He looked at me.
“Mom, we need to talk practically.”
“Okay. Let’s talk practically.”
“If something happens to you, will the house be left to this child?”
The word “this” hurt me.
But I didn’t raise my voice.
“Part of my property will be distributed among all my children.”
“All?”
“Yes. Silvia, you, and Emilia.”
He gave a bitter smile.
“So that’s it. You really chose her over us.”
“I didn’t choose anyone over anyone.”
“You did.”
Todor stood.
“Mikhail, your mother doesn’t owe you an inheritance.”
“Don’t talk about my mother.”
“Then don’t talk about her daughter as if she were property.”
Mikhail turned toward him.
“You appear out of nowhere after fifty years and decide you’re going to teach us about family?”
Todor didn’t flinch.
“No. I know what it’s like to be late to a family. That’s why I don’t want to see you lose yours in the same way.”
Mikhail left.
At the time, I thought he might never return.
But sometimes people need to reach the bottom of their own pride before they can see what they’ve lost.
A year later, on Emilia’s first birthday, he came
He stood at the door holding a small cake.
“I didn’t know what to buy,” he said.
“A cake is a good start.”
He smiled awkwardly.
He came inside.
Emilia was already walking, holding onto the furniture. She saw him and laughed.
Mikhail stood completely still.
Then he crouched down.
She reached her arms toward him.
He picked her up.
And for the first time, I saw my son not as an angry man afraid of losing money.
But as a brother.
As a person who might finally have understood that love doesn’t become smaller when you share it.
Todor died when Emilia was three.
His heart simply gave out.
He was peaceful at the end.
He held my hand in the hospital room.
Emilia was sleeping in Silvia’s arms, while Mikhail stood by the window.
Todor looked at our daughter.
