One evening, as Matvey and Yelisey sat beside her bed doing their homework, Larisa called out to them. Her voice was very weak, barely audible.
— Boys, — she whispered, — come here.
They put down their notebooks and sat on the edge of the bed, taking her hands. Her hands were cold, almost weightless.
— Matvey, Yelisey, — she continued, gathering her last bit of strength, — listen to me carefully. Very carefully.
The boys nodded, trying not to cry. They knew why she had called them.
— I know it will be hard for you. Very hard. But you are strong. You will manage. — She squeezed their hands weakly, but firmly. — Promise me. Promise me that you will always be together. Always. That you won’t abandon each other. That you will take care of each other.
— We promise, Mom, — Matvey whispered, his voice breaking.
— We promise, — Yelisey echoed, large teardrops rolling down his face.
— And one more thing. — Larisa looked at them, studying their faces, memorizing every feature. — Don’t become like your father. Ever. Don’t run from difficulties. Don’t abandon those who trust you. Don’t betray love. Be human beings. Real, honest, good people.
— We will, Mom, — Matvey said firmly, wiping his tears with the back of his hand. — We will never be like him. I swear to you.
Larisa smiled. Faintly, barely noticeable, but sincere.
— I am proud of you, — she whispered. — So proud. You are the best thing that ever happened in my life.
Three days later, she died. Quietly, in her sleep, while Matvey sat beside her, reading her favorite book, “Scarlet Sails,” aloud. He reached the middle of a chapter, looked up, and saw that her chest was no longer rising. He felt the hand he was holding turn cold, lifeless. He understood. He didn’t scream, didn’t cry right away. He just sat there, holding her hand, in silence. Then, quietly, very quietly, he said:
— Goodbye, Mom. Rest in peace.
Yelisey came home from school an hour later and saw his brother sitting by their mother’s bed. Matvey was sitting motionless, staring at a single point. His mother lay quietly, peacefully, as if sleeping.
— Matvey? – Yelisey called out, entering the room.
Matvey looked up at him. Yelisey understood everything at once. He didn’t want to understand, but he did. The boy rushed to the bed, fell to his knees, and grabbed his mother’s hand.
— Mom! Mom, wake up! Please! – he cried, choking on his tears, shaking her hand.
Matvey got off the bed, wrapped his arms around his brother from behind, and held him tightly.
— She’s gone, Yelisey. She’s not sick anymore. She’s not in pain anymore. She’s in a better place now.
— No! No! – Yelisey shouted, struggling. – She can’t. She can’t leave us. She didn’t want to!
— She didn’t want to, — Matvey said softly, and tears finally streamed down his face. — But she couldn’t stay. The illness was stronger.
They cried together, holding each other in the small room that smelled of medicine and wilting flowers on the windowsill. They cried for a long time, until they were exhausted. Maria Pavlovna found them like that – two boys, clinging to each other at the bedside of their deceased mother.
The funeral was modest, almost poor. Maria Pavlovna and Yevgeny Petrovich took care of everything – the paperwork, ordering the coffin, organizing the wake, supporting the boys. They didn’t let them worry about the details, about what to do and how. They just did everything themselves, silently, efficiently.
A few people came to the cemetery. A few neighbors who knew Larisa. A few colleagues from her work, where she had been an accountant before her illness. Her sister from another city, who had arrived late the night before. That was all. Grigory didn’t come. Matvey looked around several times during the ceremony, as if expecting to see his father, but he wasn’t there. And he never would be. Ever.
When the coffin was lowered into the ground, Matvey stepped forward to the edge of the grave, took a handful of earth, clenched it in his fist, and said quietly but firmly:
— Forgive us, Mom. We couldn’t save you. But we will keep our promises. All of them.
He threw the dirt into the grave. Yelisey followed, also taking some earth, and whispered through his tears:
— We love you. We will always love you.
After the funeral, when everyone had left, Maria Pavlovna and Yevgeny Petrovich took the boys to their home. They lived in the next apartment on the same floor, a slightly larger three-room instead of a two-room. They had no children of their own, and they treated Matvey and Yelisey as if they were their own flesh and blood, a gift from fate.
— Boys, — Maria Pavlovna said, seating them at the kitchen table and pouring them hot tea, — Yevgeny Petrovich and I have decided. You will live with us. We will formalize the guardianship. No orphanage. Do you hear me? None. You will stay here, in your home, next to us. We will help you.
Matvey and Yelisey exchanged glances. Relief mingled with pain. They were staying. They wouldn’t lose their home. But their mother was gone. And she would never be back.
— Thank you, — Matvey said hoarsely, clutching the mug of tea with both hands. — Thank you for everything. We… we will never forget this. Never.
Yevgeny Petrovich came over and placed a large, warm hand on his shoulder.
— You’re a strong lad, Matvey. Smart, resilient. And you, Yelisey, you’re a good boy too. You’ll get through this. We’ll get through this together. And we’ll help you however we can.
That night, Matvey lay on the sofa in the room they had been given – Yevgeny Petrovich’s former study, small but cozy – and stared at the ceiling. Yelisey was asleep on the other sofa nearby, sobbing in his sleep and muttering something. Matvey listened to him and thought. He thought about his father. About how he had left, abandoning them to their fate. About how he had laughed as he slammed the door. About how he didn’t even come to say goodbye to the wife who had borne him two sons and loved him, despite everything…
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