A knock on the door sounded just as I was about to toss another batch of burnt pancakes into the trash. Three in the morning isn’t exactly the best time for culinary experiments, but insomnia mixed with VK video recipes is a dangerous combination.
— If it’s Petrovich again with his homemade moonshine, I swear I… — I muttered, wiping my hands on an apron that read “Best Monday Cook.”
The knock came again. This time it was softer, as if the person at the door had changed their mind and decided to leave. I peeked out the window—it was so dark you couldn’t see your own eyes, only the lantern by the gate flickered like a hangover-stricken firefly.
When I opened the door, I froze. On the doorstep sat a wicker basket. “Not this,” flashed through my mind as a soft whimper emanated from inside the basket.
Two infants. One was asleep, tiny fists clenched, and the other looked at me with tear-filled eyes. Nearby lay a note, the handwriting jittery and hurried: “Please, save them. This is the only thing I can do.”
— Damn it… — I began, suddenly remembering the children. — I mean, oh my God.
My hands trembled as I carried the basket into the house. Thirty-five years old, a single woman with a cat that doesn’t even catch mice—and suddenly children. I had always dreamed of having them, but in a more… traditional way.
— Alright, calm down, Anna, — I told myself as I laid the infants on the sofa. — Now we’ll call the police, and…
The phone was already in my hand, the number dialed, but my finger hesitated over the call button. Images flashed before my eyes—news reports about orphanages, stories of acquaintances working in the foster system. No, not that.
The crying baby spoke up again. I dashed to the refrigerator—one liter of milk. That should do. The internet had kindly provided instructions on how to make a homemade milk formula for newborns.
— There, there, quiet down, little one, — I cooed as I fed the first baby. — Good job.
The second one woke up and started crying too. I darted between them like a penguin on roller skates, trying to soothe both simultaneously.
Morning found me in the kitchen. The half-eaten pancakes had become coasters for baby bottles, and there I sat, head in my hands, watching the sleeping infants.
— What am I going to do with you? — I whispered.
One of the little ones smiled in his sleep, and something inside me either shattered or mended itself. I looked at the phone, then at the children, then at the phone again—and decisively deleted the police number.
— Alright, kids, — I said, feeling my lips curve into a smile. — Looks like you now have a mom. A bit clumsy, but very dedicated.
At that moment, both babies woke up and cried in unison.
— And yes, we urgently need to learn how to change diapers, — I sighed as I opened the internet. — Because it looks like we have a very interesting morning ahead.
Sixteen years passed in what felt like a single day. Well, not exactly—a day that resembled one endless episode of “Santa Barbara,” where every scene was filled with drama, comedy, and unexpected twists.
— Aunt Anna, why don’t we have any baby photos? — Kira asked one morning at breakfast, picking at her oatmeal with a spoon.
I nearly choked on my coffee. Over sixteen years I had become a virtuoso at lying about my non-existent sister, inventing an entire story about a tragic car accident, and even shedding a few tears at parent-teacher meetings, all while claiming I had heroically taken care of my nieces and nephews.
— They… burned in a fire, — I blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
— Along with Mom and Dad? — Maxim interjected, glancing up from his phone.
— No, it was a different fire, — I faltered, getting tangled in my own lies. — At a photo studio. All the films were there…
— In the digital age? — Kira raised an eyebrow. I, who had once poured my heart out in my youth, now with an even heavier dose of sarcasm.
— Darling, are you finishing your oatmeal? Otherwise we’ll be late for school.
Working two jobs had taught me how to change the subject with ease. In the morning I was an accountant at a construction firm; in the evening, an English tutor. In between were cooking, cleaning, checking homework, and endless parent chats where moms competed over whose child was the most brilliant.
— Anna Sergeyevna, — my neighbor Maria Petrovna called out to me as I walked our dog Balamut (a gift to the kids on their seventh birthday to distract them from questions). — Is it true that your sister was a ballerina?
— An artist, — I automatically corrected myself, silently cursing my memory. A week ago I had called her a math teacher.
— And Klavdia from the fifth building said…
— Sorry, Balamut ate something! — I shouted, hauling the perfectly healthy dog home.
In the evening I sat in the kitchen, checking my students’ notebooks and listening to the children’s bustling in the next room. They were whispering about something, and it never boded well.
— Mom, — Maxim appeared in the doorway like a ghost, making me jump. — I mean, Aunt Anna…
That “aunt” stung my heart. In recent years they had increasingly called me that, especially when they were upset.
— Kira and I were thinking… — he hesitated. — Can we look at the old photo albums? With Mom and Dad?
— Of course! — I replied too quickly. — Only they’re in the attic; we need to find them…
— We already looked, — Kira entered the kitchen, arms crossed. — There’s nothing there.
I froze, feeling a chill down my spine. There were indeed albums in the attic—my old photographs, children’s books I had bought before they even existed, when I dreamed of having my own kids. And that very basket with the note that I couldn’t bring myself to throw away.
— Children, I…
— No need, — Kira raised her hand. — Just tell the truth. Just once.
At that moment the phone rang—another mom wanted to discuss her child’s progress in English. I had never been so grateful for spam offering to install plastic windows.
— Excuse me, it’s an important call, — I mumbled, darting out of the kitchen.
The evening ended with a silent dinner. The children retreated to their rooms, and I remained in the kitchen, gazing at their childish drawings on the fridge. There was a stick-figure family drawn by Kira in first grade—a mom with a huge smile and two children holding her hands. And a superhero drawn by Maxim—somehow with my hairstyle and wearing an apron that read “Best Monday Cook.”
Suddenly I heard a rustle in the attic. My heart skipped a beat. No, not this. Not now.
Quietly, I climbed the stairs and saw light coming from the attic hatch. Then I heard Maxim’s voice:
— Look what I found…
In his hands was that same note, yellowed by time yet still holding the secret of that night that changed our lives forever.
I froze on the last step, unable to move. Sixteen years of lies, fabricated stories, and evasive answers crumbled like a house of cards. My throat dried up, and only one thought pounded in my head: “I could lose them. Right now.”
— Mom? — Kira’s voice trembled. — I mean… who are you to us, really?
The story demanded a resolution. And it came in the dusty darkness of the attic, amid boxes of the past and the awkward silence of the present.
— I… I don’t know where to start, — my voice sounded hoarse in the dusty quiet of the attic.
Kira switched on an old desk lamp, and our shadows danced on the walls like actors in a silent film. Maxim still clutched the note, his fingers trembling slightly.
— Maybe start with the truth? — Kira’s voice rang out like steel. — For a change.
I sank onto an old trunk, feeling my knees buckle. I had rehearsed this moment in front of the mirror for so many years, coming up with the perfect words, but now every prepared speech evaporated.
— Do you remember that time with Balamut, when he ate my papers? — I began unexpectedly.
— What does that have to do with this… — Maxim started.
— I said back then that it was the worst night of my life. I lied. The worst—and at the same time the best—night was 16 years ago, when I tried to learn how to make pancakes at three in the morning.
And I told them everything. About the knock at the door, about the basket, about the note. About my fear and panic. About how I googled “how to calm a crying baby.” About sleepless nights and first smiles.
— I should have called the police, — my voice trembled. — But I looked at you and… I couldn’t.
— You kidnapped us, — Kira whispered.
— No! Well, yes. I mean… — I stammered. — I stole you away from a system that would have turned you into statistics. From an orphanage that might have torn you apart. From everything you didn’t deserve.
Maxim sat down on the floor, leaning against an old dresser.
— And our real parents? — he asked. — You didn’t even try to find them?
— I tried, — I stood up and walked over to a cardboard box in the corner. — Here.
Inside the box were newspaper clippings, forum printouts, letters to various institutions. Ten years of searching that yielded nothing.
— I looked. God, how I looked. But… — I spread my hands.
— And that’s why you decided to lie? — Kira flipped through the clippings, her voice quieter. — To invent a dead mom—ballerina, artist, math teacher?
— I know, it was stupid, — I smiled sadly. — Especially mixing up her professions. But I wanted… I wanted you to have a story. So you wouldn’t feel…
— Abandoned? — Maxim looked up. In the lamp’s glow, I saw tears in his eyes.
— Loved, — I said as I sat next to him. — I wanted you to feel loved. I just… did it all wrong.
A silence fell, broken only by the rustling of papers as Kira sorted through them. Suddenly she pulled out a photograph.
— And what is this?
I looked at the picture and felt a lump in my throat. It was a photo taken on their first birthday. I had bought two toy cakes because real ones were still out of the question. In the photo, I was holding them on my lap, and the three of us were laughing.
— Why did you hide it? — Maxim asked.
— Because there’s no “real” mom in it. Just me.
Kira clutched the photograph so tightly I feared she might tear it. But instead, she suddenly burst into tears.
— You’re strange, — she sobbed. — So strange…
— I know, dear.
— No, you don’t! — she looked up at me with tearful eyes. — Did you really think we needed some made-up mom—ballerina—when we have you?
I felt Maxim hug me from the other side. We sat there in the dusty attic, embracing and crying like characters in a tearful melodrama. Balamut, sensing something was wrong, limped up to the attic and tried to join our embrace as well.
— I still want to find them, — Kira said after a while. — Our biological parents.
I stiffened, but she continued:
— Not to go to them. Just… to know. And maybe to say thank you.
— For what? — Maxim wondered.
— For leaving us right at that door, — Kira smiled through her tears. — With the craziest mom in the world, who teaches English, makes inedible pancakes, and lies worse than a five-year-old.
I laughed, feeling the weight of sixteen years lift from my shoulders.
— Speaking of pancakes, — Maxim stood and stretched. — Maybe we should order pizza?
— At three in the morning?
— Well, it’s kind of a family tradition—to do silly things at three in the morning, — he winked.
We went down to the kitchen, and I brought out a worn album.
— What’s this? — Kira asked.
— Our new family album, — I said, opening it to the first page and inserting that same photograph from the first birthday. — I think it’s time to start our real story.
On the next page I pasted the note with which it all began. And underneath I wrote: “Thank you for the best gift of my life. And sorry for all the burnt pancakes.”
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