What’s this?” Ivan asked, paling as he saw the photo of his missing father hanging on the wall…
When Ivan returned from work, his mother was on the balcony, tending to her flowers. Bent over the hanging planters, she was carefully straightening the leaves. Her face was bathed in a soft, quiet light.
“Mom, you’re like a little bee,” Ivan said, taking off his jacket and walking over to embrace her. “You’ve been on your feet all day again?”
“Oh, it’s not work,” she replied, smiling. “My soul is at peace. Look at how everything is blooming. The scent, it’s like not a balcony, but a botanical garden.”
She laughed softly, kindly, just as she always had. Ivan inhaled the sweet fragrance of the flowers and involuntarily recalled his childhood when they lived in a shared apartment, where the only “garden” was a pot of kalanchoe on the windowsill, which was constantly shedding its leaves.
So much had changed since then.
Now his mother often visited the summer house he had bought her for her anniversary. It was a small house, but with a huge plot where she could plant whatever she wanted. In spring, she worked with seedlings; in summer, she tended to the greenhouses; and in autumn, she canned the harvest. And in winter, she awaited spring.
But Ivan knew that despite her smile, there was always a quiet, soft sadness in her eyes. A sadness that would not go away until her long-held dream was fulfilled — seeing the man she had waited for all her life.
Her husband. He had gone to work one ordinary morning and never returned. Ivan was only five years old. His mother said that on that day, he had kissed her on the cheek, winked at his son, and said, “Be a good boy.” And then he left, never to return.
There were police reports, search parties, and whispers among relatives and neighbors: “Maybe he left for another family,” “Something happened.” But his mother always insisted:
“He wouldn’t have just left. He can’t return, that’s why.”
That thought had never left Ivan, even after more than thirty years. He believed his father couldn’t have just abandoned them. He simply couldn’t.
After school, Ivan went to a technical university, though secretly he dreamed of becoming a journalist. But he knew he had to stand on his own feet quickly. His mother worked as a hospital cleaner, taking night shifts, never complaining. Even when her legs swelled from exhaustion and her eyes were red from lack of sleep, she would say:
“Everything’s fine, Vanya. Everything will get better. Just keep studying.”
And he did. At night, he searched for missing persons’ databases online, checking archives, writing to forums. Hope didn’t die — in fact, it only grew stronger, becoming a part of him. He became strong because he knew that in the absence of his father, he had to be his mother’s support.
When he landed his first real job, the first thing he did was pay off his mother’s debts, then opened a savings account, and finally bought her that summer house. And he said:
“That’s it, mom, now you can rest.”
She cried, not hiding her tears. And he hugged her and whispered:
“You deserve this a thousand times over. Thank you for everything.”
Now, Ivan dreamed of having a family of his own. A home where the smell of borscht and baked goods filled the air, where family gathered on Sundays and children’s laughter echoed. But for now, he worked a lot, saving money to start his own business. He was always good with his hands, enjoying fixing things since childhood.
But in his heart, the same dream lived on — finding his father. He wished that one day he would walk into their home and say:
“I’m sorry… I couldn’t come earlier.”
And then everything would fall into place. They would understand, forgive, hug each other, and finally have what should have been.
Sometimes, Ivan caught himself remembering his father’s voice. He remembered how his father would pick him up and say, “Well, little hero, let’s fly?” before tossing him up in the air, catching him tightly.
That night, Ivan dreamed of him again. His father stood by the river, in an old coat, calling out to him. His face was blurry, like through mist, but his eyes — those familiar gray eyes — were unmistakable.
Ivan’s job was stable, but as they say, one salary was never enough, especially when you have big plans for your own business. So in the evenings, he worked extra: fixing computers, setting up “smart” systems. He could manage two or even three houses in one evening. Printers, routers, software updates — he knew it all by heart. The elderly clients especially appreciated him — polite, patient, never pressuring. He explained things clearly, never pushed for anything.
One day, a job came through a mutual acquaintance: a wealthy family in a gated community, with security, passes, and everything. They needed their home network set up.
“Come after six. The lady of the house will be home and show you everything,” they told him.
Ivan arrived on time. He was let through the gate, drove up to the large white house with columns and big windows. A young woman, about twenty-five, opened the door — slender, delicate, in a beautiful dress.
“Are you the technician? Come on in. Everything’s in my father’s study. He’s away on a business trip, but he asked you to set everything up today,” she said with a slight smile.
Ivan walked in behind her. The house was bright, spacious, with a subtle, expensive scent. The living room had a grand piano, pictures on the walls, bookshelves, and framed photographs. The study was more formal: dark wood, a green lamp, a large desk, and a leather chair.
He nodded, took out his tools, and sat down at the computer. Everything was going as usual until his gaze caught a photograph on the wall. A young couple: a woman in white, with flowers in her hair, standing next to a man in a gray suit. They were smiling.
And though the years had changed his face, the internal voice spoke clearly: that was him. His father.
Ivan stood up and walked over. The gray eyes, the familiar cheekbones, the dimple on his lip. He couldn’t be mistaken.
“Excuse me… who is in this photo?” he asked quietly…
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