Veronika walked through the old park, her steps slow, shuffling over the fallen leaves. It was late August, but the leaves had already begun to yellow and drift down, as if nature itself were hinting: the time for change had come—and it isn’t always kind. She walked without really watching where she was going, her thoughts circling back again and again to recent events.
“How could I have been so wrong…” she murmured, eyes on the ground.
The scene still stood clear before her: Vitaly—her Vitalik—with whom she had made plans, discussed a wedding, even picked out names for future children, suddenly said, as if a thunderclap had split the sky:
“You see, Nika, I’ve fallen in love with someone else. It happens.”
And he’d said it without the slightest trace of regret, cold and dry, as though he wasn’t talking about two years of life together, but about some useless, tiresome thing you can simply toss out.
He calmly pushed her out the door, adding, “Don’t you dare linger—Olga is moving in soon.” Yes, just like that—Olga. A complete stranger who would now live where only yesterday Veronika had cooked dinner, ironed his shirts, and dreamed of a shared future.
And that was that. No remorse, no attempt to explain, not even a perfunctory politeness. He simply erased her from his life, though only a week earlier he’d sworn he couldn’t live without her.
But the pain of betrayal was strangely mixed with relief. Veronika couldn’t even understand now what had ever charmed her. Tall, well-built, sure. But inside—emptiness. Selfishness, greed, the desire to always take and never give.
Vitaly knew how to coax and persuade, and she, naïvely, believed him. She handed over her pay “for the common good”—for the apartment, for renovations, for his urgent, “important” expenses. He’d even fished out her last paycheck under the pretext: “I have to settle some debts right away.” And a week later—a kick out the door, a pointed finger toward the exit, and Veronika was left with nothing: no housing, no savings, not even a spot in the dormitory.
Veronika sighed heavily. The thought that she had nowhere to sleep bored into her skull worse than a toothache. Today she wandered the park for the simple reason that she didn’t know where to go. A hotel—too expensive. Friends—awkward, everyone has their own worries. Her mother lived in another city.
She stopped by an old oak, laid her palm on the rough trunk as if trying to draw support from it. And then she heard a groan. Quiet, as if someone were trying to restrain their pain.
Veronika grew alert, walked around the oak, and saw a man on a bench. He sat slightly hunched, clutching his chest. His face was pale, his lips bluish, his gaze clouded.
“Are you unwell?” she asked, startled, and without waiting for an answer, pulled out her phone. “I’ll call an ambulance!”
Her fingers trembled, but she dialed quickly. While explaining to the dispatcher where she was, she supported the man with her other hand. School safety lessons and her nurse mother’s advice surfaced in her mind: she loosened his shirt collar, gently laid him along the bench, and monitored his pulse while waiting for help to arrive.
“Hold on, they’ll be here any minute,” she kept repeating, like a mantra.
The minutes stretched out unbearably, but finally a siren wailed in the distance. Orderlies ran up, transferred the man to a gurney, started an IV right in the ambulance. Veronika followed them with her eyes, her heart pounding as if someone close to her had nearly died.
She sat down on the bench, trying to steady herself, and suddenly noticed a wallet on the ground beneath it. The man must have dropped it when he began to feel ill.
“What a mess,” Veronika whispered, picking it up. Inside were documents, plastic cards, and a large amount of cash. Veronika decided at once to return it. It never even crossed her mind to keep it—she was too honest for that, and her upbringing wouldn’t allow it.
At the hospital admissions desk she asked about the man who had just been brought in from the park.
“You can’t see him yet. Relatives may wait in the corridor,” the nurse said curtly.
Veronika lowered her eyes. She wasn’t a relative, and explaining would mean getting into unnecessary conversation. But she didn’t want to leave, either. She sat on a chair by the wall and decided to wait.
People came and went; some were crying. Veronika sat quietly, pressing the found wallet to her chest. A strange feeling came over her: as if fate had brought her here on purpose, to fill—even a little—the emptiness left after Vitaly’s departure.
Several hours passed. The corridor grew quieter; there were almost no visitors left. Only the occasional squeak of a cart and the muffled voices of the staff broke the silence. Veronika was beginning to nod off from exhaustion when a young nurse in a blue smock called to her.
“Your relative is all right,” she reported. “You got him here in time, the doctors did everything necessary, his condition is stable. You can go in—he’s awake.”
Veronika exhaled in relief and went into the ward. The man she had saved lay in bed, pale but with open eyes. When he saw her, he lifted himself slightly.
“It was you…” he said softly.
Veronika came closer and set the wallet on the bedside table.
“You dropped this in the park.”
The man took the wallet, opened it, counted the contents, and shook his head as if he couldn’t believe it.
“You know, I thought it was gone for sure. It’s rare these days to meet a decent person.”
Veronika flushed, embarrassed.
“Oh no… I just did what anyone should.”
He smiled—tired, but warm.
“Thank you so much. For everything. You didn’t just return my wallet—you saved my life in the first place. I’m Artyom Alekseevich. And your name?”
“Veronika,” she introduced herself.
“Veronika…” He hesitated, glancing at the wallet. “Please, let me thank you.”
Veronika blushed and shook her head firmly.
“No, please don’t! I won’t take anything. That’s not why I…”
But then, as if something nudged her from within, she added quietly:
“Although, you know… things are really hard for me right now. I have no money at all, and I need to at least rent a room. If you could lend me a little, I would pay you back with my first paycheck.”
Artyom Alekseevich took out several bills and held them out to her.
“Take it. Is this enough?”
“Yes,” she mumbled, accepting the money with embarrassment. “Thank you.”
That very evening, Veronika rented a small room in a communal flat not far from work. An old wardrobe, a narrow bed, and a table with a wobbly leg—everything was shabby, but for her it was salvation.
The next day, after finishing her errands, she returned to the hospital. Artyom Alekseevich was glad to see her. That was how their visits began: Veronika brought fruit, books, and fresh newspapers. They talked, laughed, and time flew by.
When the man was discharged, he invited her over.
“Come for tea. I still owe you.”
Veronika hesitated for a long time, but in the end she baked an apple pie using her mother’s recipe and went.
Artyom Alekseevich’s apartment turned out to be spacious, but it felt empty.
“I live alone,” he explained at once, showing her into the living room.
Over tea and pie the conversation flowed on its own. Despite the fact that Artyom Alekseevich was several decades older, they found plenty of common ground.
At one point, mustering her courage, Veronika told him about herself—how she had lived with Vitaly, trusted him, and ended up penniless. Her voice trembled, but Artyom Alekseevich listened calmly, without interrupting.
“Believe me,” he said when she finished, “everything that happens to us ultimately leads to something better. If that person left, it means he was a stranger to you. And the sooner you understood that, the better for you.”
There was no lofty tone in his words—only sincerity—and Veronika felt lighter.
Then it was his turn. He spoke reluctantly, but Veronika listened attentively, and little by little he opened up.
“My wife died six years ago,” he said, staring into his cup. “She was ill for a long time. We lived like two halves of one soul. After she died, I was left with my son… well, my stepson, my wife’s boy. I raised him from diapers, thought of him as my own, and he… as soon as he grew up, he went to his biological father. That man hadn’t wanted to know him before, and then suddenly remembered—and the boy chose him.”
Bitterness crept into Artyom Alekseevich’s voice, and Veronika felt her heart clench.
“And recently something finished me off,” he paused. “My apartment was robbed. They took antiques, family heirlooms that my great-grandfather, grandfather, and then my father had carefully preserved. And do you know who did it?” He looked up at Veronika. “My stepson.”
Veronika gasped.
“That can’t be…”
“Afraid so. When I was told the thief’s name, I was out walking in the park. I felt a sharp pain in my chest—I thought that was it, the end. Turns out that was when fate led you to me.”
He fell silent, then stood and took a heavy, leather-bound album from a shelf.
“My whole life is in here,” he said with a faint smile. “Sometimes I look through it to remind myself there were good times.”
Veronika carefully took the album and opened the first page. At first there were wedding photos: a young, happy couple with shining eyes. Then pictures of a child: a tiny bundle in swaddling, later a little boy with toys.
“That’s the very child I always thought of as my son,” Artyom Alekseevich said quietly. “Here he’s older…”
And Veronika froze, her fingers glued to the page. In the photo was Vitaly. Her Vitalik. With that same cocky grin, the same squint. She could barely draw a breath.
“Vitaly?..” she whispered.
“Yes. You know him?” Artyom Alekseevich looked up at her and understood everything at once from her face. “My God… So he’s the one? The one who…”
Veronika nodded, feeling an icy chill inside.
Silence fell. Artyom Alekseevich sank slowly into a chair, his face turned even paler.
“So he did that to you as well…” he whispered. “This is all my fault… I raised him wrong, didn’t watch him closely enough… Maybe I didn’t give him something he needed.”
“No,” Veronika cut him off firmly. “It isn’t your fault. He chose this path himself. Please don’t blame yourself. You’re a very kind person.”
The man slowly took his hand from his face. His gaze was full of sorrow, but gratitude flickered in his eyes.
“Thank you, Veronika. You’re right. But my heart still aches…”
That same evening, Artyom Alekseevich said, unexpectedly:
“You know, Veronika, why are you renting a place when I have empty rooms? Move in with me. We get along so well. You won’t be lonely, and I’ll be at ease knowing there’s someone nearby I can trust.”
Veronika was taken aback.
“But how… it feels awkward…”
“What’s awkward about it?” he countered gently. “You can see—I’m alone. It’s always easier for two.”
Veronika lowered her eyes and, after a brief pause, said:
“All right. But only on one condition: I’ll take over all the household chores.”
“Deal,” he nodded with a smile.
And so they began living together. Veronika studied and worked, and on weekends she took on the housework: washed windows, laundered curtains, organized the closets. At first, Artyom Alekseevich tried to help, but she said sternly:
“Artyom Alekseevich, we had an agreement. Your job is to rest.”
He obeyed, though secretly he still tried to please her: sometimes he would have dinner ready for her return or bring flowers from the market.
Everything was wonderful—until Veronika found out she was pregnant. The news hit her like a heavy blow. Pregnant… by that very Vitaly, whom she was now ashamed to even remember.
She hesitated for a long time before telling Artyom Alekseevich, but he asked first, noticing her condition:
“What’s wrong?”
She confessed. He was silent for a moment, as if digesting the news, then unexpectedly smiled gently.
“So there will be a child. And we’ll raise the baby together. Don’t be afraid, Veronika. Since you arrived, I myself feel newly alive. Now I have a reason to live again.”
Those words worked better than any sedative.
The hardest thing for Veronika was to tell her mother. Alla Viktorovna had always dreamed of another future for her daughter, and Veronika feared her disappointment. But when she called and, stammering, told her everything, she heard an unexpected reply:
“Sweetheart, you’re not alone. I’ll come. We’ll manage.”
And just a few days later, her mother stood on Artyom Alekseevich’s threshold. A petite, energetic woman, she immediately appealed to the host, and they quickly found common ground.
“You’re a good man, Artyom Alekseevich,” Alla Viktorovna said over evening tea. “I’m at peace about my daughter.”
He was embarrassed, but smiled back.
When Veronika’s daughter was born, life took on new colors. Alla Viktorovna happily doted on her granddaughter, giving Veronika the chance to finish her studies, and Artyom Alekseevich helped as much as he could.
They had all been living together for some time when, one day, Artyom Alekseevich said to Alla Viktorovna:
“We’re already like a family. Maybe it’s time to make it official?”
She blushed, flustered, and nodded. Soon, Artyom Alekseevich and Alla Viktorovna became husband and wife.
And some time later word reached them that Vitaly, confidently striding down a crooked path, had fallen in with a bad crowd and gotten involved in some shady dealings. Recently he’d been tried and given a hefty sentence.
“Let everyone reap what they sow,” was all Artyom Alekseevich said.
And they never spoke of him again.
Now they had their own life, their own family, where warmth and trust reigned. And when Veronika looked at her sleeping daughter, she understood: everything that had seemed frightening and irreparable had in fact led her exactly where she was meant to be.