A Son’s Return and a Mother’s Unwavering Love
“Son!” exclaimed Vera Antonovna, freezing at the threshold of her apartment. Her eyes widened with surprise and joy, her arms raised upward like birds ready to take flight. She rushed toward her son, who had just entered, leaving the door slightly ajar as if doubting his own eyes. “You scared me! Why didn’t you say anything? I thought you still had six months behind bars! And your lawyer kept silent like a partisan!”
The mother couldn’t contain herself—she cupped his face with her palms, stroking his hair, cheeks, and shoulders as though verifying if he was real, alive, or just a haunting phantom from her nightmares. His body looked thin and angular, as if the years in prison had drained his strength and youth. Yet his eyes remained unchanged—clear, direct, and resolute.
“Ilyusha, my dear heart… What a joy this is!” she sobbed, her voice trembling with emotions long pent up.
“Mom, what are you fussing about?” Ilia tried to soothe her, pulling her close and kissing her tear-moistened cheek. “It’s all over now. I’m home. As for the lawyer… I asked him to keep quiet. I wanted to surprise you.”
“Oh, you little rascal,” Vera Antonovna shook her head but began bustling about. “We need to feed you, warm you up well so you forget what it’s like to eat from an aluminum bowl under a guard’s strict gaze.”
As she tried to slip into the kitchen, Ilia gently but firmly stopped her, standing between her and the door.
“Wait, Mom. You’re not being honest. Are you hiding something? What’s wrong?”
Vera Antonovna lowered her eyes, and in that gesture lay unspoken truths. Ilia immediately sensed bad news.
“Your Lera…” she whispered, her voice heavy as if uttering her name brought pain worse than revealing the truth. “She left the moment you were imprisoned. That’s how she is…”
Her guilty gaze, uneven breath, and entire posture spoke volumes. Ilia already knew; she had never visited him in prison, never sent a letter or made a call. She disappeared without a trace.
“Yes, I expected that,” he said bitterly with a smile. “Never once did she come see me. God judge her.”
“Indeed,” Vera Antonovna agreed shortly, then headed to the kitchen, wishing to distract herself with cooking. “I’ll try to make something delicious.”
“Mom,” Ilia called, hugging her again. “First, I want to take a bath. I dreamed about it for a year and a half. I want to relax, cleanse myself, and forget that prison soap smell.”
“Of course, son,” she nodded, wiping away tears. “I even bought cedar-scented foam, as if I knew you would come home today.”
Refreshing Memories in Warm Bathwater
Lying in warm water, Ilia closed his eyes, gradually sinking into memories. The scent of cedar tickled his nostrils; bubbles played on his skin like long-ago kisses from a cherished woman. He and Lera married when she was only twenty-two, though it seemed she had lived through more than most in her lifetime. Intelligent, composed, with a piercing gaze and a cold smile, she remained a mystery he never solved.
After their wedding, they lived in his three-room apartment—one room belonged to his mother, the other to them newlyweds. Ilia promised to start working soon, earning enough to move elsewhere. But time slipped by, while circumstances increasingly turned against them.
On their third anniversary, they planned a modest celebration, but the night took a wrong turn. Lera had a little too much to drink; someone suggested seeing a friend off, and laughing, she pulled Ilia along.
“Come on, Ilyusha, let’s have some fun!” her cheerful voice rang out, though the air felt heavy that evening, as if foretelling impending disaster.
Despite inner unease, Ilia agreed. Even Vera Antonovna, usually reserved, warned, “Son, maybe you shouldn’t? My heart feels uneasy.”
“Don’t worry, Mom, we’ll be quick,” he brushed off her concern, unaware that this night would change everything.
Tragic Incident and Its Consequences
Outside, darkness enveloped the streets as summer edged into autumn. Groups of intoxicated people staggered along the sidewalks; some shouted and laughed, others hurried home. Lera, slightly drunk, accidentally offended a group of young men, uttering a sharp insult.
“Get lost, you loser!” she shouted back at a challenging glare.
“You’ll answer for your words!” one of the men shouted and grabbed Lera, ignoring Ilia.
Ilia reacted instantly. Grabbing Lera’s hand, he struck the man who dared touch her. The man collapsed as if felled by a sudden blow. Onlookers rushed to help; someone called an ambulance. Despite efforts, the man died—the autopsy revealed an aneurysm that could rupture even from a sneeze.
However, the deceased’s family held influence. Ilia was sentenced—for exceeding self-defense limits and causing death by negligence. Despite Vera Antonovna’s connections, the judge imposed a strict sentence to set an example.
Home Again: Small Comforts
“Ilyusha, you didn’t drown in there?” Vera’s voice floated from the bathroom door.
“No, Mom, I’m coming,” Ilia replied, turning on hot water to warm up again.
Awaiting him at the table was a real treat—stewed cabbage, homemade buckwheat, pickled cucumbers, and a fish pie. Everything smelled familiar, warm, and truly necessary after months of bland prison food.
“The aroma is wonderful!” Ilia closed his eyes to savor it. “I’ve missed this so much!”
“Eat, eat,” Vera smiled. “I’ll run to the store—no bread and need eggs for tomorrow. You like omelets, right?”
With a mouth full, Ilia nodded happily and laughed.
A Chance Encounter and a Heartfelt Decision
The nearby store was just around the corner—a small joy in the district. Vera Antonovna bought groceries then walked to the kiosk run by Ahmet, an Azerbaijani man who had known her since childhood and was happy to see her son.
“Long time no see!” Ahmet exclaimed. “How are you? How’s your son?”
“Hello, Ahmet,” Vera warmly replied. “Ilia is home—released. Bring me the juiciest, tastiest apples for my son.”
Ahmet filled the bag generously, showing concern.
Suddenly, a small girl of five or six tugged Vera’s skirt. Worn clothes, dirty cheeks, huge eyes.
“Grandma, do you need a TV? I need money for my mother’s medicine…”
“Where are your parents?” Vera looked around; nobody was nearby.
“Mom’s home, sick,” the girl whispered.
“And your father?” Vera frowned.
“Dad died,” the girl said flatly, as if long resigned.
“Where do you live?”
“In that house,” the girl pointed to a ramshackle wooden shack.
“Let’s see your TV,” Vera decided.
Along the way, she learned the girl’s name was Nastya, who scarcely remembered her father except for his yelling, which brought tears to her mother’s eyes. The house was in terrible condition—crooked, peeling paint, plywood instead of windows.
Climbing the creaky stairs, Nastya warned, “Careful, a step is broken.”
Inside, despite the ruin, it was clean and cozy. Vera stopped, spotting a photo on the wall—a young man she could never forget. It was the very person whose fate intertwined with her son’s imprisonment.
Her gaze shifted slowly to a bed where a woman lay feverish. Nastya gently touched her mother’s forehead.
“Fever again. The doctor came, prescribed medicine, but the pharmacy said they didn’t have enough money,” the girl explained. “So I thought maybe we could sell the TV…”
“Poor you,” Vera said softly, touching the woman’s hot forehead, her face twisting with pain. “Where is the prescription?”
Nastya silently handed her a hastily scribbled note.
“Do you have food?” Vera asked, scanning empty shelves and cupboards.
Nastya lowered her eyes and sighed with a maturity beyond her years, “I finished everything yesterday… Mom only drinks water.”
“Take these apples, eat, gather strength, and build your appetite. I’ll come back soon, I promise,” Vera placed the bag of fruit on the table gently.
“Grandma… won’t Mom die like Dad?” Nastya whispered, her voice trembling as if this question haunted many nights.
Vera crouched before her, holding her hands, “Of course not, my dear. Call me Aunt Vera, alright? I’ll be around now.”
“Alright,” Nastya answered, tears streaking down her cheeks yet a shy, fresh smile blossomed—like spring shoots breaking through asphalt cracks.
Key Insight: Sometimes, compassion springs unexpectedly, bridging stories of hardship and hope.
Taking Action to Support
Wasting no time, Vera Antonovna called her son:
“Son, we have an emergency. Your help is urgently needed.”
She conveyed the situation clearly, keeping calm to avoid frightening him prematurely.
“Wait for me,” Ilia said plainly, then hung up.
Half an hour later, they met at the house where Katya and Nastya lived. Vera shared every detail, what she saw, felt, and understood. Her heart, hardened by years of pain over her son, reopened to compassion.
“I’ll go to the pharmacy; you pick up groceries,” she suggested.
Ilia took the prescription, studied the notes carefully, and headed to the nearest pharmacy. There he patiently waited as the pharmacist examined the paper.
“This is for the flu,” the woman frowned. “Why didn’t you come earlier?”
“We just found out about the sick woman today,” Ilia explained. “No one else could go. Do you have these meds?”
The pharmacist nodded and started fetching items: paracetamol, antiviral medicine, throat gargle, vitamins.
“This one you don’t need,” she said pointing to a pill. “It is effective only during the first 48 hours after symptoms start. No need to waste money. Take these instead. Gargle, ventilate the room, drink warm liquids, eat light soups, brew wild rose tea and vitamin-rich compotes. Warmth and care are key.”
“Thank you very much,” Ilia said, packing the medicine with care.
“Take care,” the woman replied, touched by his sincere care. “Get well soon.”
Together Buying Essentials
Meanwhile, Vera Antonovna wandered the grocery aisles, pushing an almost empty cart.
“Mom, what’s wrong?” Ilia asked, approaching her. “Will you roam with an empty basket?”
“I don’t know what to buy,” she sighed. “I don’t remember what a young woman and a little girl need.”
“Let me help,” Ilia said, quickly filling the cart: juicy chicken, fresh potatoes, onions, carrots, milk, bread, gingerbread, candies, lemons, black and green tea. He also added sausage, cheese, butter, and a couple of bottles of mineral water.
“What about fruits?” he wondered, rubbing his chin.
“Let’s visit Ahmet,” smiled Vera Antonovna. “He always has the best.”
They bought peaches, grapes, apples, and apricots, filling the cart to the brim.
“How will we carry all this?” Ilia laughed. “I’ll bring the car.”
“What a woman!” Ahmet exclaimed, admiring Vera Antonovna. “A portrait-worthy lady!”
“I agree, Mom is a goddess,” Ilia laughed, loading bags into the trunk.
“You’re real romantics here!” Vera Antonovna smiled, tears sparkling despite her smile.
Care and Rebuilding Hope
Back at Katya and Nastya’s, Katya tried to sit but Vera gently laid her back down.
“Rest, don’t move. We’ll manage everything.”
Katya’s pajamas were soaked in sweat—her fever seemed to be breaking. Vera looked around.
“Where’s your change of clothes?”
Katya weakly pointed to the dresser. Ilia quietly left the room as Vera began tending to the sick woman, changing her clothes and linens as if it were second nature.
Ilia took over the kitchen, brewing tea, boiling potatoes, making fluffy mashed potatoes, cutting chicken from the broth, and adding carrots and onions. The aroma filled the air—home, care, and hope.
“Who are you?” Katya rasped, barely opening her eyes.
“Neighbors,” Vera smiled. “Lie still, no need to talk now. We’ll take care of everything.”
Ilia brought a mug of hot broth.
“Wait till it cools, then drink slowly—sip by sip.”
“Why are you helping us?” Katya asked with a mixture of confusion and gratitude.
“You need help, and no one else is coming,” Vera replied firmly, checking the broth’s temperature. “Drink small sips.”
Restoring Safety and Joy
While Vera cared for Katya, Ilia repaired broken stairs and installed new handrails at the entrance. He worked confidently, clear about his purpose.
“Mommy, Aunt Vera and Uncle Ilia help us so much!” Nastya burst in, radiating happiness that seemed almost magical.
Katya looked at her daughter, feeling a forgotten joy awaken inside. Nastya had recently become too serious, too mature for her age, but now her eyes shone brightly with innocent delight.
When it was time to leave, Vera promised, “We’ll come again tomorrow. No going away.”
The following day, Vera ran errands collecting medicines while Ilia visited again.
“How are you?” he asked, checking the fridge, which had less food—a positive sign.
“Thank you, feeling much better,” Katya smiled shyly, hiding beneath the blanket.
Ilia’s gaze landed on the photograph on the wall—the very man connected to his incarceration.
“Who is that?”
Katya froze, face hardening.
“My ex-husband,” she whispered softly. “Oleg Pavlovich, nicknamed Bagor.” She smirked, as if releasing a long-held pain. “I was an orphan. After school, I trained as a seamstress. Nearby, there was a car repair shop where Oleg worked. He courted me, gave gifts, spoke sweetly. I thought he loved me. Then he proposed marriage. Girls at the dorm told me about his father, so I thought I was lucky. He brought me here—to this shack—and promised we’d move after the wedding.”
“I got pregnant; Nastya was born, but he rarely stayed home—friends, drinking. When Nastya turned three, he died from an aneurysm, after being beaten, they said. The guy went to jail. Oleg’s father tried. Later, I learned his parents kicked him out, stopped giving money. After his death, they told me, ‘Don’t expect help.’ They left just the debts and this ruin. But who ended up in prison because of them…”
“Was that you?” Katya gasped.
“Yes,” Ilia admitted. “Looks like fate decided we were meant to meet again.”
“And your wife?” Katya asked suddenly.
“She left me,” Ilia replied calmly, bitterness in his voice. “Probably for the best. Otherwise, I’d never have met such wonderful people. Right, Nastya?”
Nastya, watching cartoons, giggled and shook her head.
“How did you live those two years alone?” Ilia asked, offering tea with lemon to Katya.
“Mostly okay,” she shrugged. “I finished college, sewed at home. Had clients. Nastya went to kindergarten until I got sick. Suddenly bedridden—no chance to prepare. My client called a doctor, and Nastya kept the house running.”
“The girl has suffered a lot,” Ilia sighed. “But it’s all behind now, right, Nastya?”
She nodded happily, grateful not to be forgotten.
- Katya’s strength gradually returned.
- Ilia and Vera Antonovna became regular visitors.
- Ilia helped with repairs and daily care.
- Katya received a small state apartment six months later.
- The family’s life slowly transformed for the better.
Ilia returned to his previous job and was warmly welcomed—professionals of his caliber are valued. Together with Vera Antonovna, they contributed financially. The dilapidated shack was sold profitably—neighbors wanted a dacha spot. Ilia carried Katya into their new three-room apartment like a bride, while Nastya, in a white dress and ribbons, walked ahead shining like a festive Christmas tree. Behind them, Vera and Ahmet followed, both smiling. For the first time in years, Vera truly felt happy.
This day marked a fresh beginning, one filled with hope, healing, and family reunited.
Conclusion
This poignant story reveals a journey from hardship to compassion and renewal. Despite the shadows of past mistakes and loss, the power of kindness and support can transform lives. Ilia’s decision to aid the family connected to his tragedy shows how empathy can arise from suffering. Through shared care, trust, and resilience, new chapters of hope and happiness are written, reminding us that even in the darkest times, humanity can light the way forward.