Ukrainian mother: 'My son was taken away by war. Now I am everyone's 'mother''

By Svitlana Dukhovych

We often imagine hope as a light thought, a dream of a better future. But in contexts of deep pain, hope takes on a more radical meaning: it becomes life itself, the conscious decision to continue living despite everything. And pain does not turn into despair when shared with another human being.

For Lyubov, mother of a Ukrainian soldier fallen at the front, hope arises even before her decision to participate in a rehabilitation project. Its roots lie in the heart of her son. 

Every hug to a soldier returned from the front, every package of food prepared with love, every word of support to a family affected by the war, is a seed of hope that blooms.

In these daily acts, memory and love intertwine, transforming pain into shared life and into an invisible thread that continues to connect those who remain and those who have fought.

The memory of her “Sashunia”

“Sashunia”—so, with this tender nickname, Lyubov continues to call her son Oleksandr Tymchenko, who on February 28, 2024, fell at the front defending his country. He was 29 years old.

“It’s so hard,” the woman tells Vatican media, “but I try not to close myself off, I try to be useful to others. We are not eternal, and I want the memory of him to remain bright, dignified, and honorable after we are gone.”

Before the war, Oleksandr had not done mandatory military service in Ukraine because he had obtained a seven-year exemption after his older brother tragically died at 27.

He was studying at the Vinnytsia Agrarian University, where he earned a bachelor’s degree. He had wanted to continue his studies, but after his brother’s death, he decided to take a break and began working with his father on the combine harvester.

“He loved the fields,” his mother recalls, “harvesting wheat and corn. He cared for the little rabbits, so as not to hurt them during the harvest. He loved nature, fishing. He was a boy of great kindness.”

Oleksandr Tymchenko {"@context": "http://schema.org","@type": "ImageObject","contentUrl": "https://www.vaticannews.va/content/dam/vaticannews/multimedia/2026/maggio/09/2026.05.09-Tymchenko_.jpg/_jcr_content/renditions/cq5dam.thumbnail.cropped.750.422.jpeg","creditText": "Vatican News","height": "750","width": "422"} The last words on the phone

When the large-scale Russian invasion began, Oleksandr decided to volunteer for the Armed Forces along with his father. He served for a few months in territorial defense, then was sent to the border area with Belarus, and later to Krasnohorivka, in the Donetsk region.

He suffered a knee injury, underwent surgery, and followed rehabilitation. During convalescence, he managed to return home, but before the end of the scheduled period, he decided to return to the front.

"The commander called him,” Lyubov recounts, “saying he had to go because there were not enough men.” Oleksandr returned again to Krasnohorivka, in the Donetsk region. On the third day after arriving at the new position, everyone was ordered to move to the front. There, Oleksandr met his death.

“We spoke for the last time on February 28, around 9 p.m. He told my husband: ‘The situation here is very hard… Let me speak with mom.’ I said: ‘My son, as long as you are with us, we have life, hope, and joy.’ But it was difficult for him to speak, there was so much noise, shots, and explosions.”

“Mommy, good luck, and whatever will be for me,” Oleksandr said to his mother with a coldness he had never shown before.

“Those were the last words we exchanged. That night I stayed awake, anguished. I believe no mother should ever experience the pain we went through. It was 2:15 a.m. when I felt deeply disturbed, I had the sensation that I was being cut in half by a sword. Only later did they tell me that at that moment my son had died, killed by drones.”

Oleksandr’s body was brought home, and the parents organized the funeral. There were so many people that the line did not stop until 4 a.m.

“I wanted so much to stay alone with my child, because I could not find peace. I could not believe it had really happened,” recalls Lyubov. As a mother, she needed to see and touch her son’s wounds: “Only then did I understand that there could be no more life.”

Oleksandr with his father {"@context": "http://schema.org","@type": "ImageObject","contentUrl": "https://www.vaticannews.va/content/dam/vaticannews/multimedia/2026/maggio/09/2026.05.09-Tymchenko_2.jpg/_jcr_content/renditions/cq5dam.thumbnail.cropped.750.422.jpeg","creditText": "Vatican News","height": "750","width": "422"} “Every mother never stops waiting”

Lyubov says that when she sees soldiers in the street, she approaches and asks: “Can I hug you?” It feels as if she is hugging her son. Once, she met a soldier who was clearly returning from the front. When she hugged him, she smelled the war, the smoke.

“When Sashunia returned, he never even gave me his clothes; he washed them himself so I would not even smell them. I only smelled that same scent when his things were brought to us after his death. I placed everything on the dresser, like in a museum. I go there, I talk to those clothes. Even in the wardrobe, there are his things. I wash them and put them back because Sashunia will return. Every mother never stops waiting, whether she has seen her child in the coffin or not. Because there is no greater pain in the world than burying your own children.”

More than two years have passed, yet Oleksandr’s parents still tremble every time a car passes in front of their house. Because their Sashunia always arrived by surprise. “He came exactly at the moments when I had some problem or worry, and he appeared like a ray of sunshine. And even today we wait for him just like that ray of sunshine,” the mother sighs.

“When we hear a car or a motorcycle, we expect it to be him. You know, my soul is so tired, and I keep waiting… Maybe I have simply learned to deceive myself? But it cannot be called a deception. It is simply the way my soul, my heart, yearns for love. You see, my heart and mind do not agree: the mind says one thing, while the heart says, ‘He will come.’ But he cannot come anymore…”

In memory of Oleksandr {"@context": "http://schema.org","@type": "ImageObject","contentUrl": "https://www.vaticannews.va/content/dam/vaticannews/multimedia/2026/maggio/09/2026.05.09-Tymchenko_1.jpg/_jcr_content/renditions/cq5dam.thumbnail.cropped.750.422.jpeg","creditText": "Vatican News","height": "750","width": "422"} A project with other mothers

In August 2024, Lyubov was invited to participate in the rehabilitation project The Mothers of Padre Pio’s House. At first, she hesitated: “It was all dark, dark everywhere.” She could not reconcile the memories of the funeral with the hope of seeing her son once again. In the end, however, she decided to go and went to Kyiv to the parish of the Capuchin Friars Minor, who run the project. “I cannot imagine today: if I had not been there, I would have already gone mad.”

Thanks to the help of the project staff and coordinators, Lyubov learned to live again, “to carry forward the bright memory of my son.” By participating in psychological sessions and sharing grief with other mothers—16 involved in the project—Lyubov found the strength to take steps forward. Returning home, she noticed the flowers in the garden again and removed her black scarf. She thanked those who, with dedication, helped every mother find her own way to continue living.

After participating in The Mothers of Padre Pio’s House, Lyubov, with a group of other mothers, visited the Vatican, where she met the Pope, and later took part in another project. “I went once, then a second time, a third… and I already felt the need to return.”

In those meetings, she discovered an extended family of mothers sharing the same pain: “Our wounds bleed the same way.” The professionals who assisted her always supported her with kindness, respect, and dedication. A precious support: “For us it is a great strength, a great help, a caress for the soul,” Lyubov says.

Help or, sometimes, just a hug

Many of Oleksandr’s comrades and friends continue to contact his parents and visit them. Lyubov and the group she leads in her village of Zabolotne, which also includes elderly women over 80, dedicate themselves to helping them: preparing food, assembling useful items, and organizing everything possible.

One winter, during intense cold, Lyubov saw a post on social media from a woman asking for candles to warm soldiers at the front.

“We will make them,” she commented, asking for the address to send them. Shortly after, she received a phone call: it was soldier Vadym. “Mom Lyuba, [Ukrainian soldiers often call the mothers of their comrades and fallen soldiers ‘mom’] we are sitting by the candles. For the first time in two weeks, we felt warmth and hot water.”

“It filled me with joy,” recalls Lyubov. “For months, every time I saw the fire, I had them in front of my eyes. It felt

“For months, every time I saw the fire, I had them in front of my eyes. It felt as if I could transmit that warmth to them.”

The soldiers, even though they did not know her or her son, often come to visit her. They hug and cry together.

“In every young man, I see my children, and I love them all.” To those who are grieving, this brave mother recommends not to close themselves off, not to be angry, and to live life to the fullest, because “we are all temporary guests here, and we must walk this path with dignity, no matter how difficult it may be.”

Pope Leo greets Lyubov   (@Vatican Media) {"@context": "http://schema.org","@type": "ImageObject","contentUrl": "https://www.vaticannews.va/content/dam/vaticannews/agenzie/images/srv/2025/09/06/2025-09-06-udienza-giubilare/1757149609218.JPG/_jcr_content/renditions/cq5dam.thumbnail.cropped.750.422.jpeg","creditText": "Vatican News","height": "750","width": "422"}