Irina stood by the window of the tiny kitchen, watching her seven-year-old twins—Dima and Maksim. They were playing in the yard, and the setting sun painted the sky in soft pink hues. Their house on the city’s outskirts was plain but warm and cozy: two stories, with a small garden and an old apple tree beneath the window. They had been living here with the children for half a year—since they buried Pavel.
“Mom, when will Dad come back?” Dima asked as he came into the kitchen and pressed close to his mother.
Irina’s heart tightened, but she tried not to show it. Gently ruffling her son’s hair, she answered:
“Dad won’t come back anymore. He’s in heaven now, watching over us from there. You remember, right?”
Maksim also ran up to their mother, and Irina hugged them both. They took so much after Pavel—the same dark hair, gray eyes… Sometimes this reminder of her husband caused pain, but more often it warmed her.
“Mom, what’s for dinner?” Maksim asked.
“I’ll make potatoes and cutlets,” Irina lied, as there was almost nothing left in the fridge.
Money was running out. The pension was tiny, and finding work with two small children was nearly impossible. This thought haunted her every day, but in front of the kids, she tried to stay strong.
Suddenly, there was a sharp knock at the door. An unexpected visitor—rare for them. Irina grew uneasy.
“Boys, go to your room,” she asked her sons.
“Who is it?” Dima asked.
“I don’t know. Go play for now.”
When the children left, Irina carefully approached the door and looked through the peephole. Two men in dark suits stood on the doorstep—one tall and thin, the other shorter and stockier.
“Who are you?” she asked without opening.
“Aleksey Viktorovich and Sergey Nikolaevich. We want to talk about your husband.”
“My husband is dead,” Irina replied.
“That’s exactly why we’re here. Please open the door.”
After a brief hesitation, Irina opened the door, leaving the chain on. The visitors introduced themselves and asked to come inside. Reluctantly, she let them in.
“Your husband, Pavel Sergeyevich, was our client,” began the tall man who called himself Aleksey. “He has a debt.”
“What debt?” Irina asked again, feeling a cold chill inside.
“A gambling debt. A huge amount,” Sergey handed her a sheet of paper. “Here’s the IOU.”
Her hands trembled as she took the document. The number she saw made her pale.
“That can’t be! Pavel sometimes played, but not for this kind of money…”
“He did,” Aleksey said harshly. “And lost. Now you have to pay.”
“But I don’t have that kind of money! I have children; I don’t work!”
“That’s your problem,” Sergey shrugged indifferently. “We give you one month.”
“And if I can’t?..” Irina whispered.
The men exchanged glances.
“You will,” Aleksey said. “We strongly advise you.”
They left, leaving only fear and hopelessness behind.
Several months later, Irina stood at the cemetery holding a bouquet of chrysanthemums. Dima and Maksim stood silently beside her. Pavel’s grave was still fresh; autumn leaves slowly fell on the stone.
“Dad, we love you,” whispered Dima, placing his drawing on the grave.
“And we remember,” added Maksim.
Irina looked at her husband’s photograph. He smiled as he used to—before all the troubles, debts, and his addiction. She remembered Pavel’s last months—he had become irritable, often disappeared, saying he was meeting friends. She suspected he was drinking again but didn’t think things had gotten so bad.
“Forgive me, Pavel… I didn’t know how bad it was…”
Leaving the cemetery, she noticed Aleksey and Sergey. They were smoking and clearly waiting for her.
“Boys, go to the car, I’ll be right there,” Irina asked the children.
They obediently left.
“Our condolences,” Aleksey began.
“What do you want?” she asked coldly.
“To remind you about the debt. Three months have passed.”
“I’m looking for work, but with children, it’s hard…”
“Find a way,” Sergey advised. “Or we’ll find one ourselves.”
Aleksey pulled out the IOU and showed it to her.
“That’s his signature. The house is listed as collateral.”
“What do you mean—the house?! That’s the only thing we have!”
“It was,” Sergey shrugged. “If the debt isn’t paid, it becomes ours.”
“You have three weeks left,” Aleksey added. “Think carefully.”
At home, Irina sat at the kitchen table counting her meager savings. The amount was laughable. She looked at Pavel’s photo on the fridge and whispered:
“Why did you do all this? Why risk the house?”
There was no answer.
The next morning she took the children to school and went to the bank. Maybe they’d approve a loan? But the refusals were the same everywhere.
That evening, after the kids went to bed, Irina let herself cry for the first time in all that time. Tears rolled down her cheeks, washing away pain, fear, despair.
Outside, rain poured. It seemed the whole world was crying with her.
The next day, a friend named Lara called out to Irina in the store.
“Hi, Ir! I heard you’re looking for work. I have an offer—there’s a woman looking for an assistant to help with her disabled son. Pays well.”
“Where does she live?”
“In a cottage community. I’ll give you the number.”
That evening Irina called Anna Mikhailovna. The woman set a meeting for the next day.
The next day, Irina arrived at “Pine Grove.” Through the intercom, she was invited in. The door was opened by a well-dressed woman in her fifties.
“Irina? Come in.”
They went into a spacious living room that smelled of antiques and expensive perfume.
“Lara told me about your situation,” Anna Mikhailovna began. “You’re a widow with two children, need money. I need an assistant for my son. But this job is special. I think it will suit you.”
“Yes, it’s exactly as you said.”
“I have a son—Stanislav. He’s thirty. Six months ago, he was in an accident and since then… in a special condition. He requires constant care.”
“I understand,” Irina nodded. “I cared for my grandmother; I know how important that is.”
“It’s not just care,” Anna Mikhailovna hesitated a bit. “I need not only a nurse. I need… a wife for my son.”
Irina looked confused.
“Sorry? You mean…”
“A sham marriage,” the woman calmly explained. “Stanislav has been in a coma for six months. Doctors say he might wake up, or he might not. But if he wakes, he’ll need family support. A wife by his side. And your children could become like family to him.”
Irina was silent, trying to process what she heard.
“It will pay well,” Anna Mikhailovna continued. “Very well. You will get more than you need. Plus housing, food, medical insurance for you and the kids.”
“How much?” Irina almost whispered.
The woman named a sum. Irina gasped—it was three times the amount of her husband’s debt.
“But I don’t understand… Why me? You can hire a nurse…”
“A nurse is a job,” Anna Mikhailovna replied. “But family is something more. If Stanislav comes to, he’ll need love, care, support. He must feel someone has been waiting for him.”
“But this is deception…” Irina objected again.
“It’s mutual help,” the woman gently corrected her. “You get security; we get a chance to bring back our son. No harm, only good.”
Irina pondered. Her thoughts raced. On one hand, the offer seemed madness. On the other—she had no choice.
“I need time to think,” she finally said.
“Of course. But not long. Time is against us.”
At home, Irina paced back and forth, torn between duty and conscience. Before her eyes stood images of her sons, the house soon to be taken, and a future full of fear and uncertainty.
“Mom, are you upset?” Dima asked.
“Just tired, sweetheart,” she replied.
“We’ll help you!” Maksim hugged her tightly. “We’re big now!”
Irina sat down beside them and hugged both.
“Guys, what if we had to move? To a big beautiful house. There lives an uncle who’s unwell, and he needs our help.”
“Is he kind?” Maksim asked.
“I think so. Right now he’s like a prince from a fairy tale—sleeping, but someday he’ll wake.”
“We’ll wake him up!” Dima became enthusiastic.
“Maybe,” Irina smiled. “Maybe you’re exactly who he needs.”
That night she couldn’t sleep for a long time. In the morning, she called Anna Mikhailovna.
“I agree,” she said firmly. “But on conditions: the children stay in their school, and I want to see Stanislav before signing papers.”
“Of course,” the woman agreed. “Come tomorrow.”
The next day Irina saw Stanislav for the first time. He lay in a bright room with windows overlooking the garden, surrounded by medical equipment. He seemed asleep but even in this state was handsome—high cheekbones, dark hair, long eyelashes.
“He was very cheerful,” Anna Mikhailovna said. “He played sports, worked in the family business. He was even engaged…”
“What happened to the fiancée?”
“She left,” the woman said bitterly. “As soon as she learned he might never get up.”
Irina moved closer and gently took Stanislav’s hand. It was warm and alive.
“Hi,” she whispered. “I will take care of you.”
She thought she saw his fingers tighten slightly in response.
A week later, they moved to the cottage. For the boys, it was an adventure—each had his own room, playgrounds, so many new toys! They immediately loved the new home and began caring for the “sleeping uncle”: reading him books, drawing pictures, telling him news.
Irina learned her duties—feeding through a tube, massage, monitoring device readings. Over time, she began treating Stanislav like a living person, talking to him, telling him about the children and her past.
One morning, while massaging his hands, she noticed he slowly opened his eyes. At first, she thought it was a reflex, but his gaze was conscious.
“Stanislav? Can you hear me?” she whispered.
He tried to say something, but his voice was too weak. Irina carefully gave him water through a straw.
“Don’t try to speak. You’re home.”
Stanislav looked at her with questioning eyes.
“My name is Irina. I take care of you. You were in an accident, but now everything will be alright.”
At that moment, the children rushed in.
“Mom, Uncle Stas…” Dima began but froze seeing the open eyes.
“He woke up!” Maksim shouted.
Stanislav looked at them and smiled—for the first time in six months.
Anna Mikhailovna cried with joy. Hugging Irina, she gratefully repeated:
“You brought him back. Your love, your care.”
“We all brought him back,” Irina replied softly. “The children were with him every day too.”
Gradually, Stanislav learned to speak, eat on his own, move. His recovery became a team effort—Irina, the children, and the medical staff. He grew closer to the family, especially to the boys, who became like family to him.
One evening, when they were alone, Stanislav said:
“I remember your voice. You talked to me when I couldn’t answer.”
“I thought you heard me,” Irina confessed.
“I did. And it helped me fight.”
Between them formed a special bond—not romantic, but deeply human, based on trust and a shared journey.
One day, Vladimir Petrovich—Stanislav’s father—came to visit. He looked at Irina carefully.
“So you’re the Irina I’ve heard so much about?”
“Dad,” Stanislav said, taking her hand, “this is my wife.”
The man nodded.
“I see how you’ve changed the house. And my son. Thank you, Irina.”
“I was just doing what I had to,” she answered modestly.
“No,” he objected. “You did more. You gave him a family.”
That evening, after the guests left, Irina sat in the garden thinking about how much her life had changed. Six months ago, she didn’t know where to find money for food; today, she had a home, a healthy child, and her husband’s son who was beginning a new life.
“What are you thinking about?” Stanislav asked, approaching her with his cane.
“How much has changed,” she replied. “It used to seem there was no way out.”
“Now we have a future,” he said. “All of us.”
Sitting in the quiet garden, they listened to the distant laughter of children and the rustling leaves. Many hardships lay ahead, but Irina was no longer afraid of the future. She had a family, and that was enough.
The house filled with new sounds—children’s voices, music, conversations. Life went on, beautiful in its simplicity and warmth. Irina realized: sometimes the strangest twists of fate lead to the brightest endings.