Yulia Antonovna had long served in the Grigoryev household—Vladimir and Lyudmila. Today the masters had gone somewhere, and the maid, having finished all her chores around the house, sat down to rest by the window. Suddenly, her attention was drawn to a little boy on the street. Skinny and clad in tattered clothes, he was wandering along the fence of their property.
“Perhaps he’s hungry,” sighed Yulia Antonovna, feeling pity for the unfortunate child. Glancing at the huge clock in the living room, she decided that the couple wouldn’t return anytime soon and stepped out into the yard.
“What’s your name?” she asked softly, addressing the boy who was carefully watching the street. “Vasya,” he replied, giving her a wary look from beneath his disheveled bangs. “Well then, Vasya, come with me. I’ll feed you some fresh apple pie,” the woman offered, and the boy, without hesitation, followed her. His stomach had been rumbling from hunger for a long time—he hadn’t eaten anything that day.
In the kitchen, Yulia Antonovna carefully cut an impressive slice of pie with a knife and placed a plate in front of the hungry little one.
“Oh, it’s so delicious!” Vasya exclaimed, greedily biting into the soft pastry. “My mother used to bake a pie just like this once!” “And where is your mother?” the woman asked cautiously. The boy paused, stopped chewing, and sadly lowered his eyes. “I’ve been looking for her for a long time… She disappeared,” he murmured softly. “Eat, eat,” Yulia Antonovna gently encouraged him. “You’ll find your mother, I’m sure you will.”
At that moment, the front door creaked, and Vladimir and Lyudmila entered the house. The maid flinched at the sound of the footsteps.
“And who do we have here as our guest?” Vladimir asked in surprise as he peered into the kitchen. His eyes widened when he saw the boy. “Who did you bring in, Yulia?” he said sternly to the maid. “This child is looking for his mother; he’s hungry, and I decided to feed him,” the woman replied calmly, shrugging her shoulders.
“So now you’re feeding all sorts of strays? And our opinion no longer matters to you?” the master of the house protested.
Hearing these words, Vasya began to cry. “I’m going to leave now,” he mumbled, putting the half-eaten piece of pie back on the plate.
Then Lyudmila intervened: “Wait, boy,” she said softly. “Tell me, where are you from? Where did you lose your mother?”
Lyudmila had always been gentler than her husband. Sometimes Vladimir would scold her for being overly kind, but he had never succeeded in changing her nature.
“I live with my grandfather, but he’s mean. He’s always scolding me for something, and sometimes he even hits me. I ran away from him,” Vasya confessed, and he pulled from the pocket of his old, ragged trousers a yellowed photograph.
“These are my parents. We used to live together,” said the boy, wiping away his tears with his hand as he handed the photo to the homeowners.
Lyudmila, taking the photo in her hands, froze…In the photo was her daughter, Varya! “Look, Volodya, it’s our girl!” she exclaimed, trembling as she passed the photo to her husband.
Vladimir reluctantly took the photo. “Vasya, how did you come by this photo?” he asked in surprise.
“I stole it from my grandfather. On the other side is an address, so I came here. I thought maybe my mother lives here,” the boy answered as he calmed down. “Grandpa always says that my mother is like a cuckoo who abandoned me. But I don’t believe him!”
“It can’t be! It can’t be!” Lyudmila repeated, recalling how their daughter Varya had once run away with a Gypsy named Manush. For several years they hadn’t heard from her, and then she returned, only to be involved in an accident soon after. That day became a nightmare for them, after which they were left completely alone in these huge mansions.
“And where is your father?” Vladimir asked. “And my father is gone. He was buried six months ago,” Vasya cried once more.
The pair was stunned. They had found a grandson! Tired of loneliness, they decided to keep the boy with them.
“You know, little one, we’ll take you to your room,” said Lyudmila. “And will my mother come?” asked Vasya. “Your mother is now with your father,” the woman replied sadly.
Vasya paled.
After a while, the couple finalized the adoption documents. The boy’s grandfather did not object upon learning that his grandson could be taken in by affluent people.
Yulia Antonovna was delighted. Thanks to that day when she met the little one, the homeowners became happy. In time, Vasya was no longer the destitute, hungry stray. Instead, he became a well-dressed boy, aware of proper manners, with a loving family.
MY DAUGHTER TOLD ME I’M MAKING A FOOL OF MYSELF AFTER I SENT HER A PHOTO OF ME IN A WEDDING SUIT
The crisp white of the wedding suit stared back at him from the full-length mirror, a stark contrast to the weathered lines etched on his face. Arnold, at 75, felt a flutter of nervous excitement, a sensation he hadn’t experienced in decades. He smoothed down the lapels, a wide grin spreading across his face. Helen, his Helen, had said yes.
He couldn’t wait to share the news with his daughter, Emily. He snapped a quick photo, a proud, beaming smile plastered across his face, and sent it to her with a simple message: “Guess who’s getting married!”
He waited, his heart pounding with anticipation. The phone buzzed, and he eagerly opened the message. But the words that appeared on the screen were like a slap in the face.
“Dad, you’re making a fool of yourself. You’re too old to play dress-up and pretend you’re a groom. At your age, it’s pathetic. And what ‘LOVE’ could you possibly have at 75?!”
The smile vanished from his face, replaced by a deep, aching sadness. He felt a wave of shame wash over him, a feeling he hadn’t experienced since he was a young boy. Had he really become a pathetic old man, clinging to a childish dream?
He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, the wedding suit suddenly feeling like a heavy, suffocating weight. He remembered the first time he had met Helen, her warm smile, her gentle touch. They had met in the nursing home, two lonely souls finding solace in each other’s company.
Helen had brought a spark back into his life, a warmth he thought he had lost forever. She had listened to his stories, shared her own, and made him feel seen, truly seen, for the first time in years. He had fallen in love, a deep, abiding love that defied age and circumstance.
He looked at the photo of himself, the beaming smile now a ghostly reminder of his shattered joy. Was he really being ridiculous? Was he making a fool of himself?
He thought of Helen, her eyes filled with love and laughter, her hand warm in his. He thought of the joy they shared, the quiet moments of companionship, the feeling of being truly alive again.
He picked up the phone, his fingers trembling, and dialed Emily’s number.
“Emily,” he said, his voice quiet but firm, “I understand you’re concerned. But Helen makes me happy. She makes me feel alive again. And I’m not going to apologize for finding love at this stage of my life.”
“Dad, you don’t understand,” Emily pleaded. “People will talk. They’ll laugh at you.”
“Let them,” Arnold replied, his voice gaining strength. “I’m not living my life for them. I’m living it for myself, for Helen.”
“But Dad—”
“No, Emily,” Arnold interrupted. “This is my decision. I’m going to marry Helen. And I hope, one day, you’ll understand.”
He hung up the phone, a sense of resolve settling over him. He wouldn’t let anyone, not even his own daughter, steal his happiness.
He walked to the mirror, his gaze meeting his own. He looked at the lines on his face, the silver in his hair, and he saw not a pathetic old man, but a man who had found love, a man who had the courage to embrace it.
He smiled, a genuine, heartfelt smile. He would marry Helen. They would build a life together, filled with love and laughter, defying the expectations of others, proving that love, like life, has no age limit.
The wedding was small, intimate, filled with the warmth of genuine affection. Helen, radiant in her simple white dress, stood beside him, her hand clasped in his. They exchanged vows, their voices filled with love and promise.
As they walked down the aisle, hand in hand, Arnold felt a sense of peace he hadn’t felt in years. He had chosen love, chosen happiness, and he had chosen himself. And that, he knew, was the greatest gift of all.
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