(Or, How I Almost Became a Billionaire in .ru)
It was a regular Tuesday. I was sorting through my inbox like a digital archaeologist—sifting through newsletters I don’t remember subscribing to, birthday discounts from cafes I haven’t visited since 2017, and the occasional existential crisis triggered by seeing “Re: Just checking in” from someone I forgot to reply to.
Then I saw it.
Subject line: From Mackenzie Scott – You Are Chosen.
No exclamation marks. Just dignified confidence.
Naturally, I clicked. Because who wouldn’t? It’s Mackenzie Scott! Philanthropist, author, woman who divorced Jeff Bezos and immediately started giving away money like Oprah with a spreadsheet.
The email began with an elegantly baffling:
“Hello, I’m Mackenzie Scott Ex-wife of Amazon founder and CEO…”
There it was. Straight to the point. Not “hi” or “dear friend” or “salutations.” Just pure résumé. She was here to let me know she was no longer married to Jeff, which, in this context, felt both empowering and slightly suspicious.
Then came the good news:
“I’m donating $4 billion to charities, individuals, colleges across the Globe…”
Lovely. Classic Mackenzie.
“…and you’re one of the lucky winners.”
I paused.
“Winners?”
Was this a grant or a raffle? Did Mackenzie run a prize wheel? Had I—without knowing—entered the Great Global Philanthropy Lottery and won?
“I have a donation grant worth $100,800,000.00 Dollars for you…”
One hundred million.
Eight hundred thousand.
Exactly.
No rounding.
She clearly wanted to be fair.
I briefly imagined how my life would change. I would start a foundation called “Emails for Everyone.” I’d buy property, yes—but tasteful property, with floorboards that don’t creak and toilets that flush on the first go. I’d build a quiet little writing shed and maybe… finally buy the classy kind of cheese.
Then I noticed her contact email:
@scottsfoundation.ru
“.ru.”
Russia.
Of course. Mackenzie had clearly relocated to a post-capitalist retreat deep in the Urals. She probably wore fur-lined boots and wrote poetry by a samovar now. Maybe she’d reinvented herself as a quiet literary czarina with a heart of gold.
I looked again at the writing. It had a… rhythm. Like it had been translated from English into something else, then back into English via a blender.
“…you can contact me for more information if you’re interested.”
No formal closing. No signature. Just an open-hearted offer and an invitation to dream.
I considered replying. Just for the story. Just to see if someone named “Mackenzie Scott” would answer me from a cafe in Moscow using a Yahoo account.
But then I sighed, gently, and did what every adult with more imagination than common sense must do in times like this.
I flagged it as spam.
And yet, somewhere deep inside me, I wonder:
What if it was real?
What if the real Mackenzie Scott had just had a rough day with grammar and accidentally typed “.ru” instead of “.org”?
What if she’d seen my humble existence and thought:
“That one. The one with the three hundred unread newsletters and the overdrawn bank account. I shall bless them with $100.8 million, precisely.”
Well, Mackenzie, if you’re reading this from your cozy log cabin near Lake Turgoyak —know that I forgive your punctuation.
And should you ever wish to try again, I promise I’ll be ready.
The Afterword 
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