His voice only broke when he recalled the worst parts. The investigator wrote everything down. He would occasionally stop and ask questions. Some were normal, others were strange, like how much money the family had.
“Is there something Mikhail stands to gain by returning? Could this be fraud?” “My son is not a fraud!” Marina exploded at the third hint. “He is my son! I know he is my son!”
“Ma’am, please calm down. I’m just doing my job,” the investigator said without emotion. “This isn’t the first time someone has tried to pass themselves off as a deceased person to claim an inheritance. I have to investigate.”
“There is no inheritance! I’m alive! My mom and dad are alive! No one is inheriting anything!” Misha shouted. It was the first time he had shouted since his return. Roman placed a hand on his son’s shoulder.
“Investigator, the DNA test will prove everything. In the meantime, I would appreciate it if you would treat my son with respect.” The investigator shrugged. “I will open a case regarding the misidentification of the body, regarding the hospital, regarding everything.”
He closed his notebook. “And I will order the exhumation of the body buried under your son’s name to confirm that it is not him.” Marina felt her stomach turn. The thought of opening that coffin, of seeing what was inside…
No, she couldn’t bear it. “Is that necessary?” Roman asked. “Yes, it’s part of the protocol. Without it, I cannot proceed with the investigation.” The investigator was already standing up, ending the meeting.
“If there’s any news, I’ll call. You may go.” They left the police station exhausted. The sun was setting. The entire day had been spent with doctors, tests, questions, bureaucracy. “Let’s have dinner somewhere,” Roman suggested.
“At a nice restaurant, to celebrate.” Misha shook his head. “I want to go home, Dad. I just want to be home with you, eat Aunt Masha’s food, sleep in my bed, and nothing else.” And so they did.
At home, Aunt Masha had prepared Misha’s favorite dish—navy-style pasta. He ate slowly, savoring every forkful. For so long, he had eaten scraps from the trash, spoiled food, or nothing at all. This felt like a royal feast.
After dinner, they sat in the living room. Roman turned on the TV, but no one was watching. They just wanted to be together. They just wanted to feel like a family again. “Dad, what if the test is wrong?” Misha suddenly asked.
“What if for some reason it shows that I’m not me?” “It won’t, son. You are you, and the test will prove it.” “But what if it does? If they kick me out, I can’t go back to the streets. I can’t.” The boy’s voice broke.
Marina hugged him tightly. “That won’t happen. I won’t let it. Even if the test is negative. Even if the whole world says you’re not my son. I know you are, and you will never leave this house again.”
They cried again. It seemed there would be no end to it. Six months of pent-up pain were coming out all at once. That night, Misha slept better. The nightmares still came, but they were weaker.
And every time he woke up scared, he saw his mother there, in the chair beside him, keeping watch, and he could go back to sleep. The next day was calmer. They stayed home. For the first time in six months, Misha swam in the pool.
The warm water, the sun on his face. It all felt magical. Roman canceled all his meetings. He wasn’t going to work until this was resolved. The business would manage. His son was more important.
On the third day, the phone rang at ten in the morning. Roman answered, his heart pounding. “Roman Alexandrovich, this is the lab. The DNA result is ready.” Roman could barely breathe. “Positive.”
“A 99.9% match between you and the boy. And the same percentage with Marina Viktorovna. Without a shadow of a doubt, Mikhail Tarasov is your biological son.” Roman hung up and shouted, “It’s him! The test is positive! It’s our son!”…
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