— Pearls? Seriously? — Eleonora Vasilievna raised her eyebrow, examining me in the hallway mirror. — No, no, Victoria, that’s absolutely not the impression you want to make.
I silently took off my grandmother’s necklace and put it in my purse. Another failure. Another hint that I was a stranger here.
— Daniil said you work at some insurance company? Checking papers? — A polite but poisonous smile froze on her face — one I had already learned to recognize. — Such… a mundane job.
— I’m a lawyer in the document verification department, — I answered, trying to keep my voice steady. — We detect forgeries and discrepancies.
— Oh, how charming, — she adjusted her perfect hairstyle. — You know, my grandfather worked personally with the Minister of Justice. A different level, of course.
Daniil came into the hallway and kissed me on the cheek.
— Ready, my beloved women?
— Your mother is teaching me how to dress, — I smiled, pretending it was a joke.
— Elementary advice, dear, — my mother-in-law turned to her son. — I want your wife to be… at least minimally appropriate.
Daniil sighed — barely noticeable, but I caught it. He always reacted this way: neither openly supporting me nor contradicting his mother. Eternal diplomacy.
— The car is waiting, — that was all he said.
On the way, Eleonora Vasilievna talked nonstop — about her acquaintances, her ancestry, about an old Moscow apartment “lost in troubled times.”
I saw how proud her son was of her manners, her voice — low, with characteristic educated intonations.
— The roots of my family tree go back to the nineteenth century, — she spoke with the flawless confidence of someone who never doubted her words.
— Even during the revolution, we managed to preserve some values. Good upbringing cannot be taken away.
We arrived at the country house of her friends — as luxurious as all the places she took us. Expensive cars at the gate, security, ironed tablecloths, waiters with trays.
— Victoria, try not to talk about your work, — whispered my mother-in-law when Daniil went off to greet the hosts. — Just smile and nod.
And don’t mention your parents being doctors at the district clinic. Just say — medical workers.
The evening dragged on endlessly. I sat next to Daniil, smiled, and kept quiet as I was told. Eleonora shone — leading polite conversations, sprinkling mentions of travels, distant relatives in Europe.
— Remember when I told you we visited Countess Anna in Vienna? — she addressed her son, though she spoke for everyone. — In ’85, I think, I told you?
— In ’86, you said, — Daniil automatically corrected.
— No, no, ’85, I’m sure, — she cut him off. — I had just graduated from the special school with an English focus. The very one on Gogolevsky.
I tensed. Something scratched at my professional memory. Special school on Gogolevsky? But…
— Excuse me, — interrupted an elderly lady opposite. — That school only opened in ’87. My niece studied there later.
Eleonora froze for a moment. Then laughed — a bit louder than necessary.
— Of course, you’re right. I meant another one. So many years have passed, I mix up the dates.
The conversation flowed on. But I saw her fingers tremble on the wine glass. Panic flickered in her eyes — for a fraction of a second before the social mask returned. And something inside me clicked like a camera shutter capturing the moment of truth.
In this perfect picture, a crack appeared. Small, almost invisible. But my trained lawyer’s eyes, used to spotting forgeries, noticed it.
Now I couldn’t unsee it.
A month later, we went for the weekend to Eleonora Vasilievna’s country house. She called it her “ancestral nest,” although she had bought it only five years ago with her husband’s money.
— My ancestors lived here, — she proudly showed guests the old staircase. — I bought the estate back from the new owners. A debt to the family memory.
In the evening, Daniil went out with friends for a walk to the lake. I went up to the bedroom — the house cooled at night, and there were no extra blankets in the room.
— I’ll check the storage room, — I muttered to myself.
The storage room was stuffed with suitcases and boxes. I reached for the top shelf, and a heavy old suitcase slipped awkwardly down. The clasps popped open, and papers spilled onto the floor.
— Damn, — I squatted to gather the scattered documents.
And froze. In front of me lay a birth certificate. In the name of Eleonora Vasilieva.
I mechanically noted the place of birth: the village Novospasskoye, Tambov region. The date — exactly matched. But this was not the surname my mother-in-law bore before marriage.
I quickly looked through other papers. A school certificate issued by a village school. A vocational school diploma in “Sewing.” A strange paper resembling a police certificate. And some other documents — clearly altered, with unevenly cut edges. My heart raced wildly. My hands trembled. I couldn’t wrap my head around it.
I took out my phone, took several pictures, trying to capture the main details. Then carefully put everything back in the suitcase. Exactly as it was.
The next day, I couldn’t look at my mother-in-law. I was afraid she’d read everything in my eyes. And she was deliberately especially caustic.
— You have such a simple way of holding your fork, — she remarked at lunch. — In my family, table etiquette was taught from the age of four.
Daniil frowned slightly but said nothing.
Back in the city, I took a day off and went to see my former classmate Marat. He worked in the archive and had access to databases.
— This is confidential, — I warned. — Just check for me. No official requests.
Marat looked at the documents I sent him by email, entered the data into the system.
— Such a person really exists, — he said an hour later. — Eleonora Vasilieva, born 1965. Village Novospasskoye. Parents — workers of the local sovkhoz.
Graduated vocational school in 1985. After that, traces in local archives disappear — apparently, she moved.
— And these documents? — I showed photos of certificates with Moscow registration I found in the suitcase.
Marat shook his head: — Crude forgery. Look, the stamp is of the wrong type. And the signature — such a head of department never existed. All fake.
I thanked him and went outside. My head was spinning. The woman who humiliated me for my “simple” background was herself from the countryside. No ministers, no special schools. Everything — a lie from start to finish. And she lied to her husband, the father of Daniil, whom she married. I didn’t know what to do with this information. Tell Daniil? He adored his mother, was proud of her manners, her connections. This would shatter his world.
Stay silent? Let her continue to bully me, hinting I was “not good enough”?
My phone vibrated in my pocket. A message from Daniil: “Mom wants to host a big reception for her anniversary. Everyone’s invited. Next Saturday.” I stood in the middle of the street, staring at the screen. Eleonora Vasilievna’s anniversary. A celebration where she would shine, receive congratulations, tell about her “noble origins.”
And everyone would admire her, including my husband.
“All right, tell her I will definitely come,” I typed back.
That was when everything would be decided.
On the day of the anniversary, I wore a simple white dress. No jewelry except a thin silver bracelet. Hair neatly tied in a bun. In my purse, a folder with copies of the documents.
— You look so formal today, — Daniil remarked as we drove to the restaurant.
— An important day, — I smiled. — Your mother’s anniversary.
The hall was full of guests. Champagne, photographers, live music. Eleonora Vasilievna was the center of attention — in a dark blue dress, perfect hairstyle, with family (as she claimed) sapphires in her ears.
— Ah, here’s our Victoria, — she kissed me on the cheek, loudly whispering in my ear: — Next time, do wear some jewelry. You look like a secretary.
I took a deep breath. In my hand — a glass of champagne I didn’t touch. In my purse — the folder with the truth.
The first toasts, congratulations, music. Eleonora beamed, accepting compliments. Then she rose to give a reply.
— Dear friends, — she began, sweeping the room with the gaze of a victor. — I am so glad to see you here. People of one circle, one breed…
Her gaze lingered on me for a moment, and I felt the same chill that had haunted me all these years.
— My age is the age of wisdom and summing up the first results, — Eleonora Vasilievna continued. — I am grateful to fate for everything: for my parents who gave me the best education and manners, for my husband, for my son.
Daniil squeezed my hand. He was proud of his mother, her ability to hold an audience.
— I only regret one thing, — suddenly her tone changed. — That my son, having all opportunities, chose a wife not of his level.
A whisper ran through the hall. Someone nervously coughed. Daniil tensed.
— Mother, — he whispered.
— No, no, dear, let your mother finish, — she raised her glass. — I always endured that my son made such a… choice.
But tell me, dear guests, is a simple accountant equal to a woman from a family where ministers dined?
The silence became palpable. Someone looked at the floor, someone averted their eyes. Daniil went pale. I slowly stood up. My legs felt like cotton, but my voice was steady.
— I respect the truth, — I said, looking Eleonora straight in the eyes. — And I think your guests should know who you really are.
Eleonora froze, glass in hand. I took out the folder from my purse.
— I actually work with documents. And I accidentally discovered interesting discrepancies in your biography, — I opened the folder.
— Here is your real birth certificate. Eleonora Vasilieva, parents — workers of a sovkhoz in the village Novospasskoye, Tambov region.
Someone’s glass shattered on the floor. Eleonora stood motionless, with a frozen smile on her face.
— Here is a copy of your real diploma — vocational school number eight, sewing, — I showed the document. — And here are the results of archive checks.
No noble ancestors, no special schools, no ministers at dinner. An ordinary village girl who came to the city and completely changed her biography.
Fabricated documents. Created a fake identity. Successfully married a rich man whose money she now controls fully.
I felt Daniil twitch. I turned around — he looked at his mother with an expression I had never seen before.
— Mother? — there was pain in his voice. — Is this true?
Eleonora straightened up. Panic flashed in her eyes, then rage, then… something else. She slammed her glass on the table.
— How dare you! — her voice trembled. — To rummage through my things! To expose me…
— Mother, is it true? — Daniil repeated, firmer now.
Suddenly she deflated like a punctured balloon. Her shoulders dropped.
— Do you know how hard it was for a girl from the countryside to make it? — she suddenly spoke in a very different voice, unfamiliar, with a clear rural accent. — Without connections, without money?
When everyone around has education, parents who are professors?
She looked around the hall as if seeing all these people for the first time.
— I wanted the best for my son. Always. I climbed the steps, learned to speak, dress, hold myself. All these people, — she nodded at the guests, — they wouldn’t even glance at me if they knew the truth. I did what I had to.
— Lied to everyone? — Daniil asked quietly. — Even to me?
Eleonora suddenly smiled strangely:
— You were proud of me, son. Your “aristocratic” mother. Admit it.
Daniil was silent. And that silence said more than any words.
I folded the documents into the folder. I said quietly but clearly:
— You are right. I am not your equal. I have never lived in lies. And I have never humiliated people to seem superior.
I turned and walked to the exit. After a few steps, I heard Daniil catching up to me. He took my hand — firmly, decisively.
— Why didn’t you tell me earlier? — he asked when we went outside.
— I found out recently myself. And… that’s your mother.
We stood on the restaurant balcony. The city buzzed below, and the spring sky spread overhead.
— You know, — Daniil finally said, — I’m not embarrassed by her origins. I’m embarrassed by the lies. And by how she treated you. The only real person in this story.
Good thing Dad never found out; he wouldn’t have borne that she lied to him for so many years.
He hugged me. I leaned on his shoulder and took a deep breath of fresh spring air. The feeling was strange — as if a heavy burden I’d carried all this time, without noticing, had fallen off my shoulders. I no longer felt inadequate. I didn’t feel I had to prove anything to anyone.
For a moment, I even felt sorry for Eleonora. To build a life on lies, always fear exposure, never be yourself — what a heavy fate.
But that was her choice. And her consequences.
And I made my choice: to be real.
