“Did he call you?”
“Not yet,” I answered. “He’s probably busy.”
“Not to congratulate your child on their birthday because he’s busy…” My friend paused meaningfully, and then added:
“Rit, how busy does someone have to be?”
I couldn’t stand it and called my husband myself. I listened to the ringing again and again, hoping to finally hear the voice I loved—but…
“It cut off,” I said, shaking my head, staring at my phone screen, lost.
Lesya snatched the phone out of my hands and read out loud:
“Call declined.”
And then she said with confidence:
“Ritka, I think he’s not busy—he… ”
But I didn’t let her finish. My heart started pounding hard, and nausea rose in my throat. I decisively took the phone back and opened the messenger.
But I didn’t get to type anything.
Photo after photo started arriving.
Ruslan and a beautiful long-haired brunette at the beach. Ruslan and the brunette in a restaurant. Ruslan and the brunette… Ruslan and the brunette… the brunette…
And at the very end the caption:
“Look how good-looking we are. Congratulate our daughter for me. Don’t call me—I’m busy.”