In the photo, indeed, there are two young people, and the man resembled Misha: the same cheekbones, the same eye shape.
“What do you want?” Peter asked from behind Misha.
“What do you think?” the aunt snorted. “I’m of the same blood! I searched for my nephew all these years and couldn’t find peace!”
“Sixteen years and no luck,” I muttered.
The woman raised her hands:
But Elena fooled them all! She said the boy was long gone! We believed, we cried… Then I read in the newspapers: the Lebedev heir had appeared! My heart told me: this is my Misha!
Misha turned silently and entered the house. The three of us stayed.
“Go,” Peter said firmly. “Where were you when the child cried at night? When he had angina in the hospital? When he went to the Olympics?”
“I didn’t know!”
