When my phone buzzed at two in the morning, I tried to ignore it. But Viktor, already awake and propped up on his elbow, asked, “Who’s texting you at this hour?”
His question sounded casual, but I could hear the edge in his voice. He was hiding something, and I knew it. I showed him the screen without saying a word. The photo on it was of a boy, no older than ten, with light hair and freckles. And that smile… It was unmistakable.
Viktor froze, his face draining of color as his gaze fixed on the photo. “Where did you get this?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
“I’ve known for a while, Viktor,” I replied quietly, my tone flat. “About your son. About Nadezhda from Nizhny. About the child support you’ve been paying until last year.”
I had no anger in my voice, just the calm certainty of someone who had already processed the pain and was now simply stating the facts.
He stammered, struggling for words. “How long have you known?”
“For three years,” I said, feeling a deep, hollow calmness. “Do you remember the day you forgot your phone before that business trip? I got a message from her. I couldn’t stop myself—I read the conversation.”
I remembered everything about that night. The trembling hands, the rising panic as I scrolled through the messages, the cold cup of tea sitting untouched beside me.
“Then why didn’t you say anything?” Viktor’s voice trembled.
“What was I supposed to do? Start a fight? File for divorce?” I laughed bitterly. “Katya had just started high school. She needed peace.”
“I’m sorry,” Viktor whispered, his voice breaking. “I should have told you.”
“Afraid I wouldn’t understand? That I’d leave you?” I shook my head. “We’ve been together for twenty-five years. You really thought I couldn’t handle the truth?”
He fell silent, looking down, ashamed.
“So what happens now?” he asked after a long pause.
“Now?” I glanced at the photo again. “Now, we bring him here.”
“What?!”
“He’s your son, Viktor. His mother’s dead. He’s been in an orphanage for almost a year. Do you really think I’m going to let your child grow up like that?”
“What about Katya? What are we going to tell her?” Viktor asked.
“The truth,” I said firmly. “She’s old enough to understand.”
I didn’t tell him that I had already spoken to our daughter. That Katya had been the one to suggest finding her brother. That she had hired a private detective to trace him in the orphanage.
“And if he doesn’t want to? What if he hates me?” Viktor asked, his voice shaky.
“We’ll wait,” I said. “As long as it takes.”
Viktor looked at me, a mix of awe and disbelief in his eyes. She wasn’t the same person he had married all those years ago. She was stronger, more unbreakable.
“Why do you still love me?” Viktor asked suddenly, the question surprising even him.
I chuckled softly. “For being real. With all your mistakes, your secrets, your flaws. Now let’s get some sleep,” I said, lightly tapping his shoulder. “Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re going to Nizhny Novgorod. I’ve already made arrangements with the orphanage.”
Viktor didn’t respond. Instead, he sat in silence, trying to process everything, but I could already hear his breathing steadying beside me.
The next morning, Katya’s call woke us up:
“Mom, Dad, I’m ready! I’ll be there in an hour!”
Viktor, still groggy, asked, “What do you mean by ‘ready’?”
“We’re going away for the weekend, of course! We need to prepare a room for Kirill. I read somewhere that boys his age like superheroes. Should we get Spider-Man sheets?”
Viktor jolted awake, his eyes darting between me and his phone. “You know?”
“Of course! Mom and I have been looking for him for months! Didn’t you notice I have a brother somewhere? We look exactly alike! I’ve seen your childhood photos.”
“Wait, what?”
“I even made a shopping list! Maybe we can enroll him in our school? It’s a good school, and it’s not far from here. I can keep an eye on him!”
I smiled, rubbing Viktor’s back.
“Everything’s going to be fine,” I whispered. “Trust me.”
A few hours later, we were driving down the highway. Katya slept soundly in the backseat, clutching her shopping list, while I reviewed the documents for the adoption. Always the planner, always prepared.
Viktor suddenly asked, “Do you think he looks like me? Like, in real life, not just the photos?”
“We’ll know soon,” I replied gently, squeezing his hand. “The important thing is not to rush him. Let him adjust.”
“And if…?”
“No ‘ifs,’” I interrupted firmly. “He’s your son. Our son. He just needs to understand that.”
Viktor nodded, focusing on the road ahead. The past few days flooded back to him—the meeting with Nadya, the letters, the rare photos of the boy. How had he been so careless? Why hadn’t he fought to be there for the boy more often?
Five hours later, we arrived in Nizhny Novgorod, where we spent another hour searching for the orphanage—a small, worn two-story building on the edge of town.
“Ready?” I asked, parking the car.
“No,” Viktor admitted, his voice barely audible. “But it doesn’t really matter now, does it?”
Katya was the first to leap from the car.
“Come on! I want to meet my brother!”
Inside, the director—a sharp woman in a professional suit—examined our documents carefully.
“So, you’re the father?” she asked Viktor, scrutinizing him closely. “Why come now?”
“I didn’t know she was dead,” Viktor replied quietly. “She never told me she was sick.”
“And if she hadn’t died? Would you have just kept sending alimony?”
I stepped in, trying to soften the tension. “What matters now is that Kirill has a family that wants him.”
The director sighed. “He’s a good boy. Smart, calm, but very withdrawn. Since his mother passed, he barely speaks to anyone.”
“Can we meet him?” Katya asked eagerly.
“He’s on the football field. Training.”
We went outside, where the boys were playing. Viktor saw him immediately. Kirill was standing in goal, tense and focused, just like Viktor had been at that age.
“Kirill!” the director called. “Come here, please.”
The boy walked cautiously over, his eyes flicking between us. He had a new scratch on his cheek and a grass stain on his shirt.
“Hello,” Viktor stepped forward. “I’m your dad.”
Kirill recoiled slightly, a flash of fear in his eyes. “Mom said my dad was dead.”
“No, I’m alive. And I came for you.”
“Why?” the boy asked in a shaky voice. “I’m not wanted by anyone.”
“That’s not true!” Katya stepped forward, her voice firm. “We need you! I’ve wanted a little brother my whole life. And here you are!”
Her words flowed freely, trying to erase his doubts.
The boy stared at them, and for the first time, something other than fear flickered in his eyes: curiosity.
Larisa knelt down, her voice soft. “Let’s just start by getting to know each other. No rush. No pressure. We’re not going anywhere.”
“Can I bring my football kit and my books? I love this pirate book.”
“Of course,” Viktor replied, his throat tight. “Take whatever you want.”
Later, in the café, Kirill ate pizza while Katya showed him photos of their home and school. I watched them, quietly smiling.
“Why did you look for me?” Kirill asked suddenly.
“Because you’re part of us,” I answered simply.
That night, after the kids had fallen asleep, Viktor held me close.
“Why are you so wise?”
“Foolish,” I whispered, caressing his cheek. “I just love you. All of you—your mistakes, your fears, and your children. Everything that makes you who you are.”
The weeks passed quickly. Documents were processed, certificates obtained, and meetings with psychologists held.
Kirill visited on weekends—initially quiet and reserved, but opening up more each time. Katya stepped into her big sister role, helping him with homework and taking him to football training.
“You know,” she said one evening, “he really does look like you. Not just physically. He’s stubborn, just like you.”
Viktor smiled. He noticed it too—how Kirill furrowed his brow when trying to solve a problem, how he chewed his lip when nervous.
Then came the inevitable. At school, a classmate discovered Kirill’s story.
“Foundling!” they taunted. “No one wants him!”
He came home later, his knuckles scraped and bruised.
“What happened?” I asked, gently cleaning his wounds.
“Nothing,” he muttered.
“Kirill,” I called softly.
“They said you only took me out of pity! That I’m not really part of this family!” he snapped.
I put down the cotton ball and sat next to him.
“What is a real family, Kirill?” I asked.
He looked at the floor, his eyes filled with uncertainty.
“Once I thought a family was just a mom, a dad, and their kids,” I continued. “But I realized: a family is when people choose each other. Every day.”
Viktor appeared at the door, having overheard everything. “Come here,” he said.
He embraced Kirill—firmly, as a true father should.
“I’m sorry,” Viktor whispered. “I should have been here from the start. But now I am. And I choose to be your father—not because it’s expected, but because I want to.”
Kirill sniffled, pressing his face into Viktor’s shoulder.
A year passed. Kirill settled into his new life, made friends at school, and adjusted to his new family. Katya and he redecorated his room, with posters of football players on the walls and books on every shelf. Though he still retreated at times, those moments became fewer.
Then, during a school performance, Kirill saw me in the audience. He shouted, “Mom! Mom, did you see how I did?”
I froze, not believing my ears. He was running toward me, smiling like a little boy should.
At home, we pulled out the old family photo album. Kirill eagerly flipped through the pages, amazed at how much he resembled Viktor.
“Wow! Dad, you’re just like me!” he laughed.
“No,” Viktor smiled, “you’re just like me.”
We sat there for hours, reminiscing, laughing, and planning for the future. And as I watched them, I thought back to that night—how the pain