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Naynay Page 6K, 200-298 E 12th Street, New York, NY (2025)

04/27/2025

You must serve my father! This is an order, and it is not up for discussion, understood?
I was standing by the stove, stirring the tomato sauce, when Dmitry burst into the kitchen. His loud footsteps echoed across the old wooden floorboards of our rented one-bedroom apartment. In his hands was a worn backpack, which he immediately threw onto a chair. The smell of gasoline and to***co smoke followed him—clearly, he had just come from the auto shop.
— Lena, sit down, we need to talk, — his voice was deep, with a gravelly edge, like someone used to having people obey him at the first word.
I turned off the burner, wiped my hands on my apron, and turned around. Dmitry was staring at me, hands on his hips. His brown eyes gleamed—whether from exhaustion or something else, I couldn’t tell. I could sense that he was determined.
— What happened? — I asked, crossing my arms over my chest. A sense of unease had already begun to settle in. Conversations with Dmitry like this rarely ended peacefully, with a cup of tea.
He exhaled, as if gathering courage, and blurted out:
— Dad is moving in with us. Tomorrow. And you will take care of him. Cooking, washing, giving him his meds—everything, like it’s supposed to be. This is an order, Lena, and it’s not up for discussion.
I froze. The sauce in the pot slowly cooled, and in my head, I kept thinking: “Is this serious?” Dmitry’s father, Viktor Ivanovich, was a complicated man, to put it mildly. Sixty-five years old, a former military man, with a character like a rusty saw—cutting everything around him without warning. The last time we saw each other was at his birthday two months ago. He had pointed a finger at me across the table and loudly declared: “Modern youth is lazy, all they do is sit on gadgets!” I had stayed silent then, even though I was boiling inside. And now this.
— You’re joking, right? — I muttered, hoping this was some stupid prank.
— What jokes? — Dmitry frowned. — His legs aren’t working, his blood pressure is fluctuating. He won’t manage on his own. And I’m at work from morning to night. So you’re the only hope. Period.
— So, I’m supposed to manage? — my voice wavered, but I tried to stay composed. — I have a job too, Dima. And why didn’t you even ask what I think?
He waved his hand dismissively, as if brushing off an annoying fly.
— What job do you have? You just sit in your office, shuffling papers. But here’s a parent, Lena! Family! Are you a wife or what?
I clenched my fists. “Shuffling papers” — that’s what he thought of my job in accounting, which I had worked five years to get, starting as a courier. But for Dmitry, apparently, it was nothing. But his auto repair shop, where he fixes other people’s cars for pennies — that was, of course, a matter of universal importance.
— So, I’m supposed to drop everything and become a caretaker for your father? — I clarified, feeling my anger boil inside.
— Not a caretaker, a daughter! — he barked. — He gave me life, you understand? And now he’s family to you too. So yes, you’ll take care of him. And don’t argue.
“Take care of him.” The word hit like a slap in the face. I looked at Dmitry — his unkempt stubble, his worn jacket, that look on his face, full of confidence that I would nod and rush to prepare a place for Viktor Ivanovich. And then, I snapped.
— No, Dmitry, — I said quietly but firmly. — I won’t.
He blinked, clearly not expecting that answer.
— What do you mean, “I won’t”? — he asked, stepping closer.
— Exactly what it means, — I straightened up, looking him straight in the eye. — I’m not your servant. And neither am I your father’s. If you want him to live with us, fine. But I’m not agreeing to take care of him.
Dmitry opened his mouth, then closed it, and finally blurted out:
— Do you even realize what you’re saying? This is my parent! If I say so, you have to obey!
— And if I say “no”? — I countered. — What’s next? Divorce? Will you kick me out the door?
Continued in the comments

04/26/2025

Returning home for the money, Yana caught her husband and mother-in-law in conversation. After overhearing, she decided to teach her relatives a lesson
Yana hurriedly climbed the stairs, skipping steps. The day had started completely normally – the morning hustle, getting ready for work, a kiss from her husband. It was only at the door that she remembered her forgotten wallet. "Always in a rush!" she thought, returning to the apartment. The key turned silently in the lock.
In the hallway, Yana froze. From the bedroom, muffled voices of her husband and mother-in-law could be heard.
"Here she comes again, early in the morning," was the irritated thought that flashed through her mind. But the next phrase made her freeze in fear.
– "Son, you see for yourself – she doesn't love you. She’s using you as a wallet! And the girl… " – her mother-in-law lowered her voice to a whisper, – "I'm sure she’s not yours."
Yana leaned against the wall, feeling her legs weaken. Her heart pounded somewhere in her throat. She was waiting for her husband to get angry, to defend her and their daughter… But all she heard in response was a hesitant:
– "Mom, stop…"
– "What do you mean 'stop'? I'm a mother, I can see! Look at the little one – not a single trait of yours! And her character – just like her mother’s. Stubborn, willful..."
Yana couldn’t listen any longer. She tiptoed to the front door and quietly closed it. Then, she slammed it shut and shouted:
– "Darling, I forgot my wallet!"
Instantly, silence reigned in the bedroom. When Yana entered, the scene seemed almost idyllic: her mother-in-law had "accidentally dropped by" to check on her son, and he was supposedly getting ready for work.
– "Oh, Yanochka!" – chirped Ludmila Petrovna. – "I just came to check how you’re doing…"
"Nothing," Yana thought, putting on a smile. "I’ll give you a paternity test. One you won’t forget."
The day at work dragged on endlessly. Yana sat at her computer, mechanically responding to emails, but her mind was far away. The morning scene replayed in her mind, her mother-in-law’s coaxing voice still echoing in her ears. "Twenty years together," Yana thought, "and she still can’t let it go."
During lunch, she locked herself in the bathroom and cried. Not from sorrow, but from anger.
She remembered giving birth to Masha, how her husband held her hand, how he cried when he saw their daughter. And now? He let his mother sow doubts?
– "No way," Yana whispered, staring at her reflection in the mirror. "I’m not giving up so easily."
That evening, she purposely stayed late at work. She waited until her mother-in-law left – she always came after six to "check on the granddaughter." At home, Yana was unusually silent. Her husband shot worried glances at her, but didn’t dare speak up.
– "Tired?" he finally asked.
– "A little," Yana replied. "You know, I was thinking… Maybe we should renovate the nursery? Masha is growing, she needs more space to study."
– "Now's not the best time for expenses," he began, but fell silent under her gaze.
– "Yes, of course. Your mother’s right – all I think about is how to spend your money."
He turned pale:
– "What do you mean?"
– "Nothing, darling. Absolutely nothing."
That night, when her husband fell asleep, Yana pulled out an old box of documents. Everything was stored there: their marriage certificate, the birth certificate of their daughter, medical records… And there it was – the paternity acknowledgement form with his own signature.
"Let’s see," she thought, photographing the document. "Who’s going to outsmart whom?"
The next day, Yana took a day off. She visited a notary, had the copies of the documents certified, then went to the bank. A statement from her account showed all her contributions to the family budget over the past five years. Quite significant contributions, I must say.
In the evening, she called her mother-in-law:
– "Ludmila Petrovna, come over for dinner tomorrow. We need to discuss something. The whole family."The next day, Yana prepared for dinner as if it were a decisive battle. She made her mother-in-law’s favorite borscht – let her choke on it. She baked an apple pie – a special recipe she could never replicate. She set the table with the fine china – a wedding gift from Ludmila Petrovna.
Masha was spinning around, helping to set the plates:
– "Mom, why is grandma coming today? It’s not her birthday."
– "Sometimes, honey, adults need to talk."
– "Are you going to argue again?" sighed her daughter.
Yana hugged the girl:
– "No, darling. We’re just going to put all the dots on the 'i'."
At six in the evening, the doorbell rang. Her mother-in-law arrived in full regalia – in a new suit and with a signature superior smile on her face.
– "Yanochka, it smells wonderful!" – she chirped, walking into the kitchen. "I hope it's not store-bought ready meals? You’re always so busy…"
Continued in the comments

04/26/2025

Lost in the forest, they had no idea what to do. Suddenly, the sound of a dog barking reached their ears, and what happened next...
Ryzhiy, the faithful dog of the forester, began showing signs of anxiety at dawn. While Ivan Grigorievich slowly pulled on his rubber boots and stretched his stiff shoulders, the dog paced around his feet, quietly whining, and occasionally darting towards the exit.
"What's the matter with you? Did a she-wolf appear in your dreams?" grumbled the forester as he attached his flask of tea to his belt.
Ryzhiy barked briefly, nudged the door with his cold nose, and froze. His fluffy tail trembled, like a compass needle, pointing in a direction.
"Wait a bit, be patient," the owner waved him off.
But the dog persisted. While Ivan cleared the snow from the porch, Ryzhiy darted to the forest's edge, plunged into the thick pine grove, then returned and sat, patiently waiting, as if saying, "Come on, let's go!"
"You're like a commander, not a dog," Ivan muttered. "Next thing, you'll be wearing a cap."
The dog whined pitifully, as if pleading, "Come on, hurry up, please!"
Ivan Grigorievich had been a forester for over twenty years and knew well when a dog was simply being capricious and when it was signaling something important. After Ryzhiy tried to lead him into the woods for the third time, Ivan gave in.
"Alright, you've convinced me, guide. But if you're dragging me for nothing, it'll be a meatless dinner tonight."
Ryzhiy joyfully leapt up, wagging his tail energetically. The forester checked his radio, stashed his mobile phone in his pocket, slung his rifle over his shoulder—not for hunting, but to scare off bears if necessary—and locked the house.
The snow lay deep, almost knee-high. The December forest was still, with only the occasional crack of branches. Ryzhiy walked ahead, sniffing the air, sometimes standing on his hind legs as if checking the wind. Ivan followed, leaving deep tracks in the pristine snow.
"Where are you leading us, adventurer?" he sighed.
The dog didn’t respond, just quickened his pace. After about fifteen minutes, Ivan heard a strange sound—a mix between a sob and a squeak. He raised his hand, signaling silence, and Ryzhiy immediately lay down in a snowdrift, ears back and alert. Through the trees, a child's cry could be heard.
"Quiet," whispered the forester, taking the rifle off his shoulder.
He stepped onto a small clearing and immediately saw: a young woman was sitting on a broken stump, holding a boy of about five years old to her chest. The child was quietly sobbing, and she looked completely exhausted—her hat had slipped sideways, her cheeks were red from the cold, and her boots were covered in snow clumps.
"Hey, miss, how did you end up here?" Ivan asked softly, trying not to startle her.
The woman flinched and blinked rapidly:
"We... got lost. I took a shortcut, thought it would save time... Then my phone died, and the signal disappeared..."
The boy buried his face in her down jacket, with tears and a frozen icicle hanging above his upper lip.
"How long have you been in the forest?..."
Continued in the comments

04/26/2025

— I got laid off, and now, to pay off my debts, we’re going to have to sell your apartment, — Oleg said, pressing his lips together.
— No, Oleg. Understand one thing: I’m not selling the apartment.
— But…
— No “buts” at all! — I felt everything boiling inside me. I could barely breathe with rage. — This is MY apartment! My only inheritance! And you want me to sell it to cover YOUR debts?! Debts you didn’t even tell me about?!
I froze. My hand hung in the air, the fork was stuck as if embedded, and the potato, as if in some sort of drama, slapped back onto the plate, leaving a greasy stain on our tablecloth—the very one we bought from IKEA to celebrate our new life. Back then, Oleg had said, “This will be the symbol of our new beginning.” A symbol. Ha.
— What… what did you say? — My voice sounded as if I didn’t know who was speaking. It wasn’t me. Something inside trembled, and I realized that this wasn’t just a conversation—it was something much more important.
Oleg leaned back in his chair, as he always did when he had something unpleasant to say. His gaze darted around the kitchen, avoiding mine. He always did that when he started lying or leaving something unsaid. And how had I not noticed it before?
— Anya, you heard me, didn’t you? — He said it calmly, too calmly to not raise suspicions. — I got laid off. We’ll sell your apartment, pay off my debts. It’s simple. We have to save ourselves.
I felt a heavy weight lodge in my chest. The world spun around me. This small kitchen, which until a minute ago had been my home, now felt alien, like an empty hospital hall. The walls started closing in, and I realized: right now I either stay here or drown.
— But how… why? — the words struggled out. — You said everything was fine. That you were appreciated, that… that, damn it, what’s happening?!
Oleg waved his hand irritably, as if my questions were a waste of time.
— What difference does it make! It’s already happened. Now we need to solve the problem.
— The problem? — I felt a fury rising from inside. Anger burned, filling my chest and making my voice tremble. — And your solution is to sell MY apartment?
— And what do you suggest? — Oleg exploded, his face turning alien and unpleasant, as if he were someone else. — I’m in debt for three million! You want me to end up in jail?
I stood there. Three million?! My God, where did he get such debts? We always lived modestly, almost poorly. Or did we? Maybe I had overlooked something? Or refused to see?
— Oleg… — I said slowly, forcing myself not to break down. — Explain it to me. Right now. Where did these debts come from?
He averted his eyes, drumming his fingers on the table. Knock-knock-knock. That sound rang in my head like a hammer on a coffin lid. Knock-knock-knock. It was like the funeral of my marriage. The funeral of trust. The funeral of the life I thought I knew.
— Anya, you understand, don’t you… — he began quickly and nervously, his words jumbling as if he were trying to convince himself. — First, I slightly miscalculated with the loan. Then I decided to “make it up”... And then, it all spiraled out of control.
— Spiraled out of control?! — I almost choked on that phrase. My ears rang. The room swam before my eyes, and I grabbed the edge of the table to avoid collapsing. — Oleg, were you gambling? On the slot machines?
He sprang up, dashing around the kitchen like a cornered animal, his eyes filled with panic.
— What does it matter?! The main thing is—we have to solve the problem!
— No. Stop. — I stood up, not letting him pass. My legs wobbled, but I forced myself to stand tall. — You’re going to tell me everything. Every single detail.
An hour later, I was sitting in the kitchen, my head in my hands. Three years. A whole three years! He had hidden his passion for gambling from me—losing his salary, borrowing money from friends, taking out loans. And I, foolishly, thought that I was the one who was different. That I wasn’t good at saving, that I managed the household poorly, and that’s why we were always short on money. Damn it!Memories overwhelmed me like a wave. There was the time Oleg said we’d wait on having a child—“we can’t afford it financially.” There was when I refused a trip to the seaside—“let’s save up instead.” And there I was in the store, scrutinizing price tags, counting every penny… while he, all this time…
— Anya, — Oleg knelt beside me. He reeked of sweat and some unfamiliar cologne. Where had he gotten it? And with whose money? — Anya, forgive me, I… I’ll fix everything. Honest promise! We’ll sell the apartment, clear my debts—and start with a clean slate. I’ll get a new job, work harder…
I lifted my head. Tears blurred my vision as I looked at his face—so familiar, so well-known… yet behind it lay emptiness, an unfamiliar expression. How had I not noticed that behind that mask was a completely different person?
— Sell the apartment? — I whispered. — MY apartment? The one my grandmother left me?
Immediately, my grandmother’s face appeared before my eyes. Her smile, her eyes full of wisdom. “Anya,” she used to say, “this is your fortress. Your support. No matter what happens—you will always have a roof over your head.” And now… that roof… is crumbling.
— So what are we supposed to do? — Oleg’s voice became pleading, even creaky. — Anya, please understand…
I stood up. My legs wavered, but I forced myself to stand tall. My grandmother’s face flashed through my mind, and I felt strength returning.
— No, Oleg. Understand one thing: I’m not selling the apartment.
— But…
— No “buts” at all! — I felt everything boil inside me. I could barely breathe with rage. — This is MY apartment! My only inheritance! And you want me to sell it to cover YOUR debts?! Debts you didn’t even tell me about?!
He abruptly stood and stepped toward me:
— Anya, come on—we’re family! We’re supposed to support each other in tough times!
Continued in the comments

04/26/2025

Since you’re just loafing around on your day off anyway, go work my shift—it’s only one day,” her husband grumbled, chewing the last of his dinner as though it were perfectly ordinary, brazenly piling more tasks onto the shoulders that already carried everything.
Victoria Semyonovna was one of those women people say would walk through fire or stop a galloping horse with her bare hands. That’s exactly why her husband, Nikolai, had absolute faith in her—he knew she could handle anything and kept loading her with new responsibilities.
Their daughter, Masha, also treated her mother as an unbreakable pillar. So every day, loaded with shopping bags after work, Victoria dashed to Masha’s place—three transfers on public transport—to cook lunch, pick up her grandchildren, Mishutka and Nastenka, from school, feed them, change their clothes, and shuttle them to their activities.
On Tuesdays it was art class, on Thursdays vocal lessons, and on Wednesdays and Fridays tennis. After the classes came a walk, homework, and delivering the neat, well-fed children back to their parents.
“Thanks, Mom, you’re a treasure! But why is there so little potato? Seva wants to invite friends over… How are we going to feed them?”
“I fried as much as I could carry,” Victoria spread her hands. “Your fridge is always empty—barely a thing in it.”
“I never have time for shopping, Mom…”
“Then let Seva stop at the store. How is that my problem?”
“Don’t be mad,” Masha hugged her mother like a sly old fox from a fairy tale. “Seva and I are both busy, and you’re a free bird… Dream job—half a day at work and then you can do whatever you like.”
Victoria just sighed. When was the last time she’d done something she actually wanted? Thirty years ago, at least. And that “dream job” wasn’t easy at all—an online shop, handing out orders, heavy boxes, customers in every mood…
“Oh, we’re even out of milk! And I’ve got a manicure in half an hour,” Masha flitted around the kitchen.
“I used everything I brought. All right, go, I’ll make pancakes without milk—they’ll be even tastier.”
“You’re a marvel, Mom! With meat, please. There’s mince in the freezer—defrost it, you know what to do. Six people coming, all starving after work,” Masha shouted as she ran out.
Victoria rolled up her sleeves and set to work. Her granddaughter helped—whisking eggs with sugar—while Mishutka ran around, hugging his grandma.
“It’s no trouble… It’s all a joy,” Victoria told herself. Forty minutes later a fragrant stack of pancakes towered on the table, the house filled with warmth and comfort—though Victoria herself could barely stay on her feet.
“Wow, pancakes! Thanks, Victoria Semyonovna!” Seva burst in and snatched a couple on the fly. “I was afraid I’d have nothing to treat my friends with…”
“Enjoy. I’m off.”
“Maybe you could stay the night?” Seva asked hopefully, counting on his mother-in-law to watch the kids while he relaxed with his friends.
“No. My husband’s hungry—he’s called ten times already.”
“Fine… we’ll give the kids phones with cartoons,” Seva thought.
Victoria dragged herself home exhausted. Nikolai was already waiting in the kitchen, spoon in hand. She fed him the pancakes she’d brought—she had no strength left to cook fresh ones.
“Why do you look like you’ve run a marathon?” Nikolai asked in surprise.
“Worn out. Tomorrow’s Saturday—at least I’ll get some rest,” she poured herself water. All day she’d had only a sandwich on the run.
“Listen… Vik… I’ve got a problem.”
“What happened?”
“I argued with Valya. I can’t stand her! Don’t know why Vitya married her…” Nikolai threw up his hands. He’d never gotten along with his brother’s wife, and now that he worked in her flower shop it was even worse.
“Make up—it’s family.”
“Exactly, family! I’m afraid she’ll fire me, and I can’t lose my job…”
“I understand.”
“Tomorrow’s a slow day, but she’s already on edge before the holidays. I’m afraid I’ll snap. Will you help me out? Cover for me just one day? I’ll do everything at home. You love flowers, and you get along with Valya. For you a shift there is like a rest.”Victoria was stunned. This was definitely not the weekend “gift” she’d expected.
“So, deal? I’m off to bed—tough day,” Nikolai said, dumped his dirty dishes in the sink, and left.
Victoria exhaled heavily. Once again, no rest. She glanced at her husband, at the sink… and went to bed.
“Vik, why’s the kitchen still a mess?” Nikolai asked in the morning.
“You said you’d play housekeeper today. Start there,” Vika smiled. The clock read 9:00—twenty minutes left to get ready.
“But I only promised for today. That stuff is from yesterday!”
“Perfect—start with yesterday. Fair’s fair.”
“And breakfast?”
“Breakfast is your job too. And lunch, and dinner. Bake an apple cake for tonight—Masha and Seva are bringing the grandkids. Mishutka loves it. And make a cheese pastry for Nastenka.”
“What?” Nikolai froze. “I don’t know how!”
“The internet’s your friend—everything’s there. Good luck, dear. I’m off to ‘Flower Paradise.’”
She’d purposely got up late. Didn’t even drink tea—so she wouldn’t fall back into the habit of handling everything herself. He’d promised—let him feel it.
Outdoors smelled of spring. For the first time in ages Victoria felt light. Maybe working in the shop really was a great idea—a way out of the endless whirl of chores…
She ducked into a café, treated herself to a croissant and a cup of aromatic coffee.
“Mmm… delicious…” She closed her eyes with pleasure, her mood lifting by the second.
Time to go. She glanced at her watch and, without hesitation, ordered a taxi.
“I’m fifty-five, and I deserve some comfort,” she thought with a gentle smile.
Continued in the comments

04/24/2025

I brought two babies home alone after giving birth — my husband cursed, spat on them, and ran away.”
"Anna Sergeyevna, your discharge papers are ready. Who will be accompanying you home?" The nurse looked attentively at the frail woman whose pale face was framed by dark circles under her eyes.
"I… I'll manage on my own," Anna replied, trying to sound confident.
The nurse glanced over her with concern. A week after a difficult childbirth — and there was no one by her side. Her husband hadn’t shown up even once. Just one short phone call: “Don’t waste your time on me.”
Anna gently took Liza in her arms, cradling the tiny bundle in the bend of her elbow. The nurse helped her with the second baby — Mitya. Two small swaddles, two new little humans, for whom she now bore full responsibility. The bag went over her shoulder, and she clutched the bundle of baby blankets in the crook of her other arm.
"Are you sure you can carry them all?" the nurse still hesitated. "We could call a car."
"No need. The bus stop isn’t far."
Not far. Just a kilometer along a snowy February road, with two newborns and stitches that ached with every step. But there was no one to ask for help. And money for a taxi would barely cover milk and bread until the end of the month.
Her steps were small and cautious. The wind pelted her face with sharp snowflakes, the bag tugged at her arm, her back ached. Yet through the thin blankets, she felt the warmth of her babies. It warmed better than any coat.
At the bus stop, she had to wait. Passersby hurried past, shielding themselves from the wind. No one offered help. They just cast curious glances — a young woman, alone, with two infants. When the bus finally came, an elderly passenger helped her aboard and offered a seat.
"Going to your husband?" the woman asked.
"Yes," Anna lied, lowering her eyes.
Deep down, she still hoped Ivan had just panicked. That when he saw his children, he’d realize his mistake. Accept them. Love them. They had talked about this, made plans. Two years ago, when he proposed, it was he who said: "I want a son and a daughter — little copies of you." Fate had smiled on them — she’d been gifted both at once.
The house met her with hollow silence and stale air. Dirty dishes in the sink, cigarette butts in a jar on the table, empty bottles. She gently laid the babies on the couch, placing a clean towel beneath them. She opened the window to let in fresh air and winced at the pain in her lower abdomen.
"Ivan?" she called softly. "We’re home."
There was a rustle from the bedroom. Ivan emerged, pulling his robe closed. His gaze swept over the babies, the bags, and Anna — indifferent, cold. As if he were looking at strangers.
"Noisy," he muttered, nodding at the sleeping twins. "I bet they screamed all night?"
"They're good," she stepped forward, searching his face for any sign of warmth. "They barely cry. Mitya only when he's hungry, and Liza is always quiet. Look, they’re so beautiful..."
Ivan stepped back. In his eyes flashed something like disgust — or fear.
"You know, I’ve been thinking…" he began, rubbing his neck. "This isn’t for me."
"What?" Anna froze, not understanding.
"Babies, diapers, constant screaming. I'm not cut out for it."
Anna stared at him, stunned. How can you not be ready for your own children? Nine months. He had nine long months to prepare.
"But you said you wanted—"
"I changed my mind," he shrugged like he was talking about returning a phone. "I’m still young. I want to live my life, not deal with diapers."
He walked past her, opened the closet, and pulled out a gym bag. He began tossing clothes into it — t-shirts, jeans — without much care.
"You… you're leaving?" her voice sounded distant, unfamiliar.
"I’m leaving," he nodded, not even looking at her. "I’ll stay at Seryoga’s for a while, then figure out where to rent."
"And us?" Anna couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
Ivan zipped the bag and finally looked at her — annoyed, as if she’d asked a dumb question during an important meeting."You stay here. The house is in your name, I won’t go to your mother. I won’t pay child support — you chose to have them, so you deal with it."
He walked over to the couch where the babies slept. Mitya opened his eyes — dark like his father's. The baby didn’t cry, just stared at the man who gave him life and was now rejecting it.
"I don’t want them," Ivan muttered, turning away. "I’m out."
He spat on the floor, right beside the couch. Then he grabbed his bag and coat and left, slamming the door. The windows rattled, and Liza began to cry softly — as if she understood what had just happened.
Anna slowly sank to the floor. It felt like a chasm had opened in her chest, swallowing every emotion except raw, deafening fear.
She was alone…
Continued in the comments

04/24/2025

A loving wife had been taking care of her sick husband until she overheard his conversation with his mother.
The chilly autumn wind drove yellow leaves down the village street when Alina got off the bus. Her legs ached after the long journey, and her heart felt heavy—saying goodbye to her grandfather hadn't been easy.
She had barely taken a few steps from the stop when she heard a familiar, slightly hoarse voice: "Alinushka, my dear, how was your trip?"
Nina Petrovna, the local paramedic, hurried toward her, waving her hands. A plump woman in a worn medical coat over a warm sweater, Nina was one of the few people in this village who could understand and support Alina.
Although her husband, Pavel, didn’t have a high opinion of the medic and constantly teased her about her professionalism, calling her a "country healer," Alina felt warmth and trust toward Nina Petrovna.
"More or less, Nina Petrovna," sighed Alina, slowing her pace. She didn’t want to talk about the trip, but she knew the conversation was inevitable. "But I couldn’t make peace with grandfather before his passing. He took his grudge with him…"
"Ah, my girl," Nina Petrovna shook her head, adjusting a gray lock of hair that had slipped out from under her cap. "Your grandfather was a stubborn, proud man. With such a character, even if you wanted to, reconciliation wouldn't always be possible. May he rest in peace." After a pause, she asked with concern, "And how is your husband? Still sick?"
Alina sighed again, fiddling with the handle of her worn bag. "He’s lying there without strength. No appetite, no energy. We’ve seen all the doctors—no one can help. He’s already preparing for the worst... He says he feels like his time has come."
"What do you mean, sick?" Nina Petrovna suddenly snorted, her eyes flashing with indignation. "Your Pavel’s putting on quite the show! The great actor is waking up in him! The performance he’s putting on—Stanislavsky himself would envy it!"
"Why are you saying that?" Alina felt disheartened, though doubts had already begun creeping in deep inside. "Pasha really is suffering. How can he be at fault if the doctors can’t find a diagnosis?"
"Oh, young one…" The paramedic waved her hand dismissively. "The doctors don’t see anything because there’s nothing to see. But you’ll understand everything yourself," she said meaningfully, giving Alina a glance before disappearing into an alley, leaving the girl in a whirl of troubling thoughts.
Alina had no desire to go home. She headed toward the river, sitting on a fallen tree that the locals used as an improvised bench. A scene from their farewell before her trip to the funeral came to her mind.
When Pavel heard about her intention to leave, he theatrically sighed, closing his eyes with a hand as thin as wax:
"Of course, go, my dear. I understand everything… Just remember, inheritance doesn’t lie on the road. When I die, there won’t be money for my funeral either."
Now those words tasted bitter in her soul. Alina remembered how it all started. After graduating from the music school, she had categorically refused to continue her career as a violinist, contrary to all her grandfather’s hopes.
"I’ll never touch this instrument again!" she had said back then, placing her red diploma and the violin her grandfather gave her when she was twelve on the table.
"What do you mean, you won’t?" her grandfather turned red with anger, his hands, roughened by hard labor, clenched into fists. "I dedicated my life to make you a musician! Or now, are you going to twist cow tails instead?"
"Better twist cow tails than play the violin!" she blurted out, and immediately...
Continued in the comments

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