Misha’s parents chose a bride for him based on status. And I—I remained the enemy simply because I hadn’t grown up in the right family.
My story began long ago, in childhood. Misha was the only son of a professor and a doctor. His mother was a respected paediatrician; his father lectured in philosophy. Every minute of Misha’s life was scheduled—clubs, tutors, exams, books. He met every expectation: clever, polite, top of his class. But one thing didn’t fit into his family’s orderly world—his friendship with me.
My name was Emily. I was born into an ordinary, if not troubled, family. My mother never worked, and my father laboured in a factory until he drank himself out of our lives entirely. Still, Misha stayed by my side. He helped me with my homework, shielded me from bullies in the yard, shared his sandwiches at school, and listened to my childish fears. We were inseparable—until life tore us apart.
When I turned fifteen, my mother died. I was sent to a children’s home, and our connection vanished. Later, I learned Misha had tried to find me, but his parents convinced him I’d cut ties willingly. He stopped writing, and for years, I believed he’d simply lost interest.
We met again by chance—at our final exams. I barely recognised the poised young man before me as the boy I’d once chased through the streets. But he knew me at once. With a smile and a quiver in his voice, we fell back into step. Our friendship returned, but this time, tinged with something else.
Misha suggested we attend the same university. We did. We studied together, lingered late in the library, walked in the rain. One evening, beneath autumn leaves, he took my hand and confessed he loved me. I wept—from joy.
Six months later, I told him I’d written him letters all those years in the home. He was stunned. His parents had hidden them. He was furious. His mother insisted they’d only wanted to protect him from a “tainted past.” To him, those letters were proof—not of my betrayal, but theirs.
When he announced he’d marry me after graduation, his family erupted. They’d already chosen a “suitable” girl—the dean’s daughter, clever, wealthy. And I—I was still the girl from nowhere. But Misha defied them. We moved into a rented flat. When I learned I was pregnant, I told him, beaming. He held me and whispered, “This will be the happiest child alive.”
Days later, his mother arrived. No greeting, no words—just a silent envelope of cash on the table. “Leave his life,” she hissed. “For good.”
I said nothing. He never knew of her visit. I wouldn’t ruin what we had. But when our son was born, the unthinkable happened.
Misha’s mother returned—this time with a “gift.” A DNA test, falsified, claiming the child wasn’t his. Misha believed it. He packed his things and left without hearing me out. I stood there, my baby in my arms, unable to fathom that the boy I’d loved could erase us so easily.
I sold the flat, moved to another city, enrolled in medical school. I worked, studied, raised my son alone. I never spoke ill of his father—only said, “He loved us once.” Years passed.
I became an army doctor. My son grew. A decade later, I met a man I could trust again. We married, had two more children. My husband never treated my firstborn as anything but his own. For the first time, I knew love without conditions.
Misha, I later learned, remained a GP in a small hospital. Married the girl his parents picked. They had no children. We crossed paths at a conference—and in his eyes, I saw only sorrow, regret, confusion.
He wanted to talk. But I just smiled, took my youngest daughter’s hand, and walked away.
You can’t start a new life from the past. And mine—mine had already begun.
The strangest thing? Even now, in the twenty-first century, people still judge by status instead of love, loyalty, kindness. Misha lost his family because he lacked the strength to stand between me and his parents’ approval.
And I—I found mine. A real one.
