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.
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.
