The midwife whispered softly, wiping the sweat from Galina’s brow, “The baby’s almost here.”
Galina clenched her jaw and gripped her mother’s hand tightly. A sharp wave of pain surged through her, yet she stayed silent, afraid to disturb the neighbor’s children sleeping nearby.
“Viktor should’ve been back by now,” she managed to say in a hoarse voice. “He only stepped out for some baby clothes.”
Her mother gently brushed damp hair from her forehead. “Don’t think about that now. One more push…”
With a cry that filled the room and announced his arrival, the newborn was placed into the midwife’s arms. His first loud wail was heard by everyone — grandmother, mother, the midwife — everyone except his father.
“A boy, Galya! A healthy little walnut!” her mother beamed, wrapping her arms around the swaddled infant.
Later, the neighbor who had given Galina a ride home from the hospital asked quietly, “Did you report Viktor to the police?”
“We did,” Galina replied. “They said it’s common these days — men just disappear, leaving families behind.”
Viktor couldn’t have vanished like that. He had promised to come back with baby clothes, talked of teaching his son to fish, of building a swing in the yard.
The house greeted Galina with cold silence. Holding Sergei close with one arm, she lit the stove with the other. The handmade crib Viktor had managed to assemble before leaving stood quietly in the corner.
That first night brought little sleep. Galina stepped onto the porch, peering into the dark. Would she see headlights? Hear familiar footsteps?
Villagers whispered behind cupped hands: “He abandoned her. Men do that now — flee to the city and vanish.” “Ran from responsibility, still young…”
Others disagreed: “Viktor wasn’t like that. Something must have happened. Times are hard…”
Galina ignored the rumors. By day she went through the motions — feeding her son, changing diapers. By night she sat at the window, staring into the darkness.
Within a month, her savings ran dry. She sold Viktor’s wedding gift, a pair of gold earrings. Next went the sewing machine.
“I can lend you milk,” neighbor Nina offered. “My cow produces plenty. The baby needs it.”
“I’ll repay you,” Galina said firmly.
At two months old, Sergei finally slept through the night without crying. Galina sat beside his cot, gently stroking his cheek.
“We’ll manage,” she whispered. “Papa will return — and if he doesn’t, we’ll still manage.”
Mornings found her hanging threadbare curtains, heating water to bathe Sergei in an old basin, humming lullabies softly as she prepared her application for a teaching job at the village school.
Life carried on — without Viktor, but with a growing strength rooted not in waiting, but in belief in herself.
At school, Sergei sat at the back, pencil in hand, struggling with his math.
“Sergei Kotov, finished your sums?” the teacher asked kindly.
“Almost, Maria Ivanovna. Just need a little more time.”
She glanced at the clock. “Five minutes, then we check.”
Sergei bent over his work. Beneath his desk, his worn rubber boots peeked out — a quiet reminder of his humble life.
After school, he rushed home, splashing through puddles, eager to see his mother who had promised to bring new math books for the library.
The house smelled of boiling potatoes. Galina stirred a pot at the stove.
“How was school?” she asked without looking.
“Good,” Sergei answered, dropping his satchel. “Got an A in reading.”
Her tired face lit up. “Well done! What did you read?”
“A story about a boy who defended the Motherland,” he said proudly. “Was Dad brave, Mom?”
Galina paused, ladle in hand. “Very brave. The bravest of all.”
Outside, rain tapped against the windows, weaving a gentle lullaby.
“I want to be brave too,” Sergei declared. “And strong — to help you.”
Galina pulled him close. “You already help, my dear,” she whispered, kissing his head.
He grew tall and strong. By twelve, Sergei wielded an axe, fetched water from the well, repaired fences. His school jacket sleeves barely covered his wrists.
“Mama, I need a new coat,” he said one evening. “This one’s too small.”
Galina studied him under flickering kerosene lamp light — no electricity again. He looked so much like Viktor: the same determined eyes, stubborn jaw.
“All right,” she nodded. “Saturday we’ll go to town and buy you one.”
“Do we have the money?” Sergei frowned. “Maybe I can manage.”
“We have it,” she said firmly, not mentioning the nights she spent knitting socks to sell, the goat’s milk she bartered, or the weekends cleaning offices.
Sergei understood without words. His classmates respected him; none dared mock the boy in hand-me-downs without a father. After he stood up for his mother in fifth grade, defending her honor, they kept their distance.
“Your dad was the strongest man in the village,” neighbor Kolya said once as they worked on the porch. “A true hero.”
“What happened to him?” Sergei asked quietly.
Kolya scratched his head. “Don’t know, lad. But it wasn’t his choice. He wasn’t that kind.”
Sergei never pressed his mother for answers. He saw her pain and held the image of his father as a fallen hero close to his heart.
At fourteen, Sergei brought home his first paycheck, earned clearing forest trails for the ranger.
“For you, Mama,” he said, placing the worn bills on the table. “For winter supplies.”
Galina looked at the money, tears threatening to spill. Outside, snow blanketed the garden; logs crackled in the stove.
“I know you work for both of us,” Sergei whispered. “Now I’ll help too.”
Looking at her son, Galina saw not a boy but a young man — his father’s resolve shining in his eyes.
“Thank you,” she said, fighting back tears.
That night, after Sergei’s bedtime, Galina held an old photograph — Viktor laughing, arm draped over her shoulders. Faded ink on the back read: To my one and only.
“He’s growing up strong and kind,” she whispered. “Just like you.”
Sergei straightened his tie before a cracked mirror. The blue jacket — tailored from Viktor’s old suit — fit him perfectly.
It was his eighteenth birthday. Evening guests were expected, but first came the last school bell, graduation day. University awaited, though Sergei hadn’t yet chosen.
“Mama, do you need water heated?” he called from his room.
Galina smiled, stirring the pot. Though silver strands had appeared in her hair and wrinkles traced her face, she stood tall and steady.
“Already heated. Look at you, all grown up — quite the young man.”
“Mama, stop…” Sergei blushed.
“Shura Bondareva keeps stealing glances at you,” Galina teased.
“Enough, Mama,” he said with a smile.
A knock came early in the morning. Sergei glanced at the clock — six a.m.
“Who could that be so early?” Galina murmured, wiping her hands on her apron.
Sergei opened the door. A tall stranger stood there, clad in a dark overcoat despite the warm season. His silver-streaked hair and weathered face bore calm dignity.
“Good morning,” he said quietly. “Is this the Kotov household?”
“Yes,” Sergei replied cautiously, blocking the entrance.
The man nodded and retrieved a small suitcase from a black sedan parked nearby.
“This is from Viktor Kotov,” he said, handing the case over. “He wished for it to be delivered to his son on his eighteenth birthday.”
As the stranger walked away, the sound of shattering china echoed from the kitchen. Sergei turned to see his mother, pale and trembling.
“Do you know where he is?” she whispered.
The man removed his glasses, revealing weary eyes.
“Viktor is gone. He left this for you. I know nothing more.”
They sat quietly, the weight of absence heavy but the promise of future hope shining through.