Zhenya sat on an old wooden chair in the cramped dorm room, clutching a worn-out smartphone to her knees — a gift from the orphanage, her only reminder of the past and her sole connection to the outside world.
Gray October light filtered through the foggy window, illuminating the screen as job postings slowly loaded.
She needed a live-in position because renting an apartment in the city was beyond her modest means.
She had no parents, no support, no savings — only a chef’s diploma, a bit of experience working in a summer camp and a boarding house, and a fierce determination to start a new life.
There were plenty of listings, but the choice felt overwhelmingly difficult.
Zhenya carefully read each one, comparing the terms, requirements, and salaries.
She narrowed it down to two options: one was a large family with three noisy kids and a strict grandmother; the other was more modest, quieter.
She decided to visit the first family first.
A middle-aged woman opened the door and gave Zhenya a dry once-over.
“You’re so young. Do you even have any experience?”
“I do,” Zhenya replied calmly. “I have a chef’s diploma. I worked at a summer camp and a boarding house.”
“That’s not the same,” the woman interrupted coldly. “Catering is one thing. A family kitchen is something else entirely. It requires care, understanding, taste, attention.”
As she spoke, three boys zoomed past them on a toy car, one accidentally bumping into Zhenya’s arm and jerking it painfully.
Zhenya sighed. Something clenched inside her. It was clear: she wasn’t welcome here. There was no room for kindness, understanding, or even basic human warmth.
The second address turned out to be much more promising.
A man in his forties opened the door — tall, with kind eyes and soft features.
His name was Sergey Platonovich Volnov. He immediately offered Zhenya water, tea, or coffee.
“Thanks, just water is fine,” she smiled. “It’s a nice day — I enjoyed the walk.”
They sat down at the kitchen table and started a typical conversation: age, experience, education, where she grew up.
When Zhenya mentioned she grew up in an orphanage because her mother had abandoned her at birth, the man nodded as if accepting it without judgment or pity.
“I hope we’ll accept you like one of our own. People work here for a long time — I’ve known many of them since they were kids.”
He looked over her documents carefully, pausing on one photo of a little girl with red curls beaming a big smile.
“Looks like you’re a smart one. Let me show you the kitchen and your room.”
The family was small: Sergey Platonovich, his wife Margarita Eduardovna, their five-year-old son Kirill, a nanny, and a housekeeper named Nina.
Zhenya was given a small but cozy room next to the kitchen.
She liked the job right away: cooking for the family, keeping things in order, helping Nina — it all came naturally to her.
The homeowners were rarely home, working late at their publishing house.
Sometimes, Zhenya felt someone watching her. One day, while doing dishes, she turned around and saw little Kirill in the doorway.
“Is this our auntie?” he asked the nanny.
Nina laughed, and for the first time, Zhenya felt something warm melt inside her.
Life took on a peaceful rhythm.
On weekends, Zhenya met up with friends from the orphanage. The rest of her time was devoted to work.
When the nanny fell ill, Nina and Zhenya took over caring for Kirill.
The boy was bright and curious.
He often asked to learn cooking:
“Teach me! I want to be a chef when I grow up!”
Zhenya happily showed him how to make cheese pancakes. Kirill sat on a tall stool, swinging his legs and asking a thousand questions.
His eyes would light up with ideas he wanted to try immediately.
One day, the boy suddenly asked:
“Where’s your mom?”
“I don’t have a mom. I never did.”
“Then where did you come from? I had a mom, but now I don’t…”
Zhenya was stunned. Could Margarita not be Kirill’s biological mother?
She wanted to ask Nina, but just then the homeowners returned, and the boy ran toward them, shouting joyfully, “Papa! Mama!”
A few days later, Zhenya witnessed a strange scene.
Sergey left for work, and Margarita asked her to watch the child and left as well.
As the car pulled out of the yard, Kirill ran to the window and shook his fist angrily.
“You shouldn’t act like that with Mama!”
“She’s not my mama!” the boy yelled, his voice trembling with anger and tears. “I don’t want to call her mama! Papa makes me!”
Zhenya was shocked but quickly found a way to calm the boy — she suggested they bake cookies together.
Kirill, distracted by the task, soon forgot his distress.
When Margarita returned, she said:
“Sergey asked me to take Kirill. We’re going to visit friends at their dacha. Pack his backpack.”
Zhenya packed his things, and Kirill grabbed the bag and ran toward the car.
Zhenya followed, but just as the boy reached the porch, the car began reversing.
One more second — and it could have been a tragedy. Zhenya managed to push Kirill out of the way just in time.
He scraped his knee and cried.
“Why weren’t you watching him?!” Margarita lashed out. “I didn’t even see him!”
Kirill fell silent, obediently took his stepmother’s hand, and got into the child seat.
Before they left, he turned and blew Zhenya a kiss.
Later, Nina confirmed Zhenya’s suspicions — Margarita was indeed not Kirill’s biological mother.
After the weekend, Sergey Platonovich called Zhenya into his study.
“Kirill told me… He says she tried to run him over.”
“I can’t say it was intentional. But I know for sure — he doesn’t want to call her ‘Mama’. He only does it because you make him. He’s a wonderful boy, but he’s suffering.”
Sergey was silent.
“I hoped he’d get used to it… He’s so little, I thought he didn’t understand.”
“At that age, kids see their mother as part of themselves. If someone else takes that place, it can be traumatic.”
The next day, he summoned Zhenya again — this time with Margarita present.
“Tell me, Zhenya, when you packed Kirill’s backpack, was his tablet on the bedside table?”
Zhenya nodded — she remembered him watching cartoons before bed.
“No one else entered the room after you, but now the tablet is missing.”
Her heart sank. Were they accusing her of stealing?
Zhenya placed her room key on the table.
“Search it.”
“No need for that. Let’s just look together.”
Nothing was found in her room. But in the kitchen, in a drawer with towels — the tablet appeared.
Kirill was delighted:
“It’s back! It’s back!”
Sergey looked questioningly at Zhenya. She said nothing — she had no idea how it got there.
“I didn’t take it.”
Kirill overheard the conversation:
“Don’t scold Zhenya! She’s good! It was Margot who took the tablet, I saw!”
“What are you saying?” his stepmother cried.
“I saw you! You put me to bed and took the tablet! I wasn’t asleep!”
The boy blushed and ran off. Margarita chased after him:
“Seryozha, wait! I was looking for the charger, I wanted to charge it somewhere else!”
They could hear them going upstairs, Sergey shouting something, and a door slamming.
Margarita wept outside the door, accusing her husband of trusting everyone but her.
Then she came to the kitchen:
“Where did this girl come from to torment me? We were fine before she arrived. Kirill called me ‘Mama’, now he avoids me like I’m a leper!”
She opened the fridge, took an unfinished bottle, and went to her room.
Half an hour later, a loud crash came from her room — Margarita, clearly intoxicated, was destroying everything.
People ran in. Sergey tried to restrain his out-of-control wife:
“Call an ambulance! I think she’s having a breakdown!”
Margarita was incredibly strong.
She grabbed Zhenya by her blouse, tearing the fabric.
Sergey noticed a black silk cord with a carved cross around Zhenya’s neck.
“Where did that come from?”
“I’ve had it since birth. They told me at the orphanage — my mother put it on me when she abandoned me.”
Volnov looked at her strangely. The ambulance arrived. The doctor gave her an injection, and they took Margarita away.
“With this much stress, I’ll end up in the asylum myself,” Sergey muttered. “Come on, I want to show you something.”
He led Zhenya to his study and pulled out a thick leather-bound album.
“This album was kept by my first wife, Ira — Kirill’s mother. We were classmates since the fourth grade. Loved each other since youth, broke up, got back together… lost each other again…”
He told her the story of their long love, her illness, and her passing.
“She told me before she died… that she gave birth to a girl from me but never told me — she was scared. Her parents gave her an ultimatum: give up the baby or lose everything. She was sixteen.”
‘Do you remember my baptismal cross that Grandma gave me?’ he quoted her final words. ‘I put it on our daughter’s neck. Let it protect her forever.’”
“So… I’m your daughter?”
“Yes, Evgenia. I’m sorry. I never thought to look for you. You were born in Khabarovsk — no one knew which orphanage you were placed in.”
Zhenya flipped through the album. In every photo — from childhood to school — the red-haired girl wore a familiar black silk cord.
“So Kirill is my brother?”
“Wow! Zhenya, you surprise me. The fact that I’m your father excited you less than finding out Kirill is your brother?”
“Sorry… It’s just that Kirill and I have grown so close. I adore him!”
“That’s wonderful! Everything will change now. I’ll get you into university, send Margarita to treatment. One downside — we’ll need a new cook.”
“Dad, maybe we don’t need a restaurant cook? I’ll cook for the whole family!”
“No way! You’ve spent your whole life in institutions — and now I’m supposed to save money on you? Not a chance! You’re going to study! And you’re moving to the second floor immediately. I want to talk to you for hours!”
Zhenya tried to object, but her father walked over and hugged her tightly.
For the first time in her life, she felt like she truly had a family.
