The school auditorium buzzed with children’s voices. Kostya sat in the farthest corner, fiddling with the sleeve of his worn sweater—the only decent one he could find in his closet. The elementary school’s autumn festival always drew many parent volunteers, and today was no exception.
The festive chaos reigned around—mothers in autumn coats bustled back and forth with trays of homemade pastries, hanging garlands of maple leaves on the walls. Now and then, one would stop to kiss her child on the top of the head or carefully adjust a displaced scarf.
Kostya cast his eyes to the floor, but his traitorous gaze kept returning to those happy faces—the flushed children from running around, their smiling mothers hugging their children. Aunt Nina, with whom he had lived for the last three years, of course, didn’t come—“too busy at work,” as always. Kostya was used to her perpetual busyness and indifferent looks, but today it hurt especially.
“Olga Sergeyevna, thank you for coming to help!” Maria Petrovna’s voice rang out, their homeroom teacher. “You really saved us with the decorating!”
Kostya looked up. A tall woman in a warm burgundy sweater was arranging some crafts on the table. She had kind brown eyes and a soft smile that gathered little wrinkles around her eyes. Something about her was captivating—perhaps the smooth movements of her hands as she adjusted the display, or how she patiently listened to every child running up to her.
Without realizing it, the boy stood up from his spot and slowly moved towards the craft table. His legs seemed to carry him on their own. Olga was just bending down to pick up a fallen paper bird when he stopped next to her.
«Hello,» Kostya said quietly, feeling his heart pounding somewhere in his throat.
She turned to him, and her smile grew even warmer: “Hello! Are you also participating in the exhibition?”
Kostya shook his head, unable to take his eyes off her face. Words escaped him before he had a chance to think: “Could you… could you be my mom for just one day?”
Silence hung in the air. Olga froze with the paper bird in her hands, and Kostya saw her fingers tremble. At that moment, he was ready to sink through the ground with shame, but something kept him there—perhaps a desperate hope or the gentle look in those brown eyes.
Olga caught her breath. The child’s request, so simple and guileless, slashed like a sharp knife across old scars in her soul. Five years ago, she lost her only son to cursed leukemia. Since then, she had carefully avoided anything that could remind her of motherhood. But now, this boy with eyes full of hope…
“I…” she began, but her voice trembled.
«Kostya!» Maria Petrovna’s alarmed voice approached. The teacher was hurrying towards them, adjusting her glasses as she walked. “I apologize, Olga Sergeyevna. Kostya is our…” she hesitated, searching for words, “special boy.”
But Kostya was already stepping back, his face flushed with shame. Tears gleamed in his eyes.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean… I’ll go.”
“Wait!” Olga hadn’t expected her own voice to sound so loud. Several parents turned towards them. “Please wait.”
She crouched down to be at eye level with the boy. His shoulders were tense, as if bracing for a blow.
“Maria Petrovna,” Olga looked up at the teacher, “can we talk? The three of us?”
Within five minutes, they were sitting in an empty classroom. Sunbeams slanted through large windows, casting whimsical shadows of maple leaves outside on the wall. Kostya hunched on the chair, trying to appear as small as possible.
“Kostya lives with his aunt,” Maria Petrovna explained quietly. “His mom… she couldn’t take care of him. And the aunt…” she shook her head, “works around the clock. The boy is practically always alone.”
Olga watched Kostya, who was intently examining his worn sneakers. Her heart clenched at how lost he looked.
“And what if…” she took a deep breath, “what if we really spent one day together? This weekend?”
Kostya’s head snapped up, his eyes widening with surprise and distrust.
«Really?» he whispered. “Are you joking?”
“No, I’m not joking,” Olga felt her lips stretching into a smile. “Of course, we need your aunt’s permission and…”
“I’ll talk to her,” Maria Petrovna quickly interjected. “I think she’d be glad if someone spent time with Kostya. Olga Sergeyevna, are you sure?”
Was she sure? Not at all. This madness could stir up old wounds, could bring new pain. But when she looked into those hopeful eyes…
“Yes,” Olga said firmly. “I’m sure.”
The smile that lit up Kostya’s face was brighter than all the autumn garlands in the auditorium.
Saturday turned out surprisingly warm for mid-October. Olga nervously adjusted her coat collar, glancing at her watch. Five minutes to ten. They had agreed to meet at the park entrance at ten in the morning. She arrived twenty minutes early—nervousness wouldn’t let her sit at home.
“Olga Sergeyevna!” A ringing voice cut through the morning stillness.
Kostya was running down the alley, waving his arms. He wore the same worn jacket, but his neck was carefully wrapped in a brand-new scarf.
“Hello, Kostya,” she smiled, noting his flushed cheeks from running. “And where’s your aunt?”
“She’s at work,” Kostya panted, catching his breath. “She said she had an emergency call. But I walked here myself, it’s close!”
Olga frowned. To let an eight-year-old child go alone…
“I walk by myself almost every day,” Kostya hastily added, as if reading her thoughts. “To school and to the store. I know how to cross the street!”
Something painfully pricked her chest. Olga squatted in front of him, adjusting the askew scarf: “Nice scarf. New?”
“Yes!” the boy beamed. “Maria Petrovna gave it to me. She said you need to dress warmly in autumn.”
“Thank you, Maria Petrovna,” Olga thought silently. Aloud, she said: “So, what are your plans for our day?”
Kostya suddenly became shy, his eyes downcast: “What… what do mothers usually do with their children?”
From this simple question, her heart ached. Olga momentarily closed her eyes, remembering. What did they do with Dima? Her little son loved…
“You know what?” she gently touched the boy’s shoulder. “Once, my… a boy loved to feed ducks at the pond. Then we always went for hot chocolate and shared secrets. How about that plan?”
“Can we?” Kostya’s eyes lit up. “Really? I even have bread!” he patted his jacket pocket. “I took some this morning, just in case…”
Olga felt a lump rise in her throat. This little person, who had prepared bread in advance, hoping for a miracle…
“Of course we can,” she straightened up and reached out her hand. “Let’s go?”
Kostya hesitated for a second, looking at her outstretched hand. Then cautiously, as if afraid to scare the moment away, he placed his small hand in hers. His fingers were cold—he must have been waiting outside for a while. Olga instinctively squeezed them a bit tighter, warming them.
They slowly walked down the leaf-strewn alley. Kostya occasionally jumped on particularly crunchy leaves, but he didn’t let go of her hand. And with each step, his palm grew warmer.
At the pond, it was quiet—only ducks quietly communicated among themselves, cutting through the smooth water surface. The sun had risen higher, and its rays sparkled in the slight ripples. Kostya pulled out bread carefully wrapped in a napkin and now diligently crumbled it into small pieces.
“That’s right, just like that,” Olga nodded approvingly. “Small pieces are easier for them.”
“And you… you…” Kostya stumbled, unsure how to address her, “what should I call you?”
“You can call me Aunt Olya,” she suggested gently, sitting down next to him on a bench.
Kostya shook his head: “I don’t want an aunt. I already have an aunt. She…” he fell silent, focusing on the bread in his hands.
“And what’s she like, your aunt?” Olga asked cautiously.
“She’s not mean,” the boy said quickly. “Just… just busy. And she doesn’t like when I’m home. Says I make too much noise. But I try to be quiet! Really!” he looked up at Olga, as if seeking confirmation that they believed him.
“You know,” Olga reached out and brushed a yellow leaf stuck to his jacket, “sometimes adults say such things not because it’s true, but because it’s hard for them too.”
A pair of ducks swam up, and Kostya began tossing them crumbs, thoughtfully watching the birds snatch the bread from the water.
“And my mom…” he hesitated, “she just left. Aunt says she was too young to be a mom. But other moms are young too, and they don’t leave,” his voice carried a child’s resentment mixed with bewilderment.
Olga caught her breath. She glanced at the boy—how he slouched on the bench, mechanically fiddling with his jacket sleeve, trying to appear grown-up and strong. But children’s shoulders aren’t meant to bear such burdens, and her heart ached at the sight.
“Can I tell you something?” she asked quietly. Kostya nodded, not taking his eyes off the ducks. “I had a son. His name was Dima. He also loved feeding ducks… and building forts from pillows… and hated semolina porridge.”
Now Kostya was looking at her wide-eyed: “And where is he now?”
“He died. Five years ago. He was your age.”
“From an illness?” Kostya whispered.
“Yes, little one. From an illness.”
They fell silent. The ducks, having gathered all the crumbs, leisurely swam to the other shore. Suddenly, Kostya moved closer and cautiously placed his palm on her hand:
“You know what? Maybe he sent you to me? So you wouldn’t be alone, and I… so I could have a mom. At least for today.”
Olga felt a tear roll down her cheek. She quickly wiped it away, but Kostya noticed.
“Don’t cry,” he said with that special seriousness only children have, “want me to give you more bread? For the ducks?”
And she laughed through tears, pulling him to her by the shoulders: “Thank you, Kostya. You’re a very kind boy.”
“It’s because I have a mom today,” he simply replied, snuggling up to her side. “Where will we go next?”
In a small cafe, the air was fragrant with cinnamon and vanilla. They settled at a window table, covered with a checkered tablecloth. Kostya looked around curiously—he had clearly never been to such places before.
“Two hot chocolates,” Olga told the young waitress. “And, perhaps…” she looked at Kostya, “what would you like with your chocolate?”
“Um… can I?” he blinked in confusion.
“Of course. Look, here are the pastries, here are the croissants…”
“I don’t know,” Kostya whispered. “I’ve never eaten this before.”
Olga felt something prick in her chest. “Then let’s try different things?” she suggested. “Please, one blueberry croissant and one strawberry pastry. Can you cut them in half?”
When the waitress walked away, Kostya moved closer: “Is it true that in cafes you need to sit straight and… and put a napkin on your lap?” he asked in a whisper.
“Who told you that?”
“I read it in a book,” he blushed a little. “I read a lot. When I’m home alone… well, so it’s not boring.”
“What do you like to read?” Olga pushed the freshly brought hot chocolate with a whipped cream cap towards him.
Kostya’s eyes sparkled: “About adventures! And about animals. You know… you know, I once found a kitten. A very small one. Wanted to keep it, but aunt said—no…”
He carefully wrapped both hands around the large cup, blew on the steam. Then he took a sip and froze with such an expression of bliss on his face that Olga couldn’t help but smile.
“Tasty?”
“Very!” he licked his chocolate mustache. “Better than packet cocoa.”
“You make cocoa yourself?”
“Yeah. And dinner too,” he shrugged with unchildlike businesslike air. “Aunt comes home late, and I go to bed early. I know how to cook pasta and fry eggs. Only it often burns…” he smiled sheepishly.
Olga watched as he carefully cut the croissant into small pieces, trying not to crumble it on the table, and felt something large and warm grow in her chest, resembling determination.
“Want me to teach you how to make real hot chocolate?” she suddenly offered. “You can make it at home too. You just need milk, chocolate, and…”
“Really teach me?” he interrupted with delight. But then he hesitated, and his face saddened. “But… but when? After all, today is just one day…”
“Well,” Olga hesitated, gathering her thoughts, “what if… what if not just today? What if we could see each other sometimes? Like on weekends?”
Kostya froze with an uneaten piece of croissant in his hand. So many emotions flashed in his eyes at once—hope, distrust, joy, and fear.
“Do you really… really want to see me?” he whispered. “Not because you were asked to?”
“Really,” Olga said firmly. “I really want to. If you want to, of course.”
Instead of replying, Kostya suddenly jumped up from his seat and hugged her tightly. From his crown wafted the smell of autumn wind and, for some reason, apples.
“So, it’s decided,” Olga whispered, hugging him back. “And now let’s try this strawberry pastry. I think it’s been waiting for us.”
Evening crept up unnoticed. The sun was already setting, tinting the sky in soft pink tones, when they approached the building where Kostya lived. An ordinary five-story building—peeling paint, old swings in the yard, a bench with a peeled backrest. Olga felt the boy squeeze her hand tighter.
“Aunt is probably home already,” he said quietly, slowing down. “She has a short shift today…”
His voice carried such undisguised longing that Olga’s heart ached. The day flew by like a single moment—they walked in the park after the cafe, fed pigeons, talked about everything under the sun. Kostya told her about school, about the books he had read, about his dreams. Such simple, childish dreams—to get a kitten, learn to ride a bike, try to bake a real cake…
“Wait,” Olga stopped and squatted in front of him. “Remember what I said in the cafe? About weekends?”
Kostya nodded, but doubt still read in his eyes: “What if… what if aunt doesn’t allow it?”
“I’ll talk to her. And to Maria Petrovna. We’ll figure something out, I promise.”
“Really-really?” he looked into her eyes intently, as if trying to find confirmation of her words there.
“Really-really. You know,” she smiled softly, “I don’t want this day to be the last either.”
Suddenly a window slammed shut upstairs. “Kostya!” a female voice called out. “Where have you been? It’s getting dark!”
The boy flinched: “That’s aunt… I have to go.”
But instead of running to the entrance, he suddenly hugged Olga tightly: “Thank you for being my mom today,” he whispered in her ear. “This was the best day.”
Olga hugged him back tightly, feeling her eyes sting treacherously: “You know what? You also gave me the best day. And this is just the beginning, you hear?”
Kostya stepped back, smiled—for the first time all day, a truly happy smile: “I’ll be waiting. Every weekend.”
“Kostya!” the voice called again from above.
“Run,” Olga gently pushed him towards the entrance. “See you next Saturday.”
She watched as he ran up the steps, turning around and waving at her intermittently. And after he disappeared behind the entrance door, she stood for a long time, watching the lit windows.
Suddenly she realized that for the first time in five years, she thought of Dima without acute pain in her heart. As if her son had indeed sent her this little boy—to heal, to remind her what it’s like to be a mother, to love and be loved.
“Thank you, son,” she whispered, looking into the darkening sky.
And then she took out her phone and dialed Maria Petrovna’s number. A serious conversation about the future—hers and Kostya’s—lay ahead. Because sometimes one day can change a whole life. Or two lives.
And just a month later, Olga’s apartment would have a new room—with bookshelves, a toy kitten on a pillow, and a real bicycle. Because dreams should come true. Especially when believed in by two.
