Larisa had always considered herself a calculating and cold-blooded person. The orphanage had taught her a harsh truth: rely only on yourself. She had a clear life route — like a project measured down to the millimeter. First, a teacher training college, then a job — modest, but reliable. And later — marriage. Not on the wave of blind passion, but by calculation, with someone stable, serious, with whom she could build a family — something she had never had. She looked down on those who rushed headlong into relationships, got pregnant, and ruined their lives. Larisa was different. She was rational. Smart. Or so she thought.
But everything changed when Kolya appeared. Tall, with a smile impossible to look away from, and eyes as clear as the sky. He worked at a car service near her dorm, brought her chocolates, took her out for rides in his worn but well-kept “Nine.” He seemed kind, strong, someone she could hide behind. Larisa, always restrained and cautious, for the first time allowed herself to let go. Feelings overwhelmed her like a tsunami. All her principles, all her plans — in a single moment turned to dust.
When the test showed two lines, her heart sank. She went to Kolya with trembling in her chest, dreaming he would hug her and say, “Now everything will be different.” Instead, she was struck down. Kolya listened, and his face twisted into a contemptuous smirk.
— Seriously? — he sneered. — Larisa, what’s wrong with you? I never signed up to be a father. I’ve got enough on my plate. I don’t need a kid. And you, with that kind of baggage — even less so.
He spoke so easily, as if discussing a car repair. Every word cut like a knife. The world, which had just filled with colors, became gray, empty, joyless again.
She walked to the women’s clinic, clutching a referral for an abortion. Tears streamed down her face. Everything she had hoped for collapsed. The future was a void. She felt abandoned, alone, stripped of meaning. Ahead lay only pain and solitude.
The phone rang while she was lying on her dorm bed, surrounded by crumpled tissues. She didn’t want to answer, but the ringing wouldn’t stop. At last, she picked up. A man’s voice, dry and official, introduced himself as a notary and spoke words that made her sit up sharply:
— Larisa Andreevna, this concerns you. You are named in an inheritance left by your aunt, Nina Vasilyevna Kravtsova.
— What aunt? — she whispered. — I don’t have an aunt.
— Nevertheless, — the voice replied calmly, — you must come for the reading of the will.
The next day, in an office filled with the smell of old documents and wax, Larisa learned something that upended her entire world. The notary read the will: she was left an apartment in the city, a large house in the village with land, and a substantial bank account. But there was a condition — she had to live in the village house for exactly one year together with Semyon Igorevich Volkov, who under the same will inherited a garage and a car.
— Who is she? Who is he? — Larisa stammered.
The notary sighed, took off his glasses.
— Nina Vasilyevna was not just an aunt. She was your biological grandmother.
Larisa froze. Everything she thought she knew about herself was a lie. Her mother, Nina’s daughter, had given birth to her young. Larisa’s father was from a criminal background, blackmailing her grandmother for money. To save her granddaughter, Nina arranged for the baby to be abandoned and placed Larisa in an orphanage, hoping to bring her back later. But she couldn’t. She was threatened, cut off, and then Larisa disappeared in the system. Years later, her grandmother found her, but by then was too ill to meet. Semyon was the son of her late friend, whom she had raised as her own.
This truth shattered Larisa’s old beliefs. She was not unwanted. She had family. A grandmother who loved her. Who searched for her. Who left her not only property but a chance.
She walked out of the office, found the nearest trash bin, and threw away the abortion referral. For the first time in ages, something flared inside her. She had a home. She had money. She had a past. And maybe a future. “I’ll manage,” she whispered. “We’ll manage.”
A week later she arrived in the village. The house stood strong, cozy, with a neat garden, just off the road. At the gate a tall young man in a work jacket was already waiting. He leaned against a post, looking at her with mild irony.
— So, you’re the granddaughter, then, — he said instead of a greeting. His voice was deep, slightly hoarse. — I’m Semyon.
— Larisa, — she replied curtly, annoyed. He looked at her as if she had come to steal his home.
— Come on in, heiress, — he opened the gate. — Let’s see how you’ll last a year here.
Inside, the house was warm and cozy, smelling of wood and dried herbs. On the table stood a photograph of an elderly woman with kind eyes. Grandma Nina.
— She waited for you, — Semyon said quietly, noticing her gaze. — Always repeated: I’ll find my Larochka.
In his voice was such genuine longing that Larisa understood: he wasn’t just a tenant. He was part of this home. Part of her heart. And she was the outsider, here by a piece of paper.
— Listen, — she said firmly. — I need this condition as much as you do. I don’t want fights. I need time to get back on my feet. Let’s just agree: we’ll put up with each other.
Semyon turned. Surprise flickered in his eyes. He’d expected tantrums, demands, but heard cool calculation instead. And oddly, he liked it.
— Put up with each other, huh? — he smirked, but without bitterness now. — Fine. Deal. My room’s upstairs, yours is downstairs, facing the garden. Kitchen’s shared. You’ll find your way.
He turned back to the window, and for a moment Larisa saw not a mocking stranger but a man worn down by loneliness and loss. Behind his sarcasm was the same pain she carried. And in that silent understanding — not spoken, just felt — the first thin thread connected them.
Life gradually found a new rhythm. Not wanting to rely on anyone’s charity, even if secured by law, Larisa got a job as a kitchen assistant in the school cafeteria. The work was simple but steady, and each ruble earned gave her confidence. She embraced Grandma Nina’s house with her heart. She cleared the overgrown beds, planted herbs — dill, parsley, sorrel. The front garden bloomed into a fairytale: asters, marigolds, calendula — everything that reminded her of childhood warmth and care. The house seemed to wake, to breathe, to live again under her hands.
At first, Semyon kept to the shadows, watching silently. He saw her belly growing, her fatigue by evening, but didn’t interfere — thought it wasn’t his business. Until one day he caught her breathless, trying to push a heavy dresser.
— Are you out of your mind?! — he barked, storming in. — What do you think you’re doing? Step away!
He moved the furniture in one effortless motion, as if it were a cardboard box, then glared at her.
— If I see you lifting again — I’ll throw you out of here, will or no will. Got it?
From that day everything changed. Semyon didn’t declare his care, but showed it in every gesture. He carried heavy bags, fixed the plumbing, chopped wood for the bathhouse. He didn’t say “I’m here,” but he was always there. His silent care spoke louder than words.
Evenings found them more often together in the kitchen — over cups of herbal tea, in conversations that came easily. Larisa, used to keeping everything inside, began to share — about the orphanage, about the fear of being unwanted, about dreams long buried. Semyon responded — about his own abandoned childhood, about nearly going astray after his parents died, and how Grandma Nina took him in, like a mother, restored his faith. They spoke of pain, and in those raw, unashamed confessions, trust grew. Once, when Larisa mentioned Kolya, Semyon frowned, fists clenched.
— Give me his address. I’ll have a word.
— Don’t, Syoma, — she said softly. — That’s the past. Let it go its way.
She looked at him — at his strong profile, his tense shoulders — and realized she was no longer afraid. Not of loneliness. Not of motherhood. Because beside her stood someone who had become her pillar.
Labor began in the middle of the night. A sharp wave of pain tore Larisa from sleep. She sat up, breathless, terrified: she was alone, the ambulance from town half an hour away. But the next instant came pounding footsteps on the stairs. Semyon burst into the room — disheveled, in just trousers, eyes wide with panic.
— It’s starting? — he asked, fear in his voice she had never seen.
He darted about the house: grabbing the phone to call an ambulance, dropping a glass, rummaging through the bag already packed a month ago. But he never left her side. He peeked in, brought water, stood nearby breathing fast, as if he himself felt her pain. His fussing, oddly enough, was calming — because he was there. Beside her.
When the ambulance arrived, the paramedic, a stern elderly woman, glanced at Semyon and nodded:
— Don’t worry, daddy. Everything will be fine. Just help us.
He didn’t explain, didn’t argue. He simply lifted Larisa into his arms — gently, as if she were fragile — and carried her to the car. In the ambulance he sat beside her, held her hand, wiped the sweat from her forehead, answered the doctors’ questions, filled out forms — did everything. His usual restraint had turned into absolute focus. He was her shield.
And in that moment, looking at his tense face in the flashing light of the siren, at his strong fingers gripping her hand, Larisa understood — clearer than ever. She loved him. Not because they shared a roof, not because the will said so. But because he was her pillar, her protection, her home. Their union was no longer forced. It had become real. A family.
Two years passed. The year dictated by the will had long ended, but no one left. Larisa, Semyon, and their daughter Marina still lived in Grandma Nina’s house — now not as heirs, but as a family. Semyon had opened a small tire shop in the garage, and it quickly became popular. Larisa tended the home, the child, the garden. And for the first time in her life, she felt truly happy — deeply, without looking back at the past.
One weekend they went to the city — to a shopping mall. Semyon pushed a cart, little Marina laughing and kicking her legs inside. Larisa picked out a new hat for her, smiling at her delight. Simple, everyday happiness — the kind she once thought impossible.
And then — a look. Coming toward them was Kolya. The same arrogant gaze, the same smile, but now with tired eyes. He recognized her.
— Larisa? Well, what do you know! — he approached, eyeing the cart. — You… look good.
— We have nothing in common, Kolya, — she said evenly, stepping closer to Semyon.
He, silently observing, stepped forward — not roughly, but firmly. Placed himself between them. Tall, strong, unflinching. He didn’t say a word. Just stood. Like a wall. Like a boundary. In his eyes — no anger, no threat. Only calm certainty: these are mine, and you are not needed here. Kolya shrank, the smile fading. He muttered something like “just wanted to say hi” and quickly slunk away, hunched like a beaten man.
Semyon turned, wrapped his arm around Larisa’s shoulders, looked into her eyes.
— Everything okay?
— Yes, — she whispered, leaning into him. — Everything. And even more.
She looked at her husband, at her daughter laughing in the cart, and her heart filled with gratitude. Gratitude to her grandmother, who even dying had cared for her future. To fate, for guiding her in her darkest hour not into ruin but toward light. And to herself — for not giving up. For choosing life. For believing that happiness was possible. Even for those once unwanted.