Anna froze, feeling a cold wave wash over her. Sergey stood by the door, his grip tightening around a set of keys. His face, usually full of life, was now frozen in an expression of irritation and detachment.
“I can’t live like this anymore,” he repeated, his voice void of emotion. “Neither can I nor my mother. Pack up the kids and move to Lipovka. Grandma’s house is still standing, the roof is intact. You’ll manage somehow.”
She stared at him as if he were a stranger. Ten years together, three children—and now this. Lipovka was nothing more than a dying village, barely clinging to life, where most houses stood abandoned and forgotten. There were no shops, no proper roads, no opportunities.
“Why?” she finally managed, but he cut her off.
“Because I’m tired,” he muttered, avoiding her gaze. “Tired of the endless complaints, the constant demands, the way you just sit at home with the kids. Mom was right—you’ve become a hen, just nesting, doing nothing. I don’t even recognize the woman I married.”
Her throat tightened with unshed tears, but she refused to break in front of him. The children were sleeping in the next room—Masha and Alyosha, while Kirill, their eldest, was likely listening from behind the wall.
“What will we live on? Where will I work?” her voice came out in a whisper.
Sergey tossed an envelope onto the table.
“There’s some money for now. The house is already in your name—always has been. If you’re so independent, prove it.”
Without another word, he turned and walked out. A moment later, the front door slammed shut.
Anna slowly sank into a chair, her mind unable to grasp what had just happened. A strange, absurd thought echoed in her head. She had baked his favorite apple pie that morning.
The house smelled of damp and abandonment. Anna stepped inside, holding a half-asleep Masha in her arms. Her heart clenched. She had spent summers here as a child, visiting her grandmother. There had been laughter, warm bread, the scent of dried herbs in the attic. Now, the place reeked of dust, neglect, and the weight of being left behind.
Kirill entered first, pushing open the shutters. The light of an April morning streamed through the dirty windows, illuminating floating specks of dust.
“It’s cold,” Alyosha muttered, hugging himself.
“We’ll light the stove soon,” Anna said, trying to sound confident. “It will warm up in no time. Kirill, will you help me?”
Her eldest nodded but said nothing. He hadn’t spoken much since overhearing his father’s final words.
The stove, at least, was still working. The crackling fire sent warmth through the small space, and Anna felt a brief sense of relief.
“Mom, how long are we staying here?” Alyosha asked as he examined the faded family photographs on the wall.
“I don’t know yet, sweetheart,” she admitted. “Let’s settle in first, and then we’ll see.”
That night, all three children crowded into the wide bed that once belonged to their grandmother. They fell asleep quickly, exhausted from the move. Anna, however, lay awake, staring at the ceiling. How had it come to this?
By morning, she knew the money Sergey had left would not last long. The stove needed repairs, the roof leaked in several places, and they still needed food. But the worst realization was the complete absence of work in the village.
“You should go back to the city,” suggested Polina Ivanovna, one of the few neighbors still living in Lipovka.
Anna shook her head.
“We have nowhere to go. At least here, we have a roof over our heads.”
That day, she made a decision. The garden had once fed her grandmother’s family—perhaps it could feed hers too.
“Kirill, can you help me?” she asked as she stood by the overgrown plot.
The boy nodded without a word. Together, they worked, pulling up weeds, breaking apart heavy clumps of soil. Anna’s hands, once only familiar with housework and computer keyboards, soon became raw with blisters.
“Mom,” Kirill finally spoke after days of silence, his voice bitter beyond his years. “Why are we doing this?”
“So we can plant vegetables,” she answered. “Potatoes, carrots, tomatoes—”
“No, I mean… why are we even here? Why don’t we go back? What happened between you and Dad?”
Anna straightened up, wiping sweat from her brow. How was she supposed to explain? Should she tell him that his father had abandoned them? That Sergey’s mother had never considered her good enough? That maybe another woman had taken her place?
“Sometimes adults need time apart to think things through,” she finally said.
“To decide if they love each other,” Kirill finished for her, his voice steady but wounded. “Is it because of that woman? The one at Dad’s office party?”
Anna’s breath caught. Valeriya. Tall, elegant, always by Sergey’s side. “Just a colleague,” he had said.
“Maybe,” she admitted, her voice quiet. “But your father still loves you. And I… I will make sure we are okay here.”
Kirill studied her for a long moment before stepping forward and wrapping his arms around her. His embrace was firm, almost protective.
“We’ll manage, Mom,” he said. “You and me. And we’ll take care of the little ones.”
That night, after the children had fallen asleep, Anna sat by the window, staring at the stars. They were bigger, brighter than the ones she had seen in the city. For the first time since arriving in Lipovka, she felt something other than despair. A strange, quiet determination settled in her chest.
She threw herself into work. Each day, she and the children spent hours in the garden, clearing space for planting. Even Masha insisted on making a flower patch, declaring it would make their home beautiful.
One afternoon, Anna’s shovel hit something hard. She bent down, brushing away the dirt, and found a round, heavy object, the size of a coin but thicker, older. She wiped it against her jeans and saw the outline of a man’s profile—possibly a king.
“Mom, is it treasure?” Masha whispered, wide-eyed.
“I don’t know,” Anna said, her heart racing. “Maybe just an old coin.”
By the end of the day, they had uncovered twelve more. That night, after the children were asleep, Anna examined the coins under the lamplight. The dates read 1897, 1899—gold imperials from the time of the tsars. Her grandfather had once told stories about such coins, about lost treasures buried long ago.
She barely slept, turning possibilities over in her mind. If they were real gold, how much were they worth? And were there more?
The next morning, she called her Uncle Viktor, her father’s brother.
“Uncle Vitya, I found some old coins in the garden. They look like gold.”
Silence, then a sharp intake of breath.
“Gold imperials?” his voice was cautious, tinged with excitement. “Anya, do you realize what you’ve found?”
“I’m not sure. But they seem valuable.”
“Stay quiet about it,” he warned. “Don’t tell anyone yet. I’ll be there in three hours.”
When he arrived, his expression turned serious the moment he saw the coins. He examined one closely, even biting down on it lightly.
“Real gold,” he confirmed. “And not just that—these are collector’s items. Do you understand what this means?”
Anna shook her head.
“This could be part of a lost treasure. The Levitskys were a wealthy family before the revolution. Rumor has it they buried their fortune when the Bolsheviks came. People searched for years but never found it.”
That evening, they unearthed more—gold coins, jewelry, even a rusted iron box beneath an old apple tree.
Uncle Viktor sighed.
“By law, you need to report this. You’ll be entitled to a reward, but the government will take most of it. Or…”
“Or?”
“You sell them discreetly. It would change everything for you and the kids.”
Anna stared at the treasure, her thoughts racing. She had been abandoned with nothing. Now, the earth had given her a way out.
She had a choice to make. And for the first time in months, she felt like she held the power.