Their daughter Lena vanished in 1990, on the day of her graduation.
It was a warm June night. Mom had prepared her favorite vanilla pie.
Lena was spinning in front of the mirror in a blue dress, laughing, and her father, Nikolai, looking at her, suddenly thought: “This is it – real happiness…”
But no one could have undertood that this would be their last evening together.
After graduation, Lena never returned home.
The years passed. Olga, her mother, almost never left the house.
Nikolai grew old early. Hope, like a flame in an old lamp, gradually faded.
And here it is – 2012.
Nikolai went up to the attic to tidy up in one rainy October day. The air was filled with dust, boxes of books, old toys, and junk were all around.
And abruptly he found a photo album. The very one with Lena’s childhood photos: school parties, summer trips, first grade…
The photo displays an adult Lena, about thirty years old, standing by a wooden house against the backdrop of mountains. On the back is the inscription: “2002.
I am alive. Forgive me . ”
From that moment on, a new phase of his life began – the search for answers.
Nikolai silently handed the photo to his wife, then Olga took it with trembling hands, looked at it closely – and froze.
– It’s her… It’s Lena…
“She was alive…” he muttered.
“After twelve years… and she didn’t call to her family. Why?..”
The next morning Nikolai began searching. He found a hotel with that name on the Internet – in Kyrgyzstan, in a small mountain village.
He didn’t hesitate: he prepared his things, withdrew money from his account and set off.
The hotel was there. An old sign, a familiar facade.
“Excuse me,” Nikolai said. “Do you know a woman named Lena?
Lena Nikolaeva. Perhaps she lived here about ten years ago…”
– Wait. Are you Nikolai?
Her father?
– Yes…
She walked over, opened the drawer and removed a worn envelope. On it, in large letters, was written: “For Dad. Only if he comes himself.”
Nikolai’s hands were quivering as he tore open the envelope.
“Dad.
If you’re reading this, it means I was wrong.
I ran away back then, in 1990. Not from you, but from fear. I fell into bad company.
And then it was too late to go back. I was ashamed.
I’m alive. I have a son.
His name is Artyom. He never knew you.
I was going to write many times, but I couldn’t bring myself to.
If you came, find me. I’m not far.
Forgive me.
L.”
Nikolai reread the letter several times until tears began to drip onto the paper.
He didn’t even know how his hands were trembling.
“She lives in the neighboring village,” the woman said. “If you want, I can take her.”
A woman appeared next to him – tall, dark-haired. Their eyes met.
Lena.
She froze.
He did too.
– Dad?
He couldn’t say anything. He just bobbed. And the next time he was already holding her in his arms – tightly, like then, many years ago.
“I’m sorry…” she muttered.
“I’ll fix it. I promise.”
A few more years went. Laughter was appeared in the house again.
A boy named Artyom called Nikolai “grandpa,” and Olga, for the first time in twenty years, was planting flowers by the porch again.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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