“Anna Petrovna, is it true that you and Ivan have no children of your own?” Galina, my neighbor, squinted at me as she leaned over the fence.
“God didn’t grant us any,” I replied softly, gripping the empty bucket in my hands a little tighter. I had always hated these conversations. Every time someone in our small village of Mikhailovka brought up children, something inside me twisted painfully, as if I were being wrung out like a wet cloth. In our village, people only talked about two things—children and the harvest. And while this year’s crops had been plentiful, when it came to children…
In the evenings, I often sat on the porch of our old wooden house, watching the sunset and thinking about my husband. Ivan had been working on a remote shift in the taiga for a year and a half, cutting timber so we could afford more than just potatoes from our garden. When he left, I kissed his rough, stubbly cheeks and whispered, “Come back soon.” He would smile that crooked smile of his and say, “Of course, Anyutka. You won’t even notice I’m gone.”
But time dragged on slowly. Over those months, I felt like I had aged ten years. At thirty, it sometimes felt like I was carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders. Especially when I saw the neighborhood children running past. Masha, the woman on my right, had just given birth to her third child. Tanya, on my left, was expecting twins. And me? I just watered my dahlias and pretended that was enough. Ivan and I had tried for so long to have children, but fate had other plans.
That night, a torrential downpour began. The rain pounded against the roof so hard it felt like it might break through. I woke up to strange sounds. At first, I thought it was just a cat—there were plenty of them around. But this noise was different—soft, desperate, almost choking.
When I opened the door, the first thing I saw was a small bundle lying right on my doorstep. My heart skipped a beat and lodged itself in my throat. The bundle moved.
“My God,” I whispered, scooping it up.
It was a baby boy. Tiny, no more than three or four months old. His little face was red from crying, his eyes squeezed shut, his tiny fists clenched. Next to him lay a tattered plush dog, completely soaked from the rain.
“Hush, little one, hush,” I pressed him to my chest, and almost immediately, he quieted down, only letting out the occasional soft hiccup.
The next morning, I ran to Nikolai Stepanovich, our village medic. He lived just two houses away and knew all about the struggles Ivan and I had faced.
“Kolya, help me!” I blurted out the moment I stepped inside.
He looked at the bundle in my arms, then at my face, and without a word, he understood everything.
“Anna, are you sure about this?” He shook his head, but there was no judgment in his eyes—only sympathy.
“Kolya, please, I beg you,” I pleaded, ready to drop to my knees if I had to. “Help me arrange the papers. We’ll say he was born prematurely. Ivan will never know—he’s in the taiga…”
“And your conscience?” he asked, though I could see he was already giving in.
“My conscience won’t let me live without a child anyway.”
Five months flew by in the blink of an eye. The baby, whom I named Misha, grew fast. He had already learned to roll over and babbled endlessly, and when he smiled, a tiny dimple appeared on his right cheek, making my heart melt every time.
I prepared for Ivan’s return as if it were the most important event of my life. I baked his favorite cabbage pies, scrubbed the floors until they shone, even hung up new curtains. And yet, no matter how much I distracted myself, my heart pounded with nervous anticipation.
When I heard his familiar voice outside, my legs nearly gave out.
“Anyutka!” Ivan burst into the house, tanned, leaner than before, but still the same beloved man. “And who do we have here?”
He froze at the sight of the crib, where Misha lay peacefully asleep. The baby opened his eyes and smiled brightly, revealing that same dimple on his cheek.
“Vanya… this is our son,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I found out I was pregnant after you left, and he was born prematurely. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to jinx it. Please… forgive me for keeping it a secret.”
Ivan stood motionless, and the silence felt endless. Then, suddenly, his face lit up with a wide smile.
“A son? Our son?! Anyuta…” He lifted me off the ground and spun me around the room.
Misha laughed joyfully, watching our happiness, and I couldn’t stop the tears from falling—whether they were from relief or fear, I didn’t know.
Years passed quickly. Misha grew into a bright and lively child, bringing joy to Ivan and me every day. Ivan left the dangerous work in the taiga and took a job at the local sawmill instead. The pay was less, but at least he was home every night. I would watch them build birdhouses in the yard or tinker with an old car, and my heart swelled with love.
But deep inside, I carried a fear I couldn’t shake. Every time Ivan looked at Misha with pride, I felt like a fraud. The older Misha got, the more I noticed—his dark curls, his deep brown eyes, his olive skin that never paled even in winter. He was nothing like us.
When he was twelve, he returned from a long day at the river, tanned from the sun. Ivan frowned.
“Anyuta, why is he so dark? Everyone in my family is fair-skinned.”
My hands trembled as I set down my teacup. “Maybe from my cousin Petya… remember his photo?”
“Ah, right,” Ivan nodded, though I could tell he was still studying Misha closely.
At night, I lay awake, haunted by thoughts of Misha’s real mother. Who was she? Why had she left him? Was she a scared young girl? A woman forced to make a painful choice?
No matter the reason, I silently thanked her. Because of her, I had the joy of being a mother.
When Misha turned fifteen, he fell seriously ill. He burned with fever for days, and Ivan and I took turns at his bedside, never sleeping, never leaving his side.
“Maybe we should take him to the city hospital,” Ivan suggested.
“Nikolai says moving him is too dangerous right now,” I replied, pressing a cool cloth to Misha’s forehead.
But another fear gripped me—what if they needed bloodwork? What if doctors asked about hereditary conditions?
Luckily, after four terrifying days, the fever broke.
“Mama… water?” Misha whispered weakly.
I broke down in sobs as I hugged him.
That year, Misha shot up taller than Ivan. He learned guitar by himself, and in the evenings, his music filled the village.
Ivan beamed with pride. “He takes after me,” he would say with a wink.
And I? I feared the truth more than ever.
One crisp autumn evening, we sat around the dinner table—me, Ivan, Misha, and his young wife, Lena. Laughter filled the air as we ate warm soup and fresh bread.
Then I set my spoon down. My heart pounded.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” I said.
Silence fell.
“In one stormy night, twenty-five years ago…” My voice trembled. “I found a baby on our doorstep.”
I told them everything—the rain, the moment I held him for the first time, the lies, the fear, the love.
Ivan’s face darkened. “Twenty-five years. You lied to me for twenty-five years?”
He walked out into the night, and I broke down.
Misha sat beside me. He took my hands in his.
“Mom,” he said. “I don’t care how I came into this house. You are my mother. You always will be.”
That night, when Ivan returned, he sat beside me and took my hand.
“Blood doesn’t make a family,” he said quietly. “Love does.”
And for the first time in decades, I let go of my secret. And I knew—we would be okay.