“That means nothing.”
Tears ran down my face.
Not because his words surprised me.
But because they confirmed what I had understood the day I told them about the pregnancy.
They weren’t afraid for me.
They were afraid for themselves.
Six months earlier, I had invited Silvia and Mikhail to lunch.
I prepared their favorite dishes.
Stuffed peppers for Silvia.
Homemade moussaka for Mikhail.
I had bought a strawberry cake because the grandchildren were coming later.
Todor was in Ruse at the time. I still wasn’t ready to tell them about him.
We sat around the dining-room table.
Silvia was telling me about her work. Mikhail was complaining about some renovation at the office.
I looked at my children and thought about how much they had grown.
Then I said:
“I have something to tell you.”
They fell silent.
“I’m pregnant.”
At first, they thought I was joking.
Then they saw my face.
Silvia laughed nervously.
“Mom, that’s not funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
Mikhail went pale.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’m expecting a child.”
Silvia began to cry.
Not from happiness.
“Are you sick? Is someone blackmailing you? Has someone deceived you?”
“No.”
“Who is the man?”
“I’ll tell you when the time is right.”
“There is no ‘right time.’ This has to be stopped,” Mikhail said.
At that moment, I realized they weren’t talking about me.
They were talking about the inconvenience.
About people.
About what the family name would look like.
“I’m not ending the pregnancy,” I said.
“You can’t do this!” Silvia shouted.
“I already am.”
After that, the phone calls began.
First every day.
Then several times a day.
“Think about your health.”
“Think about what people will say.”
“Think about us.”
But the words “think about us” gradually began to mean something else.
Mikhail asked whether I had changed my will.
Silvia asked whether Todor had any rights to my properties.
Then I learned that they had gone to a notary to ask how they could have me placed under legal guardianship.
The day Emilia was born, they sent me a letter.
