“I can’t live like this anymore, Anya,” Sergey said.
I froze, grabbing the dough in my hands. The children in the other room became quiet, as if sensing the oncoming storm.
“What happened?” My voice trembled.
“That’s it!” he raised his voice. “This job, this house, the debts piling to the ceiling! And you, always messing around with your dough!”
I slowly set the rolling pin down. Wiped my hands on the apron, already covered with jam.
A strange thought flickered: I’d need to wipe it off tomorrow.
He was silent for a long while before saying softly:
“There’s someone else. In the neighboring village. Her name is Marina.”
The air in the room creamy. It became hard to breathe, as if I were smothering in my own home. My heart sank.
“We’ve been seeing each other for six months,” he continued.
“She’s young. No kids. No debts.”
Each word dealt a blow. The picture was clear now: old, with kids, with loans — that’s how he saw me.
“I’m moving in with her. Tomorrow. My things are already packed.”
“And the children? The house? The loan is in my name, but we paid together…”
“They’ll be fine. You’ll be fine,” he said.
“You’ve always managed.”
The conversation was short and brutal. Sergey didn’t try to understand the truth.
Then he left. No hugs, no goodbye.
Timka kept asking if daddy was still bored. The youngest didn’t understand. But Mila, a bit older, understood it immediately — we’d been abandoned.
That night, I didn’t sleep.
How to feed four kids? How to pay the mortgage on a house I signed for before marriage?
“It’s more convenient this way,” Sergey had said. Now that “convenience” was a stone around my neck.
Two months passed. He never come back home. He called a week later from an unknown number — said he wouldn’t take the rest of his stuff, and he could only supply minimum child support. Pennies.
The neighbors recommended that I sell the house, move in with my parents. But how could we all fit in my mother’s tiny one-bedroom? She barely made ends meet on her pension.
Find a new job? Doing what?
At night, I would lie in bed and count. Over and over.
Salary minus medicine. Minus school supplies. Minus utilities. And ahead — another week, month, year.
In the morning, Dasha muttered that Timka had a fever. Only 800 rubles left on the card. Seven days till payday. Felt like a lifetime.
Then Mila’s teacher gently asked: “Anya, are you sure Mila gets breakfast? She’s been dizzy during lessons.”
My heart broke.
And then someone knocked on the door. It was Natalia Sergeyevna, the librarian.
“Anya, I need help… The cafeteria worker quit. The district inspection’s coming in a week. Can you help out? Just for a couple of weeks?”
The job wasn’t difficult — bake rolls, make tea. The pay was low, but at least it was something. I agreed.
On the first day, I brought 20 buns. Sold out in an hour. Second day — 40. Gone in two.
“Anya, what do you put in these?” people asked.
“My soul, a little butter, and a handful of despair,” I thought. Turns out, it’s a good ingredient.
Within a month, I had regular customers. My neighbor expressed disapproval:
“You’ll burn out.”
No, I won’t. I’ll hold on. For them.
In November, Timka got sick again. I was sitting by his bed, exhausted, when the phone rang. A man introduced himself as Viktor Andreevich from the district administration.
“We’re opening a new MFC building. Need a cafeteria. Bigger space, better equipment. We’d like to offer it to you.”
“But I can’t… I have kids…”
“We’ll help. You can register as a sole proprietor. There’s a small business support program. This is your chance, Anya.”
“What happened?” she asked. I told her.
“And you’re going to say no?” she challenged.
“How will I manage? The illnesses, school, the loan…”
“And if you don’t try? Mom… Mila sold her colored pencils to Sveta. Just so I could go on the field trip.”
“If I say yes, will you watch the kids while I’m in town?”
“Of course! Valya will help too. She promised.”
“Then tomorrow I’ll call Viktor Andreevich. We’ll try.”
She hugged me tight:
“We’ll make it, Mom.”
Three years passed. Today, my café “Anya’s Buns” is a neighborhood favorite. We created the menu, hired help, paid off a third of the mortgage.
One day, a couple came into the café — a woman in an elegant coat and a tall man in his fifties.
“That’s her,” the woman said to her companion. “The Anya I told you about.”
Turns out, Elena is a owner of a chain of family cafés called “Gorodok.” Her companion was an investor.
“We were passing by, and I insisted we stop,” she smiled. “They say your buns are special.”
“We want to buy your recipe and the rights to use the name ‘Anya’s Buns.’ We’ll provide a generous sum.”
“But why? You have your own kitchen, your own recipes…”
“Not like yours,” Mikhail said. “We have precision. You have soul.”
The amount they offered could fully repay my loan. And then some. But this café — it was everything I had.
“We’re not asking you to close,” Elena added.
“On the contrary. We want to open a branch in the regional center. As a franchise. With you at the helm.”
“In the city? But what about the kids…”
“Move with us,” said Mikhail. “We’ll help with housing. Get the kids into a good school.”
“Do you have children?” Elena asked gently.
“Four,” I said with a smile. “The eldest is fifteen, the youngest is eight.”
“Perfect,” she nodded. “A family café run by a real family. That’s exactly our brand.”
The deal was registed within a month. We nearly cleared the loan, bought an old but reliable car, and packed our things.
On our last evening in the village, there was a knock on the door. Sergey returned.
“Hey,” he shifted on his feet. “I heard you’re leaving?”
“Yes,” I answered calmly. “To the city. I’m opening a café there.”
“Your own business?” He looked amazed. “Wow…”
“Thanks,” I said.
He asked to come in, say goodbye properly. I gently but firmly refused.
“We have to get up early tomorrow. Lots to do.”
He hesitated, then said something I never expected:
“I’m proud of you, Anya. You did it. Without me.”
“Because of you,” I smiled for the first time. “If you hadn’t left, I’d never have known what I’m capable of.”
Tomorrow would start a new life. But my true gift wasn’t money, or a contract, or a café.
My gift… was myself.
