I was a simple cook in a wealthy household. The child needed help, and I risked everything!

Zhenya sat on an old wooden chair in the cramped dormitory room, hugging a worn-out smartphone—a gift from the orphanage, her only reminder of her past and her only connection to the outside world. Through the fogged-up window, the gray October light filtered in, illuminating the screen where job ads were slowly loading. She needed a position with housing because renting an apartment in the city was out of reach. She had no parents, no support, no savings—just a cooking diploma, some experience working at a camp, a boarding house, and the determination to start a new life.

There were many offers, but the choice seemed incredibly difficult. Zhenya carefully reread each one, comparing conditions, requirements, and salaries. He narrowed the options down to two: the first—a large family with three noisy children and a strict grandmother; the second—a more modest family, without so much fuss. He decided to visit the larger family first.

The door was opened by a middle-aged woman who looked her up and down coldly. “You’re very young. Do you even have any experience?” “Yes,” Zhenya replied calmly. “I have a cooking diploma, and I’ve worked in a camp and a boarding house.” “That’s different,” the woman interrupted coldly. “Catering is one thing, but home cooking is another. Here, it requires care, understanding, taste, and attention.”

As she spoke, three children ran by squealing in a toy car, one of them painfully brushing against Zhenya’s arm. The girl sighed. Something inside her tightened—she realized: she wasn’t wanted there; there was no room for kindness, understanding, or even the simplest human warmth.

The second address turned out to be much more promising. A tall man in his forties, with kind eyes and soft features, opened the door. His name was Sergey Platonovich Volnov. He immediately offered her water, tea, or coffee. “Thank you, water’s fine,” she said. “It’s a nice day today; I enjoyed the walk.”

They sat at the kitchen table, and the usual conversation began: age, experience, education, where she grew up. When Zhenya mentioned that she grew up in an orphanage and that her mother had abandoned her in the maternity hospital, the man nodded as if accepting that information without judgment or pity. “I hope you become part of the family. Our people have worked here for a long time; I’ve known many of them since childhood.”

He carefully reviewed his documents, stopping at a photo of a girl with red curls smiling broadly. “You seem intelligent. Now I’ll show you the kitchen and your room.”

The family was small: Sergey Platonovich himself, his wife Margarita Eduardovna, their five-year-old son Kirill, a nanny, and a maid named Nina. Zhenya was given a small but cozy room next to the kitchen. She immediately liked the job: cooking for the family, keeping things in order, helping Nina—everything came easily to her. The owners were almost never home; they worked at a publishing house and returned late.

Sometimes Zhenya felt like someone was watching her. Once, while washing the dishes, she turned around and saw Kirill standing in the doorway. “Is this our aunt?” the boy asked the nanny. Nina laughed, and for the first time, Zhenya felt something warm melt inside her.

Life went on peacefully. On weekends, Zhenya met with friends from the orphanage; the rest of the time he devoted himself to work. When the nanny fell ill, Kirill was temporarily taken over by Nina and Zhenya. The boy turned out to be very intelligent and inquisitive. He often asked to be taught how to cook: “Teach me! I want to be a cook when I grow up, too!”

Zhenya happily taught him how to make cottage cheese pancakes. Kirill sat on a high stool, swinging his legs and asking a thousand questions. Sometimes his eyes lit up with ideas he immediately wanted to put into practice.

One day, the boy suddenly asked, “Where’s your mom?” “I don’t have a mom. I never had one.” “So where did you come from? I used to have a mom, but now I don’t…”

These words shocked Zhenya. Could it be that Margarita wasn’t Kirill’s real mother? He wanted to ask Nina, but at that moment the owners returned, and Kirill ran up to them, shouting, “Dad! Mom!”

A few days later, Zhenya witnessed a strange scene. Sergey went on a business trip, and Margarita asked him to look after the boy before he left too. When the car left the yard, Kirill rushed to the window and shook his fist angrily. “You can’t treat Mom like that!” “She’s not my mom!” the boy shouted, his voice trembling with rage and tears. “I don’t want to call her Mom! Dad makes me!”

Zhenya didn’t know what to do, but she quickly thought of a way to calm the little boy—she suggested baking cookies together. Kirill forgot his worries, absorbed in the process.

When Margarita returned, she said, “Sergey asked me to take Kirill. We’re going to a friend’s dacha. Pack his backpack.”

Zhenya packed her things; Kirill grabbed the bag and ran to the car. Zhenya ran after him, but just as the boy climbed onto the porch, the car started to reverse. Another second and a terrible accident could have happened. Zhenya managed to push Kirill with all her might.

The boy hit his knee and started crying. “Why aren’t you looking after the child?” Margarita snapped at Zhenya. “I didn’t even see him!”

Kirill remained silent, obediently took his stepmother’s hand, and sat in the child seat. Before leaving, he turned and blew Zhenya a kiss.

Later, Nina confirmed Zhenya’s suspicions—Margarita wasn’t Kirill’s biological mother. After the weekend, Sergey Platonovich called Zhenya into his office. “Kirill told me… He says she tried to suffocate him.” “I can’t say it was intentional. But I know he doesn’t want to call her Mom. He only does it because you ask him to. But he’s a wonderful son; he just suffers a lot.”

Sergey remained silent. “I hoped he’d get used to it… He’s little; I thought he didn’t understand.” “At that age, children perceive their mother as a part of themselves. If someone else takes that place, it can be traumatic.”

The next day, he called Zhenya again, this time with Margarita present. “Zhenya, when you packed Kirill’s backpack, was there a tablet on the table?” Zhenya nodded—yes, she remembered the boy watching cartoons before bed.

—No one entered the nursery after you, and the tablet disappeared.

Her heart sank. Were they accusing her of theft? She placed her room key on the table. “Search her.”

—Why? Let’s search together.

Nothing was found in the room. But in the kitchen drawer, among the cloths, the tablet appeared. Kirill was delighted: “It’s there! It’s there!”

Sergey looked at Zhenya questioningly. She remained silent—she didn’t understand how the device had gotten there. “I didn’t take it.”

Kirill overheard the conversation: “Don’t scold Zhenya! She’s good! Margo took the tablet, I saw it!” “What are you saying?” the stepmother exclaimed. “I saw it! You put me to bed, then took the tablet and left. But I wasn’t asleep!”

The boy blushed and ran away. Margarita chased him: “Sergey, wait! I was looking for the charger; I wanted to charge it somewhere else.”

Footsteps could be heard coming upstairs, Sergey saying something loudly, and a door slamming shut. Margarita was crying outside, accusing her husband of believing everyone but her.

Then she went down to the kitchen: “Where did this girl come from to ruin my life? We lived peacefully before she came along. Kirill used to call me Mom, but now he avoids me like the plague.”

He opened the refrigerator, grabbed a half-drunk bottle, and went to his room. Half an hour later, a terrible crash was heard in his room—Margarita, obviously drunk, was smashing everything around her.

People ran. Sergey tried to control his mad wife: “Call an ambulance! She seems to be having a seizure!”

Margarita had extraordinary strength. She grabbed Zhenya by the blouse, tearing the fabric. Sergey noticed a black silk cord with a cross carved on her chest. “Where did you get that?” “Since I was born. They told me in the orphanage—my mother hung it on me when she abandoned me.”

Volnov looked at the girl strangely. The ambulance arrived; the doctor gave her an injection, and Margarita was taken away.

“With those nerves, you too could end up in a mental hospital,” Sergey murmured. “Come on, I want to show you something.”

He led Zhenya into his office and took out a thick, leather-bound album: “My first wife, Ira—Kirill’s mother—used to keep this album. We’ve been classmates since fourth grade. We loved each other since we were young, we grew apart, we reunited, we lost each other again…”

He told her the story of his long love, his illness, and his farewell. Ira died without recovering from his illness.

—Before she died, she confessed to me… That she had a daughter of mine but never told me—she was afraid. Her parents gave her an ultimatum: either give up the girl or lose everything. She was sixteen years old.

“Do you remember my cross that Grandma gave me?” he quoted his late wife’s last words. “I pinned it on our daughter. May it protect her for the rest of her life.”

—So… I’m your daughter? —Yes, Evgenia. Forgive me, I never thought of looking for you. You were born in Khabarovsk; no one knew which orphanage you were left in.

Zhenya flipped through the album. In every photo—from childhood to school—the red-haired girl wore the familiar black silk cord around her neck.

—So Kirill is really my brother? —Wow! Zhenya, you surprise me. I was less pleased that I’m your father than that Kirill is your brother. —Sorry… It’s just that Kirill and I became friends; I adore him!

—Great! Now everything will change. I’ll enroll you in college, send Margarita to treatment. The bad thing is—you’ll have to find a new cook.

—Dad, what if we don’t need a restaurant? I’ll cook for the whole family! —No way! After a lifetime in institutions, I’m not going to save money with you! No! You’ll study! And you’ll move to the second floor immediately. I want to talk to you properly!

Zhenya wanted to argue, but her father came over and hugged her tightly. For the first time in her life, she felt like she had a real family.