Don’t rush to call this story a fairy tale. Life is so unpredictable! You never know what it might hold…
For a long time, she didn’t know her real name. All she heard was:
— Dolly! Fetch it! Dolly, give it here! Dolly, clean up!
That’s how her parents addressed her. That’s what her brother and sister called her. And her brother and sister were her main tormentors. There was a six-year age gap with her brother, four years with her sister. As she grew older, she understood why her mother called her not just Dolly but also a “mistake.” She was an unwanted child. An accident. Unloved.
In this family, no one loved anyone. Her parents might have felt something akin to love for each other in the beginning. Why else would they marry? Perhaps they loved their firstborn as best they could. They accepted their daughter’s arrival. But two children were a burden—her father and mother earned laughably small wages. How could they earn more? They barely finished school and took the first jobs they could find as laborers in a construction firm. Still, they caught one break. With two children already, they managed to seize a last-minute opportunity—they got their turn for a free apartment in a five-story Khrushchevka. At least they had a roof over their heads.
They lived in cramped quarters and constant resentment. The adults struggled to make ends meet, venting years of frustration on each other. Then, more and more, on the “brats,” as her father called the children. Eventually, among the brats, a permanent target emerged—Dolly. Her older siblings picked up this parental baton. And Dolly searched for a fifth corner to hide in, enduring daily blows, sometimes multiple times a day. She was only four when she started sweeping, washing dishes, and fetching shoes for her brother and sister. As long as Dolly lived there, her role as the “fetch-and-carry” servant never changed. Not yet knowing what envy was, Dolly looked at the neighbors across the hall with longing.
They also had three children. The youngest brother was Dolly’s age. The two older sisters were the same age as her brother and sister. Laughter always spilled from their apartment. The sisters taught their little brother to ride a bike. In winter, they endlessly adjusted his hat and scarf, holding his hands tightly while crossing the street. They greeted their parents by throwing themselves into their arms. Their parents kissed them. Everyone smiled.
At first, Dolly thought if she were a younger brother like the neighbor’s boy, not a younger sister, everything would be the same for them. Then she decided it was about the apartment. If only they could swap apartments! Then Dolly would have kind parents, a caring brother, an attentive sister…
Later, Dolly realized it wasn’t that. It was because she was an unloved child no one wanted. When she fully grasped this, she stopped responding to Dolly. She insisted her name was Emma. It became vital for her to be Emma. Because when she grew up, Emma would leave this house, leave her parents, brother, and sister. She already imagined how thrilled they’d be.
…With a high school diploma in hand and a few dollars in her pocket, Emma headed to a nearby city. There was a teacher’s college where she could train to become a preschool educator. Best of all, it had a dormitory. The key was to get in—only there. Emma always wanted to work with children, but more than that, she dreamed of growing up, marrying someone she loved, and having children. Lots of children. Boys and girls. She’d have enough love and care for them all. Emma would tell them bedtime stories, read books, play house, and build castles with blocks. And their apartment would always echo with children’s laughter.
During her internship, she became a natural at the preschool. Children trailed her like ducklings, and she got along well with the staff. Experienced educators eagerly attended Emma’s open lessons, admitting she led them more engagingly. So, no one was surprised when Emma was invited to work at the preschool. She rented a room from an elderly woman, becoming her own master in that small space for the first time. A preschool teacher’s salary was modest, but Emma often picked up extra shifts. This brought in additional income and let her get to know many children across different age groups, calling them all by name without fail. When they spotted her on the street, they’d run to her, shouting:
— Miss Emma! Hello!
Emma met her boyfriend when he overheard the children calling her and approached, saying:
— Will you say hello to me too, Miss Emma?
Emma blushed, delighted. No one had ever approached her like that…
Innocent and trusting, already imagining herself as the happy wife of this charming man, Emma started dating him. Everything was fine—until she realized she was pregnant. She visited the women’s clinic, where they confirmed it and ordered a slew of tests for the next day. For now…
For now, she rushed to the man she thought would be as thrilled as she was. But it wasn’t like that. There was a harsh, ugly scene. He shouted in her face that this wasn’t part of the deal. Then he simply walked out. Out of her life forever. For a while, Emma hid her condition. Then rumors spread through the preschool. She never mentioned a wedding, and no young man came to pick her up anymore. It became clear Emma was alone. Branded as abandoned. Soon to be a single mother.
Before giving birth, Emma returned home. As she expected, her family greeted her with a scandal when they learned she had no husband. It was quite a standoff—one Emma against four of her supposedly closest relatives. They screamed, sparing no words, that if she’d missed the chance for an abortion, she should opt for induced labor. They’d even chip in to pay for it, legal or not. Leaning against the wall, Emma listened to their shouts and curses, feeling only one source of protection—her unborn child. She carried him close to her heart. She protected him. Now he protected her. These yelling relatives had no idea Emma wasn’t alone. She had her shield. Her gaze shifted from one to another, settling on her mother. Her mother, silencing the others with a gesture, said to her youngest daughter in the sudden quiet:
— Keep the child, and get out! Don’t ever come back!
And Emma left. Thanks to her landlady, she was allowed to stay until the birth. She still had some savings.
Then came the birth. Not an easy one, but she delivered on her own. With her baby in her arms, she found a tiny, cheap room. She devoted all her time to her son, overjoyed when the pediatric clinic praised her: the boy was developing well, gaining weight, hitting all the milestones.
When she returned to work at the preschool, a colleague told her about a new private preschool opening in the city. The colleague had already interviewed and would start there next month. The conditions were far better than at the public preschool—smaller groups, better meals, regular swimming lessons with a rented bus, and, most appealing, a much higher salary. The colleague urged Emma to apply. Emma got the job, and her son joined the nursery group there. The salary was indeed one and a half times higher, and with extra shifts, it was nearly double. Emma couldn’t believe her luck: the preschool had modern equipment, unlimited teaching materials, interactive whiteboards, flat-screen TVs in every room, and unmatched children’s furniture. For working in such comfort, she earned a decent wage. Emma could fully update her son’s wardrobe, buy herself some new clothes, and even splurge on a stylish haircut at a salon. In her new dress, with a haircut that highlighted her pretty face, Emma noticed men starting to pay attention to her. But she was convinced her chance at love had passed.
Still, she had her son. The most important person in her life. Yet Emma couldn’t resist the attention of a kind young man. After meeting her and her son during a park walk, he started showing up daily. He bonded with her son, bringing a kite and asking Emma’s permission to fly it with him. The boy was ecstatic…
Despite her hesitations, Emma’s eternal hope for happiness won out. She became this man’s common-law wife. They planned to formalize their relationship later. For now, they lived in a rented apartment, and Emma believed she’d found her family. Then, when it seemed time to head to the registry office—Emma was pregnant again—he persuaded her to wait, to save more money. Emma suspected no deceit. Perhaps there was none. Maybe he truly believed Emma was his destiny.
But when the baby was born, he left them. This was when Emma was drowning in tears: she’d given birth to a boy with Down syndrome. Every day, people urged her to give up the newborn, listing the challenges ahead, not hiding what awaited her as his mother or him with his condition. Emma seemed to listen. But only seemed. She saw her son’s wrinkled face—they’d shown him to her right after birth before whisking him away. Two hours later, they told her he had special needs, Down syndrome, and it was hopeless. But Emma believed if they’d let her hold him, kiss his tiny hand, his face might stop wrinkling, and he’d feel his mother beside him, protecting him. She wouldn’t abandon him. All Emma could think was that she wouldn’t give up her child. Her husband’s suggestion to leave the baby only angered her. She knew she’d take her son. When she read his note saying he hadn’t signed up to raise a “cripple,” she felt no deep pain: she’d chosen her son. From now on, he was hers alone. With an older brother who would also love and protect him.
…And so began Emma’s second round of poverty and constant fear for her fragile son’s health. He needed special care, daily procedures, and exercises. She also had her older son, still a young child. Emma scrambled like a caged animal to afford food and medicine, massages, and therapy. She moved again, renting a smaller room in a communal apartment. There, people eyed her “Down’s kid” suspiciously, forbidding their children to play with him. Those children stole his toys. His older brother always rushed to his defense, often coming home bruised and scraped. That room would’ve drowned in Emma’s tears if she hadn’t bitten her pillow at night to muffle her sobs.
How much she heard from others! They judged her, saying she lacked sense for raising fatherless children, especially a “cripple.” Many told her outright to stop playing Mother Teresa and send the boy to an institution. Emma didn’t respond—she saw the eyes of those who spoke. They preached their truth with eyes that didn’t love children. Not their own, not others’, not healthy, not sick. Where did Emma find the strength?
Only she knew. Her strength came from her childhood. Her joyless, grievance-filled childhood, from which she longed to escape. She wanted to raise her children in love. And this time, Emma prevailed. She received single-mother benefits for her older son. Her younger son got a disability pension, plus a caregiver’s allowance. She couldn’t work—there was no one to leave her younger son with. So, she rented a one-bedroom apartment, posted flyers offering full-day nanny services at her home, and earned extra income. As always, Emma budgeted for the essentials. Amid this whirlwind, a miracle arrived: her son, predicted to be completely incapacitated, knew his letters, could count to ten and back, and interacted with the children Emma cared for. Doctors told her she was doing the impossible—her son was mastering skills his healthy peers had.
…It seemed Emma attracted misfortune. How else to explain what happened one early evening as she returned from the store? Behind some garages, a group of drunk young men surrounded her. One knocked her down. Another covered her mouth. A third assaulted her. It was over in ten minutes, and they vanished. It took Emma thirty minutes to clear her head and struggle to her feet. Then she dusted herself off and went back to the store for bread. Bread, because her sons needed to eat.
That’s when Emma felt split in two. One Emma had weights on her legs, her body ached, she wanted to scream but had no voice. The other Emma only remembered her sons waiting at home. She’d left the younger with the older. She had to return. And Emma did. She told the boys she’d be in the bathroom for a moment. There, she stood frozen under the shower’s pounding streams, thinking only of not screaming, not scaring her children. The next day, she had to care for her own and others’ children. She had to, because without money, her sons would go hungry. Now Emma left the house as little as possible. But when she had to, she ran into the director of the private preschool where she’d worked before maternity leave.
He stopped, greeted her, and asked how she was. She didn’t have time to answer before a young man approached the director and said:
— Dad, the ATM ate my card. Give me some cash!
Emma, to keep from collapsing, grabbed the director’s arm and screamed:
— That’s your son? He’s the one who did it to me! I recognize him! I’m going to the police right now!
The director paled, yanked Emma aside, and hissed:
— Try it, and you’ll never see your kids again!
Emma knew he meant it. He was wealthy, well-connected, rumored to be tied to local criminals. They said he opened the preschool to whitewash his past. She also knew he believed her. And she guessed he’d likely covered for his son’s crimes before. Emma pulled her hand free and, for the first time in her life, said:
— Be cursed!
She walked home without looking back…
One might ask, though it’s unclear whom: isn’t this too much suffering for one life?
Emma surely asked this question many times. She must have felt utter despair after each blow. But her children always came first. For them, she overcame the seemingly insurmountable.
…Summer arrived. The children Emma nannied went to summer cottages or the seaside, and money grew tight for rent. Then, unexpectedly, the mother of one of the children visited. She said their summer plans had changed—they weren’t going anywhere, but she and her husband had urgent work in the city. She offered Emma a job at their country house, with her two sons, of course. They’d have their own room, meals provided by a trusted housekeeper, and a salary.
— Emma, — the mother said, — I’m counting on you! My Ethan is so attached to you and your boys. It’s only been three days since we stopped bringing him, and he’s driving us crazy asking when he can go back to Aunt Emma’s!
Emma happily agreed.
Now she and her sons lived in wonderful conditions: a large house, a beautiful yard with an excellent playground, a pool, and lots of flowers…
One August day, as Emma left the pool with the children, she stopped—she realized, or felt, she was pregnant. After putting the kids down for a nap and asking the housekeeper, Nancy, to watch them, Emma went to the women’s clinic. They confirmed her suspicion. And how: an ultrasound revealed five embryos…
In the office, several doctors, including the clinic’s head, gathered. They knew Emma’s situation—raising a disabled son alone. They started by saying the pregnancy should be terminated. Or induced labor. If not for medical reasons, then for social ones. The head said she’d prepare the paperwork to justify an abortion. Emma listened in silence. In those few minutes, she’d made her decision: she wouldn’t kill her children. When she said this, her doctor exclaimed:
— You’re out of your mind! You can’t handle that many!
Other doctors chimed in, their words varied but the message the same: how could she, penniless, husbandless, and jobless, give birth? Seeing Emma unmoved, the head issued an ultimatum:
— If you want to keep them, find another clinic to manage your insane pregnancy. You won’t be treated here!
Late that evening, with the children fast asleep after a day of play, Emma stepped onto the porch and sank heavily onto the step. Her mind was blank. It turns out that can happen—no thoughts at all. Except one decision: these were her future children. They were alive! Getting rid of them meant killing them. And living the rest of her life knowing she’d killed her own.
Emma didn’t notice Hannah, the house’s owner, approach and sit beside her.
— Emma, — Hannah said, — what’s wrong?
Unaccustomed since childhood to sharing her troubles, Emma found herself pouring out everything, from her life with her parents, brother, and sister, to Hannah. She said she’d never take the lives of her unborn children.
Then Hannah cried. She spoke of her own burden—her first pregnancy, which she’d terminated late-term after doctors convinced her the fetus had severe defects, that she was carrying a disabled child.
— And I killed him! — Hannah sobbed. — He’s never appeared in my dreams… He probably doesn’t forgive me… But you, Emma, you’re doing everything right! I’ll help you however I can. My husband will understand and help too.
Hannah found a doctor to manage Emma’s pregnancy. She convinced Emma to check into the hospital a month before her due date. She assured her the children would have another nanny during that time—she and her husband would find the best one. Emma needed to carry her children to term and stay healthy. Emma stayed in the hospital until delivery. The city’s health department knew a woman might soon give birth to five twins, monitoring the situation closely. The mayor’s office debated how to allocate a house for a large family. A house, specifically—Hannah had explained that a house with its own yard was far better, reminding them Emma was raising a disabled son she’d refused to abandon, who was now making remarkable progress. Hannah pulled strings, contacting two local TV stations. They agreed to cover the successful birth of five twins—everyone hoped for this—right after they arrived, appealing to charities and compassionate locals for support.
But things didn’t go as planned. During Emma’s delivery, attended by two teams of top medics, she gave birth not to five but to eight tiny babies, each weighing no more than half a kilogram. These little ones, whose lives weren’t taken but given, struggled to breathe and move their tiny fingers…
Seasoned medics couldn’t hold back tears. First, they’d never delivered so many babies from one mother at once. Second, these children fought so hard to live! Soon, the news that a mother in their city had given birth to eight children at once spread nationwide. There’d been a couple of similar cases, and thankfully, all those children survived. Now, their eight joined two other famous octuplets, not just in the country but globally, certainly in Europe. Newspapers wrote about Emma and her children; TV stations aired reports. It wasn’t just a rare event—it was profound respect for a mother’s strength and for the nation’s medics who managed both the delivery and the survival of eight fragile infants.
Emma was discharged when the smallest baby reached 1.4 kilograms. A crowd greeted her with flowers and balloons. From day one, two home-care nurses were assigned to this large family. Emma and her children moved into a new, fully equipped house, a rare case of genuine state support, not just for the birth of eight children but for true care.
Hannah stayed involved in this large family’s life. She organized a volunteer rotation at Emma’s house. She often visited with her son Ethan, whom Emma’s older sons greeted joyfully, soon introducing him to the rest of the eight. The octuplets were mischievous, a bit sly, and always on the move. Not just Hannah, but everyone marveled at how Emma and her older sons distinguished them—their resemblance was uncanny. You could tell the eight consisted of five girls and three boys, but they weren’t just alike—they strikingly resembled their mother and older brothers.
One day, Hannah asked Emma:
— Do you ever think about the nightmare that led to these children?
— No, Hannah, I don’t. They’re mine, only mine. All deeply loved. Since childhood, I wanted lots of deeply loved children…
Then Hannah, with her lawyer husband, decided it was time for the man who assaulted Emma behind the garages to face justice. She remembered his wealthy father’s threat if Emma went to the police. But the perpetrator had to be punished. So, she and her husband confronted the father, explaining they’d publicize the vile incident. Alternatively, the perpetrator could voluntarily pay child support for all eight children, plus a hefty moral compensation. Hannah’s husband calculated the amount to build a small private preschool next to Emma’s house.
— Otherwise, — Hannah said, — prepare for court. DNA will prove they’re your son’s children. By the way, we didn’t come alone. TV crews and newspaper journalists are with us.
The father gave in, knowing publicity and prison awaited his son otherwise. He met the terms, paying everything, including child support until the children turned 18. That family left the city. Emma couldn’t believe it—she never expected justice, not since childhood.
***
Five years passed. Next to Emma’s house, another building rose—her private preschool. It soon became the city’s most popular. Emma, with Hannah’s help, prioritized love for children in hiring staff. Then came her personal happiness, again thanks to Hannah. Hannah introduced Emma to a widower raising three children alone after his wife’s death. First, Hannah asked Emma to enroll these children in her preschool. Emma couldn’t refuse Hannah. They added three beds and three places at the dining table. The new kids were outgoing and quickly fit in. Knowing their story, Emma often thought of their father—such men were rare. Her relationship with him grew cautiously, uncertainly. Emma knew she had ten children, and despite state aid, raising them wasn’t easy. But she never doubted her love for them. She saw the same love in this single father, not just for his own children but for all children. And for her…
When he proposed, Emma accepted immediately, thinking: if not him, then no one…
Today, a large, happy family thrives. With thirteen children, their parents don’t always clarify who’s related to whom. The children feel it. They always know if they’re loved. And when they are, they return that love. In short, Emma achieved her childhood dream: a home, many children, and abundant mutual love.
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