The coffins were sealed. There were three intact bodies; the rest were fragments

When those clocks stopped, everything stopped for me too. You live on memories. The closest, dearest people to me — they’re not with me and never will be.

For a year and a half, you wait for someone to call. I used to hear from Mom: “Son, how are you?” My brother would call: “What’s up, bro?” My daughter would call: “Daddy!” My nieces and nephews would call: “Uncle Vitalik!” I haven’t heard any of that for over a year.

For more than a year, I couldn’t rebury my family. The DNA testing after the deoccupation went on for a long time. A huge number of exhumed bodies came from Kharkiv Oblast; the morgues simply couldn’t keep up.

I didn’t want to live, didn’t want to eat. I wanted absolutely nothing. I was slightly distracted when I was in the Territorial Defense in Kyiv. It distracted me briefly, but my thoughts were always there.

I told myself: I will make it happen, I’ll retrieve the bodies, I’ll lay them to rest. I had no strength, but I knew I’d see it through. Before I buried them, my daughter came to me in dreams almost every night; my brother appeared in my dreams.

That was the only thought — to lay them to rest. Because for over a year, I simply couldn’t lay my family to rest — how is that possible? Before the burial, it was hard for me to even speak.

When my daughter Liza died, I called her fiancé. They’d been together a long time; he’d left for Sweden to earn money even before the full-scale war started. He says: “Our wedding was supposed to be on May 15.” I say: “What do you mean, a wedding?”

I learned they’d secretly filed the paperwork and wanted to surprise me. The wedding was supposed to happen after she finished college. He was supposed to come back on April 15.

I told my first wife that they’d wanted to surprise me in May. She says: “And she didn’t live to see it?” She begged: “I’m pleading with you — make sure to buy her a dress.” I said: “I was going to do that myself.”

I didn’t explain in the bridal shops what it was for. I said my daughter was getting married and I needed a beautiful dress. I took the most expensive, the most lavish, the most beautiful one. It didn’t happen in this life — let it be there.

I ordered the funeral services and asked them to place the dress with her. I even wanted to ask them to do it in front of me. But at the last minute, I thought: if they’d opened the casket and shown me… it would have been even more painful.

I buried them in early May or late April 2023. I’d cried out all my tears. I nearly lost consciousness during the memorial service. The caskets were closed. Three were whole bodies; the rest were fragments.

After burying them, it became a bit easier. Well, “easier” — as soon as you think about it, you start winding yourself up about how good things used to be. Vivid moments from that past life immediately surface.

Those hugs, those kisses… and now who is there to hug? Nobody to hear “Daddy” from anymore. My daughter used to come visit me, I’d go visit her. The plan was for her to finish college and for me to bring her to Kyiv. So much didn’t come true. I wanted grandchildren, of course. The family line, its continuation — it stopped.

I remember rocking her in my arms right after she was born. How she wanted a bicycle, always: “Daddy, play with me!” We often went to the seaside. I was looking through the childhood photo album — she got chickenpox, and there she is in her little underwear, covered in green dots. I remember that moment, how I was the one painting the dots with the antiseptic.

When I was in Izium, I took the photo albums. And there are lots of photos on my phone too. It hurts so much to look at them. Say I need to check something for work on my phone — and there are her photos. My heart stops instantly.

I remember her last calls word for word: “Daddy, you’re the most special person to me, you know that?” Those 19 years run through my mind like a film reel in five minutes.

My daughter was the meaning of my life. I did everything for her; I was gradually getting her on her feet. And now — for whom, for what?

The day before she died, she called and said: “Dad, my best friend and her mom are leaving for Poland.” I said: “No, you’re not going. I’ll be calmer if you’re with Grandma.” I’d heard what happened in Bucha, when they shot up convoys with children.

I’ll never forgive myself for that. I think about it nearly every hour. This pain is with me all the time. I could have saved my daughter’s life by letting her go.

You get distracted for an hour, then it comes back. Then you get distracted again, and then it comes back anyway. It constantly returns to your memory. I try not to think, but how can you not think about it?

I don’t have a smile anymore. Say I’m with a group of friends — they’re doing fine, everyone’s alive and healthy, they have things to be happy about. I’m different. Even if someone tells me something funny, I can’t even understand it.

I went to church and talked to the priest. He told me: “God left you on this earth — now you must live for their sake. If you don’t want to live, who will live for them?”

One conversation, then another, and somehow it started getting easier. Now I live in their memory. He convinced me to live so that they’d be glad there’s someone who thinks about them, who will look after things.

The priest told me: “We’ll all be there, and we’ll all meet there.” Those words comfort me — sooner or later, I’ll see them again.

I have a family now, here in Kyiv with me; my wife has a son from her first marriage. He’s like family to me, but not my own, not my own flesh and blood. If it weren’t for them, I wouldn’t be alive anymore — honestly.

We reminisce about how Liza used to visit, Mom, my brother. How we’d go to the dacha, go fishing — all those moments, good memories. Sometimes over dinner, we’ll raise a glass in their memory. God willing, let them be better off there than here.

They see that I’m withdrawn; they try to support me, to keep me from dwelling on the bad. Say I start: “Well, here we go again.” They jump in: “Okay, okay, okay!” — letting me know everything’s all right.

My work now is all connected to children — themed photography, graduation albums, a mobile planetarium that goes around schools and kindergartens. The kids are tired of the bombings, the air raid alerts, the sirens. When children find something to be happy about, even if just a little — that pulls me out a bit.

There were a couple of times when I’d be talking to the children, making an announcement, and I’d see a spitting image of my niece. It would take my breath away; I’d lose the ability to speak.

I’d be talking and talking, then I’d look at that girl, and I couldn’t do anything. The teacher would say: “Please continue, continue.” And I couldn’t even get half a word out.

I’m constantly driving around, but sometimes I want to walk. I’ve developed this habit: you walk and look around, trying to spot them in the crowd — my daughter, my mom, all of them.

Right now I’m sitting here with you, talking in the car — I look and see a father walking with a girl, about 13 or 14. Happy, laughing, she’s hugging him. You watch and immediately picture yourself with Liza. But you’re only imagining it, it’s not real…

I’ll have to live with this for the rest of my life. You’ll never forget it. Maybe with the years it’ll quiet down a little, but… no, no, it won’t.