All Amazing Babies

The SMS from the bank came at 7:15 a.m.: “Debit transaction in the amount of…” I swiped the notification away without opening it.

Dima often transferred money for building materials for the dacha. That was normal.

The second message arrived a minute later. The third—while I was pouring water into the kettle. The phone vibrated non-stop, insistent, like an alarm bell. Irritation turned into anxiety.

I opened the banking app, and my familiar world collapsed. The joint account we used to pay for our apartment, car, life—empty.

Zero. Completely. The savings account—the one “for old age,” “for the kids’ weddings”—was also wiped out. To the last penny. The money we’d been saving for a quarter of a century.

I walked into the bedroom on trembling legs. The bed was made with military precision, just the way Dima liked it.

His half of the wardrobe gaped empty. Inside hung only my dresses, lonely and lost. No suits, no silly T-shirts with prints. He’d taken everything.

On the pillow lay a white envelope. Unsealed.

“Alya, forgive me. I’m tired. I want to live for myself while it’s not too late. I met someone else, and it’s serious. Don’t look for me, don’t call. You’ll have enough to get by for a while. You’re a smart girl, you’ll figure something out.”

“For a while.” I checked my salary account. About a hundred thousand rubles were there.

That, in his opinion, should have been enough. After twenty-five years of marriage.

I didn’t cry. The tears were stuck somewhere in my throat, a cold lump. I slowly walked around the apartment, like a forensic investigator examining a crime scene. Here was his armchair.

Here the shelf with his books about “success.” There the photo on the wall—us with our grown children, smiling. A fake. All of it had been fake.

He had planned everything. Left on a Thursday, knowing I always went to the dacha on Friday. He had a three-day head start. Three days to pack his life and clean out ours.

I sat at the table and took my old laptop. Opened a completely different tab, the one only I knew the password to.

Twenty years ago, after Kirill was born, I received a small inheritance from my grandmother. Dima brushed it off back then: “Spend it on yourself, on dresses.” And I did. Only not on dresses.

I opened a brokerage account. It became my secret. My second life. All these years I’d kept double books. Small sums from tutoring—Dima thought I did it “for the soul”—money saved on groceries, all went there.

Correspondence from the broker came to a P.O. box, and for online access there was a separate email, unknown to anyone.

Once a year I filed a separate tax declaration as self-employed. Dima just laughed.

“Alya, you? A businesswoman?” he’d say. “Your job is home, coziness. I’ll earn the money.”

And he did earn. Not badly, but always barely enough. And I stayed quiet. Quietly bought stocks, read analysis at night, reinvested dividends.

My portfolio loaded on the screen. The numbers glowed calm and confident in green. I looked at the seven-figure number in dollars and at my husband’s pathetic note.

He thought that by taking everything he’d destroyed me. But he hadn’t considered one thing. He simply didn’t know that all these years I had been building my own ark. And now, when his flood hit me, I realized I was standing on the deck of a huge liner.

I smirked. For the first time that morning.

The first thing I did was call the children. Kirill and Olya appeared on the video chat screen—smiling, unsuspecting.

“Hi, Mom! Where’s Dad? Ran away on one of his fishing trips again?” my son asked cheerfully.

I took a breath. And in a steady, calm voice, I told them everything. About the empty accounts. About the empty closet. About the note.

The smile slid off Kirill’s face. Olya covered her mouth with her hand.

“He… took everything?” my son repeated, steel creeping into his voice. “Mom, do you have money? I’ll come over right now.”

“I’m fine, sweetheart. I have money, don’t worry. I just… wanted you to hear it from me.”

“Did he… did he say anything? Call you?” Olya’s voice trembled. “Maybe it’s a mistake?”

I shook my head. There was no mistake. Just cold, calculated precision.

After the call I ordered the locks changed. Then I called the bank and blocked all third-party access. Dima’s number rang that evening. I let it ring almost to the end, then answered.

“Yes.”

“Hey,” his voice was lively, even cheerful. “So how are you? Not panicking?”

I stayed silent.

“Alya, come on. I’m being nice. Listen, down to business. The car’s in your name. I need you to come tomorrow and sign it over to me. I’ll send the address.”

“I’m not coming.”

A pause hung on the line.

“What do you mean? Alya, don’t start. I need the car.”

“It’s joint property, Dima. Bought during the marriage.”

He laughed. Cruelly.

“Now you remember the marriage? Don’t complicate things. Just sign the papers.”

“I’m not signing anything until I talk to a lawyer.”

That hit him like a punch to the gut. Me—the quiet, homely Alya—saying “lawyer.”

“What lawyer? Are you crazy? Alya, I took what I earned! I left you the apartment! Be grateful and don’t do anything stupid.”

“The apartment that my parents’ money went into.”

“Enough!” he barked. “Tomorrow at ten I’m waiting. If you don’t come—don’t blame me. You know me.”

And he hung up. He was sure I’d be scared. Break. But that Alya died this morning. I opened my laptop and typed: “Best divorce lawyer.”

The lawyer, Marina Sergeyevna, was a woman with a piercing gaze and a steel haircut. She listened to me, reviewed the statements.

“It’s a lousy situation, Anna,” she said. “Proving intentional asset withdrawal is hard. Court can drag on for years. We’ll file to freeze his assets, but if he’s already transferred everything to his new sweetheart…”

“What do you suggest?”

“First, we file for divorce and division. The car, the dacha. We’ll fight over the money. The main thing now is not to make sudden moves. He’ll provoke you. Wait.”

That evening my son called.

“Mom, Dad called. He said you’ve lost your mind, hired a lawyer to ruin him. Said you were always a spendthrift and he saved. Asked us to ‘talk sense into Mom.’”

That’s his style. Hit where it hurts most. Use the kids.

“And Olya?”

“She told him off. I tried talking… Said he’s wrong. You know what he answered? ‘You’ll come crawling back to me when your mother leaves you penniless.’”

There it is. The point of no return. He tried to trample the only thing I had left. My kids. Their faith in me.

Enough. No more defense. Only attack.

I opened the laptop again. Logged into my brokerage account. My quiet life, my secret. Now it would become my weapon.

I sold a small part of my stocks. The amount that hit my account equaled Dima’s annual income.

Then I found the contacts of the best private detective.

“Good afternoon. I need all the information about a man. Dmitry Volkov. And his… companion. Kristina.

Everything you can find. Accounts, property, business projects, debts. Especially debts. I’ll pay any money.”

The game by his rules was over. A new game began—by mine.

A week later the first report lay on my desk. The detective confirmed: all the money went into Kristina’s beauty salon.

A loss-making salon. Dima, carried away by the dream of “his own business,” invested everything there, and even convinced Kristina to take a loan secured by her apartment.

The detective dug deeper and found old unpaid debts Dima had to former partners.

I handed the folder to Marina Sergeyevna. She flipped through the documents, a predatory smile touching her lips.

“Well, Anna. Looks like the game is turning. We have leverage.”

Our plan was simple and elegant. It took almost a month. Through a financial consultant hired by Marina, we reached Dima’s old creditors. These were angry, cheated people.

We offered to buy his debt. All of it, with interest. They, hardly believing their luck, agreed.

Now Dima no longer owed them. He owed an anonymous investment fund. In other words, me.

At the same time Marina’s lawyers, through an intermediary company, began buying up the beauty salon’s debts. To suppliers, to the landlord. Step by step we were tightening the ring around his new life.

He showed up in a month. Didn’t call—he came in person. Furious, aged ten years.

“What’s going on, Alya?” he hissed from the doorway. “Why are collection agencies calling me?”

I silently walked to the kitchen.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. That’s your new life, Dima.”

“Don’t play dumb! This is all you! Where did you get that kind of money?”

I laughed.

“The only thief here is you, Dima. As for me… I’ve just been investing for twenty years. In stocks.”

I turned my laptop screen toward him. He looked at the numbers, his face slowly turning ashen. He understood.

“This… this is impossible…”

“Possible. While you told me my place was in the kitchen, I was earning. More than you could ever imagine.

And now all your debts, and your sweetheart’s debts—are mine. Your whole beautiful life—mine. And I can turn it off.” I snapped my fingers.

He collapsed into a chair. In his eyes was animal fear.

“Alya… Alyonushka… forgive me. I was an idiot. I’ll leave her right now! We’re a family…”

At that moment the front door opened. The children came in.

“Dad?” Kirill looked at him without hatred, with cold contempt. “What are you doing here?”

“Son… Olya… Talk to your mom! She… she wants to destroy us!”

Olya stepped up and stood behind my shoulder.

“You destroyed us, Dad. The day you robbed Mom and ran. Leave. We’re not talking to you anymore.”

Dima looked from one cold face to the other. He was a stranger. He got up, staggering, and headed to the door. At the threshold he turned.

“Alya… I love you…”

I just smirked in response.

A year later.

I sat on the terrace of my new house overlooking a pine forest. On my lap—a tablet with stock charts. It was no longer a secret. It had become my job.

I didn’t bankrupt the salon. I just sold its debts to a specialized agency, which quickly auctioned off the place.

Kristina’s apartment was taken by the bank. What happened to them afterward didn’t interest me. I struck him out of my life like a failed investment.

I sold the car and used the money to buy Olya a trip to Italy. My son Kirill, with my help, opened a small IT company. We became closer than ever.

Sometimes I thought about Dima. Not with anger, no. With cold curiosity. He believed power was in money you could take.

He didn’t understand that real power is in the ability to create it. In knowledge, discipline, patience. In what can’t be stolen.

My divorce wasn’t a story of revenge. It became a story of liberation. Not from my husband.

From that quiet, compliant Alya I had been for twenty-five years. The one who hid her intelligence behind the role of “keeper of the hearth.”

The phone on the table vibrated. It was Olya. Her smiling face appeared on the screen, with the Colosseum in the background.

“Hi, Mom! It’s so amazing here! Thank you!”

“I’m happy for you, sweetheart.”

We chatted for a few minutes. And when I hung up, I looked at the forest and realized that for the first time in many years I was truly happy.

Not because I had a lot of money. But because I had finally become myself.

“Seriozha, for heaven’s sake, what is she wearing?” Tamara Pavlovna’s voice rang with a venomous sweetness she made no attempt to conceal. “That dress is from a flea market. I saw one just like it last Saturday at a reseller’s stall.

At most — five hundred.”

I quietly adjusted the collar of my blue dress — simple, inexpensive. Like everything I wore. It was one of the strict terms of the cruel agreement I had made with my own grandfather.

Sergey, my husband, coughed nervously and looked away.

“Mom, that’s enough. The dress is fine.”

“Fine?” his sister Irina screeched, fanning the flames. “Seriozha, your wife has the taste of a… Well, what can you expect from an orphan from the sticks?”

She gave me a disdainful once-over, her eyes lingering on my thin wrists. Poorly hidden triumph flickered in her gaze.

“You could at least wear a bracelet. Oh, right — you don’t have any, do you?”

I slowly raised my eyes to hers. Calm, almost cold, as if I were studying a specimen under glass.

In my mind, I made a note: Subject No. 2 — Irina. Aggression level: high. Motivation: envy, desire to dominate by humiliating others.

It was like watching a pack of predators. Interesting. Entirely predictable.

Tamara Pavlovna gave a theatrical sigh and plopped down next to me on the couch, heavily laying a hand on my shoulder. She smelled of cheap hairspray and greasy food.

“Anya, we’re not your enemies. We want what’s best for you. It’s just… our son is a man of standing, a boss, a respected person. And you… well, you understand yourself.”

She paused, waiting for tears, excuses, trembling in my voice. In vain. I only observed.

Where was the Sergey I fell in love with? The confident, witty, free man? Now only a shadow sat before me — a puppet in the hands of his mother and sister.

“I have an idea!” my mother-in-law’s face lit up with her own genius. “You still have your mother’s earrings, don’t you? The ones with the tiny stones? You hardly wear them. Let’s sell them.”

Sergey coughed as if he’d swallowed air the wrong way.

“Mom, are you serious? That’s a keepsake.”

“Oh, what kind of keepsake?” Tamara Pavlovna waved dismissively. “A keepsake of poverty? At least they’d do some good. With the money, we’ll buy Anya a couple of decent outfits. And a new grill for the dacha. Everyone wins.”

Irina immediately chimed in:

“Of course! Those earrings on her look like a harness on a mare anyway.”

They didn’t realize they weren’t humiliating me. They were exposing themselves — their pettiness, greed, and spiritual poverty.

I looked at their faces, twisted with smugness and a sense of superiority. Every word, every gesture — straight out of a textbook. Perfectly fitting my hypothesis.

The experiment was progressing according to plan.

“Fine,” I said quietly.

Silence fell in the room. Even Sergey stared at me in surprise.

“What do you mean, ‘fine’?” my mother-in-law asked.

“I agree to sell them,” I allowed myself a slight smile. “If that’s what’s needed for the family.”

Tamara Pavlovna and Irina exchanged glances. For a moment, doubt flickered in their eyes, but it quickly drowned in the euphoria of victory. Once again, they mistook my strategy for submission.

To me, they weren’t family — they were pieces on a chessboard. And they had just made their move straight into the trap.

The next day, my mother-in-law dragged me to a pawn shop. Irina accompanied us like a spectator at a show. Sergey drove in silence, his face grim. He tried to object, but his mother snapped:

“Don’t interfere! Can’t you see she walks around like a beggar?”

The pawn shop was a cramped little room with bars on the window and the stifling smell of old metal. The appraiser — a man with tired eyes — lazily took the velvet box I handed him.

He examined the earrings through a loupe for a long time. Tamara Pavlovna tapped her nail impatiently on the counter.

“Well? They’re gold, right? The stones sparkle. You’ll give twenty?”

The appraiser snorted.

“Gold, yes, 585 proof. But the stones are cubic zirconia. Cheap work. Five thousand. And that’s being generous.”

My mother-in-law’s face stretched out. Irina snorted in disappointment:

“Five? I thought at least enough for a pair of boots.”

I did exactly what they expected me to. Leaned forward and said timidly:

“Maybe we shouldn’t? They’re a keepsake… And five thousand is so little. Maybe we should check another pawn shop?”

It was a calculated move — a false compromise doomed to fail.

“Shut up, Anya!” Tamara Pavlovna barked. “What do you know? The specialist said five, so five it is!”

Irina chimed in:

“Exactly! Otherwise you’ll drag us all over town and get even less. You always ruin everything with your stubbornness.”

Sergey tried to intervene again:

“Mom, maybe we could go to a jewelry store instead?”

“Shut up!” his sister cut him off. “Are you under her heel now? We decide what’s best for the family!”

They got the money. And right there on the street, they split it. Three thousand to Tamara Pavlovna: “For the grill and seedlings.” Two to Irina: “For an urgent manicure.”

“And what about… the blouses for me?” I asked softly, still playing my role.

Irina laughed loudly in my face:

“Oh, Anya, don’t joke. For that pittance — maybe a thrift shop.”

They left, satisfied, leaving me with my husband. Sergey looked broken. He hadn’t defended my memory or me. Another point in his personal dossier.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, staring at the ground.

“It’s okay,” I gently took his arm. “I understand. This is your family.”

But the real blow came that evening. When I got home, I saw the nightstand was empty. The laptop was gone. An ordinary-looking one, but in reality — protected, triple-encrypted. My key to information, plans, controls.

My heart froze for a second. But my face remained calm.

“Seriozha, where’s my laptop?”

Irina entered the room, all smiles.

“Oh, you mean that relic? I took it. Mine broke, and I need to work urgently. What do you need it for? You don’t work. Watch movies on your phone.”

I slowly turned to her. My face — a mask. Inside — a mechanism clicked. Loudly. Finally.

The trap closed. The last participant entered the cage. Everything needed for the final phase was in place.

That laptop wasn’t just a thing — it was the key to my real life.

My working tool. An encrypted portal to a world none of them even suspected existed. Inside — reports, analytics, a chronology of every step of my social experiment. No hacker could break into its systems. But that wasn’t the point.

Theft. Open, cynical. Without shame, without doubt. As if I were nothing. As if my right to personal space, to dignity — meant nothing.

I looked at Sergey. This was his last chance. His final test.

“Sergey, give me back my laptop,” I said. My voice was quiet, but not pleading. It was a command disguised as a request.

He hesitated. His eyes darted to his sister, then back to me.

“Ir, give it back, please. It’s hers.”

“Oh, come on!” Irina snorted, settling into an armchair. “You actually listen to her? I need it urgently! We’ll buy her a new one when you get your bonus.”

“Well, Anya, you heard her,” Sergey turned helplessly to me. “She needs it for work. Be reasonable. Don’t make a scene.”

At that moment, something inside me finally snapped.

This was rock bottom. He didn’t just stay silent. He took their side. Justified them. Condemned me.

The image of the Sergey I loved — confident, honest, free — crumbled to dust. I had clung to memories like a straw, but reality was concrete. He made his choice. Now it was time for me to make mine.

Enough.

The experiment was over. Data collected. Results unequivocal.

I pulled an old flip phone from my pocket. Found the contact labeled “Curator.” That line existed for only one scenario — activation of the final phase. I pressed call.

“Dmitry Alekseevich, good evening,” I said evenly, coldly, in a voice so foreign none of them recognized me. “The observation phase is complete. Proceed to action. For all three subjects. Initiate Protocol ‘Consequences.’ Start with the sister-in-law.”

I ended the call. Placed the phone on the table. Raised my eyes to Irina, who was watching me with feigned mockery and a growing, instinctive fear.

“You have ten minutes to return my laptop. In the condition it was.”

Irina giggled:

“Are you threatening me? With your curator? Who even are you?”

“I’m not threatening,” my voice turned icy. “I’m informing. In nine minutes and fifty seconds, your ‘urgent project’ will vanish from your company’s servers. And five minutes after that, your boss will have a full report of your involvement in passing trade secrets to competitors. That’s called corporate espionage. It carries criminal charges.”

Her face instantly went pale. The laughter died in her throat.

“You’re lying! You have nothing!”

“Nine minutes,” I said, glancing at the screen. “Countdown started.”

Irina’s eyes darted from me to her phone. At that moment it rang. The screen read: “GENNADY PETROVICH.” Her boss.

She snatched the phone with trembling hands.

“Yes, Gennady Petrovich… What? What report? No, it wasn’t me… That’s a mistake!”

She threw me a terrified glance. I silently nodded toward the laptop. Irina stumbled to the wardrobe, pulled it out, and threw it onto the bed.

“Here! Take it! Just tell them to stop!”

“Too late,” I said calmly. “The process is irreversible.”

Sergey, who had stood paralyzed until now, finally croaked:

“Anya, what have you done?! That’s my sister!”

I slowly turned to him. The mask was gone. No need to pretend anymore.

“You still don’t get it? You thought I was a poor provincial girl you could trample on, humiliate, hand out her things like spare rags? That I was furniture, not a person?”

I walked to the window. Below, by the entrance, stood a black sedan with tinted windows — inconspicuous, but significant. It wasn’t visible from their apartment.

“My last name isn’t what you think. I am Orlova. And my grandfather, whom you thought a modest pensioner, is the founder and head of Orion Capital investment holding. And all of this,” I swept my hand around the room, “was a one-year experiment. My grandfather’s condition: I had to live like an ordinary girl, without access to my status, to see why you married me.”

I gave a bitter smile.

“I wanted to prove him wrong. That you loved me, not my future fortune. But you… you exceeded all expectations. You showed your true selves: petty, greedy, cruel, ready to trample anyone you deem weaker.”

There was a knock at the door. I knew who it was.

“That’s Dmitry Alekseevich, my grandfather’s head of security. He’s here to collect my things. And to hand you documents.”

Sergey rushed to me:

“Anya, forgive me! I didn’t know! I truly love you!”

“You don’t love me,” I cut him off, stepping aside. “You love convenience. You love a woman who stays silent, doesn’t argue, doesn’t demand. You failed the main test, Sergey. Not once. Not once did you take my side.”

Dmitry Alekseevich entered. Calmly, without unnecessary words, he handed each of them an envelope.

“Irina Sergeevna — notice of dismissal for disclosure of trade secrets and notice of initiation of criminal proceedings. Tamara Pavlovna — demand for early repayment of the collateral loan due to breach of surety conditions. And you, Sergey,” he looked at him without a trace of emotion, “notice of termination of the lease. This apartment belongs to Orion Real Estate Fund. You have 24 hours to vacate.”

I took my laptop, my phone, and headed for the door. I didn’t look back. Not once.

There was no malice, no triumph. Only cold, almost scientific satisfaction. Task completed. Hypothesis confirmed.

Downstairs, a car was waiting for me. I got into the back seat.

“Home, Dmitry Alekseevich.”

I didn’t gain freedom. I gained confirmation. That trust should be placed not in words, but in actions. That real strength is not in wealth, but in the ability to stay true to yourself while playing the victim.

And that sometimes, to see a person’s true face, you just have to let them believe you’re weak.

Epilogue

Six months later.

Outside my office window on the 45th floor of Orion Tower, the sun was setting, painting the city in gold and crimson. I leaned back in my white leather chair, took a sip of water.

“You were harsh, granddaughter,” said my grandfather, sitting across from me. His voice even, without reproach. Just a statement.

“I was fair,” I corrected. “I gave them no more and no less than they deserved.”

He nodded. He always valued precision over emotion. He had taught me: any project, whether a billion-dollar deal or a human relationship, requires analysis, calculation, control.

“Your reports were impeccable. Psychological profiles, motivation analysis, behavior forecasts. You could head our analytics department.”

“I’ll think about it,” I smiled. “But first I need to finish one personal project.”

The fates of my former “family” turned out predictably. Irina was fired in disgrace. Her reputation plummeted faster than she could blink. She lost her lawsuits — my grandfather’s lawyers’ arguments were ironclad. Now she works as a cashier in a suburban supermarket, avoiding the eyes of former colleagues.

Tamara Pavlovna, deprived of support, sold the dacha to pay off her debt. Returned to her old apartment, where she now complains to neighbors about her “treacherous, deceitful daughter-in-law.” No one believes her. And rightly so.

And Sergey… His fall was the deepest.

He stood on the platform of his hometown station — the same one he once left for the capital full of hope. Now he returned with nothing. In his hand — a battered suitcase. In his pocket — his last money. He looked at the departing trains and, for the first time in his life, felt he’d lost not just an apartment, not just a job, but something greater.

He hadn’t betrayed a millionaire. He had betrayed the quiet Anya who loved him. And that realization weighed heavier than any bankruptcy.

“Do you regret it?” my grandfather asked, pulling me from my thoughts.

I thought for a moment.

“I regret that I hoped. That I believed you were wrong. That there was more to people than calculation and fear.”

“Some people have more,” he nodded. “But the ability to tell them apart — that’s the real capital, Anya. Not millions. Knowledge of people.”

He was right.

I had lost my illusions. But in return, I gained clarity. Learned to see behind smiles — contempt; behind care — greed; behind love — self-interest.

I understood: power isn’t in money, but in the ability to remain yourself, even when the whole world thinks you’re weak.

I looked at the city beneath me. It no longer seemed hostile. It was my world. A world where I set the rules.

And my next experiment wouldn’t be about testing people.
It would be about changing the system.

Marina shoved the dirty dishes into the dishwasher and turned on the express-wash mode. The Friday dinner had been a success: Igor devoured her signature mushroom pie with gusto. Even Nastya, who always wrinkled her nose at any dish “that upstart” cooked—as she called Marina behind her back—ate two slices.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Igor called from the hallway. “We’ve got football with the guys tomorrow; I need a good night’s sleep.”

“Go on,” Marina waved her hand and began wiping down the countertop.

Nastya sat in the living room, glued to her phone. She had arrived the night before—just like always, without warning, with a mountain of shopping bags and her usual sour expression. “Just here for the weekend,” as always.

“Want some tea?” Marina asked, poking her head through the doorway.

“No,” Nastya snapped without looking up from the screen.

Marina shrugged and went back to the kitchen. She was used to this kind of treatment by now. Three years of marriage had taught her not to react to her sister-in-law’s jabs. Igor always said, “Nastyukha’s prickly, but she comes around. Don’t take it to heart.”

The sound of running water came from the bathroom. Marina turned on the kettle and opened the upper cupboard to grab her favorite mug. Then she heard Nastya’s voice from the living room:

“Mom, how are you? Yeah, I’m at their place… No, she cooked her crap again… Listen, I spoke to the lawyer.”

Marina froze with the mug in her hand. Nastya lowered her voice to a whisper, but in the quiet apartment the words carried clearly into the kitchen.

“Yes, through the court… Since the apartment came from Grandma to Igor, not both of them… No, that fool doesn’t even know she can be taken off the registration… Igor will sign anything if you ask him the right way…”

The mug slipped from Marina’s fingers and crashed to the floor, shattering.

“What’s going on in there?” Nastya’s voice instantly got louder.

“Dropped a mug,” Marina managed to reply, feeling ice spread inside her.

The apartment… The three-bedroom in the center where she and Igor had lived for three years. A gift from his grandmother. “For the young couple,” the old woman had said back then. And now this snake wanted to have her thrown out?

“As always,” Nastya appeared in the kitchen doorway. “All thumbs, aren’t you.”

“Sorry, got distracted,” Marina bent down to collect the shards, glad Nastya couldn’t see her face.

“Why are you making a mess? Grab a dustpan.”

Marina obediently fetched the dustpan and brush. Her hands were shaking.

“What are you trembling for?” Nastya squinted. “You dropped it, big deal.”

“I… just got startled,” Marina lied.

“Ah, right. Our delicate little flower,” Nastya snorted and went back to the living room.

In Marina’s head one thought kept spinning: They want to kick me out. Out of my own home. That’s why Nastya suddenly came…

Igor came out of the bathroom, whistling some tune.

“Oh, you smashed a mug?” he smiled. “Don’t worry, we’ll buy ten more like it.”

“Yeah,” Marina forced a smile.

Igor kissed the top of her head and went into the bedroom.

That night Marina didn’t sleep a wink. Igor snored peacefully beside her while she stared at the ceiling, thinking. Tell her husband? But he adored his sister and always defended her. Complain to her mother-in-law? She was clearly in on it with Nastya! She had never been warm toward Marina, though she tried to hide it.

I have to do something myself, Marina decided by dawn. But what?

In the morning, Marina jumped out of bed first and tiptoed to the kitchen. Her hands trembled so much she missed the coffee cup twice with the spoon.

“Okay, calm down,” she whispered to herself. “Think.”

Her gaze fell on a lawyer’s business card lying on the fridge since last month. Sergey Valentinovich had helped their neighbor with property division. Marina grabbed her phone.

“Good morning! Is this Sergey Valentinovich? This is Marina Kotova, Olga Petrovna’s neighbor.”

She spoke quietly, almost in a whisper, glancing constantly at the door.

“I urgently need a consultation. Can it be today? At one? Perfect!”

Igor shuffled into the kitchen, sleepy, a pillow crease on his cheek.

“Morning,” he leaned in for a kiss. “Why are you up so early?”

“Oh, just woke up,” Marina looked away. “Igor, I’m going to visit a friend today, okay? Haven’t seen her in a while.”

“Which friend?”

“Lenka,” she blurted the first name that came to mind.

“Ah, sure,” he yawned. “I’m taking Nastya to the movies. She asked yesterday.”

Of course she did, Marina thought, but said nothing.

The lawyer’s office smelled of coffee and paper. Sergey Valentinovich, a balding man in glasses, listened attentively.

“So, the apartment’s from your husband’s grandmother… Are you registered there?”

“Yes, right after the wedding.”

“And whose name is on the deed?”

“Sorry?”

“Well, the ownership document. Deed of gift? Will?”

Marina blinked blankly.

“I don’t know… Igor handled everything.”

The lawyer sighed.

“Here’s what you need to do, Marina. First, find out who legally owns the apartment. If it’s only your husband—you’ve got a problem. If it’s both of you—his sister can’t touch you.”

“How do I find out?”

“Request an extract through the government services portal or at the municipal office. Do it today.”

Marina came home with a clear plan. In the hallway she stumbled over Nastya’s shoes.

“Oh, you’re back!” Nastya came out of the kitchen. “Where’ve you been? We lost you.”

“At a friend’s,” Marina tried to keep her voice steady.

“We went to the movies with Igor,” Nastya smirked, leaning against the wall. “Little bro never grows up—picked those stupid action flicks again.”

Marina walked past with a nod. In the bedroom she closed the door and pulled out her phone. Quickly found the government services site, ordered an ownership extract. Paid. Now just to wait.

That evening, when Igor was asleep and Nastya holed up in the guest room, Marina checked her email. The extract had arrived. With trembling fingers she opened the file.

“Owner: Sokolov Igor Alekseevich.”

Marina gasped. So Nastya was right—legally, the apartment was only his. And she was just registered there. Fear gave way to anger. Not a chance!

In the morning, while everyone slept, Marina called the lawyer again.

“Sergey Valentinovich, here’s the situation…”

“Listen carefully,” the lawyer interrupted. “Have you been registered there over three years?”

“Almost three.”

“Excellent. Then you have a right of use. Plus everything bought during marriage—from furniture to appliances—is joint property. And if you can prove you contributed to renovations…”

“We renovated! I kept all the receipts,” Marina remembered.

“Then you’ve got a good case. Gather all documents. And most importantly—don’t sign anything your husband or his relatives give you.”

“Thank you!”

“And Marina, you should tell your husband…”

Marina sighed. “Not sure he’ll take my side.”

The next two days Marina walked as if through a minefield. She smiled, cooked, pretended all was fine. Meanwhile she gathered evidence: all the receipts for furniture, appliances, renovations. Bank statements showing transfers for materials. Scanned the marriage contract that clearly stated jointly acquired property.

On Monday Nastya announced she was staying another week.

“I suddenly got vacation,” she smiled sweetly at her brother. “You wouldn’t kick out your own sister, right?”

“Stay as long as you want!” Igor laughed.

Marina clenched her teeth in silence.

That evening she overheard Nastya whispering on the phone again:

“Mom, everything’s going according to plan… Yes, I’ll stay longer… No, that idiot suspects nothing… The papers are almost ready… Igor will sign, he has no choice…”

Marina’s blood boiled. Not so fast, darling.

The next day she took a day off and went to the notary. Then the municipal office. By evening she had a full folder of documents and a clear plan.

“Honey, maybe we should invite your parents this weekend?” she casually asked Igor over dinner. “It’s been a while since we all got together.”

Nastya snapped her head up, eyeing her suspiciously.

“Great idea!” Igor lit up. “Nastyukha, Mom will be thrilled you’re here too.”

“Of course,” Nastya muttered through her teeth. “I’m all for it.”

On Saturday Marina cooked from early morning. Frying, baking, stewing—she gave it her all. The last family dinner, she thought bitterly, chopping vegetables.

By six the table was groaning with food. Igor’s parents arrived—Alexei Petrovich and Vera Sergeevna. As usual, her mother-in-law gave Marina an appraising look.

“You look good, Marina dear,” she said with feigned warmth.

“Thank you,” Marina smiled back. “Come in, have a seat.”

Once everyone sat and started eating, Igor raised his glass:

“To family! To all of us together!”

“To family,” Marina echoed, taking a sip.

Nastya caught her gaze and smirked faintly. Not for long, Marina thought.

“By the way,” Marina said loudly, “I need to discuss something.”’

All eyes turned to her.

“Igor, I accidentally overheard Nastya talking to your mom a couple days ago.”

Silence fell. Nastya turned pale.

“What are you talking about?” Igor frowned.

“That your sister and mom are planning to convince you to transfer the apartment solely to yourself and deregister me. Throw me out on the street.”

“What nonsense!” Vera Sergeevna protested. “Igor, your wife’s gone mad!”

“Marin, what is this?” Igor looked confusedly between his wife, sister, and mother.

“I heard everything,” Marina said firmly. “Word for word. Nastya said: ‘That fool doesn’t even know she can be deregistered,’ and Igor ‘will sign anything if you ask him right.’”

Nastya leapt up: “You were eavesdropping on my calls?!”

“I overheard while cleaning the kitchen,” Marina retorted. “But that’s not the point. The point is you want to kick me out of my own home.”

“Your home?” Vera Sergeevna interjected. “The apartment belongs to Igor! Grandma gave it to him!”

“Marinka, this is some nonsense,” Igor took his wife’s hand. “No one’s throwing you out.”

Nastya and Vera exchanged glances.

“Here’s a folder,” Marina pulled out the prepared documents. “Everything you need to know is in here.”

Igor opened it, flipping through.

“What is all this?” he asked, bewildered.

“Receipts for all the furniture, appliances, and renovations in our apartment,” Marina pointed to the first stack. “Bank statements—half the expenses are mine. And this,” she pulled out a separate file, “is the lawyer’s statement about my housing rights.”

Nastya turned ghostly pale.

“You went to a lawyer?” she hissed.

“Of course. As soon as I heard your plans,” Marina straightened. “I won’t let myself be thrown out of a home I’ve considered mine for three years, invested money and effort into.”

Igor looked up from the documents.

“Wait… Nastya, Mom, is this true? You actually planned this?”

Vera Sergeevna gave a nervous laugh: “Igoryok, don’t be silly! We were just discussing…”

“Discussing what exactly?” Marina cut her off. “How best to deceive your son?”

“Don’t you talk to my mother like that!” Nastya exploded.

“And you don’t plot how to kick me out of my own home!” Marina raised her voice too.

“Quiet!” Igor slammed his fist on the table. “Nastya, is it true?”

Nastya pressed her lips tight: “We just wanted to protect your interests. You never know…”

“You never know what?” Igor’s face flushed with anger. “I’ve been married to Marina for three years! We renovated together, bought furniture together!”

“Son, but the apartment is Grandma’s,” Vera tried. “She gave it to you, not both of you.”

“So what?! Does that give you the right to decide behind my back how I manage my property?”

Alexei Petrovich, who had been silent until now, shook his head: “Vera, Nastya, what are you doing? He’s right. This is ugly.”

“Dad, you don’t understand!” Nastya flailed. “What if they get divorced? She’ll sue for half!”

“So you were preparing for our divorce?” Igor asked quietly, staring at his sister.

Nastya bit her tongue. Silence.

“You know what,” Marina gathered the documents back into the folder. “I’ve already filed for determination of my share of this apartment as jointly acquired property. With all the investments, it’s at least 30%. If you want a war—fine, but I won’t give up what’s mine.”

“Marinka…” Igor rubbed his temples. “Why didn’t you tell me right away?”

“Would you have believed me?” she smiled sadly. “You always say Nastya would never deceive you.”

Igor looked at his sister and mother differently now.

“I want you both to leave,” he said quietly. “Now.”

“Igoryok!” Vera gasped.

“Leave!” he repeated louder. “I need to talk to my wife.”

Nastya grabbed her bag and bolted out. Vera slowly stood, shot Marina a burning look, and headed for the door. Alexei lingered:

“Sorry, son. I didn’t know what they were planning.”

After they left, Igor sat across from Marina:

“Forgive me… I didn’t think they’d pull something like that.”

“And I didn’t think I’d have to defend myself from your family,” she replied softly.

A month later everything was officially settled. Marina became a co-owner of the apartment—her share was 40%. Igor insisted it be higher than the lawyer suggested.

Nastya stopped visiting. She rarely called, only her brother, and never asked about Marina. Vera was politely cold at family gatherings. Dinners were tense now.

One evening Igor hugged Marina:

“You know, I’m glad you turned out stronger and smarter than all of them. And that you didn’t let them fool you.”

“I just realized no one would fight for me except me,” she smiled. “Not even you.”

“That’ll never happen again,” he kissed her forehead. “I promise.”

Marina nodded. She no longer feared losing her roof over her head. And she knew for sure: she’d never let anyone decide her fate behind her back. Not her mother-in-law, not her sister-in-law. Not even her husband. From now on—only herself.

Irina and Grigory divorced when their daughter Anya turned two years old. Grigory simply couldn’t live with his wife. She was always dissatisfied, angry. Sometimes she complained that Grisha earned too little, sometimes that he spent too little time at home and didn’t help her with the child at all.

Grisha really tried to please her. But it didn’t work out. Many acquaintances said that Irina had postpartum depression. Maybe she should see a doctor and take some pills.

But Grisha doubted that very much. She hadn’t been an angel even before the child appeared, and now it was like she had lost her mind.

The man couldn’t even remember the last time he saw a smile on Irina’s face. Even when she was with the child, irritation was written all over her face, making him want to take the daughter away and hide her somewhere immediately.

Still, Grisha actually suggested that his wife see a psychologist. But in response, he received such a flood of negativity that it’s hard even to imagine.

— What, you think I’m crazy?! You think I’m hysterical, huh?! How could I not go crazy with you here?!

After all that, Grisha couldn’t take it anymore and said he would file for divorce. And Irina, to spite him, took their daughter and moved to another city. She didn’t apply for child support and didn’t tell him the new address.

Grisha searched for his daughter for a while, then gave up. He loved Anya and would have gladly remained her father. But just thinking about what he would have to face, how much he would hear from his ex-wife, made him decide to accept the situation.

Irina, meanwhile, was full of anger. And that anger never went away. She blamed her ex-husband for everything, believing he left her because he found someone else. And that it had nothing to do with her.

That bitterness was later directed at her daughter.

She never hit Anya or abused her, but the girl grew up surrounded by negativity that many people never even experience.

There were never any celebrations in their home. Anya only learned that people celebrate birthdays when she started kindergarten.

— Mom, imagine, Antoshka had a birthday today, and everyone congratulated him! And then they gave him a present! Will I have that too?

— No. That’s nonsense. There’s nothing to celebrate that you have nothing to do with. I gave birth to you, so I should be the one celebrating! And don’t ask those questions again. It’s a waste of money!

They didn’t celebrate New Year in their family either. Luckily, Father Frost came to the kindergarten and congratulated the children, so that was Anya’s one holiday. On New Year’s Day itself, she and her mother ate the simplest food and went to bed as usual.

Irina couldn’t stand laughter. Probably because she herself had forgotten how to laugh. And when Anya watched some funny cartoons and laughed loudly, Irina would always scold her.

— Why are you neighing like a horse?! There’s nothing funny there!

And Anya learned that smiles are bad. Laughter is bad. You have to be serious and sad, like Mom.

Whether Irina had any mental problems is unknown. After all, she never went to a psychologist, considering it a money drain. She thought people didn’t live for fun. And those who are always happy are just shallow and foolish.

Anya tried candy for the first time at kindergarten, when someone had a birthday. It was so delicious!

At night she dreamed that she would grow up and buy herself a whole bag of candy. That thought warmed her soul, and even the forbidden smile appeared on her face.

It’s unknown what would have happened to this girl if she had continued to grow up with her mother. Every year her mother became angrier and more resentful of life. Even the neighbors avoided her, and old women crossed themselves as she passed by. They said the devil himself lived in her, because a person couldn’t be so cruel.

But apparently, all this anger had a detrimental effect on her health. Irina was diagnosed with cancer. Since she didn’t trust doctors, she ended up in the hospital only by ambulance when it was already impossible to help her.

The neighbor took Anya in when Irina was taken away. Before leaving, Irina gave the neighbor Anya’s father’s name, surname, and the city where he lived. After all, she did care about her daughter.

Irina didn’t return from the hospital. Anya wasn’t even told right away that her mother was gone. The girl was already very scared and afraid to say or do anything extra.

The neighbor passed Irina’s words to child protective services, and they quickly found Anya’s father.

By then, he had already been married for six months. When child services called him and explained the situation, he told his wife he would not abandon his daughter. Besides, he had been looking for her.

His wife was indeed a good woman and knew how much Grisha suffered because he was separated from his daughter. So she told him to go and get the child.

Anya, of course, did not remember her father. She was very scared and thought life with her dad would be worse than with her mom.

When Grisha arrived, the girl was still with the neighbor. Child services allowed her to stay there until her father arrived so as not to traumatize her further.

On the way, Grisha bought a big plush cat and took various candies.

When he entered, Anya stood frightened to the side. But her attention was immediately drawn to the big toy in Grisha’s hands. Then she saw the candies.

This immediately won Anya over. She thought those who brought candy couldn’t be bad. After all, Father Frost gave candies at kindergarten to her and her friends. No one else had ever given her candy.

While Anya got acquainted with the new toy, the neighbor told Grisha about his ex-wife.

— They say not to speak ill of the dead, but she was quite a character. Never greeted anyone, never smiled. She cursed anyone she didn’t like. And poor Anya was scared and beaten down.

Grisha’s heart bled when he thought about how hard it was for his daughter. He blamed himself for not coming to her rescue. He should have fought and searched for them. But his fear of meeting his ex-wife stopped him. And because of his fears, his daughter suffered.

When all the paperwork was done and the funeral over, Anya went with her dad to a new home.

— Your birthday is coming soon, — he said with a smile, trying to win the child’s favor, — what would you like as a gift?

Anya looked at him surprised, and Grisha didn’t understand what she was so surprised about.

— I don’t know. Mom never gave me presents. And we didn’t celebrate birthdays.

— How come? — Grisha was stunned.

— She said it was nonsense. That I didn’t deserve congratulations.

— That’s not true… Everyone should be happy on their birthday, — the man said with a lump in his throat.

— Can I have a bag of candy then? — Anya asked. — I love candy very much.

Grisha only nodded. The words stuck in his throat.

Later, when Grisha’s wife met the girl, they put Anya to bed. The man closed himself in the kitchen, took out a bottle of wine, and drank a glass in one gulp.

— She didn’t celebrate her birthday… — he said when his wife entered the kitchen. — You know what Anya asked me for as a gift? Candy… The kind kids usually have… Lord, how could I? And if she didn’t have money, why did she do that? She was ready to deprive our child of all joys just to spite me?!

Natasha, Grisha’s wife, hugged him.

— Don’t blame her. Life has already punished her enough…

— I’m not blaming her. I blame myself. I convinced myself that Anya and her mom would be fine, that there was nothing to worry about. And now I see a child who is even afraid to be happy.

— You know, — Natasha smiled, — we’ll throw Anya a wonderful birthday party. For all the birthdays she never had.

The birthday was in a week. During that whole week, Anya got used to her new family.

What surprised her most was that dad and Aunt Natasha smiled so much. That they laughed! Anya truly thought adults no longer knew how.

And it turned out that in the morning you could eat more than just sticky, tasteless porridge. Aunt Natasha made syrniki, pancakes, cottage cheese with fruits and berries, and lots of other things.

But, of course, what surprised Anya the most was that there were always candies in the house. Dad said she could eat them without asking! The only thing he asked was not to eat too many so her tummy and teeth wouldn’t hurt.

And on her birthday, when Anya opened her eyes, she thought she was still dreaming.

The whole room was decorated with balloons. And for breakfast she had a cake! On which she blew out the candles!

After that, they went to an amusement park. And she got seven gifts — one for each year.

Children adapt quickly to everything. Especially to good things. Already after a month, Anya laughed loudly, screamed when she couldn’t hold back her emotions, and very often hugged her dad and Aunt Natasha. Mom didn’t allow that; she didn’t like when Anya clung to her.

Anya went to school, and life got better. Sometimes she couldn’t even tell what from her memory was real and what she had imagined. But she knew she was very lucky to be in her dad’s family. And although she felt sorry for her mom, she thought life with her mom would have been worse.

And a year later, Anya called Aunt Natasha “mom” for the first time. Because, sad as it was, she was a better mother than Irina.

Margo was staring intently at the door. The day had come when she could settle scores with her husband.

Her eyes gleamed with a malevolent fire. How long she had waited for this day… A whole 2 years.

Finally, she heard the sound of the door opening, and her heart nearly leaped out of her chest.

On the bed lay her belongings, piled up, next to which was a bag where she was supposed to pack everything.

A woman in uniform entered the room.

“Time to leave, Margosha!” Margo got up, quickly packed her things, and then hurriedly left her cell.

“What, can’t wait to meet with your lover?” sneered the guard, who followed her.

Margo said nothing. She walked with her head held high. She no longer cared what was said behind her back. She had endured enough trials, but now she was ready to settle scores with her abusers.

She looked forward, but events from three years ago flashed before her eyes.

Margo and Grisha were successful businessmen. When they got married, things immediately started looking up.

Success not only turned their heads but also brought discord into their family life. Margo knew all about her husband’s affairs, but for the sake of a successful business, she endured everything.

It hurt, but she still remembered her husband as he was when they first met. Back then, they were simple people, in love with each other. But over the years, that love had faded, giving way to habit.

Margo trusted her husband. She signed all the documents he presented her without looking. It turned out that this played against her. Her successful and happy life disappeared in one day.

That day, she was accused of major fraud and hiding money. And she ended up in jail. Her own husband framed her, presenting forged documents.

The trial was brief. Her husband testified against her. She was not provided with a good lawyer. She couldn’t find one herself. Most likely, her husband had bribed someone because the court quickly dismissed the case, pinning all the blame on her.

She was sentenced to 5 years. In prison, over two years, she remade herself. Now she was no longer the frightened girl who couldn’t stand up for herself. She had now cultivated a strength within herself.

For her good behavior, she was released early, and now she craved revenge.

And Grisha was the main character she had to show her new “self” to. Margo thought about all this while her belongings were handed to her.

“Good luck, beauty!” the guard slapped her on the shoulder. When Margo was outside the prison gates, she couldn’t take a single step. Fear seized her again. For two whole years, she had nurtured a plan for revenge, and now she was afraid she might not be able to carry out what she so desired. She stood there for about five minutes, then saw a familiar figure approaching her.

Her body immediately relaxed. Thank God, he was here. She ran to meet him. He quickened his pace too. A few moments later, they met, and the man embraced her.

“Margo, I can’t believe this moment has come.”

Margo buried her face in his neck, nervously laughing. But he had been waiting for this moment no less than she had. It was Artem, her husband’s friend.

Right after she was put in jail, he began visiting her. He believed in her innocence and knew that Grisha was not as innocent as he seemed. Here, Artem’s long-standing affection for Margo played a significant role. However, he never spoke of his feelings, only confessing to Margo a year after his visits.

By then, Margo felt more than just gratitude towards Artem. They fell in love, her in jail, him in freedom. Now nothing could stop these lovers.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t come for me,” the woman whispered.

The man squeezed her tighter in his arms. “How could I leave you? I will never let you go again.”

Margo inhaled his scent and sighed contentedly. When she was in jail, she started to find out interesting things with Artem’s help.

Artem was a close friend of Grisha’s, and he knew some details of his schemes. Artem told her that all this was orchestrated by Grisha because of his mistress, who wanted to take part of the business that belonged to Margo.

With her help, her husband thought through and executed his dirty deeds. When Margo learned about this, she promised him revenge. And Artem helped her in this.

He often visited Margo and Grisha’s house. Her husband suspected nothing of any relationship between the two. He did not keep track of Margo’s condition in jail, so he didn’t know about Artem’s visits.

After the trial, he divorced Margo, and now he didn’t care about her fate.

“Let’s get out of here. I want to take a shower after these walls. I feel like I reek of this rotten prison smell.”

Margo wrinkled her nose. Artem laughed:

“What are you talking about? You smell better than any woman in the world.”

He kissed her on the forehead and loosened his arms, releasing her from his embrace.

Margo laughed, relishing the sound of her own laughter in the open air. Now fate was in her hands. She could laugh whenever she wanted. Not fearing the angry yells of the mean guard.

They took each other’s hands and walked to the car parked nearby. Margo dreamed of a hot shower and a cup of coffee. After a while, she already sat in a chair at Artem’s house.

Her hair was damp. She wrapped herself in a terry robe, holding a mug of coffee in her hands. She savored the first sip, then blissfully closed her eyes. When the coffee was drunk, she resolutely placed the cup on the coffee table and said:

“Now I want you to show me those documents. I need to make sure everything went as we dreamed.” Margo impatiently clenched her fists.

Artem looked at her intently. This woman had driven him crazy for a long time. He had kept his feelings inside for years. His sister worked at Margo and Grisha’s company, so he not only often visited their home but also stopped by at work.

He told everyone he wanted to see his sister. In reality, he needed Margo. He adored watching her in a business suit with documents in her hands.

She caused a tremor in him that no other woman could cause in his entire life. And now Margo was sitting in his chair, wearing his robe. Wasn’t this true happiness?

He took out several documents from a small safe in the closet, carefully brought them to Margo, and handed them to her. Margo took them with a smile. She knew this was the end for Grisha.

It felt so good to hold his fate in her hands. She smiled at Artem again:

“Tell me in more detail how it all happened. I couldn’t ask you about the details in prison. Please, tell me.”

She took his hand and pulled him to the floor beside her. Artem smiled and began to tell:

“My little sister couldn’t refuse me. She also believed that you had nothing to do with it.

So I promised her that we would not leave her when everything happened. She is our accomplice, and we will take care of her.

I gave her these documents, which she had to slip in for a signature. At that moment, when I was in Grisha’s office, he was telling me about another mistress.

His mood was splendid. At that moment, the sister walked in. She slipped him a stack of papers, which he was supposed to sign.

He felt relaxed after you went to jail, and he no longer followed the company’s affairs as closely.

That’s when he signed all these documents without even reading them.”

Margo blissfully closed her eyes. Yes, now he would pay for all his schemes. He would fully pay for what he did to her life. She would make sure it hurt him.

She opened her eyes and looked at Artem. Fate had sent her this man. She had known him for years but never suspected his feelings. Love for Grisha had blinded her. Then the pain after his betrayal. Only after she was put in jail could she remove the blindfold from her eyes. And then she saw something in Artem’s eyes that made her feel an incredible tremor.

He had helped her so much. He betrayed a friend for a loved one, who hadn’t even promised him anything. She leaned towards Artem and hugged his neck, then whispered softly:

“I love you and want to be with you. When I finish everything, will you marry an ex-convict? I have no right to ask you this, but I need to know. I want to find out right now.”

Artem cupped her face in his hands.

“I will never leave you. I’ve dreamed of this for years. And you’re asking me? But if you want to hear a proposal from me, here it is. Will you marry me?”

Margo laughed:

“Yes, yes, yes.”

They merged in kisses, and then what they both had been waiting for so long happened.

The next day, Margo approached the tall building where the main office of the company was located.

She was wearing high heels. She felt confident, holding a folder with copies of the documents in her hands. She was ready for the meeting with her ex-husband.

When she entered the office, dead silence reigned. No one stopped her when she opened the door to Grisha’s office. She confidently entered and closed the door behind her.

Grisha was sitting at the desk, talking to someone on the phone:

“Yes, of course, I’ll pick you up in the evening, baby, you can tell me everything, I’ll call you when…”

Grisha fell silent mid-sentence when he saw Margo in the middle of the office. He turned pale, then silently hung up the phone. His face was a mix of fear and wild anger:

“What are you doing here and why were you let in here without permission?”

Margo smiled, then approached the desk. She sat down, crossed one leg over the other, and placed the folder with the documents on her lap.

“Probably because I’m also the owner here. Or maybe because everyone knows that you are the main fraudster here, not me.”

Grisha clenched his fists, his anger growing by the second:

“You know what, I don’t care what others think, especially you. You’re no longer my wife, and you’re nobody here.

I don’t want you here. Since you’re out of jail, kindly go your way. And don’t cross my path again, or I’ll lock you up again.”

Margo sweetly smiled, but her eyes were icy.

“You’re foolishly throwing me out. I have a surprise for you that won’t please you at all. Well, that’s fine. I’m ready to endure your rage because it will be justified.

You locked me away while enjoying all your women. And now it’s my turn. Now you’ll taste what you made me endure.”

Margo slowly opened the folder with the documents, pulled out a few papers, and placed them on the table in front of Grisha:

“Please review these documents. I warn you, you can destroy them, these are copies.

The originals are with my lawyer, who will represent my interests in court. Whatever you do now, it will all turn against you in the future. So I’m telling you right away, touch me with a finger, and you’ll spend the rest of your life behind bars.”

Grisha frowned and took the documents in his hands. After examining them, he raised his eyebrows in astonishment.

“Is this some kind of joke?” Grisha stared at his ex-wife.

Margo leaned closer to the table and whispered:

“You taught me two years ago that there’s no room for jokes in this life. I’m a good student, right?” Several months later, Margo married Artem. Now she was the rightful owner of her company. She also took back her mansion from her ex-husband. And his expensive car passed to her.

Grisha was left with nothing. He disappeared from her life as if he had never existed. The court proved by all documents that he voluntarily wrote off all property and the company in favor of Margo.

This time, Margo won the victory and celebrated it already with her new husband, who helped her find herself again.

Andrey remembered that day with extraordinary clarity, as if it had happened just a few hours ago. The autumn wind, chilling to the bone, drove yellowed leaves across the asphalt, as if reminding of the approaching end of the year. In the pocket of his worn-out coat lay the last bun — the only food for the entire day, bought with the last savings he had been collecting for a whole week. He was rushing to his part-time job, knowing that being late could cost him his position, but suddenly his gaze caught a small figure on the roadside. It was a girl wrapped in an old, dirty scarf, almost blending into the autumn dusk. She sat right on the ground, leaning her back against the wall, and her huge, sad eyes looked at passersby with some hopeless hope. It seemed she was waiting for help that no one had given her for a long time.

Andrey couldn’t walk past. His feet slowed on their own, his heart clenched with pain, and overcoming his inner hesitation, he sat down next to her. From his pocket, he took out that very bun and handed it to her. The girl flinched with surprise, as if used to people just passing by without paying attention. But then she timidly took the treat with her small fingers, stiff from the cold. Her gaze met his, and in that brief moment, Andrey read gratitude, surprise, and even a childlike faith that the world could still be kind.

He smiled at her, a little embarrassed, and ran on, now clearly late for work. That meeting quickly faded among other thoughts, worries, and problems. At that time, Andrey could not have imagined that this incident would become one of the most important in his life.

Years passed, and Andrey’s life began to change. He met a wonderful girl, truly fell in love, and they decided to join their lives together. They had shared dreams: children, a home, stability, the warmth of a family hearth. They made plans for the future, confident that the faster they moved forward, the better tomorrow would be. However, fate decided otherwise. One day, their happiness was shattered by a terrible diagnosis — his beloved Maria was found by doctors to have an extremely rare disease requiring complex and expensive treatment abroad. For the young family, who were just starting out, it was a real tragedy.

Andrey worked tirelessly. He took extra jobs, borrowed money from friends and relatives, sold belongings to raise whatever funds he could. But the sum needed for treatment was colossal. Hope dwindled every day. He felt helpless, as if floating down a river without a life preserver. And when it seemed his strength was completely gone, and the light at the end of the tunnel began to fade, a letter arrived from a charity foundation. It stated that the treatment for his wife had been fully paid for by an unknown anonymous sponsor. Andrey was stunned, reread the letter several times, not believing his eyes. On one hand, he felt incredible gratitude; on the other, he was tormented by the question: who was this person who saved his wife?

He wrote a reply asking the foundation to reveal the benefactor’s name. However, he received a refusal, explained by the person’s wish to remain anonymous. Andrey respected this decision, but inside his soul kept asking the same question: “Who?”

And then, several months after the treatment began, when Maria was starting to recover, the phone rang. It was the foundation calling. They said the sponsor had agreed to a personal meeting. Andrey and Maria, filled with excitement, arrived at the given address. His heart was pounding, as if sensing something important. When the door opened, Andrey for the first time in many years was speechless. Before him stood a woman whose face seemed familiar. In her eyes, he suddenly recognized those same large, sad eyes that once looked at him from the street. She smiled and said:

“Hello, Andrey. Do you remember the girl with the bun?”

Time stopped. Andrey felt the invisible gears of memories click in his mind. Yes, it was her. The very same girl he had once fed, saved from hunger and despair. But now before him stood a grown, confident, beautiful, and successful woman.

“I never forgot that day, Andrey,” she said softly, looking him straight in the eyes. “That bun was the only food I had in many days. You gave me hope, you saved me not only from hunger but from despair. I grew up, got an education, found my purpose. Now I have the opportunity to help others. And when I learned about your misfortune, I could not act otherwise. It was my duty to life and to you.”

Tears welled up in Andrey’s eyes. He could not say a word, only hugged the woman who had become a true angel for his family. His wife Maria also cried, deeply moved. At that moment, they understood that kindness done from a pure heart sooner or later returns a hundredfold, sometimes even after decades. What seemed a simple human gesture turned out to be a seed that took strong root in the future.

The meeting ended with warm hugs, thanks, and promises not to lose touch. Andrey and Maria left home as different people. They would forever remember this lesson of kindness and mercy taught to them by the little girl with the bun. They realized that the humblest deeds can change a person’s fate, and that true goodness always finds its way back.

After the woman who had become a symbol of justice and gratitude left, Andrey sat by the window for a long time, lost in thought. Memories of his impoverished youth, endless struggle for every piece of bread, constant lack of money surfaced anew with sharpness. In difficult times, he often asked himself: is it worth sharing the last with a stranger? Now he knew the answer. This small act of kindness not only saved a child’s life but came back to him like a boomerang when he needed help the most.

Maria came up to her husband and took his hand.

“You have always been a kind person, Andrey. You just sometimes forgot it in the hustle of life. This meeting is a sign. We must help others just as we were helped.”

They made an important decision: to create a small fund to help needy families in their city. Their own experience of hunger, illness, and despair became a guiding star in their new endeavor. They wanted no child to endure what that little girl once had.

The fund started to work. At first, the aid was small: food, clothes, medicines. But over time the fund gained momentum. Andrey and Maria personally took part in all events, distributions, visits. They listened to people, learned their stories, tried to see in each not just a number on a list but a living person in need of support.

Andrey was especially tender toward children. In each of them, he saw that same girl with the bun, reminding him how important every act of kindness, every expression of humanity was. They learned not to judge people by appearance, position, or social status, but to see in every person a spark of God needing warmth and care.

Over time, their fund became known not only in the city but far beyond its borders. People from the entire region came for help, and others, inspired by Andrey and Maria’s example, became volunteers joining their team. What began as a small bun had turned into a real tree of goodness whose branches spread over the whole community.

Andrey and Maria’s lives were filled with new meaning. They no longer feared hardships because they knew: there is kindness in the world always ready to come to help. And they would forever remember the little girl who taught them the most important lesson in life: kindness is an investment in the future that always returns a hundredfold.

Nicholas Miller had dreamed of luxury his entire life. Born in a small provincial town, he knew from an early age that he wanted more. His childhood was spent in a cramped apartment with noisy neighbors and a constant shortage of food. On TV, he saw houses with ocean views, expensive cars, carefree people—and Nicholas was sure: all this was meant for him.

By the age of 25, he had perfected the art of seduction. He knew how to listen, keep a conversation going, say what people wanted to hear. And most importantly—instill trust. His plan was simple: find a wealthy woman and become part of her world. Not for love, but for a carefree life.

She appeared at one of the social events in Los Angeles. Victoria Hathaway—a woman over sixty, a widow, owner of one of California’s largest family fortunes. In her lavender dress, with silver hair and a gentle gaze, she looked like the living embodiment of calm and dignity.

Nicholas watched her from afar, holding a glass of champagne—a luxury he could afford only through connections. He noticed how young men tried to keep their distance from her—too big an age difference. But for Nicholas, it didn’t matter. He saw not just a woman—he saw the key to his dream.

“Nicholas Miller,” he introduced himself, approaching her with a charming smile. “You look exceptionally beautiful today, Victoria.”

She smiled—softly, a little cautiously.

From that day, the courtship began. He arranged romantic dinners, admired her charity work, told her how long he had been searching for such a smart, refined woman. Victoria, who had lived alone for many years, had forgotten what attention felt like. He managed to awaken in her a feeling of youth and desirability.

Six months later, Nicholas proposed. Everything was perfect: the garden, rose petals, a diamond ring bought on credit. He spoke of true love, of feelings that know no age. She hesitated—the twenty-five year age difference was noticeable. But his words were so convincing… and she wanted to believe.

Rumors of the engagement spread instantly through high society. “A young handsome man marrying an old millionaire? He’s just a parasite!” party guests whispered. Nicholas pretended not to care. In fact, he was even proud—after all, that was exactly why he had started all this.

The wedding preparations moved quickly. He personally chose the floral arrangements, music, and lighting. He was the perfect groom—attentive, caring, passionate. But inside, he awaited only one thing: the signing of the documents that would officially make him the heir.

And then the wedding day arrived. An open-air chapel, pure white fabrics, golden ribbons, flowers. Guests sat in their seats, snapping cameras. Victoria entered in a dress exposing her shoulders—strict but incredibly elegant. Nicholas stood at the altar, smiling and accepting congratulations, inwardly burning with impatience.

The exchange of vows. The sound of cameras. Touching words. The wedding ring on her finger. Victory was close. Only the ceremony’s completion remained—and he would become what he had always dreamed of.

But at that moment, his eyes accidentally slid over her left shoulder.

There, just below the collarbone, was a strange birthmark—in the shape of a crescent moon.

The smile froze on his face. His breath caught. His heart raced as if it wanted to burst out of his chest.

He had seen that mark before. Or rather, he knew about it. Once, in childhood, he overheard a conversation between his adoptive parents. They mentioned his biological mother—a woman who had left him in an orphanage. The only identifying feature they remembered was a birthmark shaped like a crescent moon on her left shoulder.

Nicholas hadn’t understood the meaning of those words then. He was too young. But the detail had stuck in his memory. And now—it was looking at him from the shoulder of his new wife.

He was about to marry a rich widow…but he saw the mark on her shoulder—and realized: he had married his own mother.

Nicholas stood at the altar, looking at Victoria. His heart pounded wildly. Not from excitement, not from love—but from horror.

That birthmark on her shoulder. A crescent moon. Exactly the same as he had heard about in childhood. Just like his biological mother’s.

Could it really be her?

He had never thought she could have escaped poverty, become a millionaire, changed her name, her appearance… But that mark—it was no coincidence. It was impossible.

Victoria noticed his confusion:

“Nicholas, dear, are you alright?”

Guests exchanged glances. Something was wrong.

Nicholas took a deep breath, forced a smile, and instead of a kiss, touched her cheek. The ceremony continued, but inside he had already fallen apart.

At the banquet, he felt nauseous. Thoughts swarmed like bees in a ruined hive. He recalled everything he knew about his past life. Adoption papers accidentally found in a drawer. A note about his biological mother: a young girl who gave the child to an orphanage. The only mark— a crescent-shaped birthmark on the left shoulder.

And now—she was standing before him in a wedding dress. And he had just become her husband.

When the guests were busy with the cake, Nicholas quietly called Victoria.

“We need to talk,” he said hoarsely.

She immediately understood—something had happened. They went into the next room.

“That birthmark…” he began. “Have you always had it?”

“Yes, since birth,” she answered, puzzled. “Why do you ask?”

Nicholas closed his eyes, gathering his thoughts.

“I was adopted. My foster parents said my real mother had the same mark. On her left shoulder. Exactly the same.”

Victoria’s face turned pale. Her hands trembled. She took a step back, covering her mouth with her palm.

“You mean… you…”

“I’m afraid you are my biological mother,” he said, and those words hit them both like a bullet.

Silence. Shock. Tears. Victoria sat on the edge of a chair, pressing a handkerchief to her eyes with trembling fingers.

“I was sixteen…” she whispered. “My parents took my son away. Gave him to an orphanage. I never saw him again… Didn’t even know his name.”

She looked at him. For the first time in many years, she saw in his face the features of the little boy she had lost.

“Oh my God… Is it really you?”

Nicholas sank into a chair. The luxurious hall, the flowers, the guests—it all became alien, oppressive, nauseating. He had come here for money. And ended up in a nightmare that no one could have predicted.

The door burst open. Guests peeked inside, worried about the delay.

“What’s happening?” they whispered.

Nicholas stood up. His voice trembled, but his resolve was ironclad:

“The wedding is canceled. We cannot be together.”

Victoria jumped up and ran out, unable to watch the scene. Her dress fluttered like the wings of a wounded bird. Guests were left bewildered.

The next day, the city buzzed with scandal. Some spoke of betrayal, others of a romance ending in treachery. But no one knew the truth.

A week later, Nicholas disappeared. Locked in a cheap motel, he didn’t leave or answer calls. Victoria, after going through the painful verification of documents, found confirmation. Her son had truly returned… and had become her husband.

With trembling hands, she rewrote her will. Removed his name.

And two months later, she received a letter. Without an address or date. Just one sentence:

“Forgive me…”

After that, Nicholas vanished without a trace.

Victoria devoted herself to charity. But every year, on their wedding anniversary, she came to the old watch factory—the place where her son was born and where their story began.

The story of their failed marriage became one of Los Angeles’s most terrible legends. An urban myth whispered about. A love story turned tragedy.

On a stormy day, when the wind was knocking on the windows of the large Stepanov mansion as if reminding of the impending loneliness, an event occurred that not only changed the course of life for the wealthy widow but literally saved her from a bleak and joyless future. After the death of her husband — the respected architect Evgeny Alexandrovich — Oksana was left alone in the huge house, where just recently there had been laughter, the hustle and bustle of children, noisy family dinners, and celebrations. This house was built as a symbol of love, family, and generational continuity. But life, as often happens, decided otherwise.

The children, who grew up within these walls, had long since settled abroad, moving there the business they had built for decades. The grandchildren were raised far from their grandparents, in a different culture, speaking a different language. Evgeny Alexandrovich took the separation painfully, for it was precisely for a large, friendly family that he had created this spacious house, filled with light and comfort. He could not imagine it empty, deprived of children’s laughter. Perhaps his heart foresaw trouble — the first attack came suddenly, like a blow of fate. Lying in the hospital, he took his beloved wife’s hand and whispered:

— If anything happens to me, promise me… Don’t sell the house. Keep it for the children. Let them know there is always a place to return to.

These were not just words but a testament that became the meaning of Oksana’s life after his passing. A year later, a second heart attack took Evgeny forever. And before the end, he repeated again: “Oksana… keep the house…” These words were forever imprinted in her heart.

The children and grandchildren came to the funeral, but their visit felt more like a formal duty than an expression of grief. The relatives looked at the overseas heirs coldly, even with reproach. They left their parents alone and now seemed to not understand the full depth of what Oksana felt. In the evening, the son and daughter tried to persuade their mother to move to Serbia with them, telling her about the country’s beauty, ease of life, and closeness. But she only gently but firmly replied:

— I gave your father my word. As long as I live, the house will remain here. This is all I have left of him.

Her son looked at his mother gratefully and said:

— Thank you, Mom. You are a true person.

And so she was left alone. The huge house, almost an echo of a former life, became too spacious for one woman. Oksana dismissed most of the staff, keeping only a maid and a security guard. Managing her husband’s company did not take much time — mornings began with a brief meeting with the deputy, reviewing mail and orders, and by lunchtime she was free. But she did not want to return home. She began to walk around the city, enter shops, cafes, killing time so as not to end up in empty rooms where every corner reminded her of her husband.

One day, walking down the street, she noticed a sign: “Room for rent to a respectable single woman.” Thoughts raced: “Why not? Am I not respectable? Am I not alone?” And she decided. Soon two female students moved into the house, taking the daughter’s room, which the owner had converted into a mini-hotel. The noise of youth warmed the house a little, reminding of times when the family was large and cheerful.

But the real change came with the arrival of Ali Jalalovich — a graduate student at the Military Medical Academy preparing for his doctorate. The young man worked in the cardiology department of the regional hospital, and all the women in the clinic were charmed by him. Handsome like an Arab prince, with eyes as dark as shadows, he was confident and knew what he wanted from life. Ali was looking for a woman with the appearance of a queen — mature, refined, experienced. And he found that woman in Oksana.

The owner of the large house, a successful businesswoman, a woman who had gone through life’s trials, seemed to him the perfect partner. He did not want the chaos of small children, diapers, and nighttime crying. Those stages were behind Oksana. In the house, Ali immediately felt comfortable: cleanliness, order, silence — all spoke of the good taste of the hostess. Only sometimes the loud laughter of the students disturbed his inner harmony.

Over time, Ali asked Oksana to free the house from the tenants, wanting to take not one but both rooms. She could not refuse — how could she resist that look full of strength and charm? “They sure know how to disarm with just a glance,” she thought, recalling Ali’s eyes, dark as Turkish coffee.

After the girls left, Ali gradually began to act like the master of the house. He paid not only for lodging in two rooms but also half of the utilities, generously shared with the maid and the security guard. Oksana didn’t even notice how their relationship began to change. She found herself in the role of his other half, although formally nothing had changed yet.

At first, she protested:

— Ali, I am 52, and you are not even forty. How will we go to the theater together? As what?

Ali only smiled:

— Of course, as a young admirer! What’s wrong with that? Who, if not a beautiful, well-groomed, intelligent woman, deserves the love of an interesting, educated, and wealthy man? Especially since I don’t need your money. If that were the case, you would have kicked me out long ago.

Such words gave Oksana confidence. She began to openly defend their relationship, especially when hearing hints or judgment from others:

— He is a self-sufficient person, and he spends more on me than I do on myself!

Indeed, soon Ali was promoted — he was appointed head of the cardiac surgery department. In honor of this event, he proposed a joint trip to his homeland. Oksana was a little worried: how would Ali’s parents receive her? But he reassured her, promising they would stay at a hotel.

On Friday evening, they flew out. Two days were not enough to take in all the beauty of the East, but even what Oksana saw was enough to understand — they know how to live truly luxuriously there. Much seemed excessive, ornate, even irrational, but she tried not to judge, to observe as if watching a fairy tale. She felt like a guest in a foreign world, where every movement, every object spoke of magnificence and wealth.

Returning home from the eastern journey, Oksana felt deep relief — not only because she endured the difficult flight and change of climate, but also because she remained on native soil. Despite the fact that children and grandchildren lived far away and sometimes her heart ached from loneliness, she understood: leaving her homeland meant betraying her husband’s memory, his testament, the very spirit of the house he built for the family.

— After all, it’s good I didn’t agree to leave my native country, — she said aloud, standing by the window and looking at the old garden where her own children once ran. — Here are my roots, here is my life, here is everything I love.

Of course, she missed the children and grandchildren. Each of their rare visits was like a holiday, filled with laughter, noise, and memories. But they quickly returned abroad, leaving only the warmth of hugs and the shadow of parting behind.

One day, walking home on foot — a useful habit Oksana had kept since searching for ways to fill her days after Evgeny Alexandrovich’s passing — she noticed children near her gate. There were two kids — a boy and a girl about nine years old. They sang Gypsy songs with amazing skill and deftly juggled colorful balls. Their movements were agile, and their voices were pure and ringing, like perfectly tuned musical instruments.

Oksana came closer and learned that they were brother and sister — Pasha and Zlata. At first glance, it was clear they were related but very different. The girl was more fragile, with big eyes and a worried look, while the boy looked more confident, almost defiant. She felt not just sympathy for them but a lively affection.

The woman took two 200-ruble bills from her wallet and handed one to each. The children beamed:

— Thank you, kind Aunt Oksana! — exclaimed the boy, and the girl added, — We will never forget you!

Then Oksana brought them a fresh orange, carefully sliced into wedges. The children took them cautiously, holding the peel as if it were a little treasure. They did not hurry to eat, savoring every moment, every bit of kindness given by the chance meeting.

“Brother and sister, but how different,” Oksana thought, watching them with warmth in her heart.

But fate does not always spare kind people. One late evening, someone persistently rang the mansion’s gate. The security guard, hearing the sound, went outside and saw there the lonely figure — the Gypsy girl, Zlata. He immediately began scolding her for disturbing and demanded she leave so as not to bother the “respectable people.”

The noise brought Oksana out. Seeing the frightened and crying face of the girl, she gently approached, took her hand, and led her inside:

— What happened, child? Why are you crying? Where is your brother?

Zlata covered her face with her hands and spoke through sobs:

— Today… no one gave us anything… we went into a store, wanted to take bread… I hid a loaf in my jacket, and Pasha took sausages and a can of stew… But the guard noticed us and ran after us. We ran across the road… and Pasha was hit by a truck! People ran up, everyone stood around him… I wanted to go closer but saw the same guard and ran away… And now I’m afraid to go home…

The girl sobbed again, barely standing. Oksana held her close like her own granddaughter and whispered:

— Don’t be afraid, little Zlata. Tonight you will stay with me. You will sleep in the maid’s room, and tomorrow I will take you home myself. Just tell me where you live?

— In a workers’ settlement, in a barrack. We live with a big family: with the older sister, her children, grandmother, and grandfather. The sister’s husband went to Moscow, and grandmother has been bedridden for a long time. The sister takes care of her.

Oksana immediately called the maid, asked to feed the girl something warm, then to wash and dress her. Meanwhile, she brought from the wardrobe her daughter’s clothes, which the daughter had long outgrown. They fit Zlata perfectly.

After the bath, the girl was dressed in soft pajamas and laid a place for her in a large folding armchair. But even in such a cozy corner, Zlata could not find peace — she kept sobbing in her sleep, crying out her brother’s name.

In the morning, Oksana took Zlata home herself. A police car was already standing near the barrack, people were gathering. Someone was shouting, someone was crying. Oksana got out of the car with the girl, supporting her by the hand. She greeted the police and answered several questions. At that moment, Zlata turned and waved happily:

— Thank you, Aunt Oksana! I will never forget you!

That day left a deep mark on the woman’s soul. All day she could not get out of her mind the image of the little dirty children surrounding the police car, Zlata’s exhausted sister, the endless grief on the faces of all these people. How much suffering in the world! How many families live on the edge, how many children grow up without protection and love…

And in the evening, an unpleasant surprise awaited her. Ali, returning from work, learned that a Gypsy girl had spent the night in the house and threw a real tantrum:

— Please, never bring such people into our house again! They may have lice, fleas, infections! Can you imagine how to get rid of that later?! If you love me, promise me there will be no more of them in our house!

Oksana was shocked not only by his arrogance and harshness — for he used to be so polite, even a bit sweet — but also by how he emphasized the words “our house.” At that moment, she realized what was really going on. Everything became clear: Ali was not just a young man she had accepted into her home. He had his eyes on the inheritance! On the house she had promised to keep for her children and grandchildren. How had she not guessed it before?

Hardly holding herself together, Oksana said calmly but with a note of warning:

— Ali, I don’t recognize you. You raise your voice because a poor child was in the house? I didn’t know you hated children so much.

Her husband suddenly softened, started talking about care, science, wanting to get a doctoral degree. But these words could not hide the truth. Especially when he said again: “our house.”

“No, dear, this house will never be yours,” Oksana thought and decided to put an end to this game:

— Of course, I want you to get your doctoral degree and then become a professor. Even an academician if you want! But this house was built by my late husband; I promised to keep it for our family — for the children and grandchildren. But not for a young admirer who, it seems, married me only for this estate!

And then her heart, weakened by recent events, could not stand it. Oksana’s eyes opened wide, she grabbed her chest and began to fall. Ali caught her and sat her in a chair, but she could not even sit, slowly sliding to the floor.

He shouted for the guard and maid, asking for help to carry Oksana to the car. At the hospital, Ali ordered her to be taken to the cardiac surgery department. The staff was already waiting for his instructions.

But at that moment, Ali suddenly hesitated. He stood in the doctors’ lounge, listening to questions: “When to start stenting?” — and could not answer. His thoughts were elsewhere: if Oksana survived, she would suspect him of every mortal sin. And if she became disabled, their life together would become a torment. Better to end it now.

Meanwhile, Oksana, who was given an IV drip, came to a little. She did not understand where she was or who brought her there. Suddenly she heard someone calling her name. Turning her head, she saw a small figure climbing through the window — Zlata. Within seconds, the girl was standing by the bed:

— Aunt Oksana, are you sick? My sister was feeding grandmother and suddenly shouted: “Run quickly to the hospital, Aunt Oksana is sick!” So I ran. I don’t know how I knew to climb the ladder. It was as if someone helped me.

Out of gratitude and joy, Oksana cried. But at that moment, the monitor showed a sharp deterioration in the patient’s condition — she lost consciousness again.

Zlata ran into the corridor and shouted:

— Auntie is dying! Auntie is dying!

The noise caught the doctors’ attention. They rushed out of the lounge and ran to the intensive care unit. One of the surgeons made a decision:

— Take her to the operating table! Looks like Ali Jalalovich is in a stupor — we act under my responsibility!

The operation was successful. Oksana’s heart beat evenly again, blood flow in the artery was restored. By the fifth day, doctors were preparing her for discharge.

Ali appeared at her bedside only once — during the student rounds. All the doctors praised her luck, called her fortunate because the timely operation saved her life. Someone mentioned that strange girl who literally woke the whole department and then disappeared.

Oksana smiled, recalling how Zlata climbed into the ward through the window.

On the day of discharge, a pleasant surprise awaited her — her children had come! As the maid told her, Zlata ran to them in terror, reporting that the hostess was taken to surgery and that the relatives needed to be urgently informed. The children immediately gathered and flew in as a family.

Oksana hugged her grandchildren, daughter with son-in-law, son with daughter-in-law. The house again echoed with familiar voices, laughter, footsteps — everything she had waited for so long. She was prescribed to rest at least 12 hours a day, so the children tried not to tire their mother with conversations. They bought her a comfortable chair with electric drive so she could freely move around the house and yard.

In the joyful bustle of the family, she completely forgot about Ali, as if he had never existed.

When he came to collect his things, he looked dim and frightened. Oksana took his hand, placed the wedding ring he had given her into it, and squeezed his fingers tightly:

— Good luck, doctor.

Ali left, giving up the house he dreamed of. And Evgeny Alexandrovich’s son, as his father had predicted, decided to return. He entrusted the company to his sister and brother-in-law, who preferred to stay in Serbia. And he decided to head his father’s architectural bureau — after all, he had the appropriate education.

Now Oksana could calmly regain her strength. No one judged her for helping Zlata’s family. Her daughter and son-in-law promised to visit more often.

Thus, under the roof of her native home, the big family gathered again — just as its creator, Evgeny Alexandrovich, once intended.

Madam, you don’t have a ticket. Please get off the bus,” the driver snapped, looking at the frail woman in the old coat who was barely clinging to the handrail to keep from falling.

The bus was nearly empty. Outside, wet snow was falling slowly, and gray twilight had enveloped the city. She said nothing, only tightened her grip on her worn-out shopping bag — the kind usually used for groceries.

“I said get off! This isn’t a nursing home!” the driver raised his voice.

The bus seemed to freeze. A few people averted their eyes, pretending not to notice. A girl by the window bit her lip nervously. A man in a dark coat frowned but stayed seated.

The elderly woman slowly moved toward the exit. Every step was a struggle. The doors flung open with a loud hiss, and an icy wind hit her face. She paused on the step, her gaze fixed on the driver.

And then she spoke — quietly, but firmly:

“I gave birth to people like you once. With love. And now I’m not even allowed to sit.”

Then she stepped down and walked away.

The bus remained standing with its doors open. The driver turned away, as if trying to hide from his own thoughts. Somewhere deep inside the bus, someone sobbed. The girl by the window wiped away tears. The man in the coat got up and headed for the door. One by one, the passengers began to leave the bus, leaving their tickets behind on the seats.

Within minutes, the bus was empty. Only the driver remained, sitting in silence, the unspoken “I’m sorry” burning inside him.

Meanwhile, the old woman walked slowly down the snowy road. Her silhouette faded into the twilight, but every step she took radiated dignity.

The next morning, the driver came to work as usual. Everything seemed the same: early hour, thermos of coffee, route list. But something inside him had changed forever.

He couldn’t shake the restlessness. He had barely slept, haunted by the memory of her eyes — not angry, not offended, just… tired. And the words that echoed in his mind: “I gave birth to people like you. With love.”

As he drove his route, he found himself carefully scanning the faces of the elderly at the stops. He wanted to find her, though he wasn’t sure why. To ask for forgiveness? To help? Or at least to admit he was ashamed.

A week passed.

One evening, as his shift was ending, he spotted a familiar figure at the stop near the old market — small, stooped. The same bag, the same coat.

He stopped the bus, threw open the doors, and stepped out.

“Grandma…” he said quietly. “I’m sorry. Back then… I was wrong.”

She lifted her eyes to him. And then… she smiled softly. No reproach. No anger.

“Life, sonny, teaches all of us something. The important thing is to listen. And you — you listened.”

He helped her onto the bus and seated her in the front. Along the way, he pulled out his thermos and offered her some tea. They rode in silence. But it was a different kind of silence — warm, gentle. It seemed to ease both their hearts.

From then on, he always carried a few extra tokens in his pocket — for those who couldn’t afford a ticket. Especially for grandmothers.

Every morning before starting his shift, he would recall her words. They became not just a reminder of his guilt, but a lesson — to be human.

Spring came suddenly. The snow melted quickly, and soon bouquets of snowdrops appeared at the bus stops — grandmothers selling them, three flowers wrapped in cellophane. He started recognizing their faces, greeting them, helping them onto the bus. Sometimes, he just smiled — and saw how much it meant to them.

But he never saw that particular grandmother again.

He searched for her every day. Asked around, described her. Someone said she might have lived near the cemetery, beyond the bridge. He even went there a few times on his day off — without his uniform, without the bus. Just walking. Searching.

And one day, he found it: a modest wooden cross with a photograph in an oval frame. Those same eyes.

He stood there for a long time, silent. The trees whispered above, the sunlight filtering through the branches.

The next morning, a small bouquet of snowdrops lay on the front seat of his bus. He had gathered them himself. Next to it, he placed a cardboard sign he had cut out by hand:

“For those who have been forgotten. But who never forgot us.”

Passengers read the sign silently. Some smiled. Some left a coin on the seat. And the driver simply continued on his way. Slower, more carefully. Sometimes he stopped a little earlier — so that a grandmother could catch up.

Because now he understood: Every grandmother is somebody’s mother. Every smile is someone’s thank you. And every “just a few words” — can change someone’s life.

Tatiana gave birth to a child 5 days ago. She had a planned cesarean section. The young woman was gradually recovering after the birth. Her daughter Eva was a long-awaited first child. Tatiana and Sasha had been married for 7 years, and during those years Tatiana had three early miscarriages. When the couple lost hope of becoming parents and resigned themselves to it, Tatiana unexpectedly became pregnant. She was three months pregnant when one night she dreamed of her deceased mother. In the dream, Tatiana was sitting at a playground, admiring children playing in the sandbox. Suddenly, her mother sat down next to her and, gently stroking Tatiana’s head, said in a soft, soothing voice:

— Soon Eva will be born and will illuminate your life with the light of love and hope.

Tatiana woke up thinking that she would have a daughter who should be named Eva. She could not imagine any other name for her firstborn. Her husband agreed, saying that since the child’s last name and patronymic would be his, his wife could name their child herself.

After the birth, Tatiana was in a serious condition, so she asked her husband to handle the paperwork for the newborn daughter. Taking all the necessary documents, he went to the registry office to register the birth of their daughter. Tatiana had no idea what kind of “surprise” awaited her.

Alexander came home accompanied by his mother, with whom Tatiana had always had tense relations. Tatiana was still recovering from surgery and did not want to see her mother-in-law at home, but suppressing irritation and anger, she greeted Olga Viktorovna warmly. When Tatiana saw the birth certificate of her daughter, her heart almost stopped. The most important document of the child stated that her name was Ada, not Eva. Tatiana’s legs gave way and her hands trembled feverishly at what she saw.

The woman instantly went pale. She had to double-check several times because she refused to believe what was happening. But the certificate clearly showed the name “Ada.” It took Tatiana some time to come to her senses and ask her husband the main question:

— Ada? What is this supposed to mean? What have you done? What kind of Ada?

— Son, bring your wife a glass of water, or she’ll faint right now. Let her calm down. Nothing special happened, — Olga Viktorovna said calmly, irritably looking at her pale daughter-in-law.

Alexander obediently rushed out of the room and returned a minute later with a glass of cold water. Tatiana’s eyes filled with tears. It was hard for her to speak and breathe. She was in shock.

— So, this is your doing? — the young woman shouted, still not believing what was happening — You made Sasha change the name of our daughter? How dare you? Who do you think you are to do this? I gave birth to Eva, not you. Only I can name her! Do you even understand what you have done?

— Don’t dramatize. I only preserved our old family tradition. I’ve told you many times that we name girls after grandmothers and great-grandmothers. I explained this to my son, and he agreed with me. My grandmother’s name was Ada. She was a dignified woman, lived an honorable and honest life, had a good and bright fate. You should be happy that your daughter was named after such a worthy person as my grandmother. I am sure Ada will grow up as strong and brave as she was, and that her fate will be just as good!

— My daughter has her own fate, and don’t involve a deceased old woman who died many years ago. What you did is simply monstrous! Who gave you the right? I sent my husband to the registry office, not you! Why can’t he do anything without your permission? Why do you interfere in our family affairs? Remember once and for all: This is Eva, not Ada. I will go to the registry office right now and fix this. I won’t leave it like this.

Tatiana had to go to the registry office with her newborn daughter, whom she refused to leave with her husband and mother-in-law. She was extremely angry at her husband, who once again obediently obeyed the orders of his selfish and self-absorbed mother. At the guardianship and custody authorities, where Tatiana was directed, she explained everything and stated that her daughter’s name needed to be corrected. It turned out that consent from both parents was required.

Tatiana returned home in a depressed state. At home, her husband was waiting with a guilty face. He tried to hug his wife, but she roughly pushed him away and said disappointedly and hurt:

— To change our daughter’s name, we need the consent of both parents. I swear I won’t spend another day with you if you refuse. Our girl is not Ada. She is Eva. The fact that you indulge your mother in everything is detrimental to our family and relationship. You should think about who is your priority. My aunt’s name was Ada. She used to tell with tears in her eyes how she was bullied all her life at school and they said, “Ada came from hell.” But that’s not the point. The point is that I won’t allow your mother to make such decisions and interfere in our family life, influence our child’s fate in this way. I’ve been nervous all day because of you and your mother. Because of you, I may have problems with breastfeeding.

— Forgive me, Tanya. I was stupid, — Alexander said regretfully, hugging his wife. — I shouldn’t have let my mother manipulate and pressure me. Mom said if I didn’t name the daughter Ada, she would disinherit me. We will fix everything, don’t worry. Tomorrow we’ll go to the guardianship authorities together and write a statement, everything will be done properly.

Tatiana got her way. Her daughter’s name was successfully changed. Olga Viktorovna never saw her granddaughter again. Tatiana did not allow her mother-in-law to participate in raising the girl. Tatiana divorced her husband a year later. She realized that Sasha would never change and would never stop being a mama’s boy. She needed a reliable protector beside her, a man who would be a support in any situation, not a spoiled son who would dance to his mother’s tune all his life.