“The baby is almost here,” the midwife said, wiping the sweat from Galina’s cheeks.
Galina clinched her teeth and grabbed her mother’s hand. A terrible agony surged through her, but she remained mute, scared of upsetting the neighbor’s children.
“Viktor should have returned long ago,” she rasped. “He only went out for baby shirts.”
Her mother massaged the moist strands on her brow. “Don’t think about it now. “One more push…”
The newborn fell into the midwife’s arms and burst out a loud, confident cry, as if introducing himself to the world. Sergei’s first howl was heard by everyone, including Grandma, Mama, and the midwife. Everyone but his father.
“It’s a boy, Galya! “A sturdy little walnut.” Grandma smiled as she accepted the bundled grandchild.
“Did you go to the police?” The neighbor who had offered the expecting mother a ride home inquired politely.
“We did,” she answered. “They say it happens often these days—people leave and just disappear.”
Viktor couldn’t just vanish. He promised to come back with baby clothes. He had mentioned teaching his son to fish and erecting a swing in the yard.
The house greeted her with coldness. Galina hugged Sergei with one arm and lit the stove with the other. In the corner was Viktor’s constructed cot, which he had managed to put together before leaving.
She didn’t get much sleep that first night. She stepped onto the porch, staring into the darkness. Would she see headlights? Do you hear familiar footsteps?
Village women whispered:
“He abandoned her. Sure he did. Men do that now—head for the city and disappear.”
“Ran from his duties. Still young…”
But others disagreed:
“Viktor wasn’t like that. He wouldn’t just up and leave.”
“Maybe something happened? Times are dangerous…”
Galina didn’t listen to anyone. By day, she went through the motions: feeding the baby, changing diapers. By night, she sat by the window, peering into the darkness.
Within a month, her money had run out. She sold the gold earrings, which had been Victor’s wedding gift. The sewing machine was next up.
“I’ll bring you some milk,” neighbor Nina said. “My cow provides generously. “The baby needs it.”
“I’ll work it off,” Galina said firmly.
Sergei spent her first night without crying when she was two months old. She sat with her sleeping kid and considered what to do next.
“We’ll manage,” she said quietly, kissing his plump cheek. “Papa will come back—and if he doesn’t, we’ll still manage.”
The morning found her hanging an old-dress curtain in the window, heating water to bathe her son in a washtub while humming a lullaby, and settling down to submit an application for a teaching position at the village school.
Life moved on—without Viktor, but with a developing hope based less on waiting for him and more on believing in herself.
Sergei sat at the final desk, squeezing his pencil against his notebook. Even at age eight, math was difficult.
“Sergei Kotov, finished your sums?” The teacher inquired, stopping by his seat.
“Almost, Maria Ivanovna—just need a bit more time.”
She sighed and glanced at the clock.
“Five more minutes, then we check.”
Sergei bent over the problems again. His gigantic hand-me-down rubber boots, hidden beneath the desk, were too embarrassing to reveal. After class, he dashed home, jumping over puddles. Mama should return early—new books were arriving at the school library, and she had promised to bring a math text.
The house smelt like boiling potatoes. Mama stood at the stove, stirring a stew.
“How was school?” she inquired without turning.
“Good,” Sergei remarked as he dropped his knapsack on the bench. “Got an A in reading.”
Galina turned, her haggard expression brightening.
“Well done!” “What did you read?”
“A story about a boy who defended the Motherland.” He sat at the table. “Mom, was Dad brave?”
Galina froze for a second before setting the ladle down.
“Very brave,” she replied softly. “The bravest of all.”
Rain beat against the sill, creating a comforting sound.
“I’ll be brave, too,” Sergei stated. “And strong—to help you.”
Galina rushed over and hugged him tightly.
“You already help,” she said softly, kissing his crown.
Sergei sprung up like a young birch, gathering strength. By twelve, he’d swung an axe, brought water from the well, and repaired fences. His school jacket sleeves barely reached his wrists.
“Mama, I need a new coat,” he said at supper. “This one’s way too small.”
Galina set down her fork and studied him. By kerosene-lamp light—electricity was out again—he looked strikingly like Viktor: same eyes, same stubborn chin.
“All right,” she nodded. “Saturday we’ll go to the district center and buy one.”
“Do we have the money?” Sergei frowned. “Maybe I can manage—”
“We have it,” she said firmly. She didn’t mention that she knitted socks at night for sale, sold goat’s milk to a middle-man, and cleaned the council office on weekends.
Sergei understood without words. Classmates admired him; no one ventured to taunt the sole fatherless child dressed in hand-me-downs. In fifth school, he bloodied Kolya Zhdanov’s nose for criticizing his mother, and everyone stayed away.
“Your dad was the strongest fellow in the village,” neighbor Kolya said once as they worked on the porch together. “A real hero.”
“What do you think happened to him?” Sergei asked quietly while hammering a nail.
Kolya scratched his head.
“I don’t know, lad. But it was not his choice. He wasn’t like that.”
Sergei nodded. He never raised the subject with his mother—he saw how it hurt her—but in his mind he often pictured his father as a hero, fallen on some mission. At fourteen Sergei brought home his first wages, earned clearing forest paths for the ranger all summer.
“For you, Mama,” he said, laying worn banknotes on the table. “For winter supplies.”
Galina froze, staring at the money. Outside, the first snow veiled the garden; logs crackled in the stove.
“I know you work for the two of us,” Sergei said quietly. “Now I’ll help as well.”
Looking up at him, Galina saw not a boy but a young man—with Viktor’s determination in his eyes.
“Thank you,” she managed, holding back tears.
That evening, after Sergei went to bed, she took out an old photograph of Viktor grinning, his arm around her shoulders. On the back, faded ink said, “To my one and only.”
“He’s growing as strong as you,” she muttered to the image. “As kind, too.”
Sergei adjusted his tie and looked at the damaged mirror. It portrayed a broad-shouldered youth with a firm chin.
Mama had tailored the dark-blue jacket from Viktor’s long-kept suit, and it fit perfectly.
He turned eighteen today. Evening guests were expected, but first came the final bell of school—graduation. University loomed, though he hadn’t yet chosen where.
“Mama, do you need the water heated?” he called, stepping from his room.
Galina stood at the stove, stirring. Over the years her hair had silvered and wrinkles traced what was once smooth, yet her posture remained straight, her gaze firm.
“Already heated,” she smiled. “What a handsome man—quite the bridegroom.”
“Mama, stop…” Sergei blushed.
“Shura Bondareva keeps looking at you,” Galina teased. “Notice?”
“Enough, Mama…” He waved her off.
A knock sounded. Sergei glanced at the clock—it was barely six a.m.
“Who calls this early?” Galina mumbled while cleaning her hands on her apron.
Sergei opened the door.
A tall stranger in a dark overcoat stood on the step, which was unusual for the season. Silver threaded between his temples, leaving profound creases on his cheeks. He handled himself with calm dignity.
“Good morning,” he remarked gently while eyeing Sergei. “Is this the Kotov residence?”
“Yes,” Sergei said nervously, blocking the way.
The man nodded and moved to a car parked at the gate—a black sedan with tinted windows. Sergei had not noticed. He grabbed a tiny luggage and returned to the porch.
“This is from Viktor Kotov,” he explained, presenting the case. “He asked that it be delivered on his son’s eighteenth birthday.”
Behind Sergei, there was a crash of broken glassware. He turned to see his mother standing in the kitchen doorway, her face devoid of color.
“Do you—do you know where he is?” Galina’s voice quivered.
The man removed his glasses. His eyes were worn and sorrowful.
“Viktor was long gone. He only begged that this reach his son when the time came. I don’t know anything more.”
He turned and walked back to the car. Sergei’s thoughts was full of words, but none of them came out of his mouth. Galina placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Bring it inside,” she said quietly.
The suitcase was quite heavy. Sergei placed it on the kitchen table. They focused on the scuffed brown leather, the metal corners, and the old-fashioned lock.
“Open it,” Galina replied finally, falling onto a stool.
Sergei snapped the clasps. The lid raised gently.
Inside lay neat bundles of U.S. dollars. On top—a letter marked To Galya and Son.
With trembling fingers Galina unfolded the paper. The handwriting was painfully familiar—angular, forceful, as if written by someone used to sparing words.
My dearest,
If you are reading this, I am gone. Forgive me, Galya, for not returning that day. I witnessed a crime in town. They forced me to work for them under threat to you. I tried to break free, but I was in too deep.
I watched you from afar. I came several times, saw the house, saw Sergei. Once I watched you, Son, chopping wood in the yard. How you’ve grown…
These savings are yours. Use them for Sergei’s education, buy a house in the city, live with dignity.
Galina, forgive everything. I loved you every moment of these cursed years. You were my beacon in the blackness.
Sergei, I’m proud of you. Protect your mother.
Forever yours,
Viktor
Galina clasped the letter to her heart, and tears flowed down her face.
Sergei clutched the table’s edge. Inside, something shattered and reformed: the father he had imagined did not vanish; he became real.
That evening, they sat on the porch. The air smelled of lilac and freshly cut grass, and somewhere in the town, an accordion played—the last-bell celebration.
“How will we use the money?” Sergei inquired, gazing at the starry sky.
Galina adjusted the shawl on her shoulders.
“You’ll go to university,” she answered calmly. “Moscow or St. Petersburg—you choose.”
“And you?”
“I’ll wait till you finish. Then we’ll decide.”
Sergei nodded, silent for a while. Then he said quietly, “He loved you. And me.”
“I know,” Galina replied simply. “I always knew.”
A shooting star passed overhead. Sergei closed his eyes and wished, not for himself, but for his mother: that she would stop waiting and begin actually living.
Galina noticed her son’s features—the same eyes, the same obstinate chin—as well as her own perseverance, fortitude, and limitless capacity to love.
“Happy birthday, my boy,” she said softly, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. “Your father would be proud of you.”
Sergei smiled and held her more tightly.
“And he would be proud of you, too, Mama—very proud.”
The post After her son was born, her husband disappeared—she raised the boy alone. Yet on his 18th birthday a duffel bag arrived, crammed with cash. appeared first on Timeless Life.
