Sitting on a bench outside the shop, I was aimlessly browsing through my phone, oblivious to the activity around me.
People ran past, some conversing on their phones and others going about their business. I would have remained indifferent if I hadn’t heard a child’s voice—thin, exhausted, and incredibly serious.
“Auntie, do you maybe need a baby? Please take my little brother. He’s only five months old, and he’s really hungry…”
I looked up and saw a girl of about six or seven. She was skinny, swimming in an oversized jacket, her ponytail messy. Beside her stood an old stroller, from which came the soft breathing of an infant.
“Where’s your mom?” I asked gently.
“She’s tired… She’s been asleep for a long time. I feed my brother myself. We only have bread and water left…”
“And where do you live?”
The girl gestured toward a dilapidated five-story block.
“Over there.” We called Dad yesterday, but he said we had to handle somehow… “He is not coming…”
Something inside me coiled tightly, like a spring. I wanted to shout and cry, but the girl remained wonderfully calm. She’d mustered the courage to persevere for her younger brother’s sake.
We set off together. I cradled the infant as she walked beside me, looking up anxiously as if frightened I might vanish like every other adult in her life.
The flat was dark, damp, and cold. Toys were scattered in a corner, and a letter on the table read: “Forgive me, children.” I cannot go on. I hope decent people find you.”
We immediately called for an ambulance, and child welfare officers arrived shortly after. But I couldn’t simply leave. Six months later, Liza and Artyom became my foster children.
We now have a home that smells of fresh croissants and is filled with children’s laughter—where no one ever says, “Please take my brother—he’s hungry.”
Nearly a year has passed.
Artyom smiles and claps his hands when I arrive home. He sometimes wakes up at night whimpering for no apparent cause. I pick him up and hold him close, and he relaxes instantly.
Liza looks older than her years, yet now she’s happy. She has her own room, a favorite plush rabbit, and a newfound passion for pancakes. She used to burn them, but now she calls proudly:
“Mom, taste these—they’re banana, just like yours!”
The first “Mom” slipped out over a lunch of macaroni and cheese:
“Mom, pass the ketchup—”
She blushed. “Sorry… I know you’re not my real—”
I hugged her. “Real—because I love you. For real.”
Since then, she calls me that because she wants to.
We visit their mother’s grave. I don’t judge her. She broke. Perhaps, wherever she is, she’s glad I walked out of the shop that day and heard Liza.
Back then, Liza wasn’t asking only for her brother. She was looking for hope. I answered, “You’re needed. Both of you.”
Not long ago, Liza lost her first tooth. She held it out, shining in her palm.
“Mom, that means I’m grown-up now, right?”
I burst into tears of laughter. Because she can finally be a child again—wearing bear-print pajamas and placing a note beneath her pillow: “Dear Tooth Fairy, the tooth is gone, but you can still leave a coin—no worries.”
Artyom has begun to walk. His delicate footsteps make music. Every time he looks at me, he asks, “Are you still here?” I respond, “Always.”
We celebrated his first birthday with balloons, candles, and cake. Liza made cookies and sent a note to Artyom, wishing him a happy birthday. We now have a family.
That evening, she fell asleep on my shoulder, serene and unafraid—just like a toddler. My daughter.
In spring, we planted flowers. Liza pulled out a letter.
Can I bury it? “It’s for Mom—our first.”
I nodded. She read aloud.
“Mom, I remember you.” Sometimes I miss you. I am not angry. We’re fine now. We have a mother who loves us. I’m almost grown up. Everything will be OK. We have not forgotten you—we are simply letting you go. “With love, Liza.”
She buried the letter and patted the soil flat.
“I am grateful to you for giving us life. Now, let us leave. “We are safe.”
Sometimes all you have to do to change someone’s fate is listen and stay.
People now smile when the three of us stroll down the street. They see a typical family—and they’re correct. This is regular happiness: modest, genuine, and saving.
Two years have gone. Liza is a third grader. Artyom babbles his first words and sings “Mama.” And I am always present. And I will not leave.
