The baby was left at the entrance of the orphanage, either at night or early in the morning.
At night, the orphanage was locked. A duty officer stayed in the lobby, and nurses were stationed on each floor. Early in the morning, the janitor arrived to clean the grounds. Right after him came the kitchen staff. The orphanage also had a small dairy kitchen, which had taken years to establish, proving that preparing formula on-site was better for the infants.
That morning, the janitor was the first to notice a bundle on the doorstep of the orphanage. He approached and heard faint grumbling. He realized it sounded like a baby. Alarmed, he began pounding on the door. Within a minute, the on-duty doctor was examining a tiny girl—it was she who was in the bundle, making those soft noises. They unwrapped the cotton blanket and saw first a pacifier covering half the infant’s face, then her eyes, which opened as if searching for something.
It was a girl, no more than one and a half to two months old. She appeared healthy. They examined her, weighed her, and measured her height. Everything was normal. Even her umbilical cord was clean and healing. While the baby was being checked, someone called the police. Two young officers arrived, likely encountering their first case of an abandoned child. They looked at the tiny girl from one side, then the other, as she eagerly drank the formula brought by a nurse. Then they began brainstorming a name and surname for her. They settled on “Violet.” And so, she was recorded as Violet Crane—found on the doorstep, or “crane” of the building. Her birth date was estimated as accurately as possible. Thus, the girl received her name, surname, and new address.
The police started searching for the mother. Meanwhile, the orphanage staff focused on Violet. She was shown to specialists to ensure her medical record was as complete as possible. While no major issues were found, the ophthalmologist noted: heterochromia, or, as some call it, “cat eyes.” This meant her left and right irises were different colors. The difference wasn’t immediately noticeable and might have been missed at birth, especially since Violet was a sleepy baby who napped often. But the ophthalmologist spotted it and documented it.
Heterochromia isn’t typically considered a disease—it rarely affects vision. It’s often hereditary, sometimes skipping a generation. It’s all about melanin pigment: too much or too little. The police continued their search for the biological mother, checking every maternity hospital in the city and suburbs, looking for women who had given birth to girls one and a half to two months earlier, based on Violet’s arrival at the orphanage. No leads. Questioning neighbors about pregnant women who should have given birth but had no baby yielded nothing. They called every midwife who officially delivered babies at home. Still nothing. They checked train stations for beggars with infants used to elicit sympathy. No trace of the girl. Alerts were sent to neighboring regions.
Three hundred kilometers away, a young woman was beside herself with grief. She couldn’t believe this had happened to her, to her daughter…
In the city center, in a spacious three-bedroom apartment, lived a father and his son. They lived alone: when Michael was ten, his mother succumbed to cancer within six months. But credit to the father—he devoted himself entirely to his son and raised him to be someone to be proud of.
Michael excelled in school and played sports. Like his father, he was fascinated by technology. Their home was always orderly. Store-bought dumplings were a rarity; once a month, father and son sat down to make a hundred dumplings, just like Michael’s mother used to. They maintained the same routines she had established. Though they rarely spoke of her, their remembrance was unspoken but clear.
In his final year of high school, Michael was among the first to decide where he’d study next—he chose a prestigious polytechnic university in the capital. He got in on a scholarship. His father had assured him he could cover tuition if needed, but both were confident Michael would ace his exams. Seeing his name on the acceptance list, Michael called his father, who said:
— I’m proud of you, son. If only your mom could see this…
Michael came home for a week. Together, they packed the essentials, carefully organizing everything. They spent every evening together, as this was their first time parting for so long. During one of those evenings, Michael mustered the courage to ask:
— Dad, are you going to stay alone forever?
— I don’t know, son, — his father replied somberly.
— I’d be happy if you found someone. Someone worthy of you, — Michael said.
— We’ll see. I haven’t been looking.
Michael genuinely wanted his father to find a new family. He wasn’t old yet. How could he be left alone? Perhaps once Michael left, his father would consider a fresh start.
When Michael returned home for the holidays after his first year, he learned his father had made a decision: he wanted to introduce Michael to a woman. He shared little else, but Michael could tell the relationship was serious. He felt conflicted—happy for his father but unable to imagine anyone as remarkable as his mother. But meeting Elizabeth, a young and charming woman, put him at ease. She treated his father well, and he reciprocated. So, after the holidays, Michael left with a lighter heart: his father was no longer alone. At the train station, as they said goodbye, his father mentioned that he and Elizabeth were planning to marry, and she would move in with them.
— I’m happy for you both, — Michael said, addressing his father and Elizabeth. — I’m just sorry I won’t make it to the wedding.
— And when’s your wedding? — his father ventured to ask. — Got a fiancée yet?
— There’s a fiancée. She just doesn’t know she’s my fiancée yet, — Michael joked. — But your example’s inspiring me. I’ll propose as soon as I get back.
Michael was talking about Natalie, his classmate. Words couldn’t capture how he felt about her. He first saw her in a lecture hall, sunlight glinting off her auburn hair. Then he looked into her eyes, and that was it. He’d never seen eyes like Natalie’s.
Michael didn’t have much experience with girls. There were friends from school and the neighborhood, now classmates and dorm neighbors. But none had ever made his heart skip like Natalie did. It took him ages to ask her out for coffee, and he was stunned when she agreed.
Later, Natalie admitted she hadn’t expected Michael to notice her. They became, as their classmates dubbed them, a couple. No one doubted they’d stay together after university.
Michael asked his father to check if the factory where he worked needed engineers with Michael’s degree—and whether there was a spot for Natalie, whom he planned to bring home. His father was well-respected at the factory, and they confirmed they’d hire two young specialists from a top university. A day after graduation, Michael and Natalie arrived home. A festive dinner awaited them. Over dinner, they announced their plan to apply for a marriage license. If no one objected, they’d like to live in the apartment until they could afford their own.
— Son, — his father said, — why even ask? This is your home too. And now Natalie’s. Live here! There’s plenty of space.
There was indeed plenty of space. Three separate rooms, a large kitchen, a balcony. The building was one of those grand, Stalin-era structures, and it was home to Michael. So, they settled in as a foursome. They gathered only for dinner and on weekends. The trickiest areas—kitchen and bathroom—posed no issues. The men left for work early, gone by seven. Natalie left by eight. Elizabeth left last; her first music school lesson started at nine. Showers and breakfast were accessible to all. It seemed minor, but for many, such logistics spark irritation or conflict. Not in this family. Weekends were lively. After chores, stocking the fridge, and cooking, they often went to the movies, theater, or strolled along the waterfront, enjoying café chats.
With shared topics, the family never grew bored. Natalie, raised by her grandmother, was thrilled everything was falling into place. Her only unease came from catching Elizabeth’s occasional wary or scrutinizing glances. She brushed it off—Elizabeth was friendly, always offering help. Natalie told herself to stop imagining things.
One evening, Michael came home cheerful.
— Natalie, — he said, — I got a huge bonus. Let’s check our piggy bank and see how much we’ve saved for the apartment.
Their “piggy bank” was a decorative jar with a lid, bought during a Volga River trip. Useless for much else, it was perfect for saving money. They counted their savings—a decent sum.
— Natalie, another year at most, and we can buy an apartment. Maybe then Dad and Elizabeth will think about expanding the family? And you and I definitely will. I can’t wait for our little miracle to be toddling around! Boy or girl, I don’t care, — Michael said.
Natalie wanted a child too, but she’d insisted on getting an apartment first. Life had other plans: a few days later, she learned she was pregnant. She told Michael, who scooped her up and twirled her around the room:
— The apartment can wait, right, Natalie? We’ll wait for it as a trio.
The next day, Natalie visited the women’s clinic, got tested, and was registered. That evening at dinner, they shared the news. Michael’s father was delighted, having long awaited a grandchild, though he didn’t pry. Elizabeth’s reaction was exuberant, repeating:
— So, I’ll be Grandma Liz!
Again, Natalie questioned her sincerity but scolded herself: the woman was happy—why nitpick?
Natalie’s pregnancy went smoothly. She took maternity leave on time and learned to knit. Everyone praised the first cap she made for the baby, and she loved it too. Ultrasounds never revealed the baby’s gender, so Natalie chose white and green yarn for the cap, suitable for a boy or girl.
When it was time to head to the hospital, Natalie felt off since noon. By the time Michael got home, her contractions were undeniable. Michael helped her dress, his father grabbed the prepared bag, and they took a taxi to the hospital. The staff wasn’t surprised they hadn’t come by ambulance. The on-duty doctor examined Natalie and whisked her to the delivery room.
Everything happened quickly. The staff commended Natalie for following instructions calmly, without panic. She was shy about screaming, but when told it helped the baby, she let go. Michael nearly barged into the delivery room at her cries, stopped only by a seasoned orderly:
— Where do you think you’re going? Stay here! Wait!
— But Natalie’s screaming! — Michael pleaded, forgetting every movie he’d seen where women screamed during labor.
— What, you want her to sing? She’ll scream a bit, then the baby will. Wait!
He didn’t wait long. Soon, he heard an unfamiliar cry and realized: his child was born! The midwife came out, congratulating him on a healthy daughter. Michael ran outside to his waiting father.
— You’re a grandpa now! You have a granddaughter! — he said, hugging him.
Michael picked up Natalie and the baby from the hospital, handing flowers to everyone who came to see them off. Natalie got a massive bouquet of roses she could barely hold. Michael took the baby himself, beaming all the way home. At home, a sparkling clean apartment awaited, complete with a crib, canopy, changing table, and a shiny convertible stroller.
Natalie couldn’t hold back tears as she thanked her family. The new grandpa outlined the evening’s plan: bathe the baby first (a tub was ready), feed her, then have a family dinner. They all helped bathe her—Natalie did the washing while the others whispered advice. The baby seemed to enjoy it, only fussing when lifted out.
With the baby asleep, they sat in the kitchen to settle two matters: her name and whether Natalie minded if Michael and his father left for a week-long business trip abroad.
— Natalie, I can say no, — Michael offered.
— Yes, — his father confirmed. — But it’s an important trip. They need a top specialist, and that’s our Michael. Plus, it comes with good per diem.
Natalie urged Michael to go. She wouldn’t be alone—Elizabeth was there. Elizabeth nodded eagerly. They also settled on a name: Olivia. Three days later, she was officially registered.
A week later, the men flew out. They called every evening, always asking about Olivia first, then sharing their updates and checking if the women were managing. At first, everything was fine. Natalie coped, and Elizabeth helped, bathing Olivia together. Then Elizabeth started staying late at work, citing preparations for a recital and a sick colleague.
Soon, Elizabeth stopped joining for dinner, saying she’d eaten late. She’d take a coffee to her room and close the door. One evening, Natalie caught a harsh look from Elizabeth. Natalie had set up the ironing board in the living room to iron Olivia’s clothes, with the baby in her stroller nearby. Elizabeth entered, grimaced as she sidestepped the stroller, and left. Natalie, sensitive to others’ feelings, sensed that both she and Olivia were irritating Elizabeth. She began ironing during the day.
Now she bathed and walked Olivia alone, even on weekends. Elizabeth left early and returned late, often without explanation. Natalie eagerly awaited Michael’s return but never hinted at trouble over the phone.
That Friday, Natalie took Olivia to the clinic for a routine checkup. They got a clean bill of health and praise. Trouble struck when Natalie tripped on a curb while lowering the stroller, breaking her heel. She limped home, exhausted and upset—she’d need to find a cobbler, but where? After bathing and feeding Olivia, she sang a lullaby and, lulled by her own voice, fell asleep. She didn’t hear Elizabeth come home.
Waking at dawn, Natalie was shocked that Olivia hadn’t cried all night. She approached the crib and froze: Olivia was gone. Natalie screamed. Elizabeth rushed in. They searched together. The door was locked. How the baby vanished was unimaginable. Natalie called the police. A team arrived quickly, inspecting the door, windows, and balcony and questioning neighbors. No one heard anything. They took a statement and promised updates. Natalie was at a loss.
Elizabeth called her husband, who told Michael. How they cut their trip short is unclear, but they were home the next day. Michael barely recognized Natalie: she was gaunt, her nose sharp, her beautiful heterochromatic eyes—brown and dark gray, which he adored—dull. She wept quietly, clutching Olivia’s teddy bear. Michael took personal leave and haunted the police station. He learned the door was opened with a key, not picked. The kidnappers knew the apartment’s layout and furniture, taking Olivia silently. She didn’t even cry. They likely left by car, but no one saw it.
All city police units were alerted, and the search expanded—delay could be tragic. The phone was tapped, but no ransom demands came in 24 hours, a bad sign per police experience. This nightmare lasted three months. Natalie, barely grasping colleagues’ suggestions as they joined the search, nodded to one idea: posting the story on social media. Someone might know something—perhaps about a key duplicate made three months ago or a baby seen on a train or bus. It worked.
A locksmith, not from a service but working side gigs, responded, thanks to his wife. He came home and overheard her tearfully telling a friend about a child abduction she’d read about. She said she’d tear apart anyone who took her son, Alex. It hit him: three months ago, a man urgently requested a key duplicate, giving him 30 minutes but paying generously. The keys were moderately complex, but he managed. The man paid and left but stood out. The locksmith, surprised by his own initiative, went to the local precinct and reported the job. Under oath, he described the man, noting a key detail: missing finger joints on his right hand and left-handedness, using his left hand for his wallet and cash. A suspect emerged.
They found him. During questioning, he named the mastermind—or rather, the woman behind it. Even the investigator was stunned: it was Elizabeth. They called her music school to summon her for questioning. Elizabeth was tough, only confessing at a face-to-face confrontation that she orchestrated Olivia’s kidnapping. The motive? Money.
Elizabeth had lived for years with a man she loved deeply. He was a gambler, jobless, living off her. Her music teacher salary couldn’t keep up with his growing demands. He suggested she find a wealthy man with property to bankroll their lifestyle. After much hesitation, Elizabeth agreed—she couldn’t leave her “macho.”
Chance helped: at a factory event, her music school’s top students performed, and she was there. She met a charming, youthful man—Michael’s father. She didn’t rush things; their relationship grew slowly. The turning point was his downtown apartment, worth a fortune on the market. First, they had to marry. Elizabeth agreed, and he registered her in the apartment. In six months, she could start a divorce and claim assets.
A shady lawyer friend, skilled in crooked property splits, was ready to help. There was also a solid dacha and a yacht. Then Michael and Natalie arrived, forcing a pause. When Olivia was born, alongside the family’s substantial savings, the plan shifted: kidnap the baby. At night, while the men were away. Elizabeth gave her keys to a contact provided by her lover. The rest was logistics: abduct at dawn when sleep is deepest and witnesses scarce, then take the baby to a neighboring city and leave her at an orphanage. Ensure she wasn’t adopted for three months, then kidnap her again and demand ransom.
Elizabeth knew identifying Olivia’s parents would be easy: the baby shared her mother’s heterochromia, and DNA tests were an option. Then they’d demand ransom, with her lover calling the shots. Elizabeth barely contained her impatience, returning to an apartment consumed with worry for Olivia.
At trial, her lawyer stressed that Elizabeth acted “humanely,” claiming no harm came to the baby. When he repeated this, the courtroom erupted, and the judge didn’t immediately call for order, sharing the crowd’s outrage.
The sentences were fitting: Elizabeth, her lover, the kidnapper, and a taxi driver who “forgot” his trip details all got prison terms. Not probation—real time.
By unspoken agreement, Natalie, Michael, and his father never mention Elizabeth’s name. Instead, their home now echoes daily with:
— Olivia!
— Violet!
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