“Whose child is that?!” the ex-husband asks in a metallic voice.
“Mine, Ilya. This child is mine!”
“Don’t pretend, Lina. You understand what I’m asking. Who’s his father?!”
The rage in his tone knocks the air out of me.
“Not you!” I shout back, gripping the stroller handle until my knuckles turn white—and I lunge away just so I don’t have to look into the black abyss of his eyes.
Those eyes I used to love, those eyes I desired… Those eyes—the memory of them will haunt me forever, because my daughter has them exactly like that…