Yegorka had been awake for a long time already. Restlessly, he tried to wake his mother, but she didn’t respond at all. Little Olka had also woken up and began kicking her chubby legs with round little heels.
But Mommy kept sleeping and didn’t open her eyes.
It was cold in the house. Yegorka decided to bring firewood from the entryway and stacked it in the stove, thinking that maybe Mom had gotten cold and was sleeping too deeply.
He looked for matches but couldn’t find them, because Mom always hid them up high where the children couldn’t reach them. Olka began to cry. Yegorka barely managed to lift her out of the cradle — her bottom was wet and icy, her shirt completely soaked.
“Oh, poor baby, you’re cold? Mommy is tired and sleeping, she’ll wake up soon and warm the house. Wait, we have some porridge — let me feed you.”
He fed Olka cold porridge; she grabbed at it like a hungry baby bird, pulling it toward her mouth. She was starving. And Yegorka wanted to eat too, but he wasn’t a little kid anymore. Soon he would be in school. Winter would pass, summer would come, and then he would go to school.
“Why isn’t Mom waking up for so long? What’s going on? It’s cold…”
He wrapped full little Olka in a warm blanket, changed her clothes, bundled himself up too, ate some bread with milk, and sat down to tell her stories — ones he made up, from somewhere deep in his bright childhood. Every now and then he called for his mother, but she stayed silent.
Suddenly someone knocked at the door. It was Aunt Katya, the neighbor.
“Anyone home? Are you sleeping until evening? Your stove isn’t even lit! Masha, Masha…”
“Mom won’t get up!” Yegorka burst out and began to cry.
“What?! Oh God! Masha, Masha, what happened?”
Aunt Katya rushed to the bed.
“Quickly, Yegorushka. Come with me, now!”
She picked up Olka wrapped in the blanket, grabbed Yegorka by the hand, and, gasping, hurried them to her own house.
“Ulya, Ulyana, take the kids, feed them… I’ll go to Aunt Klava, oh dear…”
“Mommy?”
Aunt Katya whispered something into Ulyana’s ear. Ulyana covered her mouth with her hands, picked up Olka, and called Yegorka.
Later, when they told him to come and say goodbye, Yegorka approached. Mom lay there so beautiful, surrounded by flowers, with old women sitting nearby, crying and nudging him closer. She was cold — he touched her hand.
Father arrived and took Yegorka and Olka home. He cried for a long time, calling Masha by name.
“Masha, Masha, what am I supposed to do now?” he sobbed.
Yegorka decided that Papa didn’t understand anything. He approached and touched his father’s hand — it was warm.
“Papa, they buried Mommy in the ground. I threw a handful of soil for her. She won’t be able to come back.”
“I know, son… I know…” Father cried, tearing at his clothes.
“It’s all my fault.”
Aunt Katya came in.
“Mikhail, did you even feed the children?”
Father sat with his head lowered, staring into nothing.
“It’s my fault, Katya.”
“Don’t blame yourself now. What’s done is done. Do you think you’ll go back where you were before? Or will you stay here with the kids?”
“Where can I go…” he muttered bitterly. “I already miss them…”
“You’re not guilty, don’t torment yourself. Anyone could face such a thing — your Masha worried too much, she got overwhelmed… All right, Misha, mourn a bit and that’s enough — there’s work to do.”
“Go to the chairman, he’ll take you back.”
“I know, Katya. Thank you for helping.”
All this time little Yegorka sat quietly in the corner, crying softly. He missed his mother terribly.
A week after Father returned to work, Aunt Zoya came.
She called the children orphans, sniffled loudly, put the whole house in order, took down Mama’s embroidered towels, and ordered the children to call her “Mama.”
Father began coming home sullen, and he and Aunt Zoya would sit and drink red wine.
Yegorka couldn’t call Aunt Zoya “Mama.” He simply couldn’t. But little Olka could. She didn’t remember her real mother — but he did.
Aunt Zoya started picking on Yegorka. Then Father would scold him too, listening to her complaints… and eventually, one day, he beat the boy.
Even though Olka cried, Yegorka didn’t. Not a tear.
The boy decided to run away from home — but how could he leave Olka behind?
Then their grandmother arrived and begged Father to give her the children. Yegorka didn’t know her well, but even with her it would be better than with Aunt Zoya — but Father refused.
That’s when Yegorka made up his mind. He would leave for sure. He would go to the city, find his mother’s mother — the grandmother Father refused to give them to.
He packed what he could, said goodbye to Olka, promised to come back for her once he reached Grandma. Olka seemed to understand and cried. He gently unwrapped her tiny fingers from his shirt and left.
He walked, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his shirt — torn at the elbow. No mother, no one to mend it. Tears blurred his vision.
Suddenly someone called out to him. It was Ulyanka, Aunt Katya’s daughter. She studied in the city to become a teacher. Yegorka was supposed to be in her first-grade class — but now that wouldn’t happen.
The boy burst into tears, and when Ulyanka hugged him, he began sobbing even harder.
He told her everything — about Aunt Zoya, about Father beating him, about Grandma coming, about Father refusing, about Olka clinging to him, about how he wanted to study under her…
“Come on, let’s go,” Ulyanka said sternly and brought him to her house. She told Aunt Katya something — Aunt Katya gasped and waved her hands anxiously. They kept Yegorka, and she went back.
Oh, how Ulyanka shouted! First she grabbed Olka out of Aunt Zoya’s hands and brought her to Aunt Katya, then she… even slapped Father across the face. She threw out Aunt Zoya’s pillows and bedding — oh, what a scene!
“What are you doing?!” Father yelled. “How am I supposed to live with the children? They need a mother!”
“A mother!” Ulyanka cried out. “A real mother — not some woman because of whom you raised your hand against your own child! Where’s Yegor?!”
“At home,” Father muttered.
“At home? Go find him, scoundrel!”
“Yegor! Yegorushka!” Father called, but the boy hid behind Aunt Katya and didn’t want to go home.
“What? You found him?” she shouted. “When you sober up, we’ll talk.” She turned sharply and left.
“What, huh?!” Father yelled after her. “Maybe YOU should marry a widower with two kids if you’re so smart!”
“Maybe I will!” Ulyanka shouted back. “Just sober up first, groom!”
As he fell asleep next to Olka, Yegorka whispered softly:
“I wish Ulyanka were our mama…”
“Ma-ma,” said little Olka, “mama.”
Yegorka went to school on September first — to first grade. Father, proud, wearing a new suit, held him by the hand and carried cheerful little Olka in the other arm.
Yegorka walked proudly into his beloved school, into the beloved classroom, toward his beloved teacher.
In the evening they learned that “Mama” was not exactly “Mama,” but Ulyana Sergeyevna…
“Mammmma… Mommy…” Yegorka whispered — a word he hadn’t spoken to anyone for so long.
“Mommy,” he said during recess, approaching her, “Mommy…”
“Yes, sweetheart…”
“Mommy…” he said and pressed himself to his new mama, “Mommy.”
Ulyana Sergeyevna hugged her little son and looked over his head with tenderness. His grandparents tried to talk her out of it, but she stood her ground — and got what she fought for.
“Listen, Misha,” said Ulyanka’s father, “if anything happens… I’ll stand on one leg and stretch the other to help.”
Yegorushka never forgot Mama Masha — though with time, the image softened.
Ulyana and Mikhail lived together peacefully, raising and educating their children, never quarreling in front of them. And the children, growing up, built their own families with love and respect.
Now their grandchildren and great-grandchildren live by the same values…