Their daughter Lena vanished in 1990, on the day of her graduation.
It was a warm June night. Mom had prepared her favorite vanilla pie.
Lena was spinning in front of the mirror in a blue dress, laughing, and her father, Nikolai, looking at her, suddenly thought: “This is it – real happiness…”
But no one could have undertood that this would be their last evening together.
After graduation, Lena never returned home.
The years passed. Olga, her mother, almost never left the house.
Nikolai grew old early. Hope, like a flame in an old lamp, gradually faded.
And here it is – 2012.
Nikolai went up to the attic to tidy up in one rainy October day. The air was filled with dust, boxes of books, old toys, and junk were all around.
And abruptly he found a photo album. The very one with Lena’s childhood photos: school parties, summer trips, first grade…
The photo displays an adult Lena, about thirty years old, standing by a wooden house against the backdrop of mountains. On the back is the inscription: “2002.
I am alive. Forgive me . ”
From that moment on, a new phase of his life began – the search for answers.
Nikolai silently handed the photo to his wife, then Olga took it with trembling hands, looked at it closely – and froze.
– It’s her… It’s Lena…
“She was alive…” he muttered.
“After twelve years… and she didn’t call to her family. Why?..”
The next morning Nikolai began searching. He found a hotel with that name on the Internet – in Kyrgyzstan, in a small mountain village.
He didn’t hesitate: he prepared his things, withdrew money from his account and set off.
The hotel was there. An old sign, a familiar facade.
“Excuse me,” Nikolai said. “Do you know a woman named Lena?
Lena Nikolaeva. Perhaps she lived here about ten years ago…”
– Wait. Are you Nikolai?
Her father?
– Yes…
She walked over, opened the drawer and removed a worn envelope. On it, in large letters, was written: “For Dad. Only if he comes himself.”
Nikolai’s hands were quivering as he tore open the envelope.
“Dad.
If you’re reading this, it means I was wrong.
I ran away back then, in 1990. Not from you, but from fear. I fell into bad company.
And then it was too late to go back. I was ashamed.
I’m alive. I have a son.
His name is Artyom. He never knew you.
I was going to write many times, but I couldn’t bring myself to.
If you came, find me. I’m not far.
Forgive me.
L.”
Nikolai reread the letter several times until tears began to drip onto the paper.
He didn’t even know how his hands were trembling.
“She lives in the neighboring village,” the woman said. “If you want, I can take her.”
A woman appeared next to him – tall, dark-haired. Their eyes met.
Lena.
She froze.
He did too.
– Dad?
He couldn’t say anything. He just bobbed. And the next time he was already holding her in his arms – tightly, like then, many years ago.
“I’m sorry…” she muttered.
“I’ll fix it. I promise.”
A few more years went. Laughter was appeared in the house again.
A boy named Artyom called Nikolai “grandpa,” and Olga, for the first time in twenty years, was planting flowers by the porch again.
On the last page was a photo of the whole family: Lena, Artem, Nikolai and Olga.
And the signature:
“Family is when you find each other. Even after twenty-two years.”
Olga was sitting on the veranda, peeling potatoes, holding an old knitted blanket on her lap. Her grandson’s voice could be heard from the house:
– Grandpa, is it true that you worked on a tractor?
– True!
– And not just worked – was the best driver in the area!
Artem, a cheerful boy with bright eyes, loved his grandfather’s stories.
Lena went out onto the porch.
– It’s time for dinner!
– she called. – Artyom, call grandpa.
– You know… I’m afraid every day that I’ll wake up and you’ll be gone again.
Lena lowered her eyes.
– I was afraid too. That you wouldn’t accept me.
Don’t forgive me.
“Silly girl,” he said softly. “How can you not pardon your own daughter?”
One day, while Olga was taking winter clothes down from the mezzanine, she saw an old box. Inside was a leather diary – worn, with Lenin’s handwriting.
“I worked as a cleaner, then in the kitchen.
I lived in a corner with an old lady with cats. Sometimes it seemed like I had di:ed a long time ago. I wanted to come back.
But I didn’t have the strength…”
“When Artem was born, I felt needed again. I swore: if fate gives me a chance, I will come back. I will explain everything.
Even after twenty years.”
A man appeared on the doorstep after a few months. Tall, with gray hair, with eyes full of the past. Nikolai opened the door and immediately understood: this was part of their family pain.
– Hello.
My name is Stanislav. I… knew Lena. In 1990.
I… apologize. They sat down on a bench. Lena came out later, saw the guest – and was surprised.
– I’m not asking for forgiveness.
I just wanted you to know: I haven’t forgotten either.
Lena was silent for a long time. Then she said calmly:
– Now we can march on.
“I forgave you long ago,” Lena said quietly. “But not for your sake.
For my own. So that I could live on.”
Stanislav left. And with him, it seemed, the last ghost of the past vanished.
The New Year delivered warmth, laughter and that same album again.
Now it had new pages — Artem himself pasted in the photos: school photos, walks, fishing with his grandfather.
On the last one he wrote:
“Family is not the ones who stay around forever. It’s the ones who come back.”
Seven years went. Artyom turned fifteen.
He loved to photograph places where memories remained: abandoned houses, rusty swings, traces of a fire.
He called them “traces of life.”
“We have a real artist growing up,” he said proudly. “Only instead of a brush, there’s a camera.”
Olga had become gentle over the years. Her smile maintained the same, but there was something deep in her eyes now, as if she had found inner stability.
Lena started teaching literature at a local school.
The students respected her. Life finally found meaning, passion, and a place to stay for a long time.
But time passed. And with it, everything that is wonderful.
One spring day, Nikolai had di:ed.
An old photograph was found on the bedside table: Lena in her graduation dress, she and Olga next to each other – young, laughing.
The caption read:
“You taught me to remember.
Thank you, Grandpa.”
Another five years passed.
Artem studied Moscow University in the photography and journalism department. He wrote home often. Each letter started the same way:
“Mom, hi.
I miss you. I remember.”
The year 2025.
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