At first, Genka thought his mother had just put on some weight. Though, it seemed a bit strange.

At first, Genka thought his mother had just put on some weight. Though, it seemed a bit strange.

Her waist had suddenly rounded out, while otherwise she looked the same.

It felt awkward to ask—what if his mother got offended? His father stayed silent, gazing at her with tenderness, and Genka pretended not to notice anything either.

But soon her belly clearly grew larger. One day, walking past his parents’ room, Genka accidentally saw his father stroking his mother’s stomach and whispering something tender to her.

And she smiled contentedly. The scene made him feel embarrassed, and he hurried away.

“Mom is expecting a baby,” Genka suddenly guessed. This realization didn’t so much surprise him as it shocked him.

Of course, his mother was beautiful and looked better than many of his classmates’ moms, but still, pregnancy at her age filled him with unease. Even thinking about it was uncomfortable.

Genka already knew where babies came from, he had long suspected much—but that his parents did that was unimaginable. After all, it wasn’t just anyone—it was his mom and dad.

“Dad, is Mom having a baby?” he once asked his father.
For some reason, it was easier to talk about it with him.

“Yes. Mom dreams of a daughter. It’s probably silly to ask you whom you’d prefer—a brother or a little sister.”

“Do people even have babies at that age?”
“At what age? Mom is only thirty-six, and I’m forty-one. Are you against it?”

“Did anyone ask me?” Genka replied harshly.
His father looked at him attentively.

“I hope you’re grown-up enough to understand us. Mom had long wanted a daughter. When you were born, we were renting a small apartment. Mom stayed home with you, and I was the only one working. We barely had enough money for the essentials.

So we decided not to rush with a second child. Later, your grandmother died, and her apartment was given to us. Do you remember Grandma?”

Genka shrugged.
“We did some renovations and moved in. When you grew older and Mom started working, things got easier financially—I bought our first car.

But we kept putting off having a daughter, saying there would still be time. And then, it just didn’t happen. And now, when we had already stopped hoping and waiting…

Well, I hope it will be a girl, as Mom wishes. Of course, our mom is still young, but she’s no longer a girl. So please try at least not to upset her, not to make her worry.

Think before you snap or say something unnecessary. If anything comes up, tell me. Agreed?”

“— I get it, Dad,” Genka muttered.

Later, they found out it really was going to be a girl. The house began to fill with pink baby clothes. To Genka, they looked tiny, doll-like.

A crib appeared. His mother often drifted out of conversations, sitting detached, as if listening inwardly. Then his father would ask with worry if everything was all right. That worry passed on to Genka as well.

Personally, he couldn’t care less about the baby—especially a sister. What did he need with snot and diapers? The only one he needed was Yulia Fetisova. If his parents wanted another child, that was their business. What did it have to do with him? Actually, it was even good. They would be busy with her and nag him less. At least there was some benefit in having a future sister.

“Is it dangerous? You know, giving birth at her age?” Genka asked.

“There’s risk at any age. Of course, it’s harder for Mom now than when she was expecting you. Back then she was thirteen years younger. But we don’t live in the forest or a village—we’re in a big city with well-equipped hospitals and doctors… Everything will be fine,” his father added tiredly.

“When? How long?”

“What? She’ll give birth? In two months.”

But his mother gave birth a month earlier. Genka woke up to noises. He heard groaning and running about behind the wall. He got up, squinting sleepily, and went to his parents.

His mother sat on the rumpled bed, clutching her lower back, rocking back and forth like a pendulum, moaning. His father rushed around the room nervously, gathering things.

“Just don’t forget the folder with the documents,” his mother managed, closing her eyes.

“Mom,” Genka called, suddenly awake and caught up in the general anxiety.

“Sorry we woke you. It’s just… Where’s that ambulance?” his father asked into the air.

The air answered with a doorbell, and his father rushed to open. Genka couldn’t decide whether to get dressed or stay with his mother, just in case. But then a man and woman in ambulance uniforms entered the room, went straight to his mother, and began asking strange questions:

“How long have the contractions been? How often? Did the water break?” During the next contraction, his father answered for her.

No one paid any attention to Genka, so he slipped out. When he came back dressed, his parents were already leaving the apartment. His mother was still in her robe and slippers. At the door, his father looked back.

“I’ll be back soon. Tidy up here.” He wanted to add something else, but then his mother groaned and leaned heavily on his arm.

Genka stood for a while, staring at the door, listening to the unusual silence. Then he returned to the room and looked at the clock. He still had two hours to sleep. He carefully folded the sofa, picked up the scattered things, and went to the kitchen. His father came back just as Genka was getting ready for school.

“So? Did she have the baby?” he asked, trying to guess the answer from his father’s face.

“Not yet. They didn’t let me in. Pour me some tea.”

Genka set a cup of tea before his father and made sandwiches.

“Can I go?” he asked.

“Go. I’ll call when there’s news,” his father promised.

Genka was late for school.

“Kroshkin has deigned to grace us with his presence. Why are you late?” asked the math teacher.

“We called an ambulance for my mom. She was taken to the hospital.”
“Sorry, sit down,” the teacher softened.

“His mother’s giving birth!” shouted Fyodorov, and the class snickered. Genka spun around at his classmate.

“Quiet! Kroshkin, sit down already. And what’s so funny?”

His father called during the last lesson.

“Can I step out?” Genka raised his hand.

“Really? Twenty minutes left till the end. Hold it. And put your phone away,” the Russian teacher said.

“His mother’s in the maternity ward,” Fyodorov yelled again, but this time no one laughed.

“All right, go,” the teacher allowed.

“What is it, Dad?” Genka asked in the corridor.

“A girl! Three kilos a hundred grams! Uff,” his father exclaimed with relief.

“Well?” asked the Russian teacher when he came back into class.

“All’s well. A girl,” Genka answered automatically.

“Now Kroshkin will be a nanny,” Fyodorov snorted again. The class burst into laughter, drowning out the bell.

Firsova caught up with him outside and walked beside him.

“How old is your mom?” she asked.

“Thirty-six.”

“Don’t take it wrong, I’m happy for you. A sister—that’s great. I’m an only child. My parents didn’t want more kids…” They walked and talked, and for the first time Genka felt glad that he had a sister.

Three days later, his mother was discharged from the hospital.

“What a beauty!” said his father, gazing at the baby daughter.
Genka saw nothing beautiful in her. A tiny, wrinkled body, a red face, bow-shaped lips, and a button nose.

For him, the standard of beauty was Firsova. Then his sister opened her toothless mouth and squeaked, turning red like a tomato. His mother quickly picked her up and began rocking her, whispering, “Shhh…” It felt strange to realize that his mom had become someone else’s mom too.

“What shall we name her?” his father asked.

“Vasilisa,” his mother replied.

“That’s such a cat name. They’ll call her Vasya at school,” Genka scoffed.

“Then Masha, after Grandma,” his father suggested.

From then on, life revolved around Mashenka—“our little Masha,” as their mother tenderly called her—and her needs. Nobody paid much attention to Genka anymore, except to ask him to run to the store, take out the trash, fetch laundry from the washing machine, and hang it up in the bathroom. Genka was happy to help with those things.

But when his mother once asked him to take the stroller out for a walk while she washed the floor, Genka dug in his heels. He insisted it would be better if she went outside herself—fresh air would do her good—while he washed the floor instead.

“I’m not going. What if the guys see me? They’ll laugh,” he muttered.

“She’s already dressed; she’ll get sweaty. And put on something warmer yourself—it’s cold outside. If you catch a chill, you might infect Mashenka, and she’s far too little and fragile to be sick,” said his mother.

So Genka walked circles in the yard with the stroller when he suddenly saw Firsova. Before, she would have just passed by, pretending not to notice him, but this time she walked straight up to him.

“Mashenka! How sweet she is,” Firsova cooed, walking beside him. Neighbors smiled as they passed, and Genka didn’t know where to hide his eyes from embarrassment.

That evening, his mother rocked Masha and sang her a lullaby. Genka listened and drifted off to sleep without noticing.

But Mashenka soon fell ill. One night, she spiked a high fever. Medicine brought it down a little. All night long, their parents took turns carrying her in their arms. By morning, the fever rose again and nothing could bring it down. Mashenka’s breathing was fast and labored. His father called an ambulance.

Nobody blamed Genka for anything, yet he felt guilty. He hardly left his room.

“She’s giving us a hard time,” his father said when the ambulance took his mother and Mashenka away.

“Will she get better?” Genka asked cautiously.

“I hope so. Of course she will. There are good medicines now, antibiotics…”

Genka hadn’t thought he would worry so much. At school, he answered at random, got a C even though he knew the subject by heart. When he came home, his father sat in the kitchen, staring into space. Unease stirred in Genka’s chest.

“Dad, why are you home? Are you sick?” Genka asked.
His father was silent for a long time.

“Our little Masha is gone,” he finally sighed.

At first, Genka thought his father was raving, but then the meaning sank in.

“It happened so fast… There was nothing anyone could do…” His father covered his face with his hands and gave a sound that was somewhere between a growl and a sob.

“Dad…” Genka came closer, not knowing what to say. His father hugged him, and for the first time Genka saw him cry. He broke down himself, bawling like a little boy.

He wanted to disappear. Better if he had died instead of Masha. Later, their mother came home from the hospital. Genka could hardly recognize her. She was a shadow of her former self. Darkness and silence filled the apartment, though it was bright outside. Genka’s heart tore apart with pity for his mother, for Mashenka, and from the heavy burden of his own guilt.

After the funeral, his mother would sit for hours by the empty crib. At night she jumped up, running to it, dreaming she heard Masha crying. His father could barely lead her back to bed. A week passed, then another, then a month. Spring was coming. It felt as though joy and laughter had left their home forever.

“Listen, before the roads get too muddy, we need to take the crib and things to the dacha. Otherwise your mom will go mad,” said his father one Saturday. “I’ll take the crib apart, and you gather all the clothes and toys. The bags are over there.”

“What about Mom?” Genka asked.

“She went to Aunt Valya’s. She mustn’t see this.”

Outside the city, snow still lined the road. The sun broke through thick gray clouds. Genka suddenly thought how Masha would never see spring, never squint at the sun’s rays, never hear thunder… His eyes filled with tears, and he began to shake with silent sobs. Then his father pulled the car over.

“Wait here. I’ll check if anyone needs help.”

Only then did Genka notice the cars ahead and the cluster of policemen. He climbed out and went over too. A crushed red car caught his eye. The truck’s door was open, and a man sat on the step, repeating, “I only closed my eyes for a moment…” One policeman held a baby carrier. Inside lay something pink. Genka moved closer. A little girl, about Masha’s age, was sleeping inside.

“Can you believe it? The parents are dead, and she’s untouched—not a scratch,” said a young policeman.

Suddenly, in the distance, a siren wailed. The little girl woke up and began to wail, just like Masha. The policeman grew flustered, staring helplessly at her.

“Give her to me. I had a little sister…” Genka stammered.

The policeman looked at him doubtfully but handed him the carrier. Genka lifted the girl and pressed her to his chest. And, miracle of miracles, she quieted down!

“How did you do that, kid?” the policeman marveled.

“The girl from the car? Let’s go,” another officer approached and led Genka toward the ambulance.

“Brother?” the doctor asked Genka. “Hand her over.” But Genka stepped back.

“Are you going to take her to the hospital?” he asked.

“Yes, she’ll be examined there. Then she’ll go to the infants’ home or an orphanage.”

“Dad…” Genka turned reproachful eyes on his father, who had also come over. And his father understood at once.

“Could we… take her in? She’s fine. You see, my wife and I recently lost a child, about her age. My wife is suffering terribly. This girl would be her salvation,” his father began.

“— By all means. Go to child services, file an application. If no relatives are found or if they refuse to take the child, then you’ll be able to adopt her. Everything has to be done officially. Come on, boy, don’t waste time,” the doctor said.

Reluctantly, Genka handed the girl over.

“And what’s her name?” he asked.

“According to the documents, her name is Vasilisa.”

He and his father exchanged a quick glance.

“All right, let’s go,” his father said first, heading to the car.

“To the dacha?” Genka asked as he climbed into the front seat.

“Home. There’s nothing for us to do at the dacha. We’ll need those things again.”

And Genka felt calmer. He was surprised at himself, at how much he’d worried about a stranger’s child.

“Dad, what if Mom doesn’t agree to take Vasilisa?”

At home, their mother sat on the sofa, staring at the empty corner where the crib used to be.

“You’re back? The road wasn’t passable?” she asked indifferently.

“Mom, you see, we met Vasilisa,” Genka blurted, barely holding back his excitement.

“Whom?”

“Vasilisa.” And together with his father he began to recount the accident.

Their mother was silent for a long time. Then she said she would go to the hospital tomorrow and find out everything.

“Hooray!” shouted Genka and his father…

“— It’s all so sad…” Katya lowered her head. “What kind of childhood is it without parents?
…No matter how hard she tried to convince herself that the orphanage was a necessary institution, she could never truly believe in such an arrangement of the world.

It seemed strange that most people did not feel this horror, steeped through with the smells of state-run living. That they could calmly come here to work, do their tasks, and not notice the screaming gaze of the children—‘take me home.’

…Every adult, unlike a child, has a choice. And that choice is never easy—it is always difficult, painful, and full of doubt. But at least it has the power to give hope.”