“Mom… looks like you’re not getting grandkids any time soon,” Pavel said with a grin, helping himself to another one of his mother Irina’s fresh-baked pastries.
“Why do you say that?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Well, I’m in my thirties, no fiancée in sight, and not even a solid candidate. Sanya’s kid is already in school, and they’re expecting a second. Meanwhile, I’ve got no one.”
“You’ll meet someone,” she said warmly. “Don’t marry just to catch up with your friends or to give us grandkids. That would be foolish. Honestly, I’d rather have no grandkids than see my son unhappy in a marriage.”
“Mom, you’re better than any therapist,” Pavel laughed. “Speaking of which, are there more pastries?”
Two years passed since that conversation, and the idea of growing old alone started to weigh on him. It hadn’t been a concern before. He had friends, a full social life, work. Solitude was welcome in small doses. But the thought of aging without a partner, without family, began creeping in.
At the time, he had been dating Nastya for six months. On paper, she was perfect. Mature but youthful, beautiful, great figure, intelligent (with two degrees to prove it), and employed at a respected firm.
And yet… something felt off.
He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. There was no excitement in his chest, no butterflies, no spark. And worse, there were small things—little moments in her behavior—that nudged at his gut. Nothing clear. Just a vague sense of mismatch.
Nastya, on the other hand, seemed entirely sure. Just a month into dating, she introduced Pavel to her parents and started making future plans: vacations, home designs, baby names.
When she asked to meet his parents, Pavel hesitated… then gave in.
“She checks all the boxes,” he told himself. “She’ll be a great wife. Our kids will be beautiful.”
So he proposed.
“Wow. Look at you, Mr. Romantic,” Nastya giggled, ruffling his hair. “Okay then. I accept. And hey, proposing by the river under golden autumn leaves? That’s even better than candles and violins.”
Pavel called his mom that evening. “Mom, I want you to meet my fiancée. We’re engaged. Your son is finally settling down.”
There was silence.
“Mom? Aren’t you happy?”
“Of course I am,” she replied, but her voice betrayed hesitation.
“What is it then? You haven’t even met her.”
“I know… I just… something doesn’t sit right. But come by Saturday evening. I’ll have everything ready.”
Irina hung up and stared out the window. Her mother’s intuition stirred uneasily. She didn’t see joy in Pavel’s voice. No spark. No wings on his back. It felt like he was doing it because it was time, not because he was in love.
That worried her.
Nastya, meanwhile, was anxious about the upcoming meeting. She picked her outfit carefully—stylish, modest. Light makeup. She wanted to make a good impression.
And she did. Almost.
Pavel’s dad was immediately charmed, showering her with compliments. Irina, though polite, was distant. No coldness, but no warmth either.
“So? What do you think of my parents?” Pavel asked afterward.
“Your dad’s great. And your mom… strategic,” she laughed.
The next day, Irina invited Pavel over.
“She’s beautiful,” Irina said softly. “But… something’s not right.”
Pavel frowned. “What do you mean?”
“She doesn’t love you, son. I don’t think she loves anyone but herself. Yesterday, she admired herself more than she saw you. I don’t see a wife there. I see someone who’s marrying for status, not love.”
“You sure you’re not being dramatic?”
“I might be wrong. It’s just… something I feel.”
Pavel tried to shrug it off, but the seed of doubt had been planted.
Still, he pressed forward. Rings were bought, the guest list drafted.
Everything was in motion.
Then came a simple request from Nastya: “Hey, can you drive my dad to our country house? He left something important there.”
Pavel agreed, happy to help.
They arrived. A light snow blanketed the yard. Familiar territory.
As they approached the house, a red mutt ran up joyfully, tail wagging. A cat emerged from under the porch and rubbed against their legs, meowing.
“Get outta here,” Nastya’s dad muttered, shoving the dog away.
Pavel crouched down and called the dog over. “Hey, buddy. Missed us?”
He had nothing but a stick of mint gum. Still, the dog stared at him with hungry, hopeful eyes.
Then Pavel saw it.
Nastya, elegant and poised, kicked the meowing cat away from her with visible disgust.
Something cracked inside him.
“Wait… you’re leaving them here for the winter?” he asked.
“They’re just strays,” she shrugged. “Dacha pets. Disposable.”
“Disposable?”
“They served their purpose. Mice control, security. Next year, new ones will show up.”
That night, Pavel couldn’t sleep. The image of those two animals watching the gate close behind them haunted him.
He made up an excuse about dropping his bank card and drove back. Nastya declined to go with him—she had a pedicure appointment.
He brought the animals home.
In town, he searched for an open pet store. No luck.
Then he saw a woman with a toddler and an old dog walking slowly. The dog kept glancing back, worried for the boy.
“Excuse me, do you know where I could find pet food?” he asked.
She looked up, and something in her warm hazel eyes made his heart stop. Not from shock, but from a sweet, aching recognition.
“Sure. There’s a vet clinic around the corner. We’re heading there too. My Boris is a little sick today.”
“He pooped himself,” the little boy announced cheerfully.
“Ivan!” she gasped, stifling laughter.
“What? What should I say?”
“Maybe… he had an accident,” she said, laughing at last.
Pavel smiled. She wasn’t as flawless as Nastya. She was older. She had a child. But everything about her felt real, warm, alive.
The next day, Nastya called.
“Pavel, we should trim the guest list. A hundred people is too much.”
“You know what?” he replied. “Let’s cancel the whole thing. I’m withdrawing the application tomorrow.”
“What?! Why?!”
“Because I finally understand something. And explaining it would take longer than it’s worth.”
He hung up. And blocked her.
A year later, Pavel thanked fate for that trip to the dacha—the moment that saved him from the worst decision of his life.
Katya wasn’t perfect. But she was kind. Honest. Strong. And the moment he held her in his arms, he knew he never wanted to let her go.
“Mom,” he said one day, “please don’t say Katya’s son is some kind of baggage. If you do, we’re gonna have a problem.”
“Of course not,” Irina smiled. “Don’t let her go. She’s the one. I see it in your eyes now.”