All Amazing Babies

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

Maria came up to her husband and took his hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She smiled—softly, a little cautiously.

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Could it really be her?

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

Victoria noticed his confusion:

“Nicholas, dear, are you alright?”

Guests exchanged glances. Something was wrong.

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

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

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

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

“We need to talk,” he said hoarsely.

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

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

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

 

Nicholas closed his eyes, gathering his thoughts.

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

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

“You mean… you…”

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

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

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

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

“Oh my God… Is it really you?”

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

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

“What’s happening?” they whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Forgive me…”

After that, Nicholas vanished without a trace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her son looked at his mother gratefully and said:

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

At first, she protested:

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

Ali only smiled:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Zlata ran into the corridor and shouted:

— Auntie is dying! Auntie is dying!

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

— Good luck, doctor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then she spoke — quietly, but firmly:

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

Then she stepped down and walked away.

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

A week passed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he never saw that particular grandmother again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Be careful with your words,” Angela said, addressing her husband without taking her eyes off the glass of champagne she slowly turned in her hands.

Denis smiled — finally, his wife was paying attention to him. All evening she seemed not to notice his presence, even though he was the reason for the celebration.

“I’m telling you, I got promoted,” he repeated louder so everyone at the table could hear.

“No, that’s not what you said,” Angela lifted her eyes and looked closely at her husband. “Go back a little and repeat aloud what you just told me.”

Denis felt a slight tension and glanced at his friend Egor. Egor seemed to understand what was going on — he pressed his lips slightly and nodded his head in support. In his eyes read: “Come on, make up your mind.” Then the man looked at Nina, who sat next to him. He had come to the corporate party with her — the party he himself organized in his honor — because from tomorrow he would become head of the precast concrete production department.

Denis had worked five years toward this position, overcoming colleagues’ intrigues and proving his professional worth. And now the order was finally signed. The new position meant not only a status upgrade but also a significant salary increase — almost one and a half times. Now he could afford many things he had only dreamed of before.

He confidently looked at his wife, cleared his throat slightly, and, gathering courage, said:

“We are getting divorced, Angela.”

The words hung in the air. At the neighboring tables, life continued as usual — glasses clinked, laughter rang out… But at their table, silence fell.

“Plan A,” thought Angela, and immediately answered in a calm, even sympathetic tone:

“Maybe you shouldn’t? Perhaps we should talk alone, or did you decide to discuss this in front of everyone?” She glanced around at those present. “Egor, Maxim, ladies… Are they really interested in the details of our family life?”

Denis glanced at Nina, who barely nodded encouragingly. Angela knew perfectly well who this woman was. Her husband had become so brazen he lost all fear and brought his mistress to the banquet where his wife was supposed to be. He introduced her as a “colleague from the neighboring department.” Now he had backed himself into a corner — having said “A,” he had to say “B.”

“No, Angela,” Denis shook his head, trying to look resolute. “We are definitely getting divorced. This is the final decision.”

Egor shifted awkwardly in his chair, the other friends exchanged glances. Maxim pretended to study the dessert menu attentively.

“Well, Plan A didn’t work. Time to move to Plan B,” Angela thought, feeling a strange calm fill her.

She smiled at her husband with the very smile that once won him over — warm, understanding. Perhaps his friends expected a scandal worthy of a tabloid novel — that she would splash champagne in his face, call him an idiot and a scoundrel, attack his mistress with screams and accusations, put on a show that would be talked about in the office for weeks. But Angela only smiled and quietly, almost tenderly said:

“Well then, dear, fine. You made your choice. Congratulations on the promotion.”

She said nothing more. She stood up, took her purse, gracefully adjusted her dress, politely said goodbye to his friends, and headed for the exit. Her heels clicked rhythmically on the marble floor.

Egor watched Angela leave and, when she disappeared behind the door, quietly asked Denis:

“Strange, isn’t it? Don’t you think? Usually, women react differently in such situations…”

Denis himself felt some confusion. He had prepared for a storm, for tears, reproaches, long explanations. But it turned out somehow… too simple. He just shrugged, but when he met Nina’s gaze, he immediately answered with feigned confidence:

“Divorce. What’s unclear about that? Adults part ways civilized.”

Maxim and the other guys went to the bar and whispered among themselves, clearly discussing what had happened. Meanwhile, Nina moved closer to Denis and quietly, so the others wouldn’t hear, said:

“You described her as a shrew — ugly and evil. Said she’d make your life hell if she found out about us. But she turned out to be smart and… dignified.”

“Of course, smart,” Denis nodded, sipping champagne. “Why make a public scandal? It’s all decided. She knows perfectly well I won’t change my mind. It’s decided — now we’re together. Happy?”

Nina, no longer shy about her status and not looking around at Denis’s friends, stroked his hand:

“You’re brave. A very unexpected move. I’m proud of you.”

Denis raised his glass and clinked it with his mistress’s, trying to drown out the strange feeling of anxiety that suddenly settled somewhere in his chest after his wife left.

Outside, Angela stopped, catching her breath. Her chest creaked with inevitability — it felt like she was an old schooner, waves crashing against her sides, and she would either break apart under the storm or survive.

“No way you’ll hear any begging from me,” she thought. “You wanted me to plead, to throw myself at your feet? Maybe I would have, if we were alone. But in front of everyone? No way.”

A cold smile appeared on her face — the kind only her sister Galina knew. But now she didn’t want to talk to her. Yulka — that was who she needed. Yes, she would listen, maybe slap her cheek to wake her up, so she wouldn’t whine or think about running back to beg for mercy.

Angela dialed her friend. She didn’t answer immediately.

“Listen, I was dozing off, work — I’m tired,” came Yulia’s sleepy voice.

“Sorry, I didn’t know. I just need to talk to someone.”

“Don’t worry, I still have to get up and make dinner. Talk about what? The planetary parade or did you pick a new blouse?”

“He announced the divorce.”

A second of confusion on the other end. Then Yulia exclaimed:

“Damn! Is it serious?”

Angela was silent for a while — feeling that nasty lump in her throat that wouldn’t let her speak. Yulia even thought Angela had gone somewhere and quietly asked:

“You there?”

“I’m here. He just announced in front of everyone at the corporate party that we’re divorcing. Just like that — as if he decided to throw out a flowerpot. With me! We’ve been together five years, and just like that, at that damn banquet, where there are lots of people, he loudly declared he’s divorcing.”

“He’s lost it!”

“No, he did it on purpose. He knew he’d get beaten at home, but in front of everyone, I couldn’t hit him. Damn it, couldn’t hit him, but I wanted to!”

“Sorry,” came a cold chuckle in reply.

“He did it on purpose because he got promoted. Today he arranged a small corporate party for his employees. And you know why? He wanted to show them who’s boss — that if he can ‘fire’ his wife in front of everyone, he’ll do the same to them without hesitation.”

“What an idiot!”

“No, he calculated everything, did everything right. Well done! You know, I’m even proud of him. I wouldn’t dare do that if I planned to divorce. But here it’s simple — two words and a period: ‘We’re getting divorced.’ And what’s left for me? Panic, yell, or start packing? Although, wait — no packing!”

“Of course, no packing. The apartment is yours.”

“You’re right. He thought he got rid of me. Yes, he did — got rid of me. But…”

Angela was silent for a few seconds, then asked:

“Remember Plan B?”

“You want to put it into action?”

“Of course. Will you help?”

“I’ll try, but no guarantees.”

“Don’t worry, I still have Plan V and Plan G.”

“Yes, I remember. Well then, I’m off. Rodion hasn’t left yet, we need to act fast before your guy recovers. Time is tight. Bye, call if anything.”

“Thanks.”

After hanging up, Angela immediately called Tatyana.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” came the same greeting.

“You work at a door sales shop, right?”

“No, I transferred, now I’m at the office.”

“Congrats. But it’s not about you. Tell me, do you have a good locksmith who can quickly change a lock?”

“Yes, I do. What kind of lock?”

“Here’s the deal: I’ll come home now, take a photo of the lock, and send it to you. If possible, have your guy come to me right away — I’ll pay cash. It’s urgent, not tomorrow — right now.”

“I’ll try, but they’re on shift.”

“Find some excuse. Double rate for work.”

“You should’ve said so right away! Okay, I’ll be in touch. Bye.”

“Bye.”

While walking home, Angela managed to call Yana. After hearing a brief version of Angela’s tragedy, Yana immediately went to wake up her husband Valery.

“Get up, it’s urgent!” she shook him.

Valery grumbled:

“You have no idea — I worked twelve hours! Let me rest a bit.”

“No time. Angela’s in trouble, we need to help.”

Valery immediately woke, sat up sharply, jumped out of bed:

“What happened? An accident?”

“Make something up — worse!”

“In the hospital?”

Yana spat:

“No! Denis is divorcing her.”

Valery sighed with relief:

“Phew, you scared me.”

Yana slapped her husband on the back of the head:

“Quickly get dressed, we need your car.”

“And what — to pick someone up or drop off?”

“Not her, him. Hurry up!”

Valery put on socks:

“I’m already changed, let’s go.”

“Don’t rush, I can’t be in my underwear!” he shouted, hopping on one foot while pulling up pants.

Yana laughed:

“You’re cute even in those! Okay, let’s go!”

Valery ran to the corridor, started looking for a T-shirt, returned to the room, went out again.

“You’re such a scaredy-cat!” Yana couldn’t stand it.

“Alright, alright, I’m dressed! So, what’s the plan?”

“I’ll tell you on the way. Here, take these empty boxes.” She handed him a stack. “Let’s go.”

Meanwhile, Angela was already home, photographed the lock, and sent the picture to her friend. She looked around the empty apartment and said aloud:

“Well, dear, you made the first move. Now it’s my turn. Don’t be offended.”

She sat at the table, opened her husband’s laptop and turned it on. While the computer was loading, she took her phone and called her mother-in-law. The ringing lasted long; finally, Larisa Gennadievna answered.

“Angela? Glad to hear you.”

They had never had a good relationship, but she always said this phrase out of politeness.

“Dear Larisa Gennadievna, I want to inform you that today your son announced his divorce at the corporate party. Therefore, we are separating. This decision is not mine but your son’s — please accept it as such. Yes, we didn’t get along well — we didn’t fight, but there was no love either. However, you are my husband’s mother, or rather, my ex-husband’s, although we are not officially divorced yet, but it’s inevitable.”

Larisa Gennadievna didn’t understand at first what was going on and only after Angela paused for a few seconds to catch her breath, interjected:

“Wait… Denis… divorce?”

“Yes, exactly divorce. It’s his decision, I support him as a man. I understand well — if a man makes a decision, it means he thought it through. That’s why I’m calling you just in case to apologize if I was rude somewhere. Honestly, I didn’t mean to — I was just defending my rights. But now it’s in the past. From today, Denis doesn’t stay overnight with me. I think he’ll come to you.”

Larisa Gennadievna was more surprised not that her son was divorcing, but that he was coming back to her. She immediately objected:

“How? No way! My daughter lives here!”

“Then Denis will rent an apartment. I just called you to inform you. Thank you for listening. Goodbye.”

Angela immediately hung up and put down the phone. Time was short. She opened her husband’s archives, found the folder “Resumes,” the latest version. Opened it and started reading. Everything was excellent — beautifully written. Well done, simply brilliant.

 

Meanwhile, Rodion, Yulia’s husband, had already arrived at his father’s place. Danil Valentinovich was surprised:

“Wow, what a surprise! Come in.”

“Dad, I’m here on urgent business.”

“You never come just like that. That’s good you have business. I’m glad I can be of some help. Come in. Maybe some beer? Or are you driving?”

“Yes, I’m driving. No beer.”

“Well, have a seat. I’ll at least make coffee. Don’t mind?”

“Gladly.”

“So, what brought you here so unexpectedly today?”

“Denis Pavlovich works at your factory?”

Danil Valentinovich was silent for a few seconds, then asked:

“Yes, there is such a person. What about it?”

“There’s a problem that concerns you.”

The father looked at his son in surprise:

“Hmm…”

At that moment, the kettle boiled. He put two cups on the table, poured boiling water, took a jar of instant coffee from the cupboard.

“Speak.”

“Today Denis Pavlovich organized a small corporate party at your company in honor of his promotion. It’s commendable — it brings employees together. Everyone usually does that, well done. But…”

Rodion wasn’t used to being a mediator between his wife and her friends, but he respected Angela very much. The pause dragged on.

“Speak already.”

“He was too dumb to leave his mistress at home — he brought her to the corporate party where his wife Angela was.”

“Fool.”

“At this party, Denis announced to his wife that they were divorcing.”

“Idiot.”

“I understand perfectly well that this doesn’t concern you — family matters are family matters. But look at the situation from the outside. One of the employees who holds a fairly high position publicly announces a divorce in front of all his subordinates and demonstratively shows he came with his mistress. It looks like a threat — a threat to all employees. Like, look how I deal with my useless wife, I’m not afraid of her, that’s why I came with my mistress. If any of you say something, you’ll be out on the street.”

For a while, Rodion and his father were silent. Rodion addressed his father:

“This is a blow to you, to corporate ethics. He intimidates your employees this way. It threatens to ruin his department. I don’t know about you, but I’d be cautious — I wouldn’t work with a person who treated his wife like that. No matter their relationship, a wife is a wife. You have to know how to forgive and part with dignity. In this case, he acted very…”

“Mean.”

“Yes, I agree with you. That’s all I wanted to tell you. You decide what to do with this information, but you already know my opinion.”

“Thanks for telling me. I’ll think about it.”

They sat for a while longer. Rodion chatted about trivial things out of politeness, then got up and left.

After his son left, Danil Valentinovich took the phone and dialed a number.

“Vera, Denis Pavlovich had a corporate party today, are you aware?”

“Yes, but I wasn’t invited,” the secretary replied.

“Find out who was there and give me their phone numbers.”

“Right now or in the morning?”

“Right now, don’t delay.”

“I’ll do it, I’ll send you the list.”

“Thanks, I’m waiting.”

After hanging up, Danil Valentinovich said aloud:

 

“What a scoundrel.”

He went to the cupboard where photos were kept. Among them was his wife, who died six years ago from cancer. Only after her death did he realize he loved her not like in youth, but in his own way — as an adult — loved deeply. Even after so many years, looking at his wife’s photo, he felt a tremor in his voice. Now his fingers touched the picture. For some reason, he mentally asked her forgiveness as if he were to blame for her death.

The phone beeped. Looking at the screen, he read the list of employees who attended Denis’s corporate party. About ten minutes later, after calling some of them, the information that Denis Pavlovich announced a divorce at the party was confirmed.

“Idiot,” Danil Valentinovich muttered.

Dialing the phone again, he waited for an answer:

“Vera, is there still someone in the legal department?”

“No, the working day is over.”

“Good. Let the lawyer come to me tomorrow morning. Confidentially.”

“Okay, I’ll message him right away.”

Danil Valentinovich thanked and hung up. He understood that such behavior could seriously harm the company’s reputation. A person who treats his wife so rudely in front of colleagues is capable of a lot. And that’s a direct threat to corporate ethics and work atmosphere.

He looked again at the photo of his wife. She always said a person’s character shows best in how they treat their loved ones. Denis Pavlovich showed his character today in full.

Meanwhile, Angela closed the laptop — the job was done. She put the computer away, neatly sliding it into the drawer. Yana had already packed more than a dozen boxes with Denis’s things, doing it methodically, unhurriedly. Angela just threw things on the floor while Valery stood aside. He even felt sorry for Denis — just this morning he was still a husband here, by night he would be nothing.

“Will you manage?” Angela asked Valery. “The office works till nine.”

Valery looked at the clock:

“If you finish in half an hour, I’ll make it.”

Angela threw books on the floor, quickly walked through the bedroom — ties and underwear flew. Yana muttered something indistinctly.

“Can you handle it?” Angela asked her friend.

“Don’t worry, I’ll pack everything. Do your thing — move to the next step of the plan.”

“Thanks, I’m on it.”

Angela took her phone, went to the kitchen, and closed the door behind her.

“Well, why are you standing like a statue? Help!” Yana called to her husband. “Bring all those clothes here, shove them into boxes. Time’s short, we have to hurry.”

Now she was clearly not folding clothes but just stuffing, packing tightly, closing and taping boxes.

“Maybe you should have talked to him?” Valery asked his wife.

 

“One more word — you’ll get a slap,” Yana snapped. “You have no idea how humiliating it is to announce a divorce in front of everyone. No, don’t you dare defend him.”

“I’m not defending, just trying to find a logical explanation.”

“What’s there to explain? He brought his mistress — that’s your explanation. He’s a jerk. Bring the box here, put this one in the hallway. And don’t just stand there like a statue. Grab the packed ones, load them into the car. We have very little time left.”

“Then you pack yourself, and I’ll go carry stuff out.”

Valery got up and headed for the exit, not forgetting to take two boxes with him.

Meanwhile, Angela was in the kitchen talking to Eduard.

“Hi.”

“Unexpected call. Glad to hear you. How are you?”

“Sorry, I don’t have much time. What I’m going to tell you is unpleasant. In short, today Denis announced the divorce. I’m divorcing.”

“Damn! What happened?”

“Doesn’t matter. Mistress or not — it’s not important. But I want to warn you. You seem to have lent money to my husband? How much?”

“Two hundred forty.”

“Exactly. So I ask you — demand the money back. I’m afraid now he’ll use the divorce as an excuse not to pay you. Or at least drag it out. You understand? I don’t want you to suffer because of our relationship. That’s all I wanted to say. You’re still my friend. And also — sorry, we won’t be able to get together this Friday.”

“Now I understand. Too bad. I already got ready, bought a box of beer. Well, don’t be too upset. Eduard is a good guy, but…”

“Sorry, I don’t have time for sympathy now. I called just to warn you.”

“Thanks, got it.”

Angela ended the call and immediately phoned her next friend — Yura.

“Hi…”

Thus Angela called Stepan and Pavel. Each had helped Denis one way or another, and Denis still owed them.

Yana peeked into the kitchen:

“All done, last box packed. Valerka took it. Let’s go then. When you get the keys, I’ll bring them to you.”

Angela hugged her friend:

“Thanks, Yanochka. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Don’t be down. There are plenty of men, if needed — I’ll help.”

Angela laughed:

“Okay, go.”

Yana kissed her friend on the cheek and ran off.

Angela stood in the middle of the room. Everything seemed in place, yet she felt emptiness. Five years. Five years of life together — and all down the drain. Just like that, two words: “We’re getting divorced.” Angela wanted to cry, pity herself, but there was no time.

She took out a notebook, grabbed a pencil, wrote down a name, took the phone, and started dialing.

Closer to ten in the evening, Angela heard Denis trying to open the door. She even smiled — sitting in the dark, just resting. She had done everything for today, the rest tomorrow, and now just wanted to relax. And here was her ex-husband trying unsuccessfully to open the door. The lock was changed at her request.

Angela leaned back, took the phone, and waited. She also turned off the doorbell — she didn’t want to hear it ring. Now she wanted silence.

 

Denis pounded on the door, doing it hesitantly. Maybe he guessed no one was home. So he had no choice but to call.

Angela had already calmed down. The storm raging in her chest when she left her husband’s office had quieted. Yes, anger remained, but it was easier to handle.

The phone vibrated. The name displayed: “Darling.” She thought — better change it, write “Traitor.” She answered and said:

“Yes, dear.”

Angela spoke softly, calmly, but without love.

“Did you change the lock?” Denis blurted out.

“Good evening to you too,” Angela replied.

“Where are you? Open the door!”

“You have keys, right? And the mailbox key. Go get it — there’s a little key there. It’s for the rented storage unit. I put it in your name, paid for three days. There’s a note with the address. All your things are in that storage, literally all of them.”

Denis seemed to try to comprehend what he was told. He grunted for a while, then bleated like a goat. His footsteps were heard — he ran to the mailbox. Finally, he opened it and sharply asked:

“What the hell?!”

“Darling, don’t swear. Today is a wonderful day. You got together with your mistress, got promoted, announced the divorce to everyone. Everything’s wonderful.”

“Let me in! I’m tired, I want to sleep!” Denis yelled.

“What does that have to do with it? We’re divorcing. I’m filing in court tomorrow. And no more words. Let me remind you — the apartment is mine, my property, bought before marriage. You’re not registered here. No one is. Want to call the police? Go ahead! I’ll show them the documents. But I still won’t let you in. So go to your mom’s or one of your friends, like Egor or Ilya. Ah no — they’ll definitely take you in.”

“That’s unfair! Unjust!” Denis wailed.

Angela giggled:

“Darling, no hysteria. You have the key in your pocket. The storages are open 24/7 — you can go there right now and take your things. Or do it in the morning, I don’t care. But remember — I paid only for three days, after which your things will simply be thrown out. That’s all. Bye. If something urgent — call. Meanwhile, I want to shower and sleep.”

Angela hung up, put the phone on silent. She didn’t want to hear any screams — neither her mother-in-law’s nor her ex-husband’s.

Angela sighed heavily. She still had to talk to her mother, who was unaware of what was happening to her daughter.

Denis had no choice but to go to his mother’s house. Crossing the threshold, he saw Larisa Gennadievna looking at him angrily. When he took off his shoes, she said:

“Have you completely lost your mind?”

“Mom, I’m tired, just want to sleep,” Denis grumbled.

“You’ll sleep in the kitchen. The couch is narrow — just right for you. I’ll bring bedding now.”

Denis looked toward the bedroom door.

“You seem to have forgotten that Tatyana and my grandson Igor live there. Your place is in the kitchen. Want to eat — heat it up. I’ll bring bedding now. You’re an adult but still stupid.”

At that moment Denis’s phone rang. He looked at the screen and saw “Nina.” A hidden smile appeared — at least someone would cheer him up after this terrible day.

“Yes, darling,” he said, holding the phone to his ear.

“Denis!” Nina’s voice was excited. “How noble of you! So it’s all decided?”

Denis stopped confused in the middle of the kitchen.

 

“What are you talking about?”

“Well! You sent a video to my father where you said I was your future wife!” Nina was breathless with delight. “Denis, can you imagine? My father did not expect such a surprise from you!”

Denis froze, trying to understand what surprise she meant.

“What are you talking about?”

“Well! That video where you say about me that I will be your wife!” Nina laughed. “And my father got that recording!”

Denis strained his memory. Yes, indeed, last night, after Angela left, he babbled something to Egor about Nina and their future life together… But what video?

“And your father got this recording?” he repeated.

“It was so unusual! You know, I never heard of a proposal done like that!” Nina squealed with excitement. “And to answer right away — yes! I agree to be your wife!”

Denis’s jaw dropped. What proposal?

“Well, dear, I won’t bother you anymore, but dad and mom invite you to dinner tomorrow evening. At 7 p.m. Don’t forget!”

Denis quietly replied:

“Yes… okay.”

“Kisses! You’re my hero! So cool, so unusual! Dad is still shocked, mom seems to have calmed down. Well, see you tomorrow! Bye, don’t be late!”

The phone went dead. Denis lowered the handset and cursed:

“Damn!”

He already guessed that only Angela could have done this. The question was who sent her the recording. After all, he said that after she left the banquet.

“No way,” he muttered. “Married me off without me. Okay, we’ll sort it out. The main thing now…”

Tatyana came out of the room. She entered the kitchen and frowned at her brother.

“I won’t free your room,” she said immediately. “You’re a grown man, no reason to divorce.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll move out, rent something,” Denis grumbled.

“Good,” Tatyana took a glass of water and went back to the room.

At that moment the phone rang again. Denis held the handset:

“Yes?”

“Hi, it’s Eduard.”

“Oh, buddy! Hi!” Denis was glad. At least someone called just to chat.

They exchanged pleasantries a couple of times, then Eduard got to the point:

“Remember, I lent you money? I need it urgently. I gave you two extensions, but please return it this week. Really need it.”

“I understand if…”

“Your family problems don’t concern me,” Eduard interrupted harshly. “Divorce is divorce, but don’t delay with the money. I hope you won’t let me down? I’ll wait Friday.”

Denis’s thoughts started to panic. He had no money at all and didn’t know where to find any. There was still time until Friday…

“Okay, I’ll try,” he replied.

Long rings. As soon as Denis hung up, Yurko called and also demanded repayment. Half an hour later, after Denis finally lay down to sleep on the narrow couch, Stepan called, and in the morning — Pavel. Each demanded money immediately.

Denis understood — the situation was out of control. He quickly made himself instant coffee, hastily ate leftovers of yesterday’s soup, and ran out of the apartment. He needed to urgently get to work and sort out this mess.

However, as soon as he arrived at work, Denis was summoned by secretary Vera.

“The boss wants to see you,” she said dryly.

Denis was amused — finally, the management would appreciate him. Egor congratulated him again with relief and handed him a mug labeled “Single.”

Within a minute, Denis entered Danil Valentinovich’s office smiling, and five minutes later, he left unemployed. His mind exploded with chaotic thoughts — he was simply fired for violating corporate ethics. That damn lawyer found the corresponding clause in his contract. Everything he had strived for was destroyed in one day.

Returning to his office, Denis opened his computer. He needed to act urgently — send out resumes; there was still time. At that moment, the head of HR entered the room.

 

“Denis Pavlovich, the dismissal order has been signed,” he said, handing over an empty box. “Pack your personal things and hand over your access keys.”

He held out his hand. Denis panicked inside — now he couldn’t send resumes.

“Keys, I’m waiting,” said the HR manager.

Denis had no choice but to take the flash drive from the computer and hand it over. The screen immediately displayed: “Activate or enter code.” All was lost.

He grabbed the empty box and angrily began packing his things. A few minutes later, under the gaze of his former subordinates, Denis left the office. Whispering was heard behind him.

Denis was going down the stairs when his phone vibrated. Taking it out, he saw — mother was calling.

“Hello.”

“Have you completely lost your mind? Why did you send that video to our relatives?” Larisa Gennadievna shouted.

Denis immediately realized this was Angela’s doing.

“I didn’t do anything! It’s my wife, she’s taking revenge!” he yelled into the phone.

“You’re definitely an idiot! Do you realize what they’re thinking about us now?” Larisa Gennadievna angrily hung up.

Denis cursed under his breath, went outside, put the box down. The phone rang again — unknown number.

“Yes?”

“Your resume has been reviewed. Rejected,” a dry voice informed him.

Denis’s hands fell. He wanted to send his resume to this company and had already prepared the text. There were not many organizations in the city producing precast concrete structures.

“Damn!” Denis shouted.

The whole day was ruined.

Only closer to evening did Denis return to his mother. As soon as he stepped inside, Larisa Gennadievna attacked him:

“Did you get fined?”

Denis didn’t understand.

“What fines?”

His mother angrily pointed to the window:

“While I was away, neighbors said a tow truck came and took my car! Did you drive it and get fined?”

Denis grabbed his head. Everything was falling apart. He ran outside and looked where his mother’s car stood — empty. He realized — it was Angela’s doing again. He took out his phone, called Angela, and shouted:

“Where’s the car?!”

Angela calmly listened to Denis’s shouting, then said:

“Darling, don’t get worked up. Seems you forgot whose car it is.”

“My mother’s!” Denis yelled.

“No, it’s mine. I bought it and let your mother use it. But now we’ve separated, the car is mine — I took it. And don’t even try to sue for it — it won’t work because the car was a gift deed to me from my mother. So, dear, you’re out of luck.”

Denis yelled something else, but the line went dead.

He sat down on a bench. One day — just one day! — and everything collapsed. Lost wife, apartment, friends, job, and now a car.

The phone rang. The screen showed “Nina.” Denis smiled — at least something good in this cursed day.

“Hi,” he answered.

“How dare you!” Nina shouted angrily.

Denis was taken aback. Immediately prepared for the worst and quietly asked:

“What happened?”

“What a scoundrel you are! You villain…”

“Explain what happened!” Denis begged.

“My father and mother waited for you at 7 p.m. as you promised! It’s 9 p.m. now, and you didn’t call, apologize, or warn! Scoundrel! That’s it, I’m breaking up with you! Go to hell, you little man!”

Nina burst into tears:

“Don’t call me anymore!”

Long rings sounded.

Denis quietly howled. Everything collapsed. The last thing he was aiming for also collapsed. Even Nina left him.

And then a stupid idea came to him — what if…

He quickly returned home, grabbed his bag. His mother asked:

“Where are you going?”

“To fix a mistake,” Denis said.

Half an hour later, he was knocking on his apartment door. Angela opened it. She looked at him surprised:

“Did you forget something?”

“Sorry,” Denis said. “Probably drank too much champagne yesterday. I beg you to forgive me.”

At that moment, a male voice came from the room:

“Should I undress?”

Angela turned her head toward the room:

 

“Yes, undress. I’m coming, wait.”

Denis was stunned. Angela looked at him:

“Did you want something?”

Denis was silent. She closed the door.

Angela smiled and went to the room where Valery was.

“Change clothes,” she said, handing him clothes. “This is what’s left from my husband. Now help me move the furniture.”

“Damn, I thought I’d undress,” Valery laughed.

Angela laughed:

“When Yana finishes with us, we’re doomed!”

Valery got the hint.

“Okay, I’ll look away. Change, help me rearrange, then I’ll feed you. By the way, Yana promised to come.”

Valery joked:

“Too bad no undressing.”

Angela laughed:

“Oh, men, you only think about one thing!”

They laughed together.

“Marish, come quickly!” Stepan shouted from the garden, and I dropped the half-mixed dough right into the sourdough starter.

I rushed out onto the porch — my husband was standing by the old apple tree. And next to him… two small children: a boy and a girl. They were sitting in the grass between the carrot beds, dirty, wearing torn clothes, with big frightened eyes.

“Where did they come from?” I whispered, stepping closer.

The girl reached out to me with her hands. The boy pressed close to her but didn’t look scared. They were about two years old, maybe a little older.

“I don’t understand myself,” Stepan scratched the back of his head. “I went to water the cabbage, and there they were. Like they grew out of the ground.”

I crouched down. The girl immediately wrapped her arms around my neck, pressing her cheek to my shoulder. She smelled of earth and something sourish. The boy stayed in place but didn’t take his eyes off me.

“What are your names?” I asked softly.

There was no answer. Only the girl hugged me tighter and started to snuffle.

“We need to notify the village council,” Stepan said. “Or the local policeman.”

“Wait,” I said, stroking the child’s tousled hair. “First, let’s feed them. Look how skinny they are.”

I led the girl inside; the boy cautiously followed, holding the edge of my dress. In the kitchen, I sat them both at the table, poured some milk, and cut bread with butter. The children ate greedily, as if they hadn’t eaten for days.

“Maybe gypsies dropped them off?” Stepan suggested, watching them.

“No, I don’t think so,” I shook my head. “Gypsy children usually have darker skin. These two are fair-eyed and blonde.”

After eating, the kids perked up. The boy even smiled when I gave him a second piece of bread. The girl climbed onto my lap and fell asleep, clutching my sweater tightly.

In the evening, the local policeman Petrovich arrived. He examined the kids and wrote something in his notebook.

“Spread them out among the villages,” he promised. “Maybe someone lost them. For now, let them stay with you. There’s no room at the reception center in the district.”

“We don’t mind,” I said quickly, holding the sleeping girl close.

Stepan nodded. We’d been married a year, but still had no children of our own. And now — two at once.

That night, we set them up in our room — on the floor by the stove. The boy couldn’t fall asleep for a long time, watching me closely. I reached out my hand, and he timidly took my finger.

“Don’t be afraid,” I whispered. “You’re not alone anymore.”

In the morning, a gentle touch woke me. I opened my eyes — the girl was standing beside me, carefully stroking my cheek.

“Mama…” she said uncertainly.

My heart stopped. I lifted her up and held her to my chest.

“Yes, dear. Mama.”

Fifteen years passed like a blink. We named the girl Alyonka — she grew into a slender beauty with long golden hair and eyes the color of spring sky. Misha became a strong young man, just like his father.

Both helped with the farm, did well in school, and became everything to us.

“Mama, I want to go to the city university,” Alyonka declared at dinner. “To become a pediatrician.”

“And I want to study at the agricultural academy,” Misha added. “Dad, you said it’s time to develop the farm.”

Stepan smiled and ruffled his son’s shoulder. We never had biological children, but never regretted it — these two became ours truly.

Back then, Petrovich found no one. We formalized guardianship, then adoption. The children always knew the truth — we hid nothing from them. But to them, we were real mom and dad.

“Remember when I baked pies for the first time?” Alyonka laughed. “I dropped all the dough on the floor.”

“And you, Misha, were afraid to milk the cows,” Stepan teased. “You said they’d eat you.”

We laughed, interrupting each other with memories. So many moments over the years! The first school day when Alyonka cried and didn’t want to let me go. Misha’s fight with bullies who called him a foster kid. And the talk with the principal after which it all stopped.

After the kids went to bed, Stepan and I sat on the porch.

“They’ve grown up good,” he said, hugging me.

“My own,” I nodded.

The next day everything changed. A foreign car pulled up to the gate. Out came a man and a woman about forty-five, neatly dressed, businesslike.

“Hello,” the woman smiled, but her eyes were cold. “We’re looking for our children. Fifteen years ago they disappeared. Twins — a girl and a boy.”

It was like being doused with ice water. Stepan came out behind me and stood beside me.

“And what brings you here?” he asked calmly.

“We were told you took them in,” the man pulled out a folder of papers. “Here are the documents. These are our children.”

I looked at the dates — they matched. But my heart didn’t believe.

“You stayed silent for fifteen years,” I said quietly. “Where were you?”

“We searched, of course!” the woman sighed. “It was a difficult time. The children were with a nanny, and she took them away. On the way, she had an accident… The children disappeared. Only now did we manage to find a lead.”

At that moment Alyonka and Misha came out of the house. Seeing strangers, they froze and looked questioningly at us.

“Mama, what’s happening?” Alyonka took my hand.

The woman gasped, covered her mouth with her palm.

“Katya! It’s you! And this is Artyom!”

The children exchanged looks, clearly not understanding what was going on.

“We are your parents,” the man blurted. “We came home.”

“Home?” Alyonka’s voice trembled. She squeezed my hand tighter. “We are already home.”

“Oh, come on,” the woman stepped forward. “We are your blood family. We have a house near Moscow, and can help with the farm. Family is always better than strangers.”

There it was. I felt anger boiling inside.

“You didn’t look for them for fifteen years,” I hissed. “And now, when they’re grown, able to work — suddenly you appear?”

“We filed a police report!” the man began.

“Show me,” Stepan held out his hand. The man pulled out some certificate, but Stepan noticed the date — a month ago.

“That’s a fake,” he said. “Where is the original?”

The man faltered, putting the papers away.

“You didn’t look for them,” Misha suddenly intervened sharply. “Petrovich checked. There were no reports.”

“Shut up, kid!” the man snapped. “Get ready, you’re coming with us!”

“We’re not going anywhere,” Alyonka stood beside me. “These are our parents. Real ones.”

The woman’s face flushed. She pulled out her phone.

“I’m calling the police now. We have documents, blood is thicker than papers.”

“Call them,” Stepan nodded. “But don’t forget to invite Petrovich. He’s kept all records for fifteen years.”

An hour later, our yard was full of people. The local policeman, a district investigator, even the head of the village council came. Alyonka and Misha sat at home; I was near them — holding them as best I could.

“We won’t give you away,” I whispered, holding the children close. “No matter what. Don’t be afraid.”

“We’re not afraid anyway, Mom,” Misha clenched his fists. “Let them just try.”

Stepan came into the room. His face was grim.

“Fake,” he said shortly. “The documents are forged. The investigator immediately noticed inconsistencies. Dates don’t match. When the children came to us, those ‘parents’ were in Sochi — tickets and photos prove it.”

“Why would they do that?” Alyonka asked.

“Petrovich figured it out. They have a farm but are in debt. Workers ran away — no money to pay. They decided to find free labor. Heard about you somehow — and forged everything.”

We went out into the yard. The man was already being put into a police car. The woman yelled, demanding a lawyer, a trial.

“They’re our children! You’re hiding them!”

Alyonka approached her and looked straight in her eyes:

“I found my parents fifteen years ago. They raised me, loved me, never abandoned me. And you are strangers who wanted to use us.”

The woman stepped back as if struck.

When the cars left, we were alone — the four of us. Neighbors dispersed, whispering and discussing what had happened.

“Mom, Dad… thank you for not giving them away,” Misha hugged us.

“Silly boy,” I stroked his hair. “How could we? You’re our children.”

Alyonka smiled through tears:

“You know, I often thought: what if my real parents were found? Now I know. Nothing would have changed. My real parents are here.”

That evening, we gathered at the table — like fifteen years ago, only now the children were grown. But the love remained the same — alive, warm, and familial.

“Mom, tell us again how you found us,” Alyonka asked.

I smiled and began the story again — about two little ones in the garden, how they entered our home and hearts, how we became a family.

 

“Grandma, look what I drew!” three-year-old Vanyushka held out a sheet with colorful scribbles.

“Lovely!” I picked up my grandson. “Is this our house?”

“Yeah! And that’s you, Grandpa, Mom and Dad, Aunt Alyona and Uncle Seryozha!”

Alyonka came out of the kitchen — now a doctor at the district hospital. Her belly rounded; she was expecting her second child.

“Mom, Misha called, they and Katya will be here soon. Did you manage to bake the pies?”

“Of course,” I nodded. “Apple ones, your favorite.”

Years flew by unnoticed. Alyonka graduated, returned home — saying city life was cramped, but here was air, peace, and home. She married our tractor driver Seryozha — a reliable guy.

Misha finished agricultural college and now runs the farm with Stepan. They’ve tripled its size. He married a teacher, Katya; they already have little Vanya.

“Grandpa!” the grandson slipped from my arms and ran to the yard.

Stepan just returned from the field. His hair was graying but he stood strong as an oak. He scooped up Vanya and spun him around.

“Well, Vanya, what will you be when you grow up?”

“A tractor driver! Like Dad and you!”

Alyonka and I exchanged smiles and laughed. History repeats.

Misha’s car pulled up. Katya jumped out first, carrying a pot.

“Brought borscht, your favorite!”

“Thanks, dear.”

“And we brought news!” she blurted happily.

“What news?” I asked cautiously.

“We’re having twins!” Katya beamed.

Alyonka hugged them, Stepan’s face spread into a satisfied smile.

“So that’s family for you! The house will be completely full!”

At dinner, everyone gathered around the large table Stepan and Misha made a couple of years ago. There was enough room for all.

“Remember that story?” Misha said thoughtfully. “About the fake parents who filed that claim?”

“How could I forget,” Alyonka smiled. “Petrovich still tells that story as an example to the young.”

“And I thought then: what if they really were my real parents? What if I had to leave?” Misha continued. “And I realized: even if they were real, I would have stayed. Because family is not blood. It’s all this,” he gestured around the table.

“Don’t get your wife all emotional now,” Stepan grumbled, but his eyes twinkled.

“Uncle Misha, tell me again how you and Aunt Alyonka were found!” Vanyushka requested.

“Again?!” Katya laughed. “He’s heard it a hundred times already!”

“Well, tell me!” the kid insisted.

 

Misha began the story. I sat watching my children, daughters-in-law, grandson. Stepan, who year by year grew even dearer to me.

Once I thought I couldn’t have children. But life gave me such a gift — found two just like that, in the garden, between the beds. And now our house is filled again with laughter, voices, life.

“Grandma, when I grow up, will I find someone in the garden too?” Vanyushka asked.

We all laughed.

“Maybe you will,” I patted his head. “Life is full of miracles. The main thing is to keep your heart open. Then love will find you itself.”

The sun was setting behind the horizons, painting the old apple tree in pink tones — the very tree where it all began. It grew, just like we did. Like our family.

And I knew one thing: this is not the end. Ahead are many happy days, new smiles, new stories. A real family — alive, growing. And its roots are where love is.

In a prestigious, elite clinic, where patients arrived in expensive cars, and the lobby always smelled of freshly ground coffee served by experienced baristas, worked a young nurse named Alina. She was not just an employee—she was the living soul of the entire department. Kind, empathetic, and open-hearted, she always said, “Medicine is about helping everyone in need, regardless of how they are dressed or how much money they have.” For many, her words sounded like an ideal, but for Alina herself, it was a way of life.

One evening, during a quiet time, a man who seemed to have come straight off the street suddenly entered the emergency room. He was dirty, emaciated, his clothes torn to rags, his face covered with scrapes and bruises, and the smell emanating from him made those around instinctively step back. The security guards immediately moved to escort him out, but Alina stopped them without hesitation:

“This is a person. He’s in bad condition. I have to help him.”

Her voice was calm but firm. Against the wishes of the administrator and security, she took the man into a treatment room, carefully treated his wounds, gave him the necessary injections, and laid him down on a couch so he could at least rest a little. At that moment, the chief doctor and owner of the clinic, Artur Valeryevich, entered. Seeing the patient, he literally exploded with anger:

 

“Get this man out! Immediately! We are not a charity here! This is a private clinic! You’re fired!”

Alina said not a word. The next morning she packed her things and left without looking back. But her story—and even the fate of the clinic—did not end there…

A few days later, an elegant, well-groomed man of about sixty appeared at the clinic’s doorstep, carrying himself with dignity and confidence in every movement. He was accompanied by two bodyguards and carried a business briefcase. This was Nikolay Vasilyevich Drozdov—a famous billionaire, philanthropist, and founder of one of the country’s largest charitable organizations. He demanded a meeting with the management.

Entering Artur Valeryevich’s office, he placed a check on the table without a word.

“This is a donation—10 million rubles. But I have one condition.”

“What condition?” the doctor asked, surprised.

“Rehire that nurse. I am the very person who was thrown out. I wanted to see how your clinic treats those at rock bottom. And only one—your Alina—showed true humanity. Firing her for doing a good deed is not just a mistake. It’s a disgrace.”

These words hung in the air. The clinic froze. Rumors spread instantly among the staff. And the very next day, amid applause from colleagues, Alina put on her white coat again. But she did not just return to her previous position.

At the clinic’s entrance now hung a new sign:

“Help is not a luxury. It’s a duty. Doors open to everyone.”

Alina returned not as an ordinary nurse. Nikolay Vasilyevich insisted that she become the head nurse in the emergency department and also lead a new charitable project—providing free medical care to the homeless and needy.

At first, many employees were shocked. Some exchanged disapproving glances; others openly voiced their complaints:

“What now, treating everyone off the street? This is a private clinic!” the head nurse complained.

But time put everything in its place.

Every Friday, in a specially equipped wing of the clinic, a different life began. People from the streets came there—those with frostbite, purulent wounds, chronic illnesses that no one wanted to treat anymore. Alina received them as if they were important VIPs: with respect, attention, care, and warmth.

And then one Friday, a young unconscious man was brought to the clinic. Volunteers found him in an alley, in a state of extreme exhaustion. When Alina saw his face, a chill ran down her spine. Before her lay her own brother, with whom she had lost contact six years earlier after his sudden disappearance. He had been in an accident, suffered a head injury, lost his memory, and ended up on the streets. And only because Alina once opened the clinic’s door to a “homeless man” was she able to save the person closest to her today.

Later, at one meeting, she confessed:

“I didn’t save a stranger then. I saved my own. I just didn’t know it.”

These words stunned everyone. Even those who had doubted before began to understand: kindness has a way of returning, often in the most unexpected forms.

After the case with her brother, Alina felt her life fill with new meaning. She realized that nothing on her path had been accidental. What many considered naivety—her desire to help everyone without exception—became a bridge between despair and hope, between life and death.

 

Her brother gradually recovered. After treatment and rehabilitation, he began to remember his childhood, his sister’s face, the home. He was grateful to her not only for saving his life but for not turning away when he became nobody.

Meanwhile, the program to help those in need gained momentum. At first, it was one day a week. Then two. Volunteers, donors, and medical students came. Alina inspired people not with beautiful speeches but with her actions.

However, not everyone liked this.

Dr. Yudin, one of the clinic’s co-owners, began sabotaging the project. He demanded to close the “charity days,” cut funding, citing alleged damage to the clinic’s image:

“This is turning into a shelter! We’re losing premium clients!” he shouted at a meeting.

But that very day, a television crew arrived at the clinic preparing a report on socially significant medical initiatives. When Yudin began openly criticizing the program, the cameras recorded everything. The segment aired in prime time, and millions of viewers saw the true story: about kindness, dedication, and the greed of one man.

The public reaction was powerful. A week later, Yudin was removed from management. Nikolay Vasilyevich bought out his share and made Alina an offer she couldn’t refuse—to become the head of a new branch: the country’s first Center for Accessible Private Medicine.

And so, a year after all these events, a new clinic called “The Door” was ceremoniously opened, featuring a logo of an open palm—a symbol of acceptance and trust.

The first phrase written on the wall at the entrance read:

“Every person deserves help. The rest doesn’t matter.”

On Alina’s desk in her office stood a photo—her and her brother, both in white coats, smiling. Next to them was a handwritten inscription:

“We do not choose kindness. It chooses us.”

Orphan Maria sat in the cold, grave-like room of the notary, hunched under the weight of hostile, malicious glances. On either side of her—like wolves at the edges of a pen—sat Grigory, her husband, and his mistress, Lidia. He wore a smug grin, as if he had already won; she gave a venomous chuckle, as if savoring the thought of tearing her prey apart. The air in the room was thick, like syrup, saturated with hidden hatred and envy. The notary—a dry, parchment-like old man with a face carved from marble—was reading aloud the will of Aunt Anna, the only woman who had ever looked at Maria with love and care.

 

“…and all the property, including the house, land, and savings, passes to Grigory Ivanovich,” he pronounced, seemingly unaware of how Lidia barely suppressed a triumphant snicker. Her eyes burned like embers, and her lips, painted bright red, stretched into a smirk. Maria felt something inside her break.

Grigory, unable to hold back, laughed loudly, his laughter echoing off the walls as if mocking fate itself. Lidia echoed him, her voice sharp as a knife. Maria sat, clenching her fists, unable to lift her eyes. Was all that was left of her life—a letter? After so many years of humiliation, deprivation, and loneliness, she was given not a piece of bread, not a roof over her head, but just a scrap of paper? It was not a gift, but a spit in her face from destiny.

The envelope the notary handed her felt heavier than stone. She took it without a word and left the room under a barrage of Lidia’s mockery:

“A letter! Well, at least it’s good for kindling!”

Maria returned home as if to her execution. In her tiny room, where the walls smelled of mold and the window looked out onto an empty yard, she sat for a long time holding the yellowed envelope. Her fingers trembled. She knew Aunt Anna was the only person who had seen in her not a burden, but a living, feeling soul. With effort, as if tearing not just the seal but her own flesh, she opened the envelope.

“My dear Masha,” the letter began, “If you are reading this, it means I am gone, and the world has once again treated you cruelly. Forgive me for not protecting you better. But know this: everything I had, I hid for you. Grigory and his serpent will get only what the eye can see. In the old oak tree by the river where we read books, there is a secret hiding place. Find it. There lies your freedom.”

Maria’s heart pounded like a bird trapped in a cage. Memories flooded back: the oak tree, huge like the forest’s sentinel; the hollow where they hid their favorite books from the rain; Aunt Anna’s voice reading to her at night. She could not believe it. This was not the end. It was a beginning.

The next morning, before dawn, Maria went to the river. The village still slept, and no one noticed her leaving. Grigory and Lidia, lost in their false triumph, paid no mind to the runaway. Maria, with a heart full of trembling hope, walked toward her future.

In the oak’s hollow, under moss and time, she found a box. Inside—documents for a small house in a neighboring province, a bank account in her name, a bundle of letters from Aunt Anna filled with love, guidance, and faith, and a medallion engraved with the words: “You are stronger than you think.”

Those words were like a lifeline thrown to her in the storm. She returned home, packed her few belongings, and left that very evening. Grigory and Lidia, drunk on their imagined victory, didn’t even notice her disappearance. And when they did—it was too late. The house they received was dilapidated, the lands were in debt, and the savings a mirage, spent long before Anna’s death.

Maria began a new life. In a small house by the sea, where each day began with the sound of waves and cries of seagulls, she found freedom. She read Aunt Anna’s letters, studied, worked, and breathed freely for the first time. Every evening, watching the sunset, she whispered, “Thank you, Aunt Anna.” Far away, Grigory and Lidia fought each other, cursing their empty inheritance.

The letter was not just a piece of paper. It was the key to the life Maria deserved. She took the name Anna in honor of her aunt and started fresh. Working at the local library became her calling. She sorted books, helped children learn to read, and in the evenings studied old textbooks found in the house. The medallion became her talisman, a reminder that she was not broken.

But the past didn’t let go so easily. Six months later, Grigory came to the town. His dandy suit was shabby, his eyes dull, and the arrogant smirk replaced by a hateful grimace. Lidia had left him when it became clear the “inheritance” was debts and a collapsing house. Learning from local gossip that Maria lived nearby, he showed up at her door, burning with rage.

“You!” he barked, pounding on the door. “You think you can steal what’s rightfully mine? Where is Anna’s money? I know she hid something!”

Maria, standing in the doorway, looked at him calmly. Years of humiliation had taught her to hold her head high.

 

“You got what you wanted, Grigory,” she said quietly. “Aunt knew who you were. Leave.”

He stepped closer, but there was no fear in her eyes. Something in her confidence stopped him. Or maybe it was the neighbor, a sturdy fisherman named Ivan, who happened to pass by and stopped at the noise. Grigory cursed and left, promising to return.

Maria was not afraid. She knew Grigory was an empty man consumed by his own greed. But just in case, she wrote to the notary asking to recheck the will’s legality. The reply came quickly: everything was perfectly in order. Aunt Anna had foreseen everything—even Grigory’s attempts to challenge her will.

Time passed. Maria settled in the town. She befriended Ivan, a kind and straightforward man. He taught her to fish, and she shared books with him. One day, while sorting the attic, Maria found another letter from Aunt, sewn into an old pillow. It read: “Masha, if life gets hard, remember—you are not alone. Seek those who see your soul. They are your true wealth.”

Those words became her beacon. Maria began helping others—orphans, the elderly, anyone in need of warmth. She organized free classes at the library for children from poor families. The town came alive, and people grew fond of “that quiet Anna who lives by the sea.”

Grigory never returned. Rumor had it he drank himself into oblivion trying to sell the mortgaged lands. Lidia, they said, left with some merchant but found no happiness. Maria, sitting by the window with a cup of tea, watched the sunset and smiled. Aunt’s letter had been more than an inheritance—it was a map to a meaningful life. And every day she proved she was stronger than anyone had thought

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.