Triplets?! You are a real heroine, Valentina Nikolaevna! And all are healthy—a boy and two girls! This is simply an incredible miracle!
“I’m just a mother,” I smiled through a haze of exhaustion, trying to comprehend everything that had happened in my life over the past eighteen hours.
It was both a miracle and a source of fear. The first days in the maternity ward blurred into a vague mix of exhaustion and joy.
I lay on a hard bed, trying to regain my strength after the difficult delivery, imagining how Fedya would see our little ones.
I was sure Lyosha would have his eyes, and the girls—black hair like mine. The doctors promised to bring them as soon as they finished processing the last tests.
I waited for him the next day—he didn’t come. I called the post office to send a message… Maybe they couldn’t reach him. In the forestry management, the routine inspection of the plots was on the third day, maybe he got delayed there?
On the third day, they brought me a package: a jar of compote, cheese-filled pies, clean swaddling cloths. But it wasn’t from Fyodor—it was a gift from a neighbor.
A few lines on a piece of paper read, ‘Fedya is drinking, Valya. We think that Grandfather Grigory will take you. Don’t worry, we’ll help.’ At the bottom were three signatures—Tanya, Vera, Zoya.
My palms broke out in cold sweat.
Just five days ago, I was an ordinary village woman expecting a child, and now I had become the mother of three children, whom even my own husband hadn’t bothered to see. A sticky feeling of betrayal slowly crawled down my spine.
Outside the maternity hospital, snow began to fall. White, slow, indifferent.
Heavy footsteps echoed in the corridor.
“Valentina,” the nurse peered in, “Grigory has come to take you. He says you’re a neighbor. He arrived on a cart, can you imagine? They said to wait by the service entrance, near the canteen.”
The nurse helped me gather my things, re-swaddling the babies. Her hands moved quickly and confidently, carefully wrapping my tiny, still so fragile, children.
“Here, take this,” she said, handing me a small bundle. “Your eldest daughter.”
I took my daughter in my arms. Alyonka. That’s what I called her—the quietest of the three. The doctor said she had arrived two minutes earlier than her sister.
And her sister I named Vika, hoping she could overcome all the hardships of life. And my little son—Lyosha, like my grandfather.
We stepped out onto the porch. I walked slowly, cautiously, each step echoing with a strange, pulsating pain.
Grandfather Grigory stood next to his old cart, hitched to a thoughtful, dappled horse. Seeing us, he tossed a nearly spent hand-rolled cigarette into the snow.
“Well then, mother? Let’s go,” he said, taking the two other babies from the nurse’s arms and carefully laying them on the pre-prepared blankets in the cart. “We’ll manage.”
I remained silent throughout the journey. The snow intensified, but the road to the village was well-packed, and the cart glided smoothly between the drifts.
Occasionally, the grandfather waved his reins and mumbled something to himself. We passed collective farm fields, a strip of forest, a bridge over a brook, and finally, the roof of our house appeared.
“Hold on,” was all the grandfather said, helping me down.
The children remained in the cart, and I was afraid to leave them for even a minute. But I had to open the door, stoke the stove.
Grandfather lifted the cradles, and my hands seemed to go numb with fear and fatigue. He entered the house first, I followed—and I froze on the threshold.
In the middle of the room stood Fyodor. In front of him—a open suitcase, scattered belongings all around. He lifted his head and looked at me as if I were a stranger.
“What’s wrong with you?” my voice disobeyed me, coming out hoarsely.
“I’m not ready. I wasn’t expecting three,” he said, gazing through me. “You’ll manage on your own. I’m sorry.”
Grandfather Grigory slowly set the cradles on the bench by the stove. I saw the veins on his neck bulge, saw his face redden.
“Have you lost your mind, Fedya? Leaving behind three children and your wife?” the grandfather’s voice filled the room.
“Don’t meddle, old man!” snapped Fyodor, and he returned to his suitcase.
“Fedya,” I took a step toward him. “At least look at them.”
He glanced briefly at the cradles and moved toward the door. Through the threshold, across the yard, past the gate—and vanished in a curtain of snow. As if he had never been part of my life.
I slowly sank to the floor and felt something within me dying out. I was breathing, but inside there was only emptiness.
The first year became a trial I wouldn’t wish on even my worst enemy.
I woke at dawn and fell asleep deeply past midnight. Diapers, onesies, bottles, nipples. Life turned into an endless repetition of the same actions. I fed one, the other cried.
I re-swaddled all three—and then it started all over again. My hands cracked from endless washing, my fingers developed callouses from wringing out wet cloths.
We survived by a miracle. Every morning on the porch I would find either a jug of milk, a small sack of grain, or a bundle of firewood. The village supported me silently, without many words.
Tanya visited more often than anyone. She helped bathe the babies, taught me how to prepare formula when my milk was not enough.
“Don’t worry, Valyusha,” she said, expertly swaddling little Lyosha. “In the village, people don’t just disappear. Your Fedya is an idiot. And God has blessed you with children.”
Grandfather Grigory came by every evening—checking if the stove was stoked, if the roof was intact.
One day he brought some men with him—they fixed the shed, replaced the rotten boards on the floor, sealed the gaps in the windows.
When the first frosts hit, Vera brought knitted woolen socks—tiny, three pairs in each size. The little ones grew rapidly, despite the scanty nutrition and hardships.
By spring, the children began to smile. Alyonka—calm, even judicious in infancy, looked at the world with an air of grown-up understanding.
Vika—capricious, demanding, constantly drawing attention with her loud cries. And Lyosha—curious and active, as soon as he learned to roll over, he immediately began exploring everything around him.
That summer, I relearned how to live. I fastened a cradle on my back, placed the other two in a makeshift cart, and headed to the garden. I worked between feedings, between washes, between brief intervals of sleep.
Fyodor never appeared. Only occasionally would I hear rumors from the neighbors that they had seen him in a neighboring village—bloated, unshaven, with a cloudy look.
I no longer felt anger toward him. There was no energy left for anger—only love for the children and the daily struggle for their future.
By the time the fifth winter arrived, life began to fall into a familiar rhythm. The children grew up and gradually became more independent.
They helped each other, played together, and even started attending kindergarten. I finally managed to get a job—in the village library, at least half-time. Every evening I would bring books home and read them to the children before bedtime.
That winter a new locksmith arrived in our village—Andrey. A tall man with streaks of gray in his beard and deep wrinkles around his eyes. He looked about forty, but he carried himself so youthful and confidently that he seemed much younger than his years. He first entered the library on a blustery February day.
“Hello,” he said in a slightly hoarse voice. “Might there be something for evening reading? Perhaps something by Dumas?”
I handed him a tattered copy of “The Three Musketeers.” He thanked me and left. And the very next day he returned, holding a wooden toy carved from a block.
“This is for your children,” he said, offering a small wooden horse. “I have a knack for carpentry.”
From that moment on, he began to visit regularly—sometimes to exchange a book, sometimes to bring another toy.
Lyosha immediately took a liking to him—running to greet him, grabbing his hand, and proudly showing off his treasures. The girls were more cautious at first, but curiosity gradually took over.
In April, when the snow began to melt, Andrey brought a sack of potatoes.
“This is for you,” he said simply. “Great for planting.”
I blushed—unaccustomed to accepting gifts from men after Fyodor.
“Thank you, but I’m managing…”
“I know,” he nodded. “Everyone in the village knows how strong you are. But sometimes accepting help is also a sign of strength.”
At that moment, Lyosha dashed out from behind the house with a joyful cry:
“Uncle Andrey! Look at the stick I found! Can we make a sword out of it?”
“Of course we can,” Andrey replied, sitting down in front of the boy. “Let’s make one together. And maybe we can craft something for your sisters too.”
And they set off toward the shed, animatedly discussing their future creations. I watched them, and for the first time in five years, I felt warmth spreading inside me.
During the summer, Andrey began to drop by even more often. He helped with the garden, repaired the fence, and played with the children.
Alyonka and Vika gradually stopped being shy around him and began competing to share their childhood secrets. And I felt at peace with him—without fuss, without unnecessary words.
In September, after the children had gone to sleep, we sat on the porch. The sky was studded with stars, and somewhere in the distance, dogs were barking.
“Valentina,” Andrey turned to me. “May I stay with you? Not just to help, but to live here. I love your children as my own.”
His eyes glittered in the moonlight, and there was not a trace of pretense in them.
I looked at the stars and understood: sometimes fate takes one away to give something much greater. You just have to learn to wait.
Fifteen years had passed since the babies were born, fleeting as a single moment. Our yard had transformed: a sturdy fence, a new roof, a robust shed where chickens clucked peacefully. Andrey built a bright and spacious veranda with large windows.
Now our evenings were spent there—around a common table. Lyosha, lanky and fifteen, had outgrown Andrey by half a head. His hands were calloused—from spending all summer helping in the collective farm’s forge, returning home smelling of metal and coal.
Alyonka had become a real clever girl—preparing for exams and dreaming of entering a teachers’ college after finishing school. And Vika, the untamable dreamer, filled one notebook after another with her poems.
I returned to the school library full-time. The children addressed me as “Valentina Nikolaevna” with respect and warmth.
Sometimes, when the teachers were ill, they asked me to substitute—teach a literature or Russian language class. Sitting before the class, I told the students about life, about choices, about the strength of spirit.
Andrey became a jack-of-all-trades in our village. He opened a small workshop near the house, where he fixed everything—from locks to engines.
Lyosha spent hours in that workshop, learning the craft from his “father.” The children had long been calling him “dad,” and he responded to his son and daughters.
On that June day, when our whole family was returning from Vika’s graduation, this conversation occurred. Someone called Andrey by name from behind the school fence. We turned around.
There stood Fyodor by the fence. Years had not been kind to him—gaunt, with a swollen face, in worn-out clothes. He took a few hesitant steps toward us.
“Andryukha, lend a hand, will you? A little money until retirement…” His voice was hoarse, with a whistle.
Lyosha frowned:
“Mom, who is that?”
My heart skipped a beat. My son didn’t even recognize his biological father.
Alyonka stepped between us and Fyodor, as if protecting us. Vika clung to Andrey, who put his hand on her shoulder.
“Hold on,” Andrey said, pulling out his wallet and producing a ten-dollar note.
Fyodor, shuffling, came closer. I saw him scrutinizing the children—as if trying to find something familiar.
“Yours?” he asked, nodding toward the children.
“Yours,” Andrey answered firmly, extending the note.
Fyodor took the money and for another second, stared at the children. Then he turned and trudged along the street—stooped, alone.
“Mom, who is that strange uncle?” Vika asked as we entered the yard.
“Once, I knew him,” I replied, closing the gate. “A long time ago.”
That evening we spent just as usual—together. Andrey told funny stories from his workshop, Lyosha shared his summer plans, and Alyonka argued with her sister about books.
And I looked at them, feeling an overwhelming gratitude toward fate.
Late at night, after the children had scattered to their rooms, Andrey and I sat on the veranda. He held my hands in his—tenderly, as always.
“What are you thinking about, Valyusha?” he asked softly.
“About life,” I answered, gazing at the stars through the glass. “You know, for many years I couldn’t understand why everything happened the way it did. Why Fyodor left, why I had to go through all of this.
And now I understand. If it weren’t for that pain, I wouldn’t have discovered my strength. If he hadn’t left—your arrival wouldn’t have happened.
Andrey was silent, only squeezing my fingers tighter.
“I don’t know what makes a person weak or strong,” I continued. “But I do know this for sure: life doesn’t always crumble when people fall apart. On the contrary, it begins to rebuild itself. Only from scratch. Only—with love.”
I did not regret a single day of those fifteen years. Every tear, every sleepless night, every minute of despair led me to this moment of silence and peace.
To a home full of children’s voices. To a man who looked at me with tenderness and respect.”