The man threw me out onto the street with our two children. But you should have seen his face when I later bought his flat and car, leaving him with nothing.
“Pack your things.”
Vadim’s voice was smooth as the surface of a frozen pond. Not a crack, not a flicker of emotion.
“Yours and the children’s. I want you gone by evening.”
I slowly lifted my eyes from the colouring book I’d been filling in with five-year-old Egor. Seven-year-old Masha was doing her homework in the next room.
“What?”
“You heard me, Lena. I’m tired. This house, this marriage, the endless problems. I want to live alone. For myself.”
He stood leaning against the doorframe, tall, handsome, utterly unfamiliar. The man I’d spent eight years with, the father of my children.
“And us? Where am I supposed to go with Masha and Egor?”
“The flats mine. Bought before we met. The car too. Youve got parentsgo to them.”
He spoke as if discussing the weekly shop. Casual, indifferent.
Masha stepped out of her room at the sound of his voice and froze in the doorway. Her wide eyes filled with fear.
“Dad?”
Vadim didnt even glance at her. His attention was fixed on me, waitingfor tears, for pleading, for hysterics.
But none came.
Something inside me snapped. A thick, sturdy rope that had held my life together broke with a dry crack.
“Fine.”
One word. Quiet, but sharp as steel.
Vadims eyebrows lifted in surprise. Hed expected a different scene.
I stood and went to the children, pulling them close, feeling their small bodies tremble.
“Masha, Egor, were going to stay with Granny and Grandad. For a long time. Pack your favourite toys.”
I moved like an automaton. Three bags: the childrens clothes, documents, a few of my things.
I didnt look at him. The man before me wasnt my husband, wasnt their father. Just a stranger whod lingered too long in my world.
As the bags waited by the door, Vadim held out a few notes.
“Here. For petrol and the first while.”
Then he tossed the keythe one with the worn keyring from my old caronto the table.
“Thanks for your generosity,” I said, my voice as flat as his had been.
I took the childrens hands and led them out. At the doorstep, I turned and met his eyes.
Relief and faint surprise played across his face. Hed shed dead weight, expecting more resistance.
And in that moment, I knew with perfect clarity: hed made the greatest mistake of his life.
He saw a broken victim. He had no idea he was staring his ruin in the face.
I said nothing. Just took one last look at his smug expression.
And promised myself hed see me again. But the next time, it would be different. And the look on his face would be worth every tear I hadnt shed today.
The road was grey, endless. The children, cried out, slept in the back seat. I gripped the wheel until my knuckles ached.
Tears felt like a luxury I couldnt afford. Instead, something cold and hard settled in my chest.
My parents met us at the door. No questions, no fuss. Mum hugged me silently. Dad, Stephen, simply said, “Come in, love. Suppers on the table.”
That evening, once the children were asleep, we talked in the kitchen.
“He threw us out,” I said into the quiet.
“We gathered,” Dad replied calmly. “Question iswhat now?”
It snapped me awake.
“I dont know, Dad. Ive got nothing. A degree in economics I havent used in eight years. Two children.”
“Youve got us,” he said firmly. “And Ive got that plot by the river. Fifteen acres. An old farmhouse, tooGrandads. Half-fallen, but standing.”
He paused, meeting my eyes. No pity therejust a challenge.
“Two choices. Sit here feeling sorry for yourself. Or stand up and do something. That anger youve got? Its the right kind. Not the sort that destroysthe sort that builds. Ive a bit put by. Enough to start. After that, youre on your own.”
The idea seemed mad. Me, a city girl, running a farm? But it was a chance. Not just to surviveto build something no one could take.
“Ill do it,” I said by morning.
The place smelled of damp and neglect. The old house sagged, the roof leaked, the fence slumped. Fear crept inbut there was no turning back.
The first months were hell. Dad and I patched the roof, cleared rubbish, mended walls. Hands once soft with cream grew calloused. With his savings, we bought five goats and two dozen hens.
Problems piled up. The well ran dry. The pump broke. Dad suggested calling Gregory, the local handyman.
Gregory was a burly man of about forty, with tired eyes. He worked in silence. While he fixed the pump, his daughter Veronica played with my children. I saw the warmth in his gaze when he watched them.
When the pump gurgled to life, we celebrated. I offered him payment.
“If you ever need helpjust call,” he said after a pause. “No charge. Neighbourly.”
That clumsy kindness was worth more than money. I realised we werent alone here.
Evenings, once the children slept, I opened an old laptop. The anger that had fuelled me gave way to cold calculation. Selling milk and eggs at the village market was a path to poverty.
The answer came with Mums first homemade cheese. This was itmy unique product. Artisanal, organic. For city folk willing to pay for quality and story.
I drafted a business plan. Spreadsheets, forecasts, risks. Dad eyed my work with grudging respect. “Sharp mind, youve got.”
My first market stall failed. Prices scared buyers. That night, on the porch, defeat weighed heavy. Gregory sat beside me.
“Youre aiming wrong, Lena,” he murmured. “Your customer isnt at that market. Theyre online.”
A revelation. I didnt need to find customersthey needed to find me.
I made a page”Lenas Farm.” Asked Gregory to take photos: goats in the meadow, children with milk, me holding cheese. I told my storyhonest, unvarnished.
It worked. First, an eco-café owner in the city called. I delivered the order myself. He tasted the cheese and said, “Well take it all. And well sign a contract.”
Driving back, I criednot from sorrow, but joy. My first real money. The first stone in my empires foundation.
The contract thrilled me, but reality soon bit. Five goats werent enough. Expansion needed capital I didnt have.
I rewrote my plan and applied for a rural business grant. The panel of five stern men eyed mea city girlwith open scepticism.
I spoke of markets, profit margins, jobs. My voice shook, but I stood firm. They believed me. I got the grant.
With it, we bought twenty more goats, built new pens, a small dairy.
Gregory managed the work, proving himself not just skilled but organised. He became my partnerfirst in business, then in life.
We married quietly at the registry office. Our family grew: Masha, Egor, and his Veronica, now one.
But business isnt smooth sailing. A year later, disease took three of our best milkers. Losses crippled us. I nearly gave up.
“Dont even think it,” Gregory said, squeezing my hand. “Well pull through.”
And we did. We took a loan, hired a vet. I realised we couldnt rely on one product. So, we added agritourismtwo cottages for city folk seeking quiet, fresh air, real food.
Meanwhile, I handled legal matters. Gregory suggested a solicitorAndrew Carter. He helped me register the land, trademark the brand. I told him my story.
“Want to claim child support?” he asked.
“I want more,” I said. “Track my ex-husbands finances. Debts, deals, credit. Ill pay for the information.”
Andrew raised an eyebrow but agreed. So began my five-year plan.
Five years later, the call came as I stood in our new home on the hill.
“Lena, its Carter. Its done. The auctions closed.”
I shut my eyes.
“And?”
“The flat and car belonging to Mr. Adrian Smith have been transferred to Asset Holdings in settlement of his debts. Congratulations.”
Asset Holdingsthe company Id set up on Andrews advice.
“Thank you. Proceed as discussed.”
Gregory stepped onto the porch.
“Over?”
“Yes.”
“Youre going?”
“I have to.”
Adrian stood in his empty flat. After I left, hed revelled in freedom for a year. Then hed chased quick moneyinvested in a pyramid scheme, mortgaged the flat, then the car. Bankrupt, hed lived on borrowed time until the bank repossessed everything.
“Who?” he rasped to the bailiff. “Who bought my flat?”
Just then, my Land Rover pulled up. I stepped outcalm, assured.
He didnt recognise me at first.
“Lena? Whathere to gloat?”
“No, Adrian. Ive come for the keys.”
He stared, uncomprehending.
“What keys?”
“To my flat. And my car.”
Understanding dawned slowlythen struck like lightning.
“Asset Holdings?” he whispered.
I nodded.
And then I saw his facethe one Id imagined that awful night. No hate there. Just animal fear, the terror of a man whod lost his footing. His arrogance peeled away like cheap gilt. He shrank, diminished, a shadow of himself.
“Buthow? You werein the middle of nowhere”
“Yes, Adrian. The middle of nowhere. While you lived for yourself, I worked.”
I held out my hand.
“The keys.”
Wordlessly, he handed them over.
I turned and walked to the car without looking back. No triumph, no joyjust cold satisfaction.
Inside, Gregory waited. And three children in the back.
“All done, Mum?” Masha, nearly grown, asked.
“All done, love. Lets go home.”
That flat was never home. Just an assetsecurity for my childrens future. My real home smelled of hay and goats cheese. Where the man I loved held my hand.
I hadnt built a business. Id built a fortress. And now, its walls were unbreakable.
