Roman changed his tone.
—You don’t understand.
—I’m starting to understand.
She looked at the folder.
Then me.
And for the first time I didn’t see any rivalry.
I saw fear.
—Was the transfer to my brother’s company?
Roman closed his eyes.
One second.
Just one.
But it was enough.
Alina put a hand to her mouth.
—You told me it was an investment.
—It was.
—You told me your divorce was already settled.
—I was.
—You told me that she had taken more than she deserved.
That phrase pierced me.
Not because of Alina.
For him.
Because I remembered selling my ring to pay for Matvey’s breathing therapies.
I remembered counting coins at the pharmacy.
I remembered telling Misha that we didn’t need cake because we would make special pancakes.
And Roman was telling them that I had taken too much.
—I took two children with fevers and three bags of clothes —I said.
Alina closed her eyes.
Roman approached her.
—Don’t let him manipulate you.
She stepped back.
That movement was small.
But something more than just the night changed.
Roman understood.
—Alina.
-Do not touch me.
Tamara turned towards her.
—Don’t be silly. You’re pregnant.
The word landed with weight.
Misha looked at me.
—Is Dad going to have another baby?
I didn’t know what to say.
The truth was a stone.
Lies are a dirty blanket.
I bent down again.
-Yeah.
Matvey rested his head on my shoulder.
Misha looked down.
—Then he doesn’t need us anymore.
Roman made a desperate gesture.
-Don’t say that.
But he didn’t come near.
He didn’t know how.
Perhaps he had never learned to bear the pain he himself caused.
“Listen to me, Misha,” I said. “Just because an adult fails doesn’t mean you’re worth less.”
—But he chooses.
That sentence broke my heart.
Because it was accurate.
He wasn’t accusing anyone.
He wasn’t shouting.
He was just naming names.
Roman covered his face with one hand.
For a second, I thought I was going to cry.
And an old part of me wanted to comfort him.
That part scared me.
Not because he was weak.
But because love, even when it ends, leaves reflections.
Like a burned-down house that still smells like soup.
Eduard leaned towards me.
—I can order the car.
I nodded.
-Yeah.
Roman raised his head.
—Don’t take my children.
—They’re not suitcases, Roman.
—I have the right to see them.
—And they have the right not to be used.
He clenched his fists.
He didn’t raise his hand.
I had never done it before.
His cruelty was cleaner.
More social.
Easier to deny.
“I’ll talk to them tomorrow,” he said.
—You will speak with my lawyer tomorrow.
—And now you’re hiding behind lawyers?
—No. Now I’m done hiding behind hope.
That phrase touched him.
I saw it.
Because Roman knew exactly how many times I had waited.
I waited when he promised to pay on time.
I waited when he said the business would revive.
I waited until he swore there was no other woman.
I waited when he told me that the house was an inevitable loss.
I waited until the waiting began to seem like a virtue.
But it wasn’t.
Sometimes waiting is just another way of giving up.
The car arrived fifteen minutes later.
Fifteen very long minutes.
We stayed in the cloakroom.
The wedding continued on the other side, but it was no longer a celebration.
