Anna never truly trusted her husband. Maybe it was her instinct, or maybe it was the way their marriage had unfolded—but she always knew she could rely only on herself.
Viktor, her husband, was strikingly handsome. Charismatic, charming, and always the center of attention, he didn’t drink much, never smoked, and showed no interest in football, fishing, or hunting. A perfect man on paper—the kind most women would consider a dream.
And that’s exactly why Anna had her doubts. Men like Viktor were rare, and women noticed. He didn’t need to chase; admirers would find him.
The only thing that brought Anna some peace was Viktor’s love for their son. He adored little Stepan, dedicating every spare moment to him. That pure fatherly devotion made Anna believe that perhaps it was enough to keep their family together.
Anna had never grown up feeling beautiful. As a child, kids at school teased her, calling her “Anton” because of her fiery red hair and freckles. Her mother, a stunning woman, had always been brutally honest: “Aniuta, you’re like the ugly duckling. No one else will say it, so I will. You probably won’t get married, so focus on yourself. Study, build a career. And if a decent man shows interest, don’t turn him away. Be a good wife.”
It was harsh. But it stuck.
Anna graduated high school with top honors and got into university, where she met Viktor. She couldn’t believe someone like him noticed someone like her. But later, he admitted that she was the only girl who didn’t intimidate him. She wore no makeup, dressed simply, didn’t flirt—she felt real.
When she realized Viktor was serious, Anna took charge. She proposed to him. Viktor was stunned, but Anna promised to be a gentle, loyal wife. “Love will come,” she said confidently. Eventually, he agreed.
His mother, Viktoria Olegovna, had reservations. When Viktor brought Anna home, his mother took one look and frowned. Her handsome son could have had anyone, and here he was with a freckled, plain girl? But Anna visited her alone later, spoke earnestly, and promised to love her son unconditionally. Viktoria saw something steady in her—someone who wouldn’t abandon Viktor, no matter the road. That was enough for a mother’s blessing.
A year later, Stepan was born—Viktor’s twin in looks. Viktor was obsessed with him, fluttering around like a mad butterfly. But his love for Anna never quite blossomed. And she didn’t feel passion for him either. Their life was orderly, respectful, even kind—but void of true intimacy.
They went through the motions: ironing shirts, making dinners, birthday flowers, and cheek kisses. More a ritual than a romance. They knew what real love was—they’d read it in books, heard friends talk about it.
Then, after five years of marriage, Viktor finally felt it.
But not with Anna.
Her name was Bozhena. Otherworldly beauty, mesmerizing eyes, a siren. Viktor fell hard, and Bozhena welcomed his affection. For six months, they met in secret. Viktor lied more and more. Stepan saw less of his kind, cheerful father and more of a tired, edgy man.
Bozhena grew tired of being a secret. “I won’t be your mistress forever. Either you marry me, or we end this. I won’t wait.”
Viktor panicked. He couldn’t lose her. But he loved his son, too. Anna? She didn’t even register.
Stepan was five when Viktor packed his bags and left.
Anna remembered her mother’s hard lessons. Once painful, now they were armor. She wouldn’t fall apart. Her heart broke, yes—a small piece chipped off and buried deep. But she survived.
“If you come to your senses, the door will be open,” she told Viktor. “But don’t take too long. Stepa loves you.”
Viktor wavered for months. Torn between Bozhena and his son.
Anna never shut him out. She left his toothbrush in the bathroom. When Viktor visited, it silently stared at him. Once, he pocketed it, hoping to free himself of the guilt. But next time, it was replaced with a brand-new one.
His favorite mug was always waiting, coffee hot. His slippers stood by the door. These little gestures gnawed at him. He couldn’t explain why he’d left. Bozhena dazzled him, but didn’t understand his bond with Stepan. “If I ever leave you,” she warned, “it’ll be because of that kid. You love him more than me.”
Years passed.
Anna’s friends urged her to remarry. “You’re still young. Stepa needs a real dad. Viktor’s not coming back.” But Anna just smiled and said nothing. Eventually, they stopped asking.
Time marched on.
Viktor stopped visiting. Now, he and Stepan met occasionally in cafes or parks. Stepan was finishing high school. It had been twelve years.
Anna drew a final line under the chapter.
She booked a trip to the coast. There, in the warmth of a new place, she let herself live a little. A brief romance bloomed—no promises, no names. Just sunshine and laughter.
Nine months later, Masha was born.
Her friends were stunned. They waited outside the hospital, full of questions.
Anna emerged, glowing and tired, cradling a bundle wrapped in pink.
“Meet Masha,” she beamed.
One friend teased, “So what’s her father’s name?”
“She’ll grow into her patronymic,” Anna replied.
Nothing could dim her joy. Her world now revolved around this little girl.
Stepan became her protector. He never asked questions. If Mom was happy, that was enough.
When Masha started preschool, other kids asked where her dad was. She began calling Stepan “Daddy.” It was sweet. And heartbreaking.
Then one evening, the doorbell rang.
Masha dashed to the door, shouting, “It’s my daddy!”
Anna peeked through the peephole.
It was Viktor.
She opened the door.
“Can I come in?” he asked, shifting nervously.
“You’re here. So come in,” she said softly.
He placed two heavy bags on the floor and removed his backpack. Masha ran into his arms.
“Mama, this is my daddy, right?”
Tears welled in Anna’s eyes. “Yes, sweetheart. That’s your daddy.”
Viktor lifted her up, kissed her freckled nose, ruffled her golden curls. “Hi, my little sunshine.”
He turned to Anna, took her hand, kissed it. “Thank you, Anna. Will you forgive me?”
He began to kneel, but she gently pulled him up.
“Hello, my bittersweet love. It’s been 17 years. But no grudges. You see for yourself—we need you.”
Stepan stood silently in the doorway, eyes wide, a smile slowly spreading across his face.
Weeks later, Anna called a curious friend.
“You once asked about my daughter’s father? Her name is Maria Viktorovna. Write it down. No alternatives.”