Artem, have you completely lost your mind? You’re 22! Why marriage now?” Vladimir Timofeyevich paced back and forth, grabbing his head in frustration.
Artem stood quietly by the wall, having just told his father his plans and standing firm, refusing to give in to his father’s pleas. “Forget her, move on. She’s from the village. We’ll find you a proper bride, someone from your circle.”
“And why get married now? Wait until you’re at least 30, you have your whole life ahead of you. You just graduated, think about your career,” his father continued.
“Dad, Angela is pregnant,” Artem argued.
Vladimir Timofeyevich stopped in his tracks and stared at his son.
“Still a boy,” he thought to himself, looking at his son—skinny, with flaxen hair and just a bit of a mustache starting to show. “And he dares to argue with me?” He sighed and waved his hand dismissively. “Well, what of it? Give her some money, let her do as she pleases. No need to get involved, really.”
“And we have the money and connections to make sure she doesn’t cause us trouble,” he added coldly.
“But she’s having triplets, Dad,” Artem insisted. “Three children at once. How will she handle that? Especially in the village?”
Vladimir Timofeyevich’s voice boomed through the house, shaking the walls. “It’s not our problem. I don’t need grandkids from a village girl! Look at you—young, intelligent, good-looking—your whole life ahead of you. You could have hundreds of women, they’ll be falling all over you. I already have a chair ready for you at my company, all you need to do is sit in it and swim in money. And you want to ruin your future for some milkmaid?”
“She’s not a milkmaid,” Artem replied sharply. “She was in my class. She’s smart and ambitious.”
His father scoffed. “I don’t care. You need to think about your future, not get entangled with someone from the village. Forget about her. And if you choose her, don’t expect anything from me. You’ll never inherit anything from me if you marry her.”
“You’re nothing but a fool,” Artem retorted, feeling his anger rise. “I won’t leave her. I’ll marry her, and we’ll have a family. And if you can’t accept that, then I’ll go live with her and take care of my children. And I’ll raise them with love, even without your approval.”
Vladimir Timofeyevich stood there, speechless, eyes wide in disbelief. “You’re disowning me? After everything I’ve done for you?”
Without answering, Artem turned, grabbed his jacket, and left, slamming the door behind him.
For the next three years, Vladimir Timofeyevich lived alone in his sprawling three-story mansion, enjoying his freedom after the death of his wife. No longer bound by family duties, he indulged in all the luxuries he wanted: parties, alcohol, gambling, and women. The company he ran still made a steady income, and he didn’t need to work as hard anymore. His son was no longer a part of his life, and he didn’t mind it. After all, he believed Artem was foolish, and it would only be a matter of time before he came crawling back.
But then, one day, his phone rang. It was a call from his accountant, warning him that the tax authorities were suspicious of his financial activities. It seemed the company’s funds weren’t as clean as they should have been, and the government was preparing to investigate.
As the days passed, Vladimir Timofeyevich grew more nervous. His money was at risk, and he realized he might need help. And then it came to him: his son. Artem was the only one he could turn to. There were no other relatives, and he was the sole heir to everything.
Vladimir Timofeyevich remembered the village Artem had gone to—Khomyakova. The name sounded oddly familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Maybe he’d been there before.
After much thought, he decided to pay Artem a visit. He drove for an hour through the pine forests that led to the village. The landscape felt strangely familiar, like something from his past.
When he arrived at the village, it was just as he had imagined—quiet, peaceful, and simple. There was no sign of the luxurious life he was used to, but as he walked through the streets, a strange sense of nostalgia filled him. This was where Artem had chosen to build his life—away from the chaos and excess of the city.
Finally, he arrived at the small house where Artem lived with Angela and their children. He knocked on the door, and it was Artem who answered, a mix of surprise and wariness in his eyes.
“Dad,” Artem said, his voice steady but unsure.
“I need your help,” Vladimir Timofeyevich said, his voice faltering for the first time in years. “I’ve made a mess of things. I need someone I can trust to help me with this business mess.”
Artem stood there for a moment, processing his father’s words. Then he stepped aside, letting him in.
Inside, the house was humble but warm. Angela greeted him with a smile, and the children ran to him, calling him “Grandpa.”
For the first time in years, Vladimir Timofeyevich felt something in his heart stir—he realized he had been wrong. He had pushed his son away, but now he was here, in a place where love and family meant more than money.
The next few months weren’t easy, but with Artem’s help, they were able to work through the legal issues and save the family business. And slowly, Vladimir Timofeyevich began to see the truth—he had spent his life chasing wealth and status, but what really mattered was the love and loyalty of his family.
Years later, when he sat at the dinner table with Artem, Angela, and his grandchildren, he knew he had found something more valuable than all the money in the world. His son had forgiven him, and they were finally a family again. And for the first time in years, Vladimir Timofeyevich felt peace.