In Class 10B, the rules had been set long ago. Teachers came and went, but the teenage defiance only grew stronger. One teacher left for maternity leave, another quit after just a month, unable to endure the constant ridicule.

So when a new literature teacher appeared in the doorway — Anna Vyacheslavovna, young, neat, with a calm gaze and her hair tied back — the students exchanged knowing smirks.

“She won’t last long,” someone whispered in the front row.

The first lesson began as usual — with a test of patience.

“Alright, open your notebooks…” she started calmly.

“We didn’t bring them!” a voice shouted from the back. Laughter followed.

“Maybe you should introduce yourself first before you try to teach us?” a tall boy near the window sneered.

“Alright,” she nodded. “Anna Vyacheslavovna.”

“Anna Viagralovna!” a girl in a bright sweater yelled, and the laughter grew louder.

Someone played the sound of a donkey braying on their phone. A paper airplane hit her shoulder. Students chatted loudly, dropped their textbooks on purpose, and openly scrolled through TikTok.

“Maybe you’ll cry and leave, just like the last one?” one troublemaker said loudly enough for her to hear.

But Anna Vyacheslavovna didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t yell. Instead, she walked to the desk, sat on its edge, and spoke quietly — almost casually:

“You know… I understand you.”

The room went still.

“You think I’m here to boss you around. But I came here because I once sat in a desk just like yours — and I hated school. Because no one was waiting for me at home, because my parents were too busy with their own lives. And yes, I made fun of my teacher… until one day, I found out that her son was in the hospital in critical condition.”

Her voice was gentle, but there was a weight in every word. Nobody had expected such a confession from this fragile-looking woman.

“That teacher still came to class, still smiled at us… even when she knew there might be terrible news waiting for her at home. And that’s when I realized — strength isn’t about answering cruelty with cruelty. It’s about staying human, no matter what.”

Silence settled over the room. Someone quickly silenced a notification on their phone. Even the boldest students, the ones who usually laughed at any adult, sat with their eyes lowered.

“I don’t expect you to like me,” she continued. “I don’t expect us to be friends tomorrow. But maybe you could at least try to listen — not for me, but for yourselves. Because in life, you will meet many people you don’t like. And then you’ll have a choice: to humiliate them… or to understand them.”

No one made a joke in return. No laughter followed. The boy from the back row, who had been the first to shout at her, slowly took out a notebook. The girl who had laughed the loudest hid her face behind her hair.

When the bell rang, no one rushed to the door. They packed their bags slowly. A few lingered by the exit, as if they wanted to say something but couldn’t bring themselves to.

And at the next literature class, every single student was there — with notebooks, textbooks, and, surprisingly, no phones on their desks.

They didn’t know it yet, but this woman would change them more than any book on the syllabus ever could.