“Do you really think this place is suitable for living with a child?”
My gaze wandered over the crooked walls of the house, seemingly held up only by miracles and rusty nails.

“Olga, don’t be so dramatic,” Viktor snapped, tossing the last bag onto the creaking porch. “I’m leaving you the entire house and the land, even though I could’ve kicked you out onto the street.” His voice was cold, detached—like a man doing an unpleasant chore he wanted to finish as quickly as possible.

I silently stared at the papers in my hands. The old, dilapidated house on the village’s outskirts—Viktor had inherited it from his grandfather—only came into my life because he wanted to get rid of us. Ten years of marriage ended not with tears or conversations, but with a business-like deal—a “concession,” as he called it.

My son Misha, only nine, stood nearby clutching his worn teddy bear—the only thing he managed to grab when Viktor announced the move. In his eyes was the frozen confusion of a child whose world had suddenly been torn apart without explanation.

“Sign here,” Viktor said, handing me a pen with the same indifferent expression he had when paying a restaurant bill. “No alimony, no claims. The house is yours.”

I signed—not because it was fair, but because the city apartment legally belonged to his parents, and I had no rights to it. There was no choice. And any alimony would have been a meager pittance anyway.

“Good luck in your new place,” he tossed over his shoulder as he climbed into his car. Misha flinched, about to say something, but the door slammed shut before he could.

“Everything will be alright, Mom,” Misha whispered, clutching my hand as the car disappeared down the dirt road, leaving clouds of dust behind.

The house greeted us with creaking floorboards, a damp smell, and cobwebs in every corner. Cracks in the floor let the cold air seep in, and the window frames were splintered and dry. Misha squeezed my hand tightly, and I realized there was no turning back.

---

The first month tested every ounce of my endurance. I worked remotely as a designer, but the internet kept cutting out, and deadlines didn’t care about that. Misha began attending the local school, riding an old bicycle bought from neighbors.

I learned quickly how to patch holes in the roof, replace wiring, and shore up sagging floors. At first, I had a handyman help me, paid with my last savings. My once well-manicured hands became rough and calloused. Yet every night after Misha fell asleep, I’d step onto the porch and gaze at the stars, which here seemed so close, like you could almost reach out and touch them.

“Don’t give up, girl,” Nina Petrovna said once, leaving me in tears after another leak soaked the floor. “The land loves the strong, and I can see you’re strong.”

There was a strange wisdom in her words. As I watched Misha change, I began to understand. He grew stronger, laughed more, and his eyes lit up with a new inner light. He made friends with the local children, excitedly telling me about frogs in the pond or how he helped our neighbor Andrey feed his chickens.

---

Almost a year passed. The house slowly transformed: I repainted the walls, re-roofed the house with the help of Semyon, a neighbor and builder (we no longer had money for workers), and planted a small garden. Life was still hard, but it was settling.

One day, heavy rain poured down. Misha was on a school trip to the regional center, and I finally decided to sort out the basement—a dream of mine was to set up a workshop to make souvenirs for the rare tourists passing through.

The basement was larger than I expected. My flashlight beam cut through old shelves packed with clutter, dusty boxes, and jars. The smell of damp earth mixed with rotting wood. I set to work, clearing space for the future workshop.

Moving a heavy dresser, I discovered a nearly invisible door painted the same color as the wall, without hinges. Curiosity overwhelmed me. I pulled the rusty handle, and the door creaked open.

Behind it was a narrow passage leading to a tiny room. Shining my light inside, I saw a large wooden chest bound in dark metal.

“What kind of hiding place is this?” I murmured, kneeling before it.

The lock was broken. I lifted the heavy lid and froze—the beam of light reflected off yellowed metal: coins, hundreds of gold coins, antique jewelry, massive bars.

My heart pounded wildly. My fingers trembled as I lifted one coin—heavy, cold, embossed with the profile of an emperor, as if carved from another century.

“Oh my God, this can’t be real,” I whispered, numb with shock. “Is this… genuine?”

For a moment, I wondered if Viktor knew about this treasure. But no, impossible—he would never have transferred the house if he had.

---

I closed the chest, covered it with an old cloth, and went upstairs, heart pounding, breath shallow. I checked the locks three times before calling Inna, my college friend and now a lawyer specializing in property disputes.

“Inna, you won’t believe this,” I blurted out. “I need your help. Urgently. Can you come over this weekend?”

“Olga? Are you alright?” Her voice trembled with concern.

“Yes, it’s just…” I hesitated. “Please come. It’s important.”

For two days, I wandered like a ghost, jumping at every sound. Misha watched me anxiously.

“Mom, are you sick?” he asked during dinner when I accidentally oversalted the soup.

“No, just thinking about… new projects,” I lied, tousling his hair.

That night I hardly slept, listening for every creak and scratch. What if someone knew? What if the treasure’s legend spread? What if someone tried to break in?

---

Inna arrived Saturday afternoon—businesslike, sharp, even on her day off. After my story, she was skeptical.

“Either you’re overworked or you’ve found something valuable,” she said. “Show me.”

In the basement, she gasped at the coins.

“This is genuine gold! Coins from a royal mint! Olga, this is a fortune.”

“What do I do?” I asked, shivering.

She quickly researched the law.

“Article 233 of the Civil Code: a treasure on your property belongs to you—unless it has significant cultural value. Then the state confiscates it but compensates you 50% of market value. Either way, you must report it officially, or problems come later.”

---

We submitted the report Monday. I barely slept, fearing the commission might take everything.

The commission was small: an elderly historian, a silent appraiser, and a young man from the museum.

They examined everything, whispered among themselves, then the historian declared:

“This is typical of a well-off family from the late 19th century, likely hidden during the revolution. Some collector pieces, but nothing extraordinary.”

She handed me the document.

“The treasure is ordinary property and belongs to you.”

After they left, Inna hugged me.

“Congratulations! Now we plan how to manage it.”

---

Over months, I lived two lives: a rural resident handling chores and remote work by day, a woman discussing investments by night.

We sold gold slowly, quietly, through experts Inna knew.

An antique expert in St. Petersburg, ex-Hermitage, told me coins could fetch ten times gold’s price at auction.

When the money started flowing in, I bought a new house—not a mansion, but sturdy and warm, with big windows, a garden, and a workshop.

---

When the realtor handed me the keys, my heart nearly broke with disbelief.

“Mom,” Misha stood in the spacious entryway, eyes wide, “is this really ours? Forever?”

“Yes,” I said, holding him tight. “And I want to start a small farm. Remember how you loved Nina Petrovna’s goats?”

“Real farm? With animals?” His eyes sparkled.

Soon, I bought land next door, hired local workers, built shelters, bought goats and chickens, and tended the garden—not for sale but for joy.

Misha loved it—after school, feeding animals, proudly showing friends his “farm.”

I invested in local businesses, started an education fund for Misha, and created a relief fund for emergencies.

I wasn’t after luxury—security and independence mattered more.

---

One autumn day, while picking apples, Viktor appeared.

I hadn’t seen him for over a year, but recognized the worn, nervous man immediately.

“You look… different,” he said, eyeing my house and yard.

“What do you want?” I wiped my hands on my apron.

“Misha’s at school,” I said flatly.

“I’m here to talk,” he said, tense. “Rumors say you found gold in my grandfather’s house. Your new life says it’s true.”

He didn’t ask about Misha, whom he hadn’t seen in years.

“And?”

“This is my family’s inheritance! I wouldn’t have given you the house if I knew. You owe me the gold!”

“Return it? You gave me the house. Officially,” I said.

“I’ll find a way,” he hissed.

Just then, Andrey and Semyon appeared, standing beside me.

“Trouble?” Andrey asked.

“Everything’s fine,” I said, steady. “Your ex is leaving.”

Viktor glared but backed away.

“I’m afraid this is the end,” I said. “In