The phone buzzed in the dead of night, casting an eerie blue glow onto the ceiling. It was two in the morning. Larisa cautiously reached for the nightstand, trying not to wake her husband, but Viktor was already sitting up, propped on his elbow.
“Who’s texting you at this hour?” he asked, his voice hoarse, his gaze sharp and unblinking.
The words sounded like a simple question, but there was an edge to his tone that made Larisa stiffen. It wasn’t just curiosity—it was a hint of worry trying to be disguised.
Without saying a word, Larisa turned the phone screen toward him, showing the photo that had just arrived. The image depicted a young boy, no older than ten, with light hair, freckles, and a smile that hit Viktor like a punch to the gut.
He froze, his face pale and rigid under the soft light. His usual composure vanished.
“Where did you get this?” Viktor began, his voice cracking.
“I’ve known for a while, Vitya,” Larisa replied softly, her tone devoid of anger, just a flat matter-of-factness. “About your son. About Nadezhda from Nizhny. About the child support you paid until last year.”
Her voice was eerily calm, like someone who had already processed the shock and was now just laying out facts.
“How long have you known?” Viktor whispered, his hand instinctively reaching for hers, but Larisa pulled it away gently.
“Three years,” she said, her eyes focused on the screen. “Do you remember the day you forgot your phone before that trip? I got a message from her. I couldn’t resist—I read the conversation.”
She recalled every moment of that night: the trembling fingers, the disbelief that built with each new message she read, the way she sat in the kitchen afterward, the cold tea in her hand, her mind racing.
“Then why didn’t you say anything?” Viktor asked, voice barely above a whisper.
“What was I supposed to do?” Larisa’s smile was bitter. “Cause a scene? File for divorce? Katya had just started high school. She needed peace.”
“I’m sorry,” Viktor’s voice trembled with regret. “I should have told you.”
“And what would you have said?” Larisa countered. “That I should be okay with it? That I should leave you? We’ve been together for twenty-five years. You really thought I wouldn’t understand?”
He was silent, his guilt hanging in the air.
“So, what now?” Viktor asked after a long pause.
“Now?” Larisa looked at the photo again, her voice steady. “Now we take him in.”
“What?!” Viktor jumped back, as if struck by the news.
“He’s your son, Vitya. His mother is gone. He’s been in an orphanage for almost a year. Do you really think I’d let your child stay in an orphanage?”
“And what about Katya?” Viktor asked, his voice tinged with worry. “What will we tell her?”
“The truth,” Larisa said firmly. “She’s old enough to understand.”
She didn’t tell him that she had already spoken to their daughter. That it was Katya who had suggested finding a brother for herself. That Katya had hired a private investigator to track the boy down.
“And if he doesn’t want to come? If he ends up hating me?” Viktor asked, his voice low.
“We’ll wait,” Larisa replied. “We’ll wait as long as it takes.”
Viktor looked at his wife, seeing her in a new light. She wasn’t the same young woman he had met twenty-five years ago. She had grown stronger—not just wiser, but unshakable. She had weathered the pain of betrayal, and now she was ready to take on this new challenge with resolve.
“Why do you still love me?” Viktor asked suddenly, his voice cracking.
Larisa chuckled softly. “For being real. With all your mistakes, your fears, and your secrets. Now, let’s sleep,” she said, gently tapping his shoulder. “Tomorrow will be tough.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re going to Nizhny Novgorod. I’ve already made arrangements with the orphanage.”
He wanted to say something, but she had already turned her back, pulling the blanket around her. A minute later, he heard her soft breathing as she fell asleep—just like that, flipping an invisible switch.
The next morning, it was Katya’s voice that woke them.
“Mom, Dad, I’m packed! I’ll be there in an hour!”
“What do you mean, packed?” Viktor asked, still groggy from sleep.
“What do you mean, packed?” Katya’s voice came through, impatient. “We’re going away for the weekend! We need to get a room ready for Kirill. I read that boys his age like superheroes. Should we get him Spider-Man bedding?”
Viktor sat up suddenly, his eyes darting from his wife to his phone. “Are you serious?”
“Of course! Mom and I have been searching for him for months. Dad, didn’t you notice that I might have a brother? I’ve seen your childhood photos!”
Viktor heard rustling on the line.
“Oh, by the way, I made a shopping list. Should we sign him up at our school? It’s a great school and close to home. I can keep an eye on him!”
Viktor sat still, his heart sinking. Larisa walked up from behind and embraced him.
“Everything will be okay,” she whispered. “Just wait and see.”
Within three hours, they were on their way, speeding down the highway. Katya was happily dozing in the backseat, holding her shopping list tightly, while Larisa quietly reviewed documents—always prepared for any important meeting.
“Do you think he looks like me?” Viktor asked suddenly, glancing at Larisa. “I mean, in real life, not just photos?”
“We’ll find out soon,” Larisa replied gently, squeezing his hand. “The most important thing is not to rush him. Give him time to adjust.”
“And if…?”
“No ‘ifs’,” she interrupted him firmly. “He’s your son. Our son. He just needs to understand that.”
Viktor nodded, his attention fixed on the road. Memories of the last time he saw Nadya, the letters, the rare photos of the boy—how could he have been so weak? Why hadn’t he fought for the chance to be there for the boy? Why let him grow up without a father?
Five hours later, they arrived in Nizhny Novgorod. Another hour was spent searching for the orphanage—an old, two-story building on the outskirts of the city.
“Ready?” Larisa asked as they parked.
“No,” Viktor admitted, his voice filled with uncertainty. “But it doesn’t really matter, does it?”
Katya was the first to jump out of the car.
“Well, what are you waiting for? I want to meet my brother!”
Inside the director’s office, the room smelled of coffee and flowers. The director, a plump woman in a formal suit, glanced over their documents carefully.
“So, you’re the biological father?” she asked, eyeing Viktor. “Why are you showing up only now?”
“I…” Viktor hesitated. “I didn’t know Nadya had died. She never mentioned she was sick.”
“And if she hadn’t died? Would you have kept paying alimony in silence?”
“Elena Petrovna,” Larisa intervened softly, “We understand your skepticism. But what matters now is that Kirill has a family that wants to take him in.”
The director sighed. “He’s a good boy. Smart, calm. But very withdrawn. Since his mother died, he’s hardly spoken to anyone.”
“Can we meet him?” Katya asked eagerly.
“He’s on the football field. They’re having a training session.”
They stepped outside, where the boys were playing football. Viktor spotted his son right away—standing in goal, tense and focused, just like he had been in his youth.
“Kirill!” the director called. “Come over here, please.”
The boy slowly walked over, cautiously eyeing the strangers. He had a fresh scratch on his cheek and a grass stain on his T-shirt.
“Hello,” Viktor stepped forward. “I’m your dad.”
Kirill recoiled slightly, fear in his eyes. “Mom said my dad was dead.”
“No, kid. I’m alive. And I came for you.”
“Why?” Kirill’s voice trembled. “You don’t need me. I’m not wanted by anyone.”
“That’s not true!” Katya stepped forward. “We need you! I’ve always wanted a little brother. And here you are!”
She spoke quickly, her words flowing, trying to ease his fears.
The boy stared at them, his wide eyes slowly shifting from distrust to curiosity. How could anyone not be curious with so much newness and so many surprises in one moment?
“You know,” Larisa whispered softly, “let’s just start getting to know each other. No pressure. We’re not in a rush.”
“Can I bring my football kit and my books with me? I have a favorite one about pirates.”
“Of course,” Viktor swallowed hard. “Take whatever you want.”
Later, the four of them sat in a café. Kirill ate his pizza, glancing at his new family. Katya showed him photos of their house, her room, and told him about her school. Larisa watched them, her faint smile showing her contentment.
“Why did you look for me?” Kirill suddenly asked.
“Because you’re one of us,” Larisa replied simply.
That evening, as the children slept in the next room, Viktor embraced his wife.
“How can you be so wise?”
“Foolish,” she caressed his cheek. “I just love you. All of you—your mistakes, your fears, and your children. Everything that makes you who you are.”
The following weeks passed quickly. Documents were processed, certificates gathered, discussions with psychologists took place.
Kirill visited on weekends—initially quiet and distant, but slowly opening up. Katya took on an unofficial big-sister role: helping him with homework, taking him to training, showing him the town.
“You know,” she said one night, “he really looks like you. Not just physically. He’s stubborn, just like you!”
Viktor smiled. He noticed it too—in the way Kirill furrowed his brow while solving difficult problems, in the way he bit his lip when nervous.
Then, something unexpected happened. At school, a class