“Yes. About a year ago. I found your mother’s social media page. I wanted to write to her directly. But there…” Natalya’s voice trembled. “There were condolences. Candles. ‘Remembering, loving, mourning.’ I didn’t understand at first. And when I did…” She fell silent. A tear rolled down her cheek, then another. “I was too late,” she whispered. “Too late again. I searched for her my whole life, found her, lost her. Found her again—and lost her again. Forever.”
Dasha looked at this woman, at her own reflection in a distorted mirror of time, and felt the anger she had brought with her slowly receding. Something else was taking its place. Sympathy? Understanding? Or just exhaustion from this whole story, from the endless chain of lies and half-truths?
“Why didn’t you tell me this from the start?” she asked. “At the café. Why did you lie about ‘six months ago’?”
“Because I was scared.” Natalya wiped away her tears. “I was scared you wouldn’t believe me. That you would decide that since I had already come and been turned away, there must be something wrong with me. That I was dangerous, crazy, stalking your family. I wanted to earn your trust first, to show you I wasn’t an enemy, and then tell you the truth.”
“With a lie?”
“Yes.” Natalya lowered her head. “It was stupid and wrong. I understand that. But I’ve been alone for so long, Dasha. So long. And when I saw you at the cemetery—small, lonely, crying over your mother’s grave, I recognized myself. Myself at 13, when I lost my adoptive mother and learned the truth about my sister. I couldn’t take the risk. I couldn’t let you push me away like your father did.”
Dasha was silent. Thoughts swirled in her head—fragmented, confused. Natalya had lied, but her lie had an explanation. Her father had also lied—or at least, presented the story in a light favorable to him. He said Natalya had asked for money for surgery. But Natalya hadn’t mentioned that.
“My father said you asked for money,” Dasha stated. “Three years ago, when you came. You said you were sick and needed an expensive operation.”
Natalya looked up. Surprise, then anger, flashed in her eyes.
“He said that? That you asked for a large sum. Said you would die within a year without the surgery.”
“That’s a lie.” Natalya’s voice became hard. “An absolute lie. I didn’t say a word about being sick. Not a word about money. I only asked if I could talk to Olga about her mother, Raisa Komarova. Your father didn’t even let me finish. He slammed the door after the first few words.”
“But why would he lie about that?”
Natalya stood up and walked to the window. She stared out at the street for a long time, as if gathering her thoughts.
“So you wouldn’t trust me,” she said finally. “So you would think I’m a con artist, a gold digger. So you would stay away from me.”
“But why?”
“Because he’s afraid, Dasha. He’s afraid of what I might tell you.”
The girl felt a chill run down her spine.
“Afraid of what, exactly?”
Natalya turned around. Her face was serious, almost stern.
“Remember when you asked me at the café where I got your mother’s DNA sample for the genetic test? Since she was already dead by then.”
“Yes. You didn’t answer.”
“I’ll answer now.”
Natalya returned to the armchair and sat down.
“When I learned about Olya’s death, I was devastated. But then I thought: there’s a way to know for sure if she was my sister. A genetic test. It requires biological material. I had nothing of Olya’s. But I knew she had a daughter left behind. You. If Olya was my twin sister, then you are my niece. And a kinship test would show that.”
“But you didn’t take any samples from me.”
“I did. At the cemetery, that first day, when I stroked your head.” Natalya looked down. “A few strands of hair. That’s enough for an analysis.”
Dasha jumped up.
“You… you took my hair without permission?”
“Yes. And I understand how that sounds. But I had to know. I had to be sure I wasn’t mistaken, that Olya was really my sister, that you are my own flesh and blood.”
“And what did the test show?”
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