In the silence of night, Larisa’s phone beeped, casting a cold blue light. It was 2 a.m. She reached for it quietly, but Viktor was already awake.
“Who writes at this hour?” he whispered.
She showed him the screen: a photo of a ten-year-old boy—blond, freckled, and unmistakably familiar.
Viktor turned pale. “Where did you get this?”
“I know everything,” she said calmly. “About Kirill. About Nadya from Nizhny. About the alimony.”
Her voice was steady, not angry—just tired. “I know his name, his allergies, that he loves soccer. And that his mother died last year.”
Viktor sat in stunned silence.
“How long?” he asked.
“Three years. I saw the messages when you left your phone behind.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Our daughter was finishing school. She needed stability.”
“I should’ve told you,” he murmured.
“You were afraid I’d leave?” she shook her head. “Vitya, we’ve been together 25 years.”
He reached for her, but she gently pulled away.
“We need to take him in.”
“What?” he balked.
“He’s your son. He’s been in an orphanage for a year. He needs a family.”
“And Katya?”
“She knows. She helped find him. She’s the one who insisted.”
In the morning, Katya called, excited: “We need to get his room ready! I packed already!”
Viktor was overwhelmed. Katya laughed: “Of course I know! I’ve seen Dad’s old photos. We look alike.”
By noon, they were on the road to Nizhny Novgorod. Viktor drove in silence, haunted by regret. “Do you think he looks like me?”
“We’ll see soon,” Larisa said, squeezing his hand. “He just needs time.”
At the orphanage, the director was skeptical. “Why now?”
Viktor faltered. Larisa stepped in: “We’re here now. And we’re ready.”
They found Kirill playing goalie. When Viktor said, “I’m your dad,” the boy recoiled.
“My mom said you were dead.”
“I’m alive. I came to take you home.”
“Nobody wants me,” the boy whispered.
“That’s not true!” Katya jumped in. “I’ve always wanted a brother!”
Larisa smiled gently. “Let’s take it slow. Just get to know each other.”
“Can I bring my soccer gear?” Kirill asked.
“Of course,” Viktor said, voice thick with emotion.
Later, over pizza, Katya showed Kirill pictures of home. He asked, “Why did you look for me?”
“Because you’re our family,” Larisa said simply.
In the weeks that followed, Kirill visited on weekends. Slowly, he opened up. Katya helped with homework, brought him to practice.
Then came the school incident: “Bastard,” a classmate sneered. “Not really family.”
At home, Kirill cried. “They said I’m only here out of pity.”
Larisa sat beside him. “A real family is made by choice—every day.”
Viktor knelt. “I choose you. Not out of pity. Because I want to.”
Kirill sobbed in his arms.
A year later, Kirill had friends, a personalized room, and fewer dark moments. At a school play, spotting Larisa in the crowd, he shouted:
“Mom! Did you see me?”
She froze. Then smiled.
That night, they flipped through photo albums—Viktor as a child, then Kirill beside him.
“We look like twins!” Katya grinned.
“No,” Viktor said, pulling his son close. “You look like me.”
And Larisa thought about the message that changed everything—how it led not to an ending, but a new beginning.
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