All Amazing Babies

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

“Why didn’t you quit?”

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

For the first time, he truly looked at her.

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

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

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

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

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

She hadn’t conquered three wild children.

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I want to undress you right now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you all right?”

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

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

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

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

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

She hesitated, then went.

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

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

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

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

“Do you want a divorce?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then lunch? Together?”

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

He miscalculated.

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

His study.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Irina started recording her screen.

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

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

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

Rodion grimaced.

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

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

Rodion waved a hand.

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

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

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

“Baked fish,” Irina said evenly.

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

She turned slowly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Arkady Nikolaevich looked at Irina.

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

Rodion smirked smugly.

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

That was the last straw. A public humiliation.

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

Rodion froze.

“Irisha, what are you saying?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The video ended.

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

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

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

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

 

“I understand. If you need anything…”

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

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

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

Epilogue. Two years later.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you, Viktor. Excellent work.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Elena quickly snatched the envelope from the table.

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

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

When their daughter left, Elena sank into a chair.

— Where’s Andrei?

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

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

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

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

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

Elena felt the ground slide out from under her.

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

Nikolai was silent for a moment, then sighed heavily.

— Viktor.

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

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

Elena felt her hands go cold.

— What exactly?

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

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

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

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

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

A heavy silence settled over the room.

— What now? — Elena asked at last.

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

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

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

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

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

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

— But the results…

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

Nikolai pulled a crumpled business card from his pocket.

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

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

— And what are you going to do now?

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

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

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

— And do you believe her?

Nikolai raised his eyes to his brother.

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

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

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

The director, a plump woman in glasses, nodded.

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

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

Leaving the lab, Elena called her friend Marina.

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

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

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

Elena flinched and closed the laptop.

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

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

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

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

Vera froze, eyes wide.

— What? But how… why?

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

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

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

Vera jerked her hands away.

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

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

— What are you talking about?

Elena opened her notebook.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Irina slowly turned back.

— So what?

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

Irina let out a bitter little laugh.

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

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

Irina came over to the table and sat down.

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

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

Irina looked at her intently.

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

— Only that Nikolai isn’t the father.

— And where was that test done?

— At “GenLab.”

Irina pondered for a moment.

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

Elena and Marina exchanged glances.

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

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

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

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

Nikolai sat down.

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

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

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

— Here, look.

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

— Who… is this? — Nikolai asked.

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

Nikolai took the photograph with trembling hands.

— But… that’s Andrei! How?

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

— But the test…

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

— That proves nothing, Grandma.

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

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

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

The director shook her head.

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

— Which ones exactly?

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

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

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

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

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

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

— Kolya? What are you…

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

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

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

Nikolai released him, and Viktor slid down the wall.

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

Viktor turned pale.

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

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

Viktor covered his face with his hands.

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

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

— So you decided to destroy mine out of envy?

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

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

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

Nikolai nodded.

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

— And his niece?

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

— And the second test? At MedTest?

Nikolai shook his head.

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

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

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

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

Elena turned pale, and Nikolai clenched his fists.

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

— What does that mean? — Nikolai asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Andrei, who was devouring his pizza, looked up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Elena leaned into her husband.

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

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

— And no envelopes with test results?

— No envelopes, — Nikolai confirmed, kissing her.

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Elena quickly snatched the envelope from the table.

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

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

When their daughter left, Elena sank into a chair.

— Where’s Andrei?

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

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

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

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

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

Elena felt the ground slide out from under her.

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

Nikolai was silent for a moment, then sighed heavily.

— Viktor.

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

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

Elena felt her hands go cold.

— What exactly?

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

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

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

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

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

A heavy silence settled over the room.

— What now? — Elena asked at last.

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

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

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

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

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

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

— But the results…

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

Nikolai pulled a crumpled business card from his pocket.

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

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

— And what are you going to do now?

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

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

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

— And do you believe her?

Nikolai raised his eyes to his brother.

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

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

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

The director, a plump woman in glasses, nodded.

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

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

Leaving the lab, Elena called her friend Marina.

 

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

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

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

Elena flinched and closed the laptop.

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

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

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

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

Vera froze, eyes wide.

— What? But how… why?

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

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

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

Vera jerked her hands away.

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

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

— What are you talking about?

Elena opened her notebook.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Irina slowly turned back.

— So what?

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

Irina let out a bitter little laugh.

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

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

Irina came over to the table and sat down.

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

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

Irina looked at her intently.

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

— Only that Nikolai isn’t the father.

— And where was that test done?

— At “GenLab.”

Irina pondered for a moment.

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

Elena and Marina exchanged glances.

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

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

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

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

Nikolai sat down.

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

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

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

— Here, look.

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

— Who… is this? — Nikolai asked.

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

Nikolai took the photograph with trembling hands.

— But… that’s Andrei! How?

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

— But the test…

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

— That proves nothing, Grandma.

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

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

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

The director shook her head.

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

— Which ones exactly?

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

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

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

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

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

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

— Kolya? What are you…

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

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

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

Nikolai released him, and Viktor slid down the wall.

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

Viktor turned pale.

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

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

Viktor covered his face with his hands.

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

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

— So you decided to destroy mine out of envy?

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

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

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

Nikolai nodded.

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

— And his niece?

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

— And the second test? At MedTest?

Nikolai shook his head.

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

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

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

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

Elena turned pale, and Nikolai clenched his fists.

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

— What does that mean? — Nikolai asked.

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Andrei, who was devouring his pizza, looked up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Elena leaned into her husband.

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

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

— And no envelopes with test results?

— No envelopes, — Nikolai confirmed, kissing her.

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

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Marina stopped on the kitchen threshold and felt the unspoken words catch in her throat. Her hand tightened around her phone—still warm from the director’s message about her bonus. Three voice notes from Lena, her friend with whom she had almost bought tickets for a two-week vacation in Turkey.

“What?” was all she managed to say.

Her mother didn’t even turn away from the stove, where she was stirring her signature borscht. Laughter floated in from the living room—Anya, the younger sister, was watching yet another reality show.

“You heard me. Anya and that… what’s his name…” Her mother winced, trying to recall, “Kirill decided to rent an apartment. The landlady wants six months up front. Where is she supposed to get that kind of money? Your bonus is exactly what’s needed.”

It wasn’t a question, but a statement. As it always was in their house.

Marina took off her coat and carefully hung it on the hook in the entryway. Her movements were unhurried, deliberate—that was how she always handled inner tension. Twenty-eight years of practice keeping her emotions in check around her mother.

“Mom, I was going to use that money,” she began cautiously. “Lena and I were planning—”
“Oh, Lena again,” her mother waved a hand, checking the pies in the oven. “She’s always dragging you somewhere. You’re almost thirty, and you’re still gallivanting around the seas with your girlfriend. You’d do better to think about starting a family.”

Anya drifted into the kitchen—a twenty-three-year-old copy of their mother, only younger and with a tattoo on her wrist. She went to the fridge, took out a yogurt, and leaned against the doorframe, watching her sister with a slight smirk.

“Marinka, why the long face? You got a bonus, right? That’s awesome,” she scooped up a spoonful of yogurt. “Kirill found such a great place yesterday, can you imagine? Two rooms, windows facing the courtyard, and the landlady’s a decent woman. She just says—either six months up front, or look elsewhere.”

Marina looked at her sister. Unlike Marina herself—with her dark hair pulled into a strict bun and perpetually tired eyes—Anya glowed. Light curls, dimples in her cheeks, a serene gaze. Mommy’s princess, as their dad used to say before he left three years ago for the bookkeeper in his office.

“Anya, why can’t Kirill pay for this apartment himself?” Marina asked, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. “He’s already twenty-six. His parents could give him money.”

Anya rolled her eyes.

“You know they’re having business problems right now. Temporary difficulties. And he’ll pay it all back later. Besides, we’re a couple, we’re supposed to help each other.”

“Supposed to. Each other,” Marina stressed the last words. “Not ask your sister to hand over the money she set aside.”

“Oh, come on, Marinka,” Anya came closer and put a hand on her sister’s shoulder. “You’ll have plenty of time to go to your precious sea. But we really need this apartment now. You get that, right? Kirill and I want to live together, to test our relationship.”

Their mother snorted loudly without looking up from the cooking.

“They’re going to ‘test’ it… You’d do better to get married properly.”

“Mom, everyone lives like that first these days,” Anya drawled. “Right, Marina?”

Marina stayed silent. For four years she had worked at an international company, for the last year as a senior analyst. Every day she got up at six, came home at nine in the evening. She often spent weekends with her laptop. Her last real vacation had been two years ago.

And Anya… After college, Anya had changed jobs three times, never staying anywhere longer than three months. Now she was “finding herself,” while taking an online nail-design course on the side. Kirill was also “finding himself,” promising to start a business, then become a trader, then get into web design.

“Marina,” her mother’s voice grew harder. “Don’t be selfish. Your sister needs help. This is family, do you understand? Family.”

Marina felt something crack inside. Selfish? She, who handed over half her salary every month for household expenses, while Anya spent her odd earnings on new dresses and outings with Kirill?

“I was going to take a vacation, Mom,” she said quietly. “Just for two weeks. I’ve been saving all year for this trip.”

“Vacation!” her mother threw up her hands. “What vacation when your sister is getting her life in order? You only think about yourself. It’s always been that way.”

Anya stepped up to Marina and looked into her eyes with that signature pleading gaze.

“Marinka, please. I’ll pay it all back. Later. When I find a proper job.”

“When will you find it, that job?” Marina couldn’t hold back. “You’ve been about to for three years already.”

“Not everyone’s a careerist like you,” her mother chimed in, clattering a pot lid. “Anya still needs to start a family. Have children.”

“And I’m not supposed to start one or have children, is that it?” burst out of Marina.

Her mother looked at her with a strange expression—a mix of pity and irritation.

“And when would you have time, with that job of yours? Always tired, always busy. Men don’t like women like that. But Anya—she’s homey, warm.”

Marina pressed her lips together. Meanwhile, Anya casually took her sister’s phone and started scrolling through photos of Turkish hotels.

 

“Wow, you were going for five stars?” she whistled. “Yeah, not cheap. But you know, you could go for three stars. Or just go to Sochi. There’s a sea there too.”

Marina took the phone back.

“I wanted a good hotel,” she said. “Once every two years I can afford that.”

“Of course you can,” her mother nodded. “But right now it’s more important to help your sister. You can rest later.”

Later. The eternal “later.”

“Anya,” Marina looked at her sister. “Why can’t you find a place that takes monthly payments?”

“Because those end up more expensive!” Anya exclaimed. “And this one has the metro nearby and shops. And the landlady doesn’t mind that Kirill has a dog. You know how he loves his Charlie.”

Charlie. A German Spitz, whom Kirill walked three times a day—the only thing he did regularly.

“How much do you need?” Marina asked, already knowing she had lost.

Anya beamed.

“Two hundred fifty thousand. But that’s for six months! Can you imagine? That’s under fifty a month. A great deal.”

Marina froze. Two hundred fifty. Almost all of her bonus.

“Anya, I…”

“Marina,” her mother turned her whole body toward her. “You won’t refuse your sister. You’re not that kind of person. I didn’t raise you to be that way.”

At that moment the doorbell rang. Anya jumped.

“That’s Kirill! I told him to come for dinner. Mom, set the table. Marinka, are you joining us?”

Marina slowly shook her head.

“No, I… I’ll go to my room. I’m tired.”

In her room, Marina sat on the bed, staring at a single spot. Five new messages from Lena lit up her phone.

“So? Did you get the bonus? Are we buying swimsuits tomorrow?)))” “Marinka, you alive over there?” “I found another great hotel, but we need to book today, rooms are running out” “Hellooo?” “Why so quiet? Everything okay?”

From the kitchen came Anya’s laughter, Kirill’s booming comments, and the approving clink of her mother’s spoon against a plate.

“Len, I won’t be able to go,” Marina typed.

“WHAT? WHY???”

Marina sighed. How to explain? How to explain this never-ending pattern she kept falling into again and again?

“Family circumstances.”

“Your sister again, isn’t it? Marina, when are you going to stop supporting all of them?”

Marina didn’t answer. Suddenly the little room where she’d lived since her teens felt stifling. The same wallpaper, the same squeaky wardrobe, the same photos on the wall. Only the computer had changed—she used it for work when she lacked the strength to stay late at the office.

She left the room and slipped quietly to the front door. Threw on her coat.

“Where are you going?” her mother’s voice rang out from the kitchen.

“For a walk. I’ve got a headache.”

“Don’t be late. And don’t forget about the money for Anya tomorrow.”

Without waiting for a reply, her mother went back to dinner.

Marina walked through the neighborhood in the evening, not noticing the passersby. Her phone buzzed in her pocket—Lena wouldn’t give up. She opened the messages.

“Marina, I’m serious. I get that it’s complicated over there, but you can’t sacrifice yourself forever.” “You told me you wanted to rent your own place this year. What’s stopping you?” “Marina, answer me.”

Marina stopped at the parapet along the embankment. In the distance, the windows of the high-rises glowed—homes of strangers with their own troubles and joys. Since childhood she had watched those windows, imagining another life.

She typed to Lena: “I’m flying with you.”

“What??? Really??? What about the ‘family circumstances’?”

“Let them sort out their circumstances themselves.”

Marina drew a deep breath of the cold evening air. Inside, there was a strange emptiness, but also relief—as if a heavy backpack had been lifted from her shoulders.

“Are you sure? You won’t change your mind by tomorrow?” Lena couldn’t believe it.

“I’m sure. I’ll book the tickets tonight.”

And she did—right there on the embankment, with fingers trembling from the cold and from nerves, she paid for two tickets to Antalya.

Marina came home late. The apartment was quiet; only soft music drifted from Anya’s room. Her mother was apparently already asleep.

In the morning, getting ready for work, she ran into her mother in the kitchen.

“Transfer the money to your sister’s card,” her mother said without looking at her. “She’s going to review the contract today and make the down payment.”

“What money?” Marina asked, pouring herself coffee.

Her mother frowned.

“What do you mean, what money? Your bonus. I got a notification that funds were deposited into the account. Transfer them to Anya right away so you don’t forget.”

Marina froze with the cup in her hand.

“You… what?”

“Don’t look at me like that,” her mother waved her off. “We have a joint account. For family expenses.”

 

A joint account. Long ago, Marina had given her mother an additional card to her bank account so she could withdraw money or buy groceries when Marina worked late. She had never imagined her deposits would be monitored so closely.

“Mom, that money… I’ve already spent it,” Marina said slowly.

“What do you mean?” her mother finally looked at her.

“I bought tickets. To the sea. With Lena.”

A heavy silence fell over the kitchen.

“What have you done?” her mother asked quietly, in a frightening tone. “You knew your sister needed that money. I told you clearly yesterday.”

“And I clearly answered that I was planning a vacation,” Marina’s voice sounded unfamiliar to herself—firm, without the usual apologetic notes.

“Cancel your tickets,” her mother ordered. “Immediately. Anya already arranged things with the landlady; she’s signing the contract today.”

“I’m not canceling anything.”

Her mother stared at her as if seeing her for the first time.

“What’s happening to you? You’ve always been a good daughter, responsible. Now you’re acting like… like a selfish person.”

“No, Mom,” Marina set the cup on the table. “I’ve always been the convenient daughter. The one who works, pays, and doesn’t complain. And Anya… Anya gets to live as she pleases because there’s me and you to catch her when she falls.”

Sleepy-eyed Anya appeared in the kitchen doorway in unicorn pajamas.

“What’s going on? Why are you yelling so early?”

“Your sister decided her vacation is more important than your apartment,” their mother said. “She spent all her bonus on some trip with that Lena of hers.”

Anya stared at Marina in genuine surprise.

“Really? But… what about Kirill and me? We already started packing.”

“Anya,” Marina looked at her sister. “You’re twenty-three. You have hands and a head. Get a job. Earn money for your own apartment.”

“Easy for you to say!” Anya cried. “You’ve always been so… proper. And I can’t sit in an office from nine to six, okay? I’m different!”

“But you can sit on my neck, right?” Marina felt a wave rising inside her that she had held back for years. “You’re different, you’re special, everyone owes you—me, Mom, and Kirill with his parents. When are you going to start giving something to the world instead of only taking?”

“Enough!” her mother shouted. “How dare you talk to your sister like that?”

“How do you dare,” Marina turned to her, “to manage my money without asking? My life? My time?”

Her mother paled.

“I raised you both alone. I did everything for you. And now…”

“Now you do everything for Anya,” Marina finished. “And me? I’m just the ATM on standby.”

“Get out,” her mother suddenly said. “If that’s what you think of your family, get out of this house.”

Marina looked at the two women before her—so alike in appearance, with the same expression of wounded dignity on their faces. They truly didn’t understand.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll go. Right after my vacation.”

Two weeks in Turkey flew by in a flash. Sun, sea, excursions, evening walks along the promenade. She and Lena took photos against the backdrop of sailboats, tried local cuisine, danced at beach parties. For the first time in many years, Marina felt alive, real.

She turned on her phone only in the evenings. Dozens of missed calls from Anya, several messages from her mother—ranging from threats to attempts at shaming. Marina didn’t respond.

On the last evening before the flight home, she sat on the balcony with a glass of wine, watching the sun sink into the sea.

“What are you thinking about?” Lena asked, settling in beside her.

“About how I’ve got nowhere to return to.”

“What do you mean, nowhere? The apartment? Your job?”

“The job, yes. But the apartment… Mom told me to leave. And you know, I’m glad. It’s about time.”

Lena put a hand on her shoulder.

“You can stay with me until you find a place. I’ve got a pull-out couch.”

Marina smiled.

“Thanks. But I think I’ve already found one.”

She pulled out her phone and showed Lena a photo of a small studio with floor-to-ceiling windows.

“I saw the listing before we left. Messaged the landlady. I can move in when we get back.”

“Wow!” Lena examined the photos. “Cute little place. And on your own! Finally!”

“Yeah,” Marina nodded. “On my own. Without Mom’s reproaches and Anya’s constant requests.”

“And what about them? Your family?”

Marina shrugged.

“I don’t know. Let them learn to live within their means. Let Anya finally grow up. As for me… I’m going to have my own life now.”

She took a sip of wine, looking at the darkening horizon. The future was unknown, but for the first time in a long while, it didn’t scare her—it inspired her.

A month later, Marina sat in her new apartment, unpacking the last boxes. The laptop screen glowed on the table—she was finishing a presentation for a new project at work.

Her phone buzzed. “Mom” lit up on the screen.

She looked at the word for a few seconds and then, with a sigh, answered.

“Yes?”

“Marina,” her mother’s voice sounded unusually quiet. “How are you?”

“Fine. Getting settled little by little.”

A pause. Marina could hear her mother breathing on the other end.

“Anya moved out of the landlady’s,” her mother finally said. “She and Kirill had a fight. She came back home.”

Marina stayed silent. She waited for the follow-up she already knew by heart.

“She needs money,” her mother said. “The landlady didn’t return the down payment.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Marina replied calmly.

 

Silence again.

“Could you… could you help? Just a little. She needs to pay for courses. She found a job, but there’s training to complete.”

“No, Mom,” Marina looked out the window at the evening city. “I’m not going to help anymore. Not you, not Anya. Not because I don’t love you. But because by helping the way I used to, I only make things worse for you.”

“But we’re family,” there was genuine confusion in her mother’s voice.

“Yes, family. And in a healthy family, everyone is responsible for themselves. I learned that far too late, but I learned it.”

Her mother sniffled on the other end of the line.

“You’ve changed, Marina. You’ve become hard.”

“No, Mom. I’ve finally become myself.”

After the call, Marina stood by the window for a long time, gazing at the city lights. Her phone buzzed again. This time it was Anya.

Marina turned off the phone and went back to her presentation. Rumor at the office had it a promotion was coming. And she’d already picked out a lovely spring tour of the south.

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My Husband and His Parents Demanded a DNA Test for Our Son — I Agreed, But What I Asked in Return Changed Everything

I never thought the man I loved—the father of my child—would ever look me straight in the eye and doubt that our son was his. Yet, there I was, sitting on our beige couch, cradling our tiny boy while my husband and his parents threw accusations like daggers.

It all began with a look. When my mother-in-law, Patricia, first saw Ethan in the hospital, she frowned. Whispering to my husband, Mark, while I was supposedly asleep, she said, “He doesn’t look like a Collins.” I pretended not to hear, but her words cut deeper than the stitches from my C-section.

 

At first, Mark dismissed it. We laughed about how babies change so much, how Ethan had my nose and Mark’s chin. But that seed of doubt had been planted, and Patricia watered it with suspicion every chance she got.

“You know, Mark had blue eyes as a baby,” she’d say pointedly, holding Ethan up to the light. “Isn’t it odd that Ethan’s are so dark?”

One evening, when Ethan was three months old, Mark came home late from work. I was on the couch feeding the baby, my hair unwashed, exhaustion weighing on me like a heavy coat. He didn’t even kiss me hello. He just stood there, arms crossed.

“We need to talk,” he said.

I already knew what was coming.

“Mom and Dad think… it’s best if we do a DNA test. To clear the air.”

“To clear the air?” I echoed, my voice hoarse with disbelief. “You think I cheated on you?”

Mark shifted uneasily. “No, Emma. Not at all. But they’re worried. I just want to settle this—for everyone.”

My heart dropped. For everyone. Not for me. Not for Ethan. For them.

“Fine,” I said after a long pause, holding back tears. “You want a test? You’ll get one. But I want something in return.”

Mark frowned. “What do you mean?”

“If I agree to this insult, then you agree to let me handle things my way if the results come back the way I know they will. And you promise, right now, in front of your parents, that anyone who still doubts me after this will be cut off.”

Mark hesitated. Behind him, Patricia stiffened, arms crossed, eyes icy.

“And if I refuse?”

I met his eyes, feeling Ethan’s gentle breaths against my chest. “Then you can all leave. Don’t come back.”

The silence was thick. Patricia opened her mouth to argue, but Mark silenced her with a glance. He knew I wasn’t bluffing. He knew I never cheated. Ethan was his son—his mirror image if only he looked past his mother’s poison.

“Fine,” Mark said finally, running his hand through his hair. “We’ll do the test. And if it proves what you say, that’s it. No more accusations.”

Patricia looked like she’d swallowed a lemon. “This is ridiculous,” she hissed. “If you have nothing to hide—”

“Oh, I have nothing to hide,” I snapped. “But you do—your hatred, your constant meddling. It ends once the test is done. Or you’ll never see your son or grandson again.”

Mark winced but didn’t argue.

Two days later, the test was done. A nurse swabbed Ethan’s tiny mouth while he whimpered in my arms. Mark did his, his face grim. That night I held Ethan close, rocking him softly, whispering apologies he couldn’t understand.

I barely slept. Mark dozed on the couch. I couldn’t bear having him in our bed while he doubted me—and our baby.

When the results came, Mark read them first. He sank to his knees before me, paper trembling in hand. “Emma… I’m so sorry. I never should have—”

“Don’t apologize to me,” I said coldly, picking Ethan up from his crib and sitting him on my lap. “Apologize to your son. And to yourself. Because you lost something you can never get back.”

But my battle wasn’t over. The test was only the beginning.

Mark knelt there, still clutching the proof of what he should have always known. His eyes were red, but I felt nothing—no warmth, no pity. Just cold emptiness where trust once lived.

Behind him, Patricia and my father-in-law, Gerald, stood frozen. Patricia’s lips were so tight they were white. She didn’t dare meet my gaze. Good.

“You promised,” I said calmly, rocking Ethan, who gurgled happily, unaware of the family storm. “You said that if the test cleared the air, you’d cut out anyone still doubting me.”

Mark swallowed hard. “Emma, please. She’s my mother. She was just worried—”

“Worried?” I laughed sharply, making Ethan flinch. I kissed his soft hair. “She poisoned you against your own wife and son. Called me a liar and a cheat—all because she can’t stand not controlling your life.”

Patricia stepped forward, her voice trembling with righteous venom. “Emma, don’t be dramatic. We did what any family would. We had to be sure—”

“No,” I interrupted. “Normal families trust each other. Normal husbands don’t make their wives prove their children are theirs. You wanted proof? You got it. Now you’ll get something else.”

Mark looked at me, confused. “Emma, what do you mean?”

I took a deep breath, feeling Ethan’s heartbeat against my chest. “I want all of you gone. Now.”

Patricia gasped. Gerald sputtered. Mark’s eyes widened. “What? Emma, you can’t—this is our house—”

“No,” I said firmly. “This is Ethan’s house. Mine and his. And you three broke it. You doubted us, humiliated me. You will not raise my son in a home where his mother is called a liar.”

Mark stood, anger rising as guilt vanished. “Emma, be reasonable—”

“I was reasonable,” I snapped. “When I agreed to that disgusting test. When I bit my tongue as your mother made digs about my hair, my cooking, my family. I was reasonable letting her into our lives at all.”

I stood, holding Ethan tighter. “But I’m done being reasonable. You want to stay here? Fine. But your parents leave. Today. Or you all leave.”

 

Patricia’s voice shrilled. “Mark! Are you really letting her do this? Your own mother—”

Mark looked at me, then at Ethan, then at the floor. For the first time in years, he looked like a lost boy in his own home. He turned to Patricia and Gerald. “Mom. Dad. Maybe you should go.”

The silence cracked Patricia’s perfect mask. Her face twisted with fury and disbelief. Gerald placed a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off.

“This is your wife’s doing,” she hissed at Mark. “Don’t expect forgiveness.”

She turned to me, eyes sharp as knives. “You’ll regret this. You think you won, but you’ll regret it when he comes crawling back.”

I smiled. “Goodbye, Patricia.”

In minutes, Gerald grabbed their coats, mumbling apologies Mark couldn’t answer. Patricia left without looking back. When the door shut, the house felt bigger, emptier—but lighter.

Mark sat on the couch’s edge, staring at his hands. He looked up at me, voice barely a whisper. “Emma… I’m sorry. I should’ve stood up for you—for us.”

I nodded. “Yes. You should’ve.”

He reached for my hand. I let him take it for a moment—just a moment—then pulled away. “Mark, I don’t know if I can forgive you. This broke my trust in them and in you.”

Tears filled his eyes. “Tell me what to do. I’ll do anything.”

I looked down at Ethan, who yawned and curled his tiny fingers around my sweater. “Start by earning it back. Be the father he deserves. Be the husband I deserve—if you want that chance. And if you ever let them near me or Ethan again without my permission, you won’t see us again. Understand?”

Mark nodded, shoulders slumping. “I understand.”

In the following weeks, things changed. Patricia called, begged, threatened—I didn’t answer. Mark didn’t either. He came home early every night, took Ethan for walks so I could rest, cooked dinner. He looked at our son like seeing him for the first time—because maybe, in a way, he was.

Rebuilding trust isn’t easy. Some nights I lie awake wondering if I’ll ever see Mark the same way. But every morning, when I see him feeding Ethan breakfast, making him laugh, I think maybe—just maybe—we’ll be okay.

We’re not perfect. But we’re ours. And that’s enough.

Irina was sitting at her desk when someone knocked on the office door. Oleg peeked inside, looking at the familiar space with a somehow new gaze.

“May I come in?” he asked, though he had already stepped over the threshold.

She nodded without taking her eyes off the screen. The house had been inherited from her aunt Lida five years ago. Spacious, bright, with three rooms. Irina had turned one of them into the perfect workspace — here, order and silence reigned.

“Listen,” her husband began, sitting on the edge of the sofa, “my parents are complaining again about the city hustle.”

Irina finally turned to him. Over ten years of marriage, she had learned to recognize his intonations. There was some uncertainty in his voice now.

“Mom says she sleeps badly because of the noise,” Oleg continued. “And Dad keeps saying he’s tired of all this running around. Plus, the rent keeps going up.”

“I see,” she replied shortly, returning to her work.

But the talks about his parents didn’t stop. Every evening Oleg found a new reason to mention their problems. Sometimes it was the pressure that spikes due to city air, sometimes noisy neighbors upstairs, sometimes the staircase in the building was too steep.

 

“They dream of quiet, you know?” he said once at dinner. “Of peace, of a real home.”

Irina chewed slowly, pondering. Oleg had never been talkative. Such attention to his parents’ troubles seemed strange.

“So what do you suggest?” she asked cautiously.

“Nothing special,” he shrugged. “Just thinking about them.”

A week later, Irina noticed her husband coming into her office more often than usual. At first, under the pretext of looking for documents, then just because. He would stop by the wall, as if measuring something with his eyes.

“Nice room,” he remarked one evening. “Bright, spacious.”

Irina looked up from her papers. There was something new in his tone. Something like an evaluation.

“Yes, I like working here,” she answered.

“You know,” said Oleg, approaching the window, “maybe you should think about moving your workspace to the bedroom? You can set up a workspace there too.”

Something tightened inside her. Irina put down her pen and looked carefully at her husband.

“Why should I move? It’s comfortable here.”

“Well, I don’t know,” he mumbled. “Just thought about it.”

But thoughts of moving would not leave her alone. Irina began to notice how Oleg scanned the office, mentally rearranging the furniture. How he lingered at the doorframe, as if already seeing something different here.

“Listen,” he said a few days later, “isn’t it time to free up your office? Just in case.”

The question sounded as if it were a given decision. Irina flinched.

“Why should I free up the room?” she asked more sharply than she intended.

“Just thinking,” Oleg hesitated. “I thought we could have a room to put guests.”

But she already understood. All these talks about his parents, all these casual remarks about the office — parts of one plan. A plan in which her opinion was somehow not taken into account.

“Oleg,” she said slowly, “tell me straight. What’s going on?”

He turned away to the window, avoiding her gaze. Silence stretched on. Irina realized — something had already been decided. Without her.

“Oleg,” she repeated firmly, “what’s going on?”

Her husband slowly turned, his face frozen in embarrassment. But a flicker of resolve flashed in his eyes.

“Well, my parents are really tired of the city bustle,” he began cautiously. “They need peace, you know?”

Irina got up from the desk. Anxiety grew inside her, one she had tried to ignore for weeks.

“And what do you suggest?” she asked, though she already guessed.

“We’re one family,” Oleg said, as if that explained everything. “We have an extra room.”

Extra. Her office, her refuge, her space — an extra room. Irina clenched her fists.

“This is not an extra room,” she said slowly. “This is my office.”

“Yes, but you can work in the bedroom,” shrugged her husband. “And my parents have nowhere else to go.”

The phrase sounded rehearsed. Irina understood — this conversation was not the first. Just not with her.

“Oleg, this is my house,” she said sharply. “And I never agreed to your parents moving in.”

“But you don’t mind, do you?” he countered, a note of irritation in his voice. “We’re family, right?”

Again that excuse. Family. As if belonging to a family automatically deprived her of a voice. Irina stepped toward the window, trying to calm down.

“And what if I mind?” she asked without turning around.

“Don’t be selfish,” Oleg threw. “It’s about elderly people.”

Selfish. For not wanting to give up her workspace. For thinking such decisions should be discussed. Irina turned to her husband.

“Selfish?” she repeated. “For wanting my opinion to be considered?”

“Come on,” Oleg waved his hand. “It’s a family duty. We can’t abandon them.”

Family duty. Another pretty phrase meant to shut her up. But Irina was no longer going to stay silent.

“And what about my duty to myself?” she asked.

“Stop dramatizing,” her husband waved off. “It’s not a big deal, just move the computer to another room.”

Not a big deal. Her many years of hard work creating the perfect workspace — not a big deal. Irina suddenly saw her husband as if for the first time.

“When did you manage to decide everything?” she asked quietly.

“I didn’t decide anything,” Oleg began to justify himself. “Just thinking about options.”

“You’re lying,” she said. “You’ve already discussed it with your parents, haven’t you?”

The silence was more eloquent than any words. Irina sat down in her chair, trying to process what was happening.

“So, you consulted with everyone except me,” she stated.

“Stop it,” Oleg exploded. “What difference does it make who talked to whom?”

What difference. Her opinion, her consent, her home — what difference. Irina realized her husband was acting like the owner, ignoring her ownership rights.

The next morning Oleg came into the kitchen looking like a man who had made a final decision. Irina sat at the table with a cup of coffee, waiting for the continuation of yesterday’s conversation.

“Listen,” he began without preamble, “my parents have finally decided to move.”

Irina looked up. There was no room for discussion in his tone.

“Clear out a room in the house, now my parents will live there,” he added, as if giving an order.

For Irina, this was a moment of revelation. They hadn’t even consulted her. Her husband didn’t just not ask — he excluded her from the decision.

The cup trembled in her hands. Inside, everything turned over as she realized the scale of betrayal. Oleg stood waiting for her reaction as if giving orders to servants.

“Are you serious?” she said slowly. “You just took it upon yourself to decide for me? I clearly said yesterday I’m against it!”

“Calm down,” her husband waved off. “It’s logical. Where else can they live?”

Irina put the cup on the table and stood up. Her hands trembled slightly from accumulated anger.

“Oleg, you betrayed me,” she said directly. “You put your parents’ interests above our marriage.”

“Don’t dramatize,” he muttered. “It’s family.”

“And what am I, a stranger?” Irina’s voice sharpened. “You violated my boundaries and ignored my voice in my own home!”

Oleg turned away, clearly not expecting such a reaction. All these years she had obediently agreed to his decisions. But now something had broken.

“You treat me like the help,” Irina continued. “You decided I should endure and be silent.”

“Stop hysterics,” her husband snapped irritated. “Nothing serious is happening.”

Nothing serious. Her opinion ignored, her space taken away — and that’s nothing serious. Irina stepped closer to her husband.

“I refuse to give up my room,” she stated firmly. “And even more so to let your parents into the house when nobody invited them.”

“How dare you?” Oleg exploded. “They are my parents!”

“And this is my house!” Irina shouted back. “And I’m not going to live with a man who sees me as a nobody!”

Her husband stepped back, seeing her truly enraged for the first time in many years. In her eyes burned a resolve he had never noticed.

 

“You don’t understand,” he began confusedly. “My parents are counting on us.”

“And you don’t understand me,” Irina cut in. “Ten years and you still don’t get that I’m not a toy in your hands.”

She walked across the kitchen, gathering her thoughts. Words that had been building up for years finally burst out.

“You know what, Oleg?” she said, turning to him. “Get out of my house.”

“What?” her husband was taken aback. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m no longer willing to live with a man who doesn’t consider me,” Irina said slowly and clearly.

Oleg opened his mouth but found no words. He clearly didn’t expect such a turn.

“This is our house,” he mumbled.

“Legally, the house belongs to me,” Irina reminded him coldly. “And I have every right to kick you out.”

Her husband stood as if not believing what he heard. In shock, he realized he had crossed some invisible line.

“Ira, let’s talk calmly,” he tried. “We can come to an agreement.”

“Too late,” she cut in. “The agreement should have been made before you decided.”

Oleg tried to object but saw such stubbornness in her eyes that the words stuck in his throat. Irina was no longer the compliant wife who had made concessions for years.

“Pack your things,” she said calmly.

A week later, Irina sat in her office enjoying the silence. The house seemed bigger without the presence of strangers. The order she so valued was finally restored.

She felt no regret. Inside settled a sense that what happened was right. For the first time in many years, she defended her boundaries and self-respect.

The phone rang. It was Oleg’s number. Irina declined the call and returned to work. Love and family are impossible without respect. And no debts to relatives give anyone the right to trample on the person next to them.

She understood that. Finally.