Soon after, Damir returned to Moscow, completed his studies, and applied for a visa. He refused to communicate with his real parents over the internet, preferring to save everything for a face-to-face meeting. All legal matters were handled through their lawyer—he was the one who informed Damir of everything.

It turned out Damir was the son of Mr. Omer Saidi, a 65-year-old Iranian businessman. Omer was a prominent entrepreneur, the owner and CEO of an agricultural corporation, along with a chain of supermarkets across Canadian provinces and several U.S. states. Damir also learned he had a biological mother—Emine Saidi, age 62—and a 23-year-old sister, Saher, a student at the University of Montreal majoring in Management and Marketing. The family also included Samad Saidi, who, as it turned out, was their adopted son. Like Damir, Samad had studied law and worked in their father’s corporation. Damir had started university much later than his peers, while Samad had already gained at least eight years of professional experience and legal expertise. The twelve-hour flight gave Damir’s imagination plenty of space to wander. He couldn’t wait to meet his real parents—especially his father, whom he had dreamed of all his life. He kept telling himself that they weren’t at fault for his growing up far from them. They hadn't even known their son wasn’t biologically theirs—until Samad was in an accident and a blood test revealed the truth. That’s when the long, difficult search began, leading them all the way to Bolgar.

Yes, back in distant 1982, his parents had traveled to Russia. Business had taken them to Kazan. Later, a drive to Bolgar and an unexpected labor. It had been a reckless decision by young Omer Saidi—he took his beloved wife everywhere, and she never wanted to leave his side, even while pregnant. Their passionate love had led to that moment. Damir sighed and pulled a small envelope from his chest pocket.

Inside were a few worn-out photos of his Tatar mother, Zulfiya Palatova. Her in youth, in middle age, and now at 63. He gently stroked the surface of the latest photo, warmth flooding his veins. Surely Samad would tear up seeing the face of his real mother and rush to meet her, Damir thought. Well, she would have two sons now—just like Mrs. Emine Saidi. By dawn, the noisy Montreal airport welcomed an Aeroflot flight from Russia. Damir’s luggage was modest—just a small suitcase with the essentials. He wasn’t planning to stay long. Meet them, maybe make a decision at a family meeting, and go back home. He wasn’t about to abandon his mother Zulfiya. Maybe his life would now be split between two countries, he thought. His blood was pulling him—it already had—and there was no fighting it. He would want to see his real parents and younger sister again, and they wouldn’t let him go easily either—he was sure of it. It wasn’t about status or money anymore. None of it mattered.

Damir shook his head. Amazing—just when the long-awaited dream finally appeared on the horizon, it immediately lost its meaning. He wanted to know and feel his real family—even if they lived in a slum in some forgotten corner of Calcutta.

At the airport, he was met by Mr. Saidi’s driver. Damir took the back seat of the black, tinted Land Rover and closed his eyes. The air inside carried the scent of high society—a world that had felt as distant as the stars just a few months ago. His memory jumped to the recent past—well-furnished offices, luxurious homes, guards, expensive cars. All of it had once felt untouchable, like a museum display. His own attempts to rise to that level had failed, and for a time, he had buried the dream deep inside and focused on studying. Sometimes he worked as a courier, delivering documents on a company scooter or carrying a backpack on foot—then disappearing just as quietly. He never imagined he’d be sitting in the back seat of such a car, being driven like a guest of honor.