It was still dark when Marta Valeryevna stepped outside, her hands already red from the cold metal of the broom. She preferred the stillness of dawn—less noise, fewer eyes. The city’s youth often turned the park into a mess over the weekend, and someone had to sweep up the remains of their carefree laughter.
Marta worked as a janitor for almost twenty years now. No one knew that once, she’d been a primary school teacher with a tidy little apartment, a bookshelf filled with poetry, and a growing son who was her whole world.
Slavik had come into her life like a sunbeam through a rain-streaked window. She gave birth to him at 35, after a series of heartbreaks and broken promises. Men left, life was tough, but her boy gave her purpose. He had her smile and his father’s determined jaw.
“Mom, I’ll grow up and become a cool dude!” he used to say, grinning from ear to ear.
Marta would laugh and ruffle his hair. “Of course, my sunshine. How could you not?”
But when he turned sixteen, Slavik moved out to live in a dorm near his technical school. He promised to visit often. At first, he did. Then he didn’t. A girl, work, life—she understood. Until one day, he returned home, pale and thin, with news that shattered everything.
Cancer.
Marta sold everything—the apartment, her books, even her jewelry—to get him treatment at a private clinic in another city. She lived in a tiny rented room and took the janitor job to survive. And then, one night, the phone call came.
“Your son is no more,” the doctor said.
Her soul cracked. Since then, Marta had been breathing, but not living.
On that quiet morning, the breeze carried leaves across the paths as Marta swept steadily. Then she saw it—a sleek smartphone, left alone on a park bench. She looked around. No one.
Curious, she picked it up and pressed the power button. The screen lit up. Photos. A group of young people smiling. Her eyes scanned over them absently until—
Her breath caught.
The broom clattered to the ground.
Slavik.
His face. His exact face. Alive. Laughing. Next to a girl.
She sobbed uncontrollably, pressing her hand over her mouth as memories surged like a flood. Then music played—the ringtone. She jumped. A name appeared: “Oksana ❤️”.
Hands shaking, she answered.
“Hello? Hello?” a girl’s voice asked. “This is my phone. Can I come pick it up?”
“Yes,” Marta managed. “I found it in the park. Please come to this address…”
When the doorbell rang, Marta’s heart was racing. She opened the door, and there stood a girl, not older than twenty-two. And behind her—
“Slavik…” she whispered.
And collapsed.
An ambulance came. Marta awoke, confused, then startled. Was she dreaming?
“Are you Marta Valeryevna?” the girl asked softly.
“Yes,” Marta replied, eyes fixed on the boy who looked like her son but clearly wasn’t.
“My name is Oksana,” the girl continued. “I… I dated your son a few years ago. But he left before I could tell him… I was pregnant.”
Marta’s heart pounded. “You… you had his child?”
Oksana nodded, biting her lip. “This is Egor. He’s your grandson.”
Marta’s hand flew to her mouth. She looked again—Slavik’s nose, his eyes, his posture.
“I had no one to help,” Oksana said. “So I raised him alone. I never imagined we’d meet like this.”
Tears rolled down Marta’s cheeks—this time, not from grief, but something softer. Something lighter.
Life hadn’t stolen everything.
She reached out a trembling hand toward Egor. He stepped forward.
“Do you… want to have tea with me?” Marta asked.
Oksana smiled gently. “We’d love to.”
As they entered the little kitchen, the old radio played quietly. Marta turned on the kettle, her heart fuller than it had been in years.
That morning, she thought she’d found a forgotten phone.
Instead, she found her future.
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