The city cemetery was one of the oldest in town, with ancient oaks and linden trees, marble monuments, many of which remembered the tsarist times. Her mother’s grave was in the new section, where people who had passed away in recent decades were laid to rest.
Anna approached the familiar grave with a cross, on which there was a photograph of her mother: young, smiling—the way she was about five years ago, before the illness. She placed fresh flowers on the grave and said quietly:
— Mom, I’m here. As you asked.
— Anya.
The girl flinched and turned around. A few steps away stood an elderly man in his sixties with gray hair and brown eyes. He was dressed in a dark suit and held a bouquet of white roses.
— Are you… Are you the person my mother wrote about? — Anna asked uncertainly.
The man nodded and came closer. His face expressed deep sadness, but also some relief.
— My name is Andrei Sversky. I am your mother’s cousin. My condolences, Anna. Angelina was a wonderful woman.
— A cousin? — Anna looked at him in confusion. — But mom never told me about any relatives. She said she had no one left.
Andrei Sversky sighed heavily and placed the roses at the monument.
— It’s a long and complicated story. Your mother was a very proud woman. We… we had a fight many years ago over a misunderstanding. But in the last months before she passed, we made peace. She wrote to me, told me about her illness, and asked me to help you.
— So that’s who she was writing to, — Anna mumbled.
— And I thought…
— Let’s go sit somewhere, — Andrei Sversky suggested. — We need to talk. I have something very important for you.
They sat on a bench in a shady alley near the chapel. The elderly man took a thick envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to Anna.
— Your mother asked me to give you this. But first, I must tell you the story of our family, which Angelina kept from you all these years.
Andrei Sversky spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully, as if each one caused him pain. Anna noticed that his hands were trembling slightly—either from age or nervousness. He was a large man with noble features, gray hair, and perceptive eyes. He exuded intelligence and a special kind of warmth.
— Your mother and I grew up together, — he began slowly. — My father and her mother were brother and sister. After the war, our families lived in the same house on Central Street. The children grew up like siblings. Angelina was 13 years younger than me, but we were very close.
Anna listened, not daring to interrupt. For the first time in her life, she was hearing about her mother’s relatives.
— Our parents died in a car accident when Angelina was 16 and I was 29. I was working, living in a dormitory. Our aunt, our late mother’s sister, took Angelina in. But our aunt was a strict woman, and life was not easy for Angelina with her.
— Why did mom never tell me about her family? — Anna asked quietly.
— It’s a complicated story, — Andrei Sversky sighed. — When Angelina finished school, she enrolled in the pedagogical institute’s library science department. She was a very capable girl, an excellent student. There she met her first husband—your father, Roman Zakharov. He was a student at the theater institute, studying directing. Handsome, talented, charming.
At the mention of her father, Anna involuntarily tensed up. Her mother had spoken little and reluctantly about him, only that he had died in a car crash when Anna was very little.
— They met at a student festival, — Andrei continued his story. — Roman was directing a play, and Angelina was helping with the costumes and sets. It was love at first sight. I remember how she told me about him: her eyes shone, her cheeks glowed. She was so happy.
— And what happened next?
— They got married in their second year. Roman was from a wealthy family; his father managed a small theater in another city and had connections in the theater world. After graduation, he quickly got a position as a director at a drama theater
. Angelina gave birth to you when she was 29. It seemed like everything was working out perfectly for them.
Andrei fell silent, looking at the gravestone.
— I often visited them in those early years. I remember how happy they were with you. Roman carried you in his arms, read you fairy tales, even though you were just a baby. Angelina was overjoyed; she had the family she had always dreamed of.
— But something went wrong? — Anna asked quietly.
— Unfortunately, yes. Roman turned out to be a… fickle man. Success went to his head. The theater where he worked became one of the leading ones in the city, his plays were successful, and newspapers wrote about him. And he began to cheat on Angelina with actresses from his theater. At first, it was fleeting affairs, but then one appeared—Svetlana Kritskaya, the lead actress of the theater.
— Did mom know about the affairs?
— Not at first. Angelina was very trusting; she couldn’t even imagine that her husband was capable of betrayal. And Roman hid his escapades well. But then she started noticing strange things: he became colder, stayed at work later more often, and there were mysterious phone calls. — Andrei took a white handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his eyes. — I tried to warn her. Rumors reached me too. But Angelina wouldn’t listen. ‘It can’t be,’ she would say. ‘Roman loves me and Anechka. It’s just gossip from envious people.’
— And then?..
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