Lidochka’s heart, the little girl with big brown eyes and braids, seemed to ring with hope as she hugged her mother’s waist and, pressing her cheek against her mother’s worn sweater, whispered:
— Mommy… can I play with the doll while you’re at work? We’ll wait for you together like real friends! I’ll put her to bed, read her fairy tales, and even share my tea from the toy teapot. We would wait for you like that… so you could come home and see how well we manage without you!
Katya, her mother, lowered her gaze. A heavy, almost unbearable sadness filled her eyes — as if all their poverty, all their struggle for every scrap of bread, was reflected there. She slowly ran her hand through her daughter’s hair, trying to smile, but the smile trembled like a leaf in the wind.
— My little daughter… — she whispered, her voice trembling — I would buy you the whole world of toys if I could. I would fill your room with dolls, teddy bears, toy trains, plastic castles, and real children’s picture books. I would make sure you never knew what sadness from lack meant. But… we don’t have that kind of money now. Not a single extra kopeck.
Lidochka was not offended. She just hugged her mother tighter and, looking up at the ceiling dreamily, said:
— That’s okay, Mom. I’ll grow up and become very, very rich! I’ll open a doll factory, and every girl in the world will get her own! And the first one — I’ll give to you.
Katya caught her breath at those words. She closed her eyes to keep the tears from falling. Why? Why is life so cruel to children? Why can’t she, a mother, fulfill her daughter’s simplest dream — to give her a doll? Why does poverty fall on a child’s shoulders like an unbearable burden?
It all began long ago. Once their town was alive. The factory hummed, the chimneys smoked, and people went to work with smiles, knowing a hot dinner and the warmth of home awaited them in the evening. But one day — without warning, without explanation — the factory closed. No one knew why. They said the owners had pocketed the money and fled abroad, leaving hundreds of families without bread. Among them were Katya’s parents.
She remembered sitting at the kitchen table, listening to her parents whisper in the dark. Over a bottle of murky vodka, they discussed how to survive.
— What will we live on? — her mother asked, her voice trembling like glass before it breaks.
— Something will turn up, — her father replied, but there was no conviction in his words. Only emptiness.
— What can you find here, in this damned backwater? — her mother exploded. — No jobs, no help, no hope!
The factory never reopened. People left. The town became like a ghost, like an abandoned theater. Katya’s parents began drinking more often to drown their fear, to forget they were failures. They laughed when they drank, but it was laughter of despair. And Katya watched them and understood: her childhood was over.
At school, she was teased. For her shabby uniform, for her shoes with holes, for a bag patched together from an old notebook. She was silent. Hid in the library. Read books about faraway lands where people did not go hungry, where children had dolls and dreams that didn’t end with “if only.”
But one day — on one of those “happy” evenings — her parents didn’t wake up. The bootleg vodka sold on the black market did its job. Young Katya was left completely alone. No parents, no inheritance, no support. Only a cold room and a debt to the landlady.
Then he appeared — a man in an expensive jacket, with a gentle voice and a warm smile. He offered help. An exchange of her apartment for “temporary housing.” Naive and broken, Katya believed him. And when she realized she was deceived, it was too late. She ended up in a tiny room outside the city, without heating in winter, without light in the evenings.
She got a job as a cleaner. Mopped floors, scrubbed toilets, took out the trash. They paid pennies for it. But one day a worker — a man with beautiful eyes and promises of happiness — started courting her. She believed him. Opened up. Trusted him. And when she found out he was married, it was already too late — she was carrying his child.
The daughter was born weak but strong in spirit. Katya named her Lidochka — after her grandmother, who once said: “Even in the darkest night, light at least a candle — and it will show you the way.”
Every evening, after putting Lidochka to bed, Katya would retreat behind an old curtain that separated her corner from the room and quietly, silently cry. Tears ran down her cheeks like rain on glass. She asked the silence:
— Why? Why can’t I give my daughter what everyone else has? Why must we live in poverty? Why is the world so cruel to those who just want to be happy?
Her salary was tiny. But even from it, she saved a few coins for Lidochka’s birthday — to buy a cake. Small, with cream, with one candle. That would be enough to make her daughter smile.
On the morning of the birthday, Katya took Lidochka to kindergarten, kissed her on the forehead, and went to the market. Not for food. Not for clothes. But for a miracle. For a doll.
At the flea market, among old pots and torn fur coats, she saw it. A doll. Tall, with a porcelain face, in a shabby but once luxurious dress. The eyes — real glass, with a veil of dreams. Katya froze. It wasn’t just a toy. It was a memory. It was hope.
— Hey, how much for the doll? — she asked, trying to sound indifferent, as if she didn’t care.
— Take it for a hundred, — the seller waved her hand. — I’ve been hauling it around for a month. No one wants it.
Katya’s heart pounded. One hundred rubles! She took the worn bill from her pocket, placed it in the woman’s hand, and, clutching the doll to her chest, went home.
At home, she washed the toy with warm water, carefully washed the dress, combed the hair. And then — attention! — on the inside of the dress, she noticed something strange. A pocket. Hand-sewn. Carefully, almost invisibly. Katya gently tore the stitches — and took out a sheet of paper, yellowed with age.
Written in trembling handwriting was:
“Older sister killed us. Vika Marycheva.”
Katya froze. The name… it sounded familiar. Very.
She remembered. Many years ago, a girl disappeared — Vika Marycheva. Daughter of a wealthy businessman. They searched, organized hunts, wrote in newspapers. And then — silence. They said the father, Vladimir Olegovich Marychev, after the tragedy, locked himself in his mansion and never came out. That he became a recluse. That his business thrived, but his heart died.
And now — the doll. That very doll. With a confession of murder.
Katya trembled. What to do? Go to him? Risk herself and her daughter? What if someone doesn’t want the truth to come out? What if it’s a trap?
But thoughts of Vika, her fear, how she might have hidden this note before dying, wouldn’t let her rest.
Three weeks later Katya decided. She went to the Marychev mansion — huge, like a castle, surrounded by a high fence and cameras.
— The master does not receive visitors, — the guard said. — And won’t.
— You think we have nothing to talk about? — Katya answered firmly. — I have something that belonged to his daughter.
At that moment, a black limousine arrived at the gates. A tall man in a strict suit — Vladimir Olegovich — got out. He looked at Katya, read not lies but pain in her eyes, and nodded:
— Come in.
In the office, among books and photographs, Katya told everything. About her daughter, the doll, the note. She took out the toy — and Marychev turned pale.
— This… this is hers… — he whispered. — I gave it to Vika for New Year… before…
He fell silent. Then, with a breaking voice, confessed:
— I knew that Valya, the stepsister, hated us. But I didn’t think she was capable of murder. She was afraid she’d be left without inheritance. That night… she poisoned the wife and daughter. Then burned the house down. I found only this doll… but thought it was long gone.
Now he understood: the doll was hidden. Someone saved it. And returned it.
— You and your daughter are in danger, — he said. — If the truth comes out, Valya might try to escape. I can’t take the risk.
The next day Katya and Lidochka moved to a country house — quiet, cozy, with a garden and a children’s room. Every day a guard named Andrey came — silent but kind. He brought groceries, medicine, toys. And then — just came. To talk. To smile. To give Lidochka a book.
After two weeks Katya worried:
— Andrey, what about my job? I can’t sit here forever!
— Don’t worry, — he smiled. — The master will arrange everything.
And indeed — Marychev came.
— Katya, — he said, — Valya has been found guilty. The evidence from the doll and the note is ironclad. She’ll get twenty years. You have nothing to fear anymore.
He stood, went to the safe, and took out keys.
— This is for the apartment. The one you were given for the old one — legally yours. I restored the documents. And… I would like you to work for me. In the social assistance department. You know what need is. You’ll help others.
Tears ran down Katya’s cheeks. For the first time in many years — tears of happiness.
Months passed. Life changed. The apartment — warm, bright. The job — respected. Lidochka went to a good kindergarten, wore beautiful dresses, had dolls — many dolls.
And one day Andrey came not with groceries, but with a bouquet and a ring.
— Katya… I love you. I love both of you. Marry me.
She said “yes.”
And exactly one year later, on a sunny day, Lidochka sat on the grass holding her most beloved doll — that very one with the note.
— This is Vika, — she told the little boy who looked at her with laughing eyes. — This is my sister. And this is your daddy.
The little boy grabbed the doll, and Lidochka laughed.
— That’s how it is, little brother, — she whispered. — Sometimes the light comes from the deepest darkness.
And at the window stood Katya and Andrey, holding hands.
Their past was painful.
But the future — bright.
Like morning after the longest night.