Alla wearily stepped into the hallway, the chill of autumn and the scent of falling leaves trailing behind her. She struggled to remove her coat and boots when she heard a familiar voice.
“Hello, love,” Max greeted her with his usual warm smile.
“Hello,” she replied tiredly, feeling the dull ache of a long day pressing against her temples.
“Fancy some dinner?” he offered.
“Let me just change, and I’ll start cooking,” Alla sighed, already turning toward the bedroom.
“Already done. Sit down and rest. I waited for you.”
She paused for a moment, then nodded softly.
“Thank you. I’m at my limit today…”
When she returned to the kitchen, the table was set. The warm aroma of stewed vegetables, homemade soup, and lemon tea filled the air. Alla sank into a chair and looked gratefully at Max.
“So, how was your day?” he began, but before she could answer, the phone rang.
Alla glanced at the screen—an unknown number.
“Hello?” Her face paled as she clutched the receiver. “What? How did she fall? Where are you? I’m on my way!”
She dropped her fork as if burned and, within ten minutes, was in a cab. Her mother had slipped on the stairs outside her home and was now in hospital. The diagnosis in the emergency room struck like a hammer blow—a spinal fracture. Surgery. A long recovery. Six months bedridden at the very least.
The woman lying in that ward had, just the day before, been grumbling while making soup and scrubbing floors. Now, she was helpless, confined to a bed. Alla fought back tears.
Max was there from the start. He visited when Alla couldn’t, brought supplies, sat with her mother, and told her about the park in bloom and how Alla was managing at work.
When her mother came home, the real ordeal began. Alla was torn between the office, the chemist’s, and home. Cooking, hygiene, medical routines, her mother’s endless complaints—she had nothing left.
One evening, she fled to Max’s flat. Exhausted and broken, she burst into tears the moment the door closed behind her.
“I can’t do this, Max. I can’t. It’s too much. And I feel so guilty—she’s my mother…”
He listened quietly. Then, without a word, he went to the bedroom and began packing.
“What are you doing?” she cried in confusion.
“Moving in. Everything’s ours now. If it’s hard for you, I’m beside you. We’ll manage together.”
At first, Alla didn’t believe it. She knew her mother—sharp-tongued, stubborn, territorial. But Max kept his word. No complaints, no outbursts. He simply became part of her new reality.
Mornings, he woke her with tea and let her sleep another half-hour. He did the laundry, ironing, made porridge for her mother, and something nice for her. He joked with his mother-in-law, endured her moods, even her jabs.
When rehabilitation began, he was indispensable. He steadied Alla’s mother as she learned to stand again, supported her on the stairs, helped her to the bath, guided her through exercises. In the evenings, instead of resting, he cooked and cleaned.
And never once did he complain.
Her friends, who had once smirked and whispered that love without money wouldn’t last, now watched her with quiet envy. Few could claim their men woke at six to mop floors after a difficult night, or sewed pillowcases when the old ones wore out.
One day, watching Max towel her mother’s hands, Alla said,
“I was afraid you’d leave. That you couldn’t bear it. And yet… I don’t know how I’d have lived without you.”
He just shrugged.
“Love isn’t flowers and restaurants. It’s holding someone’s hand when they can’t return it. Not running when you know they need you most.”
Six months later, Alla’s mother could stand unaided. A month after that, she walked with a cane. Two more, and she was making soup and tidying the house—even joking that heaven had sent her son-in-law.
Meanwhile, Max’s income grew. He was promoted, and the first thing he did was rent a bright, spacious flat where the bathroom didn’t look like a disaster zone.
And there, he proposed to Alla.
She said yes without hesitation—not because he now had money, but because she had seen the man he truly was. One who didn’t flee in hardship. One who did more than love—he endured, he supported, he stayed.
When a friend later asked,
“Come on, you dreamed of the Maldives, of diamonds. And now? Is this really enough?”
Alla only smiled.
“Yes. Because the most precious thing isn’t in a jeweller’s window. It’s in the kitchen, when you’re crying, and he silently holds you and slides a spoon of hot soup your way.”
And in the warmth they had built together, the world held a little more true happiness.
