“You will become the brightest star, the most talented of all. Your name will be on every poster,” her father whispered, stroking Sofia’s hair weakly.

Sofia buried her tear-streaked face in the blanket covering him. “Don’t cry, my girl. Fate can’t be fooled. Listen carefully,” he said with effort.

“There used to be two of us — Mikhail and me, Grigory. We were inseparable, friends by blood. Then your mother came along. We both fell for her, but she chose me. Mikhail couldn’t accept it.”

“He’s still a good man. If life gets hard, you can turn to him. He owns the ‘Breeze’ restaurant now — it might save you one day. There’s more, but if he wants, he’ll tell you himself.”

“I love you with all my heart, Sofia. I believe in you, and I know you’ll be strong.”

Sofia hugged him tightly. Suddenly, his body tensed and then went limp. “Dad! Dad!” she screamed, her voice echoing in the room.

They pulled her away as doctors rushed around, but Sofia felt distant, only one thought in her mind: “I am alone. Completely alone.”

The next day, after the wake and once the guests had left, her stepmother gave her a cold look.

“Tomorrow, find a job. I’m not feeding you.”

“But I’m still studying…”

“Studying won’t fill your stomach. Get a job or get out. Understand?”

“But this is my home!” Sofia said.

Her stepmother snapped, “Your home? No. This is my home. I’m your father’s wife. So shut up. I’m being kind now, but I can be worse.”

Sofia ran out, crying all night with her father’s photo. By morning, she decided to finish school with the money he left and chase his dream. Her father wanted her to sing. Since childhood, she won contests. Teachers said it’s tough, but her voice would always support her.

“People will never forget your name—Sofia Grigoryeva.”

She smiled, proud to carry her father’s name. That morning, she left quietly for class. Afterward, her stepmother waited on the porch.

“Did you find a job?”

“I was at school.”

Sofia tried to pass, but her stepmother blocked her.

“School, huh? You want to be a singer?” Her stepmother scoffed, hands on hips. “Your voice sounds like rusty hinges. You’re not smart or pretty enough. You’ll be washing floors, not singing on stage. I warned you.”