“I can’t live like this anymore, Anya,” Sergey slammed his keys down on the table, sending flour scattering like snow.
I stood frozen, dough clutched in my hands. From the other room, the children fell silent, as if sensing the storm brewing. I fought to steady my breath, even as my heart pounded fiercely. I couldn’t show weakness. Not yet.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
Sergey looked right through me — cold, distant, detached. I knew that look well. Lately, it had become his default. I wasn’t his wife anymore. Not even a person. Just an obstacle.
“That’s it!” he shouted. “This job, this house, the debts piling up, and you — wasting time with your baking!”
I set the rolling pin down slowly and wiped my hands on my stained apron. Funny how, in moments like this, every detail sharpens — the granules of sugar on the counter, the worn wallpaper, the faintest crease on his brow.
He poured water, drank it in one gulp. His rough, sawmill-scented fingers left marks on the glass. A fleeting thought crossed my mind — I’d have to wipe those off tomorrow.
Then, quietly:
“There’s someone else. In the next village. Marina.”
The air thickened. Breathing became difficult, like drowning in my own home. My heart sank.
“We’ve been seeing each other for six months,” he said, staring out the window. “She’s young, no kids, no debts.”
Each word hit like a blow. The picture was clear now — old, burdened, in debt — that’s how he saw me. He didn’t even ask if I still loved him. I wasn’t sure myself anymore. Years of numb routine.
“I’m moving in with her tomorrow. My things are packed.”
He nodded toward the hallway where a large duffel bag sat. How had I missed it? Just like all the late nights, secret messages, and his fading care for the kids.
“And the children? The house? The mortgage is in my name but we paid together…”
“They’ll be fine. You’ll be fine,” he said, words clearly rehearsed. “You always manage.”
Dasha appeared in the doorway — pale, thin, wearing a shirt too big for her. Sasha stood behind her, eyes wide with an understanding no child should have.
The conversation was brutal and brief. Sergey made no effort to soften the blow. The truth landed hard and cold, like snow melting beneath boots.
Then he left. No hugs. No goodbye. Just the door slamming and footsteps crunching on gravel. And that was it. Just the four of us, alone in a house filled with debts, silence, and unanswered questions.
Timka kept asking if Daddy was angry. The youngest didn’t understand. But Mila, a little older, knew immediately — we had been abandoned.
That night, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling. No tears, no pain. Just one question: How?
How would I feed four children? How could I pay the mortgage on a house I’d signed for before marriage? “It’s easier this way,” Sergey said once. Now that “ease” felt like a noose tightening around my neck.
Two months passed. Sergey never came back. He called once from an unknown number, saying he wouldn’t collect his things and could only afford minimal child support — mere pennies.
Neighbors suggested I sell the house and move in with my mother. But how could we all fit in her tiny one-bedroom? She barely got by on her pension.
Find a job? Doing what? My accounting degree was fifteen years old. These days, I was better at counting diapers than numbers.
The bank sent the first overdue notice. At night, I lay awake counting expenses over and over.
Salary minus medicine. Minus school supplies. Minus utilities.
And still the months stretched ahead — minus food, minus electricity, minus school lunches, minus mortgage. Always minus. No matter how hard I tried, it was never enough.
One morning, Dasha whispered that Timka had a fever — the flu, at the worst time. No medicine left. Eight hundred rubles on the card. Seven days to payday. Felt like forever.
Then Mila’s teacher asked quietly, “Anya, are you sure Mila eats breakfast? She’s been dizzy during class.”
My heart broke. Mila had been quietly sharing her sandwich with her brother. And I hadn’t noticed. Mother of the year.
That night, I sat at the kitchen table with a calculator, crunching numbers again. They didn’t add up — they scattered like frightened cockroaches. No pluses. Just minus, minus, minus.
Sasha handed me his drawing — a house with a green roof.
“This will be our new home when we have money,” he said.
I turned away, wiping tears. A new future? What future?
Then a knock at the door. Natalia Sergeyevna, the librarian.
“Anya, I need help. The cafeteria worker quit. The district inspection’s coming. Can you help? Just for a few weeks?”
The job was simple — bake buns, make tea. Pay was low, but it was something. I agreed. We had to survive.
On day one, I brought twenty buns. Sold out in an hour.
Day two, forty. Gone by lunchtime.
“Anya, what’s your secret?” people asked.
“My soul, some butter, and a pinch of desperation,” I thought. Turns out, it was a good recipe.
Within weeks, I had regular customers. I baked at dawn, took the kids to school, worked late into the night on just a few hours of sleep. A neighbor warned me,
“You’ll burn out.”
But I looked at the second letter from the bank and thought, No, I won’t. I’ll hold on. For them.
In November, Timka got sick again. Sitting exhausted by his bedside, the phone rang. A man named Viktor Andreevich from the district administration called. He’d tried my buns at the library.
“We’re opening a new community center. Need a cafeteria. Bigger space, better equipment. Want to offer it to you.”
“But I have kids…”
“We’ll help. You can register as a sole proprietor. There’s a small business program. This is your chance, Anya.”
After I hung up, Dasha stood in the doorway.
“You’re going to say no?”
“How could I manage? The illnesses, the mortgage…”
“And what if you don’t try? Mom, Mila sold her colored pencils to Sveta just so I could go on the school trip.”
I froze. I hadn’t known. Didn’t want to know. But they saw everything — my sleepless nights, my struggle.
Looking at the calendar — twelve days to the next mortgage payment.
“If I say yes, will you watch the kids while I’m away?”
“Of course! Valya promised to help.”
“Then tomorrow I’ll call Viktor Andreevich. We’ll try.”
She hugged me tight.
“We’ll make it, Mom.”
I stroked her hair and whispered, Maybe there is light after all.
Three years passed in a blink. Today, “Anya’s Buns” is a beloved local café. We expanded the menu, hired staff, and paid off a third of the mortgage.
Sasha drew a picture of the café, long lines of smiling people, and an angel above it all. He said it was Grandpa. He didn’t live to see this. Maybe he’s watching from above.
We worked tirelessly. The kids helped however they could. Dasha managed finances better than any accountant. Mila washed dishes after music school. Timka folded napkins with such care it made my heart ache.
One day, a couple came in — a woman in an elegant coat and a tall man in his fifties.
“That’s her,” the woman said. “The Anya I told you about.”
Elena owned a chain of family cafés called “Gorodok.” Her companion was an investor.
“We stopped by on a whim,” she smiled. “Your buns have a special touch.”
Mikhail Arkadyevich ordered coffee and one of everything. Elena asked about ingredients, then said,
“We want to buy your recipe and the rights to use the name ‘Anya’s Buns.’ We’ll pay well.”
“But why? You have your own kitchen and recipes…”
“Not like yours,” Mikhail said. “We have precision. You have soul.”
Their offer would clear my loan — and more. But this café was my heart.
“We’re not asking you to close,” Elena said. “We want to open a franchise in the city. You’d run it.”
“In the city? But the kids…”
“Come with us,” Mikhail said. “We’ll help with housing and schools.”
“Do you have children?” Elena asked gently.
“Four,” I said, smiling. “Oldest is fifteen, youngest eight.”
They exchanged a look.
“Perfect,” she nodded. “A family café run by a real family. That’s our brand.”
At home, I called a family meeting. Dasha lit up at the thought of the city, opportunities, fresh starts. Mila worried about music school. Sasha found art classes online. Timka asked the big question:
“Are we selling the house?”
“No, sweetheart,” I hugged him. “We’ll keep the house and visit on weekends.”
“And we’ll pay off the loan,” Dasha said like a little businesswoman. “Right?”
Looking at my kids, I saw not children but young adults who had walked this path with me — with patience and love.
And now, fate seemed to smile at us.
Within a month, the deal was done. We nearly paid off the loan, bought a reliable old car, and packed our things.
On our last night in the village, Sergey showed up — thinner, older, as if life had finally caught him.
“Leaving?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said calmly. “I’m opening a café in the city.”
“Your own business?” He looked surprised. “Wow.”
Timka peeked out and froze. Sergey looked at his son. No joy, no sadness — just strangers.
The other kids joined quietly. Sergey handed a small envelope — “for the housewarming.”
“Thanks,” I said, giving it to Dasha. “For ice cream.”
He asked to come in and say goodbye properly. I gently declined.
“We have an early day tomorrow.”
He hesitated, then said something unexpected.
“I’m proud of you, Anya. You did it without me.”
“Because of you,” I smiled for the first time. “If you hadn’t left, I wouldn’t know what I’m capable of.”
He flinched, not expecting that. Then quietly asked if he could call the kids sometimes. I said yes — he’s their father.
He stood on the porch a while, then slowly walked away. His steps heavy, shoulders bowed — as if carrying not just memories, but the life we were leaving behind.
Dasha closed the door and hugged me.
“I’m proud of you, Mom. You’re amazing.”
There we stood — in the home we almost lost but saved. Not by luck, but by strength, love, and family.
Tomorrow was a new beginning.
But my greatest gift wasn’t money, contracts, or a café.
It was me.
The strength inside me.
The strength that saved my children.
My family.