“Give up the inheritance, you shameless woman! You’re robbing his real daughter and grandchildren of what’s rightfully theirs!”
Maria screamed at me, her face blotched red with fury.
“The will was written while he was of sound mind and clear memory. I’m not giving up anything, I’m sorry.”
I calmly walked past her, while insults rained down on my back like a hailstorm.
Tears blurred the street as I walked through our quiet little town, gripping the last letter from Igor Vasilievich—the man I had known as my neighbor for seven years, living side by side like family.
He had moved back to the village, saying something in his heart had pulled him home. He’d left behind his second wife and children in the city. I had been here alone with my son for years—his father had vanished from our lives long ago, never looking back.
I remember the day we first met so clearly. A truck pulled up to the house next door, and a sturdy, still-handsome man stood in the golden glow of a summer sunset. August had been scorching and dry. He turned to me and his eyes widened in disbelief.
“Lida?” he asked.
I smiled, realizing he’d mistaken me for my mother.
“No, I’m Nastya. Her daughter.”
“Oh… and your father?”
“I don’t know much about him. His name was Igor. He left when my mother was pregnant with me—someone convinced him she’d been unfaithful. He never came back. I never knew him. And my mother… she passed away years ago.”
His voice trembled.
“Lida’s gone? What happened?”
“She got sick. We didn’t even know what it was until it was too late. She was gone in a matter of months.”
His eyes welled with tears.
“Well… Nastya, I’m your new neighbor. And this little rascal?” He pointed to my son.
“Kolya,” the boy said.
“No dad either?”
**“Nope,” Kolya replied.
Igor shook his head.
“What’s become of us men, huh, Nastya? Why do we keep running from the people who need us most?”
That’s how we began. Quietly. Kindly. With tea on the porch and pies cooling on windowsills. Igor settled into village life quickly—his hands knew the land, and he worked from dawn till dusk. He helped me too, fixing creaky steps, patching the heater. I thanked him with fresh bread and conversation. Kolya adored him—at ten years old, he needed a man’s guidance, and Igor filled that role effortlessly.
He spoke about his second family, though rarely about his first. He had two daughters who chose to stay in the city with their mother. He left them the apartment and the summer house, taking only his old car and returning to the home of his youth. Village life didn’t scare him—it grounded him.
Often, he asked about my mother. I saw the warmth in his smile when I mentioned her. He remembered her, I could tell.
My mother had never remarried. She raised me on her own, still in love with a man who never returned. Even on her deathbed, she whispered his name. I was angry at my father—how could he leave someone so pure-hearted, so good?
Igor’s children rarely visited. Once, his eldest daughter Maria came by—only to convince him to sell the house.
They argued so loudly I could hear it from my yard.
“You owe us, Dad! I have three kids!”
“You and your mother already got everything. I want to live out my days here in peace,” he replied.
She left empty-handed. Six months later, in the dead of winter, I found Igor collapsed on his porch. His right side paralyzed, his speech slurred.
The doctors were grim. He now needed care—he walked slowly with a cane and struggled to speak. His family disappeared completely. Only Kolya, our elderly neighbor Darya, and I remained. We took care of him. In the village, we don’t abandon our own.
When Igor passed, I was stunned to learn I was the sole heir to his home and land. It was his way of thanking me—for companionship, for care, for being there when no one else was. The truth was, if not for Kolya and me, he wouldn’t have lived as long as he did. We were his joy in those final years.
Then came the outrage—his family appeared, and Maria demanded I relinquish the inheritance. I refused. And when I read his final letter, I knew I never would.
“My dearest Nastya,
If you’re reading this, I’m no longer with you. And now, you are without a father or a mother. I must tell you the truth. I am your father.
Years ago, I abandoned your mother, Lida. I believed terrible lies—that she’d betrayed me. I never looked for her, never tried to find out the truth. Then I saw you, and for a moment I thought you were her—young, beautiful, full of life.
You didn’t know I was your father, but you stayed by my side. You cared for me. You gave me family in my final years.
Everything I own, I leave to you.
May you and Kolya find a good man, someone who will be a true father and partner.
I love you. Forgive me.
–Your father, Igor”
Tears fell onto the ink as I read it over and over again. All this time… he had been my father.
One evening, I came home from work to find the gate lock smashed. Kolya ran ahead of me.
“Mom! Look! They tore up all the tomato and cucumber plants! The rabbit cages are open—everything’s gone!”
My heart sank. The destruction was personal, targeted. In all the years I’d lived here, nothing like this had ever happened. We all knew each other. This wasn’t the work of locals. No, this was someone with a grudge.
Someone like Maria.
I went to the police.
“We don’t have much to go on,” the officer said, twirling his neat blond mustache.
“But don’t worry. I’ll have a few guys keep watch, and I’ll swing by myself. We’ll catch them.”
I wasn’t sure, but something in his voice reassured me.
That night, we returned home late. Just after midnight, the hay stack at the edge of the yard caught fire. Thankfully, it was far enough from the house and the animal pens. The firemen arrived quickly and got it under control.
Maria was caught red-handed.
She screamed, accused me of manipulating her father, claiming I tricked him into signing the will. But I stayed silent. I didn’t need to prove who I was. The law would do that for me. When the consequences became clear, she backed down.
“If you promise to leave us alone, I’ll drop the charges,” I told her.
Grinding her teeth, she agreed and left for good.
Peace returned.
Kolya and I continued our lives. I missed Igor deeply—but I was grateful. Grateful I had gotten to know my father, even if only for a few years. It was the greatest gift life had given me.
I didn’t rush to sell the house. Instead, I tore down the fence between our two yards, combining the land. One day, Kolya would decide what to do with it.
And the kind officer—his name was Ivan Denisov—began stopping by more often.
“Just checking in,” he’d say. Sometimes, he brought flowers.
Kolya gave me a knowing look.
“Mom, why do we need another man around?” I’d tease.
“I want a sister,” he replied matter-of-factly.
I was speechless.
Eventually, Ivan won me over—with his quiet strength, his warmth, and his respect for Kolya. He never rushed me. He helped around the house, treated us with love. One day, I simply stopped resisting.
A year and a half later, our daughter was born. We named her Agatha—for her deep, dark, thoughtful eyes. My parents weren’t alive to meet her, but at least my father had met his grandson.
I often think of Igor. In his parents’ home, I finally felt like I belonged. I whispered into the quiet:
“Thank you, Papa.”
Kolya and Ivan became best friends. Agatha was the darling of our little world. She looked like me, and like her grandmother. But her eyes—those were Ivan’s. She was growing into a true beauty.
I can only hope life is kind to her. Our children are our purpose, our future. And this house, where generations lived and loved—this house holds our story.
Ivan supported my decision to keep it. Last year, he even fixed the roof himself. In this new chapter, I finally felt secure—protected. I knew Ivan would never leave me. And all the pain of the past… slowly faded into something softer.
Because now, everything really was okay.
And when I asked life, “Will it always be this good?”
Agatha, still half-asleep, smiled at me.
And that was all the answer I needed.