To Meet Your Daughter After 20 Years. It Hurts.

To Meet Your Daughter After 20 Years. It Hurts.

Part 1

1994. Russia in the wake of the USSR’s collapse. It was a dark, heavy time for everyone. People had become callous and angry—not because they were born that way, but because they were terrified. They feared this bleak existence would never end, that life would always be hard, and that banditry would remain tightly woven into the fabric of everyday life. Many survived those times, but few remained unbroken.

The Backstory

— "Hello? Is this Natalya Ivanovna Zinchenko?" — "Yes, I’m listening. How can I help you?" — "This is Senior Lieutenant A.M. Aksenov. Please stay at home; I will explain everything upon my arrival."

He hung up. Confused and anxious, I waited. Twenty minutes later, I saw a police car slow down near the entrance of my building. I opened the door, and an officer stepped inside.

— "Natalya Ivanovna?" — "Yes, that’s me. What is this about?" — "May I see your documents?" — "Yes, of course."

I handed him my passport. He examined it carefully, shook his head, and then tried to calm me down.

— "Please, try not to panic. A tragedy has occurred, and we are investigating it now. Your mother, Antonina Pavlovna Zinchenko, was killed yesterday. You have my deepest condolences. I need you to come with me to identify the body."

I don't remember how I got there, how I identified her, how I collected her body from the morgue, or how two elderly neighbors and I buried my mother. To be honest, my memory of those days is a blur.

My mother owned three stalls at the market, selling clothes from China and Turkey. She often traveled to large wholesale markets at night, returning in the morning with goods. I would go to the market to help her sort and sell, all while studying at the university. We had no other relatives; my father had vanished back in 1987—no one knew where or how.

One day, my mother came home and said she wanted to borrow a large sum of money from some acquaintances to open two proper shops in Moscow, selling sheepskin coats from Turkey. She calculated and planned for a long time. Finally, she told me she was leaving the next day for the wholesale market to buy the coats and that I should stay home from university to help unload the goods upon her return.

That night, bandits stopped their bus. They killed six people and took all the money. My mother was among the dead. Only the driver survived, though he was later imprisoned for fourteen years as an accomplice.

I didn't know how much money Mom had borrowed, but two weeks after the funeral, there was a knock at the door. Men—very terrifying men—stood there. Barely moving, crushed by grief, I opened the door.

— "Hello. Can we come in?" — "Who are you?" — "We are the ones your mother borrowed money from. Here is the notarized receipt."

They shoved a paper under my nose. I tried to make sense of it, but when I saw the sum—50,000 dollars—I nearly fainted.

— "We know she died. We are very sorry; she can’t be brought back. But a debt remains a debt. We suggest, in a friendly way, that you help us recover this money, and everything will be fine. There is no point in going to the police. I hope you understand, girl?" — "But how can I repay you?" — "Your mother left three spots at the market. We are taking them—that covers 15,000 dollars. There’s about that much in merchandise, too. We will sell your apartment to settle the rest." — "But where will I live?" — "That’s your problem. Your mother should have thought about that." — "Don't you dare touch her! She died because of people like you!"

The man in the black jacket stepped closer, grabbed me by the throat, and hissed like a snake.

— "Don't joke with us, or you’ll meet your mommy real quick. We came here politely. Our second visit won't be so courteous. We have a notary with us; he will settle everything quickly. We’ve even prepared documents for you—you’ll be living in a dormitory. So, I’ll ask you one more time: are you going to be a good girl?" — "Yes... I understand. Can I at least stay here a couple of days to pack my things?" — "You have three days. Here is the address of the dorm in Mytishchi, and here are the keys. You’ll have two rooms there."

I signed all the papers. They photographed my passport, handed me the residency book for the dormitory, and left. But it didn't end there. That same night, two men entered my apartment. They sat in the kitchen drinking vodka—I recognized the bald one by his voice. When they were drunk, they burst into my room, pinned my hands down, and brutally raped me.

In the morning, I gathered my things in a panic, took whatever valuables I had left, and ran from the apartment. I ran to the bus, weeping. I couldn't believe this was happening to me. My whole body ached; I was shivering and nauseous. I arrived at that dormitory and walked into the room. There was nothing there but a bed frame. I lay down on the bare mattress and sobbed until I lost consciousness.

Two months passed. I didn't go back to the university. I had no money, nothing. I didn't know how to live or what to do. I was terrified to walk through the city; I saw them everywhere. One day, standing at a bus stop, I fainted. I don't remember how I ended up in the hospital. I only remember the doctor walking in and saying:

— "Congratulations, you are pregnant. Two months along. Where do you live? I need to write a referral to your local clinic so they can assign you a doctor. In seven months, I wish health to both you and your baby."

I listened to him, realizing I did not want this child. I couldn't handle it. I was barely surviving myself—how could I live in poverty with a child conceived by rapists? I understood nothing about life back then. If I could return to those years, I would have done everything differently. But I had no friends, no elders to give me advice. I was alone in a vast country where everyone was only out for themselves.

I had no money for an abortion. So, I decided I would give birth and leave the baby at the orphanage.

Seven months later, I gave birth to her. I didn't know what to do. It was January 22nd, -28°C outside, and all I had was a thin blanket and two undershirts. I couldn't possibly walk out with her in my arms. So I made up my mind.

I wrote a note: "Her name is Liza Zinchenko. Forgive me for being a bad mother, but I cannot help her. Please give her to an orphanage; she will be better off there."

I looked one last time at the birthmark on her heel, kissed her, asked for forgiveness, made the sign of the cross over her, and prayed for ten minutes, knowing there was no forgiveness for me anyway. I left the hospital and walked away. I went back to the dorm, gathered what little I had, went to the train station, and sold my gold to the Romani people there. They saw my wild state and didn't even try to cheat me. I didn't care. I took the money and boarded the first train I saw.

The Moscow-Kursk train carried me away, and I slept. I slept for a long time. When I opened my eyes, I saw a station, and behind it, a magnificent monastery stood tall. I realized that was where I needed to go.

Part 2

2015.

A woman stood on the side of the road, hitchhiking.

— "Where are you headed?" — "I'm sorry, to the airport. But I have very little money, only 500 rubles." — "Forget it, hop in. I'm feeling kind today. It's just one of those days. I'll help you out."

If only I had known then that I would do more than just help—that things would go much further.

— "Oh, thank you so much. I'm going to meet my daughter... I don't even know... my soul hurts so much."

The woman lowered her eyes, flushed, and then burst into tears so violently that I was forced to pull over onto the shoulder.

— "What is wrong? Are you alright? Here, take some water. Please, calm down. You just said you were meeting your daughter—you should be happy. Why are you crying like this?"

She told me everything. I stood there, simply unable to comprehend how life could beat a person down so hard. I listened, and tears rolled down my face—a grown man, 190 cm tall and 130 kg.

— "So, Natalya, you mean to say you are going to meet your daughter, but you don't live anywhere? You have nowhere to take her? Why didn't you tell her sooner?" — "We found each other a year ago. Or rather, she found me. I lived at the monastery and worked there for 20 years. But my daughter didn't ask if I lived there, and I didn't think she would want to see her birth mother. I didn't think she would ever forgive me. She wrote a letter, and the priest and I replied. I asked for forgiveness, explained why I did what I did, told her she wouldn't have survived with me. I rejoiced that she was doing well, cried with happiness. I gave her my cell phone number. Then she started calling... and I couldn't answer. The lump in my throat wouldn't let me. Finally, I answered—to my own trouble. She said she bought tickets from France and was flying to see me. What could I say? 'No, don't come'? But where can I bring her?" — "Yes, the situation is... not great. When does the plane land?" — "Not for another 7 hours." — "Excellent. We still have time." — "I don't understand. Time for what?" — "Listen to me, Natalya. An idea just popped into my head. What if you introduce me as your husband? I have an apartment in the Moscow suburbs. You can bring her there. I don't live there anyway; I live at my dacha—I love nature, which is why my wife left me 11 years ago, but that's unimportant. So, in these 7 hours, we will learn everything about each other. We will meet her at the airport as a happy couple who has reunited with their daughter. I will describe my apartment to you now so you can walk in as if it's your own home. Don't worry, it's clean and the plants are watered. What do you think?" — "Why would you do this, Viktor?" — "I need to. I really, really need to do a good deed. I have plenty of sins weighing on my soul, too. Besides, you have no choice. Agree to it. It brings me joy. And who knows? Maybe you'll find me likeable, and perhaps a real family will come of this?" — "I don't even know what to say. I'm afraid. What if you get disappointed in me? What if I mess something up? What if you don't find me attractive? I have no experience in family relationships; I haven't dated or lived with anyone my whole life." — "Natalya, do you agree?" — "Yes." — "Excellent."

Interrupting each other, Viktor and Natalya continued telling me the story.

And so, we arrived at the airport and began to learn everything about each other: likes and dislikes, favorite colors, TV shows, newspapers, what cars we’d driven, what clothes we wore—everything. We prepared so thoroughly that it felt as if, in those 7 hours, we had learned everything about each other and then some.

I was so distracted from my dark thoughts that I simply hugged Viktor and cried again, but this time from a sense of peace. He hugged me back and whispered softly:

— "I’m not letting you go anywhere now."

Part 3

The flight landing was announced. Natalya and Viktor stood at the terminal exit, watching people greet their relatives and loved ones, watching them hug. Natalya didn't know how to be. She was about to meet the daughter she had only seen at birth, and now, in a photograph. Natalya nervously twisted her handkerchief, tears flowing from her eyes on their own.

Then, the moment arrived. A young, slender, thin girl walked out with a smile and a sign in her hands: "Mama, I have arrived."

Natalya knew immediately—it was Liza. She rushed through the barriers toward her. They embraced. Natalya fell to her knees, weeping and begging for forgiveness. Liza lifted her up, hugged her, and said:

— "It’s okay, Mama. Let’s go."

They walked out in silence. Natalya looked at Liza, and Liza couldn't hold back her tears either. Neither knew what to say to the other. Viktor decided to break the tension.

— "Hello, Liza. I am your mother's husband. Allow me to take your suitcase; it's time to go to the car. You must be tired from the journey." — "Yes, I am very tired."

They loaded the luggage and got into the car. They drove in silence, everyone understanding that there was so much to say, yet no one dared to speak first. An hour later, they arrived at Viktor's apartment. Indeed, Natalya entered as if it were her own home, just as Viktor had described every corner.

— "Daughter, lie down and rest. I will make up a fresh bed for you, and I’ll cook something to eat. Vitya and I will go to the market to buy something for dinner." — "No, Mama, I want to go to the market with you. I can sleep later. I want us to be together as a family." — "Of course, Lizonka. We will all go together."

They went to the market, walked around, and laughed. Viktor watched it all, smiling as if he had found a long-lost family. After the market, they returned home, cooked dinner, and then sat over tea, talking for a long time.

— "Alright, ladies, I have work early tomorrow, so I am forced to leave you. You have things to talk about."

Natalya was terrified of this moment, but she had to tell her daughter everything. She didn't hope her daughter would understand, but she was obligated to speak.

— "My daughter, allow me to tell you everything. I won't make things up or try to look pitiful. I will tell it like it is, and you have every right to judge me. But I want you to know: I prayed for you every day. I dreamed of you every day. I couldn't live in peace—and I didn't live in peace. In the monastery where I spent all those years, they only learned of my trouble after 10 years, when I had no strength left to be silent, when I felt I would simply kill myself because the pain was impossible to bear."

Natalya told her everything. How Liza's grandmother was killed, how bandits raped her, leading to Liza's birth. How she lived in starvation. How, in that freezing winter, she didn't even have clothes for a newborn baby. How she fled the maternity hospital and tried to return several times. How she ended up in the monastery and how she lived there.

— "And my daughter, I want to tell you the most important thing. I have nothing. When I was coming to meet you yesterday, I met Viktor, and he helped me."

Natalya explained that story, too.

— "Mommy, I will never judge you. Yes, I lived in an orphanage until I was ten. Like all the kids, I waited for you to come for me. Then people from France arrived. They wanted a newborn baby, but when they saw me, they came over to me immediately. Six months later, they took me to France. But I never stopped thinking about you. And then, one day, a letter arrived from your monastery. It wasn't I who found you; it was Father Onufriy who found me. In the letter, he explained everything about your life. My mom, Lucia, told me herself that I was obligated to fly to Russia and see you. And I didn't doubt it for a minute. You know, they were so happy when they learned you weren't an alcoholic or a drug addict. They immediately said I had no right to judge you, for life was very hard back then—I remember those years myself. I came to tell you that you are my mother, and I am your daughter, and now we will never be apart. I will take you to France, and my adoptive parents will be happy—it is exactly what they want. They are very good people. And a huge thank you to Viktor for what he did. But even if you were naked, I would still have hugged you. Do you think it matters to me if you have a home or not? I would have slept in the monastery with you and been just as happy."

They hugged, cried, and went to sleep together—mother and daughter.

In the morning, after Viktor left for work, Natalya told Liza that she couldn't move to France. She had developed feelings for Viktor, their outlooks were the same, and she couldn't abandon a man who had opened his entire soul to her.

— "Mommy, I knew you wouldn't go. Yesterday, I saw how you and Viktor looked at each other, and I realized that in one day, you became a whole. And you know what I decided? We are going to a beauty salon today, and I will turn you into a gorgeous woman. Then we will buy you a laptop, install the internet at home, and we will always be in touch. And I want to buy you lots of clothes—you were always a beautiful woman. Come on, it's time to go shopping."

They spent the whole day together. When Liza saw how her mother transformed after the salon, she nearly fainted. She bought Natalya piles of clothes, turning her into a modern lady. When they called Viktor to pick them up from the mall, he didn't even recognize her.

In the evening, they went to a restaurant. Liza caught a moment to speak with Viktor while her mother went to the restroom.

— "Viktor, thank you for helping Mom." — "I didn't just help your mom; I found love for myself. I'm shocked at myself—love at first sight. Don't take her away from me, Liza. I will provide for her, and we will fly to visit you as guests. Just please, don't take her." — "No, of course I won't take her. But I won't leave you two alone either. You are now family to me, just as beloved as my mother."

And that is the story that happened in the life of a famous French artist.