![\"\"](%5C%22https:%5C/%5C/echowoven.com%5C/wp-content%5C/uploads%5C/2025%5C/02%5C/In-1975-I-found-a-girl-by-the-railway-tracks-and-adopted-herthumb-1.jpg%5C%22 "\\"\\"")
At home, the first thing I did was stoke the stove. While the water heated, I fed the girl hot soup. She ate eagerly yet neatly, glancing at me from under her brows.\n
\u00abDon\u2019t be afraid,\u00bb I smiled. \u00abNo one will hurt you.\u00bb\n
After a bath, dressed in my old nightgown (I had to roll up the sleeves ten times), she finally spoke:\n
\u00abWill you really not throw me out?\u00bb\n
\u00abReally,\u00bb I answered, combing her tangled hair. \u00abWill you tell me your name?\u00bb\n
\u00abLena,\u00bb she whispered. \u00abLenochka.\u00bb\n
The next day, the police could only spread their hands. No reports of a missing child had been filed. The young officer sighed sympathetically:\n
\u00abWe\u2019ll have to put her in an orphanage. You understand, it\u2019s the procedure\u2026\u00bb\n
\u00abNo,\u00bb I said firmly. \u00abWe won\u2019t.\u00bb\n
\u00abAnna Vasilyevna,\u00bb he hesitated, \u00abbut you live alone\u2026\u00bb\n
\u00abAnd what? I\u2019ll manage. I\u2019m not that young anymore.\u00bb\n
That same evening, Lenochka, sitting in the kitchen with a cup of milk, suddenly asked:\n
\u00abWhy didn\u2019t you have children?\u00bb\n
I nearly dropped the ladle:\n
\u00abWho said I didn\u2019t?\u00bb\n
\u00abThere are no pictures,\u00bb she shrugged.\n
\u00abSmart girl,\u00bb I chuckled. \u00abMaybe it just wasn\u2019t meant to be. But now I have you.\u00bb\n
She smiled\u2014for the first time in those days\u2014and I knew: I\u2019d never give her up. Come what may.\n
\u00abMom, why do you have such a strange dress in this photo?\u00bb Lenochka held an old picture where I was in my best crepe de Chine.\n
\u00abIt\u2019s not strange, it was fashionable. I stood in line for a year to buy that fabric.\u00bb\n
The guardianship proceedings dragged on for three months. Endless paperwork, endless offices, skeptical looks from officials. \u00abDo you understand the responsibility? What if her parents show up? How will you support her?\u00bb\n
I just shrugged: \u00abWe\u2019ll manage somehow.\u00bb And at night, I counted pennies, figured out how to stretch my salary for two. I turned old curtains into a dress for Lenochka, tailored a jacket out of my coat for her.\n
Neighbors whispered behind my back: \u00abWhy does she need this? She has no children of her own, so she took someone else\u2019s. What if the child has bad genes?\u00bb\n
Especially persistent was Nina Stepanovna from the first floor. Every time she saw us by the entrance, she dramatically sighed and rolled her eyes: \u00abOh, Anna, you\u2019re going to have trouble with her\u2026\u00bb\n
Lenochka once couldn\u2019t take it:\n
\u00abAnd you, Aunt Nina, are just jealous. Your own son is grown up, and he doesn\u2019t even visit you.\u00bb\n
I barely held back laughter, looking at the neighbor\u2019s stunned face. At home, of course, I scolded her for her cheekiness, but deep down, I was proud\u2014she was getting a character.\n
Gradually, life got on track. Lenochka went to first grade, and I took a job as a janitor at her school\u2014to be closer to her. Teachers couldn\u2019t praise her enough: capable, catches on the fly.\n
In the evenings, we often sat at the old dining table\u2014I checked her notebooks, she did her homework. Sometimes she would suddenly look up from her textbook:\n
\u00abMom, is it true that they used to write all the letters differently?\u00bb\n
\u00abWho told you that?\u00bb\n
\u00abSome boy in class. Says his grandmother still wrote with yat letters.\u00bb\n
\u00abAnd what did you answer?\u00bb\n
\u00abTold him that now it\u2019s not about yat letters, but about writing without mistakes.\u00bb\n
On rare weekends, we had celebrations. We baked pies, made jam, and in winter, we made dumplings. Lenochka loved that process, though she got more flour on herself than shaped dumplings. The dumplings were almost meatless, but at least there were some.\n
\u00abMom, look, this dumpling looks like our school director!\u00bb she laughed, showing a lopsided lump.\n
\u00abGive me that director, or he might end up in the soup, and that would be awkward.\u00bb\n
There were, of course, difficulties. In the sixth grade, Lenochka got involved with a group of older students. Started skipping lessons, being rude. I couldn\u2019t sleep at night, always thinking\u2014where did I go wrong, what did I miss?\n
The culmination was her running away from home. A note on the table: \u00abDon\u2019t look for me, I\u2019m not your real daughter anyway.\u00bb I rushed to the station\u2014I felt in my heart she was there. And sure enough: there she sat on that very bench where we first met. Frozen, crying.\n
\u00abWell, where were you planning to go?\u00bb I asked, sitting next to her.\n
\u00abI don\u2019t know\u2026\u00bb she sniffled. \u00abJust\u2026 everyone says you\u2019re not my real mother.\u00bb\n
\u00abAnd what\u2019s a \u2018real\u2019 mother? The one who left you in the cold?\u00bb\n
\u00abSorry\u2026\u00bb she buried her face in my shoulder. \u00abI won\u2019t do it again.\u00bb\n
At home, over tea with raspberry jam (the same as on our first evening), she suddenly asked:\n
\u00abDo you ever regret taking me in?\u00bb\n
\u00abDo you ever regret staying with me?\u00bb\n
We looked at each other and laughed.\n
Time flew unnoticed. Lenochka grew up, changed. From an awkward teenager, she turned into a beautiful girl. After school, she decided to go to medical school\u2014said she wanted to help people. I was only glad: it meant all those years I taught her kindness weren\u2019t in vain.\n
I remember how she came home after graduation\u2014happy, with a medal on her chest. She sat next to me on the couch:\n
\u00abMom, I\u2019ve been thinking\u2026 They say there are no accidents. Maybe it was fate\u2014that you walked down that road then?\u00bb\n
\u00abMaybe it was fate,\u00bb I smiled. \u00abBut I\u2019ll tell you this: fate is fate, but the choice is always ours.\u00bb\n
That evening, she first told me about her past. About her alcoholic mother, the beatings, how her mom brought another suitor home and that man\u2026 Lenochka didn\u2019t finish, but I understood everything. That day, she ran away from home and never returned.\n
\u00abI was afraid for a long time that you would turn out the same,\u00bb she confessed. \u00abBut then I realized: real love\u2014it\u2019s not about blood, but about the heart.\u00bb\n
When it was time for her to go to the institute, we both cried. I packed everything I could for her: an old suitcase, some money, a jar of jam\u2026\n
\u00abMom, stop fussing over me, I\u2019m not little anymore!\u00bb\n
\u00abFor me, you\u2019ll always be little.\u00bb\n
Then there were letters, rare phone calls from the public phone, short visits during holidays. Lenochka did excellently, worked as a nurse in a hospital. I was proud of her and often caught myself thinking: how good it was that, back in \u201975, I didn\u2019t pass by.\n
I\u2019m embarrassed to admit, but there was a moment when I almost gave up. In the first year, when the money ran out completely, and the salary wasn\u2019t even enough for food. I was about to go to the guardianship authorities\u2026 And then the upstairs neighbor, Maria Ivanovna, brought a whole bag of children\u2019s clothes\u2014her granddaughter had outgrown them.\n
\u00abHang in there, Anyuta,\u00bb she said then. \u00abGod didn\u2019t send you the girl for nothing.\u00bb\n
And I held on. Learned to darn, sew, make incredible recipes from the bare minimum. Lenochka never complained, even when she had to wear reshaped clothes or eat potato soup three days in a row.\n
I remember sitting with Lenochka in the kitchen after her first practice at the hospital. Tired but satisfied, she warmed her hands on a cup of tea:\n
\u00abMom, I\u2019ve been thinking\u2026 Everyone complains about a Soviet childhood\u2014that there was nothing, that they couldn\u2019t get anything. But I only remember how we made dumplings while listening to \u2018Theatre by the Microphone,\u2019 how you braided my hair and told me stories. Even the old dress from your skirt was my favorite\u2014you even added lace to the hem\u2026\u00bb\n
At the medical school graduation, our entire station family gathered. Klavdiya Petrovna dressed in her best suit, which she saved for special occasions, Zina the cashier brought a huge bouquet of peonies from her garden. Even Nina Stepanovna hobbled over\u2014she was already walking with difficulty by then.\n
When Lenochka went up on stage for her diploma, I caught a glimpse of our acquaintances discreetly wiping their eyes with handkerchiefs. I remember how they used to gossip back then\u2026\n
\u00abAnya,\u00bb Nina Stepanovna touched my elbow, \u00abforgive me, old fool. Remember how I always nagged you\u2014why, for what? And look what a daughter you\u2019ve raised\u2014a doctor! You didn\u2019t suffer with her as I prophesied, but found your happiness.\u00bb\n
I watched as my girl, now Dr. Elena Anatolyevna, accepted congratulations from the professors and thought: every wrinkle on my face, every sleepless night by her bed, every darn on an old coat\u2014it was all worth it. Lord, how worth it it was\u2026\n
And Lenochka\u2026 she grew up to be a real doctor. \u00abGifted by God,\u00bb her colleagues said. But for me, she always remained that little girl from the railway, who one day changed my entire life.\n
And then she gave me a house! Many years later. Let her tell it herself.\n
I had planned this surprise for my mom for a long time. Saved up, worked two jobs, took night shifts, invested money wisely\u2026 I chose the house carefully\u2014a single-story, so mom wouldn\u2019t have to climb stairs, with a large garden where she could grow her favorite peonies.\n
When I came to pick her up that March day, she was bustling in the kitchen, baking her signature pies:\n
\u00abLenochka, why didn\u2019t you warn me! I would\u2019ve cleaned up\u2026\u00bb\n
\u00abMom, drop that cleaning. Let\u2019s go, there\u2019s something to do.\u00bb\n
\u00abWhat kind of business?\u00bb she wiped her hands on her apron. \u00abMy dough is rising\u2026\u00bb\n
\u00abThe dough can wait.\u00bb\n
All the way, she tried to find out where we were going. I dodged the question, though my heart pounded with excitement. When we turned onto a country road, mom grew suspicious:\n
\u00abLen, you\u2019re not taking me to some hospital, are you? I\u2019m healthy!\u00bb\n
\u00abBetter,\u00bb I winked.\n
At the gates of the new house, she stopped. Spacious veranda, bright windows, apple trees in the garden\u2026\n
\u00abPeople live nicely,\u00bb she sighed.\n
\u00abNow you\u2019ll live here.\u00bb\n
At first, she didn\u2019t believe it. Then she cried. Walked through the rooms, touched the walls, as if checking\u2014it wasn\u2019t a dream.\n
\u00abDarling, how\u2026 This must\u2019ve cost a fortune\u2026\u00bb\n
\u00abAnd you think I\u2019ve been slaving away in a private clinic for so many years? So that you could freeze in your old age in that Khrushchevka?\u00bb\n
We spent another week in the old apartment, packing things. Every trinket held memories. Here\u2019s the worn-out tablecloth where I learned to write letters. Here\u2019s a cup with a chipped handle\u2014I broke it on the first day when my hands were shaking from fear. Mom didn\u2019t scold me then, just glued it and said, \u00abNow it\u2019s special.\u00bb\n
Neighbors helped with the move. Even Nina Stepanovna brought over her famous \u00abNapoleon\u00bb:\n
\u00abDon\u2019t forget to visit us, Vasilyevna. Who will tell me the news now?\u00bb\n
At the new place, mom thrived. Started a vegetable garden, grew flowers. In the mornings, she sat in the gazebo, drank tea, and watched the sunrise. She said she had never slept so well\u2014quiet, birds singing.\n
Only sometimes I noticed how she secretly wiped tears, looking at old photos. Especially at that one where we were by the Christmas tree\u2014I was six, in a dress made from a reshaped curtain, so happy.\n
\u00abYou know,\u00bb she said one evening as we sat on the veranda, \u00abI almost walked past then. It was dark, scary\u2026 And then I thought\u2014what if someone needs help there?\u00bb\n
\u00abAnd how did it turn out, huh?\u00bb I took her hand. \u00abYou saved me, and now I\u2019m saving you.\u00bb\n
\u00abSilly,\u00bb she patted my head like when I was a child. \u00abYou\u2019ve already saved me long ago. From loneliness, from emptiness\u2026 After my husband died, I was completely lost. But then you appeared\u2014and meaning returned.\u00bb\n
Recently, I took a leave from work, moved my office to an extension of mom\u2019s house. I\u2019ll see patients here\u2014half the city comes to me anyway. And the main thing\u2014I\u2019ll be able to be with her.\n
In the evenings, we still drink tea with raspberry jam. Only now, not in a cramped kitchen, but on a spacious veranda. Mom started a new tradition\u2014baking pies for a nearby orphanage.\n
\u00abMaybe,\u00bb she says, \u00absomeone\u2019s fate is waiting there too?\u00bb\n
And I look at her and think: what a joy it is\u2014to be able to thank the person who gave you life. Not the first, biological one, but the real one\u2014full of love, care, and warmth.\n
And let them say that miracles don\u2019t happen. I know: the main miracle happened on that cold November evening in 1975, when a lonely woman didn\u2019t walk past a frozen child on the railway. Everything else is just gratitude for that miracle.\n
Now, every evening, I go into mom\u2019s room, adjust the blanket, and kiss her cheek\u2014just like she did when I was little. And each time she whispers:\n
\u00abThank you, my girl.\u00bb\n
\u00abThank you, mom. For everything.\n
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.\n Source:\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" We\u2019re stuck at the crossing again,\u00bb sighed Klavdiya Petrovna, adjusting her woolen scarf. \u00abWhat do you think, Anya, maybe we\u2019ll get lucky and find a gold bar on the tracks?\u00bb \u00abAs if,\u00bb I smirked. \u00abYou\u2019d be lucky to find a frozen crow here.\u00bb The November wind cut to the bone. I was returning from the …\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":101614,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1439],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-101613","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-stories"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/echowoven.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/101613","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/echowoven.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/echowoven.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/echowoven.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/echowoven.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=101613"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/echowoven.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/101613\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":101616,"href":"https:\/\/echowoven.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/101613\/revisions\/101616"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/echowoven.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/101614"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/echowoven.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=101613"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/echowoven.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=101613"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/echowoven.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=101613"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}