— she would ask.
— If you want to, sunshine, — Anna would stroke her head. — You’ll study hard and become the best pediatrician in the city.
One morning, as Anna was sorting through the mail, there was a knock on the door. A journalist from the city newspaper stood on the threshold—a young woman with a recorder and a notebook.
— Anna Mikhailovna? My name is Ksenia, from the “City News” newspaper. Could I interview you about the center?
Anna invited her into her office. The conversation lasted for over an hour. Ksenia asked about the history of the center’s creation, about Anna’s mother, and about how she herself came to be involved in charity.
— You know, — the journalist said, closing her notebook, — your story is inspiring. A simple orderly, unjustly fired, managed to create an entire medical center. It’s a true example of strength of spirit.
— I didn’t do it alone, — Anna objected. — Without Dmitry Sergeevich, without the volunteer doctors, without the whole team, none of this would have been possible.
— Nevertheless, you became the soul of this project.
The article was published a week later on the front page. “From Injustice to Heroism: How an Orderly Created a Free Medical Center.” A photograph of Anna in front of the center, a detailed account of her journey, quotes from doctors and grateful parents.
After the publication, things went crazy. Journalists from other publications called, asking for interviews. Letters came from people all over the city with offers of help. Some sent money, some offered to volunteer, and some simply wrote words of support.
— You’ve become a celebrity, — Dmitry chuckled when they met in his office to discuss new requests for help.
— I don’t need this fame, — Anna waved her hand. — It would be better if this money went to treating children.
— And it does. Look, — he showed her a report. — Donations have tripled in the last week. People want to help when they see concrete results.
Anna studied the numbers. Indeed, there were more funds. They could expand the staff, purchase additional equipment, and see more patients.
— Dmitry Sergeevich, — she looked up, — I want to ask. Why do you do all this? Funding the center, helping me? You could have just given money for Katya’s operation back then, at the very beginning. Why all the rest?
Dmitry leaned back in his chair, thinking.
— Because I wanted to give you a fishing rod, not a fish. Money for the operation would have solved Katya’s problem, but it wouldn’t have changed anything in your life. This way, you found your calling, your purpose. And you’re helping hundreds of other children. You took a risk. It might not have worked out. I saw potential in you, — he smiled. — It’s rare to meet someone with such a heart. You didn’t become bitter after what happened at “Midlife.” You didn’t break. You kept moving forward. People like that need to be supported.
They sat in silence. Snow was falling outside the window, the city was preparing for the New Year.
— Thank you, — Anna said quietly. — For believing in me.
By the end of the year, the center had already seen 350 children. The statistics were impressive: 70% had fully recovered, and the rest showed significant improvement. Doctors spoke of the center as an example of what medicine should be. The city administration allocated additional funding. It became possible to hire permanent staff and expand the range of services.
Anna was no longer just a volunteer; she now received a salary as the director of the center and could properly support herself and Katya. The girl had changed too. She had grown stronger and had started taking dance classes—her dream of ballet turned out not to be so unattainable after all. Her teachers said she had talent, flexibility, and musicality.
— Auntie Anya, look! — Katya would show off the new steps she had learned in class.
Anna would watch, and her heart would overflow with happiness. Just a year ago, the girl could barely walk, and now she was dancing.
In February, an event occurred that brought the whole story to a close. Anna received a letter from Oleg Viktorovich Kovalev, the former head doctor of “Midlife.”
“Dear Anna Mikhailovna,
This is Kovalev writing to you. I recently read the article about your center. I want to admit my mistake. Back then, a year ago, I acted unjustly. I didn’t investigate the situation and believed the wrong people. I ask for your forgiveness. Your work at the center is worthy of respect. If you ever need consultative help, please feel free to reach out.
Sincerely, O. V. Kovalev.”
Anna reread the letter several times. An apology from the man who had humiliated her. An admission of error. She felt no triumph or malice, only a calm satisfaction. Justice had prevailed, albeit in its own way.
She replied briefly: “Thank you for your letter. The past is in the past. If you would like to help the center with consultations, I would be glad. A. M. Petrova.”
In the spring, a celebratory event was held at the center—a report on the first year of work. Benefactors, volunteers, patients’ parents, and government officials were invited.
Dmitry gave a speech:
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