When Ivan returned home from work, his mother was on the balcony, tending to her flowers. She leaned over the hanging pots, carefully straightening the leaves. Her face was illuminated by a quiet, special light.
“Mom, you’re like a little bee,” Ivan said as he took off his jacket, walked over to her, and put his arm around her shoulders. “Still on your feet all day?”
“Oh, this isn’t work,” she waved him off with a smile. “My soul rests here. Look at how everything is blooming. The scent is like a botanical garden, not a balcony.”
She laughed softly, warmly, just as she always did. Ivan inhaled the gentle fragrance of the flowers and, for a moment, his mind wandered back to his childhood when they lived in a communal apartment, and their “garden” was a pot of kalanchoe on the windowsill, forever shedding leaves.
Much had changed since then.
His mother now spent a lot of time at the dacha he had bought for her as a gift for her anniversary. It was a small house, but with a huge plot where she could plant anything she wanted. In the spring, she grew seedlings, in the summer, she worked in greenhouses, and in the fall, she preserved the harvest. In winter, she waited for spring to return.
But Ivan knew that no matter how brightly she smiled, there was always a quiet sadness in her eyes. A sadness that would remain until her most cherished dream was fulfilled: to see the person she had waited for her whole life.
Her husband. He had left one ordinary morning for work and never returned. Ivan had been only five years old at the time. His mother had told him that, on that day, he kissed her on the cheek as usual, winked at his son, and said, “Be a good boy,” before walking out, not knowing he would be gone forever.
There were police reports, searches, and questions. Relatives, neighbors, and acquaintances whispered, “Maybe he left,” “Another family,” “Something happened.” But his mother always said the same thing:
“He wouldn’t leave just like that. So, he can’t come back.”
This thought never left Ivan, even after more than thirty years. He believed his father couldn’t have left them. He simply couldn’t.
After school, Ivan enrolled in a technical university, although he secretly dreamed of becoming a journalist. But he knew he had to get on his feet quickly. His mother worked as a hospital orderly, taking night shifts, never complaining. Even when her legs swelled from exhaustion and her eyes turned red from lack of sleep, she would say:
“Everything’s fine, Vanyusha. Everything will get better. Just keep studying.”
He studied. And at night, he searched online databases for missing persons, combed through old files, and posted on forums. His hope didn’t die; in fact, it grew stronger and became a part of who he was. He became strong, knowing that, in his father’s absence, he had to be his mother’s support.
When he got his first decent job, he paid off his mother’s debts, opened a savings account, then bought that same dacha. He told her:
“Okay, Mom, now you can rest.”
She cried then, unable to hide her tears. He hugged her and whispered:
“You deserve this a thousand times. Thank you for everything.”
Now, Ivan dreamed of his own family. A house that smelled like borscht and fresh baking, where relatives gathered on Sundays, and there was the sound of children’s laughter. But for now, he worked a lot. He saved money for his own business. He had always been good with his hands — from childhood, he loved doing things on his own.
But in his heart, there was always one dream: to find his father. He wanted, one day, for the man to walk into their home and say:
“Sorry… I couldn’t come back earlier.”
And then everything would fall into place. They would understand. They would forgive. They would hug as a family. And everything would be how it was supposed to be.
Sometimes, Ivan caught himself thinking he still remembered his father’s voice. He remembered how his father would lift him up and say, “Well, little warrior, let’s fly?” and toss him into the air, only to catch him tightly.
That night, Ivan dreamed of his father again. This time, he stood by a riverbank, wearing his old coat, and called to him. His face was blurry, as if through a fog, but his eyes — those same grey eyes — were unmistakable.
Ivan’s job was stable, but as they say, one salary isn’t enough, especially when you’re planning to start your own business. So in the evenings, he did side jobs: setting up computers, installing “smart” systems. In one evening, he could go to two or even three houses: one person’s printer wasn’t printing, another’s router was down, and another needed software updates — he knew it all by heart. His elderly clients especially appreciated him — polite, patient, unpushy. He explained things clearly and didn’t force anything.
One day, he received an order through an acquaintance: a wealthy family, a cottage community outside the city, guarded entrance, passes required. They needed a specialist to set up their home network.
“Come after six. The hostess will be home, she’ll show you everything,” they informed him.
Ivan arrived on time. He was let through the checkpoint and parked in front of the tall white house with columns and large windows. A woman, about twenty-five years old, opened the door. She was thin, fragile, and wore a beautiful dress.
“Are you the specialist? Please come in. Everything’s in my father’s office. He’s away on a business trip, but he asked for everything to be set up today,” she said with a gentle smile.
Ivan followed her down the long hallway. The air smelled of something expensive and refined. The house was bright and almost sterile. In the living room, there was a grand piano, paintings on the walls, bookshelves, and framed photos. The office was more austere: dark wood, a green desk lamp, a powerful monitor on a wide desk, and a strict leather chair.
Ivan nodded, took out his tools, and sat at the computer. Everything was going as usual until his eyes caught sight of a photograph on the wall. A young couple: the woman in white, with flowers in her hair, and the man in a grey suit, smiling.
Although years had changed his features, the voice inside him was clear: it was him. His father.
Ivan stood up and walked closer, examining the photo. Grey eyes, familiar cheekbones, a dimple in the corner of his mouth when he smiled. It had to be him.
“Excuse me… who’s in this photo?” Ivan asked quietly.
The woman looked at him in surprise.
“This is my father. Do you know him?”
Ivan didn’t know how to respond. He looked at the photo as if it were a ghost. His heart was pounding so hard he thought the woman would hear it. Finally, he managed to say:
“I think… maybe I do.” He exhaled deeply. “Could you tell me how your parents met? Sorry, this might seem strange, but it’s important to me.”
The woman hesitated before answering:
“My father is a man of an amazing story. He was just an engineer once. He met my mother by chance — on vacation — and then he fell in love…”
She looked at him more closely.
“Is everything okay? You’ve gone pale. Do you need water?”
Ivan nodded. The woman quickly went to the kitchen, and he… he didn’t know why he did this. Maybe it was unethical, maybe illegal. But he opened the file and started searching.
A folder titled “Personal,” but with a password. Ivan tried entering his birthdate — surprisingly, it worked. Inside, there were old photos, scans of documents… and a text file, unnamed. He clicked on it.
The text started abruptly, as though it were a letter that someone had carried in their heart for too long but never sent.
“I knew it was wrong. From the first day, I knew. You were beautiful, smart, rich, and in love. And I was nobody. Just starting out, and back then, it seemed like life gave me a chance. Yes, I lied about being single, about having no one. I was sure it would just be a brief romance. I didn’t think it would go this far. But then it all spiraled — you introduced me to your parents as your future husband, and then both of you started planning the wedding… And I… I just didn’t know how to back out. I wanted to leave, but I was already held back. You — with your trust. Your father — with his money. They offered me everything except freedom. I complied. The people I knew helped me get papers. A new passport, without a marriage stamp. I’m not proud of it. But back then, I thought it would be easier for everyone. I thought Lida would forget, that the son was still young, he wouldn’t understand. And now… I don’t recognize myself. I live in luxury, but every morning, I drink coffee with the thought that I’m a traitor. But there’s no way back…”
Ivan’s eyes blurred. He leaned back in the chair and sat for a long time, staring at one point. He didn’t know how to feel. Anger? Contempt? Pity?
Before him was the picture of a lifetime of betrayal. His mother — the one who saved every ruble for new shoes for her son, believed, loved, never remarried, never allowed herself to live without him. And he lived “in luxury,” just as he wrote. He had forgotten, turned away, rewritten his fate.
Ivan finished the work as quickly as he could, took the envelope with the bills, and hurried to leave. He didn’t remember how he got to the car. He sat down, slammed the door. Only then did he realize — his hands were shaking.
He delayed the conversation for so long, looking for the right moment, thinking of how to say it. But his mother, as always, felt it herself.
“Something happened, Vanyusha? You’ve been different for three days…”
And he told her everything, without any embellishments. About the house, the photo, the laptop. About the story he had read.
She listened in silence, never interrupting. Only once did she close her eyes and press her fingers so tightly that her knuckles turned white.
When he fell silent, the room was filled with silence. Then she stood up, walked to the window, and stared out into the distance. Then, softly, she spoke:
“You know… it’s easier for me now.”
Ivan was surprised:
“Easier?”
“Yes. All these years, I lived with the question. ‘Why?’ I kept asking. ‘What if he’s in trouble? What if he’s hurt? What if…’ Every day, over and over. But now I know, he’s not in trouble. He just… chose a different life.”
She sat down at the table, leaning on her hands. There were no tears, no anger in her eyes, just exhaustion. The kind that comes after a long road.
“I don’t need to wait anymore, Vanyusha. Do you understand? No more fear, no more guessing. I’m free.”
“I’m sorry I… found this,” he said softly.
She shook her head.
“No need to apologize. Everything in life happens for the better. It just isn’t always clear right away.”
She stood up, came over, and hugged her son. Just like when he was a child, coming in with a scraped knee.
“You know, you’re my greatest gift from that life. And he…” she paused slightly, “gave me you. And that means it wasn’t all in vain. It wasn’t.”
That evening, Ivan sat on the bench by the pond, watching as the sky turned pink from the setting sun.
He realized that he didn’t want to see his father. He didn’t want to hear his explanations, excuses, handshakes, or vague “sorry.”
He dreamed of the man who had never been. His father wasn’t the one walking through someone else’s mansions in expensive suits. His father was an image. Warm, childlike, from the past. And let him remain there, pure, untouched.
Living meant letting go of resentment. Not dragging behind what doesn’t want to walk beside you. Living meant letting yourself be free. And that evening, Ivan was completely free.