Our old two-story building got one hit from Grad, so that several families were left without a roof over their heads and without all their property. For several weeks we lived in a barn and were freezing. The eldest son was at that time 12 years old, I was in the seventh month of pregnancy. We slept on a bed with an iron net, used a potbelly stove and cooked on it.
It appeared to us then that all the worst in this war had already happened. But we were so wrong.
Our village is on the front line; it is never peaceful in the village. The eldest son asked me: “Mom, let's go away!” Let’s rent an apartment in Artyomovsk.” But where could I go, a single mother with a baby in her arms?
After the loss of my apartment, I, my children and my parents found a house in our village. We counted every penny, settled down, hoped for peace. But at night in February, the village got under fire, and Sasha did not have time to run to cover. Windows and glass and everything in the world flew out...
Sasha ran into the hallway, and a fragment flew through the doors and hit him right in the heart. He died in his grandmother’s arms, saying only: “I want to live.”
I still can’t believe that he is no more, it seems to me that he went away somewhere.
