On an October morning in 2003, Margaret Hayes — a widow known in their quiet neighborhood mostly for her famous lemon tartlets and her kind attitude toward stray cats — closed the front door and stepped outside. This time — without any particular destination.

It was one of those rare days when loneliness ceases to be just a feeling — it becomes audible. The creak of an empty chair. The nonexistent sound of footsteps behind you. A plate set for two, even though you are alone.

An hour later, she was already standing by the old gates of the city shelter — a place she hadn’t visited since the Christmas visits when she delivered gifts to children deprived of parental warmth. She had no purpose this time. But right then, behind the worn-out door, he was already waiting for her — a boy in a red sweater, too big for him. His skin gleamed dark chocolate, and his eyes… They were light, almost transparent, as if drops of the winter sky had been preserved in them.

“What’s his name?” Margaret asked.

“He has no name. Left here two weeks ago. No documents, no statements. No one has come for him. Most likely, just another ‘child from nowhere,’” answered the shelter worker.

On his wrist hung a homemade bracelet — a scrap of fabric decorated with buttons and two letters: “Ka.”

Margaret didn’t plan to have a child. And certainly not at sixty. Not at that age. Especially not a silent stranger with no past. But she said:

“May I take him?”

And with that one sentence, she changed not only the boy’s life.

She named him Cairo. He hardly ever cried, rarely got sick, and by two years old, he repeated any sounds with astonishing accuracy. At five, he read product labels aloud, studied geography from maps hung above his bed. At seven, he fixed an old toaster without even understanding how. It always seemed that inside him there was some kind of inner order that adults couldn’t unravel.

At night, he sometimes spoke in his sleep. Not in English. Not in incoherent baby babble. In a language that sounded like an ancient song.

“Ka-faro amma… Ka-faro amma…”

Margaret wrote down the words and brought them to the university, to a linguistics professor. The answer stunned her:

“It is very similar to a lost dialect from an African coast. Long considered extinct.”

She stopped asking questions but began to understand: there was something more in this boy. Something mysterious. Something hidden.

By seventeen, Cairo had become a true prodigy in cybersecurity. He created secure servers for charitable organizations and spoke at international conferences. But he never parted with his bracelet — worn, faded, missing several buttons. For him, it was not just an accessory. It was a symbol — the key to a mystery he was destined to solve completely one day.

That same winter, he accidentally came across an old document in the archives — an immigration case from 2002. The page bore a barely visible seal, almost worn away by time. But Cairo noticed: the symbol matched the pattern on one of the beads on his bracelet.

The seal belonged to the Kadura Initiative — a secret humanitarian project rumored to be linked to the exiled leader of the fictional African country Vantara.

The name of this leader was Kamari Ayatu. He disappeared without a trace after a failed coup in 2003.

Cairo’s first thought flickered: “Ka” on his bracelet… Could it be the beginning of the name “Kamari”?

He uploaded his childhood photo and the found portrait of Ayatu into a facial recognition system. The match was 92%.

He was not just a child from the shelter. He was the son of a man history called either a traitor or a hero — depending on whose truth you read.

He and Margaret traveled to Geneva. There, in one of the quiet halls of the UN archives, encrypted materials about “Kadura” were kept. And then everything became even more incredible: inside the very bead was a microchip. After several days of hacking, the system opened a video file.

On the screen appeared a man in a sharp suit. In his hands, he held a baby.

“If you are watching this video, it means I failed. They will call me a dictator. But I defended my country. This child is my last hope. He will not recognize me, but he is my son. He has the right to decide what Vantara’s future will be.”

Cairo froze. All the years of his life, all the questions, fears, and guesses suddenly took on a new meaning. He was not a forgotten child. He was hidden. Protected. Hidden for something greater.

The files contained more than the video. There were schemes, records, passwords to secret charitable funds where Kamari funneled millions to restore devastated regions. And only one person could hold the key to these funds — a DNA heir.

“I don’t know what to do,” Cairo said over the phone, his voice trembling.

“To me, you have always been my son,” Margaret replied. “If your father believed in you, it means he knew: you could do what he could not.”

Cairo did not become a ruler. He became a creator of opportunities. Founded an international aid fund, built schools, purified water, launched tech centers. First in Vantara, then worldwide. Everything was done anonymously. His name never appeared in the news. But in UN reports, a concept appeared — The Cairo Project.

One day he returned home. Margaret was sitting on the veranda, drinking tea and watching the sunset.

“Today the newspaper wrote: ‘Anonymous restored a hospital in Cairo province,’” she smiled.

“I like that headline,” he replied.

“But you are still my boy?”

“Always.”

Later he spoke at an international UN summit. Nameless, behind a transparent panel. But his words were remembered for a long time:

“I was raised to believe that love requires no proof. I am here because someone once gave me a chance to start over.”

He was offered to enter politics. To run for office. To create a movement.

Cairo smiled:

“I am not a king. I am a gardener. I plant hope.”

Today, in a village in Africa, there stands a tree planted in his honor. It blooms in spring. No one knows his real name. But they know — there are people who do not wait for thanks. They just make the world better.

I can’t live like this anymore, Anya,” Sergey threw his keys on the table, and flour scattered like snow across the surface.

I froze, clutching the dough in my hands. The children in the other room fell silent, as if sensing the oncoming storm. I tried to breathe evenly, though my heart was pounding in my throat. I couldn’t show fear. Not yet.

“What happened?” My voice trembled, despite my effort to stay calm.

Sergey stared through me, as if I didn’t exist. I knew that look well by now — cold, detached. In recent months, it had become his default mask. I wasn’t a wife. Not even a person. Just an obstacle.

“That’s it!” he raised his voice. “This job, this house, the debts piling to the ceiling! And you, always messing around with your dough!”

I slowly set the rolling pin down. Wiped my hands on the apron, already stained with jam. It’s funny what you notice in moments like this — each grain of sugar, every swirl on the wallpaper, the tiniest wrinkle on his forehead. Everything suddenly sharp.

Sergey poured himself a glass of water and drank it in one gulp. His fingers, smelling of resin from the sawmill, left prints on the glass. A strange thought flickered: I’d need to wipe it off tomorrow.

He was silent for a long while before saying softly:

“There’s someone else. In the neighboring village. Her name is Marina.”

The air in the room thickened. It became hard to breathe, as if I were suffocating in my own home. My heart sank.

“We’ve been seeing each other for six months,” he continued, staring out the window. “She’s young. No kids. No debts.”

Each word hit like a blow. The picture was clear now: old, with kids, with loans — that’s how he saw me. He didn’t even ask if I still loved him. I wasn’t sure myself — it had been years of habit, not feeling.

“I’m moving in with her. Tomorrow. My things are already packed.”

He nodded toward the hallway, where I now noticed a large sports bag. How had I missed it? Just like I’d missed all the other signs — the late returns, the hidden messages, the indifference toward the kids.

“And the children? The house? The loan is in my name, but we paid together…”

“They’ll be fine. You’ll be fine,” he said, repeating words he’d probably heard before. “You’ve always managed.”

Dasha appeared in the doorway — pale, skinny, wearing an oversized T-shirt. Behind her stood Sasha, eyes wide with a comprehension no child should have.

The conversation was short and cruel. Sergey didn’t try to soften the truth. It landed harsh and ugly, like spring snow underfoot.

Then he left. No hugs, no goodbye. Just the door slamming, gravel crunching beneath his steps. And that was it. Just the four of us, alone in a house now filled with loans, loneliness, and questions without answers.

Timka kept asking if daddy was still mad. The youngest didn’t understand. But Mila, a bit older, grasped it immediately — we’d been abandoned.

That night, I didn’t sleep. I lay there, staring at the ceiling. No pain, no tears. Just one question: How?

How to feed four kids? How to pay the mortgage on a house I signed for before marriage? “It’s more convenient this way,” Sergey had said. Now that “convenience” was a stone around my neck.

Two months passed. Sergey never returned. He called a week later from an unknown number — said he wouldn’t take the rest of his stuff, and he could only afford minimum child support. Pennies.

The neighbors suggested I sell the house, move in with my parents. But how could we all fit in my mother’s tiny one-bedroom? She barely made ends meet on her pension.

Find a new job? Doing what? My accounting courses were fifteen years old. These days, I was better at counting diapers than spreadsheets.

The bank sent the first delinquency notice. At night, I would lie in bed and count. Over and over.

Salary minus medicine. Minus school supplies. Minus utilities.
And ahead — another week, month, year.

Minus food. Minus electricity. Minus school lunches. Minus medicine. Minus mortgage. Always minus. No matter how hard I tried, it was never enough.

In the morning, Dasha whispered that Timka had a fever. The flu, at the worst possible time. We were out of medicine. Only 800 rubles left on the card. Seven days till payday. Felt like a lifetime.

Then Mila’s teacher gently asked: “Anya, are you sure Mila gets breakfast? She’s been dizzy during lessons.”

My heart broke. Turns out, Mila had been silently sharing her sandwich with her brother. And I hadn’t noticed. Mother of the year.

That night, I sat at the table with a calculator. Counted again. The numbers didn’t just fail to add up — they scattered like scared cockroaches. Not a single plus. Only minus, minus, minus…

Sasha brought me his drawing — a house with a green roof.
“This is our new house, when we have money,” he said.

I turned away so he wouldn’t see my tears. A new future. What future?

And then someone knocked on the door. It was Natalia Sergeyevna, the librarian.

“Anya, I need help… The cafeteria worker quit. The district inspection’s coming in a week. Can you help out? Just for a couple of weeks?”

The job was simple — bake rolls, make tea. The pay was low, but at least it was something. I agreed. One way or another — we had to survive.

On the first day, I brought 20 buns. Sold out in an hour.
Second day — 40. Gone in two.

“Anya, what do you put in these?” people asked.
“My soul, a little butter, and a handful of despair,” I thought. Turns out, it’s a good ingredient.

Within a month, I had regular customers. I baked at dawn, took the kids to school, worked in the cafeteria, and got by on three hours of sleep. My neighbor shook her head:

“You’ll burn out.”
But I stared at the bank’s second warning letter and thought: No, I won’t. I’ll hold on. For them.

In November, Timka got sick again. I was sitting by his bed, exhausted, when the phone rang. A man introduced himself as Viktor Andreevich from the district administration. He had tried my buns at the library.

“We’re opening a new MFC building. Need a cafeteria. Bigger space, better equipment. We’d like to offer it to you.”

“But I can’t… I have kids…”

“We’ll help. You can register as a sole proprietor. There’s a small business support program. This is your chance, Anya.”

When I hung up, Dasha was standing in the doorway.
“What happened?” she asked. I told her.

“And you’re going to say no?” she challenged.
“How will I manage? The illnesses, school, the loan…”
“And if you don’t try? Mom… Mila sold her colored pencils to Sveta. Just so I could go on the field trip.”

I froze. I hadn’t known. Didn’t want to know. But they saw everything. How I didn’t sleep. How I fought.

I looked at the calendar. Twelve days until the next mortgage payment.

“If I say yes, will you watch the kids while I’m in town?”
“Of course! Valya will help too. She promised.”
“Then tomorrow I’ll call Viktor Andreevich. We’ll try.”

She hugged me tight:
“We’ll make it, Mom.”

I stroked her hair and whispered to myself: Maybe we really will. There has to be light somewhere.

Three years flew by in a single breath. Today, my café “Anya’s Buns” is a local gem. We expanded the menu, hired help, paid off a third of the mortgage.

Sasha drew a picture of the café with a long line of smiling people. Above it all — an angel. He said it was Grandpa. He didn’t live to see any of this. Maybe he really is watching from above.

We worked nonstop. The kids helped however they could. Dasha kept track of finances better than any accountant. Mila washed dishes after music school. Timka folded napkins with such love it made my heart ache.

One day, a couple came into the café — a woman in an elegant coat and a tall man in his fifties.

“That’s her,” the woman said to her companion. “The Anya I told you about.”

Turns out, Elena owned a chain of family cafés called “Gorodok.” Her companion was an investor.

“We were passing by, and I insisted we stop,” she smiled. “They say your buns are special.”

Mikhail Arkadyevich ordered coffee and one of everything. Elena asked about ingredients. Then she paused and said:

“We want to buy your recipe and the rights to use the name ‘Anya’s Buns.’ We’ll offer a generous sum.”

“But why? You have your own kitchen, your own recipes…”
“Not like yours,” Mikhail said. “We have precision. You have soul.”

The amount they offered could fully repay my loan. And then some. But this café — it was everything I had.

“We’re not asking you to close,” Elena added. “On the contrary. We want to open a branch in the regional center. As a franchise. With you at the helm.”

“In the city? But what about the kids…”

“Move with us,” said Mikhail. “We’ll help with housing. Get the kids into a good school.”

“Do you have children?” Elena asked gently.

“Four,” I said with a smile. “The eldest is fifteen, the youngest is eight.”

They exchanged a look.

“Perfect,” she nodded. “A family café run by a real family. That’s exactly our brand.”

At home, I gathered the kids and held a family meeting. Dasha lit up — the city, the opportunities, the fresh start. Mila worried about her music school. Sasha found art studios online. And Timka asked the big question:

“Are we selling the house?”

“No, sweetheart,” I hugged him. “This house is still ours. We’ll come back for weekends.”

“And we’ll pay off the loan,” Dasha said like a little businesswoman. “Right?”

I looked at my kids and saw not children — but young adults. They had walked this path with me — without complaint, with patience and love.

And now, it seemed, fate was finally being kind.

The deal was finalized within a month. We nearly cleared the loan, bought an old but reliable car, and packed our things.

On our last evening in the village, there was a knock on the door. Sergey stood there. Thinner, older — as if life had suddenly caught up with him.

“Hey,” he shifted on his feet. “I heard you’re leaving?”

“Yes,” I answered calmly. “To the city. I’m opening a café there.”

“Your own business?” He looked surprised. “Wow…”

Timka peeked out and froze when he saw his father. Sergey looked at his son. No joy, no sadness — just strangers now.

The other kids joined, silently lining up. Dasha first, of course. Sergey handed over a small envelope — “for the housewarming.”

“Thanks,” I said, passing it straight to Dasha. “For ice cream.”

He asked to come in, say goodbye properly. I gently but firmly refused.

“We have to get up early tomorrow. Lots to do.”

He hesitated, then said something I never expected:

“I’m proud of you, Anya. You did it. Without me.”

“Because of you,” I smiled for the first time. “If you hadn’t left, I’d never have known what I’m capable of.”

He flinched. Not the reaction he wanted. Then quietly asked if he could call the kids sometimes. Of course, I said. He’s their father.

He stood on the porch a while longer, then slowly walked to the gate. His steps were heavy, his shoulders slumped — as if he carried not just memories, but the life we were leaving behind.

Dasha closed the door and hugged me:

“I’m proud of you, Mom. You’re the best.”

We stood in the center of the home we almost lost — but saved. Not by chance. Not by luck. But by strength. Love. Our family.

Tomorrow would begin a new life.
But my true gift wasn’t money, or a contract, or a café.

My gift… was myself.
The strength I found inside.
The strength that saved my children.
My family.

The frost cut into his face like a thousand icy blades. The wind gnawed under his jacket, soaked with sweat and covered with snow, as if mocking his weakened protection. Nikolay Parfenov stood at the edge of the Round Lake near Moscow, as if rooted to the ground. He was trembling—not from the cold. He was shaken by memory. One moment. A moment that turned his life upside down.

Before that, he had been just a single father. Tired, worn out, barely keeping afloat. Sunken eyes, hands with hardened calluses, a heart heavy as lead. Debts were growing, salary was shrinking, the fridge was emptying again. And his daughter kept waiting—believing the morning would be better.

That Sunday was supposed to be a respite. A promised walk in the park, a path along the lake. The snow was ankle-deep, but was that a hindrance for a child? Maryana walked beside him, clinging to his hand like it was her only support in the world. Two years had passed since her mother’s death, and Nikolay had become everything to her: mother, father, friend, guardian. But his strength was running out. It was felt—in every breath, every step, in the way he sometimes didn’t hear her questions.

They had almost passed the lake when he heard laughter. Light, ringing, almost carefree. Two girls, twins, a little younger than Maryana, were playing at the very edge of the ice. Running, laughing, unaware of the danger. Something inside him snapped. He opened his mouth to shout, to warn—but…

A crack. Clear, terrible, like a gunshot.

The ice beneath them gave way. A scream rang out—sharp, full of horror, then the water swallowed them. Silence filled only with muffled bubbling.

Nikolay didn’t even realize when he dropped his backpack. Didn’t notice how he ran. Thoughts shut off—only instinct and impulse remained: there are children there. They’re drowning. Like my Maryana.

He plunged into the water without hesitation. Jumped into the black, icy abyss where time stopped and air ceased to exist. The cold hit like a thousand needles, piercing to the bone. His body began to refuse to obey, but he swam. Swam to them.

The first girl struggled at the surface, her blue lips trembling, eyes wide with fear. He pushed her up, toward rescue, and someone’s hands were already pulling her onto the ice.

And the second… where was she?

A pink hat flickered below, disappearing into the darkness. He dove deeper, his arms burning but searching, feeling around. Fingers grabbed onto clothing—and he pulled. With his last drops of strength, he pushed the child out. As for himself… he felt himself falling into the darkness.

He woke up three days later.

White walls of a hospital room, the smell of medicine, the faint humming of equipment. And the first thing he saw—his daughter’s face. Maryana was crying uncontrollably, as if afraid he would disappear again. Nikolay Parfenov had survived. A miracle—the doctors said. Hypothermia, respiratory arrest, minutes between life and death… But his heart was beating. Weakly, but beating.

The news called him a hero. Videos from the rescue spread on social networks, comments poured in: “Brave man,” “True father,” “God bless him.” But Nikolay himself did not feel like a hero. He simply did what he had to do. Could he have done otherwise? Could he stand and watch children drown?

He never learned the girls’ names. Didn’t look for them, didn’t expect thanks. Life after discharge met him as usual: bills, a nearly empty fridge, a job barely covering expenses. Heroes aren’t paid. Especially those who save other people’s children without thinking of themselves.

And then something happened that he never expected.

Five days after discharge. Snow fell slowly, as if it knew something important was happening. Nikolay was tinkering with his car—the old pickup begging for mercy. He huffed, cursed, tried to change a tire when he heard a dull rumble of engines.

Five black SUVs, shining even on a gloomy day, slowly entered the yard.

They shouldn’t be here. Such cars are for capital city highways, for Rublyovka, for those used to life without unnecessary questions. But they were here. At his house.

The doors swung open. A woman stepped out first. Her face was wet with tears, eyes full of pain and gratitude. She ran up and hugged him so tightly it seemed she wanted to give him all the warmth he had lacked his whole life.

“I’m Natalia Vetrova,” she whispered, trembling with sobs. “This is my husband, Alexey. You saved our daughters.”

The man came out next. Tall, sturdy, with the stern face of a businessman. But there was no arrogance in his gaze. Only respect. Only gratitude. He extended his hand, and Nikolay automatically shook it, not understanding what was happening.

The first SUV began unloading. Boxes with food, household items, children’s things. For months ahead. The second vehicle opened its doors, revealing warm clothes: down jackets, boots, hats, mittens—all new, quality, real. What he and Maryana could only dream of.

A man in a business suit came out of the third car—a lawyer. Documents. Signatures. Payment of all debts, a year’s rent in advance, medical insurance. And a job offer—official, with a salary worthy not only in words.

The fourth SUV brought a gift personally for Nikolay. What exactly—he didn’t want to open immediately. But the fifth…

The fifth was not for him.

From the trunk carefully pulled out a bicycle. Red, shining, with a huge bow. On the handlebar—a note:

“For Maryana—from the two girls who will never forget her father’s bravery.”

Nikolay sank to his knees. Tears flowed freely. Hot, uncontrollable, like a child’s. He expected nothing. No money, no attention, no thanks. He just did what he had to do. He just jumped into the water because there was no other way.

And now… now life answered him. Not as a given. Not as a reward. As a miracle. As light through the thickest ice.

Sometimes fate tests us with cold no blanket can warm. But if you walk through this ice with an open heart, ready to lose everything for another—it begins to melt. And instead of death, life will meet you. Warmth. Hope.

Because true kindness—never goes unanswered.

It echoes back.

Warm.

Alive.

And eternal.

Darkness had already fallen over the forest, the trees barely visible in the twilight. Everyone had long been home, warming themselves with a cup of tea or getting ready for bed. But in the distance, among the shadows, three silhouettes appeared. It was an old woman leading her grandchildren deeper into the thicket.

“We’re here!” Valentina Igorevna said loudly, almost cheerfully. “I was told you are evil, and you need to be gotten rid of as soon as possible!”

The boy frowned:

“Grandmother, why are we evil?”

“Be quiet! You will turn into worms and devour others!” she snapped, but immediately softened, stroking their heads and beginning to cry.

“Don’t worry, your mother will thank me for freeing her from you,” the woman whispered.

She sat down on the ground and began digging a hole with her hands. When she finished, she placed an old broom inside—as if a symbol of what was meant to happen there.

“Grandmother, I’m cold… Let’s go home,” the girl pleaded.

These words touched something inside the woman. Suddenly, she laughed loudly:

“No! You killed your mother, so you will stay here. You will never return home!” she shouted, jumped up, and quickly disappeared into the darkness.

Anya burst into tears. Her brother hugged her shoulders and led her along the path, hoping to find the way back to people. They were shivering from the cold—the grandmother had dressed them completely inappropriately for the night forest.

Nadezhda had just finished sorting trash at the dump. She carefully gathered the most valuable finds and loaded them onto a cart. Her little house was far from the forest—a lonely but familiar place. Not long ago, she had married a man she loved deeply.

However, he was an alcoholic and a master liar: he claimed he had once been a deep-sea captain. And Nadezhda was a hard worker—she worked as a milkmaid on a collective farm, took on extra jobs wherever she could to make their life a little more comfortable. But all the money she earned with such difficulty, her husband found and drank away with friends.

Nadezhda had two children whom she often took to work with her. Gradually, her patience wore thin. Even such a strong woman could no longer endure the endless drunken brawls.

She decided to get a divorce, gathered the documents, but made one big mistake—she didn’t take the children with her. That very day, her replacement worker got sick, so Nadezhda had to work in her place. Her husband stayed home sober, and the children were asleep.

But as soon as the woman left, Nikolai started drinking again. He closed the stove’s chimney too early, and the whole family was poisoned by carbon monoxide.

Nadezhda couldn’t survive this tragedy—she went mad from grief. She wandered the cemetery all day, lost the meaning of life, and then began drinking herself. Over time, she was fired from work and kicked out of the house. That’s how she ended up at the dump.

One evening, in a state of deep depression, Nadezhda headed to an old factory to warm up and brew some tea. Suddenly, she heard a child crying. She stopped and approached closer.

On a tree stump sat small frozen children. The boy was persuading his sister to get up and move on, but the girl didn’t want to.

“Children, how did you end up here?” the woman asked in surprise.

“We are nobody’s… our grandmother abandoned us in the forest. She said we bring misfortune. And we don’t have a mother—she died in the hospital. That’s how Anya and I ended up here,” the boy answered.

Nadezhda couldn’t believe her ears.

“Come with me, I will feed you, warm you. Don’t be afraid of me. I also had children your age… I couldn’t protect them and lost them…” she cried.

The children were not afraid. What did they have to lose? They followed the woman.

Soon they found themselves in a building that became warmth and shelter for them. Nadezhda laid the children down to sleep, covered them with a thick blanket. She sat nearby, looking at them for a long time—as if she saw her own relatives in them.

“I won’t leave you in trouble. You’ve suffered enough. While I live, I won’t allow you to end up in an orphanage,” she whispered to herself.

Then she took out the birth certificates of her children from a secret place and sat thinking. Only by morning was she able to sleep a little.

In the morning, Nadezhda washed up, got ready, and decisively took the children by the hands. Together, they set off for the station. A new life was beginning for all three of them.

At the very moment the children were abandoned in the forest, their real mother was restless. Liliya was a beauty—she was barely twenty-six.

She had many admirers, but she chose Dmitry—a kind, caring man. She had graduated from university, got a job as a kindergarten director, and had two children.

Her mother helped her—a powerful official in the preschool education sector. But over time, her husband changed. Having tasted stability and wealth, he turned from a simple, soulful person into a selfish playboy. When offered a job abroad, he left, promising to return for his family. The promise turned out to be empty words—he disappeared from their lives forever.

Liliya’s mother, feeling guilty for the family’s collapse, turned to religion. But her path was mistaken—she fell under the influence of a cult. Under their pressure, the woman lost her mind, leaving all her property to the “spiritual mentors.” Liliya tried to save her mother, but all efforts were in vain.

One day, returning from kindergarten with the children, Liliya was in an accident: she was hit by a motorcyclist at a crosswalk. Fortunately, the children were unharmed, but the woman was urgently hospitalized. She underwent a complicated surgery, but her main concern was the children—how were they living now with their grandmother?

Meanwhile, Valentina Igorevna, that is, her mother, was completely detached from reality, constantly disappearing at “spiritual meetings,” and for a whole month took no interest in her grandchildren’s fate.

Liliya understood: if she told about her fears in the hospital, the family would be deemed socially disadvantaged, and the children would be taken away. She didn’t even guess how much trouble her mother had already caused.

As soon as the woman recovered a little, she ran away from the hospital. During her absence, Valentina sold everything valuable in the apartment. The woman had completely lost her mind—she walked naked around the house, laughed for no reason… But the worst was something else: the children were not home.

When asked by her daughter where the grandchildren were, the mother only cried and laughed. Liliya had to commit her mother to a psychiatric hospital, where she was diagnosed as mentally ill.

Over time, Liliya began to recover. She managed to return to work. There were moments when she thought about ending her life, but something inside stopped her.

It was during this period that a woman named Nadezhda came to her kindergarten. This was the very woman who had found the children in the forest and taken them in.

Nadezhda decided to radically change her life—move to the city and start fresh. Before that, she and the children lived who knows where: at the station, at an old man’s dacha, where they helped with chores. But the season ended, and the old man, though regretful, had to ask them to leave—water and electricity were turned off for winter.

Seeing an announcement for a nanny vacancy, Nadezhda came to the interview. She decided to present the children as her own—their ages fit. But as soon as she entered the headmistress’s office, Liliya fainted.

“Mommy! Beloved mommy!” the children cried, rushing to the woman, kissing her hands, hair, and face.

Nadezhda stood confused, not understanding what was happening. Having learned the whole story, Liliya did not punish her for the deed. On the contrary, she accepted her as her own.

Two women, who had gone through terrible trials, found in each other support, warmth, and peace. Liliya had her children again, and Nadezhda became a second mother to them—the grandmother of Daneka and Anechka.

In a small but picturesque town, where every passerby knew each other by name, lived a young woman named Anna. This town was quiet and cozy, as if frozen in time — with narrow streets, old lanterns, and houses surrounded by blooming flowerbeds. There was always a sense of peace and mutual support here. People had known each other for many years, were friends with whole families, and helped one another in difficult times. Among all the residents, Anna stood out especially for her kindness. She didn’t just smile at passersby — she felt a sincere desire to make someone else’s life a little brighter. She was considered a person with a big heart, ready to help even a stranger.

For Anna, being kind and compassionate was not an obligation, but a way of life. She believed that every small act could become the beginning of something greater. Helping an elderly neighbor by bringing groceries, supporting a friend in a hard moment, participating in charity events — all of this was part of her daily routine. And although sometimes she wanted to rest herself, she always found the strength for others. That’s why no one was surprised when one day she said she had helped someone again — even if it cost her something important.

But this time, everything was a little different. One morning, waking up with the first rays of the sun, Anna felt a special excitement. She had been waiting for this day for several months. Ahead lay a long-awaited journey — a meeting with an old friend whom she hadn’t seen for a whole five years. The friend had gone abroad to study, and the years flew by so quickly that they had almost lost touch. But recently, they had accidentally found each other on social media and arranged to meet. For Anna, this was truly a gift of fate.

Getting ready for the trip, she double-checked every item in her suitcase as if afraid to forget something. Every possession seemed important to her: a favorite sweater, a photo album with childhood pictures, a notebook to jot down everything they would discuss. She imagined how they would walk through the unfamiliar city streets, drink coffee in cozy cafes, laugh until their stomachs hurt, and share stories they had kept to themselves all those years. This thought warmed her from within, and she happily walked toward the bus stop that would take her to the train station, and then to the airport.

The morning was cool but clear. Leaves on the trees were beginning to take on autumn shades, the air was fresh and full of hope. Anna walked, breathing deeply the morning freshness, thinking about everything at once — how much her friend had changed, how her voice would sound after so many years, and how their meeting would turn out. Time, as is known, changes people, but Anna hoped that their friendship would remain the same.

Just then, when her thoughts were occupied with pleasant memories, her attention was drawn to a man standing at the edge of the sidewalk. He looked confused and was clearly in pain. His movements were slow; he was leaning against the wall of a building, trying to stay on his feet. Anna involuntarily slowed her pace. She understood she needed to hurry — the flight wouldn’t wait — but something inside would not let her pass by. Perhaps it was intuition, or that very sense of duty that always guided her.

Approaching him gently, she asked,
“Excuse me, are you feeling unwell? Can I help you?”

The man turned to her. A faint but grateful smile appeared on his face.
“My name is Viktor,” he replied, slightly out of breath. “I twisted my ankle a couple of days ago… And today I have to catch a flight. I’m already late, and the airport is too far.”

Anna paused for a moment. There were only a few minutes left before the bus arrived, and if she spent time helping, she risked missing her own flight. But risking a trip was one thing — leaving a person alone in such a state was another.

“Let’s call a taxi,” she suggested. “I’ll see you there.”

Viktor initially refused, not wanting to cause trouble, but Anna insisted. Within minutes, they were sitting in a car heading toward the airport. During that time, a slow conversation began between them. Viktor turned out to be an interesting person with a rich life story. He told how he started in the simplest positions at an airline and now headed one of the largest companies in the country. His success was the result of enormous work, but he hadn’t lost his humanity, which could be felt in his words.

Anna listened attentively but had no idea who he really was. To her, he was simply someone in need of help. They talked about many things — travel, dreams, the importance of human connections. She shared her plans, spoke about her friend, about her aspirations to see the world. Viktor listened with lively interest, occasionally adding his thoughts or jokes, which helped ease his pain.

When they arrived at the airport, the situation became complicated. Time was literally slipping through their fingers. Check-in was closing in ten minutes. Viktor limped, moved slowly, and Anna realized that without help he wouldn’t make it. Without wasting a second, she took his arm, and together they hurried to the check-in counter.

The line was long, but Anna, without hesitation, approached the staff member and explained the situation. Viktor, a little embarrassed, gave his name. The airport employee, upon hearing it, instantly changed her expression. Several phone calls later, they were allowed to skip the line.

When all formalities were completed, Viktor turned to Anna. His eyes expressed sincere gratitude.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” he said. “You could have just walked by. But you stopped. That means a lot.”

Then he paused and added,
“If you agree, I want to give you a gift. Let me arrange your trip so you don’t have to worry about anything. First-class tickets, personal service — everything you deserve for your kindness.”

Anna did not expect such a turn. She only wanted to help, not thinking about a reward. But now, standing next to a person who could make her dreams come true, she felt warmth spread through her chest — from realizing that kindness truly has a price, even if invisible.

They exchanged contacts, said goodbye, and each went to their gate. But this meeting stayed with her forever. It was not only the reason for her delay but the beginning of a new chapter in her life.

A couple of days later, Anna received a message from Viktor. He kept his word. First-class tickets were issued, a detailed itinerary was prepared, even a window seat was chosen — exactly what she loved most. The trip became truly unforgettable. Instead of a regular journey, she had a real adventure. Her friend was thrilled; Anna was in heaven. Clouds outside the window, the taste of coffee in a tall glass, a soft seat, and stewardesses’ smiles — all this became possible thanks to one simple decision.

After returning home, Anna wrote to Viktor, thanked him, and told how the trip went. She didn’t expect their connection to continue, but Viktor replied. He invited her to a private event for VIP guests of the airline, and there they met again. Over a cup of hot tea, they talked for a long time, like old friends. They were united not only by this story but by a shared understanding of the importance of human relationships.

Thus, thanks to a chance encounter on the street, a new, bright chapter began in the lives of two completely different people. What could have seemed a small coincidence became the beginning of an extraordinary friendship. Anna not only helped Viktor but also received more than she could have imagined. And Viktor, in turn, remembered that the true value of success lies in the ability to share it with others.

This story became a reminder for both of them: never underestimate the power of kindness. Sometimes the simplest gesture can change someone’s life — and your own too.

Polina scrutinized the new curtains. Light blue, with a small floral pattern—exactly what she wanted for the living room. She carefully adjusted the pleats, stepped back a couple of paces, and smiled.

— Sergey, how do you like it? — Polina turned to her husband, who was sitting in an armchair, absorbed in his phone.

— It’s fine, — Sergey mumbled without looking up.

— Maybe we should have gotten ones with a larger pattern? — Polina hesitated.

Her husband looked up from his phone, cast a brief glance at the window, and shrugged.

— What’s the difference? Curtains are just curtains.

Polina sighed. Recently, Sergey had become distant, as if something was weighing on him. She sat down on the edge of the sofa and touched his hand.

— Did something happen? You’ve been acting different lately.

Sergey hesitated, put down his phone, and rubbed his nose.

— Polina, we need to talk, — his voice sounded unusually serious. — Mom is retiring next week.

— And? — Polina raised an eyebrow.

— And she’s going to have a hard time being alone. She’s used to socializing, having people around. Sitting in four walls isn’t for her.

Polina tensed, understanding where the conversation was heading.

— I was thinking, — Sergey continued, — maybe she could stay with us for a while? Until she gets used to the new pace of life.

Polina clenched her fingers into a fist. Larisa Arkadyevna, Sergey’s mother, had always been cool toward her. Every time they met, her mother-in-law found something to criticize: Polina was too thin, her clothes were inappropriate, or she wasn’t keeping the apartment right.

— For how long? — Polina asked carefully.

— Well, for a month or two, — Sergey spread his hands. — At most, until autumn.

— Fine, — Polina agreed after a pause. — But only temporarily.

— You’re the best! — Sergey hugged his wife impulsively. — Mom will appreciate your care.

A week later, Larisa Arkadyevna stepped through the door with two large suitcases.

— I hope you’ve prepared a room for me, — her mother-in-law stated, looking around the hallway with a critical eye.

— Of course, Mom. The guest room is all yours, — Sergey took the suitcases and carried them to the room.

Polina smiled tightly.

— Come in, Larisa Arkadyevna. Would you like some tea?

— Yes. But no sugar, — her mother-in-law snapped as she walked past Polina. — And take down these awful flowery rags from the window. They make my eyes hurt.

Polina bit her lip but said nothing. Just a couple of months, she reminded herself.

But the couple of months quietly turned into six. Larisa Arkadyevna had settled in, filled kitchen shelves with her jars of jam and pickles, and moved the paintings in the living room. She threw away Polina’s favorite decorative pillows, claiming they just “gather dust.”

— Sergey, I can’t do this anymore, — Polina whispered to her husband late one evening in their bedroom. — Your mom is acting like this is her apartment.

— She’s just used to being the housekeeper, — Sergey sighed. — You know she’s having a hard time right now. It’s a transitional age, a crisis.

— What crisis at sixty? — Polina threw up her hands. — She threw away my collection of porcelain figurines yesterday!

— She didn’t throw them away, she packed them in a box. They were taking up too much space.

— In my apartment!

— In our apartment, — Sergey corrected.

— The apartment I bought before we got married with the money from selling my grandmother’s apartment, — Polina reminded him.

Sergey grimaced.

— Let’s not start this conversation. Just be patient a little longer.

Polina turned toward the wall and closed her eyes. Such conversations had been happening more and more.

Soon, her mother-in-law’s open criticism began as well.

— You’ve over-salted it again, — Larisa Arkadyevna huffed, pushing away her plate of stewed potatoes. — In my time, girls were taught to cook by their mothers.

— In your backward time, women were also married off without asking, — Polina snapped, immediately regretting what she had said.

— Sergey! Did you hear how she’s talking to me? — Larisa Arkadyevna turned to her son. — I’m an elderly person; I deserve respect!

— Polina, don’t start, — Sergey said tiredly. — Mom is right, we need to respect our elders.

Polina silently stood up from the table and went to the bedroom. A lump of resentment grew inside her. Not only her mother-in-law, but even her husband was turning her into a guest in her own home.

In the morning, while getting ready for work, Polina discovered that her favorite blouse was missing from her closet.

— Larisa Arkadyevna, have you seen my white blouse? — she asked, peeking into the kitchen.

— That tasteless thing? I washed it. You’re washing it wrong, that’s why it looks like a rag.

— But I was going to wear it today! — Polina clenched her fists.

— Buy something decent for yourself, — her mother-in-law cut in. — And in general, it’s time for you to learn how to dress properly. At your age, you should look like a woman, not like a teenager.

Polina wanted to respond, but at that moment Sergey walked into the kitchen.

— What’s going on?

— Your mom took my things without asking! — Polina exclaimed.

— I’m just helping her look presentable, — Larisa Arkadyevna countered. — Sergey, tell her it’s inappropriate for a married woman to wear such revealing things.

— A white blouse is revealing? — Polina looked at her mother-in-law in disbelief.

Sergey raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture.

— Let’s not argue over a blouse. Polina, wear something else. And you, Mom, next time ask for permission before taking someone else’s things.

Polina was late for work and felt exhausted all day. She didn’t want to go home. In recent weeks, the apartment had turned into a foreign territory, where every step she took was met with comments and criticism.
In the evening, she met her friend Natasha at a café not far from home.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Polina confessed, stirring the now-cold tea with a spoon. “She’s turned my life into hell.”

“And Sergey?” Natasha asked.

“Always on his mother’s side,” Polina smiled bitterly. “Do you know what he said yesterday? That I should respect his mother because without her, there would be no him and no our marriage.”

“Maybe you should live separately for a while?” Natasha suggested. “I have a spare room.”

Polina shook her head.

“This is my apartment, Natasha. Why should I leave?”

“Then talk to Sergey seriously. Without hysteria or accusations. Explain that you’re uncomfortable.”

Polina thought for a moment. Maybe it was really worth talking to her husband? One more time, calmly and rationally.

When she returned home, she found Larisa Arkadyevna in her bedroom.

“What are you doing here?” Polina was taken aback.

“Making space in the closet,” her mother-in-law replied matter-of-factly, rummaging through things. “I have too many clothes for the guest room. Sergey said I could take some of your closet space.”

That was the last straw.

Polina froze in the doorway, watching as Larisa Arkadyevna moved her things around.

“Stop,” she said quietly but firmly.

Her mother-in-law didn’t even look up.

“Are you bothered by making space for your husband’s mother?” she asked, continuing to rummage through the closet. “What a selfish woman you are.”

“This is my bedroom and my closet,” Polina stepped closer. “Please, get out of here.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, girl,” Larisa Arkadyevna straightened up and looked down at Polina. “You may be my son’s wife, but you don’t deserve any respect.”

“What’s going on here?” Sergey appeared in the doorway, drawn by the raised voices.

“Your mother is going through my things!” Polina pointed to the scattered clothes on the bed.

“I just wanted to hang my things, but your wife had a fit,” Larisa Arkadyevna pursed her lips. “I always knew she didn’t respect family values.”

Sergey sighed tiredly.

“Polina, what’s all the noise about? Mom just asked for a little space.”

“A little space?” Polina clutched her head. “Sergey, she’s already taken over the entire guest room, half of the kitchen, thrown out my things, rearranged the furniture! Now she’s in our bedroom!”

“Don’t exaggerate,” Sergey waved his hand. “Mom just wants…”

“I don’t care what your mother wants!” Polina interrupted him. “This is my apartment! I bought it with my own money, before we got married!”

“Starting again?” Sergey frowned. “How much longer are you going to keep bringing this up?”

“I’m not bringing it up!” Polina raised her voice. “But I won’t allow anyone to treat me like a guest in my own home!”

“See, Sergey?” Larisa Arkadyevna interjected. “She doesn’t respect either me or you. A real woman would never shout at her husband.”

Polina took a deep breath, trying to calm down.

“Sergey, let’s talk alone.”

“So you can turn him against his mother?” Larisa Arkadyevna scoffed. “No, I’m not going anywhere. I have the right to know what’s going on in my son’s family.”

“You have no right to tell me what to do in my house!” Polina exclaimed. “You were a guest. A temporary guest. Now you’ve become a warden!”

“How are you speaking to my mother?” Sergey was outraged. “Apologize immediately!”

“Apologize?” Polina couldn’t believe her ears. “For defending my space? My life? She was supposed to stay for a couple of months, and now she’s been living with us for half a year!”

“So what?” Sergey crossed his arms over his chest. “She’s my mother, and I’m not going to throw her out into the street.”

“Into the street?” Polina smiled bitterly. “She has her own apartment! A three-bedroom, by the way!”

“In which she doesn’t want to live alone,” Sergey cut her off. “You have no heart, Polina?”

“No heart?” Polina glanced at the clothes scattered across the bed, the open closet, and her mother-in-law’s disgusted expression. “I’ve been putting up with your mother turning my life into a nightmare for six months! Six months of hearing how bad a wife, housekeeper, and daughter-in-law I am!”

“Don’t dramatize,” Sergey grimaced.

“I’m not dramatizing! I can’t and don’t want to do this anymore. Either your mother goes back to her place, or…”

“Or what?” Sergey asked challengingly.

Polina fell silent, not knowing what to say. She had never thought their marriage could fall apart because of a trivial household conflict.

“See, Sergey?” Larisa Arkadyevna triumphantly said. “She doesn’t even know how to threaten properly. A weak, spineless girl. She dares to show character in our house? You need to put her in her place!”

And then something snapped inside Polina. The humiliations she had endured, the silent agreement, the fear of conflict, and the desire to please everyone — it all came crashing down in an instant.

She straightened up and looked directly into her mother-in-law’s eyes.

“No, dear mother-in-law, I bought this apartment before our marriage, so pack your things. Today. I won’t let you torment me in my own home anymore.”

“What did you say?” her mother-in-law was stunned.

“You heard me perfectly. Pack your things and leave.”

“You have no right to throw my mother out!” Sergey shouted.

Polina turned to her husband.

“I do. And I’m doing it. The apartment belongs to me. And I decide who lives in it.”

“I’m your husband!”

“Who never once stood by my side,” Polina said bitterly. “Who watched his mother mistreat his wife and stayed silent.”

“You’re just petty and mean,” Larisa Arkadyevna chimed in. “Poor my boy, he didn’t get lucky with a wife.”

“Yes, he didn’t get lucky,” Polina agreed. “But a real man wouldn’t let his mother treat his beloved woman like this.” She took a deep breath and walked to the door. “You have two hours to pack. Both of you.”

“What?” Sergey was stunned. “Are you kicking me out too?”

“Do you want to stay?” Polina raised an eyebrow. “After all of this?”

Sergey was silent, looking from his mother to his wife.

“Don’t worry, son,” Larisa Arkadyevna interrupted. “We’ll go to my place. You’ll find a normal girl who will respect your mother.”

Polina shook her head and left the room. Surprisingly, there was no pain. Only relief. Like a heavy stone had been lifted from her soul.

Two days later, there was a knock on the door. Sergey stood in the doorway.

“Polina, let’s talk,” he started.

“About what?” Polina crossed her arms. “About how you let your mother humiliate me? Or about how you never once stood up for me?”

“I tried to reconcile everyone,” Sergey said. “But I didn’t succeed.”

“You didn’t even try,” Polina shook her head. “You just went the path of least resistance. Mom shouts — so she has to be accommodated. I stay quiet — so everything’s fine with me.”

“I love you, Polina.”

“Love is not just words,” Polina smiled sadly. “It’s also actions. And you chose your mother, not your wife. I respect your choice, but now respect mine.”

She closed the door and leaned against it. Tears ran down her cheeks, but strength surged through her veins. Polina had taken back her life, her apartment, her dignity.

A week later, she repainted the bedroom walls her favorite lavender color, put the light blue curtains with a small floral pattern back up, and bought new decorative pillows. The apartment was once again her home, her fortress, her corner.

And a month later, Natasha introduced her to Andrei — a calm, self-confident man who listened to her stories about work with interest, valued her opinion, and never interrupted. And most importantly — he had his own apartment, where his mother didn’t live.

Sometimes losses turn out to be the beginning of something new, something better. And Polina was grateful to fate for this lesson. She would never again allow anyone to cross her boundaries. Even for love.

Anna wiped her hands with a towel, admiring the bouquet of white roses she had just arranged for a regular client. Outside, an October drizzle fell, while inside the shop it smelled of freshness and life — that’s how she always described the complex scent of flowers. Three years ago, she couldn’t have imagined she would know so much about varieties, which flowers last longer, and which are fussy about water and temperature.

The chime over the door announced a customer, but it was Mikhail, her husband. He usually came by rarely, preferring to handle things over the phone.

“Hi, how are you?” He kissed her on the cheek, but she sensed a tension in his voice.

“Good, I’ve already sold the fifth bouquet today. By the way, Mrs. Kovalyova ordered another arrangement for her table — she says only our flowers last more than a week.”

Mikhail nodded absentmindedly, as if not really listening. Anna recognized that look — something was bothering him. Over twelve years of marriage, she had learned to read his moods from the smallest details: how he furrows his brow, presses his lips, avoids eye contact when preparing for an unpleasant conversation.

“Anya, we need to have a serious talk,” he said, sitting down on a chair near the counter. “About the shop.”

Anna’s heart skipped a beat. She put down the scissors and turned to him fully.

“What about the shop?”

“You know it’s… well, not exactly unprofitable, but it doesn’t really make much profit either. We’ve been supporting it for three years, but it still hasn’t broken even.”

“Misha, what are you trying to say?” Her voice trembled.

Mikhail sighed and looked toward the display window.

“Katya has problems. She divorced Igor; the apartment stays with him, and she has nowhere to go. She’s staying with a friend now, but only temporarily.” He paused, gathering courage. “We’ll sell your shop and buy her an apartment.”

Anna felt the ground slip beneath her feet. Those words sounded so ordinary, as if he had just suggested buying bread on the way home.

“What?!” She couldn’t believe her ears. “How can you say we’ll sell my shop?”

“Anya, be reasonable. We’ve been investing money for three years with no return. Katya needs help; she’s my sister.”

“And what about me?” Anna’s voice broke. “Am I not your wife? This is my business, my work, my life!”

“But it doesn’t bring in money!”

“It didn’t! But now it does!” She gestured toward the cash register. “You can see, there are more customers, more orders. I’m just starting to really understand this business!”

Mikhail stood up, his resolve clear and frightening.

“Anna, I’m not asking for your permission. I’m just informing you. The shop needs to be sold.”

“No!” She slammed her fist on the counter; a few petals fell from the rose. “I won’t allow it! It’s my shop!”

“The one I helped you open! With my money!”

Those words hit harder than a slap. Anna felt everything inside tighten with hurt and anger.

“So what? I’m just an employee you can fire any time?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. But family is more important than your flowers. Katya needs our help.”

“And what about me? Don’t I need help?” Her voice quivered with tears she was holding back. “Don’t I need my husband to believe in me?”

Mikhail shrugged.

“I believed for three years. Isn’t that enough?”

Anna turned away to the window, unable to look at him. The rain intensified, droplets sliding down the glass like her invisible tears.

“Leave,” she whispered. “Just leave.”

“Anya…”

“Leave!” she shouted, her voice full of such resolve that Mikhail flinched.

He stood for a few seconds, then silently left. The bell chimed mournfully.

Anna sank into a chair and let the tears flow freely. Each drop was soaked in pain and confusion. How could he? How could he so easily wipe away three years of her life, her efforts, her dreams?

She remembered how the shop began. Mikhail really had supported her idea back then, though with doubts. “Try,” he said, “but if it doesn’t work out, don’t be upset.” And she tried. She studied the flower business, visited suppliers, learned to make bouquets, worked fourteen-hour days.

The first year was a nightmare. Flowers spoiled, customers didn’t come, she didn’t know how to properly store different varieties. But she didn’t give up. Gradually, things improved. Regular customers appeared; she learned to feel the flowers, understand their needs.

And now, when things were finally taking off, he wanted to destroy it all. For Katya.

Anna had never liked her husband’s sister. Not openly hostile, but always sensing some dislike. Katya was beautiful, bright, knew how to draw attention. She often said things like, “Oh, Annushka, you’re so lucky! Such a caring husband, a beautiful home, and now your own business!” But Anna always heard falseness and envy in those words.

That evening at home, the conversation continued. Mikhail came back from work gloomier than a thundercloud.

“Have you thought about what I said?” he asked without greeting.

“I have. The answer is still no.”

“Anna, you’re acting selfish.”

“Selfish?” She turned from the stove where she was cooking dinner. “I’ve put my soul into this shop for three years, and you call me selfish for not wanting to sell it?”

“Katya has nowhere to go!”

“Why is that my problem? Let her work, rent an apartment, like everyone else!”

“She’s my sister!”

“And I’m your wife!” Anna shouted. “Or was…”

Mikhail fell silent. Only the frying pan’s sizzle was heard.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean a husband should support his wife, not destroy her dreams for his sister’s whims.”

“This isn’t whimsy! She has real problems!”

“I have real problems too!” Anna turned off the stove and faced him. “My husband wants to take away the work of my life!”

“The work of your life?” Mikhail smirked. “You’ve been selling flowers for three years, don’t exaggerate.”

That was the last straw. Anna felt something break inside.

“Get out of the kitchen,” she said quietly but firmly enough to make him understand it was best not to argue.

The following days passed in a cold war. They spoke only when necessary, slept in separate rooms, avoided eye contact. Anna felt their twelve-year marriage cracking but didn’t know what to do.

At the shop, she tried to immerse herself in work. Flowers don’t lie, betray, or destroy your life for someone else. They just live and give beauty while they can.

On Thursday, Marina, the owner of the neighboring beauty salon, stopped by. They often drank coffee together and discussed business.

“Anya, you seem kind of sad,” Marina noticed, sitting on a chair by the counter.

“Family problems,” Anna sighed.

“Want to talk?”

Anna hesitated but then decided: why not? Maybe an outside perspective would help.

“Misha wants to sell the shop.”

“What?! Why?”

“To help his sister. She’s divorced and needs an apartment.”

Marina shook her head.

“Strange. Can’t she earn for an apartment herself?”

“Maybe. But why bother when you can live off your brother?”

“Anya, haven’t you thought something’s off here?” Marina leaned closer. “Remember I told you I saw your husband with some woman in a cafe?”

Anna tensed.

“You did? And?”

“What if it was his sister? Are they planning something together?”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe she doesn’t just want an apartment. Maybe they’re dividing property in advance. In case of a divorce?”

Anna’s heart beat faster.

“Marin, don’t say nonsense.”

“But think about it. Why sell your shop if you could sell something else? You have a dacha, a car, other things?”

“We do…”

“Exactly. Why your business?”

Anna pondered. Indeed, why? They had a dacha near Moscow they rarely used, a second car sitting in the garage. Why did Mikhail pick the shop?

“Maybe his sister said something to him?” Marina continued. “Maybe she thinks you don’t appreciate him or something?”

“Why would she think that?”

“Who knows? Envy is a terrible thing. Maybe she envies that you have everything good?”

That night Anna couldn’t sleep. Marina’s words swirled in her mind. What if something was really wrong? What if Katya was deliberately turning Mikhail against her?

The next day she called a mutual friend, Lena, who was friends with both her and Katya.

“Lena, hi! How are you?”

“Oh, Anya! Hi! All good, working. How about you?”

“Well, family problems… Lena, have you heard Katya say anything about me recently?”

There was a pause on the other end.

“Did something happen?”

“Just curious.”

“Anya, better ask her yourself…”

“Lena, please. It’s important for me to know.”

Another pause, then a sigh.

“Okay, but don’t get too upset. She said you don’t appreciate your husband. That you spend too much time in the shop and don’t take care of the family.”

“Anything else?”

“She also said…” Lena hesitated. “She suspects you have someone on the side.”

“What?!”

“Some man. She says you’ve been staying late, going somewhere in the evenings…”

Anna felt blood pounding in her temples.

“Lena, that’s complete nonsense! I don’t go anywhere, just the shop and home!”

“I know, Anya. I told her that. But she insisted. Said she wanted to open Misha’s eyes.”

“Open his eyes?”

“Yes. That you’re lying to him, cheating. And that he should divorce you before you take everything.”

Anna slumped in her chair. Everything fell into place. Katya was deliberately turning Mikhail against her! Spreading rumors, convincing him she was a bad wife.

“Lena, thanks for telling me.”

“Anya, just don’t do anything stupid. Maybe it’s not true…”

“No, now it’s clear.”

Anna hung up and sat for a long time, digesting what she heard. So that’s it. Katya decided to kill two birds with one stone: get rid of her and get the apartment. Clever plan.

That evening she waited for Mikhail and said,

“We need to talk.”

“About the shop? Did you change your mind?”

“No. About your sister.”

Mikhail frowned.

“What about her?”

“What she told you about me is not true.”

“What do you mean?”

“That I supposedly have an affair. That I don’t appreciate you. That I’m a bad wife.”

Mikhail’s face changed.

“How do you know what we talked about?”

“Doesn’t matter. What matters is it’s all lies. And you need to understand that.”

“Katya wouldn’t lie…”

“Katya is jealous of me,” Anna looked him straight in the eyes. “She sees I have a loving husband, my own business, and can’t stand it. So she decided to destroy everything.”

“You’re talking nonsense!”

“Then tell me: why sell my shop? We have a dacha, a second car, your investments. Why my business?”

Mikhail opened his mouth to answer but found no words.

“Because she wants me to have nothing,” Anna continued. “To become nobody. And then, when you divorce me, the apartment will be hers.”

“That’s nonsense…”

“It’s true. And you know it. Deep down you know I’m right.”

Mikhail was silent for a long time. Anna saw doubt fighting in his eyes.

“Even if that’s true,” he finally said, “Katya still needs help.”

“Then help her another way. Sell the dacha, lend her money, whatever. But don’t touch my shop.”

“But it doesn’t make profit…”

“It does!” Anna pulled a notebook with calculations from her bag. “Look. In the last three months, net profit was two hundred thousand. And it’s growing every month.”

Mikhail took the notebook and flipped through it.

“Where did these numbers come from?”

“From finally learning to run the business. I have regular clients, corporate orders. I’m thinking about opening another shop.”

“Another one?”

“Yes. There’s a good space opening on Sovetskaya Street. More foot traffic, can increase profits.”

Mikhail slowly closed the notebook.

“Why didn’t you show me these numbers before?”

“Because you weren’t interested. You’d already decided the shop was unprofitable and didn’t want to listen.”

He sighed.

“Maybe you’re right…”

“Not maybe. Definitely. And you know it.”

The next day Mikhail went to see his sister. Anna didn’t know what they talked about, but when he returned, his face was gloomy.

“You were right,” he said sitting opposite her. “Katya really told me all sorts of nonsense about you.”

“And?”

“And I told her I won’t give her money anymore. She’ll have to solve her problems herself.”

Anna felt relieved, but her anger hadn’t gone.

“And the shop?”

“The shop stays yours. Sorry.”

“Sorry’s not enough,” she said. “You almost ruined my life.”

“I know. And I’ll make it right.”

“How?”

Mikhail thought.

“I’ll help you with the new shop. If you really want to open it.”

Anna smiled for the first time in many days.

“I want to. Very much.”

A month later, the shop on Sovetskaya Street opened. Anna worked there mornings and returned to her original shop afternoons. Business was better than she expected. Mikhail really helped — bringing clients from his business, advising on finances.

Katya stopped calling and coming around. Anna heard she found a job and rented an apartment. Maybe it was for the best — everyone gets what they deserve.

In the evening, closing the shop, Anna admired the display window. White chrysanthemums mixed with yellow roses, creating a sunny mood even on a gloomy day.

Three years ago, she couldn’t tell a chrysanthemum from an aster. Now she dreamed of opening a chain of shops.

Mikhail came up behind her, as promised.

“How are things?” he asked, kissing her cheek.

“Great. Today I sold more arrangements than all last week.”

“Awesome. I found a place for a third shop.”

“A third?” Anna was surprised. “I haven’t even thought about the second properly!”

“I’m already thinking about franchising,” he smiled.

She laughed. For the first time in a long while, she laughed genuinely.

“Let’s learn to manage two first, then we’ll see.”

“As you say, boss.”

They stepped outside. The rain stopped, the sun came out. And Anna thought that life, like flowers, requires patience and faith. You just have to keep going, even when it seems all is lost. Sometimes the most beautiful buds bloom after the fiercest storms.

— You are expected at Viktor Nikolaevich’s estate on Saturday at ten in the morning, — I nodded automatically. The words sounded so ordinary, as if I had just scheduled a business meeting or a doctor’s appointment. But inside, a quiet race of thoughts had already begun.

So… an old estate outside the city. A modern-style mansion surrounded by tall fir trees. An abandoned garden, a library with cracked bindings, oil paintings, a porcelain collection that my uncle had been gathering for half his life… And, if the rumors were true, an antique grand piano worth no less than half a million dollars. All of this could now be mine. Or not?

By blood, I really was his only relative. Viktor Nikolaevich never had children; he lived a long life alone, away from social noise. A writer, a music lover, a connoisseur of good wine, and a man with quirks, he was always a mystery to me. When my mother spoke about him, she often added: “a little strange,” but he was the one I had fun with as a child. He told stories, played the piano, bought me ice cream even when mom forbade it. We were close — until I grew up, until he withdrew into himself, and I began to see him only as a name in family conversations and rare birthday postcards.

In recent years, almost nothing remained between us. Just a couple of calls a year and short letters written in neat handwriting, as if he still wrote for publication. And now — a will. And an invitation to the mansion, like a ticket to the past that might bring real wealth.

I arrived in the Moscow region with a suitcase full of dreams and an empty heart. I wore a dress I put on more because of the cold than out of a desire to look impressive. The car stopped in front of the gates. I approached the house, feeling how every step echoed in my chest with anticipation. And there — the porch. Old stone slabs covered with moss. A doorbell above the door. And on the threshold — him.

— Hi. I’m Artyom, — said the man, smiling slightly. His voice was calm, confident, without extra intonation.

— Sorry… who? — I asked again, not understanding immediately.

— Viktor Nikolaevich’s son.

— Whose?

He stood leaning one hand on the doorframe, holding a cup of cold tea in the other. Tall, about thirty-something. Neither a youth nor an elder. In a simple jacket, without pretense, without trying to look important. No security, no ostentatious dignity. Just a person who, it seemed, had nothing to prove.

— Unofficial, — he added after a pause. — We never publicized our relationship. He helped my mother when I was born but never formally recognized paternity.

I froze. My head spun. Inside rose a storm, a mix of anger, disbelief, and some foolish resentment — why me? Why didn’t I know this?

— But you… are you sure? — my voice trembled.

— We have DNA, the will, documents. Everything is legal.

I felt suffocated. It seemed the air around me tightened. I expected to hear that the house was mine, that the books and paintings were mine, that I could sell everything and start a new life. Instead — a son. Unknown, sudden, like a blow out of nowhere.

— Why did no one know? Why didn’t I know?

Artyom answered again with the same calmness:

— Maybe because he knew: for some, money is more important than a person.

Those words hit harder than I could have imagined. They cut inside like a reminder that I came here not for him. Not for my uncle. Not for the truth. But for the inheritance.

At the will reading ceremony, there was silence. The lawyer cleared his throat, flipping through papers, and finally said:

— The main part of the inheritance, including the mansion, collections, and real estate, goes to Artyom. However, Viktor Nikolaevich left a special note…

He took an envelope — old, thick, with a seal that had long lost its color but kept its shape.

— “To my niece Maria, I leave what is most important: letters. And books. Everything I wrote — about me, about you, about our family. So you know who I really was.”

Cold gripped my chest. Not paintings, not the piano, not collectible wines — letters. Ordinary, handwritten pages that can’t be sold, hung on a wall, or put in a bank.

I wanted to scream. To protest. To say it was unfair. That I came not for notes. That I deserved more. I wanted to leave. To go back to Moscow and forget this mansion forever. But somehow, I stayed.

And you know what I did? I started reading those letters.

And in them, I found not just the uncle I remembered from childhood. There was a person — alive, anxious, lonely. Who feared being misunderstood. Who loved silently but deeply. Who once met a young woman with a child, gave her shelter, work, a chance to start a new life. And though he didn’t become a legal father, he was one in essence.

Artyom was not lying. He was his son. By blood — maybe. But definitely — by spirit.

A month later, I came back to the mansion. In my hands — a pie baked from my mother’s recipe. In my head — new thoughts. In my heart — a strange feeling, similar to reconciliation.

— Can I take the letters to the veranda? It’s cozy there, — I said as I entered.

Artyom smiled:

— Of course. And also… in the basement, we found an old suitcase. It has your childhood drawings. He kept them. All of them.

I froze. Drawings. The very ones where I drew him holding a book, with a cat on his lap, with a piano behind him. He kept them. At least that.

And at that moment, I understood one simple truth:
wealth is not porcelain or pianos.
Wealth is knowing you are not forgotten.
That in someone’s heart, you remain.
Even if you yourself have forgotten about yourself.

For a long time, I was deceiving myself. Pretending that everything in my life was as usual — the same routine, no changes, that it was all just a bad dream. I couldn’t believe that Sergey really cheated on me. And not just casually, on the side, but seriously — he was seeing her! That very woman who had now become his assistant at work. They saw each other every day…

All the signs were obvious: late returns home, a strange perfume on his shirt, whispered conversations behind closed doors, frequent business trips… But I convinced myself it was just my fears. That everything could be explained logically and without unnecessary drama.

But one day I couldn’t take it anymore and asked him directly:

— Tell me, is it true that you’re seeing her?

He didn’t even deny it. Just coldly said:

— You already know everything. It’s good that we talked about it. I want a divorce.

That was it. One blow. No regret, not a drop of warmth. Just “that’s all.”

Then came the words of consolation.

— He’s not worthy of you, Olga, — said Marina, my best friend. — Forget him like a bad dream. Maybe it’s for the best. He would only ruin your life.

— I knew from the start that guy was a bastard! — my mother was outraged. — Let him go to hell. You’ll find someone else, a real man.

— That’s life, baby, — sighed my mother-in-law when I called her to tell about the divorce. — No kids, you’re young and beautiful. You have everything ahead of you.

Their words sounded kind but didn’t touch my soul. Especially because inside, I still hoped. Hoped that Sergey would come to his senses, realize his mistake, and come back. Silly? Maybe. But then I was ready to cling even to the slightest chance.

I called him again and again, dreaming that he would change his mind. But he didn’t even answer. Just disappeared. As if he erased me from his life the moment he stepped out of our apartment.

To distract myself, I started spending a lot of time with Marina and her brother Kirill. We had known each other for a long time but before, we interacted more like friends than close people. When we were teenagers, I admired him a little but never admitted it to anyone — especially not Marina. After all, he was her brother.

Now he had returned to our town after his own divorce, a little lost, a little sad. And strangely, it was next to him that I felt alive.

Kirill didn’t pity me, didn’t repeat clichés like “you deserve better,” didn’t ask about my feelings. He just was there. We took walks in the evenings, went to the movies, sometimes just sat in the park eating ice cream we bought at the nearby store. Next to him, the pain gradually quieted down. And thoughts of Sergey became faint and insignificant.

That’s why, when the official divorce was finalized, I agreed to a relationship with Kirill. I didn’t expect it to turn out that way. But Marina — she was the most surprised of all.

— Finally! — she exclaimed joyfully, hugging me. — I always knew it would be this way. I’m so happy!

I blinked in confusion:

— You… knew?

— Of course, I was just sure of it, — Marina smiled. — Who else could be the best match for my dear brother if not you? I told you: your divorce is a blessing. The best thing that ever happened to you!

A few months ago I would have cried or been offended by that statement. But now I understood she was right. Because next to Kirill, I really felt different — needed, desired, loved. He was nothing like Sergey. Tender, attentive, caring… He even spoiled me, which I had never known before.

I hadn’t thought about the past for a long time when suddenly my phone rang. The screen showed my ex-husband’s name. Unexpected and unpleasant.

— It’s Sergey, — I murmured, looking at the phone. — Didn’t expect that.

Kirill nodded:

— Answer. Listen to what he has to say.

Summoning my courage, I pressed “accept.”

— Olga? — his voice sounded — sharp, almost businesslike. — We need to meet. Urgently.

— What do you want to talk about? — I asked, feeling a slight confusion.

— Not on the phone, — he cut me off. — Can you come to the park near your house tomorrow? By the lake. Choose the time.

A little confused, I agreed. He said he would come and hung up.

— So, did you understand anything? — I asked Kirill.

— No, — he shook his head. — But if you want, I can be there.

— No, — I answered firmly. — I need to close this chapter once and for all. Let there be a meeting. Just me.

Exactly at the appointed time, I stood by the small pond in the park. I came alone, as planned. Sergey was not there yet, and I began to doubt: would he even come? After all, we had nothing connecting us anymore. Maybe he changed his mind? Or wants to ask me to come back?

At that moment, he appeared in the distance — walking quickly as if in a hurry. Approaching, he immediately started:

— Glad you came. We need to talk… about the ring.

— What ring? — I was surprised.

— Your wedding ring, — he explained. — You kept it, right? I want you to give it back to me.

My eyebrows shot up.

— So you want me to just give you the ring? Why?

He shrugged and frowned slightly:

— I’m getting married. Karina and I need wedding rings. I paid for them, so I think I have the right to take back mine. Especially the one that belonged to you. That’s fair.

For a moment I froze. In front of me stood the man I once loved, and now he was asking me to return a gift given many years ago just to save money on a new wedding. The thought made me laugh so hard I nearly doubled over. Tears ran down my cheeks — but not from sorrow, from the absurdity of the situation.

Wiping my face, I looked him in the eyes and said:

— You know, lucky for you I didn’t throw it away. I even carry it with me.

From my pocket, I pulled out the ring — yes, it was there, along with old memories.

— Here, — I said mockingly. — Since you need it so badly — take it! I won’t get in the way of your happiness.

With a sharp motion, I threw the ring into the water. It disappeared into the depths of the pond, leaving only ripples on the surface.

I didn’t wait for his reaction. No shouts, no excuses — I didn’t care anymore. Let him curse, let him blame his fate. I turned and walked away, leaving him alone — where apparently he belonged.

Later, telling Kirill everything, we laughed for a long time. He found it funny too.

— You’re great, — he said, smiling. — Sometimes it’s better just to let go — people and things that remind you of them.

We’re not planning a wedding yet. Although I feel Kirill is already thinking about it. Maybe soon he will propose. And why not? We both went through divorce, through pain, and now we deserve the right to true happiness. My parents, especially my mother, are very happy about our union — she’s already dreaming about grandchildren.

And me? I’m content with what I have. Happy, no matter how banal that phrase sounds. And I’m not afraid to say it: I found someone who truly loves me.

Marina ran her hand over the freshly painted fence board and smiled. The white paint had gone on smoothly, without drips, and now the plot looked completely different—not like an abandoned grandmother’s dacha, but like a real vacation home.

“Alyosh, look how beautiful it turned out!” she called to her husband, who was busy with the new metal roofing on the shed.

Aleksey climbed down the ladder, wiped the sweat from his brow, and looked around. In two months of work, the plot had changed beyond recognition. The old house was sided, the roof replaced, all the outbuildings painted. Marina planted new flower beds, put in roses and peonies, tidied up the vegetable garden. They even paved the paths with tiles.

“Yeah, it turned out great,” he agreed, putting his arms around his wife’s shoulders. “Grandma would have been pleased.”

They stood in the middle of their little paradise, breathing in the scent of fresh paint and blooming apple trees. All the weekends spent on repairs, all the arguments in the hardware stores, all the blisters on their hands—it was all worth it. Now they had a place they wanted to come to.

“We should celebrate,” Marina suggested. “Let’s buy some champagne, make a salad…”

“Definitely. But first, I need a shower—I’m covered in dust.”

But they never got to celebrate their housewarming. As soon as they arrived and unloaded groceries, Viktor, Aleksey’s brother, drove into the yard in his Zhiguli.

“Oh, little brother!” Viktor climbed out of the car and looked around. “You’ve built yourself a whole palace here! Irka, look how beautiful it is!”

Irina, Viktor’s wife, scrutinized the plot critically.

“Not bad,” she agreed condescendingly. “Though the siding color isn’t great. And the porch is a bit small. But overall—okay.”

Their teenage children got out of the car and immediately headed to the swings Aleksey had recently installed.

“We’re here for a barbecue!” Viktor announced. “The weather’s great, it’s the weekend… We’re thinking of having a good rest.”

Marina glanced at her husband in confusion. They had planned to quietly work in the garden and then sit alone in the new gazebo in the evening.

“But we weren’t prepared for guests,” she began.

“Come on, what’s there to prepare!” Viktor waved off. “We’ll just grill some meat and hang out. By the way, where’s the grill?”

“We don’t have a grill yet,” Aleksey admitted.

“No grill?!” Irina was outraged. “You have a dacha like this and no grill! That’s the foundation of dacha relaxation!”

“We planned to buy one, but we’ve been spending everything on repairs…”

“That’s simple!” Irina insisted. “What kind of dacha is it without a grill? You should have bought one first.”

Viktor looked around the yard professionally, calculating where best to place the grill.

“Over there, under the apple tree, is the perfect spot. Better to make a brick, permanent one. But for now, we’ll run to the store and buy a disposable one.”

“We didn’t budget for a grill,” Marina tried to object.

“Come on, don’t be stingy! You built such a dacha and now you’re reluctant to spend money on a grill!”

In the end, Aleksey went to the hardware store for a portable grill, charcoal, and a grate. Marina stayed behind to entertain the guests and prepare snacks from the groceries she had brought for themselves.

“Where’s the meat?” Viktor asked when Aleksey returned.

“What meat?”

“For the barbecue! We came for a barbecue!”

“Well, you didn’t tell us… We didn’t buy any meat.”

“Ah, young people!” Viktor shook his head. “You don’t know how to host guests. Fine, let’s all go to the butcher together.”

The day passed in a fuss and expense. Aleksey bought three kilos of pork, marinated it, chopped vegetables for a salad. Marina spent the whole day in the kitchen preparing treats. By evening, the guests finally left, leaving behind a mountain of dirty dishes and an emptied fridge.

“This is funny,” Marina said tiredly as she cleared the table. “They came here to rest, but we ended up being the ones who worked.”

“Come on, they’re family,” Aleksey tried to excuse his brother, though he himself was not very pleased.

Two weeks later, Viktor and his family came again. This time, they gave advance notice.

“We’ll come over tomorrow,” he said on the phone. “Prepare about three kilos of meat, fresh veggies. And the tomatoes should be sweet, not that sour store stuff. We’re bringing young potatoes, baked in their jackets.”

“Viktor, maybe everyone should bring their own meat?” Aleksey timidly suggested.

“What? No way! We’re the guests! The hosts should treat us. That’s just how hospitality works.”

Marina snatched the phone from her husband:

“Listen, Viktor, when are you bringing the housewarming gifts? We’ve been living here for two months already.”

“What gifts! We’re bringing potatoes! Do you know how expensive young potatoes are now? That’s a serious gift!”

After that conversation, Marina was gloomy all week. On Saturday, she woke early, went to the market, bought good expensive meat, tasty vegetables, fruits. She spent the whole day preparing salads, marinating meat, setting the table.

Viktor and his family arrived around two in the afternoon with a single bag of small potatoes.

“Look at this beauty we brought!” he proudly announced, dumping the potatoes on the table. “Not some store junk!”

“Yeah,” Marina muttered through her teeth. “What a treasure.”

“Exactly! Do you know how much these potatoes cost? I paid one hundred fifty rubles per kilo! So we’re not coming empty-handed.”

Irina inspected the set table critically:

“There’s not enough meat. And where’s the greens? Dill, parsley are must-haves. And green onions. And cucumbers—where are they from? Not from your own garden, right? Yours are still small.”

“Store-bought,” Marina admitted.

“Oh, you should have told us earlier—we would have brought some from our garden. Ours are already big and tasty.”

“Your garden is two hundred kilometers from here!”

“So what? They’re ours!”

The whole day went on in the same tone. Viktor’s family ate, drank, criticized, and gave advice. The kids ran around the plot, broke two new roses, scratched the freshly painted fence with a bicycle.

“Next time buy fattier meat,” Irina instructed as they got ready to leave. “This was a bit dry. And get more charcoal—the grill didn’t heat well.”

“And buy a proper grill,” Viktor added. “This disposable one is nonsense. Money down the drain.”

After the guests left, Marina sat amid the trashed plot staring at the pile of dirty dishes. Aleksey silently gathered empty bottles.

“You know,” she said quietly, “this won’t happen again.”

“Come on, don’t be upset. They’re family…”

“What family? They’re freeloaders, not family. They think we owe them entertainment at our expense.”

But Aleksey didn’t want to argue with his brother, and when Viktor called a week later, suggesting another barbecue, he agreed.

“Just a heads-up,” Viktor said on the phone. “We won’t be alone. We’re bringing Kolya and his wife, and Sergey with the kids. So buy more meat and veggies. And don’t worry, we’ll bring potatoes again.”

Marina listened to the conversation, feeling anger boiling inside.

“Alyosha,” she called her husband after he hung up. “Come here.”

“What’s up?”

“Sit down and listen carefully. I’m not hosting your relatives’ feedings anymore. Enough.”

“Come on, they’re family…”

“Your family thinks we owe them entertainment. They come here like to a restaurant where they’re supposed to be served. But they don’t put in a single kopeck and still criticize us.”

“But they bring potatoes…”

“Potatoes for two hundred rubles! And we spend thousands! Alyosha, wake up! They’re using us!”

“Well, it’s not that bad…”

“How not? They didn’t even bring us a grill for the housewarming, though they constantly complain we don’t have one. But they demand we feed them. And act like we owe them!”

Aleksey thought it over. Indeed, the recent visits from relatives felt more like raids than friendly visits.

“Okay,” he finally agreed. “I’ll call Viktor and tell him we won’t be here this weekend.”

“No,” Marina shook her head. “Don’t lie. Tell the truth—that we’re no longer willing to feed them at our expense. If they want to come, they should bring their own meat, veggies, drinks. If they don’t like it, they shouldn’t come.”

“They’ll be offended…”

“Let them be offended. Better offended relatives than a ruined family budget.”

Aleksey hesitated to call his brother. But when Viktor called Friday to confirm the arrival time, he had to speak up.

“Listen, Vitya,” he started uncertainly. “Let’s do it differently this time. Everyone brings their own stuff. We’ll buy meat for ourselves, you for yourselves…”

“Are you crazy, little brother?” Viktor got angry. “We’re coming to visit you! Guests aren’t welcomed like that!”

“But you see, our budget can’t take it anymore…”

“What budget! You have good salaries, such a dacha… Don’t be stingy!”

At that moment Marina came to the phone.

“Give it to me,” she said to her husband and took the receiver. “Viktor, hi. Listen carefully. We won’t feed you at our expense anymore. If you want to come—bring your own meat, products, drinks. If not—don’t come.”

“What do you think you’re doing?!” Viktor exploded. “We’re family! We bring potatoes!”

“Potatoes for two hundred rubles against our five thousand! You’re out of line! You think we should entertain and feed you just because we have a dacha? And what do you give in return besides criticism and rudeness?”

“Marina, are you crazy? Alyosha, take the phone and talk to your wife!”

“He won’t,” Marina said. “Because he agrees with me. We’re tired of your raids. Either you start behaving like normal guests and contribute to shared costs, or don’t come at all.”

“You’re crazy! Stingy now! We won’t come anymore!”

“That’s fine,” Marina answered calmly. “Grill your own barbecue in your own yard.”

She hung up and looked at her husband, who stood with wide eyes.

“Marina, you do realize they won’t talk to us anymore?”

“Thank God. Maybe now we can rest properly at our dacha.”

“But it’s my family…”

“Alyosha,” she said wearily, “family is when people care for each other. Not when some use others. Your brother doesn’t care about us—he uses us. And if you don’t understand that, the problem isn’t only with him.”

Aleksey walked around gloomily for several days, expecting Viktor to call and make peace. But Viktor never called. Instead, on Saturday morning, Aleksey and Marina were alone at the dacha for the first time in a long while.

“You know,” Aleksey said, sitting in the gazebo with a cup of coffee and looking at his well-kept plot, “this is nice.”

Marina smiled, watering flowers.

“I told you. Now this really is our place to relax.”

“But we still need to buy a grill.”

“We will. For ourselves. And we’ll barbecue whenever we want, not when uninvited guests show up.”

They sat in silence, enjoying the peace. Bees buzzed over flower beds, a woodpecker hammered somewhere, and no one demanded the table be set immediately or to entertain them at someone else’s expense.

“What if they do come after all?” Aleksey asked.

“They won’t,” Marina answered confidently. “And if they do, I’ll send them back. I said—they’re not welcome here anymore.”

Aleksey nodded. He understood his wife was right. This was their dacha, their work, their money. They had the right to decide how to relax here and whom to host.

“You know, I’m even glad it turned out this way,” he admitted. “I got tired of listening to them. Everything’s wrong, everything’s not right. And what did they do for this dacha? Nothing.”

“Exactly. And now we can peacefully enjoy what we created with our own hands.”

She came over, hugged him around the shoulders. They looked at their plot—neat beds, blooming flower beds, freshly painted buildings—and felt deep satisfaction. This was their place, their little paradise they made themselves. And now no one disturbed them from enjoying the fruits of their labor.

Since then, the relatives really stopped coming. Sometimes Aleksey met his brother in town—Viktor pretended not to see him or gave meaningful looks but didn’t dare to start a conversation. Meanwhile, Aleksey and Marina spent every weekend at the dacha, inviting friends who always brought something and helped cook. They bought a good grill, set up a nice barbecue area, and now their plot truly became a place they wanted to return to again and again.

Last summer, Viktor unexpectedly stopped by. Alone, without his family. He stood at the gate, looked at the transformed plot, and quietly said:

“It’s beautiful here. You did a good job.”

“Thank you,” Aleksey replied.

“Maybe I could come in? Talk?”

Aleksey looked at his wife. Marina shrugged:

“If he wants to talk like a human, let him come in.”

Viktor entered, sat at the gazebo table. Marina silently placed tea before him.

“I realized you were right back then,” he finally said. “We really behaved like… freeloaders. Sorry.”

“It’s good that you realized,” Marina responded.

“Can I come sometimes? But differently. With my own food.”

“Sure,” Aleksey agreed. “But let us know in advance. And come not with a crowd.”

“Of course. And… thanks for not kicking me out right away.”

Since then, Viktor started coming occasionally, always with food, always alone or with his wife. He stopped criticizing and bossing around, helped cook, thanked them for hospitality. Marina realized that this was how it should be—when people respect each other and don’t think they owe someone just because they’re relatives.

And the dacha became what they had envisioned—a place of rest and joy, not constant stress from uninvited guests with empty hands and big appetites.