A Truck Driver’s Unexpected Encounter and a New Year’s Resolution

“BORISLAV!”

Borya recoiled. He detested being addressed by his full name. All his colleagues knew him as Borya and never resorted to his patronymic. The person who just uttered it must have glimpsed his passport.

Borya swiveled around. In the doorway stood Vera Igorevna, the bookkeeper. She had been employed at the firm for mere months and had been pursuing Boris since her first day, yet even she had never called him that. The man attempted to mask his annoyance, but evidently, it was a futile effort because the woman was practically hissing with fury.

— Vera Igorevna, is something amiss?

— What — nothing? Are you suggesting everything is in order?

“She must have spotted the passport and grasped her infatuation was futile,” he mused, and articulated: — Vera Igorevna, could you elucidate? Is there something lacking in the paperwork?

— What paperwork? You’ve been leading me on for ages!

Boris observed how the drivers in the adjacent office had fallen silent and were cautiously drifting towards the office where Vera’s voice was escalating.

— So, I genuinely fail to comprehend what is transpiring.

— You comprehend everything perfectly well. I’ve been abjectly pleading before you, and it transpires you have a woman awaiting you at home.

— Well, I apologize, naturally, but we’ve never delved into each other’s private affairs, so why would I apprise you of who I have at home?

— You possess no decency whatsoever. It’s not inscribed in your passport. You are deceiving her, you deceived me.

— You know what… I have deceived nobody and I never pledged anything to you. And why are you even leveling accusations at me?

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

Boris exited the office and proceeded towards his vehicle. There wasn’t much time remaining until New Year’s, and he had no desire to spend the holiday behind the steering wheel. He sluggishly merged onto the highway.

Boris had always cherished his profession. A colossal truck, the open road, the fleeting hamlets and townships. Only on the road did he feel truly grounded. It was solely the winter he loathed: the asphalt was transformed, and the vehicle’s handling deteriorated.

Several hours later, dusk descended, and he halted at a capacious parking area, where besides him, there were approximately a dozen trucks akin to his. He calculated he was adhering to schedule and possessed time to unwind and replenish his vigor. He migrated to the sleeper berth, reclined, and succumbed to his reflections.

“Indeed, why haven’t Galya and I solemnized our union?”

Boris and Galina had been companions for over a decade. When they initially met, he was convinced that a stamp in the passport altered nothing. He was generally disenchanted with women and enduring relationships at that juncture. But Galya was dissimilar to the others he had encountered previously. She reshaped his perspectives, yet he never resolved to marry. Galya desired it, but refrained from demanding it. He was persuaded that with a stamp, he would forfeit something pivotal, invaluable, something upon which their bond hinged.

“I wonder, had we solemnized our vows, would we have endured together for such a duration? And if it’s so paramount to her, why does she abstain from broaching the subject of matrimony? Blast it. Seems I’m advancing in years, contemplating all this philosophical drivel.”

Boris discerned he was incapable of slumbering, and reached for his mobile phone. He rapidly punched in a number and detected Galina’s anxious intonation on the line.

— Borya, how fares it? Is something amiss?

— Hello, nay, forgive me. — He glanced at the clock and realized it was verging on two in the morning. — I merely haven’t perceived your voice in an age.

— I am awaiting your return, — she responded softly and placidly. — Come back forthwith.

— Alright, good night.

Boris terminated the call and plunged into slumber instantaneously.

The journey progressed seamlessly. He was unburdened and joyously recognized he would arrive home for the festivity. There were merely a handful of hours remaining to traverse, and he yearned to attain the warmth and solace of domicile, thus he resolved against dawdling. There were still several hours preceding dawn, but he was unable to remain stationary, thus he embarked upon the road.

As per usual, villages flickered past the windowpane, and the wheels revolved mile after mile. In the pre-dawn obscurity, there were no automobiles on the thoroughfare, thus he proceeded without impediment. He traversed another hamlet and approximately ten minutes subsequently discerned something on the verge of the road. He decelerated, and as he drew nearer, he discerned it was a woman, or more precisely, a venerable grandmother. She paid no heed to the colossal truck transiting merely a meter distant from her, she didn’t even twitch.

Boris had overheard tales of truckers frequently encountering random pedestrians or those aspiring to evade existence beneath their wheels. But he perceived neither trepidation nor despair in this grandmother. It was as though she were strolling down the avenue on her own errand. He, lacking comprehension as to why, decelerated and ceased motion. A couple of minutes elapsed, the grandmother overtook the truck, and he alighted.

— Greetings. What are you undertaking here at this juncture? It’s perilous to traverse the roads at night… Continued in the first comment below👇
“`— Greetings. What are you undertaking here at this juncture? It’s perilous to traverse the roads at night. Where are you headed so early?

The grandmother finally turned her gaze towards him. Her visage was ancient, etched with wrinkles, but her eyes were bright and clear, like a child’s. She scrutinized him intently and then inquired in a surprisingly resonant voice:

— Are you headed to Bryansk?

— Not precisely to Bryansk, but in that general direction. Why? Are you in need of a ride?

— I am seeking my son.

— Your son? And where does he reside?

— In Bryansk.

— And where are you coming from?

— From the nursing home, — she responded simply.

Boris was taken aback. He had heard of individuals escaping from hospitals, even prisons, but from a nursing home?

— And why did you abscond from there? Was it unpleasant?

— It was tedious, — the grandmother stated. — And my son is there.

— In Bryansk?

— In the nursing home.

Boris was completely bewildered.

— Hold on, is your son also in a nursing home?

— Yes.

— And you are escaping from one nursing home to reach another one, in Bryansk?

— Yes.

Boris was silent for a moment, processing the information. The situation was absurd, tragic, and somewhat comical simultaneously. An old woman escaping a nursing home in the pre-dawn darkness to reach her son in another nursing home.

— And how far is Bryansk from here? — Boris inquired.

— Far, — the grandmother replied. — Very far.

Boris glanced at his watch. He was indeed adhering to schedule, and even had a small buffer of time. He looked at the grandmother again. She was standing calmly, as if waiting for a bus at a designated stop, despite the complete absence of any bus stops in the vicinity.

— Listen, Grandma, — Boris began, — get in. I am going in the direction of Bryansk. I will give you a lift.

The grandmother did not express any particular joy or gratitude. She simply nodded and slowly, with dignity, began to climb into the truck cabin. Boris assisted her, settled her in the passenger seat, and fastened her seatbelt.

— What is your name, Grandma? — he inquired, as he started the engine.

— Antonina, — she replied. — And yours?

— Boris.

— Borislav, — Antonina corrected him.

Boris started, recalling Vera Igorevna. It seemed his full name was pursuing him.

— Just Borya, — he said. — So, Antonina, tell me about your son. Why is he in a nursing home?

And Antonina began to narrate. Her son, it turned out, was not quite well. Not in his mind. He was always a peculiar child, and then things worsened. He could not live independently, and she, while she had the strength, cared for him. But then her legs failed her, and she could no longer manage. So they placed him in a nursing home in Bryansk. And she, after some time, ended up in a nursing home in their own town.

— And I miss him greatly, — Antonina concluded. — I haven’t seen him in half a year. They say it’s not far, but they won’t take me. They say it’s difficult. And I want to see him. To look at him. Perhaps it’s the last time.

Boris listened to her story and felt a lump in his throat. He glanced at Antonina. She was looking straight ahead, at the dawning day, with a serene and sorrowful expression.

— We will definitely see him, Antonina, — Boris said firmly. — We will get to Bryansk and find your son.

The road flew by. Boris drove, and Antonina sat beside him, occasionally dozing off, occasionally resuming her story about her son. She spoke about him with such love and tenderness that Boris felt a pang of something akin to envy. He had no children, and perhaps never would. He had lived for himself, for the road, for his freedom. And now, looking at this old woman, he understood that something essential had eluded him.

They reached Bryansk by midday. Boris found the nursing home address from Antonina, located it without much difficulty, and parked near the entrance.

— Well, we have arrived, Antonina. Let’s go see your son.

Antonina smiled for the first time since they met. A weak, but luminous smile that illuminated her entire face.

They entered the nursing home. The air was filled with the peculiar, slightly sweetish smell of medicine and old age. A nurse in the reception directed them to the ward where Antonina’s son resided.

They walked down a long corridor, and Boris felt his heart pounding. He was experiencing an odd excitement, as if he were about to witness something incredibly important.

They entered a small room. There were several beds in it, but only one was occupied. A man was sitting on the bed, his back to them, looking out the window.

— Seryozha! — Antonina called out softly. — Seryozhenka, I’ve come!

The man turned around. He was middle-aged, with a simple, somewhat vacant expression on his face. But when he saw Antonina, his face transformed. His eyes lit up, and a broad, childlike smile stretched across his lips.

— Mama! — he exclaimed and reached out his hands towards her.

Antonina rushed to him and embraced him tightly. Boris stood to the side, watching this scene with a warm feeling in his chest. He saw how Antonina stroked her son’s hair, how she whispered something to him, how he clung to her, not wanting to let go.

He understood that he had done the right thing. That he had not wasted his time, that he had helped someone who truly needed it. And in that moment, he felt a sense of fulfillment that he had not experienced on the open road, behind the wheel of his truck.

After about an hour, Antonina and Boris emerged from the nursing home. Antonina’s face was radiant.

— Thank you, Borislav, — she said. — Thank you from the bottom of my heart. You gave me such joy.

— Don’t mention it, Antonina, — Boris replied, smiling. — I am glad I could help.

They sat in the truck in silence for a while. Antonina was looking out the window, and Boris was thinking about Galina. About their life together. About the fact that maybe it was time to change something. To stop being afraid of that stamp in the passport. To understand that true freedom is not in solitude, but in closeness to another person.

— Borislav, — Antonina suddenly said, — are you married?

Boris was taken aback by the question.

— No, not yet, — he replied. — But I have someone.

— Then you should marry her, — Antonina said firmly. — You should cherish those who are dear to you. Life is so fleeting.

Boris looked at her and nodded. He knew she was right. He started the engine and began to turn the truck around, heading back towards home. He knew exactly what he would do when he returned. He would find Galina and ask her to marry him. Not because he felt obliged, but because he genuinely wanted to. Because he realized that she was the most important person in his life. And he didn’t want to lose her. He wanted to cherish her, just as Antonina cherished her son.

The road home seemed different. The winter asphalt was still slippery, but Boris no longer felt the same anxiety. He felt a lightness in his soul and a certainty in his heart. He was going home to Galina, and this time, he was going home for good.