— What is this? — Maria whispered, freezing at the threshold of her own home.
The bundle lay right at her feet. A blue romper, rosy cheeks, and a frightened gaze. A child, a little girl wrapped in an old scarf with a faded pattern. Silent, only looking with teary eyes.
Maria looked around. A damp October dawn. The village of Verkhnie Klyuchi was still asleep, only smoke rising from a few chimneys into the gray sky. No one on the road, no sound of footsteps, no sign of the one who left this strange gift.
— Who would… — she stopped herself, slowly squatting down.
The girl reached out her chubby hands to her. About a year old, maybe a bit more. Clean, fed, but crying. And no note, no documents.
— Dad! — Maria shouted, picking up the bundle. — Dad, wake up!
Ivan came out of the room, rubbing his eyes. Wrinkled face, worn-out tank top, shoulders hunched from hard work. He froze in the doorway, his eyes widening when he saw the child.
— Someone abandoned her, — Maria exhaled, her voice involuntarily softening. — I opened the door, and she was lying there. No soul around.
Ivan slowly approached, gently running his rough finger over the girl’s soft cheek:
— Any guesses?
— What guesses could there be? — a wave of confusion rose inside Maria. — We need to go to the district office. That’s their responsibility, not ours.
— And if they don’t find her relatives? — the father looked at the girl with some hidden hope. — An orphanage then?
Suddenly the girl grabbed Maria’s finger. Firmly, desperately, as if afraid she’d be let go. Something stirred in the woman’s chest. Not tenderness — more like fear of responsibility.
— I can’t, Dad. I have the farm, work, — she shook her head. — I only just got back on my feet after Kostik.
The divorce was three months ago. The husband left, calmly saying he was tired of the village. Maria returned to her father’s house with one suitcase and an empty look.
— The child isn’t to blame, — Ivan carefully touched the scarf. — Maybe this is the sky’s answer to you.
— What answer? — Maria snorted. — Don’t say nonsense.
But her hands didn’t loosen. The girl quieted down, as if sensing her fate was being decided.
In the kitchen, the smell of milk. Ivan was warming a jar on the stove while Maria looked at the child on the table, confused. Soot on the ceiling, crackling logs, damp leaves outside. The world seemed the same, but something had irrevocably changed.
— I’ll take her to the village council, — Maria said firmly. — After breakfast.
But after breakfast came washing the diapers, then feeding again, then Ivan brought an old cradle down from the attic, and already half the day had passed.
At the village council, they just shrugged. No missing children, no young mothers in the area. The local officer wrote something in his notebook, promised to “take measures,” and clearly lost interest.
— Let her stay with you till morning, — he said, yawning. — We’ll take her to the district center in the morning.
In the evening, neighbors gathered by the house. The news spread quickly.
— Oh, you took in a foundling! — Stepanovna exclaimed, throwing up her hands as she peered into the cradle. — Who knows whose blood is in her.
— And she never had her own, — another added, glancing meaningfully at Maria. — It’s easier to take someone else’s, of course.
Maria was silent, slowly chopping onions. The knife hit the board sharper than usual.
— Leave, — Ivan suddenly said, rising from his chair. — All of you. Leave.
When the house emptied, Maria burst into tears. Silently, angrily, smearing tears over her cheeks:
— They’ve already decided everything for me, right? You and the whole village?
— I didn’t decide anything, — Ivan took a small wooden horse figurine from his pocket. — Just carved it and thought: maybe she’ll grow up and be happy.
The girl was asleep in the cradle, softly breathing in her sleep. Alone in the whole world, unwanted by anyone. The officer didn’t come in the morning. Neither during the day nor in the evening. And on the third day, Maria stopped waiting.
She bought baby shampoo, undershirts, and a pacifier at the village store. The neighbors whispered by the well, but she paid no attention anymore.
Once, while bathing the baby, Maria suddenly said:
— You’ll be Masha, like me… Well, since fate has it so.
The name sounded easy, as if it had always belonged to this dark-eyed girl. Ivan, hearing this, nodded as if he had been waiting for this moment for a long time. Two years passed. Spring replaced winter, greenery covered the garden. Masha ran around the yard, laughing, chasing a red cat. She walked holding onto Maria’s skirt, repeating her words, stubbornly stacking blocks.
Maria stood on the porch holding the same scarf she once found her daughter in. Washed and ironed, it now seemed just a piece of fabric, not a symbol of an overturned life.
She carefully folded it and put it in the dresser. It was no longer needed. Now her daughter had a name. And a home. And a future tied to her more strongly than any blood ties. The paperwork was done, everything properly registered.
— Mom, is it true that I’m not really yours? — Masha stood at the door in her school uniform, backpack pressed to her chest like a shield.
Maria froze, ladle in hand. The soup bubbled on the stove, spilling over the hot surface. Nine years had passed. Nine years, and the question still caught her off guard.
— Who told you that? — Maria’s voice grew heavy.
— Sashka Vetkin. He says I’m a foundling, — Masha sniffled. — And that my real mother abandoned me because I’m bad.
Maria slowly put down the ladle. Her eyes darkened with fury. She swallowed hard to avoid saying too much.
Everyone in the village knew the story, but no one dared tell Masha.
— You’re not bad, — she said quietly. — And I’m your real mom. It’s just…
— No photos, — Masha finished. — Everyone has pictures from when they were little. I don’t have any.
Ivan coughed from his corner. The last year he had often been ill but held on without complaints. Helped around the house, fixed the roof when it was warm. Now it was February — cruel, with snowstorms and short days.
— We didn’t have a camera, — he said, getting out of bed. — The money went to medicine.
Masha looked carefully at her grandfather, then at her mother. Something grown-up flickered in her child’s gaze — not resentment, but understanding.
— I didn’t do the assignment, — she said quietly. — I have to tell about my family. With photos.
— I’ll help you, — Maria wiped her hands on her apron. — We’ll tell it like it is. No photos, but honestly.
In the evening, Masha sat at the table lit by a kerosene lamp — the power had gone out again.
In the notebook appeared a drawing: a woman and a girl holding hands. Above them — the sun. Simple, childlike, but it contained everything a teacher couldn’t explain.
Maria sewed in the corner. An old dress was becoming new — for Masha. Narrow, almost manly hands skillfully worked the needle. Ivan coughed again behind the partition. The next week new children appeared at school. Farmers bought neighboring fields and brought families from the city. The kids were different — in expensive jackets, with phones, with stories about malls and computers.
— Foundling, foundling! — Sashka Vetkin made faces in the yard, pointing at Masha. — They found you in the trash bin!
The city kids laughed. Masha stood, clenching her fists. Then silently turned and ran home. Maria found her in the entryway, between old buckets. A sobbing lump in a school uniform.
— Sweetheart, — she sat down next to her. — Don’t listen to them. They’re stupid.
— So it’s true? — Masha raised her tear-streaked face. — Am I a foundling?
Maria was silent. Inside, everything twisted into a knot. Lie anymore? Wait for the girl to hear from others?
— People just can’t keep their mouths shut! — she suddenly shouted. — But you’re mine, understand? Mine!
Masha recoiled, frightened by this sudden outburst. Maria immediately regretted what she said but words cannot be taken back.
They lived tensely for a week. Masha barely managed to go to school. Maria worked on the farm to exhaustion, came home late. Conversations didn’t go well. Then something strange happened. Ivan, who always kept away from women’s talks, unexpectedly called Masha to him. She entered cautiously, sat on the edge of the bed.
— You know what I’ll tell you, — he said slowly, looking out at the snowy fields. — If there’s a thread between you, no words can break it.
Masha silently looked at his hands — rough, calloused, but kind. Hands that made her wooden horses and fixed the roof over their heads.
— Even if Mom isn’t really my mom? — she whispered.
— Especially then, — Ivan nodded. — Because such a thread is chosen by yourself. It’s stronger.
Masha sat, thoughtful. Then quietly got up and went to the kitchen. Maria was washing dishes, scrubbing a pot as if trying to scrape off the enamel. Two pairs of arms wrapped around her waist. Masha pressed her face to her, burying it.
— What’s wrong? — Maria was confused.
— Nothing, — Masha muttered into the apron. — Just like that.
In the evening, after putting her daughter to bed, Maria took out the old scarf from the drawer. The very same. Sat on the edge of the bed, stroked the worn fabric.
— Mash, — she called. — Not asleep?
— No, — came from under the blanket.
— Come here.
Masha came, wrapped in her nightgown. The fire in the stove lit her drawn face after those days.
— You came to me like this, — Maria handed her the scarf. — Right to the door. No note, nothing. I was scared at first… But then I just couldn’t give you away.
Masha carefully touched the fabric with her fingers.
— It doesn’t matter who gave birth to whom, — Maria continued, looking not at her daughter but somewhere in the corner of the room. — The main thing is who didn’t abandon whom.
The letter came on Wednesday. An envelope sealed from the medical college. Masha turned it in her hands, not daring to open.
— Go on, read it already, — Maria wiped her hands on a towel, trying to hide her nervousness. — It won’t eat you.
Seventeen-year-old Masha — serious, with glasses and a heavy braid — stood by the window. Outside lilacs bloomed, the May sun warmed the earth after a long winter.
They moved to a new village two years ago. After Ivan died, staying in Verkhnie Klyuchi was unbearable. Too many memories, too many alien glances. Here no one knew them. No whispers behind their backs.
— Accepted, — Masha said quietly, scanning the lines. — Mom, I got accepted!
Maria smiled. Her heart ached with pride and fear at the same time. Her daughter would leave to study. Escape this backwater, become a paramedic. Wear a white coat and help people. And she would stay alone.
— I knew it, — she said, hugging her daughter. — You’re my clever girl.
In the evening, a neighbor stopped by — Petrovna, thin, with an eternally worried face. She brought a jar of jam, congratulated them on the admission, and then, over tea, suddenly said:
— You’re probably not related. You look too different.
Masha froze, cup at her lips. Maria tensed, ready to show the guest the door.
— It’s true, — Masha answered calmly. — I’m adopted.
— Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to, — Petrovna blushed. — Just thought so.
— It’s okay, — Masha shrugged. — It’s no secret.
After the neighbor left, Maria looked at her daughter in surprise:
— When did you become so grown-up?
Masha smiled, collecting cups from the table:
— You raised me.
The morning before Masha’s eighteenth birthday, Maria woke up with a firm decision. It was time. Soon her daughter would leave for the city, start a new life. Better to hear the whole truth from her mother than accidentally from strangers. She took out the old scarf from the closet. Washed it, dried it in the sun. Baked Masha’s favorite gooseberry pie. Tidied the house as if preparing for an important guest.
In the evening, they sat on the porch. The sun was setting, painting the clouds pink. It smelled of herbs, damp earth after watering. Somewhere far off birds chirped.
— Tomorrow you’re already eighteen, — Maria said, squeezing her cup. — All grown up.
Masha nodded. She sat nearby, long legs stretched out on the steps.
She laid the scarf on her lap — the very same, worn by time.
— You can be angry. I’m not your blood mother, you know that. But you’re my meaning. My life.
Masha was silent. Maria saw her lips tremble, her shoulders tense. Masha slowly took the scarf. Her fingers slid over the thinned fabric, studying every worn spot as if reading a story.
— Deep down, I always felt it, even when I was very little, — she said, her voice barely audible in the evening silence. — The picture didn’t fully come together.
— So why were you silent then?
— Fear wouldn’t let me, — Masha hugged her shoulders, shielding herself from the evening chill. — That I’d hear one day: “I picked you up for nothing. You’re a burden, my mistake.”
Maria exhaled heavily:
— Never. Not for a second.
Masha cried. Silently, like grown-ups who are ashamed of their tears. Then slowly got up, went to Maria. Hugged her, pressed her cheek to her already gray hair.
— I’m not angry, — she whispered. — I’m just… grateful. For everything. For choosing me. And I choose you too.
Maria couldn’t hold back. For the first time in many years, she cried out loud — not from grief, not from exhaustion, but from relief. As if the stone she had carried inside all these years finally disappeared.
In the morning, Masha packed her things. In a week — the trip to the city, dormitory, new life. Maria watched as her daughter folded books, notebooks, her first stethoscope — a birthday gift.
— I found this in the closet, — Masha handed her mother an envelope. — It’s from Grandpa, right?
Maria nodded. Ivan left the letter before he passed away, asking it to be given to Masha when the time came. She had forgotten about it, placing it in a far corner among old photos.
— Will you read it?
Masha carefully opened the envelope. A yellowed sheet of paper, uneven handwriting:
“Mashenka. When you read this, I will be gone. But I want you to know: true blood is not what’s in the veins, but what’s in tears and deeds. You are ours. Forever. Grandpa.”
In the evening, they stood at the bus stop. Maria held the scarf, now neatly folded. She handed it to Masha:
— Take it. As a keepsake.
Masha shook her head:
— Keep it. This is our story. And I promise I’ll come back.
The bus appeared around the corner. Masha hugged her mother one last time:
— I’m your daughter. By choice. That’s the most important thing.
Maria stood, watching the bus disappear. The scarf warmed her palms. In her pocket lay a letter from her daughter — she wrote it at night and left it on the table.
“Dear Mom. I know what it means to be found. Now I want to find myself. But I will always remember where I come from — from your love. Thank you for choosing me. Your Masha.”