Anton rarely visited his grandmother’s house after her passing. It stood on the outskirts of the village, half-hidden by the thick branches of apple trees that stretched toward the windows, as if trying to peer inside. The air smelled of age—dust, dried mint, and something faintly sorrowful. The belongings remained in place: embroidered napkins on dressers, crystal glasses in the sideboard, family albums on the top shelf. It seemed the house was afraid to even breathe—lest everything fall apart.
He came at the end of August. He wanted to tidy up a little, take a few books, maybe inspect the house before putting it up for sale. His mother had asked him not to rush, but Anton felt that the past, stuck between these walls, no longer affected him.
The attic turned out to be the last place he looked. The stairs creaked as if warning him: “Don’t touch what’s better left forgotten.” Memories flashed through his mind: how he used to climb up there with his grandfather, hiding toys, how he once fell, hurt himself, and his grandmother spent a week blowing on the bruise, as if that could heal it.
The attic was a mess: jars of buttons, old newspapers, a broken floor lamp. Anton moved the things slowly, carefully—almost as if he were organizing memories on shelves. Then his gaze caught a suitcase. The faded upholstery, cracked straps, the musty smell that made him want to sneeze.
Opening it, Anton discovered a neat set: envelopes, photographs, magazine clippings. Deeper down—a box of letters, tied with a ribbon. And on top—a single sheet of paper, folded in half. The aging handwriting was shaky but legible:
“If you’re reading this, it means you’re ready. You have a brother. Not in spirit—by blood. His name is Alexey. He lives nearby. In another family. Forgive me. I wanted you both to be happy—even if apart.”
Signed: “Your mother.” Not grandmother. Mother.
Anton sat for a long time, unable to look away. His fingers clenched the edge of the page but didn’t tear it. He read it twice. Three times. Thoughts flitted like frightened birds: A joke? A mistake? Nonsense? But the handwriting… he would recognize it anywhere.
He descended the stairs as if in a dream. His hands trembled, his head spun. His thoughts tangled: his mother had been strict, but loving. Always seemed tired, but never indifferent. He had never felt unnecessary. And now—a brother?
All evening and night, he sifted through fragments of sentences, unfinished thoughts, oddities he hadn’t noticed before. How she sometimes gazed out the window. How she cried on his seventh birthday, saying it was from happiness. How his grandmother would start something and then fall silent upon hearing footsteps. Now it all had a different meaning. Only one question remained unanswered: Who was Alexey?
In the morning, he found a note with an address. The city—just two hours away. The name—Alexey Krylov.
He sat for long minutes, phone in hand, wavering. “What if he doesn’t know? What if he doesn’t want to know? What if…” But then he realized: if he didn’t take this step now, he would regret it for the rest of his life.
Finding Alexey wasn’t easy. First, Anton checked the pharmacy, then went to the children’s clinic. “A rehabilitation doctor,” they told him. This surprised him: he had pictured anyone—driver, teacher, a random person. Just not a doctor.
He waited by the office door. His heart pounded in his chest. The door opened. A man in his thirties came out—short, dark-haired, with a medical folder in his hands. He smiled at a woman passing by and closed the door. That’s when Anton felt a jolt inside—as if he had met someone familiar.
Not the appearance. Not the voice. Something deeper. Something familiar.
He took a step:
“Alexey Krylov?”
The man turned. His gaze was open but cautious.
“Yes. And you?”
Anton swallowed. His prepared words vanished. He extended his hand.
“My name is Anton. I… I don’t know how to begin. But maybe we have a shared past. Or at least the same mother.”
Alexey furrowed his brow, questioning.
“Excuse me… where are you from?”
Anton carefully took out the folded piece of paper, smoothed it out, and handed it over.
“This was written by my mother. But it seems she was yours too.”
A long silence followed. Alexey read the note. His face darkened, as if something inside had turned over. He slowly sank onto the bench by the wall and sat motionless for a long time. Then he spoke in a low voice:
“I knew I was adopted. My parents never hid it. I thought my mother was dead. I tried to find her—without success.”
Anton sat next to him:
“And I didn’t know about you until yesterday.”
They fell silent. Somewhere in the hospital corridor, a nurse passed by, a stretcher clattered, a door slammed. And between them hung something heavy, dense—like the air before a storm.
Then they spoke. Cautiously, carefully. Alexey explained he had been adopted when he was just three months old. His family had been good. Anton shared his memories: his mother, his grandmother, New Year’s trees, his first bicycle. It turned out—their lives had been strikingly similar. They went to the same places, lived in nearly parallel worlds, even could have met on the street—just never knew about it.
When Anton returned home, he was different. Not hurt. Not angry. Just that in his heart, there was an emptiness—as if someone had torn a piece out of his childhood. His mother knew. And stayed silent. Why? Out of fear? Out of pain?
Two days later, he called her:
“Mom, I’m coming. We need to talk.”
She understood from his voice. Didn’t ask anything. Just answered:
“I’m waiting.”
The house greeted him with its familiar smells—teapot, apron, fresh dill. Anton sat at the table.
“I was at grandmother’s. I found a suitcase in the attic. And a letter.”
His mother froze. Then she went to the window. She stood there for a long time, looking out at the yard.
“I was twenty. Young, foolish. Met his father—yours and Alexey’s. Religious, naive. I thought it would last forever. I got pregnant. He left. Promised to come back—never did. I was left alone. The labor was difficult. I had nothing. No strength, no money. Grandmother said: ‘We’ll give him to good hands.’ I signed. And then you were born. And I swore: never again would I give anyone up. And I would never tell anyone.”
Tears rolled down her cheeks. Anton went up to her and hugged her.
“I’m not angry,” he whispered. “I just want us to speak the truth now. For everything to be real.”
“Did you see him?” she asked, not opening her eyes.
He nodded.
“He’s a good man. Calm. Smiles a lot. He’s like you—in patience and kindness.”
His mother smiled through her tears:
“Then I haven’t lost everything.”
In the following weeks, they met with Alexey again and again. First—just over a cup of coffee. Then his wife came, then he himself visited Anton. One day, he found himself at their mother’s birthday. At the kitchen table, three grown people ate cake, laughed, and looked at old photographs.
“I never knew what it was like to have a brother,” said Alexey. “But now it feels like you’ve always been somewhere nearby. Just a little further away.”
Anton handed him the same note. Alexey took it carefully, like a relic.
“Let it stay with you. It all started with this.”
Half a year passed. In the spring, the three of them went to the dacha—the same one, the grandmother’s. They repaired the roof, planted potatoes, grilled shashlik. The gazebo, which had been silent for years, once again filled with voices. And their mother sat on the porch, watching her sons—different, but so familiar.
Sometimes, to find family, you have to lose a piece of the past. Sometimes—you find a forgotten suitcase in the attic. And sometimes—you just hear a stranger’s name and realize: it’s a part of you.
Kinship isn’t just blood.
It’s a choice.
It’s a step forward.
Even after long silence.