Living with a Hunchback: A Tale of Love, Struggle, and True Fatherhood
— Vasya, is that you, my dear?
— Yes, mom, it’s me! Sorry for being so late…
The trembling voice of his mother echoed softly from the dim hallway. Wrapped in an old robe, holding a lantern as if she had awaited him forever, she stood there silently.
“Vасенька, my heart,” she whispered, “where were you wandering until this late hour? The sky’s pitch dark, stars shining like the eyes of woodland creatures…”
“Mom, Dima and I were studying, working on lessons and projects… I simply lost track of time. Forgive me for not letting you know earlier. You barely get any rest…”
Suddenly, suspicion flickered in her eyes. “Could it be you visited a girl? Are you perhaps in love?”
“Mom, that’s nonsense!” Vasya chuckled, kicking off his shoes. “I’m not the one girls wait for by the gate. Who would want someone like me—bent-backed, with arms flailing like a monkey’s, and a head full of wild curls resembling a dandelion puff?”
Despite his words, she felt a sting of pain. She never perceived him as a monster but saw only her son—the boy she raised in poverty, cold, and isolation.
Indeed, Vasya hardly matched society’s standards of beauty. Barely over 5’3”, hunched over with long, baboon-like arms that fell near his knees. His enormous head was crowned with tousled curls. During childhood, nicknames like “monkey,” “forest spirit,” and “nature’s marvel” followed him everywhere. Yet, he transcended mere labels and became far greater than an ordinary man.
Vasya and his mother, Galina Petrovna, arrived at the collective farm when he was only ten years old, fleeing the city’s harshness, poverty, and disgrace—the father imprisoned, the mother abandoned. Only they remained, two against the world.
“Your Vasya’s not going to make it,” mumbled Baba Taya, eyeing the frail boy. “He’ll vanish without a trace, swallowed by the earth.”
But Vasya did not vanish. Clinging tightly to life like roots gripping a stone, he grew, breathed, and worked. Galina, a woman of iron will and hands damaged from years in the bakery, baked bread for the entire village. Ten hours every day, year after year, until her strength gave out.
When she finally lay bedridden and didn’t rise again, Vasya stepped into her place. He became son, daughter, nurse, and healer all at once. Washing floors, cooking porridge, reading aloud from old magazines—he cared for her until her quiet departure, as gentle as the wind sighing across the fields. At her funeral, his clenched fists and silence spoke volumes—his tears had all been spent.
Neighbors did not turn their backs. They brought food, warm clothes. Unexpectedly, people began to visit. First, boys passionate about radio technology came to him. Vasya repaired radios, adjusted antennas, and mended wires at the radio station. His hands were truly golden, though clumsy in appearance.
Soon, girls started coming, initially just for tea and conversation. Over time, they lingered longer, laughed more, and shared their stories. One day, Vasya noticed a girl named Arina always stayed until the end.
“Not in a hurry to leave?” he asked one evening after everyone else had gone.
“Nowhere to rush to,” she replied quietly, staring at the floor. “My stepmother hates me. Three brothers are cruel and harsh. My father drinks, and I’m just a burden. I live with a friend but not forever… Here, it’s quiet. I don’t feel lonely.”
Looking at her, Vasya experienced something new—realizing he could be needed.
“Stay with me,” he said simply. “Mom’s room is empty; you’d be the mistress here. And I… I won’t ask for anything—not a word, not a glance. Just be here.”
Whispers started spreading.
- “How could it be? A hunchback and a beauty? Ridiculous!”
But time passed. Arina kept the house tidy, cooked meals, smiled, while Vasya worked quietly, caring for her and later for their son.
When Arina gave birth to a boy, the whole village buzzed:
“Who does he look like? Tell us!”
Yet the child, Denis, looked at Vasya and proudly said:
“Dad!”
Vasya, who never imagined himself a father, suddenly felt something warm stirring inside him, like a miniature sun unfolding in his chest.
He taught Denis to fix sockets, catch fish, and read syllables. Arina encouraged him gently:
“You should find a woman, Vasya. You’re not alone.”
“You’re like a sister to me,” he replied. “First, I’ll marry you off to someone good and kind. Then… we’ll see.”
That someone appeared—a young, honest, hardworking man from a neighboring village. The wedding was held, and Arina left town.
Yet one day, Vasya met her on the road and asked:
“I want to ask you something… Please let me keep Denis.”
“What? Why?” she wondered.
“I know, Arina, after you have children, your heart changes. But Denis… he’s not truly yours. You’ll forget him. But I can’t.”
“I won’t give him up!”
“I’m not taking him away,” Vasya said softly. “You can visit whenever you want. Just let him live with me.”
Arina considered this, then called her son:
- “Deniska! Come here! Tell us, who do you want to live with—the mom or dad?”
The boy, eyes shining, ran up:
“Can’t I live like before? With mom and dad together?”
“No,” Arina answered sadly.
“Then I choose Dad! And mom, please visit me!”
And so it happened.
Denis stayed. Vasya became a real father.
But then Arina returned once more:
“We’re moving to the city. I’m taking Denis with me.”
The boy cried out, clinging tightly to Vasya:
“I’m not going anywhere! I’m with Dad!”
“Vasya…” Arina whispered, looking down, “he’s not yours.”
“I know,” Vasya replied calmly. “I always knew.”
“I’ll run away to Dad anyway!” Denis sobbed.
Each time, he ran away. They took him back. Eventually, Arina gave in.
“Let him stay,” she said. “He chose.”
Then a new chapter began.
Their neighbor Masha’s husband, a brutal drunk and tyrant, drowned. The couple had no children, for love was absent from their marriage.
Vasya started visiting Masha for milk, then helped fix a fence, then repaired a roof, and eventually came just to talk and share tea.
They grew closer—slowly, seriously, as adults do.
Arina sent letters, informing them that Denis had a little sister, Diana.
“Come visit,” Vasya wrote. “Family should be together.”
They came a year later.
Denis stayed close to his sister, carrying her in his arms, singing lullabies, and helping her walk.
“Son,” Arina urged warmly, “stay with us. The city has circuses, theaters, and better schools…”
“No,” Denis shook his head firmly. “I won’t abandon Dad. Aunt Masha is like a mother to me.”
Later, school began.
- While other boys boasted about fathers who were drivers, soldiers, or engineers, Denis never felt ashamed.
- “My dad?” he proudly declared, “he fixes everything. He understands how the world works. He saved me. He’s my hero.”
A year passed.
Masha and Vasya sat by the fireplace with Denis.
“We’re going to have a baby,” Masha announced softly. “A little one.”
“You won’t kick me out, will you?” Denis asked anxiously.
“Of course not!” Masha exclaimed, hugging him tightly. “You’re like a son to me. I dreamed of you all my life!”
“Son,” Vasya said, staring into the fire, “how could you even think that? You’re my light.”
Several months later, baby Slavik was born.
Denis cradled his little brother carefully, like a precious treasure.
“I have a sister,” he whispered quietly. “And a brother. And a dad. And Aunt Masha.”
Though Arina continued calling for Denis, he always answered,
“I already came. I’m home.”
“Vasya wasn’t handsome, but he carried a heart full of love, greater than all I’ve ever known,” Denis would say.
Over the years, people stopped whispering about Denis’s origin. When Denis became a father himself, he shared the story of the best dad in the world with his children and grandchildren.
Every year, on the memorial day, the family gathered—Masha’s children, Arina’s children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren alike.
They drank tea, laughed, and reminisced.
“We had the finest dad!” the adults would cheer, raising their glasses,
— hoping more dads like him would be born.
And every time, a finger pointed upward—to the skies, to the stars, honoring the memory of a man who, against all odds, became a true father.
An unforgettable, genuine, and singular figure.
This story reminds us that the essence of parenthood transcends appearance and circumstances, anchored instead in love, sacrifice, and steadfast devotion.