Misha stood up, walked over to us, and hugged us tightly, like in childhood, when there was a storm.
“You raised me. You took care of me. You spent your last moment. If something comes up, we split it three ways, period. You’re my family. A real family.”
A month and a half later, the lawyer confirmed that Mikhail Lebedev was indeed the main shareholder of the huge fund. The father’s former partners sued and threatened, but all their claims were dismissed.
“Mom was right,” Misha said at the celebratory dinner. “At that entire station, she chose the best. Who weren’t afraid to take in a stranger with a suitcase full of money.”
“What stranger?” Peter objected. “Ours!”
And we hugged again. A strong family, created not by genes, but by love, and by the desperate act of a woman on a platform at dusk.
“I won’t let that money be divided three ways,” Lawyer Kravtsov interrupted, adjusting his glasses. “Mikhail Andreevich, you’re of age, but those sums… the Treasury will be interested.”
We sat in his office: Peter, Misha, and I. Outside, a Moscow street bustled, and we couldn’t believe what was happening.
“And my parents?” Misha leaned forward. “They should get their share.”
“There are options,” Kravtsov pulled out a folder. “You can make them fund consultants with a salary. Or transfer the shares gradually. Or buy real estate in their name.”
“Let’s do it all at once,” Peter said with a wry smile. “Consultants, real estate, and shares later.”
