— Sir, it’s my mom’s birthday today… I want to get her some flowers, but I don’t have enough money… I handed the boy a bouquet. Later, at the cemetery, I saw that same bouquet placed there. – My Daily Stars

When Pasha was not yet five years old, his world shattered. His mother was gone. Standing in the corner of the room, he was overwhelmed by confusion — what was happening? Why was the house filled with strangers? Who were they? Why was everyone so silent, so strange, speaking in hushed tones and avoiding his gaze?

The boy couldn’t understand why no one smiled. Why they told him, “Stay strong, little one,” and hugged him, but as if he had lost something precious. Yet, all he had done was not see his mother anymore.

His father was away all day, distant and absent. He didn’t come close, didn’t hug, didn’t utter a word. He just sat alone, empty and detached. Pasha walked up to the coffin and stared at his mother for a long time. She was nothing like she used to be — no warmth, no smile, no lullabies at night. Pale, cold, motionless. It was terrifying. And the boy no longer dared to get any closer.

Without his mother, everything changed. Gray. Empty. Two years later, his father remarried. The new woman — Galina — did not become part of his world. Rather, she felt irritation toward him. She grumbled about everything, found faults as if looking for an excuse to be angry. And his father was silent. Did not defend. Did not intervene.

Every day Pasha felt a pain he hid inside. The pain of loss. Longing. And with every day — he wished more and more to return to the life when his mother was alive.

Today was a special day — his mother’s birthday. In the morning, Pasha woke up with one thought: he needed to go to her. To the grave. To bring flowers. White calla lilies — her favorite. He remembered how they were in her hands in old photographs, shining next to her smile.

But where to get money? He decided to ask his father.

“Dad, can I have a little money? I really need it…”

Before he could explain, Galina rushed out of the kitchen:

“What is this now?! You’re already asking your father for money?! Do you even realize how hard it is to earn a salary?”

His father looked up and tried to stop her:

“Gal, wait. He hasn’t even said why yet. Son, tell me what you need?”

“I want to buy flowers for Mom. White calla lilies. Today is her birthday…”

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Galina snorted, crossing her arms:

“Oh, really! Flowers! Money for them! Maybe you want to go to a restaurant too? Take something from the flowerbed — that’ll be your bouquet!”

“They’re not there,” Pasha answered quietly but firmly. “They only sell them in the store.”

His father looked thoughtfully at his son, then shifted his gaze to his wife:

“Gal, go get lunch ready. I’m hungry.”

The woman snorted unhappily and disappeared into the kitchen. The father returned to his newspaper. And Pasha understood: he wouldn’t get any money. Not a single word was said after that.

He quietly went to his room, took out an old piggy bank. Counted the coins. Not many. But maybe enough?

Without wasting time, he ran out of the house toward the flower shop. From afar, he saw the snowy white calla lilies in the window. So bright, almost magical. He stopped, holding his breath.

Then he decisively went inside.

“What do you want?” asked the woman seller unfriendly, eyeing the boy critically. “You probably came to the wrong place. We don’t have toys or sweets here. Only flowers.”

“I’m not just like that… I really want to buy. Callas… How much is a bouquet?”

The seller named the price. Pasha took out all his coins from his pocket. The amount was barely half the price.

“Please…” he pleaded. “I can work! Come every day, help clean, dust, wash floors… Just lend me this bouquet…”

“Are you normal?” the woman snorted with clear irritation. “Do you think I’m a millionaire to just give away flowers? Get lost! Or I’ll call the police — begging is not welcome here!”

But Pasha was not going to give up. He needed those flowers today. He started begging again:

“I’ll pay everything back! I promise! I’ll earn whatever is needed! Please understand…”

“Oh, look at this little actor!” shouted the seller so loudly passersby began to turn around. “Where are your parents? Maybe it’s time to call social services? Why are you wandering here alone? Last warning — get out before I call!”

At that moment, a man approached the shop. He happened to witness the scene.

He entered the flower shop just as the woman was yelling at the upset child. It struck him — he couldn’t stand injustice, especially towards children.

“Why are you yelling like that?” he asked the seller sternly. “You’re shouting at him like he stole something. And he’s just a boy.”

“And who are you anyway?” snapped the woman. “If you don’t know what’s going on, don’t interfere. He almost stole the bouquet!”

“Well, sure, ‘almost stole,’” the man raised his voice. “You attacked him like a hunter after prey! He needs help, and you threaten him. Have you no conscience?”

He turned to Pasha, who stood in the corner, shrinking and wiping tears from his cheeks.

“Hello, buddy. My name’s Yura. Tell me why you’re upset? You wanted to buy flowers but didn’t have enough money?”

Pasha sobbed, wiped his nose with his sleeve, and said in a quiet, trembling voice:

“I wanted to buy calla lilies… For Mom… She loved them very much… But she left three years ago… Today is her birthday… I wanted to go to the cemetery and bring her flowers…”

Yura felt his heart tighten inside. The boy’s story touched him deeply. He crouched down next to him.

“You know, your mom can be proud of you. Not every adult brings flowers on the anniversary, and you, at eight years old, remember and want to do something good. You’re going to grow into a real person.”

Then he turned to the seller:

“Show me which calla lilies he chose. I want to buy two bouquets — one for him, one for me.”

Pasha pointed to the window display with the white callas shining like porcelain. Yura hesitated a little — those were exactly the flowers he had planned to buy. He said nothing aloud, just noted to himself: “Coincidence or a sign?”

Soon Pasha was already leaving the shop with the cherished bouquet in his hands. He treasured it like the most precious treasure and could hardly believe it had worked out. Turning to the man, he timidly offered:

“Uncle Yura… Can I leave you my phone number? I will definitely pay you back. I promise.”

The man laughed good-naturedly:

“I never doubted you would say that. But no need. Today is a special day for a woman who is dear to me. I’ve long awaited a moment to tell her my feelings. So, I’m in a good mood. Glad I could do a good deed. Besides, apparently, our tastes match — both your mom and my Ira loved these flowers.”

For a moment he fell silent, lost in thought. His eyes looked through space, recalling his beloved.

He and Ira were neighbors. They lived in opposite apartment entrances. They met foolishly and by chance — one day she was surrounded by hooligans, and Yura stood up to defend her. He got a black eye but didn’t regret it for a minute — that was when a sympathy between them began.

Years passed — friendship grew into love. They were inseparable. Everyone said: that’s the perfect couple.

When Yura turned eighteen, he was drafted into the army. For Ira, it was a blow. Before leaving, they spent the night together for the first time.

Everything was fine in service until Yura suffered a serious head injury. He woke up in the hospital without memory. Didn’t even remember his name.

Ira tried to call him, but the phone was silent. She suffered, thinking Yura had abandoned her. Over time, she changed her number and tried to forget the pain.

Months later, his memory began returning. Ira came back to his thoughts. He started calling, but no answer. Nobody knew that his parents hid the truth, telling the girl that Yura had left her.

Returning home, Yura decided to surprise Ira — bought calla lilies and headed to her. But he saw a completely different picture: Ira was walking arm in arm with a man, pregnant, happy.

Yura’s heart broke. He couldn’t understand — how was this possible? Without waiting for explanations, he ran away.

That very night, he left for another city where no one knew his past. Started a new life but couldn’t forget Ira. Even married, hoping for healing, but the marriage didn’t work out.

Eight years passed. One day, Yura realized: he could no longer live with emptiness inside. He must find Ira. Must tell her everything. And here he was again in his hometown, with a bouquet of calla lilies in his hands. And it was there that he met Pasha — a meeting that might change everything.

“Pasha… yes, Pasha!” Yura recalled, as if waking up. He stood by the shop, and the boy was still patiently waiting nearby.

“Son, maybe I can give you a ride somewhere?” Yura gently offered.

“Thanks, no,” the boy politely refused. “I know how to take the bus. I’ve been to Mom before… Not the first time.”

With these words, he hugged the bouquet tight to his chest and ran toward the bus stop. Yura watched him go for a long time. Something about this child awakened memories, evoked an inexplicable connection, almost kinship. Their paths crossed for a reason. There was something painfully familiar in Pasha.

When the boy left, Yura headed to the very yard where Ira had once lived. His heart pounded like a drum as he approached the entrance and cautiously asked an elderly woman living there if she knew where Ira was now.

“Oh, dear,” sighed the neighbor, looking at him sadly. “She’s no longer here… She died three years ago.”

“What?” Yura recoiled sharply, as if struck.

“After marrying Vlad, she never returned here. Moved to him. By the way, a good soul took her while she was pregnant. Not every man would do that. They loved each other, took care of each other. Then their son was born. And then… that’s it. She’s gone. That’s all I know, son.”

Yura slowly left the entrance feeling like a lost ghost — late, lonely, forever too late.

“Why did I wait so long? Why didn’t I come back even a year earlier?”

And then the neighbor’s words resurfaced: “…pregnant…”

“Wait. If she was pregnant when she married Vlad… then the child could have been mine?!”

His head spun. Somewhere here, in this city, maybe his son was living. Yura felt a flame ignite inside — he must find him. But first, he needed to find Ira.

At the cemetery, he quickly found her grave. His heart clenched with pain — love, loss, regret flooded at once. But even stronger shook him what lay on the tombstone: a fresh bouquet of white calla lilies. The very same, beloved flowers of Ira.

“Pasha…” Yura whispered. “It’s you. Our son. Our child…”

He looked at Ira’s photo on the stone, which gazed back, and softly said:

“Forgive me… For everything.”

Tears poured from his eyes, but he did not hold them back. Then he abruptly turned and ran — he had to return to the house Pasha had pointed to when they stood by the shop. There was his chance.

He rushed to the yard. The boy sat on the swings, thoughtfully swinging. It turned out that as soon as Pasha returned home, his stepmother gave him a scolding for being gone too long. He couldn’t stand it and ran outside.

Yura approached, sat down next to him, and hugged his son tightly.

Then a man came out of the entrance. Seeing a stranger next to the child, he froze. Then recognized him.

“Yura…” he said, almost without surprise. “I no longer hoped you would come. I guess you understand that Pasha is your son.”

“Yes,” Yura nodded. “I understand. I came for him.”

Vlad sighed deeply:

“If he wants to, I won’t stand in the way. I was never really a husband to Ira. Nor a father to Pasha. She always loved only you. I knew. Thought it would pass with time. But before she died, she confessed she wanted to find you. Tell you everything: about the son, about her feelings, about you. But she didn’t have time.”

Yura was silent. His throat tightened, and thoughts hammered in his head.

“Thank you… for accepting him, not giving him away.” He sighed deeply. “Tomorrow I will take his things and documents. But now… let’s just go. I have a lot to learn. Eight years of my son’s life lost. I don’t want to lose another minute.”

He took Pasha’s hand. They headed toward the car.

“Forgive me, son… I didn’t even know I had such a wonderful boy…”

Pasha looked at him calmly and said:

“I always knew Vlad wasn’t my real dad. When Mom told about me, she spoke of someone else. About another man. I knew one day we would meet. And here we are… we met.”

Yura lifted his son into his arms and cried — from relief, from pain, from immense, unbearable love.

“Forgive me… for having to wait so long. I will never leave you again.”