Vladimir and Lyudmila Grigoryev had employed Yulia Antonovna for many years. That day, the couple had gone out, and after completing all her chores, the maid sat by the window to rest. Suddenly, she noticed a skinny boy in tattered clothes walking along the fence of the property.
“Maybe he’s hungry,” Yulia Antonovna murmured, feeling sorry for the child. After glancing at the large clock in the living room and realizing the couple wouldn’t return anytime soon, she stepped outside.
“What’s your name?” she asked gently, addressing the boy who was watching the street.
“Vasya,” he replied, casting a cautious look from beneath his messy bangs.
“Well then, Vasya, come with me. I’ll give you some fresh apple pie,” she offered, and the boy followed her without hesitation. His stomach had been growling all day—he hadn’t eaten a thing.
In the kitchen, Yulia Antonovna carefully cut a generous slice of pie and placed the plate in front of the hungry boy.
“This is so delicious!” Vasya exclaimed as he eagerly bit into the soft pastry.
“My mom used to bake a pie just like this.”
“And where is your mother now?” the woman asked gently. The boy paused, stopped chewing, and lowered his eyes.
“I’ve been looking for her for a long time… she disappeared,” he whispered.
“Eat, eat,” Yulia encouraged him softly. “You’ll find her. I’m sure you will.”
At that moment, the front door creaked open, and Vladimir and Lyudmila walked into the house. Yulia flinched at the sound of their footsteps.
“And who do we have here as our guest?” Vladimir asked in surprise, peering into the kitchen. His eyes widened when he saw the boy.
“Who did you bring into the house, Yulia?” he asked sternly.
“This child is looking for his mother. He was hungry, so I decided to feed him,” the maid replied calmly, shrugging her shoulders.
“So now you’re feeding random strays? Our opinion doesn’t matter anymore?” the master of the house protested.
Hearing those words, Vasya began to cry.
“I’ll go,” he mumbled, placing the half-eaten slice of pie back on the plate.
Lyudmila had always been softer than her husband. Sometimes Vladimir scolded her for being too kind, but he had never succeeded in changing her.
“I live with my grandfather, but he’s mean. He always yells at me, and sometimes he hits me. I ran away,” Vasya confessed, pulling a yellowed photograph from the pocket of his old, torn pants.
“These are my parents. We used to live together,” the boy said, wiping away tears as he handed the photo to the couple.
Lyudmila froze as she took the photo in her hands… It was their daughter, Varya!
“Look, Volodya, it’s our girl!” she gasped, trembling as she passed the photo to her husband.
Vladimir looked at the picture, stunned.
“Vasya, how did you get this photo?” he asked.
“I took it from my grandfather. There was an address on the back, so I came here. I thought maybe my mom lived here,” the boy explained as he calmed down.
“Grandpa always says my mom was like a cuckoo who abandoned me. But I don’t believe him!”
“It can’t be… it just can’t be,” Lyudmila kept repeating, remembering how their daughter Varya had once run away with a gypsy named Manush. For years, they heard nothing—until she returned, only to be involved in an accident shortly after. That day had turned into a nightmare, and they had lived alone in their large mansion ever since.
“And your father?” Vladimir asked.
“He passed away. He was buried six months ago,” Vasya said through tears.
The couple was stunned. They had found their grandson! Tired of loneliness, they decided to keep him.
“You know what, little one? Let’s take you to your room,” Lyudmila said warmly.
“Will my mom come?” Vasya asked.
“Your mother is now with your father,” she replied sadly.
Some time later, the couple completed the adoption paperwork. The grandfather didn’t object when he learned his grandson would be cared for by wealthy, kind-hearted people.
Yulia Antonovna was overjoyed. Thanks to that one moment of kindness, the homeowners had found happiness again. In time, Vasya was no longer a ragged, hungry stray. He became a well-dressed boy with good manners—and, most importantly, with a loving family.
