— You do realize you’re the only one I have, don’t you? — he asked softly.
— Aren’t I? — Natasha replied, surprised.
Natasha hurried home, wrapped in a long, warm scarf. That autumn was unusually damp and chilly: sometimes a fine drizzle fell, sometimes the wind bent the trees almost to the ground, and today, somehow, everything came at once. Natasha was returning from university. Her bag pulled heavily on her shoulder, her fingers were cold even inside her gloves, the chill cutting through her, and she longed for only one thing: to get home as quickly as possible, warm up with a cup of tea, and flip through a new book.
The street was almost empty. Trying to avoid puddles so as not to soil her shoes, Natasha turned into the courtyard behind which her apartment building was already visible—and suddenly stopped: very close, from behind a dark corner, came a faint, barely audible crying. Natasha froze, straining to listen: no one was in sight, but the sound came again—soft, timid sobs.
— Hey… who’s there? — she called cautiously, surprised at how muffled her own voice sounded.
There was no reply, but something stirred behind the rusty metal slide. Natasha stepped forward, her heart racing. She bent down carefully and spotted a small boy in the darkness. Thin, no older than five. He curled up, trembling from both cold and fear, most likely.
— Don’t be afraid, — Natasha said gently, reaching out her hand. — I won’t hurt you. Why are you here all alone in the dark?
The boy sniffled and wiped his tears with his hand. He hesitated for a few seconds, as if deciding whether to trust a stranger, then finally emerged cautiously from his hiding spot.
His jacket was thin, the buttons barely fastened, his boots muddy and soaked from the puddles.
— I… I’m Vitya… — he whispered. — A car… hit my mom… They took her somewhere… And I… I got scared… and ran away.
Natasha’s heart ached. Such a small, fragile child, alone in the cold autumn evening. She struggled to hold back her tears, trying not to show how deeply shaken she was by the sight.
— Come with me, Vityenka… — she said, squatting down to be at his level. — You’re cold, you must be hungry. You’ll warm up at home, and then we’ll figure out what to do next.
She thought about calling the police immediately, but looking at his frightened eyes and wet cheeks, she realized: no, first he needed to feel safe, to be fed, warmed, and comforted.
They walked quickly, almost running. Vitya held her hand, so light and fragile it felt as though she could lift him with one hand, and her heart clenched with pity.
In the apartment, the smell of borscht, sautéed onions, and fresh homemade bread greeted them—the same bread her father always managed to bake whenever Natasha stayed late at school. Natasha breathed deeply, feeling the cold and dampness of the street gradually retreat.
She and her father, Igor Vitalyevich, had lived alone together since Natasha turned ten. Her mother, Yulia, had decided to devote her life to her career and moved permanently to another country. Since then, their contact was limited to rare video calls: the mother spoke about her work, Natasha about school and university. The household responsibilities had fallen entirely on her father, and he managed admirably: the apartment was spotless, there was always a hot dinner on the stove, and Natasha never felt deprived of anything.
— Where have you been, Natasha? — came the warm, slightly tired voice from the kitchen as soon as the door clicked shut.
— Dad, I… — she began, but a man in a soft home sweater had already appeared in the hallway. He froze, shifting his gaze from his daughter to the boy whose hand she held.
— Who… is this? — he asked softly, as if the words were difficult to speak.
— Dad, this is Vitya, — Natasha explained hurriedly. — I found him in the playground. He was alone. A car hit his mother… He got scared and ran away… I couldn’t leave him there…
Igor Vitalyevich slowly removed his glasses, as if they were obstructing his view. His face went pale, but he said nothing, only nodded, as if in silent agreement.
Natasha sat Vitya on a stool in the kitchen. He gripped the spoon in his fist, his eyes still cautiously scanning the room. But very soon, hunger won—he began eating, hurriedly and ravenously.
Natasha stroked his head, soothing him quietly:
— Don’t rush, it’s all yours, no one will take it away.
Igor Vitalyevich stood by the window, slightly turned, as if watching the rain outside, though his gaze constantly returned to the child. He seemed to want to say something but couldn’t bring himself, only sighing heavily. Natasha understood: her father was probably worried, thinking about what to do now, how to find the boy’s relatives.
When Vitya finally finished eating, Natasha took him to her room. The boy crawled under the blanket, burying his nose in the pillow, and almost immediately fell asleep. Traces of tears still shimmered on his cheeks, but his breathing was even and calm. Natasha stood over him, adjusted the blanket, and her heart filled with an unexpected, almost maternal tenderness.
— Poor thing… — she whispered. — You were so scared…
Quietly closing the door, she stepped into the living room. There, in the armchair by the window, sat her father. He was pale, his shoulders slightly slumped, hands gripping the armrests, eyes fixed on the floor as if all the answers to life’s questions were hidden there.
— Dad? — Natasha called cautiously. — What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost…
He slowly raised his eyes, and Natasha felt a chill run through her. His gaze lacked the usual gentleness, the calm light she was accustomed to. Instead, there was confusion and pain, and something else—a hidden anxiety, some secret he couldn’t speak aloud.
— It’s… okay, — he rasped, trying to regain his usual tone. But she could see that nothing was “okay.”
— Dad… — Natasha moved closer, sitting on the edge of the chair beside him. — I can see something’s wrong. Please… tell me.
Igor Vitalyevich remained silent for a long time. It seemed each word got stuck in his throat. He sighed heavily several times, ran his hand over his face as if trying to push away memories. Finally, he spoke, quietly, with restraint:
— You do realize, Natasha… that you’re the only one I have, right? — he said, shifting his gaze to his daughter. A shadow of pain flickered in his eyes, one she had never seen before.
— Well… of course, I am. Aren’t I? — Natasha replied, surprised.
The answer struck her like a bolt of lightning:
— No, daughter… you’re not the only one I have. I had another son… Matvey.
— A son? — she repeated, unable to believe it. — But… why have I never known about him?
Igor Vitalyevich sighed heavily again and began to tell the story:
— That was a long time ago, before I met your mother. I was married to a woman named Nadezhda. We lived simply, but happily. When our son turned three, I was returning from a business trip by train… and that’s when I met Yulia—we were in the same compartment.
Natasha listened, holding her breath, feeling as if time around her had slowed.
— She… she seemed to enchant me. You understand? — her father continued. — We started seeing each other. Went to the movies, restaurants, theater. She knew how to speak, how to look at someone, that it felt like the ground was pulled from under me. I, an adult man, lost my head. And it was then that Yulia said: either we marry, or we part forever. I didn’t hesitate. That very evening I confessed to Nadezhda, filed for divorce, and left for Yulia.
Tears welled up in Natasha’s eyes. She had always considered her mother gentle, kind, almost perfect. And now her familiar world was collapsing, revealing another side she had never seen.
— We married, — Igor Vitalyevich continued, — and soon you were born. But Yulia immediately set a condition: no past. She forbade even mentioning Nadezhda or my son.
— Forbade? — Natasha exhaled sharply. — How can someone forbid that?!…
— She could, — he said bitterly, a wry smile on his lips. — You have no idea how she could get her way. At first, I still visited Matvey in bits and pieces, brought him gifts. But one day Nadezhda said: “Don’t come here anymore. After your visits, he cries at night. Don’t toy with his feelings.” And I left. But I always sent him money, regularly.
Natasha was silent. It felt as if the ground had vanished beneath her feet.
— And then Yulia left, — her father’s voice grew quieter, — and I decided to find my son, to restore our relationship. But they no longer lived at the old address. Since then, I haven’t known anything about them.
He fell silent, as if he had put a full stop on the story.
— How could this happen?! — Natasha jumped up, tears streaming down her cheeks. — You let Mom forbid you from seeing your son? Why? Why didn’t I know him? I always dreamed of having a brother!
— Forgive me, daughter, — her father said softly. — At the time, I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought I was ensuring a happy life for you and Yulia… But it turned out the way it did…
Silence filled the room, broken only by the quiet ticking of the wall clock. Finally, Natasha asked:
— But why are you telling me this now?
Igor Vitalyevich’s eyes snapped up sharply, his voice trembling:
— You see… Vitya… he looks just like Matvey. Like two drops of water. Exactly how I remember him.
Silence fell again. Natasha was overwhelmed by mixed emotions; she didn’t know how to react. Her father had hidden part of his life, her mother was not what she had believed, and somewhere, a brother she had never known existed.
— What do we do now? — she whispered, looking toward the door of the room where Vitya slept.
— Do what’s right, — her father replied. — The boy needs to be returned to his family. But first, we need to find out who they are.
Natasha nodded. Her heart ached. But alongside the pain came a new feeling—determination. The past couldn’t be changed, but they had the present. And in it was this boy, whom they could help.
First, Natasha called the city hospital. As the phone rang, she felt her anxiety grow with each passing second; her fingers trembled, and her thoughts raced like leaves in the autumn wind.
Finally, a sleepy nurse answered:
— Yes, a woman who was hit by a car was brought in today, — she confirmed. — She’s in intensive care. Concussion, bruises, but no life-threatening injuries. She will recover.
Hearing this, Natasha felt as if a stone had fallen from her chest. She exhaled in relief:
— Thank you so much, — she said, hanging up and silently repeating, “Thank God… nothing serious.”
Next came calls to the police stations—she needed to check if anyone was looking for the boy.
At the first station she reached, the answer was brief: no, no one had reported such a case. But during the second call, the officer on duty perked up:
— Yes, we received a report about a missing child, — he said. — The boy’s name is Vitya, right? Where is he now?
Natasha gave them the address, hung up, and took a deep breath.
— They’re on their way, — she told her father. — His mother is in the hospital, but it’s nothing serious. And the boy’s family is coming for him.
Igor Vitalyevich only nodded, trying to keep his emotions in check.
Not even an hour later, the doorbell rang. Natasha rushed to open it and saw a woman of about fifty and a young man on the doorstep. The woman stepped forward first.
— You… you found Vityenka?
— Yes, — Natasha nodded, stepping aside. — He’s in my room, asleep.
The woman entered the apartment and immediately sank onto the ottoman in the hallway, her legs giving way as if she had been carrying the weight of the world. The man hugged her shoulders but was equally tense—it was clear the evening had been hell for them.
— I’m Nadezhda, — the woman finally introduced herself, wiping her tears. — This is my son Matvey, — she nodded toward the young man. — And Vityenka is my grandson.
Natasha gasped, her father’s words echoing in her ears.
— I… I’m Natasha, — she managed to say.
At that moment, Igor Vitalyevich came out of the room. He intended to speak but the words stuck in his throat.
Nadezhda looked at him and gasped so loudly that Natasha flinched.
— My God… — she breathed. — Igor…
He stepped forward, then immediately stopped. Matvey, standing nearby, looked at him in confusion.
— Mom, who is this? — he asked.
— Your father, — Nadezhda said softly.
What followed were conversations—hurried, nervous, full of emotions that had been bottled up for years.
Igor apologized, recounted everything he had never had a chance to say, explained that not a day had passed without thoughts of his son, that every moment his heart had been filled with thoughts of Matvey.
Natasha sat nearby, watching old walls crumble and new bridges being built between people right before her eyes. Her heart overflowed with powerful emotions: shock, relief, joy.
Nadezhda turned out to be a remarkably kind and open woman. She thanked Natasha at length for not passing by her grandson, smiling with warmth that touched Natasha’s heart directly:
— Thank you, daughter.
And Natasha felt that she liked this woman. Before her was not an enemy, not a rival to her mother, but a wise, warm, understanding grandmother and mother who knew how to forgive and love.
Meeting her brother was easy—even fun. Matvey smiled at her, shook her hand awkwardly, and then, suddenly, hugged her tightly.
— So, you’re my sister, — he said, joy clearly in his voice. — I didn’t know for so many years…
And when Vitya peeked out of the room, still sleepy, hair tousled, Nadezhda and Matvey rushed to him and held him close. The boy buried his nose in his father’s shoulder and began to cry.
From there, everything unfolded in a remarkable way. While Matvey’s wife recovered in the hospital, Vitya often stayed with Natasha and Igor. He quickly bonded with his new aunt and grandfather, as if he had always lived there.
Step by step, Igor Vitalyevich tried to rebuild his relationship with Nadezhda. At first, she kept her distance, but gradually the ice melted. A few months later, after hearing all his words, tears, and apologies, Nadezhda said:
— Alright, Igor. Let’s try again.
And so, they became husband and wife once more.
The house came alive. Now everyone gathered around the large family table: Natasha, her brother Matvey with his wife, little Vitya, Igor, and Nadezhda. Voices and laughter echoed again through the kitchen, where Natasha and Nadezhda baked pies together, and Vitya tried to peek around the corner to snatch a piece. It all created a sense of genuine family warmth that had long been missing.
Over time, of course, the news reached Yulia. She immediately called her daughter, her voice sharp and cold:
— Stay away from that family! Do you hear me, Natasha? They are not your real family. I forbid you from interacting with them!
But Natasha replied firmly:
— No, Mom… They are my true family, unlike you, who abandoned me and left without a trace of regret.
Without waiting for a response, she hung up.
In the next room, Vitya laughed, arguing with Matvey over some trivial matter. Igor and Nadezhda sipped tea in the kitchen, quietly talking to each other. Natasha looked at them and, for the first time in a long while, felt it: this was true happiness.
