When Pasha was not even five, his world came crashing down.

His mother was gone.

He stood frozen in the corner of the room, his little mind swirling with confusion. The house was full of strangers—faces he didn’t recognize, voices lowered to whispers, eyes that wouldn’t meet his. Why was everyone acting so strange? Why wasn’t anyone smiling? Why did they hug him like something terrible had happened?

No one told him what was going on. They only said things like, “Be strong, little one,” in hushed, pitying tones. But all Pasha knew was that he hadn’t seen his mother. That was all that mattered.

His father, once a comforting presence, now seemed like a ghost in his own home—always gone, distant even when present, sitting in silence, lost in his own world. There were no hugs, no bedtime stories, no words at all.

When Pasha was finally brought to the coffin, he stared for a long time. His mother was lying there, still and pale, nothing like the warm, smiling woman who used to sing him lullabies. She looked like a porcelain doll. Cold. Lifeless. It terrified him. He never went near the coffin again.

Everything changed after she died. The world turned gray. Empty.

Two years passed, and his father remarried. The new woman, Galina, didn’t try to become part of Pasha’s world. She barely tolerated him. Her voice was always sharp, her glances full of irritation. She snapped at him for little things, always looking for reasons to scold. And his father? He said nothing. Never defended him. Never stepped in.

Pasha learned to keep his pain to himself. The ache of missing his mother, the longing for the life that once was — it lived inside him, quietly, like a secret.

And today, that ache pulsed stronger than ever.

It was his mother’s birthday.

Pasha woke with a single thought: he had to visit her grave. He needed to bring her flowers — white calla lilies. Her favorite. He remembered them from old photos, always in her hands, glowing next to her smile.

But flowers cost money. And he had none.

He approached his father hesitantly.

“Dad… can I have some money? Just a little, please… I really need it.”

Before he could say why, Galina burst out of the kitchen like a storm.

“Again with the money?! Do you even know how hard your father works?! He’s not an ATM!”

His father raised a hand, trying to calm her.

“Gal, wait. He hasn’t even said what it’s for. Go on, son. What do you need?”

Pasha looked down, then said quietly, “I want to buy flowers. For Mom. Today’s her birthday… white calla lilies.”

Galina let out a mocking laugh and crossed her arms.

“Oh, how touching! Flowers, he says. Maybe you’d like champagne too? Go pick something from the yard if you’re so desperate!”

“They’re not in the yard,” Pasha replied softly but firmly. “You can only buy them in the store.”

His father looked at him for a moment, then turned to Galina.

“Gal, go make lunch. I’m hungry.”

She huffed and stomped off to the kitchen. His father went back to reading the newspaper, saying nothing more.

And Pasha knew: there would be no money.

Silently, he retreated to his room. He opened an old piggy bank and poured out the coins. He counted them carefully. Not much… but maybe enough?

Without wasting time, he ran to the flower shop.

From across the street, he saw them—white calla lilies in the window. They looked just like in the photographs: elegant, radiant, almost glowing. He paused to catch his breath, then stepped inside.

The woman behind the counter eyed him coldly.

“What do you want? This isn’t a candy shop. We don’t have toys here—just flowers.”

“I know,” Pasha said quietly. “I want to buy some callas. How much is a bouquet?”

She told him the price. Pasha reached into his pocket and pulled out every last coin he had. It wasn’t even half.

“Please,” he whispered. “It’s for my mom’s grave. Today’s her birthday. I can work for you! I’ll clean, sweep, anything. Just… let me take them. I promise I’ll pay you back…”

The woman’s face hardened.

“Are you out of your mind?” she scoffed. “You think I’m running a charity? Flowers aren’t free! Get out. Now. Or I’ll call the police. We don’t tolerate begging here.”
But Pasha wasn’t about to give up. He had to get those flowers today.

“I’ll pay it back, I swear! I’ll earn the money somehow! Please, just try to understand…” he pleaded, his voice cracking.

“Oh, listen to this little actor!” the florist snapped, loud enough for people on the sidewalk to turn and stare. “Where are your parents, huh? Wandering around alone like this? Maybe I should call social services! Last warning, kid — get out before I do!”

At that very moment, a man stepped up to the flower shop. He had seen the whole scene unfold.

He walked in just as the woman was yelling at the boy. It hit him like a jolt — he couldn’t stand injustice, least of all when it was aimed at a child.

“Is that really necessary?” he asked the woman, his voice calm but firm. “You’re shouting at him like he’s a thief. He’s just a kid.”

“And who the hell are you?” the woman shot back. “Mind your business. He nearly stole a bouquet!”

“Nearly,” the man echoed, raising his voice slightly. “You pounced on him like he was some criminal. He clearly needs help, not threats. Do you have any idea what conscience feels like?”

Then he turned to the boy, who was huddled in the corner, wiping tears from his cheeks with a trembling hand.

“Hey there, buddy. My name’s Yura. What’s going on? You wanted to buy some flowers and didn’t have enough money, is that it?”

Pasha sniffled and nodded, his voice barely audible as he answered:

“I wanted to get calla lilies… for my mom. She loved them. But… she passed away three years ago. Today’s her birthday. I just wanted to bring her flowers to the cemetery…”

Yura felt something twist deep in his chest. The boy’s quiet sorrow cut straight through him. He crouched beside him, eye to eye.

“You know what? Your mom would be proud of you. Not every grown man remembers anniversaries, and here you are, just a boy, doing something so kind. That says a lot about the kind of man you’ll grow up to be.”

He stood and turned to the florist.

“Which calla lilies was he looking at? I’ll take two bouquets — one for him, one for me.”

Pasha pointed toward the display window, where white calla lilies sat glowing like porcelain. Yura paused. Those were the exact flowers he’d come to buy, too. He didn’t say anything aloud, but the thought struck him: Coincidence? Or something more?

Moments later, Pasha stepped out of the shop holding the bouquet tightly in his hands like a treasure. He still looked a bit stunned, not fully believing this had actually happened.

He turned to Yura, hesitant but determined.

“Uncle Yura… Can I give you my phone number? I’ll pay you back. I promise.”

Yura laughed warmly.

“I knew you’d say that. But there’s no need, really. Today’s special for me too. There’s a woman I’ve waited years to say something to — and now, finally, I have the chance. Helping you just made today even better. Besides… looks like your mom and my Ira had the same favorite flowers.”

His smile faded into a soft silence as his thoughts drifted.

Her name was Ira. They’d been neighbors, living in opposite buildings. They met in the most unexpected way — one evening, she was cornered by a group of bullies, and Yura had stepped in to protect her. He walked away with a black eye, but from that moment on, something blossomed between them.

Their friendship grew into something deeper. Everyone who saw them said they were perfect together.

But then Yura turned eighteen and got drafted. It crushed Ira. Before he left, they spent one unforgettable night together.

Things were going well in the army — until the accident. A serious head injury left Yura unconscious. When he woke up, he didn’t remember anything — not even his name.

Ira tried to call, but the line stayed silent. She thought he’d left her. Her calls went unanswered. Her heartbreak grew unbearable, and eventually, she changed her number.

Months later, Yura’s memory returned in pieces. Ira came back to him like a vision. He called every number he could think of — but nothing. What he didn’t know was that his parents had lied to her, telling her Yura had moved on.

When he finally came home, he went straight to find her, carrying calla lilies. But what he saw shattered him — Ira, walking arm in arm with another man. She was pregnant. And smiling.

He didn’t wait for explanations. He ran.

That same night, Yura left the city behind, trying to escape the ache. He started over somewhere new. Even married once, hoping love might find him again. But it didn’t last.

Eight years passed. And one morning, Yura woke up knowing he couldn’t go on living with a hole in his chest. He had to find Ira. He had to tell her everything.

And so he returned, carrying calla lilies… only to cross paths with a boy named Pasha — a meeting that felt like more than fate.

“Pasha…” Yura suddenly remembered, pulled back to the present.

He looked around and saw the boy still standing nearby, waiting patiently.

“Hey, champ,” Yura called softly. “Can I give you a ride somewhere?”
“No, thank you,” the boy replied politely. “I know how to take the bus. I’ve gone to visit Mom before… This isn’t my first time.”

With that, he hugged the bouquet close to his chest and ran toward the bus stop.

Yura stood frozen, watching him disappear into the distance. Something about the boy tugged at his heart — stirred a memory, an ache, something oddly familiar. This child… there was a reason their paths had crossed. He just didn’t know what it was yet.

Still gripped by that feeling, Yura turned and made his way to a quiet courtyard — the one where Ira used to live. His heart thudded in his chest as he reached the building and approached an elderly woman sweeping near the entrance.

“Excuse me… Do you know where Ira lives now?” he asked gently.

The woman looked up at him with sad eyes. “Oh, sweetheart… she doesn’t live here anymore. Ira passed away. It’s been three years now.”

Yura staggered back as if the ground had been pulled from beneath him.

“No… What?” he whispered, barely able to breathe.

“She moved in with her husband, Vlad, when she got pregnant. Never came back here after that. Good man, he was. Took her in, even knowing she was expecting. They seemed happy, always kind to one another. Then their boy was born… and not long after, she passed. That’s all I know, dear.”

Yura drifted away from the building in a daze, like a ghost wandering through a world he no longer belonged to.

“Three years too late,” he murmured. “Why didn’t I come back sooner? Even a year earlier…”

But then the woman’s words echoed in his mind: pregnant.

Wait.

Pregnant when she met Vlad?

A surge of realization hit him like lightning.

That child… Could he be mine?

His pulse quickened. Somewhere in this very city, maybe his son — his son — was alive.

He had to find out. The first step: Ira.

At the cemetery, it didn’t take him long to find her grave. The moment he saw her name carved into stone, his heart clenched. So many emotions surged through him — love, sorrow, guilt. But something else stopped him cold.

There, resting gently on the grave, was a bouquet of fresh white calla lilies.

Her favorite.

The same flowers the boy had carried.

“Pasha…” Yura whispered in awe. “It’s you. Our son…”

He stared at Ira’s photo on the headstone, her eyes still warm, her smile frozen in time.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out. “For everything.”

Tears streamed down his face, but he didn’t wipe them away. He let them fall. Then, suddenly, he turned and ran — back to that store, to the house the boy had pointed to earlier.

He still had a chance.

In the courtyard, he spotted Pasha sitting on the swing, slowly rocking, his eyes downcast. Yura approached quietly, sat beside him, and without a word, wrapped him in a trembling embrace.

The boy didn’t pull away.

A door creaked open. Yura looked up. A man stepped out onto the porch and froze at the sight.

Then, recognition flickered in his eyes.

“Yura…” he said softly, as if he’d been expecting this moment. “I didn’t think you’d ever come. But I guess you’ve figured it out — Pasha is your son.”

Yura nodded. “Yes. I know now. And I’m here for him.”

Vlad exhaled, slowly.

“If that’s what he wants, I won’t stand in the way. I was never really a husband to Ira. Or a father to Pasha. She… she always loved you. I knew it. I hoped it would fade, but it never did. Before she died, she told me she wanted to find you. Tell you everything. But she never got the chance.”

Yura’s throat tightened.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “For being there for him. For not abandoning him.”

He stood and took a long breath. “I’ll come tomorrow for his things, for the documents. But for now… I just want to be with him. I’ve already missed eight years. I don’t want to lose another second.”

He held out his hand.

Pasha slipped his small fingers into his father’s.

As they walked toward the car, Yura looked down and whispered, “Forgive me, son. I didn’t even know I had such a wonderful boy…”

Pasha glanced up at him, calm and certain.

“I always knew Vlad wasn’t my real dad. Mom used to talk about someone else when she spoke about me. About another man. I knew you were out there. And that one day… we’d meet.”

Yura stopped, lifted him into his arms, and held him tightly — as if to make up for every lost year.

“I’m here now,” he said, voice cracking. “And I’m never leaving again.”