The man mocked his wife for caring about the homeless, unaware that among them was his own missing mother.
“Off to the homeless again? Fifth time this week,” Igor said, sipping his coffee while browsing the news.
“They probably worship you by now.”
Alina froze with the bags in her hands, a strained smile on her lips.
“Igor, they’re people with hard lives, not just vagrants.”
“Of course,” Igor waved dismissively. “Each one has a tragic story.”
Sunlight flooded their perfect kitchen. Life was good — for him.
“There are many educated people among them,” Alina said softly, packing containers of food.
“Teachers, engineers, musicians…”
“And still ended up on the street? Amazing,” he smirked.
Alina just kissed him on the cheek and left.
The silence afterward gnawed at Igor. He thought about the day seventeen years ago when his mother had vanished without a trace.
Moved by a strange impulse, he drove to the shelter.
From across the street, he saw Alina handing out food. Then, a woman approached — frail, slow, and oddly familiar.
A crescent-shaped birthmark on her forehead made his heart stop.
It was exactly like his mother’s.
Forcing his legs to move, he crossed the street. Their eyes met — tired, wary, no sign of recognition.
Alina noticed him.
“Igor? What’s wrong?”
He pointed to the woman’s forehead, then to his own.
Alina understood instantly.
“Excuse me,” Alina asked, “what’s your name?”
“Maria,” the woman croaked.
“Your last name?”
“I… don’t remember,” she murmured, clutching the food to her chest. “I lost my memory years ago.”
Igor showed her an old photo — a young mother with a crescent birthmark and a teenage boy beside her.
The woman’s hands trembled.
“I… maybe. I dream of a boy sometimes,” she whispered. “Doctors said it might just be imagination.”
Igor’s heart shattered.
Soon they were at the hospital. Blood samples were taken.
The doctor mentioned amnesia after trauma — a “broken mirror” of memories.
Still uncertain, Igor drove her to his father’s house.
When his father saw her, he turned pale.
“Masha…” he breathed, stepping closer.
“Lyosha,” she whispered, recognizing his name.
Tears fell freely.
Over tea, they pieced together flashes of her memory — a car accident, a hospital stay without ID, wandering through life without a past.
At last, Igor knelt beside her.
“Mom,” he whispered.
She cupped his face.
“I feel it… you are my son.”
Days later, the DNA test confirmed what their hearts already knew: she was Maria Koroleva.
She slowly began reclaiming her life. Memories came back through old photos and family stories. The burden of years apart was heavy, but love was stronger.
Igor apologized to Alina for mocking her kindness.
“You didn’t just save strangers,” he said. “You brought my mother back.”
In a sunlit kitchen full of laughter and the scent of cooking, his mother smiled at him — truly home at last.