— You’re completely useless! — Olga Petrovna shrieked and, without a second thought, snatched a thick hardback book from the table. — I told you, everything about the bride must be white! Everything! From her feet to her veil!
Irina didn’t even have time to understand what was happening. The first blow struck her temple, the next her forehead.
— What are you… what are you doing?! — she screamed, instinctively covering herself with her hands.
This is a story about how, at just the right moment, guardian angels come to some of us and protect us from reckless decisions.
Irina met Artem while she was still at university. He was a young lecturer in the department and looked almost like a senior student; only his stern gaze gave away the fact that he was an adult man. In reality, he was nearly thirty.
Irina immediately caught the attention of Artem Mikhailovich — her long light-brown hair, slender figure, short skirts, and radiant smile. He couldn’t take his eyes off her and, whenever he had the chance, asked her to stay after class: to check an assignment, to discuss an upcoming project.
Before she even noticed it, he became her “special lecturer.”
Irina felt as if she were floating — she wasn’t being courted by some awkward classmate, but by a real lecturer! The girls in her group were jealous, the guys frowned, and she found herself thinking more and more often that she was truly in love.
Artem courted her beautifully. He gave her flowers, made coffee in a thermal mug in the mornings, and drove her to the university. Everything felt grown-up, serious, and almost like a fairy tale.
And just six months later, Artem proposed.
— Why wait? — he said confidently, looking Irina straight in the eyes. — We both know this is fate.
Irina was taken aback, but ears in love heard only the most important thing — this is fate.
She called her mother with the happy news:
— Mom, Artem proposed to me!
Svetlana Viktorovna was silent for a long time.
— Sweetheart, you’re only twenty-two… Maybe you should live together first, get to know each other better?
Her father, Nikita Ivanovich, merely frowned when he heard about it from his wife:
— Who is this Artem anyway? I need to take a look at him first.
But first, Artem took Irina to meet his parents. Their home was spacious, filled with wardrobes; there was a fireplace in the living room and houseplants on the windowsills. Olga Petrovna, the groom’s mother, greeted Irina with a cold, appraising stare. There was a smile, but it was restrained. Mikhail Ivanovich, on the other hand, seemed good-natured but quiet.
At dinner, Olga Petrovna fired off questions one after another, as if filling out a questionnaire for a future daughter-in-law:
— Where do your parents work?
— How much do they earn?
— How much longer do you have to study?
— How’s your health? Are your periods regular?
Naive and open, Irina answered honestly, but the last question embarrassed her, and she didn’t know how to respond politely. Soon she felt as though she were sitting an exam she hadn’t prepared for. Every answer was followed by a comment and an overly scrutinizing look.
And when she awkwardly said that her father worked as a department head at a large company and her mother was a homemaker, Olga Petrovna visibly perked up.
— So there’s money, — she summed up. — Well, then, you won’t go hungry.
Irina didn’t realize at the time that there was no approval in those words — only condescension. That evening, Artem was calm and even seemed proud of how thoroughly his mother was “checking” the bride. Irina kept looking at him, seeking approval. But Artem looked only at his mother, savoring the moment with evident pleasure.
Irina’s own parents, however, looked rather unsettled after the meeting.
— He’s kind of scrawny, — Nikita Ivanovich muttered. — Not a man, more like a stick. How’s he supposed to protect a family?
— Dad, he’s not an athlete, he’s a lecturer.
— And do lecturers earn well these days? Were there no other options?
Svetlana Viktorovna didn’t hide her concern either:
— Everything is happening too fast, sweetheart. And his look… it’s kind of predatory. His eyes are cold. I don’t like him. Maybe you should wait a bit, date for another six months, and then we’ll have a wedding?
But Irina didn’t listen. One thought rang in her head: I’m loved. I’m a bride.
They scheduled the wedding for August. Irina already pictured a cream-colored dress and a small bouquet of lilies in her hands. But everything went off script when her future mother-in-law announced that Irina would be getting married in her dress.
— You will wear my wedding dress, and that’s final! And there will be no bridesmaids, no ransom games, no silly traditions at the wedding. Do you understand me?
Blinded by love, Irina agreed to everything. And Svetlana Viktorovna could only watch sadly as her daughter destroyed her own future.
— Sweetheart, he’s not the right man…
One day, two weeks before the wedding, Irina came to Olga Petrovna’s place for a dress fitting. Artem wasn’t home, nor was Mikhail Ivanovich — he was at work. The spacious apartment was silent. Only the ticking of the clock and the occasional creak of old wood broke the quiet.
— Well then, Irochka, — Olga Petrovna said, taking the carefully wrapped dress out of the wardrobe, — be careful with this dress. It’s thirty-five years old, after all — not a joke.
Irina nodded. She had brought a bag with tights, shoes, and hairpins. She undressed, took out a new pair of beige tights, and began carefully pulling them on.
At that moment, the door to the room flew open.
— What do you think you’re doing? — Olga Petrovna exclaimed.
— I… I’m trying it on, — Irina stammered. — I put on the tights, and now the dress… You told me to.
— You’re completely useless! — Olga Petrovna shrieked and, without a second thought, grabbed a thick hardback book from the table. — I told you, everything about the bride must be white! Everything! From her feet to her veil!
Irina didn’t even have time to understand what was happening. The first blow struck her temple, the next her forehead.
— What are you… what are you doing?! — she screamed, shielding herself with her hands in shock.
But Olga Petrovna, as if she had lost her mind, kept hitting her with a kind of frenzied fury, as though she no longer saw a human being in front of her.
— Useless! Brainless! — she shouted. — Is it really that hard to remember? I’ll beat all this nonsense out of you!
The book slipped, and its sharp corner split the skin above her eyebrow. Irina clutched her face — there was blood on her fingers. She didn’t even cry from shock; she simply gathered her things quickly and left, taking advantage of the moment when Olga Petrovna hesitated.
— Where are you going? — Irina still heard behind her. — Come back! Don’t you dare leave!
Irina didn’t reply. She took her bag, pulled out a handkerchief, and, pressing it to her eye, walked out of the building. Her fingers were trembling as she dialed her father’s number.
— Dad… I… can you come? — she breathed, barely audibly.
Nikita Ivanovich arrived twenty minutes later. When he saw his daughter, he immediately went pale.
— Who? Who did this to you? — he demanded loudly.
He took her to the emergency clinic. The doctors stitched the cut above her eyebrow, treated the wound, and, looking at Nikita Ivanovich, merely shook their heads.
— You’re lucky the eye wasn’t damaged.
Her father insisted:
— Document the injuries. We’re going straight to the police.
That evening he couldn’t hold back. He took Irina and drove to Artem’s place. He asked Svetlana Viktorovna to stay home — he knew it would be hard to restrain himself. When Artem opened the door, Nikita Ivanovich stepped inside so abruptly that Artem took a step back.
— Do you see this? — Nikita Ivanovich said. — This is what your crazy mother did.
— She… lost her temper. Ira herself is to blame, she provoked her…
He didn’t get to finish. Nikita Ivanovich slammed his fist into the wall right next to Artem’s head.
— If my daughter weren’t standing here, I’d break your jaw right now — so you wouldn’t try to deny it.
He turned toward the kitchen doorway, where a pale Olga Petrovna was standing.
— You, — he said, looking her straight in the eyes, — are a sick woman. Irina has filed a report against you. The wedding is off. Let your sick son live with you for the rest of your days.
He took Irina by the hand and led her out of the apartment. Olga Petrovna was shouting something after them, but Nikita Ivanovich was already beyond caring.
The next day, dozens of posts appeared in local city social media groups about an unhinged woman who had beaten a bride on the eve of her wedding. Irina’s name was nowhere to be found, but Olga Petrovna’s surname was. Nikita Ivanovich knew exactly whom to ask to make that happen.
Artem disappeared from the university literally within a week. How — remained a mystery. But Irina suspected her father had a hand in it. She didn’t attend classes for a couple of weeks. Her face was healing, but her heart was not.
Her friends wrote to her, offering support. And especially one person — Slavik. The same quiet, attentive guy who had sat next to her in class, always ready to help.
When she returned to the university, Slavik was already waiting for her at the entrance. He was holding a chocolate bar.
— Just so the day is at least a little sweeter, — he smiled.
From that moment on, Vyacheslav barely left her side. He walked her home, even though he lived on the other side of the city, carried heavy folders, helped with lecture notes, and asked for nothing in return.
And one day Irina realized: this is what real love looks like — without loud words or promises. A quiet, sincere love that comes not from passion, but from human warmth and care.
And perhaps that terrible day was not a curse, but a salvation. Because sometimes a guardian angel doesn’t descend from heaven — it simply shows you people’s true faces at the right moment.
