“The baby’s almost here,” the midwife said softly, wiping sweat from Galina’s face.
Galina bit her lip and held her mother’s hand tightly. A strong pain shot through her, but she didn’t make a sound—she didn’t want to scare the neighbor’s kids.
“Viktor should’ve been back by now,” she said hoarsely. “He just went to buy baby clothes.”
Her mother brushed the wet hair from her face. “Don’t think about that now. Just one more push…”
The baby landed in the midwife’s hands and cried out loudly, like he was announcing his arrival. Everyone heard Sergei’s first cry—his grandma, his mom, the midwife. Everyone but his dad.
“It’s a boy, Galya! Strong as a little walnut!” Grandma smiled as she held her new grandson.
“Did you report it to the police?” asked the neighbor who had driven Galina home.
“We did,” she said. “They told us it’s common now—people just leave and never come back.”
But Galina couldn’t believe Viktor would vanish. He said he’d come back with baby clothes. He had talked about teaching their son to fish and building a swing in the yard.
The house felt cold when she got home. Holding Sergei with one arm, she lit the stove with the other. In the corner stood the crib Viktor had made before he left.
That first night, she barely slept. She kept stepping outside, hoping to see headlights or hear his footsteps.
The village women talked:
“He left her. Men do that now—they go to the city and never return.”
“He didn’t want the responsibility. He’s still young…”
But others said:
“Viktor wouldn’t do that. He’s not that kind of man.”
“Maybe something bad happened—things are rough these days…”
Galina didn’t listen. During the day, she cared for her baby. At night, she watched out the window, waiting.
In a month, she ran out of money. She sold the gold earrings Viktor gave her for their wedding. Then she sold her sewing machine.
“I’ll bring milk,” neighbor Nina said. “My cow has plenty. The baby needs it.”
“I’ll work to pay you back,” Galina said.
When Sergei turned two months, Galina made it through a night without crying. She held her sleeping baby and thought about the future.
“We’ll be okay,” she whispered, kissing his chubby cheek. “Papa will come home—and if not, we’ll still be okay.”
The next morning, she hung an old dress as a curtain, warmed water to bathe her son, hummed a lullaby, and sat down to write a job application for the village school.
Life went on—without Viktor, but with a new kind of hope. Galina didn’t just wait for him anymore; she started believing in herself.
Sergei sat at the last desk in class, working hard on his math homework. At eight years old, numbers were still tricky for him.
“Sergei Kotov, are you done with your sums?” the teacher asked, stopping by.
“Almost, Maria Ivanovna—just a few more minutes.”
She looked at the clock and said, “Okay, five more minutes, then we’ll check.”
Sergei focused again, hiding his big, worn rubber boots under the desk because he was embarrassed. After school, he jumped over puddles on his way home. Mama should be home soon—new books had come to the school library, and she promised to bring him a math one.
The house smelled like boiled potatoes. Mama was at the stove, stirring a pot.
“How was school?” she asked without turning around.
“Good,” Sergei said, dropping his bag. “I got an A in reading.”
Galina turned and smiled, her tired face brightening.
“That’s great! What was the story about?”
“A boy who protected his country.” He sat down. “Mom, was Dad brave?”
Galina paused for a second, then put the ladle down.
“He was very brave,” she said quietly. “The bravest.”
Rain tapped gently on the windows, making the house feel warm and safe.
“I’ll be brave too,” Sergei said. “And strong—to help you.”
Galina hugged him tightly.
“You already help,” she whispered, kissing his head.
Sergei grew quickly, like a young tree. By twelve, he could chop wood, carry water, and fix fences. His jacket sleeves were too short.
“Mama, I need a new coat,” he said during dinner. “This one doesn’t fit anymore.”
Galina set down her fork and looked at him. In the soft light of the kerosene lamp—since the power was out again—he looked just like Viktor, with the same eyes and stubborn chin.
“Okay,” she said. “We’ll go buy one on Saturday.”
“Do we have enough money?” he asked, worried. “Maybe I can make do—”
“We have enough,” she said firmly. She didn’t tell him she stayed up late knitting socks to sell, sold goat’s milk, and cleaned offices on weekends to earn extra.
Sergei understood anyway. His classmates respected him. No one made fun of the boy without a dad, wearing hand-me-downs. After he gave Kolya Zhdanov a bloody nose in fifth grade for insulting his mother, no one dared to mess with him again.
“Your dad was the strongest man in the village,” neighbor Kolya once said while they were fixing the porch. “A real hero.”
“What do you think happened to him?” Sergei asked softly as he hammered a nail.
Kolya scratched his head.
“I don’t know, kid. But I’m sure he didn’t leave on purpose. That wasn’t like him.”
Sergei nodded. He never asked his mother about it—he knew it hurt her—but in his heart, he imagined his dad as a hero who’d died on some important mission.
At fourteen, Sergei brought home his first earnings from working all summer, clearing paths in the forest.
“For you, Mama,” he said, placing the worn bills on the table. “To help with winter.”
Galina froze, staring at the money. Outside, the first snow was falling, and the fire crackled in the stove.
“I know you’ve been doing everything for both of us,” Sergei said. “Now I’ll help too.”
Galina looked up and saw not a boy, but a young man—with the same determined look Viktor once had.
“Thank you,” she whispered, trying not to cry.
That night, after Sergei had gone to bed, she took out an old photo of Viktor—smiling, his arm around her. On the back, it said in faded ink: To my one and only.
“He’s growing strong like you,” she told the picture. “And just as kind.”
Sergei straightened his tie in the cracked mirror. A tall, broad-shouldered young man looked back at him, with a serious expression.
His dark-blue jacket—tailored by Galina from Viktor’s old suit—fit perfectly.
It was his eighteenth birthday. Guests were coming later, but first, it was his graduation day. University was next, though he hadn’t picked where yet.
“Mama, do you need the water heated?” he called as he stepped out of his room.
Galina stood by the stove, stirring. Her hair had turned gray over the years, and wrinkles lined her face, but she still stood tall and proud.
“It’s already hot,” she smiled. “You look so handsome—like a groom ready for his wedding.”
“Mama, stop…” Sergei blushed.
“Shura Bondareva keeps looking your way,” she teased. “Have you noticed?”
“Enough, Mama…” he said, waving her off.
Then came a knock at the door. Sergei checked the clock—it was only six in the morning.
“Who’s knocking this early?” Galina wondered, wiping her hands on her apron.
Sergei opened the door. A tall man in a dark coat—strange for spring—stood there. His hair was streaked with silver, and his face was lined. He looked calm and serious.
“Good morning,” he said, looking closely at Sergei. “Is this the Kotov home?”
“Yes,” Sergei said cautiously, standing in the doorway.
The man nodded and walked to a black car by the gate—Sergei hadn’t noticed it before. He picked up a small suitcase and came back.
“This is from Viktor Kotov,” he said, holding out the case. “He wanted it delivered to his son on his eighteenth birthday.”
From behind Sergei came the sound of breaking dishes. He turned to see his mother standing in the kitchen doorway, pale as a sheet.
“Do you—do you know where he is?” Galina asked, her voice shaking.
The man took off his glasses. His eyes looked tired and full of sadness.
“Viktor’s been gone a long time. He only asked that this be given to his son today. I don’t know anything else.”
The man turned and walked back to his car. Sergei had so many questions, but he couldn’t speak. Galina gently placed her hand on his shoulder.
“Bring it inside,” she said softly.
The suitcase was heavy. Sergei carried it to the kitchen table. They both stared at it—worn brown leather, metal corners, and an old lock.
“Open it,” Galina said, sitting down.
Sergei unlatched it. The lid creaked open slowly.
Inside were neat stacks of U.S. dollars. On top lay a letter labeled To Galya and Son.
With shaking hands, Galina opened it. The handwriting was familiar—sharp, strong, like someone used to saying little but meaning much.
If you’re reading this, I’m gone. I’m sorry, Galya, for not coming back. I saw a crime happen in town. They forced me to work for them by threatening you. I tried to escape, but I was trapped.
I watched you from a distance. I came by a few times. I saw the house. I saw Sergei. Once I watched you, Son, chopping wood. You’ve grown so much…
This money is for you. Use it for school, buy a house in the city, and live a good life.
Galina, I’m sorry for everything. I loved you every single day. You were my light in the darkness.
Galina held the letter to her chest as tears rolled down her face.
Sergei clutched the table. Something inside him shifted—his father wasn’t just a dream anymore. He had been real.
That evening, they sat on the porch. The air smelled of lilacs and fresh-cut grass. Somewhere nearby, music played to celebrate the end of school.
“How should we use the money?” Sergei asked, looking up at the stars.
Galina pulled her shawl tighter.
“You’ll go to university,” she said calmly. “Moscow or St. Petersburg—you decide.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll wait until you finish. Then we’ll see.”
Sergei sat quietly, then spoke softly.
“He loved you. And he loved me.”
“I know,” Galina replied. “I always did.”
A shooting star crossed the sky. Sergei closed his eyes and made a wish—not for himself, but for his mother: that she would stop waiting and start truly living.
Galina looked at him and saw Viktor’s eyes, his chin—and her own strength, love, and resilience.
“Happy birthday, my boy,” she whispered, pulling his arm around her.
Sergei smiled and hugged her close.
“And he would be proud of you too, Mama—so proud.”