— He has changed. I met with him twice: in June and at the beginning of August. Your mother asked me to find him and assess what kind of person he had become. And you know what struck me the most? That he had kept some of your childhood things. He hoped that one day he could show them to you. And he also has all the photos of you and your mother that he could find.
Anna felt tears welling up in her throat.
— He really was looking for us. All this time. He hired private detectives, contacted people search services. One of the detectives even found your trail—remember that man who approached you at the café recently?
— Chernov! — Anna exclaimed. — So that’s who hired him!
— Exactly. Roman hired him many years ago, but the detective only found false leads. But this year he managed to find the right address. But when the detective reported that he had found you, Roman forbade him from meeting with you directly. He said that he first needed to contact me, to get your permission, so as not to shock you.
The sun was beginning to set, and it was getting cooler in the alley. Andrei Sversky stood up from the bench.
— I have to go. But if you want to talk more, call me anytime. — He handed her his business card. — And remember: whatever you decide about your father, you have an uncle who loves you very much.
Anna took the envelope and the business card, still not fully believing the reality of what was happening.
— Thank you, — she whispered. — For coming, for telling me the truth.
— I should be thanking you, — Andrei replied. — For giving me a chance to atone for my guilt towards Angelina. She was right about everything. She was always right.
At home, Anna hesitated for a long time before opening the envelope. Her hands were shaking with excitement, her thoughts were a jumble. She put the kettle on, made herself some chamomile tea with honey—just the way her mother liked it—took her mom’s favorite cookies from the cupboard, and only then sat down at the kitchen table and opened the envelope with trembling hands. Inside were several folded sheets of paper, a savings book, a business card, and two photographs.
The first photograph was of a man in his mid-forties: tall, with dark hair starting to gray at the temples, with dark eyes and a gentle smile. He was standing next to a theater poster on which Anna read: “City Theater. Premiere of the play ‘Eden’. Director Roman Zakharov.” The second photograph showed three people: a young mother and father holding a very small girl in a white dress. All three were smiling, and it was clear how happy they were.
— Dad, — she whispered, touching the photograph with her fingers. — That’s me as a baby.
The first was a letter from her mother, dated this April. It was written on several pages in small, neat handwriting.
“My dearest Anechka! If you are reading this letter, it means Uncle Andrei has fulfilled my request. Forgive me for hiding the truth about your father and our family from you for so many years. I thought I was doing the right thing, protecting you from disappointment and pain. But now, with so little time left, I understand: everyone has the right to know their history, their roots. Roman Zakharov is your father, and he loved us both. Yes, he made a mistake by cheating on me, but people aren’t perfect. I was too proud to forgive, too stubborn to give you a chance to know each other. And now I agonize over this decision every day.
When I found out about my illness, my first thought was of you. What will happen to my girl when I’m gone? Who will help her in difficult times, who will give her advice, who will simply hug her when she’s sad? And I realized: you have a father who can be your support. In this envelope, you will find his letters—he wrote them every year on your birthday, hoping that one day we would receive them. I received them through Uncle Andrei, who met with the detective Chernov, whom your father hired to find us. The decision to meet him is yours alone. But know this: he is a decent man who sincerely repents his mistakes. And he can give you what I cannot: the opportunity to get a good education in the capital, build a career, live a full life.
There are 350,000 in the savings book—all I could save over these years, putting away a little each month. It will be enough for the beginning of your university studies. But your father has more resources, and most importantly—he really wants to help you. I love you more than life and I want you to be happy. Don’t repeat my mistakes, don’t let pride destroy family ties. Forgive both me and him. It’s human to make mistakes, but it’s important to be able to forgive.
Your mother, who will always love you.”
Anna wiped away her tears and picked up the next letter. It was a message from her father, dated on her 17th birthday.
“My dear daughter, today you turn 17. I don’t know where you live, what you look like, what you dream of. But every day I think of you, I imagine what you have become. I know that your mother considers me unworthy to be your father. And in some ways, she is right: I made a mistake that I cannot forgive myself for. I betrayed the most precious people in my life because of a momentary weakness and pride. But if you ever want to meet me, if you find it in your heart to forgive, I will be immensely happy. I am ready to ask for forgiveness as long as it takes. Ready to prove that I have changed, that I have become a different person. I have achieved a lot in life, my plays are staged in the best theaters in the country, I am known and respected in my professional circle. But none of it makes sense without you. You are my daughter, my blood, and I am ready to do everything to atone for my guilt towards you and your mother.
With love and hope, your dad Roman.”
There were several more letters from different years. In one, written on her 14th birthday, her father wrote:
