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.
