Spring sunlight persistently broke through the tulle curtains, painting intricate patterns on the parquet floor. Olga stood in the middle of her husband’s office, armed with a rag and window-cleaning solution. Every year before the May holidays she conducted a deep cleaning—a tradition honed over years of life with Viktor.
«Really, how long can you keep old papers?» she muttered as she sorted through another stack of documents on the desk.
Her hands instinctively sorted the sheets—important ones to the left, trash to the right. The motions were mechanical, precise, until her fingers encountered a thick, cream-colored envelope. No stamp, no postmark. Only her husband’s name, written in neat feminine handwriting.
Olga froze. In thirty years of marriage there had been no secrets between them—or so she thought. Her heart betrayed her with a sharp pang as she turned the envelope over. It had been opened, meaning Viktor had read it.
“What nonsense,” she tried to soothe herself, but her hands were already reaching for the letter.
The first lines seemed ordinary. “Dear Viktor Andreevich…” But the further she read, the more her fingers trembled as they gripped the paper.
“…You are the only one who did not turn away then…” the lines floated before her eyes. “…All these years I have sought an opportunity to thank you…”
Olga sank into her husband’s armchair, feeling her legs go numb. The name “Marina” meant nothing to her, yet the next sentence struck like a blow: “Now I know—you are my father, and I am grateful to fate for that.”
The air in the office suddenly grew thick, heavy. The sunbeams, so friendly just moments ago, now seemed like sharp knives slicing through her eyes. In her temples she heard: “A daughter? He has a daughter?”
Thirty years of shared life flashed before her eyes like scenes from an old film.
Olga recalled, analyzed, searched for signs she might have missed. Were there any hints? Peculiarities in her husband’s behavior?
“My God,” she whispered, remembering how Viktor had been staying late at work in recent months. “So, this is what it’s all about…”
She rose and walked around the office. Every object, every little detail now appeared suspicious. There was a photograph from their wedding—they looked so young, so happy. Had he known then? Or learned later? Why had he kept silent?
Her gaze fell on the desk calendar. Viktor had meticulously noted important appointments. With trembling fingers, Olga began flipping back through the pages. The last three months showed regular entries marked “meeting” without any specifics, always on Thursdays.
“Thirty-eight years,” she pronounced aloud as she did the math. “So, this was before we met.”
Fragments of memories swirled in her mind. Once, about five years ago, Viktor had received a strange phone call and talked for a long time in another room. Then she had dismissed it. And his absent-mindedness in recent months? Now everything made sense.
Olga approached the window. Outside, spring was in full bloom—the apple trees in their yard were adorned with soft pink blossoms. They had once dreamed of having children, but it never happened. And now it turns out…
“He has a daughter,” she said, tears streaming down her cheeks. “An adult woman. Perhaps she has children of her own.”
The clock in the living room struck three. Viktor was due home soon. Olga looked at her reflection in the window—a drawn face, reddened eyes. How would she face him? What would she say?
The sound of a key turning in the lock made Olga start.
She was still in the office, the letter lying on the desk.
“Olga, I’m home!” came Viktor’s familiar voice from the hallway.
Footsteps, the rustle of a jacket being removed, the clinking of keys against a glass vase—such familiar, dear sounds. Thirty years, day in and day out. How much can change in one morning…
“I’m in the office,” she replied, surprised at how alien her own voice sounded.
Viktor appeared in the doorway, as always neat in his freshly pressed shirt. The gray at his temples, the wrinkles around his eyes—her favorite face. Yet now it seemed like the face of a stranger.
“Did something happen?” he asked, noticing her state.
Olga silently indicated the letter. Viktor paled, as if struck. He stood still for several seconds, then slowly sank into the chair opposite.
“I was about to tidy up…” Olga began, her voice betraying a tremor. “Who is she, Vitya?”
He closed his eyes and ran his hand over his face—a gesture she knew all too well, one he always made when burdened by sorrow.
“It was a long time ago, Olga. Long before we met,” his voice was low. “I didn’t know… I swear, I didn’t know there was a child. Her mother told me nothing back then.”
“And when did you find out?” Olga tried to speak calmly, though inside she trembled.
“Six months ago. Marina found me herself. She came to work.”
“I remember that day,” Viktor said slowly, as if every word was a struggle. “It was an ordinary Thursday; I was preparing reports. The secretary said I was expecting a visitor. A young woman, very much like…” he faltered. “Like her mother.”
Olga clutched the armrests of her chair. Every word struck her heart, but she needed to know everything.
“What was her mother’s name?”
“Natalya. Natalya Vorontsova. We worked together at a design institute—in Novosibirsk, before I moved here. A brief affair, only a few months. Then I got a transfer offer, and we parted ways. She said nothing to me back then…”
“And Marina? What did she say when you met her?”
Viktor raised his eyes—tears glistened within them.
“She said, ‘Hello, Viktor Andreevich. I am your daughter.’ Simply and directly. At first I didn’t believe it, thought it was a mistake. But she showed me photographs, documents. And that face… She bears such a striking resemblance to her mother.”
Olga rose and walked to the window. Outside, the branches of the apple tree swayed, showering the yard with white petals.
“Why did you keep silent, Vitya? Why didn’t you tell me right away?”
“He was scared,” he murmured so softly that she barely caught it. “I didn’t know how you’d react. I was afraid of losing you, our life, everything we have.”
“And those meetings on Thursdays?” Olga nodded toward the calendar.
“Yes, we met. We talked. She told me about her life, about her mother. Natalya passed away two years ago. Only then did Marina begin searching for me. She has her own family—two children.”
“So, we… we’re grandparents?” Olga’s voice trembled.
Viktor rose and cautiously approached her.
“Olga, forgive me. I should have told you immediately. Every day I postponed it, thinking—tomorrow, tomorrow… And then it all became too complicated.”
She turned to him. In his eyes was such pain, such a plea for forgiveness, that her heart tightened.
“I need to meet her,” Olga said firmly. “With Marina. Will you arrange it?”
“You… do you really want that?”
“Yes. She is part of your life, Vitya. And therefore, part of mine too. Just… give me some time to get used to this idea.”
The meeting was scheduled for a week later at a small café on the outskirts of the city.
Olga arrived early and chose a table by the window. Her hands trembled as she stirred sugar into an untouched cup of coffee.
She saw Marina immediately as she entered the café. A tall, slender woman in a light dress. Dark hair gathered into a neat bun—the same style Viktor had always admired in Olga herself. The resemblance to her husband was striking: the same expressive brown eyes, the same slight tilt of the head.
“Hello,” Marina said as she stopped at the table. “You must be Olga Sergeevna?”
“Yes, please, have a seat,” Olga gestured to the chair opposite her. “Did Viktor… did he tell you about me?”
Marina nodded, smoothing a napkin on her lap—the very gesture Viktor used.
“He spoke very warmly of you. And… I’m sorry for how everything turned out. I never meant to cause any trouble in your family.”
“You haven’t caused any trouble,” Olga replied softly. “It was just… unexpected.”
A pause fell. The waitress brought another cup of coffee. Marina took a photograph out of her handbag:
“These are my children. Alyosha and Katya. They are eight and five.”
Olga took the photo. Two smiling children stared up from glossy paper. The boy had the same brown eyes as his grandfather.
“Beautiful,” she said, feeling a lump in her throat. “And their father?”
“Mikhail, my husband. He’s a programmer. We met at university.”
“Tell me about yourself,” Olga requested. “About your childhood, about your mother…”
Marina paused, gathering her thoughts.
“My mother was a strong woman. She never complained, even though raising me on her own was not easy. She worked as an accountant, then as the chief economist. I knew my father existed, but my mother never liked to speak of him. Only on her deathbed did she reveal the whole story and give me old photographs.”
“Why didn’t she tell Viktor?” That question had tormented Olga for days.
“Pride, perhaps. She said she didn’t want to disrupt his life, his plans. She knew he was about to get a promotion, a transfer…” Marina sighed. “Maybe it was a mistake. But she did everything so that I would not lack for anything.”
“And now? What do you feel now?”
“You know,” Marina looked up, “I’m not looking for a new family. I have my own. But… I would like to get to know my father. And you too, if you’ll allow it.”
Olga looked at the young woman before her. Not a rival, not a threat—just someone who, too, was searching for her roots, her place in this complicated world.
“You know,” Olga gently covered Marina’s hand with her own, “I always dreamed of having children. It didn’t work out… And now it turns out I have an adult daughter and two wonderful grandchildren.”
Tears shimmered in Marina’s eyes.
“Are you truly… are you willing to accept us?”
“Yes. It won’t be easy; we all need time. But I want to try. And Viktor… he is very distressed. All these months he was torn between us.”
“I saw how hard it was for him,” Marina nodded. “Every time we met, he wanted to tell you, but he was afraid. He cherishes you so much.”
Olga smiled, recalling their first meeting with Viktor.
The institute library, a stack of books scattered accidentally on the floor. His embarrassed smile as he helped collect the textbooks.
“We spent thirty years together,” she said. “And do you know what I realized this week? That true love isn’t just about joy and happiness. It’s also about the ability to accept each other’s past, with all its secrets and mistakes.”
“Alyosha was asking the other day about his grandfather,” Marina suddenly said. “The children in his class boast about going fishing with their grandfathers, to the park…”
“Viktor loves fishing,” Olga brightened. “We even have a little cottage by the lake, about an hour’s drive from the city. We spend every summer there.”
“Really?” Marina’s eyes lit up. “You know, Misha, my husband, is a true city man. And the children just dream of such adventures.”
“Perhaps…” Olga hesitated for a moment, “maybe next weekend we can all go together? The weather is supposed to be nice. The children could fish with their grandfather, and we could simply talk…”
“Really?” Marina beamed, then quickly hesitated. “And Viktor Andreevich… will he agree?”
“I think it will make him the happiest man in the world,” Olga replied softly. “But let’s drop the ‘Viktor Andreevich.’ You’re his daughter.”
They spent another two hours in the café. Marina showed photographs of her children, talked about her work at the publishing house, about her husband, about her hobbies. To Olga’s surprise, she discovered in Marina the same traits as Viktor—the same passion for her work, the same attention to detail, even similar gestures.
When they said goodbye at the café entrance, Marina unexpectedly hugged Olga.
“Thank you. For everything.”
“It’s you I should thank,” Olga replied, feeling warmth in her heart. “For finding us.”
She walked home on foot, enjoying the spring day. The apple trees in the yard continued to shed white petals, but now they seemed not a symbol of time passing, but a sign of new life—a new beginning.
Viktor was waiting for her at home. He stood by the window, nervously fidgeting with the curtain, and turned as he heard her footsteps.
“So, how was it?” he asked, worry in his voice.
Olga approached her husband and embraced him tightly.
“Everything’s fine, dear. Now everything will be fine.”
