— Sveta, you won’t believe it! I just saw a woman—the spitting image of you! If I had any doubts, I’d think she was your mother… You don’t happen to have an older sister, do you? — her husband, Dmitry, rolled up behind her with a shopping cart piled high with groceries.
— What? What sister? — Sveta said in surprise, examining the label on some baby purée.
— Come on, I’ll show you. Just be careful… Actually, she’s already looking at us. I swear she’s your kin. Like two peas in a pod, just older! — Dmitry eagerly tugged Sveta down the canned-goods aisle.
— Where are you dragging me?! I don’t have any sister! — she snapped, annoyed, adjusting the hat on little Vanya, who had dozed off in the cart.
— Just take a look! What if she’s that “forgotten” sister? It happens! Like in TV shows! — Dmitry wouldn’t let up.
— Let’s get out of here, do you hear me?! — Sveta hissed, yanked the cart away, and abruptly turned toward the dairy section.
She walked quickly, gripping the handle until her knuckles went white. Her cheeks were burning; tears pricked her eyes. A little more and she’d collapse right there on the floor, screaming. And it had already been seven years…
…Her mother raised her alone. Sveta knew nothing about her father; her mother refused to talk. The year the girl started school, her mother married Sergei Viktorovich. From that day on, childhood was over.
The new husband moved into their two-room apartment. Sveta was left a tiny room; they took the larger one. Her mother ordered her to call her stepfather “Dad,” but the girl stubbornly called him “Uncle Seryozha”—and never accepted him in her heart.
He picked on her at every step. As a child, Sveta kept silent. As a teenager, she talked back, but her stepfather immediately put her in her place:
— Shut your mouth! I feed and clothe you! Don’t like it—there’s the door!
— My mother clothes me! — Sveta would throw back, hoping for her protection.
— Apologize to your father this instant! — her mother would cut in coldly…
…When Sveta turned fifteen, a brother was born. Her mother glowed: at last, the son her husband had dreamed of. “Uncle Seryozha” doted on the heir.
And Sveta’s life turned into hell.
— Feed your brother; your father and I are going to eat! — her mother ordered.
— What, you drove him to a tantrum?! — the stepfather yelled. — Who needed such a dumbhead in this family anyway!
Four years passed like that. Sveta finished school and got into university. On her eighteenth birthday her mother announced:
— Pack your things. I signed the dorm contract and paid for the first semester. After that, you’re on your own…
— What dorm?! — Sveta jumped up.
— What, you thought you’d crowd in here forever? — the stepfather butted in. — Roma’s growing up; we’re short on space!
— I’m registered here!
— I don’t care! If you don’t leave on your own, I’ll toss your things out onto the stairwell!
Her mother said nothing. On the day she left, she shoved five hundred rubles at Sveta without looking…
The dorm turned out to be a salvation. But the stipend wasn’t enough. Once, Sveta came to ask for help. The stairwell smelled of fresh paint.
— What did you come for? — the stepfather greeted her.
— To see Mom.
— Don’t barge in, we’re doing repairs! — He shoved her into the entryway.
Her mother came out, frowning:
— Here for money? You’re an adult.
— Everyone in the dorm gets help from their parents!
— Go work, beggar! — the stepfather barked. — We’re taking Roma to the seaside!
Her mother dropped her eyes:
— Sveta, your father is right…
Sveta ran out, sobbing. That night she swore never to cry again. And above all—not to ask.
She got a job as a waitress, then as a courier. After graduating she moved to another city—far from the “family.”
In the new place she found a job and… Dmitry. A lawyer from the neighboring department. They met when a pipe burst in her apartment—he helped. His parents welcomed Sveta like a daughter.
She didn’t invite her mother to the wedding. She told everyone her mother had died… Three years later little Vanya was born.
— Sveta, wait—stop! Are you crying?! — Dmitry held her by the shoulders, bewildered.
— Yes… Even though I swore I wouldn’t.
— Who is that woman?
— My mother…
— But you said…
— As far as I’m concerned, she’s dead.
At the exit, that very woman was waiting for them.
— Hello, daughter…
— Hello, — Sveta looked away.
— Grandson? — her mother reached toward Vanya.
— My son.
— Well, to me he’s a grandson…
— You’re no one to him.
— Daughter, I could…
— Don’t. I’ll manage somehow.
They walked away. The mother stayed standing there as if nailed to the spot.
Later Sveta told Dmitry everything. About her childhood. About the betrayal. She cried into his shoulder and thought: the next time she would cry would be at her son’s wedding. From happiness.
