The phone buzzed with a message in complete silence, casting cold blue reflections onto the ceiling. Two in the morning. Larisa cautiously reached for the nightstand, trying not to wake her husband, but Viktor was already propped up on his elbow.
“Who’s texting you at this hour?” he asked hoarsely, staring intently at his wife.
His words sounded ordinary, yet something in his tone made her tense up internally. It was not merely a question—it was more an attempt to hide his worry.
Without a word, she turned the phone’s screen so he could see the photo. In the picture was a boy of about ten: light-haired, with freckles on his nose and a painfully familiar smile.
Viktor froze. In the dim light of the night lamp, his face seemed carved in stone.
“Where…?” he began, but his voice cracked, and he had to clear his throat. “Where did you get this?”
“I’ve known for a long time, Vitya,” Larisa said quietly, almost without emotion. “About your son. About Nadezhda from Nizhny. About the alimony you paid until last year.”
Her voice was remarkably calm—the tone of someone who had already survived a shock and was now simply stating facts.
“Lara…” he tried to touch her hand, but she gently pulled away.
“Not now. Just listen to me until the end. I know his name is Kirill. That he was born in March, premature. That he’s allergic to citrus fruits and has a passion for football. And that his mother died a year ago from cancer.”
Viktor sat motionless, as if petrified. His fingers subconsciously fumbled with the edge of the blanket—a habit that always betrayed his anxiety.
“And you’ve known about this for a long time?” he finally asked, almost inaudibly.
“For three years. Do you remember the day you forgot your phone before the flight to that conference? I got a message from her. I couldn’t help myself and read the conversation.”
She remembered every detail of that evening. How her fingers trembled as she scrolled through the messages. How her breath caught with every new line. How she later sat in the kitchen, stirring tea absentmindedly, long since cold.
“Then why didn’t you say anything?” he asked, still in disbelief.
“What was I supposed to do?” Larisa bitterly smiled. “Start a scandal? File for divorce? At that time, Katya had just begun eleventh grade. She needed peace.”
“I’m sorry,” his voice trembled. “I should have told you myself. But I was afraid.”
“Afraid of what? That I wouldn’t understand? That I’d leave you?” she shook her head. “We’ve been together for twenty-five years. Did you really think I wouldn’t be able to accept the truth?”
He was silent, at a loss for words.
“What now?” he asked after a long pause.
“Now?” Larisa looked again at the photo of the boy. “Now we’re taking him in.”
“What?!” Viktor jolted, as if struck.
“He’s your son, Vitya. His mother is gone. He’s been living in an orphanage for almost a year. Do you really think I’d let your child grow up an orphan?”
“And what about Katya? What will we tell her?”
“The truth. She’s old enough. She’ll understand.”
Larisa didn’t tell him that she had already discussed everything with their daughter. That it was Katya who first suggested finding a brother. That she had hired a private detective who tracked down the boy in the orphanage.
“And if he doesn’t want to? If he ends up hating me?”
“Then we’ll wait. As long as it takes.”
Viktor looked at his wife and marveled at who she had become. She was no longer the young girl he met twenty-five years ago. Time had changed her, not merely making her wiser—making her stronger.
In three years she had not only coped with the pain of his betrayal but had come to love his son as her own. It seemed impossible.
“You know, what is it that makes you love me at all?” he suddenly blurted out.
She chuckled softly:
“For being real. With all your fears, mistakes, and secrets. Let’s go to sleep,” she said as she lightly touched his shoulder. “Tomorrow will be a hard day.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re going to Nizhny Novgorod. I’ve already made arrangements with the director of the orphanage.”
He wanted to say something, but she had already turned away, pulling the blanket tighter. A minute later he heard her even breathing—she always managed to fall asleep just like that, as if pressing an invisible off switch.
And he kept staring into the darkness, pondering how strangely and unpredictably life was arranged.
In the morning, Katya’s call woke them:
“Mom, Dad, I’ve packed! I’ll be with you in an hour!”
“What do you mean by ‘packed’?” Viktor asked, still half-asleep.
“What do you mean by ‘packed’?” the daughter’s voice was impatient. “We’re going away for the weekend! We need to prepare a room for Kirill. I read somewhere that boys his age like superheroes. Maybe we should buy Spider-Man bedding?”
“Katya,” Viktor abruptly sat up on the bed, shifting his gaze from his wife to his phone. “Are you aware?”
“Of course, I am! Mom and I have been looking for him for half a year. Dad, did you really think I wouldn’t notice that I had a brother somewhere? We look just alike! I’ve seen your childhood photos.”
A rustling sound was heard on the line.
“Oh, by the way, I made a list of things we need to buy. And guess what? Maybe we’ll enroll him in our school? It’s excellent, and it’s not far from home. I’ll be able to keep an eye on him!”
Viktor listened to his daughter’s chatter, feeling a lump in his throat. Larisa, approaching from behind, embraced him around the shoulders.
“Everything will be fine,” she whispered. “Just wait and see.”
Within three hours they were speeding down the highway. Katya dozed peacefully in the backseat, clutching the shopping list tightly. Larisa flipped through documents—she always prepared for important meetings down to the smallest detail.
“What do you think,” Viktor suddenly asked, “does he look like me? In real life, not just in photos?”
“Soon we’ll find out,” she gently squeezed his hand. “The main thing is not to pressure him. Give him time to adjust.”
“And if…?”
“No ‘ifs’,” she cut him off firmly. “He’s your son. Our son. He just needs to understand that.”
Viktor nodded, focusing on the road. Memories swirled in his head: the last meeting with Nadya, her letters, the rare photos of the boy. How could he have been so weak? Why didn’t he fight for the right to see the boy more often? Why did he allow him to grow up without a father?
After five hours, they entered Nizhny Novgorod. Another hour was spent searching for the orphanage—a shabby two-story building on the outskirts of the city.
“Ready?” Larisa asked as they parked.
“No,” he admitted honestly. “But it doesn’t really matter, does it?”
Katya was the first to jump out of the car:
“So what are you waiting for? I want to see my brother!”
In the director’s office, the air smelled of coffee and flowers. A plump woman in a strict suit examined their documents carefully.
“So, you’re the biological father?” she asked, looking over Viktor’s glasses. “Why did you decide to show up only now?”
“I…” he hesitated. “I didn’t know Nadya had died. She never said she was ill.”
“And if she hadn’t died? You would have paid alimony in silence?”
“Elena Petrovna,” Larisa interjected softly, “we understand your skepticism. But what matters now is that Kirill has a family that wants to take him in.”
The director sighed:
“He’s a good boy. Intelligent, calm. But very withdrawn. Since his mother died, he hardly speaks to anyone.”
“Can we meet him?” Katya asked. “Now?”
“He’s on the football field. They’re training.”
They went out into the yard. On the small field, the boys were playing with a ball. Viktor immediately noticed his son—he stood in the goal, tense and focused. Just like he had been in his own childhood.
“Kirill!” the director called. “Come over, please.”
The boy slowly approached, cautiously examining the strangers. On his cheek was a fresh scratch, and on his T-shirt—a grass stain.
“Hello,” Viktor stepped forward. “I’m your dad.”
Kirill recoiled in fear. A flash of terror crossed his eyes:
“Mom said that dad was dead.”
“No, kid. I’m alive. And I came for you.”
“Why?” the boy’s voice trembled. “You don’t need me. I’m not needed by anyone.”
“That’s not true!” Katya pushed forward. “You are very needed by us! I’ve dreamed of having a little brother all my life. And here you are!”
She spoke quickly, gesturing as if trying to smother his fears with words.
The boy looked at them with wide, astonished eyes, and it was evident that the distrust in his gaze was gradually being replaced by curiosity. How could one not be intrigued—so much new and unexpected all at once.
“You know what,” Larisa began softly, almost in a whisper, “let’s just start getting to know each other. No one’s rushing you, no one’s pulling you. Let’s just meet for now, okay?”
“Can I take my football kit with me? And my books? I have a favorite, one about pirates.”
“Of course you can,” Viktor swallowed hard. “Anything you want.”
Later, all four of them sat in a café. Kirill ate pizza while furtively studying his newfound family. Katya showed him photos of their home, her room, and talked about the school. Larisa observed silently, smiling slightly.
“Why did you look for me?” the boy suddenly asked.
“Because you are one of us,” Larisa replied simply.
That evening, already at the hotel when the children had fallen asleep in the next room, Viktor embraced his wife:
“How can you be so wise?”
“Foolish,” she caressed his cheek. “I just love you. All of you—your mistakes and your children. Everything that makes you who you are.”
The following weeks passed like a single day. Processing documents, gathering certificates, discussions with psychologists.
Kirill came to visit on weekends—initially guarded, then increasingly open. Katya assumed an unofficial big-sister role: helping him with homework, taking him to training, showing him around the city.
“You know,” she said one evening to her father, “he really looks like you. Not just physically. He’s stubborn, just like you!”
Viktor smiled. He too noticed these traits—in the way the boy frowned while solving a difficult problem, in the way he bit his lip when nervous.
Then the very thing they had all feared happened. At school, one of Kirill’s classmates discovered his story.
“Foundling!” they shouted after him. “Someone who isn’t needed by anyone!”
He came home gloomy, with broken knuckles.
“What happened?” Larisa cleaned his scrapes with peroxide.
“Nothing,” he muttered.
“Kiryush,” she called him.
“They said you took me out of pity!” he snapped. “That I’m not really one of you! That a real family isn’t like that!”
Larisa put down the cotton and sat beside him:
“What is a real family, in your opinion?”
He was silent, staring at the floor.
“You know,” she continued, “once I thought that a family was only a mom, a dad, and their children. But then I realized: a family is when people choose to be together. Every day, they choose each other anew.”
“But Dad, he didn’t have a choice. He just had to do it.”
“Hey,” Viktor appeared in the doorway—he had heard everything. “Come here.”
He embraced his son—firmly, confidently, like a true father.
“I’m truly sorry for what I owe you,” he said quietly but clearly. “I should have been there from the very beginning. But now I’m here. And I choose to be your father—not because it’s my duty, but because I want to.”
Kirill sniffled, pressing his face into his shoulder.
A year passed. Kirill had seamlessly integrated into his new school and made friends. Together with Katya, they completely redecorated his room: now the walls were adorned with posters of his favorite football players, and the shelves overflowed with books. Sometimes the boy still retreated into himself, but such moments became rarer and shorter.
Then something special happened. At a school concert, where Kirill played one of the main roles in a skit, he suddenly spotted Larisa in the audience and shouted loudly:
“Mom! Mom, did you see how I performed?”
Larisa froze, not believing her ears. And he was already running toward her, beaming and happy—her son.
At home they took out an old photo album—the very one that had kept the picture of little Viktor. They opened it and placed new photos beside it.
“Look how alike they are!” Katya exclaimed joyfully. “They’re practically the same face!”
“Let me see,” Kirill squeezed in between them. “Wow! Dad, you’re just like me!”
“No,” Viktor smiled, “you’re just like me.”
They sat for a long time over the album, flipping through the pages, recalling funny stories, laughing, and making plans for the future. And Larisa watched them, thinking about that midnight message that had turned their lives upside down. About how fear and pain had been replaced by love, understanding, and unity.
And at that moment she realized: a family is not just about blood or obligations. It’s a choice. The choice to be together, to support each other, and to create new memories that will form the foundation for the future.
