In the complete silence of the room, the phone emitted a short signal, illuminating the ceiling with a cold blue light. It was two in the morning. Larisa carefully reached toward the bedside table, trying not to disturb her husband, but Viktor had already propped himself up on his elbow, his eyes wide open.
“Who writes at this hour?” he asked in a hoarse whisper, as if listening to his own question.
His voice was steady, yet something in his intonation made Larisa freeze—as if he were afraid to hear the answer.
Silently, she rotated the phone’s screen so that her husband could see the photograph. In the picture was a boy of about ten—blond-haired, with freckles on his nose and a smile that was painfully familiar.
Viktor paled. In the dim light of the night lamp, his face appeared like a mask, devoid of expression.
“Where did…?” he faltered, swallowing a lump in his throat. “Where did you get this from?”
“I know everything, Vitya,” Larisa said quietly, as if talking to herself. “About Kirill. About Nadya from Nizhny. About the alimony you paid until last year.”
Her voice was astonishingly calm, too calm for such a conversation—like someone who had long accepted their pain and was now merely stating the facts.
“Lara…” he began, reaching out his hand, but she gently yet decisively pulled away.
“Let me finish. I know his name, when he was born—two weeks early, in March. I know he’s allergic to citrus, and that playing football is his favorite pastime. And I know that his mother died of cancer a year ago.”
Viktor sat motionless, gazing past her. His fingers fidgeted with the edge of the blanket—a habitual gesture that betrayed his nervousness.
“How long have you known about this?”
“Three years,” she replied without hesitation. “Remember when you forgot your phone before that business trip? I got a message from her. I couldn’t help myself—I read through the messages.”
Larisa remembered that day as if it had happened yesterday. How her hands trembled as she scrolled through the messages. How hard it was to breathe as she learned new details. How she later sat in the kitchen, mechanically stirring tea that had long since gone cold.
“Why did you keep silent all these years?”
“What was I supposed to do?” she managed a faint smile. “Start a scandal? File for divorce? At that time our daughter was preparing for her final school year. She needed stability, you know?”
“I’m sorry,” his voice trembled. “I should have told you everything immediately. But I was afraid…”
“Afraid of what?” Larisa shook her head. “That I wouldn’t accept the truth? That I’d leave? Vitya, we’ve been together for twenty-five years. Did you really think I couldn’t handle it?”
Her husband fell silent, lowering his gaze.
“What now?” he asked after a while.
“What now?” Larisa looked back at the photograph. “Now we need to take him in.”
“What?!” Viktor raised his voice involuntarily. “How can you make such a sudden decision?!”
“Vitya, he’s your son! His mother died, and he’s been living in an orphanage for almost a year. Do you really think I would let your child grow up without a family?”
“And Katya? How are we going to explain all this to her?”
“By telling the truth. She’s old enough to understand.”
She didn’t mention that she had been in touch with their daughter for several months—that it was Katya who insisted on finding her brother, that she had even found a private detective who helped locate Kirill.
“What if he doesn’t accept us? What if he ends up hating me?”
“Then we’ll wait. As long as it takes.”
Viktor looked at his wife, feeling as if he were seeing a completely different person before him. The girl he had met twenty-five years ago had transformed into a woman whom time had not only made wiser but also stronger.
Over the three years, Larisa had not only overcome the pain of betrayal but had learned to love Viktor’s son as if he were her own. It seemed incredible.
“Then why do you love me at all?” Viktor suddenly asked, surprising even himself.
She laughed softly: “Because you’re genuine. With all your fears, your insecurities, and even with these secrets. Let’s go to sleep,” she added gently, touching his shoulder. “Tomorrow is going to be a challenging day.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re going to Nizhny Novgorod. I’ve already made arrangements with the director of the orphanage.”
Viktor tried to say something, but she had already turned away, wrapping herself in the blanket. A minute later, her breathing steadied—as always, she could easily fall asleep, as if flipping a switch. He, however, continued to lie there, staring into the darkness, pondering how astonishingly life was unfolding.
The next morning, their wake-up call came from Katya:
“Mom, Dad, I’ve packed my things! I’ll be there in an hour!”
“What things?” mumbled a still-sleepy Viktor.
“What things?!” the daughter’s voice was impatient. “We’re going for the weekend! We need to prepare a room for Kirill. I read that boys his age love superheroes. Maybe we can buy Spider-Man bedding?”
“Katya,” Viktor said, sitting up on the bed and looking at his wife in confusion, “do you know?”
“Of course I know!” the daughter exclaimed. “Mom and I have been looking for him for six months. And besides, Dad, do you really think I wouldn’t notice that I have a brother? We look exactly alike! I’ve seen your old photos.”
There were shuffling sounds over the phone.
“Oh, I made a list of what needs to be bought. And also—maybe transfer him to our school? It’s excellent, and it’s near our home. That way, I can keep an eye on him.”
Viktor listened to his daughter, feeling a lump forming in his throat. Larisa approached from behind and put her arms around his shoulders.
“Everything will be alright,” she whispered. “You’ll see.”
Within three hours, they were on the road. Katya slept in the back seat, clutching the shopping list tightly. Larisa scrutinized the documents—she always prepared meticulously for important meetings.
“Do you think he looks like me in real life, as he does in the photo?” Viktor broke the silence.
“Soon we’ll find out,” she replied, squeezing his hand. “The main thing is not to rush things. He needs time to get used to it.”
“And if…” Viktor began.
“There’s no room for any ‘if’s,” she interrupted firmly. “He’s your son. Our son. He just needs time to understand that.”
Viktor nodded, focusing on the road. Fragments of memories flashed through his mind: the last meeting with Nadya, her letters, rare photos of the boy. How could he have been such a coward? Why hadn’t he insisted on seeing Kirill more often? Why did he let the child grow up without a father?
After five hours, they arrived in Nizhny Novgorod. It took another hour to find the orphanage—a dilapidated two-story building lost on the outskirts of the city.
“Ready?” Larisa asked when the car stopped.
“No,” he admitted honestly. “But that doesn’t matter anymore, does it?”
Katya didn’t wait; she was the first to jump out of the car:
“What are you waiting for? I want to meet my brother already!”
In the director’s office, the mixed aroma of coffee and flowers hung in the air. A full-figured woman in a strict suit scrutinized their documents.
“So, you are the biological father?” she asked, looking up at Viktor through her glasses. “Why are you coming forward only now?”
“I…” he began, faltering. “I didn’t know about Nadya’s death. She hid that she was sick.”
“And if she had lived? Would you have continued to silently pay alimony?” Her voice was sharp.
“Elena Petrovna,” Larisa interjected gently, “we understand your concerns. However, what’s important now is that Kirill has a family ready to take him in.”
The director sighed heavily:
“You must know: he’s a good child. Smart, calm. But very withdrawn after his mother’s loss. He has nearly stopped communicating with others.”
“Can we see him right now?” Katya asked impatiently.
“He’s at his football practice in the yard.”
They stepped outside. On a small field, a few boys were playing football. Viktor immediately recognized his son—the boy was standing in the goal, composed and focused, as if the whole world around him had vanished. He was the spitting image of his father as a child.
“Kirill!” the director called. “Please come here.”
The boy slowly approached, cautiously looking at the strangers. A fresh scratch was visible on his cheek, and his T-shirt was stained with grass.
“Hi,” Viktor began, stepping forward. “I’m your dad.”
Instinctively, Kirill took a step back, his eyes filling with fear.
“Mom said that dad was dead.”
“No, kid,” Viktor said softly. “I’m alive. And I’m here to take you home.”
“Why?” the boy’s voice trembled. “I don’t need anyone. Nobody needs me.”
“That’s not true!” Katya exclaimed, jumping into the conversation. “We need you so much! I’ve always wanted a brother. And here you are!”
She continued speaking quickly, gesticulating passionately. Kirill listened, his eyes widening. The initial distrust in his gaze gradually gave way to curiosity. Too much new information had come crashing down on him in just a few minutes.
“You know what?” Larisa suggested, addressing the boy. “Let’s just start getting to know each other. No rush, no pressure. We’ll gradually become closer, alright?”
“Can I take my football uniform?” Kirill suddenly asked. “And my book about pirates? It’s my favorite.”
“Of course you can,” Viktor replied, feeling the lump in his throat again. “Take everything you want.”
Later, the four of them sat in a small café. Kirill cautiously ate his pizza, glancing at his new relatives from time to time. Katya eagerly showed him photographs of their home, her room, and told him about the school. Larisa watched the scene, smiling faintly.
“Why did you even look for me?” Kirill asked unexpectedly.
“Because you are part of our family,” Larisa answered simply and sincerely.
That evening, in a hotel room where the children slept peacefully in the adjacent room, Viktor pulled his wife close.
“How do you manage to be so wise?”
“Stop it,” she smiled, stroking his cheek. “I just love you—with all your mistakes, your past, and your children. It’s all what makes you who you are.”
The following weeks passed in a blur: endless visits to various institutions, collecting documents, meetings with psychologists. Kirill began coming on weekends—first hesitantly, then gradually opening up more. Katya assumed the role of the big sister: helping with homework, taking him to training sessions, showing him around the city.
“You know,” Katya said one evening to their father, “he really looks like you. Not just in appearance—but in character too!”
Viktor smiled. He had noticed it too—in the way his son furrowed his brow when pondering a problem, or bit his lip when nervous.
However, soon something happened that they had all feared. At school, one of Kirill’s classmates discovered his story.
“Foundling!” they shouted behind him. “Unwanted!”
Kirill came home with a darkened face and bruises on his knuckles.
“What happened?” Larisa asked sympathetically, cleaning his wounds with peroxide.
“Nothing,” he muttered, lowering his head.
“Kirill…”
“They say you took me out of pity!” he suddenly blurted. “That I’m not really your child! That a real family is completely different!”
Larisa put aside the cotton and sat next to him.
“What does a real family mean to you?”
The boy was silent, staring at the floor.
“I used to think that a family was just a mom, a dad, and their children,” she began. “But then I realized: a family is when people choose to be together. Every single day.”
“But Dad didn’t choose. He had to,” Kirill mumbled.
“You’re wrong,” Viktor interjected, having heard the entire conversation from the doorway. “Come here.”
He embraced his son firmly yet gently:
“I was truly wrong. I should have been there from the very start. But now I’m here. And every day I choose to be your father—not because I have to, but because I want to.”
Kirill sniffled, clinging to his father.
A year later, Kirill had fully settled into his new school and made friends. Together with Katya, he began remodeling his room—now adorned with posters of football players and bookshelves. Although he still occasionally retreated into himself, such moments became increasingly rare.
Then, a miracle happened. At a school concert, during a play in which Kirill participated, he, upon noticing Larisa in the audience, shouted joyfully:
“Mom! Mom, did you see how I performed?”
She froze, unable to believe her ears. And he was already running toward her, beaming with happiness—her son.
At home, they retrieved an old photo album containing Viktor’s childhood portrait and placed new photographs beside it.
“Look how similar we are!” Katya exclaimed in awe. “It’s like we’re twins!”
“Let me see too,” Kirill squeezed in between them. “Wow! Dad, you’re exactly like me here!”
“No,” Viktor smiled. “You’re my exact replica.”
They spent a long time leafing through the album, reminiscing about funny stories and making plans for the future. Larisa watched them and thought about that nighttime message that had turned their lives upside down. Now it had become the beginning of something beautiful.
