Tất nhiên rồi, đây là câu chuyện 3000 từ bằng tiếng Anh, tiếp tục phát triển mạch truyện về Anna, Fedor, và cuộc chiến đấu vì bé Alina:
The Impossibility of Miracles
The cursor hovered over the clinic’s email—Alina’s test results. I knew better than to expect a miracle, but when I saw the neat columns of numbers, everything inside me constricted. It was worse than it had been two weeks ago. The girl’s disease was progressing, and rapidly. The doctors, in principle, had warned us.
Until Alina had the operation, there was nothing to hope for. Over the past couple of years, I, a person far removed from medicine, had learned to interpret laboratory indicators and discovered a great deal about the human heart. It is an incredibly complex organ, and the slightest malfunctions lead to defects.
Sometimes these are minor deviations that barely interfere with life. Sometimes—serious problems that can be solved with standard surgeries. But for Alina, the four-year-old girl with huge gray eyes and wavy chestnut curls, things were much worse.
The congenital developmental anomalies of her tiny heart were missed by every ultrasound. For the first year and a half of her life, the disease barely bothered the girl. And when the first warning bells rang, no one paid attention.
The entire family was simply in shock, as Alina’s mother, a very young woman, had suddenly passed away. Pneumonia. It started like an ordinary cold.
A runny nose, a cough, chills. Which adult rushes to the hospital with those symptoms? Especially with a tiny daughter who can’t be left alone even for a couple of hours. By the time her husband raised the alarm and finally took his weakened Svetlana to the hospital, it was too late.
Thus, little Alina was left without a mother. Of course, she was too young to comprehend the grief that had struck the family. But she must have sensed something at a subconscious level.
And a significant adult, the mother who was constantly by her side, was now gone. This was impossible not to notice. Later, doctors agreed that Alina’s disease was triggered so early precisely because of stress.
In any case, the long-widowed Fedor, the girl’s father, attributed her lethargy and fussiness to her reaction to what had happened. He was in no state to realize that his little girl desperately needed help. Initially, Svetlana’s mother, Anna Sergeevna, stayed with Alina.
But she couldn’t stay long. She had to return to her own city, a provincial town a hundred kilometers from the regional center where Fedor lived with his daughter. Anna Sergeevna had a job there, younger children, a husband, and a small household.
She offered to take Alina with her. Fedor refused. He didn’t want his daughter to grow up with her grandparents.
.
.
.
He didn’t want to become a visitor father. The man assured Anna Sergeevna that he would manage on his own. Fedor had grown up in an orphanage.
He never knew his parents but always understood that he was deprived of so much. There were no maternal embraces, no fatherly guidance in his life. He had to fend for himself everywhere.
And he didn’t want such a fate for his daughter. Growing up without parents, even under the care of her beloved grandparents? Absolutely not. Thinking of Fedor, I sighed.
He had asked me to call when the test results arrived. But perhaps it would be better to wait until evening. Fedor works on a construction site, operating a crane.
It’s difficult, dangerous work. It’s better for him not to know about his daughter’s worsening condition right now; you never know what might happen. Fedor always hoped that the new medication prescribed for Alina would work a miracle.
Although the doctors warned that medicine was unlikely to help. But the man… he happily grasped at any opportunity and believed every time. He believed that the disease would recede on its own.
That Alina would outgrow all the troubles, become stronger, and be just like other healthy children. It was like a child’s belief that Santa Claus would definitely put a present under the tree. But I, unlike the man with whom I planned to tie my fate, understood everything perfectly well.
Only an operation would help little Alina. And it cost an astronomical amount of money. In the past, such patients were simply turned away.
But relatively recently, an experimental technique had emerged. Expensive materials, delicate work, rare and costly equipment. All together, it amounted to a sum that was cosmic for our family.
Even if we sold my apartment and Fedor’s apartment, it wouldn’t be one-eighth of the required figure. After the doctor announced the price, Fedor was beside himself for a long time. Pale, thoughtful.
I knew and understood this man well, although we had only been acquainted for about two years. I could even read his mind. Fedor didn’t need to say what was on his soul.
I saw, I understood: my beloved blamed himself for his inadequacy, for his inability to raise the necessary sum for his daughter’s treatment. I, too, felt awful. I looked at the smiling Alina, enthusiastically telling me something, and felt utterly helpless.
Then, both of us got down to business. Fedor threw himself into work, taking night shifts, going out for additional contracts, doing side jobs at construction sites, returning home late at night, sleeping for a few hours, and going back to work. We both understood perfectly well that we wouldn’t earn enough for the operation this way.
But Alina’s medications, tests, and examinations were also expensive. And besides, Fedor wanted to at least do something. Sitting idly by was unbearable.
And I set about searching for a suitable charitable foundation. I had to listen to many rejections. It turned out there were many children in the world who needed urgent and expensive help.
There were even much more severe cases than Alina’s. And foundations usually had limits. Restrictions on the number of children they could raise funds for.
And for a long time, I couldn’t get anywhere. Finally, luck smiled on me. Alina was taken under the wing of one of the foundations.
However, the fundraising was going very slowly. People saw photographs of an absolutely healthy, pretty little girl. It was difficult to tell from Alina’s appearance that something was wrong with her.
They were more willing to help children with visible problems that immediately catch the eye. Nevertheless, the amount in the account was gradually growing. Slowly, but surely.
But time was running out for Alina, according to the test results. Therefore, I didn’t sit idly by. I spread information about Alina on social media, contacted large companies asking for help.
Sometimes, I managed to get quite solid sums into Alina’s account this way. But it was still too little. Very little.
I ran my eyes over the columns of numbers again, comparing Alina’s indicators with the norm. I sighed heavily. I closed my work laptop.
No one else was left in the office besides me. I had stayed late finishing a report and then decided to check my email. Time to go home.
To relieve the nanny. I should also stop by the store on the way to buy groceries. And a chocolate bar for Alina.
She had asked for it this morning. My colleagues were puzzled. Why all this for a young girl? A widower with a child, and a sick one at that.
“Young, beautiful. All the guys are twisting their necks to look at you,” Tanya from the HR department listed my virtues. “You should be going to clubs, meeting men, enjoying your youth, and instead, you’ve taken on the role of a harassed housewife and are pulling the heavy load. Do you need this?”
“I need it,” I invariably replied. I couldn’t and didn’t want to explain my decision to the frivolous Tanya. And she wouldn’t understand.
There isn’t always a choice. I simply finally met my person, got to know him, and fell in love. And what now? Abandon Fedor just because he was in trouble? And leave Alina? The girl who had become so attached to me, who loved me so much? No. Alina knew I wasn’t her mother.
Svetlana’s parents wanted their granddaughter to be told about her real mother. I understood them perfectly and agreed. The little girl saw pictures of her mother, loved her, and thought she lived in the sky and watched from there.
But the girl was attached to me in a completely different way. I dressed her, told her rhymes and sang songs, fed her, and braided her beautiful pigtails. I was always there, every day.
I comforted her, gave her medicine, rocked her in my arms, and helped her when she felt unwell. And Alina had been feeling unwell more and more often lately. Bouts of breathlessness, sudden weakness, dizziness.
The girl needed to be monitored very closely, and measures had to be taken at the first signs of discomfort. Alina, for understandable reasons, did not go to kindergarten. Therefore, while her parents worked, she was looked after by a nanny.
Elderly Lidiya Petrovna had been with the little girl since her mother’s death. Back then, Fedor, left without his wife, couldn’t quit his job. Someone had to support their orphaned family.
Lidiya Petrovna lived next door. A retired history and geography teacher. Her daughters had long grown up and lived separately.
The woman was bored being alone. So, she gladly agreed to look after little Alina. Especially since she knew the family well and was even a little friendly with Svetlana.
Over time, Lidiya Petrovna became practically family to Fedor and Alina. She took the girl’s illness very hard and even initially refused money for her nanny services. After all, an enormous sum was required for the operation.
Every penny counted. The compassionate neighbor understood this perfectly. But Fedor insisted.
He was sure that any work should be paid for, and he wouldn’t accept refusals. Fedor and I met under dangerous circumstances. It was like something out of a movie.
It was a cold, uncomfortable November. I was returning from a friend’s birthday party. The girls had stayed late; no one wanted to leave.
I didn’t have money for a taxi. For some reason, I was ashamed to admit this to my friends, although they certainly wouldn’t have left me in a difficult situation. So, I decided to walk home.
Why not? It was only four blocks. During the day, I covered that distance in about twenty minutes at a calm pace. But now, late in the evening, I would just walk faster and be home in ten or fifteen minutes.
Once outside, I almost immediately regretted my decision. Everything around felt like a horror movie. Dark, cold, uncomfortable…
The city streets were deserted. The buildings, typically vibrant with neon signs, now loomed like dark, silent giants. The cold wind howled down the avenues, and I pulled my thin coat tighter, cursing my vanity for not bringing a warmer jacket.
I was halfway through the third block, hurrying past a long, high brick wall that bordered an old, abandoned factory complex. The streetlights here were intermittent, casting long, distorting shadows that danced with the wind.
Suddenly, I heard footsteps behind me. Not the steady pace of a passerby, but quick, heavy, and purposeful.
My heart pounded against my ribs. I picked up my pace, pretending not to hear.
The footsteps accelerated.
I glanced over my shoulder, catching a glimpse of two large, indistinct figures in dark clothing. They were closing the distance fast.
Panic seized me. I started to run, my heels clicking frantically on the pavement, the sound echoing eerily in the empty street.
They shouted something I couldn’t decipher, but the tone was menacing. I knew I couldn’t outrun them. I was nearing the darkest part of the block, where the factory wall gave way to a narrow, unlit alleyway.
Just as one of them lunged, reaching out a hand to grab my shoulder, I saw it—a flash of light high above, momentarily cutting through the oppressive darkness.
I screamed, not from fear, but instinctively.
Then, a deafening noise erupted above me—a sharp, metallic shriek followed by the thunderous clatter of heavy equipment. A crane’s boom swung out from the factory complex, right over the street, moving with frightening speed and power.
The movement was so sudden, so massive, it startled my pursuers. They skidded to a halt, looking up in confusion and alarm.
A voice, amplified and rough, boomed from the crane’s cabin, high up in the darkness: “Get lost, vermin! This is private property! The police are on their way!”
The sheer, sudden authority of the voice, combined with the intimidating presence of the massive machine hovering directly above us, was enough. The two figures hesitated for a heartbeat, then, with a curse, they turned and bolted back down the street, disappearing into the shadows.
I collapsed against the brick wall, gasping for breath, my legs trembling uncontrollably.
The crane stopped moving. The cabin light was the only beacon in the darkness. Slowly, carefully, the massive machinery lowered a heavy, empty steel bucket until it rested gently on the sidewalk right next to me.
Then, the voice came through again, softer this time, but still carrying a faint echo of its earlier power. “Miss, are you alright? Stay there. I’ll come down.”
Ten minutes later, Fedor, in his dusty work clothes, looking tired but powerful, was standing beside me. He was the night operator, working an extra shift hauling dismantled machinery from the abandoned factory complex—the very factory whose wall had just saved me.
“I saw them on the security feed. I’ve been watching,” he explained, his eyes dark with concern. “They were waiting for someone weak. You shouldn’t walk here so late.”
He didn’t lecture; he simply took charge. He didn’t ask for gratitude; he offered protection. He drove me home in his battered old Lada, ensuring I was safe.
That night, under the immense shadow of a construction crane and the genuine, quiet protectiveness of a stranger, I felt a connection I hadn’t felt with Oleg—a profound, dependable strength. Fedor wasn’t charismatic; he was real. He didn’t promise a bright future; he showed me he could handle the dark present.
That was the night I realized I had met the man with whom I wanted to face the world.
The Unwavering Love
Our relationship grew quickly, built not on intoxicating passion, but on mutual respect, shared practicality, and a deep sense of security. I learned about his orphanage past, his fiercely independent nature, and his overwhelming love for his daughter, Alina. I saw the raw, open wound left by Svetlana’s death and the terrifying burden of Alina’s illness.
I didn’t try to replace Svetlana. I stepped into the family as a partner for Fedor and a devoted guardian for Alina. She took to me instantly, her huge gray eyes mirroring the trust I had placed in her father.
And now, two years later, I sat in the silent office, looking at the catastrophic test results, feeling the weight of the cosmic sum required for the operation.
The emotional toll on Fedor was immense. He wasn’t just working; he was punishing himself. He saw his inability to earn the money as a personal failure, a continuation of the powerlessness he felt as an orphaned child. I loved him, but I knew his pride and his self-blame were isolating him.
I finally closed the laptop, grabbed my coat, and walked out into the cold March evening. The city lights were harsh, but my purpose was clear. I needed to see Alina, hug her, and then talk to Fedor—not to share the bad news, but to reinforce our unity.
I drove quickly, thinking about the nanny, Lidiya Petrovna. She was more than just childcare. She was an anchor.
As I pulled up to our apartment building, I saw Lidiya Petrovna looking out the window, her expression worried. I hurried upstairs.
Lidiya Petrovna met me at the door. Her face was pale. Alina was asleep in the next room, but the atmosphere was thick with tension.
“Anna, I’m so glad you’re here. Something strange happened,” she whispered, pulling me into the kitchen. “A car… a very expensive, black car, the kind you only see near the government buildings, stopped outside.”
My heart jumped. I instantly thought of the fundraising efforts, the large companies I had contacted. “Was it a representative? From a major donor?”
“I don’t know,” Lidiya Petrovna said, shaking her head. “A man, impeccably dressed, came to the door. He asked for Fedor Nikolayevich. I told him Fedor was at work. He didn’t introduce himself. He just looked at me… and then he looked at Alina’s drawing pinned to the fridge.”
Lidiya Petrovna paused, her voice dropping lower. “He said just a few words, Anna. He said, ‘Tell Fedor Nikolayevich that the solution to his problem is not in the sky, but on the ground. The debt must be paid.’ Then he handed me this and left.”
She placed a single item on the kitchen table. It wasn’t an envelope of cash, or a business card.
It was a small, tarnished gold locket.
It was old, intricately engraved, and slightly damaged near the clasp. It looked like a piece of vintage jewelry, perhaps from a bygone era.
“What does this mean?” I asked, confused. “Debt? What debt?”
Lidiya Petrovna looked at me with those knowing eyes of a retired history teacher who understood narratives better than anyone. “Anna, I knew Svetlana since she was a girl. I knew her parents. I knew about the orphanage. And I knew about the debt Fedor’s birth mother was forced to pay.”
She picked up the locket and carefully opened it. Inside, on one side, was a tiny, faded picture of a young woman with the same determined chin as Fedor. On the other side, however, there was no picture. Instead, there was a small, faintly engraved crest, partially obscured by the tarnish.
“That locket belonged to Fedor’s mother,” Lidiya Petrovna stated softly. “I saw it once, years ago, when Svetlana was still alive. She found it among his few belongings from the orphanage. The crest… I recognized it. It belongs to the Mikhailov family—a wealthy and powerful family who practically built this city.”
Her eyes met mine, filled with deep, sad understanding. “Fedor didn’t just grow up in an orphanage, Anna. He was placed there. And the only people who would know the significance of this locket, and who would be able to pay ‘the debt,’ are the people who put him there.”
“You mean… his biological family is reaching out now?” I whispered, the absurdity of the situation overwhelming.
“No, Anna,” Lidiya Petrovna corrected, shaking her head slowly. “I mean, the only solution for Alina’s heart is tied to the secret that broke Fedor’s heart.”
The experimental surgery, the impossible sum, the mysterious debt, and the locket—it was all connected. Fedor had always looked to the sky from his crane for salvation, but the solution, as the stranger said, was right here, rooted in his past. The moment of truth wasn’t about the numbers on the clinic report; it was about confronting the origins of Fedor’s life to save the life of his daughter.
I clutched the locket, the cold metal pressing into my palm. I finally understood the words of the HR manager, Tanya: “You should be enjoying your youth…”
But Tanya was wrong. This was more important than youth or ease. This was the ultimate test of love, a battle not just against a disease, but against a wealthy family’s shame and a man’s deeply buried pain. I knew I couldn’t wait until evening. I had to call Fedor now, perched high above the city, and tell him that the time for running from the past was over.
