— This is our son! — Anna jumped as if struck by an electric shock.
— Are you blind? Don’t you see something’s wrong with him? — Ivan recoiled from the crib as if bitten by a poisonous snake.
The room, redolent of sterility and baby formula, suddenly shrank to the size of a coffin. The little one— for whom she had endured nine months of nausea and fear— slept with the serenity of an angel. A tiny hand with awkward proportions peeked out from beneath the blanket—as a silent reproach to fate.
Anna covered the defective wrist with her own. The warmth of a child’s skin became a vow—a pledge never to betray or retreat.
— We don’t need a cripple, — Ivan uttered the words without looking at his son. The smell of alcohol on his breath mingled with the scent of antiseptic. — We’ll send him to an orphanage. We’ll have another…
Inside, something cracked—the last fragment of faith in “happily ever after.”
— You speak of your own blood, — her voice rang with icy clarity.
— Not mine! — he shrugged, casting off the burden. — I can’t have such a monster!
Rain battered the windows of the “Moskva” as they drove home. The droplets drummed a march on the roof—a funeral march for dreams. The father silently gripped the steering wheel, while the mother held the cradle with the precious burden close to her chest.
— The room is ready, — Galina broke the silence. — The diapers are ironed. The crib is next to yours.
Anna couldn’t take her eyes off the rosy cheeks. A perfect nose. Ideal lashes. Her personal miracle.
— I’ll name him Dmitry. In honor of grandpa, — she declared, catching a tear from his eye in the rearview mirror.
The village greeted them with a barrage. The father unfurled an umbrella-tent, creating a cocoon for the baby. The homey warmth was wrapped in the aromas of bread and resinous firewood.
At night, listening to the interrupted breathing of her son, she swore to the stars beyond the window: “I’ll make him happy. I’ll teach him not to be ashamed of who he is.”
Five years later, Dima sat on the porch, his tongue lolling out from exertion. Disobedient little fingers wrestled with the buttons of his jacket.
— I did it myself! — he bawled, shoving aside his mother’s hand. Five minutes of struggle—and the victorious cry: “I did it!”
Life flowed as a series of small feats. Dawn trips to the market with vegetables. Late-night tinkering with a sewing machine. The thud of an ax behind the house, where his grandfather taught his grandson: “A man is not defined by his arms, but by his being. Stand straight, like an oak.”
At seven, Dima returned from school with pursed lips. When questioned, he simply said: “They named me Hook.”
— And I said hooks are for fish, — he shrugged, prompting his mother to hide a proud smile.
By the age of fourteen, a rusty computer from the shed had become his universe. The screen flickered with green lines of code as he called out to his mother:
— Look! I created a program to calculate trajectories!
Galina grumbled about his late-night vigils, but Viktor roared with laughter: “Let him gnaw the granite of science! He’ll grow up to be a Kулибин!”
Fate, it seemed, smiled upon them. Until one autumn morning, when the phone rang…
— A man finds his own way, Mom. Don’t put a spoke in his wheel.
At sixteen, for the first time, Dima extended wrinkled banknotes to his mother. A modest fee for a website for the local store.
— For groceries for Grandpa and Grandma, — he stated, straightening his back with the pride of an adult.
He grew subtly, like a young pine shoot. His voice strengthened, gaining a depth reminiscent of his grandfather’s deep laugh. Only his eyes remained the same— sharp, noticing details that slipped by others.
Anna sat on the veranda, breathing in the resinous air. The sound of keys clattering from her son’s room was monotonous, like the tapping of a woodpecker. Her heart clenched with a bittersweet premonition: sooner or later, the city would lure him away like a beacon in the darkness.
— Can’t sleep? — Viktor sat down beside her, adjusting the checkered quilt on his lap.
— I’m afraid to let him go, — she confessed, as if once again cradling an infant. — He’ll leave.
The old man gazed for a long while at the scattering of stars, twinkling like sparks from a bonfire.
— Don’t hold him back. — He pointed to the sky. — Eagles need open spaces. But they won’t forget their nest.
Dima’s eighteenth birthday coincided with his first major contract. In the morning, a courier delivered boxes of equipment—a powerful laptop, monitors with crystal clarity.
— The client is from the capital, — he briefly explained while unpacking the gear on the kitchen table. — Remote work.
From that moment, the measured life at home was swept into a whirlwind of changes. First, high-speed internet was installed— Dima persuaded technicians from the district center to lay a dedicated line. Then the furniture was updated, and a refrigerator with a touchscreen was bought.
Anna watched as her son confidently discussed contracts and handled issues with contractors. His shyness had vanished— his speech now crisp and laden with terms like “interface” and “algorithms.” To her, it sounded like incantations, but the main thing was that her boy had become the pillar of the family.
— I’ll transfer it to your card, — he once tossed over his shoulder without looking away from the screen. — Buy yourself a dress.
— Why? — she stuttered, nervously fiddling with the edge of her apron.
Dima removed his glasses, smiling gently. Behind the lenses, his eyes appeared larger, reminiscent of lakes deep in a forest glade.
— You deserve more than these old sweaters.
The sum in her account made her grip the back of a chair. But a real shock awaited them.
In the height of summer, when the air trembled from the heat, a jeep emblazoned with a construction firm’s logo drove into the yard. A young foreman in a hard hat circled the house, snapping photos and measuring walls with a laser rangefinder.
— Explain yourself! — Anna demanded once the stranger drove off.
Her son twirled an apple between his fingers—a habit from childhood when he was nervous.
— The house is falling apart. The foundation has sunk, the roof leaks. In winter, drafts come through the gaps.
— Where’s the money? — she still couldn’t believe that her child, with a frail hand, earned more than all the neighbors put together.
— I’m on a team of developers, — he blushed like a schoolboy. — We’re building a service for millions.
Viktor, who had been listening silently, patted his grandson on the back so hard that the boy nearly dropped the fruit.
— A hammer! A house is like roots. Without them, it’s like a tree on a rock.
The construction buzzed all summer and into autumn. They replaced the roof, insulated the walls, and installed double-glazed windows. Inside, furniture made of solid oak, styled in an old-fashioned way, adorned the home. Dima’s office resembled a flight control center— screens, wires, flickering bulbs. A ramp appeared by the porch—for Galina, whose legs were beginning to fail.
— Why not move to the city? — Anna asked, watching her son as he supervised the installation of a satellite dish. — There are opportunities there…
He turned, shielding his eyes from the sun. The wind played with his hair, tied in a careless ponytail. In that man, she still saw the little boy who stubbornly fastened his jacket with one hand.
— Why? — he waved toward the forest. — Here, there’s silence. Here, I’m home.
At sunset, they sipped tea on the new veranda. Viktor was planing boards for a birdhouse, Galina dozed under a knitted blanket, and Anna leafed through a glossy magazine—a gift from her son.
— I met Nikolai Stepanov, — Viktor broke the silence. — He’s keeping watch at the market with Ivan. That man has completely fallen to drink.
Anna froze. The name of her ex-husband sounded like an explosion in the quiet. She glanced at Dima— his fingers hovering over the keyboard.
— He asked about you, — the old man continued. — Said that the grandson has grown into a true eagle.
Dima lifted his head. There was neither anger nor pain in his gaze— only a calm, mature wisdom beyond his years.
— I donated money to the orphanage, — he said unexpectedly. — They’ll fix the roof and buy new computers.
A thick silence fell like honey. Anna looked at her son as if, for the first time, she were studying the pattern on a butterfly’s wings.
The sunset painted the sky in peach tones. Their house, renovated and sturdy, stood like a sentinel amid endless fields.
— Thank you, — Dima said, surveying his family. — You taught me how to be a person. Now it’s my turn— I’ve built a house, all that’s left is to find a bride.
Viktor pretended to adjust some wood shavings. Galina discreetly wiped away a tear. Meanwhile, Anna did not hide her tears—they streamed down her cheeks like spring brooks.
Inside her blossomed a feeling as strong as an oak trunk. Her son had taken root here—in the land of his ancestors, within walls that guarded the whispers of generations.
Love turned out to be stronger than all hardships. The pride for him filled her soul. His father was right: true strength lies not in muscles, but in what is nurtured within the heart.
