“I’ve been divorced from your son for three years now, so let his new wife help you from now on. I won’t lift a finger,” I told my former mother-in-law.

“I’ve been divorced from your son for three years now, so let his new wife help you from now on. I won’t lift a finger,” I told my ex-mother-in-law the day before and hung up.

My hands were shaking with anger. Nadezhda Petrovna had already called three times that week, always with the same request—to help her with shopping, go with her to the clinic, bring her medicine. As if nothing had changed, as if I were still her daughter-in-law, as if there hadn’t been that painful divorce from her precious son three years ago.

In the morning, I took my daughter to kindergarten, then poured myself some coffee and sat down by the window. Outside, a fine October drizzle was falling, and the drops were running down the glass like tears I no longer allowed myself to cry. Three years… It felt like a whole eternity had passed since the day I found out about Igor’s affair.

The phone rang again. I glanced at the screen—an unknown number.

“Hello?”

“Katya, it’s Elena, Nadezhda Petrovna’s neighbor. Listen, please don’t hang up.”

I recognized the voice. Elena Sergeevna had lived in the apartment next to my mother-in-law’s for about twenty years; we sometimes ran into each other at the store.

“What’s happened?”

“Nadezhda Petrovna is in the hospital. A heart attack. The ambulance took her last night.”

The world around me seemed to stop. I automatically set my mug down on the windowsill, and coffee sloshed onto the white surface.

“How… how is she?”

“The doctors say it’s serious. She’s unconscious for now. Katya, I know you and Igor are divorced, but… she keeps asking for you. Even in her delirium she says your name.”

“And Igor? He should be the one…”

“Igor is on vacation with his new wife. In Turkey. He doesn’t pick up the phone. I found your number in her address book.”

I closed my eyes. I never thought I’d someday be grateful that Nadezhda Petrovna had never crossed my number out of her contacts.

“What hospital is she in?”

“City Hospital No. 5, cardiology ward.”

An hour later I was already standing at the entrance to the hospital. The last time I’d been in the neighboring building was four years ago, when I gave birth to Dasha. Back then everything was different. Back then Igor had been beside me, holding my hand; Nadezhda Petrovna had brought a huge bouquet of roses and cried with joy as she looked at her granddaughter through the maternity ward window.

Darya… My four-year-old daughter, who was now calmly playing at kindergarten. Sometimes she asked about Grandma Nadya, even though they hadn’t seen each other for more than a year. After the divorce, Nadezhda Petrovna had tried to maintain contact, came to visit us, brought presents for Dasha. But then Victoria appeared—Igor’s new wife, young, beautiful, childless. And the visits stopped.

In the cardiology ward I was met by a stern nurse.

“Are you a relative?”

“I…” I hesitated. “I’m her ex-daughter-in-law.”

“We’re not letting relatives in right now. Only starting tomorrow morning.”

“Please,” I said, pulling out my phone and showing her a photo of Dasha. “This is her granddaughter. We’re the only ones who can come.”

The nurse looked at me closely, then at the photograph.

“Ten minutes. No more.”

Nadezhda Petrovna was lying in the room alone, hooked up to a tangle of wires and tubes. I hadn’t seen her for almost a year, and I was shocked by how much she had changed. Her gray hair had turned completely white, her face had grown gaunt, and her hands on the blanket looked almost transparent.

I sat down on a chair beside the bed and took her hand in mine. It was cold and so fragile.

“Nadezhda Petrovna, it’s me, Katya.”

No reaction. Only the steady beeping of the monitors and quiet breathing.

“You know, Dasha asked about you yesterday. She said she misses Grandma Nadya. She wants to show you how she’s learned to read.”

I wasn’t lying. Darya really did sometimes remember her grandmother, especially when we walked past the park where Nadezhda Petrovna used to push her on the swings.

“You have to get better. Do you hear me? Dasha is waiting.”

The next day I came again, this time with Dasha. My daughter was holding a drawing in her hands—a bright house with big windows and flowers by the door.

“Mum, why is Grandma sleeping?” Dasha whispered, staring at the still figure in the bed.

“She’s very tired, sweetheart. But she can hear us.”

Dasha stepped closer and put the drawing on the bedside table.

“Grandma Nadya, I drew you a little house. It’s pretty, right? And I can read now. Do you want me to read you a fairy tale?”

Without waiting for an answer, Darya pulled a book out of my bag and began slowly, syllable by syllable, to read “The Gingerbread Man.” Her small voice filled the quiet room, and it seemed to me that Nadezhda Petrovna’s breathing grew a little more even.

“Mum, why doesn’t Dad come see Grandma?” Dasha asked as we were leaving the hospital.

I didn’t know what to say. How could I explain to a four-year-old that her father was enjoying a holiday in Turkey while his mother was dying in a hospital bed?

“Daddy’s far away, honey. He can’t come.”

“And we’re close?”

“Yes, we’re close.”

“And that’s why we come?”

“Yes.”

“Mum, when people are close, are they supposed to help each other?”

Out of the mouths of babes… I kissed my daughter on the forehead.

“They are, Dashenka. They absolutely are.”

We kept coming. Every day. I went in the morning before work, and in the evening I picked Dasha up from kindergarten and we went to the hospital together. Darya told her grandmother about her day, showed her new drawings, sang the songs she’d learned at preschool.

The doctors said her condition was “stably serious.” No one could say whether she would regain consciousness. But I didn’t give up. Every day I bought fresh flowers, changed the water in the vase, and told her about our lives.

“You know, Nadezhda Petrovna, I got a promotion at work. I’m a lead project manager now. Remember how you said I had a knack for organizing things? You were right.”

I spoke to her as if she were fully awake, told her news, shared my plans. Sometimes the nurses looked at me with pity, but I paid them no attention.

On the fifth day, a woman of about forty in a white coat came into the room.

“Are you Ekaterina?”

“Yes.”

“I’m the head of the department, Marina Viktorovna. Tell me, are you really the patient’s ex-daughter-in-law?”

“Yes, but…”

“You see, usually relatives don’t show this kind of… devotion after a divorce. Especially when the patient’s son hasn’t even bothered to come.”

I felt myself blush.

“Nadezhda Petrovna was always good to me. And Dasha loves her.”

“That’s obvious. You know, I’ve been a doctor for twenty years, and I’ve noticed that patients who are regularly visited feel better. Even in an unconscious state they somehow sense the care.”

“So we can keep coming?”

“Of course. In fact, I wanted to tell you—this morning we saw the first signs of improvement. Her reaction to light is better.”

My heart began to pound harder.

“That means…”

“That means there’s hope. Keep doing what you’re doing.”

That evening I couldn’t resist and called Igor. He didn’t pick up right away; when he did, his voice sounded annoyed.

“Katya? What’s going on? Is something wrong with Dasha?”

“Dasha’s fine. Your mother is in intensive care. A heart attack.”

A long pause. I could hear music and laughter in the background.

“How… serious is it?”

“Very serious. She’s been unconscious for a week.”

“Damn… Katya, I can’t come right now. We’re in a five-star hotel in Belek, it cost crazy money…”

“Your mother is dying, Igor.”

“Don’t say that! She’s strong, she’ll pull through. And you… thanks for looking after her. I’ll reimburse all your expenses.”

I hung up before he finished. Expenses… He thinks this is about money.

Many evenings passed. And then there came an evening when Nadezhda Petrovna opened her eyes.

I was just reading an article aloud to her from a parenting magazine when I noticed that she was looking at me. Not just had her eyes opened—she was looking at me, clearly, consciously.

“Nadezhda Petrovna!” I jumped up from the chair. “Can you hear me?”

She tried to say something, but the tube of the ventilator was still in her mouth. Her eyes filled with tears.

“Don’t try to talk, it’s okay. I’ll go get the doctor.”

When the nurse rushed in, Nadezhda Petrovna was still staring at me without looking away. Her hand weakly squeezed mine.

They didn’t remove the tube until the next day. The first word Nadezhda Petrovna spoke, her voice hoarse from so many days of silence, was:

“Katya…”

“I’m here. It’s okay.”

“Dasha…”

“Dasha’s here too, somewhere in the hallway. She’s been coming every day, telling you stories. Do you want to see her?”

A faint nod.

Darya burst into the room like a little whirlwind.

“Grandma Nadya! You woke up! I thought you were sleeping like Sleeping Beauty!”

Nadezhda Petrovna smiled—the first smile in all those days.

“My… girl…”

Dasha climbed onto the bed and gently hugged her grandmother.

“I have so much to tell you! I learned how to tie my shoelaces! And I learned a poem about autumn! Want to hear it?”

“I do…”

And then Igor appeared in the doorway. Tanned, rested, holding an expensive bouquet of flowers. Behind him stood a young woman, looking hesitant—Victoria, I assumed.

“Mum!” Igor stepped up to the bed. “How are you feeling? Sorry we didn’t come right away, we were at the seaside when we found out…”

Nadezhda Petrovna looked at her son, then at me. Her gaze was strange—not joyful, as I had expected, but somehow appraising.

“Where… were you?” she whispered.

“Well, Mum, I just told you—we were at the seaside. Vika and I were on vacation in Turkey. As soon as we found out, we flew in right away.”

“Right away?”

“Pretty much.” Igor glanced at me, flustered. “Katya, have you really been coming every day?”

I shrugged.

“Nadezhda Petrovna, we should be going,” I said, taking Dasha by the hand. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Katya…” Her weak voice stopped me at the door. “Thank you…”

At home, Dasha couldn’t fall asleep for a long time.

“Mum, why didn’t Dad come to Grandma when she was sleeping?”

“He was far away, honey.”

“And we were close?”

“Yes, we were close.”

“And that’s why we came?”

“Yes.”

“Mum, when people are close, they’re supposed to help each other, right?”

Out of the mouths of babes… I kissed my daughter on the forehead.

“Yes, Dashenka. They are definitely supposed to.”

Over the next two weeks, Nadezhda Petrovna slowly improved. We kept visiting her every day. Igor came too, but less and less often. Work, he said. Business.

“Katya,” Nadezhda Petrovna said to me one day when we were alone. “I need to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“About Igor. About what happened three years ago.”

I tensed up. I didn’t want to go back there.

“Nadezhda Petrovna, that’s in the past…”

“No, it’s not in the past. I knew back then. About his affair. I knew and I kept quiet.”

Once again, the world stopped. I slowly sank down into the chair.

“You knew?…

She nodded weakly, her eyes filling with tears that had nothing to do with her illness.

“Yes… I knew. I saw the messages on his phone. The late nights. The perfume that wasn’t yours. I even told him once, ‘Igor, don’t destroy your family.’ But he laughed and said I was old and didn’t understand love anymore.”

Her frail hand trembled slightly as she reached for mine.

“I should have told you, Katya. I wanted to. So many times. But I was ashamed… ashamed that my son could hurt you, could betray such a good woman. I kept hoping it was just a phase. That he would come to his senses.”

I stared at her, unable to speak. The quiet hum of the hospital monitors filled the silence between us.

“When you left him,” she continued, “I wanted to call you. To beg your forgiveness. But I thought… what right did I have? You had every reason to hate him. To hate me. And yet…”

Her voice broke, and she pressed a wrinkled hand to her chest.

“And yet, when I opened my eyes and saw you here—you, not him—I thought: God is giving me one last chance to make it right.”

Tears blurred my vision. I took her hand gently, feeling its fragile warmth.

“You don’t need to apologize, Nadezhda Petrovna,” I whispered. “You’ve always been kind to me. You loved Dasha. That’s what matters.”

She shook her head faintly.

“No, Katya. What matters is that you still have a heart. That after everything, you came back. You could have turned away and no one would’ve blamed you.”

Before I could answer, the door opened quietly. Igor stood there again—alone this time. His expensive watch glinted under the fluorescent light. He looked uncomfortable, as if he were walking into a confession booth.

“Mum,” he said awkwardly, “I just spoke with the doctor. They said you’re improving. That’s… good.”

She looked at him long and hard, and I could see a new steel in her gaze.

“Yes,” she said slowly. “I’m improving. Thanks to Katya.”

Igor’s jaw tightened.

“Mum, you shouldn’t get too emotional. You need to rest.”

“No, Igor,” she said firmly. “You need to listen.”

Her sudden strength startled both of us.

“You lost a good woman,” she said, pointing a thin finger toward me. “A good wife. A mother to your child. And while she was here, sitting by my bed every day, you were in Turkey.”

“Mum, please—”

“No, don’t interrupt me. Do you know who brought me back from death? It wasn’t your money. It wasn’t your flowers. It was her voice. It was Dasha’s laughter. The two people you should have protected, not abandoned.”

Igor looked down, silent. For the first time in years, he seemed smaller somehow—like a boy caught lying.

“I don’t deserve them,” he muttered.

“You don’t,” she said bluntly. “But you can still be a father. If Katya allows it.”

He turned to me then, eyes red-rimmed.

“Katya… I don’t expect forgiveness. I just—”

“Don’t,” I said softly. “Not now. Just take care of your mother. That’s enough.”

When Dasha and I left the hospital that evening, the autumn rain had stopped. The city lights reflected off the wet pavement, and Dasha’s little hand was warm in mine.

“Mum,” she said thoughtfully, “Grandma’s better now. She smiled at me today.”

“She did,” I said, smiling. “Because of you.”

“And you too,” Dasha said proudly. “You helped her, even though she’s not your mum anymore.”

I stopped for a moment, looking at her serious little face.

“She’ll always be family, Dashenka,” I said quietly. “Sometimes, being close isn’t about names or blood. It’s about the heart.”

And as we walked home through the soft glow of the streetlights, I realized that forgiveness—quiet, unspoken forgiveness—had already begun.