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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\u2019t exactly the best time for culinary experiments, but insomnia mixed with VK video recipes is a dangerous combination.
\n\u2014 If it\u2019s Petrovich again with his homemade moonshine, I swear I\u2026 \u2014 I muttered, wiping my hands on an apron that read \u201cBest Monday Cook.\u201d<\/p>\n
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\u2014it was so dark you couldn\u2019t see your own eyes, only the lantern by the gate flickered like a hangover-stricken firefly.
\nWhen I opened the door, I froze. On the doorstep sat a wicker basket. \u201cNot this,\u201d flashed through my mind as a soft whimper emanated from inside the basket.<\/p>\n
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: \u201cPlease, save them. This is the only thing I can do.\u201d
\n\u2014 Damn it\u2026 \u2014 I began, suddenly remembering the children. \u2014 I mean, oh my God.<\/p>\n
My hands trembled as I carried the basket into the house. Thirty-five years old, a single woman with a cat that doesn\u2019t even catch mice\u2014and suddenly children. I had always dreamed of having them, but in a more\u2026 traditional way.<\/p>\n
\u2014 Alright, calm down, Anna, \u2014 I told myself as I laid the infants on the sofa. \u2014 Now we\u2019ll call the police, and\u2026<\/p>\n
The phone was already in my hand, the number dialed, but my finger hesitated over the call button. Images flashed before my eyes\u2014news reports about orphanages, stories of acquaintances working in the foster system. No, not that.<\/p>\n
The crying baby spoke up again. I dashed to the refrigerator\u2014one liter of milk. That should do. The internet had kindly provided instructions on how to make a homemade milk formula for newborns.<\/p>\n
\u2014 There, there, quiet down, little one, \u2014 I cooed as I fed the first baby. \u2014 Good job.<\/p>\n
The second one woke up and started crying too. I darted between them like a penguin on roller skates, trying to soothe both simultaneously.<\/p>\n
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\nMorning 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.
\n\u2014 What am I going to do with you? \u2014 I whispered.<\/p>\n
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\u2014and decisively deleted the police number.<\/p>\n
\u2014 Alright, kids, \u2014 I said, feeling my lips curve into a smile. \u2014 Looks like you now have a mom. A bit clumsy, but very dedicated.<\/p>\n
At that moment, both babies woke up and cried in unison.
\n\u2014 And yes, we urgently need to learn how to change diapers, \u2014 I sighed as I opened the internet. \u2014 Because it looks like we have a very interesting morning ahead.<\/p>\n
Sixteen years passed in what felt like a single day. Well, not exactly\u2014a day that resembled one endless episode of \u201cSanta Barbara,\u201d where every scene was filled with drama, comedy, and unexpected twists.<\/p>\n
\u2014 Aunt Anna, why don\u2019t we have any baby photos? \u2014 Kira asked one morning at breakfast, picking at her oatmeal with a spoon.<\/p>\n
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.
\n\u2014 They\u2026 burned in a fire, \u2014 I blurted out the first thing that came to mind.<\/p>\n
\u2014 Along with Mom and Dad? \u2014 Maxim interjected, glancing up from his phone.<\/p>\n
\u2014 No, it was a different fire, \u2014 I faltered, getting tangled in my own lies. \u2014 At a photo studio. All the films were there\u2026<\/p>\n
\u2014 In the digital age? \u2014 Kira raised an eyebrow. I, who had once poured my heart out in my youth, now with an even heavier dose of sarcasm.<\/p>\n
\u2014 Darling, are you finishing your oatmeal? Otherwise we\u2019ll be late for school.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
\u2014 Anna Sergeyevna, \u2014 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). \u2014 Is it true that your sister was a ballerina?<\/p>\n
\u2014 An artist, \u2014 I automatically corrected myself, silently cursing my memory. A week ago I had called her a math teacher.<\/p>\n
\u2014 And Klavdia from the fifth building said\u2026<\/p>\n
\u2014 Sorry, Balamut ate something! \u2014 I shouted, hauling the perfectly healthy dog home.<\/p>\n
In the evening I sat in the kitchen, checking my students\u2019 notebooks and listening to the children\u2019s bustling in the next room. They were whispering about something, and it never boded well.<\/p>\n
\u2014 Mom, \u2014 Maxim appeared in the doorway like a ghost, making me jump. \u2014 I mean, Aunt Anna\u2026<\/p>\n
That \u201caunt\u201d stung my heart. In recent years they had increasingly called me that, especially when they were upset.<\/p>\n
\u2014 Kira and I were thinking\u2026 \u2014 he hesitated. \u2014 Can we look at the old photo albums? With Mom and Dad?<\/p>\n
\u2014 Of course! \u2014 I replied too quickly. \u2014 Only they\u2019re in the attic; we need to find them\u2026<\/p>\n
\u2014 We already looked, \u2014 Kira entered the kitchen, arms crossed. \u2014 There\u2019s nothing there.<\/p>\n
I froze, feeling a chill down my spine. There were indeed albums in the attic\u2014my old photographs, children\u2019s 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\u2019t bring myself to throw away.<\/p>\n
\u2014 Children, I\u2026<\/p>\n
\u2014 No need, \u2014 Kira raised her hand. \u2014 Just tell the truth. Just once.<\/p>\n
At that moment the phone rang\u2014another mom wanted to discuss her child\u2019s progress in English. I had never been so grateful for spam offering to install plastic windows.<\/p>\n
\u2014 Excuse me, it\u2019s an important call, \u2014 I mumbled, darting out of the kitchen.<\/p>\n
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\u2014a mom with a huge smile and two children holding her hands. And a superhero drawn by Maxim\u2014somehow with my hairstyle and wearing an apron that read \u201cBest Monday Cook.\u201d<\/p>\n
Suddenly I heard a rustle in the attic. My heart skipped a beat. No, not this. Not now.<\/p>\n
Quietly, I climbed the stairs and saw light coming from the attic hatch. Then I heard Maxim\u2019s voice:
\n\u2014 Look what I found\u2026<\/p>\n
In his hands was that same note, yellowed by time yet still holding the secret of that night that changed our lives forever.<\/p>\n
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: \u201cI could lose them. Right now.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u2014 Mom? \u2014 Kira\u2019s voice trembled. \u2014 I mean\u2026 who are you to us, really?<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
\u2014 I\u2026 I don\u2019t know where to start, \u2014 my voice sounded hoarse in the dusty quiet of the attic.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
\u2014 Maybe start with the truth? \u2014 Kira\u2019s voice rang out like steel. \u2014 For a change.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
\u2014 Do you remember that time with Balamut, when he ate my papers? \u2014 I began unexpectedly.<\/p>\n
\u2014 What does that have to do with this\u2026 \u2014 Maxim started.<\/p>\n
\u2014 I said back then that it was the worst night of my life. I lied. The worst\u2014and at the same time the best\u2014night was 16 years ago, when I tried to learn how to make pancakes at three in the morning.<\/p>\n
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 \u201chow to calm a crying baby.\u201d About sleepless nights and first smiles.<\/p>\n
\u2014 I should have called the police, \u2014 my voice trembled. \u2014 But I looked at you and\u2026 I couldn\u2019t.<\/p>\n
\u2014 You kidnapped us, \u2014 Kira whispered.<\/p>\n
\u2014 No! Well, yes. I mean\u2026 \u2014 I stammered. \u2014 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\u2019t deserve.<\/p>\n
Maxim sat down on the floor, leaning against an old dresser.
\n\u2014 And our real parents? \u2014 he asked. \u2014 You didn\u2019t even try to find them?<\/p>\n
\u2014 I tried, \u2014 I stood up and walked over to a cardboard box in the corner. \u2014 Here.<\/p>\n
Inside the box were newspaper clippings, forum printouts, letters to various institutions. Ten years of searching that yielded nothing.<\/p>\n
\u2014 I looked. God, how I looked. But\u2026 \u2014 I spread my hands.<\/p>\n
\u2014 And that\u2019s why you decided to lie? \u2014 Kira flipped through the clippings, her voice quieter. \u2014 To invent a dead mom\u2014ballerina, artist, math teacher?<\/p>\n
\u2014 I know, it was stupid, \u2014 I smiled sadly. \u2014 Especially mixing up her professions. But I wanted\u2026 I wanted you to have a story. So you wouldn\u2019t feel\u2026<\/p>\n
\u2014 Abandoned? \u2014 Maxim looked up. In the lamp\u2019s glow, I saw tears in his eyes.<\/p>\n
\u2014 Loved, \u2014 I said as I sat next to him. \u2014 I wanted you to feel loved. I just\u2026 did it all wrong.<\/p>\n
A silence fell, broken only by the rustling of papers as Kira sorted through them. Suddenly she pulled out a photograph.
\n\u2014 And what is this?<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
\u2014 Why did you hide it? \u2014 Maxim asked.<\/p>\n
\u2014 Because there\u2019s no \u201creal\u201d mom in it. Just me.<\/p>\n
Kira clutched the photograph so tightly I feared she might tear it. But instead, she suddenly burst into tears.
\n\u2014 You\u2019re strange, \u2014 she sobbed. \u2014 So strange\u2026<\/p>\n
\u2014 I know, dear.<\/p>\n
\u2014 No, you don\u2019t! \u2014 she looked up at me with tearful eyes. \u2014 Did you really think we needed some made-up mom\u2014ballerina\u2014when we have you?<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
\u2014 I still want to find them, \u2014 Kira said after a while. \u2014 Our biological parents.<\/p>\n
I stiffened, but she continued:
\n\u2014 Not to go to them. Just\u2026 to know. And maybe to say thank you.<\/p>\n
\u2014 For what? \u2014 Maxim wondered.<\/p>\n
\u2014 For leaving us right at that door, \u2014 Kira smiled through her tears. \u2014 With the craziest mom in the world, who teaches English, makes inedible pancakes, and lies worse than a five-year-old.<\/p>\n
I laughed, feeling the weight of sixteen years lift from my shoulders.
\n\u2014 Speaking of pancakes, \u2014 Maxim stood and stretched. \u2014 Maybe we should order pizza?<\/p>\n
\u2014 At three in the morning?<\/p>\n
\u2014 Well, it\u2019s kind of a family tradition\u2014to do silly things at three in the morning, \u2014 he winked.<\/p>\n
We went down to the kitchen, and I brought out a worn album.
\n\u2014 What\u2019s this? \u2014 Kira asked.<\/p>\n
\u2014 Our new family album, \u2014 I said, opening it to the first page and inserting that same photograph from the first birthday. \u2014 I think it\u2019s time to start our real story.<\/p>\n
On the next page I pasted the note with which it all began. And underneath I wrote: \u201cThank you for the best gift of my life. And sorry for all the burnt pancakes.\u201d<\/p>\n
Write what you think about this story! I\u2019d be delighted to hear your thoughts!<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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\u2019t exactly… <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":23411,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-23410","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"yoast_head":"\n