— Is that you? Vera?
— Hello, Kostya. Weren’t you expecting me?
A woman stood before him, self-confident, her back straight, and a faint smile on her lips. There was no pain or pleading in her eyes like before. He realized: she had changed. Her clothes were simple, but clearly not cheap. Her hair was impeccable, her hands well-groomed. Nearby, holding her mother’s finger, was a little girl of about four years old. Big eyes, a shiny coat: an exact copy of her mother.
Kostya froze. Not because he recognized her, but because of how he saw her now.
Three years ago, Vera sat on the cold kitchen floor, cuddling her sleeping daughter. The little girl had barely begun to lift her head, and Vera was already crying, hearing her husband preparing to leave.
— Where are you going? — she barely whispered.
— I can’t stand it anymore! I’m living like a beggar. You only think about the child, you see nothing around you. You’re tired, angry… I’m leaving.
The door slammed shut. Liza went: free, beautiful, without worrying about the children. And Vera was left with promissory notes, an old apartment, and only one responsibility: her little human.
Vera remembered that winter forever. She woke up at night wondering: Is the roof leaking? Is the child dressed warmly? Will she have enough money until tomorrow? The benefits barely covered the essentials. She learned to cook porridge with water, adding a little sour apple to make it a little tastier. She walked in an old coat, trying not to envy other mothers walking hand in hand with their husbands.
Sometimes, passing a café, she heard laughter from inside. And she knew he was there. Happy, with a new life, while she was here, alone, with a child and a broken heart.
One day, looking at old photos on her phone—young, full of strength, with burning eyes—Vera realized: she wanted that Vera back.
At first, she worked as an administrator in a small salon for a nominal salary. She put her daughter in daycare and learned to juggle both jobs. It was hard: sick leave, tears in the night, endless worries. But she didn’t give up.
She completed online courses and became a cosmetologist. She created a social media page. People were drawn to her professionalism, warmth, and sensitivity. Her hands healed the skin, and her gaze and words healed the soul. Little by little, Vera regained her former self. Only now, stronger.
Three years later, Vera walked into the mall where she rented an office. Suddenly, she stared at him.
With Kostya.
Beside him was Liza, less radiant than before, and a little girl about five years old, who held her hand indifferently. He noticed Vera. She was wearing a pretty coat and walking confidently, with her daughter at her side.
He approached. He didn’t immediately find the words:
“You look amazing.”
“Thank you,” she replied simply.
“How are you? Alone?”
“No. I’m with my daughter. But really… I’m alone. That was exactly what it took for me to start over.”
Kostya remained silent. Liza, without hiding her irritation, asked:
“Do you know each other?”
But he didn’t answer. Something deep inside him collapsed. He realized: he had lost a real woman. Not the day she left. But the day she chose comfort over love. When she chose a toy over life.
Later, Vera returned home holding her daughter’s hand. The little girl asked:
“Mom, who was that person?”
“I’m a normal person, honey. We move on. And everything else falls away.”
“Are we happy?”
“Very happy.”
The little girl smiled and rested her cheek on her mother’s shoulder. Vera looked up at the sky.
Three years ago, she was devastated. Today, she’s grown wings.
That night, Vera couldn’t sleep for a long time. Her daughter snored peacefully, cuddling her favorite stuffed animal. Vera lay wrapped in a blanket, remembering…
The first few days after Kostya’s departure. How she sat on the floor, her face in her hands. How the neighbors banged on the wall because of the child’s crying. How she lived in fear every minute: would she make it?
How she got up five times a night. How she looked for work, cooked porridge with water because there was no money even for milk. How every day she fought her own doubt: “I won’t make it.”
One day an old friend called:
“Vera… are you holding on?”
“Holding on.”
“Do you rest when your daughter sleeps?”
Vera cried. Not from exhaustion, but because someone finally asked her, “How are you?”
Her name was meaningful. “Vera” means to believe. Even when it seems like the whole world has collapsed.
She learned to rebuild her life. Not to wait for phone calls. Not to depend on help. Simply to move forward. Step by step. She learned to save 50 rubles, to repair shoes, to write her dreams in a notebook so she wouldn’t forget what she wanted.
And one April day, when everything was in bloom, she and her daughter were walking in the park. Sitting nearby, an old woman watched Vera for a long time. Then she came closer:
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