A Story of Endurance and Connection
Valya had reached her limit and was no longer willing to endure the situation. She couldn’t comprehend why Dima’s attitude towards her had changed so drastically — had his feelings faded? Last night, once again, he returned home late and chose to sleep on the couch.
When morning arrived and he appeared for breakfast, Valya sat down in front of him.
“Dima, could you please tell me what’s going on?” she asked.
“What’s wrong with you?” he replied, sipping his coffee while deliberately avoiding eye contact.
“Since our boys were born, you’ve changed so much.”
“I haven’t noticed.”
“Dima, it feels like we’ve been living as strangers for two years. Don’t you agree?”
He suddenly stood up and began pacing nervously around the kitchen.
“Listen, what did you expect? The house is always full of scattered toys, the smell of baby food lingers in the air, and the kids are constantly crying. Do you think anyone enjoys that?”
“But Dima, they’re your children!”
“Normal wives have one child who quietly plays in a corner without bothering anyone. And you? You had two! My mother warned me, but I didn’t listen — women like you only know how to multiply!”
“Women like me? What exactly do you mean, Dima?”
“Women without a purpose in life.”
“But you made me quit university so I could dedicate myself entirely to the family!” Valya sat down and after a moment added quietly, “I think it’s time for us to get a divorce.”
He considered for a moment and responded, “I’m okay with that. But let’s agree, no child support claims. I’ll give you money myself.”
Turning abruptly, he left the kitchen. Valya wanted to cry but was interrupted by the noise coming from the children’s room — the twins had woken up and needed her attention.
One week later, she packed her belongings, took the twins, and left. Valya had a spacious room in a shared apartment, inherited from her grandmother.
The neighbors were new, so she decided to meet everyone. To her left lived a gloomy, though not very old, man; to the right, a lively elderly woman around sixty years old. She first knocked on the man’s door.
“Hello, I’m your new neighbor. I brought cake and thought we could have tea together.” Valya smiled warmly. The man glanced at her briefly and grunted, “I don’t eat sweets,” before shutting the door in her face.
Shrugging, Valya moved to Zinaida Egorovna’s door. The elderly lady agreed to join but only to give a stern speech.
“I prefer resting during the day because I watch TV shows in the evening. I hope your children won’t disturb me with their noise. Please make sure they don’t run in the hallways or touch, dirty, or break anything.”
Her monologue was long, and Valya thought sadly that life here would be far from easy.
She placed the boys in kindergarten and began working there as a nanny. The schedule was convenient, ending just as it was time to pick up Andrei and Yura. The pay was minimal, but Dima had promised support.
During the divorce proceedings, Dima did send some money. However, once the divorce was finalized, he stopped all financial contributions. For two months, Valya couldn’t pay the utility bills.
Tensions with Zinaida Egorovna worsened daily. One evening while feeding the boys in the kitchen, the neighbor appeared wearing a satin robe.
“Dear, I hope you’ve sorted out your financial worries? I wouldn’t want to lose electricity or gas because of you.”
Valya sighed, “No, not yet. I’ll visit my ex-husband tomorrow; he seems to have forgotten about the children altogether.”
Zinaida approached the table.
“You feed them pasta all the time… Do you realize you’re a bad mother?”
“I am a good mother! And I suggest you mind your own business before you get hurt!”
A furious argument ensued. Zinaida’s angry yelling could be heard down the hall. Ivan, Valya’s neighbor on the other side, came out of his room. He listened briefly as Zinaida cursed Valya, the children, and everything around. After a minute, he turned away and returned with money, placing it on the table in front of Zinaida.
“Quiet down. Here’s something for the utility bills.”
The woman fell silent but hissed at Valya once Ivan left, “You’ll regret this!”
Valya ignored the threat, but soon found out this was a mistake. The next day, she visited Dima. He listened and said, “I’m going through a tough time now. I can’t pay you anything.”
“Dima, are you mocking me? I need food for the children!”
“Feed them then. I’m not stopping you.”
“I’ll file for child support.”
“Go ahead; with my official salary, you’ll barely see a penny. And try not to bother me again!”
Valya walked home in tears. Payday was a week away, and money was nearly gone. There was yet another surprise waiting — the district officer appeared. Zinaida had filed a complaint claiming Valya threatened her life and neglected the children, who were hungry and unsupervised.
The officer spent an hour talking to her and warned, “I have to report this to child services.”
“Why? I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“That’s the procedure. A complaint exists and must be investigated.”
That evening, Zinaida came back.
“Listen, if your kids disturb me again during the day, I’ll have to contact child protection.”
“What are you doing? They’re children! They can’t sit still all day!”
“If you fed them properly, they’d want to sleep, not run around.”
She left, while the boys looked at their mother fearfully.
“Eat up, my darlings. Auntie is joking; she’s kind really.”
Turning away to wipe tears, Valya didn’t notice Ivan come into the kitchen carrying a large bag. He silently opened her refrigerator and began filling it with groceries.
“Vanya, you’re mistaken; that’s my refrigerator.”
He didn’t respond, finished stocking the fridge, and left quietly. Valya was at a loss for words.
After payday, Valya knocked on Ivan’s door. Though usually somber, he opened immediately.
“Ivan, I owe you for the groceries. Here are two thousand. I’ll bring more later. Just tell me how much.”
“No need.”
He shut the door before she could speak. Suddenly Zinaida’s yelling erupted from the kitchen again.
She rushed over to find the boys standing while Zinaida shouted, pointing at a spilled puddle of tea.
“Vagrants! Orphans! What kind of upbringing will you have?”
Valya sent the boys to their room, wiped the floor, and returned, bewildered about how to survive.
The boys sat quietly on the bed. Valya sat beside them.
“Don’t be sad. We just have to hang on a little longer. I’ll find a way, and we’ll leave this place.”
The boys hugged her tightly on both sides.
The next evening, a knock came at the door. Ivan was at the entrance, but two strangers, a district officer, and a man accompanied them.
“Are you Valentina Sergeyevna Zhestkova?” one woman asked sternly.
“Yes.”
“We’re from child protection.”
“Child protection? Why?”
“May we come in?” They inspected the room, opened the fridge, and pulled back the blanket on the bed.
“Pack your children.”
“What? You’re crazy! I won’t give up my children!”
Andrei and Yura clung to her, crying, confused.
The woman signaled the officer, who began to pry the boys away. “Mom! Mommy! Don’t give us away!”
Valya struggled as best she could, but another man twisted her arms. She caught a glimpse through her tears of her terrified sons being carried down the stairs, their screams chilling her to the bone.
The officer held Valya until the cries faded and the car left. Then he released her and she collapsed to the floor, wailing like a wounded animal. Five minutes later, only Valya remained in the room.
She got up and noticed a large axe sitting in the corner — a relic from her grandmother’s time of stove heating, never discarded.
Valya picked it up, weighing it in her hand with a twisted smile that resembled a grimace. Leaving the room, she headed straight for Zinaida Egorovna’s door.
When the door was broken down, and hysterical Zinaida tried to hide under her bed, someone grabbed Valya and wrested the axe away.
“Fool! What are you doing? You’re only hurting yourself!”
It was Ivan. Valya sighed.
“I don’t care anymore… nothing matters.”
Ivan took her inside, laid her on the couch, and gave her a pill. Valya obediently swallowed it. She knew the moment he looked away, she would run — she knew exactly where: to the bridge. Yet her head grew heavy, her eyes unwilling to open, and she fell asleep — Ivan’s sedative was strong. He left and went to Zinaida Egorovna, who sat disheveled, drinking valerian.
“Satisfied?”
“Oh, Ivan… I never expected things to go so far. I thought she’d just fuss and move away.”
“Move away? Tomorrow, you better pick up all your mail. And pray it all works out, because I can’t always watch over Valya. Then it’s trouble for you.”
Zinaida nodded in fear.
For a whole month, Valya gathered documents, references, and even underwent alcohol tests. She had lost hope, convinced nothing would change. But Ivan, somber and taciturn, never left her side, pushing her forward. When the chance to get her children back arose, Valya seemed to awaken.
“Ivan… it’s all thanks to you.”
He smiled for the first time, sadly.
“I had children too… but I couldn’t help them. They’ve been gone for five years. But your boys — there’s still hope.”
The night before the commission’s decision, Valya slept on Ivan’s couch but couldn’t find rest. He seemed restless as well.
“Ivan, can’t sleep? Tell me what happened to your children.”
He paused, then spoke in a flat tone.
“I had a family — wife, two boys — but I didn’t appreciate them. After payday, I’d drink with my friends and sometimes yell at home. Then suddenly, my wife left with the children to a house inherited from her family. I waited a month, too proud to reach out. Then I realized I couldn’t live without them. I went to speak with them, but… the house burned down overnight due to an electrical fault.”
He fell silent, then continued, “I started drinking and fighting, hurting some people, and went to prison for three years. After release, I sold my apartment to compensate and returned to this room. The factory took me back.”
Valya took his hand, but he sighed and pulled away.
“Get some rest. Tomorrow, be fresh for the commission.”
***
“Zhestkova!”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“Here are your documents. Watch your life better so this never happens again.”
Valya stared blankly as the woman smiled and said, “What are you waiting for? Go get your children.”
Her legs gave way as Ivan supported her in the waiting room.
“Mom! Mommy!”
Yura and Andrei clung to her, crying. Even Ivan looked away, brushing a tear from his eye.
“Enough crying now, let’s go home.”
Slowly, life began to improve. Zinaida Egorovna rarely left her room. With Ivan’s help, Valya found a technician job at the factory, providing enough income to manage life’s essentials.
Yet Ivan became increasingly withdrawn. Once, Valya accidentally dropped his jacket, revealing a phone displaying her photo as the lock screen. Smiling, she took the phone and approached Ivan, who was lying on the couch staring at the ceiling, startled.
“You know, Ivan, I’ve always feared saying the wrong thing. So much left unsaid to the people who were once close. Some have left, others no longer need to hear it. The scariest part is regretting what you should have said but didn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“If you can’t say it, maybe I will try. I’m scared you might laugh, but I’ll try. Ivan… will you marry me?”
He looked at her long, then gently cupped her face and said, “I’m not good with words. Just know I’ll do everything for you and the boys.”
Key Insight: Sometimes, through hardship and despair, unexpected bonds are formed that offer hope and healing.
Life of a Dedicated Cat Caretaker
“Kitty, kitty, come here and eat! Get away, you rascal, let her eat! And you — scram! I hate you, you fiends! Where are you running, kitty? Eat!” cried Katerina Stepanovna under the window for an hour. “Kitty, kitty! You naughty thing!”
Stepanovna, exhausted from a long hospital shift, worked as a cleaner — a demanding job with modest pay, barely enough for survival. Yet, she cared for twenty cats. Half greeted Stepanovna at the store across the street, near our building.
The fluffy pranksters flaunted their tails, whining lamentingly:
- “We’re dying, Stepanovna! We’ll die right now!”
Eyes wild, she dashed into the brightly colored supermarket, buying half a basket of cat food and rushing outside, forgetting milk and bread for herself. The eager feline crowd clumsily followed their protector.
She spotted a lonely, outcast cat, constantly driven away from the food dish by the well-fed clan. It began:
“Kitty, kitty, come here!”
The others hissed and scared the loner. Stepanovna grew angry. Ten more cats were shouting at home, climbing on the kitchen window and snorting at the street cats.
It’s clear she hadn’t rested, likely had high blood sugar and needed a break, but wouldn’t leave until she fed the sickly cat.
Then came shouting from the neighboring apartment — feed, water, pet, and clean the smelly litter boxes that aired into my apartment through vents. Afterwards, she stepped outside barefoot into the snow, calling out to cats that had escaped through the window, having already noticed several missing.
I sighed, fed up with the cats’ constant noisy territorial disputes. Another furry tenant settled in the hall: bowls ready, food laid out, a mat on the floor. Each morning I stumbled on the cat who, in revenge, left messes by my door.
Part of me wanted to confront Stepanovna seriously:
“Enough, Katerina Stepanovna! This has to stop!”
But how could I? Her husband died, daughter in another city — she was alone. Once a normal woman, someone abandoned a litter of large kittens on her doorstep — likely children playing with toys and discarding them without care. She took them in, sterilized and cared for them but couldn’t find homes for any stray, unrefined mixed-breed cats.
So she managed alone, cursing and crying, powerless to change the situation. I took in one cat — a large red tom that supposedly brings money — though no money has appeared in seven years. But that’s another story.
Stepanovna eventually calmed down. I was working at my laptop when sounds erupted from the upstairs neighbor Verka’s apartment: loud music and raucous shouting. She’d been visited by her companion, Aibek, a polygamist from her homeland, who stays with her two months on, two months off. Verka, in her fifties, fiercely jealous, erupts into fierce arguments, hurling objects and scolding like a broken record until peace returns at around 2 a.m.
I tapped the radiator to drown out the noise, but paint peeled off. My headache grew.
Though I wanted to complain, I hesitated. Verka is good people and takes care of our building as a janitor. Even if Stepanovna’s stray cat leaves messes by my door, Verka cleans them personally.
Back at the laptop, still no words came. Then neighbor Kolya returned from work with heavy steps, dragging noise into the night — tomorrow is Saturday, so the drill and screwdriver will buzz again. Kolya never rests even in his small 33-square-meter apartment. My head hurts.
Life in shared spaces teaches patience and compassion, as everyone copes with their own burdens while coexisting.
Despite the annoyances, Kolya helped me learn to drive — parking and backing up. Who else would be so patient? Not my husband, who loses his temper when I get behind the wheel!
I contemplate my faults — weak, scatterbrained. But am I the perfect neighbor? My dog howls at passing dogs while watching television from the window. After complaints, the new upstairs resident, a retired teacher, gathered signatures, but neighbors vouched for my dog’s strange behavior, and I apologized sincerely.
Now I visit town only once a week to avoid disturbing the patient teacher, who tolerates my pet with kindness.
Ultimately, we all learn to adapt to coexistence, tolerating noisy drills, barking dogs, crying babies, and disputes over parking.
The story has been written. I am sharing it with you.
My husband returned from the village with six kilograms of pike. I packed them into bags and went to share with neighbors.
In conclusion, this narrative vividly illustrates the resilience people display amid complex personal struggles and the unexpected friendships that emerge from hardship. Valya’s journey from despair to hope underscores the importance of community support, while the tale of Stepanovna reflects the challenges and compassion within neighborhood life. These stories remind us that despite adversity, human connection and perseverance can foster healing and strength in everyday life.