Anna Sergeyevna, the documents are ready. Who will be accompanying you home?” the nurse asked gently, her eyes scanning the frail woman whose pale face was shadowed by dark circles.
“I… I’ll manage on my own,” Anna replied, trying to sound confident.
The nurse gave her a worried look. A week had passed since the difficult childbirth, and there was still no one by her side. Her husband hadn’t shown up even once. Just a short phone call: “Don’t waste your time on me.”
Anna carefully took Liza in her arms, cradling the baby in the crook of her elbow. The nurse helped with the second baby—Mitya. Two tiny bundles, two new lives she was now entirely responsible for. She slung the bag over her shoulder, clutching a pack of diapers in the crook of her other arm.
“Are you sure you can carry everything?” the nurse still hesitated. “Should I call a car?”
“No need. The bus stop isn’t far.”
Not far. Just a kilometer through snowy February streets, with two newborns and stitches that throbbed with every step. But there was no one to ask for help. The money she had wouldn’t even cover a taxi—just enough for milk and bread until the end of the month.
Her steps were small and cautious. Wind lashed snowflakes against her face, the bag tugged at her arm, and her back ached. But through the thin blankets, she felt the warmth of her children—it was warmer than any coat.
At the bus stop, she had to wait. Passersby hurried past, shielding themselves from the wind. No one offered help, only curious glances— a young woman, alone, with two infants. When the bus arrived, an elderly woman helped her on board and gave up her seat.
“Going to your husband?” the woman asked.
“Yes,” Anna lied, lowering her eyes.
Deep down, she still hoped Ivan had just been scared. That when he saw his children, he’d realize his mistake. That he’d accept them, love them. They had talked about this, made plans. Two years ago, when he proposed, he’d said, “I want a son and a daughter, just like you.” Fate had smiled on them—she got both at once.
Home greeted her with hollow silence and stale air. Dirty dishes in the sink, cigarette butts in a jar on the table, empty bottles. She carefully laid the babies on the couch, lining it with a clean towel. She opened a window to let in fresh air and winced from pain in her abdomen.
“Ivan?” she called. “We’re home.”
A rustle came from the bedroom. Ivan appeared, tightening his robe. His gaze swept over the babies, the bags, Anna—detached, cold. As if he was looking at strangers.
“Noisy,” he muttered, nodding at the sleeping twins. “Bet they cried all night?”
“They’re good,” she stepped closer, trying to find a trace of warmth. “Hardly cry. Mitya only when he’s hungry, and Liza is always so quiet. Look, they’re so beautiful…”
Ivan pulled back. Something like disgust—or fear—flashed in his eyes.
“You know, I’ve been thinking…” he began, rubbing his neck. “This isn’t for me.”
“What?” Anna froze, confused.
“Kids, diapers, constant crying. I’m not ready.”
Anna stared at him, stunned. How could someone not be ready for their own children? Nine months. He knew for nine long months they were coming.
“But you said—”
“I changed my mind,” he shrugged, as if talking about a phone he didn’t want anymore. “I’m still young. I want to live my life, not mess with diapers.”
He walked past her, pulling a gym bag from the closet and started stuffing it with clothes—t-shirts, jeans—without care.
“You… you’re leaving?” her voice sounded distant, unfamiliar.
“I’m leaving,” he nodded, not looking at her. “Gonna stay at Seryoga’s for a bit, figure out the rent later.”
“And us?” Anna couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
He zipped the bag and finally looked at her—irritated, like she’d asked a stupid question during an important meeting.
“You stay here. The place is in your name. I’m not bothering with custody. I’m not paying child support—your choice to give birth, your problem now.”
He stepped up to the couch. Mitya opened his eyes—dark, just like his father’s. The baby didn’t cry. He just looked at the man who gave him life, now turning away from it.
“I don’t want them,” Ivan muttered, turning away. “I’m done with this role.”
He spat on the floor beside the couch, grabbed his bag and coat, and left, slamming the door behind him. The windows shook. Liza began to cry softly, as if she understood what had just happened.
Anna slowly sank to the floor. It felt like a chasm opened in her chest, swallowing everything but fear. She was alone. With two babies. In a house with a wood stove and meager maternity benefits.
Liza cried louder. Mitya joined in—two voices becoming one desperate plea. As if awakened from a nightmare, Anna crawled to the couch, took them both in her arms, and held them close. Their tiny bodies, their trusting helplessness—this was her only reality now.
“Shh, my darlings,” she whispered, rocking them gently. “We’ll be okay. I’ll never leave you.”
Outside, the wind whipped snowy whirlwinds. The sun dipped below the horizon. It was the first of many nights they’d face together. Without him. Without the one who should have shared this burden. When the clock showed 3 a.m., Mitya finally fell asleep. Liza had dozed off earlier, warm and fed. Anna laid them in a makeshift cradle—an old microwave box lined with a woolen blanket. The stove was almost out; it needed more wood, but she had no strength left to rise.
“We’ll survive,” she whispered into the darkness, like casting a spell. “We will survive.”
That phrase became her mantra for the years to come.
Grandma Klava, Mitya won’t eat his porridge!” five-year-old Liza ran into the yard, her pigtails bouncing cheerfully as she moved. “He says it’s bitter!”
“It’s not bitter,” the old woman adjusted her headscarf and wiped her hands on her apron. “It’s buckwheat, sweetie. It’s supposed to taste like that. Where’s your brother?”
“In the shed. He got upset,” Liza replied, shaking her head.
Klavdiya Petrovna sighed. Anna had left for the night shift at the farm, covering for a sick milker. The kids were staying with the neighbor who, over the past three years, had become like a second mother to them. At first, the village had judged her—she couldn’t keep her husband, she disgraced the family—but eventually they accepted her: hardworking, never complained, raising her kids in cleanliness and order.
“Let’s go talk to our little stubborn one,” Klavdiya Petrovna said, taking Liza by the hand.
Mitya sat on an overturned bucket, poking the ground with a stick. Skinny, almost bald—after a lice outbreak at kindergarten, Anna had shaved all the boys’ heads. Liza had kept her braids—she cried for three days when her mother tried to cut them.
“Young man, why did you leave your sister to have breakfast alone?” the old woman asked as she sat down on a stump beside him.
“That porridge is nasty,” the boy muttered. “It’s bitter.”
“Do you know what your mother wants?” Klavdiya Petrovna gently ran her hand over his tousled hair. “She wants you to grow up healthy. She talks to cows at the farm, collects milk, earns money so you can eat. And you’re turning your nose up at it.”
The boy looked up at her, sighed, and stood.
“Fine, I’ll eat it. But can I have it with bread?”
“Of course—with bread, butter, and sweet tea,” Klavdiya agreed.
That evening, Anna came home—tired, her eyes red from lack of sleep, but smiling. In her canvas bag were a can of milk, a loaf of bread, and a bag of caramels.
“Mom!” the kids ran to her, wrapping themselves around her arms.
“My sweethearts,” she knelt and hugged them tight. “How were things without me?”
Liza chattered nonstop—about the cat that had kittens, about the new dress Grandma Klava had sewn from her old one, about how Mitya hadn’t wanted to eat porridge but ended up finishing it.
“There’s going to be a party at the kindergarten soon,” she finished, catching her breath. “For moms and dads.”
Anna froze, looking at her daughter. The girl stared back innocently, not realizing the pain she had just caused.
“We should invite Daddy,” Mitya added suddenly. “Like everyone else does.”
Anna exhaled slowly, her throat tightening. This was the moment she’d been dreading. The kids were growing up, starting to ask questions.
“You don’t have a dad,” she said quietly.
“Why not?” Liza tilted her head, confused. “Sasha Petrov has a dad, so does Marina. Even Kolya, the limping boy who beats everyone up, has one. Why don’t we?”
“Your dad…” Anna’s voice was quiet but firm. “He left when you were born. He didn’t want to be part of our life.”
“So he doesn’t love us?” Mitya’s eyes welled with tears.
“I don’t know, honey,” she stroked his closely cropped head. “But I love you. For everyone. For each of you.”
That night, the children cried—not from hunger or pain, but from the realization that something important was missing. Anna lay between them, hugging them both, and began telling stories—not about princes and kingdoms, but about little forest animals who were happy even without a father, because they had a caring mother bunny.
“What do you mean, ‘denied’?” Anna’s voice trembled with outrage, her fists clenched so tightly her knuckles turned white.
Alla Viktorovna, a plump woman with fiery red hair, nervously shuffled papers.
“Anna Sergeyevna, you must understand—the summer camp spots are limited. Priority goes to those truly in need.”
“That’s us! I’m raising them alone!”
“Formally, you have two jobs. Your income is above the subsistence minimum.”
“So what am I supposed to do?” Anna cried. “Quit one? One salary won’t feed three people!”
The administrator sighed and removed her glasses.
“Anna, I truly sympathize. But the decision is made by a commission, not just me. There are families in even worse conditions—multiple children, disabled kids…”
“Their father abandoned them. Not a single penny in alimony. I work like a mule just so they have food!” Anna’s throat tightened again.
Alla was silent, then went to a cabinet and pulled out a folder.
“There is another option,” she said softly. “Camp spots for children from single-parent families, if one parent works there. We need kitchen assistants.”
“I’ll do it,” Anna said quickly. “Any job.”
“It’s officially a vacation with your children, but in reality—it’s hard work,” the administrator warned.
“I can handle it. I’ll take vacation during those days.”
And that’s how Mitya and Liza saw the sea for the first time—thanks to a social voucher, while their mother washed dishes and peeled vegetables at the “Swallow” pioneer camp. It was worth it—they came back tanned, stronger. Mitya grew five centimeters, Liza learned to swim. Most importantly—they stopped asking about their father.
“Sidorov, are you brainless?” Liza stepped between the sixth-grader and her brother, legs wide apart. “Touch him again and you’ll get it!”
Sidorov, a lanky boy with a red face, sneered.
“What, hiding behind your sister’s skirt, Mitya? Mama’s boy!”
“Leave him alone,” Liza growled, fists clenched.
Mitya stayed silent, staring at the ground. A bruise was swelling on his face, his lip was bleeding. At ten, he was still the smallest in class—thin, anxious, always with a book.
“Fatherless,” Sidorov spat at his feet. “No dad, no brains.”
Liza’s hand flew forward on its own, landing on his cheek so hard he staggered. For a second he blinked in shock, then tried to swing back—but didn’t make it. Mitya launched forward like a little torpedo, ramming into his stomach. Sidorov gasped and bent over. The twins, without a word, bolted.
They only stopped at the old water pump, cheeks flushed, breathing hard.
“Why did you jump in?” Liza turned to her brother.
“I wanted to protect you,” Mitya mumbled, wiping blood from his cheek. “It was because of me.”
“Idiot,” Liza snorted, pulling out a handkerchief and wetting it at the pump. “Here, hold this to your lip.”
They sat in silence on a rusty pipe. Evening fell. Somewhere in the village, cows were coming home.
“Mom will be mad,” Mitya finally said. “She’ll lecture us.”
“She won’t be mad,” Liza shook her head. “She’ll understand. She always does.”
And Anna really did meet them calmly. She treated Mitya’s lip, pressed a cold towel to his bruise, listened to Liza’s breathless retelling. Then she said:
“I’m proud of you. You stood up for each other.”
“But fighting is wrong,” Mitya said uncertainly.
“Yes, fighting is wrong,” Anna agreed. “But letting someone hurt the ones you love is worse.”
She hugged them—not little kids anymore, but teens on the edge of a new life. Her hope. Her meaning. Her heart, split in two.
“Mom, was Dad really a bad person?” Mitya asked suddenly.
Anna flinched. It had been a long time since they spoke of him. His memory was fading, becoming a shadow.
“No,” she answered slowly. “Not bad. Just weak. He was scared of responsibility.”
“Where is he now?” Liza looked up at her.
“I don’t know, honey. Somewhere in the city, maybe. Maybe he started a new family.”
“He doesn’t need us?” Mitya fidgeted with his shirt hem.
But we need each other,” Anna said firmly. “That’s enough.”
She hadn’t slept that night. The children were growing up, and their questions were getting harder. She knew the moment would come — sooner or later — when they’d need to know the whole truth, without softening, without sugarcoating. About how their father had abandoned them from day one. How he had spat near their crib. How he left without looking back.
But they were only ten now, and their world could still be protected a little longer.
Years passed.
Liza saw him first. A man was loitering near the school fence, shifting from foot to foot, scanning the crowd of students. His jacket was worn, hair tousled and graying, cheeks flushed in an unhealthy way. But something in his features — the shape of his brows, the line of his chin — made her tense up inside.
“Mitya,” she tugged her brother’s sleeve. “Look.”
Mitya looked up from his book, followed her gaze. His eyes — exactly like the man’s by the fence — widened.
“That’s…” he began but trailed off.
The man noticed them. His face twitched — eyebrows raised, eyes widened, lips parted like he was about to speak, but the words got stuck. He took a hesitant step forward, raising his hand — either in greeting or defense against his own demons.
“Hello,” his voice was hoarse. “You’re… Liza and Mitya, right? Anna’s kids?”
They stayed silent. Ten years — an entire lifetime — separated them from this man. Thirteen years of questions without answers.
“I’m your father,” he finally said when the silence became unbearable. “Ivan.”
“We know,” Liza replied coldly, instinctively stepping in front of her brother. “What do you want?”
Ivan winced, as if her question caused him physical pain.
“Just wanted to talk. To see you. I… I’ve been thinking a lot lately.”
His voice was distant, like it came from the bottom of a well. He smelled of alcohol and cheap cigarettes. His gray eyes — the same Mitya had inherited — held a dog-like submissiveness.
“Mom’s home,” Mitya finally said. “If you want to talk, go to her.”
“I came to see you,” Ivan stepped closer. “Just to talk. To know how you’re… living.”
“Without you,” Liza said sharply, standing tall like a guard at a castle gate. “We’re growing up without you. Why show up now? Thirteen years have passed.”
Ivan’s shoulders sagged. He hadn’t expected this — not this coldness, not this brutal honesty from a child.
“I know I’m to blame,” he murmured. “I know I have no right to ask for anything… But life hit me hard, again and again. I lost everything — job, home, health. And now I wonder… maybe it’s not too late? Maybe I could at least get to know you?”
His voice trembled, like a string stretched too tight. Mitya stared at his shoes, gripping the hem of his jacket. Seeing his father like this was like watching a bird fall from a branch but still breathing. Liza remained unyielding — every inch of her radiated resolve.
“You’ve seen us,” she said evenly. “You’ve recognized us. Now we’re going home. Mom is waiting.”
“Wait,” Ivan reached out, as if trying to stop them. “I really… Maybe we could meet sometimes? I could pick you up from school, help out—”
“Do you even know what grade we’re in?” Liza squinted. “Where we live? What we love? What we’re good at? What we worry about?”
Each question was a blow — each one a burning reminder of all he had missed. Ivan dropped his gaze.
“You know nothing about us,” she continued, her voice shaking with restrained anger. “And you have no right to show up like nothing happened. Like you weren’t the one who spat next to our cribs!”
“Liza!” Mitya stepped back, eyes wide. “How do you know that?”
“Mom told me when I asked,” Liza’s voice was steady, her eyes locked on Ivan. “You left without looking back. She stayed. Alone with two babies, no money, no help. And she made it. Without you.”
“I was young…” Ivan muttered. “Inexperienced. Scared of responsibility.”
“And her?” Liza tilted her head. “She was twenty-six. But she wasn’t scared.”
Ivan bowed his head even lower, his shoulders slumping under the weight of all the years, all the mistakes, all the silence.
“You’re strangers to us,” Mitya said softly but firmly. “Complete strangers.”
“You betrayed us,” Liza added, her voice like steel.
They turned and walked away, leaning into each other, as they always did when the world felt dangerous. Ivan watched them go, and for the first time in years, real tears welled in his eyes.
When they entered the house, Anna knew something had happened. Mitya’s pale face and Liza’s rigid posture told the story. The scent of freshly baked apple pie still lingered in the kitchen — she had just taken it out of the oven.
“What happened?” Anna wiped her hands on a towel, stepping toward them.
“Dad came by,” Mitya blurted. “To school.”
Anna froze. That name — the one they had avoided for years — hung in the air like a storm cloud.
“Ivan?” The name, long buried in her memory, barely escaped her lips. Her knees trembled. “Why did he come?”
“Started going on about how life had crushed him,” Liza snorted. “Lost everything, now remembered us. Wanted to ‘get to know’ us.”
“And what did you…” Anna sank into a chair, fingers laced tightly to stop them from shaking. “What did you say?”
“The truth,” Mitya met her eyes. “That he’s no one to us. That betrayal can’t be undone.”
Anna covered her face with her hands. Inside, a storm raged — anger at Ivan for showing up after all these years, fear for her children, and a strange relief that he was still alive and remembered them.
“Hey,” Liza’s warm hand settled on her shoulder, firm and comforting, as if she were already an adult. “Don’t worry. We handled it. Said everything that needed to be said.”
“I’m sorry,” Anna looked at them with red eyes. “I’m sorry you had to go through that. I always feared this day, but… I didn’t think it would come so soon.”
“Soon?” Mitya gave a bitter chuckle. “It’s been thirteen years!”
“For me, it’s still yesterday,” Anna admitted softly. “Every day feels like yesterday. I was afraid he’d come back. And afraid he wouldn’t.”
“Did you… want him to come back?” Liza asked gently.
Anna was silent for a long time, studying their faces. She saw Ivan’s features in them — the shape of the eyes, the curve of the chin — but their souls were different. Stronger. Kinder. Whole.
“No,” she finally said. “I didn’t want him back. Because without him, we became better. Stronger. A real family.”
They embraced — three bodies, three hearts beating as one.
“He might come here,” Anna said as they pulled apart.
“Then what?” Mitya asked.
“Then we’ll say the same thing you did,” Anna stood tall. “That he’s a stranger. That we lived without him. That it’s too late.”
He came the next morning. They were having breakfast when someone knocked — timidly, awkwardly. Anna stood, straightened her blouse, squared her shoulders.
“I’ll get it,” she said.
Ivan stood at the door — gaunt, aged, with dark circles under his eyes and premature gray in his hair. He reeked of cheap cologne — clearly begged for a shirt somewhere and even ironed it. His cheeks were shaved, his hair combed. But the lines around his eyes, the bulging veins at his temples, and the sickly tint to his skin revealed the truth.
“Hi, Anya,” his voice wavered, like a creaky door.
Anna studied him like an artifact in a museum — curious, detached. Strange how this man had once been the center of her world, and now felt no more familiar than a stranger on the bus.
“Why did you come?” she asked coldly. “The kids already said everything yesterday.”
“I wanted to talk to you,” he shifted uncomfortably. “Just you, Anya. Seriously.”
“About what?” she crossed her arms.
“Everything,” he stepped forward. “About how I messed up. Wasted thirteen years. Woke up one day and had nothing. No home, no family…”
“And remembered the kids?” she raised an eyebrow. “How convenient.”
“It’s not like that!” he raised his voice, then softened. “Sorry. I mean it… I realized how badly I messed up. I want to fix it. I’ll help, send money—”
“From where?” she smiled grimly. “Didn’t you say you have nothing?”
“I’ll earn it,” he stood straighter. “I can work. I’m not completely lost.”
Anna said nothing, studying him. This was not the same man she had once known. She saw the journey — from carefree youth to coward, to desperate wanderer.
“They won’t forgive you,” she finally said. “Maybe I will. One day. But them — never.”
“Why?” he looked genuinely hurt.
“Because they know everything,” Anna lifted her chin. “Not because they remember. They were too young. But I told them. About how you spat next to their cribs. How you said you didn’t need them. How you walked out without looking back.”
Ivan turned pale, like a ghost.
“Anya, I wasn’t thinking… I was drunk… I didn’t understand—”
“But I did,” she interrupted. “Every second of every year. When Mitya had pneumonia and I sat up for three nights changing compresses. When Liza broke her arm and I had no money for a taxi, so I carried her two kilometers. When I worked multiple jobs just to keep them fed and clothed.”
She spoke calmly, like listing facts — what was, what is, what will be.
“Vanya,” she used his name for the first time, “you don’t belong here. I don’t hate you. I’m just tired. And… grateful.”
“Grateful?” he frowned.
“For leaving,” she replied. “If you’d stayed, it could’ve been worse. For all of us. But you left. And we grew. Became better.”
“Anya, give me a chance,” he reached out. “I’ll try. I’ll help. I’ll—”
“Mom, are you okay?” Mitya stood in the doorway, Liza behind him. They flanked her, protectively.
“I’m fine,” she rested a hand on each shoulder. “Ivan was just leaving.”
He froze, facing an impenetrable wall. A woman with fine lines at her eyes and two children bearing his features — the same brows, cheekbones, eyes — but with souls completely foreign to him. They locked shoulders, forming a human shield. A real family, forged in hardship. Without him.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Mitya said, eyes steady.
“You erased us from your life,” Liza’s voice rang like a taut string. “Now it’s our turn.”
Ivan lowered his head. Slowly turned. Walked away down the dusty road — bent, aged, alone.
Anna watched him go, and for the first time in years, she felt free. As if the last thread tying her to the past had snapped.
“Let’s go,” she said, hugging her children. “The pie is getting cold.”
They went inside, closed the door. Sat at the table — just the three of them, as always. Tea steamed in cups, apple pie filled the room with its warm scent. Outside, rooks danced on the old poplar tree, and sunlight streamed through the lace curtains.
“Mom,” Liza rested her head on Anna’s shoulder, “are you sad?”
“No,” Anna kissed her daughter’s head, then her son’s. “I’m not alone. I have you. And you have me. That’s enough.”
They ate the pie and talked about everyday things — school, weekend plans, and the newborn calves at the farm.
About real life. The one they had built together. With their own hands.