“Taxi to Klenovaya, house number eight,” I shifted my son into my left arm, holding my daughter tightly with my right.
The driver nodded silently, glancing in the rearview mirror. Two bundles, two discharge ribbons — one pink, one blue.
Two pairs of tiny eyes looking at me with complete trust.
“Is your dad meeting you?” the taxi driver asked as he pulled away.
I stayed silent. What could I say? That Dimka hadn’t answered his phone for three days? That nurses whispered behind my back when I asked if anyone had come? That the only bouquet in the ward was brought by the neighbor from the stairwell?
The babies stirred. Masha — that’s what I named my daughter — wrinkled her nose and whimpered. Then Artyom cried out. Twins.
Double happiness, the doctors said. Double responsibility, I thought, rocking them both in the backseat of the battered Lada.
“Want me to call someone?” the driver offered kindly. “Help carry the bags?”
“I’ll manage.”
My phone vibrated in my robe pocket. Mom. Again. The tenth time this morning. I didn’t take it out — my hands were full. And what would I say? That her son-in-law turned out to be a coward? That the grandchildren would spend their first day at home without a father?
The car stopped at the entrance. I paid awkwardly, digging my wallet out with my elbow, and slowly moved toward the door. Every step echoed in my back — the cesarean section was making itself known. The neighbor from the third floor peeked onto the landing:
“Olya! You gave birth! Oh, twins! Where’s your husband?”
“At work,” I lied as I passed by.
The key trembled in my hand. The door opened, and I froze. Dimka’s jacket wasn’t on the hanger. The sneakers were gone. But a folded note lay on the bedside table. We had bought the crib a week before the birth — we argued about the color of the sides — I unfolded the note. The handwriting was familiar, dear. The words hit like a blow to the stomach.
“Olya, I’m sorry. I’m not ready for this. For two at once. For diapers, crying, sleepless nights. You’re strong, you’ll manage. But I… I can’t. Don’t look for me. D.”
My legs gave way. I slid down the wall, clutching the paper. Tears flowed by themselves — salty, hot. Masha cried in the crib, then Artyom. Their cries merged with my sobs into a cacophony of pain.
The doorbell cut through the chaos. Then again. Insistent, demanding.
“Olya, open up! We know you’re home!” — Lenka’s voice, my college friend.
“We saw you from the window!” added Katya. “We’re breaking the door down!”
I got up, wiped my face on my sleeve, and turned the lock. Three of my best friends stood on the doorstep — with bags, flowers, and determined faces.
“Okay,” Lenka pushed me aside. “Where is he?”
“He ran,” I handed them the note.
Katya read it aloud, and the air thickened with curses. Marina silently hugged me while the others rummaged through my bags in the apartment.
“Mom, why do all the other kids’ dads come to school, but ours don’t?” Artyom adjusted his new backpack on his shoulders.
September first. White bows on Masha, a tie on Artyom. My children were starting first grade, and I stood in the schoolyard unsure what to say. Around us were happy families — moms, dads, grandmothers with cameras.
“Because you have the coolest mom, who is worth two dads,” a voice said behind me.
I turned. Maxim. The new boss from the neighboring department who had been bringing me coffee and persistently asking me to go to the movies for the past six months. In the end, we got close.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with kind brown eyes and a bouquet of asters in his hands.
“Uncle Max!” Masha ran to him. “You came!”
“I promised,” he picked her up. “How could I not come when my favorite first-graders are off to conquer knowledge?”
Artyom squinted skeptically:
“Are you really staying? You won’t leave like…”
“Like who?” Maxim crouched in front of my son.
“Never mind,” the boy grumbled.
They didn’t remember Dimka. Thank God, they didn’t. But somewhere deep inside lived the pain of their father’s absence.
I saw it in my son’s eyes when he looked at other children with their dads.
“You know what,” Maxim held out his hand to Artyom. “Let’s make a deal. I’ll come to all the important events. First grade, last bell, graduation. And to football on Saturdays. Deal?”
My son looked at me. I nodded, holding back tears. Artyom shook the offered hand:
“Deal. But if you lie, I’ll punch you.”
“Artyom!” I gasped.
“Fair enough,” Maxim smiled. “A man’s talk.”
The bell rang. The kids ran to line up, and Maxim took my hand:
“They’re amazing, Olya. You did great raising them like this.”
“I just…”
“You’re a hero,” he squeezed my fingers. “And I want to be there. If you allow me.”
Seven years. Seven years I carried everything alone. Night feedings, illnesses, first steps, first words.
Friends helped as much as they could, mom came on weekends, but the burden was mine alone. And then came someone ready to share it.
“Won’t you run away when they get chickenpox at the same time?” I asked, trying to joke.
“I won’t run. Even if they’re covered in green antiseptic from head to toe.”
“And when Masha throws a tantrum over a dress?”
“I’ll buy ten dresses.”
“And when Artyom gets into a fight at school?”
“I’ll teach him how to hit right,” Maxim pulled me close. “Olya, I know you’re scared.”
I know you’ve been betrayed once before. But I’m not him. And I’ll prove it. Every day I’ll prove it.
At the lineup, Masha waved to me from the line of first graders. Artyom tried to look serious but his lips betrayed a smile. My children. Growing up without their biological father, but surrounded by love.
“Look, your daughter’s showing you a flower,” Maxim pointed at Masha.
I bit my lip to keep from crying in the middle of the schoolyard.
“Mom, we love you,” Masha hugged me by the school gates. “Thank you for being with us.”
Graduation. Eleven years flew by like one day. My little ones had grown up — Artyom taller than me by a head, Masha a beauty with her dad’s eyes. That dad who never came back into our lives.
“Thank you, darling?”
“For everything. For not giving up then. Dad Max told me how hard it was for you when we were little.”
Dad. They started calling him that about five years ago. At first shyly, then confidently.
He earned that right — sleepless nights by their bedside when sick, joint outings, long talks with Artyom about life, and patiently listening to Masha’s worries about boys.
“He’s the good one for telling us,” I muttered, wiping away traitorous tears.
“Mom, don’t cry!” Artyom came over. “We’ll get in, you’ll see. I want to go to medical school, Masha to pedagogy.”
“I’m not crying because of that.”
“Then why?”
How do you explain? That I don’t see eighteen-year-old graduates but those tiny babies in the taxi? That I’m proud of them to the point of heartache? That I’m grateful to fate for every day with them despite all the hardships?
“I just love you very much.”
Maxim left the school with a huge bouquet of roses:
“Congrats to the best mom of graduates! Olya, you did it. You raised two amazing people.”
“We raised them together,” Artyom corrected him. “You too… well, you know…”
“Thanks, son,” Maxim patted his shoulder.
Son. They never spoke about it directly, but their bond was stronger than many blood ties.
Maxim didn’t replace their father — he became their father. A real one. The one who comes to all morning performances, teaches how to ride a bike, and isn’t afraid of teenage rebellion.
“Remember when I fought with Petka in first grade?” Artyom smirked. “He said we didn’t have a dad, and you came to school and…”
“And talked to his parents,” finished Maxim. “Then we talked a long time about how you don’t always have to prove your point with fists.”
“But you taught me how to hit. Just in case.”
“Of course. A man must know how to protect his family.”
Family. We became a family not thanks to, but despite. Despite betrayal, fears, doubts.
Dimka never appeared — not once in eleven years. No calls, no letters, no attempts to see the children.
At first I was angry, then I pitied him. He missed so much — first steps, first words, school plays, victories and defeats.
“Let’s go celebrate!” Masha pulled us to the car. “Aunt Lena and Aunt Katya are already waiting at the restaurant!”
The very same friends who stormed into the apartment the day we got discharged. Who stayed up nights when the kids were sick. Who became godparents and just close people.
I looked back at the school. How many times I entered those doors with a pounding heart — parent meetings, concerts, olympiads.
How many tears I shed in the principal’s office when Artyom fell in with a bad crowd in fifth grade. How much joy I felt when Masha won the city reading contest.
“Olya, are you coming?” Maxim touched my shoulder.
“I’m coming. Just… thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not being afraid. Taking on a woman with two kids — that’s a feat.”
“That’s not a feat. That’s happiness,” he hugged me. “You gave me a family I never had.”
We got in the car. Artyom turned on music, Masha started talking about summer plans. An ordinary family on an ordinary day. Only I knew the path we had traveled to this ordinary happiness.
And you know what? I’m grateful to Dimka. Yes, that coward who ran from responsibility.
If he had stayed, I would never have known how strong I could be. Never met Maxim. Never had such a strong, real family.
Life is an amazing thing. It hits hard to later give you the happiness you deserve. The main thing is not to give up.