Kirill was in a big hurry today. It was already eight in the evening, and he still hadn’t picked out a gift or bought flowers—he hadn’t even changed his clothes. It was his mother’s birthday, Svetlana Eduardovna Krasilnikova. A crowd of guests had gathered for the occasion. The celebration would take place at the millionaire family’s country house. Dinner was for relatives only; the VIPs, business partners, and journalists were invited for Saturday.
Those “family get-togethers” had long gotten on Kirill’s nerves. His mother’s friends would be sure to ask tactless questions: when he was going to get married, when he would give the Krasilnikov empire some heirs.
What annoyed him most was how the many aunts, girlfriends, and matchmakers all tried to foist their nieces and acquaintances on him, each extolling the next “perfect bride.”
They used to pester his younger sister, twenty-year-old Kamilla, but ever since she started dating the son of publisher Yeremov, they’d left her alone and only praised her choice. Now all the attention had switched to Kirill.
He tried to avoid these pushy ladies, but that wouldn’t work today. Skipping his mother’s birthday would mean bringing down a long-lasting grudge on himself.
Lost in thought, Kirill pulled up to a flower shop. A small stall by the central market wasn’t the sort of place he normally visited. They probably didn’t get Kenyan roses or Dutch tulips every morning still beaded with dew, but there was no choice. He needed flowers urgently.
When he walked in, the shop was empty. Looking around, Kirill noticed the flowers were quite decent—it only remained to wait for the clerk.
But there was no one.
“Good evening! Anyone here?” he called toward the back room.
“Hey, clerk! Whoever’s behind the counter—am I supposed to wait or what?” His voice came out louder than he intended, and he even flushed with annoyance. He usually didn’t allow himself that tone.
In the boutiques and salons he frequented, several assistants would rush over at once. “Apparently it’s just not my day,” the millionaire thought.
At that very moment, a girl in a dark-blue smock came out of the back.
“Why are you yelling like you’re at a market? Couldn’t you wait?” she snapped.
“Why should I wait? Your job is to attract customers, sell the goods, and provide service so they come back,” Kirill retorted. “The flower market is saturated, the competition’s huge, and I can just drive to another shop.”
“Then go drive to one—why the shouting?” the girl shrugged. “All right, if you don’t need anything, I’m off.”
She turned to leave.
“Wait! Look, I’m in a big rush, no time to drive all over town. What do you have for a middle-aged woman? A beautiful, glamorous, well-off woman. It’s my mother’s birthday.”
“Well, if it’s for your mother, how old is she? That matters for the choice,” the girl said briskly.
“I don’t know,” Kirill faltered.
“There you go,” she twisted her mouth.
“No, you don’t get it. My mother hides her age. I think even she doesn’t remember anymore.”
“Oh, I can believe that,” the girl suddenly laughed, genuinely. “Granny Matryona didn’t remember how old she was either, and it made us laugh as kids. We used to say she was sixteen, and she was pushing seventy.”
Kirill stayed serious.
“What does your granny have to do with it? My mother looks wonderful and just refuses to grow old. Give me the flowers.”
“Will roses do?” the girl pouted.
“Yes, roses,” he sighed. “Make up a bouquet and I’ll be on my way. I’m late.”
“I don’t know how to arrange bouquets,” she shrugged. “I’m the cleaner. The florist, Antonina, has been stuck in the bathroom for two days—bad stomach. I’m just keeping an eye on the shop.”
Kirill stared at her speechless. He was in shock. He’d never had a more absurd situation in his life.
“Fine. Put something together however you can. At least tie the stems and wrap a ribbon. Can you manage?” He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow.
“I can manage,” the girl brightened and deftly began gathering the roses.
Kirill studied her. She had gorgeous hair, regular features, flawless skin, and expressive eyes. Long fingers, delicate wrists—like a pianist’s.
“She’s a beauty!” flashed through his mind. “Maybe invite her to tonight’s dinner to play the role of my fiancée? With her looks she could easily pass for an aristocrat. Poise, hair, natural beauty… Even that simple dress could be passed off as couture. I wonder if our fashion queens will believe she’s from a wealthy family? Of course they will.”
“What’s your name?” he asked unexpectedly.
“Liza. Liza Snezhina.”
“Pretty name and surname.”
“Oh, they gave it to me at the orphanage. They found me in the snow, so—‘Snezhina,’” she laughed.
“In the… snow?” he blurted.
“Well, not literally in a snowdrift,” Liza clarified. “On a sled. Left at the orphanage door. It was a snowy winter, hence the surname.”
She fell silent, watching his shocked face.
“Come on, what’s it to you? Don’t you know people sometimes abandon children?”
“I know,” he muttered, wrong-footed.
“Here, your bouquet,” Liza handed over a rather decent composition.
“Listen, Liza, would you like to earn in one evening what equals several of your monthly salaries?” Kirill smiled.
“What?! You… creep! I’m calling the police!” She grabbed a bucket.
“No, wait! Not like that. I’m offering money for a small favor. Tonight I need you to play the role of my wife. Just a couple of hours at my parents’ house, and then I’ll drive you home.”
“Why do you need that?” Liza lowered the bucket.
“The thing is, there’ll be relatives at dinner, and the aunts will start grilling me again about why I’m not married yet. I want to prank them: present you as my wife so they’ll back off.
“After a while I’ll admit it was a joke, but maybe it’ll teach them not to stick their noses where they don’t belong.”
“And really, why aren’t you married yet?” Liza asked with curiosity.
“Oh great, you too,” Kirill laughed. “Probably because I haven’t met true love yet. Isn’t it obvious?”
“Hm, I thought for the rich love wasn’t the main thing. Business, merging capitals, and all that are more important.”
“For me, love comes first, believe me,” he smiled.
“All right, I’ll help,” the girl agreed unexpectedly easily, surprising Krasilnikov again. “I’ll just wait for the florist and change.”
“Liza, I’m already late and my mother’s probably worried. Are you dressed decently now? Do you have anything to change into besides the smock?”
“I’m always dressed decently,” she said, offended.
“Don’t be upset, Elizaveta Snezhina. I’m sure you always look wonderful. I just needed to check. Here’s the money and the address. Give me your phone number—I’ll call you now so you’ll have mine saved.
“Finish up, call a taxi, and I’ll meet you by the house, okay? Oh, and one more thing: at the table we’ll use ‘you’ informally, and try to look at me with eyes full of love.”
“I’ll try, don’t worry. I was the star of the drama club at the orphanage,” Liza said.
“Seriously? Then I’m at ease,” he laughed.
All the way there, Kirill drove with a smile, replaying the conversation with the cleaner. He didn’t understand why thoughts of her lifted his mood. There was something bright about her; it made him want to sing.
He turned on the radio and sang along: “You’re the only one, you’re the one, I know you… There’s no one else like you in the world…”
He barely made it in time for dinner. The bouquet was appreciated—Aunt Rita even noted that an Italian billionaire in Palermo had given her the same one. The guests nodded admiringly, calling the composition “refined luxury,” and Kirill barely held back a laugh.
Then the conversation drifted to Kamilla’s wedding and, of course, to the “poor” bachelor Kirill.
“Kirill, when will we see the heir to the Krasilnikov empire?” Aunt Zina sighed. “While we’re still young, we’d like to dandle a little prince.”
“Well, here we go,” he thought, but only smiled.
“It’s hard to understand today’s youth,” Aunt Rita chimed in. “You can’t find a decent girl anymore.”
“Oh, leave the boy alone!” barked seventy-nine-year-old Grandpa Boris Petrovich, a retired general, slamming his fist on the table. “Enough with the matchmaking! Soon we’ll have to dandle you, you old bags!”
“You’re first in line, Boris Petrovich,” Aunt Rita shot back.
“Dad, enough with the barracks humor!” Svetlana Eduardovna flared. “No tact at all!”
“And hounding the boy with questions is tactful?” the old man growled. “You, Rita, you, Zina, and you, Svetlana—you came from the backwoods of Kukushkino and you’ve stayed that way. My adjutant Shura Alyabyev used to say, ‘You can take the girl out of the village, but you can’t take the village out of the girl.’”
Kirill and his father hurried to intervene:
“Dad, let’s not spoil the celebration. It’s Svetlana’s jubilee.”
“I’m all for that!” the grandfather spread his hands. “Talk about the birthday girl, not the grandson’s marriage. He’ll work it out himself. By the way, how old are you, Sveta?”
“Forty-five,” she grated through her teeth.
“Fourth year in a row?” the general chuckled.
“Vitaly, rein your father in,” Svetlana hissed.
“But really, when are we going to meet Kirill’s fiancée?” Aunt Rita asked loudly.
The old man scowled, but his grandson beat him to it:
“Not a fiancée—no. A wife—yes.”
Silence fell over the table. Even Kamilla lifted her eyes from her phone.
“No way. Kiryukha, you got married?!” she gasped.
Just then the doorbell rang.
“Yes, dear ones, I’m married. And this is my wife. She’s arrived.”
He stepped away from the table.
“Well, let’s see what kind of ‘frog in a box’ we’ve got here,” the grandfather smirked. “I’m sure my grandson chose the best girl.”
The ladies glanced at each other, and Svetlana rolled her eyes.
At the gate, Kirill saw the taxi—and froze.
“Liza, what’s with the war paint? And those ‘beads for Indians’? Two hours ago you looked normal!”
“This is expensive costume jewelry! And the florist did my makeup.”
“Why are you limping? God, I can’t introduce you to my family like this!”
“The shoes are too big, that’s why I’m hobbling.”
Liza was crestfallen. She had so hoped to earn some money—tomorrow was her day off, and she wanted to take little Sonya to the zoo and buy her gifts…
“I’ve got my pumps in my backpack, I can change.”
“Quickly! And take off those beads. We’ll go into the conservatory—wash your face. You look better without that makeup.”
Ten minutes later, they walked into the living room. The guests stared.
“Don’t be afraid, I’m with you,” Kirill whispered, leading her to the table.
He seated Liza beside him and, unnoticed, slipped a ring with a huge diamond onto her finger (where it came from—who knows).
“Idiot, you could at least have asked my size,” Liza swore silently, doing her best not to drop the ring. “Now I have to keep track of this rock too…”
“This is Liza. My wife.”
Jaws dropped all around. No one had expected such a turn…
“Hello, dear. You’re such a beauty!” the grandfather rejoiced, stepping forward to hug her. Liza stood up, bewildered, and the retired general promptly kissed her three times. “I’m your husband’s grandfather—Boris Petrovich Krasilnikov. You can just call me ‘Grandpa.’”
“Liza, tell me, where did you meet my son?” asked Svetlana Eduardovna.
“In a shop,” the girl answered simply, but Kirill immediately nudged her with his elbow to keep her from blurting more.
“Oh? Which one exactly? I didn’t know my nephew went shopping,” Aunt Rita laughed. Liza was completely flustered now. She didn’t know how to behave in this circle or what was acceptable. The “impostor” decided to talk about the one thing she knew something about:
“In an art supply store. I was buying canvases, and Kirill…”
“In an art store?!” Aunt Zina’s eyes bulged and her mouth opened and closed like a fish on land. “Kiryusha, what were you doing there?”
“Um… I… went in with a friend. He was choosing a gift for his daughter, so we dropped in,” Kirill fumbled, inventing on the fly, and not very convincingly. Liza decided to help—after all, she was being paid for the role:
“And I was walking by, got distracted by the window, and we bumped into each other. The brushes fell, and we started picking them up. Suddenly our hands touched, and we looked at each other. In that moment, it was like a flame flared up in my soul. Kirill felt the same. He knew right away he couldn’t live a day without me.”
Krasilnikov kept tugging on Liza’s hand and kicking her under the table, trying to shut her up, but she was on a roll.
“He said, ‘If I knew how to paint, I would paint your portrait every day. But I can’t. Let me at least take a photo with you.’ And I said, ‘Oh no, I’m no star to pose for photos.’ And he said, ‘You are a star—just very distant and unknown, but the most beautiful in the universe.’”
Everyone listened open-mouthed, and Grandpa just smirked.
“Oh, how romantic!” Aunt Rita exclaimed, pressing her hands to her chest. “Liza, you know, one of my admirers once…”
“But Kirill isn’t ‘one of my admirers,’” the “wife-impostor” cut her off. “He’s my husband, my one and only. We don’t notice anyone else. Forgive him for not introducing me earlier—I wasn’t ready. All this time I couldn’t believe the best man in the world truly loved me. Now I paint him every night: when he comes home tired from work, and when he sleeps, curled up like a child.”
“How wonderful!” Aunt Zina sighed. “Liza, are you an artist? Do you have your own gallery? Where do you exhibit?”
“That’s enough,” Kirill snapped. “Mom, happy birthday again. Liza and I have to go.” He took the girl by the elbow and steered her toward the exit.
The aunts and Kirill’s mother jumped up to see the “newlyweds” out:
“No, Kirill, absolutely not!” his mother protested. “What will people say? The Krasilnikov heir got married, and there’s no wedding, no announcement in the press!”
“Liza, will you come to the party on Saturday? Kirill, remember—seven o’clock at the Russian House?” Aunt Zina hurried after them.
“Lizochka, who are your parents? We simply must meet!” Aunt Rita called after them.
At last they got into the car. Kirill pulled away sharply and stopped at the nearest turn to catch his breath.
“What was that, Liza?!” he was furious. “What shop? What stars? I asked you to just be present, not put on a show! And now what—drag you to Saturday’s reception too? There will be journalists!”
“No need to ‘drag’ me,” Liza shrugged. “You said you’d confess afterward. So confess it was a joke. Sorry, I just got carried away. I thought—money doesn’t come for nothing, I should earn it.”
“Right,” he reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. “Here, you’ve earned it.”
“That’s too much. I won’t take it,” Liza’s eyes flew wide.
“Only fools refuse money,” he snapped. “Are you a fool?”
“No, I’m not. I really need the money,” she took the bills and stuffed them into her bag. “Good-bye, Kirill. Or farewell.” She grabbed the door handle, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Sit tight. I’ll take you home,” he grunted, and the car leapt forward.
When they stopped by a shabby five-story on the outskirts, Kirill, demonstrating his manners, got out to open the door for her.
Liza stepped out, leaning on his hand, but suddenly slipped and clutched at his shirt. He had parked by a puddle.
A second later he was flat in the mud, and she was on top of him.
“What is wrong with you?!” he shouted.
“You parked in a puddle!” she snapped back.
“It’s dark, you can’t see a thing!”
They got up. His suit was covered in grime.
“Come upstairs,” Liza said. “My landlady won’t like it, but once is okay. After all, you’re not just any man—you’re my ‘husband for one evening.’”
Kirill was in no mood to laugh. He felt like strangling her for all the mishaps of the evening, but he followed.
They were met by a stern pensioner, Anna Stepanovna:
“Liza, why so late? Who’s this? Bringing men home now?”
“Granny Anya, this is my ‘husband.’ Not really—we just said that to his parents…”
The landlady was dumbfounded.
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Anna Stepanovna, can he wash up and go?”
The old woman waved a hand.
“Let him use the bath. I’ll bring him some things that belonged to the late Ivan Sergeyevich.”
“No need!” Kirill blurted. “I’ll clean up and leave.”
An hour later his clothes were drying on the balcony, and the two of them were drinking tea in Liza’s room. Kirill looked over the canvases, easels, and paints.
“You really are an artist?” he asked. “May I see your work?”
“Go ahead.”
“I don’t know much about art, but I like this. Will you sell me one?”
“You’ve already paid me well. No need.”
“But I really like this one,” he pointed to a canvas. “It would be perfect for my office.”
“Take it,” Liza said indifferently.
Kirill reached for his wallet, then remembered he was wearing someone else’s clothes.
“No money,” Liza shook her head.
“Liza, may I ask—why are you working as a cleaner if you’re an artist? And, in my opinion, a very talented one.”
“Thanks,” she gave a wan smile. “But who needs that? Yes, I sell paintings at the market by the fountain, sometimes I take commissions, but… feast or famine. It’s not enough to live on. Materials are expensive and I don’t have much free time. At the shop I have a small but steady salary. The boss is kind, gives bonuses.”
She fell silent, then added hesitantly:
“There’s something else… I visit a little girl at the orphanage. Sonya. She’s six. Very lonely.”
“A relative of yours?” Kirill asked softly.
“No. Just… a friend. I’m teaching her to draw. I want to adopt her, but it isn’t working out yet.”
“Why not? If it’s about money, I’ll help.”
“It’s not the money. I don’t have housing, or conditions for a child. I’m not married… Though that’s not the main thing anymore. But I’m working on it. For now I can only visit.”
Kirill looked at her intently.
“You’re a full orphan? No relatives at all?”
Liza nodded silently.
“But you were entitled to an apartment from the state, weren’t you?”
“I was,” she gave a bitter little laugh. “I sold it to help someone with debts. And he… disappeared. That’s my life—people keep leaving me, starting with my mother.”
Her laugh sounded unnatural. Kirill looked at the girl in silence, feeling a strange mix of anger and pity.
Liza stood and went to the balcony.
“Your things are dry. Go before the neighbors wake up. I don’t want gossip about night visits in a fancy car.”
“Yes, of course,” Kirill dressed, took the wrapped painting, and left. At the door they shook hands without a word.
Sitting in the car, he lingered behind the wheel, staring up at her window. Liza looked out and waved him away, scowling, to make him go.
At home, Kirill slept till evening. He woke to calls from his sister.
“Kamilla, what’s wrong?”
“Where have you been?! Give me Liza’s number, I need to talk to her—now!”
“Tell me and I’ll pass it on.”
“Are you kidding me? Why should I talk to your wife through you?!” Kamilla exploded. “Where is she right now?”
“With me! In the shower!” he blurted out. “She’ll call back later.”
Hanging up, Kirill raced to the shop where Liza worked. He bought every flower in sight and begged the owner to let her off early.
“Are you out of your mind? What am I supposed to do with all these flowers?” Liza protested in the parking lot.
“My sister wants your number.”
“Then just admit it was a prank!”
“I… want to tease them a little longer,” he mumbled, unsure.
“Fooling people isn’t funny. You promised to tell the truth.”
“I will! But first talk to Kamilla. She wants your advice.”
“Fine,” Liza sighed. “But in return—give me a lift to the orphanage. And have the flowers sent there—to the staff.”
At the orphanage, they greeted Liza like one of their own. The elderly cloakroom attendant, Matryona Ivanovna, squinted at Kirill:
“You the fiancé of our Lizonka?”
“You could say that,” he smiled.
“Don’t you lead her on! I’ve known her since diapers—I won’t let anyone hurt her.”
Kirill suddenly realized: this was the very “Granny Matryona” Liza had mentioned when they met.
“I won’t hurt her. Could you… tell me about her?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” The cloakroom lady settled in. “Listen…”
In the winter, just before New Year’s 2004, a newborn girl was found on the orphanage steps. It was deep night—though it was only six in the evening, darkness had already wrapped everything.
Matryona Ivanovna was hurrying in to work: that day the institution was preparing a holiday party and a New Year’s masquerade ball. The children needed special attention.
The gate into the yard was frozen shut, so she went through the main entrance. That’s where she noticed a sled, and on it—a bundle. Coming closer, Matryona realized it was an infant wrapped in a baby blanket. Panic seized her: was the child breathing? Without losing a second, she left the sled outside, took the baby in her arms, and dashed inside.
It turned out to be a healthy, sturdy newborn—a sweet little girl just a few days old. There was no note, no documents. No hint anyone would return for her.
The staff called an ambulance right away. While the doctors were getting ready to take the baby, Matryona asked the director to let her give the girl a name.
The paramedic registered the child as Elizaveta Snezhina. Six years later, fate brought Liza back to that very same orphanage—the girl ended up in the place where she’d once been found.
Liza’s life wasn’t easy. Left without parents, she lived with guardians until the age of six. But after the father in that family died, her new mother remarried, and the new husband wanted nothing to do with someone else’s children. So Liza returned to an institution.
It was a terrible blow for the girl. She considered herself the legitimate daughter of the Yolkina family and barely remembered how she’d first ended up in the orphanage. No one dared remind her she’d been abandoned as a newborn. Granny Matryona waited until Liza grew a little older.
At seven, the girl was placed in another family-style children’s home. But four years later all the kids there were removed and the caregivers arrested. Liza came back to the orphanage yet again.
After that she stopped talking—but she began to draw. Astonishingly, she drew as if she’d studied in an art school all her life. Faces were her specialty, able to convey any emotion.
Only when Elizaveta turned eighteen did Matryona Ivanovna decide to tell her the truth about her origins. Liza listened carefully, then answered with bitterness:
“I’ve been abandoned many times. What difference does one more make?”
“You’re wrong,” the woman objected. “When I found you, you were wrapped in very expensive sheets. Not just rags. Your mother was clearly from a well-off family. She must have had her reasons.”
Liza only smirked.
“If she hasn’t been looking for me, I’m nothing to her.”
Matryona wanted to add more, but went on a little later:
“The next day, while shoveling snow, I found a white silk kerchief near the sled. It had ‘Lev Kudritsky’ embroidered on it in lilac thread. I still keep it. Maybe he’s the father or some relative?”
But Liza showed no interest. She didn’t want to know those who had rejected her. Even so, the old woman still keeps the kerchief, hoping that one day the girl will want to search for her past.
A young man who started seeing Liza once offered to begin the search:
“Let me see the kerchief. I’ll photograph it and try to find information.”
Matryona promised to show him the next day.
Meanwhile, Liza spent time with friends: they went to the zoo, to the movies, took a spin around town, ate ice cream. In the evening Kirill drove her home, and the two of them had a tender exchange:
“Let’s date?” he asked.
“Billionaires don’t date cleaners,” Liza smiled.
“Then we’ll be the first. Break the stereotype?”
“All right. Let’s.”
“Then we should kiss, shouldn’t we?”
“Come by tomorrow and we’ll see,” she winked and got out of the car.
Kirill drove off happy. He replayed every minute he’d spent with Liza. It was a completely new kind of feeling for him. He’d had relationships before, but Liza was different. Like a melody that played only for him.
The next morning Kirill intended to visit Matryona Ivanovna. He hadn’t promised to track down Liza’s relatives for nothing—the name “Lev Kudritsky” embroidered on the kerchief had caught him. He remembered that in the cottage community where his parents lived there was an artist with that surname, and decided to check the coincidence.
Lev Mikhailovich Kudritsky was a well-known figure in the arts, recognized in Russia and abroad. He lived quietly with his wife, Yekaterina Nikolayevna, far from society. They had no children, though once they had dreamed of a family. Neighbors rarely saw them—the couple preferred solitude and surrounded themselves with animals instead of people. They kept pets and ran a small shelter for strays.
Kirill didn’t know how to begin, so he decided to get straight to the point: show the photo of the kerchief and ask if it was familiar.
Ten minutes after he rang the gate, the young man was shown in. The artist received his guest in the study. After brief greetings, Krasilnikov handed over the phone with the kerchief’s image.
“I know that kerchief,” Lev Mikhailovich admitted, struggling to hide his agitation. “It was a gift from an old friend in Italy. They were made specially for me, my wife, and our daughter. We only have two left now. Where did you find this one?”
Kirill asked for some time and told the whole story—about the newborn foundling, the orphanage, Liza and her life. As he spoke, the artist paled more and more. He rose, left the room, and returned with his wife and a portrait of a girl.
“This is our daughter, Eva,” he said with pain. “She died three years ago. We lost her when she went to Turkey.”
Eva had been a difficult child. In a family that had everything, she was always searching for more. A constant hunt for thrills, drugs, running away from home, ties with bikers—it all became part of her life. Pregnant at seventeen, she disappeared, then returned and claimed the child had died. Later she vanished again, and years afterward her parents were told she’d died in a hotel by the sea.
When Kirill told them Liza’s year of birth, the couple had no doubts left: this was their granddaughter.
“I’ll bring her to you,” the young man promised. “But first I need to prepare Liza for the meeting.”
The conversation with the girl wasn’t easy. She cried for a long time, unable to understand why she’d been abandoned if there had been a family who could have loved and raised her. But Kirill persuaded her that the past couldn’t be changed, and the present could become the start of new happiness.
“They’re good people,” he soothed her. “Grandma runs an animal shelter, Grandpa is a renowned artist. Maybe you inherited your gift from him.”
“Maybe,” Liza agreed. “Just have them do a test, in case they don’t believe it.”
“We will, don’t worry. But I’m sure they don’t doubt it. You look so much like your mother—and your grandfather.”
The next day, Liza, Kirill, and the overjoyed Kudritskys sat down at one table. For the elderly couple it was a day they’d long since stopped hoping for. They wouldn’t let their granddaughter out of their arms and were ready to do anything to make up for the lost years.
The girl presented Kirill as her future husband and said she wanted to take the little girl Sonya into her care. Liza’s grandparents blessed the plan.
“Child services have to approve the home?” the grandfather asked.
“Of course,” Liza answered.
“Then let’s do the paperwork and set up a nursery. As many as you like!”
“Why so many?” Grandma laughed.
“They’re young—they’ll have more kids,” Grandpa winked at the lovers.
Kirill and Liza’s wedding became the talk of the town. The Krasilnikov parents were thrilled with their daughter-in-law. All the family friends heard the groom’s mother proclaim:
“Lizočka is from a good family. Intellectuals, aristocrats—not like those who come into the world without roots.”
And so the story of a lonely girl found on the eve of New Year’s found a happy ending. Fate brought her to those who had always wanted her by their side—her own family, who had been waiting for her for many years.
