Sofiya stood for a long time at the old window, its glass lightly veiled with frosty patterns, following with her eyes the receding figure of her daughter. Wrapped in a bright down scarf, the girl waved to her from the bus window, and Sofiya’s heart clenched with the familiar—yet no less sharp—anxiety. Viktoriya was going to the city for her exam session. She studied by correspondence—her own insistence—because she could not bring herself to leave her mother alone, whose health in recent years had wavered like the old apple tree in the garden. Neither morally nor physically could she do it.
“My God, how much she looks like him,” flashed through Sofiya’s mind, and the old bitter lump rose to her throat. “A complete copy. The same light, swift gait, the same tilt of the head when she laughs… And that mole on her right cheek… exactly like his. Not a single one of my features—she’s all her father. And the man she takes after doesn’t even suspect he has such a treasure.”
Her thoughts, as always, carried her far into the past, to that very willow by the riverbank that still grew there, bending its branches toward the water. Back then, so young, they sat beneath it, holding hands and making plans for the rest of their lives. They dreamed of a wedding, of a house filled with children’s laughter. Aleksandr’s eyes burned with such certainty when he said, “Sonya, you’ll see, I’ll be the best father in the world! I love children so much—together we’ll have a whole brood!” She believed every word, every look. It seemed nothing could ever shatter that crystal dream.
But fate, cruel and mocking, had other designs. Their paths diverged, and Viktoriya knew absolutely nothing about her father. How many times, as a child and then as a teenager, had she pestered her mother with questions: “Mom, who is my dad? Where is he? Who do I look like?” And every time Sofiya fell silent, hiding her eyes, or parried with an evasive, “When you grow up, when you’re truly an adult, then you’ll learn everything, I promise.” And the girl kept that in her heart and waited.
And at last the day came when she was old enough to hear the truth. Viktoriya returned home after a difficult exam session, tired but pleased. Meeting her on the threshold, Sofiya asked her to help—bring down from the attic a few jars of pickles and a couple of old crates. She herself was afraid to climb the shaky ladder—her head spun, her blood pressure was erratic, and her daughter had strictly forbidden it.
“Mom, listen—don’t you take a single step up there without me! I’ll find everything and bring it down myself as soon as I have time,” Viktoriya had said, kissing her mother’s wrinkled forehead.
“All right, dear, I won’t go up, don’t worry,” Sofiya reassured her.
Having promised to do as her mother asked, Viktoriya then spent half an hour in front of the mirror, getting ready for a date with Artyom. He had met her when she arrived back from the city, and they had arranged to see each other in the evening and go to the club.
“Vika!” Sofiya called from the doorway as her daughter, already dressed, was slipping out of the house. “Out late again? Put on a warm sweater—the wind from the river is sharp; you’ll catch a chill!”
“Mom, it’s warm out! I won’t get sick! And I’ll be back soon… Well, very early in the morning!” Viktoriya laughed in reply, her young laughter chiming through the quiet house like a little bell.
“Who did you take after to be so reckless?” sighed her mother, though there was tenderness in her voice.
“After you, Mom—purely after you! Bye! And go to bed; don’t wait up, or your head will start hurting again!” With a wave, Viktoriya disappeared beyond the gate.
Sofiya watched her twenty-year-old daughter and saw herself at twenty. Just the same—impetuous, impatient, barely able to wait for evening to run to a date with her own Aleksandr. He was a little older, worked in the north on long rotational shifts. And there, on that very rotation, another woman waited for him—Valentina, the cook. She had thrown herself at his neck, waited for each of his shifts, coddled and pampered him. Aleksandr was a sight to see—tall, well-built, with blue-black hair, a burning gaze, and that very mole on his right cheek that had since become almost legendary.
One day, coming home from a shift to his native village, he happened by chance to meet Sofiya on the street. She was coming from the well, carrying two heavy pails on a yoke.
“Good afternoon,” she said softly, lowering her eyes, and tried to walk past.
“Wait—is that Sonya? From Lower Street?” Something pricked at Aleksandr’s heart. He took two steps toward her, carefully lifted the yoke from her frail shoulders onto his own. “Sonya! It really is you! When did you have time to become such a beauty? Come, I’ll walk you home and help you carry these.”
She raised a shy but happy glance to him, and her lips broke of their own accord into a smile.
“Well, I… What of it?”
“Nothing—only I didn’t know such flowers grew in our village. Shall we meet tonight? Come to the club, to the dances. Will you come, Sonya?”
“I’ll come,” she nodded.
Their feeling flared up like dry straw. When Aleksandr left, they tormented each other with letters full of longing and tenderness. And that same Valentina who waited for him on shift felt trouble with her heart. He himself told her everything, honestly, straight to her face: “Valya, I have a girl I love at home now. We love each other, and I can’t deceive her. Not even at a distance. I’m sorry, but it’s over between us.”
Valentina harbored anger and resentment. And when Aleksandr went home again on leave, she found out his address from his comrades and three days later showed up in his village herself. She went straight to his parents and announced that she was expecting his child. Aleksandr himself wasn’t home—he had gone to meet Sofiya at the bus stop; she was returning from the district center, where she studied at the medical college to be a feldsher.
His parents were shocked and at a loss: how could this be—such serious relations with one girl, and another arrives on the doorstep with such news.
“Stepan went to meet Sofiya at the bus,” his mother muttered, stunned.
“Well then, I’ll go meet them both,” Valentina declared and left the house.
From afar she saw them—they were walking hand in hand, laughing at something of their own. He was carrying her bag of textbooks. Valentina blocked their path.
“Hi, Sanya. I was just at your parents’. They told me you were meeting… her,” she cast a disparaging glance at Sofiya.
“Valentina? What are you doing here? I already told you everything! This is Sofiya, my fiancée,” his face hardened.
“I know about your fiancée. Only I’m having your child. And what are we going to do about that?” she asked brazenly, a challenge in her voice.
“What child?” Aleksandr was thunderstruck and looked helplessly at Sofiya.
She stood white as chalk, unable to utter a word.
“A regular child. Didn’t you know, Sanya, that children come of hot meetings? So now you’re obliged to marry me.” She came up, took his arm, and tried to lead him toward the house. But he jerked free and rushed to Sofiya.
“Sonya, I told you about her! But I didn’t know that she… I didn’t…” he didn’t have time to finish.
“I understand everything, Aleksandr. Goodbye. And don’t come near me again. Marry her. The child is not to blame. I won’t destroy your family. I don’t want to see you anymore,” and turning, she ran off, choking on sobs, tearing her happy future to shreds.
He tried several more times to explain, to catch her, but Sofiya was adamant. In the end, broken and crushed, he went to Valentina, leaving his torn heart on the dusty village street. They married.
Soon after, Sofiya realized she was expecting a child. His child. At first there was horror and panic, but then, mustering all her will, she made a decision: “Aleksandr will never know about this. This will be my child, and mine alone.”
And so Viktoriya was born—a beautiful girl who, at first glance, was the spitting image of her father. Sofiya’s mother helped raise the granddaughter. Aleksandr never returned to the village. Later, from his parents, Sofiya learned that he soon separated from Valentina. She had deceived him—there was no pregnancy, and much else turned out to be lies. Unable to remain where everything reminded him of what he’d lost, Aleksandr left for Siberia, to a distant northern town, where he lived all these years. He tried writing letters to Sofiya, but she did not answer, though she never threw away a single envelope—their return address was his. His parents passed away one after the other, and he had no reason to go back. He never learned about his daughter.
Carrying out her mother’s request, Viktoriya climbed up to the attic. It smelled of dust, old wood, and dried herbs. She found the necessary jars, carefully lowered the crates. And then her gaze fell on a small, time-yellowed clear plastic bag lost under the rafters. There seemed to be papers inside.
Coming down with her find, Viktoriya sat on the front step, still warm from the day’s sun. She untied the twine around the bag and pulled out the contents. Three letters, yellowed, covered in a firm masculine hand, and one small black-and-white photograph. It showed a young, incredibly handsome man with dark wavy hair and a piercing gaze. And on his right cheek—the very mole so achingly familiar. Her own mole. Vika’s heart began hammering wildly; goosebumps ran over her skin; she felt short of breath. With shaking fingers she turned the photo over. On the back was written: “Sofiya, I will never forget you. Forgive me. Yours, Aleksandr.”
With a cry that was a mixture of delight, terror, and amazement, Viktoriya burst into the house, clutching the photograph like a piece of physical evidence.
“Mom! Mommy! I found it! I found his picture! It’s him, right? My father? It’s him, isn’t it? Mom, I look like him—I’m his copy!” She held out the photo to Sofiya, whose eyes immediately brimmed with tears.
All that is hidden inevitably becomes known. She had planned for so many years to tell her, to find the right words—and now it happened like this: suddenly and directly.
“Yes, daughter. He’s your father. Aleksandr,” she breathed, brushing away tears. “I was very young and very proud. He was going to marry another, and I… I didn’t want to be an obstacle. I just said I didn’t want to see him again.”
Sofiya knew he had been living alone for a long time, but so many years had passed… To decide to remind him of herself, to risk disrupting whatever life he might have built by suddenly appearing? She couldn’t. She drifted into heavy thoughts, but her daughter’s insistent voice brought her back to the present.
“Mom! Mom!” Vika shook her by the shoulder, her eyes burning with resolve. “You have his address, don’t you? There, on the envelopes?”
“Whose address?” Sofiya seemed to wake from a dream. “Vikusya, don’t even think about it! Don’t you dare!”
“Mom, I’ve already thought about it! Long and hard! I want to see him! I want to know my father!” Her voice brooked no argument.
“Who did you take after, I wonder?” her mother said again, as she had long ago. “Pushy, fearless… a madcap.”
“After you, Mom—purely after you! Tell me honestly: in all these twenty years, didn’t you ever want to see him? Didn’t you want to tell him he has such a daughter?”
Sofiya looked at her reflection in her daughter’s eyes—older, tired, lash-scarred with wrinkles—then hugged her, pressing her cheek to the girl’s firm young shoulder.
“You know what… Go. Go to him, my daughter. I don’t mind. He has a right to know.”
Viktoriya had never been to Siberia. The train journey seemed endless. Forests, fields, little stations, and big cities flickered past the window, while her heart clenched with a tangle of conflicting feelings: a mad joy of anticipation and a soul-freezing fear. What if he had forgotten her mother? What if he didn’t want to see her? What if her sudden appearance ruined his life? Her thoughts tangled, panic surged in waves, but Viktoriya drove it away. She had made her decision and had to see it through.
Stepping onto the platform of a strange city, she found the address she needed. And here she was, standing at the entrance to a five-story building like hundreds of others, unable to force herself to make the last, most important step. Her legs felt like cotton, her throat dry.
“What will I say to him? Hello, I’m your daughter? He’ll think I’m crazy… Though I’ve dreamed of this meeting so often—I even once dreamt it…”
A tenant coming out held the door for her, and Vika, mustering her courage, almost fluttered inside. Third floor, apartment forty-two. She found it. Her hand reached for the bell on its own. A dull, slightly hoarse chime sounded.
Her heart stopped. An eternity passed. The door opened.
On the threshold stood a tall, very erect man with gray at his temples, but with the same piercing, slightly weary eyes. And with that very, now-legendary mole on his right cheek. He looked at the unfamiliar girl with puzzlement yet warmth, and suddenly his gaze sharpened, glued to her face, to her right cheek. He turned pale.
“Hello,” she heard her own voice—brisk and confident, unrecognizable. “Are you Aleksandr?”
“Hello…” His voice trembled, and his eyes instantly filled with moisture. He coughed, trying to collect himself. It seemed he already understood everything.
“Can it be… Are you… my daughter? My God, you look so much like me… And the mole… the same… Tell me it’s you?” He spoke with such hope and such fear that Vika felt a surge of pity that brought tears to her eyes.
She couldn’t say a word—she only nodded, her face breaking into a smile through which tears streamed, and stepped toward him. He caught her, embraced her, pressed her to him so tightly, as if afraid she would crumble and vanish like a mirage.
They stood on the threshold like that—two people divided by years and miles, yet now bound forever by one blood, one story, one mole. They cried without shame.
Then he came to his senses, led her into the apartment, sat her at the table. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, kept holding her hand in his—big, warm, work-roughened.
They talked. About everything and nothing at once. Words tangled, new tears welled up—but they were cleansing tears, tears of long-awaited happiness. They had twenty whole years of life to tell each other. They had to bridge that chasm of unknowing.
And when the first shock passed and they could speak more or less calmly, Viktoriya, looking into her father’s eyes, asked what she had been thinking about the whole way there and back:
“Dad… Will you come home? To Mom? She won’t mind, I’m sure. Will you come?”
He looked at her—at his daughter, the living embodiment of his lost love—and his face lit with such a clear, youthful smile that he again became like the young man in the photograph.
“I will, daughter. We’ll go now—of course we will. We will never part again. Never.”