— He’s just a horrible person, Mom. He hates us!”
“— Hush, daughter. He might hear…”
Anna was seven when Viktor appeared in their lives like a thick shadow that blotted out all light. At first, that shadow seemed cozy—like shelter from the heat. He was a tall man with eyes the color of cold steel and hands that reminded her of metal hoops ready to tighten at any second. Her mother came alive beside him, like a flower after a long winter. She kept repeating again and again: Now everything will be fine.
The first few months now seemed bright but false, like a dream at the edge of reality. Gifts rained down like falling stars. Ice cream every Sunday turned childhood fears into sweet moments. Her mother’s tears disappeared, and along with them, the nightly whispers into her pillow.
But the wedding shattered that illusion like a storm stripping leaves too thickly grown. Gradually, day by day, life began to change. Each of his remarks was like a drop of acid, slowly corroding their world.
“— You hold your fork as if you have no idea what it’s for,” Viktor would sneer during dinner, watching Anna struggle with the wriggling noodles on her plate. “In decent families, children learn at least the basics of manners.”
Anna’s mother went pale, like a faded portrait, but she remained silent, swallowing his words along with her food.
He wove a web of criticisms, nitpicking, and mocking smiles around them. An F in math became a catastrophe. Pencils left scattered turned into a sign of the world’s end. The child’s laughter, once a joy to everyone, now provoked only annoyance.
“— Anechka, you still behave like a little girl,” he said when she turned ten. His smile was crooked, like a poorly stitched mask. “Other girls already understand the rules of the game.”
His words were precise as surgical instruments—they cut deep, leaving invisible wounds.
By the time she was twelve, Anna had become a ghost in her own home. She learned to move soundlessly, like a shadow, to disappear the moment he appeared. But even the strongest defenses have weak points. One day, a cup slipped from her hands, and time froze along with her heart.
“— You did that on purpose,” Viktor said calmly, examining the shards on the floor as if they were stars in a dark galaxy. “You want to test my reaction, don’t you?”
“— No, it was just… an accident,” she whispered.
“— Do you know what I do with things that upset me?” he took a step closer, and the air between them became dense, like water. “I get rid of them. For good.”
He never hit her. That would have been too obvious, too primitive. His methods were far more refined. The closet became a cell for two days. Darkness was her only companion. Hunger, her constant companion.
“— It’s just a way of teaching her proper behavior,” he explained to her mother, whose discontent faded before it could spark. “A child needs boundaries.”
And again, her mother remained silent.
By thirteen, Anna understood the bitter truth: her mother, once her protector, had turned into a frightened bird with clipped wings.
“— Why do you let him treat us like this?” she asked one day, when they managed to be alone.
“— He… he’s not that terrible, just a complicated man,” her mother’s voice trembled, her gaze darting around the room like a terrified animal. “Besides, he provides everything we need: a roof over our heads, food, clothing.”
A roof that weighs on us like a stone slab, Anna thought, but said nothing, locking the thought in a distant corner of her soul where she kept all her secrets.
At night, she lay awake, listening to how Viktor methodically burned away her mother’s dignity with his cold, measured voice. His words were as precise as arrows, striking the heart.
“— You’ve always been ungrateful, Yelena. I saved you when you were on life’s sidelines with a child. And now you can’t even meet the simplest demands.”
Her mother wept quietly, like an old violin with worn strings. Anna recognized that sound—she herself had learned to cry in such a way that no one would hear.
At fifteen, life gave her a small ray of light—art school. Brushes became an extension of her hands; paint, a language she could not use at home. The teacher said she had a gift for seeing the world more deeply and expressing it through color and shape.
But Viktor merely gave her sketchbook a cursory glance, wrinkled his nose as if smelling something unpleasant:
“— Why waste time on these scribbles? You could find something more useful to do.”
He tore up her drawings, and the sound of paper ripping felt like breaking bones.
“— Think of it as doing you a favor,” he said, looking straight into her eyes. “The world is cruel to those who live in illusions. Better to learn that now than later.”
That night, the first seeds of vengeance began to sprout within her—not childish fantasies of petty payback, but something deeper, dark, and dangerous, like a bottomless well.
When Anna turned seventeen, they moved to a new neighborhood. The apartment was larger than the old one, with a stuccoed ceiling and old parquet floors that creaked underfoot.
“— Where did you get this kind of money?” she asked one day, when his mood seemed relatively calm.
“— I’ve always had the means,” he shrugged, as if swatting away an annoying fly. “Some people don’t deserve comfort until they learn to appreciate it.”
His gaze pierced her. She understood: for many years he had kept them in psychological and financial bondage just to watch them struggle, as if they were helpless insects in some twisted game.
Anna began preparing to run away. A university in another city seemed her only chance at freedom. She counted the days until she could leave, like a prisoner marking lines on a wall.
But fate decided to test her resilience. Her mother fell ill suddenly. The illness spread quickly; the doctors spoke carefully, but the meaning was clear—there wasn’t much time. Yet her mother showed incredible strength of spirit and beat the disease.
“— I always knew your mother was strong,” Viktor told Anna, “Not like you.”
By the time she turned twenty, she no longer knew how to cry—not alone, not at night into her pillow. Her tears had dried up, like a spring that had run out of water.
Later, her mother asked Anna to sort through old belongings. Inside a small jewelry box, amid tarnished trinkets and a single gold chain, she found a sealed envelope. Out fell old photographs, like ghosts from the past, ready to share their stories. On one of them, a young woman looked into the camera, her expression caught somewhere between hope and despair. On the back, faint letters spelled out a name: Larisa, 1999.
It was then that Anna realized there was another story behind their suffering. And a new purpose for her vengeance.
It was an ordinary Thursday when the truth about Viktor revealed itself to her. About the woman whose name was never spoken under their roof. About a secret buried under layers of silence.
Anna learned about it accidentally. Her mother’s eyes glistened as she spoke of Viktor’s first wife—a woman who simply… vanished. She herself knew little, but the core was enough.
One evening, Anna flipped through Viktor’s old photo albums. The blank pages looked like wounds—photographs had been cut out neatly, almost surgically. But one was still stuck between the pages. The faded snapshot showed a young woman with a sad smile. On the back, in faded ink: Larisa, 1999.
Larisa’s apartment smelled of old books and cats. A gray-haired woman studied Anna’s face for a long time before letting her in.
“— You look like her,” she finally said. “That same look. Stubborn.”
Boxes of Larisa’s things were stored on the top shelves. Among them was a battered diary bound in leather.
“— She wrote in it every day,” the woman ran her hand over the cover. “Right up to the end.”
Anna read the entries late into the night. Each page was soaked in fear. March 4th. He looked at me again as if I were nothing. Said I was worthless. Maybe he’s right? April 12th. I think I’m going crazy. He’s everywhere. Even when he’s not around, I feel his gaze.
The last entry was written on the day of her death: Forgive me, sister. I can’t do it anymore.
The plan did not come to her immediately. She began small—an old tube of Larisa’s lipstick found in one of the boxes appeared on Viktor’s desk. Then a photo on his pillow. A note written in Larisa’s handwriting: I remember everything.
Each time he discovered these “gifts,” Viktor turned pale. He started locking doors. Checking every corner of the rooms. He jumped at every rustle.
But the real terror began when, in the middle of the night, his phone came to life. The voice he hadn’t heard in fifteen years whispered, “You didn’t come to my funeral, darling. But I’ll be waiting for you.”
He threw the phone against the wall, but the echo of the words remained.
Viktor began hearing footsteps behind his bedroom wall at precisely three in the morning. Every night. Always at the same time. Quiet, cautious—as though someone was walking on tiptoe, trying not to wake the dead.
He lay awake, listening to the darkness. The footsteps grew louder, came closer. And then the whispering started.
“— Viiiktooorr…” The voice from a speaker Anna had hidden behind a painting was barely audible. “You remember how you loved to kill my flowers? You said they smelled like a cemetery…”
The voice-altering program worked perfectly, reproducing Larisa’s intonations.
His hands trembled as he turned on the light. He scoured the room, yanking paintings off the walls. But the voice always returned. He and her mother had long slept in separate rooms, so it didn’t disturb her.
“— Have you noticed something’s off about your father?” her mother asked over breakfast, once Viktor had left for work.
“— Maybe his conscience woke up,” Anna spread butter on her toast, trying to hide a smile.
“— He seems so nervous lately. Last night he wandered around the house muttering to himself.”
“— Must be work,” Anna shrugged. “You know how he is.”
But did she really know him? Anna often pondered this as she read Larisa’s diary. The pages told the story of a man who fed on others’ pain, methodically destroying a person’s soul day after day.
June 27th. He told me today that I should be grateful for every breath. That without him I’m nothing. And you know what? For a moment, I almost believed him.
One day, the footprints on the bathroom tile appeared by accident—Anna had simply forgotten to wipe the floor after her shower. Viktor’s reaction surpassed all expectations. He froze in the doorway, staring at the wet prints as if they were portents of horror. His face turned ashen.
With each passing day, reality slipped further from Viktor’s grasp. It began with small details: flinching at the clock’s ticking, long stares into empty corners of the room. Then he froze in the bathroom doorway, looking at the footprints on the floor. His face contorted with terror, and his hand clutched the door frame so tightly his knuckles went white.
Anna’s mother approached him carefully, peering into his face with concern.
“— What’s wrong?” she whispered, as if afraid to shatter his fragile composure.
Viktor turned sharply, his eyes wide, pupils nearly obscuring the irises.
“— You… you really don’t see it?” His voice cracked like a withered branch under a sharp gust of wind. “She’s here… she walked by…”
“— What am I supposed to see?” her mother asked in bewilderment.
“— The footprints… They lead…” he trailed off as he noticed her puzzled expression.
That night, Anna began her real game. Each hour brought new sounds: creaking floorboards, rustling behind the wardrobe, barely audible laughter in the dark.
Then came the objects: Larisa’s old hairpin on his pillow. Her favorite chipped teacup—on the kitchen table. The scattered pearls of her necklace—all over the bedroom floor. All of it taken from Larisa’s apartment, where the elderly woman had allowed Anna to take whatever she needed. Larisa’s diary was their guide.
“— You understand she’s here, right?” Anna’s altered voice whispered when Viktor took a phone call.
“— Who… who is this?” he stammered.
“— She was always here. Waiting. Watching.”
“— Is this some kind of joke?” he raised his voice. “I’ll call the police!”
“— Viktor, darling…” the familiar laughter crackled through the line, “Have you forgotten? You taught me patience.”
He slammed his fist against the wall, sending flakes of plaster fluttering down to reveal old wallpaper.
Mirrors became his eternal enemies. He covered them with sheets, then boarded them up. But reflections found him everywhere: in window glass, the shiny surfaces of kitchen appliances, even the dark screen of the TV when it was off.
She was always behind him—pale, smiling, bruises on her neck just like the day she died.
“— I saw her,” he admitted hoarsely to a priest. “She comes every night.”
“— Whom did you see, my son?”
“— Larisa. My… first wife.”
“— But she…”
“— Died?” he laughed hysterically. “Yes. But that hasn’t stopped her.”
Anna hid behind a column, listening to his confession. Every word was proof that her plan had worked even better than she hoped. Her fingers found her phone in her pocket. She took a deep breath and dialed a number she’d been holding onto for weeks.
“— Dr. Sokolov’s psychiatric clinic. How can I help you?” The operator’s voice sounded routine, as though fielding pizza orders rather than broken lives.
“— I believe my stepfather needs help,” Anna said firmly, feeling the tremor leave her hands.
The final straw was the ring—a simple gold band engraved on the inside with: Forever Yours, L. Viktor found it in the morning—on his own chest, right above his heart.
He didn’t scream or call for help. He simply sat on the edge of the bed, gripping the ring so tightly his knuckles turned white. His body trembled; his shoulders hunched under an invisible burden. His gaze fixed on a corner of the room, eyes reflecting both terror and acceptance.
“— I know you’re here,” he rasped. “I can feel you. You’ve come for me, haven’t you?”
His expression became the same one he once wore looking at Larisa. The circle had closed.
Anna stood in the doorway, watching the man who had destroyed two lives. She took out Larisa’s diary and opened it to the last page.
“— You know what she wrote at the end?” she asked, using her normal voice. “I still love you. Even now. After everything.”
Viktor lifted his glazed eyes to her.
“— You… it was you?”
“— No,” Anna smiled. “It was her. It was always her.”
That night, his screams woke the entire building. He ran outside barefoot, in his pajamas, howling about a woman in white who was chasing him, about the rope around her neck, about forgiveness he did not deserve.
Neighbors called an ambulance. Viktor was taken away.
The psychiatric hospital smelled of bleach and despair.
“— Are you Viktor Nikolaevich’s relative?” a nurse snapped her head out from behind the reception desk.
“— Yes, that’s me,” Anna stood up.
“— Follow me, dear. The doctor is waiting,” the nurse nodded toward the corridor.
The chief doctor’s office looked oddly cozy for such a place—soft armchairs, warm-colored walls, even live flowers on the table creating a strange contrast to the hospital’s general atmosphere.
“— Hello,” Dr. Savelyev gestured sharply toward a chair. “Your father’s condition… well, let’s say it’s unusual.”
“— What do you mean?” Anna leaned forward, watching him intently.
“— He keeps talking about his deceased wife. Claims she’s haunting him. That she…” the doctor glanced at his notes, “came back to collect what’s hers.”
Anna was silent, studying her hands. On her ring finger gleamed Larisa’s ring, which she had found among the old possessions.
“— But most interesting,” the doctor went on, “is how he responds to the inkblot tests…”
Three days earlier, in the psychotherapy room:
“— What do you see here, Viktor Nikolaevich?” the psychologist showed him cards with blurred shapes.
“— She… she’s everywhere,” Viktor cowered in his chair. “In every blot. Every shadow.”
“— Who is she?”
“— Larisa!” he leapt up, knocking the chair over. “Don’t you see? She’s right behind you!”
Orderlies rushed in as he tried to flee the room. A sedative took effect almost immediately.
“— We’ve prescribed a complex medication regimen,” Savelyev handed Anna a prescription. “But it’s going to be a long process. A very long one.”
She nodded, folded the paper carefully, and tucked it into her bag next to Larisa’s diary.
“— Can I see him?”
His room was on the third floor. A small, barred window faced the inner courtyard, where the last autumn leaves rustled in the wind.
Viktor sat on the bed, staring at a single spot on the wall. His face was gaunt, stubble had turned into an unkempt beard, dark circles lay under his eyes.
“— Dad?” Anna said the word for the first time in many years.
He turned slowly, as though it took all his strength. His eyes showed no recognition.
“— You came,” he whispered. “I always knew you would come.”
“— It’s me. Anna.”
“— No,” he shook his head. “You’re her. I can see it… I see how the rope is tightening around your neck.”
Anna froze, feeling time stand still. Her plan had been meticulously thought out, every detail carefully calculated. But now, hearing those words, she realized something had gone wrong. The rope around her neck. She had never once hinted at that in her “performances.” Nothing in Larisa’s diary had mentioned the method of her death. The last entry ended abruptly, and the remaining pages were blank.
Her throat went dry. She subconsciously stepped back, a coldness creeping through her body. All this time, she’d believed she was merely toying with his sanity, but now, here sat a man who had revealed himself with just a few words—words only he could have known.
Anna felt nauseous. For fifteen years, she had lived side by side with a man capable of murder. She ate meals with him, listened to his moral lectures. All the while, he guarded his terrible secret, hidden away until it began devouring him from the inside. She had always believed his first wife had simply left, unable to stand life with him, but the truth was far worse.
In the corridor, a young nurse stopped her.
“— Wait!” She handed Anna a folded sheet of paper. “He writes this every day. Maybe it’ll help you understand…”
Anna unfolded it. The handwriting was shaky, the letters dancing on the page:
Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me. I never meant it. She was so alive, so bright. I only wanted one thing—that she belong to me and me alone. The rope was silk, just like her hair. Forgive me. Forgive…
Back home, Anna took out Larisa’s diary. She reread the final entries, and the events from fifteen years ago took on a new significance.
Today he brought a rope. He said it was a gift. It’s really beautiful—white, silk. Like a wedding ribbon.
The last entry ended mid-sentence.
Anna picked up a pen, hesitated, then wrote confidently:
Dear Larisa, he confessed. Fifteen years later, the truth has come out. Now you can rest. You can be at peace.
A month later, Viktor was transferred to a closed ward.
“— His condition keeps worsening,” Dr. Savelyev told her. “He hardly sleeps. He claims she visits him every night. Sits on the edge of his bed. And sings lullabies.”
“— What lullabies?” Anna asked, frowning.
“— Always the same one. About an angel that arrives at night.”
Anna felt a chill inside her. She had never written down or used such a lullaby in her “performances.”
That evening, Anna was sorting through Larisa’s things in the old box. Her fingers touched something hard, wrapped in dull velvet. Her heart froze—she didn’t remember using this object in her revenge. Carefully unwrapping the fabric, she discovered a small music box made of redwood. The lid creaked as she pried it open.
A soft, sorrowful melody filled the room—the lullaby.
On the inside of the lid, in faded ink, was an inscription: To my beloved Larisa. May this melody guard your sleep. Forever yours, Viktor.
The box slipped from her hands, striking the floor.
She visited the hospital for the last time very briefly. Viktor lay there, tied to the bed. His lips moved silently.
“— What’s he saying?” Anna asked the nurse.
“— The same thing, over and over,” the nurse shrugged. “She’s here. She’s forgiven me. Soon we’ll be together.”
Anna stepped closer. Viktor opened his eyes—for the first time in a while, they were lucid and clear.
“— I know it was you,” he whispered. “But now… now she’s really here. And she’s beautiful.”
He died that night in his sleep. His face bore an expression of peace and wonder.
“— Tell me, were you ever afraid you’d become like him?” Mikhail asked softly, stroking her shoulder in the darkness of the bedroom.
“— Every second,” Anna whispered, staring at the ceiling as if it reflected scenes from her past.
Five years had passed since Viktor disappeared from her life. Five years of freedom. The psychiatric clinic where he spent his last months had long faded from her memory, as though erased. No one knew the truth of what drove him mad. No one but Anna.
Larisa’s diary still lay in the back of a dresser drawer, locked away with a tiny key that Anna wore on a chain alongside a cross. Occasionally, she would take it out and reread those final pages—the ones she had written in her own hand, as if checking to see if the words had changed or the traces of her crime had vanished.
Life after Viktor’s death felt strangely empty at first. Anna finished university, found a job at a publishing house, and stayed in the apartment he had left for her mother—the same apartment where she had methodically dismantled his sanity, stone by stone.
She met Mikhail at a poetry reading. Tall, with warm brown eyes and gentle hands, he recited his poems in a voice that made something inside her slowly come to life, like a limb awakening from numbness. He didn’t try to control her, didn’t make caustic remarks, didn’t demand to know her every move. At first, it felt strange—she had grown so accustomed to being constantly on guard.
“— You’re like a hedgehog,” he once remarked, when she pulled away from his embrace again. “Prickly, tense. Has something happened in your life?”
She told him a bit about her childhood—short, cautious fragments. About how her stepfather treated her, how her mother lowered her eyes during his lectures, about the long nights with her head under the pillow to block out their fights. But she remained silent about the rest—the notes she left in Viktor’s office, the whispers behind his bedroom wall, the ring on his chest. Some doors are best left closed.
Her mother, Yelena, seemed reborn after Viktor’s death, as if shedding an invisible burden that had weighed on her for years. A new haircut, bright lipstick, stylish clothes—all the things that once sparked her husband’s ridicule. She signed up for English courses, took up morning swims at the pool. Anna watched these changes with a bittersweet mix of joy and hurt. The question she tried to ignore still haunted her: Why couldn’t you leave sooner? Why let him break both of us?
“— You don’t understand,” her mother replied when Anna finally asked. “When you’re in that kind of situation, any way out seems impossible. It’s like sinking into a bog. At first, you’re only in up to your ankles, and you think you can escape anytime. Then you’re in to your knees, and each step becomes harder. By the time it’s up to your neck, you can’t even remember what it’s like to breathe freely.”
Her mother got a job at a travel agency and began living for herself. Small trips at first, to nearby cities—as if sampling freedom in little sips. Then farther—Turkey, Armenia. When she returned from the latter, she was changed: sun-kissed, wearing a new silver bracelet, and with a brighter light in her eyes.
“— You met someone?” Anna asked, when her mother, phone buzzing for the third time during dinner, again reached for it.
“— Yes,” Yelena blushed like a schoolgirl. “His name is Alexey. He’s Russian but lives in Armenia. He owns a small bakery there.”
Anna felt a pang of anxiety. Another man, another hope, another risk.
“— Mom, are you sure? After everything…”
“— Honey,” Yelena took her hand. “Viktor wasn’t the only man on the planet. You found Mikhail, didn’t you? Is he a monster?”
“— No, but…”
“— And Alexey is completely different. He talks to me as an equal, values my opinion, and laughs at my jokes,” she paused. “Did you know your stepfather never once laughed at my jokes?”
Anna’s first panic attack struck when Mikhail suggested living together. They were dining in a cozy restaurant, soft music playing and candlelight flickering.
“— I was thinking,” he began gently, “maybe we should move in together. My place is bigger, or if you prefer, we can find somewhere new. For both of us.”
Suddenly, the air felt thick as syrup. Her heart hammered in her throat; her hands went clammy with cold sweat. Black dots clouded her vision.
“— Hey, are you okay?” His voice sounded distant.
She didn’t remember how she got outside. The freezing winter air seared her lungs, but gradually the panic subsided.
“— I’m sorry,” she exhaled when Mikhail draped his coat over her shoulders. “I don’t know what happened.”
“— I think you should see someone,” he said softly.
The psychotherapist’s office felt like a safe island amid the storm of her emotions: muted lighting, quiet music, the scent of calming lavender. The woman across from her looked at Anna with neither pity nor judgment, only deep understanding. In her gaze was the experience of someone who had seen many traumas, yet hadn’t lost the capacity for empathy.
Anna told her story in fits and starts, carefully choosing her words and omitting details of her revenge. Sometimes she got confused and started over, or fell silent. The therapist waited patiently, occasionally nodding to show she was listening.
“— You have classic post-traumatic stress disorder,” the therapist said gently when Anna finished. “Your body is reacting to a threat that’s long gone. Living with someone—even someone you love—can trigger those old survival instincts. Your brain is warning you: ‘Danger!’”
“— What can I do?”
“— Work on yourself. Slowly, step by step.”
She learned to trust again. With Mikhail, it was easier—he never rushed, never pressured, never demanded. They started small: he stayed over some nights, then entire weekends. Gradually, his things—an extra toothbrush, a change of clothes, his favorite mug—made their way into her apartment. It filled with signs of his presence: books on the nightstand, sneakers by the door, glasses on the windowsill.
Yet even after he moved in, she kept a sanctuary for herself—a tiny room she called her study. That was where Larisa’s diary lay, where she kept her worries and doubts.
And those doubts persisted. Especially when she noticed traces of Viktor in her own behavior—her need to be in control, frustration over small things, an urge to insist on her own way. It terrified her.
“— I don’t want to be like him,” she confessed to her therapist. “But sometimes I catch myself acting exactly like he did.”
“— The fact that you’re even aware of it makes you different,” the therapist smiled. “You’re not your stepfather if you fear becoming him.”
A month later, they decided to marry.
When Yelena announced she was moving to Yerevan, Anna felt betrayed.
“— Are you abandoning me?” she blurted without thinking.
“— No, my dear,” her mother took her hands. “I’m not abandoning you. I’m just starting a new life. Alexey proposed.”
“— You barely know him!”
“— We’ve been talking for a year, Anya. I’ve visited him three times, he’s come here. We talk for hours on video calls. I know him better than I ever knew your father or…” she paused, “…Viktor.”
Anna stared at her mother as if seeing her for the first time. Gone was the frightened woman who endured years of humiliation in silence. Before her was a confident, beautiful person, her eyes alight with happiness.
“— I’m just worried,” Anna admitted. “What if he’s like… him?”
“— He’s not,” her mother interrupted. “Not all men are monsters, Anya. Most are ordinary, decent people. We’re all imperfect,” she added, tracing the rim of her cup. “We all have cracks, flaws. But we also have something bright within us.”
She paused, as if reflecting on the past. Her face softened; faint wrinkles appeared around her eyes.
“— At first, I jumped at every noise,” she continued quietly. “I was afraid to look men in the eye. After Viktor, I thought anyone could…” Her voice caught. “But then I asked myself: how many more years will I let him take from me? He stole too much already. If I don’t risk trusting again, then he wins. Even from beyond the grave.”
Two pink lines on the test stared back at her like a verdict one morning. Anna sat on the edge of the bathtub, clutching the plastic stick that had just changed her life.
A child. She was going to be a mother.
She remembered a child psychology book Mikhail had brought home a month earlier, after her casual remark, “Good thing I didn’t have kids—Viktor would have tormented them too.”
“You don’t have to repeat someone else’s mistakes,” Mikhail had told her. She’d set the book aside at the time, unwilling to believe. But maybe now was the time to start reading?
“— What are you feeling?” Mikhail asked when she showed him the test.
Anna tried to answer but the words stuck in her throat. What was she feeling? Fear, certainly. Uncertainty as well. But there was something else, too—a fragile, new sensation, a blend of excitement and anxiety.
“— I’m not sure,” she finally managed. “What about you?”
“— I’m happy,” he smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling warmly.
Her mother called when she was four months along.
“— How are you?” Yelena’s voice sounded different; she was on a busy street or market.
“— I’m okay,” Anna hesitated. “Mom… I’m pregnant.”
A pause. Then a deep sigh.
“— That’s wonderful, sweetheart! You and Mikhail must be thrilled.”
“— Of course.”
“— What do the doctors say? Everything alright?”
“— Yes, everything’s normal. The ultrasound looks good, all tests are fine.”
They chatted about safe topics—weather, Yelena’s new job at Alexey’s travel agency, future plans—steering clear of anything deeper.
“— Will you come?” Anna finally asked. “When the baby’s born?”
“— Of course!” Yelena answered too quickly. “I’ll buy a ticket as soon as I hear the news.”
Anna felt a stab of disappointment. She’d hoped her mother would say, “I’ll come earlier to help prepare, to be there with you.” But Yelena was building her own life—far away, with another man, in another country.
By the seventh month, nights became a trial. In her nightmares, the baby turned into a plastic doll with lifeless eyes, or she heard her own voice screaming at the child—her voice shockingly similar to Viktor’s. Sometimes she saw his face instead of her own in the mirror.
“— I’m scared,” she admitted to the therapist, clenching her fingers until they hurt. “What if the rot is already inside me? What if I become… him?”
The woman leaned forward, meeting her gaze.
“— The difference between you is that you’re here,” she said calmly. “You’re the one asking that question. Those who become monsters never ask.”
The labor was difficult. Eighteen hours of pain, fear, and uncertainty. Mikhail stayed by her side—holding her hand, wiping her brow, whispering words of encouragement she barely heard.
Then they placed a tiny, wrinkled bundle on her chest. Her daughter. Tiny fingers, a button nose, dark fuzz on her head.
“— What should we call her?” asked Mikhail, never taking his eyes off the newborn.
Anna had considered naming her after her mother—Yelena. But now, looking at this new, unique little being, she changed her mind.
“— Larisa,” she said softly. “Let’s name her Larisa.”
Mikhail raised an eyebrow, surprised but nodded.
“— It’s beautiful. Was there someone in your family with that name?” he asked.
“— No,” Anna replied, recalling the woman in the photo with sadness in her eyes. “But she should be part of our lives. It’s the right thing to do.”
Motherhood split Anna’s life into “before” and “after.” Loving Larisa felt as natural as breathing—from the very first moment, that wrinkled little face and tiny fingers clutching her finger with surprising strength. But along with love came other challenges: sleepless nights filled with endless feedings and diaper changes; the questions she asked herself at four in the morning while rocking a crying infant; doubts about every action—was she holding the baby correctly, was the bottle heated properly, was the temperature right? Beneath it all lay the constant, deeply buried fear that she’d fail.
“— Every new parent goes through this,” Mikhail reassured her, taking Larisa from her exhausted arms. “We just need time to adjust.”
But for Anna, it was more than typical first-time parent anxiety. She feared there was a monster inside her, the same one that once lived in Viktor. That one day it would awaken, and she’d start yelling at her daughter, belittling her, hurting her.
Yelena arrived when Larisa was two weeks old. Tanned, slim, wearing a light blue dress, she looked younger than her years. Her eyes sparkled with delight, and on her ring finger shone a sapphire engagement ring.
Cradling her granddaughter as if afraid to break something so delicate, she whispered:
“— She’s so beautiful… She looks just like you.”
“— Everyone says that,” Anna smiled. “But I see some of you in her, especially when she smiles.”
“— She’s already smiling?”
“— Only in her sleep for now. But soon she’ll smile at us, too.”
They fell silent, gazing at the sleeping infant. At last, Yelena asked carefully:
“— Why did you choose the name Larisa?”
Anna tensed. Over the years, her mother had never probed into the details of Anna’s confrontation with Viktor. Probably she didn’t want to know.
“— I just like the name,” Anna lied. “It’s beautiful.”
“— Yes,” Yelena agreed after a pause. “Very beautiful.”
“— I raised my voice at her,” Anna confessed to Mikhail one evening after Larisa had finally fallen asleep. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“— You’re just tired,” he said, pulling her into a hug.
“— No!” She pulled away. “You don’t understand. For a second, I felt… hatred. Toward my own child. It was brief, but it was real.”
Mikhail fell silent, searching for a response. She saw worry in his eyes.
“— Maybe you should see the doctor?” he suggested gently. “Postpartum depression is serious.”
“— It’s not depression,” she shook her head. “It’s me. It’s who I really am.”
That night, when the whole house slept, she opened Larisa’s diary. She flipped to the pages she had written herself years ago.
Dear Larisa, he confessed. Fifteen years later, the truth came out. Now you can rest. You can go in peace.
She picked up a pen and added:
I named my daughter after you. I promise to love her with all my heart. I promise never to hurt her. Help me keep that promise.
Something shifted after that night. It was as if an invisible hand lifted the weight of the past from her shoulders. Anna started keeping her own journal—not as a weapon of revenge but as a tool for self-understanding. She recorded her fears, her mistakes, her small victories. Documented each milestone of her daughter’s development: the first real smile, the first tiny wave of her hand, the first little coo.
“— You seem… happier,” Mikhail remarked a week later. “Did something happen?”
“— I decided to stop being afraid,” she replied simply. “Viktor ruled my life for far too long—even after his death. That needs to end.”
And yet sometimes, rocking baby Larisa at bedtime, Anna would whisper stories about the woman for whom she was named—the woman who was broken but whose memory helped Anna to find freedom.
Meanwhile, in the back of the dresser drawer, under lock and key, lay the diary with the name on its cover—Larisa. Viktor’s first wife. The woman whose death began his downfall. And whose name now belonged to Anna’s daughter—a little girl who did not yet know that story and might never need to.
For now, Anna simply savored every moment with Larisa, learning how to be a mother—not a perfect one, but a loving one. She made mistakes and worked to fix them. She apologized when she was wrong—something Viktor never did.
Over time, her stepfather’s ghost faded, slipping back into the shadows, losing its grip on her thoughts. His image appeared less and less in her dreams. New people, new feelings, new memories took his place.