— Is this my child?— Amir asks, scorching me with a darkened gaze.
— Yours. The tension and anger crackle in the spacious office.
It seems that we were friends at university—not with him.
— Why didn’t you tell me earlier?
He raises his voice.
— How old is the daughter now? Seven?
— Yes, seven. Her name is Sasha— I answer Sabitov with difficulty, enduring his heavy stare.
— You flew to Moscow without leaving any contacts. I told your mother about the pregnancy, but apparently you didn’t care about us. You got married.
— My wife died in a car accident three years ago— Amir says in a cold tone.
— You and Sasha will move to live with me. I want to meet my daughter.
— That’s impossible, Amir, because I’m getting married.