Albina’s childhood was the sort no one would wish to relive. Her father was seldom sober, though he never raised a hand to her mother, Vera, or to her—fear kept him in check. Once, he’d tried to discipline Vera, but she’d struck him so hard with something heavy that his head ached for days. He’d learned his lesson.
Instead, he tormented them with fits of temper. He’d spill soup or something sweet on the floor just to make them clean it, shatter dishes, or bellow songs in the dead of night so no one could sleep—not even sparing his own mother, who lived with them. After one too many rows, Vera threatened to leave, even packed her things a few times. But her husband, sober and grovelling, would clutch at her skirts.
«Vera, don’t go, don’t leave me—I’ll stop drinking, I swear. I don’t know what comes over me.» And she believed him, for a time. Where else could she go? Her parents were long gone, and her elder sister had sold the family home.
«You never helped care for them, so the house was left to me,» the sister had said.
So Vera stayed—with her quarrelsome husband, young Albina, and a mother-in-law who despised her in silence, muttering, «Poor lad, stuck with a snake for a wife.» Vera would snap back, «Your ‘poor lad’ has drained me dry. One day I’ll take Albina and leave you to suffer with him.» Then the old woman would sulk for days, refusing to speak even to her granddaughter.
Vera wanted Albina gone as soon as possible. «After secondary school, you’ll go to trade college—cooking or baking,» she declared.
«I don’t want to, Mum. I do well in school. I’ll go to university.»
«We’ve no money for that.»
«I’ll get a scholarship,» Albina insisted, but Vera wouldn’t hear it.
«Enough dreaming. Tomorrow we’re enrolling you.»
At college, Albina met Anthony, a local lad who worked at the market. He’d left home after falling out with his parents and now rented a room with a mate. She confided in him. «I hate it here. My mother forced me. My father drinks…»
Soon after, he offered, «Why stay in halls? Move in with me. My mate’s gone home—I’m sick of being alone. Just live together. I won’t bother you,» he promised. «You’ll cook, I’ll help clean.»
Looking back years later, Albina couldn’t fathom why she’d trusted him. Naivety, she supposed. At the time, she’d have done anything to escape her father’s rages and her mother’s bitterness.
They lasted three months. She barely noticed falling for him—or how it all unraveled. One day, she felt queasy. Anthony, sharp-eyed, guessed at once.
«No. Not this,» he snapped.
«What?» She stared, bewildered.
«The last thing I need is a kid.» His face twisted—kind Anthony vanished, replaced by a stranger who threw her out.
She returned home, claiming it was just for the holidays, hoping he was wrong. But soon, she knew. She hid it as long as she could until Vera dragged her to the clinic. Too late.
«Shameless girl! I sent you to study, and you come back with a belly!» The row echoed through the house. Her father cursed, calling her a slut like her mother, while Vera nearly struck him. Even her grandmother glared.
When social services came, Albina refused to name the father. She endured the scorn until, one day, Vera slapped her. She fled to the river, trembling on the bridge’s edge, staring into the dark, rushing water. The current tugged at her thoughts. Even the baby kicked, as if sensing danger.
Then hands yanked her back. A car ride, voices—she remembered little else. She woke in a hospital bed, a nurse murmuring, «Easy now. You had a cesarean. Your girl’s small but strong.»
«A girl,» Albina echoed, numb, and slept again.
When they brought the baby, she refused to hold her. «I don’t want her.»
«Don’t be daft,» the nurse scolded. «Take your child.» But Albina shrank away.
«Useless girls—breed and bolt,» the nurse muttered as she left.
A kindly patient asked, «Was it a lad who left you?» Albina nodded.
«God bless him. I raised my first alone too. Then I married well—now I’ve a son.»
«I tried to jump… but someone pulled me back.»
Moved, the woman spoke to the doctor. «Her mother kicked her out. She might come round.»
But by morning, Albina had fled. The baby—Annie—went to a children’s home.
Albina’s path was hard: odd jobs at the market, squalid lodgings among drunkards and filth. Then an idea struck—fetch her passport, finish night school, get into university.
Vera greeted her coldly. «You left. Stay gone. What of the child?»
«I left her. I’ve come for my passport.» She took it and left.
Years passed. Albina fought her way up—night classes, university (on the second try), relentless studying. She ignored men, worked tirelessly, earned her degree, then a grant to start a business. Now, at thirty-six, she ran a firm.
Her accountant, Mrs. Nadezhda, fretted. «You look worn, Albina. See a doctor.»
But Albina collapsed mid-consultation. In hospital, staring at the ceiling, she wondered: Had she ever been happy?
Then it came—the memory of Annie’s birth. For those few seconds, she had been.
Tests revealed only exhaustion. After discharge, she drove straight to the maternity ward. The old director remembered but refused details—until a thick envelope changed his mind.
The children’s home yielded an address. At dusk, she stood outside a cottage, hesitating—until Vera stepped out.
«Mum?» Albina breathed.
«Daughter? Is it you?» Vera wept.
A young woman appeared. «Gran, who’s—?»
Light from the porch fell on a face startlingly like Albina’s.
The truth spilled out: Vera, learning of Annie from a nurse friend, had claimed her, left Albina’s father, and bought this house with hidden savings.
Albina clung to Annie. «Forgive me for leaving you.»
The girl said nothing—twenty years was much to forgive.
«Don’t blame yourself,» Vera murmured. «We all failed you. But now we’re together.»
Albina smiled at last. «We’ll move to the city. My home’s big enough. Annie, you’ll work with me.»
For the first time, she had someone to live for.