All Amazing Babies

— Do you really think this place is suitable for living with a child?”
My gaze drifted over the leaning walls of the house, which seemed to be held up only by a miracle and rusty nails.

“— Olga, let’s not be dramatic. I’m leaving you the whole house with its land, even though I could have just kicked you out onto the street,” Viktor said indifferently, tossing the last bag onto the creaking porch.

His tone was steeped in the irritation of a man forced to perform an unpleasant formality.

I silently stared at the papers in my hands. The old house on the outskirts of the village, which Viktor had inherited from his grandfather, only came to mind now that he decided to rid himself of us. Ten years of marriage ended not with tears and explanations, but with a business proposal—a “concession,” as he called it.

Misha, my nine-year-old son, stood nearby clutching a tattered teddy bear—the only toy he managed to grab when his father announced our move. In his eyes was the frozen bewilderment of a child whose world had suddenly been turned upside down without a single explanation.

“— Sign here,” Viktor said as he handed me a pen with the same expression he had when ordering the check at a restaurant. “No alimony, no claims. The house is completely yours.”

I signed the documents—not because I believed it was fair, but because the city apartment belonged to his parents, and legally I had no rights to it. There was no other choice. And any alimony would have been pitiful anyway.

“— Good luck in your new place,” he tossed over his shoulder as he got into his car. Misha flinched, as if about to say something to his father, but Viktor had already slammed the door.

“— Everything will be alright, Mom,” Misha said as the car disappeared beyond the horizon, leaving trails of dust behind. “We’ll manage.”

The house greeted us with creaking floorboards, the smell of dampness, and cobwebs in the corners. Cracks in the floor allowed the cold to seep in, and the window frames had dried out into splintered wood. Misha squeezed my hand, and I realized there was no turning back.

The first month was a true test of survival. I continued working remotely as a designer, but the internet kept cutting out, and deadlines were not canceled. Misha began attending the local school, riding an old bicycle purchased from neighbors.

I learned how to patch holes in the roof, replace wiring, and reinforce sagging floors. Of course, at first I had the help of a handyman I had hired with my last savings. My hands, once well-kept and with immaculate manicures, became rough and calloused. Yet every evening, when Misha fell asleep, I stepped out onto the porch and gazed at the stars, which here seemed incredibly close.

“— Don’t give up, girl,” Nina Petrovna once said to me, leaving me in tears after yet another leak. “The land loves the strong. And I can see you’re strong.”

There was a strange wisdom in her words—a wisdom I began to understand as I watched Misha change. He grew stronger, laughed more often, and an inner light appeared in his eyes. He made friends with the local kids, excitedly talking about the frogs in the pond and how he helped our neighbor Andrey feed his chickens.

Almost a year passed. The house slowly began to transform: I repainted the walls, re-roofed the house with the help of Semyon, a neighbor and builder (we no longer had money for the workers), and even planted a small garden. Life was settling in, though it remained difficult.

That day, a heavy rain poured down. Misha had gone on an excursion with his class to the regional center, and I finally decided to sort out the basement. I dreamed of setting up a workshop there—to start making souvenirs for the rare tourists passing through the village.

Descending the creaking stairs, I had no idea that this cold and damp day would change our lives forever.

The basement turned out to be larger than I had imagined. The beam of my flashlight revealed old shelves choked with clutter, dusty boxes, and jars. The smell of damp earth mixed with that of rotting wood. I set to work, sorting and discarding what was unnecessary, clearing space for the future workshop.

When I moved aside a heavy dresser, I discovered an inconspicuous door on the wall. It was nearly invisible—painted the same color as the wall, without any protruding hinges. Curiosity got the better of me, and I pulled on the rusty handle. The door creaked open with a drawn-out groan.

Behind it was a narrow passage leading into a tiny room. Shining my flashlight in, I saw a large wooden chest bound with darkened metal.

“— What kind of hiding place is this?” I murmured, kneeling before the chest.

The lock had long since failed. With great effort, I lifted the heavy lid and froze in astonishment—the beam of my flashlight reflected off the yellowed metal. Coins. Hundreds of gold coins. Antique jewelry. Massive bars.

My heart pounded so fiercely I nearly lost my balance. My fingers trembled as I picked up one of the coins. It was unexpectedly heavy and chilled my palm. Bringing it closer to the light, I saw a finely chiseled profile of an emperor, as though carved from another time.

“Oh my God, this can’t be real,” I whispered, feeling my fingertips go numb. My head spun as though I’d downed a glass of strong wine. “Is this… genuine?”

For a moment, I thought Viktor might have known about the cache. But no, impossible. He would never have transferred the house if he had suspected its existence.

Trembling, I closed the chest, covered it with an old cloth, and went back upstairs. My heart pounded so hard I could barely breathe.

I checked three times to make sure the front door was locked before dialing Inna’s number—my college friend who was now working as a lawyer specializing in property disputes.

“— Inna, you won’t believe this,” I blurted out without even a greeting. “I need your help. Urgently. Can you come over this weekend?”

“— Olga? What happened? Are you alright?” Her voice trembled with concern.

“— Yes, it’s just…” I hesitated, unable to find the words to explain the situation over the phone. “Please come. It’s important.”

For two days I wandered through the house like a ghost. I jumped at every sound, constantly checking the locks. Misha watched me anxiously.

“— Mom, are you sick?” he asked during dinner, when I added salt to the soup for the second time.

“No, I’m just thinking about… new projects,” I lied gently, tousling his hair.

That night I hardly slept, straining to listen for every sound. What if someone knew about the treasure? What if legends of hidden riches in the village had spread? What if someone tried to break into the basement?

Inna arrived on Saturday afternoon—composed, businesslike, in a crisp suit despite it being a day off. After hearing my jumbled story, she looked at me skeptically.

“— Either you’re overworking yourself, or you’ve found something truly valuable,” she said. “Show me.”

I led her down to the basement. As soon as the flashlight beam illuminated the first handful of coins, Inna whistled.

“Oh my God!” she gasped, crouching down to pick up one coin. “This is genuine gold. And judging by the insignia—these are coins from a royal mint. Olga, this is a fortune!”

“And what do I do now?” I asked, wrapping my arms around myself in the chill. “Can I just keep it?”

Inna pulled out her phone and quickly looked up the necessary information.

“— So, Article 233 of the Civil Code…” she scanned the text. “By law, a treasure found on your property belongs to you, provided that it is not of significant cultural value.”

“And if it is?” I asked, glancing at the ancient coins.

“Then the state will confiscate the treasure, but they’ll compensate you with 50% of its market value,” she explained, looking up at me. “In any case, you need to officially register your find. Otherwise, if it comes to light later, there may be problems.”

On Monday we submitted the report. I barely slept the night before the commission’s visit—what if they took everything away? What if they suspected something was amiss?

The commission was small: an elderly historian with her hair tied in a strict bun, a silent appraiser with a magnifying glass, and a young man from the regional museum.

They spread out the items on the table, taking notes, photographs, and whispering among themselves.

“— Well then,” the historian finally said, adjusting her glasses, “This is an ordinary collection typical of a well-to-do family from the late 19th century. It was likely hidden during the revolution. There are a couple of pieces of interest for collectors, but nothing extraordinary for the museum.”

She handed me the document.

“— This is the official conclusion. The treasure is considered ordinary property value and, by law, belongs to the owner of the house—that is, you.”

After the commission left, leaving behind the official document, Inna embraced me.

“— Congratulations! What a twist of fate! Now let’s decide how to properly manage this wealth.”

I looked at my cracked hands, my patched-up old jeans, and couldn’t believe that I now owned a fortune.

“What do I do now?” I muttered, feeling overwhelmed.

“— Start with a sound plan,” Inna smiled, opening her laptop. “We’ll act cautiously and thoughtfully.”

Over the following months I lived as though in two worlds. By day—a typical rural resident busy with household chores and remote work. By evening—a woman discussing bank deposits, investments, and paperwork with Inna.

We decided to sell the gold gradually, through different appraisers in various cities.

“I have an acquaintance in St. Petersburg,” Inna mentioned while flipping through her notebook. “An antiques expert with years of experience who used to work in the Hermitage. No extra questions, complete confidentiality.”

We proceeded carefully. First, we sold a few coins, then a little more. The antique expert whistled as soon as he saw them.

“You know,” he said, dabbing his glasses with a cloth, “coins in good condition like these can fetch ten times the price of the gold at auctions. You truly have a treasure.”

When a substantial amount appeared in my account, I decided to take the first serious step—buying a new house.

Not an ostentatious mansion, but a sturdy, warm home on the outskirts of a nearby town. With large windows that let in streams of light, a garden, and a separate workshop.

When the realtor handed me the keys, everything turned upside down inside. Could this really be happening to me? To the very Olga who a year ago was mending old tights?

“— Mom,” Misha stood at the doorway of the new house, inspecting the spacious entryway and the broad staircase up. In his eyes, a trace of disbelief shone. “Is this really our house? Forever?”

“Yes, sweetheart,” I said, embracing him as tears welled up in my throat. “And you know what? I want to start a small farm. Remember how you loved the goats at Nina Petrovna’s?”

“A real farm? With our own animals?” His eyes lit up.

Soon I purchased a piece of land next to the house. I hired local workers, built animal shelters, bought goats and chickens, and tended the garden—not for sale, but for myself, savoring the simple labor.

Misha eagerly embraced the new life: after school he fed the animals, proudly showing his “farm” to his friends.

I invested part of the money in local businesses, opened an educational fund for Misha, and even created a relief fund for unforeseen circumstances.

I wasn’t chasing flashy luxury—confidence in tomorrow and independence were worth more than any jewels.

One autumn day, while I was picking apples in the garden, a familiar car pulled up at the gate. Viktor.

I hadn’t seen my ex-husband for over a year, but I recognized him immediately. He looked worse: haggard, with a nervous glare.

“— You look… different,” he said instead of greeting, eyeing my new house and the well-tended yard.

“— What brings you here?” I asked, wiping my hands on my apron. “Misha’s at school if you’re here for him.”

“I came to talk to you,” his voice was tense. “There are rumors in the village that you’ve found gold. In my grandfather’s house. And your new home speaks for itself.”

So that’s it. He didn’t even bother to ask about his son, whom he hadn’t seen for over a year.

“And so?” I met his gaze calmly.

“This is the inheritance of my family!” he raised his voice. “Had I known, I would never have transferred the house to you. You owe me the gold!”

“Return? —” I asked, incredulously. “Viktor, you willingly transferred the house to me. Officially.”

Since then, I’ve been paying taxes, renovated the place, and completed all the paperwork for the find. By law, a treasure found in my house belongs to me.

“You’ve always been cunning,” he sneered, stepping forward. “But I will find a way to make you give me what’s rightfully mine.”

“Trouble, Olga?” came a low voice. From around the corner came Andrey and Semyon—my former neighbors who now helped me with the farm.

“— Everything’s fine,” I replied steadily, never taking my eyes off Viktor. “Your ex is leaving.”

“This isn’t over yet,” he muttered, but after glancing at the sturdy men, he backed away toward his car.

“— I’m afraid it is the end,” I said quietly. “Inna made sure that all the documents were impeccably in order.”

By the way, I had set aside part of the money for Misha’s educational fund. You could at least do something for your son—don’t stand in the way of his proper education.

Viktor fell silent. Starting his car, he drove away, and I realized I would never see him again.

That evening, Misha and I sat on the porch. The sky was studded with stars—just as bright as those above the old shack, but now I looked at them without fear for the future.

“— Mom,” Misha snuggled close, “I always knew everything would be alright.”

“— And where does that confidence come from?” I smiled, hugging him.

“— Because you’re strong,” he replied simply. “Stronger than anyone I know.”

I buried my face in his hair, inhaling the scent of his shampoo and the summer evening.

Somewhere in our accounts lay huge sums of money that I never even dreamed of. But somehow, that moment—sitting on the porch with my son, listening to the chirping of crickets, feeling his warmth next to me—seemed truly priceless.

“— You know, Misha,” I said, gazing at the first stars emerging in the dark sky, “when your father kicked us out like unwanted things, into that old shack… I thought our life was over.”

“I grinned,” he recalled. “But it turned out that he gave us the greatest gift. Not the gold—no. Unwittingly, he returned us… ourselves.”

Misha nodded with a seriousness beyond his years. And I thought perhaps the true treasure wasn’t the gold coins at all, but the ability to start over.

In the courage to let go of the past and in the quiet happiness of sharing simple moments with the person you love most.

Ten years passed in the blink of an eye. Sometimes, looking at old photographs, I couldn’t believe the changes that had taken place.

My Misha, once a skinny boy with disheveled hair, had become a broad-shouldered young man who now came from the agricultural university only on weekends.

When he walks through the village, local girls start lingering nearby—as if by chance.

“You’ve really changed,” Inna remarked with a smile as she ladled salad during a Sunday lunch. “Still as stubborn as ever.”

Do you know what he said to me yesterday? “Aunt Inna, modern agriculture has reached a dead end; we need to return to natural cycles.” I almost dropped my spoon.

I only smiled, stirring my tea. Our little farm, which began with a couple of goats and a dozen chickens, had grown into a respectable homestead.

Now I employ five local workers, including Andrey and Semyon—the very neighbors who once helped us with the roof of that old shack.

Their wives assist with accounting and processing products. We grow vegetables, keep bees, and make natural dairy products that are now even bought by urban health food stores.

“— Olga Sergeyevna!” came a voice from the apiary, belonging to Marina, Andrey’s wife. “New hives have arrived; we’ll set them up tomorrow?”

It’s funny how people’s attitudes toward me changed. Before—a “city snob,” now—a respectful “Olga Sergeyevna,” without sycophancy but with genuine warmth. I had become one of them, having taken root.

In the evenings, when the busy workday subsides, I often sit on the porch with a cup of herbal tea. I still can’t believe that all this is mine.

The gold found in the old house didn’t merely stay intact—it multiplied. Inna helped invest the money wisely: part went into land, part into the development of local farms, and part into reliable securities.

Last summer, Misha and I sat under an old apple tree. He was munching on a blade of grass, squinting at the setting sun.

“— You know, Mom,” he suddenly said, “sometimes I think we got lucky twice.”

“How so?” I looked up from my book.

“— First, when father cast us out. And second, when you found that gold.”

I tousled his hair—a gesture he now reserved only for home, away from prying eyes.

“— And sometimes I feel that true luck wasn’t just in the find, but in what you did with it,” I said then.

That conversation settled in my mind. Money kept flowing in, and Misha and I lived a simple yet secure life. We didn’t crave ostentatious luxury or feel the need to prove our wealth to anyone.

Last year, during a heavy snowfall at the village school, part of the roof collapsed.

Our district was poor, the budget was stretched to the limit, and the next funding tranche was still six months away.

“— Listen, why don’t we help out?” Misha interjected from his laptop while we discussed the news. “We have a chance, right?”

We anonymously paid for the repairs. But soon, everyone knew whose money it was.

And something clicked inside me. I suddenly understood: money locked away in safes and bank accounts, like tart wine in a poorly sealed bottle, just sits there waiting. But money put to good use with a generous heart brings a joy that no amount of wealth can buy.

Misha and I decided that we would donate a fixed percentage of our income to help others.

That’s how “Mayachok” was born—a small foundation for women with children who have been cornered by life. Women like I once was, only without a fairy-tale discovery in the basement.

Every time a new woman enters our modest office—a woman with a weary look in her eyes, nervously fiddling with her purse strap, with a child clinging to her leg—something stirs inside me.

I see myself as I was a decade ago. And there is nothing more precious than the moment when, after a conversation, she suddenly heaves a deep sigh, her shoulders slumping for the first time in a long while, and her eyes glint with something like hope.

That moment, I know, no treasure in the world can compare with.

Recently, Misha and I were sorting through old photos—he had started a family history project at university.

“— Look at this,” he said, handing me a worn-out picture. “You look so cool here.”

In the photo I stood in front of our old shack—in a stained T-shirt, with my hair hastily tied in a ponytail, tired yet smiling.

“— Oh, come off it,” I snorted while scrutinizing the picture. “Dirty, unkempt, like a bum.”

“But look at those eyes,” he tapped the photo with his finger. “They’re so alive. You know, Mom,” he hesitated, choosing his words, “I’m glad you found that gold. But I’m even happier that you know how to use it wisely.”

I looked at my son—tall, strong, with that determined chin and kind eyes—and thought: this is my true treasure. And I don’t care how much gold is sitting in the bank.

“— Mom, stand right here under the oak,” Misha said, motioning with his hand as he adjusted the camera lens. “Yes, perfect… just a second.”

“— Why do you need so many shots?” I squinted in the bright sunlight filtering through the leaves.

“— I want to make a collage for a brochure,” he explained as he snapped another photo. “It has to capture the soul of the festival.”

Today, our farm is abuzz with noise and hustle—the first charity festival completely organized by Misha. A month ago, he burst into the house with eyes shining with determination.

“— Mom, I have an idea!” he blurted, barely managing to take off his jacket. “Let’s gather all the local farmers on our land, organize a fair, host master classes for children, and put on a concert!”

And all of this to raise funds for renovating the children’s ward at the district hospital. Imagine how wonderful it will be—and we’ll contribute a large part ourselves!

And here is the result: the entire clearing in front of the house is set up with white tents and marquees.

Farmers from neighboring villages brought their produce, local musicians played folk tunes, children ran between the stalls, and in the center a small stage towered, where later Misha would perform.

“— Look at him,” Inna said as she approached with a glass of our signature lemonade. “He commands the place like a true director.”

By the way, I got a call yesterday from the regional administration—they were inquiring about your foundation. It seems you’re becoming serious players in the region.

I watched as my son confidently interacted with the guests: one moment he was explaining something to a group of schoolchildren, the next he was helping an elderly couple choose some honey, then resolving an issue with the musicians.

“You know, Inna,” I remarked without taking my eyes off him, “sometimes I feel that all these years I was merely a conduit. And the real wealth is right here, in front of us.”

By evening, when the festival was in full swing, Misha took to the stage. He spoke simply and from the heart—about the importance of supporting local farmers, about taking care of the land, and about the need to help one another.

All his life he had watched me build my path, and now I saw in him the best parts of myself—only without the bitterness and fear that had haunted me for so long.

“— And finally,” he paused, scanning the gathered crowd, “I want to thank the person without whom none of this would have been possible. My mom, Olga, who taught me the most important lesson—to be a good person.”

Applause broke out suddenly, and I blushed like a little girl unaccustomed to public praise.

People looked at me with a special warmth, and in that moment I saw the image of myself ten years ago—a confused, abandoned woman on the doorstep of an old shack with a child clinging to her hand.

As the last guests departed, Misha and I sat on the porch, tired but content. The accounting showed that the festival had raised twice as much money as we had planned.

“— I have something for you,” Misha said, pulling out a worn velvet box from the pocket of his jeans.

Inside lay an antique signet ring with a deep red stone. The very one from the chest of gold.

“— Where did you get that?” I asked in amazement, examining the ring.

“— I took it from your little treasure box; you had already forgotten about it,” he smiled. “Remember you said it was the first thing you took from the treasure? I thought… let it be with you as a reminder of a new beginning.”

I slipped on the ring—it fit perfectly, as if it had been made for my finger. The stone glimmered softly in the light of the setting sun.

“You were so little back then,” I said, looking at my grown son who now towered over me. “Do you remember that shack?”

“— Of course,” he grinned. “Creaking floorboards, a lock that always got stuck, a draft coming from every crack… And do you remember when we planted our first garden? I sowed carrots, but all I got were some twisted stumps.”

We fell silent, lost in our memories. Above the fields, a full moon rose, bathing everything in silvery light.

“— We found gold,” Misha murmured quietly, watching the shimmering lights of the village, “but what’s even more important is that we managed to become… our kind of gold for others.”

He took my hand in his—a large, calloused hand from working in the field, with small scratches and abrasions.

“— You didn’t just give me money, Mom,” he added, gently squeezing my fingers. “You gave me wings.”

We sat like that until darkness fell. Tomorrow would be another busy day—apple picking started again, we had to prepare documents to expand the foundation, and plan new projects.

But I no longer feared the future. We had built this life ourselves—with our own hands, and our own decisions.

And even if tomorrow all the gold were to disappear, the greatest treasure would still remain with us—the ability to share, without expecting anything in return.

That old signet ring warmed my hand, as if holding a piece of that summer day—a reminder that sometimes the darkest times lead to the brightest light.

Marina stopped at the kitchen doorway and felt the unspoken words stuck in her throat. Her hand involuntarily clenched the phone — still warm from the message from her boss about the bonus. Three voice messages from Lena, her friend, with whom they had almost already bought tickets for a two-week vacation in Turkey.

“What?” she managed to squeeze out.

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

“You heard. Anya and that guy of hers… what’s his name…” her mother frowned, trying to recall the name, “Kirill decided to rent an apartment. The landlord wants six months’ rent paid in advance. And where is she supposed to get that kind of money? Your bonus is just what’s needed.”

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

Marina took off her coat and carefully hung it on the hook in the hall. Her movements were slow and deliberate — that’s how she always coped with inner tension. Twenty-eight years of habit controlling her emotions in front of her mother.

“Mom, I was going to use that money,” she began cautiously. “Lena and I had planned…”

“Oh, your Lena again,” her mother waved dismissively, checking the pies in the oven. “She’s always dragging you somewhere. You’re almost thirty, and you’re still gallivanting around the seas with your girlfriend. You should think about family instead.”

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

 

“Marinka, why are you so upset? You got the bonus, right? That’s cool,” she scooped yogurt with a spoon. “Kirill found a really nice place yesterday, imagine? Two rooms, windows facing the yard, and the landlord is a decent woman. Only she says — either pay six months upfront or look for another place.”

Marina looked at her sister. Unlike Marina herself with her dark hair tied in a strict bun and perpetually tired eyes, Anya was radiant. Light blonde curls, dimples on her cheeks, a serene gaze. Mom’s princess, as their dad used to say before he left for the accountant from his office three years ago.

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

Anya rolled her eyes.

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

“We should. Help each other,” Marina emphasized the last words. “Not ask your sister to give up her saved money.”

“Oh, come on, Marinka,” Anya stepped closer and put a hand on her sister’s shoulder. “You still have plenty of time to go to your sea. We really need this apartment now. You understand, right? Kirill and I want to live together, test our relationship.”

Mom snorted loudly without looking away from the cooking.

“They’ll be testing all right… You’d better get married properly.”

“Mom, everyone lives like that now,” Anya stretched out. “Right, Marina?”

Marina was silent. She had worked for four years at an international company, the last year as a senior analyst. Every day she woke up at six a.m., came home at nine p.m. She often spent weekends at her laptop. Her last proper vacation was two years ago.

And Anya… Anya had changed three jobs after college, never staying anywhere longer than three months. She was now “finding herself,” simultaneously taking an online nail design course. Kirill was also “finding himself,” promising to start a business, then become a trader, then do web design.

“Marina,” her mother’s voice hardened. “Don’t be selfish. Your sister needs help. It’s family, understand? Family.”

Marina felt something inside crack. Selfish? She, who every month gave half her salary to shared expenses, while Anya spent her random earnings on new dresses and hanging out with Kirill?

“I was going on vacation, mom,” she said quietly. “Just for two weeks. I saved for this trip for a year.”

“Vacation!” Mom threw up her hands. “What vacation, when your sister is settling her life? You only think about yourself. Always have.”

Anya approached Marina, looking into her eyes with that pleading look of hers.

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

“When will you find it, that job?” Marina lost control. “You’ve been saying that for three years.”

“Not everyone’s a careerist like you,” Mom interjected, banging the lid of a pot. “Anya still needs to create a family. Have children.”

“So I’m not supposed to create or have children?” Marina blurted.

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

“Well, when will you have time, with your job? Always tired, always busy. Men don’t like women like that. And Anya — she’s a homebody, warm.”

Marina pressed her lips tight. Meanwhile, Anya took her sister’s phone and started scrolling through photos of Turkish hotels like she owned the place.

 

“Wow, you’re going to a five-star?!” she whistled. “Yeah, pricey. But you know, you could go to a three-star. Or even Sochi. There’s sea too.”

Marina took the phone back.

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

“Sure you can,” Mom nodded. “But now it’s more important to help your sister. You can rest later.”

Later. The eternal “later.”

“Anya,” Marina looked at her sister. “Why can’t you find an apartment with monthly payments?”

“They cost more!” Anya exclaimed. “But this one’s near the metro and shops. And the landlord doesn’t mind Kirill’s dog. You know how he loves his Charlie.”

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

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

Anya grinned broadly.

“Two hundred fifty thousand. But that’s for six months! Imagine? Less than fifty a month. Very profitable.”

Marina froze. Two hundred fifty. Almost her entire bonus.

“Anya, I…”

“Marina,” Mom turned to her full-on. “You won’t refuse your sister. You’re not like that. I didn’t raise you like that.”

At that moment, the doorbell rang. Anya jumped.

“It’s Kirill! I told him to come for dinner. Mom, set the table. Marina, are you coming with us?”

Marina slowly shook her head.

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

In her room, Marina sat on the bed, staring blankly at one spot. There were five new messages from Lena on her phone.

“So? Got the bonus? Are we buying swimsuits tomorrow?)))”
“Marinka, are you alive there?”
“I found another cool hotel, but you have to book today, spots are running out.”
“Hey?”
“Why are you silent? Everything okay?”

Laughter from the kitchen — Anya’s laughter, Kirill’s deep voice, the approving clink of mom’s spoon on a plate.

“Len, I can’t go,” Marina typed.

“WHAT? WHY???”

Marina sighed. How to explain? How to explain this endless pattern she kept falling into again and again?

“Family circumstances.”

“Your sister again? Marina, when will you stop supporting them all?”

Marina didn’t answer. Suddenly, the small room where she’d lived since her teenage years felt suffocating. The same wallpaper, the same creaky wardrobe, the same photos on the wall. Only the computer had changed — where she did her work when she didn’t have the strength to stay in the office.

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

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

“I’m going for a walk. Headache.”

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

Without waiting for a reply, her mother returned to dinner.

Marina walked through the evening neighborhood, unaware of the passersby. Her phone vibrated in her pocket — Lena didn’t give up. She opened the messages.

“Marin, I’m serious. I understand you have difficulties, but you can’t sacrifice yourself forever.”
“You told me you wanted to rent your own apartment this year. What’s stopping you?”
“Marin, answer me.”

Marina stopped at the embankment railing. In the distance, the windows of skyscrapers glowed — homes of strangers with their own problems and joys. Since childhood, she had watched those windows, imagining a different life.

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

“What??? Really??? What about family circumstances?”

“Let them sort out their own circumstances.”

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

“Really? Won’t change your mind by tomorrow?” Lena didn’t believe it.

“Really. I’ll book tickets today.”

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

Marina returned home late. The apartment was quiet, only soft music coming from Anya’s room. Her mother was apparently already asleep.

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

“Transfer the money to your sister’s card,” her mother said without looking at her. “She’s going to see the contract and pay the deposit today.”

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

Her mother frowned.

“What money? Your bonus. I got a notification that the funds were deposited. Transfer it to Anya right away so you don’t forget.”

Marina froze with the cup in her hand.

“You… what?”

 

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

A joint account. Long ago, Marina had made an additional card for her mother to her bank account so she could withdraw money or buy groceries when Marina was late at work. But she never imagined her income would be monitored so closely.

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

“In what way?” her mother finally looked at her.

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

A heavy silence hung in the kitchen.

“What have you done?” her mother asked quietly and fearfully. “You knew the money was needed for your sister. I told you clearly yesterday.”

“And I told you clearly I was going on vacation,” Marina’s voice sounded foreign even to herself — firm, without the usual apologetic tone.

“Cancel your tickets,” her mother ordered. “Immediately. Anya has already arranged with the landlord and is signing the contract today.”

“I’m not canceling anything.”

Her mother looked at her like she was seeing her for the first time.

“What’s happening to you? You were always a good daughter, responsible. And now you’re acting like… like a selfish person.”

“No, mom,” Marina put the cup on the table. “I was always a convenient daughter. The one who works, pays, and doesn’t complain. And Anya… Anya can live as she pleases because there’s me and you who always back her up.”

Sleepy Anya appeared in the kitchen doorway, wearing unicorn pajamas.

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

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

Anya stared at Marina with genuine surprise.

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

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

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

“But you can sit on my neck, right?” Marina felt a wave rising inside her that she had been holding back for years. “You’re different, you’re special, everyone owes you — me, mom, Kirill and his parents. When will you start giving to the world, not just taking?”

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

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

Her mother paled.

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

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

“Leave,” her mother suddenly said. “If you think like that about your family, leave this house.”

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

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

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

She only turned on her phone in the evenings. Dozens of missed calls from Anya, a few messages from her mother — from threats to attempts to shame her. Marina didn’t reply.

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

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

“That there’s nowhere to return to.”

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

“The job — yes. And the apartment… Mom said I should leave. And you know, I’m glad. It’s about time.”

Lena put her hand on Marina’s shoulder.

“You can stay with me until you find your own place. I have a sofa bed.”

Marina smiled.

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

She took out her phone and showed Lena a photo of a small studio with panoramic windows.

“I saw the ad before leaving. Got in touch with the landlord. I can move in after I return.”

“Wow!” Lena looked over the photos. “Cute little apartment. And alone! Finally!”

“Yes,” Marina nodded. “Alone. Without mom’s reproaches and Anya’s constant requests.”

“What will happen to them? Your family?”

Marina shrugged.

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

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

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

 

Her phone vibrated. The screen displayed “Mom.”

She looked at the word for several seconds, then sighed and answered.

“Yes?”

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

“Fine. Settling in slowly.”

Pause. Marina heard her mother’s breathing on the other end.

“Anya moved out from the landlord,” her mother finally said. “She and Kirill had a fight. She came back home.”

Marina was silent, waiting for the continuation she already knew.

“She needs money,” her mother said. “The landlord didn’t refund the deposit.”

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

Silence again.

“Will you… help? Just a little. She needs to pay for courses. She found a job, but has to do training.”

“No, mom,” Marina looked out the window at the evening city. “I won’t help anymore. Neither you nor Anya. Not because I don’t love you. But because helping the way I did before only made things worse.”

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

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

Her mother sobbed on the other end of the line.

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

“No, mom. I just finally became myself.”

After the call, Marina stood by the window for a long time, watching the city lights. Her phone vibrated again. This time, Anya.

Marina turned off the phone and returned to her presentation. There were rumors of a promotion at the office. And she had just spotted a wonderful southern tour for spring.

An elderly man hesitantly approached the grand entrance of a fashionable restaurant. His suit was neatly pressed but noticeably worn — apparently, he had worn it many years ago and had only just put it on again after a long time. His gray hair lay in sparse strands, as if unsure whether to stay in its previous order. Stopping at the door, he looked at himself in the reflection of the tinted glass, adjusted his collar, took a deep breath, and entered.

As soon as he stepped inside, he collided with a security guard. The guard looked at him with such an expression as if a ghost from the past had appeared before him.

“Who are you?” he grunted. “You think this is some sort of social services or charity event?”

“I’m here for a wedding…” the old man quietly replied. “My daughter is getting married today…” The corners of his lips lifted in a bitter smile.

The security guard frowned, said something into his radio, casting suspicious glances at the guest. The old man, feeling anxiety rising within him, tried to glimpse the hall through the glass partitions, but saw nothing — the wedding was clearly taking place somewhere in the distant wing of the restaurant.

A minute later, two men in suits came out to him. Without a word, they took him by the arms and led him to a service room.

“What are you doing here?!” a woman pushed him away as if he were an unnecessary object. “Leave! You don’t belong here!”

“Sorry… I just wanted to see my daughter…”

It turned out that the people in front of him were the groom’s parents. It was hard for them to imagine that this man could be the bride’s relative.

“We’re all well-known here,” the woman said coldly, adjusting her designer jacket. “And who are you?”

“Interesting question,” the man remarked.

“But completely unnecessary,” she added. “Look around: these people are here to celebrate, not to witness someone else’s misfortune. Leave before you spoil everyone’s mood.”

The woman clearly loved to control the situation, and the more she spoke, the angrier she became.

“Vasily Igorevich,” the old man introduced himself, extending his hand.

 

She didn’t even glance at his palm, merely stepped further away, as if he might infect her with his poverty.

Realizing he wouldn’t be allowed into the celebration, Vasily Igorevich began to explain:

“I didn’t come here for the food… The journey was long, the road — not short. Almost my entire pension went to the ticket…”

This only heightened their suspicions.

“Then wait,” the woman suddenly softened. “We’ll gather some leftovers from the kitchen and bring them to you. You can eat on your way back.”

“I didn’t come for that,” he replied with dignity. “I need nothing… I just want to see Yanochka.”

“‘Just wants to see,’” the husband mocked him. “We paid for everything, organized everything, and he just shows up to gawk!”

“She became like family to us!” the woman exclaimed. “She’s marrying our son! Now she’s part of our family! And you think you can just come and be one of us? Nobody has heard of you, and now — bam! — here you are!”

She cast a contemptuous glance at him, especially lingering on his clothes.

“Maybe you’re not even the bride’s father? Just decided to get a free dinner?”

The grandfather lowered his eyes, hid his wrinkled hands, clasped them between his knees. He looked at his polished but old shoes, then at the immaculate leather shoes of the man opposite, and, with a heavy sigh, agreed to take the “leftovers.”

The groom’s parents exchanged glances — so they were right. The wife nodded, and they headed for the kitchen, leaving the old man alone.

In fact, Yanna really was his daughter. And he hadn’t seen her for 25 years.

No, he didn’t deny that he was to blame. He understood why they judged him. But the past could not be returned.

“If people knew how their choices would turn out, maybe they would have acted differently,” he thought. As they say, “If you knew where you would fall, you would have laid down straw.”

25 years ago, when he said goodbye to little Yanna, he didn’t think it would be forever. He was 48, his wife was 46. They had late, long-awaited children. But life had other plans. His wife was diagnosed with cancer. Treatment drained not only her strength but also their finances. After her death, he was left alone with the child.

His job was hard and poorly paid. The house needed repairs, his daughter needed attention. He had read somewhere that conditions for children in Norway were ideal. Generous benefits, help, social protection. But what about himself? Who would take care of the girl if he left to do several physical jobs?

The weather there was harsh. What if the child couldn’t handle the climate? He didn’t want his daughter to grow up in loneliness and poverty. So, in a state of severe depression, he signed the papers, sending the girl to an orphanage. It all happened in a fog — his thoughts scattered, his heart broken.

When he left her that day, his heart was torn apart. Every night, the image of his little daughter’s tears, her outstretched hands, and her plea, “Daddy, don’t go!” flashed before his eyes. He didn’t want to leave her — not for a second. He planned to return in six months. He just needed to earn some money — to buy gifts, clothes, and repair the house. He thought: I’ll come back, take Yanna, and start over. We’ll be together.

But when he returned, he learned the terrible truth. The orphanage where he had left the child was closed, and the children were sent to different cities. He couldn’t believe it. He visited countless institutions, but all they did was shrug: “Did you abandon her? Did you sign the papers? Then we have nothing to say to you.” He was accused, despised, and given no hope. He had become a stranger to his own daughter.

The money he had earned went into useless repairs. He kept the gifts, convincing himself that it could still be fixed. But the years went by, and Yanna remained an invisible memory.

He consulted with lawyers, but most of them were scammers. The internet wasn’t as developed then — no social networks, no search engines. Only legs, patience, and hopeless attempts. Hope slowly faded.

And then — after a quarter of a century — a miracle happened. By chance, he found out that his daughter was alive. And even planning to get married. How? A story worthy of a legend.

It all started with a lost phone. Vasily Igorevich had an old phone, difficult to find the owner, but he decided to help. The phone wasn’t locked. Scrolling through the screen, he accidentally clicked on an incoming message — and saw a photo of a girl… She looked just like his late wife. His heart froze.

Soon he contacted the phone’s owner. She agreed to meet. She wanted to thank him, but he asked for something else — to find out who the girl in the photo was. A coincidence or fate — it was her, and she turned out to be Yanna. The father was lucky: someone had forwarded the photo, and it reached the right eyes.

That’s how he found his daughter. After many years of separation, he traveled hundreds of kilometers to be by her side on the most important day of her life. But no one let him inside.

And then he decided to break through to the microphone himself. When the groom’s parents went for the leftovers, he slipped into the hall. The guests were puzzled but didn’t stop him. The music played in the background, but he didn’t need it. He sang — the song he once wrote for his daughter. The one he sang to her when she was little.

The hall fell silent. No one had heard this song before. It belonged only to them both.

When he finished, there was silence in the hall. Then Yanna took the microphone:

“This is my dad. He hasn’t been around all these years, but he’s always been in my heart. I’m happy he’s here today.”

 

She hugged him. She didn’t say much — just cried, burying her face in his shoulder. Even the groom’s parents couldn’t remain indifferent. The groom’s wife wiped away a tear, and the husband ordered to give the guest a seat.

Vasily Igorevich sat at the table but didn’t touch the food. He only looked at his daughter. At her face, so familiar, at her young husband, at the love and care surrounding her. “I’m glad they accepted her,” he thought with a bitter smile.

Later, he carefully took a small box from his pocket. Wrapped with love, but awkwardly — by his own hands. The one that was supposed to be passed down to the mother.

“This is from mom,” his voice trembled. “This is the kind of thing usually passed down from generation to generation… Now it’s yours. And then — to your daughter.”

Yanna gently unwrapped the package. Inside was an antique necklace — a family heirloom. Another link to the past, to what she had longed for.

Vasily Igorevich nervously glanced at the groom’s parents. They also noticed the gift. The mother, who had once greeted him coldly, now looked at him with respect. Perhaps not because of the value of the ornament — but because she understood how important it was for Yanna to see her father.

“Forgive me,” he finally said.

“I would…” Yanna began, but didn’t continue. The hug spoke a thousand words. The years couldn’t be returned. But now — the most important thing was that they were together.

Vasily Igorevich quietly left. He didn’t want to spoil the celebration with his worries. He returned to his old house, which hadn’t been renovated for a long time. Neighbors began leaving one by one, and his circle of acquaintances shrank. He was alone again.

But one day, he heard a knock on the gate. Something inside told him — it was her. He opened the door — and indeed, Yanna stood before him. No words, just a smile and a suitcase.

“I’ve forgiven you,” she simply said. “And I want to be by your side.”

Yanna only knew part of the truth. At the orphanage, she had been told that she had been abandoned. That she wasn’t wanted. So, over the years, she had become closed off, mistrustful. She studied well, entered university, started an independent life. The thought of finding her father never left her, but the fear of being rejected was stronger.

It was the accidentally lost phone that helped them become a family again.

Natasha and her husband were leaving the restaurant where they had celebrated his birthday. The evening had been wonderful. Many guests had come, including relatives and colleagues. Natasha met many of them for the first time, but if Dmitry had invited them, he knew what he was doing.

Natasha was one of those people who didn’t argue with her husband’s decisions; she avoided conflicts and disputes. It was easier for her to agree with Dima than to argue her point of view.

 

“Natasha, did you put the apartment keys far away? Can you get them, please?”

Natasha opened her handbag, looking for the keys. Suddenly, she felt a sharp pain and jerked her hand so hard that the handbag fell to the floor.

“Why did you cry out?”

“I pricked myself on something.”

“With so many things in your bag, it’s not surprising.”

Natasha didn’t argue with her husband, picked up the bag, and carefully retrieved the keys. When they entered the apartment, she had already forgotten about the small incident. Her legs ached from tiredness, and she just wanted to take a shower and go to bed. The next morning, when she woke up, she felt a sharp pain in her hand — her finger was red and swollen. Then she remembered the incident from yesterday and took her handbag to check what might have been inside. Carefully taking out the items one by one, she found a large rusty needle at the bottom.

“What is this?”

She couldn’t understand how it had ended up there. Confused by the discovery, she threw the needle in the trash can. Then she went to the medicine cabinet to treat the puncture. After bandaging her reddened finger, Natasha went to work. But by lunchtime, she noticed she had developed a fever.

 

She called her husband:

“Dima, I don’t know what to do. It seems like I caught something: I have a fever, a headache, and my whole body aches. I found a large rusty needle in my bag; that’s what I pricked myself on yesterday.”

“Maybe you should see a doctor? God forbid, tetanus or an infection.”

 

“Dima, don’t overreact. I treated the wound, everything will be fine.”

But as the hours passed, Natasha only felt worse. Barely making it through the workday, she called a taxi and went home, realizing it would be hard to get there by public transport. At home, she barely made it to the couch and fell asleep immediately.

In her sleep, she saw her grandmother Marfa, who had passed away when Natasha was very young. Natasha didn’t know how she recognized her, but she felt it deeply. Her grandmother looked old and bent. Although her appearance would have scared anyone, Natasha felt her grandmother wanted to help.

The grandmother led Natasha through a field and showed her which herbs to collect. She told her to make an infusion from them and drink it to rid herself of the dark force that was consuming her. The grandmother explained that someone wanted to harm her, but to fight them, Natasha needed to survive. Time was running out.

Natasha woke up in a cold sweat. She felt like she had slept for a long time, but when she checked the time, she realized it had only been a few minutes. She heard the front door slam; Dmitry had come back. She got up from the couch to meet him, and he exclaimed:

“What happened to you? Look at yourself in the mirror!”

Natasha approached the mirror. Just yesterday, she had seen a beautiful, smiling woman in the reflection, but now she saw something completely different. Her hair was tangled, there were dark circles under her eyes, her skin was gray, and her eyes were empty.

“What is this nonsense?”

And suddenly Natasha remembered the dream. She told her husband:

“I saw my grandmother in my dream. She told me what to do…”

“Natasha, get dressed, we’re going to the hospital.”

“I’m not going anywhere. Grandma said the doctors won’t help me.”

At home, a scandal broke out. Dmitry called his wife crazy, claiming that in her delirium, she had dreamed up nonsense.

It was the first time they fought so badly. Dmitry even tried to use force, grabbed her by the arm, and dragged her towards the door.

“If you won’t go to the hospital, I’ll take you by force.”

But Natasha broke free, lost her balance, fell, and hurt herself. Dmitry, in a fit of rage, grabbed the bag, slammed the door, and left. Alone, Natasha barely found the strength to tell her boss that she was sick and would stay home.

Dmitry came back late at night and apologized to his wife. She responded:

“Take me to the village where my grandmother lived tomorrow.”

The next morning, Natasha looked almost like a living corpse, rather than a healthy young woman. Dmitry kept begging her:

“Natasha, don’t be stubborn, let’s go to the hospital. I don’t want to lose you.”

But they still went to the village. The only thing that stayed in Natasha’s memory was the name of the village. Since her parents sold her grandmother’s house, she hadn’t been there. The whole way, Natasha slept. She didn’t even know which field to go to, but as they approached the village, she suddenly said:

“Turn right here.”

 

She barely stepped out of the car when she weakened and collapsed onto the grass. But she knew she had found the right place her grandmother had led her to. She found the necessary herbs and returned home. Dmitry made the infusion, and Natasha drank sip after sip, feeling relief with each one.

Barely making it to the bathroom, she noticed that her urine was black. This didn’t scare her; instead, she said:

“The darkness is leaving…”

That night, her grandmother appeared again in a dream. This time, she was smiling and began speaking.

“They put a curse on you with a rusty needle. The infusion will restore your strength, but not for long. You need to find the person responsible to reverse the evil. I can’t tell you who it is, but your husband is somehow involved. If you hadn’t thrown away the needle, I would have been able to see more. But…”

“Here’s what we’ll do. Buy needles and say the spell over the biggest one: ‘Night spirits, once alive. Hear the prophets of the night, show the enemy!’ Put this needle in your husband’s bag. Whoever cursed you will prick themselves on it. Then we’ll know who it is and be able to return the evil.”

After saying this, the grandmother disappeared.

Natasha woke up, still feeling unwell, but knowing her grandmother would help her. Dmitry stayed home to be with his wife. To his surprise, she started getting ready to go to the store, saying she needed to go alone.

“Don’t be silly, Natasha, you’re weak. Let me go with you.”

“Dima, make some soup, I have such an appetite from this virus.”

Natasha did as her grandmother had instructed. In the evening, the enchanted needle ended up in Dmitry’s bag. He asked her before going to bed:

“Are you sure you’ll be okay without me? Should I stay longer?”

“I’ll be fine.”

Natasha felt better. She knew the evil was still inside her, but the infusion was pushing it out. She waited for Dmitry to return from work. When he walked in, her first question was:

“How was your day?”

“Good, why do you ask?”

Natasha had almost thought that the person who cursed her had not been revealed when Dmitry added:

“Natasha, guess what? Today Irina from the neighboring office tried to help me get the keys out of my bag. My hands were full of papers. Well, she found a needle in my bag and pricked herself. She got really mad at me.”

“What’s going on with you and Irina?”

 

“Natasha, stop it. I only love you. Irina is just a good colleague, nothing more.”

Natasha understood how the needle had ended up in her bag after hearing these words.

 

Dmitry went to the kitchen where dinner was waiting for them.

As soon as Natasha fell asleep, she saw her grandmother again. She told her how to return the evil to Irina. The grandmother explained that it was clear to her that Irina wanted to get rid of Natasha to be with Dmitry. If that didn’t work, she would have resorted to magic again.

Natasha followed her grandmother’s instructions. Soon, Dmitry announced that Irina had fallen ill and the doctors couldn’t help her.

Natasha asked her husband to take her to the village to the cemetery, where she had never been since her grandmother’s funeral. She bought a bouquet and gloves to clean the grave. She found the grave and saw the photo — it was her grandmother who had appeared in her dream and saved her. Natasha cleaned the grave, placed the flowers, and sat down:

“Grandmother, I’m sorry I didn’t visit earlier. I thought it was enough for my parents to come once a year. I was wrong. I’ll come myself from now on. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be here.”

Natasha felt her grandmother’s hands on her shoulders. She turned around, but no one was there, just a light breeze.

The phone ringing in the apartment caught Elliott Row by the stove. An omelet was frying in the pan, filling the kitchen with the aroma of garlic and melted butter. He wiped his hands on a towel and cast an irritated glance at the screen — the number was unknown.

“Hello?” he answered shortly, continuing to watch the dish.

“Mr. Row, this is your family’s notary. You need to come to me tomorrow morning. There is an inheritance matter. You need to sign some documents.”

Elliott hesitated. His parents were alive and well, so from whom could he have inherited anything? He didn’t even ask questions — just silently nodded as if the caller could see him, and hung up.

The next morning was cloudy and foggy. As Elliott drove through the city, his mild confusion gradually turned into annoyance. The notary was already waiting for him at the office entrance.

“Come in, Elliott. I understand this all sounds strange. But if it were something ordinary, I wouldn’t disturb you on a day off.”

The office was empty. Usually, there was a busy bustle here, but now only the echo of footsteps on the wooden floor disturbed the silence. Elliott sat down on a chair opposite the desk, folding his arms.

“This concerns your uncle — Walter Jonas.”

 

“I don’t have an uncle named Walter,” Elliott immediately objected.

“Nevertheless, he bequeathed you all his property.” The notary carefully placed an old key, a yellowed map, and a sheet of paper with an address in front of him. “A mansion on the water. It now belongs to you.”

“Excuse me… Are you serious?”

“The house is located in the middle of Lake Konamah, in central Connecticut.”

Elliott took the key. It was heavy, covered with a faded pattern. He had never heard of the man or the place. Yet something inside him clicked — that moment when curiosity overcomes common sense.

An hour later, his backpack held a couple of T-shirts, a bottle of water, and some food. According to the GPS, the lake was only forty minutes from his home. This only increased his interest: how could he not know such a place was so close?

When the road ended, a lake spread out before him — gloomy, still, like a mirror. In its middle stood a house — huge, dark, as if it had grown straight from the water.

Old men with coffee mugs sat on the terrace of a café by the water. Elliott approached them.

“Excuse me,” he began, “this house on the lake… do you know who used to live there?”

One of the men slowly set down his cup.

“We don’t talk about that place. We don’t go there. It was supposed to disappear many years ago.”

“But someone lived there, right?”

“We’ve never seen anyone on the shore. Never. Only at night we hear the rustle of boats. Someone restocks supplies, but we don’t know who. And we don’t want to know.”

At the pier, he noticed a faded sign: “June’s Boats.” Inside, a woman with a tired face met him.

“I need a boat to that house in the middle of the lake,” Elliott said, handing over the key. “I inherited it.”

“No one goes there,” she answered coldly. “The place scares many people. Me too.”

But Elliott didn’t back down. His words grew more insistent until she finally agreed.

“All right. I’ll take you. But I won’t wait. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

The house towered over the water like a forgotten fortress. The wooden pier creaked beneath his feet. June carefully tied the boat to the dock.

“We’ve arrived,” she muttered.

Elliott stepped onto the shaky platform and wanted to thank her, but the boat was already pulling away.

“Good luck! I hope you’ll be here waiting for me tomorrow,” she shouted and disappeared into the fog.

Now he was alone.

His hand reached for the lock. The key turned easily. There was a dull click, and the door slowly creaked open.

Inside it smelled of dust, yet surprisingly fresh. Large windows, thick curtains, and many portraits. One caught his attention especially — a man by the lake with the very house towering behind him. The caption read: “Walter Jonas, 1964.”

In the library, the walls were lined with books marked with notes in the margins. In the corner study stood a telescope and neat stacks of notebooks — observation and weather records, the latest dated last month.

“What was he looking for?” Elliott whispered.

In the bedroom — dozens of stopped clocks. On the dresser — a locket. Inside — a photo of a baby with the inscription: “Row.”

“Was he watching me? My family?..”

 

On the mirror hung a note: “Time reveals what seemed long forgotten.”

In the attic lay boxes with newspaper clippings. One was circled in red: “Boy from Middletown disappeared. Found a few days later unharmed.” The year — 1997. Elliott paled. That was him.

In the dining room, one chair was pushed back. On it lay his school photo.

“This is no longer just strange…” he muttered, feeling noise and confusion in his head.

His stomach twisted with anxiety. He quickly ate some canned food found in an old buffet and silently went up to one of the guest rooms. The sheets were clean as if waiting for someone long ago. Outside the window, the lake caught the pale moonlight, and the house seemed alive — it breathed with the water’s surface.

But sleep did not come. Too many questions. Who was Walter Jonas? Why had no one heard of him? Why had his parents never mentioned any brother? And why this mysterious obsession with himself?

When Elliott finally fell into a restless sleep, true darkness had already settled in the house — the kind where the creak of floorboards sounds like footsteps, and a shadow on the wall feels like a living being.

A sharp metallic clang cut through the silence. He sat up sharply in bed. A second sound — as if a massive door downstairs had swung open. Elliott grabbed his phone — no signal. Only his own tense eyes reflected on the screen.

He took a flashlight and stepped into the corridor.

Shadows grew thicker, almost tangible. Every step echoed with a dull fear inside. In the library, books shifted slightly as if just touched. The door to the study remained open. Cold air drew from behind a tapestry on the wall, which Elliott hadn’t noticed before.

He pulled back the fabric — behind it was a heavy iron door.

“Not this,” he whispered, but his fingers instinctively touched the cold handle.

The door gave way with effort. Behind it began a spiral staircase leading down beneath the house, under the water. With each step, the air grew damper, thicker, filled with the smell of salt, metal, and something ancient, as if entering history.

Below stretched a long corridor filled with cabinets and drawers. Labels read: “Genealogy,” “Correspondence,” “Expeditions.”

One drawer was marked: “Row.”

Elliott pulled it out with a trembling hand. Inside lay letters. All addressed to his father.

“I tried. Why do you remain silent? This is important for him. For Elliott…”

“So he didn’t disappear. He wrote. He wanted to know me,” Elliott whispered.

At the end of the corridor was another massive door labeled: “Authorized personnel only. Jonas Archive.” It had no handle — only a palm scanner. A note stuck beside it: “For Elliott Row. Only for him.”

He placed his palm.

Click. The room gently lit up. A projector came to life, and on the wall appeared the silhouette of a man.

Gray hair, tired eyes. He looked straight at Elliott.

“Hello, Elliott. If you see this, it means I am no longer here.”

The man introduced himself: Walter Jonas.

“I… am your real father. You shouldn’t have found out this way, but I’m afraid your mother and I made many mistakes. We were scientists obsessed with survival, climate, protecting humanity. She died giving birth. And I… I was afraid. Afraid of what I might become. So I gave you to my brother. He gave you a family. But I never stopped watching you. From here. From the house on the lake. From afar.”

Elliott sank onto a bench, feeling numb.

“It was you… all this time…”

The voice in the recording trembled:

“I was afraid to break you, but you became a strong, kind person — better than I could have imagined. Now this house belongs to you, as part of your journey, as a chance. Forgive me: for silence, for cowardice, for being near but never truly present.”

The image went dark.

Elliott didn’t know how long he sat in the dark. Then he slowly got up, as if in a dream, and returned upstairs. By dawn, June was already waiting for him at the dock. Seeing him, she frowned:

 

“Are you okay?”

“Now I am,” he answered quietly. “I just had to understand.”

He went home to talk with his parents. They listened silently, not interrupting. Then they hugged him.

“Forgive us,” whispered his mother. “We thought it would be better this way.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I know it wasn’t easy.”

That night Elliott lay in his bed. The ceiling remained the same. But everything around now seemed different.

A few weeks later, he returned to the lake again. Not to live there, but to restore it. A Center for Climate and History Studies opened in the house. Children ran through the halls, neighbors came with smiles. The house was no longer a refuge of secrets and ghosts. It had become a place of life once more.

“Anna Mikhailovna, your father… he this morning…”

Lyudmila Ivanovna’s voice trembled. I gripped the phone so tightly that my knuckles turned white.

 

“What’s wrong with him?” I asked, surprised at how unfamiliar my own voice sounded.

“His heart gave out. Mikhail Petrovich passed away in his sleep.”

Fifteen years. Fifteen years had passed since I last saw my father, heard his voice. And now I would never hear it again.

The trip from the regional center to my hometown took three hours. Each kilometer seemed to rewind time — familiar turns, old houses, the scent of autumn air. Everything remained just as it was when I left.

The house greeted me with silence. On the porch stood a woman about forty-five — fair-haired, in a black dress. Next to her was a tall boy, with eyes like my father’s.

“Are you Anna?” the woman asked. “I’m Marina. This is Oleg, your brother.”

The word “brother” sounded strange. I had a brother I had never seen.

“Mom said I have a sister,” Oleg said, looking at me with childish curiosity. “Did you really run away from home at fifteen?”

“Oleg!” Marina scolded him. “Come in, Anna. Lyudmila Ivanovna is waiting for you.”

Inside the house smelled of fresh baking and grief. Lyudmila Ivanovna sat in the kitchen — older, but still as businesslike as ever.

“Annushka, daughter,” she hugged me. “You’ve lost weight. You must not be eating well.”

“I eat fine, Lyudmila Ivanovna.”

“And where do you work?”

“As a hotel receptionist.”

Marina raised an eyebrow:

“A hotel? I thought you left to study, to build a career.”

There was no judgment in her voice — only slight bewilderment. But I felt uneasy.

“Your father often asked about you,” Lyudmila Ivanovna said quietly. “He was glad you lived on your own. Even proud.”

“Proud?” I couldn’t hide the bitterness. “After he kicked me out?”

“He didn’t kick anyone out,” Lyudmila Ivanovna replied sharply. “You left on your own, after that quarrel.”

Marina exchanged a glance with Oleg and stood up.

“We’re going to visit the neighbors; there’s still a lot to do there. You two talk.”

When they left, Lyudmila Ivanovna poured me tea and sat across from me.

 

“Tell me about Denis,” I asked. “What really happened?”

The old woman sighed:

“Your father had good reasons not to approve of your relationship. Denis Kravtsov was stealing spare parts from the auto repair shop and reselling them. At first, Mikhail Petrovich suspected the workers, then he found out it was him.”

“Why didn’t he tell me?”

“He was afraid you wouldn’t believe him. A fifteen-year-old girl in love thinks her father is a tyrant interfering with everything.”

I was silent, digesting what I’d heard.

“What happened to Denis?”

“Six months after you left, they caught him. He served a year in prison. Then he moved to another city. Nobody’s seen him here since.”

The next day was the funeral. Many people gathered — my father was a respected man. After the cemetery, everyone left except the closest family.

“Tomorrow the notary will come,” Marina said as she cleared the table. “Igor Vasilievich wants to read the will.”

“Why not right away?”

“Father asked to wait until you returned.”

I was surprised. So he knew I’d come? Or just hoped?

That evening we sat together in the kitchen. Oleg was doing homework, Marina was ironing laundry. A normal family life in which I felt like an outsider.

“Tell me about father,” I asked. “What was he like in his last years?”

Marina thought for a moment.

“A good husband, a caring father. Honest, hardworking. Just sad. Especially on your birthday and New Year’s. He used to say, ‘I wonder how my Anna celebrates.’”

“Mom, why did Dad never tell me about Anna?” Oleg asked, looking up from his textbook.

“He did. You were just too young.”

“Then why didn’t she come?”

Marina looked at me:

“You should ask Anna that.”

“Pride,” I answered honestly. “Stupid, childish pride.”

The next morning the notary arrived — Igor Vasilievich, a lean man over sixty, in a strict suit and glasses. Behind him came Viktor Semyonov — my father’s business partner, whom I remembered since childhood.

“Anna!” he smiled broadly. “You’ve become so beautiful! Just like your mother in her youth!”

I shook his outstretched hand but couldn’t smile. Something in his tone made me uneasy.

The notary laid the documents on the table:

“Let us begin the reading of Mikhail Petrovich Petrov’s will.”

He started reading in an official, emotionless voice. The house and auto repair shop were passed on to the family. But then came the surprise:

“Monetary funds totaling eight million rubles, held in a deposit account at Razvitie Bank, are bequeathed to daughter Anna Mikhailovna Petrova.”

Silence hung in the room. Marina turned pale. Viktor frowned. Oleg didn’t understand.

“Eight million?” I asked again. “Where did father get that kind of money?”

“Mikhail Petrovich had been saving income from the auto shop and other deals for fifteen years,” the notary explained. “The account was opened in your name from birth.”

“That’s unfair!” Viktor jumped up sharply. “That money should go to the family! He has a wife and a son!”

“The will is made in accordance with the law,” Igor Vasilievich replied calmly.

Marina was silent, but her face showed shock and pain.

“Marina Stepanovna,” the notary addressed her, “your husband left you a letter.”

She opened the envelope with trembling hands. As she read, her expression changed.

“What does it say?” I couldn’t help but ask.

“He writes that the money was always meant for you. He dreamed you’d come back and wanted you to have a chance to start a new life. To Oleg and me, he left the house, the auto shop, and another account with one and a half million.”

Viktor turned red.

“What about our partnership? Half the auto shop belongs to me! And part of the money too!”

“Do you have documents to prove that?” the notary asked.

“Of course! Mikhail and I worked together for fifteen years!”

After Igor Vasilievich left, a real scandal began. Viktor demanded his share, Marina tried to calm things, Oleg shrank into a corner and stayed silent.

“Anna, you understand you can’t just take it all for yourself?” Viktor said. “You have a family, responsibilities.”

“What family?” I protested. “Fifteen years ago, when I left this house, I had no family!”

“Don’t raise your voice,” Marina intervened. “Oleg can hear you.”

Indeed, the boy was sitting scared. I felt ashamed.

“Sorry,” I said to him. “Adults sometimes argue. But it’s not so scary.”

Oleg nodded, but anxiety remained in his eyes.

That evening, after Viktor left, the three of us stayed. Marina put her son to bed, and I wandered through the house, looking at things I once knew.

On father’s desk lay a folder labeled “Anna.” Curiosity won.

Inside were dozens of letters written in his hand. All addressed to me. None ever sent.

“My dear Annushka, today you turned sixteen. Lyudmila Ivanovna says you’re doing well. I’m so proud of you…”

“Anya, two years have passed. Every day I think: maybe I should have explained about Denis instead of just forbidding you?”

“Daughter, I opened a bank account for you. I save money every month. When you return, you can do with it what you want…”

The letters told the story of a father who didn’t know how to ask for forgiveness but loved immensely. He followed my life through third parties, learned news from mutual acquaintances, rejoiced at my successes, and worried about my failures.

One of the last letters struck me especially:

“Viktor Semyonov insists on investing your money into expanding the auto shop. He promises high profits. But this money isn’t for business. It’s for you. So you can forgive the old fool and start over.”

I cried reading those lines. How many years were lost… How many words left unspoken.

“Anna, where are you?” Marina’s voice called.

Wiping away tears, I went to the kitchen. Marina sat at the table with a cup of tea.

“Can’t sleep?” she asked.

“I found Dad’s letters.”

Marina nodded:

“He wrote them every month. I suggested sending them, but he said: ‘Not now. Anna isn’t ready to forgive me yet.’”

“And how did you feel about it? That he left everything to me?”

She pondered, choosing words:

“At first, I was upset. I thought about Oleg’s future, his education, that we would also need money. But then I understood: your father was a fair man. Oleg gets the house and the business. And you, he gave a chance to start over. After all, you left with nothing.”

“But eight million…”

“Your father denied himself many things for fifteen years to save that money. Didn’t buy a new car, didn’t go on vacation, didn’t renovate. All those years, he thought only of you.”

The next day Viktor came to the house. In his hands — a folder with documents, determination on his face.

“Look, Anna,” he spread the papers on the table. “Here’s the partnership agreement with your father. We invested money equally, so half the profits are rightfully mine.”

I carefully studied the documents. Formally, Viktor did have the right to part of the income.

“Fine,” I said. “But not all eight million. According to these papers, your share is about two.”

Viktor’s face fell.

“Two? Are you serious? I was counting on at least four!”

“By law — two. If you disagree — take it to court.”

He realized blackmail wouldn’t work but wasn’t ready to give up:

“Alright, two it is. But I want to buy Marina’s share in the auto shop. The business must keep growing.”

“The auto shop is not for sale,” Marina answered firmly. “It’s Oleg’s inheritance.”

“Then I’ll leave. Take the equipment. Let’s see how you manage without me.”

When he left, Marina and I discussed the situation for a long time. Without Viktor, the auto shop might just stop — he knew the clients, suppliers, business nuances.

“What shall we do?” she asked.

The decision came at night. By morning, the plan was ready.

“Gather Oleg and Viktor,” I said at breakfast. “I have a proposal.”

An hour later, everyone was at the table. Viktor frowned, Oleg looked confused, Marina was worried.

 

“Listen,” I began. “Viktor, you’ll get your two million. But you take only the money — the equipment stays. And you keep working at the auto shop.”

“Under what conditions?”

“I’ll buy your share for one million. Marina becomes manager, you’re the chief mechanic. A decent salary and profit percentage.”

Viktor thought.

“What will you do with the remaining money?”

“One million — Oleg’s education. Another million — Marina, for living expenses. I keep four.”

Everyone was silent, digesting what they heard.

“And what about you?” Marina asked.

“I’ll stay here. Help with the auto shop. I have administrative experience — can organize accounting, advertising, find new clients.”

“You want to return to our town?” Viktor was surprised.

“I want to try. Here is my family. Here is father’s business. Maybe it’s time to stop running from the past.”

Suddenly Oleg spoke:

“Will you be my real sister? Won’t you leave again?”

I looked at the tall boy with my father’s eyes and realized: the decision was right.

“I won’t leave, Oleg. I’ll be a real sister.”

A month later everything was finalized. Viktor got his money and agreed to the terms. Marina took a vacation, and together we started reorganizing the auto shop. Oleg got used to the changes and even began helping with small tasks.

I rented an apartment downtown but spent most of my time at my parents’ house. Marina suggested I move in with them, but I decided to wait — we all needed time to truly bond.

Under our management, the auto shop became more efficient. I implemented computer accounting, launched online ads, negotiated contracts to service corporate vehicles. Income grew almost by a third.

At first, Viktor grumbled but eventually acknowledged the improvements. Marina proved a talented manager — easily found common ground with people and defused conflicts.

Oleg started coming after school, helping however he could. He was smart and curious.

“I’ll become an auto mechanic like Grandpa,” he declared once.

“First, study well,” I replied. “Then we’ll decide.”

One evening Marina asked:

“Do you regret coming back?”

“No,” I answered honestly. “For fifteen years, I thought Dad didn’t love me. But he loved me so much he gave up everything for my future.”

“He really wanted you to forgive him.”

“I did. Forgiving myself is harder.”

Lyudmila Ivanovna often visited, bringing pies and news. Once she said:

“Your father would be happy to see you all together. That’s exactly what he dreamed of.”

The money he left changed our lives. But not as you might expect. It didn’t make us rich in the usual sense. It gave us the chance to become a family.

Oleg enrolled in a good school in the regional center. Marina and I took turns driving him there every day. She signed up for accounting courses and now manages bookkeeping for several local companies.

Viktor married a teacher and built a new house. Sometimes he jokes:

“You did the right thing not to give me everything at once. I would’ve wasted it quickly and been left with nothing.”

It’s been a year and a half since I returned home. The auto shop thrives, family ties have strengthened. Oleg simply calls me “sister,” no additions. Marina has become close to me — not a mother, but not a stranger either.

Sometimes I wonder: what if Lyudmila Ivanovna hadn’t called? Would I still be a hotel receptionist, living paycheck to paycheck, saving on everything?

Now I have a business that brings not just income but satisfaction. I have a family. A future I can build.

I keep father’s letters at home. I reread them when it’s hard or when I need advice. They hold so much love and wisdom to last a lifetime.

Money can run out. But family, purpose, a sense of belonging — that’s true wealth.

Lyudmila Ivanovna is right: Father would be happy to see us now. We’ve become the family he dreamed of. It just took fifteen years and eight million rubles to understand that.

My name is Marina. I’m 29 years old. I’m Anya’s older sister — the one who was always held up as an example to her in childhood. Until one day, I simply stopped being noticed as soon as the younger sister was born: bright, loud, irresistible.

Anya always knew how to be the center of attention. Her presence seemed to make the world stop. And me… I was just there. A quiet, unnoticed shadow. Convenient. Too soft to say “no.”

When I received the invitation to her wedding, my heart clenched. I didn’t want to go. Didn’t want to see her in a white dress, hear that familiar laughter, and end up playing the victim again. But Mom insisted:

— You have to be there, Marina. After all, you’re family.

The word “family” hurt. More than I expected.

The wedding was held in a luxurious hall. Lavish flowers, crystal chandeliers, glasses of champagne — everything was just as Anya dreamed. She walked arm in arm with Alexey, her future husband. Tall, confident, with those very eyes that once looked only at me.

Yes, you heard that right. We were together. We loved each other. Truly. And one day he disappeared without a trace. And after a while, he appeared next to my sister.

“Look at me, not at her” — that’s what I read in every glance of his back then.

— Oh, you came, — Anya said coldly when she noticed me before the ceremony. — Just don’t you dare wear white.

I stayed silent. I was wearing a modest gray dress — exactly the kind that would go unnoticed. To not steal the light, the air, the attention.

— Sit where no one will see you, — she nodded toward a far corner.

I gritted my teeth. The familiar feeling of humiliation had become like home. But I never imagined the pain would be this sharp — here, among hundreds of people.

The ceremony went perfectly: vows, kiss, applause. All evening I caught Alexey’s gaze. It seemed he wanted to say something but looked away every time.

Then came the time for toasts. Anya took the microphone, radiating happiness:

— Thank you all for coming. Friends, parents… and even my sister, who found the strength to come despite our… long-standing disagreements. After all, you were the one who dreamed of marrying Alexey, right? But he chose me.

The room froze. Someone snorted. Someone looked away. I felt my face flush with heat. I wanted to disappear through the floor.

But then something happened that no one expected.

Alexey stood up. Walked to the microphone. And, taking it from Anya, said:

— Sorry, Anya. But I can’t stay silent anymore.

Everyone froze. Anya went pale. Mom abruptly stood up. Dad squeezed his glass so hard it cracked in his hands.

— I was with Marina, — Alexey said firmly. — We were together for two years. We made plans for the future. I was even ready to propose to her.

He looked at me. In his eyes was a pain that couldn’t be hidden.

— But one day Anya came to my house. She said she was pregnant. That the child was mine.

The room stirred. Someone sighed. Anya gasped sharply.

— I didn’t want to believe it. I tried to resist those words. But she cried, screamed, demanded that I make the “right” choice. And I… I left Marina. I believed her. I sacrificed myself.

— Lesha, shut up! — Anya shouted, but he didn’t stop.

— Recently, I learned the truth. Anya was never pregnant. It was a lie. A cold calculation. She destroyed my love, my life. And today, at this wedding, she’s trying again to humiliate Marina — the woman I never stopped loving all this time.

Silence. Not a sound. Even the air froze.

— I can’t pretend anymore. I’m not marrying you, Anya.

Panic swept through the hall. Guests jumped up, some took out phones to capture the moment, others tried to persuade Alexey “not to ruin the day.” Anya stood like she’d been struck by lightning, then screamed hysterically:

— You have no right! This is MY day!

— You ruined it with your own hands, — Alexey replied calmly.

He came over to me. Stood beside me. Openly. Honestly. In front of everyone.

— Marina, forgive me. I was weak. I let you down. But if you can forgive me… I will do everything to make it right.

I didn’t know what to say. My heart was pounding somewhere in my throat. Everything happening seemed unreal.

Anya stormed off, throwing the bouquet right at one of the guests. Mom ran after her. Dad was silent, looking down.

And I… I just sat and cried. But no longer from pain. From relief. From freedom.

The wedding didn’t happen. Anya disappeared. Social media deleted, number blocked. Some said she went abroad, others that she was being treated for a nervous breakdown.

I didn’t rejoice in her downfall. Didn’t wish her harm. But I felt a freedom I hadn’t known for many years.

Alexey didn’t pressure me. He just stayed nearby: called, wrote, sometimes left notes by the door: “I’m waiting. When you’re ready.”

And then one day I opened the door. He was standing there with my favorite coffee.

— Will you go for a walk with me? — he asked simply.

I nodded.

We walked slowly, as if we had all the time in the world. He didn’t make loud promises, didn’t ask for forgiveness. He just stayed close. Like before. Like always.

And that was enough.

Six months passed. I got a job at a publishing house, wrote a story that was published in a popular women’s magazine. I started living again — not as my sister’s shadow, but as a woman who found herself.

Alexey stayed by my side. Not because he had to. But because he wanted to.

He proposed to me by the lake — where we first kissed.

— Now everything will be real. No lies. No fear. Are you ready?

I looked into his eyes. And for the first time in many years, I smiled.

— Yes.

Life can be cruel. It breaks, humiliates, wounds. But it also gives a second chance. The main thing is to take it.

I was abandoned. Humiliated. Forgotten. But now I am a woman who loves and is loved. A woman who moves forward.

And will never again be anyone’s shadow.

When Marina Yuryeva gave birth to a son, her husband Igor was stunned. The child, who was supposed to become the new member of their Slavic family, turned out to be dark-skinned, as if he had just arrived from the shores of Africa. “How is this possible?” Igor thought. His bewilderment turned into suspicion and then into anger. Believing that his wife had cheated on him with someone exotic, he packed his things and left.

Marina, who swore to her innocence, was trapped. Doctors merely shrugged, suggesting that ancestral genes might have played a cruel joke. But how could this happen if there had never been such genetic surprises in their lineage?

Rumors and Neighbors’ Guesses Soon, rumors about a local African began to spread in the small town. Fabien, a chemist-technologist from France working on contract at the local factory, became the object of general suspicion. The neighbors gladly pointed to him, and Igor, boiling with rage, went to confront him. He put on a leather jacket, took a crowbar, and, revving his motorcycle’s engine, raced off to find the “homewrecker.”

The Motorcyclist, Attack, and Police Intervention But on the same day, a tragedy happened to Marina. Returning home with her child, she was the victim of an attack. An unknown person pushed her down the stairs and disappeared. Passersby found the woman, and the baby was found in a stroller in the entrance of the building. Passersby called an ambulance, and the police began searching for the assailant.

Witnesses pointed to the motorcyclist. At that time, Igor was already accosting Fabien, demanding he confess to an alleged “affair” with his wife. It was at that moment that the police arrested the jealous husband, suspecting him not only of assaulting the foreigner but also his wife.

Alibi and an Unexpected Twist The next morning, an influential woman—Natalya Rudinskaya, holding a high position in the regional Communist Party committee—came to the police station and provided Igor with an alibi, claiming he was carrying out her orders at the time of the attack. But why was the influential lady so zealously defending her driver? This question remained unanswered.

The Hospital Secret: Where is the Truth? Igor and Marina decided to find out the truth and had blood tests done. The results shocked them: the baby was not their biological child. The tests showed that neither of them could be the parents. Everything pointed to the baby being switched at the hospital.

Amid these mysterious events, Dr. Evgenia Baryshnikova, who had delivered the baby, died under the wheels of a car. Then, the body of the midwife Irina Sonicheva was found in the hospital. Staff spoke of an “intern” who had appeared the night before the attack.

Fyodor Shapoval and Uncovering the Conspiracy Detectives discovered that the mysterious intern was Fyodor Shapoval, a recidivist with a rich criminal past.

He was hired to eliminate witnesses to cover up the baby switch. During interrogation, Shapoval revealed the name of his employer—Natalya Rudinskaya.

Love, Envy, and Baby Switching It turned out, Natalya Rudinskaya was secretly in love with Igor. She devised a plan to break up his marriage, hoping to have a chance at happiness.

For this, she bribed the hospital staff and insisted on switching the babies. By pushing a dark-skinned child into the family, Rudinskaya hoped Igor would sever relations with his wife. But the situation spiraled out of control, and Natalya began eliminating anyone who could expose her.

The Denouement: Justice Prevails The court delivered its verdicts: Rudinskaya received seven years of imprisonment, and Shapoval was sentenced to the highest punishment. The Yuryevs took their real child back. The dark-skinned baby was adopted by his biological father—the French chemist Fabien.

It turned out that the child’s mother was a local resident who did not want to raise the baby due to fear of social condemnation. She abandoned the child, hiding her maternity.

Epilogue: Love Overcomes Intrigue The story of the Yuryevs is an example of how love and mutual trust can overcome any trials. Despite the malice, intrigue, and dangers, they remained together. And the child, unwittingly a part of this drama, found his family and a new life in France.

Everything could have ended tragically, but thanks to perseverance, justice prevailed.

“Sokolova? Marina Sokolova?! Did you really come after all?” Igor Valentinov stretched his lips into a smile, but his eyes remained cold. “Guys, look who showed up!”

Marina stopped at the restaurant door. Fifteen years had passed, but his voice still carried the same mocking tone familiar from their student days. She took a deep breath and decisively stepped inside.

“Hi, Igor. Hello, everyone,” her voice sounded calm, although her heart was pounding as if trying to burst out.

The restaurant hall was softly lit by warm lamps. Almost their entire group had gathered at the long table — about fifteen people. Faces were familiar but distant, like old photographs, a little faded by time.

“Marinochka!” Anna Svetlova — the only friend from those years — rushed to her. “I’m so glad you came!”

“I couldn’t miss such an event,” Marina smiled, feeling some of the tension ease.

“Come, sit with us,” Anna pulled her toward the table. “We were just talking about how we took exams from Petrovich.”

Marina sat down, feeling curious eyes on her. Next to Igor sat Olga Beresneva — once the beauty of the course, now a well-groomed woman with perfect hair and a slightly tired look.

“Marina, you haven’t changed at all,” Olga said with polite friendliness. “Still the same… reserved.”

“You look great too, Olya.”

“What do you do now?” Sergey Volkov asked, pouring wine. “Still trying to change the world?”

She remembered that tone — once part of the student mockery about her ecological business project.

“Almost,” Marina answered, accepting the glass. “I have a small company.”

“I guess,” Igor leaned forward, “something to do with your ‘green’ ideas? Remember when she was all about those biodegradable bags?” He laughed, and a few people joined in.

“Yes, that’s exactly what we do,” she replied calmly.

“So, is saving the planet profitable?” Igor wouldn’t let up.

“Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t,” Marina smiled evasively.

“Well, not everyone can be successful,” he shrugged. “I manage a department at TechnoProgress, Dima started his own company…”

“Remember how Marina failed her thesis defense?” Svetlana Krymova suddenly jumped in, Olga’s former friend. “She got mixed up in her calculations!”

“That’s not quite right,” Marina gently objected. “I got a B.”

“For a top student, that’s a failure,” Igor picked up. “Especially after all your speeches about innovation.”

An awkward silence hung over the table. Marina felt her cheeks flush — just like back in university.

“I remember how Marina solved that financial analysis problem even the professor got stuck on,” Nikolai Lebedev, sitting at the far end of the table, suddenly said.

Marina looked at him surprised. He was always quiet, and she hadn’t expected him to remember anything.

“That happened,” she thanked him with a smile.

“Alright, enough memories,” Igor raised his glass. “Let’s drink to our reunion! Fifteen years — like one day!”

Everyone nodded and raised their glasses. The conversation shifted to general topics: work, children, university anecdotes. Marina relaxed a little but still felt like an outsider among them. She knew she didn’t fit in with this circle, just like before.

“Are you married, Marina?” Olga asked when the conversation turned to football.

“No, not yet.”

“Any kids?”

“None either. Work takes all my time.”

“Poor thing,” Olga said with sincere sympathy. “I already have three. Igor works a lot, of course, but we manage.”

Marina nodded, finding no words. By most here, she was indeed a “loser” — no husband, no children, only a career.

“I’m going out for some air,” she said and got up from the table.

The terrace was quiet and fresh. Marina took a deep breath. Why did she even come? To feel again like that student who couldn’t find her place?

“May I?” Nikolai appeared nearby with two cups of coffee. “Thought you might want to warm up.”

“Thank you,” she gratefully took the cup. “It got a bit too hot inside.”

“Not just from the heat,” he smiled. “Igor is still the same… overwhelming.”

“Some things never change,” Marina shrugged.

“Others do,” Nikolai looked at her intently. “You’ve changed. Stronger. More confident.”

“Really?” she raised her eyebrows in surprise.

“Yes. Not just outwardly. In many ways.”

“And you’re more observant than I thought,” she smiled. “Honestly, I barely remember you.”

“No wonder,” he smirked a little. “I tried to be invisible. Especially around Igor and his crew.”

“Everyone was a little afraid of him.”

“Except you,” he said unexpectedly. “You always stood by your ideas, even when they laughed in your face.”

Marina wanted to say something but then Anna came running onto the terrace, excited, holding a phone.

“Marina! Why were you silent?!” Anna handed her the phone. “It’s you!”

The screen was open to a business magazine page. On the cover of the new issue sat Marina herself in a formal suit. The headline read: “Green Billion: How Marina Sokolova Turned an Ecological Idea into a Business Worth 50 Million.”

“That… came out quite recently,” Marina replied embarrassed. “I didn’t want to make it public.”

“Didn’t want to make it public?!” Anna pulled her back into the hall. “Guys! Look here!”

A commotion began in the restaurant. The phone passed from hand to hand. Faces changed — from surprise to complete incomprehension.

“Is it true?” Igor looked as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. “Fifty million?”

“That’s the estimated company value,” Marina calmly explained. “Not my personal funds.”

“But you own it?” he pressed.

“I’m the majority shareholder, yes.”

A heavy silence fell over the table. Olga shifted her gaze between Marina and her husband, as if trying to comprehend what she heard. Someone quietly whistled.

“So all these years when we laughed at your ‘green’ projects…” Igor slowly said.

“I was just following my own path,” Marina finished calmly. “Like all of you.”

“Fifty million, though!” Svetlana exclaimed. “That’s huge money!”

“It’s the result of twelve years of hard work,” Marina said. “And many mistakes they don’t write about in magazines.”

The evening atmosphere changed sharply. Now everyone wanted to talk to Marina, learn details, say they had always believed in her. She answered politely but without much enthusiasm. This sudden sympathy irritated her more than pleased.

When most guests left, Igor sat down next to her with a glass of brandy.

“You know, I always said you’d achieve a lot,” he said with the same fake smile.

“Interesting,” Marina replied softly, looking him straight in the eyes. “I remember you saying I’d fail.”

“Oh, come on, those were just jokes,” he waved it off. “Okay, let’s talk about cooperation? I have connections at TechnoProgress, maybe we can work something out…”

“Sorry, Igor, I have to go,” Marina stood up. “Early start tomorrow.”

Leaving the restaurant, she bumped into Olga, who stood by the entrance smoking.

“I didn’t know,” Olga began without looking at Marina. “That you were so successful.”

“It’s just work, Olya.”

“No, it’s not just that,” Olga finally looked up. “The thing is, I dropped out of school for Igor back then. I thought he’d become someone important and I’d be by his side. And now…”

“You have three kids,” Marina gently reminded her. “That’s a big deal too.”

“Yes, but…” Olga hesitated. “Never mind. Just know I’m really happy for you.”

Marina nodded and headed for a taxi. Soon Nikolai came up to her.

“May I walk you?”

“Of course.”

They slowly walked down the evening street. Nikolai told her how he became a financial analyst, moved to St. Petersburg, went through a divorce. Marina listened and thought this quiet man had always made her feel sympathy — she just hadn’t noticed before.

“You know,” he suddenly said, “I kept your course paper on ecological management. The very one everyone laughed at.”

“What? Why?” she was surprised.

“It was brilliant. I always felt you were special,” he smiled. “I was just too cowardly to say it out loud.”

“And I was too insecure to notice those who supported me,” Marina lightly touched his hand. “Thank you for telling me.”

At the hotel, they exchanged numbers and agreed to meet for breakfast before departure.

The next morning, Marina went down to the restaurant. Several classmates were already sitting at a table, including Igor and Olga. Fresh magazines lay on the coffee table, including the one with her photo on the cover.

“Good morning,” Marina nodded to everyone and joined Nikolai.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked.

“Almost not,” she admitted. “Too much on my mind.”

“Good or bad?”

“Both,” she smiled. “But I’m glad I came yesterday. Like closing an old chapter.”

“And opening a new one?” he looked at her warmly.

“Maybe,” she smiled wider. “Time will tell.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Igor deliberately taking the magazine and showing her photo to someone at the next table. But now it didn’t matter.

Marina understood the main thing: true success is not about proving something to those who doubted. It’s about living your life, believing in your ideas, and finding those who stand by you. Even if it takes fifteen years.

Vasily Stepanovich lived at the edge of the village, where time seemed to have stopped. His little old house, as if pressed to the ground from weariness, was surrounded by a crooked fence and creaky gates that no one had repaired for a long time. Around him — silence. The whole street had died out: neighbors had moved away, some went to the city, others — to eternity. Only memory and recollections remained.

He was seventy years old. For a full forty years, he had served people — as a feldsher (paramedic) at the local clinic, which was now closed, along with everything that connected him to the past. After his wife’s death, he was left alone. His children were rare visitors, sometimes calling, sometimes remembering. But he had long grown accustomed to loneliness. The habit had become his shield, his protection from pain and unnecessary conversations.

That year, winter came early and harsh. The wind howled so fiercely that even the sturdiest window frames trembled from its rage. Snow fell in thick walls, tearing off roofs and swirling in the air, as if trying to carry away the last traces of human life.

Vasily Stepanovich’s house was the only one where a light bulb still burned. He stoked the stove, prepared a modest dinner — potatoes boiled in their skins and a couple of salty pickles from the barrel. This was how he always ate, simply and without fuss. Nothing fancy, nothing unnecessary.

He was almost about to go to bed when he heard a strange sound. At first glance — just the usual howl of the blizzard. But then again. Quiet, almost a whisper, as if someone was asking for help. His heart froze, then suddenly beat faster.

It wasn’t just alarm. It was professional sensitivity, which he had never lost in all his years working in emergency care. And it came back to him, awakening as a sharp pain in his chest.

He quickly put on his sheepskin coat, slipped on his felt boots, took his flashlight — the very one with the worn-out casing that had saved him many times on night calls. He stepped outside. The cold hit his face; his breath turned into a white cloud of steam. Step by step, listening carefully to every sound, he walked along the road until he noticed a silhouette at the roadside.

At first, it seemed like a sack or some trash. But as he got closer, he realized: it was a person. A woman. She was crawling in the snow, leaving a faint trail behind her. Her fingers were blue, her lips trembling, and her belly, under an old coat, was sticking out — she was pregnant. Close to giving birth.

Vasily knelt down beside her. Carefully leaned toward her:

“Girl… can you hear me?”

She slowly opened her eyes, looked at him with difficulty, and whispered:

“Help… me… it hurts so much…”

And lost consciousness.

The old man didn’t hesitate for a second. He gently lifted her — she was incredibly light, as if not alive, but a shadow. It seemed life itself was slipping out of her. He slowly trudged back, overcoming snowdrifts, gusts of wind, cold, and his age.

His thoughts were confused, but one thing was clear: if he didn’t make it in time, two would die — she and the child inside her.

When he reached home, the blizzard seemed even fiercer, but stepping over the threshold, he felt something long forgotten ignite inside — the fire of life, purpose, necessity. The house that had held only silence for years suddenly filled with chaos, warmth, and hope.

He laid the woman on an old but warm bed, covered her with several blankets, stoked the stove so that the flames roared in the chimney. Water boiled on the stove. He recalled everything he knew about childbirth — though many years had passed, his hands remembered what to do.

The woman was unconscious, her body convulsed with spasms, her forehead covered with sweat. Vasily ran to the shed, fetched an old wooden box — inside was everything that might be needed: bandages, antiseptics, scissors, even a clean swaddling cloth left “just in case” many years ago.

He put his hand on her forehead — a fever. Then checked her pulse — weak but steady. Moistened her lips with water and spoke softly:

“Wake up, girl. You’re home. No one will abandon you.”

She opened her eyes. A faint spark of life flickered there.

“The baby… he… soon… pain…”

“Hold on. I’m here. We’ll manage. I promise.”

The process began. And it was agonizing. But Vasily did not spare himself. He carried water, changed sheets, helped her breathe, supported her when the woman wanted to give up. At that moment, he felt no age, no back pain, no cold creeping through the walls. He was again who he had been all his life — a feldsher, a rescuer, a friend.

And then, in the middle of the night, a cry sounded. Loud, clear, filled with life. A little boy was born — red, wrinkled, but alive. The woman cried. Vasily carefully wrapped the baby in the swaddling cloth and placed him on his mother’s chest.

For the first time in many years, he felt his own eyes grow moist. He whispered:

“Welcome, little one. You came into the world on the darkest night. Maybe that’s why you will bring the light.”

Morning came unnoticed. The snow was still falling, but the blizzard had calmed. Through the fogged window, soft grayish light entered the house.

Vasily sat in a chair holding a cup of hot tea. The woman slept, holding her son close, now peacefully, with a slight smile. When she woke, her gaze became clear. Gratitude sparkled in her eyes.

“Good morning! How do you feel?” he asked, approaching and straightening the blanket.

“Better… thank you. You… you saved us!”

Tears filled her eyes.

“You did everything, girl. I just helped a little.”

She was silent, then with effort sat up on the pillow.

“My name is Marina. I ran away…” her voice trembled. “My father kicked me out when he found out I was pregnant. He said I had brought shame to the family. I didn’t know where to go. I walked along the road until my legs gave out. I thought I’d die.”

Vasily listened silently. There was no judgment in his eyes. Only sympathy and understanding. He had long understood: in life there is no black or white. There are only people trying to survive.

“Where did you live before?”

“Near Vologda. I have no one left… except him.” She looked at the baby. “I will name him Alexey.”

Vasily nodded. The name was strong, reliable, as if given by fate.

“So now you have a new path. No one here will judge you. In this village, truth has almost disappeared, but you will have a roof, silence, warmth… and the company of an old grump like me.”

Marina smiled through her tears.

“I would really like to stay… I don’t even know your name.”

“Vasily Stepanovich. Just Vasily, if you want.”

They fell silent. A calm, rare and precious, hung between them. She pressed the baby to herself, and he went to pour more tea.

A quiet life was beginning again — unexpectedly, unplanned, but with hope.

Several weeks passed. Winter slowly gave way. Snowdrifts still stood high, but the days grew longer, and the sun already warmed like spring.

Laughter sounded again in Vasily Stepanovich’s house — childlike, ringing. Little Lesha grew quickly, and Marina every day filled the house with care, warmth, and energy that the old man seemed to have long forgotten.

One morning, there was a knock on the door. It happened rarely — the village was long deserted, and those who remained knew: people didn’t visit Vasily Stepanovich just like that.

He opened the door. A man stood on the threshold, wearing an expensive coat, with a cold gaze and confused thoughts.

“Does Marina Karpova live here?”

Vasily darkened.

“And who is asking?”

“I’m her father. I was told she might be here.”

Behind him appeared Marina. She froze. Her eyes widened. The moment stretched into eternity.

“Dad…”

He stepped forward. His face was older than she remembered. In his eyes — uncertainty, remorse.

“I searched for you. I understood everything when I found out you were alive. Forgive me… I had no right…”

Marina was silent. In her gaze — not only pain but also strength. The strength that passed through the blizzard, birth, and loneliness.

“Why did you come?”

“Because I can no longer live with what I did. I wanted to see my grandson… at least once. And, if you allow, to help.”

She looked at him for a long time, then shifted her gaze to Lesha, who peacefully slept in her arms. Slowly stepped aside and said:

“Come in. But know this: I am no longer that girl you cast out. I am a mother. And this house is my fortress.”

Vasily stood aside. He said nothing but felt pride inside. And quiet gratitude for being there when she needed support.

He thought to himself:

“That even in the harshest winter, fate can give a second chance. The main thing is not to pass by those who have frozen in loneliness.”