“Almost forever,” added Lena, wiping away her tears.

They planted the tree together, just as they had once planted apple trees with Grandfather.

— Do you remember how he taught us to catch crayfish? — Oleg asked when we were returning home.

— And do you remember how we built a raft on the river? — Petya picked up.

— And how he told us about the constellations, — Masha added.

— And about the bear we met in the raspberry patch, — Lena smiled through her tears.

The memories flowed like a stream — an endless series of stories where grandfather was a hero, a mentor, a friend.

After the funeral, the children left — work, families, responsibilities. The house was empty. Mom and I were left alone.

She had turned completely gray, but her gaze remained clear, her hands — warm.

— That’s how it happens, — she told me one evening. — Sergey thought that a wife with four children was the end of life. But it turned out — a whole world.

Five years later, Mom was gone too.

She left in her sleep, like Dad.

And again the children gathered, again the stories were heard – now about Grandma Maria, about her fairy tales, about holidays out of nothing. I was left alone in the big house. But not for long.

Oleg got divorced and came back with a little daughter.

Then Petya’s wife sent their eldest to us for a while – “to gain village strength.” Masha and her husband bought a house next door.

During the summer holidays, Lena sent her twins “to Grandma’s for fresh milk.”

And again, like twenty years ago, our yard was filled with voices. The new generation picked berries from the very bushes that their parents planted. Climbed onto the roof of the barn.

Hid in the tall grass. Built huts and fortresses. And only sometimes, on quiet evenings, sitting by the window, I caught myself thinking: “He left then, leaving me four.

He thought that I would not cope. God, how we coped.”

The cedar next to my father’s grave was gaining strength, reaching for the sky. And our house seemed to become more spacious with each passing year – accommodating new stories, new lives, new love.

One summer, when everyone had gathered together again, we were sitting on the veranda – a large circle of children, grandchildren, their spouses.

Glasses clinked, laughter sounded. Someone was telling stories, someone was playing the guitar. Neighbors dropped in for a light.

I looked at them – my beautiful, strong, happy – and suddenly realized: this is real wealth.

Not gold, not a career, not fame. But a house full of people who know their roots and know how to love.

“Grandma,” my youngest grandson asked me, climbing onto my lap. “Is it true that our family is the largest in the village?”

“It’s true,” I said, looking at the stars appearing in the summer sky.

“And the strongest.