While my husband, Ivan, was on a shift in the Taiga, I gave birth to a baby and lied that it was his, not knowing where it would lead.
“Is it true that you and Ivan don’t have your own children?” Galina asked, squinting over the fence.
“God did not give us any,” I replied, clutching the empty bucket. Every time someone mentioned children, a tight knot formed in my chest. We had tried for years, but fate decided otherwise.
Ivan had been working in the Taiga, cutting wood to provide for us. When he left, I kissed him and whispered, “Come back soon.” Months passed, and I aged ten years. The neighbors had children, but I watered my dahlias and pretended I was content.
Then one night, a storm raged, and I heard a strange, gasping sound. Opening the door, I found a tiny boy on the doorstep, just three or four months old, crying. I picked him up, soothing him. The next morning, I ran to Nikolai Stepanovich, the village paramedic.
“Kolya, help!” I begged.
Without a word, he saw the truth in my eyes. “Are you sure about this?” he asked, but I pleaded with him to help me forge the papers. “We’ll say it was a premature birth. Ivan will never know.”
“Your conscience?” he asked softly.
I didn’t have an answer.
Five months passed. I named the boy Misha. He grew quickly, and when Ivan returned from his shift, I told him, “This is our son. I found out I was pregnant after you left.” Ivan smiled broadly, and the weight in my chest lightened. Misha was ours.
Years passed, and Misha grew, but with every smile, every mischief, I felt unease. He resembled Ivan in many ways, but he also had traits I couldn’t explain. His curly hair, brown eyes, and fiery temperament weren’t anything like Ivan’s or mine. I often thought about his real mother. Who was she?
When Misha turned twelve, he fell ill. Ivan suggested sending him to the district hospital, but I hesitated, knowing the risks if a blood transfusion was needed. Misha recovered, but my fear of the truth persisted. He wasn’t Ivan’s son. What would happen when he grew older, when he noticed the differences?
Then, at fifteen, Misha rescued an elderly woman from a burning house. “What are you talking about, Grandma Valya? There was no other way,” he said with a smile that reminded me of his dimpled grin.
I realized then that it didn’t matter whose blood ran in his veins. What mattered was that Ivan and I had raised him, and he had become a good person. But the secret remained, eating away at me.
When Misha turned twenty-five, he returned to the village after college, married Lenochka, and they lived nearby. Ivan and I helped them with their new house, and I grew grayer with each passing year. But I couldn’t shake the secret.
One evening, we sat around the table, and Misha was telling us about his day as a music teacher. The scent of fresh bread and borscht filled the air, and Ivan joked about Misha’s teaching skills.
I knew it was time. “I need to tell you something,” I said, my voice shaking.
Everyone froze. “I found a baby on the doorstep twenty-five years ago,” I whispered. “Misha isn’t Ivan’s son. I lied out of fear.”
Ivan stood, his face pale. “Twenty-five years… and you didn’t tell me?”
Misha stood up. “Let him walk, Mom. He needs time.”
Misha took my hands in his. “For what? You gave me life, a family, love. What does it matter how I came here?”
Lena, Misha’s wife, sobbed. “I always wondered why Misha and I have different eyes. But it doesn’t matter at all.”
Ivan returned late that night. He sat beside me and lit his pipe. “Remember when Misha almost drowned? I barely saved him.” He paused. “Maybe it wasn’t by chance, Anya. Misha became our son the day we took him in. It doesn’t matter how he appeared. What matters is that he grew up in our love.”
I cried, but they were tears of relief. The truth was out, and I understood now—blood doesn’t define family. Love does.
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