Life in the new house was different.
Misha went to the office and got involved in financial matters. It turned out he had a natural talent for investments: he increased the capitalization by 20 percent over time.
“Genes,” Kravtsov said. “Your father was also a financial genius.”
Peter opened a furniture factory. At first it was small, with about twenty people. Then it expanded: the exclusive, handmade furniture was in great demand. And I… I simply made our new house cozy. I planted a garden, a rosebush. I bought decorative chickens with crests. In the evenings, we would gather on the terrace, drink tea, and chat.
“You know,” Misha once said, “I want to find Mom’s grave. My real mom’s. To lay flowers and thank her.”
“That’s right,” Peter agreed. “We have to.”
We found the grave in a small village by a lake. We went together. On the gray stone was a simple inscription: “Elena Lebedeva. Loving Mother.”
Misha was silent for a long moment, then laid down a bouquet of white roses.
“Thank you,” he said softly. “For entrusting me to them.”
We flew back in silence. The circle was complete: the boy from the station became who he was destined to be. But he was still our son.
“Listen,” Misha said, addressing us on the plane. “Shall we create a fund? For orphaned children. So that everyone has the chance at a family.”
“Let’s give it to him,” I smiled. “Shall we call it the ‘Platform of Hope’?”
“Exactly!” Misha exclaimed. “And the first contribution: the money for the suitcase. So, what’s left?”
Peter chuckled:
“You took the whole suitcase, idiot. For the apartment.”
Then we’ll fill a new suitcase. And not just one.
