When the lawyer said,
— 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.

Varya woke up to the noise coming from the street. Outside the window, the weather was hot and summery; a heavy heat hung in the air, wrapping everything around like a thick blanket. The nurse, noticing that the patient had awakened, slightly opened the window vent, letting a rare gust of fresh air into the room. Varya slowly and carefully lifted her head — her muscles were stiff after many days of lying down, and her body felt foreign and uncooperative. She looked out the window and saw that at the entrance of the women’s clinic, a mother was being discharged with two infants. A whole delegation of relatives greeted them — joyful faces, flowers, smiles. In the center of this happy bustle stood a young man holding huge blue balloons that fluttered cheerfully in the light breeze.

“So, boys…” Varya thought to herself, and her eyes involuntarily filled with tears. Not tears of joy or sadness, but a strange mixture of feelings she could not name. These were tears of memories, pain, hope, and fear.

Once again, she found herself back there, in that nightmare that had accompanied her the past few months. The events flooded her mind with such force, as if everything had happened only yesterday.

Not long ago, Varya had been happy. Radiant, full of life, she learned she was pregnant. This news was a true gift from fate. That evening at dinner, she shared it with trembling excitement with her husband, Stas. He did not hide his joy — his face literally glowed with happiness. They were newlyweds, having only recently bound themselves in marriage, but they loved each other as if they had known each other their whole lives.

Varya immediately made an appointment and began to take care of her health. Every day was special, filled with anticipation and excitement. They went together for the first ultrasound, holding hands like children going to an amusement park. But instead of the magical image of a tiny beating heart inside, they heard words that turned their world upside down.

The diagnosis was cruel and merciless. The doctor spoke for a long time, using medical terms that sounded like foreign spells. At the end of her explanation came a phrase that stayed with Varya the most:

“In your case, it’s better to have an abortion. The diagnosis is incompatible with life.”

Stas turned pale. Varya did not cry. She simply stared ahead, unable to understand how this was possible. How can something that hasn’t even fully become real be “incompatible”?

“But how did this happen?” he asked, trying to keep his composure.

The doctor just shrugged indifferently and continued explaining as if talking not about a human life, but about some technical malfunction.

Varya demanded repeat tests, a specialist panel, additional examinations. She wanted to believe it was a mistake, a coincidence, a blunder. But the answer remained unchanged. The only additional advice from the doctors was to do an amniocentesis to confirm the diagnosis.

She agreed. What else was there to do? Only pain and fear. A few days later, the results confirmed the worst fears. Again, she was advised to terminate the pregnancy.

Varya was admitted to the hospital. Everything happened like in a dream. As if someone else was making decisions, signing papers, lying down on the operating table. She requested general anesthesia — she didn’t want to see anything, hear a single sound, or feel a thing.

“It’s over,” she whispered to herself when she was finally alone. Then, burying her face in the blanket, she quietly cried into her pillow until her tears dried.**

Two days later, Stas took her home. He was worried — the old Varya no longer existed. Before him stood a shadow of the woman he loved. She moved mechanically, her gaze was dull, her voice barely audible. He hugged her tightly, ran his hand through her hair, trying to bring back warmth and confidence.

“Varya, I’m with you. I love you. Everything will be alright,” he whispered, not even knowing if he believed those words himself.

“No, Stas… nothing will ever be alright,” she answered, burying her face in his shoulder, and cried again.**

A year passed. Time doesn’t heal but helps a bit to distance from the pain. Varya threw herself into work, trying not to think, not to remember. Sometimes she stayed late, came home close to dawn. Work became a lifeline, though sometimes she felt that this shell was beginning to press down on her.

Suddenly, Stas suggested they go visit his parents in the village. It would take several hours by train. Varya didn’t object — a change of scenery wouldn’t hurt. Stas hoped fresh air, nature, and the care of family would help his wife relax a little, to remember what it meant to be a living person, not a shadow of the past.

“We’ll walk through the forest, swim in the river, visit my parents,” he persuaded her, trying hard to lift her spirits.

On Friday evening, Stas met Varya after work, and they headed straight to the train station. The train was already arriving when they got to the platform. Stas ran to get the tickets while Varya waited near the carriage. At that moment, a gypsy woman suddenly approached her. Her eyes burned, her voice was confident and somewhat mysterious:

“You will give birth to twins on your birthday.”

And before Varya could say anything, the woman disappeared, as if dissolved into the air, leaving only a shadow of puzzlement and anxiety behind.

A minute later, Stas came over.

“Varya, what’s wrong? You’re shaking.”

“Nothing… I just thought I saw something… Did you get the tickets?”

“Yes, let’s get on the train.”

The gypsy woman wouldn’t leave Varya’s mind. Thoughts swirled like leaves in an autumn wind. When the train started moving, she gathered courage and asked:

“Stas, did you see a gypsy woman when you came to me?”

“No, there was no one,” he replied firmly.

“Maybe I really imagined it…” she muttered, trying to convince herself too.

In the village, it did become easier. Fresh air, a cozy little house, the care of elders — all this gradually began to soften the pain. For the first time in many months, Varya had a strange dream: she held two large fish in her hands. In the morning, she didn’t immediately understand the meaning of this image but, while having breakfast, she asked her mother-in-law:

“Maria Ivanovna, what does it mean to dream about fish? I dreamed I was holding two.”

“Varyusha, it means pregnancy!” the woman exclaimed happily.

“Oh, don’t pay attention to it,” Varya tried to brush it off.

“You’ll soon give me grandchildren,” Maria Ivanovna smiled, clearly believing her own words.

“Do you believe in dreams?” Varya still doubted.

“Whether you believe or not, fish always mean pregnancy. It’s a sign,” she answered confidently.

A month later, Varya missed her period. At first, she didn’t pay attention — stress, fatigue, change of climate… But after a couple of days, she felt weak and nauseous. Memories of the past flared up, but now with new hope. She bought a test at the pharmacy, came home, and without undressing went to the bathroom. Two lines. Clear, bright, leaving no doubt.

Running out, she bumped into Stas who was just entering the apartment.

“Stas! I’m pregnant!”

“Varya… I’m so happy. I love you,” he admitted, hugging his wife and kissing her tightly.**

That night, Varya fell asleep in the arms of her beloved, happy and confident that everything would be different. And indeed — everything went differently.

At the appointment, the doctor confirmed the pregnancy and added one important detail:

“You will have twins.”

“Twins?” Varya couldn’t believe her ears.

“Yes,” the doctor smiled.

It was a sign. A sign that life was not over. That pain could be overcome. That there was room for a second chance.

All tests were normal. The doctor only recommended bed rest during the last month to minimize risks. But Varya felt great. And on her birthday, loud, healthy, life-filled cries were heard in the delivery room.

Two boys, resembling their father, were born that very day.

And today, on the steps of the maternity hospital, stood that same happy father with huge blue balloons, a bouquet of flowers, and gifts for the medical staff. Stas was waiting for his Varya, his sons.

Once, while walking with a stroller in the yard, Varya saw that same gypsy woman again. She approached silently, like a shadow, and said:

“Well, you gave birth to twins on your birthday?”

Varya nodded, smiling through her tears.

“Yes.”

The gypsy woman disappeared just as suddenly as she had appeared. Only the wind remained, playing with the petals of spring flowers, and two small hearts beating next to her own.

«— You understand that I don’t need you hanging around here, right?» Maxim said to his wife. «So, I can suggest you move to the village.»

«What village, Maxim? What are you talking about?»

Tamara no longer cared. She had been betrayed by the person closest to her. They had started their work from scratch together. Tamara sold her apartment, and Maxim sold a room in a communal flat to start their business. They moved from one rented place to another, saving on everything. Thanks to Tamara’s sharp mind, they managed to get on their feet.

And then Maxim started feeling like a king. Tamara never expected such betrayal from her husband, which is why she didn’t notice how he gradually transferred everything into his name. So cleverly that if they divorced, Tamara would be left with nothing. And once everything was set, he filed for divorce.

«Maxim, do you really think you’re acting decently right now?» she asked.

He sneered.
«Don’t start. You haven’t been contributing for a long time. I handle everything on my own while you just sit around.»

«You were the one who said you could handle it without me, that I should rest and take time for myself.»

«Ugh, I’m tired of these pointless conversations. Anyway, there’s this house or farm—something my former boss left me as an inheritance. Remember Ivanovich? He remembered how I used to help him. Well, he passed away and left me this nonsense. It’s perfect for you. If you don’t like it, you’ll end up with nothing.»

Tamara smirked bitterly. She no longer doubted that her husband would do just that. It felt like she had lived with a stranger for 12 years.

«Fine, but I have one condition: you officially transfer the farm to me.»

«Sure, not a problem. Fewer taxes for me.»

Tamara didn’t say another word. She packed her things and left for a hotel. She decided to start over. It didn’t matter what awaited her—a ruin or an empty piece of land. She would see it, assess it, and if it wasn’t worth it, she’d return to the city, start from scratch, here or somewhere else.

Tamara looked at the car, satisfied. It couldn’t possibly hold any more—it was packed to the brim. Everything else would stay with Maxim and his mistress…

If Maxim was counting on her intelligence and help, he would be sorely disappointed. The girl clearly wasn’t the brightest, but her arrogance could fill a bucket. Tamara had seen her a couple of times. If she wasn’t mistaken, the girl had been Maxim’s secretary.

Maxim handed her the papers, and Tamara calmly took them.

«Good luck to you,» she said.

Her husband burst out laughing.
«And to you. Send me a photo with the cows.»

Tamara got into the car but didn’t reply. She simply shut the door and drove off. Only when she was out of the city did she stop and let the tears flow. She didn’t know how long she cried. She only snapped out of it when someone gently tapped on her window.

«Dear, are you alright? My husband and I are at the bus stop, and you’ve been crying and crying. You can’t do that.»

Tamara looked at the elderly woman with gray hair, not understanding where she had come from. Then she saw the bus stop in the rearview mirror and smiled.

«I’m fine, just overwhelmed,» she said.

She got out of the car. The old woman started talking again:

«We were visiting a neighbor. She’s in the district hospital here, all alone—no one to visit her. Now we’re heading back home. Maybe we’re going the same way? We’re going to Mikhalki.»

Tamara raised her eyebrows.

“— Is this the Mikhalki where the farm is?”

“— The very one. Only now, the farm is just a name. The previous owner passed away, and for some reason, no new one has come along. But people keep working out of habit, and also because they feel sorry for the animals.”

Tamara smiled.
“— You won’t believe it, but I’m heading to that very village. Let me make some room, and I’ll fit you in.”

The grandmother sat next to her, while the grandfather was settled in the back seat. He chuckled.
“— Oh, I already feel like a box or a bag.”

After driving a little, the grandmother turned to Tamara.
“— And what’s your name, dear?”

“— Tamara.”

“— A lovely name, very kind. I’m Valentina Yegorovna, and my husband is Mikhail Stepanovich.”

“— Nice to meet you.”

“— The pleasure is ours. Most wouldn’t even offer; we’d still be shaking around on the bus. Are you here on business, or what? I don’t recall seeing you before.”

Tamara looked at the grandmother cheerfully.
“— I’m the new owner of the farm. It happened by chance; I don’t know anything about it. Maybe you can tell me what’s going on there and what you know about it?”

By the time they arrived, Tamara had learned a lot: who was stealing from the farm where almost nothing was left, and who truly cared about it.

In the past, the farm supplied milk to many stores, but now there was no one left, and only about twenty cows remained.

“— How many?” Tamara’s eyes widened in shock. She had thought there were only three or four.

“— There used to be more; they sold most of them off. Ivanovich also used to plant the fields, and the cows were well-fed. People earned good money back then. So, Tamara, what are you planning to do? Sell it or maybe try to revive it?”

“— I’ll decide when I get there. By the way, there’s a house mentioned in my papers. Can you show me where it is?”

“— Of course, you’ll recognize it yourself. It’s the only modern one we have.”

Tamara sighed with relief. At least she’d have a place to live. She had been afraid it might be some kind of shack.

A year passed. Tamara walked around the farm, and her eighty cows looked at her gratefully.

Tamara was proud of herself. At the very beginning, when she first arrived, she had wanted to close her eyes and run away: there was no feed, and the fields were barren. But Tamara wasn’t one to faint at the sight of challenges.

Yes, she had to hustle, to fight. Every bit of money she had went to buy feed. She sold all her jewelry and invested it in the farm. And today, she could proudly say she had succeeded.

Sales were picking up; calls were coming in from neighboring regions. People wanted their products, even things they hadn’t started making yet. For example, the cheese production facility was still under construction.

Tamara was now considering buying a couple of refrigerated trucks to deliver products year-round. New ones were too expensive for her, but she could look at used ones.

“— Tamara Igorevna! Tamara Igorevna!” A young girl named Sveta was running toward her.

Sveta came from a large family. Her parents were heavy drinkers, and she had dreamed of living independently. But with no job and no means to move to the city, she had been on the verge of hitting rock bottom herself. Now she was unrecognizable: well-dressed, her eyes shining, and she would occasionally send bags of groceries to her parents.

“— What happened?” Tamara asked.

“— I found it!”

“— Found what, Sveta?”

The girl was great—polite and resourceful—but overly emotional.

“— Look at this ad.” Sveta handed her a newspaper, where an ad for the sale of two refrigerated trucks was circled. The price was appealing because the sale was urgent.

Tamara studied the text carefully. It was clear she would need to bring in an expert to inspect the vehicles, but the price was indeed temptingly low.

Suddenly, she froze, the newspaper still in her hands. The phone number in the ad belonged to her ex-husband’s office. Tamara smirked. It seemed like his affairs weren’t going so well. Or maybe the opposite—perhaps he was expanding and upgrading to larger vehicles.

“— Call them, Sveta. Make arrangements. Tell them we’ll add 5% if they don’t show the vehicles to anyone else before us. I’ll find someone to inspect them.”

Tamara had money in her account, needed the trucks, and wasn’t at all worried about meeting her ex-husband—it was strictly business. She glanced at herself in the mirror. Not bad at all—life in the village had made her fitter, tanned, and generally healthier and stronger.

Half an hour later, the person she had been recommended as the best mechanic arrived. Ivan looked at her so intently that Tamara felt embarrassed.

“— Is something wrong? You’re staring at me…”

“— Sorry, I just wasn’t expecting this. You know, farms usually bring to mind… village women in scarves and rubber boots.”

“— I’ve got a scarf and boots for work,” Tamara replied matter-of-factly. “But I’m heading to the city; why would I need them there?”

On the way, Ivan mentioned that he owned two small auto repair shops. He had lost his wife five years ago, mentioning it briefly, and Tamara didn’t press the subject. Otherwise, he was an excellent conversationalist, and she almost forgot why she was heading to the city.

“— Ivan, slow down near that office,” she asked.

“— Here we are. What’s up with you?”

“— I used to work here. I’m about to buy a truck from my husband. My ex-husband. He didn’t need me anymore, just like the farm he happened to inherit. So, he got rid of both me and the farm in one go.”

“— No way. I don’t believe it. What kind of sane person would willingly let someone like you go, let alone get rid of you? Let’s go. I want to see this idiot for myself.” Ivan paused briefly, then smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ll be with you. I won’t let him swindle you again.”

Tamara was genuinely grateful to him. Even though time had passed, she still felt uneasy.

“— Maxie, where are your buyers?” Alla asked.

Maxim sighed heavily. Lately, sighing seemed to be all he did. Four deals that Alla had prepared had fallen through spectacularly. She always had one excuse: “It’s not my fault they’re idiots.”

Money was catastrophically tight, especially considering how quickly Alla spent it. The trucks weren’t the first thing Maxim had been forced to sell. Now, he didn’t even have enough to pay his remaining staff.

“— Maxie, I stopped by my friend who works at a travel agency today. She has some amazing last-minute deals. I asked her to hold one until evening.”

“— Why?”

“— What do you mean why? We haven’t gone anywhere in three months. It’s embarrassing in front of my friends.”

Maxim felt like he was about to explode.

“— Alla, can’t you see the state of the company? And largely because of you.”

“— Oh, stop it. It’s just bad luck. Don’t start saying your ex never made mistakes.”

“— When Tamara handled a deal, it was always one hundred percent profitable.”

“— So why did you leave her for me?” Alla retorted.

Maxim wanted to say he had regretted it a hundred times, but he didn’t get the chance—a knock came at the door.

“— Mr. Maxim Nikolayevich, your visitors are here.”

Maxim jumped up and froze. Into the office walked Tamara, his ex-wife. If he’d met her on the street, he might not have even recognized her. She was accompanied by a tall, imposing man who looked like her personal bodyguard.

“— Hello. We’d like to look at the vehicles.”

Maxim realized that Tamara was the buyer he had been waiting for.

“— Of course. Let’s go to the lot.”

Alla sighed loudly but followed, even though she clearly didn’t want to. In the elevator, Maxim couldn’t resist.

“— Tamara, why do you need these trucks?”

She smiled.
“— For work, you know. The farm you threw me out to turned out to be quite an interesting venture. And quite profitable. We’re expanding now, with orders coming from far away, but our products can’t handle heat.”

Maxim’s jaw dropped. They exited the elevator before he could close his mouth.

“— Well… here are the trucks.”

The man with Tamara rolled up his sleeves and opened a toolkit.

“— What’s this?” Maxim asked.

“— Tools. I need to inspect what you’re selling.”

Maxim grew nervous. One of the trucks had a serious issue that was bound to surface soon. The mechanic had assured him it wouldn’t be noticeable right away, so he hoped to get away with it.

Half an hour later, Ivan packed up his tools.

“— This truck can be bought. It’ll need some repairs, but nothing critical. But I wouldn’t recommend the other one, Ms. Tamara. The suspension is about to give out; it won’t last much longer.”

Maxim turned red, and Alla immediately jumped in.

“— What nonsense are you talking about? The trucks are in great condition. Nothing will give out. If you don’t know what you’re doing, don’t make accusations.”

Ivan smirked.
“— Will you provide a written guarantee that if the engine doesn’t last a thousand kilometers, you’ll refund the full cost?”

Alla was about to agree, but Maxim shouted:
“— Just stop, please.”

Alla glared at him angrily, and Maxim nodded.
“— You’re probably right. Would you take them for less? What will you offer?”

The vehicles were bought at a great discount. Tamara and Ivan left long ago. Alla, after yelling at Maxim and calling him a loser, stormed off too. Maxim sat in his office, drinking brandy.

What had he achieved? He had a young, beautiful wife who bored him to death. And his ex? He couldn’t get her back…

Judging by the looks that man gave her, her personal life seemed just fine too. Maxim hurled his brandy glass at the wall, dropped his head into his hands, and fell asleep.

Tamara and Ivan never parted ways after that, and within a month, a lively village wedding was held at the farm. A year later, they celebrated the christening of little Sonya.

I was born in the middle of winter — at the very end of February, when the cold still holds the earth, and hope for spring seems elusive. In a small town where summer seemed never to come. There, snow would settle as a dense blanket already in December and linger until April. The entrances of the apartment buildings smelled of sauerkraut, vinegar, old walls, and lives lived without much light. The town was somehow out of time — as if frozen in eternal gloom, as if waiting for something that never happened.

In Maternity Hospital No. 3, where I came into the world, there was no spring either. Neither literally nor figuratively. There reigned a sterile emptiness, staffed by doctors for whom my birth was just another entry in a chart. They knew: here, in this place, spring never comes. Not because warmth shouldn’t exist, but because it simply isn’t expected.

My mother… she did not cry when she left. She did not ask for forgiveness. She did not promise to return. She simply signed the papers, leaving behind the bars of the nursery window, the smell of antiseptic, and the newborn’s first cry. I remember once being told that she «refused» me. Just like that, briefly, as if the word meant nothing. But for me, it became the beginning of my entire life.

I had no last name. Only a dash in the documents. The nurses gave me a name — Yaroslav. That’s what they called all the boys born in January and February. It was their way of imposing some order on the chaos of lives that began here, in this maternity hospital. A list of names for each month of the year. As if they knew in advance that most of us would go through life without a name, without a story, without a parent’s gaze.

I was transferred to an orphanage. Then to an institution. Then another, and yet another. Every new address became part of my biography, but not part of my heart. No one wanted to take the “older” ones. Everyone chose babies who could be imagined to have a future or younger children whose eyes could still shine with hope. And I grew up, becoming too old for love with each passing year. Too complicated. Too real.

And all this time, a question kept spinning in my head: why? Why can a woman who carried you for nine months just walk away? What must happen inside a person to make them decide to refuse? What fear, pain, or despair can outweigh the bond between mother and child?

When I was about ten, I asked my caregiver:

— Have you seen my mother?

She just shrugged:

— There are many like you here, Slav. We don’t remember.

Her words didn’t hurt me then. Maybe because I already understood: to them, we were more numbers than names. But the question stayed in my heart. It became a stone I carried inside until I found the strength to break it apart.

When I turned sixteen, I decided to become a doctor. Not because I wanted to save people, not because I dreamed of a noble profession. No. I wanted to know. To understand the body’s structure, the mind’s workings, to peer into the very depths of the human soul. I wanted to understand why some give up, and others keep fighting. Why some give birth — and then immediately leave. Why some are willing to refuse what is most important.

That was the start of my journey. I studied, worked, survived. During the day — classes at university, evenings — shifts at a clinic, nights — a job at a pharmacy. No connections, no favors, no support. Only a hunger for knowledge and a rage that sometimes scared even me. I wasn’t taught by textbooks, but by house calls, emergency rooms, morgues, and the smells of blood, alcohol, and coffee brewed in advance.

When I got my diploma, I was twenty-four. When I truly became a doctor — twenty-six. Because a real doctor is born not at the moment of receiving documents, but the day he first feels responsibility for another’s life.

And then one day, on an ordinary shift at a district hospital, I entered a room and saw her. A woman about fifty. Gray hair, deep wrinkles, traces of lived years on her face. She had been brought in from her dacha after a stroke. An ordinary story. An ordinary condition. But when I opened her chart, my heart suddenly clenched.

“Pregnancies — 1. Births — 1. Refusal — yes. Year — 1995.”

The child’s birthdate — February 16, 1995.

Exactly the same as mine.

I stepped into the corridor. I clenched the chart in my hands as if it could change what I already understood. My head was pounding, my breath faltered, my legs wouldn’t obey. I returned to the room. She was already awake. Staring at the ceiling, as if counting cracks in her thoughts.

— Hello, — I said. — I am your attending physician.

She nodded.

— Where am I?

— At the district hospital. You were brought here after a stroke.

— Did I die?

— No. Not yet.

She smiled — crookedly, weakly, but alive.

I didn’t say anything else. Just treated her. Watched. Studied. She asked questions — rare, superficial ones. About food, medication, prognosis. On the third day, she suddenly said:

— Your eyes seem familiar. Have I seen you somewhere?

— Unlikely. You’re from the city, right?

— I was born here. But then left. Then came back.

Pause.

— Do you have children?

She hesitated. Then answered:

— There was one. But I… I left him then. I was a fool. Young. Afraid.

— And now?

She looked at me.

— I don’t know. I’ve never seen him. Don’t know if he’s alive. I was afraid all my life that he hates me. And probably rightly so.

I nodded. And said:

— He’s alive.

— How do you know?

I looked her straight in the eyes. Slowly. Clearly.

— Because he is me.

Silence fell. Thick, heavy. She didn’t scream, didn’t cry. Just gripped the edge of the sheet. Looked at me like a ghost she had long awaited but didn’t want to meet.

— You… I…

— Yes.

— Why are you here?

— I work. I treat. I live.

— Did you know?

— Only from the chart. I never searched for you. But you — you came yourself.

She was silent for a long time. Then said:

— I have no forgiveness.

— I don’t ask you for anything.

— Want to know why?

— No need. It’s too late.

Pause.

— I was afraid. I was 24. I lived in a dorm. The boy left. No money. They told me — you’ll go crazy on your own.

I wrote the refusal.

And every winter, when the snow lay, I thought — you are somewhere. That you are growing. That maybe you will forgive.

— I hold no grudge.

— Why?

I looked at her.

— Because if you hadn’t refused, I wouldn’t be who I am.

She stayed in the hospital for another week. I visited her even when I wasn’t on shift. We talked — sometimes a lot, sometimes little, sometimes just sat in silence together. Sometimes it seemed to me that those thirty years separating us simply evaporated. There was no pain, no past. Just two people who suddenly found themselves near again.

She never asked me to call her mom. I didn’t call her that. But once, as I was leaving, she said:

— I am proud of you.

— Thank you, — I replied. — That’s enough for me.

And truly, it was enough. Because long ago I stopped searching for a mother. I was searching for meaning. And I found it within myself.

In one of the tallest skyscrapers of a modern metropolis, where glass reflects the clouds and life seems too distant and soulless, there lived a man named Maksim. He was a millionaire—not just rich, but incredibly successful, one of those self-made men: he started from nothing and in ten years built an empire in the technology sector.

But behind the facade of success hid a deep loneliness.

His home was on the top floor of the tower, overlooking the city that never sleeps. Every night he looked at the lights, listened to the silence piercing his heart, and felt a void that could not be filled by money, parties, or even the most exotic travels.

He was alone. And the worst part—he had long stopped seeking company.

Until one day he came across information about a woman named Katya.

Katya was a mystery. Her photographs were striking: long dark hair, eyes you could drown in, and a smile capable of awakening even the coldest emotions. But she attracted attention not just by her beauty. They said she would die within a year if treatment didn’t help. They said she used to work somewhere in the shadows of business but had left that world. They said she was not afraid of death because she had already lost everything.

And it was exactly this—her courage, charisma, and awareness that time was limited—that inspired Maksim’s thought: “Maybe I should hire her? Just for a while. As entertainment. To at least feel what it’s like to be alive?”

Chapter 1: The First Look

Katya came to his office in a strict black dress, with a book under her arm. She didn’t ask for money, didn’t humiliate herself, didn’t play the role of a lapdog. No. She sat opposite him, placed her hand on the table, and said:

— I know why you called me. But if you think I’ll be your toy—forget it. I can be a friend, a partner, even inspiration. But not an object.

Maksim was stunned. He expected something completely different. He expected her to flatter, to use his money as a shield. But Katya… she looked at him as an equal. As if she knew he was lonely too.

He agreed. Without a contract. Just a word. And an agreement: she stays until he finds what he is missing.

Chapter 2: Learning Life

Days turned into weeks. Katya became part of his world. She took him to private galleries, learned to cook with him, made him laugh by telling stories from her past. Sometimes they just sat on the roof of the tower, watching the sunset and talking about everything—from childhood to the meaning of existence.

— You know, — she said one day, — people spend years making millions, but never learn how to live one day so that it’s worth a whole life.

Those words stuck in his head. They became his new motto.

Katya taught him to enjoy the little things: the taste of morning coffee, the rustle of autumn leaves, the first snow, the chime of a doorbell in a small bookstore. She showed him that the world is not just numbers, deals, and power.

The more time they spent together, the less Maksim wanted her to leave.

But the closer their relationship grew, the more he felt Katya was hiding something important.

Chapter 3: The Past Catches Up

One evening, as they stood on the roof, sitting on the floor, holding each other, and looking at the stars, Katya suddenly froze.

— What’s wrong? — Maksim asked.

— We’re not alone, — she replied quietly. — They found me.

At first, he didn’t understand. Then he heard footsteps. Six people. Hidden in the shadows. One of them slowly approached and said:

— I’ve been looking for you for a long time, Katya. Let’s finish this.

Maksim felt his heart stop. He wasn’t ready for this. He wasn’t a warrior. He was a businessman who had solved problems with money all his life.

But Katya…

She stood up. Not afraid. Not cornered. But confident. As if she knew this moment would come.

— Leave, or I’ll do it again.

Her voice sounded cold and final.

The bandits didn’t expect resistance. They moved toward her. But Katya was faster. More prepared. She grabbed one by the hand, twisted it, knocked the second down with a kick, snatched a knife from the third, and pointed it at the leader.

Maksim stood in shock. Before him was not the fragile girl he had hired for entertainment. He saw a warrior. A woman who knows the value of life and death.

In the end, everyone left. Some wounded, some just fled. Katya stood, breathing heavily, blood on her hands. And said:

— Sorry you had to see this.

Chapter 4: Heart and Truth

That night they didn’t sleep. They talked until dawn. Katya told him everything.

About her past in the shadow world. About betrayal. About how she escaped. How she ran. How she hid. And how the illness became not a sentence but a reminder: you have to live now.

Maksim listened without interrupting. His heart tightened with pain for her. With admiration for her. With a love he hadn’t expected to feel.

— Why did you stay with me? — he asked.

— Because you were lonely, like me. Because you needed what I could give. And because… I got curious about living next to you.

— And now?

— Now I’m scared. Not for myself. For us.

Chapter 5: Love That Changes

After that incident, Maksim changed. He sold most of his assets, handed over management to trusted people. He appeared less often in business circles and more often in life. He started helping charities, opening support centers for people with serious diagnoses. He began to live.

Katya… she began treatment. Together. They went through every stage. He was there when she was sick. When she lost strength. When she doubted. He became her support.

And although doctors gave little chance, she fought. For herself. For him. For the chance to be with the person she loved.

Epilogue: The Roof of the World

Two years later they stood again on the roof of the same tower. Evening. Sunset. The city was glowing below.

— Do you remember our first conversation? — Katya asked.

— Of course. I thought you’d be my entertainment. But you became the meaning of my life.

She smiled. Kissed him.

— Sometimes fate plays strangely. Gives us gifts in the form of pain. So we learn to appreciate joy.

— I love you, — Maksim said.

— I know. And I love you.

And in this city full of chaos, loneliness, and speed, two souls found each other. Not perfect, but real. Not eternal, but alive.

Every night, the girl sleeps on a hard bench — it’s her only way to shield herself from the cold and bad weather. Curled up into a ball, she tries to keep warm and dreams of having her own home where she could sleep in warmth and safety. She has no parents and must face life’s hardships alone.

One day, a passerby noticed her — a wealthy man who decided to stop and offer help. The girl hesitated for a long time to trust him with her feelings: adult promises had often turned out to be empty. But this man was different — he was persistent and genuinely interested in understanding her story.

When she finally told him everything she had kept inside, he was shaken by what she had been through. She had lost her mother and father in a terrible accident and had been alone ever since. Every word from the girl wounded his heart. He couldn’t hold back tears, realizing how much pain and loneliness this little soul had endured.

Then the millionaire realized he could radically change her life. He gently took her hand and promised never to leave her alone again. He found her a new home, gave her warmth, safety, and everything necessary for a normal life. Thanks to his compassion and kindness, the girl felt she could once again count on support and care.

This meeting changed them both: the girl found family and love, and the millionaire gained a new outlook on the world and the value of human compassion. Their bond left a deep mark on each other’s hearts, reminding that even the smallest act of kindness can transform entire lives.

From the day she moved into her new home, she was surrounded by joy, warmth, and attention. The millionaire, who became her guardian, cared for her health and education. He often took her on trips, revealing to her the vast world she had only dreamed about. For the first time, she saw colorful sunsets, picturesque landscapes, and learned what true friendship was by interacting with new peers.

But even amid prosperity, sorrow lingered in her soul. She couldn’t forget her parents and the happy moments when she was part of a family. Her guardian noticed the sadness and understood it was important to care not only for the girl’s body but also her soul.

He arranged meetings with a psychologist to help her talk about her feelings and process her pain. Gradually, the girl learned to express emotions and cope with fears. She realized that her parents’ love would always be with her, giving her strength to move forward even in the toughest times.

One morning, while playing with new friends in the yard, she accidentally discovered her talent for drawing. Her works became a reflection of her inner world, experiences, and hope. The millionaire, seeing her paintings, suggested holding an exhibition to show others how beautiful a soul that has overcome hardships can be. The exhibition was a great success, evoking genuine admiration and sympathy from the viewers.

Over the years, her life became filled with light and opportunities. She began dreaming of becoming an artist and even participated in local competitions. The millionaire supported her in everything, becoming not just a patron but a mentor. Together, they visited museums, studied masterpieces, and drew inspiration from great works.

Despite the good fortune, she never forgot the children who, like her, had no one to reach out a helping hand. Influenced by her personal experience, she decided to use her gift and experience to help those in difficult life situations. Together with the millionaire, they founded a charity to support homeless and needy children, providing them shelter, food, and education opportunities.

Thus, the story of the lonely girl who once slept on a bench became a story of strength of spirit, love, and faith in a better future. She inspired many people to do good deeds, proving that anyone can become a source of happiness and light for another person.

The foundation they created quickly gained popularity and attracted public attention. Together, they organized charity concerts, exhibitions, and workshops, raising funds for children in need of support. Every time they saw the joyful faces of children given a chance to start a new life thanks to their efforts, they found new strength to continue.

As a teenager, the girl not only honed her skills but also confidently developed as a person. She began conducting drawing lessons for children from the foundation, sharing knowledge and inspiring creativity. Through this process, she realized that art is not just self-expression but a powerful means of healing the soul.

Meeting professional artists opened new opportunities for her. She began participating in various exhibitions, and her works started to be displayed not only in local galleries but also on larger platforms. This gave her a chance to show the world her vision of life through art. All proceeds from the sale of her paintings she donated to help children from her foundation.

Several years passed, and the girl, now a young woman, received an invitation to participate in a prestigious art competition in the capital — the very opportunity she had strived for her entire creative life. With excitement and inner trembling, she prepared her works, understanding that this could become an important turning point in her fate.

The constant support of the millionaire, who over time became not just her guardian but a close person, was of great importance. He often reminded her that true success is not only recognition but the ability to help others.

On the day of the competition, standing before the audience and experienced artists, her heart beat in time with every breath. She presented her paintings into which she had poured everything: her experiences, hopes, and dreams. This time, she was noticed — not just as a talented artist but as a person with a deep story. She was awarded a prize for the best artistic performance, and her name became known to a wide audience.

After the ceremony, many famous masters approached her and offered cooperation. She chose the path closest to her heart — combining art and charity, working with other talented people to help children in need.

With every new achievement, she remembered where she came from. She knew that all her success was possible thanks to those who believed in and supported her. Now, being successful and recognized, she continued building dreams of a future filled with light and faith, ready to share her story to inspire others not to lose hope even in the hardest situations.

The story of the girl who once slept on a bench became a truly touching example of strength of spirit, humanity, and faith in goodness. And every new day she greeted with gratitude — for the chance not only to change her own life but also the lives of many others.

What Was Written on That Note?

Claire and her husband, Aaron, went out to celebrate their 25th wedding anniversary. But what should have been a romantic evening took a strange turn. Claire noticed Aaron’s eyes constantly wandering—not toward her, but toward a young, stunning waitress. Feeling invisible, Claire excused herself to the restroom. When she returned, she caught the waitress slipping Aaron a folded note. What did it say?

You’d think that after 28 years together—25 of them married—your partner would still treasure you. Still see you. Still care.

But that night proved me wrong.

It was supposed to be special. We’d chosen the very same restaurant where Aaron and I had our first date, all those years ago. The familiar scent of garlic butter filled the air, steak sizzling in the kitchen, and that hint of something sweet I could never quite name. Everything looked the same—but nothing felt the same.

“Happy anniversary, sweetheart,” Aaron said, smiling from across the table. His voice was warm. But his eyes?

His eyes weren’t on me.

He kept glancing over my shoulder. Again and again. I turned to see what was distracting him—and there she was.

Our waitress.

She was breathtaking. Tall, with silky blonde hair flowing down her back, and a bright smile that seemed to light up the room. She moved gracefully, friendly to everyone—but Aaron? He looked at her like he hadn’t seen beauty in years.

She couldn’t have been more than 30. And Aaron, well into his fifties, didn’t seem to notice the age gap. Or care.

I tried to steady myself, sipped my wine, and tried to focus on the evening.

“This place hasn’t changed a bit, has it?” I said, forcing a smile. “Even the wall color’s the same!”

Aaron gave a distracted nod, then eagerly waved the waitress over.

“Hi there! Ready to order?” she asked, her voice cheerful.

“Yes!” Aaron said, oddly enthusiastic. “I’ll take the steak, roasted potatoes, and a green salad. My wife will have the grilled chicken and mashed potatoes. Right, Claire?”

I wanted the tuna steak. And sweet potato fries. But I just nodded. What was the point of saying anything?

Then Aaron started chatting with her. Asking questions. Getting personal. In minutes, we knew her name was Kelsey, she lived nearby, and had a cat named Gypsy.

She tried to excuse herself politely. “I’ll get this to the kitchen. Let me know if you want dessert later.”

“Thanks,” I said, grateful for the momentary break.

“Oh, she’s so lovely,” Aaron murmured, watching her walk away.

Dinner arrived. The silence was heavy. I tried to engage him—talking about our past trips, future dreams. But he wasn’t with me. Not really.

He kept scanning the restaurant for her.

I’d had enough.

“I’ll be right back,” I said softly, standing and walking toward the restroom, my heart pounding. As soon as I shut the door, the tears came. I clutched the sink, trying to pull myself together.

It’s our anniversary, I thought. Why do I feel so… alone?

I breathed deep, wiped my face, and walked back out. But as I neared our table, I froze.

Kelsey was standing beside Aaron, leaning slightly toward him, slipping a small folded note into his hand.

His face turned crimson. Guilty.

He quickly shoved it into his pocket.

I couldn’t breathe.

What was that?

When he saw me, he smiled awkwardly, like nothing had happened.

“Everything okay?” I asked, trying to sound calm.

“Yeah, yeah. Just… work stuff. My boss somehow got a message to me here. You know, since we leave our phones at home on date nights…” His voice trailed off.

Lies. I could tell.

The rest of the evening was a blur. I couldn’t stop thinking about that note. His behavior. The awkwardness.

Once we were home, I watched as Aaron walked to the trash can and tossed something in—crumpled tightly in his hand. Then he turned to leave.

“I’ve gotta swing by the office. Won’t be long.”

The second he left, I raced to the trash can and grabbed the paper.

My hands trembled as I flattened it out.

It read:

“You have a gorgeous wife sitting right in front of you, SIR. She’s looking at you with eyes full of love. And yet, you’re staring at me. I wouldn’t normally do this, but your wife deserves better. Appreciate her. Love her.”

Kelsey.

That kind, observant young woman.

Tears welled up in my eyes—this time from relief.

I sat down on the couch, overwhelmed.

Time passed. I don’t know how long. But then the front door opened.

Aaron walked in, holding a bottle of wine, a bouquet of chrysanthemums, and a pink pastry box.

“Honey,” he said softly. “I’m sorry. I was distracted tonight, and I shouldn’t have been. You wanted this to be special, and I ruined it. I’m really sorry.”

He set the items down and knelt in front of me.

“Let’s open the wine, have some cheesecake, and try again?”

I didn’t say anything. I just held up the note.

His face dropped.

“You read it?” he asked.

“I did.”

He sighed, rubbing his face.

“I was ashamed, Claire. Embarrassed. I acted like an idiot. That note hit me like a ton of bricks. It reminded me that I should’ve been looking at you. Only you. And I hate that I needed a stranger to remind me.”

He reached for my hand and held it tightly.

“I love you. I always have. And I always will.”

I wanted to stay angry. But the truth in his voice cut through everything.

“I know,” I said quietly. “Sometimes we get so used to each other that we stop seeing each other. That ends now.”

He smiled, and we spent the rest of the night talking, laughing, drinking wine. Holding hands like it was our first date again.

The next day, I stopped by the restaurant after work. I hoped to see her.

Kelsey smiled when she saw me. “Back so soon?”

“I just wanted to say thank you,” I said. “You didn’t have to write that note. But you did. And you reminded my husband what he has. You saved my marriage.”

She smiled, touched.

“I’m glad,” she said.

I handed her a small gift card.

“This is for the department store I manage. Go treat yourself.”

As I walked away, I felt a new sense of peace.

Like maybe, just maybe, I was ready for another 25 years—with Aaron by my side.

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.

On the outskirts of a small provincial town in Central Russia stood an old school. Its walls were peeling from age, the asphalt in the yard cracked, and the lonely sandbox froze under icy gusts of wind in winter, while in summer it filled with the voices of children and leftover toys. Everything here was painfully familiar—the creaky wooden door, the smell of dust in the teachers’ room, the flickering light in the changing room. But behind the building, in the shadows where teachers rarely set foot, something strange was happening.

Ivan Andreevich worked at this school—a labor teacher and the custodian. A man nearing fifty, always with a thermos in his hands and a worn sweater on his shoulders. He was a bit rough, but never passed by someone else’s trouble. He knew every corner, every weak floorboard, every child’s face. And he was the one who noticed the new student.

Pasha… Quiet, thin, too serious for his age. He came in the fall and told no one anything. He studied diligently, spoke little, and in his eyes was the reflection of someone else’s adult life.

Every day at 12:15, when other children ran to the pull-up bars, Pasha disappeared. He went behind the gym, past the rusty fence, to the place where broken brooms and empty cans lay, and began to dig. With a spoon—a white plastic one, the same every day.

At first, Ivan thought it was just a child’s game. Maybe he dreamed of being a pirate or a treasure hunter. Children often hide their secrets in the earth. But the longer he watched, the more uneasy he felt inside. The boy was too careful. Too composed. Every gesture measured, like a sapper’s. The depth of the holes—always the same. The items—wrapped in plastic, like things you can’t lose. Nearby—twigs stuck level with the ground, exactly like markers. And the look… the look of someone afraid of being noticed.

One day Ivan couldn’t hold back. After classes, when the students had gone to their classrooms, he carefully approached the spot, took a small shovel, and started digging. Gently, as if afraid to disturb someone’s sacred memory. Under the ground was a bag. Inside—a plush teddy bear, a photo of a young woman, and a crumpled twenty-ruble note.

Ivan crouched down. These were not toys. This was something that could not be given away. Something that belonged to him—and only him. His last.

And then began his silent investigation. The one that would change everything.

The next day Ivan sat again in his workshop—a room smelling of paint, paraffin, and something childish: maybe dust from backpacks, maybe the scent of forgotten gloves. He poured himself tea into his favorite metal mug when a thin figure flickered outside the window—Pasha, with a black backpack on his back.

Exactly at 12:15.

Ivan straightened up as if on command. Went to the window. It all repeated: spoon, earth, bag, twig. Not a single unnecessary movement.

He remembered his father—a silent, tense man who counted coins in the evenings and hid bottles in bookcases. Pasha had the same look—tension masked as discipline.

Pasha was not a child. He was a little survivor. Commander of his own war for life.

For a whole week Ivan watched him—from afar, through the window, with occasional glances. He began counting the twig markers: three, six, nine. All the same, all in the same place. Never repeated. He realized: the boy was distributing something. Like a soldier. By schedule. By plan.

He saw how Pasha ate during breaks—half a sandwich, then carefully wrapped the other half in a napkin and hid it in his pocket. Not because he was full. Because he was saving.

“This is not a game,” he whispered to himself. “It’s survival mode. There’s a war inside him.”

One day, noticing the boy stayed after the bell, Ivan decided to follow him. Pasha walked home slowly, like someone no one was waiting for. Hoodie pulled tightly over his head though the weather was dry. He looked back several times. Walked carefully, as if testing each step for safety.

Ivan felt cold in his hands. He remembered this fear. When at seven he himself stood under the stairs, listening to his father throw a frying pan. Just don’t move a muscle. Just don’t attract attention.

He knew this fear. He knew where it came from.

But he hesitated. Words can hurt. But silence is worse.

The next day he found Galina Arkadyevna—the class teacher of Pasha. A woman who entered the classroom, and children quieted without her ever raising her voice.

“Have you noticed that Pasha… is too strange? As if he doesn’t really live here?”

She looked sharply, like someone who had seen a lot.

“Yes, I feel it too. He came to us in the spring. From another district. His guardian is a cousin aunt. His mother died. He’s closed, neat, studies well. But… it’s like he lives inside himself.”

“He’s hungry,” Ivan said. “And he hides something in the ground. Every day.”

“In the ground?”

“Behind the school. Hiding places. I looked. There’s a soft toy, a photo, money. And he looks at them as if they are all he has.”

Galina Arkadyevna turned pale.

“We need to report this…”

“I already started.” He took out a notebook from his bag. It contained sketches, dates, notes, photos. “I don’t want them just to check and close the case. I want to understand. And help.”

She nodded. Without unnecessary words.

On Monday Ivan came earlier than everyone else. He wanted to see how Pasha came. And he saw. The boy got off the bus quietly, like a shadow. The same jacket as Friday. Wrinkled pants, tousled hair.

He didn’t go to class. First to the restroom, then to a technical room where no one looks in the morning. There he took out a bag from his backpack, ate a quarter of a cookie, wrapped the rest carefully, and hid it. Checked if the other bag was intact—put it back. Everything—according to the rules: minimum food, maximum survival.

Ivan clenched his fists. He remembered Seryozha—a boy from a neighboring class. Also silent, also hiding cold inside. He died from a cold because he didn’t say he felt bad. Ivan didn’t intervene then. He wouldn’t let it happen again.

He started writing everything down: time, place, condition of clothes, marks on the body. One day noticed a bruise. Pasha said, “I fell.” Too quickly. Too calmly.

One day the boy began to choke on fear.

“I lost fifty rubles. Aunt Karina gave me for a week. She will be angry.”

“Take mine,” Ivan said. “Just take it.”

“Do you… not want me to do something?”

“No. Just live, Pasha. Just live.”

On Friday morning the sky hung low like an old blanket. Ivan walked down the corridor with a folder under his arm. Inside was his notebook—sketches, notes, evidence. Papers that might mean nothing. Or turn everything upside down.

He hadn’t slept all night. Pasha’s look was in front of his eyes—the look of a person who has long been afraid. He knew: just a little more—and the boy would become invisible. Not disappear. Worse—go away inside. Like many children taught to hide not only bread but themselves.

During recess he went outside again. Pasha was digging, as always. Ivan didn’t approach. Just stood and watched. As if wanting to remember every gesture, every movement.

And after the last bell, he went to the principal.

“May I have a moment?”

Galina Sergeyevna was a stern but fair woman. She knew every student by name, loved order, and chose her words carefully, like stones for a foundation.

“Did something happen, Ivan Andreevich?”

He laid the open notebook before her on the page where it said:

“Day 9. Clothes unchanged for fifth day. Bruise on arm. Behavior anxious. Shares food: eats half, hides the other half. Checks his ‘hiding spots’ every morning.”

“I’m not sure what’s right to do,” he said. “But if we do nothing, this child simply won’t survive.”

Galina Sergeyevna skimmed through a few entries, then carefully put the notebook aside and slowly stood up:

“I’ll contact the guardianship authorities. But keep in mind: without obvious signs of threat, they won’t take action. It’s bureaucracy: paperwork, reports, formalities…”

“And if one day he just stops coming?”

She nodded. Understood everything without extra words.

The inspection came the next week—strictly by the book: prearranged meeting, folders, business cards, standard phrases. Three people: social worker, juvenile affairs commissioner, and another woman simply present. They entered the school with friendly smiles as if on a tour, not an inspection.

Ivan Andreevich watched from afar. He had no right to interfere but couldn’t just step away.

That morning Pasha was especially silent. He sat at a desk in the corner without opening his notebook. Didn’t eat, only drank water from the cooler. When called to the principal, he stood calmly like a soldier ready for interrogation.

The commission representative spoke gently:

“Pavel, how do you feel? Is everything okay at home?”

“Yes,” he answered briefly.

“Who do you live with? Aunt Karina?”

“Yes.”

“Does she hurt you? Do you have enough food? Do you have everything you need?”

Pasha nodded—slowly but confidently. His face was completely unreadable. He was ready. He knew what to say.

After that, they went to his home. Karina met them like a hospitable hostess. She wore a bright robe; tea and cookies were on the table. The apartment smelled of lemon antiseptic. The fridge was neatly stocked—everything lined up as if for inspection. Even the loaf of bread untouched.

“We try,” she said, smiling slightly tensely. “Pavlik has a difficult character, but we manage. Losing a mother is very hard.”

The social worker asked questions, wrote notes, nodded. Asked about school progress. Pavel was silent, standing nearby. New socks, good posture, not a single complaint. He understood: this was a game, and the rules were such—everything must stay as it is.

That same evening Ivan received the official verdict: “No grounds for intervention found.”

He returned to his office, opened the notebook, and added a new entry:

“Day 17. Inspection: behavior—learned, lies—as a defense mechanism. Apartment perfectly clean, food neat, boy—motionless.”

He knew: this was not the end, just a temporary pause. He would watch, wait for a real chance—not for formalities, but for true rescue.

The next morning the classroom was filled with anxious silence. Pasha didn’t come. His seat by the window was empty—no backpack, no notebook. The teacher sighed and glanced at the roster.

Ivan understood immediately. He went into the corridor, sat on a bench, and closed his eyes. This was not a skip. This was disappearance.

Half an hour later he was already questioning neighbors:

“Can you tell me what happened to the residents of apartment 23?”

“The woman left a few days ago, with suitcases. Said she was going to her sister in Krasnodar. Left the boy alone. He goes to stores by himself. Very quiet, even scared when someone greets him.”

Ivan said nothing. Just dialed emergency services and began to act.

Two hours later he stood at the apartment door with police and guardianship representatives. The door was unlocked. Inside—dead silence.

Pasha sat in the corner of the room, fully dressed, backpack on his lap. Eyes dry but empty. Nearby stood a box containing: a bread wrapper, an old spoon, a photo, a plush bear.

“Are you alone?” asked a woman from guardianship.

“Yes. Aunt left. Said she’d be back soon.”

“How long have you been like this?”

“I don’t know. I ate by schedule. Counted days. Washed every day.”

Ivan looked away. It hurt to watch. The boy wasn’t asking for help—he was giving an account.

Pasha was placed with a foster family—the Alekseevs, teachers. Kind, simple people who already had grown children. They wanted to be a home for those who never had one.

The first weeks were hard. Pasha hid food under his pillow, checked every night if the backpack was nearby. Spoke little, ate slowly, didn’t trust. He knew: good things are always temporary.

Ivan visited regularly. At first, Pasha was cautious, then relaxed a bit. On the third visit he suddenly asked:

“Did you see how I dug?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I waited for you to tell me yourself. Didn’t want to take what you kept. It was yours.”

Pasha nodded. Just nodded. But there was more meaning in that movement than in any conversation.

Six months passed. Spring came. Blooming lilacs stood by the school, the warm sun shone.

Pasha ran up to Ivan—with a backpack, a washed face, in a new jacket.

“Ivan Andreevich! Now I have my own desk! And a bookshelf! Mom and dad said my toys will stay at home now, not underground!”

He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. Inside was a twenty-ruble note.

“This one. You remember? I don’t hide it anymore. Now it’s just… money.”

Ivan carefully took the note. Like a relic.

“Are you not afraid anymore?”

“No.”

He ran back—to the children, to the sandbox, to laughter. The earth he had dug for so many months was now just earth—part of the schoolyard, without secrets or fears.

And Ivan stayed sitting, holding the note in his palm. He knew one important thing: for a child to stop hiding, sometimes you just need to find what he hid.

Wrinkled fingers of Lidia clenched the cup of cooled tea. Thirty-two years of marriage, three thousand dinners together, endless washing of his shirts — and now she sat alone in their kitchen, where every inch was soaked with shared memories.

“I don’t understand, Vitya,” her voice trembled like a string. “You’re just… leaving?”

Victor methodically folded his things into an old suitcase, as if performing a routine task. His movements were slow, as if giving Lidia time to come to terms with what was happening.

“Lida, we both knew this would happen sooner or later,” he didn’t even turn to her. “Everything between us has been dead for a long time. I want to live for myself. I’m sixty, and I haven’t seen anything yet.”

Lidia flinched as if slapped. Thirty-two years of their shared travels, theater visits, birthdays, New Years — instantly turned into “nothing.”

“And how old is she?” Lidia asked a question she already knew the answer to.

“Thirty-five,” Victor finally looked at his wife. “Her name is Katya. She’s… different. You understand?”

“Younger than me by twenty-two years? Is that what you mean?” Lidia felt something inside tear — a paper of hopes and illusions.

“Not just that,” Victor snapped the suitcase shut. “She’s vibrant, laughs loudly, doesn’t count every penny.”

“I controlled the money so we could buy this apartment! To send Masha to university!” Lidia’s voice involuntarily rose to a shout.

“See? You always yell. I’m tired.”

Lidia pressed her lips together. She yelled? After thirty years, she could have come up with a more substantial accusation.

“I’ll come back for the rest of my things later. The apartment papers are with the notary, each share is fifty percent, so don’t even think about…,” he stumbled looking for the word, “taking any action.”

“Where are you going now? To her?”

“Yes, Lida. To her.”

Victor headed to the door but stopped at it:

“You know, I think it’s for the best. You’ll get a break from me, cool off. Maybe you’ll even understand me.”

Lidia looked at him, not believing her ears.

“Understand you?” she smiled bitterly. “And will you be able to understand what I feel?”

“You’re strong, Lida. You’ll manage.”

The door slammed, and Lidia was left alone in the apartment where everything — from mugs to curtains — was chosen together. She sat motionless until the tea completely cooled, then suddenly threw the cup against the wall.

The crash of broken porcelain sounded like a call to action.

“That’s it? And he just… left?” her daughter Masha’s voice sounded indignant through the phone receiver.

“Yes, he packed his things and went to her,” Lidia paced the apartment, holding the phone to her ear, mechanically straightening photos on the walls. “Imagine, Masha, he said I’d ‘manage.’”

“God, Mom, what a…,” Masha paused, searching for a polite word, “selfish man! Thirty-two years together!”

“Thirty-two years,” Lidia echoed, stopping in front of their wedding photo.

For two weeks, Lidia barely left the house. She stared at the ceiling, flipped through photo albums, and cried all the tears she had. Then one morning she woke with piercing clarity in her mind.

“I will really manage,” she said aloud, addressing the empty pillow to her right.

That same day she called her longtime friend Nina, who worked as a family law attorney.

“Lida, we don’t have much time,” Nina laid papers out on the café table. “If he’s already mentioned property division, it means this Katya is turning him against you.”

“What can I do?” Lidia looked at her friend with determination in her eyes.

“Urgently transfer the ownership of your share to Masha. As for the savings…”

Lidia absorbed every word, taking notes. After the meeting, she went to the bank and withdrew half the money from their joint account. “Fifty percent is mine, Vitya. Remember?”

“Mrs. Vorontsova, are you sure you want to close this account?” the bank employee looked puzzled. “It’s on very favorable terms.”

“Absolutely sure,” Lidia smiled so calmly she surprised herself.

The following days became a marathon of legal and notary offices. Lidia collected documents, consulted experts, signed papers, made copies. With every completed document, she felt control over her life returning.

A call from Victor came a month later.

“Lida?” His voice sounded uncertain. “How are you?”

“Wonderful, Vitya,” she said with genuine ease.

“I… want to come by for the rest of my things. And to talk.”

Pause.

“Of course, come,” Lidia paused for a moment. “Maybe we’ll even have dinner together? Like old times.”

“Really?” His voice held undisguised joy. “I… I’ll be there tomorrow at seven.”

After ending the call, Lidia dialed Nina.

“He wants to come tomorrow. Looks like something happened with this… Katya.”

“I bet the young beauty quickly got tired of his socks around the apartment,” Nina chuckled. “Are all your documents ready?”

“Every single one,” Lidia looked at the neat folder on the table. “Divorce is finalized by proxy, the gift deed to Masha registered, accounts closed, new ones opened.”

“Lidochka, you’re amazing,” pride rang in Nina’s voice. “Remember, no matter what he says, stand tall.”

The next day, Lidia styled her hair for the first time in a long while. She wore that blue dress Victor always said suited her. She made his favorite dinner — potato casserole with mushrooms.

At seven, the doorbell rang.

Victor looked aged. Wrinkles deepened, hair thinned even more. And that elusive smell of another’s cologne, which he seemingly hadn’t bothered to wash off.

“Lida,” he smiled, awkwardly shuffling at the threshold, “you look wonderful.”

Lidia noticed the bottle of their favorite wine in his hands. She silently pointed to the coat rack and went into the kitchen.

“Smells amazing,” Victor sniffed, following her. “My favorite casserole?”

“I thought it was time to remember old times,” Lidia’s voice was neutral, emotionless.

They sat at the table. Victor awkwardly spun a fork in his hands, as if unsure where to begin.

“How are you living?” he finally asked.

“Great,” Lidia served him a portion. “I go to the pool, enrolled in Italian courses.”

“Italian?” He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You always wanted to learn it…”

“Yes, for thirty years I wanted to,” she smiled, sipping wine. “And how are you, Vitya? How’s… Katya?”

Victor choked, set down his fork.

“We… broke up,” he looked down. “It wasn’t what I thought.”

“Is that so,” Lidia continued eating as if hearing about the weather changing.

“She was… too demanding,” Victor spoke faster. “Constantly complained about my habits, wanted gifts, restaurants. We moved in together, and a week later she said I didn’t provide enough comfort. Me, you know? Me, who all my life…”

“Young women have their own ideas about life,” Lidia shrugged. “Wasn’t that what you wanted? A vibrant woman who ‘laughs loudly’?”

Victor grimaced, hearing his own words.

“Lida, I… made a mistake,” he reached for her hand, but she gently pulled away. “I understand now. These weeks without you were a nightmare.”

Lidia looked at him, this defeated man with whom she’d spent most of her life. Strangely, she felt neither malice nor hatred. Only fatigue and… freedom.

“We can fix everything,” Victor continued hopefully. “Start over. I’ll never…”

“Wait,” Lidia stood from the table and went to the hallway. Returned with a thick brown envelope. “Look here first.”

Victor frowned, taking the envelope.

“What’s this?”

“Open it.”

He emptied its contents onto the table. Divorce certificate. Documents transferring part of the apartment to Masha. Bank statements closing joint accounts.

Victor’s face changed as he sifted through the papers. Confusion. Anger.

“What kind of joke is this?” His voice cracked. “What have you done?”

“Me?” Lidia calmly poured herself more wine. “I protected myself, Vitya. Like you said — I ‘managed.’”

“But this… it’s not fair!” He looked at the papers like venomous snakes. “The apartment is in both our names!”

“It was,” Lidia nodded. “But you left, and as the legal spouse at the time of the gift, I had the right to dispose of my share. And since we’re officially divorced, your share remained yours. The car is yours too, don’t worry.”

“You… you filed for divorce? Without me?” Victor grabbed his head. “How could you?”

“And how could you leave after thirty-two years?” For the first time that evening, steel entered Lidia’s voice. “You wanted freedom — now you have it. Complete.”

Lidia didn’t answer immediately. She just stood in the dim kitchen holding the plates to her chest as if the balance of the evening depended on them.

“No, Vitya,” she finally said softly, almost whispering. “You didn’t lose everything. But you lost me — the one you knew.”

Perhaps she felt sorry for him — so weak, disheveled, foreign… And at the same time forever close. You can’t undo that — so many years, habits, even the way they usually checked the time was often the same. Where does it come from? Who can understand.

“Lida…” He stood up, his hands trembling. “I can’t do it alone.”

“You can,” she gently interrupted. “Everyone can. And you will if you want.”

Outside, a tree rustled — the night wind caught the leaves as if it too didn’t want to let go of summer. Lidia caught herself on a strange thought: inside it was no longer cold, on the contrary — even warm. She used to be afraid to be alone. But now… now, for the first time in many years, she wanted to live for herself. Wanted to plan a new walking route tomorrow, to slightly open the balcony door and not fear the draft. Wanted for the first time in many years not to ask anyone’s permission.

She looked at Victor standing in the doorway, a little lost — like a child among broken toys.

“Try, Vitya,” Lidia said and for the first time that evening truly smiled at him. “It’s not all in vain.”

He lowered his head. Looked at the floor for a long time. Then nodded hesitantly — and for the first time in many years, there was no reproach or expectation in that nod. Only quiet acceptance that the story of their family ended not with drama but with hope — for each separately.

“I’ll go,” he said.

“I know,” Lidia answered.

When the door slammed behind him, she stood in the kitchen for a long time, listening to the quiet street. Suddenly she thought: how strange a new life begins — almost always with silence.

“Not all. You still have your freedom,” she returned to the table, placed her hand on his shoulder. “And you know, that’s really valuable. You just don’t yet understand how to use it properly.”

They were silent for a long time. Outside, darkness began to fall, city lights scattered bright points across the black velvet of night. Somewhere deep inside the house, a wall clock ticked — a sure sign of time passing.

“Can I stay tonight?” Victor finally asked. “Just to sleep over. On the couch, of course.”

Lidia smiled softly.

“No, Vitya. Not anymore. This is a different home now.”

He understood. Slowly gathered the papers, folded them back into the envelope. Stood up, adjusted his shirt with a mechanical gesture.

“Can I at least call you sometimes? Just to check how you are?”

“Of course,” Lidia nodded. “We lived together too long to be complete strangers.”

She saw him to the door. Victor turned on the threshold, looked as if wanting to memorize every feature of her face.

“You’re an amazing woman, Lida. I just… forgot about that.”

“Goodbye, Vitya.”

The door closed. Lidia leaned back against it, exhaled. Then went to the living room, took the phone, and dialed her daughter’s number.

“Masha? Yes, he came. Yes, everything is fine. Listen, I was thinking… Maybe we don’t go to Italy in January, but in December? I’m ready, darling. I’m absolutely ready.”

Outside, rain began to fall, but Lidia didn’t notice. She looked at photos of Italian cities on the tablet screen and smiled at the new day she had once feared. Now she knew: after every end, something new always begins. And sometimes you have to lose to truly find yourself. And perhaps everything is possible.