkina’s eyes widened:

“But that’s wrong. You can’t live without love. Love is the meaning of life. Love your children, your woman, your Motherland — that is the true goal of a person.”

“I don’t know how to love,” Voropaev interrupted. “Those I loved are long gone. And my ex-wife, whom I loved very much, left me for another. Maybe I just love wrong. Even my daughter…”

“Then you need someone who will teach you to love. But it’s definitely not Anzhelika. She will destroy you with her coldness. Because she doesn’t love you as you love her.”

Voropaev pondered:

“Could you teach me to love?”

Liza blushed and didn’t manage to answer — at that moment the door opened, and sleepy Alisa entered the office:

“Liza, I was looking for you! I came to your room, but you weren’t there.” She ran to the chair, sat beside her friend, and hugged her. A few minutes later, the girl fell sound asleep.

“Well, we didn’t talk again,” Liza smiled. “Maybe you’ll tell me why you came back so suddenly, leaving your fiancée alone?”

“Let her stay alone for now. I need to sort out business. The project that the whole team worked on may fail. A competitor submitted my proposal before me. I don’t understand how he learned about it. There are no traitors among the staff.”

“Tomorrow I’ll gather the board of directors, and the day after tomorrow my lawyer will come. I’ll have to close the project, but we’ll move on.”

“Remember who knew about the case. Who benefits,” Liza said thoughtfully. She already knew who was behind it but didn’t hurry to reveal the cards — she promised Naum Yakovlevich.

On Sunday morning, Liza went to the hospital with the children to see her sister. Antonina was almost recovered, and doctors planned to discharge her soon. That meant Liza’s work in the Voropaev house was coming to an end.

Liza thought with light sadness that she would soon leave this house. She didn’t want to go. Aleksey Anatolyevich was becoming closer, more interesting to her. And she felt that he looked at her not just as a servant. But how could a lawyer, even a promising and talented one, quit her practice and continue working as a maid?

At the thought, Liza even laughed.

Meanwhile, Alisa persuaded them to go with the company to the hospital to see Tonya, and then they all went to the beach together. Voropaev’s daughter looked at everything around with curiosity. It turned out she had never eaten cotton candy, never ridden a Ferris wheel, and never swam in a river.

The girl had expensive entertainment, luxurious trips, travels across Europe… but simple joys — those usually given to ordinary children — she didn’t have. She never jumped from a bridge into the water, never played in fountains, never went camping or roasted potatoes over a fire.

“I promise, this summer I’ll introduce you to all these things,” Marina promised. “And if Dad allows, we’ll even go to Liza’s city for overnight stays!”

“Really? Do you live in the city, Liza?” Alisa was surprised.

“Of course,” Marina blurted out and immediately bit her tongue.

“Seriously?” the girl said sadly.

“Yes, it’s true. I really live in the city and work as a lawyer,” Liza admitted. “Don’t be upset, girlfriend. We will definitely see each other. I think good relations are developing between me and your dad. So you will visit us.”

Alisa hugged Liza and smiled:

“Let’s have you and Dad get married! Imagine that?”

Liza didn’t answer, only blushed deeply. The idea suddenly stopped seeming absurd. Although not long ago she was afraid of Voropaev like fire.

The day went wonderfully. In the evening, Liza with her nephews saw Alisa home and returned to the village herself. It was her day off — the first in a long time. Tomorrow she had to go back to the Voropaev mansion.

In the morning, the phone insisted, the alarm demanded to wake up, but Liza postponed it again and again, hoping to sleep a little longer. Fatigue had accumulated: she had worked more in a week than in the whole year, and also checked at night if Alisa was sleeping.

As a result — she was late. Liza hurried as best she could but still arrived after breakfast.

“If I worked here permanently, I’d have been fired a long time ago. I’d have been kicked out of any house,” she thought, approaching the yard.

Alisa was already waiting for her on the porch:

“Faster, I covered for you. Dad already asked where you are. I said you’re helping in the kitchen.”

“Thanks, dear, you owe me,” Liza hurriedly replied, parked her bike, and went inside.

As soon as she changed clothes and entered the living room with Alisa, she saw two men — Voropaev and Naum Yakovlevich.

“Good morning,” Liza said embarrassedly.

“Hello, Liza. I was looking for you,” the owner smiled.

“I was in the kitchen… cleaning, cutting… and all that,” the girl tried to explain, trying not to look at the lawyer.

“She was cleaning, cutting,” Goldman chuckled. “Elizaveta, you overslept again. Tell the truth.”

Voropaev looked at him surprised.

“Aleksey Anatolyevich,” Naum Yakovlevich began, “let me introduce you to my partner, student, friend, and one of the best lawyers in our city — after me, of course. This is Elizaveta Andreevna Malinkina.”

“Sorry… and this is my maid — Liza… what’s her patronymic?” Voropaev puzzled.

“Elizaveta Andreevna… Malinkina,” the girl modestly replied, lowering her eyes.

Alisa watched with a satisfied smile. Now it was clear — the only one who didn’t know anything was Voropaev himself.

“What’s going on?” the man smiled confusedly.

“I’ll explain now,” Naum Yakovlevich said, swallowing a pill. “Liza is on vacation, temporarily replacing her sick sister. She’s the one who accidentally noticed Anzhelika rummaging in the safe and photographing documents. The video I showed you was made by Liza. So, while she was dusting your office, she got rid of the spy who was supposed to become your wife.”

 

At that moment, Anzhelika entered the house. She rolled a wheeled suitcase and was clearly furious:

“You left me alone, didn’t come back, didn’t send a helicopter, no one met me at the airport. I need to think well about whether to marry you, Aleksey!”

“Of course not,” Voropaev answered calmly. “Pack your things and leave. Before I call the police.”

Anzhelika looked around stunned.

“What is a servant doing here? Why is she even here?”

Without a word, Aleksey played the video and put the phone on the table next to her. Anzhelika understood everything. She turned pale but a second later began to scream hysterically that Voropaev was heartless, his daughter was nasty, and one day he would regret his decision.

Anzhelika left, the engagement was broken off. Voropaev really lost the tender, the project had to be closed. But new opportunities already loomed on the horizon, and Aleksey even felt relieved — everything happened exactly as it should.

Now he was seeing the city’s best lawyer (after Naum Yakovlevich, of course). Elizaveta became not only his beloved woman but also Alisa’s close friend.

Moreover, Liza convinced Voropaev to restore relations between Alisa and her mother. Aleksey did everything possible so they could see, communicate, and spend as much time together as they wished.
Family relationship books

And so, in August, Alisa met her mother — Vera specially flew in from London. The girl hadn’t been so happy for a long time. And it was all thanks to Liza, who was soon going to give Alisa another important gift — to become her new mother.

Liliya bought an apartment at twenty-six. She’d saved for five years while working as a manager at a trading company. Every kopeck went into savings: she gave up entertainment, wore old clothes, economized on everything. When she finally signed the purchase contract, her hands trembled with happiness. A one-room place on the edge of the city—but her own.

She met Dmitry a year after the purchase. At a colleague’s office party. Tall, charming, knew how to give compliments. He courted her beautifully: flowers, restaurants, evening strolls through the city. After six months he suggested moving in with Liliya.

“Why are you paying for a rental?” Liliya asked. “Move in with me.”
Quality properties for rent

Dmitry agreed. He brought two bags of clothes and a box of books. Settled on the couch and turned on the TV.

“It’s cozy here,” he said. “Feels like home.”

The first months went by peacefully. Dmitry worked as a programmer and came home late, tired. Liliya made dinner, tried to create comfort. Everything felt right, dependable.

A year later Dmitry suggested they get married. Liliya agreed without hesitation. The wedding was modest, just close family. Liliya’s parents came from another city, Dmitry’s parents—from a neighboring district. They celebrated in a café, danced, offered congratulations.

After the wedding Dmitry raised the question of ownership.

“Lilya, let’s put the apartment in both our names,” he said one evening. “We’re a family now. Everything between spouses should be fair.”

Liliya hesitated.

“Why? The apartment is already mine, and you live here.”
Bookshelves

“I understand,” Dmitry nodded. “But legally I’m nobody. What if something happens? Better to be safe.”

 

“What could happen?”

“Anything can happen. Documents should be done properly. I just want everything to be fair.”

Liliya thought for a long time. On the one hand, she’d bought the apartment before the marriage with her own money. On the other hand, Dmitry was her husband; it felt awkward to refuse. In the end she agreed.

“Alright. Let’s do it.”

A week later they went to a notary. They registered a share for Dmitry. Now the apartment belonged to both of them—half each. Dmitry beamed and hugged his wife.

“Thank you, Lilyechka. You can’t imagine how important it is for me to feel like a full-fledged owner.”

Liliya smiled. Something pricked inside, but she chased away the doubt. He was her husband, her own person. Not an enemy.

Several months passed. Dmitry began showing a strange interest in the documents. He might casually ask where the apartment papers were kept. Or ask to see the certificate of ownership.
Family games

“Why do you need it?” Liliya was surprised.

“Just curious,” he would reply. “I want to make sure everything is in order.”

Liliya showed him. Dmitry studied them carefully, nodded, and put them back.

One autumn evening Liliya came home earlier than usual. Classes at school had been canceled due to heating repairs. She opened the door quietly, in case her husband was asleep. But Dmitry wasn’t sleeping. He was talking on the phone in the kitchen, his voice low, almost a whisper.

Liliya stopped in the hallway and listened.

“Yes, we’ll move quickly, the client is reliable, I’ll handle everything,” Dmitry was saying. “It’s a good apartment, decent condition. There’s already a buyer; all that’s left is to sign the contract.”

Liliya froze. What apartment? What deal?

“Does Lilya know anything?” someone on the other end asked. The voice was muffled, but Liliya caught the question.

“No, she doesn’t,” Dmitry said. “And she won’t, not until everything’s ready. I’ll tell her we’re selling to buy something bigger. She’ll agree. She always agrees.”

Liliya stood in the hallway unable to move. Her heart pounded so loudly she thought he would hear it. Dmitry went on, discussing details, dates, sums.

Liliya slipped quietly out of the apartment. She went down to the first floor and sat on the bench by the entrance. Her hands trembled; her vision swam. Dmitry was going to sell the apartment. Her apartment. The very one she’d saved for five years to buy. And do it without her knowledge.

She took out her phone and opened Dmitry’s recent calls. They shared a plan, so all calls were visible in their online account. She found the number he had just been talking to. It was unfamiliar, but there was a name next to it: Sergei.

Liliya dialed the number. He answered immediately.

“Hello, real estate agency, how can I help you?” a man’s voice said.

“Good afternoon,” Liliya tried to keep her voice steady. “My name is Svetlana. I’m looking for a one-bedroom apartment. I was told to ask for Sergei.”

“That’s me. How can I help?”

“Do you have any one-bedrooms on the outskirts?”

“There’s one that’s just coming available. Dmitry has put his apartment up for sale; he’s ready to close within a week. Would you like to see it?”

Liliya clenched her teeth.

“Yes. Can I have the address?”

The realtor gave the address. The address of Liliya’s apartment.

“Thank you, I’ll think about it and call back,” she said and hung up.

She sat on the bench staring into space. Her husband was selling the apartment. Without her knowledge, without her consent. He’d simply decided and set everything in motion. As if Liliya didn’t exist.

She stood up and started walking. The November wind tugged at her hair, but she didn’t feel the cold. Inside burned a fire of anger and hurt. She had to act. Fast.

When she returned home, Dmitry was on the couch watching TV.

“You’re back already?” he was surprised. “You’re early today.”

“They’re fixing the heating—they let us out early,” Liliya said shortly.

“Got it. Are you making dinner?”

“I am.”

She went into the kitchen and started chopping vegetables. Her hands moved automatically while her thoughts spun. She needed a plan. Clear, quick, effective.

That night, after Dmitry fell asleep, Liliya took all the apartment documents from the safe: the certificate of ownership, the purchase contract, the technical passport. She put them in a folder and hid it in her bag.

The next day after work she didn’t go home—she went to a lawyer she knew. Aleksei Petrovich worked at a private firm, helped with paperwork, and consulted on complicated matters. Liliya had gone to him a year earlier when she transferred a share to Dmitry.

“Liliya Sergeyevna, what brings you here?” he greeted her warmly, ushering her into his office.

“I need help,” Liliya said, taking a seat. “Urgently.”

“I’m listening.”

She told him everything: the overheard conversation, the call to the realtor, her husband’s plans. The lawyer listened attentively, nodding now and then.

“I see,” he said when she finished. “It’s a tricky situation, but solvable. You want the apartment back in your sole name?”

“Yes. As soon as possible.”

“That’s possible. We’ll do a deed of gift. Dmitry will gift you his share, and the apartment will be yours alone again.”
Gift baskets

“But Dmitry won’t agree to that! He’s about to sell!”

Aleksei Petrovich smirked.

“He’ll agree if we pitch it right. Tell him it’s needed for tax benefits. Or to get a loan. We’ll come up with a story. The main thing is to get his signature on the gift deed.”

“And if he doesn’t buy it?”

“Then we go to court. But that takes time. Better to do it amicably.”

Liliya thought. Lying to her husband was repugnant, but she had no choice. Dmitry had already lied first.

“Alright. Let’s try.”

He prepared the documents—a gift deed for Dmitry’s share in favor of Liliya—properly and legally.

“Come with your husband tomorrow at ten in the morning,” the lawyer said. “I’ll explain everything, and he’ll sign.”

The next day Liliya got up early and made breakfast. Dmitry shuffled out of the bedroom, stretching.

“Why are you up so early?” he asked.

“We need to see the lawyer,” Liliya said, pouring coffee. “Aleksei Petrovich called yesterday. Says we need to re-do the apartment documents—for tax benefits.”

Dmitry tensed.

“What benefits?”

“Well, if the apartment is in one name, you can get a bigger deduction. When it’s in two names, the deduction is smaller. He explained it; I didn’t catch everything. Better if you hear it from him.”

He frowned.

“Why do we need a deduction? We’re not selling the apartment.”

Liliya froze. Her heart dropped. He was watching her intently.

“Well, you never know,” she tried to sound calm. “It might come in handy someday. Aleksei says it’s better to set it up in advance.”

Dmitry was silent for a moment, then nodded.

 

“Fine. Let’s go.”

They arrived at the lawyer’s at ten. Aleksei greeted them pleasantly and seated them at the table.

“So,” he began, “Liliya Sergeyevna, Dmitry—you own the apartment jointly. That’s not always convenient. If one spouse decides to sell a share, the other may not have time to buy it out. Problems start.”

“We’re not planning to sell,” Dmitry said.

“Of course, of course,” Aleksei nodded. “But it’s better to be cautious. I suggest a gift deed. Dmitry gifts his share to Liliya; the apartment becomes her sole property. It’s simpler and safer.”

“Safer for whom?” Dmitry smirked. “For Liliya?”

“For both of you. If a property is in one person’s name, no one can sell it without the owner’s knowledge. When it’s in two names, each can dispose of their share.”

Dmitry thought it over. Liliya sat beside him trying not to show her anxiety. Her fingers clenched the handle of her bag until they hurt.

“What if I don’t want to gift it?” Dmitry asked.
Gift baskets

“That’s your right,” the lawyer said calmly. “But then you might run into complications. For example, if you decide to sell and buy a new place. You’ll need powers of attorney, consents. Extra bureaucracy.”
Gift baskets

“We’re not selling,” Dmitry repeated.

“Alright. Then leave it as is.”

Dmitry looked at Liliya.

“Why are you quiet?”

“I agree with Aleksei Petrovich,” she said softly. “It seems simpler to me.”

“Simpler for you,” Dmitry noted. “For me it makes no difference.”

“Then sign. If it makes no difference.”

He hesitated, then took the pen and signed the gift deed. Aleksei notarized the signature and gathered the papers.

 

“Excellent. Now we submit it to Rosreestr. In a week everything will be ready.”

They left the office. Dmitry was grim and silent the whole ride home. Liliya was silent too, but inside she exulted. The first step was done.

A week later Aleksei called.

“Liliya Sergeyevna, the documents are ready. The apartment is yours again. Congratulations.”

Liliya exhaled in relief. Now Dmitry wouldn’t be able to sell the home. The apartment belonged only to her.

But Dmitry didn’t know. He kept calling the realtor, discussing details. Liliya listened from the next room, amazed each time at her husband’s gall.

“Yes, everything’s on track,” Dmitry would say. “Next week we’ll meet the buyer, negotiate the price. My wife suspects nothing.”

Liliya clenched her teeth. “My wife suspects nothing.” How wrong he was.

One evening Dmitry announced:

“Lilya, we need to talk.”

“About what?” Liliya set her book aside.
Bookshelves

“About our future. I’ve been thinking… Maybe we should sell the apartment and buy something bigger? A two-bedroom, say. Or a three-bedroom. So the kids have room.”

“What kids? We don’t have kids.”

“We will. Sooner or later. We should think ahead.”

Liliya looked at him and didn’t recognize him. This man could lie to her face without blinking. He talked about children, about the future, while planning to sell the apartment and pocket the money.

“I don’t want to sell,” Liliya said firmly.

“Why not? We could buy something better!”

“I don’t want to. This apartment is mine; I bought it with my own money. I’m not going to sell.”

Dmitry scowled.

“Yours? Lilya, we put it in both our names!”

“We did. Then we put it back.”

He froze.

“What do you mean, put it back?”

“You signed a gift deed. A week ago. At Aleksei Petrovich’s. The apartment is mine again.”
Gift baskets

His face went pale.

“You… You tricked me?”

“You were tricking me. You wanted to sell the apartment behind my back. Thought I wouldn’t find out?”

Dmitry leapt up.

“How do you know?!”

“I heard your conversation with the realtor. Then I called Sergei myself. He told me everything.”

He stood in the middle of the room, mouth open. Then his face twisted in anger.

“You… you set this up on purpose! You forced me to sign that deed!”

“I didn’t force you. You signed it yourself. Aleksei Petrovich is a witness.”

“I signed because you lied! You told me about tax benefits!”

“And you planned to sell the apartment without my consent. Which of us is the bigger liar?”

Dmitry clenched his fists. Liliya stood up, bracing for the worst. But he didn’t hit her. He simply turned and left the room, slamming the door.

Liliya heard him calling someone. His voice was loud and furious.

“Mom, I’ve got a problem. Lilya transferred the apartment back to herself. What should I do?”

She couldn’t hear the answer, but she could guess. His mother always took his side and thought her daughter-in-law unworthy.

Dmitry returned ten minutes later. His face was dark but calm.

“Fine,” he said. “You won this round. But the game isn’t over.”

“What game?” Liliya asked, surprised.

“Life. Marriage. Money. It’s all a game. And I know how to play.”

He went into the bedroom and shut the door. Liliya stood in the living room feeling a rising unease. What was he plotting?

The next day Dmitry behaved oddly. He was polite, even gracious. He made breakfast, washed the dishes, asked about her day. Liliya grew wary. This wasn’t like him.

“Lilya, forgive me,” Dmitry said in the evening. “I lost my temper. I shouldn’t have planned a sale without telling you.”

“Are you seriously apologizing?”

“I am. I was wrong. The apartment’s yours; you have every right to do as you wish.”

Liliya didn’t believe a word. Dmitry wasn’t the type to admit mistakes. He was up to something. Something bad.

“Alright,” she said carefully. “I accept your apology.”

“Great. Then let’s forget this and start fresh.”

He hugged her. Liliya went rigid in his arms, sensing the falseness in every gesture.

 

A week passed. Dmitry kept playing the devoted husband. He helped around the house, bought flowers, paid her compliments. Liliya endured it, but inside her certainty grew: something was coming soon.

And it did.

On Friday evening Dmitry came home wearing a smug smile. His face shone; his step was light, almost dancing. He tossed his jacket on the floor in the entryway, went to the kitchen, and pulled a beer from the fridge.

Liliya was in the living room with a book. She looked up when he flopped onto the couch across from her.
Bookshelves

“Lilya, I’ve got news for you,” Dmitry said, popping the can.

“What news?”

“Excellent news.” He took a swig and smirked. “As of today, you’re a homeless bum.”

Liliya slowly closed her book.

“What did you say?”

“I filed the sale paperwork,” Dmitry leaned back. “The deal’s tomorrow. The apartment is sold. Go wherever you want.”

She stared at him, unable to believe what she’d heard. He kept smiling, sipping his beer.

“You’re joking,” she said at last.

“No, dear. Quite serious.” He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and waved it in front of her. “Here’s the contract. There’s a buyer, the price is agreed, tomorrow we sign and that’s that. The money has already been wired.”

“Dmitry, the apartment isn’t yours anymore. You signed a gift deed.”

“I did,” he admitted. “But you forgot one detail. I managed to file the sale before the changes were registered in Rosreestr. There’s a loophole like that. My lawyer explained it. So technically the apartment is still mine. And I sold it.”
Gift baskets

Liliya stood.

“You didn’t sell anything. The apartment’s been in my name for a week. Aleksei submitted the paperwork as soon as you signed the deed.”

Dmitry laughed.

“Aleksei Petrovich is a dinosaur. Slow, old. My lawyer is faster. We beat you.”

“No, you didn’t,” Liliya said evenly. “You can check. Call your lawyer and ask him when the changes were actually registered.”

The confidence on Dmitry’s face faltered. He pulled out his phone and dialed.

“Igor, hi. Listen, can you check when the change for my apartment was entered in the registry?” He listened; his face grew steadily paler. “What do you mean a week ago? You said we’d make it!”

Igor said something on the other end. Dmitry listened, gripping the phone tighter.

“Fine, we’ll sort it out tomorrow,” he snapped and hung up.

Liliya stood by the window with her arms crossed.

“I told you. The apartment is mine.”

Dmitry jumped up.

“No matter! The deal’s tomorrow! The buyer is waiting!”

“There will be no deal. The system won’t register the sale. The owner has changed.”

“We’ll see!” he shouted and left the room.

Liliya heard him calling the realtor, explaining, arguing. His voice was frayed, breaking into a yell.

The next morning Dmitry left early. Liliya watched him go and returned to her breakfast. Two hours later his phone was vibrating nonstop with calls. Liliya didn’t answer, but saw the names on the screen: Sergei, Igor, Mom.

At noon Dmitry burst into the apartment. His face was red; his eyes darted.

“You set this up!” he yelled.

Liliya sat in the kitchen with a cup of coffee.

“I didn’t set anything up. I just took back what was mine.”

“The deal fell through! Rosreestr refused! They said the owner changed!”

“I warned you.”

He grabbed her cup and hurled it at the wall. Shards scattered across the floor. Liliya didn’t even flinch.

“You’ll pay for this!” he hissed. “I’ll take you to court! I’ll say you tricked me into signing the gift deed!”

“Go ahead,” Liliya replied calmly. “Aleksei did everything correctly. You signed voluntarily, with a witness. You don’t have a case.”

Dmitry paced the kitchen, muttering to himself. Then he stopped and stared at her.

“And the buyer? He already paid a 20% deposit! Where am I going to get the money to return it?”

“Not my problem,” Liliya finished her coffee and stood. “You got yourself into this scheme.”

She went to the bedroom and took a neat folder from the closet. Back in the kitchen, she set it on the table in front of him.

“Open it.”

He frowned but opened it. Inside were documents: a fresh extract from Rosreestr, a notarized copy of the gift deed, a certificate of registered ownership.
Gift baskets

“See?” Liliya tapped the extract. “Sole owner—me. Registration date—a week ago. Everything is legal and correct.”

Dmitry flipped through the papers, his face growing paler.

“You… you planned all this…”

“I didn’t start it. You tried to sell my apartment behind my back. I just protected myself.”

He shut the folder and flung it to the floor. Papers scattered across the kitchen.

“Fine,” he grated. “You won. But I won’t forgive you.”

“No need to forgive. Just leave.”

“Leave?” He laughed. “This is my apartment! I live here!”

“You lived here. Not anymore.”

Liliya turned and left the kitchen. She took out her phone and called a locksmith.

“Hello. I need the locks changed urgently. Today, if possible.”

The locksmith agreed to come in two hours. Liliya asked Dmitry to leave the apartment while the work was done.

 

“I’m not going anywhere!” he declared.

“Stay then. But you won’t get keys.”

 

He tried to argue, but Liliya didn’t listen. She went into the bathroom, locked the door, and turned on the water. She needed to be alone and pull herself together.

When the locksmith arrived, Dmitry was still there—sitting on the couch watching TV like nothing was happening. The locksmith changed the locks and handed Liliya two new keys.

“Here you go. And the receipt.”

She paid and walked him to the door. When she returned, Dmitry was staring at her with hatred.

“Are you seriously throwing me out?”

“I am.”

“Where am I supposed to go?”

“To your mother’s. Or to friends. Not my concern.”

“This is illegal! I’m your husband!”

“A husband, but not the owner. It’s my apartment; I decide who lives here.”

He sprang up.

“I’ll take you to court! For unlawful eviction!”

“Go ahead,” she shrugged. “But keep in mind: the court will side with me. The apartment was bought before the marriage and is registered to me. You have no rights to it.”

He stood in the middle of the room breathing heavily. Then he swung around, went to the bedroom, and started packing. He flung clothes into a bag without looking.

Twenty minutes later he came out with a stuffed bag.

“You’ll regret this,” he said as he passed her.

“I doubt it.”

He slammed the door and left. Liliya watched him go, then locked the door with all the locks. She leaned against the frame and exhaled. The tension of the past weeks released its grip.

She returned to the kitchen, gathered the scattered documents, and put them neatly back into the folder. She swept up the cup shards and threw them away. Then she sat down and poured herself some tea.

Outside, it was raining. November was drawing to a close; winter was near. Liliya watched the drops slide down the glass and thought about what lay ahead. A divorce, most likely. Dmitry wasn’t one to forgive. There would be demands, disputes, maybe even court.

But Liliya was ready. The apartment was hers, the paperwork in order, the lawyer on call. Everything under control.

An hour later the doorbell rang. Liliya looked through the peephole. Dmitry stood in the hall, trying to put his key in the lock. The key wouldn’t go in. He tried again, then banged on the door.

“Lilya! Open up!”

She didn’t answer. She slipped an envelope under the door. Inside was a copy of the extract from Rosreestr and a short note on a piece of paper:

Now everything’s fair. Just like you wanted.

Dmitry picked up the envelope, opened it, read. Liliya heard him curse and then speak on the phone. His voice was angry, but no longer confident.

“Mom, I need to stay at your place. Lilya kicked me out.”

Liliya stepped away from the door and went back to the kitchen. She made more tea and took some cookies from the fridge. She sat down and put on some music on her phone. Soft, calm.

The apartment was quiet. No shouting, no doors slamming, no scheming. Liliya was alone, and the feeling was incredibly precious.

The next day Dmitry called.

“Lilya, let’s talk,” his voice was quiet, almost pleading.

“About what?”

“About us. About the apartment. Maybe we can come to some agreement?”

“There’s nothing to discuss. The apartment is mine. You’re out. That’s all.”

“But I’m your husband!”

“For now. I’ll be filing for divorce soon.”

He fell silent, then sighed heavily.

“Fine. If that’s what you want, file. But I’ll demand compensation.”

“What compensation?”

“For living in your apartment, for what I put into renovations, for utilities.”

Liliya snorted.

“Dmitry, you didn’t put anything into renovations. The renovations were done before you appeared. And we split the utilities fifty-fifty. There will be no compensation.”

“Then I’ll see you in court!”

“See you there.”

She hung up. Dmitry tried to call several more times, but Liliya didn’t pick up. She added his number to the blacklist.

A week later a letter arrived from Dmitry’s lawyer. He demanded compensation for living expenses, moral damages, and half the value of the apartment. Liliya took the letter to Aleksei.

“What do you say?” she asked.

He read it and smirked.

“A waste of time. The apartment was purchased before the marriage and registered to you. Dmitry has no right to it. Compensation for living there? He’s your husband—he lived there lawfully. Moral damages? Ridiculous. We’ll swat all of this away easily.”

“And if he insists?”

“Let him. The court is on your side. We have all the documents and everything is done properly. Dmitry is just wasting money on a lawyer.”

Liliya calmed down. Aleksei prepared a response to the claims and sent it to Dmitry’s lawyer. Two weeks later a new letter arrived: Dmitry was dropping his claims and agreeing to the divorce.

Liliya filed an application at the registry office. A month later the marriage was dissolved. Dmitry didn’t come; he sent a representative. Liliya signed the papers and received the divorce certificate.

Walking out of the building, she paused on the steps and looked up at the sky. December was cold but sunny. Snow crunched underfoot, the air was fresh and clean.

She took out her phone and called a friend.

“Sveta, hi. I’m free.”

“Got divorced?”

“Mm-hmm. Just left the registry office.”

“Congratulations! How do you feel?”

“Great. For the first time in a long while—great.”

“Then let’s celebrate! Come over—we’ll toast it!”

Liliya agreed. She took a bus to her friend’s. Sveta met her with champagne and cake.

“To your freedom!” her friend declared, raising a glass.

“To freedom,” Liliya echoed.

They drank, had a bite, and talked about the future. Liliya spoke of her plans: she wanted to take a small loan for renovations, change the furniture, make the apartment truly her own.

“And you don’t want a new relationship?” Sveta asked.

“Not yet. I need time to recover. To understand what I want from life.”

“Right. No need to rush.”

Liliya nodded. Her friend was right. There was no need to hurry. A whole life stretched ahead—free, without lies and deceit.

That evening Liliya went home. She opened the door and stepped inside. It was quiet, clean, peaceful. No one shouting, no one scheming behind her back, no one trying to take her home away.

 

She went to the bedroom, changed, and lay down on the bed. She stared at the ceiling and thought about how much had changed over the past months. She had trusted Dmitry, loved him, believed in him. And he had betrayed her, deceived her, tried to steal her apartment.

But Liliya turned out to be smarter. She managed to re-register the documents and protect her property. Now everything was in order. The apartment belonged only to her; no one could lay claim to it.

She got up and walked to the window. Snow was falling outside, covering the city with a white blanket. Beautiful, calm. Winter ahead, New Year, a new life.

Liliya smiled. For the first time in a long time, the smile was genuine, without a shadow of doubt. Everything would be alright. It surely would.

Dmitry tried a couple more times to get in touch. He sent messages, asked to meet, said he wanted to make things right. But Liliya didn’t respond. She blocked the numbers, deleted the emails. That chapter was closed. Forever.

A month later Liliya learned that Dmitry had left town. He’d moved to another region, to distant relatives. Apparently, he couldn’t accept defeat and decided to start over somewhere else.

Liliya felt neither pity nor triumph. She simply noted the information and went on with her life. She worked, met friends, and renovated the apartment. Life was getting back on track—better with each passing day.

Winter flew by. Spring came warm and sunny. Liliya stood on the balcony, watched the trees leaf out, and thought how good it was that everything had ended just like this. The apartment remained with her, the documents were in order, life went on.

Dmitry had tried to make Liliya homeless. Instead, he lost everything himself—his apartment, his wife, and respect. He was left with nothing.

And Liliya was left with what she had earned herself: the apartment she’d bought with her own money, and a life built without lies or deceit.

And that was the most important thing of all.

— Is that you?.. Vera?

— Hi, Kostya. Didn’t expect me?

A woman stood before him — confident, with a straight back and a slight half-smile on her lips. There was no pain or pleading in her eyes like before. He noticed: she had changed. Her clothes were simple but clearly not cheap. Her hairstyle was neat, her hands well cared for. Nearby, holding her mother’s finger, stood a girl about four years old. Big eyes, a bright coat — an exact copy of her mother.

Kostya froze. Not because he recognized her. But because of how he saw her now.

Three years ago, Vera was sitting on the cold kitchen floor, holding her sleeping daughter close. The little girl was just beginning to hold her head up, and Vera was already crying, listening to her husband getting ready to leave.

— Where are you going? — she barely whispered.

— I can’t do this anymore! I’m living like a beggar. You’re all about the child, you don’t see anything around you. You’re tired, angry… I’m leaving.

The door slammed. He left for Liza — free, beautiful, without worries about children. And Vera was left with IOUs, an old apartment, and one lonely responsibility — for the little human.

That winter Vera remembered forever. She woke up in the night thinking: is the roof leaking, is the child dressed warmly enough, will the money last till tomorrow. The benefits barely covered the bare necessities. She learned to cook porridge with water, adding a little tart apple to make it somewhat tastier. She walked in an old coat, trying not to envy other mothers who walked hand in hand with their men.

Sometimes, passing by a café, she caught laughter from inside. And she knew — he was there. Happy, with a new life, while she was here — alone, with a child and a broken heart.

One day, looking through old photos on her phone — young, full of strength, with burning eyes — Vera realized: she wanted to bring that Vera back.

At first, she worked as an administrator in a small salon for a symbolic salary. She put her daughter in daycare, learning to juggle both. It was hard: sick leaves, nighttime tears, endless worries. But she didn’t give up.

She finished online courses, became a cosmetologist. Created a social media page. People were drawn to her — for her professionalism, warmth, and sensitivity. Her hands healed skin, and her gaze and words healed souls. Gradually, Vera became herself again. Only now — stronger.

 

 

Three years later, Vera entered the business center where she rented an office. Suddenly, she locked eyes with him.

With Kostya.

Next to him was Liza, less radiant than before, and a child about five, listlessly holding her hand. He noticed Vera. She — in a nice coat, confident stride, with her daughter beside her.

He approached. Didn’t immediately find the words:

— You… look amazing.

— Thanks, — she replied simply.

— How are you?.. Alone?

— No. I’m with my daughter. But really — I’m by myself. That’s exactly what was enough for me to start all over.

Kostya was silent. Liza, not hiding irritation, asked:

— Do you know each other?

But he didn’t answer. Something important inside him collapsed. He realized: he lost a real woman. Not the day he left. But the day he chose convenience over love. When he chose a toy over life.

Later, Vera walked home holding her daughter’s hand. The girl asked:

— Mom, who was that?

— Just a regular person, sweetheart. We’re moving forward. And everything else stays behind.

— Are we happy?

— Very happy.

The little girl smiled, pressed her cheek to her mother’s shoulder. Vera looked up at the sky.

Three years ago, she was crushed. Today — she had grown wings.

That night, Vera couldn’t sleep for a long time. Her daughter peacefully snored, hugging her favorite soft toy. Vera lay wrapped in a blanket, remembering…

The first days after Kostya left. How she sat on the floor, burying her face in her hands. How neighbors knocked on the wall because of the child’s crying. How every minute she lived in fear — would she manage?

How she got up five times a night. How she looked for work, cooked porridge with water because there was no money even for milk. How every day she fought her own doubt: “I won’t make it.”

One day an old friend called:

— Vera… are you holding on?

— Holding on.

— Do you rest when your daughter sleeps?

Vera cried. Not from tiredness, but because someone finally asked: “How are you?”

Her name was meaningful. “Vera” means to believe. Even when it seems the whole world has collapsed.

She learned to rebuild her life. Not to wait for calls. Not to count on help. Just to move. Step by step. She learned to save 50 rubles, repair shoes, write dreams in a notebook so she wouldn’t forget what she wanted.

And one day, in April, when everything was blooming, she and her daughter were walking in the park. Nearby sat an elderly woman who looked at Vera for a long time. Then she approached:

— Excuse me… You are so bright. As if you carry hope inside you.

Vera smiled. For the first time in a long time — truly. This woman saw in her not a single mother, not an abandoned wife — but light.

From that day, Vera made a promise to herself:

“I will no longer allow myself to feel like I belong to anyone else. I am for myself. I am for my daughter. I am for this life.”

Three years later Kostya found Vera on social media. He wrote a cautious “hello” as the first message, then began apologizing.

“You probably hate me…”

She replied calmly:

—I forgave you long ago. But we went different ways. We grew. Just in different directions.

He suggested meeting. Came with a son from Liza — a quiet and withdrawn boy about five years old. He rarely looked into eyes, mostly at the floor or window. Vera understood: this child hadn’t been read bedtime stories or sung lullabies for a long time.

— Is this your daughter? — he asked Mila.

— Yes, — Vera answered. — Do you want to be friends with her?

The boy nodded.

Kostya was silent for a long time, then said:

— You seem like a different person. Stronger.

— I’ve always been like this. You just didn’t see it before.

And at that moment he realized: he didn’t lose her. He never even knew who she really was.

For Mila’s birthday, Vera arranged a modest celebration — no pomp, but with balloons, a homemade cake, and many hugs. The girl hugged her mom and whispered:

— Mommy, I want to be like you.

Tears filled her eyes on their own.

— And I want you to be yourself. Just happy. And if someday someone tries to break you — remember how Mom rose from the very bottom.

Late at night, they lay on the grass looking at the stars.

— Look, how bright it is! — Mila pointed out.

— That’s you, baby. The brightest.

— And who are you?

— I’m the one who will always be near. Even if one day I’m gone.

Time passed. Vera began to be invited to meetings with women, where she shared her experience: how to survive pain, how not to lose yourself, how to be a mother and remain a woman.

One day, a young mother holding a child approached her:

— You have no idea how much your words helped me. Thank you for being here.

Vera smiled warmly:

—I was once looking for people like you too. Now I am here — for you.

She was driving home with her daughter in the back seat, looking out the window. Suddenly she said aloud:

— Thank you, life. For not breaking me then. But only teaching me to fly.

More time passed. Spring came into their lives again. Trees bloomed, flowers blossomed on windowsills, and especially — in the heart. Mila started first grade. She was bright like morning light, a kind and sensitive child. Sometimes serious, sometimes cheerful like a sunbeam.

One day Vera came home late. Mila was already asleep, curled up hugging her favorite pillow. Vera kissed her daughter and noticed the edge of a sheet of paper peeking out from under the pillow. She smoothed it out. The handwriting was childlike, uncertain, but sincere.

**“Mommy.
If I become a mom, I want to be like you.
You are magical.
You don’t yell when you’re tired.
You find my socks, even if they hide.
You are the most beautiful.
You smell like warmth.
I love how you hug.
When you laugh — flowers bloom in my heart.

I know it was hard when Dad left.
I don’t remember everything, but I remember you rocking me and crying quietly so I wouldn’t hear.
But I heard, Mom.

You raised me like a rose among stones.
You are a hero.
I love you very much.
Mila.”**

 

Vera read it and cried. First silently, then sobbing, then weeping, clutching the letter as if it were a piece of her own soul.

She knelt beside the bed, put her head on the blanket, pressing close to the little hand.

— Thank you, Lord, for not letting me give up. For keeping me for her…

That night Vera didn’t sleep. She sat watching her daughter — her miracle born in solitude, suffered through and still enduring.

In the morning, when Mila woke up, Vera held an answer in her hands:

“You are my reason not to give up.
You are my victory.
You are the meaning of everything.
I love you very much.
Mom.”

They hugged. And in that embrace was everything: pain, struggle, love, hope, faith.

Sometimes life breaks us like glass.
But it is through the cracks in us that light begins to shine.

If you have ever been left alone with a child in your arms, without money, without a husband, without hope —

don’t forget: you can become spring for your child.

You are not a victim.

You are a mom.
And that means you are a true hero.