— Do you have a son?
His eyebrows shoot up, and an astonished look pierces me.
— How old is he?
He takes a step—and I’m forced to back up.
— What difference does it make, Igor. This is my life and my family. And everything I ask you to do is to sign my letter of resignation.
The corner of the boss’s mouth twitches upward and he burns me with his gaze.
— You ask badly, Anya, — he says through his teeth, coming closer. — I want to know everything. And then I’ll decide what to do with you.
A few years ago, I became a fleeting pastime for him. He left, and after some time I found two lines on the test. Now I’m a happy mother, and he is my new boss—and the one person I’ll never tell: “You have a son.”