“You had two kids? I’m out — I need to live for myself!” my husband said. And thirty years later, those same boys became the ones in charge of him.

“You had twins? I’m out — I want to live my life for me!” my husband said coldly. Thirty years later, those same boys became the ones calling the shots — his bosses.

“Finally,” I sighed with relief as I turned the key in the front door.

Viktor walked in, dropped his duffel bag with a heavy thud, and rubbed his tired eyes. It had been half a year since he left on his work rotation. Six long months.

He smelled like a fancy cologne, with hints of city dust and something foreign. I wanted to hug him, to tell him how much we’d missed him. But I had one baby asleep in my arms and the other starting to cry from the crib.

“What… is this?” Viktor froze as he stepped into the room. His eyes darted between the cribs. “Anya, what’s going on?”

I forced a smile, gently rocking our sleeping son. My heart pounded. I’d imagined this moment for weeks, dreaming he’d be excited.

“It’s a surprise,” I said softly. “We had twins. Two beautiful boys.”

He didn’t speak. Didn’t take a step closer. Didn’t glance at the babies. The exhaustion on his face turned into something much colder. His jaw tightened.

“Twins?” he repeated, his voice empty. “This is your surprise? We agreed on one. I expected one.”

“Viktor… it just happened. It’s not bad, is it? They’re ours. Twice the joy.”

“Joy?” He laughed bitterly. That sound chilled me. “I worked six months in harsh conditions, not for some ‘extra joy.’”

“I did it to pay off debt, save for a car. Not to get stuck for twenty more years.”

His voice sharpened.

“Did you even consider me? What about my plans? I wanted to live for me.”

I blinked away tears. “These are our plans now. Them.”

Viktor turned to the window, back stiff, fists clenched. He stared into the distance — into the life he no longer had.

“No,” he said firmly, turning back. “Those are *your* plans. You had two? Then you raise them. I’m leaving. I want my life.”

No yelling. Just plain, cold finality.

He marched to the closet, yanked it open, and began tossing clothes into his bag.

“Viktor, please — think about this. Come back to your senses!” I took a step, then froze so I wouldn’t wake the baby.

“You think,” he snapped. “I didn’t sign up for this.”

He zipped the bag, gripped the handles, and walked out. No goodbye. No look back.

I stood stunned, holding one baby while the other cried. The front door slammed shut behind him.

I sat on the bed, legs numb, my mind spinning. Ten minutes passed before I grabbed the phone and called my mother.

“Mom… can we come stay with you? For good.”

We moved to the village — greeted by wood smoke, tilled fields, and quiet. My parents’ house became our home. We left behind our city apartment and debts.

Kirill and Denis — my boys — grew like young trees, full of life. Though alike in looks, they were different in spirit.

Kirill was focused, careful, thoughtful. He helped grandpa with the craft, loved things neat.

Denis was energy itself — climbing, running, creating odd inventions from scraps.

“Mom, look!” Denis yelled, racing past on a homemade scooter, Kirill chasing him with tools.

I taught at the village school. Life was modest but peaceful.

Sometimes, grading papers late at night, I wondered what life with Viktor might’ve been like. But those thoughts faded like distant echoes.

One winter, a storm cracked the nursery window. Snow blew in. The boys ran out, frightened.

“No worries,” grandpa said, holding up a lantern. “We’ll patch it. Morning is wiser.”

Next day, he brought an old window frame.

“Alright, boys,” he smiled. “Time to learn. A house’s window is its eye.”

All day they worked together — removing glass, cleaning, fixing. Kirill watched and copied every step. Denis handed tools, always asking questions.

By night, the new window was up.

“Better than before!” Denis cheered.

“We’ll start a company one day,” Kirill said, proud. “Strongest windows around.”

I listened quietly. For the first time, I felt proud and sure — they’d be fine. They already were.

Thirty years passed. Kirill and Denis built that business — “WindowGuard Pros.”

Kirill was the mind: organized, leading strategy. His office was spotless.

Denis was the heart: managing teams, lifting panels, always on the move.

I lived nearby in a small house they built. I helped with paperwork and the grandkids.

One afternoon, I brought them lunch. Denis greeted me.

“Mom! Perfect timing — Kirill’s still interviewing. Busy day!”

Peeking into the office, I saw Kirill with an older man. From behind, he seemed… familiar.

“There’s experience,” the man said. “Been to the north, worked hard. Life didn’t go how I planned.”

Kirill asked something. The man turned — my heart dropped.

It was Viktor.

Wrinkled, tired, older — but him.

I backed into the hall, hand over mouth. Denis noticed immediately.

“Mom! Are you okay?”

I pointed toward the exit where Viktor walked out — unaware.

That night, we talked. I told them the full story.

“We hired him,” Kirill said. “Just a basic worker.”

“We’ll speak to him tomorrow,” Denis added.

Next day, we sat together. Viktor entered, wearing a work uniform. He saw me, paused.

“Sit, Viktor,” Kirill said.

“Do you have kids?” Denis asked.

Viktor looked away. “No… Didn’t work out. I wanted to live free. But now… I have nothing.”

“Big plans?” Denis asked.

Viktor shrugged. “I did once. But I ran. Two kids? That would’ve trapped me.”

He finally looked at them. Then at me. His face went pale.

“Anya? Is that you?”

Kirill stood. “We are your sons.”

“You left to ‘live for yourself.’ So — did you live?”

Viktor broke down. “I didn’t know… I thought…”

“Enough,” Denis said, walking to the window. “See that factory? We built it. Without you.”

“We won’t fire you,” Kirill added. “But you don’t belong here. Take your pay. Leave.”

Viktor turned, tears falling. He left without a word.

We stood watching the factory. Denis placed a hand on my shoulder.

The past was gone. Our triumph wasn’t revenge.

It was the life we built — without him.