We built a life.
Not a fairy tale.
But a life.
And when Georgi died of a heart attack at fifty-nine, I thought part of me had died with him.
I was thirty-three.
I had two small children.
Silvia was seven.
Mikhail was four.
From that day forward, I never thought about another love.
Not because I didn’t have opportunities.
But because I had no strength left.
I worked.
I raised you.
I educated you.
I paid the bills.
I fought to give you an education, a home, and security.
The years passed.
You grew up.
You got married.
You had children of your own.
I remained alone in the big house.
Sometimes it was quiet.
Very quiet.
But I wasn’t unhappy.
Or at least, that’s what I thought.
Silvia stared at me with wide eyes.
“What does any of this have to do with the baby?” she asked.
I looked at Todor.
He sat quietly in the last row, his cane between his knees.
“He found me two years ago.”
A murmur passed through the courtroom.
“How?” the judge asked.
“Through an old friend from high school. He saw a photograph from a reunion. He asked about me. He learned that I was a widow. He found my address.”
Mikhail laughed nervously.
“And what? After fifty years, he simply knocked on your door and you decided to have a baby?”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Then what was it like?”
He spoke angrily.
But beneath his anger, I heard panic.
He didn’t want to know.
Because if he knew, he would have to admit that I wasn’t some confused elderly woman.
I was a person with my own life.
My own history.
My own right to choose.
“The first time Todor came, I didn’t let him in,” I continued. “I stood behind the door and cried. Not because I didn’t want to see him. But because I was afraid I would see how much time had passed.”
“And then?” Silvia asked quietly.
“Then we met at a café. We talked for three hours. Then four. Then all day.”
