Yours

I’m on excellent terms with the father of my daughter. He lives thousands of kilometers away, sends child support on time, never forgets birthdays, and doesn’t interfere in my personal life or in how I raise Polina. That was until this day. “Snowball, hi. What are your plans this evening?” The sound of his familiar voice makes my heels sink into the asphalt. Why is Robert asking? Did he come to our city? “How about dinner at seven? The three of us. You, me, and the daughter.” “And what’s wrong with the schedule you had before?” I mumble. “Once every half year?” “We agreed that you wouldn’t stand in the way of our meetings.” In his tone, metal is clearly audible. “I came for work and I want to spend more time with my daughter.”