“I didn’t understand for a long time either, until I found something else.” Natalya sat back down in the armchair. “Remember I told you your father turned me away three years ago? That he slammed the door as soon as he saw my face?”
“Yes.”
“At the time, I didn’t think much of it. But later, when I learned the whole story… Dasha, your father recognized me. He didn’t just see a woman who looked like his wife. He recognized me specifically. Or he thought he did.”
“How is that possible? You had never met before.”
“We hadn’t. But he could have seen my photograph.”
Silence. Dasha felt the thoughts in her head forming a picture—a terrifying, impossible one.
“Are you saying that Mom found information about you? Found your photograph? And showed it to Dad?”
“I don’t know for sure. But it would explain his reaction. He saw me on the doorstep and immediately knew who I was. Not because I look like Olya. But because he had seen my face before. In some photograph, in some documents that your mother found twenty years ago.”
“But then…” Dasha faltered. “Then Mom knew about you. Knew she had a sister. And she kept quiet? Or was she prevented from finding out everything? Or did she find out, and someone convinced her it was better not to dig up the past.”
“The less you know, the better you sleep.” Grandma Zina’s favorite saying. How many times had Dasha heard it and never thought about the meaning behind it.
“Grandma,” she said aloud. “It was Grandma Zina. She knew everything from the very beginning. From the moment Grandma Raya let it slip before my parents’ wedding. What if… What if Mom found out back then too? And Grandma Zina convinced her to keep quiet? Or convinced your father to hide the truth from Mom? Or did they both decide it would be for the best?”
Natalya shook her head.
“I don’t know, Dasha. I have no proof. Only guesses. Only this photograph of your mother holding an inquiry to the archive. And your father’s behavior, recognizing me at first glance.”
Dasha closed her eyes. Too much information. Too much pain. She felt as if she were standing in the middle of ruins—the ruins of her family, her faith, her understanding of the world.
“What should I do?” she asked quietly. “How am I supposed to live with this?”
Natalya stood up, walked over to her, and sat down on the sofa. She gently took her hand.
“Live on. That’s the only thing to do. Live, remember, seek the truth if you want to find it. Or accept what is and move forward.”
“And you? Are you moving forward?”
“I’m trying. Every day.” Natalya gave a faint smile. “You know, when I saw you at the cemetery, crying over your mother’s grave, for the first time in many years, I felt like I had a purpose. Not just to exist—but to live. For you. For the memory of the sister I never got to know. So that something good might grow from all this pain.”
Dasha was silent. Natalya’s hand was warm, alive, real. So much like her mother’s: the same long fingers, the same shape of the nails.
“I need to talk to Dad,” she said at last. “I need to find out what he really knows. What he’s hiding.”
“Are you sure?”
“No. But I have to.”
Natalya nodded.
“Then go. And remember: whatever you find out, whatever the truth turns out to be, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. You’re not alone anymore.”
Dasha returned home in the evening. The sun was setting, painting the sky in crimson hues. She walked slowly, taking her time, thinking over every step, every word she was about to say.
Her father was sitting in the living room. The TV was on, but he wasn’t watching the screen—he was staring at a single point, lost in his thoughts. When Dasha entered, he flinched.
“You’re back,” he said. “I was worried.”
“We need to talk, Dad. For real. No more lies.”
He gave her a long look, and something in his eyes changed. It was as if he had been waiting for this moment for a long time. Dreading it, but waiting.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “Sit down.”
Dasha sat in the armchair opposite him. She placed the printout of the photo of her mom with the archive inquiry on the table.
“Where did you get this?” her father’s voice trembled.
“From Natalya. She found it online among photos from Mom’s friends. Mom was looking for information about her birth, Dad. Looking long before I was born. She knew she was adopted.”
Her father was silent.
“Dad! Did she know?…”
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