All Amazing Babies

Elena slowly flipped through the photos in the worn leather album she had carefully kept all these years. Her fingers gently touched each picture, pausing on those where Olga—her adopted daughter—genuinely smiled during school celebrations, the graduation party, her first day at university, and birthdays. Twenty years of motherhood had flown by in the blink of an eye, leaving an indelible mark on her heart. She remembered every tear on the child’s cheeks, every joy, every achievement of this girl who had become dearer to her than her own after Olga’s biological mother simply disappeared from their lives, as if dissolved into thin air.

The crutches stood by the sofa—a constant reminder of that unfortunate fall on slippery stairs and the subsequent complicated knee surgery. Now her entire leg was literally studded with metal pins—it was horrible to look at. The doctors promised a full recovery of mobility, but the process was dragging on much longer than originally expected. It was precisely then, when Elena was completely helpless and could not even get up from the sofa without assistance, that her husband—her beloved Grigory, with whom she had shared twenty happy years of marriage—suddenly stopped spending nights at home.

At first, she excused his absence by blaming work. But then she realized—he had found someone else. Young, healthy, able to give him what she could not.

The phone rang sharply, breaking the heavy silence of the apartment. Olga’s name appeared on the screen.

“Mom. How’s your leg?” her daughter’s voice was filled with genuine care and worry.

“Everything’s fine, my dear. Don’t worry about me. Tell me about the wedding instead. Has Igor already booked the restaurant? How’s the preparation going?”

“Yes, everything is ready, even the menu has been approved. Mom, do you happen to know where Dad is? I haven’t been able to reach him for several days. His phone is either busy or doesn’t answer at all.”

Elena fell silent. To tell the truth about her father’s mistress would irrevocably shatter her daughter’s last illusions on the eve of the most important day of her life.

“He’s… very busy at work right now,” she lied with difficulty, hating herself for it. “You know how it is at the end of the quarter.”

“I see. Mom, don’t forget—the registry office at eleven a.m. on Wednesday. I’m definitely waiting for you there. You’ll come, right? Promise you’ll come! I’m so nervous; I really need my mom to be with me that day.”

“Of course, my sunshine. Of course, I’ll come. Nothing will stop me from being with you on such an important day.”

After the call, Elena slowly leaned back on the soft pillows. She still did not know how to explain to her daughter that her father was now living with Kristina—a young twenty-five-year-old employee from his office who could have been his daughter.

The sound of a key in the lock made her flinch. Grigory entered the apartment, not even greeting her, and silently went into the bedroom.

“Grigory, let’s just talk calmly about…”

“We have nothing to discuss,” he sharply cut her off, not even turning toward her. “It’s all been decided. There’s no point in dragging it out.”

Elena struggled to pick up her crutches and slowly, fighting through the pain, got up from the sofa.

“Our daughter keeps asking about you. The wedding is in three days. She’s waiting for her father.”

“She’s my daughter, not yours, and I know that very well,” he replied coldly. “And I know exactly what I’ll say to Olga.”

“What exactly are you going to tell her?”

Grigory slowly turned to face her. In his eyes, she saw not a trace of the love that had once been there.

“After the wedding, I’ll honestly tell her that it’s over between us, that I’m filing for divorce. And remember this once and for all—you mean nothing special to her. In fact, you’ve always been nobody—no real mother, just a temporary nanny who helped raise the child. In short, you’re just a stepmother who will soon become completely useless.”

Elena knew, knew very well all along, that Olga would never be her daughter by blood, but she was her daughter by soul. Elena had dreamed of having her own children all her life but had been unable to conceive—which had been the main cause of her first divorce. But after she married Grigory, who already had little Olga, she wholeheartedly accepted her as her own, while Olga’s biological mother had vanished without a trace and had not appeared in their lives for many years.

“Don’t say such monstrous nonsense!” Elena exclaimed. “I raised your daughter as my own. I am her mother, and no one else!”

“You’re not a mother!” Grigory shouted, genuine malice in his voice. “You’re just my wife—a woman who couldn’t even give me a child in twenty years of marriage! And now you’re disabled with crutches. Who needs you?”

This was exactly what Elena feared most—that she would remain disabled forever and would not be able to take a step without crutches.

“I loved you both more than my own life,” she said quietly.

“Love?” Grigory laughed bitterly and scornfully. “Your so-called love is endless pots and constant cleaning. Olga will perfectly understand that I’m making the right choice. I’ll have my own child now; I’m far from old yet, but you…”

With these cruel words, Grigory sharply turned and left the room. Elena no longer had the strength or desire to argue with him—and what was the point if he had already made up his mind?

For several heavy days before the wedding, they existed in oppressive silence. Elena’s loyal friend Galina regularly visited, bought groceries, cooked simple meals, helped with cleaning. Her husband only occasionally appeared at home—sleeping, silently eating, and then leaving again, supposedly for work but actually to see his mistress.

And the day before the long-awaited wedding, Grigory harshly and categorically declared:

“You definitely won’t go to the wedding. I won’t allow a crippled old woman to spoil my daughter’s most important celebration. Just imagine how pitiful you’ll look in all the photos! Like a shadow from the past.”

“We’ll see who’s the pitiful shadow here,” Elena answered quietly but firmly.

“Don’t even think about showing up at the wedding, or I’ll personally throw you out without ceremony.”

Grigory snorted disdainfully and continued silently chewing his dinner as if nothing had happened.

Late in the evening, Elena sat in her three-room apartment, which now seemed incredibly large and lifelessly empty. She dialed Olga’s familiar number, her heart painfully tightening at the impending conversation.

“Mom! So, are you ready? Tomorrow is…”

“Olechka, my dear, I have very bad news. I won’t be able to come to your wedding.”

“What?! Why?! What happened?”

“My leg… serious complications, very painful. The doctor strictly forbade any long trips,” she lied with a heavy heart.

Her daughter’s voice instantly became sad:

“Mom, is something wrong? I think you’re crying?”

“No, my dear. I’m just very upset that I’ll miss the most important and happiest day of your life.”

“Mom, don’t be too upset, I…”

From the next room came Grigory’s muffled but clearly audible voice:

“You did the right thing, sit quietly here, don’t spoil people’s celebration. That’s it—you’re long gone; my daughter will soon forget about you forever, and you… well, I’ll deal with you properly later. And don’t waste time—pack your things, find a rental place. I’ll help you move your stuff but don’t delay. Understand me?!”

Elena desperately wanted to burst into tears—twenty years of life with this man, and he treated her worse than garbage ready to be thrown out without ceremony. She quietly hung up the phone, unable to speak any longer.

The wedding day arrived—the bright spring sun shone through the windows, and joyful birdsong was heard outside. Grigory put on his best dark blue suit and left early in the morning, reminding Elena once again that the wedding was exclusively for his daughter, not her, that she needed to pack her things, and that she must not call Olga or upset her on such an important day.

Elena silently sat by the wide window, slowly leafing through the thick album filled with numerous photos of her daughter, when suddenly there was an insistent knock at the door.

At the threshold stood Igor—the groom—wearing his wedding suit, holding a bouquet of white roses.

“Elena Mikhailovna, please get ready quickly. Olga absolutely refuses to go to the registry office without you.”

“Igor, dear, I just can’t. You see—I have these horrible pins in my leg, I can barely move, I’ll only ruin your celebration…”

“Elena Mikhailovna,” he gently but firmly interrupted. “Olga knows about Kristina. She knows about the impending divorce from her father and that he forbade you to come to our wedding. She knows everything. And she wants her real mother to be beside her—that’s you.”

Elena carefully got up from the sofa, firmly leaning on her crutches, and looked at this wonderful young man who sincerely loved her daughter.

“All right. Give me half an hour to get ready.”

At the registry office entrance, a small group of guests had gathered. The warm June day was perfect for celebration, and everyone was dressed in their best clothes. Elena, holding onto the building’s wall to avoid falling from weakness, carefully surveyed the crowd. Her gaze landed on a familiar figure—Grigory stood at the entrance with a young woman about twenty-five, obviously Kristina herself. The girl wore a bright pink dress with a deep neckline, which seemed inappropriate for a wedding. Upon seeing Elena, her ex-husband’s face instantly twisted with anger; his eyes narrowed and lips pressed into a thin line.

“She wasn’t supposed to come,” he hissed into Kristina’s ear.

“And who is she anyway?” the young woman shrugged carelessly.

At that moment, Olga emerged from the registry office building in a stunning white dress with lace sleeves and a long train. Her face radiated happiness, and her eyes sparkled with joy. Seeing her mother, she immediately ran to her, ignoring the possibility of wrinkling her dress.

“Mom!” she exclaimed, hugging Elena. “I knew you’d come!”

“I’m afraid I’ll spoil your photos, sunshine,” Elena replied, holding her daughter tightly as tears welled in her eyes. “But you’re simply glowing with happiness. You’re so beautiful, my dear.”

“Mom, you can’t spoil anything. You know the most important thing for me is that you’re here,” Olga hugged her mother tighter. “How are you feeling? Maybe you should sit down?”

“I’m fine, dear. Today is your day, and I can manage.”

When Olga moved away to greet other guests with the groom, Grigory approached Elena with determined steps. His face was red with anger.

“You still disobeyed and showed up here,” he hissed angrily, coming very close. “Well, fine, it’ll only be worse for you. You’ll end up on the street today, understand? As soon as I get home, I’ll throw all your rags out the door. Think I was joking?”

“Grigory, don’t make a scene,” Elena replied quietly, trying not to attract the attention of the other guests.

“Don’t make a scene?” he sneered. “And you had to ruin my daughter’s mood with your pathetic appearance? Look at yourself—a walking skeleton! You scare people!”

But then Olga came up to them, having heard her father’s last words. Her face instantly changed—joy turned to anger.

“What did you say?” she asked quietly but firmly.

“Daughter, I’m just explaining to your mother…”

“Get out of here!” she pushed her father hard in the chest. “And don’t you dare raise your voice at Mom! Get out! You’re a miserable scoundrel! Mom is sick, and you came to my celebration with your mistress and still dare insult her! Get out! Immediately!”

“Olya, you don’t understand the situation,” Grigory tried to justify himself, looking around at the stunned guests. “She’s not a mistress… She… we’re going to get married…”

“I have only one mom, and no father!” Olga interrupted him. “And you… you’re a traitor and a coward! Get out of here!”

“But I’m your father!” Grigory exclaimed, trying to take his daughter’s hand.

“Ha-ha-ha!” Olga laughed bitterly, pulling her hand away. “Suddenly remembered! Where were you all these years, dear papa? Maybe you taught me to read? Or took me to kindergarten? Or went to parent meetings? Or stayed with me when I was sick? What did you do? Nothing! Absolutely nothing! Mom raised me alone, worked, and you only spent money and told us what to do! Now get lost from my wedding and don’t forget to take your woman with you! Out!”

Grigory stood with his mouth open, clearly not expecting such a reaction. His face flushed and paled alternately. Kristina, who had been standing aside nervously biting her lips, firmly tugged his sleeve.

“Grigory, let’s get out of here,” she hissed. “Don’t get involved with this crazy daughter. She’s clearly not herself.”

“Yes, yes,” Olga agreed. “Both of you get out! And never come back into my life! I don’t need such a father!”

Igor, Olga’s fiancé, approached the bride and hugged her shoulders:

“It’s okay, sunshine. Don’t be upset.”

Grigory, realizing the situation had completely gotten out of control, turned and quickly walked away from the registry office. Kristina clicked her heels and hurried after him.

“Well, good,” Olga said, calming down. “Now we can continue the celebration.”

After the wedding ceremony, when all the congratulations had been said and photos taken, Olga approached her mother and handed her a small key.

“What’s this, dear?” Elena asked, examining the key.

“It’s for your home, mommy,” Olga smiled. “While we were here at the ceremony, the locksmith already changed the lock on the apartment. Dad’s things were packed up by our neighbor, Aunt Valya. She said she’ll be happy to help you anytime.”

Elena hugged her daughter tightly.

“Thank you, sunshine. You have no idea how important this is to me.”

“Thank you, mom,” Olga replied. “For being by my side all these twenty years. For loving me like your own daughter. For being a real mother even when everything was falling apart around us. For teaching me to be strong.”

“You’re the best daughter in the world,” Elena whispered, stroking Olga’s hair.

Late at night, after Elena had taken her medicine and rested a little from the exciting day, there was a persistent knocking at her apartment door. At first, it was normal knocking, but it gradually became louder and more aggressive, turning into a real drumroll.

“Elena!” came Grigory’s familiar voice. “Open up immediately! What the hell are you locked up like a rat in a hole for? I’ll break this lock! Have you packed your things? Found a place to live? I’ll remember how you ruined my daughter’s wedding by being here!”

Elena calmly approached the door but did not open it. Instead, she answered loudly and clearly:

“No, Grigory, I haven’t packed and haven’t even thought about it.”

“What do you mean ‘haven’t thought about it’?” he roared outside. “I told you!”

Grigory was raging with anger. An hour ago, his mistress had thrown him out after a grand scandal. Kristina called him a loser who couldn’t even handle a sick wife and an uncontrollable daughter. They fought to pieces, and now he was completely alone. And here was this stubborn woman locked in the apartment, refusing to let him in!

“Open up right now!” he shouted, banging his fists on the door. “This is my home!”

“No, Grigory,” Elena replied calmly, leaning against the door. “It was never yours. You seem to have forgotten that the apartment belongs to me. I let you live here, took you in like a stray dog, but you’ve gotten so attached that you already consider it yours. No, it’s my apartment, bought with my money, registered in my name.”

“But… but…” he was clearly confused, then realized that the apartment really belonged to his wife. “And my things? Where are my things?”

“With the neighbor. Ask Aunt Valya; she’ll explain everything.”

The banging on the door stopped. Elena cautiously went to the window and looked outside. At that moment, neighbor Valentina Petrovna was already carrying out numerous bags and packages with her ex-husband’s things. Grigory paced between them, shouting and waving his arms, but Aunt Valya methodically continued to clear her hallway of someone else’s belongings.

“If you don’t pick them up within an hour,” came the stern voice of the neighbor’s husband, Petr Ivanovich, “everything will go straight to the trash bins. What a scoundrel you turned out to be, Grigory! I thought you were a real man. Ugh!”—and he demonstratively spat at Grigory’s furious feet, who now didn’t know what to do or where to go.

Elena involuntarily smiled, watching the scene. Justice had finally prevailed.

At that moment her phone vibrated. A message from Olga appeared on the screen: “Mommy, thank you for the best day of my life. I love you more than anything in the world. Catch the photos from our celebration. Tomorrow Igor and I will come to you with the wedding cake and tell you everything in detail. Take care!”

Elena returned to the sofa, carefully sat on the soft pillows, and opened the gallery on her phone. One by one appeared the beautiful photos from the wedding: Olga in a pure white dress smiling joyfully, standing next to Igor; the newlyweds exchanging rings; Olga tossing the bouquet to her friends; her and her mother hugging against the backdrop of the registry office. In every photo, her daughter was glowing with happiness, and that was the most important thing.

“How fast time flies,” Elena thought, looking at the pictures. “Just yesterday she was a little girl afraid of the dark, and today she’s a wife. But she grew up strong and fair. So, I didn’t live these years in vain.”

A warm, happy smile appeared on her face. Despite the illness, despite all the hardships, she was truly happy. She had a daughter who loved her, a roof over her head, and now no one could take this peace away from her.

Anna Fedorovna sighed heavily, placing another pot under the stubborn trickle of water seeping through the dilapidated roof.

— What a disaster! — she whispered, looking up at the ceiling as if trying to see the very sky through the cracks. — When will this ever end? The rain’s gone mad — it just keeps pouring nonstop! Could it be that the roof in heaven itself, right above the Lord, has sprung a leak?

Before, during past downpours, a couple of basins were enough, but now she had to arm herself with an entire arsenal: four buckets, a small pot, and even an old enamel basin — everything was in use.

— Just as long as the roof doesn’t collapse, — she sighed, surveying the crooked beams. — Or it’ll crush me, and no one will even find me under these ruins!

With a habitual gesture, as if warding off bad thoughts, the old woman made the sign of the cross over herself. Suddenly, outside, a deafening clap of thunder rolled, causing the windowpanes to tremble.

— Oh, Lord have mercy! — she exclaimed, clutching the cross hanging on her chest. — What a calamity is this? I haven’t seen such a storm in twenty years, at least!

Anna Fedorovna had long been used to having long conversations with herself—or rather, with the cat, who, however, never responded. The gray, mustached sentinel sat on the stove, his green eyes shining in the dim light like two glowing coals.

— What, scared, furry one? — she said soothingly. — Don’t be afraid, the thunder won’t do us in. I’ve been through worse…

But no sooner had the words left her lips than the door creaked open and a tall male figure drenched by the rain appeared in the doorway. The old woman gasped and stepped back, her heart pounding wildly.

— Don’t be afraid, mother, — came a hoarse voice. — I come in peace.

She looked closer: before her stood a gaunt man, his face pale, his eyes heavy with deep fatigue.

— Well, since you come in peace — come in, warm yourself, — she mumbled, stepping aside.

The stranger took a few steps and then, as if struck down, collapsed onto a stool, breathing heavily.

— I need… a drink… — he rasped.

Quickly, she scooped some apple kvass from an oak barrel with a wooden ladle and handed it to him. The man greedily drained it to the bottom, set the ladle down, and closed his eyes as if gathering strength.

— Don’t be afraid of me, — he finally said. — It happened that I had to run to prove my innocence. But I can’t go further — I was wounded. Could I stay here for a while? Even in the cellar or attic…

Anna Fedorovna slowly approached him, peering closely at his face.

— Well, if you’re telling the truth — stay. But if you lie — God will punish you, — she said sternly, waving her hand toward the far room. — There’s a free spot there. Make yourself comfortable.

The stranger, who introduced himself as Nikolai, struggled to the bed and sank onto it, feeling his consciousness begin to drift. He pulled off his half-wet robe — his entire side was soaked in dark blood.

— Damn it… — he whispered through clenched teeth.

Struggling to remove his coarse clothes, he collapsed onto the pillow, feeling as if he wasn’t falling asleep but plunging somewhere into an abyss, trying to hold on but failing.

As soon as his eyelids closed, the hostess entered with a basin of warm water. Looking him over, she shook her head, carefully cleaned the wound, ensuring it was a through-and-through injury, then smeared it with a thick, herb-scented salve.

— Sleep, dear, — she softly said. — You need it now more than anything.

Nikolai awoke to a bright sunbeam shining directly into his face. Nothing reminded him of yesterday’s storm — outside, birds chirped, and the air was clear and fresh. For a moment, he even forgot where he was and how he got there. But memory quickly returned, and he tried to sit up. A sharp pain pierced his side, and at that moment, as if by magic, the door opened and Anna Fedorovna appeared in the doorway.

— Awake! Thank God! — she rejoiced. — Don’t rush to get up, lie down some more. The wound is fresh; it needs to heal.

— Grandma, how long have I been asleep? Eight hours? — he asked hoarsely.

She laughed, a warm, almost motherly note in her laughter.

— More than a day, dear! Well, do you want to eat?

Suddenly, Nikolai realized he was so hungry he would eat anything.

— More than that!

— Then let’s go slowly.

He carefully got up and, to his surprise, found the pain was not as bad as he had expected.

The old woman set the table, placing a large bowl of steaming cabbage soup, a pot of sour cream, and cutting a slice of fresh bread. Nikolai looked regretfully at the modest portion, but the hostess only smiled.

— Don’t rush, dear. If you manage, I have some potatoes simmering in the oven.

He began eating with a greediness he hadn’t noticed in himself for a long time. Anna Fedorovna sat opposite him, watching.

— My name’s Anna Fedorovna, what’s yours?

— Nikolai.

— Interesting… — she said thoughtfully.

Halfway through the bowl, he felt full but continued eating out of habit. Meanwhile, the grandmother placed a mug of dark broth in front of him.

— Drink this. It’s bitter, but good for you now.

He sniffed, grimaced, but took a sip — he didn’t even think the old woman might wish him harm.

— Well, Nikolai, now tell me your story, — she said softly.

He pushed the bowl aside, sighed, and began:

— There’s not much to tell. I had everything: a house, family, money. But one day, my wife decided she didn’t need me, but my wealth — she did. At night, she and her lover… accidentally, I hope, hit a man and fled. Then she testified that I was driving. Her lover is a journalist, has connections everywhere. I was convicted within a day and served three months. I couldn’t stay any longer — I had to find one person to help me. I managed to escape but don’t know how to reach him yet.

— If all is as you say — truth will prevail, — the old woman said confidently.

— Oh, Anna Fedorovna, if only I had your faith! — he bitterly smiled. — I thought if you have money, everyone respects you. But when trouble came — everyone turned away. Not even for a reason, just like that…

The hostess stood, cleared the dishes, and suddenly pulled out a worn deck of cards. Nikolai watched in surprise as she laid them out, whispering something. Finally, she gathered the cards and looked at him.

— You need to leave in three days. If you leave at the hour I tell you — you will reach your man.

He never believed in fortune-telling, but something in her voice made him quiet.

She dealt the cards again, and again, then said:

— You were born far from here, the only child in your family. Your parents are alive, sitting there, watching the road and crying. They wait for their son. But he’s not hurrying… Not because he’s in prison, but he never was.

Nikolai felt a hot wave of shame wash over him. It was exactly so — he’d been sending money to his parents for years but hadn’t visited them in three years.

— Your wife is beautiful, but a liar, — the old woman continued. — She always had many men: before you and with you. And also… she didn’t want your child. You could have had a son, but not fate.

He bowed his head. It seemed this simple woman knew more about him than he did himself.

He sat stunned, thoughts tangled, his head ringing. And he had suspected! Svetka said she had “minor female ailments,” so she moved to the guest room for a couple of weeks. And she went to the clinic suspiciously often, even stayed there for a few days. Everything was before his eyes, but he distanced himself, preferring not to dig deeper.

— And your friend is worried, looking for you, — the grandmother continued, shuffling cards. — People have already come looking for you. But he will help you, rescue you, and won’t even remember the offense you caused him.

Nikolai almost fell off the chair.

Well, okay, suppose the old woman is a good psychologist. But how does she know about Larisa? About how he left his friend’s sister for Svetka? How she left then, broken? He and his friend fought fiercely, nearly breaking each other’s bones, but later… they reconciled.

He always thought Larisa persuaded her brother to forgive him.

The grandmother folded the cards. He exhaled:

— Incredible…

She laughed — loud, young, as if she were not an old woman but a girl.

— What did you expect? I used to be known all over the region — the best fortune-teller! But now… — she waved her hand — I don’t do it anymore. Don’t want to. It’s hard to see other people’s fates, Kolya. People rarely come when everything’s fine. Only when they’re desperate, when they hit rock bottom. So what do you think you see then? Most often — the end.

Thunder rumbled outside as if confirming her words.

— What the heck! — Anna Fedorovna exclaimed, throwing up her hands. — A week of storms, like cursed! When will this mess end?

The cat, as if on command, slipped onto the stove and curled up. Nikolai watched with amazement as the hostess skillfully placed basins exactly where the drips were. So it went: amid cheerful drops and thunderclaps, they continued their evening.

— Almost no one left in the village, — sighed the old woman. — Before, when city folks came to me for fortune-telling, I could ask — men would come, fix the roof. But now, no one to ask. I wonder: what will come first — will I die, or will the ceiling fall on me?

Three days passed. Nikolai grew stronger; the wound healed. No new faces appeared in the village — only once a local traveling store passed through. At dawn on the fourth day, Anna Fedorovna woke him early:

— It’s time, Kolya. They’re coming already.

He rose easily — his body obeyed as if he’d never been wounded. He hugged the old woman tightly:

— We will meet again. Thank you…

— Go already, — she muttered, turning away, — or I’ll start crying. We’ll see each other, I’m sure.

She explained the way through the garden to the station, how best to leave — by bus or train. She stood long at the door, peering into the pre-dawn gloom where he disappeared.

— What a misfortune… — she muttered. — What a summer it’s been…

She had to empty the buckets — the ones she used to carry water from the well. She watched new wet spots spreading across the ceiling. Yes, the roof wouldn’t hold much longer.

The rain stopped as suddenly as it had started. That summer, the weather seemed out of control: hot in the morning, flood by afternoon, and stifling again by evening.

Anna Fedorovna gathered the basins, emptied the water, went outside—and froze.

Approaching the house was… no, not just a car — a whole big machine! A truck with some kind of basket on top. And behind it, a large black sedan.

— Could it really be war? — she whispered, crossing herself frantically.

The vehicles stopped. Now visible: in the truck bed were boards, packages, something red like slate, but not slate. From the sedan stepped out…

— Nikolai!

The bucket crashed to the ground. She hobbled toward him, unable to believe her eyes.

— Hello, Anna Fedorovna! — he smiled widely. — I told you — we’ll see each other soon!

— Soon, you say… — she snorted. — Three months — that’s your “soon”?

— It wasn’t up to me. They took me again while my friend was sorting everything out. Only for a month though — until the trials and investigation. I didn’t come alone!

He opened the car door. A young woman stepped out, shyly smiling:

— Hello.

They dined outside. Larisa, Anna Fedorovna, and Nikolai cooked enough for the whole crew — three huge pots. While Larisa set the table, the old woman laid out cards. Kolya sat beside her:

— Well, what now?

— They say you did the right thing, returning to your past and fixing the mistake. — She squinted. — It was your cruelty that caused everything to go wrong back then. But… — Nikolai tensed — Are you going to get married?

— Even now! I’m just afraid she’ll say no.

— She won’t. — Anna Fedorovna smiled slyly. — The baby can’t be born without a father, you know.

Kolya stared at Larisa in shock. She blushed but smiled.

Late at night, when the old woman was already asleep and the workers had gone to bed, Larisa and Nikolai settled in the car.

— Lar… — he suddenly spoke, looking at the ceiling. — How do you feel about tying your life to an ex-con?

She turned surprised, but he kept studying the starry sky.

— Is that… a proposal? — she whispered.

— Yep.

— Hmm… — Larisa pretended to frown. — Not the best prospect: a husband in and out of jail, and me with a bunch of kids. — She sighed and turned to the window.

Nikolai jerked and hit his head on the roof. Larisa laughed:

— Yeah, dummy, of course yes! I’ve waited so many years for those words. Although… — she made sad eyes — I thought there’d be a ring, flowers…

— Oh my! — He jumped out of the car, looked around, grabbed the first lily he could find from the grandmother’s garden, and ran back in. — Flowers! We’ll buy the ring tomorrow. And also… — he said seriously — we’ll visit my parents.

— Of course, we will.

Anna Fedorovna, watching them from the summer kitchen, smiled and crossed herself:

— That’s good. Now everything’s in its place.

— Who is this? — Sergey Alexandrovich asked coldly as soon as Anna entered the house, tightly holding a small baby wrapped in a soft blanket against her chest. There was no hint of joy or surprise in his voice. Only irritation. — Do you seriously think I will accept this?

He had just returned from another business trip that had lasted several weeks. As usual, he was immersed in work: contracts, meetings, endless calls. His life had long become a series of business trips, conferences, and flights. Anna knew this even before their marriage and accepted this lifestyle as a given.

When they met, she was only nineteen. She was in her first year of medical school, and he was already a mature, confident man — respectable, successful, reliable. Exactly the kind she had once dreamed about in her school diary. He seemed to her a support, a rock behind which she could hide from all troubles. She was sure: with him, she would be safe.

That’s why the evening that was supposed to be one of the brightest days in her life suddenly turned into a nightmare. The moment Sergey looked at the child, his face became alien. He froze, then spoke — his voice ringing sharp in a way she had never heard before.

— Look for yourself — not a single feature! Not mine at all! This is not my son, do you understand?! Do you think I’m stupid enough to believe this fantasy? What are you up to? Trying to hang noodles on my ears?

His words cut like knives. Anna stood, unable to move, her heart pounding somewhere in her throat, her head buzzing from fear and pain. She could not believe that the person she trusted with all her heart could suspect her of betrayal. She loved him completely. For him, she had given up everything: career, dreams, her former life. Her main goal was to give him a child, to create a family. And now… he was reproaching her like an enemy.

From the very beginning, her mother warned her.

— What did you find in him, Anyuta? — Marina Petrovna often repeated. — He’s almost twice your age! He already has a child from his first marriage. Why be a stepmother if you can just find someone who will be an equal partner?

But young, in love Anna didn’t listen. For her, Sergey was not just a man — he was fate, the embodiment of masculine strength, a support she had long sought. Without a father she never knew, she had spent her life waiting for exactly such a man — strong, protective, a real husband.

Marina Petrovna, of course, was cautious about him. It was natural that a woman Sergey’s age would see him more as a peer than as a suitable partner for her own daughter. But Anna was happy. Soon she moved to his large, cozy house where she dreamed of building a life together.

At first, everything really seemed perfect. Anna continued studying medicine — as if fulfilling her mother’s cherished dream, who once wanted to become a doctor but couldn’t because of an early pregnancy and the disappearance of the man who became her daughter’s father. Marina raised Anna alone, and although the daughter never knew a father’s love, that void pushed her to seek a “real” man.

For Anna, Sergey became that person — a figure replacing the absent father, a source of strength, stability, family. She dreamed of giving him a son, creating a full family. And then, two years after the wedding, she found out she was pregnant.

This news filled her life like spring sunshine. She shone like a flower. But for her mother, it was a cause for concern.

— Anna, what about your studies? — Marina Petrovna asked worriedly. — You won’t quit everything, will you? You put so much effort into your education!

There was truth in these words. The path to medicine was not easy — exams, courses, constant stress. But now it seemed distant. Ahead of her was a child — living proof of love, the meaning of her whole life.

— I’ll return after maternity leave, — she replied softly. — I want more than one. Maybe two or three. I need time for them.

Such words stirred anxiety in her mother’s heart. She knew what it was like to raise children alone. Experience taught her caution. So she always believed: you should have as many children as you can manage if the husband leaves. And now her fears were coming true.

When Sergey threw Anna out like an unwanted guest, Marina Petrovna felt something important inside break. For her daughter, for her grandson, for the shattered dreams.

— Has he lost his mind?! — she cried, holding back tears. — How could he do this? Where is his conscience? I know you — you would never betray!

But all her warnings, years of advice, and anxious words crashed against her daughter’s stubbornness. Now she could only bitterly state:

— I told you from the start what he was like. Didn’t you see? I warned you, but you went your own way anyway. Here’s your result.

Anna had no strength for reproaches. A storm raged inside her. After the scene Sergey threw, only pain remained in her heart. She never thought he could be so cruel, so capable of throwing such humiliating words in her face. They burned into her memory, especially sharply the day she brought their son home from the maternity hospital. Then she still thought — their son.

She imagined a different picture: how he would hold the baby, thank her for giving birth, hug and say now they were a real family. But instead, she got coldness, anger, and accusations.

Reality turned out crueler than she could have imagined.

— Get out, traitor! — Sergey shouted furiously, as if losing the last shreds of humanity. — Did you have someone behind my back? Have you completely lost your mind?! You lived like a princess! I gave you everything! It was a real fairy tale — and this is how you repay me?! Without me, you’d be crammed in a dorm with some failing student, barely finishing medical school! Working somewhere in a forgotten clinic! You’re incapable of anything else, understand?! And you brought someone else’s child into my home! Do you think I’ll swallow this?!

Anna, trembling with fear, tried to somehow stop his anger. She begged, said he was wrong, that she had never cheated on him. Every word was a thrown stone hoping to hear reason in his eyes.

— Seryozha, you know your daughter, remember what she was like when you brought her home from the hospital? — she pleaded desperately. — She didn’t look like you right away! Babies aren’t born looking alike. Resemblance comes over time — eyes, nose, manners. You’re a grown man, why can’t you understand such simple things?

But his face remained cold as ice, as if his soul had left his body.

— Not true! — he sharply cut her off. — My daughter was an exact copy of me from the first minute! And this baby isn’t mine. I don’t believe you anymore. Pack your things and leave. And remember: you won’t get a single penny from me!

— Please, Seryozha! — Anna sobbed. — He’s your son, I swear! Do a DNA test, it will confirm everything! I didn’t lie to you, hear me? I would never do this… Believe me, at least a little…

— Like I’m going to run to labs and humiliate myself?! — he roared in rage. — Do you think I’m such a fool to believe you again?! Enough! It’s over!

Sergey Alexandrovich finally locked himself in his paranoid certainty, in a world full of accusations and lies. He did not want to hear pleas, arguments, or even the voice of love. His truth was one, and no one could break through that wall.

Anna had no choice but to silently pack her things. She gently took her son in her arms, looked back one last time at the house she wanted to make a family hearth, and left. Left into the unknown, into a bottomless void from which it was almost impossible to escape alone.

She returned to her mother — there was no other way. Crossing the threshold of her childhood home, Anna finally allowed herself to cry.

— Mommy… how foolish I was… so naive… forgive me…

Marina Petrovna did not cry. She knew she had to be strong now. Her voice was strict, but each word was full of care and love.

— Stop whining. You gave birth — we’ll raise him. Life is just beginning, understand? You’re not alone. But you must pull yourself together. Don’t you dare quit your studies. I’ll help. We’ll manage with the child. What are mothers for if not to pull their children out of trouble?

Anna could not say a word. Her heart was full of gratitude that words could not express. Without her mother, without that firm support, she would have simply broken down. Marina Petrovna took care of the baby herself, giving her daughter a chance to finish university and start a new life. She did not complain, did not reproach, did not lose hope — she kept working, loving, fighting.

And Sergey Alexandrovich, the man Anna once considered her whole life, truly disappeared. He didn’t pay alimony, didn’t care about their son’s fate, didn’t give any news. He just left, as if their past together was only a hallucination.

But Anna stayed. Only now, not alone. She had a son. And she had her mother. Perhaps here, in this small but real world, she first found true love and support.

The divorce was a real tragedy for Anna. Something inside seemed to collapse, and everything happening felt like a nightmare with no way out. The man she had planned her whole life with suddenly cut all ties, as if there had never been love, trust, or endless evenings dreaming of the future.

Sergey had a difficult character, often bordering on obsession. His jealousy had long become a painful trait that destroyed many marriages. However, meeting Anna, he skillfully hid his true self, presenting her with a carefully crafted story that his previous marriage ended over money disagreements.

And Anna believed him. She couldn’t imagine how prone he was to jealous outbursts and how easily he lost control over even the slightest, most innocent gesture.

At the very beginning, everything seemed perfect. Sergey was attentive, caring, romantic. He gave expensive gifts, flowers without reason, always asked how she was. Anna was sure she found her one and only.

But when Igor was born, a new chapter began. Anna fully devoted herself to the child, trying to surround him with care and love. But when her son grew older, she realized she had to think about herself too. She decided to return to university because she wanted to become a true professional, not just a graduate.

Her mother, Marina Petrovna, supported her in every way. She took care of her grandson, helped financially and morally. The first work contract was an important victory for Anna. Since then, she supported the family herself, living modestly but with dignity.

The chief physician of the clinic where Anna started working after graduation immediately noticed her potential. In the young woman, there was determination, inner strength, and a desire to develop. The chief physician, a woman with vast experience, saw in Anna the reflection of dreams she herself once could not achieve.

— Becoming a mother early is not a tragedy or an obstacle, — she once said, looking at Anna with warmth and approval. — It’s your strength. Your career is ahead. You’re young, your whole life is ahead. The main thing is you have a backbone.

These words became a ray of light for Anna in a dark time. They warmed her and instilled faith in the future.

When her son turned six, during one of the visits to his grandmother, kind Marina Petrovna, the senior nurse, said with sympathy:

— Anna, it’s time to think about school. The year will fly by — and Igor will be in first grade. And now, to be honest, he’s not ready for the school workload. Without proper preparation, it will be very difficult, especially nowadays.

These words added another worry to those already on her shoulders. But Anna did not let fear win — she always acted even when afraid. In the following months, she fully focused on her son’s development. Lessons with tutors, revising daily routines, creating a comfortable environment at home for studying — all became part of her new reality.

— I wanted to promote you for a long time, but I couldn’t before, — Tatiana Stepanovna, the chief physician, admitted once. — You understand — without experience they don’t promote here. Everything must be based on facts.

She paused as if gathering her thoughts, then continued:

— But you have talent. It’s obvious right away. Not just ability — a real medical gift.

— I understand perfectly and am not trying to argue, — Anna replied, her voice confident and grateful. — On the contrary, I sincerely thank you for your support. You helped me more than anyone else. Not only me — you were there when Igor needed help. We will never forget it.

— Oh, stop it, — Tatiana Stepanovna gently waved it off, slightly embarrassed. — Enough with the pathos. The main thing is for you to justify the trust. I’m counting on you.

— No doubts at all. I’ll do everything possible — and more, — Anna assured her. Her words were not just beautiful phrases — they were backed by every step, every decision.

Over time, Anna’s reputation as a doctor grew. The young surgeon quickly earned respect from colleagues and trust from patients. Every review was full of admiration. Sometimes Tatiana Stepanovna wondered if there were too many compliments.

But even on the day a person from the past entered her office, Anna remained composed. Her face stayed calm, her voice confident.

— Good afternoon, come in. Sit down, tell me what brought you here, — she said, indicating the chair opposite.

The visit was painfully unexpected. Sergey Alexandrovich, following a recommendation about the city’s best surgeon, did not expect that the initials hid her. He thought it was a coincidence. But opening the door, he recognized her immediately. No doubt remained.

— Hello, Anna, — he said quietly, with a slight note of inner excitement, taking an uncertain step forward.

The meeting happened against tragic circumstances. His daughter Olga had been suffering for almost a year from a mysterious illness that no one could diagnose. No tests or specialist consultations gave results. The girl was exhausted, her strength nearly gone.

Anna listened carefully to Sergey’s story without interrupting. Then, strictly and professionally, she said:

— I’m truly sorry you’re in this situation. Especially painful when a child suffers. But we cannot delay here. A full examination must be done urgently. Time is against us — every day can be decisive.

Sergey nodded. He knew — this time they found the right doctor.

— Where is Olga today? Why did you come alone? — Anna asked, tilting her head slightly, looking intently into his eyes.

— She’s very weak… — he whispered barely audibly, as if he himself didn’t believe the words. — So tired she can’t even get out of bed. It’s a real struggle.

He spoke restrainedly, but Anna, as an experienced doctor, felt behind that external coldness a deeply hidden anxiety. Behind the seeming composure raged a storm of feelings he desperately tried to control.

— I was told you are one of the best surgeons. A top professional. If that’s true — help. I beg you. Money doesn’t matter. Name any price — I’ll do whatever it takes, — he said tensely, as if throwing a last chance.

Years passed, but he remained the same — still convinced any problem could be solved with effort… and money. He didn’t even bother describing his daughter’s condition in detail — as if thinking his own grief was enough to make everything clear without extra words.

Igor’s name never came up in their conversation. As if he didn’t exist. That might have hurt before. Now Anna just noted indifferently: old grievances were in the past.

She was a doctor — and that meant more than any personal relationship. A professional does not divide patients into theirs and others. She must help everyone in need. Nevertheless, Anna wanted Sergey to understand: she was not all-powerful. So later, in moments of despair, he would not blame her for failing.

— I can’t even imagine how I’ll live if she doesn’t make it… — he suddenly uttered, and these words affected Anna more than she expected.

She gathered herself, remaining professionally distant. Preparation for the operation went as usual — with maximum precision and attention.

A week later the girl was examined, all tests collected. Then Anna called Sergey. Her voice sounded clear and firm:

— I agree. I will take the operation.

Silence hung on the other end, broken by a trembling voice:

— Are you really sure?.. What if something goes wrong? What if she doesn’t survive?..

— Sergey, we have to try, — she said firmly. — If we just wait — it will be like a death sentence. Do you want to watch her slowly fade away?

He didn’t answer but nodded — like a man accepting the inevitable. It was not surrender but conscious consent.

On the day of the operation he came with his daughter. He did not leave the clinic for a minute, as if his presence could influence the outcome. When Anna came out of the operating room, he rushed to her, his eyes mixed with fear and hope:

— Can I see her? Even for a minute! I need to talk to her!

— You’re talking like a child, — Anna replied lightly reproachful. — What kind of conversation do you think about now? She just woke up from anesthesia, will rest a few more hours. The operation was successful. No complications. Soon she’ll be moved to the ward. Come tomorrow — you’ll see her.

It was true. Sergey did not sleep all night, tormented by terrible thoughts and dark images. But he did not argue. For the first time in many years, he did not throw a scandal or demand immediate access to his daughter. He just nodded and left.

It was unexpected. The old Sergey would have exploded: “How come?! I’m her father!” But now he understood — yelling would not help. The only thing he could do was trust.

And that night he did something that used to seem ridiculous and unnecessary. He knelt and began to pray. Not to doctors, not to fate — he begged for a miracle.

Sergey Alexandrovich lost faith in a happy outcome. All his strength was exhausted, and now he was alone with a harsh reality where there was no consolation, only hopelessness.

He returned home like a broken man. His legs barely held him as if he had lived a whole life in the last day. But he did not allow himself rest — barely pausing, he gathered himself and headed back to the hospital.

— May I see my daughter? — he asked the tired-faced doctor. Outside, the city was immersed in deep sleep, streets deserted, only lanterns flickered through the damp fog. But Sergey noticed none of it. Neither cold nor time nor space — his thoughts were entirely about Olga.

By then, the girl had regained consciousness. Her condition improved noticeably, although weakness remained. Seeing her father at night, she was genuinely surprised:

— Dad? What are you doing here at night? Is it even allowed to receive visitors now?

— I just couldn’t sleep until I knew how you felt. I had to see you, — he answered, a little embarrassed. — Wanted to make sure you’re alive, that you’re better… even a little.

At that moment, Sergey suddenly and sharply understood what it meant to be a father. What family was. How little true family he still had. And the bitterest realization — that he himself destroyed most of what was valuable — twice, by his own will or weakness.

When dawn cautiously touched the city with its first rays, father and daughter said goodbye. After a long and deep conversation Sergey went out into the corridor — exhausted, but somehow a little relieved inside. But barely a few steps later, Anna suddenly appeared before him.

— What are you doing here? Explain! — her voice was sharp, almost irritated. — I clearly said — visiting patients outside visiting hours is forbidden. Who even let you in?

— Sorry for breaking the rules, — he said quietly, lowering his eyes like a schoolboy caught by a strict teacher. — It was my initiative. I just asked the guard… He had nothing to do with it. I begged. I had to see Olga. Make sure she was okay…

— Same old story? Thought money would help you get through any barriers? — Anna sighed reproachfully. She paused, then, as if shaking off irritation, added: — Okay, doesn’t matter. You came, saw, made sure. Now you can consider the task done.

Without waiting for an answer, she passed him and entered Olga’s room. She stayed there about half an hour, while Sergey remained in the corridor. He wasn’t going anywhere.

He didn’t expect what awaited him in her office. What happened next shocked him.

When the door swung open and Sergey appeared in the doorway, Anna raised an eyebrow questioningly. Fatigue was clear in her eyes.

— You’re here again? — she said with mild annoyance. — What happened?

In his hands was a large bouquet of fresh flowers filling the air with a light spring scent. Under his jacket, he held a neatly folded envelope — inside was gratitude expressed not just in words but in deed.

— I need to talk to you. It’s important, — he said seriously, meeting her gaze.

— Okay, but not for long, — she agreed, nodding. — I don’t have extra time.

As if by habit, she opened her office door and gestured him inside. And at that moment Sergey realized: either he speaks now or never dares again.

He stood hesitating, unable to find words, not knowing where to start or what thought to grasp so the conversation would take shape.

But fate, as if hearing his inner call, intervened. The door slammed open and an eleven-year-old boy full of energy and indignation ran into the room.

— Mom! I’ve been standing in the corridor for half an hour! — he exclaimed, pouting and angrily looking at his mother. — I called you, why didn’t you answer?!

That day was reserved for her son — no operations, no urgent calls. Work took most of Anna’s time, and every minute with Igor was a small bright island in an ocean of duties. Now she felt a pang of guilt — again she had broken her promise, let the child down.

Sergey froze as if doused with ice water. He looked at the boy, unable to look away — as if he saw not just a child but a living reflection of the past.

And finally, he managed to say:

— Son… my little son…

— Mom, who is this? — Igor frowned, casting a suspicious glance at the man. — Has he lost his mind? Talking to himself?

Anna tensed inside. The thought boiling within her was full of pain: here he was — the very man who once accused her of cheating, abandoned them, disappeared as if they never existed, crossed them out of his life like a spoiled page.

But she clenched her teeth, holding back tear-inducing words. Her heart ached, but in her chest still flickered a spark of something alive — faint, but real.

Sergey was tormented by regret and fear. He didn’t know if he deserved a chance to fix everything. Didn’t understand why he, of all people, was given the opportunity to return. But he was immensely grateful — for every dawn, for every night spent in hope.

“My God! I didn’t come here for nothing — I wanted to help you pick the perfect dress!” exclaimed the mother-in-law loudly, her voice trembling with indignation. “What do you look like now? This… this is just an absolute absurdity, not a bride’s outfit! Where is the luxury? Where is the sparkle? Where is the elegance?”

Lena stood before the stern woman wrapped in a dark silk dress as if petrified. The words got stuck deep inside her, unable to find an outlet. A whole crowd of guests had gathered around them—every gaze fixed on Lena like spotlights on an actress who had forgotten her lines. She felt like the victim of a visual trial, with her newly minted mother-in-law as the accuser.

Andrey, seeing the tension rise, tried to stop the brewing scandal:

“Mom, please, let’s keep it down? Not here and not now…”

“Keep it down?!” the woman snorted without lessening her intensity. “Do you think lowering your voice will make everything better? Or do you hope that no one will notice that your fiancée showed up at the wedding with no taste or common sense? Look at her!”

Andrey sighed, took his mother’s hand, and gently led her aside, leaving Lena alone in the middle of the attentive eyes of the guests. Each person seemed to be trying on the role of critic, whispering their opinions loud enough for Lena to hear.

It all began with a simple dress choice. Lena refused the model strongly recommended by her mother-in-law—it had too many feathers, beads, embroidery, and artificial glitter. She wanted something clean, classic, and graceful. Simplicity is luxury too, she told herself. And although the outfit was not cheap, it was free of unnecessary pomp. It was her image—calm, refined, restrained.

But in others’ eyes, it looked like a challenge.

Especially venomous was Svetlana’s gaze—Andrey’s ex-girlfriend, who still nursed hopes of becoming his wife. Her father held a high position in a large bank, and she was considered a “suitable match.” And Lena—an ordinary girl with an ordinary job, no influential connections or money, whom the mother-in-law repeatedly called a poor match with no dowry.

With every glance, every whispering pair, Lena felt her confidence drain away. Her heart tightened with bitterness. These people—almost the entire wedding—were invited by Andrey’s mother. Only a few of Lena’s friends, sitting in a distant corner of the hall, tried to remain invisible, not getting involved.

And then she realized: Andrey had not defended her. He chose to stay silent, perhaps afraid of losing his parents’ financial support. This thought struck her harder than her mother-in-law’s words. She had not just made a mistake—she had made a terrible mistake. Marrying him was madness. He would always be part of another world—a world where love is measured by price tags, not feelings.

Unable to bear the tension, Lena spun sharply and ran away, leaving behind not only the restaurant but everything connected to that day. She would not let them see her tears. Never.

Bursting outside, she stopped, breathing heavily. The wedding was held at one of the city’s most prestigious venues—near a picturesque park and a calm river. Without much purpose, Lena headed there—toward the water, hoping to find at least a drop of solitude. As she ran through the alleys in her pristine wedding dress, passersby looked back—some with curiosity, some with confusion—but she didn’t care at all.

Not long ago, she dreamed that her life would be filled with love, family warmth, children’s laughter. She wanted to create a home where it was warm, safe, and no one had to count every penny. She wanted them to go to the sea as a family once a year, walk along the shore, collect seashells—like in movies or books. She wanted everything that seemed like a normal life.

Andrey seemed to her that very person—strong, reliable, kind. They had met not long ago, but Lena felt: here he is—the one. She closed her eyes to how he sometimes forgot appointments, how he spent evenings with friends instead of being with her. She thought of it as a manifestation of male freedom, a bright nature that had to be accepted as it was.

Now, recalling her first meeting with his mother, Lena understood—there were plenty of warnings. Back then, at the dawn of their relationship, the woman stated outright that her son deserved another, more suitable woman. Andrey was silent then, and that silence echoed in her heart with pain even now.

The wedding collapsed like a house of cards. The future became foggy, anxious, full of doubts. Lena reached the riverbank, sat down on the grass, and burst into tears. Tears flowed endlessly, soaking the edge of her dress. She didn’t move or try to fix anything. Only after an hour, when her strength began to fade, did she calm down a little.

Wiping her tear-streaked eyes, Lena looked at the water’s surface. Suddenly, she noticed movement above—on the high bank, behind a barred fence, stood a woman. An old lady dressed in a modest coat, eyes closed, whispering something as if praying. But the place where she stood was too dangerous.

“What are you doing?” Lena shouted, feeling fear clutch her chest. “Are you really going to… jump?”

The grandmother slowly opened her eyes and looked down. Seeing Lena in a wedding dress, she hesitated.

“Sorry, girl… I didn’t think anyone was here. I probably disturbed you…”

“No, no, you didn’t disturb me,” Lena replied, feeling sudden relief. The woman spoke—that meant she still wanted to live.

“Why do you think so? Sometimes it seems everything is bad, but it’s not the end…”

The old woman shook her head:

“When they want to throw you out of the house where you lived your whole life, when children start seeing you only as a burden, there’s no hope left. I’m nobody’s need.”

“No,” Lena softly objected. “Everyone matters to someone. Even if not to those you wish.”

She herself had just lost faith in her family, but now her thoughts were focused on a different task—saving this woman, giving her life meaning again.

“What’s your name?”

“Ekaterina Sergeyevna.”

“I’m Lena. Today was supposed to be my wedding… but I ran away. But I won’t let my tears be anyone’s reason for laughter. And you shouldn’t be anyone’s reason for mockery either. Come with me. I’ll make you some tea. I have a special recipe. You haven’t tried anything like it yet!”

Ekaterina Sergeyevna barely smiled:

“What’s so special about it?”

“You’ll find out when you try it.”

After a long pause, the woman stepped back, then looked at Lena:

“Why do you need me, girl? You have enough worries of your own…”

“So what! I just realized I made a big mistake, but that’s no reason to lose others. Come on!”

Lena held out her hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Ekaterina Sergeyevna took it.

The woman’s story was sad, like thousands of others. She had a son who had now become a father himself. After the death of his fiancée and the grandson’s move to another city, Ekaterina was left alone. A year ago, the son remarried—a young, beautiful woman became his second wife.

At first, it seemed everything was going well. The decision to combine living arrangements—sell her apartment and buy a shared one—was made gladly. After all, Ekaterina dreamed of family, support, not growing old alone. But now that dream shattered like a crystal vase falling on stone.

Now they tried to evict her from the new home—the one she moved to hoping for warmth and care. Her son pretended not to notice what was happening, as if everything was fine. But his new wife… She was completely different—sharp, cold, and cruel. Relations with Ekaterina Sergeyevna were tense from the first days. Over time, it grew into real harassment. The daughter-in-law mocked and humiliated the old woman at every opportunity, once even raising a hand against her.

When Ekaterina Sergeyevna decided to talk to her son about his wife’s behavior, he not only didn’t take his mother’s side but threatened to send her to a psychiatric hospital, saying she was “not right in the head.” These words left a painful mark on the woman’s heart. How could she live to such a point—to be accused in her own home? Afraid things might get worse, the grandmother simply packed some things and left. Left the house where she wanted to spend her last years, left those she once loved boundlessly.

For three days she wandered city streets, hungry, frozen, lost. No roof over her head, no shoulder to lean on. And today, on this gloomy day, she thought of ending it all. After all, what was happening couldn’t be called living. It was an endless nightmare with no light left.

“And your grandson… does he treat you like that too?” Lena asked, feeling the heavy weight of another’s pain.

“Oh, no, my dear Lenochka…” Ekaterina Sergeyevna’s voice softened, as if a single memory of her grandson returned a piece of warmth. “Misha is my real sunshine. But he stopped visiting us after that snake came into our family. We used to call often; he always asked about my health, joked around. Then they took my phone away. Sometimes he calls my son, who tells him I’m either asleep or out walking. Just wants to hide the truth…”

An idea spun in Lena’s head. A fleeting thought like a ray of hope in this darkness.

“Ekaterina Sergeyevna, tell me your grandson’s name and his last name?” she asked quickly. “For now, go rest—I laid out a place for you on the couch. Don’t worry. I’m sure everything will be okay.”

The old woman nodded gratefully and soon fell into a troubled but still sleep. Lena, leaving her guest in peace, went to her laptop. Pouring herself a large cup of hot coffee, she sat at the kitchen table. Only now did she remember she hadn’t checked her phone for a long time. Pulling it out of the pocket of the wedding dress lying in the bathroom, she almost choked on the number of missed calls—more than a hundred! But only one was from Andrey.

After standing for a few seconds thinking, Lena pulled out the SIM card and carefully broke it. She didn’t want to hear from that man anymore. Twenty minutes later, she was already searching for information about Ekaterina Sergeyevna’s grandson. And here he was—a young man with the right name, age, and school. Everything matched.

Morning brought an unexpected knock at the door. Lena woke rubbing her eyes. Ekaterina Sergeyevna was already up, sitting on the couch, listening attentively to every sound.

“Who could that be?” Lena wondered.

She understood Andrey would find a way to look for her sooner or later. But she needed to solve her own problems first and help the grandmother. Gathering her strength, she approached the door and cautiously looked through the peephole. Andrey wasn’t there. Standing on the threshold was a tall, broad-shouldered man whose face seemed vaguely familiar.

Hesitating, Lena opened the door.

“Elena? My name is Mikhail, I’m Ekaterina Sergeyevna’s grandson.”

Ekaterina Sergeyevna jumped up from the couch and clasped her hands to her chest, rushing to the door:

“Lenochka, it’s my Misha! Oh, Lord, Misha… How did you know I was here?”

“Grandma, why didn’t you tell me? We memorized my number exactly together. You could have asked neighbors for help.”

“Oh, Misha, I didn’t want to bother you. You already have tense relations with your father…”

“Grandma, how else will they be with all this going on?”

Misha turned to Lena and gave her a warm, grateful smile.

“Thank you so much for not passing by my grandmother. She means incredibly much to me. I’ve wanted to take her away for a long time, but something always kept her here. We even argued about it…” he admitted. “I may seem pushy, but I wouldn’t refuse a cup of coffee after four hours behind the wheel.”

Lena, as if waking from a long sleep, straightened up:

“Sorry… I think I’m still half asleep… Coming now,” she replied shyly.

Soon a decision was made: Mikhail and his grandmother would stay with Lena for a few days. During this time, they planned to sort out the documents. It turned out Ekaterina Sergeyevna had invested significant funds in buying the apartment that was now being taken away. So, throwing her out onto the street was not only unfair but illegal.

“That’s unacceptable, and I will definitely file a lawsuit,” Misha said firmly. “I won’t let them treat you like that, grandma. Neither you nor I will let this go.”

In the following days, Lena lived as if in a half-dream. She knew grown-ups had to be more reasonable, especially after betrayal. But she could do nothing—around Misha, she got lost, forgetting everything. His kindness, care for his grandmother, confidence—it all fascinated her.

Before the guests left, Lena gathered courage and told Misha about her feelings. He was genuinely surprised.

“Really? I didn’t think that was possible. What are your plans?” he asked.

“I’ll file for divorce tomorrow,” Lena answered calmly.

“But you loved him?”

“Apparently not,” she smiled sadly. “Maybe I should even thank fate for that.”

After Mikhail and Ekaterina Sergeyevna left, they called regularly. Lena filed for divorce, and although her heart ached, she felt a new life being born inside her. Gradually, she began to come out of depression, learning to enjoy simple moments again.

At some point, she decided happiness wasn’t her fate and threw herself completely into work. One day a colleague asked with a smile:

“Lena, did you hear? We have a new boss?”

“They said Grigoryevich would leave only in two months.”

“No, he’s already gone. And the new one… he’s young and very handsome,” she added meaningfully.

“So what? Probably inexperienced. It’ll be tough,” Lena sighed.

“God, you’re not even thirty yet, and you’re already thinking about work. Are you going to marry work?” the other laughed. “By the way, they say he’s not married yet.”

Lena just shrugged and kept typing. But at that moment, a voice behind the door made her catch her breath:

“Elena Vladimirovna, the new manager is calling for you.”

Entering the office, Lena froze. There stood Mikhail, smiling as if he knew this day would come.

“Hi…” he said, extending his hand.

Two months later, the whole office celebrated their wedding. A colleague, dying of curiosity, approached Lena:

“Come on, spill it—how do you act around men to get such a husband? Just walk into the office, and he immediately proposes?”

Lena laughed, looking at her beloved:

“Sometimes fate itself knows how to find those who really matter.”

Vera looked at Alexei in disbelief, unable to believe her ears. “Lyosha, don’t you understand that you’re making a huge mistake?” Alexei dismissed her, showing his impatience. “Let’s skip the drama. I’m just tired of your constant dissatisfaction. It’s the same thing every day. Milana is completely different. She’s like a breath of fresh air to me. And you… I think I’ve been too lenient with you, allowing time to pack your things and find housing. You do realize that you have no right to demand anything? You’ve never worked, so my money doesn’t belong to you.” “Lyosha, but it was you who forbade me from working. You said that for a wife of someone of your status, work is considered an unacceptable luxury.” “Yes, I did say that when you were my wife. But now Milana will take your place, so you’ll have the opportunity to earn your own living.”

Vera recalled all these words while standing in the cemetery in front of a new grave. Alexei’s happiness with his new chosen one was short-lived—just three years. She knew the last year of their marriage for sure: it was full of suffering. Alexei’s illness also raised many questions.

He suspected Milana of adding something to his food or drinks. He even started his own investigation and shared it with Vera, but never finished it…

A month before his demise, Alexei visited her, asking for forgiveness. He talked about his life, looked ill, and her heart ached from his suffering. Now, standing in the cemetery, Vera turned her gaze to the elegant Milana with a dark veil on her face, supported by a young companion.

She heard the whispers of those present at the funeral, condemning Milana for her insensitivity. Vera decided: the investigation must be continued. Although Alexei betrayed her, she still loved him. Yes, he acted like the worst scoundrel, but he didn’t deserve such a death. Vera sighed and headed for the exit. At the gate, Milana called out to her.

“I hope you understand that you won’t get anything from my husband’s inheritance,” she said in an icy tone. Her face twisted with malice, though Vera gave no reason for such suspicions. They stood silent for a few seconds, like two combatants ready to fight. Then Vera turned and left, hearing behind her: “Don’t even try to get anything!”

Alexei was treated at a clinic chosen by Milana, but Vera knew: that was only part of the story. It turns out he was secretly observed elsewhere, about which almost no one knew. All the details were kept secret, and it seemed he feared it would be revealed.

“Hello? Vera Nikolaevna, you need to be present at the will reading.” “The will?” Vera smiled bitterly. “Did my ex really leave me something?” “I’m sorry, Vera Nikolaevna, but I can’t discuss the contents over the phone. Can you come?” “Of course, I will,” she replied.

Vera smiled: she didn’t need his money, but she was curious to see Milana’s reaction at the will reading.

Milana was in a great mood, accompanied by the same young man who smugly smiled as he met Vera’s gaze. As expected, all the property, including real estate, went to Milana. However, at the end, the notary announced an additional item—a house in a remote village located a hundred kilometers from the city.

Milana laughed loudly: “Old wife—old junk! But don’t worry, Verochka, I won’t take that shack from you. You have nowhere to live, you’re a renter. Now you have your ‘apartments’!”

Vera remained silent, took the documents, and left the office. “The start of a little adventure,” she thought, looking at the address.

She had a day off over the weekend and decided to go there right now, wondering why Alexei owned a house in such a forgotten corner.

The trip took nearly three hours. She got lost twice and began to get annoyed: “How can the roads be so poorly marked? No signs, no proper turns.”

Finally, she saw the needed sign: “Finally!”

The village was strange: just a few kilometers back, there were signs of civilization, but now—old wooden houses, many of which had long been abandoned. “I wonder which one is now mine?” Vera thought, checking against a photograph. The house was at the very end of the village. She sighed—at the road here was just trampled grass and tire tracks.

Vera slowly made her way along the overgrown grassy road, her car bouncing on roots and bumps. Stopping in front of the house, she sat in the car for a while, surveying the area. The building looked abandoned, except for the flattened grass at the porch—it seemed someone regularly walked here. And the tire tracks at the gate indicated that cars sometimes came here.

“Did Lyosha leave me a house with tenants?” she wondered. Turning off the engine, Vera resolutely got out of the car and headed to the gate, which emitted a piercing squeak. She even flinched at the sudden sound. Climbing the porch, she found the door unlocked. Smirking to herself—”of course, it’s just a village”—she entered. The assumption that locals could come here and take anything valuable seemed logical.

However, when she pulled the door and stepped over the threshold, surprise enveloped her completely: the air was filled with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. This scent in an abandoned house seemed utterly impossible. She scanned the room: inside it was clean and cozy, a laptop sat on the table. The house was clearly inhabited.

“Don’t be afraid,” a familiar voice sounded.

Vera turned sharply, but only darkness met her eyes before everything around disappeared.

“Vera, wake up! Sorry to scare you like that, but I had no other choice.”

She struggled to open her eyes. In front of her sat Alexei, and Vera herself was lying on the sofa. She reached out, cautiously touching him—he was alive, warm. His appearance had noticeably improved compared to their last meeting.

“Lyosha… am I dead?” she whispered. He smiled gently: “Of course not. Nobody died.” “Then whose funeral did we just have?” she asked, shocked. Alexei shrugged: “A mannequin. A very expensive and high-quality one.”

Vera shook her head, trying to comprehend what was happening: “I don’t understand. What’s going on here?”

Alexei leaned back in the chair and began to explain. Vera already guessed much of it. Milana’s lover returned from India, where, according to Alexei, he acquired a slow-acting poison. It was the doctor chosen by Milana who began to gradually poison him.

At first, Alexei didn’t even suspect that something was wrong. Suspicions only appeared after much of his property had been transferred to Milana.

“You see, I needed to do something to stop this,” he continued. “I talked to Misha, remember his clinic on Vasilyevsky? We decided that I needed to ‘die’. The risk was—Milana might decide to use the last dose of poison earlier. But everything worked out as best as it could. Now only a few details are left. And I realize I hurt you deeply, but you’re the only one who can help me.

They talked until late at night. Alexei detailed his plan, and Vera immediately agreed. How could she refuse, looking at her living husband, whom she mourned every night?

They spent that night together. Vera approached him, and he silently buried his nose in her hair. The only thing he said: “Sorry.”

In the morning, Alexei was preparing to leave. Holding his hand, she quietly replied: “I forgive you.”

Vera watched with light irony as Milana’s face turned red with anger: “What new will? This is complete nonsense! What gifts? Everything already belongs to me!” “There are reasons to believe that Alexei was given some drugs. Otherwise, how to explain that he transferred property to you that had previously been gifted to other people?” Vera calmly explained. Milana jumped up, outraged: “What drugs?! This is all mine, and I intend to sell it tomorrow!” The notary coughed: “Sorry, but the sale will have to be suspended. The situation requires detailed investigation, so all documentation is temporarily frozen.”

Milana threw a malicious glance at Vera: “You will pay very dearly for this, and very soon!” she hissed, grabbing her lover by the hand. “Shall we talk?” “Of course, let’s talk,” Vera replied unperturbed. Milana continued with a smirk: “Do you think I’ll give you something? You’re mistaken. I’ve invested a lot of time in your Alexei. You’ll end up where he is now.” “Are you going to slowly poison me like him?” Vera smirked. Milana looked at her attentively: “You’re smarter than I thought. Yes, I poisoned Alexei slowly to capture as much as possible. But with you, it will be different. The quicker you disappear, the better for me. There are poisons in India that act instantly and leave no trace. Our doctors will never detect them.” She laughed loudly, but suddenly Alexei appeared in the room. When Milana’s lover approached Vera, Alexei quickly struck him, knocking him out. Milana screamed in horror, seeing the person she thought was dead, and tried to flee. However, she was immediately surrounded by people in uniform.

Vera began to tremble with excitement, and Alexei gently took her hand: “Thank you. But we have one unfinished business.”

They headed back to the notary. Judging by the reaction, he was aware of all events and was not at all surprised. Alexei transferred half of his property to Vera, then stood up and quietly said: “Forgive me. It’s the least I could do for you. Perhaps I’ll move to the village. I don’t want to be in your sight.”

Vera aimlessly wandered around the apartment. “Why?” she pondered. It seemed she should be happy: Alexei was alive, she was now rich and completely independent. But inside, there was only emptiness. Something was clearly wrong. And suddenly it dawned on her: she needed Alexei—her Lyosha. Despite the pain, she continued to love him.

Vera hastily left the house, got into the car, and abruptly drove off. Now her path was clear—she knew what she had to do. Driving into the village, she noticed the first lights appearing in the windows of the nearby houses. Stopping on a small hill, she took several deep breaths to calm down. Her gaze fell on Alexei’s house window, where a soft glow had just lit up.

“Perfect. Everything is going exactly as it should,” she whispered to herself.

A few minutes later, she parked at the gate, turned off the engine, and slowly got out of the car. Each of her movements seemed mechanical, as if the body acted on its own, while the mind still hesitated. A thought suddenly flashed through her mind: “What if he no longer wants me? If his feelings for me have changed?”

But she quickly dismissed these doubts, deciding that now everything would become clear. Opening the gate, she saw Alexei already descending the porch steps to meet her. His eyes attentively studied her face.

“Are you sure? I’ve caused you great pain. Such things are not forgiven,” he said seriously. “Yes, you’re right, it’s hard to forgive,” Vera replied. “But I’m ready to try. We can both give it a chance.” Alexei hugged her tightly and sighed quietly: “It seems I needed to go through all this to understand how deeply I love you. To realize that I can’t live without you. If you can find a place in your heart to forgive, I promise: I’ll never hurt you again.”

Vera also sighed, looking him straight in the eye: “Lyosha, let’s try to forget everything that happened. Let’s start over. We’re still young—only forty years old. We have the opportunity to start a new chapter in our lives.”

Three months later, the trial of Milana and her accomplice took place. Vera couldn’t attend—she suddenly felt ill. Alexei was in a state of extreme anxiety, and as soon as the sentence began to be read, he immediately rushed home. Vera greeted him with a special, glowing smile.

“Vera, how are you feeling?” “Not ‘I’, but ‘we’,” she replied with a mysterious smile. “We? What do you mean? Did someone come?” “Not yet, but someone will definitely appear in seven months.”

Alexei stared at her face for a long time, trying to understand what he heard, then, astonished, asked: “Is it true? Are you not joking?”

“No, dear. This is the absolute truth.”

Alexei, not believing his fortune, lifted her in the air, as if she were weightless. Finally putting her down, he said: “You know, every day with you becomes more beautiful. I thought I had reached the peak of happiness, but now I realize I was wrong. Life with you is an endless source of joy.”

The evening, rich with the scents of freshness, hung in the air after a brief but fierce summer rain. The city, washed to a shine, seemed to breathe more deeply, absorbing the spicy, almost electric smell of ozone. Drops still tapped on the windowsills, the asphalt steamed, giving off the warmth of the day, and somewhere in the distance, above the rooftops, heavy clouds gathered, as if hesitating to leave.

Mark entered the apartment, leaving traces of water and fatigue behind him. Tossing his wet coat onto the sofa—with a rough, almost contemptuous gesture, as if the fabric itself was repulsive to him—he went to the kitchen. There, in the warm, cozy light, stood Anya. Her movements were measured, like a musical piece she alone could hear. She carefully distributed mushroom risotto onto plates, and the air was filled with the rich aroma of broth, sautéed mushrooms, and butter.

“Smells good,” he said, opening the fridge. “I just hope you didn’t decide to spice up dinner with mushrooms from the forest edge? We already don’t have enough money for treatment if something grows where it shouldn’t.”

Anya slowly turned to him, holding a plate in her hands. Her gaze was calm, but something lurked inside it—something she had learned to hide over the years. His words were, as always, on a thin, almost invisible line—between care and reproach. Only now that line had long ceased to be a boundary. He crossed it with enviable regularity, as if testing how much she could endure.

“These mushrooms are from the supermarket, Mark. Ordinary champignons. No dangers. Only safety and comfort, just the way you like it.”

“Good,” he said, taking a bottle of mineral water, pouring himself a full glass and drinking it down in one gulp. “Today at the office I saw the new price list from the insurance company. You have no idea how much one day in the hospital costs now. It’s just a nightmare.”

She silently placed the plate in front of him. He was not hungry. He did not want to eat. He wanted to start a conversation that had long become a ritual. It was a prelude—to something bigger, to something painful. Anya knew all his preludes. She had learned them like an actress learns her monologues. Only in this play, she was not allowed to improvise.

They sat down at the table. Silence hung between them, dense like fog. Only the clatter of forks against the ceramic disturbed it, and the flame of the candle Anya had lit, hoping to add some coziness. But there was no coziness. The candle flickered as if sensing the tension filling the room.

“I was thinking,” Mark began, pushing aside his half-empty plate. “Your paintings… that’s just a hobby, right? You’re not planning to make money from it?”

Anya lifted her eyes. Her hands, resting on her lap, clenched slightly, but her face remained impassive. She knew what answer he expected. But not the one he was going to get.

“I sold two last week.”

He smirked—not cruelly, but condescendingly, like an adult listening to a child’s story about a sandcastle. But there was no warmth in his eyes.

“Sold? Anya, that’s not earning. That’s pocket money I give you myself, just in a different form. You buy paints with my money, canvases with my money. And then you get lucky, and some housewife buys your smudge to cover a hole in the wallpaper.”

Each of his words was precise. He struck exactly, without missing. He knew where it hurt more.

“That’s not smudge, Mark.”

“Oh? Then what is it? Art?” He laughed, no longer holding back. “You sit at home all day, warm and comfortable, which I provide. I work my ass off from morning till night to pay for this apartment, this food, your clothes! And you just… exist.”

His voice sharpened. He stood up from the table, looming over her. The air in the kitchen seemed to thicken, becoming dense and heavy. Breathing became difficult.

“I don’t understand what you want,” she said quietly. Her voice was even, and that seemed to infuriate him even more.

“What do I want?” he shouted, and in his voice rang those very notes she had been expecting. “I want you to stop being dead weight! To appreciate what you have! You’re a poor talentless nobody living off me!”

A phrase that had become the leitmotif of their last year. The final chord in his daily symphony of reproaches.

Anya did not flinch. She slowly picked up her phone lying next to the plate. Her fingers confidently swiped across the screen. Mark froze, watching her actions in confusion. He expected tears, screams, hysteria. But not this. Not this icy, almost contemptuous calm.

She quickly typed something and hit “send.” At that same moment, a short notification sound rang on his phone lying on the sofa in the living room.

“What’s that?” he asked, puzzled.

“Just a link,” Anya replied, rising from the table. She looked him straight in the eyes, and in her gaze there was no fear or offense. Only fatigue. “Look. I think you’ll find it interesting.”

Mark snorted and went to the living room to get his phone. He expected anything—an article about family values, stupid quizzes, silly memes. But when he clicked the link, a page opened before him. A strict, minimalist design in gray-blue tones. No ads. In the top corner—the logo: intertwined letters V and F. And beneath it, the headline: “Volkova Fund.”

“The Volkova Fund?” he laughed loudly. “Seriously, Anya? You made a website? Probably with my money?”

She did not answer. Her silence began to irritate him. He stared at the screen again, deciding to examine this “joke” more closely.

“Support for young talents,” “Grants for studying abroad,” “Funding for contemporary art exhibitions.” Everything looked too… real.

He clicked the “About Us” tab. A photo of Anya looked back—a professional portrait he had never seen. A strict hairstyle, a business suit, a confident and somewhat detached look of a woman used to making decisions.

Under the photo was text: “Anna Volkova, founder of the fund, youngest heir of a financial-industrial group…”

Mark stopped reading. The words blurred before his eyes. Stanford? Family business? He shook his head, trying to dispel the hallucination. It was some crazy, well-thought-out prank.

“What kind of nonsense is this?” he shouted.

Anya entered the room, wiping her hands with a towel. She stopped a few steps from him.

“Why don’t you believe me? You always know people so well.”

Her calm tone was maddening. He feverishly searched for a catch. Opened the news section of the site. Headlines from various magazines: “Volkova Fund invests 15 million in a new cultural center.” “Anna Volkova on the list of the most influential philanthropists under 30.”

He clicked one of the links—it led to a real magazine website. The article was there, with photos.

Blood drained from his face. He felt the floor disappear beneath his feet. The apartment he considered “his fortress” suddenly seemed like cardboard scenery. His expensive suit—a cheap rag. His whole life, his achievements, his confidence—all shriveled to the size of a speck of dust.

He remembered her strange habits: how she never asked for money, how indifferently she looked at the windows of expensive stores, how once, listening to his boasting about a profitable deal, she asked a single question that uncovered an error in his calculations costing him a bonus.

Back then he dismissed it as a coincidence.

Mark lifted his eyes from the phone. He looked at the woman with whom he had lived for a year. The woman he methodically humiliated every day, reveling in his power and importance.

“Why?” he whispered. It was the only question he could squeeze out.

“I wanted to see what would happen if I had nothing. Except myself,” she answered simply. “I wanted to know what I am worth. And what the one beside me is worth.”

He slowly sank onto the sofa. The phone fell from his weakened fingers. He looked at her and for the first time in a year truly saw her. Not his “poor talentless nobody,” but someone else. Someone frighteningly big and real.

And he saw himself through her eyes for the first time. And that sight was unbearable.

Mark sat on the sofa, unable to move. His world, so clear and orderly, where he was the king and she his submissive subject, collapsed in an instant.

He stared at her face as if trying to see behind the mask of calm a hint of a game, a farce, a cruel joke. But there was nothing. Only silence, only truth laid out before him like an icy plain. No hint of mockery, no shadow of sarcasm. Only pure, unvarnished truth.

“Anya…” he began, and his voice sounded pitiful, like the moan of the dying. “I… I didn’t know. I thought…”

“You didn’t think, Mark,” she interrupted softly but with unwavering certainty. “You just enjoyed the power. You loved the feeling that you are the one who gives. Who saves. Who decides. It flattered your ego. You felt like a hero, though in reality, you were just a spectator sitting in the front row, applauding yourself.”

She went to the window and, pulling the thin curtain off the hook, flung it open. Night air burst in—fresh, filled with moisture and city light. The city lights reflected in the glass, and in that shimmering light Anya looked like someone else’s dream.

“This year was an experiment,” she said without turning. “I wanted to understand if a person can love not status, not money, not opportunities, but just… a person. Their essence. Their talent, even if it doesn’t bring millions yet. Even if it doesn’t shine, ring, or sparkle.”

Mark slowly rose from the sofa. His legs trembled as if he was standing on the ground for the first time after a long swim on deceptive waves. He took a step toward her, then another—and suddenly, as if struck down, he collapsed to his knees. Not theatrically, not with pathos, but simply from helplessness. From the weight that had fallen upon him. He grasped her legs, burying his face in the fabric of her simple home dress, as if trying to find comfort in her warmth, which he himself had destroyed.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, and his shoulders shook with silent sobs. “Anya, forgive me. I was such an idiot. Such a blind bastard. I will fix everything, do you hear? I will prove to you… I will change everything. I will be different. I will become worthy of you.”

She did not push him away. She just placed her hand on his head—light, almost weightless, like a farewell. Like a touch through time.

“There’s nothing to fix anymore, Mark. The experiment is over.”

He raised his tear-streaked face to her. His eyes swam with horror and desperate hope, like a person standing on the edge of an abyss still believing they will be held back.

“What do you mean ‘over’? We… we can start over! Now everything will be different!”

“Different?” she smiled sadly, and there was not a trace of malice in that smile. Only fatigue. And understanding. “You think? I think you’ll just change tactics. Become the most caring, the most understanding. You’ll admire every one of my paintings. But I will know that you admire not me, but the state of my bank account. I’ve been through this before.”

She carefully freed herself from his embrace and stepped back. Her voice became firmer but not colder—more like a sentence she had long passed on herself.

“By the way, this apartment is mine. Not inherited from grandma, as I told you. Like the car you drive to your ‘important’ job. It was my gift. My driver will pick you up in an hour. He’ll take you to your old apartment. You can collect your things tomorrow. My assistants will pack everything.”

Each of her words was a nail driven into the lid of his coffin. He sat on the floor, looking up at her like a beaten dog, unable to utter a word.

“A year, Mark. I gave you a whole year to see me. Not my money, not my background, but me. But you preferred to see a poor talentless nobody. Well, that’s your choice. And my choice is to live on. Without you.”

Anya took a small bag from the armchair that he had never noticed before. It was packed in advance. As if she knew this evening would come. She approached the door, glanced back for a moment.

“Goodbye, Mark. And thank you for the lesson. Now I know exactly what I am worth. And what your words are worth.”

The door closed behind her quietly, almost silently. And he remained kneeling in the middle of the huge living room, which suddenly became alien. Cold. Unreal.

He was alone. In a deafening emptiness that neither his ambitions nor his trampled pride could fill. He lost. Not money. Not status. He lost himself.

Three years passed.

Three long, hard years during which Mark changed three jobs, two social circles, and gained one understanding of himself. He was no longer a successful manager at a large company. He lost not only access to Anya’s resources but also the inner core he thought kept him afloat.

Now he worked as a senior consultant in a small real estate agency. Wore cheaper suits, rode the subway, and lived in the very apartment he once proudly left to move in with Anya.

Every evening, coming home, he saw the ghost of his lost life. He could not get rid of thoughts of her. Of her eyes. Of her voice. Of her painting he once called “smudge.”

That evening, as usual, he was scrolling through news on his phone, standing in a crowded subway car. His finger paused on a familiar face. It was Anya. She was smiling from the screen, standing in front of a huge, bright canvas. The headline read: “Anna Volkova. Solo: first personal exhibition at the ‘New Look’ gallery.”

Something inside him trembled. He got off at his station and, instead of turning home, walked in the opposite direction.

The gallery was only a couple of blocks away. He didn’t know why he was going there. Maybe he wanted to make sure it was real. Or maybe he just wanted to hurt himself again.

He entered. The spacious hall was flooded with light and filled with people. They moved from painting to painting, whispered quietly, drank champagne. Mark felt like a stranger at this celebration of life.

He took off his inexpensive coat and moved along the wall.

The paintings were incredible. Bold, deep, full of color and emotion. This was not “smudge to cover a hole in the wallpaper.” This was real art. He saw in these canvases everything he hadn’t noticed in her: her strength, her vulnerability, her irony, her soul.

Then he saw her herself.

Anya stood in the center of the hall, in a simple but elegant black dress. She did not look like an heir to millions. She looked like an artist. She was animatedly discussing something with a gray-haired man, laughing, and that laughter was so light and free. Next to her stood another man, who looked at her with undisguised admiration. He was not sycophantic or trying to impress. He was simply there. And in his presence, she seemed even more whole.

Mark froze behind a column, watching her. Suddenly he realized his experiment had failed from the start.

He thought he was testing her. But in reality, she was testing him. She had given him a unique chance—to see a treasure without knowing its price. To love a woman, not her wealth.

He was so close. He held the key to everything one could dream of. But his petty, vain soul did not let him see anything but the opportunity to assert himself at another’s expense.

Anya happened to turn her head his way. Their eyes met for a split second. There was no hatred or contempt in her eyes. Only a fleeting recognition, like seeing a long-forgotten classmate. She slightly nodded—a polite gesture toward a stranger—and turned back to her guests.

For her, he was already the past. A closed chapter. And for him, she would forever remain the future he himself had stolen from himself.

Mark silently turned and left the gallery into the street. A cold wind hit his face. He raised his coat collar and trudged toward home, realizing with brutal clarity one simple thing:

He didn’t just lose a wealthy woman.

He lost the only woman who gave him a chance to become better.

And he blew that chance.

In a residential district on the outskirts of Voronezh, everyday quiet life prevailed. A neighborhood where everything was supposed to remain as before: calm, decent, without unnecessary noise. This was where Daniil Landyshev lived — a widower, owner of a small logistics company, a respected man who was always proud of his daughter.

Sonya, his twelve-year-old daughter, attended secondary school No. 14. She used to be a cheerful, open girl with bright eyes. But lately, something had changed. She came home looking downcast, with a wrinkled school uniform and bruises on her arms and knees. Her gaze had become frightened, and her voice quieter than usual.

“I just fell, Dad,” she said each time, trying to smile. “It’s nothing serious.”

But a father’s heart can’t be deceived. He felt it wasn’t true. Something was happening — something she couldn’t talk about. And he was not alone in his concern.

“She cries in the bathroom,” whispered Margarita Ivanovna, the nanny who had raised Sonya since infancy. “She thinks I don’t hear. But it hurts her. It hurts very much. She just endures it.”

From that day, Daniil began meeting his daughter at the door. And every evening he noticed the same scene: as soon as Sonya stepped inside, her shoulders dropped as if she could finally let herself relax. Her steps slowed, her posture became less composed, and her gaze grew thoughtful, even lost.

But every attempt to talk ended with the same phrase:

“I’m fine, Dad.”

One evening, he noticed her school backpack thrown by the entrance. A torn strap, dirty bottom, crooked notebooks with blurred pages. On the zipper — greenish stains, as if someone had pressed the bag into the grass.

“That’s not just wear and tear,” Margarita Ivanovna observed, running her finger over the stains. “Something’s wrong here…”

That night, exhausted by worry, Daniil took a step he never thought he would. He took an old mini-microphone from his desk drawer and carefully sewed it into the lining of the backpack. He didn’t want to eavesdrop. But he had no other way to find out the truth.

The next day he pressed “play.”

At first — ordinary sounds: laughter in the hallway, slamming doors, school chatter. Then — a muffled thud. A suppressed sigh. And then — a whisper full of fear:

“Don’t… Don’t touch…”

Daniil froze. Blood drained from his face. His heart pounded faster. These were not accidental falls. This was real pain.

But what exactly was happening?

The second recording shattered the last illusions. What he thought about Sonya was only the surface. She was not a victim. She was not passive.

Sonya… was protecting others. Without screams, without complaints, without tears. Silently, with dignity.

“Enough. Leave him alone. This is the second time,” her voice sounded confident.

“He started it,” one of the boys replied.

“That’s no reason to attack. Back off.”

Rustling, scuffling, an exhale. And a grateful whisper:

“Thank you…”

“It’s better me than you. Go to class,” Sonya said quietly.

Daniil could not say a word. His breath caught. His quiet, thoughtful daughter… every day stood between those who suffered and those who inflicted pain. Taking the blows herself to protect others.

And then he understood: this was no accident. This was the very essence of her nature. He remembered his late wife — Alina. Once she had told their little daughter:

“If someone is hurting — be the one who notices. Just be there.”

And Sonya had remembered those words. Even in kindergarten, she comforted a boy whose teddy bear had fallen into a stream. In second grade, she defended a girl who stuttered. She always saw those others preferred to ignore.

Now Daniil clearly saw how much this trait had grown. Sonya had a whole circle of children who followed her. One Friday evening he noticed she wasn’t walking home alone. Next to her were a boy named Yegor and girls — Masha and Natasha. They stopped by a bench near the school, took out notebooks, and discussed something with serious faces.

Later he found his daughter’s diary:

“How to help Dima feel safe during recess”
“Who walks next to Anya when she’s sad”
“Talk to Artyom so he stops being afraid to speak in class”

It wasn’t just kindness. It was a conscious movement. A whole life direction.

He went to the school principal — Irina Vladimirovna. A strict, neat woman clearly worn out by endless parental complaints.

“There is a problem at school,” he began.

“Well, you know, kids are different,” she interrupted. “We have no official reports of bullying.”

“My daughter has bruises because every day she stands up for those who are humiliated. This is not an exaggeration. It’s the truth.”

“Maybe she’s too sensitive,” the woman shrugged.

Daniil left the office with burning eyes — angry but firmly resolved: he would no longer stand aside. He would take action.

A few days later, a note lay in the mailbox. Written in a child’s uncertain handwriting:

“Your daughter is the bravest person I know. When I was locked in the janitor’s closet, I thought no one would come. But she did. Opened the door. Said, ‘Let’s go home.’ Now I’m not afraid of the dark. Because I know she’s there.”

No signature. Only a drawn open palm.

That evening Daniil showed the letter to Sonya. She was silent for a long time. Her eyes sparkled. She held the paper so gently as if afraid to lose it.

“Sometimes I feel like it’s all in vain… That no one sees,” she whispered.

He stepped closer, his voice trembling with pride:

“It matters, Sonya. Much more than you can imagine. It always has.”

The next day Sonya was asked to speak at the school assembly. She agreed — but only if everyone who stood by her came out with her.

“We’re not heroes,” she said. “We’re just there when it’s scary. If someone cries — we stay. If they can’t speak — we do it for them. That’s all.”

The hall fell silent. Then erupted into applause. Teachers, students, parents — even the most indifferent listened carefully. That wall of silence began to crumble.

The school corridors started to fill with anonymous notes saying “Thank you.” Students signed up as volunteers — to become observers of kindness. Daniil gathered a group of parents whose children had changed too. But they didn’t understand exactly what had changed.

Now it was clear. No more silence.

In the evenings, they gathered — sometimes at someone’s home, sometimes through video calls. Sharing stories, fears, hopes.

Sonya didn’t seek attention. She didn’t need awards. Her gaze remained focused on those who still couldn’t believe in the light.

FacebookMastodonEmailРесурс

— Why are you tense again, Sveta? — Misha came into the kitchen as if nothing had happened and loudly opened the fridge. — Mom just popped in. To say hello. And to look at the dress.

Svetlana was standing by the sink, peeling potatoes as if it wasn’t potatoes but a symbol of collective family rudeness. She didn’t even turn around.

— Misha, I’m going to tell you something now, and try not to drop your sausage.

— Now I’m interested.

— Your mom is not a customer. She’s family. And if she comes to my boutique one more time with that expression on her face like I owe her for life, and starts demanding “this silk one, it goes perfectly with my purse,” then, sorry, I’ll say everything I think. Out loud. In front of the customers.

He snorted, shoved the sausage in his mouth, and sat down at the table.

— Listen, don’t be so harsh. It’s mom. Not a stranger.

— What? I thought she just accidentally wandered in from the street. I’m telling you: she’s not a customer. And I’m not a free clothing warehouse.

Misha pushed his plate away and rubbed his forehead as if a dusty fan was inside his head and needed cleaning.

— But you do give her gifts sometimes. Like on her birthday — you gave her money. That was fine.

— Yeah, “fine.” Later she told me, “You should’ve given me a dress, not these papers. You have a shop.”

— Well… that’s logical.

Svetlana turned slowly. Spoon in hand, wet hands, hair in a bun — a pure Carmen from Novokosino. Only instead of castanets — a whisk and a chef’s knife.

— Logical, Misha, is when a person goes to the pharmacy and buys themselves some analgesics because they have a headache. Not when they break into their daughter-in-law’s pharmacy and yell, “Give it, you’re not losing anything from this anyway!”

He raised his hands:

— Okay, okay. Don’t shout. Just… well, I don’t know. Tell her gently somehow. She’s not doing it to be mean.

Svetlana sat down at the table and stared at her husband for a long time. Not angrily. Not tiredly. Just… like at a person who failed their last exam in their shared life. And failed spectacularly.

— Misha, do you realize I built this all from scratch? Without your money. Without her “tips.” I’m there from morning till night, picking, driving, ordering, calculating. And all for the sake of one fine Tuesday when your mom and Anna burst in — and started trying on clothes like they’re in their own dressing room.

— Sveta…

— And Anna, by the way, is great too. Last time she took a jacket. Said, “I’ll return it later.” It’s been two months of “later.”

Misha coughed as if suddenly tasting the jacket.

— I’ll talk to her.

— Don’t bother. I’ll talk to her myself. Only next time, I’ll do it not in the back room, but right in the hall. In front of everyone.

He looked at her like a boy at his older sister whose TV remote was confiscated. There was something pathetic in that look. And infinitely tired.

— Listen, maybe we shouldn’t make a war out of this? You’ll just quarrel… Why? Mom is an older person, forgive her a little. She has her own views.

— And I have mine. The difference is that I don’t impose mine on her wardrobe. And “whatever,” Misha, that’s not forgiveness anymore. That’s about principles.

He got up, approached, tried to hug her, but she just stepped away. No drama. No tears. Just turned slightly.

— I love you, Sveta. It’s just… all this is complicated.

— You don’t love me, Misha. You just want things to be “without scandal.” Quiet, calm, and convenient for everyone. But I — I feel uncomfortable. It’s hard for me. It’s unpleasant. It hurts. You understand?

He didn’t answer. And it was clear: he doesn’t understand. Doesn’t feel. Doesn’t hear. And won’t hear.

The phone vibrated on the table. Svetlana glanced at it. A message from Anna:

“Tomorrow we’ll drop by with mom. Look out for something stylish but not too flashy. You know the size ;)”

Svetlana hit “delete.” Then got up, went to the sink, and turned on the water. The sound of the flow covered the silence of the kitchen like the fridge door — the remnants of old milk.

No explosion happened. Yet. But everything was ready: the fuse was lit, the gunpowder hadn’t gotten wet, faces were tense. It wasn’t a storm — it was the pause between thunder and lightning.

And tomorrow at ten a.m., by all signs, two hurricanes in sneakers and cardigans would come to her boutique.

The boutique “Laska” opened right at ten. Svetlana turned on the coffee machine, checked the mannequins’ poses, adjusted the hangers on the jacket in the window. The hall smelled of expensive textiles, coffee, and, strangely, inevitable conflict.

At 10:07, the door opened with a delicate chime. As always — without a bell, without warning. As if it weren’t a store but their bedroom with Misha, where family reasons allow you to barge in.

— Good morning, Svetočka! — Valentina Sergeevna stepped inside confidently, like a prosecutor entering a courtroom. Behind her, with a slightly superior expression, followed Anna. — We’re just for a minute, don’t worry.

Svetlana took a sip of coffee, nodded politely, and said in the same calm tone:

— Morning. Want to pick something?

— Oh, Svetočka! — Valentina Sergeevna was already holding a blouse worth eight and a half thousand rubles. — Just looking. Passing by. Decided to visit a kindred soul.

— Passing by? From Yasenevo to Maryino?

Anna snorted and, without even bothering with a “hello,” was already holding two dresses on her arm.

— I want this one, and if you have it in blue, that one too. And check in the computer — you have everything recorded, you promised me last time…

— Me? — Svetlana turned. — Promised you a dress? For free?

— Sveta, enough. — Valentina Sergeevna interrupted. — We’re family, not strangers. Why do you say it like that? You have a business, we have a family. Family supports each other. Right?

— Exactly. Family should support, not rob.

Anna chuckled:

— You’re exaggerating. We’re not stealing. Just taking for fitting. Then wearing. Sometimes. Don’t be such a bore.

Svetlana set down her cup carefully. Like a bomb.

— Anna, you took a jacket last month. “For a shoot.” Then you said, “It’s with a friend.” Now, judging by your stories, it’s at your cousin’s wedding. And yesterday it was at your bachelorette party. That’s not fitting. That’s renting. But free.

— God, Sveta, have you always been this touchy? Or did you start counting every thread after forty?

At that moment Svetlana really felt something inside her snap with a crunch. Not just a click, but like a catapult lever was triggered.

— And have you always been such a brazen woman, Anna? Or is it a family trait, taught in childhood? To take what’s badly lying around?

Valentina Sergeevna straightened sharply, as if adrenaline was injected into her spine.

— Svetlana, I ask you to control yourself. We didn’t come to cause a scandal. We just wanted to support your business, wear your things, advertise you — how don’t you understand? You mark up everything insanely anyway!

— Are you serious? — Svetlana stepped closer, almost nose to nose. — You really think I’m here to dress you? For free? And because “you’re not losing anyway”?

— Don’t shout, — Anna snapped. — There are people around. Your saleswoman hears everything.

— That’s not a saleswoman. That’s a manager. And you — family member who forgot I’m not a home seamstress.

Silence hung thick like jelly.

— Fine. — Valentina Sergeevna put the blouse on the counter as if throwing down a challenge. — If you don’t want to, don’t. We’ll leave. Just know: in the family, you’re not Svetočka anymore. You’re a businesswoman. And remember, dear: money isn’t everything. One day you’ll be very lonely.

Svetlana sighed. Long. Through her nose. As if gathering strength not to scream.

— I’m not lonely now. I’m hurt. That in ten years I couldn’t make you understand one simple thing: I am not a function. Not a free warehouse. Not an obligation. I am a person.

— Your problem is you think too much of yourself as a person, — Anna said. — In our family, that’s not accepted. You’re either with us or out.

Svetlana nodded slowly. Went to the door, opened it, and looking straight at her mother-in-law said:

— Out means out. Thanks for the visit. Good luck… with your family.

The door closed softly. Almost silently. But it was the loudest door slam of her life.

That evening at home, Misha met her with a gloomy face. She barely had time to take off her shoes.

— You made a circus. Mom and Anya are shocked. Yelling at me all day.

— Let them yell. I gave them their walking papers today. Not a step into the shop.

— Sveta… couldn’t you handle it differently? Without scandal? They’re family.

Svetlana was silent. She stood by the window looking into the darkness as if it held something clearer than this kitchen.

— Family? And are you family, Misha? Or just their mouthpiece? When was the last time you were with me, not between them and me?

He hesitated. All he could do was sit on a stool and whisper:

— I’m tired.

— And I’m disappointed.

She went over, took some documents from the cupboard, threw them on the table.

— I’m filing for divorce. And no, it’s not a heat-of-the-moment thing. It’s been burning inside for a long time. Just today — it flared up.

Misha looked at the folder for a long time. Then at her. Then at the folder again. Said nothing.

Svetlana went to the bedroom. No tears. No hysteria. Just closed the door.

Behind the wall in the hallway, an old light bulb flickered. It should have been replaced long ago. But Misha always forgot. Like so many other things.

Two weeks passed.

Svetlana lived alone. And you know, she didn’t die. Neither from loneliness nor from sadness. No organ failed from Misha’s absence — neither kidneys nor heart. Only the iron stood lonely because there was no need to iron other people’s shirts smelling of other people’s compromises.

They didn’t speak to Misha. At all. As if the communication channel was turned off. He didn’t call, didn’t write, and she didn’t remind him. He also seemed to delay with the divorce documents — probably looking for a lawyer to explain that moral support from a wife is not an article in the family code, but normal human behavior.

The boutique prospered. Orders increased. Svetlana threw herself into it: new deliveries, selecting assortment, autumn collection. She even hired another saleswoman, Nastya — young, sharp, a bit cheeky, but with lively eyes and good tact. Although once Nastya allowed herself to say:

— Why are you, Svetlana Nikolaevna, always so tense? Like someone betrayed you.

Svetlana smirked.

— Someone? There were three of those. Wait, maybe the fourth just arrived.

Nastya crossed her legs and said chewing gum:

— My grandmother was like that. She carried everything inside until she cracked. Not from anger — from loneliness.

— I won’t crack. I’ll rust away. And rot slowly like a Soviet radiator. But silently.

One day, when Svetlana was handing over a delivery, Valentina Sergeevna rushed into the shop. This time without Anna. But with a face that showed all signs of an approaching storm: lips a thin line, eyes like a sniper’s sight.

— We need to talk.

Svetlana didn’t even flinch.

— When you say “we,” who do you mean? Yourself and your lawyer? Or me, who you no longer count in the family?

— Svetlana, don’t be sarcastic. I came as a woman to a woman.

— And I’m talking as a former daughter-in-law to a person who has a cash register in their eyes instead of love.

— Mikhail disappeared, — Valentina Sergeevna interrupted. — Doesn’t answer. Doesn’t live at mine. Doesn’t show up at work. And rumor has it he stayed overnight with some… well, you get it.

Svetlana was silent. For a minute. Maybe two. Then said:

— And you decided I’m responsible for him?

— He’s your husband.

— Legally only.

Valentina Sergeevna fell silent. Then sat down sharply, as if her legs gave way.

— I don’t know what’s wrong with him. He was nothing. Last week he drank. Said everything fell apart. That nobody needs him. That… he betrayed you. And himself. I thought he was yours.

— I only have brains. And coffee.

— He’s no saint, I know. But you could have… well, not right away. Suddenly like that. Knife.

Svetlana got up and went to the showcase. Her figure reflected in the glass. Straight. Tired. Straight as a power line — and just as tense.

— You know, Valentina Sergeevna, I tried to please you for ten years. Ten. I baked, called, came, invited. Gave, was silent, swallowed. And you didn’t even say “thank you” — like I was collecting debts. And now, when you lost him, you decided I have to fix something again?

— I’m not asking…

— No. You are. You’re asking to take back a man you raised to suit yourself. You gave him to me like ready dough — but it was raw dough. And now that he’s drifting in other hands, you want me to wash him, dry him, and warm him up? And you — with a new jacket next season? No. Thanks. Enough.

Valentina Sergeevna stood. Silently. Didn’t cry. Didn’t apologize. Just said:

— Then consider yourself dead to us.

Svetlana sat on a chair. Smiled. Very humanly. Without mockery.

— Oh, come on. You already said that. Twice even. But you know what? No one dies from being considered not family anymore. But from stopping to consider yourself a person — yes. That kills. Slowly.

Later that evening, the phone rang. The old city phone Svetlana didn’t disconnect out of habit.

— Hello?

— Sveta, hi. It’s… Anya.

— Listening.

— I wanted to… No, really listen. I didn’t know things were so bad with you. Mishka is at Oleg’s. At the dacha. All snotty. Says you hate him.

— Are you surprised?

— You know… I was a jerk. I realized it. Not right away. But I did. You’re stronger than all of us. And… sorry. Really. I wanted to say, if you decide to forgive him — don’t rush. Check if he’s changed. Even one millimeter. And if not — don’t take him back. You’ve already done too much yourself. Don’t give up.

Svetlana was silent. Then asked:

— Did you come up with that yourself? Or did mom say it?

— Me. Mom, on the contrary, yells that you’re our enemy now. And I… am just tired of pretending everything’s fine. Thanks for tearing off the masks.

And hung up.

A month passed. The divorce was finalized.

The boutique expanded. Svetlana rented a second hall, now dealing with accessories and shoes.

And in the evening, after closing, she would sit by the window with tea and look at the Moscow rooftops. And think that you don’t need someone next to you to feel whole. Sometimes, to feel alive, you just need to finally choose yourself.

And you know, loneliness is not emptiness. It’s a pause. Before new music.

“Kirill, dear, you absolutely must keep an eye on your wife,” Tamara Igorevna said dryly, with a note of icy rage in her voice, not even bothering to look at me. Instead, she meticulously examined her gloves as if the key to understanding everything in the world was hidden in them. “We are not in some shabby café, not in your dive, but in the house of truly important, respected people. Here, one must behave with dignity.”

I stood with my hands clasped behind my back, trying not to show the trembling that silently crept through my fingers. Every word thrown at me felt like a blow—not loud, but precise, like a knife carefully stabbing straight into the heart. Kirill nervously coughed beside me, adjusting his shirt collar as if suddenly realizing it had become twice as tight as before.

“Mom, what now?” he tried to ease the tension, but his voice wavered, betraying his inner stress. “Alina understands everything perfectly. Really.”

“Understands?” Tamara Igorevna snorted, finally tearing her gaze away from her gloves and casting me a look so contemptuous and disdainful it was as if I were a stain on the road. “And she’s wearing a dress from the market! I saw something like that in a shop window when I went to buy potatoes. Never imagined it could end up on someone.”

As always, she was right. Yes, the dress was simple. But not by accident—I chose it deliberately. Not flashy, not provocative, not screaming for attention, but strict, elegant, and restrained. Because I knew any other outfit would have unleashed a whole gamut of questions, sarcasm, and mockery from her.

We stood in a spacious, sunlit hall where every step echoed softly, and the marble floor reflected the sunlight pouring through the huge panoramic window. The air was filled with freshness reminiscent of ozone after a storm and a faint, almost magical scent of exotic flowers that seemed to float invisibly yet palpably.

“And how does your boss allow this?” the mother-in-law continued, addressing her son but still staring at me as if I were some kind of domestic scandal that couldn’t be out of sight. “Keeping such an employee… You disgrace him just by existing.”

Kirill had already opened his mouth to defend me, but I barely shook my head. Not now. Not here. Not with her.

Instead, I stepped forward, breaking the heavy silence hanging between us like mist over a river. My heels tapped cautiously on the flawless floor, as if afraid to disrupt the harmony of this place.

“Maybe we should move to the living room?” I suggested, trying to keep my voice even, even a little welcoming. “They’re probably already waiting for us.”

Tamara Igorevna pursed her lips in displeasure but followed me, making it clear by her demeanor that she was doing me a great favor. Kirill trailed behind like a schoolboy caught with a cigarette behind the barn.

The living room was even more impressive than the hall. A huge snow-white sofa, chairs of futuristic design, a glass table with a vase of freshly cut lilies whose fragrance filled the air like a gentle symphony chord.

One wall was entirely glass, opening a mesmerizing view of a perfectly maintained garden with neatly trimmed lawns, a crystal-clear pond, and elegant stone pathways.

“Well, well,” Tamara Igorevna drawled, running her finger along the back of a chair with the air of a picky critic. “Some people know how to live. Unlike some others, who spend their whole lives languishing in a mortgaged two-room apartment.”

She cast a meaningful glance at her son. This was her favorite jab—aimed right at the heart to remind him that he deserved more than a modest position and a rented apartment. And of course, I was to blame for everything.

“Mom, we agreed—” Kirill said wearily, sensing the tension mounting.

“And what did I say?” the mother-in-law raised her eyebrow defiantly. “Just stating facts. Someone builds palaces like this, while others can’t even provide their family with the basics.”

She suddenly turned to me, and in her eyes shone something cold, almost animalistic.

“A man needs a woman who pulls him up, not one who hangs like a stone around his neck. Someone who’s worth something herself. And you?” She disdainfully looked me up and down. “You’re poor. In spirit and in essence. And you’re dragging my son down with you, straight to the bottom.”

She said it quietly, almost matter-of-factly, but every word cut into my skin like icy needles. Kirill turned pale and took a step toward me, but I stopped him with a slight movement of my hand.

I just looked at her. Straight in the eyes. And for the first time in all our years of acquaintance, I felt nothing but a strange, cold calm. She was standing on the threshold of my home and had no idea. And that was the sweetest part.

“How long are we going to stand like statues?” Tamara Igorevna broke the prolonged silence, plopping loudly into the chair she had just been criticizing. “Where are the hosts? Couldn’t they at least meet the guests?”

She acted as if she were the one in charge here. Crossing one leg over the other, fixing her hair, surveying everything with the air of an inspector.

“Mom, we came way too early,” Kirill tried to smooth things over. “The boss asked us to come at seven, and it’s only six now.”

“So what? They could hurry up for guests like me,” she snorted.

I silently walked to the wall near the entrance to the living room and pressed an inconspicuous touch panel.

“What are you doing?” the mother-in-law immediately asked suspiciously. “Don’t touch anything! You’ll break it, and we’ll be paying forever.”

“I’m just calling the staff to bring us drinks,” I answered evenly, not looking at her. “It’s not polite to sit dry.”

Within a minute, a woman in a strict gray uniform appeared silently in the living room. Her hair was neatly pulled into a bun, and her face remained completely impassive.

“Good evening,” she said, addressing only me.

Tamara Igorevna immediately took the initiative.

“Well, dear,” she began authoritatively, waving her hand. “Bring us some brandy. Good French brandy. And some snacks. Not your chips, but something decent. Canapés with caviar, for example.”

The woman in uniform didn’t even blink. She continued looking at me, waiting for instructions.

Kirill shifted nervously on the sofa. He was clearly embarrassed by his mother’s behavior.

“Mom, that’s not appropriate—”

“Shush!” Tamara Igorevna cut him off. “I know better how things are done. We’re guests, and that’s the staff. Let them work.”

I slowly turned my head to the woman.

“Elena, please bring my usual. Kirill—whiskey on the rocks. And for Tamara Igorevna…” I paused, casting a cold glance at my mother-in-law. “Bring a glass of water. Cool. Still.”

Elena nodded briefly and left just as silently.

The mother-in-law flushed.

“What was that?” she hissed. “Who do you think you are, brat? Trying to boss me around here? Who do you think you are?”

“I just asked for water for you, Tamara Igorevna,” my voice was calm, but inside everything was boiling. “It seemed you were a bit overheated. This will help you calm down.”

“How dare you!” She jumped up from the chair. “Kirill, did you hear? Your wife insults me! In someone else’s house!”

Kirill looked from me to his mother, completely lost. He didn’t understand what was happening or whose side to take. His indecision hurt more than his mother’s venom.

“Alina, why are you like this?” he finally managed to say. “Mom just—”

“Just what, Kirill?” I looked at him reproachfully for the first time that evening. “Just humiliates me for the last half hour? And you sit silently?”

At that moment, Elena returned with a tray. On it stood my glass with a clear drink and a sprig of rosemary, a glass of whiskey for Kirill, and a frosted glass of water.

She placed the tray on the glass table and bowed before leaving.

Tamara Igorevna looked at the glass of water as if it were a personal insult. Her face twisted with rage.

“I’m not drinking that!” she declared. “I demand respect! I am your husband’s mother!”

“You are a guest in this house, Tamara Igorevna,” I cut in, taking a small sip from my glass.

The juniper flavor pleasantly cooled my throat. “And you should behave accordingly. Otherwise, the evening will end for you much sooner than you planned.”

She froze, stunned by my audacity. Confusion showed in her eyes. She couldn’t understand where I, the “poor woman,” got such confidence. And that ignorance was my main trump card.

“What kind of threats are these?” Tamara Igorevna screeched. “Trying to kick me out? Who do you think you are to throw me out?”

“I am the mistress of this house,” I said calmly.

The phrase hung in the air. The mother-in-law froze for a moment, then burst into loud, unpleasant laughter.

“What? You? Mistress? Girl, have you lost your mind? Kirill, your wife seems to have gone mad with envy.”

Kirill looked at me with wide eyes. Shock, disbelief, and a faint, crazy hope mixed in his gaze.

“Alin… is it true?”

I didn’t answer him. I looked at his mother.

“Yes, Tamara Igorevna. This is my house. The one I bought with money earned by my own mind and work. While you were telling everyone how worthless I was, I was building my business.”

“Business?” she snorted again. “What kind of business could you have? Manicures at home?”

“An IT company,” I said sharply. “With branches in three countries. And Kirill’s boss, the one you were so eager to meet, is my subordinate.”

The head of one of the departments. I asked him to arrange this dinner to finally tell you everything. I thought it would be… civilized.

I smiled bitterly.

“How wrong I was.”

Tamara Igorevna’s face slowly changed color. First red with anger, then blotchy, and now taking on an unhealthy grayish hue.

She slowly glanced around the luxurious living room as if seeing it truly for the first time. In her eyes, usually full of contempt and arrogance, flickered something new—something like horror, but even deeper. It was understanding. Heavy, irreversible, like a stone falling into an abyss.

She looked at the chair she was sitting in, at the polished marble beneath her feet, at the panoramic window through which the golden sunset poured. All this—not just beautiful surroundings, not a stranger’s home, not an accident. All this belonged to me. To me—the very woman she had considered worthless for years, a weakling, a burden to her beloved son. To me—the one she contemptuously called “poor,” “worthless,” “the wrong choice.”

“It can’t be,” she whispered, her voice trembling like ice before the first rays of spring sun. “You’re lying. This is some kind of game, a farce, a deception!”

“Why would I lie?” I shrugged slightly, with neither anger nor triumph—only cold, dispassionate calm. “Kirill, you saw my income declarations when we applied for the mortgage we never got approved for. Remember those numbers? You thought it was a bank error or a typo. You didn’t even want to understand.”

Kirill paled. He sat as if nailed to the chair, unable to look away from my face. Yes, he remembered. He saw the numbers he couldn’t understand, couldn’t accept. But instead of sorting it out, instead of being proud of me, he preferred to believe his version of reality—where I was weak, dependent, needing his protection. It was easier for him to see me as a loser than admit I was more successful than him. That I was stronger.

“But why… why did you stay silent?” he finally stammered, his voice trembling like a leaf in the wind.

“When was I supposed to speak, Kirill?” my voice faltered for the first time, and pain slipped through—a deep, old, long-healed but still sensitive pain. “When your mother said again that I’m not good enough for you? Or when you silently agreed with her?”

I wanted you to love me, not my money. Wanted you to stand up for me at least once—not because I’m rich, but because I’m your wife. But you couldn’t.

I turned to my mother-in-law, who seemed to have turned into a statue—her face frozen, hands limp on her knees, gaze empty as if her soul slipped out and now trembled somewhere in the corner of the room.

“You wanted to live in a palace, Tamara Igorevna? Well, welcome. But you’re neither the mistress here nor even a guest.”

I looked at my husband again. Something inside him finally and irrevocably broke. Not me, but him—shattered into pieces. He couldn’t bear the truth, couldn’t handle the light I let into his dark world.

“I’m filing for divorce, Kirill.”

These words sounded like a verdict. Not anger, not a shout, not a scene. Just a fact. Period. He looked up at me with eyes full of despair, pain, horror—as if realizing he had lived all this time under someone else’s sun and never noticed how it warmed him.

“Alina, no! Please! I understand everything now!”

“Too late,” I shook my head. “You understood nothing. And you never will.”

I approached the touch panel, pressed the call button, and said into the microphone without raising my voice:

“Elena, please escort the guests to the exit.”

Tamara Igorevna remained motionless like a statue. Kirill stepped toward me, but at the door appeared the impassive Elena, followed by two burly men in strict suits with faces carved from stone.

They said nothing. They just stood by the exit, waiting for the guests to leave.

Kirill looked at me, at his stunned mother, at the security guards. Slowly, as if afraid to scare away the last bit of hope, he backed toward the door.

When they left, I was alone in the vast living room filled with light, warmth, and silence. I took my glass, walked to the panoramic window, and looked at my garden—neat, blooming, alive. Just like me.

I was no longer poor. I was free.

Three months passed. Three months of deafening, intoxicating freedom. The divorce was finalized quickly, without scandals. Kirill seemed to vanish, dissolving into thin air along with his mother. I threw myself into work, closing deals, opening new directions, feeling stronger, more confident, more real every day.

The emptiness left after Kirill’s departure gradually filled with self-respect. Not pity, not thirst for revenge—but respect. I stopped making excuses, justifications, explanations. I simply lived. And truly lived.

I sat in my office on the thirtieth floor, at a desk with several contracts needing signatures. Outside the window, a shining city full of opportunities, people, stories. I was no longer afraid to be myself. I knew I was the mistress of my life.

The secretary cautiously knocked on the door.

“Alina Viktorovna, you have a visitor. Without an appointment. He says you’re his wife. Ex-wife.”

“I don’t see anyone without an appointment,” I said sharply without looking up from the documents.

“He… he said you’re his wife. Ex-wife.”

I froze. The pen in my fingers stopped. One second. Another. Then I nodded briefly.

“Let him in.”

Kirill, who entered the office, hardly resembled the man I once loved. His eyes were dull, his face gaunt, his cheap suit ill-fitting. He looked like he hadn’t lived these three months but merely survived.

“Hi,” he muttered.

“Why are you here, Kirill?” My voice was even, emotionless. As if speaking to a client missing documents.

“I… I wanted to talk. Apologize.”

He approached my huge dark-wood desk, on which there was not even a photo of us. No memories. Just papers.

“Mom is very ill. After that evening… her heart gave out. She cries all the time. Says she was wrong.”

Classic manipulation. Cheap and predictable. I was silent, waiting for him to continue.

“Alin, I was such an idiot,” he looked at me desperately. “I realized everything. I behaved like a coward. I should have protected you, but I… I listened to Mom. I love you, Alin. I always have. Let’s try again?”

He circled the desk and tried to take my hand, but I pulled away.

“Try again?” I looked at him. “What do you want to ‘try again’ for, Kirill? To live again in my shadow while your mother humiliates me? To wait until I buy you a new car or pay for your vacation?”

“No!” he protested hotly. “Everything will be different! I’ll find another job, I’ll prove to you…”

“You don’t have to prove anything to me,” I interrupted. “It’s not about money. Never was. It’s about respect. Partnership. Being a team. And we weren’t that.”

I stood and went to the window. Beneath me stretched the city—alive, bustling. My city.

“You came because you ran out of money and patience living with Mom,” I said calmly, looking at him through the glass reflection. “You haven’t changed. You’re just looking for an easy way.”

“That’s not true!”

“It is, Kirill. And you know it yourself.” He lowered his head, having nothing to say.

“Leave,” I said quietly but firmly. “Our conversation is over. Forever.”

He stood for a minute more, then turned and left the office without a word. I heard the door close behind him.

I didn’t turn around. I kept looking at the city. There was no malice or triumph in my heart. Only calm. Final and irrevocable.

Ahead was a new life. My life. And I was ready to live it.

Five years passed.

I sat on the terrace of a small house surrounded by greenery on the Amalfi coast. The air was filled with the scent of the sea, lemons, and blooming hydrangeas. Next to me, a golden retriever named Archie rested his head on my lap, dozing.

An open laptop lay on the table, but I didn’t look at it.

My gaze was fixed on the turquoise water where white yachts rocked on the waves.

My business had long been running like a well-oiled machine, not requiring round-the-clock control. I learned the most important thing—to trust people and delegate. And to live.

“What are you thinking about?”

I smiled without turning around. Sasha sat down next to me on the wicker loveseat. He handed me a glass of chilled white wine. His hand rested lightly on my shoulder.

“Just thinking,” I answered, taking the glass. “Remembering.”

“Something good?” He looked into my eyes attentively.

His gaze always held warmth and respect. We met at an economic forum two years ago.

He was an architect, talented and passionate about his work. He loved me not for my status but for my ideas, my laughter, for the way I wrinkle my nose when solving a difficult problem.

He learned about my past after six months, and it changed nothing.

“Various things,” I answered evasively. “Just realized how much everything has changed.”

A former colleague called me the other day, someone who used to work with Kirill and me. We talked. She told me the latest news.

Kirill was fired from my company almost immediately after our divorce—not at my initiative, but simply because he couldn’t handle it. He lost interest in work. Since then, he changed several jobs but never stayed long.

Now, rumors said, he worked as a simple sales manager at some small firm. Still living with his mother in their old apartment.

Tamara Igorevna had declined sharply after that evening. Her arrogance and pride evaporated, leaving only bitterness and illness.

She never accepted that the palace she already considered hers belonged to me. Her dream of a rich and easy life for her son collapsed, burying her under the rubble.

My colleague said she saw them recently in a supermarket—a grumpy old woman in an old coat and her tired, hunched son. They argued loudly over a discounted box of pasta.

“I don’t feel sorry for them,” I said quietly, as if answering my own thoughts.

“For whom?” Sasha asked.

“For people from the past,” I took a sip of wine. “I used to think I should feel either schadenfreude or pity. But now… nothing. Just emptiness. As if reading about complete strangers in an old newspaper.”

Sasha hugged me tighter.

“That’s freedom, Alin. When the past no longer stirs emotions.”

I leaned on his shoulder, watching the sunset gild the sea. Archie twitched his paw in sleep.

There was no more room in my life for humiliation and fear. Only calm, love, and the endless blue sea ahead. Soon, I would have a son, and I was very happy he would be Sasha’s.

Victor Sergeyevich, a man from the world of high finance, was known not only for his wealth but also for his love of sarcastic jokes. He delighted in hosting lavish receptions where every gesture, every word was carefully crafted to emphasize his superiority. One day, he decided to organize an evening with a twist — he jokingly invited Anna Pavlovna, the cleaning lady from his office, a quiet woman in a worn-out robe, a single mother whose hands were calloused from hard work.

“Please welcome — my personal fairy godmother,” he introduced her to the guests with sarcasm. “She saves the office from dirt every day. And maybe today she will save us from boredom?”

Anna came despite the mockery. Standing beside her was her son Misha — a thin boy with huge eyes, tightly holding his mother’s hand. She felt awkward but carried herself with dignity, like someone accustomed to hardship.

When one of the guests teasingly suggested, “Anna, would you like to play?” the hall erupted in laughter.

She froze. Then, without a word, she slowly approached the piano. Her hands, used to rag and brush, trembled… But as soon as she touched the keys, silence fell over the room, as if the very air had stopped.

Music began to play — deep, sincere, piercing hearts. It was not just a concert; it was the voice of her life: of lost dreams, motherly love, struggle, and hope. People fell silent. Some couldn’t hold back tears. Even Victor Sergeyevich stood rooted to the spot.

“How does she know this?” someone whispered.

When the last notes faded, the hall exploded with applause — sincere, loud, and long. Misha pressed close to his mother and whispered:

“Mom, you’re a magician…”

It turned out that in her youth, Anna had dreamed of a career as a pianist. She studied at a music college. But when Misha was born and there was no support, she gave it all up — to survive. Music became a thing of the past, replaced by bills, work, and a struggle for every ruble.

But that evening became a turning point. Victor Sergeyevich, not expecting any consequences, accidentally gave her a chance. Among the guests was a famous conductor who offered Anna to perform at a charity concert. Another guest — a patron — promised to help Misha get into a music school.

Sometimes true talent is hidden beneath the dust of everyday life. It just needs to be given light.

After that evening, the guests couldn’t forget what they had heard. But Anna was in no hurry to celebrate. At home, looking into her son’s eyes, she quietly said:

“First we pay the rent. Then — about dreams.”

The next day, the banker himself came to the office. Without entourage, without pomp, in a simple jacket. In his hands — a bouquet and a folder.

“Anna Pavlovna… Forgive me. I was foolish. That joke… I didn’t know you…”

She remained silent.

“We have opened a fund for cultural support at the bank,” he continued. “We need a manager. Experienced. With soul. That’s you. The salary is decent. And… it could help Misha.”

Anna felt her heart tighten. Tears welled up.

“And what if I fail?”

“You have already succeeded,” he quietly replied. “You played what we never lived through in our whole lives.”

Several months passed. In the concert hall — a charity event. At the piano — Anna Pavlovna. In the hall — not only the wealthy, but also those usually barred from such events: cleaners, drivers, workers.

After her performance, the host announced a surprise:

“For the first time on the big stage — young pianist Mikhail Pavlov, a student of the Tchaikovsky School!”

Misha came out, proud, in a small suit. When his fingers touched the keys, Anna for the first time in many years felt she was breathing freely. She knew: their life was changing.

And in the front row sat Victor Sergeyevich. He wiped his eyes and whispered:

“How foolish I was…”

Word of her spread throughout the city. Headlines: “Talent from the janitor’s closet,” “Music that couldn’t be swept away,” “The woman who defeated prejudice.”

But fame is not only light. It is also shadow.

In the office, gossip began. HR colleagues whispered:

“Yesterday she was mopping floors, and now — the boss? It’s unfair.”

“And the son? Just a regular kid. Just a PR stunt.”

“The banker has lost it — pulling in just anyone.”

Anna felt cold. Her keys were once found in the toilet. At meetings, she was interrupted, her opinions ignored.

When Victor Sergeyevich found out, he summoned the managers:

“Say what you want. Quit if you want. But if anyone dares to touch Anna Pavlovna — I’ll fire them personally. She is the face of the fund. Proof that everyone has a chance. Even those whose hands are scarred.”

One day Misha came home with a bruise. He was beaten near school.

“You think you’re the king now, janitor’s son?” they said.

Anna was silent. At night, so as not to wake her son, she cried into her pillow.

The next day, a black Maybach stopped by the school. Victor Sergeyevich and a large man in a strict suit stepped out.

“Install cameras. Security. Alarms. And we’ll quietly talk to the parents of those responsible. Quietly, but firmly.”

A year later, Anna was invited to television. No longer as “the cleaning lady who plays,” but as the director of a project supporting talented children from difficult families. She selected students — from orphanages, remote areas, with disabilities. Among them was her son. Now he was a laureate of city competitions.

Victor Sergeyevich sat in the audience. Without cameras, without interviews. Just watching. And for the first time, he felt: he had done something important.

But after that evening that changed everything, Victor started calling Anna more often. Inviting her to dinner, to discuss projects, to go to events together.

She politely declined. She had experience — Misha’s father had left her when she refused to be “convenient.”

“You helped. Thank you. But please — no more. I’m not a thing, Victor Sergeyevich.”

He smiled. Politely. But the next day she was called to HR.

“Layoff,” said the girl with bright nails.

Anna packed her things. Not a word. No tears.

A month later, she was forgotten. Newspapers were silent. The banker held a new gala dinner — with an Italian pianist and society ladies.

Anna was cleaning floors again — now in a private music school where Misha studied. She cleaned, he played. Sometimes in the evening, when everyone left, they stayed alone. Misha sat at the old piano, and she listened.

One day a Maybach arrived at the school. With journalists. Victor Sergeyevich pointed at Misha:

“This is my protégé. I helped his mother — Anna Pavlovna. We walked the path to success together.”

Anna stepped out of the shadows.

“You’re lying.”

Microphones turned to her. She stood in her work uniform, rag in hand.

“You weren’t interested in music. You fired me for refusing. My son is my talent. Not your achievement.”

Shock. Cameras. Rumors.

A couple of months later, a scandal began. Facts emerged: illegal layoffs, fake charity projects, appropriation of others’ merits.

And the music school where Anna worked started receiving letters from people all over the country.

The teachers organized a concert. On the poster — large letters:

Mikhail Pavlov. Student. Son. Heir of strength.

And below — in small print:

Accompanied by Anna Pavlovna. Mother. Person.