“Have you not heard?” Her voice trembled, as if something inside it was cracking.

“What exactly?” I asked, already holding the handle of the front door with one hand. The bag with medicines almost slipped from my fingers.

Lidiya Pavlovna, 84 years old, a widow with eyes full of lived years and unspoken sorrows, stood in the middle of the hallway. Her gaze was fixed past me—into emptiness, as if someone was standing there, beyond the threshold.

“He laughed again…” she whispered.

“Who?” I asked, though I already felt goosebumps running down my skin.

“My Vitya,” her voice became barely audible. “He had that kind of laugh. Mischievous. As if he wanted to scare me. He used to do that as a child. Even before he died…”

I froze. A dense, almost tangible silence hung in the room. Vitya had died three years ago. A car accident. Lidiya Pavlovna had told me how she kissed his cold hand in the morgue, how she begged him not to leave.

Carefully, I let go of the door handle and stepped back into the apartment. I turned on the light in the hallway. It smelled of incense and homemade jam—blackcurrant jam she used to make every autumn. But now that smell seemed different. Foreign. Cold.

“Lidiya Pavlovna, it’s probably just memories. Voices we sometimes hear inside our heads.”

“No, my girl, you don’t understand,” she looked straight at me, and there was no madness in her eyes. Only fear and exhaustion. “He called me. Every night. And today… today I saw him. In the bathroom doorway. He was smiling. Exactly the same as on the day of the funeral… only his eyes… were glowing like embers.”

I have worked as a home therapist for a long time. I’ve seen everything. But that evening and everything that followed changed me. I don’t know how to explain it—something inside broke and reassembled itself, completely different than before.

I stayed. I persuaded her to lie down. I went into the room—neat, warm, filled with framed photos. Above the old bench near the ceiling hung a plush teddy bear. Unexpected for this apartment.

“That’s what he hung up,” came the woman’s voice behind me. “I didn’t touch it.”

“Who?”

“Vitya.”

A chill ran down my spine.

I decided to inspect the apartment. Slowly, carefully. With each minute it became clearer: the air here was different. As if time didn’t move forward, but twisted into a loop, returning to the days when he still lived in this house.

I went into the bathroom. On the mirror were clear fingerprints. Long, male. And above them, as if scratching the glass from inside, was one word:

“MAMA”

I spent the night with her. I couldn’t leave—couldn’t leave her alone. We sat in the dark, listening to the ticking of the old clock. And at some moment, I heard it.

Laughter.

Not creaking floorboards, not the wind in the pipes. Laughter. Sharp, unnatural—somewhere between a child and an adult man. Creepy. Familiar.

“He came,” whispered Lidiya Pavlovna. “Tonight he will take me.”

I grabbed her hand.

“No. I’m here. I won’t allow it.”

She only nodded—quietly, submissively. And then I saw.

In the kitchen, at the table, someone was sitting. There was a silhouette, but no face—as if it was floating in water. From beneath the hair, eyes were visible. Burning. Familiar.

In the morning, Lidiya Pavlovna lay with her eyes closed. She no longer breathed. On her face—a slight smile, as if she had finally found peace. Next to her on the pillow—a photograph: a young woman, a young man about twenty years old, and a plush teddy bear. The caption on the back: “Vitya. Our boy. 1983.”

I ran out of the apartment. A neighbor stopped me at the entrance.

“Are you from Lidiya Pavlovna’s?” he asked.

“Yes. What happened to her?”

“Poor woman. She kept talking about her son… But you know, she never really had a son.”

“What do you mean?”

“She made him up. All these years. No husband, no child. It was all in her head. Even those photos, they say she bought at a flea market.”

I didn’t answer. Because at that very moment I felt something unusual in my bag—a weight that hadn’t been there before. I unzipped it and looked inside. Among the medical reference books and notes lay a plush teddy bear. Exactly like the one in Lidiya Pavlovna’s photo. Only now it had a button, which wasn’t there yesterday.

It smelled of incense and blackcurrant jam.

A month passed.

I returned to that neighborhood only once. Walking past the old building, stopping at the entrance, but I never dared to climb to the third floor. Everything seemed frozen in time. Even the air was dense, now dull like a wall behind which there was nothing.

Colleagues asked what was wrong with me. I kept silent. Told no one. Because no one would believe. Sometimes I myself began to doubt: did it really happen? Or had I started to see what wasn’t there?

But one day, while sorting through things after another trip, I found it again—the bear. Though I convinced myself I had given it to an orphanage. Even signed a paper. But it lay in my bag. With a new button sewn on by a thread I didn’t have at home.

I picked it up and noticed a note on its neck:

“You saved her. Now someone will protect you too.”

Since then, I started noticing strange little things. In all sorts of homes—where loneliness reigned, where patients’ eyes silently begged simply to be near—signs appeared. A cup of tea, already poured. A blanket neatly draped over shoulders. A faint scent of blackcurrant in the corner of a room.

Sometimes it seemed to me that Lidiya Pavlovna was still somewhere nearby. But not as a ghost of fear or grief—rather as a bright memory. Like a shadow warming from within. And maybe her Vitya now walks beside me. Quietly, wordlessly. To help those who can no longer wait.

Once I came to a new patient—Zinaida Petrovna. A stooped woman, covered by time like snow. We spoke little, but she looked at me strangely—with hope and fear in one glance.

At farewell, she suddenly squeezed my hand.

“Girl,” she said, “do you know there’s a boy standing behind you?”

I froze.

“He’s smiling. Standing right behind your shoulder… And holding a teddy bear.”

I wasn’t afraid. I just smiled. Because for the first time I understood: it’s not scary. It’s not even strange.

It’s love that didn’t die.

It’s gratitude that can be passed on.

It’s the reason to stay. Even one day longer.

Months passed. Patients, homes, stories—all flowed like a river. But the more time went on, the more often I felt: I am not alone. Wherever I was, wherever loneliness breathed, wherever human contact was needed—someone was nearby. Silently. Warmly. Invisible to others.

Once I was called to a rural house. Wooden, old, with a faded carpet on the wall and a forgotten garden outside the window. The owner—Varvara Nikitichna, almost a hundred years old—lived completely alone. No relatives, no neighbors, no voices.

She was silent for a long time. Only looking out the window and whispering:

“I once loved. Now only dust and photographs remain.”

I stayed overnight. The cold in such houses in winter is special—it penetrates inside, to the bones. People here live slowly, as if their hearts beat with effort, not to stop.

At night, I heard her crying. Quietly, like a child. I approached. She was sitting on the bed, holding a yellowed letter.

“From him. 1944. ‘Wait for me, I will return.’ But he never came back. Only the morning wind whispers his name to me.”

I sat beside her, hugged her. We stayed like that for a long time. Then she fell asleep on my shoulder.

And in the morning, she was gone. On her face—a smile. Light, like the first snow. I knew—he had come.

But something else happened.

Before leaving, I noticed an unfamiliar box in the corner of the room. It definitely hadn’t been there before. I approached and opened it. Inside—a plush teddy bear. Not the one that belonged to Lidiya Pavlovna. This one was worn, all patched up, handmade. On one paw was embroidered the name:

“Nadezhda”

Beneath it lay dozens of letters. Different envelopes, different cities, different women. And each had the same conclusion:

“I’m near. Just wait. — V.”

Then I understood.

It was him. All this time. He was looking for those who needed to hear: you matter. You are loved. You are not alone.

Years passed. I no longer work as a therapist. I just go from house to house. To hearts that want to be heard. I listen, speak, stay silent, hold hands. And leave gifts. Bears. Letters. Sometimes just notes. Things that help someone feel: they are important.

Because I know one truth—miracles aren’t about healing the body. Miracles are about hearing the soul. Even if that soul hasn’t been heard for a long time.

And if one day you find a letter you never had before, in a drawer you never opened…

If a cup of hot tea suddenly appears on the table—as if someone was waiting for you…

If warmth suddenly fills a cold room, and the scent of blackcurrant flickers in the air…

— It’s him. Or her. Or the one you once supported—with your faith, care, or just a kind word.

And one day you will understand:

Your love did not disappear. It stayed alive.

Which means—you stayed too. Forever.

Friends, if this story touched something inside you—please subscribe to the channel, like, and write in the comments what you felt.

For me, it’s more than a story. It’s a journey we walk together.

And if you are here—it means we are no longer alone.

In one of the large business centers, where day after day bustling business activity took place, worked a woman named Maria. Her profession — cleaning lady — was not associated with anything remarkable in the eyes of most employees. To everyone, she was simply part of the familiar background: the soft rustle of a brush on the floor, the smell of fresh cleaning detergent, and a quiet «good day» in various languages.

But few knew that behind this modest appearance lay an incredible story. Every morning, Maria greeted the office team at the door, saying hello sometimes in English, sometimes in Spanish, and occasionally in French or Italian. The employees, of course, were surprised, but no more than that — after all, in such an international office, it seemed almost normal. The real surprise awaited them on the day a delegation of clients from around the world arrived at the company.

It was an important day. The management was on edge, managers were rushing about like headless chickens, translators were preparing documents, and presentations were double-checked several times. Everyone was afraid of making a mistake in front of the guests who came from different countries: from Japan to Brazil. The air was filled with official strictness, formal smiles, and tense anticipation.

It was precisely then, at the most crucial moment, that an event occurred which changed many people’s perceptions of this workplace. Maria, having finished cleaning the corridor, peeked into the conference room to check if everything was in order. And then something unexpected happened: one of the translators fell ill, and the other was unable to handle the cultural nuances of the speech. An awkward pause arose, which no one seemed willing to fill.

But Maria stepped forward. Without unnecessary words, with a light smile and the confidence of a professional, she began to speak. Sometimes in German, sometimes in Korean, sometimes in Portuguese — she switched between languages easily, like a conductor leading an orchestra. But what impressed everyone most was not the number of languages — nine! — but her ability to find emotional accents, to add warmth to the conversation, making it lively and human.

The CEO, who happened to overhear the dialogue, froze. He stood in the doorway, watching how this woman, whom he had previously noticed only in passing, became the center of attention. She was not just translating words — she was creating trust. She united people, helping them understand each other not only by meaning but also by intonation, gesture, and gaze.

When the meeting ended, applause came not only from the guests but also from her own team. The CEO gathered the entire office and made an official announcement: Maria was to receive a new position — coordinator of international communications. Everyone was amazed, but no one was surprised. After all, it had long been known that behind her simple job lay enormous potential.

Maria accepted the offer with gratitude and excitement. But she did not forget her roots. Instead of completely leaving her former role, she continued to be a link between people. Only now her functions expanded: she organized language clubs, held workshops on cultural adaptation, and taught colleagues basic phrases in different languages.

The office began to change. People started communicating more often, more friendly, taking an interest in each other. During breaks, one could hear not only conversations about projects but also attempts to say “thank you” in Italian or “hello” in Japanese. Maria showed that knowing a language is not just a profession — it is a path to understanding, respect, and unity.

With each passing month, the company gained momentum. Business ties with foreign partners grew stronger, new markets opened, and international deals were concluded faster and more easily. The team became not just a group — it became a family where everyone felt their importance and value.

A few months later, at the annual meeting, the CEO said a phrase that later became a motto in the company:
“Never underestimate the power of a person. Behind the most modest positions may hide great talents. And if we learn to see them, our company will become not just successful — it will become special.”

But it was more than just knowing languages. Under Maria’s influence, a new mentality began to form within the team — a culture of mutual understanding, openness, and respect for every team member. She not only spoke different languages but also “spoke” the language of human relationships. Her presence became the starting point for a real cultural revolution inside the company.

Maria proposed an initiative that quickly became a tradition — the “World Cultures Day.” Once a month, the entire office turned into a mini-global forum: employees shared stories about their native countries, demonstrated dances, prepared national dishes, talked about daily life and customs. It became not just entertainment — it became a way to get closer to each other, to understand that behind every person lies a whole universe of experience, memories, and traditions.

These events quickly won the hearts of the team. They helped break down walls of formality, creating an atmosphere of trust and support. People began to see colleagues not just as job performers but as personalities with their own unique stories. And this, as it turned out, had great significance for team cohesion and work productivity.

The CEO, observing the ongoing changes, felt pride not only for the company but also for the atmosphere that prevailed here. He began regularly holding meetings where, instead of dry reports, stories of success, gratitude, and recognition were shared. He personally emphasized that every employee is an important part of the big machine, and that the company’s success is built not only on financial indicators but also on human capital.

For him, Maria became a living example that a person’s true value is not defined by their position. She proved that even those who remain out of the spotlight can be the driving force of change. Her name became a symbol of the opportunities that a company able to see and hear everyone opens up.

Over time, the reputation of this organization began to change. It became known as a place where individuality is truly valued, development is supported, and there is room for growth. Specialists from different corners of the world began to be attracted to the company — people with different experience, mindsets, and approaches, but united by the desire to work in an environment where they will be accepted and heard.

Among those already part of the company, a spirit of continuous development began to grow. Employees became more active in learning new things: attending trainings, mastering additional skills, participating in international exchanges. What was previously perceived as “extra” now became part of the corporate culture — the desire to be better, broader, more interesting.

Maria’s story became not just an internal office legend. It went beyond the company and began to inspire others — managers, HR specialists, young professionals. She became a vivid proof that true leaders are born not only in offices with city views but also where attention seems unlikely. That leadership is not a title, but the ability to see opportunities, awaken faith, and lead even if you started with a broom in your hands.

Her path showed that when an organization is open, inclusive, and respects everyone, it becomes not just successful but truly alive. Such companies create communities capable of great things. Because at the core of everything are people. And each of them can become that important link that changes everything.

And although Maria began her career as a cleaning lady, her journey became a symbol not only of personal triumph but also of the possibilities that arise when we truly look at each other with the eyes of the heart. When we are not afraid to notice talent, even if it is hidden behind the simplest appearance. Because such people are capable not only of changing their place in the world — they are capable of changing the world around them.

Hello,” Katya answered in a trembling voice. She couldn’t stand nighttime calls from unknown numbers — she always sensed something bad in them. Such calls had come only twice in her life: the first time when her mother died, the second when her husband, Nikita, passed away.

“Ekaterina?”

A wave of ice swept through her body. Fragmented thoughts flashed through her mind: “Say it’s a mistake! Wrap the phone in the blanket! This isn’t for you!”

“Yes, I’m listening,” she said, barely holding herself together, though inside she was shaking and her back was covered in cold sweat.

“Ekaterina, sorry, I don’t know your patronymic. We have a patient — Klavdiya Mikhaylovna Vasilyeva — and she asked us to inform you.”

Everything inside Katya broke. It was her mother-in-law — the last person who remained close after all the losses.

“What’s wrong with her? What happened? Where is she? I’m coming right now!”

“Don’t worry so much,” came the voice on the line. “She’s in cardiology. Had a heart attack, now in intensive care. But her condition is stable, it’s been managed. They won’t let you see her yet. Come, but better in a couple of days. Everything will be fine, just don’t get upset.”

The call ended, but Katya couldn’t calm down for a long time. How was this possible? Klavdiya Mikhaylovna was a woman with iron health. She was the one who supported her daughter-in-law after her son’s death, when Katya’s world collapsed beneath her feet. Logically, she should have been the one to fall, not the one to lift others up.

What could have happened? Such a strong, still not old woman — a heart attack? Katya wiped her tears and resolutely got out of bed. She no longer felt like sleeping.

The hospital would explain everything. Maybe Klavdiya Mikhaylovna needed something — tea, water, a shirt change. Katya quickly got ready, though she knew perfectly well that her mother-in-law spent the whole summer at the dacha. There was a cozy house, blooming garden, neat vegetable beds. Katya loved coming there — she could just pick something right off the ground, and it seemed nothing tasted better in the world.

The nurse met Katya with an unfriendly look.

“I didn’t expect you to come. I told you — the patient is in intensive care, no visitors allowed.”

“Can I talk to the doctor? He works there.”

“Doctors talk during the day.”

Katya stubbornly sat down on a chair.

“I won’t leave until I talk. And she probably needs something.”

The nurse shook her head.

“She doesn’t need anything now. Only when she was brought in, she whispered something about tomatoes — like she hadn’t had time to water them, now they’ll all wilt. Sit here, I’ll tell the doctor to come.”

The doctor did come but didn’t add anything new. The nurse relayed everything exactly: no help is needed for at least two or three days. Then you can call the station and get updates. Katya looked at him through tears.

“Don’t worry,” the doctor said gently. “She’s a strong woman. I think she’ll cope. Something just shocked her badly. Sometimes the heart just fails suddenly like that.”

Leaving the hospital, Katya recalled the nurse’s words about the tomatoes. So she had to go to the dacha — check how things were, water the garden, tidy up. She’d take a day off — and go.

She should have thought about it earlier. Why didn’t she? Was it really so hard to come and help? Klavdiya Mikhaylovna was not a stranger to her. They always had warm, almost familial relations. After Nikita’s death, it was her mother-in-law who became her support and close person.

Katya had trusting, warm ties with both Nikita and his mother. They often laughed together, joked, teased each other. Once, when Klavdiya Mikhaylovna had pneumonia, her son dropped everything and stayed in the hospital until the doctors said the danger was over.

The same was with her: if Nikita missed a call even once, she began to worry. But despite the love, she never pressured or imposed — she was caring but cautious.

By morning the city woke up, the usual bustle began. Katya finally packed her bag, took a deep breath, and picked up the phone. Now she had to tell her boss she was taking a couple of days off, then she could go. It was about thirty minutes by car to the dacha settlement.

She had a car — a gift from Nikita, bought several months before his death. Since that event, she had not driven once. The fear still lived somewhere inside.

The dacha greeted her with silence and tranquility. Katya smiled gently at the old house: “Don’t worry, everything will be fine.” As always, Klavdiya Mikhaylovna kept exemplary order.

Ekaterina walked around the yard: not a single unnecessary blade of grass, flowerbeds in perfect condition, flowers everywhere. Now she would water the flowerpots — they needed moistening twice a day, and the rest of the beds in the evening, when the sun began to set. That’s exactly how her mother-in-law had taught her when Katya visited.

“Katya, is that you?” called a neighbor from afar. The woman turned — a neighbor who lived next to her mother-in-law’s dacha was approaching.

“Yes, hello,” Katya replied.

“Hello, dear. What’s going on with Klava? I was just in town that day shopping, came back — and she was already taken away.”

“Her heart failed. She’s now in intensive care, but the doctors say her condition is serious but stable. They said maybe something really shocked her.”

“What kind of stress? It’s always so peaceful here.”

“Who called the ambulance?”

“I don’t know, I thought you knew. Everyone’s been going to town these days — pensions are being paid.”

Katya sighed. It seemed impossible to find out the exact reason for what happened now.

She unpacked her things — she planned to stay for a whole week — and went out to water the flowers. When Klavdiya Mikhaylovna recovered, she had to see everything in perfect order.

The house once looked completely different — this was where her mother-in-law was born and raised. Later, she moved to live outside the city, and the house remained with her parents. It was empty for some time until Nikita decided to renovate it. Together with his parents, they completely redid the place, and now it was a small but cozy and modern country house.

Katya took a bucket, remembering that flowers prefer warm water, and decided to refill it after watering by going down to the well.

As soon as she reached for the chain to hook the bucket, a man’s voice sounded nearby:

“Allow me to help?”

Katya startled and almost dropped the bucket. She sharply turned — and the world blurred before her eyes. Standing before her was… Nikita.

“Hey, what’s wrong? Snap out of it! What kind of people faint at once? Maybe call an ambulance?”

Katya opened her eyes. The stranger bent over her, frowning with concern.

“Do I know you? And why do you look so much like Nikita?”

“Like Nikita?” he hesitated slightly. “That’s interesting. Let me help you up.”

Katya stood up, automatically brushing off her pants.

“Who are you anyway? I’ve never seen you before. Is it because of you that Klavdiya Mikhaylovna got sick?”

“Because of me?” the man was surprised. “I didn’t even know that woman. I just wanted to ask a few questions. Now I realize I got to the right place.”

Katya pointed to the house:

“Come in, or the neighbors will notice — they might faint too.”

“Do I really look that much alike?” he followed inside. “Most likely, the one I’m looking for. But why does everyone react so strangely?”

“You… you look very much like my husband. The son of Klavdiya Mikhaylovna. He died two years ago.”

The man froze as if he had been struck.

“Dead? It can’t be! And I thought I’d finally meet…”

Katya silently went into the house, brewed tea, and put the cups on the table. They both sat down.

“If you don’t explain everything properly now, honestly, I’ll go crazy.”

The stranger sighed:

“I only recently learned the whole story. Started digging through old papers. I can tell you what I know. I thought I could figure it out here, but now I doubt it. You definitely can’t ask your mother-in-law anything now.”

“We’ll ask later.”

“I’m twenty-seven, and my mother seriously got sick. Before she died, she confessed that I’m not her biological son. She said twenty-seven years ago she was brought to the maternity hospital with two other women. One was very young, expecting twins. The second was from a village. And my mother. All three had difficult pregnancies and gave birth prematurely. It ended with that woman and my mother giving birth to children, but not very healthy ones. Then the girl who gave birth to twins came to their ward. She was crying, begging them to take her children — she said she couldn’t handle it. The father refused them; there were no relatives. How they arranged everything — unknown. But my mother and that woman went home with the children. The girl had a death certificate for her sons. That’s how it all happened. My mother only remembered the name of the village where that woman lived. There are three such villages in your region. Yours is the third. And here I am.”

Katya went pale:

“So, Klavdiya Mikhaylovna knew about this?”

“She didn’t tell me. I didn’t want to disturb her. Decided to ask the locals first.”

“Now it’s clear… But what to do? She had a heart attack, and how to ask her about this — I have no idea.”

“We’ll wait. If she remembers me — we’ll decide what to do. If not — I’ll leave. I just wanted to find my brother.”

“And your real mother? Don’t you want to find her?”

The man shook his head:

“No. I don’t want to.”

“Too bad. Maybe she had her reasons. She took care to make sure you ended up in a good family.”

Meanwhile, the phone rang again. Katya took the receiver, her heart pounding: “Please, let nothing new have happened!”

“Hello, Katya.”

“Klavdiya Mikhaylovna! How are you feeling?”

“Katya, I shouldn’t talk much, but I persuaded the nurse to give me the phone. Listen carefully — you need to go to the dacha urgently. Nikita’s brother is there. You mustn’t let him leave. No matter what. I’ll explain everything when you can come.”

“Klavdiya Mikhaylovna, we’ve already met. He will wait for you.”

Her mother-in-law immediately calmed down.

“Good. That’s right. I must tell him about his mother… Forgive me, Katya, for keeping silent before. I couldn’t decide.”

“Did Nikita know?”

“No. He always considered us family. And that was true for him.”

Two weeks later, Klavdiya Mikhaylovna was discharged. Misha — Nikita’s brother — met her with Katya. The mother-in-law hugged him tightly, as if he were her own son.

“Let’s go to the cemetery.”

They approached Katya’s husband’s grave.

“I asked for him to be buried here… nearby,” said Klavdiya Mikhaylovna, stepping aside. “And here lies your mother, Misha.”

Misha entered the fenced area.

“I helped as much as I could. Nina fought for seven years… seven years — and that’s it. She was a kind woman, but life was hard for her. Trouble after trouble. Don’t judge her harshly. She just couldn’t do otherwise. All three of you could have died. She came to see me several times when Nikita was still little. She said she even saw you… But your mother asked her not to show up anymore. That’s how she lived her life with this pain. Her guilt just ate her inside.”

They sat long at the cemetery. Klavdiya Mikhaylovna spoke, and Katya and Misha listened without interrupting. In the evening, all together they went to the dacha. The mother-in-law looked at the guests and smiled:

“Mish, you… don’t disappear.”

“How could I!” he replied. “For two days now I’ve been thinking: maybe I should move here completely?”

And a year later, Klavdiya Mikhaylovna called Katya to her home.

“Katya, do you think I don’t see anything? Don’t understand?”

Ekaterina burst into tears:

“Forgive me… Forgive me… I didn’t expect things to turn out this way…”

“What are you apologizing for? Stop it right now!” her mother-in-law said softly but firmly. “I wanted to tell you something else: it’s time for you to stop hiding. Get your paperwork done.”

Katya looked at her in surprise:

“You… you don’t mind?”

“Not at all, dear! I’m all for it! I really want you to stay close to me. Although maybe that’s just my selfish old age wish.”

A year later, she and Misha had a daughter — Verochka.

Katya looked at Roman in stunned disbelief. She couldn’t accept his words — they seemed absurd to her. How was this even possible?

“Rom, please tell me you’re joking?” she said in a trembling voice.

“Say it’s just a silly game. We’ll laugh, and then you’ll hug me like always. Please say it, Romochka…”

She folded her hands in front of her as if pleading, but his face remained stone cold. He wasn’t joking. This was the end of their relationship. Real, harsh, without any irony. He had just left her when she needed his support the most.

“Kitten, I’m really sorry…” he said quietly. “It’s true. But you have to understand me. You always understood me. I thought I was ready for this, but now I realize — I’m not. I wanted to be the man you saw me as. I can’t. I’m too young to bind myself with such obligations. I think you’ll understand anyway. It’s better if we break up.”

Katya turned pale. Her lips trembled. Why was he hurting her? She loved him, was ready to do anything for him.

“But you told me…” she whispered. “I asked you… How can you say this now? You know nothing can be changed anymore! You promised everything would be fine, that I could count on you! I trusted you, Roma…” bitterness laced her voice.

She feverishly searched for words that could change his mind. Any arguments to make him stay.

“Everything will be different than you think,” she pleaded. “I won’t hold you back. I’ll try to do everything myself, only asking for help occasionally. Just let me be near you. I need you. Don’t leave me now when it’s so hard. I can’t manage alone. I need your support. Your love. Please…”

She almost humiliated herself begging him to stay. But Roman responded coldly. When she touched his hand, he shrugged it off as if the touch disgusted him.

“You all say the same things,” he said, clenching his jaw. “First ‘I won’t bother you,’ then ‘come home early,’ ‘don’t go anywhere,’ ‘forget your friends.’ Then I start to hate you. And you hate me even sooner. Better to part now. It will hurt less. Nothing ties us.”

Katya sharply raised her eyebrows.

“Nothing?” she whispered, lowering her eyes. “Are you sure about that?”

Roman hesitated slightly and looked away.

“I think it’s a woman’s choice. And I just wanted to be good. Didn’t work out. Now I have to live my life. The way I want. And no one has the right to forbid me. There’s nothing left to talk about. Sorry.”

He got up from the table, preparing to leave.

“Is this your final decision?” Katya asked. “Will we never see each other again?”

He looked at her one last time. His gaze was full of determination.

“Yes. Better forget about me. Good luck. Goodbye.”

And he left. Leaving her alone at the empty table where a moment ago they had been a couple.

A minute later a waitress approached her:

“Will you be ordering anything?”

“No… no, nothing,” Katya answered, trying to speak calmly.

The girl looked at her critically and frowned.

“Then please free up the table. This isn’t a shelter for the homeless. If you don’t order, you have to leave. Otherwise the manager will call security.”

Katya looked around confused. People at nearby tables were clearly listening. “They probably heard everything,” she thought. Slowly she stood up, lowering her eyes, and left the café.

Outside she breathed in the cold air. Her head spun. She instinctively placed her hands on her stomach.

“Don’t be afraid, baby. I’m with you. I won’t leave you.”

Roma was gone. But inside her remained a tiny life she could not give up. It became her meaning. And even if the father didn’t want to be near — she would be a mother who would love him endlessly.

Katya and Roman met about a year ago. She was eighteen, just starting university. He was twenty-three. Already working, stable, and to her, the man of her dreams. The passion that flared between them caught them off guard. They became close, and Katya believed his promises. Or rather, she wanted to believe.

But the relationship was nothing like she imagined. When Katya told him she was pregnant, Roman hesitated at first. She noticed fear in his eyes. But he hugged her and said everything would be fine. That they would marry. That he was happy about the child.

And Katya believed. To her, that meant they would have a family. A small but their own world.

She had no parents. She and her grandmother squeezed into a one-room apartment. But she immediately told her about the upcoming wedding and the baby. Although her grandmother did not approve of their rushed decision, she was still glad: “Now someone will be near.”

Roman said they needed some time — to arrange the paperwork, prepare everything necessary. Katya did not doubt. She waited. He continued saying beautiful words. Until today, when he announced he was leaving.

Now she walked the streets feeling cold inside, realizing she was pregnant and alone. Working with a belly was difficult. Studying — uncertain. They would live on her grandmother’s pension. And she would have to explain to her grandmother that the wedding was not going to happen. That Roman was just a beautiful deception.

Somewhere deep inside she thought: “If only I had known… Maybe I would have terminated the pregnancy?”

But now it was too late. Love clouded her mind. And now, having taken off the rose-colored glasses, one thing was clear: Roman didn’t believe in anything. He was just lying. Without malice, without villainy — just lying.

Katya felt a chill run through her. She couldn’t stand still — in her light coat she would freeze fast. She had to keep moving. Slowly, she headed home. After fifteen minutes, her legs grew heavy and her throat dried from thirst.

It was about eleven at night; no open stores around. Only ahead, the flickering sign “Barracuda.” It was a small café where one could sit until two in the morning. Not a club, but a cozy place for slow evenings.

Katya decided to go in for at least a glass of water. She had a few coins in her pocket — enough for the simplest thing. She needed to gather her thoughts and figure out what to say to her grandmother. The girl entered. It was noisy here — just what she needed. Silence would be unbearable.

Looking around, Katya noticed free seats at the counter. She sighed with relief and sat on a high stool — her legs refused to support her. It had been a long time since she walked so far.

The bartender noticed the new visitor and approached her. He was young, pleasant-looking, with an open smile. Katya watched him joke with customers, how easily they laughed. For a moment, she thought his kindness might extend to her. She wanted at least a little warmth.

If only she had known what this evening would bring, she would never have crossed the threshold of this place.

A couple of minutes later, the bartender was beside her.

“Hello! Glad to welcome you here. What will you order?”

“Just a glass of water, please?” Katya asked quietly. “And how much will it cost?”

The young man frowned, scrutinizing her carefully. Probably no one came here just for water. But he still smiled.

“Choose any water from the menu.”

The girl opened the menu, found the right section, and widened her eyes in surprise.

“That expensive? For ordinary bottled water?”

The bartender darkened again.

“We’re a decent place. Prices are appropriate.”

Katya lowered her eyes.

“I can’t afford that. It’s too much for me.”

He thought for a moment, then offered:

“Alright, I’ll bring you plain tap water if that’s okay.”

Katya nodded gratefully. While he went away, she took off her coat — it was warm inside. When he returned, the bartender handed her the glass, but suddenly his expression changed sharply. His gaze slid below eye level — to the girl’s belly.

“You’re pregnant?”

Her heart clenched. Katya nodded briefly.

“I’m nineteen. I’m an adult. I just wanted to warm up and drink.”

But instead of a reply, he spoke in a completely different tone:

“Get out of here, now! As soon as I realized you weren’t here for drinks, trouble started to smell. We’re not a charity here. If they see you here, they’ll call the cops. You understand? Better leave yourself before I call security.”

Katya jumped up.

“Why are you treating me like this? I didn’t do anything wrong!”

“Oh, the saint has appeared!” he snorted. “If you’re not homeless, then why are you walking alone so late with a belly? You think I’m stupid? You want to sit, then ask for money, then a place to stay… Maybe you came to beg? Or planning to give up the baby?”

Tears welled in her eyes.

“This is my child! I just wanted water and a little rest.”

“That’s it, end of conversation. Get out before I regret it.”

He grabbed her hand and almost forcibly pushed her outside. Katya almost fell. The last thing she saw was the name on the badge: Daniel. And a small star on his cheek, like a mole.

She stood on the sidewalk, clutching her coat and purse, thinking: “Why is everyone chasing me away? What did I do?”

But there were no more tears. Only cold. And determination inside.

“Everything will be fine, baby,” she whispered, placing a hand on her belly. “We’ll manage. I won’t let you disappear.”

Four years passed.

Katya hurried to work. The bus crawled like a turtle, and the girl fiddled with the edge of her scarf, afraid to be late. At the hospital, she was appreciated, and the boss didn’t like delays.

Having given birth prematurely, she went through many hardships. It was tough with her grandmother — money, sleep, constant care. Angelina was a capricious child, but Katya didn’t give up. Her grandmother knitted on order, and Katya studied — first online, then at the university. She took an academic leave but returned as soon as she could.

Starting as a nurse assistant in intensive care, she began her path in medicine. In a year, she was promised a nurse position, in two — to finish university, then specialization. She dreamed of becoming a surgeon. It might be hard, but she believed she could.

The bus stopped. Katya jumped off first, checked the time — on time. Approaching the hospital building, she smiled. How grateful she was to have chosen this path! Medicine helped her find herself. After the father of her child left, she realized one thing: you can only count on yourself. No more illusions, no more expectations from others. Only action. Only results. Only family — the one she created herself.

At the hospital entrance, Katya noticed a young man sitting on the steps. He held his head in his hands and gently rocked back and forth.

“What’s wrong with him? Why isn’t he asking for help?” she thought.

Approaching, she softly asked:

“Young man, are you okay? Do you need help? What happened? Can you speak? Look at me.”

The guy slowly raised his head. Katya froze. His face was tortured, eyes tearful, skin with an earthy tone from lack of sleep and stress. Tears ran down his cheeks — apparently, he had been crying for a long time.

But that wasn’t what stopped her breath. She recognized him. Before her was the very bartender — Daniel. He was the one who once kicked her out of the bar, pregnant, alone, broken. She still remembered his name on the badge and the small star tattoo near his left eye — the very one noticeable only up close.

Daniel tried to say something, but his voice broke into sobs.

“My wife… the child… they were in an accident… I don’t know if they’re alive… I screamed, I hit the doctor… Now they don’t even let me into intensive care… Please, help me find out anything…”

Katya was silent. She wanted to leave. Wanted to ignore him as he had once done to her. But her legs didn’t obey. Fate had brought them together again, and now she couldn’t just walk by.

“I work here,” she said quietly. “Wait for me. I’ll try to find out news.”

He clung to those words like to a last hope.

“God, am I really lucky? Please, find out something! At least tell me — are they alive?”

Katya nodded and went inside. The doctors knew her, trusted her. She managed to get into the right offices, promised to handle it. When she returned, it was already dawn. The guy was still sitting in the same place.

“Your wife is okay. She had emergency surgery. You have a daughter. Both alive. Tomorrow you’ll be allowed to see your wife, but you’ll have to wait a little with the baby — she’s still in intensive care for observation. I explained that you’re repentant. They will accept you.”

Daniel rushed to her and hugged tightly. Katya didn’t expect this but did not pull away. He whispered words of gratitude, trembling all over.

“I want to name her after you. What’s your name?”

“Katya. But you don’t have to. That would be too strange…”

“No, it would be right!” he exclaimed. “You gave me a second chance at life. I’ll never forget your kind heart.”

Katya smiled slightly.

“And I won’t forget how you once kicked me out of the bar. Without reason. Without sympathy. Just because I was pregnant, tired, and asking for water.”

Daniel went pale. He looked at her, unable to say a word. A flash of realization hit him like a blow.

“It was you… God… I didn’t recognize you… I’m sorry… Forgive me… I didn’t know what I was doing back then… I was a fool… I’m so ashamed…”

Katya sighed softly.

“I didn’t want to be that girl asking for help either. But you were my first test of strength. After that incident, I understood: you can’t count on others. Only on yourself. And thanks to you, I changed. So… no, I won’t be angry. That’s the past.”

He cautiously extended his hand; she responded with a handshake.

“Forgive me. And thank you. I won’t make those mistakes again.”

“All right. Go home, rest. Tomorrow you’ll see your wife. Just promise — no more outbursts of anger. Otherwise, I’ll have to stand up for you again — and get scolded by the boss.”

He smiled through tears. Katya smiled back.

Two days later, starting a night shift, Katya found a large gift bag on her desk. Inside — a box of chocolates, a bottle of champagne, and a basket of fruit. A neat note read: “Thank you for a second life. Respectfully, Daniel.”

Katya smiled.

The resentments were gone. There was no room for pain anymore. Only the future. The one she built with her own hands.

Their daughter Lena disappeared in 1990 — on the day of her graduation.

It was a warm June night. The sky was sprinkled with stars, and the house smelled of lilacs and fresh baking — her mother had baked her favorite vanilla cake. Lena was twirling in front of the mirror in a blue dress, laughing, and her father, Nikolay, watching her, suddenly thought: «This is true happiness…»

But no one could have known that this would be their last evening together.

After the graduation party, Lena never came back home. Not that night, not the next day, not even a week later. The search went on for a long time, but it was all in vain. The police shrugged their shoulders, witnesses’ statements contradicted each other, and the only lead — stories about a girl on the highway — turned out to be false.

Years passed. Olga, her mother, almost stopped leaving the house. Nikolay aged prematurely. Hope, like a small flame in an old lamp, gradually faded.

And then — the year 2012.

One rainy October day, Nikolay was going up to the attic to tidy up. The air was full of dust; around him were boxes with books, old toys, and junk. Suddenly, he found a photo album. The very one — with childhood photos of Lena: school performances, summer trips, first grade…

Opening it, he felt his heart tighten with memories. Here she was in her school uniform, there with friends in the yard. But one photo looked unfamiliar. It definitely hadn’t been there before.

In the picture — an adult Lena, about thirty years old, standing by a wooden house against a mountain backdrop. On the back was written: “2002. I am alive. Forgive me.”

Nikolay almost dropped the album. His hands shook.

From that moment, a new chapter in his life began — the search for answers. Who put this photo there? How did it get into the album? Where had Lena been all those years?

Coming downstairs, Nikolay silently handed the photo to his wife. Olga took it with trembling hands, looked closely — and froze. A cautious, painful hope ignited in her eyes.

“This is her… This is Lena…”

They sat for long hours in silence, unable to look away from the photo. The color was a bit faded, but the details were clear: the little house, the mountains, and in the background — a sign: “Gostinica ‘Zvezda’” (Hotel “Star”).

Nikolay brought a magnifying glass. With difficulty, they read: “2002. I am alive. Forgive me. L.”

“She was alive…” he whispered. “For twelve years… and said not a word. Why?..”

The next morning Nikolay started searching. On the internet, he found a hotel with that name — in Kyrgyzstan, in a small mountain village. Without hesitation, he packed, withdrew money from his account, and set off.

The journey was long: train, transfers, bus, and finally an old minibus winding through the mountains. The higher he climbed, the colder the air became. When he was almost there, Nikolay’s heart pounded as if it wanted to burst out.

The hotel was there. An old sign, a familiar facade. Inside smelled of wood and time. Behind the counter sat a middle-aged woman.

“Excuse me,” Nikolay began with a trembling voice. “Do you know a woman named Lena? Lena Nikolayeva. Maybe she lived here about ten years ago…”

The woman looked at him intently.

“Wait. You’re Nikolay? Her father?”

He froze.

“Yes…”

She approached, opened a drawer, and took out a worn envelope. On it was written in large letters: “To Dad. Only if he comes himself.”

Nikolay’s hands trembled as he tore open the envelope.

“Dad.

If you are reading this — it means I was wrong. I ran away then, in 1990. Not from you — from fear. I fell in with a bad crowd. And then it became too late to come back. I was ashamed.

I am alive. I have a son. His name is Artyom. He has never known you.

Many times I planned to write, but I didn’t dare.

If you came — find me. I am not far.

Forgive me.

L.”

Nikolay read the letter several times until tears began to drip onto the paper. He didn’t even notice his hands shaking.

“She lives in a nearby village,” the woman said. “If you want, I can take you there.”

And so he stood at the doorstep of a small village house. In the garden, a boy about ten years old was playing. A tall, dark-haired woman appeared nearby. Their eyes met.

Lena.

She froze. So did he.

“Dad?”

He couldn’t say anything. Only nodded. And in the next moment, he was holding her in his arms — tightly, just like back then, many years ago.

“Forgive me…” she whispered. “I will fix everything. I promise.”

Several more years passed. The house once again echoed with laughter. The boy named Artyom called Nikolay “grandpa,” and Olga, for the first time in twenty years, planted flowers by the porch again.

The pain of the past sometimes reminded them of itself. But now the photo album stood on the shelf, open. On the last page — a photo of the whole family: Lena, Artyom, Nikolay, and Olga.

And the caption:

“Family is when you find each other. Even after twenty-two years.”

The autumn of 2013 was especially warm. Leaves fell slowly, and the air was filled with the scent of apples, dry grass, and something new — hope.

Olga sat on the veranda peeling potatoes, holding an old knitted blanket on her lap. From inside came the voice of her grandson:

“Grandpa, did you really work on a tractor?”

“Really!” Nikolay laughed. “And not just worked — I was the best driver in the district!”

Artyom, a cheerful boy with lively eyes, loved grandpa’s stories. Especially those times when there were no smartphones, and life seemed like a movie.

Lena came out to the porch.

“Lunch!” she called. “Artyom, call grandpa.”

Nikolay came closer, looked carefully at his daughter.

“You know… every day I’m afraid I’ll wake up — and you’ll be gone again.”

Lena lowered her eyes.

“I was afraid too. That you wouldn’t accept me. Wouldn’t forgive me.”

“Silly girl,” he said softly. “How could anyone not forgive their own daughter?”

One day Olga was taking winter clothes from the attic and came across an old box. Inside lay a leather diary — worn, with Lena’s handwriting.

At first, she wanted to close it. But then she opened it at random.

“I worked as a cleaner, then in the kitchen. I lived in a corner with an old woman and cats. Sometimes it felt like I was long dead. I wanted to come back. But I didn’t have the strength…”

“When Artyom was born, I felt needed again. I swore: if fate gives me a chance — I will return. Explain everything. Even after twenty years.”

Olga sat with the diary for a long time. Then went to the kitchen, made tea, and silently hugged her daughter.

“Don’t disappear anymore, do you hear?”

Lena nodded, unable to speak.

A few months later, a man appeared at the doorstep. Tall, with graying hair, eyes full of the past. Nikolay opened the door and immediately understood: this was a part of their family’s pain.

“Hello. My name is Stanislav. I… knew Lena. In 1990. I… apologize.”

They sat on a bench. Lena came out later, saw the visitor — and paled.

Stanislav told how he was the guy Lena fell in love with at the graduation. He promised her freedom without rules. Then he abandoned her. Disappeared when things got hard. Only many years later did he find out she had a son.

“I don’t ask for forgiveness. I just wanted you to know: I didn’t forget either.”

Lena was silent for a long time. Then calmly said:

“Now we can move on.”

“I forgave long ago,” Lena said quietly. “But not for you. For myself. To live on.”

Stanislav left. And with him, it seemed, vanished the last ghost of the past.

The New Year brought warmth, laughter, and again that same album. Now it had new pages — Artyom himself glued in photos: school pictures, walks, fishing with grandpa.

On the last one, he wrote:

“Family is not those who stay nearby always. It’s those who return.”

Seven years passed. Artyom turned fifteen. He grew taller than his mother, started wearing glasses, and got interested in photography. He often went into the forest with a backpack, camera, and notebook.

He loved photographing places where memories remained: abandoned houses, rusty swings, campfire traces. He called it “traces of life.”

Nikolay could no longer run after his grandson like before. His heart grew weak, his legs failed him. But every morning he still sat by the window with a cup of tea, watching Artyom leave the gate with his camera.

“We have a real artist growing up,” he said proudly. “Only instead of a brush — a camera.”

Olga grew calmer over the years. Her smile remained the same, but now her eyes held something deep — as if she had found inner balance.

Lena began teaching literature at the local school. The students respected her. Life finally found meaning, rhythm, and a place to stay for a long time.

But time went on. And with it — everything inevitable.

One spring day, Nikolay did not wake up.

He left quietly, as he had lived in recent years. On the bedside table, they found an old photo: Lena in her graduation dress, with Olga next to her — young, laughing.

Artyom stood in the garden for a long time, holding his grandfather’s album. He opened it to the last page and inserted a new photo — Nikolay in his chair, with his grandson on his lap.

The caption read:

“You taught me to remember. Thank you, grandpa.”

Five more years passed.

Artyom entered a university in Moscow, in the photography and journalism faculty. He often wrote home. Each letter started the same way:

“Hi Mom. I miss you. I remember.”

A year after Nikolay’s death, Olga passed away. Lena remained alone in the house — but not lonely. She had books, memories, and a son who came every holiday, bringing stories and photos from around the world.

In the spring, she took out that very photo from 2002 — where she stands by the mountain house with the inscription “I am alive. Forgive me.”

Turning the back, she added:

“Now I really live. And, it seems, I have finally forgiven myself.”

The year 2025.

Artyom, grown up, returns to his native home. With a camera, notebook, and one big idea — to write a book. About family, about memory, about the girl who came back after twenty-two years.

He opens the old album. On the first page — Lena as a child. On the last — himself, with his mother under a blooming apple tree.

On the last spread, he writes:

“The story doesn’t end if someone remembers it. This is our story. The story of return.”

Artyom often returned to the house where his childhood was spent. He didn’t move back for good — he left city life, work, shoots, festivals. But every time he crossed the threshold, he felt like he was returning to something important, something close.

The house stood. The blooming apple tree blossomed every spring as before. Artyom cared for it — trimmed branches, whitewashed the trunk. He called it “the tree of memory.”

Lena’s books, albums, Nikolay’s thermos, Olga’s herbs — everything remained as it was. Once, sorting old things, he found an envelope without a signature. Only a date: 1990.

Inside — a letter from Lena, written on the day she disappeared.

“If you are reading this — it means I have left. Don’t look for me. I need another life. Forgive me if you can. I will return when I deserve your forgiveness.”

Artyom held the letter for a long time. Then placed it next to the one Lena wrote in 2002. They seemed to reflect each other — fear and regret. Flight and return.

He photographed them and carefully put them back.

Lena aged beautifully. Without complaints, with dignity. Something deep appeared in her eyes — like those who have been through a lot and understood the main thing.

She no longer blamed herself. Forgave — not immediately, but truly. Everything she could give her son, she gave. The rest — let time take it away.

They often sat on the porch in silence. Artyom asked questions about the past — about grandmother, about school, about the guy she left with in 1990.

Lena didn’t always answer right away.

“I thought then I was running to freedom. But later I realized — I was just running from myself. But… if I hadn’t run away, you wouldn’t exist. And without you, I wouldn’t have survived. That’s all.”

Artyom listened. Sometimes turned on a voice recorder. These conversations were to become part of his book.

In 2026, Artyom’s book was published. It was simply called: “Photo Album.”

It included photos, letters, Lena’s monologues, Olga’s diary entries, stories about Nikolay. It was all true. Pain, regret, love, forgiveness. Family — not perfect, but alive.

The book unexpectedly found thousands of readers. Because it was real.

Lena was invited to presentations. She was afraid of public speaking, but once went on stage and said just one thing:

“Thank you for remembering us. Because when we are remembered — we are alive.”

Autumn 2030.

Lena left quietly, as her father once did. Artyom found her — sitting in a chair by the window, with a book on her lap and the first photo in her hands.

He buried her next to her parents, under the apple tree.

Then he sat there for a long time. In silence. Without tears.

He took his camera and took one last shot: the tree in the autumn light, the inscription on the tombstone:

“Nikolay, Olga, Lena. The Nikolayev Family.”

Underneath, he added:

“They found each other. And I — found them.”

He stood up. And walked on.

With memory in his heart. With a camera in his hands. And with a story that now only he kept.

Years passed.

Artyom lived in St. Petersburg. He had his own studio, students, exhibitions. He never called himself a photographer — he said:

“I just catch the breath of time.”

In the corner of his studio was a locked cabinet. There were old things: the album, letters, a voice recorder with his mother’s voice, grandmother’s herbs in paper bundles. He rarely opened it. Only when he missed them especially.

One spring day, he came back to the village again.

The house had changed — a new roof, an open veranda. But the garden remained the same. And the apple tree — blooming, alive.

Artyom walked through the garden. Took off his shoes. The ground was cool, like in childhood. He stood under the tree, raised his camera — and took one last shot. Not for an exhibition, not for a book. Just because he wanted it.

The photo remained in the camera. Artyom no longer printed those pictures.

Because he knew: the main thing was already captured. Everything that needed to be said — was said. Everything that needed to be found — was found.

He sat on the bench and closed his eyes.

And suddenly heard — light footsteps. As if his mother came out of the house. As if grandmother was carrying tea. As if grandpa was laughing somewhere near the shed.

And at that moment he understood:

No one really leaves. They just become silence, wind, light between the leaves.

And if you truly remember — you are with them. Always.

Natalya, a woman of respectable age, as always, opened her eyes long before dawn — when the sun hadn’t even thought of appearing on the horizon yet. For many decades, she was used to greeting the morning first: in the village, you simply cannot relax. Laziness doesn’t go unnoticed here — whether it’s milking the cow, weeding the beds before the heat, or finishing up household chores. Everything is scheduled from the night before.

But today, it was not the care of the household that acted as her alarm clock. The house had long been running on its own: two young daughters-in-law skillfully managed all the affairs, and her sons were not the type to idle about. Natalya could have allowed herself a little more rest, but the old habit of getting up at the crack of dawn stayed with her. She simply liked this quiet, pre-dawn time, when the whole world still sleeps, and you are alone with yourself. You could calmly knead dough, bake bread or buns, set the table for breakfast — as if life was worth living just for this.

But that morning, her thoughts were occupied by something else. The day before, her neighbor Klavdiya had boasted about a rich haul of mushrooms — a basket full of birch boletus, woolly milk-caps, chanterelles, and russulas. That caught Natalya’s attention. She decided — I’ll go to the forest too, maybe luck will smile on me.

Quickly setting the table, putting on simple clothes, and taking an empty basket, Natalya headed for the door. Everything around was shrouded in silence — no creaks, no conversations, only roosters crowing, testing their voices. The woman walked along the familiar path, past the last houses hiding at the edge of the woods.

“Natash, where are you off to so early?” a voice suddenly sounded nearby.

Natalya jumped and sharply turned around.

“You scared me half to death, Ivanych!” she exhaled, recognizing the neighbor — a lonely middle-aged man, whose character was, of course, peculiar, but kind in his own way.

“Well, I was waiting for you,” he smirked, adjusting his mustache. “I wanted to find out where my favorite neighbor goes for her daily exercise. Your Danila’s been gone for a long time, but you’re still the same… lively one.”

“Misha, you’ve completely lost your mind,” Natalya snorted, but a sly look flashed in her eyes. “We’re almost the same age! And I doubt any dates await us. I’m just going for mushrooms. Before others rush in.”

“Ah, I see,” he nodded. “So Klavdiya’s basket inspired you? I’ve been itching to go for a long time too. Only no one to share it with. You at least live with family, and I’m alone as a finger.”

“Your own fault,” Natalya sighed, her gaze softening slightly. “After Marusya, you didn’t think about anyone else. And so many girls used to follow you!”

For a moment, pain flickered in Mikhail’s eyes. He looked away.

“Well, alright, Nikitichna,” he said, “go before they take everything. Soon people will come from other villages too.”

“You’re like water on fire — just say a word, and you flare up,” Natalya grumbled. “I just reminded you. Okay, goodbye.”

She picked up her basket from the ground and walked on without looking back. Mikhail watched her go, shook his head:

“Curious magpie… Wants to know everything…”

He remained standing by the fence, looking long in the direction where the neighbor disappeared, and sighed heavily. How could he talk about what had hurt inside him all these years?

Mikhail loved Marusya with all his soul. They were happy together. But they had no children. Once, that was considered something insurmountable. Marusya believed a miracle would happen. And it almost did.

For nine months, they prepared for the child’s birth. Mikhail literally carried his wife in his arms. But it all ended tragically — premature birth, surgery… Neither she nor the baby survived.

Since then, he withdrew into himself. Grief became his second “self.” He moved to the village where Marusya grew up and shut himself within four walls. People saw him as a strange, silent man. Only Natalya did not let him disappear completely — she often dropped by, teased him, spun different stories, as if she knew everything about his past.

One day, a stranger showed up at his place. Asked to spend the night. Mikhail agreed. Half an hour later, terrible screams came from the house. What happened there — no one knows. In the morning, the man left, and Mikhail remained as if nothing had happened. Just as silent, just as lonely.

Sometimes other people came to him too. Unknown, quiet. And again, screams were heard. Horrible, heartbreaking. But no one dared to ask directly. Everyone just tried to keep their distance, as if Mikhail carried something terrible, inexplicable within him.

Natalya still thought about Mikhail as she briskly walked toward the forest. It seemed to her as if someone was watching from behind — a gaze so cold and persistent that goosebumps ran down her skin. She was almost sure: it was Ivanych watching her from afar. But as soon as familiar birch bolete caps flickered in the thicket, the anxiety vanished without a trace. Mushrooms! That was why it was worth waking up before everyone else.

With every mushroom she found, her hunter’s instinct awoke inside. Natalya loved the “quiet hunt” — she could wander the forest for hours as if in a trance, losing sense of time and space.

She got so engrossed that she didn’t notice she had wandered too far — into places local mushroom pickers tried to avoid. Only when her foot unexpectedly sank into soft, sticky swamp did she come to her senses.

“Lord, have mercy!” the woman gasped, hastily stepping back. “This is the Wolf Swamp… How did I get here? Well, Natalya, you really got carried away, as they say…”

She hadn’t even turned around when an icy chill ran down her spine — as if an invisible hand touched her back. Her heart pounded. From the depths came a strange, prolonged moan. The woman shuddered, stepped back frightened — and at that moment heard someone’s agonizing scream of pain.

“Is there anyone here?!” she called out, tensing her whole body.

From the bushes came a weak voice:

“Help… Please…”

Natalya felt everything inside her tighten. Fear, curiosity, compassion — all mixed in one moment. Looking around, she noticed a strange movement among the hummocks. Approaching closer, she realized: it wasn’t a hummock but a person stuck to the neck in the mire.

“Hold on! I’ll pull you out!” she exclaimed, quickly placing the basket on dry ground and rushing to help.

Freeing the person was not easy — the swamp held him as if unwilling to let go. But Natalya did not give up. After about ten minutes, she managed to pull the woman onto firm land. She was covered in mud, trembling, and crying.

“You’re not a man at all! Who are you anyway? Where did you come from?”

“I… don’t remember,” the stranger croaked. “No name, no face… nothing…”

“That’s something,” Natalya frowned. “Alright, no time to lose. Come with me to the village, we’ll figure it out there. Can you walk?”

The woman shook her head:

“No… My back hurts. My legs won’t obey…”

“So what now — should I leave you here?” Natalya snorted. “Let’s go slowly. We’ll find a stick — you can lean on it. It’s not the first time I’ve dealt with this.”

They moved back slowly and painfully. Natalya supported the stranger with one hand, dragged the baskets with the other. At some point, strength began to leave her.

“We need to rest,” she sighed, falling onto the grass. “Everything aches already. And you’re trembling with pain. Come on, say something. You’re from the city, right? Your clothes don’t look ours — sneakers, jacket, backpack. Maybe your family is looking for you?”

“I don’t remember anything,” whispered the woman.

“Yeah… this is serious. I’ll run to the village, get help. Meanwhile, you move slowly in that direction — see the hill? The road is behind it. Take my scarf, so they notice you right away.”

Natalya took off the white scarf and handed it to the woman:

“I won’t abandon you. I just have no strength left.”

After a couple of hours, barely lifting her feet, she reached the road. And as if on purpose — the first person she met was Mikhail. He was carrying hay on a cart, driving an old horse.

“Wow, who do I meet!” he smirked. “Nikitichna, where have you been? You think wolves don’t eat such tasty morsels?”

“Misha, this is no joke!” Natalya exclaimed. “I found a woman in the swamp. Not from here. She lost her memory. Help!”

Mikhail immediately became serious. Learning where the girl was, he turned the horse in the right direction.

“You go home,” he said. “Family must be worried. I’ll take her myself.”

Natalya nodded and went home, glancing back. Mikhail soon noticed the white scarf in the twilight. He rode up and called out:

“Is that you? Natalya sent me.”

The woman looked at him fearfully but whispered:

“Thank you…”

“Get on, you’ll thank me later,” he grumbled, helping her onto the cart.

With effort, he lifted her into the hay, and the woman, gritting her teeth from pain, settled among the fresh summer hay. The smell was so familiar that she involuntarily relaxed.

When they reached his house, Mikhail carefully helped her down and led her to the door.

“Come in,” he said. “I’ll return the horse to the owner — it’s not mine. An old man got sick, I’m taking hay to him. Rain is coming tomorrow, need to hurry.”

He smiled under his mustache:

“Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back — we’ll have dinner.”

The woman nodded, looked at him gratefully, and heavily sat down on the porch steps. She had no strength left.

When Mikhail returned home, he found an unexpected scene: Natalya sat next to the woman on the steps, gently, almost motherly, stroking her shoulder, trying to calm her.

“Oh, there you are, Ivanych,” she stood up to greet him. “Listen, I’d take her to my place, honestly. But we’re cramped — no room to sit or turn around. I told her you’re a kind and reliable man. Let her not be afraid.”

Mikhail’s face darkened, he cast a brief glance at Natalya and the guest, and said quietly:

“We’ll handle it quietly. Okay, Nikitichna, go home. She needs rest now. Come by tomorrow — maybe she’ll come to her senses.”

Natalya pouted displeased — his tone clearly did not please her. She was about to remind him who saved the woman from the swamp when Mikhail was already supporting the girl by the arm and leading her into the house, leaving the neighbor alone on the porch.

Shrugging and grumbling to herself, Natalya turned and walked away.

Inside the house, Mikhail helped the woman wash, brought clean clothes — garments long stored in a chest. These were the clothes of his late wife. When the woman changed, he led her to the kitchen, carefully seated her at the table, and went to the stove where a pot of food was simmering.

“I’ll fix dinner now,” he said, stirring the stew. “Maybe you’ll tell me who you are and where from?”

“I don’t know…” she sighed painfully. “Everything’s like in a fog. Alive — but my mind is empty…”

She suddenly looked at her shirt, smoothed the hem, and quietly asked:

“Are these… your wife’s clothes?”

“Yes,” Mikhail nodded. Paused a little and added calmly: “I had Mashenka… She’s gone.”

The woman pondered as if recalling something. Suddenly she spoke:

“I’m also… my name is Maria too. Masha. You said ‘Mashenka’ — and something clicked in my head. I remembered my name.”

Mikhail smiled for the first time that evening — truly, sincerely.

“Well, that’s a start. So not all is lost. Maybe soon the rest will come back. But for now — let’s eat.”

But the night was restless for Mikhail. He couldn’t sleep for a long time, listening to rustlings behind the wall where Maria tossed on the old bed. Thoughts jumbled, heavy, unpleasant, but the man kept them inside, not letting them out.

The morning was cold. Mikhail got up with the first rays of the sun, put on the kettle, and bustled in the kitchen when Maria, staggering, entered the room.

“So, did it get easier during the night?” he asked.

“No… Still hurts,” she complained. “Especially my back. Arms and legs feel foreign. I can’t even bend — everything aches…”

“That’s the thing,” Mikhail nodded. “Come with me.”

He led her to another room where there was a wooden bench covered with an embroidered towel and pointed to it:

“Sit down. I’ll be back soon.”

A minute later he returned holding a wooden mallet and a short stake sharpened at one end.

“Take off your shirt and lie on your stomach,” he said calmly. “Don’t be afraid. I’m, you could say, a village bonesetter. Even people come from the city to me. Only here they don’t like to talk about it — everyone thinks I’m just a weirdo.”

He smirked.

“My grandfather did this, then my father. I learned everything from them. I’ll help you, honestly. Lie down, Masha. You have nothing to lose, and it won’t get worse.”

Maria looked at him cautiously but obeyed. Taking off her jacket, she carefully lay down on the bench, stretched out her arms. Mikhail put a folded towel on her back, placed the stake on a point between the vertebrae, and with one sharp blow caused the woman to scream wildly.

The pain pierced her body like a thunderclap. Maria jerked, but Mikhail gently but firmly held her. He worked methodically — blow after blow, going along the spine, feeling each displaced vertebra, each hidden clamp.

That very evening, Natalya approached Mikhail’s house. Curiosity tormented her — she was eager to find out how the woman she pulled out of the swamp was doing. Having climbed the porch, she was about to knock when suddenly she heard a desperate female scream from inside.

Natalya paled. Without thinking a second, she turned and rushed to the local policeman — convinced that the neighbor had finally lost his mind and was torturing the poor woman.

The police arrived quickly. They were prepared for the worst — blood, tears, horror… But what they saw inside surprised them. At the kitchen table, Mikhail and his guest sat calmly, drinking tea, even laughing.

“You should have seen him with that mallet!” the woman still sniffled with laughter, wiping tears. “I thought it was the end for me! And now… thank you! I can raise my hands, and my back hardly hurts!”

Mikhail just nodded:

“It will only get better every day. Just do as I say — and you’ll stand on your feet for good.”

The policeman looked around the room puzzled:

“So what’s going on here?”

When Mikhail realized why the police came, he just shook his head and began to explain everything calmly, like a man. Hearing the story, the policeman addressed the woman:

“Is this true?”

“Yes, that’s how it was,” she confirmed, looking him straight in the eyes.

The policeman frowned, studying her face carefully, and suddenly said:

“Wait… You are Maria Kulikova? Your husband is looking for you. There were announcements everywhere. But you live in a completely different region. How did you end up here?”

Maria sighed deeply and firmly:

“He brought me here himself and abandoned me. Sergey started seeing someone else, and I became a burden to him. He decided that without help and with a sore back, I wouldn’t survive in this swamp. Just left me to die like an old thing.”

“But why did you agree to go with him?” the policeman didn’t understand.

“He said he wanted to arrange a romantic walk,” she smiled bitterly. “I had no idea… When he led me deep into the forest and just left, leaving me alone, I realized: it was not a walk, but a trap.”

Mikhail looked at her thoughtfully:

“So you didn’t lose your memory?”

“No,” she shook her head. “I just didn’t want to remember anything. Wanted to forget everything. But I won’t go back to him. He wanted me dead.”

A voice full of mocking sympathy came from the doorway:

“Such a scoundrel should be punished.”

“Well, here comes the magpie!” Mikhail snorted, seeing Natalya enter. “Maybe next time, stop by to see me before troubling the whole village?”

“Ivanych, forgive me!” Natalya spread her hands. “I thought you were torturing her there! She was screaming, you could hear it for miles! But you’re healing! And anyway, it was about time you said you could do this! My back has been aching for years…”

Everyone laughed — even Maria smiled through her exhaustion.

“Alright, Nikitichna, I’ll take care of your back too,” Mikhail promised. “You’ll feel like new — you won’t recognize yourself!”

Meanwhile, the policeman continued:

“Maria, we have to take you home. But first, we need to file a report against your husband. He thought if he reported you lost in the city, no one would look for you two hundred kilometers from home…”

The woman shook her head:

“I can’t. I’m afraid of him. He might snap.”

“Then let her stay with me for now,” Mikhail said firmly. “But she’ll write the statement anyway. People must answer for their actions.”

“Just let me call my parents,” Maria asked. “Let them know I’m alive.”

Three days later, Maria’s mother and father arrived at Mikhail’s house. They were simple, kind people, filled with gratitude. They stayed for several days, helped around the house, went to the forest with Natalya — for mushrooms and just to be in nature. In the evenings, they had long talks at the common table, laughed, and drank tea.

Meanwhile, Sergey was found. He was questioned, and the trial promised to be strict — the charge was serious.

When it was time to say goodbye, there were tears, hugs, and words of deep gratitude. After they left, the house again fell into its usual silence.

One evening, Natalya, sitting next to Mikhail on the bench, carefully asked:

“Listen, Ivanych… Will she stay with you? Forever?”

“Who?” he was surprised.

“Maria, who else!” Natalya smiled. “I thought, well, maybe a wedding will follow.”

Mikhail laughed:

“Come on, Natasha. She’s young, beautiful. She has her own path. And I have mine. And my heart has always belonged to one — my Marusenka. I can’t be otherwise. I won’t betray her.”

Natalya looked down:

“I understand… Sorry, I said too much. I just feel sorry for you.”

“Don’t pity me,” he smiled. “I’m quite happy. In my own way. And with a neighbor like you, I never get bored. One day a swamp castaway, the next police…”

“All right, all right, I’ve apologized a hundred times already!” Natalya snorted. “And you really can fix backs?”

“I can,” Mikhail nodded. “Tomorrow morning I’ll go to the forest, and then we’ll deal with your aches.”

“To the forest? Why?” she didn’t understand.

“I’ll gather nettle. For people like you, troublemakers, it quickly sets the mind right. Just a little tickle — and you’ll run like a young one!”

“Are you crazy?!” Natalya’s eyes went wide. “I believed you!” — but seeing Mikhail bursting out laughing, she laughed too. “Oh, you joker, Ivanych…”

“I know,” he smirked. “You can’t get away. But it’s okay, I’ll heal you. Promise.”

Natalya smiled warmly. Now she felt she could rely on Mikhail. And somewhere deep inside, she understood — she would no longer let him be alone. Because he is a good man.

Varvara sat at the head of her husband’s bed, not daring to move. Anton Mikhailovich was asleep — a heavy, disease-weakened man. For him to rest even a little, Varvara patiently waited for him to wake. Half an hour ago, the nurse had given him an injection, and now sleep brought brief relief.

She knew it wouldn’t last long. The pain returned quickly, too often. Glinskaya decided to wait — she was used to this routine.

Anton was 56 years old and was gradually fading away. He urgently needed a liver transplant, but his chances were growing slimmer. They had been on the waiting list for a long time, but the queue moved slowly. And the man had no relatives left.

Varvara looked out the window beside the bed and thought about the past. Life with Anton had never been easy, but she tried to be a faithful wife. She had once promised to be with him through all times — in sorrow and joy, in poverty and wealth. And she tried to keep that promise.

Varvara Prichepina’s journey to the big city began in 1985. After finishing eight grades at the village school, she decided to leave her native countryside. Nothing kept her at the collective farm — especially after seeing her mother’s example, who had worked her whole life as a milkmaid.

Valentina Egorovna woke up at four in the morning, stoked the stove, cooked porridge for the animals, milked the cows, fed the chickens and the goat Mashka. At home, chores awaited her too. This went on every day without days off, until she fell exhausted onto the bed in the evening.

Her daughter grew up alone, raised by a mother who did everything possible to ensure the girl lacked nothing. But Varvara didn’t want to repeat her mother’s fate.

“I’m not going to work on a farm all my life,” she said before leaving. “I want to live in the city, be well-off, wear heels, go to concerts — not to the milking.”

“Do you think the city’s waiting for you?” her mother answered bitterly. “There are plenty like you there! Stay, finish school, then we’ll see. Maybe you’ll become an agronomist or a livestock specialist.”

“Never!” Varvara retorted. “If I study, it’s to live in the city. I won’t come back. And you, Mom, don’t worry. I’ll come home for holidays and then bring you with me.”

Valentina Egorovna only waved her hand. She wasn’t going to leave home. And she didn’t believe her daughter would succeed in the city. “She’ll come back,” she thought. “And she’ll need a home.”

The mother knew her daughter well. Varvara was lazy, a poor student. While her mother worked from dawn, the daughter woke up around noon. Valentina understood she should have taught her to work from childhood, but pity always won out. So the girl grew spoiled.

Varvara went to the city with her school friends — Tatyana Grushina and Nina Uvarova. They enrolled in a trade school and got a dorm room as out-of-towners.

Within a month, Varvara realized how good her home with her mother was. The city was harsher than she thought. But she had no intention of going back: “If others can succeed, so can I,” she told herself.

At first, Varvara was afraid even to go out alone at night, but over time she adjusted. In the evenings, she and her friends went to dances and concerts by local performers. Most performances were outdoors, and to get inside tickets weren’t required — you could just stand behind the fence.

One day, walking near the stadium, the girls met a group of young men. They were clearly not village boys — stylish, in expensive clothes, holding guitars. The young men noticed the girls and offered to take them inside.

It turned out they were members of a student band, set to perform as the opening act for the main group.

That’s how Varvara met her first man — Alexander Timofeev. It was with him that she became pregnant and made a quick decision that affected her entire future. The abortion caused infertility. The thought still pained her.

When she was 20, she couldn’t imagine she would ever regret it. But years passed, and Varvara never experienced the joy of motherhood.

Anton never blamed her for that. He didn’t want children and was generally not inclined toward love. Varvara always understood: he was indifferent to her. It was simply convenient for him to be with her. Only recently did she begin to doubt that.

Varvara Glinskaya met Anton when she was already an adult woman. After trade school, she got a job as a salesperson in a large supermarket — in those years when shortages were everywhere, and real goods were “under the counter.”

Gradually, Varvara built connections, made useful contacts, and her phonebook literally swelled with numbers. By the early ’90s, she moved to a food warehouse — the place where her new life began.

The first day at work shocked her: warehouses overflowed with goods, while store shelves were empty. Varvara immediately realized — here was a place to build a career. And she was right.

She liked the job very much. She never imagined so many opportunities. In a few years, Varvara bought a two-room apartment and a “Zhiguli” car. It was the job of her dreams.

Of course, the warehouse manager took risks and often broke laws, but in those difficult years when the country was in crisis and on the brink of collapse, people like Varvara were almost unnoticed.

“Varvara, when will you finally stop? You bring home all kinds of junk — trinkets, rags… Is that happiness?” complained her mother, Valentina Egorovna, whom Varvara had nevertheless brought from the village to the city, against all odds and as promised.

“Oh, Mom, enough. What else is happiness if not having enough? I can afford anything I want. And what I can’t — I’ll definitely get! Think about it: if not for this apartment, where would I bring you from the village — to my dorm? And you’d have to walk three versts to the clinic. Now I can drive you like a real queen,” Varvara smiled, and her mother just sighed.

“For a woman, happiness is family, children, a beloved man. And what do you have? Soon you’ll be thirty, but no family, no children. I’m afraid I won’t have grandchildren…”

Every time the subject of children came up, Varvara fell silent. Her mother didn’t know that her daughter had had an abortion in youth, which left her infertile. She simply thought Varvara had not yet met her destined one — the very person from whom children would be born and real family life would begin.

Valentina Egorovna, naive and believing in her daughter’s chastity, did not even suspect that Varvara had long been involved with a married director of a shoe factory. Naum Yakovlevich was the man who helped Varvarinka buy the apartment, gave her the car, and literally carried her on his hands.

Varvara’s closets were bursting with fashionable clothes, and the shoes — exclusive, from Italy, France, and even England — took up whole shelves. Her mother thought her daughter achieved everything herself, but in fact, most of the money came from her fifty-year-old lover.

It all ended suddenly when Naum left with his family to Israel. This news was a blow to Varvara. He had been preparing to emigrate for a long time but gave no hint to his beloved, fearing she would leave him for someone more reliable. Varvara was used to a well-off life, and Naum understood perfectly well — she was connected to him more for material comfort than love. Had he told the truth, Varvara would have immediately disappeared from his life.

After Naum’s departure, all of Varvara Semyonovna’s former life collapsed. She was fired and left without income. The apartment and car remained, but without money they were almost useless. She had to start over.

This cruel life twist made the woman reflect. Varvara decided to give up her frivolous lifestyle. The shock of her lover’s sudden departure became a turning point. She vowed never to get involved in relationships without a future again.

Now Varvara wanted to marry. But not just anyone — she needed a rich, caring man who could provide a comfortable life and not demand children. The best would be one who didn’t want offspring at all. Finding such a man was not easy.

But fate seemed to have mercy on Varvara Prichepina. Soon after parting with Naum, she met thirty-year-old Anton Mikhailovich Glinsky.

Varvara didn’t know exactly what Anton did, but one thing was clear — he had money. After their wedding, when Varvara complained about being unfairly fired, her husband simply bought her a shop. The woman was even taken aback — she didn’t expect anything like that and didn’t intend to work much.

However, that very shop soon became the target of local racketeers, and the business was simply taken away. Varvara was shocked. Anton just shrugged and showed no sign of distress. Gradually, Varvara began to understand that her husband’s money was not earned. He neither knew how to earn it nor how to manage it wisely.

Most likely, the funds were inherited or obtained by chance, or maybe even illegally. Varvara had no other explanation. Anton had no relatives, no friends either — at the wedding, only the neighbor Igor attended from the groom’s side, since no others were found.

After the wedding, the newlyweds moved into Anton’s three-room apartment. Varvara brought her mother, Valentina Egorovna, and her husband didn’t object. Varvara rented out her old apartment, and sold her mother’s house in the village. She understood she couldn’t count on her husband — he was clearly no new Count of Monte Cristo. As soon as the money ran out, she’d have to start over again.

It was then that Varvara got down to business. Having sold the house in the village, she opened a small bakery. The bread sold quickly; demand was high. Then she launched a bread stall at the market, and later mastered making French baguettes and croissants.

Varvara didn’t become rich, but she didn’t know want either. She wasn’t interested in large-scale business — it was enough to have a calm life. At least, in case of a divorce, she could live comfortably with her mother.

The couple lived strangely — each seemingly alone. Anton was silent, thoughtful, sometimes even sullen. Money apparently did not bring him joy. He spent it easily, not thinking about tomorrow. They hardly ever had heartfelt conversations.

How many times Varvara asked where he got such funds — Anton either dodged the answer or got angry. Varvara felt some heavy burden lay on her husband’s soul but could not understand what tormented him. Only once, ten years after their wedding, Anton opened up a little.

It happened during a vacation at a country house by a lake. They were celebrating their dating anniversary. September was warm, the Indian summer had come. At dinner by the campfire, after a few glasses of wine, her husband began to tell:

“My native village is also by water, but not a lake, a river. Around — forests… And what mushrooms in autumn — caps the size of two palms. Berries — everywhere, as if someone scattered them specially. In childhood, Andrey and I ran into the forest every morning, picked berries, and sold them to the state farm.”

Varvara was afraid to move, afraid her husband would stop talking. But he continued:

“Andrey and I also loved fishing. Sometimes we took Masha with us, but rarely. She mostly helped mother at home. Our mother went to the market early in the morning, and the household was on Masha.”

“Who are Andrey and Maria?” Varvara thought. “Brothers? Neighbor kids? Whose mother went to the market — Anton’s or those mysterious children’s?” But she kept silent, listening on.

“When the salmon spawned — pink, chum, sockeye — it was beautiful. We carefully gutted the fish, took out the roe, rinsed it, and put it back inside, sprinkled with salt. In the morning, we ate fresh roe.

Once, Andrey and I were riding our bikes on a bridge, and a bear came toward us. The bridge was narrow, no way to turn around. We stood, watching it, it watched us. I was scared to death and shielded Andrey. I thought it was the end. But the bear backed off, left the bridge, and went into the forest. Only then did we breathe a sigh of relief.”

“Who are Andrey and Maria?” Varvara quietly asked. “Are they your brother and sister?”

Not knowing what he was saying or realizing what he was revealing, Anton continued his path to confession…

Anton suddenly seemed to come to his senses. As if a sober awakening hit him on the head — he sharply came out of his memories, frowned, and said sharply:

“Go to sleep, Varvara. I have no relatives. How many times must I say it? Leave! I’ll stay a bit longer,” he said, refilling his glass with wine.

Varvara Semyonovna got angry. Why did her husband keep her in the dark? After all, she was not a stranger, but his wife!

“But how? You had parents, you didn’t just come from nowhere. You weren’t found in a cabbage patch, were you?” Varvara raised her voice.

“Maybe I was found in a cabbage patch. What’s it to you?” Anton shrugged.

In fact, Varvara was not very concerned about her husband’s relatives. Sometimes, curiosity overwhelmed her: what was Anton hiding? Why did he get angry when asked about his past? Sometimes this secret troubled her, and she even tried to find traces of the Glinsky family.

From documents, Varvara knew Anton’s parents’ names, learned that he was born on Sakhalin, studied there, served in the Navy in the Far East — and then everything stopped. She tried to find the Glinskys but soon gave up: “Why do I need this? My husband doesn’t want it, so neither do I. I have enough worries myself: mother is ill, her blood pressure fluctuates, and the business needs attention.”

Life doesn’t stand still — it moves forward rapidly, especially in the second half of life. And Varvara began to think about the value of time, about what’s important and what’s not. It became increasingly painful for her to hear children’s laughter, to see mothers with children on the playground. Her heart ached with the desire to be one of them.

Over the years, Varvara learned to appreciate her silent and sullen husband, especially after her mother, Valentina Egorovna, passed away. People say a person feels like a child as long as their parents are alive. After they’re gone, life changes, becomes different.

Now Anton was Varvara’s only close person. With him, there was no such terrible loneliness. This eternal grumbler and gloomy husband suddenly became her kindred soul. And the woman often regretted that they never became parents.

In today’s world, there are many opportunities to become parents. All chances had to be used. “Why didn’t we do it?” thought the fifty-year-old Varvara. One day she asked her husband:

“Anton, why have we never talked about a child? About our child?”

“I don’t need children. Neither before nor now. What’s the point? Only worries and pain,” he shrugged indifferently.

“What are you saying! Children are happiness! When I see happy mothers on the playground, I feel jealous. I really regret that we have no children.”

“That’s only one side of the coin, dear. Children are not only joy. Sleepless nights, fear for them, illnesses, disappointments. They can be ungrateful, leave you, forget… And you’ll be alone with your tears. I saw it with my own eyes. I know what I’m talking about.”

“Where did you see that?” Varvara tensed. Intuition told her — here it comes, the moment of truth.

“My real brother and sister are Andrey and Maria. They abandoned our mother, threw her out of the house, forgot her. And I was away… Listen,” Anton Glinsky began his story.

Tamara Nikolaevna and Mikhail Fyodorovich Glinsky loved children immensely, although for many years they couldn’t have any themselves. Still, they didn’t feel lonely — they worked as math teachers in a school in a small village. Children always surrounded them: came home, helped with chores, spent time.

Tamara Nikolaevna had a goat named Zoika that gave milk, vegetables grew in the garden. The couple accepted that they wouldn’t have their own children and lived for each other. But suddenly, when Tamara turned forty, a miracle happened — she became pregnant.

— Misha, what should we do? Everyone will laugh. They’ll say: soon to retire, and she’s gone and decided to have a baby, — the woman said embarrassedly, covering her cheeks with her palms.

— Of course, have the baby! Let them laugh — we don’t care. This is happiness — we’re going to have a child! — her husband replied.

It was 1965. In 1966, their son was born, named Anton — after Tamara Nikolaevna’s favorite writer, Anton Pavlovich Chekhov.

In those years, maternity leave was short — one and a half months before the birth and the same after. Another three months could be spent at home without pay. So after four and a half months, Tamara returned to teaching, and little Tosha was sent to the nursery.

Even more surprising was that four years later, the 44-year-old woman became pregnant again. Twins — Andrey and Maria — were born. Was it hard for a 45-year-old woman to raise three children? Of course, it was hard. But Tamara Nikolaevna managed.

Two schoolteachers couldn’t give the children everything, but they provided what was necessary — love, care, education. When the children turned eleven, Tamara became a pensioner but continued working at school.

The Glinki household grew: besides a goat, there were chickens, pigs, sheep, and geese. The vegetable harvest allowed them to sell surpluses at the market, bringing additional income.

The younger children helped reluctantly, but the eldest — Anton — was always a reliable support for his parents. Things became harder when he was drafted into the army’s naval fleet. He returned when his parents were over sixty, and the twins had finished school and enrolled in the pedagogical institute.

Anton supported their decision to study, stayed living with his parents, and got a job. He didn’t think about his personal life until his brother and sister graduated.

Two years after the young specialists graduated, their father died. Tamara Nikolaevna grieved heavily and her health declined. Then Anton decided to go to work elsewhere — money was needed to build his own house.

He reasoned: let the family home go to Masha — sooner or later she would marry, and the house would be her dowry. And he, as a man, had to start anew.

From letters from his sister, Anton learned news. He regularly sent money to make things easier for Maria and ensure their mother lacked nothing. He knew Andrey had moved to Moscow — he got a position in the capital after winning the «Teacher of the Year» competition and later joined the education department.

Anton was proud of his brother and thought how happy their mother must be. Though she could barely see and couldn’t write to her son herself, Masha read the letters aloud to her and sent mother’s greetings.

But one day, the letters stopped. Maria ceased contact. Anton did not wait and urgently returned home. What he found shook him to the core…

It turned out that one and a half months earlier, Maria had placed their mother in a nursing home and had gone to live with Andrey in Moscow. Anton couldn’t believe his ears — until he saw it with his own eyes. Tamara Nikolaevna lived in a room with three other women. Seeing her son, she started crying. Anton immediately took his mother home and stayed by her side until her very last day. And he never thought again about his brother and sister — he erased them from his life.

He took his mother for examinations in Moscow, hoping doctors could help restore her sight, but everywhere they just shrugged. Surgery gave no results. But Tamara Nikolaevna remained busy: she helped neighborhood children with math.

Former students brought their children or grandchildren with words:

— Only you, Tamara Nikolaevna, can manage this! Help my restless one — he’s been getting nothing but bad grades!

Tamara Nikolaevna never refused, and soon even the most incorrigible troublemaker proudly showed solid B’s or even A’s. She rejoiced in their success like a child, feeling needed and important.

She never spoke about Maria and Andrey, but Anton sometimes caught her in tears or noticed how she sifted through old children’s things in the closet, hugging them to her chest and breathing in familiar smells. This caused him unbearable pain.

Sometimes his mother asked:

— Son, why don’t you introduce me to a girl?

— What girl, Mom?

— Well, you should have married long ago. I want grandchildren to hold, hug little ones close to my heart, — sighed Tamara Nikolaevna.

—I don’t have a girlfriend, Mom. Apparently, no one likes me, — the son replied, hiding the real reasons. He had no intention of marrying. Neither now nor ever. He didn’t want children either — he’d had enough example from Andrey and Masha. Above all, he didn’t want to repeat his parents’ fate.

Anton had women — he was tall, strong, good-looking. But he didn’t form serious relationships with them, promised nothing, and didn’t bind himself with obligations.

—I don’t believe you, son. The Glinki men were always handsome. When I met your father, I was simply stunned — what a handsome man! And your grandfather, Fyodor, stayed healthy and handsome until old age. If he hadn’t been crushed by a tree at the lumberyard, he would have lived to be a hundred, — his mother insisted.

— A hundred’s a stretch, — Anton smirked.

— Don’t try to fool me, Antosha. Tell the truth: why don’t you marry?

But he didn’t want to upset his mother and confidently answered:

—I’m nobody. No education, no profession. I work wherever I can — here and there. Modern girls want rich, educated men.

Anton was about to leave the room, thinking the conversation was over, when his mother said:

— You’re not poor at all, son. I have my grandmother’s jewels — hidden since her death. Our family were exiles. I’m from a merchant family, a very wealthy one. We were from the Oryol province. Kochugurova is my maiden name. But your father was from poor folk. His family came to Sakhalin after the war from the Penza region.

Misha and I met here. My family arrived from the Far East, his — from Penza. We came during the mass settlement of Sakhalin freed from the Japanese. We were young specialists, working at school. That’s how we met and married. My father didn’t return from the war — missing in action. And Misha was alone — lost all relatives in the war. Life was good with your father. I still long for him. So, son, everything I have is inheritance for you and your brother and sister.

Tamara Nikolaevna fell silent and looked at her son.

— Mom, I don’t know where they are. They know where we are but never came, never wrote. They didn’t want to see you.

Anton lowered his head and covered his face with his hands.

— Son, let’s try to find them. We’ll file a search, find them by any means. There has to be a way, — his mother pleaded.

— Mom, aren’t you angry at them? They abandoned you. Especially Masha… — Anton waved his hand and turned away. He was crying.

—I have no anger. I’d just like to hug them once more in life…

Anton promised his mother he would look for his brother and sister. And he really did. He even found them. But he didn’t dare tell his mother.

Andrey refused to come:

— Lots of work, brother. Huge responsibility. You have no idea how many people I supervise! Maybe next year… Or spring. I don’t know, — he sighed.

Anton expected this answer but still hoped: “Maybe circumstances got in the way?” But what he heard broke his last illusions — and he stopped considering Andrey his brother.

Only Maria remained. But she didn’t even want to talk:

— Will you pay for my ticket to Sakhalin? Bright light! Did you even ask how I live? Do I have money for bread? — she shouted into the phone.

Anton held back:

— I’ll pay for the ticket. Come, Mom is waiting for you. Please.

With these words, he blushed — it was incredibly hard to say. He was ready to curse, pound his fist on the table, but for his mother’s sake he endured.

— Please? Did you ever ask me to come home sooner? But you’re always off working. Maybe because of you, I lost my first love, and now I’m alone with a child! — his sister burst into tears, clearly drunk.

Anton silently hung up. Several times more he tried to negotiate, but Maria alternated between crying, demanding money, and refusing to come. Of course, if he had told them about the jewels and inheritance, they would have come. But Anton didn’t want to be a tool of greed.

He dreamed his brother and sister would come because they missed home, because they loved their mother. But it didn’t happen.

Tamara Nikolaevna passed away quietly — at night, in her sleep.

Six months later Anton inherited, sold the house, and moved south. He bought a modest apartment, got a job, and lived without excessive ambitions. Part of the money went to the apartment purchase; the rest he saved — not used to handling large sums.

He didn’t intend to marry, and especially didn’t want children. He decided to live alone. But fate had other plans — he met Varvara.

Anton was thirty-five, Varvara about thirty. She was free, bold, determined, loved money, and dreamed of a wealthy life.

Why exactly she attracted him — he didn’t understand. Of course, looks mattered, but not only that. He had plenty of beauties before. Varvara was special — she simultaneously repelled and attracted, irritated and excited. Anton realized he couldn’t breathe without this woman.

Varvara set conditions clearly: either they become husband and wife, or part ways immediately. Anton agreed. And never regretted it. Hundreds of times he was sure Varvara was his fate. She was made for him, and he for her.

He supported her ambitions, indulged all her whims. Once even bought a shop, but it quickly disappeared from their lives, as if it never existed. However, Glinki regretted nothing. Only as he approached his 55th birthday did he wonder: “Could I have lived my life differently?”

Only now did Varvara begin showing interest in his past — asking about relatives, about children. Sometimes she looked at him as if she wanted something but didn’t dare say it aloud.

Before it seemed she didn’t need children. Now Anton caught himself thinking: “Maybe we really should have had a child? Then Varvara wouldn’t look at me like a stray dog.”

When he was diagnosed, his thoughts returned to children. “If I’m gone, who will Varvara have? Who will she tell about her days, who will drink morning coffee with her? She doesn’t even have anyone to call. Maybe she’ll get a pet? At least someone living nearby…”

Despite his illness, Glinki worried more about his wife. He hardly thought about himself. But his heart ached every time he saw her thoughtful gaze. What she thought about — he didn’t know.

And Varvara thought about how to save her husband. She was ready to be a donor herself but wasn’t suitable. They were on a waiting list, but the queue moved slowly. They could try related transplantation, but Anton had no relatives. Or rather, he did, but long ago severed all ties. Would they agree to help?

Varvara Semenovna wandered in thoughts like a closed circle. Didn’t know what to do, whom to trust, where to look for a way out.

Anton Mikhailovich Glinki died in November. November was cold and snowy. But Varvara, saying goodbye to her husband, felt nothing — neither the cold nor that her coat was unbuttoned and snow was already creeping under her dress and scarf.

She couldn’t pull herself together for a long time after the loss. Didn’t even manage to properly mourn him on the fortieth day. She met the New Year alone, cried a lot, remembered the past.

Everything at the French bakery went on as usual — manager Boris Ivanovich Feldman managed perfectly without the hostess. He was an old family friend, a reliable person, and Varvara trusted him.

Boris was also alone — his wife Rita left him for another man several years ago. Maybe their shared loneliness brought them closer, or maybe something else. In any case, lately they started talking a lot. Now Varvara consulted him on every issue. And she hadn’t realized how wise he was before.

— Borya, I want to sell the apartment. It’s scary there. Everything reminds me of Anton…

— I agree. Sell it. It will help you. You’ll be busy with repairs, moving — time will pass, it will get easier.

— Really?

— I’m sure. I’d sell my apartment and buy a house myself. Somewhere outside the city.

— By the lake? With forest around?

— Could be by the lake, — Feldman pondered. — I’ll help anyway: with moving and repairs. And I also have something for you. I met a girl and I think…

Varvara laughed:

— Old goat, Borya. Back to your old tricks? Haven’t you had enough of Margarita who robbed and left you?

— Eh, Varenka, so what? What should I do with money if not with women? They love my money, I love them — why not make each other happy?

Feldman hugged his friend and ran off laughing. And Varvara thought: “How lonely he is. Like me.”

Varvara firmly decided to sell the apartment and buy a house. On Sunday she woke up with that intention. Decided to do a thorough cleaning to show the place to a realtor: let him evaluate, set the price, start selling, and immediately look for a house.

She cleaned carefully — moved furniture, washed floors and baseboards. In the room with the old sofa Anton used as part of his personal space, she barely moved it and froze.

Behind the sofa, low near the baseboard, was a built-in safe. Anton never let anyone clean in that room — he always did it himself. Before this, Varvara hadn’t paid attention to her husband’s oddness. “Let him dust his sanctuary himself.”

Now she bent down and saw the key sticking right in the lock. “Maybe he left it on purpose? Or just forgot?” — she thought and confidently opened the door.

Inside lay a letter and an antique women’s reticule stuffed with jewelry in cases. Varvara immediately realized — these were valuable things. Her first thought: “Did he steal them?”

With trembling hands, Varvara took out the letter. It was addressed to her. Written in small handwriting on several pages. In it, Anton wrote about his childhood, family, how he came to possess these jewels belonging to his great-grandmother.

The woman got angry: “Hundreds of thousands of dollars! That would have been enough for surgery abroad, for treatment… He knew he had this and just left? Left me alone? Damn you, Anton!” — and she cried.

In the letter, her husband asked her to give part of the jewelry to Andrey and Maria. He explained that he couldn’t forgive his relatives but also couldn’t use what didn’t belong to him. Addresses where his brother and sister lived were also indicated. It turns out he knew all his life where they were, watched them, but didn’t go to them.

—I won’t take anything! Won’t give anything to anyone! — Varvara said loudly. — All the money will go to me! I’ll buy a big house, a dog, a car, and go traveling! You deal with your family, Anton! I won’t run around the country for you!

But then she cried again and sat on the floor for a long time rereading the letter.

That night Varvara couldn’t fall asleep for a long time. Tossed and turned, sighed, got up, walked around the room. Only before dawn did she decide: she had to go to Moscow and meet her husband’s relatives — his brother and sister.

— Borya, hi. Are you sleeping? — Varvara dialed when the clock showed six in the morning.

— Hi. No, not sleeping. I’ve been waiting for your call all night, — Feldman replied grumpily. — What happened?

— Come with me to Moscow. I really need it. I’m afraid to go alone.

— Varya, let me at least have some coffee, take a shower… Why do you need to go to Moscow?

— Borya, I can’t explain everything over the phone. I don’t know where to start or what to do, — Varvara whispered.

Feldman immediately sat on the bed:

— Okay. Coffee’s brewing. I’m coming out now.

Boris and Varvara stood by a three-meter fence — so high they had never seen before. After a couple of minutes, a guard came to the gate and said:

— Mr. Glinki is currently at the city hall. When he’ll return is unknown.

— Can we contact him somehow? Or is his wife home? We came on very important business. I’m the wife of Andrey Mikhailovich’s older brother, — Varvara said quietly.

— Wait here, — the guard said and disappeared inside.

After a while, Boris and Varvara were already in a spacious hall. The hostess wasn’t in a hurry to meet guests. Varvara fidgeted on the couch:

— Borya, maybe we should leave? We sit like supplicants.

— Quiet, Varya, let’s wait. Since we came — we have to listen.

Another ten minutes passed and finally Mrs. Irina Vasilievna — Andrey’s wife — came down. Her face clearly showed irritation:

— Who are you? Hurry up, I’m busy. And anyway, my husband’s affairs don’t concern me.

—I am Varvara Semenovna Glinka, wife of Anton Mikhailovich — your husband’s older brother.

— Andryusha has a brother? — Irina asked sincerely surprised. — Wait a minute.

She immediately called her husband:

— Andrey, there’s a woman here saying she’s your mother-in-law or some unknown person — wife of your brother Anton. Is there such a person?

— Irisha, I have a meeting! Don’t disturb me! Ask what they want and show them out. I have no time for this.

Varvara heard this conversation, suddenly jumped up, snatched the phone from Irina’s hands:

— Andrey Mikhailovich! You bastard! Forgot how Anton saved you from a bear on the bridge?

She returned the phone to the stunned woman and sharply stood up:

— Let’s go, Boris Ivanovich. It smells like betrayal here.

Only once in a taxi did Varvara burst into tears:

— My poor Antoshka… Better to be an orphan than have a brother like Andrey.

Boris hugged her, and the car headed in a new direction — to the address where Anton’s deceased sister, Maria Glinka, was registered.

The house where Maria lived was sharply different from Andrey’s mansion. It was a two-story barrack beyond the bypass road. It seemed about to be demolished, but was still considered habitable.

— Borya, why did I come here? Why didn’t I spend that money on myself, like a normal person? Why do I need all this? — Varvara climbed the shaky stairs, reproaching herself for the foolish idea.

— Yeah, exactly. And you dragged me here. What if there are bedbugs? Let’s go home, — Feldman grumbled.

— Well, since we came — let’s see what’s here. We need to meet Maria, if only for peace of mind.

The door opened and a young woman, upon seeing the guests, started cursing and slammed the door right in Varvara’s face. She didn’t even manage to introduce herself.

At that moment, the neighboring door opened, and a curious old lady peeked out:

— Who are you looking for, children?

— We’re looking for Maria Glinka, — Varvara replied, confused.

— Oh, Mashka? She’s been gone for almost three years. Her lover beat her to death in a fight.

— What do you mean? — Varvara didn’t understand.

— Exactly that! You live like in another world. That’s — the old lady nodded toward the apartment — Mashka’s granddaughter, Ninka. Just as fiery as her mother was. Only Mashka raised her daughter somehow, but Ninka lost her girl. Social services took Varenka, — the neighbor wiped away a tear.

— Sorry, who’s Varenka?

The old lady pursed her lips:

— And Mashka still owes me three thousand. Now no one to demand it.

Varvara hurriedly took out her wallet, handed over the money:

—I’ll pay. Tell me everything you know about Varenka.

The pensioner immediately brightened and gestured them inside:

— Come in, dear guests. I’ll tell you everything down to the last detail. Almost from the day Mashka moved here.

It turned out that Nina, Maria’s daughter, was recently deprived of parental rights. The father was unknown — the girl was born when Nina was eighteen. Both women lived antisocial lives; social services long warned Nina that the child might be taken away. But only at eight years old did the girl first go to school — before that she wasn’t taken there. One day the child was taken away, then parental rights were finally revoked.

An hour later, Boris and Varvara were already leaving the yard. In the woman’s hands was a paper with the address of an orphanage, which she dictated immediately to the taxi driver.

— Varya, why do you need all this? — Boris asked tiredly.

—I’ll take Varenka. I’ll arrange guardianship and bring her to me. I’ll make her happy. I can do it.

— You never wanted children, — Feldman protested.

— Borya, don’t make me angry. I always loved them, just had no chance.

— Okay-okay, I’m quiet. Let’s go, — he sighed. — You know, near the fountain on Chernyshevsky there’s a good school. My second cousin works there…

Feldman talked non-stop, and Varvara looked out the window and smiled. The first ray of sun crawled out from the gray clouds, then the second. The gloomy day began to brighten. “That’s my life,” thought Varvara. Now there was sunlight in it again. The sun named Varya.

You’re making that sour face again. Maybe you should see a gastroenterologist?” Maria smirked without even turning around. She was chopping onions for the salad, but her hand trembled, and the knife hit the wooden board with a dull thud.

“Did you even hear what I said?” Alexey came closer and placed his palms on the table. They were just as limp as his attempts to seem decisive.
“What now?” Maria wiped her hands on a towel and turned around. “Don’t tell me you need another ‘small amount’ for your mommy again.”

“Well, yes. Small. Fifteen thousand. She…”
“Does she need money for her nails? Or does she urgently need to go to Sochi to ‘recover from stress’?” Maria crossed her arms. There was no malice in her voice, only exhaustion. The kind that clings to you like the smell of old oil on a kitchen curtain.

“She has a loan! She… she can’t pay it!” Alexey flared up like a candle in the wind.

“She took it herself. Let her pay it herself. I’m not her ATM, and you’re not her nanny. And if you’re okay being stuck between two women — congratulations, you’ve got a new job: ‘between a hammer and a rolling pin.’”

“You don’t understand. She’s my mom. She…”
“And me? Who am I? Just a convenient ATM with a good credit history?” Maria stepped closer. “I’ve been working two jobs since January, remember? I’m saving up for a car. For my own dream. Not so your mom can go shopping at the mall with a new purse.”

Alexey sat down at the table and pressed his palms to his face.

“You’re cruel, Masha. She’s sixty years old.”

“Uh-huh. And she behaves like a sixteen-year-old whose daddy buys her everything. And by the way, ‘she’s sixty’ is no excuse to order sushi every night and then complain, ‘the interest keeps piling up again.’”

“Well, she has a hard life…”
“Alexey, you’re an adult ass with a passport. You’re married. You live in an apartment you haven’t paid a penny for. And you sit in the kitchen telling me your mom is ‘a poor thing,’ so what does that make me? A witch with a cash register?”

He stood up abruptly.

“So it begins. Again. You should look at yourself. Everything is about ‘have to,’ everything’s on schedule. Even sex — on Tuesdays.”

“Uh-huh, and only if your mom doesn’t call with an ‘important question.’ Last time she sent you a link for a vacuum cleaner.”

“Because hers broke down!” he shouted.

Suddenly Maria laughed. Not with joy — with helplessness.

“Tell me honestly. Did you marry me or her?”

He was silent.

Silence had long been the universal answer in their family.

Maria turned to the stove. The kettle had long boiled. Steam curled under the ceiling like all their fights — unbearably hot and hard to breathe.

“I won’t give her any money, Lyosh. Not fifteen, not five. Zero. Everything I’m saving is for the car. I’m tired of riding the bus after a night shift and listening to someone spit in my ear.”

“That’s selfishness,” Alexey said more quietly.

“No. That’s maturity. Selfishness is when a grown woman takes out loans for cosmetics, knowing her son will ask his wife to pay the debts.”

He stood in the middle of the kitchen like a man who had lost something very important. But the loss was not a thing. The loss was in his face. In his eyes.

“And what if I still give her the money?” His voice was quiet, as if asking, “Will you leave me then?”

“Then pack your things and go to her. You don’t even have to call. Just leave.”

He didn’t answer. Just pressed his lips as if he wanted to say something, then changed his mind. Or understood it would only get worse.

That evening he slept on the couch in the living room. She — in the bedroom. Between them wasn’t a door. Between them was an abyss. Of resentment, debts, and women’s dreams that never got a chance.

For the first time in six years of marriage, she didn’t set an alarm for the night. Let tomorrow begin without a plan.

Alexey lay quietly on the couch, staring at the ceiling. The phone blinked on the nightstand. A message from “Mommy”:

“How’s Masha? Still not dead from anger?”

He didn’t answer. But his fingers trembled.

Because for the first time in six years, he understood what the real debt was. And to whom he owed it.

Saturday began with Alexey trying to cook porridge.

And in the end, he cooked what Maria would call “sticky plaster for walling.” She didn’t leave the bedroom. Just lay there, staring at the ceiling as if waiting for a hint to appear: “how to live with a man who fears his own mother more than the tax office.”

Alexey paced near the door like a guilty schoolboy.

“Maria…” he called hesitantly, opening the door slightly. “I made… breakfast. Want some?”

“If you put your arguments in it — no,” she answered calmly without turning.

He sighed and sat on the edge of the bed. Morning light filtered into the room, so gray it felt like the sky owed again.

“Listen. You do understand… Mom’s in trouble. She really has it bad.”

“She has ‘it bad’ every time I have a dream,” Maria turned and sat on the bed, elbows on her knees. “Did you notice? As soon as I start planning something — Elena Petrovna has a tooth problem, or the bank, or depression, all timed perfectly so I start thinking: she’s getting my texts from the bank.”

“You’re exaggerating,” Alexey frowned.

“Exaggerating? Let’s recall. Two years ago I was saving for courses — she got sick. Six months ago I wanted to start a business — her fridge burned out. And now I want to buy a car, and what? Again, poor, unfortunate victim of capitalism. With a debt her son somehow has to pay. That means me.”

“It’s not that simple,” he mumbled. “She really has no one except us.”

“She has no one because she burned everyone in the emotional crematorium,” Maria went to the window. “Her friends ran away because listening to her about her golden son is impossible without sedatives. Relatives disappeared because, forgive me, she stole other people’s raspberry bushes from the dacha ‘for cuttings.’ And you still believe she’s poor and unfortunate.”

“You don’t understand!” Alexey snapped. “She raised me alone! Alone, you know? Without help! Without a man! She worked hard!”

“And now she thinks she’s entitled for life,” Maria stepped closer, her voice hardening. “And who am I? An extra account in her bank?”

“You’re wrong,” he exhaled.

“No, Lyosh. You’re wrong. You’re not a husband. You’re a courier. Delivering money and excuses. I don’t want to live like this. I shouldn’t live like the second woman in the house. The woman of your life should be one. But you have two. Only one’s in the bedroom, the other on the phone.”

“Are you giving an ultimatum?”

“I’m putting a period, Lyosh. I’m not against helping. But when your mother pretends her problems are more important than ours, and you participate in it, I’m not a wife. I’m a statistic.”

Alexey sat, looking down. He wasn’t angry. He was… weak. That’s how he grew up. His mother decided everything for him. Then Maria. He just drifted. And now — he was sinking.

“I… I’ll talk to her,” he finally said.

“It’s too late,” Maria spread her hands. “I already said — I won’t give a single kopek. And you know, if after all this you send her money — I’ll understand everything.”

He nodded heavily as if a bag of sins had been hung around his neck. Got up and went to the hallway. Put on shoes.

“I’ll go to her. Talk. Maybe… somehow explain.”

Maria didn’t answer. Just watched him button his jacket. Slowly, awkwardly. Like a man who first realized: you can’t sit on two chairs any longer.

Alexey arrived at his mother’s around noon. Khrushchyovka building. Second floor. The smell of cats and boiled onions was already in the stairwell.

“Oh, you showed up,” Elena Petrovna greeted him in a colorful robe, curlers in her hair, lipstick. Red. Like her confidence in being right.

“Mom, we need to talk,” he started immediately, without taking off his coat.

“What, Masha yelled at you again… oh, sorry, ‘Maria’? Must be. So cultured. By the way, I wasn’t rude to her. She’s the one humiliating you.”

“Mom. Enough. I can’t keep begging my wife for money because you’re always in debt.”

“And who’s your wife? Your savior? I don’t care. She’d even take your socks if she could!”

“Mom. I’m serious.”

“I’m not! I gave you my life! And now you crawl before this… this… whining snake?!”

He looked at her like a stranger. She yelled, screamed, threatened — as usual. But now he heard only an echo in her voice. Empty, irritated, powerless.

“I won’t give you any money.” He said it quietly but firmly. “And I won’t ask Masha either.”

Mother fell silent. For a moment.

Then slapped him on the cheek. Not hard. But not playfully.

“Pathetic. Henpecked,” she hissed.

Alexey silently turned and left.

And for the first time in his life, didn’t look back.

He came home when it was already dark. Maria sat at the table with a cup of tea.

He took off his jacket and approached.

“I didn’t give her money,” he said simply.

“And she kicked you out?” Maria asked without emotion.

“Yes.”

“Well then,” she stood up. “Welcome to adult life.”

He looked at her as if for the first time.

As if all this time she stood at the other end of the room, in the shadows. And now — stepped into the light.

“I want to change everything,” he said.

“Then start with yourself, Lyosh. Not with your mother’s debts.”

And she went to the bedroom.

He stayed in the kitchen. Alone with the silence.

This time, it wasn’t angry. Just honest.

Sunday. Maria woke up early. The house smelled of coffee and fresh bread — Lyosha was trying. Trying quietly, carefully, as if afraid to disturb the fragile truce they’d signed yesterday without words.

He put a cup in front of her.

“With sugar. The way you like it.”

She looked at him. He seemed like a stranger. Not the one she shared everyday life, shopping, and endless talks about the dollar exchange rate with. This man stood before her with the eyes of someone who first stepped out of his mother’s shadow.

“I’ll go to Igor today,” he said. “I want to find out if he can help with mom’s loan. At least with advice. I won’t give her money. But we need to understand how she can get out of this.”

“Why?” Maria put down the cup. “She’s an adult. She made this mess — let her clean it up. That’s adult life.”

“Well, I can’t just abandon her…”

“I can.” She stood up. “Because I’m not thirteen, and I don’t have to earn anyone’s approval, especially a woman’s. Neither your mom’s, nor the downstairs neighbor’s, nor even yours.”

He was silent.

Maria stepped closer:

“I’m so tired of being third in your life. You belong to your mom. You always did. Even on our honeymoon you called her three times a day.”

“I understand…” he whispered.

“No, Lyosh. You don’t. You’re afraid. More than you love. And I won’t be with a man who’s afraid anymore.”

He sat down. Put his hands on his knees. His shoulders dropped.

“I don’t want to lose you.”

“And I don’t want to lose myself.” Maria took her jacket from the hanger. “I’m moving out.”

“Where?”

“To my own place.”

He didn’t ask any more questions. And it was the first time. No offense, no reproach. Just nodded. He understood.

A week later Maria rented a one-room apartment near the metro. No renovations, but with courtyard-facing windows and freedom. The first days she drank tea from a disposable cup and slept on a mattress. But she felt better than she had in the last two years.

Lyosha wrote. Calmly. Without hysterics.

“I’m working with a psychologist. I want to figure things out. I don’t know what will happen. But I want to be better.”

She didn’t reply immediately. She thought.

Elena Petrovna also wrote. A whole essay about how Masha destroyed her son, took away his masculinity, and anyway — this generation is selfish. At the end was a postscript:

“Live however you want. But don’t think I’ll forget.”

Maria smiled.

And didn’t answer. Because she owed nothing.

Two months later she came to the store for light bulbs. By the entrance — Alexey. Flowers in his hands. Not roses. Simple wildflowers, wrapped in paper.

“Hi,” he said. “I just… wanted to say thank you.”

“For what?” she was surprised.

“For choosing yourself. Because if it weren’t for that, I’d still be mommy’s boy. But now…”

He fell silent.

“Now who are you?” she squinted in the sun.

“Now I’m learning to be a man. Without mom. Without rescuers. Just… myself.”

“Well, good luck, Lyosh.” She nodded at the flowers. “Just not to me. Give them to yourself. For courage.”

And she walked away. Light bulbs, receipt, bag.

And inside — light. Without mom’s debts, without other people’s dramas. Just her.

The very one who once didn’t have enough air.

Now — she breathes.

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

“What?” she managed to squeeze out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anya rolled her eyes.

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

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

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

Mom snorted loudly without looking away from the cooking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marina took the phone back.

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

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

Later. The eternal “later.”

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

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

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

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

Anya grinned broadly.

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

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

“Anya, I…”

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

At that moment, the doorbell rang. Anya jumped.

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

Marina slowly shook her head.

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

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

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

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

“Len, I can’t go,” Marina typed.

“WHAT? WHY???”

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

“Family circumstances.”

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

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

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

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

“I’m going for a walk. Headache.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let them sort out their own circumstances.”

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

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

“Really. I’ll book tickets today.”

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

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

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

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

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

Her mother frowned.

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

Marina froze with the cup in her hand.

“You… what?”

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

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

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

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

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

A heavy silence hung in the kitchen.

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

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

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

“I’m not canceling anything.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anya stared at Marina with genuine surprise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her mother paled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That there’s nowhere to return to.”

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

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

Lena put her hand on Marina’s shoulder.

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

Marina smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

“What will happen to them? Your family?”

Marina shrugged.

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

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

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

Her phone vibrated. The screen displayed “Mom.”

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

“Yes?”

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

“Fine. Settling in slowly.”

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

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

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

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

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

Silence again.

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

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

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

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

Her mother sobbed on the other end of the line.

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

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

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

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

When I arrived at the hospital to bring home my wife and newborn twins, I expected a day of joy and celebration. Instead, I was met with devastation. Suzie, my wife, was gone, leaving behind only a cryptic note. As I cared for our daughters and sought answers, I uncovered secrets that threatened to shatter everything I thought I knew.

The balloons swayed gently in the passenger seat as I drove to the hospital, my chest swelling with anticipation. Today was the day I brought my girls home—my wife, Suzie, and our two perfect newborn daughters. I imagined Suzie’s face lighting up as she saw the nursery I’d prepared, the photos I’d framed, and the dinner I’d painstakingly cooked. After everything she’d endured—morning sickness, swollen feet, and the unsolicited advice from my overbearing mother—she deserved nothing but happiness.

When I arrived, I rushed past the nurses, beaming, and burst into her room, balloons in hand. But instead of finding Suzie waiting for me, I found an emptiness I couldn’t comprehend.

The babies slept soundly in their bassinets, but Suzie was gone. On the nightstand was a note scrawled in her handwriting. My hands trembled as I unfolded it.

“Goodbye. Take care of them. Ask your mother why she did this to me.”

The words hit me like a blow. My mind raced. What did this mean? What had my mother done? I struggled to breathe as a nurse entered with discharge papers. She froze at the sight of me.

“Where’s my wife?” I asked, my voice cracking.

The nurse hesitated. “She… left this morning. She said you knew.”

But I hadn’t known. I knew nothing at all.

I brought my daughters home that day in a daze, clutching the note as if it might explain Suzie’s disappearance. My mother, Mandy, was waiting on the porch, casserole dish in hand, her smile radiant as she cooed over her granddaughters.

“Let me see them!” she gushed, reaching for the car seat.

I stepped back, my voice sharp. “Not now, Mom. We need to talk.”

I shoved the note into her hands. Her face blanched as she read it, and for a moment, I thought she might faint.

“Ben, I don’t know what she’s talking about,” she stammered. “Suzie… she’s always been sensitive. Maybe this is just—”

“Don’t,” I interrupted, fury bubbling to the surface. “Don’t pretend you don’t know. You’ve always criticized her, always found ways to tear her down.”

“I only wanted what’s best for you,” she said, her voice trembling. “She wasn’t right for you—”

“Stop!” I roared. “She was my wife, the mother of my children. Whatever you did, it drove her away. And now I’m left to pick up the pieces.”

That night, after the twins were asleep, I sat at the kitchen table with Suzie’s note in one hand and my mother’s excuses echoing in my mind. I couldn’t shake the suspicion that there was more to the story, so I started digging.

In a box tucked away in the closet, I found a letter written in my mother’s handwriting. It was addressed to Suzie, and as I read it, my heart sank.

“You’ll never be good enough for my son. If you care about him and those babies, you’ll leave before you ruin their lives.”

The room spun as the truth came crashing down. My mother hadn’t just undermined Suzie—she’d actively pushed her to the brink. I confronted her immediately, rage boiling over. Her excuses, her tears—they meant nothing to me. I told her to leave and never come back.

But even after she was gone, Suzie’s absence was a gaping wound. Weeks turned into months as I cared for Callie and Jessica, balancing diapers and sleepless nights with a relentless search for their mother. Suzie’s college friend Sara finally admitted the truth: Suzie had confided in her about the cruel things my mother had said, about feeling trapped and unworthy.

“She didn’t think you’d believe her,” Sara whispered. “She thought your mom would turn you against her.”

Months later, a text from an unknown number reignited my hope. It was a photo of Suzie holding our daughters in the hospital, her face weary but serene. The message read: “I wish I was the mother they deserve. I hope you forgive me.”

I tried calling, texting back—nothing. But the photo gave me a glimmer of hope. She was alive. Somewhere, she was trying to heal.

A year passed. On the twins’ first birthday, there was a knock at the door. I opened it to find Suzie standing there, clutching a small gift bag, tears streaming down her face.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

I pulled her into my arms, holding her tightly as she sobbed. Over the weeks that followed, she shared her story—how postpartum depression, my mother’s words, and her own self-doubt had driven her to leave. Therapy had helped her rebuild, step by step.

“I didn’t want to go,” she confessed one night, sitting on the nursery floor. “But I didn’t know how to stay.”

I took her hand, my voice steady. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

And we did. It wasn’t easy—healing never is. But with love, forgiveness, and the laughter of our daughters filling our days, we rebuilt what had nearly been lost.