Tatyana woke at exactly 6:45 a.m., just as her alarm clock always roused her. Monday morning. The kitchen smelled warmly of oats, and Grandma was already bustling about, awake and steady.
On the surface, everything seemed ordinary. But beneath the quiet routine, her world was anything but normal.
From childhood, one thing was hammered into her heart: her father was a hero who died before she was even born. That’s what her mother said. That’s what her grandmother said. It was simple to believe.
After school, Tatyana often helped Grandma—running errands, carrying groceries. Grandma’s legs were failing with age. Together, they shared simple dinners at a worn kitchen table.
Then, catastrophe struck without warning.
Her mother’s illness came fast and cruel—first weakness, then relentless pain. Ambulance rides, endless tests. The word “cancer” echoed in sterile hospital halls. At fourteen, Tatyana became a caretaker: holding her mother’s hand in the ward, learning to cook, juggling medical appointments, gathering certificates, calling doctors.
Her mother slipped away quietly. At the funeral, Tatyana didn’t cry.
Grandma became her guardian. The paperwork, the benefits, the solemn promises: “Mom’s watching us now—from heaven. You’re not alone, Tanechka. We’re together.”
But that “together” felt more fragile each day.
The house grew colder, even when the radiators were blazing.
One evening, as Grandma ironed clothes and Tatyana pretended to read, the question buried deep inside her finally burst free:
“Why did Mom and Dad both… die?”
Her voice shook—not a question, but a cry for answers.
Grandma froze, lowering the iron. After a heavy pause, anxiety flickered in her eyes.
“Sometimes, people leave us too soon. But we’re alive, and we have to live on.”
Tatyana repeated the words silently, desperately trying to grasp their meaning: both passed away.
Next morning, she arrived early at school, wrapped in a threadbare jumper Grandma had knitted. But the halls felt different. Whispered glances. Avoided eye contact. Teachers looked away.
With awkward sympathy, one said quietly, “Tanyusha… just don’t take it badly, okay? But… your dad? He didn’t really pass away.”
Her heart slammed.
“What do you mean?”
“My mom saw some tramp in the park. Said his name was Pavel. He said he used to be with your mom—like your dad.”
The words hung in the air: alive. Pavel. Homeless.
That evening at home, Tatyana demanded the truth.
Grandma tried to dodge the subject at first. But finally, the story spilled out:
Pavel was Lena’s childhood friend—they grew up together in a tiny village, inseparable. He joined the army with promises to return. Six months later, a cold letter arrived—he rejected Lena and the baby. He told her to forget him.
Tatyana was born, but Pavel vanished. Lena never looked for him—there was nothing left to forgive.
“That’s your father, Tanya,” Grandma said softly.
“But he’s nobody to you. You grew up without him. You became who you are in spite of him.”
The next day, the police escorted a man to a car. At the last moment, he turned, his gaze clouded but hauntingly familiar—piercing right through Tatyana.
It was him.
At home, Grandma confirmed it: yes, it was Pavel. Yes, he was alive. But homeless.
Alive. Her father.
Monday again. Same old jumper. Same heavy backpack. But the school was a war zone.
“The homeless girl has arrived,” whispered a voice as she sat down.
Names and insults rained down: “Alcoholic’s daughter,” “dump heiress,” “princess of the trash heap.”
Even teachers distanced themselves.
No one defended her. No one said, “It’s not your fault.”
Once a top student—diligent, curious, responsible—now her grades slipped, her answers faltered.
A teacher glanced at her with tired eyes:
“We’d help… but the workload is heavy. Kids like you, with emotional struggles, disrupt the team. We have enough problems already.”
No apology.
Tatyana left school that day and didn’t go home.
Why should she suffer for others’ mistakes? Why must her life unravel because of her father?
“I am not him. I am not guilty. Why must I pay?”
“Adults can be stupid,” Grandma said gently.
“You’ll grow up, Tanyusha. Forget these people. But don’t lose yourself. Do you hear me? Don’t let them break you.”
Those words became her lifeline.
Winter came with a cough.
Light at first, then deep and rattling. Grandma dismissed it—“You caught a chill.” But the cough worsened. Fever. Breathless nights.
Doctor visits. An X-ray. Bronchitis with heart complications.
Tatyana counted every penny. She kept a notebook for expenses. Skipped meals to buy medicine. Paid bills last minute. School faded to a blur.
“Saving on food?” a classmate sneered. “Or feeding your dad?”
Then, a knock on the door.
Guardianship authorities.
“We received a report. We need to talk.”
Their tone was polite but cold.
“We can offer temporary housing—food, shelter, support. It will be easier.”
Tatyana stood firm:
“No. I’m staying with Grandma.”
“Think about it. It’s help.”
“This is betrayal,” she said, closing the door.
The school year neared its end.
Rehearsals for graduation were underway: poems, songs, decorations. But Tatyana’s name was nowhere.
During a rehearsal, the literature teacher approached.
“We’re singing a song about dads. Touching lines. Would you take a verse? Would you like that?”
The lyrics stabbed her heart: “Thank you, Dad, for your love and strength…”
She folded the paper carefully.
“I won’t sing it.”
“Why not?” the teacher asked, confused.
“Because it’s not about me.”
A silence fell. The world froze.
Then, breaking through the stillness, Tatyana exploded:
“Don’t you dare talk about her like that! Don’t you dare! She was better than all of you combined! Better than you! She never betrayed, lied, or humiliated. She lived—and loved! And you… you’re empty inside! Nothing at all!”
Tears overwhelmed her. She fled, slamming the door.
An eruption—but finally, she spoke. Loud and true. For herself. For her mother. For the voice she refused to silence.
Suddenly, a desperate cry:
“Help!.. How are you?..”
Tatyana exhaled.
“I don’t know… Thank you,” whispered a trembling girl.
Maria, nineteen, a first-year architecture student. She came looking for Anton—her boyfriend of almost a year.
“I was going to end it all…” she sobbed. “He changed. Became cruel. Not the man I knew.”
It wasn’t madness. It was something darker.
Anton was playing a dangerous game—using Maria to reach her father, the regional governor.
“He said, ‘Your dad will sign if he thinks you’re dead,’” Maria’s voice was steady but shocked.
By the shore, Anton checked his phone:
“That’s it. Time. Dead men don’t talk.”
And shoved her into the water.
“I didn’t even scream… But someone heard. It was you,” Maria looked at Tatyana.
The next day, Tatyana took Maria home. Dry clothes. Hot tea. An old phone to reach her father.
The call was brief and tense.
“Dad, it’s me. I’m alive. Don’t sign anything. It’s a trap. They wanted to use me…”
Long silence. Then shouting. Then a relieved voice:
“I’m coming.”
He arrived, tears streaming, holding his daughter tight.
“I nearly lost my mind…”
Maria turned to Tatyana:
“She saved me. Without her, I wouldn’t be here.”
The governor approached Tatyana. He studied her as if to say something profound—but only nodded.
Graduation day.
When the famous song about dads played, Tatyana stayed silent, looking away. No pain stirred inside.
Then, all eyes caught Maria walking in. A thin bracelet on her wrist, a smile bright as dawn—gifts from Tatyana.
“Let them see the real you,” Maria said days before.
As the ceremony ended, the doors swung open.
Sergey Nikolaevich, the regional governor, entered. The room froze.
He held out flowers silently, leaned down, and kissed Tatyana’s cheek.
“You’re not a stranger to me.”
The world held its breath—teachers, students, parents—all watching.
Tatyana smiled softly at a girl nearby:
“He said I’m not a stranger.”
And she left. Not running away, but with quiet dignity.
Since that day, Tatyana and Maria have been inseparable.
