“So how old, you say, is your daughter?” the ex says with a disapproving squint, shifting his gaze from me to the little girl.
I shrink back as if I can feel trouble drawing near.
He didn’t ask directly, and I didn’t explain. And Yan decided that Alya was her husband’s child, even though nothing ever happened between us.
“A year,” I squeeze out quietly.
He left himself. Why make a fuss now?
“A year and…” He spreads his hands. “Nastya, continue.”
“And three months,” I say, realizing that I’ve just given myself away.
My husband threw me out when he realized he wouldn’t get love from me.
At night, in a blizzard, with a baby in my arms.
And if it hadn’t been for the ex, who found us, we simply wouldn’t have survived.
Now I owe him my life—and my daughter’s.
Our daughter, about whom he didn’t even know.