Loneliness crashed down on him like a heavy, unbearable weight, leaving behind only a ringing emptiness and two small, defenseless hearts beating in time with his own confused, aching one. It felt as if life itself had lost all color, turning into a black-and-white negative where every morning was exactly like the last.
He loved her, his Larisa, madly, blindly, with no trace of common sense. That love had taken root back in the carefree days of childhood, in the same courtyard, on the same old swings. And while he secretly watched the girl with the straw-colored hair, another girl, with dark, serious eyes, was quietly watching him.
The neighbor girl, always so cheerful and loud, unexpectedly for everyone responded to his quiet, devoted love. Later, as an adult, she would admit to herself that her decision hadn’t come from the heart, but from a cold, practical calculation, whispered by her mother.
“Look around you! What can those flighty boys with their loud songs and empty dreams give you? But this one is different. He studies, he’ll have a real profession in his hands. And he looks at you as if you’re the only sun in his sky. With him you’ll be safe, like behind a stone wall. You’ll be warm and protected.”
The girl listened to the voice of reason, afraid of repeating her mother’s fate—always tired, always working herself to the bone just to raise a fatherless daughter. She said “yes,” and he, stunned by happiness, never even thought to look for a catch. He had no idea that after the wedding, in secret from everyone, his wife occasionally met with that same guy with the guitar, whose smile had once made her heart race.
“Don’t be a fool!” her mother hissed. “If he finds out, he’ll throw you out! And you’ll end up with nothing, nobody needing you.”
The young wife only brushed her off, believing she had the right to small secrets. Then their daughter was born, and soon after, a son.
“Thank God,” the grandmother crossed herself, studying the babies, “at least they don’t look like you. Your father’s everywhere in them. I was so afraid you’d spring that kind of surprise on me.”
Her husband spent days and nights at work, and as soon as he came home, he jumped straight into house chores. None of his friends knew that he ironed the diapers himself and cooked dinner—over time the friends simply disappeared on their own, swallowed up by the whirlpool of his new, endlessly busy life. After he got married, his parents moved to a quiet village. That didn’t bother him; he was ready to pull this entire cart alone, as long as his sun kept shining by his side.
But one day the sun went out. She left. She abandoned him and their two little ones.
“You’ll do better on your own,” were her last words. “What kind of mother am I? And Pasha and I… we’re leaving. To the capital. He’s been offered a gig there, first in a restaurant, and then—who knows. Forgive me.”
“Forgive what?” His voice sounded hoarse and strange. “Fine, me. But the children… they love you.”
“Please, they’re still little, they don’t understand anything. They’ll forget quickly.”
That was when she appeared in the house—Veronika. That same dark-eyed girl from his childhood. She came to help, to support him, to take part of his unbearable burden onto her own fragile shoulders. And then somehow, all by itself, it turned into her staying. For good.
She dreamed of having a child of her own, but the doctors only spread their hands—health issues, natural motherhood was out of the question.
“Don’t cry,” he stroked her hair, feeling guilty.
“I’m not crying,” she smiled, lifting her shining eyes to him. “These two are more than enough for me. I love them like they’re my own.”
Meanwhile, in the capital, things with his ex-wife and her musician were going as smoothly as possible. He was invited into a real band, and she, out of boredom, started going to auditions. A random casting call, and then a role in a TV series—a woman with a difficult fate, whom she played with surprisingly piercing, truthful emotion. It turned out she had talent.
He clicked the remote, and the screen went dark.
“Never thought…” he whispered, clenching his fingers so they wouldn’t tremble.
Why couldn’t he erase her from his memory even now? Veronika was putting the children to bed. Ten-year-old Ksyusha, already half asleep, mumbled, putting special emphasis on the most important word:
“I love you. You’re my mom.”
Veronika swallowed the lump in her throat.
“And I love you, my darling.”
She really had made her peace with it. She saw these children as her own continuation, her destiny. With the girl, she was bound by a tender, deep friendship. With the boy, Dimas, things were harder. Sometimes he’d explode, scream that she was a stranger, that his real mother was a celebrity and she was nobody. Then, after cooling down and feeling ashamed, he’d come to make peace.
“Ver… you’re not mad, are you? I didn’t mean it.”
She would hug him and whisper that everything was fine, that she wasn’t angry. She understood his pain, his anger, his confusion. No matter how hard she tried, he remembered his mother. And in his soul, Veronika was a thief who had taken someone else’s place.
Time passed, storms quieted, life settled into a calm course. From the first days of living with Veronika, he had felt a striking difference—a home filled with warmth, coziness, and care—and he was almost happy. He valued her and tried to give back in kind. But one shadow always hovered nearby—the shadow of the past. He couldn’t forget his first love. Many nights he lay awake, and memories of faces, sounds, smiles rose up before him. It would have been easier if he’d known that things hadn’t worked out for her, that life had punished her for her cruelty. But she soared somewhere in the clouds, having become an unreachable star. When would this tormenting marathon finally end?
Ksyusha turned sixteen. The house was caught up in graduation fever. The girl was so anxious she’d lost weight, and the pretty dress they’d bought in advance hung on her like a sack.
“Mom, what am I going to do?” she asked miserably, pinching a loose fold at her waist.
Dimas, sprawled on the couch with his phone, grimaced in his usual way when he heard his sister call Veronika “Mom.” He’d long since gotten used to her, respected her, but called her only by her name.
“Take it off, I’ll alter it,” Veronika reassured her. “Dimas, help me get the sewing machine out?”
“Yeah, just a sec, I’ll finish this game. Couple of minutes.”
The girl went to her room to change, Veronika headed toward the bathroom, and just then the doorbell rang—sharp, insistent. Grumbling under his breath, Dimas went to answer it. On the doorstep stood Her. Bathed in sunlight, loaded with glossy, brightly colored shopping bags from expensive boutiques.
“Wow! Look how big you’ve grown!” she exclaimed with fawning delight. “And where’s your sister? I brought treats.”
“Mom…” slipped from his lips before he could stop it, and then he shouted, choking on his own excitement: “Mom! Mom’s here! Ksyukha, come here!”
Ksenia came out of her room in a robe, with the dress in her hands. Veronika froze on the threshold of the living room; her face turned chalk-white, and her hand instinctively pressed to her heart. Seeing her frightened look, the girl stepped into the hallway.
“Why are you yelling?” she asked her brother coldly. “My mom is here. Who invited you?”
“Oh, how unfriendly!” the guest laughed. “And I tried so hard, brought all of this from the capital.”
“You needn’t have bothered.”
“And what kind of ‘mom’ showed up here? Let me have a look.”
Dropping the bags in the hall and ruffling her son’s hair, the woman walked into the apartment. Seeing Veronika, she smiled ironically.
“You? Well, of course. I could’ve guessed. You followed him around like a puppy since childhood. So? Shall we talk?”
“Kids, go to your room,” Veronika squeezed out. “We need to discuss something.”
“Dimasik, take the gifts, I brought you the latest model phones. And a dress for Ksyusha for graduation. You’re in ninth grade, right?”
The girl didn’t bother to answer, turned around and walked away. Dimas, gathering up the bags, trudged after her.
“What’s with you? You could at least pretend to be happy. Your mother tried, you know…”
“She’s not my mother,” Ksenia cut her off. “How can you act like such an idiot? She abandoned us! You were three, you don’t remember anything!”
Veronika and the uninvited guest went into the kitchen. The latter got straight to the point:
“I won’t stay long. Don’t worry. I have my own life in the capital, everything’s going great. I just want to spend a week at home. With the kids. I hope that’s not a problem?”
“And how do you picture that? The three of us crammed in here together?”
“I can sleep on the couch in the living room. Come on, don’t be stubborn! Mark and I never officially divorced. And I’m still registered here. You know that already.”
Veronika thought of her old apartment, the one she’d never sold or rented out for some reason. Staying here, under one roof with this ghost, was beyond her strength. A primal fear overwhelmed her—not for herself, but for him. The fear of losing everything they had so carefully built. But she had no right to throw this woman out. Not by any law.
“Guys, I’m going to move to my place for a while,” she said, going into the kids’ room. “You can spend some time with… with your mom.”
“Can I go with you?” Ksenia responded immediately.
“Of course, sweetie. But are you sure? She’s only here for a little while.”
“What do you mean, a little while?” Dimas jerked up, tearing himself away from unpacking his new gadget.
Ksenia took her dress, gathered her things, and walked out the door with Veronika. Only outside was Veronika finally able to catch her breath. She dialed her husband.
“Hello?”
“She’s at your place… She wants to stay with the kids. I’ve gone to my apartment, Ksyusha’s with me.”
“Where from?” A heavy pause followed.
“Moscow. Says she’s here for a week.”
“All right. After work I’ll come to you too.”
“Really?” Hope broke through in her voice.
“Of course.”
But he didn’t come. Veronika sat by the window, watching the lights come on in the evening windows across the way. Ksenia came up behind her and hugged her.
“Mom, don’t cry. They don’t deserve it.”
“I’m not crying. It’s all right.”
“I don’t want to grow up at all! All this love of yours… feelings… emotions. One big nightmare!” the girl burst out.
Veronika laughed, but there were tears in that laughter.
“It’s not always like that, sweetheart.”
“And you… are you going to leave him now? Not forgive him?”
“I don’t know, honey. I don’t know.”
And at last the tears poured out. She dropped her head onto her folded arms on the table. Ksenia gently stroked her back, and her whole young, unformed heart tore itself apart with compassion for this woman who had become dearer to her than blood.
Back in his apartment, the air was heavy and strained. The guest ordered dinner from a restaurant. Dimas, after trying the sushi, was not impressed.
“You could’ve asked,” she scolded. “Next time we’ll order pizza.”
“Don’t you know how to cook?”
“When would I have time to learn, sweetheart? My life just doesn’t have room for that,” she smiled awkwardly and shifted her gaze to him. “How do I melt Ksyusha? The girl’s not falling for gifts.”
He, who generally didn’t mind Japanese food, took a sip of wine and shrugged.
“Why bother? Out of principle? You’re going to leave anyway.”
“Sweetheart, can I take you with me?” Dimas perked up.
“Of course, honey! But… my life is very busy. And as you can see, I’m not exactly a kitchen queen.”
“When will you come again?”
“As soon as I can carve out some time—I’ll be right here!”
“So in about eleven years,” he muttered darkly.
“Dimas, go to your room. Your dad and I need to talk. Tomorrow we’ll order the best pizza. Go on.”
The boy sat in his room, gripped by a strange, unpleasant feeling. Somewhere along the way he’d made a mistake. And he didn’t want pizza anymore. Not that. He wanted the homemade kind Veronika baked herself—with a crispy crust, bacon, and fragrant herbs. That pizza was… real. And this woman, his biological mother, turned out to be a stranger—glossy, not matching at all the perfect image he’d carried in his soul for years. He called his sister.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing. Finishing the dress. We’re getting ready for bed. And you?”
“Come get me, please?” he whimpered.
“Tomorrow. After school.”
“It’s not tasty here. Come get me now.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have yelled ‘Mom’s here!’ Now sit there and enjoy the life lesson.”
“What’s going on?” came Veronika’s calm voice through the phone.
“Dimas wants to come to us.”
“Let him come out. I’ll come meet him. It’s two minutes.”
“Yay!” the boy whispered. “Veronika is awesome.”
In the kitchen, the guest, coquettishly fixing her hair, was saying:
“I don’t believe you don’t want to relive the old days. Come on, Mark! We were so good together.”
“I don’t,” he lied, feeling the tremor creeping up from his fingertips. Hold it together, he told himself. “Behave yourself. You came to see the kids? Then focus on the kids.”
He could feel he was on the verge of giving in, of surrendering, because every cell in his body still remembered that pull—but if he did, he would lose her. The one who had become his true home. In his mind he pleaded with the heavens for strength.
“Quiet! I heard something.”
“You imagined it… Come on, Mark!”
“No, there’s something there!”
He went into the hallway and flipped on the light. Dimas, caught in the act, was hurriedly pulling on his sneakers. Beside him lay a stuffed backpack.
“And where are you going?” his father asked sternly.
“Well… to Veronika’s, you know.”
“It’s already night.”
“She said it’s okay. We agreed.”
The woman came out into the hall and stared at her son. He dropped his eyes, feeling like a traitor. The man sighed, took his jacket from the hook, grabbed his keys.
“You’re all crazy!” she shrieked.
“Sorry,” he said with a helpless shrug, and he and his son went out, quietly closing the door behind them.
She went back to the kitchen, poured herself more wine, lit a cigarette. Turned off the light. She stared into the dark window, beyond which three people—her ex-husband, her son, and that woman—were walking toward another house, another life. A strange, stabbing sadness clenched her heart. She’d thought at least her son would be happy to see her. She shouldn’t have started all this. She should’ve just gone to the Maldives like she’d planned. She only had one week off, and then filming again, fifteen hours a day, six days a week. That was her life, and most of the time it suited her just fine.
In Veronika’s old apartment, peace and quiet finally settled. Everyone went to their rooms. He tried to speak, but she stopped him.
“Wait. My head is still buzzing from all of this. Let me pull myself together.”
“But you didn’t think anything bad, did you?”
“I did.”
“How could you?”
“Because you didn’t come. You promised you would, but you stayed there.”
“I needed to see her. Just see her and understand. And now I understand.”
“Shh. I see. I’m going to check on the kids and come back.”
On the threshold she stopped and turned around. Light flickered in her eyes, and in that shimmer there was irony mixed with pain.
“So? Is your great feeling for her still alive?”
He laughed. Softly, calmly. Today he had realized one simple but very important thing. It turned out that great love is not always fire and passion. Sometimes it is a quiet light in the window you hurry home to. It is warm hands that know how to soothe your pain. And that old love turned out not to be love at all, but a shadow. A shadow of the past that fades and vanishes with the first rays of a real morning. You can’t build a home on shadows. You can’t embrace them. They don’t mean anything.
She walked into the children’s room. Ksenia was already asleep, breathing evenly and deeply. Veronika kissed her on the cheek and tucked the blanket around her. She moved over to Dimas and startled: in the darkness two wide-open eyes were clearly visible, watching her closely.
“Why aren’t you asleep? You scared me.”
She reached for his blanket, but he grabbed her hand. His whisper was very childlike, full of sincerity:
“I’m sorry. I thought she was my real one… but it turns out she isn’t. The real one is you.”
“Sleep now, it’s late.”
She hesitantly bent down to kiss his forehead and heard:
“I’ll learn. I promise.”
“Learn what?” she asked, surprised.
“To call you Mom.”
And toward morning, when the first rays of sun slipped into the room, lighting up Veronika’s sleeping face, he watched her and thought that the greatest happiness was not in loud passions or blinding flashes, but in this quiet, piercing harmony. In a warm sweater neatly folded over a chair. In the smell of fresh baking coming from the kitchen. In the laughter of children who had finally found their real, unshakable haven.
He gently pulled the blanket higher over her shoulder, and she smiled in her sleep without waking. And outside the window a new day was beginning—pure, bright, and infinitely kind, filled with quiet joy and a boundless trust in life, which, despite all its storms, always finds its way to a calm, shining harbor