Children who no one would look for if they went missing. Misha greeted each one, shook every dirty little hand, looked into every pair of frightened eyes and said, “You are not invisible, you matter, and you will have a home here.”
Roman and Marina watched with pride. Their son had returned different: more mature, stronger, more compassionate. Suffering had shaped him in a way an easy life never could have. That evening at home, the three of them sat on the sofa, as they always did.
“Dad, Mom, thank you,” Misha said suddenly. “For what, my love?” Marina asked. “For never giving up. For recognizing me, even though I had changed. For believing in me.”
He took their hands. “I spent six months thinking I was alone in the world, that nobody cared. But you always cared, you always loved me, and that’s what saved me.”
“We are the ones who thank you,” Roman said, his voice trembling. “For coming back, for fighting, for surviving. You are the greatest gift we have ever received.”
They remained there, embraced, as night fell outside. A family that had been shattered, broken into pieces in the most terrible way, but that had come together again, stronger, more united, more grateful for every second together.
Because in the end, it wasn’t the money, the mansion, or the expensive cars that mattered. What mattered was here, in this embrace, in this love, in the second chance that life had given them. Misha had died in that accident, but he had also been reborn. And this time, he knew the true price of being alive.
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