“But why me? Why was I chosen?”
Even after thirty years, those words still ring in my mind as if they were spoken just yesterday.
That night changed my life forever. Now, with the wisdom that time brings, I see it clearly—everything in life is connected in ways we don’t always understand.
The winter of 1995 was especially harsh. Cold, dreary days were made worse by a miserable mix of wet snow and rain, turning every step outside into a struggle. The freezing wind whipped against my face, stinging with sharp, icy crystals. I stood at the bus stop, longing to get home—to sink into my favorite chair and wrap my hands around a warm, fragrant cup of tea.
It had been a grueling day at the store—unexpected deliveries, endless inventory checks, and difficult customers had left me drained. My legs throbbed with exhaustion, and my mind swirled with numbers and complaints.
“Olga, waiting for the last bus again?” came the familiar voice of my neighbor, Tatiana Ivanovna.
“What choice do I have?” I replied with a small smile and a shrug. “I just can’t afford a taxi.”
“When is Ivan finally going to buy a car? He promised…”
“We’re saving little by little…”
I turned away, hiding my smile.
Everyone knew about our dream of having a child, yet somehow, our savings always went toward a car, home renovations, or a long-awaited trip. Time kept slipping away, and we still hadn’t reached our goal.
Tatiana Ivanovna headed toward the store, and that’s when I noticed them—a woman in a worn-out coat holding a small child. She moved anxiously around the bus stop, like a bird with a broken wing, scanning the faces of passersby.
When our eyes met, the sorrow in hers made my heart ache.
“Please hold her for a moment,” she suddenly blurted, thrusting the little girl into my arms. “I’ll be right back… just going to the newsstand…”
Before I could react, I was holding the child. She was surprisingly light and completely calm. Beside me, a battered suitcase appeared.
“Hey, wait…” I called out, but the woman had already disappeared into the crowd.
Seconds felt like minutes.
Five… ten… and I was still standing there, holding a stranger’s child, completely lost and unsure what to do.
“You’ve lost your mind!”
Ivan paced around the kitchen, clearly upset. “We need to call the police right now!”
The little girl lay peacefully on our couch, wrapped in an old blanket. The suitcase sat untouched—I couldn’t bring myself to open it.
“Let’s wait a little longer,” I said, gently touching my husband’s hand. “Let’s see what’s inside first.”
When we finally opened the suitcase, we were shocked—neatly stacked bundles of cash, tied with bank ribbons. There were documents, too, with the name Anna Sergeyevna Volkova, two years and two months old. And then we found the note.
Reading it took my breath away.
“Ivanushka,” I whispered, “do you remember what we always dreamed of…”
“Don’t start with that! This… this is…”
“A crime?” I ran my fingers over the note.
“And abandoning your own child isn’t a crime?”
Ivan sank onto a stool, burying his face in his hands.
“We have everything—a stable job, our own apartment…”
“But if we moved somewhere small, no one would ask too many questions.”
“What do you mean?”
“Any village, as long as it’s far from here. We could sell the apartment…”
The next morning, the little girl woke up and looked at us without fear—almost as if she knew she was exactly where she was meant to be. Ivan watched from the kitchen, his expression slowly softening. He had always been a kind man; he just needed time to accept things.
“Would you like some pancakes?” he suddenly asked, stepping closer. “I can make them shaped like bunnies.”
Masha’s eyes lit up with excitement.
“We’ll make the longest ears!” he grinned, winking at me. “You know, I have a friend in the Tver region—the nature there is beautiful. “…And real estate is quite affordable there.”
I held the little girl close, feeling her tiny arms wrap around me in trust. Sometimes, fate gives us unexpected gifts—it just takes courage to accept them.
The village of Dubrova welcomed us with curious glances from the locals and old wooden fences that creaked in the wind. The house we bought was bigger than we needed—a perfect place for a fresh start.
“They’re from the city,” the local women whispered as we passed. “And they brought a little girl. Who is she?”
“She must be their own. She looks just like her mother.”
“No way—she looks just like her father!”
I smiled to myself. Let them wonder—our happiness was in their debate. Strangely, Masha did seem to resemble both of us in some way, as if life itself had decided to confirm our choice.
That first winter in the village was brutally cold. Ivan spent his days working with the forestry service, while I learned how to heat the house with a wood stove. Masha, now three years old, remained as curious and fearless as ever, amazed by everything around her.
“Mommy, why does the snow crunch?” she asked one day.
“Because it’s very cold, sweetheart.”
“And why is it cold?”
“Because it’s winter.”
“And why winter?”
I paused, looking into her big, eager eyes. “You know what? Let’s ask Daddy when he gets home. He’s our new forestry expert!”
Ivan had truly grown to love his work. Every evening, he shared fascinating stories about animal tracks, birds, and how trees communicate underground. Masha listened intently, completely enchanted. As I watched them together, I realized—this was true happiness.
Then, one afternoon, our neighbor Natalia suddenly burst into the yard, breathless.
“Olga! There’s been an accident! Masha jumped off the roof!”
My heart nearly stopped. I ran outside, nearly tripping over my shoes. Masha was sitting on the ground, holding her scraped knee, but to my surprise, she wasn’t crying.
“I wanted to fly like a bird…” she mumbled, embarrassed. “But it didn’t work.”
“Oh, my dear,” I gasped, scooping her into my arms.
“Alive!” she suddenly shouted, then burst into tears.
By evening, she had a high fever. Ivan and I stayed by her side, changing cold compresses and checking her temperature all night. We couldn’t afford a doctor—a house call was too expensive, and the wait would be unbearable. After moving, we had spent all our savings and had sworn never to touch the money from that mysterious suitcase.
“I have herbs for everything,” said Baba Nyura, the oldest woman in the village, as she arrived at our door. “And some dried raspberries. Let’s make some tea…”
She stayed with us until morning, teaching us how to prepare herbal remedies and sharing stories about her children and grandchildren.
Time passed quietly, like the village river—calm on the surface but constantly changing underneath. Masha started school and quickly stood out as a bright and curious student. Her teachers, especially her biology teacher, were impressed.
“She’s going to be a doctor someday,” said Tatiana Nikolaevna. “She’s so focused, and her hands are so gentle.”
I nodded, wiping away proud tears.
But there were challenges. When people asked about our past, we made up a story about a family argument that led us to move here.
“They thought we were strange,” I told Ivan once.
“Maybe we were,” he admitted. “But it’s the best kind of ‘craziness’ I’ve ever known.”
When Masha turned twelve, the questions began—first shy, then more persistent.
“Mom, why don’t we have any baby pictures? What about when I was one or two?”
“Of course we had some, sweetheart, but they got lost during the move,” I said, pretending to be busy baking pies.
“And the hospital? Where was I born?”
“In Moscow,” I answered. It wasn’t exactly a lie—her birth certificate did say Moscow.
She frowned but didn’t push further. Instead, she started spending more time in the attic, as if searching for something.
At sixteen, she fell in love with a local boy, Vitya Prokhorov. Ivan struggled to accept it, even threatening to send Vitya away. But thankfully, that wasn’t possible.
“Don’t even think about it,” I warned him.
“The more you forbid something, the more tempting it becomes,” I told my husband. “Let her figure it out on her own.”
And she did. Within a month, Vitya was a regular at our house—helping with chores, teaching Masha to play guitar, and reading her Yesenin’s poetry.
“You know, Mom,” Masha said one day, “I think I want to study medicine too. But not in Moscow.”
“Why not?”
“I want to stay close to you and Dad.”
I hugged her tightly. Sometimes, I felt like she knew the truth—that we weren’t her real parents. But if she did, she never said it. And her love for us was all that mattered.
The Suitcase
We ended up using the money from the suitcase—just once.
When Masha was finishing school, a terrible fire destroyed half of the Kuznetsov family’s house in a nearby village.
“Mom, Dad,” Masha said one evening, her fists clenched. “Let’s help them! We have the money…”
I froze. “How did you know?”
“I found out by accident. I didn’t say anything because I thought you were saving it for an emergency.”
Ivan and I exchanged looks. We had raised not just a kind daughter, but a wise one.
We donated the money anonymously through the village administration. And soon after, Masha left for medical school—just as she had always dreamed.
She worked hard—living in a dorm, juggling part-time jobs and internships—never once asking for our help.
“You’ve already given me the most important thing,” she told us during one of her weekend visits. “The rest, I can manage myself.”
The Passing Years
The years went by. Our house grew older but felt warmer. Ivan’s hair turned gray, but he remained the same steady, kind man I had always loved. I learned to bake pies like Baba Nyura and even mastered her herbal remedies.
And Masha… she became a true doctor—strict when needed, gentle when possible, and always compassionate.
One evening, as we watched the sunset, Ivan said, “Olga, that woman at the bus stop… she didn’t come to you by accident.”
“What do you mean?”
“She chose you. By your eyes, by your heart. I can’t explain it, but she knew you were the right one.”
I said nothing. That woman in her worn-out coat still appeared in my dreams. Did she ever wonder how her daughter’s life turned out? Did she regret her decision?
Most of all—did she realize the incredible gift she had given us?
They say money can’t buy happiness. Maybe that’s true. Because our greatest treasure wasn’t in that old suitcase—it was in Masha’s laughter, in our family dinners, in long conversations.
And in the simple, beautiful word “Mom,” spoken by a daughter I loved more than anything.
“Just take it and run, you know? Right away…”
“Mom, Dad!” Masha calls from the yard. “Come greet the guests!”
She steps out of the car—graceful, confident, still wearing her white doctor’s coat (Ivan always teases her about never taking off her “uniform”). Right behind her is her husband, Mikhail, followed by their children—ten-year-old Pasha and seven-year-old Masha.
“Grandma!” the kids shout as they race toward me.
Ivan hurries after them, limping slightly from his old injury, but his face is filled with pure joy. Our house fills with laughter, chatter, and the excited footsteps of little ones. The evening unfolds as it always does—warm tea, homemade pies, and catching up on city life. Pasha eagerly shows off his latest building projects, while little Masha twirls around the room, dancing.
“Today, a little girl came to my clinic with a high fever,” Masha says. “It reminded me of myself as a child. Remember, Mom, when I jumped off the shed roof?”
“How could I forget?” I smile, exchanging a glance with Ivan. He nods slightly—it’s time.
“Masha,” I say gently, standing up. “Will you help me bring something down from the attic?”
The suitcase is heavier than I remember. But it’s not just the physical weight—it carries decades of memories, of unspoken truths.
Mikhail, sensing we need a moment, has already taken the children to the district hotel. He always knows when to give us space.
Masha looks at the suitcase curiously. “What’s this? Your old things?”
“No, sweetheart,” I say softly. “They’re yours.”
She watches as I unlock the old metal clasps. Inside, on top, lies a yellowed envelope with a note. Beneath it, neatly stacked, are bundles of money.
“I don’t understand…” she murmurs, hesitantly picking up the note.
I take a deep breath. “Thirty years ago, on a cold winter night in Moscow…”
The words come easily now. I tell her everything—the woman at the bus stop, the decision to leave the city, the sleepless nights filled with fear, the overwhelming love we felt from the very first moment, and the lifelong fear of losing her.
Masha sits in stunned silence, the note crumpled in her fingers. Her eyes widen as the truth sinks in.
“So… I’m not your real daughter?” she whispers.
“You are ours,” Ivan says firmly. “Nothing changes that.”
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“At first, we were afraid someone would take you away,” I admit. “Then, we worried the truth would hurt you. And as time passed… we just didn’t know how to say it. You were so happy.”
She glances at the suitcase. “And the money? Why didn’t you ever use it?”
“It was always meant for you,” I tell her. “We decided that one day, when the time was right, you’d choose what to do with it. Though we did use some—to help the Kuznetsov family after the fire.”
A deep silence fills the room. Outside, the streetlights flicker on, a dog barks in the distance, a cat meows nearby. It’s just another quiet evening in Dubrova—but for us, it’s anything but ordinary.
After a long pause, Masha wipes away a tear and smiles.
“You know,” she says softly, “I always had so many questions. And now… I finally have my answers.”
Masha wipes away her tears and smiles. “I always had a feeling. I didn’t know for sure, but deep down, something didn’t seem right. Everything in our lives happened so fast, in such a strange way—it was like fate brought us here.”
“And you never asked?” Ivan says, stepping back into the room.
“Why would I?” she says softly. “I was happy. You loved me, raised me, cared for me. Does it really matter how I became your daughter?”
She turns to the window, her figure outlined by the warm glow of the lamplight.
“I wonder what she was like… my birth mother.”
“She loved you,” I say with certainty. “If she didn’t, she wouldn’t have given you to someone who could care for you.”
Masha nods thoughtfully. “You know what’s incredible? I don’t feel any resentment. Not toward her for leaving me, and not toward you for keeping it a secret. Everyone just did what they had to do.”
The next morning, we sit together on the porch, watching the sunrise paint the forest in shades of pink and gold. It’s a quiet day off, and soon Mikhail will return with the children.
“I’ve been thinking,” Masha says, stirring her tea. “About the money.”
Ivan and I exchange a glance.
“In the next district, there’s a children’s home that’s shutting down. They don’t have enough funds for repairs or supplies. And there are kids there… just like I was. Maybe…”
“Are you sure?” Ivan asks. “It’s a lot of money.”
“Dad,” she smiles warmly at him, “you always taught me that money should be used wisely. And what could be more meaningful than giving a child a chance at a family?”
I look at my daughter and think—how lucky we are. Not because of the money, but because of her. That moment at the bus stop, that choice we made all those years ago—it led us here.
Masha suddenly hugs me, just like she did when she was little. “Mom, should we make pancakes? Remember how Dad used to make them in the shape of bunnies?”
“With big ears!” Ivan adds with a grin. “I’ll teach Pasha and Masha how to make them—we have to keep the tradition alive!”
And just like that, life continues—filled with love, family, and the warmth of a home we built together.
That evening, our home is filled with laughter and warmth. Masha shares stories from work, and the children play, their voices filling the room.
“Today, a little girl came to me with a high fever,” Masha says. “It reminded me of when I was little. Remember, Mom? When I jumped off the shed roof?”
“How could I forget?” I smile, glancing at Ivan. He gives me a small nod—it’s time.
“Masha,” I say, standing up, “will you help me bring something down from the attic?”
The suitcase is heavier than I remember—not just because of its contents, but because of everything it represents.
Mikhail takes the kids to the hotel for the night. He always knows when we need time alone.
Masha examines the old suitcase, curiosity in her eyes. “What’s this? Your old things?”
“No, darling. They’re yours.”
I open the rusty locks, revealing a yellowed envelope on top of neatly stacked bundles of money.
“I don’t understand,” Masha murmurs, picking up the note with trembling fingers.
“Thirty years ago,” I begin, my voice shaking, “at a bus stop in Moscow…”
I tell her everything—how we found her, how we chose to keep her, the fear, the sleepless nights, the love that grew from the very first moment.
Masha listens silently, her fingers unconsciously crumpling the note. Her eyes widen.
“So… I’m not your real daughter?” she whispers.
“You are our daughter,” I say firmly. “No matter what.”
“Why did you never tell me?”
“At first, we were scared someone would take you away. Then we were afraid it would hurt you. And later… we just didn’t know how to say it. You were so happy.”
“And the money?” she asks, glancing at the suitcase.
“It’s yours,” I tell her. “We decided a long time ago that when the time was right, you’d decide what to do with it. Though we did use some—to help the Kuznetsov family, remember?”
Silence fills the room, thick with emotion. Outside, the village settles into the quiet of the evening. A dog barks in the distance. A cat meows. Life goes on. But for us, tonight is different.
Masha wipes away her tears. “I always had a feeling. I didn’t know for sure, but something never quite added up. Everything happened too fast, too strangely, for us to just end up here by chance.”
“And you never asked?” Ivan says softly.
“Why would I?” she smiles through her tears. “I was happy. You loved me, cared for me, raised me. What does it matter how I came into your life?”
She turns toward the window, her silhouette glowing in the soft lamplight.
“I wonder what she was like—my birth mother.”
“She loved you,” I say with certainty. “If she hadn’t, she wouldn’t have trusted us to care for you.”
“You know what’s incredible?” Masha says, turning back to us. “I don’t feel any resentment. Not toward her for leaving me. Not toward you for keeping it a secret. Everyone did what they thought was right.”
The next morning, we sit on the porch, sipping tea as the sun rises over the forest. Soon, Mikhail and the children will return.
“I was thinking,” Masha says, stirring her tea. “About the money.”
Ivan and I exchange a glance.
“In the next district, a children’s home is closing down. They don’t have the funds to fix it or buy supplies. And there are kids there—just like I was. Maybe…”
“Are you sure?” Ivan asks. “It’s a lot of money.”
“Dad,” she says, smiling warmly, “you always taught me that money should be used wisely. And what could be more important than giving a child the chance to have a family?”
I look at my daughter and think—how lucky we are. Not because of the money, but because of her. Because of that one moment at the bus stop. That one decision that changed everything.
Masha suddenly hugs me, just like she did when she was little. “Mom, should we make pancakes? Remember how Dad used to make them in the shape of bunnies?”
“With big ears!” Ivan laughs. “I’ll teach Pasha and little Masha how to make them—we have to keep the tradition alive!”
And just like that, life continues—filled with love, family, and the warmth of a home we built together.