The baby’s almost here,” the midwife whispered, wiping the sweat from Galina’s face.
Galina clenched her teeth and gripped her mother’s hand. A sharp pain ripped through her, but she stayed silent—she was afraid of frightening the neighbor’s children.
“Viktor should have been back long ago,” she rasped. “He only went out for baby shirts.”
Her mother stroked the damp strands from her brow. “Don’t think about that now. One more push…”
The newborn landed in the midwife’s hands and let out a loud, confident cry, as though announcing himself to the world. Everyone heard Sergei’s first wail—Grandma, Mama, the midwife. Everyone except his father.
“A boy, Galya! A sturdy little walnut!” Grandma beamed as she accepted the bundled grandson.
“Did you go to the police?” the neighbor who had given the expectant mother a ride home asked gently.
“We did,” she said. “They say it happens often these days—people leave and just disappear.”
Viktor couldn’t simply vanish. He had promised to come back with baby clothes. He had talked about teaching his son to fish and building a swing in the yard.
The house greeted her with cold. Hugging Sergei with one arm, Galina used the other to light the stove. In the corner stood the homemade crib Viktor had managed to nail together before he left.
That first night she scarcely slept. She stepped onto the porch, peering into the darkness—would she see headlights? Hear familiar footsteps?
Village women whispered:
“He abandoned her. Sure he did. Men do that now—head for the city and disappear.”
“Ran from his duties. Still young…”
But others disagreed:
“Viktor wasn’t like that. He wouldn’t just up and leave.”
“Maybe something happened? Times are dangerous…”
Galina listened to no one. By day she went through the motions—feeding the baby, changing diapers. By night she sat at the window, staring into the dark.
Within a month her money ran out. She sold the gold earrings—Viktor’s wedding gift. Next went the sewing machine.
“I’ll bring you some milk,” neighbor Nina offered. “My cow gives plenty. The baby needs it.”
“I’ll work it off,” Galina replied firmly.
When Sergei turned two months, she passed a night without tears for the first time. She sat with her sleeping son and thought about what to do next.
“We’ll manage,” she whispered, kissing his plump cheek. “Papa will come back—and if he doesn’t, we’ll still manage.”
Morning found her hanging an old-dress curtain in the window, heating water to bathe her son in a washtub while humming a lullaby, then sitting down to write an application for a teaching job at the village school.
Life went on—without Viktor, but with a growing hope rooted less in waiting for him than in belief in herself.
Sergei perched at the last desk, squeezing his pencil over his notebook. At eight, arithmetic still came hard.
“Sergei Kotov, finished your sums?” the teacher asked, stopping by his seat.
“Almost, Maria Ivanovna—just need a bit more time.”
She sighed, glanced at the clock.
“Five more minutes, then we check.”
Sergei bent over the problems again. His oversized hand-me-down rubber boots, stashed beneath the desk, were too embarrassing to show. After class he hurried home, leaping over puddles. Mama should get back early—new books were arriving at the school library and she’d promised to bring a math text.
The house smelled of boiled potatoes. Mama stood at the stove stirring a pot.
“How was school?” she asked without turning.
“Good,” Sergei said, dropping his satchel on the bench. “Got an A in reading.”
Galina turned, her tired face lighting up.
“Well done! What were you reading?”
“A story about a boy who defended the Motherland.” He settled at the table. “Mom, was Dad brave?”
Galina froze a moment, then set the ladle down.
“Very brave,” she said softly. “The bravest of all.”
Rain drummed against the sill, weaving a cozy rhythm.
“I’ll be brave too,” Sergei declared. “And strong—to help you.”
Galina came over and hugged him tight.
“You already help,” she whispered, kissing his crown.
Sergei shot up like a young birch, gaining strength. By twelve he swung an axe, hauled water from the well, mended fences. His school jacket sleeves barely covered his wrists.
“Mama, I need a new coat,” he said at supper. “This one’s way too small.”
Galina set down her fork and studied him. By kerosene-lamp light—electricity was out again—he looked strikingly like Viktor: same eyes, same stubborn chin.
“All right,” she nodded. “Saturday we’ll go to the district center and buy one.”
“Do we have the money?” Sergei frowned. “Maybe I can manage—”
“We have it,” she said firmly. She didn’t mention that she knitted socks at night for sale, sold goat’s milk to a middle-man, and cleaned the council office on weekends.
Sergei understood without words. Classmates respected him; no one dared tease the only fatherless child in hand-me-downs. After he bloodied Kolya Zhdanov’s nose in fifth grade for insulting his mother, everyone kept their distance.
“Your dad was the strongest fellow in the village,” neighbor Kolya remarked once while they fixed the porch together. “A real hero.”
“What do you think happened to him?” Sergei asked quietly, hammering a nail.
Kolya scratched his head.
“Don’t know, lad. But it wasn’t his choice. He wasn’t that sort.”
Sergei nodded. He never raised the subject with his mother—he saw how it hurt her—but in his mind he often pictured his father as a hero, fallen on some mission. At fourteen Sergei brought home his first wages, earned clearing forest paths for the ranger all summer.
“For you, Mama,” he said, laying worn banknotes on the table. “For winter supplies.”
Galina froze, staring at the money. Outside, the first snow veiled the garden; logs crackled in the stove.
“I know you work for the two of us,” Sergei said quietly. “Now I’ll help as well.”
Looking up at him, Galina saw not a boy but a young man—with Viktor’s determination in his eyes.
“Thank you,” she managed, holding back tears.
That evening, after Sergei went to bed, she took out an old photo: Viktor, laughing, arm around her shoulders. On the back, faded ink read, To my one and only.
“He’s growing as strong as you,” she whispered to the picture. “As kind, too.”
Sergei straightened his tie and studied the cracked mirror. It showed a broad-shouldered youth with a resolute chin.
The dark-blue jacket—Mama had tailored it from Viktor’s long-kept suit—fit perfectly.
He turned eighteen today. Evening guests were expected, but first came the final bell of school—graduation. University loomed, though he hadn’t yet chosen where.
“Mama, do you need the water heated?” he called, stepping from his room.
Galina stood at the stove, stirring. Over the years her hair had silvered and wrinkles traced what was once smooth, yet her posture remained straight, her gaze firm.
“Already heated,” she smiled. “What a handsome man—quite the bridegroom.”
“Mama, stop…” Sergei blushed.
“Shura Bondareva keeps looking at you,” Galina teased. “Notice?”
“Enough, Mama…” He waved her off.
A knock sounded. Sergei glanced at the clock—only six a.m.
“Who calls this early?” Galina murmured, drying her hands on her apron.
Sergei opened the door. A tall stranger in a dark overcoat—odd for the season—stood on the step. Silver threaded his temples; deep lines scored his face. He carried himself with calm dignity.
“Good morning,” he said quietly, studying Sergei. “Is this the Kotov residence?”
“Yes,” Sergei answered warily, blocking the way.
The man nodded and walked to a car parked by the gate—a black sedan with tinted windows Sergei hadn’t noticed. He retrieved a small suitcase and returned to the porch.
“This is from Viktor Kotov,” he said, offering the case. “He asked that it be delivered on his son’s eighteenth birthday.”
Behind Sergei came the crash of breaking crockery. He turned: his mother stood in the kitchen doorway, face drained of color.
“Do you—do you know where he is?” Galina’s voice trembled.
The man removed his glasses. His eyes were weary, sorrowful.
“Viktor is long gone. He only asked that this reach his son when the time came. I know nothing more.”
He turned and strode back to the car. Words crowded Sergei’s mind, but none left his lips. Galina laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Bring it inside,” she said softly.
The suitcase was surprisingly heavy. Sergei set it on the kitchen table. They stared at the scuffed brown leather, the metal corners, the old-fashioned lock.
“Open it,” Galina said at last, sinking onto a stool.
Sergei snapped the clasps. The lid rose slowly.
Inside lay neat bundles of U.S. dollars. On top—a letter marked To Galya and Son.
With trembling fingers Galina unfolded the paper. The handwriting was painfully familiar—angular, forceful, as if written by someone used to sparing words.
My dearest,
If you are reading this, I am gone. Forgive me, Galya, for not returning that day. I witnessed a crime in town. They forced me to work for them under threat to you. I tried to break free, but I was in too deep.
I watched you from afar. I came several times, saw the house, saw Sergei. Once I watched you, Son, chopping wood in the yard. How you’ve grown…
These savings are yours. Use them for Sergei’s education, buy a house in the city, live with dignity.
Galina, forgive everything. I loved you every moment of these cursed years. You were my beacon in the blackness.
Sergei, I’m proud of you. Protect your mother.
Forever yours,
Viktor
Galina pressed the letter to her heart; tears streamed down her cheeks.
Sergei gripped the edge of the table. Inside, something shattered and re-formed: the father he’d imagined didn’t vanish—he became real.
That evening they sat on the porch. The air smelled of lilac and fresh-cut grass; somewhere in the village an accordion played—the last-bell celebration.
“How will we use the money?” Sergei asked, gazing at the star-studded sky.
Galina adjusted the shawl on her shoulders.
“You’ll go to university,” she answered calmly. “Moscow or St. Petersburg—you choose.”
“And you?”
“I’ll wait till you finish. Then we’ll decide.”
Sergei nodded, silent for a while. Then he said quietly, “He loved you. And me.”
“I know,” Galina replied simply. “I always knew.”
A shooting star streaked overhead. Sergei closed his eyes and made a wish—not for himself, but for his mother: that she would stop waiting and start truly living.
Galina looked at her son and saw Viktor’s features—the same eyes, the same stubborn chin—and her own resilience, her strength, her boundless capacity to love.
“Happy birthday, my boy,” she whispered, drawing his arm around her shoulders. “Your father would be proud of you.”
Sergei smiled and hugged her tighter.
“And he would be proud of you, too, Mama—very proud.”