When Ivan returned home from work, he found his mother watering the plants on the balcony. She was gently leaning over the hanging planters, tending to the leaves with care. Her face was bathed in a calm, comforting light.
“Mama, you look like a busy little bee,” Ivan said as he took off his jacket, stepping closer to hug her from behind. “After a whole day on your feet?”
She answered with a serene smile: “It’s not hard work. The soul finds peace here. Just look at how everything blooms. It doesn’t smell like a simple balcony—it smells like an entire botanical garden.”
Her smile was sweet, just like always. Ivan inhaled the fragrant scent of the flowers, and suddenly, a memory surfaced—when he was a child, and the only plant in their home had been a small kalanchoe that constantly lost its leaves.
Time had passed relentlessly. Now his mother often visited the small country house Ivan had gifted her for her anniversary: a modest home with a large garden where she could grow anything freely. Through spring, summer, autumn, and winter, she devoted herself to her plants, her greenhouse, her preserves, and the patient wait for the next spring.
Despite her serene smile, Ivan could see in her eyes a bright and unchanging nostalgia. A hope that would never die—not until the deepest wish of her heart came true: to see again the one she had waited for all her life.
His father had left for work one morning like any other, and never returned. Ivan was only five years old. His mother always told him that on that day, his father kissed her on the temple as he always did, winked at Ivan and said, “Be brave.” Then he left, unaware it would be forever.
After his disappearance, there were investigations, reports, and searches, while relatives and neighbors whispered theories of all kinds: a voluntary disappearance, a secret affair, a possible accident. Still, his mother always said firmly:
“He would never have left us like that. That means he couldn’t come back.”
This conviction remained unshaken, even after more than thirty years. Ivan, too, was certain that his father hadn’t abandoned them by choice.
After school, he enrolled in a technical institute, though deep down he dreamed of becoming a journalist. But he understood the urgency of becoming self-sufficient. His mother worked as a hospital orderly, often on exhausting night shifts, yet she never complained. Even when her legs swelled and her eyes turned red with fatigue, she always said:
“It’s okay, Vanyo. What matters is that you study.”
And so he studied. At night, he scoured databases of missing persons, searched archives, and took part in online forums. Hope didn’t fade—in fact, it became his very essence. His strength came from knowing he had to be the pillar his mother could lean on.
When the time came to stand on his own feet, the first thing he did with a decent salary was to pay off his mother’s debts. Later, he saved up and bought her that country house, proudly telling her:
“Now it’s your turn to rest, Mama.”
Tears fell freely from his mother’s eyes. Ivan held her tightly and whispered:
“You’ve earned this a thousand times over. Thank you for everything.”
Ivan wanted to build a happy family: a warm home filled with the scent of borshch and sweets, where relatives gathered on Sundays and the laughter of children echoed. In the meantime, he worked hard to save money for his own business, since even as a child he had shown skill with his hands and loved creating things.
In his heart still lived the dream of finding his father, hoping that one day he would return and say the words Ivan had waited to hear for years:
“I’m sorry… I couldn’t do it sooner.”
Only then would everything feel whole again—understanding, forgiveness, and a three-person embrace finally made real.
Ivan often caught himself remembering his father’s voice, how he used to lift him up and say, “Well then, champ, shall we fly?” before tossing him into the air and catching him with strong arms.
That night, he dreamed of him again—standing on the bank of a river, wearing an old coat. He was calling to him. His face was blurred and shrouded in mist, but the eyes were the same: gray and familiar.
Ivan’s job provided stability, though the salary alone wasn’t enough to fund his dream of owning a business. So, in the evenings, he offered extra services: setting up computers and smart systems. In a single evening, he could visit two or three homes, fixing printers, routers, and updates—he knew it all by heart. He was especially appreciated by elderly clients: polite, patient, and clear in every explanation.
One day, he received a job through a friend: a wealthy family in a gated residential village just outside the city. They needed their home network set up.
“Come after six. The lady of the house will be there to show you everything,” he was told.
Ivan arrived punctually, passed the security check, and approached a white house adorned with columns and large windows. A slim, elegant young woman opened the door.
“You’re the technician? Please, come in. Everything’s in my father’s study. He’s away on business, but he’d like the setup finished today,” she explained with a gentle smile.
Inside, the house was bright and spacious, filled with the subtle scent of expensive perfume. In the living room stood a piano, the walls were lined with paintings, shelves packed with books, and framed photographs.
The study was more austere: dark wood furniture, a green banker’s lamp, a heavy desk, and a leather armchair.
He began working on the computer—everything was going smoothly—until his eyes happened to land on a photo on the wall.
A portrait of a young couple: a woman in a white dress with flowers in her hair, and a man in a gray suit, both smiling.
Despite the years that had changed his features slightly, a voice inside whispered clearly: that’s him. His father.
He stood and approached, examining the gray eyes, the familiar features, the dimple near the lips. There was no mistake.
“Excuse me… who’s in the photo?” he asked quietly.
The young woman looked surprised.
“That’s my father. Do you know him?”
Ivan hesitated, staring at the photo as if he had seen a ghost. His heart pounded so hard it felt like she could hear it. Finally, he managed to say:
“He seems… familiar.” He exhaled deeply. “Could you tell me how your parents met? Sorry if that sounds strange, but it’s very important to me.”
She blushed slightly and answered:
“Dad had a pretty unusual life. He was a regular engineer when he was young. Met my mom during a vacation, and they fell in love…”
She looked at him carefully.
“Did you just have a shock? Are you okay? Want some water?”
Ivan nodded silently.
The woman went to the kitchen, and he… didn’t even know why he was about to do it. Maybe it was unethical, maybe even illegal. He opened “This PC” and started browsing the files.
The folder named Personal was password-protected. He typed in his own date of birth—and, incredibly, it worked.
Inside were old photos, scanned documents, and a text file with no title. He opened it.
The contents began abruptly, like a letter never sent:
“From the very first day, I knew it was wrong. You were beautiful, smart, wealthy, and in love. I was nobody, just starting out. I lied and said I was single, no ties. I thought it would be short-lived. But things got complicated: you introduced me to your parents as your fiancé, we began planning the wedding… I wanted to run, but couldn’t anymore. Your trust and your father’s money kept me bound. They made me new documents—a passport with no marriage records. I’m not proud. I thought it would make everything easier. Lida would forget. The child was small, he wouldn’t understand.
Now I don’t recognize myself. I live in comfort, but every morning I drink my coffee feeling like a traitor.
There’s no way back…”
Ivan’s eyes filled with tears as he leaned back in the chair, staring blankly for several minutes. He felt a confused storm of rage, disgust, and pity.
Before him unfolded a betrayal spanning decades: a mother who had worked all her life, never remarried, who had saved every penny and lived only for him—and a father who had chosen luxury, forgotten her, and rewritten their fate.
Ivan finished the job quickly, took the white envelope full of cash, and left without even remembering how he got to the car. Sitting in the driver’s seat with trembling hands, he shut the door.
For three days, he avoided speaking, trying to find the right words for the truth. But his mother sensed something instantly:
“Something happened, Vanyo? You seem lost…”
So he told her everything: the house, the photo, the computer file, the story he had read.
She listened silently, without interrupting. Only once did she close her eyes and grip her fingers so tightly the knuckles turned white.
When he finished, a silence fell. Then she stood up, walked to the window, and stared into the distance for a long time. Finally, she said calmly:
“You know… I feel relieved.”
Ivan, surprised, asked:
“Relieved?”
She explained:
“For years I lived with the question ‘Why?’ I constantly wondered: ‘What if he’s in trouble? What if he’s suffering? What if…?’ with no end.