Boris Petrovich Buzyakin, the 60-year-old head of the family, billionaire, philanthropist, and a man with a long list of titles, slowly descended to the dining room for breakfast. Already gathered at the table were: his eldest son — 32-year-old Vadim Borisovich, daughter-in-law Alevtina, 27, their five-year-old son Egor, and Buzyakin’s older sister — 63-year-old Pavla Petrovna.
One chair remained empty. That was usually where the youngest son — 25-year-old Andrey — sat. Lately, that chair was often vacant, which infuriated the father.
Boris Petrovich always insisted that the whole family gather at the breakfast table. During the day, everyone was busy; in the evening, few found time to communicate. Only mornings were considered sacred for family interaction.
Skipping breakfast was allowed only for a truly important reason, and even then it was preferable to give advance notice. Over cups of coffee, the relatives discussed business, shared news, and resolved pressing matters.
“Hello everyone. Where is that fool again?” came the father’s voice as he descended the stairs.
The maid Maria and cook Polina Lvovna immediately disappeared. They knew the owner’s temperament and understood: a storm was coming, so it was better to hide.
“Hi, Dad,” answered Vadim, while the others greeted Boris Petrovich but immediately lowered their eyes. “Andrey went off to see his village girlfriend. Seems like he’s decided to become a farmer: wants to raise chickens, pigs, buy a horse, and revive the local collective farm.”
Alevtina covered her mouth with a napkin, hiding a smile.
“Chasing girls again,” grumbled the father unhappily, “and who’s going to work? Did he study in Europe to herd cows? Vadim, find him and tell him I’m waiting for him in my office. He’s completely gone off the rails!”
“I’ll pass it on, Dad. I’ll try to reach him after breakfast. Though he probably won’t listen. He’s planning to get married,” said Vadim with a slight sneer.
“Get married? To whom? Sergey Afanasyevich didn’t tell me anything. Polina is in Italy with Mom shopping. Are they going to get married over the phone now? What times we live in,” laughed Boris Petrovich.
“Polina doesn’t even know about the engagement,” the daughter-in-law interrupted. “Andrey decided to marry a girl from the village, seems like from Bolshiye Utyugi.”
“You probably mean Bolshie Ustyugi,” Vadim corrected her, continuing to eat caramel pudding.
“What kind of ‘Utyugi’ are those? Who is this orphan girl?” the father frowned. “I’m not in the mood for jokes. I entrusted him with a project. For the first time, I gave him independent work after university. Enough! Vadim, find him immediately.”
“Leave the boy alone,” suddenly intervened Pavla Petrovna, Boris Petrovich’s sister. She was 63, childless, and had long since replaced the boys’ mother, especially Andrey, to whom she was particularly attached.
Aunt Pavla always stood up for her favorite nephew. No matter what happened, she was on Andrey’s side.
“He’s not a child anymore. Andrey is 25; he has the right to choose his partner himself. If my nephew chose this girl and is ready to marry, then it’s serious. Don’t interfere, or you’ll have to deal with me.”
“That’s for me to decide who my son marries!” Boris Petrovich raised his voice. “I also chose a bride for Vadim, and look what a strong family they have. I have a grandson — the future heir to the Buzyakin empire.”
Alevtina and Vadim exchanged glances and barely suppressed smiles. Meanwhile, Egor was quietly tossing cheese under the table, and the two red corgis — Chapa and Tyapa — skillfully caught it midair.
Pavla Petrovna watched with a smirk. She knew perfectly well how this “ideal family” lived. Vadim didn’t disdain attention from models, and his wife often spent evenings at expensive clubs. But outwardly everything was respectable — the picture of a happy family was maintained.
Egor spent more time with the nanny and governess. His parents mostly saw him only at breakfast. The boy had virtually no friends, except for one — Vasya, the gardener Ivan Gavrilovich’s grandson. The six-year-old often came to the estate with his grandfather, so the children became friends.
After breakfast, Boris Petrovich reminded his eldest son that he was waiting for him and Andrey in his office. Then he quickly left the house, where a car was already waiting.
Boris Petrovich built his fortune from scratch. Everything the family owned was created by his own hands. He began as a simple foreman in the early 1990s. He formed several brigades, which included workers from shuttered factories and plants, as well as those who had previously worked on state construction sites.
It was then that country houses were being built for the new Russians — bulky mansions with turrets, balconies, and lavish columns. Essentially tasteless but decorated with gilding and Empire-style furniture.
Buzyakin himself would never live in such a house, but clients in raspberry-colored jackets paid well, and that suited him just fine.
Over time, the fame of his brigades spread beyond the region. Boris Petrovich established connections and found the right people. When he registered his first official company in the late 1990s, he knew success was guaranteed.
Today, his company is one of the largest and most prosperous in the region, and he himself is a billionaire.
But don’t think the path to wealth was without losses. When the business was just starting to grow, his wife Valentina was giving birth and raising their sons.
The eldest, Vadim, was born in 1992, when Boris Petrovich was just starting out. The younger, Andrey, in 1999, when the business was already gaining momentum. The father had almost no time for family.
Many times Valentina asked her husband to at least sometimes be around, but her words were lost amid business concerns. She even went on vacations alone with the children. Boris simply gave money and immersed himself in work.
“I feel like a single mother,” she often said bitterly. “Borya, let’s go to kindergarten together tomorrow. Vadik will perform the tin soldier’s dance, and his partner is Svetochka Kuzyakina — remember the Kuzyakins?”
But her husband was already asleep. In the morning, she would find a note:
“Sorry, Valechka, busy today. Can’t go with you.”
The woman never stopped trying to involve her husband in the sons’ lives, but Boris Petrovich never saw his children’s first steps or heard their first words. He didn’t even pick up his youngest son from the maternity hospital — that day there was an important construction site visit, and bad weather delayed him.
Valentina didn’t speak to her husband for a whole week, then gave up. She realized the sons would never be his priority. But everything changed two years after Andrey’s birth.
Valentina began complaining of dizziness and constant fatigue. Boris paid no attention, thinking she wanted attention. But the illness was more serious.
When Valentina collapsed unconscious before his eyes, the husband called an ambulance. The doctors’ diagnosis was merciless. Neither money nor connections could help.
In 2002, Boris Petrovich was left alone with two small children. The company was developing, and he had to raise his sons. Vadim was ten — a schoolboy into sports. Andrey was only three, just starting kindergarten.
The children often cried, asked about their mother, worried. The father was lost and depressed.
During this difficult time, his sister — Pavla Petrovna — moved in. She was 42 then. Before, she was a ballerina but decided to quit:
“I have experience and fame. The body gets tired, the youth is growing up. I’m leaving on time — at my peak.”
Pavla took on caring for her nephews. Of course, there were nannies and helpers in the house, but she managed everything. She especially loved Andrey — she was ready to “tear anyone apart” for him.
Pavla herself never had a personal life. Many admirers and romances, but none turned into a family. All she had left was her brother’s family.
Three hours later, two SUVs drove along a country road toward the village of Bolshiye Ustyugi. The settlement stretched along the riverbank, surrounded by greenery. Approaching the central square, Vadim thought an excellent cottage community could be built here.
The square was quiet and almost deserted. Around stood several half-ruined buildings: the local club with peeling plaster, a grocery store, the village council, and an old “Soyuzpechat” kiosk. In the middle was a fountain that hadn’t worked for many years, covered in cracks and moss. At its center, on a small pedestal, stood a sculpture of a pioneer bugler. The plaster figure held a bugle in one hand; the other hand was missing — likely broken long ago.
It was hot outside, nearing noon, so the square seemed lifeless. Only two elderly women sat on a bench near the store, closely watching every passerby or car. Vadim immediately understood: these were the local keepers of news.
He approached and politely addressed them:
“Hello, ladies. May I have a moment?”
The old women exchanged looks. One laughed:
“Ladies! Arkadyevna remembers the revolution and the war, and you call her ‘lady’!”
Arkadyevna grumbled:
“Zinochka, you’re two years older than me!”
“One and a half, dear, only one and a half,” Zinayda retorted, and a dispute was about to erupt.
Vadim decided to intervene:
“Sorry, I just wanted to ask a question. I’m willing to pay for it.”
Upon hearing “pay,” the old ladies instantly fell silent and looked attentively at the young man:
“Ask.”
“I’m looking for a girl. She lives here with her grandfather. An orphan. About twenty years old. Her name is, I think, Vera or Veronika.”
The women exchanged glances again. Finally, Zina sighed:
“You’re late, dear. A young man already came for Verka. A car just like yours. And this morning he even arrived by boat — came straight by river to their house.”
“Where does she live?” Vadim looked at them intently.
Zina was about to answer but her friend interrupted:
“Five hundred rubles.”
“To each,” added the first.
Fifteen minutes later, the SUVs stopped by a wooden fence. The gate was closed, but Vadim decisively entered. As he approached the house, a large fighting dog ran out to meet him. The dog sniffed the guest and lay down by the gate.
Now Vadim understood: he was trapped in a stranger’s yard.
“Anyone home?!” he called, not daring to move.
The dog lay peacefully. But soon a second dog — an exact copy of the first — jumped out from around the corner and took position by the porch. Now both guards were watching the uninvited guest.
The house was empty. A massive lock hung on the front door. Vadim nearly cried.
“Vadim Borisovich!” his bodyguard Edik called from the gate. “What do we do?”
“You’re my bodyguard, not me yours!” Vadim replied irritably. “Do I ask you what to do? Do you have a gun?”
“I do,” whispered the guard.
“You planning to shoot dogs just doing their job? Are you sane?”
“Maybe buy some sausage? Lure them?” Edik suggested.
“They won’t eat it. They’re trained guards. They won’t touch me while I stand still. We’ll wait for the owners.”
Vadim stood in the yard like a statue for three hours. He nearly cried when he heard voices from the river side.
Vera’s grandfather’s house — Dmitry Yuryevich Gavrilov — stood on a hill. It had two gates: one to the street, the other to the river. A well-trodden path led down the slope, ending at a wooden pier. The pier clearly needed repair, but the old man had neither strength nor funds.
Three approached Vadim: a young girl, a man about seventy, and… Andrey.
“Hello!” Vadim called. “I’m uninvited, sorry. Didn’t know no one was home.”
“Good day,” the girl waved. “Elsa, Alpha — come to me!”
The dogs obeyed and slowly approached their owner. Andrey and the grandfather greeted Vadim with a handshake.
“Dmitry Yuryevich, this is my older brother,” Andrey introduced the guest.
“Hello, Vadim,” the grandfather smiled. “What brings you all here? One after another. More guests coming?”
“Good day, Dmitry Yuryevich. My name is Vadim Petrovich Buzyakin. No, no more guests. I came for my brother. His father wants to see him.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Andrey said firmly. “The vegetables didn’t sell. I won’t unload the boat. I’ll stay overnight in grandpa’s hayloft, tomorrow we’ll go to the market down the river — sell the rest, then come back. Tell Dad.”
“What kind of games are these?” Vadim was angry.
But the grandfather spoke up:
“Andrey helped us today. The horse broke down again,” he nodded to an old Zhiguli with a trailer, “and we had to go to Kukushkino market. So we went by boat. Andrey helped load everything.”
Vadim looked at his brother in amazement:
“You’re hauling tomatoes and onions on a $100,000 boat? Andrey, get dressed — let’s go home. Our guys will tow the boat, we’ll compensate for the vegetables. We won’t show off our ‘Cassandra’ at the village market. Get ready now.”
“Don’t boss me around. I said — I’m staying. I’ll return the boat tomorrow. See you,” Andrey held out his hand. Vadim silently turned and left. Within minutes, both SUVs disappeared around the bend, leaving clouds of dust behind.
“Well, well…” sighed the grandfather. “So you’re Buzyakin’s son? How did you and Vera meet?”
“What difference does it make whose son I am?” Andrey replied. “I’m 25, an independent person. I can live without my billionaire father’s money. I don’t want to be just ‘Buzyakin’s son,’ as if I have no life of my own.”
“Maybe not just an app, we’ll see. You say you can live without your father’s money? Yet you came in his boat, in his car, in his pants.”
“I bought the pants myself. I work, by the way.”
“Uh-huh. Just call me Grandpa Mitya. We’ll see. Come on, let’s clean the fish. Tonight we’ll light a fire by the river, I’ll bring good wine from the cellar — we’ll sit and talk.”
“Come on, Grandpa, let’s finish soon and take a shower,” Vera said sternly.
Vera and Andrey met three months ago right in the backyard of the Buzyakin estate. The girl came several times a week — bringing fresh eggs, vegetables, and honey for cook Polina Lvovna. Polina, also from Bolshiye Ustyugi, knew who had the best products in the village — and always turned to Dmitry Yuryevich Gavrilov.
That’s how Vera ended up at the mansion. Andrey noticed her, tracked where she came from, and soon a huge basket of flowers arrived at Gavrilov’s house with a note: “To the peasant maiden from the Buzyakin family.”
The next time Vera came to the estate, Andrey was already waiting. They met, started talking and spending time together. The young man didn’t pressure or rush — he was just there. Over time, friendship grew into affection, then love.
When Vera realized she was in love, she was scared. Andrey came from a rich family, and she was a village orphan. She felt she was not a match for him, that his father would never accept their relationship. Several times she asked Andrey not to come, but he was not going to give up.
The evening by the river was truly magical. Night had fallen, but the fire brightly lit the dark water and the faces around it. Flames flickered on skin, the wood crackled, and crickets chirped in the grass. Overhead was a clear starry sky — so close it seemed one could touch it.
“You say, Andreyka, you’re a grown, independent man,” Grandpa Mitya began, not taking his eyes off the fire, “that you don’t depend on your dad’s wallet. But can you survive in this world alone? Without your father’s support?”
“Of course I can, Grandpa Mitya,” the young man smiled with slight confidence.
“Don’t laugh, think carefully,” the old man said sternly. “I see that my granddaughter means a lot to you. But are you ready to give up everything your father gives for her? And could I trust you with Vera if something happens to me? I’m not young anymore. If I’m gone — she’ll be all alone.”
“Not a chance! I love her. I will never leave, always be there, help and protect her,” Andrey answered seriously.
The grandfather was silent for a moment, then spoke again:
“Listen. My wife and I had only one daughter — Tanyushka. We wanted a big family, but it didn’t work out. We pinned all our hopes on her. But she grew up… a hellcat, not a girl. After eighth grade, she left for the city to study. Met some shaggy guy with a guitar. Dropped out and left to wander. Hitchhiking across the country, living wherever they could.”
Andrey listened carefully. He knew almost nothing about Vera’s past or her mother, and now the grandfather was telling him an important story.
“For years we didn’t see our daughter, only occasionally got postcards or short letters. From them, we learned she was unemployed, homeless. Traveling with musicians, singing on the streets, begging.”
“Didn’t she come home even once all this time?” Andrey asked surprised.
“She did, once,” the grandfather smiled, “she showed up with a bag — and Vera was inside. She said, ‘Mom, Dad, watch the child; Sasha and I will find work and an apartment and come back for her.’ And they left. Never returned.”
“We waited a year, two… Vera was supposed to start kindergarten, but her mother wasn’t there. In the clinic, Olga’s sister helped — they turned a blind eye to the child living without a mother. But then school, government agencies… We had to formalize guardianship officially.”
“What did you do?” Andrey asked anxiously.
“We went through all the authorities, commissions, paperwork. We deprived Tatyana of parental rights. Vera was put under guardianship — me and my Olga. Although we weren’t even fifty then.”
When Vera turned fourteen, Olga died. Since then, the two of them lived together. Harmoniously, well. Only I worry about Vera. Everyone tries to hurt an orphan.
“I’ll never hurt her. My mother died early too — when I was three. A severe illness took her. Father raised us alone. Well, of course, with Aunt Pasha, nannies, and governesses.”
“Ha, our nanny for Vera was the old dog Bonya, and the governess was neighbor Shura,” the grandfather laughed. “I respect your father. Raising two children alone isn’t easy, even with help. Good on him. And you — would you be scared of such a life?”
“Stop testing me!” Andrey snapped. “If you want to test me — go ahead. I’m not a weakling. I can survive even on a desert island if I have to!”
“You won’t make it to the island,” the grandfather smiled, “but live here in the village for a year without your father’s help — then I’ll believe you’ll keep Vera safe as behind a stone wall.”
“Deal,” Andrey held out his hand.
“I have an old house on the edge of the village, from my parents. It’ll do for you.”
So they agreed. The next morning, Andrey returned the boat to his father’s mansion and had a serious talk with Boris Petrovich. The latter was shocked by what he heard.
“Why do you need this, Andrey? Decided to put on a comedy for everyone? Make a fool of yourself in front of the villagers? Do you even understand what you’re up to? It’s not as simple as you think.”
“I love Vera and want to prove to her grandfather I can be her support,” the son said firmly.
“Which grandfather?!” the father was surprised. “Come back to the company. Otherwise, I’ll give your project to someone else. Have you breathed in too much manure in the village?”
“Dad, I wanted to talk about exactly that: I’m moving to the village, Bolshiye Ustyugi. So don’t kick me out — I’ll leave myself.”
Andrey put the keys to the house, car, and boat on the table. Then followed a gold bank card. When he took out his salary card, he hesitated and added:
“I hope you won’t block it? I earned this money honestly. Or maybe I should withdraw it all in cash?”
“Out of the house!” Boris Petrovich hissed through clenched teeth.
“Out!” he shouted, banging his fist on the table.
At that moment, Pavla Petrovna hurried down the stairs:
“What’s going on here? Andryusha, my dear, you finally came!” She opened her arms to hug her nephew.
Andrey hugged his aunt tightly and whispered in her ear:
“I’m moving to Bolshiye Ustyugi, 19 Arbuza Street.”
“I understand,” she replied briefly. “Take my old Moskvich-412, it’s in Dad’s garage, second row.”
“Thanks, Aunt Pasha,” the young man was delighted.
“What are you whispering about?” Boris Petrovich asked irritably.
“I’m giving him my Pegasus,” Pavla Petrovna sighed. “My Moskvich.”
“No gifts needed, let him earn everything himself,” the father raised his voice again.
“Thank God Andrey has family,” the aunt said firmly and went to see her nephew off.
The house Grandpa Mitya allowed Andrey to occupy was so overgrown that the windows were barely visible through the thick grass. First, the young man asked a neighbor to lend a lawnmower, offering to pay, but the neighbor refused. Instead, he suggested bringing his wife home from the market — she worked as a seller there.
Andrey gladly helped and in return received not only the machine but also a hearty lunch. The neighbors noticed the young man had nothing and decided to support him.
He mowed grass until evening, then gathered and bagged it. The village boys watched from the fence all day. Only in the afternoon did Andrey realize he could involve them. He went to the store, bought ice cream, candies, and sweet drinks, and put everything on the table:
“This is for your help. Whoever wants, come one by one.”
The boys rushed into the yard. By evening, the work was done — the grass was cleared, the territory cleaned. Now one could see what the greenery had hidden: clay jugs, broken dishes, wooden spoons, a hoe, rusty dog chain, a wooden table, and long benches.
The old house was adobe, tiled roofed, summer kitchen covered with reeds. The house was clearly built in the early 20th century but was well maintained and preserved.
Inside, the windows were small, ceilings low. A large Russian stove stood in the middle, dividing the space. Behind it was a bed — likely the sleeping place. By the window was a big table with benches, in the corner a lamp burned — there were probably icons once.
The wooden floor was in excellent condition. Andrey thought if he sanded the boards, tables, and furniture well — everything would look like new. He decided to renovate the house for life with Vera. Thinking of his beloved girl warmed his heart, and with that thought, he fell asleep.
In the morning, going out to swim in the river, Andrey saw a group in the yard — several men, teenagers, and two women.
“Hello, comrades! What’s the occasion?” he smiled.
“Hi,” said a squinting old man about seventy. “We came to help, brother. The boys ate your ice cream yesterday and told us all about it. It’s good you’re staying. We have little youth here, like gold — valuable. So we’ll help you. Today for you, tomorrow you for us.”
Andrey did not expect such support. No one asked for a penny, and in the evening, they even set a table — village grandmothers cooked a delicious dinner. During the day, the men built a temporary car shelter, strengthened paths, replaced rotten porch boards, fixed the wood shed and the gate to the river.
The next morning they came again. But most importantly — Vera arrived. Andrey’s heart raced. The girl immediately started cooking lunch for the workers, lighting the stove in the summer kitchen to make real borscht over the fire. Our hero had never tasted such delicious, smoky, lively borscht.
In the evening, all the youth gathered on the shore — local boys and girls, Andrey and Vera. The men brought horses, which they also bathed in the river. Grandpa Mitya rushed on a bike with watermelons. Everything was so warm and homely that Andrey almost cried with happiness — of course trying not to be noticed.
Dmitry Yuryevich watched the young man and increasingly approved of him. A month passed, and Andrey was not going to leave — on the contrary, he lovingly arranged the house and yard. Only the grandfather could not understand what the suitor was up to.
The young man dragged an old cart, placed it in the middle of the yard, painted it brown, and drew white daisies. He decorated the doghouse with ornaments, dismantled the picket fence.
A couple of days later, men from a neighboring village brought and installed a new fence — in the style of 19th-century Kuban Cossack stanitsas. Then the grandfather lost patience:
“Andrey, hello! We need to talk,” he said, adjusting his mustache. “I gave you the right to do what you want with the hut. But I’m curious: what are you planning? And why did men from Sinkovka put the fence up for free?”
“We have a mutual agreement. I cleaned their computers for three days in a row, installed a system, and they gave me a fence. Simple and reliable,” Andrey winked.
“You’re saying words I don’t understand,” the grandfather scratched his head. “Okay. But why this fence? A modern one would be easier and cheaper.”
“Grandpa, wait a bit,” Vera smiled, “we’re planning a business. We want to earn for a wedding by October, and by spring…”
“Verochka, let’s not reveal everything yet,” Andrey stopped her.
Gavrilov smiled, scratching his head:
“Planning a wedding already? It’s only been two months since you arrived, and already…”
“Grandpa!” Vera protested. “I’m 22; I have the right to decide myself.”
“Decide, who’s stopping you?” shrugged the grandfather. “But the final word is still mine,” he raised his index finger and froze, as if the film slowed down. His jaw dropped, eyes widened:
“Oh, what a woman!” he exclaimed, seeing Pavla Petrovna enter the yard.
“That’s my beloved aunt,” Andrey said loudly. Aunt Pasha smiled, waved, and confidently walked in. The dogs Elsa and Alpha, usually very strict, immediately met her.
But Pavla Petrovna was unafraid. She passed by, and when the dogs tried to growl, she firmly said:
“Sit, girls!”
They obediently sat on their hind legs — seeming surprised at their own obedience.
“Grand merci,” the aunt thanked and went to her nephew, greeting him with a broad smile.
“What a woman!” repeated Vera’s grandfather. Dmitry Yuryevich seemed stunned in admiration. He was so bewildered that Vera hadn’t remembered such a case in many years.
Later, when the four gathered for lunch in the gazebo in the backyard — shaded from the heat — Vera whispered to the grandfather:
“Grandpa, have you fallen in love?”
“What are you talking about? Nothing like that! Go help set the table,” he muttered shyly, blushing.
“Sure… you’ve fallen in love,” the girl chuckled, smiling broadly.
At the table, they talked about everything, jumping from one topic to another. They spoke for hours — so much had accumulated! Pavla Petrovna, of course, called Andrey, but talking on the phone was one thing, and live communication at the table, outdoors, was another.
The aunt said that the father missed him. Boris Petrovich didn’t admit it directly, but she knew her brother better than anyone:
“Just remember, Andrey, you know your father well too. He’ll never make the first step to reconciliation.”
“I haven’t argued with him,” the nephew shrugged. “Yes, he kicked me out, but I would have left myself. I needed to understand who I am, what I’m capable of. If my father accepts Vera, our family, my life here — we’ll definitely reconcile. If not… then we just won’t communicate.”
“You, Andryukha, will definitely reconcile with your father. That’s how it should be. You should be proud of your son, not drive him away,” Grandpa Mitya supported the young man.
Pavla Petrovna looked gratefully at him, and the old man smiled shyly in return.
“Well, Andrey, tell me about your business,” the aunt decided to change the subject. “Grandpa asked, so go ahead, boy.”
“What business?” she was surprised when Andrey began to speak.
“You see, I want to…”
“We want to,” Vera interrupted.
“Sorry, dear,” Andrey blushed. “We want to organize an eco-fair right on this farmstead. A permanent one. The river market is only five kilometers down the river or twenty by road. Bolshiye Ustyugi is even closer to the city than the market. The highway passes right through the village outskirts, and everyone going to the market passes by us.”
“Now I’m starting to understand,” the aunt nodded. “Go on.”
“We have many good farmers in the village whose products are of the highest quality. Like Grandpa Mitya, for example.”
The old man blushed again and looked down. Pavla Petrovna, noticing this, smiled and looked at him with interest. There was clearly mutual understanding. Ignoring their looks, Andrey continued:
“But transporting goods to the river market isn’t always convenient. There are fuel costs, paid spots, storage, and sometimes it’s better to throw away leftovers than pay for all that. You can sell to middlemen — but they pay pennies.”
“Andrey, get to the point, please,” asked the aunt.
“We’re organizing a market here. An eco-farm where people can buy fresh local products directly from farmers. I’ve already ordered ads, posted flyers, and will put up a banner on the highway. Opening next Saturday.”
“The first participants will be Grandpa Mitya, our neighbors, men from another part of the village who helped us. We’ll place stalls around the yard, open the gates — and welcome! If the business goes well, we have many plans.”
“For example?” asked Pavla Petrovna.
“Eco-farm: buyers can gather eggs in the chicken coop, watch cows being milked, feed animals. Special interest for families with children.”
“And honey can be taken straight from the hives!” added the grandfather.
“Exactly, well said, Grandpa!” praised Vera.
“You’re wonderful!” Pavla Petrovna said emotionally, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. “I always told Boris my youngest nephew was a real wunderkind.”
“Aunt Pasha, I was no wunderkind,” Andrey laughed. “I had Cs in school!”
“Don’t argue,” the aunt said sternly. “I said ‘wunderkind’ — so it is. By the way, I’ll bring buyers on Saturday. I’ll tell all my acquaintances about your eco-yard.”
“Thank you, Pavla Petrovna,” Vera warmly thanked her.
“You’re welcome, daughter-in-law. Also think about a souvenir display. I have a friend, a former ballerina, who makes amazing patchwork quilts — real works of art. Another acquaintance knits tablecloths and doilies.”
“That’s a great idea, Aunt Pasha!” Vera was delighted.
Unnoticed, time flew, and Pavla Petrovna began to prepare to leave. Vera accompanied her to the car, quietly discussing something all the way. Andrey and Grandpa Mitya remained by the gazebo. Suddenly the old man asked unexpectedly:
“Andryukha… is your aunt free? Is her heart taken or… maybe I could try?”
Andrey’s eyes widened but he could only say:
“She’s not married.”
After that, the young man hurried to the gate to say goodbye to his aunt. He was afraid of bursting into laughter in front of the grandfather, so he preferred to leave.
The debut was a success! Many customers came out of curiosity — they had to go to the river market anyway. And avoiding the fair was easy. The townspeople were amazed at the prices, variety, and freshness of products. If something was missing, sellers immediately brought it from the garden or apiary.
Grandpa Mitya sold more than half the annual planned honey — all in one day. Sellers paid Andrey a small percentage for rent, advertising, and organization. Everyone benefited.
The couple did not manage to hold a wedding this year — they were only starting their path. They just got married and decided to celebrate next year. But fate decided otherwise.
As soon as the newlyweds returned home from the registry office, restaurant evening, and hotel stay — the village was already waiting with a surprise. Almost the whole village gathered at the table. Live music, gifts, congratulations — they celebrated for two full days!
Andrey felt part of a big family, something he had never felt in his rich but cold home. Here, in this small village, he first felt the unity and trust of people.
The villagers had many ideas. Someone suggested creating a waterfowl yard where tourists could watch and feed birds. Others thought of a cheese factory — the village already had masters who made delicious brynza and cottage cheese.
Andrey understood that people hoped for him. They had ideas, desire, but lacked education, connections, opportunities. He thought long and consulted with his wife and grandfather. It was a big responsibility requiring effort and money.
Vera supported him. She was an accountant by education; Andrey was an economist. They decided to take a loan and develop the project gradually. Although Vera was pregnant, she actively helped her husband in everything.
Support was also provided by Grandpa Mitya and Aunt Pasha, now frequent guests at the house. The newlyweds lived with the Gavrilovs because their plot was turning into a full-fledged eco-farm planned to open in spring.
Pavla Petrovna didn’t tell her brother about the son’s life. Boris Petrovich forbade even mentioning the youngest son’s name. The longer the son was absent, the more irritated the father became.
Buzyakin Sr. was sure that sooner or later his son would return, tired of village life. But years passed, and Andrey did not come back. The father recalled how little he saw his children in childhood. He gave everything to work and business, believing money would replace kinship.
He wanted his sons to take over the company, become heirs. They were supposed to marry girls from influential families. Vadim obediently fulfilled his father’s will — married the “right” woman, got a position in the company, became a father. But their family had long become a formality.
Vadim did not love Alevtina, and she couldn’t stand him. They pretended to be a happy couple in public, but were strangers at home. They raised five-year-old Egor, who grew up a lonely child. No friends, no playmates. He sensed his parents didn’t love each other, and it hurt the boy.
Andrey chose a different path — the path of the heart. And perhaps that was his true strength.
Thus, Boris Petrovich Buzyakin — a billionaire who built an apparently perfect life — destroyed all that was real and important from within. No one in his circle was truly happy. But the youngest son went against his father’s expectations and refused to conform. Andrey firmly decided to live his life as he saw fit.
In one and a half years, the young man radically changed his fate. From an obedient son who always carried out his father’s orders, he became a mature, independent man. He married his beloved girl, moved from the noisy city to a quiet village, and created a new, full life there.
A daughter, Valechka, was born in the family. Their family business related to the eco-fair and farm products steadily developed. But most importantly — every morning Andrey woke up happy. He had a loving wife, a healthy child, and a home full of warmth and care. Only one thing troubled him — they still hadn’t reconciled with his father.
Vera repeatedly urged her husband to make the first move: come to Boris Petrovich, introduce him to his granddaughter. Aunt Pasha also supported her daughter-in-law and gently pushed her nephew toward this step.
Meanwhile, Grandpa Mitya had been courting Pavla Petrovna for several months. Andrey couldn’t get used to this thought — his strict, serious aunt had become a real capricious beauty. She played with Dmitry Yuryevich’s feelings like a cat with a laser, and he seemed not to notice. Andrey felt a little sorry for the grandfather, but Vera advised him not to interfere.
The first birthday of their daughter Valechka was approaching. The couple decided to celebrate it by the river — summer was warm, and the weather was favorable. They planned a big table, inviting all who wished — almost the whole village adored the baby and wanted to congratulate her. Preparations began early in the morning.
By noon, Aunt Pasha arrived, bringing a ten-kilogram cake, helium balloons, and boxes of decorations. After changing clothes, she immediately jumped into helping in the kitchen — assisting Vera and her friends in preparing festive dishes.
However, she said nothing about the serious conversation she had with her brother that morning. At breakfast, Pavla couldn’t hold back and told Boris everything she thought: calling him soulless, callous, a man who lost his son and deprived himself of the joy of seeing his own grandson.
Boris Petrovich was stunned. He didn’t even know he had a granddaughter. After much thought, despite his pride, he got behind the wheel of his car — something he hadn’t done in a long time — and headed to Bolshiye Ustyugi. He wanted not just to see one-year-old Valechka but to ask forgiveness from his son and daughter-in-law.
Buzyakin decided it was time to forget old grievances. Nothing should be more important than family. Deep inside, he was tormented by guilt that hadn’t left him since he learned about his granddaughter’s birth.
He didn’t know the address — Vadim was on vacation with his family in Spain — and stopped at the village’s central square to ask for directions.
Near the store, local men chatted. Hearing about Andrey and Vera’s family, they smiled:
“Are you asking about our Andrey Borisovich? Go straight to the eco-farm. Give Valechka our congratulations!”
Boris Petrovich, surprised, continued on. He thought: “How strange… here they know my son, respect him, care about his life. And I, his father, knew nothing about his family, his achievements, nor his granddaughter’s birthday.”
When he arrived at the house, his heart tightened. He saw Andrey, Vera, and little Valechka. His eyes clouded with emotion. The grandfather couldn’t hold back tears. He was struck not only by meeting the family but also by how these people lived — in love, harmony, and accord. In a home where instead of wealth — warmth and comfort, instead of luxury — sincerity and mutual support.
For Boris Petrovich, that day became a turning point. He realized that true happiness was not in billions but in family.