Sofiya sat on the cool edge of the bathtub, unable to move, unable to tear her eyes away from the small plastic window where two clear, distinct lines had appeared. Her heart was pounding somewhere in her throat, drumming in her ears, every beat shouting the same thing—she was expecting a child. At twenty-three, with no promises and no rings, no place of her own, and a job that barely let her make ends meet, she was pregnant. But in the chaos of her thoughts there was one clear, solid point—Artyom. Their story had been going on for more than a year; they had shared dreams, built castles in the air, and she was absolutely certain of his feelings, his support, of the fact that they were a team.
She dialed his number; her fingers were trembling, and a blurry film swam before her eyes.
“Artyom, we need to meet. It’s very important,” her voice sounded alien, a strangled whisper.
“Sunshine, what happened? Are you okay?” His voice was so familiar, so carefree, and that only made the lump in her throat grow.
“Let’s meet. Please. I can’t talk about this over the phone.”
They agreed to meet at their usual café, the one that smelled of fresh pastries and ground coffee, where they had laughed so many times about nothing. Sofiya arrived first, chose a table in the corner, and aimlessly worried a paper napkin, tearing it into tiny shreds. He was twenty minutes late, but she was ready to forgive him anything in the world, if only she could find that support in his eyes.
He was smiling as he approached the table, but the smile vanished at once when he saw her expression. He didn’t wait for them to bring his usual Americano.
“Did something happen?”
She took a deep breath, trying to find the right words, but found only the simplest, most direct ones.
“I’m pregnant.”
The world stopped. The café’s clatter, the ring of dishes, the voices—all disappeared. She watched his face turn into an impenetrable mask. Not only the smile vanished—all the warmth, all the liveliness she loved so much.
“Are you sure?” he asked after a long, heavy pause.
“Yes. I took more than one test.”
“And what are your thoughts? What are you planning to do?”
“What do you mean, what?—” she felt her knees go weak. “I thought we… we would decide together what to do. It’s our child.”
He leaned across the table, his voice quiet but no less firm for it.
“Listen, this is absolutely not the right time for a step like this. My prospects at work are only just beginning to take shape, you understand… You’re young, you’ve got everything ahead of you.”
She felt a chill run down her spine. The air around her turned thick and heavy; it became hard to breathe.
“I can help financially,” he went on, still looking at her with cold, unfamiliar eyes. “I know a place, a good clinic, they do everything neatly, no consequences…”
“You’re suggesting I get rid of the baby?” her own voice came out hoarse and unrecognizable.
“Be reasonable, Sofiya. Think rationally. What are you thinking? Where will you live? How will you raise it? On your salary alone?”
She looked at him and didn’t recognize the man sitting across from her. Where had the man gone who kissed the crown of her head when she was sad, who said that together they could overcome any trouble? Sitting before her was a calculating, cold stranger who thought only of himself.
Something hardened inside her; some string tightened to the limit and rang with steely certainty.
“I’m keeping this baby. That’s my decision.”
“Then that’s your personal choice,” he cut her off, and nothing remained in his tone but icy indifference. “And your personal responsibility.” He took a leather wallet from his pocket, pulled out several bills, and laid them on the table. “Here, take it. For the first little while.”
A hot wave of shame and anger washed over her. She stood up sharply, knocking her full cup with her elbow. The cold coffee spilled across the table and dripped onto the floor.
“I don’t want your money,” she whispered, and turning on her heel, almost ran for the exit without looking back.
She walked aimlessly through the streets, tears streaming down her face; she didn’t even try to wipe them away. People passed by; someone cast curious glances at her, but she didn’t care. Her world, so reliable just an hour ago, had collapsed, leaving her alone among its ruins. And a week later her small, fragile world crumbled completely. The landlady of her rented room, having accidentally learned of her condition, politely but firmly asked her to vacate—“babies cry at night, the neighbors will complain, I don’t need that kind of trouble.” The girlfriends to whom she tried to open her heart either silently looked away or launched into lectures about “the only correct solution” in her situation. It seemed the whole world had turned against her and the tiny being she now carried under her heart.
Despair is a heavy, gray stone around the neck. Sofiya wandered along unfamiliar streets with a small backpack that held all her belongings. Her phone had long since died, and in her wallet there were only a few pathetic scraps of money, not enough even for a night in the cheapest hostel. She didn’t dare go to her mother in her hometown—her mother, with her old-fashioned, strict principles, would surely see in this nothing but “disgrace” for the family.
Her feet carried her themselves to the place where her student years had once passed. She stood before the familiar university building, watching the bustling students, and felt a hundred years older than they were. Suddenly, through the general hum, she heard a loud, cheerful, painfully familiar voice.
“Sonia? Is that you? My God, it’s been ages! What are you doing here?”
She turned and saw Yana—her former classmate, with whom they had once crammed for exams for days, shared secrets, and dreamed about the future. Yana had hardly changed: the same fiery red mane of hair, a spray of freckles on her nose, and an open, radiant smile.
“Hi,” Sofiya tried to smile back, but her lips treacherously trembled and her eyes filled with tears.
“What’s wrong?” Yana’s smile vanished in an instant, giving way to alarm. She took in the tear-stained face of her friend, the old backpack, and understood—something serious. “Right, that’s it, we’re going to have tea. Or cocoa. With lots of marshmallows. No arguments!”
They went into a small café nearby, and at a table by the window, Sofiya, not expecting such openness from herself, poured out her entire story. She spoke quietly, haltingly, sometimes pausing to swallow the lump in her throat. Yana listened without interrupting, only furrowing her brow and shaking her head; her face reflected a full range of emotions—from surprise to indignation.
When the story ended, Yana slapped her palm decisively on the table.
“Here’s what. From this moment on, you do as I say. We’re going to my place right now. I’m the dorm manager, can you imagine? I’ve got a small free room there, not big, but your own. You’ll move in.”
“Yanochka, I can’t burden you like that…” Sofiya began.
“You can!” her friend cut her off. “And you will! It’s temporary, just until we find you a decent job and a proper place to live. And don’t you dare argue with me—I’m in charge here, I’ve got a badge!”
That evening, settled on a narrow but clean cot in a tiny dorm room, Sofiya felt for the first time in weeks a small but vital spark of hope kindle inside her. Yana, just as in their student days, proved to be a whirlwind of activity and optimism. She brought an extra warm blanket, brewed calming herbal tea, and immediately set about making plans.
“Tomorrow first thing we’re on the computer and monitoring all the job postings in the city,” she said, scrolling through classified sites on her phone. “You need something calm, without extra stress. And ideally with housing included. My dorm is a palace, of course, but it isn’t made of rubber.”
“Thank you,” Sofiya whispered, feeling tears of gratitude well up again. “I don’t know what I’d do without you…”
“And you won’t find out!” Yana said sternly, though her eyes were warm. “We’ll make it, you’ll see. The main thing is not to give up.”
They found the ad on the third day of their active search. “Caretaker needed. Lodging, meals, decent pay.” Yana, acting like a bodyguard, insisted on accompanying her to the address given.
The mansion in the old, quiet part of the city struck them with its size and stern, aristocratic beauty. At the wrought-iron gate they were met by a woman of years, with a serious face and gray hair pulled into a tight bun.
“I’m Vera Pavlovna, the housekeeper,” she introduced herself, giving the girls an appraising, penetrating look. “Come in, you’re expected.”
Inside, the house was just as grand: high ceilings, dark parquet gleaming with polish, old paintings in heavy frames on the walls. Vera Pavlovna led them into a spacious, sun-filled study lined with bookcases. By the large window sat a man in a wheelchair. He looked to be about forty-five, with an intelligent, weary face and incredibly lively, attentive eyes.
“Mikhail Yuryevich, the candidates are here,” the housekeeper announced.
The master of the house slowly shifted his gaze from one girl to the other. His look was calm and studious.
“Which of you responded to my ad?” he asked. His voice was low, velvety, pleasant in timbre.
“I did,” Sofiya took a small step forward. “Sofiya Voronova.”
“Do you have experience with this sort of work?”
“Not directly,” she admitted honestly. “But I’m very responsible and I learn quickly.”
“Honest,” he smiled barely at the corners of his mouth. “And what prompted you to choose this job?”
Sofiya hesitated, but decided that the best policy was the truth.
“I’m expecting a child. I very much need a place where I can live and work at the same time.”
A tense silence hung in the study. Vera Pavlovna exhaled soundlessly, her whole bearing expressing doubt. But to their surprise, Mikhail Yuryevich nodded.
“When can you start?”
“Right now,” Sofiya breathed, scarcely believing her luck.
“Excellent. Vera Pavlovna will acquaint you with your duties and show you your room.”
The room assigned to Sofiya turned out to be bright and cozy, with a high ceiling and its own small bathroom. The housekeeper, crisply and to the point, explained what the job entailed: help with morning and evening hygiene, serving meals, accompanying him on walks in the garden, reading aloud in the evenings.
“Mikhail Yuryevich is a man with a temperament,” Vera Pavlovna warned as they finished. “He can be brusque. But he’s fair. After the accident five years ago, he’s been confined to that chair.”
When Yana hugged her goodbye and left, Sofiya arranged her few belongings on the shelves and sat on the edge of the bed. Everything that was happening felt like an unreal, fairy-tale dream. The huge, silent house, the stern housekeeper, the unfamiliar man in the wheelchair… and a new life. She placed her palm on her still almost flat belly.
“Everything will be all right, baby,” she whispered. “We have a roof over our heads now and work. That’s already a huge step. We’ll manage.”
The first days were a trial by fire. She learned how to help Mikhail Yuryevich safely move from bed to chair, mastered the difficult art of caregiving, memorized his daily schedule and his food preferences. Vera Pavlovna watched her every step with the eyes of a hawk, but gradually, seeing the girl’s diligence and genuine desire to help, her icy aloofness began to thaw.
Mikhail Yuryevich turned out to be well read and brilliantly educated. The evening hours Sofiya spent reading to him aloud often turned into long, captivating conversations about art, history, and literature. He told her about his travels, about the galleries of Europe he had managed to visit before the tragedy, and shared his thoughts on the books he had read.
“You’re very erudite,” Sofiya once remarked, closing another volume.
“Before the accident I taught at the university,” he replied, looking out the window at the darkening garden. “Art history. Now my lecture halls are these four walls.”
“But you could write articles, give online lectures…” she ventured.
“In theory, yes,” he smiled bitterly. “But who needs a professor who can’t even make it to the lectern on his own?”
In moments like that, Sofiya clearly saw the deep pain, the bitterness hidden behind the mask of outward calm. She tried to distract him, told amusing stories from her life, shared her still so fragile hopes for the future.
Her pregnancy was becoming more and more visible. One day, while adjusting the pillow behind his back, she caught his thoughtful gaze on her.
“And the father… does he know where you are now?” he asked carefully.
“No,” Sofiya answered softly. “And I don’t think he really cares.”
“I’m sorry, that was tactless of me.”
“It’s all right. I’ve made my peace with it.”
After that conversation something imperceptibly changed between them. Mikhail Yuryevich became more caring, often asked how she felt, insisted that a doctor come regularly to check on her. The invisible wall separating employer and hired worker slowly began to crumble.
One evening, while she was giving a gentle massage to his numb legs, he said quietly,
“You know, Sofiya, since you came into this house, it’s as if life itself moved in. Even Vera Pavlovna seems to have forgotten how to frown.”
“Really?” she laughed. “I thought she still looked at me as if I were a necessary evil.”
“She sizes everyone up like that. It’s just her nature.”
On those quiet, peaceful evenings, Sofiya caught herself feeling almost happy. The all-consuming fear of the future retreated, replaced by a quiet, steady hope. She knew—she would manage. She could raise her baby and give the child everything necessary. And most importantly—she was no longer alone in her struggle.
One Sunday morning, as Sofiya was carrying a breakfast tray to the study, a loud, self-assured, painfully familiar male voice drifted in from the hall. Her heart stopped for a moment, then began beating furiously. She recognized that voice.
“Uncle Misha! Hey, how are you?” came closer and closer.
She froze on the study’s threshold with the tray in her hands, unable to move. The next second Artyom strode into the room. He broke off mid-word when he saw her. His smile vanished in an instant; his face turned to stone.
“You?.. What are you doing here?” His voice was sharp and rough.
“Artyom, do you know each other?” Mikhail Yuryevich asked calmly, as if nothing were amiss.
“Know each other?” Artyom gave a hysterical snort. “You could say that. More than know.”
Sofiya felt her legs giving way. Her former beloved, the father of her unborn child, turned out to be Mikhail Yuryevich’s own nephew. What a vicious, unfair irony of fate.
“Uncle, you have no idea who you’ve taken into your house,” Artyom began, with a poisonous smirk. “This person—”
“I’m aware,” Mikhail Yuryevich interrupted coldly. “I know about the pregnancy and about how the child’s father declined his share of responsibility.”
“She must have told you anything she pleased!” Artyom flared. “And did she also tell you that she set this all up herself to force me to marry her?”
A nauseating weakness spread through Sofiya’s body. She couldn’t endure another second of this humiliation. She set the tray on the nearest table and, without a word, ran from the study. Behind her, Mikhail Yuryevich’s thunderous, no-nonsense voice rang out:
“Konstantin, be quiet this instant!”
In her room, with shaking hands, she began yanking her clothes from hangers and stuffing them into her suitcase. She had to leave. Immediately. She couldn’t stay here, where he could appear at any moment.
There was a knock at the door. On the threshold stood Vera Pavlovna.
“Sofiya, Mikhail Yuryevich asks that you come back.”
“I can’t,” the girl whispered. “I have to go. Right now.”
“That is pure, unadulterated foolishness,” the housekeeper snapped, and for the first time her voice carried not formal authority but something almost maternal. “Come along. This minute.”
When they returned to the study, Artyom was already by the door, his face ablaze with anger and resentment.
“We’ll talk about this later, Uncle,” he threw over his shoulder.
“I don’t think so,” Mikhail Yuryevich replied in an icy tone. “And until you learn to behave like an adult, responsible man—and not like a spoiled adolescent—your presence in my house is not welcome.”
When the door closed behind his nephew, a tomb-like silence fell over the study.
“Forgive me, Mikhail Yuryevich,” Sofiya said quietly, unable to lift her eyes to him. “I didn’t know… I had no idea he was your relative.”
“I’m the one who should ask your forgiveness,” he answered with a bitter smile. “I’m ashamed of my own flesh and blood.”
“But I still can’t stay… He will come back…”
“No, he won’t,” his voice grew firm and resolute. “My nephew visits me at most once every few months, and his visits, as a rule, coincide with the moment he runs out of money. That ends now.”
That evening Sofiya lay awake for a long time. The day’s events whirled through her mind in a vivid, painful kaleidoscope. But through all the pain and humiliation, another, new feeling broke through—a deep, boundless gratitude to this extraordinary man who, without hesitation, had stood up for her, preferring her, a stranger, to his own kin.
That night, Mikhail Yuryevich couldn’t sleep either. He sat by the window in his chair, gazing at the star-sown sky and pondering the whimsical turns of fate. In the few months that Sofiya had lived in his house, his life had changed beyond recognition. The house that had been his prison filled with light, warmth, and life. And all because of this girl who looked fragile but was incredibly strong in spirit.
He remembered the first time he saw her—confused, yet determined to fight for her future and her child’s. How, little by little, day after day, her presence dissolved the gloom of his loneliness. Her quiet smile, her sincere care, her ability to find joy in small things… When she was near, he almost forgot about his cursed chair.
In the morning, when Sofiya brought him breakfast as usual, he was calm and resolute.
“Sofiya, please sit,” he asked. “I need to discuss something very important with you.”
“Is something wrong?” she asked warily, sitting down on the edge of a chair.
“On the contrary. Everything is more right than ever,” he paused, collecting his thoughts. “These past months made me realize something important. You brought back my desire to live, Sofiya. And so I want to make you a proposal.”
She stared at him wide-eyed, not understanding.
“I’m asking you to marry me.”
A complete, deafening silence fell over the room. Sofiya couldn’t say a word.
“I understand how this must sound to you,” he continued gently. “But hear me out. Your child needs a father, even if he isn’t the biological one. The baby needs a name, protection, a reliable home. You need peace and confidence in tomorrow. And I…” He smiled, and a warm light flared in his eyes, “I need you. Both of you. I’m not asking anything of you except your agreement to stay here, in this house, as my lawful wife. I don’t expect love if your heart isn’t ready to give it. But I can offer you my friendship, my deepest respect, and all the tenderness my soul is capable of.”
She was silent, and quiet tears rolled down her pale cheeks.
“I don’t want you to feel obligated or cornered,” he added. “If you refuse, nothing will change. You’ll stay here, you’ll work, you’ll raise your baby. My attitude toward you won’t change an iota.”
“That’s not it…” she finally whispered, wiping her tears. “You… you are the most amazing, kindest person I’ve ever met. And I’m afraid I won’t be the wife you deserve.”
“Allow me to be the judge of what I deserve,” his smile grew even warmer. “So what do you say?”
Sofiya rose slowly, walked over to his chair, and, bending gently, kissed him on the cheek.
“Yes. I agree.”
Little Arisha was born on a wonderful spring morning, when the apple trees in the garden outside were in riotous white bloom. Waiting for his wife and daughter to return from the maternity hospital, Mikhail Yuryevich couldn’t find a place for himself—which, for him, was a real feat. He ordered an entire conservatory of flowers and personally, though with crutches, directed Vera Pavlovna as they decorated the whole house with them.
“Papa, look how beautiful she is!” Sofiya said happily when they first entered the house with the tiny bundle in her arms.
His heart clenched with a piercing, sweet ache when he heard that word “Papa.” He carefully, like the greatest of treasures, took the baby in his arms, and she, as if sensing a kindred soul, immediately calmed and fell into a peaceful sleep.
Time flowed relentlessly—and happily. And something incredible happened: with Arisha’s appearance in Mikhail Yuryevich’s life, his health began to improve noticeably. Those exhausting physiotherapy sessions he used to do under duress now had meaning. He began to make visible progress, started moving about the house with crutches, albeit only short distances.
Their daughter grew by leaps and bounds, turning into a curious, cheerful, and very smart little girl. She loved to sit on her father’s lap and listen to his stories about great artists, studying reproductions in huge, heavy albums. And Sofiya, watching them, often thought how strangely and wisely life can turn out. What had once seemed a terrible end was, in fact, only the beginning of the path to her true, deep, quiet happiness.
One evening they were sitting in the garden gazebo, watching Arisha play in the sandbox. Mikhail took his wife’s hand in his.
“You know, I have a confession to make,” he said quietly.
“What kind?” Sofiya smiled.
“I fell in love with you. On the very first day you walked into my study with that determined look. I was just afraid to admit it even to myself.”
“And I fell in love with you gradually,” she answered just as softly. “For the fact that you saw in me not an unfortunate pregnant girl, but a person. An individual. And you let me believe in myself again.”
Now, three years later, they were preparing for the birth of their second child. The ultrasound showed it would be a boy. Arisha had already decided he would be named Mishenka, after Papa.
“Now we’ll have a real big family,” she declared importantly, gently stroking Mom’s big belly.
And as he looked at his wife, at his daughter, at her face lit with a radiant smile, Mikhail understood—the greatest happiness in life is not to avoid falling, but to find the strength to rise and, looking around, see the outstretched hand of the one who will be your support, your home, and your true fate. And that the most important treasure is not the walls of a house, but the quiet harbor of mutual care and the unspoken understanding that is born in the heart when two lonely ships find each other in the stormy ocean of life.