After my daughter’s funeral, I accidentally overheard my fiancé speaking. At that moment, I realized: there wasn’t a second to lose.

Late autumn. The wind pressed against her shoulders, scattering dry leaves among the gravestones. The sky, low and dull, looked like a hospital sheet hung out to dry. The cemetery was deserted: no voices, no movement, just withered grass and deep silence.

Three people stood by a grave. Maria was motionless, but inside she felt nothing but emptiness.

Her black-gloved hands were clenched into fists, her face pale, her gaze fixed. She wore a simple dark coat and a hat far too bright, pulled almost down to her brows. She looked frozen in time — as if her heart had gone underground along with the small wooden coffin.

The priest prayed quickly, and the wind carried away parts of his words. The gravedigger, earning little, shoveled earth without looking. Each thud on the coffin lid sent a dull ache through Maria’s chest.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t move. Only her pale lips betrayed the tension.
— That’s it, Masha… that’s it — whispered Asya, holding her hand.

Maria turned slowly, her eyes asking the question her lips could not voice: Why? It was far too soon. Far too cruel. Beneath the dirt lay the child she had longed for, sung to before birth, bought her first dress for, and chosen a name for — a name that would never be spoken aloud again: Veronica.

Time passed in a blur. Friends helped with the funeral, brought food, and urged her to go outside. But everything was mechanical. The light, the colors, and the taste of life had vanished.

Until one day, at the registry office, Maria overheard a conversation that changed everything. A door was slightly ajar, letting voices slip through. She instantly recognized them: Tatyana, Alexey’s wife. On the table lay a birth certificate for a baby girl.

Tatyana wasn’t pregnant.

Maria entered. Alexey’s expression held no fear, only annoyance. He pretended not to know her, called security, and claimed he had a wife and a newborn daughter.

Asya pulled her away, but Maria knew this was no accident or mistake. It was theft. And she decided she would uncover the truth.

At the police station, she was dismissed. They said there was no evidence. At the hospital, the chief doctor denied any wrongdoing. But days later, Maria received a call: a nurse named Anna wanted to talk. She had been on duty the night Maria gave birth and revealed that the chief doctor had personally taken control of her case — something highly unusual. Soon after, Maria’s medical file had disappeared.

Anna handed over copies of documents and even a photograph of the baby. The investigation gained momentum. Alexey and Tatyana were summoned. They claimed the child was theirs and agreed to a DNA test.

Before it could be carried out, they tried to flee the city with the baby. When found, they were brought in for questioning. Under pressure, Alexey broke. He admitted Tatyana couldn’t have children, and to keep the marriage — and all property in her name — they had conspired with the doctor to take Maria’s baby.

The DNA test confirmed: the little girl was Maria’s daughter.

What followed was a maze of paperwork, legal steps, and social worker visits. Until one day, Maria was led into a room where, in a crib, lay the reason for all her suffering. Small, alive, with her eyes and her chin.

She knelt, reached out her hand, and said softly:
— Hello, Veronica. I’m here. I found you.

The baby opened her eyes, looked briefly, and drifted back to sleep.

Back home, Maria dressed her in soft pajamas and laid her in the crib she had kept hidden away. Sitting beside her, she realized she would never be alone again. She held her close and promised:
— Everything will be different now. I’m here. Always.