News-cool (2025)

15/10/2025

My husband slapped my hand away and said, “Don’t embarrass me — you’re just a baby carrier.” In front of 120 guests, I smiled… and then took the mic to reveal the whole truth.
My name is Alice, and that evening, when I stepped into the restaurant, the warm golden light glinting off each crystal wine glass, I knew instantly I wasn’t welcome. The rehearsal dinner for my sister-in-law Clarissa’s wedding was held at an upscale Italian restaurant overlooking the Hudson River. Everything was perfectly arranged, from the ivory peony bouquets on the tables to the soft piano music in the background—except for one detail. There was no seat for me.
I stood in the middle of the reception hall, feeling invisible. A few guests gave me once-overs, then looked away as if I were a server who had shown up at the wrong time. I looked around for the name board. On the long table draped in silk were handwritten name cards, elegant and dripping in favoritism. Mine wasn’t one of them.
Clarissa stood up from the head of the table, her champagne-colored satin dress hugging her body like it was tailor-made for that smug moment. She held her wine glass and walked toward me, her voice syrupy sweet and sharp as a blade. “Alice! Oh my gosh, you came! We only reserved seats for the people actually in the ceremony.”
A few quiet chuckles rose from the group behind her, mostly friends of my husband’s family from the finance world, people who preferred investment jargon over eye contact. I turned to look at Ethan, my husband, who was standing by the bar with his parents. He didn’t look at me. Not a glance. Not a step toward me. He raised his glass to an older man in a pinstriped suit and laughed, as if I wasn’t being publicly humiliated.
“Do you want me to repeat the invitation?” Clarissa went on, tilting her head slightly. “I’m sure you understand this is a family-only gathering.”
I felt my spine stiffen. I’d put up with Clarissa for three years—the side-eyes, the fake compliments—but this time, she did it in front of both families, and Ethan just stood there. I smiled, a small smile, steady and calm. “Of course. Maybe I should go freshen up a bit.”
I turned away, my heels tapping against the marble floor. No one stopped me. No one asked if I needed anything. But inside me, something shifted.
Full in the first c0mment 👇

15/10/2025

Immediately after our 15-year-old daughter's funeral, my husband insisted we get rid of her things, but while I was tidying her room, I found a strange note: "Mom, look under the bed and you'll understand everything." When I looked under the bed, I saw something terrible... 😱😱

Right after the funeral of our only daughter, who had barely turned 15, life seemed to stop.

I remember standing by the grave, barely standing.

People around were saying something, expressing condolences, but I barely heard anything. There was only her white coffin.

After the funeral, my husband kept repeating:

"We have to throw away all her things. They're just memories. They'll haunt us as long as we have them in the house."

I couldn't understand how he could talk like that. They weren't just things: they were her smell, her touch, her clothes, her toys. I resisted as much as I could, but after a month, I finally gave in. I decided to tidy her room, which I hadn't entered for almost thirty days.

When I opened the door, I felt everything was the same. The air still held the faint scent of her perfume, and on the desk lay an open notebook.

I picked up each object carefully: a dress, her hair ties, her favorite book. I cried, holding them to my chest, as if it could bring me back to her, even for a moment.

Suddenly, a small folded piece of paper fell from one of the books. My heart leaped.

I opened it and recognized my daughter's handwriting.

On the page was written: "Mom, if you read this, look under the bed immediately and you'll understand everything."

I read it several times, my hands shaking. I felt a knot in my chest. What could it mean?

Gathering my strength, I knelt down and looked under the bed… and what I saw there shocked me. 😱😱
Continued in the first comment

15/10/2025

RACIST Bank CEO Calls Police on Black Teen—Shocked When Her Mom, CEO, Walks In..
“Sir, please, I’m just here to cash my check,” said sixteen-year-old Jasmine Carter, her voice trembling as she clutched the slip of paper tightly in her hand. She stood at the counter of Lexington First Bank, her heart pounding.
Behind the counter, a middle-aged teller shifted uneasily. She had looked at the check twice—it was legitimate, issued by a local grocery store where Jasmine worked part-time. But before she could process it, a tall man in a tailored navy suit strode across the marble floor.
This was Richard Davenport, the bank’s CEO, a man who prided himself on “maintaining standards.” He glanced at Jasmine with an expression that was less curiosity and more suspicion.
“What’s going on here?” Richard asked sharply.
“She’s trying to cash this,” the teller explained softly, holding up the paycheck.
Richard’s eyes flicked from the check to Jasmine. “This doesn’t look right. A teenager walking in with a check this size?”
“It’s from my job, sir,” Jasmine said quickly, her throat dry. “I just finished a summer program. They paid me for all my hours.”
Richard’s jaw tightened. “I’ve seen this before. Fake checks. Fraud attempts. I’m not letting my bank be a victim.” He turned to security. “Call the police.”
The room froze. A few customers glanced over, murmuring uncomfortably. Jasmine felt heat rising in her face, a mix of fear and humiliation. “Please, you can call my manager. It’s real.”
But Richard had already decided. “I won’t tolerate scams in my bank. People like you think they can get away with this. Not here.”
The phrase “people like you” struck Jasmine like a blow. Her eyes watered, but she held back tears. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” she whispered, almost to herself.
Within minutes, two police officers entered, their presence turning the bank into a stage. Customers stared. One officer stepped toward Jasmine, hand hovering near his belt.
“She’s the suspect,” Richard announced confidently.
Jasmine felt her world collapsing. She thought about her mother, who was still at work, and wished desperately she was here. She tried to speak, but her voice cracked. “It’s just my paycheck.”
The officers exchanged looks, unsure whether to proceed. But before they could act, the bank’s glass doors swung open with a force that startled everyone......To be continued in C0mments 👇

14/10/2025

— And you’re still stuck working as a secretary—didn’t have the brains for anything bigger,” my ex smirked, not knowing that I’m now the wife of his boss.
Anna Sergeyevna always came to work fifteen minutes early. Not out of zeal or a desire to impress—it was simply the right thing to do. While other employees were hastily finishing their coffee in the hallway, she was already sorting the mail, preparing documents for signature, and checking the director’s meeting schedule.
Her workstation—a small desk in front of Maksim Petrovich Volkov’s office—was arranged with mathematical precision. Folders stood organized by color and date, pens lay strictly parallel to the edge of the desk, and the phone sat at a forty-five-degree angle to the computer monitor. Colleagues poked fun at her fastidiousness, but they admitted: whenever something needed to be found or clarified, everyone went to Anna.
“Anya, where’s the contract with Systema Plus?” someone from Sales would ask.
“Third shelf, blue folder, section ‘Active Contracts, S–T,’” she would reply without even looking up from the computer.
And sure enough, the contract was always exactly where she said it would be.
Dmitry worked in that same Sales department. Her husband for the past three years. Tall, with slightly tousled light-brown hair and a perpetually wrinkled shirt, he seemed the complete opposite of his wife. If Anna was the embodiment of order, Dmitry personified creative chaos. His desk looked like a battlefield—papers, pens, empty coffee cups, business cards, and various scraps of notes clung together in bizarre pyramids.
“Dim, you forgot to send the request to Accounting again,” Anna would tell him after work as they walked to the car.
“Oh, right. I’ll send it tomorrow,” he’d wave her off, already thinking about something else.
But tomorrow he’d forget again, and Anna would have to gently remind the folks in Accounting that Dmitry Kravtsov’s request was still on its way.
She loved him. Or at least, she thought she did. They had met back in their student days, married right after graduation, and got jobs at the same company. Back then it seemed romantic—to build their careers together and support each other. But over time, Anna began to notice that the support only went one way.
Dmitry was often late to important meetings, forgot about deadlines, and had a habit of promising clients things the company couldn’t deliver. Anna learned to read his schedule and, delicately, as if in passing, remind him about important tasks.
“Dim, you have a meeting tomorrow at ten with representatives from Tekhnostroy,” she would say in the evening.
“Uh-huh,” he’d nod, buried in his phone.
“They want to discuss possibilities for lowering the price. I did the math—the maximum discount we can give without hurting profitability is seven percent.”
“Uh-huh, seven, got it.”
The next day he promised the clients a fifteen-percent discount and full technical support the company simply didn’t have.
Maksim Petrovich Volkov, the company’s director, was a man of about forty-five, with perceptive gray eyes and a habit of listening closely to whomever he spoke with. Unlike many bosses, he didn’t like to yell and preferred to resolve conflicts through dialogue. Anna had worked as his secretary for more than a year and knew: if Maksim Petrovich furrowed his brow while looking at documents, it meant one of the staff had overpromised again.
“Anna Sergeyevna,” he called to her one morning, “do you have a minute?”
She took her notebook and went into his office. Maksim Petrovich stood by the window, holding some papers.
“Tell me, how long has your husband been working in Sales?”
The question was unexpected. Anna felt her heart tighten.
“Three years, Maksim Petrovich.”
“And how much time do you spend fixing his mistakes?”
She kept silent. Maksim Petrovich turned to face her.
“I don’t want to put you in an awkward position. But the numbers speak for themselves. Last quarter the Sales department posted its worst results in two years. At the same time, the number of client complaints has risen. And eighty percent of those complaints concern the work of one employee.”
Anna knew who he meant.
“Maksim Petrovich, I understand how unprofessional this looks…”
“Anna Sergeyevna,” he gently interrupted, “you’re the most valuable employee in this company. You know all our processes, remember every contract, and know how to communicate with clients. Frankly, you handle responsibilities better than half the managers. Why are you working as a secretary?”
“I like my job.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
She looked at him and suddenly realized she couldn’t lie. You couldn’t lie to this man—he saw right through people.
“When we first started here, I wanted to try sales. But Dmitry said that having two competitors in one family was wrong. That he’d feel awkward if I earned more.”
Maksim Petrovich nodded, as if that was exactly the answer he’d expected.
“I see. Then I have a proposal for you. Consider a promotion. Deputy Director for Business Development. Twice the salary, your own office, business trips. Are you ready?”
“And what about Dmitry?”
“What about Dmitry? This is your career, Anna Sergeyevna. Your life.”
That evening at home she told her husband about the offer. Dmitry listened, growing darker with each word.
“Deputy for Business Development,” he repeated. “So you’ll be making more than me?”
“Dim, that’s great! We’ll be able to afford more—maybe finally buy a bigger apartment…”
“And what will people say? The wife makes more than the husband?”
“What difference does it make what people say?”
“It makes a difference to me,” he snapped. “I won’t be a kept man.”
“Dmitry, what are you talking about? A kept man? We’re a family, a team…”
“A team,” he smirked. “In a team everyone’s equal. And you want to be the boss.”
“I just want to grow!”
“At my expense.”
The conversation ended in a fight. Anna turned down the promotion.
A month later a new employee appeared in Sales—Alyona Smirnova. Twenty-six, a degree in marketing, experience at a large retail chain. She was bright, energetic, with long dark hair and a habit of laughing at any jokes the male colleagues made.
Anna noticed changes in her husband’s behavior almost immediately. Dmitry started staying late at work, began paying more attention to his appearance, bought new shirts, and even signed up for a gym.
“We’ve got a new hire in the department,” he announced over dinner one day. “A very promising girl. Alyona. She’ll help me with major clients.”
“That’s good,” Anna replied, though her heart tightened for some reason.
Alyona did turn out to be a good specialist. But Anna quickly realized it wasn’t just about professional qualities. Dmitry would linger chatting with the new colleague by the smoking area, stay late with her “discussing work issues,” and often mentioned her name in conversation.
“Alyona says our sales strategy is outdated,” he’d tell his wife.
“Alyona thinks we need to pay more attention to customer service.”
“Alyona suggested a great idea for a new ad campaign.”
Anna stayed silent. She saw how her husband looked at Alyona, how his face lit up when he heard her laugh in the corridor. And she understood she was losing him.
The end came unexpectedly fast. One February evening Dmitry came home and said:
“We need to talk.”
They sat in the kitchen across from each other. Dmitry was silent for a long time, turning a cup of cold tea in his hands.
“I’m leaving,” he finally said.
“Where?” Anna didn’t understand.
“Leaving you. I’m leaving you. For Alyona.”
The world around her seemed to stop. She heard her own voice as if from outside:
“How long?”
“What—how long?…
Continued in the comments.

14/10/2025

“Separate budgets? Perfect. That means my money stays with me, just like you wanted,” she said with a slight smile.
Karina lingered by the mirror, straightening the lapel of her blazer. The last project had brought her not only a solid fee but new clients as well. The design studio was growing, and Karina’s name was becoming increasingly recognized in professional circles. Her phone vibrated—another request to redesign the offices of a large company.
“Maybe stop staring at your phone already?” Dmitry stood in the bedroom doorway, his expression sour. “Even at home, all you think about is work.”
Karina lowered her phone.
“A serious client. I can’t ignore it.”
“Of course. Money. And the fact that we haven’t had a real conversation for a week—no big deal, right?”
Karina rubbed the bridge of her nose wearily. Lately they’d been having talks like this more and more often. Especially after Dmitry didn’t get a raise at the construction firm.
“Dima, let’s not start. I’m just doing my job.”
“And constantly rubbing your success in my face!” he raised his voice. “You think it’s pleasant to hear from my mother that I’m living off my wife?”
Karina froze. Tamara Ivanovna again. Her mother-in-law regularly reminded them that “a man should provide for the family.” At every visit she would sweep her eyes over the new appliances and slyly ask her son if he wasn’t ashamed.
“Dima, we agreed our money was shared…”
“No. Enough.” Dmitry raked a hand through his hair. “Let’s split the budget. Each of us spends what we earn.”
“Seriously?” Karina arched a brow. “And what will that look like?”
“Simple. I’ll pay for the apartment and the groceries. You—your beauty salons and designer rags.”
Karina nodded slowly. Memories flashed by: how she had paid for their trips, gifts for his parents, restaurants.
“Fine,” she shrugged. “If that’s what you want.”
Dmitry hesitated for a moment, as if he hadn’t expected her to agree so easily.
“Great, then. That’ll be fairer.”
That same evening the doorbell rang. On the threshold stood Tamara Ivanovna with several bags.
“Dimochka, I brought you something to eat!” she trilled, sailing into the kitchen. “I know all about these ‘carpaccios’ for dinner…”
Karina kept quiet, though she cooked regularly. It just wasn’t Tamara Ivanovna’s style to notice.
“Mom, Karina and I decided to have separate budgets,” Dmitry announced proudly, helping unpack the bags.
“That’s more like it!” his mother beamed. “A man living on a woman’s money—what a disgrace. Now everything will be fair!”
Karina pretended to be busy texting. Her phone vibrated again—a deposit into her account.
A week passed. Dmitry began tallying expenses carefully; he paid for groceries and utilities. Karina noticed how he scowled at the receipts—but she didn’t interfere.
On Friday the phone rang.
“Karina, it’s Tamara Ivanovna,” her mother-in-law’s voice sounded sweet but uncertain. “Dimochka’s birthday is in a week… We should celebrate. I’ve found a nice restaurant… The one you two usually go to…”
Karina closed her eyes. That restaurant really was expensive—and she had always paid.
“I’m sorry, Tamara Ivanovna. But we have separate budgets now. Let Dima decide where and how to celebrate.”
There was a pause.
“But you can’t just—”
“I can,” Karina interrupted calmly. “It’s his day. And his finances.”
After that, conversations at home grew brief. Dmitry fell silent more often, and anxiety and irritation flickered in his eyes. There clearly wasn’t enough money for a fancy restaurant.
Tamara Ivanovna called daily, complaining about her “heartless daughter-in-law,” but Karina didn’t answer.
On Saturday morning, while checking her email, Karina saw a message from a new client. A major contract to design a chain of restaurants. The fee—generous.
“What is it?” Dmitry peered over her shoulder.
“Work,” she replied evenly, closing the laptop. “My budget, remember?”
Dmitry clenched his jaw and turned to the window. The tension in his back made it clear how much those words stung.
“You know…” he spun around sharply. “I’m not putting up with this anymore! You think you’re clever, huh? Hiding behind this separate budget and enjoying yourself!”
Karina rose slowly.
“Dima, you’re the one who suggested it. You wanted to be independent. So be independent.”
“I didn’t think it would be like THIS…” he hissed. “You can see I’m having a hard time!”
“Yes,” she nodded. “Before, you were ashamed to live off my money. And now you’re ashamed that you can’t.”
Continued in the comments.

13/10/2025

At My Mother-in-Law’s Birthday Dinner in Rome, My Seat Was “Accidentally” Missing — So I Smiled, Said One Sentence, and Walked Out...//...Rome was a city that knew how to keep secrets, its ancient stones holding the ghosts of fallen empires. As I stood on the sprawling terrace of our suite, watching the golden light bleed across the terracotta rooftops, I felt a kinship with those ruins. On the surface, everything was perfect. The air was perfumed with the sweet scent of tuberose I’d had arranged.
A bottle of Ethan’s favorite Brunello was breathing on the table. In two hours, we would be celebrating his mother’s seventieth birthday at the most exclusive rooftop restaurant in the city—an event I had orchestrated with the same militant precision I applied to every aspect of my life. A masterpiece of understated luxury.
From the outside, I was the very picture of the dutiful wife. But inside, a glacial calm had settled where my heart used to be. My phone, resting on the cool marble of the vanity, felt heavier than it should. It was no longer just a device; it was an arsenal. In it lived the devastating chronicle of the last five years: the screenshots of Ethan’s life with another woman, the photographs of drafted separation papers designed to leave me with nothing, the bank statements detailing the frantic hiding of a fortune that was already a mirage. Every condescending remark from his mother, every dismissive wave from his sister—it all clicked into place, forming a mosaic of breathtaking betrayal.
“Liv? Are you ready?” Ethan’s voice called from the bedroom. He walked out onto the terrace, adjusting his cufflinks, the very image of old-money elegance. He looked at me, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Concern? Or was he merely assessing if his problem was about to make a scene? “You seem quiet tonight.”
I turned from the view and gave him a serene smile, one I had practiced in the mirror until it was flawless. “Just running through the final checklist in my head,” I said, my voice even and smooth. “I want tonight to be perfect for your mother. A night none of you will ever forget.”
He returned the smile, relieved. He had no idea how true those words were. He thought this dinner was the final act of his family’s play, the one where I was gracefully, if cruelly, es**rted off the stage. He was wrong.
This wasn’t his play anymore. I had already rewritten the ending...
Don’t stop here — full text is in the first comment! 👇

13/10/2025

“You look like a scarecrow,” her husband sneered as he headed to the company gala with a younger woman. When his wife appeared in the hall, he was struck dumb with surprise.
Viktor was turning before the huge mirror in the hallway, smoothing the lapels of his expensive, brand-new suit. The fine wool, the color of wet asphalt, fit his athletic frame perfectly. He was getting ready for the company gala—the city’s main social event of the year, a charity evening organized by the firm where he held a high position thanks to his father-in-law’s connections. Alina watched him from the living-room doorway, feeling like a gray, invisible ghost in her own home.
“Will there be couples?” she asked quietly, her voice unsure, almost apologetic. She knew the answer, but a tiny, irrational hope still flickered inside her.
Viktor turned, and his face twisted. He burst out laughing—loud and rolling—not a trace of joy in it, only cold, cutting contempt.
“Are you serious?” He raked his gaze over her from head to toe. “Have you looked in the mirror lately? You look like a scarecrow. Why on earth would I drag you along just to disgrace myself?”
He walked up, grabbed her roughly by the shoulder, and pulled her toward that very mirror he had just been admiring himself in.
“Look,” he hissed in her ear. “What do you look like? An old, ugly hag. Don’t worry, I won’t be alone. Unlike you, I’m still wanted by someone.”
His words hit like a slap, knocking the air from her lungs. Alina stared at her reflection but saw not herself—she saw the pain-distorted face of the woman she had been five years ago. That was when they lost their newborn daughter. In the first months, Viktor had been there, supportive, but then he drifted away into work and entertainment. She never managed to recover. Grief had drained her dry, leaving only an empty, faded shell. And now the man who had sworn to be with her in sorrow and in joy was taking pleasure in grinding her into the dirt.
After the front door slammed behind Viktor, Alina stood before the mirror for a long time. He was right. A gaunt woman looked back at her—dark circles under her eyes, dull skin, hair tangled and leached of color. Her shoulders were slumped, and her eyes were bottomless with emptiness. “Lost the baby, lost my husband,” flashed through her mind. The thought felt so final, so irrevocable, she didn’t even have the strength to cry.
Throwing on an old coat without thinking, she went outside. Her feet carried her to a small city park where she and Viktor had met many years ago. She sat on their “lucky” bench and remembered. Back then he had been an ordinary guy from a poor family—charming, persistent, capable of grand gestures. And she was the only daughter of Sergei Nikolaevich, owner of the region’s largest construction empire. She had been sure he loved her, not her money. But now, replaying their life in her mind, she began to doubt. Had he known who she was from the very start? Had it all been a carefully thought-out plan?
She recalled their biggest blow-up with her father. It happened a couple of years after the wedding. Viktor, already working at his father-in-law’s company, began nudging Alina to talk about the inheritance. “Try to understand, your father isn’t eternal,” he urged. “And I want to be sure we have a solid foundation. Ask him to transfer the business to me. Everyone will sleep easier that way.”
Blinded by love and trust, Alina obeyed. Her father’s answer was sharp and categorical. He looked at her with his piercing gray eyes and cut her off: “I can see right through your husband. The business will go to you, and only you. And if your Viktor decides to marry someone else, he can earn his own way.” After those words, prodded by the aggrieved Viktor, Alina slammed the door and didn’t speak to her father for several years. How right he had been.
“What’s wrong, Alinka—come completely undone?” came a familiar, slightly husky voice beside her.
Alina flinched and looked up. Dmitry, her childhood friend, sat down on the bench next to her. They’d grown up in neighboring houses, but life had taken them in different directions: she married the “promising” Viktor, while Dima remained a simple working man—honest and straightforward. He gave her an unabashed once-over.
“Mm-hmm… honestly? You’re looking like a two out of ten. What happened? Your creep acting up again?”
His bluntness didn’t offend; it sobered. Suddenly, seized by a crazy impulse—a mix of despair, anger, and the last spark of her old daredevil streak—Alina blurted:
“Dima, come to the gala with me. Right now.”
She gave him a quick, stumbling recap of the scene from an hour earlier. Dima listened in silence, the muscles in his jaw working. Then he suddenly laughed—but nothing like Viktor’s laugh. Dima’s was warm and a little surprised.
“I thought you’d lost your adventurous soul completely. Remember how we used to jump off the garage roof as kids? All right then, a gala it is. Here’s the plan: I’m calling my sister. She’s a witch. In the good sense.”
Dima’s sister, the owner of the city’s trendiest beauty salon, really did turn out to be a magician. When she heard the gist from her brother, she let out a battle cry—“They’re beating one of ours!”—and sprang into action. For two hours a hairdresser, makeup artist, and manicurist worked their magic on Alina.
While they transformed her, couriers kept arriving at the salon with evening gowns by top designers, urgently summoned by the owner’s call. When Alina looked at herself in the mirror, she didn’t recognize the woman staring back. A true queen gazed from the glass—hair swept up, eyes shining and defined by expert makeup, posture proud.
When Alina entered the glittering hotel lobby on Dima’s arm—he in an elegant tux rented right there at the salon—conversation died away. She didn’t walk; she floated, feeling hundreds of admiring, astonished eyes on her. She wasn’t just beautiful—she radiated strength and confidence. Walking beside her, Dima felt not merely like an es**rt but like a true instrument of retribution. He saw what she could be, and his heart tightened with tenderness and pride.
Ignoring everyone, Alina headed straight for the front row in the hall, where the most honored guests sat. Those seats had always belonged to her family. They took their places, and Alina, back straight, surveyed the room. No more than five minutes passed before Viktor strolled up to those same seats, swaggering as he led a heavily made-up young blonde in a revealing dress by the arm. He was whispering something cheerful in her ear, but when he saw who had taken his “rightful” spots, he froze mid-sentence.
His face lengthened; his eyes went round. He looked at Alina as if he’d seen a ghost. A beautiful, but fearsome, ghost from the past.
“Alina? What… what are you doing here?” he mumbled, all his swagger gone…
Continued in the comments.

13/10/2025

The husband said: “I’m young—why would I live with a vegetable?” and left for another woman. And a down-and-out drifter moved into his disabled wife’s house.
By the village shop, which smelled of fresh bread and dust, the usual passions were boiling. The local gossips, gathered on the worn steps, were picking apart their fellow villagers. Today’s main topic was Viktor—a striking man, the village’s star—who had left his wife, Anna.
“Have you heard? Vitka ran off to the city to a young one!” Klavdiya announced in a lowered voice, glancing around. “Left his Anya, a cripple. They say that Lyubka of his is practically a girl, twists him any way she wants.”
“Shameless,” her neighbor chimed in. “And it’s because of him she ended up bedridden. If it weren’t for that drunk, she’d be walking now like before.”
Everyone nodded sympathetically. The whole village knew the tragedy down to the last detail. Three years ago, in a bitter frost, a drunken Viktor decided to take a shortcut across the river and fell through the ice. Anna, without a moment’s hesitation, jumped in after him. She—slight and delicate—managed to shove the bulk of her no-good husband onto solid ice, but she herself could no longer climb out.
A treacherous sheet of ice came down on her, pinning her and breaking her spine. Her world became the four walls of her own home. Anna could move around the room only with great difficulty, and every movement brought such agony that she spent most of her time in bed, staring at the ceiling.
She often replayed their last conversation. Viktor, bag packed, stood in the doorway, unable to raise his eyes.
“Try to understand, Anya, I’m a young man,” he finally ground out. “I need a normal life—a healthy woman. And this? This is a prison, not a life.”
She kept silent, swallowing back the tears.
“You should… get yourself into a home for the disabled,” he threw out cynically. “They’ll look after you there.”
He flung a few crumpled bills onto the nightstand and left without looking back. The door slammed, cutting her off from the past, from hope, from everything she had lived for.
Anna lay in bed, her gaze fixed on a single point. Her face was swollen from crying, and her body ached not only from the old injury but from an all-consuming despair. Her husband’s words about a home for the disabled pulsed in her head, burning away the last scraps of hope. Maybe he was right. Who would want her like this? A burden to everyone. The thought of a state institution where abandoned, unwanted people lived out their days no longer seemed so frightening. It felt like the only logical way out of a dead end.
A sudden knock at the door made her start. Who could it be? The neighbors came by rarely, not wanting to burden her with their presence. The knock came again, more insistent. Mustering her strength, Anna slid off the bed and, bracing herself against the walls, hobbled to the door.
On the threshold stood an unfamiliar man of indeterminate sort—either a vagrant or just a ragamuffin. Old, worn clothes, tousled hair, and a tired, hunted look.
“Good day, mistress,” he rasped. “Let me stay a couple of nights? I just need to get my bearings here in the village, find some work.”
Anna froze, peering into his face. Something in his eyes—some hidden pain—made her heart tremble. Anyone else in her place would have slammed the door in a tramp’s face, but she, not understanding why, stepped aside and let him in.
“Come in. The bed in that room is free,” she said quietly.
As soon as he disappeared into the room, she cursed herself inwardly. Had she gone completely mad? Letting the first passerby, a drifter, into the house! What if he was a thief? Or worse? But something kept her from driving him out.
That evening the house filled with the smell of fried potatoes. The stranger came into her room carrying two plates. Wordlessly, he helped her sit up in bed, tucking pillows behind her back. Then he set a wide board across her knees to make a kind of tray and placed the plate before her. Anna stared at him, unable to utter a word. In all her years of marriage she had never seen from Viktor even a hundredth of such simple, silent care.
They ate in silence. The stranger ate quickly, with the hunger of a starving man, while Anna pushed her fork through the potatoes, feeling the lump in her throat keep her from swallowing.
“Dmitry,” he suddenly said, wiping his mouth with his hand. “My name’s Dima.”
He told his story. Five years earlier he had been released from prison. He’d gotten into a fight, defending his wife from drunken harassment, and hadn’t measured his strength. One of the attackers died in the hospital. His wife had promised to wait, wrote letters, but when he returned it turned out she’d long been living with another man and had even had a baby. He drifted around the city, scraping by on odd jobs, and then decided to leave for a village to start with a clean slate.
Anna listened, and compassion stirred in her soul. Two broken lives, two betrayals.
“Our chairman, Sergei Pavlovich, is a good man, fair,” she advised when he finished. “Go to him in the morning, tell him everything straight. Maybe he’ll help with a job.”
“And what happened to you?” Dmitry asked quietly, nodding toward her legs.
And she told him. About her drunken husband, the icy river, the pain that had become her constant companion, and Viktor’s departure the day before. She spoke for a long time, for the first time in years getting everything out, and felt a little lighter with each word.
Meanwhile, the village buzzed like a disturbed hive. News that Anna had taken in some outsider had flown around every yard. And when someone found out the stranger was an ex-convict, the rumors took on a sinister tinge.
“She brought a killer into her house!” Klavdiya gasped by the shop. “He’ll finish her off and burn the place down!”
“She’s clearly lost her mind from grief,” another echoed. “I pity the woman, but then it’ll be her own fault.”
Opinions differed—some pitied Anna, others condemned her—but everyone agreed on one thing: this wouldn’t end well.
Two weeks passed. Dmitry, as Anna had advised, went to the chairman. Sergei Pavlovich, after hearing his honest account, was moved and took him on at his sawmill. Now every evening Dmitry came back to Anna’s little house. He brought groceries, cooked a simple supper, then sat by her bed and told her about his day, about the men at work, spun yarns. At first Anna just listened, then she began to smile a little, and one day she even laughed out loud at his joke. The sound of her own laughter seemed strange and unfamiliar. She had forgotten the last time she laughed.
Dmitry froze, looking at her.
“You’re pretty when you smile,” he said simply.
Anna blushed and looked away.
“Tell me, what do the doctors say?” he asked suddenly, serious. “Is there a chance you’ll walk?”
“I don’t even remember what they say anymore,” she gave a bitter little smile. “I practically ran away from the hospital back then. I was in a hurry to get home, to the housework, to my husband… Thought he needed me.”
Dmitry’s face darkened. He said nothing, but something new and steely appeared in his eyes.
Three days later he came back from work earlier than usual, together with Sergei Pavlovich in his old Niva.
“Get ready, Anya. We’re going to the hospital,” he said in a tone that left no room for argument.
Carefully, like the most precious treasure, he lifted her in his arms and carried her out of the house. A small crowd of onlookers had already gathered by the gate. The villagers silently watched Dmitry settle Anna into the back seat of the car. Suddenly Nadezhda, Viktor’s cousin—who had been the loudest in shouting that Anna had “shacked up with a con”—stepped forward.
“Anya, you hang in there!” she called out. “And you, Dmitry, good for you! Don’t listen to us, you fool… I was wrong.”
The car pulled away, leaving behind a startled, subdued village.
The doctor, an elderly gray-haired professor, studied the old films for a long time, then looked at Anna sternly over his glasses.
“My dear girl, what have you done to yourself?” he scolded gently. “You should have been running long ago! You abandoned rehabilitation and left everything to chance. Everything’s ‘stiffened’ now, healed wrong.”
Anna listened, and tears of despair rose to her throat again.
“Is there a chance?” Dmitry asked hoarsely, standing beside her.
“There’s always a chance,” the doctor sighed. “But now you’ll have to work ten times harder. The pain will be hellish. But if she can endure it—she’ll walk.”
“She’ll endure,” Dmitry said firmly. “I’ll make sure she follows every one of your instructions. I give you my word.”
Back in the village, Dmitry sprang into action. Following the drawings the doctor had given him, he used boards and ropes to rig up a special trainer in Anna’s room, which she immediately nicknamed “the rack.” Days began that felt like torture…
Continued in the comments.

News-cool

15/10/2025

15/10/2025

15/10/2025

14/10/2025

14/10/2025

13/10/2025

13/10/2025

13/10/2025

Address

Website

Alerts

Shortcuts

Share