Kirill was in a big hurry today. It was already eight in the evening, and he still hadn’t chosen a gift, nor bought flowers, and hadn’t even changed clothes. His mother, Svetlana Eduardovna Krasilnikova, was celebrating her birthday today. Many guests had gathered for the occasion. The celebration would take place at the suburban house of the millionaire family. Only relatives were invited for dinner, while important people, business partners, and journalists would gather on Saturday.
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These “family get-togethers” had long been driving Kirill crazy. His mother’s friends would inevitably start asking tactless questions: when he would get married, when he would give heirs to the Krasilnikov empire.
But what annoyed him most was how numerous aunts, friends, and matchmakers competed to find matches for their nieces and acquaintances, praising the next “perfect bride.”
Before, they pestered his younger sister, twenty-year-old Kamilla, but since she began dating the son of publisher Yeremov, they left her alone, only admiring her choice. Now all attention had switched to Kirill.
He tried to avoid these intrusive ladies, but today it wouldn’t work. Missing his mother’s birthday would mean inviting her long-lasting offense.
Lost in thought, Kirill pulled up to a flower shop. A small shop near the central market — not a place he usually visited. It was unlikely that Kenyan roses or Dutch tulips with morning dew were delivered here daily, but there was no choice. He needed flowers urgently.
Entering inside, he saw the shop was empty. Looking around, Kirill noticed the flowers were quite decent — he just had to wait for the seller.
But there was no one.
“Good evening! Is anyone here?” he called toward the back room.
“Seller! Hey, who’s behind the counter? Can I wait for you or not?” His voice was louder than he wanted, and Kirill even blushed with annoyance. He usually didn’t allow himself such a tone.
In boutiques and salons he usually visited, several consultants immediately ran to him. “Apparently, today’s not my day,” thought the millionaire.
At that moment, a girl in a dark blue robe came out of the back room.
“Why are you yelling like at a market? Couldn’t you wait?” she asked sharply.
“Why should I wait? Your job is to attract customers, sell goods, and provide service so clients come back,” Kirill protested. “The flower market is crowded, competition huge, and I could just leave for another shop.”
“Then go ahead, why yell?” shrugged the girl. “Fine, if you don’t need anything, I’m off.”
She turned, about to leave.
“Wait! Okay, I’m in a hurry, no time to drive around the city. What do you have for a middle-aged woman? For a beautiful, chic, well-off woman? It’s my mother’s birthday.”
“Well, if it’s your mother, how old is she? That’s important for choosing flowers,” the girl said businesslike.
“I don’t know,” Kirill was embarrassed.
“See?” she grimaced.
“No, you don’t understand. Mom hides her age. I think she herself no longer remembers.”
“Oh, I believe that,” the girl suddenly laughed sincerely. “Old Granny Matrena didn’t remember her age either, and it made us laugh as kids. We used to say she was sixteen, but she was almost seventy.”
Kirill remained serious.
“What does your granny have to do with it? My mother looks great and just doesn’t want to grow old. Let’s have the flowers.”
“Roses will do?” the girl puckered her lips.
“Yes, roses,” he sighed. “Make a bouquet and I’ll go. I’m late.”
“I don’t know how to arrange bouquets,” she shrugged. “I’m the cleaner. Florist Antonina has been sitting in the toilet for two days — stomach cramps. So I’m watching the shop.”
Kirill stared at her silently, speechless. He was shocked. He had never had a more absurd situation in his life.
“Okay. Make it as you can. At least tie the flowers and wrap with ribbon. Can you manage?” He took out a handkerchief, wiping sweat from his forehead.
“I can manage,” the girl brightened and skillfully began to gather the roses.
Kirill studied her. She had beautiful hair, correct facial features, flawless skin, and expressive eyes. Long fingers, thin wrists — like a pianist’s.
“She’s a beauty!” flashed through his mind. “Maybe invite her for the evening to play the role of my fiancée? With her looks, she could easily pass for an aristocrat. Posture, hair, natural beauty… Even her simple dress could be passed off as couture. I wonder if our fashionable ladies would believe she’s from a rich family? Of course, they would.”
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“What’s your name?” he asked unexpectedly.
“Liza. Liza Snezhnaya.”
“Beautiful name and surname.”
“Oh, I got it in the orphanage. They found me in the snow, hence Snezhnaya,” she laughed.
“In the snow?” he was taken aback.
“Well, not literally in a snowdrift,” Liza clarified. “On a sled. Left at the orphanage door. It was a snowy winter, so the surname is like that.”
She fell silent, looking at his shocked face.
“Come on, why does it matter to you? Don’t you know kids are sometimes abandoned?”
“I know,” he muttered embarrassed.
“Here’s your bouquet,” Liza handed over a fairly decent arrangement.
“Listen, Liza, want to earn for the evening an amount equal to several of your salaries?” Kirill smiled.
“What?! You’re a… maniac! I’m calling the police!” she grabbed a bucket.
“No, wait! I don’t mean that. I’m offering money for a small favor. Tonight you need to play the role of my wife. Just a couple of hours at my parents’ house, then I’ll take you home.”
“Why do you need that?” Liza lowered the bucket.
“The thing is, relatives will gather at dinner, and the aunts will start asking again why I’m still unmarried. I want to prank them: I’ll introduce you as my wife, and they’ll leave me alone.
After a while, I’ll admit it was a prank, but it will teach them not to meddle.”
“By the way, why are you still not married?” Liza asked curiously.
“Well, you’re the same,” Kirill laughed. “Probably because I haven’t met true love yet. Isn’t that obvious?”
“Hm, I thought for rich people love isn’t the main thing. Business, merging capitals, and all that’s more important.”
“For me, love comes first, believe me,” he smiled.
“All right, I’ll help,” the girl agreed unexpectedly easily, surprising Krasilnikov again. “Just wait for the florist and I’ll change.”
“Liza, I’m already late and Mom’s probably worried. Are you decently dressed now? Do you have anything to change into besides the robe?”
“I’m always decently dressed,” she was offended.
“Don’t be mad, Elizaveta Snezhnaya. I’m sure you always look wonderful, just wanted to clarify. Here’s money and the address. Give me your phone number, I’ll call now so you have mine saved.
Finish up, call a taxi, and I’ll meet you at the house, agreed? Oh yes, at the table we’ll use informal ‘you,’ and try to look at me with loving eyes.”
“I’ll try, don’t worry. I was the star of the drama club in the orphanage,” said Liza.
“Seriously? Then I’m calm,” he laughed.
All the way Kirill drove with a smile, remembering the conversation with the cleaner. He didn’t understand why thoughts about her lifted his spirits. There was something bright about her, as if one wanted to sing.
He turned on the radio and sang along: “You are the one, you are the one, I know you… There are no others like you in the world…”
He barely made it to dinner. The bouquet was appreciated — Aunt Rita even noted that an Italian billionaire in Palermo gave her the same one. The guests nodded admiringly, calling the composition “refined luxury,” and Kirill barely restrained his laughter.
Then the conversation smoothly shifted to Kamilla’s wedding and, of course, the “poor” bachelor Kirill.
“Kirill, when will we see the heir to the Krasilnikov empire?” sighed Aunt Zina. “While we’re still young, we want to cuddle the little prince.”
“Here we go,” he thought but just smiled.
“Modern youth is hard to understand,” picked up Aunt Rita. “You can’t find a decent girl nowadays.”
“Leave the guy alone!” banged 79-year-old Grandpa Boris Petrovich, a retired general, on the table. “We’re sick of your matchmaking! Soon you yourselves will need babysitting, old wallets!”
“You’re first in line, Boris Petrovich,” Aunt Rita retorted.
“Dad, stop the barracks jokes!” Svetlana Eduardovna flared. “No tact!”
“And pestering the guy with questions—is that tactful?” growled Grandpa. “You, Ritka, you, Zinka, and you, Svetlana— you were hillbillies from Kukushkino then and remain so. My adjutant Shura Alyabyev used to say: ‘You can take a girl out of the village, but never the village out of the girl.’”
Kirill and his father hurried to intervene:
“Dad, let’s not spoil the celebration. Today is Svetlana’s anniversary.”
“I’m all for it!” Grandpa spread his arms. “Talk about the birthday girl, not the grandson’s wedding. He’ll figure it out himself. By the way, how old are you, Svetochka?”
“Forty-five,” she gritted through her teeth.
“Fourth year in a row?” the general laughed.
“Vitaliy, calm your father,” hissed Svetlana.
“But still, when will we meet Kirill’s fiancée?” Aunt Rita asked loudly.
Grandpa frowned, but the grandson beat him to it:
“No fiancée — no. But a wife — please.”
Silence fell over the table. Even Kamilla looked up from her phone.
“Wow. Kiryuha, you got married?!” she gasped.
At that moment, the phone rang.
“Yes, dear ones, I’m married. And this is my wife. She has arrived.”
He got up from the table.
“Well, let’s see what kind of ‘frog in a box’ this is,” Grandpa smirked. “I’m sure the grandson chose the best girl.”
The ladies exchanged glances, and Svetlana rolled her eyes.
At the gate, Kirill saw a taxi and… froze.
“Liza, what’s with the war paint? And these ‘Indian beads’? Two hours ago you looked normal!”
“This is expensive costume jewelry! The florist did my makeup.”
“Why are you limping? God, I can’t introduce you to the family like this!”
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“My shoes are too big, that’s why I limp.”
Liza was upset. She had hoped to earn — tomorrow was a day off, and she wanted to take Sonechka to the zoo, buy her gifts…
“There are my heels in the backpack, I can change.”
“Quickly! And take off those beads. Now we’ll go to the greenhouse — wash your face. Without that makeup, you look better.”
Ten minutes later, they entered the living room. The guests stared.
“Don’t be afraid, I’m with you,” Kirill whispered, leading her to the table.
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He seated Liza nearby, discreetly put a ring with a huge diamond on her finger (where it came from was a mystery).
“Fool, you should’ve asked her size,” Liza mentally cursed, trying not to drop the ring. “Now I have to watch this rock…”
“This is Liza. My wife.”
Everyone’s mouths dropped open. No one expected such a twist…
“Hello, daughter. What a beauty you are!” Grandpa was delighted and stepped to hug her. Liza stood confused, and the retired general kissed her three times right away. “I’m your husband’s grandpa — Boris Petrovich Krasilnikov. You can just call me ‘grandpa.’”
“Liza, tell me, where did you meet my son?” Svetlana Eduardovna asked.
“At the store,” the girl answered simply, but Kirill discreetly nudged her to keep quiet.
“Oh? Which one? I didn’t know my nephew went shopping,” Aunt Rita laughed. Liza was completely lost. She didn’t know how to behave in this company or what was acceptable. The “impostor wife” decided to speak about what she knew at least a little:
“At the art supply store. I was buying canvases, and Kirill…”
“Art supply?!” Aunt Zina widened her eyes and pursed her lips like a fish on the shore. “Kiryuha, what were you doing there?”
“Um… I… went with a friend. He was choosing a gift for his daughter, so we stopped by,” Kirill frantically made up a story, but it sounded unconvincing. Liza decided to help — after all, she was paid for this role:
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“I was walking by, got distracted, and we bumped into each other. The brushes spilled, and we started to gather them. Suddenly our hands touched, and we looked at each other. At that moment, it felt like a flame flared in my soul. Kirill felt the same. He immediately realized he couldn’t live a day without me.”
Krasilnikov kept tugging Liza’s hand, kicking her under the table to make her stop talking, but she had already caught the flow.
“He said: ‘Miss, if I could paint, I would paint your portraits every day. But I can’t. At least let me take a photo with you.’ And I answered: ‘What are you saying? I’m no star to pose.’ And he said: ‘You are a star, just a very distant one, unknown to anyone, but the most beautiful in the Universe.’”
Everyone listened with mouths agape, and grandpa just smirked.
“Oh, how romantic!” Aunt Rita exclaimed, clutching her hands to her chest. “Liza, you know, one of my admirers also…”
“But Kirill isn’t ‘one of the admirers,’” interrupted the “impostor wife.” “He’s my husband, the only and beloved one. We don’t notice anyone else around. Sorry he didn’t introduce me earlier — I wasn’t ready. All this time I couldn’t believe the best man in the world loves me. Now I paint him every night: when he comes home tired from work, and when he sleeps curled up like a child.”
“Oh, how wonderful!” sighed Aunt Zina. “Liza, are you an artist? Do you have your own gallery? Where do you exhibit?”
“That’s enough,” Kirill couldn’t stand it anymore. “Mom, happy birthday again. Liza and I have to go.” He took her by the elbow and pulled her toward the exit.
The aunts and Kirill’s mother jumped up to see off the “newlyweds”:
“No, Kirill, this is impossible!” protested his mother. “What will people say? The Krasilnikov heir got married but 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.
“Lizonka, who are your parents? We must meet them!” Aunt Rita shouted after them.
Finally, they got in the car. Kirill sharply started moving and stopped at the nearest turn to catch his breath:
“What was that, Liza?!” he was furious. “What store? What stars? I asked you just to be present, not to put on a show! Now what? Drag you to the reception on Saturday? There will be journalists!”
“No dragging,” Liza shrugged. “You said you’d confess everything later. Just say it was a joke. Sorry, I just got carried away. I thought — money isn’t given just like that, you have to earn it.”
“Oh yes,” he reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. “Here, you earned it.”
“That’s too much. I won’t take it,” Liza opened her eyes wide.
“Only fools refuse money,” he snapped. “Are you a fool?”
“No, not a fool. I really need the money,” she took the bills and put them in her bag. “Goodbye, Kirill. Or farewell.” She pulled the door handle, but it didn’t budge.
“Sit down. I’ll take you home,” he grumbled, and the car sped forward.
Stopping at a shabby five-story building on the outskirts, Kirill, showing good manners, got out to open the door for the girl.
Liza got out, leaning on his arm, but suddenly slipped and grabbed his shirt. It turned out he parked by a puddle.
In a second, he was lying in the mud, and she was on top.
“Are you crazy?!” he shouted.
“You’re the one who stood in the puddle!” she snapped back.
“It’s dark here, I can’t see anything!”
They got up. His entire suit was dirty.
“Let’s go to my place,” Liza said. “The landlady will be unhappy, but once is okay. After all, you’re not just a man, but my ‘husband for one evening.’”
Kirill wasn’t amused. He was ready to strangle her for all the troubles of the evening but followed her.
In the apartment, they were met by the stern pensioner Anna Stepanovna:
“Lizka, why so late? Who’s this? Decided to drag men around?”
“Granny Anya, this is my ‘husband.’ Well, not really husband, we just introduced ourselves like that to his parents…”
The landlady froze:
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Anna Stepanovna, may he wash up and leave?”
The old woman waved her hand:
“Let him go to the bathroom. I’ll bring him Ivan Sergeevich’s late clothes now.”
“No, don’t!” Kirill was frightened. “I’ll freshen up and leave.”
An hour later, his clothes were drying on the balcony, and they drank tea in Liza’s room. Kirill looked around at canvases, easels, paints.
“Are you really an artist?” he asked. “Can I see your works?”
“Look.”
“I don’t know much about art, but I like it. Will you sell me one?”
“You 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 replied indifferently.
Kirill reached for his wallet but remembered he was dressed in someone else’s clothes.
“No money,” the girl shook her head.
“Liza, may I ask? Why do you work as a cleaner if you’re an artist? And, in my opinion, a very talented one.”
“Thanks,” she smiled faintly. “But who needs it? Yes, I sell paintings at the market by the fountain, sometimes take orders, but… It’s either feast or famine. Not enough for living. Materials are expensive, free time is scarce. And at the shop, at least a small but stable salary. Our landlady is kind, gives bonuses.”
She fell silent, then hesitantly added:
“There’s one more thing… I visit a girl at the orphanage. Sonechka. She’s six years old. Very lonely.”
“Your relative?” Kirill asked quietly.
“No. Just… a friend. I teach her to draw. I want to adopt her but haven’t succeeded yet.”
“Why? If it’s about money, I’ll help.”
“Not money. I have no housing, no conditions for a child. I’m not married… Though now it’s not the main thing. But I’m working on it. For now — just visiting.”
Kirill looked at her intently:
“Are you a complete orphan? No relatives at all?”
Liza silently nodded.
“But you’re supposed to get an apartment from the government?”
“I had one,” she smiled bitterly. “Sold it to help someone with debts. And he… disappeared. That’s how we live — everyone abandons me, starting with my mother.”
Her laugh sounded unnatural. Kirill silently watched the girl, feeling a strange mix of anger and pity.
Liza stood and went to the balcony:
“Your things are dry. Leave before the neighbors wake up. I don’t want gossip about late-night visits in an expensive car.”
“Yes, of course,” Kirill dressed, took the packed painting, and left. They shook hands silently at the door.
Sitting in the car, he sat behind the wheel for a long time, looking at her window. Liza looked out and angrily waved for him to go away.
At home, Kirill slept until evening. He woke up to calls from his sister:
“Kamilla, what happened?”
“Where have you been?! Give me Liza’s number, I urgently need to talk to her!”
“Tell me, I’ll pass it on.”
“Are you kidding? Why should I talk to your wife through you?!” Kamilla exploded. “Where is she now?”
“With me! In the shower!” he lied confusedly. “She’ll call back later.”
Hanging up, Kirill rushed to the shop where Liza worked. Buying all the flowers, he persuaded the landlady to let her leave earlier.
“Are you crazy? Where will I put so many flowers?” Liza protested at the parking lot.
“My sister wants your number.”
“Well, then admit it’s a prank!”
“I… want to torment them a bit more,” he mumbled uncertainly.
“Pranking people is not funny. You promised to tell the truth.”
“I will! But first, talk to Kamilla. She’s asking for advice.”
“All right,” sighed Liza. “But in return — take me to the orphanage. Let the flowers be sent there too — for the staff.”
At the orphanage, Liza was welcomed like family. The elderly cloakroom lady Matrena Ivanovna squinted at Kirill:
“Are you Lizonka’s fiancé?”
“You could say that,” he smiled.
“Don’t mess around! I’ve known her since she was a baby — won’t let anyone hurt her.”
Kirill suddenly realized: this was the very “Granny Matrena” Liza mentioned when they met.
“I won’t hurt her. And you… tell me about her?”
“Why not?” the cloakroom lady settled comfortably. “Listen…
In winter, shortly before New Year 2004, a newborn girl was found on the porch of the orphanage. It was late at night — although it was only six p.m., darkness already enveloped everything.
Matrena Ivanovna was hurrying to work: that day they were preparing a festive morning performance and a masquerade ball for New Year’s Day. The children required special attention.
The gate to the yard was frozen shut, so she went through the main entrance. There she noticed a sled, and on it — a bundle. Approaching closer, Matrena realized it was a baby wrapped in a baby blanket. Panic gripped her: was the baby breathing? Without a second thought, she left the sled outside, took the child in her arms, and rushed inside the building.
It turned out to be a healthy and strong baby — a cute girl, a few days old. There was no note or documents with her. No hint that someone would return for her was found either.
The orphanage staff immediately called an ambulance. While the doctors prepared to take the baby, Matrena asked the director to give the girl a name.
The nurse recorded the child as Elizaveta Snezhnaya. Six years later, fate again brought Liza together with that very woman — the girl ended up in the same orphanage where she was found.
Liza’s life was difficult. Left without parents, she lived with foster parents until six years old. But after her father died, her new mother remarried, and the new husband didn’t want anything to do with other people’s children. So Liza ended up in the orphanage again.
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For the girl, it was a terrible blow. She considered herself a full-fledged daughter of the Yolkina family and barely remembered how she ended up in the orphanage the first time. No one dared remind her that she had been abandoned as a newborn. Granny Matrena waited until Liza grew up a bit.
At seven, the girl was transferred to a family department again. However, after four years, all children were removed from this home, and caregivers were arrested. Liza returned to the orphanage walls again.
After these events, she stopped talking but began to draw. Amazingly, she painted as if she had been studying at an art school her whole life. She was especially good at painting people’s faces, capable of conveying any emotion.
Only when Elizaveta turned eighteen did Matrena Ivanovna dare to tell her the truth about her origins. Liza listened attentively but replied bitterly:
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“I’ve been abandoned many times. What difference would one more case make?”
“You’re wrong,” the woman objected. “When I found you, you were wrapped in very expensive sheets. These aren’t just rags. Your mother was clearly from a well-off family. Maybe she had some reasons.”
Liza just smirked:
“If she didn’t look for me, then I’m not needed by her.”
Matrena wanted to add something else but continued a little later:
“The next day, while shoveling snow, I found a white silk scarf next to the sled. It had embroidery in lilac threads that said: ‘Lev Kudritsky.’ I still keep it. Maybe that’s the father or some relative?”
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But Liza showed no interest. She didn’t want to know those who refused her. Nevertheless, Granny continues to keep the scarf, hoping that one day the girl will want to find her past.
Once a young man who began dating Liza offered to start the search:
“Let me see the scarf. I’ll photograph it and try to find information.”
Matrena promised to show him the scarf the next day.
Meanwhile, Liza spent time with friends: they visited the zoo, cinema, rode around, ate ice cream. In the evening Kirill took her home, and they had a touching conversation:
“Let’s date?” he asked.
“Billionaires don’t date cleaners,” Liza smiled.
“Then we’ll be the first. Break the stereotypes?”
“All right, let’s.”
“Then shall we kiss?”
“Come tomorrow, and we’ll see,” she winked and got out of the car.
Kirill left happy. He remembered every minute spent with Liza. For him, it was a completely new experience of feelings. He had relationships before, but Liza was special. Like a musical melody that played only for him.
The next morning, Kirill intended to visit Matrena Ivanovna. He didn’t promise to find Liza’s relatives for nothing — the name “Lev Kudritsky” embroidered on the scarf caught his attention. Remembering that in the cottage village where his parents lived there was an artist with that surname, he decided to check for a match.
Lev Mikhailovich Kudritsky was a well-known figure in the arts, recognized both in Russia and abroad. He lived quietly with his wife Ekaterina Nikolaevna, away from society. They had no children, though they once dreamed of a family. Neighbors rarely saw them — the couple preferred seclusion, surrounding themselves with animals instead of people. The couple had a home kennel and a small shelter for homeless animals.
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Kirill didn’t know how to start the conversation, so he decided to get straight to the point: to show the photo of the scarf and ask if it was familiar.
Ten minutes after the call, the young man was let inside the gates. The artist met the guest in his study. After a brief greeting, Krasilnikov handed over the phone showing the scarf.
“This scarf is familiar to me,” Lev Mikhailovich admitted, hardly hiding his excitement. “It’s a gift from an old friend from Italy. Such were specially made for me, my wife, and our daughter. Now we only have two copies left. Where did you find this?”
Kirill asked for time and told the whole story — about the found newborn, the orphanage, about Liza and her life. The artist listened attentively, and as the story went on, his face grew paler. He stood up, left the room, and returned with his wife and a portrait of a girl.
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“This is our daughter Eva,” he said painfully. “She died three years ago. We lost her when she went to Turkey.”
Eva was a difficult child. In a family with full material provision, she still sought something more. Constant search for thrills, drugs, running away from home, connection with bikers — all this became part of her life. Pregnant at seventeen, she disappeared, and when she returned, she said the child had died. Later, she disappeared again, and a few years later, the parents were informed of her death in a hotel by the sea.
After Kirill gave her birth year, the couple had no doubts: in front of them was their granddaughter.
“I’ll bring her to you,” promised the young man. “But first, Liza needs to be prepared for this meeting.”
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The conversation with the girl was not easy. She cried for a long time, not understanding why she was abandoned if the family could love and raise her. But Kirill convinced her that the past cannot be changed, but the present can become the beginning of new happiness.
“They are kind people,” he reassured her. “Grandma runs an animal shelter, grandpa is a famous artist. Maybe you inherited your talent for painting from him.”
“Maybe,” Liza agreed. “Only let them do a test, maybe they won’t believe it.”
“We’ll do it, don’t worry. But I’m sure they don’t doubt. You look very much like your mother and grandfather.”
The next day, Liza, Kirill, and the happy Kudritskys gathered at one table. For the elders, it was a day they hadn’t hoped to see for a long time. They didn’t let their granddaughter out of their arms, ready to do anything to make up for lost years.
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The girl introduced Kirill as her future husband and said she wanted to take care of little Sonya. Liza’s parents blessed the plan.
“The guardianship authorities must approve the house?” Grandpa asked.
“Of course,” Liza answered.
“Then we prepare the documents, make a nursery. As many as you want!”
“Why so many?” Grandma was surprised.
“Well, the young ones will have many kids yet,” laughed Grandpa, winking at the lovers.
Kirill and Liza’s wedding became an event talked about all over town. Krasilnikov’s parents were delighted with the bride. All the family’s friends heard from the groom’s mother:
“Lizočka is from a good family. Intellectuals, aristocrats, unlike those born without roots.”
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Thus, the story of a lonely girl found on the eve of the New Year had a happy ending. Fate brought her to those who always wanted to see her nearby — to her real family, which had waited for her for many years.
