After his wife’s funeral, the millionaire was walking toward his car when, right at the entrance to the cemetery, he noticed a poor old woman. He stopped, took a few bills from his wallet, and silently handed them to her.

The old woman took the money, looked at it carefully, and suddenly asked in a low voice,
“And what will you tell your daughter?”

The millionaire was paralyzed, because he had never had a daughter.

The millionaire had buried his wife and was walking slowly toward the cemetery exit. Outside, a heavy snowfall was taking place, as if nature itself were mourning the woman he had loved more than life itself.

The coffin had just been lowered into the ground, and he was still standing there, feeling neither the cold nor noticing his wet clothes. It seemed that along with her, in that earth, his whole life had also remained.

There were people around: business associates, distant relatives, acquaintances he saw once a year. They approached, shook his hand, uttered memorized phrases, but he barely heard anyone. He understood that many had come not only to say goodbye, but also to look at him: rich, influential, and now, moreover, alone.

As the crowd began to disperse, the driver quietly reminded him that the car was waiting at the entrance. The man nodded and walked forward. His feet sank into the wet snow, his thoughts mingled, and inside he felt nothing but emptiness.

He and his wife had no children. Now, in their house, not a single familiar voice remained.

Near the entrance, under an old shed, sat an elderly woman. Hunched over, with a dark scarf on her head, she sat on a small wooden stool. People like that are often seen near cemeteries. The widower paused for a moment, took some coins from his pocket, almost without looking.

—Pray for my wife —he asked in a low voice.

The woman took the money without counting it, looked up at him, and studied him intently. Her eyes were clear and restless, as if she knew more than she was letting on. After a brief pause, she suddenly asked:

—And what will you tell your daughter?

The man stood motionless. Those words struck him harder than the cold. Because he had never had a daughter.

The man exhaled slowly and looked at the old woman, as if hoping he had misheard. He wanted to say she was mistaken, that it couldn’t be, but the words caught in his throat. The woman gazed at him calmly, without pity or reproach.

He said that many years ago he had worked as a nurse in a maternity ward. He remembered his wife well. She had arrived at night, with almost no belongings, frightened and very lonely.

From the beginning, she asked that her husband not know anything. She said that he lived for his work, that he had no time, and that a child would ruin his normal life.

The baby girl was born healthy. Small, calm, with dark hair. The mother held her for only a few hours, then cried for a long time, repeating that she was doing it for everyone’s sake. A few days later, the baby was given up for adoption.

The old woman said that she saw his wife many times after that. She would come and ask if the girl was alive, how she was, if she had found a family.

He never asked to have the girl back; he only wanted to know that everything was alright with her. And each time he left in silence.

The man stood motionless. Everything was buzzing in his head. He remembered how his wife sometimes stared at children in the street, how she would abruptly change the subject when the conversation turned to family, how she took so long to fall asleep at night. Back then, he hadn’t thought much of it.

He asked in a low voice if the girl was still alive.

The old woman nodded and said yes. The girl was adopted by an ordinary family. She grew up, received an education, and lives a simple life. She doesn’t know who her real parents are and has never looked for them. But she exists. And she is alive.