Lida had felt since childhood that her life would be different — not like everyone else’s. What happened long ago left a deep mark on her — both literally and metaphorically. As a child, she survived a terrible accident that changed everything: her face was covered with burn scars, and her mother’s life became a constant struggle filled with care and a fight for survival. Fate was cruel, but despite everything, Lida tried to keep her spirit strong, even though inside she was often torn between pain, loneliness, and the fear of being rejected.
Her appearance became both a curse and a shield. She knew men rarely looked beyond the first glance, and understood that her chances for personal happiness were almost nonexistent. Yet her body still retained the ability to become a mother — a paradox of fate that sometimes seemed like a cruel joke. Lida often thought that if she could choose, she would rather have stayed unharmed, even if it meant never having children. After all, her mother had risked everything for that.
“Don’t worry, dear Lida, everything will get better,” her mother would say, stroking her daughter’s hair. “One day we’ll save enough for a good specialist, and you’ll become beautiful. Believe me, it’s possible.”
These words were more than just consolation. Her mother truly believed in a miracle. And for that miracle, she worked around the clock, taking any extra jobs she could find, saving on the bare essentials. She never complained or sought sympathy; she simply did what she thought was necessary. A doctor by profession, she kept working even though her health long called for full rest. But for Lida, she would do anything.
“Mom, stop it already! You deny yourself everything,” Lida often pleaded. “I’m scared for you. I’ll manage on my own. Maybe it’s even better this way — I’ll never meet someone like my father. The one who disappeared when we needed him the most.”
But her mother didn’t want to hear those words. She remembered another man — the one who stood by her in youth, held her hand, dreamed of a family. He was kind, attentive, caring. And after the accident… he simply disappeared. Without explanation, without a trace. Not a single letter or call. As if he never existed.
“Don’t say that, Lida. We don’t know the whole truth. Maybe something terrible happened to him. He was a good man. I still love him. And I have never regretted giving birth to you,” her mother repeated over and over, her eyes glowing with memories every time.
She kept an old photo taken in their youth. In it was a girl with a thick braid, gray eyes hiding from the sun, and beside her—a slender young man with dark hair. Father. The man Lida mentally called a traitor, though she never said it aloud.
“Mom, please stop. Don’t start again. I know what you’ll say—that I’m in the photo too, but you can’t see me yet because I was under your heart then. And that he was waiting for me…”
It hurt. Not from the burns, not from her appearance, but from the thought that her father couldn’t withstand life. That he abandoned them in the hardest moment. That he lacked the strength to stay by their side, to support, to protect. That he simply disappeared.
Her mother kept believing. Believing that one day he would return, that they would be a family again. That faith gave her strength to live. But the years took their toll. Despite all efforts, the woman’s health rapidly deteriorated. Lung burns became a slow death she hid from everyone. Even from her daughter.
When her mother passed away, Lida discovered the truth from her diary. In a thin, worn notebook, everything was recorded: pain, worries, hopes. And one phrase stood out:
“Lida thinks that Vitya abandoned us. That thought pierces me like a knife. But maybe he had another reason. He had a son, Artyomka, in a neighboring village. Maybe he just started a new life without us. But I can’t tell my daughter that. Every child needs to believe they are loved by their parent. And once, he loved us very much.”
The diary was her mother’s last gift. Through it, Lida understood how strong her mother had been. How she woke every morning, not knowing if she would live to see the evening. How she endured pain to not frighten her daughter. How she held on for just one thought — to live until Lida reached adulthood.
After her mother’s death, Aunt Zhenya came to the house — her mother’s best friend and work colleague. She was the one who gave Lida the diary, saying:
“Mom asked me not to show you this, but I decided—you have to know. A woman like that can only be proud of. If you need anything—you can always come to me.”
Aunt Zhenya tried to replace the mother for Lida, but of course, she couldn’t. No one could. After her mother’s departure, Lida was in a long state of shock. She blamed herself for not noticing her mother’s true condition, for not appreciating her enough.
“It’s my fault. She loved him, and that tortured her. Because of me, she worked so hard, saved for treatment that maybe didn’t even make sense. I would have lived my whole life with this face, just for Mom to be alive.”
She cried, leaning on Aunt Zhenya’s shoulder. But the aunt gently yet firmly replied:
“Don’t be silly. It’s not your fault. Your mom told me she would have left a long time ago if not for you. You were her reason for living. Caring for you gave her strength. One day, when you have your own children, you’ll understand what I mean.”
Over the years, Lida truly became like her mother — not just in character but in soul. In her awoke the same kindness, the same inner fire, the readiness to move forward no matter what. Only now, there was no one nearby to support her.
Often she took out that very photo from her wallet and looked at it. Especially in the hardest moments. “What if he’s somewhere out there? What if they met in another world and are together now?” she thought. The photo became a link to her mother, the only source of warmth in the cold reality.
Lida’s job was not prestigious. She worked in a restaurant serving people who looked down on her. Her appearance provoked fear, distrust, sometimes outright mockery.
“She’s only good enough to wash dishes, or she’ll scare the customers,” they whispered behind her back.
Sometimes she got angry. Sometimes she thought cruel things about them. But more often, she just looked at the photo during breaks and talked to her mother as if she could hear her.
Two years had passed since her mother’s death, but the pain didn’t fade. At night, Lida often woke up in tears, convinced that her mother peeked into the room to check if she was okay. But then she realized — she was alone. Needed by no one.
At work, the person who annoyed her most was Artyom Viktorovich. Young, wealthy, perfect-looking, with the confidence that the world belonged to him. His mother bought him the restaurant after studying in England. But instead of working, he constantly complained to his mother on the phone about how tired and miserable he was.
Lida worked in a restaurant where every day was a trial not only for the body but also for the soul. Everything here was controlled by one person — Artyom Viktorovich, the owner, though he managed it as if it were his first day on the job. He did nothing productive except vent his bad mood on the employees. His favorite phrases:
“You are all thieves, freaks, and slackers!”
These phrases were daily rituals. He considered himself king of the kitchen and hall but couldn’t even remember most employees’ names. The restaurant ran smoothly only because others worked behind Artyom’s back — mainly his mother and her longtime friend Irina Vladimirovna, who was officially assistant manager but in reality the true boss of everything going on.
Irina Vladimirovna — short, plump, with gentle manners and kind eyes — knew every employee by name, often approached with a kind word, sometimes secretly giving bonuses to those who needed them most. She knew how to find common ground with people, saw their problems, and tried to help. Thanks to her, the restaurant thrived. Without her, no one would stay even a day longer.
Artyom’s mother, Inga Timofeevna, understood this well. She often tried to scold her friend for excessive generosity but didn’t interfere much. A smart woman, she accepted reality long ago: without Irina Vladimirovna, the restaurant would be finished. So she let her do what was necessary.
Everyone at work knew: Artyom wasn’t to blame for what he was like. He was just stupid, spoiled, and poorly raised. His mother did everything possible to raise a decent person. She invested a lot of money, time, effort, and love in him. But nothing helped. Maybe it was his nature, or maybe life never required him to fight for his place in the sun. Born with a silver spoon, he now thought the world owed him worship.
One ordinary day at the restaurant began with a new scandal.
“Hey, Lidka, heard? Our boss went crazy again. He thinks someone stole the cash. Though everyone knows — he himself took money from the safe yesterday. Probably just forgot. Maybe we should send the footage to Irina Vladimirovna? Let her come and protect us,” suggested Marina, a coworker and the only one who spoke to Lida without pity or fear.
Marina also worked as a dishwasher and raised two small children. She didn’t want to pay a fine for a made-up theft.
“Marin, let him search. We’ll survive somehow. It pleases him, and we’re used to it. He’s dumb, what can you do. Tomorrow we’ll run to complain to Irina Vladimirovna anyway. But don’t send the footage — we’d frame Vovka, and he did nothing wrong.”
Vladimir worked as a security guard, watched the cameras. A strange job choice for such a gentle person. But that’s why he often got involved in situations where conscience mattered more than rules. He was good to Lida, often trying to help — bringing coffee, warning of an impending scandal. Once he even erased footage to protect her and other employees, but Artyom found out. Vova barely kept his job.
“Do you like Vova too? He worries because you don’t react to him,” Marina playfully winked.
“Stop talking nonsense. See this ‘beautiful’ face? He just feels sorry for me.”
“Did you believe that?” Marina resumed her hints.
Lida knew Marina meant well. She wanted to believe Vova really liked Lida, not just pitied her. She even imagined what their children would be like, how love could make anyone beautiful. But Lida didn’t want to play those games. It hurt too much. She couldn’t allow herself to hope.
“You’re wrong. He really likes you. I have a nose for these things. You’ll see — I’ll be celebrating at your wedding!”
Marina got offended when Lida didn’t believe her. To her, Vova was one of the few men able to see the soul, not the appearance. “Lucky Lida,” she thought. “You gotta grab a guy like that and hold tight.” But Lida was silent, hiding her eyes.
“Don’t turn your nose up,” Marina continued. “Guys like him are worth their weight in gold.”
She didn’t dare say more. She knew Lida would get upset and then stay silent for days, like after their last conversation. Very sensitive, living inside her wounds, constantly thinking people laugh at her. Not noticing that people are just tired of being kind — hard life makes everyone rough.
Suddenly, Artyom Viktorovich appeared in the dishwashing area. He usually didn’t go below the kitchen, but today decided to conduct the search personally.
“Hey, need a special invitation? Take out your wallets quickly! I know you — all thieves, just jealous of my wealth!” he shouted from afar.
Lida and Marina silently handed over their purses. Artyom frowned inspecting Marina’s, grimacing when he found diapers for a child. No money in the wallet.
“Now your turn,” he addressed Lida.
He carefully checked her bag, then took out her wallet… and suddenly froze.
“Found billions in there?” Lida joked.
Marina smiled — she liked the joke.
“Who’s this in the photo?” Artyom suddenly asked seriously. He no longer looked like a rude, irritated restaurant owner. Something else slipped into his voice — anxiety, surprise.
“My parents. But they definitely didn’t take your money,” Lida answered dryly.
Artyom turned pale, then quickly closed the wallet and ran out. A minute later his voice was heard:
“That’s it, forget it! Search over, no one’s guilty! Back to work!”
“Miracles. What’s gotten into him?” Marina wondered.
“Don’t know. Maybe his conscience woke up?” Lida shrugged.
They talked a long time about the boss’s strange reaction but decided it was just a coincidence.
In the evening, Lida came home late as usual. In the hallway, neighbors greeted her with giggles:
“Lida, your prince has arrived!”
“Not funny. And you should drink less,” she sharply replied, sure they were teasing her.
But down the hall came… Artyom.
“Lidia, can we talk? I wanted to apologize,” he began, and his voice sounded very different from usual.
Lida didn’t expect this. She slowly opened the door, letting him in. The room was shabby: old furniture, cracked wallpaper, worn corners. She could have renovated everything, but didn’t want to — her mother had chosen this wallpaper herself, and every crack reminded her of her.
“I wanted to talk… confidentially,” said Artyom, clearly embarrassed.
“At your disposal, Mr. Boss,” Lida replied dryly.
“That photo…,” he began. “That’s my father in it. I’m sure. But my mother always said he died and showed me exactly this photo. I don’t understand anything. Decided to talk to you.”
Lida froze. It was impossible. Inga Timofeevna — daughter of wealthy parents, a city woman. How could she be in a photo with her mother and father?
“Well… some people just look alike,” she tried to answer, but her voice trembled.
Artyom looked at her carefully, and for the first time, there was no arrogance in his eyes. Only a question. And fear of the answer that could change everything.
Lida and Artyom sat in her modest room talking for a long time. Despite all his pompousness and usual arrogance, Artyom suddenly showed another side — not just a boss, but a person beginning to understand he was foolish and cruel, that his behavior hurt others. He sincerely apologized for the search, for humiliating employees, for not seeing them as people.
“We’ve long gotten used to your antics. By the way, you should stop drinking before work,” Lida said dryly, though her voice softened a bit.
She told him he himself had taken money from the safe the day before, just forgot about it.
“I feel like a fool. Why didn’t anyone tell me earlier?” Artyom said thoughtfully.
“Because they thought it was useless. You insulted us constantly,” she answered honestly.
“Yeah, I see now… I just wanted to seem cool and confident. It turned out stupid,” he admitted, lowering his gaze.
“You didn’t succeed,” Lida smiled faintly.
Nevertheless, that evening became a turning point. Artyom suggested going to Irina Vladimirovna — the person who knew more than anyone else.
“Let’s visit her. I’m curious anyway. But let’s not take your car. I don’t want neighbors talking about the ‘prince’ who came to me for a week,” Lida requested.
But Artyom insisted. He arrived in a fancy SUV, and when they walked down the corridor together, all the windows were literally plastered with curious neighbors. For them, it was a real show — the “prince” and the “monster,” as they called Lida.
Irina Vladimirovna already knew what the conversation would be about. Artyom had warned her by phone, so the woman was prepared. She took a deep breath and began telling the truth she had kept for many years.
“I think the time has come. You can’t run from fate.”
It turned out that Irina Vladimirovna had given birth to a son by Viktor — Lida’s father. At that time, he was married to Inga Timofeevna, but they had a brief affair. Irina didn’t want to break up a family, so she planned to give the child to an orphanage. But it so happened that on the day the infant of Inga’s died in the orphanage, she asked Irina to exchange children. That’s how Artyom ended up in a wealthy family without knowing his real mother lived right nearby, working side by side with the woman he thought was his mother.
“I agreed. Wanted to start a new life. Besides, my husband was very jealous. When he found out about my relationship with Viktor, he went crazy. He broke into the house, locked Viktor in the cellar, and started a fire. He thought we and the child had already gone to my aunt’s for her anniversary.”
“No, we didn’t go. Mom broke her leg,” Lida sobbed.
Those words broke the dam of memories. It turned out the father didn’t intend to abandon them. He died in the fire trying to protect them. That explained everything: his disappearance, the rumors after the tragedy.
“After everything, my husband wrote to me from prison. He repented. He buried Viktor’s remains in the forest himself and spread rumors that Viktor fled the family. He died there in prison.”
Artyom was silent. His heart was torn by feelings. Before him sat a woman who gave him life, but for years he only saw her as an assistant. He envied her authority and the respect she commanded among the staff. Now he understood — she was his mother. And always better than he could have imagined.
“Don’t say that, son. You’re a good, kind boy. You just don’t know how to be yourself yet,” Irina said softly, taking his hand.
After a long silence, she asked Artyom not to tell Inga Timofeevna anything.
“She loves you madly. It would be a blow to her. Let things stay as they are. She saved me, she saved you.”
Artyom agreed. He promised to keep silent but decided to change his life. Six months later, Irina Vladimirovna became the official restaurant manager. Artyom finally found his calling — he opened a vintage car restoration studio. It turned out his father’s genes didn’t lie: he was an excellent mechanic, a master with golden hands.
Lida’s life also began to change. Artyom insisted she seek treatment at the city’s best clinic. He paid for her treatment, and the doctors did the impossible — Lida’s face became like her mother’s in youth. Not a single trace of burns. Not one mark. She could look in the mirror again without pain.
Vova, her beloved, joked sadly:
“Now you’re beautiful, and your brother is rich. Why do you need me?”
“Vova, you loved me when I was ugly. Do you really think I’ll drive you away now?” Lida laughed, pressing against him.
But the joy was even deeper — a few months later they found out they were going to be parents. Lida was four months pregnant, though it was not yet visible. Only Vova knew and every day gently stroked her belly as if already feeling the little life inside.
“You know, we need to take a photo,” she suddenly suggested when newlyweds passed by with a photographer.
The photo became special. Later, Lida often looked at it, remembering that day when she and Vova stood hand in hand, in love, happy, and already with a child inside her. She planned to show that picture to her daughter when she grew up.
“Look, baby, this is your first portrait.”
Marina also got a chance to start a new life. Before her dismissal, Artyom helped her enroll in culinary school. Now she was studying to be a chef instead of washing dishes for pennies. The dream of her whole life was coming true.
When Lida’s daughter was born, the woman often told her about her grandmother and grandfather watching her from above, from heaven. The baby, of course, didn’t understand, but laughed looking at her mother and smiled with a toothless grin.
Once Lida dreamed of her parents. They stood holding hands. She ran to them, hugged them, and said what she had long wanted to say:
“Forgive me, Dad, for thinking badly of you. Forgive me, Mom, for not taking care of you as well as I could.”
She woke up to Vova shaking her shoulders — he heard her crying and talking in her sleep and was terrified.
“That was a good dream,” Lida reassured him. “A very necessary one. I told them I love them. And now I know: those we love always hear us. Even if they are far away.”
Vova hugged her, and together they looked at their sleeping baby girl in the crib. That night the house was filled with silence, light, and love — everything Lida had long waited for.
