“Please, take him!” The desperate woman thrust a battered leather suitcase into my hands and pushed the boy toward me. I nearly dropped my groceriestreats I’d brought from the city for our village neighbors.
“I dont understandwho are you?”
“Misha. Hes three and a half.” Her grip on my sleeve tightened, knuckles whitening. “Everything he needs is inside. Dont abandon him, I beg you!”
The boy clung to my leg, staring up with wide brown eyes, his blond curls messy, a faint scratch on his cheek.
“This is absurd!” I tried to step back, but she was already steering us toward the train.
“You can’t justwhat about the authorities?”
“No time!” Her voice cracked. “I have no choice, dont you see?”
Other passengers jostled us inside. Glancing back, I saw her still on the platform, hands covering her face, tears soaking her fingers.
“Mom!” Misha lunged, but I held him fast.
As the train pulled away, her figure shrank into the dusk.
Eventually, we found a seat. He huddled close, sniffling. The suitcase dragged at my armwhat was in it, rocks?
“Auntie, is Mama coming back?”
“Of course, sweetheart.”
The other riders eyed usa bewildered woman with a confused child and a shabby suitcase.
The whole ride, my mind raced. Was this a prank? But the boy was real, warm, smelling of soap and biscuits.
Back home, Pyotr froze mid-chore, log in hand.
“Masha, whose child is this?”
“Misha,” I said, stirring porridge as I explained. Pyotr listened, rubbing his foreheada sure sign of deep thought.
“We must call the police.”
“And say what? That someone handed me a child like a stray kitten?”
“So what do we do?”
Misha ate hungrily but neatly, spoon held right. Polite.
“Lets check the suitcase.”
We settled him with cartoons. The latch clicked open.
My breath caught. Moneystacks of rubles, bound tight.
“God above,” Pyotr whispered.
I grabbed a bundle5,000- and 100-ruble notes. Thirty bundles, maybe more.
“Fifteen million,” I murmured.
Pyotr and I exchanged glances, then looked at Misha, giggling at the cartoon.
Pyotrs friend Nikolai proposed a solution days later over tea.
“Register him as abandoned. My contact in social services can helpfor a fee.”
By then, Misha had settled in. He slept on Pyotrs old cot, trailed me like a shadow, and named our chickens. Only at night did he whimper for his mother.
“What if his real family surfaces?” I worried.
“If they do, well cross that bridge.”
Three weeks later, Mikhail Petrovich Berezin was legally ours. We told neighbors he was our orphaned nephew.
The money was spent carefullyclothes, books, toys. Pyotr repaired the leaky roof. “For the boy,” he grumbled.
Misha grew fast. By four, he knew the alphabet; by five, he could read and subtract. His teacher urged city schooling, but we feared recognition.
At seven, he entered the local gymnasium. Teachers marveled”Photographic memory!” “Perfect English!”
At home, he helped Pyotr carve wood. One evening, he asked, “Why dont I have grandparents?”
“Gone before you were born,” I said. He nodded, though I caught him studying old photos later.
At fourteen, he won a physics Olympiad. At sixteen, Moscow State University professors called him a “future Nobel winner.”
Yet I still saw the frightened boy from the station.
The funds dwindledtutors, travel, a city apartment. The remaining three million went into a university account.
On his eighteenth birthday, Misha hugged us tight. “Thank you for everything.”
A year later, a thick envelope arrivedno return address. Inside, a letter and an old photo.
Misha read silently, face shifting. Over his shoulder, I glimpsed:
*Dear Misha,*
*If this reaches you, Im gone. Forgive me. Your fathers partners threatened us. I faked my death to save you. All these years, I watched from afar. Youve thrived. Now, reclaim whats yours52% of Lebedev-Capital. Contact lawyer Kravtsov. Forgive me.*
*Elena*
The photo showed a young woman and a blond boyMisha, years younger.
He set the page down, hands trembling. “I always sensed something… but youre my real family.”
“What an inheritance,” Pyotr muttered.
Misha embraced us. “We share everything. Youre my parents.”
Weeks later, the lawyer confirmed Mishas stake in the fund. Former partners fought but lost.
“Mom chose well,” Misha said at dinner.
“What stranger?” Pyotr scoffed. “Ours!”
Kravtsov warned against splitting the fortune outright. “The Treasury will notice. Instead, appoint them consultants or transfer assets gradually.”
We returned home in silence, minds racing. Soon, reporters swarmed our village. We hired guards.
“Aunt Larisa” arrivedfur coat, old photos. “Im family!”
Misha turned away. Pyotr snapped, “Where were you when he needed you?”
More “relatives” surfaced.
“Were leaving,” Misha decided.
We moved to a gated estate near Moscow. Pyotr launched a furniture workshop; Misha excelled in finance. I made our new home cozy.
One day, Misha said, “Lets visit Moms grave.”
We found it by a lake*Elena Lebedeva. Loving Mother.* He laid white roses. “Thank you for choosing them.”
On the flight back, he proposed a foundation for orphans. “Call it *Platform of Hope*?”
“Well refill that suitcase,” Pyotr joked.
Now, we live wellbusiness, charity, family.
Sometimes I wonder: What if Id refused him? But it was meant to be. That woman didnt err in her choice.
And we didnt err in opening our home to a strangers childwho became our greatest joy.
