“He drove us into the woods and left us. Like unwanted puppies,” he finished. Hearing these harsh words, Ellie burst into tears. “I want my mommy. I want to go home. Why doesn’t Daddy love us?”
Tears streamed down her cheeks as she sobbed, clutching the teddy bear. Sam quickly moved to the children and wrapped them both in a tight hug. “Shh, shh. It’s going to be okay. I won’t let anyone hurt you again.”
A firm, unshakeable resolve appeared in his eyes, and his voice became hard. “No one will ever harm you again. I promise.” Stepping back, he asked, “Did your mom ever talk about her youth? About someone named Sam?”
Leo shook his head. “She didn’t talk much about that time. Sometimes she would just cry looking at old photos.” Ellie suddenly piped up, “But she did say she had a first love. And that he was a good person, but he was married.”
Sam flinched and turned sharply to the window. He silently walked to an old dresser in the corner of the cabin and took out a faded photograph from the top drawer, yellowed with age. His hands trembled as he slowly handed the picture to the children. “Was this the girl?”
The children leaned over the photo. It showed a young girl of about sixteen with brown hair to her shoulders and large gray eyes. Her smile was exactly like their mother’s. In her hands, she held the very same teddy bear, only it was new then, not worn by time.
Ellie gasped in surprise. “That’s Mom! When she was just a girl. Where did you get her picture?” Leo slowly raised his eyes to Sam, looking at him in a new way, searching, with a growing understanding. “Mr. Sam. Who were you to our mom? How did you know her?”
Sam sighed heavily, sat down next to the children on the bench, took the photo back, and stared at it for a long time. “It’s a very long and painful story, son,” he said, his voice tired and old. “I’ll tell you everything. But not today. Not right now.”
“First, you need to rest, get a good night’s sleep, and eat properly,” Sam said, rising to carefully make a bed for the children by the stove. “And tomorrow morning, you’ll learn the whole truth about your mother. And about me.”
He brought thick down pillows and soft wool blankets and tucked the children in like a caring grandfather. Ellie quickly fell asleep from exhaustion, holding the teddy bear tightly. Her breathing became even, and a peaceful smile appeared on her face. Leo couldn’t sleep for a long time, lying with his eyes open, watching Sam in the dim light.
The old man sat by the window, holding the yellowed photograph, and silent tears slowly rolled down his rough, wrinkled cheeks. “Mary,” he whispered into the darkness. “Forgive me, my dear Mary.”
Leo knew that tomorrow their lives would change forever. Outside, the autumn wind howled, the ancient trees rustled, and in the stove, the fire crackled softly, spreading warmth through the cabin. Sam sat with the photograph in his trembling hands, quietly speaking to a long-gone past.
Ellie slept peacefully by the stove, breathing softly, the teddy bear nestled under her arm. Sam tossed and turned in his bed in the corner of the cabin; the blanket was tangled, the pillow crumpled. Leo lay with his eyes open, listening to the sounds of the night, and heard Sam’s quiet sobs, which he tried to muffle.
The boy got up quietly and padded barefoot to the old man’s bed. “Mr. Sam, are you okay?” Sam quickly wiped his tears with his sleeve. “Just can’t sleep, son. Why are you still awake?”
Leo sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m thinking about Mom. And about you.” Sam shifted over, making room. “Sit here. Let’s talk.”
Leo settled in under the warm blanket. The cabin was quiet, except for the crackling fire. “Your mother was a special girl,” Sam began softly, staring into the darkness. “I met her when she was sixteen.”
“Just a kid, but so smart already. I was twenty-five then. I worked for the logging company, cutting timber. My hands were strong, my back didn’t ache,” Sam smiled, remembering his youth. “The foreman used to say I had golden hands.”
Leo listened intently, not wanting to miss a word. “She used to come for the summer to stay with her aunt in our village. The aunt was the town librarian, a very strict woman. Mary helped her in the garden, and in the evenings, she’d read books under the old apple tree in the yard.”
Sam closed his eyes, lost in memories. “I walked past that house every day on my way home from work. And every day, I saw her with a book. We’d walk along the river in the evenings, talking about life, books, dreams. I fell in love with her at first sight.”
“She was so full of life, so bright. Her laugh was like a bell.” Sam fell silent, and in the quiet, only the fire could be heard. “I gave her that teddy bear for her birthday in July. Took me a week to sew it myself.”
“But I was married,” he continued bitterly, clenching his fists. “Unhappily, but married. Got married at eighteen to the neighbor’s daughter. Our parents pushed us into it. She was pregnant by another guy, but he took off.” Sam sighed heavily. “My wife drank from morning till night, always starting fights. We never had children; that baby died at birth.”
“I begged for a divorce, pleaded with her, but she wouldn’t give me one. Said she’d make my life miserable until the day I died.” Leo listened, holding his breath—he had never heard such pain in an adult’s voice. “So what happened with Mom?” he asked gently.
“She found out about my wife from the neighbors. She came to me in tears. Said she didn’t want to be a homewrecker, that she couldn’t build her happiness on someone else’s misery. I begged her to stay, told her I’d get a divorce, that I’d fight for her.”
“But she wouldn’t listen. She left for the city to study to be a teacher. Didn’t even leave an address. I never saw her again.” His voice broke. He looked at the sleeping Ellie, and his eyes grew moist. “And then… a few years later, I heard from some folks that she’d had children. Two of them. And that she’d married some engineer from the city.”
Leo was quiet for a long time, processing what he’d heard. Then he looked thoughtfully at the old man. “Mr. Sam. Mom used to say strange things sometimes. That I looked a lot like someone.”
“Like who?”
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