“He’s eighty years old! My mother is seventy-nine! How can he claim to be the father of a baby?”
Todor didn’t turn toward him.
He simply placed the documents on the table in front of the judge.
“There is no need to take my word for it. There are medical tests.”
My lawyer, Mr. Stefanov, produced another folder.
“Your Honor, these are the DNA test results, certified by an independent laboratory. They confirm Mr. Stoyanov’s paternity.”
The judge turned through several pages.
Then he removed his glasses.
He looked at me.
Then at Todor.
Then at little Emilia, who had fallen asleep again, unaware that her existence was the reason for the collapse of a lie that had been built over decades.
“Mrs. Mileva,” the judge said, “before we continue with the documents, I would like to hear your explanation.”
I knew this moment would come.
I had been waiting for it.
And yet it felt as though, once I opened my mouth, I would never be able to stop.
I looked at Silvia.
My daughter.
A fifty-six-year-old woman sitting across from me with anger, fear, and something even more painful in her eyes.
Betrayal.
Then I looked at Mikhail.
My son.
