The autumn wind drove withered leaves along the asphalt, as if urging all the passersby to hurry and shelter from the damp chill. Sofia walked slowly down the street, noticing neither the wind nor the bustle of the city. She had just pulled shut behind her the heavy, insulated door of a certain institution, and in her ears there still echoed the even, noncommittal voice of the woman who had been sitting behind a large wooden desk.
“I’m sorry, but at the moment we simply don’t have any children of the appropriate age with such physical features,” that phrase had sounded then, smooth and polished like a pebble. “The situation with little ones is difficult right now. Try contacting the regional center.”
They hadn’t even offered her a seat. They had simply stated the fact and gone back to their papers. It was already her fifth such visit that week. Each time—hope, thin as a spiderweb. And each time—an icy shower of indifference. Sofia leaned against the rough wall of an entranceway and closed her eyes. Her hands were treacherously shaking, and there was a lump in her throat that wouldn’t let her take a full breath.
She felt time, merciless and relentless, tightening its vise around her. Every day, exactly at eleven in the morning, the phone rang. The voice on the line was elderly, trembling with agitation, yet insistent.
“Sofyushka, dear, how is our little Antoshka? Sleeping soundly? He isn’t coughing anymore, is he?”
“It’s almost gone, Yelizaveta Petrovna. Another day or two, and we’ll definitely come visit you.”
“Oh, how wonderful! Grandpa Stepan can’t find a place for himself. He keeps grumbling: ‘When will I finally see my great-grandson in real life, rock him in my arms?’ We just can’t wait.”
After hanging up, Sofia could barely hold back a heavy sigh. Where was she supposed to get that very Anton from? A three-year-old boy with hair fair as ripe wheat and big, clear eyes. She even recalled tiny moles on his left shoulder forming a triangle. Although, who would peer at such details? She just needed a child. Any child. As long as he fit the description.
In her mind she went back three years. Back then her life had been completely different—easy, carefree, free of the heavy burden of responsibility. One chance encounter, a fleeting infatuation that had left behind only a bitter aftertaste and a few vague memories. His name was Viktor. He was as flighty and fickle as the autumn wind. Their “romance” had lasted just one night, and in the morning, as he hurriedly buttoned his jacket, he tossed over his shoulder:
“You had a good time, I hope?”
“At least give me money for a taxi? I need to get home.”
“I’m not exactly rolling in it. I barely make it to payday myself.”
“I see. Useless.”
“And you’re any better?”
She never saw him again. Sofia then went back to Dmitry—a quiet, calm young man who loved her hopelessly and unrequitedly. He rented a small apartment on the outskirts of town and saw his happiness only in her.
“Sonya, let’s register our marriage,” he would say over and over, looking at her with the devoted eyes of a dog. “I’ll be drafted into the army soon. At least I’ll know you’re waiting for me.”
“Drop that nonsense, Dima. I’m not ready for things like that. I need freedom.”
He would fall silent, accepting her words as something taken for granted. His love was quiet and all-forgiving. When Dmitry was taken off to serve, Sofia stayed on living in his apartment. His mother, Galina Semyonovna, a woman with a keen, probing gaze, would drop by from time to time with pies and close attention. She would unobtrusively yet thoroughly inspect the place, as if trying to find evidence of someone else’s presence.
“Sofiya, you’ve put on some weight,” she remarked once, looking closely at the girl’s jeans that had become tight around the hips.
“From your pies, Galina Semyonovna. They’re just too tasty.”
“Are you sure it’s from the pies?” the woman drawled meaningfully.
Sofia went cold. She really hadn’t paid attention for a long time to such “trifles” as her own cycle. After her would-be mother-in-law’s visit, she bought a test at the pharmacy. Two lines. Then a doctor’s appointment and the verdict: the fourth month. It was already too late to do anything about it.
The thought of a child threw her into shock. She, young, unsettled, with no real means? Tell Dmitry? He would, of course, be delighted, would believe her. But his mother… She wouldn’t need to count the months; she simply knew them. The truth would surface inevitably.
Sofia went off to her elderly grandmother in a remote village. The old woman could hardly see anything and was unlikely to suspect much. Sofia spent the remaining months carrying the pregnancy in silence and seclusion, hiding her growing belly under shapeless sweaters.
She didn’t go to the local hospital to give birth. Too many curious eyes and sharp tongues. She found Marfa, a former midwife who had long since stopped working officially, but sometimes helped women in delicate situations.
“Aunt Marfa, help me out. I’ll give birth at your place, and then… then I’ll place the baby in good hands.”
“And you, child, won’t change your mind? Won’t do anything rash?”
“I swear! Here, take this, it’s for your trouble.”
Sofia took off all the modest jewelry she had: her earrings, her chain, her ring.
Marfa sighed heavily and accepted the offering. The labor went quickly. By evening Sofia was lying on the bed, listening to a quiet cry, like the peeping of a chick. She cast a brief glance at the baby wrapped in swaddling clothes. A boy. His little face was wrinkled, but you could already make out the fair fuzz on his head and his amazingly clear blue eyes.
“Maybe you should keep him?” Marfa asked softly. “Look how strong and fine he is.”
“No. I mustn’t.”
She left Marfa’s house in the dead of night, hiding the baby under a loose coat. She laid him in a sturdy cardboard box and wrapped him in an old but clean towel. She had chosen her direction in advance—toward the river, where holidaymakers from the city often pitched their tents.
Dawn was only just beginning to spread its pale colors across the sky. Sofia picked out the most expensive car—a dark SUV with capital license plates. She memorized the numbers, just in case. She set the box on an old mossy stump next to a tent. The baby was sleeping peacefully, not even stirring.
“That’s it. From now on your fate is in your own hands,” she whispered, and, without looking back, walked away into her former life.
Arina and her husband Konstantin happened to be spending that night on the riverbank. They loved such outings into nature—the quiet, the campfire, the smell of pine and river water. With them was their faithful dog, a Labrador named Graf.
At night the dog grew restless. He tossed and turned, whimpered, poked his cold nose into his owners’ hands.
“Graf, hush, sleep,” Arina mumbled in her sleep.
But the dog wouldn’t calm down. He grabbed Konstantin by the edge of his sleeping bag and tugged him toward the tent flap.
“All right, buddy, let’s go see what’s keeping you up.”
The man groped for his flashlight and went outside. Graf bolted toward the edge of the clearing, barking and running back, clearly showing that something out there was bothering him. Konstantin directed the beam of light and saw that very box. His heart skipped a beat. He walked closer and froze.
“Arina! Come here! Quickly!”
His wife darted out of the tent, pulling on her jacket as she went. When she saw the box, she gasped and pressed her hands to her chest.
“Good Lord… A baby? Is he alive?”
The baby lay quietly, only occasionally blinking his huge blue eyes. He wasn’t crying; he was simply looking into the coming morning, as if marveling at it. Holding her breath, Arina carefully slipped her hands under his tiny body and lifted him. He was warm, light as a feather, and breathing evenly.
“Kostya, what do we do?”
“We pack up. We’ll take the tent down later. We’re going to your mother’s. Right now.”
They quickly loaded the bare essentials into the car. Arina took the back seat, pressing the baby wrapped in a jacket to her. They were silent the whole way. Both were thinking about the same thing. About the emptiness that had filled their lives in recent years. About the dream that had never come true.
Konstantin was the first to speak, without taking his eyes off the road.
“Arin… It’s him. Our miracle.”
“I know. But how? How are we going to explain everything?”
“We’ll figure it out. The main thing is to get to your mother as soon as possible. She knows everything, she’ll understand.”
Olga Dmitrievna, Arina’s mother, opened the door, took one look at their bewildered faces and the bundle in her daughter’s arms, and understood everything at once.
“My God, what happened? Come in quickly!”
“Mama, we found him. In the forest, by the river. Someone… someone left him there.”
A woman with medical training and immense life experience, she quickly took charge of the situation. She examined the child, checked all his reflexes.
“An absolutely healthy baby. And strong. He’s lucky you found him so quickly. And you… do you want to keep him?”
Arina nodded, and at last tears streamed from her eyes.
“We’ve tried for so many years… Nothing worked. And now… he was just waiting for us there.”
“It’s all clear. You’re not going anywhere; you’re staying here. I’ll help, I’ll arrange everything. The paperwork and all the rest.”
For two weeks Arina never left the baby’s side. She was learning to be a mother—to feed, swaddle, lull him to sleep. Konstantin bought everything they needed, glowing with happiness. Olga Dmitrievna used her old connections and obtained all the necessary certificates. Arina put the baby to her breast—and the impossible, a real miracle, happened: after a few days she began to produce milk.
“See? You’ll be able to nurse him yourself,” Olga Dmitrievna said with a smile, looking at her daughter.
They named the boy Artyom. Konstantin found a new, better-paying job, they rented a cozy apartment in another neighborhood, and started life from a clean slate. The three of them.
Artyom grew up a smart, healthy and incredibly sunny child. Sometimes Arina caught herself thinking about the one who had given him life. Who was she? Why had she done that? But she would immediately drive those thoughts away. Artyom was her son. Her blood, her heart, her soul. She acknowledged nothing else.
When Artyom turned three, trouble knocked at their door. On the threshold stood a thin, jittery woman with bottomless eyes.
“Hello. I’ve come for my son.”
Everything inside Arina turned to ice. Her heart stopped.
“You must have the wrong address.”
“No. He is my child. I’ve already filed a complaint with the police. You’d better hand him over now, calmly.”
Arina slammed the door shut with force and leaned against the jamb, unable to move. Her fingers wouldn’t obey her as she dialed Konstantin’s number.
“Kostya, come here, right now! Please…”
The stranger, who introduced herself as Svetlana, acted with frightening persistence. She filed a statement, concocting a moving story about how she had given the child to a friend for a while so she could get back on her feet, and that friend had disappeared. Now she demanded a DNA test and the return of her “legal” son.
The local district officer came to their home, a kindly looking middle-aged man.
“I understand how you feel, folks. But since a report has been filed, we are obliged to check. My advice to you is: have the test done yourselves. That will clear up all the questions at once.”
Arina turned even paler. A test? No, anything but that. All their secrets would come to light. They rushed to Olga Dmitrievna. She listened to their agitated account and shook her head sadly.
“Try talking to this woman. Find out what she really wants. Perhaps it’s about money?”
“And if we give her money once, won’t she demand it for the rest of her life?” Konstantin asked in despair.
“Then… then you’ll have to tell the whole truth. They’ll certainly hold me accountable. But you won’t lose Artyom. He is yours under every law but the genetic one.”
Konstantin managed to get Svetlana’s number and arranged to meet her on neutral ground, in a small café on the outskirts. She arrived late and behaved defiantly.
“Why did you take him then? I literally stepped into the woods for a minute to relieve myself. When I came back, the box was gone.”
“And why didn’t you go straight to the police?” Konstantin asked, barely restraining himself.
“That’s my personal business.”
“And what were you doing with a newborn in the woods at night?” Arina joined in.
“Gathering mushrooms. I’m a single mother, I need to eat. Don’t judge.”
Arina clenched her hands into fists under the table so as not to betray her agitation.
“Svetlana, why do you need him now? Three years have passed. Why only now?”
She gave a cynical smirk.
“I can see you’re doing well. You have money. Let’s make a nice arrangement. Let him live with you. I won’t take him away. But I’ll come visit. Sometimes. On weekends, for example. If you agree, I’ll withdraw my complaint.”
Konstantin jumped to his feet; his patience snapped.
“Have you ever even asked what his name is? What illnesses he’s had? Which toys he loves?”
Svetlana grew flustered, her confidence wavering for a moment. Arina slowly rose.
“That’s all we need to hear. Let’s go, Kostya.”
They walked out of the café, leaving that woman alone with her conscience.
The decision was hard, but the only right one. They decided to see it through to the end. They filed a counterclaim, asking for an investigation into abandonment in a situation of danger, for the establishment of true maternity, and for Svetlana to be deprived of parental rights.
Long, exhausting months of checks began. People from child protective services constantly came to their home—inspecting Artyom’s room, peeking into the refrigerator, asking endless questions.
“It’s clear the child is well cared for and loved,” one of the women stated. “For now we’ll leave him with you. But the investigation continues.”
The DNA test confirmed their worst fears—Svetlana was the biological mother. But that same test became the turning point. The investigator handling the case softened his stance. He began asking Svetlana different, much tougher questions.
“Why did you give birth outside a medical facility? What were you doing with a newborn in the forest at night? Why, for three years, did you make no attempt to find the child?”
The woman’s answers were confused and unconvincing. They found the midwife Marfa, who confessed to everything. But the main piece of evidence was a recording of a telephone conversation that the officers produced. The voice of an elderly woman on the tape was full of hope:
“Svetochka, how is our little Vladik? Has he recovered, poor thing? There’s a lovely, cozy little house for sale next door, with a big plot. It would be perfect for a boy. Bring him over as soon as you can, we’ll put everything in your name.”
The picture finally came together. It turned out that the child’s father, that same Viktor, had had a grandmother who died and left him a substantial inheritance. Svetlana had found out about it and decided urgently to “find” her son in order to claim a share. She was arrested. The trial was swift and fair. She was stripped of her parental rights, and the road to Artyom was closed to her forever. Having gone through all the circles of hell, Arina and Konstantin at last obtained the right to officially adopt the boy who had been theirs from the very first second.
To mark the occasion they had a small family celebration. Artyom was racing around the apartment squealing with a new toy car, while Arina and Grandma were setting the table. In the midst of the fun, the doorbell rang.
On the threshold stood two elderly strangers—a gray-haired woman with a proud bearing and a thin old man, stooped with age.
“Forgive us for intruding,” the woman said softly. “We… we got your address from the investigator. May we… may we at least take a quick look at our great-grandson?”
Konstantin invited them in. The old couple froze on the threshold of the nursery, not daring to take a step. They watched Artyom, who was absorbed in building a tower out of blocks, and their eyes filled with tears—not bitter ones, but bright, cleansing tears.
“Thank you,” the grandmother whispered, turning to Arina and Konstantin. “Thank you, from the bottom of our hearts. We know everything. What happiness it is that it was you who found him by the river that day.” She paused, gathering her thoughts. “We want to give you a house. And a dacha. Let it all belong to Artyom. Come visit us whenever you like. You are our family now.”
Arina embraced the frail shoulders of the old woman, and Konstantin gave the grandfather a firm, manly handshake. At that moment Artyom was finishing his block castle, completely immersed in his wonderful, safe world.
And outside the window, through the lace of the curtains, gentle summer sunlight was streaming in. It filled the room with a warm, honeyed glow that promised many long years of the same warmth, light and tranquility. A life that had room for true love, loyalty and quiet, solid family happiness, shining like a beacon and showing the way to everyone who still believes in miracles