The darkness of the December night thickened outside the windows, while inside the old, dilapidated house, a tense anticipation hung in the air.
Behind the kitchen door, on a linoleum floor stained and long unwashed, huddled the children — three little ones, clinging to each other like nestlings. Their eyes, full of hunger and hope, were fixed on a crack in the door.
They silently watched as a modest pot of Olivier salad simmered on the stove, and their mother, Lesya, stirred it mechanically, as if trying to extract more from it than it could possibly give.
The smell of oil and old onions filled the air, but the children had no appetite — they were plagued by cold, hunger, and waiting.
When would Mama say, “Come to the table!”? When would the holiday begin?
“Hey, what are you doing here like a bunch of rats?” a harsh, gruff voice rang out.
Uncle Igor, tall and stooped, wearing a ragged hoodie and reeking of alcohol, flung the door open and glared sternly at the kids.
“Get to your room! Can’t you see? Grown-ups are busy!”
He staggered into the kitchen, leaning heavily against the doorframe, and peered into the pots. His expression darkened.
“So, this is what we call a celebration?” he grumbled, poking the salad with a finger in disgust. “Olivier, potatoes, and some sour cabbage… Looks more like a wake than a holiday.”
Lesya, thin, with lifeless eyes and disheveled hair, gave a short sigh.
“I made more than just Olivier…”
She glanced around to make sure the children couldn’t see and, like a smuggler, pulled a thick, pink sausage from the depths of her battered bag.
“Look, I bought this… But it’s not enough for everyone. Besides, it’s not good for kids — too fatty, too salty… And I also got a little bottle of vodka. You know, for the mood.”
Igor grinned, his eyes gleaming.
“You’re something else, Lesya! Well done! I’ve got gifts for them too,” he said theatrically, pulling a few tangerines and a pack of hard candy from his pocket. “Snagged these at the store — no one saw!”
Their laughter came out strained, like an old, cracked rubber band. Because behind the scene lay the bitter truth: they were destitute. Igor hadn’t worked in months, living off welfare that barely trickled in. Lesya received child support, but the money vanished like snow under the sun — turning into bottles, snacks, and cheap tobacco.
Their life was gray, monotonous, and empty.
They had met recently — two lost souls, two hollowed hearts. Igor had left a wife who couldn’t take his drinking and constant fights anymore. Lesya? She, too, liked to “unwind” — vodka was her refuge from reality, from her children’s cries, from loneliness. Misery attracts misery. But the children — three tiny lives — were a burden to them. They longed for romance, passion, fun, a holiday for two. But instead, they got crying, dirty socks, and endless “Mama, I’m hungry,” “Mama, I want,” “Mama, I’m cold.”
“Maybe… we send them off somewhere? Just for New Year’s?” Igor suddenly suggested, squinting. “Even for a couple of hours…”
Lesya thought for a moment.
“Where? To whom? I’ve got no family, no friends… No one to babysit.”
Suddenly she smacked her forehead.
“Got it! The barn! Let them get some fresh air! At least it’s quiet there…”
Igor nodded approvingly.
A minute later, he stood in the doorway of the room where the children, seated on an old couch, were playing with bits of string and empty boxes.
“Hey, who wants to be Santa’s guard?” he boomed with theatrical flair. “He’s on his way! But he’ll only come to those who watch for him outside!”
The children froze.
“C-Can we go with Mama?” asked six-year-old Vanya softly, clutching the hands of his younger brother and sister.
“No!” Igor snapped. “Only true guards! And if you don’t go — Santa won’t come at all!”
Whimpering. Sniffling.
“It’s cold… Mama, I don’t want to…”
“I said GO!” he barked, grabbing each of them by the hand and practically dragging them outside.
Outside — icy wind, snow, a blizzard. The children, in thin sweaters and torn jackets, shivered like autumn leaves. Igor led them to the barn — old, creaky, with a leaky roof and moldy walls.
“Stay here!” he ordered. “Behave, and I’ll bring you presents!”
He tossed them a pack of cheap biscuits — not as a treat, but like feed thrown to dogs — and slammed the door shut. The latch clicked.
Inside it was dark, damp, and bitterly cold. The children huddled together for warmth. At first, they believed. Vanya believed, five-year-old Alyonka believed, little three-year-old Sasha believed. They whispered:
“Santa will come… he won’t forget us… he’ll save us…”
But time passed. The cold gripped their bodies. Their fingers turned blue.
“Mama!” Vanya cried, pounding his little fists on the door. “Mama, we’re freezing!”
“Mamaa!” the children’s voices sobbed.
But in the house… in the house it was warm.
In the kitchen, Lesya and Igor sat at the table, a bottle between them, a plate of sausage, some tangerines. They laughed, joked, drank, forgetting everything. The children? Who were they now? Background noise, a nuisance to their New Year’s fun.
“Almost midnight!” Igor declared, raising his glass. “To us! To freedom!”
Just then — a knock at the door.
“Who could that be?” Igor frowned.
“I don’t know…” whispered Lesya, hastily throwing on her robe.
They opened the door — and froze…
On the doorstep stood Father Frost.
The real one. In a red coat, with a beard, and a sack over his shoulder.
“We didn’t order you!” Lesya blurted out.
“And we have nothing to pay with,” Igor added, looking around as if searching for something to give.
“Everything is paid for,” Father Frost answered calmly. “I have come with gifts. Where are your children?”
Lesya instantly brightened.
“Oh! Gifts? We have three! Bring everything here!”
“No,” Father Frost said sternly. “Gifts are given only to children. In person.”
Lesya was confused.
“Th-they’re… in the room right now…”
She went to the children’s room and peeked inside. It was empty. A thought flashed through her mind.
“Igor!” she whispered urgently. “Where did you put them?”
“Oops…” he suddenly turned pale. “I… forgot…”
He rushed outside, ran to the barn, opened the door. Empty. Only the biscuits, soggy from moisture, and traces of children’s tears on the floor.
“They’re gone!” he whispered, trembling as he returned.
Lesya ran out herself. She ran around the barn, looked into every crack. No one.
“Where are they?” she screamed.
Igor came running too, confused.
“I locked them here… where did they go?!”
Suddenly — the barn door slammed shut with a crash. The latch clicked.
“Hey! Is this a joke?” Lesya screamed, pounding on the door.
“Sit here,” came the familiar voice, “while I celebrate the New Year.”
“Are you crazy?! We’ll freeze!”
“But did you care about your children, leaving them to die of cold in the barn?” Father Frost asked. At that moment, he removed his beard.
Before them stood Stas. Lesya’s ex-husband. Father of their children.
“You…” Lesya whispered.
“I came to congratulate my children,” he said quietly, but with icy fury. “But I heard their cries for help. I opened the barn. Took them. Took them to the hospital. They have frostbite. Lucky that it was in time.”
He left without looking back.
A few hours later, young men walking with flashlights heard a knocking. They opened the barn. Inside, trembling, were two people — Lesya and Igor — in robes, their faces twisted in terror.
The next morning, Lesya ran to the police to file a report about the missing children.
But a surprise awaited her there.
The report was already filed — against her.
By Stas.
Through the child protective services, he managed to have Lesya’s parental rights revoked.
“How much longer?” he said. “Hunger, cold, neglect…”
And he took the children to himself. To his mother — a kind-hearted woman with warm hands and a home that always smelled of pies and echoed with laughter.
Later, Stas met a woman. A kind, strong person. She loved his children as her own. And a few years later, she gave birth to two sisters for them — little, happy, loved.
And Lesya?
Now she had to work. Earn a salary. Buy groceries. Drink less.
Because the child benefits — were no longer hers.
And every New Year she remembers that night. The cold. The barn. The cries.
And the face of Father Frost, who turned out to be her past.
And justice.
