Anton wrote his name and immediately regretted it. Sergey Petrovich. His father’s name was scrawled unevenly on a small card.
It was surprisingly easy to write down thanks. Someone remembered a former teacher. The girl next to him said she was grateful to her mother. The guy in the light jacket laughed for a long time, choosing between his first coach and his older brother.
Anton was about to write the name of his first instructor. That would have been correct. But instead, he wrote his father’s name.
Now he stood among the young apple trees of the Gratitude Alley, looking at the card as if he could still change the name.
He hadn’t spoken to his father in almost three years. It wasn’t that they had had a big fight and decided never to speak again. They had never had major arguments—only short conversations, things left unsaid. Phone calls became rarer, and one day Anton noticed that for several months, he only knew about his father through his mother’s stories.
He slipped the card into his pocket.
The wind blew in from the sea, swept down the avenue, and stirred the delicate branches of the apple trees. For some reason, Anton remembered his bicycle.
He was ten years old. The bicycle lay on its side in the yard, the chain having fallen off again, Anton’s palms black with grease. «Dad, help me.» His father was crouched nearby, searching through a toolbox. «You do it yourself.» «I don’t know how.» «You don’t know how? Then learn.» Anton fussed with it for twenty minutes. The chain kept slipping, his fingers kept sliding. Several times he wanted to kick the bike and walk away. His father didn’t help, only said: «Don’t pull from the top. Feed it from underneath.» Finally, the chain settled onto the sprocket. Anton pedaled. The wheel came to life. He looked at his father, expecting something big—praise, or at least a smile. His father wiped his hands on a rag. «See? You can do it.»
Anton got offended then.Now, almost twenty years later, he somehow remembered this exact day.The young man walked further down the alley. Young apple trees stood on either side of the path. Some still had their supports. The wind gently touched the leaves, as if testing each one for strength.Anton always felt that he had chosen his profession against his father’s wishes. At twenty-five, he decided to leave the job his father deemed suitable and decided to go study documentary filmmaking.The conversation took place in the kitchen.
His father was eating a late dinner. Anton stood by the window, speaking quickly while he still had the courage.
— I applied.
— To what?
— To the operating courses.
The father stopped chewing.
— What about your job?
— I’m quitting.
— Completely?
— Completely.
The father put down his fork.
— And what next?
— I’m going to make movies.
— And what kind of movies are you going to make?
— I don’t know yet.
— That’s a great plan.
Anton immediately heard the sarcasm in his father’s voice.
— Can you at least say once that I can do this? You never believed in me.
The father frowned.
— I didn’t say that.
— You didn’t have to.
Then the father asked:
— Have you decided everything for yourself?
— Yes.
— Then what do you want from me?
— Nothing.
Anton said sharply and left, slamming the door.
He remembered how much those words had angered him. He had retold that story to himself countless times over the years, the same way: his father hadn’t supported him, but he had managed anyway. Perhaps that’s why it stuck with him so profoundly.Anton pulled out a card. «Sergei Petrovich.»
There was space left at the bottom for a few lines. He needed to write down what he was thankful to this person for.Anton wrote: «For the support.» He crossed it out.No. His father never supported him the way Anton wished. He never said, «I believe in you, ” or „You have talent.“
Anton continued and suddenly remembered the camera. The old one, bought second-hand. He was planning to bring that one to the course. The day before leaving, the battery cap broke. Anton tried to secure it with electrical tape, then put the camera on the kitchen table and went to pack his things.
In the morning, the cap was closed. Instead of the broken plastic latch, his father affixed a tiny metal plate, adjusted the screw, and sanded the edge.
Anton rotated the camera in his hands. — Did you do it? His father drank his tea. — And who else? — Thanks. — Check if it holds.
It held on. So tightly that the camera survived courses, first shoots, and first trips. Then newer equipment appeared, and the old camera ended up gathering dust in a closet.
And only now, standing among the young apple trees in Donskoye, did Anton first ask himself a simple question.
Why did his father repair the camera if he truly wanted his son to abandon this pursuit?
Anton began to recall. How his father would get up at five in the morning to drive him to the station. How, one time, he silently transferred money when Anton was surviving on odd jobs for several months. How, after the first film, he sent a short message: «We watched it. Mom cried.»
There was not a single «well done» or «I’m proud of you.» Anton had spent years believing those words were unsaid.
And only now did he think: what if his father was simply speaking a language his son didn’t understand at the time?
The wind swept through the alley again. Anton touched the trunk of the nearest apple tree. The bark was still young, almost smooth.
He remembered his father’s hands—large, dry, always lightly scraped. Those hands fixed cars. Cameras. A leaking faucet in his first rental apartment, where his father had once come, ostensibly for something else entirely.
Anton pulled out a card. Under the crossed-out line «For Support, ” he wrote: “For always being supportive. In his own way.»
The phrase was strange, but honest.
He smiled and sat on the edge of the amphitheater. Anton knew his father’s phone number by heart. Three years ago, he could have dialed it without thinking. Now, it felt like he had to recall every digit separately.
Buzzer. Second, third… — Yes. The voice hadn’t changed. Anton was silent. — Hello? — Dad. Silence fell on the other end. — Anton? Is something wrong? That familiar question made Anton’s eyes sting. Three years of silence, and now the first call in a long time. — No. Everything is fine. — Really? — Really. Sergey Petrovich paused. — Well… okay. And in those two words, Anton suddenly heard a sense of relief that he probably hadn’t even noticed before. — Dad, do you remember my old camera? — Which camera? — The one you fixed before my courses. — Good heavens, Anton. Ages ago. — Well, I remember. Anton ran his thumb along the edge of the card. All the rehearsed words suddenly felt foreign. Too beautiful for a conversation that hadn’t happened in three years. — I thought you didn’t want me to go back then. His father chuckled quietly. — I didn’t want you to. Anton smiled through his tears. — Thank you. — I didn’t want you to regret it later — his father said after a pause. — But if you decided to go anyway… what was the point of going with a broken camera?
Anton lowered his head. That was all there was to Sergey Petrovich. Even now, he wouldn’t say it directly. — Dad… Thank you. The line fell completely silent. Anton heard his father inhale, as if he were about to say something, but couldn’t right away. He coughed instead. — Don’t be silly… His voice sounded unusually muffled. — What’s wrong suddenly? his father asked. — I should have said it a long time ago. his son replied. Anton closed his eyes. — Dad, I’m sorry. — Come on… Anton wiped his wet cheek with his palm. — Was the camera useful after all? Anton looked at the young apple trees. Their slender branches swayed in the evening air. — It all started with it. His father was silent for a few seconds. — Well, then it wasn’t in vain. And then, very quietly: — You… call sometimes. Don’t wait three more years. Anton clutched the card tighter. — I will. — That’s good.
They were silent for a little longer. This silence was the first time they didn’t share it. After the call, Anton sat alone for a long time. The card rested on his lap. The two words at the top—"Sergey Petrovich"—now seemed completely different.
Gratitude is strangely structured. Sometimes it arrives immediately. But other times, it takes half a lifetime for a person to finally see what has been beside them all along.
