“Yes,” he breathed out. “She knew. Grandma Raya told her a few years before our wedding. Olya had found some documents—by accident, while sorting through old things. She asked her mother. And Raya couldn’t lie. She told her she had adopted her from an orphanage. That there had been another girl, a twin sister, but she was taken by another family.”
“And Mom started searching.”
“Yes. She wrote inquiries to archives. Spent months searching.”
“And then?” He fell silent. “What happened then?”
“Then we met. We started dating. She told me everything—about the adoption, about her sister, about the search. I listened. I supported her. I said I would help her search. And she…” His voice broke. “She was so happy. She said that for the first time in a long time, she felt she wasn’t alone.”
“So what happened next?”
“Grandma.” He said the word as if it were a curse. “My mother. I told her about Olya, about her story.”
“And Mom…”
“She was horrified. She said I had gotten involved with a troubled girl, that who knew what kind of genes she had, what kind of heredity. She said that if Olya found her sister, who knows who she would drag into our family. A marginal, an alcoholic, a criminal.”
“And you listened to her?”
“Not right away. At first, I argued. I defended Olya. But my mother… She has a way of convincing people. She said, ‘If you love this girl, protect her from her past. Help her forget. Give her a new life, a new family with you. Why does she need a sister she doesn’t remember? Why does she need the pain that this search will bring?'”
“And you agreed.”
“I was young, Dasha. Twenty-two years old. Head over heels in love. I was afraid of losing her. And yes, I agreed. Gradually, carefully, I started to convince Olya that the search was pointless. That the archives were destroyed. That her sister was impossible to find. That it was better to live in the present, not the past.”
“You made her give up.”
“I thought I was doing what was best for her.” Tears streamed down his cheeks; he didn’t even try to hide them. “She was so happy when she stopped searching. She said she could finally live in peace. That I was her real family, and she didn’t need anyone else. I believed I had done the right thing. I believed it for twenty years.”
“And then Natalya came.”
“Yes. And I saw her face—Olya’s face, but with different eyes, a different pain—and I realized what I had done. I realized that all these years I had been lying not only to my wife, but to myself. That I had stolen her sister from her. That I had deprived them both of the chance to find each other.”
They were silent. Outside, it had grown completely dark. Only a desk lamp was on in the room, casting soft shadows on the walls.
“Why did you tell me Natalya asked for money?” Dasha asked. “She says she didn’t.”
Her father closed his eyes.
“Because I wanted you not to trust her. I wanted you to stay with me, not go to her. Selfishness. Fear. The same things as twenty years ago.”
“You lied.”
“Yes.”
Silence again. Dasha looked at her father—broken, crying, lost—and didn’t know what she felt. Anger? Yes. Pity? That too. And something else. Deeper. More complex. Understanding? Maybe. Because she could see: he wasn’t a monster. Just a man who was afraid. Afraid of losing what he loved. And that fear had made him cruel.
“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” she said quietly. “Not now. Maybe not for a long time. But I want to try. For Mom’s sake. For my own.”
Her father looked up. There was hope in his eyes. Faint, tormented, but alive.
“Really?…”
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