“Daughter, today I bought you a gift—a beautiful book of poems in an old-fashioned binding. I remember how your mother loved her poetry. The book is in your room, which I have prepared for you in my apartment. It has everything a teenage girl might need: beautiful furniture, books, even a piano. I hope that one day you will be able to see it.”
In another letter, dated on her 15th birthday, he wrote about his failed marriages:
“Anechka, I tried to start a new family twice after divorcing your mother. But nothing worked out. You see, when you lose true love because of your own foolishness, it’s very difficult to find something similar. I realized that Angelina was the love of my life, and you are the most precious thing I have.”
In a penultimate letter, written two years ago, her father wrote about his lifestyle:
“Daughter, I am already 47 years old, and I live alone in a large apartment in the city center. I work a lot, sometimes late into the night. I have few friends, mostly colleagues from the theater. But every evening when I return home, I go into your future room, sit there, and think about you. I imagine you doing your homework, reading books, dreaming.”
In the last letter, written just six months ago, he wrote:
“Daughter, I am already 49 years old. I am beginning to realize that I may not live to see you. If something happens to me, know this: you have been the meaning of my life all these years. I have bequeathed all my property to you: an apartment in the capital, a country house in the suburbs, my savings. But most of all, I want to bequeath my love to you. I have instructed Detective Chernov to continue the search at any cost. He recently reported that he has found a new lead, and I am very hopeful that his efforts will soon be successful. In the meantime, all I have left is hope and the memory of that short time when we were a family.
The one who never stopped loving you.”
Anna read the letters, crying. So much pain, so many missed opportunities, so much lost time! Her mother, of course, meant well, but did she have the right to deprive a daughter of her father, and a father of his daughter?
The business card read: “Roman Zakharov, Head Director of the theater, Honored Artist.” And a phone number.
Anna picked up the phone and dialed the number several times, but hung up before it could connect, not daring to go through with it. What would she say to a person she didn’t know and couldn’t remember? How would she explain why she was calling only now? How would she start the conversation? She stood up, paced the room, drank more tea, and sat down by the phone again. Mom wanted me to meet him, Anna convinced herself. So, it’s the right thing to do. I need to be brave.
Finally, gathering her courage, she dialed the number and waited for an answer.
— Hello? — The voice was deep, masculine, a little tired, but pleasant.
— Is this… Is this Roman Zakharov? — Anna asked in a trembling voice.
There was silence on the other end. Then:
— Oh my God! Anya, is that you, daughter?
— Yes, it’s me, — she whispered.
— Anechka, my dear… — She could hear tears in her father’s voice. — I’ve been waiting for this call for so long. Tell me, are you okay, is everything all right with you?
— I… I read your letters. Uncle Andrei gave them to me.
— Andrei found you. Thank God! And how is your mother?
— Andrei said she was ill… — Anna felt a lump forming in her throat. — Mom died three months ago. From cancer.
A long silence. Then a quiet, pained voice:
