“Anna Sergeyevna, the documents are ready. Who will be accompanying you home?” the nurse asked softly, studying the frail woman whose pale face was framed by exhaustion.

“I… I’ll manage on my own,” Anna replied, forcing a hint of confidence into her trembling voice.

The nurse hesitated. A week had passed since the difficult birth, yet no one had visited. Not even her husband. Just one cold phone call: “Don’t waste your time on me.”

Anna gathered her strength and lifted little Liza into her arms, the baby nestled against her chest. The nurse handed her the second child—Mitya. Two tiny bundles, two fragile lives she was now solely responsible for. She slung a bag over her shoulder and clutched a pack of diapers in the crook of her elbow.

“Are you sure you can carry everything?” the nurse asked again. “Should I call a car?”

“No need. The bus stop isn’t far.”

Not far—just a kilometer through snow-covered February streets, with stitches that throbbed at every step. But there was no one to ask for help. Her few bills were only enough for milk and bread until the end of the month.

Her steps were small, careful. Wind stung her cheeks; the bag pulled at her shoulder; her back burned with pain. But through the thin blankets, she could feel the warmth of her babies—warmth stronger than any coat.

At the bus stop, she waited, shivering. People hurried past, shielding themselves from the cold. No one offered help—just curious glances at the young woman alone with two infants. When the bus arrived, an elderly lady helped her board and gave up her seat.

“Going home to your husband?” the woman asked kindly.

“Yes,” Anna lied, lowering her eyes.

Deep inside, she still hoped. Maybe Ivan was just scared. Maybe seeing his children would melt his heart. They had dreamed of this—of a son and daughter. Fate had given them both.

Home greeted her with silence and stale air. Dirty dishes in the sink, cigarette butts in a jar, empty bottles on the table. She carefully laid the babies on the couch, spreading a clean towel beneath them. She opened a window for fresh air and winced from the ache in her abdomen.

“Ivan?” she called softly. “We’re home.”

A rustle came from the bedroom. Ivan appeared, tightening his robe. His gaze drifted over the babies, the bags, then Anna—detached, cold.

“Noisy,” he muttered, nodding toward the couch. “Bet they cry all night.”

“They’re good,” she said gently, trying to reach him. “Mitya only cries when he’s hungry, and Liza’s so quiet. Look, aren’t they beautiful?”

But Ivan stepped back. Something like disgust—or fear—flashed in his eyes.

“You know,” he said slowly, rubbing his neck, “I’ve been thinking… This isn’t for me.”

Anna froze. “What do you mean?”

“Kids. Diapers. Crying. I’m not ready for this.”

Her heart sank. Nine months he’d known. Nine months he’d promised.

“But you said—”

“I changed my mind,” he interrupted flatly. “I’m young. I want to live, not be stuck changing diapers.”

He walked past her, pulling a gym bag from the closet, stuffing it with shirts and jeans.

“You’re… leaving?” she whispered.

“I’m leaving,” he repeated. “I’ll stay with Seryoga for a while. We’ll figure out rent later.”

“And us?”

He zipped the bag, finally meeting her eyes—irritated, dismissive.

“You stay here. The apartment’s in your name. I’m not fighting for custody, not paying support. Your choice to have them—your problem.”

He turned to the couch. Mitya blinked awake—his dark eyes, so much like his father’s, watched silently.

“I don’t want them,” Ivan muttered. “I’m done.”

He spat on the floor beside the couch, grabbed his bag, and slammed the door behind him. The windows rattled. Liza began to cry softly, as if she understood.

Anna sank to the floor. Her chest felt hollow. She was alone—with two babies, no money, no help, and a house that suddenly felt too big.

The babies cried louder—two tiny voices blending into one desperate plea. Anna crawled to the couch, gathered them both in her arms, and held them tight. Their warmth filled her with purpose.

“Shh, my darlings,” she whispered. “We’ll be okay. I’ll never leave you.”

Outside, the wind howled. The sun sank below the horizon. It was the first of many nights they would face together—without him.

When the clock struck three, Mitya finally fell asleep. Liza had dozed off earlier. Anna placed them in a makeshift cradle—an old microwave box lined with a wool blanket. The stove was dying, but she had no strength to rise.

“We’ll survive,” she murmured into the dark. “We will survive.”

That promise became her mantra for the years ahead.

Years Later

“Grandma Klava! Mitya won’t eat his porridge!” five-year-old Liza ran across the yard, pigtails flying. “He says it’s bitter!”

“It’s buckwheat, dear. It’s supposed to be,” the old woman chuckled. “Where’s your brother?”

“In the shed. He’s upset.”

Klavdiya Petrovna sighed. Anna was on the night shift again at the dairy farm. The twins stayed with the neighbor, who had become like a grandmother to them. At first, the villagers had judged—called her a failure for being abandoned—but over time, they’d seen her strength.

“Let’s go talk to our stubborn boy,” Klavdiya said, taking Liza’s hand.

Mitya sat on an overturned bucket, poking the dirt with a stick. Thin, shaved head—after a lice outbreak, Anna had cut the boys’ hair short.

“Young man,” the old woman said, sitting beside him, “why’d you leave your sister to eat alone?”

“The porridge is gross,” he muttered. “Bitter.”

“Your mother works hard so you can eat,” Klavdiya said gently. “She wants you healthy and strong.”

He sighed, stood, and asked, “Can I eat it with bread then?”

“Of course—with bread and sweet tea.”

That evening, Anna returned home—tired, eyes red, but smiling. In her canvas bag: bread, a can of milk, and a few caramels.

“Mom!” the twins ran to her.

“My sweethearts,” she knelt, hugging them tight. “How was your day?”

Liza chattered about kittens, dresses, and kindergarten news. “There’s going to be a party soon—for moms and dads!”

Anna froze.

“We should invite Daddy,” Mitya added.

Her heart clenched. “You don’t have a dad,” she said softly.

“Why not?” Liza asked. “Everyone else does.”

“Your dad left when you were born. He didn’t want to stay.”

“So he doesn’t love us?” Mitya’s voice cracked.

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “But I love you—for both of us.”

That night, the children cried quietly, mourning something they never had. Anna held them close and told stories—not of princes, but of brave little animals who were happy with their mother alone.

Years Passed

One day, at the school fence, a man stood watching. Graying hair, worn jacket, uneasy eyes.

“Mitya,” Liza whispered. “Look.”

They both froze.

“Hello,” the man said. “You’re… Anna’s kids, right? I’m your father.”

Liza’s tone turned to ice. “What do you want?”

“I just wanted to see you. Talk.” His voice trembled.

“Mom’s at home,” Mitya muttered. “Talk to her.”

“I came to see you,” Ivan said, stepping closer. “To know how you live.”

“Without you,” Liza shot back. “Thirteen years without you.”

He flinched. “I’ve made mistakes. I lost everything. I thought maybe… it’s not too late.”

“You know nothing about us,” she said, her voice shaking. “You have no right to show up now—after spitting next to our cribs!”

“Liza!” Mitya gasped. “How do you know that?”

“Mom told me.”

Ivan went pale. “I was drunk… I didn’t mean—”

“She meant it,” Liza cut in. “And she raised us without you.”

“You’re strangers to us,” Mitya said quietly. “Complete strangers.”

They turned and walked away.

When They Told Their Mother

“Dad came to school,” Mitya said.

Anna froze. “Ivan?”

“Yeah,” Liza said coldly. “Wanted to reconnect. We told him the truth—that betrayal can’t be undone.”

Anna covered her face. “I always feared this day…”

“Don’t worry,” Liza placed a hand on her shoulder. “We handled it.”

The next morning, someone knocked.

“I’ll get it,” Anna said.

Ivan stood there—aged, thin, gray. “Hi, Anya.”

“Why are you here?” she asked sharply.

“To talk. I’ve realized how wrong I was. I want to help.”

“Help?” she scoffed. “With what? You said you have nothing.”

“I’ll find work,” he pleaded. “I’ll earn.”

“They won’t forgive you,” Anna said. “Maybe one day I will—but they never will.”

“Why?”

“Because they know. About the night you spat near their cribs. About the words you said.”

“Anya, I wasn’t thinking—”

“But I was,” she said quietly. “Every day since.”

Her voice softened. “Vanya… you don’t belong here. I don’t hate you. I’m tired. And I’m grateful.”

“Grateful?”

“For leaving. If you’d stayed, it might’ve been worse. We grew stronger without you.”

“Mom, are you okay?” Mitya’s voice came from behind. Liza stood beside him.

“I’m fine,” Anna said, resting her hands on their shoulders. “Ivan was just leaving.”

He froze. Before him stood the family he’d abandoned—complete without him.

“You erased us,” Liza said. “Now it’s our turn.”

Ivan lowered his head and walked away. Down the dusty road. Alone.

Anna watched him disappear, and for the first time in years, she felt free.

“Let’s go,” she said, hugging her children. “The pie’s getting cold.”

They sat at the table—just the three of them, as always.

“Mom,” Liza whispered, “are you sad?”

“No,” Anna smiled softly, kissing them both. “I’m not alone. I have you. And you have me. That’s enough.”

They ate warm apple pie and talked about everyday things—school, work, and the new calves at the farm.
About real life. The one they had built together.
With their own hands.