Rita hadn’t seen her son for two years. From the new photos he posted on his profile, she knew that Vasya was doing fine—though she didn’t see it that way.
He met Marta in his final year at university. By then, Vasya had been dating a sweet girl named Ira for two years, a girl who reminded Rita of a younger version of herself: short, plump, with a pretty face and real cooking skills. Rita liked Ira, and she was already planning who they would invite to the wedding and how many grandchildren Ira would give her. Better yet—granddaughters. Rita had always dreamed of having a daughter, but after Vasya she’d had surgery, and she could never have children again.
“I think Vasya is having an affair,” little Ira confessed one day, sniffling with her button nose.
Rita sat the girl down beside her and told her to spill everything, no hiding details.
It turned out that Ira and Vasya had planned to go to China for their honeymoon, and Vasya had enrolled in Chinese classes—even though Ira told him English would be enough. But Vasya imagined he’d amaze the Chinese with his perfect pronunciation, so off he went to the courses.
“At first I didn’t pay attention,” Ira оправдывалась. “Well, he mentions this Marta. But she’s married. And she’s ten years older than him! I didn’t even think I needed to forbid him from talking to her. And now… they’re constantly texting, going places after class, even though he denies everything. But I followed them and saw them go into a café. And he told me he went straight home.”
Rita tried to knock some sense into her son, but only made things worse: he admitted he was in love with Marta and would do anything to make her leave her husband.
“Why do you need someone else’s child?” Rita protested. “Ira will give you your own!”
“Mom, you don’t understand—I love her!”
And then it got even worse. It turned out Marta had a transplanted kidney and wouldn’t be able to have any more children, because she was always taking medications. That was it for Rita—she took a hard stance.
“She won’t set foot in here!”
Vasya only shrugged.
“Fine.”
Rita was practically celebrating her victory and telling Ira to just wait a little—where could he go? He’d come crawling back, realize what a treasure he’d lost!
But things weren’t as Rita imagined. The fact that he didn’t bring Marta home to meet her didn’t mean it was over. On the contrary—one day her son came and said:
“Marta and I decided to get married.”
Rita’s vision actually darkened.
“What do you mean, get married?”
“Exactly that.”
“So you’re marrying her?”
“Yes.”
Rita could understand the ten-year age gap. She could try to accept someone else’s child. She could even survive the wedding—if there was a wedding. But Vasya said they would just register at the civil office.
“What about guests? A celebration? A proper wedding?” Rita couldn’t wrap her head around it.
“Mom, that’s last century! Who even needs that?”
“I need it, Vasenka. You’re my only son, so be a good boy—show your mother some respect. What am I supposed to tell the relatives?”
“Whatever you want. Marta doesn’t like all that pomp. She didn’t do it the first time she got married either.”
“And where did that get her?” Rita pounced. “She’s divorcing! Vasya, why do you need all this? She can’t give birth, she doesn’t want a wedding, and you’ll be raising someone else’s kid… What kind of nerve does she have!”
“Don’t talk about Marta like that!” Vasya snapped, offended. “I love her, you understand?”
Rita didn’t understand. She even thought Marta had bewitched him, so she went to the gypsy woman on the third floor and asked how to remove the spell. The woman said:
“Only love can undo a love spell.”
Rita didn’t understand what that meant. And she went straight to Marta—to demand that she leave her son alone.
Vasya was furious with Rita after that conversation. He said Marta cried and even gave his ring back. Rita thought her prayers had been answered, but it turned out differently: Vasya packed his things and moved out, declaring that until his mother made peace with Marta, he didn’t want to see her.
“He disowned his own mother!” Rita told everyone. “I raised him, gave him my whole soul—and now look at it: he doesn’t need his mother, tossed me out like trash!”
For the first year Ira supported Rita a lot and was like a daughter to her. Deep down, Rita kept hoping Vasya would come to his senses and go back to Ira. But after a year Ira started dating another boy and married him barely six months later. As it turned out, she got pregnant. Rita was hurt to tears—because Ira could have given her a grandson. Or better yet, a granddaughter.
Vasya still didn’t speak to Rita. And she didn’t speak to him. No—they exchanged dry holiday greetings, but he never visited. And Rita never invited him. Out of pride.
And then one day she was walking to the market to buy peaches and saw Vasya. He was crossing the street, holding a tiny curly-haired girl in his arms. She looked so much like Vasya as a child that Rita actually gasped—her granddaughter, just as she had dreamed. And immediately hot tears rose in her throat: how could he? He had a daughter and told Rita nothing?
Her first impulse was to go up and scold him. But she pushed that thought away at once—no, she wouldn’t humiliate herself like that. She should have turned around and left, but she couldn’t. She followed her son at a distance and found out where he lived now. In the courtyard he walked with the little girl—pushed her on the swings, helped her climb the slide. The girl was wonderful; Rita’s eyes kept filling with tears as she watched her. When her son took his daughter inside, Rita sighed and went home.
From that day on, she came to that building several times and waited to see if her son would come out with the girl. He did—sometimes with the little one alone, sometimes taking Marta’s older daughter too. Marta herself came out with the children only once—what a lazy woman! Rita realized her son needed help. She went to a children’s store, bought gifts for her granddaughter, and went to find Vasya’s apartment—asked an old woman on the bench, and the woman told her right away.
Vasya opened the door. He was stunned.
“Mom?”
“Well, look at that—you still remember what I look like,” Rita grumbled as she squeezed into the apartment. “You’ve got no shame! Why didn’t you tell me you had a daughter?”
Vasya looked at Rita like he didn’t understand what she was talking about. At that moment Marta herself came out into the hallway—puffy-looking, maybe pregnant again. So why had they lied to Rita that Marta couldn’t have children?
“Hello, Margarita Vitalyevna,” Marta greeted her.
An older girl peeked out from behind her.
“Where is my granddaughter?” Rita asked строго.
“She’s sleeping,” the girl squeaked.
Without asking permission, Rita went into the bathroom and washed her hands. Then she went into the room to the crib, where the curly-haired angel was sleeping. Her eyes grew wet again.
“She looks so much like you, Vasenka,” Rita whispered.
Vasya cleared his throat.
“Mom… we adopted her.”
Rita felt like someone had punched the air out of her. Adopted? It felt like they’d deceived her. It was even worse than Vasya hiding the child’s birth.
Angry tears burst from her eyes. Rita shoved the older girl, who was getting in the way under her feet, and ran out.
“Grandma, where are you going?” the girl piped up.
Rita ran without looking where she was going, stumbled several times, almost fell. She was afraid Vasya would run after her, but apparently he didn’t care what he’d done to his mother.
She got home out of her mind. Her phone rang several times, but she ignored it. The dream she’d built in her imagination shattered to pieces. And that stupid Marta was to blame.
Only in the evening did she pick up the phone. Missed calls—from her son. So at least a little conscience had awakened. Maybe he’d come to his senses and wanted to come back home? Rita saw he’d also sent a message.
“Mom, I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d react like this. Veronika is my daughter, and you’ll have to accept it. Or you won’t—but then I won’t be in your life either. I asked you not to upset Marta. You know she has health problems, and right now she’s worse. The prognosis is that she may have a year or two left, if the doctors don’t come up with something else. I want her to be happy for as long as she has. And I want our girls to be happy. Like I was happy in my childhood.”
A big tear dropped onto the phone screen. Rita sobbed. For some reason she remembered the thin little voice of the older girl: “Grandma, where are you going?”
That night she barely slept. She tossed and turned, thinking about Vasya, remembering how sweet he’d been as a child. She thought about Ira—what a wonderful wife she would have been for him! But what could she do—he chose someone else.
In the morning Rita got herself together and went back to her son’s. Marta opened the door. She looked silently and waited. Vasya came into the hallway. He stepped forward and shielded Marta with his body, as if Rita might hit her.
“You could’ve figured it out and called Mikhailov,” Rita grumbled. “Or at least told me. What is this—kindergarten? You know I have connections. It’s fine, I already called him myself this morning. Appointment tomorrow at nine.”
Mikhailov—Dima—was her classmate. And now a star surgeon. Rita didn’t know the details of Marta’s problems, but Mikhailov would sort it out on the spot. For Rita, he’d dig a doctor out of the ground—he’d been in love with her since school. And he still loved her.
Marta looked questioningly at Vasya. He said uncertainly:
“But does he even specialize in—”
“Dima specializes in everything,” Rita cut him off. “And if he doesn’t, he’ll find someone who does. My granddaughter needs a healthy mother, understand? So don’t argue—take all the test results and go tomorrow.”
“And what about the kids?” Vasya asked uncertainly.
“And what am I for?” Rita asked, offended. “Do you really think I can’t sit with my granddaughters?”
Vasya wanted to say something, but Marta gently took his hand and said:
“Thank you, Margarita Vitalyevna. I’m very grateful to you. Veronika is asleep again—come on in, she should be waking up soon.”
Rita went to the bathroom, washed her hands, and went into the now-familiar room. In the crib, sleepy Veronika was stirring. A real little angel, and so much like Vasya as a child. Rita’s eyes filled again. Hesitantly she reached out and touched the tiny palm. So small. Could this child be about to lose her mother for the second time? No—Rita wouldn’t allow it. If she had to, she’d marry Dima—fine, he’d waited long enough—if only he’d save that unfortunate Marta.
Vasya looked at Marta the way he looked at Rita once—her husband had looked at her like that too. She’d had a good husband. She wore mourning for him for ten years. Maybe that was enough. Rita would still live. And Marta would live too.
Rita glanced at her daughter-in-law; Marta smiled awkwardly. Maybe she wasn’t that bad…
At that moment Vasya came up and hugged Rita.
“Pretty, isn’t she?” he whispered.
Rita nodded. Those stupid eyes grew wet again.
“Thanks, Mom,” he said.
Rita sniffled. In the end, her son wasn’t so bad. Her husband would definitely be proud of them. And she was proud too—though it was still a pity he didn’t marry Ira.
Just then Veronika opened her eyes, looked at Rita, and smiled. And that toothless smile wiped every thought from Rita’s head at once. All that remained was a sharp feeling of happiness and peace—and the certainty that everything would be alright