Sunday, 11:47 AM
Sunlight, like golden threads, filtered through the dusty blinds, spilling across the kitchen table in bright flashes. Outside, the leaves of the maple tree rustled softly, and in the distance, the muffled hum of the city sounded — so familiar, so deceptively calm. Artyom, my five-year-old son, sat on the chair, swinging his legs in blue socks with dinosaurs, and was drawing in his album. The chalk squeaked across the paper, sketching a crooked little house with smoke rising from the chimney.
— Mom, is it true that I’m going to have a new heart soon? — he suddenly asked, without lifting his eyes from the drawing.
I froze, spoon in hand, feeling a lump rise in my throat. His childlike sincerity always struck at my heart. — It’s true, sweetheart. The surgery will be like magic. You’ll be healthy, and you’ll be able to run like all the other kids.
But my voice lacked confidence. The anxiety that had gnawed at me all week suddenly became palpable. It was as though an invisible hand tightened around my chest. Do you know that feeling when the air becomes thick and your thoughts weigh heavy, like lead?
12:03 PM
— Mom, I’m hungry! — Artyom tossed the chalk on the floor, and it rolled under the fridge.
— Just a second, bunny, — I forced myself to smile, though everything inside me trembled. — Mommy will make your favorite omelette.
But when I opened the old oak cabinet, my heart sank into the abyss. The tin cookie tin where we kept the money for the surgery was gone. The empty shelf gaped, like a wound.
— No… No! — I yanked open the drawers, spilling their contents. Bags of cereals, a stack of old letters, empty boxes — but no sign of the money.
It felt like ice water had been poured over me. With trembling fingers, I grabbed my phone. The screen showed 12 missed calls from Anton. Last night’s evening rushed back to me: his wandering gaze when he “accidentally” stayed too long in the kitchen, his deliberately loud laugh when I mentioned the upcoming meeting with the heart surgeon.
Childhood: 1998
Anton had always been my shadow. At seven years old, he ran to me crying after breaking a window at school. I covered for him, saying I had been playing ball. His promise, “I will always protect you!” sounded so sincere… But time, like the wind, blows promises away, leaving only dust.
12:15 PM. Anton’s Apartment
I barged into his lair without waiting for an answer to the doorbell. The stench of stale tobacco and spilled beer hit my nose. Anton stood by the window, his back to me, his fingers nervously tugging at the curtain. On the windowsill were cigarette butts in an ashtray, and a pack of “Belomor” with its cellophane ripped off.
— Anton! — my scream bounced off the shabby walls. — Where is the money?!
He slowly turned around. Dark circles under his eyes, as though he hadn’t slept in days. A half-smile on his lips, the same one that once disarmed teachers. — What are you talking about?
— You. Stole. The money. For Artyom, — I emphasized each word, clenching my fists. — These aren’t just bills. This is his life!
He turned away, as if he couldn’t bear my gaze. — I needed it… urgently. Debts. You know how it is.
— No, I don’t know! — Anger hit my head, making my voice shake. — You dragged me into your schemes! Last year — a loan against the house, and now — this! Do you even realize that Artyom might not make it until morning?!
Anton was silent. His hand reached for a bottle of vodka on the table but stopped halfway. — I’ll pay it back. I swear.
— When? When he stops breathing? — Tears burned my eyes. — You saw his test results! You saw how he’s struggling to breathe after three steps!
Suddenly, he sharply turned, and something like desperation flickered in his eyes. — Do you think this is easy for me? Do you think I don’t remember how he looked at us when we read him stories? But I have no choice!
— There’s always a choice! — I threw an empty medicine box on the floor. — You just didn’t want to make it!
12:41 PM. Home
On my way back, I passed the playground where Artyom had dreamed of swinging. The wind tossed empty bags in the trash can, and someone’s cry of “Catch!” echoed in my ears like a drumbeat. At home, my son slept, curled up, his brow furrowed even in his sleep.
I sat next to him, stroking his thin hair. — I’m sorry, baby. Mommy will fix everything…
But how? The clock showed a 150,000 ruble debt. Three days until the surgery.
Night. 03:23 AM
The phone vibrated on the nightstand. Anton: “I’ve got 50k. I’ll transfer it tomorrow. The rest — next week.” I squeezed the phone so tightly my nails dug into my palm. His “tomorrow” always turned into “never.”
Morning. 07:15 AM
At work, I was flipping through documents, but the lines blurred. My colleague Larisa brought coffee, her eyes like saucers, radiating sympathy. — You’re pale. Take time off if you need to.
— I need to, — I whispered. — But I can’t.
During lunch, I ran to the banks, begging for a payment plan. The cashier at Sberbank, an elderly woman with graying curls, sighed: — Girl, I can see you’re at your limit. Take a loan against the car.
The car… That very “Ford” we’d been saving for for two years. But what’s more important — the wheels or my son’s heart?
Evening. 7:48 PM
Anton appeared at the doorstep, smelling of booze and cheap deodorant. — Here, — he tossed a bundle of money on the table. — 50 thousand. The rest soon.
I counted the bills. 47,500. — Where are the three thousand?
— For the taxi… — he didn’t look at me.
— You spent money on a taxi?! — My shout woke Artyom.
— Mom, I’m scared… — came from the bedroom.
Anton flinched. His face contorted. — I didn’t know it would turn out this way. They demanded…
— Who are “they”? Your druggie friends? — I stepped toward him, feeling my nails digging into my palms. — Do you even understand that your “debt” is a one-way game? You’re betting my nephew’s life!
He was silent. Only his fingers, clutching the edge of his jacket, betrayed his inner tremor.
Two Days Later. 14:00. Hospital
Artyom lay in the ward, covered in sensors. His hands, thin as young birch branches, trembled under the blanket. The doctor, a young man with tired eyes, shook his head: — Without money for the tests, we can’t take risks.
— I’ll bring it! — I grabbed his sleeve. — By the evening. I swear.
He gently pulled my hand away. — You have 24 hours.
11:59 PM. Anton’s Apartment
I kicked the door until the neighbor upstairs opened it with a screwdriver. Inside, chaos reigned: broken dishes, blood stains on the floor, and in the center — Anton, tied with tape, with a split lip.
— You owe me… — he croaked. — They took everything.
— Who? Who took it?! — I ripped the tape off, feeling my pulse pounding in my temples.
— I won’t tell you. You can’t… — his eyes, clouded with fear, suddenly focused. — Run. Run away from here.
But it was too late. The door slammed open, and three people barged in. Their faces were masked, and metal gleamed in their hands.
The Next Few Months
Artyom and I moved to the suburbs. I worked as a cleaner during the night shift, and during the day, I sold baked goods by the subway. My hands cracked from the chemicals and cold, but I smiled when my son said: — Mom, your pies are better than Marina Ivanovna’s!
Six months later, a miracle happened: a charity helped pay for the operation. It was a success. Artyom, laughing, ran down the hallway, and I counted his steps — 10, 20, 30…
A Random Meeting. 2023
I was walking down Nevsky with Artyom, holding his hand. He was already in third grade, talking about a new school project — “My Family.” And then I saw Anton. His once-athletic figure was hunched. He was rummaging through a trash can, his fingers, once nimble in theft, trembling as they fished for scraps.
— Anton? — my voice cracked.
He turned around. His eyes were filled with emptiness. — Hey, sis.
— Why? — I couldn’t stop myself. — Why didn’t you understand then that I would’ve given everything for you? But you took what couldn’t be taken!
He silently stared at Artyom, who, frowning, hid behind my back. — He’s handsome. Just like you were when you were a kid, — Anton whispered. — Tell him… Tell him Uncle Anton was sick.
And then I understood. His “debts” weren’t to people. His “friends” weren’t flesh and blood. He had desperately tried to save himself but lost his soul.
Epilogue
Today, Artyom received a certificate for winning the biology olympiad. He dreams of becoming a doctor. On his door is a sign that says “Dog. Beware!” even though we’ve never had a dog.
— Mom, why didn’t Uncle Anton have kids? — he asked yesterday.
— Because some people aren’t ready to love, baby, — I answered, stroking his hair. — But you’re ready. You’re my hero.
And outside the window, the rain tapped again, as quiet as that Sunday. But now I knew: even in silence, you can hear the cry of a soul.
