All Amazing Babies

Their daughter, Lena, vanished in 1990 — on the very night of her graduation.

It was a warm June evening. Stars scattered across the sky, the house filled with the scent of lilacs and freshly baked vanilla cake — her favorite. Lena spun in front of the mirror in a blue dress, laughing, while her father, Nikolay, watched with quiet joy. “This is happiness,” he thought.

No one could have imagined it would be their last evening together.

After the graduation party, Lena never returned. Not that night, not the next day, not ever. The search dragged on for months, but every trail went cold. The police offered only shrugs, witnesses contradicted each other, and the single lead — whispers of a girl seen hitchhiking on the highway — proved false.

Years blurred into decades. Olga, her mother, withdrew from the world. Nikolay grew old before his time. Hope, like the flame of an oil lamp, dwindled to a faint, flickering glow.

Then came 2012.

One rainy October day, while tidying the attic, Nikolay stumbled across an old photo album. Dust swirled around him as he opened it. Familiar snapshots stared back: Lena in her school uniform, Lena with friends, Lena on family trips. But then his heart skipped a beat — one picture he had never seen before.

It showed Lena as a grown woman, about thirty, standing beside a wooden house against a backdrop of mountains. On the back, in her handwriting: “2002. I am alive. Forgive me.”

His hands shook so badly he nearly dropped it.

When he carried the album downstairs and handed it to Olga, her trembling fingers traced the faded image. Slowly, a fragile light flickered in her eyes.

“It’s her… It’s Lena…”

They stared at the photo for hours, drinking in every detail. Behind Lena, a sign read: “Gostinica ‘Zvezda’ — Hotel Star.”

“She was alive,” Nikolay whispered. “Alive for twelve years… and silent all this time. Why?”

The very next morning, he began searching. Online, he found a hotel by that name — in Kyrgyzstan, deep in the mountains. Without hesitation, he packed a bag, withdrew his savings, and set off.

The journey was long: train, transfers, buses, and finally an old minibus climbing into the thin, cold air of the mountains. When at last the hotel appeared before him, his heart thundered. The sign was the same.

Inside, the wooden walls smelled of time and memory. Behind the counter sat a middle-aged woman.

 

“Excuse me,” Nikolay asked, his voice trembling, “Do you know a woman named Lena? Lena Nikolayeva. She may have stayed here… ten years ago.”

The woman studied him closely.

“Wait,” she said softly. “You’re her father, aren’t you?”

He froze. “Yes…”

She opened a drawer and pulled out a worn envelope. On the front: “To Dad. Only if he comes himself.”

Nikolay tore it open with shaking hands.

Dad,
If you’re reading this, it means I was wrong. I ran away in 1990 — not from you, but from fear. I fell in with the wrong people, and then it became too late to return. Shame kept me away.
I am alive. I have a son, Artyom. He has never known you.
So many times I wanted to write, but I couldn’t. If you came here, it means you still care. Find me. I’m not far.
Forgive me. — L.

Tears blurred the words as they dripped onto the paper.

“She lives in a nearby village,” the woman said gently. “I can take you.”

Soon, Nikolay stood at the gate of a small house. A boy of about ten played in the yard. Then a tall, dark-haired woman stepped outside. Their eyes met.

Lena.

They froze.

“Dad?” she whispered.

He couldn’t speak. He only nodded — and in the next heartbeat, they were in each other’s arms.

“Forgive me,” she cried against his shoulder. “I’ll make it right. I promise.”

Years passed again, but this time differently. The house rang with laughter once more. Artyom called Nikolay “grandpa.” Olga planted flowers by the porch, her hands steady with purpose again.

The past still hurt, but the photo album on their shelf no longer ended with emptiness. On the last page was a new picture — Lena, Artyom, Nikolay, and Olga, together at last.
Caption:
“Family is when you find each other. Even after twenty-two years.”

The autumn of 2013 came unusually warm. Leaves floated lazily to the ground, the air rich with the scent of apples, dry grass, and something fragile but new—hope.

Olga sat on the veranda peeling potatoes, an old knitted blanket across her lap. From inside, the cheerful voice of her grandson carried through the open window:

“Grandpa, did you really drive a tractor?”

“Of course!” Nikolay chuckled. “And not just drove—your grandpa was the best driver in the whole district!”

Artyom, a lively boy with bright eyes, adored these stories. Tales of a time without smartphones, when life seemed simpler, almost like a film.

Lena stepped onto the porch.
“Lunch!” she called. “Artyom, fetch grandpa.”

Nikolay walked closer, his gaze fixed on his daughter.
“You know… every day I fear waking up and finding you gone again.”

Lena lowered her eyes.
“I was afraid too. That you wouldn’t forgive me. That you wouldn’t want me back.”

“Silly girl,” Nikolay said softly. “How could I ever not forgive my own daughter?”

One day, while digging out winter clothes in the attic, Olga stumbled upon an old box. Inside lay a worn leather diary in Lena’s handwriting.

For a moment she wanted to close it. But curiosity—and longing—made her open it at random.

*“I worked as a cleaner, then in a kitchen. Slept in a corner of a room with an old woman and her cats. Some days it felt like I was already dead. I wanted to return. But I didn’t have the strength…

When Artyom was born, I felt needed again. I swore: if fate gave me a chance, I would come back. Explain everything. Even if twenty years had passed.”*

Olga sat with the diary for a long time, then went to the kitchen, made tea, and silently wrapped her arms around her daughter.
“Don’t disappear again. Promise me.”

Lena nodded, unable to speak.

A few months later, a tall man appeared at their doorstep. His hair had grayed, his eyes heavy with memories. Nikolay opened the door, and at once he knew—this man was part of their pain.

“Hello. My name is Stanislav. I… knew Lena. Back in 1990. I… came to apologize.”

They sat outside on the bench. When Lena came out and saw him, her face went pale.

Stanislav told how he had been the boy she fell in love with after graduation. How he promised her freedom, only to abandon her when life grew difficult. Years later, he learned she had a son.

“I don’t ask for forgiveness,” he said quietly. “I just wanted you to know—I never forgot.”

Lena was silent for a long time. Then finally said:
“I forgave long ago. But not for you. For myself. To live on.”

Stanislav left, and with him seemed to fade the last shadow of the past.

That New Year, the house was filled with laughter. The family album grew again—Artyom glued in photos himself: school snapshots, walks, fishing trips with grandpa.

On the last page he wrote:
“Family isn’t those who are always near. It’s those who return.”

Seven years passed. Artyom turned fifteen. Taller than his mother now, wearing glasses, he carried a camera everywhere. He loved wandering through the woods, capturing “traces of life”—abandoned houses, rusty swings, fading campfire circles.

Nikolay could no longer keep up with him. His heart was weak, his legs tired. But every morning he still sat by the window with tea, watching his grandson leave with a backpack and camera.
“We’ve got an artist growing up,” he’d say proudly. “Only his brush is a camera.”

Olga softened with time. Her smile was unchanged, but her eyes carried calmness, as if she had finally found balance.

Lena became a literature teacher at the local school. Her students respected her. Life had settled into rhythm, meaning, and permanence.

But time kept moving. And with it—what no one could escape.

One spring morning, Nikolay didn’t wake up.

He left as quietly as he had lived. On his bedside table lay an old photo: Lena in her graduation dress, Olga beside her, both young and laughing.

In the garden, Artyom held his grandfather’s album for a long time. Finally, he opened it to the last page and added a new photograph—Nikolay in his chair, holding his grandson on his lap.

The caption read:
“You taught me to remember. Thank you, grandpa.”

Five more years slipped by. Artyom entered a university in Moscow, studying photography and journalism. He often wrote home, and every letter began the same way:
“Hi Mom. I miss you. I remember.”

A year after Nikolay’s passing, Olga followed him. Lena remained in the house, but not lonely. She had her books, her memories, and a son who came every holiday, bringing new stories and photos from around the world.

One spring, she took out the photograph from 2002—the one by the mountain house with the words “I am alive. Forgive me.”

On the back, she wrote:
“Now I truly live. And at last, I think I’ve forgiven myself.”

The year was 2025.
Artyom, now an adult, returned to the house where his childhood lived on. He carried with him a camera, a notebook, and one clear purpose — to write a book. A book about family, about memory, and about the girl who, after twenty-two long years, finally came home.

He opened an old family album. On the first page — little Lena. On the last — himself with his mother, standing beneath a blooming apple tree.

 

On that final spread, he wrote:

“A story doesn’t end as long as someone remembers it. This is our story. A story of return.”

Artyom often came back to the village house. He never stayed for good — city life, work, festivals always pulled him back. Yet every time he crossed the threshold, he felt he was entering something sacred, something that belonged only to him.

The house stood unchanged. Each spring the apple tree blossomed as faithfully as before. Artyom tended it with care — trimming, whitewashing, protecting. He called it “the tree of memory.”

Inside, everything remained as it had been: Lena’s books, Nikolay’s thermos, Olga’s jars of herbs. One day, while sorting through old things, he found an unsigned envelope. Only a date: 1990.

Inside was a letter. Lena’s farewell, written the very day she disappeared.

“If you are reading this, it means I’ve gone. Don’t look for me. I need another life. Forgive me, if you can. I will return when I am worthy of forgiveness.”

Artyom held the letter for a long time. Later, he placed it next to another one — Lena’s letter from 2002. Together they looked like a mirror — one of fear and flight, the other of regret and return.

He photographed them both, then carefully tucked them away again.

Lena had aged beautifully. Without bitterness, with dignity. Her eyes carried something deep — the kind of depth that comes only to those who have been broken and yet survived. She no longer blamed herself. She had forgiven — slowly, but fully. To her son she gave everything she had; the rest she left for time to take away.

They often sat quietly on the porch. Artyom would ask about the past — about school, about his grandmother, about the boy Lena had run away with back in 1990.

She didn’t always answer at once.

“I thought I was running to freedom,” she confessed one evening. “But later I realized — I was just running from myself. And yet… if I hadn’t left, you wouldn’t exist. And without you, I wouldn’t have survived. That’s all.”

Artyom listened in silence. Sometimes he turned on a voice recorder. Those conversations would later become part of his book.

In 2026, his book was published. Simply titled “Photo Album.”

It held photographs, Lena’s letters, Olga’s diary entries, Nikolay’s stories. Nothing was embellished. It was raw truth — pain, regret, love, forgiveness. A family — imperfect, but alive.

Unexpectedly, the book touched thousands. Readers said it felt real.

Lena was once invited to a presentation. She was terrified of public speaking, but when she finally stood before the audience, she managed only one sentence:

“Thank you for remembering us. Because when we are remembered — we are alive.”

Autumn, 2030.

Lena left quietly, as her father once had. Artyom found her in a chair by the window, a book on her lap, the first photograph in her hands.

He buried her beside her parents, beneath the apple tree.

Afterward, he sat there for a long time. No tears, only silence. Then he lifted his camera and took one final photo — the tree glowing in autumn light, the inscription carved into the tombstone:

“Nikolay, Olga, Lena. The Nikolayev Family.”

And beneath it, Artyom added:

“They found each other. And I — found them.”

Then he rose, and walked away. With memory in his heart, a camera in his hands, and a story that now belonged only to him.

Years drifted by.

Artyom lived in St. Petersburg. He had his own studio, students, exhibitions. Yet he never called himself a photographer. He would only say:

“I catch the breath of time.”

In a corner of his studio stood a locked cabinet. Inside were treasures: the album, the letters, his grandmother’s herbs wrapped in old paper, a recorder with his mother’s voice. He rarely opened it — only when he missed them unbearably.

One spring day, he returned to the village once more.

The house had changed — a new roof, a veranda. But the garden remained the same. And the apple tree — still blooming, still alive.

Artyom walked barefoot across the cool earth. He stopped beneath the tree, raised his camera, and pressed the shutter. Not for an exhibition, not for a book — just for himself.

The photo stayed in his camera. He no longer printed such pictures.

Because he knew: the most important had already been captured. Everything that needed to be said — was said. Everything that needed to be found — was found.

He sat on the bench and closed his eyes.

And then it came — the sound of light footsteps. As if his mother had just stepped out of the house. As if his grandmother were carrying tea. As if his grandfather was laughing near the shed.

In that moment, Artyom understood:

No one truly leaves. They simply become silence, wind, light between the leaves.

And as long as you remember — they are with you. Always.

Snowflakes slowly swirled in the light of the streetlamps, like ballerinas dancing in white dresses. Maria Andreevna, standing at the window of her fourth–floor apartment, was lost in the February darkness. Each time the headlights of passing cars lit up the courtyard, her heart began to beat faster. She knew that soon Andrei would return from another business trip.

Memories of their first meeting, ten years ago in the university library, flooded her mind: she was then a philology student, and he a promising economist. Their passionate romance led to an early marriage and the birth of a son, and at the time it seemed that happiness would last forever. But in the last two years everything had changed.

 

“Mommy, is it true that Daddy is coming home today?” six–year–old Kostya asked in a cheerful little voice, pulling Maria out of her thoughts.

“Yes, darling,” Maria tried to smile, though anxiety still tightened her heart.

“Let’s bake his favorite cabbage pie?”

“Hooray!” the boy shouted joyfully, and soon the kitchen was filled with the aroma of fresh pastry. Maria remembered how Andrei used to rush home, lured by that very smell. “A house must smell of pies,” his mother, Nina Vasilievna, had told Maria when she taught her her culinary secrets.

For three years now, Nina Vasilievna had been living with them after a stroke, still exerting some influence over her son’s life. Yet even her authority was fading.

Suddenly, the click of a turning key made Maria flinch. On the threshold stood her husband—worn–out, unshaven, his eyes bloodshot from exhaustion, and carrying a faint trace of someone else’s perfume.

“Is dinner ready?” he barked, ignoring Kostya, who rushed toward him.

“Daddy!” the boy cried happily, trying to hug his legs.

“Leave me alone, I’m tired,” Andrei pushed him aside and muttered, “Why are you baking those pies again? Stop wasting money.”

Maria stayed silent, as she had learned to do whenever her husband came home like this. Wordlessly, she set the table and carefully placed the most appetizing slice of pie before him.

A heavy silence hung over the table, broken only by the clatter of cutlery and Nina Vasilievna’s soft stories of her youth.

“How was your trip?” Maria asked cautiously once Andrei had finished eating.

“Fine,” he answered curtly, pushing away his plate. “Stop interrogating me.”

“I just wanted to—”

“Just what?” he snapped, as if exhausted by her concern. “I’m sick of your endless questions! All you do is spy on me!”

Kostya pressed himself fearfully against his grandmother, sighing quietly. Nina Vasilievna shook her head and tried to calm her son:

“Andryusha, stop it, Masha is only concerned—”

“Enough!” Andrei’s voice cut through the room. He suddenly grabbed his bag. “Take your brat and get out!”

“Andrei!” Nina Vasilievna cried, trying to reason with him. “Come to your senses!”

“Be quiet, Mother! I’ve had enough of all of you!”

He seized Maria by the hand and dragged her to the door, while Kostya, sobbing, ran after them.
“You can spend the winter in the communal flat!” he growled, shoving them out into the snowstorm.

Outside, in the whirling snow, Maria clutched trembling little Kostya close, shielding him with her coat. There was no taxi in sight, all their bank cards remained with Andrei, and her phone had died earlier that day.

“Mommy, I’m cold,” Kostya whispered.

“Hold on, darling, we’ll think of something,” Maria soothed him, when suddenly an old Moskvich with a dented fender pulled up.

“Get in quickly,” came a gentle but firm voice from the car. “In this weather you can’t stay out with a child. My name is Mikhail Petrovich. I used to be a mechanic, now I’m retired.”

Maria didn’t hesitate long; freezing seemed worse than risk. She and Kostya climbed in. Mikhail Petrovich drove them to his modest apartment, where his wife, Anna Grigorievna, immediately began wrapping them in warm blankets, pouring hot tea, and finding old but cozy clothes for Kostya.

“Do you have somewhere to go?” Anna Grigorievna asked after Kostya finally fell asleep.

“There’s a room in a communal flat left from my grandmother,” Maria said quietly. “But I haven’t been there in years…”

“In the morning Misha will drive you there,” she declared firmly. “For now, rest.”

The communal apartment on the outskirts of Lipovsk greeted them with suspicious stares from neighbors: five families sharing one kitchen and one bathroom was always a trial. But there was no other choice.

The room was small but neat: yellowed wallpaper, a creaky sofa, a wobbly wardrobe. Kostya climbed onto the windowsill at once, peering curiously into the snowy courtyard.

“Mom, are we going to live here?” he asked, gazing into the emptiness.

“Just for now, darling. Until we find something better,” Maria replied.

Over time, Mikhail Petrovich often visited them, helping with small repairs: thanks to him new shelves appeared in the room, and the dripping faucet in the shared kitchen was finally fixed. Gradually even the neighbors warmed up, especially after Maria began baking her signature pies and sharing them with everyone.

 

Mikhail Petrovich, who had spent his life working at a car factory, couldn’t sit idle even in retirement: he had built his Moskvich from old spare parts, which locals nicknamed “Frankenstein.” He and his wife Anna Grigorievna had been married for forty years, raised three children, and now tried to pass their kindness on to others.

“You know, Masha,” Anna Grigorievna said one evening, tucking Kostya into bed, “we too have been through a lot. In the nineties the plant was idle, there was no work. But people helped each other, shared what little they had. Now it’s our turn to give back.”

Meanwhile, Andrei had started a new life with Alyona, enjoying his freedom and bringing her into the house, ignoring his mother’s protests. But happiness was fleeting: Alyona soon realized living with a tyrant was impossible and ran off with a young fitness trainer.

Back in the communal flat, Maria met Dmitry, a programmer renting the next room. After losing his job at a major company, he was trying to launch a startup while tutoring on the side. Dmitry not only helped Kostya with math but also spent long evenings with Maria, telling stories about computers and robots.

Having endured a painful divorce, Dmitry had preserved his faith in people and always showed empathy. Seeing Maria crying with little Kostya had touched him deeply—perhaps he had recognized his own loneliness in her.

Life gradually began to improve. Maria found work as a waitress at the café “Lilac,” where her culinary talents were soon recognized, and she became assistant to the head chef. The café’s owner, Stepan Arkadyevich, began courting her: bringing flowers, giving compliments, and soon a tender, caring bond began to grow between them. At the same time Dmitry was always nearby, supporting Maria in difficult times and helping her with paperwork.

A year later Maria gave birth to a daughter, Nadya, and Kostya proudly took on the role of big brother, eagerly helping his mother with the baby. Dmitry became the father the boy had always dreamed of.

Sometimes Andrei, passing by “Lilac,” saw through the window a joyful Maria, a grown-up Kostya, and Dmitry working side by side. Once he even came in for coffee, but upon seeing his former wife, he silently left.

In little Lipovsk, people still say there’s no cozier place than the café “Lilac.” They say the winter storm that once crushed a family gave them a new beginning and real happiness.

Every year, when the first snowflakes fall, Maria stands at the café window and remembers that terrible night. Now she knows: sometimes you must lose everything to find love and happiness, and the storm only clears the path to a new life.

Olga sank onto the sofa, massaging her temples after a long workday. First eight hours at the office, then another four—moonlighting as an accountant for an acquaintance’s small business. It had been like this for three years straight. The apartment was quiet; only the refrigerator hummed monotonously in the kitchen.

The front door slammed—Sergey was back. Olga didn’t even raise her head, continuing to rub her temples. Her husband walked into the kitchen and clattered the dishes.

“Ol, are you going to have dinner?” Sergey called from the kitchen.

“No appetite,” Olga answered without opening her eyes.

They had been married for seven years. Seven years that had begun with hopes and promises and turned into an endless string of arguments and unspoken grievances. Olga remembered their wedding—how happy they had been then. Sergey had sworn he would be her rock and protector. Where were those vows now?

The apartment had come to Olga from her grandmother even before the wedding. Two rooms, a good neighborhood, a view of the park. Olga guarded this home like the apple of her eye—the one real anchor in her life. At the insurance company the pay was steady but not generous. That was why she had to work evenings as well.

Sergey came into the room with a plate of pasta.

“Worked late again?” he asked, settling into the armchair opposite her.

“What else can I do? You know we’re saving for renovations, and I’d like a proper vacation—not at your mother’s dacha.”

Sergey winced at the mention of his mother. Nina Ivanovna—another story entirely. Her mother-in-law showed up at their place with enviable regularity, always with complaints about her health and poverty. And those visits always ended the same way—Sergey gave his mother money.

“By the way, Mom’s coming tomorrow,” Sergey tossed out, as if in passing.

Olga’s eyes flew open.
“Again? She was here two weeks ago!”

“What can I do? Her blood pressure’s acting up; she wants to see a doctor.”

“She can see a doctor in her own town,” Olga muttered.

Sergey set his plate aside in irritation.
“Olya, that’s my mother! Is it really so hard to show a little understanding?”

Understanding. Olga gave a bitter smile. In seven years of marriage, Sergey had changed jobs five times. Either the boss was an idiot, or the team wasn’t right, or the salary was too small. Now he worked as a manager at a car dealership, but even there he had already started complaining.

Sergey’s phone rang. He glanced at the screen and stepped into the hallway. Olga listened—it was Irina, her husband’s sister. That was another story, too. Thirty-two, two children by different fathers, constant debts and loans. And always one solution—a call to her brother.

 

Sergey came back into the room looking guilty. Olga understood at once.

“How much?” she asked wearily.

“Olga, why do you— Irina’s in a tough spot. The kids are getting ready for school, and her ex is late with alimony.”

“How much, Sergey?”

“Twenty thousand. But Irina promised to return it in a month!”

Olga sprang up from the sofa. Her hands trembled with anger.
“In a month? Like last time? And the time before that? Sergey, how much longer!”

“Olya, calm down. It’s family!”

“Family?” Olga’s voice broke. “And what am I? I work two jobs, pinch every penny, and your sister gets to sit around and live at our expense?”

“Irina works!” Sergey tried to defend his sister.

“Where? Doing what? Half-time as a sales clerk—is that work? Sergey, Irina has two healthy hands and feet. Let her go earn a living!”

Sergey scowled.
“You don’t understand. Irina has children…”

“Half the country has children! Should everyone live at someone else’s expense?”

Just then Olga remembered last month. That time Sergey had also “lent” fifteen thousand to his sister. And before that—ten to his mother. Olga started doing the math in her head—over the past year his relatives had “borrowed” more than two hundred thousand. Not a kopeck had been returned.

The next day, just as Sergey had promised, Nina Ivanovna arrived. For someone with high blood pressure, she looked rather spry—rosy-cheeked, in a new dress, with a professional blowout.

“Olechka, you’ve lost so much weight!” were her first words. “You don’t take care of yourself at all!”

Olga kept silent as she set the table. Her mother-in-law settled in comfortably and began her usual litany:

“Oh, life’s so hard now! Prices keep rising, my pension is tiny. I’m even thinking of finding a little side job…”

Sergey jumped right in.
“Mom, what side job at your age! We’ll help!”

Olga banged the kettle down on the table. Nina Ivanovna and Sergey looked at her in surprise.

“With what will we help, Sergey?” Olga asked coldly. “We barely have enough ourselves.”

“Olya!” her husband protested.

“What ‘Olya’? Nina Ivanovna, I’m sorry, but we can barely make ends meet. I work two jobs just to put a little aside.”

Her mother-in-law pursed her lips.
“In our day, women respected their husbands and put family first!”

“In your day, men supported their families,” Olga shot back. “They didn’t live off their wives!”

Sergey flushed crimson.
“Olya, watch your tone!”

“I’m telling the truth! Sergey, you changed jobs three times this past year! And each time by your own choice!”

“That’s not true!” he began to justify himself.

“Oh right, sorry. The last time you were fired for skipping work!”

Nina Ivanovna threw up her hands.
“Seryozhenka, what is she saying?”

“Mom, Olga is exaggerating…”

“Exaggerating?” Olga took a folder of receipts from the cabinet. “Here are the bills for the last six months. All paid from my card. Here’s the statement from our joint account—over the past year, Sergey deposited forty thousand. Forty! In a year!”

Her mother-in-law was silent, staring at the paperwork. Then she looked up at her daughter-in-law.
“But Sergey helps around the house…”

Olga laughed—sharp and bitter.
“Helps? Nina Ivanovna, when was the last time your son cooked dinner? Did the laundry? Cleaned?”

That evening, after her mother-in-law left, a heavy silence fell over the apartment. Sergey sat in an armchair, staring at the TV. Olga cleared the table, trying not to look at her husband.

“Why did you have to talk like that in front of my mother?” Sergey asked at last.

“And why does your mother meddle in our life?” Olga answered with a question.

“Olya, I get that you’re tired. But you can’t—”

“Can’t what? Tell the truth? Sergey, I can’t take it anymore! Every month it’s the same—either your mother needs something, or your sister!”

Sergey stood and came over to his wife.
“Olya, this is temporary. I’ll find a proper job…”

“When? When will you find this proper job? And how long will you keep it? A month? Two?”

Hurt flickered in his eyes.
“You don’t believe in me at all?”

Olga sank into a chair.
“I’m tired of believing, Sergey. Tired of hoping. Tired of carrying everything on my back.”

That night Olga couldn’t sleep. She lay there staring at the ceiling, thinking about her life. Thirty-two years old. Seven of them married. What next? Another seven years working for two? For three, counting the constant ‘loans’ to her husband’s relatives?

In the morning Olga woke up with a firm decision. Over breakfast she said to her husband:

“Sergey, we need to have a serious talk.”

He looked at her warily.
“About what?”

“About money. About your family. About us.”

Olga pulled out a sheet of paper where she had written down all the “debts” owed by his relatives the night before.

“Look. Over the last two years your mother has ‘borrowed’ a hundred and twenty thousand. Irina—one hundred and eighty. Total—three hundred thousand. Three hundred thousand, Sergey! That’s a huge amount!”

Sergey studied the list, frowning deeper and deeper.
“Where did you get these numbers?”

“I keep records. I write down every penny. Do you know how much has been returned? Zero!”

“Olga, relatives have tough situations sometimes…”

 

“Everyone does! But why should I be the one paying for them? Why is it that my parents feel embarrassed to call for help, while yours demand money as if it’s their right?”

Sergey was silent. Olga went on:

“I’ve made a decision. No more—not a single kopeck for your family. If you take money from our budget again without my consent, I’m filing for divorce.”

He went pale.
“You… you’re joking?”

“I’ve never been more serious. Sergey, I love you. But I refuse to live as a cash cow for your family any longer.”

Sergey jumped up from the table.
“So it’s an ultimatum?”

“Call it what you want. But I won’t tolerate this anymore.”

He left the kitchen, slamming the front door. Olga remained sitting, gazing out the window. It had started to rain.

An hour later Irina called. Olga didn’t pick up. Then Nina Ivanovna called. Ignore. In the evening Sergey returned—angry and drunk.

“Happy now?” he threw from the doorway. “Mom’s in the hospital, my sister’s hysterical!”

“That’s their problem,” Olga replied calmly.

“You… you’re just selfish!”

“Maybe. But I’m a selfish person with my own money.”

Sergey stepped right up to her.
“You think I can’t manage without you? Think you’re irreplaceable?”

Olga met his gaze.
“Try. The apartment is mine, in case you forgot.”

The following days passed in a “cold war.” Sergey ostentatiously refused to speak to his wife and slept on the sofa. His relatives called several times a day, but Olga didn’t answer.

On Friday evening, Olga came home to find Nina Ivanovna and Irina in the apartment. The women were sitting in the kitchen; Sergey stood by the window.

“What an interesting gathering,” Olga noted. “Do you often get together in my apartment without an invitation?”

“Olga, we came to talk,” Nina Ivanovna began.

“I’m listening.”

“You’re destroying the family!” Irina blurted out. “Over some money!”

Olga laughed.
“Over ‘some’? Irina, in two years you’ve pulled almost two hundred thousand out of our budget! Those are my ‘some’ money!”

“But I’ll pay it back!”

“When? Name a date!”

Irina hesitated.
“Well… when I can…”

“Which means never. Irina, you’re thirty-two! Go get a job!”

“I have kids!”

“So what? Millions of women raise children and work! You’re the one sitting on your brother’s neck. Or rather, on mine!”

Nina Ivanovna stood up.
“How dare you talk like that! We are Sergey’s family!”

 

“And I’m Sergey’s wife!” Olga stood up as well. “And I will no longer support healthy, able-bodied adults!”

“Seryozha, say something!” his mother appealed to him.

Sergey was silent, looking out the window. Finally he turned around.
“Mom, Irina, go home. Olga and I need to talk.”

When the relatives left, Sergey sat down across from his wife.
“Olga, maybe you’re right. But they’re my family. I can’t abandon them.”

“I’m not asking you to abandon them. I’m asking you not to spend MY money on THEIR whims.”

“But I don’t have any money of my own!”

“Exactly. Sergey, find a proper job, hold onto it, earn your own money—and help them as much as you like!”

He lowered his head.
“You’re making me choose—between you and my family.”

“No. I’m giving you a choice—either you become a real man and the head of this family, or we part ways.”

That night Olga sat by the window, looking at the sleeping city. There was a strange emptiness inside her. No pain, no resentment—just emptiness. As if something important had ended.

In the morning Sergey packed his things.
“I’ll stay with my mother for now,” he said. “I need to think.”

Olga nodded. She no longer had the strength to argue, to persuade, to explain.

When the door closed behind her husband, Olga felt… relief. For the first time in many months. As if a heavy stone had fallen from her shoulders.

That evening Olga sat in the kitchen with a cup of tea. Silence. No one was calling, asking for money, throwing tantrums. Only silence and peace.

Olga understood there was a difficult conversation ahead, possibly a divorce. But right now, in this moment, she felt free. Free from other people’s debts, problems, and manipulations.

One thing she knew for sure—whatever Sergey decided, Olga would never again allow her life to be turned into a wallet for other people’s needs. Enough. It was time to live for herself.

 

They said no nanny lasted a full day with the billionaire’s triplets—not one. Ethan Carter’s mansion in Lagos glittered like a palace: marble that shone like still water, chandeliers that threw stars onto the floors, a garden trimmed with the precision of a military parade. But behind those gates lived three small tempests—Daniel, David, and Diana—six years old, relentless, and allergic to the word “no.”

 

In five months, Ethan had hired twelve nannies and lost twelve nannies. Some fled in tears, some in fury; one swore off big houses forever. The children screamed, scattered toys like shrapnel, and broke whatever dared to stand upright. Their mother had died when they were born, and Ethan—king of oil and boardrooms—had never managed to quiet the chaos in his own home.

Then Naomi Johnson arrived: thirty-two, a widow, dark skin luminous against a faded blouse, quiet eyes that held more weather than words, a nylon handbag tucked beneath her arm. She was there for one reason only. Her little girl, Deborah, lay in a hospital bed with a failing heart, and every hour cost money Naomi did not have.

The housekeeper, hoarse from breaking in women who never lasted, handed Naomi a uniform with a shrug. “Start in the playroom,” she said, already turning away. “You’ll see.”

Naomi saw. The playroom looked like a storm had walked through it on two feet and a dare: toys everywhere, juice streaking the wall in sticky rivulets, cushions upended, the triplets springing on the sofa like it was a trampoline. Daniel flung a toy truck toward her. Diana crossed her arms and shrieked, “We don’t like you!” David tipped a box of cereal onto the carpet and grinned.

Most newcomers pleaded or scolded or ran. Naomi did none of that. She tied her scarf tighter, picked up a mop, and began to clean. The triplets paused—bewildered. No yelling? No bargaining? Just… a mop?

“Hey! You’re supposed to stop us!” Daniel barked.

Naomi glanced over, steady as a metronome. “Children don’t quit a game because they’re told to,” she said. “They stop when no one is playing with them.” And she went on scrubbing.

From the upstairs balcony, Ethan watched, gray eyes narrowed. He’d seen that room break a dozen grown women. But this one moved as if her center of gravity was nailed to the floor.

She returned the next morning before dawn. She swept the stairs, straightened curtains, and set out a neat breakfast. The triplets stormed in like whirlwinds on small legs.

“Ice cream for breakfast!” Daniel declared, already climbing a chair.

Diana kicked a table leg and folded her arms like a drawbridge.

David lifted a glass of milk and tipped it—deliberately—onto the table.

Naomi didn’t flinch. “Ice cream’s not a breakfast food,” she said evenly. “Eat what’s here, and later we can make some together.”

She slid plates toward them and turned to her work as if the conversation were settled. Curiosity pried at them. Daniel poked his eggs. Diana chewed, rolling her eyes for form’s sake. Even David—professional contrarian—sat and nibbled.

By noon they rallied: paint on the wall, toys dumped like a landslide, Naomi’s shoes hidden in the garden. Each time, she restored order without raising her voice.

“You’re boring,” David muttered. “The others used to scream.”

Naomi’s mouth tilted. “They were trying to win against you,” she said. “I’m not here to win. I’m here to stay.”

The words landed like a key in a lock. The triplets didn’t have a name for the feeling, only that something in the room stopped rattling.

Ethan noticed too. One evening he came home early and found them cross-legged on the floor, drawing while Naomi hummed an old church tune. For the first time in years, the silence inside his house felt like peace rather than threat.

Later, he caught her in the hallway. “How are you doing this? They chased everyone else away.”

“Children push to find the edges,” Naomi said softly, eyes lowered. “When the edge doesn’t move, they can rest. They don’t want control. They want safety.”

Ethan, conqueror of oil fields and contracts, found himself disarmed by a woman whose only weapons were patience and a backbone.

The real test arrived on a wet Thursday, thunder stitching the sky. The triplets were used to Naomi by then, though they still prodded for weaknesses. An argument over a toy car flared; Diana screamed; a glass vase tipped and shattered. Shards skated across the floor.

“Stop.” Naomi’s voice cut clean through the crackle of thunder. She lunged, lifting Diana just as the little girl’s foot hovered over a jagged piece. Daniel froze. David’s mouth quivered. Blood beaded along Naomi’s palm.

 

She smiled anyway. “No one’s hurt. That’s what counts.”

They’d never seen anyone bleed for them who wasn’t required to love them. It undid something inside their small, bruised pride.

Ethan came home to find his terrors hushed, Diana clinging to Naomi’s side, Daniel whispering, “Are you okay?” and David—resolute rebel—quietly pressing a bandage into Naomi’s hand.

Later, in the kitchen, Ethan watched her rinse the cut beneath cool water. “You should have called the nurse.”

“I’ve been through worse,” Naomi said. “Cuts heal.”

“Why didn’t you quit?”

She dried her hands. “Because I know what being left feels like. My daughter is fighting for her life in a hospital bed. If I can stay for her, I can stay for them. Kids don’t need perfection, Mr. Carter. They need presence.”

For the first time, he truly looked at her.

After that, the tide turned. Daniel traded tantrums for story time. David became her shadow. Fierce Diana crept into Naomi’s room at night and whispered, “Can you stay till I fall asleep?”

Weeks later, Deborah was discharged after a successful operation—paid for quietly by Ethan once he learned the truth. When Naomi brought her to the mansion, the triplets barreled toward the little girl as if greeting a long-lost sister.

“Mommy, look!” Deborah beamed. “I have three new friends.”

Naomi’s throat tightened. Friends didn’t quite cover it. The house, for the first time, felt like a home.

As the triplets wrapped their arms around her and breathed, “Don’t leave us, Mommy Naomi,” she understood what she had done.

She hadn’t conquered three wild children.

She had given them back the simple, holy business of being children.

It was late when Liza finally slipped into the quiet kitchen. After tucking the children into bed, she boiled the kettle, poured tea into her favorite mug, and sat at the table to breathe for a moment. Roma still hadn’t come home. Lately, work had swallowed him whole; late nights were becoming routine. She felt sorry for him and did her best to keep his world soft—shielding him from chores, wrapping him in care and tenderness. He was the family’s only earner, after all.

 

From the very beginning, they’d agreed: he would provide; she would run the home and raise the children. And so it happened. Three little ones arrived, Roma kept the money coming, and Liza kept the house standing. Roma had rejoiced at each birth and talked about wanting more. Liza, though, was spent—every day was one long sprint between diapers stacked like snowdrifts in the bathroom and nighttime bottles when her milk ran short. She’d already decided: three was enough; it was time to stop.

He came in close to midnight, the faint sweet-sour scent of alcohol trailing him. When Liza asked, he said the team had blown off steam at a bar after another exhausting day.

“My poor dear,” she murmured, smoothing his sleeve. “Come eat.”

“I’m stuffed. We had plenty of snacks.” He yawned. “I’m going straight to sleep.”

International Women’s Day was almost here. Liza asked her mother to watch the kids so she could shop in peace. She wanted to buy groceries and set up a romantic evening—leave the children with Grandma, cook something wonderful. And after the food and gifts, she hoped to find herself a fresh outfit; her clothes were tired, and she had nothing festive to wear.

She checked her bags in the cloakroom and stepped into a popular boutique. She picked out a few dresses and went to the fitting rooms. As she shrugged off her thin nylon jacket, a man’s voice came through the partition—Roma’s, unmistakably close.

“I want to undress you right now.”

A laugh followed, light and syrupy. “Be patient. Why don’t you go buy something for your wife instead?”

“She doesn’t need anything. All she cares about are the kids. I’ll pick up some kitchen gadgets—she loves living in that room.”

For a moment Liza couldn’t breathe. It felt like a heavy object had struck the back of her head. Mechanically, she stepped into the dress, then stared at herself without seeing anything at all. She didn’t want it anymore. On the other side of the wall, they kept talking.

“What if your wife asks what you’ve spent so much on?”

“I don’t report to her. I give her money for the house. She has no idea what I actually make.”

Footsteps. The curtain rings rattled. Liza peered through a sliver of fabric and saw Roma at the register. A slim, pretty blonde stood beside him, his hand resting casually on her waist.

“Are you all right?”

Liza flinched. She’d been sitting on the little bench for too long. The saleswoman’s face showed worry, so whatever Liza felt must have been written plainly on her own. Liza bought every dress she’d chosen, walked out, and went home. She sent her mother off, put the children down for their nap, then lay on her bed and stared at the ceiling.

Maybe it was her fault. She had let herself go—no time for clothes, hair, makeup. But betrayal was betrayal, no matter how you cut it. She would never have imagined Roma cheating. And the way he’d spoken about her—as if she were furniture, or worse, hired help. Even his gift ideas were appliances, tools for a woman chained to a stove.

She wanted to divorce him—badly. But that would make things easy for them, wouldn’t it? He’d go to his mistress, and she’d be stuck scraping by on the smallest alimony he could get away with. Liza decided to say nothing for now. She would watch and plan.

He came home late again, blaming work. Liza looked at him with a cool, distant calm and let it pass. She felt as though a stranger had moved into her husband’s body. Whatever love she’d felt chilled in an instant.

The next morning she wrote a résumé and sent it everywhere she could think of. Days of silence followed. Every morning began with her checking her email. Most never answered; a few declined. Then one afternoon, an invitation arrived—an interview at a company. Roma’s company.

She hesitated, then went.

She made a strong impression. They liked her, and they offered a decent position. The starting pay was modest, but it would feed the children. Liza left the office buoyant, almost lightheaded with relief. At home, her mother met her at the door, firing questions.

“Roma has a mistress!” Liza announced, oddly triumphant.

Her mother blinked, convinced the girl was in shock. She sat Liza down, poured tea, and tried to calm her. “Sweetheart, what are you saying? He stays late for you and the kids, and you accuse him of—who knows what.”

“He’s with a young woman,” Liza said, half-laughing, then told her everything.

“Do you want a divorce?”

“Of course. But first I need to reorganize my life. I found a good job with flexible hours. I’ll get the kids into kindergarten, and then I can work full time.”

“Well, it’s your choice,” her mother said softly. “I won’t talk you out of it. A person who betrays once will do it again. Do what you think is right. I’m disappointed—I didn’t expect this—and to talk about the mother of his children like that with a stranger… I’ll help with the kids.”

“Mom, what would I do without you?” Liza hugged her hard and didn’t let go for a long time.

On the night before the holiday, Roma staggered in long after midnight. Liza didn’t question him. Her expression was pure indifference. He launched into his usual story about too much work and then a quick stop at the bar with friends. Liza cut him off and told him to sleep.

Morning. While she fed the children, he produced a shiny kitchen food processor.

“Look at your present,” he said, angling for a kiss. “To make the housework a little easier.”

She turned her cheek away and didn’t touch the box. Instead, she said she had a gift for him as well and asked him to come to the hallway. Two suitcases sat there, packed tight.

“These are your things,” she said. “I’m divorcing you. Now you won’t have to invent stories about late nights with friends and how you ‘poor thing’ need to unwind. Go unwind. Don’t keep your blonde waiting.”

“Who told you?” He looked genuinely stunned by the turn.

“I saw you. I watched you buy her a gift. And you can give her the processor, too—maybe she enjoys standing over a stove.”

Cornered, Roma lashed out. “Have you looked at yourself? She’s gorgeous—and in bed—” He smirked. “You don’t even dress properly anymore. You’ve let yourself go. You’re clumsy. And the best part? You live off my money. Or is it that you count it and don’t want me spending it on someone else? You have no right.”

“Your money, your money,” Liza snapped. “Is that your great life’s purpose—to wave a crust of bread in my face? You didn’t give me anything; you gave to the household. You ate it too.” Tired of the noise, she pushed him and his suitcases out the door. “Don’t you dare come back.”

 

To her surprise, she slept deeply that night. In the morning she woke feeling like a new person. That very day she filed for divorce and child support. A few days later, the bell rang and her mother-in-law swept in, voice already sharp.

“What are you doing? You threw my son out and now you want to bleed him for money? He doesn’t owe you a kopeck. Withdraw the alimony!”

“How interesting,” Liza said evenly. “Why do some men think they’re paying their ex-wives and not their children? Or is he worried there won’t be enough left for his mistress? Either way, not my problem anymore.”

“Oh, look at you—so businesslike now! You haven’t worked a day since the wedding. You lived off him and got comfortable. Don’t think you’ll get rich on alimony. He’ll have his boss pay him under the table and you’ll see pennies.”

“Get out,” Liza said, holding the door open. “Like mother, like son. I’m only sorry it took me this long to see it.” The woman spluttered, and Liza added, “One more word, and I’m calling the police.”

The door slammed. Silence. Liza let out a long breath she felt like she’d been holding for years.

Soon the children got spots in kindergarten, and they started going regularly. Liza moved to full-time at work. Roma already knew they were now colleagues. One afternoon they turned a corner at the same moment and nearly collided.

“Hello,” he said, trying for a smile. “Can we talk?”

“Don’t be offended,” she replied, eyes on her phone, “but I have work to do.”

“Then lunch? Together?”

“The word ‘together’ doesn’t apply to us anymore,” Liza said, and walked on.

She glanced back once. He looked thinner, older. Word had it the blonde left when she found out half his income would be going to his children.

The sun climbed over a sleepy town, a soft gold washing the rooftops, yet under that quiet a storm coiled, ready to break. On the marble steps of a rose-draped luxury hotel, a wedding machine hummed to life. The groom, Daniel—crisp tuxedo, polished shoes, a grin tuned to smug perfection—worked the crowd of magnates and socialites. Today wasn’t only about marrying Sophia, the heiress with a family name that opened doors. It was about staging a final, gleeful humiliation for a woman he’d left behind.

 

That woman was Emma, his ex-wife. Once, she had poured every breath into his ascent: double shifts at a diner, night cleaning in empty offices, skipped dinners so he could eat. She believed in him harder than he ever believed in himself. But wealth cooled his heart. When success finally arrived, he saw Emma as a relic of lean years—a weight he could cut loose. He filed for divorce with the same efficiency he used to close deals, and left her with a sputtering old car and a cramped apartment.

What he never learned was that weeks after he walked away, Emma learned she was pregnant—pregnant with triplets. Alone and gutted, she stood at the edge of despair and refused to fall. Three lives needed her. She picked up extra shifts, juggled bottles and schedules, and lived on the breath between one crying infant and the next. Sleep came in scraps; resolve did not. She took a junior role at a small design studio and funneled every spark of creativity into work. Years later, she opened a boutique—modest at first, then admired, then quietly essential to the town.

Daniel strutted through those same years burnishing his legend, retelling the story of how he escaped a “poor wife who held him back.” Engaged to Sophia, he sent Emma an invitation—not kindness but bait. He envisioned her shuffling in on a bus, wearing off-the-rack clothes, awestruck by the gleam of the life she’d “lost.” He wanted his victory photographed.

He miscalculated.

The morning glittered. Sleek cars whispered up the circular drive. Guests shimmered in couture; lenses popped as Sophia appeared, fitted gown hugging every line, her hand anchored in Daniel’s arm. Everything landed exactly on cue—until the soft purr of another limousine turned the hotel’s façade into a mirror of surprise.

A black car curved to a halt. The chauffeur rounded the door with studied grace. Out stepped three little girls in matching lemon-yellow dresses, fingers laced, curls bouncing as they found the red carpet with delighted caution. Then Emma emerged, an emerald-green gown flowing like a command. She didn’t blaze; she steadied. Her beauty was unmistakable, but it was the authority in her stillness that took the air from the courtyard.

A hush rippled, then whispers. “Is that… Daniel’s ex?” someone breathed. Daniel’s smirk stalled, then collapsed into a blink too slow to disguise. Sophia’s bright smile tightened; the bouquet tremored in her grip.

 

Emma didn’t falter. She advanced at an easy pace, her daughters’ hands secure in hers. The triplets’ laughter chimed across stone and roses, innocent and irresistible. Faces softened as guests took them in—three small reflections of one woman’s courage. For a breath, the diamonds on Sophia’s neck dimmed next to Emma’s unshowy dignity.

Pride flared in Daniel’s chest, but something else leaked in—guilt, pale and unfamiliar. “Why is she here?” he hissed to his best man, though he already knew. Emma wasn’t the broken figure he’d abandoned. She was composed, successful, and, unmistakably, respected.

During the vows and the toasts, Emma didn’t raise her voice or her chin. She didn’t needle, didn’t steal focus. She simply existed—gracious, watchful, present—and that was enough. The guests who had swallowed Daniel’s story felt it turn to dust on their tongues. They saw the way the girls looked at their mother, how Emma listened to them with full attention, how every gesture carried grace instead of grievance. Even Sophia shifted, as if some invisible scale had tipped and she could hear the weight of comparison landing in the wrong place.

Daniel’s spectacle betrayed him. The curtain he meant to pull from Emma revealed only the hollowness in himself.

By night’s end, no one was talking about the floral arch or the price of the champagne. They were replaying the arrival: the sleek limo door, three bright dresses on small legs, and a woman in green moving as if she owed no one an apology. Cameras caught Daniel’s stunned expression and Emma’s quiet composure; the images traveled like rumor, converting his arrogance into town-wide side-eye.

Admiration shifted. People who had applauded Daniel began to question him. What kind of man discards the woman who carried him up the mountain—and pretends not to see his own children? Meanwhile, business at Emma’s boutique swelled. Customers came for the designs and stayed for the story threaded through them: that integrity and perseverance outlast glitter.

Emma never spoke a bitter word about Daniel. She didn’t have to. The truth lived in her daughters’ eyes and in the way she kept her shoulders open to the world. Her life became its own lesson: the strongest answer isn’t revenge, but a steadied, flourishing existence.

Years unwound. The triplets grew into young women who understood their mother’s worth far more than their father’s failings. They carried her teachings forward—that love, courage, and self-respect are the only currencies that don’t devalue. Emma found peace there, recognizing that while pain had shaped some bends in the road, it had never chosen the destination.

Daniel remained, trailed by murmurs and polite smiles that never reached the eyes. The scene he orchestrated to shame his ex-wife had crowned her instead—and she never lifted a finger.

Because sometimes the loudest declaration a woman can make is simply to walk into the room with her head high and keep walking.

Tatiana found out about her husband’s affair by accident.

As so often happens, wives are the last to know. Only later did Tatiana grasp the meaning of her colleagues’ strange looks and the whispers behind her back. Everyone at work knew that her best friend, Nadezhda, was having an affair with her husband, Andrei. But Andrei’s behavior hadn’t aroused Tatiana’s suspicions.

 

She found out one evening when she came home unexpectedly. Tatiana had worked for several years as a doctor at a Moscow hospital. That day she was supposed to be on the night shift. But toward evening a young colleague, Lyudmila, asked a favor:
“Tanechka, could we swap shifts? I’ll work tonight, and you can take mine on Saturday—if you don’t have plans. My sister’s wedding is on Saturday.”
Tatiana agreed. Lyudmila was a pleasant, helpful girl, and a wedding was a good reason.

That evening Tatiana returned home, happy at the thought of surprising her husband. But a surprise was waiting for her. No sooner had she stepped inside than she heard voices coming from the bedroom—Andrei’s, and another one she recognized at once but never expected to hear at that moment and in those circumstances. It was the voice of her best friend, Nadezhda. What she heard next left no doubt.

Tatiana left the apartment as quietly as she had entered. She spent the night at the hospital without closing her eyes. How could she face her colleagues now? They knew everything, while she had blindly believed Andrei, trusting him without limits. He had become the center of her life; she had even put off her dream of having a child every time Andrei said he wasn’t ready, that they should wait and enjoy life for themselves. Now Tatiana understood: he saw no future for their family.

That night she made the only decision she could. She wrote a request for vacation with subsequent resignation, went home, packed her things while Andrei was at work, and hurried to the train station. She had inherited a small house in a village from her grandmother—the perfect place where no one was likely to look for her.

At the station she bought a new SIM card and dropped the old one in a trash bin. Tatiana severed all ties with her past life and stepped into a new one.

A day later she stepped off at the familiar station. Tatiana had last been here ten years ago, for her grandmother’s funeral. Everything seemed just as quiet and deserted. “Exactly what I need right now,” she thought. She got a lift part of the way, then walked about twenty minutes on foot. The garden was so overgrown that she could barely find the front door.

It took several weeks to put the house in order. She couldn’t have managed alone, but the neighbors, who remembered her grandmother, Anna Ivanovna—a schoolteacher with forty years’ experience—were happy to help. The warm welcome surprised Tatiana, and she was sincerely grateful.

Word that a doctor had arrived in the village spread quickly. One day a neighbor, Olga, burst into Tatiana’s place in a panic:
“Tanyush, I’m sorry, I can’t help today. My daughter ate something bad—her stomach hurts.”

“Let’s go have a look,” Tatiana said, grabbing her medical bag.

Little Katya turned out to have food poisoning. Tatiana treated her and explained to Olga what to do next.
“Thank you, dear,” Olga sobbed. “You’re our doctor now. The hospital is sixty kilometers away. We had a feldsher, but he left, and no replacement was sent.”

From then on, the villagers started turning to Tatiana for everything. She couldn’t refuse them—she had been received too warmly here.

When the district authorities learned about her work, they offered her a position at the district clinic.
“No, I’ll stay here,” Tatiana said firmly. “But if you open a feldsher’s point here, I’ll gladly take it.”

The officials were flattered that a Moscow doctor with her experience wanted to work in the backcountry, but Tatiana held her ground. A few months later they opened the point, and she began seeing patients.

One late evening there was a knock at the door. That didn’t surprise Tatiana—illnesses don’t follow schedules. A stranger stood on the threshold.
“Doctor Tatiana,” he introduced himself. “I’m from Zarechye, fifteen kilometers away. My daughter is very ill. At first I thought it was a cold, but the fever has lasted three days. I’m begging you—help us.”

She quickly gathered what she needed as he described the symptoms. At home they found a pale girl struggling to breathe beneath a blanket. After examining her, Tatiana said:
“This is serious. She needs to be hospitalized.”
The man shook his head.
“It’s just me and her. My wife died soon after she was born. She’s all I have. I can’t lose her.”
“But the hospital has better conditions. I don’t have the necessary medicines here.”

“Tell me what’s needed—I’ll get it. Just please don’t take her to the hospital. There’s a 24-hour pharmacy in the district center; I can drive there. But there’s no one to stay with her.”
Tatiana could see how frightened and desperate he was. She looked closely at him—a man about her age, tall and lean, with thick chestnut hair. His dark-green eyes burned with resolve.
“I’ll stay with her,” Tatiana said. “What’s the girl’s name?”
“Alysa,” he whispered. “And I’m Sergei. Thank you, doctor.”
Sergei left to get the medicines, clutching her prescription in his hand.

Alysa’s fever wouldn’t break; the girl tossed and turned, cried, and called for her daddy. Tatiana took her in her arms, rocked her, and softly hummed a lullaby until Alysa calmed a little.

Sergei returned deep in the night with everything needed. Tatiana administered the medicine and said wearily:
“Now we wait.”

They kept vigil by the bed until morning. At dawn the fever began to fall, and sweat beaded on the girl’s forehead.
“A good sign,” Tatiana said with relief. The fatigue receded before the joy of victory over the illness.
“You saved my daughter,” Sergei said, at a loss for words.

A year passed. Tatiana continued working at the feldsher’s point, but now she lived in Sergei’s spacious house. They were married six months after that terrible night when Alysa’s life hung by a thread.

It took a few more weeks for the girl to fully recover. Alysa grew attached to Tatiana, and Tatiana loved her with all her heart, though she sometimes thought about how long she had postponed her own dream of a child.

In the evenings, tired but happy, Tatiana would come home to two people who were now her own. This time Sergei met her on the threshold with a smile. Tatiana froze for a moment, then he embraced his wife joyfully and whispered, “Now our family is going to get even bigger.”

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A tiny black lens was staring at her from between the spines of the books.

Irina brushed the dust off the shelf and froze. Her fingers stopped a millimeter from the glass. This wasn’t part of the décor.

It was a camera. Her brain refused to accept it, shoving forward rational explanations: maybe it was some kind of new “smart home” system Rodion had forgotten to tell her about?

But her intuition—that quiet voice she’d ignored for so long—was screaming the opposite.

Her husband, Rodion, had installed a camera in their home.

The thought seared like red-hot metal. Not just a thought—an understanding. Why? To watch her? Did he suspect her of something?

Absurd. She worked from home; her life was an open book, planned down to the minute. Or did he think otherwise? What did he want to see? How she drank her morning coffee? How she spoke to clients on video calls?

She didn’t touch it. She stepped back carefully, and the room—so familiar, so dear—suddenly felt foreign, hostile. Every object seemed a potential spy. Now she looked at everything differently. She searched.

She found the second one in the living room, disguised as a smoke detector on the ceiling. The third—on the kitchen counter, built into a power brick for small appliances.

He had created a network. A web in their shared home, in their shared life. And she, Irina, was the fly, every movement tracked.

 

Something snapped inside. The woman she had been five minutes earlier—loving, trusting, a little naïve—died.

In her place there was only ringing emptiness and a cold, crystal-clear rage. He hadn’t just betrayed her trust; he had trampled her self-respect and turned their home into a prison.

She picked up his tablet, which, in his usual swaggering carelessness, he’d left on the couch. The password—the date of their wedding. What cruel irony. Once that date had seemed a symbol of love; now it was a symbol of lies.

An app opened on the screen. Four squares streaming video: living room, kitchen, bedroom, entryway. All the key points of the house were under his control. All except one.

His study.

The only place he forbade her to enter without knocking. His “fortress.” And suddenly it all made sense. It wasn’t about whom he wanted to watch. It was about where he wanted to be invisible.

He was creating an alibi for himself. A safe zone for someone else.

Irina walked into the study. For the first time, without knocking. The air was different here, saturated with the scent of expensive perfume—but not his. Methodically, she searched the desk.

In the bottom drawer, under a stack of old documents, she found what she was looking for. The box from a video surveillance system. And the manual. She skimmed the text. To add a new camera to the network, you had to scan a QR code and enter the administrator password.

The password was written in pen on the cover: Rodya_King. King. How predictable. And how foolish. His arrogance had become his weakness.

Her plan formed instantly. She carefully removed the camera from the entryway. The vent grille above his massive oak desk made the perfect observation post.

From there, the leather couch was in full view. Using the app on her phone and the “king’s” password, she added the camera to his own network without any trouble.

The system even helpfully offered a “stealth mode” so the owner wouldn’t receive a notification about the new device.

She put everything back exactly as it had been, down to the last speck of dust. And she waited.

That evening Rodion came home, smiling as always. He hugged her from the side and kissed her cheek. His touch felt sticky, fake.

“Dog-tired. I’ll probably sit in the study for a bit, finish a report.”

“Of course, darling,” Irina replied, her voice smooth as a windless lake. “I’ll make dinner in the meantime.”

He disappeared behind the door of his “fortress.” She opened the app on her phone. The fifth square on the screen came to life.

At first he really was working. And then she saw it.

A girl slipped into the study. Lilia. She came in from the other side of the house. Irina knew her—the daughter of her mother’s friend, always complaining about life.

Lilia shrugged off her cardigan, left in a tight dress, and looped her arms around Rodion’s neck.

Irina started recording her screen.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Lilia drawled petulantly. “This conspiracy is killing me. When are you going to tell her everything?”

“Soon, kitten, soon,” Rodion’s voice was wheedling. “Just a little longer. I need to prepare the ground.”

“Your ‘ground’ is your parents’ money. Without them you’re nobody. You’re not planning to leave your frump with empty pockets, are you?”

Rodion grimaced.

“Of course not! I’ve thought it all through. This Saturday my parents are having the family dinner. Tradition. I’ll tell them I’ve got a brilliant business project. A startup. They’ll give me money. A large sum. And then… then we’ll just leave.”

“And Irina?” Lilia asked, a thin strand of envy threading her voice.

Rodion waved a hand.

“She won’t find out until we’re far away. She’s too proper, too trusting. She doesn’t have the brains to suspect anything.”

Irina hit “stop.” She saved the video. An hour later Rodion emerged from the study beaming.

“Mmm, smells amazing. What’s for dinner?”

“Baked fish,” Irina said evenly.

“My favorite! You’re the best wife in the world, Irisha.”

She turned slowly.

“Yes. I’m the best. And on Saturday I’ll prove it to everyone.”

The Saturday dinner unfolded in an atmosphere of family prosperity. Rodion’s parents’ house was like a museum. Everything here obeyed ritual.

Irina sat straight-backed. Rodion, beside her, was all smiles.

“Dad, Mom,” he began when dessert was served, “I’ve come up with an idea that will change everything. A startup that’s going to blow up.”

He spoke at length and with passion. Arkady Nikolaevich listened skeptically; Yelena Pavlovna—with adoration.

“To get started I need an investment,” Rodion finally said. And he named the sum.

Arkady Nikolaevich looked at Irina.

“And what do you think, daughter? Do you support your husband?”

Rodion smirked smugly.

“Irina doesn’t understand these things, of course. This is high-level stuff. But she always supports me. Right, dear?”

That was the last straw. A public humiliation.

“You know, Rodya,” she said calmly, “I’ve actually gotten quite versed in startups lately. Especially the kind that require investment for a seaside getaway. With a mistress.”

Rodion froze.

“Irisha, what are you saying?”

“Oh, nothing at all. I even have a small presentation.”

She took out her phone and connected it to the giant plasma TV.

“What are you doing? Stop it!” Rodion hissed.

But the image was already on the screen: the leather couch in his study. And on it—Rodion himself. And Lilia. The sound was crystal clear.

Yelena Pavlovna pressed a hand to her mouth. Arkady Nikolaevich’s face turned slate-gray.

Rodion stared at the screen. There was a primal terror in his eyes. A husband had secretly installed cameras in his home—only to have the first video be his own disgrace…

The video ended.

“That’s your son’s business project,” Irina said to his parents. “I won’t be participating in it. Or in your life—either.”

Irina left without looking back. The next day Arkady Nikolaevich called her.

“Irina, I want to apologize. I always believed the family’s honor was paramount. He trampled it. He won’t get another kopeck from us. The house is in my name. You can stay there.”

“Thank you, Arkady Nikolaevich. But I won’t stay.”

 

“I understand. If you need anything…”

“I need only one thing: for your family never to be part of my life again.”

She hung up. Bits of news about Rodion reached her now and then. Deprived of money, he turned out to be nobody.

Lilia vanished. He was fired. He tried calling. She changed her number.

Epilogue. Two years later.

Irina’s agency, “The Eye,” occupied half a floor in a business center. She didn’t do banal spying. She provided security: found bugs, checked home networks for vulnerabilities, consulted.

Work became her life. She hired a team—former law-enforcement officers and young IT specialists. They respected her sharp mind and steely grip.

One evening she came across a letter with no return address. Rodion’s handwriting.

“Ira, I know I have no right. I work as a loader. I live in a rented room. For a long time I blamed you. Then I understood. I ruined my life myself. The day I decided I had the right to invade your space. My main mistake was thinking you were my property. Forgive me, if you can. Rodion.”

Irina looked at the lines for a long time. She felt nothing. No gloating, no pity. She crumpled the letter and threw it away.

Her phone buzzed on the desk. Viktor, her lead specialist. And the man who had been unobtrusively inviting her to dinner for six months.

“Irina Pavlovna, we’ve finished the audit. Everything’s clean.”

“Thank you, Viktor. Excellent work.”

“Shall we celebrate? I know a place with a wonderful view.”

Before, she would have refused. But Rodion’s letter had finally set her free.

“With pleasure,” she replied, her smile light and genuine. “Pick me up in half an hour.”

She walked up to the mirror. A strong, self-assured woman looked back at her.

A woman who once found a hidden camera in her own home and, instead of becoming a victim, turned it into a tool of her freedom.

Sometimes, to build something new, you have to burn the old down to the ground. And she was not afraid of the fire.

— I know you think this is a gift, but how could you? — Elena held the white envelope between two fingers, as if it might burn her hand. — On our wedding anniversary, Nikolai! Our fifteenth anniversary!

Nikolai stood by the window, looking out at the yard flooded with July sun. His broad shoulders tensed.

— You have to understand me, Lena. I had the right to know.

Around them were the traces of a celebratory dinner — unfinished champagne, the remains of a cake with fifteen candles, a bouquet of lilies in a tall vase. Their country house, which they had bought five years earlier, suddenly felt alien and cold despite the heat outside.

— Know what? That Andrei isn’t your son? — Elena tossed the envelope onto the table. — This is some monstrous mistake. I never cheated on you, do you hear? Never!

Nikolai turned to her, anger and pain warring in his eyes.

— Then explain these results to me. Explain why they say the probability of my paternity is less than one percent!

The front door slammed. In the doorway stood Vera, their fourteen-year-old daughter. Tall like her father, with his deep-set gray eyes.

— What’s going on here? — she glanced from her father to her mother. — Are you two fighting? On your anniversary?

Elena quickly snatched the envelope from the table.

— Nothing, Vera. We’re just discussing… work things.

— On a day off? — Vera narrowed her eyes, showing the father’s keen perceptiveness she’d inherited. — Fine, if you don’t want to talk, don’t. I’m going to Katya’s — we’re heading to the movies.

When their daughter left, Elena sank into a chair.

— Where’s Andrei?

— At the Pavlovs’. They picked him up from soccer; he’s staying the night there, — Nikolai took the bottle and topped off his champagne. — Funny, isn’t it? We’re celebrating fifteen years of marriage, and I’ve just learned I’ve spent ten of them raising someone else’s child.

— He isn’t someone else’s! — Elena sprang up. — How can you say that? You’re his father — you held him as a newborn, you taught him to ride a bike, you…

— I thought he was mine! — Nikolai set his glass down hard, champagne splashing onto the tablecloth. — Now I don’t know what to think. Who is he, Lena? Whose is he?

— Mine and yours. Our son. There’s been some mistake with this test.

— I checked three times, Lena. Three! I didn’t want to believe the first result.

Elena felt the ground slide out from under her.

— When did you start doubting? Why did you do this test at all?

Nikolai was silent for a moment, then sighed heavily.

— Viktor.

— Viktor? Your former colleague? What does he have to do with this?

— Two weeks ago we bumped into each other at a home-improvement store. We talked. He asked about you, about the kids. And then… then he said something that made me start thinking.

Elena felt her hands go cold.

— What exactly?

— He hinted that you two had an affair. That you… that you… — Nikolai couldn’t finish the sentence.

— What?! — Elena shot to her feet. — Me and Viktor? Are you out of your mind? I couldn’t stand him! He always tried to set you up at work — you said so yourself!

— I know, — Nikolai ran a hand through his hair. — But then I started remembering… Andrei looks nothing like me. Or anyone in my family. And his age roughly lines up with the period when I was working that job in Kazan and was away for a week at a time…

— I can’t believe you don’t trust me, — Elena sank back into the chair. — Fifteen years of marriage, and you believe Viktor over me.

— I wanted to believe you! That’s why I did the test — to prove to myself that Viktor was lying. But the results… — Nikolai nodded at the envelope. — The results say otherwise.

A heavy silence settled over the room.

— What now? — Elena asked at last.

— I don’t know, — Nikolai picked up his bag. — I need time to think. I’ll stay with Igor for a couple of days.

Elena wanted to object, but the words stuck in her throat. She watched in silence as her husband walked out of the house they had built together. When the door closed, she lowered her head onto her arms and burst into tears.

— I don’t get it, — Igor, Nikolai’s younger brother, handed him a cup of coffee. — Why did you do that test in the first place?

They sat in the kitchen of Igor’s apartment — small, but cozy. Nikolai hadn’t slept all night, and the dark circles under his eyes showed it.

— You didn’t see how Viktor looked at me when he said it. With such… certainty. And then, you know yourself Andrei doesn’t look like me.

— He looks like Elena, — Igor shrugged. — So what? My Dima looks more like Yulia than me, too.

— But the results…

— Are you sure they’re right? Who ran the analysis?

Nikolai pulled a crumpled business card from his pocket.

— “GenLab.” A private lab, but with good reviews. I checked.

Igor took the card and turned it over in his hands.

— And what are you going to do now?

— I don’t know, — Nikolai rubbed his face with his palms. — It feels like my world collapsed.

— Did you talk to Elena? What does she say?

— That she never cheated on me. That it’s a mistake.

— And do you believe her?

Nikolai raised his eyes to his brother.

— I believed her for fifteen years. And now… I don’t know.

Elena sat in the office of the director of the “MedTest” laboratory. She had barely slept, but she looked composed and determined.

— I need the results as quickly as possible, — she said, handing over vials with samples. — I’m willing to pay extra to rush it.

The director, a plump woman in glasses, nodded.

— We can do it in three days. But I must warn you, a DNA paternity test is a serious procedure. If you’re doubting the results of another lab…

— I’m more than sure there was a mistake there, — Elena said firmly. — My husband is my son’s father. I want to prove it.

Leaving the lab, Elena called her friend Marina.

— I need your help. You worked at the city hospital ten years ago, right? Do you remember a nurse named Irina from the maternity ward?

Vera found her mother at the computer. Elena was searching something quickly online and jotting notes in a notebook.

— Mom, what’s going on? Where’s Dad? He isn’t answering my messages.

Elena flinched and closed the laptop.

— Dad went to Uncle Igor’s. We have… a small disagreement.

— What kind of disagreement? — Vera crossed her arms. — What did you fight about?

Elena sighed. Vera was too smart to be put off with simple excuses.

— Your father… doubts that he’s Andrei’s biological father.

Vera froze, eyes wide.

— What? But how… why?

— He did a DNA test. The results said that genetically he isn’t Andrei’s father. But it’s a mistake, Vera. I’m sure it’s a mistake.

— You… you cheated on Dad? — Vera’s voice trembled.

— No! Never! — Elena grabbed her daughter’s hands. — I swear to you, I never cheated on your father. I love him. I’ve always loved him.

Vera jerked her hands away.

— Then where did Andrei come from? — there was a challenge in her voice. — DNA doesn’t lie, Mom.

— Tests can be wrong. Labs can make mistakes. People can manipulate results.

— What are you talking about?

Elena opened her notebook.

— I think the results were forged. Or there was a mix-up at the hospital. Or…

— You’re inventing some crazy theories instead of admitting the truth! — Vera burst out. — You lied to all of us! Poor Dad! Poor Andrei!

— Vera, please, — Elena reached out to her daughter, but she recoiled.

— Don’t touch me! I… I don’t want to talk to you!

Vera ran out of the room, slamming the door. Elena sank into a chair, feeling tears stream from her eyes again. Her whole world was falling apart before her eyes.

Marina brought Elena to a small café on the outskirts of the city.

— She’ll be here in five minutes, — Marina said, checking her phone. — I told her I wanted to meet a former colleague. I didn’t mention you.

— Thank you, — Elena nervously twisted a napkin in her hands. — Are you sure it’s the same Irina?

— Absolutely. Irina Savelieva. She worked in the maternity hospital when you delivered Andrei. Then she quit quickly and left the city. Only came back a couple of years ago.

The café door opened and a woman of about forty with a short haircut and wary eyes walked in. Seeing Elena, she froze.

— What does this mean, Marina? Why did you trick me?

— Please, Irina, — Elena stood up. — I just need to ask a few questions.

— I have nothing to say to you, — Irina turned toward the exit.

— I know you dated Nikolai before me! — Elena blurted out. — And I know you worked at the maternity hospital when my son was born.

Irina slowly turned back.

— So what?

— Was there… a mix-up with the babies? Or… — Elena couldn’t bring herself to say the word “switch.”

Irina let out a bitter little laugh.

— You think I switched your baby out of revenge? Seriously?

— I don’t know what to think! — Elena cried. — The DNA test says my husband isn’t my son’s father. I never cheated on Nikolai. How do I explain that?

Irina came over to the table and sat down.

— Listen, I won’t pretend I was thrilled when Nikolai dumped me for you. Yes, I was hurt. Yes, I worked at the maternity hospital when you gave birth. But I’m not crazy enough to switch babies!

— Then what happened? — Elena threw up her hands in despair.

Irina looked at her intently.

— And what did the test show? That Nikolai isn’t the father? Or that the child isn’t yours at all?

— Only that Nikolai isn’t the father.

— And where was that test done?

— At “GenLab.”

Irina pondered for a moment.

— You know, it’s a strange coincidence, but my niece works at GenLab. Alisa Savelieva. She handles processing the results.

Elena and Marina exchanged glances.

— And she could have… altered the results? — Marina asked carefully.

— I didn’t say that, — Irina replied quickly. — But Alisa… she’s very attached to me. And she knows the history with Nikolai.

Tamara Petrovna, Nikolai’s grandmother, was waiting for him in her small apartment. Despite being eighty, she retained a clear mind and a firm character.

— Sit down, grandson, — she pointed to a chair. — Igor told me everything. What nonsense have you gotten yourself into?

Nikolai sat down.

— Grandma, this isn’t nonsense. I have the test results…

— Tests! — the old woman snorted. — Have you looked in the mirror lately? At your grandfather?

She got up and went to an old dresser, taking out a battered photo album.

— Here, look.

She opened the album to a yellowed photograph. A boy of about ten looked out — astonishingly like Andrei.

— Who… is this? — Nikolai asked.

— Your grandfather Vladimir. My husband, God rest his soul. This photo is from 1953.

Nikolai took the photograph with trembling hands.

— But… that’s Andrei! How?

— In our family, Kolya, genes play strange tricks. They skip a generation. You take after your father, Igor takes after me. And Andryusha is the spitting image of Volodya.

— But the test…

— The test, the test! — Grandma waved a hand. — Do you know your grandfather had a rare blood type? And you have the same. And Andryusha too.

— That proves nothing, Grandma.

— And the fact you’re ready to destroy your family over a piece of paper — what does that prove? Your foolishness, that’s what!

Elena sat in the “MedTest” director’s office, staring at the second test results. They confirmed the first — Nikolai was not Andrei’s biological father.

— Is it possible for two different tests to be wrong? — she asked in a trembling voice.

The director shook her head.

— The likelihood is very small. But… there are some genetic anomalies that can affect the results. Very rare ones.

— Which ones exactly?

— For example, chimerism — when a person has cells with different genetic material. Or certain mutations that affect the standard markers used in paternity tests.

Elena recalled Tamara Petrovna’s words about a rare blood type.

— And where can we do a deeper analysis? One that would account for these anomalies?

— At the state genetic laboratory. But it’s expensive and takes a long time.

— I don’t care. I want to know the truth.

Viktor didn’t expect to see Nikolai on his doorstep.

— Kolya? What are you…

He didn’t have time to finish. Nikolai grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the wall.

— What the hell did you tell me about Elena? Why did you lie?

— I… I didn’t lie, — Viktor tried to free himself. — Let me go!

Nikolai released him, and Viktor slid down the wall.

— Your niece works at GenLab, right? — Nikolai asked. — Alisa Savelieva.

Viktor turned pale.

— I don’t know what you’re talking about.

— Stop lying! — Nikolai pulled out his phone and showed a photo. — That’s you and Alisa at GenLab’s corporate party. A photo from their website.

Viktor covered his face with his hands.

— Why, Viktor? — Nikolai asked quietly. — Why did you do it?

— You got the promotion that should have been mine, — Viktor answered dully. — You were always the boss’s favorite. Then you started your own company and became so successful… And I’ve got nothing. No career, no family.

— So you decided to destroy mine out of envy?

— I just wanted you to feel as rotten as I do.

Elena and Nikolai sat in the waiting room of the state genetic laboratory. Between them, on the chair, sat Andrei, swinging his legs and playing on his phone. He didn’t understand why they all had to give some tests, but he was happy to skip school.

— Did you talk to Viktor? — Elena asked quietly.

Nikolai nodded.

— He confessed to everything. He wanted revenge for old grudges.

— And his niece?

— She confessed too. She falsified the results at his request.

— And the second test? At MedTest?

Nikolai shook his head.

— That’s the strange part. They insist their results are accurate. And they have no connection to Viktor.

— The Sokolov family? — a doctor with a folder in his hands came into the waiting room. — Please come to my office.

In the office, the doctor — an elderly man with an attentive gaze — spread several sheets with graphs and tables before them.

— I have unusual news for you, — he said. — From the standpoint of standard analysis, Nikolai Sokolov is indeed not the biological father of Andrei Sokolov.

Elena turned pale, and Nikolai clenched his fists.

— But, — the doctor continued, — we ran an expanded analysis and found something interesting. You, Nikolai, have a rare genetic feature — a mutation in one of the key markers used in standard paternity tests.

— What does that mean? — Nikolai asked.

— It means the standard test will show a false negative. With deeper analysis we see the genetic material matches. You are definitely Andrei’s father.

Elena covered her face with her hands, unable to hold back tears of relief.

— Is this mutation rare? — Nikolai asked, remembering his grandmother’s words.

— Very rare. It occurs in roughly one person in ten thousand. And it’s inherited. Andrei has this mutation as well.

That evening the whole family gathered for dinner. Vera, wary at first, gradually thawed as she watched her parents holding hands again and smiling at each other.

— So it was all because of some mutation? — she asked.

— And because of one man’s envy, — Nikolai nodded. — Viktor knew about my doubts regarding Andrei’s looks and decided to exploit them.

— But how did he know about the mutation? — Vera was surprised.

— He didn’t, — Elena replied. — He just asked his niece to fake the first test results. And the second test showed the same thing because of the mutation no one suspected.

Andrei, who was devouring his pizza, looked up.

— What mutation are you talking about? Am I like a mutant from X-Men?

Everyone laughed, and the tension of the last few days began to fade.

— No, son, — Nikolai ruffled his hair. — It’s just that you and I have a rare genetic quirk. It makes us… special.

— Cool! — Andrei brightened. — What superpowers do we have?

— The main superpower is being a family, — Elena smiled. — No matter what.

Later, when the kids had gone to bed, Nikolai and Elena were alone in the kitchen.

— Forgive me, — Nikolai said quietly. — I should have trusted you, not some tests.

— And I should have understood your doubts, — Elena replied. — Andrei really doesn’t look like you on the outside.

— But he’s the spitting image of my granddad, — Nikolai smiled. — Grandma was right.

Elena leaned into her husband.

— You know, this was the worst anniversary gift ever.

— I promise, next time it’ll be only flowers and jewelry.

— And no envelopes with test results?

— No envelopes, — Nikolai confirmed, kissing her.

A full moon shone through the window, bathing the kitchen in soft light. The family storm had passed, leaving behind an understanding of how important trust is — and how fragile. And perhaps that understanding was the most precious gift of their fifteenth anniversary.

— I know you think this is a gift, but how could you? — Elena held the white envelope between two fingers, as if it might burn her hand. — On our wedding anniversary, Nikolai! Our fifteenth anniversary!

Nikolai stood by the window, looking out at the yard flooded with July sun. His broad shoulders tensed.

 

— You have to understand me, Lena. I had the right to know.

Around them were the traces of a celebratory dinner — unfinished champagne, the remains of a cake with fifteen candles, a bouquet of lilies in a tall vase. Their country house, which they had bought five years earlier, suddenly felt alien and cold despite the heat outside.

— Know what? That Andrei isn’t your son? — Elena tossed the envelope onto the table. — This is some monstrous mistake. I never cheated on you, do you hear? Never!

Nikolai turned to her, anger and pain warring in his eyes.

— Then explain these results to me. Explain why they say the probability of my paternity is less than one percent!

The front door slammed. In the doorway stood Vera, their fourteen-year-old daughter. Tall like her father, with his deep-set gray eyes.

— What’s going on here? — she glanced from her father to her mother. — Are you two fighting? On your anniversary?

Elena quickly snatched the envelope from the table.

— Nothing, Vera. We’re just discussing… work things.

— On a day off? — Vera narrowed her eyes, showing the father’s keen perceptiveness she’d inherited. — Fine, if you don’t want to talk, don’t. I’m going to Katya’s — we’re heading to the movies.

When their daughter left, Elena sank into a chair.

— Where’s Andrei?

— At the Pavlovs’. They picked him up from soccer; he’s staying the night there, — Nikolai took the bottle and topped off his champagne. — Funny, isn’t it? We’re celebrating fifteen years of marriage, and I’ve just learned I’ve spent ten of them raising someone else’s child.

— He isn’t someone else’s! — Elena sprang up. — How can you say that? You’re his father — you held him as a newborn, you taught him to ride a bike, you…

— I thought he was mine! — Nikolai set his glass down hard, champagne splashing onto the tablecloth. — Now I don’t know what to think. Who is he, Lena? Whose is he?

— Mine and yours. Our son. There’s been some mistake with this test.

— I checked three times, Lena. Three! I didn’t want to believe the first result.

Elena felt the ground slide out from under her.

— When did you start doubting? Why did you do this test at all?

Nikolai was silent for a moment, then sighed heavily.

— Viktor.

— Viktor? Your former colleague? What does he have to do with this?

— Two weeks ago we bumped into each other at a home-improvement store. We talked. He asked about you, about the kids. And then… then he said something that made me start thinking.

Elena felt her hands go cold.

— What exactly?

— He hinted that you two had an affair. That you… that you… — Nikolai couldn’t finish the sentence.

— What?! — Elena shot to her feet. — Me and Viktor? Are you out of your mind? I couldn’t stand him! He always tried to set you up at work — you said so yourself!

— I know, — Nikolai ran a hand through his hair. — But then I started remembering… Andrei looks nothing like me. Or anyone in my family. And his age roughly lines up with the period when I was working that job in Kazan and was away for a week at a time…

— I can’t believe you don’t trust me, — Elena sank back into the chair. — Fifteen years of marriage, and you believe Viktor over me.

— I wanted to believe you! That’s why I did the test — to prove to myself that Viktor was lying. But the results… — Nikolai nodded at the envelope. — The results say otherwise.

A heavy silence settled over the room.

— What now? — Elena asked at last.

— I don’t know, — Nikolai picked up his bag. — I need time to think. I’ll stay with Igor for a couple of days.

Elena wanted to object, but the words stuck in her throat. She watched in silence as her husband walked out of the house they had built together. When the door closed, she lowered her head onto her arms and burst into tears.

— I don’t get it, — Igor, Nikolai’s younger brother, handed him a cup of coffee. — Why did you do that test in the first place?

They sat in the kitchen of Igor’s apartment — small, but cozy. Nikolai hadn’t slept all night, and the dark circles under his eyes showed it.

— You didn’t see how Viktor looked at me when he said it. With such… certainty. And then, you know yourself Andrei doesn’t look like me.

— He looks like Elena, — Igor shrugged. — So what? My Dima looks more like Yulia than me, too.

— But the results…

— Are you sure they’re right? Who ran the analysis?

Nikolai pulled a crumpled business card from his pocket.

— “GenLab.” A private lab, but with good reviews. I checked.

Igor took the card and turned it over in his hands.

— And what are you going to do now?

— I don’t know, — Nikolai rubbed his face with his palms. — It feels like my world collapsed.

— Did you talk to Elena? What does she say?

— That she never cheated on me. That it’s a mistake.

— And do you believe her?

Nikolai raised his eyes to his brother.

— I believed her for fifteen years. And now… I don’t know.

Elena sat in the office of the director of the “MedTest” laboratory. She had barely slept, but she looked composed and determined.

— I need the results as quickly as possible, — she said, handing over vials with samples. — I’m willing to pay extra to rush it.

The director, a plump woman in glasses, nodded.

— We can do it in three days. But I must warn you, a DNA paternity test is a serious procedure. If you’re doubting the results of another lab…

— I’m more than sure there was a mistake there, — Elena said firmly. — My husband is my son’s father. I want to prove it.

Leaving the lab, Elena called her friend Marina.

 

— I need your help. You worked at the city hospital ten years ago, right? Do you remember a nurse named Irina from the maternity ward?

Vera found her mother at the computer. Elena was searching something quickly online and jotting notes in a notebook.

— Mom, what’s going on? Where’s Dad? He isn’t answering my messages.

Elena flinched and closed the laptop.

— Dad went to Uncle Igor’s. We have… a small disagreement.

— What kind of disagreement? — Vera crossed her arms. — What did you fight about?

Elena sighed. Vera was too smart to be put off with simple excuses.

— Your father… doubts that he’s Andrei’s biological father.

Vera froze, eyes wide.

— What? But how… why?

— He did a DNA test. The results said that genetically he isn’t Andrei’s father. But it’s a mistake, Vera. I’m sure it’s a mistake.

— You… you cheated on Dad? — Vera’s voice trembled.

— No! Never! — Elena grabbed her daughter’s hands. — I swear to you, I never cheated on your father. I love him. I’ve always loved him.

Vera jerked her hands away.

— Then where did Andrei come from? — there was a challenge in her voice. — DNA doesn’t lie, Mom.

— Tests can be wrong. Labs can make mistakes. People can manipulate results.

— What are you talking about?

Elena opened her notebook.

— I think the results were forged. Or there was a mix-up at the hospital. Or…

— You’re inventing some crazy theories instead of admitting the truth! — Vera burst out. — You lied to all of us! Poor Dad! Poor Andrei!

— Vera, please, — Elena reached out to her daughter, but she recoiled.

— Don’t touch me! I… I don’t want to talk to you!

Vera ran out of the room, slamming the door. Elena sank into a chair, feeling tears stream from her eyes again. Her whole world was falling apart before her eyes.

Marina brought Elena to a small café on the outskirts of the city.

— She’ll be here in five minutes, — Marina said, checking her phone. — I told her I wanted to meet a former colleague. I didn’t mention you.

— Thank you, — Elena nervously twisted a napkin in her hands. — Are you sure it’s the same Irina?

— Absolutely. Irina Savelieva. She worked in the maternity hospital when you delivered Andrei. Then she quit quickly and left the city. Only came back a couple of years ago.

The café door opened and a woman of about forty with a short haircut and wary eyes walked in. Seeing Elena, she froze.

— What does this mean, Marina? Why did you trick me?

— Please, Irina, — Elena stood up. — I just need to ask a few questions.

— I have nothing to say to you, — Irina turned toward the exit.

— I know you dated Nikolai before me! — Elena blurted out. — And I know you worked at the maternity hospital when my son was born.

Irina slowly turned back.

— So what?

— Was there… a mix-up with the babies? Or… — Elena couldn’t bring herself to say the word “switch.”

Irina let out a bitter little laugh.

— You think I switched your baby out of revenge? Seriously?

— I don’t know what to think! — Elena cried. — The DNA test says my husband isn’t my son’s father. I never cheated on Nikolai. How do I explain that?

Irina came over to the table and sat down.

— Listen, I won’t pretend I was thrilled when Nikolai dumped me for you. Yes, I was hurt. Yes, I worked at the maternity hospital when you gave birth. But I’m not crazy enough to switch babies!

— Then what happened? — Elena threw up her hands in despair.

Irina looked at her intently.

— And what did the test show? That Nikolai isn’t the father? Or that the child isn’t yours at all?

— Only that Nikolai isn’t the father.

— And where was that test done?

— At “GenLab.”

Irina pondered for a moment.

— You know, it’s a strange coincidence, but my niece works at GenLab. Alisa Savelieva. She handles processing the results.

Elena and Marina exchanged glances.

— And she could have… altered the results? — Marina asked carefully.

— I didn’t say that, — Irina replied quickly. — But Alisa… she’s very attached to me. And she knows the history with Nikolai.

Tamara Petrovna, Nikolai’s grandmother, was waiting for him in her small apartment. Despite being eighty, she retained a clear mind and a firm character.

— Sit down, grandson, — she pointed to a chair. — Igor told me everything. What nonsense have you gotten yourself into?

Nikolai sat down.

— Grandma, this isn’t nonsense. I have the test results…

— Tests! — the old woman snorted. — Have you looked in the mirror lately? At your grandfather?

She got up and went to an old dresser, taking out a battered photo album.

— Here, look.

She opened the album to a yellowed photograph. A boy of about ten looked out — astonishingly like Andrei.

— Who… is this? — Nikolai asked.

— Your grandfather Vladimir. My husband, God rest his soul. This photo is from 1953.

Nikolai took the photograph with trembling hands.

— But… that’s Andrei! How?

— In our family, Kolya, genes play strange tricks. They skip a generation. You take after your father, Igor takes after me. And Andryusha is the spitting image of Volodya.

— But the test…

— The test, the test! — Grandma waved a hand. — Do you know your grandfather had a rare blood type? And you have the same. And Andryusha too.

— That proves nothing, Grandma.

— And the fact you’re ready to destroy your family over a piece of paper — what does that prove? Your foolishness, that’s what!

Elena sat in the “MedTest” director’s office, staring at the second test results. They confirmed the first — Nikolai was not Andrei’s biological father.

— Is it possible for two different tests to be wrong? — she asked in a trembling voice.

The director shook her head.

— The likelihood is very small. But… there are some genetic anomalies that can affect the results. Very rare ones.

— Which ones exactly?

— For example, chimerism — when a person has cells with different genetic material. Or certain mutations that affect the standard markers used in paternity tests.

Elena recalled Tamara Petrovna’s words about a rare blood type.

— And where can we do a deeper analysis? One that would account for these anomalies?

— At the state genetic laboratory. But it’s expensive and takes a long time.

— I don’t care. I want to know the truth.

Viktor didn’t expect to see Nikolai on his doorstep.

— Kolya? What are you…

He didn’t have time to finish. Nikolai grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the wall.

— What the hell did you tell me about Elena? Why did you lie?

— I… I didn’t lie, — Viktor tried to free himself. — Let me go!

Nikolai released him, and Viktor slid down the wall.

— Your niece works at GenLab, right? — Nikolai asked. — Alisa Savelieva.

Viktor turned pale.

— I don’t know what you’re talking about.

— Stop lying! — Nikolai pulled out his phone and showed a photo. — That’s you and Alisa at GenLab’s corporate party. A photo from their website.

Viktor covered his face with his hands.

— Why, Viktor? — Nikolai asked quietly. — Why did you do it?

— You got the promotion that should have been mine, — Viktor answered dully. — You were always the boss’s favorite. Then you started your own company and became so successful… And I’ve got nothing. No career, no family.

— So you decided to destroy mine out of envy?

— I just wanted you to feel as rotten as I do.

Elena and Nikolai sat in the waiting room of the state genetic laboratory. Between them, on the chair, sat Andrei, swinging his legs and playing on his phone. He didn’t understand why they all had to give some tests, but he was happy to skip school.

— Did you talk to Viktor? — Elena asked quietly.

Nikolai nodded.

— He confessed to everything. He wanted revenge for old grudges.

— And his niece?

— She confessed too. She falsified the results at his request.

— And the second test? At MedTest?

Nikolai shook his head.

— That’s the strange part. They insist their results are accurate. And they have no connection to Viktor.

— The Sokolov family? — a doctor with a folder in his hands came into the waiting room. — Please come to my office.

In the office, the doctor — an elderly man with an attentive gaze — spread several sheets with graphs and tables before them.

— I have unusual news for you, — he said. — From the standpoint of standard analysis, Nikolai Sokolov is indeed not the biological father of Andrei Sokolov.

Elena turned pale, and Nikolai clenched his fists.

— But, — the doctor continued, — we ran an expanded analysis and found something interesting. You, Nikolai, have a rare genetic feature — a mutation in one of the key markers used in standard paternity tests.

— What does that mean? — Nikolai asked.

— It means the standard test will show a false negative. With deeper analysis we see the genetic material matches. You are definitely Andrei’s father.

Elena covered her face with her hands, unable to hold back tears of relief.

 

— Is this mutation rare? — Nikolai asked, remembering his grandmother’s words.

— Very rare. It occurs in roughly one person in ten thousand. And it’s inherited. Andrei has this mutation as well.

That evening the whole family gathered for dinner. Vera, wary at first, gradually thawed as she watched her parents holding hands again and smiling at each other.

— So it was all because of some mutation? — she asked.

— And because of one man’s envy, — Nikolai nodded. — Viktor knew about my doubts regarding Andrei’s looks and decided to exploit them.

— But how did he know about the mutation? — Vera was surprised.

— He didn’t, — Elena replied. — He just asked his niece to fake the first test results. And the second test showed the same thing because of the mutation no one suspected.

Andrei, who was devouring his pizza, looked up.

— What mutation are you talking about? Am I like a mutant from X-Men?

Everyone laughed, and the tension of the last few days began to fade.

— No, son, — Nikolai ruffled his hair. — It’s just that you and I have a rare genetic quirk. It makes us… special.

— Cool! — Andrei brightened. — What superpowers do we have?

— The main superpower is being a family, — Elena smiled. — No matter what.

Later, when the kids had gone to bed, Nikolai and Elena were alone in the kitchen.

— Forgive me, — Nikolai said quietly. — I should have trusted you, not some tests.

— And I should have understood your doubts, — Elena replied. — Andrei really doesn’t look like you on the outside.

— But he’s the spitting image of my granddad, — Nikolai smiled. — Grandma was right.

Elena leaned into her husband.

— You know, this was the worst anniversary gift ever.

— I promise, next time it’ll be only flowers and jewelry.

— And no envelopes with test results?

— No envelopes, — Nikolai confirmed, kissing her.

A full moon shone through the window, bathing the kitchen in soft light. The family storm had passed, leaving behind an understanding of how important trust is — and how fragile. And perhaps that understanding was the most precious gift of their fifteenth anniversary.

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