After finishing high school, I decided to enroll in a medical institute and moved to the nearest big city with one. I got lucky, passing the entrance exams on my first try with enough points. I secured a dorm room and shared the happy news with my parents.
My parents supported me tirelessly—sending food, money, anything I needed. Every break, I visited them at home. Mom and Dad were thrilled their family would have a real doctor.
— Sweetheart, how’d you choose such a tough profession? It’s such a responsibility, and you’ve got to love people.
— Mom, I wouldn’t have gone to medical school if I didn’t love people. I’ve got enough responsibility in me. Plus, we’ve had doctors in the family.
— Who? — Mom asked, genuinely surprised.
— Grandpa’s mom, Grandma Zoe. She was a nurse during World War II. Even got a bravery medal.
— You’re right, Nina, I forgot.
I studied hard, and after my third year, I was sent to a regional hospital for an internship. I was training to be an orthopedic surgeon, so I landed in the trauma ward. It was a chance to learn the job in a real setting, and I dove in eagerly.
In one of the rooms was a guy, a bit older than me, with a broken leg. He worked construction and had a bad fall. His leg was fractured in two places, but it wasn’t serious. His bones healed like magic. We hit it off, and after Steve was discharged, we started dating.
We had a lot in common—both loved theater and fine art. We went to plays and visited every exhibition we could. Thanks to Steve, I fell in love with classical music, which we enjoyed at the philharmonic.
We didn’t meet often, maybe three times a week. My internship was ending, and I was preparing to head home.
Leaving Steve wasn’t easy—we had a warm, solid connection. I felt safe and comfortable with him.
Steve grew up in an orphanage. His mother died when he was barely seven, and he never knew his father—she never spoke of him. After school, Steve studied at a construction college, graduated, and joined the army for two years. Then he enrolled in a construction institute’s part-time program and started working on sites. Within a year, he became a foreman. Like me, he lived in a dorm.
The day before I left, Steve proposed. Along with a bouquet of gorgeous roses, he gave me a delicate gold ring with a tiny diamond. I was torn. I didn’t know what to say. On one hand, I felt secure and warm with him. On the other…
On the other, I sensed something was missing in our relationship.
Still, I said yes and called my parents to say I’d be bringing my fiancé home.
The next day, we headed to my small hometown by a beautiful, clear river, with an old church on a hill and a pine forest nearby.
We arrived around noon. At home, I introduced Steve to my parents. They warmed to him instantly—it was clear they liked him.
— Kids, — Mom said, — go swim in the river. I’ll set the table with Dad. We’ll invite Grandpa and Grandma. Nina, you’re okay with that?
— Of course, Mom, — I replied.
We changed and ran to the riverbank, where people were already splashing and swimming. It was a hot day, and dipping into cool water was pure bliss.
We lounged on the warm sand, rinsed off, and hurried home.
Mom had set up lunch in the gazebo. Grandpa, Grandma, and Dad were waiting. Steve took a seat, and I dashed to the summer kitchen.
Mom was pulling baked fish from the oven. I asked if she needed help.
— Sure, — she said. — Take the bread and sour cream. I’ll be right there.
Five minutes later, we were all at the table, digging into cold beet soup with sour cream.
I love summer for the abundance of fresh vegetables and herbs, perfect with bread and salt, almost a meal on their own.
For the main course, we had baked carp with buckwheat. Dessert was a huge, juicy watermelon. Everyone was stuffed and happy. After lunch, I helped Mom clear the table and slipped into a hammock for a nap.
Dad invited Steve for a walk, and they strolled through the garden. Grandpa and Grandma settled on the porch. Mom was in the kitchen, canning compotes.
That evening, we all walked along the river and ate kebabs grilled by Grandpa, a master at it.
They didn’t just put us in separate rooms—they housed us in different homes. Grandpa took Steve to his place, claiming they had plenty of space.
The next morning, after breakfast, Dad asked Steve and me to join him in the garden for a talk. We sat in chairs he’d set out.
Both Steve and I were nervous, but nothing prepared us for what came next.
— Kids, you can’t get married.
— Why? — Steve leaned forward.
— Because you’re brother and sister. — Dad paused as we exchanged stunned glances. — I recognized you right away, Steve. You’re the spitting image of your mother, Linda. Remember our walk in the garden when you told me about yourself?
— Yeah, I remember.
— I asked for details. Look, is this her? Your mom? — Dad pulled an old photo from his pocket, showing a man and woman with a baby.
Steve studied it, then looked at Dad. His hands trembled.
— Yes, that’s Mom. That’s how I remember her.
— This was taken right after you left the hospital. It’s all I have left of you both.
— I don’t understand! Why’d you abandon us? — Steve jumped up.
— Sit, please, and hear me out. You’ll understand someday. Years ago, after the army, I met your mom. We liked each other and started dating. I was young, full of passion, and couldn’t resist sharing a bed with her. But I regretted it soon enough. Three months in, we realized we were strangers. Then she got pregnant and refused an abortion—I didn’t suggest one either. Marriage wasn’t in my plans, but I couldn’t leave her with a kid. A week after applying, we were married. We lasted two years, then split. It was mutual—we didn’t love each other. Your mom asked me to forget you both, to never contact you. She wanted a chance to remarry, to avoid you having two dads. Linda said she deserved to love and be loved. I agreed and moved here. She stayed in the city with you. After the divorce, we never saw each other again. But I couldn’t forget you, son. A year later, I tried to visit. I broke my promise to her because I realized I loved you. You and your mom weren’t home. Neighbors said you’d left right after I did. The apartment was sold, and I couldn’t track you down. They didn’t know where she went, only that she’d left the city. After that, I stopped looking, hoping you were okay without me. Five years later, I met your mom, Nina. We fell in love, and that love’s still alive. That’s the story, son.
Dad stood and offered his hand. Steve stood too, and they shook. Dad couldn’t hold back and hugged him.
— Believe me, son, I’m so glad you’re here. Forgive me.
— I don’t hold a grudge. I’m glad you’re found. — Steve choked up, hugging Dad tighter.
I sat there, stunned but relieved—I wouldn’t have to marry Steve.
It’s the call of blood that brought us together. That’s why we felt so good, but it’s not the love between a man and woman, I thought joyfully and shouted, — Let’s go swim!
Everyone started talking at once, about their own things. Mom patted Steve’s shoulder. I grabbed my brother’s hand and dragged him to the river.
— So restless, — Dad called after us, laughing.
— She’s not even upset, you noticed? Good thing it ended this way, — Mom said to Dad, kissing him.
Now my brother had the family he’d lost as a child.
We often visited our parents together, coordinating by phone.
Mom loved Steve like her own. She’d meet us at the gate, throwing feasts when we arrived. Steve was happy to be treated like a son.
He and Dad bonded over their shared trade—both builders. Grandpa spoiled us with kebabs, and Grandma knitted us socks for New Year’s. Mom loaded us with preserves for the road, so Dad usually drove us back, dropping us at our dorms.
Time passed. I met the love of my life, a feeling far different from what I’d felt for Steve. Soon, he proposed, and I accepted without a second’s doubt.
Nine months after our wedding, we had a healthy, lively son. My husband and I were overjoyed.
Around the same time, Steve met a girl he loved. A year later, they married. His construction firm gave him an apartment in a new building. After finishing his degree, he moved to the design department.
My husband and I lived with his parents, then rented. Saving up, we got a mortgage, with help from my parents.
We try to visit our parents monthly. They wait eagerly, arms open. These visits mean everything to Steve and me. At their home, we find the carefree joy of childhood. While our parents are here, we must cherish and love them, never shy to show it.
As for our little secret, we locked it away in the family vault. Let this misunderstanding never disturb anyone’s peace.
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