Anatoly's MotherPhoto by Levi Meir Clancy on UnsplashAnatoly's mother had her eyes lowered, beneath the table. "Why are you looking at your phone? The roast is getting cold!" She put the phone down with a quick, seemingly involuntary gesture. "I haven't heard from my son in two days. It happens, sometimes: at the front they have no signal, and until the mission is over, no one gets in touch. But this time... I don't know." We looked at each other for a second and reassured her. We all knew he was heading to the front, to replace a young man who had been seriously wounded. We all put on a mask of a smile and began to eat, talking about the usual trivialities people talk about over a meal: it was the 25th of March and spring was beginning to make itself felt. And Anatoly's mother, who has worked for our family for over ten years, had already started putting flowers on the balconies of the house. A way of adding colour to such a grey time.On International Women's Day, Anatoly's mother was smiling. Her son had sent her a message with his wishes. He had been moved to the rear lines a few days earlier and, at last, could sleep in a bed. Could wash. Because in the trenches, he told her, days passed all the same, sleeping on the ground, without washing. And in those few hours of light sleep, the nightmare was always the same: the sound of a drone - the kind of drone that, if you hear it, it is already too late. But now, thankfully, he was calmer. Perhaps he might even manage to come home for a few days - who knows - to see his sisters. He wasn't convinced himself; he said it with conviction. The conviction of someone who hopes it might happen. "And you, Mamma, how are you?" She laughed, though moved: she was safe, in Italy, in a warm house with people who have treated her as part of the family for many years. With her aches and pains as age advances, she is well. And yet he worried about how she was doing.Only a few months earlier, at the end of 2025, Anatoly's mother had received a message. "Mamma, I'm scared. I don't want to die." He was travelling to the front, knowing he would remain there - hopefully - for a long time. An early return would have been decidedly ill-omened, because you only come back early in two ways: wounded or dead. "You won't die, my son. Be brave." We have known her for many years; she is an extremely strong woman and could say nothing else. Her eyes, as she told us, said everything: she would have run there, to take him, to bring him home. But her country is at war and there was nothing she could do. Thirty-five years old, in good health and, like all his brothers, a handsome young man. Until a few months earlier he had been working in Poland, but at a certain point he had to return, and although all his older brothers were already at war, they needed him too. He accepted because he had no other choice. "And you, how are you?" Anatoly's mother smiled. "I'm fine, my son. I'm fine, don't worry about me." She told us this with a smile. The smile of someone who, every day, hopes a message will arrive from her son. "I'm fine, Mamma, don't worry." Even when he was under the bombs. Even when his friend was killed, hit by a drone.On the morning of the 26th of March, Anatoly's mother was on her way back from the hospital, to collect test results from a few days earlier. When the phone rang, at an unusual hour and from a family member, she answered without a second's thought. Her expression changed instantly and her voice broke. They told her nothing, only that she was needed at home. She already knew what had happened. A mother knows without knowing. She packed in a rush, throwing into a suitcase whatever she could, and managed to catch the bus that same evening. Over twenty-four hours of travel expected, which would become many, many more.Anatoly's mother said goodbye to her son on the 2nd of April, burying him in the local cemetery. The mud was so deep that the municipality had to intervene with heavy equipment to allow the ceremony to take place. The mayor published photographs. His friends, a video. She saw him for the last time, his face clearly recognisable and at peace, though marked by trauma and wounds. But they told her not to touch him: only the visible parts were still presentable. She approached his coffin and leaned down, supported by one of her daughters. She had always known - always known - it would end like this. But Anatoly's mother, like all mothers, had hoped until the very last that, at least for him, fate would have looked the other way. Their family is Catholic, but the funeral was celebrated by Orthodox priests: the Catholics were busy with Easter preparations and were unable to celebrate the funeral of young Anatoly. But none of this matters very, very much to Anatoly's mother.https://my-notes.dragas.net/2026/04/22/anatolys-mother/#Life #MyNotes #Reflections
