“For what?”
“That you would let me be a part of your life,” Natalya did not look away. “Not to replace her. Never. But… to be around. At least sometimes.”
Dasha lowered her eyes to the photograph in her hands. Two girls, holding hands. Her mother and this woman, a long time ago, in another life, in another world.
“I need to think,” she said. “This is too… much.”
“Of course,” Natalya nodded. “I’m not rushing you. Here, take this.”
She handed her a business card: plain, white, with a phone number and a name. Natalya Dorokhova. No address. No job title. Just a name and a number.
“Call when you want to. Or don’t. That’s your right too. I just wanted you to know: you are not alone. Whatever happens, you are not alone.”
She stood up, buttoned her coat, and walked down the alley. A tall, straight figure in the gray November haze. Dasha watched her go until she disappeared around a bend. Then she turned her gaze back to her mother’s photograph.
“Did you know?” she whispered. “Did you know and keep silent? Or did you really not remember?”
The photograph was silent. Her mother smiled the same smile as always. And for the first time in two years, Dasha felt not only grief, but also resentment. A small, prickly, uncomfortable feeling.
She returned home around noon. Her father was already up, sitting in the kitchen, drinking coffee, scrolling through something on his phone. When Dasha entered, he looked up and nodded, “Hi.”
“Where were you?”
It was the first time he had asked in months. Dasha froze in the doorway, not knowing what to say. The truth? “Dad, it turns out Mom had a twin sister who was given to another family, and I just met her at the cemetery”? It sounded insane. Like the plot of a bad soap opera.
“I was out,” she said. “With Katya.”
Her father nodded and went back to his phone. No more questions followed. Dasha walked past him to her room, closed the door, and lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling. She was still clutching the business card in her hand. Natalya Dorokhova. Mom’s sister. An aunt she never knew existed. A person who had searched for her twin for 20 years and was too late.
Dasha took out her phone and entered the number. Her fingers were shaking. “Should I call?” she asked herself. “Should I not? Should I tell Dad? Grandma Zina?”
Grandma Zina. The thought of her made something click in her head. Grandma Zina—her father’s mother. She had known Mom for many years, was at their wedding, was present when Dasha was born. If anyone could know the truth about Mom’s family, it was her. Or… or did Grandma not know anything either? Maybe Mom really didn’t remember her past? Three years old is too young for clear memories. Maybe her new family gave her a new life, erased the past, and Mom grew up genuinely believing she was an only child?
Too many questions. Too few answers. Dasha closed her eyes and pictured her mother—alive, warm, laughing. She imagined her hugging her after school, braiding her hair in front of the mirror, reading her fairy tales at night. And then she pictured another woman beside her—with the same face, but with pain in her eyes. Two sisters who could have lived their lives together, but didn’t. Who could have known each other, but never did.
“Mom,” Dasha whispered into the empty room. “What should I do?”
The emptiness didn’t answer. And outside, it started to rain—a fine, cold, autumn rain. It tapped against the window, and each drop sounded like a question with no answer.
Almost two weeks passed. The longest two weeks of Dasha’s life. The business card lay in her desk drawer under textbooks and old notebooks, but the girl thought about it constantly. During classes, at dinner, before bed, her thoughts returned to the woman at the cemetery, to her words, to the photograph of two little girls in identical dresses.
Dasha still hadn’t called. Not because she didn’t want to—she desperately wanted to know more. But something was stopping her. Fear? Distrust? Or maybe a strange feeling that making that call would change something forever? That it would open a door that could never be closed again?
On the Thursday of the second week, she made up her mind. Not to call Natalya—no, she wasn’t ready for that yet. But to talk to Grandma Zina.
Zinaida Fedorovna Terekhova was a woman of the old school. 72 years old, a widow, a former accountant at a factory. She had lived through a lot: a hungry childhood, a difficult youth, the early loss of her husband. Life had taught her not to complain, not to cry in public, and not to ask unnecessary questions. “The less you know, the better you sleep” was her favorite saying.
Dasha found her grandmother engaged in her usual activity: sitting by the window in her apartment, knitting. The needles flashed in her wrinkled but still nimble fingers, a gray woolen thread extending from the ball of yarn.
“You’re here?” her grandmother looked up. “Tea?”
“Yes, thank you.”
They sat in the kitchen—small, with yellowed wallpaper and an old refrigerator that hummed so loudly they had to raise their voices. Her grandmother poured the tea, placed a small bowl of caramels on the table, and sat down opposite her.
“Did something happen?” she asked, looking at her granddaughter intently. “You haven’t been yourself these past few days. You’re pale, quiet. Your father called, asked if you were sick.”
“I’m not sick. It’s not me. Grandma,” she began, trying to keep her voice calm. “I wanted to ask you something. About Mom. About her family.”
Her grandmother froze. Just for a second, but Dasha noticed: the hand holding the teacup stopped halfway to her mouth.
“What about her family?”
“Did you know Grandma Raya? Mom’s mother. They were close, right? Mom always said she loved her very much.”
“Yes, she loved her.” Her grandmother took a sip of tea, looking somewhere off to the side. “She was a good woman. Kind, quiet. She raised Olya wonderfully.”
“And do you know…” Dasha took a breath. “Do you know that Grandma Raya wasn’t Mom’s biological mother?”
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