“Father, if things at work aren’t too overwhelming right now, maybe you and my brother could take a week or two off?” Damir said, squeezing his mother’s hand beneath the table.
“All right,” Omer replied immediately, raising his brows as if to ask, Why?
“We’ll all go to Russia—to my home. Visit for a bit.” With those words, he looked directly at Samad, who nearly choked. “There lives another mother of ours—the one who raised me and gave birth to Samad. We should pay her our respects and honor her with our visit.”
Samad turned pale. He hadn’t seen that coming. Damir looked at his father, then at his mother, who immediately agreed.
“I would be happy to meet her. I want to thank her for raising you, for giving you all her strength, all she could,” she said, gently squeezing her son’s hand beneath the table. She spoke in Farsi, but judging by Samad’s expression, no translation was needed. Still, Saher translated it into English, then into Russian.
“It’s settled—we’re going,” the head of the family declared, reaching across the table to gently touch his adoptive son’s shoulder.
“It’s your turn now, son, to show strength and gratitude. We’ll all be by your side to support you.”
Samad looked at his father, pressed his lips together, gave a tight smile, and nodded obediently. Then he turned to Damir with all the bitterness he could muster. Damir leaned back in his chair, returning a satisfied, triumphant look.
Almost a month was spent processing documents, and then two more days of airport layovers, before the Saidi family finally reached the outskirts of Bolgar. Omer and Emine were swept up in nostalgia—riding together in a taxi, arms wrapped around each other, whispering lovingly despite their exhaustion. Damir, Samad, and Saher rode in another cab, half-dozing. For their arrival, a small rental home with all the necessities was arranged near Damir’s childhood home so the guests could stay comfortably. He had warned them: the living conditions here were a far cry from what they were used to—no luxury, no modern comfort.
“Don’t worry—we have no spoiled princes or princesses among us,” the father assured them, glancing at his children.
Samad had accepted his fate. He knew there would be no avoiding the discomfort—and the shame—and he simply surrendered to the flow. He hadn’t even met his poor, biological mother yet, and already, he hated her. He was sure Damir had brought him here just to show him exactly where he intended to throw him away someday. But of course, Samad wasn’t as naive as Damir might think. Things wouldn’t be that easy. What felt like an eternity passed before they finally arrived, just before dawn.
Poor Zulfiya, thinner from worry, stood at the gate of the rental home, anxiously twisting her headscarf in her hands, awaiting her important guests. When Damir saw her, he nearly jumped out of the car. She looked like a lost child abandoned in the street.
“My son, you’re back,” she said, reaching out to him as tears rolled down her cheeks.
“I was so afraid you wouldn’t return.”
“Come on, Mom. How could I ever leave you? Don’t think that way. How’s your health?”
“All right, all right…”
One by one, the rest of the family got out of the cars and approached to greet her. They were tired but kind—even Samad. He looked genuinely humbled as he hugged his birth mother, closing his eyes and pressing his cheek to hers. Everyone watching the scene felt it in their hearts. Then Emine stepped forward, embraced Zulfiya, and sincerely thanked her for raising Damir—in her own language. The words were translated first to English, then Russian. Damir was overwhelmed with emotion—barely holding it in. Zulfiya, in turn, thanked them for raising Samad and for all they had done—and continued to do—for both boys.
