She perched on the edge of the chair, fingers clenched white on her knees.
“There’s something about you…” she mumbled, avoiding my gaze. “You remind me of someone. From long ago.”
I snapped.
“Irina Mikhailovna, twenty-five years ago you left a child at someone’s door. A girl. With a note: ‘Forgive me.’ That girl was named Alexandra. Irina, look at me. Look at me.”
She looked up—eyes wide with fear. Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling a cry.
“This… can’t be,” she whispered.
I opened the drawer and pulled out the baby photo. Laid it before her.
“You’ve haunted my dreams. I always imagined asking you: why? Why didn’t I even deserve a chance? What was so awful about me?”
Her face crumpled. She sank to her knees.
“You… don’t understand… I was so young. The baby’s father left when he found out. My parents kicked me out. I had nothing—no home, no money, no support. I didn’t know what to do…”
“So you threw me away?” My voice shook.
“I thought it would be better for you. That someone else could give you what I couldn’t. A home, food, love…”
A bitter laugh broke from my chest.
“Love? You thought strangers would love a foundling? They raised me, yes. But they never loved me.”
Tears streamed down her face. She reached toward me but didn’t dare touch.
“I thought of you every day… every single day, for twenty-five years.”
“But you didn’t look for me,” I said coldly.
“I did! I came back a year later. They told me they didn’t know what I meant. That they never found a baby. I thought…”
“You thought I went to an orphanage. And you didn’t try again.”
She lowered her head, sobbing.
“Forgive me… if you can. Or at least… let me…”
“Let you what?” I asked.
“Stay near you. Get to know you. Even if it’s just as your cleaner. Just don’t send me away.”
I looked at her—broken, miserable, crushed by life and her own choices.
And suddenly, I felt light. As if a huge stone I’d carried forever had vanished.
“No,” I said softly. “I don’t want revenge. But there’s nothing to forgive either. You made your choice then. I’m making mine now. I release you. And myself.”
I walked to the window. The city roared beyond the glass—alive, moving, full of possibility.
“Mikhail will see you out and pay you for today. Please don’t come back.”
When she finally left, I sat in my chair, phone in hand. On the screen: “Contact blocked.”
I brought the photo of newborn me to my eyes—a tiny creature with a long road ahead.
“You made it,” I whispered. “You made it on your own.”
A few days later, I called her.
I invited her to meet again. To start over.
I let go of all the pain—and tried to understand. Tried to forgive.
