“She left me with a baby and ran off. Oh, you… I must’ve dozed off, useless old…” Maria groaned, shaking her head side to side.
The rattling old bus was stifling. Through the open windows came air heated to thirty degrees, but instead of relief, it carried road dust inside. The passengers dozed, sluggish from the sweltering heat.
Up ahead, the golden domes of a small church appeared, flanked by wooden houses. Beyond them rose the rooftops and upper floors of brick apartment blocks. The passengers stirred, gathering their things. The quicker ones were already pressing toward the doors, eager to escape the stuffy bus.
Only one woman remained still, staring blankly out the window. Her hands, veins like faint blue twigs, rested on her knees. Her hair—lightened at the ends with dark roots grown out—hung in uneven strands, accentuating her pale, gaunt face. The corners of her lips drooped, her thin eyelids lined with fine wrinkles. She looked like someone beaten down by life, expecting nothing good ahead.
With a final lurch, the bus shuddered to a stop in the little square before the church. People jostled impatiently at the open doors, desperate to get out.
“Love, this is the last stop,” called the balding, heavyset driver, peering over the partition.
The woman glanced around. The bus was empty except for her and the driver.
“End of the line, time to get off,” he repeated.
She picked up a small bag at her feet, stood, and shuffled down the aisle.
“Goodbye,” she murmured at the open door without turning back.
The moment her feet touched the ground, the doors hissed shut behind her. Slowly, she walked toward the row of cottages. Suddenly, the toll of a church bell rang out. Before it faded, a melody of chimes followed. The woman stopped, tilting her head skyward, then turned and walked toward the church.
She followed the narrow path lined with wildflowers and stepped inside. The cool air, fragrant with incense, rushed over her. A shaft of evening sunlight, dust motes dancing in its beam, cut through the nave and pooled on the wooden floor.
Her heels clicked against the floorboards, breaking the silence. She glanced around and sank onto a bench by the door.
“Are you unwell? Would you like some water?”
A young woman in a headscarf—odd for the heat—stood beside her, blue eyes warm with concern.
“Just a moment,” the girl said, vanishing before returning with a glass of water.
“Here. There’s a spring nearby—stays cold even in summer. Drink.”
Anastasia took the glass. The water was clear and icy, sharp enough to make her teeth ache.
“If you need anything, just ask,” the girl whispered, long skirt swishing as she retreated behind a wooden stall stacked with church leaflets and trinkets.
Finishing the water, Anastasia approached.
“Thank you.” She set the glass down. “You’re local? Know everyone here?”
“Small village. Who are you looking for?”
“Maria… Coulson. Do you know her?”
The girl froze. “She was my grandmother. She passed a year ago. Who are you?” She stepped out from behind the stall, studying the stranger.
“You’re Anastasia, aren’t you?” she asked softly. “I’m Pauline…”
***
Eighteen Years Earlier
Maria sat on the bench by the front door, squinting in the evening sun.
“Mum,” a voice said.
Maria turned, shielding her eyes. Before her stood her daughter, Nastya, who’d run off over a year ago. In one arm, she cradled a baby wrapped in a thin blanket; in the other, a duffel bag.
“Back, then. Knew it’d end like this. Here to stay, or what?” Maria asked coldly.
A curtain twitched in the neighbour’s window. Maria heaved herself up.
“Inside. No need to air our business.” She gripped her knee, climbing the steps.
Anastasia hesitated, then followed. Her eyes darted around the cottage before she set the bag down, then carefully laid the sleeping baby on the iron bedstead.
“Boy or girl?” Maria asked flatly.
“Girl. Pauline.”
“Figures,” Maria sighed. “City life didn’t treat you kindly, did it? Or you wouldn’t be back. What’s the plan?”
“Not now, Mum. I’m shattered.” Nastya tucked a loose strand behind her ear and sat beside the baby.
“Fine. No rush. You got milk?” Maria eyed her daughter’s flat chest. “Not likely. I’ll fetch some from Nina—she keeps goats. No sense starving the child.”
“I brought formula,” Anastasia said quickly, relieved the first storm had passed.
“Rubbish. Won’t poison her with chemicals.” Maria waved her off and grabbed a jar from the kitchen.
She returned later to find Nastya asleep beside the baby, who was fussing. Maria watched them both before scooping up the little one when she started crying.
“Hush now. Your mum’s right here—not that she’s bothering.”
She changed the nappy, warmed goat’s milk, and fed the baby, who dozed off contentedly.
That night, mother and daughter argued—hissing, weeping, neither backing down. Nastya begged for understanding; Maria poured out years of hurt. They slept near dawn.
A wail woke Maria. She bolted up.
“Nastya! She’s soaked—needs feeding. Nastya!” Silence answered.
“Christ alive!” Maria pressed a hand to her chest. “She’s gone. Left me the baby. Useless old fool…” She rocked, groaning. “Ran off, the little witch!”
“Quiet!” she snapped at the screaming child.
The baby fell silent.
“That’s better. Crying won’t bring her back. She’s long gone.”
She changed the nappy, gave the bottle.
“Good, isn’t it? Proper milk, none of that powdered muck. What am I to do with you? Punishment, that’s what this is…”
Anastasia never returned. Pauline grew up under Maria’s stern hand—fed, clothed, but rarely hugged. Scolded often, even beaten with a birch switch.
When Pauline asked about her mother, Maria said flatly, “Dead. No father either. Just me. And I won’t last forever.”
Pauline would cling, terrified.
“Then pray I live longer,” Maria would say, crossing herself before the darkened icon on the shelf.
Once, Maria caught Pauline staring at old photos of Nastya. She snatched them, tossed them in the stove.
“Orphan. No parents.”
One photo survived—faded, barely recognizable. Pauline hid it, looking at it sometimes.
Ninth grade ended.
“Vocational school. Learn a trade. Your mother finished eleven grades, still a fool.”
But for once, Pauline refused. She stayed for sixth form.
“Think I’ll keep you forever?” Maria grumbled but let it be.
That winter, Maria fell ill—coughing so hard she lost control. Pauline washed the sheets without complaint, woke nights to warm milk with honey. By spring, Maria recovered.
Come autumn, her legs failed. She refused hospital and died within a month. Pauline was alone. Potatoes in the cellar, pickled jars, jam. She’d manage.
Father Paul visited, crossing himself before the icon.
“Help at the church. Old Annie’s gone blind. Folk aren’t rich, but they’ll share—pies, pasta, whatever.”
Pauline agreed. Weekdays at school, Sundays behind the candle stall, singing hymns, cleaning.
Though she lived alone, boys kept their distance. Teased her as “the little nun,” but never more—knocking and running. No one crossed Father Paul. Rumour said he’d seen combat before the cassock.
So Pauline lived, sheltered by him and God.
She finished school, enrolled in nursing college—the only option in the village.
Once, she asked Father Paul, “Do I pray for my mother’s soul… or her health?”
He thought. “Maria said she was dead. Maybe to her, she was. But I think your mother’s alive—too afraid to return. Pray for her. Light candles. Wait.”
So Pauline did.
***
“Wait here,” Pauline flitted around the church, snuffing candles and lamps, locking the heavy door.
They walked home in silence.
“Visitor, Pauline?” a neighbour called.
She nodded, eyes down.
“Is that Nastya back? Maria swore she’d died,” someone whispered behind them.
“That true?” Anastasia asked.
Pauline nodded. At the cottage, she unlocked the door.
“Go in. I’ve potatoes boiled; I’ll fry them, fetch milk—” She grabbed a jug.
“Wait. Let me look at you. You don’t take after me. Always in that scarf?”
“No. Just church.” Pauline untied it, shaking out her hair.
“Lovely. Don’t hide it.” Anastasia studied her.
“How long are you staying?” Pauline asked.
“Nowhere else to”Forever, if you’ll have me,” Anastasia whispered, and Pauline finally let herself believe it was true, stepping forward into her mother’s open arms.
