“Ugh, I’ve got no strength left,” the beauty exhaled.
Anfisa had spent the whole day at her brother Taras’s place. His wife, Larisa, had recently given birth to a lovely little girl, Alina, but had taken to bed herself. The caring sister-in-law took over the baby chores.
Her three-month-old niece instantly won her aunt’s heart. Those thin fingers, chubby cheeks, the impish look in her eyes—everything made Anfisa melt. She treated the little girl as if she were her own.
“I should buy her a new rattle,” flashed through her mind.
At home, the room greeted her with pleasant coolness. Anfisa tossed her bag on the couch and sank wearily into an armchair. Her thoughts drifted back to Alina.
Glancing at the clock, she noticed it was already six—time to cook.
“Hubby will be late again,” she said aloud and got up.
After a quick shower, Anfisa studied her reflection in the mirror and bitterly noted the first traces of fading.
She changed into something comfortable (she couldn’t stand robes), walked into the living room, and nearly fell—she’d tripped over toys scattered by the little rascal Vova, the sister-in-law’s son.
“Damn kid,” she muttered, gathering up the plastic clutter.
Her husband’s five-year-old nephew often stayed over. Artyom adored him—dotting on him as if he were his own.
Dishes clinked in the kitchen. Anfisa had just started cooking when the front door banged. She raised her eyebrows in surprise—her husband was home unusually early.
“Darling, I’ve just come from my brother’s,” she called from the kitchen. “Dinner isn’t ready yet—if you’re hungry, we can go to the pizzeria?”
“We need to have a serious talk,” came the reply.
The word “serious” seldom meant anything good. Wiping her hands, Anfisa went into the living room. Her husband sat on the couch, looking at her oddly. She sat opposite him in an armchair, raising her brows—a sign she was ready to listen.
“I’m seeing someone,” he said calmly.
The news didn’t surprise Anfisa; she’d suspected something was wrong for a while.
“A divorce?” she asked at once, trying to anticipate what would follow.
“Her name is Miroslava. She’s pregnant.”
“Congratulations,” she said, barely refraining from something stronger. “You finally got what you wanted—now there’ll be a lawful heir. I hope this time everything works out,” she added with icy politeness.
Anfisa couldn’t have children, and the topic had split their family more than once. Artyom himself had seemed like a good man; she’d thought she was lucky to fall in love with a smart, attentive husband. People envied them, never knowing the price of that happiness.
“You’ll have to move out,” he went on in the same even tone. “You’re on your own, no kids, you don’t need such a big apartment. Vacate it for me and the baby.”
“And for the mistress,” Anfisa added.
“For Miroslava,” Artyom corrected, lifting his gaze to his wife, waiting for her response.
Tears rolled down Anfisa’s cheeks. She had dreamed of giving the man she once loved madly a child—two, three… But the harsh verdict from the doctors had cut off that hope.
“It isn’t my fault I’m infertile!” she cried, jumping up and wiping her tears.
“You knew it would come to this sooner or later,” her husband retorted, his voice rising. “I need my own child. My own, not one from an orphanage!”
Anfisa understood him. She remembered how tenderly Artyom fussed over his nephew. He adored kids—but didn’t have any of his own.
“So—a divorce?” she asked, barely holding back sobs.
“Yes. But right now you need to free the apartment,” he repeated tonelessly.
“When?” Anfisa asked softly, lowering her eyes.
“Right now, if you like,” he shrugged. “You can move into my tiny place.”
She loathed that first-floor shoebox with all her soul because the windows always had to be covered—there was a pedestrian path right outside. But that was where they’d spent their first three years after the wedding, before moving to this spacious place, and the tiny apartment had stood empty ever since.
“Well then, I really did know—just didn’t want to believe it, but I knew,” Anfisa thought as she went into the bedroom. A dull ache settled in her chest. “Children… Is it my fault?” The sting of resentment at her own “incompleteness” pierced sharply. “Why me?” she asked herself as she pulled out a suitcase. “Yes, they need space, and the tiny place is enough for me. A pity…”
Twenty minutes later, Anfisa came out of the bedroom. No tears on her face. Turning away from her husband, not wanting to see him, she said quietly:
“I’ll come for the rest later,” and added in the hall, “when you’re not here.”
“Want help?” Artyom approached unwillingly.
“I’ll manage,” she snapped.
Seven years of marriage—and this is the finale, drifted listlessly through her head. “Maybe he’ll be lucky with that…”—she refused to say the name—“…mistress.” With a bitter smirk, she left the walls that had once felt like home.
A cold wind slashed her face as Anfisa reached the car, opened the trunk, and flung the suitcase inside.
Sitting behind the wheel, she noticed her fingers were trembling. Tears began to run down her cheeks again.
“It’s not my fault,” she whispered through sobs. “Not my fault…”
Her thoughts were tangled. Yesterday life had seemed settled; today it had collapsed. Artyom, her beloved husband, had thrown her out just like that—without apology.
“And for whom? For a mistress!” Her fingers clenched the steering wheel. “Afraid to tell me earlier—you knew I’d refuse. But once she’s pregnant… Well then, be happy… Though given how generous you are with housing, I doubt your happiness will last long,” she muttered bitterly.
She turned the key; the old Lada purred to life. Pressing the gas, Anfisa pulled away. Ahead loomed the rented apartment where she had once been so happy with her husband.
Memories flooded in like a tide. There they were—younger, carefree—moving into that tiny place. Laughing as they unpacked their modest belongings. The road ahead led into the unknown.
“We’re going to have a big family,” Anfisa had said, gazing into the distance.
“Of course, sunshine,” Artyom smiled. “A whole soccer team!”
But reality proved harsh. The medical diagnosis sounded like a sentence. “Infertility”—the word carved a deep scar in her soul.
Back then, the young woman felt as if everything were over. Yet there were people ready to help. Artyom didn’t leave her, insisting that the absence of children wasn’t the end of the world, many live that way, and they’d manage.
Aunt Nadezhda became a real pillar. Childless herself, she had managed to adopt a little girl from an orphanage.
“Don’t give up, dear,” Aunt Nadezhda would say. “Life goes on. Love isn’t measured by shared genes. Look at me and Liza.”
“But Artyom… he wants one of his own so much,” Anfisa hesitated.
“That’s fear talking, not reason,” her aunt shook her head. “‘One of your own’ is the child you love and raise. Blood is just biology. True fatherhood lives in the heart.”
Her faith was contagious. Slowly, Anfisa began climbing out of the darkness. A thought took shape: why shouldn’t they adopt?
But when Artyom heard the proposal, he exploded. His words were branded in her memory:
“I want only my own child! I won’t tolerate someone else’s in my house! It’s not the same!”
After that, adoption became a closed topic. Yet doubt took root in Anfisa’s soul. “What if the doctors were wrong? What if the problem isn’t me? But Artyom won’t even hear of going to the doctor. What do I do?” she tormented herself.
A couple of years after their wedding, the heat of love hadn’t yet cooled, but the hunger for motherhood clouded her reason. The worm of suspicion about male infertility gnawed at her from within. That’s how Mark—someone from her past—returned to Anfisa’s life.
Their secret meetings lasted several months. No miracle—no pregnancy. Then Mark was replaced by Denis. The story repeated itself.
Anfisa was already considering a third man, but she came to her senses in time, realizing the pointlessness of it. She felt sick with herself. Why? For the sake of a phantom chance at a child?! She stopped, refusing to lose her dignity entirely.
In the car her thoughts returned to Artyom. Once she had idolized him. Valued his mind, tenderness, kindness. Who would have thought he’d do this?
Even now, Anfisa found excuses for him. She understood why he’d taken a mistress. And why that woman was carrying his child.
“You wanted a child—you’ll have one. But why not tell me earlier? I wouldn’t have stood in the way of a divorce…” she whispered, staring at the wet asphalt. “Coward. Plain coward.”
Deep down, she kept a measure of gratitude for the bright moments of the past, but now that gratitude was drowning in a sea of pain and betrayal.
Evening wrapped the city; the lights came on.
Only the hiss of tires on asphalt broke the silence. The car rolled up to an old five-story building. Parking, Anfisa looked intently at the place where she was supposed to live.
“That’s odd…”—there was light in the apartment windows.
She left her suitcase in the car. Frowning, she headed into the entryway. The peeling walls smelled of damp and old plaster.
At her door she pressed the bell. Quick steps sounded inside; the lock clicked. A pretty blonde in a fluffy robe stood on the threshold.
“Hello—can I help you?” the stranger asked with a pointedly polite smile.
Anfisa was stunned.
“Sorry but… who are you?” she managed, feeling the tips of her fingers grow cold.
The blonde raised her brows as if the question were absurd:
“I live here. And you are?”
“I’m Anfisa. The wife of the owner of this apartment. And you?” Anfisa’s voice acquired a metallic firmness.
“Oh, I see!” The blonde hesitated, her smile turning tight. “Please, come in…”
In the cramped hall everything was tidy: someone else’s clothes hung in the closet; unfamiliar shoes stood neatly on the floor. Anfisa’s gaze swept the space, lingering on every detail.
“My husband and I rented this apartment months ago,” the blonde hurried to explain, catching her look. “Here’s the lease—for two years.”
She held out the document. Anfisa skimmed the main points and recognized her husband’s signature. Controlled anger crossed her face.
“Damn him to hell,” she hissed through clenched teeth.
The blonde recoiled in fright:
“Is something wrong?”
“It’s not your fault. I’m talking about my ‘dear husband,’” Anfisa said, sharply handing back the papers.
“Tea?” the girl took a step toward the kitchen, obviously trying to soften things.
“Thank you, no. I’ll be going,” Anfisa turned toward the door without looking at the tenant.
The clouds closed ranks; big drops drummed on the car roof.
She exhaled, pressing her forehead to the cool glass. The day had finally collapsed. “What now?” flashed through her mind. “Go home and make a scene?” But she’d never been one to scream—back in her youth she was nicknamed “Dough,” not for her figure (she was slim) but for her apparent softness and acquiescence.
“You’ll regret this,” Anfisa’s lips curved in a cold smile.
The rain beat harder, streaming down the windshield. Her thoughts churned, then slowly aligned into a clear line.
She remembered how her father, struggling to hide his emotions, had handed her the keys to this apartment, where they’d lived for four years. It was a generous gift, his last big investment in her happiness. She knew how much he cherished his parents’ old home, but her grandparents were gone, and her parents rarely went to the dacha anymore. So he sold that property and bought his daughter a three-room apartment downtown.
Suddenly it clicked. Starting the engine, Anfisa sped through the night streets—she knew exactly where she was going.
Soon a slender figure stepped out of the car, holding a bright cake box, climbed to the third floor of a familiar building, and rang the bell.
“Who is it now?” a displeased voice sounded behind the door.
The door swung open. On the threshold, in a stretched sweater, stood red-haired Yulia.
“Anfis?! What brings you here?” she exclaimed, breaking into a wide smile.
“Hi, Yul. Can I crash here for the night?” There was a tired plea in Anfisa’s voice.
Her friend immediately stepped aside, gesturing her in.
“Come in, of course. What happened? Your eyes…”
Even in the hallway, Anfisa caught the warm aroma of fresh tea and something homey.
“Auntie Anfisa!” a joyful little voice piped.
Little curly Polina ran to hug the guest. Anfisa gently patted the child’s head.
“Hi, my dragonfly. How are you?”
The girl clapped her hands when she spotted the box.
“Oh, cake! Can I have a piece? Right now?”
Yulia shook her head, strict but loving:
“Dinner first, little whirlwind. Then sweets. Deal?”
A few minutes later the women were in the kitchen. Anfisa sighed and sipped her hot tea.
“Artyom, that brilliant strategist, rented out his one-room place without even bothering to warn me. The cynical bastard!”
Yulia whistled, setting down her spoon.
“Whoa… Fire coming from our ‘Dough’! And you—how are you?”
Anfisa smiled bitterly.
“Turns out I’m now officially of no fixed abode.”
The redhead peered into her friend’s eyes.
“Stay as long as you need. There’s room. Mine ran off—and thank God, I breathe easier without him.”
Anfisa nodded gratefully—and suddenly her face lit with an idea.
“Listen, can I take Polina with me tonight? For a sleepover?”
Hearing this, the girl, busy with her soup, bounced on her chair with delight.
“Hooray! To Auntie Anfisa’s! Mom, can I? Pleeease…” She was already hopping down to run pack.
The hostess rubbed her nose thoughtfully, smiling.
“I don’t mind—maybe I’ll finally get a proper night’s sleep.”
“Perfect!” Anfisa stood, energy rushing back. “Then let’s go, princess! Real adventures begin!”
With happy squeals Polina dashed to her room.
“Thanks, sunshine. I’ll explain later.” Anfisa bent and kissed her friend on the crown of her head.
Ten minutes later the excited girl hopped into the car and settled into her child seat. Anfisa clicked the belts snugly and pulled the little one’s bag closer.
“Remember the rules?” Anfisa asked, stern but warm, watching in the rearview mirror.
The girl nodded solemnly, eyes wide.
“Yes, Auntie Anfisa! Sit still, don’t unbuckle, and don’t distract the driver. I’ll be good!”
“Good girl,” Anfisa smiled. “Off we go, then!”
Half an hour later they drove up to the building. After parking, Anfisa quickly helped the child unbuckle, and they dashed into the entryway through the downpour.
On their floor, Anfisa took out her key with a steady hand and opened the door.
As if on cue, Artyom appeared in the hall. Tousled hair, a wrinkled shirt, and bare feet spoke eloquently of a recent nap.
“What’s going on? Why did you come back?” he blurted, nervous, shooting a suspicious glance at the little girl who had pressed herself to Auntie Anfisa’s leg, kicking off her sandals.
“I came home, darling,” Anfisa parried coldly, with exaggerated nonchalance, taking off her wet coat. “Does that really need an explanation?”
Little Polina, her eyes flashing with fright, slipped into the familiar room with the toys.
“What the hell!” the man protested, stepping forward. “You don’t belong here! Clear out!”
Anfisa ignored his words like an annoying buzz. Chin high, she headed for the kitchen, where light spilled out and the smell of food lingered.
There, surrounded by dirty dishes, sat the very Miroslava who had decided to take her place. Heavily made up, she pretended not to notice the mistress of the house, wolfing down an open-faced caviar sandwich—clearly from Anfisa’s stores.
“How touching,” Anfisa’s voice rang like an icy bell. “Feasting at my expense? Enjoying the caviar? A pricey indulgence for… a temporary guest.”
Miroslava froze for a moment, then, by way of demonstration, took an even bigger bite.
“How long are you staying?” Artyom finally cut in, squirming in his chair. “Here for your things? Want help packing?” He tried for a businesslike tone, but the tremor in his voice gave him away.
Anfisa turned to him slowly, her gaze a scalpel.
“Charming. You’ve forgotten whose apartment this is. Mine. Bought with my money while you… what was it you were doing? Ah yes—‘promising projects.’”
“So what?” Artyom drew in breath. “You don’t have kids, and Miroslava…”—he nodded at her stomach—“is already five months along. It’s hard for her!”
“Is it?” With exaggerated interest Anfisa leaned toward Miroslava. “Congratulations. Although, honestly? Looks more like you just ate it. But anyway”—she flicked her hand—“I couldn’t care less. Your reproductive triumphs no longer concern me.”
Artyom coughed nervously. Miroslava snorted; crumbs sprayed the table.
“Be reasonable,” Artyom babbled. “One room is enough for you, isn’t it? And we’ll soon need more space… for a crib…”
“Shut up,” Anfisa said, in a tone that made Artyom flinch instinctively. She stepped close; her palm rested on his cheek—a gesture loaded with false tenderness. “How you used to reproach me for not giving you an heir. Remember? ‘An incomplete family,’ ‘selfish’…” Her voice turned syrupy. “Well—congratulations on completeness.” And she gave him a sweet, lingering kiss right on the lips. Miroslava choked on her sandwich and started coughing.
“I… I’ll help pack!” Artyom gasped, breaking free.
“You always threw my childlessness in my face,” Anfisa no longer looked at him, taking out some keys. “I don’t care what you think of me now. Here—” she tossed the keys so they rang at his feet. “Keys to your old one-room. Vacate my space. Now.”
“It’s… it’s occupied,” Artyom muttered, staring at the floor. “Rented… Long-term lease…”
Anfisa’s eyes narrowed to slits. A ringing slap cracked through the hall.
“Scoundrel!” Her once even voice burst like thunder. “So you sent me there knowing it was rented out? Set me up on purpose? So I’d look like an idiot evicting strangers?!”
“Anfis, calm down…” he began, covering his cheek.
“I don’t care where you go!” she cut him off. “Find a hole by the day, then look for a rental. Or head straight to the maternity ward—hear they give you a bed there.”
Miroslava smirked with nasty satisfaction, having found her voice at last.
“You won’t evict your tenants, will you—the contract. You love contracts, don’t you, Artyom? If you do evict them, you’ll pay a penalty. Three months. A tidy sum, hmm?”
Artyom’s face went purple. Pressing herself to the wall, Miroslava slipped into the room, pretending to be busy.
“You heard your… mistress?” Anfisa stood before him, all coiled steel. “Pack your stuff. Today. Now. Come for the rest on Friday. Don’t be late.”
She shoved him in the chest. He barely kept his feet and recoiled to the wall.
“If you don’t show up, all your junk—all your ‘memories’ of our life together—goes to the dump. You’re not registered here. To me you’re nobody. Air. Get out.”
Head bowed, Artyom trudged to the bedroom. Miroslava immediately popped back out and planted herself in the kitchen, squawking loudly:
“She’s completely lost it! How did you even live with her, you poor thing? Such a hysteric! And that tone—‘my apartment’… We’ll be the masters here soon enough!” She clucked like a hen, watching Artyom haul suitcases.
“Mira, do something besides running your mouth!” he barked, hurling a couple of shirts into a bag. “It’s your fault this happened!”
“Mine?!” Miroslava screeched. “You brought me here yourself, darling! ‘We’ll relax while she’s away’! And now blame me? I ate the caviar all by myself too, did I?!”
Half an hour of tense packing and bickering later, the pair finally disappeared.
Silence fell. Leaning against the doorframe, Anfisa inhaled deeply, trying to steady her trembling hands. She walked slowly to the kitchen. Without thinking, she turned on the tap and started scrubbing grease from the plates—mechanical motions that helped her calm down. The mess left by the uninvited guests annoyed her, but it also gave her something to hold on to.
A few minutes later came the light patter of little feet.
Polina ran out of the room clutching a bright sheet of paper.
“Aunt Fisa! Look what I drew!” she cried, hopping onto a chair and solemnly presenting her picture.
Her blue eyes shone with pride.
Anfisa started, torn from her thoughts. The sight of the happy child and her trust melted the ice inside. A gentle, genuine smile touched her lips.
“Oh, how beautiful! Show me quickly, sunshine! Who did you draw?”
“That’s Mom,” Polina pointed at a figure with yellow curls. “That’s me!”—she tapped the small figure beside it—“and that’s YOU!” Her finger landed on the biggest figure with a grin from ear to ear. “This is my family! The very best!”
Anfisa froze. The words “my family,” spoken with such sincere warmth, were like balm. Something fluttered deep inside—something important and fragile. In spite of the bitterness of betrayal, a wave of unexpected, pure happiness washed over her. She hugged the girl tightly, pressing her close.
“How about a bath?” Anfisa asked, her voice unexpectedly soft. “With bubbles and little boats?”
Polina squealed with delight.
“Yes! Yes! Yes! With pink bubbles!”
Her bright laughter echoed through the apartment—emptied, but no longer alien. Anfisa laughed too, easily scooping the little one up.
“Then let’s go pick the nicest-smelling bubbles! And we’ll choose you the fastest boat!”
They headed for the bathroom, leaving anxiety and anger behind. Outside, as if in step with the change in mood, the clouds began to part; the last rays of sun timidly slid across the wall, painting it with warm light.
The clear peals of laughter and splash of water filled the space, dispersing the heavy tension for good. Looking at Polina’s happy, trusting face, Anfisa suddenly understood: everything would be all right. They would manage. The three of them. Because now she truly had a family. A real one. The very best.