When Valentina married Artyom

Valya froze. The thought flashed through her mind: “I don’t have a father.” The very man who left when she was three, who wasn’t even present in her life. And now he’s left everything behind?

“But he is officially listed as your parent,” the notary added.

The day flew by in a blur. For the first time in a year, Valya picked up the phone and dialed the old number of her friend Nina, who still lived in the city.

— Valya! You?! Alive? We all thought… Artyom said you were dead. He even held a wake!

My heart sank.

— A memorial service?

— Yes. He gathered everyone himself, saying that you had left in terrible agony. And a month later, he sold your apartment. He said he couldn’t live there anymore.

Valentina sank into a chair. Could it be that he hadn’t just left—he had killed her in the eyes of others. Erased her, crossed her out. Sold their house, as if she had never existed.

Two days later, she left for the city. With Ilya, the same paramedic who had come to her every evening through the snowstorm, no matter what. He insisted on accompanying her.

“In case you need help,” he said simply.

And for good reason. Everything was confirmed. The apartment, the money, the documents—all were legally transferred to her. She entered a new life no longer as a woman abandoned to die in an abandoned house, but as a person capable of deciding her own destiny.

But the story doesn’t end there.

One day, Valya was walking through the market and suddenly saw him—Artyom. Next to another woman. A pregnant woman. Walking arm in arm with him was his mother-in-law, now hunched over and ill. The same one who had once considered Valentina “unequal.”

Their gazes met. Artyom froze. His face turned pale.

— It’s raining…

“You didn’t expect that?” she asked calmly. “Did you really think I’d remain dead to the world?”

His companion looked at him questioningly.

– Who is this?

“An old acquaintance,” he answered reservedly.

Valya smiled slightly:

– Yes, very old. The kind you buried long ago.

She turned and walked away. Ilya was waiting for her by the car, holding a bag of apples.

“Is everything okay?” he asked.

“Now yes,” Valya answered. “I’ve got my name back.”

That evening, she sat on the balcony of her new apartment, wrapped in a blanket, with a cup of hot tea. There was no pain inside, only silence. But not dead, as before, but bright, healthy. As if the worst had truly been left behind.

But life, as always, had new moves in store.