I can’t live like this anymore, Anya,” Sergey threw his keys on the table, and flour scattered like snow across the surface.
I froze, clutching the dough in my hands. The children in the other room fell silent, as if sensing the oncoming storm. I tried to breathe evenly, though my heart was pounding in my throat. I couldn’t show fear. Not yet.
“What happened?” My voice trembled, despite my effort to stay calm.
Sergey stared through me, as if I didn’t exist. I knew that look well by now — cold, detached. In recent months, it had become his default mask. I wasn’t a wife. Not even a person. Just an obstacle.
“That’s it!” he raised his voice. “This job, this house, the debts piling to the ceiling! And you, always messing around with your dough!”
I slowly set the rolling pin down. Wiped my hands on the apron, already stained with jam. It’s funny what you notice in moments like this — each grain of sugar, every swirl on the wallpaper, the tiniest wrinkle on his forehead. Everything suddenly sharp.
Sergey poured himself a glass of water and drank it in one gulp. His fingers, smelling of resin from the sawmill, left prints on the glass. A strange thought flickered: I’d need to wipe it off tomorrow.
He was silent for a long while before saying softly:
“There’s someone else. In the neighboring village. Her name is Marina.”
The air in the room thickened. It became hard to breathe, as if I were suffocating in my own home. My heart sank.
“We’ve been seeing each other for six months,” he continued, staring out the window. “She’s young. No kids. No debts.”
Each word hit like a blow. The picture was clear now: old, with kids, with loans — that’s how he saw me. He didn’t even ask if I still loved him. I wasn’t sure myself — it had been years of habit, not feeling.
“I’m moving in with her. Tomorrow. My things are already packed.”
He nodded toward the hallway, where I now noticed a large sports bag. How had I missed it? Just like I’d missed all the other signs — the late returns, the hidden messages, the indifference toward the kids.
“And the children? The house? The loan is in my name, but we paid together…”
“They’ll be fine. You’ll be fine,” he said, repeating words he’d probably heard before. “You’ve always managed.”
Dasha appeared in the doorway — pale, skinny, wearing an oversized T-shirt. Behind her stood Sasha, eyes wide with a comprehension no child should have.
The conversation was short and cruel. Sergey didn’t try to soften the truth. It landed harsh and ugly, like spring snow underfoot.
Then he left. No hugs, no goodbye. Just the door slamming, gravel crunching beneath his steps. And that was it. Just the four of us, alone in a house now filled with loans, loneliness, and questions without answers.
Timka kept asking if daddy was still mad. The youngest didn’t understand. But Mila, a bit older, grasped it immediately — we’d been abandoned.
That night, I didn’t sleep. I lay there, staring at the ceiling. No pain, no tears. Just one question: How?
How to feed four kids? How to pay the mortgage on a house I signed for before marriage? “It’s more convenient this way,” Sergey had said. Now that “convenience” was a stone around my neck.
Two months passed. Sergey never returned. He called a week later from an unknown number — said he wouldn’t take the rest of his stuff, and he could only afford minimum child support. Pennies.
The neighbors suggested I sell the house, move in with my parents. But how could we all fit in my mother’s tiny one-bedroom? She barely made ends meet on her pension.
Find a new job? Doing what? My accounting courses were fifteen years old. These days, I was better at counting diapers than spreadsheets.
The bank sent the first delinquency notice. At night, I would lie in bed and count. Over and over.
Salary minus medicine. Minus school supplies. Minus utilities.
And ahead — another week, month, year.
Minus food. Minus electricity. Minus school lunches. Minus medicine. Minus mortgage. Always minus. No matter how hard I tried, it was never enough.
In the morning, Dasha whispered that Timka had a fever. The flu, at the worst possible time. We were out of medicine. Only 800 rubles left on the card. Seven days till payday. Felt like a lifetime.
Then Mila’s teacher gently asked: “Anya, are you sure Mila gets breakfast? She’s been dizzy during lessons.”
My heart broke. Turns out, Mila had been silently sharing her sandwich with her brother. And I hadn’t noticed. Mother of the year.
That night, I sat at the table with a calculator. Counted again. The numbers didn’t just fail to add up — they scattered like scared cockroaches. Not a single plus. Only minus, minus, minus…
Sasha brought me his drawing — a house with a green roof.
“This is our new house, when we have money,” he said.
I turned away so he wouldn’t see my tears. A new future. What future?
And then someone knocked on the door. It was Natalia Sergeyevna, the librarian.
“Anya, I need help… The cafeteria worker quit. The district inspection’s coming in a week. Can you help out? Just for a couple of weeks?”
The job was simple — bake rolls, make tea. The pay was low, but at least it was something. I agreed. One way or another — we had to survive.
On the first day, I brought 20 buns. Sold out in an hour.
Second day — 40. Gone in two.
“Anya, what do you put in these?” people asked.
“My soul, a little butter, and a handful of despair,” I thought. Turns out, it’s a good ingredient.
Within a month, I had regular customers. I baked at dawn, took the kids to school, worked in the cafeteria, and got by on three hours of sleep. My neighbor shook her head:
“You’ll burn out.”
But I stared at the bank’s second warning letter and thought: No, I won’t. I’ll hold on. For them.
In November, Timka got sick again. I was sitting by his bed, exhausted, when the phone rang. A man introduced himself as Viktor Andreevich from the district administration. He had tried my buns at the library.
“We’re opening a new MFC building. Need a cafeteria. Bigger space, better equipment. We’d like to offer it to you.”
“But I can’t… I have kids…”
“We’ll help. You can register as a sole proprietor. There’s a small business support program. This is your chance, Anya.”
When I hung up, Dasha was standing in the doorway.
“What happened?” she asked. I told her.
“And you’re going to say no?” she challenged.
“How will I manage? The illnesses, school, the loan…”
“And if you don’t try? Mom… Mila sold her colored pencils to Sveta. Just so I could go on the field trip.”
I froze. I hadn’t known. Didn’t want to know. But they saw everything. How I didn’t sleep. How I fought.
I looked at the calendar. Twelve days until the next mortgage payment.
“If I say yes, will you watch the kids while I’m in town?”
“Of course! Valya will help too. She promised.”
“Then tomorrow I’ll call Viktor Andreevich. We’ll try.”
She hugged me tight:
“We’ll make it, Mom.”
I stroked her hair and whispered to myself: Maybe we really will. There has to be light somewhere.
Three years flew by in a single breath. Today, my café “Anya’s Buns” is a local gem. We expanded the menu, hired help, paid off a third of the mortgage.
Sasha drew a picture of the café with a long line of smiling people. Above it all — an angel. He said it was Grandpa. He didn’t live to see any of this. Maybe he really is watching from above.
We worked nonstop. The kids helped however they could. Dasha kept track of finances better than any accountant. Mila washed dishes after music school. Timka folded napkins with such love it made my heart ache.
One day, a couple came into the café — a woman in an elegant coat and a tall man in his fifties.
“That’s her,” the woman said to her companion. “The Anya I told you about.”
Turns out, Elena owned a chain of family cafés called “Gorodok.” Her companion was an investor.
“We were passing by, and I insisted we stop,” she smiled. “They say your buns are special.”
Mikhail Arkadyevich ordered coffee and one of everything. Elena asked about ingredients. Then she paused and said:
“We want to buy your recipe and the rights to use the name ‘Anya’s Buns.’ We’ll offer a generous sum.”
“But why? You have your own kitchen, your own recipes…”
“Not like yours,” Mikhail said. “We have precision. You have soul.”
The amount they offered could fully repay my loan. And then some. But this café — it was everything I had.
“We’re not asking you to close,” Elena added. “On the contrary. We want to open a branch in the regional center. As a franchise. With you at the helm.”
“In the city? But what about the kids…”
“Move with us,” said Mikhail. “We’ll help with housing. Get the kids into a good school.”
“Do you have children?” Elena asked gently.
“Four,” I said with a smile. “The eldest is fifteen, the youngest is eight.”
They exchanged a look.
“Perfect,” she nodded. “A family café run by a real family. That’s exactly our brand.”
At home, I gathered the kids and held a family meeting. Dasha lit up — the city, the opportunities, the fresh start. Mila worried about her music school. Sasha found art studios online. And Timka asked the big question:
“Are we selling the house?”
“No, sweetheart,” I hugged him. “This house is still ours. We’ll come back for weekends.”
“And we’ll pay off the loan,” Dasha said like a little businesswoman. “Right?”
I looked at my kids and saw not children — but young adults. They had walked this path with me — without complaint, with patience and love.
And now, it seemed, fate was finally being kind.
The deal was finalized within a month. We nearly cleared the loan, bought an old but reliable car, and packed our things.
On our last evening in the village, there was a knock on the door. Sergey stood there. Thinner, older — as if life had suddenly caught up with him.
“Hey,” he shifted on his feet. “I heard you’re leaving?”
“Yes,” I answered calmly. “To the city. I’m opening a café there.”
“Your own business?” He looked surprised. “Wow…”
Timka peeked out and froze when he saw his father. Sergey looked at his son. No joy, no sadness — just strangers now.
The other kids joined, silently lining up. Dasha first, of course. Sergey handed over a small envelope — “for the housewarming.”
“Thanks,” I said, passing it straight to Dasha. “For ice cream.”
He asked to come in, say goodbye properly. I gently but firmly refused.
“We have to get up early tomorrow. Lots to do.”
He hesitated, then said something I never expected:
“I’m proud of you, Anya. You did it. Without me.”
“Because of you,” I smiled for the first time. “If you hadn’t left, I’d never have known what I’m capable of.”
He flinched. Not the reaction he wanted. Then quietly asked if he could call the kids sometimes. Of course, I said. He’s their father.
He stood on the porch a while longer, then slowly walked to the gate. His steps were heavy, his shoulders slumped — as if he carried not just memories, but the life we were leaving behind.
Dasha closed the door and hugged me:
“I’m proud of you, Mom. You’re the best.”
We stood in the center of the home we almost lost — but saved. Not by chance. Not by luck. But by strength. Love. Our family.
Tomorrow would begin a new life.
But my true gift wasn’t money, or a contract, or a café.
My gift… was myself.
The strength I found inside.
The strength that saved my children.
My family.