**Personal Diary Entry**
*I never thought it would come to this.*
His voice was calm, smooth as frozen lake ice. No cracks, no emotion.
“Pack your things.”
Vadimmy husbandleaned against the doorframe, tall, handsome, utterly unfamiliar. The man Id spent eight years with, whod fathered our two children.
“Yours and the kids’. I want you gone by tonight.”
I looked up slowly from the colouring book Id been sharing with five-year-old Yegor. Seven-year-old Masha was doing homework in the next room.
“What?”
“You heard me, Lena. Im tired. This house, this marriage, the endless problems. I want to live for myself.”
Masha stepped into the hallway, freezing at the sound of his voice. Her wide eyes filled with fear.
“Dad?”
He didnt even glance at her. His attention was fixed solely on me, waitingfor tears, begging, hysteria.
Something inside me snapped. A thick, sturdy rope, the one holding my life together, split with a dry crack.
“Fine.”
One word. Quiet, but hard as steel.
I moved like a machine. Efficient, precise. Three bagschildrens clothes, documents, a handful of my things. I didnt look at him. The man before me wasnt my husband anymore. Just a stranger whod overstayed his welcome in my world.
By the door, Vadim handed me a few notes. “For petrol and the first few days.” Then tossed my car keys onto the side table.
“Thank you for your generosity,” I said, my voice as even as his had been.
I took the childrens hands and led them out. At the door, I turned and met his eyes. Relief flickered across his face. Hed rid himself of dead weight and expected no fight.
In that moment, I knew with absolute clarityhed just made the biggest mistake of his life.
He saw a broken victim. He had no idea he was staring into the eyes of his own ruin.
I made no promises aloud. But I vowed silently: one day, hed see me again. And the look on his face then would be worth every tear I refused to shed today.
—
The road stretched endlessly grey. The children cried themselves to sleep in the backseat. I gripped the wheel until my knuckles ached.
Tears felt like a luxury I couldnt afford. Instead, something cold and hard grew inside me.
My parents waited at the door. No questions, no fuss. Mum hugged me silently. DadStepan Vasilyevichsimply said, “Come in, love. Suppers on the table.”
That night, with the children asleep, we talked in the kitchen.
“He threw us out,” I said into the quiet.
“We gathered,” Dad replied evenly. “The question iswhat now?”
It sobered me.
“I dont know. Ive got nothing. A degree in economics I havent used in eight years. Two kids.”
“Youve got us,” Dad said firmly. “And Ive got that plot of land by the river. Six acres. An old farmhouse, tooGrandads. Needs work, but its standing.”
He paused, meeting my eyes. Not pity therea challenge.
“Youve got two choices. Sit here feeling sorry for yourself. Or stand up and build something. That anger inside you? Use it. Not to destroyto create. Ive got some savings. Enough to start. The rest is up to you.”
It sounded mad. Me, a city girl, running a farm? But it was a chancenot just to survive, but to build something no one could take.
“Ill do it,” I said the next morning.
—
The farmhouse smelled of damp and neglect. Leaning fences, a sagging roof. Fear crept in, but there was no turning back.
The first months were hell. Dad and I patched the roof, cleared debris, fixed walls. My soft hands calloused. With his savings, we bought five goats and twenty chickens.
Problems piled upthe well ran dry, the pump broke. Dad suggested calling Grigory, the local handyman.
Grigory was a quiet, sturdy man with weary eyes. As he fixed the pump, his daughter Veronika played with Masha and Yegor. I noticed how his expression softened watching them.
When the pump roared to life, it felt like victory. I handed him his pay.
“If you ever need helpjust call,” he said awkwardly. “Neighbours should look out for each other.”
That clumsy kindness meant more than money. We werent alone.
At night, after tucking the children in, I opened my old laptop. Anger had fuelled me at firstnow came cold calculation. Selling milk and eggs at the local market wouldnt cut it.
The answer arrived with Mums first homemade cheese. *This* was my product. Artisanal, organicsomething city folks would pay premium for.
I drafted a business plan. Spreadsheets, projections. Dad whistled. “Youve got a head for this.”
The first market stall failed. My prices scared locals. That evening, Grigory found me on the porch, ready to quit.
“Youre aiming wrong, Lena,” he said quietly. “Your customer isnt at that market. Theyre online.”
It clicked. I didnt need to chase customersI needed them to find me.
I launched *Lenas Farm* online. Grigory took photosgoats in the meadow, the children with milk glasses, me holding a cheese wheel. I told my storyraw, unpolished.
It worked.
A boutique café owner in town reached out. I delivered the order myself. He tasted the cheese and said, “Well take it all. And well sign a contract.”
Driving back, I cried. Real money. The first brick in my empires foundation.
But five goats werent enough. Expansion required capital.
I rewrote my plan and applied for a rural business grant. The panel of sceptical men eyed mesome city girl playing farmer.
I spoke about profit margins, job creation. My voice shook, but I stood firm. They approved the grant.
With it, we bought twenty more goats, built new pens, a small dairy. Grigory oversaw it allproving himself not just a handyman, but a partner. First in business, then in life.
No grand weddingjust a registry office signing. Our family grew: Masha, Yegor, and his Veronika, now inseparable.
But farming isnt smooth sailing. A year in, disease took three of our best goats. Losses crippled us. I nearly quit.
“Dont you dare,” Grigory said, gripping my hand. “Well get through.”
And we did. A loan, a vets help. I diversifiedagritourism. Built two guest cottages. City folk came for weekendspeace, fresh air, real food.
Meanwhile, I handled legalities. Grigory suggested a solicitorAndrey Viktorovich Kovalov. He helped register the land, trademark the brand. I told him my story.
“Want to file for child support?” he asked.
“I want more,” I said. “Track Vadims finances. Debts, loans, deals. Ill pay for the information.”
Kovalov raised an eyebrow but agreed.
And so began my five-year plan.
—
Five years later, the call came as I stood in our new homea spacious house on the hill Grigory and I had built.
“Elena Stepanovna? Its Kovalov. Its done. The auctions closed.”
I shut my eyes. “And?”
“Mr. Vadim Smirnovs flat and car now belong to *Active-Guarantee Holdings* in settlement of his debts. Congratulations.”
*Active-Guarantee*the company Id formed last year on Kovalovs advice.
“Thank you. Proceed as planned.”
Grigory stepped onto the porch. “Its over?”
“Yes.”
“You going?”
“I have to.”
—
Vadim stood in his now-empty flat. After I left, hed revelled in freedom for a year. Then came get-rich schemespyramid investments, loans against the flat, then the car. Bankruptcy. Debts. Until the bank seized everything.
“Who?” he rasped to the bailiff. “Who bought my flat?”
My Land Rover pulled up. I stepped out. Calm. Confident.
He didnt recognise me at first.
“Lena? Whathere to gloat?”
“No, Vadim. Im here for my keys.”
Blank stare.
“What keys?”
“To my flat. And my car.”
Understanding dawned slowly. Thenlightning strike.
“*Active-Guarantee*?” he whispered.
I nodded.
And there it wasthe expression Id imagined that awful night. No hatred. Just raw, animal fear. His arrogance stripped away, leaving only a hollow shell.
“But… how? You werein the countryside”
“Yes, Vadim. In the countryside. While you *lived for yourself*, I worked.”
I held out my hand. “Keys.”
He handed them over like an automaton.
I walked to the car without looking back. No triumphjust cold satisfaction.
Inside waited Grigory. And three children in the backseat.
“All done, Mum?” Mashanow nearly grownasked.
“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 my husband held my hand.
I hadnt built a business. Id built a fortress. And now, its walls were unbreakable.
