Misha’s parents picked a bride for him based on status. And I—well, I became the enemy simply because I grew up in the wrong family.
My story began back in childhood. Misha was the only son of a university professor and a doctor. His mother was a well-respected paediatrician, his father taught philosophy. Every minute of Misha’s childhood was meticulously planned—clubs, sports, books, tutors, competitions. He lived up to all their expectations: clever, polite, top of his class. But one thing didn’t fit into their neatly ordered world—his friendship with me.
My name was Veronica. I was born into an ordinary, if not troubled, family. Mum never worked, and Dad toiled away at a factory until he drank himself out of our lives completely. Still, Misha stuck by me. He helped with homework, shielded me from bullies, shared his lunch, and listened to my childish fears. We were inseparable—until life tore us apart.
At fifteen, my mum died. I ended up in a children’s home, and just like that, we lost touch. Later, I heard Misha had tried to find me, but his parents convinced him I’d cut ties myself. The letters stopped, and for years, I thought he’d simply grown bored of me.
We met again by chance—at our A-level exams. I barely recognised the confident young man in front of me as the boy I’d once chased around the estate. But he knew me instantly. With a shaky laugh, we picked up where we’d left off. Only this time, friendship had a new flavour.
Misha suggested we apply to the same university. We did. Studied together, burned the midnight oil in the library, walked in the rain. Then, one autumn evening under golden leaves, he took my hand and told me he loved me. I cried—pure happiness.
Six months later, I confessed I’d written him letters from the care home. He was stunned. His parents had never passed them on. He was furious. His mother insisted they’d acted for his own good—shielding him from a “messy past.” To him, those letters proved betrayal—not mine, but theirs.
When he told them he was marrying me after graduation, chaos erupted. They’d already lined up the “right” girl—the dean’s daughter, clever, wealthy. And me? Still just that girl from “nowhere.” But Misha defied them. We moved in together, rented a flat. When I found out I was pregnant, I rushed to tell him. He held me tight and whispered, “This’ll be the happiest child on earth.”
A few days later, his mother arrived. No hello, no small talk. Just a silent envelope of cash on the table and a hissed:
“Walk away. For good.”
I said nothing. He never knew. I didn’t want to taint us. But when our son was born, everything shattered.
Misha’s mother returned—this time with a “gift.” Fake DNA results claiming the baby wasn’t his. He believed her. Packed his bags, left without a word. I stood there, clutching our son, unable to fathom how the boy who’d once defended me could erase us so easily.
I sold the flat, moved cities, started at med school. Worked, studied, raised my boy alone. Never spoke ill of his father—just said, “He loved us once.” Years passed.
I became an army doctor. My son grew up. A decade later, I met a man I could trust again. We married, had two more children. He never treated my eldest as anything but his own. For the first time, I knew love without conditions.
Misha? Last I heard, he worked as a GP at a small hospital. Married the handpicked bride. No kids. We crossed paths at a conference—his eyes full of regret, sorrow, confusion.
He wanted to talk. I just smiled, took my youngest daughter’s hand, and walked away.
Because you don’t rebuild from the past. I’d already moved on.
Funny, isn’t it? In this day and age, people still judge by status, not by how you love, care, stay loyal. Misha lost his family because he was too weak to stand between me and his parents’ pride. I found mine—the real kind.
