Alexei stepped into a small grocery shop to buy some coffee and a snack for tea. The day had gone off the rails from the very morning: his alarm hadn’t gone off at the appointed time, his phone battery had died, and a nasty autumn drizzle pattered outside. He felt that nothing was going according to plan.
He passed the vegetable stand, picked up a package of buckwheat groats and a can of preserves, wondering whether he should grab anything else for dinner. Suddenly he noticed a short, elderly lady beside him, struggling to reach a bag of sugar on the top shelf. The bags were placed too high, and she simply couldn’t grasp them.
“Can I help you?” Alexei asked, stepping forward.
“Oh, yes, dear, please do,” she replied in a hoarse but kindly tone.
He quickly reached up and brought down two one‑kilogram bags of sugar for her. The woman peered at him, squinting:
“Thank you. I’ve been at it for at least five minutes.”
Alexei smiled.
“No problem. Always happy to help.”
She began shifting her purchases into her shopping bag, which was already looking quite heavy. Alexei noticed her wince as she lifted it off the chair by the store entrance.
“Let me help you carry all this home,” he offered, seeing her hesitate.
“Oh, it’s so awkward… But if it’s not too much trouble, I’d be grateful.”
And so their acquaintance began. The rain drummed on the shop windows, and Alexei felt that this strange morning was finally taking on some purpose.
They stepped outside together. Alexei took hold of the bag’s handles and realized how hard it would have been for her to manage alone. After a few steps, he paused.
“By the way, I’m Alexei. How should I address you?”
“Tamara Nikolaevna,” she answered, smiling at a pleasant memory. “I live just a couple of buildings into the courtyard.”
Alexei nodded and fell into step beside her so she wouldn’t lag. The rain had intensified, and puddles glistened on the asphalt. Tamara Nikolaevna pulled her old coat collar up against the chill.
“Why are you so helpful today?” she asked, more curious than suspicious.
“Just…” Alexei shrugged. “I don’t want you to overexert yourself.”
She accepted his answer with a nod, and they walked on in companionable silence. Somewhere in the distance, car horns honked, and a young woman in headphones passed by, oblivious to the world. The city buzzed with its usual hustle, while Alexei and Tamara Nikolaevna seemed to move along a quieter path where time flowed more slowly.
“There’s my building,” she said, pointing to a panel apartment block with peeling paint around the entrance.
Alexei carried the heavy bag into the vestibule. The stairwell was dim, the bulb barely flickering, but he could tell the climb would be challenging.
“Fifth floor, no elevator,” Tamara Nikolaevna said with a sigh. “But I’m used to it.”
“No worries—we’ll get it up,” Alexei replied cheerfully. “I’ll carry it; you just keep an eye in case I need a hand.”
With creaking railings and groaning steps, they made their way to the fifth floor. Tamara Nikolaevna pulled her keys from her pocket but, with trembling hands, couldn’t insert the key. Alexei stepped forward and opened the door for her.
“Come in, since you’ve made it,” she said softly, beckoning him inside. “Would you like some tea?”
Alexei smiled. He hadn’t expected the invitation but decided to accept. After all, why not? A warm feeling stirred inside him—one he hadn’t felt in a long time.
“I’d love to,” he said, entering the narrow entryway.
The apartment was small: an entry hall, a narrow kitchen, and a room crowded with old cabinets and a sofa. Photographs lined the walls, and an antique clock ticked loudly in the silence.
“Sit in the room. I’ll put the kettle on,” Tamara Nikolaevna said, slipping the bag into the corridor’s shadows.
Alexei moved into the room and took in the surroundings. The photographs showed people of various ages—undoubtedly family members. He spotted a young man in military uniform and another photo—perhaps her son at graduation. A gentle sadness washed over him, though he wasn’t sure why.
Soon the kettle whistled. Tamara Nikolaevna hurried to remove it from the stove and, moments later, returned with a plate of cookies.
“Here you go. Sorry, it’s just plain black tea.”
“Thank you—that’s perfect,” Alexei said, sitting on a worn stool. “I didn’t even get a chance to have breakfast today.”
The woman chuckled softly.
“You really are a blessing today. I would’ve been lugging those groceries forever. At least now I can treat my guest.”
They sipped their tea and chatted about trivial things: the weather, the store, rising prices. Alexei was struck by how calm he felt, as if he’d been transported back to childhood when his own mother would smooth his hair and pour him hot tea from a stout teapot.
“Well, thanks for the tea. I should get going,” Alexei said, standing after finishing his cup. “I was happy to help.”
“Thanks again. Take care, Alexei. Do drop by if you’re nearby.”
He nodded, said goodbye, and left. The rain had stopped, and gray clouds receded toward the horizon. Alexei felt his spirits lift—the day truly had improved.
The next morning, waking earlier than usual, Alexei found himself thinking about Tamara Nikolaevna. Memories of his own childhood flooded back: he had lived with his mother in a tiny two-room apartment. She’d worked two jobs to feed him, and he often resented her for not having enough time.
He realized he wanted to visit the elderly woman again—just to make sure she was all right, to help somehow. The warm impulse felt like patching a silent wound in his heart.
He left his apartment, went to the same neighborhood “Pyaterochka” by the metro, and bought a few grocery items—milk, some fruit, sweets for tea. “Just in case,” he thought.
When he knocked on the familiar door on the fifth floor, the silence inside made him pause. Then he heard:
“Who is it?”
“It’s Alexei, from yesterday…” he began, a bit shy.
After a moment, light shone through the peephole and the door opened.
“Oh, come in, dear! My kitchen’s overflowing—water’s been left running!” she said, alarmed.
He followed her into the kitchen, where a kettle had boiled over, water spilling onto the stove.
“I’m such a scatterbrain, an old woman now,” she shook her head.
“No worries—these things happen,” he said with a smile, switching off the burner. “I brought some groceries—hope that’s okay.”
Tamara Nikolaevna waved a hand.
“Why spend your money? I have my pension—I manage.”
“Really, it’s my pleasure,” he replied gently. “I’m glad to help.”
She sighed, peering into the bag.
“Well, all right… Thank you. As they say, good deeds are never forgotten. Come in, make yourself comfortable.”
He stepped into the room again. This time the sofa was neatly made, and old newspapers lay on the table. Alexei felt a desire to do even more.
He sat and glanced at the faded wallpaper. Tamara Nikolaevna finished preparing the tea in the kitchen, and he remembered the photos on her walls.
“You have lovely pictures up here. Is that your son?” he asked, pointing.
She emerged from the kitchen and nodded.
“Yes, my son. His name is Andrei. He moved to Petersburg—he has a job, a family… He doesn’t visit often, to be honest.”
“You must miss him?”
“Of course… I miss him. But you know, I got used to it. I understood that children grow up and have their own lives.”
Her words stung Alexei with an unexpected sorrow. He thought of his own mother and how she probably longed for him to visit, yet he hadn’t made the time. Now, it was too late to change the past.
Noticing his distant gaze, Tamara Nikolaevna placed a cup of tea before him.
“What’s on your mind, Alexei?”
He shook his head.
“Just… I rarely saw my own mother in recent years—work, moving away… And now…”
His voice wavered and he swallowed hard, trying not to show emotion.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you,” she said softly, laying her warm hand on his shoulder.
Alexei forced a smile.
“It’s all right… Everything’s fine. Thank you for the tea.”
They sat quietly, cups in hand, until the rain outside became a soft, gentle patter. In that simple silence, Alexei felt a lightness in his chest—as if this humble place could offer the warmth he’d been missing.
After that visit, Alexei began calling on Tamara Nikolaevna more often. Sometimes he helped carry her groceries, sometimes he just dropped by for a chat. He watched her eyes light up whenever she heard him on the stairs.
“Yesterday, can you believe it, the neighbor called to say a pipe burst in our basement,” she told him one evening when he arrived with sweets. “They don’t know how long it’ll take to fix. I worry—will it flood down here or cut the power?”
“Maybe you should stay with someone else, at least temporarily,” he suggested, glancing at the worn wallpaper. He hated imagining her without heat or light.
“To whom? I have no one else. And I’m used to it—if anything happens, the local guys will come and repair it,” she waved off his concern.
He smiled at her resilience—so strong and yet so gentle. She’d seen much in life but still found joy in small things.
“If you need anything, I’m here,” Alexei said.
“You’ll help? That’s wonderful. I’m certainly not what I used to be,” she admitted as she settled on a stool.
Sometimes they took out the trash together, he carried her old clothes to a donation center, and he vacuumed her rug. Though it felt mundane, Alexei found a quiet satisfaction in these tasks. He realized that, in helping her, he was atoning—if only a little—for neglecting his own mother. That realization gave him purpose.
One evening, Alexei arrived bearing a Napoleon cake—just wanting to surprise her—and found Tamara Nikolaevna sorting through old black‑and‑white photographs on the table. The prints, worn by time, lay in a fan; the faces on some were almost indistinct.
“Oh, come in, come in—I’ve lost myself in memories,” she said, smoothing the photos. “I was going to organize them, but… the emotions.”
“May I?” Alexei asked, gently touching the edge of a photograph.
“Of course. Sit beside me.”
He settled on the sofa, and she handed him the first photo.
“This is me in my youth,” she said. “I must have been twenty‑three. It was the sixties—we’d just moved into this apartment when the building was finished.”
In the black‑and‑white image, a young woman beamed with a radiant smile and large, bright eyes. Next to her stood a young man in a shirt, his arm around her waist.
“That’s your husband?” Alexei asked.
“Yes, my Vitya. He’s been gone for a long time—may he rest in peace. He was the best man… He always helped me, and together we raised our son. Those days were hard, you know. We had so little, but we lived heart to heart.”
Alexei shifted his gaze to the next photograph:
— Is that you with your son?
— Yes, that’s little Andryushka. See how happy he is. He was six then, and not long after he started school. He was a quick little fellow, always running around the yard, and I was afraid he’d get hurt…
Her voice trembled, and Alexei felt a strange pang of compassion in his chest. These photos captured an entire era, a whole chapter of life.
— He’s a good son. He just… moved away.
— Oh, I don’t blame him, really. Everyone has the right to shape their own destiny as they see fit. It’s just that sometimes I regret how seldom we saw each other. I’ve never even met my grandson, — she confessed. — He says he’s still small and doesn’t want to take him on a long trip.
Alexei looked at the photographs, his heart tightening. He remembered how he himself had drifted away from his mother when he grew up—first university, then work, endless busyness. And now she was gone.
— You know, I… realized so many things too late myself, — he said softly.
She gazed at him understandingly and reached out her hand.
— Don’t blame yourself. Life is life… Maybe that’s precisely why we’ve met now.
Alexei squeezed her hand and answered with eyes full of gratitude.
Time passed. Alexei continued visiting Tamara Nikolaevna two or three times a week. He helped however he could: carrying heavy grocery bags, popping by in the evening to take out the trash. Sometimes he’d just sit at her table, drink tea, and listen as she told stories from her youth.
— And there was this one time… — she’d begin, her wrinkled face lighting up. — Once Vitya and I went off to the Baltics. The sea, the sand… such beauty! It was my first time seeing a sunset over the Baltic Sea—nothing compares to it. And Vitya sat there beside me, gobbling fish soup from a pot, and said, “Tamarka, we didn’t marry in vain. Look at this romance!”…
Alexei listened and smiled. Those stories transported him to another era, letting him, if only for a moment, feel part of someone else’s past filled with sincerity and respect.
On those evenings he realized how much he missed talking heart to heart—not about work, not about problems or politics, but about life, memories, and kindness.
Sometimes he brought books his mother had loved, reading a few pages aloud until Tamara Nikolaevna dozed off, lulled by his voice. He didn’t want to leave; he cherished the warmth he felt he was finally receiving.
One windy evening, Alexei stayed late. They drank hot mint tea and shared fresh pastries he’d bought on the way. The conversation turned to his mother.
— What was her name? — Tamara Nikolaevna asked gently.
— Elena Andreevna. She raised me on her own, — Alexei replied, dabbing at his nose. — I barely remember my father. My mother was always busy. I resented her—I thought she didn’t care. Then I grew up and realized the heavy burden she carried.
He fell silent, fighting back the lump in his throat.
— And how did you deal with those feelings?
— I didn’t. I ran away—went to university in another city, got a good job. I’d visit once a year, maybe once every two. She’d call, ask how I was, and I’d say, “Mom, I don’t have time.” And then…
He looked up sadly.
— She’s been gone three years now. I didn’t make it in time—I almost missed the funeral. And I’ve lived with that guilt ever since.
Tamara Nikolaevna nodded, pressing her hand to her chest.
— I understand. The weight of the past is heavy. But sometimes God gives us a chance to make amends—not to our own mothers, but to someone else. Kindness comes back to us.
Tears streamed down Alexei’s cheeks. He wasn’t used to crying in front of others, but under the dim lamp he didn’t care. He wanted to let go of his pain.
— You’re not a stranger to me, — he finally managed.
She gently squeezed his hand and tilted her head.
— And you feel like family.
They sat together, listening to the wind outside, and in that moment Alexei realized he had found something truly important.
After that, he rearranged his life so he could visit Tamara Nikolaevna more often. He lingered less at work and planned his schedule around dropping in. It strangely recharged him. He still worked, met friends, lived normally—but now he had a purpose: to do good, to be needed, to give someone warmth.
One day he said:
— Tamara Nikolaevna, would you like me to take you to the park? There’s one nearby that’s beautiful now—the leaves are golden and the squirrels are busy.
She hesitated.
— I can barely walk, my legs ache. And it’s damp outside.
— I’ll get us a taxi. We’ll be at the park entrance in no time, and from there it’s just a short walk to a bench. We can feed the birds. You’ll like it, I promise.
After a pause, she smiled.
— All right. I’ll risk it, or I’ll never leave the house.
They went on Sunday, after the rain stopped and sunlight peeked through the clouds. Tamara Nikolaevna donned her best coat and brown boots, struggling with the zipper. Alexei supported her by the elbow as they walked. She admired the spreading trees rustling with colorful leaves, and he felt a quiet joy.
— Just like in my youth, — she whispered, squeezing his hand. — If only Vitya were here. But he’s watching from above, I’m sure.
Alexei blinked back emotion.
— Maybe he is, and maybe he’s happy for us.
They walked for about half an hour, then sat by the pond. Alexei tossed crumbs into the water; the ducks scurried over.
— Thank you, Lesha. It really is a lovely day, — she said when he suggested they head back before she chilled.
— I needed it too, — he replied, helping her to her feet. — Let’s go home.
He felt warmth in his chest, as if he’d caught his second wind.
From then on, a calm affection reigned between them—no grand gestures, just quiet companionship. Alexei continued bringing groceries and medicines. Sometimes they went together to the pharmacy, then to the bakery for fresh bread.
One evening he was there when the pension came. The postwoman delivered the envelope, and Tamara Nikolaevna counted out the bills.
— Prices keep climbing, Lesha, and this pension… It’s nothing but pennies. But I’ll manage.
— Don’t hesitate to let me know if you need anything, — he whispered.
— Oh, stop. You help enough already, — she said, tucking the money away.
— It’s no trouble. And… it helps me too. I feel lighter somehow, — he admitted.
She nodded, pressing her lips together.
— Enough about that. Shall we have tea? I bought delicious cherry jam.
— Of course! — he brightened and set the kettle on. — Have you been remembering to take your pills?
She sighed.
— If only I had the memory. I should write it down.
Alexei grabbed paper and wrote a clear schedule: morning and evening doses. He realized he’d slipped into the role he should have had as her son—but it felt like a blessing, not an intrusion.
They talked late into the evening, and when he finally left, night had fallen.
Still, Alexei sometimes woke from nightmares—standing at his mother’s grave, trying to speak, only to watch her fade away. He’d wake in a cold sweat, his heart pounding. He felt his guilt like a heavy weight.
To distract himself, he fixed her old chair, beat the rugs, changed a bathroom lightbulb. Each small task brought peace. It felt like saying to his mother, “Forgive me—I’m trying to do good as you did for me.”
Of course, work and daily life sometimes took over. But he made sure to call, to check if she needed anything.
— What am I, a helpless old lady? — Tamara Nikolaevna teased over the phone. — Don’t worry, I’m fine.
— You never know—I might come home to a broken faucet or a scalded door, — Alexei joked, and she laughed.
Their lighthearted banter buoyed him. For the first time, he felt he could give someone the love and support he’d failed to give his own mother.
Then, one evening, he found her pale and distant, phone in hand.
— What’s happened? — he asked.
— Andryusha, my son, called… — she whispered, as if she still couldn’t believe it.
— Really? — Alexei’s heart clenched. — What did he say?
— He said he might come, — she shrugged, joy and anxiety flickering in her eyes. — He said he has some business here. I don’t know whether to be happy—what if he bails again?
— Of course, be happy, — Alexei soothed. — Maybe he really will come.
— What if it’s only for a couple of days? We haven’t seen each other for so many years. I don’t even know how to talk to him—he’s always busy with computers… — she looked at Alexei, fear in her eyes.
— It’ll be fine, — he assured her. — Don’t worry in advance. Maybe he truly wants to see you.
She nodded but crossed her arms, as if shielding herself from pain. Alexei realized how hard it was for her—and felt, deep down, this reunion could be his chance to help them heal. Maybe that was his path to forgiveness.
Then came the day the doorbell rang. Andrey, her son, stood on the threshold. Alexei, who had come that evening to help with chores, unexpectedly became a witness to their long-awaited reunion.
Hello, Mom,” Andrey said hesitantly, as if he didn’t quite know how to behave. He looked younger than his years in his expensive coat, but his eyes were weary, shadowed by dark circles.
“Andrey…” she whispered, gripping the doorknob tightly.
Alexey realized he should step aside and give them space. He took a step back and lingered by the window, doing his best not to intrude. He could hear the son and mother exchanging short phrases, as if all their conversation had long since been forgotten.
“How have you been?” she asked quietly.
“Oh, you know… getting by.”
“I’m here for a couple of days. I have to go back to Moscow afterward—business…”
“I understand. Come in.”
They moved into the room, and Alexey thought perhaps he should leave. But Tamara Nikolayevna, noticing his hesitation, gestured for him to stay.
“Alexey, don’t go—help me set the table.”
Andrey glanced at him in surprise. “And who’s this?”
“This is my… friend,” she stammered. “He helps me when he can. A very good man.”
Alexey managed an awkward smile and extended his hand. Andrey shook it—somewhat coolly, but politely.
“Very pleased to meet you,” Alexey said.
“Likewise,” Andrey replied shortly, moving toward the table. “I didn’t realize Mom had friends in the building.”
Alexey fell silent, sensing the tension. They set the table together: placed the plates, poured the tea. The mother brought out her best preserves: pickles, a bit of fish she’d cured herself, and opened a jar of jam.
“Well then, Andryusha, sit down and eat,” she said, seating herself. “Tell me how you’re living.”
He pulled out a chair and forced a smile. “Well… I work a lot, sometimes I’m at sea on voyages. Things with my wife… aren’t entirely smooth right now, but we’re trying to make it work. Our little boy is three—he’s running around and being mischievous.”
“Oh, he’s already that big?” she beamed. “You should have brought him—I’d love to see him, even for a moment.”
Andrey looked away. “I… didn’t quite dare. He’s small, the trip’s long, and—and…”
He broke off, as if aware of how that sounded. Alexey noticed his unease: Andrey clearly felt guilty but couldn’t find the words. Tamara Nikolayevna tried to smile to hide her hurt, but Alexey saw her fingers tremble as she lifted her cup to her lips.
A tense silence fell over the table. Finally, Andrey spoke.
“Mom, I didn’t come just to visit. I need some documents… Dad’s papers, I think. Something about the apartment—we want to apply for a loan. I can’t do it without the paperwork.”
“I understand,” she nodded slowly. “The papers are somewhere in the cupboard. I’ll have to look.”
Alexey saw her eyes darken. His son had come not out of the heart, but out of necessity. Though, of course, to see her—but still. He sighed inwardly, sensing that a conversation long overdue was about to begin.
Andrey took a sip of tea and set his cup down so forcefully it nearly tipped.
“I… I know I don’t come often. But I really have a lot on my plate—family, a child…”
He sounded defensive, and Tamara Nikolayevna sat with her hands clasped tightly in her lap.
“Just think of me sometimes,” she said softly. “Call when you can. Come when you’re able. I’m always happy to see you.”
“Sure,” he mumbled. “I’ll call.”
Another silence settled. Alexey, feeling that the quiet only worsened things, decided to speak up.
“Andrey, you know, I too rarely visited my own mother. By the time I realized how painful that was, it was too late. You’re lucky to have the chance to make things right now.”
Andrey looked at him, surprised and tense. “So you just decide I’m wrong? That I’m a bad son?”
“No, I’m not saying that. I just… saw how much your mother misses you. And it’s sad when families drift apart. Parents give us life—once they’re gone, you can’t change things,” Alexey said quietly but firmly.
Andrey seemed about to reply, but when he saw his mother’s eyes glistening with tears, he lowered his gaze and ran a hand over his face.
“All right… I probably don’t understand how it is for the two of you here. It’s been a while…” He shrugged, as if unsure how to continue.
After dinner, Tamara Nikolayevna produced an old box of papers: birth certificates, apartment deeds, various certificates. Andrey sifted through them, calmly setting aside what he needed. Alexey sat back, feeling like a bystander, yet reluctant to leave, afraid that as soon as he did, mother and son would fall silent again.
Suddenly she spoke, pointing to a folder. “Here are all your father’s documents, Andrey. And his military ID, and our photographs…”
Handling the papers, Andrey cracked a wry smile. “I remember Dad always complaining when I’d take something off the table without asking. I can still hear him…”
She looked at him with warm eyes. “He loved you—he was just strict. He wanted you to grow up independent.”
Alexey watched, feeling a thaw between them. Andrey’s tone softened, and Tamara Nikolayevna’s shoulders relaxed. They were swept up in memories—some bitter, some funny—that brought them closer.
“Remember when you stood on the balcony at the first snowfall, shouting, ‘Mom, look at all that snow!’?” she smiled.
“Yes, I was so scared the snow would bury me,” Andrey said, setting the documents aside. “I must have been six. Those were good times.”
A flicker of sadness crossed his face as he realized how long ago those days were.
When the paperwork was done, Andrey exhaled. “Tomorrow I might make it to the notary, then we’ll see. I might stay an extra day or two.”
“Stay longer if you can—rest with your mother,” Alexey offered, voicing the thought that hung in the air. “There are stories she’d love to tell you.”
“Yeah… maybe,” Andrey replied uncertainly.
Tamara Nikolayevna smoothed the tablecloth edge. “I’d be very happy if you stayed. Maybe we could go out somewhere. Alexey could drive us to the park—or a café.”
Andrey raised an eyebrow, half-smiling. “A café? I suppose we could try—though I’m not sure how much free time I have.”
“We’ll see,” she said optimistically.
Alexey seized the moment. “You can plan it tomorrow. I have the day off, so I can drive you. It’s nice to get out of the house sometimes.”
She nodded gratefully, and Andrey gave a small, genuine smile. “All right… let’s try it.”
Alexey felt a surge of pride: he’d played a small part in mending their bond.
The next day they went to a nearby mall. Tamara Nikolayevna, who hadn’t been to such a place in years—her world limited to the local shops and pharmacy—studied the storefronts with curiosity. Andrey walked beside her, slightly embarrassed as he pushed her wheelchair.
“Shall we get something for tea?” Alexey asked when they reached the grocery section.
“Take these cookies,” she said, pointing to a familiar brand. “Your father and I used to enjoy them, Andrey.”
Andrey frowned in thought, then nodded. “All right—let’s get them.”
They moved on to a small café on the first floor. Tamara Nikolayevna sipped her cappuccino for the first time in years.
“I’ve never tried this before,” she admitted, stirring the foam with her spoon. “It’s quite delicious—sweet even without sugar.”
Andrey watched her and seemed to smile sincerely, without tension. He told her about his work.
“We do IT projects—lots of business trips. That’s why I’m seldom home. My wife thinks I don’t spend enough time on her and our child. She’s right, of course. But the work feeds us.”
Tamara Nikolayevna nodded, sipping her coffee. “Life isn’t just work, son. Years fly by. Before you know it, your child will grow up and go away too. Don’t repeat my mistakes: I once worked all the time to give you everything, and we ended up with no time for one another.”
Alexey saw Andrey’s lips tremble, and he clenched his fist slightly. “I’ll try… It often feels like we’re hamsters on a wheel. But you’re right—it’s time to find balance.”
They sipped coffee and nibbled cookies, memories and hopes mingling in the air. Alexey rejoiced inwardly: it felt like a true reconciliation was beginning.
That evening back at home, Andrey surprised them by suggesting: “How about I go to the housing office tomorrow to check your bills, Mom? Maybe something’s overcharged or you’re entitled to benefits.”
She shook her head. “Everything’s in order—but if you want, you can check.”
Alexey smiled. “Mom finds it hard to run around government offices these days.”
“I understand,” Andrey replied. “I’ll take the documents and have a look. Rules change all the time…”
That night Tamara Nikolayevna looked happy: her son was here, if only briefly, and Alexey—who’d unexpectedly befriended him—sat between them. They chatted about politics, prices, and little household matters, even laughing over Andrey’s childhood fear of vaccinations, when she’d hold his hand at the clinic. The ice was truly melting.
On the third day, Andrey prepared to leave. The paperwork was done, and a few other errands were handled. Yet he seemed reluctant to go. Tamara Nikolayevna saw him to the door. Alexey packed homemade pies into a bag for him, feeling the conversation still unfinished.
“Mom,” Andrey began softly as he donned his coat. “I… I want to say that I was wrong. Will you forgive me?”
She looked at him with a mix of joy and sorrow. “Of course, I forgive you, son. We all make mistakes.”
“I’ll try to visit more often. Maybe in a month or two I’ll come again—with my son. Though I’m not sure if my wife will agree.”
“I’ll be happy either way,” she said, hugging him awkwardly but firmly.
Alexey stood to the side, his heart brimming. Andrey glanced at him gratefully. “Alexey, thank you. I see how well you care for Mom. It would be much harder without you.”
Alexey shrugged with a smile. “I’m glad to help. It’s only natural to support those who need it.”
Andrey nodded and then pulled him into a brief embrace. “Take care of her, okay? I’ll stay in touch.”
He picked up his bag and stepped outside to wait for a taxi. Tamara Nikolayevna stood by the window, watching him go. Alexey saw tears on her cheeks, but they were tears of relief. She turned to him.
“Thank you, Lesha. You can’t know how much this meant to me.”
He smiled, moved. “I’m just glad I could help.”
After Andrey left, Alexey realized his presence was no longer as necessary. Tamara Nikolayevna sat at the table, a relaxed smile on her face, the worry gone from her eyes. Alexey washed the dishes and cleared everything away, then said:
“Tamara Nikolayevna, I think I’ll go. You should rest and process all this.”
She looked up and nodded. “Yes, I’m tired—yet so happy. My son came, and it’s like a weight has lifted.”
Alexey grabbed his jacket. “If you need anything, call me. I’m always here.”
“I know. You’re like… well, you understand,” she admitted, and Alexey felt his chest tighten.
“Thank you,” he replied softly.
He descended the creaky stairs into the hallway. Outside, a light drizzle began to fall. On his walk, Alexey felt a mix of sadness and joy. He’d done what he could and felt somewhat lighter—like he’d atoned for some of his own failings toward his mother. Though the past couldn’t be changed, he’d at least brightened someone else’s life and, in turn, found a measure of his own peace.
“Maybe that’s what really matters,” he thought, stepping into the rain. “Being there when it’s needed most.” He inhaled the damp air and walked on, the burden inside him eased and his steps more confident.
Weeks passed. Alexey made a point of calling Tamara Nikolayevna regularly to check on her. She said Andrey had phoned a couple of times, promising to visit again soon with his son. Her voice held restrained joy.
“We’ll see how it goes, but I already feel better knowing he’s trying,” she told Alexey over the phone.
“I’m so happy for you,” he said. “You wanted this for so long.”
“I know. And Lesha—thank you. None of this would have happened without you. I truly believe we met for a reason.”
“I believe that too,” Alexey replied, a warm light filling him.
He hung up, contentment settling in his soul. He thought of his own mother, imagining her smiling somewhere, seeing how he cared for another woman’s mother. He smiled back at the thought.
He raised his collar against the autumn breeze and walked on beneath the rustling leaves, comforted by the knowledge that, through a simple act of kindness, two lives—and his own—had been gently transformed.
