Irina stood by the window of the tiny kitchen, watching her seven-year-old twins, Dima and Max, playing outside. The setting sun painted the sky in soft pink hues. Their home on the outskirts of town was modest but warma two-story house with a small garden and an old apple tree under the window. They had lived there for six months, ever since burying Pavel.
“Mom, when will Dad come back?” asked Dima, walking into the kitchen and pressing against her.
Her heart tightened, but she kept her composure. Ruffling his hair gently, she replied,
“He wont. Hes in heaven now, watching over us. Remember?”
Max ran over too, and Irina hugged them both. They looked so much like Pavelthe same dark hair, gray eyes. Sometimes it hurt, but more often, it comforted her.
“Mom, whats for dinner?” Max asked.
“Potatoes and cutlets,” she lied. The fridge was nearly empty.
Money was running out. Her pension was tiny, and finding work with two kids was nearly impossible. The thought gnawed at her daily, but she stayed strong for them.
A sharp knock startled her. Unexpected visitors were rare.
“Boys, go to your room,” she said.
“Who is it?” Dima asked.
“I dont know. Go on, play for now.”
When they left, she checked the peephole. Two men in dark suits stood thereone tall and thin, the other shorter and stockier.
“Who are you?” she asked without opening.
“Alexei Viktorovich and Sergei Nikolaevich. We need to talk about your husband.”
“Hes dead.”
“Thats why were here. Open up.”
After a pause, she unchained the door. They introduced themselves and asked to come in. Reluctantly, she let them.
“Your husband, Pavel Sergeyevich, owed us money,” the tall one, Alexei, began.
“What money?” she asked, ice forming in her stomach.
“Gambling debt. A large sum.” Sergei handed her a slip of paper. “Heres the IOU.”
Her hands shook as she read it. The amount made her go pale.
“This cant be! He never bet that much”
“He did,” Alexei said flatly. “Now youll pay.”
“I dont have that kind of money! I have kids, no job”
“Not our problem,” Sergei shrugged. “You have a month.”
“What if I cant?” she whispered.
The men exchanged glances.
“You will,” Alexei said. “Strongly advised.”
They left, leaving only fear and despair behind.
Months later, Irina stood at the cemetery with chrysanthemums in hand. The twins were silent beside her. Pavels grave was still fresh, autumn leaves drifting onto the stone.
“Dad, we love you,” Dima whispered, laying down a drawing.
“And miss you,” Max added.
Irina stared at Pavels photo. He was smiling, like before the debts, the addiction. She remembered his final monthsirritable, disappearing, claiming he was with friends. Shed suspected drinking, never this.
“Forgive me, Pavel I didnt know how bad it was…”
Outside the cemetery, she spotted Alexei and Sergei smoking, clearly waiting for her.
“Boys, go to the car,” she told the twins.
They obeyed.
“Condolences,” Alexei said.
“What do you want?” she said coldly.
“A reminder. Three months have passed.”
“Im looking for work, but with kids”
“Find a way,” Sergei said. “Or we will.”
Alexei showed the IOU again. “His signature. The house is collateral.”
“The house?! Its all we have!”
“Was,” Sergei corrected. “If the debt isnt paid, its ours.”
“Youve got three weeks,” Alexei added. “Think carefully.”
At home, Irina counted her meager savings. The sum was ludicrous. She whispered to Pavels photo on the fridge,
“Why? Why risk our home?”
Silence answered.
The next morning, she took the kids to school and went to the bank. Maybe a loan? But rejections piled up.
That night, after the boys slept, she finally broke down. Rain outside mirrored her tears.
The next day, a friend, Lara, approached her in the store.
“Heard youre job hunting. A womans looking for a helper for her disabled son. Pays well.”
“Where?”
“A gated community. Heres her number.”
That evening, Irina called Anna Mikhailovna. They arranged a meeting.
The next day, she arrived at “Pine Grove.” The door opened to an elegant woman in her fifties.
“Irina? Come in.”
The spacious living room smelled of antiques and expensive perfume.
“Lara told me your situation,” Anna said. “A widow, two kids, in need. I need help for my sonbut its special work.”
“Yes, thats right.”
“My son, Stanislav, is thirty. Six months ago, an accident left him different. He needs constant care.”
“Ive cared for my grandmother. I understand.”
“Its more than care,” Anna hesitated. “I need a wife for him.”
Irina blinked. “A wife?”
“A marriage on paper. Hes been in a coma. Doctors say he may wakeor not. If he does, hell need family. A wife. Your boys could be his.”
Irina struggled to process it.
“Its well-paid. Very. More than you need. Plus housing, food, insurance.”
“How much?” she whispered.
The number stunned hertriple Pavels debt.
“But why me? You could hire a nurse”
“A nurse is a job. Family is more. If he wakes, hell need love, support. To feel wanted.”
“But its a lie”
“Mutual help,” Anna corrected. “Safety for you, a chance for us. No harm.”
Irina wrestled with the choice. Madnessbut she had none left.
“I need time.”
“Dont take too long.”
At home, she paced. Duty versus conscience. The twins future, the house, the debt.
“Mom, are you sad?” Dima asked.
“Just tired, sweetie.”
“Well help!” Max hugged her. “Were big now!”
She knelt, holding them.
“Boys what if we moved? To a big, nice house. A sick man needs our help there.”
“Is he nice?” Max asked.
“I think so. Like a fairy-tale princeasleep, but hell wake.”
“Well wake him!” Dima cheered.
“Maybe youre just what he needs,” she smiled.
That night, sleep evaded her. The next morning, she called Anna.
“I agree. But conditions: the boys keep their school, and I meet Stanislav first.”
“Of course. Come tomorrow.”
The next day, she saw himpale, hooked to machines, but handsome even in sleep.
“He was full of life,” Anna said. “Athletic, worked for us. Even engaged…”
“Wheres his fiancée?”
“Gone,” Anna said bitterly. “When she learned he might never wake.”
Irina took his hand. It was warm.
“Hello,” she whispered. “Ill take care of you.”
Did his fingers twitch?
A week later, they moved in. The boys adored their new rooms, toys, the “sleeping uncle.” They read to him, drew pictures, shared news.
Irina learned his carefeeding tubes, massages, monitoring machines. She talked to him, told him about her past, the boys.
One morning, massaging his arms, she saw his eyes openaware, not reflexive.
“Stanislav? Can you hear me?”
He tried to speak, voice hoarse. She helped him sip water.
“Dont talk. Youre home.”
Confusion filled his gaze.
“Im Irina. Your caregiver. You were in an accident, but its okay now.”
The boys burst in.
“Mom, Uncle Stas” Dima froze, seeing his open eyes.
“Hes awake!” Max shouted.
Stanislav smiledhis first in six months.
Anna wept, hugging Irina. “You brought him back. Your love, your care.”
“We all did,” Irina said. “The boys too.”
Slowly, Stanislav relearned speech, movement. The boys bonded with him, calling him family.
One evening, alone, he told her,
“I remember your voice. You talked when I couldnt answer.”
“I hoped you heard.”
“I did. It kept me fighting.”
A bond formednot romantic, but deep, built on trust.
Later, his father, Vladimir Petrovich, visited.
“So, youre Irina? Ive heard much.”
“Dad,” Stanislav took her hand, “this is my wife.”And as the seasons changed, their blended family found strength in each other, proving that lovewhether born or chosencould heal even the deepest wounds.
