Truck Driver Finds Lost Grandmother Seeking Son

“Borislav!”

Borya flinched. He disliked being called by his full name. All his colleagues knew him as Borya and never used his full name. The person who just called him must have seen his passport.

Borya turned around. In the doorway stood Vera Igorevna, the accountant. She had been working at the company for only a few months and had pursued Boris from day one, yet even she had never called him that. The man tried to hide his displeasure, but apparently, it didn’t work well because the woman was literally growling with rage.

— Vera Igorevna, is something the matter?

— What — no? Are you saying everything is fine?

“She probably saw the passport and realized her interest was going nowhere,” he thought, and said: — Vera Igorevna, could you explain? Is there something missing from the documents?

— What documents? You’ve been confusing me for so long!

Boris noticed how the drivers in the neighboring office had quieted down and were slowly approaching the office where Vera was getting louder.

— So, I really don’t understand what’s happening.

— You understand everything. I’ve been foolishly pleading in front of you, and it turns out you have a woman waiting at home.

— Well, I’m sorry, of course, but we’ve never discussed each other’s personal lives, so why would I tell you about who I have at home?

— You have no decency. It’s not listed in your passport. You’re deceiving her, you deceived me.

— You know what… I haven’t deceived anyone and I never promised you anything. And why are you even accusing me of anything?

— I wasted my time on you, and you… And you have…

Boris left the office and headed for his car. There wasn’t much time left until New Year’s, and he didn’t want to spend the holiday behind the wheel. He slowly drove onto the road.

Boris always loved his job. A big truck, the highway, the flickering towns and villages. Only on the road did he feel in his place. It was just the winter he disliked: the road wasn’t the same, and the car didn’t handle well.

A few hours later, it got dark, and he stopped at a large parking lot, where besides him, there were about a dozen trucks like his. He figured he was on schedule and had time to rest and gather strength. He moved to the sleeper, lay down, and drifted into his thoughts.

“Really, why haven’t we gotten married with Galya?”

Boris and Galina had been together for over ten years. When they met, he was sure that a stamp in the passport changed nothing. He was generally disillusioned with women and serious relationships at that time. But Galya was not like the others he had met before. She changed his views, but he never decided to marry. Galya wanted it, but didn’t demand it. He was sure that with a stamp, he would lose something important, valuable, something that their union depended on.

“I wonder, if we had gotten married, would we have lived together so long? And if it’s so important to her, why doesn’t she talk about the wedding? Damn. Seems like I’m getting old, thinking all this philosophical nonsense.”

Boris realized he couldn’t sleep, and reached for his phone. He quickly dialed a number and heard Galina’s anxious voice on the line.

— Borya, how are you? Is something wrong?

— Hello, no, sorry. — He glanced at the clock and realized it was almost two in the morning. — I just haven’t heard your voice for a long time.

— I’m waiting for you, — she replied softly and calmly. — Come back soon.

— Alright, good night.

Boris hung up and fell asleep instantly.

The trip went smoothly. He was free and happily realized he would make it home for the holiday. There were only a few hours left to drive, and he wanted to get to the warmth and comfort of home, so he decided not to delay. There were still a few hours until dawn, but he couldn’t sit still, so he hit the road.

As always, villages flickered past the window, and the wheels rolled mile after mile. In the pre-dawn hours, there were no cars on the road, so he drove without delay. He passed another village and about ten minutes later noticed something on the side of the road. He slowed down, and as he got closer, he realized it was a woman, or more precisely, an old grandmother. She didn’t notice the big truck passing just a meter away from her, she didn’t even flinch.

Boris had heard that truckers often encounter random pedestrians or those who want to escape life under their wheels. But he saw neither fear nor despair in this grandmother. It was as if she was walking down the street on her own business. He, not understanding why, slowed down and stopped. A couple of minutes later, the grandmother caught up with the truck, and he got out.

— Hello. What are you doing here at this time? It’s dangerous to walk on the roads at night…— Are you alright, grandmother? Do you need help?

The old woman finally looked at Boris. Her eyes were clouded, but there was a flicker of something in them, perhaps determination.

— Borislav! — she exclaimed, her voice surprisingly strong despite her age.

Boris froze. Again with the full name. It was becoming unsettling.

— Excuse me? I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else. My name is Borya.

— Borislav, don’t you recognize me? It’s me, your…

She trailed off, confusion clouding her face. She swayed slightly, and Boris instinctively reached out to steady her. Her hand, surprisingly frail, gripped his arm tightly.

— Are you cold? Let’s get you in the truck. It’s warm there. Where are you going?

He gently guided her towards the passenger side of the truck. She moved slowly, shuffling her feet, but didn’t resist. He helped her climb into the high cabin, noticing the worn, thin coat she wore offered little protection against the winter chill. Once she was settled, he climbed back into the driver’s seat and turned on the heater full blast.

— So, where are you headed? And what’s with the ‘Borislav’?

The old woman looked around the cabin, her gaze distant. Then she turned back to Boris, her eyes focusing with more clarity.

— Borislav… my son… I need to find Borislav.

— Borislav is your son? Okay… and where does he live? Do you have his address?

She shook her head slowly.

— He’s… he’s somewhere… they took me away… but he needs me.

Boris realized with a jolt. Nursing home. Escape. Son. It all clicked into place.

— You escaped from a nursing home?

A flicker of defiance crossed her face. — I didn’t escape. I left. I need to find my son.

— Okay, okay, you left. Do you know where he is? What’s his last name? Maybe we can call him.

She frowned, struggling to remember. — Borislav… Igor… Igorevich… Yes, Borislav Igorevich.

Boris tried searching online for “Borislav Igorevich” in the nearby towns, but nothing relevant came up. He turned back to the old woman.

— Do you remember anything else? Where he might live? What he does?

She looked at him, her eyes pleading. — He… he loves me. He needs me. They don’t understand… at the home… they don’t understand.

Boris felt a pang of sympathy. She was clearly confused, but her love for her son was palpable. He thought of Galya, waiting for him at home, and a sudden wave of guilt washed over him. He had been so caught up in his own thoughts, his own fears of commitment, that he hadn’t truly appreciated the simple, unwavering love that was waiting for him.

— Alright, listen, — Boris said gently. — Let’s try this. What if we go to the next town? Maybe someone there knows your son. We can ask around. How does that sound?

The old woman nodded slowly, her gaze softening. — Thank you, Borislav.

Boris smiled faintly. — It’s Borya. But you can call me Borislav if you like.

He drove to the next town, a small, sleepy place just waking up as dawn painted the sky in soft hues. He parked near a small market square, the heart of the village.

— Wait here, it’s warmer in the truck. I’ll go ask around.

He went into a small grocery store, showing the woman behind the counter a description of the old woman. No luck. He tried the bakery, then a small cafe. Each time, the answer was the same: “No, haven’t seen her.”

Discouraged, he returned to the truck. The old woman was looking out the window, her face etched with worry.

— No luck, huh? — she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Boris sighed. — Not yet. But we won’t give up. Let’s try the police station. Maybe they have a record of a missing person.

He drove to the local police station, a small, unassuming building. He explained the situation to the officer on duty, describing the old woman and her quest for her son, Borislav Igorevich.

The officer listened patiently, then typed into his computer. After a few moments, his face lit up.

— Borislav Igorevich… Yes, we have a file. His mother, Vera Igorevna, was reported missing from a nursing home in the next district over. He’s been desperately worried.

Vera Igorevna. Boris’s blood ran cold. Vera Igorevna, the accountant from his work. The woman who had called him Borislav, who had accused him of deception. It couldn’t be a coincidence.

— Is there a photo? — Boris asked, his voice trembling slightly.

The officer showed him the file on the screen. There was a picture of a younger Vera Igorevna, but the resemblance to the old woman in his truck was undeniable.

— This is her. This is definitely her.

The officer smiled. — We’ll contact her son immediately. He’ll be relieved. You did a good thing, bringing her here.

Boris sat in stunned silence as the officer made the call. He felt a strange mix of emotions – relief, confusion, and a profound sense of irony. Vera Igorevna, the woman he had brushed off, the woman who had wrongly accused him, was the son of the old woman he had found on the road. And she had called him Borislav. Had the old woman, in her confusion, seen something in him, something that reminded her of her son?

A short while later, a car pulled up outside the police station. A man rushed out, his face etched with worry and relief. He looked older than Boris had expected, but there was a weariness in his eyes that spoke of recent stress. He hurried inside.

Boris watched from the window as the man embraced the old woman. Tears streamed down both their faces. It was a poignant scene, a reunion born from chance and a trucker’s unexpected stop.

He decided to leave them to their private moment. He slipped out of the police station and back to his truck. As he drove away, the image of the reunited mother and son stayed with him.

He pulled out his phone and dialed Galya’s number. She answered on the second ring, her voice warm and familiar.

— Borya? Are you close?

— Almost home, Galya. Almost home. Listen… when I get back… let’s talk about that stamp in the passport you wanted.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. Then Galya’s voice, softer than he had ever heard it, filled his ear.

— Come home, Borya. Just come home.

Boris smiled. The road ahead seemed clearer now, the winter air less cold. He was going home, not just to a house, but to a love that had been waiting, patient and true. And maybe, just maybe, he was finally ready to stop running from it.