When the lawyer said,
— You are expected at Viktor Nikolaevich’s estate on Saturday at ten in the morning, — I nodded automatically. The words sounded so ordinary, as if I had just scheduled a business meeting or a doctor’s appointment. But inside, a quiet race of thoughts had already begun.
So… an old estate outside the city. A modern-style mansion surrounded by tall fir trees. An abandoned garden, a library with cracked bindings, oil paintings, a porcelain collection that my uncle had been gathering for half his life… And, if the rumors were true, an antique grand piano worth no less than half a million dollars. All of this could now be mine. Or not?
By blood, I really was his only relative. Viktor Nikolaevich never had children; he lived a long life alone, away from social noise. A writer, a music lover, a connoisseur of good wine, and a man with quirks, he was always a mystery to me. When my mother spoke about him, she often added: “a little strange,” but he was the one I had fun with as a child. He told stories, played the piano, bought me ice cream even when mom forbade it. We were close — until I grew up, until he withdrew into himself, and I began to see him only as a name in family conversations and rare birthday postcards.
In recent years, almost nothing remained between us. Just a couple of calls a year and short letters written in neat handwriting, as if he still wrote for publication. And now — a will. And an invitation to the mansion, like a ticket to the past that might bring real wealth.
I arrived in the Moscow region with a suitcase full of dreams and an empty heart. I wore a dress I put on more because of the cold than out of a desire to look impressive. The car stopped in front of the gates. I approached the house, feeling how every step echoed in my chest with anticipation. And there — the porch. Old stone slabs covered with moss. A doorbell above the door. And on the threshold — him.
— Hi. I’m Artyom, — said the man, smiling slightly. His voice was calm, confident, without extra intonation.
— Sorry… who? — I asked again, not understanding immediately.
— Viktor Nikolaevich’s son.
— Whose?
He stood leaning one hand on the doorframe, holding a cup of cold tea in the other. Tall, about thirty-something. Neither a youth nor an elder. In a simple jacket, without pretense, without trying to look important. No security, no ostentatious dignity. Just a person who, it seemed, had nothing to prove.
— Unofficial, — he added after a pause. — We never publicized our relationship. He helped my mother when I was born but never formally recognized paternity.
I froze. My head spun. Inside rose a storm, a mix of anger, disbelief, and some foolish resentment — why me? Why didn’t I know this?
— But you… are you sure? — my voice trembled.
— We have DNA, the will, documents. Everything is legal.
I felt suffocated. It seemed the air around me tightened. I expected to hear that the house was mine, that the books and paintings were mine, that I could sell everything and start a new life. Instead — a son. Unknown, sudden, like a blow out of nowhere.
— Why did no one know? Why didn’t I know?
Artyom answered again with the same calmness:
— Maybe because he knew: for some, money is more important than a person.
Those words hit harder than I could have imagined. They cut inside like a reminder that I came here not for him. Not for my uncle. Not for the truth. But for the inheritance.
At the will reading ceremony, there was silence. The lawyer cleared his throat, flipping through papers, and finally said:
— The main part of the inheritance, including the mansion, collections, and real estate, goes to Artyom. However, Viktor Nikolaevich left a special note…
He took an envelope — old, thick, with a seal that had long lost its color but kept its shape.
— “To my niece Maria, I leave what is most important: letters. And books. Everything I wrote — about me, about you, about our family. So you know who I really was.”
Cold gripped my chest. Not paintings, not the piano, not collectible wines — letters. Ordinary, handwritten pages that can’t be sold, hung on a wall, or put in a bank.
I wanted to scream. To protest. To say it was unfair. That I came not for notes. That I deserved more. I wanted to leave. To go back to Moscow and forget this mansion forever. But somehow, I stayed.
And you know what I did? I started reading those letters.
And in them, I found not just the uncle I remembered from childhood. There was a person — alive, anxious, lonely. Who feared being misunderstood. Who loved silently but deeply. Who once met a young woman with a child, gave her shelter, work, a chance to start a new life. And though he didn’t become a legal father, he was one in essence.
Artyom was not lying. He was his son. By blood — maybe. But definitely — by spirit.
A month later, I came back to the mansion. In my hands — a pie baked from my mother’s recipe. In my head — new thoughts. In my heart — a strange feeling, similar to reconciliation.
— Can I take the letters to the veranda? It’s cozy there, — I said as I entered.
Artyom smiled:
— Of course. And also… in the basement, we found an old suitcase. It has your childhood drawings. He kept them. All of them.
I froze. Drawings. The very ones where I drew him holding a book, with a cat on his lap, with a piano behind him. He kept them. At least that.
And at that moment, I understood one simple truth:
wealth is not porcelain or pianos.
Wealth is knowing you are not forgotten.
That in someone’s heart, you remain.
Even if you yourself have forgotten about yourself.