Towards a Dream

“We can get divorced, anyway!” I watch my husband for a long few minutes and understand that he isn’t joking. What’s more, he’s clearly going to be glad to be rid of us—because that’s exactly where it’s headed, right? For a very long time—eleven whole months since the birth of our son.
“Call your parents—let them bring me the boy. Divorce is yours. We can leave—any time.”
“Although we can’t. We simply can’t—there’s nowhere to go!”
“They’ll bring him by lunchtime, as we agreed.” I reach for the phone myself and dial my mother-in-law—she manages to pick up the moment her son snatches my smartphone out of my hands.
“Yes, they’ll bring him to you!”—Pasha shouts at me, and I realize they’re going to try to take my baby.
I can’t help it, but these thoughts insistently crawl into my mind, and the way I’m being pushed away from the phone only fuels panic.
“If within ten minutes I don’t get my son brought to me, I’ll call the police and I’ll come for him—alone with me,”