At first, Genka thought his mother had simply put on a little weight. Though in a strange way. Her face hadn’t changed, nor her hands or legs, but her waist had rounded, soft and full, as if she had swallowed a small ball. It seemed awkward to ask—what if his mother took offense? His father didn’t say anything either, only looked at her with a tender, secret smile. So Genka decided to pretend he hadn’t noticed anything at all.

But soon it was impossible not to notice. Her belly was growing day by day, rounder, heavier. Once, passing by his parents’ bedroom, Genka saw his father sitting beside his mother, gently stroking her belly and whispering something. His mother smiled, her eyes full of peace and happiness. The sight embarrassed Genka so much he turned and left, his ears burning.

“Mom is expecting a baby,” the thought struck him suddenly. It didn’t surprise him—it shocked him. His mom was beautiful, sure, better-looking than most of his friends’ moms, but a pregnancy at her age? He felt a strange discomfort. It was embarrassing even to imagine how it had happened. He knew where babies came from, of course, but his parents? The thought made his stomach twist.

That evening, he asked his father, because somehow it was easier than asking Mom.
“Dad, is Mom… expecting a baby?”

“Yes,” his father said softly. “Mom’s dreaming of a daughter. It’s probably silly to ask which you’d prefer—a brother or a little sister.”

Genka frowned. “Do people even give birth at that age?”

“At what age? Mom is thirty-six, I’m forty-one,” his father said, smiling. “Are you against it?”

“Did anyone ask me?” Genka snapped.

His father looked at him carefully, without anger.
“I hope you’re grown-up enough to understand. Mom’s wanted a daughter for a long time. When you were born, things were tight. We rented a small room, money was short. Then Grandma passed away, and we moved into her apartment. We kept saying we’d have another child one day, but we waited too long… and then it just didn’t happen. Now it finally has. She’s happy, Genka. Don’t take that away from her. Promise me you’ll be kind.”

Genka nodded silently. “Yeah, I got it, Dad.”

Later they learned it would be a girl. The house began to fill with small pink things—tiny hats, mittens, booties. A white crib appeared by the window. Mom would sometimes pause mid-conversation, as if listening to something deep inside her. Dad’s constant worry rubbed off on Genka, though he pretended not to care.

To him, babies were just noise and drool. He already had enough on his mind—especially Yulya Fetisova, the prettiest girl in his class. But maybe a little sister wasn’t so bad. At least his parents would be too busy to nag him.

“Is it dangerous for Mom?” he asked one evening.

“There’s risk at any age,” his father said. “But everything will be fine.”

A month before the due date, Genka woke to strange sounds. Groans. Footsteps. His father’s anxious voice.
He rushed to his parents’ room and froze. Mom was on the edge of the bed, holding her back and rocking back and forth. Dad ran around, gathering clothes and papers.

“Don’t forget the folder with the documents,” Mom gasped between moans.

The doorbell rang. Paramedics came—calm, quick, efficient. “How long have the contractions been? How often? Has your water broken?” They asked questions; Dad answered. No one looked at Genka. He stood uselessly by the door until they carried Mom away. Dad threw on a coat and turned to him.
“I’ll be back soon. Tidy up here, okay?”
Then he was gone.

When Dad returned in the morning, his face was pale but calm.
“Did she have the baby?” Genka asked.
“Not yet. They didn’t let me in.”

Hours crawled by. Then, during the last class at school, Genka’s phone buzzed.
“A girl!” his father shouted joyfully. “Three kilos one hundred grams!”

When he told the class, everyone cheered except Fyodorov, who snickered, “Now Kroshkin’s got a babysitting job.” But Genka barely heard him—he was smiling.

Three days later, Mom came home from the hospital. Dad was radiant. “What a beauty!” he whispered, looking at the baby.
Genka disagreed. The newborn was wrinkled, red, and loud. He thought of Yulya Firsova’s soft smile and rolled his eyes. But when Mom held the baby and sang, something warm flickered inside him.

They named her Mashenka, after Grandma. Life changed. The apartment filled with cries, the smell of milk, and the clatter of bottles. Genka was sent on errands, to hang laundry, fetch groceries. He didn’t mind. But when Mom asked him to walk the baby in her stroller, he refused.

“What if the guys see me? They’ll laugh!”

But he ended up pushing the stroller anyway—and ran into Firsova.
“She’s adorable!” she said, peering into the blankets. And suddenly Genka didn’t feel embarrassed anymore.

Then came the night of fever. Mashenka burned with heat, gasping for breath. The ambulance came again. Mom and Dad took turns holding her, whispering, pleading. At dawn, they took her to the hospital.

When Dad returned alone, his face was gray.
“She really gave us the business,” he tried to joke weakly.
“Will she get better?” Genka asked.
“I hope so…”

But that evening, when Genka came home, his father was sitting at the table, staring into nothing.
“Our Mashenka’s gone,” he said quietly. And then he broke down.

Genka had never seen his father cry. He hugged him, and they wept together. His heart split apart—with guilt, grief, and a helpless wish to trade places with the baby.

Mom returned days later—silent, hollow, like a shadow of herself. She sat for hours by the empty crib. At night, she’d wake and run to it, convinced she’d heard a cry. The house became unbearably quiet. Even the ticking of the clock seemed too loud.

Spring came, but it brought no warmth to their home.

“Before the thaw, we should take the crib to the dacha,” Dad said one Saturday. “Your mother can’t bear to look at it.”
They loaded the car and drove out of the city. The sky was gray, the snow melting in patches. Genka pressed his forehead to the window, thinking of how Mashenka would never see spring, never feel sunlight or raindrops. He began to cry silently.

Then traffic slowed. Up ahead—flashing lights, police cars, a wreck. Dad stopped.
“Stay here,” he said, stepping out. But Genka followed.

A red car lay crushed against a truck. The driver sat trembling, whispering, “I only closed my eyes for a second…”
A policeman held a baby carrier with something pink inside. Genka froze. A little girl, about Mashenka’s age, was sleeping there.

“Can you imagine—parents dead, and she’s fine,” the policeman murmured.

The siren wailed. The baby woke and began to scream. The policeman looked helpless.

“Give her to me,” Genka said suddenly. “I had a little sister.”
The man hesitated, then handed her over. As soon as Genka pressed her to his chest, the baby stopped crying. Everyone stared.

“How did you do that, kid?” the policeman asked, amazed.

When they took the girl to the ambulance, Genka asked softly, “What’ll happen to her?”
“She’ll be examined and sent to an orphanage,” the doctor said.

“Dad…” Genka whispered, looking at his father.
And his father understood everything without words.

“Could we take her?” he asked the doctor. “We lost our baby not long ago. My wife is… suffering. Maybe this child could save her.”

“Go to the guardianship office,” the doctor said kindly. “If she has no relatives, you can apply to adopt.”

“What’s her name?” Genka asked.
“Vasilisa,” the doctor replied.

He and his father exchanged a look.
“All right,” Dad said. “Let’s go home. We’ll need the crib after all.”

At home, Mom sat motionless on the couch, staring at the empty corner.
“You’re back early?” she asked dully.
“Mom,” Genka began, his voice trembling, “we met a baby… Her name is Vasilisa.” And they told her everything.

Mom listened in silence. When they finished, she sat quietly for a long time. Then she said softly, “Tomorrow, I’ll go to the hospital.”

“Really?” Genka shouted, unable to contain his joy.
Mom nodded, a faint spark of life flickering in her tired eyes.

Epilogue

“It’s all so sad…” Katya’s voice broke the silence.
She sat back, her eyes moist. “What is a childhood without parents?”

She couldn’t shake the image of the orphanage—the sterile smell, the endless rows of small beds, the pleading eyes of children who had no one to call their own. Most people passed by such things easily. They didn’t see the silent screams behind the smiles.

Every adult, unlike a child, has a choice. A choice that is never easy, often painful, but full of meaning. And sometimes, if you choose right—if you choose love—it can give hope where there was none.