Dmitry’s Country Roots: Did His Fiancée Fear His Past?
Dmitry was born and raised in a tiny village near Smolensk. His parents were hardworking folk—tending their small farm, garden, and putting in long days from dawn till dusk. They dreamed their son would stay close, train as a medic, find a good wife, and build a home on the neighbouring plot.
But from an early age, Dmitry wanted more. He yearned to break free from the quiet lanes of his hometown and dive into the rush and roar of the city. Computers, IT, skyscrapers—he dreamt of it all.
He knew his only way out was education. He studied tirelessly, took odd jobs, saved every pound, and finally left for university without a word to his parents—he couldn’t bear their pleas to stay.
Moscow hit him hard. Studies, shared dorm rooms, part-time work—none of it came easy, but he thrived. His first cinema trip, his first takeaway coffee, his first proper shop-bought clothes—it all felt like magic.
Slowly, life fell into place. A steady job, then his own rented flat. He was building something.
Then, a year later, he met her—Natalie. A city girl, polished, well-off, with flawless taste. She lived in a flat her parents had bought her, wore designer labels, drove a sleek car. Worlds apart, yet something about Dmitry’s sincerity and grit drew her in.
He dreaded telling her about his roots. But when the truth slipped out, Natalie didn’t flinch—she was fascinated.
“I’ve never been to the sticks,” she admitted one evening. “Show me?”
He agonised over it. Prepped his parents.
“Mum, Dad—no mucking out pigs or cabbage patches. Don’t scare her off.”
“We’re not savages,” his mother huffed. “She’s welcome here.”
When they arrived, Natalie stepped out of the car and froze—not in horror, but awe.
“The air’s so clean!” She laughed, taking a deep breath. “It’s dizzying!”
Dmitry exhaled in relief. The visit went smoothly. His parents greeted her with fresh bread and a feast—roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, preserves. He worried she’d turn her nose up, but Natalie tucked in, even asked for recipes.
That evening, she helped feed the chickens. The next morning? She rolled up her sleeves for the garden.
“You’ll ruin your nails,” his mother teased.
“Worth it,” Natalie grinned. “This is fun!”
The weekend flew by in warmth and laughter. She asked about village life, strolled by the lake, admired the old cottages.
As they drove off, his parents hugged her like family.
“Well?” Dmitry asked nervously.
“It’s not for me,” she said honestly. “But I’d come back in a heartbeat. Your parents are lovely.”
He squeezed her hand, smiling. He’d been terrified she’d recoil from his past. But now he knew—real love isn’t about where you’re from. It’s about who you are.
Natalie proved it. Roots don’t define you. Character does.