They d.ied a long time ago, son. Before you were born.
He nodded seriously and didn’t ask any more questions. But I saw him sometimes thinking, looking closely at our photos.
At fourteen, he won first place in the Regional Physics Olympiad.
At sixteen, professors from Moscow State University came to convince him to enroll in preparatory courses. They said, “Prodigy, future of science, a Nobel Prize winner.”
But I looked at him and saw that scared little boy from the station. Scared, but confident. I wondered: was his mother still alive? Did she remember him?
The money was dwindling. For studies, tutoring, travel. We also bought her a nice apartment in the city for her to live and study. The rest—about three million—was deposited into a university account.
“You know,” Misha said on her eighteenth birthday, “I love you both very much. Thank you for everything.”
We hugged tightly then. A family is a family, even if it all started wildly.
A letter arrived exactly a year later. A thick envelope with no return address, with handwritten pages and an old photo.
“For me?” Misha wondered, looking at the address. “From whom?”
She read in silence for a long time. Her face changed: she paled, then blushed. I couldn’t bear it; I looked over her shoulder.
Dear Misha,
if this letter has reached you, it means I’m no longer in this world. Forgive me for leaving you on the platform. I had no choice: your father d.ied, and his partners decided to take over our business. They wouldn’t have stopped at anything, not even… I can’t write down what threats they uttered.
I watched the station for a long time, choosing. That woman seemed kind to me: plain face, tired eyes, a wedding ring. And city bags, which meant she was going to the village, where it’s quieter. Your father, Mikhail Andreevich Lebedev, owned the Lebedev-Capital investment fund. When he d.ied, I tried to keep the company, but your father’s partners started a real battle. Lawsuits, threats. Then they said: either I disappear or something happens to you. I chose your life. I faked my death and left.
All these years, I watched from afar, hiring people to send photos and reports on your progress. You’ve grown into a wonderful person. Your adoptive parents are holy people, may God bless them. Now those people are gone; their karma has caught up with them. You can claim what belongs to you: 52% of the fund’s shares, a huge amount of money. Find lawyer Igor Semenovich Kravtsov, of the Kravtsov and Partners law firm. He knows everything and is waiting for you. Forgive me, son. I loved you every day, every hour of our separation. Perhaps one day you’ll understand and forgive me.
Your mother, Elena.
I’m attaching a photo: a young woman with a sad smile hugging a blond boy. The same one from the platform. Only younger and happier.
Misha put down the papers. His hands were trembling slightly.
“I suspected it,” he said quietly. “I always felt something was wrong. But you became my family. Real parents.”
“Mishenka…” There was a lump in his throat.
“What an inheritance,” Peter hissed. “Really.”
