Vera Sergeyevna stopped at the familiar gate as if rooted to the ground. Suddenly, her strength left her—she had run, it seemed, without seeing the road, like a madwoman, jumping off the bus as soon as it stopped, and rushed through the autumn wind that cut to the bone. Her heart pounded in her chest like a small hammer striking her ribs, echoing in her temples. Fatigue hit her suddenly, like a heavy stone, but she couldn’t stop—the house was near. The house where her son once grew up.
Smoke rose lazily above the crooked woven fence, curling over the chimney like a reminder of bygone days. The woman’s eyes warmed: that smell, that homely aroma of smoke and age, tickled her nostrils so familiarly. She pressed her palm to her chest—her heart was beating faster, anticipating the meeting. Though the day was chilly, sweat appeared on her forehead—the trace of her swift run, anxiety, hope. Vera Sergeyevna wiped her face with the sleeve of her worn-out jacket and decisively pushed the gate.
It creaked open as if it too recognized its owner. Vera Sergeyevna glanced around the yard and, for the first time in many years, breathed more freely: the shed that a year ago had wobbled weakly in the wind now looked sturdier. So Igor hadn’t lied in that short letter that arrived three years ago. He promised to look after the house and kept his word. Her son was always honest and kind, though too trusting. How painful it was to see how he had been drawn into that story by the «friend» he trusted more than himself.
She almost flew up the porch steps; her legs carried her forward on their own. Thoughts jumbled, her heart sang with joy—she was about to see her son, hug him, hold him close, breathe in his familiar scent, hear his voice. But when the door swung open, Vera Sergeyevna involuntarily stepped back. A man stood in the doorway—tall, broad-shouldered, with a stern face and a piercing gaze. A kitchen towel hung over his shoulder, as if mocking the homey comfort.
“Who are you looking for?” he asked hoarsely, eyeing her from head to toe. There was no surprise or sympathy in his eyes—only cold assessment.
“A-And where is Igor?” she asked with a trembling voice, feeling the first seed of doubt creep in.
The man thoughtfully rubbed his chin, continuing to stare her down. Vera Sergeyevna tensed inside. Did he understand who was standing before him? A mother? A woman who had recently been released after five long years? An old jacket, worn boots, a motley bag—yes, she was not dressed like a guest at a society gathering. But did that matter?
“Igor is my son. Is he here? Is he okay?”
The stranger shrugged indifferently:
“Probably. You’d know better.” He was about to close the door but hesitated. “Are you asking about Igor Smirnov?”
The woman nodded so vigorously that her hair, tied in a simple braid, fluttered.
“Yes, yes! That’s my son!”
The man darkened:
“He sold me this house four years ago. Want to come in? We can warm up with some tea.”
“No, no, thank you,” she answered quickly, stepping back and nearly stumbling on the step. “Do you know where to find him? No?”
He shook his head:
“No idea. Sorry.”
And again, she was alone. Vera Sergeyevna slowly walked back to the gate, her heart that had just a minute ago been singing with joy now clenched with fear. Where had her son gone? What had happened? If he were alright, he would have written or come… But three years without a word—that’s not just forgetfulness. It’s something more. A mother can feel it.
At the bus stop, she sank onto the cold concrete bench, recalling those long-ago days when the judge passed sentence. Then, to protect her son, she took part of the blame on herself. Igor was a kind, gentle man, too easily influenced. If not for her sacrifice, he would have been locked up for a long time. And for her, an elderly woman, they gave only five years. And just three days ago, she was released on parole. Someone—probably a charity donor—even bought her a ticket.
“Where are you, Igor?” she whispered, feeling hot tears begin to roll down her cheeks.
At that moment, a black car stopped nearby. The same stern man stuck his head out the window.
“Here,” he said, handing her a piece of paper. “Found the address in the house documents. Need a ride?”
Vera Sergeyevna grabbed the paper like a drowning woman grasping for a last hope and smiled gratefully.
“Thank you, dear. I can manage myself.”
Encouraged, she ran to the arriving bus. Half an hour of bumpy roads, an hour wandering through streets full of strangers and indifferent glances—and now she stood before the right door. The third floor, a dilapidated high-rise, the smell of a cat’s litter box and old oil in the hallway. She pressed the doorbell button several times and froze. The door would open now, and someone would tell the truth. Perhaps terrible. Perhaps worse than anything she could imagine.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she didn’t even feel them. Only her heart was beating—fast, painfully, anticipating…
And suddenly the door swung open.
“Igor!” Vera Sergeyevna exclaimed, rushing into her son’s arms.
There he stood—alive, though disheveled, with red eyes and the smell of alcohol. But alive. She wanted to hug him, hold him close, tell him how much she missed him, how she prayed for him every day. But her son stepped back, closing the door.
“How did you find me?”
His voice was hoarse, tired, without joy. Only a question. Cold, distant.
“Son…” she whispered, but Igor was already turning her toward the stairs.
“Sorry, Mom. I can’t let you into the apartment. I live with a woman, and she doesn’t like those who… have been in prison. I don’t have money to put you up. You’ll have to manage yourself.”
The words hit harder than any sentence. Vera Sergeyevna stood petrified, watching the door close right in front of her. Inside, everything trembled. Could this really be her son? Had he really become so distant?
Vera Sergeyevna stopped at the familiar gate, as if rooted to the ground. Suddenly, her strength left her—she ran, it seemed, blindly, like a madwoman, jumping off the bus as soon as it stopped, and rushed through the autumn wind that cut to the bone. Her heart pounded in her chest like a small hammer striking her ribs, echoing in her temples. Fatigue hit her suddenly, like a heavy stone, but she couldn’t stop—the house was near. The house where her son once grew up.
Smoke lazily rose above the crooked woven fence, curling over the chimney like a reminder of bygone days. The woman’s eyes warmed: that smell, that homely aroma of smoke and age, tickled her nostrils so familiarly. She pressed her palm to her chest—her heart was beating faster, anticipating the meeting. Though the day was chilly, sweat appeared on her forehead—the trace of her swift run, anxiety, hope. Vera Sergeyevna wiped her face with the sleeve of her worn-out jacket and decisively pushed the gate.
It creaked open as if it too recognized its owner. Vera Sergeyevna glanced around the yard and, for the first time in many years, breathed more freely: the shed that a year ago had wobbled weakly in the wind now looked sturdier. So Igor hadn’t lied in that short letter that arrived three years ago. He promised to look after the house and kept his word. Her son was always honest and kind, though too trusting. How painful it was to see how he had been drawn into that story by the «friend» he trusted more than himself.
She almost flew up the porch steps; her legs carried her forward on their own. Thoughts jumbled, her heart sang with joy—she was about to see her son, hug him, hold him close, breathe in his familiar scent, hear his voice. But when the door swung open, Vera Sergeyevna involuntarily stepped back. A man stood in the doorway—tall, broad-shouldered, with a stern face and a piercing gaze. A kitchen towel hung over his shoulder, as if mocking the homey comfort.
“Who are you looking for?” he asked hoarsely, eyeing her from head to toe. There was no surprise or sympathy in his eyes—only cold assessment.
“A-And where is Igor?” she asked with a trembling voice, feeling the first seed of doubt creep in.
The man thoughtfully rubbed his chin, continuing to stare her down. Vera Sergeyevna tensed inside. Did he understand who was standing before him? A mother? A woman who had recently been released after five long years? An old jacket, worn boots, a motley bag—yes, she was not dressed like a guest at a society gathering. But did that matter?
“Igor is my son. Is he here? Is he okay?”
The stranger shrugged indifferently:
“Probably. You’d know better.” He was about to close the door but hesitated. “Are you asking about Igor Smirnov?”
The woman nodded so vigorously that her hair, tied in a simple braid, fluttered.
“Yes, yes! That’s my son!”
The man darkened:
“He sold me this house four years ago. Want to come in? We can warm up with some tea.”
“No, no, thank you,” she answered quickly, stepping back and nearly stumbling on the step. “Do you know where to find him? No?”
He shook his head:
“No idea. Sorry.”
And again, she was alone. Vera Sergeyevna slowly walked back to the gate, her heart that had just a minute ago been singing with joy now clenched with fear. Where had her son gone? What had happened? If he were alright, he would have written or come… But three years without a word—that’s not just forgetfulness. It’s something more. A mother can feel it.
At the bus stop, she sank onto the cold concrete bench, recalling those long-ago days when the judge passed sentence. Then, to protect her son, she took part of the blame on herself. Igor was a kind, gentle man, too easily influenced. If not for her sacrifice, he would have been locked up for a long time. And for her, an elderly woman, they gave only five years. And just three days ago, she was released on parole. Someone—probably a charity donor—even bought her a ticket.
“Where are you, Igor?” she whispered, feeling hot tears begin to roll down her cheeks.
At that moment, a black car stopped nearby. The same stern man stuck his head out the window.
“Here,” he said, handing her a piece of paper. “Found the address in the house documents. Need a ride?”
Vera Sergeyevna grabbed the paper like a drowning woman grasping for a last hope and smiled gratefully.
“Thank you, dear. I can manage myself.”
Encouraged, she ran to the arriving bus. Half an hour of bumpy roads, an hour wandering through streets full of strangers and indifferent glances—and now she stood before the right door. The third floor, a dilapidated high-rise, the smell of a cat’s litter box and old oil in the hallway. She pressed the doorbell button several times and froze. The door would open now, and someone would tell the truth. Perhaps terrible. Perhaps worse than anything she could imagine.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she didn’t even feel them. Only her heart was beating—fast, painfully, anticipating…
And suddenly the door swung open.
“Igor!” Vera Sergeyevna exclaimed, rushing into her son’s arms.
There he stood—alive, though disheveled, with red eyes and the smell of alcohol. But alive. She wanted to hug him, hold him close, tell him how much she missed him, how she prayed for him every day. But her son stepped back, closing the door.
“How did you find me?”
His voice was hoarse, tired, without joy. Only a question. Cold, distant.
“Son…” she whispered, but Igor was already turning her toward the stairs.
“Sorry, Mom. I can’t let you into the apartment. I live with a woman, and she doesn’t like those who… have been in prison. I don’t have money to put you up. You’ll have to manage yourself.”
Vera Sergeyevna, gritting her teeth from pain and humiliation, still tried to say a few words about the money for the house. After all, it was her house—the very one where she raised her son, where his childhood toys still hid in the corners, where his first inscription on the kitchen wall remained: “Mom is the best!” But she didn’t finish— the door slammed shut right in front of her—iron, cold, soulless. The sound of the lock was like a shot—right in the heart.
She didn’t cry anymore. The tears were gone, leaving only heaviness in her chest and emptiness in her eyes. She lowered her head and slowly began to descend the steps, as if her legs couldn’t decide where to go now. Where to lay her old age? Dasha was right—she had predicted trouble a year ago: “He’s no son to you, but a scoundrel. I’ll never forgive such.” Remembering those words, Vera Sergeyevna shuddered involuntarily. Yes, she would have to return to her friend, endure bitter reminders, apologize… but otherwise—she would be left on the street. At least temporarily wait it out while she figured something out.
But fate, as always, had other plans. When Vera Sergeyevna reached the village, she was met with new news—Dasha had been buried six months ago. Now strangers lived in the house—the grandchildren of the deceased, almost unknown. Vera Sergeyevna was left on the street, under the nasty autumn drizzle that stuck to the skin and gave no chance to warm herself with memories. Numb, she headed for the bus stop—at least there she could shelter from the weather and think a little about how to live on.
It was then, among wet asphalt and eternal gray skies, that the headlights caught up with her. The familiar man from the car—the new owner of the house, the same stern type who once handed her the paper with the address—his face showed genuine sympathy:
“Get in quickly, you’re all soaked!”
At first, Vera Sergeyevna declined hesitantly, then broke down in tears—there really was nowhere to go, and the care of a stranger was the last thread she clung to. She stood in the rain, hesitating, until the man came out himself and helped her get into the car, almost forcing her into the passenger seat.
On the way, they talked. Andrei, as the driver introduced himself, turned out to be a gentle, attentive person. He listened to her story without interrupting, only occasionally asking brief questions. Vera Sergeyevna told him everything—about life, about prison, about her son, about losses. Only the meeting with Igor she skipped—too great was the shame. How could she tell a stranger that her own child didn’t recognize her, didn’t forgive her?
Unexpectedly, Andrei offered her to stay with him, at least temporarily. So Vera Sergeyevna returned to her native home—now Andrei’s home. And then she decided to stay there for good.
He worked every day—managed a sawmill, developed a business, made plans. And she ran the household: cooked soups, did laundry, cleaned, rejoiced at modern appliances that made life easier. Andrei was young but, after a tough divorce, wasn’t in a hurry to start a new family. And Vera Sergeyevna became for him what he had never known—a mother.
The orphanage, years of loneliness, constant moves—he left all that behind. Now in his house lived a woman who knew how to love, care, cook dinner on time, and comfort with just a glance. He called her “Mom” and said that for the first time in his life, he felt a roof over his head and warmth nearby.
All her intentions to leave, start over, find her place in another city, Andrei decisively stopped:
“Where are you going? From your own home? Is it bad here?”
And Vera Sergeyevna gradually softened. Inside, deep down, that very feeling awoke—the feeling of being needed, of belonging to someone. Of course, no one could replace her blood son. But Andrei turned out to be a person of extraordinary kindness, sincerity, almost like family.
By winter, Vera Sergeyevna could no longer imagine her life without the sawmill. In the mornings, she packed thermoses with hot borscht, wrapped cutlets, packed tea—and went to Andrei’s workplace. Everyone knew her by sight and respected her. Her sudden appearances in the office were almost a ritual. Foremen and workers smiled seeing the woman with lunch, like a little angel in a kerchief.
But one day, bringing another lunch, she met a man who sent chills down her spine. It was none other than her own son—Igor. He looked battered but confident. His wife told him to get a job—“Enough of freeloading on me,” she said. The sawmill seemed like a suitable place: shift work, decent pay. He didn’t even expect to run into his mother here; he thought she had long disappeared, dissolved in other cities.
Vera Sergeyevna said nothing, only looked intently at her son. Then, unable to bear it, she left the office. Andrei, noticing her reaction, immediately understood—something was wrong. He read the note she left on a sheet of paper and looked up at Igor:
“A rotten person,” he quietly said, but loud enough for the claimant to hear.
Vera Sergeyevna’s son tried to smile, but irritation flickered in his eyes. Of course, they would hire him—Mom would put in a good word; she was an influential woman in this office.
But Andrei only shook his head:
“Get out of here! I’ve always trusted Mom’s opinion. And today is no exception.”
Igor, stunned, left, never understanding why he wasn’t accepted. And Vera Sergeyevna, standing behind the door, cried into her handkerchief. Not out of resentment. Out of pain. Out of realizing that her son had become a stranger. But also out of gratitude—that there was a person who accepted her as she was and gave her the right to be a mother again.
So, in a stranger’s house, but among kind people, Vera Sergeyevna found her corner of warmth.
