— Your legs have completely given out, Mom. Maybe you should move in with us?” Sergey asked, trying to hide the worry in his voice.
“No, son,” Valentina replied without taking her eyes off the window. “I lived in this house with your father. This is where I will stay.”
The snow had wrapped the path to the gate in a dense blanket, as if nature itself wanted to isolate it from the outside world. Twilight slowly filled the room, but Valentina did not hurry to turn on the light. It was easier in the dark. Easier to think, easier to remember. Especially when thoughts grew as heavy as gravestones. Three months. Only three months had passed since Viktor was gone. His heart had simply stopped one morning when he went out to feed the chickens. He fell there, between the shed and the apple tree he had planted three decades ago.
On the dresser stood their wedding photograph. She—dressed in a white gown with embroidery she had sewn herself; he—in a rented suit, yet happy, as if it were the most important day of his life. Valentina ran her finger along the glass, wiping away a thin layer of dust from his smiling face.
“You were too good to me, Vitya. Too good,” she whispered, feeling a lump rising in her throat.
She remembered everything. That August 1981, when Alexey left for Leningrad to enroll. He promised to come back, to write. But the letters came less and less frequently, and then they stopped altogether. And she, a foolish country girl, continued to wait, loving him so much that her heart was torn to pieces. And when she found out she was pregnant, the world around her collapsed.
Viktor appeared like a salvation. Silent, hardworking, in love with her since the eighth grade. He proposed, not even suspecting that a child was already growing within her. And she agreed, deciding that it would be better—for the child, for her, for everyone.
“Son, you’re just like your father, just as stubborn,” Viktor told five-year-old Sergey, affectionately tousling his unruly hair. And each time, something tightened inside Valentina because the boy was a perfect copy of Alexey—the same slanting eyes, the same dimple on his chin.
When Marina was born, the story repeated itself. She met Alexey for one night when he came to the village to bury his mother. Just one night, filled with despair and old love. And again—pregnancy, and again—a lie.
“Our little girl is so much like you, Valyusha,” Viktor rejoiced, not noticing how his daughter wrinkled her nose exactly like the man he knew nothing about.
Years went by. The children grew up, unaware that a different blood flowed in their veins. Viktor built a house, planted apple trees, loved his family in a way few can—quietly, reliably, without unnecessary words. And she… she carried her secret like a cross.
There was a night when she almost confessed. The children had already grown up and moved away. Sergey became an engineer, Marina—a teacher. They lay in bed with Viktor, who stroked her graying hair.
“Vitya, I have something to tell you…” she began, but he was already asleep, his breathing even and calm. And she realized that she could never break that tranquility. Never.
The cemetery was drowning in drifts. Valentina slowly walked among the graves, leaning on her cane. She found him. Sat on a bench beside him. Placed her hand on the cold stone.
“You know, Vitya,” her voice trembled, “the children visited last week. Sergey brought the grandchildren. The youngest is so much like you—the same wrinkles around his eyes when he smiles.”
She fell silent. Somewhere in the distance, crows croaked.
“I always thought that one day I would tell you the truth. That our children…” her voice broke. “But now I understand: they were yours. Always. Truly. You were their father in a way that a real father could never be.”
The wind flung a handful of snow into her face. She did not wipe it away.
“And you know what else, Vitya? I didn’t love you the way I should have at first. But then… then I loved you. Quietly, without even noticing it myself. And that love was genuine—far more genuine than that youthful passion.”
She stood up, struggling to straighten her back.
“Perhaps there are secrets that are best carried with you. This is mine. And it will remain with me until the end.”
On her way home, Valentina looked back. The cemetery gradually disappeared beneath a snowy veil. Just like her past, which had now finally become nothing but her burden.