Vladimir and Lyudmila Grigoryev had employed Yulia Antonovna as their maid for many years. One quiet afternoon, while the couple was away, Yulia finished her housework and paused to rest by the window. That’s when she noticed a frail boy in tattered clothes slowly making his way past the fence.
“Poor child… he must be starving,” she thought, heart heavy with concern. Glancing at the clock and knowing she still had time before her employers returned, Yulia made a decision.
She stepped outside and gently called to the boy, who was staring down the road.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Vasya,” he replied quietly, his eyes cautious beneath a mess of unkempt hair.
“Well, Vasya,” Yulia said with a warm smile, “how about some apple pie? It’s still warm.”
He didn’t think twice — hunger had been his constant companion.
Inside, Yulia served him a generous slice.
“This is delicious!” Vasya said between bites. “My mom used to make pie just like this.”
“And where is your mother now?” Yulia asked softly.
Vasya slowed, looking down at his plate. “She disappeared a long time ago… I’ve been trying to find her.”
Yulia placed a hand on his shoulder. “Keep eating, sweetheart. I believe you’ll find her.”
Just then, the front door opened — Vladimir and Lyudmila had come home. Yulia’s heart skipped.
Vladimir stepped into the kitchen and raised an eyebrow. “Who’s this?”
Yulia stood calmly. “He’s a hungry boy looking for his mother. I gave him something to eat.”
Vladimir scowled. “And since when do you bring strangers into our house without permission? Are we running a charity?”
Vasya stood quickly, eyes wide with fear. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave,” he whispered, pushing away his half-eaten pie.
But Lyudmila intervened, her tone gentle. “Wait, sweetheart. Tell me, where are you from? What happened to your mother?”
Unlike her husband, Lyudmila had always had a softer heart — a kindness that no criticism ever managed to harden.
“I live with my grandfather,” Vasya said hesitantly. “But… he’s not kind. He shouts a lot… and sometimes he hits me. So I ran away.”
From his pocket, he pulled out an old photograph.
“These were my parents,” he said, wiping his tears before handing it over.
Lyudmila gasped as her hands trembled.
“Volodya… look. It’s Varya,” she whispered, stunned.
Vladimir stared at the photo, speechless.
“This… this is our daughter.”
Vladimir turned to Vasya. “Where did you get this?”
“I found it at my grandfather’s house,” Vasya explained. “There was an address on the back. I thought maybe my mom lived here. Grandpa always said she abandoned me, like a cuckoo leaves its egg… but I never believed him.”
Lyudmila’s heart clenched as memories came flooding back — of Varya, their daughter who once ran off with a gypsy man named Manush. She had returned briefly, only to perish in a tragic accident. Since then, their home had been haunted by silence.
“And your father?” Vladimir asked gently.
“He died… about six months ago,” Vasya whispered.
The truth settled over them like a thunderclap: this boy was their grandson.
Overwhelmed but certain, the couple didn’t hesitate.
“You know what, dear?” Lyudmila said, her voice full of warmth, “Let me show you to your new room.”
Vasya looked up hopefully. “Will my mom be here too?”
“She’s with your father now,” she replied, her voice thick with emotion.
The boy went quiet, but nodded.
In the weeks that followed, the Grigoryevs formally adopted him. When the grandfather heard he would be cared for by loving and well-off relatives, he didn’t object.
Yulia was overjoyed. Her small act of kindness had transformed a life.
Vasya was no longer the hungry boy wandering the streets — he grew into a bright, joyful child, surrounded by love and finally part of a family that would never let him go again.
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