— Anna, what are you saying? We have no right to just take someone else’s child!
— Stepan, imagine if it had happened to ours. If someone had found him alone in an empty train car—hungry, frozen to the bone?
The cold October wind rustled the curtains in the windows of their village home. Anna Ivanovna stood before her husband, holding tightly to a skinny five-year-old boy who pressed against her like a small bird caught in a storm. His dirty clothes carried the smell of the railway and despair.
It had all started three hours earlier when she was returning from the city market. In the half-empty train car, she noticed him—curled up in a corner, his eyes filled with the kind of hopelessness one only sees in abandoned children or wounded animals. None of the passengers knew where he had come from. The conductor just shrugged—maybe he was lost, or maybe…
— What’s your name, little one? she asked, kneeling beside him.
The boy remained silent, but when she pulled an apple from her bag and handed it to him, he grabbed it with both hands and bit into it as if he hadn’t eaten in days.
— Igor… he whispered later, wiping his lips.
Now, they stood before Stepan Fyodorovich, and Anna could feel the child trembling as he pressed against her shoulder. Her husband frowned, his broad shoulders tense as if he were making an important decision.
— Stepa, we’ve been waiting for so many years… she said quietly.
A week later, Igor was already helping Anna Ivanovna cook. She sat him on a high stool by the table and tied an enormous apron around his thin shoulders.
— Just like that, my dear, roll out the dough—slowly, carefully.
The boy diligently moved the rolling pin, sticking his tongue out in concentration. A white smudge of flour stood out on his cheek, and as Anna watched, her heart filled with warmth.
— Will Uncle get mad? he suddenly asked, pausing with the rolling pin raised.
— No, sweetheart. Papa is strict but fair. He wants you to grow up to be a real man.
Stepan Fyodorovich had his own way of teaching. When the first snow fell, he called Igor outside to chop wood.
— Hold the axe tightly, he instructed, standing behind the boy. Swing wide.
Igor puffed and struggled. The log was small, chosen for practice, but the axe still felt too heavy.
— I can’t do it, he sobbed after several attempts.
— You can, Stepan said firmly. You’re a man. And men never give up.
When the log finally split and fell apart, Igor beamed with joy. Stepan Fyodorovich allowed himself a faint smile, hidden beneath his mustache.
By the spring of 1984, all the paperwork was finalized. The village council chairman, an old friend of the family, helped sort out the complicated situation. The local nurse, Maria Petrovna, who had known Anna since she was a young girl, also stepped in—preparing the necessary documents.
— You are now officially Igor Stepanovich Voronov, Anna proudly announced to her son over a celebratory dinner.
The boy gently ran his fingers over the new document and cautiously asked,
— Can I call you Mom and Dad?
Anna covered her mouth with her hand, holding back tears. Stepan Fyodorovich got up from the table, walked to the window, and stared into the distance for a long time before answering in a deep voice,
— You can, son. Of course, you can.
Igor’s first school day began with him tightly holding his mother’s hand. Anna Ivanovna felt his fingers tremble as they walked along the dusty village road toward the school. The white shirt she had ironed the night before was already beginning to wrinkle from his nervousness.
— Mom, what if I can’t handle it? he whispered, looking at the two-story school building, which seemed gigantic to him.
— You will, sweetheart. You’re your father’s son.
That evening, Stepan Fyodorovich carefully examined his son’s new school diary.
— So, mathematics will be your main subject. You can’t do anything without it. Tomorrow we start with the multiplication table.
By the end of first grade, Igor knew the multiplication table by heart. Every morning, Stepan tested him, despite the exhaustion and sometimes even tears. But when his son brought home his first certificate of achievement, Stepan Fyodorovich publicly placed a hand on his shoulder for the first time.
— Well done, he said simply, but Igor beamed as if the sun had broken through the clouds.
In third grade, he got into his first fight. Igor came home with a split lip and a torn shirt. Anna fussed over him, pressing plantain leaves to the cuts, while Stepan silently waited for an explanation.
— They were bullying Petka Solovyov, he muttered, wincing from the pain. Three against one. That’s not fair.
Stepan smirked under his mustache.
— Fighting for what’s right? Well then… Tomorrow, I’ll teach you how to fight properly. So no one can split your lip again.
At thirteen, Igor started showing his own will. He argued with his father more often, slammed doors, and spent hours by the river.
— Why is he always bossing me around? he complained to his mother while working in the garden. All I hear is “Do this, do that.” I can’t live like that.
Anna wiped the sweat from her forehead, leaving a smudge of dirt on her skin.
— Son, everyone has their own way. Your father went through a lot. He was orphaned as a child and had to make his own way in life. That’s why he wants you to be strong.
— And you? You’re kind, but you live with him.
Anna smiled.
— I notice things others miss. When you had pneumonia last year, he spent three nights by your bedside. But you don’t remember because you were delirious.
The idea of becoming an engineer came suddenly. Igor saw a photo of a new machine in a regional newspaper and felt a spark—this was his calling.
— You want to go to the city? Stepan scratched his head thoughtfully. Well, that’s a good path. But remember, there’s only the dormitory, and there won’t be extra money.
— I’ll work in the summer. Uncle Vitya said he’d take me to the sawmill.
All of July, he labored at the sawmill, returning home covered in sawdust, his muscles aching. Stepan watched him from a distance, more and more often hiding a satisfied smile beneath his mustache.
By the end of summer, Igor had saved enough for his first semester and a new suit. And he had calloused hands, which he secretly took pride in, and the realization that maybe his father hadn’t been so wrong about hard work and character.
When the time came to leave, Anna cried as she packed his things. She placed a jar of raspberry jam, wool socks, and a stack of pies in his bag. Stepan silently watched, then disappeared into the yard and returned with a small bundle.
— Here, he said, handing Igor his old pocket watch. These belonged to your grandfather, then to me. Now they’re yours.
Igor froze, staring at the worn leather strap. He knew this family heirloom—his father only wore it on special occasions.
— Thank you, Dad, his voice wavered. I… I won’t let you down.
— I know, Stepan replied simply. You’re my son.
One spring evening, years later, Stepan took him aside.
— Listen, son, he said softer than usual. I’ve been thinking… maybe I was too strict with you.
Igor hesitated.
— Dad, why are you saying this?
— Time passes. Sometimes I wonder—did I raise you right? Maybe I should have been gentler, like your mother.
— I’m grateful to you, Igor said quietly. For everything. Your discipline, your lessons. Without you, I wouldn’t be who I am.
Stepan placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
— I’ve always been proud of you, Igor. I just didn’t know how to say it.
A month later, his father passed in his sleep. At the funeral, the whole village gathered. That night, Igor sat on the porch, watching the neighbor boys play. The youngest fell and cried. The older one helped him up.
— Don’t cry, you’re a man.
Igor smiled through tears. He pulled out his father’s watch. The hands still ticked, steady as ever.
Maybe it was time for him to pass on what he had learned—to raise a child. Not by blood, but by spirit.