But he saw a completely different picture: Ira was walking arm in arm with a man, pregnant, happy. Yura’s heart broke. He couldn’t understand — how was this possible?
Without waiting for explanations, he ran away. That very night, he left for another city where no one knew his past. Started a new life but couldn’t forget Ira.
Even married, hoping for healing, but the marriage didn’t work out. Eight years passed. One day, Yura realized: he could no longer live with emptiness inside.
He must find Ira. Must tell her everything. And here he was again in his hometown, with a bouquet of calla lilies in his hands.
And it was there that he met Pasha — a meeting that might change everything. “Pasha… yes, Pasha!” Yura recalled, as if waking up. He stood by the shop, and the boy was still patiently waiting nearby.
“Son, maybe I can give you a ride somewhere?” Yura gently offered. “Thanks, no,” the boy politely refused. “I know how to take the bus.
I’ve been to Mom before… Not the first time.”
With these words, he hugged the bouquet tight to his chest and ran toward the bus stop. Yura watched him go for a long time. Something about this child awakened memories, evoked an inexplicable connection, almost kinship.
Their paths crossed for a reason. There was something painfully familiar in Pasha. When the boy left, Yura headed to the very yard where Ira had once lived.
His heart pounded like a drum as he approached the entrance and cautiously asked an elderly woman living there if she knew where Ira was now. “Oh, dear,” sighed the neighbor, looking at him sadly. “She’s no longer here… She died three years ago.”
“What?” Yura recoiled sharply, as if struck.
“After marrying Vlad, she never returned here. Moved to him. By the way, a good soul took her while she was pregnant.
Not every man would do that. They loved each other, took care of each other. Then their son was born.
And then… that’s it. She’s gone. That’s all I know, son.”
Yura slowly left the entrance feeling like a lost ghost — late, lonely, forever too late.
“Why did I wait so long? Why didn’t I come back even a year earlier?”
And then the neighbor’s words resurfaced: “…pregnant…”
“Wait. If she was pregnant when she married Vlad… then the child could have been mine?!”
His head spun.
Somewhere here, in this city, maybe his son was living. Yura felt a flame ignite inside — he must find him. But first, he needed to find Ira.
At the cemetery, he quickly found her grave. His heart clenched with pain — love, loss, regret flooded at once. But even stronger shook him what lay on the tombstone: a fresh bouquet of white calla lilies.
The very same, beloved flowers of Ira. “Pasha…” Yura whispered. “It’s you.
Our son. Our child…”
He looked at Ira’s photo on the stone, which gazed back, and softly said:
“Forgive me… For everything.”
Tears poured from his eyes, but he did not hold them back. Then he abruptly turned and ran — he had to return to the house Pasha had pointed to when they stood by the shop.
There was his chance. He rushed to the yard. The boy sat on the swings, thoughtfully swinging.
It turned out that as soon as Pasha returned home, his stepmother gave him a scolding for being gone too long. He couldn’t stand it and ran outside. Yura approached, sat down next to him, and hugged his son tightly.
Then a man came out of the entrance. Seeing a stranger next to the child, he froze. Then recognized him.
“Yura…” he said, almost without surprise. “I no longer hoped you would come. I guess you understand that Pasha is your son.”
“Yes,” Yura nodded.
“I understand. I came for him.”
Vlad sighed deeply:
“If he wants to, I won’t stand in the way. I was never really a husband to Ira.
Nor a father to Pasha. She always loved only you. I knew.
Thought it would pass with time. But before she died, she confessed she wanted to find you. Tell you everything: about the son, about her feelings, about you.
But she didn’t have time.”
Yura was silent. His throat tightened, and thoughts hammered in his head. “Thank you… for accepting him, not giving him away.” He sighed deeply.
“Tomorrow I will take his things and documents. But now… let’s just go. I have a lot to learn.
Eight years of my son’s life lost. I don’t want to lose another minute.”
He took Pasha’s hand. They headed toward the car.
“Forgive me, son… I didn’t even know I had such a wonderful boy…”
Pasha looked at him calmly and said:
“I always knew Vlad wasn’t my real dad. When Mom told about me, she spoke of someone else. About another man.
I knew one day we would meet. And here we are… we met.”
Yura lifted his son into his arms and cried — from relief, from pain, from immense, unbearable love. “Forgive me… for having to wait so long.
I will never leave you again.”
