When the youngest son married, Sveta’s house already felt emptier than she had ever imagined. Her daughter had long since left for Yekaterinburg, chasing a city life of cafés and high heels. Her older son worked in the far north, gone for months at a time. Sveta had always known they would leave. Her daughter had spent childhood evenings cutting glossy pictures of fashion and apartments out of magazines, dreaming of another life. Her older boy pored over maps, his imagination fixed on tundras and oceans far beyond their small village.
But Yegor, her youngest, was different. When her husband Vasily died, Sveta thought her heart would break in two. She had wept at the grave, whispering, “How can I live without you, Vasenka? How?” The older children cried too, though distantly. It was Yegor, barely twelve, who had stood by her side, shoulders straight, his thin frame pressed against hers as if to hold her upright. He had made her a promise then: “Mama, I’ll never leave you. I’ll always live here with you.”
Years passed, and Yegor kept that promise, even while studying. Every weekend, he came home, bringing small stories from town, carrying wood, helping with repairs. When it came time for marriage, he found a girl who agreed to stay in the village.
Zoja
Her name was Zoja — a striking young woman with wide blue eyes and hair so long it brushed her waist. Yegor had courted her quietly while they studied together, though she had only realized his devotion much later. Their wedding filled the village square with music and chatter. Relatives from near and far gathered, feasting on roasted lamb and sweet pastries. Sveta watched from her seat, her eyes warm. She liked her new daughter-in-law immediately. Zoja was sharp, spirited, maybe a little spoiled, but Yegor needed a woman with fire. If she didn’t know much about housework, Sveta could teach her.
Friction
The first clash came sooner than expected. Barely a week after the wedding, Sveta stopped by to help with soup. Yegor, she knew, couldn’t manage a day without soup — his stomach had always been delicate. But when she reached for the breadbasket, Zoja snapped.
“Your hands are dirty! Don’t touch the bread.”
Sveta blinked, startled. “I just washed them.”
“Exactly! Wet and messy.”
The words cut sharper than Sveta let on. She didn’t argue. She simply gathered her shawl and went home. That evening, Yegor tried to explain. “Mama, don’t be offended. Zoja is pregnant. She’s nervous.” Sveta nodded. She wasn’t offended, she told herself. Soon there would be grandchildren, and that joy would fill the hollow space in her heart.
Grandchildren
When their first daughter was born, the whole family crowded around the cradle. Sveta tried to warn against too many visitors, but Zoja rolled her eyes. “You’re just being superstitious.” Relatives laughed, sipping tea that Sveta had brewed, eating from plates she had washed.
Finally, she asked in a small voice, “May I hold her?”
Zoja’s gaze fell to Sveta’s hands. “Wash them first.”
“I just did,” Sveta murmured.
“Exactly the problem. They’re wet.”
Her cheeks burned as Zoja’s parents stared, but at last, the child was placed in her arms. Tiny, perfect, with the softest scent of milk and talc. Sveta’s eyes filled with tears. She would love this little one fiercely, no matter how her daughter-in-law bristled.
The baby was named Anya, after Zoja’s sister. Yegor promised Sveta that the next child would carry her name, though Sveta doubted Zoja would ever want a large family.
She was wrong.
Vasya
At Anya’s first birthday, Yegor and Zoja announced another pregnancy. Some shook their heads — too soon, they said. But Sveta smiled. “My children were close in age too. It is good.”
The second child was a boy. They named him Vasya, after Sveta’s late husband. When she heard the name spoken aloud, Sveta wept openly. She had never dared hope that her husband’s name would live on through a grandson. She clung to the baby, whispering, “My little Vasenka.”
Zoja’s labor had been hard, leaving her weak and bedridden for weeks. This time, she yielded. “Help me, please,” she said, her voice stripped of pride. And Sveta did — cooking, cleaning, rocking the newborn through sleepless nights. Vasya spent nearly his whole first year against her chest, his tiny heartbeat steady under her palm.
Changes
Zoja changed after the second birth. She grew heavier, slower, her once-proud hair tied back in haste. Headaches plagued her. She often scolded Sveta for baking pies, blaming the treats for her weight. Sveta stopped baking, though she knew Yegor still longed for the smell of warm pastry.
Then came the third child, little Vanecska. Pale and fragile, she seemed spun from porcelain. Looking at her, Sveta’s heart twisted. She prepared herself for months of caring for the household again, expecting Zoja to collapse into long convalescence.
But she was wrong. Zoja surprised them all. Though weary, she fought through it, keeping her home as best she could, still sharp-tongued, still proud. And Sveta adjusted once again.
A Mother’s Place
The rhythm of life settled into uneasy balance. Sveta visited often, sometimes welcomed, sometimes merely tolerated. She endured the small humiliations — the comments about her hands, the rejection of the pink overalls she had bought at the market, the sighs when she offered advice. Each slight stung, but she swallowed her pride.
Because she knew Yegor was happy. Because the grandchildren needed her. Because love, to her, was not about being thanked, but about being there.
The Quiet Legacy
By the time Vanecska toddled across the yard, Yegor’s household echoed with the sounds of three small voices. Sveta, sitting on her porch with knitting in her lap, listened to their laughter carried on the wind. Sometimes, when the house grew still, she thought of Vasenka and whispered, “Look at them, my love. Look what we have.”
She knew she was no heroine, no saint. She was simply a mother, weathering the sharpness of youth, holding onto the sweetness of childhood. And though Zoja might never fully accept her, Sveta’s heart belonged to those children — Anya, Vasya, Vanecska — the living proof that love, despite all friction, multiplies across generations.