On the day I turned eighteen, my mother threw me out of the house.

Years later, fate brought me back

— and in the stove, I discovered a hiding place holding her chilling secret.

Anya had always felt like a stranger in her own family. Her mother’s love seemed reserved entirely for her two older sisters, Vika and Yulia, who received warmth, attention, and every advantage, while Anya was left on the outskirts of their affection.

She never understood why. No matter how hard she tried to be obedient, helpful, and pleasant, her mother’s gaze carried an edge of resentment. But instead of lashing out, Anya bottled up her feelings, clinging to the hope that one day she might be accepted.

That hope shattered the morning she turned eighteen.

“Don’t expect to live here,” her mother said coldly. “The apartment will go to your sisters. You’ve looked at me like some stray pup since you were a child. Go live wherever you want!”

Her words cut deeper than a knife. Anya tried to protest, pointing out that Vika and Yulia had been supported through university and allowed to live at home, while she had worked part-time since she was sixteen. But her mother’s decision was final — she was to leave immediately.

The only person who had ever shown her real kindness was her grandfather. He had taken in her pregnant mother after Anya’s father abandoned them and had raised Anya like she truly mattered. Summers with him in the countryside were her happiest memories — tending the garden, baking bread, and falling asleep to the sound of crickets.

But when her grandfather died suddenly when she was ten, everything changed. Her sisters began to openly mock her, handing down their worn-out clothes and even eating all the treats while tossing her the empty wrappers. Her mother never defended her — she only watched in silence.

By the time she was cast out, Anya had grown used to being unwanted. She took a job as a hospital orderly, enduring long hours and hard work. Life was difficult, but at least here she was treated with basic respect. Her diligence earned her the trust of the medical staff, and one day, she was offered a scholarship to study surgery.

Years passed. At twenty-seven, Anya was respected at work but still utterly alone. Visits to her family only reopened old wounds — she would leave in tears, retreating to her small dorm room.

One evening, while she was crying on the hospital porch, a coworker named Grisha approached. “Why are you so sad?” he asked softly. Anya brushed him off, embarrassed, but Grisha persisted, reminding her she had value — not only as a surgeon but as a woman.

That conversation was a turning point. Encouraged by him, Anya called Dmitry Alekseevich, a wealthy former patient she had once saved, who had told her to reach out if she ever needed help. Dmitry invited her over immediately. Over tea, she explained her situation, hoping to find work as a live-in caregiver.

But Dmitry surprised her. “Come live with me,” he said. “You saved my life. I can help you find work at a clinic.”

Despite her hesitation, Anya accepted. Dmitry became like family to her — kind, protective, and deeply grateful. Over time, her friendship with Grisha deepened into romance, and soon, she was pregnant. Dmitry, though frail, insisted on leaving her a house in his will — a cozy cottage in a village she recognized from her childhood.

Just before her wedding, disaster struck. Grisha’s ex, Lena, reappeared, and within days, he was gone without a fight. Heartbroken but unwilling to beg, Anya packed her belongings and moved into the village house.

While cleaning the old stove one rainy afternoon, she found a hidden compartment. Inside was a box containing a letter, photographs, and a bundle of cash. The letter revealed the truth: Dmitry had been her grandfather’s brother. He had secretly kept watch over her for years. But the greater shock came next — her “mother” was not her real mother. Anya was the daughter of her aunt, a woman her adoptive mother had envied and resented all her life.

Suddenly, everything made sense — the coldness, the favoritism, the rejection.

Anya sat in the quiet cottage, the letter trembling in her hands. The betrayal still stung, but she was no longer that frightened girl begging for love. She had a home, savings, a career, and soon, a child. For the first time, she felt free — and genuinely happy.