Their apartment became my restriction. I was given a corner in the hallway with a fold-out cot. I ate separately—after them, finishing their refrigerated leftovers.
My clothes were from flea markets, always two sizes too big.
At school, I was an outcast. “Foundling,” “stray,” “nameless”—my classmates muttered.
I didn’t cry. Why bother? I stored it up. Strength. Rage. Resolve. Every shove, every sneer, every cold glance became fuel.
At thirteen, I started working—handing out flyers, walking dogs. I put the money in a crack between the floorboards. Lyudmila Petrovna found it once while cleaning.
“Stealing?” she asked.
“I knew it. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree…”
“It’s mine. I earned it,” I replied.
“Then you’ll pay. For food. For living here. You’re old enough.”
By fifteen, I worked every spare minute outside school. At seventeen, I was accepted to a university in another city.
I left with just a backpack and a box—the only thing connecting me to my past: a newborn photo taken by a nurse before the unknown mother took me from the hospital.
“She never loved you, Sasha,” my adoptive mother said at parting.
“And neither did we. But at least we were honest.”
In the dorm, I lived in a room with three friends. At night, I worked at a 24-hour store. My classmates laughed at my worn clothes. I didn’t hear them.
Life is unexpected. Sometimes it provides you a chance where you least predict it. In my third year, destiny smiled—our marketing professor gave us a project: develop a strategy for an organic cosmetics brand.
I didn’t sleep for three days, trying hard to complete assignment. When I finished the presentation, the room fell silent.
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