Dima never felt at home in the orphanage, so when his aunt — his father’s sister — said she would take him in, the boy felt a glimmer of hope.
He didn’t know his aunt well; she had only visited a few times while he still lived with his father in Khabarovsk. She often complained about how far his father had moved away. Yet, whenever she came, she brought gifts and spent time with Dima — reading stories, playing board games, teaching him to draw Mickey Mouse, even though his drawings never quite looked right. Despite the infrequent visits, Dima felt cared for. So, when the social workers said no relatives could take him, he was shocked. For six months in the orphanage, he waited, believing Aunt Zoya would come and take him away — and finally, she did.
Dima had no mother. When he was small, his father told him she had gone far away. Now, older, Dima understood that meant she had passed away — just like his father.
His father had been hit by a car nearby while going to buy milk after Dima spilled the last carton. For breakfast, he had only chocolate cereal left. It was dark, and his father never came back. The car had been moving too fast.
Dima waited, pressing his wet cheeks to the cold window, trying to guess when his father would return. Time passed, but he didn’t show up. Maybe the shop had a long queue, or the cashier couldn’t find change, or maybe he ran into Aunt Lyuba, their neighbor, and spoke too long.
When the doorbell rang, Dima was hopeful, but it wasn’t his parents. It was Aunt Lyuba, her eyes red and streaked, telling him he would spend the night with her. When he asked about his father, she said he had left urgently for work — strange since his father was a pianist and didn’t work nights.
Later, a stranger from social services told him his father had died. Dima wasn’t angry at Aunt Zoya because he knew even family could fail, but the fact she came for him felt like a blessing.
The train journey brought no joy. Sitting by the window, watching the landscape blur by, he thought he would never see his hometown again. Aunt Zoya said she hated the city and always feared it would ruin her brother.
At the station, her husband, a stocky, short man named Vasily, greeted them. He offered his hand and asked Dima to call him Uncle Vasya. That felt nice, but Dima sensed he wasn’t pleased to have him there. Uncle Vasya tried to interest Dima in fishing and hockey, but Dima didn’t like sports or hurting animals. Aunt Zoya, on the other hand, loved books and told stories that Dima eagerly listened to.
Despite Uncle Vasya’s odd ways, time with his aunt was comforting. She taught him to cook, took him shopping, and they ate dinner together before Vasily returned from work. Once, at the store, a woman with red hair recognized Aunt Zoya and asked about the boy.
“That’s mine,” Aunt Zoya said, pulling Dima close. He felt warmth spreading inside like a hot cup of tea with jam.
School was good. He quickly learned to read and became inseparable from Nastya, a classmate. They often read together, even though classmates teased them as “bride and groom.” But everything changed at New Year’s when Dima was paired with Rita Ivanova for a dance. Nastya felt hurt and stopped speaking to him.
Meanwhile, Dima earned respect after Uncle Vasya told classmates how he saved two soldiers during his service. Boys started following him around, and Uncle Vasya even took them to play laser tag.
Time passed, and Dima slowly adjusted to his new life. Thoughts of his father grew less frequent, though guilt sometimes crept in.
During a summer trip to the countryside, Dima overheard Uncle Vasya saying he had always wanted a son. Those words warmed Dima’s heart but also filled him with shame, as if he were betraying his father’s memory.
On a fishing trip, Dima realized he didn’t enjoy it and skipped the next day, even though Uncle Vasya brought home a bucket full of fish. He couldn’t explain his tears, but the fish felt like a symbol of his loss.
Friends and rivals came and went, while Dima learned to be himself in a new world.