Olga knew all too well what poverty was. Her father had left their family long ago when she was just seven years old. Years later, she wondered what had caused it. Perhaps it was because her mother had been his “youthful mistake.” They got together when they were both seventeen during a summer of beaches and hiking trips. By autumn, it turned out Tamara was pregnant. Victor initially was “in shock,” seemingly unprepared for the consequences. Both the girl’s relatives and, surprisingly, his own parents pressured him from both sides, and they married in November.
After finishing school, Tamara didn’t pursue further education as she needed to raise her little girl. Victor, unable to make any career for himself and lacking the desire to do so, took his father’s old car and started working as a taxi driver, often opting for the night shift.
“Better to earn money, anyway your little brat keeps everyone up,” he would throw at his wife.
They barely had enough money for food, but housing was a bigger issue. So, Tamara took a job as a janitor, and they gave her a small company apartment. Healthy work for a strong woman, a few hours in the fresh air doing physical labor… But something unknown weakened Tamara’s body. Perhaps it was the early pregnancy and childbirth, or maybe the constant stress. She started feeling worse and worse. Sudden weakness overwhelmed her, she struggled to breathe, her heart would lose rhythm. Probably, if she had money for private doctors and expensive medicines, it might have been easier. At the clinic, they just prescribed her cheap pressure and heart medications—that was the end of it. Queuing at dawn for a doctor’s appointment, enduring long lines, and buying imported pills instead of cheap generics—Tamara had neither the strength nor the money for all that.
That’s probably when Victor decided to leave. He found an older woman—not from a poor background—and eventually moved to Moscow with her, hoping to earn well in this “city of opportunities” and that life would change for the better.
Meanwhile, Tamara was feeling particularly unwell. With her last strength, she broke ice on the sidewalks and spread sand on the paths. Coming home, she would immediately lie down. So, chasing after her ex-husband, suing him, or fighting for alimony was simply beyond her capacity.
Little Olya learned early to take care of herself and always remembered to help her mother. She could not only make sandwiches but also cook soup, clean their tiny room, and wash her things.
Perhaps if her mother had more energy, she would have sewn or altered clothes for her daughter, found a side job to buy more than just the necessities. But illness definitely dragged Tamara Igorievna into a mire from which there seemed no escape.
School was tough for Olya. She was capable and hardworking. Even in mathematics—the usually toughest subject for kids—she always had top grades. Olya always let those who asked copy her work. She also had a good sense of humor, making her pleasant to talk to.
But some girls in her class instantly disliked her.
They constantly mocked Olya’s clothes, pointed at her patched tights, and asked which grandmother at the market had bought her boots. Probably, the old lady felt sorry for the little ragamuffin and gave her her felt boots, nicknamed “goodbye, youth.”
The bullying intensified especially after the teacher announced the results of the latest test. Olya always got As, and the teacher would read her essays aloud, making it even harder for the girls who so cruelly mocked her, sometimes barely managing to scrape a passing grade.
“I know why Kuznetsova tries so hard,” declared one of the tormentors once, “She wants to charm some guy. She’ll solve math problems for him, and he’ll marry her out of gratitude. Otherwise, who would need a pauper like her… She’ll end up abandoned, just like her mother!”
These words were heard by the class teacher. She scolded the mocker and tried to comfort Olya, who burst into tears from the hurt. Tatyana Vasilievna did everything she could for the girl. She managed to get her free meals at school and repeatedly asked at parent meetings to exempt the Kuznetsovs from mandatory contributions “for class needs.” But these days, few people are willing to think of others.
“Why should we pay for someone else’s child?” shrugged the well-heeled mothers, dropping off their kids at the school in their luxury cars every morning.
The final blow to Olya’s reputation came when Tamara Igorievna discovered a “super dump” nearby. The houses around the yard were of Stalin-era design, a nice area, apartments were often bought here. New residents would throw out the belongings of the previous owners. At the “super dump,” you could find a rolled-up, brand new carpet, a decent nightstand, bookshelves. And unfortunately, when her mother asked Olya to help carry a table to their apartment—one of her classmates saw them. From then on, the girl was mockingly called “dumpster diver.”
Her desk mate demonstratively raised her hand:
“Can I move away from Kuznetsova? She smells like garbage, it makes me sick…”
Before the flustered teacher could find a suitable response, Sveta was already packing her things and moving to a friend’s desk in the third row.
That’s when Oleg Timofeev stood up. A handsome boy, admired by all the older girls:
“I actually prefer the last desk!”
And he moved next to Olya. The girl almost jumped away from him. She thought he had planned some new sophisticated torment.
“Timofeev, put on a gas mask,” Sveta advised.
“When I come over to you – definitely. You douse yourself in perfume so much it makes my eyes water,” Oleg replied.
The boys laughed willingly. Olya tried to focus on solving problems. For her, the agony was having a new desk mate. She had liked Oleg for a long time but never dared even dream about him. Contrarily, she used to hide from him. She would pull her sweater sleeves down, which she had outgrown and wore for several years, and shove her worn-out bag under the desk. She never told anyone that her mother had been sick for several years, thinking that if the class got this new information, she could expect not sympathy but a new round of taunts.
During the break, Oleg spoke to Olya amicably, but she hurried out into the corridor.
Days passed. Now the girl prepared for school particularly carefully each morning. She wanted to at least style her hair nicely. Olya helped her mother and decided to also clean the stairwell to earn a little money for herself, so she could buy a few new items.
At the same time, she was deathly afraid that Oleg was just waiting for a moment when she would trust him, start talking to him like a friend, and then he would cruelly laugh at her for the amusement of others.
So, when she found a note from Oleg in her diary one day offering friendship, Olya was more angry than pleased.
“You don’t need a ‘tugboat’; you study well enough, why are you clinging to me?!” she attacked Timofeev, “It’s just like the movie ‘The Prince and the Pauper.'”
“More like a story about an enchanted princess,” Oleg quietly replied, “It’s as if you were enchanted once, and you can’t believe that you are actually a beautiful princess.”
Olya just sat there, blinking. For the first time, she thought about the day she would graduate from school. If she didn’t act like Tamara Igorievna and didn’t give up on her studies, her life could indeed change. She would graduate from college, earn well, help her mom, and get her treatment.
A few days later, Oleg, as if by accident, walked with Olya as they returned from school—and saw her home. Along the way, he talked about himself. His family was quite well-off, friendly, with two kids—Oleg and his brother. He didn’t want to say it; it just slipped out when he mentioned that they had all recently vacationed in Spain.
Olya felt even more that she would never be “his equal,” and she withdrew. But Oleg didn’t give up.
Several days in a row, heavy snow fell. Tamara Igorievna and her daughter would go out into the yard at five in the morning to clear the paths. Unexpectedly, Oleg approached them.
“I’m walking the dog,” he indicated the red collie that accompanied him, “It’s cold today, Ol, give me a shovel; I’ll warm up.”
“If you’re cold—go home and drink some coffee,” Olya snapped back.
Oleg, without saying another word, took the shovel from her. Olya, in turn, took one from her mother. For a couple of hours, the young people sweated as they worked. Some early passersby even noticed:
“Good for you guys, that’s what it means to be well-raised. You’re not lazy, not sitting on your parents’ necks.”
The next morning, Oleg came again.
“Maybe I like hearing praise,” he joked, “And anyway, where’s my personal shovel? It’s about time to get a third…”
Then they drank tea in the tiny “janitor’s” room. Finally, rosy-cheeked from the fresh air, they rushed to school.
Now Olya had more free time. And she began to study the subject she was most interested in—English. It seemed that the easier and more fluently she could speak this foreign language, the faster the future she dreamed of would come. Soon, Olya won several competitions in a row, including the city one. She began to feel more confident and even agreed to go to the movies with Oleg.
The girls continued to mock, but now more sneakily, because there was never a time when Oleg didn’t stand up for Olya. His friends joined in. It became clear, say something nasty about Kuznetsova—you’ll get an “answer” right away.
Both passed their final exams excellently and submitted documents to the university, to the faculty of foreign philology. The dark streak in Olga’s life came to an end. After graduating, she became a very sought-after translator, collaborating with publishing houses. It was “high art” to translate literary works from English to Russian. Oleg went into business; he started his own travel agency, and excellent language skills only helped him. The young people married right after graduating, and for their honeymoon, they went to Venice.
Over the next few years, prosperity also came. First, they bought a small apartment in a nice area, then another—a three-room one, and gave the first one to Tamara Igorievna. After several treatments in good sanatoriums, the woman definitely shed a decade from her shoulders.
Olga and Oleg’s daughter and son grew up. But even when they were little, there were no problems. Olga worked from home, and her husband found a woman who helped her around the house.
The spouses missed the first alumni evenings, but when a round date came—fifteen years—they decided to go. For this, Olga bought a very beautiful emerald dress and visited her hairdresser again.
Former classmates met in one of the city’s restaurants. It was a bit strange to see respectable men and no longer young women—instead of boys and girls. Everyone recognized Oleg immediately, but Olga—only when they looked closer.
“Well, Timofeev, you chose a diamond… Who would have thought. We thought you just brought your wife—a young model, to show off,” said one of the former classmates.
Olga sat at the other end of the table, together with those who had made her cry so often before. She saw them carefully examining her, and in their glances, surprise mixed with undisguised envy. Each of the women told a bit about herself. Life had roughed everyone up. One still had no children, and it was unlikely they would ever appear. Another had recently divorced, a third was looking for work. That same Sveta, who had demonstratively moved to another desk many years ago, had her husband jailed, and she was left alone with three children.
Then they ate, drank, remembered the past… After a couple of hours, the Timofeevs began to gather.
“Why are you leaving so early?” Sveta was surprised.
“We have to pick up our daughter and son; they’re at the school of arts,” Oleg explained, “Glad to have met you.”
As they left, someone asked Sveta something, but it took her a while to gather the strength to speak.