We divorced when Mark was a year and a half old. Mutual resentments and reproaches, my tears—his irritation. After one time he didn’t come home for the night, I understood everything and silently filed for divorce. He didn’t resist.
After that—alimony, life split between two cities—and now I’m raising our son alone, while he works as a senior executive in the North, to which he fled from us. There are hundreds of such families, maybe thousands… It still hurts me, and Mark sees his dad only through a mobile screen. But everything changes when they transfer him back to the capital… Am I ready to face again the person who broke my faith in a family?