My daughter was three years old when I found her under a bridge, covered in mud. I raised her as my own, even though people whispered behind my back. Now she is a teacher in the city, while I still live in my little cottage, sifting through memories like precious beads.
A floorboard creaked underfoot—again, I thought I should fix it, but never got around to it. I sat down at the table and took out my old diary. The pages have yellowed like autumn leaves, but the ink still holds my thoughts. Outside, the storm rages, a birch tree taps on the window as if asking to come in.
“Why are you making such a noise?” I say to it. “Hold on a little, spring will come.”
It’s funny, of course, talking to a tree, but when you live alone, everything around seems alive. After those terrible times, I remained a widow—my Stepan was killed. I still keep his last letter, yellowed with time and worn at the folds—I’ve read it so many times. He wrote that he would return soon, that he loved me, that we would live happily… A week later, I found out.
God did not bless me with children, maybe for the best—in those years, there was nothing to feed them. The chairman of the collective farm, Nikolai Ivanovich, always consoled me:
“Don’t grieve, Anna. You’re still young, you’ll marry again.”
“I won’t marry again,” I replied firmly. “I loved once; that’s enough.”
I worked in the collective farm from dawn to dusk. The foreman, Petrovich, would yell:
“Anna Vasilyevna, go home, it’s late!”
“There’s time,” I respond, “as long as the hands work, the soul doesn’t age.”
I had a small farm—a goat named Man’ka, as stubborn as I am. A handful of chickens—they woke me up better than any rooster. My neighbor Klavdia often joked:
“Are you sure you’re not a turkey? Why do your chickens crow earlier than everyone else?”
I kept a vegetable garden—potatoes, carrots, beets. Everything from the ground. In the fall, I made preserves—pickled cucumbers, tomatoes, marinated mushrooms. In winter, it felt like summer returned whenever you opened a jar.
I remember that day as if it were yesterday. March was chilly and damp. It drizzled in the morning, and by evening it had started to freeze. I went to the forest for firewood—to heat the stove. There was plenty of deadwood after the winter storms, just waiting to be collected. I gathered a bundle and was heading home past the old bridge when I heard someone crying. At first, I thought it was the wind playing tricks, but no, it was clearly a child sobbing.
I went under the bridge and saw—a little girl sitting there, all covered in mud, her dress wet and torn, her eyes wide with fright. When she saw me, she quieted down, just trembling like a leaf.
“Whose child are you, little one?” I asked softly, not to scare her further.
She was silent, just blinking her eyes. Her lips blue from the cold, her hands red and swollen.
“You’re completely frozen,” I said more to myself. “Let’s go, I’ll take you home.”
I picked her up—light as a feather. Wrapped her in my shawl, held her close to my chest. And I thought—what kind of mother would leave her child under a bridge? It was beyond comprehension.
I had to abandon the firewood—there was no time for that. The whole way home, the girl was silent, just clinging tightly to my neck with her frozen fingers.
I brought her home, and the neighbors were already there—news travels fast in the village. Klavdia was the first to rush over:
“My God, Anna, where did you find her?”
“Under the bridge,” I say. “Abandoned, it seems.”
“Oh, what a tragedy…” Klavdia threw up her hands. “What are you going to do with her?”
“What do you mean? I’ll keep her.”
“You what, Anna, have you lost your mind?” this was old Matryona joining in. “Why do you need a child? What will you feed her?”
“Whatever God sends, I will provide,” I cut her off.
First, I stoked the stove hotter, started heating water. The girl was all bruised, so thin her ribs were showing. I washed her with warm water, wrapped her in my old sweater—there was no other children’s clothing in the house.
“Are you hungry?” I asked.
She nodded timidly.
I gave her some of yesterday’s soup, cut some bread. She ate eagerly but carefully—it was clear she was not a street child, but a house girl.
“What’s your name?”
Silence. She was either scared or really couldn’t speak.
I put her to bed in my own bed, and I settled on the bench. I woke up several times at night—to check on her. She slept, curled up in a ball, sobbing in her sleep.
In the morning, I went straight to the village council—to report the find. The chairman, Ivan Stepanych, just spread his hands:
“There have been no reports of a missing child. Maybe someone from the city abandoned her…”
“What now?”
“By law, she should go to an orphanage. I’ll call the district today.”
My heart clenched:
“Wait, Stepanych. Give me some time—maybe her parents will show up. In the meantime, I’ll keep her.”
“Anna Vasilyevna, think carefully…”
“There’s nothing to think about. It’s already decided.”
I named her Maria—after my mother. I thought maybe her parents would show up, but no one ever did. And thank God—I became attached to her with all my heart.
The first time was hard—she didn’t speak at all, just looked around the cottage, as if searching for something. At night, she would wake up screaming, trembling all over. I would hold her close, stroke her head:
“It’s okay, my daughter, it’s okay. Everything will be fine now.”
I remade old dresses into clothes for her. Dyed them different colors—blue, green, red. They were plain, but cheerful. Klavdia, seeing them, threw up her hands:
“Oh, Anna, you have golden hands! I thought you only knew how to handle a shovel.”
“Life teaches you to be a seamstress and a nanny,” I respond, pleased to be praised.
But not everyone in the village was understanding. Especially old Matryona—whenever she saw us, she would start crossing herself:
“It’s not good, Anna. To take in a foundling is to invite trouble. Her mother must have been no good, that’s why she left her. An apple doesn’t fall far from the tree…”
“Be quiet, Matryona!” I cut her off. “It’s not for you to judge others’ sins. And now she’s my girl, period.”
The collective farm chairman also frowned at first:
“Think, Anna Vasilyevna, maybe you should send her to an orphanage? They’ll feed her and clothe her properly.”
“And who will love her?” I ask. “There are enough orphans in the orphanage without her.”
The chairman waved his hand but eventually started helping—sending over some milk, some cereal.
Masha gradually began to thaw. First, words appeared, then whole sentences. I remember the first time she laughed—I had just fallen off a ladder while hanging curtains. Sitting on the floor, groaning, and suddenly she bursts out laughing—so clear, so childlike. All my pain disappeared from that laughter.
She tried to help me in the garden. I gave her a small hoe—she walked alongside me importantly, imitating me. But she trampled more weeds into the beds than she weeded. But I didn’t scold her—I was happy that life was waking up in her.
Then trouble came—Masha fell ill with a fever. She lay there, all red, delirious. I went to our paramedic, Semyon Petrovich:
“For the love of Christ, help!”
But he just spread his hands:
“What medicine, Anna? I have three aspirin tablets for the whole collective farm. Wait, maybe they’ll bring something in a week.”
“A week?” I screamed. “She might not survive until tomorrow!”
I ran to the district then—9 kilometers through the mud. My shoes fell apart, my feet all blistered, but I made it. At the hospital, a young doctor, Alexey Mikhailovich, looked at me—dirty, wet:
“Wait here.”
He brought some medicine, explained how to administer it:
“No need for money,” he says, “just get the girl out.”
I didn’t leave her bed for three days. Whispered prayers I remembered, changed compresses. On the fourth day, the fever subsided, she opened her eyes and quietly said:
“Mama, I’m thirsty.”
Mama… She called me that for the first time. I started crying—from happiness, from exhaustion, from everything at once. And she wipes my tears with her little hand:
“Mama, why are you crying? Does it hurt?”
“No,” I say, “it doesn’t hurt. I’m just happy, my daughter.”
After that illness, she became a different person—affectionate, talkative. Time passed, and she went to school—her teacher couldn’t praise her enough:
“Such a capable girl, catches everything on the fly!”
Even the villagers gradually got used to us, no longer whispered behind our backs. Even old Matryona thawed—started treating us with pies. Especially grew fond of Masha after that incident when she helped her light the stove in fierce frost. The old woman had lain down with radiculitis and hadn’t prepared any firewood. Masha volunteered to help:
“Mama, shall we go to old Matryona’s? It’s cold for her alone.”
And so they became friends—old grumpy Matryona and my girl. Matryona regaled her with tales, taught her to knit, and never again mentioned neither the foundling nor bad blood.
Time passed. Masha was already 9 when she first spoke about the bridge. We were sitting in the evening, I was darning socks, she was rocking her doll—a rag doll she had sewn herself.
“Mum, do you remember how you found me?”
My heart skipped a beat, but I didn’t show it:
“I remember, daughter.”
“I remember too… a little. It was cold. And scary. Some woman was crying, then she left.”
My knitting needles fell from my hands. But she continued:
“I don’t remember her face. Only a blue shawl. And she kept repeating: ‘Forgive me, forgive…'”
“Masha…”
“Don’t worry, mum, I’m not sad. I just remember sometimes. But you know what?”—she suddenly smiled. “I’m glad you found me then.”
I hugged her tightly, a lump in my throat. How many times had I thought—who was that woman in the blue shawl? What forced her to leave her child under the bridge? Maybe she was starving, maybe her husband was drinking… Life is full of things. It’s not for me to judge.
That evening, I couldn’t sleep for a long time. All I thought was—how fate turns. I had lived alone, everything seemed—life had shortchanged me, punished me with loneliness. But it turns out, it was preparing me for the main thing—to be there to pick up and warm a discarded child.
From that night on, Masha often asked about her past life. I hid nothing, just tried to explain in a way that wouldn’t hurt:
“You know, daughter, sometimes people find themselves in circumstances where they have almost no choice. Maybe your mom suffered a lot, making that decision.”
“And you would never do that?” she asked, looking into my eyes.
“Never,” I answered firmly. “You’re my happiness, my joy.”
Years flew by unnoticed. Masha was the top student at school. Sometimes she’d come home running:
“Mama, mama! I read a poem at the blackboard today, and Maria Petrovna said I have talent!”
Our teacher, Maria Petrovna, often talked to me:
“Anna Vasilyevna, the girl should continue her education. Such bright minds are rare. She has a special gift for languages, for literature. You should see her essays!”
“Where would she study?” I sighed. “We have no money…”
“I’ll help her prepare. For free. It would be a sin to bury such abilities.”
Maria Petrovna started tutoring Masha additionally. In the evenings, they sat in our cottage, bent over books. I brought them tea with raspberry jam, listened as they discussed Pushkin, Lermontov, Turgenev. My heart was glad—my girl caught everything, understood everything.
In the ninth grade, Masha fell in love for the first time—with a new boy in their class who had moved to our village with his parents. She was terribly nervous, wrote poems in a notebook she hid under her pillow. I pretended not to notice, but my heart ached—first love is always like that, unrequited, bitter.
After graduation, Masha applied to a pedagogical college. I gave her all the money we had. Even sold the cow—sad to part with Zorya, but what can you do.
“Don’t, mama,” Masha protested. “How will you manage without a cow?”
“Never mind, my daughter, I’ll manage. Potatoes are growing, chickens are laying. But you need to study.”
When the acceptance letter arrived, the whole village celebrated. Even the chairman of the collective farm came to congratulate:
“Well done, Anna! You raised a daughter, educated her. Now we’ll have our own college student in the village.”
I remember the day she left. We were at the bus stop, waiting for the bus. She hugged me, tears streaming down her face:
“I’ll write to you every week, mama. And come home for the holidays.”
“Of course, you will,” I said, my heart breaking.
The bus disappeared around the corner, and I kept standing there, standing. Klavdia approached, put an arm around my shoulder:
“Let’s go, Anna. There’s plenty to do at home.”
“You know, Klava,” I say, “I’m actually happy. Others have their own children, but I have one given by God.”
She kept her word—wrote often. Each letter was a celebration. I read and reread them, knew every line by heart. She wrote about her studies, new friends, the city. And between the lines, it read—she missed home, longed for it.
In her second year, she met her Sergey—also a student, from the history department. She began mentioning him in letters as if in passing, but I, with a mother’s heart, felt—she was in love. During the summer holidays, she brought him home to meet me.
The young man turned out to be serious, hardworking. He helped me re-roof the house, fix the fence. Found common ground with the neighbors quickly. In the evenings, we sat on the porch, he talked about history—you could listen forever. It was clear—he sincerely loved my Masha, couldn’t take his eyes off her.
And when she came home for the holidays—the whole village gathered to see what a beauty had grown up. Old Matryona, now very elderly, kept crossing herself:
“Lord, I was against it when you took her in. Forgive me, old fool. Look at the happiness that grew!”
Now she herself became a teacher, works at a city school. She teaches her own children, just as Maria Petrovna once taught her. Married Sergey, they live soul to soul. They gave me a granddaughter—Anechka, named after me.
Anechka is the spitting image of Masha as a child, only more spirited. When they visit, there’s no peace—she’s curious about everything, has to touch everything, climb everywhere. And I rejoice—let her make noise, let her run. A home without children’s laughter is like a church without bells.
I sit here, writing in my diary, while outside the storm continues. The floorboard still creaks, the birch still taps on the window. But now this silence doesn’t oppress me as it used to. In it, there’s peace and gratitude—for every day lived, for every smile from my Masha, for a fate that led me to that old bridge that day.
On the table, there’s a photo—Masha with Sergey and little Anechka. Next to it—a worn shawl, the very one I wrapped her in then. I keep it as a memory. Sometimes I take it out, stroke it—and it’s as if the warmth of those days returns.
Yesterday a letter arrived—Masha writes that she’s pregnant again. They’re expecting a boy. Sergey has already chosen a name—Stepan, after my husband. It means the lineage will continue, someone will keep the memory.
That old bridge has long been demolished, a new one built—concrete, sturdy. I rarely go there now, but every time I pass by, I stop for a minute. And I think—how much can change in one day, one moment, one child’s cry on a chilly March evening…
They say fate tests us with loneliness, to teach us to appreciate those close to us. But I think otherwise—it prepares us for meeting those who need us most. And it doesn’t matter whether it’s your own blood or not—only what the heart tells you. And my heart, then under the old bridge, did not make a mistake.