— Anna Sergeyevna, the documents are ready. Who will accompany you home?” the nurse asked, carefully looking at the fragile woman whose pale face was framed by shadows under her eyes.
— “I… I’ll manage on my own,” Anna replied, trying to imbue her voice with confidence.
The medical worker glanced at her figure with concern. A week after a difficult childbirth, and beside her lay emptiness. Her husband had not appeared even once. Only a brief phone call: “Don’t waste your time on me.”
Anna gently picked up Liza, nestling the little one in her bent elbow. As for the second baby—Mitya—the nurse had helped. Two tiny bundles, two new little people for whom she now bore full responsibility. A bag was slung over her shoulder, and she had to grip a package of diapers in her right arm.
— “Are you sure you can carry them?” the nurse still hesitated. “Maybe we should call a car?”
— “No need, the bus stop isn’t far.”
Not far. Just a kilometer along a snowy February road, with two newborns and stitches that ached with every step. But there was no one to ask for help. And funds for a taxi would barely cover milk and bread until the end of the month.
Her steps were small, cautious. The wind tossed prickly snowflakes into her face, the bag tugged at her arm, and her back ached. Yet through the thin layers she felt the warmth of her children. It warmed her better than any clothing.
At the bus stop she had to wait. Passersby hurried by, huddling against the wind. No one offered help; they only cast curious glances—a young woman, alone, with two infants. When the bus arrived, an elderly passenger helped her up, giving up her seat.
— “Are you going to your husband’s?” the woman asked.
— “Yes,” Anna lied, lowering her eyes.
Deep down she hoped that Ivan had simply been frightened. That, upon seeing their children, he would realize his mistake. That he would accept them, love them. After all, they had talked about it, made plans. Two years ago, when he proposed, he had himself spoken of children: “I want a son and a daughter, perfect copies of you.” Fate had been kind—she had been given both at once.
The house greeted her with a dull silence and musty air. Unwashed dishes in the sink, cigarette butts in a jar on the table, empty bottles. She carefully laid the little ones on the sofa, placing a clean towel beneath them. She opened a window to let in fresh air, wincing at the pain in her lower abdomen. — “Vanya?” she called softly. — “We’re home.”
A rustle came from the bedroom. Ivan emerged, still in his robe. His gaze swept over the children, the bags, Anna—indifferent, cold. As if before him were strangers.
— “Noisy,” he muttered, nodding toward the sleeping twins. “Probably screaming all night?”
— “They’re good,” she stepped forward, striving to find even a hint of warmth. “They hardly cry. Mitya only when he’s hungry, and Liza is always quiet. Look, aren’t they beautiful…”
Ivan stepped back. In his eyes flickered something akin to disgust or fear.
— “You know, I thought about it…” he began, rubbing his neck. “This isn’t for me.”
— “What?” Anna froze, not understanding.
— “Kids, diapers, constant cries. I’m not ready.”
Anna looked at him, stunned. How could one not be ready for one’s own children? Nine months. Nine long months he had known they would come.
— “But you wanted it…” she protested.
— “I did, then changed my mind,” he shrugged, as if discussing the purchase of a new phone. “I’m still young. I want to live my own life, not fuss with diapers.”
He walked past her, retrieving a sports bag from the closet. He began throwing on clothes—t-shirts, jeans, without any particular order.
— “You… are you leaving?” her voice became distant, foreign.
— “I’m leaving,” he nodded, not even looking at her. “I’ll stay with Seryoga for a while, then decide about the rental.”
— “And what about us?” Anna couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
Ivan fastened the bag, finally paying her attention—irritated, as though she were asking a stupid question at an important meeting.
— “You’ll stay here. The house is in your name, I won’t meddle with your mother. I’m not paying alimony—you chose to have the children, so handle it on your own.”
He approached the sofa where the children slept. Mitya opened his eyes—just as dark as his father’s. The little one didn’t cry; he simply looked at the man who had given him life and was now renouncing it. — “I don’t need them,” Ivan spat, turning away. “I refuse that role.”
He spat on the floor right next to the sofa. He grabbed his bag and jacket and left, slamming the door loudly. The windowpanes trembled, and Liza quietly began to cry, as if understanding what had happened.
Anna slowly sank to the floor. In her chest, it felt as though an abyss had opened, swallowing up all emotions except a deafening fear. She was left alone. With two children in a house heated by a stove, minimal maternity benefits.
Liza cried louder and louder. Mitya joined in—two voices merging into one desperate cry. As if waking from a nightmare, Anna crawled to the sofa, took them both in her arms, and clutched them close. Their little bodies, their trusting helplessness became her only reality.
— “Hush, my darlings,” she whispered, rocking them. “We’ll manage. I will never abandon you.”
Outside, the wind whipped up snowy whirlwinds as the sun dipped below the horizon. It was the first of many nights they were to endure together. Without him. Without the one who could share this burden. When the clock struck three in the morning, Mitya finally fell asleep. Liza dozed off earlier, having been fed and warmed. Anna set them up in an improvised cradle—a large cardboard box from a microwave, lined with a woolen blanket. The stove was nearly cold; it needed more wood, but she no longer had the strength to rise.
— “We’ll survive,” she whispered into the darkness, as if casting a spell. “We will survive.”
That phrase became her mantra for the years to come.
“Grandma Klava, Mitya doesn’t want to eat porridge at all!” five-year-old Liza burst into the yard, her braids bouncing merrily as she moved. “She says it tastes bitter!”
— “It’s not bitter,” the old woman corrected, adjusting her kerchief and wiping her hands on her apron. “It’s buckwheat porridge, dear, that’s how it should be. And where’s your little brother?”
— “He’s in the shed, sulking,” Liza replied, shaking her head.
Klavdia Petrovna sighed. Anna had gone off on a night shift at the farm—covering for a sick dairymaid. The children were left with a neighbor who, over three years, had become like a second mother to them. At first the village had condemned her: they said she couldn’t keep her husband, she’d disgraced the family. Then they accepted her—hardworking, never complaining, raising her children in cleanliness and order.
— “Come on, let’s talk to our stubborn one,” suggested Klavdia Petrovna, taking Liza by the hand.
Mitya sat on an overturned bucket, busily poking at the earth with a stick. Skinny, almost shorn bald—after the lice incident at the kindergarten, Anna had cut all the boys’ hair like that. Liza still had her braids—they had cried for three days when her mother had tried to cut them. — “Tell me, young man, why did you leave your sister to have breakfast alone?” the old woman began as she sat down on a log.
— “This porridge is gross,” the boy muttered. “It tastes bitter.”
— “Do you know what your mother wants?” Klavdia Petrovna gently ruffled his tousled hair. “She wants you to grow up healthy. She talks to the cows on the farm, gets milk, earns money so that you have food. And you just fuss around.”
The boy looked at her, sighed, and got up.
— “Alright, I’ll eat. But only if I have bread with it?”
— “Of course, with bread, butter, and sweet tea,” agreed Klavdia Petrovna.
Later that evening, Anna returned—tired, with eyes reddened by sleeplessness, but with a smile. In her coarse bag were a jug of milk, a loaf of bread, and a package of caramel. — “Mom!” the children ran to her, clinging to her.
— “My darlings,” she sat down, tightly embracing them both. “How could it be without me here?”
Liza chattered non-stop: about the cat that had brought kittens, about the new dress that Grandma Klava had sewn out of her old one, about how Mitya had refused to eat the porridge, but then eventually did.
— “And soon there will be a celebration in the kindergarten,” she finished, catching her breath. “For moms and dads.”
Anna froze, looking at her daughter. The girl looked innocently, not understanding the pain she had just caused.
— “We need to call your dad,” Mitya suddenly added. “Like everyone else.”
Anna slowly exhaled, feeling her throat tighten. Here it was—the moment she had feared. The children were growing up and beginning to ask questions.
— “You don’t have a dad,” she said softly.
— “Why not?” Liza asked, tilting her head. “Sashka Petrov has a dad, Marinika has one, even Kolya the crippled kid who always picks on everyone has one. Why don’t we have one?”
— “Your dad…” Anna spoke softly but firmly. “He left when you were born. He didn’t want to be a part of our lives.”
— “So he doesn’t love us?” Mitya’s eyes filled with tears.
— “I don’t know, sweetheart,” she gently stroked his short-cropped hair. “But I love you. All of you. Every single one.”
That night, for the first time, the children cried not out of hunger or pain, but from the realization that something important was missing from their lives. Anna nestled between them, holding them both, and began to tell stories—not of princes and kingdoms, but about little forest creatures who were happy even without a father, because they had a caring mama rabbit.
— “What do you mean, ‘we refuse’?” Anna’s voice trembled with indignation, her hands so tightly clenched that her knuckles turned white.
Alla Viktorovna, a full-figured woman with bright red hair, nervously shuffled through documents.
— “Anna Sergeyevna, you understand that spaces in the summer camp are limited. Priority is given to those who truly need it.”
— “We are exactly that kind! I’m raising them on my own!”
— “Formally, though, you work two jobs at once. Your income is above the subsistence level.”
— “Then what am I supposed to do?” Anna exclaimed. “Stop working? One salary can’t feed three people!”
The headmistress sighed and removed her glasses.
— “Anna, I sympathize, truly. But the decision is made by a committee, not by me personally. There are families in even worse conditions. With many children, with disabled members…”
— “Our father abandoned the children. Not a single ruble in alimony. I work like crazy so they can at least eat!” Anna felt a lump rise in her throat.
Alla Viktorovna fell silent, then walked to a cabinet and retrieved a folder.
— “There’s another option,” she said quietly. “Camp passes for children from single-parent families, where one of the parents works in the camp. We actually need helpers in the kitchen.”
— “I’m ready,” Anna answered quickly. “For any job.”
— “The leave is formally a vacation with the children, but in reality—it’s work,” the headmistress warned. “It won’t be easy.”
— “I’ll manage. I’ll take leave exactly for those days.”
That’s how Mitya and Liza first saw the sea—thanks to a social pass, while their mother washed dishes and cleaned vegetables in the pioneer camp “Lastochka.” It was worth it—they returned stronger, tanned. Mitya grew five centimeters taller, Liza learned to swim. Most importantly—they no longer asked questions about their father.
“Sidirov, are you completely brainless?” Liza shouted, standing between the seventh-grader and her brother, spreading her legs wide. “If you lay a hand on him one more time—you’ll get it!”
Sidirov, a lanky guy with a flushed face, grinned maliciously.
— “What, Mitya, are you hiding behind your sister’s skirt? Mommy’s little son!”
— “Back off from him,” Liza clenched her fists.
Mitya remained silent, eyes fixed on the ground. A bruise was forming on his face, and his lip was bleeding. At ten years old he was still the smallest in his class—skinny, nervous, always with a book.
— “Fatherlessness,” Sidirov spat at his feet. “And you’re just the same—no father, no brains.”
Liza’s hand suddenly lashed out, striking his cheek with such force that he staggered back. For a moment he blinked in confusion, then tried to swing, but didn’t have time—Mitya lunged forward like a little torpedo, crashing into his stomach. Sidirov groaned, bending over. The twins, without even coordinating, ran off.
They stopped only by an old water pump, breathing heavily, cheeks flushed.
— “Why did you get involved?” Liza asked her brother.
— “I wanted to protect you,” Mitya mumbled, wiping the blood from his cheek. “It’s all because of me.”
— “You fool,” Liza snorted, pulling out a handkerchief and wetting it with water from the pump. “Here, press it against your lip.”
They sat in silence on the rusty pipe. The evening was drawing in; somewhere in the village, cows were returning from grazing.
— “Mama will find out and get angry,” Mitya broke the silence. “She’ll explain it to us.”
— “She won’t be angry,” Liza shook her head. “She’ll understand. She always understands everything.”
Anna indeed met them calmly. She tended to her son’s split lip, applied a cold towel to the bruise. She listened to Liza’s halting account. And then she said, — “I’m proud of you. You defended each other.”
— “But you shouldn’t fight,” Mitya noted uncertainly.
— “Yes, you shouldn’t fight,” Anna agreed. “But you also can’t allow those you love to be hurt.”
She embraced them—not as little ones anymore, but as teenagers on the threshold of a new life. Her hope, her meaning, her heart divided in two.
— “Mama, was Dad really a bad person?” Mitya suddenly asked.
Anna flinched. They hadn’t talked about him for a long time. His image had started to fade, becoming a shadow in the corner of memory.
— “No,” she answered slowly. “Not bad. Just weak. He was afraid of responsibility.”
— “And where is he now?” Liza looked up at her.
— “I don’t know, dear. Somewhere in the city, perhaps. Maybe he’s started another family.”
— “Does that mean he doesn’t need us?” Mitya fiddled with the edge of his T-shirt.
— “But we need each other,” Anna said firmly. “That’s enough.”
That night she spent sleeplessly. The children were growing up, their questions becoming more complex. She knew that sooner or later would come a moment when they’d have to learn the whole truth—without embellishments, without softening. About how their father had rejected them from day one. How he spat near their cribs. How he left without even looking back.
But now they were only ten, and their world could still be sheltered a little.
Years passed.
Liza was the first to notice him. A man was lingering by the school fence, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, searching among the students. A worn jacket, unkempt hair with streaks of gray, a face with a sickly flush. But something in the contours of his face, the shape of his eyebrows, the form of his chin made her internal self contract.
— “Mitya,” she tugged her brother by the sleeve. “Look.”
Mitya lifted his head from his book and followed her gaze. His eyes—just like the man by the fence—widened.
— “This is…” he began, but then stopped.
The man noticed them. Something trembled on his face—his eyebrows arched upward, his eyes widened, his lips parted, as if he wanted to say something, but the words got stuck in his throat. He took an uncertain step forward, raising his hand—either in greeting or as if trying to fend off his own demons.
— “Hello,” his voice came out hoarsely. “You are… Liza and Mitya? Anna’s children?”
The children were silent. Ten years—an entire lifetime—had passed between them and this man. Thirteen years of unanswered questions.
— “I am your father,” he said when the pause became unbearable. “Ivan.”
— “We know,” Liza replied coldly, instinctively stepping forward and shielding her brother. “What do you want?”
Ivan grimaced, as if pained by her question.
— “I just wanted to talk. Just to see you. I… have thought a lot lately.”
His voice sounded dull, as if coming from the bottom of a well. He smelled of alcohol and cheap cigarettes. His gray eyes—those very eyes that Mitya had inherited—looked with a sort of submissive sorrow.
— “Mama is at home,” Mitya said, breaking the silence. “If you want to talk, go to her.”
— “I came to you,” Ivan took another step forward. “Just to talk. To find out how you… are living.”
— “Without you,” Liza snapped, straightening her back like a guard at the castle gates. “We’re growing up without you. Why are you showing up now? Thirteen years have passed.”
At her words, Ivan slumped, shoulders falling. He clearly hadn’t expected such a cold reception—a blunt refusal from a child.
— “I know I’m at fault,” he mumbled. “I know I have no right to demand anything… But life has beaten me down, again and again. I’ve lost everything—my job, my home, my health. And now I wonder, maybe it isn’t too late? Maybe I can at least start to get to know you?”
His voice trembled on his final words—like a string stretched too tight. Mitya stared at his shoes, clutching the edge of his jacket. Seeing his father like this was like watching a bird that had fallen from its branch, still breathing. Liza, however, remained steadfast—every cell in her body expressed resolve.
— “You’ve seen, haven’t you?” she said evenly. “You’ve found out. Now we’re going home, to Mama. She’s waiting for us.”
— “Wait,” Ivan extended his hand as if trying to stop them. “I really… I could… maybe see you sometimes? I could pick you up from school, help out…”
— “Do you even know which class we’re in?” Liza squinted. “Where we live? What we like? What we can do? What matters to us?”
Every question struck like a blow, each one a searing reminder of the time he had lost. Ivan fell silent, lowering his eyes.
— “You know nothing about us,” the girl continued, her voice trembling with restrained anger. “And you have no right to just show up as if nothing happened. As if you didn’t spit next to our cribs!”
— “Liza!” Mitya stepped back in shock, his eyes wide. “How do you know that?”
— “Mama told me when I asked,” Liza said firmly, her gaze fixed on Ivan. “You left without looking back. And she stayed. Alone with two children, with no means, no support. And she managed—without you.”
— “I was young…” Ivan mumbled, lowering his eyes. “Inexperienced. I was afraid of responsibility.”
— “And what about her?” Liza shook her head. “She was only twenty-six. But she wasn’t afraid.”
Ivan bowed his head even lower. His shoulders sagged as if burdened by all the lost years, all the lessons never learned, all the words left unsaid. — “You are strangers to us,” Mitya said quietly but firmly. “Complete strangers.”
— “You betrayed us,” Liza added, her voice ringing like steel.
They turned and walked away, clinging to each other as they always had in the face of danger. Ivan watched them go, and for the first time in a long while, real tears welled up in his eyes.
When they entered the house, Anna immediately sensed something was wrong. The pallor on Mitya’s face and Liza’s tense posture spoke for themselves. In the kitchen, the scent of freshly baked goods lingered—she had just taken out their favorite apple pie from the oven.
— “What happened?” Anna asked, wiping her hands on a towel as she approached the children.
— “Dad came by,” Mitya blurted out. “He was at school.”
Anna froze. That name, which they had tried not to speak for years, hung in the air like a storm cloud.
— “Ivan?” the name, buried deep in her memory, slipped from her lips, and she felt her legs tremble treacherously. “Why did he show up?”
— “He started going on about change,” Liza scoffed. “Saying life has ruined him, that he’s lost everything, and now he remembered us. Wanted to start ‘getting to know’ us.”
— “And what did you…,” Anna sank onto a chair, tightly interlacing her fingers to stop them from trembling, “what did you say to him?”
— “The truth,” Mitya met his mother’s gaze. “That he means nothing to us. That betrayal can’t be forgotten.”
Anna covered her face with her hands. Inside, a storm of emotions raged: anger at Ivan, who had dared intrude into their world after all these years, anxiety for the children facing him, and a strange relief that he was still alive, that he remembered they existed.
— “Hey,” Liza’s hand rested on Anna’s shoulder, warm and reassuring, as if she had already grown up. “Don’t worry so much. We managed. We said everything that needed to be said.”
— “I’m sorry,” Anna raised her reddened eyes. “I’m sorry you had to go through that. I always feared this meeting, but… I never thought it would happen so soon.”
— “Soon?” Mitya bitterly smiled. “Thirteen whole years!”
— “For me, it’s still like yesterday,” Anna admitted quietly. “Every day feels like yesterday. Every day I was afraid he’d come back. And every day I feared he wouldn’t.”
— “And you… did you want him to come back?” Liza asked hesitantly.
Anna was silent for a long while, studying her children’s faces. In them, she saw Ivan’s features—the shape of the eyes, the curve of the chin, the arch of the eyebrows. But their characters, their souls, their hearts were entirely different—strong, honest, whole. — “No,” she finally replied. “I didn’t want him to come back. Because without him, we became better. Stronger. A real family.”
They embraced—three bodies, three hearts beating in unison.
— “He may come here,” Anna said when they finally pulled apart.
— “And then what?” Mitya looked up.
— “Then we’ll do the same as we did before,” Anna straightened her back. “We’ll say he’s a stranger. That we lived without him. That it’s too late.”
He reappeared the next morning. They were having breakfast when there was a timid knock at the door. Anna stood up, straightened her blouse, and gathered herself. — “I’ll get it,” she declared.
Ivan stood on the doorstep—haggard, aged, with dark circles under his eyes and premature gray hair. He wore a scent of cheap cologne—obviously he had somewhere begged for a shirt, even ironed it. His cheeks were neatly shaven, his hair carefully styled. But the wrinkles around his eyes, the swollen veins at his temples, and the yellowish tint of his skin betrayed the truth.
— “Hello, Anya,” his voice trembled, sounding like the creak of an old door.
Anna looked him over as if he were an exhibit in a museum—interested, but without emotion. How strange that once this man had been the center of her world, and now evoked the same feelings as a random bus companion to the city. — “Why have you come?” she asked coldly. “The children already said everything yesterday.”
— “I wanted to talk to you,” he shifted from foot to foot. “Just with you, Anya. Seriously.”
— “About what?” she folded her arms across her chest.
— “About everything,” he stepped forward. “About how I made mistakes. How I ruined everything. Thirteen years wasted… And now I woke up, and there’s no life. No home, no family…”
— “And you decided to remember the children?” she raised an eyebrow. “Convenient.”
— “Not like that!” he raised his voice, then immediately softened his tone. “I’m sorry. I really… I’ve realized everything. Understood the magnitude of my mistake. I want to make it right. I’ll help, give money…”
— “From where?” she smirked. “You yourself admitted you have nothing.”
— “I’ll earn it,” he straightened up. “I can work. I’m not completely lost yet.”
Anna studied him silently. Before her stood a different man—not the one she had known. She saw his entire journey: from a young, carefree fellow she had married, to a coward who fled from responsibility, and now—to a desperate man seeking solace. — “They won’t forgive you,” she finally said. “Maybe I can, with time. But they—never.”
— “Why not?” he looked genuinely puzzled.
— “Because they know everything,” Anna lifted her head. “They do remember, of course—they were too young. But I told them. About how you spat by their cribs. How you declared that they meant nothing to you. How you simply left without looking back.”
Ivan paled, like a ghost.
— “Anya, I wasn’t thinking… I was drunk… didn’t understand the consequences…”
— “And I understood,” she interrupted. “Every second of those years. When Mitya had pneumonia and I didn’t sleep for three nights, changing the compresses. When Liza broke her arm on the swings, and there wasn’t money for a taxi, and I carried her two kilometers to the clinic. When I worked multiple jobs so that they could be fed and clothed.”
She spoke calmly, without emotion, as if listing facts—what was, what is, what will be.
— “Vanya,” she named him for the first time, “you have no place here. I hold no hatred for you, truly. Only exhaustion. And gratitude.”
— “Gratitude?” he frowned, not understanding.
— “For leaving,” she answered simply. “If you had stayed, everything could have been worse. For everyone. And so… we grew up. Became stronger. Better.”
— “Anya, give me a chance,” he extended his hand. “I’ll try. I’ll help. I’ll be…”
— “Mama, are you alright?” Mitya appeared in the doorway, with Liza following. They took their positions on either side of Anna, like protectors.
— “I’m fine,” she placed her hands on their shoulders. “Ivan is leaving now.”
He stood frozen before them, as if facing an insurmountable wall. The woman with the first wrinkles by her eyes and the two children with his features—the same eyebrows, the same cheekbones, the same shape of eyes—but with completely foreign souls inside. They huddled together, forming a living shield. A family—a real, whole family built through hardship. Without him.
— “We have nothing to talk about,” Mitya looked him straight in the eyes. “Just leave.”
— “You have erased us from your life,” Liza’s voice rang out like a taut string. “Now it’s our turn.”
Ivan lowered his head. Slowly he turned and descended the steps. He walked away along the dusty road—bent, aged, alone.
Anna watched him go, and for the first time in many years, she felt complete liberation. As if the final tie to her past had finally been severed. — “Come on,” she gathered the children in her arms. “The pie is cooling.”
They returned inside, closed the door, and sat down at the table—together, as always. Tea steamed in their cups, the apple pie exuded an appetizing aroma. Outside, starlings darted about an old poplar tree, and sunbeams filtered through the sheer curtains.
— “Mom,” Liza rested her head on her shoulder, “are you sad?”
— “No,” Anna kissed her daughter on the crown, then her son. “I’m not alone. I have you. And you have me. That’s enough.”
They ate the pie, talked about everyday things—about school, plans for the weekend, about the newborn calves on the farm. About the real life they were building together, with their own hands.
