Zhenya sat on an old wooden chair in the cramped dorm room, clutching a worn smartphone—a gift from the orphanage, her only reminder of the past and her sole connection to the outside world. Through the fogged-up window, the gray October light seeped in, illuminating the screen where job listings slowly loaded. She needed a position with accommodation because renting an apartment in the city was beyond her modest means. She had no parents, no support, no savings—only a cook’s diploma, some work experience at a camp and a boarding house, and the determination to start a new life.
There were many listings, but the choice seemed incredibly difficult. Zhenya carefully reread each one, comparing conditions, requirements, and salaries. She narrowed it down to two options: the first—a large family with three noisy children and a strict grandmother; the second—a more modest family without extra fuss. She decided to visit the first family first.
The door was opened by a middle-aged woman who glanced at the girl coldly from head to toe.
“You’re so young. Do you even have any experience?”
“I do,” Zhenya replied calmly. “I have a cook’s diploma, I’ve worked at a camp and a boarding house.”
“That’s different,” the woman cut her off coldly. “Catering is one thing, but home cooking is another. Here you need care, understanding, taste, and attention.”
While she was speaking, three boys sped past them squealing in a toy car, one accidentally brushing Zhenya’s arm painfully. The girl sighed. Something inside tightened—she realized: she wasn’t wanted here; there was no place for kindness, understanding, or even simple human warmth.
The second address proved much more promising. A man about forty, tall, with kind eyes and soft facial features, opened the door. His name was Sergey Platonovich Volnov. He immediately offered Zhenya water, tea, or coffee.
“Thank you, water is enough,” she said. “It’s a nice day today; I enjoyed a walk.”
They settled at the kitchen table and began the usual conversation: age, experience, education, where she grew up. When Zhenya said she grew up in an orphanage and that her mother had abandoned her at the maternity hospital, the man nodded as if accepting this information without judgment or pity.
“I hope you’ll become like family. Our people work here for a long time; I know many since childhood.”
He looked carefully over her documents, lingering on a photograph of a little girl with red curls smiling widely.
“You seem smart. I’ll show you the kitchen and your room now.”
The family was small: Sergey Platonovich himself, his wife Margarita Eduardovna, their five-year-old son Kirill, a nanny, and a housekeeper named Nina. Zhenya was given a small but cozy room next to the kitchen. She liked the job immediately: cooking for the family, keeping things tidy, helping Nina—all came easily. The owners were rarely home, working at a publishing house and returning late.
Sometimes Zhenya felt someone watching her. Once, while washing dishes, she turned and saw little Kirill in the doorway.
“Is this our aunt?” he asked the nanny.
Nina laughed, and Zhenya felt something warm melt inside for the first time.
Life flowed steadily. On weekends, Zhenya met with friends from the orphanage; the rest of the time she devoted to work. When the nanny got sick, the care of Kirill was temporarily entrusted to Nina and Zhenya. The boy turned out to be very smart and curious. He often asked to be taught how to cook:
“Teach me! I want to be a cook too when I grow up!”
Zhenya happily showed him how to make cottage cheese pancakes. Kirill sat on a high stool, swinging his legs and asking a thousand questions. Sometimes his eyes lit up with ideas he immediately wanted to put into practice.
One day the boy suddenly asked:
“Where is your mom?”
“I don’t have a mom. Never had one.”
“Where did you come from then? I had a mom, but now I don’t…”
These words struck Zhenya. Could it be that Margarita was not Kirill’s real mother? She wanted to ask Nina, but at that moment the owners returned, and Kirill ran to them shouting “Dad! Mom!”
A few days later, Zhenya witnessed a strange scene. Sergey left on business, and Margarita asked her to watch the child before also leaving. As the car pulled out of the yard, Kirill ran to the window and angrily shook his fist.
“You can’t treat mom like that!”
“She’s not my mom!” the boy shouted, his voice trembling with anger and tears. “I don’t want to call her mom! Dad makes me!”
Zhenya was at a loss but quickly thought of a way to calm the little one—she suggested baking cookies together. Kirill forgot his worries, engrossed in the process.
When Margarita returned, she said:
“Sergey told me to take Kirill. We’re going to friends’ dacha. Pack his backpack.”
Zhenya packed his things; Kirill grabbed the bag and ran to the car. Zhenya ran after him, but just as the boy stepped onto the porch, the car started reversing. One more second—and a terrible accident could have happened. Zhenya managed to push Kirill away with all her strength.
The boy hit his knee and began to cry.
“Why aren’t you watching the child?!” Margarita snapped at Zhenya. “I didn’t even see him!”
Kirill went silent, obediently took his stepmother’s hand, and sat in the child seat. Before leaving, he turned and blew Zhenya a kiss.
Later, Nina confirmed Zhenya’s suspicions—Margarita was indeed not Kirill’s biological mother. After the weekend, Sergey Platonovich called Zhenya into his office.
“Kirill told me… He says she tried to smother him.”
“I can’t say it was intentional. But I know he doesn’t want to call her mom. He only does it because you make him. But he’s a wonderful son; he just suffers a lot.”
Sergey was silent.
“I hoped he would get used to it… He’s little; I thought he didn’t understand.”
“At that age, children perceive their mother as part of themselves. If someone else takes that place, it can be traumatic.”
The next day he called Zhenya again, this time with Margarita present.
“Zhenya, when you packed Kirill’s backpack, was there a tablet on the table?”
Zhenya nodded—yes, she remembered the boy watching cartoons before bed.
“No one entered the nursery after you, and the tablet disappeared.”
Her heart tightened. Were they accusing her of theft? She put the key to her room on the table:
“Search it.”
“Why? Let’s just look together.”
Nothing was found in the room. But in the kitchen drawer with towels, the tablet was discovered. Kirill was delighted:
“It’s found! It’s found!”
Sergey looked at Zhenya questioningly. She remained silent—she didn’t understand how the device ended up there.
“I didn’t take it.”
Kirill overheard the conversation:
“Don’t scold Zhenya! She’s good! Margo took the tablet, I saw!”
“What are you saying?” the stepmother exclaimed.
“I saw! You put me to bed, then took the tablet and left. But I wasn’t asleep!”
The boy blushed and ran out. Margarita ran after him:
“Sergey, wait! I was looking for the charger, wanted to charge it somewhere else!”
They could be heard going upstairs, Sergey loudly saying something, and a door slamming. Margarita cried outside, accusing her husband of believing everyone but her.
Then she came down to the kitchen:
“Where did this girl come from, ruining my life? We lived peacefully while she wasn’t here. Kirill called me mom, but now he avoids me like the plague!”
She opened the fridge, took a half-drunk bottle, and went to her room. Half an hour later, a terrible crash came from her room—Margarita, clearly intoxicated, was smashing everything around.
People rushed in. Sergey tried to control his uncontrollable wife:
“Call an ambulance! She seems to be having a breakdown!”
Margarita had extraordinary strength. She grabbed Zhenya by her blouse, tearing the fabric. Sergey noticed a black silk cord with a carved cross on her chest.
“Where did you get this?”
“From birth. They told me in the orphanage—my mother hung it on me when she abandoned me.”
Volnov looked strangely at the girl. The ambulance arrived; the doctor gave an injection, and Margarita was taken away.
“With such nervousness, you can end up in a mental hospital yourself,” Sergey muttered. “Come, I’ll show you something.”
He led Zhenya to his office and took out a thick leather-bound album:
“This album was kept by my first wife Ira—Kirill’s mother. We were classmates from fourth grade. Loved each other from youth, separated, reunited, lost each other again…”
He told the story of their long love, illness, and farewell. Ira died, never overcoming the illness.
“Before she died, she confessed… That she gave birth to a girl from me but never said before—she was afraid. Her parents gave her an ultimatum: either give up the child or lose everything. She was sixteen.”
“Remember my cross that grandma gave me?” he quoted his late wife’s last words. “I hung it on our daughter’s neck. Let it protect her all her life.”
“So… I’m your daughter?”
“Yes, Evgenia. Forgive me, I never thought to look for you. You were born in Khabarovsk; no one knew which home you were placed in.”
Zhenya flipped through the album. In every photo—from childhood to school—the girl with red hair wore the familiar black silk cord around her neck.
“So Kirill is my real brother?”
“Wow! Zhenya, you surprise me. The fact that I’m your father made me less happy than that Kirill is your brother.”
“Sorry… It’s just that Kirill and I became friends; I adore him!”
“Wonderful! Now everything will change. I’ll enroll you in the faculty, send Margarita for treatment. One downside—you’ll need to find a new cook.”
“Dad, maybe no restaurant is needed? I’ll cook for the whole family!”
“No way! Since you spent your whole life in institutions, I’m not going to save on you! No! You’ll study! And move to the second floor immediately. I want to talk to you properly!”
Zhenya wanted to argue but her father came up and hugged her tightly. For the first time in her life, she felt she had a real family.
