In the complete silence of the room, the phone emitted a short beep, illuminating the ceiling with a cold blue light. It was two in the morning. Larisa carefully reached for the nightstand, trying not to disturb her husband, but Viktor had already propped himself up on his elbow, his eyes wide open.
“Who writes at this time?” he asked in a hoarse whisper, listening to his own question.
His voice was even, but something in the tone made Larisa freeze as if he was afraid to hear the answer.
She silently turned the phone screen so her husband could see the photo. It was a boy about ten years old: blond, with freckles on his nose and a painfully familiar smile.
Viktor turned pale. In the dim light of the nightlight, his face seemed like a mask, devoid of expression.
“Where did you get this?” he stumbled, swallowing a lump in his throat.
“I know everything, Vitya,” Larisa said quietly, as if talking to herself. “About Kirill. About Nadya from Nizhny. About the alimony you paid until last year.”
Her voice was surprisingly calm, too calm for such a conversation. That’s how people talk who have long accepted their pain and are now simply stating facts.
“Lara…” he began, reaching out his hand, but she gently, yet decisively, moved away.
“Let me finish. I know his name, when he was born—two weeks early, in March. I know he’s allergic to citrus, and that soccer is his favorite activity. And I know his mother died of cancer a year ago.”
Viktor sat motionless, looking past her. His fingers mechanically kneaded the edge of the blanket—an old habit that betrayed his nervousness.
“How long have you known about this?”
“Three years,” she replied without hesitation. “Remember when you forgot your phone before a business trip? A message from her came. I couldn’t help myself, I read the exchange.”
Larisa remembered that day as if it had happened yesterday. How her hands shook as she scrolled through the messages. How hard it was to breathe, learning new details. How she then sat in the kitchen, mechanically stirring tea that had long since gone cold.
“Why did you keep silent all these years?”
“What was I supposed to do?” She gave a weak smile. “Make a scene? File for divorce? Our daughter was preparing for her final school year. She needed stability, understand?”
“I’m sorry,” his voice trembled. “I should have told you everything right away. But I was afraid…”
“Of what?” Larisa shook her head. “That I wouldn’t accept the truth? That I would leave? Vitya, we’ve been together for twenty-five years. Did you really think I couldn’t handle this?”
Her husband remained silent, looking down.
“What now?” he asked after a while.
“Now?” Larisa glanced again at the photo. “Now we need to take him in.”
“What?!” Viktor involuntarily raised his voice. “How can you decide something like that so suddenly?”
“Vitya, he’s your son! His mother died, and he’s been living in an orphanage for almost a year. Do you really think I would let your child grow up without a family?”
“What about Katya? How will we explain all this to her?”
“The truth. She’s grown up, she’ll understand.”
She didn’t add that she had been communicating with their daughter for months. That it was Katya who insisted on finding her brother. That she was the one who found a private detective who helped locate Kirill.
“And if he doesn’t accept us? If he hates me?”
“Then we’ll wait. As long as it takes.”
Viktor looked at his wife, and it seemed to him that he was seeing a completely different person. The girl he had met twenty-five years ago had turned into a woman who had not only become wiser but also stronger.
Over three years, Larisa had not only overcome the pain of betrayal but had also learned to love Viktor’s son as if he were her own. It seemed incredible.
“And why do you even love me?” he suddenly asked, surprising even himself.
She chuckled softly: “For being real. With all your fears, complexes, and even these secrets. Let’s sleep,” she added gently, touching his shoulder. “We have a tough day ahead.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re going to Nizhny Novgorod. I’ve already arranged everything with the director of the orphanage.”
Viktor tried to respond, but she had already turned away, pulling up the blanket. Within a minute, her breathing was even—as always, she could easily fall asleep, as if flipping a switch. He continued to lie awake, staring into the darkness, thinking about how life turns out.
The next morning, they were awakened by a call from Katya:
“Mom, Dad, I’ve already packed! I’ll be there in an hour!”
“What things?” mumbled the still sleepy Viktor.
“What?!—impatience was audible in their daughter’s voice.—We’re going away for the weekend! We need to prepare a room for Kirill. I read that boys his age like superheroes. Maybe buy Spider-Man bedding?”
“Katya,” Viktor sat up in bed, puzzledly looking at his wife, “do you know?”
“Of course, I know!” exclaimed the daughter. “Mom and I have been looking for him for six months. And anyway, Dad, did you seriously think I wouldn’t notice I have a brother? We look like two peas in a pod! I’ve seen your old photos.”
Rustling noises were heard on the phone.
“Oh, I made a shopping list. And maybe—transfer him to our school? It’s excellent and close to home. Then I can look after him.”
Viktor listened to his daughter and felt a lump rise in his throat. Larisa approached from behind and embraced his shoulders.
“Everything will be alright,” she whispered. “You’ll see.”
Three hours later, they were on their way. Katya slept in the back seat, clutching the shopping list. Larisa attentively studied documents—she always prepared thoroughly for important meetings.
“Do you think he looks like me in real life, like in the photo?” Viktor broke the silence.
“We’ll find out soon,” she replied, squeezing his hand. “The main thing is not to rush things. He needs time to adjust.”
“And if…” he started to say.
“There can be no ‘ifs,'” she firmly interrupted. “He’s your son. Our son. He just needs time to understand that.”
Viktor nodded, focusing on the road. Fragments of memories surfaced: the last meeting with Nadezhda, her letters, rare photos of his son. How could he have been such a coward? Why didn’t he insist on the right to see Kirill more often? Why did he allow his child to grow up without a father?
Five hours later, they reached Nizhny Novgorod. Another hour was spent searching for the orphanage—a old two-story building lost on the edge of the city.
“Ready?” asked Larisa as the car stopped.
“No,” he honestly admitted. “But that doesn’t matter now, does it?”
Katya didn’t wait and was the first to jump out of the car:
“What are you waiting for? I want to meet my brother!”
In the director’s office, a mix of coffee and flowers filled the air. A stout woman in a formal suit carefully checked their documents.
“So, you’re the biological father?” she looked up at Viktor through her glasses. “Why are you only appearing now?”
“I…” he began, stumbling. “I didn’t know about Nadezhda’s death. She hid that she was ill.”
“And if she had lived? Would you have continued to quietly pay alimony?” her voice sounded sharp.
“Elena Petrovna,” Larisa gently intervened, “we understand your concerns. However, what’s important now is that Kirill has a family that’s ready to take him in.”
The director sighed heavily:
“You should know: he’s a good child. Intelligent, calm. But very withdrawn after losing his mother. He’s almost stopped interacting with others.”
“Can we meet him right now?” Katya asked impatiently.
“He’s at a soccer practice in the yard.”
They went outside. On a small field, several boys were playing soccer. Viktor immediately recognized his son—he stood in the goal, collected and focused, as if the whole world around him had disappeared. He was the spitting image of his father as a child.
“Kirill!” called the director. “Please come over.”
The boy slowly walked towards them, cautiously looking at the strangers. A fresh scratch was visible on his cheek, and his shirt was stained with grass.
“Hello,” Viktor began, stepping forward. “I’m your dad.”
Kirill instinctively stepped back, his eyes filled with fear:
“Mom said that dad died.”
“No, son,” Viktor spoke softly. “I’m alive. And I’m here to take you home.”
“Why?” the boy’s voice trembled. “I’m not needed by anyone. I’m not needed by anyone.”
“That’s not true!” Katya exclaimed, cutting into the conversation. “You are very much needed by us! I’ve always wanted to have a brother. And here you are!”
She continued to speak quickly, emotionally gesturing. Kirill listened to her, his eyes widening. Gradually, distrust dissolved from his gaze, giving way to curiosity. Too much had been thrown at him in just a few minutes.
“You know what?” Larisa suggested, addressing the boy. “Let’s just start getting to know each other. Slowly, without pressure. Gradually we’ll become closer, okay?”
“Can I take my soccer gear?” Kirill unexpectedly asked. “And a book about pirates? It’s my favorite.”
“Of course, you can,” Viktor replied, feeling a lump rise in his throat. “Take everything you want.”
Later, they sat in a small café, the four of them. Kirill cautiously ate pizza, occasionally casting quick glances at his new relatives. Katya actively showed him photos of their home, her room, and told him about the school. Larisa watched the scene, barely perceptibly smiling.
“Why did you look for me?” Kirill suddenly asked.
“Because you are part of our family,” Larisa answered simply and sincerely.
That evening, in the hotel room, when the children peacefully slept in the next room, Viktor pulled his wife closer:
“How do you manage to be so wise?”
“Stop it,” she smiled, stroking his cheek. “I just love you—with all your mistakes, your past, your children. It all makes you who you are.”
The following weeks flew by unnoticed: endless visits to authorities, gathering documents, meetings with psychologists. Kirill began coming over on weekends—at first cautiously, but then opening up more and more. Katya took on the role of older sister: helping with homework, taking him to practices, introducing him to the city.
“You know,” she said to her father one evening, “he’s very much like you. Not just in looks—his character too!”
Viktor grinned. He had noticed the resemblance himself: in how his son frowned, pondering a problem, or bit his lip when nervous.
However, soon what they all feared happened. At school, one of the classmates learned of Kirill’s story.
“Bastard!” they yelled behind his back. “Not needed by anyone!”
He returned home with a darkened face and abrasions on his knuckles.
“What happened?” Larisa asked solicitously, treating the wounds with hydrogen peroxide.
“Nothing,” he muttered, lowering his head.
“Kirill…”
“They say you took me out of pity!” he blurted out suddenly. “That I’m not really yours! That a real family isn’t like this!”
Larisa put aside the cotton and sat next to her son:
“What does a real family mean to you?”
The boy was silent, staring at the floor.
“Once I thought that a family was just a mom, a dad, and their children,” she began. “But then I realized: a family is when people choose to be together. Every day anew.”
“But Dad didn’t choose. He had to,” Kirill murmured.
“You’re wrong,” Viktor intervened, who had been standing in the doorway and heard the entire conversation. “Come here.”
He hugged his son tightly, yet gently:
“I really was wrong. I should have been with you from the start. But now I’m here. And every day I choose to be your father—not because I have to, but because I want to.”
Kirill sobbed, pressing against his father.
A year later, Kirill fully integrated into the new school, made friends. Together with Katya, they undertook a renovation of his room—now there were posters of soccer players and bookshelves. Although he still sometimes retreated into himself, such moments became increasingly rare.
Then a miracle happened. At a school concert, where Kirill participated in a skit, seeing Larisa in the audience, he joyfully shouted:
“Mom! Mom, did you see how I played?”
She froze, not believing her ears. And he was already running to her, beaming with happiness—their son.
At home, they pulled out an old photo album with Viktor’s childhood portrait and placed new photos next to it.
“Look how alike they are!” Katya exclaimed in admiration. “Just like twins!”
“Let me see,” Kirill squeezed between them. “Wow! Dad, you look just like me here!”
“No,” Viktor smiled. “You’re the spitting image of me.”
They flipped through the album for a long time, recalling funny stories, making plans for the future. Larisa watched them and thought about that nighttime message that had turned their lives upside down. Now it had become the beginning of something beautiful.