THE BLESSED ONE. I came to his parents’ doorstep with a suitcase and a child in my arms. His mother looked at us with suspicion, and his father said one sentence after which our lives changed forever.

“Girl!” the midwife announced, lifting the newborn so Lusya could see her. “A beauty! Takes after her mother!”

But Lusya, exhausted from labor, didn’t have time to really look at her daughter—an instant later the baby was handed off to another staffer. They examined the little one, carefully swaddled her, and carried her away.

“He doesn’t even know,” Lusya thought bitterly.

Lusya grew up with her mother in a quiet provincial town of about seven thousand people. She had never seen her father and never asked about him—her mother was silent, and the topic was taboo. For years her mother suffered from severe headaches, swallowing pills that brought no relief.

In the spring, as Lusya was finishing school, something terrible happened. Her mother was standing at the ironing board when she suddenly collapsed. Lusya rushed to call an ambulance, but her mother stopped her.

“It’s fine, probably a magnetic storm. I’ll rest and it will pass.”

“Mom, let’s go to the doctor tomorrow anyway. Your pills aren’t helping. This can’t go on—your head hurts every day. Let me take your blood pressure?”

The next day they went to the hospital. They were shuffled from office to office and finally referred to the regional oncology center. The diagnosis was inoperable brain tumor. The doctors threw up their hands: treatment wouldn’t help. Her mother refused chemotherapy.

“It’ll add a month, and then—still the end. Better to die at home than in a hospital under IV drips.”

Then Lusya made a firm decision: she would become a doctor. She would save her mother. But she didn’t have time. Two months after the diagnosis, her mother died—two months before the Unified State Exam.

After the funeral, Lusya’s Russian language and literature teacher, Lidiya Viktorovna, supported her. The girl couldn’t stay in the apartment where every corner reminded her of her mother and moved in with her teacher.

“Don’t give up, dear girl. Ace your exams, get into university, become a doctor. You’ll save more than one life. And your mother will be proud of you in heaven.”

Lusya finished school with a gold medal. Lidiya Viktorovna persuaded the principal to note in her record that Lusya was an orphan, hoping for admissions benefits. She also gave her a little money to start.

“Thank you so much. I’ll get my degree and come back,” Lusya promised.

“Don’t make plans like that, child. Maybe you’ll find your happiness, get married. The main thing is: take care of yourself.” Lidiya Viktorovna hugged her tight. “Call me anytime. I’m always here if you need help or advice.”

There was nothing left for Lusya in her hometown. She didn’t look for her father—if he hadn’t shown himself in all those years, she didn’t need him. She enrolled in medical school and got a room in a dorm. The teacher’s money ran out quickly, and the stipend wasn’t enough to live on.

Lusya got a job as an orderly at the clinic near the dorm. She arranged to do the cleaning after hours. The head physician agreed, albeit reluctantly.

She economized on everything: didn’t go to the cafeteria, didn’t spend on cafés, didn’t buy clothes. Evenings she sat over her textbooks or walked alone around the city. Her group nicknamed her “the Blessed”—she was so quiet, withdrawn, and devoid of a social life.

After the winter exams, which she aced, Lusya went home—really just stopped by the apartment with her mother’s things; she still stayed with Lidiya Viktorovna. Her teacher was happy to see her and, as they said goodbye, pressed some money into her hand again.

“No, really, you shouldn’t,” Lusya blushed. “I earn my own.”

“How much? An orderly isn’t a professor. And you’re a young woman! You need decent things. I can see how thin you’re getting; you’re running on nerves. Take it. Buy a dress, jeans, shoes. Don’t be shy.”

Lusya herself noticed how out of place she looked next to the fashionable students—in her old sweater and scuffed sneakers. The girls would glance sideways and look down on her. But her studies were brilliant—the professors praised her, and each term she earned several automatic passes. That sparked envy and nasty whispers.

After her third year and her nursing practicum, Lusya got a job as a nurse in a hospital. Because of her classes, she was put on night shifts. She especially liked being on duty with Yuri Borisovich—a young, talented surgeon. She watched him with admiration, almost adoration—and it showed. He let her examine patients, make preliminary diagnoses, and suggest treatments. Of course she made mistakes. But he patiently explained, guided, and corrected.

After those shifts, Lusya would literally fly to her lectures—her heart beating in time with her hopes. She longed for the next night on duty with him. Yuri Borisovich wasn’t blind—he saw her feelings, felt the awkwardness, but didn’t push her away.

One night was unusually quiet—no emergencies, no surgeries. They sat in the staff room drinking coffee with pancakes Lusya had made especially. She always tried to bring something tasty when she knew she’d be on duty with him.

“My mother can’t make them this well,” he smiled once. Lusya flushed with happiness.

And then…

She gave herself to him gladly, believing it was love. How else could it have happened if he hadn’t felt the same?

But for the next duty he suddenly swapped shifts with a colleague. Lusya worried—maybe something had happened in his family? She started waiting for him outside the hospital. He walked past without noticing.

“Yura…” she called after him.

He came over—sullen, cold.

“Did something happen? Or are you avoiding me? Why?” she faltered, slipping back into formal address.

“What happened was a mistake. It won’t happen again. Don’t get in my way. The whole department is already gossiping.”

“But I—love you…”

“I don’t,” he cut her off sharply. “That’s all.”

He walked away.

Lusya sat through her lecture as if in a fog, answering at random. The professor sent her home, assuming she was ill. She lay down, buried her face in the pillow, and cried all day.

A few weeks later she found out she was pregnant.

When she told him, he just looked at her coolly.

“I thought you were on birth control. What do you want from me? I didn’t force you—you agreed. If you want, I’ll help with an abortion. I’ll tell the gynecology department you’re a student who got pregnant and is asking for help.”

Lusya flushed; tears welled in her eyes.

“I won’t have an abortion,” she whispered.

“That’s foolish. How will you study with a baby? Work? Even if you take a year off—then what? A child needs care. You have no mother; there’s no one to help. What will you live on? I’m not ready to get married. I’ll be invited to a clinic in Moscow soon. Think rationally.”

She tried to hate him. She couldn’t.

She turned and ran.

She never sought him out again.

That weekend she went to see Lidiya Viktorovna—and told her everything.

“My poor girl,” Lidiya Viktorovna sighed. “I went through this once, too. In my second year I fell head over heels—in love so blind I couldn’t even think about lectures. There weren’t many boys in our department, and every girl was crazy about him. I was jealous, I cried if I saw him with someone else.

“We celebrated New Year’s at a classmate’s dacha. It was loud and fun—we danced, drank wine, set off fireworks. When everyone went off to their rooms, he suddenly came to mine and said he’d mixed up the doors. That’s how it happened. Later I found out I was pregnant.

“At first he swore he didn’t remember anything. But I knew—he wasn’t that drunk. Then he started saying the child might not be his, that I could have been with someone else… He spoke cruelly, brutally. I hated him for it. I couldn’t understand how I’d ever loved him.”

“What did you do?” Lusya asked, hanging on every word.

“I had an abortion. And six months later he got married. His wife’s father worked at the Department of Education. They both quickly landed good jobs. I suppose it wasn’t love that led him to the altar, but prospects.

“It was unbearable to see them together. I couldn’t stand it—I moved here. I never married. And now… now I regret it very much. I should have kept the baby. I wouldn’t be alone now. I do have many ‘children’—graduates I raised. But you all leave, you forget… Only you come. Only you are near.”

Lusya hugged her teacher tightly.

“I love you very much. You’ve done so much for me!”

“Listen, Lusyenka,” Lidiya Viktorovna said gently. “God gave you a child—He will give you strength and a path, too. Don’t rush. This has to be your decision. Your mother raised you alone and was proud of you. A child is forever. A person, even the closest, can leave. I’ll help. When I retire, I’ll look after the baby. What do you want—a girl or a boy?”

“A girl,” Lusya whispered, sobbing.

“Well then, we’ll have a daughter…”

When Lusya came on duty, bitter news awaited her—Yuri Borisovich had left for Moscow.

When her belly began to show, the department head called her in and asked a lot of questions. Lusya said the child’s father was a student who’d been expelled after exams. She spent the summer holidays with Lidiya Viktorovna. And just before the new academic year began, she gave birth to a daughter.

“What will you do now?” Lidiya Viktorovna asked, bringing Lusya and the baby home from the maternity ward.

“I’ll go to the institute and take an academic leave.”

“Good. In a year you’ll return to your studies, and I’ll take care of little Lizonka. She’ll be a bit older—I’ll manage.”

But Lidiya Viktorovna was already of an age, and her blood pressure often spiked. Lusya couldn’t leave her little daughter in her full care—though the girl had started to walk, she still needed constant attention.

“Where will you go with her? How do you even imagine this?” the teacher cried in alarm when Lusya began to pack.

“I know where Yura’s parents live. I’ll go to them. She’s their granddaughter. I have no other choice.”

From the station, Lusya went straight to Yury’s parents. Standing at their door, she froze, unable to press the bell. She was about to leave when an elderly neighbor came up the stairs.

“To the Zarubins’? I’ll help,” the woman said, and rang for her.

“For you, Polina Andreevna,” she announced when the door opened, and left.

“Are you here to see us?” Yura’s mother asked in surprise, seeing a girl with a child and a suitcase at her feet.

“My name is Lyudmila Ostrovskaya… Lusya. This… this is Yury Borisovich’s child,” Lusya blurted out in one breath.

“Come in,” said Polina Andreevna, though her eyes showed doubt. “Boris! Borya! Come here!” she called into the apartment.

A minute later a man came into the room. Lusya sat in the kitchen, sipping tea, telling her story, while her daughter played on the floor with the cat.

“Well then,” said Boris Sergeyevich, casting a stern glance at his wife, who was ready to object. “You’re not going anywhere. Stay. There’s plenty of room. In our family we don’t abandon children—quite the opposite. I myself was raised by strangers. And this girl isn’t a stranger. She’s our granddaughter. Of course, we’ll do a DNA test, if you don’t mind. For peace of mind.”

Lusya nodded.

They settled her and the child in Yura’s room. The next day Lusya went to classes, and the little one stayed with her grandmother and grandfather.

On Friday, when Lusya returned from the institute, she heard raised voices in the kitchen—and among them Yura’s familiar, sharp tone.

“Have you decided to ruin my life? Why did you come here?” he pounced on her as soon as they were alone.

“I had nowhere to go. I’ll finish my studies—and leave…” Lusya wished she could sink through the floor.

But then his father intervened:

“Live with whomever you want, but Lusya and Lizonka are staying here. This is my family. This is my granddaughter.”

Yura left, barely restraining his anger, and Lusya stayed.

A year later, Boris Sergeyevich died suddenly. Yura came for the funeral but hardly spoke to Lusya. Polina Andreevna took the loss badly. Only little Liza kept her afloat, distracting her from grief and tears.

Lusya received her diploma. She could have returned home, but she couldn’t leave Polina Andreevna alone.

Then, unexpectedly, Yura came back. Lusya tried to keep her distance and had even started packing. But Polina Andreevna flatly forbade any talk of leaving—she grew agitated and clutched at her heart.

“Where would you go? If it weren’t for you and Lizonka, I wouldn’t have coped… You’re my family,” she pleaded.

The next day Lusya left the house early—she wanted to walk, think things over, maybe stop by her old job. Polina Andreevna had promised to take the girl to kindergarten.

But instead she asked Yura:

“Yura, take the girl to kindergarten. My blood pressure’s up.”

“Mom, I don’t know how to handle kids,” he faltered.

“Do you want me to collapse in the street?”

Yura sighed, took Lizonka by the hand, and set off. They walked in silence. The girl studied him with curiosity. At the door of her group she said:

“Grandma and Mommy always kiss me goodbye.”

Yura hesitated, then crouched down. Lizonka wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her cheek to him. He breathed in her child’s scent—clean, warm. His eyes stung suddenly; warmth spread through his chest; his heart tightened with tenderness. He kissed her on the temple.

The girl ran into her group. He stood there, unable to move.

All day he thought about her.

In the evening, when Lusya got ready to go pick up her daughter, he said:

“I’ll go with you.”

At the kindergarten door he stopped and turned to Lusya.

“Forgive me. I abandoned you. I wasn’t there for my daughter. Today I realized… I can’t be without you. Without Liza. Without you. Don’t leave. Come with me to Moscow.”

“If only you’d said this earlier…” flashed through Lusya’s mind. Aloud she answered:

“I forgave you long ago, Yuri Borisovich. And there’s nothing to forgive. I chose this path myself. And I haven’t regretted it once. Polina Andreevna and Boris Sergeyevich did more for us than they had to. I can’t abandon her. And you’re married.”

“Not anymore. You’re right. Then I’m staying. I’ve been offered the head of the surgical department here,” he said.

When they entered the group, Liza ran to them—first to her mother, then to her father. He felt that warmth in his chest again. They walked home the three of them, with little Liza holding both their hands.

“Mom, I’m staying!” Yura called as soon as he crossed the threshold.

“Good,” Polina Andreevna said softly, with relief. “Right. At last the whole family is together. Boryenka would be so happy…”

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