Svetlana woke up before the alarm clock — as always. The room was filled with a soft twilight: that very ghostly light that appears before dawn, when night is no longer the ruler, but day has not yet taken its rights. Outside, there was deep silence, so dense it seemed as if time had frozen. She lay motionless, listening to the rhythm of the morning house. From the neighboring room came the calm, measured breathing of the children. Roman was breathing a little louder than usual, Irina turned over in her sleep — the bed creaked faintly. Anton, as always, was a quiet island amid this night: no sound, no movement. As if he wasn’t sleeping — just vanished.
Carefully, almost silently, she slipped out from under the blanket. Her feet touched the cold linoleum, but she didn’t flinch — only closed her eyes for a second, as if accepting this morning blow of reality. This was her way to start the day: without complaints, without extra movements, without pauses. She just began.
The kitchen smelled of yesterday’s broth and old wood. Everything was in its place, like clockwork: pots in the cupboard, spoons in the drawer, kettle on the stove. She turned on the light over the hood — quietly, without clicks, so as not to disturb the house. She put the kettle to heat. It hissed, breathed out steam. While it boiled, Svetlana took out the pots, put one on the fire, the other already simmered with pasta for the evening. Everything was according to schedule — breakfast and dinner were prepared simultaneously. That saved time. That was how they survived.
For Anton — scrambled eggs with sausage. He hated porridge, especially in the mornings. “Just no porridge, mom!” — he said every day, as if she could forget. For Roman — oatmeal with a bit of melted butter on top. And for Irina — pancakes that Svetlana herself made from yesterday’s dough left after dinner. Nearby — a kettle with boiling water wrapped in a towel. And a potato pie made from leftover mashed potatoes and dough she kneaded from memory. According to her mother’s recipe. From what she remembered from childhood. Grandma had long been unable to do it anymore. Now Svetlana did it. Because there was no one else.
While the stove played its sounds — hissing, bubbling, simmering — she managed to wash the dishes, wipe the table, sort out the garbage bags. Thoughts were strung together in her head like beads on a string:
“Roman to kindergarten. Anton — by himself, he’s already big. Irina is home, with grandma. If anything — she’ll warm up the soup. Thank her. What a good girl… Already knows how to eat and help. If only she wouldn’t become completely silent…”
Her throat tightened. Svetlana averted her gaze from the old cracked cup she hadn’t thrown away for some reason. Perhaps because that crack reminded her that even old things can be needed. Even cracked things serve.
Tired? Yes. Bone tired, down to the roots of her hair. But she couldn’t think about it. Now — morning. And morning demands movement. It does not forgive slowness.
With a hot pot in her hands, she checked on her grandmother. The only light in the room was the TV screen — flickering, quiet, with muted sound. It seemed to be talking to itself. On the bed lay Valentina Ivanovna — small, bent, all folded by time. The newspaper had slid down to her chest, her glasses were crooked. Her hand was gently resting under her cheek, like a child’s.
“Grandma…” Svetlana whispered softly as she entered.
The old woman stirred, opened her eyes slightly, and smiled faintly.
“Svetik?.. Is it time already?”
“Yes. Breakfast will be ready?”
“Not now… later…”
Her voice was weak, every word was forced. Svetlana sat beside her, adjusted the blanket, laid her grandmother’s hand along her body. The fingers were dry, fragile, with blue veins showing through.
“Thank God she can still walk a little,” she thought, taking those hands in hers. “She’s ninety-two… And not long ago she was reading Irina fairy tales, explaining multiplication tables to Roman…”
Now grandma spent her days half-asleep, sitting or lying down. She got up only to go to the bathroom. Watched TV, held the newspaper, but did not read. Just held it. As if it helped her feel alive.
Svetlana turned off the TV, fixed the pillow, and returned to the kitchen.
While she wrapped the pies in foil, her thoughts began to roar inside again. As if someone had turned on the radio in her head — but the conversation partner was herself, only ten years older.
“I will become like that… I wonder if my children will be around? Will they endure me?.. Irina — yes. Anton… not sure. And Roman is still too young…”
She remembered how last month she had bought new medicine for grandma. Ten ampoules — that was half a pension. And ointment. Diapers. Powder. Food. Warmth. Medicine. Insurance. Tests. And all this — on a cleaner’s salary.
“I’m afraid… afraid that someday they will also buy me something like this — and be stingy with the money. Or maybe not buy at all…”
Tears welled up, but she swallowed them. She knew if she started crying — she wouldn’t stop. And now — breakfast. Now — children.
Anton appeared in the kitchen wearing only a T-shirt and socks, tousled but already consciously grown-up.
“Mom, did you make scrambled eggs?”
“Of course, still warm. Go wash your hands. Want strong tea?”
“Yeah. But no sugar, like you make it.”
Svetlana smiled. He was twelve but already spoke like a man. The eldest son. Her support. Her little rock.
Half an hour later Roman stomped to the door, his hat pulled down to his eyebrows. Irina was already up, helping him with his jacket, fastening the zipper.
“Irka, if anything — call me, okay? I’ll be at work until evening but will come out for lunch, like always.”
“Okay, mom. Everything will be fine. I’ll warm up lunch for grandma, we’ll study with Roman. We have flashcards with letters.”
“My good girl…”
Svetlana hugged her daughter close. She wanted to say more but couldn’t. Only hugged her tightly. Like you hug those you love more than life.
Outside, she was met by a sharp morning wind. The sky was gray, the sun had not yet dared to rise. And suddenly, as if on cue, a memory surfaced.
Pavel’s voice. Cold. Harsh.
“I can’t take it anymore, Svet. That’s enough.”
She saw that kitchen again. Evening. She was tired after work. He — with a can of beer, not looking her in the eye.
“Do you understand, Svet, I don’t want to live like this. I don’t have to! I have one life! I’m not going to work like a horse!”
“But we’re family… kids… mom…”
“And what? Spend my whole life with this old hag on my neck? With kids, with a wife who’s always tired? With bum food and holes in my socks?”
He spoke without looking at her. And she stood there unable to answer. Not a word. Pain pounded in her temples but she had no strength. She just looked at him, and somewhere deep inside the last spark of hope was burning out.
He left. Just packed a bag and left. Without explanations. Without warnings. Without goodbye. And then the house was covered with the same silence as in the morning when she woke up.
“Pashka… — she thought now, walking down the street — you don’t even know what it means to be a man…”
He wanted children. He chose their names himself. He dreamed of a family himself. And when they were born — he became a stranger. As if his duties ended with words.
He worked half-heartedly. Earned little. Didn’t want to change anything.
“I have enough,” he said. “I don’t want to be forced to work. It’s not a man’s job.”
And she carried everything. Alone. From shopping to clinics. From clothes to school holidays. He never came to a single morning performance. Not once. Roman learned poems, held a paper hare, looked for his father with his eyes.
“Will dad come?”
Svetlana nodded. Lied. Because she knew — he wouldn’t come.
“I’ve had enough of your events. I heard you sing at home. That’s enough.”
And he laughed. Foolishly. Heartlessly. And that evening she didn’t even have money for bread. But the worst thing wasn’t that. Not the money. Not the grievances. But that he was never there. Never.
Once she found a ticket to a match in his pants. The price — like a whole week’s worth of their groceries.
“Are you crazy?”
“That’s my money. I want to spend it. I’m not cheating, be glad.”
She didn’t rejoice. She cried. Quietly. In the corner of the kitchen. After he left. Because she understood: he is not a man. He is a person who is not ready to take responsibility. Who ran away from family like from debts.
But she stayed. She stayed when he left. She stayed when her mother got sick. When money was not enough. When children were ill. When no one helped. She stayed.
And the children grew up. Clean. Smart. Obedient. Happy.
At least on the surface.
At least for now.
Irina was not just the eldest child — she was the support of the house, its little captain. The helper girl, always a step ahead, even if no one asked her to be. An excellent student in every way: straight A’s at school, at home — cleaning up without extra words, helping with Roman, checking Anton’s homework. Quiet, but with an inner strength that was felt even in how she stood by the window, watching the adults passing by. As if deciding something important for herself alone.
Anton was who the father tried to be — a man, though only twelve. He never complained, never whimpered. Washed dishes without reminders, put away his things, and when needed — could hold Roman while mom was busy in the kitchen or helping grandma. He spoke little, but every word weighed more than that of many adults.
Roman was the smallest but already tasted knowledge. He loved books, pulled out letters, repeated syllables, proudly telling mom: “Look, I read it!” His laughter was like a ray of light in a gray, cold world where every day began with counting if the money would last until the end of the month.
They were her meaning. Her real life. Her only light among the shadow of routine. These three children, dressed in old but neat clothes, with different mittens and hats passed down to each other as heirlooms, seemed to her more beautiful than any perfect family post on social media. Because they were alive. Honest. Real.
Once the center of their life was Valentina Ivanovna — grandmother, who was more than just a relative. She was support, a voice of wisdom, hands ready to hug, and eyes full of warmth. With her, the children could sit for hours in the kitchen, listening to fairy tales, stories about the war, flipping through old photo albums. She read poems to Irina, whispering lines she knew since childhood. Taught Anton multiplication tables with patience that seemed endless:
“Three times three? Well, think… Good! See how you’re doing!”
Grandma never shouted. Never scolded. Just looked with love. Even if she was sick, even if tired, she found strength to smile, caress, warm. And Svetlana ran to work at the same time, hoping to make it all: shift, dinner, care. And Pavel… those days he again went “to find himself,” most often — fishing, with a can of beer and a dream of freedom.
But then everything changed. Old age came unnoticed, like an autumn draft — at first small failures: forgetting if she fed Roman, mixing up days of the week. Then — a fall in the bathroom. Broken hip. Hospital. Cast. A ward smelling of medicine and old age. And at that moment Pavel disappeared completely.
“I don’t want such a life,” he said standing at the door, not looking in her eyes.
“Pavel, grandma… you knew it was hard for her…”
“I knew I was thirty-six, and I didn’t sign up for diapers and old age. This is not life, Svet.”
“And the children?”
“You’ll manage. You’ll manage. I want to breathe.”
He left. Just walked out as if leaving a room where it became stuffy. And behind him — silence. When grandma returned home, she was no longer the woman who read poems and taught multiplication tables. Now she was a person in a chair, with thin fingers that could not hold a spoon, with eyes full only of fatigue. She no longer read. Did not whisper anything. Only sometimes whispered:
“Forgive me, Svetik… forgive me for everything.”
And Svetlana was silent. Because she saw no guilt. Only love. But how to explain this to a heart that punishes itself?
Three months after the divorce, a letter came from the court. Pavel filed a claim — demanding part of the apartment. Svetlana stood in the corridor of the courthouse, nervously twisting the strap of her bag.
“He didn’t put anything in…” she told the lawyer. “This apartment is from my mom, I got it before marriage… We didn’t even do repairs… He didn’t hammer a single nail…”
“We’ll prove it,” the woman in strict glasses calmly replied. “You have all the documents. He will lose.”
At the hearing, Pavel spoke confidently. Smiled. As if he really believed he had the right. That he gave something to the family. That he lost something.
Svetlana listened — and didn’t recognize him. He was a stranger. A strange voice, a strange look. The trial lasted almost two months. And the decision was in her favor: the apartment remains hers.
Pavel left with nothing. Only cast one glance — offended, almost accusing. As if he didn’t leave but was betrayed. But he didn’t give up. A couple of months later, a new letter came: the court ordered alimony.
Svetlana almost cried — from relief. At least something. At least minimal help. But soon it turned out: Pavel quit his official job.
“He now works under the table,” said a friend, showing the phone screen. “At the tax office — silence.”
“Of course…” Svetlana smiled bitterly. “Disappeared. As always.”
No transfers. Not a penny. He seemed to evaporate. Phone was silent. Address — empty. And Svetlana was left alone. Three children. Grandma. An apartment where not only the windows but also hopelessness let the cold in.
There was a downsizing at the factory.
“Svetlana Sergeevna,” said the boss, looking at the papers, “we’re not firing you, but transferring you to part-time.”
“I barely have enough…” her voice trembled.
“Sorry. It’s not up to us.”
She walked home on foot, through snowy streets, thinking:
“So. If I don’t spend on transport… If I find something nearby… even cleaning toilets. The main thing — near home. So after the shift — run to kindergarten, to school…”
She checked everything nearby. Shops, offices, pharmacy, even a car wash. Everywhere refused. Either occupied or “we’ll call you back.” And only in one place — an old restaurant with a faded sign “Old Courtyard” — they said to her:
“Dishwasher? There’s a shift every other day. Hard work. No concessions. Can you handle it?”
“I can.”
“Two shifts you can’t do?”
“I can.”
“Saturday, Sunday — too?”
“Even three shifts.”
She said it and realized: she stepped to the edge. Beyond it — only work. No rest. No time for herself. But with the right to survive.
The work was hard. The dishes — greasy, heavy. Water — either too cold or scalding hot. Her back ached from morning, legs buzzed all day. And in her head: “Did Irina take Roman? Did Anton eat? Did grandma have enough medicine?”
But she didn’t complain. Not a word. Neither aloud nor in her mind.
On Mondays — a short day. Then she rushed to school: meetings, reports. Then to kindergarten where Roman drew houses with crooked roofs. Then to the pharmacy. Then back home to cook, wash, clean.
Life became like a railroad. Without the right to stop. No time for herself. No time for illness. She treated colds with mustard and tea because “lying down for several days” meant no food for a week.
The children grew. Roman wore hand-me-down clothes from Anton. The jacket hung down to his knees but was warm. Anton had to buy a new one.
“Mom, I won’t wear that pink sweater from Ira. Come on…”
“Okay. We’ll buy. Wait a bit, alright?”
Irina no longer asked, but Svetlana saw: the girl wanted to look like everyone else. A fitted dress. A jacket — her own, not huge, not gray.
There was almost no food left. Groats, bread, potatoes. Meat — only in soup for broth. Milk — one for all, and that for a week.
And then, working at the restaurant, Svetlana noticed that after banquets there was a lot of food left.
Meat. Fish. Salads. Whole plates — thrown into the trash. Even untouched.
The first time she looked at a tray with a cutlet — and turned away. The second time — lingered. The third — went to the fridge where a half-eaten dinner lay.
“Is all this thrown away?” she asked the cook.
“Yeah. That’s the rule.”
“Can I… well… I just…”
“Take it if you want. Just don’t get caught by the manager.”
That evening she carried home a bag smelling of meat. Her hands trembled. Shame. Bitterness. Something unbearably heavy inside.
At home the children were already asleep. Only Irina came to the kitchen, sleepy.
“Mom? What are you carrying?”
“Leftovers… they threw away at work… I took them.”
Irina silently nodded. In that nod was more love than in any “thank you.” Svetlana warmed the meat, cut it into pieces, put it on the table.
“They would have thrown this away… but the children need meat…” she said into the void.
And for the first time she realized: moral boundaries bend if behind them are the hungry eyes of your children.
Since then, she began bringing leftovers home regularly. At first — one container. Hidden deep in the bag. Then — two. Sometimes three. Everything she could: pieces of meat, baked chicken, salads, pasta, potatoes. Sometimes even pastries. She did not disdain. Only carefully washed, fried, warmed.
“Mom, this is tasty!” Anton said, chewing a cutlet.
“What is this?” Roman asked, playing with a fork in the pasta.
“Leftover from the shift. The cook treated us. He’s kind.” Svetlana smiled.
On her heart, it was as if someone carefully but relentlessly pressed a blade — a sharp, deep cut, like a scar. Svetlana felt it every morning as soon as she opened her eyes. But on her face — a smile. Thin, like a stretched thread, ready to break at any moment. A smile hiding pain, pride, and fear. For the first time in a long time, real meat appeared again on their table. Not every day, of course — once a week, maybe less. But it was real, real meat. The children ate it with gratitude, with pleasure, with sparkle in their eyes. They did not ask where the food came from. Perhaps they guessed. But they kept silent. Like children do when they know: it’s better not to know the truth.
The head chef noticed. He couldn’t help but notice. The containers disappeared from the pantry a little more often than before. And one day he decided to ask:
“Listen, Svetlana… you take something every day. For whom, if it’s not a secret?”
Svetlana flinched. Her hands found something to do — started wiping an already clean pot, wiping invisible drops from the table. She wanted to answer confidently, but her voice trembled:
“Well… for home. There’s a little left — would have been thrown away… and we have… animals. A rabbit. And a cat. No piglets,” she tried to smile. “Just pets.”
“Ahhh… got it. It’s a pity to throw away. And for the kids, probably interesting — animals, right?”
She nodded. Didn’t explain. Couldn’t. Had no right. He left, not knowing that the “rabbits” were Irina, Anton, and Roman. That the food someone pushed aside with “I don’t want it” became the dinner of three children. His words echoed in her chest with dull pain: “interesting.” Yes, interesting how it is to eat yesterday’s salad that you got not because you chose it but because there was nothing else.
Svetlana kept silent. Silent for a long time. Until one rainy day a woman in a strict coat entered the restaurant — Marina, her lawyer. The very one who helped win the court case. She accidentally met Pyotr Stepanovich — the restaurant owner.
“Pyotr! Didn’t expect. You’re still the same. Running the restaurant?”
“Hi, Marina. Yeah, trying. Feeding people as best we can. And you?”
“I’m working. Now defending one of your employees — Svetlana. Dishwasher block, I think it’s her section.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“Nothing special. Just amazing how she holds on at all. She has three children, an old grandmother, husband left, no alimony. Works to exhaustion. Silent. Doesn’t complain. Amazing woman.”
Pyotr listened. He knew Svetlana was neat, never late, did everything without extra questions. But he didn’t know she had all this…
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely.”
And then all those little things that once seemed just character traits began to come together before him: dark circles under her eyes, a hunched back, tiredness in every movement, a bag always packed tightly to the brim.
He called the chef:
“Come with me. I want to check something.”
They went into the pantry. Svetlana stood by the sink. On the table — a container. Inside — meat scraps, a little pasta, pieces of salad, a slightly burnt chicken thigh. She carefully closed the lid, making sure nothing spilled. Her face was tense. Her hands trembled.
“Svetlana,” Pyotr said.
She turned sharply. The lid fell from her hands.
“What are you collecting?”
“Leftovers… food from the plates. They would have thrown it away anyway…”
“For whom are you taking this?”
Silence.
“Svetlana?”
“For myself… for the children…”
The last words were barely audible. As if they burst out from the very heart. Her voice trembled, eyes glistened. A drop of tear fell right on the plastic lid. Lonely. Like her.
Silence. Even the dripping water froze, as if also afraid to break this pause.
Marina stood a little aside, biting her lip. The chef looked at the container as if he saw not food but someone’s life for the first time.
Pyotr stepped closer. Looked into those eyes full of fear. At the hunched shoulders. At the woman who survived hiding her despair behind a mask of decency.
“Svetlana. From today you will no longer feed your children scraps.”
She froze. Her heart started pounding. This was the end. The end of everything. She didn’t even have time to apologize when he began to speak:
“No… please… I need… I’m not taking what’s not mine, honestly…”
“Quiet. You didn’t understand me.”
He paused. Chose his words.
“From this day on:
“First, you are assigned financial assistance.
“Second, your salary will be increased.
“Third, your three children will receive full nutrition at the restaurant’s expense.”
Svetlana didn’t move. Only breathed. Quickly. Deeply. As if her breath had to contain all the hope she had long tucked away in a corner of her soul.
The chef quietly said:
“Sorry I didn’t guess sooner.”
Pyotr came even closer. Almost whispering:
“And please wipe those tears. There’s already enough water here — someone might slip.”
She laughed. Through tears. For the first time in a very long time — real laughter. Light. Clear. Like the first spring snowfall.
Life began to change. Slowly, carefully, but it changed.
Financial assistance allowed buying Irina a new jacket — winter, beautiful, not from someone else’s shoulders. Anton got proper boots. Roman — a jumpsuit with a dinosaur on the back. Svetlana bought herself boots — simple, but warm. Quality ones. And also — vitamins, medicine for grandma, new bedding.
She got two days off per week. Now she could just wake up in the morning and not jump up, not run. Could sleep. Really sleep. Without thoughts about breakfast, without anxiety for the children. And although her body at first didn’t believe it — waking up at six, running to the kitchen — now she smiled and told herself: “Today I don’t have to rush.”
She began to eat. For real. Not leftovers after the children. Not pasta from the evening. But normal soup. Meat. Vegetables. One day even bought yogurt. For herself alone.
And in the mirror another woman gradually began to appear. Not the one with blue circles and dull eyes. This one was alive. Cheeks slightly pink. Shoulders straightened. In her eyes — light. And at the corners of her lips — a slight lift. As if the smile finally dared.
The head chef now looked at her differently. Asked:
“Everything alright?”
She nodded. But inside something was glowing. Not love. Not yet. But gratitude. And warmth. Like from a blanket in a cold room.
He brought her coffee. Sometimes his gaze lingered. And she smiled. Quietly. But sincerely.
On her birthday Svetlana woke earlier than everyone. March 15. No one knew. Neither at home nor at work. The children were still small. She took out a dress from the closet — gray-blue, a little below the knee, with a soft waistline. Put on shoes. Applied light makeup. Eyeshadow. A little lipstick.
Irina came out of the room, yawned — and stopped:
“Mom! You’re so beautiful! Like an actress!”
“Really?”
“Yeah! You look like a mom from a love movie.”
Svetlana smiled. Her heart tightened. Softly. Nicely.
“Thank you, sunshine.”
She left the house. Her shoes clicked on the asphalt. For the first time in many years, she was not in a hurry. She just walked. And thought:
“I exist. I am alive. And it was not all in vain.”
She hadn’t yet taken off her coat when a waitress peeked into the pantry:
“Svetlana, the chef is calling you! Urgently!”
“Who?”
“Pyotr Stepanovich. To the office.”
Svetlana wiped her hands. Looked in the mirror: her face — tired, hair — under a scarf, eyes — worried. Knocked.
“May I?”
Pyotr was sitting at the table, looking through papers. At her voice, he raised his head. His gaze — soft, not businesslike.
“Come in, Svetlana.”
She entered. Standing, twisting the edge of her apron. He got up, went around the table, came closer. And without hiding his eyes, calmly said:
“Would you agree… to have dinner with me tonight?”
Svetlana froze.
“Excuse me?”
“Dinner. Tonight. No work. No format. Just… you and me.”
She was confused. Everything inside tensed. Was this pity? Or interest? Or just politeness?
“How did you know it’s my birthday?”
He smirked. His smile — soft, warm.
“I know a lot about my employees. But not everything. Just… guessed. And also — your dress today is special. And you today… beautiful.”
These words sounded softly, almost tenderly, but Svetlana felt something stir inside. Not pain, not fear — something else. Something warm. Forgotten.
She lowered her eyes. For the first time in a long time, she didn’t know what to say. Not as a mother responsible for everyone. Not as a worker who fought daily for bread. But just as a woman. A woman to whom someone said: “You’re beautiful.”
Meanwhile, in the restaurant hall, the head chef noticed a lonely table in the corner. On it was a bouquet. Not those that usually decorate tables at celebrations. A real one — fresh. Cream roses, a few lilies, a couple of lavender sprigs. The flowers were fresh, slightly wet, as if just from the market.
The cook squinted, grunted, and muttered to himself:
“That’s right. Such a woman shouldn’t be alone.”
Pyotr Stepanovich smiled — like a boy caught doing something personal. Didn’t argue. Only mentally noted to himself: “Good I did it. Good I dared.”
That same evening Svetlana checked on her grandmother. She lay covered with an old blanket, dozing. In the corners of her face — a shadow of fatigue, in her hands — a newspaper long since slipped to the floor.
Svetlana sat down beside her, gently took her hand.
“Grandma…”
The old woman opened her eyes slightly.
“Mmm?”
“Do you remember… when you said: ‘Marry Pavel. Don’t miss him. He’s a good man’?”
Grandma froze. Her eyes darkened with memories. She wanted to say something, but her voice failed.
“Sorry…” she whispered. “I insisted… You doubted… And I pressured. Foolish me.”
“Don’t. If not for that marriage — there wouldn’t be Irina. There wouldn’t be Anton. There wouldn’t be Roman. And how would I live without them? Everything for the best, grandma. Everything — for the best.”
Both fell silent. Long years of pain, guilt, patience merged in that silence. Then they hugged. Cried. But those weren’t tears that destroy. Those were healing tears. The ones that wash away old pain and make room for new.
The next day Irina sat at the kitchen table, flipping through a notebook.
“Mom?”
“Mmm?”
“The lawyer said… we can file to terminate his parental rights. Against dad.”
Svetlana froze. Looked at her daughter. At this girl who grew up too fast, learned to read between the lines, to understand what adults prefer to keep silent about.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Do it. We don’t need such a dad. He doesn’t love us. Doesn’t call. Doesn’t write. We don’t know him.”
“I…”
“Mom,” Irina said firmly, with confidence she didn’t have before. “You are the only one for us. We have enough.”
From another room Anton looked out:
“I don’t want him to be our dad either.”
Roman, playing with blocks, suddenly added:
“He’s a stranger. And we’re our own.”
Svetlana slowly sank into a chair. Her heart tightened — but not from pain. From realization. From clarity. From understanding it was time to end what never started.
The lawyer was not surprised when Svetlana came with the decision. She only nodded and said calmly:
“I will do everything quickly. And the fee is symbolic. You deserve it.”
Svetlana nodded in response. She wasn’t used to kindness, but now she began to learn to accept it. Not to resist it. Not to avert her eyes.
Pyotr knew. He never asked, never interfered. But once, passing by quietly said:
“You are doing the right thing. I’m here if you need.”
And he really was there. Not demanding. Not intrusive. Just there. Often invited her to lunch. Without reason. Without hints.
“The apple pie turned out well today. Try?”
“And the fish soup — the old recipe. My grandma cooked it like that.”
He didn’t rush. Didn’t touch her loneliness with his hands. Just sat nearby. And Svetlana… began to believe. Again. Not in men. Not in fate. But simply in the possibility of being herself. In the possibility to feel. To breathe. To live.
She smiled more often. Her laughter became less frequent, but more sincere. Her eyes — lighter. Sometimes even sparkling. As if something that had long been asleep awakened inside.
Once Irina whispered in her ear:
“Mom, you’re beautiful. And also — as if you became lighter.”
Svetlana laughed:
“Is it from the porridge?”
“No. From happiness.”
Once they walked as a family down the street. Spring. A light wind played with hair, smelled of warmth, asphalt, and vanilla ice cream.
“Can I have one each?” Roman asked, pointing at the counter.
“Of course,” Svetlana took out money. “One scoop for everyone.”
Irina took her hand. Anton laughed, dropping ice cream on his boot. Roman hummed his children’s song: “Mom, mom, you’re like a bird…”
Ahead — evening. Maybe even a date. But it no longer seemed scary. Didn’t seem impossible.
Svetlana walked, unhurried. Inside — silence. But not cold. Warm. Calm. Like a home returned to after a long journey.
And somewhere deep inside sounded a voice. Her own. Quiet, like an inner echo:
“Now everything will be fine with us. We endured. We live. We love. We are — together.”
