I lived a life that seemed already determined before my first breath. Raised in a small village near Saratov, where parents decided the fate of girls and weddings followed traditional customs, I was promised to be the wife of Fyodor, the son of my father’s friend, since I was a baby. Fyodor, three years older than me, was strong as an oak, with hands skilled at work and a calm temperament. Our fathers had been inseparable since childhood, working the fields and dreaming that their children would continue the legacy. Fyodor lived up to these expectations, finishing his agricultural studies and helping his father on the farm. Everything seemed perfect, until he announced that he was leaving for agronomist courses in Krasnodar. The night before his departure, he asked, “Will you wait for me, Galushka?” I lowered my eyes in silence. That night, something between us changed; he became my first.
Fyodor sent me letters, and I responded. The first year, I patiently waited. In the second year, I applied to the Volgograd College, dreaming of a career in journalism, hoping for a life filled with city excitement and television broadcasts. However, I didn’t get in. Instead, I met Nikolai, a bold city guy. We lived together for just three months before he left, saying his feelings had faded. I was left on the street until a friend helped me. A month later, I received a letter from home: Fyodor had returned and was asking about me. So, I went back to the village, unsure of what to do, but hoping for a peaceful life. However, what awaited me was far from peace. I found out I was pregnant, too late to make a decision. I kept it a secret, planning to figure things out later. A week later, Fyodor invited me to see a house he had finished building. I moved in with him, and a month later, we got married. Life seemed to be unfolding just as planned, except for my growing belly. «We’re expecting a strong boy!” Fyodor joked. I insisted on giving birth in the regional hospital, fearing unnecessary questions. I persuaded the doctors to record my late-term pregnancy. Our son, Alyosha, was born healthy and became the light of our lives.
Fyodor accepted him as his own. He worked from dawn till dusk, rarely at home, but every night, he would bless us before bed. I didn’t feel love for him, but I was grateful, and scared. I feared he might discover the truth. I worried he might reject Alyosha or stop loving him. And what if he wanted more children? I couldn’t take the risk. I secretly had five abortions, arranged through nurse acquaintances. Later, I had an IUD inserted. I was afraid to get pregnant again, to shatter the life built on deceit.
However, fate had other plans. Alyosha turned seven. One summer, he went off riding his bike and lost control, falling into an old well. A rusty rod pierced his chest. I screamed in agony. Fyodor arrived first, pulling our son out with his own hands, running with him to the ambulance, tears rolling down his cheeks. That was when I realized how deeply he loved our son.
The truth came out soon after. “Why did you hide that the child isn’t yours?” the doctor asked. Alyosha urgently needed blood, but neither mine nor Fyodor’s were a match. His blood type was rare. My world fell apart. I whispered, “Alyosha isn’t his…” Fyodor didn’t say a word. He left. I thought it was the end. But he returned, asking, “Where can I find the father?” “In Volgograd, Nikolai. But…” “Enough. We need to save my son!” he said, and left again. He found Nikolai. Nikolai came, gave his blood, and asked that we not tell his girlfriend. We promised.
Alyosha survived. Nikolai disappeared from our lives. And then… I fell in love with Fyodor, deeply, as I never had before. He always knew. He said, “I saw in him my own because I raised him. Because he calls me father, not Nikolai.”
I dreamed of having a child with Fyodor, but doctors said it was impossible. Then Fyodor suggested, “Let’s adopt a baby from the orphanage.” We adopted a boy, Vanyushka. Two years later, a miracle happened—I got pregnant. Our Masha became our angel.
Now, our life is calm, warm, and together. Only sometimes at night, I dream of running down a hospital corridor, screaming, “My son is dying!” I wake up, and Fyodor is beside me. The man who forgave, who stayed, who became my hope.
Life doesn’t forgive mistakes, but sometimes it offers a chance for redemption. And if you don’t miss it, the world can become brighter.
