In the house that once smelled of apple pie and laughter, there now hung a strange, sticky air of things left unsaid. Artyom increasingly noticed the way his mother Anna’s gaze slid over his father Dmitry’s figure with a detached, almost outsider’s interest. And Dmitry, in turn, seemed to be seeking refuge— in the garage, in odd jobs, in long walks with the dog. Anything to avoid staying within four walls where every object reminded them of something lost.
The young man keenly felt this shift, the shaky ground beneath the nest he’d always called home. His own world seemed to be splitting at the seams along with his parents’. Even his university lectures, which had once absorbed him, now passed him by, leaving behind only a vague anxiety and unease. He made tentative attempts to speak up, to find the key to their shuttered hearts, but the moment he asked, “How are you two doing?” or “Maybe we could all go somewhere together?” Anna and Dmitry would immediately pull on masks of calm and steer the conversation toward neutral, everyday topics. It was as clear as day that they were desperately avoiding something important, as if afraid to rouse the dozing beast in the corner.
Artyom floundered for a solution, feeling his own life turn duller and more joyless. He longed to hear their shared laughter again, to see his parents’ hands reach unconsciously for each other at the table. But he was no longer a child and understood: if a crystal vase falls and shatters, even the most skillful craftsman, gluing the pieces together, cannot hide the web of cracks. They remain, a reminder of former fragility.
He sought support from his longtime friend Maksim, hoping for a wise word, some kind of compass in this chaos of feelings.
“You know what I’ll tell you, buddy? This is their story. Their path. My parents didn’t work out either; they split up. And it’s fine, I’m alive and well, I talk to my mom, I see my dad. What matters now is that you stay close to your mother—she’ll need your support. And your father… he’ll manage. He’s a man, he’s strong, he’ll get through it. And, to be honest, it’s more often the men who cause these rifts in the first place,” Maksim mused, trying to comfort Artyom.
Perhaps there was a grain of truth in his friend’s words. Anna would certainly need a shoulder. And Artyom was ready to do everything in his power to help her weather this storm. But the idea that the blame always lay with the man found no echo in his soul. His own recent pains were too fresh—the breakup with a girlfriend who had chosen someone else, someone she thought more striking and promising. Artyom had given everything to the relationship, but it turned out his desire alone was not enough to save it. He had promised himself to focus on his studies, to drive away heartache, but now a new and far heavier burden had fallen on his shoulders—the burden of the adult son trying to save his family.
And then, one day, when the silence in the apartment grew especially hollow and ominous, Artyom made a decision. Things could not go on like this. If his parents truly found it unbearable together, if their union had become a cage, then better they let each other go than slowly poison their souls. He knew both would be home, and, setting aside his textbooks, he headed for a decisive conversation.
Crossing the threshold, he immediately caught muted but tense voices coming from the living room. His parents were so absorbed in their argument they didn’t hear him come in. Artyom’s heart pounded so hard it seemed to throb in his temples. His legs turned to cotton, and a lump formed in his throat. In moments like these, he felt like a little boy again—helpless and lost in the face of his parents’ discord.
“And what am I supposed to do with your excuses now? Words won’t fill a stomach! Don’t you understand I can’t go on like this? I’m suffocating within these walls! I feel like a hostage, a servant! And meanwhile another woman takes my place in the sun and enjoys life! It’s unbearable!..”
“Think beyond yourself—think about our son! Even if Igor welcomes you with open arms after all these years, what will become of Artyom? How will he cope? Can you imagine what a blow that would be? He’s already studying worse because of our constant bickering, he’s lost weight—it hurts to look at him…”
Artyom froze, leaning against the cool hallway wall. His father… Dmitry was thinking about him. For his sake he had endured, silently withstood reproaches and grievances, stayed in this house where no trace of former warmth remained. How could Artyom side with his mother after that? A storm of conflicting feelings rose inside him, but he didn’t dare enter, understanding that eavesdropping was wrong, yet unable to tear himself away.
“I’ve thought about his feelings my whole life! And it’s all because of you! If not for your sudden love back then, I wouldn’t have had to live a lie. Everything could have been different—happy!”
“And now I’m to blame? Wasn’t it you who kept saying you loved me? I managed to forgive that episode, I was ready to build a life with you. What’s changed? What happened to you, Anna? Why have you become so cruel and forgotten all those words we once said to each other? We can still fix this; we can be the family we used to be. If you hadn’t run into that man, Igor, by chance, none of this would have happened. Why have you turned into someone I don’t recognize?”
Artyom clenched his hands until his nails dug into his skin. He didn’t fully grasp the backstory, but he caught the gist: his mother had once cheated on his father, and now, having met that very man again, she was ready to destroy everything for a new life. What was keeping her here? If her mind was made up, why not leave? He was an adult now and might be able to understand. In this situation his heart was clearly with his father, but… he couldn’t simply renounce his mother. He took a step to go in and explain everything, when a sharp, rattling crash of breaking glass sounded in the living room—someone had hurled an object with force. Artyom recoiled. He realized his mother was in a full-blown hysterical fit, and his appearance now would only pour oil on the fire. Perhaps he should quietly slip out and return later, once tempers had cooled?
“I’m the one who’s turned into a monster? Look at yourself! I believed in you. I thought we would live decently, that you’d be able to give us everything, but in reality you’re capable of nothing! You… you’re just a loser. And Igor… Igor has achieved everything we only ever dreamed about. And he has the right to know he has a son. As soon as he learns the truth, he’ll leave his bland wife and be with me. I’ll finally have the life I deserve.”
“And our son? Did you think about him? How will he take this news? Will he even want to meet the man who is his biological father?”
A son… A biological father…
The words pierced Artyom’s consciousness like sharp shards. He tried to breathe deeper, steadier, to hold his balance, but the ground was sliding from under his feet. Now everything was clear. They were talking about him. He… wasn’t the biological son of the man he’d called Dad all his life? But even if that was so, he wanted no new fathers! He had one and only one father—Dmitry, the man who taught him to hammer nails and fish, who supported him in all his endeavors. No biology could cancel that bond.
“As soon as he finds out what a powerful and wealthy father he really has, of course he’ll want to meet him! And you… you’ll be left alone in this shabby little apartment, dragging out your shabby existence. In your whole life you couldn’t even save up for a decent home!”
Artyom couldn’t listen to this merciless torrent any longer. His chest boiled over—hurt, anger, disappointment, pain. He could hardly breathe; the room swam before his eyes. The truth, dumped on him from such a height, stunned him and sapped his will.
Without knowing what he was doing, he kicked the ottoman in the corridor aside and, without grabbing his jacket, bolted from the apartment, slamming the door. He ran, heedless of where, not feeling the asphalt beneath his feet. His mother had kept a terrible secret all these years and now flaunted it like a trump card in her dirty game for comfort. Could a real mother’s heart be so calculating and cold? In different circumstances he might have absorbed this truth differently. But now— the words, the tones, the reasons for her confession—everything hit the mark, wounding and humiliating him. Everything inside him screamed—mind and soul alike. He needed to do the right thing. But what was right in this situation? Did such a path even exist? What could he do to make these two adults come to their senses and stop deciding for him what was good for him?
Artyom wandered the empty streets until deep into the night, until the cold seeped into his bones and forced him to come to. His phone was in his backpack, at home, and he shuddered to think what must be going through his parents’ minds. Whatever the case, he had to go back. Back to say everything that had built up inside him, to make sure his voice was finally heard. They had to reckon with his feelings.
The road back felt endless. When he finally opened the door, chilled and exhausted, the first to meet him was Dmitry. The man stood in the middle of the hallway, shoulders hunched, his eyes full of guilt and pain, unable to meet his son’s gaze. Anna burst from the living room, her face twisted with anger and fear.
“Where have you been?! Do you have any idea what I’ve been through? You’ll drive me to the grave with your antics!” she shouted, but her words no longer reached his heart.
He looked at her and saw a stranger. It seemed some unfamiliar, cruel presence had taken up residence in her. Even her eyes looked different. But somewhere deep down she was still the mother who used to sing him lullabies, and for that he remained grateful.
“I heard everything…” Artyom said quietly but very clearly. “We need to talk. All of us.”
“Talk? Are you out of your mind? After everything that just happened? Now is not the time to talk! Later!” Anna shrilled, her voice breaking into a screech.
“We’re going to talk now!” For the first time in his life, Artyom raised his voice to his mother, and there was such unshakable firmness in his tone that the woman faltered for a moment. “Now, not later. I’m not going to hide my feelings. I should have started this conversation long ago, when I first noticed your marriage falling apart. How you’re both suffering, for some reason putting up with each other, only hurting one another more. There’s no point running from the truth anymore.”
Anna fell silent, sank weakly onto the living room sofa, and covered her face with her hands. Dmitry, without a word, walked to the window and stared out into the night; his back radiated such sorrow and remorse that it hurt Artyom to look at him. His father blamed himself for not protecting his son, for not talking to him earlier.
“I heard I’m not my father’s biological son,” Artyom’s voice trembled, but he went on, looking at Dmitry’s back. “But does that change anything? All these years he has been a father to me. A real one. I’ve known no other and I don’t want to. Whether we’re tied by a drop of blood or not doesn’t matter. What matters is the invisible thread that binds our souls. It’s far stronger than any biology. Mom, if you’ve decided to leave, I won’t stop you. What was between you and Dad can’t be fixed now. Forgiving such a wound is incredibly hard. And on this, my heart is with Dad—sorry. But I won’t be dragged into this game. I don’t want to meet that man. He could be a thrice-over millionaire and master of the world, and I wouldn’t care. My father is standing here, in this room. And I will not betray him. This conversation is over. I’m not a thing, and I have a right to my own voice.”
Anna tried to object, to coax, to press on his guilt, but Artyom stood his ground with an imperturbable calm that cost him dearly. He refused to be a bargaining chip for someone else’s ambitions, he wasn’t chasing phantom benefits, and he considered it unthinkable to renounce the man who had been his true father.
Anna left in the end. She found that same Igor and, full of hope, laid out her secret. But the reaction was not what she had expected.
“You left me once, calling me a loser with no prospects. And now, once you’ve learned I’ve achieved something, you’ve suddenly changed your mind? You’ve always been like this, Anna—hungry for someone else’s success. Even if I do have a son, it changes nothing. I don’t know him. He grew up without me, and I’m not going to make him part of my life now. This conversation is over and we will not return to it.”
Anna was left with nothing. Her calculations collapsed, her dreams of an easy life turned to dust. Returning to the family after that scandal and the things she’d said was impossible. She understood that the trust she had undermined could not be restored. She moved to the dacha, into quiet and solitude, where her only interlocutors were the wind at the window and memories of the past. Out of filial duty, Artyom visited her sometimes, trying to preserve at least some connection, but their conversations were strained, like a string ready to snap at any moment. For trust, once broken—like that crystal vase—never becomes what it was, and the sharp shards of the past will prick at every careless word.
Months passed. One evening Artyom and Dmitry were sitting on the shore of a lake, their fishing rods gently bobbing on the small ripples, the sun slanting toward the horizon and tinting the water with gold and crimson. There were no grand words or vows between them. There was simply quiet understanding, a calm confidence in each other. Artyom looked at his father’s profile, lit by the sunset, and felt a strange, bright peace fill his heart.
“You know, Dad,” he said softly, watching the water run away into the distance, “I once read that the strongest bonds are invisible to the eye. You can’t measure or weigh them. They just are. Like air. Like this sunset. Like the feeling of home.”
Dmitry slowly turned his head toward him, and in his eyes—so familiar and dear—Artyom saw the answer: that very invisible thread, stronger than steel and any blood in the world. It was the thread of true, unfeigned love, which nothing could tear apart. And in the evening hush, under the whisper of water and wind, they both knew that their small but genuine family was forever
