“Daddy, where are you?!”—a quiet, pitiful, frightened sound comes from the side. I slam the brakes hard. The heels screech unpleasantly on the floor. I take a step forward, and then again I hear a sniffle—more like the squeak of a kitten. I turn my head toward the sound and only then notice a strip of light under the door of one of the classrooms. Casting aside all doubts, I decisively open the classroom door.
“Dad—” the girl cries out joyfully, but then cuts herself off when she meets my eyes.
“You’re not my dad!”
“I’m not your dad, that’s true,” I say gently, leaning down and sitting beside her on the windowsill.
“What are you doing here in the classroom—alone? It’s already very late.”
“I’m waiting for my dad. He didn’t pick me up,” the girl sobs.
And I immediately pull the girl into my arms, against all my principles and rules.
“I’m already late.”
“Will you leave me too? Like Mom and Dad?”