On her mother’s advice, the husband took his ailing wife to a remote countryside retreat A year later, he returnedfor her fortune.
When Valentina married Arthur, she was just twenty-two. Young, radiant, with bright eyes and dreams of a home filled with the scent of fresh pies, childrens laughter, and warmth. She thought it was her destiny. Arthur was older, reserved, quietbut in his silence, she found comfort. Or so she believed.
Her mother-in-law had distrusted her from the start. Her gaze said it all: “Youre not worthy of my son.” Val did everythingcleaned, cooked, adjusted. Yet it was never enough. The soup was too thin, the laundry hung wrong, she gazed at her husband too lovingly. Everything irritated the older woman.
Arthur stayed silent. Raised in a home where his mothers word was law, he never dared oppose her. Val endured. Even when she felt weak, when her appetite vanished, when even getting out of bed became a struggleshe blamed exhaustion. She never imagined something incurable festered inside her.
The diagnosis came unexpectedly. Late stage. Inoperable. The doctors could only shake their heads. That night, Val cried into her pillow, hiding her pain from Arthur. By morning, she smiled againironed shirts, made soup, endured her mother-in-laws jabs. Arthur grew colder. He no longer met her eyes.
One day, his mother entered her room and whispered:
“Youre young. Lifes ahead of you. Shes just a burden now. What good is this? Take her to the countryside, to Aunt Doras. Quiet there. No one will judge. Rest. Then start anew.”
Arthur didnt reply. But the next day, he packed Vals things, helped her into the car, and drove deep into the countrysidewhere roads ended and time slowed.
Val stayed silent the whole way. No questions, no tears. She knew the truth: it wasnt illness killing her, but betrayal. Their family, love, hopesall collapsed when he started the engine.
“Youll find peace here,” he said, unloading her suitcase. “Easier this way.”
“Will you come back?” she whispered.
He didnt answer. Just nodded and drove off.
Villagers brought food sometimes. Aunt Dora checked into see if she was still alive. Val lay there for weeks. Then months. Staring at the ceiling, listening to rain on the roof, watching trees sway outside.
But death didnt hurry.
Three months passed. Then six. One day, a young medic arrivedwarm-eyed, kind. He visited daily, gave her infusions, managed her meds. Val didnt ask for help. She just no longer wanted to die.
A miracle happened. First smallshe rose from bed. Then stepped onto the porch. Later, walked to the shop. People murmured:
“Youre recovering, Val?”
“I dont know,” she said. “I just want to live.”
A year later, a car arrived. Arthur stepped out, grey and tense, papers in hand. He spoke to neighbors first, then approached the house.
On the porch, wrapped in a blanket with tea in hand, Val satrosy-cheeked, alive. Arthur froze.
“You youre alive?”
Val met his gaze calmly.
“Expecting someone else?”
“I thought you were”
“Dead?” she finished. “Almost. Thats what you wanted, wasnt it?”
Arthur stayed silent. The quiet spoke louder.
“I did want to die. In that house where the roof leaked, where my hands froze, where no one cameI wanted it to end. But someone came every night. Someone unafraid of snowstorms, who expected no thanks. Just did what was needed. And you left. Not because you couldnt staybut because you wouldnt.”
“I was lost,” Arthur whispered. “My mother”
“Your mother wont save you, Arthur,” Val said gently but firmly. “Not before God, not before yourself. Take your papers. You get nothing. The house goes to the man who saved me. You buried me alive.”
Arthur stood head bowed, then wordlessly returned to his car.
Aunt Dora watched from the doorstep.
“Go, son. Dont come back.”
Val sat by the window that evening. Silence outside. Peace within. Life worked strangelysometimes loneliness killed faster than disease. And healing came not from medicine, but from simple human care, warm words, and hands that reached out unasked.
A week after Arthur left, Val didnt cry. Something inside her had snappedthe last flicker of love for him. Only quiet remained, like a forest after a storm: stillness, but the memory of wind lingered. She moved on, leaving the past behindlove, marriage, betrayal.
But fate had other plans.
A stranger appeared on her porchblack jacket, worn briefcase. Not the medic, but a young notary from the district office.
“Valentina Chester?”
“Thats me,” she said cautiously.
He handed her a file.
“Youre named in a will. Your father passed. Youve inherited a London flat and a bank sum. Significant.”
Val stiffened. “I have no father.” The man who left when she was three had never been part of her life. Now this?
“Legally, hes listed as your father,” the notary added.
The day blurred. For the first time in a year, Val phoned Nina, an old friend still in the city.
“Val?! Youre alive? Arthur said you died! Even held a funeral!”
Vals heart stalled.
“A funeral?”
“Yes. He organized it. Said you suffered terribly. Sold your flat a month later. Said he couldnt bear to live there.”
Val sat heavily. He hadnt just abandoned herhed erased her.
Two days later, she returned to the city. With Ianthe medic whod braved blizzards to reach her.
“Just in case,” he said simply.
And she needed him. Everything was truethe flat, the money, the documents. The law sided with her. Val stepped into her new life not as a condemned woman, but as someone whod seized control.
But the story wasnt over.
At the market, she saw himArthur. With another woman. Pregnant. His mother, now frail, beside them. The woman whod once deemed Val unworthy.
Their eyes met. Arthur paled.
“Val”
“Not what you expected?” she asked softly.
“Whos this?” the new woman asked.
“An old friend,” Arthur said tightly.
Val smiled faintly. “Very old. Someone you buried.”
She walked away. Ian waited by the car, groceries in hand.
“All right?”
“Now I am,” Val said. “I got my name back.”
That night on her balcony, wrapped in a blanket with tea, she felt no painjust bright, healthy silence. As if every horror was truly behind her.
But life, as always, dealt new cards.
Months passed. Val settled into her new reality. Warmth filled her flatlamplight, flowers, coffee and candles. She took up knitting again. The pain faded, leaving only faint sadness for lost years.
Ian visited often. Brought food, helped clean, made borscht. Sat quietly when she needed company.
One snowy evening, Val spoke:
“I feel alive for the first time. Strange, isnt it?”
Ian smiled. “Sometimes you need to be suffocated to breathe again. You survived. Youre stronger than you think.”
She studied him, then leaned against his shouldernot as her savior, but as the man whod stayed when she needed him most.
Another month. Val felt weak. Thought it was a cold. Then fatigue. But the doctor smiled:
“Congratulations, Valentina. Youre pregnant.”
She froze. After everythingillness, betrayal, death and rebirththis?
The ultrasound showed a tiny heartbeat.
“Everythings perfect. A little girl.”
Leaving the clinic, Val weptnot from sorrow, but impossible joy. As if God whispered: “Your story isnt done.”
Ian held her tightly.
“Well manage. Together.”
One day, Val saw a headline:
“Man Arrested for Fraud. Charges: Forgery, Faking Wifes Death, Selling Her Estate.”
The nameArthur Chester.
Her heart clenched.
She set the paper aside, sipped warm milk, and cradled her belly.
“Youll never know betrayal,” she whispered.
Labor wasnt easy. Val fainted twice, her heart pounding like a drum. Doctors shouted, lights swayed. Outside, Ian stood like a wall, praying like a child.
Thena cry. Loud, alive, clinging to life.
“A girl,” the doctor said. “Tiny but strong. Spitting image of you.”
Val gazed at the tiny face, the damp lashes, and whispered:
“Welcome, my love. Ive waited so long”
A year later, the kettle whistled. Ian fed little Lily porridge while Val
