The July heat was melting the asphalt in the courtyard of the nine-story building. From the seventh floor balcony, clothes were flying down — lace lingerie, jeans, dresses. They drifted like autumn leaves, settling on the scorching asphalt in a patchwork carpet.
“There won’t be a wedding!” Igor’s voice carried across the entire courtyard. “I took our application back. Pack up what’s left and go back to your mommy!”
A lilac silk dress, bought for the engagement party, floated in the air before landing in a puddle by the playground.
“Igor, please!” Alyona tried to grab his arm, her tear-swollen face twisted with pain. “Think about the baby! About our little one!”
“Your baby?” He shoved her so sharply she hit the doorframe. “After everything I found out?”
Neighbors crowded their balconies. Some filmed on their phones, others just shook their heads in silence.
The white wedding gown was the last to go, its skirt spreading like the wings of a wounded bird, carrying away her dreams of family happiness.
The white dress lay in the puddle, soaking up the dirty water the same way Alyona’s soul was soaking up the pain. Standing on the balcony, she tried to understand how her life had turned into this nightmare.
It had all begun many years ago. Alyona was eight when her father didn’t come home for dinner. The borscht Svetlana had cooked grew cold on the table, and in the children’s room, a school diary full of top marks waited for his praise. He returned only the next day — to collect his things.
“Daddy, where are you going?” Alyona stood in the doorway, clutching her favorite stuffed rabbit.
“Daddy needs to live somewhere else for a while,” he said, avoiding her eyes as he stuffed shirts into a suitcase.
“With some Oksana,” spat Svetlana, her face like stone in the hallway. “Go to your room, Alyona.”
After he left, the apartment seemed darker. From the kitchen came constant muffled sobbing, and the father’s photos disappeared, as if he had never existed.
“Remember,” Svetlana would say as she brushed her daughter’s hair before school, pulling the ponytail tighter with each stroke, “men are traitors. Only a mother truly loves you.”
Her grandmother, Lyudmila Sergeyevna — a slender woman with piercing eyes and gentle hands — became Alyona’s salvation. She’d take her granddaughter for weekends, bake cheese pastries, and never said a bad word about the departed son-in-law.
“Every story has two sides, Alyonushka,” she would say while teaching her to knit. “Don’t be quick to judge.”
Years passed. In design college, Alyona felt free for the first time — especially after meeting Igor, a quiet-smiling economics student with an attentive gaze.
“He’s nothing like the men Mama warned me about,” she told her grandmother, showing her a picture of the tall young man in a plaid shirt.
“Don’t tell Svetlana yet,” her grandmother advised, pouring tea into old porcelain cups. “She’s not ready.”
After graduation, in a small café with stained-glass windows, Igor handed Alyona a velvet box.
“I’ve thought it all through,” his eyes shone with certainty. “I have a stable job; in a year, we can get a mortgage.”
When they filed their marriage application, Alyona knew it was time to tell her mother.
“First the application, then the conversation,” her grandmother approved. “Svetlana will grumble, but she’ll accept it. You’re her only daughter.”
Alyona believed her mother would wish her happiness despite her bitterness. She was wrong.
The day Igor met Svetlana was stifling. In the small kitchen where Alyona had grown up, an old cuckoo clock — her father’s last New Year’s gift — ticked away.
Igor had changed his shirt three times before settling on a pale blue one, “the safest option,” as he called it. In his hands were a “Bird’s Milk” cake and a bouquet of pale pink lilies.
“Don’t be so nervous,” Alyona adjusted his collar. “She’s strict, but fair.”
Svetlana met them in a house dress with a brooch, eyeing the tall young man warily.
“Svetlana Mikhailovna,” Igor began, offering the flowers, “I’m asking for your daughter’s hand. We love each other and have already filed with the registry office.”
“Your last name?” she asked, ignoring the bouquet.
“Verkhov. Igor Alexandrovich.”
Her face contorted as if struck. The cup in her hand dropped and shattered on the floor.
“Verkhov? Is Oksana Verkhov your relative by any chance?”
“Yes, she’s my aunt, but—”
“Get out of my house!” Svetlana shouted, pointing to the door. “And you—” she turned to her daughter — “did you plan this? Is this revenge?”
“Mama, I didn’t even know!” Alyona grabbed Igor’s hand. “What does it matter?”
“Svetlana Mikhailovna,” Igor said firmly, “I’m not responsible for my relatives’ actions.”
“Mama, I’m pregnant,” Alyona blurted. “And I’m marrying Igor.”
Svetlana turned pale.
“Choose: him or me. If you marry him — forget about me.”
Svetlana’s ultimatum hung in the air, but Alyona’s choice was made. A week later, she and Igor rented a one-bedroom apartment on the city’s outskirts. Small, with faded wallpaper and a creaky sofa, it became their first home.
“We’ll replace the sofa and re-paper the walls,” Igor said as he unpacked kitchenware. “The main thing is we’re together.”
Evenings were spent planning a modest but beautiful wedding. Alyona sketched her dress, Igor worked on the budget.
Her phone would start ringing after 8 p.m.
“You’re making a mistake!” Svetlana would shout. “He’ll leave you the moment the baby’s born!”
Other times she’d cry:
“You’re all I have, my girl… How could you do this to me?”
After such calls, Alyona would sit on the balcony hugging her knees. Igor would find her there, wrap an arm around her shoulders.
“Turn off your phone. Just for a while,” he’d ask. “She’s ruining us.”
“I can’t,” Alyona would shake her head. “She’s my mom.”
Three days before the wedding, something unexpected happened. Svetlana called and proposed a truce.
“I want to see how you live. Maybe I was too harsh.”
On the day of the visit, Alyona was nervous, baking her mother’s favorite cherry pie. Svetlana arrived, scanning the apartment critically.
“Cramped. And you need repairs. The pie’s overbaked, as always.”
When Alyona ran to the store for forgotten sour cream, Svetlana turned to Igor. Her eyes held no warmth.
“Don’t get too comfortable. I’ll break you two up. My daughter deserves better. You’re just a temporary chapter,” she said with icy calm.
Igor clenched his teeth but said nothing. Svetlana smirked faintly, pleased.
That evening, after Svetlana left, Alyona fell asleep exhausted. Igor’s phone vibrated with a message from an unknown number: “Decide for yourself if you want to be with a girl who begged her ex to take her back yesterday. I’ll keep quiet. For her sake.”
Igor stared at the sleeping Alyona. Had she been lying all along? His hand twitched to wake her, to ask, but something stopped him — fear of the answer, or cowardice.
He lay awake, haunted by snatches of phrases and memories. Every time she came home late, every phone call taken in another room — all now seemed suspicious. By morning, he felt not just deceived, but betrayed.
Morning brought silence. Igor left early without waking her, leaving only a note: “Urgent business. Back by lunch.” She ate breakfast alone, stirring her oatmeal and imagining their upcoming wedding.
At 1:30, the door slammed open. Igor came in with a stony face, holding papers.
“It’s over,” he said, tossing a stamped registry form on the table. “I withdrew our application.”
“What? You’re joking?”
“Your mother’s right. We rushed things,” his voice clipped, as if each word hurt. “I’m not ready to live in lies.”
“What lies? What are you talking about?” Tears streamed down her cheeks.
Without answering, he opened the closet and started throwing her clothes into a sports bag. His movements were sharp, his face closed.
“Please,” Alyona begged, “tell me what happened! What did I do?”
Instead, he flung open the balcony door and shook the bag’s contents out. Dresses, T-shirts, books — fragments of their life together — spiraled down seven stories. The Igor she’d known for three years was gone, replaced by a cold, decisive stranger.
“There won’t be a wedding,” he said flatly. “Take the rest and leave.”
“We love each other,” Alyona tried to touch him, but he pulled away. “We’re having a baby!”
“I’ve made my decision,” his gaze was impenetrable. “It’s over.”
The white dress, bought for the registry, was the last to leave the balcony. Watching it fall, Alyona realized there was no point in trying to reach him.
“If you can believe something this awful without even telling me what it is,” she said quietly, “then you never truly knew me.”
Gathering what could be saved, she walked the city’s evening streets. The summer heat pressed on her shoulders, but she noticed neither the weather nor the strangers staring at her tear-streaked face. One thought circled in her mind: Neither of them was ever a real support. Not Igor, not Mama. They loved the idea of love, not me.
By a playground, she stopped, watching toddlers on the swings. Her hand rested on her belly.
“We’ll be okay,” she whispered. “Just you and me.”
In that moment, the emptiness inside her shifted into something new — not confidence, but resolve. She would start over. Not for her mother, not for Igor — for herself and her child.
For the first time in a long while, Alyona felt free.
A tiny room in a communal apartment on the fifth floor became the first step in her new life. Alyona taped her sketches to the walls — bright splashes against the faded wallpaper.
“For a young mom, we can offer flexible hours,” said the elderly atelier owner, flipping through her portfolio. “Three days a week, and you can take work home.”
Every morning began the same: her phone buzzing with messages from her mother — “Come back,” “You won’t manage,” “I told you so.” One day, Alyona simply turned off notifications.
“Someone called for you,” said Nina Petrovna, her neighbor, handing her the landline. “Some woman, very upset.”
“I’ll call back,” Alyona replied, feeling no guilt for the first time.
In the evenings, she’d talk to her growing belly:
“You know the secret? One step at a time. Today I learned how to sew a lining. Tomorrow I’ll learn budgeting.”
Her needle-pricked hands were creating not just custom clothes, but a new Alyona — a woman who no longer sought approval and wasn’t afraid of solitude. The real support had been inside her all along.
Three years passed in a flash. The small studio apartment Alyona bought on a mortgage was full of life — children’s drawings on the fridge, building blocks on the rug, a cozy sofa with colorful cushions.
“Mama, look, I built a robot!” Misha held up his latest creation.
Her atelier had grown from side job to a small but profitable business. Her children’s clothing line was already in two city stores.
Svetlana called on holidays, left messages, even showed up at her building once. Alyona didn’t answer.
“Still angry at her?” her grandmother asked during weekend visits.
“No,” Alyona said honestly. “I just know now what kind of relationships I want in my life.”
At night, when Misha was asleep, she’d sit by the window with a cup of tea. The city hummed below, and her apartment was filled with a special quiet — not emptiness, but peace. A life built with her own hands, free from others’ expectations and the fear of disappointing them.
“It’s only the beginning,” she whispered, smiling at her reflection in the glass.