Natasha slowly ran her palm over her cheeks, wiping away the last tears. Her eyes still burned, and her heart ached from the deep wound left by the words of cruel people. She sighed and shifted her gaze to Lena—her old friend, the only person who always spoke the truth without sugarcoating. Lena sat at the table, carefully stirring her tea with a spoon, as if waiting for Natasha to speak first.
“Well, are the tears over?” Lena asked without looking up from her cup. Her voice held no sympathy—only sober calculation and a bit of sharpness, as if she wanted to shock her friend awake with the truth.
“Yes,” Natasha answered shortly, trying to smile. But it came out more like a grimace—the pain was still too fresh.
“So how are you going to solve the problem now?”
Lena always spoke plainly, with no hints or half-measures. For her, the world was black or white—no gray areas, no “maybe.” She hated when people started making excuses, hiding behind “I can’t,” “I’m afraid,” or “I’m not sure.”
“Len, not everyone can be as strong as you,” Natasha said quietly, lowering her eyes.
“What does strength have to do with it?” Lena interrupted sharply. “It’s about self-love, about respect. If you don’t value yourself, if you think you’re unworthy of Mikhail and his family, then others will see you the same way—weak, lost, incomplete. Right now you’re walking around like a victim, understand? Not a bride, but a victim. Do you want people to see you like that?”
Natasha laughed—loudly, almost hysterically:
“Do you want my future mother-in-law to get a stroke?”
“How do you even communicate with them?” Lena kept pressing, not letting Natasha avoid the subject.
“When Misha and I are together, she’s an angel in the flesh. She smiles, jokes, even pours me coffee. But once… just once… I saw her true face. It happened when she found out I was from an orphanage. It was like a mask fell off. She started ranting about genetics, saying I had ‘unverified’ birth, that her grandson might be born sick… It was a hurricane of words.”
“That’s nasty,” Lena snorted.
“Misha quickly put her in her place then. He stood between us and said, ‘You have no right to speak that way about the person I love.’ I felt like that’s when Emma Sergeevna started holding a grudge. Although maybe she thought I was unworthy of their family even before.”
Lena shook her head:
“What’s so special about their family anyway? Blue blood or something? You said yourself Misha’s father is from a village.”
“Yes, he’s even proud of that. But Emma Sergeevna always tells him to shut up when he talks about his roots.”
“Got it. And how’s the search for your relatives going?”
Natasha’s face immediately darkened:
“At a dead end. No leads. Only one woman who saw my mom at the train station. Nothing else.”
After entering university, Natasha began searching for her relatives with the same determination others fight for life. Her story was really strange. Her mother brought the newborn to the orphanage and died right there on the doorstep. The woman was poorly dressed, emaciated, clearly in need. But in the baby’s swaddling clothes they found a very expensive ring—antique, with ornate engraving. It became for Natasha a symbol of something more than just jewelry. Now it adorned her finger as a reminder of a secret to solve.
She contacted jewelry workshops, trying to find information about the ring’s origin. Everyone told her the same thing: it was a custom-made piece, very old, made with an outdated technique. No one could say who might have made such a ring.
Then Natasha started looking for people who might know something. At first, she got lucky—a janitor remembered seeing her mother walking to the orphanage with a baby in her arms. Then she canvassed the entire private neighborhood where her mother was thought to have lived. People shook their heads, looked away, said they didn’t know anything.
She was ready to give up when suddenly a woman she had talked to called out to her:
“Wait! You’re her daughter, right? You look a lot like her.”
Natasha nearly fell from those words.
“Yes, did you remember something?”
The woman glanced around as if fearing eavesdroppers:
“Come inside, no use talking here.”
Over tea, the hostess told a long story. She worked at the market then, selling pies. She noticed a pregnant woman sitting at the edge of the platform, with a vacant stare. It seemed she was waiting for a train to throw herself under. She approached—the woman was in her last month. Having worked half her life as a maternity ward orderly, the hostess understood immediately.
“What are you sitting there for?” she asked. “The train will be here soon.”
The woman nodded: “So be it.”
The hostess didn’t hesitate—she grabbed her by the scruff, brought her home, warmed her up, gave her tea. The woman confessed she couldn’t be searched for because the boy’s father had ruined her, considered her unsuitable, and they promised to take the child away too. She looked strange—as if not herself.
That evening labor started. The woman refused to call an ambulance, afraid she would be found. She gave birth at home, barely survived, and Natasha was born healthy and strong.
Three days later, the woman got ready to leave. Said she would give her daughter to the orphanage and go to the father to explain. “Will he really refuse his granddaughter?” she said—and left. The hostess waited, thinking she would come back to say goodbye, but later learned she was found dead on the orphanage porch. She hadn’t told anyone to avoid being jailed for a home birth.
“What was her name?” Natasha asked.
“Not sure. Didn’t see documents. She called herself Yulia.”
“Anything else?”
“She seemed truthful about the father. Her manners were not poor. I don’t know how to explain, but even in rags, she was proud.”
Natasha went to the station several times, talked to workers from that time. They all repeated the same thing—there were always many pregnant homeless women. The search stalled.
Misha said, “Don’t give up, a lead will turn up.” Natasha was grateful for his support, but Misha worked a lot. His family ran a large farm; father and son spent day and night there. Emma Sergeevna also helped with the business, especially skilled in negotiations. When she wanted, she could charm anyone.
Natasha never told her future mother-in-law about searching for relatives. She felt she wouldn’t hear anything good.
Meanwhile, Emma Sergeevna sat with a friend discussing Natasha:
“I don’t understand how Misha could do this. Obviously, that simple, unsophisticated girl is no match for him. He’ll get bored in a couple of years. There’s nothing to talk about with her.”
“Emma, you’re too harsh on the girl,” the friend cautiously objected.
“Tanya, I beg you! She can’t string two words together. Plus, she doesn’t understand money. She never had any, and she has no ambition.”
“Maybe that’s not so bad?”
“Bad, Tanya! I could tolerate the simpleton, but I don’t want a pauper. I’ll find a way to show my son she’s worthless.”
“I see, you’ve already thought of something.”
“Tomorrow there’s a meeting with Labukhov. I’ll get sick and send her. It’ll blow everything up, but it’s just a signing, not scary. Then I’ll apologize—I’m sick, hoping for a future daughter-in-law.”
“You’re clever. But if I were you, I wouldn’t play such games with him.”
“Everything will be fine. And anyway, people talk nonsense about him. I saw him once, seemed reasonable.”
Natasha was surprised when Emma Sergeevna called and asked her to come over. Misha was unavailable—he said he and his father were going all day to a remote workshop.
“Emma Sergeevna, is something wrong?” Natasha asked entering the house.
The woman lay on the couch with a wet towel on her forehead:
“Natashechka, I really need help. The men are out in the fields, and I have a small contract to sign. My head hurts, can’t get up. I’ll ask you to go sign it. You’re almost family.”
Natasha was confused:
“But I’ve never done anything like that.”
“You have to start. Just be smart so they don’t suspect you don’t understand. Or should I go myself? What if I die on the way?”
“No, of course, I’ll go. Just tell me what to do.”
Emma Sergeevna got comfortable in a chair:
“Bring some water.”
Natasha rushed to the kitchen, and the woman, smirking slyly, slipped a small device— a bug—into her bag.
“As soon as Misha listens to the recording, he won’t want to talk anymore,” she thought, pleased with herself.
Natasha kept repeating what to say and what not to say all the way. She was more scared than ever. But she knew—this was the real test, she couldn’t fail.
The meeting was in an expensive restaurant. Natasha looked herself over—the dress wasn’t quite right for the restaurant, but she had no time to change. She went in and explained why she was there. The receptionist gave her a strange look but showed her to the office.
Emma Sergeevna smiled, anticipating the show, and turned on the recorder—she had to let everyone listen later.
Natasha entered. Two men rose to greet her—an older man and another about forty years old. They stared at her as if she were a ghost.
“Hello, Emma Sergeevna is ill, so I came.”
She didn’t understand why they looked at her so intently. The younger man took her hand, looked at the ring, loosened his tie:
“Where is this from?”
Natasha got flustered, pulled her hand away:
“My mother’s.”
“Mother’s? What was her name? Last name?”
“Probably Yulia. I don’t know the last name. Maybe the name was different.”
The man stared for a long time:
“Her name was Yulia.”
Natasha felt her legs go weak, started to fall, but the man caught her.
Later she sat at the table with water in her hands.
“Who are you?”
The older man said:
“I am Yulia’s father, and this is Andrey, her brother. So I’m your grandfather.”
“So that’s why mom didn’t want to live here! You… you’re my father…”
The man shook his head:
“Let me tell you first, then you tell me, and we’ll compare. Sorry, I’m nervous—I just saw the granddaughter I couldn’t find for so many years. But first—she’s alive?”
Natasha nodded:
“No, mom died almost right after birth.”
“I felt that. She shouldn’t have given birth, shouldn’t have lived like that.”
It turned out the doctors strictly forbade Yulia to get pregnant—heart defect. The young man hid her, thinking if there was a child, he’d be allowed to become a son-in-law. But seeing she was unwell, he decided to run away. He understood—they wouldn’t forgive.
Yulia came home, blamed her father for ruining the guy. Before they could do anything, while the brother went for the doctor, she ran away again. That was the end of the story for everyone.
“Yulia always had an explosive character, never listened to anyone.”
The door opened. Emma Sergeevna stood in the doorway.
“Sorry, I was worried how the girl would manage. Let’s introduce ourselves—I’m the future mother-in-law of this treasure, and you, I understand, are the future matchmaker.”
Natasha raised her eyebrows in surprise, rummaged in her bag, took out the bug, smirked, looked at Misha’s mother, and put it back. Let her play her games if she likes.
Now other thoughts filled her head. She needed to get used to it—now she was not alone. Before there was only Misha, now there was a grandfather and uncle. And a mother-in-law who, apparently, suited her very well after all.
Natasha looked at Emma Sergeevna and at the grandfather, whose eyes screamed: “Save me from this woman.”