Anya, I can no longer live like this,” Sergej exclaimed, hurling his bunch of keys onto the table. Flour scattered across the surface like a dusting of fresh snow.
I froze, clutching the dough in my hands. Silence reigned in the children’s room, as though they sensed the gathering storm. I forced myself to breathe steadily, despite my heart pounding fiercely in my chest. Showing fear was not an option—at least, not yet.
“What’s wrong?” My voice trembled, giving away my unease despite my effort to stay composed.
Sergej stared right through me, as if I were invisible. I recognized that gaze too well—cold, detached. It had become his usual expression over recent months. No longer my husband’s partner, I was reduced to a mere obstacle.
“Enough!” he snapped. “This job, this house, the debts piling up! And you keep fiddling with the dough!”
Slowly, I set down the rolling pin and wiped my hands on my jam-stained apron. In that instant, every detail around me became startlingly vivid—each grain of sugar, the wallpaper’s pattern, the lines on his brow. They all came alive.
Sergej took a gulp from the water jug and swallowed it in one breath. His fingers, carrying the resin scent from the sawmill, left a mark on the glass. Oddly, a thought crossed my mind: I would have to clean that tomorrow.
After a long silence, he whispered, “There’s someone else. In a nearby town. Her name is Marina.”
The air in the kitchen grew thick, almost suffocating. I felt breathless in my own home. My heart sank to the pit of my stomach.
“We’ve been seeing each other for six months,” he continued, gazing out the window. “She’s young, no children, no debts.”
Each word landed like a slap, painting a harsh picture: me—old, burdened with children and debt. That was what I had become to him. He hadn’t even asked if I still loved him. Frankly, I wasn’t sure myself—those years had turned into habits rather than feelings.
“Tomorrow I’m moving in with her. I’ve already packed my bags.”
I nodded, noticing for the first time a large gym bag by the entrance. How could I have missed it? Just like I had overlooked all the warning signs—the delays, secret messages, his indifference toward the children.
“And the children? The house? The mortgage’s in my name, but we paid it together…”
“They’ll manage. And so will you,” he said, as if reading from a script. “You always have.”
From the doorway, Dasha appeared—thin and pale, wearing an oversized T-shirt—followed by Sacha, eyes wide with understanding no child should possess.
The conversation remained brief and harsh. Sergej made no effort to soften the blow. The truth was raw and unpleasant—like rotten snow in spring.
Then he left without hugs or farewells. The door slammed behind him; gravel crunched under his departing steps. It was then just the four of us, confined within a home weighed down by the mortgage, loneliness, and unanswered questions.
Timka asked if Dad was still angry. The youngest didn’t understand. Mila, a little older, sensed immediately: they had been abandoned.
I spent the night sleepless, staring at the ceiling devoid of tears or pain. Only one question haunted me: how?
How could I feed my four children? How would I pay off a mortgage registered in my name before marriage? “It’s more advantageous,” Sergej had said. But now, those supposedly favorable terms felt like a weight dragging me under.
Two months passed with no sign of Sergej. After a week, he called from an unfamiliar number, declaring he wouldn’t retrieve his belongings and would only pay the minimum child support. Mere crumbs.
Neighbors urged me to sell the house and return to my family. But how could we fit into a studio apartment with four children and a pensioner grandmother barely making ends meet?
Switch careers? For what? My fifteen years as an accountant gathered dust, while now I calculated diapers instead of budgets.
The bank sent the first payment reminder. Nightly, I tallied—salary minus medicines, school supplies, bills. Ahead lay more months, more years, more diminished life.
One morning, Dasha whispered that Timka had a fever. The flu struck at the harshest moment. With medicine depleted and just eight hundred rubles left on the account, the next paycheck seemed a lifetime away.
Then Mila’s teacher gently asked, “Anya, are you sure Mila has breakfast before school? She seems tired in class.” My heart broke. I learned Mila was sharing her sandwich with her brother, and I hadn’t noticed. Mother of the year, yet blind to the obvious.
That evening, I sat at the table with a calculator—the numbers refused to add up, slipping away like frightened cockroaches. No more positives. Only losses, losses, losses.
“This will be our new home when we have the money,” Sacha said, handing me a drawing of a house with a green roof.
I averted my eyes to hide my tears. A future? Which future?
Suddenly, a knock at the door interrupted my thoughts. Natalia Sergeevna, the library director, stood there.
“Anya, I need a hand… The cafeteria cook resigned, and the inspection arrives in a week. Could you help? Even just for a couple of weeks?”
The work was simple—preparing sandwiches, heating tea. The pay modest but helpful. I agreed. Survival called for any means.
On day one, I brought twenty sandwiches. They vanished within an hour. The next, forty disappeared in two.
“Anya, what do you put inside?” customers asked, surprised.
“Soul, a bit of butter, and a handful of desperation,” I thought. It worked perfectly in the dough.
After a month, I had regular customers. Days blurred into nights: school runs, buffet shifts, sleeping past three. The neighbor shook her head:
- “You’ll ruin yourself.”
I stared at the second bank notice, thinking: No, I won’t break. I’ll endure—for them.
November brought another illness for Timka. Exhausted by his bedside, the phone rang. A man introduced himself as Viktor Andreevic from the district administration.
“I tasted your sandwiches at the library. We’re opening a new service center with a larger space and better equipment. We’d like to offer you the chance to run the cafeteria.”
“I can’t manage… I have children…”
“We’ll support you. We can help you register as a sole proprietor. There’s a small business assistance program. This is your opportunity, Anya.”
Dasha waited at the door as I finished the call.
“And you refuse?” she challenged.
“How could I? Between illnesses, school, and mortgage…”
“What if you don’t try?” she said, shaking her head. “Mom, did you know Mila sold her pencils to Sveta to pay for the school trip?”
I paused. I hadn’t wanted to know. Yet they understood everything—the sleepless nights, the struggle.
Looking at the calendar, only twelve days remained before the next mortgage payment.
“If I accept, can you watch the kids when I’m in town?”
“Sure! Valja promised to help.”
“Then tomorrow I’ll call Viktor Andreevic. Let’s try.”
She hugged me tightly.
“We’ll make it, mom.”
Running my fingers through her hair, I repeated like a mantra: Maybe, just maybe, we can. Somewhere, there has to be light.
Three years passed like a single held breath. Today, my café, “Anya’s Sandwiches,” is a neighborhood favorite. We expanded the menu, hired helpers, and paid off a third of the mortgage.
Sacha drew the café with a happy crowd stretching far behind. Atop floated an angel—his grandpa, he said. Though he never saw all this, perhaps he watches over us from above.
We worked relentlessly. The children contributed wherever possible: Dasha handled accounts better than an accountant; after school, Mila washed dishes; Timka folded napkins—not perfectly, but with heart.
One day, two visitors arrived: a woman in an elegant coat and a tall man around fifty.
“That’s her,” the woman told her companion. “Anya, the one I told you about.”
She was Elena, owner of a family café chain; he was an investor.
“We were passing by, and I insisted on stopping. I heard your sandwiches are special.”
Mikhail Arkadievic ordered coffee and sampled every pastry. Elena asked for the recipe, paused, then said,
“We want to buy your recipe and the rights to ‘Anya’s Sandwiches’ name. We are offering a substantial amount.”
“Why? You already have kitchens…”
“Not like this,” he shook his head. “Your brand has soul—something money can’t buy.”
The sum would comfortably pay off the mortgage. But it was the product of my labor, everything I had…
“We’re not asking you to close,” Elena added. “We want to expand your brand in the city center as a franchise with you at its helm.”
“In the city? What about the children?” I managed to ask.
“Join us,” he offered. “We’ll provide initial housing support. The best schools for your kids.”
“Do you have children?” she asked, looking at me.
“Four,” I replied with a mild smile. “The eldest is fifteen, the youngest eight.”
They exchanged a glance.
“Perfect,” Elena concluded. “A family café run by a real family. That’s exactly what we seek.”
That evening, I gathered my children at the table for a family meeting. Dasha was thrilled; Mila worried about music; Sacha had already found city art workshops; Timka asked the crucial question:
- “Will we sell the house?”
“No, sweetheart,” I reassured, holding him close. “The house stays ours. We’ll come back on weekends.”
“And the mortgage?” Dasha asked seriously.
“We’ll pay it off,” I said, looking at my children—little adults who had grown up too fast.
One month later, with the mortgage nearly cleared, an old but dependable car, and packed bags, we prepared to leave.
On our last day, Sergej knocked. Lean and worn, aged beyond his years.
“Hi,” he said hoarsely. “I heard you’re leaving?”
“Yes,” I replied calmly. “I’m opening a café in the city.”
“Your own business?” he seemed surprised.
Timka peeked from the room and froze. Between them, there was neither joy nor pain, only unfamiliarity.
The others entered silently. Dasha sat front and center, followed by Mila, Sacha, and finally Timka. Sergej handed over an envelope—”for the new home.”
“Thank you,” I said, passing it to Dasha. “For the ice cream.”
He asked to come in for a greeting, but I declined gently.
“We have to leave early tomorrow.”
He lingered for a moment, then said something unexpected:
“I’m proud of you, Anya. You did it without me.”
“Thanks to you,” I smiled for the first time that evening. “If you hadn’t left, I’d never have realized what I was capable of.”
Sergej flinched slightly; it was not the reaction he expected. He asked if he could hear the children. “Of course,” I answered. After a few moments, he left, taking with him memories of a life we were leaving behind.
Dasha closed the door and hugged me tightly.
“I’m so proud of you, Mom. You’re the best.”
There we remained, in the heart of the home we almost lost but saved—not by chance or luck, but through our strength, love, and family.
Tomorrow marks a fresh start. Yet, the true gift from fate is not the money, contract, or café.
It is the strength I discovered within myself—the power that saved my children and preserved our family bond.
Our journey stands as a testament to resilience through hardship and the unyielding spirit of a mother fighting to protect her family against all odds.