Her daughter left for Moscow to study and never came back. Her mother waited for her for thirty years, and then saw a familiar face on television.
Her daughter left for Moscow to study and never came back. Her mother waited for her for thirty years, and then saw a familiar face on television.
Anna Semyonovna waited for her daughter every Saturday.
It had started long ago—so long ago that the neighbors had lost count. Every Saturday, in any weather—rain, snow, or slush—Anna Semyonovna would put on her best coat, tie her headscarf, and walk to the bus stop. To the old, Soviet-era bus stop made of concrete slabs that had once been painted blue. The paint had peeled away long ago, and now the stop looked like an old woman in rags.
The bus from the district center arrived at noon. Once a day. Anna Semyonovna would arrive half an hour early. She would sit on the bench if it was empty. If it was taken, she would stand. And wait.
The bus would pull up, rattling and coughing with its old engine. The door would open. People would step out. Anna Semyonovna would gaze intently at everyone. At every face. At every woman’s figure. And every time—to no avail.
The bus would drive away. Anna Semyonovna would stand for a little while longer. Then she would turn around and walk back—all the way through the village, past the neighbors’ houses, past the old clubhouse, past leaning fences. She would walk home thinking the same thing: “Maybe next Saturday.”
This went on for thirty years.
Her daughter’s name was Lena. Or—as she later called herself—Alyona. And then—Alyona Sergeyevna. And later still—just Alyona, with a different last name now, not her father’s, but some fancy, urban surname that Anna Semyonovna could never quite remember.
Lena left for Moscow in 1992. To take entrance exams for the university. She was seventeen. Thin, with a long, light-brown braid, wearing a cotton dress that Anna Semyonovna had sewn herself. By that time, her father had been in the ground for three years—his heart gave out at forty-right, right in the field during haymaking.
The whole village saw her off. The neighbors came out to the bus. Aunt Klava brought homemade pies. Grandpa Mikhey brought a small pouch of dried blueberries. Uncle Pavel handed her three hundred rubles, all crumpled up, collected from his pockets. Lena stood on the bus steps. Looking back. Crying.
“Mom, I’ll be back for vacation! For the very first one! And I’ll write! Every week!”
Anna Semyonovna nodded. Smiled. Stroked her daughter’s head. And repeated:
“Take care of yourself, my darling. Take care of yourself.”
The bus pulled away. Dust billowed into the air. And Lena was gone.
The first letters came often. Once a week. Then—once every two weeks. Then—once a month. Lena wrote about Moscow, about the dorm, about exams, about her new friends. She wrote that it was hard for her. That she didn’t have enough money. That she had a part-time job—washing floors, handing out flyers by the subway entrance. Anna Semyonovna read those letters and cried. She pictured her daughter, thin, in a light coat, standing in the wind and handing out pieces of paper.
She sent Lena everything she could. Money. Packages with potatoes, pickled cucumbers, jam, dried fish. She deprived herself. Left herself with the bare minimum—potatoes, onions, bread. The rest went to Moscow.
And then the letters began to arrive less and less often. Once every six months. Once a year. And then they stopped altogether.
Anna Semyonovna wrote. She wrote a lot—two or three letters a month. She asked: “My darling, where are you? What’s happened to you? Are you alive? Are you healthy? Answer me. I’m beside myself with worry.”
There were no answers.
Then she went to Moscow herself. In 1997. She sold her cow—her last provider. Bought a train ticket. Traveled for nearly a day in an open-plan carriage, on the top bunk, pressing a bag of treats for her daughter against her chest.
Moscow stunned her. The crowds. The noise. The subway. She had never seen a subway. She went down underground—and got completely disoriented. People shoved her, rushed past her, someone yelled at her. She stood in the middle of the station lobby, not knowing where to go.
She had the address of the dormitory on a scrap of paper. Old, worn out, copied from the last letter she received three years ago. She made it there. Dragged herself to it. Found it.
“There’s no one by that name,” the dormitory concierge said. “They’ve checked out. Long ago.”
“Checked out to where?”
“I don’t know. They all check out. Moscow is big. Go look for them.”
And she looked. She went to various offices. The dean’s office—closed. Reception hours—twice a week. The police—useless: she’s no longer a minor, she turned eighteen, she’s an adult, she decided not to write herself—it’s her right.
Five days later, Anna Semyonovna returned to the village. Without her daughter. Without a cow. Without money. And without hope.
But she didn’t stop waiting.
Years passed. The village emptied out. The young people left—some to the district center, some to Syktyvkar, some to Moscow. Only the elderly remained. The houses grew dilapidated. The clubhouse closed down. The local school was merged with a neighboring one—the children took a bus there. The farm fell apart. The store was open two days a week.
Anna Semyonovna went on living. Tended her garden. Stoked the stove. Walked to the bus stop. The neighbors had given up on her long ago.
“Anya,” Aunt Klava would say, stopping by to borrow some salt, “you ought to stop torturing yourself. Your Lenka isn’t coming back. Maybe she isn’t even…” she would trail off. But Anna Semyonovna understood.
“She’s alive,” Anna Semyonovna would reply. “A mother’s heart doesn’t lie. She’s alive.”
“Well, if you say she’s alive, she’s alive. But what’s the use? If she wanted to, she would have written. She would have come back. Or called. We have a phone now, after all.”
And they really did get a phone. The village council had a line installed. Anna Semyonovna put the device in her house—old, black, with a rotary dial. And she waited for a call. But the phone stayed silent. Only Aunt Klava called, and even then just once a month—to check if she was still breathing.
The continuation is in the first c0mment
