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.”
Todor smiled faintly.
“She still ordered coffee without sugar,” he said.
For a moment, I felt something warm.
Then I looked at my children.
And the warmth disappeared.
“We didn’t plan anything,” I said. “We didn’t plan to get married. We didn’t plan to have a child. We simply… found our way back to each other.”
“At seventy-nine?” Silvia whispered.
“At seventy-nine, I’m still alive, Silvia.”
She recoiled as if my words had struck her.
