**Diary Entry**
This morning, the phone rang, and I knew before I even picked it up—Marina Pavlovna was on the other end. Nothing good ever comes from her calls.
“Good morning, dear,” she purred, her voice dripping with false sweetness. I barely suppressed a grimace. If she’s calling, it’s only to ruin my day.
We’ve never gotten along, Marina Pavlovna and I. The feeling is mutual. It’s not that I’m a terrible person—though she’d argue otherwise—it’s simply that I married her least favourite son, Michael, and that sealed my fate in her eyes.
“I have wonderful news for you,” she said, her tone laced with spite. “My mother-in-law, Irene Leonidovna, will be moving in with you. Consider it repayment for that flat you didn’t deserve.”
I nearly laughed. After the schemes she’d pulled, this was nothing. At first, I couldn’t understand why she despised me so much—until Michael explained.
He was the eldest of three, born when Marina was still unmarried, a fact she resented. Yet despite this, she managed to snag a wealthy widower, Jacob Petrovich, who raised Michael as his own. Two more children followed—Anton and Mary—but Marina never let Michael forget he was different.
“You’re nothing like us,” his siblings would sneer. “Our father feeds you out of pity.”
Jacob, though, was fair. He loved them equally, provided for them equally. But Marina’s favouritism poisoned the others.
When Jacob died, the will was read. The grand house went to Marina, while each child—including Michael—received a flat. The outrage was immediate.
“What’s *he* doing here?” Mary had hissed, jabbing a finger at Michael. “He’s not even blood!”
But the lawyer silenced them. The properties were theirs, irrevocably. Still, they fumed, waiting for the next blow—the company’s inheritance.
Then came Marina’s call. “Take the old woman,” she spat. “I won’t be changing her nappies.”
Irene was frail after a stroke, confined to a wheelchair. Yet she was sharp, kind—nothing like the venomous family she’d left behind. Michael brought her home without hesitation.
Four months later, the will was read again. The room fell silent as Michael wheeled Irene in.
Then the bombshell: Jacob had left *everything*—the business, the assets—to *her*.
Mary and Anton lunged forward, suddenly desperate to “care” for the grandmother they’d discarded.
But Irene only smiled. “I’m staying with Michael.”
They left in a rage. Marina sneered one last insult before slamming the door.
Irene lived with us until the end, leaving most of her fortune to Michael. The others squandered theirs—Anton lost his in shady dealings, Mary married a fraud.
After Irene’s death, I found a note tucked in her book.
*”Mama, if anything happens to me, go to Michael. He’s the best of them.”*
Tears pricked my eyes. Jacob had been right. Michael *is* a good man. And for that, I’ll always be grateful.
