I remember the day when it all began — February 24, 2022. The first explosions, the first calls to friends, the first breath that got stuck in my throat.
I immediately knew I would go. Because I couldn’t do otherwise. My wife Olga and our daughter Liza then went to stay with Polish friends. They had to leave so Liza wouldn’t hear the explosions and hide in the basement instead of playing in the yard.
Liza is eight now. She is growing up so fast. Olga sends me photos — how she draws her first little flowers, how she tries to write letters. She is growing up without me nearby. I have been at the front for almost three years now.
And you know, bullets aren’t as scary as the thought that my daughter might grow up and not recognize me. I’m afraid she will remember my voice only from video calls. That she won’t feel my hug when she falls learning to ride a bike. That she won’t know who I really was — not just a soldier, but a dad who reads fairy tales in funny voices and makes heart-shaped pancakes.
Every evening, when there is connection, I call home. Liza tells me about a new Polish word she learned or that she drew a cat. And I sit in the trench trying to imagine how she looks when she laughs. Trying not to forget the smell of her hair after a bath.
Sometimes I think: what if I don’t come back? Who will tell her about me? Who will show her how I used to throw her up high in the air and she would giggle? Who will tell her that I loved listening to her sing songs, even if the words were wrong?
But then I remember why I’m here. So that she can come back home. So that she can grow up in a free country. So that her children would never know what an air raid siren is.