Misha’s parents chose a bride for him based on status. And I—I became the enemy simply because I wasn’t born into the right family.
My story began in childhood. Misha was the only son of a professor and a doctor. His mother was a respected pediatrician, his father taught philosophy at university. Every minute of Misha’s life was planned: clubs, tutors, competitions, books. He met all their expectations—bright, well-mannered, top of his class. But one thing didn’t fit into their polished world—his friendship with me.
My name was Eleanor. I grew up in an ordinary, if not troubled, home. My mother didn’t work, and my father laboured at a factory until he drank himself out of our lives. Still, Misha stayed by my side. He helped me with homework, stood up for me when others mocked me, shared his sandwiches at school, and listened to my childish fears. We were inseparable—until life pulled us apart.
When I turned fifteen, my mother passed away. I was sent to a children’s home, and our bond shattered. Later, I learned Misha had tried to find me, but his parents convinced him I’d cut ties willingly. When his letters stopped, I assumed I’d simply faded from his mind.
Years later, we met again—by chance—at graduation exams. I barely recognised the tall, confident young man as the boy I’d once chased around the playground with. But he knew me instantly. With a smile and a tremor in his voice, we began speaking again. Our friendship returned, this time with something deeper.
Misha suggested we apply to the same university. We did. We studied together, stayed late in the library, walked in the rain, and one autumn evening, beneath falling leaves, he took my hand and told me he loved me. I wept—with joy.
Six months later, I confessed I’d written him letters from the home. He was stunned. His parents had kept them from him. He was furious. His mother insisted they’d only wanted to shield him from a “distasteful past.” To him, those letters proved betrayal—but not mine. Theirs.
When he announced our engagement after graduation, his family erupted. They’d already picked a “suitable” bride—the dean’s daughter, clever, wealthy. And me? I was still the girl from “nowhere.” But Misha defied them. We moved into a rented flat. I discovered I was pregnant and told him, beaming. He held me close and whispered, “Our child will be the happiest in the world.”
Days later, his mother arrived. No greeting, no words. She simply placed an envelope of cash on the table and hissed, “Leave his life. For good.”
I said nothing. He never knew she’d come. I wouldn’t destroy what we had. But when our son was born, the unthinkable happened.
Misha’s mother returned—this time with a DNA test, falsely claiming the baby wasn’t his. He believed her. He packed his things and left without a word. I stood there, clutching our son, unable to fathom that the boy I’d loved could erase us so easily.
I sold the flat, moved towns, enrolled in medical school. I worked, studied, raised my son alone. I never spoke ill of his father—only ever 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. He never treated my firstborn as anything but his own. With him, I finally knew unconditional love.
Misha, I later heard, remained a small-town doctor. He married his parents’ choice. They had no children. We crossed paths at a conference—and in his eyes, I saw regret, sorrow, loss.
He tried to speak. I only smiled, took my youngest daughter’s hand, and walked away.
Because you can’t restart life from the past. And mine—I’d already begun.
The bitter truth? Even now, people judge by status, not by love, loyalty, or kindness. Misha lost a family because he lacked the courage to stand between me and his parents’ pride. I found mine—real, at last.
