“Dima, come have breakfast!” Katya called to her son as she set a plate of golden pancakes, a bowl of thick jam, and steaming cups of tea on the table.The ten-year-old boy, as usual in a gloomy mood, slowly entered the kitchen, sat down on a chair, and looked at his mother with a sullen expression:
“Mom, can I not go to school today?” he quietly said.
Such conversations had become the usual start to every morning in their home for the past month.
“Son, how can that be? You have to study. Tell me honestly — is someone bothering you at school?” Ekaterina gently stroked his head.
“No, it’s fine,” muttered Dima. “I just don’t want to go. That’s all.”
“Tell me what’s going on? You used to like school, the teachers were kind, you always came home smiling. What changed?” she insisted.
“Nothing changed! Leave me alone!” the boy shouted and suddenly jumped up from the table.
Katya went out into the hallway and saw her son hurriedly pulling on his jacket and tying his boots.
“Wait, you haven’t even eaten! At least let’s have breakfast, I’ll walk you to school,” she offered.
“No need, I’ll get there myself,” Dima snapped, grabbed his backpack, and ran out of the apartment.
The woman approached the window and watched as the boy dashed out of the building entrance and quickly headed toward the school. The school was right in their courtyard — a huge advantage: no busy streets to cross, and the trip took only a few minutes.
Dima used to be cheerful, sociable, with excellent grades and many friends. But over the past month, he seemed like a different child — he more and more often refused to go to classes, didn’t hang out with the other kids after school, and brought home more and more poor grades.
Katya tried to talk to him, but her son closed off, withdrew into himself, and didn’t want to share his feelings.
She understood: all of this was a consequence of the divorce. Dima was probably having a hard time coping with his father leaving. It had already been two months since Oleg left the family.
Ekaterina felt guilty — she had been too busy with work and household chores, paying little attention to her husband. The image of that evening was still fresh in her mind — when he finally decided to tell the truth.
He was silent for a long time, gathering his thoughts, then, looking straight into her eyes, declared that he had fallen in love with another woman and was leaving her for 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 resolute — silently packed his things, ruffled their son’s hair, said he would provide financial support and take him on weekends, and left.
— Mom, don’t cry. He’s a traitor. We’ll manage on our own.
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 he was bringing home less and less money. And in the last few months, he stopped bringing a salary altogether. After he left, Katya discovered that their savings—the money for repairs and vacation—had disappeared without a trace.
Their income had been modest: she worked as a nurse in the oncology ward, and he was an electrician at a factory. But two salaries were enough for a decent life and even some small savings. Now it had become difficult—no help from Oleg, and her salary barely covered food and utilities.
With a heavy sigh, Katya picked up the phone and dialed his number:
— Oleg, hi. We need to talk.
— What’s wrong? Or can’t you just leave me alone? — he answered irritably.
— I’m calling about Dima, — Katya stammered.
— Is he sick? — her husband asked angrily.
— No, but I think he’s either being bullied at school or he’s very upset because you left, — she replied hesitantly.
— Stop talking nonsense. Stop bothering me. I already said — I’m not coming back. If someone’s bullying him — let him deal with it himself, — he said roughly and hung up.
Suddenly, a wave of anger overwhelmed Katya. She dialed his number again:
— Listen carefully: tomorrow I’m filing for divorce and child support. If you think that by leaving the family you don’t owe anything else — you’re wrong. You’re mistaken, — she hissed into the phone.
— Great! Go ahead and file! And I’ll prove in court how much of my own money I put into repairing your shack. So you won’t get the full apartment, — Oleg replied sharply and hung up.
Ekaterina burst into tears. She still couldn’t accept her husband’s departure, always hoping he would come back. She even made sacrifices: got a new hairstyle, stayed on a diet for two months, carefully applied makeup. But it was all in vain. Looking in the mirror at her swollen, tear-streaked face, she firmly decided: she would no longer humiliate herself, would no longer trust any man.
With rage, 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 about Dima’s troubling behavior.
Arriving at the hospital, Katya put on her coat and went on the morning rounds with the head of the department, Rimma Pavlovna. The doctor was strict, especially with the junior staff, and all the nurses and orderlies called her “the hag” behind her back. 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 see her after the rounds.
Katya worried she might get fired. At one of the rooms, the doctor stopped and reported that during the night a patient had been admitted with severe abdominal pain and a suspicion of cancer.
— This is not just any patient, but the owner of several law firms in the city. He should feel here like in a five-star hotel! The task is to ensure maximum comfort for him. Ekaterina will be responsible for this, and you, young doctors, will assist her. Yes, exactly that — as assistants! When you have as much experience as she does, then I will give you that responsibility, — Rimma Pavlovna cut off the interns’ dissatisfied looks.
Hearing this, Katya sighed in relief — that meant she was not being fired. Together, they entered the room, and after greeting the patient, the head nurse suddenly raised her voice sharply:
— This is an oncology ward, not a sanatorium! What does the chief physician think he’s doing? Now they’re going to bring all the rich people here just because there’s no space in therapy? Are we now also working as therapists?
The elderly man lying on the bed, suffering from pain, looked confused and stared silently at her.
— So, Valentin Viktorovich, — Rimma Pavlovna continued, looking through the medical chart, — 67 years old. Abdominal pain. Maybe at this age, you should stick to a diet?
— I don’t know… it’s just hellish pain, — the patient answered uncertainly.
After giving her instructions, she nodded to Katya, inviting her into the office. Closing the door, Rimma Pavlovna softened her tone:
— Don’t be surprised by my performance. He clearly has cancer, and judging by everything, it’s advanced. He’s no fool — he understands that you don’t get admitted to oncology for gastritis. That’s why I put on this show. Your job is to convince him that it’s just a digestive upset. Today we’ll take tumor markers, but most likely a serious operation will be needed.
— Understood, Rimma Pavlovna. That’s brilliant, — Katya answered quietly.
— Now tell me honestly — what’s wrong with you? You used to be so lively, and now — it’s like your soul has left you. Has someone died?
— No… Family problems. My husband left. We were together for eleven years.
— And because of that you have to walk around like a beaten dog? What kind of years were those! He left — and thank God! Let someone else suffer with him now. The main thing — don’t take him back. Wait — maybe someone better will come along, — Rimma Pavlovna smiled. — By the way, I decided to promote you to head nurse. More responsibilities, but the salary is one and a half times higher. Pull yourself together, forget about that scoundrel. And please, stop walking around like a gray mouse. Put on some eye makeup, wear lipstick, put on a short skirt and go out there — conquer hearts!
— Thank you, Rimma Pavlovna, — Katya laughed.
— If only I were your age, darling! I would sparkle like that! And my husband? You can’t even kick him out! — joked the head nurse.
Katya left the office feeling a surge of energy. She was sincerely grateful to Rimma Pavlovna for that feminine “kick in the pants” and firmly decided she would never again call her a “harpy.”
Approaching the patient’s room, she entered with a warm smile:
— Hello again. I’m Katya. I’m going to take some tests from you now.
— Hello, beautiful lady, — 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.
— Tests are done. Would you like me to turn on the TV?
— No, I don’t like that box. Better give me something to read. A detective about a murder, for example.
— I’ll try to find something, but I can’t promise. Mostly, we have romance novels here.
— No, love stories aren’t for me. I’d rather 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.
— It’s my usual world, — he answered thoughtfully. — Lately, I’ve been doing notarial work, but sometimes I remember my years in criminal investigation and special forces. That was a completely different life.
— It must have been very intense, — Katya sincerely admired. — May I ask you something about your profession?
— Of course, no problem, — Valentin Viktorovich readily replied.
— Then I’ll go to the lab with the samples now and come right back to you. Okay? — she offered.
He nodded, and Katya quickly submitted the tests and immediately returned to the room.
— The thing is, my husband and I are divorcing, — she began. — We lived in an apartment gifted 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 is demanding 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 unfounded, — he said confidently. — All funds earned during the marriage are considered joint property. What he spent on repairs is his duty as a family member, not a basis for claims on your apartment.
— Thank you! You’ve really reassured me! — Katya rejoiced.
— Well, you upset me, — he smiled reproachfully. — Not knowing such basic things is inexcusable. But don’t worry, I’ll enlighten you.
They talked a little more, and Katya, feeling a warm sympathy and trust toward this elderly man, told him about Dima and his strange behavior.
— There are two possibilities, Katya, — Valentin Viktorovich said thoughtfully. — Either the boy needs psychological help because of his father’s departure, though at his age kids usually cope more easily with such changes. Or, more likely, he is being bullied at school.
— I wanted to talk to his class teacher, but my son literally begged me on his knees not to go, — Katya said sadly, tears glistening in her eyes.
— Then let’s do our own investigation, — he proposed with lively interest. — I’ll call my assistant, and tonight he’ll bring a miniature listening device. You’ll discreetly put it in your son’s backpack — and we’ll find out what’s going on there.
— Thank you very much, — she said sincerely.
The day flew by in its usual hustle and bustle, but Katya felt lighter and more confident than she had in the past two months. She was cheered by Rimma Pavlovna’s support, who, meeting her in the corridor, several times playfully squinted and gestured for her to put on some lipstick and not forget her femininity, even swaying her hips slightly, as if reminding her: “You’re a woman, not a nun.” In the evening, visiting Valentin Viktorovich, Katya received a small box containing a microphone and receiver and went home.
Dima was sitting at the computer, deeply engrossed in a game. Katya kissed the top of his head and went to prepare dinner.
— How’s school? — she asked when he sat down at the table.
The boy looked up at her — for a moment it seemed like he wanted to say something, but then he just shrugged and muttered, “Fine.” After eating quickly, he ran off to his room. Katya sighed heavily, hoping the listening device would help reveal the truth.
While clearing the table, she opened the trash can, took out the makeup bag she had thrown away that morning, smiled, and placed it on the nightstand — determined to put on makeup the next morning.
At night, she quietly entered the children’s room and carefully hid the microphone in the pocket of Dima’s backpack.
In the morning, after seeing Dima off, Katya returned to the hospital and immediately went to Valentin Viktorovich. He took the receiver from her, pulled out his laptop, and said he would handle the recording, while she could go about her errands.
After lunch, he called her over and grimly reported: the recording clearly captured several sixth graders extorting money from younger kids, insulting them, and beating them up in the bathroom. Moreover, the bullies threatened the children with violence against their parents, claiming their fathers were influential people and the school would do nothing.
Katya was stunned. She downloaded the recording and decided to act. First — a conversation with the principal, and if there was no reaction — an appeal to the media and the prosecutor’s office.
When she got home, she was surprised to hear from Dima that he was being called to the school. The boy looked at her fearfully, insisting he hadn’t done anything wrong and didn’t understand why they wanted to see him. Katya hugged her son and said firmly:
— I believe you. And no one will ever dare hurt you again.
She immediately called Valentin Viktorovich and told him about the summons. He advised her to be sure to record the conversation and not give in to pressure from the administration, especially if they were protecting the children of wealthy parents.
The next morning, Katya, determined and composed, stood by the principal’s office. The nameplate read: “Mikhail Yuryevich Protsenko.” The name “Mikhail” instantly annoyed her — back in school, she hated one Misha, a bully who tormented classmates. Then in nursing college there was the headman Mikhail — sneaky, selfish, always ready to betray for personal gain. So as she entered the office, she was mentally preparing for a fight.
“Please, have a seat, Ekaterina Vasilievna,” the principal greeted her warmly — a short man about thirty-five with a friendly smile.
“You wouldn’t believe it, but I know exactly what class my son is in,” she said sarcastically, expecting a trap.
Mikhail Yuryevich looked slightly taken aback but calmly continued:
“There’s a troubling situation at our school: some students have started intimidating the younger ones — extorting money, threatening, beating them. This is, of course, unacceptable. Our first thought was to expel the bullies. But children imitate their parents’ behavior, and we have a chance to reform them instead of just kicking them out. Besides, life will throw difficult people at them. So I want to offer Dima sambo classes. He will learn to defend himself — but more importantly, gain confidence. Sport builds a strong character. I was once bullied too, but when I started training, one firm look was enough — and aggressors backed off immediately.”
Katya looked at him, unable to believe her ears. He didn’t justify the rich parents, didn’t pressure her, didn’t try to cover 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 confirming 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 school. I’ll be the coach myself. No charge. I was once a candidate for master of sport in sambo but chose to become a teacher. By the way, my whole family are educators: grandmother, mother, father, sister… So I continued the tradition,” he smiled.
“Thank you very much,” Katya said sincerely. “I’ll talk to Dima and make sure he attends.”
“I’ve already spoken with Dima,” the principal admitted. “I only needed your approval.”
Katya warmly said goodbye, shaking his hand, and as she left, she suddenly felt shy noticing how warm and expressive his eyes were. “Misha, it turns out, is quite a normal name,” she thought quietly and smiled.
Back at the hospital, she told Valentin Viktorovich about her meeting with the principal. He nodded with satisfaction:
“Has my princess fallen in love, by any chance?” Valentin Viktorovich asked with a mischievous smile. “Quickly find out if he’s married!”
“Oh, come on! That’s nonsense,” Katya blushed but secretly hoped Mikhail was single. After all, he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. The lawyer, as if reading her thoughts, laughed:
“Dear, you should take off your ring first — don’t scare away good men.”
Katya waved playfully and stepped into the corridor. She stared long at her wedding ring, 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 hadn’t noticed, and when they returned, she tearfully confessed to her mother-in-law. Kira Anatolyevna bought her a new ring without saying a word — and it became their warm secret. They had always been close, like family. Before Oleg left, his mother was gravely ill for six months, and Katya hardly left her bedside, knowing the end was inevitable. On her last day, struggling to speak, her mother-in-law said:
“I bless you, dear. Thank you for your love and care. I will protect you from beyond. No matter what happens — don’t be afraid. You will be happy.”
Now the ring was not a symbol of marriage for Katya but a reminder of the woman she truly loved. She sighed quietly, took the ring off, carefully put it on a thin chain, and hung it around her neck — as a talisman.
That evening, during rounds, she found Valentin Viktorovich deep in thought. He lay staring at the ceiling, looking dejected.
“What’s wrong?” Katya asked gently.
“My princess, I know I have cancer,” he said quietly but clearly. “And I know it’s the last stage. My days are numbered.”
“Oh no! Rimma Pavlovna clearly explained: you were admitted here because there’s no room in therapy!” she exclaimed.
“Yes, I remember that performance,” he smiled sadly. “And I’m grateful for it. By the way, the pain really did ease for a few days. Once again I’m convinced: strength of spirit and self-suggestion are serious things.”
It turned out one of the interns, thinking the patient wouldn’t understand medical terms, showed him the tests where “tumor markers” and “biopsy” were noted. But Valentin Viktorovich, a former lawyer with an analytical mind, understood everything right away.
Katya, promising to come back, ran out into the corridor and saw Rimma Pavlovna sternly scolding a young doctor for unprofessional behavior.
“What shall we do, Rimma Pavlovna?” she asked.
“The same as we planned,” the head nurse replied coldly. “Prepare him for surgery. And you — don’t let him lose heart.”
Katya returned to the ward, sat down beside him, and looking him straight in the eyes, confidently said:
“You have an operation ahead, and you will definitely get better. Such procedures are performed here regularly, and everything usually ends successfully. We have excellent surgeons.”
She deliberately embellished the truth — 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 communicates with me for money. I’ve decided — I will leave you my house, apartments, everything I own in my will.”
“First of all, you’re not dying, so enough of those talks,” she smiled. “And secondly, I need to pay my utility bills for my own apartment first, and you’re offering me a house!”
Valentin Viktorovich laughed:
“You have a talent, kiddo, to turn everything into a joke. But, as they say, you can’t take words out of a song… My time is nearing its end. My wife is waiting for me there. I only regret that I couldn’t reconcile with my daughter.”
“Has she never visited you?” Katya asked quietly.
“She called yesterday. Asked when the money would come to her account. Probably will rush over tomorrow,” he replied with tired irony. “I’ve wronged her. A lot. She can’t forgive me for the death of one mother… and the fate of the other.”
Taking a deep breath, he began to tell the story:
“My wife Larisa and I met when we were sixteen. She was a beauty, and I got into every fight in the neighborhood for her. After school, she enrolled in pedagogy, I in law. We married at nineteen. A year later, Larisa got pregnant. I was offered a contract at the military department — two years in Africa, where there was a war. There, you could earn a military rank and good money. I convinced her to have an abortion. I said, ‘How will you manage on your own? I’ll earn money, we’ll buy an apartment, and later we’ll have a bunch of kids.’ She cried for a long time but agreed.
After the surgery, the doctor recommended staying in the hospital, but she begged so much to go home that I took her. We were living in a dorm then. I went to the kitchen to cook, she stayed lying down. I come back — she has a fever close to 40°C. I called an ambulance — they took forever to arrive. In the end — severe inflammation, emergency surgery… and after that, she couldn’t have children anymore.
She seemed to turn to stone. I urged her to eat, to live, to move… A month later, I left for Africa. Served two years, returned, bought a three-room apartment, showered her with gifts. But Larisa changed. She smiled, loved me, but her eyes lacked the old fire — the one I fell in love with. Several times I suggested adopting a child — she refused: ‘I work at a school, we have enough children.’
After graduation, I worked in criminal investigations, then in a special unit, earning well. My wife and I opened a legal consultation, then a second one. Larisa got a second degree and became a lawyer. The business grew, life got better.
We were forty-two when I saw a two-year-old girl at the police station. She was sitting in the investigator’s office — waiting to be taken by child protective services. It turned out the mother tried to sell the child but got caught by operatives. I looked into the little girl’s eyes and froze. She looked so much like Larisa it took my breath away.
At home, I brought up adoption again. My wife refused. But I still went to the orphanage, arranged preparation for guardianship, started taking the girl home. When I brought her home, Larisa froze. We adopted Dasha. And the fire reignited in my wife’s eyes that had gone out twenty years ago. We adored our daughter. She grew up smart, beautiful, kind.
We debated for a long time whether to tell her the truth. We decided — at eighteen. I was against it, but Larisa insisted: ‘She has the right to know who she is.’
When Dasha was seventeen, we were invited to visit my former comrade. I remember that evening: icy rain, cold. Dasha’s drenched friend came running over — Larisa scolded her but quickly changed her into a warm robe and put wool socks on her. The girls planned to watch movies and ordered pizza. My wife and I stayed late. She was rushing home. I, having drunk too much, irritably said, ‘Call a taxi, I’ll come later.’
She agreed. The driver, either fell asleep or decided 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.”
For Dasha, it was a shock. She shut herself off. But from her eyes, I could tell — she blamed me. I tried to talk to her — she turned away. She refused to go to university, got involved with a questionable crowd. She ended up in police custody with drugs. I pulled her out, tried to explain that this life was no good. And she yelled: “You killed my mother!”
That’s when 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. Giving her freedom. But since then she doesn’t call. Only when she needs money.
It was like she’d been doused with icy water. She shut down for days, like she was numb. Then suddenly she asked me to find her real mother. What was there to find? I knew exactly where she lived — I’d been involved in her case as a lawyer when she tried to sell the child. She faced eight years in prison but was released in exchange for giving up her daughter.
I took Dasha to her biological mother. They talked for a long time. Then what happened next was something I never expected. The woman had seven other children, each from different fathers. No one worked, partners came and went, the house was full of drinking, poverty, and complete chaos. Touched by this life, Dasha began to pity her mother, brothers, and sisters, and started asking me for money to help them. I explained that all the help would instantly go to the nearest shop for vodka, but she wouldn’t listen. She even decided to take her biological mother’s last name.
My wife and I had a bank account where we saved for our daughter’s future — to ensure she was secure and independent. Recently I checked — the account was empty. Not a penny. I called Dasha for a talk, and she answered harshly, accusing me of having “kidnapped” her from her real mother, because of which she “broke down and started drinking.”
— Why didn’t you tell her under what circumstances she ended up with you? — Katya asked, shaken.
— Why? — Valentin Viktorovich answered quietly. — Let her believe she’s part of some family. If she finds out she was sold, I’m afraid she’ll lose the meaning of her life. I don’t want her to hate her mother. It’s better if she thinks her mother just couldn’t cope.
Katya left the ward with a heavy heart and headed to Rimma Pavlovna’s office.
— Please tell me, is there any chance Valentin Viktorovich will recover? — she asked softly.
— There’s always a chance. Even for you — when you finally put on a dress and put some makeup on your eyes, — the doctor teased, but seeing Katya’s serious face, she softened: — Don’t worry. In terms of percentage — a ninety-five percent success rate. I’ve done these operations many times before. I know what I’m talking about.
Katya left the head doctor’s office with relief. She stopped by Valentin Viktorovich’s room and, with deliberate severity, announced:
— The operation is the day after tomorrow. Prepare yourself. The will is canceled — you have a one hundred percent chance of full recovery.
He looked at her sadly, but Katya caught a faint, yet alive, spark of hope in his eyes.
On her way home, she noticed the apartment windows were dark — that meant Dima hadn’t returned yet. Her heart clenched. She dialed his number — the phone was silent. Without hesitation, she ran to the school. The lobby was dark, but the guard, recognizing whom she was looking for, nodded toward the gym.
Katya entered quietly and froze. Her son, together with another boy, was practicing moves under the guidance of Mikhail Yuryevich. The director moved confidently and clearly, correcting the students’ positions with a slight smile. Katya sat on a bench, trying not to disturb. Dima was so engrossed that he didn’t notice his mother. After the training, he turned around, saw her, and ran to her with a joyful shout, boasting how he learned to throw and hold an opponent.
— Mom, now I can beat anyone! — he said proudly.
Katya looked at her son’s happy face and gratefully nodded at Mikhail Yuryevich.
He approached, offered to have some tea while the boys changed. In his office, he said Dima had good potential.
— I want to hold classes on weekends, too, — he said, hesitating a bit, then added: — Will you or your husband be able to bring him?
— I will. My husband — no. We’re almost divorced, — Katya replied.
— Me too, — he unexpectedly said, staring at her a little too long.
Katya felt her cheeks flush. She hurriedly said the boys were probably already changed. She and Dima left the school, and on the way, the boy didn’t stop talking — telling her about every move, the coach, new friends. And Katya kept thinking about that look. About how warm and calm it felt next to this man.
The next morning, Dima eagerly finished his pancake and for the first time in a long while spoke about school himself:
— Mom, kids from rich families used to bully me there. But now I’m not afraid. Mikhail Yuryevich taught me such a cool move!
— Just be careful not to hurt anyone, — Katya smiled.
— Oh, come on, mom! We’re athletes. We control our strength, — her son replied importantly.
She smiled. Just two classes — and her son was himself again: confident, cheerful, ready to go to school.
At work, Katya went to see Valentin Viktorovich:
— Preparation for the operation is starting.
— I know, — he answered quietly. — My colleague is coming today. We’ll draw up the will.
— No wills! — she said sharply. — You’re going to be fine.
Turning around, she saw a young woman approaching the ward.
— Is Valentin Viktorovich here? — the woman asked.
— Yes. Are you his daughter? — Katya clarified.
— Sort of, — the girl smirked coldly and went inside.
A few minutes later she rushed out, heading for the head doctor’s office.
— I heard my father is being prepared for surgery, — she began.
— Yes, that’s right. Don’t worry, it will go well, — Rimma Pavlovna replied calmly.
— Can I, as the closest relative, sign a refusal for the operation? — Daria suddenly asked.
— Why? — the doctor was surprised.
— Don’t torture the old man. Why cut him open if the cancer will devour him anyway? — the girl said indifferently.
— You can only sign a refusal if the patient is in a coma or declared legally incapacitated. For now, he makes his own decisions. So leave. And don’t try to play guardian, — Rimma Pavlovna replied sharply, pointing toward the door.
An angry Daria stormed out of the office. She stood in the corridor for a moment, then headed back to her father’s ward.
— I hope those bonebreakers cut you to pieces, — she hissed as she passed by, and Katya, standing inside, froze in shock.
— Wait! — Katya called after her, running out.
The girl stopped and glanced back arrogantly.
— How can you talk to your father like that? He needs support now, not your hatred! — Katya protested.
— I honestly hope he doesn’t survive, — Daria said calmly, looking Katya straight in the eyes. — You don’t know who he really is. Believe me — he deserves to die.
— Daria, — Katya said quietly, — you should look into the criminal case from twenty-five years ago involving your mother.
Without waiting for a reply, she left.
— What case? — the girl shouted, but the nurse had already disappeared behind the door.
That evening, as Katya said goodbye to Mikhail Yuryevich near the school, she met one of the mothers from the parent committee — a sweet woman who worked at a nearby store.
— Katya, do you know what happened? — she asked worriedly.
— No. What’s wrong?
— Your Dima really “met” a sixth-grade bully today. His parents rushed to the school shouting. The principal told them they weren’t raising their child properly and if the extortion and beatings of younger kids continued, he would involve the police. There was a huge scandal. Those parents are threatening that an inspection from the department will come tomorrow — and Mikhail Yuryevich will be fired.
Katya ran into the school and, seeing the gym was lit, breathed a sigh of relief. Mikhail Yuryevich was training the boys, and noticing her, set aside the training mat and approached with a warm smile.
— Good to see you, — he said.
— I’m so glad, you have no idea, — Katya sighed. — I heard they want to fire you…
— It’s true, — he nodded seriously. — I’m suspended starting tomorrow. I don’t think they’ll keep me here, but I won’t give up. I’ll try to expose some officials who cover for bullies from rich families so much they won’t have time for PR.
He smiled sadly but quickly added:
— 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, we’d love that! — Katya exclaimed, then asked with pain in her voice, — But… you’re losing your job because of my son?
— Not at all! — he replied firmly. — Don’t even think like that. I’m fighting not just for Dima but for all children. If we raise a generation that believes money solves everything — the country will perish. I just did what I had to do.
Suddenly he unexpectedly kissed her on the cheek. Seeing her surprised look, he blushed:
— It’s just… we’re friends now, right?
Katya smiled, then without hesitation kissed him back. And at that moment thought: “Why did I promise myself never to open up to men again? This one is definitely worth it.”
Valentin Viktorovich’s operation was successful, and he was gradually recovering. Mikhail was eventually reinstated, but he didn’t give up. Together with Katya, they began gathering evidence, and when Valentin Viktorovich learned about this, he immediately involved his former lawyer colleagues. The recorded wiretap became the basis of a high-profile case. Dima continued training — now at Mikhail’s home. And Katya, coming to pick up her son, stayed longer and longer. She and Mikhail hid in the old gazebo in the garden, kissed like teenage lovers, and laughed as if the whole world belonged to them alone.
One morning, a commotion erupted in the hospital — a commission from the capital had arrived. The entire staff rushed around, tidying the wards, corridors, and offices to perfect order. Katya checked on Valentin Viktorovich — he was conscious. After the surgery, he had been kept in a medically induced coma and had only just regained awareness.
— What’s all the noise? — he smiled weakly. — Another important person arrived?
— A commission. Probably another deputy wanting to show off for the cameras, — Katya replied.
— Yeah, this show-off routine is getting old, — he muttered. — What about the principal? They say he was fired?
— Yes, — she nodded sadly. — Because he didn’t indulge rich parents and officials.
— What?! — Valentin Viktorovich suddenly perked up. — That won’t do! My guys and I will cause such a scandal they’ll remember it for ten years! Give me your boyfriend’s number!
— What boyfriend? — Katya blushed.
— Don’t pretend! Your eyes light up when you talk about him, — he laughed. — Give me the number, we’ll save the hero.
At that moment, Daria appeared in the doorway. She stood awkwardly, clutching her bag, and quietly said:
— Dad… hi.
He looked at her, unable to believe his eyes. The girl stepped forward, burst into tears, and rushed to him:
— Forgive me, Dad… I know everything. Katya told me. I found out Mom tried to sell me… Why didn’t you tell me the truth? When I told her you closed my account, she winced… And I realized: as long as there was money, I was needed.
Valentin Viktorovich hugged her tightly, stroked her head, whispering:
— My girl… Everything will be okay. Don’t cry.
— Dad… she has three children: twelve, nine, and six years old, — Daria said softly.
— Do you want them to live with us? — he asked. — Then let them move here. Family is not just blood, but also choice.
A week later, Mikhail Yuryevich was reinstated. The commission investigating complaints uncovered systemic violations, pressure on the principal, and evidence of extortion. The wiretap recording was the key evidence. The school began reforms, and the former bullies learned to respect others.
Years passed.
Daria married and is now expecting her first child. Her two younger sisters and brother live with her and their father — now they are a real family.
Katya and Mikhail got married. They had a son — Misha. When Katya says his full name, she smiles: “Mikhail” — now it’s not just a name. It’s a symbol of a new beginning, strength, love, and faith that even after the darkest winter, spring will surely come.
