Anya had always wished her mother would find love again, yet she had never imagined it would be with a man like Arthur. She lounged on the sectional in their immaculate living room, a paperback open on her lap more as camouflage than entertainment, while Arthur shuffled across the polished floorboards in sock-clad feet. He had only just rolled out of bed, mug of coffee in one hand, phone in the other, and he spoke into the receiver with the languid self-assurance of someone convinced no one else could possibly be listening.

“Baby, come on,” he cooed. “Two weeks until I say ‘I do,’ and you want to tempt a groom on the brink? Naughty.”
A woman’s laugh crackled through the speaker, and Arthur’s answering chuckle made Anya’s stomach knot. He did not even lower his voice, as though the twelve-year-old perched only a meter away was invisible—or too naïve to understand.

Disgust prickled her skin. Disgust at overhearing his flirtation, disgust that the man her mother loved was betraying her so openly. The expression on her face must have flashed something sharp, for Arthur finally rotated toward her, eyebrow arched. She slapped the book shut. Unbothered, he drifted into the master bedroom and closed the door with deliberate finality, the latch click echoing like a verdict.

Anya stared after him. In her mind she pictured her mother at the clinic where she worked as a radiologist, saving other people’s families while hers corroded at home. Tears threatened, but instead Anya snatched her backpack and slipped outside, cutting across manicured lawns toward the derelict row of barracks that bordered the upscale district. Towering arborvitae kept the two worlds from seeing each other, but Anya knew the footpath by heart; she had cycled it so often the grass was beaten flat.

Had her mother, Alla Olegovna, discovered her daughter’s secret visits to the ramshackle neighborhood, she might have fainted. Alla had clawed her way out of poverty after Anya’s father died, and the barracks symbolized everything she prayed her daughter never had to endure again. Yet Anya felt safer among those sagging wooden walls than inside her own perfect house.

She whistled—two sharp notes. A mop of hair popped out of a window.
“Anya! Climb in. Folks went to Grandma’s.”

Anya vaulted through the frame—doors were for grown-ups—and landed beside Petya Denisov. Fourteen, lanky, and permanently ink-smudged from sketching comics, Petya was her confidant. He had once walked her home after she crashed her bicycle at eight; they had been inseparable since.

“Why aren’t you with them?” she asked.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Bombed an English test. Dad threatened the belt, so I’m cramming.”

Anya grinned. Everyone adored Petya’s father, a bearded giant who talked more about fishing than discipline. Threats were just noise.

Petya closed his workbook, sensing real trouble. Anya poured out the morning’s overheard conversation, her mother’s blind affection, her own helpless fury.

“You and your mom get along,” he said gently. “Tell her. She’ll believe you.”

Anya bit her lip. They had once shared popcorn on movie nights and whispered about everything, but lately Alla’s attention orbited Arthur. Working double shifts for years had left her mother little time for romance, so when Arthur appeared—handsome, attentive, ten years her junior—Alla had been dazzled. Anya suspected he had been equally dazzled by her mother’s bank account.

“Maybe,” she murmured. “Thanks, Petya.”

A Failed Confrontation

That evening Arthur smoothed his hair and spritzed cologne. Alla, still in her office attire, raised a brow.
“Going somewhere?”

“Catching up with a buddy at the bar,” he said, kissing her cheek. “Last hurrah before matrimony. I’ll be quick.”

She beamed. “Have fun. I’ll be here, buried in paperwork. Take some cash.” She pressed a wad of bills into his hand; he accepted with a sheepish smile and left whistling.

When the door clicked shut, Alla turned to her daughter. “Girls’ night?”

Anya’s heart lifted. They diced vegetables, laughed over sizzling pans, and for a moment it felt like before. After dishes, Anya cleared her throat.
“Mom, can we talk?”

Alla’s shoulders tensed. “Anya, it’s Arthur again, isn’t it? Honey, he may be younger, but age—”

“He’s unfaithful,” Anya blurted. “When you’re at work he chats up women. Tonight he’s meeting one—your money paid for it.”

Alla’s palm smacked the tabletop. “Enough. I can’t believe I raised someone so selfish. Go to your room.”

Anya stormed off, cheeks burning. Walls felt thinner that night; at 3:30 a.m. Arthur stumbled in, voices rising, doors banging. Alla’s reproach melted into apologetic murmurs. Anya buried her head beneath blankets and cried silent, angry tears.

A Plan Takes Shape

Next afternoon on an abandoned lot, Anya recounted everything to Petya. “Mom won’t listen.”

“When’s the wedding?”
“The tenth.”

Petya’s eyes gleamed. “Then we need evidence.”

He outlined a plan: borrow Petya’s cousin’s action camera, plant it in Arthur’s jacket on one of his nightly excursions, retrieve the footage, and splice it with his older brother’s editing software. Over the following week, the neighborhood children turned into a covert film crew—one staking out the bar exit, another shadowing Arthur’s rendezvous, two more scanning social media for incriminating selfies. Anya, trembling but resolute, directed operations like a general.

Each clip hurt to watch. Arthur’s arm curled around a stranger’s waist, the self-satisfied smirk he wore after pocketing Alla’s cash, a drunken boast captured outside a nightclub: “She’s loaded, man. After the vows I’m set.” Petya stitched the evidence together, added date stamps, and exported the file onto a brand-new USB drive.

The Wedding Day

The reception hall glittered—crystal chandeliers, velvet drapes, roses everywhere. The menu boasted caviar and truffle mousse; the quartet rehearsed Pachelbel. Anya, in a pale blue dress, felt her pulse in her throat. Attempts to warn her mother were rebuffed: “Stop sulking, you’re nearly thirteen. Don’t ruin my day.”

Guests mingled: Alla’s colleagues, Arthur’s gym buddies, distant relatives dazzled by the extravagance. Anya spotted Kolya—the invented childhood friend—escorting none other than the woman from the videos, now stuffed into a modest cocktail dress. Kolya introduced her as “Nastya.” Arthur’s grin was feral.

When the toastmaster called, “A special greeting from the bride’s daughter,” conversations hushed.

Anya stepped onto the small stage. Spotlights stung her eyes. “Mom, I love you more than anything. I want your happiness—that’s all.” She signaled the host.

Footage filled the projector screen: Arthur and Nastya kissing outside a café; his hand resting on her thigh at a nightclub; Arthur, shirtless, bragging on camera about easy money. Gasps rippled through the room. A champagne glass shattered. The quartet fell silent on a suspended note. The woman bolted; Arthur slid beneath the bridal tablecloth like a cornered rat.

For a heartbeat the hall seemed to tilt. Alla clutched the back of a chair, color draining from her face. Anya opened her mouth, found no words, and ran.

Moonlit Reckoning

Petya waited outside, but Anya sprinted past toward the riverbank, sobs wracking her chest. Petya caught up, wrapped his jacket around her shoulders. “You did what had to be done.”

They hurled stones into dark water, silence between splashes broken only by distant traffic. The cool night air smelled of lilac and asphalt.

Footsteps behind them. “Anya!”

They turned. Alla, hair undone, heels in hand, approached. Eye makeup streaked, but her posture steady. “Hello, Petya,” she said, easing onto the river wall. “Mind if I sit? I’ve been searching everywhere.”

He spread his jacket for her. She pulled Anya close, tears glittering in the moonlight.

“I’m sorry,” Alla whispered.
“No, Mom, I humiliated you—”
“You saved me. I was wearing blinders, chasing a fantasy.” She stroked Anya’s hair. “Handcuffs off.”

Petya shifted awkwardly. Alla noticed. “So this is the famous Peter I’ve heard so much about. Why haven’t you visited?”

He reddened. “Didn’t think I fit the neighborhood.”
“Nonsense.” She looped an arm around him too. “Let’s turn this disaster into something brighter. The restaurant’s paid for and overflowing with food. Invite your parents, your friends; we’ll celebrate freedom, not heartbreak. Tomorrow happens to be International Cat Day—perfect excuse for a fresh start.”

Anya laughed for the first time in weeks. They planned in the dark: Petya’s band would bring guitars, Alla’s coworkers would trade stethoscopes for karaoke, the quartet would stay and play jazz. Arthur’s name never surfaced again.

Before they left, Alla slipped her engagement ring off and skittered it across the water like a skipping stone. “Good riddance,” she murmured, and the three of them watched it sink, a tiny splash swallowing the last vestige of illusion.

They rose, hands linked, moonlight washing over the river as they walked home toward a future none of them had expected—but one they would shape together, with honesty, courage, and maybe, someday, a love that deserved them all.

Months later, on a lazy Sunday, Alla, Anya, and Petya lounged on a picnic blanket beside that same river. The Cat Day party had become a monthly neighborhood tradition, knitting rich and poor into one boisterous family. Anya watched her mother laugh without reservation and realized the bravest thing she had ever done was simply tell the truth.