“Marina, I’ll explain everything… it’s a mistake…”
“Mom, I wanted to say… I just didn’t know how…” But the words no longer reached me. Inside, something snapped and broke off that important thread: the thin string that for a quarter of a century held love and trust. It burst with such a sharp ringing sound that only I heard it. The pain was almost physical—tightening everything inside into a hard, scorching lump. I wanted to scream, throw plates to the floor, grab my husband by the face… Instead, I slowly crouched down and met the tearful, terrified gray eyes of his daughter.
“What’s your name?”
“Anya…”
I forced myself to stretch my lips into something like a smile.
“Don’t be afraid, Anya. No one here will touch you. Lida, take Anya to the guest room. Feed her and turn on cartoons.”
Then I stood up and looked at my husband and son. Not a muscle moved on their faces.
“The celebration continues.”
Straightening my spine, pulling my shoulders back, and holding a polite smile, I returned to the living room—where music was still playing and guests were laughing, unaware that my world had just turned to ash.