The knock at the door came just as I was about to throw away another batch of burnt pancakes. Three in the morning—not exactly the ideal time for culinary experiments—but insomnia combined with VK video recipes is a dangerous mix.
— “If it’s Petrovich again with his homemade moonshine, I swear I…” I mumbled, wiping my hands on an apron that read “Best Monday Chef.”
The knock repeated. This time it was softer, as if the person at the door had reconsidered and decided to leave. I peeked out the window—the darkness was so complete you couldn’t see your own eyes, except for the lantern by the gate, flickering like a hungover firefly.
When I opened the door, I froze. On the threshold stood a woven basket. “Not this again,” flashed through my mind, just as a soft whimper came from the basket.
Two infants. One was sleeping with tiny fists clenched, while the other stared at me with tear-filled eyes. Next to them was a note, written in a nervous, hurried hand: “Please, save them. It’s the only thing I can do.”
— “Damn it…” I started, then caught myself remembering the children. “I mean, oh my god.”
My hands trembled as I brought the basket inside. Thirty-five years old, a single woman with a cat that doesn’t even catch mice—and suddenly children. I had always dreamed of having them, but in a more… traditional way.
— “Okay, calm down, Anna,” I told myself as I laid the infants on the sofa. “We’ll call the police, and…”
The phone was already in my hand, the number dialed, yet my finger hesitated above the call button. News clips about orphanages, stories of acquaintances who worked in the foster care system flashed before my eyes. No, not that.
The crying baby let out another wail. I dashed to the refrigerator—one liter of milk. That should do. The internet had kindly provided instructions on how to make a homemade formula for newborns.
— “Shh, shh, little one,” I cooed as I fed the first baby. “There we go, good job.”
The second one woke up and started crying too. I was darting back and forth between them like a penguin on roller skates, trying to calm both simultaneously.
Morning found me in the kitchen. The half-eaten pancakes had turned into makeshift coasters for baby bottles, and I sat there, head in my hands, watching the sleeping infants.
— “What am I supposed to do with you?” I whispered.
One of the little ones smiled in his sleep, and something inside me snapped—or perhaps mended. I looked at the phone, then at the children, then back at the phone. And resolutely, I deleted the police number.
— “Alright, kids,” I said, feeling my lips curve into a smile. “It seems you now have a mom. A bit clumsy, but very determined.”
At that moment, both babies woke up and cried in unison.
— “And yes, we urgently need to learn how to change diapers,” I sighed, opening the internet. “Because it looks like we’re in for a very interesting morning.”
Sixteen years flew by like a single day. Actually, no—I lie—it felt like one endless episode of “Santa Barbara,” with each scene filled with drama, comedy, and unexpected plot twists.
— “Aunt Anna, why don’t we have any baby photos?” Kirа asked one morning at breakfast, prodding her oatmeal with a spoon.
I nearly choked on my coffee. Over the sixteen years I had become a virtuoso at lying about a non-existent sister, even concocted a whole story about a tragic car accident, and shed tears a few times at parent meetings, telling how heroically I had taken care of my nieces and nephews.
— “They… burned in a fire,” I blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
— “Along with Mom and Dad?” Maxim joined in, not looking up from his phone.
— “No, it was a different fire,” I felt myself getting tangled in my own lies. “At the photo studio. They had all the films…”
— “In the digital age?” Kirа raised an eyebrow. I had been all over the place in my youth, only now with an extra dose of sarcasm.
— “Honey, are you finishing your oatmeal? Or we’ll be late for school.”
Working two jobs had taught me to change the subject masterfully. In the morning—I was an accountant at a construction firm; in the evening—a private English tutor. In between, there was cooking, cleaning, checking homework, and endless parent chats where moms competed over whose child was the genius.
— “Anna Sergeyevna,” my neighbor Maria Petrovna called as I walked our dog Balamut (a gift for the kids on their seventh birthday, to distract them from questions). “Is it true that your sister was a ballerina?”
— “An artist,” I corrected automatically, mentally cursing my memory. A week ago, I had called her a math teacher.
— “And Klavdia from the fifth building said…”
— “Sorry, Balamut ate something!” I shouted, dragging the perfectly healthy dog home.
In the evening I sat in the kitchen, checking my students’ notebooks and listening to the clamor of the children in the next room. They were whispering about something, and it never meant anything good.
— “Mom,” Maxim appeared in the doorway like a ghost, making me jump. “I mean, Aunt Anna…”
That “aunt” hit my heart painfully. In recent years, they increasingly called me that, especially when they were upset.
— “Kira and I were just thinking…” he faltered. “Could we see some old albums? With Mom and Dad?”
— “Of course!” I replied too quickly. “They’re in the attic, we just need to look for them…”
— “We already looked,” Kirа said as she entered the kitchen with her arms folded. “There’s nothing there.”
I froze, feeling a chill down my spine. There really were albums in the attic—my old photographs, children’s books I had bought even before they existed, dreaming of my own kids. And that very basket with the note that I couldn’t bear to throw away.
— “Kids, I…”
— “Don’t,” Kirа raised her hand. “Just tell the truth. Just once.”
At that moment, the phone rang—a mom wanting to discuss her child’s progress in English. I had never been so glad for spam offering to install plastic windows.
— “Sorry, it’s an important call,” I mumbled as I bolted out of the kitchen.
The evening ended with a silent dinner. The kids went off to their rooms, and I remained in the kitchen, gazing at their childlike drawings on the refrigerator. There was a drawing of a family of little figures, drawn by Kirа in first grade—a mom with a huge smile holding two children by the hands. And a superhero drawn by Maxim—strangely with my hairstyle and wearing an apron that read “Best Monday Chef.”
Suddenly I heard a rustling in the attic. My heart stopped. No, not this. Not now.
Quietly ascending the stairs, I saw light streaming from the attic hatch. And I heard Maxim’s voice:
— “Look what I found…”
In his hands was that very note, yellowed with time but still holding the secret of that night that changed our lives forever.
I froze on the last step, unable to move. Sixteen years of lies, invented stories, and evasive answers crumbled like a house of cards. My throat went dry, and one thought pounded in my head: “I could lose them. Right now.”
— “Mom?” Kirа’s voice trembled. “I mean… who are you really to us?”
That “aunt” had stung my heart. In recent years, they had increasingly called me that, especially when they were angry.
— “Kira and I were just thinking…” he hesitated. “Could we look at the old albums? With Mom and Dad?”
— “Of course!” I answered too quickly. “They’re in the attic, we just need to search for them…”
— “We already looked,” Kirа entered the kitchen with her arms folded. “There’s nothing there.”
I froze, feeling a chill down my spine. In the attic, there really were albums—my old photographs, children’s books I had bought even before you existed, dreaming of my own children. And that very basket with the note I couldn’t bear to discard.
— “Kids, I…”
— “Don’t,” Kirа raised her hand. “Just tell the truth. Just once.”
At that moment the phone rang—another mom wanted to discuss her child’s progress in English. I had never been so grateful for spam offering to install plastic windows.
— “Sorry, it’s an important call,” I mumbled as I bolted out of the kitchen.
The evening ended with a silent dinner. The kids went off to their rooms, and I remained in the kitchen, gazing at their childlike drawings on the refrigerator. There was a drawing of a family of little figures, drawn by Kirа in first grade—a mom with a huge smile holding two children by the hands. And a superhero drawn by Maxim—strangely with my hairstyle and wearing an apron that read “Best Monday Chef.”
Suddenly I heard a rustling in the attic. My heart stopped. No, not this. Not now.
Quietly ascending the stairs, I saw light streaming from the attic hatch. And I heard Maxim’s voice:
— “Look what I found…”
In his hands was that very note, yellowed with time but still holding the secret of that night that changed our lives forever.
I froze on the last step, unable to move. Sixteen years of lies, invented stories, and evasive answers crumbled like a house of cards. My throat went dry, and one thought pounded in my head: “I could lose them. Right now.”
— “Mom?” Kirа’s voice trembled. “I mean… who are you really to us?”
The story demanded a resolution. And it came in the dusty darkness of the attic, amid boxes of the past and the awkward silence of the present.
— “I…I don’t know where to start,” my voice sounded hoarse in the dusty quiet of the attic.
Kirа turned on an old desk lamp, and our shadows danced on the walls like actors in a silent film. Maxim still held the note, his fingers trembling slightly.
— “Maybe start with the truth?” Kirа said, her voice as sharp as steel. “For a change.”
I sank onto an old trunk, my knees buckling. For so many years I had rehearsed this moment in front of the mirror, crafting the perfect words, but now all my practiced speeches evaporated.
— “Remember that time with Balamut when he ate my papers?” I began, surprised at myself.
— “What does that have to do with…” Maxim started.
— “Back then, I said it was the worst night of my life. I lied. The worst—and at the same time the best—night was sixteen years ago, when I tried to make pancakes at three in the morning.”
And then I told them everything. About the knock at the door, the basket, the note. About my fear and panic. About googling “how to calm a crying baby.” About sleepless nights and first smiles.
— “I should have called the police,” my voice trembled. “But I looked at you and… I couldn’t.”
— “You stole us,” Kirа whispered.
— “No! Well, yes. I mean…” I faltered. “I stole you away from a system that would have turned you into just another statistic. From an orphanage that would have torn you apart. From everything you didn’t deserve.”
Maxim sank to the floor, leaning against an old dresser.
— “And what about our real parents?” he asked. “You didn’t even try to find them?”
— “I did try,” I said, standing and approaching a cardboard box in the corner. “Here.”
Inside the box were newspaper clippings, forum printouts, letters to various institutions. Ten years of searching that yielded no results.
— “I searched. God, I searched. But…” I spread my arms helplessly.
— “And so you decided to lie?” Kirа flipped through the clippings, her voice growing lower. “Invent a dead mom who was a ballerina, an artist, a math teacher?”
— “I know, it was stupid,” I managed a wry smile. “Especially getting mixed up about her professions. But I wanted… I wanted you to have a story. So you wouldn’t feel…”
— “Abandoned?” Maxim looked up. In the lamp’s glow, I saw tears in his eyes.
— “Loved,” I whispered as I sat beside him. “I wanted you to feel loved. I just… did it all wrong.”
A silence fell, broken only by the rustling of papers as Kirа sifted through them. Suddenly, she pulled out a photograph.
— “What’s this?”
I looked at the snapshot and felt a lump form in my throat. It was a photo taken on your first birthday. I had bought two toy cakes then because you weren’t old enough for a real one. In the picture, I was holding you on my lap, and the three of us were laughing.
— “Why did you hide it?” Maxim asked.
— “Because it doesn’t show your ‘real’ mom. It only shows me.”
Kirа clutched the photo so tightly I feared she’d tear it. Instead, she suddenly burst into tears.
— “You’re strange,” she sobbed. “So strange…”
— “I know, sweetheart.”
— “No, you don’t!” she cried, raising her tearful face to mine. “Did you really think we needed some made-up ballerina mom? When we have you?”
I felt Maxim embrace me from the other side. We sat there, on that dusty attic, hugging and crying like the protagonists of a tearful melodrama. Balamut, sensing something was wrong, limped up into the attic and tried to join our embrace.
— “I still want to find them,” Kirа said after a while. “Our biological parents.”
I tensed, but she continued:
— “Not to go to them. Just… to know. And maybe to say thank you.”
— “For what?” Maxim asked, puzzled.
— “For leaving us right at that door,” Kirа smiled through her tears. “For leaving us with the craziest mom in the world—who teaches English, makes inedible pancakes, and lies worse than a five-year-old.”
I laughed, feeling the weight of sixteen years slowly lift from my shoulders.
— “Speaking of pancakes,” Maxim stood and stretched, “how about we order pizza?”
— “At three in the morning?”
— “Well, it’s like a family tradition—doing silly things at three in the morning,” he winked.
We went down to the kitchen, and I pulled out a well-worn album.
— “What’s this?” Kirа asked.
— “Our new family album,” I said, opening it to the first page and inserting that very photo from the first birthday. “I think it’s time to start our real story.”
On the next page, I pasted the note with which it all began. And below it I wrote: “Thank you for the best gift in my life. And forgive me for all the burnt pancakes.”
