Luba and Vladimir met at university, both living in student halls. They knew they’d be together, but only after graduating. Life, as usual, had other plans. In her final year, Luba fell pregnant.
“Vlad, what do we do?” Luba stared at him in despair. “You know how strict my mum is. She barely let me come to uni. I promised I wouldn’t end up like her, wouldn’t have a child without a husband. And now? How do I go home? She’ll kill me.” She bit her lip, fighting tears.
Vladimir was terrified too, but he decided to do the honourable thing. His parents had set no conditions when they sent him off to study in the big city. He loved Luba, miserable and tearful as she was, so he proposed they marry. Finals loomed—no time for a proper wedding.
He called his parents, confessed everything, told them he’d return after graduation with a degree and a wife. They scolded him, of course—what else? But there was nothing to be done. Let them come home together.
Luba hid behind Vladimir, her rounded belly tucked out of sight as they stood in his parents’ cramped hallway. His father frowned; his mother shook her head, reproaching the young couple for rushing into parenthood, marrying without blessing. A bad start to life. They grumbled, lectured, but in the end, they helped. Sold the holiday cottage, scraped together savings, and bought the pair a one-bed flat.
“That’s all we can do. The rest is up to you,” his father said.
Two months later, Luba gave birth to a daughter.
Vladimir worked, but money was always tight. His parents had given all they could. He couldn’t keep leaching off them—time to stand on his own feet. Then an old schoolmate suggested selling computers.
“Solid business. Right place, right time—everyone wants them. I’ve got supplier contacts. You know tech; I’m still learning. We’ll make a killing!”
The lawless ’90s were over. Risky, but legal. So Vladimir agreed. He borrowed a hefty sum to start.
They bought unsold stock cheaply. Vladimir fixed it up, loaded software, repaired where needed. Sold for triple the price. Business boomed. He repaid the debt and bought a two-bed flat.
Their daughter grew. Time for nursery. Luba itched to work.
“Stay home—we’ve got the money. What’s the rush?” Vladimir grumbled. “We should be thinking of a son.”
“Let me breathe! I’ve barely recovered. I’ve never worked. And Alla needs other children. How else will she manage school?”
Nursery places were scarce. They offered Luba a job as a nursery assistant—Alla could attend then. She agreed.
“A uni graduate, scrubbing floors? Embarrassing,” Vladimir fumed.
“Just for a year. Then I’ll quit and find proper work. Alla’s right there—isn’t that good?”
Remote work wasn’t a thing yet. Internet crawled. Vladimir grumbled but relented.
Business thrived, drawing competitors’ envy. Then disaster struck. A new batch of laptops vanished overnight, the theft masked as arson. Stock gone, debts unpaid.
His partner hit the bottle. Vladimir couldn’t—he had a family. The debt loomed. They could sell the flat—but then where? Back to begging his parents?
He job-hunted. Business was done. Fate intervened: a car stuck in mud, a processor spotted on the back seat. The driver, hearing Vladimir’s skills, offered work—setting up office computers, basic coding. He accepted.
Debts cleared slowly. Life stabilised. Alla grew; a year from graduation, university-bound. Trouble seemed past.
Then Vladimir stayed late. Luba cooked. Alla and a friend played music. The friend left.
“Mum, I’ll walk her,” Alla called from the hall.
“Don’t be long!” Luba shouted as the door slammed.
She switched off the stove, sank before the TV. A film played. Time slipped. Vladimir returned.
“Why so quiet? Alla home?” He rubbed chilled hands. “Cold snap.”
Luba jolted. Alla had left—how long ago? Twenty minutes? Half an hour? She should’ve been back. The friend lived round the corner.
Luba dashed to Alla’s room. Empty. Phoned the friend.
“Is Alla not home? We parted ages ago.”
Panic. She should’ve gone too. She paced, frantic, begging to search. Vladimir snapped, sat her down, took the phone.
“Yes, an unidentified girl was brought in an hour ago,” a hospital said.
Luba wailed.
“She’s alive. Stop it. We’re going.”
Alla lived—but in a coma. No prognosis. Luba wept at her bedside, pleading. No miracle. On day three, Alla died.
November’s damp wind bit. That night, ice sealed the road. Alla, nearly home, met a skidding summer-tyred car. The driver lost control.
Vladimir clung to sanity. Luba unravelled. Post-funeral, she haunted the cemetery, silent, blank. At home, she stared, then raged, blamed Vladimir.
“Your failed business, your debts—I’d have had another child—!”
He had to act.
Colleagues pitied. One suggested a pet—distraction.
“Find what she loved. Music? Painting? Best cure for grief,” the cleaner said.
Luba had painted well as a child. No art school—too poor. She dragged Vladimir to every gallery.
At home, she sat before a dead TV. He spoke of childhood circus dreams.
“I wanted to paint. I was good. And music—I sang well,” she droned.
Art schools refused—too late. He searched online. Found a young tutor, haggled no—wife’s health mattered.
The artist arrived—pale, long-haired, nervous in black. Vladimir handed him supplies money.
“No talk of children. Just distract her.”
Next day, Luba painted, lost in strokes. She glowed, showing Vladimir clumsy work.
“He says I have a gift—light, steady hands. Do you think?”
“You’re brilliant,” he lied. Her joy was worth it.
Then one evening—no easel. A torn sketch. Luba, hollow.
“What’s wrong?”
“He left. His mother’s ill—needs expensive surgery.”
She spoke flatly. Something prickled Vladimir.
“He cried for her?”
“Yes. He loves her. But no money.”
“You gave him money.”
They’d saved for Alla’s uni. Forgotten, until now. He checked—the box empty.
The artist had preyed on grief, spun a mother’s plight. Luba offered cash herself.
The phone was dead.
“How much?”
“All of it. I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault.”
Fury choked him. He’d invited a thief. Could’ve been worse.
“Where’s his mother?”
“Somewhere far.”
Police dragged their heels. Vladimir bartered tech help for action.
The artist was no traveller. A pregnant girlfriend, eviction looming. He’d spun the tale for flat money—knew Luba wouldn’t remember.
They caught him before rent was paid. Some spent on baby clothes.
Vladimir dropped charges. The girl’s plight softened him. Most money returned.
Luba burned her art, gifted supplies to a neighbour’s thrilled child. The shock—or time—healed her.
Then a knock. The neighbour’s girl held a smoky kitten.
“Mum’s allergic. We thought—for your sorrow.”
Vladimir took it.
“Tiny thing!” Luba cuddled it. “What’s his name?”
“Toshka. Like Alla’s teddy?”
He braced for tears. None came. She bustled to the kitchen, cooing.
He exhaled. A cat—all along.
“Luba, I’ll get Toshka a litter tray,” he called, grinning.
“And food! Growing boys need meals, right?”
He smiled. Should’ve done this months ago. No artists. Just a cat.
