Alina stood frozen in the window opening, watching the solitary dampness slowly creeping along the glass surface. The snowy white dress—which just yesterday had embodied the very incarnation of dreams—now lay in a shapeless heap in the corner of the room. Only three days ago, her existence had seemed clear and predictable. Now everything was shattered into fragments—her husband had left the celebration right in the middle of the wedding banquet.

Because of a toast.

The aroma of an unfinished festive dessert lingered in the house. Her parents had long since departed, and her friends had stopped calling. Alina traced meaningless patterns on the fogged-up glass with her fingertips. She simply couldn’t understand: how could phrases spoken in an atmosphere that was supposed to be joyful so swiftly change the course of her fate?

“You and Marat make such a perfect couple!” the celebration coordinator, Veronika, repeated enthusiastically while adjusting Alina’s wedding headpiece. “In today’s world, you don’t see that very often. Six years together, and all this time you look at each other like starry-eyed lovers.”

Alina merely managed a smile. Their story with Marat really did seem impeccable. They had met in their junior year of college. She—an aspiring architect, him—a promising lawyer. Calm, drama-free relations; no theatrics, no tantrums, no baseless jealousy. No emotional roller coasters—everything was solid, reliable, and predictable.

The wedding celebration had been planned down to the last detail. A banquet hall with a view of a calm water surface. One hundred and twenty guests. A meticulously crafted menu and unobtrusive live music. Marat’s parents were owners of a small but successful construction company. They spared no expense. Alina, whose parents were ordinary school teachers, sometimes felt uncomfortable with such lavishness.

“This is our only son,” Marat’s mother had told her. “And we’re glad he chose such an exceptional girl.”

The wedding day began flawlessly. A morning photo shoot in an autumn park. A touching civil ceremony at the registry office, where even the veteran registrar discreetly dabbed a tear. Then—a motorcade of cars adorned with ribbons and flowers, a ride past significant places in the city.

By the time everyone arrived at the restaurant, the guests’ mood was elevated. Congratulations were being offered, glasses filled with champagne, and waiters hurried between tables placing appetizers.

Marat was unusually silent.

“Is everything alright?” Alina asked when they were alone for a minute.

“Yeah, I’m just a bit nervous,” he smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Alina chalked it up to exhaustion—the day had been busy, and she hadn’t really gotten enough sleep the night before.

Traditional toasts followed one after another. The parents wished them happiness and offspring. Friends recalled amusing stories from their student days. Marat’s colleagues joked that now he would have to coordinate work delays with “home management.”

Time went by. The atmosphere grew increasingly relaxed. After another glass of champagne, Alina noticed Victoria among the guests—a former classmate of Marat’s. Rumor had it during their college years that something had happened between them, though Marat always denied it. And Alina had never pressed for details. Victoria was sitting at a distant table, speaking quietly with one of the groom’s colleagues. Alina had insisted on the invitation herself. After all, they had studied together for four years.

“And now, I would like to give the floor to our groom’s classmate and long-time acquaintance,” the emcee announced. “Victoria, you have the floor!”

The young woman in an elegant dark blue dress rose from her table. She took a glass, scanned the hall, and began her speech:

“I have known Marat for almost ten years.” A hush fell over the room.

“And I must say, it is hard to find a more decent and reliable man. Alina is incredibly lucky.”

The guests murmured their approval. Marat nervously adjusted his tie.

“A long time ago, Marat and I were very close,” continued Victoria. “So close that I thought our relationship would become something more.”

A soft murmur rippled through the hall. Alina tensed involuntarily. She felt Marat tighten his grip on her hand.

“But fate had other plans. Today, I want to tell you a story.”

Once, during the exam period, Marat found Victoria in tears on the university staircase. She had just been diagnosed with a serious kidney disease. She needed expensive treatment that her family couldn’t afford. Without hesitation, Marat offered his help. He gave her all his savings, which he had been saving for a car. He even persuaded his parents to provide the remaining amount.

“Not a soul at the university ever found out about this,” Victoria’s voice trembled. “He helped me without asking for anything in return. And he made me promise that I wouldn’t tell anyone. He even told his parents that the money was needed for some academic project.”

Alina stared at Marat in astonishment. In six years of being together, he had never mentioned this story even once.

“Now, after seven years, I can finally break that promise and say thank you,” Victoria raised her glass. “Marat, thanks to you, I am standing here today—alive and healthy. And I wish for you and Alina the same sincere and radiant love that you once showed a classmate.”

The hall erupted in applause. Many women discreetly wiped away tears. Marat’s parents exchanged bewildered smiles. Clearly, they were hearing the story for the first time too.

Alina felt a swell of pride for her husband. She turned to tell him how much she admired his actions. But she was met with a strange, almost frightened look.

“I need to go,” Marat said in a barely audible voice, abruptly rising.

He didn’t head for the exit, but toward Victoria. He said something quietly to her. She replied. For several seconds they just looked at each other. Then Marat turned and quickly left the banquet hall.

Alina sat paralyzed with bewilderment. The guests didn’t notice anything unusual. They continued discussing the amazing story.

“He probably just got overwhelmed,” whispered a friend sitting nearby.

“Men don’t like being made heroes.”

But ten minutes passed. Fifteen. Half an hour. Marat did not return. Attempts to call him were unsuccessful. His phone was switched off. After an hour of his absence, concern began to spread among the guests. Marat’s father went looking for him. But he couldn’t find his son anywhere—not in the restaurant nor in the vicinity.

By evening, the celebration had turned into a pitiful semblance of a wake. The guests awkwardly exchanged words, unsure whether to leave or hope for the groom’s return. Alina sat at the table as if in a trance, mechanically responding to supportive words.

Around ten in the evening, Marat finally called. But not to her—he called his father. A brief conversation, and his father’s face fell.

“He won’t be coming back,” he said quietly to Alina.

“He asked me to tell you that he’s very sorry and that he’ll explain everything later.”

Marat’s parents collected his things from the bridal suite and quickly left.

Three days passed after the failed wedding. At last, Marat appeared at Alina’s doorstep. His appearance had changed; he looked haggard and older. “I owe you an explanation.”

“Is it about Victoria? Do you still have feelings for her?”

Marat shook his head in denial.

“No, it’s not that. The story she told… It doesn’t entirely match reality.”
“So you didn’t help her with the treatment?” Alina asked in disbelief.

“I did help,” Marat sank into a chair. “But not as she described. Victoria did have health issues. And I provided her with financial support. However… the illness wasn’t hers—it was our child’s.”

A heavy silence fell in the room.

“A child?” Alina echoed.

“We met during our first year. It was brief, just a couple of months. When Victoria became pregnant, I panicked. I said I wasn’t ready. She decided to keep the baby and raise him on her own,” Marat spoke quickly, as if afraid he wouldn’t be able to finish. “Then, in our third year—when I was already in a relationship with you—she informed me that our son had been diagnosed with a kidney abnormality.”

Alina was silent, trying to process what she had just heard.

“I’ve supported them financially all these years,” Marat continued. “I visited the boy in the hospital. But… Victoria and I agreed that no one should know. Especially you. I convinced myself that it was for the best.”

“You have a son,” Alina said slowly. “Six years. And you’ve hidden this from me the whole time we were together.”

Marat nodded, staring at the floor.

“Victoria’s toast… It wasn’t about her—it was about our son. And when she publicly distorted the truth, I realized that I could no longer live a lie. That I had no right to marry you while concealing such an important part of my life.”
“All those business trips, the sudden meetings with clients…” Alina began recalling moments when Marat’s behavior had seemed odd.

“I often visited them,” he admitted. “The boy lives with Victoria’s mother in the suburbs. After surgery, he improved, but he requires constant monitoring.”

Alina rose and approached the window. Outside, the city continued its life—passersby hurried along, cars drove by, and a light autumn rain fell.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“At first, I thought I could leave it in the past. Then I fell in love with you. I was afraid of losing you. And then… I just never found the right moment,” Marat sighed.

“Every time I told myself, ‘Tomorrow I’ll say it,’ and so six years passed.”

“And now?” Alina finally turned to him.

“Victoria called me yesterday. She said the boy was wondering why I stopped coming. I think… I need to become a real father. Officially acknowledge him.”

Alina looked at the man she was supposed to spend her life with and realized she hardly knew him. Six years together—and such a secret. Six years of lies and half-truths.

“What is his name?” she asked, surprised by the calmness in her voice.

Marat looked up at her, his eyes full of gratitude for such a simple question.

“Timur. He’s a very smart boy. And…” he faltered. “Sometimes he smiles so much that I see my own childhood in him.”

Alina sank onto the couch, maintaining a distance between them. Her hands clenched into fists, her nails digging into her palms. She needed to say something, but the words got stuck in her throat.

“I’m not asking you to understand me,” Marat said softly. “And I’m certainly not asking for forgiveness. I came to say that I will cover all the costs related to canceling the wedding. And, of course, this apartment remains yours. My parents fully support this decision.”

“Your parents?” Alina bitterly smiled. “They knew too?”

“No. I only told them yesterday. For them, it was as much a shock as it was for you.”

Outside, evening was setting in. The streetlights turned on earlier than usual—due to the low clouds, the day seemed shorter. In the distance, a car honked.

“You know what’s the most painful?” Alina finally broke the silence. “That you didn’t trust me enough to tell me. You chose to live a double life all these years just so you wouldn’t risk our relationship. But can it really be called a real relationship if one person hides such a huge part of their life?” Marat said nothing. What could he possibly say in response? She was right.

“We could have found a solution together. I would have understood that you had obligations. Timur needs a father—who could argue with that? But you deprived me of a choice. You decided for me.”

“I was afraid,” he said simply. “Victoria gave me an ultimatum: either I help her secretly or I never see my son again. I chickened out. And I got stuck between two lives.”

Alina stepped to the window. Rain droplets traced intricate patterns on the glass. Six years of relationship. Shared dreams, plans for the future, names for the children they hoped to have once they got on their feet. And all this time, somewhere, a boy—a son—lived, a son of which she had no idea.

“What’s his condition now? Timur?” she asked without turning around. “Is he well?”

“After the transplant, he improved significantly. But he needs constant medication and check-ups,” Marat hesitated. “I’m thinking of moving closer to them. Renting an apartment there so I can be nearby.”

“To another city?” she finally turned around.

“Yes. Victoria, her son, and her mother live in Pavlovsk. It’s not far, but you get tired of the drive every day.”

Alina nodded. A city on the outskirts reachable by a one-hour train ride. Now she understood why Marat sometimes stayed late after work or left on weekends to visit an “old friend.”

“I think you should go,” she finally said. “It’s getting late.”

Marat stood, awkwardly shifting from one foot to the other. In that moment, he resembled a guilty schoolboy rather than a thirty-year-old, successful lawyer.

“I’ll pack all your things and hand them over through Sergey,” Alina added, referring to a mutual friend. “If you need anything urgently, just write to him.”
“Alina, I…” he started, stepping toward her.

“Don’t,” she interrupted, holding out her hand as if to ward him off. “Just go. Please.”

When the door closed behind Marat, Alina was left standing in the middle of the room. Inside, there were neither tears nor fury—only immense exhaustion. She dragged herself to the bedroom and collapsed on the bed. Sleep took her instantly, as if her body decided to temporarily shut down to protect her consciousness from the new reality.

A week passed. Alina never returned to the office, taking sick leave instead. She had the wedding gifts—once given by the guests—collected by a friend to be returned. Her parents called every day, but she brushed them off with short phrases: “I’m fine,” “No, you don’t need to come,” “Yes, I’m eating.” There was no word from Marat; only Sergey came by to pick up boxes with his belongings. He looked sympathetically, but never asked any questions. Alina was grateful for that silence.

On Friday, the head of the architectural bureau where Alina had worked for the past three years called.

“You are indispensable to us,” her boss said bluntly. “We have a major new project—a shopping center on Vasilievsky. The client specifically requested you.”
“But I’m on sick leave,” Alina protested weakly.

“You’re not sick. You’re suffering. They’re two different things. And work is the best medicine for such suffering.”

On Monday, Alina returned to the office. Her colleagues tactfully avoided questions. They only hugged her upon meeting and said they were glad she was back. The new project indeed turned out to be vast and interesting. For the first time in a long while, Alina worked with genuine enthusiasm.

A month later, she and her friend went to the movies for the first time. Two months later, Alina managed to attend a colleague’s birthday celebration. Gradually, life began to return to normal.

Then something happened that Alina had never expected. One Sunday morning, when she was returning from the bakery, her phone vibrated in her pocket. An unknown number.

“Hello?” she answered cautiously.

“Hello, Alina!” a female voice sounded hesitantly. “This is Victoria. We need to talk.”

They met at a café. Victoria looked haggard and exhausted. At the wedding, she had seemed radiant and self-assured. Now, before Alina, sat a woman worn out by life.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet,” Victoria began. “I don’t even know where to start…”

“Maybe we should begin with the truth?” suggested Alina, surprised by the calmness in her own voice. “Unlike you and Marat, I don’t need it.”

Victoria flinched but nodded.

“I deserve it,” she took a deep breath. “I lied at your wedding. The toast was a provocation. I wanted Marat to finally stop hiding. To officially acknowledge Timur. I was tired of living a double life—of having to explain to my son why his father shows up secretly and never stays long.”

“Why at the wedding?” Alina gripped her cup tighter. “You could have spoken to him at any other time.”

“Because time was running out.” Victoria’s voice quavered. “Timur needs a second surgical intervention. It’s complicated. Abroad. And… the insurance will only cover the expenses if Marat officially acknowledges paternity.”

Alina listened in silence as Victoria recounted how the rejection of a donor kidney began suddenly, how doctors insisted on the need for a specialized clinic, and how the cost of treatment far exceeded their means.

“What do you expect from me?” Alina asked directly.

“Help find him. You know him better than anyone.”

Alina left the café. Outside, a light drizzle fell. She stood for a long while under a canopy, hesitating to step out into the open sky. Inside, a storm of conflicting feelings raged. Anger at Marat for running away from responsibility. Compassion for the child who needed help. Distrust of Victoria—could this be another manipulation?

But what if it were true? What if somewhere, a little life was fading—a life she might be able to help?

Alina returned home, soaking wet. She opened her laptop and began methodically checking all possible places where Marat might be hiding: his uncle’s country house on Ladoga, the recreational base in Karelia where they had gone two years ago, the apartment of an old university friend in Moscow.

A lead was found on the third day. A random social media post—a photograph of a sunset over a body of water with the caption “Tranquility in Karelia” and a tag of a small town on the border with Finland. In the photo, a familiar jacket was seen. Just one day later, Alina was on a train, watching the fleeting Karelia forests through the window. The carriage swayed, the conductor was serving tea, and children were noisily playing in the aisle. And in her mind, one question kept repeating itself: Was she doing the right thing? Wouldn’t it be better to leave everything as it was, forget it, and start a new life?

The town turned out to be tiny. A single main street, a few stores, a couple of cafés. A hotel that resembled a country house, with only five rooms. An elderly administrator curiously examined the city guest.

“I’m looking for a friend,” Alina explained. “Tall, dark hair, arrived about a month ago. Perhaps he’s renting a cottage by the lake.”

“Oh, him,” the woman nodded knowingly. “A writer. He rented the house of old Kuzmich on the far shore. But right now, it’s hard to get there—the roads are washed out from the rain. Maybe by boat.”

A local fisherman agreed to take Alina for a small fee. An old motorboat slowly glided across the gray lake. The rain began to sprinkle. Alina declined the boat’s canopy, allowing the droplets to fall on her face. She needed to collect her thoughts, decide what to say.

On shore, a house appeared—a low, wooden building with walls darkened by time and a moss-covered roof. Smoke curled from the chimney. The fisherman docked at a small wooden pier.

“I’ll be back in three hours,” he said. “There’s no point coming earlier—the rain will intensify by evening.”

Alina nodded and, after a deep breath, walked toward the house. The wet grass whipped at her legs, and cold droplets fell from the trees. No one answered when she knocked. The door was unlocked.

Inside, the house smelled of smoke, dried fish, and coffee. In a small room that served as both kitchen and living room, a fireplace burned. Scribbled sheets lay on the table, and a half-finished cup of coffee sat there. But the owner was nowhere to be seen.

Alina proceeded cautiously. In the next room, she saw a bed piled with books and papers. Marat’s untouched laptop gathered dust on the windowsill. A gust of wind slammed the front door shut, making Alina jump.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded. Turning around, she saw Marat standing in the doorway. Haggard, with stubble and wearing a thick sweater, he looked both surprised and strangely indifferent—as if her appearance belonged to another lifetime.

“I’m looking for you,” Alina replied simply.

“Why?”
He walked past her toward the fireplace and tossed a log onto the fire.
“Between us, it’s over.”

“Not because of you,” Alina took a deep breath. “Because of Timur. He needs an operation. Urgently.”

Marat froze, then slowly turned around.

“Did Victoria find you?” His voice held no surprise—only weariness.

“She came to me. She said Timur was getting worse, that you had disappeared.”

“And you, of course, rushed to help.” He gave a bitter smile.

“I’m always ready to save others—even those who betrayed you.”

“The child is not to blame for the actions of adults.”

Marat sank heavily onto a chair, running a hand over his face.

“I know he’s getting worse,” he said quietly. “Victoria called my parents. They told me.” He gestured toward a stack of papers. “I’m writing a book. I hope to get an advance. It’s not much, but at least something.”

“A book?” Alina looked skeptically at the handwritten pages. “You never mentioned you wanted to write.”

“And I never said everything,” Marat smirked. “I’ve been thinking about it for a long time. Now I have the time…and the need.”

“Is it worth your son’s life? For your creative ambitions, you abandoned a dying child?”

“I didn’t abandon anyone!” Marat suddenly leaped up. For the first time, life flared in his eyes. “I’m trying to find money for his treatment! My parents have already sold our country house, but it’s not enough. My salary as a lawyer won’t cover it. And here, I can write day and night without distractions.”
“And what’s the plot?” Alina nodded toward the manuscript. “Is it worth your son’s life?”

Marat paled. He turned toward the window, where the rain had transformed into a downpour. Silence stretched on.

“He’s experiencing rejection of his kidney,” Marat finally murmured so quietly that Alina barely heard. “The doctors said that with each passing day, the chances for a successful transplant decrease. He needs a specialized clinic in Germany. The cost…” He waved his hand. “It doesn’t matter. It’s an astronomical sum.”
“I spoke with the doctors,” Alina said. “It isn’t as hopeless as it seems. But we need your official acknowledgment of paternity. For the insurance company. That will cover most of the expenses.”

Marat slowly turned to her. Confusion flickered in his eyes.

“You spoke with the doctors? When?”

“Yesterday. Victoria gave me the contacts. I wanted to be sure it was true.” Alina paused. “They have a program for such cases. A state quota. But official documents are required—paternity certificates, a joint declaration from both parents.”

“And you…” Marat fell silent, unable to find words.

“I want you to come back. To do what you must,” Alina stated firmly. “I don’t care what happens with us. But the child shouldn’t suffer because of your cowardice.”

Thunder rumbled outside as winds lashed the window. The fire in the fireplace nearly died out, leaving only glowing embers that cast crimson reflections on the walls.
“I can’t come back,” Marat finally said in a hollow tone. “Not now.”

“Why?” Alina stepped closer. “What are you afraid of?”

“Of myself!” he suddenly turned away. “Of who I am. Of the lies I’ve lived all these years. Of how easily I abandoned my own son, and then you.” He lowered his head. “I’m a coward, Alina. You’re right. I always took the easiest path. And now…I’m terrified of facing the consequences of my decisions.”
Alina silently looked at the broken man standing before her. Where was that confident lawyer she had planned to spend her life with? The one who always knew what to do. Who could find a way out of any situation? Now, before her, stood a lost, frightened man—incapable of handling even his own demons, let alone real problems.

“You know,” Alina said slowly, “I came here to tell you how much I despise you for your lies. For not trusting me enough. For deciding for both of us.”

She paused.

“But now I see that you’re just weak. And I pity you. I really do.”

Marat looked up at her with tired eyes.

“What should I do?” he asked softly, almost childlike.

“Come back. Acknowledge your son. Help him.”
Alina shrugged. “And then decide how to live. It’s not that hard.”

“And you?” he asked, hope shining in his eyes—a sight that pained Alina even more.

“I’ve delivered the documents. Victoria has filed a paternity claim. All you need to do is sign.” She pulled a folder from her bag and placed it on the table. “This is my last help to you. After that, you’ll have to deal with it on your own.”
The fisherman returned as promised in three hours. By then, the rain had eased a bit. Alina waited on the pier, wrapped in her jacket. Marat stood beside her, holding a small sports bag—everything he had decided to take with him from this voluntary exile.

“You’ll come back?” he asked as they boarded the boat. “To me, I mean. When all this is over.”

Alina shook her head.
“No, Marat. I won’t come back. But I’ll be glad to hear that Timur is alright.”

She looked out at the leaden waters of the lake.
“And I hope that you finally become who you’re meant to be—a father to your son.”

Six months later. It was a warm spring day. Alina sat in a café along the embankment. Her shopping center project had made it to the shortlist for a prestigious architectural award. Colleagues insisted on a celebration—champagne, toasts, plans for the future… When her phone vibrated with an unknown number, she answered:

“Hello?”

“Hello, Alina Sergeyevna!” a child’s voice spoke hesitantly.

“This is Timur. I just wanted to thank you. Dad said that if it weren’t for you, he wouldn’t have come back in time to help me.”

Alina froze. Somewhere in the background, she heard Marat’s voice: “Ask her how she’s doing.”

“I’m fine!” she replied with a smile.

“And how are you feeling?”

“Much better!” The boy’s voice was filled with pride.

“The doctors say I’m recovering faster than anyone else. And you know what? Dad now lives with us. He’s writing a book! About a boy who found a magical land and discovered a cure for all illnesses.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Alina said sincerely.

“I’ll definitely read it when it comes out.”

After the call, she sat gazing at the sunlit ripples on the river. Her colleagues continued celebrating. A strange calm settled in her—a calm that comes when you know you’ve done the right thing, even if it came at the cost of your own happiness.

Sometimes, the most important decisions in life aren’t made at a festive table amid toasts and congratulations, but in the quiet of one’s own heart. And even if that choice cost her the family happiness she once dreamed of, Alina didn’t regret it. Because somewhere in another town, a little boy—whom she had never met—lived. But he was saved. And that was worth all the unfulfilled hopes.