Misha’s parents chose a bride for him based on status. And I—I remained an enemy simply because I was not born into the right family.
My story began long ago, in childhood. Misha was the only son of a professor and a doctor. His mother was a respected paediatrician, his father a lecturer in philosophy. Every minute of Misha’s childhood was planned—clubs, tutors, books, competitions. He lived up to their expectations: clever, well-mannered, a model student. But one thing did not fit into their orderly world—his friendship with me.
My name was Victoria. I was born into an ordinary family, if not a troubled one. My mother didn’t work, and my father laboured in a factory until drink consumed him and he vanished from our lives. Despite this, Misha stayed by my side. He helped with my homework, defended me from bullies in the yard, 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 an orphanage, and our connection broke. Later, I learned Misha had tried to find me, but his parents convinced him I had chosen to cut ties. He stopped writing, and for years, I believed he had simply lost interest.
We met again by chance—at our final school exams. I barely recognised the poised young man before me as the boy I’d once raced through the streets with. But he knew me at once. With a smile and a tremor in his voice, we began speaking again. Our friendship returned, but this time with something deeper.
Misha suggested we attend the same university. We did. We studied late in the library, walked in the rain, and once, beneath autumn leaves, he took my hand and confessed his love. I cried—with happiness.
Six months later, I told him I’d written him letters from the orphanage. He was stunned. His parents had never passed them on. He was furious. His mother claimed they had only wanted to protect him from a “tarnished past.” But to him, those letters were proof of betrayal—not mine, but theirs.
When he announced his plans to marry me after graduation, his family erupted. They had already chosen a “suitable” girl—a dean’s daughter, clever, from wealth. And I… I was still that girl from nowhere. But Misha defied them. We moved into a rented flat. When I learned I was pregnant, I told him joyfully. He held me and whispered, “This will be the happiest child in the world.”
Then, days later, his mother arrived. No greeting, no words. Just a silent envelope of money placed on the table. “Leave his life,” she breathed. “For good.”
I said nothing. He never knew of that visit. I wouldn’t let this shatter us. But when our son was born, everything broke.
Misha’s mother returned—this time with a “gift.” A DNA test, declaring the child wasn’t his. Misha believed it. He packed his things and left without hearing me out. I stood there, clutching our son, unable to believe the boy I’d loved could erase us so easily.
I sold the flat, moved away, and studied medicine. I worked, raised my son alone. I never spoke ill of his father. Only this: “Once, he loved us very much.” Years passed.
I became an army doctor. My son grew. And only after a decade 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. And I—for the first time—knew what it was to be loved without conditions.
Misha, I heard later, remained a simple doctor at a small hospital. Married the woman his parents chose. They had no children. We crossed paths at a medical conference—and in his eyes, I saw sorrow, regret, confusion.
He wanted to talk. But I only smiled, took my youngest daughter’s hand, and walked on.
Because you cannot start a new life from the past. And I—I had already begun mine.
And the bitterest truth? That even now, people judge not by love, loyalty, or kindness—but by status. Misha lost his family because he was too weak to stand between me and his parents’ expectations.
And I—I found mine. A true one.
