A week later, a new resident came to me. She had no one except for memories. A small, fragile woman with dull eyes sat down next to me and quietly asked:

“I’ve been told that you’re not just the boss here… but a kind soul.

May I talk to you?”

We sat the whole evening. She told me how her daughter left her alone after an illness, how her world collapsed. I listened.

Without judgment. Without pity. I was simply there.

Just as I once dreamed someone would be there for me.

And only then did I understand: forgiveness is not weakness. It’s a strength that must be earned.

In the spring, I wrote Irina a short reply:

“Come. No words are necessary.

Just hug me. I will wait.”

She came. Thinner, with her first gray hairs, completely different from before.

She stood at the door, like a little girl, nervously looking around.

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.