After Ivan came home from work, he found his mother watering flowers on the balcony. Bent over the hanging pots, she carefully smoothed the leaves. Her face radiated a special calmness.
“Mom, you’re like a busy bee,” Ivan said as he took off his jacket, approached, and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. “Been on your feet all day again?”
She waved it off with a smile. “It’s not work, really. My soul is at peace. Look how everything is blooming. It smells like a botanical garden, not just a balcony.”
She chuckled softly and kindly, as she always did. Ivan breathed in the gentle scent of the flowers and couldn’t help but remember their childhood, when they lived in a communal apartment and the only “garden” they had was a kalanchoe pot on the windowsill that constantly shed its leaves.
Much had changed since then.
Now, his mother spent much time at the summer house Ivan had gifted her for her anniversary. A modest little cottage but with a vast plot where she could plant anything her heart desired. In spring she tended seedlings, in summer worked in the greenhouses, in autumn canned her harvest, and in winter patiently awaited spring’s return.
Yet Ivan knew that no matter how much she smiled, there was always a quiet sorrow in her eyes — a sorrow that wouldn’t fade until her deepest wish came true: to see the man she had waited for all her life.
His father. One distant morning, he left for work and never returned. Ivan was only five years old. His mother told him that day his father kissed her temple, winked at Ivan as usual, said, “Be a good boy,” and left — not knowing it was goodbye forever.
Afterward came police reports and searches. Relatives, neighbors, acquaintances whispered: “Maybe he ran away,” “Maybe he has another family,” “Maybe something happened.” But his mother always said one thing:
“He wouldn’t just leave us like that. That means he can’t come back.”
Even now, thirty years later, Ivan couldn’t shake that thought. He was certain his father could never abandon them. Simply couldn’t.
After finishing school, Ivan enrolled in 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 nurse’s aide at the hospital, took night shifts, and never complained. Even when her legs ached and her eyes reddened from sleepless nights, she said:
“It’s all going to be okay, Vanyusha. Just study hard.”
And he did. At night, he scoured missing persons databases online, combed through old records, and posted on forums. His hope never died; on the contrary, it grew stronger and became part of his character. He grew strong, knowing that in his father’s absence he had to be his mother’s pillar.
When he landed his first good job, the first thing he did was clear his mother’s debts, then opened a savings account, and finally bought that summer house. Then he said:
“That’s it, Mom. Now you can rest.”
She cried then, not hiding her tears. He simply hugged her and said:
“You deserve this a thousand times over. Thank you for everything.”
Now Ivan dreamed of a family of his own — a home smelling of borscht and fresh baking, where loved ones gathered on Sundays and children’s laughter filled the rooms. But for now, he worked hard, saving his money to start his own business. His hands were golden; since childhood, he loved to fix and build things himself.
But deep down, the same dream burned bright — to find his father. To have that man one day walk into their home and say:
“Forgive me. I couldn’t come back sooner.”
They would understand, forgive, and embrace — finally, truly, as it should have been.
Sometimes Ivan caught himself remembering his father’s voice. How he’d lift him into his arms and say, “Ready to fly, my strong boy?” — tossing him up, then catching him tightly…
That night, as Ivan went to sleep, he dreamed of his father once again. This time, he stood somewhere by a riverbank, wearing an old coat, calling out to him. His face was blurred like through fog, but the eyes — those same deep, gray, familiar eyes.
Ivan’s job was stable, but as they say, one salary isn’t enough, especially when building a business. So evenings he often took extra jobs — setting up computers and smart home systems. In one evening, he might visit two or even three houses: fixing a printer that wouldn’t print, restoring a faulty internet connection, updating software — all tasks he knew inside out. People, especially the elderly, liked him — polite, calm, patient, never pushy. He explained everything clearly and never pressured anyone.
That day, an order came through a friend: a wealthy family in a gated cottage community outside the city needed a specialist to set up their home network.
“Please come after six. The lady of the house will be home and guide you,” they said.
Ivan arrived on time. Security let him through the checkpoint, and he parked before a tall house with white columns and panoramic windows. A young woman of about twenty-five opened the door — slender, delicate, dressed beautifully.
“Are you the technician? Please come in. All the equipment is in my father’s study. He is on a business trip but asked you to set everything up today,” she said with a gentle smile.
Ivan followed her down a long corridor. The air smelled expensive and refined. The house was bright, almost sterile. A grand piano filled the living room, paintings hung on the walls, bookshelves and framed photographs lined the room. The study had a neat, businesslike atmosphere: dark wood, a green desk lamp, a large monitor on a wide desk, and a strict leather chair.
Ivan nodded, took out his tools, and sat at the computer. Everything would have gone as usual if his eyes hadn’t accidentally caught one of the photos on the wall. A young couple — a woman in a white dress with flowers in her hair, a man in a gray suit smiling beside her. Though time had changed their features, a voice inside him rang clear and loud: That’s him. Father.
Ivan stood, approached, and looked closer. Gray eyes, the same cheekbones, the same dimple by the smile. It was definitely him.
“Excuse me… who is in this photo?” Ivan asked shyly.
The young woman looked surprised.
“This is my dad. Do you know him?”
Ivan didn’t know what to say. He stared at the photo like it was a ghost. His heart pounded so loudly he thought she might hear it. Finally, he managed:
“I think… maybe, yes.” He sighed deeply. “Could you… tell me how your parents met? Sorry if that sounds strange, but it’s important to me.”
The woman hesitated, then replied:
“My dad has an amazing story. He was once an ordinary engineer. He met my mom by chance — on vacation — and then fell in love…
She studied him carefully.
“Are you alright? You look pale. Want me to get you some water?”
Ivan nodded. The woman quickly went to the kitchen, while he… He didn’t know why he did it. Maybe it was unethical, maybe illegal. But he opened the file explorer and started searching.
A folder named “Personal” — password protected. He tried his birth date — surprisingly, it worked. Inside were old photos, scanned documents… and a text file with no title. He clicked on it.
The text began abruptly, like a letter a person had carried inside for a long time but never dared to send.
“I knew it was wrong. From day one, I knew. You were beautiful, smart, rich, and in love. I was nobody. Just arrived, just starting out, and thought life had given me a chance. Yes, I lied — said I was single, said I had no one. I was sure it would be a fleeting romance. Didn’t think it would go this far. But then it all spiraled — you introduced me to your parents as your fiancé, you two planned the wedding… And I… I just didn’t know how to get out. Wanted to leave but was already trapped. You — with your trust. Your father — with money. They offered me everything except freedom. I gave in. People I knew arranged new documents for me. A new passport, no record of marriage. I’m not proud. But back then, I thought it would be easier for everyone. That Lida would forget since the boy was still small — wouldn’t understand. And now… I don’t even recognize myself. I live in luxury but every morning I drink coffee thinking I’m a traitor. But there’s no way back…”
Ivan’s eyes blurred. He leaned back in the chair, staring blankly. He didn’t know what to feel. Anger? Contempt? Pity?
Before him was a lifelong betrayal. His mother — the woman who saved every ruble, who scrimped to buy new shoes for her son, who believed, loved, never remarried, never lived without him. And he lived “in luxury,” as the letter said. Forgotten, abandoned, rewritten destiny.
Ivan finished the work as quickly as he could, received a white envelope with bills, and hurried away. He didn’t remember how he reached the car. Sat down, slammed the door shut. Only then did he realize his hands were shaking.
He delayed telling this story, looked for the right moment, tried to figure out how to say it. But his mother, as always, sensed everything herself.
“Something’s wrong, Vanyusha. You’ve been off for three days now…”
He told her everything, plainly. About the house, the photo, the laptop. About the story he had read.
His mother listened silently, never interrupting. Only once did she close her eyes and squeeze her fingers so tightly her knuckles whitened.
When he stopped speaking, silence fell over the room. Then she stood, walked to the window, and stared into the distance for a long time. Finally, she quietly said:
“You know… I feel lighter now.”
Ivan was surprised.
“Lighter?”
“Yes. All these years I lived with one question. ‘Why?’ I asked myself. ‘What if he’s in trouble? What if he’s suffering? What if…’ — day after day, round and round. But now I know he’s not in trouble. He just… chose a different life.”
She sat at the table, rested her head on her hands. In her eyes, no anger or tears remained, only tiredness — the kind that comes after a long journey.
“I don’t have to wait anymore, Vanyusha. You understand? No longer fear that I missed something, no need to guess. I’m free.”
“I’m sorry I… found this at all,” he whispered.
His mother shook her head.
“No need to apologize. Everything in life happens for the best. You just don’t always see it right away.”
She stood, came over, and embraced her son like when he was a child coming home with a scraped knee.
“You know, you are my greatest gift from that life. And he…” She paused softly, “he gave me you. So nothing was in vain. Nothing.”
That evening, Ivan sat on a bench by the pond, watching the sky blush with the setting sun.
He realized he didn’t want to see his father. Didn’t want to hear excuses, apologies, handshakes, or unclear “forgiveness.”
He dreamed of a man who never truly existed. His father was not the man walking through strangers’ mansions in expensive suits. His father was a memory — warm, childlike, from the past. And he decided to keep it that way — pure, unbroken.
To live means to let go of anger. Not to carry what refuses to walk beside you. To live means to free yourself. And that evening, Ivan was finally free.