Take him, please! She threw an old leather bag in my hands and pushed the youngster toward me.
I almost dropped the package of presents from the city to our village neighbors.
“What? What? “I don’t know you…”
His name is Misha. He’s three and a half.” She clutched my sleeve, becoming white. His suitcase has all he needs. Please stay with him! ”
Boy pushed against my leg. He stared at me with wide brown eyes, unkempt blond locks, and a cheek scrape.
“You’re kidding! I attempted to leave, but the lady pushed us toward the vehicle.
You cannot do this! The police and child services…
“No time to explain! Her desperate voice shook. Do you understand? I have no choice. ” None!
We were forced into the crammed vehicle by dacha occupants. I glanced back and saw the lady on the platform with her hands over her face. She had tears on her fingertips.
“Mom! Misha moved for the door, but I stopped him.
Train movement began. The lady shrank till she vanished into the dusk.
Sitting on a bench was somehow possible. The youngster smelled my sleeve while cuddled up close to me. Heavy luggage was shoved down my arm. It included bricks?
Auntie, will Mom come? ”
She’ll arrive, kid. She’ll attend.
Their other passengers were inquisitive. A young lady with a weird kid and a rickety luggage seems odd.
I kept wondering, What type of madness? Was it a joke? What type of joke? The warm, genuine infant smelt like baby shampoo and cookies.
Peter stacked firewood outside. He held a log and froze when he spotted me with the baby.
Masha, where are you from? ”
“From whom, not where. Meet Misha.”
I told him everything while making semolina for the kid. My spouse listened, frowned, and stroked his nose bridge, indicating he was pondering.
We must contact the cops. Immediately.”
“Peter, which police? What should I tell them? Did they give me a puppy-like youngster at the police station? ”
“What do you suggest? ”
Misha ate the porridge and covered his chin. Despite hunger, he ate carefully, holding the spoon properly. Polite guy.
“Let’s at least see what’s in the suitcase,” I confirmed.
We placed Misha in front of the TV and played “Nu, pogodi!” The suitcase clicked open.
Holding breath. Money. Stacks of banknotes with security bands.
“My God,” Peter sighed.
I randomly picked a package. Bills of 5,000 and 100 rubles. About thirty bunches, I estimated.
“Fifteen million,” I muttered.
“That’s a fortune, Peter.”
Watching the wolf pursue the hare, we gazed at each other and the smiling youngster.
Nikolai, Peter’s old pal, escaped. He visited a week later and we had tea and spoke.
He scratched his bald head and continued, “You can register him as an abandoned child.” Like he was discovered on the doorstep. My social worker acquaintance will assist with paperwork.
Though it may incur some organizational costs.
Misha had adjusted by then. He slept on Peter’s old camp bed in our room, ate porridge and jam for breakfast, and trailed me about the house like a tail.
He called the chicks Pestrushka, Chernushka, Belyanka. His whining for Mom was just at night.
“What if his real parents are found? I hesitated.
If they discover them, fine. For now, the youngster needs shelter and food.
In three weeks, documentation was completed. Mikhail Petrovich Berezin, our adoptive son.
We told the neighbors he was a city nephew whose parents died in an accident. Money was properly controlled.
First, we got Misha clothing since his previous, good-quality ones were too small. Next, scooters, novels, and building toys.
Peter insisted on roof and stove repairs since they were leaking and smoking.
“For the boy,” he murmured, hammering tiles. “So he doesn’t get sick.”
Like yeast, Misha grew.
At four, he knew all his letters; at five, he could read and subtract. Our instructor, Anna Ivanovna, said, “You’re raising a prodigy!” He should attend a particular school in the city.”
But we feared the city.
Suppose someone recognized him? What if she changed her mind and watched?
At seven, we sent him to the municipal gym. Luckily, we got enough for a vehicle and drove him. Teachers lauded him endlessly:
You son has a photographic memory! ” exclaimed the math teacher.
“Great pronunciation! The English teacher added. “Like a Brit! ”
At home, Misha helped Peter in the workshop. My spouse began constructing bespoke furniture. The child could carve wooden creatures for hours with a plane.
Dad, why don’t I have a grandma like the other kids? He inquired once during supper.
Peter and I glanced. We anticipated and prepared for this question.
Son, they died long ago. Before birth.
The man nodded solemnly and stopped asking questions. He sometimes thought, studying our images.
He placed first in the Regional Physics Olympiad at 14.
Moscow State University teachers persuaded him to take preparation classes at sixteen. They exclaimed, “Prodigy, future of science, Nobel Prize winner.”
I saw the station’s fearful youngster in him. Scared but confident. I wondered whether his mother lived. Could she recall him?
Money was running out. For school, tutoring, travel. We purchased her a wonderful downtown apartment to live and study in. The remaining three million went to a university account.
“You know,” Misha remarked on her eighteenth birthday, “I love you both very much. Thanks for everything.”
Then we embraced strongly. Family is family, even if it began crazy.
A letter came precisely a year later. A heavy envelope with handwritten pages and an antique picture and no return address.
“For me?” Misha wondered at the address. “From whom? ”
She read quietly for a while. Her cheeks paled and flushed. I couldn’t take it and peered behind her.
Dear Misha,
If this letter reaches you, I’m dead. Forgive me for abandoning you on the platform. Unfortunately, your father died, and his partners took over our firm. They would not stop at anything, even if I cannot recall their threats.
I watched the channel for ages, picking. I thought the lady was kind—plain face, sleepy eyes, wedding band. City baggage signified she was traveling to the peaceful village. Your father, Mikhail Andreevich Lebedev, owned Lebedev-Capital. After he died, I attempted to retain the business, but your father’s partners fought. Lawsuits, threats. They then said: I vanish or you die. Picked your life. Left after faking death.
I hired individuals to submit images and updates on your growth for years. Greatness has developed in you. Bless your adopted parents, who are holy. These guys are gone—karma caught up with them. You may claim 52% of the fund’s shares, a substantial sum. Find Kravtsov and Partners lawyer Igor Semenovich Kravtsov. He knows everything and awaits you. Forgive me, son. Every day and hour of our absence, I adored you. You may understand and forgive me someday.
Your mom, Elena.
A snapshot of a sad-smiling girl holding a blond guy is included. Same platform one. Only happier and younger.
Misha set down papers. Small trembling in his hands.
“I suspected it,” he whispered. I always sensed trouble. You became my family. Real parents.”
Mr. Mishenka had a lump in his throat.
“What an inheritance,” Peter raged. “Really.”
After standing up, Misha went over and embraced us as she would in childhood during storms.
“You raised me. You looked after me. Your last moment. Whatever arises, we share it three ways. You’re family. A true family.”
A month and a half later, the lawyer acknowledged Mikhail Lebedev was the big fund’s major stakeholder. All of the father’s former partners’ lawsuits and threats were rejected.
“Mom was right,” Misha stated during the dinner party. “She picked the best at that station. Who would accept a stranger with a bag full of money.”
“What stranger? Peter protested. “Ours! ”
We embraced again. Strong families are built on love and a woman’s desperate deed on a platform at dark.
“I won’t let that money be divided three ways,” Lawyer Kravtsov said, adjusting his spectacles. “Mikhail Andreevich, you’re adult, but the Treasury is interested in those sums.”
Peter, Misha, and I sat in his office. We were astonished by the Moscow street scene outside.
And my parents? Misha leaned forward. They should receive their due.”
“There are options,” Kravtsov revealed a folder. Make them pay consultants. Or gradually transfer shares. Purchase property in their name.”
Peter grinned, “Let’s do it all at once.” Later, consultants, real estate, shares.
Each of us went home quietly, minding our own business. I considered how our peaceful rural life might alter.
Peter contemplated expanding his workshop. Misha stared out the train window, wishing to leave the past behind.
First modifications came a month later. Luxury suit-clad tourists walked the hamlet and photographed our home.
“Journalists,” our neighbor Klavdiya thought. “They noticed your wealth.”
Security was needed. Two muscular guys checked everyone at the gate. The locals first mocked us but eventually accepted it.
Maybe we should relocate, Mom? Over supper, Misha offered. To the city, near the office.”
What about the house? Chickens, veggie garden?
We can purchase an outskirt home. With garden.
Peter discreetly prodded his chop. He saw she didn’t want to go. She met customers and friends in her workshop.
“Let’s live here for now,” I replied. Then we’ll see.”
We couldn’t live peacefully. Some “partners” offered after journalists jumped the barrier. It occurred as we feared.
Mikhail Andreevich? The gate was guarded by a mink-coated over-50 lady. Your aunt, Larisa Sergeevna, is your father’s sister.
Misha froze. After years of no one finding him, his family did.
“I don’t have aunts,” she remarked coldly.
Come on! The lady retrieved yellowed pictures from her suitcase. “Look. This is me and your father, about 20.”
The snapshot shows two young individuals, and the male had Misha’s cheekbones and eye form.
What you want? Peter asked Misha from behind.
“What do you think? Aunt snorted. “I share blood! Years of searching for my nephew yielded no peace! ”
“Sixteen years and no luck,” I grumbled.
A lady raised her hands:
Elena deceived everyone! She said the kid was gone! We believed and grieved, until I read in the press that the Lebedev successor had emerged! This is my Misha, my heart said!
Misha moved quietly inside the home. Three of us remained.
“Go,” Peter insisted. “Where were you when the child cried at night? His hospitalized angina? He attended the Olympics? ”
I didn’t know! ”
Now you know. When money came. How handy!
Aunt returned the following day with a lawyer. Next came cousins and nephews. All with photographs and familial evidence.
Misha said, “We’re moving,” following the next visit. “We’ll look for a gated house near Moscow. We can’t stay here.”
Peter unexpectedly agreed:
A workshop will be opened there. Capital orders will increase.
The relocation took 2 months. A three-story mansion on one acre of property an hour from Moscow seemed perfect. Peter instantly grabbed the workshop outbuilding, and I picked a greenhouse area.
“Chickens? I asked Misha.
“Yes, Mom. Whatever you want.”
New home life was different. Misha worked on finances at the workplace. He was a natural investor, increasing capitalization by 20%.
“Genes,” Kravtsov remarked. “Your father was a financial genius.”
Pete started a furniture factory. It started modestly with 20 individuals. Then it grew because premium, handcrafted furniture was popular. All I did was make our new home cozy. I planted a rosebush garden. I purchased crested chickens. We had tea and chatted on the terrace in the evenings.
“You know,” Misha said, “I want to find Mom’s grave. Real mother. Lay flowers and thank her.”
“That’s right,” Peter said. “We must.”
We found the grave in a lakeside village. Together we went. Simple inscription: “Elena Lebedeva” on gray stone. Loved Mother.”
After a long silence, Misha placed a bouquet of white roses.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “For giving me to them.”
We retreated silently. The station boy became his destiny. He was still our son.
“Listen,” Misha directed us on the plane. Can we make a fund? For orphans. So everyone can have a family.”
I smiled, “Let’s give it to him.” Do we call it the ‘Platform of Hope’? ”
“Exactly! Misha exclaimed. “The suitcase money is the first contribution. What’s left? ”
Peter laughed:
You took the full suitcase, moron. The apartment.”
Fill a fresh suitcase. More than one.
Now we live this way. A large home, successful business, charity foundation. Above all, we’re still family.
Same one that started with a bizarre train platform encounter.
I wonder: What if I was afraid? Would I have taken Misha? But my heart tells me everything was meant to be.
That platform lady chose well. We didn’t make a mistake by welcoming a stranger either.
WHO became the world’s most adored kid.