I went to meet her. We were silent for a long time. Then she took a step forward and hugged me tightly.
“I’m sorry, Mum… I thought I was grown-up.
But it turns out that home isn’t a career, and it isn’t a husband… It’s you. Only you.”
I didn’t answer. I just stroked her back.
Sometimes, the best things are said in embraces and silence.
Since then, Irina has been visiting every week. Not as a guest, but as a beloved daughter. She helps around the house, brings books, bakes pies for the residents.
In her eyes, I again saw that little girl whose braids I used to braid.
And three months later, she came with my grandson:
“Mum, we want you to come back to us. The house is waiting. We’ve rethought a lot.
If you agree—we’ll learn to be a family again.”
I smiled gently:
“I don’t want to go back, Ira. Here, I’ve found myself. But I want to be close.
Just not as a burden—but as an equal.”
And we hugged. Without pain. Without resentment.
Only with love.
