Misha’s parents chose a bride for him based on status. And I—I remained an enemy simply because I grew up in the wrong family.
My story began long ago, in childhood. Misha was the only son of a professor and a doctor. His mother, a respected pediatrician; his father, a lecturer in philosophy. Every minute of Misha’s childhood was scheduled: clubs, sports, books, tutors, competitions. He met all his parents’ expectations—clever, well-mannered, always top of his class. But one thing didn’t fit into their carefully ordered world: his friendship with me.
My name was Verity. I was born into an ordinary, if not troubled, family. Mum never worked, and Dad laboured at a factory until he drank himself out of our lives for good. Despite that, Misha was always there. He helped me with homework, fended off bullies in the yard, shared his sandwiches at school, and listened to my childish fears. We were inseparable—until life pulled us apart.
When I turned fifteen, my mum passed away. I was sent to a children’s home, and our connection snapped. Later, I learned Misha had tried to find me, but his parents convinced him I’d cut ties myself. He stopped writing, and for years, I believed he’d simply moved on.
We met again by chance—at our final exams. I barely recognised the poised young man as the boy I’d once chased through the streets with. But he knew me at once. With a smile and a tremor in his voice, we started talking again. The friendship returned, but this time, with something new beneath it.
Misha suggested we go to the same university. We did. We studied together, stayed late in the library, walked in the rain, and once, under autumn leaves, he took my hand and confessed he loved me. I cried—from happiness.
Six months later, I told him I’d written him letters from the home. He was stunned. His parents had never passed them on. He was furious. His mother insisted they’d only wanted to protect him from a “messy past.” For him, the letters were proof of betrayal—not mine, but theirs.
When he told them he planned to marry me after graduation, the house erupted. They’d already picked a “suitable” girl—the dean’s daughter, clever, from a wealthy family. And me? I was still the girl from “nowhere.” But Misha defied them. We moved into a tiny flat. When I learned I was pregnant, I told him, beaming. He held me and whispered, “This’ll be the happiest child alive.”
Then, days later, his mother came. No greeting, no words. Just an envelope of cash set on the table, and a whisper:
“Disappear from his life. For good.”
I said nothing. He never knew she’d visited. I didn’t want to poison what we had. But when our son was born, the unthinkable happened.
Misha’s mother returned—this time with a “gift.” A DNA test claiming the child wasn’t his. Misha believed her. He packed his things and left without hearing me out. I stood there, clutching our baby, unable to believe the boy I’d loved could erase us so easily.
I sold the flat, moved away, enrolled in medical school. Worked, studied, raised our son alone. I never spoke ill of his father—only said, “He loved us once.” Years passed.
I became an army doctor. My son grew up. And only a decade later did I meet a man I could trust again. We married, had two more children. My husband never divided them into “his” and “not his.” He became a father to my firstborn, too. And I—for the first time—knew what it was to be loved without conditions.
Misha, I later heard, remained a doctor in some small hospital. Married the woman his parents chose. They never had children. We crossed paths at a medical conference—and in his eyes, I saw only regret, sorrow, confusion.
He wanted to talk. But I only smiled, took my youngest daughter’s hand, and walked away.
Because you can’t start a new life from the past. And I—I’d already begun mine.
And you know what? The strangest thing is that even now, in the twenty-first century, people still judge by status instead of love, loyalty, or kindness. Misha lost a family because he couldn’t stand between me and his parents’ wishes. And I—I found mine. The real one.
