“Dima, come have breakfast!” Katya called to her son, setting a plate with golden pancakes on the table, a small bowl of thick jam, and cups of steaming tea.
The ten-year-old boy, as usual in a downcast mood, slowly entered the kitchen, sat down on a chair, and looked gloomily at his mother.
“Mum, can I not go to school today?” he said quietly.
Such a conversation had become the usual start of every morning in their home for the past month.
“Son, how can you say that? You have to study. Tell me honestly — is someone bullying you at school?” Ekaterina gently stroked his head.
“No, everything’s fine,” Dima grumbled. “I just don’t want to go there. That’s all.”
“Tell me, what’s going on? You used to like school, the teachers were kind, and you always came home smiling. What changed?” she insisted.
“Nothing changed! Leave me alone!” the boy shouted and abruptly jumped up from the table.
Katya went out to the hallway and saw her son hurriedly pulling on his jacket and lacing his boots.
“Wait, you haven’t even eaten! Let’s at least have breakfast, I’ll walk you to school,” she offered.
“No need, I’ll go by myself,” Dima snapped, grabbed his backpack, and ran out of the apartment.
The woman went to the window and watched as the boy dashed out of the building and headed quickly toward the school. The school was right in the yard — a huge plus: no need to cross busy streets, and the walk took only a few minutes. Dima had once been cheerful, sociable, with excellent grades and many friends. But over the last month, he seemed like a different child — more and more often refusing to attend classes, not playing with other kids after school, and bringing home more and more poor grades. Katya tried to talk to him, but he shut down, withdrew into himself, and didn’t want to share his worries.
She understood: all this was a consequence of the divorce. Dima was probably having a hard time dealing with his father leaving. It had already been two months since Oleg left the family. Katya felt guilty — she had been too busy with work and household chores, paying little attention to her husband. The image of that evening, when he finally decided to tell the truth, remained in her mind.
He was silent for a long time, gathering his thoughts, then looking her straight in the eyes, announced that he had fallen in love with another woman and was leaving her. She couldn’t believe it, cried, begged him to reconsider, promised to change, to do everything to make their family happy again. But her husband remained firm — silently packed his things, tousled their son’s hair, said he would provide financial support and take him on weekends, and left.
When the door closed behind him, Katya burst into tears. Dima hugged her and, with mature seriousness, said:
“Mum, don’t cry. He’s a traitor. We’ll manage together.”
She still couldn’t understand how she hadn’t noticed the changes in Oleg: he was staying late at work more often, taking night shifts, supposedly to earn more, but brought home less and less money. And in recent months, he stopped bringing home any salary at all. After he left, Katya discovered that their savings — money set aside for repairs and vacation — had vanished without a trace.
Their income was modest: she worked as a nurse in the oncology department, he was an electrician at a factory. But two salaries were enough for a decent life and even some savings. Now it was hard — no help from Oleg, and her salary barely covered food and utilities.
With a heavy sigh, Katya took her phone and dialed his number:
“Oleg, hi. We need to talk.”
“What happened? Or can’t you leave me alone?” he replied irritably.
“I’m calling about Dima,” Katya said, hesitating.
“Is he sick?” her husband asked angrily.
“No, but I think he’s either suffering from bullying at school or is deeply upset about you leaving,” she answered uncertainly.
“Stop talking nonsense. Leave me alone. I already told you — I’m not coming back. If someone is bullying him, let him deal with it himself,” he said roughly and hung up.
A wave of anger suddenly overwhelmed Katya. She called him again:
“Listen carefully: tomorrow I’m filing for divorce and child support. If you think that after abandoning your family you owe nothing — you’re wrong. You’re mistaken,” she said firmly.
“Fine! File! And I’ll prove in court how much money I put into fixing your dump. So you won’t get the apartment in full,” Oleg replied sharply and disconnected.
Ekaterina burst into tears. She still couldn’t accept her husband’s departure, still waiting for him to come back. She even made sacrifices: got a new hairstyle, was on a diet for two months, carefully applied makeup. But it was all in vain. Looking at her swollen, tear-streaked face in the mirror, she firmly decided: she would never humiliate herself again, would never trust any man.
Angrily, she threw her makeup bag into the trash, pulled on a worn sweater and old jeans, and went to work. On the way, she couldn’t stop thinking about her husband’s words about the apartment and Dima’s troubling behavior.
Arriving at the hospital, Katya put on her gown and went on the morning rounds with the head of the department, Rimma Pavlovna. The doctor was strict, especially with junior staff, and all the nurses and orderlies secretly called her “the witch.” She examined patients, giving clear instructions to Katya and two interns. Noticing dust on the windowsill, she sharply scolded a nurse and ordered her to come after the rounds.
Katya worried she might be fired. At one of the rooms, the doctor stopped and reported that a patient with severe abdominal pain and suspected cancer had been admitted overnight.
“This isn’t just a patient — he owns several law firms in the city. He should feel like he’s in a five-star hotel here! Ekaterina will be responsible for providing maximum comfort. You young doctors will assist her. Yes, that’s right — assist! When you have as much experience as she does, then I’ll give you such responsibility,” Rimma Pavlovna said sharply, cutting off the interns’ dissatisfied looks.
Hearing this, Katya sighed with relief — she was not being fired. Together they entered the patient’s room, and the head greeted the patient, suddenly raising her voice:
“I have an oncology ward, not a sanatorium! What does the chief doctor think he’s doing? Now all the rich people will be brought here because there’s no space in therapy? Are we therapists on the side now?”
The elderly man on the bed, suffering from pain, was confused and stared silently at her.
“So, Valentin Viktorovich,” Rimma Pavlovna continued, reviewing the chart, “67 years old. Abdominal pain. At this age, maybe you should stick to a diet?”
“I don’t know… it’s just hellish pain,” the patient answered uncertainly.
“Hellish pain is in childbirth,” the doctor snorted. “Give him painkillers and run tests.”
After giving instructions, she nodded to Katya, inviting her into the office. Closing the door, Rimma Pavlovna softened her tone:
“Don’t be surprised by my act. He clearly has cancer, and apparently, it’s advanced. He’s no fool — he understands that they don’t put people in oncology for gastritis. That’s why I staged this circus. Your task is to convince him it’s just a gastrointestinal upset. Today we’ll take tumor markers, but most likely a serious operation will be needed.”
“I understand, Rimma Pavlovna. That’s brilliant,” Katya replied quietly.
“Now tell me honestly — what’s wrong with you? You used to be so lively, now it’s like your soul has left. Did someone die?”
“No… family problems. My husband left. We lived together for eleven years.”
“And because of that you have to walk around like a beaten dog? What years! He left — thank God! Let the other woman suffer with him now. The main thing is not to take him back. Wait — maybe someone better will come along,” Rimma Pavlovna smiled. “By the way, I’ve decided to promote you to senior nurse. More duties, but one and a half times the salary. Pull yourself together, forget about that bastard. And please stop walking around like a gray mouse. Put on some eye makeup, lipstick, wear a short skirt, and go conquer hearts!”
“Thank you, Rimma Pavlovna,” Katya laughed.
“If only I were your age, baby! I would shine like that! And my husband? He’s impossible to kick out!” the head joked.
Katya left the office feeling a surge of strength. She was sincerely grateful to Rimma Pavlovna for this female “kick” and firmly decided she would never call her “the witch” again.
Approaching the patient’s room, she entered with a warm smile:
“Hello again. I’m Ekaterina. I’ll take your tests now.”
“Hello, beautiful girl,” the man smiled. After the injection, he clearly felt better.
“Well, a real beauty queen,” Katya joked.
“Queen is for ladies over forty. You’re a princess,” Valentin Viktorovich replied.
“I took the tests. Want me to turn on the TV?”
“No, I don’t like that box. Better give me something to read. A murder detective, for example.”
“I’ll try to find one, but I can’t promise. We mostly have romance novels.”
“No, love stories are not for me. Better I’ll read the criminal code,” the patient laughed.
“I heard you’re a lawyer. Don’t you get tired of reading codes at work?” Katya asked with a slight smile.
“This is my usual world,” the man replied thoughtfully. “Lately, I’ve been doing notary work, but sometimes I remember the years in criminal investigation and special forces. That was a completely different life.”
“It must have been very intense,” Katya sincerely admired. “Can I ask you something about your specialty?”
“Of course, no problem,” Valentin Viktorovich responded willingly.
“Then I’ll go to the lab with the samples and come back to you right away. Okay?” she offered.
He nodded, and Katya, quickly handing over the samples, immediately returned to the room.
“The thing is, my husband and I are divorcing,” she began. “We lived in an apartment given to me by my parents before the wedding. They moved to the countryside, and now he claims he invested his own money in repairs and maintenance and demands part of the apartment in court.”
“Did he have personal savings before the marriage?” the lawyer asked.
Katya shook her head.
“Then his claims are groundless,” he said confidently. “All income earned during the marriage is considered joint property. What he spent on repairs is his duty as a family member, not a reason to claim your apartment.”
“Thank you! You really reassured me!” Katya was happy.
“Well, you upset me,” he smiled reproachfully. “Not knowing such basic things is unforgivable. But don’t worry, I’ll enlighten you.”
They talked a bit more, and Katya, feeling a warm sympathy and trust toward this elderly man, told him about Dima and his strange behavior.
“There are two options, Ekaterina,” Valentin Viktorovich said thoughtfully. “Either the boy needs a psychologist’s help because of his father leaving, although children usually cope better with such changes at his age. Or, more likely, he’s being bullied at school.”
“I wanted to talk to the homeroom teacher, but my son begged me on his knees not to go,” Katya said sadly, tears sparkling in her eyes.
“Then let’s do our own investigation,” he suggested with lively interest. “I’ll call my assistant, and in the evening, he’ll bring a tiny bugging device. You’ll secretly put it in your son’s backpack — and we’ll find out what’s going on.”
“Thank you so much,” she sincerely thanked him.
The day flew by in usual bustle, but Katya felt lighter and more confident than in the past two months. She was pleased with Rimma Pavlovna’s support, who, meeting her in the corridor, several times jokingly gestured for her to put on lipstick and not forget her femininity, even swaying her hips slightly as if reminding: “You’re a woman, not a nun.” In the evening, stopping by Valentin Viktorovich’s room, Katya received a small box with a microphone and receiver and went home.
Dima was sitting at the computer, engrossed in a game. Katya kissed the top of his head and went to prepare dinner.
“How’s school?” she asked when he sat at the table.
The boy looked up at her — for a moment it seemed he wanted to say something, but then he just shrugged and mumbled, “Okay.” Quickly eating, he ran to his room. Katya sighed heavily, hoping the bugging device would help uncover the truth.
Clearing the table, she opened the trash bin, took out the makeup bag thrown away in the morning, smiled, and placed it on the nightstand — with a firm intention to put on makeup tomorrow morning.
At night, she quietly entered the children’s room and carefully hid the microphone in the pocket of his backpack.
In the morning, after seeing Dima off, Katya returned to the hospital and immediately went to Valentin Viktorovich. He took the receiver, pulled out a laptop, and said he would handle the recording, and she could go about her business.
After lunch, he called her over and grimly reported: the recording clearly captured several sixth-graders extorting money from younger children, insulting them, and beating them in the bathroom. Moreover, the bullies threatened the children’s parents, claiming their fathers were influential people and that the school would do nothing to them.
Katya was shocked. She downloaded the recording and decided to act. First, a conversation with the principal; if no response, then going to the media and prosecutor’s office. Coming home, she was surprised to hear from Dima that he was being called to school. The boy looked at her fearfully, insisting he hadn’t done anything wrong and didn’t understand why he was summoned. Katya hugged her son and firmly said:
“I believe you. And no one else will dare to hurt you.”
She immediately called Valentin Viktorovich and told him about the summons. He advised to definitely record the conversation and not succumb to pressure from the administration, especially if they protect children of wealthy parents.
The next morning, Katya, determined and composed, stood outside the principal’s office. The nameplate read: “Mikhail Yuryevich Protsenko.” The name “Mikhail” instantly irritated her — she had hated one Misha since school, a bully who tormented classmates. Later in medical school, there was a head student Mikhail — sneaky, selfish, always ready to betray for personal gain. So entering the office, she was ready for a fight.
“Please, sit down, Ekaterina Vasilyevna,” the principal invited warmly, a short man of about thirty-five with a friendly smile.
“You won’t believe it, but I know exactly which class my son is in,” she sarcastically said, expecting a trick.
Mikhail Yuryevich was a bit confused but calmly continued:
“Our school has a troubling situation: some students have started bullying younger ones — extorting money, threatening, beating. This is unacceptable. Our first thought was to expel the bullies. But children copy their parents’ behavior, and we have a chance to re-educate them, not just kick them out. Also, in life they will meet tough people. So I want to offer Dima sambo classes. He will learn to defend himself — but most importantly, gain confidence. Sport builds strong character. I was bullied in school, but when I started training, one firm look was enough — and aggressors retreated immediately.”
Katya looked at him, not believing her ears. He didn’t excuse the wealthy parents, didn’t pressure her, didn’t try to hush up the problem. On the contrary — he offered a real solution. She felt genuine gratitude toward him.
“Thank you, Mikhail Yuryevich. I have an audio recording proving all this,” she said. “But you’re right — children need to know how to stand up for themselves. Where are the classes held and how much do they cost?”
“We’ll train here, in our gym, after lessons. I’ll be the coach. No payment needed. I was once a candidate for master of sports in sambo but chose teaching. By the way, my whole family are teachers: grandmother, mother, father, sister… So I continued the dynasty,” he smiled.
“Thank you very much,” Katya sincerely said. “I’ll talk to Dima so he goes to training.”
“I already talked to Dima,” the principal admitted. “I just needed your consent.”
Katya warmly said goodbye, shook his hand, and, leaving, suddenly felt shy noticing his warm and expressive eyes. “And Misha is actually quite a normal name,” she thought quietly smiling.
Returning to the hospital, she told Valentin Viktorovich about the meeting with the principal. He nodded with satisfaction:
“And my princess, by any chance, isn’t in love? — he asked slyly. — Find out urgently if he’s married!”
“Oh, come on! Nonsense,” Katya blushed but secretly hoped Mikhail was single. After all, there was no wedding ring on his finger. The lawyer, as if reading her thoughts, laughed:
“You’d better take your ring off first — don’t scare good men away.”
Katya waved jokingly and went into the corridor. She stared at her wedding ring for a long time, remembering how right after the wedding she and Oleg went to the sea, where it slipped off her finger and disappeared in the waves. Her husband didn’t notice then, and when they returned, she tearfully confessed to her mother-in-law. Kira Anatolyevna, without a word, bought her a new ring — and it became their warm secret. She and her daughter-in-law had always been close, like family. Before Oleg left, his mother was seriously ill for six months, and Katya hardly left her bedside, knowing the outcome was inevitable. On her last day, the mother-in-law, struggling to speak, said:
“I bless you, dear. Thank you for love and care. I will protect you from there. Whatever happens — don’t be afraid. You will definitely be happy.”
Now, for Katya, the ring was no longer a symbol of marriage but a reminder of a woman she sincerely loved. Sighing quietly, she took it off, carefully put it on a thin chain, and hung it around her neck — like a talisman.
In the evening, during rounds, she found Valentin Viktorovich deep in thought. He lay staring at the ceiling, looking depressed.
“What happened?” Katya asked gently.
“Princess, I know I have cancer,” he said quietly but clearly. “And I know it’s the final stage. My days are numbered.”
“What are you saying! Rimma Pavlovna explained clearly: you were admitted here because there’s no space in therapy!” she exclaimed.
“Yes, I remember that performance,” he smiled sadly. “And I’m grateful for it. By the way, the pain did subside for several days. Once again, I’m convinced: strength of spirit and self-suggestion are serious things.”
It turned out that one intern, thinking the patient wouldn’t understand medical terms, showed him the tests listing “tumor markers” and “biopsy.” But Valentin Viktorovich, a former lawyer with an analytical mind, immediately understood everything.
Katya promised to return, ran into the corridor, and saw Rimma Pavlovna scolding a young doctor harshly for unprofessional behavior.
“What will we do, Rimma Pavlovna?” she asked.
“The same as planned,” the head answered coldly. “Preparing for surgery. And you — don’t let him lose heart.”
Ekaterina returned to the room, sat beside him, and looking him straight in the eyes, said confidently:
“You will have surgery, and you will definitely recover. Such procedures are routine here, and all end successfully. Our surgeons are excellent.”
She deliberately embellished — understanding the chances were slim but believing that hope can work miracles.
He was silent for a long time, then quietly said:
“Katya, listen to me. I’m a wealthy man. I have a daughter, but in recent years she only talks to me for money. I’ve decided — I will will you my house, apartments, everything I have.”
“First of all, you’re not dying, so enough with these talks,” she smiled. “And second, I’d better pay off my utility bills on my apartment first, and here you are offering me a house!”
Valentin Viktorovich laughed:
“You have a talent, baby, to turn everything into a joke. But as they say, you can’t take words out of a song… My time is near. My wife is waiting for me there. I only regret I couldn’t reconcile with my daughter.”
“Has she never visited you?” Katya asked quietly.
“She called yesterday. Asked when money would be transferred to her account. She’ll probably come tomorrow,” he replied with tired irony. “I am to blame for her. Very much. She can’t forgive me for one mother’s death… and the fate of another.”
Taking a deep breath, he began to tell:
“My wife Larisa and I met at sixteen. She was a beauty, and because of her, I fought in every district fight. After school, she entered a pedagogical university, and I went to law school. We married at nineteen. A year later, Larisa got pregnant. I was offered a contract in the military department — two years in Africa, where there was a war. You could get a military rank and good money there. I convinced her to have an abortion. I said, ‘How will you manage alone? I’ll earn, we’ll buy an apartment, and then we’ll have a whole bunch of kids.’ She cried a lot but agreed.
After the operation, the doctor recommended staying in the hospital, but she begged to go home so much that I took her. We then lived in a dormitory. I went to the kitchen to cook, and she stayed lying down. I came back — her temperature was nearly forty. I called an ambulance — they took forever. As a result — severe inflammation, emergency surgery… and no more children for her.
She seemed to petrify. I tried to convince her to eat, live, move… After a month, I flew to Africa. Served two years, came back, bought a three-room apartment, showered her with gifts. But Larisa changed. She smiled, loved me, but there was no fire in her eyes — the one I had fallen in love with. Several times I suggested adopting a child — she refused: ‘I work at school, there are enough children.’
After university, I worked in criminal investigation, then special forces, earning well. We opened a legal consultancy, then a second. Larisa got a second degree, became a lawyer. Business grew, life improved.
We were forty-two when I saw a two-year-old girl at the police department. She was in the investigator’s office — waiting to be taken by child protection services. It turned out her mother tried to sell her but got caught. I looked into the little girl’s eyes and froze. She was so much like Larisa it took my breath away.
At home, I talked about adoption again. My wife refused. But I still went to the orphanage, arranged for guardianship preparation, started taking the girl home. When I brought her, Larisa froze. We adopted Dasha. And my wife’s fire rekindled — the one that had gone out twenty years ago. We adored our daughter. She grew up smart, beautiful, kind.
We debated whether to tell her the truth. Decided at eighteen. I was against, but Larisa insisted: ‘She has a right to know who she is.’
When Dasha was seventeen, we were invited to a former colleague’s house. I remember that evening: icy rain, cold. A soaked friend ran to Dasha — Larisa scolded her but immediately changed her into a warm robe and wool socks. The girls planned to watch movies and ordered pizza. My wife and I stayed late at the guests. She hurried home. I had had too much to drink and irritably said: ‘Call a taxi, I’ll come later.’
She agreed. The driver either fell asleep or tried to run a red light — I don’t know…” His voice trembled, tears rolled down his cheeks. “An hour later, they told me Larisa was gone.”
It was a shock for Dasha. She withdrew. But from her glance, I understood she blamed me. I tried to talk — she turned away. Refused to enter university, got involved with a shady company. Ended up in police with drugs. I got her out, tried to explain she couldn’t live like that. She yelled: ‘You killed my mother!’
Then I exploded. I said: ‘She’s not your mother! I’m not your father!’ She had just turned eighteen. I thought I was doing the right thing. Gave her freedom. But since then, she doesn’t call. Only when she needs money.
Dasha seemed splashed with ice water. She shut down for several days, then suddenly asked me to find her real mother. What was there to find? I knew exactly where she lived — I was her lawyer when she tried to sell the child. Then she faced eight years in prison but got released in exchange for giving up the daughter.
I took Dasha to her biological mother. They talked a long time. Then what I didn’t expect happened. The woman had seven more children scattered among different fathers. Nobody worked, partners changed one after another, the house was full of drinking, poverty, and chaos. Touched by this life, Dasha began to pity her mother, brothers, and sisters and asked me for money to help them. I explained all the help immediately went to the nearest liquor store, but she didn’t listen. She even decided to take her biological mother’s last name. We had an account for her future — to ensure she was provided for and independent. Recently, I checked — the account was empty. Not a penny. I called Dasha for a talk, and she rudely accused me of ‘kidnapping’ her from her real mother, who ‘broke down and became an alcoholic’ because of it.
“Why didn’t you tell her under what circumstances she ended up with you?” Katya asked shocked.
“Why? Let her believe she belongs to some family. If she finds out she was sold, I’m afraid she’ll lose the will to live. I don’t want her to hate her mother. Better she thinks her mother just couldn’t cope.”
Katya left the room with a heavy heart and headed to Rimma Pavlovna’s office.
“Please tell me, does Valentin Viktorovich have a chance of recovery?” she asked quietly.
“There’s always a chance. Even for you — when you finally wear a dress and put on eye makeup,” the doctor teased, but softened seeing Katya’s serious face. “Don’t worry. Ninety-five percent chance of success. I’ve done such surgeries many times and know what I’m saying.”
Katya left the head nurse relieved. She visited Valentin Viktorovich and, with deliberate severity, announced:
“The surgery is the day after tomorrow. Get ready. The will is canceled — you have a hundred percent chance of full recovery.”
He looked at her sadly, but Katya caught a weak but living spark of hope in his eyes.
Returning home, she noticed the apartment windows were dark — Dima hadn’t returned yet. Her heart clenched. She called his number — the phone was silent. Without hesitation, she ran to the school. The lobby was dark, but the guard, recognizing who she was looking for, nodded toward the gym.
Katya quietly entered and froze. Her son, along with another boy, was practicing moves under Mikhail Yuryevich’s guidance. The principal moved confidently, clearly, correcting the students’ positions with a slight smile. Katya sat on a bench, trying not to disturb. Dima was so engrossed he didn’t notice his mother. After training, he turned, saw her, and ran happily, boasting about how he learned to throw and hold an opponent.
“Mum, now I can take on anyone!” he proudly said.
Katya looked at her son’s happy face and gratefully nodded to Mikhail Yuryevich.
He approached, offered tea while the boys changed. In the office, he said Dima had good potential.
“I want to hold classes on weekends too,” he said, hesitating slightly, “Can you or your husband bring him?”
“I can. My husband can’t. We’re almost divorced,” Katya replied.
“Me too,” he unexpectedly said, looking into her eyes too long.
Katya felt her cheeks flush. She quickly said the children had probably already changed. She and Dima left the school, and on the way, the boy chattered nonstop about every move, the coach, new friends. Katya kept thinking about that look — how warm and calm it felt near this man.
The next morning, Dima was eating his pancake with appetite and, for the first time in a long while, spoke about school:
“Mum, rich kids were bullying me there. But now I’m not afraid. Mikhail Yuryevich taught me a really cool move!”
“Just be careful, don’t hurt anyone,” Katya smiled.
“Oh, come on, Mum! We’re athletes. We control our strength,” her son answered importantly.
She smiled. Just two lessons — and her son was himself again: confident, cheerful, ready to go to school.
At work, Katya visited Valentin Viktorovich:
“Preparation for surgery has begun.”
“I know,” he replied quietly. “My colleague is coming today. We’ll draw up the will.”
“No wills!” she said sharply. “You’ll be fine.”
Turning around, she saw a young woman approaching the room.
“Is Valentin Viktorovich here?” the woman asked.
“Yes. Are you his daughter?” Katya clarified.
“Sort of,” the woman smirked coldly and entered.
A few minutes later, she rushed to the head nurse’s office.
“I heard my father is being prepared for surgery,” she began.
“Yes, that’s right. Don’t worry, everything will be fine,” Rimma Pavlovna replied calmly.
“Can I, as next of kin, refuse the operation?” Darya suddenly asked.
“Why?” the doctor was surprised.
“Don’t torture the old man. Why cut him if cancer will eat him anyway?” the woman said indifferently.
“You can only sign refusal if the patient is in a coma or declared incapacitated. For now, he makes decisions himself. So leave. And don’t play guardian,” Rimma Pavlovna said sharply, pointing to the door.
Angry, Darya ran out of the office. She stood in the corridor a bit and headed back to her father’s room.
“I hope those quacks will kill you,” she hissed passing by, and Katya standing inside froze in shock.
“Wait!” she called, rushing after her.
The woman stopped, looked arrogantly around.
“How can you talk to your father like that? He needs support now, not your hatred!” Katya protested.
“I sincerely hope he doesn’t survive,” Darya calmly said, looking straight into her eyes. “You don’t know who he really is. Believe me — he deserves to die.”
“Darya,” Katya said quietly, “you should look at the twenty-five-year-old criminal case involving your mother.”
Without waiting for a response, she left.
“What case?” the woman shouted, but the nurse was already gone behind the door.
In the evening, saying goodbye to Mikhail Yuryevich at the school, Katya met one of the mothers from the parent committee — a kind woman who worked nearby in a store.
“Katya, did you hear what happened?” she asked worriedly.
“No. What happened?”
“Your Dima really ‘met’ a sixth-grade bully today. His parents rushed to school yelling. The principal told them they don’t raise their child properly and that if extortion and beatings of younger kids continue, he will go to the police. There was a hellish scandal. These parents threaten that tomorrow a department inspection will come and Mikhail Yuryevich will be fired.”
Katya ran into the school and, seeing the light in the gym, sighed with relief. Mikhail Yuryevich was training boys and, noticing her, put aside the mat and approached with a warm smile.
“Glad to see you,” he said.
“And I’m so glad, you can’t imagine,” Katya exhaled. “I heard they want to fire you…”
“That’s true,” he nodded seriously. “I was suspended starting tomorrow. I think they won’t keep me here, but I won’t give up. I’ll try to ‘expose’ some officials protecting bullies from rich families so they won’t care about PR.”
He smiled sadly but added immediately:
“But I’ll continue training Dima. I live nearby — if you don’t mind, he can come to my place. He has great potential.”
“Of course, with pleasure!” Katya exclaimed, then asked painfully, “But… are you losing your job because of my son?”
“No!” he answered firmly. “Don’t even think that. I fought not just for Dima, but for all children. If we raise a generation believing money solves everything — the country will perish. I just did what I had to.”
He suddenly kissed her on the cheek. Noticing her surprised look, he blushed:
“Just… we’re friends now, right?”
Katya smiled and then, without hesitation, kissed him back. At that moment, she thought: “Why did I promise myself not to open up to men anymore? This one is definitely worth it.”
Valentin Viktorovich’s surgery went well, and he gradually recovered. Mikhail was still fired, but he didn’t give up. Together with Katya, they began collecting evidence, and when Valentin Viktorovich learned of this, he immediately involved his former lawyer colleagues. The bugging recording became key evidence in a high-profile case. The school began reforms, and the former bullies learned to respect others.
Years passed.
Darya got married and is now expecting her first child. Two of her younger sisters and brother live with her and their father — now they’re a real family.
Katya and Mikhail married. They had a son — Misha. When Katya calls him by his full name, she smiles: “Mikhail” is now not just a name. It’s a symbol of new beginnings, strength, love, and faith that even after the darkest winter, spring will surely come.