Suddenly, Matvey froze as if an unexpected alarm had triggered within him. Though he had countless opportunities to visit this place, whether alive or after his passing, he had always neglected to find the time. His constant preoccupation and self-importance had grown unbearable. Reflecting on his former self now invoked a wave of nausea.
It required a profound jolt—something intense enough to shock his spirit to the edge of pain—to reveal that the entire world he had so painstakingly constructed was merely an illusion. No words or gestures held genuine significance.
Key Insight: Ironically, Matvey felt grateful to Natasha, his ex-wife, for shattering his glass castle in an instant. What appeared as the perfect family, acclaimed by all as sincere, was uncovered as counterfeit. Despite numerous emotions and promises, there was ultimately nothing real.
His wife, his closest friend, and the circle of so-called friends who knew everything yet chose silence—this was more than a collapse; it was the demise of an entire world. Those surrounding him revealed themselves as traitors.
Right after the divorce, Matvey had driven back to his hometown. Eight years had passed since he last buried his mother. Throughout this time, he never returned even once to visit her grave—not even when her tombstone was placed, which had been arranged online without his involvement. Now, this late realization hit him: his mother was the only one who would never have betrayed him.
Having married late at thirty-three to Natasha, then twenty-five, he took pride in her elegance and vitality. But she eventually shouted that she had loathed every moment of their marriage and found intimacy torturous. At that time, he failed to grasp the depth of his illusions and what he had been missing.
Her face twisted by hatred had concealed her true feelings. Moments earlier, she had wept, pleading for forgiveness and promising perpetual solitude. Yet, when he declared their separation, Natasha discarded pretense and exposed her authentic self.
Matvey exited his car carrying a large bouquet and slowly walked down the cemetery path. Contrary to his expectations, the grave was well-tended, immaculate, untouched by neglect. Someone must visit regularly—perhaps his mother’s friends or those who remembered her. But not him; he never found the time.
Opening the creaky gate, he whispered, “Hello, mom…” Emotions choked his throat; his eyes burned as tears streamed down. The cold, calculating businessman was reduced to sobbing like a child, unable to halt the outpouring. These tears seemed to cleanse his pain, grudges, and disillusionments linked to Natasha.
“Go ahead, my son, everything will be all right, you’ll see,” he imagined his mother whispering, gently stroking his head.
He lingered in silent reflection, memories flooding back—his childhood falls, tears, and his mother applying green dye to his knees, softly assuring him:
- “Don’t worry, my son; it will heal before the wedding.”
- “We get used to everything except betrayal.”
Those once simple words now resonated with profound wisdom. Raised single-handedly without a father, she didn’t shelter him but taught him resilience.
Although he paid a neighbor to watch over the house, Matvey questioned how long it could remain empty.
Recollecting his first encounter with the neighbor and her daughter, Nina, a faint smile appeared. During a difficult phase, Nina had shown kindness, and their conversation naturally flowed into the evening. He had quietly left a note with the keys. Perhaps outsiders might think he had taken advantage, but nothing was promised—they found solace in each other’s company during hardships.
Suddenly, a small voice interrupted his thoughts.
“Sir?” a little girl of seven or eight stood holding a bucket.
“I need water to water the flowers. My mother planted them recently but she’s sick today. It’s so hot the flowers might die, and I can’t carry a full bucket alone. If I make several trips, my mom will know I came by myself.”
Matvey smiled warmly and replied, “Of course, I will help. Show me where the water is.”
The girl chatted non-stop, sharing details about her mother: she disregarded advice, did not drink cold water when feverish, and was currently running a high temperature. She was there tending the grave of her grandmother, who had died a year ago, fearing her own mother’s anger if she came unaccompanied. Also, she excelled academically, aiming for a medal.
With every word, Matvey felt increasingly uplifted. Children embodied a unique kind of light. He yearned silently for a normal family that would welcome him with love.
Conversely, Natasha had been little more than a beautiful doll, devoid of soul, who once remarked, “One must be foolish to sacrifice beauty for a child.” Five years together yielded no cherished memories, only emptiness.
They arrived home, where the girl, named Masha, gently watered the flowers. Then Matvey noticed the tombstone’s photograph—it was the neighbor, Nina’s mother. He looked at Masha in surprise.
“Zoya Petrovna was your grandmother?”
“Yes. Did you know her? Why do you ask? You were at Grandma Anya’s. We always come here to clean and bring flowers,” the girl explained.
“You say ‘we’ with your mother?” he asked.
“Of course! Mom won’t let me come alone to the cemetery—it’s too dangerous.” Laughing, the girl skipped away.
Matvey returned to his mother’s grave puzzled. He had assumed Nina only cared for the house, but she truly lived there with her daughter. How long this had been so, he did not ask; his mind was too shaken.
After some time, he rose, determined that the house would not stay unoccupied regardless of who he paid.
Entering his mother’s home, Matvey hesitated at the threshold. The house remained untouched, as if awaiting its owner’s return. He sat in his car hopeful she might appear, but nothing happened. Venturing into the meticulously kept courtyard full of flowers, he thought, “Well done, Nina; I should thank her.” Inside, everything gleamed as if its inhabitants had just stepped out momentarily.
While restless at the table, he heard the door open. Masha appeared quietly, whispering not to tell her mother they met at the cemetery.
He promised silence and was invited inside, told to keep a distance as Nina had a fever.
Matvey found Nina reclining on the couch, eyes wide upon seeing him.
“You?” she whispered.
He smiled softly, surveying the room where no men’s clothes were visible, as if time stood still.
“Nina…”
“Don’t say it…” she interrupted, sitting up. “I’m managing the house, working mostly in the city.”
“I’m sorry your mother is ill and grateful for your care. It feels like she just stepped away; everything’s here.”
“Will you stay long?”
“A few days.”
“Are you selling the house?”
“Not yet considered.”
He placed a stack of money on the table as a gesture of thanks for maintaining the home.
“Thank you, Uncle Matvey,” Masha exclaimed, “Mom dreams of a new dress, and I want a bike!”
He laughed heartily, “Well done, Masha; money has never slipped through my fingers.”
Later, Matvey realized he’d fallen ill, likely catching Nina’s fever. His thoughts became confused as the temperature rose dangerously. Searching for the old thermometer his mother always kept, he checked his fever and understood action was urgent. Forgetting his own knowledge, he sent Nina a text asking for fever remedies.
Within ten minutes, Nina and Masha arrived at his place.
“My goodness,” Nina exclaimed upon seeing him unwell. “Why did you come in? I’m the one who infected you.”
“You were sick; why get close?”
“It’s nothing; I’ll feel better soon.”
The offered medicine and hot tea were received carefully. Matvey worried about the boiling tea.
“Who? Me? No way; I’m an expert at that,” said Nina with a smile.
Looking at her, everything seemed clearer suddenly.
“Nina…” Matvey began.
“What?” she asked anxiously.
“When was Masha born?”
Nina paled, sitting heavily.
“Why that question?”
She turned to her daughter: “Masha, go to the store and buy lemons and something to drink, okay?”
“Okay, mom!” the child chimed, hurrying off with money.
Nina then spoke firmly: “Matvey, let’s be clear: Masha has no relation to you. None whatsoever. We don’t need anything; forget it.”
“How can you say that?” he rose abruptly. “What do you mean ‘forget it’? Why didn’t you tell me? Why no call?”
“Listen, Matvey,” she replied, holding his gaze, “I chose to have this baby alone. You were never involved, and I never intended to tell you—I never expected your return or interest.”
Matvey froze; his world had tilted. Until now, his life had been a facade; here stood true happiness—in this woman and child who raised him.
“Nina…” his voice softened. “Please don’t do this; I don’t know what to do.”
That night, he dreamt of his mother, smiling and telling him she always wished for a granddaughter like Masha.
Three days later, Matvey began his journey back. Nina sat quietly at the table.
“I have some city business, but I’ll return in a week or slightly longer. I promise I’ll come back to win you over,” he said earnestly. “Tell me there’s a chance—one for family, for happiness?”
She shrugged, wiping a tear. “I don’t know, Matvey…”
Three weeks later, he returned bearing large bags and gifts outside Nina’s home.
“Hello,” he greeted, heart pounding.
Nina looked up from her sewing, offering a faint smile. “You’re back.”
“I promised,” he replied broadly. “Where’s Masha?”
The sleepy girl appeared. “Hello, Uncle Matvey,” she greeted.
Nina then stood and spoke decisively, taking Masha’s hand, “Matvey, I’ve thought about it. I want you to meet your daughter.”
Trembling, he dropped the bags.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
A week later, they left together, having listed both homes for sale to begin anew. Masha could barely believe she now called Matvey “dad” alongside “Uncle Matvey.” He laughed, embraced them both, and believed wholeheartedly that from now on, everything would be exactly as it should have been.
In conclusion, Matvey’s story reveals how confronting shattered illusions and embracing vulnerability can pave the way for authentic connection and healing. Despite past betrayals, rediscovering family and genuine love opens new beginnings rooted in truth and strength.