For eight long years I polished the same corner office, night after night.
And the man who worked there never knew that I was the mother of the boy he had once left behind in high school.

I was seventeen when I discovered I was pregnant. It was my last year in Voronezh, and all I dreamed of was graduating and running toward a bigger life. He sat next to me in class—Nikolai Orlov, charming, talkative, the son of an influential family. I was the quiet daughter of a cobbler and a market vendor.

When I told him, his face went pale.
“Are you sure?” he whispered.
“I haven’t been with anyone else, Nikolai. This is your child.”

From that day on, he never spoke to me again. His parents sent him to study in England, and soon after, my mother found the medical certificate hidden in my bag.
“Do you want to disgrace us? Find the father!” she shouted.
“Mama, I have nowhere to go…”
“Then go anywhere. Sinners are not welcome here.”

I was left alone, with a growing belly and a fear that bit deep. I slept in half-abandoned houses, washed strangers’ laundry, sold oranges at the market—anything to afford bread. When the time came, I gave birth behind the midwife’s house, under an old apple tree.
“He’s beautiful,” the woman whispered.
“What will you name him?”
“Kirill. Because what God decides, no one can erase.”

Life became a steep climb. Kirill and I shared scavenged mattresses, icy nights, and days of hunger. When he was six he asked,
“Mama, where is my dad?”
“He went far away, my love. One day he might find his way back.”
“Why doesn’t he call?”
“Maybe he lost the path.”

But he never found it.

At nine years old Kirill fell seriously ill.
“It’s a simple operation,” the doctor said, “but it costs sixty thousand rubles.”
I sold my ring, borrowed from anyone who would listen—but it wasn’t enough.

When I buried him, I placed a faded photograph and his little blue blanket inside the coffin.
“Forgive me, my love,” I whispered. “I couldn’t keep you here.”

I left for Moscow, chasing a life that wouldn’t hurt so much.
A cleaning company hired me for night shifts at G4 Holding, a tech firm in Moscow-City.
“Brown uniform, no talking to executives,” the supervisor said. “Just clean.”

On the seventh floor stood an office with golden handles and thick carpet. The nameplate read: Nikolai Orlov – CEO.
My breath caught. Could it really be him?

He had changed—broader shoulders, tailored suit, a scent of expensive cologne—but the eyes were the same: sharp, proud, untouchable. Every night I aligned his files, polished the glass desk, emptied the trash. And every night he walked past without a flicker of recognition.

One evening my badge slipped to the floor.
“Anna,” he read aloud. “That name sounds familiar. Are you from Voronezh?”
I forced a small smile.
“No, sir.”
He nodded and returned to his laptop.

Later that night, I overheard his laughter with colleagues.
“In high school I got a girl pregnant,” he joked. “She claimed the baby was mine. But you know how those poor girls are—they’ll say anything.”
Their laughter rolled across the marble floor.
I dropped the mop, fled to the restroom, and wept until my eyes burned.
“Why, Lord? Why me?”

Something inside me broke. With trembling hands I wrote a letter:

“I remember you, even if you don’t remember me. I watched our son fight for every breath. You never came back. And I have cleaned up your mess every night—both the dust on your floor and the shadow in your soul.”

I slipped it beneath his coffee cup.

The next day I requested a transfer. I couldn’t bear to walk past him anymore.
Two weeks later, a woman in a white suit knocked on my door. Her features were softer than his.
“Are you Anna?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Nikolai’s older sister. Your letter made him cry. He never knew. Our parents told him you had ended the pregnancy.”

“No,” I said. “Kirill lived for nine years. He faced cold, hunger, fevers. And he waited for his father.”

Tears welled in her eyes.
“Nikolai went to the cemetery. He found the grave. He wants to see you—not just to apologize, but to try to make things right.”

I stared at her. How could anyone repair a thread that had already snapped?
But my son’s name—Kirill—rested on my lips like a prayer.

“I’ll meet him,” I said at last.
“Not for him. For Kirill. Because what God decides, no one can erase.”