All Amazing Babies

Jingling keys in the lock, Margarita opened the apartment door. Voices came from the kitchen, and the familiar smell of borscht filled the hallway. Her heart started beating faster, and her teeth clenched involuntarily. Again. Viktoria Pavlovna had appeared in her home without warning.

“Olezhka, what kind of pilaf is she making you? That’s not food, it’s a mockery!” the sharp voice of the mother-in-law rang out from the kitchen. “I brought some homemade chicken. From Aunt Zina’s dacha, not that store-bought chemical stuff.”

 

Margarita slowly took off her coat and carefully hung it on a hook. Trying not to creak the floorboards, she sneaked to the kitchen doorway. Oleg sat at the table with an expression of complete bliss on his face while Viktoria Pavlovna was bustling about the stove as if she were at home.

“Mom, why are you doing this? Rita said she would make dinner,” Oleg said with his mouth full, taking another spoonful of soup.

“What does she know how to cook?” Viktoria Pavlovna snorted, continuing to chop vegetables. “I saw how she makes cutlets. Are those even cutlets? More like some kind of meatballs!”

Margarita clenched her fists so tightly that her nails dug into her palms. Unable to hold back any longer, she entered the kitchen.

Trying to sound neutral, Margarita said:

“Good evening. I didn’t know we had guests.”

Viktoria Pavlovna startled and turned around. Displeasure flashed across her face, quickly replaced by a fake smile.

“Rita, dear! I just decided to feed you proper food. Olezhka comes home hungry from work, and you have no time,” the mother-in-law’s voice dripped with sweet poison.

Oleg got up from the table, kissed his wife on the cheek, and, rubbing his stomach contentedly, said:

“Mom made borscht. Want some?”

“Thank you, I’m not hungry,” Margarita stepped away from her husband. “We agreed that I would cook dinner today.”

“Well, mom already did everything,” Oleg shrugged. “Why stress yourself now?”

Viktoria Pavlovna smiled triumphantly and turned back to the stove.

“Oleg, can I have a minute?” Margarita nodded toward the living room.

In the living room, Margarita closed the door firmly and sharply turned to her husband.

“How long is this going to continue?” she asked, crossing her arms. “Your mother comes uninvited, bosses around in my kitchen, and I’m tired of it!”

“What’s so terrible about it?” Oleg spread his hands in confusion. “Mom cares about us. She brought groceries, made dinner. Others would be happy!”

“It humiliates me,” Margarita pressed her fingers to her temples. “She acts like I can’t do anything. She constantly criticizes. And you don’t even notice!”

“You’re exaggerating,” Oleg waved his hand. “Mom’s just used to taking care of us. She’s doing it for my good.”

“And who am I in this apartment?” Margarita’s voice trembled. “Let me remind you, this is my grandmother’s apartment! And your mother behaves like she owns the place!”

“Don’t start,” Oleg rolled his eyes. “I’m tired from work; I want to eat in peace. Can’t we just be glad someone cares about us?”

At that moment, the door opened without knocking, and Viktoria Pavlovna appeared in the doorway with a towel in her hands.

“Kids, what are you whispering about here?” Her tone was overly cheerful. “Rita, don’t just stand there like a statue, come eat. Olezhka, I made you compote, your favorite.”

Oleg lit up and, throwing a warning glance at his wife, headed back to the kitchen.

“Thanks, mom, you’re the best!”

Margarita was left standing alone, watching the departing pair—her husband and his mother. Sunday lunches, washed shirts, new clothes—all were just the visible layer of their strange relationship. Beneath it lay Oleg’s complete dependence on his mother’s care.

“Rita!” the mother-in-law’s voice reached her. “I noticed you ran out of salt! I’ll bring some more tomorrow, and sunflower oil too. The kind you buy is all chemicals!”

Margarita clenched her teeth. At thirty-five, her husband was still a mama’s boy, and she, without realizing it, found herself in a strange triangle where she clearly did not belong.

A week later, Margarita was slowly returning home. It had been a hard day at work. She just wanted to rest and think about nothing.

 

Approaching her house, Margarita noticed a brand-new black BMW proudly shining in the sun in the middle of the yard. Oleg stood near the car, childishly excited, waving his arms as if explaining something to an invisible companion. Viktoria Pavlovna circled her son like a hen around her most precious chick. Margarita stopped for a moment, watching the scene from the side.

“Rita!” Oleg, noticing his wife, rushed to meet her. “Look what mom gave! Can you imagine?!”

Viktoria Pavlovna beamed, smiling with all her teeth, and even from afar, it was clear how triumphant she was.

“Gave it as a gift?” Margarita looked confused, shifting her gaze from her husband to her mother-in-law. “Where did your mom get money for such a car?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Oleg waved dismissively, tugging on Margarita’s sleeve impatiently. “Come on, I’ll show you everything. Leather interior, navigation, climate control…”

Viktoria Pavlovna approached, staring straight into her daughter-in-law’s eyes.

“Nothing is too much for my son’s happiness,” the mother-in-law said, emphasizing each word. “That’s what true love means.”

Margarita’s eyes narrowed.

“You’re retired,” she said quietly. “Where do you get millions for a car?”

“That’s my business,” Viktoria Pavlovna cut in. “The main thing is my boy is happy. Not like with you—always saving on everything.”

Oleg, engrossed in exploring his new toy, didn’t hear the conversation. He was tuning the radio, trying to figure out the touchscreen.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Margarita insisted.

“Don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong,” Viktoria Pavlovna snapped, but then noticing her son turned around, softened her tone: “Olezhka, are you happy? I’m so glad to see your happy smile!”

At home, Margarita decided to clarify the situation.

“Oleg, we need to talk,” she said when her husband, finally satisfied with the new car, returned to the apartment. “Where did your mother get such money?”

“I don’t know,” Oleg shrugged, opening the fridge. “Maybe she saved up. What difference does it make?”

“A big one,” Margarita stood in front of her husband, crossing her arms. “Your mom worked as a librarian. She has a modest pension. Such a car costs a fortune.”

“Rita, you always find something to complain about!” Oleg slammed the fridge door. “Mom gave me a gift. Just be happy for me!”

“I’m worried,” Margarita lowered her voice. “What if she sold her apartment?”

“Nonsense,” Oleg waved it off. “Mom would have told me.”

“But…”

“Enough,” Oleg raised his hand to stop her. “I’m going for a drive. I want to get used to the new car.”

He grabbed the keys and left, leaving Margarita alone with her thoughts.

A month later, when the excitement over the new car had faded a little, Margarita came home earlier than usual. It had been a tough day—two classes of exams and a parent meeting. She dreamed of a hot bath and silence. Opening the door, Margarita stopped dead.

In the hallway stood three huge suitcases. On one of them sat Viktoria Pavlovna, flipping through a glossy magazine.

“What’s going on?” Margarita breathed out, not believing her eyes.

“Oh, there you are! I was waiting,” Viktoria Pavlovna put down the magazine.

Sweat covered Margarita’s forehead.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I sold the apartment,” Viktoria Pavlovna announced proudly. “Had to buy something for Oleg’s car.”

Margarita leaned against the wall to keep from falling. Her worst nightmare was becoming reality.

“You sold the apartment for the car?” Margarita barely managed to say the words. “And you didn’t even discuss it with your son?”

“Why discuss?” Viktoria Pavlovna stood up, brushing off her skirt. “I’m an adult; I decide for myself. Oleg always dreamed of such a car. You’d never buy it for him.”

“And where do you plan to live?” Margarita already knew the answer but asked anyway.

“Here, of course,” Viktoria Pavlovna pointed to the suitcases. “Oleg and I already talked it over. He said there’s enough room for all of us.”

Rage rose inside Margarita, eclipsing all other feelings.

“You spent all the money on your son, and now you want to live in my apartment?” Margarita’s voice sounded unexpectedly firm.

“Oh, don’t start,” Viktoria Pavlovna grimaced. “I’m Oleg’s mother, and I have the right to live with my son.”

“But this is my apartment,” Margarita straightened up. “My grandmother’s. Not yours or Oleg’s.”

Viktoria Pavlovna sang confidently:

“We’re family! Where my son is, I have the right to be.”

At that moment, the front door opened. Oleg entered, whistling a cheerful tune.

“Mom already told you?”

 

Margarita cut him off:

“Yes. And we need to talk. Right now.”

In the bedroom, Margarita closed the door, then turned to her husband.

“You invited your mother to live with us without discussing it with me?”

Each word was hard for her to say.

Oleg was genuinely surprised.

“What’s there to discuss? Mom sold her apartment; she has nowhere to go.”

Margarita hissed:

“She sold her apartment to buy you a car we can’t afford. And you think that’s normal?”

Oleg stubbornly replied:

“That’s her decision. And why do you always treat my mom like that?”

Margarita exclaimed:

“Oleg, your mother controls every aspect of your life! She decides what you wear, what you eat, and now she wants to take over our home!”

Oleg’s face flushed.

“Don’t say that! I know you’ve never liked her. But mom did for me what you couldn’t. She cares for me!”

“And who am I? A neighbor?” Margarita’s eyes sparkled. “I’m your wife, not a competitor for your mother. But you don’t seem to understand that!”

The bedroom door swung open, and Viktoria Pavlovna appeared in the doorway with a face twisted in anger.

“I heard everything!” she shouted. “You’re turning your son against his own mother! Ungrateful!”

“Mom, calm down,” Oleg tried to intervene.

“No, son,” Viktoria Pavlovna theatrically pressed her hand to her heart. “I gave everything for your happiness. And she… she wants to destroy our family!”

“Margarita, apologize to mom,” Oleg demanded, hugging his mother by the shoulders.

“Apologize?” Margarita couldn’t believe her ears. “For what? For not wanting your mother to live in my apartment? For thinking it’s abnormal to be a mama’s boy at thirty-five?”

“That’s enough,” Oleg clenched his fists. “Either you accept my mom, or…”

“Or what?” Margarita crossed her arms.

“Or we go our separate ways,” Oleg finished.

Margarita smirked unpleasantly.

“Good thing you said it! Get out of my apartment!”

A week later, Margarita filed for divorce.

Six months later, sitting in her renovated apartment, Margarita watched the setting sun. She had rearranged the furniture, changed the curtains, and finally hung the paintings Oleg had called “girly decorations.” Now it was completely her home—bright, cozy, filled only with the things and people she had chosen.

The phone rang, making Margarita jump.

“Hi,” a friend’s voice sounded cheerful. “How are you? Don’t you miss it?”

“No,” Margarita smiled, looking at her favorite books neatly arranged on the shelves. “I’m finally breathing freely.”

“Have you not heard?” Her voice trembled, as if something inside it was cracking.

“What exactly?” I asked, already holding the handle of the front door with one hand. The bag with medicines almost slipped from my fingers.

Lidiya Pavlovna, 84 years old, a widow with eyes full of lived years and unspoken sorrows, stood in the middle of the hallway. Her gaze was fixed past me—into emptiness, as if someone was standing there, beyond the threshold.

 

“He laughed again…” she whispered.

“Who?” I asked, though I already felt goosebumps running down my skin.

“My Vitya,” her voice became barely audible. “He had that kind of laugh. Mischievous. As if he wanted to scare me. He used to do that as a child. Even before he died…”

I froze. A dense, almost tangible silence hung in the room. Vitya had died three years ago. A car accident. Lidiya Pavlovna had told me how she kissed his cold hand in the morgue, how she begged him not to leave.

Carefully, I let go of the door handle and stepped back into the apartment. I turned on the light in the hallway. It smelled of incense and homemade jam—blackcurrant jam she used to make every autumn. But now that smell seemed different. Foreign. Cold.

“Lidiya Pavlovna, it’s probably just memories. Voices we sometimes hear inside our heads.”

“No, my girl, you don’t understand,” she looked straight at me, and there was no madness in her eyes. Only fear and exhaustion. “He called me. Every night. And today… today I saw him. In the bathroom doorway. He was smiling. Exactly the same as on the day of the funeral… only his eyes… were glowing like embers.”

I have worked as a home therapist for a long time. I’ve seen everything. But that evening and everything that followed changed me. I don’t know how to explain it—something inside broke and reassembled itself, completely different than before.

I stayed. I persuaded her to lie down. I went into the room—neat, warm, filled with framed photos. Above the old bench near the ceiling hung a plush teddy bear. Unexpected for this apartment.

“That’s what he hung up,” came the woman’s voice behind me. “I didn’t touch it.”

“Who?”

“Vitya.”

A chill ran down my spine.

I decided to inspect the apartment. Slowly, carefully. With each minute it became clearer: the air here was different. As if time didn’t move forward, but twisted into a loop, returning to the days when he still lived in this house.

 

I went into the bathroom. On the mirror were clear fingerprints. Long, male. And above them, as if scratching the glass from inside, was one word:

“MAMA”

I spent the night with her. I couldn’t leave—couldn’t leave her alone. We sat in the dark, listening to the ticking of the old clock. And at some moment, I heard it.

Laughter.

Not creaking floorboards, not the wind in the pipes. Laughter. Sharp, unnatural—somewhere between a child and an adult man. Creepy. Familiar.

“He came,” whispered Lidiya Pavlovna. “Tonight he will take me.”

I grabbed her hand.

“No. I’m here. I won’t allow it.”

She only nodded—quietly, submissively. And then I saw.

In the kitchen, at the table, someone was sitting. There was a silhouette, but no face—as if it was floating in water. From beneath the hair, eyes were visible. Burning. Familiar.

In the morning, Lidiya Pavlovna lay with her eyes closed. She no longer breathed. On her face—a slight smile, as if she had finally found peace. Next to her on the pillow—a photograph: a young woman, a young man about twenty years old, and a plush teddy bear. The caption on the back: “Vitya. Our boy. 1983.”

I ran out of the apartment. A neighbor stopped me at the entrance.

“Are you from Lidiya Pavlovna’s?” he asked.

“Yes. What happened to her?”

“Poor woman. She kept talking about her son… But you know, she never really had a son.”

“What do you mean?”

“She made him up. All these years. No husband, no child. It was all in her head. Even those photos, they say she bought at a flea market.”

I didn’t answer. Because at that very moment I felt something unusual in my bag—a weight that hadn’t been there before. I unzipped it and looked inside. Among the medical reference books and notes lay a plush teddy bear. Exactly like the one in Lidiya Pavlovna’s photo. Only now it had a button, which wasn’t there yesterday.

It smelled of incense and blackcurrant jam.

A month passed.

I returned to that neighborhood only once. Walking past the old building, stopping at the entrance, but I never dared to climb to the third floor. Everything seemed frozen in time. Even the air was dense, now dull like a wall behind which there was nothing.

Colleagues asked what was wrong with me. I kept silent. Told no one. Because no one would believe. Sometimes I myself began to doubt: did it really happen? Or had I started to see what wasn’t there?

But one day, while sorting through things after another trip, I found it again—the bear. Though I convinced myself I had given it to an orphanage. Even signed a paper. But it lay in my bag. With a new button sewn on by a thread I didn’t have at home.

I picked it up and noticed a note on its neck:

“You saved her. Now someone will protect you too.”

Since then, I started noticing strange little things. In all sorts of homes—where loneliness reigned, where patients’ eyes silently begged simply to be near—signs appeared. A cup of tea, already poured. A blanket neatly draped over shoulders. A faint scent of blackcurrant in the corner of a room.

Sometimes it seemed to me that Lidiya Pavlovna was still somewhere nearby. But not as a ghost of fear or grief—rather as a bright memory. Like a shadow warming from within. And maybe her Vitya now walks beside me. Quietly, wordlessly. To help those who can no longer wait.

Once I came to a new patient—Zinaida Petrovna. A stooped woman, covered by time like snow. We spoke little, but she looked at me strangely—with hope and fear in one glance.

At farewell, she suddenly squeezed my hand.

“Girl,” she said, “do you know there’s a boy standing behind you?”

I froze.

“He’s smiling. Standing right behind your shoulder… And holding a teddy bear.”

I wasn’t afraid. I just smiled. Because for the first time I understood: it’s not scary. It’s not even strange.

It’s love that didn’t die.

It’s gratitude that can be passed on.

It’s the reason to stay. Even one day longer.

Months passed. Patients, homes, stories—all flowed like a river. But the more time went on, the more often I felt: I am not alone. Wherever I was, wherever loneliness breathed, wherever human contact was needed—someone was nearby. Silently. Warmly. Invisible to others.

Once I was called to a rural house. Wooden, old, with a faded carpet on the wall and a forgotten garden outside the window. The owner—Varvara Nikitichna, almost a hundred years old—lived completely alone. No relatives, no neighbors, no voices.

She was silent for a long time. Only looking out the window and whispering:

“I once loved. Now only dust and photographs remain.”

I stayed overnight. The cold in such houses in winter is special—it penetrates inside, to the bones. People here live slowly, as if their hearts beat with effort, not to stop.

At night, I heard her crying. Quietly, like a child. I approached. She was sitting on the bed, holding a yellowed letter.

“From him. 1944. ‘Wait for me, I will return.’ But he never came back. Only the morning wind whispers his name to me.”

I sat beside her, hugged her. We stayed like that for a long time. Then she fell asleep on my shoulder.

And in the morning, she was gone. On her face—a smile. Light, like the first snow. I knew—he had come.

But something else happened.

Before leaving, I noticed an unfamiliar box in the corner of the room. It definitely hadn’t been there before. I approached and opened it. Inside—a plush teddy bear. Not the one that belonged to Lidiya Pavlovna. This one was worn, all patched up, handmade. On one paw was embroidered the name:

“Nadezhda”

 

Beneath it lay dozens of letters. Different envelopes, different cities, different women. And each had the same conclusion:

“I’m near. Just wait. — V.”

Then I understood.

It was him. All this time. He was looking for those who needed to hear: you matter. You are loved. You are not alone.

Years passed. I no longer work as a therapist. I just go from house to house. To hearts that want to be heard. I listen, speak, stay silent, hold hands. And leave gifts. Bears. Letters. Sometimes just notes. Things that help someone feel: they are important.

Because I know one truth—miracles aren’t about healing the body. Miracles are about hearing the soul. Even if that soul hasn’t been heard for a long time.

And if one day you find a letter you never had before, in a drawer you never opened…

If a cup of hot tea suddenly appears on the table—as if someone was waiting for you…

If warmth suddenly fills a cold room, and the scent of blackcurrant flickers in the air…

— It’s him. Or her. Or the one you once supported—with your faith, care, or just a kind word.

And one day you will understand:

Your love did not disappear. It stayed alive.

Which means—you stayed too. Forever.

Friends, if this story touched something inside you—please subscribe to the channel, like, and write in the comments what you felt.

For me, it’s more than a story. It’s a journey we walk together.

And if you are here—it means we are no longer alone.

For Nina Petrovna, her son’s wedding was supposed to be one of the brightest days of her life. But just hours before the celebration began, she heard words that seemed to tear everything apart inside her:

— Who is she anyway? A homeless woman… The mother of my bride… What a disgrace.

These words were spoken by her future son-in-law — loudly, without any shame, in front of some of the guests. Without a shred of respect.

Nina stood in the corner of the banquet hall, wearing an old but neat coat, and on her head — a white little hat that she didn’t take off even in summer. Her hair hadn’t grown back after chemotherapy. She looked fragile but not broken. Although life had dealt her a lot of pain: once she was a literature teacher, then a wife, a mother… and then she was left alone — with illness, loneliness, and a tiny pension barely enough to get by.

But she didn’t complain. Because the main thing — her daughter was happy. Today, she stood in a white dress, shining with joy.

And those words… “homeless woman”…

Like a blow. Harsh, merciless.

She remained silent. Until that very moment when the bride’s friend handed her the microphone and her daughter, smiling warmly, said:

— Mom, say something.

And Nina spoke. Quietly, but confidently.

— I am not rich. Neither by birth nor by fate. I had only one treasure — my girl. I couldn’t buy her fashionable dresses, but I was always there when she was scared. I couldn’t pay for studying abroad, but I sat by her room at night when she was hurting — either in body or soul.

 

The hall fell silent. Even the music stopped.

— Today I heard someone call me a homeless woman. You know, it doesn’t hurt. Because I know who I am. I am a mother. A woman who has been through a lot to raise a person. I raised the one who today stands in a wedding dress. The one who glows with kindness. And if all I have is an old hat, gray hair, and a bit of truth — then I have the most important thing. That which many do not have.

She paused. Tension hung in the room. Then someone was the first to applaud. Then the applause grew into a wave through the hall. Tears ran down the cheeks of the guests. The toastmaster looked away, hiding the shine in his eyes. And the son-in-law — that very man — slowly lowered his head.

He came up to her. For the first time all evening. Carefully took her hand.

— Forgive me… Mom.

And at that moment it became clear: sometimes one honest word is enough to change everything. Even if the heart is long tired and lonely.

Nina felt his palm — warm, a little trembling. He didn’t apologize with words. He just didn’t let go of her hand. Not out of pity. Out of love. For his wife, for the family, for the woman who became like a mother to him.

— Thank you, son, — she whispered, and those two simple words became the beginning of a new path. From bitterness — to reconciliation. From loneliness — to acceptance.

Then there were dances, laughter, hugs. But now — Nina no longer stood aside. She was invited to the center of attention. To the main table. In front of her they placed a cake — small but special, with the inscription: “To the most beloved mother.”

And a week later he came to her himself. Without unnecessary words. He brought a bag from the pharmacy.

— This is what you didn’t buy for yourself before, because you saved money for her. Now — take it. For yourself.

He spoke little. But did more than words could say.

Since then, they began to meet more often. Sometimes together, sometimes separately. The daughter called every day, told news, asked for recipes. And one day he brought a wooden box — handmade by himself.

— This is for your letters. You are a literature teacher, after all. Surely you write beautifully. Tell us about your life.

Nina looked at the box for a long time. Then she sat down and wrote a letter. Not to him. To herself — young, lost, forgotten.

“Dear Nina,
You have not lived all these years in vain. Every moan, every tear, every lonely night — it was not for nothing. Because one day even the heaviest pain will learn to speak with kindness. And those who turned away will come back. If you keep your heart open.”

That’s exactly how it remained — open. A mother’s heart.

And every week she added a new letter to the box. Sometimes — lines of poetry. Sometimes — lines from memories. And sometimes — just one sentence:

“Today I woke up and did not feel lonely.”

No one called her “homeless woman” anymore. Now they called her Mom. Grandma. Family.

Once her grandson, pressing close to her, asked:

— Grandma, are you a real magician? You have such kind eyes… Is it because of the hat?

Nina laughed and nodded:

— Yes, my dear. Because of the hat. And a little — because of the love that knows how to wait.

Because in that hat everything was contained: her life, her pain, her hope. Her heart.

 

Spring came earlier than usual. The sun looked in the window not like a rare guest, but like an old friend. Nina Petrovna sat by the windowsill, knitting little blue socks. Children’s footsteps echoed again in the house.

Her daughter recently said:

— Mom, we’re going to be parents.

And softly added:

— I always dreamed he would know you.

That night Nina did not sleep. She lay, pressing her palms to her chest, as if keeping warmth there. Not pain. Not fears. But something bright. Something alive. Hope.

A few weeks later the son-in-law came for her. Without explanations. Just said:

— Mom, now you are with us. We want to be a family. Whole.

And quietly added:

— I need this too. Very much.

She got a room with a view of the garden. Small but cozy — with a soft armchair, curtains on the window, and a bookshelf. And, to her surprise, on the wall hung the wooden letter box. The very one her son-in-law had made once.

One evening he gently knocked on the door:

— Mom… may I come in?

He entered, lowering his gaze:

— I read all your letters. Sorry, I couldn’t resist. But now I understand you. Your pain. Your strength. I’m afraid our son will grow up not knowing how much he is loved… just as I myself didn’t understand before.

Nina came closer and hugged him. Without words. Like a son. Like a person who came home.

When the boy was born, he was the first to smile at her — his grandmother. At the very moment when she was singing him a lullaby, the same one she once sang to her daughter in a cold apartment, under the flickering light of a street lamp.

She sang, and in her voice was everything: loneliness, forgiveness, love. The baby fell asleep in her arms, and the son-in-law bent close and whispered:

— You are our root. Our light.

Nina just smiled. And thought:

“Maybe I was a homeless woman — only without a home. But now I have one. Not walls, not a roof, but people. Their voices, their warmth, their trust. And that is worth more than all the riches in the world.”

That evening she wrote the last letter. The shortest:

“I am happy. Finally. And forever.”

Years passed.

The grandson was already in school. He had friends, favorite lessons, dreams of his own. But most of all he loved the evenings when Grandma Nina sat in the armchair, wrapped in an old blanket, and began to tell stories — sometimes true, sometimes fairy tales, sometimes just between the lines.

And always — in her white hat. He was sure: that’s where the magic was hiding.

— Grandma, will you always be here? — he asked once, hugging her shoulders.

— As long as you remember me, I will always be near.

In the spring, Nina could no longer get up. It just became difficult. Her daughter held her hand, and the son-in-law stood at the doorway, not daring to come closer. But now he did not hide. He said:

— My light… wait for me.

And read her letters aloud — the very ones kept in the box. Once he said:

— You wrote: “A tired heart can become a home.” For us, you became that home.

And when the day came, she left easily. Calmly. Like the first time, with a child on her chest. Her last words to her daughter were:

— Thank you for never being ashamed of me. Never…

 

At the farewell gathering, the whole hall gathered. Former students. Neighbors. People who heard her story for the first time. The son-in-law held the white hat in his hands. For a long time. Almost tenderly. Then carefully laid it next to the letters.

— This was not just a hat, — he said. — It was her shield. Her light.

And the grandson, standing nearby, sniffled:

— I will grow up and become like Grandma. Only a boy.

The daughter hugged them both. Just like she once was hugged. Tight. With love.

In the evening they opened the box. At the very bottom lay a letter, written in uncertain handwriting:

“If you are reading these lines — it means I am already among the stars. But know: I am with you. In you. In every kind word. In every gesture. If someone says you are nothing, remember: you grew from love. And that means you are everything.”

And that evening everyone cried. Not from grief. But from light. From love. From the fact that even after death, kindness continues to live.

And will live. Forever.

Tamara Petrovna was carefully wiping an old porcelain cup — a gift from her late husband. Every movement, every swipe of the cloth was like a ritual. The house smelled of pies, and that familiar aroma seemed to confirm: everything here was hers, everything rightfully belonged to her.

Sixty-seven years of life, forty of them in this house. Was it even possible to change anything now?

Outside, the sound of a motor was heard — they had arrived. Tamara put the cup back in place and smoothed her apron. Her son Andrey and daughter-in-law Oksana came every Sunday — to help around the house, to visit. At least, that’s what they said.

“Mom, you were fussing in the garden again this morning?” Andrey, barely stepping over the threshold, began his usual interrogation. “You have high blood pressure.”

“And what else am I supposed to do, sit idle? Who else but me will look after the house?” Tamara straightened herself deliberately, showing that she was full of strength.

Her daughter-in-law silently slipped into the kitchen. Today, Oksana seemed especially tense. This woman had always remained a mystery to Tamara.

“Tea’s ready, come in. Oksana, did you take out the pies?”

“Yes, Tamara Petrovna,” a shadow of irritation flashed on the daughter-in-law’s face. How many years had passed, yet it was still “Tamara Petrovna,” as if she were a stranger.

A heavy, tense silence hung over the table like a tightly stretched string.

“I’m going to the notary tomorrow,” Tamara said as if in passing, sipping her tea. “To arrange the house documents.”

Oksana froze, cup halfway to her lips. Andrey frowned.

 

“What documents, Mom? We thought we’d decided that…”

“We decided nothing,” Tamara cut him off. “This is my house — I decide. You won’t be going anywhere,” she snorted and cast a brief glance at Oksana. “The documents must be in order.”

Oksana pressed her lips so tightly they turned white. How many times had this woman hinted as if doing them a favor by allowing them to hope for something? How many more years would they have to listen to these half-threats?

“Tamara Petrovna,” Oksana’s voice sounded unexpectedly calm, “Andrey and I invested almost all our savings into renovating this house. Remember the new roof three years ago? The plumbing? The facade?”

“And what, you were working for me?” Tamara smiled. “You were doing it for yourselves. Thought I didn’t notice?”

Was it even possible to explain to this stubborn woman that they truly meant well? That not everyone in this world measures their deeds by profit?

In the evening, when Andrey went out to check the car, Tamara called her longtime friend Vera.

Oksana was busy on the veranda unpacking groceries when she overheard a fragment of the conversation:

“I’ll finalize everything tomorrow. Yes, Verochka, only in my name. They don’t need to know… I’ll notify Tatyana Mikhailovna… She’s the only one who visits me without reminders…”

Oksana froze. Her hands reached instinctively for the phone in her pocket. One click — and the recorder was on. She slowly approached the half-open door.

“Of course, the lawyer said that after my husband’s death I should have immediately given a share to my son, but you know me, I do things my way… Now I’ll re-register the documents, and then I can sell half… What? No, I won’t tell them anything, they’ll find out later…”

Oksana’s heart pounded so loudly it seemed Tamara should hear it. This woman, whom she had tried to respect for twenty years, had been weaving a web of deceit all along?

When they left, Tamara stood by the gate, habitually adjusting her collar.

“Come by during the week, the windows need washing,” she said as if the conversation over tea had never happened.

Oksana looked at the small figure in the rearview mirror and understood: all these years of smiles, gifts, and “Tamara Petrovna, can I help you?” — it was all for nothing. There would always be a wall between them.

The phone in her pocket now held more than just a conversation. It held the truth.

The road home seemed endless. Oksana was silent, staring out the window, fragments of the overheard conversation spinning in her head. The phone in her pocket seemed to burn her palm.

“You’ve gotten quiet,” Andrey threw her a concerned glance. “Did Mom say something again?”

“Didn’t she?” Oksana turned to him. “Twenty years, Andrey. Twenty years we come every weekend, help, renovate, listen to her hints…”

“She’s just afraid of being alone,” he sighed. “Since Dad died, that’s all she has — the house and the thought that we’re nearby.”

Oksana smiled bitterly. Could he really be that blind? Or did he just not want to see the truth?

“Afraid of being alone?” Her voice trembled. “Do you know what she plans to do with the house?”

“What do you mean?”

Her hand reached for the phone again, but something stopped her. No, not now. He’s driving, and this news might throw him off balance.

“Nothing. We’ll talk at home.”

The apartment greeted them with coolness and silence. Oksana mechanically unpacked groceries while the same questions spun in her head. Did she have the right to interfere? Maybe it was better to stay silent? After all, this was Andrey’s mother, and this was her house…

“So what did you want to say?” Andrey appeared in the kitchen, already changed into home clothes.

“Sit down, please.”

She took out the phone and pressed play. Andrey’s face began to change.

“Turn it off,” he finally croaked. “I understand everything.”

“What will we do?” Oksana asked quietly.

“Nothing,” he stood, clenching his fists. “It’s her house. Her right.”

“Andrey!” Oksana couldn’t believe her ears. “We put so much into this house, and she wants to write it over to some relative!”

“What do you suggest?” he exploded. “Go and confront her with this recording? Blackmail our own mother?”

“I suggest talking! Honestly! Tell her we know her plans!”

But Andrey no longer listened. He left the kitchen, slamming the door, and Oksana was left alone.

The following days turned into a real hell. Andrey didn’t speak to his mother, avoided calls, and answered Oksana’s questions monosyllabically. Tamara, it seemed, suspected something was wrong — she called several times a day, inquiring about her son’s health, and invariably ended the conversation with: “I’m fine, I’m slowly arranging the documents.”

Thursday brought a shock.

A call from a mutual acquaintance, Marina: “Oksana, do you know Tamara Petrovna is selling the annex?”

The annex — the extension to the house that she and Andrey had renovated for themselves three years ago. They had invested money, effort, time…

“She’s selling it?” Oksana felt the ground vanish beneath her feet.

“To Tatyana Mikhailovna. She says she wants to settle the care debt while alive. I thought you knew…”

When Andrey returned from work, Oksana had already gathered documents — all receipts for materials, all contracts with workers, all bank statements.

“Look,” she put a stack of papers in front of him. “Here’s proof of what we’ve invested in your mother’s house.”

“So what?” he asked tiredly.

“She’s already selling the annex. Our part of the house that we completely renovated!”

Something cracked in his gaze.

“Are you sure?”

“Call Marina, ask yourself.”

That evening they seriously discussed the legal side for the first time. Oksana insisted on seeing a lawyer; Andrey resisted — how could you sue your own mother?

“But she was the first to break the agreement!” Oksana wanted to scream. “We trusted every word she said all these years, and she all the time…”

“Do you think I don’t understand?” Andrey interrupted. “But she’s my mother! How could I look her in the eyes?”

“And how will she look us in the eyes when we end up on the street? We don’t even have documents for this apartment — remember, we sold ours to invest in renovating her house?”

The conversation reached a dead end, as had dozens before. Only now their future was at stake.

On Saturday morning, there was a knock at the door. Tamara Petrovna stood there. In a festive dress, with a pie in her hands.

“Why don’t you come? I’m waiting-waiting…”

“Come in, Mom,” Andrey let her into the apartment, not meeting her eyes.

Oksana felt the ground give way beneath her. Her mother-in-law here, in their home, after all they had learned?

What next? Would they keep silent, pretending nothing happened?

 

Tamara Petrovna went into the kitchen, put the pie on the table, then began taking plates from the cupboard.

Tamara stopped with a teapot in her hand. Her eyes dimmed.

“What house are you talking about?” she asked with feigned surprise.

“Your house, Tamara Petrovna. The one where our savings went.”

Andrey stepped forward, but Oksana did not stop. She had been silent for too long.

“What’s with the tone?” the mother-in-law loudly put down the teapot. “My house! I do what I want!”

“Even if you promised it to us?”

“I promised nothing! You made it all up yourselves.”

Oksana boiled over. Didn’t Tamara say: “After me, it will all be yours”? Didn’t she suggest: “Build the annex for yourselves”?

“Mom,” Andrey finally spoke. “That’s what we agreed on. You yourself suggested investing in renovation instead of buying housing.”

“Not true!” Tamara threw up her hands. “God, what ingratitude! I welcomed you, and you… How dare you?”

“And how dare you discuss with Vera how you’ll re-register and sell the house?” Oksana couldn’t hold back.

Tamara turned pale. The kitchen grew quiet. Only the kettle whistled.

“You… were eavesdropping?” she squeezed out.

“No. I heard by accident. And I recorded it.”

“Recorded?!” Tamara gasped. “You spied?”

“Oksana, did you really record?” Andrey looked surprised.

The kitchen felt like a tight cage to Oksana. Three people, years of misunderstanding, now confronted face to face.

“Yes, I recorded,” she took out the phone. “You can hear how you say you’ll write the house to Tatyana and sell the annex.”

“How dare you?!” Tamara stepped toward her daughter-in-law. “Scoundrel! I always knew you awaited my downfall! And now you record me like the last…”

“Mom! Stop!” Andrey raised his voice. “We just want the truth!”

“The truth?” Tamara laughed bitterly. “The truth is I believed in my son’s love! Not in his greed!”

“What greed?” Andrey shouted. “We put all the money in! Gave up our home because you promised: live with me, the house will be yours!”

“There was no such thing! Prove it!”

Oksana played the recording. Tamara’s voice filled the kitchen:

“…the lawyer said that after my husband’s death I should give a share to my son, but I do things my way… I’ll re-register the documents, then I can sell… I won’t tell them anything…”

Tamara’s face twisted. She lunged for the phone, but Oksana pulled her hand back.

“You lie!” the mother-in-law shouted. “Editing!”

“Mom, that’s your voice,” Andrey said quietly.

“Yes? Then you listen to the truth! Yes, my house! My right! You wouldn’t manage it! Taxes! Repairs!”

“But we put so much in…”

“And who asked? I said: help with repairs. And you made a pool, a sauna! For yourselves!”

“So what now?” Andrey asked. “Will you sell the annex?”

“Already sold. Signed the papers yesterday.”

Oksana gasped. Their things were in that annex! Albums, books, her mother’s jewelry for her future granddaughter…

“How could you?” she whispered.

“Easily!” Tamara lifted her chin. “My house, my will. Take your things by Wednesday. After that, new owners move in.”

Andrey sat down as if his legs no longer held him.

“I am your son,” he said painfully. “Your only son.”

Something flickered in Tamara’s eyes. But only for a moment.

“A son must respect his mother,” she cut him off and went to the door. At the door, she turned back: “And don’t you dare show that recording! I’ll sue!”

The door slammed shut behind Tamara with a dull thud. Silence fell on the apartment, heavy and oppressive.

“What now?” Oksana sank onto the chair beside her husband.

Andrey was silent. His face was frozen in a mask of pain.

“Andrey, she sold our annex. Our things are there. Our money.”

“I know,” his voice sounded hollow. “Let’s go to the lawyer.”

On Monday they sat in a small office. The lawyer, a young woman with attentive eyes, listened to their story and looked through the documents.

“The situation is complicated,” she said finally. “But you have three trump cards: your documented investments in the renovation, witness statements about your mother’s intentions, and this audio recording.”

 

“The recording was made without permission,” Andrey objected. “Does it have any legal power?”

“In court, maybe not. But for negotiations — a powerful argument.”

The next day they were already in the notary’s office. Tamara looked confident. Next to her sat a plump woman about sixty — the same Tatyana Mikhailovna.

“What’s this circus for,” Tamara snorted. “My property. I just want to sell part of it.”

“Tamara Petrovna,” the notary adjusted her glasses, “your documents are not entirely in order. After your husband’s death, the house passes into joint ownership with the heirs.”

“Nonsense! My husband passed away fifteen years ago!”

“But you did not properly register the inheritance. Your son has the right to a share.”

“What share? This is my house!”

Oksana took out her phone and put it on the table.

“And we also have this,” she pressed play.

The recording filled the room. Tatyana Mikhailovna’s face elongated, Tamara turned crimson.

“I warned you!” she shouted. “This is illegal!”

“Just like selling someone else’s share,” the lawyer replied calmly. “You knew about your son’s rights but hid this from the buyer.”

Tatyana Mikhailovna stood up.

“Tamara, you didn’t tell me there were such complications…”

“What complications? They’re bluffing!”

But Tatyana was already heading for the exit.

“Call when you sort things out with your relatives.”

The next two weeks turned into a nightmare. Tamara did not answer calls. Lawyers sent her a notice of illegality of the transaction. They had to go to her house.

Tamara opened the door and silently let them in. She looked ten years older.

“Why have you come? To finish me off?” her voice trembled.

“Mom, we want to resolve everything peacefully,” Andrey sat opposite her.

“What ‘peacefully’? You dragged me through courts! You didn’t spare your own son for money!”

 

“Not for money,” Oksana objected. “For justice.”

“Justice?” Tamara laughed bitterly. “Where is the justice for me? I saved all my life for this house! And now I have to share?”

“You could have just told the truth,” Andrey replied quietly. “We would have understood. But you deceived us for years.”

Tamara was silent. Then suddenly asked:

“What do you want?”

“Compromise. The house stays yours for life. But we officially register the inheritance and our share. And you compensate for the renovation investments.”

“Or what?” she asked defiantly.

“Or court. With this recording and all the documents, you don’t stand much chance.”

A month later, new documents were signed. Tamara moved to her friend’s daughter’s apartment, and the house was rented to a nephew.

Oksana deleted that recording from her phone that same day.

Lena loved the morning. She would get up early, make herself a strong coffee, and open her laptop to start working on another article. In those moments, she felt confident, in control of every detail of her life. But with each passing day, that feeling of control slipped away.

Artyom had changed a long time ago. Or maybe she just hadn’t noticed before? Their marriage wasn’t happy, but it wasn’t exactly unhappy either. They existed in parallel, like neighbors who found it easier to live together than to deal with a divorce. He came home late from work, sometimes didn’t stay overnight, explaining it with business trips. She didn’t ask questions — not because she trusted him, but because she saw no point.

But what worried her most was not her husband’s behavior, but his mother. Alla Gennadyevna had been against their marriage from the very beginning.

“Artyom, you’re a man; you need a wife who will create comfort, not run around with a laptop,” she said with a slight smirk when she came to visit.

Lena pretended not to hear. After all, Alla didn’t live with them. But her influence over her son was enormous, and Lena knew it.

One evening…

 

Artyom went to the store, and Lena decided to take a hot bath. She filled the tub with bubbles, put on relaxing music, and leaned back, letting the warmth envelop her body.

About twenty minutes passed when she heard the front door slam. She didn’t pay it much attention — it meant her husband was back. But a few seconds later, voices came from behind the bathroom door.

“Have you finally made a decision?” — it was Alla Gennadyevna’s voice.

“Mom, I don’t know yet what’s best…” — Artyom answered uncertainly.

Lena froze. She had never eavesdropped on other people’s conversations, but something inside her made her hold her breath and stay still.

“What is there to think about?” — the mother-in-law said impatiently. “Make it so she leaves on her own. You don’t need to argue or explain. Let her decide she simply has no choice left.”

Lena pressed herself against the door, feeling her heart pounding wildly.

“Mom, you understand, it’s not that simple.”

“It’s simple if you do everything gradually. Today one thing, tomorrow another. The main thing is to bring her to the point where she packs her things and leaves herself. Believe me, when her problems start, when she begins to fear for her life, you will look like a poor, unhappy husband in front of everyone.”

Lena didn’t know what to do. Her head was spinning.

“She’s not a fool, Mom,” Artyom said quietly.

“Not a fool, but not all-powerful either,” the mother-in-law laughed.

Lena stepped sharply away from the door. She felt cold sweat break out over her body.

They want to break her. They want her to go mad.

The strange things are beginning…

Lena did not show that she knew anything. But from that evening, everything changed.

At first — small things. She set the alarm clock, but it didn’t ring. It seemed like a trifle, but then she found out someone had turned it off. Then she found a blister pack of pills in her makeup bag that she had never bought.

“Artyom, did you slip something into my bag?” she asked, showing him the discovery.

“What? Of course not,” he didn’t even look up from his phone.

And then… one day she came home and smelled gas. She panicked and rushed to the stove — all the burners were off. But the smell was strong.

“Did you leave the gas on again?” Artyom asked irritably as he came into the kitchen.

Lena froze.

“It wasn’t me.”

He looked at her intently as if weighing something in his head.

“Lena, you need to rest. You haven’t been yourself lately.”

She wanted to say that something was going on in the house. That things disappeared, strange objects appeared, that she had overheard their conversation. But looking at her husband, she suddenly realized — he was waiting for her to break.

He wants her to start doubting herself.

Lena didn’t know what to do. She realized she was trapped but saw no way out. Artyom was playing according to his mother’s script — methodically, calmly, without fuss. It wasn’t an open war but a painful siege.

She began to notice small details, her documents once disappeared, then turned up in a completely different place. Important contacts disappeared from her phone — including a friend she often confided in. Lightbulbs in the bathroom and kitchen burned out one after another, which was strange because they were new.

But the scariest thing was her laptop. One morning, opening it, she saw that the browser was open on pages with search queries: “symptoms of mental disorder,” “hallucinations caused by stress,” “how to convince someone to go to a psychiatric clinic.”

Lena slammed the lid shut, feeling cold sweat on her palms.

“It’s not me, it’s not me,” she whispered.

At that moment, Artyom entered the room.

“Lena, you’re on the computer again? Maybe you should take a break?” His voice was soft, but something icy flashed in his eyes.

She said nothing.

She needed to figure out how to get out.

The next day, Artyom said he would be late. Lena took it as an opportunity to quietly rummage through his things. She didn’t know what she was looking for — dirt, proof that he was staging all this? Or maybe she just needed to convince herself she hadn’t lost her mind yet?

But as soon as she opened his drawer, she froze.

There was a stack of her photos. Not ordinary ones, but strange. For example, she was sleeping, and next to her stood Artyom, looking straight into the camera. Or her face in a mirror reflection but with a distorted, anxious expression.

Lena frantically flipped through the pictures. Some looked like she had taken them herself, but she definitely didn’t remember doing so.

“What are you doing here?”

She spun around sharply. Artyom was standing in the doorway, his face completely calm.

“You were spying on me… You…” Her voice trembled.

“What are you making up?” He tilted his head as if studying her reaction.

“These photos… You…”

“Lena, do you really think I’m spying on you?” He smirked and stepped closer. “Listen, I understand everything. You’re tired, your nerves are shot, work is stressful. We’re adults, right? Let’s think logically.”

Lena stepped back.

“You want me to go crazy.”

“No, dear. I want you to get help.”

She rushed past him and ran out into the entrance hall, not remembering how she got outside. The wind chilled her face; her legs gave way.

 

But where to go?

She couldn’t be broken.

Lena didn’t return home. She hid at a colleague’s place, stayed there several nights while looking for a way to expose Artyom.

She managed to find something — copies of his correspondence with his mother. There were reports.

“She started getting nervous. Yesterday she said she doesn’t remember turning off the light.”

“She asked about the pills. I think soon she’ll start believing it’s her forgetfulness.”

“I’ll suggest she goes to a clinic soon — gently at first, but if she refuses, we’ll pressure her.”

Lena froze. They were trying to declare her insane.

She gathered evidence, recorded a conversation with one of Artyom’s ex-friends who hinted that “he always knew how to get rid of unwanted people.”

When Lena returned home, she was no longer the confused woman they tried to corner.

“You’re back?” Artyom looked at her with feigned relief.

“Yes. And I’m leaving.”

“Where are you going?” He frowned.

“I filed for divorce. And by the way, someone will be coming to check on you soon.”

Artyom stood in the doorway as Lena left. There was no anger or fear on his face. Only slight disappointment.

“Well then,” he said quietly. “Looks like this method didn’t work.”

Lena stepped over the threshold without looking back. But even now, she sometimes wakes up at night feeling someone’s gaze in the dark.

Konstantin sat stunned, unable to grasp how he’d gotten himself into such a mess that now he couldn’t tell his head from his tail. Although, to be honest, he’d brought it on himself. He knew Rimma was married, but hadn’t given it much thought — he didn’t care. More than that, it was convenient: fewer demands, fewer obligations. But now everything had turned into a nightmare.

He had never been especially faithful or deeply attached to his wife Sveta. Not that she annoyed him — on the contrary, she suited him in every way. Simple, trusting, compliant. That’s exactly why he chose her. Convenient.

 

He had noticed Sveta back in college. A quiet girl, modest, a straight-A student. He was a couple of years older. Looking at her then, Kostya thought: here she is — the perfect wife for a man building a career. He liked that she accepted any of his decisions without questions.

She hadn’t had anyone before him. It took just a few days to make this provincial, inexperienced girl fall in love with him. And when he saw how she blossomed next to him, grew prettier, believed in herself — he decided: this was the right start.

Sveta turned out to be not just a support, but a real salvation. When things went badly (which happened quite often — Konstantin studied more formally than seriously), he’d come home and complain. Saying he was tired, everything was blurry, too much pressure.

And Sveta would immediately send him to rest. «Lie down, sleep, I’ll take care of everything.» And she really found solutions. She checked documents, looked for mistakes, listened to partners. Did everything for him. And never complained.

Kostya wasn’t stingy. He didn’t limit her financially — and she didn’t need much. As long as she was by his side, looked good, upheld the image. Sometimes he even insisted:

“Sveta, we’re at important meetings. You need to keep up appearances. Dress fashionably, keep your hair neat. I’m a businessman, I have a reputation!”

And she listened. Adjusted herself. That pleased him. Especially nice was that all eyes were on her, and she belonged only to him. Only to him alone.

And there were no problems in their personal life. Sveta didn’t interfere. She busied herself with her duties, trusted him unconditionally. Business trip? Of course. Working late? Of course! She never once suspected anything wrong.

But with Rimma, everything was different. They met at a party where everyone was single. No husbands or wives around. They noticed each other immediately. Exchanged a couple of glances — and left together.

Rimma was fire. A true lioness. After quiet and predictable Sveta, this was a real explosion for Konstantin. Later he found out she was married. She, in turn, knew he was married too. But that didn’t stop them.

And recently he learned who she was married to.

That’s when it hit him. A real shock to the mind. Rimma’s husband was Timur Galimov. A well-known businessman. But even more known as a former influential figure. The kind of man who could, without hesitation, “arrange” your fate right into concrete slabs.

Konstantin didn’t understand why Timur hadn’t reacted yet. After all, he must know about their affair. Konstantin arrived to meet Rimma in a depressed state, like a beaten dog.

“We have to end this,” he said, staring at the floor.

“Why?” Rimma asked, slightly mocking. “Stopped wanting it?”

“That’s not it!” he shook his head. “I don’t want to be found buried in the forest!”

Rimma smirked. Poured herself some wine, as if amused.

“So, you found out who my husband is?” she drew out.

Kostya was silent. Everything inside him trembled.

“You didn’t tell me before! That’s not fair!”

She sat down on the couch like a queen on her throne.

“And you, it turns out, are a coward,” she said with a cold smile.

Pause. Another dose of poison:

“If I didn’t like you… I would have long ago called my husband and told him you were bothering me. Understand?”

Konstantin trembled like a leaf.

“Don’t be afraid. He forgot about me long ago. Just like I forgot about him. We married by contract, for family reasons. Stupid, of course. Come to me.”

What could he say? What could he do? Nothing. Only obey.

Over time the fear began to fade. He got used to it, apparently.

And now they were preparing for an important deal. Profitable. Promising growth. But half an hour ago he got a call from the other party’s representative — the owner of the company they were supposed to meet tomorrow.

 

It was Timur Galimov. Rimma’s husband.

And that’s when Konstantin realized: he was not just stuck. He’d trapped himself. Up to his ears. Refuse negotiations? Impossible. His company was the initiator. Offer knowingly disadvantageous terms? Stupid. That would look like suicide.

He didn’t know what to do. One step — and he was a rabbit, Timur a boa constrictor slowly squeezing the noose.

In the evening, Rimma called. Kostya locked himself in the bathroom, turned on the water so no one at home could hear.

“Kostik…” came her voice on the line. “How did you get yourself into this mess?”

“You already know?” he was surprised.

“Yes. My husband told me at dinner. What will you do? Work with him?”

“Rimma!” he barely kept his nerves. “This isn’t funny. Not at all.”

“Don’t be mad, kitty,” she laughed. “Cancel the negotiations? No way. Bad idea.”

“We have to sabotage everything!” he blurted out.

“You think so?” Rimma went silent. For a moment it seemed she was thinking. “And how do you imagine failing the deal?”

A minute stretched into eternity. Then her voice became serious. Businesslike.

“Listen, Kostya, your company is jointly owned by you and your wife, right? On paper?”

“Yes.”

“Exactly!” Rimma almost rejoiced. “Send her to the negotiations! Let Sveta mess it all up! I’m sure she’ll fail for sure! And Timur will never want to deal with your company again!”

Konstantin wanted to say she was crazy, but suddenly thought. There was something to it.

“Rim…” he began uncertainly, “I don’t know if this is nonsense or not… but I’ll think about it.”

He came out of the bathroom, sat down on the couch, spread out the documents in front of him. Sveta brought coffee, as always — quietly, with care in her eyes.

“Kostya,” she asked gently, “are you okay? You seem strange today.”

Kostya looked at his wife as if seeing her for the first time. His gaze became attentive, almost assessing.

“Sveta, I really need help. Only I’m not sure if it will work…”

“Please tell me!” she immediately tensed. “If I can — I’ll do everything!”

Konstantin began explaining that their company was moving to a new level, that horizons needed expanding. That he was urgently called to another city where they were waiting for him, and he completely forgot about the upcoming negotiations.

“Sveta,” he took her hand, “you know everything, right? You’re also a co-owner on paper. Maybe… you can do it? Hold the meeting instead of me?”

Sveta’s eyes opened wide in fear.

“Kostya… What if I ruin everything? What if I can’t handle it?”

Konstantin sighed sadly, a little theatrically.

“I really hope you can do it. Honestly, Sveta. If not… we’ll have to look for other options. But I won’t be mad at you. Not at all.”

Reassured by the thought that everything was under control, Kostya went to sleep. Sveta carefully took his place, took the papers, and stayed up until three in the morning, immersed in the deal’s details.

A couple of hours of sleep — and she was already getting ready. Confident, composed. Thinking: “Everything will be fine.”

In the morning Konstantin got ready quickly, kissed his wife on the cheek, and left — not to the office, but to a rented house outside the city, where Rimma was supposed to wait for him.

Everything was going according to plan. They had calculated everything perfectly. Sveta — simple, trusting, understanding nothing about real business. No, that required cunning, tricks, maneuvering skills. She didn’t have those. The negotiations would be ruined.

And he would only have to shrug: “What can you do?” Meanwhile, Sveta would feel guilty. And become even more compliant. Even more obedient. The benefit was obvious.

Sveta arrived early to get acquainted with her husband’s office. Met the pregnant secretary Katya.

“Hello, Svetlana Grigoryevna!”

“Hi, Katyusha. Can I have some coffee?”

“Of course!” the girl nodded. “And, I suppose, you’ll be leading the negotiations?”

The secretary suddenly added decisively:

“That’s right. I don’t understand why you haven’t been involved in the company’s affairs before? You’ve missed so much interesting stuff!”

Sveta raised an eyebrow in surprise but said nothing. Now she needed to concentrate.

She spent the remaining half hour in thought, just looking out the window. What was she thinking about? About why she had studied so many years if she had then turned into a house helper? She could have done that without a diploma…

The door opened with a light creak.

“Svetlana Grigoryevna, the guests have arrived.”

“Come in,” she answered calmly.

Sveta smiled. And immediately forgot that once she had considered herself just a wife. Today she was a co-owner of the company. The very one she had studied, prepared, and worked for. And now it should show in everything.

The first to enter was a man. Very handsome, with a slight hint of southern temperament in his appearance. He raised an eyebrow in surprise.

“Good afternoon. Where is Konstantin?”

“My husband went on urgent business,” Svetlana replied evenly. “I’m Svetlana, his wife and co-owner.”

“Unexpected,” he smiled. “Not what I expected at all.”

 

“How so?” she smiled in response.

“That you’re so… charming.”

Sveta thanked him and confidently continued:

“I’m prepared. We can start.”

Four hours of negotiations. Changes in the contract. Lawyers on both sides. When everyone signed, Timur slowly put the pen down and looked at her with respect.

“You make an impression,” he said thoughtfully. “At first, you seemed an angel — gentle, kind. But now I see: gentle, but with character. A she-wolf in a dress.”

He smiled.

“I take my hat off to you. I haven’t met such women yet — smart, strong, and beautiful. I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”

Sveta smiled warmly. She liked Timur. He exuded confidence, directness. He spoke straightforwardly, openly admiring. Not like Kostya at all.

“You gave me so many compliments, I haven’t heard that much in a year,” she admitted.

“Don’t believe it!” he laughed. “Such a woman can’t go unnoticed.”

“Svetlana,” Timur suddenly grew serious, “usually after such contracts people celebrate. We’re partners now. I’ve reserved a table at the restaurant ‘Volna’ for all participants.”

Sveta laughed sincerely:

“Oh, I completely forgot! Well, of course, why not?”

“You won’t refuse?” Timur asked, looking her in the eyes intently.

Svetlana thought for just a second. Why refuse? Just because she hadn’t gone anywhere without her husband for a long time? No. Of course not. A restaurant is a restaurant!

On the way to “Volna,” Sveta tried several times to call Kostya. He didn’t answer. Not once. Timur silently watched her, barely holding back a smirk.

He knew everything. About Kostya. About his cowardice. About Rimma. And that he, Timur, was supposed to be the victim of someone else’s intrigue. But instead got the chance to set things straight.

When he found out in the morning that Rimma’s lover would be replaced by his wife, he just chuckled: “Let her try.” He thought Sveta would mess everything up on her own. That she’d sign a contract on terms that would ruin Konstantin. Wanted to break his reputation, leave him with nothing.

But everything went differently. Not at all as he planned.

Now he didn’t want Sveta to suffer. He saw in her not a victim, but a queen. Not the wife of a scoundrel circling around his wife, but his queen. His own.

Konstantin decided to call in the evening. Rimma sat nearby, carefully hiding from the camera. She was eager to see Sveta cry at home, picking apart the remnants of her dignity.

A video call. The answer came quickly.

Svetlana appeared on screen. She was stunningly beautiful. Smiling. Clearly not in her own apartment.

“Svet, how did the negotiations go?” Kostya asked cautiously.

“Wonderful!” her voice rang with joy. “We slightly adjusted the terms, but in the end, everyone is satisfied!”

“So… you signed the contract?”

“Did you doubt it?” she laughed. “When you sent me to ‘battle’ against your lover’s husband?”

Kostya was even confused. A new voice interrupted him:

“Oh, hi!” Timur entered the frame, smiling. “And where is my beloved Rimma?”

Rimma darted aside, hiding from her husband’s gaze.

“Don’t be afraid,” Timur smirked, “we won’t touch you. Unless you decide to come back yourselves. It all depends on you.”

 

He hugged Sveta by the waist and continued:

“Svetlana and I decided to give you a chance. She insisted. I might not have otherwise. But now I’m giving you the house. The very one you are in now. In a couple of hours my man will bring the documents. A gift. Advice and love. You can plant potatoes there, keep chickens. Live however you want.”

His voice suddenly turned cold. His eyes — steely.

“But remember one thing: I don’t want to know anything about you anymore. Ever. Because now I forget how you insulted me. But I can remember.”

The screen went dark. Rimma covered her face with her hands and moaned:

“Why did I get involved with you?!”

“I should be asking that!” Kostya roared, jumping up. “Why did I even ignore you?! He’ll kill us? Really kill us?!”

Rimma looked at him with empty eyes and answered briefly:

“Yes.”

And Svetlana twirled in a dance. In the arms of a strong, real man. She knew: if she asked, Timur would let her go back. But she didn’t want to. Never wanted to return to where she was considered weak.

And Timur thought about something else. About how he and Sveta would take their little girl to school. How they’d choose backpacks together, help with homework. How they’d sit at the same table, celebrate birthdays, argue about the music a teenager listens to.

He already saw this life. And really wanted it to become a reality.

Marina woke up to noise from above — someone was moving furniture too vigorously. A dog started barking again behind the wall, and the March wind began to tap on the window as if on purpose. She lay there for a long time, hoping this day wouldn’t start.

The hallway was cool. She threw on Alexey’s hoodie, which he had forgotten on the coat rack back in December, and slowly walked through the apartment. Everything was in its place.

 

The doorbell rang unexpectedly. She didn’t even immediately understand where the sound came from. She looked at the clock — 9:15. A courier? Neighbors?

A woman stood on the doorstep. Young, dressed too brightly for such a morning, with shiny lipstick and heavily lined eyes. In one hand — a mobile phone, in the other — keys on a pink keychain.

“Hi. Excuse me, who are you?” Marina squinted, not understanding why this stranger was smiling at her.

“Oh, you’re still here? I thought Alexey had already taken care of everything,” the woman adjusted the collar of her trench coat and stepped a little closer, as if preparing to come in.

Marina instinctively blocked the way.

“I live here. And you?”

“Alya. Well, Alexandra officially. I’m… his fiancée. Alexey, you know, told you? We’re going to live here now. He put the apartment in his name a year ago.”

A rush of thoughts flashed through Marina’s mind.

“No,” she exhaled, not believing what she heard. “Alexey didn’t tell me anything. We… we’re still married.”

Alya shrugged as if it was nothing.

“Well, that’s just a formality. He already filed the papers, said you don’t mind. I didn’t want to be rude, just thought you had moved out.”

Marina stepped back a step. The scene felt theatrical, badly directed, but the play was happening on her own stage, in her home.

“Please leave.”

“I didn’t want any conflicts,” Alya stepped closer again. “My hands are freezing, and I don’t understand why he didn’t do everything as promised.”

Marina slammed the door right in front of her face. Her heart was pounding as if she had just run a marathon. A few minutes later, a message came to her phone. From Alexey. He wrote that he would be there in an hour. Asked to talk calmly.

Alexey arrived forty minutes later, without calling, as if afraid she might change her mind about opening the door. He entered the hallway as if he were still the owner here. He was wearing the very jacket Marina had given him for his birthday two years ago. It had been hanging in the closet all that time but now smelled of someone else’s perfume.

“Can we talk calmly?” he stopped by the table where their photos used to stand. Now only the TV remote lay there.

Marina stood by the window, not turning to him.

“Are you marrying her?” she asked quietly.

Alexey slowly nodded as if it were not a wedding but a business trip.

“I didn’t think everything would coincide like this. You know yourself, things haven’t been right between us for a long time. We were just living next to each other.”

“I lived here. I cleaned, woke up with you. Not next to you. With you. And you were silent all this time.”

“I wanted to say something but was afraid you’d lose it. You’re always such… a storm. And now I want peace.”

Marina turned around. Her eyes were dry, but her voice was steel.

“Then go to your peace. I’ll move out. Today.”

Two hours later, she was already standing on the stair landing. A panel building, fourth floor, elevator stuck between the second and third floors. Her mother lived here. She opened the door without asking anything. Hugged her tightly for a second, then went to put a pot on the stove.

Marina went into her old room. Wallpaper with faded flowers, a plush hippopotamus on the windowsill, a bookshelf with notebooks and diplomas. Here she first cried over a boy. Here she decided to become a stylist. Here she hid cigarettes from her mom, which she never learned to smoke.

In the evening, she went outside. The park behind the house had hardly changed. The same bench under the birch tree where pensioners argued about the weather, and the shawarma vendor who was always short on change. She sat on the edge of the bench and watched people pass by. Someone hurried with bags, someone walked with children. Among them was a man in a black hooded jacket who stopped as he passed by.

“Marina? You’re Marina, right? We worked together on a shoot two years ago. I’m Maxim, a photographer.”

He sat down next to her, took off his hood. His hair was a little tousled, and dark circles under his eyes showed lack of sleep.

“I recognized you immediately. You had a green scarf then, remember? We argued whether it matched the makeup artist’s coat.”

Marina smiled slightly. A bright room, the smell of hairspray, and the soft noise of hair dryers surfaced in her memory.

“Yes. I remember. You were shooting a catalog then.”

Maxim nodded, pulling out a notebook.

“I’m launching a new project. Looking for a stylist. Someone who knows how to work with color, not just shuffle clothes around. You had a light touch.”

Marina looked at him. He was neither a savior nor a knight, just a person who reminded her she had something of her own. She nodded slowly.

“Call me tomorrow. I’ll think about it.”

Marina stood in the middle of the space where flowers had recently been sold. The ceilings were high, windows almost floor-to-ceiling, the paint peeling from the walls. It was here, in a former shop on the corner near the metro station, that she decided to set up her mini studio. Maxim, the same photographer from the park, insisted on meeting the owner. The place was rented by his acquaintance, and according to Maxim, the price was “reasonable, especially if you plan to find your voice again.” Marina didn’t understand what he meant but didn’t ask.

“All this needs to be torn down,” she said, walking around the old shelves. “The lighting is terrible. Wiring looks like from the nineties.”

 

“But the place has spirit,” Maxim replied, sitting on the wide windowsill. “And you don’t notice how you move forward. That’s the main thing.”

The next day, they met in another place — a studio where he was shooting portraits for a new online magazine. The room was spacious, with white walls and softboxes in the corners. Marina held a fabric palette, choosing looks for the model. An eight-year-old curly-haired girl with a unicorn backpack entered the room. Behind her was a man with a slightly stooped back and a warm voice.

“Sorry to bother you,” he said, extending his hand. “My name is Andrey, I’m Maxim’s friend. This is my daughter, Tasya. We wanted to take a picture for grandma. Her birthday is next week.”

Marina smiled. Tasya stood watching her hands, stained with fabric dye, and suddenly asked:

“Do you choose who wears what color yourself?”

“Almost always,” Marina answered. “Sometimes the color tells you itself who it suits.”

Andrey stayed in the room while they tried scarves and tied ribbons. Marina explained how to pose for softer light, then noticed Tasya suddenly laughing. The girl caught her reflection in the mirror and suddenly said:

“I look like an actress. Like in the movies.”

After the shoot, they went into the corridor. Andrey handed Marina a bag.

“This is a bit strange, but Tasya drew you. She said you look like an artist who doesn’t have brushes in her hands but still creates paintings.”

Marina unfolded the sheet and saw colorful lines, a figure with flowing hair and big eyes. And among them, a childish handwriting inscription: “Marina. Kind. With magic.”

Later, returning to the flower shop space, Marina noticed a sign in the building opposite. It read “Alya and Partners Real Estate Agency.” The name stuck immediately.

She didn’t cross the street. Instead, she entered her still empty room, sat on the windowsill, and opened her phone. A new order from a classmate’s mother, an invitation to a master class, and a message from Maxim.

“Tomorrow’s shoot with a young designer. He asked for you. You’re his muse.”

Inside the former flower shop, the smell of fresh paint lingered. Marina stood on a stepladder, screwing in the last hooks to hang fabrics. Maxim, the photographer, came and went with rolls of paper, while Tasya — the girl from the previous shoot — sat in the corner with markers and new sheets. The whole studio space was gradually transforming. The sign Marina had hand-painted in big letters already adorned the window — “Clear.”

“Does this mean something to you?” Maxim asked as he brought a stool and sat opposite.

“Yes,” Marina answered, smoothing the fabric. “At some point, everything became blurry. I stopped seeing who I was, where I was, why I was living the way I was. Then it became clear. Not immediately. But it did.”

At that moment, the door flew open. A woman in a business suit, full makeup, phone at her ear, entered. The same Alya who once stood on Marina’s apartment doorstep saying she would live there now. Behind her came Alexey. He walked slowly, kept slightly aside, as if not fully understanding why he came.

“Are we interrupting?” Alya’s voice was polite but with a metallic edge.

Marina got down from the ladder, brushed her hands off. Maxim stood up and stepped aside, making it clear he didn’t intend to interfere.

“I saw the sign,” Alya continued, looking around the walls. “We’re opening an interior bureau nearby. We wanted to come in, find out who you are. Just in case of competition.”

Alexey was silent, his gaze sliding across the floor, the window, the paint on the walls but not meeting Marina’s eyes.

“This is my studio,” she said calmly. “Here is styling, visual projects, work with personal image. I don’t think we will cross paths.”

“Still funny,” Alya smiled. “You got active so fast… It took me longer to get over the divorce.”

Maxim came closer. He put a stack of papers on the counter and nodded to Marina, inviting her to move on and not linger in this scene.

“If you’re done, we’re about to start the shoot,” he said. “We have a schedule.”

Alya nodded and turned around without saying goodbye. Alexey lingered by the door. Only after Alya left did he come closer.

 

“I didn’t think you’d manage,” he said. “Amazing how you did it all.”

Marina looked at him and saw a man who once was close to her but now seemed transparent like a drawing on glass, through which a stranger’s life is visible.

“I always knew,” she answered. “You just never asked what I wanted.”

Alexey left without looking back. The studio grew quiet again. Tasya ran up to Marina holding a new drawing.

“That’s you,” she said. “But now with wings.”

Maxim smiled, turning on the lights. The first clients started arriving. And Marina, standing in the middle of the studio, realized that this time, in the frame, it was her. Real. Not someone’s background, not a reflection, not a shadow. But the leading role in her own life.

Olga Petrovna was sitting at a table in a café, waiting for her long-time friend. As usual, her friend was late, and Olga, bored, was observing the other visitors. Her gaze wandered around the room, and she tensed up: her son, Anton, had entered the café, unaware of anyone around him. He was escorting some woman and couldn’t take his eyes off her.

 

Olga quickly moved to sit with her back to them so that her son wouldn’t notice her, but, as if by design, Anton led his companion to the neighboring table, which was directly behind Olga. She was lucky that Anton was completely absorbed in his companion and didn’t notice his own mother. However, had she approached their table as a waitress, he wouldn’t have noticed her either.

Olga could hear every word he said, since he was sitting with his back to her and didn’t even try to speak more quietly.

«Irina, you’re like a bright flower in a scorched field, just like our office,» the young man said in a singsong voice. «Your presence brightens these dull days. I could admire you day and night!»

«Oh, you scoundrel!» Olga thought to herself. «What a player! He’d admire her at night, huh? And what, Katya doesn’t catch his eye anymore? And what about the kids, the poor Casanova?! Just like his father, may he rest in peace!»

Anton had been married for ten years. He and Olga’s daughter-in-law, Katya, had married right after finishing university. Olga had asked her son to wait a bit before getting married, but he had stubbornly insisted. The one good thing was that Katya was a true gem! Kind, modest, a smart and beautiful woman. She had called her «Mom» from the start, and Olga was pleased—her son had never called her anything other than «Mom.»

A year later, their son Arseniy was born, and five years after Arseniy, they had Alina. They lived harmoniously and often visited Olga, who adored her grandchildren. Katya didn’t even need to be asked—she would always head straight to the kitchen and start rustling around, sometimes peeking out to ask:

«Mom Olya, should I grab some spices?»
«Mom Olya, can I turn on the oven?»

At first, Olga had resisted her daughter-in-law invading her kitchen, but over time, she got used to it, especially since Katya cooked so well.

And everything always went smoothly for her. The kids were always clean and tidy, her husband was impeccably dressed, ironed, and well-groomed. Katya sometimes forgot to take care of herself, but the family came first.

And now, would you believe it? Her son, after ten years of marriage, decided to act up! A midlife crisis, no doubt.

Olga sat quietly at her table, listening as the woman flirted shamelessly with her son. Oh, how she wanted to get up and give Anton a good earful, but she restrained herself. She wouldn’t let him destroy his family and betray Katya.

Meanwhile, the couple ordered coffee and continued flirting.

«Anton, how about we meet in a more relaxed setting?» Olga heard the bold woman’s voice, who was shamelessly hitting on a married man. «Like at a hotel or a hunting lodge outside the city?»

«Great idea, Ilona!» Anton exclaimed. «I’ll buy wine. What kind do you prefer?»

«Expensive!» the home-wrecker replied coyly. «Then maybe this weekend?»

«No problem!» Anton boldly declared.

«That’s wonderful!» Ilona sang, looking at her watch and then remembering. «Our lunch break is ending, it’s time to get back to the office, but I really don’t want to! It’s so nice with you, Anton! And the coffee here is just amazing!»

 

«I enjoy being with you too, Ilona, calm and cozy,» Anton replied, unaware of the storm raging in the heart of the woman sitting at the table behind them.

The couple paid and left the café. Olga breathed a sigh of relief.

«Wasn’t that Anton of yours, leaving the café with some lady?» Olga’s friend Raya, who was always late, plopped down across from her. This time, she was 40 minutes late! If not for her son, Olga would’ve left without waiting.

«That’s him. He came to have lunch with a colleague,» Olga answered as calmly as she could, but Raya noticed the sarcasm in her voice.

«So, what did I miss?»

«That scoundrel was about to cheat on Katya!» Olga blurted out. «I never thought his father’s genes would be so strong. Raya, what should I do? If I confront Anton, he’ll deny everything. And I don’t want to tell Katya, it would upset her. She’s like a shuttle—work-home-kids, kids-home-work. She doesn’t even have time to book a salon appointment. I already take the grandkids for weekends so she can rest a bit, but no! Instead of taking care of herself, she scrubs the apartment until it shines, washes everything. It feels like her life motto is: ‘Death to germs!’ Looks like Anton wants something new, some variety.»

«Let me tell you, your Anton has gotten too comfortable! I’m sorry, but it’s true!» Raya didn’t try to be delicate. «Looks like they’ve freed him from all the household chores, so now he’s bored. You need to fix this.»

Raya shared her thoughts with Olga, and after some reflection, Olga agreed to go along with the plan.

As the weekend approached, Katya reminded her husband that they had promised to take the kids to the park.

«Katya, darling, I’m sorry, but I can’t make it this weekend,» Anton tried to feign disappointment. «My boss decided to take the whole team on a fishing trip this weekend. I tried to get out of it, but he threatened to withhold my bonus. I had to agree. How about we reschedule?»

«No, Anton, we promised, so we need to keep our word. You go. I’ll invite your mom.»

Katya called her mother-in-law.

«Mom Olya, can you come with us to the park this weekend? Anton can’t make it, they have some team-building event at work.»

«Oh, Katya, you called just in time. I was just about to call you,» her mother-in-law responded with a sigh. «I wanted to ask if you could stay with me for a few days. I was watering the flowers on the shelf and fell off the stool. Now I can barely walk. I can’t even lift a spoon. Please don’t say no! Anton won’t be able to help, I know him. Let him stay home with the kids, and you come stay with me. Give him the phone, I’ll cheer him up.»

With no choice, Anton had to cancel his secret meeting, and Katya went to stay with her mother-in-law, calling her boss to take time off. She kissed the kids goodbye and promised to take them to the park once grandma was better.

Anton’s wild days began. He hadn’t been involved with the kids for a long time, didn’t cook, didn’t take Alina to kindergarten, didn’t help Arseniy with homework. Every day he called Katya to ask how her mother was doing, and every day she said she was doing better but couldn’t leave her yet.

Anton would have gladly run away, but the kids were already old enough to tell their mother everything. And there was also the neighbor, Olga’s friend, Aunt Raya, who kept popping over to check on the kids and him. «She’s checking if the kids are here, and if he is,» Anton thought.

To get the information firsthand, Anton called his mother.

«Antosha, son, how are you doing? Not tired? How are the kids, are they listening? And Katya—what a gem, what a helper!» Olga didn’t give Anton a chance to speak, then whispered conspiratorially:

«My neighbor came over, the one who moved in recently, and he really liked Katya. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. He even forgot he was gathering signatures for the playground project. He’s active, athletic… loves kids, wants his own! He found out Katya has two kids, and he fell in love right away! He said so many nice things to her, even invited her to dinner. Can you believe it? But Katya, she’s a woman of principle, faithful, unlike some, who just need a little encouragement to run off. And the neighbor—he’s a good-looking guy! Plus, he’s a businessman. You really got yourself a treasure in her. But her love needs to be nurtured. Have you bought her flowers lately? Took her to the movies? Think about it, before someone else sweeps her away…»

«She’ll stay with me for a couple more days, and then I’ll manage on my own.»

Olga quickly hung up so Anton could reflect on what he had heard. Anton felt a pang of jealousy so sharp it took his breath away.

«Ah, no, this is all Mom’s fantasies. She’s imagining things. What could a stranger see in just five minutes?» Anton muttered to himself, stirring the porridge for the kids. «But what if it wasn’t just five minutes? What if he invited her for tea? Katya makes such pastries, any man would lose his mind.»

«Dad, look! I drew mommy!» Alina interrupted his thoughts, handing him her drawing.

«Mom is the most beautiful!»

Anton looked at the silly drawing his daughter had made and chuckled:

«Very beautiful! You did a great job!»

The delighted little girl ran off to her room, but Anton felt uneasy, a sense of anxiety creeping into his heart. He called Katya again, but she didn’t answer. He called again—still no answer. Then he called his mother again.

«Mom,» he said, using the word «Mom» for the first time instead of «Mother,» «where’s Katya? She’s not picking up.»

«Oh, Katya?» Anton thought his mother hesitated.

«Yes, Katya. Where is she?» Anton began to get angry.

«Oh, she went somewhere. Left her phone at home,» Olga confessed, smiling to herself.

«Alone?» Anton’s questions were starting to feel like an interrogation.

«How should I know? I think Ivan asked her to help with some signatures… That’s the new neighbor. But I don’t know, I don’t keep track of her,» Olga replied, offended, and hung up.

«Kids, quickly get dressed! We’re going to grandma’s!» Anton peeked into the kids’ room. They eagerly jumped to obey.

Anton’s jealous mind painted all kinds of pictures: there was his wife, walking hand in hand with another man; they were sitting in a restaurant, he was whispering in her ear, and she was laughing that laugh Anton had once loved but now rarely heard; they were going up to a hotel room…

«Oh no!» Anton gasped when he saw the traffic jam.

The driver, as if on purpose, was driving slowly.

«In the car with the kids,» the driver explained when Anton impatiently glanced at the clock.

When the taxi finally stopped at the building, Anton grabbed the kids and was about to rush up to his mother’s apartment when he was called out.

«Anton, what are you doing here?» Katya was approaching them, carrying shopping bags, her cheeks flushed from the wind, looking so beautiful that Anton’s breath caught.

«We were worried—you weren’t picking up,» Anton replied, embarrassed.

«Oh, I left my phone at home!» Katya laughed that laugh Anton had always loved.

He took the bags from her, and the kids clung to their mother. Together, they went up to Olga’s apartment. Olga wasn’t surprised that Katya had come back with no one else.

After being alone with her son, Olga casually mentioned:

«Your wife is a beautiful woman. If you don’t appreciate her, someone else will. And while you’re making a huge mistake for the sake of a fleeting pleasure, someone might take your treasure right under your nose. Think about that the next time you think of Ilona.»

«How do you know…» Anton realized his mother knew about his affair. And he was grateful that she hadn’t told Katya and had shaken him up. He finally understood that he had stopped seeing his wife with the same loving eyes as before. He had gotten so caught up in routine and everyday life that he stopped noticing her. But today, he realized how much he feared losing her, taking her love for granted and her care as something owed to him. Only now, when he almost lost everything, did he realize: she was his home, his support, his life. And he, the fool, almost destroyed it with his stupidity.

Tatiana woke up at 6:45 — as always, to the alarm. Monday.

The kitchen smelled of oatmeal — grandma was already up. Life was going on as usual: ninth grade, lessons, homework, rare meetings with friends.

It seemed like everything was as it should be. But in reality, it was a little different.

Since childhood, Tatiana knew one thing, which had been repeated to her many times: her father was a hero, who died before she was born. That’s what her mother said. That’s what grandma said. And it was easy to believe. They told the story without unnecessary details, but with a special tenderness in their voices, as if it were a sacred secret that should not be touched. Her father was a «real man,» he «left too early,» and she — his «greatest legacy.»

This story became her shield. It was easier to live behind it. She could tell it to her classmates — without shame, even with a sense of pride. Some had fathers who beat them, some whose fathers disappeared entirely, but she — had a hero, who died for the country. In her mind, there were images, glimpsed from films: a man in uniform, a determined look, a farewell to his family before battle. Fantasy replaced reality.

After school, Tatiana often helped her grandmother — going to the store, carrying groceries. Grandma was aging, her legs often gave out. They had dinner together, at a small table. These evenings were filled with calm, but such a fragile calm that it seemed like one wrong move and everything would collapse.

And collapse, it did — suddenly.

Illness took her mother quickly. First, weakness, then pain, the ambulance, examinations. The diagnosis — cancer. A word that shatters the familiar world. Lena hid the truth as long as she could. But when it became impossible, Tatiana started taking care of her mother: holding her hand in the ward, learning to cook, running errands, calling doctors. All of this — at fourteen. Her childhood ended earlier than expected.

Her mother died quietly, almost imperceptibly — she just stopped breathing one night, when Tatiana had fallen asleep, her head resting on the edge of the bed.

After the funeral, she didn’t cry. Not immediately. It seemed like it wasn’t happening to her. That her mother had simply gone and would return any moment. In the evenings, Tatiana would catch herself waiting for familiar footsteps in the hallway. But the silence was never broken.

Her guardian became grandma. All the formalities were taken care of legally — documents, benefits, allowances. Svetlana Petrovna held herself together as best as she could. She cooked, washed, ironed, hugged. And every evening, she would repeat:

“Mom is now with us — watching from heaven. You are not alone, Tanya. We are together.”

But this “together” became increasingly fragile. The house became colder, even when the heaters were hot. Emptiness filled the rooms, even when they were both inside. Tatiana would sit by the window for hours, staring at the streetlight — the only constant light in her life. As if, in its beam, the answers were hidden.

One evening, when grandma was ironing and Tatiana pretended to be reading her textbook, a question escaped her chest, one that had been growing inside for a long time:

“Why did mom and dad… both die?”

Her voice trembled. It wasn’t a question — it was a cry of pain. The words she spoke aloud, for the first time, to see if they were real. Or perhaps this pain was just a dream?

Grandma flinched, put down the iron. There was a pause. Then a look — full of worry.

“Sometimes it happens. People leave too soon. But we are alive. We need to live on.”

“Both died.” These words became a new spell for Tatiana. She repeated them over and over, as if hoping to understand the meaning. But somewhere deep inside, a suspicion began to form — something didn’t sit right.

The morning began as usual. Tatiana arrived at school early, in the worn sweater her grandma had knitted. The air was sharp with autumn cold, her fingers frozen on the way.

But something felt strange in the building. People were staring. I mean, really staring. Some turned their eyes away, others whispered. The teachers avoided her gaze. Her friends acted strangely.

During break, Nastya, the school’s rumor queen, approached her. With a mixture of sympathy and curiosity, she said:

“Listen, Tanya… Please don’t be offended, okay?.. But do you know that your dad… didn’t die?”

Her heart stopped.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, my mom saw some homeless guy in the park. He called himself Pavel. He says he used to be with your mom. Like… your father.”

The words sank into emptiness. “Alive.” “Pavel.” “Homeless.”

 

At home that evening, Tatiana demanded the truth. Her voice was sharp, almost adult — like someone who had been deceived.

At first, grandma tried to distract her, avoid the conversation. But Tatiana didn’t back down.

And then Svetlana Petrovna sat on the sofa and told her everything. Slowly. Without embellishment.

Pavel was Lena’s youth friend. They grew up in the same village, loved each other. He went to the army, promised to return. Half a year later, a letter came — cold, soulless. He rejected Lena and the child. Asked her to forget him.

Lena couldn’t stay in her hometown. She moved to the city, hiding her pregnancy, starting a new life. There, Tatiana was born. Pavel never showed up again. Lena didn’t search — there was nothing to forgive.

Later, they heard that he had married, worked. Then — his life turned upside down. He hit rock bottom. For the last years, he lived on the streets. A stranger. Lost. Just a shadow.

“This is your father, Tanya,” grandma said quietly. “But he’s nobody to you. You grew up without him. You became yourself — not because of him, but in spite of him.”

The next day, Tatiana was walking home along the usual route when she saw a police car near the store. A man was standing next to it — hunched over, in worn clothes. His hair was matted, his face hidden by stubble, dirt, and time. But something in his appearance made her stop.

When the police led the man to the car, he suddenly turned around. Just for a second. But that second was enough. His gaze — blurry, but familiar — pierced through Tatiana.

It was him.

At home, grandma confirmed the terrifying truth: yes, it was Pavel. Yes, he was alive. And yes, now he was homeless.

Tatiana’s heart clenched with conflicting emotions: anger, pain, pity, shame. She wanted to scream. She wanted to erase everything from her memory. She wished he were really dead.

But he was alive. And he was her father.

On Monday, Tatiana came to school as usual — early, in her old sweater, with a backpack on her back. The previous blow had not yet passed, but she kept her face — cold, composed. However, the atmosphere in class had changed. The looks were different — full of judgment, almost hatred.

“The homeless girl has arrived,” someone whispered behind her, as she took her seat.

The nicknames poured in: “daughter of an alcoholic,” “heir to the trash,” “princess from the dumpster.”

The teachers also kept their distance. The homeroom teacher no longer smiled, the deputy headmaster pretended not to notice her. Absolute silence from those who once seemed to be reliable.

The worst part was that no one said a word in her defense. Not one of her friends, not one adult said: “It’s not your fault.” The world she had once felt safe in turned its back on her.

Before this, Tatiana had been one of the best students: responsible, curious, diligent. But suddenly, there were threes instead of fives, lower marks on essays, and answers in class were “unconvincing.”

At first, she chalked it up to coincidence, then to inattention. But the mistakes kept repeating. One evening, when she returned home, she quietly told grandma:

“I can’t take it anymore. I want to transfer to another school.”

Svetlana Petrovna, restrained but worried, went with her to the principal. The reception was polite but distant. The man in glasses, barely looking at them, said:

“We would help… but the load is heavy. And children like her, with emotional instability, create tension in the group. We already have a lot of problems.”

No apologies followed.

Tatiana left the school and didn’t go home. She sank onto a bench in the park, watching the leaves swirl at her feet. Children were playing ball, women were walking with strollers. And inside, everything hurt.

Why? Why did she have to pay for someone else’s mistakes? Why was her life falling apart just because she had such a father? She studied, helped, tried — why wasn’t that enough?

A thought, sharp as a blade, rose by itself:

“I am not my father. I am not guilty. Why should I suffer for this?”

But that thought changed nothing. The world had already decided: now she was “the daughter of the wrong one.”

“Adults can be stupid too,” grandma said that evening, when Tatiana cried on her shoulder. “There will always be good and evil. It’s not you who’s bad. It’s just that they are weak.”

Svetlana Petrovna spoke softly but firmly — like someone who knew the value of life. She patted her granddaughter on the head, as if she were little again.

“You’ll grow up, Tanya. You’ll forget all these people. Just don’t lose yourself. Do you hear? Don’t give yourself up to betrayal.”

These words became a lifeline. The only one to hold on to at that moment.

Winter began with a cough. Light, barely noticeable, growing into a deep one, with a wheeze. Grandma wasn’t worried at first: “She caught a cold,” “The weather’s like that.” But the cough got worse, added fever, shortness of breath.

The clinic, X-rays, diagnosis: bronchitis with complications on the heart. Prescribed treatment — drips, medications, rest. The pension went to medicine, there was little left for food.

Tatiana started keeping track of expenses. She kept a notebook, carefully writing down every penny. Sometimes she skipped breakfast to buy pills. She paid for utilities on the last day to avoid debts. School became secondary.

Her pale face, hollow cheeks, and oversized coat — none of it went unnoticed. But instead of sympathy, there were new mockeries.

“Saving on food?” one of the classmates sneered. “Or giving it to your dad?”

The girls snickered. Even those who had once been close friends.

The torn sleeve of her jacket became the subject of whispers. The ripped strap on her backpack — a reason for jokes and memes. And in the phones of her classmates, there was a photo of Tatiana eating a bun alone in the schoolyard, with the caption: “homeless girl.”

When the doorbell rang, and two women in strict coats with folders in their hands appeared at the doorstep, Tatiana immediately knew — it was from the guardianship.

“We need to talk. A signal has been received. We need to ask a few questions.”

The conversation was polite but formal. The women asked about living conditions, food, school. They inspected the apartment. Grandma tried to keep her dignity but couldn’t hide her cough. Their eyes met.

“There is an opportunity to offer temporary accommodation. At the center. A room, food, support. It would be easier for you.”

Tatiana stood up as if glued to the floor:

“No. I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying with grandma.”

“Think about it, it doesn’t take away your life, it’s help.”

“This is betrayal,” she said firmly and closed the door.

At night, tears flowed, not from fear, but from helplessness. From the realization that she couldn’t protect even those she loved most.

One of the women — younger, with brown eyes — lingered at the stairwell. She turned around and suddenly said:

“You’re a very strong and smart girl. Everything will get better. I believe in you.”

These were the first words from a stranger that touched her heart. These words became the anchor during those long nights when everything seemed hopeless. They reminded her: she was not broken. Not yet.

 

The school year was coming to an end. The class was rehearsing for graduation: some were preparing poems, others — songs, others — decorating the hall. The lists of participants were made, Tatiana’s name was nowhere to be found.

She sat in the corner of the class, listening to the voices, as if she didn’t exist. Worse than mockery was this — being invisible. As if she had been erased from the world.

Grandma couldn’t take it anymore. She called Nastya’s mother — Veronika.

“She’s a person too,” she said. “You may not like her, but she’s not to blame. Give her at least a chance.”

There was no response.

At one of the rehearsals, Tatiana was approached by the literature teacher, who was in charge of the event.

“We’ll have a song about dads. Very touching. Maybe you’d like to take a verse? Do you want to?”

Tatiana silently took the text. Read it. The lines: “Thank you, dad, for love and strength…” — they cut through with pain.

She carefully folded the paper and returned it.

“I won’t sing it.”

“Why?” the teacher was surprised.

“Because it’s not about me.”

And then something inside her broke. Everything that had been pressing for years collapsed.

“Because you’re just not like that!” Nastya shouted. “That’s why you didn’t fit in! Your mom died — and it’s good that such a child was left alone!”

The ringing silence. The world froze.

Tatiana jumped up:

“Don’t you dare say that about her! Don’t you dare! She was better than all of you put together! Better than you! She never betrayed, never lied, never humiliated. She lived — and loved! And you… you’re an empty shell! Nothing inside!”

Tears broke through the dam. She ran out of the class, slamming the door. She ran, not caring about the road. Just away — from these walls, from the faces, from the poison that had long filled her school days.

An explosion happened. But now — for the first time — she spoke. Loudly. Honestly. For herself. For her mom. For her voice, which no longer wanted to stay silent.

Tatiana came to the place where she had always felt safe — by the riverbank. This place had known her since childhood, hidden her under the willows, kept her silence. Here, she could be herself. Here, the world didn’t see her, but it didn’t hurt her either.

She sat on the grass, hugged her knees, and looked at the water. Her heart was empty, but not cold — more like burned out. It seemed like there was nothing left — neither pain, nor tears.

But suddenly, a cry rang out:

“Help!”

The voice was hoarse, almost weak, but full of despair. Tatiana jumped up. From behind the willow, there was a struggle in the water — someone was drowning.

Without thinking, she kicked off her sneakers, ran down, and jumped into the river.

The cold hit like an electric shock. Her breathing quickened. She swam, overcoming numbness and fear. The hand, the hair, the scream — all merged into one impulse: to save.

They pulled her ashore with difficulty. The ground was slippery, her legs gave way, but she didn’t let go. They were both alive — wet, trembling, but alive.

“How… are you…” Tatiana gasped.

“I don’t know… Thank you,” the girl whispered, coughing.

Her name was Maria. She was nineteen — a first-year architecture student. With a trembling voice, she explained that she had come here to meet a guy named Anton, with whom she had been dating for almost a year.

“I was going to end it…” she sniffed. “He changed. Became cruel. A stranger. Not the person he was before.”

Anton had suggested taking one last walk — along the river. But instead of parting ways, something terrible happened.

It turned out that he hadn’t just lost his feelings. He was part of a dangerous game. Through Maria, he had tried to get to her father — the governor of the region. His group had staged the girl’s disappearance to blackmail her father, forcing him to sign documents for a large construction project.

“He said: ‘Your daddy will sign if he thinks you’re dead,’” Maria said calmly now, but her eyes were still shocked.

They stood on the shore. At some point, Anton checked his phone and muttered:

“It’s done. Time’s up. Dead people don’t talk.”

And he shoved her into the water.

“I didn’t even have time to scream… But someone heard. It was you,” Maria looked at Tatiana, and in her eyes sparkled gratitude that couldn’t be put into words.

The next day, Tatiana brought Maria to her house. Gave her dry clothes, hot tea, and an old phone to contact her father.

The conversation was short, tense.

“Dad, it’s me. I’m alive. Don’t sign anything. It’s a trap. They wanted to use me…” Her voice trembled.

There was a long pause in the receiver, followed by a scream, then silence again. And finally — relief:

“I’m coming.”

Two hours later, a black jeep drove up to the house. A tall man in a strict coat got out. Upon seeing his daughter, he rushed to her, hugged her tightly, not hiding his tears.

“I almost went crazy…” he whispered.

 

Maria turned to Tatiana:

“She saved me. Without her, I wouldn’t have survived…”

The governor slowly approached Tatiana. She, confused, hid her hands in the sleeves of her sweater. He looked at her for a long time, as if he wanted to say something important, but only nodded. Then he left, holding his daughter tightly.

There were no interviews, no news headlines. But a new person entered Tatiana’s life — Maria. And that connection stayed.

The school was preparing for graduation. The last bell. Everyone was in dresses, with flowers, with ribbons. Tatiana stood at the entrance. In her hands — a simple white ribbon. It seemed no one was waiting for her. But she came.

When the famous song “about dads” played, she stayed aside. Didn’t raise her eyes. Just stood. But inside — there was no more pain. Only silence. Calm. Acceptance.

And then the hall noticed: Maria was entering. In a light dress, with neatly waved hair, in shoes that Tatiana herself wouldn’t have worn. On her wrist — a thin bracelet, on her face — a smile. All this — a gift from Tatiana.

“Let them see you as you are,” Maria had said the day before.

As the celebration was nearing its end, the doors opened. Sergey Nikolaevich, the governor of the region, walked in. The room froze. He confidently walked toward Tatiana. In his hands — a bouquet of red roses.

He handed her the flowers. Silently. Then leaned down and kissed her cheek.

“You’re not a stranger to me.”

The world froze. Teachers, students, parents — everyone watched. Some whispered: “Who is she to him?” Some filmed videos. Some couldn’t utter a word.

Tatiana turned to one of the girls, smiled, and quietly said:

“He said I’m not a stranger to him.”

And she left. Not running. With dignity.

Since then, Tatiana and Maria became inseparable friends. Now they often meet in the student cafeteria, discuss architecture and psychology, laugh, argue, dream — just live.

In the spacious workshop, there was a bustling, businesslike atmosphere. Margarita bent over a complex pattern, carefully sketching the darts on a new designer dress. Ten years of hard work had turned a tiny room with a single sewing machine into a proper workshop with professional equipment and a team of five skilled seamstresses.

The phone buzzed, displaying the name «Galina Petrovna.» Margarita sighed deeply and put down her pencil.

«Hello, dear,» her mother-in-law’s voice sounded sickeningly sweet. «Will you and Vitya be coming on Saturday?»
«Good afternoon, Galina Petrovna. Yes, as agreed,» Margarita rubbed her nose.

«Wonderful! I’ve made a list of what needs to be brought. The tiles in the bathroom are all chipped, it’s time to replace them.»

 

Margarita bit her lip. Another renovation that would fall on her shoulders.

«Galina Petrovna, we only fixed the roof a month ago…»

«Margarita, don’t you want to help your husband’s mother?» The voice of her mother-in-law turned icy. «Or is it too hard to spend some money on your parents?»

«No, of course, it’s not too hard,» Margarita gripped the phone tightly. «Send me the list, I’ll buy everything.»

After finishing the conversation, Margarita buried her face in her hands.

Later that evening, footsteps could be heard outside the workshop. Viktor entered, holding a bouquet of wildflowers.

«Hello, darling! How are you?» He kissed his wife on the cheek and handed her the flowers.

«Your mom called,» Margarita took the bouquet. «We’re going to replace the tiles in the bathroom on Saturday.»

The smile faded from Viktor’s face.

«Rita, you know it’s hard for mom to do it alone…»

«Vitya, I don’t mind helping, but why do I always have to do everything?» Margarita carefully placed the bouquet on the table. «You spend hours with her in the kitchen while I’m here painting, sawing, planing, all by myself.»

«Mom says you’re better than me at doing repairs,» Viktor shrugged. «You have a talent for handiwork.»

«This is not handiwork! This is hard physical labor!» Margarita stood up from the table. «And yet your mother calls me a weakling!»

Viktor frowned.

«Don’t exaggerate, she’s just joking.»

«Joking?» Margarita’s eyes widened. «Last week she told her friend that I only know how to do cross-stitch and don’t do anything around the house!»

Viktor shifted uncomfortably.

«You know how she feels about your atelier. She doesn’t see it as real work.»

«Not real?» Margarita gestured around the workshop. «I earn more than you, Vitya! We have five employees, regular clients, we were even invited to a show in Moscow!»

«I know, dear. I’m proud of you,» Viktor tried to embrace his wife.

Margarita pulled away.

«Proud, but you can’t defend me in front of your mom?»

«Rita, let’s not fight,» Viktor glanced at the clock. «By the way, mom asked if you could visit her tonight. She says the porch is creaking, needs checking.»

Margarita froze. Would this never end?

«Vitya, I have an urgent order. A key client is coming for a fitting tomorrow.»

«But mom’s waiting. You can handle the order, right?» Viktor looked at her pleadingly.

«And if I can’t? What’s more important, my work or a creaky porch?»

Viktor remained silent. His eyes scanned the room, avoiding his wife’s gaze.

«Fine,» Margarita gave in. «I’ll go. But I’m bringing work with me. I’ll fix the porch after I finish.»

«Thank you, darling!» Viktor beamed. «Mom will be so happy.»

Galina Petrovna’s house resembled an eternal construction site. In the bright light of the setting sun, Margarita could see the unfinished porch, the crooked fence, and the garden overrun with weeds.

«Finally!» Galina Petrovna appeared at the window. «I thought you had changed your mind!»

Margarita took a box of tools from the car. Her mother-in-law greeted them at the door in a perfectly pressed silk robe.

«Vityenka, darling!» She hugged her son. «And you, Rita, heading straight for the porch? You won’t even have tea?»

«Hello, Galina Petrovna,» Margarita forced a smile. «I’ll finish my work first, then I’ll handle the repairs.»

«What work?» her mother-in-law pursed her lips.

«I have an urgent order,» Margarita pulled out a bag with fabrics and sketches.

«Ah, your little dresses,» Galina Petrovna waved her hand. «You could’ve postponed it for the family.»

Viktor stood silently beside them, watching.

«This is my work, Galina Petrovna. The client is waiting,» Margarita clutched her bag tighter.

«Vitya, tell your wife that family comes before any rags,» Galina Petrovna turned to her son.

Margarita froze. Would he stay silent again?

«Mom, this is a serious business, not just rags,» Viktor spoke softly, without looking at either his mother or wife.

«Business?» Galina Petrovna laughed. «Real business is when you have millions in your account! And your savings, Rita, you only keep for yourself. You won’t even help your parents with money.»

«I’ve never refused to help you,» Margarita tried to stay calm. «I buy everything, bring it over, do it myself.»

«Yourself? Without our help, you wouldn’t have managed!»

Margarita choked on the unfairness of the accusations. The last straw broke her patience.

«Mom, let’s not discuss this now,» Viktor awkwardly intervened.

Margarita dropped the toolbox on the floor. Another evening had turned into a nerve-wracking trial. She completed the work for her client and then started fixing the porch. By midnight, exhausted both physically and mentally, Margarita fell asleep in the car, waiting for her husband, who had stayed with his mother.

May turned out to be hot. Margarita spread out the sketches for the summer collection on the table. Ahead lay the long-awaited three-week vacation—the first in five years.

«Margot, where are you planning to go with Vitya?» asked Alyona, her right-hand woman in the atelier, as she arranged fabrics.

«To Sochi,» Margarita smiled. «We’ve already made the reservation, I’ll pay tomorrow.»

The phone rang, displaying her mother-in-law’s name.

«Ritochka, I have great news!» Galina Petrovna’s voice sounded excited.

«Hello, Galina Petrovna,» Margarita stepped into the hallway of the atelier.

«I’ve decided to do a major renovation! Can you imagine how well it’ll coincide with your vacation? What a lucky coincidence!»

Margarita froze with the phone at her ear. A cold wave of premonition washed over her.

«Renovation? But Vitya and I planned…»

«Darling, you can relax at home,» her mother-in-law interrupted. «Just think how beautiful it will be for New Year’s when you arrive. I’ve already made a list of materials.»

«What list?» Margarita leaned against the wall.

«It’s five pages long, don’t be scared,» Galina Petrovna laughed. «Vitya said you have good savings.»

Margarita clenched her teeth so hard it made her jaw ache.

«What exactly did Vitya say about my savings?»

 

«Why are you so nervous?» Her mother-in-law’s voice became condescending. «He said you were saving just in case. But that can wait, right? Family comes first, then hobbies.»

«My atelier is not a hobby, it’s my business,» Margarita tried to speak evenly.

«Vitya thinks otherwise,» her mother-in-law snapped. «He said you’ll definitely help. I’ll send the list in the chat.»

The dial tone sounded before Margarita could reply. She slowly lowered the phone. Rage bubbled inside her chest.

At home, Viktor greeted her as if nothing had happened. Margarita didn’t start the conversation. For three days, she remained silent, pondering the situation, while her husband wondered why she seemed so distant.

«Rita, what’s going on?» Viktor finally asked on the third evening. «You’re not even discussing the purchases for mom’s renovation.»

«Why discuss it?» Margarita set her fork down. «You’ve already decided everything.»

«What do you mean?»

«About our vacation plans, about my savings,» Margarita’s eyes sparkled. «You told your mother that I would give money for the repairs.»

Viktor hesitated.

«Rita, you have to understand, mom really needs this help. We can help with the repairs.»

«We can,» Margarita nodded. «But we won’t.»

«What?»

«I called Elena yesterday,» Margarita took a sip of water. «Remember my jeweler friend? She’s expanding her business. I transferred my savings to her as an investment.»

Viktor stared at her as if he’d seen a ghost.

«You… what have you done?»

«I invested in a promising business,» Margarita replied calmly. «It’s a smart move. I’ll get good dividends soon.»

«Rita, have you lost your mind?» Viktor jumped up from the table. «How could you do this without telling me?!»

«And how could you promise my money to your mother without telling me?» Margarita stood up too.

Viktor grabbed his head.

«What am I going to tell mom?»

«Tell her the truth,» Margarita cut him off. «There’s no money.»

A week passed in tense silence. Margarita took some time off and focused on household chores. Viktor returned late every evening, avoiding conversation.

The night before their vacation, he finally made up his mind.

«Rita, mom’s asking when you’ll go shopping for the materials.»

Margarita looked up from her book and stared at her husband.

«There’s no money. This vacation will be spent at home. And your mom can fix her own house!»

Viktor paled.

«You can’t do this!»

«I can, and I am,» Margarita slammed the book shut. «I’ve worked for ten years in her house. Ten years she’s considered my business a joke. Enough.»

«But mom was counting on it…»

«And I was counting on the support of my husband,» Margarita interrupted. «On respect for my work. Where’s that?»

Viktor’s phone rang. The screen displayed «Mom.» Margarita warned her husband:

«Don’t you dare say I refused. Tell her the truth—there’s no money.»

Viktor answered the phone, but instead of replying, he handed it to his wife.

«Say it yourself. I’m not part of this.»

Margarita took the phone.

«Yes, Galina Petrovna.»

«Ritochka, when will you come? It’s time to buy the materials!» her mother-in-law’s voice was excited.

«Never,» Margarita replied firmly. «I will no longer be free labor. And we don’t have money for the renovation.»

Silence hung on the line.

«What do you mean ‘no’?» her mother-in-law’s voice turned cold. «Vitya promised!»

«Viktor has no right to manage my money. I invested it in a business.»

«What business?» Galina Petrovna shrieked. «Has your atelier gone bankrupt?»

«No, I invested in a jewelry company. And this is not up for discussion.»

«Give the phone to Vitya!» her mother-in-law demanded.

Margarita handed the phone to Viktor. He stepped back a pace.

«No, mom, Rita’s right. We can’t…»

«Traitor!» Galina Petrovna screamed so loudly it could be heard even without the speakerphone. «You’re choosing her… this… this upstart over your mother?»

Viktor helplessly looked at his wife.

«Mom, let’s calm down…»

«Go to her, since she’s more important to you!» The sound of sobbing came through the speaker.

«Mom, stop,» Viktor turned pale.

«Make your choice,» Margarita said quietly. «Now, once and for all.»

Viktor kept glancing from the phone to his wife.

«I can’t do this…»

 

«Then it’s decided,» Margarita turned and walked into the bedroom.

«Where are you going?» Viktor followed her.

Margarita opened the wardrobe and pulled out a suitcase.

«I’m packing your things. You’ve made your choice.»

«What? Rita, wait…»

«I’ve tolerated enough,» Margarita folded his shirts into the suitcase. «I hoped you’d stand by me. Enough.»

«But I love you!» Viktor’s voice was full of desperation.

«And I’m tired,» Margarita shook her head. «You won’t change, Vitya. The road to your mom is open. Go help her with the renovation.»

An hour later, Viktor, bewildered and downcast, stood at the door with a suitcase.

«Rita, let’s not be so harsh…»

«Goodbye, Viktor,» Margarita closed the door without listening.

The bright July day filled the apartment with light. Margarita sat with a cup of coffee, reviewing the financial report from Elena. The first dividends from her investments were already starting to come in.

The doorbell interrupted her thoughts. At the door stood Viktor—gaunt, with a dull gaze.

«Rita, I came to apologize,» he handed her a bouquet of her favorite peonies. «I’ve realized everything. Mom was wrong…»

Margarita silently stared at the man she had lived with for so many years.

«Leave, Vitya,» she said firmly. «We’re no longer on the same path.»

«But Rita, I’ve changed!» His eyes begged.

«It’s too late,» Margarita shook her head. «I’ve changed too.»

Closing the door, she returned to her reports. Life was calmer without Viktor and his family. And her investments in her friend’s business were already yielding profits. A new life was just beginning.