After his mother passed away, Max’s father removed all her photographs from sight. He couldn’t bear watching seven-year-old Max freeze before her frozen smiles, his lower lip trembling uncontrollably as silent yet bitter tears slid down his cheeks. Although Max was old enough to understand that men shouldn’t cry, his heart was shattered into fragments that stabbed inward every time memories of her warmth, her voice, and her gaze surfaced.
Within a year, his memory of his mother’s face blurred into a vague patch of light. Occasionally, she would appear vividly in his dreams, so lifelike that upon waking, Max would still feel her warmth beside him for a few seconds. Yet each morning, that image dissolved, replaced by the coldness of dawn, leaving only a painful, unbearable emptiness behind. Sitting curled in an armchair, clasping the thin chain of his mother’s cross—the sole memento of her—he whispered into the silence, “Mommy, come back! Please, don’t leave me forever!” But the quiet only echoed his plea.
One evening, while absentmindedly sorting through mail, his father murmured, looking past him, “Max, I have a long business trip planned for the entire summer. You’ll be going to your aunt’s, to the village.”
Max barely knew his aunt existed. Only once a year, on New Year’s or his birthday, a parcel arrived. On the rough cardboard box, nearly calligraphic handwriting read: “Egorova Tatyana Matveyevna, Village Alexandrovka.” It smelled faintly of dried apples, onions, and some woody, unfamiliar scent.
The journey to Alexandrovka took two hours. Usually silent and withdrawn, Max’s father now spoke nonstop about his childhood in that very village and how, at thirteen, after his grandmother’s death, they moved to the city.
“I cried like a beluga,” he recounted with a forced smile, frequently distracted by phone notifications. “I didn’t want to leave. Friends stayed behind—and one girl, Katya—red-haired with freckles. I even tried to run away. I found out the ticket price, took money from my parents, went to the bus station, but the clerk wouldn’t sell a ticket to a child and called the police. They brought me back home. I expected a scolding, but your grandfather patted me on the shoulder and said I was a real man with my heart in the right place. In the end, I never returned. Then I met your mom, and all the past just vanished, dissolved.”
Max listened silently, each mile tightening the knot of anxiety in his chest. He had never spent time in the countryside or lived with strangers before. Yet what frightened him most was his father’s unnatural, almost frantic chatter. Since his mother’s death, the man had grown as silent as a rock, but now words spilled out ceaselessly, as if afraid the silence would bring unanswerable questions.
Aunt Tanya looked remarkably like his father—slim, with a straight back and short straw-colored hair cut close. She greeted them at the door of an old yet sturdy log house, crossing her arms, her gaze cold and appraising as it scanned Max from head to toe.
“Come inside,” she grunted, leading them into a vestibule smelling of fresh milk and wild herbs. “Are you hungry?”
She fed them thick, hearty borscht and browned pies filled with potatoes and… egg with onions. Max loathed eggs; their smell made him nauseous. Yet, blushing with fear of seeming impolite, he silently chewed, surreptitiously picking out the detested filling with his fork and dropping it under the table. Desperately hoping that Aunt Tanya had a cat to dispose of his secret pilfering, he found none during the next three days of exploring nooks around the house and barn. Too intimidated to ask directly, Max endured her chilly indifference, as if he were a dusty, unwanted box entrusted to her care, not a living child.
- Max’s evenings were shadowed by homesickness and longing for his mother.
- He wished to hug Aunt Tanya, imagining for a moment she was his mom.
- Yet her scent was of stove smoke, pine twigs, and bitter herbs—not mother’s perfume or sweet pies.
One night, after a nightmare, tearful Max ran to her room, but she coldly ordered him back to bed, condemning his fears as nonsense because “witches don’t exist.” Covered in blankets, clutching his mother’s cross, he whispered until sleep finally claimed him, “Mom’s with me, she will protect me.”
Aunt Tanya seemed perpetually displeased with him.
“What circus is this?” she snapped sharply after catching him picking at a pie again.
Max’s heart sank. Gathering courage, he stammered, “I… I can’t eat eggs.”
“Why?”
“They smell bad,” he admitted honestly.
She shook her head, thin lips tightening.
“Nonsense. Eggs are healthy—protein, vitamins. Eat.”
Lowering his head, Max felt the tears betray him. Only he mustn’t cry again, or she’d call him a baby once more.
With nothing else to do, he devoured the children’s books his father had packed within days. Noticing his boredom, Aunt Tanya suggested meeting local boys. The encounter ended in a fight when the biggest demanded Max’s phone ‘‘for a few minutes’’ and tried to take it by force after being refused. Max avoided making friends afterward.
“Antisocial, just like your father,” Aunt Tanya muttered, noticing Max’s scraped knees. “He was always getting into fights as a child.”
“I’m not antisocial!” Max burst out. “He behaved badly!”
“And you?” she snorted. “A phone’s just a piece of metal. You need to learn to share. Go apologize.”
“No!”
“I said apologize!”
That time he held back tears, feeling a fierce, burning anger. Suddenly, he understood why she lived alone—who could love such a curmudgeon? Not even a cat. Clutching the cross in his pocket, a strange calm returned.
Later that evening, Aunt Tanya unexpectedly told him, “You can take books from the lower shelves in the living room. I think there’s something livelier than your comics.”
Having long eyed the old bookshelf, but afraid to approach—once she had scolded him harshly for touching a leather-bound tome—he eagerly dove in now. His attention fixated on a thin, worn book titled “The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.” Reading it in one sitting, the magical world of Narnia fully absorbed him, and for the first time in months, no space remained for tears.
“Aunt Tanya, is there a sequel?” he asked hopefully the next morning.
She looked at the cover. “There should be.”
“Where is it? Which shelf?”
“I don’t have it,” she replied bluntly.
Max sighed heavily.
“No need to sigh like a steam locomotive! Take something else.”
Not wanting to ask again, he picked up “The Three Musketeers” but soon found it dull and decided to go out.
On the porch, he discovered a huge, scruffy cat curled up—a one-eyed feline with matted fur and a torn ear, yet dignified. Max instantly felt affection. Reaching out, the cat squinted its eye and purred hoarsely while enjoying the petting.
“Are you hungry?” the boy whispered.
The cat nudged his palm with its wet nose.
“I’ll get you something,” Max promised. Approaching Aunt Tanya:
“Can I have some milk or a bit of sausage?”
“Why do you need that?” she asked suspiciously.
“To feed the cat. He’s outside, poor and skinny.”
She stepped out silently, saw the animal, and grimaced.
“A stray brindle. Covered in sores. Might give us rabies! Go away!” she said, making a sharp foot gesture without touching the cat. Proudly, the cat hissed and strolled away to the bushes.
Max realized he’d have to act in secret. Next time, he discreetly fed the cat a piece of boiled chicken from his dinner. The cat swallowed eagerly and allowed Max to scratch its ear stub.
“I’ll call you Admiral,” Max decided.
From then on, he had a friend. They spent hours together by an old stump behind the garden. Max shared stories from books, fears, and troubles, asking the cat how to persuade his dad to bring Admiral to the city. He was cautious; Aunt Tanya never caught him.
One day, searching for new reads, he found a stack by C.S. Lewis: “Prince Caspian,” “The Voyage of the Dawn Treader”… His excitement nearly made him jump.
“Aunt! This is the sequel!” he burst into the kitchen, clutching the books.
Aunt Tanya just shrugged as she stirred jam.
“Yes. I ordered them by mail—they arrived yesterday.”
Overcome with joy, Max hugged her waist, pressing his cheek against her stiff apron.
She stiffened as if shocked, pushed him away, and her face turned cold.
“Don’t cling. Go read.”
Her mood was unfathomable.
Enthralled by new books, Max forgot Admiral for days until a cold, heavy rain started. “Poor Admiral,” he thought. “He’ll get soaked and sick.” At that instant, a plaintive meow came from the porch.
“Aunt Tanya, can he come inside? Even the vestibule? Please! He’s wet!”
Prepared for rejection, he was surprised when Aunt Tanya, sighing deeply without meeting his gaze, said, “Okay. Just don’t let him wander where he shouldn’t. And don’t cry if he dies.”
A chill ran through Max. Those words felt like a grim warning. But the door was open. Soaked through, Admiral slipped inside and curled up immediately on an old mat.
Since then, the cat lived quietly as a secret but tolerated guest, never jumping on tables or scratching furniture. He sat by Max’s feet or warmed himself near the stove. Max noticed another change: pies now contained only potatoes, no eggs.
Aunt Tanya scowled, glared at the cat, but Max was overjoyed. One day he witnessed a surprising scene: thinking no one watched, she broke off a piece of sausage and threw it to Admiral, saying, “Here, you glutton.” Then she stroked his back as he ate.
That’s why what happened next struck Max so deeply. A few days later, Admiral disappeared. Max searched all day, calling and checking every corner. At night, he found the cat behind the bathhouse, cold and motionless. His mind screamed: “She poisoned him! She warned us!”
Tears poured uncontrollably.
“You did this! You killed him!” he shouted, running into the house and pointing at Aunt Tanya’s motionless face. “I hate you!”
He expected anger or violence, but she only looked at him with a long, tired gaze filled with an ancient, inexhaustible sorrow.
“I warned you,” she repeated quietly, emotionless.
Putting on a vest and taking a shovel, she went outside, with Max sobbing behind her. She dug a grave near the garden bushes. Max fetched a sturdy cardboard box, laying his friend carefully inside. In silence, they buried Admiral. Aunt Tanya set a large flat stone at the head of the grave. Max gathered late autumn flowers—asters and marigolds. His eyes fell on similar stones neatly arranged nearby, several in number.
“What are those?” he asked, freezing.
“Graves,” she answered shortly.
“Whose?”
“Those I loved,” she said, sitting on a mossy stone, covering her face with her hands. When she spoke again, her voice was rough and cracked, as if coming from beneath the earth.
“I was sixteen—foolish, cruel, reckless. A girl named Polina studied in our class. Everyone teased her as a lunatic. She truly was… different. Her brother Gennady was more so—didn’t study, stayed home, suffering from some illness. He followed me silently, mumbling in his odd language. I was afraid and disgusted. One day, I lost control, cursed him with the worst words I could think of. I don’t recall what I said; it was awful.”
She paused, breaking a dry aster stem in her hands.
“A week later, he drowned. Polina said it was my fault—that I cursed him, that her grandmother, who everyone believed a witch, laid a curse on me: everyone I loved would die. I called her crazy. We fought… I never fought anyone again.”
Max listened, breath held, chills running down his spine.
“Is it true?” he whispered.
“True,” she said quietly, staring into emptiness. “Here lies Mirka, my dog. Here, Musketier, the cat. And here…” her voice broke, “my little daughter, Alisa. She didn’t even reach one year. Doctors said heart failure—accident. But I know.”
She raised tearful eyes to Max’s, overflowing with such endless pain that he felt dizzy.
“Her grandmother was considered a witch. I didn’t believe it—until now. I regret it. Every second. If only I could undo it all…”
“You just needed to ask for forgiveness!” Max blurted. “You told me to apologize!”
“Yes,” she smiled bitterly. “You’re right. But a simple ‘sorry’ isn’t enough. A sacrifice is needed—something very precious. And I cannot do that. She died three years ago—from pneumonia. They lived cold and poor; no one could help.”
She stood abruptly, brushing dust from her clothes, and without a glance back, walked to the house, leaving Max alone amid silent stones and the whispering autumn wind.
The following day, a miracle occurred—his father unexpectedly returned.
“So, bandit, missed home? Pack your stuff; we’re going back!”
Max’s joy temporarily pushed aside memories of his aunt and her tragic tale. Yet when the car was loaded and it was time to say goodbye, a lump caught in his throat. Tentatively, he approached Aunt Tanya, unsure what to say. But before he could speak, she stepped forward, hugged him tightly, her bones audibly cracking, and kissed his cheek softly.
“Thank you for visiting,” she whispered warmly for the first time. “Take care of yourself.”
During the drive, his father seemed strangely lively and nervous—singing loudly along to the radio and constantly asking how Max spent his summer.
“Let’s stop by the cemetery,” his father suddenly suggested, turning onto a familiar road.
“Why?” Max asked, surprised.
“My brother is buried there—and your cousin, a little one you never knew. My brother Sasha died later during a hunting accident. I hardly visit; it’s time.”
Max’s breath caught as he understood—the aunt was not his father’s sister but the widow of his deceased brother, mother to the boy. Her loneliness assumed a new, grim meaning.
While his father tidied two neat graves marked “Alexander” and “Alisa,” Max wandered narrow paths. Neither he nor his father feared cemeteries; they often visited his mother. Silently, he spoke to her in his mind: “Mom, help me. Tell me what to do.”
Then his gaze fell on two modest but cared-for monuments nearby: “Polina” and “Gennady.” The names and patronymics matched. Someone clearly tended them. Max’s heart pounded. A ray of sunlight pierced dense spruce branches, illuminating the gray stone. Suddenly, Max knew his task.
His father was far away. Max pulled his mother’s warm, almost living cross from beneath his shirt—the most precious relic connecting him to a happier past. Kneeling, he placed the cross at Polina’s gravestone.
“Forgive her,” he whispered, voice trembling. “Forgive Aunt Tanya. She meant no harm but suffers deeply. Here is my sacrifice—the most valuable I have: my mother, who was kind and is gone, and I miss her terribly. Aunt Tanya misses her too. She’s all alone. Please take this cross and lift the curse.”
No answer came; only the wind rustled the spruce branches, yet inside Max felt an odd peace.
“Max, I want to tell you something,” his father said, placing a hand on his shoulder during the return journey. “I met a woman named Nadezhda. We’re married now. She really wants to meet you.”
Max’s world cracked again, this time for good. Silently nodding, swallowing tears, he forced out, “Cool.”
Aunt Nadya was the opposite of Aunt Tanya—cheerful, bustling, with a sweet voice. She showered Max with gifts and tried to hug him, but her touch was intrusive and unfamiliar. She repeatedly forgot he disliked eggs and was upset when he refused her omelets.
“What’s wrong? I tried adding mushrooms and herbs!”
“I don’t eat eggs!” he insisted, feeling guilty.
“Oh, sorry, honey, I forgot!”
Yet the next day, the cycle repeated.
Two months later, as the first fluffy snow fell, they gleefully told him, “You’re going to have a little sister!”
Max comprehended the truth: he was no longer needed. He forced a smile, saying, “Great! Can I have a kitten for my birthday?”
“What kitten?” Nadya exclaimed. “Germs everywhere! Your dad’s allergic!”
His father shrugged apologetically. The plan failed.
Max’s birthday gift was a new phone, which he pretended to love. However, the best present was a package from Aunt Tanya containing the first Harry Potter book. His father thought it was too early, but Max devoured it in two days and asked for the sequels.
“We’ll get them for New Year,” Nadya promised. “Great gift!”
In that moment, Max realized Aunt Tanya had remembered him all these years, sending gifts. But had they ever thought of her?
“Dad, when is Aunt Tanya’s birthday?”
“Hmm,” his father pondered. “I think December fifth. We should send a card.”
But Max didn’t want a card. He’d formed a plan.
- He acted like a secret agent.
- With a classmate’s help, he stole his dad’s bank card.
- He bought two tickets online to Alexandrovka—one for himself and one for his father.
- He printed the tickets and deleted the email notifications.
- At the market, he got a free ginger kitten from a furrier grandpa, asking his friend to hold it overnight.
- On December fifth morning, pretending to go to school, he fetched the kitten and headed to the train station.
His heart raced wildly. When asked about his parents, he lied, “Dad’s over there, I’ll catch up!” and slipped onto the bus. It was the most frightening and thrilling journey of his life.
In Alexandrovka, snow already covered the ground. The kitten whimpered under his jacket. A kind woman showed him the way. Near the familiar house, Max slowed, fearing Aunt Tanya’s reaction. But when she opened the door, her face didn’t show anger. Instead, it looked frightened, confused, then glowing with genuine joy, nearly making him cry.
“Max! My God! Are you alone? You’re freezing! Come inside quickly! I’ll call your dad! What’s that?” She stared at the wiggling bundle against his chest.
“It’s a present. Happy birthday,” he rasped.
They stood, eyes locked. Then Aunt Tanya quietly said, “I dreamed of Polina recently. She smiled and waved at me. But I’m still scared… I can’t…”
Max smiled broadly, no longer needing to be coaxed.
“I’m alive. And I love you so much. I know.”
Aunt Tanya’s face contorted with emotion, her lips trembling. She held the kitten in one hand, hugging Max motherly and tight with the other.
“Ginger…” she whispered, stroking the kitten. “Thank you, my dear. Thank you.”
His father scolded him afterward, but more with reluctant respect in his eyes than anger.
“A real man is growing up,” he told Nadya when they thought Max slept. “He’s clever. I’ll let him visit Aunt Tanya for winter break—to see Ginger.”
“How could you! He should be punished!” his stepmother protested.
“He’s my son, Nadya. And he did what he thought right—for family. Our daughter will have the best brother.”
As Max fell asleep, clutching a new image of his mother—as an angel guardian—and Aunt Tanya, whose icy heart had finally thawed, he knew somewhere beneath that cold stone in the village cemetery lay his mother’s cross—the most precious price for the dearest gift: the right to love and be loved. It was the most sincere bargain of his life.
In conclusion, this moving story encapsulates the profound effects of loss, the power of forgiveness, and the fragile bonds of family. It highlights how love and understanding can emerge even amidst sorrow, offering hope that healing is possible through empathy, sacrifice, and connection. Max’s journey through grief and reconciliation reminds us that behind every hardship lies the potential for renewal and belonging.