З життя
Вишукана жінка середніх років ретельно обирає м’ясо на ринку.
Зінаїда Петрівна, красива і доглянута жінка років п’ятдесяти, прогулялась базаром, вибираючи вирізку. Її супроводжувала незнайома дівчина, яка здавалася значно молодшою. В цій дівчині все було “надто”: надто довгі вії, надто яскравий макіяж, занадто коротка спідниця… Чоловіки, що проходили повз, ледве контролювали свої погляди: частина з них повертала голови слідом за нею, інші, які йшли з дружинами, могли лише тихцем кидати погляди.
Дівчина неодноразово намагалася заговорити з Зінаїдою Петрівною, та врешті наважилась:
– Зінаїдо Петрівно, мені потрібно з вами поговорити. Справа в тому, що ваш чоловік і я… загалом, ми з ним зустрічаємось…
– Та ви що кажете! – вічливо, але трохи відсторонено відповіла вона, розглядаючи м’ясо на прилавку. – Як вас звуть? Ах, Лариса… Ларочко, ви в м’ясі розбираєтеся? Як думаєте, це свіжа вирізка? Не розумію, чи це яловичина, чи телятина…
– Вибачте, – зніяковіла дівчина. – Мені здається, ви не зрозуміли…
– Любонько, попри вік, у мене немає ані склерозу, ані втрати слуху. Ви – коханка мого чоловіка, і вам потрібно зі мною поговорити. А я такої потреби не відчуваю. Ні, це все ж не телятина… Будь ласка, зважте мені цей шматок. Дякую, скільки з мене?
Розплатившись, вона помітила розгублену Ларису поруч. Дівчина, вражена незвичайним поводженням суперниці, м’ялася на місці. Зінаїда Петрівна подивилася на годинник:
– Ну, добре. Я все одно збиралася зайти в кафе – тут печуть чудові тістечка. Хочете, там і поговоримо.
Після кількох ковтків кави, Зінаїда Петрівна звернулась до Лариси:
– То про що ви хотіли поговорити?
– Відпустіть Миколу, він нещасливий з вами! – випалила дівчина вже заготовлену фразу. Зінаїда Петрівна округлила очі і розсміялася:
– Це що, Микола вас на це настрену? О, ви самі вирішили! Я так і думала… Ну, знай, любонько, – вона лагідно усміхнулася, – Микола ніколи від мене не піде. Чому? Саме тому, що я його не тримаю. Не вірите? Переконайтеся самі. Але застерігаю: щойно ви почнете давити на нього, він втече від вас, як уже бувало не раз.
– Т-то як… – Лариса ковтнула каву і закашлялася. – Як це «вже бувало»!?
– Ларочка, дитинко, ви ж, здається, розумна дівчина! Ви не думаєте ж, що Микола жив зі мною, лише чекаючи зустрічі з вами?
Лариса почервоніла: вона саме так і думала. Зінаїда Петрівна продовжила, ніби нічого не помітила:
– Ви… Боже, пам’ять… чи третя, чи четверта… чи навіть п’ята підходите до мене з подібним. Не засмучуйтеся так! Звісно, він обіцяв вам золоті гори й казав, що ви найкраща, єдина, неповторна… Казав? Ось бачите! Не вірте чоловічим компліментам, Ларочко. Насолоджуйтеся ними, але ніколи не вірте.
Лариса була зовсім приголомшена.
– Зінаїдо Петрівно, а вам… Невже вам не образливо?
– Як вам сказати… з одного боку, звісно, образливо: зрада є зрада. А з іншого – навіть приємно знати, що мій чоловік ще ого-го! І я засвоїла одну істину: чоловіка слід тримати на досить довгому поводку, щоб він не відчував себе на припоні. До речі, дарма ви не їсте тістечко, – зазначила вона, відкушуючи шматочок кремової трубочки. Дієта, так? Даремно. Ви позбавляєте себе такого задоволення! Вашій фігурі нічого не загрожує, а голодний блиск в очах жінки її не прикрашає, повірте моєму досвіду. Ну, удачі я вам, звісно, не бажаю, бо в неї не вірю, – вона підвелася, допивши каву. – Зустрічатися з вами більше не хочу, тому – прощайте.
Микола Юхимович повертався додому з недобрими передчуттями. Після істерики, влаштованої Ларисою, на хороший прийом вдома годі було чекати. Він знову згадав море сліз і з роздратуванням насупився. Якби жінки знали, як вони робляться непривабливими від сліз, ніколи б не плакали. При чоловіках. Червоні очі, розмита туш, напухлий ніс… б-р-р-р!
Підійшовши до дверей своєї квартири, Микола Юхимович глибоко вдихнув, подумки перехрестився і увійшов, прикриваючи голову папкою. Його передбачливість виявилася не зайвою: синя чашка вдарилася об дверний косяк поруч з його головою і розлетілася на веселі блакитні скалочки по передпокою.
– Негідник! – кричала дружина, кидаючи один за одним предмети з кавового сервізу на шість персон у бік чоловіка. – Підлець! Розпусник! Старий цабе! Хто два місяці тому клявся, що це востаннє? – Зінаїда Петрівна вміло грала роль розгніваної дружини, проте чутливе вухо чоловіка вловило в її словах ноту нещирості, ніби вона лише грала (хоча й дуже вдало) цю роль. Дочекавшись затишшя, Микола Юхимович визирнув з-за свого “щита”. Жінка стояла з останньою чашкою в руці, з легким жалем розглядаючи біло-блакитні осколки на підлозі.
– Зінусю, любонько… – почав чоловік, обережно просуваючись у бік дружини. – Ну, клянусь, це був най-найостанній раз! Ну, ти ж у мене розумниця, ти все розумієш! Сивина в бороду… Ну, пробач!
– Негідник! – Зінаїда метнула в чоловіка останню чашку, не влучила, але не витримала і розсміялася. – Нестерпний ти! Старий псяка!
– Старий, та не дряхлий! – Микола вже обіймав жінку, цілуючи її в шию.
Зінаїда відштовхнулася. – Ні, Миколо, я кажу серйозно: припиняй! Або ти розберешся з сивиною у своїй бороді сам, або я доберуся до твого ребра і виганю всіх бісів, що засіли там, – і вона виразно кивнула на стіну кухні, прикрашену набором декоративних качалок.
Вранці примирені подружжя збиралися на роботу. Те, що сталося напередодні, було для них своєрідною традицією, способом освіжити відносини.
Зінаїда Петрівна фарбувалася перед дзеркалом. Микола Юхимович чистив черевики. Він кілька разів намагався щось запитати, але не наважувався. Зінаїда все бачила у дзеркалі:
– Ну, хотів щось запитати? Я ж бачу, як тебе розпирає. Про свою Ларочку, правда? Ні, личко я їй не торкалася, як Верочці, – вона посміхнулася, –а от фігуру… Закладаюся, вона зараз тістечка їсть без обмеження. Я, коли виходила, бачила як вона вчепилася в тістечко, ніби тиждень не їла… Ну і, звісно, твоя Лара розтовстіє некращим чином, у неї серйозна схильність до повноти. А мені доведеться зробити додатковий розвантажувальний день, – вона перейшла на серйозний тон. – Правда, Миколо, досить! Мені набридло. Я цього більше терпіти не має наміру.
– А що буде наступного разу? Сковорідки чи супові миски?
Зінаїда не відповіла в тон чоловіка і подивилася на нього дуже суворо:
– Ні те, ні інше. Око за око, зуб за зуб. Зрада на зраду…
– Зінусю, не варто так жартувати, – Микола виглядав стурбованим.
– Ніяких жартів. Я сказала – ти почув. Тобі важко лише від однієї думки, уяви на мить, яково мені?
Біля під’їзду подружжя розійшлися в нормальних відносинах, обмінявшись поцілунками, вони пішли у різні боки, кожен на свою роботу. Зінаїда Петрівна на ходу витягла мобільник і, озирнувшись, набрала номер: – Дімочка? Це я.
Three O’Clock in the Morning and a Phone Call: How Saving a Stray German Shepherd with Mum’s Help Changed My Heart Forever
Mary Ellen wakes at three in the morning to the insistent buzzing of her old mobile phone on her bedside...
Raw Nerves: In This Family, Everyone Lived Their Own Separate Lives. Dad, Alexander, Had Not Just a Wife but a String of Lovers. Mum, Jenny, Turned a Blind Eye, but She Had Her Own Secret Romance with a Married Colleague. Their Two Sons Were Left to Fend for Themselves. Nobody Really Raised Them, So They Wasted Days Wandering Aimlessly. Jenny Claimed the School Was Responsible for Their Upbringing. On Sundays, the Family Would Gather in Silence Round the Kitchen Table, Wolf Down Lunch, and Disperse to Their Separate Interests. They Might Have Continued in Their Broken, Flawed but Comfortably Familiar Existence—Until Irreversible Tragedy Struck. When the Younger Son, Daniel, Was Twelve, Alexander First Took Him to the Garage as His Little Helper. While Daniel Curiously Inspected the Tools, Alexander Stepped Next Door to Chat with Fellow Car Enthusiasts. Suddenly, Black Smoke and Flames Billowed from Alexander’s Garage. (Later, It Would Emerge that Daniel Had Accidentally Knocked a Lit Blowtorch onto a Can of Petrol.) Nobody Understood What Had Happened. People Were Frozen, Panicking, as Fire Raged. Water Was Thrown Over Alexander, and He Bolted into the Inferno. In Moments, He Emerged, Carrying His Motionless Son, Daniel’s Body a Mass of Burns—Only His Face, Shielded by His Hands, Remained Unscathed; His Clothes Were Completely Burned Away. Someone Had Already Called the Fire Brigade and Ambulance. Daniel Was Rushed to Hospital—He Was Alive! He Was Taken Straight to Surgery. After Agonising Hours, the Surgeon Came Out to Daniel’s Parents and Said, “We’re Doing All We Can. Your Son Is in a Coma. His Chances Are One in a Million. Science Is Powerless. Only Extraordinary Willpower—and a Miracle—Can Save Him Now.” Desperate, Alexander and Jenny Raced to the Nearest Church—in a Torrential Downpour. Drenched and Sobbing, They Entered the Sanctuary for the First Time in Their Lives, Begging the Priest, Father George, for Help. “…How grave are your sins?” Father George asked. Alexander, sheepish, replied, “Not murderers, if that’s what you mean…” “But where is your love? Dead underfoot,” the priest reproached. “There’s more space between you than a fallen oak log. Pray to Saint Nicholas for your son’s health—pray fiercely! But remember, it’s God’s will…” At the icon, Alexander and Jenny knelt, weeping and praying passionately—swearing to cut all affairs, vowing to change their lives. The next morning, the phone rang. The doctor reported Daniel was out of his coma. Alexander and Jenny never left his bedside. Daniel whispered to his parents, “Mum, Dad, promise me you’ll stay together,” and, “When I have children, they’ll have your names…” His parents thought he was delirious—after all, he couldn’t even move his finger. But Daniel began to recover. The family’s energy and savings—and even their summer cottage—went into his treatment. The garage and car had burned to ashes, but the main thing was: Daniel was alive. The grandparents pitched in to help, and the family came together through the crisis. A year on, Daniel was in a rehabilitation centre, able to walk and look after himself. He befriended Mary, a girl his own age who’d also been burned in a fire—her face badly scarred after multiple operations, too shy to look in a mirror. Daniel was drawn to her kindness, wisdom, and vulnerability. The two became inseparably close, bonding over pain, recovery, and endless conversation. Time passed… Daniel and Mary celebrated a modest wedding. They had two beautiful children: daughter Alexandra, then three years later, son John. At last, the family could breathe easy. But the ordeal had left Alexander and Jenny drained. They decided to part ways, both craving peace and relief from each other. Jenny moved to stay with her sister in the suburbs, visiting Father George before leaving—he, now a confidant, urged her not to go for long; “A husband and wife are one.” Alexander remained alone in the empty flat, sons with families of their own. Visiting grandchildren was done separately, timings carefully coordinated to avoid crossing paths. And so, after all they’d suffered, every member of the family finally found their own, peculiar peace…
CUT TO THE QUICK… In this family, everyone lived their own separate lives. Jack, the father, in addition to his...
I’ll Remind You – Miss Mary, This Swirl Won’t Work! A Second-Grader’s Birthday Gift, A Mother’s Disappointment, and a Teacher’s Lesson in Kindness and Memories That Bloom Like Painted Flowers
ILL REMIND YOU Miss Mary, hereit just keeps curling the wrong way, whispered little Tom, his brush hovering uncertainly above...
Desperate to Tie the Knot: After Ten Lonely Years, Dr. Alice Finds Unexpected Romance with a Former Algerian Student—Only for Fate to Bring Her Back to Her Ex-Husband and Knitting Socks for Their Grandchild Alice
IMPATIENT FOR MARRIAGE Ella is utterly determined to find the right husband. Shes already had one failed marriage. She has...
IS IT REALLY THE ORCHID’S FAULT? “Polly, take this orchid or I’ll bin it,” Kate muttered, scooping the transparent pot off the windowsill and thrusting it into my hands. “Thanks, mate! But what did this orchid ever do to upset you?” I was puzzled. There were still three gorgeous, pampered orchids on her windowsill. “That flower was a wedding gift for my son. And, well, you know how that turned out…” Kate sighed heavily. “I know your Dennis and Tanya divorced before their first anniversary. I won’t ask why—it must have been serious. Dennis absolutely adored Tanya.” I didn’t want to reopen an old wound. “Someday I’ll tell you the whole story, Polly. For now, it’s too much to remember,” Kate mused, dabbing her eyes. I brought the “rejected” and “banished” orchid home. My husband looked at the pitiful specimen and said, “Why bother with that runt? Even I can see there’s no life left in it. Don’t waste your time.” “I’m going to revive her,” I insisted. “A bit of love and care, and you’ll see—she’ll be in bloom again.” He winked: “Who can refuse love?” A week later, Kate rang: “Polly, can I come round? I can’t keep this burden inside. I want to tell you everything about Dennis’ disastrous marriage.” “Come right over, Kate. I’m here.” I couldn’t turn her down. She’d been my rock through my first painful divorce—and when things were rocky with my second husband too. We’d been friends forever. Kate arrived an hour later. She settled in the kitchen, and over a glass of dry wine, a cup of strong coffee, and some dark chocolate, the story spilled out. “I never imagined my ex-daughter-in-law was capable of such a thing. Dennis and Tanya were together for seven years before marrying. Dennis left Annie for Tanya—and I loved Annie, so homely and warm, I called her daughter. Then this dazzling beauty Tanya swept in. Dennis was besotted—hovering around her like a bee around a blossom. Love at first sight, absolutely scorching. He pushed Annie aside in a heartbeat. “Yes, Tanya had model looks. Dennis loved when his mates gawped and passers-by turned heads. Yet, no child in seven years. I thought maybe Dennis wanted everything proper—wedded first, then kids. He’s private, never confided much, and we didn’t meddle. “One day he just told us: “‘Mum, Dad, I’m marrying Tanya. We’ve given notice at the registry office. No expense spared—a wedding to remember.’ “We were thrilled—Dennis was thirty, finally settling down. But the wedding date shifted—he was unwell, then I got held up at work. I got a bad feeling, but I saw his happiness and kept silent. “Dennis even wanted a church blessing, but the priest was away. Nothing was going right. Everything was a sign… “Still, we had a big, noisy wedding. Look—here’s the photo. See that orchid? Blooming, magnificent. Its leaves stood tall. Now, they’re just limp rags. “Dennis and Tanya planned a Paris honeymoon, but there was a hitch—Tanya wasn’t allowed to leave the country. Some massive unpaid fine. They were turned away at the airport. Dennis ignored the strings of bad luck, lost in dreams of family life. “But then he got seriously ill—hospitalised. The doctors had little hope. Tanya stuck around for a week, then said: “‘I’m sorry, but I can’t cope with a disabled husband. I’m filing for divorce.’ “Imagine, Polly, what Dennis felt lying there? Still, he replied: “‘I understand, Tanya. I won’t stand in your way.’ “So, they divorced. “But Dennis recovered. We found him a brilliant doctor, who pulled him through in half a year—said Dennis was young enough to bounce back. Our family grew close to the doctor, Peter, who had a lovely twenty-year-old daughter, Masha. Dennis barely paid attention to her: “‘She’s tiny. Not even pretty.’ “‘Give her a chance, son. Looks aren’t everything. You’ve tried the model wife—now, perhaps, try joy over glamour.’ “He couldn’t forget Tanya’s betrayal, yet Masha adored Dennis from the start—she followed him everywhere, phoned him constantly. “We tried matchmaking with a trip in the countryside. Dennis sulked the whole time, nothing cheered him up—campfire, barbeque, our laughter—nothing. Masha followed him with puppy eyes, but he barely glanced at her. “‘It’s hopeless,’ I sighed to my husband. ‘Dennis still loves Tanya. She’s a splinter in his heart.’ “A few months later, Dennis showed up at the door with the infamous orchid: “‘Here, Mum—the last relic of past happiness. Do what you want with it. I don’t want this exotic reminder.’ “I begrudgingly accepted the orchid and took a dislike to it—almost as if I blamed it for my son’s pain. I shoved it out of sight, neglected it. “Then I ran into a neighbour: “‘Kate, I saw your Dennis with a pixie-like girl. His first wife was far more striking, though…’ “I didn’t believe it—could Dennis really be dating Masha? “‘Meet my wife, Masha,’ Dennis introduced her, cradling her hand. “My husband and I exchanged glances. “‘But what about a wedding? Guests?’ “‘No need for a fuss—we’ve done all that. Registered at the town hall, quiet and simple. Father Peter gave us a church blessing. Masha and I are forever.’ “I pulled Dennis aside: “‘Do you actually love her? Please don’t hurt Masha—or marry just to spite Tanya.’ “‘No, Mum, I’m not taking revenge. I’m over that woman,’ he said—he’d stopped calling Tanya by name. ‘As for love… Masha and I just fit perfectly together.’ “That’s my story, Polly.” Kate finally unburdened her heart. …After this heartfelt chat, two years rushed by, life got busy. But the orchid revived and bloomed—they really do respond to love. When I met Kate again, it was at the maternity ward: “Hey, mate, what are you doing here?” “Masha’s had twins. They’re being discharged today,” Kate grinned. At the entrance stood Dennis and Kate’s husband, Dennis clutching a bouquet of red roses. Out came a tired but glowing Masha, followed by the nurse gently carrying two tiny, sleeping bundles. My own daughter was there, snuggling her newborn. Tanya is now begging Dennis for forgiveness and to try again… But you can glue a broken cup, though you’ll never drink from it the same way again…
IS THE ORCHID TO BLAME? Polly, take this orchid away or Ill chuck it out, Kate announced, carelessly lifting the...
Fate on a Hospital Bed – “Young Lady, You Look After Him! I’m Too Scared to Even Feed Him with a Spoon,” She Snapped, Tossing Grocery Bags onto the Bed Where Her Sick Husband Lay. “Please Don’t Worry! Your Husband Will Recover. He Needs Careful Nursing Now. I’ll Help Dmitry Get Back on His Feet,” I, as the nurse, had to reassure the tuberculosis patient’s wife yet again. Dmitry arrived in critical condition, but his will to live gave him good odds. Sadly, his wife Alla didn’t believe in medicine. It seemed she’d given up on him already… Years later, the same fate befell their son Yura. Alla gave up on him too – but Yura survived. Despite his diagnosis, Dmitry joked and laughed, eager to leave the TB ward. His village lacked any specialist hospital, so Alla rarely visited. I felt sorry for him – so unkempt, so abandoned… “Dima, do you mind if I bring you some things? I see you don’t even have slippers,” I teased. “Violetta, I’d swallow poison from you if you said it was medicine. But no, just let me get well first…” My heart fluttered. Was I falling for a married man? I tried not to. But you can’t command the heart… I visited Dima more often. Our talks grew deep; we switched to first names. He had a five-year-old son. “My Yura takes after his beautiful mum… I loved Alla – but she only loves herself. It eats you up… now it’s you caring for me, a stranger,” he sighed. I tried to make excuses for Alla. He shook his head. “A wife can find time for her lovers a hundred miles away—but not for me.” After a fight, Alla vanished. A month passed. Dima told me quietly, “We’re divorcing.” When he was discharged, he asked shyly to stay with me, and I agreed—if he’d accept my child too. He did—and so began our life together. Years passed. We had two children together. His son Yura visits often. My own daughter lives far away; I never regretted being a single mother. As for Alla: she remarried many times, had another son who suffered from mental illness. She remained cold and distant, and when she died, her son was sent to a care home. Now Dima and I are old, but love each other more than ever, grateful for every day together.
FATE ON A HOSPITAL BED Tuesday Ill never get used to certain moments in the ward. Today, Mrs. Parker burst...
I’ve Never Taken What Belongs to Someone Else Once, while still at school, Martha both despised and envied Nastya. She looked down on Nastya because her parents were hopelessly alcoholic, scraping by on odd jobs and living hand-to-mouth. Nastya always wore shabby clothes, seemed half-starved and downtrodden. Her father often hit her—sometimes for drinking too little, sometimes for drinking too much, sometimes for no clear reason at all. Nastya’s mother never stood up for her, too afraid of her husband’s heavy hand. Only her devoted grandmother brought any light to Nastya’s world. Once a month, from her modest pension, Grandma would give her beloved granddaughter a “salary” for good behaviour. Even if Nastya misbehaved, Grandma would always pretend not to notice and hand over her pay anyway—five roubles! For Nastya, that was the happiest day of the month. She’d rush to the shop and buy ice cream (one for herself, one for Grandma), halvah, and a few sweets. Every time, Nastya tried to make the treats last all month—but after two days, they’d always be gone. Then, as if on cue, Grandma would get her own ice cream from the fridge and say, “Here, sweetheart, eat this. My throat is sore today.” “How odd,” Nastya thought, “Grandma’s throat always seems to start hurting the day my sweets run out…” She secretly always hoped to get a share of Grandma’s portion. Martha’s family was the complete opposite. Their home was overflowing with comfort. Her parents earned good money and pampered their only daughter. Martha was always dressed in the latest fashions, and her classmates sometimes borrowed her things. She was never denied anything—well-fed, well-dressed, and shod in the best shoes. Yet Martha envied her classmate’s enchanting beauty, the warmth that radiated from Nastya, and her natural ability to get along with everyone. Martha, however, considered herself above even talking to Nastya. Whenever they crossed paths, Martha would glare at her so coldly, it felt to Nastya as if she’d been doused in ice water. Once, Martha insulted her in front of everyone: “You’re pathetic!” Nastya ran home in tears and told her grandmother. Grandma sat her down, stroked her hair and said, “Don’t cry, Nastya. Tomorrow, tell her, ‘You’re right—I belong to God!’” Nastya felt better right away. Martha was beautiful herself, but her beauty came with an air of coldness and distance. Then there was Max, the class heartthrob—carefree, always joking, not bothered by failing grades or scoldings from teachers. His outlook was sunny, and his optimism infectious; even the teachers liked him, despite his troublemaking ways. In their final years at school, Max began escorting Martha home after lessons and waiting for her at the school gate in the morning. Their classmates teased: “Here come the bride and groom!” Even the teachers noticed the blossoming romance between Max and Martha. Eventually, the final bell rang, prom night passed, and the classmates went their separate ways. Max and Martha married in a hurry—the “evidence of love” couldn’t be concealed, not even by Martha’s elaborate wedding dress. Within five months, she gave birth to a daughter, Sofia. After school, Nastya was forced to get a job. Her beloved grandmother had passed away, and now her parents depended on Nastya’s income. She had plenty of admirers, but none touched her soul, and she was ashamed of her alcoholic family. A decade slipped by… One day, in the waiting room at the addiction clinic, there were two pairs: Nastya with her mum, Max with Martha. Nastya immediately recognized Max—he was now an impressive man, but Martha was nearly unrecognizable: gaunt, hands shaking, dead-eyed, only 28 but looking much older. Max greeted Nastya, embarrassed. “Hello, classmate,” he said, not wanting Nastya to witness his family’s misery. “Hello, Max. Looks like trouble at home. Has it been going on for long?” Nastya asked quickly. “A while,” he confessed, awkwardly. “A woman who drinks—it’s a disaster. I know from my mum. My father literally drank himself to death,” Nastya sympathized. After the appointments, Max and Nastya exchanged numbers for support. Misery loves company, and Max started visiting Nastya for advice. She shared her hard-earned wisdom about living with alcoholics, what treatments worked, and what absolutely didn’t. She knew, as so many drowned in the bottle, it wasn’t always obvious from the surface… Max confided that he and his daughter Sofia had long lived alone—Martha had returned to her parents’ home. Max had shielded Sofia from her unpredictable mother. The breaking point was when Max came home to find Martha drunk on the floor and three-year-old Sofia teetering on the windowsill, poised to fall from the fifth floor. After that, Max took no more chances. Martha refused help, convinced she could stop anytime. She was drawn to the abyss—and wanted to fall as far as possible. Their marriage ended. Later, Max invited Nastya to a restaurant and confessed: he’d loved her since their schooldays, but was too afraid of rejection, then Martha had become pregnant… Life tumbled on. Meeting at the clinic had seemed like fate. Chatting with Nastya was like a soothing balm. Max proposed marriage, and after all these years, Nastya was finally ready to accept his love—especially now that Martha was out of the picture. Nastya and Max married quietly, and she moved in with him. At first, Sofia was wary of sharing her father’s love, but Nastya’s kindness soon melted her heart, and before long, Sofia started calling her “mum.” A few years later, Sofia gained a little sister, Molly. One day, their doorbell rang. Nastya opened it to find—Martha, utterly changed, reeked of alcohol, a living warning. “You snake! You stole my husband, my daughter! No wonder I’ve hated you all my life!” Martha hissed. Nastya stood calm, confident, beautiful. “I have never taken what was not mine. You gave up your family by choice, never understanding why. I have never uttered a bad word about you. I truly pity you, Martha…” With that, Nastya closed the door on her uninvited guest.
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