In the early mornings, while the frost still clung to the windows, I found myself stepping into Yelizaveta Igorevna’s home, where the scent of dried herbs and old books always filled the air. The routine was simple, but it was all mine—buying groceries for her, bringing the books she had requested, and most importantly, spending time with a woman who had become more of a guiding star in my life than anything else.

I had been taking care of her for years, ever since she had requested my help with sealing her windows for the winter. Little did I know that in doing so, I would find not just an elderly woman in need, but a woman with a rich life behind her, a woman whose words were sharp, her insights profound, and whose unspoken wisdom seeped through every conversation.

My family had never understood the bond between us. My cousin Svetlana and her mother, Aunt Alevtina, ridiculed my efforts to assist someone who was often labeled “penniless” by others. They would laugh at the time I spent with Yelizaveta Igorevna, dismissing her as an old crone, someone unworthy of any attention. They didn’t see the woman who taught me about constellations, who made me see the world through a different lens. They saw only the surface—an old woman in a simple housecoat.

“Back to your rich lady again?” Svetlana’s voice dripped with sarcasm as I was about to leave for another visit.

“Leave her, Sveta,” Aunt Alevtina drawled lazily. “She’s busy. Handing out alms.”

I simply shrugged, not bothering to reply. It had become a daily ritual for them, this cruel mockery. It didn’t bother me anymore. What mattered to me was that I was giving something valuable to someone who actually appreciated it.

“I promised Aunt Liza I’d help her seal her windows,” I said calmly, though the words carried a heavier meaning for me.

Svetlana’s scorn was evident. She made no effort to conceal the venom in her words. “Wasting your youth on an old crone who won’t leave you so much as a pair of ripped tights. That takes skill.” Her gaze swept over my plain coat and boots, making me feel insignificant.

“I don’t do this to snag an inheritance,” I retorted quietly, my thoughts moving to the woman I truly cared for, Yelizaveta Igorevna, who didn’t measure a person by their possessions.

“Oh really?” Svetlana sneered. “And what’s your goal? Spiritual enrichment while you mop floors in a Khrushchev-era flat?”

Their words, cruel as they were, were nothing compared to what my heart knew. I helped her because she mattered. She had taught me, nurtured me, and loved me in ways they never had.

The next visit was the turning point. Yelizaveta Igorevna, sitting at her kitchen table, was working on something I had never seen her do before—papers and maps scattered across the table, and her tablet displaying financial reports. She had an air of purpose and quiet power. She had always been secretive about her assets, but she never needed to flaunt them.

When I entered, she looked up, eyes sparkling. “Ah, Kir, you’re here,” she said warmly. “I can’t feel my hands anymore, working so hard.”

“What’s this?” I nodded toward the map that seemed out of place.

“Oh, just putting the old holdings in order,” she smiled slyly, rolling up the map and putting it into a folder. I saw the words “lease agreement” and “cadastral plan” flash briefly before she tucked them away.

That’s when she saw through my thoughts. “Family put on a show again?”

I nodded, keeping my feelings contained. “Yes, they’re counting everything. But miss what really matters.”

As if sensing the weight of the situation, she smiled gently. “They’re fools, Kira. They don’t understand what really matters—loyalty, honesty, and family.”

Weeks later, Aunt Alevtina called, her voice as sweet as honey. But beneath that sweetness was a hidden agenda.

“I was thinking, Kirochka,” she said, “Sveta’s acquaintance, a realtor, is interested in houses in that area. I thought we should help our Liza. Make sure all her documents are in order.”

I could sense the manipulation behind her words, and I felt my stomach churn. It was a scheme. She wasn’t offering help, she was looking to take what was rightfully Yelizaveta Igorevna’s. “I don’t think she needs help,” I replied firmly, ending the call with a wave of nausea.

A week later, I entered Yelizaveta Igorevna’s apartment and was greeted with the news that Sveta had come by. Yelizaveta Igorevna, her face a portrait of grief, explained that Sveta had made insinuations about me. She claimed I was just after her money, that I was tired of her, and that I was already eyeing apartments for myself. This hit me harder than I could have imagined, as the trust we had built felt like it was crumbling.

In that moment, something inside me snapped. I couldn’t let them get away with this. “It’s all lies. You know that,” I said, holding her hand.

The next day, I called Aunt Alevtina, feigning indifference. “Yelizaveta Igorevna wants to make sure everything’s in order. We’ll meet tomorrow. Bring Sveta.”

When they arrived, there was no warmth in their faces, only greed. They expected to come in and push their way into something they thought was rightfully theirs. But Yelizaveta Igorevna was ready.

“Good evening,” Arkady Semyonovich, the man I had called to help, began, his voice firm and authoritative. “Yelizaveta Igorevna would like to make an official statement regarding all of her assets.”

He laid it all out—three cottages in Repino, an investment account far surpassing the value of their homes, and an inheritance that would change everything.

Svetlana and Aunt Alevtina’s faces went slack with disbelief.

“Yelizaveta Igorevna is transferring all of the above to her grandniece, Kira Dementyevna,” Arkady said, his eyes briefly meeting mine. “Along with all financial holdings and management of the business.”

“Why her?” Svetlana shrieked, stunned and furious.

“Family isn’t those who wait for you to die, Sveta,” Yelizaveta Igorevna replied calmly, her voice steady. “Family is the one who shows up in the middle of the night when you need them.”

I signed the documents without hesitation. Aunt Alevtina and Svetlana left in silence, crushed by their own greed. And with that, everything changed.

The months following were transformative. I quit my job to manage the three cottages Yelizaveta Igorevna had left me. It wasn’t just about the properties—it was about taking control of my life and stepping into the power I had long been denied. Yelizaveta Igorevna, now my mentor, taught me everything she knew. She was sharp, and with her guidance, I felt my life start to shape itself in ways I never thought possible.

Alevtina and Sveta tried to fight us in court, but with Arkady Semyonovich’s help, they lost. The legal fees were steep, and after their defeat, they disappeared from our lives entirely.

One day, months later, Svetlana called. Her voice was empty as she asked for money, explaining her mother’s health problems.

I listened, but the old Kira was gone. “We’re relatives, but not family. Goodbye.” I hung up, closing that chapter of my life for good.

That autumn, Yelizaveta Igorevna and I sat on the terrace of one of the cottages, watching the sunset.

“You know,” she said, turning to me, “these houses, this money—they’re not rewards. They’re tools. To live the way you want, not how others expect.”

We laughed together, and I realized she was right. Wealth wasn’t measured in the things we owned—it was in the freedom to live the life we chose.

And so, I continued forward. With no more deceit, no more lies, and no more betrayal. Just the steady warmth of a new family.