“You must stay silent, poor dear,” my mother-in-law whispered just before the guests arrived—but froze when the guest of honor hugged me and called me her daughter.
“Napkins. Rearrange them,” Tamara Igorjevna’s voice pierced my nerves like a dull knife digging into glass.
I stood motionless, staring at the impeccably folded linen napkins before me.
“What’s wrong with them?” My voice barely rose above a whisper, almost inaudible.
“Their corners. They are lifted by a millimeter. The guests will think our home is unclean.”
Exhaling slowly, I fought to suppress the tremor in my fingers and smoothed the unfortunate edges.
Our entire house was enveloped in a tense silence, anticipating this dinner.
My husband Kirill had been pacing his office for half an hour, rehearsing his speech. This evening’s success meant everything for his project.
Tamara Igorjevna approached, her sharp gaze scanning my simple dark blouse and skirt.
“You’re not going to sit like that at the table, are you?”
“I thought…”
“I’ll take care of everything here,” she cut me off. “Put on the dress I left on the bed. And behave yourself. Viktor Petrovich is an old-school man. He values modesty and good manners.”
I nodded without looking up, eyeing the garment: a shapeless beige sack designed to turn me into a pale shadow.
Kirill emerged from the office, adjusting his tie. He cast a quick apologetic glance my way before averting his eyes immediately—as always when his mother launched her attacks. His silent apology never seemed to fix anything.
“Mother, maybe it’s unnecessary? Alina looks fine.”
“Fine for what? Grocery shopping?” Tamara scoffed. “Kirill, your career is at stake. Every detail counts. Your wife is your face, and tonight she must be flawless.”
She turned towards me, her eyes chilling to icy points. Grasping my elbow, her fingers dug into my skin.
“Remember this,” she whispered so Kirill wouldn’t hear. “You will sit all evening, smiling sweetly. No opinions. No stories about your work in that library of yours. If they ask, answer with one word.”
Your task is to keep silent, poor girl. Don’t ruin my son’s life. Do you understand?”
I pulled my arm free, red marks rising on my skin. Inside, a tight, hot knot formed.
At that moment, the doorbell rang.
Tamara Igorjevna’s expression shifted instantly, replaced by a friendly, hospitable smile as she adjusted her jacket and hurried to the entrance.
“Coming! Viktor Petrovich, what a pleasure to see you!”
I remained in the living room, feeling like an empty space.
Kirill approached and awkwardly touched my shoulder.
“Lin, I’m sorry. I’m nervous.”
I replied with silence, merely gazing toward the doorway where loud voices and laughter echoed.
The guests entered. Leading was a tall, gray-haired man with a determined yet weary face—Viktor Petrovich. Behind him came his elegant, reserved wife.
Tamara bustled around them, offering drinks.
“Please, come in, make yourselves at home! Kirill, tend to the guests!”
Viktor Petrovich glanced around the room, nodded politely to Kirill, and abruptly stopped.
His gaze met mine. Time seemed to freeze; his eyes searched my face curiously.
The slow fading of his smile revealed utter astonishment—as if he were gazing at a ghost.
Tamara followed his gaze and looked at me. Her victorious smile faltered and disappeared.
The atmosphere thickened and became suffocating.
Anna, Viktor’s wife, gently touched his elbow, attempting to break him out of his shock.
“Darling, what’s wrong with you?” she asked softly.
He appeared not to hear and took a step toward me, then another.
Instinctively, I staggered backwards until the wall stopped me.
His piercing eyes seemed to look not at me, but through me—into my past.
“Excuse me… do we know each other?” he asked huskily, uncertain.
Tamara immediately positioned herself between us, her smile taut to the limit.
“How can you say that, Viktor Petrovich? Where from? Alina is just a simple girl from the country. She grew up an orphan. You couldn’t have known her.”
She emphasized the last word, shooting me a warning glance. “Stay silent.”
Kirill, pale as a ghost, tried to salvage the tense moment.
“Yes, Alina… she rarely goes to events like this. Shall we go to the table? I’m sure she’ll appreciate the appetizers!”
Attempting to guide Viktor aside, Kirill’s hand was gently brushed away as Viktor’s eyes remained fixed on me.
“What is your last name, girl?” he asked directly, ignoring the others.
The question hung in the air. I felt my mother-in-law’s scorching gaze upon me.
My mouth opened to utter “Petrova,” my husband’s surname, but the words lodged in my throat. There was something about this man’s expression that made lying impossible.
“My maiden name… is Kovaleva,” I whispered.
Viktor Petrovich faltered.
His wife, Anna, cried out softly, clutching his arm. Her face showed worry and… recognition?
“Vitya, please sit down. You mustn’t get upset.”
Tamara Igorjevna fumed, her face turning red.
“What do you mean, Kovaleva?” she hissed. “You’re Petrova! My son’s wife! Have you completely lost your mind?”
She tried grabbing my arm to drag me away, but Viktor firmly blocked her path.
“Don’t touch her,” he said quietly but with such decisiveness that she stepped back.
The dinner descended into farce.
Kirill desperately tried to steer the conversation toward his project, but Viktor Petrovich wouldn’t listen. He sat across from me, staring intently.
His questions were pointed—but unrelated to my work.
- “Where did you grow up, Alina?”
- “In an orphanage near Kostroma.”
- “What about your parents? Do you know anything about them?”
Each answer darkened his face further.
Tamara wriggled in her seat, gripping her fork as though she might break it.
Kirill’s eyes darted between me, his mother, and the investor, completely lost.
“Excuse me, Viktor Petrovich,” my mother-in-law finally snapped, “but I don’t think these questions are appropriate. We intended to discuss business matters…”
“Business can wait,” he interrupted without looking up.
He turned back to me.
“Did you have… anything when you entered the orphanage? Something your parents left behind?”
A lump constricted my throat once more. I remembered a small, worn crescent-shaped pendant—the lone link to my past that I’d guarded for years.
Silent, I dared not respond. My stepmother’s command echoed still in my mind.
“Alina?” Viktor repeated patiently.
I lifted my eyes. His gaze held both hope and pain.
In that instant, I decided. I ignored Tamara Igorjevna’s angry huffs, glanced at Kirill pleading silently for me to stay silent— but I could no longer keep quiet.
“Yes, I did have one,” my voice rang out surprisingly firm.
“A small silver pendant. Crescent-shaped.”
His face twisted.
Reaching tremblingly under his collar, he withdrew a chain with a small, time-tarnished silver sun pendant.
“And on the other side… was there an engraving? The letter ‘A’?”
Tears welled in my eyes. I could only nod.
“And on your side…” I whispered, “the letter ‘V’?”
He nodded, unable to speak.
He looked at me as though he had found and lost his entire world in one moment.
“My daughter…”
The word hung in a silence where all sound seemed to stop.
Tamara Igorjevna stood frozen, her mouth agape, her face a mask of shock and fear.
Kirill appeared as if struck in the face.
Viktor Petrovich wobbled to his feet, stepped toward me and wrapped me in a powerful, desperate embrace.
I gripped his jacket, inhaling a scent both unfamiliar and comforting.
“I have been searching for you,” he whispered into my hair. “For so many years.”
“They said you were dead. Along with your mother. The one who caused the accident made sure I would believe it.”
His wife, Anna, stepped beside us and placed her hand on my shoulder. Tears filled her eyes as well.
“We never stopped looking for you, Alina. Your father believed you were alive.”
At last, Tamara Igorjevna found her voice.
“What… what kind of circus is this?” she shouted.
“What father are you talking about? This can’t be! She’s a poor orphan from the shelter!”
Viktor Petrovich slowly turned, his face as cold and hard as granite.
“She is my daughter. And I ask you to choose your words carefully when speaking of her next time.”
His gaze swept over the perfectly set table, petrified Kirill, and stunned mother.
“I believe our business dinner has come to an end. Kirill, I think there’s nothing more for us to discuss. My investments require not only promising projects but honorable partners. Those who could humiliate my daughter for years are not among them.”
Turning again to me, he rested a hand on my shoulder, imparting a sense of protection I had never experienced before.
“Come, my daughter. Let us go home.”
I glanced at Kirill, who stood with his head bowed, unable to meet my eyes or those of his failed investor. Looking at his mother, it seemed years had been added to her in just a few minutes.
For the first time, I felt neither pain nor anger, only relief—as if a tremendous burden I had carried consciously all my life had finally lifted.
I took my father’s hand and left that house without looking back, stepping toward a new beginning.
A week passed. I lived in my father’s house. It felt like a dream.
No one hissed behind my back. No one checked if the cups were straight. No one made me feel flawed by simply being myself.
The air was filled with peace.
I spent hours in the garden with my father, who recounted stories about my mother—how they met, her laughter, her love for poetry.
I absorbed every word, piecing together a portrait I never knew.
“That man, our former partner, wanted to take everything from me,” my father said, staring into the distance.
“He orchestrated the accident.”
“The car was found in the river…”
“They said there were two bodies.”
“He paid whoever he needed to hide the truth.”
“He knew that losing you would break me.”
“And almost succeeded.”
Anna, his wife, joined us with blankets and sat beside us. She was a wonderfully thoughtful woman, never attempting to replace my mother, simply standing beside us with warmth and care.
One evening, my phone rang. An unknown number.
I answered.
“Alina?”
“Kirill speaking.”
His voice sounded weak and uncertain.
I stayed silent.
“Lin, I… I’m sorry.”
“I was weak.”
“I was always afraid of my mother, she… she broke not only you but me as well.”
“That night, she had an attack.”
“Now she’s in the hospital.”
“The project failed.”
“Everything collapsed.”
“I’m sorry you had to hear this, Kirill.”
I replied calmly, surprised at my own composure.
“I know nothing can be undone…”
“But maybe you could talk to my father?”
“Explain to him I couldn’t…”
“I love you, Lin.”
I smiled.
“You don’t love me, Kirill.”
“You love convenience.”
“And I am no longer convenient.”
“Goodbye.”
I hung up and blocked his number.
For the first time in my life, I felt no guilt—only relief.
The next day, my father entered my room.
“I was thinking…”
“You said you worked at a library.”
“Did you like it?”
“Yes, very much.”
“Books were my only friends.”
“I have an idea,” he smiled. “There is an old bookstore in town about to close.”
“I could buy it.”
“You would be the owner.”
“You could do whatever you want with it.”
“Maybe a literary café?”
“Or a reading club?”
I looked at him, tears welling anew—but these were tears of hope.
“Are you serious?”
“Completely.”
“You have kept silent so long, my dear.”
“It’s time you found your voice.”
“And let it be as loud as you deserve.”
I hugged him tightly.
Then I understood that my story did not end that evening at my stepmother’s house. It had only just begun.
This is the story of a woman who transformed from a poor, silenced girl into the one telling her own tales—and finally being heard.