Misha’s parents chose a bride for him based on status. And I—I remained 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 paediatrician, his father taught philosophy at university. Every minute of Misha’s childhood was scheduled—clubs, sports, books, tutors, competitions. He lived up to their expectations: clever, well-mannered, top of his class. But one thing didn’t fit into their strict world—his friendship with me.
My name was Eleanor. I came from an ordinary family, if not a troubled one. My mother never worked, and my father laboured at a factory until he drank himself out of our lives. Despite that, Misha was always there. He helped me with homework, stood up for me when the other kids mocked me, shared his sandwiches at school, and listened to my childish fears. We were inseparable—until life tore us apart.
When I turned fifteen, my mother died. I was sent to a children’s home, and our connection broke. 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 thought he’d simply lost interest.
We met again by chance—at our final school exams. I barely recognised the confident young man as the boy I’d once played with in the yard, but he knew me instantly. With a smile and a tremor in his voice, we started talking again. Our friendship returned, but this time, it was different.
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 told me he loved me. I cried—from happiness.
Six months later, I told him I’d written him letters from the care home all those years. He was stunned. His parents had never given them to him. He was furious. His mother claimed they’d only wanted to protect him from a “troubled past.” To him, those letters were proof of betrayal—not mine, but theirs.
When he announced he’d marry me after graduation, his family erupted. They’d already picked him a “suitable” girl—the dean’s daughter, clever, from a wealthy family. And me? I was still that girl from nowhere. But Misha defied them. We moved into a rented flat. I found out I was pregnant and told him joyfully. He held me and said, “This will be the happiest child in the world.”
A few days later, his mother came. No greeting, no words. Just a silent envelope of money placed on the table and a whisper:
“Disappear from his life. For good.”
I said nothing. He never knew about that visit. I didn’t want to ruin 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 it. He packed his things and left without a word. I stood there, holding our baby, unable to believe the man I loved could erase us so easily.
I sold the flat, moved to another city, enrolled in medical school. Worked, studied, raised my son alone. I never spoke ill of his father, only saying, “He loved us once.” Years passed.
I became an army doctor. My son grew up. And only after a decade did I meet a man I could trust again. We married, had two more children. My husband never saw them as “his” and “not his.” He was a father to my firstborn, too. For the first time, I knew what it meant to be loved unconditionally.
As for Misha? I heard he stayed a small-town doctor, married the woman his parents chose. They never had children. We crossed paths at a medical conference—his eyes filled with sorrow, regret, confusion.
He wanted to talk. 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 already had.
The saddest part? Even now, people still judge others by status, not by how they love, how they care, how loyal they are. Misha lost his family because he couldn’t stand between me and his parents’ demands. And me? I found mine. A real one.
