Yegor lay on the bed, face buried in the pillow, as if asleep. But it was an act—he could hear every word his mother repeated once again with that same tired intonation, the kind usually spoken with resignation in the voice:
“Yegor, get ready.”
He didn’t move. He only wrapped himself tighter in the blanket and turned toward the wall. As if pretending he wasn’t home would make all the bad things simply disappear. But reality was cruel—it didn’t go anywhere.
“No, I can’t… Don’t you understand Russian? I said—get up! We need to go!”
Uncle Pasha entered the room—a tall, broad-shouldered man with a good-natured smile that somehow made Yegor want to throw something heavy at him. He tried to intervene:
“Yegor, buddy, we really need to go. We’ll miss the train.”
Then the boy suddenly covered his ears with his palms as if those words were some kind of unbearable, hellish noise. He even ground his teeth in anger.
“That’s it! I’m fed up!” Mom raised her voice, steel notes slipping into her tone. “If we’re late because of you—you can forget about your club, new sneakers, and the trip to your father in July, got it?! I’m fed up.”
The phrase “trip to your father” hit harder than any belt. Yegor slowly sat up, stunned by the betrayal. What does it mean—forget about the trip? That was his only hope for salvation. He looked at his mother but said nothing. He just got up like a robot turned on by force.
Then he passed by them as if they were invisible. Without looking, he dressed, silently took his backpack, and left the apartment. Everything happened in slow motion—each step was an effort because a hurricane of emotions was raging inside him.
Yes, he hated this day. Hated the trip. And most of all—he hated Uncle Pasha. Why did Mom marry him at all? They used to live alone, just the two of them—and it was good. No strangers, no foreign smells in the house, no fake cheerfulness this man radiated. And now—there he was, Uncle Pasha, like family, as if he had always been around. Yeah, right.
“Old man… dude…” Yegor mocked himself, recalling his mannerisms and constant jokes. “Yeah, sure, I’ll be friends with you. Screw you…”
And Mom wasn’t any better. She hovered around him like a chicken around an egg. Sometimes making coffee for him, sometimes baking a pie, sometimes dragging him for a walk. But when Yegor asked for something—immediately: “No, no money.” But Pasha—he got everything. Fixed outlets? Put up shelves? Bought a new couch? So what? What kind of hero is that?
Mom even buzzed to her girlfriends: “Pasha did this, Pasha helped.” As if he were the first person in the world to know how to hold a hammer.
Yegor was ashamed. For Mom. For this situation. For how she lived now, as if everything before had been crossed out.
The trip began with Yegor sitting by the window, so he wouldn’t see their faces. Mom chattered non-stop, laughed, told some stories, and Uncle Pasha, like a real comedian, tried to cheer everyone up. But Yegor felt only one emotion—anger.
“Why even bring me? Am I a kid? I’m thirteen, almost fourteen—in ten months!” he thought, clenching his fists. “They could have left me alone for three days. Petya, for example, stays alone for a week, his mom works as a conductor. But we—here she is, with her Pasha… We used to live well. Grandma still moans: ‘Be glad, son, now you have a father.’ What do I need him for?! I have my dad. My own. Real. And I’ll ask him never to give me back to Mom. That’s it. And let her live here with her Pasha. Alone. Without me.”
Yegor looked at his reflection in the window. Straightened up. Determination flashed in his eyes. He would definitely do it. Leave for his father. Forever.
“Yegorushka, shall we eat?” Mom offered him a bag with food.
“I don’t want to,” he flinched.
“Well, young man, if you don’t want to, allow me to move to the upper bunk. Unlike you, I’m hungry.”
Yegor snorted, glancing at the gray-haired old man with big mustaches, and quickly climbed up. Actually, he was terribly hungry but had no intention of showing it. No way.
“She could have told that old man she’d feed the kid now. But no—she smiles, rejoices. Why does she need a son? She has Pasha…”
His stomach growled from hunger. He hadn’t eaten since the evening. She could have remembered. Before, Mom always poured him tea, added sugar, stirred it. Now—“do it yourself, you’re big now.” It was all Uncle Pasha’s doing. He taught her to behave that way. Yegor hated it.
Tears ran down his cheeks—not from hunger, but from anger. From hurt. From the fact that no one saw how badly he felt.
“Yegorka, come, let’s eat. Mom cooked eggs so tasty, and chicken… Yegor, mmm…”
He pretended to be asleep. A few minutes later, Uncle Pasha left him alone.
“What? Your kid is asleep? He looks gloomy. And why? Because you don’t beat them! We got beaten… Did your dad beat you, for example?”
“Yeah,” Uncle Pasha laughed. “I remember once I got whipped with a soldier’s belt for a reason… Me and a neighbor smoked behind a shed at an old lady’s place, and we burned the back wall… Since then, I don’t smoke. That was at Yegor’s age…”
“Ooo, once…”
“My dad, mom, grandma, grandpa—all of them hit me every day… And on Saturdays before the bathhouse—always. You lie on the bench and vow to yourself: I won’t misbehave anymore… Uh-huh, sure.”
“Sure, ha-ha! And now? You won’t put a kid in the corner or spank him… That’s why they tell you to go to hell. Our grandson grew his hair long, is in tenth grade, demands girls from his mom and dad, but they’re worth a hundred and five rubles, those girls… I’d try to demand from my uncle, yeah…”
Everyone laughed. Everyone except Yegor. He sobbed, burying his face in the pillow. It hurt so much. So bitter in his mouth. She could have asked: “How are you? Son? Don’t want to eat? Does something hurt?” No. She sat and laughed with them. Clung to her Pasha. Didn’t care about her son.
“Better to just die,” he thought. “Let her live with her Pasha. Without me. She doesn’t need me anyway.”
With these thoughts, Yegor, still sobbing, fell asleep.
And Grandma—same story. She also fussed over this Uncle Pasha like he was family. Couldn’t be happier:
“Yegorushka, why do you bother your mother and father? They do everything for you, and you…”
“SHE PROMISED ME A TAPE RECORDER! EVERYONE HAS ONE!” Yegor couldn’t stand it.
“Yegorka, come on, darling… Uncle Pasha… His mom is very sick. They’re old, and he has no one else. We all chipped in, as much as we could. I sent money, too. How else?”
Yegor didn’t answer. Just stared out the window. And thought: “I’ll leave anyway. To Dad. And never come back.”
Yegor sat on a bench behind the house, clenching his fists, looking at the ground as if answers to all his tormenting questions lay there. His voice trembled with anger but had notes of pain:
“That was my money. Dad sent it to me.”
The words escaped defiantly but were full of hurt—because it wasn’t just money, but a tiny island of connection with someone who still loved him.
“Oh, is that how it is…” Mom said, shaking her head. “Did you even think about how much is spent on you? And you forgot about Pasha?”
“I’m not asking him for anything!” Yegor shouted, feeling his heart tighten in his chest. “Why are you all attached to me?”
And he ran away. Just ran without looking back, around the corner of the house, where he could hide from the whole world. There, in the shade, he dropped to the ground and cried again—not from weakness, but from pain he couldn’t express in words.
Mom found him. Came up cautiously but confidently as always, pressed his head to her chest. He jerked away sharply as if her touch burned.
“Yegorka, I’ll buy you that tape recorder, what are you…”
“I don’t want anything,” he whispered, bitterly laughing. “Buy it for him… Your favorite. Fuss over him.”
“Son, what are you saying?”
“Nothing… Go away… You’re a traitor. I hate you.”
Mom froze. Her shoulders slumped, her face suddenly looked old, tired. She didn’t answer. Just silently stepped away. Then left altogether. And Yegor was left alone. Alone with his pain.
They returned home in silence. Mom didn’t say a word. Only Uncle Pasha, like a pea jester, tried to lighten the mood with jokes from time to time, but his voice lacked its former confidence—he felt the tension.
Two days later, a call came from Dad. Yegor ran to the phone like to a fire. But Dad didn’t talk long—he asked to call Mom. She took the receiver, and her face gradually lost color.
“But how? He was waiting… Pasha and I planned a vacation together. We already bought tickets…”
She hung up. Took a deep breath.
“You won’t go to Dad.”
“Why?!” Yegor sensed a trick but couldn’t believe it. “Why?!”
“Because he’s going to the sea with his wife and child. You’re not in his plans.”
The words stabbed his heart like a knife. Yegor didn’t know what to say. He just stood, clenching his teeth to keep from screaming.
“You’re leaving me home? For a whole month?”
“No,” Uncle Pasha interrupted. “We’ll send you to the village, to my father.”
Yegor grimaced. That was even worse than being alone. Village. Strangers. Rural silence. And no hope for salvation.
“And you don’t consider the option of not going anywhere?” he said sarcastically, feeling everything boil inside.
“No,” Uncle Pasha replied sharply. “We’re going on vacation with Mom, you’re going to the village to Grandpa.”
“Mom!” Yegor cried, begging at least one person to take his side.
“Pash… Maybe…”
“No. Pack your suitcase. Take everything you need. You’re going for a month. Enough. I’m tired of how he twists you around. Selfish.”
Yegor stood petrified. Mom timidly put her hand on Uncle Pasha’s shoulder. He jerked and shrugged her off.
“Can I at least go to Grandma?” Yegor whispered.
“Grandma’s at the sanatorium, Yegor. Listen, how about we buy you a tape recorder? So you won’t be bored.”
“I don’t want anything from you. Go have fun…”
From that day, Yegor stopped talking to Mom. And to Uncle Pasha too. They left. And he stayed. Alone. Sat on a bench by a stranger’s house, not knowing what to do. His eyes stung again, but he held back tears.
“Come on, Yegorushka, let’s have dinner, then sleep. Early start tomorrow… Let’s go fishing by the river…”
Yegor didn’t even move. Grandpa sighed and left.
After sitting a while, Yegor cautiously entered the house.
“Sit down, let’s eat…”
He sluggishly sat at the table, tried the food, and pushed the bowl away.
“Thank you.”
At night, he couldn’t sleep for a long time. Tears flowed by themselves, and he didn’t try to hold them back. He felt unbearably sorry for himself. As if he was needed by no one. Neither Mom, nor Dad, nor the world.
In the morning, Grandpa woke him:
“Get up, Yegorushka… Or we’ll sleep through all the fish…”
He didn’t want to get up. But Yegor remembered he wasn’t at home. Got up, washed with cold water, brushed his teeth with the same water.
They had breakfast. And went out. Everything felt strange: fog, dew, feet wet in sneakers, eyes sticking together from fatigue. But Grandpa led him confidently.
“Good morning, Kuzmich. Guests, I see?”
“Yeah, grandson came. So Grandpa wouldn’t be bored while Grandma’s in the hospital.”
“How’s Valya?”
“Getting better, Shura.”
Yegor didn’t immediately understand who they were talking about. But then he realized: it was about him. He was the grandson. But some stranger. Someone taken in because there was nowhere else to go.
But time passed. And Yegor got used to it. Got used to Grandpa, his food, fishing, evening stories by the campfire. He helped with chores, made friends with local kids. Once he even asked:
“Grandpa… What’s ‘night’?”
Grandpa laughed, hiding his smile in his mustache:
“Want to try?”
Yegor hesitated:
“Well… the guys invited me.”
“Aren’t you afraid?”
“Nooo…”
The next morning, Yegor came home happy, with lips black from roasted potatoes, tired but satisfied.
“Grandpa, that was so… cool… Will you let me go again?”
“I will,” Grandpa laughed. “Yegorushka, look how you’ve grown…”
Soon Grandma Valya returned. Not the one Yegor used to think of—not strict, not always displeased. No. She was completely different. Tender. She immediately hugged Yegor, busied herself around the house, baked pies, cooked dumplings. Sometimes popped a berry in his mouth, sometimes praised him.
Yegor didn’t even know grandmas could be like that.
“Grandma, I’m going with Grandpa to mow in the morning.”
“Alright, Yegorushka.”
And Yegor felt good. So good that he dreamed summer would never end.
One night he woke up to voices. Jumped out of bed and saw—Mom. And Uncle Pasha. He ran to Mom, then shyly approached Uncle Pasha.
“What? You came earlier?”
“Your mom was worried, thought you were a kid. And I told her: he’s a man…”
Yegor blushed. He didn’t know if he was happy they took him back or wanted to stay here.
“Mom, can I stay? With Grandpa… with Grandma?”
“Of course… We won’t let you go anyway. What would you do in the city in summer? Nina, Pasha, you relax too…”
That summer remained in Yegor’s memory as the best. He went through so much, learned so much, did so much with Grandpa and even with Uncle Pasha. Then the parents left, and Yegor still had a whole month ahead.
Saying goodbye, he promised Grandpa and Grandma to come next summer.
“Definitely, Yegorushka, hear? We’ll wait. And miss you…”
And now I am a grandpa. Myself. I have a grandson, Sanya—six years old, curious, with big eyes. We sit on the porch and look at the stars, just like I did once with my grandpa.
My wife has already peeked out a couple of times:
“Yegor, you’ll freeze Sanya.”
“No, honey…”
“Mosquitoes…”
“Come on, honey… Let grandpa and me talk. Like men.”
I smile. I remember that boy who came to us with a broken heart. A stranger by blood, but kin by soul. My grandpa unconditionally accepted him. Made him one of his own. And became the closest person to him.
And now I am a grandpa. Just like mine. Just like Kuzmich. Loving. Understanding. Accepting.
And I know: this is what a real family is.