All Amazing Babies

Shut up! Masha, you’d better not make me angry, or you’ll get it! My mom and my sister need a car, and you’re going to buy it!” her husband hissed.

Kirill’s words hung in the kitchen air like a poisonous cloud. Masha stood at the stove with her back to him and felt something inside her turn cold. Not burn, not tear—freeze. Turn into shards of ice. She slowly set the ladle down. The rassolnik still bubbled in the pot, it smelled of dill and garlic, October rain drizzled outside the window, and in her life an invisible tectonic shift had just taken place.

 

“What did you say?” She turned around. Her voice came out quiet, but firm.

Kirill was sitting at the table, slouched in his chair, scrolling on his phone. He didn’t even look at her. Forty-two years old, a department head at a trading company, a suit worth thirty thousand rubles, and a rude expression on his face. Once, she’d seen this man as support. Now she saw only arrogance.

“You heard me. My mother has been riding the same bus for thirty years. Karina is pregnant—she needs transportation too. You manage the money, so you’ll buy it.”

Masha gave a crooked little smile. Strange—her world was collapsing, and she was smiling.

“What money, Kirill? The money I earn at the salon? Sixty hours a week, my legs aching, picky clients—those are my earnings.”

“Ours,” he finally looked up from the screen. His eyes were cold, like a stranger’s. “We’re a family. Or did you forget?”

Seventeen years of marriage. Two children—Danya at university, Sonya in ninth grade. A mortgaged apartment she’d carried right alongside him. Her size-37 shoes worn down between work and home, her hands smelling of creams and polish, her back hurting every evening. And he sat there and said, “you’ll buy it.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Masha said, turning the stove off. “I just can’t remember your family ever asking what I need.”

Kirill stood up. Tall, broad-shouldered—once, she’d felt protected beside him. Now she only saw how he was trying to press her down with his sheer size.

“Here we go,” he said, walking to the window and lighting a cigarette, even though she’d asked him not to smoke in the apartment. “Your grievances again. My mother is an elderly woman, Karina is about to give birth…”

“Karina’s twenty-eight, she has a husband—let him buy it!” Masha felt something hot start to boil inside her, breaking through the ice. “And I’ve been giving your mother ten thousand a month for ‘medication’ for three years, even though she’s healthier than I am!”

“Don’t you dare talk about my mother like that!”

That was the turning point. Masha understood it by the way the space in the room changed—as if the air had become denser.

“I’m going,” she said, taking off her apron and hanging it on the hook by the door. “Borscht is on the stove. Heat it up yourself.”

“Where do you think you’re going?” Kirill darted toward the hallway, but Masha was already putting on her jacket. Her hands trembled, but she managed the zipper.

“To get some air. To think.”

“Masha!”

She didn’t turn around. The door slammed, the stairs carried her down, and there was the street—wet, dark, smelling of autumn and freedom.

Masha walked quickly, not even knowing where. Past the grocery store where she usually shopped on Fridays. Past the bus stop where tired-faced people crowded every morning. The city looked different in the rain—blurred, unreal, like in a film. Streetlights reflected in puddles, cars hissed over wet asphalt, music drifted from the open doors of a café.

She stopped at the window of a jewelry store. Gold chains, bracelets, rings—everything glittered under bright lamps. When was the last time she’d gotten a gift? For her birthday, Kirill had handed her an envelope with money: “Buy whatever you want.” She’d bought Sonya sneakers and Danya a new backpack.

Her phone buzzed. Kirill. Masha declined the call.

She needed to keep moving. To the mall—warm, bright, somewhere she could sit in a food court with coffee and pull herself together. The minibus got her there quickly. She walked into a huge hall that smelled of popcorn and new clothes, where people hurried around with shopping bags and smiled. Someone else’s life—light, carefree, the way her own hadn’t been for… a long time. A very long time.

She went up to the third floor, bought a cappuccino, sat by the window. The evening city shimmered beyond the glass. Her phone came alive again—now her mother-in-law was texting:

“Mashenka, Kirill told me everything. Why are you acting like a child? We’re family. Karina really needs a car—the little one will be here soon…”

“The little one.” Masha had two children, but no one ever called her children “the little ones.” Her children were her responsibility—her sleepless nights, her money for tutors and activities.

The coffee cooled. A strange picture assembled in her mind: for seventeen years she’d lived “the right way.” Worked, endured, invested, kept quiet. And what had she gotten in return? An order to buy a car for people who never even properly said thank you.

“Oh—sorry!” Someone bumped her bag; it fell. Masha picked it up and smiled automatically at a stranger.

And suddenly she thought: when was the last time I smiled without it being automatic?

Masha came home around ten. The key turned quietly in the lock, but Kirill heard her anyway. He was in the living room. The TV was on, but he wasn’t watching—just waiting.

“Back at last,” he stood up, and Masha immediately understood: this was going to be worse than in the morning.

“Kirill, I’m tired. Let’s talk tomorrow…”

“Tomorrow?” he stepped toward her, his face flushed, eyes blazing. “You made me a laughingstock in front of my mother! She called me—crying! Says you were rude to her!”

“I didn’t even speak to her today,” Masha took off her shoes and placed them neatly by the wall. Her feet throbbed after all that walking.

“Don’t lie! You rejected her call! My mother tried to talk to you nicely, and you…”

“Kirill, stop. Please. We’re both angry. We’re tired. In the morning—”

“No!” He slammed his fist into the back of the couch. “We’ll talk now! You’re taking out a loan and buying a car. Got it?!”

Masha exhaled slowly. She looked at this man—the father of her children, the person she’d lived with for almost twenty years—and didn’t recognize him. Not at all.

“I’m not taking out a loan,” she said quietly.

“What do you mean you’re not?!” Kirill’s face went even redder. “Have you completely lost it?! What did I tell you?!”

“I heard you. But I’m not taking out a loan. I already have a mortgage, and a loan for Danya’s university. I can’t handle another one.”

“You will handle it!” He stepped right up to her, looming. “You’ll work more! You’ll take extra shifts! My mother spent her whole life—”

 

“Your mother, your mother!” Masha suddenly raised her voice, and Kirill actually faltered for a second. “And who am I?! Am I not a person?! I work sixty hours a week! My back hurts so much by evening I can’t straighten up! My children barely see me because I’m always earning money! For what?! For your mother, your sister, your demands?!”

“Shut up!” he roared. “Don’t you dare talk like that! You’re my wife! You’re obligated!”

“Obligated?” Masha felt something inside her burn out for good—like a wire holding their whole marriage together had simply melted. “Obligated to tolerate rudeness? Obligated to work for your relatives? Obligated to keep quiet?”

“Yes!” he grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. “Yes, you are! Because you’re my wife! We’re family!”

Masha tore herself free. Her heart pounded so hard her temples throbbed.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Or what?” Something new entered his voice. A threat. Real, undisguised. “What are you going to do to me? Masha, I’m sick of you. Last time I’m saying it: tomorrow you go to the bank, take out a loan, and buy my mother a car. If you don’t—I’ll divorce you.”

The word hung between them, heavy and final.

“What?” Masha didn’t believe her ears.

“What you heard.” Kirill crossed his arms. “Divorce. The apartment is mine—it’s in my name. The kids will stay with me. And you can go wherever you want. To your precious job, for example. You can sleep there.”

“You’ve lost your mind,” she whispered.

“No—you’ve lost your mind!” he stepped closer again. “You think you’re indispensable? You think we can’t manage without you? My mother will put this place in order in a week! Raise the children properly—not the way you have, spoiling them! Danya spends all day ‘hanging out’ at university, Sonya with her little friends…”

“Enough,” Masha raised her hand. “Just enough.”

“Not enough!” he was already shouting. “Tomorrow you go to the bank! Do you hear me?! Or start packing!”

Sonya’s door cracked open. Her pale face, tearful eyes.

“Mom?”

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Masha pulled herself together instantly. “Go to bed.”

“Nothing is okay!” Kirill yelled. “Sonya, come here! Let the kid see what kind of mother she has—greedy, selfish—”

“Shut up right now!” Masha stepped between him and her daughter. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare drag the children into this!”

Sonya sobbed and shut the door. Music started up behind the wall—she turned it louder so she wouldn’t hear.

Kirill breathed heavily. Masha stood opposite him and, for the first time in many years, saw him for who he really was. No masks, no act of a loving husband. An egoist. A manipulator. A man used to taking everything and giving nothing back.

“So,” she said slowly, pronouncing each word clearly. “I am not going to the bank. I am not taking out a loan. I am not buying your mother a car.”

“Then we’re getting divorced!” he flashed his eyes. “And you’ll end up with nothing!”

“We’ll see.” Masha walked into the bedroom, pulled a bag from the closet, and started packing.

“What are you doing?” Kirill followed her in.

“What I should have done a long time ago. I’m leaving. For a few days. To think.”

“Masha!” New notes appeared in his voice. Confusion? Fear? “Are you serious?”

“Completely.”

“Where will you go? You have no one!”

Masha zipped the bag. True—where? Her parents had died long ago, she had no real close friends—there’d never been time, only work and home. But that didn’t matter now.

“I’ll find somewhere to sleep. A hotel, at worst.”

“With what money?” he sneered viciously. “With your pathetic little paycheck?”

“With mine,” she said, picking up her phone and bag. “The money I earned honestly.”

At the door she turned around.

“And one more thing, Kirill. The apartment isn’t only yours. I paid the mortgage fifty-fifty with you for seventeen years. I have every receipt, every transfer. So don’t scare me. And no one is taking the kids from me—you’re at work morning till night, who’s going to watch them? Your mother?”

She left. The stairs, the entryway, the street. The night city met her with cool air and silence. Masha stopped and drew a breath.

For the first time in many years, she was truly scared. But at the same time—light. So light, as if she’d finally dropped a huge sack of stones from her back.

The trial lasted three months. Kirill tried to take the apartment, insisting he’d made the main contribution. He brought his mother as a witness. She cried, swore that Masha didn’t work at all, sat at home spending her husband’s money.

But Masha’s lawyer—an older woman with an iron stare and a steel backbone—laid a stack of documents on the judge’s desk. Bank statements spanning seventeen years. Every mortgage payment—fifty-fifty. Utility bills—paid by Masha. Receipts for groceries, children’s clothes, medicine—Masha. Even that infamous thirty-thousand-ruble suit Kirill showed off at work had been paid for with her card.

“Your Honor,” the lawyer said calmly but firmly, “this is not a housewife supported by her husband. This is a woman who, alongside her spouse, supported the family, raised the children, and endured moral pressure. The documents confirm: she has full rights to half of the jointly acquired property.”

The judge—an elderly man with gray eyebrows—studied the papers for a long time. Then he looked at Kirill over his glasses.

“Do you have objections? Documentary rebuttals?”

Kirill said nothing. Beside him his mother sat with her lips pressed into a thin line.

The decision was unambiguous: the apartment would be split in half. Kirill could either buy out Masha’s share or sell the home and split the money.

He couldn’t buy it out. As it turned out, there was no money. His vaunted salary went to expensive restaurants with coworkers, to his car, to endless “needs” of his mother and sister.

“Then we sell,” Masha said firmly.

Kirill stared at her with hatred.

“You were always a bitch. You just hid it well.”

“No,” Masha smiled at him for the first time after the divorce. “I just stopped being convenient.”

They sold the apartment for a good price. Masha bought a two-room place in the same neighborhood—for herself and Sonya. Danya was studying at university and living in a dorm, but he knew: home was always there for him. There was money left for renovations, and even some to save.

Kirill disappeared from their lives right after the court decision. A week later he called, voice angry.

“I’m going north. Found a job—double the pay. I’ll live there.”

“Okay,” Masha said. “Good luck.”

“The kids…”

“The kids stay with me. But you can visit them. If you want.”

He didn’t want to. He left three days later. And a week after that, his mother and Karina with the newborn went there too. Before leaving, her mother-in-law called Masha.

“You destroyed our family! Because of you my son is going off to the ends of the earth!”

“Because of me?” Masha gave a short laugh. “It’s because of you he lost his family. You raised him this way—a consumer, an egoist. Now go after him. Live on his salary, since it’s so good. Only you know what’s interesting?”

“What?” her mother-in-law hissed.

 

“Life up north is expensive. Very expensive. Utilities cost a fortune, food costs three times what it does in Moscow. And it’s cold, dark half the year—and terribly boring. Good luck.”

She ended the call and never answered that woman again.

Half a year passed.

Masha stood at the window of her new apartment, drinking her morning coffee. Outside was spring—bright, noisy, smelling of lilac. Sonya was getting ready for school, humming under her breath. Danya had come for the weekend yesterday and brought his girlfriend, a sweet student with intelligent eyes.

“Mom, meet Yulia.”

Masha watched the way her son looked at this girl and saw respect. Care. Equality. Maybe she had raised something right after all.

Business at the salon was going well. Masha even took on two apprentices—girls from a technical college who dreamed of becoming nail technicians. She taught them patiently in the evenings. She passed on not just skills, but faith: you can live by your own labor. You can be independent. You can.

And the day before yesterday, something strange happened. Masha stopped by a bookstore—just to browse. She hadn’t bought books for herself in ages; there was never time. And she came across a poetry collection. She opened it at random and read:

“I thought this was called living. It turned out it was called enduring.”

She stood there in the middle of the store and cried—quietly, so no one would see. Because it was about her. About her whole former life.

She bought the book. Brought it home. Put it on the nightstand.

That evening Sonya asked:

“Mom, are you happy?”

Masha thought. Was she happy? She didn’t have a husband. But she also didn’t have a man who humiliated her every day. She had a modest apartment. But she could hang any paintings she wanted, paint the walls any color, invite guests—or not—as she pleased. She didn’t have an expensive car. But she had the freedom to wake up and know: today belongs to her.

“You know, sweetheart,” she said, pulling her daughter close, “I don’t know if I’m happy. But I know one thing for sure: I’m finally living. For real.”

Sonya hugged her tighter.

And then a message came in from Kirill—the first in half a year: “Masha, I was wrong. Can we talk?”

Masha looked at the screen. Then deleted the message without replying.

Warm wind blew in through the window and ruffled the curtains. Somewhere below, children were playing, laughing. Life hummed, moved, beckoned forward.

And Masha thought: how good it is that she finally learned to say “no.” That small word had opened up a whole world for her—a world where she could breathe deeply.

She finished her coffee and smiled. Just because. Not automatically, not out of politeness—because she wanted to.

And that was a real miracle.

My childhood unfolded in silence. Not the silence you find in libraries or morning forests, but the kind born of constant tension—the need to keep quiet so as not to betray something that wasn’t supposed to exist. We lived in an old house on the edge of the city, in a neighborhood where the asphalt crumbled underfoot and the neighbors knew everything about each other—except the most important thing. Mom worked as an accountant at a small firm, earned a modest salary, took public transport, and never complained. She would say, “We live modestly, but honestly.” I believed her. And I loved her for that resilience, for her quiet, unbending pride that was worth far more than any wealth. Every look of hers, every touch told me there are things in this world that money can’t buy, and our love was one of them.

 

Dad left when I was five. He didn’t leave—he disappeared. One evening he went out to take out the trash and never came back. Mom didn’t cry in front of me, but I heard her at night—quiet, stifled sobs, as if she was afraid of waking even the walls, as if the very silence of our home was fragile and could shatter at any loud sound. Later she said he “couldn’t handle it.” She didn’t specify what exactly he couldn’t handle. I thought it was some kind of illness, that he’d caught it like the flu and simply couldn’t be with us anymore. Only years later, looking into her tired but kind eyes, did I understand: he couldn’t handle the truth, couldn’t bear the weight of the honest, poor life she had chosen for the two of us.

By the standards of the world I grew up in, Mom and I were poor. I didn’t have trendy sneakers; I wore sundresses remade from her old dresses, and for my birthday I got books from the used bookstore. But I wasn’t ashamed. Mom knew how to turn poverty into dignity. “Money isn’t the main thing,” she’d say, stroking my hair. “What matters is being a decent person. What matters is staying yourself, no matter what.” I memorized that like a prayer, like a set of rules by which our little universe lived—two rooms and an endless mutual devotion.

At twenty-two I married Mark. He was an engineer at a factory—smart, calm, with warm eyes and a habit of reading me Brodsky’s poems before bed. He wasn’t wealthy—he had a one-room apartment, an old car, and a loan for renovations. But he was kind. At least that’s how it seemed then, in the happy haze of those first months when the future looked endlessly bright and cloudless. He knew my parents were “penniless.” I didn’t hide it. On the contrary, I was proud of how Mom and I had survived, how we’d supported each other through the hardest times.

But sometimes Mark let slip barbed remarks that pierced my heart like fine needles.
“Your mother can’t even afford a new handbag,” he’d say when we argued about something trivial.
Or, looking at an old photograph:
“Good thing your father ran off—with an income like that he’d only have dragged you down, like a stone around your neck.”
I kept silent. I thought he just didn’t understand. That he’d been raised in a different environment—where status is valued over character, where the wallet speaks louder than the heart. I believed our love could melt that ice of misunderstanding.

Mom died suddenly. A stroke. One morning she simply didn’t wake up. I stood by her bed, holding her cold hand, and felt the last bastion of my world collapse, the ground give way beneath my feet, leaving only emptiness and an unbearable silence that settled over my life forever. The funeral was modest. The neighbors came, two of Mom’s friends, the local GP. Mark came in a suit but watched it all with faint irritation—as if this were an obstacle to his workday, an annoying hiccup in his carefully scheduled life.

A week after the funeral, when the pain was still raw and sharp, a notary visited me. His suit was impeccable, his beard neatly trimmed, and he spoke as if every word had been weighed on golden scales. He introduced himself—Mikhail Stanislavovich, a trusted representative of the family. I didn’t understand what family he meant until he said a name that meant nothing to me.
“Your grandfather, Viktor Ivanovich Zimin, left you an inheritance.”
I laughed. First from amazement, then from pain, from the absurdity of it all.
“You’re mistaken. I don’t have a grandfather. My mother… she was an orphan. She always told me that.”
The notary smiled gently, and a shadow of regret flickered in his eyes.
“No, Sofia Viktorovna. Your mother was the daughter of Viktor Zimin. An oligarch. Owner of the Zimstroy holding, a shareholder in three banks, holder of properties in London, Monte Carlo, and on the Côte d’Azur. He died three years ago. But he left a will. And you are his only granddaughter.”

I couldn’t breathe. The room swam before my eyes. Everything I knew about my origins collapsed in five minutes. Mom… my modest, quiet mother… was the daughter of one of the wealthiest men in the country. Why did she hide it? Why did she live in poverty, denying herself everything? Why did she let me grow up in a world where we were considered nobodies, where I’d heard whispers behind my back so many times about the poor girl and her unfortunate mother? The notary handed me a folder. Inside were documents, safe-deposit keys, bank statements, a list of assets. And a letter. From Mom.

“Sofia, if you’re reading this, it means I’m gone. Forgive me for not telling you the truth. I left my father when I was seventeen. He wanted to marry me off to his partner’s son—for money, for connections, to expand his empire. I ran away. Then I had you. He tried to find us, offered millions. But I didn’t want you to grow up in that world—a world of lies, intrigue, betrayal. I wanted you to be free. To love not for status but for the soul. Forgive me for depriving you of luxury. But I gave you honesty. I hope you’ll understand me. And forgive me… for the fact that now you will have to decide who to be: an heiress or a human being.”

I cried for two days. I sobbed as I hadn’t even at her funeral. They were tears not only of loss, but of confusion and fear in the face of the truth that had crashed down on me. At first Mark was silent, then he started asking questions. Cautiously, at first:
“Is it true? Are you serious?”
Then insistently:
“How much? What are we talking about?”
And then—greedily:
“What are you going to do with the money? We need to re-register everything right away, find good lawyers!”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t know yet. My world had turned upside down, and I needed time to find a new point of balance.

But a week later everything changed. Mark began to “court” me. Not like before—with books and poetry. Now he brought me coffee in bed, stroked my hair, said, “You’re so strong, Sofia… so smart…” He started calling me “my queen.” He offered massages, dinners at expensive restaurants I hadn’t been able to afford before. He began praising my “noble posture,” “aristocratic features,” “innate taste.” I looked at him and didn’t see love. I saw calculation. I saw a new, unfamiliar fire in his eyes—the fire of greed and the vast, suddenly opened possibilities.

One evening he asked, hugging me with an unnatural tenderness:
“You’re not going to share the inheritance with anyone, are you? You understand we’re a family now. My interests are your interests. We have to be a single whole.”
“You mean—your debts are now mine?” I asked quietly, looking off to the side.
He faltered, let me go, and walked to the window.
“Well… I mean, we can start a new life. A completely different one. We’ll buy a house. Maybe even abroad. You deserve better than this… Khrushchyovka. You were born for more.”
“And you?” I asked, my voice cold. “Do you deserve this new life?”
He didn’t answer. But something flickered in his eyes—not love, not care. Pure, unvarnished greed. That evening, for the first time, I thought: what if he married me not because he loved me, but because he saw in my poverty a convenient wife? Someone easy, grateful, undemanding of luxury, someone he could control?

The next day I decided to test him. I said the lawyers had found an error in the will. That other relatives might contest the inheritance. That I might not get anything, that it had all been a cruel mistake.
Mark turned pale. His face became a mask of disappointment and fear.
“What do you mean—nothing?” he whispered, his voice trembling. “That can’t be…”
“It can,” I said, watching his every emotion. “We might have to return everything. Or divide it with distant relatives who’ve already asserted their rights.”
He was silent. Then he stood up, paced the room, stopped at the window, his fists clenched.
“Well… we’ll manage,” he said uncertainly, without a hint of warmth. “We have each other. That’s what matters, right?”
But his voice lacked its former confidence. There was only fear. Fear of losing what he hadn’t yet received but already considered his by right.

Two days later he began to grow cold. He stopped kissing me goodnight. He stopped asking how my day had gone. Once I overheard him on the phone with a friend, thinking I was in the bathroom:
“What a fool… thought she’d get rich and everything would take off. And now it turns out the whole thing’s hanging by a thread. Nothing but problems. Maybe it’s not worth holding on to her… Easier to find another option.”
I didn’t say a word. There was no anger, no resentment—just bitter disappointment and emptiness. I simply packed my things into an old suitcase and left while he was at work.
He didn’t try to stop me. He didn’t call. He didn’t write. His silence said more than any words.

I didn’t sell the apartment. I didn’t rent a mansion in a prestigious neighborhood. I transferred a significant part of the funds to charity—to animal shelters, homes for the elderly, children’s hospitals. I put the rest into reliable funds so it would work and do some good. And I left. Not for Monte Carlo. Not for London. For a small town on the shore of Lake Baikal, where there was no Wi-Fi, where people drank tea from a samovar and knew each other by name, where time flowed slowly and thoughtfully.

There I met Leonid. He was a forester. He was thirty-five. His hands were calloused, his gaze calm and deep, and he had a habit of keeping quiet when there was nothing to say. He didn’t know who I was. He didn’t know I had millions. He only knew that I’d arrived alone, with a suitcase and a book by Chekhov, and that there was a sadness in my eyes he seemed to understand without words. He helped me find a place to live—a small house by the lake. He brought firewood, fixed the stove, showed me where the mushrooms grew and which birds sang in the mornings. We didn’t kiss for a month. We just talked. About books. About the stars. About how last year a mother bear brought her three cubs to the river and he watched them all morning. He never asked where I got the money for rent. He didn’t pry into what I’d done before. He just was there. His presence felt as natural and necessary as breathing.

One evening, sitting on the shore and watching the sunset, I asked him:
“Aren’t you afraid I’ll leave? What if I get bored of this quiet?”
He looked at me as if the question were strange and smiled gently.
“Why would you leave? You’re happy here. I can see it in your eyes. They’ve become calm.”
“What if I’m not who I seem?” I pressed. “What if I have a past I don’t talk about?”
“You are who you seem,” he said simply, and his words sounded like a final verdict. “There’s nothing else I need to know. You are you.”

We married a year later. In the local church, small and wooden. No guests, no lavish dress, no fireworks. Just us, a kind, gray-haired priest, and the wind off the lake tugging at the hems of our simple clothes. I still haven’t told him about my grandfather. Not because I’m hiding it. It just doesn’t matter. He loves me not for what I have. He loves me for who I am. And in that simplicity there was a depth, a trust I had never known.

Sometimes, when we sit by the fire and the flames cast dancing shadows on his face, he lays his head in my lap and says softly, almost in a whisper:
“You’re my greatest gift. The greatest miracle of my life.”
I stroke his thick hair, feel the warmth of his body, and think: Mom, you were right. You were right about everything. Honesty is more precious than luxury. And love is the most precious thing of all.

 

Three years passed. One day a man arrived in our town, wearing an expensive but rumpled suit. He asked the locals where Sofia lived. They brought him to me. It was Mark. He had aged. Deep bags under his eyes, gray in his hair. He stood by the gate holding a pitiful roadside bouquet of wildflowers, looking lost and broken.
“Sofia…” he said, his voice cracking. “I came to apologize. It took me a long time to get here.”
I didn’t invite him into the house. We talked outside by an old birch tree.
“I was a fool,” he said, not meeting my eyes. “I thought money solved everything. That it was the key to happiness. And then I realized: it only shows who you really are. Turns your soul inside out. And I… I turned out to be nothing. An empty place.”
I stayed silent, letting him speak.
“I lost my job. Got married again—she left when she understood I had no money, that I couldn’t give her the life she dreamed of. I… I’m alone. Completely alone.”
“And you came for me to pity you?” I asked without reproach, just to understand.
“No,” he finally looked up, and there was genuine pain in his eyes. “I came to say you were right. Back then. And to… see you happy. Truly. I heard you got married.”
I looked at him. And for the first time in all these years I felt neither anger nor resentment. Only a light, gentle pity for a man who had ruined himself.
“I’m happy, Mark. But not because I have money. Because I’m with someone who doesn’t expect me to blow specks of dust off him. He just… loves. And I love him. That’s all.”
He nodded. His head drooped, his shoulders slumped.
“I’m sorry. I know it won’t change anything.”
“I forgive you,” I said sincerely. “But don’t come back. You have your own life. Go find your way.”
He left. I watched his lonely figure slowly recede and disappear around the bend in the road that led into the big world that was foreign to me. Then I went back inside.

Leonid was making dinner. Fish soup from the lake hissed on the stove; the air smelled of fresh bread and herbs. He smiled when I came in, his eyes radiant with warmth.
“Everything okay?” he asked, knowing nothing yet understanding everything.
“It is,” I said, stepping close and hugging him. “Better than okay. Everything is just as it should be.”

Another two years passed. We had a daughter. We named her Viktoria—after the grandfather I never knew. But I haven’t told her about him. Not yet. When she’s older, I will. Not about the money. Not about the accounts or villas. About choice. About how each person can choose in life—to be a slave to wealth or its master, to be the ruler of things or their servant. I will teach her what my mother taught me.

Leonid works in the forest. I write children’s stories—about kindness, friendship, about how the real treasure is always inside us. We live modestly. We don’t have a mansion, but we have a home full of light, laughter, and understanding. We don’t have a chauffeur, but we have each other, and that support is worth more than any service. We don’t have diamonds, but we have a child’s laughter in the mornings, her first steps, and questions whose wisdom leaves us stumped.

Sometimes, when I look at Leonid—when I see him fixing the fence or rocking our daughter in his arms—I think: if I had stayed with Mark, I would have lived in luxury. I would have had diamonds, expensive dresses, trips to the world’s capitals. But I would never have known whether he loved me. Here—I know. Every day. In every gesture. In every look full of tenderness and respect. Mom was right. The main thing is to be a decent human being. And I became one. Not the heiress to a fortune, but the heiress to her wisdom and her love.

One winter, when Baikal was covered with thick, transparent ice and the sky was so clear and deep it seemed you could touch the farthest stars, Leonid asked me as he adjusted the logs in the stove:
“Have you ever regretted leaving him? Choosing this life instead of that glittering one?”
I looked at the fire in the stove, at our daughter’s face as she slept in her wooden cradle, at my husband’s hands—strong, warm, honest, bearing the marks of his labor. I let my eyes roam over our little living room strewn with books and toys, and breathed in the familiar, homely scent of our house.
“Never,” I said firmly and calmly. “Not once. Because he wanted me to blow specks of dust off him, to serve his ambitions. And you… you blow the snow off my eyelashes when we walk in a blizzard. That’s the whole difference between our worlds.”

He smiled. A quiet, happy smile lit his face. He came over, embraced me, and held me tight.
Outside the window, snow was falling—large, fluffy, endless. It settled on the ground softly. Gently. Tenderly. As if the whole vast, noisy world had held its breath so as not to disturb, not to frighten away our simple, unshadowed happiness.

And I understood completely and irrevocably: I am not an oligarch’s heiress. I am not dust on his marble floors. I am a woman who is loved not for money, not for connections, not for the past. And that knowledge, that feeling, is worth more than any fortune in the world. It warms the soul even on the coldest Baikal nights.

“Do you clean the toilets here?” Victoria threw out with a smirk, stopping by my desk. Her voice—loud and deliberate—spread across the office floor, making even the clatter of keyboards pause for a moment.

She stood before me in a tight cream dress that fit her figure perfectly, with impeccable makeup and hair, as if she’d just stepped off the glossy pages of a magazine about the rich and beautiful. A leather designer bag dangled carelessly from her slender fingers, adorned with a massive diamond ring, and her gaze was filled with the cold arrogance so typical of her. I was watering a modest ficus in my simple beige blazer, feeling my colleagues’ curious eyes on me.

“No, Victoria,” I answered evenly, meeting her mocking look. “And you, I see, still haven’t learned to knock before entering someone else’s office. In polite society, that’s considered a basic rule.”

She merely snorted, as if my words were a child’s amusing babble, and pivoted easily on her sky-high heels, radiating complete disdain. I caught her tossing to someone in the hallway, deliberately loud: “Well, of course. An old school acquaintance—same boring, plain manners.”
Child care tips

I didn’t flinch. No rush of blood to my cheeks. No involuntary clench of my fingers. I simply dabbed the drops of water off the ficus leaf and returned to my work, to the reports waiting for my attention. Because it had been a very long time since I allowed Victoria—or anyone else—to decide what I was worth. I knew perfectly well we would meet again, but next time everything would be entirely different, and she would no longer be that self-adoring Victoria whose happiness was so fragile and uncertain.

Our paths first crossed many years ago in an ordinary school. She was the undisputed queen of the schoolyard: dazzlingly beautiful, brash, utterly confident in herself and in her right to command. I was just the quiet straight-A student who hid a keen gaze behind thick glasses and wore modest braids. She never stooped to open ridicule—that would have been too simple, too plebeian. But every “accidental” glance, every barely perceptible condescending smirk thrown my way seemed to say: “You’re nothing, and your world is as small and uninteresting as you are.” After graduation, our lives diverged decisively. I entered the economics faculty, moved to the capital to study, plunged into my coursework, and, thanks to persistence and brains, got a job at a large international company. Years passed; step by step I climbed the career ladder, first becoming head of promising projects, then director of strategic development at a major development firm. A loving husband appeared in my life, a wonderful son, a cozy apartment in the very center of the city, and a stable financial footing most people only dream of.

Victoria’s fate, as I learned from mutual acquaintances, took another path—more convoluted and dramatic. She married a wealthy man, but the marriage quickly collapsed—her husband caught her with a lover. Then came a string of short yet flashy affairs, steadily mounting debts, and loud scandals that became public. The last time I saw her photo on social media, she was striking a pose on the deck of a luxury yacht in the company of an elderly oligarch, but the ring on her finger was already gone.

And then, several years after that fleeting encounter at the office, she appeared on my horizon again. This time she stood at the door of my private office; I saw her reflection in the slightly open blinds on the window. My secretary knocked and stepped in carefully.

“Sofiya Konstantinovna, Victoria Semyonova is here for an interview.”

I almost laughed to myself, tasting the bitter irony. “But of course. Why not? The logic of fate.”

 

“Please send her in,” I nodded.

Victoria entered with the same triumphant smile as before, but now there was a clear nervousness and uncertainty at the corners of it. She sank gracefully into the chair opposite my desk, laid her résumé in front of me, and crossed her legs with habitual ease.

“What an unexpected meeting,” she said, trying to keep her voice casual. “I had no idea you worked here, let alone in such an office.”

“And I didn’t think you were looking for work at all,” I parried, without even glancing at the papers. “Especially given your long-standing, unwavering love of luxury and a carefree life.”

She paled, her fingers tightening slightly on the bag’s handle.

“People change, Sofiya. I’m very serious and responsible now. I want to start my life over with a clean slate, forget my past mistakes.”

“A clean slate?” I finally raised my eyes to hers, feeling steel harden in my gaze. “You didn’t even bother to find out that our company currently has no openings for so-called ‘public relations assistants’ who boldly write vague phrases in their résumés like ‘conflict resolution skills’ and ‘working with VIP clients.’ That sounds rather… abstract.”

Her shoulder twitched as she tried to keep the mask of indifference in place.

“It’s just a figure of speech, a bit of imagery. I actually can find common ground with all sorts of people. Especially those in high positions who make important decisions.”

“Especially when those decisions directly concern the state of their wallets,” I observed calmly.

She fell silent, and in her eyes—always so self-assured—something new flickered: not the familiar anger, but a deep confusion, even fear. She had apparently expected me to feel awkward, to blush, maybe even to try to justify myself for our shared past. I had no intention of playing by her old, worn-out rules.

“Listen,” she said much more softly now, for the first time with a note of sincerity. “I understand perfectly that in school… we didn’t always see eye to eye. But that’s all far behind us. I really want to work. Honestly, a lot. I have a child now. I really need—”

“You have a child?” I repeated, stressing the last word. “How old?”
Child care tips

“A girl, already three,” she answered, dropping her gaze. “Her name is Arisha.”

I simply nodded, and a thought flashed through my mind: “I wonder who her father is?”

“All right,” I said after a brief pause. “Let’s assume I’m willing to consider your candidacy. But our company has a strict rule: every applicant takes a special test for honesty and integrity. It’s our internal policy introduced after an unpleasant theft incident.”

She drew her perfectly plucked brows together.

“What test exactly? What is it?”

“Very simple. We ask only three key questions. All answers are recorded and then carefully cross-checked with our extensive database and verified for complete accuracy. If even one answer turns out to be knowingly false, the application is rejected immediately without explanation. And, more importantly, that information is promptly passed along to our entire partner network of recruiting agencies. Which means… you can forget about getting a job at any self-respecting company in this city.”

She grew even paler; her lips trembled.

“Is that… even legal? Those methods?”

“Absolutely legal and transparent. You signed consent for data processing when you entered the building, with security. You saw it, didn’t you?”

She nodded uncertainly, realizing she’d been cornered.

“In that case, let’s begin,” I said, taking out my tablet and turning on the recorder. “Question one: where exactly did you work for the last two years?”

“At the well-known PR agency ‘LuxMedia,’” she blurted quickly. “I handled strategic promotion of premium brands.”

“Incorrect,” I said coolly. “‘LuxMedia’ closed a year and a half ago due to bankruptcy. You got in for just two months, and they fired you for systematically siphoning off event budgets. Haven’t forgotten how you tried to write off several bottles of expensive champagne and a luxury dinner at an elite restaurant as ‘unforeseen expenses’ for yourself and… what was his name? Your companion then, Artyom?”

She shot to her feet, her face contorted with rage.

“Were you spying on me?! Did you have me followed?”

“No, Victoria. I’m simply doing my job carefully and well. Just as you… ‘did yours’ back then—slipping someone else’s expensive lipstick into my schoolbag and happily telling the homeroom teacher I’d stolen it.”

She froze as if struck by lightning.

“That was in eighth grade! It was so long ago!”

“And you, unfortunately, still behave as if you’re stuck in that very eighth grade. Only now, instead of trinkets like someone else’s lipstick, it’s other people’s money, other people’s husbands, other people’s lives and fates.”

She slowly, as if with great effort, sank back into the chair, letting her head drop to her chest. Her shoulders trembled.

“I just… really need a job. I’m up to my ears in debt. There’s no one to help me…”

“That, sadly, isn’t my problem,” I said gently but with unshakeable firmness. “But I am willing to give you one single chance. The last.”

Her tearful eyes lifted to me with hope.

“Really? You’re not joking?”

“Yes. But not here. Not in this company or this building. I have another, more suitable idea for you.”

Exactly a week later I drove to a modest shelter for women in difficult life situations, in one of the Moscow region’s small towns. Victoria was already waiting by the main entrance. No usual makeup, simple jeans, a worn jacket. She looked unbelievably tired, but there was something new in her eyes—calm, serious.

“Are you absolutely sure about this?” she asked, looking straight at me.

“Yes, I’m sure,” I nodded. “You’ll work here as a job-placement coordinator. Your task is to help women who, like you, have ended up in tough situations: find work, compile proper résumés, prepare for interviews. You’ve always known how to make a strong first impression. Let that skill serve a real purpose now, not just short-term gains.”

She nodded silently, absorbing every word.

“Why? Why did you decide to help me after everything?”

“Because I know from experience what it’s like to be cornered and feel utterly helpless. And also because I don’t want your little daughter someday to hear from someone the same hurtful, humiliating question: ‘Do you clean the toilets here?’”

She cried. Quietly—no theatrical sobs or hysterics—the way people cry at sudden relief.

“Thank you, Sofiya. Thank you so much.”

“No need for thanks. Just try not to let these women down—and, above all, don’t let yourself down.”

Several months passed. Victoria worked at the shelter with surprising honesty and dedication. She helped place several residents in good positions, using all her old contacts and natural charm, but now channeling them in the right direction.

Then one day a new junior employee, recently hired on Victoria’s recommendation, knocked on my office door. She brought a finished report on a new project; her movements were precise and sure. My eye happened to fall on her graceful hand, where a simple yet very beautiful silver bracelet gleamed—the exact twin of the one my mother had worn for years, a piece I would recognize anywhere.

“Forgive my curiosity—where did you get such a lovely bracelet?” I asked politely, feeling a strange stirring inside.

“It wasn’t bought, Sofiya Konstantinovna,” the girl smiled. “It’s a family heirloom. My grandmother passed it to my mother many years ago, and my mother, in turn, gave it to me recently for my birthday.”
Family games

I felt my heart stop.

“And what was your grandmother’s name, if you don’t mind?”

“Anna Petrovna,” came the simple, achingly familiar reply.

My heart began to pound wildly. Anna Petrovna—the name of my own mother. But as far as I knew, my mom had no other daughters besides me. Or… was there something I didn’t know?

“And your mother… where is she from?” I continued, trying to keep my voice even.

“She’s from Rostov. But she was born, if I’m not mistaken, in a small settlement near Voronezh. Unfortunately, she was placed in an orphanage when she was only three. Her parents—my grandparents—died in a terrible car accident.”

I rose slowly from my chair and walked to the large window, beyond which stretched the vast many-faced city where I had built my whole life. In that moment, it suddenly seemed strange and unfamiliar.

“What’s your name, dear?” I asked softly, almost in a whisper, still looking out the window.

“Alina,” she answered just as softly.

I took a deep breath, turned back to her, and tried to smile as naturally as possible.

“Alina… I happen to have a little time. Would you like to share a cup of hot tea with me? I have a lovely, fragrant bergamot.”

She smiled warmly.

 

“With great pleasure, Sofiya Konstantinovna.”
Family games

That evening I dialed my mother’s number; my fingers trembled slightly.

“Mom, you… you never told me I might have had a sister. Why?”

A long, heavy silence filled the line, and I heard my mother struggle to hold back tears.

“You must understand, dear… she came into the world after something terrible happened to me. I was assaulted. I was coming home late from work—there were several of them. They tormented me for a long time. My mind couldn’t bear it; I was severely traumatized. And I… I just couldn’t, didn’t want to see or hear anything about the child who was born from that horror. It was a little girl… And your father had no choice but to place her in a good orphanage. Later, when I gradually came back to myself and began to live again, she had already been adopted by another family—loving, but strangers.”
Child care tips

“I thought you would never learn about it,” she whispered through quiet sobs. “Your father and I didn’t want to wound or upset you. You were so fragile then, so sensitive after my illness… And then your school, your studies, your exams… We decided it would be better if we all just tried to forget.”

“Forget?” I echoed, my heart twisting with pain. “Mom, how can you simply forget your own child? How?”

“We didn’t forget her, Sofiyusha. Not for a single day. We secretly visited her, brought presents while she was very small and still in the orphanage. Then… then she was adopted and we lost every trace. We had no right to interfere in her new life.”
Child care tips

I sat in complete silence, staring at the big family photo on the wall: Mom, Dad, me in my graduation dress. And no one else. It seemed it had always been that way.

“Alina works at my company now,” I finally exhaled. “She’s incredibly smart, strong, and very, very beautiful. And you know, she looks astonishingly like you, Mom. The spitting image of you in your youth.”

My mother began to cry in earnest, pain and relief mingling in her sobs.

“Please bring her home to us, Yulechka. I beg you.”

The next day I invited Alina to lunch at a quiet, cozy restaurant not far from the office.

“I want to introduce you to an extraordinary woman,” I began carefully. “She has loved you with all her heart, always. She just… didn’t know how to find the right words or how to tell you everything. She was afraid of shattering your peace.”

Alina looked at me with mild puzzlement and curiosity.

“Who are you talking about, Sofiya?”

“About your birth mother.”

And Victoria? She’s still working at that shelter, having found a new calling and meaning in life there. Sometimes we share a coffee, recalling the past without bitterness or malice. She no longer smiles that condescending, icy smile. Now I read in her eyes sincere respect and a quiet, clear gratitude.

Sometimes life—so unpredictable and strange—gives us a second chance, not to repeat old mistakes, but to finally correct them after learning the important lessons. The main thing is not to miss that gift and not to ruin everything a third time, because there may be no more chances left. And the soft whisper of the past, like an echo, sooner or later finds us in the present, weaving the torn threads of our fates into one strong fabric

Natalia stared at the phone screen, unable to move. The red call-end button remained lit, and from the speaker came the muffled sound of a woman’s laughter. So young, carefree… nothing like her tired voice after a twelve-hour shift at the hospital.

— Andrei, stop! — whispered an unfamiliar voice playfully. — We really need to get to work…

Natalia’s fingers turned cold. Fifteen years of marriage flashed before her eyes like frames from an old film: their first meeting in the university library, their modest wedding, the birth of Mashenka, sleepless nights by the crib… All this time, she thought she knew her husband.
Online movie streaming services

— I told you I’d be late tonight, — Andrei’s voice sounded unusually soft. — Important project…

Natalia bitterly smiled. Important project. Of course. For the past six months, he had talked only about work, the new young team, and modern approaches to business. And she had been proud of his success, proud of him.

The woman’s voice laughed again, now quieter, more intimate. Finally, Natalia found the strength to press the red button. The apartment fell into dead silence, broken only by the ticking of the wall clock—the wedding gift from his parents.

She slowly sank into a kitchen chair. On the fridge still hung their last family photo from vacation: tanned, happy faces, Mashenka between them, holding both of their hands. Natalia remembered how long they had debated over the location for the trip, how Andrei had insisted on this particular resort…

Her phone vibrated—a message from him: “Sorry, I’m late. The important meeting ran long. Don’t wait for dinner.”

Natalia looked at the set table, at his favorite dish she had prepared all evening after her shift. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she quickly wiped them away. She had to decide what to do next. Mashenka would be back from practice soon, and her daughter couldn’t see her like this.

 

Rising from the table, she walked to the window. The rain had started outside, drops slowly running down the glass, blurring the lights of the evening city. Natalia took out her phone and opened her contacts. Her finger hovered over her lawyer’s name—an old friend who had offered help several times, noticing Andrei’s strange behavior recently.

— Mom, I’m home! — Mashenka’s bright voice rang out from the hallway.

Natalia took a deep breath, tucked the phone into her pocket, and forced a smile. She had time to think about what to do. For now, she had to be strong—for her daughter, for herself. Life didn’t end with betrayal, even if it seemed that way right now.

— How was practice, sweetheart? — Natalia asked, stepping into the hallway and helping her daughter take off her backpack.

— Great! The coach said I’m ready for the competition. Is dad coming to the performance?

Natalia froze for a moment but quickly composed herself:

— Of course, darling. He’ll definitely come.

— Where is he now? — Mashenka looked around the empty kitchen. — Is he at work again?

— Yes, he has… an important meeting, — Natalia turned towards the stove. — Are you going to eat?

— Mmm, it smells delicious! — the girl sat down at the table. — Can I call dad? I want to tell him about practice!

— Let’s do it later, sweetheart, — Natalia replied softly, setting the plates. — He’s very busy right now.

Mashenka shrugged and started eating, while Natalia watched her and thought about how much she would have to explain. And how much she would have to hide to protect her daughter’s innocent heart from the harsh truth of adult life.

When her daughter went to do her homework, Natalia took out her phone and dialed her mother-in-law’s number.

— Hello, Vera Nikolaevna? Good evening.

— Natasha, is something wrong? — Vera Nikolaevna’s voice held concern. — You usually don’t call this late.

Natalia took a deep breath:

— Tell me… Has Andrei said anything to you lately… about me? About our relationship?

There was a heavy pause on the other end of the line.

— Natasha… — Vera Nikolaevna’s voice trembled. — Did you find out something?

Natalia’s heart stopped. So, her mother-in-law knew. She knew and stayed silent.

— Why didn’t you tell me? — she whispered.

— I was hoping he would come to his senses, — Vera Nikolaevna replied quietly. — She’s just a girl, his new assistant. I thought it was just a midlife crisis…

Natalia abruptly ended the call. The ringing in her ears was deafening. Assistant. Of course. The “promising employee” he had been talking about at dinner all the time. How could she have been so blind?

The phone vibrated again—it was Andrei calling. Natalia stared at the screen, where their shared photo smiled back at her, and thought about how strange life was: years spent with someone, trusting them with all her secrets, building plans for the future… And then, in a moment, realizing that even his smile in the photo now seemed foreign and unfamiliar.

The call ended, and within seconds, a message appeared: “I’ll be home soon. We need to talk.”

Natalia went upstairs to check Mashenka’s homework quickly.

— Sweetheart, it’s already late. Time for bed.

— And dad? — her daughter sleepily asked, snuggling under the covers.

— Dad is staying late. I’ll tell him you were waiting.

After kissing her daughter, Natalia went down to the kitchen. She heard the sound of a key turning in the lock. She stayed at the table, staring at the cold dinner.

Andrei entered hesitantly, as though he were in a stranger’s house. He smelled of expensive perfume—not the one she had given him for their anniversary.

— Natasha… — he began, but she interrupted.

— How old is she? — Her voice sounded surprisingly calm.

Andrei froze in the doorway.
– What?

– Your assistant. How old is she?

– How do you… – he stopped himself, noticing her gaze. – Twenty-six.

Natalya bitterly smiled.

– Fourteen years younger than me. Almost the same age gap as between me and Masha.

– Natasha, listen…

– No, you listen, – she finally lifted her eyes to him. – I know everything. I know about the late-night meetings, about “important projects.” Today you forgot to hang up the phone after our conversation.

Andrey turned pale and sank heavily into a chair.

– I didn’t want you to find out like this.

– How did you want me to find out? – Natalya felt her voice betray her with a tremor. – After you’ve decided that a young lover is better than an old wife?

– Don’t say that, – he tried to take her hand, but she pulled away. – You don’t understand. Everything has changed at work, new opportunities, young team…

– And a young lover to go with it? – Natalya stood up from the table. – Do you know what’s the scariest part? It’s not that you betrayed me. It’s that you betrayed Masha. She asked today if you were coming to her competition.

– Of course, I’ll come! – Andrey exclaimed. – I’m her father!

– Really? I thought you were now a manager dealing with young talent.

Andrey jumped up from his chair.

– Stop it! You don’t understand how hard it is for me right now!

– It’s hard for you? – Natalya lowered her voice to a whisper, not wanting to wake Masha. – How do you think it feels for me? How do you think it will feel for Masha when she finds out that her dad…

– I’m leaving you, – Andrey suddenly said quietly.

Those words hung in the air like a thunderclap. Natalya felt the ground slip away from under her feet.

– Just like that? – She sank back into her chair. – Fifteen years of marriage, and that’s it?

– Katya is pregnant, – he looked away.

Natalya covered her face with her hands. So that’s her name. Katya. And she’s already carrying his child.
Children’s story books

– Mom? Dad? – Masha’s sleepy voice made them both flinch. – What’s going on?

They turned. Their daughter stood in the kitchen doorway, her confused eyes shifting from one parent to the other.

– Why are you shouting?

– Masha, sweetie, go back to bed, – Natalya tried to smile. – We’re just having a talk.

– You’re fighting, – Masha frowned. – It’s about that lady from work, right? I heard grandma talking on the phone…

Andrey turned pale:

– What did you hear?

 

– That some Katya took you away from the family, – the girl’s voice trembled. – Dad, is it true? You still love us, right?

Natalya watched as her now ex-husband helplessly opened and closed his mouth, unable to find the words. Fifteen years she loved this man, trusted him, built a family with him. And now he couldn’t even find the words to explain to their daughter why he was destroying her world.
Family games

– Dad loves us very much, – Natalya said firmly, walking over to her daughter. – Sometimes grown-ups… get confused. Come on, I’ll tuck you in.

– I’m not going anywhere! – Masha shook her head stubbornly. – I want to know the truth!

Andrey took a step toward his daughter:

– Masha, honey…

– Don’t come near me! – the girl screamed and ran out of the kitchen.

In the ensuing silence, they could hear the door to her room slam shut and the key turn in the lock.

– I’ll talk to her, – Andrey moved toward the exit of the kitchen.

– No, – Natalya blocked his way. – You’ve done enough. Pack your things and leave.

– This is my home too!

– It was, until you decided to start a new family, – she looked him straight in the eyes. – I’ll send you my lawyer’s contact in the morning. And don’t even think about fighting for custody – you saw how Masha reacted.

Andrey slumped his shoulders.

– I really didn’t want it to turn out like this.

– But it did, – Natalya felt a cold resolve growing inside her. – You have an hour to pack what you need. You can come back for the rest later.

While her ex-husband packed his things in the bedroom, she went upstairs to her daughter. She knocked on the door:

– Masha, it’s mom. Can I come in?

The sound of the lock clicking. Natalya entered the room. Her daughter was sitting on the bed, hugging her knees.

– I don’t want to see him, – she said in a muffled voice.

– You don’t have to, – Natalya sat down beside her and hugged her daughter’s shoulders. – Today, dad will leave. But you need to know – he loves you. Sometimes… grown-ups make mistakes.

– Big mistakes, – Masha sniffled. – You know, Lenka from the parallel class is crying because of the same thing. Her dad also got a new family.

Natalya squeezed her daughter tighter. Downstairs, the front door slammed – Andrey had left.

– Mom, – Masha whispered later, as they walked home. – Can I… can I call dad? I want to tell him about the new moves I learned.

Natalya felt her heart tighten. – Of course, sweetie. That’s your decision.

In the evening, after putting her daughter to bed, she sat in the kitchen with a cup of tea, flipping through photos from the competition. The phone quietly dinged – a message from a colleague at the hospital, Mikhail. He had been persistently inviting her for coffee for the past two months.

“I saw the photos from the performance. Masha is a real champion! Maybe we could celebrate her victory with dinner? I know a great family restaurant…”

Natalya smiled, looking at the screen. Maybe it was time for her to take a step forward. Life doesn’t end with betrayal – she had told herself that on that awful night. And now, six months later, she truly believed it for the first time.

“A swamp?” Marina slowly turned away from the stove where potatoes were frying for dinner.

 

“This ‘swamp’ fed your mother for twenty years while she was running around to doctors. Did you forget?”

“What does my mother have to do with it? Don’t you dare drag her into this!”

“It has everything to do with her, Vitya. While you were off in the capital doing your ‘big deals,’ I was here with your paralyzed mommy. Changing her diapers, in case you don’t remember.”

Vitya stood in the doorway of their two-room Khrushchev-era apartment, in a new suit with a suitcase at his feet. Marina hadn’t seen him look this good in a long time—fit, tanned, smelling of expensive cologne. Not like before, when he used to come home from the factory covered in machine oil.

She remembered how they met. The dances at the plant club, him—a young mechanic, her—from accounting. He spun her around to “A Million Scarlet Roses,” whispering nonsense in her ear. And then a modest wedding, about thirty guests, Olivier salad and Soviet champagne. His mother-in-law had cried with happiness then, hugging Marina: “Thank you, my girl, for taming my little Vitenka.”

Tamed him. They had lived together for twenty-two years. Raised a daughter, Lenka. Now she was studying at medical school, living on her scholarship and her mother’s side jobs. Vitya hadn’t given them any money for the last three years—he invested everything in “business.” What business—Marina never really understood. First he wanted to open a car repair shop, then he was into cargo hauling. Everything went under.

“You just don’t understand,” Vitya nervously lit a cigarette right there in the hallway. “Sergey suggested I move to Moscow. He has a chain of car washes there, he’ll take me on as a manager. He’ll rent an apartment for us at first.”

“You’re going alone?” Marina wiped her hands on her apron. Her hands were trembling, but her voice stayed steady.

“Not alone.” Vitya looked away. “With Alena. She… she understands me. She believes in me.”

Alena. Marina had known about her for about three months. She’d seen their messages on his phone while Vitya was in the shower. “Kitten,” “bunny,” “I miss you.” Her “kitten” was twenty-eight. A manager at the car dealership where Vitya had been eyeing a car. On credit, by the way, a credit Marina was still paying off from her teacher’s salary.

“And what about Lenka?” Marina asked. “Your daughter. She’ll be defending her diploma in a year.”

“She’ll grow up, she’ll understand. I can’t live like this anymore. I’m forty-five, Marina. I’m still young, I can still change everything.”

Marina walked over to the window. In the yard, their neighbor Zinaida was hanging laundry. She saw Marina at the window and waved. Zinaida knew everything. She knew about Alena, and that for the last six months Vitya had only been coming home to sleep. She pitied Marina in that neighborly way, bringing pies: “Hang in there, Marinka.”

“Remember,” Marina said quietly, “when Lenka got sick at five? Pneumonia, the doctors had given up. You were working nonstop then to earn money for the medicine. And I sat by her bed around the clock. You told me then, ‘We’re a family, Marina. We’ll get through anything.’”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Just fifteen years. Or when your mother had her stroke? Who ran with her from hospital to hospital? Who stayed up all night, turning her every two hours so she wouldn’t get bedsores? I did, Vitya. And where were you? Off ‘earning money’? Doing what, exactly, Vitya? You haven’t really worked anywhere properly for the last five years. You’ve been chasing your big break.”

Vitya stubbed his cigarette out on the windowsill. Marina winced—the new windowsill, they’d had it put in last month. She’d saved up for it herself.

“You always remember everything,” he snapped irritably. “You remember only the bad. And the good? What about when I took you to the sea?”

“Ten years ago you took me. To Anapa. For a week.”

“Nothing is ever enough for you!”

Marina turned to him. Tears were burning in her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall. He wouldn’t get that satisfaction.

“You know what, Vitya? Get out. Go to your Alena. Just let me tell you something first. I took care of your mother till the very end. Two years she lay here with us, two years I fed her with a spoon, washed her, gave her medicine. And where were you? Off earning? Earning what, Vitya? You haven’t really held a steady job for the last five years. You were just dreaming of getting rich.”

“I tried! I was doing it for the family!”

“For the family?” Marina gave a short laugh. “Lenka is in her final year and works night shifts as a nurse so she can afford textbooks. Because her daddy decided to become a businessman. I’ve taken on two full-time teaching loads at school and I tutor on top of that. Who exactly were you doing it for?”

Vitya was silent, his hand gripping the handle of the suitcase.

“And you know what’s funniest?” Marina went on. “Before she died, your mother said to me, ‘Forgive him, my girl. He’s weak. He’s always been weak. Thank you for putting up with him.’ I didn’t understand then. But now I do.”

“Don’t you dare!” Vitya exploded. “Don’t you dare call me weak! I’m suffocating here, that’s all! In this apartment, in this city, with you! You’re going to drive me to the grave with your righteousness!”

“My righteousness?” Marina suddenly laughed. Dry, bitter. “These past years all I’ve done is keep my mouth shut. I kept quiet when you came home drunk. I kept quiet when money disappeared from our stash—for your next ‘project.’ I kept quiet when you reeked of some other woman’s perfume. I thought you’d get it out of your system, come to your senses. We’re a family, after all.”

She went to the wardrobe and took out a folder. Vitya tensed.

“What’s that?”

“Divorce papers. I had them drawn up a month ago. I was just waiting for you to make up your mind. Or for me to. But you were the first to pack—good for you. Sign.”

Vitya stared at the papers in shock.

“You… you knew?”

“I’m not stupid, Vitya. I just gave you a chance. And I gave myself a chance—to be wrong, maybe. I wasn’t.”

 

“The apartment…” he began.

“The apartment is mine. It was registered to my mother and I inherited it. You’re registered here, but you have no ownership rights. You can try your luck in court, but here’s the snag—you haven’t had an official job for the last three years. Will you be paying alimony for Lenka?”

“She’s an adult…”

“A full-time student. She’s entitled to support until she finishes her studies. Article 85 of the Family Code, if you’re interested.”

Vitya grabbed the pen and scrawled his signature across the documents. He flung the folder on the side table.

“Happy now? Twenty-two years down the drain?”

Marina looked at him closely. Gray at the temples, wrinkles by his eyes. Once, he had been the man she loved. Once, he had been her own. And now—a stranger. Completely a stranger.

“Not down the drain, Vitya. We have a wonderful daughter. Smart, kind, hard-working. She takes after me,” she smiled sadly. “And thank you for these years. There were good moments too. You just took a wrong turn somewhere. Or maybe you were always like this, and I just didn’t see it.”

Vitya picked up the suitcase. He stood for a moment in the doorway.

“You’ll regret this. You’ll end up alone.”

“I won’t. I have Lenka. My job. Friends. And you know what? I’m finally going to sign up for dance classes. I always dreamed of learning tango. You used to laugh and say cows can’t dance tango. We’ll see.”

Vitya slammed the door. Marina stood in the silence for a moment, then went to the kitchen. The potatoes had burned. She dumped the pan into the sink and opened the window to air the place out.

The phone rang. It was Lenka.

“Mom, how are you? Zinaida Petrovna called, she said dad left with a suitcase.”

“I’m fine, sweetheart. Will you be home for dinner?”

“Mom… are you crying?”

“No,” Marina really wasn’t crying. “I’m chopping onions. Making a salad.”

“I’m coming over. I’ll come straight after my shift.”

“No need, Len. You have an exam tomorrow.”

“Mom, don’t be silly. I’m already on my way. And Mom… I love you. You’re the strongest person I know.”

Marina hung up. She took a bottle of wine from the fridge—a Teacher’s Day gift she’d been saving for a special occasion. She poured half a glass and raised it to the window, where the setting sun was gilding the rooftops.

“To a new life,” she said to herself.

Down in the yard, a taxi door slammed. Vitya was loading in his suitcase, and a young blonde was waving at him from the car. Alena. Marina had seen her a couple of times by the dealership—nothing special. Just young.

Zinaida called up from below:

“Marinka! I’m bringing you a pie! With cabbage, just how you like it!”

Marina smiled. For the first time in months, she smiled sincerely. On the table lay the divorce papers, and beside them the bunch of keys Vitya had left behind. She picked up the keys, weighing them in her hand.

Tomorrow she would go and change the locks. And sign up for dance lessons. And maybe go to the hairdresser’s—she’d long wanted to get a bob.

And tonight she would drink wine with Zinaida, eat pie and not think about what lay ahead. Because what lay ahead was life. Her life. Without looking back at the one who had betrayed her.

The phone rang again. An unknown number.

“Marina Sergeevna? This is the dean’s office of the medical institute. Your daughter has been nominated for a special named scholarship. Congratulations! Lena is our pride!”

Marina finally cried. But these were good tears.

— Misha, tell your wife to turn the music down, — his sister Marina’s voice barely hid her irritation.

— Mom’s got a headache because of your… well, how do you call it… avant-garde.

 

I lowered the volume. Not because Marina asked me to, but because of my mother-in-law, who was already pressing a finger to her temple. She always sided with her daughter—in every argument, tantrum, and complaint.

My husband just shrugged awkwardly. He wasn’t surprised by his mother’s and sister’s behavior: “Sorry, you know them.” Yes, I do. Five years of marriage have given me a perfect understanding of this family.

— Anya, don’t be upset, — began my mother-in-law in her sticky-sweet tone, which I mentally named “honeyed poison.” — We’re simple people, we like melodic, soulful things. But you have all this… anxiousness.

I nodded. What could I say? That this “anxious” soundtrack earned the film three Oscars?

That this apartment they consider the peak of my achievements is actually just one of my investments?

They wouldn’t believe it. To them, I’m still a poor orphan generously bestowed with family happiness by their Misha.

— Speaking of anxieties, — Marina chimed in, setting down a half-finished cup of coffee. — Tomorrow there’s a grand event at work — the new owner of the company will address the team.

She worked as a secretary at the large agroholding “Golden Ear.” Always complaining but clinging to her position for the “status, connections, and the downtown office.”

— What new owner? — Misha frowned. — Wasn’t everything stable?

— It was, but that’s over. They sold the company entirely. The name of the new owner is a secret—a dark horse, — Marina snorted. — Hopefully, they won’t cut salaries. I just planned my vacation in the Maldives.

She cast an appraising glance at me. I received it calmly. Behind that mask of indifference was everything: confidence in her superiority, slight mockery, and complete disrespect toward me.

Inside, I smiled. Dark horse. Funny. I hadn’t expected the purchase of “Golden Ear” to stir such interest even at the secretarial level.

By the way, I was the one who closed the deal a week ago through an offshore fund. Quietly, without fuss.

— Excellent choice, the Maldives are a wonderful place, — I said softly.

— Oh, Anya, you probably don’t find this very interesting, — Marina waved her hand like a socialite tired of foolish talk. — You and Misha live in a completely different rhythm. We’re used to being in circles where price tags don’t matter.

She hesitated, trying to find more delicate words, but failed miserably:

— I don’t want to offend, but I’m afraid our level is just unreachable for you. You’ll feel like an outsider.

Misha coughed, pretending to examine the wallpaper. Mother-in-law nodded approvingly.

I kept looking at Marina: her neat makeup, expensive watch, and self-satisfaction in her eyes.

She had no idea that her trips, career, and “elite circle” were now in my hands.

— Perhaps you’re right, — I said slowly, and my calm tone seemed to unsettle her. — Although maybe I have my own plates — and they’re far more interesting than the ones you’re thinking of.

I stood up from the table.

— Guests can serve themselves. I need to make a few work calls.

In the room, I dialed my assistant:

— Good evening, Oleg. Change of plans for tomorrow: I will personally attend the meeting at “Golden Ear.” Introduce me as the new owner. And please prepare an order for the dismissal of the general director’s secretary — Marina Viktorovna Sokolskaya. Reason: failure to meet job requirements.

In the morning, Misha, as usual, noticed nothing. He slipped off to work, kissed me on the cheek, and said, “Good luck at the interview!” I had once mentioned looking for a part-time job, so he felt more at ease.

The very idea that his wife could not just work but own a business was abstract, almost fantastic for him.

I was preparing carefully. I chose a strict dark blue pantsuit — no bright details, but perfect tailoring and high-quality fabric.

Light makeup, hair in a neat low bun. The look was more of a manager or lawyer than a wealthy empire owner.

The “Golden Ear” lobby was tense. Employees whispered, gathered in groups. I entered and stood a bit apart, observing.

My assistant Oleg, a solid-looking man, was already there. He nodded briefly from afar and continued talking with the current CEO.

Marina, as always, felt like the mistress of the situation. She flew around the lobby, giving orders, sharing “inside news.”

— They say he’s some IT guy, — she declared, theatrically rolling her eyes. — Now he’ll start teaching us how to properly harvest ears on Zoom. The main thing is, let him pay regularly.

Suddenly, her gaze fell on me. She frowned, trying to figure out what I was doing here.

— Anya? Is that you? — her voice carried bewilderment mixed with disdain. — Came for an interview? The HR department is on another floor.

I gave a barely perceptible smile.

— Just decided to drop by. Maybe there’s a vacancy — who knows?

Marina snorted and, not even trying to hide her contempt, turned to her colleagues.

At exactly ten, we were invited to the conference room. Marina fussed at the entrance, checking lists as a proper secretary should. She let me in with a look as if she was doing me a huge favor. I walked deeper into the hall and sat in the last row.

The CEO, pale and obviously nervous, stepped onto the stage and began quietly mumbling about development prospects and effective management. Finally, he reached the main point:

— And now I proudly present the new owner of our holding — “Golden Ear”!

The hall froze. Oleg, already waiting by the stage, signaled me to approach. I slowly stood up and walked down the central aisle. A whisper of surprise ran through the room; people’s faces changed in amazement. But I was only interested in one expression — Marina’s face.

She was frozen by the wall, her smug smile slowly fading, replaced by confusion. Her eyes widened, lips slightly parted — she looked at me as if she had seen a ghost.

Climbing the stage, I took the microphone from Oleg and scanned the hall calmly.

— Good afternoon, colleagues. My name is Anna Vorontsova. Today I become the new owner of the company.

Pausing, I let everyone grasp what they’d heard.

— I won’t give a long speech. I’ll just say: “Golden Ear” faces significant changes. We will move toward professionalism, growth, and high efficiency.

What interferes with this will remain in the past. The first personnel decisions have already been made. Oleg, please.

 

My assistant stepped forward with a folder in hand.

— By order number one, a new general director is appointed…

The noise in the hall grew. I continued looking at Marina. She still stood by the wall and, it seemed, had even stopped breathing.

— By order number two, — Oleg continued, — Marina Viktorovna Sokolskaya, secretary, is dismissed for systematic failure to perform duties and inconsistency with corporate ethics. Effective immediately.

For a second, there was complete silence — so dense it seemed tangible. Then hundreds of eyes turned either to petrified Marina or to me.

She was the first to come to herself. Her cheeks flushed, anger distorted her features.

— What?.. — she whispered, but her voice drowned in the tense atmosphere. Then she straightened. — This is impossible! You have no right! This is a mistake! I will complain!

— Complaints are accepted in writing at the HR department, — I replied into the microphone without a trace of emotion. — Allow me to continue.

I moved on to the business part, talking about development plans, new markets, investments in technology, and social programs for employees. I spoke as a leader, and people began to listen. To them, I was not just Misha’s wife or a wronged relative — I was the new owner making decisions.

When I finished, two security guards were already escorting Marina out of the hall. She didn’t resist — she walked like in a trance. Her old world had collapsed, and she didn’t yet understand how it happened.

At home, the scene was complete: Marina sat in the kitchen with red eyes, the sullen mother-in-law, and Misha pacing between them.

— Anya, how could you?! That’s my sister! My family! — he shouted as soon as I entered.

— Your sister, who humiliated your wife for the last five years, — I calmly replied, taking off my jacket. — And your family, which tolerated it.

— She’s just… she has that kind of character! — he tried to justify her.

— You destroyed my daughter’s life! — exclaimed mother-in-law, standing up. — Took everything away! Why do you hate us so much? Because we let you, a poor woman, into our home?

I looked at her. For the first time, I felt no fear or desire to justify myself. Only silence inside and freedom, sharp as ice.

— You didn’t accept me. You just tolerated me. Like a troublesome misunderstanding. And about poverty…

This apartment you consider “your home” — I bought it three years ago in Misha’s name so you’d have somewhere to live. The car your son drives — a gift from me. The company from which your daughter was fired — a small part of my business.

I wasn’t boasting. Just putting dots on the “i.”

Misha looked at me with wide-open eyes. He couldn’t believe it.

— Anya… why did you stay silent?

— Have you ever asked? — I smiled slightly. — It was convenient for you. A quiet, obedient wife who doesn’t interfere and doesn’t shine next to your “high-status” relatives. You preferred to see me dependent and weak. It was easier for you not to notice me as a person.

Marina was silent, shrinking in her chair. It was beginning to dawn on her.

— I’m filing for divorce, Misha, — I said quietly but firmly. — I no longer want to be your background. I want to live where I’m valued, not for money or despite it. But just valued.

I turned and headed to the door. No one tried to stop me. At the threshold, I glanced back:

— By the way, Marina. Don’t worry about the Maldives. Your trip was paid with the corporate card. And now it’s canceled.

Little Alisa, even in her boldest and brightest childhood imagination, could not have supposed—could not even for a minute have allowed the thought—that her simple, sincere impulse, coming straight from her heart—to share her modest school lunch with a person who, as she felt, had no food at all—would turn into something as unexpected and alarming as a visit from two serious-looking men in official uniforms, who crossed the threshold of her cozy and seemingly so safe home one gloomy autumn day.

Her father, a man named Artyom, was standing in the doorway, his face showing complete bewilderment and a hint of confusion. He simply could not piece together what was going on.
“I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand,” he said, his voice sounding uneven and a little strained. “You’re saying this is about my daughter? My Alisa? She’s only eight, she’s in the second grade. Could you please explain what exactly could have happened?”

The law enforcement officers remained calm, yet unshakably serious. Their faces were impassive, their posture official. Feeling a cold ripple of worry run down his spine, Artyom took a deep, heavy breath and stepped aside to let them into the hallway. The air in the house seemed to thicken, filling with unspoken questions.

“Alisa, sweetheart, come here for a minute, please,” he called, doing his best to keep his voice steady, gentle, and reassuring, so that not a single note would tremble.

At that moment, the girl was in her room at her favorite desk, covered with stickers of cartoon characters, carefully writing letters in her homework notebook. She had just come back from school, taken off her school uniform, and hadn’t yet changed into her home clothes. Hearing her father’s call, she stepped into the hallway, and in her big, clear eyes—so trusting and open—there instantly flashed and then froze a spark of genuine, childish fear in front of the strangers in stern uniforms.

“Yes, Daddy? I’m here,” she said quietly. Her gaze slid over the strangers’ faces, and her fingers instinctively intertwined behind her back.

“Everything is absolutely fine, my sunshine, don’t worry,” Artyom hastened to reassure her, gently placing his hand on her shoulder. “These gentlemen just want to ask you a few very simple questions. They won’t be here long, I promise.”

One of the visitors, the older one and, as it seemed to Artyom, the one with kinder eyes, crouched down so he would be at the girl’s eye level and tried to melt the ice of her fear with a warm, friendly smile.

“Hello, Alisa. My name is Major Semyonov. Thank you very much for agreeing to talk to us,” he said, and his voice sounded calm and encouraging.

He began with the most ordinary, everyday things: which exact street Alisa usually took to get to school, whether an adult accompanied her or she went with her friends, whether she had noticed anything strange or suspicious on the way lately. And suddenly, in the middle of this flow of routine questions, came the very one that made Artyom’s heart stop for a moment.

“Tell me, Alisa, is it true that yesterday, on your way home, you gave your cheese sandwich to a man who usually sits by the entrance of the grocery store on the corner of your street?”

Artyom blinked several times in surprise. He was hearing this story now for the first time—his daughter hadn’t mentioned it over dinner. Something inside him clenched with sudden anxiety, but being an adult and a composed man, he didn’t show it. He kept a mask of complete calm and understanding on his face.

When the officers, frowning and puzzled, finally left their home, Artyom slowly, with a heaviness in his whole body, closed the front door behind them, turned the key in the lock, and, taking a deep breath, went to his daughter’s room. The girl was sitting on the bed, hugging her knees, looking out the window where the first autumn leaves were slowly drifting to the ground.

“Alisa, my darling,” he began, sitting down beside her on the edge of the bed. “Let’s have a heart-to-heart. Who was that man you shared your sandwich with? Had you seen him before? Did he say anything to you?”

“He looked very, very hungry, Daddy,” the girl replied simply, without a trace of doubt or reproach in her voice. “He had such kind, but very tired eyes. And his hands were shaking. I thought my sandwich might help him a little, because I’m going to have lots more tasty lunches, and he might not have anything at all.”

Artyom couldn’t help smiling—such a warm, sincere smile—although that vague, nameless anxiety still sat somewhere deep inside him, right under his heart. He tenderly stroked his daughter’s head, praised her for her kind and responsive heart, but at the same time strictly asked her that from now on she be more careful and under no circumstances talk to strangers in the street without him being there. Alisa nodded obediently and very seriously, looking at him with her big, clear eyes. At that moment, the naïve and loving father allowed himself to think that this strange and slightly frightening story was safely over. He couldn’t even imagine that, in reality, everything was only just beginning and the main events still lay ahead.

When Alisa’s mother, a woman named Olga, came home from work that evening, Artyom met her in the hallway and, helping her off with her coat, briefly—choosing the softest, most neutral words he could—told her about the day’s visit. Olga, a sensitive and very emotional person, instantly felt a rush of anxiety; her face went slack with worry.

“The police? Here? Because of a sandwich? Artyom, what is going on? This is complete nonsense!”

Wanting to calm her, Artyom put his arm around her shoulders and tried to sound as convincing as possible.
“It’s all over now, Olya, don’t worry so much. I sorted everything out. Their questions were purely formal. There’s no threat to our daughter at all; I’m absolutely sure of that.”

But a mother’s heart, so keen and anxious, could not calm down that easily. In spite of all her husband’s assurances, Olga firmly decided that the next morning she herself would take Alisa to school. She needed to see everything with her own eyes, to assess the situation herself and make sure that her only, most precious treasure was completely safe and nothing threatened her peace or carefree childhood happiness.

The next morning, Olga woke up much earlier than usual. The kitchen was already filled with the wonderful aroma of freshly made pancakes, mixed with the invigorating smell of freshly brewed coffee. She did everything she could to keep her expression normal—calm, even slightly carefree—smiled at her daughter and husband, joked over breakfast, but inside everything was tightening from a vague, painful foreboding, from a heavy stone on her soul that would not let her rest.

“Alisa, sweetheart,” she said to her daughter, pouring warm cocoa into her cup. “Tell me a bit more about that man. What did he look like? What was so special about him?”

“He was… very sad, Mommy,” the girl answered thoughtfully, turning her favorite porcelain mug in her hands. “And very, very lonely. I saw it right away, as soon as I looked at him. And he was hungry, I could see that too. He was sitting on the cold pavement and looking at people with such empty eyes, like he didn’t see anyone at all. And I just thought that my sandwich could make him a little less hungry and a little less sad. Even if just for one minute.”

 

They left their cozy, safe home together, holding hands. The autumn morning was cool and clear; the sun, no longer as hot as in summer, cast long, fanciful shadows of bare trees across the asphalt, damp with night dew. Olga held her daughter’s small, warm palm tightly in her own and, walking beside her, asked about her school lessons, about the upcoming math test, about how her best friend Masha was doing—the friend she always shared a desk with.

“You know, Mom,” Alisa suddenly said seriously, looking straight ahead, “I didn’t give him my breakfast because I didn’t want it. I gave it to him because I knew for sure he needed it more than I did. Much, much more. Sometimes your heart just tells you what you have to do, right?”

When they approached the very place—by the corner grocery store—where, according to Alisa, she had seen that man, the girl suddenly furrowed her light eyebrows and stopped, carefully peering into the now-empty space by the entrance.

“Mom, he’s not here today. That’s strange… He was always here. Every day when I passed by, he sat right in this spot with his back against the wall. Where could he have gone?”

Olga carefully, almost intently examined the place her daughter pointed out. It really was empty. There was no old cardboard box that had apparently served him as both chair and table, no crumpled, worn-out blanket, and no sign of his hunched, lonely figure. Only the wind chased a few withered leaves and a torn scrap of yesterday’s newspaper across the asphalt. Olga said nothing to her daughter, only squeezed her hand tighter and felt those same nasty cold goosebumps run down her back again.

Seeing Alisa right to the school doors, kissing the top of her head and waiting until she disappeared inside, Olga, yielding to a sudden inner impulse, decided to go back to that store. She needed to look around herself—she couldn’t just shrug off this gnawing feeling. A little away from the entrance, behind some low bushes that were now almost bare, she noticed something that looked like a makeshift shelter: a small, badly tilted tent sewn, it seemed, from mismatched pieces of tarpaulin and plastic. Her heart beating faster with an unfamiliar fear, she walked closer.

“Hello?” she called quietly, almost in a whisper, bending toward the dark opening of the tent. “Is anyone there? I need to talk to you.”

There was no answer. The silence was deafening. Mustering her courage, Olga carefully pulled back the flap of tarpaulin and peeked inside. The tent was completely empty. No belongings, no signs of someone having been there recently. Only a few empty plastic bottles lying on the floor that the wind from time to time rolled from place to place. The tent—which had once been someone’s temporary refuge—now looked forlorn and abandoned, its tattered sides trembling in the cold autumn wind. Olga felt that same familiar anxiety slowly but surely crawling up her spine, like a cold, creeping vine.

On her way back home, she could not shake the persistent, nagging feeling that someone was following her. She turned around several times, shading her eyes from the low autumn sun, carefully scrutinizing the passersby, peering into shop windows, trying to catch someone’s suspicious gaze. But the busy street held only people rushing about their business, loudly honking cars, and carefree dogs running around. Nothing suspicious. And yet her heart was racing madly, as if trying to leap out of her chest, and only when she finally shut her front door behind her and slid the bolt did it start to calm down, little by little.

For the rest of the day, Olga tried to distract herself with housework, with her remote job, with sorting things in the closet. But her thoughts kept circling back to the empty tent, the vanished man, and her daughter’s anxious eyes. And when, toward evening, a loud, insistent, almost brazen knock suddenly boomed on the door, she jumped so hard she nearly dropped her favorite vase.

Sneaking up to the window, she very carefully, just a centimeter, drew back the heavy curtain and looked out. No one. Not a soul on the porch. And at that very moment, at the very edge of their yard, near an old spreading maple, her eye caught a quick movement. She saw a figure she already recognized—the one that had etched itself into her memory—dressed in a dark, worn-out coat. The same man. He stood there for just a few seconds, staring directly at their house, and then suddenly turned and almost ran away, as if he’d realized he’d been spotted, as if something had frightened him.

Without thinking, acting on instinct, Olga flung the front door open and rushed outside, desperate to catch up with him, to stop him, to talk.

“Wait!” she called after him. “Please, wait a minute! I want to help you!”

But the stranger, without looking back, only walked faster, turned the corner, and vanished into the thickening dusk. Olga went back into the house, her hands trembling uncontrollably, her eyes filling with tears of helplessness and fear. Right from the hallway, she dialed her husband’s number.

“Artyom, he was here. Right by our house, at the fence. I saw him with my own eyes. He was looking at our windows, and when he realized I had noticed him, he immediately ran away. I’m really scared.”

They quickly agreed over the phone that Artyom would personally pick Alisa up from school that day, and that from now on their daughter would not spend a single minute alone on the way to and from school. Their family’s safety rules were tightened in an instant.

That evening, when all three of them were sitting at the cozy kitchen table, Alisa suddenly put down her fork and said quietly, but very firmly, looking straight at her father:

“Daddy, you know, I think that man is probably really sick. He must feel very bad and very lonely. And he really needs help. We can’t just leave him all by himself, can we?”

These simple yet piercing words from his daughter touched something deep inside Artyom, stirred up something long-buried. He suddenly realized with absolute clarity: if he didn’t continue the good, bright deed his little daughter had so naively yet sincerely begun, then this impulse of hers, this pure kindness, might be wasted—might disappear without ever being fulfilled. Now he felt his responsibility, his duty, not just as a man, but as her father.

He went to the phone, found the number of the district duty station in the call history, and dialed it, determined at last to get to the bottom of this strange and tangled story. The answer he received stunned him to the core, leaving him speechless for a moment.

It turned out that the authorities were looking for this man not to arrest him or charge him with anything. The man, as it emerged, was named Sergey. He had been brought to the nearest city hospital with a very severe acute allergic reaction, which developed in him right after that cheese sandwich Alisa had shared with him. The paramedics had done everything they could to stabilize his condition and save his life, but once Sergey regained consciousness, terrified by what he imagined would be enormous hospital bills, he had simply run away without waiting to be discharged.

The officers, in turn, were trying to find him to inform him of extremely important news: all the costs of his treatment and further rehabilitation would be fully covered by the state under a new social support program to help people without permanent housing. They simply couldn’t catch up to him, because Sergey had no fixed place to stay and constantly moved around the district. Major Semyonov, the same one who had come to their home, even left Artyom his official business card and asked him personally that if Sergey showed up anywhere nearby again, Artyom should immediately contact him using the number on the card.

When Artyom heard all this, he felt a stone fall from his heart, but at the same time his conscience began to gnaw at him—he hadn’t given his daughter’s act the importance it deserved, had written it off as a fleeting childish impulse, while she, at just eight years old, with her small but brave gesture, had done something that many adults, weighed down with everyday problems and fears, often lack the courage and inner strength to do.

He now understood clearly that he had to find Sergey himself. Without putting it off, he got into his car and slowly drove through the familiar and unfamiliar streets of his district, carefully scanning the faces of passersby, the dark alleyways, the squares and parks. Inside, he felt a gnawing sensation under his ribs, very much like guilt—guilt for his initial indifference, for his lack of foresight.

It was already fully dark when, driving past a small square, he noticed a lonely hunched figure sitting on a bench beneath a single streetlamp. The man was wrapped up in his old, threadbare coat and seemed completely lost in his gloomy thoughts.

“Sergey?” Artyom called cautiously as he stopped the car and got out. “Is that you? I’m sorry to bother you. I… I’m the father of that little girl, Alisa. We didn’t get to introduce ourselves yesterday, I think.”

The man flinched as if struck, his face twisting in fear for a moment, and he instinctively moved as if to stand up and leave, to disappear into the darkness. But something in Artyom’s voice, in his open, calm face, made him stop.

“Please don’t be afraid of me,” Artyom went on gently but firmly, slowly walking toward the bench. “My wife, my daughter, and I know everything that happened. We truly want to help you, not hurt you. Let’s just talk like normal adults.”

Sergey looked at him with naked, almost animal distrust, his eyes darting from Artyom’s face to the car and back. But then, apparently reading nothing but sincere concern and kindness in his eyes, he gave a heavy, resigned sigh and gave a small, weary nod, silently agreeing to talk.

On the way back to the hospital—where Artyom insisted they go immediately—Sergey sat in the warm car, staring out the dark side window, and quietly, in short bursts, as if forcing the words out, told his story. He had worked for many years as a simple bricklayer for one of the city’s large construction firms. Then a black streak in his life began: he lost all his documents in a dormitory fire, then, as a result, he lost his job, and then the only housing he had. When he fell seriously ill and ended up in the hospital, he was seized by a panicky, all-consuming fear of “the system”—of paperwork, of what he imagined would be huge bills he could never pay. It seemed to him that no one needed him, that he was utterly alone in the world, and so he simply ran away, choosing the uncertainty of the streets over what he saw as humiliating dependence.

The doctors at the hospital they arrived at took Sergey in again, this time already knowing his story. The treatment he needed to continue went well and successfully. When a social worker officially explained to Sergey that all his medical care was absolutely free and completely covered by the state program, the faded, ever-present fear that had lived for years in his tired, world-worn eyes finally receded—and in its place appeared a tiny, but vitally important spark of hope.

 

Several weeks passed. Artyom and Olga, being active and compassionate people, didn’t stop there. They helped Sergey find simple but steady work as a loader in the very grocery store where he had once sat. Then, pooling their modest savings and their contacts, they found him a small but very cozy room in a shared apartment in their district. Major Semyonov threw himself into this good cause with great enthusiasm—using his position to help Sergey recover his lost documents and, later, coming by their home as a private person just to drink a cup of tea and talk about life.

When the day finally came that Sergey received the keys to his new home—humble, but his own—he stepped over the threshold and stopped in the middle of the tiny but spotlessly clean kitchen. He stood there, overwhelmed, unable to contain his emotions, and quiet, cleansing tears of relief and gratitude ran down his thin, weathered cheeks.

“If it hadn’t been for your little Alisa, if it hadn’t been for her good, pure heart that day…” was all he managed to say, squeezing Artyom’s hand in his big, work-worn palm. “I don’t even know where I’d be now…”

From then on, he became truly close to their family. “Uncle Seryozha,” as Alisa now called him, became a constant, welcome guest at all her birthday parties. He taught her, with great patience and delight, how to ride a two-wheeled bicycle in the nearby park, helped Artyom on weekends to fix the fence at their dacha and build birdhouses. Their home, already bright and cozy, now rang with even more laughter, joy, and warm, heartfelt conversations.

Sometimes, in the evening, when all the chores were done, Olga would come into the kitchen to make herself some tea and, looking out the window, see Artyom and Sergey on the porch, talking animatedly about something, while Alisa laughed, swinging in her new hammock. And then she would quietly whisper to herself:

“And to think this huge, real miracle began that autumn day, with a single child’s sandwich given away just like that—from the heart.”

And so one small but significant act of a child, like a tiny mountain stream, managed to change not only one life lost in the storms of fate. It changed several lives at once, weaving them into one strong and beautiful pattern. It reminded adults, weighed down by their endless worries, of the most important thing—that true, sincere kindness is never alone. It knows no boundaries and recognizes no fear. Like a ray of sunlight, it can penetrate to the very depths of a frozen soul and melt centuries-old ice of loneliness and despair. And the most wonderful thing about it is that it never ends—it is always, always asking to be continued, calling each of us to become the next link in an endless, shining chain of mercy and compassion. Because it is from these very small yet bright rays that the great, all-conquering sun of human kindness is ultimately formed

That The Woman You’re Sleeping With Got Sick Does Not Mean I’m Going To Give You Money For Her Treatment,” Anna Said Coldly To Her Husband.
10.11.2025admin

Roman froze in the middle of the living room of their two-story house. Amazement flashed in his eyes, quickly replaced by anger. He hadn’t expected his wife to know about Kristina.

“What nonsense are you talking? What mistress?” he tried to sound indignant, but it came out unconvincing.

Anna slowly turned to him. There wasn’t a single tear in her brown eyes—only icy contempt.

“DON’T, Roman. Just don’t. I’ve known about Kristina for six months. I know about the apartment you’re renting for her. About the gifts. About your ‘business trips’ to Sochi.”

The man flushed crimson. It always infuriated him when his wife turned out to be smarter than he thought. Thirty-eight years old, owner of a chain of car dealerships—he was used to everyone dancing to his tune. Money opened any doors, solved any problems. But not now.

“Fine, LET’S SAY I do have… something on the side,” he ground out through his teeth. “But what do the money have to do with it? I have my own business, I earn my own money!”

Anna smirked. Thirty-five, a housewife—that’s how he introduced her to his friends. A dumb hen who sits at home and spends his money. If only he knew…

“Your business?” She walked over to the bar and poured herself some mineral water. “Remind me, whose money did you use to open your first dealership ten years ago?”

“Your father’s,” Roman admitted reluctantly. “But I paid him back long ago!”

“Paid back?” Anna shook her head. “You repaid the LOAN my dad took out using his company as collateral. And who was the guarantor? Me. And when two years ago you were on the verge of going bust because of your little adventures with gray schemes, who pulled you out?”

“ENOUGH!” Roman roared, slamming his fist on the table. “That’s all in the past! Right now everything’s great, my business is thriving!”

“Thriving?” Anna took a tablet out of her purse. “Want to see the reports? Minus three million last quarter. Debts to suppliers—five million. Loans—seven. That gives us…”

“WHERE did you get this data?!” Roman snatched the tablet from her and threw it onto the couch.

“I’m just a dumb housewife, remember?” Anna said mockingly. “Who’s been doing all the bookkeeping for your companies for ten years. Unofficially, of course. Because officially your buddy Igor works there, the one who only tells debit from credit after his third shot.”

Roman was silent, breathing heavily. It infuriated him that his wife was right. That she knew everything. That without her he would’ve gone under long ago.

“Kristina needs surgery,” he finally forced out. “A serious one. In Germany. Two million rubles.”

“And you want me to give you that money?” Anna laughed. “ON WHAT GROUNDS?”

“Because… because it’s a matter of life and death!”

“Whose death? The one who, six months ago, was posting photos with my husband on Instagram with the caption ‘My love’? The one who called me and said I was an old cow who couldn’t keep a man?”

Roman choked. He hadn’t known Kristina had called his wife.

“She… she was drunk…”

“She was BRAZEN,” Anna cut him off. “Just like you. You both decided I was nothing. Furniture you don’t have to notice. Well then, GET OUT of my life, both of you, to hell!”

The next morning Roman woke up in the guest bedroom with a terrible headache. After last night’s conversation he had gotten drunk and didn’t even remember how he’d made it to bed.

Going down to the kitchen, he found Anna there. She was calmly drinking coffee and reading some documents.

“Good morning,” he threw out dryly, pouring himself some water.

“Morning,” she replied, without lifting her eyes from the papers.

“Listen, Anna… Let’s talk calmly. No shouting, no insults.”

His wife raised her eyes to him. There was a hint of curiosity in them.

“Go on.”

“I admit I was wrong. The thing with Kristina—it’s a mistake. But right now we’re talking about a human life! She has a brain tumor. If she doesn’t have the surgery in the next two weeks…”

“She’ll die,” Anna finished for him. “And?”

Roman couldn’t believe his ears.

“What do you mean, ‘and’? You’re not a monster!”

“I’m not a monster. I’m a woman whose husband betrayed her. Who was humiliated and laughed at. Your Kristina knew you were married. She knew, and she DIDN’T CARE. She wanted money, a pretty life, status. Well, life is a fair thing.”

“You’re just jealous!” Roman exploded. “Jealous that she’s young and pretty and you’re…”

“And I’m what?” Anna stood up from the table. “Old? Ugly? Maybe. But I have something your Kristina doesn’t. MONEY. And power over you.”

“What do you mean?”

Anna walked over to the safe, entered the code, and took out a thick folder.

“These are copies of all the documents for your business. Or rather, for MY business. Because all the companies are registered to me. You yourself asked for that—so that, if anything happened, your creditors couldn’t take them. Remember?”

Roman remembered. Three years ago, when he’d had serious trouble with his debts, he’d transferred everything to his wife. Later, when things got better, he meant to take it all back, but somehow never got around to it. And Anna never reminded him.

“So what? Tomorrow we’ll go to the notary and fix everything!”

“NO,” Anna cut him off. “We won’t go. And we won’t fix anything. You see, darling, while you were having fun with Kristina, I wasn’t wasting my time. All your companies have been re-registered. New founding documents. New official seals. And your name doesn’t even appear there as an employee.”

“YOU COULDN’T HAVE DONE THAT!” Roman bellowed. “You need my signature for that!”

“Signature?” Anna took out another folder. “Here are your signatures. On all the documents. You never read what you sign. ‘Anya, there are papers on the table, sign them for me.’ Remember? Well, I did have them signed. Only not instead of you—you signed them yourself. Just not the papers you thought.”

Roman grabbed the documents and started flipping through them. His face grew paler and paler.

“This… this is FRAUD!”

“Prove it,” Anna shrugged. “An expert will confirm that the signatures are genuine. Witnesses will confirm that you were of sound mind and clear memory. By the way, your friend Igor will confirm it too. I gave him a bonus. A big one.”

“Bitch…” Roman hissed. “You planned all of this!”

“Not all,” Anna admitted. “Kristina and her tumor, I didn’t plan. That’s just… a bonus. Karma, if you like.”

“I’ll sue you! I’ll prove you tricked me!”

“Go ahead. Just bear in mind—while the trial is going on, all the company accounts will be frozen. There’ll be no money to pay salaries. Suppliers will demand their debts be settled immediately. In a month, there’ll be nothing left of your empire but debts. Which, by the way, are also on you. Personal guarantees, remember?”

Roman was pacing around his office. A week had passed since that conversation. Kristina called him ten times a day, crying, begging him to get the money. The doctors gave her at most a month without the surgery.

He tried to find the money elsewhere. The banks refused—there was no collateral left, all the property was in Anna’s name. His friends spread their hands—no one had that kind of money. Sell part of the business? But the business wasn’t his anymore.

Humiliation choked him. All his life he had considered himself in control. A successful businessman, a handsome man everyone envied. And it turned out he was a puppet in his wife’s hands. The same wife he despised for her “petty bourgeois mindset” and “narrow horizons.”

The phone rang again. Kristina.

“Romochka, well? Any news? The doctors say we have to go urgently, they just had a spot open up…”

“Kristina, I… I still can’t get the money.”

“What do you mean, you CAN’T?! You said you had a multimillion business! What kind of man are you if you can’t help the woman you love?!”

“Don’t yell at me!” Roman snapped. “I’m doing everything I can!”

“Not enough! You’re doing NOT ENOUGH! Your wife is probably walking around in fur coats while I’m here dying! You know what? If you don’t get the money, I’ll tell her everything! About us, about the apartment, about everything!”

“She already knows,” Roman said wearily.

“What? And she… she didn’t throw you out?”

“No. It’s more profitable for her to keep me on a short leash.”

“Then… then I’ll tell all your partners! I’ll post our photos online! I’ll make such a scandal your reputation—”

“SHUT UP!” Roman barked. “Just shut up! You think you’re the only smart one? You think you’ll get anything with blackmail?”

“I’m dying, Roma! DYING! And you don’t care!”

“I do care, but I’m not a magician! There IS no money!”

“Then let your wifey pay! She’s rich, right, since she’s got you on a leash! Ask her, beg her, get on your knees!”

Roman hung up. Get on his knees in front of Anna? NEVER. He’d rather die.

That evening he came home completely shattered. Anna was sitting in the living room watching some talk show.

“You look awful,” she remarked without turning around.

“What do you care?”

“None at all. Just an observation. By the way, Kristina called. On the landline.”

Roman flinched.

“And what did she want?”

“Money, of course. Said you promised but aren’t delivering. Called you a rag and a nobody. And me—an old toad sitting on a pile of cash.”

“Anna, listen…”

“NO, you listen,” she turned off the TV and faced him. “Your girl offered me a deal. I give the money for the surgery, and she disappears from your life forever. Moves to another city and never shows up again.”

Roman’s heart skipped a beat.

“And… and what did you say?”

“What do you think?” Anna smiled. “Of course I agreed.”

“Really?!” Roman couldn’t believe his ears. “You’ll give the money?”

“I will. But under certain conditions.”

Here it comes. Roman knew nothing came free.

“What conditions?”

“First—you sign a property division agreement. Everything that’s in my name stays mine. You get your personal belongings and a car. One. Not the most expensive one.”

“That’s robbery!”

“That’s justice. Second—a divorce. No scandals, no claims. We quietly go our separate ways and live our own lives.”

 

“But what about the business? There are people working there!”

“The business will stay. I’ll hire a proper manager. I might even keep you. On a salary. If you behave.”

Roman clenched his teeth. From owner to employee of his own wife—that was worse than death.

“Do I have a choice?”

“There’s always a choice,” Anna said philosophically. “You can refuse. Then Kristina dies, you’re left with nothing, and I’ll still file for divorce. Only through the courts this time, with the division of debts. And you have, let me remind you, twelve million in debts.”

They set the signing for the next day. Roman didn’t sleep all night, trying to think of a way out. But there wasn’t one. Anna had cornered him the way a chess player corners the opponent’s king.

In the morning the notary arrived—expensive, trusted, the one who’d been working with their family for many years. An elderly man.

“Good afternoon, Anna Sergeevna, Roman Viktorovich. Nice to see you. So, the property division agreement?”

“Yes, Semyon Petrovich,” Anna nodded. “My husband and I decided to put our property matters in order.”

“Commendable, commendable. Very sensible in this day and age.”

Roman sat as if on needles. Sign a death sentence to his own prosperity? But he had no choice. Kristina was waiting.

“Roman Viktorovich, have you read the document?” asked the notary.

“Yes,” he squeezed out.

“Are you signing voluntarily, without coercion?”

Roman looked at Anna. She was calmly drinking tea, as if they were discussing the purchase of a washing machine.

“Voluntarily,” he lied.

Signatures, stamps, “I wish you happiness and prosperity.” The notary left, having handed them copies of the documents.

“Now the money,” Roman demanded.

“Of course,” Anna took out her phone. “I’ll transfer it now. To the clinic’s account or to Kristina’s?”

“The clinic’s. I’ll give you the details.”

Five minutes later the transfer was made. Two million rubles went to the account of the German clinic.

“That’s it,” Anna said. “Your girl is going to live. You can go to her.”

“She flies out tomorrow.”

“Excellent. That means you’ve got time to pack your things. I expect you to move out by the end of the week.”

“MOVE OUT?! You’re kicking me out of my own house?!”

“Out of MY house,” Anna corrected him. “You signed the documents. The house is mine now. Like everything else.”

Roman jumped up, knocking over his chair.

“You can’t do this! This is our house! We built it together!”

“We built it with my money. More precisely, with my father’s money. And it’s registered to me. So—come on, get packing. I’ll leave you the studio apartment on Rechnaya. Remember, we used to rent it out? Now you’ll live there.”

“A studio? Thirty square meters?!”

“What, that’s perfect for a bachelor. Unless you’d rather live on the street?”

Roman understood—she was serious. She could call security and have him thrown out. And the law would be on her side.

“You’ll pay for this,” he hissed. “I swear, you’ll pay!”

“Is that a threat?” Anna took out her phone. “I can record it and send it to the police. Threats are a criminal offense.”

Roman clenched his fists but kept quiet. Any careless word now could cost him what little freedom he had left.

The next day he packed the bare essentials and left. Kristina flew to Germany without even saying goodbye—she just sent a short “thanks” in a messenger.

The apartment on Rechnaya turned out to be a shabby hole with peeling walls and a leaking faucet. After the three-story mansion it was like moving from a palace into a chicken coop.

Roman pulled out the whiskey—the only expensive thing he had taken with him. He poured himself half a glass and downed it in one gulp.

His phone vibrated. A message from an unknown number.

“Hi, loser. How’s the new life?”

“Who the hell is this?”

Another message. A photo. Kristina hugging some man. The caption: “Thanks for the money. The surgery went great. By the way, meet my husband Oleg. He’s grateful too.”

Roman couldn’t believe his eyes. Husband?!

The phone rang. Unknown number.

“Hello!”

“Hey, Romchik,” a mocking male voice said. “This is Oleg. Kristina’s husband. Wanted to thank you for paying for her surgery. We’ve been married a year, but we didn’t have the money for treatment. And then you came along, so generous. Sure, you had your fun with my wife for six months, but that’s nothing. The important thing is she’s healthy now and we can live our lives. We’re planning kids, can you imagine?”

“You… you used me! You tricked me!”

“And what did you think—that a beauty like Kristina could really fall in love with a pot-bellied forty-year-old uncle? Don’t make me laugh. You were a wallet, Romchik. A walking ATM. And thanks for withdrawing the right amount right on time. Bye!”

The beeps. Roman hurled the phone at the wall. It shattered into pieces.

A month passed. Roman got a job as a sales manager at a dealership—not his, somebody else’s. Anna kept her word about her own companies—she didn’t hire him. Said she’d changed her mind. Let him start from scratch, like everyone else.

His manager’s salary barely covered food and utilities. His former luxurious life was now just a dream.

One evening, there was a knock on the door. Roman opened it. Anna was standing there. But not the Anna he remembered. An expensive dress, professional makeup, styled hair. She’d lost weight, looked ten years younger.

“Hi,” she said. “Can I come in?”

“Why are you here? To admire my downfall?”

“No. I came to tell you something. And to make an offer.”

Reluctantly, Roman let her in. Anna looked around and grimaced.

“How can you live like this?”

“What do you care? You’re the one who shoved me in here.”

“You shoved yourself,” she corrected him. “With your greed, laziness, and arrogance. But that’s not the point. Remember you said I was jealous of Kristina? That she’s young and pretty?”

“So what?”

“So, Kristina is me.”

Roman didn’t understand.

“What do you mean?”

Anna took out her phone and opened a photo. Kristina was on the screen—but… something was off.

“Look closer,” Anna suggested.

Roman took the phone, zoomed in—and gasped. It was Anna. In a wig, with different makeup, colored contacts. But it was her.

“HOW?!”

“Theater club in my youth. Plus a good makeup artist and a bit of acting. Changing your voice is harder, but you never heard us at the same time, did you?”

“But… but we… we slept together!”

“In the dark. You always turned off the light, remember? And you were always drunk. And in the morning I ‘left for work.’ In reality, I went home and turned back into the boring wife.”

Roman slid down the wall to the floor.

“Why? WHY did you do this?”

“I wanted to check. If you’re capable of real feelings. Or if all that matters to you is the packaging. Youth, beauty, passion. Turns out it’s just the packaging. Not once did you show any interest in my—I mean Kristina’s—thoughts, dreams, plans. Just sex and expensive gifts.”

“And the illness? The surgery?”

 

“There was no illness. I sent the money to charity. To a children’s hospice. In your name, by the way. You can be proud—you saved three kids.”

“You… you’re a MONSTER!”

“No. I’m a woman who put up with humiliation for ten years. Who you treated like furniture. Who you cheated on left and right, thinking I was an idiot who noticed nothing. I just paid you back. With interest.”

“And the man in the photo? Oleg?”

“My cousin. An actor. I asked him to play a role. He loved it—said he hadn’t had that much fun in years.”

Roman looked at his wife—no, his ex-wife—and didn’t recognize her. This was a completely different woman. Smart, cunning, ruthless.

“What do you want from me?” he asked tiredly.

“Nothing. I just thought you should know the truth. And also—I have an offer.”

“What offer?”

“Come back. Not as a husband—as a partner. You’ll run the dealerships. I see the reports—without you, sales are down twelve percent. You’re a good salesman, Roma. A bad husband, but a good salesman.”

“And why should I work for you?”

“Do you have any other options?” Anna shrugged. “You’ll get a percentage of the profits.”

Roman was silent, digesting her words. His pride was shouting, “Tell her to go to hell!” His reason was calmly calculating: rent, food, loans—his current salary barely covered survival.

“Think about it,” Anna headed for the door. “The offer stands for a week.”

“Wait,” Roman stopped her. “And if I… if I agree… Will we ever be able to…”

“No,” she cut him off sharply. “Never. You killed everything that was between us. But I’m not vindictive. Just smart. I need a competent manager, not a husband.”

The door closed. Roman was left alone in the cramped apartment where even the walls seemed to press in on him mockingly.

He poured himself the remaining whiskey and raised the glass.

“Damn bitch,” he muttered, but without his former rage. There was almost a tired admiration in his voice. “She outplayed me completely.”

And yet… Somewhere deep down, under the layers of humiliation and wounded pride, a strange gratitude flickered. Anna could have crushed him completely. But she’d given him a chance. A last one.

He picked up his broken phone, turned on his laptop. He had to answer. Before the week was up.

Anna was driving her new Mercedes, smiling. A cheerful song was playing on the radio. The lights of the evening city—her city—flashed by outside the window.

For ten years she had been a shadow. Now she was the mistress of her own life.

Her phone vibrated. A message from her brother: “You deserve an Oscar, sis. Brilliant performance.”

Anna laughed. Yes, she’d played her part. And she’d won. Her freedom, her self-respect, herself.

And Roman… Whether he came back or not didn’t matter anymore. She no longer depended on his choice.

Ahead lay a new life. Finally, her own.

 

Marina was coming home, exhausted.
It was an ordinary autumn evening—weekday, damp. In her bags: bread, milk, a pack of buckwheat, apples. In the stairwell, as always, it smelled of mildew and boiled cabbage, and the bulb above the second floor flickered in its nervous rhythm, like an alarm signal.

Climbing to the third floor, she turned toward the railing almost automatically—when she noticed that the door of her mother-in-law’s apartment, on the second floor, was ajar. In the same instant, she heard the voice of her husband, Andrey, from inside.

“Don’t worry, Mom. Everything’s already taken care of. The apartment is mine under the prenup. She won’t even realize until she’s left with nothing. The signature looks real.”

Marina froze. Her heart dropped into her shoes.

“That’s right, son,” the mother-in-law replied. “Didn’t give you an heir, so why should she get the apartment? She’s just a temporary inconvenience.”

Marina pressed herself against the wall, gripping the handles of her shopping bags as if trying to anchor herself to reality. Without making a sound, she slowly continued upstairs, like a shadow.

She shut the door behind her and slowly set the bags down on the kitchen table. One tore, the bread tilted, and the apples rolled across the floor—she didn’t even try to catch them. She just sat on the stool by the radiator, staring into emptiness.

The words from a floor below hammered in her head like a mallet striking metal.
“She won’t even realize… The signature looks real…”

Stupid. Did he really think she wouldn’t figure it out?

And yet, it had all started with “convenience.” Six years ago, when they were choosing a flat, Andrey spoke with confidence, insistence—like he had already made the decision.

“Mom’s apartment is just one floor down. That’s a plus! She’ll be right there to help, to keep an eye on things. We’ll pay off the mortgage faster. Makes sense, right, Marish?”

He called it “family support.”

Marina had simply nodded. She didn’t know how to argue—and didn’t want to. The important thing was to have their own place. Their own territory. Even with a mortgage, at least it wouldn’t be rented, with someone else’s rules.

They registered the apartment in both their names. Then the papers started.

“Sign this,” Andrey would leave a sheet on the kitchen table, next to her coffee cup. “Just standard stuff, the bank needs it.”
Or, “The lawyers said it’s for insurance. Pure formality.”

She signed. Not because she was stupid—because she trusted him. Who double-checks “formalities” with the person you live with, eat with, sleep with, share a bed and a loan with?

Her mother-in-law, Nadezhda Semyonovna, had never hidden her disapproval:

“You’re cold. No tenderness, no smile. Everything with you is on a schedule. Not a woman—an audit in a skirt.”

Marina never took offense—she simply stayed silent. Only when Andrey left—for work or the gym—did she let herself relax. A deep breath in, and out—like climbing a mountain.
Her mother-in-law interfered in everything: curtains, dishes, the frequency of marital “dates,” as she called them. Even soup.

“Not salty. Do you even know how to cook?”

Marina didn’t know how to snap back. She just did her part—laundry, bills, Saturday cleaning, sorting laundry by color.
She lived by the rules—what she thought were shared rules. Turned out, they were someone else’s.

And now all the “technicalities,” the little things she signed without thinking, had suddenly become a weapon. Against her. With her own signature.

She stared at an apple that had rolled under the fridge and thought, for the first time:
“Maybe I haven’t really been living—just existing on paper.”

She said nothing. Not that evening, not at dinner, not over coffee the next morning. Everything was the same: Andrey hurried through breakfast, complained about traffic, kissed her cheek, and slammed the door on his way out. Only now, she no longer watched him go.

When he left, Marina opened the bottom drawer of his desk. The folder with documents lay there as always—carelessly. She sifted through the papers with trembling fingers. Then—there it was: Prenuptial Agreement.

Inside—her name, his name, and the terms stating that the apartment would go to him in the event of a divorce.
Dated a month before the wedding.
Her signature. Almost.

She stared at it for a long time. It was almost her signature—but not quite. She had never written the letter “M” at that angle.

Two hours later, she sat in a café by the window, across from Sveta, her friend from law school.

“It’s a forgery,” Sveta said, after skimming the scans. “We’ll need handwriting analysis. In the meantime—silence. Don’t let him suspect.”

That evening, Marina placed a small voice recorder in the hallway—under the dresser. She photographed the signature and compared it to her passport.

The next day, she recorded Andrey in the bathroom telling his mother:

“Relax, Mom. She hasn’t noticed a thing.”

Three days passed. Marina kept up the routine—laundry, mopping, stacking groceries on shelves. But now she counted Andrey’s steps, listened to his tone, and asked herself over and over: How can he sit next to me and lie so calmly?

On Saturday, she made borscht—his favorite, with garlic and fried onions. She baked an apple pie. Andrey came home cheerful, snapping his fingers to the music on his phone.

“Smells amazing! I’m dead tired today. Let’s eat?”

They ate in silence. Marina was calm—almost icy. When he finished his second bowl, she dried her hands on a towel and looked him straight in the eye.

“I heard your conversation with your mom. And I found the ‘contract.’ You didn’t even bother to forge my signature properly.”

Andrey froze. Then smirked sharply.

“What nonsense? As usual, you’re making things up.”

Marina took the copy of the document from the drawer and laid it in front of him. Then she played the recording, his voice clearly saying:
“The apartment is mine under the prenup.”

Andrey went pale, then flushed.

“Everything depends on me! You’re nothing! You can’t prove a thing. It’s already done. You make trouble—you’ll be out of here in your slippers.”

Marina stood up calmly.

“Thank you, Andrey. You’ve just helped me win the case.”

The next day, she filed the papers. Sveta handled everything—divorce petition, motion to declare the prenup invalid, request for handwriting analysis.

The experts confirmed: the handwriting wasn’t hers. The slant, the pressure, even the curve of the letter “r”—all wrong. Plus, the audio recordings. In them, Andrey freely discussed with his mother how to leave his wife with nothing. Sveta smiled:

“It’s clean. The scheme he was so proud of is now working against him.”

In court, Andrey sat sullen, lips pressed in a thin line. His mother sat behind him, clutching her purse to her chest. Her expression wasn’t shame—it was disappointment: he hadn’t pulled it off.

The judge didn’t waste time.

“Signature forged. Contract invalid. Audio confirms intent. The apartment remains with the wife. The defendant will pay compensation.”

After the hearing, Marina stood at the courthouse entrance, clutching a copy of the decision. The paper rustled as if it were breathing.

 

Andrey walked past without meeting her eyes. His mother beside him.

“You shouldn’t have eavesdropped,” he muttered. “You ruined everything.”

Marina didn’t answer. She simply turned away and walked to the bus stop. Steady. Straight.

When Andrey finally moved out—over two nights, without farewells—the apartment became quiet. Strangely so. No sound of his footsteps, no mother-in-law’s voice on the phone, no slamming door in the mornings.

A week later, Nadezhda Semyonovna rang the doorbell. Marina opened without checking the peephole.

“Let’s not be enemies? We’re still family,” the mother-in-law murmured, clutching a container of pies.

Marina shut the door without a word. Not harshly—calmly.

That same day, she took down the dark curtains and threw out the wedding china set. Bought a new kettle, painted the kitchen walls a light color. Laid a rug she had always wanted, but which “didn’t match the sofa.”

For the first time, she moved the bed—not according to her mother-in-law’s feng shui, but for her own comfort.
A bright potted plant appeared on the windowsill.

Marina made tea, opened the window, and sat at the table.
This was her place. At last.

A year passed. Marina was now a senior analyst at the same company. Recently she’d been offered a managerial position, and for the first time she didn’t doubt—Yes, I can handle it.

She lived alone. Peacefully. With trips, unhurried weekends, and Saturday pottery classes.

That’s where she met Egor—a widowed instructor, slightly balding, with a quiet voice and warm hands. He didn’t laugh loudly, but his laughter was contagious.

“You’ve got the hands of someone who’s done this before,” he told her once, watching her shape a vase.

They began seeing each other more often. No promises—just warmth.

One evening, sitting in her newly bright kitchen, Marina held a cup of tea and smiled.

“Now I know—whatever they’re saying through the wall, the most important thing is that your own life carries your own voice.”

Good Lord, what on earth is going on?” Marina jerked awake to a crash in the kitchen. The clock on her nightstand read half past six. Sunday. The only day in the last three weeks when she could have slept at least until eight.
Kitchen supplies

She threw on a robe and stepped out of the bedroom. In the kitchen—flour scattered over the table, pots and pans everywhere—her mother-in-law was in full command. In her eternal blue apron, Nina Mikhailovna was kneading dough, humming under her breath.

“Good morning, Marinachka!” she beamed when she saw her daughter-in-law. “I decided to spoil you and Andryusha with pancakes! You’re always at work, no time to cook properly. So I got up early, opened the door quietly with the key so I wouldn’t wake you.”

Marina stood in the doorway, feeling something dark and hot begin to boil inside her. Three years. Three years she had put up with these early-morning invasions. Her mother-in-law came whenever she pleased, cooked whatever she pleased, rearranged things however she pleased. And always with that cloying smile of the doting mommy.

“Nina Mikhailovna,” Marina began, trying to keep her voice even though it betrayed her with a faint tremor, “we agreed. You need to warn us before you come. And the time… It’s six-thirty in the morning!”

Her mother-in-law threw up her hands, leaving floury prints on her apron.

“Oh, come now, dear! What warnings do we need among our own? I’m not a stranger! I’m Andryusha’s mother, aren’t I? I’m taking care of you two. The way you live—like a train station—either at work or off somewhere. You’re hardly home at all.”

That was the last straw. Marina felt something inside her snap, like a string pulled too tight. Months of sleep deprivation, endless projects at work, the fight to keep even a sliver of personal space—all of it crystallized into one clear desire. She wanted quiet. She wanted peace in her own home.

“Leave,” she said softly but firmly.

Nina Mikhailovna froze with a lump of dough in her hands.

“What? Marinachka, what are you talking about?”

“I’m asking you to leave. Right now. And leave the key.”

 

The older woman gave a nervous laugh and went on kneading.

“You’re not awake yet, that’s all. Go splash some cold water on your face and I’ll finish the pancakes.”

Marina took a deep breath, walked over to the stove, and decisively turned off the gas under the skillet where the oil was already sizzling. She picked up the bowl of batter from the table and, without a word, poured it into the sink. Nina Mikhailovna gasped.

“What… what are you doing?!”

“Defending my home,” Marina replied, turning on the tap and rinsing the batter away. “You have five minutes to gather your things and leave. Put the key on the table.”

“How dare you!” the older woman squealed. “I’ll tell Andryusha everything! You’ll be sorry!”

“Go ahead. And now—out.”

The next few minutes passed in tense silence. Puffing with indignation, Nina Mikhailovna gathered her things, slamming cupboard doors as she went. At last she flung the key onto the table with such a bang the glasses in the rack rattled.

“Ungrateful girl! I do everything for you and you—”

“Good-bye, Nina Mikhailovna.”

Marina walked her to the door and shut it with a wave of staggering relief. She leaned against it and closed her eyes. Silence. Blissful, long-awaited silence.

An hour later Andrey woke up. He came into the kitchen, stretching and yawning.

“Morning. It’s awful quiet. Didn’t Mom come by?”

Marina poured him coffee.

“She did. And she left.”

“She didn’t have time to make pancakes?” he said, surprised.

“I asked her to leave. And to hand over her key.”

The cup stopped halfway to his lips.

“You what?!”

“What you heard. I can’t stand these morning raids anymore. I need peace in my own home.”

Andrey set the cup down so hard coffee sloshed onto the tablecloth.

“You threw my mother out?! Are you out of your mind?”

“I set boundaries,” Marina said calmly. “Boundaries that should have been set long ago.”

“She meant well! She takes care of us!”

“Of you, Andrey. She takes care of you. To her, I’m just an unfortunate add-on to her precious little boy.”

He shot to his feet.

“Don’t you dare talk about my mother like that!”

“And don’t you dare shout at me in my house!”

“In OUR house!”

“Which has become a branch office of your mommy’s apartment! She comes when she wants, orders us around as she wants, and I’m supposed to put up with it in silence?”

Andrey grabbed his phone.

“I’m calling her right now to apologize for your behavior!”

“Go ahead,” Marina shrugged. “Just know this: if she gets a new key, I’ll change the locks. And if you make another duplicate—I’ll move out.”

He froze with the phone in his hand.

“Are you threatening me?”

“I’m warning you.”

The rest of the day passed in icy silence. Andrey pointedly didn’t speak to Marina, had lunch at his mother’s, and came home only late at night. Marina didn’t try to hash anything out. She knew a long war lay ahead. But she was ready.

Monday began with a phone call. At work, Marina saw her mother-in-law’s name on the screen. She declined it. A minute later the phone rang again. And again. After the fifth call, Marina muted her phone. By lunch there were more than twenty messages in her messenger. She opened the first: “Marinka, we need to talk. You had no right to treat me like that.” She didn’t read the rest—she simply blocked the number.

That evening Andrey met her at the door.

“Mom’s been calling you all day and you won’t answer!”

“I’m working,” Marina said evenly, taking off her shoes. “I don’t have time for idle chatter.”

“Idle?! You sent her into a heart episode yesterday!”

“If she’d had a heart episode, she’d be in the hospital, not calling me every five minutes.”

Andrey flushed dark red.

“Enough! Tomorrow you’ll go to her and apologize!”

“No.”

“Marina, I’m not joking!”

“Neither am I.”

She walked past him into the room. He stayed in the hallway, fists clenched. This woman he thought he’d known for three years had suddenly become a stranger. She had always given in, agreed, tried to avoid conflict. Now she looked at him calmly and coldly, as if he were just someone she barely knew.

The next day, Nina Mikhailovna tried a different tactic. She lay in wait for Marina outside the office. When Marina came out after work, her mother-in-law literally blocked her path.

“Marinka! Wait, we need to talk!”

Marina stopped—not because she wanted to talk, but to avoid making a scene in front of colleagues.

“Nina Mikhailovna, we have nothing to discuss.”

“How can you say that? You’ve practically banished me from your home! You’re cutting a son off from his mother!”

“I’m not cutting anyone off from anyone. I’m asking you to respect my boundaries.”

“What boundaries? We’re family!”
Family games

“Exactly. Family is me and Andrey. And you are his mother, who lives separately and should respect our privacy.”

Nina Mikhailovna threw up her hands.

“What kind of person are you! You have no heart! I only want what’s best for you!”

“Your ‘best’ is suffocating me,” Marina said quietly. “Excuse me, I have to go.”

She stepped around the older woman and headed for the bus stop. Behind her came the outraged cry:

“You’ll be sorry! Andryusha won’t forgive you!”

Marina didn’t look back. In one thing, she knew, Nina Mikhailovna was right—Andrey truly wouldn’t forgive her. But she could no longer live with constant intrusions into her personal space.

An angry husband was waiting at home.

“Happy now? My mother called me in tears! Says you insulted her in the street!”

“I told her the truth.”

“Your truth drove her into hysterics!”

“How she reacts to my words is her choice.”

Andrey slammed his fist on the table.

“That’s it! Either tomorrow you apologize and give her key back, or…”

“Or what?” Marina looked at him steadily.

He faltered. He had nothing to threaten her with. The apartment had been bought fifty-fifty, both worked, there were no children.

“Or I don’t know what will become of our marriage,” he managed at last.

“I don’t know either,” she agreed. “But I will not live by your mother’s dictates anymore.”

The following days turned into torture. Andrey practically stopped speaking to her. He came home late, ate at his mother’s. Nina Mikhailovna kept up the assault—calling her at work, showing up outside the office, sending long messages about how heartless and ungrateful Marina was. Marina held her ground, though her nerves were fraying.

The climax came on Friday. Marina returned from work to find the front door ajar. Her heart dropped. She nudged it open and stepped inside. The apartment was quiet, but something was off. She walked into the kitchen and froze. Every cupboard stood open, the dishes had been rearranged, a pot of soup simmered on the stove, and on the table lay a note: “Made you dinner. —Mom.”
Kitchen supplies

A wave of fury surged up inside her. Nina Mikhailovna had been here. In her absence. Playing lady of the house in her kitchen despite a direct ban. Which meant Andrey had made her a duplicate key.

She pulled out her phone and dialed her husband.

“You gave her a key,” she said without a greeting.

“Marina, let’s talk at home…”

 

“Answer me. Did you give your mother a key to our apartment after I explicitly forbade it?”

Silence.

“She’s my mother. She has a right…”

Marina hung up. It was over. She knew it with absolute clarity. Moving as if in a dream, she went to the bedroom, took a suitcase from the closet, and began to pack—methodically, neatly, without hurry. Underwear first, then clothes, then documents.

Andrey returned an hour later. Seeing the suitcase in the hallway, he stopped dead.

“What does this mean?”

“Exactly what it looks like. I’m leaving.”

“Marina, don’t be ridiculous. Let’s talk.”

“About what? About how you betrayed me? Chose your mother over your wife?”

“I didn’t choose anyone! I just wanted you two to make peace!”

“No, Andrey. You made your choice the moment you gave her a key. You showed me that her wishes matter to you more than my boundaries.”

She picked up the suitcase and a folder with documents.

“Wait! Where are you going?”

“To a friend’s. Then I’ll rent a place. I’ll file for divorce next week.”

“Marina, you can’t be serious! Over some key…”

She stopped at the door and turned.

“Not over a key, Andrey. Over respect. Which you don’t have for me. Tell your mother—she’s won. Now she can come every day and make you pancakes.”

Marina walked out, leaving Andrey standing in the entryway with his mouth open. She went down the stairs, stepped outside, and drew a long breath of evening air. For the first time in a long while, she felt free.

The next morning her phone rang. Andrey. She didn’t answer. A few minutes later a message arrived: “Mom wants to talk. She’s ready to apologize.” Marina smirked. Too late. She deleted the message and blocked the number.

A week later she rented a small apartment in another neighborhood. Small, but hers. Where no one would come without an invitation, run her kitchen, or teach her how to live. That evening, sitting in her new place with a cup of tea, she received a text from an unknown number: “Marinka, it’s Nina Mikhailovna. Andryusha is going crazy without you. Let’s talk and make peace. I won’t come over without asking anymore.”

Marina read the message and deleted it. Then she opened the window to let in the fresh air and smiled. A new life had begun. No more early-morning intrusions, no more fighting for the right to be mistress in her own home, no more choosing between her self-respect and staying married.

A month later, her lawyer told her Andrey had agreed to a no-fault divorce with no division of property—Marina would take her half of the apartment’s value in cash. Another month, and she had the divorce certificate in hand. That same evening her friend called:

“Heard the news? Andrey’s living with his mom now. She moved in—cooks, cleans. They’re both happy.”

Marina laughed.

“I’m happy for them. They’ve found each other.”

And it was true. She really was happy—for them, and especially for herself. For finding the strength to say “no.” For choosing herself, her peace, her freedom. For knowing she would never again wake at six-thirty to the clatter in the kitchen
Kitchen supplies