We returned home in silence, each thinking about his own business. I thought about how our quiet life in the village would change.
Peter thought about his workshop, which could now be expanded. And Misha… he looked out the train window as if saying goodbye to the past.
The first changes began a month later. People in expensive suits arrived in the village, strolling the streets and photographing our house.
“Journalists,” our neighbor Klavdiya guessed. “They noticed your wealth.”
We had to hire security. Two burly men guarded the gate, checking everyone who arrived. The villagers ridiculed us at first, but then got used to it.
“Mom, maybe we should move?” Misha suggested over dinner. “To the city, closer to the office.”
And what about the house? The chickens and the vegetable garden?
We can buy a house on the outskirts. With a garden.
Peter silently poked at his chop. He knew she didn’t want to leave. Her workshop was here, she had connections with clients and friends.
“Let’s live here for now,” I said. “Then we’ll see.”
But we couldn’t live in peace. Journalists jumped the fence, some “partners” called with offers. And then what we feared happened.
“Mikhail Andreevich?” A woman in her fifties wearing a mink coat stood at the gate. “I’m your aunt, Larisa Sergeevna.” Your father’s sister.
Misha froze. In all these years, no one had looked for him, and suddenly, his relatives.
“I don’t have any aunts,” she said coldly.
“Come on!” The woman rummaged through her bag and pulled out yellowed photos. “Look. This is me with your father, about twenty years old.”
