“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.
