Mom, why does Uncle Vanya come to visit us so often?” Artem pondered as he idly stirred his spoon in his soup bowl.
“Because he’s kind and helps us while Dad is on shift,” Olga felt her voice tremble treacherously.
The old washing machine hummed noisily in the bathroom, drowning out the awkward silence. Olga mechanically wiped the shirts, trying not to look at the family photo on the dresser. Sergey smiled so genuinely in it, holding both children. And she… she was already looking away, as if sensing that their life was about to take a wrong turn.
“Mom, the soup is too salty,” five-year-old Anya wrinkled her nose.
“Sorry, sweetheart. I was lost in thought,” Olga sighed, realizing she had been “lost in thought” quite often lately.
Thirty-two years old, two children, a shift-working husband, and silence. Such silence that sometimes she wanted to turn on all the appliances at once, just to not hear her own thoughts. Sergey appeared every three months, brought money, patted the children on the head, and… that was it. As if a wall had grown between them made of his fatigue and her loneliness.
“Olga Nikolaevna!” a familiar voice called from the street. “Need any help? I was just passing by…”
“I was just passing by,” Olga smiled to herself. Ivan had been “passing by” for the third day in a row, as if his farm brigade had suddenly moved from the other end of the village right to her house.
“Come in, Vanya!” she shouted, fixing her hair. “I’ve got a leaky faucet!”
Ivan appeared at the doorway, as always, with his boyish smile. In work clothes, smelling of hay and diesel, but somehow… genuine.
“Oh, you made borscht?” he sniffed. “I’m hungry after my shift…”
“Sit down then,” Olga waved him over, pulling out a clean plate. “Kids, make some room.”
Artem deliberately moved further away, watching his mother with a scrutinizing gaze. At seven, he sometimes seemed too mature to her.
“Uncle Vanya, can you fix our swing?” Anya blurted out unexpectedly.
“For such a beauty?” he winked at the girl. “Right away!”
“It’s time for homework now,” Olga said sternly but couldn’t help smiling.
That evening, when the children were asleep and Ivan was indeed fixing the ill-fated swings in the yard, Olga went out “to check on the work.” The stars twinkled particularly brightly, and the air smelled of freshly mowed grass and sweet strawberries.
“You know,” Ivan sat on the repaired swings, “I don’t really just pass by. I make a detour just to see you.”
“Vanya…”
“Wait,” he waved his hand. “I see how hard it is for you alone. And the kids need someone around, not just once a quarter.”
Olga felt a traitorous sting in her eyes. Indeed—when was the last time Sergey just fixed something around the house? When was the last time they sat together in the evening and just talked?
“The children won’t understand,” she said softly.
“They will,” Ivan replied confidently. “The main thing is that you understand everything yourself.”
In the darkness, his eyes seemed almost black, and his smile—a little sad. Olga suddenly realized that for the first time in a long time, she felt… alive.
Time flew by unnoticed. Ivan started appearing more often—to fix the fence or help dig up potatoes. And one day he simply brought a huge bouquet of wildflowers.
“What’s this?” Olga looked puzzled at the daisies and cornflowers.
“It’s because you’re beautiful,” he simply replied.
At that moment, she knew she was lost. Like a girl, honestly. Suddenly, she wanted to wear that summer dress that had been gathering dust in the closet for a year—“nowhere to wear it.” She dug out her grandmother’s old hair curlers. Even started putting on lipstick in the mornings.
“Mom, you look like a princess today!” Anya exclaimed admiringly at breakfast.
“You’re silly,” grumbled Artem, “that’s for Uncle Vanya.”
Olga choked on her tea. Her son looked up at her, so much like Sergey that it hurt inside.
“Don’t talk nonsense,” she tried to keep her voice even. “Eat up, you’ll be late for school.”
But Artem persisted. In the evening, as she was putting him to bed, he suddenly asked:
“Does Dad not love us anymore?”
“What are you talking about?” Olga sat on the edge of the bed. “Of course, he loves us!”
“Then why does he always leave? And Uncle Vanya is with us?”
She didn’t know what to answer. Olga looked into her son’s eyes and felt a crushing sense of helplessness inside. How could she explain to this little person that his dad was somewhere beyond the Arctic Circle, in a frozen trailer, falling asleep to the howl of the blizzard and waking up in darkness? That the cold was so severe that phones often lost signal, and letters took two weeks to arrive? That he hadn’t abandoned them, but on the contrary—was pulling his weight so that Artemka could wear new sneakers and Anya could get the pink bike she dreamed of for her birthday?
A lump in her throat made it hard to speak. She suddenly remembered how they met Sergey—young, carefree, planning a big house and trips. And now what? A calendar on the wall where she mechanically crossed off the days until his return, and rare phone calls that had more silence than words. And this damn waiting, which had seeped into her skin, became part of her—like breathing, like walking. You wake up in the morning—waiting. You fall asleep at night—waiting. And you can’t even remember when it started or if there’s an end to it.
Then what she feared the most happened a week later. Ivan stopped by after lunch—brought fresh milk from the farm. The children were supposed to be at school and daycare. But Artem unexpectedly returned home—they had canceled the last lesson.
He caught them in the kitchen. Just talking, but… Ivan was holding her hand, and she was laughing at some joke he made. As if they were alone in the whole world.
“I’ll tell Dad everything!” the boy shouted and ran to his room.
Olga rushed between the kitchen and the nursery, not knowing what to do. Ivan quietly left, understanding that it was better not to interfere.
“Sweetheart,” she sat next to her crying son, “listen…”
“I don’t want to! You’re a traitor! Dad is working there, and you…”
“Artem, it’s not what you think…”
“Then what is it?” he raised his tearful eyes to her. “Why are you always with him?”
At that moment, the phone rang. Sergey. Her heart sank.
“Hello, darling!” her husband’s voice sounded unusually cheerful. “Guess what? I took leave, I’ll be back next week!”
Olga felt the room spin before her eyes.
“That’s… that’s great, dear.”
“Is Artemka nearby? Give him the phone!”
Her son snatched the phone from her hands:
“Dad! Daddy! Are you really coming?”
She left the room on wobbly legs. In her head, it spun: “A week. Just a week.”
In the evening, after putting the children to bed, she sat on the porch when Ivan appeared. He sat down silently, pulled out a cigarette.
“Sergey is coming back,” Olga said quietly.
“I know. The whole village knows,” he smiled sadly. “Artemka told everyone.”
“What now?”
Ivan took a drag, exhaling smoke into the dark sky.
“What now… We’ll live. As we lived.”
“Just like that?”
“Did you think I’d ride in on a white horse and carry you off into the sunset?” he laughed bitterly. “We’re not in a movie, Ol.”
She suddenly got angry:
“So all those talks about how I’m special, that I deserve more…”
“It’s all true,” he interrupted. “Every word. But you have a family, children. And I… I’m just a lonely man who fell in love with the wrong woman.”
Across the street, a light came on. Neighbor Petrovna was walking her dog and, of course, noticed them on the porch. Tomorrow the whole village would be buzzing.
“You know what’s the funniest part?” Olga stood up, shaking out her skirt. “I almost believed that it was possible to start over. That the children would understand, that…”
“Mom!” Anya’s voice came from inside the house. “I’m scared!”
Reality reminded itself again. Ivan stubbed out his cigarette:
“Go. They need you.”
“And you?”
“I’ll manage,” he smiled his trademark smile, but his eyes remained sad. “Always have.”
That night, Olga couldn’t sleep. She tossed and turned, counted sheep, even tried to read—useless. Fragments of phrases, looks, touches swirled in her head. Somewhere far in the north, Sergey was packing his bags, preparing to return home. And she lay in their shared bed, thinking of another.
Just before dawn, she had a strange dream: she and Ivan were walking along the riverbank, followed by children throwing stones at them. Small, but sharp. And with each throw, the stones became bigger, heavier…
She woke up from the alarm clock, drenched in sweat. In the next room, the children were bustling—Artem was helping his sister braid her hair. He had always been like that—caring, responsible. Just like his father.
“Mom,” he peeked into the bedroom, “I got heated yesterday. Sorry.”
“Come here,” she patted the bed beside her.
Her son climbed under the blanket, snuggled up as in childhood. He smelled of orange toothpaste and just a little bit—of a childhood ending too quickly.
“You know,” he said softly, “I miss Dad.”
“Me too, sweetheart,” she kissed his crown. “Me too.”
There were three days left until Sergey’s arrival when Ivan appeared at the door with a huge box of candy.
“This is for the kids,” he said, not looking Olga in the eyes. “A farewell gift.”
“Are you leaving?” she wasn’t surprised at all.
“To Krasnodar. My cousin has been calling me to a construction site. They pay better than at our collective farm.”
Artem, hearing Ivan’s voice, peeked out of his room. He stood there, hesitated, and suddenly blurted out:
“Will you forget us completely?”
Ivan crouched down to be face to face with the boy:
“You know, buddy, sometimes adults do silly things. But it doesn’t mean they’re bad people. Just… sometimes the heart shuffles all the cards.”
“Like in the fool’s game?” Artem asked seriously.
“Exactly,” Ivan laughed. “Only in life, the loss costs more.”
Anya ran out at the noise, saw the box of candy, and jumped for joy:
“Hooray! Can we eat them all right now?”
“No,” Olga said sternly, but then softened. “Two pieces after lunch.”
“Stingy cow!” the girl pouted.
Ivan watched this family scene, and something in his gaze made Olga’s heart twinge. He could have been a good father. Maybe he still will be—for someone else’s children.
“Well, I’m going,” he stood up, dusted off his knees. “The bus leaves in an hour.”
“Wait,” Olga dashed to the kitchen, pulled out a jar of her homemade jam. “Here. Strawberry. You like it.”
Their fingers touched as he took the jar. Just for a moment, but it was enough to turn everything inside out. The silence stretched.
“Uncle Vanya,” Anya suddenly said, “you’re good. It’s a pity you’re leaving.”
“Anya!” Artem scolded his sister.
“What? It’s true! Only Dad is better.”
Ivan laughed, but it was fractured:
“Of course, better. Dad is always better.”
The children couldn’t fall asleep for a long time that night. Artem kept asking about Krasnodar—where it was, how far, whether they went to school there. And Anya just snuggled up to her mother and breathed into her shoulder.
“Mom,” the son said suddenly, already half-asleep, “I won’t tell Dad. It’s our secret.”
“Sleep, dear,” Olga whispered, feeling tears rolling down her cheeks.
Sergey arrived early in the morning, when it was still not light. Tanned, thinner, but somehow… bright. The kids clung to him like monkeys:
“Dad! Daddy!”
He pulled gifts out of his bag: a radio-controlled helicopter for Artem, a huge doll for Anya, and amber earrings for Olga.
“What’s this?” she was surprised.
“And this is because you’re beautiful,” he said.
She flinched. The same words, but entirely different.
In the evening, when the children had played and fallen asleep, they sat in the kitchen. Sergey drank tea, Olga sorted through the grains—planning to cook pilaf tomorrow.
“You know,” he suddenly said, “I’ve changed my mind about a lot of things.”
“About what?”
“About us. About how we live. Decided to switch to another schedule—two weeks at a site closer, two weeks here. They pay less, but…”
“Really?” she couldn’t believe her ears.
“Really,” he paused. “I see how hard it is for you alone. And the kids need a father, not just his money.”
Olga looked at her husband and didn’t recognize him. No, he hadn’t changed outwardly, but something intangibly different had appeared in him. Something… familiar?
“Listen, who fixed the fence for you?” he suddenly asked. “Well done.”
“A neighbor helped,” she replied evenly. “Ivan. He left for Krasnodar yesterday.”
“Too bad. Wanted to thank him. For looking after you.”
She almost dropped the jar of rice. Sergey stood up, came up behind her, hugged her shoulders:
“Ol, I understand everything. Really.”
And she burst into tears. For the first time in a long time—out loud, burying her face in his chest. And he stroked her hair, murmuring:
“What are you, silly? Everything’s fine. Now everything will be fine.”
A month later, a postcard arrived from Krasnodar. It had just three words: “Thanks for the jam.” Olga burned it in the stove, and the ashes scattered in the wind. Along with what might have been, but never happened.
That evening, they took the children to the funfair that had come to the neighboring village. Artem proudly carried his cotton candy, Anya squealed on the rides, and her husband… her husband just held her hand. Tightly, tightly.
“Mom, look—a falling star!” Artem suddenly shouted. “Make a wish!”
“I’ve already made all my wishes,” Olga smiled. “And it came true.