“I’ve Changed,” the Mother Declared After Returning from Prison for the Son I Had Spent a Year Teaching Not to Be Afraid
Under the mattress lay three pieces of bread, half a cutlet wrapped in a napkin, and two cookies. Nina Vasilyevna froze with the bedsheet in her hands, staring at the stash. The boy had been living with her for only three days.
Silently, she lowered the mattress back into place. That evening, without saying anything, she replaced the bread with fresh slices.
It had all begun with a phone call at half past seven in the morning, on the last day of August.
The number was unfamiliar, but Nina Vasilyevna immediately sensed that the news would not be good.
“Is this Nina Vasilyevna Korneeva? I’m calling from the child protective services office of the Zarechny District. Tell me, is Dmitry Sergeyevich Korneev a relative of yours?”
At first, she could not even remember who they meant.
“Dmitry? You mean Mitya? The son of my late husband’s cousin?”
“Possibly. We’re calling about his son, Artyom Korneev. He’s seven years old.”
“What happened?”
The story she heard left Nina Vasilyevna restless for the rest of the day. Mitya, whom she had last seen about fifteen years earlier at her father-in-law’s funeral, had become an alcoholic and died three years ago. His wife was serving a prison sentence for theft. Their son Artyom had spent the previous year and a half living with his maternal grandmother, but she had recently suffered a severe stroke. The prognosis was grim, and suddenly there was no one left to care for the boy.
“And you want to give him to me?” Nina Vasilyevna asked directly.
“You’re the only relative we’ve managed to find. The alternative is an orphanage.”
She was fifty-eight years old. Her husband, Sergey, had died four years ago. Her daughter Svetlana lived in another city with her own family. Nina worked at a warehouse, lived in a two-room apartment, and was only two years away from retirement.
What was she supposed to do with a child?
She also understood that Mitya was not even her blood relative. And the boy was an extremely distant relation. She could refuse, and no one would blame her.
“Send me a photograph,” she said. “And the documents. I’ll think about it.”
“Mom, are you serious?” Svetlana called that evening as soon as she heard the news. “Do you really need this? A stranger’s child with that kind of heredity.”
“He’s family. Even if distant.”
“What family? You didn’t even remember this Mitya existed until today. A child from parents like that—you know what that means. All sorts of disorders. Aggression. He could have serious problems.”
“Sveta, he’s seven years old.”
“So what? By seven, a child’s personality is already visible. It’s a huge responsibility, and you still have to work. You need to take care of your health.”
Nina Vasilyevna listened and understood that her daughter was right on every practical point.
But she could not stop thinking about the photograph child protective services had sent her.
A thin little boy with enormous gray eyes. His expression looked as though he already knew that someone was about to hurt him.
“Sveta, what if that had been you?” Nina asked. “When you were a child. Alone. Nobody wanted you.”
“Mom, that’s completely different. I’m your daughter.”
“And he’s somebody’s son too.”
Svetlana fell silent.
“Fine. Do whatever you want. But I won’t be able to help you. I have two children of my own and a job. And don’t complain to me later.”
Artyom was brought to her a week later, in the first days of September. Nina Vasilyevna had managed to buy a fold-out sofa, bedsheets decorated with little cars, several T-shirts, and jeans. Her neighbor, Valentina Petrovna, brought over some toys her grandchildren had outgrown.
“You’re practically a hero, Nina,” she kept saying. “I’d never dare take something like this on.”
“What kind of hero am I? It just happened.”
The child services worker led Artyom inside by the hand. The boy carried his belongings in a plastic bag and stared at the floor.
“Artyom, this is Aunt Nina. She’s your relative. You’ll be staying with her.”
“Hello, Artyom.” Nina Vasilyevna crouched so she could be at his eye level.
The boy looked up.
His eyes were gray, and there was nothing childlike in them—only the wary expression of someone who had already been beaten down by life.
“Hello.”
“Come in. I’ll show you your room. You’ll have a room of your own.”
Artyom nodded and walked inside without taking off his shoes.
“Please take your shoes off.”
The boy flinched as if she had struck him.
He yanked them off quickly and froze against the wall, his head drawn into his shoulders.
The child services worker took Nina Vasilyevna into the kitchen and lowered her voice.
“It’s a difficult situation. His father drank and beat both the boy and his mother. His mother was unstable too and often took things out on the child. He’s extremely withdrawn. And there’s another issue.”
“What?”
“He hides food. Under pillows, in his pockets. Apparently, he went hungry. If you take it away from him, he may become hysterical. Don’t draw attention to it. It should pass with time.”
“My God.”
The first days passed in a strange, ringing tension.
Artyom was so quiet that Nina Vasilyevna sometimes forgot he was even in the apartment. He ate little and very quickly, as though afraid someone might take his food away. A couple of times, she caught him standing in front of the open refrigerator. Each time, he jumped back as though he had been caught committing a crime.
“Artyom, if you’re hungry, just tell me. Or take something yourself. The refrigerator belongs to both of us.”
He nodded and ran back to his room.
That was when she found the food hidden under his mattress.
She did not say a word.
On the third day, Svetlana called.
“So, how’s your… new arrival?”
“Quiet. Like a little mouse. Afraid of everything.”
“I told you. Maybe you should place him somewhere appropriate? There are special institutions with professionals.”
“You’re suggesting I send a seven-year-old boy to an orphanage because he’s quiet?”
Nina Vasilyevna had no idea what kind of guardian she was supposed to be. She had worked all her life, buried her husband, raised her daughter.
And now she sat in the kitchen wondering how to reach a boy who looked at the world as though he were constantly waiting to be hit.
Artyom began talking almost by accident.
Nina Vasilyevna found an old photo album belonging to her husband on the top shelf. She brought it into the kitchen and started looking through it.
Artyom appeared in the doorway.
At first he stayed there, then took one step closer, then another.
“Who’s that?” he suddenly asked.
“That’s Grandpa Seryozha, my husband. And those are his brothers.”
“Where’s my dad?”
Nina Vasilyevna turned several pages and found an old childhood photograph. Mitya was about six years old in it, standing with an ice cream and smiling.
“Here. He was about your age.”
Artyom stared at the picture for a long time.
“He looks kind here.”
“Kind?”
“He’s smiling. He hardly ever smiled. Almost never.”
Nina Vasilyevna closed the album.
“Would you like some buckwheat porridge? With meat?”
Artyom nodded.
And for the first time, he sat down at the table by himself without looking nervously toward the door.
Two weeks later, the school called. Artyom needed to be enrolled in first grade immediately because the school year had already started.
“A boy from a troubled family?” the principal asked. She was a thin woman with an unpleasant squint.
“You could say that.”
“If there are behavioral problems, we’ll have to address them.”
“What problems? He’s quiet.”
“Sometimes the quiet ones are the most difficult.”
His first day at school passed without incident. Artyom returned home silent but not frightened.
On the second day, Nina Vasilyevna found half a school sandwich in his backpack, wrapped in a sheet torn from a notebook.
“Tyoma, did you eat lunch at school?”
“Yes.”
“Then what’s this?”
“It’s for later.”
She remembered what the child services worker had told her.
Without comment, she put a plastic container with an apple and cookies into his backpack.
“Take this for later instead. It keeps better and won’t get crushed.”
Artyom looked at her suspiciously, but accepted the container.
A month later came the first serious difficulty.
Nina Vasilyevna was urgently called into work for an evening shift because her coworker had fallen ill. There was no one to stay with Artyom.
“Valya, can you help me? Just for four hours.”
“Of course. Let him stay with me. I’ll feed him.”
Nina explained the situation to Artyom.
He listened silently, and his face gradually turned pale.
“You’ll stay with Aunt Valya and watch television. I’ll be back soon.”
“Why can’t I stay here alone?”
“You’re seven.”
“I was seven before too. I stayed alone.”
“You don’t have to anymore. Aunt Valya is nice.”
Artyom turned toward the window and said nothing else.
Nina Vasilyevna went to work with a heavy heart. She called Valentina every hour. Each time, the woman assured her everything was fine: the boy was sitting quietly, watching cartoons, and he had eaten.
When Nina picked him up, Artyom did not speak the entire way home.
He entered the apartment without taking off his coat, went straight into his room, and closed the door.
“Tyoma, shall we have dinner?”
Silence.
Nina Vasilyevna opened the door.
Artyom sat on the bed with his knees pulled to his chest, staring at a single point.
“What happened?”
“You’re going to give me away.”
“What makes you think that?”
“To strangers. First for a little while, then forever.”
“Why would you think that?”
“People always give me away. Mom said she’d give me away if I behaved badly. And she did. Grandma said it too.”
“Your grandmother became ill. She didn’t do it deliberately.”
“Doesn’t matter. She gave me away.”
Nina Vasilyevna sat on the edge of the bed beside him. The boy tensed, but did not move away.
“Listen to me, Artyom. I’m not giving you to anyone. Aunt Valya is just my neighbor. I asked her to stay with you while I was at work. Then you came back home. Your room. Your bed.”
“Mine?”
“Yours.”
Artyom was silent for a moment.
“What if I break something?”
“Break what?”
“A cup. Or a plate.”
“Then we’ll buy another one. I have a twelve-person dinner set my mother left me. I don’t care about it at all.”
“Really?”
“Really. Just don’t break things on purpose. Accidents happen.”
That night, Nina Vasilyevna woke to a faint sound.
Artyom was crying quietly into his pillow, trying not to make noise.
She walked to his door and stood there for a while.
But she did not go in.
She returned to her own room.
She decided he did not need to be caught crying. He should be allowed to cry as long as he needed.
“Mom, you’re going to spend all your nerves on that child, and then they’ll take him away anyway,” Svetlana said during her usual weekend call.
“Who will take him?”
“His mother will get out of prison. Or child services will decide you’re too old.”
“Sveta, what are you trying to accomplish?”
“I just want you to be realistic. It’s hard for you. I can hear it in your voice.”
“For the first time in years, I feel like I’m doing something truly important.”
“Raising someone else’s child is important?”
“He isn’t someone else’s.”
Svetlana sighed.
“Fine. But we won’t come for New Year’s. Igor doesn’t want our children around that boy.”
“Why?”
“Nobody knows what habits he has. What he might tell our children.”
“Sveta, he’s seven.”
“So what? Seven-year-olds already know plenty. Especially children from families like that.”
Nina Vasilyevna hung up.
She felt so hurt for Artyom that she almost cried.
In November, problems began at school.
His teacher asked Nina to come in for a meeting.
“Your boy doesn’t communicate with anyone.”
“He’s shy.”
“Shy? He doesn’t speak to his classmates at all. He sits alone. During breaks, he stands in a corner. We have a school psychologist. I recommend taking him there.”
The psychologist was a young woman wearing fashionable glasses.
“How does the boy behave at home?”
“Quietly. He eats, sleeps, does his homework.”
“Does he play?”
“Sometimes. With toy cars.”
“Tantrums?”
“No.”
“Aggression?”
“No.”
“Any unusual behavior?”
Nina hesitated.
“He hides food. Under his pillow, in his pockets.”
“That’s a typical reaction to having experienced hunger and instability. It will pass when he develops a sense of security. Don’t draw attention to it. Don’t scold him.”
“I don’t. I pretend I don’t notice.”
“That’s exactly right. The child has experienced serious trauma. He needs time and stability. Just stay close to him, love him, and don’t pressure him.”
Nina Vasilyevna left the office feeling relieved.
At least someone had told her she was doing something right.
In December, something happened that changed a great deal.
Nina let Artyom go outside to play while she sat on a bench with some of the other women from the neighborhood.
Artyom stood apart from the playground, watching the children slide down the hill.
“Why doesn’t yours play?” a neighbor asked.
“He’s shy.”
Nina Vasilyevna almost went over to encourage him, but then she saw him start walking toward the slide on his own.
An older boy, about ten, was taking a shovel away from a little girl. The girl was crying, while the older boy laughed.
Artyom approached and said something.
The older boy turned around and shoved him in the chest.
Artyom did not step back.
He said something else.
The boy raised his fist, but Artyom caught his arm and twisted it so suddenly that the bully howled and dropped the shovel.
The little girl grabbed her toy and ran to her mother.
Nina Vasilyevna hurried over.
“Artyom!”
“He was hurting the little girl.”
“Your child almost crippled my son!” the older boy’s mother shouted, rushing toward them.
“Your son was stealing a toy from a younger girl, and he started the fight.”
“So what? That gives him the right to twist someone’s arm?”
The argument became serious. The woman shouted something about “problem children being brought into the neighborhood,” while the neighbors whispered among themselves.
Nina Vasilyevna took Artyom by the hand and led him home.
Inside, she sat opposite him.
“Tyoma, you did a good thing by standing up for that girl. But you shouldn’t twist someone’s arm. You could seriously hurt them.”
“Then what am I supposed to do?”
“Call an adult. Or try explaining with words.”
“I explained. He didn’t understand.”
“Then walk away and get somebody.”
“And the girl?”
Nina Vasilyevna could not answer immediately.
“You did well standing up for her. But next time, call me first, all right?”
Artyom nodded.
Then he suddenly asked:
“Do you really think I did well?”
“I do.”
“No one ever said that to me before.”
After that incident, something seemed to shift.
Artyom began talking more. Sometimes he even smiled. He almost stopped hiding food, although he continued carrying the container of cookies in his backpack—just in case.
Svetlana did not come for New Year’s.
She sent a video greeting and transferred money with the note “for presents.”
Nina Vasilyevna bought Artyom a construction set and a warm winter coat.
On the evening of December thirty-first, they sat in front of the television eating mandarins and watching The Irony of Fate.
“Was it always like this for you? Just the two of you?”
“Before, Grandpa was here. And Sveta used to come with the children.”
“Why doesn’t she come now?”
“It’s far. Expensive.”
“Maybe it’s because of me?”
Nina Vasilyevna looked at him carefully.
“Maybe partly because of you. But that’s her choice. It isn’t your fault.”
“She doesn’t like me?”
“She doesn’t know you. Once she does, she’ll like you.”
“What if she doesn’t?”
“Then it’s her loss, not yours.”
Artyom stared at the television for a while.
“I loved my grandmother. The one who’s in the hospital. She was strict, but she wasn’t mean. Not like Mom.”
“Was your mother mean?”
“Sometimes. When she drank, she was mean. She could hit me. Or scream so loudly my ears hurt.”
“And your father?”
“Dad was always angry. Everybody was afraid of him. Me, Mom, the neighbors.”
Nina Vasilyevna did not ask anything else.
“Let’s make a wish. But don’t say it aloud or it won’t come true.”
Artyom squeezed his eyes shut and silently moved his lips.
Then he opened them.
“I made one.”
“So did I.”
At midnight, fireworks exploded outside.
Artyom flinched and pressed himself against Nina Vasilyevna.
“It’s just fireworks. Don’t be afraid.”
“I’m not afraid.”
But he did not let go of her hand until the noise ended.
In January, child services called.
Artyom’s grandmother had died without regaining consciousness.
Nina Vasilyevna did not know how to tell him. She spent half the day sitting in the kitchen searching for the right words.
Artyom came to her himself.
“What happened?”
“How do you know something happened?”
“Your face looks different.”
She had to tell him.
Artyom listened silently, staring at the table.
“Am I supposed to cry?”
“Do whatever you feel.”
“I don’t want to cry. Is that bad?”
“No. People grieve differently.”
“Grandma was good. But she was very sick. Maybe it’s easier for her now.”
Nina Vasilyevna hugged him.
He stiffened, but did not pull away.
“Are they definitely going to take me now?”
“No.”
“Definitely?”
“Definitely. You’re with me now. Forever.”
Obtaining permanent guardianship turned into a long ordeal involving paperwork, certificates, commissions, and home inspections.
“Are you sure you can manage?” an inspector asked. “Considering your age and health.”
“I’m sure.”
“Financial situation?”
“I work. I retire in a year and a half.”
“Living space?”
“I own a two-room apartment. The child has his own room.”
Officials came to inspect the apartment. They looked inside the refrigerator and cupboards.
Artyom was questioned separately, without Nina Vasilyevna.
“Do you like living with Aunt Nina?”
“Yes.”
“She doesn’t hurt you?”
“No.”
“What do you do together?”
“Homework. Watch television. She makes porridge for me.”
“Do you like the porridge?”
“Yes. With butter.”
After all the inspections, Nina received a call telling her that the guardianship had been officially approved.
She put down the phone and felt the tension that had been inside her for months finally release.
All that time, she had secretly been afraid they might take him away.
In February, Svetlana appeared unexpectedly.
She arrived alone, without her husband or children.
“Mom, we need to talk. I’ve been thinking a lot, and I realized I behaved badly.”
“In what way?”
“I didn’t support you. I said terrible things about Artyom without knowing him. I didn’t come for New Year’s.”
Nina Vasilyevna remained silent, waiting.
“Igor is still against it,” Svetlana continued. “But I’ve decided it isn’t his decision. You’re my mother, and if you chose to take in this child, I have to accept it and support you.”
“Thank you, Sveta.”
“But I want to say this directly. You understand this is forever, right? You’re taking responsibility for him all the way?”
“I understand.”
“And if something happens to you, the child will be alone again.”
“Nothing is going to happen to me.”
“Mom, you’re fifty-eight.”
“So what? Grandma lived to eighty-five.”
“That isn’t an argument.”
Nina Vasilyevna looked at her daughter for a long time.
“Sveta, what are you getting at?”
“I want to meet the boy. Properly. So he knows he has more family. Not just you.”
It was unexpected.
And sincere.
“All right. He gets home from school at two.”
The meeting was awkward.
Svetlana sat at the kitchen table with a strained smile while Artyom froze in the doorway.
“This is Aunt Sveta, my daughter.”
“Hello, Artyom.” Svetlana held out her hand.
Artyom looked at it.
He did not shake it.
“Hello.”
“Don’t you want to shake hands?”
“I don’t know you.”
Svetlana looked confused.
“Tyoma, Aunt Sveta came all the way from another city especially to meet you.”
“Why?”
“You’re part of our family now.”
Artyom studied Svetlana for a moment.
“You didn’t come for New Year’s. Because of me.”
Svetlana turned red.
“I was busy.”
“Grandma Nina said it was because of me.”
“She didn’t explain it exactly right.”
“She did.”
Silence filled the kitchen.
Then Artyom said calmly:
“Okay. At least you came now. That’s already good.”
And he went back to his room.
“Is he always that direct?” Svetlana whispered.
“No. Usually he hardly talks. I suppose he was testing you.”
Svetlana stayed until evening.
The three of them had dinner together. Artyom gradually relaxed and even showed her his construction set.
Before leaving, Svetlana said:
“I’ll come for the May holidays. With the children. They should meet him.”
“What about Igor?”
“He’ll survive.”
March and April passed quickly.
Artyom finished first grade with average and good marks.
At the final parent meeting, his teacher said:
“The boy works hard. He’s still quiet, but now he communicates with his classmates. The progress is obvious.”
For the May holidays, Svetlana came with her children: twelve-year-old Kostya and nine-year-old Masha.
The children looked at Artyom cautiously.
He looked at them the same way.
“So he’s kind of your brother now?” Kostya quietly asked his mother.
“Not your brother. A distant cousin once removed. He’s a relative.”
“Got it.”
Kostya walked up to Artyom and held out his hand.
“Hi. I’m Kostya.”
Artyom shook it.
“Hi. I’m Tyoma.”
“Do you play computer games?”
“No. I don’t have a computer.”
“Seriously? All right. Let’s go outside. Show me what there is around here.”
The three children left together.
Nina Vasilyevna watched through the window as they walked toward the playground—Kostya in front, with Masha and Artyom a little behind him.
“Maybe everything really will be okay,” Svetlana said, standing beside her.
“Maybe.”
That evening, the children returned exhausted and cheerful.
Masha talked nonstop. Kostya showed pictures on his phone.
Artyom smiled.
“Tyoma’s cool,” Kostya announced at dinner. “He knows the whole neighborhood. He showed us the best place to ride bikes.”
“He protected me when a dog came running over!” Masha added. “It was huge and scary!”
“What dog?” Svetlana asked anxiously.
“It was nothing, just a stray. Tyoma stood between me and the dog and said really firmly, ‘Go away.’ And it left!”
Artyom shyly poked at his salad with his fork.
“I’m not a hero. It left by itself.”
“You are too,” Kostya laughed. “Masha’s going to tell everybody about it for a week.”
Later, while Nina Vasilyevna was helping Artyom get ready for bed, she heard him muttering quietly to himself.
“Now I have a brother and a sister.”
She did not correct him.
The summer went well—better than Nina Vasilyevna could have hoped.
She took vacation time, and she and Artyom went to the country house of an old friend, visited the park, and rode a riverboat.
The boy got tanned, grew taller, and laughed more often.
Sometimes Nina caught herself thinking that perhaps this was what happiness really was.
Simple.
Quiet.
Real.
Then, in August, child services called.
The worker’s voice was formal.
“Nina Vasilyevna, I’m required to inform you that Artyom’s mother, Irina Alexandrovna Korneeva, has been released on parole. She has submitted an application to have her parental rights restored.”
“What does that mean?”
“For now, nothing. There will be a court hearing and inspections. You’ll receive a summons.”
Nina Vasilyevna did not tell Artyom.
But he sensed something himself.
Several days later, he asked:
“Grandma Nina, is my mother still alive?”
“Why are you asking?”
“I think about her sometimes. She was in prison. What about now?”
“She’s out.”
“Is she going to come for me?”
Nina Vasilyevna sat beside him on the sofa.
“Tyoma, I don’t know what’s going to happen. But I want you to know one thing for certain: I will do everything I can to make sure nobody takes you away.”
“What if the court decides differently?”
“I’ll fight to the end.”
“I’m scared.”
“So am I.”
They sat silently, shoulder to shoulder.
Then Artyom spoke quietly.
“I don’t want to go to Mom. She used to be bad.”
“I know.”
“She hit me. Called me terrible things. Once she locked me on the balcony for the whole day. In winter. I knocked on the door, but she wouldn’t open it.”
“My God.”
“Dad hit me too. Really hard. With a belt and with his fists.”
Nina Vasilyevna wrapped her arms around him as tightly as she could.
He did not cry.
He spoke quietly and evenly, as though describing something that had happened to another person.
“I was afraid of them. Always. Every day. I wasn’t afraid of Grandma. She was good. And I’m not afraid of you. Not even a little.”
“And you never need to be afraid of me. Ever.”
The court hearing took place in October.
Artyom’s mother, Irina, arrived elegantly dressed, with her hair styled and an attorney beside her.
“I’ve changed,” she told the judge. “I served my sentence and understood my mistakes. I want to raise my son. That is my legal right.”
“Where do you plan to live with the child?” the judge asked.
“I have a room in a dormitory. Temporarily. Later I’ll rent an apartment.”
“Employment?”
“I’m applying for a job as a sales clerk in a grocery store. I’ve already had the interview.”
Nina Vasilyevna spoke after her.
She described Artyom’s night terrors, the food hidden under his pillow, and the way he had flinched at loud noises and sudden movements during the first months.
“This child suffered severe psychological trauma because of his parents. He has only just begun to recover. He has only just started trusting adults. Returning him to the mother who caused him suffering would destroy everything we’ve achieved over the past year.”
The representative from child protective services confirmed that Nina Korneeva’s living conditions met all requirements, that Artyom had adapted well, was attending school, and was developing normally.
The judge left to deliberate.
Nina Vasilyevna sat on a hard bench and waited.
Beside her, Irina studied her fingernails, which were painted a bright color.
“You understand he’s my son,” Irina suddenly said without turning her head. “By blood, he’s mine.”
“By blood, yes. But in every other way?”
Irina did not answer.
The judge returned forty minutes later.
“The court denies Irina Alexandrovna Korneeva’s application for restoration of parental rights. Grounds include inadequate housing conditions, lack of a stable source of income, and the psychologist’s conclusion regarding the child’s traumatic experiences while living with his mother.”
Irina jumped to her feet.
“This is outrageous! He’s my son!”
“You have the right to appeal the decision in accordance with the law. The ruling will enter into force after the deadline for filing an appeal expires.”
Artyom was waiting at home.
Svetlana had flown in specifically to stay with him while Nina Vasilyevna attended court.
As soon as the door opened, he ran into the hallway.
“Well?”
“Everything’s all right. You’re staying with me.”
“Forever?”
“Forever.”
He threw himself into her arms and hugged her so tightly that she staggered.
“Thank you, Grandma Nina. Thank you.”
Svetlana stood in the kitchen doorway wiping her eyes.
“Mom, I never thought I’d say this, but you did a wonderful thing. You really did.”
“Thank you, Sveta.”
“And forgive me. For everything. For the things I said, for doubting you, for New Year’s.”
“I forgave you a long time ago.”
A year passed.
Artyom entered second grade.
He made friends and enrolled in swimming classes at the school pool.
He no longer hid food. He slept peacefully and laughed often and loudly, like any other child.
Kostya and Masha came to visit during every school vacation.
Igor eventually accepted the situation, although he remained somewhat distant.
Svetlana called almost every day.
Nina Vasilyevna retired and took a part-time job—not so much for the money as because she did not want to sit at home all day.
Artyom helped around the apartment.
“Grandma Nina, can I wash the dishes?”
“Why would you want to?”
“To help you. You get tired after work.”
“All right. Just be careful. The water is hot.”
“I’m careful.”
He did not break a single plate in six months.
On his birthday, Artyom turned eight.
His classmates came, along with neighborhood children, and Valentina Petrovna brought a homemade cake.
Artyom blew out all eight candles on the first try.
“What did you wish for?” Kostya asked.
“I’m not telling. If I do, it won’t come true.”
“Come on, that’s just superstition. It isn’t real.”
“It is real. Grandma Nina said it’s real.”
That evening, after the guests had gone and the apartment had become quiet, Artyom came over to Nina Vasilyevna.
She was washing the dishes.
He stood beside her and picked up a towel to dry them.
“Grandma Nina.”
“Yes, Tyoma?”
“I used to think nobody would ever love me. That I was bad. Wrong somehow. That something was wrong with me.”
“And now?”
“Now I think maybe I’m normal. Because you love me.”
“You’re not just normal. You’re wonderful.”
Artyom smiled.
A wide, open, completely childlike smile.
“I wished for everything to stay exactly like this. For you always to be here. And Sveta. And Kostya and Masha. And for nobody ever to take me away again.”
“Nobody will take you away.”
“I know.”
He paused.
“Now I know.”
He went to bed.
Nina Vasilyevna remained in the kitchen.
Behind the wall, the neighbors’ television played quietly.
Outside, children were laughing in the courtyard, enjoying the last warm evenings of the fading September.
An ordinary evening.
In an ordinary family.
A family that, two years earlier, had not been a family at all.