Vera Sergeyevna’s Emotional Return to a Forgotten Home
At the sight of the familiar gate, Vera Sergeyevna suddenly felt as if she had become rooted to the spot. Her strength abandoned her unexpectedly. She had rushed blindly through the piercing autumn wind, leaping off the bus immediately as it came to a stop, her mind absent of the path beneath her feet. Her heart thudded fiercely against her ribs, sounding like a small hammer tapping incessantly, the beat resonating within her temples. Exhaustion struck her like a heavy weight, but she pressed onward—the house was close by. The very home where her son had once spent his childhood.
Above the crooked woven fence, smoke lazily spiraled upwards, trailing from the chimney as if recalling times long past. Warmth spread in her eyes at the familiar scent—the comforting mixture of smoke and the passage of years delicately tickling her nostrils. She placed her hand over her chest, feeling her heartbeat quicken with anticipation. Though the day was cold, sweat appeared on her forehead—proof of her frantic run, anxiety, and glimmering hope. Swiftly, Vera Sergeyevna wiped her brow with the sleeve of her worn jacket and courageously pushed the creaky gate.
The gate groaned open, almost seeming to recognize its owner. Surveying the yard, she inhaled deeply for the first time in years. The once-shaky shed that barely withstood the wind a year prior now appeared more solid. So, the brief letter from three years ago had spoken truth—Igor had promised to care for the home and had kept his word. Her son had always been honest and kind-hearted, though perhaps overly trusting. It pained her deeply to realize how he had become ensnared in a situation by the friend he trusted more than his own judgment.
- She ascended the porch steps almost as if propelled by her own legs.
- Her mind raced with mixed emotions as joy welled in her heart.
- She was moments away from embracing her son—to hold him close, breathe in his scent, and listen to his voice again.
Yet when the door swung open, Vera Sergeyevna instinctively recoiled. Standing there was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a fierce face and sharp eyes. A kitchen towel hung arrogantly over his shoulder, contrasting with the homely atmosphere.
“Whom are you searching for?” he asked sharply, appraising her carefully. His eyes bore no surprise or warmth—only a cold appraisal.
“A-And where is Igor?” she responded with a shaky voice, the first hint of doubt creeping into her tone.
Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, he maintained his cold stare. Tension curled inside Vera Sergeyevna. Did he grasp who stood before him—a mother recently freed after five long years? She wore an old jacket, worn boots, and carried a faded bag—not the image of a socialite’s guest. Did such details truly matter?
“Igor is my son. Is he here? Is he all right?”
The stranger shrugged indifferently:
“Probably. You’d know better.” He hesitated, almost closing the door before asking, “Are you referring to Igor Smirnov?”
She nodded vigorously, the simple braid in her hair swaying.
“Yes, yes! That’s my son!”
The man’s face darkened.
“He sold me this house four years ago. Want to come inside? We could have some tea to warm up.”
“No, thank you,” she replied quickly, stepping back and nearly losing her footing on the step. “Do you know where he is? No?”
He shook his head:
“No idea. Sorry.”
“Again, she found herself alone—her heart, which had just moments before soared, now clenched tightly in fear.”
Vera Sergeyevna retreated slowly to the gate. Where had her son vanished to? What misfortune had befallen him? Had he been well, she was certain he would have written or visited. Three silent years were no mere oversight—they signaled something deeper. A mother’s intuition knows.
Finding a cold concrete bench at the bus stop, she sank down, recalling the day a judge rendered a verdict. To shield Igor, she had borne part of the blame herself. Igor was gentle and easily influenced; were it not for her sacrifice, he would have spent many years imprisoned. For her, an elderly woman, the sentence was five years, and just three days prior she was released on parole. Unknown to her, a benefactor likely purchased her ticket home.
“Where are you, Igor?” she whispered, warmth of tears streaming down her cheeks.
Suddenly, a black car halted nearby. The same stern man poked his head out the window.
“Here,” he said, handing her a paper. “Found this address in the house documents. Need a lift?”
Clutching the paper like a drowning person reaching for a lifeline, she smiled gratefully.
“Thank you, dear. I can manage.”
Bolstered, she donned her coat and ran for the bus. After a bumpy half-hour ride and an hour wandering amid unfamiliar streets, she finally stood before the right door—a run-down apartment on the third floor, the hallway thick with scents of old oil and cat litter. She pressed the doorbell repeatedly, frozen in place. The door would open shortly, revealing the truth—perhaps grim, maybe worse than she dared imagine.
- Tears streamed silently down her cheeks, unnoticed by her.
- Only the pounding ache of her heart filled the silence, trembling with expectation.
- Then, suddenly, the door swung ajar.
“Igor!” Vera Sergeyevna cried as she rushed into his embrace.
There he stood—alive, though disheveled, eyes red and carrying the scent of alcohol. Alive. She longed to hold him tightly, confess her longing and ceaseless prayers. But he stepped back, closing the door.
“How did you find me?” His voice was hoarse, weary, void of warmth—merely a question cold and distant.
“Son…” she murmured, but Igor ushered her towards the stairs.
“Sorry, Mom. I can’t let you in. I live with a woman who dislikes those who have… been in prison. I don’t have the means to accommodate you. You must manage on your own.”
The words struck with the force of a sentence. Vera Sergeyevna froze, watching the door shut coldly before her eyes. Inside, everything quaked. Was this truly her son? Had the distance between them grown so vast?
Grimacing in pain and humiliation, she attempted to speak of the house’s money—a home where she had raised him, where his childhood toys lingered, and his first scrawl on the kitchen wall declared “Mom is the best!” But she couldn’t finish. The door slammed like a resolute barrier—metal, frigid, soulless. The lock’s clatter echoed like a pistol shot directly to her heart.
Her tears ceased; there was only a heavy ache within and hollowness in her gaze. Bowing her head, she slowly descended the steps, her legs reluctant to find direction. Where could she belong? Where to spend her remaining days? Dasha’s words from a year ago echoed: “He’s no son to you, but a scoundrel. I will never forgive such.” Remembering those harsh words, Vera Sergeyevna shivered involuntarily. She would have to return—endure harsh reminders, apologies—just to avoid homelessness, at least temporarily.
Yet fate unfolded differently. Upon reaching the village, worse news awaited: Dasha had been buried six months earlier. Strangers now occupied the home—grandchildren of the departed, barely known. Left without shelter beneath the biting autumn drizzle, she sought refuge at the bus stop, pondering survival amidst the bleakness.
Amid gloomy skies and wet asphalt, headlights approached. The man from the car—the house’s current owner, the same stern figure—his face softened with genuine concern.
“Get in quickly, you’re soaked through!”
Initially hesitant, Vera Sergeyevna broke down in tears; with nowhere else to turn, she grasped the kindness of a stranger. Standing in the rain, uncertain, the man exited his vehicle to assist her inside, firmly guiding her to the passenger seat.
During the drive, the man introduced himself as Andrei, revealing a gentle, attentive nature. He listened without interruption, interspersing brief inquiries. Vera Sergeyevna recounted her story—her life, prison term, losses—including everything but the painful reunion with Igor. Shame barred her from sharing that bitterness—that her own child failed to recognize or forgive her.
Unexpectedly, Andrei offered her refuge, at least temporarily. Thus, Vera Sergeyevna returned to her homeland—now transformed into Andrei’s abode. Soon she resolved to make it her permanent home.
- Andrei managed a sawmill and cultivated his enterprise.
- She took charge of the household—preparing meals, laundering clothes, tidying—joyful in the comfort modern appliances offered.
- Though young, Andrei, recently divorced, delayed new attachments.
- For him, Vera became a mother figure he had never known.
The orphanages, lonely years, and frequent relocations were behind him. Now, his home sheltered a woman who nurtured, cooked punctual meals, and brought comfort with a mere look. He called her “Mom,” expressing that only now did he truly feel the warmth of a home.
Strong in this newfound tie, Vera Sergeyevna abandoned previous plans of leaving or starting anew elsewhere. Andrei directly questioned:
“Where would you go? From your own home? Is life here so unbearable?”
Slowly, her heart softened. Deep within, a sense of belonging and being wanted blossomed. No one could replace her biological son, but Andrei revealed himself as extraordinarily kind, sincere, and close as family could be.
By winter, Vera Sergeyevna couldn’t envision days without the sawmill. Each morning, she packed thermoses of hot borscht, wrapped cutlets, and filled tea—but then everything shifted.
Delivering another lunch, she unexpectedly encountered a man whose presence chilled her: her own son, Igor. Though battered, he exuded confidence. His wife had urged him to find employment, tired of supporting him. The sawmill seemed fitting—shift work and stable wages—and Igor never imagined meeting his mother here, believing she had vanished long ago.
Vera Sergeyevna kept silent, her eyes fixed on her son. Unable to endure it further, she left the office. Andrei sensed her troubled state instantly, reading the note she left and glancing at Igor.
“A rotten man,” he muttered quietly but loud enough for Igor to hear.
Vera’s son attempted a smile, but frustration lurked in his gaze. Surely, they would hire him—after all, his mother held influence here.
Yet Andrei shook his head firmly.
“Leave! I trust my mother’s judgment—today is no exception.”
Baffled, Igor exited, unable to comprehend his rejection. Behind the door, Vera Sergeyevna wept softly—not out of anger, but from profound pain and the heartbreaking realization that her son was now a stranger. Yet she felt gratitude for the person who accepted her fully and restored her sense of motherhood.
Thus, in a stranger’s home but surrounded by kindness, Vera Sergeyevna discovered a sanctuary of warmth and belonging.
Conclusion: This poignant journey of Vera Sergeyevna reveals the complexities of family bonds tested by hardship and distance. Despite painful estrangement from her biological son, the unexpected compassion from a stranger became the foundation for her renewal and belonging. Her story reminds us that kindness and acceptance can emerge from unforeseen places, offering hope even amid loss.