Vera was sitting on the porch, stretching out her tired legs. She had worked hard in the garden today—weeded the beds, watered the seedlings, tied up the tomatoes. Now a pleasant tiredness spread through her body like warm summer sun on the skin.
Her chestnut hair had partially escaped from under her headscarf, and her cheeks were flushed from the fresh air. She closed her eyes, inhaling the scent of earth and grass, and enjoyed the silence.
“Vera!” a familiar voice called out to her.
She opened one eye. At the gate stood Nadezhda—the postwoman, known by everyone in the village.
Vera slowly got up—her legs ached after the work. She walked to the fence.
“What is it, Nadyush? Did you bring something good?”
“I won’t say yet—whether you’ll be glad or not. You have a letter. From the capital.”
“From the capital? I don’t have anyone there at all,” Vera said, surprised.
“You’ll find out soon enough. Registered mail. Sign right here.”
Vera perked up; curiosity drowned out her fatigue. Who would need to write to her all the way out here in the middle of nowhere?
She lived alone. Her husband had died five years ago—cancer showed no mercy. They never had children. They had lived in the city before, but after her parents died—who were also struggling—Vera inherited this old house in the village. She sold the apartment in the city without regret—here, among the flowers and silence, she felt truly alive.
Looking at the envelope, Vera couldn’t understand who could have written to her. The surname was unfamiliar, and the address was from the capital—the city where no one had looked for her in a long time.
“Probably a mistake,” she thought, signing for the letter and heading home.
“Verunya, who’s the letter from?” Nadezhda called after her.
“I haven’t figured it out yet,” Vera answered, opening the front door.
“How good it is to be home,” she thought as she entered the kitchen.
“Well, how’s it going, Yasha? Better here than outside?” she addressed her cat, who was lazily stretched out on the floor.
He slightly raised his head, greeted his owner, then closed his eyes again.
“No need for air conditioning either,” Vera smiled, sitting down at the table.
Without much hesitation, she carefully opened the envelope and took out the letter. The handwriting was small, almost scrawled, but Vera managed to read it:
“Hello, Vera. My name is Margarita. We met only three times. The last time was at the funeral of my cousin… your husband. Back then, we never really talked—I left early. Fate has brought us together again. I have no one else to turn to.
I have been disabled since childhood; my leg barely works now. Doctors have insisted on hospitalization. I am undergoing tests, preparing for surgery—they suspect cancer. Before, I could walk with a cane. Now only in a wheelchair.
I know you have enough worries of your own, but I decided to write anyway. I have an apartment downtown, a summer house. I don’t want all this to go to strangers who are just waiting to take advantage of my helplessness. I want to leave it to you—if you agree to take me in. I sent this as registered mail to make sure it reaches you. Think about it. I’ll be waiting. Better come soon.”
Below was the hospital address and room number.
“Interesting,” Vera murmured.
“Inheritance? When will it ever come to me?” a mercenary thought flashed through her mind.
“Does she really have no one?” she asked her cat, who was already peacefully dozing.
“What are we going to do?”
Yasha seemed to hear her question: he rolled onto his belly and sat up, looking attentively at his owner.
“And I have to leave the house… and I won’t leave you alone,” Vera sighed, stroking the cat.
“But on the other hand…” she continued thinking. “Maybe I should take her in? So that good doesn’t go to waste…”
This thought lingered in her mind for a long time. Vera even seriously considered it.
She turned on her laptop, checked the train schedule. About five hours to the capital.
All evening and night Vera went over possible options, weighing pros and cons. In the morning she got ready. Filled the cat’s bowl, packed extra food, packed a small bag—and went to the bus station.
…
The hospital greeted her with coolness and the smell of medicine. Vera quickly found the right room and upon entering saw the pale face of a woman lying with her hands down and a dull gaze. Margarita looked very sick and depressed.
“Thank you for coming,” Margarita said quietly, looking at Vera with an exhausted gaze. “I thought no one would come to visit me.”
“I didn’t write everything in the letter,” she continued. “I think, since you’re here, I’ll tell you everything as it is.”
She gestured to a chair by the bed.
“Sit down, Vera. Sorry, I can’t offer tea. The conditions aren’t right…”
“Oh no, Margarita, you rest,” Vera replied. “I ate on the road; I don’t need anything.”
Margarita gathered her strength and began:
“I have something important to talk to you about. I’ve wanted to tell someone for a long time… It’s like confessing before my last day. It’s very heavy on my heart. I lived with it all my life.
Vera listened attentively. Sympathy overcame her for this fragile woman lying before her, burning her last strength for words that had long been waiting to come out.
“I could never forgive myself,” Margarita whispered. “I still suffer from the memories.”
Pause. Deep breath. Tears glistened in the corners of her eyes, but she held them back.
“Ten years ago, when I was forty, I got pregnant. I had a man, but as soon as he found out about the baby, he disappeared. And I… I was happy. Finally, there was someone to live for. But the pregnancy was complicated. Because of my condition, my leg got much worse. Doctors warned me: after childbirth, surgery would be unavoidable. And the strain would be enormous. I saw almost no one, didn’t communicate with anyone. My parents had been gone long ago—they died when I was fifteen.
Margarita fell silent again. Her gaze clouded, her voice trembled, but she forced herself to continue:
“For nine months I endured severe pain. After a C-section, I had to use crutches. I physically couldn’t take care of the child. So I decided—temporarily give him to an orphanage. That’s what the doctors advised. I often visited him when my health allowed. Took taxis, just looked at my baby through the window or held him for ten minutes. Luckily, kind people let me in despite the rules.
She paused, her fingers gripping the blanket tightly.
“Later, I had the operation. The rehabilitation took a long time. Oh, how much I cried, who could I share the pain with? Everything closed inside. One nurse, touched by my misery, told me that guardianship had been arranged for the child. They said I couldn’t cope—sick and alone. I had to let go. Sometimes I’d go near the house where he lived, watch from afar… and cry again. It became my greatest pain. My secret. And now I feel—my time is running out. I probably won’t return home. I have cancer, stage four. Metastases.”
The words hung in the air. Vera felt her heart tighten. She sat still, trying not to miss a single sound.
“You knew that Sergey and I had no children,” Vera finally said. “It would have been better if you had given us a son. We would have loved and raised him together.”
“It was shameful, Vera,” Margarita whispered. “All my life I was ashamed of my leg. I shut myself in, let fear and complexes destroy everything. Please… I want to make a will in your favor. And when my son turns eighteen, give him everything. I’ll write him a letter. And you’ll give him the money. Let him go to school, let him know his mother loved him to the end. Now I’ll dictate the address. Think about how to do this so as not to hurt him.”
“Oh, Margarita, don’t worry. He’ll get the apartment. And I don’t need your money. And maybe you’ll still get better. Don’t bury yourself before your time.”
…
The next day Margarita wrote the will and the letter for her son. She insisted that Vera keep the summer house—that’s what she wanted. A week later, Margarita passed away. Quietly, like those who have long carried pain inside and finally found peace.
Vera organized a decent funeral. Her heart was heavy. Every time she recalled the story, tears came to her eyes. Although, it seemed she should be happy—inheritance, apartment, property. But instead of joy—only pain. She sold the summer house, left tenants in the apartment, and carefully saved all the money from the rent for Margarita’s son. Year after year the sum grew—enough to provide for the young man’s future.
…
Since then, much remained the same. Vera still lived in the village, loved this house with all her heart. She never remarried—decided to remain faithful to her beloved.
When the time came to fulfill the promise, Vera went to the city. She decided to meet the family where Margarita’s son was raised.
She told them everything. About the woman’s life, her choice, the will. About the fact that the apartment now belonged to her son. People were surprised but happy—they were just planning to buy new housing.
“We’ll tell him ourselves when the time comes,” promised the foster mother. “And the letter will wait for now.”
Vera handed over the money. It was enough for studies and the start of adult life.
Then she went to the cemetery. She placed flowers on Margarita’s grave and was silent.
“I fulfilled your request,” she whispered. “Rest in peace. Your son lives in love, surrounded by care and warmth. You can be calm.”
She laid fresh flowers, crossed the grave, and walked away. For the first time in a long time, it felt as if a stone had fallen from her heart. She left with ease inside—as if she had done something important not only for others but for herself too.