All Amazing Babies

In a small office on the outskirts of the city, where only a few dozen people worked, each day was much like the one before. The usual atmosphere of business routine prevailed here: calls, reports, deadlines — all demanding attention, focus, and energy. But even in the most ordinary days, miracles sometimes happen.

The employees often felt the need for a break — a short pause to refresh, relax, and regain the joy of being. And one day, in a burst of fun and a desire to break the monotony of the day, an idea was born: to arrange an informal entertainment that would lift everyone’s spirits without exception.

It was conceived as a playful and good-natured event — a sort of game, a humorous moment to brighten the dullness of work. During a coffee break, a group of colleagues discussed possible options until someone unexpectedly suggested:

— What if we invite Lyudmila? Our cleaning lady! Let’s ask her to dance!

Laughter broke out. Everyone was used to seeing Lyudmila only as the woman who carefully wiped dust, mopped floors, and smiled with kind calmness. She had worked here for many years, was always around, but seemed outside the everyday circle of communication. Her personal life remained a mystery to most. It seemed she was just part of the furniture — quiet, unnoticed, with eternal patience in her eyes.

And then the day came. The employees gathered in the hall, turned on the music, hung colorful flags, and placed a box of cookies on the table. At that moment, Lyudmila entered. Dressed in her usual work uniform, with a rag in her pocket and slightly flushed cheeks, she looked around with a slight hint of embarrassment… yet with a spark of curiosity in her eyes.

— Well then, let’s see what I’m capable of! — she said with good-natured determination, and hidden confidence rang in this simple statement.

She took the first step.

And at that moment, everything changed.

The music started, and Lyudmila transformed. Her movements were so confident, graceful, and precise that everyone froze. First — a light flamenco with its expressive hands and sharp head turns. Then — energetic hip-hop, where her body moved like living flame. Then — elegant ballet elements that added airiness and poetry to the performance.

Every step, every turn, every pause spoke volumes: about life, about hidden dreams, about unspoken possibilities. Lyudmila danced as if she had long awaited this moment, as if her whole life had been preparation for this minute.

The room fell silent. The employees, who just seconds before had been laughing and joking, now watched as if seeing a true artist from the stage of the Bolshoi Theatre. No one expected this from the woman they considered merely a backdrop to their daily lives.

When the music suddenly stopped, silence followed. A stunned, reverent silence. Then the hall exploded with applause. Loud, sincere, grateful.

Lyudmila bowed modestly. A barely perceptible smile crossed her face — pride, but without a trace of complacency.

— That was the best substitute for cleaning! — exclaimed one of the employees, prompting general cheerful approval.

But what shook everyone most was not just the performance itself, but what it changed. People suddenly understood: behind the outward ordinary may hide a whole world. Talent, passion, a story… Something impossible to see until you try to look differently.

After that day, changes began in the office. Employees started to organize joint events, parties, workshops more often. Someone suggested creating a small dance club. And, to the surprise of many, Lyudmila agreed to be the leader.

She became not just a cleaning lady, but a part of the team, a source of inspiration, a symbol that no one should be “just” someone. That everyone has something unique if only given the chance to show it.

Thus, thanks to one unusual day, the office became warmer, friendlier. Lyudmila taught her colleagues not just to smile but to see beauty in simplicity, to find joy in the unexpected, and to appreciate one another.

And every time the music played and the classes began, one simple but important thought filled the air:
Art can be everywhere. The main thing is to let it in.

— No documents? No name, no address?

Elena frowned as she looked through the patient’s medical chart. Her voice was calm, but worry showed in her eyes.

— No, — the elderly orderly replied, shaking her head. — They found him in the park, on a bench. His body temperature was almost below zero. A small hematoma on the back of his head. It’s a miracle he didn’t freeze to death in that frost.

Elena shifted her gaze to the man: about forty years old, lying under an IV drip, pale but calm. An ordinary face, slightly touched by the gray in his stubble. Hands neat, well-groomed — clearly not a vagrant.

— He’s been coming to for five days now, but we still can’t establish his identity, — the doctor tiredly rubbed her nose bridge, adjusting her glasses. — The police are checking the databases, but no matches. We’re keeping him for another week, then we send him to a social center.

— May I talk to him? — Elena suddenly asked, surprised at herself. She didn’t understand why this man sparked such interest in her.

— Good morning! How are you today? — Elena entered the ward with a thermometer and medicines.

— Fine, thank you, — the man smiled. — I had a strange dream today… I was in a field among some unusual plants. Touching the leaves, examining them…

— That’s a good sign, — Elena said softly, checking his pulse. — It means your memory might return. What would you like me to call you?

He thought for a moment.

— Andrey. I think that’s my name.

Three days later, he was sitting on the bed, slightly hunched.

— They’re discharging me tomorrow, — he said quietly. — Strange, but what scares me most is not that I don’t remember the past… but that I can’t imagine my future.

Elena looked into his eyes — gray, calm, but deeply confused inside. Then she said firmly:

— I have a spare room. You can live with us. Until you figure things out.

— Who did you bring home? — Elena’s son, Maxim, did not even hide his displeasure. — Seriously, Mom? Some stranger is going to live with us?

— He’s a good person, Max. He just doesn’t have a home right now.

— How do you know he’s good? He doesn’t even know who he is!

— Sometimes you just have to believe, — Elena put her hand on her son’s shoulder. — It’s temporary. And I feel he really deserves trust.

Andrey tried to stay unnoticed, almost like a shadow. He got up earlier than everyone, ate breakfast alone, washed the dishes after himself, helped around the house. Didn’t disturb, didn’t demand anything extra.

Two weeks later Maxim came home downcast.

— I failed the test, — he muttered.

— Maybe I can help? — Andrey unexpectedly offered. — Algebra is like a system. If you understand its language, it gets easier.

Maxim hesitated but handed over his textbook. Andrey flipped through the pages — his gaze changed. More focused.

— Yeah, it’s not that hard. Let’s figure it out together?

Two hours later Maxim looked at Andrey with respect.

— You explain like a teacher.

— Thank you, Elena, — Marina, Elena’s best friend, once said while sipping tea. — Your Andrey literally saved my business. All the plants in a client’s office started to wither — and he restored them in two days. Even figured out that the watering system’s water was spoiled.

— I didn’t know he knew so much about plants, — Elena was surprised.

— He’s like a living encyclopedia! Talks about plants like they’re friends. That they feel water, respond to light… I asked, “Are you a biologist?” And he just shrugged.

That evening Elena told Andrey about it.

— Strange, — he said thoughtfully. — I don’t remember where I know all this from. I just look at a plant — and the words come out. Like opening a book I read once.

— Mom, did you see how Andrey plays the piano? — Maxim excitedly told one evening. — We stopped by a music shop for sheet music, and there was an old piano. He just touched the keys — and started playing! Like a pro!

— I didn’t play, — Andrey said embarrassed. — My fingers just moved on their own. Like remembering a long-forgotten melody.

— That was Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata! — Maxim added, eyes shining.

Day by day Elena noticed Andrey becoming more thoughtful. At night she heard him pacing the room, as if trying to catch something important slipping away.

— I feel I’m about to remember, — he admitted one morning. — Snippets of memories. Faces. Voices. But it’s like a silent film with half the frames lost.

And then everything really started to change.

They lived under one roof for three months. One day, coming back from the market, Elena heard:

— Sergey! Sergey Verkhovsky! — their companion called out, a tall man. — Wait! That’s definitely him!

Andrey turned sharply but kept walking.

— You’re mistaken, — Elena replied calmly. — His name is Andrey.

— No, — the stranger insisted. — This is Sergey Verkhovsky. Associate professor of botany. We met at a conference last year!

Andrey hesitated, looked at Elena.

— I have amnesia. I don’t remember who I am.

 

The man left his phone number, but Andrey never called him. That evening he sat in the room staring out the window.

— I’m afraid to remember, — he finally said. — What if there’s something terrible in my past? What if I’m not who I seem now?

— Are you afraid you’ll have to leave us? — Elena asked.

Andrey looked at her surprised.

— Yes… Maybe. I’ve grown attached to you. To you. To Maxim.

Late at night, there was a knock at the door. Maxim was already asleep. A middle-aged man with a businesslike expression stood at the door.

— Hello, my name is Nikolai Zimin. I’m a private detective. I’m looking for a scientist-botanist who disappeared a year ago. Someone recognized your guest and informed me. May I talk to him?

Elena went pale but called Andrey.

— Andrey, it’s for you.

He came out and frowned upon seeing the visitor.

— Are you Sergey Verkhovsky? — asked the detective.

— Not sure. I have amnesia after an injury.

— Look here, — Nikolai held out a photo. — This is you.

Andrey looked — it was him in the photo, but different: with a short haircut, glasses, next to a woman with a cold, piercing gaze.

— Who is this? — he asked.

— Your wife. Irina. She hired me to find you.

— Wife… — Andrey repeated as if the word was foreign. — I don’t remember her. At all. If I loved her — I should remember, right?

— Tell me how I disappeared, — Andrey asked the next morning.

— A year ago you left for an expedition to a nature reserve. You were supposed to return in three days but went missing. The search lasted long but was unsuccessful. Everyone assumed you died.

— What was I studying?

— Rare plant species. Before leaving, you were working on an important project. Scientific or secret, no one is sure. Your wife should know more.

— Will she come? — Andrey asked with uncertainty in his voice.

— Tomorrow, — Nikolai answered shortly. — She’s already on her way.

After the detective left, Andrey slowly sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands.

— I’m afraid of this meeting, — he said finally, looking at Elena. — Not glad to know my name. Just anxiety. And emptiness inside.

— Didn’t you remember anything? — she asked quietly.

— No. Only fragments: laboratory, microscope, plants… Someone’s scream nearby… It’s like looking at a broken mirror — there’s a reflection, but the whole picture doesn’t come together.

The next morning, there was a call from Marina.

— Lena, don’t be scared, — her friend began. — I found something. About your… Sergey Verkhovsky.

— What exactly?

— An article in a scientific journal. From a year ago. About a scandal in the botanical institute. His colleague Pavel Dmitriev accused Sergey of data falsification. Then published a similar work himself. It’s all confusing but definitely shady.

— Send it to me, please.

— Already sent. Lena… be careful. Something’s wrong here.

Irina Verkhovskaya entered the apartment like a woman confident in herself and her rights. Cold hairstyle, perfect makeup, a calculating look. She didn’t even hug her husband, just inspected him as if checking whether the found object matched her expectations.

— Sergey… I thought you were dead, — she said without much warmth.

They sat in the living room. Elena offered tea but went to the kitchen to hear every word.

— Is it true you remember nothing? — Irina asked.

— Yes. Even you. Sorry.

— It doesn’t matter. The main thing is you’re alive. Now we go home.

— Not so fast, — Andrey’s voice became firmer. — I need to figure things out. What’s the conflict at the institute? Who is Pavel Dmitriev?

Pause. The air between them was tense like a stretched string.

— How do you know? — Irina asked coldly.

— Doesn’t matter. Tell me the truth.

— Just some academic mess. Pavel took part of your research for himself. You were depressed. That’s why you went on the expedition — supposedly to clear your head.

— What kind of research?

— A new plant species. You said it could make an important medicine. Sergey, stop digging into this. You need a doctor, treatment. We leave tomorrow.

That night Elena heard a knock on her door.

— May I come in? — Andrey asked. He looked worried but determined.

— What’s wrong?

— I remembered. Not everything, but the main thing. It wasn’t an accident.

He sat on the edge of the bed holding a worn notebook — the one they found with him.

— This notebook was with me then. I looked at the notes, sketches, formulas every day. Today they made sense. I really discovered a new plant species with unique properties. And Pavel tried to steal my discovery.

— And Irina?

— She was involved, — his voice trembled. — They acted together. I accidentally overheard their conversation right before I left for the expedition. They planned to take credit away from me. I was shocked. I went to the reserve to think it over. And there… rain, slippery path, hit my head. Hypothermia. Amnesia. And a new life.

In the morning Maxim ran into the kitchen, out of breath with excitement.

— Mom! Andrey! I overheard that woman!

— Maxim, that’s not good, — Elena said reflexively.

— Wait! She called some Pavel! Said he “remembered almost everything” and that they have to take him away before he finds evidence!

Andrey took out the notebook.

— Here are my proofs. Formulas, dates, notes. All here. Enough to reclaim my name and expose them.

At that moment Irina entered the apartment, confident as a woman used to getting what she wants.

— Sergey, they’re already waiting for us downstairs. Shall we go?

— No, — he said firmly. — I’m staying.

— What do you mean no? — her smile tightened.

— I remembered everything. You. Pavel. Your game.

— I don’t know what you’re talking about, — she replied coldly.

— Really? — he held out the notebook. — What if I show this to the institute? Or the police? These are documents, dates, notes. Mine, not his.

Irina’s face froze.

— Do you think they’ll believe you? A man with lost memory?

— We’ll see, — he simply replied.

When she left, slamming the door, Elena asked:

— You really won’t go with her?

— No, — he smiled. — You know, I remembered not only the bad things. I remembered I used to live wrong. Work was everything. Home was emptiness. The apartment was a design project, not warmth. You and Maxim became my family. If you allow, I want to stay.

— What’s next?

— I can work at the botanical garden. They’ve been looking for a specialist for a long time. Not prestigious, but real.

— Is that what you want?

 

— Yes. Maybe for the first time, I’m choosing myself, not an obligation.

Six months later, they sat on the balcony among pots with flowers that Sergey now grew with love. Maxim had just received a diploma for winning a physics olympiad.

— I didn’t think things would turn out like this, — Elena said looking at the sunset. — When I offered you to stay at the hospital, I didn’t imagine a new chapter would begin.

— A paradox, — he smiled. — Lost my memory — found myself.

— Do you regret anything?

— Only that I didn’t come into your life earlier. But maybe it’s not too late.

Elena touched his hand.

— Not too late. We have a whole life ahead.

Like spring awakening the earth, the story bloomed too. Not immediately. Not easily. But — truly.

In one of the wards of an expensive private clinic, a young woman was quietly fading away. The doctors moved around her cautiously, as though afraid to disturb death itself. Periodically, they cast worried glances at the monitors, where the vital signs flickered weakly. It was clear to them: even the largest sums of money couldn’t always bring someone back from the other side.

Meanwhile, a tense meeting was underway in the chief doctor’s office. Doctors in immaculate white coats sat around the table in the dim light. Beside them sat her husband, a well-groomed businessman in an expensive suit, sporting a stylish haircut and golden watches. Young surgeon Konstantin was particularly agitated: he was passionately insisting on an operation.

“Not everything is lost yet! We can save her!” he almost shouted, sharply tapping his pen on the table.

Then her husband spoke up: “I’m no doctor, but I am Tamara’s closest person,” he began theatrically with grief. “And that’s why I am categorically against the surgery. Why subject her to more suffering? It will only prolong… her agony,” he said with such feeling that even the most cynical people in the room shed a tear.

The chief doctor mumbled uncertainly: “You may be wrong…”

But Konstantin jumped to his feet, his voice trembling with anger: “Do you even realize you’re denying her the last chance?!”

However, Dmitry—this was the husband’s name—remained unshakable, like a rock. He had his methods for influencing decisions, and he used them without hesitation. “The surgery will not be performed,” he said firmly. “I’ll sign any refusal.”

And he signed it. One swift stroke of the pen—and the woman’s fate was sealed.

Only a few knew the cruel reason behind such a choice. Although, if you looked closely, everything was obvious. Dmitry had become wealthy thanks to her—her connections, her money, her intelligence. And now, as she teetered on the edge of life and death, he was already anticipating the moment when he could freely control her empire. His wife’s death was advantageous to him—and he did not hide it from those who might expose him.

He passed the chief doctor a “reward” that was impossible to refuse—to ensure the operation was not supported. Dmitry had already chosen a plot at the cemetery for the living woman!

“Excellent plot,” he mused, walking among the graves with the air of a real estate expert. “Dry place, an elevation. From here, Tamara’s spirit will be able to gaze at the city.”

The cemetery keeper, an elderly man with deeply set eyes, listened to him with confusion. “When are you planning to bring… well, the body?”

“I don’t know yet,” Dmitry replied indifferently. “She’s still in the hospital. Still hanging on.”

The man involuntarily choked. “So, you’ve chosen a place… for a living person?”

“Well, I’m not planning to bury her alive,” Dmitry scoffed. “I just know she’ll soon be out of her misery.”

Arguing was pointless. Dmitry was in a hurry—he was expecting a vacation abroad and a long-legged mistress. He dreamed of returning just in time for the funeral.

“What a lucky calculation,” he thought, settling into his Mercedes. “I’ll fly in, everything will be ready, the funeral—and freedom.”

The cemetery keeper said nothing more. All the paperwork was in order, the money had been paid—no questions, no objections.

Meanwhile, in the ward, Tamara continued to fight for her life. She could feel her strength fading, but she didn’t want to give up. Young, beautiful, craving life—how could she just leave? Yet the doctors remained silent, their eyes lowered. To them, she was already like a dead leaf.

The only person who stayed on her side until the end was Konstantin Petrovich—the young surgeon. He stubbornly insisted on the operation, despite constant friction with the department head. And the chief doctor, in order to avoid ruining his relationship with the head of the department, always sided with him, who, as they said, was like a son to him.

Unexpectedly, Tamara got another defender—the cemetery keeper, Ivan Vladimirovich. Something about the request for a burial plot raised suspicion. After studying the documents, he froze: the maiden name of the dying woman seemed familiar.

She was his former student—top of her class, smart and promising. He remembered how her parents had died several years ago. Then he heard that the girl had become a successful businesswoman. And now, her name appeared in the documents for the grave…

“And now she’s sick, and this pampered parasite is already eager to bury her,” thought the old teacher, recalling Dmitry’s smug face. Something didn’t feel right. Especially considering that Tamara’s husband, apparently, didn’t have any special talents—everything he had acquired was thanks to his wife.

Without hesitation, Ivan Vladimirovich went to the clinic. He wanted to at least say goodbye or try to change something. But he wasn’t able to speak with Tamara.

“There’s no point in talking to her,” the tired nurse dismissed him. “She’s in a medically induced coma. It’s better this way—she’s not suffering.”

“But she’s getting proper care, right?” the teacher asked anxiously. “She’s so young…”

He tried to speak with the department head, then with the chief doctor—everywhere he heard the same thing: “The patient is hopeless, the doctors are doing everything they can.” Realizing he wouldn’t get the truth, Ivan Vladimirovich left the clinic, struggling to hold back tears. The pale face of his former student, once so full of life and energy, haunted him.

Just as he was leaving, the young surgeon Konstantin called out to him—he was the one who had passionately insisted on the operation during the meeting.

Ivan Vladimirovich explained why he was so deeply affected by the situation: “I can’t believe she’s doomed… It seems to me her husband deliberately wants her dead.”

“I completely agree with you!” Konstantin exclaimed. “She can be saved, but it will require decisive action!”

“I’ll do anything for Tamara!” the teacher replied.

The solution came suddenly. Ivan Vladimirovich began recalling his former students, hoping to find someone influential. And he found one—one of his former students had become a high-ranking official in the healthcare sector. He contacted him and told him all about Tamara.

“Do you understand, Roman Vadimovich, her life depends on you. She must live!”

“Ivan Vladimirovich, why are you using ‘you’ and ‘Vadimovich’? Thanks to your lessons, I ended up here!” he smiled. “And he immediately dialed the chief doctor’s number.”

The call paid off. Soon, the question of the surgery was decided positively, and Tamara was literally brought back from the brink of death.

Meanwhile, Dmitry was enjoying his vacation at a resort, relishing life. Sitting under the blazing sun, he rejoiced in his cunning: “It worked out perfectly! I hooked a rich heiress while her parents were dead, and she was grieving. I just had to show some concern, help with the funeral, appear as a faithful friend… And now—I’m on their money.”

 

But his dependence on his wife still weighed on him. She was starting to notice his affairs, suspect his true intentions. And then her illness—a gift from fate. Now, he would become a free widower.

“I won’t marry smart women anymore,” he thought, stroking his mistress’s thigh. “Better a dumb beauty, someone I can lead by the nose.”

Suddenly, the phone rang. It was the nurse from the clinic. Dmitry frowned: “Too early… too soon. I’ll have to cut my vacation short.”

“Dmitry Arkadievich!” the voice trembled. “Your wife had the operation… and she survived. They say she’s out of danger.”

“How did they do it?! What do you mean ‘out of danger’?!?” he roared, drawing puzzled stares from the vacationers.

Realizing that now it was his own life at risk, Dmitry frantically packed up to go home. His mistress didn’t understand: “Dimka, where are you going?”

“My vacation is over. I need to sort this out!”

At home, he demanded an explanation from the chief doctor. He had paid to ensure Tamara’s death, but instead, he got the opposite. They just shrugged: “We didn’t act on our own. There were people more influential than us, and they made the decision.”

“Who could it be? Who needs her?” Dmitry shouted in fury.

The chief doctor pointed to Konstantin, laying the blame on him. That was enough for Dmitry. The young surgeon was fired, his reputation ruined so thoroughly that he could forget about medicine.

Konstantin almost hit rock bottom, but he was saved by a chance encounter with Ivan Vladimirovich. The latter offered him a job: “At the cemetery. Don’t look at me like that—it’s better than falling all the way. You saved someone’s life. That’s worth a lot.”

Konstantin agreed. There was no other way.

Tamara gradually recovered. Each day, her strength returned. Death retreated. Now, she had to reclaim her former life.

She began to investigate. Her husband grew cold, almost never visiting, not rejoicing in her recovery. Her colleagues also acted strangely—there was a lot they weren’t saying. But the most important thing she already felt: it was time to change the rules of the game.

Tamara slowly began to understand: her problems at work were far more serious than even her illness. At first, her employees tried to shield her from the truth, but at some point, the chief accountant couldn’t hold back, burst into tears, and confessed everything:

“Tamarochka Alekseevna, things are bad! Dmitry Arkadievich started a game—he replaced everyone, seized all the power. Now his people are in charge, and they’re untouchable. The only hope is on you—once you recover, you’ll get everything back. And if not… I can’t even imagine what will happen then.”

Tamara was upset, but still too weak to take any action. She tried to calm the accountant down:

“Don’t worry, I’ll recover soon, and everything will be back to normal. Just hang in there, and don’t let him see anything is wrong.”

It was easier to calm others than herself. Right now, only two people were supporting her: Ivan Vladimirovich, her former teacher who had become the cemetery keeper, and Konstantin Petrovich—the doctor who insisted on the surgery. She was waiting for a meeting with them, needing their support and simply their human presence.

But suddenly, they stopped coming. Dmitry was faster this time—he gave another bribe to the doctors, demanding that they limit visitors and outright ban those two from seeing Tamara. He felt they were a threat to his plans.

When Ivan Vladimirovich and Konstantin realized they were no longer welcome at the clinic, Ivan remembered his former student—the influential official. But he discarded the thought:

“It’s awkward to ask again. And why? To be allowed to visit the sick woman? Let’s wait. I’m sure everything will change once Tamara gets stronger.”

“What if it’s too late?” Konstantin said gloomily. “She’s now among her enemies. It’s dangerous for her there.”

Tamara felt it too. Lying in the ward, she realized her helplessness. Her husband was clearly preparing to take full control. Perhaps he was already preparing documents to declare her incompetent. If that happened, it would all be over.

It was almost impossible to talk to Dmitry—he stopped visiting after their last conversation when she began asking uncomfortable questions.

“Looks like they’re still giving you too strong a medicine,” he said coldly.

“Now I get it,” Tamara realized. He had already started to act. Now he wanted to present her as someone incapable of controlling her own life.

The doctors remained silent, shrugging at all her questions. Tamara had not yet regained enough strength to resist. Neither employees nor friends were allowed near her.

Konstantin was tormented by anxiety, but now he worked as a gravedigger—he had lost everything he had hoped for after being fired. Occasionally, he helped Ivan Vladimirovich at the cemetery, though his heart ached with thoughts of Tamara.

One day, at a funeral, something happened that turned everything around. They were burying an elderly businessman. There were many people at the ceremony, farewell words were said, and family mourned.

Konstantin stood aside, waiting for his moment, when he absentmindedly glanced at the deceased—and suddenly realized: the man was alive!

Pushing through the crowd, he grabbed the “dead” man’s hand. There was a pulse! Weak, but it was there.

“Get the madman away! What’s he doing?!” screamed the young widow.

But Konstantin didn’t hear. Commanding in a firm voice, he ordered: “Make way! Fresh air! Call an ambulance quickly!”

He managed to revive the man. A few minutes later, he was taken to the hospital. It turned out that the woman—his new wife—had been trying to poison him to inherit his fortune. But she hadn’t finished the job. Thanks to Konstantin, he was alive.

This man turned out to be not just a wealthy entrepreneur—he was the major shareholder of Tamara’s company. Upon hearing who had saved his life, he immediately contacted Konstantin and heard the story about Tamara.

 

“Seriously?!” he exclaimed upon hearing her name. “She’s my best partner!”

The businessman immediately took control of the situation. After his intervention, the company was returned to Tamara. Dmitry, stripped of his influence, disappeared with his mistress as if he had never existed.

The chief doctor and department head were fired and lost their licenses. No medical institution would trust them anymore.

And Konstantin got a chance to return to his profession. First, he was taken back to the clinic, but not for long—Tamara decided to open a private medical center and appointed Konstantin as its director.

Over time, real feelings developed between them. Six months later, they got married, and the most honored guest at their wedding was Ivan Vladimirovich—the former teacher who had become everything to them.

Soon, the couple shared the happy news: Tamara and Konstantin were expecting a baby.

“I hope the little one won’t be bothered by Grandpa?” Ivan Vladimirovich joked with a smile, looking at the happy newlyweds.

The body seemed to have broken — like a mechanism suddenly stopped working. Like a fragile boat on the border of two worlds: water and air. No breath, no time — only pain that burns from memory even one’s own name. In the fog of consciousness, where dreams intertwine with reality, Alla suddenly realizes: she stands on the edge between life and death.

Somewhere nearby comes a voice — muffled, blurred, as if through water. The voice of her husband, Kolya, seeps through the noise:

— “Allochka… hold on… don’t leave…”

The words spread out as if the edges of the world had blurred. Light strikes from above — cold lamps flash sharply. Strange hands do something quickly, confidently. Someone commands:

— “Pressure! Heart! Fast!”

This professional, slightly hurried voice evokes both fear and a barely noticeable hope.

How she just wants to close her eyes, disconnect from everything — to hear neither the doctors’ orders nor Kolya’s breaking whisper. Inside, a question arises: “Is it even worth fighting?” And the answer — a tremor of fear, strangely resembling fatigue. Somewhere deep inside, vague images of the past flicker, sounds of distant cities, the warm voice of a loved one.

But Alla cannot scream, nor sigh, nor cry — consciousness slips away again. Another wave comes, and it becomes easier.

She returns to reality in fragments: flashes of light, thick silence, harsh sheets. Alla barely understands where she is: sometimes it feels like she’s floating on water, then suddenly she is in a hospital ward. Monitors click evenly, outside the window a gray morning slowly dawns. It seems she moves between worlds, trying to grasp brief moments of the present.

And then — someone is nearby. A girl, small and fragile like a stalk. About six years old, probably. She awkwardly fidgets, her light eyes look directly:

— “I’m Katya. Are you sleeping or dead?”

— “No… Not dead,” Alla squeezes out with difficulty.

— “Good,” the girl sighs with relief. “Because it’s very boring here.”

In those childish words, suddenly there is warmth, the kind that only strong children have. Katya tells about kindergarten, where everyone is mean, about a mother who is never there for her, and about a grandmother who bakes pancakes.

Alla listens as if from afar. Somewhere inside, a familiar pain awakens — the desire to have her own little daughter, for whom it would be worth fighting. But children never came, and now inside is only emptiness and bitterness of what was lost.

Katya takes her hand and whispers:

— “I’ll come tomorrow. Just don’t die, okay?”

The girl disappears behind the door, dissolving in the light. Alla slips back into darkness, but now with a new feeling — cautious, almost unfamiliar anticipation.

Another return — clearer. Warmth, new smells, the air becomes a little lighter. The ward has changed: by the window — a stranger. He approaches, leaving behind a trace of freshness and anxiety.

— “You’ve woken up? Excellent, Alla. I am your attending physician, Yuri Anatolyevich.”

His voice is soft, but his gaze is professional — without excess emotion, but also without cruelty. Alla realizes: she is alive. But for how long? Her whole body hurts so much that thinking is frightening.

— “Your condition is serious, but we see improvements. You are coping. If you keep fighting, everything will work out,” he says, like a son speaking to his mother.

Alla tries to ask about Kolya — was he near? Yuri hesitates, then says:

— “Now it’s important to take care of yourself. Sometimes men get lost in such situations. He left a long time ago. And, to be honest, he wasn’t interested in your condition.”

Her head is noisy — resentment, pain mixed with a new, still weak desire to resist. The doctor takes her hand — firmly, confidently:

— “If you want to live, you can overcome any pain. I will help. But the choice is yours alone. Decide what you want to get up for.”

For a moment, she wants to go back into the darkness. Alla closes her eyes: no strength, no faith, only longing and a desire to forget everything.

— “Shall we continue?” Yuri asks.

— “Yes,” she answers almost in a whisper.

Awakening, Alla feels as if in another world. The ward has become quieter, the light softer, the pain recedes to the background. Morning brings not only light but a strange, fluffy hope. She turns her head — and sees Katya. She is here again: sitting by the window, tracing invisible circles on the glass with her finger.

— “You came…” Alla whispers, trying not to disturb the moment.

— “Of course. Now I will come to see you every day until you are completely healthy.”

Between them hangs a silence — not heavy, but light like a breath. Then Katya timidly asks:

— “Do you have your own children?”

Alla is silent for a long time before answering:

— “No… It didn’t work out. And where is your mom?”

Katya lowers her eyes:

— “She left me. I live here temporarily. Grandma is nearby, but she’s always busy. She says I’m big now, I can manage everything myself. And I really do… But sometimes I want someone to be waiting for me.”

Alla’s heart tightens. In these words — adult resentment, pain, and trust. Such words make one think: how much important has she missed before, how much was lost in life, in people, in herself.

Katya jumps up and unexpectedly hugs her — tightly, as only children can:

— “Let me be your daughter? If you want, of course.”

— “Let’s,” Alla exhales and for the first time in many years allows herself to be just a woman — alive, real, without masks or duties.

Lightness spreads through her body. A cautious hope awakens in her soul. Katya seems to feel it. She takes Alla’s hand, stroking it with her cool finger:

— “Everything will definitely be fine. Because now you’re not alone.”

At that moment, a nurse’s voice is heard in the corridor — it’s time to go. Katya quickly hides a drawn flower under her pillow and disappears. Alla watches her go and suddenly realizes how much she is looking forward to their next meeting.

The next awakening — clear, transparent. The pain has receded, hiding somewhere deep. On the bedside table — a carafe of water, outside the window — a lilac branch creaking on the glass. Yuri Anatolyevich enters almost immediately, smiling tired but sincerely:

— “Alla, you are on the way. The body resists. I truly admire you.”

Something inside responds — for the first time in a long time. Alla dares to make a step that before seemed impossible:

— “Please… don’t tell my husband about my condition. Let him think as he wants. And… don’t let him in here until I want it myself.”

Yuri Anatolyevich is surprised but nods — he understands and approves.

— “Alright. No one except those you wish will enter. If you want, I will transfer you to a private ward.”

It was bold — but right now she needs protection, a new beginning, a chance to leave behind old pain and constant pressure.

— “I need more time with Katya. And silence. No reproaches, no attacks…”

Her voice trembles, but the words come easily, as if she has been saying them for a long time. The doctor nods — with respect and understanding. In Alla’s soul, there is no triumph, only fatigue and a quiet feeling of freedom. Perhaps for the first time in many years she feels — this is her life, her choice, her boundaries.

The ward is changed the same day. A free wind bursts through the window. For the first time in a long time, Alla allows herself not to think about Kolya. Not to fear loneliness. Not to try to justify herself.

The new ward turns out to be much cozier than Alla expected: a small wooden table, an old lampshade with a worn edge, on the wall — a bright children’s drawing, undoubtedly Katya’s. Outside the window, clouds drift slowly, as if specially for those who dream to escape reality.

 

Katya’s visits become a ray of light in the monotony of hospital days. The girl comes often, bringing her small joys and cares, sharing hot news from kindergarten, talking about her plans, and spreading drawn little people, animals, and whole stories on sheets of paper on the bed.

— “Here, this is you,” she explains, showing another drawing. — “You’re smiling and holding me and grandma’s hands. Look, how beautiful?”

Alla smiles a smile she had long forgotten even in youth. Something warm, alive, awakens inside, as if her heart began to beat truly again.

Yuri Anatolyevich also begins to appear more often, but no longer only as a doctor, but as a close person. Sometimes he drops by in the evening, when the ward becomes especially quiet. Conversations flow easily, without formalities — about the weather, books, gossip. He sometimes brings homemade cookies, shares stories from his life — all simple, but genuinely warm.

Gradually, memories return to Alla — not about her husband, no, but about her father. Smart, reliable, the one she trusted with all her childhood. He’s long gone, but these images remind her how important it is to enjoy small things, notice signs of care, feel part of the world.

Sometimes sadness and fear rush in — that all good things may disappear. But then Katya appears. Taking her hand and whispering:

— “You will definitely succeed!” — she destroys all doubts.

With each day, Alla feels how something important returns inside — connection with life and herself.

In the evenings, when the windows darken and the ward fills with the heaviness of loneliness, the past returns suddenly and vividly. She remembers the day when Kolya came home strange — a confused look, foreign perfume on his clothes, an uncertain voice. Then a short quarrel, his sparse excuses, a hand gesture — as if everything happening did not matter.

— “You knew, right? I’m an adult. And anyway, I support you financially!” — he threw it out, as if accusing her of an invisible sin. — “It would be easier without you!”

Fragments of voices, laughter in the kitchen, the silhouette of another woman… And then coldness in her chest and indifference in his eyes. Alla did not cry — she did not allow herself tears or anger. She just took off her ring, packed her things, and went to the dacha to show: “I am no longer here.”

It was there that the accident happened. Evening forest, fatigue, sudden movement on the road — a hare or a fox. A sharp turn, a brake pedal hit — and… sliding slap, weightlessness, then darkness.

How long that minute lasted, Alla did not remember. But that moment her life shattered into pieces. Betrayal, pain, fear intertwined into one knot. But there was a moment when she realized: if she wants to survive, she must fight herself. Just to get out.

Rehabilitation was strange — at once long and fast. Day after day — exercises, injections, massages, physiotherapy. But Katya’s support gave incredible strength: the girl brought drawings, secrets, news from grandma. Sometimes Alla cried in front of her — and did not feel ashamed. For Katya, tears were not weakness but part of life.

However, thoughts about Kolya did not give peace. She learned that he continued to spend her money, preparing to leave. She received strange notifications, receipts. At some point it became clear: he wants to get rid of her once and for all.

Then Alla for the first time in her life made an independent decision — she contacted her old banker, transferred accounts, started checks. It was the first step to becoming the mistress of her own fate.

Yuri and Katya became those who connected her to a new life. Slowly, like seedlings under the sun, trust grew in Alla, the desire to live, accept help, find new goals.

Even in anxious days she already knew: now there are those nearby who will be with her. And for the first time in many years she felt she had the right to be happy.

News of the intentional brake damage came suddenly, as if someone sharply pulled a curtain early in the morning when you want to stay in the shadows. Yuri entered the ward unusually — lowered his gaze, sat down nearby. Behind him — his brother Andrey, a police officer.

— “We need to talk,” Yuri said softly.

Alla listened as if in a stranger’s dream: the examination showed the brakes on her car were deliberately damaged. Torn bolts, traces of foreign grease — everything pointed to tampering. Suspicion fell on Kolya. He had long behaved strangely, spent her money, disappeared for weeks. Now it turned out he could be involved in the accident.

— “There is reason to believe the damage was intentional. We detained him right at the plane,” Andrey reported.

Shock mixed with anger. So beside her was not just a traitor, but a man willing to take her life for profit. But instead of tears — only determination. Action was necessary.

 

Further events developed rapidly. Kolya was detained, legal proceedings began. Alla signed a statement, confirmed her safety threat. The past crumbled, but in its place something new was born — confidence in tomorrow.

Now the first to enter the ward were not nurses, but Katya with grandma. Yuri stayed longer than usual, brought news, supported not only with words but also deeds.

For the first time in many months, Alla breathed freely — ahead was not only light but a feeling that she had changed and would live anew.

Recovery did not come immediately — but each day was filled with care. Katya and her grandmother treated Alla like family: grandma cooked broth, the girl staged performances with her favorite teddy bear. Yuri always found a kind word or a joke. The ward was rarely quiet — someone read aloud, someone laughed, someone shared news.

The verdict for Kolya was fair. Alla was freed from his power, from another’s guilt. As if shedding a heavy shell, she confidently took a step down the corridor, holding Katya’s and Yuri’s hands.

And then the long-awaited discharge. At the hospital doorstep, those closest greeted her: Katya with grandma, Yuri with a bouquet of flowers, and a completely new life — one she had never dreamed of before.

— “Come to our place,” Katya said, firmly grabbing her hand. — “You’re ours now.”

A light breeze, laughter, simple joys, support born not from duty but sincere feeling. Alla felt at home for the first time.

Yuri was near — not intrusively, but as it should be. Their conversations grew warmer, their glances more sincere. Evenings they spent together at the big table: tea, pies, dreams about the future.

Life was just beginning — in a new circle, among real people. Alla smiled at her reflection in the mirror. Now she knew: happiness is possible.

— Is that you?.. Vera?

— Hi, Kostya. Didn’t expect me?

A woman stood before him — confident, with a straight back and a slight half-smile on her lips. There was no pain or pleading in her eyes like before. He noticed: she had changed. Her clothes were simple but clearly not cheap. Her hairstyle was neat, her hands well cared for. Nearby, holding her mother’s finger, stood a girl about four years old. Big eyes, a bright coat — an exact copy of her mother.

Kostya froze. Not because he recognized her. But because of how he saw her now.

Three years ago, Vera was sitting on the cold kitchen floor, holding her sleeping daughter close. The little girl was just beginning to hold her head up, and Vera was already crying, listening to her husband getting ready to leave.

— Where are you going? — she barely whispered.

— I can’t do this anymore! I’m living like a beggar. You’re all about the child, you don’t see anything around you. You’re tired, angry… I’m leaving.

The door slammed. He left for Liza — free, beautiful, without worries about children. And Vera was left with IOUs, an old apartment, and one lonely responsibility — for the little human.

That winter Vera remembered forever. She woke up in the night thinking: is the roof leaking, is the child dressed warmly enough, will the money last till tomorrow. The benefits barely covered the bare necessities. She learned to cook porridge with water, adding a little tart apple to make it somewhat tastier. She walked in an old coat, trying not to envy other mothers who walked hand in hand with their men.

Sometimes, passing by a café, she caught laughter from inside. And she knew — he was there. Happy, with a new life, while she was here — alone, with a child and a broken heart.

One day, looking through old photos on her phone — young, full of strength, with burning eyes — Vera realized: she wanted to bring that Vera back.

At first, she worked as an administrator in a small salon for a symbolic salary. She put her daughter in daycare, learning to juggle both. It was hard: sick leaves, nighttime tears, endless worries. But she didn’t give up.

She finished online courses, became a cosmetologist. Created a social media page. People were drawn to her — for her professionalism, warmth, and sensitivity. Her hands healed skin, and her gaze and words healed souls. Gradually, Vera became herself again. Only now — stronger.

Three years later, Vera entered the business center where she rented an office. Suddenly, she locked eyes with him.

With Kostya.

Next to him was Liza, less radiant than before, and a child about five, listlessly holding her hand. He noticed Vera. She — in a nice coat, confident stride, with her daughter beside her.

He approached. Didn’t immediately find the words:

— You… look amazing.

— Thanks, — she replied simply.

— How are you?.. Alone?

— No. I’m with my daughter. But really — I’m by myself. That’s exactly what was enough for me to start all over.

Kostya was silent. Liza, not hiding irritation, asked:

— Do you know each other?

But he didn’t answer. Something important inside him collapsed. He realized: he lost a real woman. Not the day he left. But the day he chose convenience over love. When he chose a toy over life.

Later, Vera walked home holding her daughter’s hand. The girl asked:

— Mom, who was that?

— Just a regular person, sweetheart. We’re moving forward. And everything else stays behind.

— Are we happy?

— Very happy.

The little girl smiled, pressed her cheek to her mother’s shoulder. Vera looked up at the sky.

Three years ago, she was crushed. Today — she had grown wings.

That night, Vera couldn’t sleep for a long time. Her daughter peacefully snored, hugging her favorite soft toy. Vera lay wrapped in a blanket, remembering…

The first days after Kostya left. How she sat on the floor, burying her face in her hands. How neighbors knocked on the wall because of the child’s crying. How every minute she lived in fear — would she manage?

How she got up five times a night. How she looked for work, cooked porridge with water because there was no money even for milk. How every day she fought her own doubt: “I won’t make it.”

One day an old friend called:

— Vera… are you holding on?

— Holding on.

— Do you rest when your daughter sleeps?

Vera cried. Not from tiredness, but because someone finally asked: “How are you?”

Her name was meaningful. “Vera” means to believe. Even when it seems the whole world has collapsed.

She learned to rebuild her life. Not to wait for calls. Not to count on help. Just to move. Step by step. She learned to save 50 rubles, repair shoes, write dreams in a notebook so she wouldn’t forget what she wanted.

And one day, in April, when everything was blooming, she and her daughter were walking in the park. Nearby sat an elderly woman who looked at Vera for a long time. Then she approached:

— Excuse me… You are so bright. As if you carry hope inside you.

Vera smiled. For the first time in a long time — truly. This woman saw in her not a single mother, not an abandoned wife — but light.

From that day, Vera made a promise to herself:

“I will no longer allow myself to feel like I belong to anyone else. I am for myself. I am for my daughter. I am for this life.”

Three years later Kostya found Vera on social media. He wrote a cautious “hello” as the first message, then began apologizing.

“You probably hate me…”

She replied calmly:

—I forgave you long ago. But we went different ways. We grew. Just in different directions.

He suggested meeting. Came with a son from Liza — a quiet and withdrawn boy about five years old. He rarely looked into eyes, mostly at the floor or window. Vera understood: this child hadn’t been read bedtime stories or sung lullabies for a long time.

— Is this your daughter? — he asked Mila.

— Yes, — Vera answered. — Do you want to be friends with her?

The boy nodded.

Kostya was silent for a long time, then said:

— You seem like a different person. Stronger.

— I’ve always been like this. You just didn’t see it before.

And at that moment he realized: he didn’t lose her. He never even knew who she really was.

For Mila’s birthday, Vera arranged a modest celebration — no pomp, but with balloons, a homemade cake, and many hugs. The girl hugged her mom and whispered:

— Mommy, I want to be like you.

Tears filled her eyes on their own.

— And I want you to be yourself. Just happy. And if someday someone tries to break you — remember how Mom rose from the very bottom.

Late at night, they lay on the grass looking at the stars.

— Look, how bright it is! — Mila pointed out.

— That’s you, baby. The brightest.

— And who are you?

— I’m the one who will always be near. Even if one day I’m gone.

Time passed. Vera began to be invited to meetings with women, where she shared her experience: how to survive pain, how not to lose yourself, how to be a mother and remain a woman.

One day, a young mother holding a child approached her:

— You have no idea how much your words helped me. Thank you for being here.

Vera smiled warmly:

—I was once looking for people like you too. Now I am here — for you.

She was driving home with her daughter in the back seat, looking out the window. Suddenly she said aloud:

— Thank you, life. For not breaking me then. But only teaching me to fly.

More time passed. Spring came into their lives again. Trees bloomed, flowers blossomed on windowsills, and especially — in the heart. Mila started first grade. She was bright like morning light, a kind and sensitive child. Sometimes serious, sometimes cheerful like a sunbeam.

One day Vera came home late. Mila was already asleep, curled up hugging her favorite pillow. Vera kissed her daughter and noticed the edge of a sheet of paper peeking out from under the pillow. She smoothed it out. The handwriting was childlike, uncertain, but sincere.

**“Mommy.
If I become a mom, I want to be like you.
You are magical.
You don’t yell when you’re tired.
You find my socks, even if they hide.
You are the most beautiful.
You smell like warmth.
I love how you hug.
When you laugh — flowers bloom in my heart.

I know it was hard when Dad left.
I don’t remember everything, but I remember you rocking me and crying quietly so I wouldn’t hear.
But I heard, Mom.

You raised me like a rose among stones.
You are a hero.
I love you very much.
Mila.”**

Vera read it and cried. First silently, then sobbing, then weeping, clutching the letter as if it were a piece of her own soul.

She knelt beside the bed, put her head on the blanket, pressing close to the little hand.

— Thank you, Lord, for not letting me give up. For keeping me for her…

That night Vera didn’t sleep. She sat watching her daughter — her miracle born in solitude, suffered through and still enduring.

In the morning, when Mila woke up, Vera held an answer in her hands:

“You are my reason not to give up.
You are my victory.
You are the meaning of everything.
I love you very much.
Mom.”

They hugged. And in that embrace was everything: pain, struggle, love, hope, faith.

Sometimes life breaks us like glass.
But it is through the cracks in us that light begins to shine.

If you have ever been left alone with a child in your arms, without money, without a husband, without hope —

don’t forget: you can become spring for your child.

You are not a victim.

You are a mom.
And that means you are a true hero.

Arina, bake a cabbage pie for dinner tomorrow,” Lyudmila Vasilievna declared, entering the kitchen and sitting down at the table. “I haven’t had a proper pastry in a long time; you’re always cooking some strange dishes.”

Arina turned away from the stove where she was frying cutlets for dinner. Her mother-in-law sat with her usual displeased expression, adjusting her familiar burgundy sweater.

“I’m allergic to cabbage, Lyudmila Vasilievna,” Arina replied calmly, flipping a cutlet. “I’m not going to make it.”

“What do you mean you’re not going to?” the mother-in-law’s voice sharpened. “I asked you, and you’re refusing me? Who do you think you are to talk back to me? In my time, daughters-in-law respected their elders!”

“This isn’t about respect,” Arina said, moving the pan to another burner. “If I cook cabbage, I’ll have an allergic attack. Make it yourself if you want it so much.”

“Make it myself?” Lyudmila Vasilievna jumped up from her chair. “I am not your servant! You’re the lady of the house, so cook what I say! And your allergy is just an excuse. You’re just too lazy to deal with dough!”

“Lyudmila Vasilievna, what does laziness have to do with this?” Arina turned toward her mother-in-law. “I cook every day, clean, do laundry. But I won’t make a cabbage pie because I physically can’t!”

“Can’t or won’t?” the mother-in-law stepped closer, narrowing her eyes. “You think just because my son married you, you can boss me around? We’ll see who’s really in charge here!”

Keys jingled in the hallway — Mikhail had come home. Lyudmila Vasilievna’s face instantly changed into a suffering expression.

“Misha, son,” she rushed to him. “Good you’re here. Your wife has gotten completely cheeky! I asked her to bake a pie, and she’s rude to me, refusing!”

Mikhail took off his jacket and gave his wife a tired look; she stood by the stove with a tense face.

“Arina, what’s going on?” he asked, hanging his jacket in the closet. “Why are you refusing your mother?”

“I’m allergic to cabbage, Misha,” Arina said quietly. “I already explained it to Lyudmila Vasilievna.”

“Allergy? What allergy?” Mikhail waved his hand. “Mom, don’t worry. Arina will bake the pie tomorrow. Right, dear?”

Arina silently looked at her husband, then at her mother-in-law, who was smiling triumphantly. Her heart clenched painfully with hurt.

“No, I won’t bake it,” she said firmly, taking off her apron and heading to the door. “You can have dinner yourselves.”

Arina went to the bedroom and closed the door behind her. Voices muffled behind the wall — Mikhail and his mother were calmly having dinner, discussing some everyday matters. And she lay face down on the pillow, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Behind the wall, a steady murmur of voices could be heard — Mikhail was telling his mother about work, and she was nodding sympathetically. As if nothing had happened. As if his wife hadn’t left upset, but simply disappeared into thin air.

In the morning, Arina got up earlier than usual. Lyudmila Vasilievna was still asleep — the house was unusually quiet. Mikhail sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, scrolling through news on his phone.

“Misha, I need to talk to you,” Arina sat across from him, clasping her hands. “A serious talk.”

He looked up from the screen, frowning in confusion.

“About what?”

“About your mother,” Arina took a breath. “I’m tired of the constant nagging. Lyudmila Vasilievna criticizes everything — how I cook, how I clean, what I wear. I’m tired of obeying her in my own… in our home.”

“Arina, what are you saying?” Mikhail put down his phone. “Mom behaves fine. She just has her habits.”

“Habits?” Arina’s voice sharpened. “Is that what you call bossing around adults? Misha, maybe it’s time to find your mother a rented apartment? Let her live separately? We’re still young — we need our own space.”

Mikhail slammed his cup on the saucer.

“Are you suggesting to throw my mother out on the street?” Metal edged his voice. “She asked to live with us, and you want to kick her out?”

“I’m not saying that,” Arina reached out to him, but he pulled away. “Just a separate place. We could help with the rent…”

“Look, I don’t like this,” Mikhail stood up and began getting ready for work. “Mom doesn’t bother anyone. On the contrary, she makes our life better — cooks, helps around the house.”

“When does she cook?” Arina also stood up. “Misha, open your eyes! I work, come home, cook dinner, clean, do laundry. And your mother only criticizes!”

“Enough,” Mikhail cut her off, putting on his jacket. “I don’t want to hear this anymore. Mom stays with us. Period.”

The door slammed behind him with an unpleasant metallic sound. Arina was left alone in the kitchen, staring at her husband’s half-finished coffee. The bitterness from the conversation spread inside her like that cold drink. She slowly took the cup, washed it, and set it to dry.

Arina was irritated by this injustice. Her mother-in-law had given her apartment to her daughter. And then insisted on living with them. And Mikhail saw nothing strange in this! Arina was tired of living under his mother’s watchful eye.

Half an hour later, Lyudmila Vasilievna appeared in the kitchen. Her hair was neatly styled, her robe buttoned up to the last button. Her face expressed extreme displeasure.

“Well, what a scene you made,” the mother-in-law started without even greeting. “So unkind! You thought my son would support you?”

Arina silently poured herself some tea, trying not to react to the provocation.

“See?” Lyudmila Vasilievna continued, sitting down at the table. “My son took my side! That means he understands who’s the boss here. And since that’s so, you have to obey me!”

Arina put the kettle down a bit more sharply than planned.

“Today you’ll clean the entire apartment until it shines,” the mother-in-law continued in a lecturing tone. “Wash the windows, mop all the floors in every room, make the bathroom sparkle. Otherwise, you walk around here like a lady, but the house is dirty!”

“The house isn’t dirty,” Arina quietly objected.

“Not dirty?” Lyudmila Vasilievna’s voice rose. “I saw dust on the dresser in the living room yesterday! And the mirror in the hallway is smudged! If you argue, I’ll complain to my son and tell him you don’t listen to me!”

Something inside Arina snapped. Like a tightly stretched string that could no longer withstand the tension. She turned sharply to her mother-in-law.

“No!” Her voice rang with tension. “I won’t do it! I’ve obeyed you for too long! I lost myself in all this! I cook what you order, clean when you say, stay silent when you yell! Enough!”

Lyudmila Vasilievna jumped up. Her face reddened with outrage. She screamed:

“How dare you? How dare you talk back to me?”

Arina raised her voice too.

“I dare! I am a living person, not your servant! And I will no longer tolerate your nitpicking!”

“If you talk back, my son will throw you out!” shouted the mother-in-law, shaking her fist.

And then something inside Arina seemed to break loose. Years of silence, months of humiliation. It all poured out in one powerful wave. She straightened to full height. Her voice sounded so strong that Lyudmila Vasilievna involuntarily stepped back.

“You forgot whose apartment this is! You forgot who let you live here! Who allowed you to live here without paying rent, utilities, groceries — nothing! Let me remind you — this is my apartment! Mine, bought before marriage. Bought before I met your son, your whole family!”

Lyudmila Vasilievna froze with her mouth open. She clearly did not expect such a turn.

But Arina didn’t stop.

“And so from this day on, you will no longer dictate terms to me! Or it won’t be me who ends up on the street — it will be you! Understand?”

For several seconds, the mother-in-law stood as if petrified, then slowly came to herself. Her face flushed, her eyes narrowed.

“How dare you speak to me like that?” she shrieked. “You have no right! I am your husband’s mother! I am older than you! You must respect me!”

“Respect should be earned, not given by age!” Arina did not give in. “And in the past months living here, you have not earned even a drop of respect!”

“How dare you…” Lyudmila Vasilievna gasped in outrage. “Who do you think you are? I’m Misha’s mother! And you’re just a temporary woman! He’ll always choose me!”

“Then you two move out together!” Arina cut in. “And I’ll stay in my apartment! The one I pay for, clean, and cook in! While you’re only bossing around!”

“I… I’ll tell my son!” the mother-in-law stammered. “He’ll find out how you treat me!”

“Go ahead and tell!” Arina crossed her arms. “Just don’t forget to mention that you live here for free!”

Lyudmila Vasilievna turned indignantly and, loudly stomping, ran to her room. The door slammed so hard the windows rattled.

A few minutes later, an agitated voice came from the room. The mother-in-law was clearly calling her son. Arina caught fragments: “Completely cheeky… insults me… threatens to kick me out…”

Arina calmly finished her tea and began getting ready for work. Let Lyudmila Vasilievna complain — today she spoke the truth for the first time in a long while.

In the evening, Mikhail returned home nearly furious. His face was flushed, his eyes blazing with anger. Barely crossing the threshold, he attacked his wife:

“What do you think you’re doing?” he shouted. “Mom told me everything! How dare you insult her? Threaten to kick her out of the house?”

“Out of my house,” Arina corrected calmly, taking off her apron. “And I didn’t threaten. I warned.”

“Out of yours?” Mikhail’s voice grew louder. “We are husband and wife! What’s yours is mine!”

“No, dear,” Arina turned to him. “This apartment was bought by me before the marriage. And I will no longer tolerate your mother’s rudeness.”

“Mom didn’t do anything wrong!” Mikhail yelled. “She only asked for help around the house!”

“She gave orders,” Arina countered. “And insulted me. And you supported her.”

“Of course I supported her! She’s my mother!”

“Then live with her,” Arina headed for the front door and opened it wide. “But not here. Pack up and leave.”

“You’re joking?” Mikhail looked at his wife in disbelief.

“Not at all,” Arina pointed to the door. “You’ve used me enough, lived off me enough. Now decide where and how you want to live. And I choose to be happy. Without you!”

Lyudmila Vasilievna ran out of the room hearing the shouting.

“What’s going on?” she asked, but seeing the open door, understood everything.

“Pack up,” Arina repeated. “You have half an hour.”

Relief washed over Arina like a wave. She had taken the hardest step.

After leaving the orphanage, seventeen-year-old Lida inherited something strange — a little house in the wilderness, passed down from her long-deceased grandmother. The half-collapsed building stood apart from everything — on the edge of the forest, as if forgotten by time.

No one was waiting for her, nothing tied her to the past — and she took this as a chance to start a new life. A modest one, but her own.

On the third day, to clear her head after endless cleaning, Lida went into the forest to pick mushrooms. She went deeper and deeper until she accidentally came upon an unusual clearing covered in soft moss. In the middle of the trees, as if fallen from another time, stood an old airplane — almost intact but entangled in roots and covered in rust, as if it had become part of the forest.

Curiosity overcame caution. Lida climbed into the cockpit — and, looking inside, screamed: in the pilot’s seat sat a motionless skeleton in uniform, frozen in the last moment of life. Around its neck hung a medallion… with her name carefully engraved on the surface.

From that moment, everything changed. What began as an attempt to start an independent life alone turned into a deep immersion into a mystery from the times of war — about missing crews, secret operations, family ties… and something much bigger than she could understand.

Lida froze, clutching the edge of the cockpit. The air was thick, stuffy — smelling of rust, mold, forgotten time.

The skeleton looked at her with empty eye sockets. It seemed to be waiting for her.

She barely tore her gaze away and reached for the medallion. Her fingers trembled, her breath faltered. Carefully, almost reverently, she removed the ornament from the chain.

On the back were engraved the words:

“To Lida. When you grow up — find me.”

Her throat went dry. Her heart pounded as if wanting to burst out of her chest.

“What nonsense?..” she whispered, feeling her fingertips grow cold.

The pilot’s uniform was preserved to an astonishing degree — as if time had spared him alone. On the instrument panel were crumpled notes in English, one of which read:

“Mission 13. Northern Sector. Classified.”

She didn’t know English but could read the number.

An unlucky number.

When Lida got outside, the sun was already setting. The forest grew denser, the air heavier. The rustling around seemed louder. She hurried home, forgetting the mushrooms, clutching the medallion tightly in her hand.

 

The next morning, she felt drawn to the forest again. Not by fear, but by a deep unease, as if something demanded attention.

But before going out, she heard a strange creak in the attic. The house was quiet — too quiet for anyone to be nearby. Going upstairs, Lida found an old suitcase filled with letters. One was addressed to her:

For my granddaughter Lida. If you return.

Opening the envelope, she read:

If you are reading this — it means you found the plane. Keep silent about it. It is not from our time. And perhaps, it came for you.

These lines gave her goosebumps. Everything happening was beyond ordinary. But most of all, one question tormented her: if the pilot knew her name — who was he?

The next day Lida woke with the feeling someone had called her in a dream. Thoughts would not let her rest:

How could he know about me? Why me? Who is that man in the cockpit? And how did grandmother know the truth?

Stubbornness won over fear. Dressed warmly, with a flashlight in hand, she headed to the forest.

Every step was hard. The bushes seemed to close behind her, the trees whispered overhead.

When she reached the clearing — the plane was gone.

Only young grass, soft moss, and silence. No metal gleam, no rusty wreckage. As if it had all been a dream.

Lida looked around, feverishly searching for any traces. Nothing. Only somewhere far off a woodpecker was tapping.

And then — a branch cracked.

She sharply turned. Behind the trees flickered a shadow — tall, indistinct.

Her heart froze. The shadow froze too. Lida did not move. After a second — it disappeared.

But she knew: someone had been watching her. And perhaps, had been observing all along.

That night Lida couldn’t close her eyes. The room smelled damp, old boards creaked, and outside the window something alive seemed to be peeking in.

She reread grandmother’s letter:

The plane will return if you remember. You are not just an orphan, Lida. Your blood remembers more than you think.

These words chilled her to the bone.

Sitting on the floor, clutching the medallion, she suddenly felt the air tremble. The room shook slightly, as if the space was wavering.

From the wall, as if through water, the outlines of the cockpit appeared. There, in the dim light, sat the pilot. His eyes were alive. And he was looking right at her.

“Lida…” came a muffled voice, as if from underwater.

The medallion in her hand suddenly heated up like hot metal.

“Who are you?! Why are you calling me?!” she exclaimed.

The pilot did not move. Only his lips whispered:

“Remember the coordinates.”

And then everything vanished. The air returned to normal, the room became as before.

On the floor lay a note — as if slipped out from the past. On it — coordinates:

Latitude 62.001. Longitude 47.744. 12:13 — don’t be late.

Lida trembled. But inside, determination was already growing.

The next morning she got up early. The wind picked up, the forest rustled anxiously. Something was preparing. Something was waiting.

Exactly at 12:12 Lida stepped onto the clearing. In her hands — a watch, her heart — in sync with the time.

12:13.

The medallion flared with heat. The air stirred, twisted into a vortex — and before her, just like the first time, appeared the plane.

Not a mirage. Not a hallucination. Real, tangible, like any object in this world.

Only now she knew: this was not the end. This was the beginning.

But now the cockpit door was open.

Lida slowly approached. The pilot’s seat was empty. Inside, on top of the instrument panel, lay a new sheet of paper. She took it.

It was a child’s drawing: a girl holding the hand of a man in military uniform. The caption below read:

“Dad and me. Lida, 4 years old.”

Her heart stopped. The world tilted.

“Dad?..” she breathed out.

Somewhere in the forest a branch cracked again.

Lida stood clutching the drawing. Thoughts raced:

Dad? But how? Why is he in that plane? And why now?

The medallion on her chest vibrated slightly — as if responding to her anxiety.

Behind her came a rustle.

She turned sharply. At the edge of the clearing, among the trees, something was moving. At first it seemed just a shadow. But then a face emerged from the gloom — pale, as if carved from ash. Mouthless. With eyes — human, but alien.

The creature did not move. But Lida was pierced with certainty:

If I run — it will follow me.

She slowly stepped back toward the plane. The door was ajar. Inside everything was as before — only on the pilot’s seat lay a second medallion, exactly like hers.

Lida took it… and heard a voice:

 

“They are coming. You must make it, Lida. Only you can close the cycle.”

“Cycle? What cycle? What is happening?!” she shouted in her mind.

The creature at the edge of the clearing moved. Smoothly, silently. Unhurried. It did not chase her — it knew there was no more time.

Lida stepped inside the plane and slammed the door.

Inside the cockpit came to life. Dim lights lit one by one. The instrument panel glowed faintly — without wires, without a power source.

A button labeled “START” flickered like a heartbeat.

Outside — silence. But somewhere there, beyond the visible world, awaited something nameless.

Lida reached for the button. Held her breath. Pressed it.

The space around jerked. The cockpit filled with gray light, as if time was torn apart. Outside the window the forest disappeared.

Before her spread an airbase — cold, abandoned, frozen in the past. Planes, signal flags, people in uniform. And among them — him.

The pilot. Her father. Alive.

He looked straight at her.

“You made it. Now choose: stay here… or go back.”

Lida didn’t know what to say.

Behind her — loneliness, the orphanage, the empty house. Here — her father. A man who should not exist. But who had been waiting for her.

“Decide,” he said, “and know: much depends on this choice.”

She looked through the glass — beyond time, as if in a loop, the same scene repeated. The same clearing, the same plane, the same her. The cycle. A closed circle.

“Why me?” she finally asked. “Why you?”

He looked at her with pain.

“Because you are not just a daughter. You are the result of a choice.

I went on the flight knowing I would not return. It was a mission — to cross the time rift. To pass coordinates to the next generation. But something went wrong. I got stuck between times, like in a drop of resin.

Grandmother knew. She was warned. But you are the first to find me. Because the rift opens once every 50 years. And you — are 17. Exactly when everything begins anew.”

A dull thud ran along the plane’s body.

“He has come,” whispered the father.

“Who is he?” asked Lida.

“The Keeper of the cycle. He cannot speak. But he is not an enemy. He is a guardian. Searching for those who break boundaries.”

The creature behind the plane’s wall began to emerge. Not as a monster. But as a reflection of something old, familiar.

“He… was me?” she whispered.

The father was silent.

And then the creature reached out — to the medallion on her chest.

And she understood.

If she stayed, she would be with her father — outside time.

If she left — she could pass on the knowledge, warn the world, break the cycle.

But then he would disappear forever.

And she would be alone again.

The medallion grew warm. From it came a voice — familiar, gentle:

“You are stronger than you think. You are the link. Choose with your heart — and time will hear you.”

Lida clenched her fist. Stood between her father and the creature.

“I cannot lose you both.

But if I stay — everything will begin again. And no one will be saved.

“Forgive me…”

She extended the medallion to the creature.

The plane trembled. A flash. Time shattered into pieces.

“Lida!” her father shouted. “Thank you. For everything.”

And then — silence.

Epilogue

She woke up on the floor of the house. The sun played with rays in the dust. Everything was as before. Almost.

On the floor near her lay a charred sheet of paper.

On it — just a few lines:

The cycle is complete.
Pass it on.
Your blood remembers.

Lida stood up. Walked to the window. Beyond it — the same forest, the same trees. But now she knew the truth.

There was no longer a shadow in it.

Ksenia looked at the numbers on the computer screen for the third time, as if they could change under her intense gaze. The bonus turned out to be even bigger than she had expected. Twenty-four months of work in a state corporation, endless negotiations, nights spent on documents — and here was the result. The biggest deal of the year was closed by her.

“Ksyusha, how are you?” her colleague Marina peeked into the office. “Your face looks kind of strange.”

“They credited the bonus,” Ksenia quietly replied without taking her eyes off the monitor.

“And what, was it small?”

“Big. Very big.”

Marina whistled when she saw the amount on the screen.

“Congratulations! Now you can afford everything you dreamed of.”

Dreamed of… Ksenia opened a browser tab with photos of the Maldives. She had been looking at these pictures for years — the snow-white sand, turquoise water, huts on stilts over the ocean. How many evenings had she spent scrolling through travel bloggers’ Instagrams, imagining herself in their place.

“The Maldives?” Marina guessed. “About time! If I were you, I’d also rent my own apartment. How old are you, twenty-seven? Time to live separately.”

Ksenia nodded. Yes, she had thought about that too. Living with her mother and older sister Lena was getting harder. Especially since Lena, at thirty, still hadn’t found a steady job but had found many reasons why it wasn’t her fault.

Ksenia returned home in a good mood. In the kitchen, her mother was washing dishes in a familiar checkered apron.

“Mom, I have news,” Ksenia began, taking a yogurt from the fridge.

“What kind?” her mother turned, wiping her hands with a towel.

“They gave me a bonus. A big one. For the deal I closed.”

Her mother’s eyes lit up.

“Ksyusha, you’re such a smart girl! How much?”

Ksenia named the amount. Her mother even sat down on a chair.

“Oh my God… That’s a fortune!” She paused, then her face lit up with an idea. “You know what, Ksyusha? Let’s give your big bonus to your sister for her thirtieth birthday! She’ll be so happy!”

Ksenia choked on her yogurt.

“What?”

“Well, think about it yourself,” her mother said enthusiastically, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “Thirty years is a big anniversary, a very important date. Let Lena remember this day! She can use that money to buy a trip abroad, finally go somewhere.”

“Mom, are you serious?” Ksenia slowly put the cup down.

“What’s so funny about it? The money should stay in the family. Lena is also a daughter, and she’s the eldest. Besides, you have a good salary, you’ll earn more.”

At that moment, Lena came into the apartment, cheerful after a walk with friends.

“What’s the conversation about?” she asked, taking off her jacket.

“Ksyusha got a huge bonus,” Mom said. “And we’re thinking of giving it to you for your birthday.”

“We’re not thinking,” Ksenia said firmly. “That’s you thinking.”

Lena raised her eyebrows:

“How much is the bonus?”

Mom proudly named the amount. Lena whistled just like Marina did in the morning.

“Ksyusha, what are you doing?” she sat next to her sister. “I could really use such a gift for my thirtieth. I’ve never been anywhere all my life. And you’re still young, you have plenty of opportunities ahead.”

“I have plenty of opportunities ahead?” Ksenia felt her blood boil inside. “Lena, I’m twenty-seven! I studied at university for four years, then interned for two years for peanuts, then worked hard for another two years to get this position. I earned this money myself!”

“Ksenia, don’t raise your voice at your sister,” Mom scolded.

“Why can she raise her voice at me? Why can she claim money I earned?”

Lena crossed her arms:

“I didn’t raise my voice. I just said that the gift would be useful to me. You know how hard it is to find a decent job these days.”

“Hard to find, right?” Ksenia stood up. “Hard to look for one? How many interviews did you go to last year? Three? Four?”

“Ksenia!” Mom raised her voice. “How are you talking to your sister? Lena is looking for a job in her field, not grabbing at anything.”

“Mom, I’m working in my field too. And I looked for two years. I went to interviews every week. I was rejected dozens of times before I got this job.”

“So what now?” Lena intervened. “You got your position, got the bonus. Can’t you feel sorry for your sister?”

“Feel sorry?” Ksenia’s voice rose. “Lena, I feel sorry for you every month! Who pays for the internet? Who buys groceries? Who pays the bills? Mom and I! And what do you do?”

“I’m looking for a job!”

“You’re hanging out with friends! You’re on your phone! You sleep until noon!”

“Girls, stop it!” Mom stood between them. “Ksenia, Lena is right. It’s very hard to find a job now. And you got such a big bonus… Are you really unwilling to share with the family?”

“Unwilling?” Ksenia felt tears of hurt fill her eyes. “Mom, I planned to use that money to go to the Maldives. I dreamed of that trip since university. Then I wanted to rent an apartment and finally live on my own.”

“The Maldives?” Lena snorted. “Ksyusha, seriously? Throwing that kind of money away on two weeks of lying on the beach?”

“That’s not throwing away! It’s my dream!”

“My dream is to go at least to Sochi,” Lena said. “And I’m almost thirty. If not now, then when?”

“When you earn it yourself!”

Mom sighed heavily:

“Ksenia, I don’t recognize you. You’ve become so harsh, so selfish. Has success at work changed you that much?”

“Selfish?” Ksenia felt something break inside. “Mom, am I selfish? I’ve been living in this apartment for two years paying for everything. I buy your medicine. I give you presents for every holiday. And when I want to spend my own earned money on myself, I become selfish?”

“You’re exaggerating,” Mom said. “We all contribute to this family.”

“What contribution does Lena make?”

“Lena helps me around the house.”

“Helps?” Ksenia laughed bitterly. “Mom, when was the last time you saw Lena mop the floor? Or clean the bathroom? Or even take out the trash without being reminded?”

“Lena has depression because of unemployment,” Mom said quietly. “It’s hard for her.”

“Is it easy for me? Do you think it’s easy for me to work twelve hours a day? Do you think it’s easy for me to come home and see you making plans for my money?”

Lena stood up:

“You know what, Ksyusha? If you treat the family like that, then don’t give anything. I’ll manage somehow.”

“Lena, don’t say that,” Mom put a hand on her eldest daughter’s shoulder. “Ksyusha is just tired. She’ll understand and share.”

“No, I won’t understand or share!” Ksenia shouted. “I earned this money! I will spend it on what I need!”

Mom looked at her long and hard:

“Alright, Ksenia. If you don’t want to help your sister voluntarily, I’ll make you.”

“How?”

“You will pay much more for the apartment. Much more. Lena doesn’t work, I’m retired. If you’re so independent, then pay for everything yourself.”

“Mom…”

“Either share the bonus with your sister, or pay for everything. Choose.”

Ksenia stood in the middle of the kitchen feeling her world crumble. The family she supported, helped, loved was giving her an ultimatum. Give up the money or become the family’s cash cow for good.

“I see,” she said quietly. “Everything is clear.”

She turned and went to her room. Behind her, she heard her mother say to Lena:

“Don’t worry, she’ll understand. She just needs time.”

Ksenia closed the door, took out her phone, and dialed Marina’s number.

“Marish, can I bother you?”

“Of course. What happened? Your voice sounds strange.”

“I told them about the bonus at home…”

She told her friend the whole situation. Marina listened, occasionally saying “Really?” and “No way.”

“Ksyush,” she finally said, “do you understand what’s happening? This is pure abuse. They’re blackmailing you.”

“But it’s mom and sister…”

“So what? Being family doesn’t give them rights to your money. Are you a slave? Working to support an adult healthy sister?”

“She can’t find a job…”

“Can’t or won’t? Ksyush, how long can you fool yourself? She’s comfortable sitting on your neck. And Mom is comfortable having someone to pay the bills.”

Ksenia was silent, digesting her friend’s words.

“You know what,” Marina continued. “Move in with me. Temporarily. I have a big kitchen, there’s enough room. You need to rest from them and think calmly.”

“Marish…”

“No options. Pack your things and come. And you will definitely fly to the Maldives. Stop living someone else’s life.”

An hour later Ksenia was packing her suitcase. Mom stood in the doorway silently watching.

“Where are you going?”

“To Marina’s. For a while.”

“Ksyusha, don’t do anything stupid. We’re family.”

“Family?” Ksenia didn’t look up from the suitcase. “Family is when they rejoice in your success, not plan how to use it.”

“We do rejoice…”

“You rejoice in my money, not me.”

Mom was silent, then quietly asked:

“And how long are you going to sulk?”

“I don’t know. Maybe until you learn to see me as an adult, not an ATM.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“Exaggerating?” Ksenia finally looked up. “Mom, name one time in the last year when you or Lena cared about my plans, dreams, desires. Not related to money.”

Mom opened her mouth, then closed it. She was silent for a long time.

“We didn’t know you had plans…”

“You didn’t know because you never asked.”

Ksenia zipped the suitcase and picked it up.

“Ksyusha, wait…”

“Mom, I need time to think. I’m not angry at you. I’m just tired of being convenient.”

At Marina’s it was warm and calm. Her friend made tea, and they sat in the kitchen discussing what had happened.

“You did the right thing leaving,” Marina said. “Now go to your Maldives. Turn off your phone and just rest.”

“But what if Mom worries?”

“Ksyush, you’re twenty-seven. Mom will survive. But you’ll finally live for yourself.”

The Maldives turned out even more beautiful than in the photos. Ksenia spent two weeks there, and for the first time in many years felt truly free. Her phone stayed off in the suitcase. No one demanded reports or made plans for her time and money.

Returning to Moscow, she seriously started looking for an apartment. Work went on as usual, projects followed one another. At Marina’s, she felt like a guest but didn’t rush to meet with her family.

Mom called regularly. The conversations were tense, full of unspoken things. Lena didn’t call at all.

“How are you?” Mom asked.

“Fine. Working.”

“When will you come home?”

“I don’t know, Mom. I’m looking for an apartment.”

“Why do you need an apartment? It’s good at home…”

“Mom, I need to live separately.”

The conversations reached dead ends. Mom didn’t understand what her daughter wanted. Daughter couldn’t explain without hurting Mom more.

Three months after moving in with Marina, Ksenia finally found a suitable apartment. Small, one-room, but bright, nicely renovated, within walking distance from work. She paid a deposit and prepared to move.

That evening the doorbell rang. Marina opened it and called out in surprise:

“Someone’s here for you.”

At the door stood Lena, confused, eyes downcast.

“Hi,” she said quietly.

“Hi. How did you find me?”

“Through Sveta Komarova. She gave me Marina’s detailed address.”

They went into the room. Lena sat on the edge of the bed, Ksenia in the armchair.

“Ksyush, I came to apologize.”

“For what exactly?”

“For everything. For me and Mom acting like… like greedy idiots. For me not working. For leeching off you and getting used to it.”

Ksenia was silent, studying her sister. Lena looked tired and… somehow more mature.

“After you left, I thought a lot,” Lena continued. “And I realized Mom and I were wrong. Your bonus is your money. You earned it, you have the right to spend it however you want.”

“And what changed?”

“I got a job. At a coffee shop for now, but it’s still a job. The salary is small but enough for my expenses. Now I help Mom — both with money a little and doing more around the house.”

Ksenia raised her eyebrows:

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. You know, it turned out that working isn’t so scary. Yes, it’s tiring, but there’s a feeling you do something yourself, not just hang on someone.”

“And Mom?”

“Mom…” Lena sighed. “At first she was angry. Said I was betraying the family, working for peanuts. But then she got used to it. She’s even a bit proud that both her daughters work.”

“Did she ask you to come?”

“No. It was my initiative. I felt ashamed, Ksyush. Very ashamed. You were always responsible, always helped. And we took it for granted.”

Ksenia was silent, then asked:

“What do you think about the Maldives?”

Lena smiled:

“I think you’re great. I saw your photos on social media — unbelievably beautiful. I’d like to go there someday too.”

“You’ll get there someday. When you earn it yourself.”

“Yes, when I earn it myself. But for now, I plan to go on vacation to Krasnodar. Not the Maldives, of course, but there’s also the sea. And most importantly — with my own money.”

Ksenia felt something warm stirring in her chest. Her sister had really changed. Not just outwardly — something new had appeared in her, some dignity.

“Ksyush,” Lena said. “I’m not asking you to come back home. I understand you need to live separately. Just… can we be sisters again?”

Ksenia stood up and hugged Lena.

“We can,” she said. “Of course, we can.”

“Ksyush, have you found an apartment yet?”

“Yes, I’m signing the lease next week.”

“Far from us?”

“Not really. About twenty minutes by metro.”

“Good. We’ll see each other more often. But now I’ll invite you to cafes with my own money.”

Ksenia laughed:

“Deal.”

Lena was getting ready to leave:

“Thank you for forgiving me.”

“Thank you for changing.”

“I tried. I really tried to become better.”

“It shows. And that’s great.”

Later, they met in the kitchen with Marina over tea.

“So? Made up?”

“We did. Lena really changed. She works, helps Mom.”

“That’s great. So your lesson paid off.”

“What lesson?”

“The lesson of boundaries. You showed you have boundaries that can’t be crossed. And they understood.”

Ksenia nodded. Yes, boundaries are important. It took her twenty-seven years to understand, but better late than never.

A week later she moved into her own apartment. Small, but hers. The first evening she sat on the windowsill with a glass of wine. No one demanded reports on where she had been or what she did. No one planned her money. No one expected her to feed someone or buy anything.

Her phone beeped with a message from Lena: “Ksyush, how’s the new place? If you need anything — let me know. But I’m not rich yet, keep that in mind :)”

Ksenia smiled and replied: “All good. I’ll invite you for tea at my place soon.”

Yes, they had become sisters again. Finally.

It all started suddenly — my little daughter Lizochka got sick. She was only nine months old, and then suddenly her temperature shot up sharply, and she started vomiting and having diarrhea. I was in panic — I’m 23 years old, a young mom with almost no experience in such situations. And Sasha, my husband, as usual, was sitting at home by the computer, sipping beer and playing his favorite “tank” games.

“Sash, Liz is feeling bad, look at her!” I called him, trying to soothe the crying baby.

“Come on, maybe she’s teething?” he shrugged, not even taking his eyes off the screen. “Give her something, it’ll pass.”

I sighed. Arguing with him was useless anyway. At some point, I realized: if I don’t take action, it will only get worse. When it became clear that the fever wasn’t going down, and Liz was becoming lethargic and stopped responding, I called an ambulance myself.

The doctors arrived quickly, examined the baby, and said briefly:
“Rotavirus. Immediate hospitalization.”

“Sash, get ready, we’re going!” I shouted while the medics prepared our daughter for transport.

“I… I have work tomorrow,” he mumbled, not getting up from his chair. “You’ll manage, right?”

I looked at him — at his beer can, the flickering screen, his relaxed posture — and said nothing. I just turned and followed the ambulance. At that moment, only Liz mattered to me. His indifference could wait.

At the hospital, they sent us to the infectious diseases ward. Liz cried nonstop; I rushed between doctors, IV drips, tests, trying to be near her, to calm her. The night passed like a fog: I barely slept, holding my daughter until she, exhausted, finally fell asleep near dawn. And then — morning. My birthday.

At exactly eight, the phone rang. It was Sasha. For a second, I felt a little relieved — maybe he would at least congratulate me properly, ask how Liz was?

But instead I heard:

“Happy birthday, old lady!” he laughed. “So, how’s it going? Still lying there?”

I froze. “Old lady”? I’m only 23. I’m sitting in a hospital room, my daughter has rotavirus, I haven’t slept all night, and he’s joking?

“Sash, are you serious?” my voice betrayed me and trembled. “Liz is on an IV, I haven’t slept all night. Maybe you could at least ask how she is?”

“Oh, come on, don’t start,” he waved me off. “You’re in the hospital, the doctors will take care of it. I’m just calling to say congrats. Can’t I joke anymore?”

“No, you can’t,” I replied sharply. “It’s not funny. Are you even planning to come? Or bring any groceries? We have nothing here, not even water.”

“I’ll think about it,” he grumbled. “Okay, gotta go, stuff to do.”

And he hung up. Not a word of love, no simple “hang in there,” not even a “happy birthday.” I sat with the phone in my hand feeling something inside me crack. But then I didn’t know it was only the beginning.

A couple of hours later, my mother-in-law called — Tamara Ivanovna. I always tried to treat her with respect, although her constant advice and interference in our lives often drove me crazy. I thought maybe now she would at least support me, say something encouraging.

“Anya, happy birthday, dear!” she started cheerfully. “How are you all? Is Lizochka alive and well?”

“Tamara Ivanovna, Liz is on an IV,” I answered tiredly. “Rotavirus, severe dehydration. I’m here alone, Sasha hasn’t even come.”

“Oh, here you go again,” she snorted. “Sasha is a man, it’s hard for him. He works, he’s tired. You know men — they need to rest.”

I was speechless. Rest? He’s sitting at home playing games while I’m here alone!

“Tamara Ivanovna, he’s not working, he’s playing tanks,” I couldn’t hold back. “And he hasn’t even asked how Liz is. Is that normal?”

“Anya, don’t make it worse,” she waved it off again. “All men are like that. Mine used to roam in his youth too, and we lived. And Sasha… well, he’s no good, but you’ll get used to it. By the way, we’ll find someone for you later. Don’t worry!”

I almost dropped the phone. What?! Now they officially suggest I accept cheating?!

“Tamara Ivanovna, are you serious?” I squeezed out. “You’re suggesting I…”

“Anya, don’t pretend to be a saint,” she laughed. “Everyone lives like this. Men cheat, wives endure. And then when the kids grow up, you find someone yourself. That’s life, girl.”

I silently hung up. My heart was pounding, my head spinning. What’s happening? Is it normal now to turn a blind eye to cheating and treat it as part of family life?

The days in the hospital dragged on, but Liz got better. They moved us to a regular ward, and I relaxed a little. But the more I watched Sasha, the less I understood who he was to me now. He almost stopped calling. Sometimes once a day, with obvious irritation:

“So, how are you? Getting discharged soon?”

No warmth, no involvement. Once my friend Katya messaged me. We had been friends since school, trusted each other like sisters. She often came to our house, played with Liz, helped when needed. She was always there.

Her message was short: “Anya, we need to talk. It’s about Sasha.”

My heart clenched immediately. I understood something had happened. I called back.

“Katya, what happened?” I asked, trying to keep calm.

“Anya, I don’t know how to say it…” she hesitated. “While you’re in the hospital, Sasha… he’s seeing Nastya.”

“Which Nastya?” I foolishly asked, though I already knew.

“Your friend Nastya. I saw them. At your home.”

I felt the world collapsing beneath my feet. Nastya — my longtime acquaintance, not the closest but still a friend I trusted. I considered her decent, honest. She often came to our home, brought Liz toys, treats, joked, laughed, chatted with Sasha… And now this.

“Katya, are you sure?” my voice betrayed me and trembled. “Maybe you misunderstood something?”

“Anya, I’m so sorry,” she replied softly. “I saw them kissing. At your home. You know, it was hardest for me to say this. But you must know the truth.”

I thanked Katya, hung up, and was left alone with this terrible knowledge. Inside, everything was turning upside down. I felt nausea, pain, destruction. As if not only my husband and “friend” had betrayed me, but the whole world.

Without thinking, I called Sasha.

“Can you explain what’s going on between you and Nastya?” I asked immediately, no preamble.

Silence. Thick, dense, like a wall between us.

“Anya, what are you stirring up now?” he finally grunted. “I’m a father, I don’t have time for myself. I need to rest. It means nothing.”

“Means nothing?!” my voice broke into a scream. I tried to hold back but couldn’t. “You’re sleeping with my friend while I’m in the hospital with our daughter! And that means nothing?!”

“Don’t yell,” he snapped irritably. “Everyone lives like that. Men are like that. And anyway, it’s your fault — all with the kid, all with the kid… We haven’t had anything for a long time, I need it too!”

I couldn’t listen to his voice anymore. I hung up. Tears poured from my eyes, but I knew I couldn’t let myself break. Liz was sleeping nearby — small, fragile, not yet realizing what her mother had been through. Her life was more important than this nightmare.

The remaining days in the hospital passed like through cotton. Liz started to recover, and I tried to piece myself together. My thoughts raced: how did I get here? Why did I tolerate Sasha’s laziness? Why did I stay silent when he didn’t help, when he didn’t want to be involved in his daughter’s life? Why did I let my mother-in-law plant the idea that this behavior of men is normal? And most importantly — how could I not notice that Nastya would turn out to be such a hypocrite? The one who played with my daughter, kissed her cheeks, called her “baby,” and then — just used the moment to be close to my husband.

I called my mother. She had always been my support, even when we argued or disagreed. I told her everything. Without embellishment, without pauses.

After listening, she was silent for a long time. Then she firmly said:

“Anya, listen to me carefully. You’re young, beautiful, you have a healthy, beloved girl. Why do you need a person who doesn’t value you? And this mother-in-law with her ‘everyone lives like this’? You deserve respect, care, love. Don’t stay put — leave. Right now.”

“But how?” I sobbed. “Liz, money, apartment…”

“I’ll help,” she said firmly. “I’ll come, take Liz to stay with me for a couple of days, and you start building your new life. File for divorce, find a job, rent a place. You’ll manage. You’re stronger than you think.”

And for the first time in a long time, I felt I could. That somewhere beyond the pain, there is a way out. That I’m not alone. That I have my mother, I have Liz, and I have a goal — to start over. And though it’s scary, though it’s unclear, this fear was no longer empty — it became part of something bigger.

When Liz and I were discharged, I decided to meet Nastya. Not for a scandal, not for revenge — just to understand who she was to me now. To hear from her how she could justify her betrayal.

We met at a cafe. She sat tensely, her eyes full of mixed emotions — guilt, shame, but also some strange confidence.

“Anya, I’m really sorry,” she began. “It was stupid, unexpected. He said you were almost divorced, that you didn’t love him, that he was lonely…”

“Nastya,” I interrupted coldly, “I was in the hospital with the baby. And you took advantage of that to sleep with my husband. This isn’t an accident. It’s a choice.”

She lowered her eyes. She had nothing to say.

“You came to our home, played with Liz, kissed her, laughed with us. And then — this. It’s not just ‘it happened.’ It’s your act. And you chose betrayal.”

She was silent. I stood up, put down my unfinished coffee, and left. That meeting became the final point in our relationship. After it, I understood: I don’t need excuses. I don’t need explanations. There are people you can trust. And there are those who taught me never to be naive again.

Now, months later, I can say: that birthday became a turning point in my life. I filed for divorce. Sasha tried to ask for forgiveness, insisted it was a “moment of weakness.” But I knew: if a person takes two steps away from family — they have long gone.

My mother helped me with Liz, I started working remotely, then got a job in an office. We rented a small but cozy apartment. It smells of children’s laughter, home comfort, hope. For the first time in a long time, I felt freedom — the kind I never even thought was possible.

My mother-in-law called a couple of times, trying to “reconcile” us. I stopped answering. Nastya sent messages, begged for forgiveness. I blocked her. Not because I wanted revenge. I just realized: people who don’t respect you and your child have no right to be near you.

Now I look at Liz, who is already running, laughing, calling me “mom” — and I understand: everything that happened was the beginning of something new. Yes, that birthday was the strangest, the most painful. But it taught me the main thing: I have the right to happiness. And I deserve it — for myself and for my daughter.

When Pasha was not even five years old, his world collapsed. His mother was gone. He stood in the corner of the room, stunned by confusion — what was happening? Why was the house filled with strangers? Who were they? Why was everyone so quiet, so strange, speaking in whispers and avoiding eye contact?

The boy didn’t understand why no one was smiling. Why they told him, “Stay strong, little one,” and hugged him, but did it as if he had lost something important. But he had simply not seen his mother.

His father was somewhere far away all day. He didn’t come near, didn’t hug, didn’t say a word. He just sat apart, empty and distant. Pasha approached the coffin and stared at his mother for a long time. She was nothing like she usually was — no warmth, no smile, no lullabies at night. Pale, cold, frozen. It was frightening. And the boy no longer dared to get closer.

Without his mother, everything changed. Gray. Empty. Two years later, his father remarried. The new woman — Galina — did not become part of his world. Rather, she felt irritation toward him. She grumbled about everything, found faults as if looking for an excuse to be angry. And his father was silent. Did not defend. Did not intervene.

Every day Pasha felt a pain he hid inside. The pain of loss. Longing. And with every day — he wished more and more to return to the life when his mother was alive.

Today was a special day — his mother’s birthday. In the morning, Pasha woke up with one thought: he needed to go to her. To the grave. To bring flowers. White calla lilies — her favorite. He remembered how they were in her hands in old photographs, shining next to her smile.

But where to get money? He decided to ask his father.

“Dad, can I have a little money? I really need it…”

Before he could explain, Galina rushed out of the kitchen:

“What is this now?! You’re already asking your father for money?! Do you even realize how hard it is to earn a salary?”

His father looked up and tried to stop her:

“Gal, wait. He hasn’t even said why yet. Son, tell me what you need?”

“I want to buy flowers for Mom. White calla lilies. Today is her birthday…”

Galina snorted, crossing her arms:

“Oh, really! Flowers! Money for them! Maybe you want to go to a restaurant too? Take something from the flowerbed — that’ll be your bouquet!”

“They’re not there,” Pasha answered quietly but firmly. “They only sell them in the store.”

His father looked thoughtfully at his son, then shifted his gaze to his wife:

“Gal, go get lunch ready. I’m hungry.”

The woman snorted unhappily and disappeared into the kitchen. The father returned to his newspaper. And Pasha understood: he wouldn’t get any money. Not a single word was said after that.

He quietly went to his room, took out an old piggy bank. Counted the coins. Not many. But maybe enough?

Without wasting time, he ran out of the house toward the flower shop. From afar, he saw the snowy white calla lilies in the window. So bright, almost magical. He stopped, holding his breath.

Then he decisively went inside.

“What do you want?” asked the woman seller unfriendly, eyeing the boy critically. “You probably came to the wrong place. We don’t have toys or sweets here. Only flowers.”

“I’m not just like that… I really want to buy. Callas… How much is a bouquet?”

The seller named the price. Pasha took out all his coins from his pocket. The amount was barely half the price.

“Please…” he pleaded. “I can work! Come every day, help clean, dust, wash floors… Just lend me this bouquet…”

“Are you normal?” the woman snorted with clear irritation. “Do you think I’m a millionaire to just give away flowers? Get lost! Or I’ll call the police — begging is not welcome here!”

But Pasha was not going to give up. He needed those flowers today. He started begging again:

“I’ll pay everything back! I promise! I’ll earn whatever is needed! Please understand…”

“Oh, look at this little actor!” shouted the seller so loudly passersby began to turn around. “Where are your parents? Maybe it’s time to call social services? Why are you wandering here alone? Last warning — get out before I call!”

At that moment, a man approached the shop. He happened to witness the scene.

He entered the flower shop just as the woman was yelling at the upset child. It struck him — he couldn’t stand injustice, especially towards children.

“Why are you yelling like that?” he asked the seller sternly. “You’re shouting at him like he stole something. And he’s just a boy.”

“And who are you anyway?” snapped the woman. “If you don’t know what’s going on, don’t interfere. He almost stole the bouquet!”

“Well, sure, ‘almost stole,’” the man raised his voice. “You attacked him like a hunter after prey! He needs help, and you threaten him. Have you no conscience?”

He turned to Pasha, who stood in the corner, shrinking and wiping tears from his cheeks.

“Hello, buddy. My name’s Yura. Tell me why you’re upset? You wanted to buy flowers but didn’t have enough money?”

Pasha sobbed, wiped his nose with his sleeve, and said in a quiet, trembling voice:

“I wanted to buy calla lilies… For Mom… She loved them very much… But she left three years ago… Today is her birthday… I wanted to go to the cemetery and bring her flowers…”

Yura felt his heart tighten inside. The boy’s story touched him deeply. He crouched down next to him.

“You know, your mom can be proud of you. Not every adult brings flowers on the

anniversary, and you, at eight years old, remember and want to do something good. You’re going to grow into a real person.”

Then he turned to the seller:

“Show me which calla lilies he chose. I want to buy two bouquets — one for him, one for me.”

Pasha pointed to the window display with the white callas shining like porcelain. Yura hesitated a little — those were exactly the flowers he had planned to buy. He said nothing aloud, just noted to himself: “Coincidence or a sign?”

Soon Pasha was already leaving the shop with the cherished bouquet in his hands. He treasured it like the most precious treasure and could hardly believe it had worked out. Turning to the man, he timidly offered:

“Uncle Yura… Can I leave you my phone number? I will definitely pay you back. I promise.”

The man laughed good-naturedly:

“I never doubted you would say that. But no need. Today is a special day for a woman who is dear to me. I’ve long awaited a moment to tell her my feelings. So, I’m in a good mood. Glad I could do a good deed. Besides, apparently, our tastes match — both your mom and my Ira loved these flowers.”

For a moment he fell silent, lost in thought. His eyes looked through space, recalling his beloved.

He and Ira were neighbors. They lived in opposite apartment entrances. They met foolishly and by chance — one day she was surrounded by hooligans, and Yura stood up to defend her. He got a black eye but didn’t regret it for a minute — that was when a sympathy between them began.

Years passed — friendship grew into love. They were inseparable. Everyone said: that’s the perfect couple.

When Yura turned eighteen, he was drafted into the army. For Ira, it was a blow. Before leaving, they spent the night together for the first time.

Everything was fine in service until Yura suffered a serious head injury. He woke up in the hospital without memory. Didn’t even remember his name.

Ira tried to call him, but the phone was silent. She suffered, thinking Yura had abandoned her. Over time, she changed her number and tried to forget the pain.

Months later, his memory began returning. Ira came back to his thoughts. He started calling, but no answer. Nobody knew that his parents hid the truth, telling the girl that Yura had left her.

Returning home, Yura decided to surprise Ira — bought calla lilies and headed to her. But he saw a completely different picture: Ira was walking arm in arm with a man, pregnant, happy.

Yura’s heart broke. He couldn’t understand — how was this possible? Without waiting for explanations, he ran away.

That very night, he left for another city where no one knew his past. Started a new life but couldn’t forget Ira. Even married, hoping for healing, but the marriage didn’t work out.

Eight years passed. One day, Yura realized: he could no longer live with emptiness inside. He must find Ira. Must tell her everything. And here he was again in his hometown, with a bouquet of calla lilies in his hands. And it was there that he met Pasha — a meeting that might change everything.

“Pasha… yes, Pasha!” Yura recalled, as if waking up. He stood by the shop, and the boy was still patiently waiting nearby.

“Son, maybe I can give you a ride somewhere?” Yura gently offered.

 

“Thanks, no,” the boy politely refused. “I know how to take the bus. I’ve been to Mom before… Not the first time.”

With these words, he hugged the bouquet tight to his chest and ran toward the bus stop. Yura watched him go for a long time. Something about this child awakened memories, evoked an inexplicable connection, almost kinship. Their paths crossed for a reason. There was something painfully familiar in Pasha.

When the boy left, Yura headed to the very yard where Ira had once lived. His heart pounded like a drum as he approached the entrance and cautiously asked an elderly woman living there if she knew where Ira was now.

“Oh, dear,” sighed the neighbor, looking at him sadly. “She’s no longer here… She died three years ago.”

“What?” Yura recoiled sharply, as if struck.

“After marrying Vlad, she never returned here. Moved to him. By the way, a good soul took her while she was pregnant. Not every man would do that. They loved each other, took care of each other. Then their son was born. And then… that’s it. She’s gone. That’s all I know, son.”

Yura slowly left the entrance feeling like a lost ghost — late, lonely, forever too late.

“Why did I wait so long? Why didn’t I come back even a year earlier?”

And then the neighbor’s words resurfaced: “…pregnant…”

“Wait. If she was pregnant when she married Vlad… then the child could have been mine?!”

His head spun. Somewhere here, in this city, maybe his son was living. Yura felt a flame ignite inside — he must find him. But first, he needed to find Ira.

At the cemetery, he quickly found her grave. His heart clenched with pain — love, loss, regret flooded at once. But even stronger shook him what lay on the tombstone: a fresh bouquet of white calla lilies. The very same, beloved flowers of Ira.

“Pasha…” Yura whispered. “It’s you. Our son. Our child…”

He looked at Ira’s photo on the stone, which gazed back, and softly said:

“Forgive me… For everything.”

Tears poured from his eyes, but he did not hold them back. Then he abruptly turned and ran — he had to return to the house Pasha had pointed to when they stood by the shop. There was his chance.

He rushed to the yard. The boy sat on the swings, thoughtfully swinging. It turned out that as soon as Pasha returned home, his stepmother gave him a scolding for being gone too long. He couldn’t stand it and ran outside.

Yura approached, sat down next to him, and hugged his son tightly.

Then a man came out of the entrance. Seeing a stranger next to the child, he froze. Then recognized him.

“Yura…” he said, almost without surprise. “I no longer hoped you would come. I guess you understand that Pasha is your son.”

“Yes,” Yura nodded. “I understand. I came for him.”

Vlad sighed deeply:

“If he wants to, I won’t stand in the way. I was never really a husband to Ira. Nor a father to Pasha. She always loved only you. I knew. Thought it would pass with time. But before she died, she confessed she wanted to find you. Tell you everything: about the son, about her feelings, about you. But she didn’t have time.”

Yura was silent. His throat tightened, and thoughts hammered in his head.

“Thank you… for accepting him, not giving him away.” He sighed deeply. “Tomorrow I will take his things and documents. But now… let’s just go. I have a lot to learn. Eight years of my son’s life lost. I don’t want to lose another minute.”

He took Pasha’s hand. They headed toward the car.

“Forgive me, son… I didn’t even know I had such a wonderful boy…”

Pasha looked at him calmly and said:

“I always knew Vlad wasn’t my real dad. When Mom told about me, she spoke of someone else. About another man. I knew one day we would meet. And here we are… we met.”

Yura lifted his son into his arms and cried — from relief, from pain, from immense, unbearable love.

“Forgive me… for having to wait so long. I will never leave you again.”