On a cold evening in 1995, a desperate woman handed me her toddler at a bus stop, promising to return. She never did. Left with only a battered suitcase, my husband and I opened it to find stacks of cash and documents for a girl named Anna Sergeyevna Volkova.

We quietly left Moscow, settled in the village of Sosnovka, and raised her as our own—Ani. She was brave, bright, and endlessly curious. Though she questioned her origins as she grew, we offered love and stability. She worked hard, put herself through medical school, and built a life of purpose.

Now, thirty years later, Ani returns with her family. Our once-quiet home bursts with laughter. In the attic, I hand her the old suitcase. “It’s yours,” I say.

As I finally tell her the truth, her eyes fill with emotion. We may not share blood, but we’ve always been bound by love.