“What other person?” the judge asked.
I looked toward the door.
It was closed.
He had promised me he would come that morning. But the hearing had already been going on for forty minutes, and his seat was still empty.
For the first time, fear gripped my heart.
Had my children done something to prevent him from coming?
Had he changed his mind at the last moment?
Silvia’s lawyer placed a photograph on the table.
It had been taken at my husband Georgi’s funeral. I was only thirty-three then, dressed in black, standing beside the closed coffin.
“Mrs. Mileva,” the lawyer continued, “are you claiming that the father of this newborn is a man who was buried nearly half a century ago?”
Silvia turned toward me in horror.
“Are you talking about Dad?”
I didn’t answer.
“Mom, that’s impossible!”
“I know how it sounds.”
“No!” she shouted. “Don’t you understand? This proves that you’ve lost touch with reality!”
