I didn’t realise right away that it was our dad

My godmother calls: “Sabinochka, I think a missile hit your parents' building.” And the connection cut off.

My husband started calling friends who live on Peremohy — Victory Embankment. They said a building near McDonald’s had been hit. I realize it’s my parents' building.

I’m in a panic, in tears. I’m very close with them; my stepfather calls me his daughter, and for me he’s a father too. My husband drove there; I’m running around hysterically, the child is crying, I don’t know who to call or what to find out.

An ambulance doctor calls me from my mom’s phone and says Mom is on her way to Mechnikov Hospital (the Mechnikov Regional Clinical Hospital — SP). She made some kind of sound, tried to say something.

I arrive at the hospital. A huge number of people, everyone looking for their loved ones, the doctors overwhelmed.

Mom is in intensive care. Dad’s name isn’t on any list — not at the scene, not at the hospital.

What feels like two hours pass. I lost track of time, honestly. I see them wheeling in a man. I didn’t immediately recognize it was our dad.

I caught a glimpse — he has a very beautiful, snow-white smile. I ran after the gurney: “Wait, I know this person.” He was covered in blood, his face bandaged.

I ran up to him, crying. And he says: “Dochechka, is that you?” (Ukrainian: “Sweetheart, is that you?”) I say: “Yes, yes, yes — please, hold on.” — “Everything will be fine.”

What feels like an eternity passes. The doctor who worked on Mom comes out: “Her life is not in danger; you can go see her in the ward.”

I prepared myself beforehand; I didn’t know what condition she was in. I take her hand, and we start crying. She was in shock — we didn’t really talk, just cried.

I tried to encourage her. The first thing she asked was: “How’s Oleh?” Our dad.

Before the blast, they’d sat down to eat. Mom sat with her left side to the window, and my stepfather was facing the window. They have a beautiful view of the embankment, the fir trees, the Dnipro.

Mom says she saw a flash, and then she was deafened. Then she sees our father covered in blood. Blood is pouring from her too.

They tried to open the doors to get out of the apartment. The door was jammed.

Our father began losing consciousness. Mom went to the window to call for help. She was waving a towel so they’d see her, screaming.

She called my sister: “We’re bleeding out — save us!” My sister lives nearby; she was the first one there. She pointed out Mom to the rescuers: “There, there, please help!” The rescuers shouted: “Get onto the balcony, get away from the kitchen!” The whole thing could have collapsed at any moment.

She moved there, they started pulling her out, and she screams: “My husband is in there — you’ll get him out after me, right?” — “Yes, of course.” Something went wrong: he was brought to the hospital later than her.

Mom’s left side of the face is injured — numerous stitches, scars, hematomas. A great many shrapnel wounds. When she was finally allowed to sit up in the hospital, she saw glass falling off her body.

My stepfather has no uninjured spot on his body; he lost a lot of blood. There was a question of whether he’d be able to see. Thank God, he can.

I’d like to find plastic surgeons to bring their faces closer to normal. But the main thing is they survived — it’s some kind of miracle.

That apartment holds so many wonderful memories. My stepfather put so much of himself into the renovations. We had family evenings there. When I was pregnant, we threw a gender party there (a party where you reveal the baby’s sex to family — SP). It was a warm family home.

It’s impossible to live there now; the stairwell is gone. It’s very painful for me — I’m not emotionally ready to go there. My sister tried to get into the apartment to retrieve documents, but they won’t give permission.

There’s been enormous support from people. I posted on Instagram that a missile hit my parents' building. Friends started writing: “Why aren’t you posting your payment details?” They started reposting, asking bloggers to spread the word.

People started sending money, offering housing. Volunteers bring clothes, hygiene products. Stores offer essentials for free. Bloggers wrote to me: “We sent money — from us, from our followers — hang in there.” I wasn’t expecting any of this.

I worry a lot about the people who aren’t on social media. Now we’ve started posting their payment details and photos. I really want people to hear about them too.