Anya had always felt like a stranger in her own home. Her mother clearly favored her older sisters — Vika and Yulia — showing them much more care and warmth. This injustice deeply hurt the girl, but she kept her resentment inside, constantly trying to please her mother and get at least a little closer to her love.
“Don’t even dream of living with me! The apartment will go to your sisters. And you’ve looked at me like a wolf cub since childhood. So live wherever you want!” — with these words, her mother kicked Anya out of the house as soon as she turned eighteen.
Anya tried to argue, to explain that it was unfair. Vika was only three years older, and Yulia five. Both had finished university paid for by their mother; no one had rushed them to become independent. But Anya had always been the odd one out. Despite all her efforts to be “good,” in the family she was loved only superficially — if that can be called love at all. Only her grandfather treated her kindly. He was the one who had taken in his pregnant daughter after her husband abandoned them and disappeared without a trace.
“Maybe Mom is worried about my sister? They say I look a lot like her,” Anya thought, trying to find an explanation for her mother’s coldness. She had tried several times to have an honest talk with her mother, but each time it ended in a scandal or a tantrum.
But her grandfather was a real support to her. Her best childhood memories were linked to the village where they spent summers. Anya loved working in the garden and vegetable patch, learned to milk cows, bake pies — anything to delay going back home, where every day she was met with contempt and reproaches.
“Grandpa, why does no one love me? What’s wrong with me?” she often asked, holding back tears.
“I love you very much,” he answered gently but never said a word about her mother or sisters.
Little Anya wanted to believe he was right, that she was loved, just in a special way… But when she turned ten, her grandfather died, and since then the family treated her even worse. Her sisters mocked her, and her mother always sided with them.
From that day on, she never got anything new — only hand-me-down clothes from Vika and Yulia. They mocked her:
“Oh, what a fashionable top! Wipe the floor or for Anya — whatever’s needed!”
And if their mother bought sweets, the sisters ate everything themselves, handing Anya just the wrappers:
“Here, silly, collect the wrappers!”
Her mother heard it all but never scolded them. That’s how Anya grew up as a “wolf cub” — unnecessary, always begging for love from people who saw her not just as worthless but as an object of mockery and dislike. The harder she tried to be good, the more they hated her.
That’s why, when her mother kicked her out on her eighteenth birthday, Anya found work as a hospital orderly. Endurance and hard work became her habit, and now at least she was paid — though little. But here, no one hated her. If you’re not met with malice where you’re kind, that’s already progress. That’s what she thought.
Her employer even gave her a chance to get a scholarship and train as a surgeon. In the small town, such specialists were sorely needed, and Anya had already shown talent while working as a nurse.
Life was hard. By twenty-seven, she had no close relatives. Work became her whole life — literally. She lived for the patients whose lives she saved. But the feeling of loneliness never left her: she lived alone in a dormitory, just like before.
Visiting her mother and sisters was a constant disappointment. Anya tried to go as rarely as possible. Everyone would go out to smoke and gossip, and she would go to the porch to cry.
One day at such a moment, a colleague — orderly Grisha — approached her:
“Why are you crying, beautiful?”
“What beautiful… Don’t mock me,” Anya answered quietly.
She considered herself plain, a gray mouse, not even noticing that at almost thirty she had become a petite charming blonde with big blue eyes and a neat nose. The awkwardness of youth had disappeared, her shoulders straightened, and her light hair, tied in a strict bun, seemed to want to break free.
“You’re actually very beautiful! Value yourself and don’t hang your head. Besides, you’re a promising surgeon, and your life is shaping up well,” he encouraged her.
Grisha had worked with her for almost two years, sometimes giving her chocolates, but this was their first real talk. Anya cried and told him everything.
“Maybe you should call Dmitry Alekseevich? The one you recently saved. He treats you well. They say he has many connections,” Grisha suggested.
“Thanks, Grish. I’ll try,” Anya replied.
“And if that doesn’t work, we can get married. I have an apartment, won’t mistreat you,” he said jokingly.
Anya blushed and suddenly realized he was serious. He saw not a pitiful orphan, but a woman who deserved love.
“All right. I’ll consider that option too,” she smiled, feeling for the first time in a long time that she was not a “workhorse” or unnecessary, but a beautiful young woman with everything still ahead of her.
That same evening, Anya dialed Dmitry Alekseevich’s number:
“This is Anya, the surgeon. You gave me your number and said I could contact you if there were problems…” she began and hesitated.
“Anya! Greetings! How wonderful that you finally called! How are you? Although, you know, let’s better meet. Come over, we’ll have some tea and talk about everything. We, older folks, like to chat,” the man warmly replied.
The next day was Anya’s day off, so she went to see him immediately. She honestly told him about her situation and asked if he knew anyone in need of a live-in caregiver.
“You understand, Dmitry Alekseevich, I’m used to hard work, but now I feel like I just can’t take it anymore…”
“Don’t worry, Anechka! I can get you a surgeon’s job in a private clinic. And you’ll live with me. Without you, I wouldn’t be here now,” he said.
“Oh, of course, Dmitry Alekseevich, I agree! But your relatives won’t mind?”
“My relatives come only when I’m gone. They only care about the apartment,” the man replied sadly.
So they started living together. Two years passed, and a romance blossomed between her and Grisha, often continuing over cups of tea. But Dmitry Alekseevich didn’t like Grisha and never missed a chance to tell Anya:
“Sorry, dear, but Grisha is a good guy, just weak and too impressionable. You can’t rely on someone like that. Try not to get too attached to him.”
“Oh, Dmitry Alekseevich… It’s too late. We’ve already decided to get married. By the way, he jokingly proposed to me two years ago. And now I’m pregnant…” Anya joyfully announced, almost glowing with happiness. She had learned this news recently but immediately added, “But you’re still very important to me! I’ll visit every day. You’re like family to me.”
“Well, Anyutka… I’m not feeling well. Here’s what we’ll do: tomorrow we’ll go to the notary, and I’ll register a house in the village in your name. You’ve always loved rural life. Maybe it will be your dacha… or you can sell it if you want.”
He hesitated, not finishing his sentence, and frowned.
Anya tried to object: it was too much, he would live a long time yet, better to leave the house to his children. Although in the last two years they had visited him only once. But Dmitry Alekseevich was adamant.
Anya was shocked when she found out that the house was in the very village where her beloved grandfather had lived! His house had long been demolished, the plot sold, and strangers lived there now. But the fact she now had her own little corner there stirred warm feelings and memories.
“I don’t deserve this, but thank you very much, Dmitry Alekseevich!” she sincerely thanked him.
“Only one thing: don’t tell Grisha the house is in your name. And don’t ask why. Can I ask this of you?”
He looked serious, and Anya nodded, promising to comply. How to explain the origin of the house to Grisha was still an open question, but she could say she had reconciled with her mother.
Later, Anya learned that Dmitry Alekseevich, besides suffering stroke consequences, also had cancer. He refused surgery. In the end, Anya helped organize his funeral and moved in with her future husband.
Problems began closer to the seventh month of pregnancy — by then they had already lived together for six months.
“Maybe you should work a bit? Before the baby is born,” Grisha suggested.
By that time, Anya had temporarily left the clinic where Dmitry Alekseevich had gotten her a job. She thought she could live on savings, counting on Grisha’s support. But his words surprised and hurt her.
“Well… maybe…” she answered uncertainly. It was unpleasant since she bought the groceries, and Grisha turned out to be stingy. But the child was growing in her belly, and she didn’t want to give up the wedding.
But a week before the scheduled celebration, while Grisha was not home, an unfamiliar woman entered their apartment with her own key.
“Hello. I’m Lena. Grisha and I love each other, and he’s just afraid to tell you. So I’ll say it: you’re no longer needed,” said a tall, skinny blonde confidently and assertively.
“What?! Our wedding is in a few days! We’ve paid for everything!” Anya stammered in confusion. She had taken on most of the expenses to hold a modest celebration at a café.
“I know. No problem. Grisha will marry me. I have connections at the registry office; we’ll arrange everything quickly,” Lena brazenly declared, as if it was already decided.
Lena didn’t plan to leave. When Grisha appeared, he only muttered:
“Anya, sorry… Yes, it’s true. I’ll help with the baby but can’t marry you.”
“We’ll do a paternity test,” Lena added, putting her hand on Grisha’s shoulder.
“What paternity test?! You’re my first and only!” Anya shouted and rushed at him with fists.
“She’ll scratch you up, silly! She’s almost thirty but acts like a little girl!” Lena scoffed.
Grisha stood silently, not defending Anya, just awkwardly looking down. It became clear: everything depended on Lena; he was just a passive observer.
Anya began packing her things. There was no point fighting for a man who easily gave up on her. Lena added that she and Grisha had dated long ago — she was married then but now free. Anya was just a temporary replacement until the “dream woman” was available.
She could have demanded explanations from Grisha, but what was the point if he let Lena come and do it for him?
“So the house came in handy after all,” Anya thought.
The house really was good, though it had no running water. But the stove was excellent — her grandfather had taught Anya everything needed for village life. It was livable. Only how to give birth alone? Well, there was still time; she would figure something out.
Firewood was stocked, the shed was sturdy, and even snow lay in front of the entrance, ready to be cleared. The woodpiles were full — a real find in such cold!
It was good Dmitry Alekseevich had introduced her in advance to the neighbors as the new mistress and wife of his son. No unnecessary questions.
Anya, of course, called her mother and sisters. As usual, they didn’t disappoint — they advised her to give the baby to an orphanage and “next time don’t get involved with just anyone before the wedding.” They also gossiped about how Grisha hadn’t returned the money for the wedding, half of which she had paid.
But no one knew about the house. Now Anya could hide from everyone and gather herself.
It was terribly cold; she didn’t even take off her down jacket. But when she began raking the coals in the stove, she noticed the poker hit something hard.
Anya took off her gloves and pulled out a wooden box that had been blocking the firewood. It was neatly sealed, with large letters on the lid: “Anya, this is for you.” She recognized the handwriting immediately — Dmitry Alekseevich’s.
Inside were photos, a letter, and a small box. Her hands trembled as she opened the envelope and began to read:
“Dear Anechka! You should know that I was your grandfather’s brother. And one of those he asked to take care of you.”
From the letter, it became clear: many years ago there was a serious rift between the grandfather and Dmitry, but before dying, the elder brother found him and asked him to find Anya after she turned eighteen. He also left her an inheritance that his daughter would hardly ever give away.
Dmitry could not find Anya immediately — her mother and sisters hid her address. But fate brought them together in the hospital when he was undergoing treatment and she was his doctor. He wanted to tell her everything earlier but didn’t have time. So he decided to give her the house that her grandfather had bought from him while alive, knowing his daughter would never leave anything to the granddaughter.
Another shock awaited in the letter: it turned out her mother was not her biological mother. Anya was the daughter of her late sister, whom she hated and envied. In the photo — young mother and father, smiling, hugging a little girl. Anya survived because she was with her grandfather on the day of the accident.
In the box lay five-thousand-ruble notes left by the grandfather. Touching them warmed her heart. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Now she and her baby were safe!
When Anya lit the stove, it seemed to her that all her fears, betrayals, and resentments disappeared in the flames. She would start over — for the baby and for herself.
Of course, in time she would forgive those who hurt her. But she was done with them. This house would be her refuge.
Dmitry Alekseevich always said a good house should belong to someone who values it. He said he built it in his youth with his own hands, from the best materials.
“Not a house, but a wonder! It will stand for two hundred years!” he often repeated. The village was reachable by bus — two stops away.
Yes, the pay was low, and help with the baby was still uncertain. But the main thing — she had a roof over her head, savings, a profession. She was young, beautiful, and she would have a son!
For the first time, Anya felt she was truly a happy person.