And I was the mother of a baby who needed me more than ever.
The case continued for several more months.
There were evaluations.
Conversations with doctors.
Financial assessments.
Every week, someone checked whether I was reasonable enough, healthy enough, and capable enough to be a mother.
At first, it humiliated me.
Then I began to look at it differently.
I kept a diary.
I wrote down Emilia’s feeding times, medical appointments, vaccinations, conversations with her pediatrician, and our walks in the park. Not because I needed to prove my love to anyone.
But because I wanted to make sure no one could ever say that I had acted without thinking.
Todor came from Ruse every week.
Sometimes he stayed for several days.
He wasn’t a young father.
His back hurt. He tired easily. Sometimes he fell asleep in the armchair while Emilia lay on his chest.
But he looked at her as if the world were beginning again.
One day, I found him talking quietly to her.
“I was very late, little one,” he said. “But this time, I’m not going anywhere.”
I stood in the doorway and cried silently.
Because his words weren’t only for Emilia.
They were for me too.
For the girl who had once chosen security over love.
For the woman who had spent forty-six years alone because she thought she had no right to a second chance.
Silvia didn’t visit at first.
Neither did Mikhail.
But one day, when Emilia was seven months old, someone knocked on the door.
I opened it.
Silvia stood there.
She was holding a small bag.
“Can I come in?”
I didn’t say “of course” immediately.
Not because I wanted to punish her.
But because I was afraid.
Afraid she would come inside, see the baby, and we would start arguing again.
But then I looked at her face.
She looked tired.
Not angry.
Just tired.
“Come in,” I said.
She put the bag on the table.
Inside was a small knitted blanket.
Pink, with white flowers around the edges.
“I made it myself,” she said. “I didn’t know what else to bring.”
