“And what will you do?” I lift my head and look at Dima’s blurred silhouette through my tears.
So I really hear “you” instead of “we.” I look away, wipe away the treacherous moisture with my palm, and look at him again.
“I thought we would come up with something together.”
“Together?” Dima raises his eyebrows, huffs. “No, of course. I can only help you with money to solve this ‘problem.’” The way he looks at me makes me reflexively cover my stomach with my hands. I can’t understand how that thought could have even crossed his mind.
“I’ll leave this child.”
“Then deal with it,” he says, clearly, looking at my still flat stomach—which, however, already houses our baby—“yourself.”