The school auditorium buzzed with children’s voices. Kostya sat in the farthest corner, fidgeting with the sleeve of his worn sweater—the only decent one he found in his closet. The elementary school’s autumn festival always attracted many parent volunteers, and today was no exception.
Around him, the festive chaos reigned—mothers in autumn coats bustled back and forth with trays of homemade pastries, hanging garlands of maple leaves on the walls. One after another, they would stop to kiss their child on the crown of the head or lovingly adjust a misplaced scarf.
Kostya lowered his eyes to the floor, but his traitorous gaze kept returning to those happy faces—the flushed children from running around, and their smiling mothers, constantly hugging their little ones. Aunt Nina, with whom he had lived for the last three years, of course, did not come—“too busy at work.” As always. Kostya was used to her perpetual busyness and indifferent looks, but today it felt particularly painful.
“Olga Sergeyevna, thank you for coming to help!” Maria Petrovna, their homeroom teacher’s voice rang out. “You’ve really saved us with the decorations!”
Kostya looked up. A tall woman in a warm burgundy sweater was arranging some crafts on a table. She had kind brown eyes and a gentle smile that crinkled around her eyes. Something about her was captivating—perhaps the smooth movements of her hands as she adjusted the display, or how she patiently listened to every child that ran up to her.
Unnoticed by himself, Kostya stood up from his spot and slowly moved towards the crafts table. His legs seemed to carry him on their own. Olga was just bending down to pick up a fallen paper bird when he stopped beside her.
“Hello,” Kostya said quietly, feeling his heart pounding in his throat.
She turned to him, and her smile grew even warmer: “Hello! Are you participating in the exhibition too?”
Kostya shook his head, unable to tear his gaze away from her face. The words escaped him before he had a chance to think them through: “Could you… could you be my mom for just one day?”
Silence fell. Olga froze with the paper bird in her hands, and Kostya saw her fingers tremble. At that moment, he felt like he could sink through the floor from embarrassment, but something kept him there—perhaps a desperate hope or the way those kind brown eyes looked at him so tenderly.
Olga felt her breath catch. The child’s request, so simple and artless, cut through old scars in her soul like a sharp knife. Five years ago, she had lost her only son to damned leukemia. Since then, she had carefully avoided anything that might remind her of motherhood. And now this boy, with eyes full of hope…
“I…” she began, but her voice trembled.
“Kostya!” Maria Petrovna’s anxious voice called out. The teacher was hurrying over to them, adjusting her glasses as she walked. “I apologize, Olga Sergeyevna. Kostya is…” she hesitated, searching for the right words, “a special boy.”
But Kostya was already backing away, his face flushed with shame. Tears gleamed in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean to… I’ll go.”
“Wait!” Olga’s voice came out louder than she expected. Several parents turned their heads in their direction. “Please, wait.”
She crouched down to be at eye level with the boy. His shoulders were tense, as if bracing for a blow.
“Maria Petrovna,” Olga looked up at the teacher, “can we talk? The three of us?”
Five minutes later, they sat in an empty classroom. Sunlight slanted through the large windows, casting whimsical shadows of maple leaves on the wall. Kostya huddled in his chair, trying to appear as small as possible.
“Kostya lives with his aunt,” Maria Petrovna explained quietly. “His mom… she couldn’t take care of him. And his aunt…” she shook her head, “works around the clock. The boy is practically always alone.”
Olga watched Kostya, who was intently studying his worn sneakers. Her heart squeezed at how lost he looked.
“What if…” she took a deep breath, “what if we really spent a day together? This weekend?”
Kostya’s head shot up, his eyes wide with surprise and mistrust.
“Really?” he whispered. “Are you joking?”
“No, I’m not joking,” Olga felt her lips stretch into a smile. “Of course, we need your aunt’s permission and…”
“I’ll talk to her,” Maria Petrovna quickly interjected. “I think she’d be glad if someone spent time with Kostya. Olga Sergeyevna, are you sure?”
Was she sure? Not at all. This madness could stir up old wounds, bring new pain. But looking into those hopeful eyes…
“Yes,” Olga said firmly. “I’m sure.”
The smile that lit up Kostya’s face was brighter than all the autumn garlands in the auditorium.
Saturday turned out to be unusually warm for mid-October. Olga nervously adjusted her coat collar, glancing at her watch. Ten minutes to ten. They had agreed to meet at the park entrance at ten o’clock. She had arrived twenty minutes early—nervousness wouldn’t let her sit at home.
“Olga Sergeyevna!” A clear voice cut through the morning stillness.
Kostya was running down the alley, waving his hands. He wore the same worn jacket, but his neck was carefully wrapped in a brand-new scarf.
“Hello, Kostya,” she smiled, noting his cheeks flushed from running. “Where’s your aunt?”
“She’s at work,” Kostya panted, catching his breath. “She said she had an emergency call. But I walked here myself, it’s close!”
Olga frowned. Letting an eight-year-old walk alone…
“I walk by myself almost every day,” Kostya added hastily, as if reading her thoughts. “To school and to the store. I know how to cross the street!”
Something painfully pinched her chest. Olga squatted in front of him, adjusting the crooked scarf: “Beautiful scarf. New?”
“Yes!” the boy beamed. “Maria Petrovna gave it to me. She said you need to dress warmly in autumn.”
“Thank you, Maria Petrovna,” Olga thought silently. Aloud, she said: “Well, what are your plans for our day?”
Kostya suddenly became shy, lowering his eyes: “Uh… what do moms usually do with their children?”
From that simple question, a pang went through her heart. Olga briefly closed her eyes, remembering. What did they do with Dima? Her little son loved…
“You know what?” she lightly touched the boy’s shoulder. “Once upon a time, a boy I knew loved to feed ducks in the pond. Then we’d always go drink hot chocolate and share secrets. How does that plan sound?”
“Can we?” Kostya’s eyes lit up. “Really? I even have bread!” he patted his jacket pocket. “I took some this morning, just in case…”
Olga felt a lump rise in her throat. This little person, who had prepared bread in advance, hoping for a miracle…
“Of course, we can,” she straightened up and held out her hand. “Shall we go?”
Kostya hesitated for a moment, looking at her extended hand. Then, cautiously, as if afraid to scare the moment away, he placed his small hand in hers. His fingers were cold—he must have been waiting outside for a long time. Olga instinctively squeezed them a bit tighter, warming them.
They slowly walked down the leaf-strewn alley. Kostya occasionally jumped, stepping on particularly crunchy leaves, but didn’t let go of her hand. With each step, his palm grew warmer.
It was quiet by the pond—only the ducks quietly conversed among themselves, slicing through the smooth water surface. The sun had risen higher, and its rays sparkled in the ripples. Kostya pulled out the bread, carefully wrapped in a napkin, and now diligently crumbled it into small pieces.
“That’s right, properly done,” Olga nodded approvingly. “It’s easier for them with small pieces.”
“And you… you…” Kostya hesitated, unsure how to address her, “what should I call you?”
“You can call me Aunt Olya,” she suggested gently, sitting next to him on the bench.
Kostya shook his head: “I don’t want an aunt. I already have an aunt. She…” he fell silent, focusing on the bread in his hands.
“And what is she like, your aunt?” Olga asked cautiously.
“She’s not mean,” the boy hurriedly said. “Just… just always busy. And she doesn’t like when I’m home. Says I make too much noise. But I try to be quiet! Really!” he looked up at Olga, as if seeking confirmation that he was believed.
“You know,” Olga reached out and flicked a yellow leaf sticking to his jacket, “sometimes adults say such things not because they’re true, but because they themselves are having a hard time.”
A pair of ducks swam up, and Kostya began tossing them crumbs, thoughtfully watching how the birds scooped up the bread from the water.
“And my mom…” he hesitated, “she just left. Aunt says she was too young to be a mom. But other moms are young too, and they don’t leave,” there was a child’s hurt mixed with puzzlement in his voice.
Olga caught her breath. She surreptitiously studied the boy—how he slouched on the bench, mechanically fidgeting with his jacket sleeve, trying to appear grown-up and strong. But children’s shoulders are not built for such burdens, and her heart tightened at the sight.
“Can I tell you something?” she asked quietly. Kostya nodded, not taking his eyes off the ducks. “I had a son. His name was Dima. He also loved feeding ducks… and building forts out of pillows… and he hated semolina porridge.”
Now Kostya looked at her wide-eyed: “And where is he now?”
“He died. Five years ago. He was just as old as you are now.”
“From illness?” Kostya whispered.
“Yes, kid. From illness.”
They fell silent. The ducks, having picked up all the crumbs, leisurely swam to the other shore. Suddenly, Kostya moved closer and carefully placed his palm on her hand:
“You know what? Maybe he sent you to me? So you wouldn’t be all alone, and I… so I could have a mom. At least for today.”
Olga felt a tear roll down her cheek. She quickly wiped it away, but Kostya noticed.
“Don’t cry,” he said with that special seriousness only children have, “want me to give you more bread? For the ducks?”
And she laughed through tears, pulling him to her by the shoulders: “Thank you, Kostenka. You are a very kind boy.”
“It’s because I have a mom today,” he simply replied, snuggling against her side. “So, where are we going next?”
In the small café, the air was fragrant with cinnamon and vanilla. They settled by the window, at a table covered with a checkered tablecloth. Kostya looked around curiously—he had clearly never been in such places before.
“Two hot chocolates,” Olga told the young waitress. “And, please…” she glanced at Kostya, “what would you like with your chocolate?”
“Uh… can I?” he blinked in confusion.
“Of course. Look, here are the pastries, here are the croissants…”
“I don’t know,” Kostya whispered. “I’ve never eaten this before.”
Olga felt something prick at her chest. “Then let’s try different ones?” she suggested. “One blueberry croissant and one strawberry pastry, please. Could you cut them in half?”
As the waitress walked away, Kostya moved closer: “Is it true that in a café you need to sit straight and… and put a napkin on your lap?” he asked in a whisper.
“Who told you that?”
“I read it in a book,” he was a bit embarrassed. “I read a lot. When I’m home alone… well, to not be bored.”
“What do you like to read?” Olga slid the just-served hot chocolate with a cap of whipped cream toward him.
Kostya’s eyes sparkled: “About adventures! And about animals. You know… you know, I once found a kitten. A very small one. Wanted to keep it, but my aunt said—no…”
He cautiously wrapped both hands around the large cup, blew on the steam. Then he took a sip and froze with an expression of bliss on his face that Olga couldn’t help but smile at.
“Tasty?”
“Very!” he licked the chocolate mustache. “Better than packet cocoa.”
“Do you make cocoa yourself?”
“Yeah. And dinner too,” he shrugged with unchildlike matter-of-factness. “Aunt comes home late, and I go to bed early. I know how to cook pasta and fry eggs. Only it often burns…” he smiled guiltily.
Olga watched as he carefully cut the croissant into small pieces, trying not to crumble it on the table, and felt something big and warm grow in her chest, something like resolve.
“How about I teach you to make real hot chocolate?” she suddenly offered. “You can make it at home too. You just need milk, chocolate, and…”
“Really teach me?” he interrupted with delight. But then he hesitated, and his face saddened. “But… but when? After all, today is only one day…”
“Well,” Olga hesitated, gathering her thoughts, “what if… what if not just today? What if we could see each other sometimes? Like on weekends?”
Kostya froze with a half-eaten piece of croissant in his hand. A flurry of emotions flickered in his eyes—hope, disbelief, joy, and fear.
“Do you really… really want to see me?” he whispered. “Not because you were asked to?”
“Really,” Olga said firmly. “I really want to. If you want to, too.”
Instead of answering, Kostya suddenly jumped up from his seat and hugged her tightly. From his crown wafted the scent of autumn wind and, oddly enough, apples.
“So, it’s decided,” Olga whispered, hugging him back. “Now let’s try this strawberry pastry. I think it’s been waiting long enough.”
Evening crept up unnoticed. The sun was already tilting toward sunset, tinting the sky in gentle pink tones, when they approached the house where Kostya lived. A typical five-story building—peeling paint, old swings in the yard, a bench with a peeling backrest. Olga felt the boy grip her hand tighter.
“Aunt is probably home already,” he said quietly, slowing his pace. “She has a short shift today…”
His voice carried such undisguised longing that Olga’s heart clenched. The day had flown by like a single moment—they had walked in the park after the café, fed the pigeons, talked about everything under the sun. Kostya told her about school, about the books he’d read, about his dreams. Such simple, childish dreams—to get a kitten, learn to ride a bike, try baking a real cake…
“Wait,” Olga stopped and squatted in front of him. “Remember what I said in the café? About weekends?”
Kostya nodded, but doubt still flickered in his eyes: “What if… what if aunt doesn’t allow it?”
“I’ll talk to her. And to Maria Petrovna. We’ll figure something out, I promise.”
“Really-really?” he looked into her eyes intently, as if trying to find confirmation of her words there.
“Really-really. You know,” she smiled softly, “I don’t want this day to be the last either.”
Suddenly a window slammed shut upstairs. “Kostya!” a female voice called out. “Where have you been? It’s getting dark!”
The boy flinched: “That’s aunt… I have to go.”
But instead of running to the entrance, he suddenly hugged Olga impulsively: “Thank you for being my mom today,” he whispered in her ear. “It was the best day.”
Olga hugged him tightly, feeling a traitorous sting in her eyes: “You know what? You also gave me the best day. And this is just the beginning, hear me?”
Kostya stepped back, smiled—for the first time that day, a truly happy smile: “I’ll be waiting. Every weekend.”
“Kostya!” came the call from above again.
“Run,” Olga gently pushed him toward the entrance. “See you next Saturday.”
She watched as he ran up the steps, turning around and waving at her every now and then. And when the entrance door closed behind him, she stood for a long time, looking at the lit windows.
Suddenly she realized that for the first time in five years, she was thinking of Dima without the sharp pain in her heart. As if her son had indeed sent her this little boy—to heal, to remind her what it’s like to be a mom, to love and be loved.
“Thank you, son,” she whispered, gazing into the darkening sky.
Then she took out her phone and dialed Maria Petrovna’s number. A serious conversation about the future—hers and Kostya’s—was ahead. Because sometimes one day can change an entire life. Or two lives.
And just a month later, a new room would appear in Olga’s apartment—with bookshelves, a toy kitten on a pillow, and a real bicycle. Because dreams must come true. Especially if two people believe in them together.