Dawn light warmed my father Viktor’s kitchen, where he sat with tea, his hands trembling as he gazed at photos of my late mother, Maria. The home they built held memories—me, Alexei, and my brother, Igor, grinning in frames, Maria’s laughter echoing in her favorite mug. “You said I’d slow down, Maria,” Viktor whispered, his voice soft. Her passing left silence, but her garden roses kept her alive. I visited daily, but my wife, Nadia, who joined us three years ago, grew frustrated.
Nadia stormed in, heels tapping. “Alexei, we’re late!” she said, ignoring Viktor. She called the house cramped, often muttering about Viktor’s presence. “It’s outdated,” she’d complain. I’d say, “It’s his life.” One evening, after Nadia cleared Viktor’s half-eaten dinner, I overheard her ultimatum: “Put your father in a care home, or I’m done. I’ve found a place.” Viktor heard, his eyes dimming with hurt.
The next morning, Viktor sat with a bag, saying, “Don’t lose her for me.” I drove, silent, but pulled into the airport. “You’re not going to a home, Dad. We’re seeing Igor.” I’d left Nadia a note: “Family means respect. My father stays.” At Igor’s coastal home, he embraced Viktor, his kids yelling, “Grandpa!” We ate lobster on the beach, Viktor smiling as Igor’s wife, Katya, said, “You raised heroes.” His laughter warmed us all.
Nadia found my note, her demands unmet. Months later, Viktor and I stood on Igor’s porch, a “Family Always” sign planted firmly. “Maria would be proud,” Viktor said. I nodded, knowing love, not ultimatums, makes a home. Viktor’s happiness was my reward.
