Respected.
He worked at an electrical-parts factory, and everyone said that with him I would have a secure life.
“Georgi is a family man,” my mother used to say.
“Not like that Todor, who is always dreaming and never knows where he’ll be next month.”
Todor was a geologist.
He traveled a lot. He worked on surveys in the Rhodopes, the Balkan Mountains, near Madan and Kardzhali. He would appear for a few weeks, then disappear again with a backpack, maps, and that look in his eyes that made a person believe the world was bigger than anything they knew.
I loved him.
Not quietly.
Not reasonably.
I loved him the way only young people love when they still don’t know the price of a choice.
He wanted to marry me.
He said he would find work closer to Tarnovo. That we would build our life together.
But my father was against him.
He said Todor wasn’t reliable. That he had no property. That he didn’t have a permanent job. That he wouldn’t make me happy.
And I was afraid.
Not of Todor.
Of disappointing everyone.
Georgi proposed.
He had a ring.
He had an apartment.
He had a job.
He had my family’s approval.
And I said yes.
Not because I didn’t love Todor.
But because I was too afraid to choose love over security.
Todor left.
He didn’t make a scene.
He didn’t beg me.
He simply said:
“If you ever decide you want a life instead of comfort, you’ll know where to find me.”
Then he left for the Rhodopes.
Three months later, I married Georgi.
My children always knew that part of the story.
They knew my marriage to their father was good.
And it was.
Georgi loved me in his own way.
He was thoughtful. Hardworking. Patient. He never raised his voice. He never made me feel alone.
When Silvia was born, he cried more than I did.
When Mikhail was born, he stood outside the maternity ward with a bouquet of carnations and told everyone that his son would become an engineer.
