“My name is Todor Stoyanov. I am the biological father of the child.”
The courtroom became so quiet that I could hear the air conditioner humming beneath the windows.
Mikhail was the first to explode.
“That’s absurd!”
The judge looked sharply at him.
“Mr. Milev, this is your final warning.”
“He’s eighty years old! My mother is seventy-nine! How can he claim to be the father of a baby?”
Todor didn’t turn toward him.
He simply placed the documents on the table in front of the judge.
“There is no need to take my word for it. There are medical tests.”
My lawyer, Mr. Stefanov, produced another folder.
“Your Honor, these are the DNA test results, certified by an independent laboratory. They confirm Mr. Stoyanov’s paternity.”
The judge turned through several pages.
Then he removed his glasses.
He looked at me.
Then at Todor.
Then at little Emilia, who had fallen asleep again, unaware that her existence was the reason for the collapse of a lie that had been built over decades.
“Mrs. Mileva,” the judge said, “before we continue with the documents, I would like to hear your explanation.”
I knew this moment would come.
I had been waiting for it.
And yet it felt as though, once I opened my mouth, I would never be able to stop.
I looked at Silvia.
My daughter.
A fifty-six-year-old woman sitting across from me with anger, fear, and something even more painful in her eyes.
Betrayal.
Then I looked at Mikhail.
My son.
A fifty-three-year-old man who could not bear the thought that the inheritance he had considered his for so long might have to be shared with a baby.
I took a breath.
“Everything began fifty-two years ago,” I said.
I was twenty-seven when I met Todor.
I worked as a librarian at a community center in Veliko Tarnovo. Every morning, I walked along the cobbled street toward Samovodska Charshiya, carrying a canvas bag filled with books and thinking that my life was completely predictable.
I was engaged to Georgi.
He was a good man.
Stable.
