Sitting on a bench near the store, I absentmindedly scrolled through my phone, not paying attention to the hustle and bustle around me.
People were rushing by: some talking on the phone, others just walking past.
I probably would have stayed indifferent if I hadn’t heard a child’s voice—a thin, tired, yet surprisingly serious one.
— Aunt, do you happen to need a baby?
Take my little brother.
He’s only five months old, and he really wants to eat…
I looked up and saw a girl, about six or seven years old.
Thin, in a large jacket, with a messy ponytail, she was standing next to an old stroller from which the quiet sound of a baby’s breathing came.
— Where’s your mom?
— I asked cautiously.
— She’s tired…
She’s been asleep for a while.
I’m feeding my brother myself.
All we have left is bread and water…
— Where do you live?
The girl waved her hand toward a shabby five-story building.
— Over there.
We called dad yesterday, but he said we have to manage on our own…
He’s not coming…
Something tightened inside me, like an invisible spring.
I wanted to scream, cry, but the girl remained remarkably calm.
For the sake of her little brother, she found the strength not to give up.
We walked together.
I took the baby in my arms, and she walked beside me, anxiously glancing at me, as if she feared that I would disappear, like all the adults in her life.
The apartment was dark, damp, and cold.
Toys were scattered in the corner, and a note was on the table: “Forgive me, children. I can’t go on. I hope kind people will help.”
An ambulance was called immediately, and social services arrived shortly after.
But I couldn’t just leave.
Six months later, Liza and Artyom became my foster children.
Now we have a home that smells of fresh baking, where children’s laughter can be heard, and no one asks anymore: “Take my little brother—he’s hungry.”
Almost a year has passed.
Artyom smiles, rejoices at every return of mine, clapping his hands.
Sometimes, he wakes up at night and cries softly for no reason.
I take him in my arms, press him to me, and he immediately calms down.
Liza looks older than her years.
But now she’s happy.
She has her own room, a favorite stuffed bunny, and a passion for pancakes.
She couldn’t make them before, but now she proudly calls me:
— Mom, try these.
These have banana.
Just like yours.
The first “mom” came out during lunch with macaroni and cheese.
She said it by accident:
— Mom, pass the ketchup…
Then she blushed:
— Sorry…
I know you’re not my real mom…
I hugged her:
— I am your real mom.
Because I love you.
For real.
Now she calls me that all the time.
Not because she has to, but because she wants to.
We visit her mom’s grave.
I don’t judge her.
She broke.
Maybe, somewhere, she’s glad that I walked out of the store that day.
That I heard Liza.
When she came up to me then, she wasn’t just asking for her brother.
She was looking for hope.
And I answered: “We need you both.”
Recently, Liza lost her first tooth.
She brought it to me in her palm:
— Mom, now I’m definitely grown up, right?
I laughed through my tears.
Because now she’s just a child.
With her bear-print pajamas and a note under her pillow: “Tooth Fairy, there’s no tooth, but you can leave a coin—I don’t mind.”
Artyom started walking.
His soft steps sound like music to me.
He looks at me each time, as if asking: “Are you still here?”
And I answer: “I’m with you.
Always.”
We celebrated his first birthday—with balloons, a candle, and cake.
Liza baked cookies and wrote on the card: “Happy birthday, Artyom.
Now we have a family.
All of us.”
In the evening, she fell asleep on my shoulder.
For the first time, peacefully.
Without anxiety.
Just like a child.
Like a daughter.
In the spring, we planted flowers.
Liza brought a letter:
— Can I bury it?
This is for mom.
The real one.
I nodded.
She read it out loud:
“Mom, I remember you.
Sometimes I miss you.
I’m not angry.
We’re fine.
We have a mom now.
She loves us.
I’m almost grown up.
Everything will be fine.
We haven’t forgotten you.
We’re just letting you go.
With love, your Liza.”
She buried the letter and pressed the earth with her hands:
— Thank you for giving birth to us.
Now let go.
We’re safe.
Sometimes, to change someone’s fate, all you need to do is listen.
And stay.
Now, when we walk down the street together, people smile.
They think: a normal family.
And they’re right.
Because this is normal happiness.
Quiet.
Real.
Saving.
Two years have passed.
Liza is in third grade.
Artyom babbles his first phrases, singing “mom.”
And I’m always there.
And I will never leave.
Never.
