On the street, a woman gave me a child and a suitcase full of money, and sixteen years later I learned that he was the heir of a billionaire.

“Not from where, but from whom. Meet Misha.”

I told him everything while I cooked semolina for the boy. My husband listened, frowned, and rubbed the bridge of his nose, a sure sign he was thinking hard.

“We need to call the police. Immediately.”

“Peter, which police? What shall I tell them? Did they hand me a child at the police station like a puppy?”

“So what do you suggest?”