Her husband stares tensely at the screen—proof of his own adultery. His mistress stands beside him, shamefully looking away.
“And what? How much money did you pay for this lousy recording, you fool? You should’ve thrown her out a long time ago.”
“Anfisa, come in. And we look quite good, don’t we? Wife, show it again.”
“And I’m fine, by the way,” I swallow my resentment. I quickly pull on my shoes and push the door open.
“Wait—did you forget about your son?” helplessly stretches Georgiy.
“No. And what?”
“Take Vadyka away! How can he be without his mother—or…”
“He’s your son. He’ll stay with you. Or do you doubt your beloved?” I shift my steady gaze to the downcast Anfisa, drooping like a bag that’s been shot up.
“No, I just…”
“Then the child won’t be a problem for her. Anfisa, can you cook?”
“By the way, don’t call me!”
“I’m going on vacation!”