After 76 years of living in Russia, my parents were moving out to another country for good. They both knew that they will never come back. They both understood this was the only solution at their age. That it was the time to admit they were getting old. They were so brave to leave their beloved home behind for other people.
This was my home also for 20 years and I took my 3.5 years old Spanish son to get aquatinted with my hometown and the flat where I grew up in Russia. The flat that does not exist anymore. I knew it will help my parents to cope with this hard move. I knew he will make them understand that there is a better future waiting for them, that there is a future. I also wanted my son to have a tiny share of my childhood. And he certainly did. With all his little pure heart he lived these moments and enjoyed them. I was struck by the contrast between his cheerful approach and freezing Russian winter, faces of people that tell you everything about their truly hard life. He made them smile, he made my parents believe. And I will cherish those days forever.
I admire their courage as well as the ability to accept reality.
In Russian, we say: “My house is my Tower”. May be partly because our external life is so insecure and unpredictable. This is exactly what this apartment was for me. My Tower.