You know, sometimes fate presents such surprises that you spend your whole life marveling at how everything turned out? I still remember that chilly October day when I was returning from the market in the neighboring village. Back then, buses came once in a blue moon, and I had to trudge home on foot, cursing under my breath about the broken road and the heavy bags of potatoes.
At forty-two, I was living alone, if you don’t count Barsik, my ginger cat, who, to be honest, resembled a small pillow with a sassy face. After the divorce, things didn’t work out with either my personal life or with children. I worked at the village library, knitted socks in the evenings, and watched TV series—pretty much the ordinary life of an ordinary woman from the hinterlands.
I was just wondering if I had the strength to drag these damn bags home when I noticed her. A small figure in a thin jacket was sitting under an old oak tree, hugging her knees. At first, I even thought I was seeing things—who in their right mind would leave a child alone between villages in such weather?
‘Girl, whose are you?’ I called out as I approached.
She lifted her head—a pale face, frightened eyes, and silence. She just wrapped herself tighter.
‘Are you lost? Where are your parents?’
Silence. Just her lips trembling.
‘Good Lord, you’re completely frozen!’ I put down the bags and sat next to her. ‘My name is Tatyana Ivanovna. What’s yours?’
‘S-s-sonya,’ she barely whispered.
‘Sonya, do you want to come to my house? I’ll warm you up with some hot tea, and then we can figure out where you’re from.’
She nodded timidly, and I, grabbing the bags with one hand, took her icy little hand with the other. And so we went—I, panting under the weight of the potatoes, and she, toddling alongside me like a little sparrow.
At home, I first wrapped her in a blanket, turned on the heater, and put the kettle on. Barsik, usually indifferent to guests, immediately jumped onto her lap and purred like a tractor.
‘Look, he likes you,’ I smiled, pulling out some cookies. ‘And he’s picky, won’t just go to anyone.’
Sonya timidly petted the cat, and I noticed her shoulders relax a bit.
‘Sonja, how old are you?’
‘Five… I think.’
‘Do you know your last name? Or where you live?’
She shook her head, and I felt a tightening inside. Something was very wrong here.
That evening, I fed her soup and pies (thanks to my habit of baking in advance), put her to bed in my room, and settled myself on the sofa in the living room. I couldn’t sleep all night—I called the police, the administration of neighboring villages, but no one had reported a missing child.
A week passed, then another. Sonya gradually thawed, began to smile, especially when I read her fairy tales before bed. But about how she ended up on the road, she remembered nothing—or didn’t want to remember.
When the juvenile inspector shrugged her shoulders once again, I realized—I had to decide something. To an orphanage? The mere thought made me nauseous.
‘Sonya,’ I called her one evening as she was drawing at the table, sticking out her tongue in concentration. ‘Do you want to live with me? Permanently?’
She paused, gripping the pencil, then looked up:
‘Can I?’
‘Yes. You’ll be my daughter.’
‘And can we keep Barsik too?’
I laughed:
‘And Barsik too.’
She climbed off the stool, approached me, and suddenly hugged me tightly. And I, stroking her head, thought—come what may. We’ll manage somehow.
Then, of course, began the trips to the authorities, gathering documents, checks. But that’s another story.
I remember the first day of school as if it were yesterday. Sonya clung to my hand as if they were leading her into a cage with tigers, not to the first grade. A brand-new polka-dot dress, white bows, which I tried for an hour to make symmetrical—everything as it should be.
‘Mom, what if I can’t do it?’ she whispered as we approached the school.
That ‘mom’ still resonated warmly somewhere in my heart. She first called me that a month ago, when I lay with a fever of forty, and she brought me a cup of tea, spilling half along the way.
‘Of course, you can,’ I squatted down in front of her, adjusting the bow. ‘You’re my clever girl.’
‘What if they laugh?’ she looked down.
I knew what she meant. In the village, everyone knows each other, and the ‘foundling’ story had already sprouted a dozen versions, each more ludicrous than the last.
‘You know what?’ I took a small notebook with kittens on the cover out of my bag. ‘Here, hold on to this. Write down all the interesting things you learn. And you’ll tell me about them in the evening. Deal?’
She nodded, pressing the notebook to her chest, and we moved on.
The first months were tough. Sonya tried her best, but math was a struggle. However, during art classes, she was unrecognizable—a quiet girl transformed when she took pencils in her hands.
‘Tatyana Ivanovna, could you stay for a minute?’ Marina Petrovna, the art teacher, called me after a parents’ meeting one day.
I tensed—teachers usually don’t hold you back just like that.
‘Sonya has an amazing talent,’ she took out an album. ‘Look.’
On the page was a landscape—our street in autumn. But the way she saw it! Every leaf, every puddle reflecting the sky…
‘She needs to be nurtured. There’s an art school in the district…’
I sighed. Art school meant money. And with a library salary, we barely made ends meet.
‘I’ll think about it,’ I replied.
In the evening, while Sonya did her homework and I cooked dinner, there was a knock at the door. Baba Zina, our neighbor, was standing on the doorstep.
‘Tan, here…,’ she extended a bag. ‘My apples were plentiful this year, the girl needs vitamins. And raspberry jam.’
I was at a loss:
‘Oh, Zinaida Nikolaevna, you shouldn’t have…’
‘Take it, take it,’ she waved her hand. ‘And, you know, I sometimes clean apartments in the city. If you want, I can recommend you. They pay decently.’
That’s how my ‘black’ weekends started—twice a month, I went to the city to clean. Sonya stayed with Baba Zina, who taught her to bake pies and told stories.
By the end of the first grade, we had money for art school. True, it took two buses to get there, but Sonya never complained.
Problems started in middle school. Adolescence is a tricky thing, and then there were these perpetual questions about the past.
‘Why did they abandon me?’ she asked one evening as we drank tea. ‘Was I bad?’
My heart squeezed.
‘Sonya, listen…’
‘No, you listen!’ she jumped up, knocking over her cup. ‘All normal people know who their parents are! And I… I’m nobody! A foundling!’
‘Stop it!’
‘What, does the truth hurt?’ she stormed out of the kitchen, slamming the door so hard that the plaster crumbled.
Barsik, now old and even more portly, scurried under the sofa in fright.
I didn’t follow her—I knew it was pointless. In such moments, it’s better to let her cool down. I sat in the kitchen, mechanically wiping up the tea spill, and thought—maybe I’m doing something wrong? Maybe I should have then…
The front door slammed. I jumped up—the clock showed almost ten at night.
‘Sonya!’
Silence in response.
Throwing on a jacket, I ran outside. It was drizzling, and every other streetlight was out. Where could she have gone?
I ran down our street, then the next one. I looked at the playground—empty. Terrible images spun in my head—maniacs, accidents, dogs…
She was found at the old cemetery—sitting on a bench near Baba Zina’s grave, who had died a year ago.
‘Sonya…’
She looked up—wet, her teeth chattering.
‘Sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t mean to…’
I silently took off my jacket, draped it over her shoulders, and sat next to her.
‘You know,’ I said after a long silence, ‘when I found you, I thought—here, she’ll stay a bit and then leave. To an orphanage or to relatives if they’re found. And then… then you started drawing those scribbles on the wallpaper…’
‘Those were unicorns!’ she objected through tears.
‘Ah, especially that purple one with three tails,’ I smiled. ‘And I realized—I won’t give you up. Because you’re mine. Not by blood, but by heart. And I don’t care who your real parents are. To me, you’re the real one.’
She buried her face in my shoulder and sobbed. We sat like that, probably for 10 minutes—wet, frozen, but somehow… cleansed.
‘Mom,’ she said as we walked home. ‘Can I repaint my room? Purple?’
‘The one with a violet tint or the one with a pink tint?’
‘I don’t know,’ she shrugged. ‘Let’s try both?’
The next weekend, we spent painting the walls. I still didn’t understand what shade it turned out to be, but Sonya was happy.
By fifteen, she knew for sure she wanted to be an artist. Her works regularly won at district competitions, and one even went to a regional exhibition.
‘Mom, look!’ she burst into the house, waving some paper. ‘I’ve been invited to a master class at the art college! In the city, for a whole week!’
I froze. A week in the city—housing, food, materials…
‘Great,’ I squeezed out a smile. ‘When?’
‘In a month!’ she flopped onto the sofa next to me. ‘Imagine, there will be a real artist from Moscow! And they’ll teach us to paint with oil!’
In the evening, I took out the stash—part of what I had saved for her admission. I counted—it should be enough. And we’ll figure out the rest.
That week changed everything. Sonya returned different—matured, with bright eyes and a firm intention to apply to art college after ninth grade.
‘But what about school?’ I was confused.
‘I’ll take external exams! The teacher said I have all the chances to get in on a state-funded place. Can you imagine?’
I could. I imagined her leaving for the city, me staying alone in this house, where every corner was saturated with memories. Waiting for her letters and rare weekend visits.
‘Mom,’ she sat next to me, taking my hand. ‘I won’t be gone forever. I’ll come back every weekend. And then I’ll return—I’ll organize an art studio for kids here. You’ll see!’
I looked at her—not a child anymore, but not yet an adult. A stubborn chin, eyes that turn green when she’s nervous. My girl. When did she grow up?
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘But on one condition.’
‘What?’
‘You’ll send me all your works. I want to be the first to see your masterpieces.’
She laughed and hugged me tightly.
That evening, I couldn’t sleep for a long time. I went out to the porch, sat on the old bench. Somewhere far away, dogs were barking, it smelled of ripe apples from Baba Zina’s former garden. Strange how life is arranged—it goes on its way, and then suddenly—bang!—and everything changes because of one encounter on the road, one decision, one moment…
‘Mom, why aren’t you sleeping?’ Sonya came out, wrapped in a blanket. She sat next to me, resting her head on my shoulder.
‘Just thinking.’
‘About what?’
‘About how quickly you grew up.’
She was silent, then said:
‘You know, I sometimes think—what if you had walked past that day? Or if I had been in another place?’
‘I don’t know,’ I hugged her shoulders. ‘Maybe it was meant to be.’
We sat on the porch until dawn, making plans for the future and reminiscing about the past. And in the morning, I started gathering documents for external exams.
Her readiness for admission became our common cause. I worked two jobs, she studied at night, preparing for exams. Sometimes it seemed—we wouldn’t make it, we’d break. But we managed. She got in.
Time in the city changed Sonya. She spread her wings—new friends, exhibitions, creative evenings. In the first year, she called every day, then less often, but always sent photos of her works. I printed them and hung them on the walls—a whole gallery.
The house without her seemed unusually quiet. Even Barsik, by then a real old man, mournfully wandered around the rooms, as if looking for someone.
‘Mom, just don’t worry,’ she said once on the phone. ‘But I think I’ve found a way to learn about my past.’
Everything inside me stopped.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Remember that jacket I was wearing? Do you still have it?’
Of course, I kept it. The little blue jacket lay in the back drawer of the dresser along with other memorabilia.
‘There’s a label with the name of a tailor shop in the lining. I found it—it’s still in business! Maybe they remember who ordered the jacket?’
I was silent, not knowing what to say. On one hand, I understood her desire to know the truth. On the other…
‘Mom? Are you there?’
‘Yes, dear. Just… are you sure you want to know?’
She was silent, then said softly:
‘I need to close this door. Otherwise, it will remain ajar.’
I took out the jacket. It still smelled of mothballs and, oddly enough, apples—probably from being near the jars of jam in the dresser.
A week later, Sonya came home—thinner, with dark circles under her eyes.
‘Well?’ I asked, sitting her down at the table and pouring tea.
‘Nothing,’ she shook her head. ‘The atelier changed owners, all the old order journals are gone. Dead end.’
She suddenly burst into tears—the first time in many years.
‘You know what’s funny? I don’t even know what I wanted. To find them? And then what?’
I hugged her, stroking her back:
‘My dear…’
‘No, really,’ she wiped her eyes. ‘Imagine—I had found them. And then what? Would I say, “Hello, I’m that same girl you abandoned many years ago. How are you?”‘
She bitterly smiled:
‘And then I sat on the bus and thought—actually, they lost out, not me. They lost the chance to see me grow up, draw my first paintings, get admitted to college… And you—you were there all along. You’re the real mom, not the one who gave birth to me.’
I was silent because I couldn’t speak—a lump in my throat.
‘Remember the day you found me?’ she suddenly asked.
‘Of course.’
‘I remember more than I said. I remember being taken out of the car, told to wait… I sat there for almost a day until you came.’
She stood up, walked to the window:
‘You know what I realized? Sometimes people leave your life so others—real ones—can come in.’
Two years later, Sonya organized her first personal exhibition. I went to the city, dressed up and excited, with a bouquet of wildflowers—her favorites.
The gallery was full of people. Fashionably dressed women, men in expensive suits, artists with beards—all discussing my girl’s paintings. And I walked from work to work, my heart ready to burst with pride.
‘And here’s the star of the day!’ a voice called from behind.
I turned around—a gray-haired man in a tweed jacket extended his hand:
‘You must be Sophia’s mother? I’m her painting teacher. You know, your daughter has an extraordinary talent—she sees the soul of things.’
‘My daughter’—how good that sounded!
‘Mom!’ Sonya made her way through the crowd to me. ‘Come on, I want to show you something.’
She led me to a large painting at the back of the hall. I froze.
In the painting, I saw our old road—that same broken one, with tractor ruts. The huge oak we always called ‘grandfather’ spread its gnarled branches. And beneath it—two figures: me, with shopping bags slung over (Lord, she even remembered my ridiculous green raincoat!), and tiny Sonya in that same blue jacket. We were holding hands, and around us danced orange leaves. And you know what’s amazing? From somewhere above, right through the gray clouds, a golden ray of light shone—just like that day. I didn’t even remember it, but she… she remembered.
‘It’s called “The Encounter”,’ Sonya said softly. ‘Do you like it?’
I looked at the painting, and our whole life flashed before my eyes—first steps, first joys and hurts, ups and downs, quarrels and reconciliations… Twenty-five years, flashing by like one day.
‘Thank you,’ I whispered.
‘It’s you I should thank,’ she hugged me tightly. ‘For everything.’
That evening, we sat in her rented apartment, drank tea with cake, and talked about everything under the sun. A photo of Barsik hung on the wall—he had passed away last winter, quietly and peacefully, in his sleep.
‘By the way,’ Sonya suddenly bustled, ‘I have news for you. Remember I told you about the art studio in our village?’
I nodded.
‘Well, I applied for a grant. And…,’ she paused, ‘I got it approved! Can you believe it? Now we’ll have our own studio!’
‘In our village?’ I couldn’t believe it.
‘Why not?’ she shrugged. ‘Kids grow up there too. And they need art. And besides…’ she squinted slyly, ‘someone has to look after you in your old age.’
‘Oh you!’ I jokingly swiped at her with a towel.
She dodged with a laugh:
‘Just first, we need to do some repairs on the house. The porch has really worn out…’
‘And the fence is leaning,’ I picked up.
‘And the garden is overgrown…’
We looked at each other and laughed. There were so many plans ahead, so many hopes!
And the painting ‘The Encounter’ now hangs in our living room. And every time I look at it, I think: how amazingly life is arranged—sometimes you just need not to walk by, to find the most important thing