Art from the Heart

Page 1: May 12, 2021

(I am 7 years old)

Dear Diary,

Today was a beautiful day. I woke up because the sun came through the windows of my bedroom—I forgot to close them last night before falling asleep. I smelled Mom’s pancakes while I was still tucked under the cotton blankets, and I ran into the kitchen without even putting on my blue dinosaur slippers properly.

Dad greeted me, saying: “Good morning, champ!” When he calls me that, I feel giant, because a champion like him is the one saying it to me.

After breakfast, we all went to the park together. Olena, my sister, says I’m still too little to go fast on my bike, but today Dad took off the training wheels. I was scared. I asked him: “What if I fall?” He smiled: “I’m right behind you.”

I started pedaling slowly. I could feel his hand on my back. Then, I didn’t feel it anymore… but I kept moving forward. When I turned around, he was far away, watching me with that proud look in his eyes. I hadn’t fallen. I had made it.

In the evening, we had dinner together, talking about the fantastic day and all the insects I had fun photographing with Mom’s phone. Before bed, Dad tucked me in like he does every night and gave me his usual goodnight: “A strong man isn’t the one who fights, but the one who protects.” It was like a lullaby he repeated often, and I thought about it every time I felt down. My dad is the best in the world. And I want to be just like him.

Page 2: March 3, 2022

Dear Diary,

This morning was a very strange day. I woke up to a very loud noise. It sounded like a thunderstorm, but the booms were much louder. It wasn’t a storm. I saw the window shaking, and Mom came running into my room. She hugged me so hard it almost hurt. Olena was crying. She wouldn’t calm down for a second.

I didn’t understand. I was confused, partly because I’d just woken up, and partly because I didn’t know what was happening. Dad wasn’t home. Mom said he went on a vacation to a beautiful place and that he would come back with fantastic gifts for everyone.

I believe her. But when she says it, she doesn’t even look me in the eye. She looks at the floor.

We don’t go to school anymore. The park is empty. I want to go back there so much, but when I ask to go, they tell me we’ll go back when Dad returns from his vacation. So, I wait. Sometimes we hear strange sirens, and every time they ring, Mom takes my hand and leads me to the basement. I always keep my little red car in my pocket. If I hold it tight, I’m less afraid, because it reminds me of carefree times.

At night, I hear distant noises. I ask: “Where is Dad?” Mom says: “Dad is coming back soon.” But I miss him; this trip is lasting a bit too long. Why did he leave without saying goodbye? I still dream about the bicycle. I dream of the sun. I dream of his voice saying “champ.” But now I’m afraid of the dark. Because it’s exactly in the dark that I hear those loud noises and see Mom getting upset. I don’t like this.

Page 3: February 18, 2026

Dear Diary,

It’s me. That child who always wrote to you about his days. About the storms. About the lies of grown-ups. Dear Diary, it’s me. That child who, when he was little, told you about his experiences with his father, his mother, and his sister. Carefree. Dear Diary, it’s me. That child whom you have watched grow, page after page.

But that child who told you about his dad won’t do it anymore. Things change, unfortunately. Dad isn’t coming back. He won’t return from the “beautiful vacation.” He won’t return to his son. He won’t see him grow up. He died three years ago. What I heard weren’t thunderstorms. It was the war.

I always knew, deep down. The lies couldn’t hold up anymore. The phone calls that never came. The promises that remained suspended. The silent glances between Mom and Olena. They lied to me to protect me. To leave me a piece of childhood a little longer. To keep me from growing up all in one night.

I am 12 now. I have seen things that at seven I couldn’t even imagine. I’ve learned the exact sound of the sirens. Annoying. I’ve learned that the silence after an explosion is scarier than the noise itself. I’ve seen friends leave and never come back to school. I didn’t go back either.

When Mom told me the truth today without hiding it anymore, I didn’t cry right away. I couldn’t cry at all. I felt a weight sink inside me, like a door finally opening. Dad wasn’t on “vacation.” Much less a “splendid” one. He was fighting. On a horrible front. And he didn’t survive.

But now I understand something I couldn’t understand before: he didn’t go to destroy. He went because he believed he was protecting. Because he wanted to protect us. His phrase still stays with me: “A strong man isn’t the one who fights, but the one who protects.”

When I was little, I thought being strong meant not having fear. Now I know that being strong is having fear… and choosing not to give up anyway. The war took my father. It took my childhood. But it will not take my ability to hope. I don’t want to grow up to seek revenge, to repeat the same mistakes and create more war. I want to grow up to rebuild. I want to become a man who protects life, not one who takes it away.

I am no longer that naive child. I know that adults lie when the pain is too great. I know that the world can collapse in a single day. But I also know that a child can become stronger than the war. And one day, when peace returns, I will pedal again. Toward the horizon. Not because someone is holding me from behind, but because I have learned to stay in balance, even when everything around me falls and when a horizon doesn’t even exist.