“Do you have a child?” Vlad asks, barely catching his breath. “Yes, a daughter.” “How old is she?”
After that question, an awkward pause hangs between us. I need far too long to answer.
“Five.”
“And when is her birthday?”
“In September,” Berkutov goes quiet. I nervously swallow and shake my head.
“Vlad, she’s not yours—if you know what I mean.”
He quickly nods, getting ready to leave the apartment, but my daughter appears on the threshold. The girl gives a shy smile, making Berkut freeze. Everything becomes far too obvious.
“Not yours, you said?”