Had my children done something to prevent him from coming?
Had he changed his mind at the last moment?
Silvia’s lawyer placed a photograph on the table.
It had been taken at my husband Georgi’s funeral. I was only thirty-three then, dressed in black, standing beside the closed coffin.
“Mrs. Mileva,” the lawyer continued, “are you claiming that the father of this newborn is a man who was buried nearly half a century ago?”
Silvia turned toward me in horror.
“Are you talking about Dad?”
I didn’t answer.
“Mom, that’s impossible!”
“I know how it sounds.”
“No!” she shouted. “Don’t you understand? This proves that you’ve lost touch with reality!”
Emilia woke up and began moving restlessly. I tried to calm her, but my hands were trembling.
The judge watched me for several seconds before asking:
“Where are the child’s birth certificate and medical records?”
My lawyer placed another folder in front of him.
“The documents are authentic. Genetically, the baby is the biological daughter of Mrs. Mileva.”
“And who is the father?”
At that exact moment, the courtroom door opened.
Everyone turned.
