You didn’t take good care of him,” he whispered, extending a framed photograph as a Women’s Day gift. “I hope you’ll do better with the children.”
His smile was empty, lifeless.
At first, I couldn’t comprehend what I was seeing. The world had narrowed, then shattered into pieces. In the photo, Alexey stood in that very forest where we used to walk as a family. He was letting go of the leash. Roy—our beloved dog, the children’s friend—was frozen in bewilderment. His tail was tucked between his legs, his ears pressed back, and his eyes filled with fear and betrayal.
A year ago, Alexey had said that Roy had run away. The children had cried for weeks. Kirill had plastered the neighborhood with notices. Masha still called for him in her dreams.
My hands trembled, yet my gaze was fixed on the picture. A gift for March 8th. Proof of what a man was capable of. He had gotten rid of our dog.
The clock struck six. In fifteen minutes the children were due back—they were always punctual, for Alexey had conditioned them to be so out of fear.
“This… is cruel. Why did you show me this?” I tried to speak calmly, knowing that a hysterical outburst would only encourage him.
He sank into his chair, sipping whiskey. His immaculate hands—the result of weekly manicures—stood in stark contrast to what those hands had done: breaking Masha’s toys, inflicting pain.
“Cruel?” he scoffed. “I’m merely showing you the truth. You couldn’t even hold onto a dog. Always inattentive, careless.”
A pause. A sip of whiskey. “I fear to imagine what will happen to the children.”
Sounds came from the hallway: children’s voices.
“Mom, look what we found!” Masha burst in but froze at the sight of her father. Her joy instantly extinguished. Kirill followed—a ten-year-old with an adult’s gaze. He immediately assessed the situation and gently pulled his sister behind him.
“Hi, Dad.”
Alexey smiled his “public” smile. “How was the walk, champ?”
Kirill noticed the photograph. Something flickered in his eyes. “Okay. We… are going to change.”
The children vanished silently, like shadows. Children were not to move in such a manner in their own home.
I looked at the picture of abandoned Roy and felt something stirring inside—not breaking, but awakening. “I’m going to make dinner,” I said, carefully placing the frame on the table.
Alexey nodded, engrossed in his phone. He was certain of my submission.
He didn’t know that for several months I had been gathering documents. That I had been saving every penny for the household. That Katya had promised help.
While he was checking his phone, my life hung by a thread.
Roy looked from the photo with a trusting bewilderment.
I went to the kitchen—not to cook, but to gather the children.
When he went to sleep, we had three hours. Three hours to disappear.
A bus glided through the night. I gazed out the window, restraining myself from looking back. Masha slept on my lap. Kirill sat upright, staring into the darkness.
“I knew about Roy,” my son suddenly murmured quietly, without turning around. “I saw the photo on his phone. By chance.”
My fingers froze, playing with Masha’s strands of hair.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
The few streetlights painted the night outside. The bus cut through the darkness, carrying us away from our house-prison. “I was afraid you wouldn’t believe me. Or that he’d find out,” Kirill turned toward me. “I’m glad we left, Mom.”
I looked at my ten-year-old son and saw in him the strength I had long lacked. In the suitcase under the seat lay documents, some money, and the essentials.
Six hundred kilometers to Katya, who was waiting for us with the keys to a rental apartment.
Six hundred kilometers of hope.
Somewhere there, in a house with an immaculate lawn, Alexey still hadn’t realized we’d fled. Perhaps he slept peacefully, anticipating the morning coffee I usually brought—hot, but not scalding, with a hint of my fear.
We moved like fugitives—quickly, almost breathless. Twenty-three minutes to pack, fourteen to slip out the back door unnoticed and reach the taxi, booked under a false name.
Taxi—the bus station. Bus—the regional center. Another bus—the border of the region. A convoluted route meant to leave misleading trails. “Mom,” Kirill tugged my sleeve. “What if he finds us?”
I didn’t lie—my son deserved the truth.
“He’ll be looking,” my voice was barely louder than the whisper of tires. “But we won’t let him hurt us again.”
Masha shuddered in her sleep, clutching my hand. Even in her dreams, she felt the dread.
Twenty hours of travel, two transfers, a small northern town. Katya met us at the station—pale, worried, but determined.
“You did the right thing,” she embraced me, then sat down with the children. “Hello. I’m Katya, a friend of your mom. I have a new home for you.”
The apartment was on the outskirts, in an old building with cracked plaster. Inside, it smelled of dampness and air freshener.
“Not a palace, but safe,” Katya said as she switched on the light. “The lease is in my name. No ties to you.”
Masha timidly glanced around, holding my hand. Kirill was already checking the locks—ensuring they were secure.
“I’ve found a school,” Katya continued, unpacking groceries. “There’s enough money for the first while.”
“I don’t know how to thank you,” I whispered, sinking onto the worn couch.
“Thank by surviving,” Katya snapped. “Don’t let him find you.”
In the first days in the new town, I jumped at every sound. I would wake at night to check the windows and doors. The children slept with me in a small room—on a narrow bed and a fold-out couch. We huddled together like frightened animals.
Masha often cried in her sleep. Kirill spoke less, but his gaze grew steadily more confident.
After a month, we had settled. The children started at their new school. I got a job as an administrator at a café—not the dream of a red-diploma graduate, but there was no choice.
We were learning to live again. To laugh. To not be afraid.
And then the phone rang.
Katya’s voice was halting, gasping:
“He came. He threatened. He knows I helped. He hired detectives. They’re combing through towns.”
The air left my lungs.
“What did he say?”
“Nothing! I swear! But, Anya… he’s obsessed. He won’t stop.”
I looked at the children in the living room. Masha was playing cards with animal pictures—bought on sale.
Kirill was patiently explaining the rules to his sister. Their shoulders were relaxed. They no longer flinched at sounds.
Fear returned, a cold snake coiled in my stomach. But now it was mixed with fury—a burning, blinding hatred toward the man who stole our peace even from afar. “I’ll change the number,” I told Katya. “And the city. Again.”
No matter how far we ran, I knew—he would be searching. This wasn’t love. Not even obsession. For Alexey, we were merely property that had run away.
That very night, we packed again. Kirill methodically folded clothes, while Masha cried silently without asking questions. They too understood—he wouldn’t stop.
At two o’clock, we boarded a train heading further north. With every kilometer, the feeling of freedom melted away, replaced by the bitter realization: you can run forever, but one day he will find you.
8
Seven months of calm. A small village on the edge of the region. A job at the post office, where nobody cared about the past. A little house on the outskirts with a stove and creaky floors. Our neighbor, Valentina Petrovna, who looked after the children. We almost believed that our story was over.
Kirill made friends. Masha stopped waking in the middle of the night. I began to glance less frequently at the streets.
But that day, leaving work, I saw his car.
A silver BMW—I would recognize it among a thousand cars—was parked at the post office. Alexey sat at the wheel, not taking his eyes off the front door. He was waiting. He knew I would come out.
Time seemed to stand still. I stepped back, stumbling over my own feet.
“Anna, what’s wrong?” my boss, Galina, frowned.
“I need to make a call,” I said, my fingers trembling as I grabbed the phone and dialed Valentina Petrovna. “Valya, are the children with you?”
“Yes, they’re playing in the yard. What’s going on…”
“Bring them inside. Lock the door. Don’t open it for anyone,” my voice sounded foreign, cracked. “I’ll be there soon.”
Galina’s eyes were wide with alarm.
“Trouble?”
Through the window, I saw Alexey get out of the car. In an impeccable suit, his face unreadable. He moved unhurriedly, convinced that I wasn’t going anywhere.
“I need to get in through the back entrance.”
Galina, bless her, didn’t ask questions.
“Go through the utility room, there’s an exit to the river. I’ll hold him off.”
Pressing against the walls, darting from one hiding place to another, I reached our neighbor’s house. Valentina Petrovna met me, pale and worried.
“Anya, what’s happening?”
“Where are the children?”
“They’re in the bedroom watching cartoons. You’re scaring me.”
I dashed into the room. Kirill and Masha were sitting on the bed, safe and unharmed. My heart skipped a beat.
“Gather your things. Quickly. We need to leave.”
“Is that Dad? Did he find us?” Kirill spoke in a manner too mature for his age.
Masha clung to her brother, her eyes filling with tears.
“Yes. But we’ll leave before he finds us. Before he learns where we live.”
I prayed that it was true.
Valentina Petrovna helped pack the children’s things without asking too many questions. She stuffed food, water, and warm clothes into a backpack. “Your husband,” I briefly explained when the children weren’t listening. “He’s dangerous.”
She nodded understandingly.
“I have a nephew in a nearby village, a forester. I can call him; he’ll take you.”
A call. An address. Instructions. Everything happened as if in a haze. Out the window—the empty street. Alexey hadn’t yet found the house, but it was only a matter of time.
“I’ll go first,” Valentina Petrovna said, putting on her coat. “I’ll check if he’s around. If it’s clear, I’ll signal from the corner.”
Fifteen minutes of waiting stretched endlessly. Kirill held his sister’s hand, his face determined. At eleven, my son had become my rock. A signal from our neighbor. An empty street. We ran, darting between houses, through gardens, along the river.
The car waited at an old bus stop—a worn-out UAZ, driven by a bearded man with a serious face.
“Are you Anna? I’m Mikhail, Valentina Petrovna’s nephew. Get in.”
We huddled in the back seat as the car rattled along the forest road. Masha fell asleep, exhausted by fear. Kirill stared tensely out the window. Ahead was a forest checkpoint—a small house deep in the woods. A temporary refuge.
But I was mistaken.
Two days of calm. The children began to relax. I helped Mikhail with the household, feeling my strength return.
On the third day, I spotted a familiar car on the forest road.
My blood froze. He shouldn’t have known. He shouldn’t have found us. But he was following the trail.
“Mikhail,” I called, not taking my eyes off the window. “Is there another vehicle? An ATV?”
Mikhail peered out and cursed.
“A snowmobile. Nothing else.”
“Is it up to the nearest village?”
“Fifteen kilometers through the forest.”
The car stopped. Out stepped Alexey—fresh, in a suit completely out of place in the woods. And two burly men. Security? Detectives?
“Children,” Mikhail said steadily. “Down to the basement. There’s an exit to a creek.”
“I won’t leave Mom,” Kirill insisted, standing firm. “Not again.”
Alexey walked toward the house unhurriedly, as if heading to a business meeting. His companions dispersed.
“Mikhail, this isn’t your fight,” I said. “Leave with the children.”
“And I won’t consider leaving a woman with this…”
A polite knock on the door.
“Anna, I know you’re there,” came Alexey’s soft, almost gentle voice. “Open up, let’s talk. I’m not angry.”
Lies. All lies. But now I was ready for him.
“Take the children with you,” I whispered to Mikhail. “I’ll delay him. Please.”
Mikhail hesitated for a moment, then nodded. He took Kirill and Masha by the hand.
“Mommy!” Masha cried, rushing toward me, but Mikhail held her back.
“Everything will be alright, sweetheart,” I smiled at my daughter one last time. “Mom will fix this. Go with your brother.”
The knock on the door grew more insistent.
“Anna, don’t make this harder. Open up. I’m here to take my family.”
Mikhail and the children hid in the basement. I took a deep breath and opened the door.
Alexey smiled that same smile that had once captivated me. Now it evoked only disgust.
“Hello, darling. You’ve been hiding for so long.”
“What do you want?”
“You know what,” his smile widened. “My family. The children. You.”
“We don’t belong to you.”
He laughed.
“Of course you do. I created you, Anna. I turned an insecure girl into a woman. Everything you have is mine.”
His men circled the house. One peered into the windows, another circled around. I prayed that Mikhail would manage to get the children away. “Where are Kirill and Masha?” Alexey’s voice turned harsher.
“They’re safe from you.”
I saw irritation flash across his face, but it quickly dissolved into his usual mask.
“Come inside, let’s talk.”
It wasn’t a request. He shoved me inside, his hand clamping onto mine like a vise.
“What a lovely place,” he remarked, looking around. “Who’s your new friend?”
“Just an acquaintance.”
“You’ve always been a poor liar,” he sneered, running his finger across the table. “What did you do that for, Anna?”
“For freedom.”
He laughed again, but this time his laughter was laced with anger.
“Freedom? You think you know what that is?” he stepped closer. “You’ll never be free of me. Never. I’ll find you wherever you are.”
Outside, a scream rang out. One of his men was holding Kirill. My son was desperately struggling. “Let him go!” I rushed to the door, but Alexey grabbed me by the hair.
“Excellent,” he sneered. “One caught. Where’s the girl?”
Kirill shouted as he struggled to break free. Mikhail was nowhere in sight.
“I’ll ask again,” he spun me around. “Where is Masha? Where’s the other child?”
“Let my son go, and I’ll tell you.”
His eyes darkened—a dangerous sign. I knew him too well.
“You’re not in a position to bargain.”
He shoved me outside.
“Let’s go,” he said coldly. “Let’s take a family walk.”
I understood what that meant. For a moment, I became that terrified woman who once feared defying him.
But then I saw Kirill’s face—bloodied yet determined. And something inside me changed.
He dragged me toward the forest, sure in his power. The second man dragged Kirill, who continued resisting. The third was searching the house.
“Found the girl! In the basement!”
My heart froze. Masha. They had found Masha.
The forest loomed closer. Darkness thickened among the trees, as if nature itself was fleeing his wrath. I knew his plan. The same as with Roy. Only we weren’t dogs to find our way back.
“Let’s take a walk,” his fingers dug into my wrist. “Just like old times.”
“Don’t, Dad,” Kirill tried to reason. “Let’s just talk.”
“Shut up,” Alexey snapped coldly. “I spent half a year and a fortune because of you and your sister.”
We ventured deeper into the forest. Branches clutched at our clothes, mud squelched underfoot. Somewhere, a stream murmured. If only we could reach it… A man cursed at Kirill. My son bit him, kicked him, broke free, and ran.
“Stop him!” Alexey roared.
One of his henchmen lunged after him. Alexey squeezed my wrist even harder.
“We’ll find him,” he hissed. “And then I’ll teach you what disobedience means.”
We continued on. Ahead, an abrupt drop—a steep slope leading to a raging stream.
“Perfect spot,” Alexey remarked, shoving me toward the edge. “What a view.”
Below, water rushed between sharp stones. No words were needed—I understood his intent. He had brought me here to rid himself of me forever.
“Alexey,” I pleaded one last time. “Think about the children. What will you tell them?”
“That their mother ran away,” he shrugged. “And didn’t come back. A bad mother.”
He pushed me toward the very edge. My feet slipped on the wet ground. One push—and that was it.
But suddenly, Kirill cried out: “Dad, look!”
Alexey instinctively turned, not watching his step. I recoiled in shock.
His foot landed on a slippery root. I saw his eyes widen in shock, his body losing its balance as he reached for the air.
And he tumbled down.
A quiet splash of water, a thud against the rocks, another splash. Then silence.
I rushed to the edge. Down below, among the stones and the churning stream, he lay face down, arms outstretched.
Kirill approached, taking my hand. “Is he dead?” he whispered.
I nodded, unable to speak.
“He wanted to kill us,” my son’s voice was calm yet firm. “I saw a knife in his pocket.”
Mikhail emerged from the forest carrying Masha. His face was bloodied, but he stood strong. “I took care of those two,” he panted. “One’s unconscious. Where…?”
I pointed downward. Mikhail froze, then slowly nodded. “Let’s go. Quickly.”
We trudged through the forest—wet, muddy, bruised, but alive. Masha clutched my hand tightly. Kirill walked beside me, as if shrugging off an invisible weight. None of us looked back.
Three years later. A small town in the south. A house by the sea. The salty air, the cries of seagulls, laughter.
Kirill is growing up, almost unburdened by the past. Sometimes I notice a shadow cross his face at loud sounds, but he no longer speaks of his father.
He studies at an ordinary school, fascinated by programming. He has friends, hobbies. Life goes on.
Masha has blossomed. She dreams of becoming a veterinarian. She has a red-haired mutt, Luchik, found on the street. When she hugs him and whispers something in his ear, I know she remembers Roy.
I work at a travel agency. I have my own apartment. My own life. Alexey’s story ended that day in the forest.
The police recorded his death as an accident—a wealthy businessman lost in the woods, falling off a cliff. A tragedy. None of us ever told the truth.
Sometimes, when the children are asleep, I step out onto the balcony, gaze at the stars, and wonder: should I feel guilt? Grief? Regret?
But I feel only relief. And a quiet gratitude to fate for a second chance.
We are no longer victims.
We are free.
