When my husband was invalided home, he shuffled through each day like a man already defeated. His mood was as dark as the grave, his face worn beyond his years. Even his voice had changed. It carried the harsh, hollow sound of a cold wind. He seemed like a stranger to the man I had married.
He was only thirty-six, yet life itself no longer seemed his element. Shadows from the past lingered over his face, and his smile, more than anything else, betrayed the depth of his suffering.
The war had erased every memory of a happier existence. Fighting and killing had buried the goodness that once shaped him. Nothing I did could awaken the affection or joy that had once come so naturally to him.
Our nights were the hardest. Nightmares ruled his sleep. He woke with angry cries, then sat by the window until dawn, unable to rest.
As a boy, Grant had grown up in a small ranch house in Colorado. His childhood was poor and filled with hard work, but never cruelty. His closest companions were wet morning grass, cold mountain air, and the animals he cared for. He believed in goodness and honesty until the battlefield stripped that faith away.
After a year of trying to rebuild our life, we realized the only thing left to do was return him home.
Only after coming back to his old, weathered house, his forgetful mother, his simple-hearted father, and his ancient horse did Grant begin, little by little, to recover.
The goodness of that tiny mountain village surrounded us. Every sunrise over the fields, every quiet evening, every familiar path softened something inside him. He regretted leaving that life for war. I reminded him that one good thing had come from those terrible years—we had found each other. He needed something worth carrying forward, and that something was us.
His remorse did not disappear overnight, but it slowly surrendered to the brightness of wide skies, green fields, and mountain silence. Nature did not erase the memories of war. It simply moved them into the past. They stopped haunting every waking moment.
For the first time in years, we felt truly alone together, without ghosts standing between us.
Then I saw it.
His boyish smile returned.
It was the smile that had made me fall in love with him.
I prayed I would never lose it again.
The earth, wrapped in its brightest green, welcomes wounded hearts with a quiet serenity. It gives permission to weep until today’s grief joins yesterday’s and is carried away like a river after rain. Nature cannot erase pain, but it reminds us that healing is possible. Sometimes that is enough.
Mycousin Sveta and her husband Kostya loved each other very much. The history of their relationship was simple and unpretentious. They met at the birthday of a common acquaintance and immediately felt a mutual attraction and got married almost right away.
When Sveta discovered that she was pregnant, there seemed to be no happier people in the world than that married couple. The young woman humbly tolerated all her morning sickness and Kostya made repairs in the room, which was to become the kid’s bedroom.
Sveta remembered each minute of the Sunday, when she felt labor pains. Kostya took her to the hospital. The nurse showed Sveta her baby only for a moment and moved the newborn to the table a little further to carry out the necessary manipulations. Euphoria from the joyful event filled the woman, and she was ready to sing with happiness, without recalling the pain.
When the nurse told her, while she was still lying on the delivery bed, that they transferred the baby to the intensive care unit, Sveta’s joy and strength alike deserted her. Her voice broke when she asked, “What’s wrong with him?” The nurse only promised that the doctor will come the following morning to tell her everything she needed to know.
In the morning, Sveta was listening to the doctor, not understanding half of his words. From the unbroken stream of terms and names of pathologies, only ‘cerebral palsy’ sounded familiar.
When Kostya came with flowers, he found Sveta crying in the hospital hall. Pressing herself against his broad chest, she was sobbing uncontrollably. She recounted the conversation with the doctor, but Kostya, not wanting to believe in the nightmare’s reality, went to the doctor’s office himself. He listened for a while as if in a doze, then squeezed his wife’s arm encouragingly and they left.
The apartment sparkled, but the joy was gone, giving way to anxiety. The baby, whom they named Denis, did not sleep at night, forcing his parents to rock him. He was crying constantly, bending his back, and nothing could help to calm him down. The visiting nurse showed Sveta the basics of massage. The pediatrician prescribed some drops, but relief did not come.
Sveta’s life turned into running with the baby through hospital corridors, visiting doctors’ offices, the swimming pool, churches and even folk healers. Kostya, who almost had no time to sleep, was trying his best to earn more money. The spouses quarreled often. There were a lot of reasons, but there was only one explanation — eternally screaming Denis.
Once the quarrel over a cup which Kostya did not wash turned into a scandal. With emotion, he threw the unfortunate piece of tableware on the floor and fired off, “You’re at home all day, and I’m struggling to pay for all these classes, which are of no use. And… it’s your fault. The guys told me that the woman is fully responsible for the health of the newborn. Was it difficult to be careful during pregnancy?”
Sveta was standing and watching the small shards scatter around the kitchen floor. But what she actually saw was her family breaking apart. The anger distorted the face of the man, whom she used to adore. Everything blurred before her eyes. A dangerous silence followed. Sveta fainted, and this state of unconsciousness saved her from thinking about her husband’s betrayal.
She woke up in the hospital bed, and asked the nurse, who was preparing the syringe, “Where is my son?” An elderly woman answered, piercing Sveta’s vein, “Both your son and your husband are in the corridor. They have been here all night. You scared your husband a lot. Should I call them in?” Sveta nodded. She told Kostya about her decision to divorce.
Three years passed. The child grew, but was lagging in development, despite all their efforts. Denis could not walk, eat and drink on his own. It was impossible to put him in kindergarten. Sveta did not dare to hire a nanny — this service was so expensive that it was pointless for Sveta to work. She studied medical articles and could communicate with any of medical luminaries in one language, but nowhere could she find the answer on how to help her son.
Once Sveta and her boy were going home on the bus from the market. She felt that the surrounding people were looking at them with pity. Sveta wiped the drool which was flowing from her son’s half-open mouth. She plunged into her bitter thoughts and did not notice that she passed her stop, and the bus was almost empty. Like in a terrible dream, she got up and left the bus with a heavy heart and blurry vision. Denis was looking out of the bus window at his slowly retreating mother.
The woman was walking along the streets with heavy bags for a long time. Sveta cried bitterly but stubbornly walked home without looking back. Her steps softened as her heartbeat grew unbearably louder, pressing at her ribs, making her choke with every gasp for air.
When she closed the door behind her, Sveta sat down on the floor and sobbed aloud in a fit of desperation. A few minutes later Sveta jumped up and ran to the street from the house. She noticed nothing around. She ran to the last bus stop and checked every salon. But her child was not there. She wanted to ask the drivers, but her voice refused to obey her. Sveta tried to catch her breath and cope with the pain that was spreading from her belly all over her body.
An elderly driver understood everything from somehow said inconsistent words “my child, my baby”. “Don’t worry, he’s all right. He is in the control room. Let’s go.” Sveta ran the distance to the control room in a moment. Without greeting, she ran to her son. He was sitting on a chair, holding an apple in his hand.
A woman dispatcher with thickly painted eyelashes, examined the early gray hair, dark circles under Sveta’s eyes and said, “Our driver Stepanych brought your child and I gave him an apple. He didn’t cry.” Sveta grabbed her son and whispered some inaudible words of gratitude. The dispatcher touched her shoulder, “One of our guys will drive you straight to your house.”
Every time Sveta hugged her child and felt the throbbing of his heart against her chest, she called to mind the moment of weakness on that bus. The canker worm of remorse secretly gnawed at her, and she expressed more patience and made more efforts in the boy’s treatment.
When 14 candles were burning on the birthday cake, Sveta was feeding her son every piece of the treat with a spoon herself. Denis walked with difficulty and mooed instead of speaking articulately.
Being the only guests at this birthday party, my family was witnessing a life of toil and unpretentious beauty. My two-year-old son was wandering through the luxurious dark curls on Denis’ head, and both boys laughed with pure and innocent joy.
Olya Aman 