I came across two little ones in my backyard, raised them like my own, but after fifteen years, someone showed up wanting to take them away.

“Marish, come here fast!” Stepan shouted from the garden. I quickly dropped the bowl of dough and ran outside.

Stepan stood near the old apple tree, looking confused. Next to him, sitting on the grass between the carrot rows, were two children. A boy and a girl, maybe two or three years old. Their clothes were dirty and torn. Their faces were smudged, their eyes wide and scared.

“Where did they come from?” I whispered.

“I have no idea,” Stepan replied. “I came to water the cabbage, and they were just here. Like they grew from the soil.”

I stepped closer. The girl reached for me. The boy stayed near her but didn’t look frightened—just serious.

“What are your names?” I asked gently.

They didn’t answer. The girl hugged me tightly and began to sniffle.

“We should call the village council,” Stepan said. “Or the police.”

“Let’s feed them first,” I said, touching the girl’s messy hair. “They look so hungry.”

The girl held onto me as I carried her inside. The boy followed silently, holding the edge of my skirt. I sat them at the kitchen table, gave them milk, and cut thick slices of bread with butter. They ate quickly, like they hadn’t eaten in days.

“Could they be gypsy children?” Stepan asked, watching them.

“No, I don’t think so,” I said. “They’re light-skinned and have blue eyes and blond hair.”

After they ate, the boy smiled a little. The girl fell asleep in my lap, holding my sweater.

That evening, the village policeman, Petrovich, came by. He checked the children and wrote some notes.

“I’ll spread the word in nearby villages,” he said. “Maybe someone lost them. But for now, they’ll have to stay with you. The center in the district is full.”

“That’s fine,” I said. I looked down at the sleeping girl and knew I didn’t want them to leave.

Stepan nodded. We had been married a year, but had no children yet. And now, suddenly, we had two.

That night, we made them a bed on the floor near the stove. The boy couldn’t sleep—he watched me carefully. I reached out, and he slowly took my finger.

“Don’t be scared,” I whispered. “You’re safe now.”

In the morning, I woke up to a soft touch. The girl was beside me, stroking my cheek.

“Mama?” she said.

My heart swelled. I picked her up and hugged her.

“Yes, sweetie. Mama.”

Fifteen years passed like a dream. We named the girl Alyonka and the boy Misha. She grew into a tall, lovely girl with golden hair and sky-blue eyes. Misha became strong like his father. They helped on the farm, studied hard, and filled our lives with joy.

At dinner one night, Alyonka said, “Mama, I want to go to the city university. I want to be a doctor.”

Misha added, “I want to study farming. Dad, remember you said we should grow the farm?”

Stepan smiled proudly. We never had biological kids, but we never felt the loss. These two were our children in every way.

Petrovich never found their real parents. We adopted them legally. They always knew the truth, but they called us Mom and Dad, and meant it.

We shared many memories. The first day of school, when Alyonka cried and didn’t want to let go of my hand. Misha’s fight at school because someone called him a foster kid. After we talked to the principal, it never happened again.

One evening, as Stepan and I sat on the porch, he said, “They’ve become such fine kids.”

“They’re ours,” I replied.

But everything changed the next day.

A shiny black car stopped at our gate. A man and woman in their forties stepped out. They looked wealthy and serious.

“Hello,” the woman said politely. “We’re looking for our children. Twins—a boy and a girl—who went missing fifteen years ago.”

Cold ran through me. Stepan stood beside me, calm but firm.

“And why come here?” he asked.

“We were told they’re with you,” the man said, holding out documents. “These are our kids.”

I checked the papers. The dates matched. But my heart didn’t believe it.

“Where were you all this time?” I asked.

“We searched,” the woman claimed. “They were with a nanny. She had an accident. We just found new information.”

At that moment, Alyonka and Misha came out.

“Mama, what’s going on?” Alyonka asked, taking my hand.

The woman gasped. “Katya! Artyom! It’s really you!”

The teens looked confused.

“We are your parents,” the man said.

“Home?” Alyonka echoed. “This is our home.”

The woman stepped forward. “We live near Moscow. We have a big house. Family is better than strangers.”

My anger rose.

“You didn’t look for them,” I said. “And now, when they’re grown, you show up?”

“We filed a report!” the man argued.

“Let me see,” Stepan said.

The paper was dated just a month ago.

“It’s fake,” he said. “Where’s the original?”

The man didn’t answer.

“You didn’t search,” Misha said. “Petrovich told us—there were no reports.”

“Quiet, boy!” the man barked. “Pack up. You’re coming with us.”

“We’re staying here,” Alyonka said. “These are our real parents.”

The woman pulled out her phone.

“I’m calling the police. Blood matters more than papers.”

“Call them,” Stepan said. “But invite Petrovich too.”

Soon, our yard was filled with people. Petrovich arrived, along with an investigator and council head. I stayed inside with the kids.

“We won’t let them take you,” I whispered.

“We’re not scared, Mom,” Misha said.

Later, Stepan came in. “Fake papers. The investigator found lies. They were on vacation when the kids went missing—photos and tickets prove it.”

“Why would they lie?” Alyonka asked.

“Petrovich found out,” Stepan said. “They have a failing farm. No workers. They wanted help.”

We walked outside. The man was being put in a police car. The woman shouted for a lawyer.

“They’re ours!”

Alyonka stepped up.

“I already have parents. The ones who stayed and loved me. You are strangers.”

The woman stepped back, shocked.

After they left, Misha hugged us.

“Thank you for not letting them take us.”

“How could we?” I said. “You’re our kids.”

Alyonka wiped her tears.

“I always wondered what I’d do if my birth parents came. Now I know. Nothing would change.”

That night, we sat around the dinner table again—like old times. The children were older, but the love stayed the same.

“Mom, tell us again how you found us,” Alyonka said.

I smiled and began the story—how two small children appeared in the garden and became our everything.

“Grandma, look at my drawing!” little Vanya said, holding up a crayon picture.

“Is this our house?” I asked.

“Yes! That’s you, Grandpa, Mommy, Daddy, Auntie Alyona, and Uncle Seryozha!”

Alyonka came in, her pregnant belly showing. She worked at the local hospital.

“Misha and Katya are coming soon,” she said. “Did you bake the pies?”

“Of course. Apple, your favorite.”

Time flew. Alyonka returned after finishing medical school. She said the city felt too small. She married Seryozha and was now expecting her second child. Misha ran the farm with Stepan. He married Katya, a schoolteacher. They had Vanya.

“Grandpa!” Vanya ran to Stepan, who had just returned from the field.

“What will you be when you grow up?” Stepan asked.

“A tractor driver! Like Daddy!”

We laughed.

Misha’s car arrived. Katya came out with a pot of borscht.

“And we have news!” she said happily.

“What news?”

“We’re having twins!” she beamed.

We all cheered and hugged. The house would be even fuller now.

At dinner, we sat at the big table Stepan and Misha built.

“Remember the fake parents?” Misha asked. “Petrovich still tells that story.”

“I remember thinking—what if they were real?” Alyonka added. “I still would’ve stayed. Because family isn’t about blood. It’s about love.”

“Uncle Misha, tell the story again!” Vanya begged.

Misha smiled and started once more.

I watched them all—my family. My life’s greatest gift came from the garden one summer day. And now, our home was filled with joy, laughter, and love.

“Grandma, will I find someone in the garden too?”

“Maybe,” I said, hugging him. “If your heart is open, love will find you.”

The sun set behind the apple tree, painting everything gold.

And I knew this wasn’t the end.

This was just the beginning of a new chapter in our family’s story.